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mylittlesyn · 2 years

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Chapter 3: August 13, 2020 & August 16, 2020

Premise: Aquarela decides to pay a visit to the art exhibit that Tobirama recommended whilst high... Only to run into Dr. Senju himself.

TW: Just the weed tbh. This entire fic is pretty much good vibes. Although questionable power dynamics I suppose but trust it's not anything sketchy or sleazy.

Masterpost

August 13, 2020

I walked into Tobirama’s office like he said I could. He was a little surprised at first and seemed to have been working on something, but he put it aside and gave me his attention. I was having issues with packaging. He asked me if I verified the plasmid, which not going to lie, of course I did and I was a little offended he asked. The inserts were there. Everything was the right size. He then asked about the plasmid size as a whole, which, that I didn’t check because why would I need to? Turns out the insert tail ends made it so it inserted into the ITRs twice. He thought my brainstorming methods were amusing. Especially the part where I answer my own question before I give him a chance to think.

He was studying me so closely the whole time… It was pretty strange… But he was also smiling a little baby smile? That’s good, right?

August 16, 2020

**** TW**** OFC smokes weed? Here just in case.

So I went to the dispensary today, and got a vape. Indica main but also hybrid. It’s called blue cookies or something. It was nice. I did some of that and then I went to see the impressionist exhibit that Tobirama had mentioned… Only to see him there. While high… That was interesting…

I feel kinda warm… It’s nice… Ah… I suppose this sign that says impressionist would be what I was looking for. Walking into a separate room with walls painted a deep red, there were paintings lining the walls. The first one that caught my eye was one of a toddler seated at a table. What caught my eye was that they had no eyes, just black circles where their eyes should be. It was a little creepy honestly. I found myself leaning in, staring at those eyes that were nothing but black holes, unable to look away. From there I noticed the strokes, how you can tell the thickness and rigidness of the brush based on the markings left behind from each movement of the artist’s hand. Pierre Bonnard… He seems a bit twisted to paint a child like this.

“Doctora Juarbe?” I heard a familiar voice call my name and based on the formality, I froze. “Doctora Juarbe… I didn’t expect to see you here.” He mentioned as I subtly tried to smell my hair. Doesn’t smell like weed. I think I might be ok.

“Tobirama!” I chimed with a wide grin while looking at this tall, handsome man. He wore his usual black turtleneck, though this time with white slacks and a black belt. His sleeves were already rolled up this time, exposing his forearms, and I noticed a rather large gold watch on his wrist. “I can say with certainty that I was not expecting to run into you either.” I assured him before shoving my hands into my high waisted short pockets… When I realized the tightness of them showcase my vape as I felt it with my fingertips.

“Yes… I see you were admiring the Bonnard here.” He pointed out with his own hands in his pockets.

“Admiring would imply I like it. I don’t…” I chuckled a couple times before looking back at the painting and shuddering.

“What about it do you not like?” He wondered as he neared to stand beside me and look at the painting himself.

“Honestly, it’s the eyes. They freak me out.” I explained while stealing a glance to look into those brick red eyes.

“Are you alright? You’re acting rather… Strange.” He observed and I felt the blood drain from my face. “There. You seem rather pale.” He remarked and I quickly looked away back to the painting.

“I’m going to tell you something that I hope you don’t hold against me, because I would never do this at work nor would I let it influence my performance.” I warned to then peek at him from the corner of my eye, seeing his brows furrow as he grew serious. “I’m under the influence right now and your commanding presence is making me a bit nervous.” I explained.

“Day drinking…?” He asked with a disapproving tone.

“Eh, no.” I clarified while pulling my vape out of my pocket and showing it to him.

“Ah.” His brows raised and he quickly nodded while I put the vape away. “I see. Another thing you seem to have in common with my brother.” He commented while looking back to the painting.

“Tobirama… Have you smoked weed before?” I teased with a large grin while rocking back and forth on my heels.

“No!” He snapped while looking to the opposite side of where I was standing, his ears bright red. I gasped with my hands over my mouth.

“You’ve at least tried it!” I squealed while nudging his side with my elbow to have him grab my arm.

“I need you to stop and be quiet.” He hissed while clenching his jaw. With his angered demeanor, I kept trying to stop myself from smiling as I let my arm dangle in his grip.

“I will bring this up again.” I warned to hear him click his tongue, toss my arm aside and watch him cross his arms over his chest.

“It’s not the influence that has you finding this painting disturbing?” Tobirama teased back as his shoulders loosened while wearing a smug smile.

“No…” I retracted my head back while looking at the painting. “I’m pretty sure I’d still find it disturbing.” I moved onto a painting titled “Playing Catch” that was also by Bannard. There I admired the architecture of the building and the simplicity of the way he painted the plants.

“Anything disturbing about this one?” Tobirama joked, still wearing that small smug smile.

“No… I’m just looking at the brush strokes.” I mumbled while leaning in to observe the details of the portrait.

“You’re genuinely enthralled.” He spoke with slight surprise in his tone, to which I furrowed my brows while giving the painting one last look.

“I spent my entire childhood looking at paintings in this manner, which I already told you about.” I commented while pulling away from the painting to look up to Tobirama who seemed to be observing my every move. “I’m not sure why you’re so surprised.” I shrugged while putting my hands in my pockets.

“I’ve just never met someone who appreciates both art and science the way you do… I do…” He mumbled more so to himself, and when he realized he spoke out loud and that I heard him, I watched his blush come back all the way to his ears and to the little bit of neck I could see. I pursed my lips and blushed myself as I walked away from him to look at the next painting that caught my eye. This one was by Modigliani, title “Venus.” The lines for the body of the nude woman were all elongated, and peculiarly, she was cupping one of her breasts while hiding her sex. “What are you thinking about this one?” Tobirama asked, now at my side again.

“Just interesting how elongated he makes everything.” I answered while leaning back to look at the other paintings. “Why don’t you give me your opinion for once?” I accused while raising a brow. He turned to me with his eyes slightly widened before putting his own hands in his pockets and looking down at the floor before looking back up to the painting.

“Her eyes… He manages to capture a certain vulnerability in them.” He commented while pointing to her eyes. I peered into them while leaning forward, studying the blue hued strokes.

“I see it.” I responded after a moment.

“You do? You seemed very technical when looking at the paintings thus far…” He remarked and I scoffed.

“Just because I like to observe the different stylistic renditions of each artist doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what they were trying to capture in the painting itself.” I explained with a raised brow while he looked down at his feet… Was he… Ashamed? “How about we go get an early dinner together?” I suggested. His eyes lifted to mine and his lips parted slightly before he looked to the watch on his wrist.

“I need to make a call quickly first.” He told me, and when I nodded, he went off to a far corner of the exhibit. I wandered over to look at one of Vulliard’s paintings, observing the contrasting hues of the dark blues from the woman’s dress and the bright reds of the brick. “.... I ran into someone…” I heard Tobirama say to whomever he was speaking to, and when I stole a glance I noticed him looking at me. “Hashirama!” He snapped while turning on his heel to face away from me. “That’s quite enough.” He grumbled, trying to contain his anger while avoiding the gazes of others as he lowered his head. “I will talk to you tonight… Hashi-” He looked at his phone and hung up, taking a moment to himself before coming over to me. “I apologize for that. Where would you like to eat, Dr. Juarbe?”

“Call me Aquarela.” I demanded with a smile while his lips tightened. “Go on. Call me Aquarela.” I taunted while placing my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket.

“Where would you like to eat… Aquarela?” He spoke each word cautiously, but when he spoke my name with his Colombian accent, my cheeks were surely turning pink. My heart felt warmed and I knew I held a goofy smile, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“I’m not sure. I’m still learning the locale.” I pointed out to watch him nod.

“Well what type of food would you like? There’s pasta-”

“Pasta!” I interjected excitedly.

“Yes… Pasta it is then.” He agreed with a small smile, motioning for me to walk ahead outside. I walked along ahead and he quickly caught up to walk beside me, the back of his hand brushing against mine as we went. Goosebumps trailed up my arm with my cheeks getting a little rosy. I walked up to my Harley and stood before it. “Where’s your car?” He asked while looking around in other directions.

“Right here.” I told him while walking up and slapping the warm leather bike seat. “Why else would I wear a leather jacket in August when there’s a high of 80 degrees?” I teased with a smile while watching his brows raise.

“Should you be riding while under the influence…?” He questioned cautiously.

“If anything it’ll help me from going over the speed limit.” I joked while straddling my 883 Harley and placing my hands lazily on the handle bars.

“I’d much rather drive you. Once you sober up I can drive you to your bike and you can ride it home.” Tobirama spoke in a stern commanding tone with the slightest hint of concern spread across his face. His forearms flexed, exposed from the pushed up sleeves of the black turtle neck he wore with his arms across his chest.

“Alright. If you insist.” I hummed while getting off of my bike to start following him to the nearby parking lot to find his car. We quickly came up to his Audi, where I sat up front beside him.

“So you ride motorcycles?” He asked, trying to make conversation.

“Yeah my great uncle taught me when I went home for winter break my first year of grad school. He rode for over 35 years. I saved up during grad school and bought one shortly after arriving down here. Managed to find it used at a good price with low milage. Got lucky really.” I elaborated a bit as he started pulling out of the parking lot.

“It’s dangerous. Why would you do something like that?” He sneered, but I just huffed a chuckle.

“A lot of things are dangerous. I do it because…” I shrugged. “Freedom.”

“Does it really feel that freeing?” I raised his brow while continuing to watch the road.

“It does.” I assured him with a small smile he couldn’t see. “So tell me Tobirama, when did you try weed?” I giggled while asking him to watch him grip tighter onto the steering wheel. “Awe come on… I won’t talk about yours if you don’t talk about mine.” I sang. “Just a little mutually assured destruction is all I’m asking for.”

“You do have a way of lightening things up.” He mentioned with his shoulders relaxing before a quiet chuckle while I waited in anticipation. “It’s Hashirama. Once in a while… When he won’t shut up about it.” He grumbled. “When I’m overworked and highly stressed, he convinces me to have a bit. Usually food. Usually I’m tricked. But it helps.” He confessed with the slightest tinge of pink on his cheeks as I giggled away.

“You should really try some and then going to see art, it really makes you see it in a whole new light.” I suggested, but he shook his head.

“I’d be far too paranoid that someone would be able to tell that I’m under the influence.” He explained.

“Of course you’d be the paranoid type.” I muttered under my breath. “Maybe you can come to my apartment, smoke a bit and look at my mother’s paintings. There’s an impressionistic quality to them, at least in terms of the color palette.” I recommended to hear him hum happily.

“That sounds nice… I am sure it would be quite the experience.” He hummed more while I grew the cheesiest smile.

“Tobirama… Did you just agree to come to my home alone ?” I teased to watch his grip on the steering wheel tighten while he clenched his jaw.

“I did no such thing!” He snapped. “I merely suggested it would be enjoyable if I were to.” He huffed and just looked so damn adorable that I couldn’t help but have my giggles turn into laughter. My laughing only made his grip tighten further as his ears started to turn red. “Why are you laughing?!” He shouted.

“Because…” I tried my best to calm myself. “You just look so damn cute huffing and puffing like that.” I told him while admiring those lovely pink cheekbones of his to then notice his parted lips. That’s when I realized what I had said, and that’s when I quickly looked out the window. Did I really just say that outloud to him? I cleared my throat quickly and looked up at the road ahead. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a place called Cucina just out of the park here. It’s a nice modern italian place. I believe you’ll enjoy it.” He mentioned just as he started to pull into an open spot, parking on the street. “It’s just up ahead.” He pointed to a business that seemed to have tables outside, so after a nod I got out of the car. It was starting to get pretty bright and sunny out, so I shrugged off my jacket and carried it over my forearm while walking toward the restaurant. Tobirama joined me by my side after I held open the door for him, and we waited for the hostess to come seat us. The place appeared to be rather crowded, but once the hostess noticed us, she came over to us, grabbed a couple menus, and had us follow her to a booth where the seats were either stools or a bench at the windowsill. Without realizing it, we had both chosen to sit on the bench, and we ended up sitting next to each other. My arm brushed against his as I reached for the menu, I could feel myself blushing as I tucked my hair behind my ear.

“This seems like a homey place.” I commented while looking over the menu.

“They have a fantastic wine selection. Why don’t you have a glass with me?” He suggested as he looked down the wine list.

“I don’t drink when I ride. Too risky.” I explained while deciding on the ricotta spinach agnolotti.

“I’ll pay for an uber for you to take back home.” He offered, and when I turned to him I noticed he was watching me. His eyes wandered along my face, initially expectant until they settled on my lips.

“If you’d like me to join you that badly, then you can pay for another one for me to get my bike in the morning.” I teased with a smirk. His eyes lifted to meet mine and I watched as he nodded.

“I can do that.” He agreed, so I decided to push further while biting the corner of my lower lip, which only caused him to look at them again.

“I should probably have your cell phone number in case you forget, this way I can remind you.” I teased again as I reached into my jeans back pocket to pull out my cell phone. Once I unlocked it, I switched to contacts and pressed to add a new one before sliding the phone to him. He took the phone and when he placed it back onto the table, I noticed a number saved under the name Dr. Senju. I grabbed the phone and edited the contact to change his name to Tobirama, placing it on the table so that he could see that I changed the name.

“Your attempting to maintain formalities is starting to get futile, dontcha think?” I hummed with a smile while leaning on my arm that was next to his, when he turned to me, his face was close enough for me to feel his breath on my face. My eyes traced along his curiously red eyes, his cheekbones, his jawline, his lips…

“Yes… It would appear so.” He hummed back with his eyes wandering as well. I startled a bit when he finally cleared his throat to go back to looking at the wine list, so I started to look now myself.

“Are you paying? Because I don’t think I could afford more than one glass with my postdoc slave labor salary.” I joked, trying to hold back snickers.

“The price isn’t per the glass, it’s per the bottle, but I was planning on paying… Yes.” He clarified.

“Ah. That does indeed change things.” I mentioned while looking at the wine list again.

“I think a Sangiovese for the table?” He suggested and horrible memories came back.

“Oh no, I remember trying one of those wines, they pride themselves on their ‘earthy taste’ but really it just tastes like dirt. I am not having that.” I warned him while I listened to his hearty chuckle.

“I’ve never heard anyone describe it quite like that. You seem to know your wine.” He remarked with a smile. “What would you suggest then?”

“I mean for reds, I typically like merlot blends and cabernets, but I’m planning on having the ricotta spinach, so I was planning on having a white. That being said, I’m not opposed to a red.” I clarified.

“How about this Bordeaux? It’s a cabernet merlot blend.” He pointed at the wine on the menu and I nodded.

“Sure, I’ll try it. Sounds nice enough.” I told him while running my finger along the listing on his menu.

“And what would the cute couple like to drink?!” The waiter with a brunette man bun chimed with his hands clasped. We both cleared our throats and I moved a bit away from him.

“We’re not…”

“We are not…” We both spoke at the same time, looking at each other when we did, blushing in embarrassment. “We’ll have the merlot/cabernet blend Bordeaux, and we’d like that ahead. She’d like the ricotta spinach agnolotti and I’d like the short rib pappardelle.”

“Alright, I’ll come back with the wine right away.” The server left with our order.

“I can speak for myself.” I teased. “I know I joked about slave labor, but I do have an actual voice that goes with it.”

“If it were up to me, I would pay you more, but with my advisors, they want me to use the system to our advantage.” He mentioned offhandedly with a raised brow while peering at me from the corner of his eye.

“Spoken like any other rich millionaire.” I joked while peering back at him, resting my mouth against my fists with my elbow placed next to his.

“Is being a millionaire something you disapprove of?” He questioned with his smile fading.

“Why? What would happen if I did?” I wondered with a playful tone. He started fidgeting a bit with his fingers while staring at them, the air felt a little more solemn. “Why are you seeking my approval?” My words had him instantly tensing, stopping with his fidgeting.

“I am doing no such thing!” He snapped while turning to me, his face reddened while I failed at holding back snickers. His lips parted as his face relaxing, though the redness didn’t fade as he realized I was merely teasing him about it. He looked away with a small smile, though his cheeks were still read.

“Are you albino?” I blurted only to purse my lips, realizing that that could’ve been a bit insensitive of me to ask. The waiter brought over the wine, uncorked it, and poured a taste for the both of us into two glasses they brought over. I took the wine, smelled it, swirled it, smelled it again, and then tasted it. It was full bodied and fruit forward, exactly what I look for in a red wine. “It’s good.”

“Yes, thank you.” Tobirama agreed while the server served us a full glass before heading back off. “To answer your question.” He sighed. “Yes, I am albino.”

“I’m sorry… That was rather insensitive of me to ask. I was just curious, you have such peculiar eyes.” I finished with a murmur, trying to meet his gaze, but he continued to look away while taking a sip of the wine.

“Yes… My eyes are a bit of a sensitive topic for me. They were the target for many jokes made about me when I was younger.” He explained after a sigh and nearly finished with a grumble before taking a large gulp of his wine without making eye contact.

“Red is my favorite color.” I blurted dreamily while still staring at him, hoping for his eyes to meet mine. Once he heard my words, he looked my way and I realized finally what I had said. Blinking a few times while I processed my embarrassment as heat rose to my cheek, I noticed Tobirama blushing as well. Quickly looking away, I took a sip of the wine and swirled it after putting it down. “Let’s play, never have I ever.” I suggested while staring at the wine swirl in the glass.

“Never have I ever?” He asked with disbelief, and when I turned to see his expression, his brow was raised.

“Yeah, do you know it?” I wondered.

“Yes of course, but you want to play a college drinking game with a bordeaux?” He asked before he started clenching his jaw with a look of disappointment.

“Yes, because this way I get to know you without you having to say anything. Also, anything you admit to, I’m not allowed to ask about… Tonight anyways.” I taunted while studying his reactions. He shed a small smile before nodding.

“Alright. I’ll let you start.” He declared.

“Never have I ever been CEO of a major company.” I declared with a smirk while I watched him sip the red wine.

“That’s a tad targeted, wouldn’t you agree?” He mentioned with a small smile.

“I just wanted to make sure you were playing seriously.” I explained while I inched my forearm next to his, resting it beside him.

“Never have I ever kissed a boy.” He watched me take a sip of the wine.

“Never have I ever kissed a girl.” I spoke to then drink a sip with him while he watched with a raised brow. He pursed his lips for a moment while looking down at my lips as I continued to study his reaction, and when he noticed I was still watching him, I saw his cheeks turn pink slightly before looking straight ahead.

“Never have I ever… been to a nude beach.” He told me while I hesitantly lifted my glass.

“It wasn’t a nude beach, but I was nude at the beach… Should I drink?” I wondered while looking at him to see his brow raised and his cheeks pink, avoiding my gaze.

“Yes, I think you should.” He nodded while watching me from the corner of his eye. With that I lifted the glass and took a sip.

“Never have I ever had sex in the lab.” I spoke plainly while taking off my leather jacket. It wasn’t until I had finished taking it off that I noticed him place his glass back onto the table. Raising my eyebrows, I looked up to him while he looked in the other direction. “Tobirama! You dirty dog!” I commented while I watched his jaw clench and unclench. I bit the corner of my lower lip as I watched him place delicate fingers around the rim of his wine glass.

“Never have I ever driven over 100 miles per hour.” He grumbled while I took a sip of my drink.

“Never have I ever…” I trailed off while trying to think of something I hadn’t done. “Played strip poker.” I sat and waited for his response. After a long moment, he lifted his glass and took a sip. “My my, you’re so adventurous, Tobirama.” I teased.

“You said you wouldn’t say anything!” He snapped, which only made me giggle as I watched his ears turn red.

“I said I wouldn’t ask about anything.” I corrected while trying to hold back a smile.

“It was in college.” He grumbled while staring at his wine.

“So the lab sex wasn’t? Do I need to worry about something if I show up to work on the weekends?” I teased and watched as he clenched his jaw. “Aw come on, I’m just teasing you!” I told him while rubbing his bicep. “I don’t want you to get mad, I just… You really amuse me Tobirama.” I hummed and watched as he turned slowly to me.

“I’m glad I could be a source of amusement.” He spat before taking a large gulp to finish off his glass of wine before pouring himself the next.

“Tobirama, come on… I don’t mean it like that. I like you Tobirama, I like spending time with you, that’s why I want to get to know you.” I explained while I rested my hand on his shoulder with my body turned towards him, watching him pour away.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” He grumbled while gripping tightly onto the glass.

“Must be lonely at the top… Nobody can be your friend because of arbitrary power dynamics…” I contemplated while running my finger tips along his shoulder before letting it rest on it once more.

“I’m sorry, I understand that you mean well and that you are simply poking fun… But… Your opinion of me seems to matter to me for reasons that I’m not quite sure I understand. Perhaps it is because you’re the shiny new acquisition for my company.” He mentioned while leaning back off the table to rest his palm behind us. I mimicked his seating with a raised brow.

“Gee way to make me feel like an object.” I joked with sarcasm to have his eyes dart between both of mine. His hand left the wine glass and his fingertips traced along my jaw.

“You are far more than anything I could have ever hoped for.” He spoke in an almost mesmerized manner while staring at my lips. My heart flutter and I felt my cheeks grow warm, only to have him retreat and clear his throat. “Never have I ever gone through my partners text messages.” He hummed while I straightened, not drinking.

“I respect my partner’s privacy.” I commented. “Never have I ever used a fake ID.” I declared and watched him take a sip. “Those wild college years again?” I teased while elbowing him to watch his small smile form.

“Never have I ever flashed someone.” He spoke, and I quietly drank the rest of my wine, staring at the glass as he filled it.

“Wild college years?” He wondered.

“Gradschool actually.” I clarified while still not looking at him.

“You would’ve just turned 21 when starting grad school, correct? That’s rather young.” He asked offhandedly.

“Isn’t it illegal for you to know my age?” I questioned with a raised brow while resting my head in my hand that was leaning on the table.

“Humor me.” He pleaded while donning a tiny grin.

“Yes. I was.” I agreed while he poured me another glass of wine. “How old are you?”

“I thought it was illegal for us to know each other’s ages.” He retorted with a smug smile as I took a sip of my wine.

“Clever. Humor me.” I used the words against him the way he used mine against me.

“I am 36.” He answered plainly to then take a big gulp of wine.

“That’s rather young to be the CEO/CSO of a large biotech company.” I pointed out to have him huff a chuckle.

“Touché. So that’s about ten years between us.” He hummed while lost in thought.

“Yes… I’m not unfamiliar with larger age gaps.” I mentioned with my leg brushing against his as my cheeks turned pink.

“What do you mean?” He asked with his eyes searching for mine.

“I believe the largest age gap with a man I dated was... 9 years.” I explained before taking a sip of my wine.

“Ah… I see.” I pursed my lips as he took a sip of the wine while the server came by with our food. They placed the food before us and went back towards the bar while the air grew tense between us.

“I’m sorry if that was strange of me to say, I simply wanted to express that our age difference doesn’t mean anything to me.” I elaborated nervously to see his stonewalled face while he picked at his food a bit.

“It is quite alright. I understand.” He mentioned before picking up his fork and starting to eat his food. Things still felt a little tense and unsettled as I started to eat the food. Why’d I have to open my big mouth??? The food however, was amazing. Everything was so rich and creamy and just exactly what my munchies were craving. I quickly started eating more of the pasta, fully diving into it as Tobirama and I continued to bump elbows, stealing glances at each other when we did, smiling to ourselves as we did. The tension seemed to fade the more our arms brushed together, and I felt a sense of relief consume me. He ordered another bottle as we finished off our glasses and the rest of the wine, feeling a little hazy from the alcohol and the remnants of the high from earlier. When I finished, Tobirama was still only halfway done with his food. “Seems you thoroughly enjoyed it.” Tobirama commented and I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah, it was great.” I hummed while drinking more of my wine.

“Would you like some dessert?” He suggested and my mind instantly went to some ice cream.

“Yes! But they don’t really have what I would want here.” I mentioned to watch him slowly nod. “But you continue eating, of course! Take your time.” I gave him my best smile and watched him finish his meal.

“You’re staring.” He commented and I jumped a bit in place and turned back to my wine, feeling my face turn red in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled under my breath to then watch his hand ghost over mine before… Patting it… Gently.

“It’s fine. There’s no need to dwell on it. I will take you to my favorite ice cream shop after this.” He told me with a light tone, and that’s when I noticed him staring at me now. It wasn’t something I minded though.

“I bet your favorite flavor is mango.” I guessed with a playful tone to watch him pout a bit. “Oh no! I actually got it right?” I whined a bit with a chuckle.

“Am I that predictable?” He grumbled before finishing up his last bite.

“No… Not that predictable. It was just a good perceptive guess.” I assured placing my hand by his as it settled, daringly placing my pinky over his. I noticed him look towards our hands, but he didn’t move it. The mere touch was electric and I felt so elated. I looked up to him and noticed his cheeks were furiously red and his ears matched. His eyes met mine and in that moment it felt like nothing else mattered. Nobody else existed. It was just him and I in this intense stare where my heart was racing. My eyes slowly traced down to his lips and in my periphery I could see he was staring at mine.

“Would you like any dessert?” The server asked, snapping us up both from our thoughts with Tobirama quickly clearing his throat and moving his hand away.

“No, just the check please, thank you.” Tobirama replied while the server nodded and headed off. “What’s your favorite flavor then?”

“Double fudge brownie.” I smiled while finishing off the wine to have Tobirama pour me what was left in the bottle.

“That is a good choice.” He agreed as he held up his wine glass. We both took a sip to then have the server bring by the check.

“Thank you for dinner. It was truly lovely.” I told him as he placed a black card in the little booklet with the check.

“Of course. I… Enjoy our time together as well.” He confessed while looking straight ahead to then finish off his wine. His words made my heart flutter as I drank some of the wine while the server took the check away. Moving the glass in circles, I watched the wine swish away as my cheeks turned positively red. “How is the research going?”

“I stayed a little late yesterday, but I reconstructed the plasmid and this time, no double ITRs.” I mentioned.

“Make sure you register the overtime. You might be at a post-doc salary now, but this isn’t gradschool…” He remarked while I took another sip of the wine.

“It was only a half hour.” I told him while waving him off.

“That’s still a half hour. Put it in. I mean it.” He spoke with such a serious tone, if it wasn’t for the kindness behind his words, I would’ve been a bit intimidated.

“You’re a good boss.” I responded with a smile before finishing off the wine as the server brought back the check. After Tobirama signed, he fiddled with his phone for a moment and then looked to me.

“Thank you for saying that. Are you ready?” He asked while standing up, and after I put my jacket back on, I got up off of the bench and followed him out of the restaurant. Pulling my vape out of my pocket, I breathed in deep and took a hit.

“Would you care to partake?” I offered with the smoke exhaling my lips as I held the vape up to Tobirama, but he held up his hand and shook his head.

“No thank you. As I mentioned, I don’t usually partake.” He explained while looking at his phone.

“So where are we going?” I asked while looking at the street as I shoved my hands and the vape into my pockets.

“I ordered an uber to take us. It should be here any minute.” He explained before placing the phone into his pocket while a black car pulled up. Tobirama opened the door for me. “After you.” He motioned for me to sit in, so I slid into the car with him coming in after. It was the first time of the night that I noticed his scent. The jasmine, sandalwood, the slight sweet musk… I closed my eyes and rested my head back, nearly having it fall to the side and onto his shoulder from a little bump we took. The ride to the place was short, called something about homemade ice cream. Once inside, I ran up to the ice cream flavors in search of the one I was truly looking for. “Fudge brownie for her-”

“No actually, I’d like cookie dough.” I interjected quickly.

“Would you like two scoops?” He asked while looking down to me with his hand lightly placed on my upper back. I hadn’t thought about two scoops.

“Uhhh…. Sure. One cookie dough, one brownie.” I nodded to myself before looking up at the employee behind the counter. “In a waffle cone please!” I chimed.

“I’ll take one scoop of mango.” He mentioned and I couldn’t help but giggle as they handed me my ice cream. “In a cup.” Tobirama clarified as the employee grabbed a cone to then cautiously put it back and grab a cup. I started to lick the scoop of fudge brownie, spinning the cone, twirling my tongue around the scoop, enjoying the rich chocolate sweetness.

“Sir.” The employee called out, it was then that I noticed Tobirama had been staring at me.

“Yes.” Tobirama cleared his throat and reached for the ice cream before reaching into his wallet and handing the employee the same black card from earlier.

“Oh. Thank you for the ice cream as well.” I told him as I followed him to the register. He simply looked over his shoulder and shared a small smile before taking his card back, to then follow me to a nearby table with two seats. One across from the other. I continued to lick away at the ice cream with Tobirama occasionally looking up and staring. Which… I was somewhat enjoying, and fully taking advantage of. My tongue pressed flat to the scoop before I started digging out one of the brownie chunks with my tongue. When I readjusted to cross my legs, I felt my calf bump into his knee, but I cheekily left it there while continuing to attempt to show Tobirama my skills with a slight smirk. His ear were red once more as he stayed quiet while eating his own ice cream.

“Must you eat the ice cream in such a manner?”

“In what way am I eating the ice cream?” I asked with a smirk still.

“Don’t act so coy.” He sneered with narrowed eyes before finishing off his ice cream.

“It’s not my fault you’re having lewd thoughts-”

“I am having no such thoughts!” He snapped before looking away while clenching and unclenching his jaw, his hands balled in fists as I giggled.

“Relax Tobi, you’ll pop a vein.” I teased while tucking an arm under my chest as I continued to lick my ice cream.

“You’re using nicknames now?” He remarked as I started to nearly finish up the scoop of fudge brownie.

“Is there a problem with that… Tobi?” I teased with another smirk as he continued to clench and unclench his jaw.

“This is vastly inappropriate.” He commented while finally looking at me again.

“Inappropriate for two friends?” I wondered while nibbling on the cone.

“No, but we’re more than just two friends, aren’t we?” He pointed out and I couldn’t help but grow the biggest shit eating grin.

“Oh? So this was a date? Why didn’t you tell-”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” He started with a shout to then quiet down as people looked at us.

“Look if you’re worried about me reporting you or something, I would never. If anything I’m the inappropriate one here… We haven’t really even done anything. Are we not allowed to be work friends?” I argued before continuing to eat my ice cream. He gave me a once over and sighed deeply.

“You are right. I am overreacting some. Hashirama was right, I do tend to overanalyze things and become too uptight about them.” Tobirama confessed.

“I told you, you’re going to pop a vein.” I teased while bumping my calf into his knee as he huffed a chuckle.

“Could we go outside?” He asked quietly.

“Sure… Of course.” I nodded, quickly getting up and heading outside with him following behind me all while I dug my tongue into the ice cream cone.

“Would it be possible… If I could take you up on your offer from earlier…?” He questioned in hushed tones, leaning into me while watching me closely. Offer from earlier… I placed my pocket into my hands with my brow furrowing trying to think about what he could possibly be talking about. My hand fiddled with the vape in my pocket and that’s when I realized.

“Oh!” I pulled out the vape and handed it to him. “Yeah, sure!”

“How do I use this? My brother only ever shoves food into my mouth.” He mentioned while looking at the vape, holding it up.

“Just breathe in through here.” I took his hand with the vape and placed the cartridge end to his lips. “And then exhale.” I instructed. He placed the vape between his lips and inhaled a bit before handing the vape back to me to then exhale a little smoke.

“I don’t smell like it now, do I?” He asked as I finished up the ice cream.

“No…” I told him while shaking my head. He suddenly placed his hand on my cheek and ran his thumb under my lip. His tender touch had my heart racing as I stared back at him with wide eyes as he stared at my lips.

“Sorry… You had a bit of ice cream.” He murmured with his hand lingering on my cheek.

“You still smell really nice… Whatever it is that you use.” I mumbled while my eyes dropped down to his lips, only to have him pull away and take out his phone.

“What is it?” He asked while holding up a finger to me and turning around taking a few steps away. “I’m still with her, I said I’d call you … Hashi-... Not now!” He snapped before looking at the phone and hanging up. “I apologize. We should probably get you home. I’ll order an uber for us both. I’ll have them take you home before me.” He informed while fiddling with his phone.

