#clash of the fan clubs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ginnsbaker · 1 year ago

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mastermind

Summary: As your sticks fly across the drums, your eyes momentarily scan the crowd, taking in the faces, the movements, the ecstatic energy. And then, in the flickering club lights, you spot her // …or the one where you find Wanda in the crowd during your band's gig, only to discover there's much more to her than you initially thought.

Word count: 5.2K+ | Tags: Smut (18+), Fluff, Oral and fingering (W receiving), Squirting, Overstimulation, Meet-cute, Drummer!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Requested by anon. I got carried a way for a bit and took a few liberties. Hope you like it!

You almost didn’t make it for tonight’s gig.

Still recovering from the flu you caught last week, you were close to letting Kate fill in on the drums. That is, until Yelena begged you not to let her girlfriend botch a sold-out evening.

The tension backstage is thicker than Bucky’s pre-show smoothie, and, given the mishmash of green ingredients, that's saying something.

“I'm just saying, letting Kate drum tonight is like giving a cat a keyboard and expecting Bonham,” Yelena says, gesturing wildly with her hands.

“Continue talking and you might not have a girlfriend by the end of your next sentence!” Kate huffs, spinning on her heel to stomp out of the area.

You sip on your water, trying to keep your hydration levels up but also stifle a chuckle. This isn’t the first time Yelena’s protective streak has clashed with Kate's overenthusiastic approach to... well, everything. Natasha is trying, and failing, to keep a straight face, while Bucky seems to have found sudden interest in the intricate patterns on his boots.

Your head is throbbing, the remnants of the flu still gnawing at your energy, but you've mustered up just enough strength to make it through tonight's set. Before Yelena or any other band member can comment further, the organizer gestures for your band to take the stage.

You take a deep breath, followed by another swig of water. It's almost showtime, and the excitement is seeping through the nerves, reminding you why you endure the endless rehearsals, sleepless nights, and yes, even the pre-show squabbles.

As you step onto the stage, the applause is deafening. The lights illuminate the sea of faces before you, and you can see the familiar glint of excitement in the eyes of returning fans mixed with the curious expressions of first-timers.

Bucky approaches the mic, flashing his signature charming smile at the crowd. “Good evening, everyone! We’re ecstatic to see so many familiar faces and new ones too! We've got a great set for you tonight, but before we start, let's give a big shoutout to Y/N here, who's powering through the flu to be with us tonight!” The crowd roars in appreciation, and you can't help but wave sheepishly, a tentative smile stretching across your face.

Natasha strums the opening chords of the first song, her fingers dancing effortlessly over the strings. Yelena, momentarily forgetting her earlier spat with Kate, loses herself in the rhythm, the bassline syncing perfectly with your drumbeat. The music flows, each note hitting the right spots, the synergy between band members mesmerizing the audience.

As your sticks fly across the drums, your eyes momentarily scan the crowd, taking in the faces, the movements, the ecstatic energy.

And then, in the flickering club lights, you spot her.

There's a brunette, her hair cascading down, dancing like she was born for this exact moment. The way she sways and lets loose to the rhythm—it's captivating.

But it's when she turns around that your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. Her eyes meet yours, and the world seems to slow down for a moment. Those intense, deep-set eyes pull you in, making it impossible to look away. They're filled with an emotion that's hard to pinpoint: intrigue, curiosity, maybe even a hint of challenge. The message is clear—she's noticed you, just as much as you've noticed her.

She doesn't break the gaze, and as her hips move in tune with your beats, there's a silent communication happening. Your hands, despite the rising temperature of the room, feel cold against the drumsticks. It's a battle to maintain your rhythm and not lose yourself under her spell.

Natasha, catching the look on your face, leans in during a brief instrumental break. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you reply, attempting to refocus. Your distraction had almost caused you to miss a beat or two.

Your eyes are locked onto the brunette once more as she starts grinding against her friend, her movements confident, sultry, and unapologetically magnetic. It's the sort of dancing that would have any person within the perimeter drooling on the spot. Usually, you'd shy away from openly watching someone move so suggestively, but you find yourself completely mesmerized.

As the next song kicks off, you throw in some extra flash on the drums, just to see if she'll play along. And sure enough, with every fancy beat you drop, she dances right to it. It's like you're both in this unspoken challenge, seeing who can outdo the other. Your fingers grip the drumsticks tighter, and you can feel the heat rising on your face.

That's when Natasha glances in the same direction and catches on. “Well, well, looks like someone's got a fan,” she murmurs with a wink, her voice barely audible over the booming speakers.

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool, but the dryness in your mouth betrays your nonchalance. “Just playing my part,” you quip, though you're keenly aware that your concentration tonight is split between the drums and the mesmerizing dancer.

Yelena, following the exchange between you and Natasha, leans in from the bass guitar, raising an eyebrow. “Who's got you all hot and bothered?”

“Shut up, Yel,” you retort. With cheeks aflame, you try to shove Yelena’s teasing aside, to focus solely on the music coursing through your veins. However, the allure of the brunette is a magnet you can’t seem to resist.

As the beat picks up, so does the pace of your heart, hammering against your chest with every enthralling movement she makes. She is intoxicating, and you’re utterly spellbound.

During the bridge, you hit a sour note—a misstep that rarely happens—and Bucky gives you a dirty look from across the stage. He’s a perfectionist when it comes to the music, and you mouth a silent “sorry” before forcing your eyes away from the captivating sight in the crowd.

But not before catching her reaction.

She's laughing, her eyes alight with impishness, and you'd swear she's looking right at you. There's a knowing smile on her lips that suggests she knows exactly the effect she’s had on you. It’s both mortifying and exhilarating.

You try to keep to the side, hiding behind cymbals and drums, but it's impossible to shake the sensation of being observed. It's like she's got a spotlight aimed right at you, and you're center stage. Every moment you resist looking her way feels like an eternity, but every time you feel the pull to glance in her direction, Yelena’s earlier tease flares in your mind, keeping your eyes stubbornly on Bucky’s flashy shoes.

As the last song fades and the applause rolls in, you set down your drumsticks, nerves and excitement warring within you. You don't hang around for Bucky's wrap-up speech. Instead, you hustle to get backstage.

To everyone's shock, you decide to stick around after the gig. You're usually the most introverted one in the group and never do this.

Natasha sidles up to you, a teasing smirk on her lips. “So, about that girl you couldn't take your eyes off of...?”

You attempt to play it cool, but your nervous fidgeting with your drumsticks gives you away. “What girl?” you ask, feigning ignorance.

Bucky snorts in amusement, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “The one you were practically eye-fucking the entire set? Thought you were gonna jump off stage and grab her right there.”

You're now the shade of a ripe tomato, desperately searching for a diversion. “You guys are seeing things,” you mumble, avoiding their amused gazes.

“Honestly, I was half-expecting her to throw a bra onstage or something, the way you were gawking,” Yelena chirps in.

“Enough,” you protest weakly, your voice drowned out by the laughter of your bandmates.

Just as you're about to slip away to the bar for a breather, a waiter approaches you with a drink in hand. “Compliments of the lady over there,” he says, nodding towards a dim corner of the club.

You peer in the direction he's indicating but can't make out who it's from. The drink looks fancy, possibly alcoholic. Glancing at the waiter, you inform him, “I can't drink alcohol right now, but thank you.”

Natasha snatches it from the tray. “Well, if you're not taking it, it's mine.”

Bucky laughs. “Is everyone in this club trying to woo our drummer tonight?”

You roll your eyes at them, trying not to dwell on the mystery woman. However, it's not long before the same waiter returns, this time holding a simple glass of lemonade. “The lady noticed you weren’t drinking the cocktails and thought you might prefer this.”

Your curiosity almost gets the better of you, but the memories of the striking brunette dancing to your beats earlier still linger fresh in your mind. You opt not to scour the club's corners to spot who's sending the drinks. Instead, you lift the lemonade in a thankful gesture, aiming it in the general direction of where the waiter had pointed, and offer a polite, appreciative smile into the dim.

Natasha teases, “Playing hard to get, huh?”

You shrug and take a sip from your drink. “Just soaking in the night and the rewards of our hard work,” you remark, patting the pocket where you tucked away the cash from tonight's gig. “Isn't that what we're here for?”

An hour later, the club's neon and strobe lights continue to play tricks on your eyes, turning every brunette head you spot into a potential sighting. Each time, however, it’s not her.

Bucky's animated conversation about a new track he's been working on fades into the background. Natasha keeps throwing you knowing glances, but doesn't press. It's Yelena who finally comments, probably having had enough of your desolate puppy-dog look. She nudges you with her elbow, Kate giggling drunkenly by her side. Yelena's arm is protectively around Kate, but her sharp gaze is all on you.

“You know, you won't find her by just sulking here and gazing at every brunette that walks past. You gotta move,” she challenges, her tone equal parts bored and encouraging.

Kate, in her slightly inebriated state, adds with a giggle, “Yeah, go get her, tiger!”

“It's not that easy, you know,” you sigh, brooding over your drink. “Plus, what if she's not even interested?”

Yelena's smirk is almost predatory. “From what I saw? Trust me, she's interested. Now go.”

With a resigned sigh, you push yourself up from the booth. Steeling yourself, you start weaving your way through the crowd, using your slightly sober advantage to maneuver past intoxicated dancers. You scan every corner and table as you walk past, even though there's a nagging feeling in your gut that she might have already left the club.

It’s after what feels like an eternity that you spot a familiar cascade of brunette locks by the bar. She’s engaged in what appears to be an animated conversation with a tall, equally striking man. However, her posture—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes darting around—suggests that she’s far from comfortable.

The protective instinct kicks in before you can talk yourself out of it. Closing the distance, you position yourself between her and the persistent guy, offering her a way out. “Hey there,” you say, smoothly, your voice loud enough to be heard over the clamor. “I've been looking for you. Sorry I'm late.”

She catches on immediately, her relief evident as she steps closer to you, away from the guy. “There you are! I was starting to worry,” she plays along, giving you a swift kiss on the cheeks that has your eyes widening for a second and breaking character. Thankfully, the guy doesn’t notice your blunder, and sensing he's lost this battle, scowls and retreats into the crowd.

Turning to her, you can't help the grin that finds its way to your face. “Sorry for that, I wanted to help, but I didn’t also want to cause any trouble.”

She smiles back, her eyes gleaming in the club lights. “Thank you for the save. I was about to resort to more drastic measures.”

The banter between you flows naturally, the awkward ice broken by the unusual circumstance of your first interaction. “I'm Y/N,” you offer, extending a hand.

“Wanda,” she says, taking your hand. Her grip is firm and her hand warm against yours. It sends a jolt of electricity up your arm. Only now do you notice her eyes, the shade of green in them, and the way they reveal so much yet nothing at all. Just like that, you fall a little deeper into her trap.

“Wanda,” you repeat, tasting the name on your tongue as if trying it out. Your smile broadens instinctively, and she catches it, her nose scrunching up bashfully.

“What?” she asks.

“Oh, nothing,” you chuckle nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “I just think it's a beautiful name. Fits someone as beautiful as you.”

She blushes, and you can't help but inwardly high five yourself for making her smile like that. She looks away for a moment, trying to hide her smile but fails miserably, and you find it endearing.

“Thank you, Y/N,” she says, her eyes meeting yours once more, a shy smile on her lips.

The night unfolds seamlessly from there. You find a quiet corner away from the crowd, where the music is a distant thump, allowing conversation to flow freely.

“So, when did you start drumming?” Wanda asks, leaning in a bit, genuinely seeming interested in your answer. You try your best to stay calm as you feel the heat radiate from her body.

“Believe it or not, I started a bit late, around twelve,” you reply, smiling at the memory of your younger self, awkwardly trying to grasp the drumsticks. “But I played the guitar first, picked it up when I was just five.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Wow, so you're a multi-instrumentalist?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but can't help the proud grin that creeps onto your face. “Something like that. But I mainly stick to drums in the band.”

She tilts her head, her eyes shining with interest. “Why don't you play the guitar for the band then?”

“Natasha's better than me on the guitar. She's got this incredible flair and finesse. I mean, I'm good, but she's... amazing.”

Wanda nods, absorbing the information, “I've heard her play, she really is. But I'm sure you're just as great.”

You laugh, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Then, taking a sip of your drink, you add, “Playing the guitar actually helps a lot when I'm writing our songs.”

“Wait, you write the songs?”

“Most of them,” you confirm, trying to sound as modest as you can be. “It's a collaborative effort, of course. But yeah, having a knowledge of multiple instruments, especially the guitar, helps lay the foundation for many of our tracks.”

Wanda looks at you, clearly impressed. “That's incredible, Y/N. No wonder your music feels so... personal. It's like you're telling a story with every song.”

“You’ve listened to our songs before?” you ask, mildly surprised.

Wanda nods sheepishly, as if caught harboring a guilty secret. “I might have, a few times... I definitely came here tonight to see you guys perform.”

She then places a hand on your knee, and all at once, your throat feels parched. She scoots closer to you, to speak directly into your ear. “I wish I could see you play the guitar for me.”

You swallow hard. Her suggestion has certainly crossed your mind several times throughout the conversation. “Actually,” you begin, trying to steady your voice, “we keep our instruments in the back of the van. If you're interested, I could... play something for you?”

Wanda pulls back slightly to meet your eyes, looking like she wasn’t expecting you to actually agree to give her a private performance. “Really? Now?”

You nod, then stand and extend your hand to her, grinning. “Ready for a show?”

This isn’t exactly the kind of show you had in mind when you led Wanda to the back of the van. But you’re just twenty seconds into the new song you’ve been working on when she grabs your face with both hands and draws you in for a ferocious kiss. It’s a kiss that you haven’t tasted in a while—completely unrestrained.

You're lucky the drum set hasn't been loaded up yet, and with Bucky's keyboard being used by the current band onstage, there's just the right amount of space. Taking advantage, you push Wanda onto her back without breaking away from the kiss.

You pull away just enough to ask, “Are you sure?” while Wanda starts to slide your jacket down your arms.

Wanda nods impatiently, tracing her tongue along the underside of your chin, clearly enjoying the reaction she provokes.

“Was that a yes?” you prod, sitting up. Wanda sighs, albeit a bit irritably, only because you're suddenly out of her reach, before she collects herself enough to answer, “Yes, Y/N, I'm sure.”

