I Said Seduce the Camera, Not Me.
Title: I Said Seduce the Camera, Not Me
Pairing: KidOC. SoulMaka. Black*StarOC.
World: AU
Summary: "He's an insufferable nabob prat, that's what."/"She is an infuriating little parvenu with no capability for symmetry."/"I despise her; her and her idiotic camera."/"He can go die, for all I care."/"Goddamnit, woman, I love you!"
.ooOoo.
On the very last day before the yearly vacation, the Kaizen University of Fine Arts had effectively sealed its doom in the form of the very colourful and very creative damnations that a certain senior had called down upon its prestigious campus.
Like any normal person, she had been happy. Note; had been.
Who wouldn't? It was her last day.
That was, until she found out that she couldn't officially leave unless she had completed this one particular shoot for that one particular supermodel.
And that, was where it all started.
.ooOoo.
Next to a very ornate fountain, surrounded by lighting equipment, various whatnots and air- mustn't forget air, now- a group of very shocked (and morbidly fascinated) gossiping people- mostly just the lighting crew, supervisors and make-up and set artists- were watching two very pissed, very attractive young people go from arguing about the produced visual results to insulting each other to the limits of their pride at the top of their voices, both about a nanometre away from actually resorting to hurting (the girl by punching her ready-made fist into the 'faggy pretty-boy bastard's' face and the guy by suing her for physical and verbal assault and winning, dammit) the other and essentially make them pay.
.ooOoo.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"Me?! Look who's fucking talking, faggy dipshit! Stop talking 'bout yourself!"
"Can you not even manage to fucking take just one goddamned symmetrical picture?! Hell, why they call you a genius is honestly fucking beyond me."
"Well, excuse me, but I am going to do my job, properly- and I'll be damned if I stray from my style just to suck up and kiss your bitchy supermodel ass!"
Off at the sidelines, two people, both with jaws dropped, just stood and stared at the fiery little (no, not really. She was actually a good height- it's just that Kid was pretty tall) camera girl who was currently engaged in a shouting match with top supermodel, Death the Kid.
God.
"Hey, Nygus. Is this really happening?"
"…You're kidding me, right? Hell, Liz. Just look at that."
Probably the only people who coulddo that to the famed 21 year-old and not receive any long-lasting damage to their physical body would have to be Maka Albarn, his equally famous fellow model and childhood friend and Patricia Thompson, Liz's trigger-happy sister.
And that was only because Maka could beat him up. And her crazy dad would be out for his blood. And because an angry Patty scared anyone shitless.
As stunned as Elizabeth was, even she couldn't suppress a righteous chuckle when Kid had commented rather rudely on whether her height reflected on her mental capacities and the girl had retorted that, perhaps, the reason why his ego was so inflated was that he was compensating for something.
A subtle, indirect blow to his manhood.
Liz gave an appreciative whistle. Christ, that kid had guts.
Now, if only the rapidly reddening, rapidly approaching vice-principal would somehow disappear into thin air and let the rampage continue, her life would be perfect.
Ah, wishful thinking.
.ooOoo.
"Miss Stefanov! What do you think you're doing?!"
Said person barely repressed a disgusted snort when the rotund vice-principal pig began to flatter and attempt to appease the 'poor, offended dear' (poor, offended dear?! Ha!) that was Death 'I'm-hot-smart-rich-and-famous-so-you-bow-down-to-me-and-obey-my-every-whim-bitch' the Kid (What kinda fucky, screwed up name whazzat anyway?!) and freaking flipping her goddam curls. She doesn't even have proper curls! Just thinning fake brown ones arranged in an assumedly 'charming but elegant' style, pinned back by a pink polka-dotted bow to cover the bald spot on the top of her head.
"- I shall personally make sure that she receives the utmost discipline she deserves."