That’s pretty much what happened. The car ride back was pretty uneventful other than that Tobirama actually chilled the fuck out. He was pretty quiet the rest of the way back to my place. Our legs would sometimes brush against each other, but that’s about it. Still, even though nothing happened… I felt so giddy and happy the entire time. He’s so cute when he blushes, it’s so adorable. I just want to keep gushing about him. All of my friends keep telling me this is a bad idea, but I can’t help it. I know I’m probably going to get my heart broken, but he’s just so… Magnetic. I can’t wait to see where things go. Anyways, dear sober me, I made rice for you for tomorrow, love drunk me. P.S. Sober me, keep trying to get that Senju dick. I bet it is great. Love, drunk me.

#tobirama #tobirama x ofc #tobirama x aquarela #darte un beso #tobirama fluff

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derbysilkmill · 2 years

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h**k this and h**k that…”: Art(i)factualism, Detournement, Belper Punks, and DIY Making (1719 -2022)

Anything can be used -- Situationist Maxim

The two fundamental laws of detournement are the loss of importance of each detourned autonomous element – which may go so far as to lose its original sense completely – and at the same time the organisation of another meaningful ensemble that confers on each element its new scope and effect. SI Communique 1957

Even writing 50 pages of crap can give a sense of achievement. DBC Pierre Guardian 2017

Dovedale Crescent, Belper, Derbyshire, e-1970s:

A modern housing estate of near-identical detached houses: bungalows, two and three-bedroom dwellings constructed in the early 60s – man-made (unimaginatively) from red orange brick – individual constructions facing snaking black tarmac forming distinctive interconnected roads, streets, nooks, crescents, avenues and closes. Classified by their idiosyncratic banal pastoral signifiers like ‘Beaurepaire’, ‘Millersdale’, ‘Lowlands’ ‘Ladywood’ and ‘Dovedale’ – these were surely ironic places to live since the new-built estate was a brutal imposition of bricks-absurd covering over the once-green fields. A new estate, hacked out of the benign land of rolling hills of Belper because farms, fields, woods, leas, dells, hollows, natural beauty spots, and wildflower meadows were here before the houses and their inhabitants came. 2 Dovedale Crescent Wally Cant – Pit Deputy; 4 Dovedale Crescent Bob Smith - Coal-face worker; 6 Dovedale Crescent Alec Laws - Shot blaster; 25 Dovedale Crescent (facing Alec Laws) ‘big’ John Marshall – coal face worker; 21 Dovedale Crescent (facing Wally Cant) Jimmy Bell - pit worker; 23 Dovedale Crescent a man of unknown occupation and provenance who wore a deerstalker, tweeds, grubby shirt and regimental military tie, thick corduroy britches and thick leather-soled plain shoes, a fellow who, to all intents and purposes, looked like an old English estate owner and looked down on the NCB deferent families who surrounded his Englishman’s castle, with class difference. How he got here nobody knew. Oh, on his face he wore steel-framed bank-manager glasses and sported an ex-RAF handlebar moustache; in socio-cultural terms, then he was a hu-man manmade archetype existentially homological to semiotic-ally important inorganic manufactured objects like the 20th century designer angle-poise desk lamp or a Bahausian architect-designed bent tubular metal and leather chair.

A group of late-teenage boys sit talking on the wooden six-barred gate guarding the entrance to common scrubland known as the back-field. Like the gang of vultures in Disney cartoon film of Rudyard Kipling’s story called The Jungle Book (bored flock birds perched on the thick branch discussing what to do “I don’t know…what do you want to do”? ordinary lads from the estate lads - birds of a feather - were discussing what fashions were now passing and emerging on the local scene in terms of youth wear and companion hairstyles. As they talked together about flash clothes they stared blankly at the essential electric company substation on the opposite side of the road.

Mop-top Vultures, Jungle Book, Walt Disney, 1967

Youth, emerging from the mod(ernist) culture of the late sixties was transitioning-transposing-morphing with velocity into suedeheads via skinheads. The transformation was subtle but sure of itself in style. # 5 clipper blade all over from now-on-in for getting the new suede-head felt-smooth smart combed look, i.e. grown out skinhead #1. Navy-blue wool Crombie coats were still in; nowadays with funereal ‘suede’ collars, red handkerchiefs in top pocket pinned with a new DCFC club badge the size of a tanner gave the look a local tribal sense. Button-down cotton shirts were printed with beautiful checked and colourful designs, manufactured by either Brutus or Ben Sherman. Trousers were smart -- blue or green two-tone ‘Stapress’. A uber suedehead – like the cool Steve Ottowell (Lowlands Road) - now even carried a gentleman’s umbrella. The classic black umbrella replaced the army-surplus green mod parka as protection against the weather. The metal tips sharpened by the suedehead; (converted) reground for fighting on the grinder-wheel at work. Suedeheads were very creative and modified stainless steel combs too. The long tapering handle reformed into a stiletto blade at work on the same workshop grinding wheel trans-formed into a dual tool for doing your hair right or wrong and harm. [1] Working-class youth then – blue-collar apprentices serving the demands of Derby-based industrialism - were reworking the city-gent look – a legacy from the bowler hats worn in the violent (awful) film Clockwork Orange; revising the populist anti-hippy proletarian skinhead fashion. Contra the skinhead and his/her hard-worker look, Suedehead chic parodied or copied the hard-core white-collar post-shopfloor office worker: ‘all of a sudden stepping out wearing a bowler hat…Suedehead represented a more tailored approach to the skinhead aesthetic with velvet-collared Crombie, houndstooth checked suits and brogues’. [2]

Brogues were highly-polished black leather shoes, and handmade by Loake, Grenson or Gibson. Patterned with geometric indentations and raised leather ornamentation this traditional footwear spoke out for the English past. [3] The hard-soled shoes were worn with thin wool blood-red ankle socks which contrasted mysteriously with the dark surrounding serious formal trousers and black shining leather clothing worn against the slack ethnic swinging sixties. [4]

[1] See blog Hegel’s Trowel and Elaine Scarry’s distinction between tools and weapons. The suedehead comb was a tool for personal aesthetic use, styling hair, sharpened for inflicting pain, a weapon: suedehead was a dark cult…P173

[2] Andrew Stevens, Introduction to Suedehead, 2015

[3] In The Wheelwrights Shop (1923) the author Georg Sturt recounts how one of the master blacksmiths he admired marked with dot punch and file a simple geometric pattern, a mysterious enigmatic design ‘come down from some far-off generation’. Sturt called it ‘a simple and ancient decoration. A design very like it (it could hardly be less ornate) may often be seen stamped in leather across the toes of a pair of boots, where likewise it may be of a prehistoric date’.

[4] The Language of Things (2009) is a book by Deyan Sudjic. A design historian and commentator on the attraction to modern objects and how they communicate subconscious and conscious meanings to consumers notes that there is a whole family of objects and artefacts that juxtapose red details against black backgrounds from the VW golf GTI to the cult Tizio angle poise light. In all cases they connote argues the critic ‘a faint air of suppressed violence’ in that their original model was the red dot safety catch on the Walther PKK gun. I recently plagiarised (incorporated-subverted this series by including this red-dot-on-black-ground detail on a loom I have made for the Museum of Making. See Detournement and Adam Blenkoe below Weaponising Weaving...?

At the end of the day, then, these lads took off their blue-collar steel-toe-capped workshop boots and slipped into their newly-acquired brogues. Not content though with the shoes as they were, they paid a King-Street cobbler to adorn their new leather outsider/insider brogues with Blakey metal ‘segs’. Function-wise, nailed into the soft natural leather undersole of this expensive footwear, the metal tips let into heels and toe sections were crafty customisations – pragmatic additions - to prevent the wearer wearing out the vulnerable animal hide when walking about on tarmac across town; aesthetically segs were sonically transformational making a great CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK noise on English pavements. The 1970 streets rang with the alarming sound of footwear made musical instrument, and remade walking a violent performance. Amplification of the latest youth culture.

Respected New-Left man Raymond Williams (1921-1988) - the Welsh intellectual at the forefront of the developmental trajectory of what became both lauded (and derided) as Cultural Studies - in his well-known books Keywords and Resources of Hope mentions that there are only two other words in the English language that rhyme with Culture.

1) Sepulture – burial, grave or tomb

2) Vulture – bird of prey that scavenges on carrion.

Hence Culture-Vulture [5]

Despite his apparent radical stance that culture is universal, democratic, classless and for everyone - a thesis developed in his essay ‘Culture is Ordinary’ – he worries that what he identifies as new ‘flip words’ such as “culture-vulture” are malign phrasal attacks against any attachment to learning or the arts -- a stabbing verbal assault on what he would call ‘high-culture’ wounding what he wants to say the word ‘Culture’ stands for. Moreover, worried for high culture, he was surprised that, as the late 60s collapsed and 70s progressed, ‘we don’t yet call museums or art galleries or even universities culture-sepultures’, i.e. dead burial places. For Williams, writing back in the 1950s, milk bars and teddy boys upset the Marxist Williams as valueless bubble-gum mindless ‘low-popular’ culture and kickstarted the serialisation of youth cults: Teddy Boy, Rocker, Mod, Skinhead, Suedehead, neoTeds and then the Punks. To be fair, Williams politically-motivated writing translates a second alternative meaning of the ‘complex’ word ‘culture’ a word sign Williams would say had as its other signified a particular or common ‘way of life’. Yet, still, Ray said the working classes needed saving by equal access to big culture in the form of ‘the arts’: literature, classical music, and top Universities. The cultural problem I had was getting my hands not on Ulysses, Prokofiev or a sporting chance to join Williams at Cambridge, but on the sublime de-culture objects: Gibson-Black-Leather-Brogues. Us Dovedale Crescent lads were culture vultures only hungry for the low-level youth culture meat Williams’ academic elite Marxism had no appetite for. Red socks were easy to acquire. Barbara Blount was a market trader who lived a few houses up from us round the corner in a bigger identical non-identical house. She bought-up ‘seconds-socks’ from a hosiery factory on Spencer Road – Blounts -- and repaired unwanted socks or tights quality-controllers rejected. Repaired, the Blount family sold the saved stock from a bleak cold Ripley Market Place; or from the back of their modern brick garage store. She sold scrap socks to the estate; cheap and fair. Via Barbara I got into my first red-socks, i.e. small signs of self/group expression showing off the way-of-life I wanted to be part of. The shirts favoured by suedehead - Brutus and Ben Sherman - were also cultish objects of material fashion. Out of my reach until finally getting a knocked-down gorgeous sky-blue checked Brutus (life saved again by Barbara Blount) -- I had to imagine/fantasise the dead-man check shirts I found (picked over) at diabetic jumble sales me mam ran were the real thing. Fool’s gold or creative thinking? Whatever, I used the same stubborn suspension of disbelief in my quest to walk in the same shoes as those big youth-culture vultures sat on that three-bar gate. For no matter what them damned Gibson brogues were dead expensive. Down in Belper on the High Street – near the cobblers - was the Army and Navy Stores.[6] In the shop window were some lookalike brogue-esque black shoes with decorative indentations and raised leather applique. They caught my eye. The laces were black and red chevrons but these could be easily swapped out for thin leather laces. They were called Toppos and a lot of us younger lads adopted them in place of – or until – brogues could be got.[7] But like the umbrella and steel comb, they needed adaptation. Blakeys were expensive, and I don’t think the thinner rubber soles would have taken the heavy metal masculine accoutrement so what we did was hammer drawing pins nail-like into heels and toes of the false-brogues to get the metallic clipping sound we wanted to hear. DIY fashioning was a constant presence on our new estate. When mid 70s there was a rock’n’roll revival after Showaddywaddy starred on New Faces and Bill Haley came to play the new brutalist concrete Assembly Rooms in Derby neo-teds at Belper High posed at the youth club in crap paper-thin drape suits bought from the NME back pages in an early manifestation of mail-order consumerism; rag-traders cottoning on to new fads. Now then Barbara Blount started selling illuminous pink, green and orange socks. Surprisingly, since as the son of market-traders he was the first to get to new objects of commercial fashion - and a popular shop in Derby Market Hall sold the real things - my best mate (her son) Simon Blount made himself a Teddy boy bootlace-woggle by deconstructing an unwanted B52 bomber kit from Airfix and using the weapon of war’s pilot to form a passable, but absurd, imitation of the type of neckwear the Teddy boys from Leicester were seen wearing on TOTP. The pilot’s arms were set on a plain back tab and stuck out to resemble cow-horns his visored helmeted head the contrived animal’s skull/head. He left it all white. It had a sort of Greco-Roman classical sculptural style.

Showaddywaddy, circa 1974

[5] Raymond Williams, Resources of Hope: Culture, Democracy, Socialism, (London, Verso, 1989), p 6.

[6] From here, post-suedehead times (after a temporary Ted– revival) – we would buy large navy-blue sailor’s bell-bottom trousers as ‘found’ skinners as Bootboy slowly evolved from suedeheads

[7] A pair of Toppos became an actual well-known (socio-historical) youth-culture object in Belper, recognised as a credible alternative to Grenson brogues. I was talking with Tim Finch in The Grapes pub Belper a few years back. Tim, a life-long youth-culture follower and knowing modish fashion exponent, says they were called Toppos after some kid called Toppo who recognised their stylistic worth and set the phenomenal trend off; in our town at least.

Another guy who eventually came to embrace constructing his own articles of fashion was Robinson Crusoe. Shipwrecked and alone with no skills and experience of making things Daniel Defoe’s gentile everyman of the book of 1719 had to manufacture his own clothes, utensils, baskets, tables, chairs, general estate, and interestingly an umbrella. i.e. Crusoe made himself by necessity a tailor, weaver, potter, carpenter, architect, boat-builder, stonemason, baker, toolmaker and candlestick maker. He got his materials from repurposing and recycling the wrecked ships commodities and materials (especially dead sailor’s clothes) and those of the raw natural world where he found himself a past-passive consumer desperate and thrown into commodity poverty which made him be active. On the island washed up money he had no use for: ‘I smiled to my self at the sight of this money. ”O drug!” said I aloud, “what art thou good for?’

‘And now in managing my household affairs, I found my self wanting in many things, which I thought at first it was impossible for me to make, as indeed as to some of them it was… I began to apply my self to make such necessary as I found I wanted, as particularly a chair and a table; for without these I was not able to enjoy the few comforts I had in the world; I could not write, or eat, or do several things with so much pleasure without a table.

So I went to work; and here I must needs observe, that as reason is the substance and original of the mathematicks, so by stating and squaring every thing by reason, and by making the most rational judgement of things, every man be in time master of every mechanic art. I had never handled a tool in my life, and yet in time, by labour, application and contrivance, I found at last that I wanted nothing but I could have made it, especially if I had had tools; however, I made abundance of things, even without tools, and some with no more tools than an adze and a hatchet, which were perhaps never made that way before, and that with infinite labour…

However, I made me a table and a chair, as I observed above, in the first place, and this I did out of the short pieces of boards that I brought on my raft from the ship… ‘

Elaine Scarry - who I cited on making in Hegel’s Trowel - writes about Defoe’s intent to expose human making as at the heart of autonomous healthy modern enlightenment subjectivity.

Crusoe begins by being a person who “makes” either as a result of acute need (where willed artifice is the only available strategy of self-rescue) or as a result of accident (where artifice entails the human genius of observing a wholly unintended outcome), but increasingly becomes one who wilfully “makes” merely to make. That is, in addition to transforming his external world, Crusoe has transformed the nature of the act of creating itself; he has remade making; he has remade the human maker from one who creates out of pain to one who creates out of sheer pleasure.

Robinson Crusoe, Daniel Defoe, Penguin, 1981

May 1956, some situationist writing somewhere in Europe:

Detournement as Negation and Prelude

Detournement, the reuse of pre-existing artistic elements in a new ensemble, has been a constantly present tendency of the contemporary avant-garde both before and since the establishment of the SI. The two fundamental laws of detournement are the loss of importance of each detourned autonomous element – which may go so far as to lose its original sense completely – and at the same time the organisation of another meaningful ensemble that confers on each element its new scope and effect. Detournement has a peculiar power which obviously stems from the double meaning, from the enrichment of most of the terms by the coexistence within them of their old senses and their new, immediate sense. Detournement is practical because it is easy to use and because of its inexhaustible potential for reuse. Concerning the negligible effort required for detournement, we have already said, “The cheapness of its products is the heavy artillery that breaks through…walls of understanding”. (Methods of Detournement, May 1956)

Detournement has a historical significance. What is it? “Detournement is a game made possible by the capacity of the devaluation” writes Jorn in his study Detourned Painting (May 1959), and he goes on to say that all the elements of the cultural past must be “reinvented” or disappear. Detournement is thus first of all a negation of the value of the previous organisation of expression. It arises and grows increasingly stronger in the historical period of decomposition of artistic expression. But at the same time, the attempts to reuse the “detournable bloc” as material for other ensembles express the search for a vaster construction, a new genre of creation at a higher level. Any elements, no matter where they are taken from, can serve in making new combinations…Anything can be used. Situationist International Anthology, Edited translated Ken Knabb, 1981)

To explain Detournement – the hybrid aesthetic outlined in the SI communique - we can turn to Asger Jorn’s avant-garde painting Paris By Night (1959). referenced above.[8]

Paris By Night, Asger Jorn, 1959 Oil on Canvas

Rather than create (buy) a new painting, Jorn would salvage a piece of obsolete art, in this case a romantic lone figure gazing into the Paris night, from junk shops.[9] Taking these discarded portraits, Jorn added expressionistic patterns in the style of Jackson Pollock - an act of experimental cultural intervention he called a modification. The political import of the modification was that it allowed an artist to simultaneously breathe ‘new life’ or value into two different devalued cultures, in one straightforward gesture. The received dead-art of bourgeois naturalistic painting received renewed input from the avant-garde, whilst the avant-garde retained its status within the field of culture, a status suggested by the new art’s stubborn situation within the existent framing of the canvas or wooden picture frame. Through this new cultural arrangement Jorn gestured to destroy or devalue a passé art form - classic portrait painting, say - whilst, through reclamation or salvage, re-valued art’s essential potential as a carrier of meaning. Jorn’s experimentation, then, was not about re-making a new art or ‘ism’, ignorantly destroying the old ‘isms’, but ‘playing around’ with orthodox cultural heritage, amalgamating diverse forms of cultural production into revolutionary new conglomerations. Like the SI, the avant-garde Jorn wanted to ‘reinvent’ and ‘bankrupt’ culture on an ‘entirely new basis’, though, at the same time, acting in and with that culture.[10]

[8] ‘Paris By Night’ Jorn detourned painting analysis cut and pasted from doctoral thesis Worker’s Playtime, Steve Smith, 2004

[9] Crow, The Rise of the Sixties, pp. 50-51.

[10] Knabb, Situationist Anthology, pp. 111-113.

Detournement = DESTROY = Creation

It is this devaluation and re-valuation of one form of cultural expression at the expense of the other - the alchemical change brought about by experimental modification - that interests detourners and two women from Derbyshire; both work in fashion.

Derbyshire Maker Vivienne Westwood wearing detourned white-office shirt – Seditionaries - Circa 1976

Auchencairn, South-West Scotland, 2008:

17th June 2008. BBC Radio Scotland. Vivienne Westwood is live on air talking about her work. She says in her still-strong peak-district accent (slow and considered):

I’d been making clothes with holes and rips

in for quite a while.

I’d tear the cloth and

machine around it. I was making clothes

with holes in. People would come into the shop and

moan about the price.

I never understood why

they didn’t go home and make their own clothes

with holes in or rip the clothes they had.

November, 1976, Belper High School: In a state-of-the-art Derbyshire comprehensive school - under diffused delayed pressure from the subversive philosophy of a well-documented situationist led counter-culture of May ’68 - a movement bent on collapsing high and low cultural difference – a school led by an (allegedly) communist red-head and a progressive education policy that protested against the eleven-plus and so ripped up the difference between grammar and secondary modern education, high and low culture, school and non-school life - hip kids - some of whom end up in sixth form doing art - crowded around an opened New Musical Express; a cult-pose pop newspaper I despised as much as The Guardian) for it signified violent class distinction and affected commodity adoption by those who bought and drawled all over it like daft dogs. That said, there is the feint idea that something cultural is happening in England; a thing emergent from the sticky residual and stubborn dominant culture to paraphrase the aforementioned Raymond Williams. Inside the bohemian rock-world rag is a DIY identikit sketch of what a ‘punk rocker’ must dress like. And, not long to go from this real now, the “rough-tough” Clash (London punks) are playing a concert in Nottingham. After maths and before geography Alison Taylor, a student at Belper High School, strides down to the Oxfam shop on the still-a-mill-town-for-now High Street (or was it the ‘dead-man’s-shop on the Market Place?) with two lads from that comprehensive culturally-maligned detourned school. The future pro-textile-designer/maker buys two differently patterned formal suit jackets. Takes the unwanted old-man clothing home to Ambergate.[11] That night, in her bedroom-as-atelier, razor blades both out-of-fashion thin-lapelled jackets SSSHHHHKKKK down the middle seam. She sews them back up together – sutures rough as you like – and brings the two split rejigged garments back to school the next day. Not the next day, the local lads - early Derbyshire punks - go to see the group from the capital; stood in Nottingham Palais, wearing the doctored detourned jackets. Later in the year one of these punk rockers would get beaten up by Teddy Boys on Abbey Street, Derby, after leaving a shop selling commercial punk clothes called ID.

Alison Taylor, Belper High School, 1976

[11] Alison Taylor studied art at Hull Art College. She is a successful design-maker and has an artisan textile company in West Sussex.

October, 1976, Modern Belper – A New Housing Estate: A quiet clever man, Alex Paxton, lived a few doors up from us on Dovedale Crescent. He, like most of the others on this new 1960s Belper housing estate, owned his own house. Our house, like up to twenty-more, was not owned by us: it belonged to the National Coal Board (NCB). The nationalised industry purchased these new state-of-the-art houses to entice miners to old-mill-town Belper -- from South Scotland and County Durham -- to dig out coal in the Derbyshire pits. The coal dug up made electric. Some aspirational people on our modish ‘white-heat-of-technology’ street resented our social-cultural presence smearing their residential art and commodity dreams. Even though the miners were making electricity to drive their new consumer goods - Black & Decker saws, drills or jigsaws as well as TVs and refrigerators - they rejected the miners as an unwanted addition; black-collar stains on their social scene. A petition was circulated amongst residents to put a block on taking our place on the street even before the first miners arrived. What do I think today, about this coming-together? Was it accidental? Planned out? Socio-cultural Detournement? NCB left-wing thinkers creating a Jornian cultural intervention, making a modification, creating a new ‘Belper by Day’. Growing up on the estate the prole kids of the miners and the offspring of upwardly mobile toy shop owners, market traders, Deb chemists, self-employed electricians and skilled craftsman - products of two tribes - notionally clashed economically and culturally but also got mixed up with each other in an everyday picture. A sort of social alchemy came about and notional NCB hacking had made a new situation. A few of us naturally – post suedehead - became punks. Well me and the Deb chemist’s son; the original owner of one half of Alison Taylor’s hybrid schizoid jackets known as Paul Hough.

Hacking Life:

Poly(semic)

Nowadays living in the 21st century everywhere it’s hats off to hacking: ‘Hack this’ and ‘hack that’. There are 24-hour hack spaces in Leeds, Bristol, Manchester, Nottingham, Sheffield, Leicester, London: Hackspace UK is here to stay. I’ve seen ‘apron hack’ events at work; heard of pubescent international computer hackers on local news who live in Codnor, Portslade, or Fife; during a typical day I say self-critical things like ‘what a hack’ when I see or do bad workmanship; AVG watches out for me scanning for dangerous folk that hack your computer. Dominic Morrow told me on a visit to Nottingham Hack space “some-here-people-want-to-hack-the-state”. You can be hacked off, miserable and down in the mouth about something – the state or status of making perhaps (or people running you down for being miners). Aggression brought about by being hacked off can lead you to hack something to pieces; even death. Newspaper ‘hacks’ cut-up stories and quotes - distorting text to a new end and can produce hack writing, texts ‘banal, mediocre, or unoriginal’. Leicester hack space gang - anarchistic to a person - always managed to hack the communal beer barrel when we had re: make parties: ‘we’re only ‘ere for the beer’ and would give you a kick on the shin (a hack) to get to the bottom dregs of the local-brewed ‘Ay Up’ kegged ale before you could. Is the word/concept ‘hack’ what my old English lecturers would call critically a polysemic ‘floating signifier’? A sign/word/lexeme that can mean or be made to mean so many things - denotational with spiraling connotations - by so many different in-crowd users (like its sister word ‘disruptive’) that its position as a major mention-tool in contemporary maker hipster overuse renders it banal and unoriginal? Can you hack the word hack or hack hackerworld? Or is hack a positive case of a democratic general ‘unlimited semiosis’, a phrase borrowed from the proto semiotician Charles Pierce and adopted by Umberto Eco which describes the uncontrolled life of a sign/word in language?In my dull mind to hack describes a sort of contemporary hijacking, a commandeering of an artefact and then cutting it up for an adaption. As synthesiser, hacking culture re-makes the selected object into something useful and not of its originally designed purpose as commodity (for commodities as objects are what get hacked most): Toppo’s shoes and drawing pins; a green landscape in Belper carved up into housing estate; the private street hacked into by a mining community; grammar school clashed with secondary-modern education to form an new alloy called the comprehensive; plastic B 52 Bomber model becomes repurposed as teddy-boy paraphernalia; Oxfam jackets cut up and reformed, Crusoe hacks his ruined ship and makes an interior for his cave, and Westwood’s stencilled shirts adorned with zips and holes. Back in 2013, during the Re:make experimental phase of manufacturing a new Derby Museum of Making, a Rolls Royce engineer put together some plastic milk crates and with a pair of scissors cut up some thick cardboard and made a prototype back that slotted into the already-in-place slots of the milk crates. The back was modified and CNC cut from 12 mm plywood and 8mm clear acrylic. It became the infamous crate chair. The museum manufactured its own chairs; DIY self-production a radical gesture of active making against the passive buying ethics Westwood identified at her Kings Road shop SEX. Visitors asked ‘can we buy these chairs from you?’

Crate Chair, Co-produced, 2013, plastic, felt and plywood

Hacking is voguish then but not new, not now. I can think of two other interconnected examples of hacking; one historical the other contemporary (if you count the mid-70s as historical and today contemporary). Both activities and actors as ‘hackers’ used a common-garden DIY store electric jigsaw. In 1977 I used an inverted jigsaw at Abbey Patterns Derby to make a plywood pattern for a decorative grate. It was probably made by Black & Decker. Adam Blenkoe brought his modified Makita jigsaw to Derby in 2016.

Jigsaw Illustration, Woodworkers Bible, Alf Martensen,

Abbey Patterns, Derby 1976:

My first experience of any form of patternmaking - which is my original first-choice trade - was arranged by Alex Paxton. Some-thing called ‘a patternmaker’, he, as I have said, owned his own house – he was a business partner in Abbey Patterns, a small master-shop in Derby. Alex as patternmaker was a skilled man. We knew Alex was a maker because Alex’s wife came down to our rented house and inter alia mixed with us spoil of miners.

Back in 1976, still a schoolboy, while my mates were off to buy punk records after seeing see the Clash (modishly rejecting Tangerine Dream, Deep Purple, Genesis -- yada yada) I visited Abbey Patterns workshop one Saturday morning for a taster session. Arranged by my father via Alex via Pam his wife – I was invited to try patternmaking, see if I liked the strange esoteric trade, had aptitude for the rationally complex craft. Abbey Patterns was then -1977 – manufacturing in a tiny cramped pattern-shop in a post-residential converted house on Gerrard not Abbey Street. I got to the ‘hacked-out’ Derby house by bus. Prompt 8am. I was set to work right from the off. No time to lose. I had a single tea break when they the two partners stopped for ten minutes, until stopping the week’s work at 12pm. My task was to work on an improvised machine the patternmakers had contrived to shape a small pattern – approximately 300 x 300 mm square – the kind of pierced grate-cum-screen you see on the pavements of red-brick terraced housing forming cast-iron apertures that let air and light into small underground cellars, walls, and chimney stacks. The contraption was ingenious.

They had inverted an old Black & Decker/Wolf/Bosch Jigsaw, and removed the blade for a small wood file. The bed could tilt to create required degrees of draft or taper for patterns when machining intricate shaped work. A full-sized paper photocopy of the required intertwined design was glued with PVA onto a small sheet of 12mm birch plywood. The laminated ply product was perfect for making a pattern with fine interlocked sections because the pattern would have structural integrity at all sections of the pattern, thus resisting breakage (or shrinkage) in the foundry environment. It saved time-consuming jointing as might be expected in pre-plywood classic purist pattern practice and construction since the membrane of birch laminations made an integrated and thus strong stock material. However, plywood is tricky and hard to ‘pare out’ with traditional chisels and gouges. Conflicting grain directions add strength but carve poorly. A file can therefore abrade the material evenly and flatly.

The black lines on the white paper indicated to me where I had to file to. The fretwork design was cut as close to the line possible – potentially with the same customised jigsaw contraption using a blade rather than rasp or file. (This is pre - CNC existence. Today the design would simply be imported from a digital drawing package, into a tool-pathing software such as Vectric 2D Cut or v-carve, and automatically routed out with precision tapered hi-tech cutters. The CNC operator a semi-skilled presence. So, in some ways the inverted–hijacked jigsaw I used at Abbey Patterns prefigured this need for mechanised patternmaking. Abbey Patterns made a lot of grates, and detailed small scale cast-iron work that can still be seen on the Derby streets -- if you are smart/interested enough to spot them. In this way their business needs and technical nous drove forward their creative DIY product design, inventive in-house toolmaking. Amazed at what I had seen, I left Abbey Patterns when they said it was time to go home catching the red Trent 90 bus back to Belper. Looking back in time these skilled patternmakers didn’t self-consciously call themselves hackers.

Abbey Pattern Street Grate, Cast Iron, Derby, 2022

(‘anything can be used’) - rubbing Abbey Pattern Co grate – blue charcoal on paper, Steve Smith, 2018

The Mekons, Leeds, circa 1976

440 Kingsland Road Workshops, London, 1992--“Never Been in a Riot”: Mark White was the first lead singer with the Leeds-university based punk groupuscule The Mekons. Around about 1977 The Mekons put out a delicious scrappy amateurish single “Never Been in a Riot”. Never Been in a Riot was the avant-garde groups anti-masculine pink repost to the butch ‘rough-tough rock’n’roll revolutionary red art of The Clash and their song “White Riot”. These softer punks were thus ideologically detourning the hard-core detourners -- hacking to bits the SI influenced cultural big-time punk-rock hackers (and the punk rock movement at large) posing in their stencilled political sloganeering shirts (Red Guard, Brigade Rosso) rebel anti-fashion contradictorily made popular and fashionable by Viv Westwood. Nowadays he was not a punk singer, but a humble maker in our cooperative London workshop: 440 Kingsland Road, an old print works converted and chopped in two – hacked into a ground-floor woodwork shop and first-floor graphic design studio - in Hackney.

Fast forward to 2015. I am back working with a hacked jigsaw again in a Derby workshop. Returned, I am part of a team returning making to Lombe’s Silk Mill – the world’s first factory. In the workshop is a maker from London: Adam Blenkoe. Up-and-coming, a neo-21st century maker up from the East London Hack space – he is running a morning weaving workshop. Apart from Adam and me, students are all women. Interested in traditional textile crafts - embroidery, dressmaking, tapestry, weaving – attendees are disturbed to not find scissors, sewing machines, overlockers, embroidery hoops, needles and thread, paper patterns, plastic cutting French curves arranged on the cutting table, rather a selection of thick art books: thick cult texts on the art of Bauhaus, Russian constructivism, De Stijl.

There was no sign of a loom either. There was simply a Makita jigsaw bolted rather amateurishly to an aluminium off-the-shelf mobile CNC bed. Driven by electric stepper motors that pulsed right, left, vertical and horizontal, forward and back the jigsaw could be driven in micro movements along a digitally-programmed X-Y-Z axis. Like the inverted machine at Abbey Patterns the orthodox functional saw blade had been removed and replaced in this instance with a broad-gauge needle.