“It's just that... I usually don’t do this,” you confess, looking down in embarrassment.

Your heart is pounding so loudly you're sure Wanda can hear it, especially with the way she's studying you intently. You can feel the heat creep up your neck, coloring your cheeks a deep shade of pink. This isn't typically your scene, and you wonder if she's regretting her decision.

But then, with a move that’s smooth and tender, Wanda slides her fingers under your chin, lifting your head to meet her gaze. Her eyes aren't filled with judgment or mockery, but with genuine understanding and something else you can't quite place.

“I find it... sexy,” she murmurs. “It’s refreshing, actually. Everything about you feels genuine. It's rare to find someone not playing games.”

Your eyes widen a fraction. That wasn't the reaction you'd been expecting.

She smirks a little at your expression, that hint of mischief returning. “Did you think admitting you're a little inexperienced would scare me off? If anything, it makes this even more exciting.”

“I'm not exactly 'inexperienced',” you argue with a bashful smile.

Her voice drops to a whisper, making your breath catch, and she inches just a bit closer. “I'm sure about this, Y/N. The back of a van might not be a romantic scene from a movie, but…” she breathes, and then she makes sure you feel every word she’s going to say next being spoken in your ear. “But right now? I swear, I might just go crazy if you don't touch me.”

Her statement stokes the fire between your legs and acting on the pull you feel, you lean in, hesitating just for a fraction of a second before capturing her lips with yours. Wanda lets out a soft, sultry moan as you deepen the kiss, your tongue boldly seeking entrance. She grants it, and you're immediately intoxicated, not just by the taste of the vodka she's been sipping on, but by Wanda herself. The way she feels, the way she responds—it's all consuming.

She tilts her head, granting you better access, and you take the opportunity to explore every inch of her mouth. The gentle tang of the alcohol is present but overshadowed by her own unique flavor, which is even more intoxicating. You can feel her hands resting on your shoulders, fingers gripping you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

Wanda's breath hitches sharply as you confidently take charge. You yank her shirt off in one quick move, and she's laid bare under the soft street lights. Outside, some party is still in full swing, but in here, it's all about the uninhibited hunger between the two of you.

You slip your fingers to the back of her bra, fumbling just a moment before unhooking it, revealing her. Not wasting any time, you dive in, taking her nipple in your mouth, savoring it. The sensation drives her wild, and she arches her back, pushing herself deeper against you with a throaty moan.

Her fingers grip your hair, guiding and sometimes just pulling when she needs more. Every sound she makes, every pull of her fingers, gets you more revved up. It's intense, it's messy, but it's all too real.

As your hands venture lower, you notice her pupils dilate and her breathing grow uneven.

“You still sure?” you whisper, releasing her nipple with a wet pop. She responds with a desperate whine, pressing her hips closer to yours.

“Use your words, baby girl,” you murmur, nipping at her pulse point.

“Yes, yes, yes…” she answers breathlessly. “Please, Y/N.”

Your fingers playfully glide over her entrance, teasing her, “So wet for me,” you marvel, pressing a firm kiss to her neck. Your fingers dip inside her just slightly, pulling back out to further tease her.

“It's too bad I don't have my strap with me,” you groan, grinding against her thigh, letting her feel how turned on you are. “You'd look so pretty, taking it all.”

Her breathing hitches, “God, I wish you had it too.”

Wanda’s whines intensify, a sweet sound of pure desperation, as you suddenly remove your fingers from her. “Why did you—” she starts to complain, but you silence her with a searing kiss.

“I want to see all of you,” you murmur against her lips. Her skirt is the next target, and you fumble with the zipper, eager to remove the barrier between your hands and her skin. However, as you're about to pull down her underwear, a thought strikes you. Looking around the back of the van, you remember how it's been used for hauling equipment, and the floor isn't exactly pristine.

Thinking quickly, you grab your jacket and lay it out beneath her, ensuring she's on a cleaner surface. “Always got to take care of my girl,” you wink at her, trying to lighten the moment.

“Your girl?” Wanda echoes, her eyes half-lidded, a playful smile curling on her lips.

You realize your slip-up a beat too late, but then, her underwear and skirt are swiftly discarded, and she lies there, beautifully exposed to your hungry gaze.

“You're breathtaking,” you whisper in awe.

She flushes under your gaze. “I could say the same for you,” she murmurs, pulling you closer.

Your eyes roam her body, the soft curves and inviting skin, particularly where she's most sensitive. But you've always been one for asking.

“Can I taste you?” The question leaves your lips, whispered against the skin of her inner thigh, making her shiver.

She responds with a needy, “Yes, please,” and bites her bottom lip, arching her hips slightly, as if laying herself bare for your indulgence.

You don't waste any more time. Shuffling down, you position yourself between her legs, the aromatic scent of her arousal filling your senses. Carefully, you part her folds with your fingers, your tongue darting out to collect the first taste. The first touch of your tongue against her wetness draws a sharp inhale from her, followed by a moan that has your ears burning from how shameless it sounds.

Your tongue swirls around her swollen nub, establishing a pattern that has her thighs clenching around your head. “Fucky, right there,” she groans, her hips thrusting up, eager to meet each glide and flick of your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth paired with her whimpers urge you to sneak a hand beneath your jeans, seeking relief for your own building tension.

Her hands tighten in your hair, pulling you closer, almost as if she's trying to mold you to her. “More, right there... Oh, god!” she cries out, providing the exact guidance you need.

Amused by her reactions, you intentionally draw out a slurping sound as your tongue dives deeper, making Wanda retreat, but you abandon your own need for release to grab her ass and pull her back to your mouth.

“Y/N, please, please, I’m—”

“You like that, don't you?” you tease, voice husky with lust. “You sound so pretty when you beg.”

She keens, a desperate sound, her fingers tightening their grip on your hair. You're relentless, enjoying every second of her unraveling, and she's close—so close.

“Are you going to come for me, Wanda?” you growl, lost in the intoxicating taste of her, pressing your tongue deeper, seeking out every intimate spot that makes her body jolt and writhe above you. Her voice breaks into a high-pitched cry, “Y/N! I'm—I'm—” and you feel her climax, her entire body shaking with the force of it, her wetness dripping from your chin down to your throat, drenching you in the process.

Wanda's gasps fill the space as she shudders, the aftershocks of her orgasm leaving her body trembling. A wicked grin spreads across your face as you take in the sight of her, completely spent and vulnerable. She squirms beneath your mouth, trying to escape the onslaught of sensations. “Too much,” she pants, her voice hoarse.

Ignoring her plea, you continue your ministrations, lips and tongue working in tandem, driving her to the brink once more. As you feel her tensing up, preparing to escape your relentless assault, you slip two fingers inside her, feeling the tight clench of her around you. The unexpected intrusion steals her breath and the fight from her limbs, her resistance melting under your touch.

“You want more, don't you?” you murmur before your lips find her clit again.

The van is starting to smell like sex. You know you'll have to do something about this later, but for now, you can't bring yourself to care as you take in every detail of the naked girl before you. The pleasure is almost overwhelming for Wanda, teetering on the edge of pain, but she feels another climax building deep inside her.

“Y/N!” she cries, her grip on your hair tightening, her back arching. “I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum!”

You don't stop, doubling your efforts, fingers and tongue working in sync, driving her up and beyond any point she's ever known. Suddenly, there's a gush, wetter and warmer than before, surprising you both. You pull back slightly, and she looks down, mortified. Her face turns a deep shade of red, and she tries to squirm out from beneath you.

“I'm so sorry... I—” Wanda stammers, scrambling to hide her face in her hands.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smirk forming on your lips. “Wanda, that was... incredibly hot.”

She looks away, still trying to process what just happened. “I didn’t... I've never...”

Sitting up, you gently cup her face, making her look at you. “Hey, it’s alright,” you say softly, trying to reassure her. “Don't be embarrassed. I'm honored that you felt comfortable enough with me to let go completely.”

She gives a shaky laugh, her fingers lightly tracing circles on your chest. “I can't believe you made me do that on the first try.”

“And I’m extremely lucky to be able to,” you say with a chuckle, gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face.

She blushes for a moment, then says, “I noticed you didn’t... you know. Do you want me to...?”

“Next time,” you promise, pressing a tender kiss on her forehead. “Right now, I need to make sure this van doesn’t end up as evidence of our... activities.” You wink, earning a soft giggle from her.

“Besides, I have to admit, I thoroughly enjoyed watching you fall apart because of me,” you add, mischievously wetting your lips.

She blushes, playfully swatting at your arm. “You're impossible.”

You were the first to step out of the van, offering Wanda a moment of privacy to get dressed. When she finally emerges, she leans on you for support. “I can't feel my legs,” she jokes, struggling a bit. She hands you your jacket which you'd forgotten, helping you slip it on. Immediately, the scent of her hits you, reminding you that she had climaxed twice on that very fabric.

Before you can dwell on the thought, a man approaches Wanda. It’s the same guy from earlier, the one she was arguing with at the bar. You instinctively square your shoulders, ready to step in between them, protectively, but Wanda halts you with a hand on your chest.

“Pietro!” Wanda exclaims, letting out an exasperated sigh as she utters her brother's name. You halt, puzzled.

She knows this guy?

Pietro looks at Wanda, then at you, his eyes narrowing for a moment. “You ready to go, Wanda?” he asks, clearly impatient.

She turns to you, giving you a soft, apologetic smile. “Y/N, this is my brother, Pietro.”

You swallow dryly, offering a somewhat clammy hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Pietro just eyes your hand, perhaps connecting the dots from earlier. Feeling like an idiot, you quickly pull your hand back, subtly rubbing it against your pants. He departs without another word, muttering to Wanda, “I'll be in the car. Don't keep me waiting too long.”

Wanda watches Pietro go, her smile fading a bit. Turning back to you, she takes a deep breath. “Okay, so, about earlier,” she starts, biting her lower lip nervously. “I might have, um... staged that whole fight thing to get your attention. He wasn’t too thrilled about the idea, but he played along.” Her eyes dart to the ground, avoiding your gaze.

You blink, processing her confession. Before you can come up with any coherent response, she giggles at the dumbfounded expression on your face. “I really have to go,” she says.

And then, before you can react, she plants a featherlight kiss on your cheek. The warmth of it lingers on your skin as she steps back, her eyes holding yours for a long, sweet moment.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes glistening under the soft moonlight. “Tonight was... unexpected, but amazing.”

And with that, she turns and hurries off to where Pietro is waiting for her by a parked car. You stand there, feeling the spot on your cheek where her lips touched, watching her until she hops into the car and drives off into the night. It’s only after the car disappears around the bend that you mentally kick yourself for forgetting to ask for her number. With a sigh, you turn back to your van, resigned to cleaning up.

The chill of the night settles in, and when you slip your hands into your jacket pockets, your fingers catch a scrap of paper. It feels out of place, foreign to the usual belongings you stash in there. You pull it out, and to your surprise, it's a receipt. The drinks listed there jog a memory: an alcoholic cocktail offered to you earlier in the night which you politely declined, and the tangy lemonade that followed right after.

Realization dawns on you. Wanda had been orchestrating things all night. You flip the receipt over and your heart skips a beat. Scrawled at the back in a neat, cursive handwriting is her number, accompanied by a simple message: “Call me soon.”

Grinning like a fool, you grab a cloth and some disinfectant from the compartment. Cleaning the back of a van has never felt this satisfying.

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doromoni · 5 months ago

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Clash of Champions | MV1 , LH44

Act 2. Part 6 : The Truth Unraveling

Ships : Max Verstappen x Engineer! Reader, Lewis Hamilton x Engineer! Reader

Genre : Drama, Angst, Romance

Warning : Morally Grey Characters, Manipulation, Blackmail, Swearing

A/N : Rahhhh! I’m so sorry for taking so long to update, forgive me.

Summary : The rivalry between the titans of Formula 1 goes off track and only one will reign victorious.

< Previous Masterlist

Act 2. ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Distinguished, proud, and dignified are words paralleled to the motorhome of Mercedes Amg Petronas F1 team. The team where this era’s champions are bred and trained. It was the model of what a Formula 1 team should be.

However, this is all in the perception of the common fan —a facade carefully built for the media and their sponsors. In reality everything was far from it. Manipulation, deceit, and sketchy dealings are rampant behind closed doors. Rumors and slander come out of that place on the daily. And in the world of Formula 1 when scandals arise, however unjust and cruel — a person is guilty until proven. That was the deal.

All are well aware of such a notion. And when Mercedes had posted an official statement about Y/N L/N’s supposed lawsuit. The entirety of motorsport was in shock and disbelief. Many were convinced about the allegations and had petitioned for your removal from the sport, while the few who had actually known you had stood by your integrity and your character as a person.

In an instant, your years of hard work were put under a microscope and are being devalued to its foundations. Your presence as a woman in motorsports was already a hot matter, and some are only waiting for you to trip. And now they have the opportunity to discredit you.

Inside the motorhome of Mercedes, chatters and whispers littered every corner and every wall. Not one Mercedes employee wasn't talking about the topic of Y/N L/N’s lawsuit. With them insulting your name — most of which are the engineers who were envious of your success. Nevertheless, in the darkness there are some fireflies where they light up the night by a fraction. These are the people who actually directly worked with you… they were not your friends, but they cannot diminish your work as they saw it first hand.

And they were the people who saw the change in Lewis Hamilton upon your departure from the team. They knew that you and Lewis were dating, but they kept it to themselves. They were not blind nor were they stupid, but why should they care? The team was winning, that was all that mattered.

However, when you left and went to Red Bull and became Max Verstappen’s engineer — they watched as Lewis lost himself bit by bit. First came anger and agitation, Lewis was livid inside the motorhome, snapping at everyone and everything. Then day by day every ounce of spark had drained from the driver’s body, leaving a hollow vessel behind. He no longer went out drinking with the team, no more parties and galas, no more women.

Until that one fateful day where everyone was mandated to celebrate in a club chosen by their boss specifically out of nowhere. Lewis was with the other drivers only nursing a single drink in his hand. Up to, late that night when he looked out of it and a girl was in his arms kissing him feverishly. They thought that Lewis was back to his partying playboy personality.