And just like that, as soon as Ms. Paulette Potbelly- Pippi was totally sure J.K Rowling had based Umbridge off her- was done fawning over 'my dear Sir Death,' the simpering smile was wiped off, replaced by an animalistic expression that resembled more of a snarling toad.
Cunt.
Pippi jerked back with a start, eyes wide.
Dear God.
What happened?!
Pippi couldn't imagine for the life of her when she was last this vicious. Really, when was the last time she had used the 'c' word? Four, five years ago?! She was pretty sure it was still way back in high school- freshman year! Her pretty grey eyes shifted to the taller….way taller….man currently sitting in his customized deck-chair for a little touch-up.
Savagely crumpling a piece of paper that had magically gotten into her hand, only one thought ran through her head.
I hope he gets cancer. Or at least a sunburn. A third-degree sunburn.
Unfortunately though, she was snapped out of her reverie by a clawed hand fiercely clutching her exposed forearm, successfully and painfully puncturing the smooth, tan skin as the owner dragged her off to some shady, secluded corner of the area.
Once they had reached the place, Pippi was already visually wincing; hissing in pain as the evil toad-woman tightened her grip even further, swinging the girl round to face her.
Large, black-kohl-outlined eyes bulged in fury as they bore into her person and for once, instead of the annoyance and irritation that she usually felt around the horrid woman, Pippi felt anger. Red, overwhelming waves of anger and pain as the claws dug deeper into her flesh.
Taking no notice, the vice-principal began to vigorously shake her, face twisted into a perfect mask of rage.
"You disrespectful little brat! How dare you! You might think you're better than everyone here just because you won that scholarship but don't you dare think for a second that your position overrules mine! Now, you are going to go back there and apologize and complete the whole shoot on your best behaviour! Do you hear me?!"
With a last shake and a deliberate tightening of the hand, Ms. Paulette (Ms. Yes. Really, who would want to marry someone like that?) let go of her forearm and strode away to suck up even more to the man.
"Fucking cunt," Pippi muttered, examining her affected forearm. Her frown deepened when she saw the bruises surrounding the bleeding, crescent-shaped gouges. She needed something to wrap it.
And going back to the set was out of the question.
Doing a quick visual skim of her outfit, she came up with this:-
Her current outfit was a white, spaghetti-strapped taffeta dress. Reaching her knees, it opened up into an upside-down v at the front, the point beginning above mid-thigh and flaring out in wide, crisp ruffles till the knees. Faded grey mini jean shorts were worn under to avoid inevitable flashing. Black sneakers. No socks. A large black leather belt cinched around her waist and the thin black chiffon sash she had dangling off her hips in a loose knot.
Untying the sash, she made quick work of wrapping the painful-as-hell area, one end in between the grip of her teeth as she tied it up, picking up her camera and striding over to the set. It was totally unfair, how people of a higher society were treated like gods. They didn't have the right to look down on them, the hoi polloi.
Which was why she had left.
Pippi's hand tightened on her beloved device, the skin stretching white on her knuckles as a dark look overcame her comely features.
As soon as it came, it was gone- replaced by a cheery grin.
With considerably more determination than before to break down the slightly older male model, she flounced off, long, sooty curls fluttering and bouncing around her.
.ooOoo.
"Umm, Mr. Death?"
At the sound of the disgustingly familiar voice, Kid immediately spun around, ringed aureate eyes narrowing in suspicion as they met large stormy grey ones.
"What?" replied Kid, still wary. He didn't trust that sweet smile. Not a bit.
Not one fucking bit.
"I really am sorry for my behaviour earlier, I hope you'll forgive me?" she dimpled cutely, charmingly.
Yeah, right.
Her face might say she was truly apologetic and all, but her eyes-
Her eyes promised revenge.
Fine. Kid glared, before shifting to his usual gentlemanly, equally charming smile. Two could play at that game.
"Of course, Miss Stefanov. It was no problem. I was at fault as well."
A mad glint flashed in both captivating pairs of eyes.