Commercial Makita Jigsaw Bolted to CNC Frame

The women were encouraged to select abstract designs from the art books on the table. Then, having selected one avant-garde pattern, students cut felt or cotton samples replicating the geometry they had found in the coloured plates.

Liubov Popova, Embroidery Design For The Artisan Co-operative Verbovka, 1917 (cut-and-pasted papers on paper)

The bright primary-coloured sections were then individually placed on a large single canvas back cloth over which the jigsaw sat still waiting to be activated.

Adam Blenkoe and Student Loading the Jigsaw Loom

When each art-weaver student had added to the cloth picture – thus constructing a communal patterned wall hanging (à la Lyubov Popova, Alexander Rodchenko, Annie Albers) - Blenkoe flicked the electric switch on the CNC.

Fired up by the powerful current of the mains electricity the jigsaw ranged over the cloth to a pre-set quilted grid pattern and, at the same time, as the probe-like needle oscillated in a highspeed pecking action, stabbed the felt through the background material. Sort of tattooing the textiles the constructivist cum Bauhausian inspired synthetic designs were infused deep into the skin of the white cloth. When the noisy jigsaw motor stopped running, returning quietly to its fixed X-Y-Z home position (the workshop sounded like a hi-tech weaving shop as the needle click-clicked-click-click clicked back and forth like speed shuttle making -- a kind of metallic sonic composition) the tapestry was complete. In stark contrast to the thin hard lifeless 2D reproduction masculine modernist plates the workshop attendees’ patterns were lifted from – the dead lifeless art prints were paradoxically facsimiles of historical designs for wall hangings or rugs - the plagiarised Silk Mill weaving had depth, softness, life, texture, warmth, a non-masculine aura. Post-man-work; maybe. Moreover, rather than simply passively (spectacularly) consuming the geometric abstract designs from the art book as commodity, the weavers-in-the-workshop had actively produced their own tangible material original self-made artefact.

Finished Constructivist Wall Hanging

Circa 1977 Alex Paxton, as I have conjected, didn’t know he had hacked the small bladed shop-bought DIY power tool – designed for amateur woodworkers to cut curved shapes – just like some of us didn’t know we were punks until the NME posted that picture of what a punk lookalike looked like. But I suggest, Blenkoe a 21st maker knew he was a hacker hacking this electric jigsaw. Obviously, Adam at the Museum of Making workshop Derby, wasn’t punching-out the State, but coloured felt. Yet, that said, there is for me, if no one else (even Blenkoe), hard political import in this radical soft textile-hacking gesture. Like The Mekons chant “Never Been in a Riot”, his antimacho punk art was a deft retro counter-critique within trendy macho-modernist (hackneyed) critical thought movements. His target - if not the Clash – was perhaps butch graphic aesthetics or cultural art revolutionaries and their sanctification of hard-edged constructivist art; Blenkoes workshop and his co-opted women students - was hitting back with a detourned form of constructivist/suprematist art ‘modified’ and emasculated with a sub-Jornian fuzzy textile making attitude. Self-conscious - perhaps ironic - metro-cosmopolitan Adam was cutting up – emasculating – man-making craftwork itself. Blenkoe took a masculinised woodworking tool ‘the jigsaw’ (and CNCing – a staple of the new ‘techno’ male-dominated maker movement) and co-opted ‘mediated’ it for a ‘feminised’ arty-crafty weaving course. One in the loom or jigsaw for men running all the male workshops in the world. Bauhaus detourned – constructivism hacked off. Hacking, then can be practical, technical, political or cultural.

No women at all if possible into the workshop, both for their sakes and the sake of the workshop…Weimar Bauhaus edict 1923

At the ‘revolutionary’ Bauhaus workshops, it is pointed out, the early years (1919-1920) the Council of Masters passed resolutions that aimed at benefitting the large numbers of women students attending the school. The new Weimar Constitution assured women unrestricted freedom of study. In his inaugural speech to the Bauhaus students Walter Gropius, the Bauhaus director, made express reference to the women present. His notes referred explicitly to ‘no special regard for ladies, all craftsmen in work’ and ‘absolute equality of status, and therefore absolute equality of responsibility’. Yet as early as September 1920 Gropius was backtracking. And suggesting ’no unnecessary experiments’ should be made and that women should be sent directly to the weaving shops having completed the mandatory Vorkurs (the compendium multidisciplinary craft course 21st century art foundation courses came from). If weaving was refused, rebel female students were directed towards bookbinding or pottery. No women were allowed to study architecture; female student cohort made unwelcome in the woodwork shop.

Bauhaus Weaving Studio Loom

It may be noted that the Weimar Bauhaus presented a number of fundamental obstacles to the admission of women and that those who overcame the first hurdles were forcibly chanelled into the weaving workshop. Much of the art then being produced by women was dismissed by men as ‘feminine’ or ‘handicrafts’. The men were afraid of too strong an ‘arty-crafty’ tendency and saw the goal of the Bauhaus – architecture – endangered. (Bauhaus archive, 1919-1920, Magdalena Droste)

Bauhaus girls looking out from weaving shop, circa 1925

Bolshevik art in the Soviet Union, in particular ‘constructivism’ and its related movements ‘suprematicism’ and ‘productivism’, post-1917 revolution, looked to deconstruct the bourgeois world epitomised by a residual adherence to a ‘his’ and ‘her’ conception of society and human expression. The Russian avant-garde – of which Liubov Popova as a rare woman art-worker was a part – practice ‘unfolded in the context of the Bolsheviks proclamation of the emancipation of women under socialism, which was supposed to entail the destruction of the private, domestic sphere of everyday life in which women had traditionally been trapped, and their seamless entry into productive and public life – including the practice of art.’ However, coincidental with the gender-distinctions and craft bias evidenced at the Weimar Bauhaus the progressive constructivist project still split artisan practices along predictable male-female lines:

Popova chose to enter production through the traditionally feminine fields of fabric and clothing design, while Rodchenko [her close communist art collaborator] taught in the exclusively masculine wood and metalworking faculty at the newly established state art school VKhUTEMAS, focusing on furniture design, and maintained a reputation for ‘iron constructive power’ among his colleagues in the avant-garde group Lef (Left Front of the Arts).[12]

[12] Rodchenko & Popova: Defining Constructivism, 2009, Tate Modern Exhibition Publication. In ‘His and Her Constructivism’ Christina Kiaer writes that despite Popova Rodchenko anomaly, ‘There is ample evidence, within the works, writings, and lifestyles of the members of the left avant-garde, that they rejected most stereotypes of femininity inherited from capitalism, and embraced the egalitarian ideals of the ‘new everyday life’ and the full participation of women in artistic, literary, and working life’. She calls the constructivist radicals formal experimenters and productive practitioners of a prototypical ‘Bolshevik feminism’.

Cultural Goods:

“Kings road shopper…it’s just a fake make no mistake a rip off for me a Rolls for them” Rip Off Sham 69

“Turning rebellion into money” White Man in Hammersmith Palais, The Clash

Back to Vivien Westwood, then. A brilliant maker, if confused thinker, this infamous Derbyshire rebel woman professed a Situationist agenda and, despite supressing some of it with some sweet bad faith -- post 1968 she’s running a Kings Road shop selling commodified rebellion, a situation critiqued by the situationist influenced punk commodities she aligned herself with –- she was in 1977 (and still is) anti-consumption –pro-making. What else was/is her complaint that folks didn’t/don’t go home and make their own ripped clothing or adorn it with zips and DIY stencilled slogans about then? But what did the SI (Situationist International) have against commodities? Despite unthinkingly (knowingly) luring the likes of Vivienne Westwood into their philosophical elephant trap – as she co-opted their abandoned-by-now Mai ’68 theory for snappy political slogans she could rescue, repurpose and hack for her very saleable detourned revolutionary clothing “demand the Impossible” - Raoul Vaneigem and the SI wrote about how paradoxically a sort of cultural existential spiritual poverty is brought about by the totalising domination of the Society of the Spectacle in which commodified goods and their spectacular consumption are paid for in the name of social distinction by consumers. But these states-of-modern mind are in fact disabling, ontologically ‘alienating’ rendering the subject a passive consumer. They called this condition-in-common proletarianisation: The act of choosing between a variety of commodities, whether they are roles or things, lifestyles, or opinions is, by virtue of its distinctive hierarchical position in the alienated whole, fated to be an instance of ‘false choice offered by a spectacular abundance’; an irrelevant and meaningless choice between empty and equivalent commodities.

Every product represents the hope for ‘a dramatic shortcut to the long-awaited promised land of total consumption’. But the fulfilment of this promise is possible only with the attainment of the totality of commodities, a desire which excites the accumulation of commodities but which is ultimately insatiable. ‘The satisfaction that the commodity in its abundance can no longer supply by virtue of its use value is now sought in the acknowledgement of its value qua commodity’. Commodities circulate as ends in themselves; goods which are presented as unique ultimate products, the very best and latest goods, are replaced and forgotten the next. (Sadie Plant, The Most Radical Gesture: The Situationist International in a Postmodern Age, - Guy Debord Society of the Spectacle cited in ‘’)

Man Gifts, Black and Decker advertisement, circa 1950s

But as we have seen above, within radical SI influenced culture (macho punk V effete punk) there, by anti-spectacle logic, exists a circular self-critical ongoing examination of the holes and misunderstandings in its own theoretical position. (The society of the spectacle is wholesale, totalitarian, and therefore subjectively inescapable) Vaneigem – the Mai ’68 philosopher (overshadowed by distinctive Debord (philosopher as commodity)) - might contra Debord - controversially shout out: "THREE CHEEERS FOR COMMODIITES—HIP-HIP-HOORAY”. Writing in 1967 -- contra inter alia the malign product fetishism the continental radicals sensed pervading everyday post-war life -- Vaneigem declared for a need, not to refuse manufactured goods, but to subvert modernity’s electrical and technological commodities for creative ends. Predicting, pre-empting, prescribing, ‘producing’ what we today call ‘hacking’, a creative German engineer he told of, ‘Using makeshift equipment and negligible funds’, had created a DIY apparatus able to replace a Cyclotron; a homemade particle accelerator using magnets and high voltage electrodes. (The Revolution of Everyday Life). Blenkoe and his subjugated reborn modern-man jigsaw can be retrospectively reviewed from this Vaneigem(ist) perspective.

Clash of Worlds:

Bauhaus, “Arty” Book, Cover Detail,

If an ELU electric jigsaw, like a Seditionaries shirt, the glossy art book on Bauhaus Adam Blenkoe left out for his constructivist felt workshop, a Clash LP, Gibson Brogues, are distinctive BRANDED commodities so are Universities, art galleries, football grounds, shops, night clubs. Museums couldn’t escape the critical mind of the SI, any more than the power tool did. These carefully curated places can be – and are – today consumed as any cultural commodity. Modern subjects consume passively the museum as brand, looking over the fixed and revered inanimate objects. In consuming these residual respected cultures, we are looking to exhibit a spectacle of intellectual social distinction. The SI were getting at the exhibitionistic posing inherent in spectacular intellectual-consecrated consumption. ‘Who do we think is watching us when we consume culture?’ to paraphrase Jean Paul Sartre. (In his 2018 book Fewer Better Things Glenn Adamson – former director of the Museum of Arts and Design New York ‘one of the main things people look at in exhibitions is one another’.

Peter Wollen, in a very precis reprise of the compendium of ideas which situationism is constructed from writes that, despite their provocative journalism and philosophical gesturing, the Situationists’ wilder projects for détournement never took off. But they did want to change the cultural landscape and they are still well known for their urban fantasies and desire to alter the city. Arguing that ‘the Paris Metro should be running all night, special aerial runways should be constructed to facilitate journeys across the rooftops, churches should be turned into children’s playgrounds (or Chambers of Horror), railway stations should be left exactly as they are—except that all timetables and travel information should be removed from them. Graveyards should be abolished. Prisons should be opened. Street-names should be changed’ and anti-museums set up; art galleries should be raided i.e. hacked: ‘All museums should be closed and the art works distributed, to be hung in bars and Arab cafés’.

Jean Baudrillard in Revenge of the Crystal; Selected Writings on the Modern Object and its Destiny: 1968-1983 suggests that after functional objects, objects he calls ‘by-gone objects’ have been superseded or become obsolete in commodified society, i.e. non-functional, they nevertheless stick around the social and cultural scene and inter alia re-function as ‘rare, quaint, folkloric, exotic or antique objects. They seem inconsistent with the calculus of functional demands in conforming to a different order of longing: testimony, remembrance, nostalgia, escapism’. Baudrillard theorist of the simulacra goes on ‘One might be tempted to see them as relics of the traditional and symbolic order. Yet for all their difference, these objects also form part of modernity, and this is the source of their double meaning’[13] to the philosopher of commodity-objects-as signs list we might add ‘industrial’. For writing in 1968 amidst the heat of the Mai’68 anti-commodity fire Baudrillard and his cohort were still living in the epoch of production, manufacturing and thus industrial society. In our post-industrial setting the objects and functional tools of industry thus evoke as live signs of by-gone dead objects the secondary denotations and connotations he identifies in religious, ethnic, hereditary objects. Industrial-alia is chic and now belongs to that different order of longing: testimony, remembrance, nostalgia, escapism.

The industrially-derived objects on display as museum ‘collections’- housed in the open-displays of Museum of Making – are not left to do the work of this secondary order: creating/facilitating passive nostalgic longing in its spectating visitors. The world’s first factory is the Silk Mill in Derby which as the Museum of Making unlike many heritage places (and definitely other passive engagement museums –physically speaking anyway) has an authentic working workshop space where things can be actively made inspired by and associated with the industrial artefacts and objects on show. For example, my making course Kitchenalia used selected relevant industrial objects from the collections – carved patterns, aero-dynamic wooden models, presentation bowls and hand-made spoke gouges – as a starting point for this woodworking course. Although participants made serving platters, utensils and bowls, they explored the same skills and techniques used to make the objects picked out from the collections. In this way they were actively engaging with the process of making the by-gone functional objects and refuting their consignment to the realms of that secondary order of non-functionalism. Plus, in making artefacts they are acting under Westwood’s punkish radical imperative to make their own functional objects – not buy them from the internet or expensive commercial cookery shops. Consumption is therefore purposefully clashed with authentic production, commercialism confronted with DIY. The workshops are at the living centre of the museums’ making ethos and inform a certain development of a city ‘Making Quarter’. As part of the MoM project we have already created a mobile workshop ‘The Makory’ which we take out across the city - loaded up with tools and museum collections – into unorthodox spaces like laybys, country parks and inner-city concrete carparks reclaiming creativity and making – moving the museum in a converted – hacked - library bus.

[13] J. Baudrillard, Revenge of the Crystal, p35

Punk Making:

Punk was infamously founded (found out) on a radical DIY ethic. The low-fi influential fanzine Sniffin’ Glue drove forward this do-it-yourself ethic of anti-consumption – a well-told critique of complicated commercial pop and elite ‘progressive’ music – by printing in one of its most renowned editions a diagram showing three guitar chords. The gesture was a call to self-production, the guitar its means of original production. Showing finger positions required to make A, E, G chords it challenged the passive consumer-of-other-people’s-songs to stop passive consumption fandom and demanded “NOW FORM A BAND”.

Sniffin Glue, Fanzine, 1976

Over the last thirty years I have led many studio-courses and summer-school introductions to furniture making; most recently in courses prototyping #2 development phase of Museum of Making programming and a post-opening two craft course called Kitchenalia and Plywood Furniture where attendees made their own handmade chopping boards bowls and utensils, cabinets, bookcases, shelving units. After explaining to students what they can do with a simple raw skill saw and rail, biscuit jointer, and router, I refer to the Sniffin’ Glue provocation. I say, plagiarising Sniffin’ Glue, in order to provoke as the fanzine wanted to, ‘here’s a saw, here’s a router, here’s a biscuit jointer -- now you go make your own furniture’.

Power tools – hand-held machines – are not independently spectacular commodities, but inevitably gain their social distinction – semiotic worth – from their purchase price; good kit is expensive. But community craft centres like ORW, where I worked for ten years in London, and the 2021 Museum of Making inner-city workshop, are built on the premise of the DIY ethic. Not self-consciously anarchist or punk, yet subconsciously culturally determined by the autonomous punk ethos – all small community fabrication studios enable independent making by holding-in-common the tools needed for DIY furniture production: a saw, a router, a biscuit jointer (21st century it is a domino jointer). Given that amateur makers and post-grad students can’t afford to set up workshops and buy expensive equipment seminal to the manufacture of aesthetic and utilitarian artefacts, (you need more than scissors or razor blade) the community workshop hold these means of production as joint stock which can be commandeered with membership fees, small rents, and short-term public hire. Skilled help and technical advice the essential complimentary resource.

In a ‘sniffing glue’ punk-making mind-set I try to disenchant the ‘mystery of making’ (without undermining its skilled aspect) as fast as possible by associating independent making with the three-chord-mentality. The rawness of three-chord making can, I often want to point out, be reduced to two items of kit (planer and saw) or one chord production with a modern accurate circular or hand-held rail saw. In a workshop with a single robust circular saw, stripped back of guards and riving knives (illegally) I can rip, crosscut, groove, rebate, tongue, tenon and mortice furniture components to a professional standard. Most south-of-England antique restorers and cabinet-making workshops - secreted in hard-to -find anonymous marginal buildings - work a central table saw hard in this anarchist making fashion - stereotypically an old Wadkin cast-iron like the one we had at the Silk Mill circa 2013. I know because I’ve been in these raw brute foundational workshops and made complex beautiful stylish furniture in them. They exist all over the country if you can or want to find them and design/make your own stuff.

More than this, community ownership of machines and tooling and spaces of production advance punk’s anti-consumption theory and praxis because in buying one communal router, one shard biscuit jointer, one accessible saw they remove the temptation, or unavoidable need, for would-be makers to outlay hard-earned wages, bare subsistence incomes and allowances on commercial woodworking products they only need to use intermittently to create made objects. The sheds of England are full of unused and unwanted power tools. Bought from DIY retail outlets or specialist craft suppliers, these expensive goods lie idle. The rhetoric of the community workshop is clear to hear.

Banally, the sign/word ‘Hack’ abuts the word ‘Hacienda’. Spanish for a ranch, or large estate, or the house or building on these, Hacienda derives – and the dictionary tells me this - from the Latin root faceienda : things to be done, from facere : to do. Andy Warhol had the art Factory in New York, Factory Records was a Manchester urban record label, the Hacienda its independent night club. Tony Wilson of Factory Records plagiarised the SI - as is the rebel logic of the circular political SI idiom – and christened the Manchester night club The Hacienda after Chtcheglov’s hackneyed and well-hacked essay ‘Formulary for a New City’: ‘the hacienda must be built’. He argued for cities modified, detourned, hacked and the creation of a bizarre quarter, a happy quarter, a sinister quarter. And advocated mobile houses and transformable liquid strange experimental city environments. [14]

[14Sadie Plant, The Most Radical Gesture: The Situationist International in a Postmodern Age, Routledge, 1992, p. 61.

The Makory, Hacked ex-council Library Bus, Museum of Making, 2019

Going Nowhere, Detourned magazine image, Mai ’68 DIY screen print poster, ink on paper 1968

What might you get when you recombine a library bus with a workshop or a traditional museum with a live-making in-house workshop or put a museum collection in that workshop or put a museum in a factory and make that museum a factory to rebuild a museum? What happens when you clash active blue collar making low (non-official) culture of the factory/workshop with the high (official) culture of passive contemplative museum musing?

See detournement

Plywood - a DIY furniture making course - ran by Steve Smith - is a popular event at Museum of Making. This Autumn he is planning a furniture-making course exploring the cult Italian mid-80s designer furniture movement Memphis Style.

The Museum of Making workshop and studio programme is now running workshops on making ceramics, metalworking, tin-smithing, woodwork, weaving, clothes making.

Adam Blenkoe has recently finished a commission for the Barbican and is in discussion with Museum of Making workshop ‘bringin’ back’ his ‘felting machine’ to the city for 2022.

Steve Smith has completed a clothes-making course ran by fashion designer and tailor Abi Wastie. Abi is a course leader at Museum of Making.

DIY is a new exhibition for 2022 at the Museum of Making

Director of Projects, Hannah Fox, is a former student of Belper High school and led the way advocating the installation/juxtaposition of a live making workshop within a museum setting at Derby’s Museum of Making. She is leaving the project to join the Bowes Museum Barnard Castle.

Steve Smith, Workshop - Studio Supervisor, May, 2022

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csykora · 2 years

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Since I do occasionally like clothes, and like to feature that, here are Carey Price and Pierre-Luc looking fine!

Carey has lots of textures and gradients in his black-on-black comeback suit. I like that the jacket is a wool felt, which matches the hat but is also super matte compared to the waistcoat, which has more sheen. The waistcoat in turn has black pinstripes that visually separate it from the plain shirt, which is also distinct from the heathered gray tie. Everything fits fairly closely with the same amount of comfortable ease, so he looks confident. I can only mark him down one point because I don’t see any lace panties anywhere, so it’s not a peak Price outfit.

Pierre-Luc meanwhile has not done much to put together an outfit, but he has got such a good suit he doesn’t have to. I love how he’s moving easily. The fabric is breaking at his elbows and upper arms but fits relatively close at his forearms, which makes me feel like it’s correctly cut so he has space to flex his larger-than-average biceps and move his shoulder joint, but hasn’t just sized up the whole jacket to fit his upper arm. The color likes him, and I like the little details like the stitching on the edge of the lapels that makes them stand out (compare to the seal of the breast pocket) and the cuff buttons. His whole left forearm could be a cologne ad. His groin, and I so rarely get to say this about a hockey player, looks fine. Keep it up kid.

#what the well-dressed goalie is wearing #carey price #pierre luc dubois

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royallyjoon · 4 years

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nephilim (un)

you know where the cred goes 💙

cult au, supernatural au

yandere! ot7 x f! reader

warnings: yandere themes, violent behavior

the mysterious, age old town of ichabod. within it rests a history hidden from its inhabitants, who are forced to remain there out of fear. you simply wish to live in this town with the people you love without facing its wrath for as long as you can. unfortunately for you, there are great powers on your side who are willing to do whatever it takes to get you. whether you come willingly or not. after all, it only takes a little hellfire

——————————————————————————

“Come along now, (Y/N).” Your mother’s grip on your wrist tightened as she all but threw you in front of her. You nearly twisted your ankle on the twigs and tree roots that outlined the forest floor. “We are late enough as it is.”

You huffed and tore your wrist from your mother’s hand to hike up the long, white dress you wore. “Good. I wish we didn’t have to trek out here in the middle of the night every month. Maybe we’ll miss the gathering entirely.”

She smacked your arm harshly. “Not another word from you, smart mouth.” Your mother dressed similarly, the only difference being that her ivory dress paled considerably compared to yours in the moonlight. “We’ve been attending for years. I highly doubt that such a change would be allowed, much less appreciated.”

You shivered at the thought. No matter how much you resented these meetings, you wouldn’t dare miss a summoning.

You stayed quiet for ten more minutes, taking in the rustling of the forest and focusing your efforts on avoiding sharp rocks underfoot.

Trees rested on either side of you, lining your path and blocking out any natural light with their twisting, sneaking branches. It took all of your effort to ignore the oppressive silence, broken every so often by the snapping of a trig or the movement of some animal, cloaked by shadows in the dark.

Soon enough, you and your mother reached the clearing.

She pulled you back just as you were about to step into the moonlight, throwing a dark cloak in your face. “Are you mad? Put it on!”

You smiled abashedly and threw the material on. The hood was so long it cast a shadow over the lower half of your face but was wide enough for you to see.

Your mother finished arranging her hood and the two of you stepped into the clearing, joining with the last of the circle of cloaked shadows.

The moon shone brightly without the cover of the forest giving your surroundings an ethereal facade. A wooden stage lay at the very middle of the clearing, upon which stood your small town’s resident royalty.

The Kims.

They were the ruling force of the town, the husband being the mayor, the wife a successful actress. They both settled down in Ichabod twenty-five years ago with their children. What had once been a town amuck with violence and chaos was transformed into a prosperous, well-functioning borough.

How the Kims managed to transform the area nearly overnight, few knew. They have run your city for nearly three decades. And everyone in it is terrified to cross their path.

Directly behind them stood their seven adopted sons, faces shrouded by hoods and masks. You didn’t know too much about them besides their names and faces; five of them currently attended your school and you made sure to give them a wide berth, being as polite as possible.

Kim Moonsik raised his left arm, twisting his wrist in a full circle. He then pointed his hand at the sky, gently lowering his pinky and middle fingers. “Greetings to the moon from her earthly servants.”

You lifted your forearm with everyone else, copied the gesture, and repeated the phrase quietly with disinterest.

“I thank you all for coming on such short notice.” He continued. “As another month commences, we have the pleasure of standing before you all. The moon has graced us with her everlasting beauty and prosperity rains down upon our small town, just as it has for decades before.”

This is usually the part where you would start drifting off. Kim Moonsik could drove on with his speech about the moon for far too long.

About what felt like an hour but was approximately fifteen minutes later, Mr. Kim trailed off and the forest became so silent, you hushed your thoughts in fear of thinking too loud.

The oppressive feeling in the air returned full force and you shivered underneath the warmth of your cloak as Mr. Kim eyed each and every person attending. He was not able to directly see your face, but you felt like the man was staring into your soul.

“Regrettably,” He said, clasping his hands together, “we are not able to part tonight without the moon’s divine punishment.”

Ah, you thought. There it is.

The reason your heart pounds at every one of these meetings.

All you wanted to do was be that half-asleep little girl again, clutched in your mother’s arms as she trudged her way here every month.

“Wylynne has decreed that there are sinners in our midst.” Mr. Kim says it quietly, but the gravity in his words travel.

And with a mighty roar, the pyre behind the wooden stage was lit with orange flames.

The crowd stood in silence, waiting for the dreadful sound. You quaked in the dirt. Would it be you this time?

But by the grace of the moon, no.

The telltale, piercing shriek came from the right side of the crowd. Citizens rushed to get away from the teenager cradled in her parents’ arms. The mother could not let go of her daughter, heavily sobbing as the child clutched her head and continued to scream. Her hood had fallen off and your eyes widened as you recognized her.

Natalia Pierre. The two of you had had some awful confrontation a few months ago. Nevertheless, the resident embers of anger could not stop the overwhelming pity you felt as the Kims’ men ripped her away from her parents.

“Please!” She cried as they forced her to her knees before the mayor. Not that she wasn’t already bent over, riddled with pain. “Knives-the knives won’t stop, please get them out!”

Kim Moonsik lay his hand on her shoulder. “Do not worry, my child. You will soon join Wylynne’s heavenly army. May your failures be a lesson, victories a reward, and may your soul live on with the moon forever.”

“May your soul live on with the moon forever.” You whispered the last phrase with everyone else, ignoring the tear that made its way down your cheek.

Before Natalia could say another word, her screams were cut short as her body was engulfed in purple fire.

It only took a second. Within minutes, her cloak, dress, bones, and ashes were gone. She hadn’t even scorched the grass. You could almost believe you’d dreamed it if her father wasn’t kneeling next to her writhing mother in the dirt.

Mr. Kim smiled gracefully, a sight that reminded you of the grim reaper with the shadow on his face. “To her heavenly grace, the moon, may she travel. To my fellow citizens of Ichabod, I bid goodnight.”

The orange flame behind the stage was doused. You, your mother, and the crowd bowed your heads as you wished goodnight to the Kims. It was only when the last son had left the clearing did anyone else begin moving.

You clutched your mother’s hand all the way home.

---------------------------------------------------------

Since before you could remember, your mother had been dragging you to Ichabod monthly town meetings. It was the Kims’ way of ensuring the people that the moon continued to bless and favor them and would send prosperity their way in return for a sacrifice.

In short, they were trapped here and if they wished to keep their lives, they would know better than to cross the Kims.

The people that had tried to run away all failed. They would either, depending on the “grace of the moon,” show up alive right back where they started, or their bodies were placed on the front doors of relatives or neighbors.

Now, you weren’t stupid. You did not believe that it was the actions of Wylynne or whomever Mr. Kim spends his nights singing praises to. The fatal injuries were always exterior, therefore it must have been nothing other than the work of man.

Nevertheless, you were too afraid to risk leaving Ichabod. You preferred to live your life quietly, holding on to your closest friends and family. And it has been successful for the past years.

The next morning as your mom drove you to school, you used your phone’s camera to check your appearance. There were bags under your eyes, so heavy that makeup would not be enough to cover it.

As she drove, you sighed heavily and thought back to last night, wondering how Natalia could have possibly angered the Kims. She never tried to escape--at least, to your knowledge--and she never talked to them at school either...

Your mother pulled up to the curb and you stuffed your phone into your uniform pocket, kissed her on the cheek in goodbye, and closed the car door.

Ichabod Academy, the resident school for all children born and raised inside of this town. It ran from first to twelfth grade, in several different buildings, and made for quite the large campus for the size of your town. The buildings looked quite dreary from the outside with its gray walls and glass doors, most of the lights inside still off.

It was comparable to the size of a small, inner-city university. Everyone knew everyone, for the better or worse.

You walked to the upperclassmen building, entered your first class, and lay your head on the desk.

Usually, you would be able to get at least four hours of sleep the night after a summoning, but last night you barely managed to achieve two.

Natalia...she wasn’t a bad person. She made mistakes, yes, but she was human above all.

“(Y/N)?” You heard someone gently ask. You pried your eyes open to see your best friend.

“Hey, Mana.” You yawned. “How did you sleep?”

“Better than you, clearly.” They snorted and dropped themselves into the seat in front of you. “I couldn’t believe...”

You watched them tiredly as they failed to speak their words. “I know.” You finally whispered back.

The teacher walked into the room with a student trailing behind her and you immediately sat up, warily eyeing them both. “Good morning, class. Today we have a new student, transferring from another section. Please introduce yourself.” She motioned.

As if he needed an introduction.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Kim Jimin. I hope that we can get along and have a great year. Please take care of me.” He bowed slightly.

Your class chorused greetings and you balked slightly as you realized that the only empty seat was...

“You can take the seat next to Ms. (L/N). (Y/N), please raise your hand.”

You put your hand up and Jimin waltzed over to you with the biggest smile. He placed his bag on the floor next to the metal leg of the table. “Hello, seat mate. I hope we can get along.”

You sent a small smile his way--though it may have looked more like a grimace. “Yeah, me too.”

---------------------------------------------------

The bell rang for the break and you immediately slammed your notebook shut and dropped your head onto the desk.

Jimin giggled at your side. “Did you not sleep well last night, (Y/N)?”

You groaned out a “no”.

Mana turned around slowly and gently poked at you. “It was emotionally taxing for both of us, I think.” They said and smiled at Jimin. “I’m Mana, (Y/N)’s close friend.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He stated. “Emotionally taxing you say...may I ask why?”

You lifted your head. “Mana, and I used to be good friends with the tribu--girl who was chosen last night.” You quickly corrected yourself. “Then she got involved with this guy...”

“We told Natalia he was no good news, from the very beginning.” Mana interrupted. “But she insisted that he was different with her and kind to her. Then a couple of months into their relationship he has her smoking, drinking, sneaking out to have sex-”

“And it’s not that these things are bad,” you continued. “Like it was her life and she could do what she wanted as long as she was safe, you know? But she wasn’t like that at all before. To see such a drastic change...”

“Next thing you know, he’s spreading her private pictures across the entire campus.” Mana’s fist clenched and you put your hand on theirs to relieve the anger. “We tried to talk to him about her and he was always rude to us, dismissing us off-hand and insulting Natalia behind her back. (Y/N) tried to confront her about his behavior and Natalia fought her, saying she was just jealous of them.”

“After that, we lost touch with her.” You said. “But I would give anything to go back and speak to her, or just apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Mana fumed.

“The power of Wylynne is divine and just.” Jimin commented as he stared at you and your friend, unblinking. “She must have taken Ms. Pierre into her celestial army to spare her from facing the punishment of her earthly crimes for the rest of her life. She always has a reason, after all.”

Mana looked at the table awkwardly. “Yes,” they said, “praise Wylynne.”

You nodded.

“(Y/N)?” Jimin looked at you expectedly. You weren’t familiar with the weight of his gaze, but you quickly learned it wasn’t something you were trying to get accustomed to.