However they were gravely mistaken, as the morning after Lewis was back to the hollow and empty version of himself and he went on racing on autopilot. Another drastic change had happened to Lewis Hamilton that got the team on their toes — Lewis Hamilton was suddenly filled with determination and resolve , for what? They did not know. Not till they heard of the news of the party in Monaco where Y/N L/N had Max Verstappen wrapped around her finger and had made a fool out of their boss.

Lewis came back a man with a purpose, it was as if he was in his rookie years filled with so much resolve and focus to prove himself. And they could only point all of this to one person. The person who turned their motorhome upside down — Y/N L/N.

And so , when they’ve gotten news about the lawsuit, they immediately informed Lewis.

He was already on edge from his loss to Max in the race and he was furious at your exchange of affection with Max on the podium. Lewis was not angry with you. How could he? You were his light.It was his fault for letting you go into the arms of the enemy. He knew that it was his mistake for taking you for granted. Lewis knew that he should’ve loved you and came clean when he had you. You would’ve understood… Lewis knew that you would. He knew you – he was sure of it.

Lewis knew that he should’ve told you the truth and confessed his sins… be he was too ashamed and guilty for what he has done to you. Ultimately, he was terrified that you would never forgive him for what he had agreed to do. He was afraid that you would’ve left when you came to know that his relationship with you was tailored by Toto Wolff. But you had already left him for an entirely different reason.

It was just supposed to be business and nothing more for the British driver but now all things were clouded as he found himself in the clutches of Love itself. Maybe it was his punishment for his selfishness and greed for success. But you cannot blame him for wanting the best for himself– after his father sacrificed so much for his dream. The temptation of Wolff’s words was a trap that he willingly went under.

Date the girl, make her content with what she had and nothing more. Tie her down and make her loyal to him and the team. Make her believe that it was him and her against the world. Keep it a secret so he would still be free.

It was easy to pretend at first– Lewis always thought that Y/N L/N had everything made easy for her. Lewis had despised that you had climbed the ladders so quickly in such a short amount of time… where he had to bear the prejudice, discrimination, bigotry and grudgingly wait, swallowing his pride for so many years at the chance in Formula 1. He hated that the pretty girl had made her way through the system without much of a hiccup.

With the plan in mind, Lewis started with flirting here and there– which Y/N had only prompted back with humor, not showing any true interest. Then came the banter, side jokes, and actually spending time together that ultimately opened the avenue of Lewis to get to know you, proving Lewis wrong of his prejudice against you. He saw himself in you, the pain and struggle that came with not fitting in with the cookie cutter image of Formula 1. Lewis Hamilton had seen your courage, tenacity, and will to prove to everyone that you belonged in the sport. In this you had earned his respect.

The friendship between the two of you bloomed. Lewis eagerly sought for your companionship and conversation, he had found a true friend in you. Then the gifts had started coming in – it was all in good heartedness at first, a true gesture of appreciation. Everything was innocent at first, Lewis had forgotten why he had approached you in the first place. That was till the big boss had reminded him of their agreement and toxified Lewis’ mind yet again – that he needed to prove himself to the world and to the team and all that. Then the flirtings came back and the intention of making Y/N his came back. And this time it was successful, Y/N had shown reciprocation to his advances.

Lewis had officially taken Y/N for himself. Lewis had enjoyed his time with you, all the memories you’ve built together from then forward were authentic and true. Through every ups and downs, you were with him. Without notice, Lewis Hamilton had unknowingly truly fallen for you. His agreement with Toto was the last thing on his mind.

However, that love was not enough to distinguish his desire for greatness. Lewis was still consumed by what the world offered. But everything became real and true way too fast for Lewis when the entry of a young Dutch driver to Formula 1 had happened. Suddenly his reign was shaken and it had clouded his judgment, even towards the person that he had loved. Lewis saw your friendly interactions with Max and he had seen you defend the young driver. In his panic, jealousy, and uncertainty, He had allowed Toto to manipulate him against the very person who had shown him love and care. He had once again allowed someone to poison his mind against you.

Lewis had started to doubt you and your love for him. He allowed the rumors and false accounts on you get to his head. And to his shame, Lewis had believed the stupidest thing that he could’ve thought— that Y/N was causing and conspiring in his fall and loss of the championship.

Lewis had believed that Y/N had betrayed him. He believed Toto’s words and he allowed Toto to demote Y/N. Lewis knew that he chose to believe everyone but the person that had loved him. And this had caused him the person he loved. Y/N had left him.

Regret was short of what Lewis felt. The emotional pain had manifested into pain that he felt on the outside. Lewis had felt pain like no other at the loss of Y/N. But it was a pain that he would choose to go through, if it meant that he finally realized the mistakes that brought pain to his Y/N. He would gladly go through the pain if it meant that he finally realized the depth of his love for the girl he once took for granted.

And He promised to himself that he will get her back and prove himself worthy to Y/N. Lewis Hamilton will take all means necessary to right his wrongs — and it starts within Mercedes, where the root of the problems began. Fuck the championship and the team. He wont let them touch Y/N again.

Exploding with simmering rage, Lewis had found himself in front of Toto Wolff’s office. Not bothering to knock, he had opened the door with a crashing bang not caring if he broke the office door or if everyone heard the commotion.

“WOLFF!! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” The loud shouts of Lewis filled the entire office.

“Calm down and close the damn door, Lewis” there sat behind his office table, a stack of paper in hand — Toto Wolff. The man’s expression was unreadable and cold. Toto knew how to keep his reactions and emotions away from the English champion. Toto Wolff always knew how to control and deal with Lewis Hamilton … until Lewis had fallen for Y/N L/N for real.

Toto can read Lewis Hamilton like an open book— Toto knew what Lewis’ thoughts were before he said them. But when Lewis had started to deviate from the plan, Lewis Hamilton’s priority had shifted. The champion had set his heart on you.

Lewis Hamilton had deviated from the plan. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with the engineer. No, the plan was to date the girl to keep her in Mercedes, be his race engineer and keep her in line.

This was set between Lewis and Toto from when he transferred to the team. From day 1, everything was set in stone. But to Toto Wolff’s vexation, Y/N L/N had always come up on top.

Y/N L/N had turned his golden driver, the key to his success and fortune against him. Lewis Hamilton was no longer the puppet he could control. Just because he fell to the charms of the engineer.

“Shut the fuck up Wolff! Drop the fucking lawsuit on Y/N or I’ll swear I’ll tear this team and your reputation apart” Lewis raged, muscles tensing as he jabbed his finger menacingly at Toto.

***

“Christian what is this about? What is going on?” After you had received the urgent news. You had quickly made your way towards the Red Bull Motorhome.

Your phone was blasted with notifications from all social media platforms. Mercedes had the insolence of posting in the media of something that wasn’t yet to be discussed with you nor Red Bull. You knew that this was another dirty tactic on their part

“They’re suing you and the team for a data and contract breach” Christian had said begrudgingly as he sat back his chair, a hand on the bridge of his nose.

“What? On what grounds?” You asked exasperated as you took a seat in front of Christian’s table.

“Here’s a copy of their claim” Christian gave you a copy of the paper from Mercedes. You flipped through the pages and you couldn’t help but mockingly laugh.

You were being sued on the grounds of sharing information on team and driver strategies to Red Bull and that you didn’t finish your employment contract with them. You could help but think of how desperate and pathetic they could be.

How can they be so petty and think of you cheating just cause they couldn’t win against you.

“Wow, they couldn’t handle the fact that they’re loosing, huh. What did the FIA say?” You once again asked your team principal.

Suddenly the door opened revealing a disheveled Max— who seemed to have ran his way here.

“What the fuck did I hear about a lawsuit?!” Max was hysterical as he made his way into the room.

Christian didn’t mind the Dutch driver as he answered my question.

“They haven’t contacted us yet, but expect that you will be suspended from engineering for Max till end of the season.” A look of sympathy had shown itself on the principal.

“They wouldn’t dare! Y/N is innocent! Just cause they cant swallow their incompetence, they target Y/N?! Cowardly motherfuckers” Max ranted.

They expected you to cower and run for the hills, but this was something you had already planned on them doing. Petty and underhanded actions are Mercedes’ MO and you are prepared for it.

If they wanted to play it this way, then you’ll up them in their own game.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll have your back and we’ll do everything in our power to prove your innocence” Christian had said showing his support. Meanwhile Max was on his phone typing away muttering under his breath that he’ll pay millions for the best lawyer for you.

“Thank you Christian, it’s very much appreciated! Great to know the team has my back. But I think we should fight fire by fire first” you smiled at them menacingly as looks of confusion appeared on them.

“What do you mean, Liebling?” Max questioned

“A counterclaim on Mercedes on the grounds of employee maltreatment and workplace harassment — don’t worry, Nico will testify if needed” You smiled brightly, as if what you said was nothing.

“It will only be fair if we take this to the media as well right? They did start it first” you added.

“That will ruin the reputation of Mercedes… are you sure, y/n? They will be out for blood.” Christian warned.

The pain, humiliation, and mental abuse you’ve experienced in that motorhome, everything they’ve done to you came rushing back.

“They’ve ruined mine and they’re dragging the team into. Its only fair”

“Y/N there are hundreds of employees at Mercedes that will face fire. Are you certainly sure?”

“Mercedes will survive, it’s only the principal and top management that needs total revamping.”

***

Red Bull had just posted their response to Mercedes and all of motorsports was having a field day. All sports news was covering the debacle between the two motor teams.

Your phone was once again lighting up with notifications. And one particular message has gotten your attention that you couldn’t help but reply.

Upon reading the last reply, your heart dropped to your stomach. Should you ask Max?

Max wouldn’t do anything like that right? Max knew what Toto Wolff had done to you… he wouldn’t work with Toto right?

Max knew you detested the man that made your life a living hell. Max would never.

Yeah … he wouldn’t.

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demigod-shenanigans · 1 month ago

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Re: Reyna joining the Hunters and why I think it’s actually really depressing

So for a variety of reasons I’m not a huge fan of Reyna’s arc ending with her joining the Hunters of Artemis. Part of that is rrverse characters should be allowed to be single without joining the eternal celibacy club, but that’s not a problem exclusive to Reyna. I also think handling asexuality in the context of celibacy by choice is… messy by default, especially if it’s your one confirmed ace character.

Beyond that, though, there’s a bunch of context surrounding Reyna’s life and personality that just make that choice seem really sad to me?

I’ll split this into three thematic subsections and put the second and third one under the cut because this got pretty long

Reyna and her sense of duty:

I highly suspect Reyna’s fatal flaw is her sense of duty. This is never explicitly confirmed (because no one except Percy and Annabeth has confirmed fatal flaws), but duty is the theme her entire character revolves around. Basically from birth she’s raised to believe the fate of New Rome lies on her shoulders. A lot of her actions in the books explicitly link back to her sense of duty.

She runs herself ragged trying to find Jason and trying to manage a job made for two people on her own before Son of Neptune.

A lot of her conflict stems from the fact that what is necessary to protect her home (leaving her post and following Jason) inherently clashes with the rules of that home.

Reyna also actively chides others (like Lavinia in ToA) for leaving their posts and not sharing that same sense of duty.

Because of this, like Jason, Reyna is never really able to be a kid.

Joining the Hunters sort of does a good thing in that it allows Reyna to gain some distance specifically from New Rome, which her fate and also a lot of her trauma regarding her upbringing revolves around.

But it doesn’t allow her to be a kid any more than being a praetor at Camp Jupiter did. Potentially less so, actually, seeing as the Hunters are basically always on the move doing something important while at Camp Jupiter you probably have regular days off and a city to visit and relax in always right around the corner.

Reyna lays down one duty and immediately commits herself to the next one. She doesn’t grow and learn that she doesn’t have to carry the fate of the world on her shoulders. She just trades one burden for another.

—————————

Reyna and her emotions:

The timing of Reyna’s choice to join the Hunters seems really off. New Rome is mostly destroyed and just suffered a catastrophic amount of losses. Reyna absolutely has a right to step down as a leader, but this seems like an odd time for her to do it, especially considering she just completely up and leaves instead of at least sticking around to help rebuild her home and then join the Hunters after. As someone so fundamentally defined by her duties and her loyalty to New Rome, why does she spend half a day off-screen and then suddenly decide actually she’ll leave her destroyed home and all those grieving people for someone else to deal with? It just seems really out of character for her.

This begs the question: is Reyna really making that choice because she figured out it’s what she wants, or is it because she can’t deal with what happened? Because looking at all the destruction and attending all the funerals—deaths that happened while she was technically in charge but unable to be present, people she was supposed to protect—reminds her of every way she’s failed her home?

Also, Jason just died.

Jason was Reyna’s best friend for years. He was the first person she allowed herself to grow close to after her sister left her, and very possibly the first person she ever fell in love with. She never properly got to make up with Jason. Very likely they were both afraid to be hurt again. They both thought there’d be time for it later. But there wasn’t. There isn’t. She only got her best friend back in a coffin, and even in death, returning to New Rome (to her) wasn’t Jason’s choice.

Reyna leaves the place where they grew up together, the duties they used to share and all the memories—memories that were just hers, no longer his, since he never properly got them back—two days after she watched his pyre burn.

How much of that is her leaving because she wants to, and how much of it is the fact that she can’t keep her walls up and keep herself going in the place that used to be theirs, where Jason’s ghost is staring back at her at every corner? How much of her leaving is her unwillingness to deal with her grief?

Reyna running away from her feelings is an ongoing theme. It makes sense from a lot of different angles why she’d do it.

She was raised by an abusive father who often turned his feelings (what child Reyna would have seen as “love”, but was primarily paranoia/anger) against her and Hylla.

It’s also addressed directly that Reyna worries if she feels nervous or scared, her emotions will cause the camp to worry as well—her power is quite literally to project her own emotions outward, so if she does that with negative emotions (intentionally or unintentionally), it would cause problems. Suppressing them feels safer. On top of that, in her role as a leader, she has to provide a certain sense of confidence and assurance even when she herself doesn’t feel it.

Joining the Hunters instead of facing those feelings is not exactly a great way to heal in that regard.

————————

Reyna and the weight of Bellona’s prophecy:

As far as we’re aware, Camp Jupiter has faced more threats in the few years Reyna was in charge than it has in centuries. First the Titan war (which Reyna must have arrived partway through, depending on how early the Romans even knew about and were involved in what was happening there), then the war with Gaia, then the Emperors.

