A/N: Friendly reminder that this is all just a work of fiction. I love all these women so much, and these portrayals are in no way accurate of them irl. As always, read with caution and leave me some feedback :)
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...
"She's beautiful," Kelly observes, carefully flipping to the next page of the Harper's Bazaar magazine. As she combs through it, completely focused, page after page reveals to her a face forged from divinity. "Angelic, actually," Kelly reiterates after a short pause, taking the time to admire the model in the spread for just a little while longer.
"She is, isn't she?" Beyoncé agrees. The honey blonde bites her lip, running her fingers over the glossy pages of the magazine once Kelly sets it down. The way the model uses her body to convey her emotions, to entrance her audience... It's captivating. It's like she's selling much more than a dress. She's selling a story. An experience.
The photographer finds herself nearly at a loss for words the longer she looks at her.
The longer she looks at Normani.
Beyoncé repeats the name in her head over and over again, familiarizing herself with it and the way it would sound rolling off her tongue. The name is unique, and quite beautiful. It matches the young woman perfectly, the photographer thinks.
"She's talented too," Beyoncé continues. "I've been hearing talk from all the biggest players that she's next up. That she's the one."
"Really?" Kelly asks, her interest in the model suddenly more piqued than before. This a common effect the young woman tends to have. Normani constantly has people at her feet, wanting to know more. "Who's been saying that?"
"Well," Beyoncé starts, "Valentino was practically gushing over her at a soirée I went to last week. He met her once and now he claims she's his muse," she responds humorously, lightly rolling her eyes as she takes a sip of her mimosa. "So there he was, drunk off a couple glasses of champagne as usual. He couldn't stop going on about how much he wants to dress her for the Met Gala, even though I told him it's a long shot. Every single designer I know is begging to walk that red carpet with her. Anna can't stop taking about her either," Beyoncé finishes, casually referring to the editor in chief of Vogue magazine.
Kelly chuckles, bringing her fork up to her lips to take just the tiniest bite of her omelette.
"So you're telling me this girl's got all these old white people stressed, scrambling like dogs to work with her when she's not even six months into the game yet?" the jet black haired woman inquires, an eyebrow raised. Clearly, she's impressed. "Cheers to that!" she praises, raising her glass to knock it into Beyoncé's.
Beyoncé laughs along with her, taking another sip of her mimosa in an attempt to minimize her own reaction. They're eating in public after all, and she doesn't want to draw too much attention towards herself.
The photographer admits it's pleasing to see her esteemed colleagues so enamored by the starlet.
People like Anna and Valentino are usually so uppity, and so composed. They're the type to turn their noses up at practically everyone, and to grant only a select few the privilege of working with them. Their desperation to work with the emerging model, a black model at that, is the rarest of sights. Never has this industry been so completely turned over on its head. It's almost as if Normani had casted a spell over them all, and they all happily fell under her enchantment.
Beyoncé would love to believe that she's somehow above the hysteria surrounding the model. After all, she's never been the type to go after the "hype." It's all just talk isn't it? All the praise, all the claims that she can't possibly be human? That she's a goddess from some other planet? Normani is gorgeous, of course, but like everyone else, the media tends to exaggerate.
Beyoncé can't deny that she too feels affected by the beautiful model taking the industry by storm.
It's a rather long story.
The photographer wasn't sure if she'd ever pick up a camera again after a year long sabbatical.
Following the sudden death of her father, Beyoncé's mood slowly but surely deteriorated. Matthew was the one who got her into photography in the first place. Without him, Beyoncé felt herself falling deeper and deeper into an agonizing depression. She decided for herself that photography no longer made her happy, and for a while, she believed it. At the prime age of twenty nine, she'd already made more than enough money to retire anyways. Beyoncé figured she'd be okay.
In the midst of her depression, Beyoncé found that every single shot she took felt reductive. There was no longer any color in her life, any passion. But now, in a strange twist of fate, she suddenly feels filled with that burning desire to get back behind the lense. Something about Normani lights a fire within her, and makes her want to create again.
"Would you believe me if I told you I'm shooting her this week?" Beyoncé suddenly announces to Kelly, a nervous smile playing at her lips.
"What?" Kelly responds, her eyes widening as she grins, showing off her pearly white teeth. "Oh my God, Bey! That's amazing!"