“Praise Wylynne.” You said, flashing another grimace-smile.

Jimin’s eyes disappeared as he smiled and the bell rang, signaling the end of break.

——————————————————————————

As the bell rang for lunch, Mana practically yanked your joint out of the socket with how quickly they wanted to leave the classroom. “Come on, we should try and get some food in is before next period.” On the way out, however, you couldn’t help but notice Jimin pulling out a plastic bag that contained a series of containers. There was one large plastic container that had what looked like a main meal, accompanied by four smaller containers that held side dishes.

Jimin sighed forlornly at the pile and you felt a touch of pity for him. Before Mana could drag you out the room completely, you tapped them, gesturing with your head at Jimin and making puppy dog eyes.

They sent you a look that clearly questioning your sanity, but you rolled your eyes in return, gesturing once more to Jimin. A couple of seconds of staring later, Mana allowed you to drag them back over to his desk.

“Hey Jimin,” you gently approached him, “why are you eating lunch in the classroom?”

“Oh...” his face drooped even more. “...My little brothers and I would always stay behind while everyone else left to go to the cafeteria. We found it uncomfortable to enter that place when everyone would just go quiet and speak around us in whispers....I guess it was just a force of habit.”

You nodded in sad understanding on the outside but sighed in the back of your head. Of course people would avoid them. The Kim children were abandoned out of fear and respect rather than any overt effort to ostracize them.

Before, Jimin was probably accustomed to eating with his brothers Taehyung and Jungkook, but this morning’s schedule and class adjustment ripped the three apart.

You put a hand on his desk, wanting to show comfort without crossing borders. “Well, Mana and I would love to get to know you better as a classmate, or friend... you’re welcome to sit with us if you want?”

Jimin’s eyes widened, glistening with moisture. He snapped his head up, cheeks rosy with a hopeful blush. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude...”

“You’re not intruding! Come on, I’ll grab your bag for you.” Jimin rushed to pack up the containers. He took his bag from you with a smile. “Thank you both,” he whispered.

Walking through the relatively empty school halls with a Kim gave you a sense of confidence you didn’t need. You walked in a line, with you betwixt Mana and Jimin. All the students that saw you widened their eyes and bolted to the side to make way. It wasn’t because of you or Mana--you knew this--but the feeling made you uncomfortable.

It was powerful.

When you all arrived at the cafeteria, you tried to enter inconspicuously by piggybacking behind some tall classmates but it failed miserably. The moment Jimin was spotted, people indeed stopped talking and the room was engulfed in whispers.

You gently took Jimin by the elbow, smiling at him assuredly, and directed him towards your and Mana’s usual table. It was thankfully empty, so you put your bags down and took your wallets out.

“We’ll be right back, we’re just gonna go buy some food,” you stated, hearing chatter pick back up. Your best friend must have shot everyone their “mind your business” glare. Jimin nodded, neatly unpacking his lunch. Mana all but dragged you off.

“‘We’d love to get to know you better’? Seriously, (Y/N)! There’s a reason why people avoid the Kims! And you just openly invite one to our lunch table? Are you trying to become the next sacrifice?!” They harshly stage whispered.

“Come on, Mana,” you scoffed as you arrived at the lunch bar. “He’s been separated from his only brother in his class and trapped with a bunch of strangers. The least we could do is eat lunch with him. Don’t transfer the sins, or fear, of the parent to the child.”

Mana glared at you for a long while but eventually huffed out their agreement. “Fine.”

You payed for your food and walked back to the table where your new classmate was politely waiting. “Aw, you didn’t have to wait for us, but thanks!”

“Of course I had to! I should be the ones thanking you for being willing to sit and eat with me...” Jimin spoke ever so softly, looking down at the lunch table.

In this moment, it was easy to forget the fear that lingered from yesterday’s cold, dark night. It was easy to take the hand of the cherubic boy that sat before you and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Think nothing of it. We’re going to be doing this a lot more often, so please look forward to it!”

It was easy to forget the curve of his lip as he quickly hid an arrogant smirk, morphing it into his trademark angelic smile. “Yes, please take care of me!”

--------------------------------————————————

Lunch was quite awkward, as it was the first time the three of you had spent a meal together. You and Mana were used to speaking about anything and everything during lunch. You both especially tackled controversial opinions concerning the Kims and their vice-like grip on the minds of those in this town.

Clearly, in this case, that would not have made for clever conversation.

Jimin saved the discussion by turning it towards school, questioning you both on your favorite classes and teachers. If he was able to tell how religiously liberal you were, he was excellent at hiding it.

He shared funny anecdotes of shenanigans he accomplished with his brothers, stories that had the three of you holding your stomachs in laughter.

For the most part, you and your friend were relieved. Jimin was not nearly as terrifying as some of his siblings.

Time passed swiftly and before you knew it, the warning bell sounded, prompting people to throw out the rest of their lunch and swarm through the doors.

You grabbed your and Mana’s tray, throwing the waste away as necessary and placing the trays on the counter, thanking the lunch lady that took them. Then you headed back towards the table, where the two awaited you.

Unlike the passageway that was fairly empty on your way towards the cafeteria, the halls were now teeming with students. They whispered non discreetly, taking glances at the three of you as you walked.

Mana grabbed your arm, letting Jimin go slightly in front as they pulled you back to whisper in your ear. “I could get used to the attention.”

They started snickered but yelped when you slapped their arm. “You wouldn’t be saying that for long. Think of how annoying the constant whispers would get. The Kims have to suffocate underneath all that attention.” You muttered back. Mana considered your words, eventually nodding their head in agreement.

Your best friend did not often have a gentle temperament. They would blow up at students fairly quickly--especially if they were whispering in their face.

The two of you reached the classroom, thanking Jimin as he held the door. Your classmates’ voices hushed and you internally sighed. If you hadn’t noticed their explicit cautiousness before, you definitely did now.

The teacher for the next lesson, Mrs. Hargrove, came in quickly after you, placing stacks of papers on their desk and shutting down conversation.

“Good afternoon, students. I hope everyone had a great lunch.” Mrs. Hargrove’s appearance looked a little more frazzled than usual as she pushed her frizzy hair behind her ears and smoothed down her skirt, but no one made a comment on it. “Today, we’re going to be making an adjustment to our syllabus. Rather than have you all complete individual projects and two tests for semester, I will be placing you in pairs where you will complete a much larger research project with only one test.”

Some of your classmates sighed in relief while others groaned, and you all erupted into conversations. You didn’t mind completing an individual project, but the stress of research and choosing the topic would weigh on you for a while.

Mana turned to you, dread written all over their face. “We’re going to have to research? Kill me now. What topic do you think we should choose?”

You giggle at their dramatic antics but are swiftly interrupted by the teacher. “Actually, Ms. Waye, Ms. (L/N) will be working with Mr. Kim here...as they are seat mates after all.” Mrs. Hargrove glanced over to Jimin, almost as if she were looking for something in his expression.

His face gave away nothing and he disregarded her with a stare.

Mana sneered at the teacher’s blatant disregard for their pronouns, but Mrs. Hargrove paid them no mind, eyes blown wide open as if she’d seen the devil himself. She turned away, stuttering.

“You w-will all be working with your seat mates. I don’t want you taking up any class time to fight over who will be your partner. Now that we have an even amount of students in our class, it settles everything quite nicely. As for the chosen topic, I want each pair to research and present on a certain mythological creature.”

You smiled apologetically at Mana, who pouted and turned around to talk to their partner.

Mrs. Hargrove walked back up to the front of the class, handing out the stacks of papers with the required information for the assignment.

“So, (Y/N),” Jimin calling your name broke your attention from the teacher and you looked over at him. “What creature do you think we should research?”

“I’m not sure...but I kind of wanted to talk about a more obscure creature. We could choose one that isn’t as highly discussed.” You said excitedly.

“That’s a good idea! I’m pretty sure my parents have some old books of lore in our library at home...we’d easily be able to find a creature that people don’t know about there. Would you want to come over and check them out?” Jimin offered.

You stared at him, grin slightly slipping. Going to the Kim household? Without your mother’s hand to hold, or reprimanding to keep you from doing something foolish? This would be completely different from meeting them in the woods and escaping to the safety of your home afterwards.

You’d be walking into the lions’ den of your own volition.

Jimin saw your hesitation and his face crumpled. “It’s fine if you don’t want to...I’d understand,” he muttered.

But seeing his crestfallen expression, you shook all the bad thoughts from your head. “No! It’s fine. I would love to come over...I just have to let my mom know.”

What is she going to do--say no? You thought to yourself, grimacing.

Jimin’s face broke out into the biggest smile you’d seen today. “Really? That’s great!” His cheeks were full in happiness and you felt immensely better.

You raised your hand, bringing Mrs. Hargrove over. “May I go make a quick phone call to my mother?”

She nods, glancing again at your partner. You wanted to extricate yourself from the strange atmosphere as soon as possible, so you shoved your phone in your pocket and trekked out into the hall.

You fully weren’t expecting your mother to answer, but she picked up after only a few rings. “Hello?”

“Hey Mom,” you said. “How’s everything at work?”

“Fine,” she said. “I can’t be on the phone for long--what’s up?”

“Would it be okay for me to go over to a classmate’s house for a school project? We were just assigned it and we need to do research. It’s a really big part of our grade this semester.”

She was silent for a moment. “Who is this classmate?”

“...Kim Jimin.”

You pulled the phone away from your ear and scanned your eyes up and down the hallway as your mother’s volume increased by multiple decibals.

“Yes, I know...He invited me to his house, he said his parents have books we can look into...yes, it’s necessary, unless you want my grades to drop!”

In your determination to placate your mother, you didn’t notice the classroom door opening, nor did you notice the shadow that lurked around the corner.

“Mom, we can’t exactly refuse...it’s just a school project, I’ll be fine!”

You sighed in exasperation as your mother launched off a series of directions, ordering you to text her every hour and watch your behavior around the Kims in her absence. After a string of “yes”, “I know”, and “I will”s, you hung up the phone, shaking your head.

You shoved the device in your pocket and hightailed it to the nearest bathroom, wanting to splash some water on your face before returning to class.

Jimin smirked at your retreating figure, taking his own phone out and tapping out a message. Once he received the response he was looking for, he tucked his phone away, brightened his facial expression, and opened the door to the classroom.

------------------------------------------------------------

The moment had finally arrived: the end of the school day.

Mana watched on pitifully as you packed your books away, Jimin standing patiently above you.

Perhaps it was a bit dramatic to feel so scared, but as far as you or Mana knew, this was the first time someone was (willingly) going over to the Kim’s house. And for something as simple as a school project, no less.

“Alright then...we’re off!” you told your best friend, swinging your bag over your shoulder and tugging them into a hug.

“Good luck on your project! Hope you guys find what you’re looking for,” Mana said, squeezing your midsection painfully tight. “See you tomorrow morning.” They smiled at Jimin, who acknowledged them with a small grin.

You nodded, stepping out from behind the desk and followed Jimin out the classroom.

As soon as he had one toe out the door, however, he was tackled by a blurry figure with neck length, curly, dark hair. Jimin, whose surprise quickly turned into glee, wrapped his arms around the figure. “Taehyungie!”

The sudden motion made you pause in the doorway, one breath away from knocking your head into Jimin’s back.

“I missed you today! I hate the fact that Mr. Burham made you switch classes--we always stick together!” Kim Taehyung pressed his face into Jimin’s neck, but you managed to hear the words he spoke. Jimin chuckled.

“We live together, Taehyung ah, we’d see each other regardless!”

Taehyung lifted his face from his brother’s neck, brittle brown eyes glancing up to meet yours. You felt intimidated by the loss of the sparkle they’d held, but raised a hand to smile and wave at him regardless. “Hi...”

“Oh, Tae! Let me introduce you two.” Jimin hauled his little brother off of him and pulled the two of you by the hand out the doorway so that other students could leave. “(Y/N), this is Taehyung, one of my younger brothers. Tae, this is (Y/N). Mrs. Hargrove assigned us a project on a mythological creature and she’s my partner, so she’ll be coming home with us today to start research.”

You stood against the wall, a polite smile on your face. Taehyung was staring at you with a deadpan expression on his face, assessing you. You didn’t know much about the qualifications of this test, but you assumed it was crucial that you passed it.

All too quickly, his face broke out into a large grin and he swept you into his arms. You grunted at the force with which he pressed you into his chest. “Nice to meet you, (Y/N)!”

“Um, nice to meet you too...”

“Tae, you can’t just touch her without her permission!” Jimin pulled Taehyung off of you, smiling apologetically. You waved it off, gaping at both of them as they rehashed their day for the other.

The two brothers chatted happily, arms around each other’s shoulders as they ambled through the halls and out the front door of the school. Students sent you scandalized glances as you trailed behind them, but you were too busy updating your mother to pay attention. When you finally looked up, you saw Jimin and Taehyung leading you to a large, sleek, black van.

Is this what getting abducted in broad daylight feels like?

But you recognized this car. This was the Kim’s family car, driven by a hired professional to take their five children to school and back. You’d seen it many a times in the morning with your mother.

Students whispered as the three juniors approached the vehicle while you cautiously eyed the three figures that stood in front of it.

Kim Jungkook, the school’s most talented freshman. He’d already made high marks in all of the clubs he’d joined, with special attention to the music and sports club. He was so talented in boxing that the Kims, already large beneficiaries of the school, had given the director the money to start and finance the new boxing club.

Kim Hoseok, the captain of the dance team with an academic prowess that was second to only one person in the whole school. He’d taken your school dance team to nationals and, although very kind to the general student body, it was not lost on everyone how exhausted the members of his team would be in competition season. No one in after school activities could forget the sound of him sounding out beats or barking orders through the halls during rehearsals.

And finally, Kim Namjoon. The president of the Association for the Student Body and resident academic genius. He’d held the top scores for every class he’d been in since freshman year. The school trophy case was jokingly nicknamed “Namjoon’s Bureau” after the amount of awards that had his name on them.

Never would you have guessed that you would be meeting not one, but all five of the Kim siblings--on the same day, no less.

“Oh ho, Jiminie,” Hoseok teased as you approached, ruffling his little brother’s hair. “Who’s this?”

Be still, my beating heart--

“Hello! I’m (Y/N), a classmate of Jimin’s. It’s nice to meet you all.” You greeted them with a sharp, but quick bow.

“We were assigned a project to research a mythological creature.”Jimin clung to Namjoon by the arm while he and Jungkook were busy staring at you. “Namjoon hyung, would you help us find the books Dad once showed us in the library? The ones with all the lore and stories?”

On the outside, this felt like a normal day of being introduced to an acquaintance’s family members.

On the inside, however, you were reminded of the purple flames that stole Natalia’s existence from this mortal plane in mere seconds every time you looked one of the older Kim siblings in the eyes.

Jungkook merely looked curious, doe eyes wide in surprise. But Namjoon...

Even though they were adopted, Namjoon held the same crazed, righteous look in his eyes that Kim Moonsik would have whenever he announced the next tribute for Wylynne’s army.

“I’d be happy to find them for you guys,” Namjoon grinned at you.

You “smiled” back.

That was a grimace...that was a definitely a grimace. You seriously needed to work on your facial expressions around them.

Hoseok opened the car door, sliding into the very back with Jungkook and Taehyung while Jimin leapt for the window seat. This left you between him and his older brother, and you fought the urge to groan aloud.

Once inside the car, Namjoon alerted the driver that everyone was present and the man took off without another word. While he was distracted, you lowered your phone brightness and updated your mother again on your location.

“So, (Y/N), how was your day?” You jerk your head up and turn towards the voice, Hoseok questioning you while still wearing that ear-splitting grin.

“It was alright! I met Jimin this morning and then we attended classes and lunch...” you said, fiddling with the power button on your phone.

Hoseok and Taehyung continued to ask you a few more questions, like your favorite color and artists, about your classes and any future career plans. Jimin would cut in every so often with a statement or question of his own, and Jungkook and Namjoon simply watched on quietly as the conversation took place.

You leaned your head on the space between the headrests of the seats, tilting it to the right. You thought this morning’s fatigue had been chased away by the excitement of the day, but it was actually resting, lying in wait for the moment where you would put your guard down.

As much as you wanted to avoid it, the rumbling of the AC and comfort provided by the plush, leather seats caused the background noise in the car to fade before disappearing completely.

Jungkook seemed to be the only one to notice your breathing slow. “She’s asleep.”

Any and all conversation that had been taking place shut down immediately as they all gazed at your figure.

At some point in your sleep, you started to shiver from the temperature of the AC. Jungkook quickly peeled off his school sweater and handed it to Jimin, who pouted slightly as he draped it over your form.

They watched the slow rise and fall of your chest and listened to the soft breathing noises you let out in your sleep. The world outside was forgotten, and for a few, precious moments it was only you and them.

And if all went according to plan, soon it would be much, much longer than a few precious moments. Their world would only consist of you and them, all of them, for the rest of time.

#cult au #bts cult au #yandere bts x reader #yandere bts au #bts x reader #yandere bts #yandere jung hoseok #yandere kim taehyung #yandere kim namjoon #yandere kim seokjin #yandere park jimin #yandere min yoongi #Yandere jeon jungkook #x reader #religious au #high school au #college au #ot7 x reader #poly ot7

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footballerimaginess · 3 years

Text

A Huge Prompt List

Basically we all know I can’t resist a good prompt list, so when I saw @emwritesfootball doing this. I had to stop myself from doing it, I crumbled lol. So I am only blaming myself here and only me. This is a huge prompt list I know, so I will take my time getting through it. But I thought it was a bit of fun and I loved all the prompts. Credit to the very talented page @creativepromptsforwriting who created these lists. Request with the number as well as which list you are choosing from. I will write beside it who got which prompt. If you do any ideas for the prompt, let me know. Also if a prompt has been taken, I will see if I can do multiple players on that request for you. Enjoy reading through the huge list. x

Touching

touching foreheads Declan Rice

running fingers through hair Harry Winks/ Mason Mount

hiding face in neck Eric Dier

caressing the other’s hand Dominic Calvert Lewin

feeling their pulse Kepa

patting the other’s head Marco Asensio

holding hands

shielding the other one with their body Ben Godfrey/Dominic Calvert Lewin

listening to the other’s heartbeat Trent Alexander Arnold

spooning at night Kieran Tierney

laying their hand on the other’s neck Marco Asensio

pushing a strand of hair behind their ear Martin Odegaard

nudging the other one Mason Mount

putting an arm around the other’s waist Sergio Ramos

hugging each other Christian Pulisic

massaging them

holding the other’s chin up Dominic Calvert Lewin

squishing the other’s cheek Reiss Nelson

high fiving

bandaging/stitching up an injury Jordan Henderson

kissing the other’s brow Reece James

falling asleep on the other’s shoulder Martin Odegaard

carrying the other one in their arms Roman Burki

whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin Sergio Ramos

stroking the other’s arm soothingly Jadon Sancho

kissing the top of their head Mason Mount

pulling the other one towards them Dominic Calvert Lewin

feeling for each other in the dark James Maddison

tickling the other one

grabbing onto their arm

doing a pinky swear Reece James

caressing the other’s back Ben Chilwell

tasting their smile Ben Chilwell

washing the other’s body Roman Burki

kissing their bruises and scars Trent Alexander Arnold

lifting the other one up

putting their head on the other’s chest Dominic Calvert Lewin

stroking their leg Calum Chambers

leaning into the other’s side Jadon Sancho

patting them on the back

sitting close and knees touching Eric Dier

braiding the other’s hair Jadon Sancho

giving them a piggy-back ride Pierre Emilie Hojbjerg

sitting on the other’s lap Scott McTominay

feeling their temperature Ben Chilwell

linking arms with each other

touching their elbow to get their attention Ruben Loftus Cheek

dancing with each other

holding onto the other’s shoulders for support Jack Grealish

putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up

Kisses

goodnight kisses Harry Winks

hand kisses Jack Grealish/ Pau Torres

smiling while kissing Ben Chilwell

lips barely touching Federico Bernardeschi

morning kisses Declan Rice

slow kisses Patrick Bamford

passionate kisses Mason Mount

kisses on the cheek Leighton Baines

first kisses Jadon Sancho

goodbye kisses Reiss Nelson

welcome home kisses Ousmane Dembele

kisses on the corner of their mouth James Maddison

frustrated kisses Virgil Van Dijk/ Joe Rodon

kissing each other breathless Dominic Calvert Lewin/Son Heung Min

soothing kisses Mason Mount

nose kisses Declan Rice/ John Stones

kisses as a promise Jesse Lingard

short pecks Ben Chilwell

forehead kisses Ollie Watkins

kisses on head Sergio Ramos

“we’ll face this together” kisses Marcus Rashford

kisses in the rain Son Heung Min/Leon Goretzka

life-or-death kisses

kisses for a cover Eric Dier

hard kisses

giggling while kissing Martin Odegaard

desperate kisses

neck kisses Mason Mount

hushed conversation in-between kisses Dominic Calvert Lewin

eyelid kisses

gentle stroking of cheeks Eric Dier

small kisses Martin Odegaard

kissing it better Roman Burki

jaw kisses Pierre Emile Hojbjerg

wake-up kisses Emile Smith Rowe

kissing away tears Japhet Tanganga

public kisses Ben Chilwell

relieved kisses Callum Hudson Odoi

kisses for comfort Martin Odegaard

tummy kisses Jadon Sancho

kisses to shut them up Eric Dier

slowly kissing down the body John Stones

“we’ll see each other again” kisses

kissing each finger John Stones

sleepy kisses Virgil Van Dijk

angry kisses Pedro Neto

feather-light kisses Christian Pulisic

kisses with trembling lips

secret kisses Mason Mount/Dominic Calvert Lewin

kisses with their last dying breath

Hugs

friendly hugs James Maddison

hug around the waist Ansu Fati

hugging while twirling around

comforting hugs Jack Grealish

side hugs Kai Havertz

hugging and gently holding the other’s head James Maddison

pulling someone into a hug Matty Cash

hugging while walking

eye-to-eye hugs

hiding their face in the other’s neck Callum Hudson Odoi

clinging to each other Marco Asensio

hugging while lying down together Jadon Sancho

group hugs Mason Mount

hugging with head on shoulder Sergio Ramos

tender embrace

‘not wanting to let go’ hugs Declan Rice

hugging from behind Mason Mount

bear hugs Harry Winks

hugging with hands in each other’s pockets Marco Asensio

cuddling Reiss Nelson

hugs and kisses Martin Odegaard

hugging and jumping up and down together

familiar hugs

hugging with height-difference Tammy Abraham

gentle hugs

hugging with patting on back

piggy back hugs

quick hugs Ben Godfrey

hugging while slow dancing Harry Winks

one-sided hugs

hugging while straddling the partner Mason Mount

long-lasting hugs Martin Odegaard

‘picking them up’ hugs Kylian Mbappe

hugging while grabbing butt Roman Burki/Ben Chilwell

cuddle pile

Hand Holding

tiny hands in big hands Eric Dier

calloused hands in soft hands

cold hands in warm hands Kieran Tierney

hands with the perfect ratio to each other for hand-holding Eric Dier

platonic hand-holding Tyrone Mings

running their thumb over the other’s hand Jadon Sancho

dancing with their hands holding onto each other

squeezing hand for comfort and encouragement Callum Hudson Odoi

holding hands across the table Ruben Loftus Cheek

happily doing everything with just one hand, if it means they don’t have to let go Martin Odegaard

not wanting to lose each other in a big crowd Matty Cash

possessive hand-holding Billy Gilmour

linking hands together during sex Jadon Sancho

grabbing hand to show them something Joe Rodon

loosely holding onto each other’s hands, laying in one’s lap John Stones

only linking the pinkies together, not ready to let go completely

holding hands while skating

excitedly grabbing each other’s hands during a concert, jumping up and down together

playing with each other’s fingers Ben Chilwell

pressing the other’s hand against their cheek Dominic Calvert Lewin

holding hands while one is balancing on a small wall

grabbing the other’s hand to pull them back from something Tyrone Mings

holding hands under the table Ben Godfrey

only realizing it when they have to let go

standing in front of each other, holding both their hands Tammy Abraham

holding their hands above their head, fingers linked together

passionate hand-holding Harry Winks

grabbing the other’s hand so they don’t fall

holding hands while running through the rain

brushing against each other, linking fingers together for a second

grabbing their hand to grab their attention Reece James

not really paying attention, both doing something else, but still holding hands

bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go James Maddison

holding hands while driving Leon Goretzka

grabbing the other’s hand to pull them back to them Sergio Ramos

unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping Dominic Calvert Lewin

not realizing they’re holding hands till someone points it out Eric Dier

swinging hands back and forth, skipping like children

holding hands in a museum to pull them to the next exhibition Tom Davies

letting go when there is an obstacle in their way and immediately grabbing each other’s hand again when they pass it Emile Smith Rowe

loosely holding onto each other’s hand

dragging the other with them, holding their hand

raising the other’s hand to their lips to kiss it softly Mason Mount

holding hands while jumping down from somewhere together

comparing hand sizes, then linking fingers together Tyrone Mings/ Martin Odegaard

Casual Affections

smiling at each other from across the room Dominic Calvert Lewin

randomly texting a gif or emoji

laying their hand on the other’s leg Ben Godfrey

kiss to the side of the head Mason Mount

squeezing the other’s shoulder

fixing the other’s clothes

guiding them with a hand on the small of their back Ben Godfrey/Mason Mount

embracing them from behind Memphis Depay

ruffling their hair

placing their chin on the other’s shoulder Dominic Calvert Lewin

calling them nicknames Jadon Sancho

winking at them Dominic Calvert Lewin

teasing each other good-naturedly Billy Gilmour

putting an arm around the other’s shoulder

washing the other's hair Jack Grealish

taking a photo of the smiling or in their element Tyrone Mings

looking in each other's eyes Dominic Calvert Lewin

putting a blanket on them Dominic Calvert Lewin

tugging at the other's clothes to keep them close

making them food they like Eric Dier

laughing at their jokes Tyrone Mings

placing a hand on the back of the other’s neck Mason Mount

brushing strands of hair away Loris Karius

patting their head Jadon Sancho

sharing an umbrella

bumping shoulders into each other John Stones

randomly face-timing just to hear their voice/see their face Jadon Sancho

pressing their foreheads together

nudging them to show they are right beside them

laying their head on the other’s shoulder Trent Alexander Arnold/ Dominic Calvert Lewin

#prompts

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ve1vetyoongi · 4 years

Text

better with you | 02

Chapters: index

Pairing: Seokjin x female reader

Genre: fake dating/arranged marriage!au, smut, angst, humour.

Word count: 18k

Summary: A part time job as a chef at Paradise Resort seems like the perfect way to spend your summer and save up some spare cash to open your own restaurant back home. That is until you cross paths with the CEO’s son who threatens to fire you if you don’t help him inherit his trust-fund-baby-fortune. How? By making you his fiancé. Well, his pretend fiancé at least.

Warnings: (mostly) fluffy smut, unprotected penetrative sex, handjobs, oral (f recieving), creampie, spanking, lots of pining hhhhhh.

A/N: HELLO omg it’s literally been so long since i updated this fic and let me tell you it was so fun to finally write for these characters again!!! thank u for everyone who has sent lovely asks about the first chapter and for waiting so long for the next one! ily and i hope ur all staying safe and well during these crazy times my honeybuns <3<3

"Seokjin," You gasp. "N-not here."

Fingers toy with the hem of the expensive sequin dress you found wrapped up in tissue paper on your bed that morning, edging agonizingly closer to the damp throb between your legs that under normal circumstances would require immediate attention from Seokjin -- if only you weren't in the back seat of one of the Kim's private cars.

"Why not?" Seokjin mumbles against your neck, the way his plump lips nibble the lobe of your ear making you shiver. "I know you're wet for me. Nobody has to know if I just..."

His palm cups your heat brazenly, and you have to bite back a moan, cheeks flushing when Seokjin chuckles low and gravelly against your ear. Your arrangement as you've taken to calling it has been going on for a few weeks now, Seokjin dragging you along to family outings and fancy dinners as his fiance and rewarding you with sensual rendezvous and get-to-know-me time in between.

"I know you want it, sweetheart." He drags a finger down your panties and you whimper. "Just say the magic word, and I'll give it to you."

Oh god. You are so weak for his touch, and he knows it. The things Seokjin's tousled hair and cocky smirk make you feel should be illegal. Anyone would think you have the sex drive of a teenage boy, constantly eager to jump his bones just looking at him. But not now, not here. The windows might be tinted, but you are sure you spot the chauffeur's eyes drifting to the backseat in the rear view mirror.

"Sir," The driver coughs, eyes trained politely to the steering wheel. The car has stopped at some point, not that either of you noticed. "We have arrived."

Seokjin flashes you a satisfied look as his hand reluctantly slips out from beneath your skirt so he can fish around in his back pocket for his leather wallet, throwing a couple fifty dollar bills on the front seat as a tip. "Thanks, Pierre."

You're still busy straightening your skirt when the car door opens and a black-gloved hand helps you out onto the sidewalk. You can't help but blush ferociously when you meet the driver's knowing gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. "No problem, sir'"

"I'll take it from here." Seokjin nods to the driver and slips his elbow through yours. Pierre lifts his black cap, before getting back into his shiny Mercedes and whizzing off into the city traffic.

Your legs shake in your stilettos, partly because you're not used to walking in anything other than your beat up converse but mostly because of the reassuring smile Seokjin sends your when when he see's you glancing around nervously.

You're in a upper class part of town, the street lined with shiny black cabs and designer boutiques with French names you can't even pronounce. You can't help but feel out of place, like the eyes of every passerby see right through your immaculate rich facade and see you for the ordinary kitchen girl that you really are.

"Don't worry," He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear so only you can hear as he pretends to adjust your diamond necklace. At least you think its diamond...what would you know? "You look beautiful. Just relax."

A small smile plays on your lips. Beautiful. It makes your heart flutter like a butterfly between cupped palms, even though you know it shouldn't. That's been happening a lot lately, and you don't like how easily he can make you melt. Snap out of it! You tell yourself.

Still, his reassurance makes you feel more at ease than before, and you straighten your shoulders with a new found confidence as Seokjin takes your hand in his, even if it is just for show. You have to make the fiance thing believable, after all.

"You still haven't told me where we're going." It's true -- Seokjin is good at keeping secrets. Probably because he knew that you'd say no to most of the crazy situations he seemed persistent on putting you in.

"Don't hate me," Seokjin eyes you carefully. You narrow your eyes, with a nod that says go on. "Hyejin wants us to go dress shopping."

"You bought me this new dress this morning?" You smooth down the front of the floaty summer dress that hugs your figure.

He coughs, eyes averting yours. "Wedding dress shopping."

That's when you come to a stop on the sidewalk outside of an elegant white-brick bazaar, eyes widening at the glaringly white dresses styled on mannequins that stare at you from behind the floor to ceiling windows.

Seoul Bridal - For All Your Wedding Dress Needs.

Your blood runs cold. Oh no.

You grip his hand tighter. "I'm going to kill you."

Seokjin is already pushing open the door with a chuckle that mingles with the tiny tinkling bell that rings out and announces your arrival. Too late to kick off your stiletto's and run.

"After you, sweetheart."

"Welcome to Seoul Bridal," A pretty lady with curly hair in a striped pant suit welcomes you inside with a hand shake. Her name tag says Wheein, and you can't take your eyes off the red lipstick on her teeth. "It's nice to finally meet you, Seokjin."

"The pleasure is all mine," Seokjin responds, voice deep with a suave charm that makes the girls behind the reception desk giggle unashamedly. For some reason you have to resist sending a glare their way, not missing the way your chest burns when Seokjin flashes them a dazzling smile. "Hyejin said you had some ideas for Y/N's wedding dress?"

"Of course. We have everything ready. We just need to get some measurements first." She smiles at him courteously, then whips a tape measure out of her trouser pocket which she wastes no time in wrapping around your waist. "Arms up, please." She murmurs as she slides the glasses balanced on top of her head behind her ears so she can get a better measurement of your shoulder width. You send an eyeroll Seokjin's way when you hear him snort bemusedly at the sudden man handling.