And obviously that’s not actually Reyna’s fault—Reyna is, in fact, a huge contributing factor to why these disasters weren’t a lot worse and didn’t claim even more lives. But this is all put on the shoulders of a girl who knows her fate is intricately linked to the legacy of Rome.

A girl who is already convinced that her love is fundamentally destructive and keeps other people from being happy. Her father spent her entire childhood suspicious of Reyna potentially betraying him—and, because she ended up killing him in self-defense, it’s very easy for a traumatized ten year old to internalize that maybe that suspicion was totally warranted. Then Circe’s Island gets destroyed. Then Hylla finds her happiness with the Amazons by leaving Reyna. Then Jason leaves her, seeming so much happier with Piper and Leo than he ever was with her.

Everyone she loves always seems to be happier without her.

So maybe the best thing she can do for New Rome—a home that she loves and that has faced so much destruction in the short time she’s spent there—is to leave.

Maybe the best way to keep New Rome safe (because New Rome’s survival is linked to Hylla and Reyna’s bloodline continuing to exist) is to make herself immortal and preserve it that way. Because, unless Reyna dies in battle, she could live centuries—potentially thousands of years—as a Hunter. She can’t ever properly go back to the home she loved, because that’s not how the Hunters work. But she’s still bound to her fate by her blood. She’s still doing her duty to New Rome by living as long as she can.

It’s not something she can ever be free of.

The worst thing about this is I think Reyna choosing to find a fate for herself outside of New Rome could have actually been a great way to conclude her arc, but god do I wish it was executed differently and actually given proper exploration/space to breathe instead of just resolved by taking her off-screen for a few hours and then sticking her with the group of female warriors that barely gets to have any plot relevance outside of conveniently coming to people’s rescue.

#Reyna is such a great character she deserved to have a proper arc but her ToA appearance especially was such a mess #reyna avila ramirez arellano #Reyna pjo #jason grace #hoo #heroes of olympus #jason and Reyna #ToA #trials of Apollo #the tyrant’s tomb #long post #rr crit

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konigbabe · 1 year ago

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PEACH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader Word count: 1.7k Tags/warnings: no y/n; domestic Satoru Gojo; Gojo being a menace of a boyfriend in public; eventual smut (part V only) Summary: Gojo's an ass man. Part of my JJKS2 writing week; also written after being inspired by @greycaelum's ask.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

It starts off innocently enough.

Even before you’ve got together, Satoru makes it a habit of his own to give your ass an amicable pat for "good luck" or "to bless him". Make it obvious that the young teacher’s rather fond of his fellow teacher’s backside, going as far as openly making up compliments. Spreading heat through your cheeks when his little game of teasing starts.

("Nice derriere, that skirt’s doin’ you wonders," he says, grinning from ear to ear while watching you walking down the hallway with Ijichi, discussing recent curse spirit’s activities.

Your companion’s breath hitches, a blush spreading over his cheeks when you turn around, "what does that mean?")

But you know Satoru too well, and his quirky sense of humor never fails to amuse you; even when you try to keep your face blank whenever he starts talking. Satoru's compliments are akin to a playful serenade. He isn’t holding back; not even in front of his own students.

("Y’know," forearm resting on your shoulder, he leans closer to you, "your tush deserves its own fan club and I'm officially the first member."

You don’t even look at him, rather starring blanky at the fighting students on the field, "Tush?")

II.

As your relationship with Satoru turns intimate and romantic, his playful teasing takes on a new dimension; it becomes a form of worship.

Lying sprawled on the couch, your head cradled by a pillow nestled beneath your chin, you watch the flickering TV screen with a mind adrift, sometimes diverting your gaze to scroll through your phone. Days off are a rarity amongst jujutsu sorcerers. The teachers especially. So you use the day to relax, unwind and let your body mend and rejuvenate after the latest mission.

The tranquil ambiance, however, is fleeting when Satoru returns. Discarding his shoes and jacket with a careless thud, he drops a small paper bag onto the nearest drawer before making a beeline for your relaxed form.

With a wordless playfulness, he plops the full weight of his body onto your back—or more accurately, the back of his head lands snugly on the supple, rounded globes of your butt.

"Satoru," you whine, neck straining as you try to turn around, "you’re way too heavy."

His arm restrains you, slithering around your lower abdomen like a sinuous serpent, fingers kneading the squeezable flesh of your hip. The other hand lands right at the apex of your back thigh, kneading the subtle build before moving upwards on the lower part of your butt.

"Mmh," he huffs, engrossed in massaging your body, too preoccupied to offer a proper response.

You can’t complain either; Satoru is skillful with his fingers, always knowing which spots to apply the right pressure and leaving you in a state of pure relaxation.

"You want me to stop," he asks after a second to which you promptly deny; letting out a contented sigh, prompting a small chuckle from Satoru. "Then I'm glad you're enjoyin’ it," he says, voice carrying a warm sincerity.

III.

The plates clash with each other, sound loud enough to make you think he broke it instead of washing it. A soft, gentle hum swirls around the air as Satoru moves the sponge in circles.

You watch from the arched doorway. Tall, lean frame covering your view of his task, yet the clanking confirms your initial suspicions. Satoru, focused on the chore, wears a well-worn apron over a simple, black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms that move with practiced precision.

Staying in place, you shamelessly marvel at the sight; watching him set another plate in the drying rack. Eyes gliding over the broadness of his shoulder to the contour of his waist, they land on their target.

Simple grey sweatpants, a black ribbon belt holding them in place, hide your target from your eyes. But you know where to aim when you start taking cautious, quiet steps toward Satoru.

The attack is quick. Calculated. The impact of your palm sends a loud slapping sound throughout the kitchen. A lively laugh escapes your lips at the same time Satoru’s head turns to the side, eyes locking yours in a frozen stance.

You take off.

He doesn’t rush. Calmly continuing to hum the song, he finishes the last dish and puts it on the rack. One hand turning the faucet off with a dangerous nonchalance, the other reaches for the washing cloth. Drying his hands and taking the apron off, he turns to where you ran off.

You make it to the stairs before you feel Satoru’s grip on your wrist, firm but playful. Tugs you backward; gentle force turning you around, bending you at the waist. Arm deftly sneaking around your shoulders, locking your arms by your sides as he stands tall by your side.

"You really thought you could get away with this, peach?"

His fingers, long and slender, dance over the small of your back. Barely grazing the surface of your skin over the material of your shirt; tracing a tantalizing path down your body.

As you squirm within his firm however gentle grasp, a soft and brief laugh escapes your lips, a mix of nervousness and delight. "I didn't mean it," you admit jovially, the words imbued with a tinge of mischief, "I didn't know it would lend so perfectly."

"You didn’t know," Satoru chortles, leisurely placing his palm flat upon the rounded curve of your pants-covered butt, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh, exerting a measured pressure as if savoring the feeling, "Think you can win this?"

With that, his hand leaves your body–

"Wait, Satoru," you try to swat him away but his hold over your upper body remains unyielding, steadfast, allowing him to orchestrate the next move, "Gojo!"

–and he delivers the first slap; earning a surprised yelp from you, body jolting forward. The sound of the impact reverberates throughout the open space, accompanied by Satoru’s contagious laughter as he lets you go. Hand supporting your weight, making sure you don’t fall flat on your face, you still end up on the ground.

The skin of your butt stings as you palm the flesh.

"You’re in for it now, Satoru Gojo," with a daring grin, you prepare yourself to retaliate. Not now. But the time will come.

The man in question throws his hands in the air, smiling brightly as he takes a step back, "Oh, I’m scared."

IV.

"We just need some edamame, more pickled ginger, and white miso," you list the items from your phone, taking the lead as you and Satoru both stroll through the aisles. He holds the basket, staying a good step behind you with his gaze focused on your back, a smile playing at the corner of his lips–eliciting a suspicious feeling out of you.

Even with the obsidian-tinted glasses covering his eyes, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze hasn't escaped your perceptive senses. A whisper of suspicion trails through your mind; you know he's scheming something.

As you approach the edamame section, you start searching for the perfect bag, seeking the one with the right plumpness and vibrancy.

But before you can grab one, Satoru unexpectedly announces “butt-five” before springing forward with playful exuberance, the resounding clap of his hand meeting your butt reverberating through the store like a percussion note, commanding the attention of nearby shoppers.

Involuntarily, you release a startled, high-pitched yelp—a symphony of surprise and embarrassment entwined. But before any further fallout can unfold, Satoru suppresses the escalating situation, covering your mouth with his warm, large hand, and steering you behind an aisle. Out of sight from curious onlookers.

Holding back his laughter, you feel his chest pressed tightly against your back, vibrating as he silently laughs, palm flat against the lower part of your face, muffling the remnants of your outburst.

"Sorry ‘bout that," he manages to stifle his laughter, an undercurrent of amusement still evident in his voice. "Couldn't resist, y’know?"

Through the slight crack between his fingers and your lips, you muster a muffled threat, "I’m gonna kill you.”

He releases his hand, feigning innocence, his eyes wide with mock surprise.

"What?" he questions you, knowing full well the extent of his antics.

"You’re a dead man walking, Satoru Gojo."

Satoru has you in a vice grip; arms encircling the fat of your thighs with unrelenting strength, fingernails making deep crescent moons into your sensitive skin, setting your whole body aflame. Every inch of your being screams for more as you sink into the mattress, burying your face into the pillows to muffle all sounds of pleasure his mouth is drawing out of you.

He’s merciless. Relentless. Ruthless.

Tongue teasing your soaked slit, lapping hungrily at you like a man starved. The tip of his nose gleaming with your juices as he expertly fucks his tongue inside of you.

In and out. Going as deep as the position allows him.

Pulling your body more into him, burying his face into you; so close that it seems as if he wishes to be swallowed by your cunt whole.

You can barely concentrate before he pulls away; especially when another wave of pleasure washes over you. Wet lips worshipping your hungry bud, thin strands of wetness glistening around it, something he greedily laps up before moving upwards. His wet tongue leaves trails of fire along the fleshy swell of your ass, teeth soon following suit as they bite lightly into the plump globes.

Satoru nibbles at the flesh, one hand sneaking back between your legs to cup your sex, tease the entrance with his fingertip, collecting the wetness before pushing in two fingers. He fills you up, soon adds another finger as his mouth continues its sweet assault on your ass.

"Could eat this ass any day–"

He drives his fingers in and out of you. Fast and unrelenting; massaging your walls while making you gasp as he moves his mouth down, licking and biting at your back thighs before concentrating back on your asscheeks.

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coolemmasulivan2 · 5 months ago

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Rewinding Us | 1

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reader

Summary: You and Mason built a love story over five years, but after an accident, your memories are wiped away, including any feelings for your constant bickering "rival". Can you remember your love story with Mason, or will you have to start all over?

Word Count: 3613

You can read more chapters here.

Isn't it strange How people can change From strangers to friends Friends into lovers And strangers again?

Mason's laughter echoed across the bar area, as he leaned into a conversation with a blonde woman. Her vibrant red dress seemed to draw all the light from the sun, and the way she tilted her head towards him spoke volumes. A tingling of unfamiliar anger flared in your chest.

Eight years ago, mutual friends introduced you to Mason. Everyone predicted sparks would fly, but instead, you and Mason clashed constantly. Conversation with him often devolved into playful jabs that sometimes turned into full-blown arguments.

Then, the accident happened and something changed. Well… everything seemed to have changed.

You were on your way home from a draining workday when a drunk driver slammed into your car at a red light. The impact was brutal, leaving you in a coma for days. When you finally opened your eyes, your memories were fractured, stuck five years in the past.

The amnesia was a cruel joke. Five years vanished, leaving a hole in your life. Everywhere you turned, there was evidence of a life you couldn't recall: a new job you didn't choose, friends you couldn't place, a house that felt foreign. Most unsettling were the unfamiliar feelings stirring within you. Those weird and unfamiliar feelings.

"Who's that?" Ben asked, taking a swig of his almost empty beer.

"I don't know." You mumbled, your gaze glued to the pair.

"She's definitely something else!" Ben smirked.

"She's nothing special!" You snapped, the words leaving your mouth a little too quickly. Heat crept up your cheeks, and you looked away hoping Ben hadn't noticed.

"Jealous much?" He teased.

You scoffed. "Jealous? Please. She's most likely after his fame." Your voice lacked conviction even to your own ears.

Across the room, Mason felt a familiar warmth bloom in his chest despite the woman's flirtatious banter. He only had eyes for you, even if you didn't remember the five years you'd spent tangled up in his life as his girlfriend. Just then, the bartender placed their drinks down, and Mason took his leave with a polite excuse.

"Who was that?" Ben nudged him as he sat back down.

Mason took a long pull from his beer, the bitterness mirroring the emotions churning in his gut. "Just a fan."

"Fan, huh? Looked more like a starving woman from the way she was eyeing you up." Ben's gaze flicked to you, a thoughtful frown creasing his forehead. "Speaking of, Y/n wasn't exactly thrilled with the view."

"What?"

On the dance floor, you laughed with Charlotte, your head thrown back in carefree joy as you moved along the music. The sight sent a jolt through him. Seeing you happy made him happy.

"Maybe that's a good thing, right?" Mason said. "Means she still cares about me, even without the memories."

"There's only one way to find out." Chimed in Benny, sliding onto the club sofa beside them. "Kiss her!"

The air crackled with tension. A knot formed in Mason's stomach. Was he right? Was there even a chance you'd feel the same if he kissed you? Or would you slap him just like the first time five years ago?

"What if it doesn't work?" Mason asked.

"At least then you know."

Reece whistled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. It was a stupid prank. Mason knew it was ridiculous. The locker room pranks were a highlight of the day, a chance to goof around with the team. But this time, a knot of dread formed in his stomach.

"Seriously?" Mason's voice was tired.

"Don't be a pussy, Mason!" Reece nudged him. "It's just a kiss. A peck, really. It doesn't need to be a French kiss." The other guys burst into laughter.

Mason gave Reece a dreadful look. "Why her?" His voice was a low growl. "I'll do it with anyone else."

Christian slung an arm around Mason's shoulder. "Come on, man. Where's your sense of adventure? It wouldn't be any fun with someone else." Mason rolled his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"She'll be at the birthday party tonight! It's your opportunity." Reece pushed, a sly grin spreading across his face. "You know the consequence if you back out."