Kelly leans in and gives her friend a hug. Beyoncé reciprocates it, but shrugs her shoulders shyly while laughing quietly under her breath.
She tries her hardest to downplay just how big of a deal this really is, but she can't. Kelly has always told her that she'd regret her decision to quit photography, and it looks like she was right. The darker skinned woman missed seeing her friend engage in what she loved most. For the past year, it seemed like Beyoncé was drifting. She was surviving, but not really living.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner, Giselle?" Kelly asks. "You've had me fan-girling over this girl like an idiot for the past hour, when all this time you've been buddy-buddy with her?"
Beyoncé snorts at her friend's dramatics, then tears off a piece of bacon to toss into her mouth.
"I didn't know anything officially until three days ago, Kelendria," the honey blonde mocks her friend, over-pronouncing her name. "The shoot's for Vogue, the September issue. But the photographer they booked caught some nasty virus in Miami. He's quarantining for the next few weeks so Anna begged me to fill in," Beyoncé explains diligently. "And by the way, Normani and I aren't 'buddy-buddy' because we haven't even met. Yet. We were supposed to meet to go over the details of the shoot, but with Weber getting sick and her busy schedule... you know how it is. Plans fall apart."
Kelly hums in understanding, chuckling slyly to herself as she brings a piece of fruit to her mouth. She doesn't know why all of this is interesting her so much. Beyoncé has worked with plenty of world famous models before. She's never felt this giddy.
"Okay. And are you nervous? What's she even like?"
Beyoncé shrugs her shoulders once more, her eyes stuck on the leftover food she still has on her plate. She's thought of what her first encounter with Normani will be like a thousand times over the last few days. It could go a million different ways.
"I don't know... I've heard she's sweet, quiet, easy to work with..." the photographer responds. "But you never really know what a model is like until you're in a room with them. They're all so different."
Beyoncé has photographed a few personable models here and there over the years, but for the most part, they've been unpleasant in their own individual ways.
The photographer can't completely blame them. The modeling industry is hard, after all. There's a lot of pressure to squash the competition; to stay on top all whilst looking perfect twenty-four seven.
Beyoncé silently prays that Normani has been protected from all the toxicity surrounding their industry. She's not sure why she does. For some reason, she just feels inclined to wrap her arms around her. Her chestnut eyes are mesmerizing, but they tell a sad story. The feeling that she's not being protected tugs at Beyoncé's heart, and it bothers her. No one rises to the top as quickly as Normani has without having to make a sacrifice. Without having to pay a price.
"What kind of shoot is it? Do you have an idea for the theme?" Kelly asks, resuming their conversation.
Beyoncé leans back in her chair a bit, crossing one leg over the other before she responds.
"The theme is romantic... sensual. She'll be in lingerie most of the time, but I set up a couple clothed shots on the beach too to mix things up. Just in case she gets uncomfortable."
The photographer sees her friend nod, but rolls her eyes when she notices the subtle smirk on the other woman's face as well. Typical of Kelly to be so immature in moments like these. She interrupts the woman before she gets the chance to say anything else.
"Kelendria..." Beyoncé warns. "Cool it. I'm a professional. It's nothing I haven't done before."
"I know that," Kelly deadpans. "Obviously. "I'm just saying... she's quite a woman. I don't think I've ever seen anyone like her. Have you?" she asks with an eyebrow raised.
Beyoncé breathes deeply through her nose, images of Normani flashing though her mind again. Her eyes, her hair, that gorgeous smile of hers... it's implanted there. Her talent and the drive she must possess is too. Beyoncé couldn't shake the thoughts of her if she tried, though she's not sure she wants to.
"No, but I don't see how that's relevant," Beyoncé says, responding to her friend's question.
The darker skinned woman sighs heavily through a sad smile.
"It's relevant because you're lonely, Beyoncé," Kelly utters through a sigh. "You're going back to work, but have you thought about dating? At all?" she questions. "I can't even remember the last time we talked about a woman like this together. You can hardly even crack a joke with me about this particular woman being attractive," Kelly continues, gesturing towards the magazine. "I mean... when's the last time you had sex? Seriously?"
Beyoncé scoffs and chuckles humorlessly, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks away from her unfinished plate of food. Suddenly, she's not sure if she has an appetite anymore.
"None of your business."