While Wheein bites the cap off a pen with her teeth and scribbles down the size ratio of your waist to your hips for future reference, you finally get the chance to take in the boutique properly. The sweet scent from the bouquets of white roses all over the room fills the air and the walls are painted a blush pink to match the faux fur rugs. Streams of sunlight pour through the chiffon curtains making the racks of blindingly white wedding dresses of all sizes and designs glow invitingly.

"Which one am I trying on?" You ask absentmindedly, nodding towards the sea of satin and lace hanging delicately from pink hangers.

Wheein looks up confused, then her nose wrinkles with distaste."Oh, none of these darling. You deserve the very best." She starts walking quickly towards a back room, heels click clacking as she beckons you to follow her with a crook of her finger. "We received some luxury designs from two of our best designers in London and Milan just this morning -- oh! And it looks like the dress from Paris just arrived!"

She shuffles you and Seokjin into a private dressing room, seating you on an elegant couch upholstered with grey velvet. Seokjin picks up one of the gossip magazines on the coffee table and helps himself to the complimentary cupcakes, all while you wring your hands together nervously, Wheein emerging from the large closet with three white garment bags.

"Here they are! Oh, how exciting." She claps her hands together with a beaming grin in your direction. With a flick of her wrist she removes all three bags, revealing three of the most beautiful dresses you've ever seen. You must look dazzled, because Wheein crosses her arms triumphantly. "Hyejin knew you'd like them. Just wait until you see the veils..."

She disappears into another room, and you're left gawking at the garments set in front of you like a goldfish. Fingers trembling, you reach out and touch the first one. It has a giant poofy skirt, like something you imagine a princess would wear, and you imagine how it would float down the aisle like a real life cloud. The second is more slinky, with shiny beads littering the bodice that glint silver beneath the glow of the chandelier and the third is made from gorgeous lace that shows skin in all the right places.

"How much did these cost?" You hiss to Seokjin, ripping your hand away like your touch alone might burn a hole in the fabric.

"Hm?" He says through a mouthful of cake, eyes widening when he takes in the dresses for himself." Too much, probably. Hyejin went a little over board but honestly, these aren't as bad as I was expecting." Seokjin runs his hand over the lace one, and nods approvingly. "You should've seen the rejects. One had a trail longer than my monster coc-"

"I can't try on any of these!" You splutter, arms hugging your torso. They're too beautiful for someone like me, is what you want to say, but you don't. "I'll look dumb."

"Just do it." He leans back against the wall with a roll of his eyes. Like this is all nothing to him. "It's not like you actually have to get married in one of them."

Ouch. His words sting, even though you know they're true, and you're reminded of the real reason you came here in the first place. It makes your stomach turn, how he can go from the sort of sweet Seokjin you know when you're alone to the cold, arrogant rich guy in the drop of a hat.

You turn away so he doesn't see your frown, when you catch a glimpse of something white in the corner, poking out from beneath a dust sheet. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and before you can help it you're crossing the room and ripping the sheet away to reveal another dress; except this one makes something in your chest flutter.

It's simpler than the others. Tiny white roses are stitched into the sleeves, the neckline dipping into a V shape where the bouncy chiffon skirt meets the satin waistband. It's straight forward, uncomplicated. Just how you like it.

"Have you decided which one you want to try on first?" Wheein's shrill voice calls, but it's drowned out by the blood pumping through your ears.

"That one." You breathe, pointing at the dress that you can't help but reaching out to touch.

"That one? Are you sure, darling, I'm sure we can find something more fancy--"

"No!" It comes out too loud, and you cover it with a cough, turning to send her a pleading smile. "I mean, no, no thank you. This one, please. I want to try it on."

"You know, when Hyejin told me Seokjin was finally getting married I just knew you would have to be something special." Wheein says once you're safely alone in the dressing room, away from prying eyes and mischievous ears. "Suck in."

"Hm?" It's all you manage to get out as you're strapped into a boned under-corset that feels like its trying to squeeze every last breath out of you. You're so close you can smell her floral perfume.

"It's just that I've had so many wedding dresses made that never made it to the aisle. Honestly I was starting to think Seokjin would never settle down..." She trails off, lip tugged between her teeth as she helps you step into the floaty white dress, tying the belt into a bow at your waist before stepping back to admire her handy work. "But now I see what made him change his mind. You make a beautiful couple."

"Oh." You realise she's looking at you, a blush creeping up your neck. "Right."

If only she knew the truth.

You start to turn towards the mirror, but she plants a hand on your shoulder hurriedly. "Nuh uh. No peeking yet." You feel your face drop. "Don't look so worried. It looks perfect. He's going love it."

"I...I have to show him? Now?" You shift uncomfortably. The shoes are rubbing your soles and the sleeves sort of itch. "Isn't it bad luck for the groom to see the wedding dress before the big day?" You ask sheepishly.

"This is just the rought blueprint," Wheein reassures. "It doesn't count."

"I..." Your voice breaks. The thought of Seokjin sat out there with his roaming eyes seeing you in this dress makes your stomach churn. "I'm nervous."

"Don't be. Save that for the big day." She bites her lip, stepping back to look you up and down like there's something missing. Her eyes light up, and she digs around in a leather trunk in the corner to retrieve a sparkly tiara which she tucks neatly into your hair. "There. Perfect. Now lets not keep him waiting, hm?"

"Holy shit."

The words leave your mouth before you can think better of it.

Your reflection stares back at you, wide eyed and awe stricken, except it doesn't look like you at all.

The dress is beautiful. There's no denying it. It hugs your waist perfectly and the skirt waterfalls down to your ankles in just the right way. Wheein tugged your hair over your shoulders so the sweetheart neckline shows off just the right amount of collar bone, tiara sparkling beneath the soft light. A matching veil partially covers your face, and you've never felt more beautiful than you do now.

It's almost enough to make you want to believe that this is all real. That you're marrying Seokjin. That you get to walk down the aisle looking like...this.

"I don't see why I have to get all dressed up, Wheein, it's no big deal -- woah."

The door flies open, and your eyes snap up to meet Seokjin's in the mirror.

He has half of his seventh cupcake hanging out of his slackened mouth, his hair gelled back and tousled to reveal his forehead, and his piercing brown eyes that can't seem to decide where to look, glancing up over your exposed shoulders and down to your ass and back again, like he can't get enough.

He's lost his casual slacks from earlier, seemingly under Wheein's instruction, now clad in a black suit and matching shiny-toe'd shoes. His tie hangs slack around his neck, like he tugged it loose, and he fiddles awkwardly with his cuff links as he tries to get a grip over his roaming eyes.

"Y-Y/N you look--"

"Beautiful, right?" Wheein straightens his shirt, fastens his cuff links and knocks him beneath the chin to remind him to close his gawking mouth with a tut. He nods, speechless. "I'll leave you two to talk."

The door shuts behind her, and the room suddenly feels quieter than now you and Seokjin are alone, him on one side of the room, you on the other. You dare to meet his eyes and you find them staring straight at you, the glint that's usually there replaced with a wonder that's soft and gentle around the edges. You melt beneath his gaze.

He clears his throat, scratching a phantom itch at the back of his neck. It's the first time you've seen Seokjin seem sort of...awkward?

"C'mere." His voice is low, filled with something you can't quite put your finger on. "I want to see you."

You have to remember how to get your feet to work, hesitantly putting one in front of the other to cross the room. Seokjin stands with his palms clasped, a small smile playing on his lips as you close the space between you, and you swear you can hear the wedding bells already.

After what feels like ages, you stop a few paces away from him. He steps towards you carefully, flipping the veil out of your eyes like he's done it a million times before.

"Hey." You whisper. You don't know what else to say, but it makes Seokjin laugh and the sound makes your chest squeeze.

He looks dapper in his suit, like a real groom, and as he leans in closer, closer, until there's barely any distance between you, you can smell his cologne.

Your eyes fall shut instinctively. You almost swear when you open them there'll be a pastor and a pair of rings and Seokjin will be saying I do--

"You scrub up pretty well, huh?" His breath tickles your ear, and your eyes snap open to punch him in the chest playfully.

"I could say the same for you, mister."

A thumb grazes your jaw, tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. "Whoever gets to marry you is one lucky bastard."

The pounding in your chest is so loud you're sure the whole store can hear it. His lips are inches from yours, parted and plush. You've kissed them plenty of times before but only in the height of passion. Never like this. Not when his touch feels like a jolt of electricity running straight from his body and right into yours.

Just when you think he's going to give in and close the distance, he turns your face in his palm and plants a peck on your cheek. It's soft, careful. Like he's not really sure of it himself, his hand running through your hair before he takes a couple steps back with a shake of his head. Like he almost did something he shouldn't have.

"What time do you have to be at work?"

The question breaks you out of your trance. You realize he's staring at you expectantly, waiting for an answer. "Oh--not until this evening." You manage to choke out.

"Good. Then you're all mine for the afternoon." He grabs another cupcake from the stand and disappears behind one of the fitting room curtains. "Hurry and give the dress back to Wheein and I'll call Pierre to come pick us up."

"Where are we going?"

You hear him snort. "You'll see."

"This is where you wanted to take me?"

The late afternoon sun sparkles on the surface of the Paradise lake like diamonds. It's peaceful here at this time of day, the gardeners already disappearing into the lounge for a late lunch, rows of pastel canoes tied up to the dock bobbing in time with the chirping birds.

"Well?" Seokjin huffs impatiently. He's stood in the hull of a dark blue canoe that he stole from the boat shed — or borrowed, as he put it, since everything here belongs to him anyway — hand extended towards you. "Aren't you getting in?"

You narrow your eyes and nod towards the sign that says NO BOATS ON THE LAKE AFTER 4PM in curly gold letters. "Isn't that breaking the rules?"

Seokjin raises a brow, jangling a set of keys. "I own this place remember? Besides, I stole the boat worker's keys so we can stay for as long as we want."

The breeze ruffles your skirt, a shiver running down your spine when you peer over the edge of the dock and see your sheepish reflection staring up at you from the water, rippling and watery around the edges. You never did like deep water, and the thought of getting in that rocking capsule of death makes your stomach churn.

"It looks cold," You point out, grimacing at the clear blue water. "What if we fall in? Do you even know how to steer this thing?"

Seokjin shoots you a look, like you just said the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "Pfft. Of course. I've been taking rowing lessons since I could toddle."

Of course he has. You roll your eyes. Rich kids, huh?

"Oh come on, it's fine!" He jumps up and down as if to demonstrate just how safe, but the boat just rocks manically side to side and he has to grab the dock to steady himself before he plunges straight into the lake. He flashes you a sheepish smile. "See?"

You cross your arms, unconvinced. "Yeah, I think I'll pass."

Seokjin slumps into the canoe with an exaggerated sigh. "Well goddamn, I'm sorry for wanting to do something nice. We don't get much alone time so I thought—" He waves his hand at you in frustration, starting to unravel the rope keeping the boat secured to the dock. "You know what, fuck it, I'll just go by myself—"

"Wait!" Something about the disappointed frown on his face makes you change your mind. Fuck it. "I'm getting in."

He pauses, and then his lips curve up into a small smile. Not his usual too-big-too-polite smile; the kind of smile you reserve for special moments. The glint in his eye is back, and if your legs weren't already jelly, they are now.

"I knew you couldn't resist me." He stands up and puffs out his chest, offering you his hand again, which you take this time.

"Don't be an idiot." You flush. "The lake just looks inviting today."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He chuckles, before his arm wraps around your waist so he can throw you over his shoulder and tip you into the canoe.

"Seokjin!" Your knuckles whiten with how hard you grip the edge of the boat that tilts left to right sickeningly with the impact of your limp body being man handled into the hull. "Be careful!"

"Okay, okay. Just sit back. Relax. Enjoy the view..." You wobble over to the wooden seat opposite him, grateful for the way the boat balances out on the surface of the water. "Let me take care of everything."

You have to admit the view is beautiful. Dangling your hand over the edge of the boat, you let your fingers swirl through the cool water, and listen to the hum of a speedboat nearby. The sun has turned the water a yellowish hue, like liquid gold.

When you look back up at Seokjin, the sight of his lightly perspiring skin glowing beneath the stream of light as he unties the left oar practically takes your breath away. You almost want to reach out and see what it would feel like to touch his cheek, run your hand down his chest where his flesh peeks out from the top of his dress shirt...

"Ah, shit!"

There's a light splash and you're snapped out of your trance, a pair of sheepish eyes staring back at you.

Yeah. Never mind.

Seokjin peers over the edge of the boat, watching as one of the oars floats into the middle of the lake. The canoe has already floated just out of reach of the dock, so without it you are stranded.

You let out a panicked groan. "I thought you knew how to steer this thing?"

"I do!" He grunts, a flush creeping up his neck. "Besides, I said I knew how, not that I was good at it."

He fumbles with the latch beneath his seat which opens to reveal a secret compartment, inside of which are a pair of life jackets, and, much to your relief, a spare oar.

"Aha! We're saved." Seokjin pulls it out and waves it at you with a look of satisfaction.

You roll your eyes and settle back into your seat as Seokjin grasps both oars and starts to row. "Wow, my hero."

"Don't thank me too hard." He snorts.

You shoot him a look, and he breaks into laughter, the sound melodic enough to have you joining in and before you know it you're both chortling uncontrollably. It feels easy, nice.

Your laughter dies out into a hazy giggle, and you shut your eyes, letting the sun caress your face.

"You're nothing like how I expected you to be, y'know."

Seokjin splashes you gently with the oar. "What did you expect?"

"Hmm, I don't know. Stuck up, selfish rich dude with an ego complex?" You snort, but Seokjin's chuckles have disappeared now. His brows are furrowed when you open your eyes, and you feel sort of bad for ruining the ease that had settled between you. You shift awkwardly. "Can you blame me?"

"Huh," The boat floats beneath the shade of a weeping willow, the scent of white blossoms and freshly cut grass filling your senses, and Seokjin hauls the oars into the boat so he can rest for a while. "You know, it pisses me off that everyone sees me that way. I don't want to be that guy."

"Why?" You're surprised by his honesty. There's a sincerity in his voice that you've never heard before.

"I just...I just try and fit in. To make everyone happy, I guess."

He avoids your gaze, looking out over the lake with his chin in his palm and his shoulders slumped. Your heart twists.

"If it helps, I don't see you as that guy anymore." You shrug. "When we first met I thought you were just like everyone else at Paradise. But you're...different from everyone around here. Nice. Underneath all the designer of course." That earns a snort from him. "Why do you hide that side of yourself?"

"You're hardly one to talk about hiding, kitchen girl." He crosses his legs and points a finger at you. "One minute you're calling me a douche and shooting arrows like an Olympian and the next you're getting all insecure when I call you pretty or something."

You feel a blush rise in your cheeks. Insecure? Is that how he sees you?

"Do not." You mumble.

"You act like you're so much better than me for being good, and then have a fit when I say something nice."

"Well, I never asked you to call me pretty. That wasn't part of the deal." You pick at an invisible piece of lint on your skirt. "I figured you were humouring me."

Seokjin's eyes turn serious. He leans forward, like he's about to take your hand or something but changes his mind.

"I know...that what we have is weird. I know I ask you for a lot, and we're supposed to be strictly friends with benefits but—" He sighs, trying to find the right words."I like spending time with you. Like this. Just us."

You feel giddy, suddenly shy beneath his gaze. "I do too."

"And I always mean what I say, Y/N." A breeze ruffles his hair, and he shoots you a grin. "Like I said earlier, whoever gets to call you theirs is one lucky bastard."

I'll be yours, you want to say, but you know it would be futile; someone like Seokjin could never belong to you, and that's exactly why you don't belong here.

"Oh shit."

Before you can respond, Seokjin's expression is turning grave as you both watch with matching horror as the spare oar splashes into the lake.

"Please tell me there's another one underneath there." You nod towards the storage compartment with wide eyes.

"Nope." He scratches his neck awkwardly and shrugs."That was our only one."

"Then shouldn't we call for help or something?!"

"No, I have an idea. You lean over the edge and I'll hold your legs."

"Me?! Why can't you do it."

"Because I'm heavier, duh? I'll tip the boat." He links his fingers together pleadingly. "At least try, or else we'll be stuck out here all night!"

You cup your hand around your watch face to block the glaring sun. Your kitchen shift starts in forty five minutes and you can't afford to be late. Namjoon will certainly fire you on the spot.

"Fine!" You wobble to your feet and slide over to his side of the boat. "But you better not let go, or I'll kill you."

Seokjin salutes. "Scouts honour."

Before you can change your mind, Seokjin has both hands wrapped around your thighs and you're sent hurtling head first over the edge of the boat, face inches from the water's surface.

With a grunt you extend your arm, and your fingertips barely brush the oar, sending it further away.

"Fuck!" You call over your shoulder. Seokjin is red in the face with extortion, and you feel the boat rock as you lean further out. "I can't go any more or we'll tip!"

"Just a little more!" Seokjin yells back. "You've almost got it."

"Okay...almost..." You shift a little more and aha! The oar is just within your grasp! Until you hear a low buzzing coming from behind you, and you hear Seokjin yelp, his grip on your legs starting to slacken... "Jin? what are you doing?"

"Get off me!" He yells, letting go of you in favour of slapping something on his shoulder wildly, and before you can give him a piece of your mind the canoe loses its balance and tips upside down, sending the pair of you hurtling into the lake.

You manage to hold your breath before you go under. The water is an icy shock on such a warm summers day, your limbs flying into action and scrambling wildly until you break the surface and take a heaving breath.

Wiping the tendrils of dripping hair from your eyes, you glance around for Seokjin, but he's no where to be seen.

"Seokjin?" You call, panic evident in your voice. "Where are you?"

Bubbles appear on the surface of the water, and before you can let out a sigh of relief, a hand grabs your ankle and yanks you back under the water.

When you surface, choking and spluttering, you're beneath the cover of the upturned canoe. Seokjin grins at you, whole and in one piece and perfectly alive, and you can't help but feel pranked.

"Hey, sweetheart." He drawls, running his fingers through his soaking hair. The shadow of the rippling water reflects on the underside of the canoe, turning his skin a pale blue. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Seokjin!" You yell and he jumps when you start splashing him wildly. "What the fuck was that?"

He shields his face with his hands."It was a bee! I'm allergic."

"So? I was hanging out of a fucking canoe!"

"Oops." He's chortling now, and it echoes beneath the canoe. "Did I let go?"

You splash him again, and he grabs your hands with his to stop you from sending another tsunami his way. His palms are warm compared to your clammy ones and his eyes are watching you fondly, but that just pisses you off even more. "Okay! Okay! I get it, I'm sorry okay?"

"You idiot! Now I'm all wet and I'm totally going to smell like trout at work and—"

"Just shut up for a second would you?" A hand brushes the tangles of wet hair from your cheek, and before you know it a pair of plump lips are crashing against your own.

"Mmf!"

You're surprised at first, but there's something so tender in the way his hand cups your chin to pull you closer, how his arm curls around your waist, and before you know it you're grabbing him by the collar and kissing him back wildly like the world is ending and you're the last two people on earth.

"You're kinda cute when you're mad." Is what Seokjin whispers against your lips when he pulls back, out of breath.

"Oh." You breathe, a smile beginning to play on your lips. "Okay."

It's like you're in your own little bubble. Just Seokjin and you. You and Seokjin.

Until it bursts.

"Holy shit! Are you guys okay?" The sun is glaringly bright when the canoe is ripped away from your heads, and you have to squint through your fingers to see the figure swimming towards you.

"M-mr Kim?"

Seokjin jumps back from your body at the sound of his title, his hand letting go of your wrist. It falls into the water limply.

"That's me." He coughs, straightening his tie, like he isn't soaking wet and it's somehow going to make him look more professional.

"I didn't know you were rowing today..." Your eyes focus, and you instantly recognise Taehyung, the Paradise lifeguard. You have met a couple times at staff meetings.

Shit. You turn your face to the side, and hope he won't look to closely.

"I wasn't." Seokjin deadpans, gesturing to his soaking appearance. "Y/N and I thought we would go for a swim."

"I— oh." You muffle a chuckle at Seokjin's sarcasm and the wide eyes of the life guard who seems utterly stunned.

It doesn't seem so funny when he turns to you suddenly, eyes scrutinising, and offers you his elbow.

"Here take my arm, we have to get you two dry."

You glance at Seokjin carefully, but he just nods for you to go ahead, so you take Taehyung's arm and let him pull you back to the dock, Seokjin leisurely kicking on his back behind you like he doesn't have a care in the world.

Once you're safely on dry land, Taehyung disappears into the boat shed before returning with a pair of towels which he drapes around your shoulders with a concerned look.

"Take these. You aren't hurt, miss?"

"No." Seokjin answers for you with a roll of his eyes. There's a bite in his tone. Is he...jealous?

"Good, this is why we say no boats after 4..." Taehyung sends Seokjin a stern look, and you feel the tension rise when he just clicks his tongue in response. "I should really report this to my supervisor."

"We won't do it again," Seokjin's eyes bulge when you grab Taehyung's forearm. The lifeguard seems surprised himself, looking you in the eyes for the first time. You turn on a sickly sweet tone and bat your lashes. "We can keep this between us, hm?"

"I...I suppose so." Taehyung coughs, but then his eyes narrow. "Hold on a second. Do I know you from somewhere?"

Your mouth turns dry. "I..."

"No!" Seokjin jumps in between you, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulder. "She's not from around here."

His face has turned a deep shade of red, and you can feel his heart beating rapidly against your back. Anyone would think he was embarrassed. Then again, what did you expect? You are just a kitchen girl after all.

You nod slowly. He sighs with relief. "No. We've never met."

Taehyung scratches his chin, stepping back to get a better look at you. "It's just you look super familiar..."

"We have to be going now!" Seokjin stands up suddenly and grabs you by the hand. He squeezes extra tight, swinging your interlocked fingers where Taehyung can clearly see them. "Thanks, uh...Taehyung?"

"My pleasure, Mr. Kim." The lifeguard looks startled by Seokjin's sudden departure, but steps back to let you pass. "Be careful next time okay?"

"Yup, we will kid."

"Thanks!" You call over your shoulder, as Seokjin is already dragging you away from the lake and up the steps to the grand veranda that lines the resort.

"Thanks?" He rolls his eyes. "Y/N, the lake is like a foot deep, it's not like we were gonna drown."

"He was nice..." You bump his shoulder playfully. "Why? You jealous?"

His cheeks flush pink. "No! Of course not, I just...didn't like the way he looked at you."

You reach the top of the steps, and Seokjin slows down to a leisurely walk once he's in the clear. From here you can see the whole of the resort, sprawling greenery and luxury living in all its glory.

"Speaking of, that was a close one." You laugh. "He totally almost recognised me."

"Yeah." Seokjin laughs too, but then his face drops. "You're right. That was close."

"Seokjin?"

He stops, and turns towards you. His hand drops to your waist, lifting you up so you're sat on the balcony's edge, and then his mouth is capturing yours once again.

This time something feels different. It's desperate, but timid. Passionate but broken. It leaves you breathless.

He pulls away first.

"Jin, what just happened—"

"I..." He swallows thickly and looks away. "I shouldn't have done that. I've gotta go. I'm sorry."

It's then, as he turns and hurries down the back staircase towards the plaza and leaves you all alone on the veranda, that you realise you had never let go of his hand, not even for a second.

"I had fun tonight." Seokjin says as he drops you off at the Paradise gates after an evening spent perusing high fashion wedding venue magazines with Hyejin over tea and finger sandwiches. "Hyejin looked like she was on the verge of a stroke when I suggested walking down the aisle to The Thong Song."

Seokjin boasts a simple T-shirt and tailored pants tonight, the turtle neck draped over his shoulder unnecessary on such a warm and sticky summer night blessed by the lingering caress of the day's blazing sun. The drive slopes downwards, Seokjin's angular shadow a contrast against the twinkling lights that blur Paradise into a picturesque backdrop of pristine white brick, and a warmth spreads through your chest as he beams at you.

"I thought it was a fine choice," You muse, suppressing a giggle when you think back to the way Hyejin dropped her teacup at Seokjin's suggestion, eye twitching in disgust. "We're not even engaged yet and she already has our entire wedding planned out."

Oops. Seokjin stiffens. Your laughter comes to an abrupt stop, face reddening with embarrassment at your slip up. Of course you aren't engaged. You never will be. At least not to each other.

He's been weird like that, lately. Ever since that day at the lake when he left abruptly, seemingly shaken up, you've been walking on egg shells around him. One wrong word could send him flying away with that same scared look in his eye. And honestly, you still don't understand why.

All you know is that things have been different since you almost got caught at the lake. Sure, you've continued to hook up like normal, but Seokjin seems to be making a conscious effort to be more distant around you. You haven't talked about what happened that afternoon on the veranda, but it's clear something did; Seokjin hasn't kissed you since.

If Seokjin notices your poor word choice, he doesn't mention it. "Pretty sure she has my entire life planned out too." He murmurs almost bitterly, despite his face boasting a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. You figure it's better not to press him further.

He walks beside you to the end of the drive in a relative silence that feels all too loud — not awkward per se but filled with a definite unspoken tension that has you hiding behind your hair, eyes trained to the ground because you don't know how you are supposed to look at Seokjin when it was just you and him.

Moments like this, not heightened by passion or under the watchful eyes of his family are rarities. You take a deep breath and try to savour the taste of geraniums which lingers in the air from the gardens and the closest thing to normal you have ever experienced around Seokjin.

Despite the the emotional distance Seokjin seems intent on keeping in place, every physical step seems to edge you closer to him, eyes trained to the way his shoes sidestep until you are practically shoulder to shoulder. Seokjin doesn't so much as look at you as he does so and you are content to think he is too deep in his own thoughts to notice the way your bodies cling to each other like magnets, until the tips of his fingers brush against your palm in a delicate touch that may have been perceived as intimate had he not ripped it away with a pained expression, like he touched an electric fence or something.

You have admit that you felt it too. The spark as they describe it in romance movies. It was more of a tingle really, warm and fuzzy as it fizzed all the way from your hand to a spot in your chest suspiciously close to your heart that was beating a little faster now as you imagine how it would feel if he took your hand in his.

Except he doesn't. And when you glance up at him he is no longer engaged with his own thoughts but rather staring at you with a questioning look, brows slightly furrowed, and embarrassment replaces the fuzz in your veins when you consider for a moment that perhaps he was reading your mind and the completely inappropriate thoughts for a fake bride to have for her fake husband along with it.

The flush that caresses your cheeks is nearly as vibrant as the rose bushes which line the drive, perfectly pruned and as beautiful beneath lantern light as they are in the day and a perfect reminder of your embarrassment as you create a relative distance between your body and his. That way you were sure you could keep your hands - and your thoughts - strictly to yourself.

Far too quickly you find yourself turning the corner onto the street where you always part ways, the stoney gravel evening out into the same boring old scuffed concrete that winds through the entire city, a clear indication that you were leaving behind the Paradise grounds and entering the not so pristine visual of reality.

Usually you were glad to be on your way, sick of talking about neck lines and lace types and the way your shoulders ached from nodding politely at people who got wine drunk on weekdays but tonight you feel like you could keep walking with Seokjin forever in this strange bubble of unspoken words.

But you know as soon as he stops dead beside you that the bubble has already burst, floating away just out of your grasp like the false reality you live at Paradise.

"I'll be going then." It's quiet out here, not a trace of the music from Jazz night at the bar or the laughter of couples crossing the plaza to their suites after a few too many Chardonnays. Seokjin opens his mouth and then closes it again while you fidget awkwardly. "Thanks for a good night."

The way you say it sounds like he took you on a real date, one that you were supposed to thank him for. It's too late by the time you realize that a boundary has been overstepped when Seokjin doesn't return the genuine smile you shoot him as you turn to leave.

"Wait!" The click of your shoes against the sidewalk halts at the serious husk in his tone, jarringly loud against the silence. "I need to ask you something."

His face is partially lit by the street lamp you find yourself beneath, casting half of his face in a golden glow that emphasizes the shadow of his lashes against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, as if to briefly collect his words.

Despite your better judgement, probably blinded by the normality you had fallen into, you press him further. "What is it?"

"Listen Y/N..." Seokjin scratches the back of his neck and you shift awkwardly in front of him, chest suddenly tightening with a niggling dread. "You haven't told anyone about us have you?"

"Us?" Your eyes widen. Since when did Seokjin start referring to you as a pair? You tilt your head quizzically. "I mean, your sister and your parents know —

"No, I mean the things that we...do in private." The summer evening suddenly turns chilly. Seokjin must notice when your face drops, the way you hug your arms to try and keep hold of the warmth that had practically singed each of your nerve endings just a moment ago.

"Things?" You splutter. "Is that all they are to you?"

You can't help it. The way Seokjin talks when you are intimate, the way he kissed you so desperately that day on the veranda -- it made it feel like those moments meant more to him. He was damn convincing - when he told you that he wanted you, you believed him - and you can't help but feel cheated.

Seokjin's brow simply furrows, flummoxed by your sudden outburst. "Yeah, I mean we had an agreement — isn't that all they are to you?"

An agreement.

The way he says it sounds like your relationship is strictly business. As if he's paying you for a service - which, in his own way, you suppose he is. Sure, you knew he wasn't really going to fall in love with you in the way he told his family he loved you but you thought he at least felt something — no, you were sure he had at the lake. Maybe you were just confusing pleasure with intimacy.

Still, the way his finger points at you accusingly makes a hot rage rise in your chest but you simply take a shaky breath and plaster the closest thing to a grin on your features as you can muster.

"Of course they are." The sweetness in your voice is a little too forced, but it goes unnoticed on Seokjin who lets out a sigh of relief. "None of this means anything. I know that."

"Good. Then we're on the same page..." He still looks slightly unconvinced - you can just make out the way he narrows his eyes doubtfully in the dim light - but he doesn't have time to press further before a black car rolls into the drive and he clasps your wrist to pull you across the paving and into the shadows. "Watch out!"

Seokjin suddenly yanks you closer to him, your chest nearly pressed up to his. You almost mumble a thanks, idiotic enough to think that his only motive is to prevent you getting flattened by a Mercedes Benz nearly invisible in the night if not for the crunch of tyres against gravel.

But then you feel his breath hitch when he catches a glimpse of your white kitchen uniform reflected in one of the tinted car windows, sending a salute towards the security guard in the drivers seat with fingers crossed behind his back, and you silently condemn yourself for thinking he cared about anything other than his reputation even for a second. You go numb.

You look between your bodies where your hand dangles limply in his grasp. Just a moment ago you were envisioning how it would feel for him to hold your hand in his, the way his skin brushed yours enough to give you shivers. Now it just made the hollow ache in your chest throb with a cold emptiness.

Seokjin strains his neck, only releasing you from his hold when the glow of headlights disappears around a corner and you are smothered by darkness again.

Seokjin's sigh of relief stings. The words never leave his lips but you can tell what he was thinking. Phew, now I don't have to explain why I, almighty Kim Seokjin, was conversing with a staff member after hours. Lucky escape!

A smile appears on his face, as if you were supposed to share his relief. "So, same time tomorrow?"

You feel yourself stagger away from him in shock. Seokjin is many things but you didn't think he was heartless. It's enough to send you over the edge.

"Clearly we are not on the same page." You spit. "Actually, you know what? No. I'm busy tomorrow."

Seokjin scoffs, running a hand through his hair. "Doing what?"

"I have things to do." Your emphasis on the word makes his eyes widen,

"Oh great!" He barely raised his voice before glances behind him warily, making sure there was no one around to see him getting heated. When he turns back his voice is nothing but a harsh whisper. "And what do you expect me to tell my family, huh?"

"Tell them that your fiancé to be had to go do the job they actually pay her to do." The way he laughs breathily makes your fists clench at your sides as you turn on your heels and stalk down the street before he can see the way your face reddens with a combination of hurt and anger, though not before you are calling over your shoulder despite knowing it would only fuel the fire. "Unless you're too embarrassed to tell them who I really am."

"You don't seem to mind when you're cashing in your favours." He calls after you, hands on hips with a bitterness lacing his voice that makes your heart twist painfully.

You hear the way your pulse quickens, the lump in your throat growing bigger and bigger as you stop dead. "What?"

"Y/N, I didn't mean that I —"

"So that's what this is? You are embarrassed of me?" Your voice raises incredulously. "Is that why you've been so weird with me since Taehyung almost recognised me at the lake? You're scared someone will snitch on you to your rich friends?"