"What was that about?" Charlotte asked softly, noticing your expression.

"Nothing!" You sighed, forcing a smile.

"It looked like something." She pressed gently. "You looked like you were ready to march over there and claim him as your territory." Charlotte exclaimed, her voice laced with a hint of amusement.

You let out a frustrated sigh. "Ugh, don't be ridiculous." You scoffed, but it lacked conviction. The truth was, the sight of Mason laughing with another woman had sparked a flicker of something unexpected in your chest.

"Maybe you're just reacting strangely because of, well…" Charlotte trailed off, gesturing vaguely towards your head.

You clenched your jaw, a flicker of frustration crossing your features. The accident had robbed you of so much, leaving you adrift in a sea of unknowns. Lately, though, especially around Mason, there were these… moments. Flashes of emotions you couldn't quite place.

"Look, I don't know what's going on in my head, but it doesn't mean I like him. We… didn't exactly get along, remember?" You trailed off, unsure how to describe your past with Mason.

Charlotte was bursting to tell you the truth, the truth about your feelings for Mason and his for you. Your relationship was no secret. Everyone knew. Everyone except you.

"I'm not saying there's something there." She hedged. "But maybe there's a spark you haven't noticed."

You scoffed, shaking your head for emphasis and taking a large sip of your drink. "No way! I never have and never will. He's just another stuck-up jock with a silver spoon up his—"

Charlotte cut you off with a pointed look. "Isn't that most of your guy friends?"

You stuttered, the truth hitting you like a cold shower. Charlotte was right. Football players were your usual crowd, and that's how you met Mason in the first place. But there was just something about him, something that had rubbed you the wrong way since the beginning.

"He's different."

Charlotte smirked. "Yes, he is." She muttered.

"Last night, I thought about looking him up on Google." You blurted out, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. Charlotte's eyes widened in pure panic.

"You what?" She gasped.

"I don't even know why." You admitted, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. "I just started thinking about him, and the next thing I knew, I was typing his name into Google. Thankfully, I realised what I was doing and deleted it before I hit enter."

The internet was flooded with numerous photos of you and him, making it evident that your relationship with him had evolved into something more over the years.

"Don't google him! Just talk to him." Charlotte said. "Just because you can't recall the last five years doesn't mean your relationship with him has to remain the same as you remember, with constant arguments."

You tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear and glanced back. Mason was already looking at you, but he quickly looked away when you caught him.

The clean, white walls blurred as a dull ache throbbed behind your eyes. A rhythmic beeping filled the air, and panic clawed at your throat, a soundless scream trapped in your chest.

Two blurry familiar figures materialized beside the bed.

"Easy there!" A deep voice murmured. His face was etched with worry, his familiar blue eyes welling up.

"Mason?" You rasped, your voice rusty and unfamiliar. A hand grasped yours, warm and familiar. "Charlotte?"

"Yeah." He choked out, forcing a smile. "It's us. You're awake."

You tried to piece together the fragments of your shattered mind. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital." Charlotte said, her face etched with worry. "You've been in a coma for a while." The sentence sent a jolt of fear through you, questions tumbling through your mind, unanswered and terrifying. "Do you remember anything?"

You shook your head, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your body. "No."

A tear escaped Charlotte's eye and traced a path down her cheek. "You're okay… You're okay, that's what matters."

You shifted your gaze back to Mason, a question forming on your lips. "What are you doing here?" Your group of friends was the same, but the two of you were not exactly best friends.

The question hung heavy in the air. Mason's face drained of colour, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Wh-- What do you mean?"

"Well, we're not exactly best friends, are we? I never expected you to give up your perfect life to sit in a hospital chair waiting for me to wake up."

At that moment, you saw a flicker of something raw and painful in his eyes. You knew, with a strange certainty, that your question had shattered something inside him.

Charlotte took your hand. "Hey, look at me. What is the last thing you remember?"

You looked at her, confused as to why she was asking you that. But you closed your eyes and made an effort to think about it. "I don't know." You frustrated said. "I remember our trip to Australia."

Charlotte placed a hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp. She looked up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath to compose herself. Mason's reaction mirrored hers. He stood up abruptly and ran a hand through his hair. Only then did you realize he looked older from the last time you saw him.

"Y/n?" You looked at your friend, as she cleared her throat, her voice thick with emotion. "That was five years ago."

Back at the villa, a drunken haze hung heavy in the air. Everyone except Mason, who squirmed nervously as his gaze constantly darted back to you. It wasn't that you were a disaster drunk, but you were unpredictable, and he couldn't bear the thought of not being there if you needed help.

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue. The Mason you "knew" wouldn't have cared if you tripped and fell, let alone offered a hand.

The doctor's words echoed in his head: amnesia, five years vanished. Your story, a typical journey from enemies to lovers, shattered in a blink of an eye. Anger bubbled up inside him and not just for you, but for him too.

"I'm going to bed!" Ben growled, his voice higher than usual.

"I'm hungry. I want cheese!" Charlotte said, grabbing your arm and dragging you towards the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Mason attempted to assist Benny onto the couch. The groan that escaped Benny's lips sounded suspiciously like a death rattle, but when he managed a weak thumbs-up, Mason sighed.

He kicked off his sneakers and slid open the outdoor French doors, letting in a cool breeze. He could hear the sounds of female laughter and the clinking of glasses from the kitchen and he could picture the mess you were creating.

Suddenly, a muffled voice groaned: "Kiss her!"

Mason jolted upright, his eyes landing on Benny, who remained dead on the couch with his eyes shut.

"Dude, I thought you were sleeping!"

"I am!" He said, chuckling.

"Yeah, right." Mason grumbled, hitting Benny's head with a pillow. Benny, ever the drama king, yelped and sat up, clutching his head and muttering a curse or two.

You and Charlotte emerged from the kitchen, each sporting a triumphant grin and a sandwich. "Hungry, boys?" Charlotte asked, raising an eyebrow.

Benny eyed the sandwich with the intensity of a starving man, but after a groan that seemed to emanate from the depths of his stomach, most likely from the alcohol, he declined. Mason, too, shook his head, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features as he watched you laughing with Charlotte while sitting by the pool and eating a sandwich at three in the morning.

With a mumbled goodbye, Mason hoisted a groaning Benny to his feet and guided him up the stairs. Helping his friends into bed, Mason felt the day's weight finally lift from his body. But as he caught another glimpse of you through his bedroom window, a different tension settled in his chest. How was he supposed to act around you now? The girl he loved but doesn't even remember him like that?

"You always need to have the final word, don't you?" Mason growled, his voice laced with annoyance. You shot him a glare.

"Because you're so much better, Mr. Perfect?" You retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mason threw his hands up in exasperation. "Will you just shut up?" He groaned, the frustration evident on his face.

You crossed your arms over your chest, ready to fire back another insult, but before you could utter a word, Declan beat you to it.

"Would you two stop fighting for two seconds?" He pleaded, his voice strained. You glanced at him, his face flushed with annoyance.

"He started it!" You muttered, pointing an accusing finger at Mason.

Mason scoffed, his jaw clenched. "Me? You're the one who couldn't just let it go."

Lauren, seated beside Declan, reached over and squeezed his shoulder, her touch calming the tension radiating from him. She threw a helpless look between you and Mason, a silent plea for you both to act like mature adults. But as usual, you couldn't.

Exhaustion finally settled over Charlotte, her giggles fading into soft snores as she drifted off on the lounge chair. You watched her for a moment, jealous of her sleep escape. With a sigh, you pushed yourself up from the chair and slowly walked around the pool's edge.

Each step felt heavy. It was always when you were alone with your thoughts that the blank space where memories should be frustrated you the most. Friends, family, lovers – who knew who you'd lost in that time? The doctors were optimistic, suggesting the amnesia might be temporary, but the not knowing worried you.

As you stepped forward, you didn't see where you were placing your bare foot and a surprised yelp escaped your lips. You closed your eyes ready to embrace the cold water but before you knew it, a strong hand grabbed your arm, pulling you back with surprising ease. You landed against Mason's chest, his familiar scent washing over you.

His scent is so familiar, you thought to yourself.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. You looked up into his eyes, seeing a flicker of worry and something else that made your breath hitch. You both leaned in, the unspoken feelings and longing hanging heavy in the air.

Then, you remembered who he was. "Take your hands off, Mount!" You mumbled, pushing away from him a little too forcefully.

Mason's playful grin faded. "Are you sure you want that?" He challenged, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Yes!" You said, trying to sound tougher than you felt.

He held his gaze for a second longer, then quickly released his grip. You took a triumphant step back and before you could react, you were falling backwards.

Panic. A scream ripped from your throat as you plummeted towards the cold water. A strong arm wrapped around your waist just in time. Mason pulled you back against him with a grunt, his grip firm and protective.

"That's what I thought." He smirked, a hint of concern lingering in his voice.

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. The hand that held your waist felt imprinted onto your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your eyes drifted down, drawn to his lips, something you don't remember noticing before. A strange urge buzzed through you. Maybe it was the disorientation, but before you knew it, you were both leaning in.

"What's happening?" Charlotte called out, rubbing her blurry eyes, her voice laced with concern. Both you and Mason jolted apart, a blush creeping up your neck. The tension slowly drained away, replaced by a cold jolt of reality.

"Nothing!" You stuttered, forcing a smile at Charlotte. "Just a little clumsy." Feeling awkward and desperate to break the tension, you blurted out, "Uh, I think I'm going to bed… Goodnight!" Without another word, you turned and fled inside the house.

Charlotte saw you entering the house, and then her gaze flicked to Mason, who was now staring intently at the pool. A slow realization dawned on her face.

"Oh no!" She drawled, her voice filled with despair. "Did I interrupt something?"

The music pulsed through the air, a relentless bass beat vibrating in Mason's chest. Sarah's birthday celebration was a joyful gathering, filled with laughter and people swaying to the music. His eyes, however, were trained on you, across the room, lost in conversation with a group of girls, your laugh ringing in the air.

Every muscle in Mason's body screamed in agony. This was a terrible idea, a prank gone way too far, but the memory of Reece's ultimatum and the relentless teasing he'd face if he backed out helped him gain courage. He took a deep breath and a long sip of his beer.

He navigated the crowded room, dodging spilled drinks. As he drew closer, he could see the happiness on your face, the way your eyes sparkled with joy. He was close enough now to hear part of your conversation, making you throw your head back and laugh. The sound of your laughter did something strange to him. Something different and new.

Taking a final breath, he stopped in front of you and your smile faded as his shadow loomed over you.

"What do you want, Mason?" You asked, annoyance lacing your voice.

He shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Just, wanted to say hi."

You raised an eyebrow. "Right… Because that's something you normally do."

He ran his hand over his hair, avoiding your gaze. "Look, can we just talk for a second?"

You hesitated, your friends giving you curious looks. Finally, you sighed. "Fine. But make it quick." You stepped away from the group and into a quieter corner of the room. "What?" You hissed.

"Just…" He mumbled, looking like he was about to swallow his tongue. "This!"

Before you could react, he closed the gap between you, pressing his lips against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks. It wasn't gentle, more like a surprise attack. Your eyes flew open, and your first instinct was to shove him away, but for some reason, you didn't. Maybe it was the shock, but you found yourself frozen.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it ended. You jerked your head back, a look of pure fury on your face.

"What the fuck was that?" You yelled, slapping him hard across the face, the sound loud enough to cause the closest heads to turn your way.

Mason stumbled back, hand flying to his cheek, a perplexed look on his face. "Wow! Okay, bad idea!"

You glared at him, your chest heaving. "The worst idea ever, Mount. The absolute worst." Spinning on your heel, you stormed back to your friends, leaving a stunned Mason, replaying the heat of the kiss and the unexpected spark running through his body.

You bolted upright in bed, the sheets tangled around you. The dream was vivid and confusing. The taste of Mason's lips, the anger, the heat – it all felt real.

Before you could even think about it, you were out of bed, fueled by a restless energy and a burning need for answers. You stormed down the hallway, the silence broken only by your pounding heart and fast footsteps. Mason's bedroom door was shut, but that didn't stop you as you opened it.

Mason was sprawled across his bed, his bare chest at display. The dim glow of moonlight fell across his face, highlighting the peaceful lines of his sleep.

"Mason!" You called, hitting his leg under the sheet to wake him up. "Mount, wake up!" He jolted upright, his eyes wide with surprise.

"What the hell, Y/N?" He said, his voice thick with sleep.

"Why did you kissed me?" You demanded, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and confusion. He blinked, trying to focus on what you were saying. "Did you thought it was a good idea? Did you had fun?"

"Wha-- what are you talking about? Slow down." He mumbled, his brain struggling to catch up.

"Don't play dumb!" You hissed. "Sarah's birthday party, remember? Years ago! You… kissed me!" You gestured wildly with your hands. "Was it a joke? Was I just some random target?"

Mason finally seemed to grasp the situation. He rubbed his eyes wearily. "Y/N, slow down. Please!" He sat down, leaning against the headboard. You were finally remembering something.

"Slow down?" You shouted, incredulous. Your frustration boiled over, and you hit him lightly on the chest. "I woke you up because you're confusing! One minute you're arguing with me, the next you're… invading my personal space!"

"Hey!" He protested, catching your wrists and pulling you down on the bed next to him. "Whoa, calm down. You're gonna wake up the whole house." He held your gaze, his voice softer now.

You glared at him, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Let go of me, Mount!" You snapped. The memory of the kiss, the way your body had reacted despite your initial resistance, felt like a betrayal. "I hate you!" You mumbled.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your face. "Do you really, Y/N?" His voice was a low murmur, sending shivers down your spine. You could feel the heat radiating from him.

The anger you felt was fading fast, replaced by a confusing mix of emotions. Did you actually hated him?

#mason mount fluff #mason mount imagines #mason mount x reader #mason mount imagine #mason mount #mm7 #footballer imagine #footballer x reader #Rewinding Us

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stelly38 · 2 months ago

Text

“I can’t remember how much bonking I did” —Aidan Turner

With Ross Poldark behind him, the star of Di5ney’s adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s Rivals talks ’80s excess, intimacy coaches and beef brisket.