"None of my business?" Kelly repeats. "Beyoncé, I'm your best friend. Hell, I'm your sister. If it's not my business, then who the hell's is it?"
The honey blonde is silent. She simply focuses her stare on her manicured fingers that are currently tapping against the table they're sitting at. A nervous habit of hers.
"Please don't tell me the last time was before your dad... it wasn't, right? You'd tell me?"
When Beyoncé doesn't say anything in response, her shoulders slumped and her eyes remaining fixed where they are, Kelly instantly has her answer.
"Oh, Bey..."
"Oh Bey what?" The woman in question responds, sounding slightly irritated. "What's the problem? You're acting like I'm desperate when I'm not, Kelly. If I wanted to sleep with some woman, I would. I simply don't want to," Beyoncé tiredly explains. "So please, for the love of God... stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Beyoncé scoffs again.
"Like you pity me."
"I don't."
"Well, you have a funny way of showing it."
Kelly groans quietly, gently massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers as she tries to find her words.
"I don't pity you, Beyoncé. I just share your pain. You think I don't feel when you're hurting? Trust me, I do. And it keeps me up at night."
"Kelly..." Beyoncé sighs. "You have nothing to worry about," she says, reassuring her. "I'm still talking to my therapist and like you said I'm finally going back to work. Who knows, maybe one of these days, someone will pique my interest."
"Really?" Kelly asks, sounding hopeful, but skeptical at the same time.
She really does want her best friend to put herself out there again. She's a catch; truly one of the kindest and most generous women she's ever known. Anyone would be lucky to have her.
"Really," Beyoncé responds sincerely, grabbing the other woman's hand. She gives it a squeeze before letting it go.
"Well..." Kelly starts, thankfully shifting the conversation. "I'm sure you're gonna do great Bey. You're the most talented photographer I know," she jokes, given the fact that she knows no other photographers at all. Beyoncé doesn't really befriend anyone in her field. She's always been a bit of a lone wolf. "You better send me hourly updates the day of! And tell that girl to follow me on Instagram," she finishes with a laugh, though she's being one hundred percent serious.
Beyoncé laughs too, taking a final sip of her mimosa. After she sets the empty glass down, more images of Normani flash behind her eyelids. The young woman is all up in her mind. The honey blonde smiles sweetly to herself at the thought of seeing her soon.
"Will do," the photographer finally says, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth.
This is going to be interesting...
...
Mayhem.
That's the only word that can be used to describe the scene before them as the young model makes her way towards her shiny black van.
Normani is assisted by her mother, Miranda, as well as her bodyguard, Big Rob. They hold onto her tightly as she hastily makes her exits from the brand new pop up shop she's just opened in Los Angeles. They guide her through the hordes of people with steady hands, careful to keep her upright. Normani is so exhausted from her long hours of work, she can hardly stand by herself.
Though multiple metal barriers stand between the three of them and the crowd, the model's screaming, jostling, hair pulling fans look like they're just about ready to break them down any second now.
"Normani! Over here, girl! We love you!"
"Normani! Normani! Can we get a selfie please?"
"Damn girl, you fine as hell! Can a nigga get your number? Please?"
And fine Normani is. Though half her face is covered by a pair of designer sunglasses, it's undeniable how striking she is, especially in person.
Her hair, recently dyed ginger just in time for fall, flows down her back in silky waves. She wears a skintight black dress that shows off all her assets, and a pair of black Louboutins to match. Over her shoulder hangs a bright white Telfar bag, her favorite accessory. Finally, several pieces of jewelry, including the rarest diamond earrings the people around her have ever seen, add the perfect details to top off her look.
The fans, who are mostly used to seeing their idol onscreen, can't describe the euphoria currently rushing through their veins. The mere sight of the star has them feeling like they're on cloud nine, or the most powerful drug.
The screaming in the crowd intensifies. Cameras flash from every direction.
Normani's mother, eager to leave this place to get to their next destination, tries to stop her daughter from leaving her side to take pictures with fans. But somehow, much to her discontent, the model escapes her hold and goes to greet them anyway.
Normani musters up all the energy she has to wave and put on a smile for the people who have supported her most. She feeds off of their excitement as she approaches them, and snaps photos with as many of them as she can.