"No, I--"

"No what, Jin?" You let out a hollow laugh. "I thought I meant more to you than that."

Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's just you and I...we could never be anything more, you know that right? I don't want you to get the wrong idea. We don't come from the same background and it would be..." He pauses. "Inappropriate."

"It's too late, anyway. Forget I said anything." Tears streak your cheeks hotly and you hide behind your hair, determined to hide your weakness from him. "This was a mistake."

You start to walk away, but then you're running, as fast as you can away from Paradise and all the hurt. The sound of Seokjin's tennis shoes hitting the concrete picks up as he follows you down the path, calling your name, and for a moment you think he's going to comfort you. Tell you that he was sorry and that none of this was meaningless to him after all.

But he doesn't.

"I'll text you!" Is the last thing he calls before you disappear around the corner out of sight. You want to sneak a look over your shoulder, see him standing there at the end of the street beneath the street light.

Instead you resist, letting the bitterness pooling in your stomach rise up and burn your throat like bile. "Don't bother!"

Either he listened or he didn't mean it when he said he would text you.

The anger that ran hot through your bloodstream after your fight with Seokjin has faded to nothing but an indescribable emptiness and regret.

You haven't heard from him in three days. That is a long time where Seokjin is concerned and completely out of character.

Even on normal days, when you had a day off from pretending to be his fiancé, Seokjin would find a way to make you laugh by sending you a low angle selfie from the dinner table at one of his father's business conferences or a cheeky message to let you know he'd just seen you walk past the golf court wearing the red sundress that he liked.

You couldn't remember when Seokjin became a normal part of your day. Just like brushing your teeth or washing your hair, you had become almost expectant of a vibration against your thigh at work or the ping! of your ringtone before you went to sleep or even a heated make out behind the restaurant when you just couldn't wait any longer.

So when it all suddenly came to a stop, you were sure you were going crazy. All you were left with was a feeling of emptiness, as if something vital was missing.

It wasn't even as if he owed you anything, not really - it was true that the romance wasn't real and even the sex was just sex to him; but at some point you had to admit you had crossed some kind of invisible barrier. In between lying to his family, public "dates" flavoured by champagne and hanging off his forearm at celebratory cocktail parties, you and Seokjin had become friends.

(Sort of. If you ignored the parts where his lips made you lose your breath or the night's that ended with his head between your legs.)

So god forbid you expected something from him after your fight the other night. A sign that he cared, if even a little bit. An apology for the way he'd deliberately tried to hurt you.

That's how you find yourself checking your phone anxiously on your kitchen shift breaks, refreshing your inbox obsessively and trying to ignore the heaviness weighing down your chest with each passing hour without even so much as one of the cheesy emojis he used way too frequently to be ironic lighting up your screen.

He even stopped dropping by the restaurant under the guise of a casual lunch like he usually did. You found yourself on edge, breath fogging up the glass of the window with your disappointment every time you heard the door zip open and you rushed to greet him, only to be met with someone utterly not Kim Seokjin.

You thought you saw his broad figure dipping into one of the other restaurants across the plaza instead one afternoon as you left work and you couldn't help but wonder if he shamelessly flirted with the kitchen staff there, too.

It hurts knowing that it was so easy for him to cut you out of his life completely when he had become such a constant part of yours. It hurts knowing that he probably wasn't even thinking of you when he was the only thing on your mind.

And to make matters worse, it seems that the tight smiles and vacant nods you shoot Jimin as he divulges the latest and greatest Paradise gossip he overheard while serving at some fancy dinner party last night didn't do a good job at hiding the melancholy gloom which hangs over your head.

He's still talking as you swipe your cards to check out of work, charmingly holding the door ajar for you to slip outside the restaurant where you told Jungkook you'd wait for him to join you.

The air is cooler than expected against your face, the first time that summer where the sky is covered by splotches of grey cloud that refuse to let any blue peek through like an ugly patchwork quilt that mirrors your ugly mood.

"Y/N, didn't your hear me? Mr Kim's wife literally grabbed him by the balls and threw him out of the building when she caught him cheating with the waitress — wait, are you okay?"

Jimin is already half way down the limestone stairs, too caught up in his own dramatic storytelling to notice the way you stand rigid at the top. The phone in your palm is lit up with the same three words that have haunted you all day — NO NEW MESSAGES — but Jimin's question breaks your trance for a moment.

"Huh? No, I'm fine." You assure, slipping the device into your back pocket, swallowing thickly and mustering up a watery smile you hope will appease him before he can ask any more questions.

It doesn't work.

"You've been acting weird all day." Your legs feel wobbly as you close the distance between you, like the very foundations of your body are beginning to give in to the weight that has set up camp in your chest no matter how hard you try to ignore it.

"I have?" Jimin is peering at you with narrowed eyes, not malicious necessarily but inquisitive. They narrow further when you sigh shakily, averting your gaze to the shirtless gardener who mows the green lawns that spread out as far as the eye can see into perfect lines, counting the distant rose bushes as a distraction from the impending tears that have begun to well. "I don't want to talk about it."

Jimin throws an arm around your shoulder a little too roughly to be comforting, following your stagnant gaze. "Damn he's kinda cute." The lack of witty remark from you when he lands a jokey punch to your shoulder seems to finally perk Jimin's attention. "Tell me, are you and Mr Kim Seokjin having trouble in Paradise?"

Jimin lets out a snort at his own pun before he spots the sullen look on your face, covering his impending chuckle with a cough and releasing you from his grasp to sling his hands in his pockets awkwardly. "Oh shit, really?"

You simply sniff in response, allowing that to be confirmation enough, slumping down onto the grand staircase and letting your face fall into your hands.

Jimin plonks down beside you, sidling up until your knees touch, the simple act of comfort making the tears that had been threatening to emerge all day prick hotly at the corners of your eyes.

"I messed up, Jimin." Your voice is muffled by your palms but that doesn't mask the way it wavers slightly, Jimin's hand immediately rubbing soothing circles into your back. "I think he's mad at me."

"Why?"

"Because I basically told him that I kind of have feelings for him—"

"You did what?" Jimin grabs you by the elbow, alerting the atention of a guy in a velour tuxedo leaving the restaurant who gives the hot tears staining your cheeks a funny look. "Hold up, go back. You have feelings for Seokjin?"

Even with vision blurred by tears you can see the wide eyed expression on Jimin's face. You cross your arms in a pout. "Well you don't need to say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like the idea is completely crazy or something."

Jimin runs an exasperated hand through his hair. "So you mean the truth?"

It isn't the way he says it so much as the realisation that he is right that stings. You bow your head, a few silent tears rolling down your cheeks until you can taste their saltiness. "I know, I know. I'm not good enough for a person like him, I was stupid—"

Jimin shakes his head gently, placing his palms firmly on both of your shoulders and forcing you to face him head on. "Listen up because I'm about to serve you a cup of piping hot real shit, okay?"

You wipe your nose noisily on your sleeve, giving him a curt nod. "Okay."

"The reason you and Seokjin will never work out has nothing to do with you so I won't accept any of that mopey shit." Jimin shakes you vigorously as if he is knocking some sense into you, and you offer him a tearful giggle. "Truth is, Seokjin can't see a good thing when he has it because there is no room in his rich ass heart for anything other than money and his reputation."

"But—"

"No buts!" Jimin shucks up his sleeves until they cover his hands like paws, using the fabric to dab away your tears, unphased by the growing damp spots on both of his cuffs. "The sooner you realise that Seokjin's issues are not your issues the better."

Your tears are dry now. You're pretty sure Jimin's pep talk ended your momentary wobble but your voice still sounds slightly hoarse when you speak. "It just felt like more when we...you know..." You wave your hands around wildly hoping Jimin will fill in the blank, which he does with a click of his tongue.

"Then you need to stop sleeping with him immediately."

"What?"

"You know what I think?" Jimin links his arm with yours, pulling you alongside him. "I think that you're confusing intimacy with actual feelings."

Maybe he's right. It's natural for emotions to be heightened when Seokjin is making you literally fall apart beneath him, probably for him too which would explain the intimate things he had said. Perhaps all this time you were just confusing loving the way he made you feel for loving...him. After all, you had always thought the regular Seokjin was kind of an asshat at times. Of course you didn't have feelings for him!

"You know what? I think you're right." Jimin raises his eyebrows in surprise, as if he was expecting you to be harder to win around. You slap a palm to your forehead. "I can't believe I actually thought I caught feelings for him for a second."

"Happens to the best of us." Jimin grins. "If I was getting dicked down by that beautiful god of a man then I'd want to have his babies too. Imagine how cute they'd be..."

"Jimin!" You smack him playfully before leaning across to rest your head on his shoulder, his chuckles vibrating against your cheek. "You just basically told me he's an asshole."

"And I stand by that!" He defends, letting his own cheek rest against your hair. "But you can't deny that he is fucking inhumanely gorgeous..."

"Are we talking about Kim Seokjin again?" A dry voice appears somewhere behind, making you jump and pause your laughter. A glance over your shoulder reveals none other than Jungkook, arms crossed and a sullen vibe emanating from the way his thick brows furrow so deeply they almost connect. Come to think of it, he always seems to be moody where Seokjin is involved. Huh.

"Why? Are you gonna try and tell me that he's not that buff again?" Jimin scoffed, stiffening ever so slightly beside you and refusing to even glance in Jungkook's direction.

"No, I just don't see why we have to always talk about him." Jungkook puffs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes bitterly. "Besides, I just saw him outside the kitchen and his body isn't that good. I'd hardly say 'sculpted'."

Huh? Seokjin? Outside the kitchen...

Neither of the boys seem to share your bewilderment, launching into a spat heavy with a tension that had been building long before. "And what would you know, anyway?"

"I go to the gym!" Jungkook flexes his arm, earning a scoff from Jimin to which he frowns. "Look!"

"You saw Seokjin where?" You breathe, butting into the squabble and drawing two startled looks when you jolt to your feet, wiping off the back of your leggings.

"O-outside the kitchen...why? I assumed he was waiting for you..." Jungkook is wide eyed, blinking with a lack of understanding considering his previous absence. Jimin has already wrapped his hand around your wrist to pin you in place.

"He is?" You nibble your lip.

You imagine him leaning up against the wall outside the kitchen, probably looking at his watch impatiently as he waits for your shift to finish. He never could wait for long so perhaps he'd even already left, storming off to go let his anger out in a game of extremely competitive table tennis with a retired CEO in the lounge.

But there's a chance he is still there and that he was waiting for you and even though every fibre of your being screams that it is a bad idea, you just want to see if it was true. If he really was thinking about you. If you'd misjudged him after all and a part of him did care.

"Y/N this is a bad idea." You're already bounding down the steps when Jimin tugs you back to offer a slice of reality. "Remember what we just talked about? Not catching feelings." He draws the last word out and wiggles his eyebrows which only makes Jungkook even more confused.

"It'll be fine Jimin," You brush him off though it sounds a little like you are pleading with him. Carefully dislodging your wrist from his grip, you plaster a reassuring smile to you face that doesn't seem to appease his anxious foot tapping. "I won't let him get inside my head. I'm not confused anymore, see?"

"Fine. Knock yourself out." Jimin steps back, gesturing for you to go forth which you do far too quickly for his liking, flashing him a thumbs up before turning your back and disappearing down the steps before he can protest any further. "But promise to call me immediately if you get horny feelings again!"

The way your heart thumps in your chest as you speed walk around the building has to be unhealthy.

You slow down as you get closer to the corner that obscures the back of the restaurant from view, taking cover behind a bush pruned into a perfect ball.

There he is.

Your breath hitches. It's almost as if your brain tricked you into believing he was a figment of your imagination these past few days without him. Like you made the whole thing up. But no, here he is and he's breathing and he has blood pumping through him just like you and he's so real that it hits you like a freight train.

For the first time this evening, the sun pokes it's head out from behind the clouds, a small crack opening up in the sky that sends a stream of soft golden light cascading across him. And almost as if in unison, it feels like the light shines right through the Seokjin shaped cracks in your heart as you watch his eyes flutter shut at the kiss of warmth and his arms reach above his head to lean into the light in a leisurely stretch.

It almost feels like you are seeing him for the first time all over again.

If Seokjin didn't let out a sigh of impatience in exactly the way you imagined he would, shaking his head and throwing his hands into the pockets of his gym shorts in defeat, you would have been content to just watch from the sidelines like you promised Jimin you would.

Perhaps you wouldn't have rushed out from behind your camouflage of foliage, sending a garden gnome flying in a crash of broken china in your haste. And even more importantly, perhaps you wouldn't have found yourself calling out for him to stop.

"Seokjin!" Your voice sounds small but the word flies out before you can slap your hand over your mouth to keep it in. It's familiar on your tongue, like coming back home after a long trip, and you savour the taste.

"Y/N?"

Seokjin stills at the crunch of your shoes approaching him tentatively, shoulders squared as if weighing up his options - fight or flight? - and just as you think you are mistaken and he didn't want to see you after all, he's taking flight - straight towards you and drawing you into his arms in an uncomfortably tight bear hug.

His chest hits yours with a force that makes you literally lose your breath, hairs on your arms rising as you feel his warmth encapsulate you completely like a comforting blanket.

The sudden embrace stuns you to a shocked silence, arms pressed to your sides stiffly as he buries his nose in your hair and takes a deep inhale. Is Kim Seokjin smelling your hair?

You have to admit the scent of his cologne makes you giddy, a little woodier around the edges than you remember it to be which you put down to the still slightly sticky and sweaty gym clothes hugging his torso. Under normal circumstances you would've been grossed out but the heightened thump of your heart in your ears acts as an ample distraction.

For a moment you forget about Paradise and the argument and the door to the kitchen beside you that could open at any moment. It's just you and him again, and you're melting.

You could stay like this forever, if his grip didn't tighten considerably, as if he was trying to squeeze the breath straight out of you and hold that too, and you are pushing his chest away from your body with a cough. "Jin — can't breathe!"

Seokjin lets you go — reluctantly, settling for holding you at arms length instead — and you are sure you spot his neck flush at the nickname you used accidentally.

"Sorry." His gaze dips to your feet and then drags all the way back to your puzzled eyes as if he is taking all of you in, like you had changed since he last saw you or something as if that wasn't just three days before. A lazy smile appears on his face. "Missed you, that's all."

His words are slightly breathless and punctuated by a shake of his head as if he can't quite believe he's saying them either and the honesty is so unlike him it makes your chest ache.

"Then why didn't you call?" There's a snipe in your words that seems to jolt him out of his sunny disposition, mouth downturning into a frown, arms dropping from your shoulders and going limp at his sides instead as if he is coming to his senses. "You're the one that's been avoiding me."

His shoulders droop awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

"It just didn't make sense why you would stop talking to me—."

"No, not for avoiding you — well I am sorry for that," He explains. "I mean for the things I said. The other night."

You furrow your brows, stunned. "Why?"

"It was mean and...truthfully I couldn't face you because of it." He drags a hand down his face and presses his back to the wall in defeat, giving you a perfect view of the regret that makes his jaw tighten.

With a sigh you sidle up next to him, careful to leave enough space between you so that your arms don't touch. Deja vu masks the ordeal and you realise it's all too similar to the first time you met in this very spot, watching the very same plaza except today it's still bustling with life beneath the orange glow of the setting sun and you have to squint to see it clearly.

You clear your throat. "I thought it was because of the things I said. About us."

"No!" His exclamation is a little too quick, too loud, and he looks embarrassed, following it up with a gruff "Don't be stupid."

"Well don't worry. While you've been avoiding me I've had plenty of time to think it over and you were right after all."

His nose scrunches, a habit of his you've noticed before that gives him an air of innocence. "I was?"

"Yeah, I think I must have had a few too many glasses of champagne at dinner that night." Your laugh is hoarse with the effort it takes to force it past your lips. "I'm happy with our agreement how it is. You don't need to worry about me going all crazy on you again."

"That's...good." His adam's apple bobs. He seems unconvinced by his own words. "Good. I'm glad."

Then he smiles and your heart throbs so hard it could explode so you just smile back and join in with his nervous laughter.

"So we're okay?"

"We're okay."

There's nothing left to say; now it's clear where you both stand. So why is Seokjin opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish?

"Is that all you came here to talk about?"

His laughter stops, and then he coughs and puffs out his chest, returning somewhat to the cocky Seokjin you are used to.

"Actually I was thinking...it's getting kind of late. It would be bad mannered of me to let you walk home alone."

"Why? I always walk home alone?" Seokjin never seemed to possess the worry you can see in eyes before when he dropped you off outside the club and watched you disappear into the night multiple times a week.

"For protection. Just in case." He rolls his eyes, as if it should have been obvious.

"It's okay, I've got pepper spray in my bag plus it's like 5 PM—"

"No. Protection for me." He suddenly pleads. "My mind will start to wander if I go back to my apartment alone again."

Seokjin seems so serious you know you can't reject him now without your conscience taking a beating, so you choose to say nothing at all. You want to be there for him, but at the same time you know you're only going to get hurt. The toe of your shoe draws circles in the dirt. "I don't know what to say."

"How about you don't say anything and just come to my place instead?" Your neck snaps up. He's never invited you to his place before. It always seemed like an inappropriate boundary to cross considering you are hardly even friends let alone lovers. "That way we both win."

You smile and he seems relieved. "I guess, just for a little bit."

"Great! Think of this as you doing a favour for me."

"Again?" You roll your eyes teasingly.

"I repay you don't I?" He sees your face fall. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—"

"I know." You butt in. "It's fine. Really."

A silence falls in the same way it did the night you fought and it seems neither of you know what to say next. Truthfully you're just glad he doesn't seem mad at you, his quiet company a familiarity that tells you nothing has changed between you.

That is until he leans in a little too close and his fingers brush your wrist. You swallow thickly and wait for him to push you away again, when you feel him hesitate.

This is supposed to be the part where he pushes you away again, looking at his hand in disgust or wiping it on the back of his pants like he touched something dirty.

Instead, he reaches between you to link his fingers carefully with yours. It's like you are suddenly filled with helium, at risk of floating away if the feeling of Seokjin's warmth beside you wasn't there holding you to the ground.

"Is this okay?" You ask with wide eyes, nodding down at where his slightly clammy palm smothers your own.

He nods. You melt.

"You were right, the other day." Seokjin squeezes your hand comfortingly. "I need to stop hiding how I really feel."

You've never been to the residents part of the resort before. You never dared. But truthfully, by the time you realise you are walking not floating, you are already half way across the plaza.

Seokjin guides you around the circular fountain spitting water from the mouth of a cherub, carried by the breeze as a fine mist that feels cold and refreshing against your hot cheeks and marches you up a marble staircase to the resident lodge which rises up out of the ground like a beautiful half moon of white brick, stylish balconies decked with jacuzzis, chiffon curtains and a sea of people who fit Seokjin's class perfectly.

A tired looking doorman stands posted to the entrance and despite feeling Seokjin stiffen beside you, he never lets go of your hand. Not even when the doorman gives you a once over, an eyebrow raising at your casual attire.

You wait for Seokjin to force the doorman to sign an oath of secrecy when his eyes widen at your interlinked fingers, except the moment never comes. He simply rubs his thumb across your knuckles soothingly, striding straight past the doorman and holding the gilded door open for you to slip through himself.

You mumble a thanks, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding and hope Seokjin can't feel the way your heart thumps against your rib cage uncontrollably. For what reason you can't quite decide — is it because you're conditioned to fear getting caught with Seokjin or because he doesn't seem to care?

Seokjin doesn't let go of you until he has to press the elevator button, and it feels ten degrees colder when he does. Your curious eyes take in the perfumed lobby, grand staircase winding upwards as far as the eye can see, lined with a carpet that's intricately embroidered with gold thread. Paintings line the walls which makes the place feel like some sort of museum and you half expect someone to ask you for an entry fee.

Then the elevator's ornate doors open with a ping you thought only existed in movies and Seokjin's hand is back and shuffling you into the elevator at the small of your back, refusing to leave even once you are inside.

The elevator is lined with polished mirrors and you do a double take when you make eye contact with your reflection, nearly reaching out and tapping the glass to check they are real and not the kind you find at a carnival that make everything look distorted. The way Seokjin pulls you closer to his side makes you look like any one of the other normal couples who frequent the resort, if you ignore the way your baggy cardigan contrasts his head to toe designer outfit.

Seokjin's too busy humming along to the classical music which crackles through the speakers overhead to notice the way your gaze travels to him. You know he wants to make you think that none of this affects him like it does you and his unbothered attitude would have worked had you not noticed the way his cheeks have a pinkish tinge, even in the dim yellow glow of the elevator.

The elevator opens, and you follow him down the hall only to find out Seokjin lives in one of the penthouses. You shouldn't be surprised but when he swipes a shiny key card and the lock beeps with a little green light that tells you the door is unlocked, you can't help the way your mouth gapes. Almost as if you were expecting it to flash red instead, denying you entrance and reminding you that you didn't belong in a place like this.

"Aren't you coming inside?" Seokjin has already crossed the threshold, wiping his polished shoes on the gaudy WELCOME mat inside while you stand awkwardly in the hallway, peeping through the crack of open door. You suddenly feel self conscious in your cardigan and leggings, as if you should've dressed up or something.

Seokjin seems to sense your hesitation, fingers finding your wrist with a smile. "You'll catch a cold out there."

He tugs and you don't resist, letting your feet follow him inside. "It's summer. And we're inside, Jin."

"Well how would I live with myself if I took the risk?" The click of the door locking echos from the high ceiling and you swallow thickly knowing there's no going back.

Inside, the suite looks like a luxury hotel room, like every last penny from the royal Mint had lived and died there.

It's open plan, the grand chandelier glimmering in the evening sun casting miniature rainbows across a living room consisting of pristinely white sofas sporting an array of throw cushions that look as though they have never been moved, collecting dust in the same way as the open magazine on the marble coffee table and the empty coffee mug beside it that look like they were placed there to create the illusion of the space being lived in.

Everything feels a little too pristine, a little too perfect like it materialised straight out of a furniture magazine.

The far wall is entirely glass, floor to ceiling windows looking out over a view of the entire resort; with a squint you can just make out the soft lights of the restaurant you know well, reflection shimmering like gold dust on the surface of the undisturbed public pool. An array of caddy boys on the golf courts collect stray balls and haul clubs back into the lodge and beyond that the vibrant gardens, a blur of pink roses and green hedges from where you stand but still a pleasant sight against the evenings pale blue sky.

Seokjin hums to himself as he flicks on all the lights, disappearing around a corner until you can't hear the click clack of his shoes against the tile anymore. You don't know if you are supposed to stay with knees knocking in the living room or if he was expecting you to follow him; but you presume the latter is true when his voice rings out into the room, jolting you from your shameless study of his living space.

"Have you eaten?" You shake your head in a silent no even though he can't see it, somehow managing to get your legs to carry you beneath a decorative arch and into the kitchen where Seokjin stands with his head ducked into a fancy looking fridge - even the most basic of appliances seem high tech, a touch pad visible on the front for what purpose you don't want to even ask. "I don't know about you but I'm famished."

"I was on my way to find something to eat when we — when you saw me, actually." The correction is quick but it makes your stomach feel funny. Since when did it start to feel normal to refer to you and Seokjin as a "we", as if you are anything but his accessory?

"Perfect." He emerges from the fridge with an armful of tupperware boxes balanced beneath his chin, foot kicking the door shut before he dumps the entire load onto the marble kitchen island that separates you from him.

"How about you stay for dinner?" He flashes you a small smile, corner of his mouth blowing the bangs out of his eyes, and your heart practically skips a beat.

It's just a formality surely, the polite thing to do. The Seokjin you knew was usually eager to get you out of his hair.

He is looking at you expectantly, your throat suddenly dry as you try to muster a response, an excuse. The word that immediately crosses your mind is no. This is dangerous and you know it. But then the bite in your stomach is back and despite knowing an I shouldn't be here in the first place would have been more appropriate, your lips betray you with a simple, "Yes." And the way that Seokjin's face lights up in surprise has every regret falling away as you relish in the knowledge that he is actually happy to have you.

"I thought I would have to bargain with you. You're usually stubborn with me." Shiny bar stools sit tucked beneath the little kitchen bar set up beside him, a few expensive looking champagne bottles littered across the surface. He pats one of the plush cushions in a gesture for you to sit which you graciously do, even as you scoff at his words and silently wonder why someone who lives alone needs so many seats.

"Because you're usually trying to get me to do something ridiculous." You chide. "And besides, I'm hungry."

"So you're just using me for my cooking skills, huh? I didn't think you were that kind of girl." Seokjin eyes you cheekily, hands fiddling with the dials on the stove with a pout. "How do you turn this thing on?"

You let out a sigh of mock despair, joining him at the counter and turning the knob until you hear a familiar click as the gas ignites, basking the kitchen in a blue glow. "If your 'skills' end with me getting food poisoning I'll never forgive you Kim Seokjin".

"I think I can handle a simple pasta dish," He retorts, but not before sending a pot from the utensil rack crashing to the ground with a clatter. "Maybe I spoke too soon." He picks up the appliance, holding it out to you sheepishly, a flush caressing his cheeks now.

You click your tongue but in no way maliciously, instinctively filling the pot with water and pulling open a few drawers in search of some other equipment. "Where do you keep the spoons?"

"Top drawer." You hear him call, settling himself into the askew stool you previously occupied, kicking his feet up onto the opposite stool and making you internally wince when the soles of his shoes settle on the white leather cushion. "Can I ask you something?"

Something in his voice changes, a seriousness that you aren't used to with him. In fact the only time you'd ever heard it was last week on the lake, when he admitted he felt like an outsider at Paradise.

You dump the pasta and lean against the counter to face him. "Sure."

"Do you think I'm an asshole?" He asks quietly.

You pause. "Sometimes." Eyes narrowed, you let out a sigh. "Why?"

"I'm sorry." Seokjin sounds small, and he wrings his hands together awkwardly. "For making you do all this for me, and then acting like a douche."

You push his feet off the stool and take a seat opposite him. Your mouth is dry, so you say nothing. He looks at you expectantly. Like he's hoping his apology will make up for the stinging hurt that still lingers in your chest every time you remember the look of shame in his eyes when he almost got caught talking to you at the gates. You flash him a sad smile, and he sighs when he realises it's not enough.

"God, I'm so fucking lame. What normal guy has to get a girl to pretend to be his fucking fiance?"

"What normal girl agrees to pretend? If you're lame then I'm just as bad." You chuckle, somewhat bitterly. "If you're so embarrassed by me, why don't you just tell your family? Then you won't have to worry someone will find out who I really am."

There's a sharpness to your words that makes Seokjin wince.

"It's not that I'm embarrassed of you! I'm...embarrassed of me." Seokjin rushes. "I just can't tell them. It would break them if they knew we've been lying."

Oh. So all this time he wasn't afraid someone would find out your real identity...he was just worried about disappointing his family?

"I always knew I was going to marry some nice girl from upstate and take over Paradise one day," He continues. "But now it's actually happening and I'm realizing I'm not cut out for this."

His head falls into his palms, forehead creased. You can tell this has been weighing on his mind for a while, and part of you feels thrilled that he trusts you enough to confide in you.

"I want to be the man they want me to be but I don't know how much longer I can pretend."

You slide your hand over the counter and cover his. He looks up, surprised, when you give it a comforting squeeze.

"I think you're just scared." You whisper. "I know you Seokjin, and you'll be an incredible CEO."

He puffs out his chest. "Pfft, I'm not scared."

"You're scared you won't be as good of an owner as your dad." You say. "And you're scared that you won't love the girl who you marry like you're supposed to."

Seokjin falls quiet, like what you said hit a nerve. He frowns. "I know what it's like to love someone. And those other girls -- the ones my parent's tried to set me up with -- they were nice and all but... I didn't feel it with any of them."

"You can't force love." You offer him a sympathetic smile. "Sometimes it just pops up in the strangest of places. It just happens."

"You're right." He smiles back, and shakes his shoulders like a weight has been lifted. His eyes soften fondly. "Hey. How do you always seem to know exactly what to say?"

"One of my many talents,"You laugh as you instinctively start to dish up your meal. That's what working in a kitchen does to you. "Including making incredible pasta."

The smell of carbonara wafts through the kitchen, and he rubs his stomach gratefully.

"God I love you." Seokjin says breathily, threading his hands through his hair and looking at you in wonder.

"What?" You go slack, the metal spoon between your fingers hitting the ground with a tinny crash.

Seokjin blinks twice before rushing to cover up his mistake. "You know what I mean."

You do know. But a part of you wishes that you didn't know, that you could pretend that the words that spilled from Seokjin's lips were real and true and meant something.

Not that it matters anyway. You aren't in love. You are just pretending to be. So why does it feel like a ton of bricks smushed your heart when you realise this was probably the only time you would ever hear him say those words, even if he didn't mean them how you wished he would?

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth before it can start to wobble and bend to your knees to retrieve the spoon. Seokjin is already ahead of you, leaping out of his chair to grasp the metal at the exact same time.

A gasp passes your lips when his hand covers yours tightly, the contact accidental but enough to send tingles up your spine like it always does. Except this time, it seems he feels it too, because when you dare to look up he is staring at your almost interlocked hands in wonder.

"Is now a bad time to repay one of your favours?" His voice is hoarse.

"What—"

Seokjin's fingers hook beneath your chin, tilting your head towards him so that he can press his lips against yours in a tentative kiss, swallowing your words in transit.

The kiss is slow and languid, the way he slots his plump bottom lip between yours making you melt instantly. His cheeks are warm and soft in your hands as you cup them, the action feeling just as natural as the warmth blossoming in your chest when Seokjin moves his mouth in time with your own with an impossible tenderness.

He sighs into your mouth like he'd been waiting forever to do this, and you feel a similar satisfaction, finally able to curb the craving for him that has been aching inside you since your last encounter when he left you standing alone on the veranda.

Seokjin's fingers trace up your arms tentatively, hairs raising wherever they touch, before tangling them in the hair at the base of your neck and pulling you ever deeper into the kiss, not just with pure desire like you were used to but with a yearning to hold you closer. For the first time you let yourself succumb to your senses, protective guard over your heart shattering as you get lost in the scent of his woody cologne and the roughness of his simultaneously pillowy lips.

By the time he pulls back you are already breathless and he is too, lips parted slightly, breath tickling your nose.

"Sorry." The curve of his lips tells you he didn't mean it. He wanted to kiss you. You melt. "'S cause I missed you, that's all"

"C'mere." With a breathy laugh you pull him closer to you again by the collar, mouths crashing together in a tangle of teeth and tongue this time that makes you burn with a hunger to commit every caress of his lips to memory, blood running hot as he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth like he wants to devour you right then and there. "I want you."

His hands search your body making you shudder, swell of your chest pressed to his as he slips his burning hot palms beneath your thighs to hoist you onto the kitchen island, uncaring when the spice rack rattles precariously. His lips never leave yours, tongue sweeping into your mouth in a way that has you panting for more, suddenly desperate to feel his warmth against you without the damn barrier of your leggings between you.

"Wanna take you right here so bad." Seokjin breaks away, eyes glazed over and slipping from your swollen lips momentarily to take in your quivering body, slotting himself between your welcoming legs. "God, you drive me crazy."

His hair tickles your cheek when he lets his face fall into the crook of your neck as if accepting defeat, his self control hanging by a thread in the same way as yours.

"Then take me." It's hushed whisper but it makes Seokjin groan, his hands rubbing flat circles into the tops of your thighs but never getting quite close enough to the ache that pulses between your legs, as though he can't trust himself.

"Don't want you to do something you'll regret." Seokjin sounds pained as he nips at your neck, lips sucking marks into the flesh obscenely while his tongue soothes the burn, your eyes squeezing shut at the sensation.

"I could never regret you." You stammer between quiet whimpers when his teeth attack the sensitive spot behind your ear and in that moment you believe every word. "I promise."

Seokjin leaves one last wet kiss to your jaw. "Open your eyes. Look at me." His hands tremble when they take your face between them and hold your already damp forehead against his. You obey, biting your lip when his own lustful eyes stare into yours with a gentleness. "Promise. You want this — me?"

Your heart throbs. "I promise."