Here I am, avidly watching the first few episodes of Rivals, the sizzling new Disney+ treatment of Dame Jilly Cooper’s raunchy blockbuster, before my interview with dreamboat-y Aidan Turner, when my 22-year-old daughter walks into the room. “What the actual?” she cries, open-mouthed in horror. “Oh my God! What are they doing?”

I chide her prudishness. “Well, if you must know, Rupert Campbell-Black and a woman he probably just met have reached a shuddering climax on Concorde,” I explain. “Your generation didn’t invent sex, you know, darling – the Mile High Club has been around for…” but it turns out that’s not what’s triggered her.

“These people are SMOKING! On. A. Plane. Who even does that?” Everybody, that’s who. Welcome to the sassy, sexy 1980s, Missy. Double-breasted suits and taffeta skirts, booze, bonking, endless ciggies and hairstyles so fugly (the mullet, for pity’s sake?) as to have recently crept back into fashion. It’s all there: rampant sexism, social climbing and conspicuous consumption, to a banging soundtrack of Eurythmics, Hall & Oates, Haircut 100 and the rest – no idea how The Birdie Song got in there though. Did people really...? Yes, we did. Now run along. From the moment the opening credits roll on Rivals, it’s fair to say we are immersed in a very different, instantly recognisable universe.

I lapped up every transgressive minute. Why, dear readers, the last time I enjoyed a pleasure quite so guilty was when Aidan Turner took off his shirt in… “I’m not here to talk about Poldark,” says Turner very politely, with a fabulously winning white smile, when we meet. So we don’t. At least for a bit. We are here, after all, to discuss his new role in this very different literary classic – and no, ladies, he’s not been cast as the libidinous blaggard Campbell-Black. As if. County Dublin-born Turner, 41, was a shoo-in for dashing Declan O’Hara, the saturnine Irish journalist turned reluctant chat-show host who finds himself at the epicentre of a battle royale in the cut-throat world of independent television. David Tennant plays Corinium TV boss Lord Baddingham, and Alex Hassell’s Rupert Campbell-Black has ascended to the lofty heights of Tory Minister for Sport.

I could try to explain, but that’s about all the primer you need – rest assured that with this high-budget adaptation, even the most loyal of Cooper’s fans will find themselves safe in its (wandering) hands. “Rivals is about the three things that fascinate all of us: sex, power and money,” says Turner. “That trifecta is especially potent when there’s a clash of status and class. Class informs all sorts of things, including the sex, which is sometimes completely transactional on both sides. From the very top to the very bottom of the ladder, everyone’s slightly on the make.”

Speaking of the top and indeed the bottom, the eight-part series employed not one but two intimacy coaches. “They had a lot of intimacy to coach,” confirms Turner breezily. “I think they really improve sex scenes because they encourage creativity and it all looks so much more authentic. There’s a lot of bonking. I want to say I did a lot of bonking – I can’t quite remember how much.”

Declan is very much the dark-eyed, watchful outsider, his integrity as deep-rooted as his humongous moustache – “artist’s own”, remarks Turner. (He speaks in mellifluous Irish tones and uses his own accent to play Declan.) Amid the jostling for supremacy in the first few episodes, Declan’s only crime appears to be wearing mustard socks on air and having sensuous congress with his own wife (played with exquisite brittleness by Victoria Smurfit).

Such uxoriousness appears borderline scandalous in Dame Jilly’s masterfully constructed world of egos, oneupmanship and serial adultery, which signals that despite being a workaholic, Declan is clearly a good ’un – although, to be fair, I have only seen the first three episodes.

“I hadn’t read Rivals before. It seemed very British so it wasn’t really on my radar, but it’s really fun – although later on it descends into something much murkier. I just read the scripts initially and then was really struck by how faithful they were to the book,” says Turner, who is married to the American Succession actor Caitlin FitzGerald, 41. “You get a real sense of the characters in the first 15 or 20 pages and it’s a mark of excellent writing that you feel you already know these people.”

Whether or not you like them is up to you, but it’s absolutely gripping and Turner’s character is right at the heart of the story. “Rivals is a really truthful depiction of an era that in a great many ways was hugely problematic,” says Turner. “It’s not being refracted through a modern lens and some of it is quite shocking, particularly the way women are treated. There’s also endless back-stabbing; Declan is detached, the one who sees what’s going on, and because he’s not from this class-bound world [he] struggles to understand the playbook – but he’s married to a woman who does and that causes tension.”

To research the role of a broadcasting homme sérieux, Turner trawled YouTube to watch hours of Firing Line, the US current-affairs talk show presented by conservative pundit William F Buckley Jr for 33 years. From 1966 to 1999, he verbally sparred with leading figures of the age.

“I felt it was important to look to older shows, the way they were presented and the communication style,” says Turner. “The interviewee would be given time and space to answer questions in full. These days it’s very different; the nearest we have to that now would be podcasts.”

“Once filming started, to be honest I was channelling my dad the whole time. He’s an electrician, not a journalist, but Declan is very like him – the way he carries himself, the tone of his voice, his passion. He feels very Irish and so does Declan.”

For Alexander Lamb, an executive producer on Rivals, finding the right fit for the pivotal character of Declan was crucial. “The very first person we thought about – the very first person we cast – for Rivals was Aidan. He was the lynchpin because he just felt so right; he’s got depth but also such charm and that was exactly what we wanted. A lot of the cast was built around him.” That cast also includes EastEnder Danny Dyer, Katherine Parkinson, best known for The IT Crowd, Emily Atack of Inbetweeners fame, and Claire Rushbrook, who was in the first series of Sherwood. When it came to Turner, Lamb had been impressed by his previous standout roles as a vampire in the supernatural series Being Human and a clinical psychologist in police procedural The Suspect.

“Aidan hadn’t played sexy-dad-with-teenagers or an intellectual journalist before, so that gave the whole thing a freshness. I think there’s a lot to be gained from getting actors out of their comfort zones,” observes Lamb. “I’ve never really worked with an actor before who was so conscious of his performance. He would come back behind the camera to see if he could improve on what he’d done.” Dame Jilly, adds Lamb, needed no persuasion in casting Turner. “It did not escape her just how good-looking Mr. Aidan Turner was. Let’s just say she became quite the fan.” Turner responds in kind, with unalloyed admiration. “Jilly is so sharp, perceptive and really funny – she’s very kind, but as she was seeing the daily and the weekly rushes I am quite certain that if she hadn’t liked what any of us were doing, she would have told us very swiftly.”

Later, he quietly relates a telling conversation with Cooper at a garden party held at her Gloucestershire gaff (to call it a pile would be too excessive, to call it a house too modest), one summer evening last year, after filming. “I remember a surreal moment when she took me by the arm and led me around the garden, pointing out the place where she would write and how she would look over the valley,” he says. “And then she pointed out the houses where her nearest neighbours and friends lived and said, ‘This is Declan O’Hara’s house, and that one’s Tony’s house,’ and explained how she would visualise the world of Rivals. It was a very special moment.” How magical, I say. He nods very slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching, eyes crinkling at the preciousness of the memory. He’s so unabashedly soulful, I almost have to look away. And so, to business: is Turner really as handsome as they say? Hmm. Maybe that’s what strikes you first but, in truth, it’s the least interesting thing about him.

Born in Clondalkin, a town outside Dublin, before the family moved to a suburb of the city, Turner admits he was never academically inclined. With a low boredom threshold, he struggled to concentrate at school, but when his accountant mother took him along to dance classes, he excelled; he went on to compete in ballroom dancing at national level, but lost momentum.

There was a stint working as an electrician with his father, but it was a job at the local cinema that sparked his interest in acting, entering the Gaiety School of Acting, Ireland’s national theatre school, where he graduated in 2004. After appearing in several theatre productions, including Seán O’Casey’s Easter Rising play The Plough and the Stars, he got his first major television gig in 2008 in the Irish hospital drama The Clinic.

“I was a lowly receptionist and Victoria Smurfit, who is my wife in Rivals, was a consultant,” he smiles. “Let’s just say we didn’t have a huge number of scenes together back then, so it’s great to catch up now.” Soon the BBC beckoned and he was cast as Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood drama Desperate Romantics. The six-parter failed to make a mark, but led to a critically acclaimed role in the comedy-drama Being Human, where he caught the eye of director Sir Peter Jackson, who cast Turner as the dwarf Kili in The Hobbit trilogy between 2012 and 2014.

Various other parts followed, culminating in his award-winning portrayal of Captain Ross Poldark in the 2015 revival of the BBC classic, which ran for five series and made him both a household name and a pin-up among ladies (and interviewers) d’un certain age.

After he was shown scything a field shirtless, a sheen of sweat on his ripped – sorry – torso, the Sunday-night concupiscence became so pronounced that media commentators called out the reverse sexism and denounced the reductive way in which Turner was being treated as a piece of prime meat. A decade on, he still seems mildly baffled, but not ungrateful, for the attention, if loath to dwell on it. “There are worse things to be known for than having a nice physique,” he says, philosophically. “But that was a long time ago and I’ve done a lot of fully clothed work since.” Hilariously, in Rivals, Declan finds himself sharing a schedule with a series called Four Men Went To Mow, featuring a quartet of topless hunks – with scythes. Turner almost leaps off the sofa when I bring it up. “I know! I was reading the script and when I saw the Four Men Went To Mow reference, I assumed someone was deliberately winding me up. Then I realised it was actually in the original book, so I took a deep breath and let it go.”

I can confirm he’s fully dressed for our interview, wearing a mustard top by British menswear brand Oliver Spencer, which he dryly describes as ‘drab chic’, Levi’s 501s, and a pair of trainers. He points out they are classic white Reeboks with a natural gum sole. I admit I didn’t know that was A Thing. “To be honest, neither did I,” he shrugs in good-natured agreement. “They were a present from a mate of mine – he’s a musician so far cooler than me, obviously – and he was very emphatic that the soles were a big deal.”

On his wrist is a 1969 Omega Seamaster. “It cost less than £2,000, it was an anniversary gift and the only watch I own,’”he offers, pre-emptively. “Oh, and I’m not sponsored by Omega, none of that.” Would he like to be? I ask mischievously. “Ah well, I’d certainly take the phone call. You always like to have options.” This is all the more interesting because later I ask if there’s any truth in tabloid rumours that he has variously been earmarked as the new Bergerac and the next James Bond. He denies both charges. “But you’d take the calls presumably?” I suggest. A pregnant pause follows. “You know, I don’t think I would. I have to say I think I’d pass on those.” Bergerac I can understand – but intimations of 007 are, like talk of knighthoods, not to be trifled with, much less dismissed out of hand, however cat’s-chance unlikely.

Turner just pulls a slightly apologetic face (possibly for the benefit of his aghast agent reading this). But really it should come as no surprise; Turner has built up a reputation as a protean performer, moving seamlessly between television, film and the stage in a variety of markedly different roles. Last year he appeared opposite Jenna Coleman in a minimalist two-hander, the West End revival of Sam Steiner’s 2015 fringe hit Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons, about love and language. Director Josie Rourke says she cast Turner not just because he is ‘brilliant’, but because he has an ability to connect with his character and with the audience.

“Aidan is a very technical and focused actor who really works hard to prepare – in that respect he’s not dissimilar to David Tennant. That might make him sound dour or serious, but he’s very personable and funny,” says Rourke, a former artistic director of the Donmar Warehouse in London. “He’s acutely aware, in a lovely way, of every single person in the room. There’s something fundamentally unselfish about his performances.”

Off stage, Turner leads a quiet life with his family in an 18th-century house in east London, which he famously furnished with the table and chairs from the Poldark set in Cornwall. He looks amused when I wonder aloud if he hangs out – virtually or actually – with the slew of young Irish actors, like Paul Mescal and Barry Keoghan, who have made a name for themselves. “It sounds boring but I work, and then when a project is finished I start reading scripts again,” he says. “I’m not on social media, I don’t get wrapped [up] comparing myself to anyone else. Frankly, it’s hard enough keeping track of my own career. Since the birth of our son, my wife and I have agreed that only one of us will take a job away from home at any given time; we’ve not [had] a clash yet but we’ll have to see what happens when the time comes.”

They did, however, both have plays on in the West End at one point last year; he was appearing in Lemons while she was in The Crucible. “It worked out really well, we headed out in different directions during the day, catching up with friends and getting stuff done, far too busy to see each other,” he recalls. “Each of us did our show then we would meet up afterwards and share a cab home. It was really fun, but that sort of synchronicity is quite rare.” Like a lot of actors, Turner is guarded when it comes to discussing his personal life. Although frenzied interest from the paparazzi has calmed down post-Poldark, every so often pictures do appear in the tabloids – and Rivals will no doubt increase his bankability. It is something he accepts with equanimity.

“If I do get snapped, I don’t make a fuss or get angry, but I try to stay out of the way.” I remind him of a very striking photo of him putting the rubbish out in a frankly extraordinary receptacle. “Ah yes, maybe I should get rid of the fluorescent pink wheelie bin, a bit of an own goal,” he sighs.

I bet he doesn’t. Far too much of a compromise. I do manage to winkle a few details out of him by playing my fellow Irishwoman card and discover that he’s a ‘serious’ pool player – just this week he settled down in front of a recording of Steve Davis and his teammates taking the 2002 Mosconi Cup in Bethnal Green. He plays golf, enjoys music, and is an avowed Nick Cave fan.

“I’d have to say my favourite downtime is having friends round for good banter and food in the garden, weather allowing. I’m trying to perfect the manly art of beef brisket in my [Big] Green Egg barbecue. I think one of the reasons Rivals was such a happy show to work on was because so many of the scenes were us all together at parties. Then at the end of the day we’d kick back and half of us would still be in character.”

And what characters they are, all dressed up in their ’80s finery, jockeying for position, angling for seduction as Tears for Fears belt out ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World.’ Gen Z won’t understand, much less approve (lock up your 22-year-olds), but as a snapshot of a bygone age, Rivals promises to be TV gold, and at its glittering epicentre, Declan O’Hara, legendary brooding broadcaster with the biggest ’tache in town.

All episodes of Rivals are available on Di5ney+ from 18 October

Interview by Judith Woods from The Telegraph; Photos by John Balsom.