The she-devil sighed in relief. Damn, she was good.
"Oh, thank goodness," she sighed, one hand placed lightly on her- very nice- chest.
Hey, he was a guy. Could you really blame him?
"I thought you'd be just furious," said the girl, a wicked little smirk making its way onto her light pink mouth.
Kid returned it with his equally immoral one before gesturing with one ringed hand to the set in general.
"Of course not, Miss," he replied. "Well then, shall we?"
Yet another sweet smile made its way on her lips.
"Of course."
After a brief exchange of see you's and such, Pippi- as he found out her name was- went on ahead to set up her equipment.
He, however, didn't miss that little look on her face.
Oh, this was war.
.ooOoo.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Again went the click of the mouse as her supervisor scrolled through the pictures, randomly selecting and opening jpegs and all.
At each double-click, Pippi watched in complacent satisfaction as her superior's eyebrows rose higher and higher and that cunt VP's face grow even more and more puce as the extraordinary quality of her pictures made itself known.
Really, didn't they know how hard it was, trying to suppress a smirk?
They should really hurry up.
Thank God the ponce was way over on the other side of the room. He couldn't see this.
Ever.
Or at least, not until she was somewhere very far away.
Finally, her supervisor looked up.
"Well," he began. "You've definitely kept your word, Phoebe. This," he then gestured rather grandly at the computer screen. "Is fantastic. Great job."
Still suppressing the smirk she so desperately wanted to shoot at the VP, she simply gave a very demure little smile and said, "Thank you, sir," sweetly.
Very sweetly.
"Well, I guess this is goodbye then, my dear pupil," Pippi watched as her superior, Mr. White, began to slightly tear up. He was always such an emotional man, thought Pippi fondly.
Giving a small laugh, Pippi just shook on her camera bag, jean jacket slung over her uninjured forearm. "'Course not, sir," she replied, grinning as always. "It's only until we meet again."
"Ah, yes," he fanned himself with a hand, reminiscent of Narumi from Alice Academy. "I forget. Forgive me, dear. And so, farewell, until we meet again!"
"Yes, sir!"
Once she was finally out of the buildings and waiting for the train, thus a safe distance away from the model, she finally released her smirk.
Digging around in her pouch, she extracted her camera and quickly flipped through the images.
If it was even possible, her smirk grew even wider.
For each of her pictures were asymmetrical.
As part of her little revenge scheme, she had tipped the camera just a teensy bit to the left.
Just a little bit, mind you.
But it was enough.
Save for one, because even she wasn't cruel enough to do that to the ponce.
Because, she concluded just as she was boarding. Heartless, she was not.
Nevertheless, Pippi basked in the glow of her smug, smirky self-satisfaction all the way home.
.ooOoo.
So, there concludes the first chapter of the PINKELEPHANT series, I Said Seduce The Camera, Not Me.
How was it? Good? Bad? Disgustingly dreadful? Drop in a review, flames and criticism (any kind— go on, I'm not picky.) are welcomed, although I'll probably be using the former for roasting my marshmallows.
+I know, I know. Kid's out of character— but then again, this is AU. He will have his symmetry-obsessed fits (really, I can't live without those. They're hilarious) but the character I wanted to portray him as was the cool, HitsugayaToushirou-reminiscent character, only with less screaming and a cooler temper.
+Basically, the rich dude.
+My incertitude on whether I actually have enough conscience and antiProcastination crack means that much guidance (received humbly and gratefully by this poor, undeserving soul) and inspiration and gentle— or rough, take your pick— reminders will be needed from you, my dear readers.
+Thus, review please! It really is the least any reader can do for the authors who toil away on their laptops, painstakingly crafting imaginative and eloquent stories for us to read.
+That is, with the exception of Tara Gilesbie what'shername.
+Review! I'm kinda a whore when it comes to them. But I won't force you… much. Imma nice whore.
+How the hell do you do divider lines?