"Then how could I refuse?" With a peck to your lips Seokjin hoists you over his shoulder like you are weightless, blood rushing to your head as you come face to face with his butt.

"Let me down!" You laughed as he carries you through the apartment, pounding your fists against his back playfully. He only tightens his grip, landing a sharp smack to your ass that has you quieting down quickly. "Ow!"

"Don't pretend you didn't like it." His voice is muffled as he lets you down but you can still hear his smirk before he even comes into view. Your back lands on top of a plush mattress, silken sheets a welcome cold against your skin which still burns from Seokjin's touch. You manage to glance around the room briefly, taking in the elegant matching silk drapes and the luxe gold trimmed furniture which makes it feel like a hotel room you probably could not afford.

But then Seokjin is hovering over you again and the way his eyes darken as they rake across your body captures all your attention.

"I wouldn't mind if you did it again." You hum coyly, enjoying the way his pupils dilate as he swallows a groan. Seokjin grips your ankles and lands another slap to the flesh of your ass that has you panting and choking on your own smirk.

"Such a slut, hm?" Your knees fall apart instinctively as he leans over your body, leaving a few lingering kisses across the expanse of your chest that peeks out of the top of your tank top, all while your fingers find the hem of his gym t-shirt. "God I love your ass."

"I'll fuck it myself if you don't hurry up." The way your hips buck up give away your impatience, never quite meeting the painfully visible tent in his crotch and gaining the friction you so desperately search for. Your panties are soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to your dripping folds by now, the heat between your legs pulsing unbearably.

Seokjin chokes at your threat, eyes rolling back as he pictures the image you painted. "F-fuck, I'd love to but maybe another time." Your lithe fingers manage to get his shirt over his shoulders, throwing the garment somewhere behind him and sucking in a gasp when you take in Seokjin's naked torso beneath the warm glow of his bedside lamp, toned and slightly damp with anticipation. "Gotta take care of this cunt first, hm?"

His palm cups your mound obscenely through your leggings and you whine at the first contact you'd received all night, eager to have him touch you without the barrier of your clothing. "P-please." The way you twist your hips needily, trying to grind your throbbing clit against the heel of his palm makes him laugh lightly.

"Sit back, get comfy." He helps you slide up the bed, arranging a selection of tasseled throw cushions behind your head until he's satisfied you are adequately supported, kneeling between your legs to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and press a prolonged peck to your parted lips. "Want this to be good for you."

"It's always good for me." You assure, fingers trailing fleetingly down his chest and feeling him tense above you at the ticklish contact. Seokjin makes quick work of your top, leaving you quickly in just your bra which you graciously save him the trouble of undoing by snapping the clasp open yourself.

The way he gazes in awe at your bare chest makes you self conscious, hands coming to cover the flush that caresses your face until he rolls one of your hardened nipples and lets out a sigh in unison with your own when your hands fall away, unable to focus on anything other than the tingle of Seokjin's touch and your own shallow pants.

"You're so pretty." His words make your chest blossom with warmth and you arch into his touch, air cold against your hard buds until Seokjin takes one of them into the heat of his mouth and reduces you to a gasping mess beneath him.

As soon as he comes up for air you manage to wriggle your hands between your flush bodies, latching on to the waistband of his gym shorts and sliding them down his thighs along with his boxers as soon as you catch his nod of confirmation.

His cock springs free, hard and already leaking against his stomach. Seokjin hisses at the cold air against his length. You wrap your hand around his girth, lidded gaze watching the way his face twists with a pleasurable agony with each flick of your wrist. He's hot and heavy in your palm, impossibly hard and your entrance clenches when his cock pulses against your palm, forcing him to swallow a moan and stop his hips from thrusting into your hand. You are suddenly hyper aware of how empty you are, another bout of lust pooling in your stomach as you anticipate how good he would fill you up, length enough to stretch you out perfectly.

When your palm twists around the angry reddened tip he just about looses his mind, falling forward to grip your shoulder with a bruising grip, uncaring when a few choked groans spill into your ear. You take pride in the way he falls apart so easily until his large palm covers yours and halts your ministrations all together.

"Stop, fuck—" He squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a hiss as he tries to regain his control, length twitching and drooling against your bare stomach. "Nearly came, shit." Seokjin's chest heaves with laboured breaths, cheeks flushed as he grips the base of his length firmly.

"I'm that good huh?" The teasing tone makes his eyes snap up, the scarlet tint to his cheeks deepening.

"No — I mean yes — but mostly I've been imagining this for a while." He seems slightly sheepish and you find it cute, feeling a little pang in your heart when his nose scrunches with shyness at his confession. "Got too worked up too fast."

"Guess you don't want me to suck you off for a bit, then?" You ask almost hopefully, your heat growing ever wetter at the thought of his girth fucking your throat mercilessly.

"There's plenty of time for that, princess." The glint in his eye is the same as the one he had that day in the locker rooms, except this time you trust his words knowing that nothing could stop you coming back for more.

"Guess I'll have to save my skills for another day, then." Seokjin chuckles at the pout that graces your lips, swatting your hand away before it could stroke his length again. "Unless..."

"Brat." The shake of his head is affectionate.

"Don't pretend you don't like it." You echoe his earlier words and he rolls his eyes to your amusement.

"Touché."

He holds your gaze for a little too long, the way his eyes soften at the edges and his lips part cutely too intimate for you to deal with in the moment so you focus on the neglected ache between your legs instead.

You interrupt the moment before you let a piece of your heart flutter straight into his hands. "Hurry up and get inside me, idiot!"

"Okay, okay jeez!" Seokjin raises his hands defensively before he shuffles down the bed, eye level with your crotch.

You can't help the way you arch off the bed as he peels away your leggings, whining shamelessly when your swollen folds finally hit the air.

Soon enough you feel Seokjin's hot breath hovering over your slit, making your clit pulse even more desperately if that were possible. Before he could devour your heat like you wanted him to, you are reminded of his own self control. "'S not fair, is it?" You slur, head spinning with lust as he spreads your lips with his fingers, taking you in completely.

"Not going to eat you out this time, don't worry," The sight of him looking up at you with pleading eyes from between your legs, lips inches away from your clit, is enough to have the coil in your stomach tightening, sure you could cum just from the visual alone. "Just a taste?"

You nod, too breathless to speak, and he runs a flat stripe up your dripping slit, the contact enough to make your legs shake and your head fall back against the cushions. He places a single kiss to your clit which makes you quiver before he climbs back up so you are eye level. "Can't get enough of your pussy," Your breath mingles, his lips glistening with your arousal just inches from yours. "Could taste you forever."

"You can." You whisper.

His tongue traces your bottom lip languidly. You can taste yourself just barely on his lips. "I don't deserve you."

Seokjin supports himself on his forearms, hovering over your body and taking his cock in his palm to line it up with your entrance.

"Ready?" He scans your face for any concerns, any suggestion that you are having second thoughts. Even your small smile and the shameless twists of your hips as you tried to impale yourself on his cock wasn't enough to appease him, apparently. "Promise?"

The tenderness in his voice makes you lose your breath in a mixture of shock and warmth. This has to be a dream. "Promise."

Seokjin's lidded eyes light up and he finds your hand where it tugs on the sheets beside your bodies and carefully interlinks your fingers. The callouses on his fingers, the grooves of his palm and how it slots perfectly into yours is starting to feel familiar. You don't have time to dwell on whether the action was supposed to feel as romantic as it did before he's pushing the tip of his cock against your entrance which clenches with every inch until he bottoms out with a guttural groan of his own.

The slide is slow and languorous, allowing you to feel every ridge of his cock drag against your walls, the stretch burning a little as you tried to accommodate his girth.

"So fucking wet for me, huh?" It's true; you can feel your arousal dripping down your ass, his hips meeting yours with an audible squelch that was testament of his affect on you. You feel his cock twitch inside you, his nose scrunching as he resists slamming into you straight away to allow you to adjust. Instead he focuses on rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs into your hips, taking in your bare form with a fascination. "So fucking pretty underneath me like this."

"All for you." You manage to stutter between hard pants as he snaps his hips back until just the head of his cock remains at your entrance and you whine with the impossible emptiness. "I'm all yours."

"Promise me." It comes out as a command but it's tainted with a softness that makes your cheeks burn with more than just lust.

"I promise. I'm all yours."

That's all it takes to have him slamming back into you, hips meeting yours repeatedly with a loud slap which is almost drowned out by the soft moans that spill from his lips into the crook of your neck. He's more vocal than you were expecting and it drives you crazy.

"Fuck, I'm close." His breath hitches at your words, tongue snaking out to wet his lips as he shudders closer to his high. With a pained expression he pauses mid thrust, head barely inside you as he searches your face for answers with desperate eyes. "Where can I—"

"Inside me." You buck your hips, whimpering when he slides back into you to the hilt as if he can't help it. "Wanna feel you fill me up."

"Shit, okay." He stutters as your fingers move the bangs stuck to his sweaty forehead, his neck and shoulders glistening slightly in the deep glow of the room. "God, you're so tight."

By now you are clenching around him wildly, the heat between your legs getting hotter with every drag of his cock against your velvety walls. With his next thrust he hits your sweet spot deliciously, the mewl that leaves you alerting him of the fact and he watches with a dark amusement as your eyes roll back and you lose yourself to the feeling.

"Mmf — g-gonna cum." Seokjin's thumb rubs circles into your throbbing clit in time with his thrusts and the pressure is enough to have you falling over the edge, vision fading to black as Seokjin fucks you through your high.

"That's it, cum for me baby," He coaxes, thrusts turning sloppy as you feel him release inside you, the feeling of him coating your now sensitive walls almost too much. "S-shit."

You don't realise your eyes are squeezed shut until Seokjin's palm cups your chin, his face a picture of pure bliss when your lashes finally flutter open. There's barely any distance between your noses, his breath lightly tickling your parted lips and you're sure he can hear your heart thumping against your rib cage, loud in your ears as he closes the distance between you in a lazy kiss that feels indescribably intimate with him softening inside you.

"I don't deserve you." He says again, voice croaky this time. "You could do better than me."

"Shut up," His cheek presses to your chest, warm against your clammy skin. "Don't be silly."

"There's something I need to tell you..." He begins, cut off when you sit upright abruptly, eyes wide. "It's nothing bad. Well, it might be depends on how you respond. It's just that day on the lake, when I saw how Taehyung looked at you, and when I thought I lost you, it made me realise that I'm—"

"No, not that." You begin feeling around for your underwear. "I think the pasta boiled over!"

"Oh shit!" He joins your search for clothes, rolling onto his back beside you, though you don't miss the frown that appeared on his face. "Guess I can wait a little longer."

#bts smut #bts #seokjin smut #ksmutclub #smutcentralnet #seokjin fluff #seokjin imagine #seokjin fanfic #bts fanfic #btswriterscollective #btsguild #kwordsmiths #bangtanarmynet #thebtsclub #my writing #fic: better with you

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duesternis · 3 years

Note

hello can i have some andrei and pierre sneaking off during a party together...perhaps pierre challenges andrei to a race...perhaps the end up in an empty hallway breathless and laughing...perhaps andrei smiles the way he does only at pierre...you know 😉

this got way out of hand, so you shall find it under the cut, my dear!

The room was full with mingling people, laughter stirring the chandeliers, making the champagne in the crystal glasses ring out and Andrei was nursing a headache on the edge of a group of acquaintances, only vaguely aware of what they were saying. And then there was a hand on his elbow. He closed his eyes, prepared for Lisa’s clear voice to slice deep into the discomfort of the growing headache. “Andrei, are you quite well?” Pierre.

He looked at his friend, at the nervous litle smile, the concerned knit of his brows and couldn’t help the smile in return. “Pierre,” he said, turning them away from the talking group, to discourage anyone else engaging them. “You look pale.” Pierre’s hand was still on his elbow, warm, even through all the layers, and Andrei studied it for a moment. Squarer nails than Lisa, bigger in size than hers, but not as much as Andrei would have guessed outright. A faint dusting of hair on the knuckles, a good few shades lighter than Pierre’s sorry mop. He covered it with his own hand and then they let go together. “Thank you, Pierre. Nursing a headache, that is all.”

With a quiet hiss expressing pure sympathy Pierre relieved Andrei of his champagne, finishing the glass and handing it off to a valet. “I think some quiet would be better for you, than all this noise. I know a place.” “Pierre,” tried Andrei to stop his friend, but Pierre looked at him over his shoulder, glasses slipped down on his nose, and Andrei was powerless against that imploring gaze. With a rueful smile he followed. Lisa tried to catch his eye as they passed by her and some friends, but Andrei pretended not to have seen her. The pang of guilt was easily smoothed over, when Pierre held the doors for him. “Thank you. Where are you taking me?” “Just a bit further, Andrei, trust me?” Andrei nodded. Head tilted slightly towards Pierre, teeth pressing against his lip as he smiled. Together they walked down the dimly lit hallways until the noise from the soiree was far behind them. Until even the dim lighting was long past them, and only the moonlight streamed through the high windows. Withe every step Andrei took in the quiet, at Pierre’s side, the hard knot in the back of his mind dissolved, until his headache was nothing but a memory, a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. Occasionally their sleeves brushed as they walked and Andrei smiled into the dark.

“Here,” said Pierre after they turned a corner. A long hallway stretched out before them, doors to their right, windows to their left. Moonlight painted it grey in grey and Andrei half turned to Pierre with raised brows. Pierre smiled, taking his glasses off. He slipped them into the inner pocket of his coat and then pointed at the end of the hallway. “Race me? Whoever reaches that end first may ask one thing of the loser.” Oh, a game. “And that is supposed to aide my headache?” “Does it still hurt you so much?” Pierre’s hand on his elbow again, brows in a worried arch and Andrei shook his head, one hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “Not that much now, no. A race should be fine. Don’t cry if you lose, Pierre.” Pierre laughed and then squared his shoulders, turning to face the end of the hallway. “On three?” “On three,” agreed Andrei and together they counted down. Pierre pushed off on the three and Andrei grabbed his flying coat tails to pull him back a half step, overtaking him.

A burst of laughter, Pierre complained and then shoved Andrei towards the next door, gaining the lead. Andrei laughed again, unable to keep his wits about him. He felt like a boy again. Maybe even more carefree than he had ever felt as a boy. Pierre looked at him over his shoulder, not slowing in his barreling towards the end of the hallway. Andrei pushed off the wall and really leaned into it now. His boots slid on the polished floor, but Pierre fared no better. Andrei had the advantage of longer legs and caught up with Pierre, much to Pierre’s misery. Pierre grabbed for Andrei’s sleeve, missed, and caught the tail of his coat, doing his utmost to stop Andrei in his tracks. With a laugh he shrugged out of his coat and pushed on, all but tumbling against the solid wall at the end of the hallway.

Turned and doubled over with laughter. Pierre stood where Andrei had shrugged his coat off, holding it in his hands like a puppy bereft of his playmate. “Oh, Pierre!” Andrei wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and stood, opening his arms to his friend. Pierre lifted his shoulders in a little laugh, dropped the coat, and then jogged the rest of the way, embracing Andrei. They were both warm from their run, the laughter bubbling under their skin. Andrei turned his face against Pierre’s head, letting Pierre’s hair tickle his nose. After a long moment they both leaned out of the embrace, hands still on their shoulders. Andrei felt like the smile on his face was permanent now, and was wholly unused to the idea. His cheeks would be sore, come morning. “So, Andrei, what is it you have to ask of me?” Pierre sounded so grandly wounded, so honorable in his defeat, that Andrei couldn’t help but laugh again. He took Pierre’s dear face in both hands and smiled at him. “Nothing but a kiss.”

Pierre’s cheeks flushed with warmth under Andrei’s hands, the moonlight making his eyes shine like mother of pearl. “You needn’t ask for that, Andrei.” Oh, what bliss! Oh, what pain! Andrei smiled, heart close to breaking in his chest, and kissed Pierre’s parted lips. Chastely, like friends kissed. Like he kissed his wife.

With a sharp intake of breath Andrei tilted Pierre’s face in his hands and abandoned all hope. Touched his tongue to Pierre’s lips, to the tip of his tongue just beyond his teeth. Pierre’s hands clawed at this shirt and the moonlight flooded the hallway. Like something from a dream, like something from a fairytale.

#ask game #azzy talks #war and peace #war and peace fanfiction #andrei bolkonsky #pierre bezukhov #bezukonsky #my writing #my fanfic #my fanfiction #I LOVE THEM YOUR HONOUR #it shows in the sheer length of this lol #FAYE THANK YOUUUUUU FOR LETTING ME WRITE THIS

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kova-killian · 3 years

Text

Lady of Light episode 3

Just at sunrise Thallan tries waking her. Her eyes flutter open, greeted by an understanding smile as he brushes her hair off her forehead with his armored hand, "I'm sorry, we have to keep on schedule." He holds a fresh bread pocket full of sausage and potatoes out to her.

"I didn't realize I was so tired."

"That's alright, Pierre had to wake me too. I'm ready to be home." He chuckles to himself.

"After four years away, I don't blame you." She smiles, taking the bread from him.

Thallan pulls a bag of feed over and dumps some out for Alrune before sitting in front of Axelia, "he's patient with you, he's been awake for a couple hours already." Axelia looks at him with her cheeks full of food making him laugh at her.

She swallows hard and frowns, "be quiet, I'm starving!" She wipes the corners of her mouth with her sleeve.

"I've only ever seen you at the events your family held where you never ate and always left early."

"Oh. . . That's right. You know I never saw your face before the wedding? Only the tattoos on your hand."

He narrows his eyes with a smirk, "I noticed you, often actually."

"I noticed you, but you were always turned away from me."

He smiles to himself and grabs his horse's saddle as she devours the bread pocket. Once finished, she stands up and dusts herself off as Alrune pushes himself off the ground. Axelia pats the dust from his side and hoists the saddle onto his back but one of the straps folds underneath. Thallan presses against her back as he reaches over her head. He really wasn’t much taller, he had to stand on his tiptoes to reach over her. She’s smaller than an eagles wingspan, he seems to be just about the same size as a full grown eagles wings, wearing heels would probably make them just about the same height.

She freezes, her cheeks burning as she feels the warmth of his skin from a break between the chest plate and plackart pieces of his armor against her. He flips the strap and the blanket out from under the saddle and runs his hand along her arm as he walks back to his horse.

Alrune huffs and his ears perk up at her changed demeanor, “shut up.” she grumbles at him before tightening the straps around him.

Alrune reaches around and playfully pulls her hair loose from her braid, “oh you ass.” she nuzzles her face against his.

She turns around to grab her daggers and sword but is suddenly covered by her cloak. Alrune playfully whinnies and pounds his massive hooves into the dirt. She quickly uncovers herself and whips around. “Stop it you overgrown foal,” she scrunches up her face as the knights around her chuckle.

She situates her weapons on the saddle and sticks her foot in one of the stirrups before kicking her other leg over.

“Well I guess you can mount him without him bowing,” Pierre pokes fun.

Axelia smiles as they all travel down the path. Again she rides behind Thallan with knights on all sides of her now. The only woman in a sea of noble knights who fought alongside her father. She sighs as she takes in the dense forest around them. It wasn't as eerie as it was last night but very little sun filters through the leaves.

The rest of the day was much of the same, dense trees and very little sun. Again they stop but there is no silver protecting them from the Werewolves that hunt in the dark. Drest and Thallan house the horses in an old barn and the knight's light fires to keep warm. Axelia wraps her cloak around her and curls into herself unable to get warm, even near the fire.

Thallan grabs two stones nearby and tosses them near the fire as he sits next to her. “It's only going to get colder. Hopefully when we get to Pulet in a couple days I can find something warmer for you.” his face drops when she tries hiding her shivers from him. “Come here.” he grabs her arm and pulls her into his lap.

“I’m fine.” she tries pulling away from him.

“Sit still a minute.” he grumbles, pulling off his armor and setting it in a pile next to them. She does as she's asked and nervously sits watching the knights trying to avoid looking at them.

“Thallan. . . you don’t. . .” she stammers.

“You're cold. I don't want you getting sick, we aren't even half way.” he grabs the warmed rocks and pulls his cloak around both of them as she continues to shiver for a few moments, until the warmth from the rocks fills up the space under the cloak. “Are you always this cold?” he gently touches her hands.

She smiles, “my hands are always cold, yes.”

Thallan leans against a rock and pulls her to lean against him. She sits rigid until exhaustion forces her eyes closed before supper is ready. As she sleeps, the sound of running footsteps and loud crashes invade her dreams until Thallan throws himself on top of her as a large tree smashes over the rock they were laying against.

Her heart slams into her chest as Thallan whips around with his sword drawn, “what's attacking us!” he yells to the scrambling knights.

“I can't see anything!” Pierre howls from the darkness around their camp.

Shit, all my weapons are with Alrune.

A dark silhouette looms in the darkened trees, “Above you Thallan!” she yells.

“Giants!” he alerts the others.

She scrambles to her feet and runs to the old barn where all the horses anxiously stamp their feet. She freezes as the ground rumbles around her and the hand of a giant appears above the barn's roof. She quietly unclips the old stalls and opens the doors.

“Axelia!” Thallan’s voice carries down the hill.

“Make sure everyone gets to the farm, I'll go find her!” Drest yells.

Just as she gets the last stall door open and the horses run free, the giant swings his massive hand taking the roof clean off. Axelia crouches down and covers her neck as wood and hay rain down on her until Drest roughly grabs her and flings her out in front of him as all the horses sprint away towards their yelling knights.

She tries keeping up with his pace but falls behind, it's been a while since she was out like this even if she had just run away from the castle. The darkness of the forest envelops Drest right before her eyes.

I don't know where I'm going.

The sound of pounding hooves approaches from behind her, Alrune nudges her as he slows down enough for her to grab his halter. Dashing off again she throws her legs over his saddle as he gallops as fast as possible out to the clearing where Thallan anxiously paces, watching the road back into the forest.

He’s actually worried about me?

His anxiety leaves his tense shoulders as he spots her. She pulls Alrunes reins and Thallan effortlessly grabs the halter and throws himself into the saddle behind her.

“We have to ride for a while before the farm, hold tight,” he wraps one of his arms around her as the other knights group around them.

“What about all of your armor and your horse?” she asks, seeing all the knights in just their tunics and black cotton pants.

“Most of it was crushed by the giants, mine was scattered into the forest when that tree came at us,” he shakes his head. “Frost will follow, I want to make sure you get there safely.”

“Isn’t armor hard to come by?”

“We all needed new armor anyway,” he chuckles.

Late into the night, a large farm appears near the river. They all ride up to the farm house and Drest hesitantly knocks on the front door.

“Do you have any idea what time it is!” an angry man answers the door, “knights. . . the dragon slayers and the rogue killers. What are you doin’ here?”

“The giants are on the move.” Drest sighs.

“Well, the back house has plenty of space for all of you. No workers here at the moment.” The man looks around at all the knights, “don’t know if my wife would appreciate me not at least offering a room in here for the young miss.”

“It’s alright, I don't want to disturb anyone already asleep.” Axelia smiles at him.

“Are you Duchess Demonne? You gotta be!” he rushes towards her and Thallan, “you are! You’re the reason this farm isn’t abandoned.”

“I. . . think you mean my sister or step mother.”

“No you. Axelia Aruna Demonne, right?”

“Yes. . .” she furrows her brow.

“At the beginning of the war, my wife and daughters traveled to Castle Luvon because I had been in an accident. You granted us money to hire help for harvest,” he excitedly explains. “Now I insist that you and your. . . suitor? stay inside.” He smiles

“Husband,” her voice catches, “and I couldn't bother you. I’ll stay in the back house.”

“Oh bless the stars, you are far too humble for a noblewoman.” he holds his hand out to her helping her down off Alrune. “Are you traveling back to his land? Is that why you're this far from the castle?” He quickly grabs Thallan’s wrist as well as hers and begins pulling them inside.

Thallan uncomfortably looks back at Drest and the rest of the knights as they all conceal their laughter. He quickly pulls them up the stairs while he continues talking and to an empty room at the end of the hall. Axelia looks at Thallan just as confused as he is as the farmer closes the bedroom door.

“What just happened?” Thallan raises an eyebrow with wide eyes.

“I. . . didn't realize people would act like that. I didn't think I did all that much while my father was gone.” she furrows her brow.

Axelia nervously sits on the bed as Thallan leans against the wall by the door, looking at her and then at the ground. Then suddenly he walks over to her and cups her face in his hands as his eyes dart around her face. She looks at him confused for a second before he attacks her with nervous kisses. But just as quick as he started, he stopped.

“I'm sorry. . .” he breathlessly backs away from her, “I’ll sleep in the chair. Try to rest a little.”

“Wait. . .” she grabs his tunic, making him freeze. He slowly turns towards her. “I’m. . . cold.”

He softly smiles and climbs into bed behind her pulling her into him, she lays there nervously for a few minutes until his steady deep breath softly moves the hair on her neck. The next morning the sound of a lively kitchen wakes her. She squints against the sun through the green and white curtains and closes her eyes again until she realizes she is facing Thallan. She quickly scoots away from him, making him raise his eyebrow.

“You moved, why?” he slightly opens his eyes, his voice still tired.

“Everyone is awake. . .” she nervously says.

He scowls, “it's morning already. . .”

"Come on, you lump." She playfully pushes his shoulder.

"Lump!" He laughs at her, "Pulet is Drest's estate so we'll stay there a couple days before heading off to Honeyport."

"Is Pulet as big of a city as I've been told?"

"It's a large trading city in the middle of Castle Luvon, the capital and my city."

"Oh. . . I didn't realize it was the main hub."

Everything is changing so fast. . .

He smiles at her, "we better get downstairs."

"Fine." She half smiles.

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. . . I just feel heavy."

Thallan furrows his brows, "You're leaving the only home you've known. Even if Cordelia and your half siblings ruined it for you, it was still your home."

"I'm more sad about leaving because it was the last place I saw father."

Thallan’s soft expression turns sad as she sits on the edge of the bed with her hands clasped in her lap.

He sits behind her, wrapping his arms around her, “your father loved you. . .”

“I know.” her cheeks burn as she fights back tears.

He quickly gets off the bed and cups her face in his hands, “please don't cry.” he kisses her forehead.

“Did he die the way the letter said?” She refuses to look at him.

“I never wrote a letter. . .” he tilts his head trying to get her to look at him, “Axelia, I never wrote a letter about your father dying. I sent a rider.”

Please be lying.

“Show me your hand writing.” She finally looks at him.

He looks at her confused for a second until he gets up and grabs a piece of parchment off the dresser and an inkpot. He scribbles something down and hands it to her.

“Cordelia. . . that conniving. . .” Axelia crumples the paper as her hands shake with rage. “Fucking conniving slimy bitch!” she snaps startling Thallan.

“So you don't know?”

“All I know is what Cordelia forged in that fake letter.”

Thallans jaw tightens, “what did it say?”

“That father died from the cold.”

“Luvon? A skilled hunter and knight killed by snow?” he looks at her stunned, “Your father died because the rogue king tried sending hired hands to kidnap you and he fought them off before they could get through the pass.”

“I. . .” Axelia clenches her fists, but then someone knocks on the door.

“Thallan you lazy ass, let's get going so we’re at least halfway to Pulet by nightfall.”

“Be quiet Pierre, we’re up,” he snaps at the door and then looks at Axelia still vibrating with rage, “you’re with me now, and you're safe from her lies.” he touches her hands.

“Have you known Pierre for a long time?” she asks, trying to calm herself down.

“Since we were young squires,” he smiles.

“May I ask how a boy from a fishing village turned knight was able to become the lord of Honeyport?”

Realizing she was trying to distract herself he humors her, “my father was mayor before the attacks but once I was knighted I went and raided monster lairs.” he says pulling on his boots.

“Ah.” she nods lacing up hers.

He furrows his brow, “Why that reaction?”

“No reason,” she smiles.

She walks out of the door before him and down the stairs to the bustling kitchen full of knights and the farmers family. The second she steps foot through the doors, the farmer's wife adorned in a sweet pink ruffly apron covered in embroidered flowers she must have let her daughters do when they were young, rushes up to her and throws her arms around her.

“Duchess Axelia, I almost didn't believe my husband when he said you were here!” she cup Axelia’s face and then pats her cheek, “you look hungry.”

Axelia can't help but smile as the farmer's wife scurries off to get her a plate of breakfast.

“My lady, come sit here.” Drest stands from his seat at the table.

The farmer’s wife places a plate piled high and then scowls out the window, “there goes that Clydesdale again.” she grumbles, “he’s been agitated all morning.”

“Alrune is a bit protective of our lady here,” Drest chuckles.

“He’s yours?” the wife turns around shocked.

Axelia sheepishly smiles with a mouth full of a biscuit smothered in honey butter, “yeah. . . he’s a bit of a pain but I love him and he protects me.”

The farmer scoffs, “I told ya he was her’s.”

“Oh shut up.” the wife waves him off.

Axelia smiles and then Thallan catches her eyes as he enters the kitchen.

Will our relationship ever be like that? Or did he do this just for father?

Thallan grabs a biscuit and a patty of sausage before heading outside to get away from the noise. Axelia furrows her brow and looks at her plate piled high.

“Don't worry about him, he does this when we’re all confined to a small area.” Pierre smiles at her.

“Does he not like being around his brother knights?” She tilts her head.

“He’s a bit of a. . . what's the word?”

“An ass, that's what.” Drest chimes in cackling.

“No, he just likes his time alone.” Pierre says as Axelia looks out towards the front door again.

She picks up her plate and slides between all the knights before finally getting to the front hallway and then the porch where Thallan sits petting one of the barn kittens.

Axelia places the plate of food next to him and dangles her feet over the side, “I know for damn sure that biscuit did not fill you up.”

“I feel guilty is all.” he half smiles not looking at her.

“Over me not knowing what happened to father?” she nudges him, “it's not your fault, you sent a rider like you were supposed to. It's Cordelia’s fault I didn't know.”

“When you didn't come to the battlefield to collect him I should have sent another until you knew.”

“Oh stop it. I know now. No need to feel guilty over something that happened four years ago.” Axelia sighs. Picking up the plate again she places it in his lap, “we’ll share.” she smiles.

He smiles at her and hands her something to eat every few bites he takes before the rest of the knights come outside, ready to head off.

“I have new armor being made for all of us in Pulet, we need to ride quickly before some sort of creature attacks us.” Drest nods at them before heading towards the barn.

“That fast?” Axelia furrows her brows.

“He sent a falcon the second we stopped.” Thallan stands up and hands the plate back to the farmer's wife before helping Axelia to her feet.

“Thank you for allowing us to stay here,” Axelia smiles at the farmer and his family as Thallan disappears to the barn.

“So humble for a noble lady,” he winks at her.

The wife elbows the farmer and then smiles at axelia, “It was no trouble my lady, anything for you. You kept us afloat when we needed it.”

Axelia sighs, "I'm sorry my step mother is in charge now. I wish it were me. . .I know she won't help many people."

"We'll come all the way to Faekran Manor if we need you my lady."

Thallan stands below the porch with Alrune and his own horse, "Come on, we need to ride before it gets too late," He smiles.

Axelia thanks the farmer again and situates herself in Alrune’s saddle before they head off down the road. The trees become scarce, only low lying shrubs and small rolling hills line the road now.

"So boring!" A young knight squirms in his saddle a few hours down the road.

"Quiet down, there's rock ogres out here," Pierre snaps.

"Yes sir. . ." He mumbles.

As the sun sets and the shadows of the mountains wash over the hills, Thallan backs from the front of the group to ride next to Axelia, but says nothing.

"Thallan?" She furrows her brow at him.

"There's more than just rock ogres out here." He whispers and places a finger to his lips telling her to be quiet.

"What's out here?" She asks.

"I'm not sure but I feel it." He glances at her and then to the hills behind her.

They ride through the hills at the base of the claw tooth mountains in silence listening for anything. The caravan moves even more silently than before as the echoes of rocks falling wash over them.

“How much longer. . .” the young knight from before grumbles.

“We have to get out of the hills,” Thallan hisses.

“That's going to take all night.”

The sound of stone against stone charges towards them. The rock Ogres are awake.