#aidan turner #rivals #declan o'hara #interview #copy pasted #for anyone who's paywalled #The Telegraph 27 September 2024 2:30 PM #Judith Woods #John Balsom

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anzulvr · 1 year ago

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May I request how would Karma react when Asano is interested in Karma's s/o? Like here's the story, Asano and reader have been classmates and really good friends but the reader had to be transfered to E-class cause she beat someone up while trying to protect the other student and things like that, and Asano still being interested in reader even if they started dating Karma. Now how would Karma react when he finds it out??

Karma x Reader where Asano has a one sided crush!

(the first part is more explaining the backstory and then the second half of ur main request!!)

Omg I’m gonna cry I wrote this once and it didn’t save😭😭

TYSM for requesting!! I can’t tell you how fun this was this is like my favorite request I’ve ever gotten

First half ♡ the basis of your friendship with Asano!

Your thoughts on Kunugigaokas academic hierarchy had always aligned with Karmas rather than Asano’s, people were so much more than grades and the popularity came with it.

Asano saw you both in two different lights even if you clashed in opinions with him. You were too kind for your own good and were just seeing the best in people while Karma was, simply put, immature and impulsive in his eyes.

Even if you agreed with Karma on this one you were nothing alike, you couldn’t be.

Whenever you’d hear The Big 5 talk badly of any lower class student you’d tell them to quit it, the rest of the group would call you a buzz kill and reply with something along the lines of “People like them don’t deserve respect”.

(The big 5 is Asano and his main friend group and at the time yours too. They’re more like minions or henchmen to him but ya know)

This was the one type of occasion Asano would tell them to shut it.

“[Name] is right, don’t be so immature Seo, even if Eclass does deserve it.”

“Oh cmon you can’t seriously be taking [Name]’s side right no-“

“Didnt i tell you to shut up.”

“… ”

His favoritism towards you was very obvious (not that he was trying to be).

There were rumors going around saying you were dating and whatnot. His fan club was filled to the brim of pissed off girls who would kill to be in your place.

You’d been classmates with Karma before either of you were bumped down to end class but you were nothing more than desk mates, since he’d always ditch class early and never really talked to anyone other than Nagisa at the time.

Asano had advised you more than once to stay away from Karma, he’d tell you what were practically horror stories about Karmas insane fights and slightly (?) Criminal record.

Safe to say it kinda worked, you were intimidated.

“Really? ? He’s the reason Ren had a black eye last week??”

“Yeah, I’ve told you before- Akabane is more than insane.”

When you learned about further accounts from people other than Asano you’d realized Karma had only been standing up for people who’d been bullied. Your perspective on it all shifted. You had gained respect and admiration for Karma. What he was doing was kind in its own way and pretty chivalrous of him.

Even though you and Asano didn’t agree on much your friendship wasn’t something either of you we’re willing to throw away you’d been inseparable for years now, there wasn’t anything that could come between you, or so you thought.

When you got transferred to End Class for defending Hinano from an A class bully, Asano was surprised- he didn’t realize you’d be willing to take a hit to your record for something like this.

(I should add his fan club was over the moon when you got suspended they threw a little celebratory get together.)

Asano still texted you once in a while. It wasn’t the same as hanging out all the time like you used to.

Asano was having a dilemma, he liked hanging out with you but he told himself he couldn’t. He had an image to uphold for everyone in the main campus (and for himself in a way).

His text’s would be things like:

“Do good on the upcoming exams and they’ll want you right back in the main building. Goodluck!”

“Remember to study for next week [name]! unless you’d rather stay in end class.”

♡

— second half:

When Karma first met you he thought you were dating Asano and so did the rest of E class. You had to make it clear Asano and you are nothing more than friends, if you could even call him a friend anymore.

When they find out the reason you got suspended was the same as Karmas they opened up, It was hard having the entire school and faculty against them so it was nice seeing you give up on your main campus status like that in order to help someone else.

This was what first got Karma interested in getting to know you, you weren’t the type to get into fights yet you still did for someone else’s sake. You had maintained a perfect record all throughout school up until now.

Once you start dating, you literally mean the world to him because he feels like you’re the only person he can be completely open with.

WHEN ASANO FINDS OUT YOURE DATING he’s appalled.

Asano: Okay I just heard the craziest rumor you’re dating the Eclass psycho?? Text back asap

[name] : it’s true wdym

Asano: ??? Is he threatening you???

[name]: No??😭

(Omg wtf did I just enter my text fic era(the answer is no))

He genuinely thinks you’re trolling until he accidentally sees you hanging out together somewhere.

when Karma finds out Asano likes you even though you’re very much taken he’s very annoyed but he very quickly turns the annoyance into smugness when realizes he has the upper hand in the situation.

Okay his rival likes you, and HES dating you?? That’s literally the biggest win. It’s Jackpot.

100% rubs it in Asanos face during argument he has with him. He does it casually so Asano doesn’t see it as annoying or stupid but more truthful and hurtful.

“Try not to fail the exams this time around, I know it’s difficult for people as cocky as you to put effort in.”

“Oh don’t worry about my scores Asano, [name]’s helping me study so I’m sure I’ll do great!”

He’s doesn’t usually initiate PDA but the second Asano is in sight Karma will be draped all over you.

He doesn’t really like you talking to Asano because he doesn’t trust Asano to not be a douche but he won’t outright tell you not to because he doesn’t want to sound controlling or needy to you.

If he sees Asano texted you he’ll reply with a selfie of himself

“We’re busy right now☺️.”

Asano is more confused than anything, why would anyone want to go out with that guy out of everyone in the world.

They’ve definitely argued about it

“They only reason [Name] is dating you is out of pity I don’t know why you flaunt it around every chance you get.”

“How would you know? Does she tell you? Oh right you guys barely talk nowadays.”

It won’t escalate to a full on fist fight unless Asano actually tries flirting with you (which I don’t know if he’d be dumb or cocky enough to do 😭)

Like the second something out of line comes out of that dudes mouth Karma is swinging.

Karma makes sure to prove to you he can one up Asano on anything.

Oh Asano got all A’s on his report card? Karma asked Korosensei to make sure the + was added next to his.

Asano can cook really well? Call Karma Gordon Ramsey because he’s now a culinary professional.

Asano made it on the cover of Kunugigaokas student paper?

Karma literally just tutored a bunch of near failing students and helped them achieve perfect scores getting him front cover on next week’s paper. (He stopped right after he secured the spot on the paper he wasn’t about to actually help people like that for FREE 😭.)

♡ ♡ (that one audio just played in my head while writing this “damn… someone took my bitch..😔”)

#ansatsu kyoushitsu #karma akabane #akabane karma x reader #assassination classroom x reader #karma akabane headcannons #karma akabane x reader #karma x reader #assasination classroom #assassination classroom #akabane karma #assclass #asano gakushuu #asano x reader

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kawaiiaestheticceline · 11 months ago

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Parallel Susie!🖤⚙

#gacha club #anime #kirby #parallel susie #nintendo #kirby fan #hal laboratory #gacha oc #super kirby clash

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six-eyed-samurai · 8 months ago

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AGAIN AND AGAIN - A REINCARNATION AU

A/N: Help, what have I done? Sorry if this doesn't fit the characters, I was writing it sleep deprived and as neutral as possible. Support me and my poetry (that I came up with in the shower)

Heavens blessed me with you

The Knight, who when your parents announced you would marry you off to some elderly Lord, kept true to his word and took you away, escaping into the clashing colors of freedom and love in another kingdom far, far away, only for your world to darken into black and white once more when your enraged parents caught up and had him executed; it was now your turn to keep your side of the oath and join him in the afterlife when you drank the poisoned chalice.

In every rebirth

The Roman General who passed by you, lashing out any "potential buyer" when he walked disgusted through the slave market - he bought you freedom and yet somehow you stayed with him forever willingly cuffed by shackles of affection...until he died of an assassination and you were hung for having an "affair" with someone of higher class, but not before you both screamed to whatever god that would listen to come back to each other once more.

I promise I'll find you

The Baker who's never cared a penny about the other air headed girls from his small British village until you, a young noble lady recently moved into the old Baskerville Manor, turned up requesting his help in setting a banquet. Excuses after excuses pile up from both sides in an attempt to extend your brief time together but soon, oh, too soon, you leave as per your family's orders and he's left to wonder how you're doing now, because after years and years of searching they refused to let him in.

Through tears, death, dreams and mirth

The White American who finds you working day in day out at the laundry lady's for little to no pay, so from his not so small tips grew to slipping love letters through the pockets of his clothes, but soon you're fired and bade to leave for your skin colour and he's still bitterly cursing the townspeople for their blind racism.

And I know it's just a gamble

The Hockey player who grins at you who always shows up to his games in every match until he asks you out on an ice skating date, but alas, how could he have known that the day you finally showed up in his jersey, much to his delight, would be the day a crazed fan clubbed you on the head with his own hockey stick, much to your doom? He left the industry as cold as the rink.

Unfair, repeated roll of dice

The F1 Racer who whines about the most ridiculous problems happening to his car and making bad impressions of the other drivers just to see his beloved mechanic even crack a smile - no oil or dirt stained on you could ever dim that brilliant smile when you both went on a joyride together into the sunset...oh, wait, his death on the track did.

But in this temporary, fleeting

The Roommate who knows exactly what you want for breakfast every morning, and soon it spiraled into having a meal together for lunch and dinner too, especially when he added candles and rose petals! You still make your coffee the same way he did even after your studies took you abroad and both of you decided it was for the best to break up.

Moment in fast ending time

The Landlord who did NOT expect such a cute little you to move on when he decided to make a little cash on the side renting out his spare room...never mind, it's still on rent because now you've moved into his room. He managed to save your photo album from the charred remains of your house though...although he couldn't save you.

Tell me, oh tell me

The Drug dealer who just recently entered your big brother's gang, who protected you with his scrawny body every time any sexually frustrated asshole came to harass you. Your declarations of love didn't come in heartfelt words or gifts but a smoked joint with each other. You both didn't get delusional, because why should you when your fantasies were right in front? It was the same when you overdosed after someone ratted him out and sent him to a life sentence in prison.

Darling love of mine

The Mafioso who charms you with his suave words and cool under fire attitude, causing you to giggle and kick your feet whenever he came back to your door with flirtations and blood on his face from those who disrespected the mob boss's goddaughter. It was the classic romantic Italian dinner when he got down one one knee...except for the part when his rivals arrived to gun him down and you're left staring at his broken body and shattered ring.

You're just as lost

The Neighbour who had no idea the babysitter for the kids next door would be so goddamned FINE - if only he hadn't fumbled and stumbled over his words in the elevator! But that's alright, even little Ray and Katie are rooting for him and you! Your first date might not be fancy, but he was more starstruck in awe of you than he was of the night sky as you sat on top of the roof.

In paradise

"I feel like I've know you all my life."

"In every lifetime?"

"Maybe!"

And somewhere deep inside, you both knew it for certain: the endless cycles of pain were finally broken.

"I'm so glad of whatever karma that I did in my previous life got me to meet you!"

"You better continue it in this life so I can see you in the next one!"

Not karma, actually, but a series of broken promises finally repaired.

***

Sukuna, Giyuu, Kokushibo, Gojo, Takemitchy, Mikey, Ranpo, Nikolai, Kirishima, Hawks, Kakashi, Nishinoya, Kuroo, Toji, Kazutora, Nanami, Eren Yeager, Gyutaro, Kunikida, Zuko, Yuta, Inumaki, Levi, your favourites!

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bisnes-socks · 20 days ago

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i love kot kot. i've always loved kot kot. and i'm gonna tell you why.

i think it's a beautiful song, i think it's a banger, i think it's a nostalgic sound, and i think it's an incredibly sad song.

musically, i think kot kot sounds like a summer night in finland. the contrast between the melodic, soaring chorus and the darker, harder verses sounds like walking back and forth between the bright light midnight and the dark clubs or bars or restaurants or something. going from the first verse into the chorus again feels like stepping out from a dark venue and it's 2 am but the light outside is the same as it was when you went in hours ago. it's actually super eerie the way time doesn't seem to move at all during the height of summer in finland. it's a sort of a liminal space that can feel either like never ending horror or an addictive state of true living, depening on how you deal with endless light.

this is a summer song to me.

i love love love the free flying chorus.

i love love love the old school sound of the verses.

the chorus is beautiful with it's long soaring vowels and lines. the verses are mega bangers that remind of early 2000's music. the echoes of like old school drum and bass, breakbeat etc. are super nostalgic to me and have sent me down the rabbit hole of music from my childhood multiple times since the song came out. and i personally love the contrasts and different sections in the song. i think they go together well, i don't think they clash.

i think jurek and allu have composed a clever song. and honestly allu deserves more recognition across the board i am sorry i've been slipping in that department.

now. to the sad part.

i always felt like the chorus was sort of... wistful and melancholic. but the album puts all of that in a different context. he's not just mr. lonely. he's fucking terrified of being alone.

"pelottaa, ettei jatkopläänit ehkä osukkaa, kuumottaa tosissaan, osote ois saatava, poket tos jo hoputta siis vastatkaa nyt saatana" meaning "i'm scared that after party plans will fall through, seriously getting jittery about it, i need an address, bouncers are on my case, somebody pick up the phone" like with the context of the full album now, it's really painting a picture of someone who does not want to go home and face being alone with his thoughts.

i remember when the song came out and people had all sorts of headcanons and ideas as to why the second time round the voice on the phone is in english - things like maybe he's making an international call or something. well, the truth is that in finland, that message is always played in three languages: finnish, swedish and english. so why is it in english the second time? honestly in all seriousness i think it's just a little nod to his international fans or something, like i don't think there is a real story reason for it. but if there was.. well, if anything, to me it suggests that he must have stayed on the phone, listening through the whole litany: valitsemaanne numeroon ei juuri nyt saada yhteyttä, kontakt med numret ni har valt fås ej, the number you have dialed cannot be reached. to get to the english part he has already been told twice in two languages that there is no one there, nobody is picking up, but he's still there.

honestly this song more than anything feels like the true pair of autiomaa, because to me, this song is someone trying to avoid feeling exactly the way autiomaa describes. feeling empty, feeling nothing, feeling alone. he says as much: "tää klubi on yht tyhjä ku sen katsoja" meaning this club is as empty as he who is looking at it. he's empty and finding other people to party and hang out with is the only way out of feeling empty, the only way to distract himself from the fact that he is lost.

and so for skit and autiomaa to come right after this? he has reached a breaking point and realised he has to face the nothingness inside.

and again, like with takavoltti, i think this song represents that long standing finnish tradition of writing funny lyrics about difficult subjects. it's also very very typical in finnish culture to make songs that seem to be about drinking on the surface level but are actually not about that. this song builds a lot of very comedic images: him vibing to celine dion alone in a club and refusing to leave, fighting with bouncers etc. and then of course there is the whole chicken thing with kot kot kot. it's funny - except it's not funny at all.

but the thing is, it's okay to find things funny in the song. they both are and are not funny at the same time, because isn't that what life is. i don't think the intention of these songs is to make you feel one specific way, it's just a matter of perspective. and that can change from day to day. so i think it's okay if one day the song breaks your heart on behalf of the käärijä in the story of the song, and on another day you just want to belt out the chorus and dance through the verses. it's all okay, it's all good.

and that's pretty skilled song writing.