She laughs shyly as she takes in all their praises and compliments, grabbing onto their hands and telling them she loves them too. She soothes and hugs the fans who cry, and she lets them know that everything is okay, that it's just her. She's still getting used to this whole fame thing. It's only been six months, and it's a lot to take in. But through it all, she's grateful for her supporters, always.
It's not long before Normani feels herself suddenly being pulled away by two sets of hands. Eventually, she's being pushed inside her familiar black van, it's heavy doors shutting loudly beside her after she's sat down.
Almost instantly, the fleeting moment of bliss is gone.
Her almost permanent frown returns. The car starts moving, and she's back in her prison again.
"Normani? Are you even listening to me?"
"Hmm?"
The model, who had just been on the brink of finally falling asleep, is instantly brought back to reality at the sound of her mother's voice. The young woman hardly even has the chance to sit up and process what's going on, before Miranda is speaking again, barking orders at her. She prepares to start reading her schedule off the iPad she's always holding.
"I need you on your A game tomorrow, Normani," her mother says, her voice stern. "It's gonna be a long day. There's a six am call time so I need you up at four-thirty, the latest. Then, you have a fitting for the Fenty show at ten, a couple meetings for the perfume and website launch during the afternoon, an interview with Architectural Digest at four... oh! And don't forget, we've got dinner with the Obamas at eight."
Normani's body slumps further down her seat the longer her mother goes on. She sighs heavily, rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses as she wonders how the hell she's going to survive this week. The mere thought of her packed schedule already has her feeling anxious.
"Mom... do I really have to go to that? Tomorrow night was supposed to be my night off. I feel like I've hardly been getting any sleep and I'm-"
"And you're what?" Miranda interrupts her. "And you're making excuses? Complaining? That's all you ever do," is her biting response. "This is your job, Normani, and you get paid a pretty penny to do it, as do I. When the Obamas invite you over for dinner, you accept the invitation, it's as simple as that."
"How about we reschedule?" Normani pleads. She tries to ignore the sting of her mother's words, but they linger as they always do. She removes her sunglasses to reveal tired, yet beautiful brown eyes. "I feel like I'm burnt out. I've said it over and over again and no one is listening to me..."
A scoff.
"Sasha and Malia are big fans, you know," Miranda says, completely disregarding her daughter's statement. "Do you want to disappoint your fans? Is that what you want to do, Normani?"
Though the model is now twenty-two years of age, she feels no older than a child as she bows her head down and allows her mother to berate her.
Miranda's words are biting and harsh. They have the effect they're meant to have. It's not long before Normani feels tears beginning to form at the corners of her eyes.
"With all that I've done for you, all that I've sacrificed for you, this is how you choose to repay me? You selfish girl. I brought you to all those pageants all those years by myself. All because you said you wanted to be a star. I made your dreams come true, or did you forget that?"
At this point, all Normani can do is stay quiet. What could she possibly say? The other occupants of the car aren't making a move to back her up. Maybe she is in the wrong. Maybe she's only thinking about herself.
The driver, as well as the bodyguard sitting in the passenger seat, are used to the verbal assault Normani suffers at the hands of her mother. Everyone who works with the pair is aware of it. Though they feel for Normani, they all know to stay silent and to not interfere. It's not their place to say anything, and they signed contracts preventing them from speaking out about it a long time ago.
Miranda, ignoring the clear anguish on her daughter's face, presses on when she doesn't receive an immediate answer.
"Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Normani? Answer me."
The car remains quiet for a while longer. All that can be heard is the sound of Normani's soft cries, until finally, she's uttering:
"Fine. I'll go."
She concedes. Normani's voice is meek and defeated as she relinquishes her freedom, yet again.
Miranda has always found a way to tear her down, brick my brick. It hurts more every time.
She likes it when Normani is insecure, that much is clear. The model is much more obedient that way; much more malleable.
How would her daughter get to where she is today had she not molded her first? How would Normani know how to walk, know how to pose, know how to smile and wave? How would she know who to talk to and who to impress?
Miranda has shaped her exactly into who she wanted her to be once. She'll do it again, and again, and again until her daughter forgets who she is entirely. Normani can't even remember the last time she truly had control of herself, or her own life.
She can admit that her story is one that's quite sad, one that's hard to tell.