#writeblr #writers #fantasy #forced marriage #romance #writing wip

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zebrabaker · 4 years

Text

The Mermaid, A MLB Oneshot

THIS IS A ONESHOT, DO NOT ASK FOR MORE!

Adrien was bored. He was in yet another lesson, and his father was expecting him to spend time with Princess Chloe later. Better her than Princess Lila, at least. Finally, Madame Mendelieve closed her book, and headed for the door. Adrien sat still until she was gone, before jumping up out of his seat. He stretched his back and ran for the door that lead to the servant’s passages. He ran along the narrow, winding paths, before reaching the small courtyard where his best friend, Nino, was practicing his guitar.

“Hey man! How were lessons?” Nino adjusted his hat and looked up at him, smiling. This was why Adrien liked Nino. He didn’t treat him like a prince, but like a friend. It was refreshing.

“Boring as ever.” Adrien huffed, and joined his friend in the bench.

“Well I have some good news! Captain Theo has brought back something awesome from his latest trip! You’ll never guess what it is.” Nino smirked and plucked a string.

“What? Another treasure chest?” Adrien scoffed.

“Nope. An actual mermaid!” Adrien froze. A mermaid? No way.

“Be realistic, Nino. Mermaids are just myths.”

“No! I saw this one myself! We can go see it tomorrow morning, I’ll set it up. It’s gonna be so cool!” Nino bounced, excited.

“Alright, alright. For now, let’s head in; it’s almost time for lunch.” Adrien gave Nino a hand up, and the two reentered the palace

X0X0X

Marinette swam back, assessing the glass that held her. She flicked her tail as she thought, before nodding. She angled her shoulders, braced her arms, and slashed her tail down. Her body jetted through the water, and she rammed against the glass and bounced off. With a growl, she watched the glass. Nothing. She had rammed the glass dozens of times and nothing had happened! A weak chuckle came from the outside of her tank, and she glared at the human leaning against the wall across from her enclosure.

“That won’t work, little fish. The glass is bulletproof. No matter how many times you ram into it, it won’t even crack. You may as well rest. The prince will be here to see you in the morning.” He smirked at her before strolling away. She had to get home. She couldn’t stay here! Without her, the sea would die! She swam back, assessed the glass, and readied herself again.

X0X0X

Adrien followed Nino deep into the basement of the palace. They weren’t near the old dungeons, but he still felt uneasy.

“How much further?” He hissed to Nino.

“Just through here. C’mon!” Nino grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the doorway into a dark room. Nino flipped the lights on, and Adrien glanced around. One wall was glass, and looked like an aquarium. The bottom of the tank was coated in sand, with pearls of various sizes and colors scattered about. There were a few strands of seaweed swaying in the water, and the largest clam shell he had ever seen was sitting open in the center. It looked like it could host a mermaid, but that was just it. There was no mermaid. Adrien turned to Nino and sighed.

“I told you, Nino, mermai- “Adrien was cut off when he heard a large thunk from the other side of the glass. He wheeled about, and felt his jaw drop.

Floating on the other side of the glass was an honest to god mermaid. Her hair was black, and her tail a vivid pink, almost red. Her eyes, which glared hatefully at him, were a shimmering blue. Her skin was paler than a pearl, and she had a splattering of freckles. She pounded a fist against the glass, and he realized she had been making odd sounds at them.

“Whoa. She’s…” Adrien trailed off, unsure of what to say. Lovely did not fit, nor did beautiful. She was flawless.

“Creepy? Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty and all that, but something about it just sets me on edge.” Nino shuddered. Adrien glanced at his friend, confused. She was not creepy! She was the most perfect thing he had ever seen. He glanced back at her and sighed. She was swimming away now, tail slashing through the water.

“Where is she going?” He asked Nino.

“It keeps trying to break the glass. It won’t work, though. The glass is bullet proof.” Nino knocked against the glass, smirking. “Just think, the kingdom of Agreste has it’s own personal mermaid. I hear that their singing can convince men to throw themselves overboard. Wanna see if it’ll sing for us?” Nino pulled his guitar from his back, and strummed a cord. Suddenly, the mermaid was there, face and hands pressed up against the glass. She was staring at Nino with her pupils blown wide. He continued to play, a small shanty he had learned from the sailors down by the docks, and the mermaid began to hum.

X0X0X

Marinette would never admit, but she loved human music. They could not sing, not like her people, so they had made things to do it for them. The darker human was using one right now, pulling at strings and watching her. She began to hum, wanting him to play more. When he did not stop, when she began to sing in her mother tongue.

“Oh, the waves roll low

And the waves roll high,

And so, it goes,

Under a bright blue endless sky.

Waves try to measure,

The days that we treasure,

Wave hello and wave goodbye.”

It was an ancient lullaby, one that every merfolk heard from their parents at some point as a baby. The humans were staring at her, wide eyed. The pale one hit the darker one on the arm, and said something she could not hear. The darker one gulped and began to play again. Marinette beamed and quickly thought of another lullaby, one Queen Anarka had taught her the last time she and her children had come to visit.

“Hush now, mo stoirin,

Close your eyes and sleep.

Waltzing the waves,

Diving the deep.

Stars are shining bright,

The wind is on the rise.

Whispering words, of long-lost lullabies.

Oh, won’t you come with me?

Where the moon is made of gold.

And in the morning sun,

We’ll be sailing.

Oh, won’t you come with me?

Where the ocean meets the sky.

And as the clouds roll by,

We’ll sing the song of the sea.”

Marinette held the last note, and sighed when it was done. She loved that song. It sounded better when her friends acted as her chorus, but it was okay on her own. The door opened behind the two humans, and let in the one who had caught her. He was tall and had dark hair, wearing a great deal of dark fabric. The two smaller humans spoke with him, before leaving with him. Marinette sighed. She hated being alone. Merfolk were social creatures, almost always together. Worst of all was that the small space she was kept in was dark, with no lava pockets or glow fish to give her heat and light. She shivered, and swam into the seaweed patch. Her family would get her out of here soon.

X0X0X

They returned the next day, the pale one and the dark one. This, time, neither carried an instrument. Instead, the sat and stared at her. The pale one began to sing, and the dark one reluctantly joined him. Marinette recognized the song. It was a love song! How dare this puny human try to woo her! She glared and sat down inside the large clam shell, turning her back. She was engaged, as any merfolk with eyes could tell. Of course, human’s might not be able to, but she still would not sing with them. She sat with her back turned until they left. She would be out of here soon enough.

X0X0X

Adrien burst into Nino’s room, beaming.

“Whoa, Adrien! Is everything okay, dude?” Nino stood from his bed, setting aside his headphones.

“I just had the best idea, Nino! A festival! We call for the most talented musicians in the land, and we have them perform with her! We can move her cage into the square! It’ll be great!” Adrien was bouncing in place.

“That’s a great idea, dude! We’ll have to ask Captain Theo, since he’s the one who caught it though.” Nino grabbed his headphones and headed for the door. “Let’s go ask!”

X0X0X

He had said yes, and preparations began at once. Adrien commissioned a large tank, big enough that she could swim around. Nino began sending invites to the best musicians in all of Agreste. Soon, the big day came. The tank was placed in the square, and the mermaid had been moved while she slept. She had woken up dazed and confused, swimming about and looking out at the square. She had caught sight of the water on the other end of the square, and had been staring at it ever since.

X0X0X

She knew humans were foolish, but this was extreme. She was within just a few yards of the ocean; she could hear it calling out for her! She hummed, low in the back of her throat, and waited. After just a few minutes, she heard the reply.

“We cannot reach you, princess! You are too far! Try to move closer!” It was Sir Pierre, head of the guard. She looked around, frantic. She was so close! She just had to move this tank! She rammed her shoulder against the side, and growled when nothing happened. She tried, again and again, to move closer, but all she did was slosh water over the edge of her tank.

“I can’t! The cage I am in is too heavy! I will distract the humans while you look for a way to get me out!” Marinette swept around the cage, looking at all the humans staring at her. She saw several in a line, each holding an instrument. The pale one who visited her was standing on a platform, facing the crowd. He began to speak, and one of the humans in line stepped forward. Two others came over and quickly assembled a device next to her tank. Once the machine was all together, he smirked at the crowd before pushing several buttons. The machine began to emit horrible sounds, but the humans seemed to enjoy it. She slammed her hands over her ears, and shook her head, trying to block out the noise. It sounded like the machine was trying to make music, but was failing. Horribly. It was dull and lifeless, lacking soul. After a few seconds of this torture, the pale one spoke again. The one controlling the machine yelled at him, before stomping off. The two humans form before disassembled the machine, and another human stepped forward. This one had vivid hair and dramatic clothes. It strummed at it’s guitar, and began to sing.

“Record scratch; Steve Miller Band, Tattooed necks and tattooed hands. Oh, how don’t you drown in a rain storm? Fresh regrets, vodka sweats, the sun is down and we’re bound to get exhausted and so far from the shore.” Marinette trilled when the human began the song. She knew this one from a few fishing boats playing it while they were working! She gladly joined in, shimmying her tail to the beat.

“You’re never gonna get it, I’m a hazard to myself, I’ll break it to you easy This is hell, this is hell! You’re looking and whispering; you think I’m someone else. This is hell, yes. Literal hell!” She struggled to form the words, as she did not speak the human tongue. “We don’t have to talk, we don’t have to dance, we don’t have to smile, we don’t have to make friends. It’s so nice to meet you, let’s never meet again! We don’t have to talk; we don’t have to dance; we don’t have to dance!” By the end of the song, Marinette was panting, and had almost been distracted from why she was doing this. A few other artists tried to get her to sing, but only one succeeded, a small girl with a violin. After her refusal of another artist, she saw a flash of teal out of the corner of her eye. She twirled in her tank, pretending to be jubilant, but really trying to make sure she hadn’t just imagined what she saw. There he was, hiding in a corner! He winked at her and she couldn’t help but trill.

The pale one was smiling at her, like she was a sea-lion who had just done some cute trick. How ridiculous. Another human came up to him, with long hair the same color as the pale ones. She wore a dress that trailed behind her, and sneered at Marinette. The pale one smiled at her, and the female said something to him. He nodded, and she approached the tank. She snapped her fingers, and a red-haired human approached, carrying a stool. The blonde sat, and began to sing. Marinette slammed her hands over her ear frills and whined. The girl couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket! The blonde snarled, and slammed a hand against the tank, causing ripples in the water that disoriented Marinette. She shook her head, trying to think clearly. The blonde stormed off, and the pale one addressed the crowd before chasing after her.

X0X0X

This was not going how he had planned! The mermaid was supposed to sing with all of the best musicians Agreste had to offer. Instead, she had sung with Jagged Stone and no-one else. He had finally decided to let the commoners try, but only a small girl with a violin managed to get the mermaid to perform. He had panicked, and turned it into a contest. Chloe had then decreed that she could easily make the creature perform, and had begun singing a song from her homeland. The mermaid acted as if she was in physical pain, and Chloe had thrown a fit before storming off. He had told the audience they were going to give the mermaid a break, and chased after her. It had taken half an hour to calm her down and drag her back. By the time he had gotten back onstage, most of the crowd had left, with only a few bored teens still gathered around the tank.

“Your Highness, may I try?” A tall boy with hair that faded to teal at the tips was standing by the stage, gazing up at Adrien hopefully.

“You can try, but there’s no guarantee she’ll respond.” Adrien shrugged. This boy didn’t even have an instrument that he could tell, but it couldn’t hurt. The boy nodded, and headed for the tank, where the mermaid was watching him approach. The boy sat on the stool Chloe had abandoned and smiled at the mermaid.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, lavender’s green. When I am King dilly, dilly, you shall be queen.” The mermaid beamed and twisted about as if twirling.

“Who told you so, dilly, dilly, who told you so?” The mermaid sung back, not in the stilted words of before, but flowing and smooth. There was a challenging look in her eye, one that was matched by that in the boys.

“T’was my own heart, dilly, dilly, that told me so.” He shot back, smiling. The two began to sing in unison, and it entrapped Adrien, making him unable to look away.

“Call up your men, dilly, dilly, set them to work. Some to the plow, dilly, dilly, some to the fork. Some to make hay, dilly, dilly, some to cut corn, while you and I, dilly, dilly, keep our selves warm. Lavender’s green, dilly, dilly, lavender’s blue, if you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you.”

“Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, and the lambs play. We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, out of harm’s way.” The mermaid took over, placing one of her hands flat against the glass, while the other was fisted over her heart. “I like to dance, dilly, dilly, I like to sing. When I am queen, dilly, dilly, you’ll be my king. Who told me so, dilly, dilly, who told me so? I told myself so, dilly, dilly, I told me so.” She pulled out the last note, and Adrien was shocked to see the usually hateful mermaid, smile tenderly at the blue-haired boy. Then, there was a crash from behind him. Adrien wheeled around, trying to find the source, only to see a broken vase laying in the road.

By the time he turned back around, the blue-haired boy had thrown something into the tank. The mermaid grabbed it, and leapt out of the tank, flinging it about her shoulders. She landed not as a girl with the tail of a fish, but a seal. The boy scooped the seal into his arms, and ran for the water. He tossed the animal in, before turning to face Adrien.

“Take her again and we will sink your nation like we did Atlantis!” He bellowed, before diving into the water. Adrien ran to the edge of the dock, and waited, frantic. The boy was human, he would need to breathe eventually. He stood, frantically searching the water, before he saw them. The two were holding each other tight, wrapped in each-others arms. She was back to being a mermaid, her tail flicking just below the surface. When the young prince finally dragged his gaze to the boy, he was shocked. He now had a tail, longer than hers, that shimmered green and teal. The two were speaking in a language he did not understand, but from the way his hands cupped her cheeks it was a private moment. The mermaid flashed him a furious glare, before diving into the ocean.

“What just happened?” He asked.

“Dude.” Nino muttered. “I think your pet just ran away.

#mermaid Marinette #mermaid au #lukanette #one sided adrinette #please like this #my writing

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slothgiirl · 4 years

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gonna put you off (alex turner oneshot)

alex turner/age difference!reader oneshot in which you are visiting your boyfriend in london from the midlands

You take the last train of the night down to london. Traces of stage makeup still clinging to your skin as you collapse into the seat, a few days clothes tucked into a duffle bag with the tackiest floral print you'd though was chic when you'd seen it at a thrift shop, but had been on many flights with you since, sticking out among a sea of black and navy. As the clock strikes eleven, feeling very much like cinderella as you wipe the remains of the makeup away, the train whizzes past dark countryside, too dark to make out anything.

In two hours you'd be in London. In two hours you'd be with Alex again. You're still wearing a leotard under your many layers of leggings and sweatpants topped with a turtleneck, flannel, and jacket--in that order. Not remotely like the fashionable girl you'd felt having been dressed by Simone Rocha. It helped that you'd been dressed.

After years in ballet, most of your wardrobe consisted of warm and practical cotton clothes to shepard you to and from rehearsal. You couldn't give a damn about what you were wearing when you were waking up before sunrise. You'd much rather be warm and not pull a muscle thank you very much. At some point, somewhere in the midlands, you fall asleep. Exhausted to the bone from a weeks worth of shows and only three days to recover. Though you'd probably fit in a few hours of practice during your stay with Alex.

The announcement for King's Cross wakes you up, a crick in your neck from napping while sitting. You scramble to stuff your headphones into your pocket and grab your bag as you hurry to get off. It's past one in the morning. There's no crowds for you to push through in order to depart, but the sleep-full grogginess gives way to electric anticipation. You have to force yourself not to run off the train. Because Alex.

You'd seen him just last week.

He was coming up to Birmingham this week.

But it didn't matter. You couldn't deny the giddy happiness that you get at the thought of your boyfriend. It was so different from the calm resolve that made you dance for ten hours. Or the serene delight when you twirled about on stage, the heat of the lights blinding you to the audience leaving only room for perfection, one step at a time.

Just as the train is mostly empty. So it the platform.

So is the station.

It's easy to spot Alex, in dark jeans and an equally dark leather jacket, a bouquet of roses in his arms.

You suck in a breathe, consciously having to stop yourself from speed walking as a smile breaks out on your lips. This is a perfect day in your eyes. "Alex," you tell him, still a couple of steps away.

His gaze mets yours, the grin on his well formed mouth complimenting yours, as Alex wraps his arms around you and wow is the station freezing. You hug him right back, not caring that you're in public when you reach up to cup his cheek, pressing your lips to his, savoring the taste of him in your mouth.

" 'ello love," he whispers against your lips. "I take it you had a good show?"

"It was great," you admitt, hands around his neck as you lean back and drink the sight of Alex in. Unlike you, he definitely got enough sleep last night. You've probably been awake for sixteen hours at this point. "but I won't lie. I'm looking forward to these three days off."

Alex laughs. "I brought you flowers," he notes with too much casualty as pink sneaks its way into his cheeks. But he doesn't make to pull away, and the flowers are much forgotten in his grip as you gaze into each others eyes.

"Thank you," you reply, the happiness bubbling up into your voice.

"Do ya wanna get outta here," he asks, smile shifting into as smirk as his dark eyes full of the nights promise meet yours.

"Yes please," you demure, unable to help yourself and add, "I need more tubs of tiger balm than you use of gel right about now."

Alex takes your bag, letting you carry the bouquet as you both get a cab to his flat. His hand never leaving yours.

** *

Your ballet friend's older cousin, who'd bought alcohol for you both when you were still in high school and incredibly sleep deprived trying to juggle school and dance, works for some company that does PR for a couple of fashion brands. You're not really sure about all the connections, but when she hears you're moving to England--England not London-- she sends you a dm.

Want to go to fashion week.

You think Julia might have told her about your plans for after ballet, because as much as yo loved dancing and it was your career right now, like with most sports, it wasn't a long career. But again, you're not sure and seeing as she offered and you don't know anyone else in the entire country, you reply yes. Twenty isn't that young of an age to leave home at. There's lots of ballet stories about young kids leaving at 11 or 13. It isn't any less daunting to leave everyone you know behind. But Birmingham meant a job contract, a steady job. A rarity in dance.

So you somehow find yourself sitting third row at Simone Rocha, filling in the seats behind celebrities and Anna Wintour. It's like something out of a dream. You wear a dress from the last collection that's worth more than your paycheck and try not to spill anything on it as you get invited by the man sitting next to you, Pierre with three dangly earrings in one ear, skin as rich as creme brulee's crust.

He takes one look at you and says, "new?"

You laugh, caught like a fish out of water, "yeah. I'm still not sure how they even let me in."

"Because you're a size 0," he jokes, which isn't true but you have that toned look that makes you appear slim, exchanging instagram's before the show, then taking you out for a night on the town like you're the latest it bag. It's nice. And easy. You drink beer, and make faces, trying not to think about how awful you'll feel in the morning. You meet writers and buyers, head spinning as you network between drinks and house music, feeling wobbly in heels the way you never would in pointe shoes. Pierre takes you out on the dance floor, where models tower over you.

Photographs don't do them justice. But instead of feeling insecure the way all those carefully edited selfies do, you just appreciate the edge they each have. The perfect girl next door, all heart shaped face. The perfect cold scandinavian poise, every feature perfectly complimenting each other and poreless HD skin that no amount of makeup could hope to achieve. Like you, having put years into making dancing on pointe seem effortless and painless, they've just perfected their natural beauty.

And being five one means you have no hopes of being a model.

Pierre grins shamelessly after making eyes with some photographer in a sequined blazer in some Bahaman themed club, over his latest cocktail, "do hit me up," before disappearing into the crowd.

You snort into your drink, trying not to feel out of depth.

In three days you'll be back to your usual routine, settled in at a new studio. Seattle had been home for so long, had been where you first wore pointe shoes and learned to bang the sound out of the wood, smacking each pair of shoes as you all groaned about the piles of homework waiting for you at home.

You should go.

Another man slides into the space Pierre had left behind. He's handsome in a classically english way, hair quiffed like some 50s greaser or maybe you'd just thought the 50s were exactly how Grease depicted them. Either way, hot. Unlike most people out and about in during fashion week, his outfit isn't outrageous, trying to attract street style photographers, or a fit for the gram.

But there's still something sharp about his well fitted blazer and carmine dress shirt, confidently wearing sunglasses indoors.

He catches you looking, and without missing a beat, you lie, "sorry my friend ran off with some guy and I was waiting to see if I'd been ditched or not."

You play it off, trying to sound cool and not like you are completely lost and contemplating going home before one in the morning like a loser. You'd already missed out on house parties to the nutcracker and swan lake. You weren't about to let this night go to waste just because you didn't know anyone.

He smiles, taking a drink from his whiskey, the line of his shoulders relaxing.

Maybe he thought you were some fangirl.

There were plenty of famous people here who probably wanted to avoid being hounded while they were just trying to party.

"Do ya want another drink," he asks, nodding at your empty glass.

"Sure," you reply lamely. It's not so surprising when he leads you of the club, your hand in his. "So its your fist day in london," Alex parrots, glancing back at you, just to make sure.

"Yeah," you nod, grinning like an idiot and it wasn't just the alcohol in your bloodstream. Alex's smile could make any girl weak in the knees, you were sure of it. Plus that swagger. You finally understood the meaning of swagger. "Got of plane a couple of hours ago. haven't even seen Buckingham palace."

"No," he shakes his head.

"I'm serious. I had to head straight to Rocha and get my outfit and makeup done. First time getting my makeup done actually. Found out I've been doing my foundation wrong for years," you ramble on, internally wincing. No one wanted to hear about foundation especially not men you'd only met an hour ago. And Alex was definitely a man, not like the boys you'd gone to high school with and laughed when your health teacher went over a diagram of a vagina. "so no, I haven't seen any london-y things."

"Well we can't have that," Alex utters, flagging a cab down habitually, somehow lighting a cigarette at the same time.

"To Buckingham Palace through Piccadilly Circus," he tells the cab driver as you both slid in. "Traffic'll be hell though."

"The company's not bad," you comment, watching as his eyes crinkle up from laughter. It softens the line of his face, revealing the baby face beneath the pomade and gel.

"So what brings you to london," he asks.

"Work," you admit, your gaze leaving Alex for the first time since you'd laid eyes on him as you watch the city go by. It's a slow crawl as you hit the center of London, views you recall from movies, "Birmingham National Ballet offered me a contract. I'd be stupid not to have said yes. So I'm just in London for a few days."

"In a very nice dress," Alex says, voice thick in a way that has blood pooling in the pit of your stomach.

"In a very expensive dress," you add, "that I made sure to take lots of selfies in earlier before I have to return it tomorrow.

"So ya dance for the posh people."

"Yes," you groan, "and no one thinks it's a real job. Or sport!"

Alex chuckles, smirking, "I've watched Black Swan. I know it's fookin' hard." "2009 was a very good year for ballet." Granted you were too young for anything other than the child parts in The Nutcracker, but still. "What about you?"

He's about to reply, the lights of Piccadilly Circus, still full of life at one in the morning, filling your eyes, when the cabbie interrupts.

"He's in the arctic monkeys," the cabbie says, taking his eyes off the road. You peel your gaze off the window and turn back to Alex, and his admittedly expensive attire, "Oh so you're actually famous famous?"

He looks down bashfully, nothing like the confident greaser air he put on, "ya could say 'that."

"Would I have heard-"

"One of our songs," Alex continues, "probably. Me mate says we're properly overplayed now."

"Well you're no One Direction," you counter, teasingly.

You spend the rest of the night making out in front of Buckingham Palace's fountain, before you invite Alex back to yours.

** *

Alex laughs as you peel off another layer, laying on his bed, only to uncover another moth eaten sweater. It was annoying when all you wanted was Alex's hips against yours. "Patience love," he manages, but you can hear the want in his voice.

"Don't be an ass," you counter, "or I'll suddenly remember how tired I am." In response, his lips meet yours, shoving back any intention of sleep away as your skin burns with want, his tongue exploring your mouth, hands abandoning any pretense in favor of shoving your sweatpants down.

"Of course there's leggings," he half groans, half moans against your lips, breathlessly.

You giggle, pulling your shirt off, "wait until we get to the leotard."

"Can't they have those buttons babies onesies have," Alex mutters, tugging off his shirt.

"Would be awfully convenient," you admit. There was no sexy way to take a leotard off, but apparently no one had told Alex that, because his hands are helping you tug the leotard down your thighs, fingers leaving burning trails on your skin as he goes, sucking kisses down your neck.

You moan, closing your eyes in bliss.

" 'm genuinely surprised your not wearing of these things," he mutters against the crook of your neck.

"Oh take your jeans off already for fucks sake," you retort, trying to act like your voice isn't all choked up.

Alex chuckles, but does as you ask, his dark gaze meeting yours as he unbuttons his jeans painfully slow, sitting up between your thighs. It's hot and all, but you are horny. You're twenty, and so turned on, having lost your shoes in the hall. A coat in the living room.

You reach for him, your hands deliberately brushing against his cock, before helping him tug them down his hips.

"I'm flattered," Alex teases, voice hoarse.

"Oh," you counter, when you finally get him out of his boxers, "I see, you think this is about you," you tell him, cupping his jaw as he presses down against you, his hips meeting yours, his fingers brushing against your core. And then you aren't thinking very clearly at all, pleasure taking over as Alex's nimble fingers elicit the most debauched moans out of your lips.

Callused fingers slid into you as he nips at the skin of your collarbone, knowing exactly where the rub to make you see stars. Yours hands wrapped around his neck, keeping him close, wanting him and only him. And- "There. there there," you manage, aware of how wet you were, toes curling.

His other hand digs into your hipbone, as you writhe beneath him.

You whimper at the loss of his touch. At the loss of his fingers curling so deliciously inside you.

You can feel how hard his cock is, on the inside of your thigh, wet with precum and your breath hitches when he enters you, Alex pressing his lips hard against yours, kissing you with all the passion and lust you'd both laughed around earlier, like it would take the sting of separation away, hand still wet with you as he twists his fingers in your hair.

He's anything but patient as he trusts into you now, his body meeting yours. Your legs wrapping around his waist, that little extra in the angle as he thrusts into you, has you whimpering into his mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as you hold him near, his pace relentless.

So.

Worth.

Taking.

The.

Midnight.

Train.

"come for me, love," Alex manages, voice cracking, lips bruising your own. The reunited with your long lost lover bruising kiss that you'd thought only existed in movies.

You come with a shudder, exhausted, satisfied, in that afterglow, stars dancing across the back of your eyelids as you lean back limply into the bed. Alex coming seconds after, collapsing onto the other sider of the bed, spent. You don't care about anything after that.

Having been awake for eighteen hours.

A good fucking day.

** *

You wake up to thirty six missed messages. Mostly from Pierre and Vivian, your fellow corps ballerina you'd told you where all the cheap AND good bars were in Birmingham were.

They're all along the same lines.

Links to articles like, "Black Swan for Arctic Monkeys Lead Man." Which okay, was a great movie. "Alex Turner New Flame Confirmed." Again, true. "Teenage Love for Arctic Monkeys Singer!" Which was fucking gross clickbait. You were twenty. Had been for months even if sometimes you felt much younger than that, like when you realized you had to buy pots and pans, they didn't just magically appear.

And, "New Arctic Monkeys Album? Alex Turner All Loved Up."

You rolled your eyes.

For once you were up after sunrise. And after Alex which wasn't surprising. He rarely woke up before noon if it could be helped.

You reply to Pierre, "officially a sugar baby now lmao [eye roll emoji]."

And just heart some of the links Vivian sent you. You'd be seeing her soon enough.

Nine years. Alex was nine years older than you, but it wasn't really something you thought about of ever really talked about. He was just Alex, your boyfriend, once he'd gotten back from tour and had spent more than three days all cooped up in your hotel room bed having the best three days of your life. It wasn't that big of a deal. Just something you hadn't specifically mentioned to your parents during your weekly facebook messenger video call. They would worry. Your mom would go on a rant. Your dad would definitely bring up how you should've gone to college before pursuing ballet and how this was supposed to have helped you get into a university not be a career.

And you'd have to keep them from taking a flight to the UK.

Besides, your parents knew how to google people. They weren't dumb. Just worried about you living so far in general.

Even you hadn't ever really thought about, it hadn't crossed your mind, to date someone so much older than you. Alex had a house. He had an established career.

You couldn't even legally drink in the states.

But after the initial shock of the band and his age, you'd fallen into easy conversation, ordering room service, Alex's lips at the apex of your thighs while waiting for a full english breakfast because you just had to see what that was about, and it had slid from the forefront of your thoughts.

Now the tabloids had of course, decided to be an ass about it.

You got up and slipped into the shower. The water steaming as you quickly got ride of last nights seat before heading downstairs, interested in what Alex had scrounged up for breakfast this time.

Last time you were here, it'd been frozen waffles, an avocado, and margaritas. Alex is frying eggs as you take a seat on a barstool, watching him cook. You hated frying eggs. You could never get them to not stick to the pan.

"Matthew," Alex tells you as he plates the eggs along with toast and slices of tomatoes, "sent me a load of articles. 'fink they know who you are."

"Had to happen eventually," you respond, watching as a line forms between his brows. Maybe you should talk about the elephant of the room. Just because something didn't bother you didn't mean it wasn't bothering him. Though the whole famous thing in general annoyed him. "Pierre sent me some too. Though he works for some fashion website so he always sends me a bunch of things to read."

He'd also heavily hinted that should you ever decide to try being an influencer he'd love to get you in touch with small fashion brands.

The man loved his Laquan Smith.

Alex frowns as he takes a seat next to you. A set up you personally hated and never failed to bring up at least once while staying at his flat. How could you hold a conversation like this! face to face was the way to go.

Trying to lighten the mood you joke, "I've been twenty since July."

He doesn't smile. Or reach for his food. Alex had the bad habit of just sitting, following his train of thought, as he lapsed into silence. And his thoughts didn't always lead anywhere good.

If you thought that hard, you'd probably be depressed. It was a good thing you generally were too busy remembering counts and steps to think, and got home to tired to do much other than sleep.

"Alex, baby," you tell him, "who gives a shit what they think."

"Ya ever 'fink," he says instead of shrugging it off, "about how when I was twenty ya were 11?"

"No," you answer plainly. It had crossed your mind once but-"Well I thought about it once," you tell him honestly, putting down you fork, "but what's the use thinking about it? I didn't know you then. It's not like your some family friend that knew me when I was five. That's fucked up."

Alex snorts, his eyes meeting yours. For once his hair isn't full of gel. Strands falling into his doe eyes. "Ya know what I'm trying to say...your-I'm. Nine is. . .I grew up with the strokes ya grew up with One Direction."

You reach for his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, warmth spreading in your hearth when he squeezes your hand. "Nine is not a small gap. Or a huge one. It's not like your some fifty year old man dating a woman young enough to be his daughter."

This time he really does laugh. " 's true love but. . .don't ya want someone. . .I'm-I don't want you to miss out on doing what twenty year olds do."

You roll your eyes. "Alex you're also twenty not some grandfather. I'm not missing out on anything. It's not like we don't go out. And more importantly I want to be with you. Now let me eat my eggs before they get cold and rubbery."

"It's just. . .ya. . .," he turns his whole body so he's looking at you, even as you dig into your breakfast because you just knew if you kept talking about this Alex would just keep going in circles and your much rather eat and then fuck your boyfriend on the couch before wandering around london. Or curling up to watch telly. "ya sure-"

"Alex," you meet his gaze head on, "nine years isn't nothing, but it only really matters if you were rushing to have kids and get married or in some different stage of life which you're not. Fuck the tabloids. When have they ever been your friends."

Alex runs a hand through his hair thoughtfully and you finally start eating. Which okay, your boyfriend could fry an egg. It was much better than the oatmeal you'd had for the past few days because you hadn't stopped by a store even though you lived a block from one.

"I really love ya," Alex mutters softly.

Out of natural instinct, you reply, while smashing some egg onto a slice of toast, "I love you too."

Then realize what he'd just said. What you'd just said, and look over at him all bug eyed. It was the first time you'd ever told a boy than. And it sent the same little thrill through you as kissing him in front of Buckingham Palace had.

"Alex, I love you," you repeat just because you can, smiling softly over at him.

"I haven't put ya off yet love?" Alex asks, smiling sappily over at you.

"Never." You smile in response.

#Alex Turner #alex turner fanfic #alex turner imagine #alex turner x reader #gonna put you off #mine #i had to read do the formating

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