Normani was raised by her single mother, Miranda Hamilton, in a quaint neighborhood in Houston, Texas. The older woman had gotten pregnant during the beginning of her senior year of high school. But by the time springtime rolled around, Normani's father, Miranda's high school sweetheart, was already long gone.
Miranda's dreams of becoming a supermodel and actress herself were effectively crushed. And though she blamed it all on the birth of her daughter, Miranda was determined and ambitious. As soon as Normani was old enough, she forced all her failed dreams onto her child. Miranda used her beauty and charm to get her daughter all the connections she'd need to achieve the superstardom she never got the chance to achieve herself.
She started off small. She got Normani into pageants, making sure her daughter dazzled the crowds and took home all the awards. As soon as Normani became old enough to learn lines, she had her at auditions for commercials, and eventually, when she was older, television and movies.
Normani's rise to fame was slow, and calculated. But eventually, everything fell into place just as Miranda expected it to. Now, the only challenge that remained was keeping Normani in her place: right by her side and under her wing. The moment her daughter flies away, Miranda's dreams will be over forever.
Normani doesn't have the energy to argue any longer. She turns her head towards her tinted window, mindlessly observing the other vehicles that pass them by. Her tears continue to fall. She'd wipe them away, but there isn't much of a purpose to, at this point.
Normani would do anything to jump out this car and be somewhere else right now.
"Good," Miranda finally says with a tight lipped smile.
She hardly looks her daughter in the eyes, choosing to look back down at her iPad instead. She's not sure if she could without the tiniest bit of guilt eating at her.
"Now, onto the rest of this week... We've got the Vogue shoot the day after tomorrow. I hope you're ready for that," she says. "You remember that they replaced the photographer, correct? I think you'll be happy with who Anna has chosen in Weber's stead."
"Yeah?" Normani asks dryly. She can't even bring herself to turn away from her window as she speaks. "Who?"
Miranda pauses for a moment to build up some anticipation.
"Beyoncé Knowles."
A quiet gasp of surprise escapes Normani's lips. And suddenly, she's facing her mother again and wiping away at her remaining tears.
"R-really?" she asks, her eyes shiny and hopeful.
"Yes, really. I heard she's finally making her comeback, and what better way to make it than with you?"
There's a twinkle in Normani's eyes as she takes in her mother's words, one that hasn't been there in quite some time. One might think that it could a result of the tears, but really, it's a result of the mere mention of her favorite photographer.
"Beyoncé Knowles? She knows who I am?"
Miranda's face softens just slightly. Her daughter still seems to be unaware of her sheer level of superstardom. It's quite sweet, actually.
"Of course she knows who you are," she responds. "You're my star; the biggest and brightest one in the universe. I told you I would get you everything you wanted. And I did that, didn't I?" the older woman asks, placing two fingers beneath her daughter's chin to get her to look her in the eyes. They're so much like her father's; it's almost painful to look into them for too long at times.
Normani nods, her mood slightly better than just a few minutes prior. She supposes she has Beyoncé to thank for that. The young model has looked up to her ever since she first fell in love with modeling.
Beyoncé was a child prodigy. Normani remembers reading about how her first photographs were published in major magazines all over the world by the time she was only ten years old. She made history, breaking doors wide open for other young, talented photographers such as herself.
Contrary to her mother's beliefs, Normani never wanted to be a "star." In fact, she can't remember ever mentioning that she did.
One thing she did love, however, was dressing up and taking pictures. As a child, Normani spent a lot of time stepping into character and pretending to be somebody else on camera or in front of her mirror. She also enjoyed entertaining people, and making them laugh and smile.
Normani supposes that living in that fantasy world was better than living in the one where her father decided she wasn't worth knowing. She needed validation and praise at that time, but she never could've imagined that she would get it like this.
During that time, while Normani was first discovering her love for modeling, Beyoncé became one of her biggest sources of inspiration.
By the age of twelve, deep in the midst of her pageant era, she became enamored by the way the photographer stripped her subjects down to their rawest emotions. Everything about her photographs felt real. Their laughs, their smiles, their tears, their fears...Normani could imagine reaching out to each model and placing her hands upon their skin. She could feel more of what they felt the longer she looked at them, and admired them. Taking in their beauty.
Normani wanted to become one of the models in Beyoncé's photos. She wanted to connect with her too, and know more about the brilliant mind behind the lense. Maybe now, she finally can.
"Make sure you stick to your diet," Miranda says, resuming their conversation. "No more exceptions. You've been looking a little puffy lately, so I'm upping your hours at the gym. And cut down on the fruit, Normani. They've got way too much sugar."
Normani frowns at her mother's words, looking down at her flat stomach with her brows furrowed in contempt. But Miranda only offers Normani another tight lipped smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her daughter's ear before speaking up again.
"I know, I know. I'm being dramatic. They'll retouch the photos anyway. But we don't need to make the editor's job more difficult than it has to be. You want to impress Beyoncé, don't you? Wouldn't it be better to look your best not just on the cover, but also on set?"
Although Miranda asks the question, she leaves no room for any disagreement.
"Yes, it would be better," Normani responds quietly.
The strict diets and workout regiments are routine. She doesn't bother fighting with her mother because she already knows she has no say in the matter. She has been feeling pudgier lately. She should just listen to what she says.
"Good," Miranda says. "Now, let me fix your face," she finishes, gently cupping Normani's cheek. She grabs her daughter's purse and pulls out some tissues, as well as her foundation. "You don't need to announce to everyone what you've been feeling. Remember, the whole world is watching."
Normani sighs mentally to herself. She's very much aware. It's a thought that taunts her on a daily basis.
Miranda wipes her daughter's face diligently, clearing away all the dried tears. The young woman is stiff as her mother cleans her up. She nervously taps her fingers against the leather seat of the van, trying but failing to soothe herself.
Once Miranda is confident all the tears are gone, she applies a heavy layer of foundation, clearing away all the imperfections she sees. Every little pimple, every little birthmark, gone.
The car continues it's journey towards their next destination, a nightclub appearance in Hollywood. Normani's girlfriend, Megan Thee Stallion, just dropped her new album and she's making rounds at all the hottest clubs in the state to celebrate it. Normani is exhausted, but she has no choice but to be there. It's her job as a girlfriend; as an accessory.
Despite the speed bumps and overall shakiness of the vehicle, Miranda manages to fix her daughter's makeup with little to no problem. She's an expert. She's had years of practice on herself, after all.
It's then that Miranda eyes land on the barely visible, hand-shaped bruise around Normani's neck. Smaller and slightly darker ones surround it.
Miranda stiffens up. Normani does too. She knows her daughter is aware that she can see the bruises, and vice versa. It's not the first time she's noticed, and she doubts it'll be the last.
Miranda inhales sharply, but moments later, ultimately decides to say nothing else.
She simply brings the makeup sponge down from Normani's cheek to her neck, covering the dark colored marks without a word.
Clearing her throat,
"It'll be nice to see Megan tonight. I know you two had an argument. But, she should be in a good mood with the new album out and all..." Miranda says, finally closing the foundation shut. She squints her eyes, making sure that Normani has been effectively covered to perfection. It appears she has. "Stay on your best behavior, and you'll have nothing to worry about. You'll shine bright as you always do, my little star."
Miranda smiles at her daughter with affection, bringing her hand up to cup her cheek. She calls her by the nickname she has ever since the model was a baby.
Normani nods her head at her mother's words, swallowing the fear she already feels building within her.
A star she may be, but with every day that passes, she feels her light dim, and dim, and dim.
It's only a matter of time until it goes out for good.
...
Beyoncé Knowles
Normani Hamilton
Miranda Hamilton
Megan Thee Stallion
Kelly Rowland
...
Hey readers ☺️,
Glad to be back! This fic is based on this prompt from LoveLiedToMe:
I've had this in my drafts for a while. I will be writing more parts, just stay tuned! I struggled with this one a lot as y'all probably saw on IG 💀 Follow me there btw @ xmegmanix ☺️ (link in bio!) So... I'm eager to know if y'all enjoyed this!
Thoughts on Beyoncé as a photographer? What she's been going through?
Thoughts on how she feels about Normani so far?
Thoughts on Normani and her relationship with her mother?
Early thoughts on Megan? She'll be in Part 2.
Any hopes/wishes for Beymani's first encounter? How do y'all think they'll react when they first see each other?
As y'all can see, I'm still taking prompts! It might take me a while to get through them all, but if your idea is good, trust me it will get done! So please, feel free to send one in ☺️
Thank you all again for reading! See y'all again soon. 🤍