#käärijä

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camarocarfight · 9 months ago

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LOVE'S THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND

Alastor x Female Reader

Rated Mature for mentions of gore and sexual content. This could be like a 'slice of life' type of thing, but it's more like a kick in the feels.

A hunter.

A hunter had ended it all for Alastor with a single wayward bullet that had shattered his skull and extinguished his life in an instant. The bullet, having struck Alastor between the eyes, had left a single, clean entrance wound that had exited the back of his skull. Bringing with it a trail of blood and brain matter that painted the forest floor around Alastor's motionless body like a halo. Brown eyes, once harboring emotion - existence - were now glazed over, staring listless up at the heavens. Alastor never knew what hit him - his life simply torn from his body. A bizarre hunting accident is what the papers called it.

Accidents are nearly fate misnamed, however.

Never mind the hunter having mistaken a human for a deer. Said hunter was deemed a hero, having killed the illusive New Orleans serial killer that had been evading police for years. The killer that had been the beloved and famed radio host. Leaving the city shocked and disturbed that he had been right under their noses the entire time.

Alastor’s radio program had soared to immense popularity in every aspect of the population. Men enjoyed listening to the current events, kids enjoyed the swinging jazz, and women the soothing tenor of Alastor's transatlantic accented voice when he would sing. Special occasions brought the radio host and his jazz band to jazz clubs and speakeasies, drawing in massive crowds of mostly swooning women. Alastor had been New Orleans’ most sought-after bachelor.

Until he wasn't.

One evening at a jazz club, your friends dragged you to the show. Celebrations were in order, as you and your friends had just graduated nursing school. The atmosphere of the club had been electrifying. People around you danced and sang as Alastor and his band brought the small club to life. Alastor’s radio show had been one you listened to nearly every day, as you were just another girl captivated by his famous vocals. Finally, you could put a face to the name and voice. He was even more handsome than you had imagined; with a charming smile that captivated you and made you blush when he caught your gaze.

The rest of your friends were on the dance floor, flirting and dancing with service men in uniforms. Being quiet and reserved, you sat yourself at a table situated in the corner, but you could still see Alastor. Drink in hand, you sipped idly, lost in thought. A few men had ventured up to you to offer a dance, but you politely declined. Upon seeing such a display, Alastor ventured off the stage and bounded toward your table. Your eyes were wide and cheeks a burning crimson as Alastor pulled you up on stage and the two of you danced the night away. It was a Cinderella story that the town talked about for weeks.

Hearts were broken everywhere when Alastor had begun courting you, and even more so when the two of you had gotten married. Alastor wanted to give you the wedding of your dreams, and he did just that. Being as shy and reserved as you were, it was nothing grand. Just your closest friends and family. Alastor, sadly, didn't have any immediate family to invite, but yours had welcomed him with open arms. The large crowd that had greeted you two outside the church had been a welcomed surprise. Young couples and fans of Alastor's threw rice and flowers into the air, and camera bulbs flashed, capturing Alastor's proudest accomplishment. The front page of the newspaper the next morning housed a lovely photo that Alastor framed and hung in his studio.

Finding and marrying someone hadn't been part of Alastor's original plan, but he hadn't anticipated falling for you so hard either. The first instance your eyes had caught his gaze, he knew he was done for. Your reserved personality had clashed with his own boisterous and extroverted one, but it wasn't your shyness he found charming. It was your innate ability to see the good in people.

“Everyone harbors the capacity for good.”

Your words resonated within him and nearly made him rethink all of his past actions and wrongdoing. Alastor had never felt guilt before having met you. All of a sudden, he found himself standing before the divine being that was you. Selfless and unconditionally caring, he began questioning if he had done you wrong by marrying you. He was tainting you and unknowingly subjecting you to his sins. He was so undeserving of you, but he couldn't find it in himself to let you go. When Alastor looked at you, he saw everything his mother had been. Her maternal instinct and drive to nurture and protect those around her. Losing you would be like losing his mother all over again.

When the day came that you had expressed to Alastor your want for children, you hadn't expected his trademark smile to drop and for him to become angry. Alastor immediately withdrew himself from you and spent the rest of the evening brooding in his study. None of his anger had been directed at you, of course, but it concerned you why he felt the way he did about the topic. You granted Alastor his privacy, only sparing a few glances into the study throughout the evening as you went about your chores.

Alastor didn't move from his armchair until well into the night. The mantle clock on the fireplace had chimed midnight when he finally made his way to the master bedroom. You were sound asleep until the bed dipped by the weight of Alastor settling beside you, causing you to stir. Further roused by his warm lips against your neck, you turned onto your side so you were facing your husband. He was inebriated, having had more than a few glasses of Rye in his solitude. Whiskey always had a way of softening him up, but it also made him very amorous.

Someone as pure as yourself should never be defiled, but Alastor couldn't help wanting to have you in the most intimate of ways. Touching you, tasting you, feeling your perfectly manicured nails scraping down his back, leaving angry red marks in their wake. His name would fall from your lips like a prayer as he moved inside you, working you both towards mutual release.

Alastor had told himself he would be nothing like his father. He wouldn't be the hateful drunk who had nearly beaten his wife within an inch of her life. Then, he would keep her afraid of him with the threat of violence at the slightest misstep. Killing that bastard brought Alastor no remorse, and he was surprised that his mother actually mourned his death. For years, he couldn't understand why anyone would feel pain over the death of someone who had inflicted so much pain upon them.

At least he hadn't until he met you. Then he came to realize that at one point, his mother and father had loved one another. Enough that they shared a life and family together. The war had taken his father from his family and returned to them the empty husk of a man so disturbed by what he saw that his mind waged war on itself and everyone around him.

Unfortunately for Alastor, if he had fathered a child that night, he would never know. He would be killed two weeks later while burying the body of his latest victim. Leaving his beloved and innocent wife to identify his body while being questioned by authorities about the hundred missing people that were found buried in the bayou. Alastor’s only regret was that you would be left to answer for his crimes. The crimes that you had been ignorant for your entire relationship.

Your heart shattered upon seeing Alastor lying there on the metal embalming table. Skin a sickly gray pallor and lips cyanotic, with a single bullet wound in the center of his forehead. The pain you felt was crushing, and agonizing sobs tore from your lips. You didn't want to believe that it was your husband lying there lifeless and not breathing. He couldn't be dead. You rested your head against his still chest and squeezed your eyes shut when you didn't hear the rhythmic beating of his heart, nor felt the rise and fall of his chest.

Alastor couldn't leave you like this - he wouldn't leave you like this. Neither of you were interested in a world without the other, and you simply couldn't see yourself carrying on without the man whom you considered your soul mate. Alastor had been the first man you loved, and he would be the last.

“Please wait for me,” you whispered against his cold lips between broken sobs. Your trembling hands cupped his face, and your thumbs stroked his cheeks. “I love you, Alastor.”

#alastor x reader #alastor x you #human alastor #alastor #hazbin hotel #reader insert #slice of life #right in the feels #i hope this makes you cry

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sporadicthingcollection · 1 year ago

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Smash or Pass: Part 2/4 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: It's the last stop before the Grand Line and you slink away for a quiet evening. The universe, however, decides to clown on you. Sequel to Kiss, Marry, Kill. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Warnings: Violence, description of injuries. Word Count: ~3.7k.

A/N: Someday I'll figure out the best way to make a tag list on here (if anyone has any experience with that hmu). Hope you enjoy this one~

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PART 2: In which you lend a helping hand, provide clown care, and tell a joke.

Swords clash. Punches fly. Bodies go flying. The band launches into a rousing up number. You admire their dedication until a chair flies past your head. You should get out of here.

You get to the door, but you stop. Where’s Buggy? He was just right there, but there is now occupied by a man with a big hat and a bear club.

More importantly, why do you care? Well, you know why you care. You just went over this. It’s because you’ve got a stupid little crush. You shouldn’t care but you’re so liquored up that you do. This was probably his plan all along—

A guy comes at you with a sword. You duck beneath him, punch him in the dick, and throw him out the door and into the street. No cheap shots in a bar fight.

And then you see it: a candy cane-striped patch deep in the throng. You skirt the edge of the brawl to get closer to it.

For a drunk guy with no hands, Buggy’s doing pretty well. Kicking, headbutting, body part separating. Cheap shots galore. You suppose it helps that he’s not fighting to win, but to get the hell out of here.

He’s almost at the edge when a mountain of a man hooks him around the neck with a wire of some kind. You expect him to separate his head, but his eyes go wide and he thrashes to no success, scrabbling at the wire.

Oh, that’s bad. Real bad. What do you do? C’mon, girl, think! There’s gotta be a way for you to lend a helping—

Hands! There they are! Smacking into everyone and everything as he tries to recall them. You grab one and then the other. You look around to return them but now there’s a whole scuffle between you and him. Three very large men all whaling on each other. There’s no way you’re getting through that.

“Hey!” you shout. He can’t hear you over the din. “Buggy!”

Still nothing. The pirate pulls tighter. He gasps and struggles.

Somewhere in your brain, you know this is the perfect moment to make a break for it. He’s occupied, won’t see you leave, and can’t follow you back to the ship.

But you can’t leave a man to die just to save your own skin. Especially when the brawl started because he was trying to defend you. C’mon, think of something!

…Oh. Duh.

You take a deep breath. You hold his hands over your head. "Hey, big nose!"

Buggy's head whips towards you as his eyes fly open, burning with white hot rage. It vanishes as he sees your trophies, replaced with awe.

It's a nice look on him.

One hand zips out of your grasp to jab his assailant in the eyes. The other grabs you by the collar.

You shriek as your feet leave the ground, lifting you up and over several dozen brawling sailors. It sets you down gently behind the bar, safe from the throng.

You’ve never flown before. You’re not a fan. But you are grateful, even if he did put you down so far from the exit. “Thanks,” you croak.

The hand shoots you a finger gun. You can practically hear the click of his tongue as the thumb flexes. How’d he hear you over the chaos?

Right next to your ear, a low voice says, “Don’t mention it.”

You scream and throw your elbow back, colliding with something hard. The low voice grunts as you jump away, and you turn to see Buggy clutching his nose.

You grimace. You know how pointy your elbows are. “That’s your own fault, sneaking up on a girl in the middle of a fight.”

He gives you an incredulous glare. “That’s not your line. You’re supposed to say…” He assumes a high-pitched voice. “‘Oh, thanks for the help, Captain Buggy! My hero!’”

You really hope you don’t sound like that. “Go soak your head. I saved you!”

He sneers at you, but he strokes his throat. An ugly ring of bruises will certainly be there later. “I had it under control.”

“Bullshit!”

“I’m sorry, did you want to be dragged into an alley and used like a two-bit whore—“

A loud crack cuts him off. He blinks, looking more shocked than anything. His eyes roll back, his shoulders slump, and his head lolls forward. The rest of him follows and Captain Buggy, your hero, goes down like a sack of potatoes.

He hits the floor in a big puddle of assorted spirits, making a slap that you can only compare to when a pancake hits the ceiling. It would be funny if...

...actually, it's pretty funny as-is. You wish you were sober enough to commit the sound to memory.

Anyways, a chair in a bar fight really ought to be cheating. Then again, this is a pirate bar. The patrons are pirates. You are pirates. Everyone is pirates. It's pirates all the way down in here.

You catch the chair as it swings at you, and you see your assailant is, in fact, not a pirate. It’s the bar matron, scowling.

“You,” she grumbles. “This is your fault, you know that?”

“I didn’t ask him to help.” You yank the chair from her hands and toss it away. “And I didn’t ask to get felt up.”

Her eyes widen. “Is that what…?” She sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Guess I can’t be too surprised about that. The boys have been spoiling to fight all night.” She looks down at Buggy. “Sorry ‘bout your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. You really hate that you don’t hate the sound of that. But that would eventually make you Mrs the Clown and that you cannot abide by.

You wrinkle your nose. “Not my boyfriend.”

She scoffs. “Man started a brawl for you. It’s only a matter of time.” She kneels down and hooks her arms under his shoulders. “There’s a room upstairs we can stash him in. Grab his legs.”

You do so. On three, you both heave up… and he separates in the middle. The bar matron gasps in horror.

In his maybe-concussed definitely-drunk stupor, Buggy giggles. It’s kind of cute. Not at all menacing the way it’s been before. High-pitched. A bit like a weathervane squeaking in the breeze.

“Pull yourself together, dickhead,” you say. When he doesn’t, you roll your eyes. “Devil Fruit,” you say to the matron. “I’ll be right behind.”

Carrying a pair of legs is far more difficult than you expected. You can’t pick them up bridal style. Dragging them by the ankles is no good, either. You resort to throwing them over your shoulders, one leg on either side of your neck with your hands on his shins. An inelegant solution, but the only one you’ve got.

You’re halfway up the stairs when you feel something twitch against your head. Something hard. Something stiff. Something that seems like it’s pretty thick, based on the weight against your ear.

Your cheeks burst into flames. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Buggy’s cock. Don’t think about how you were wrong about Buggy having a small cock.

The matron leads you to a small room right under the roof. A bed, a trunk, and a dry sink with a wash basin are the only furniture, but a marvelous view of the harbor from the window makes up for it. If it wasn’t dark, you could probably see the Merry from here.

She tosses her half of Buggy onto the bed. You follow suit. The mattress squeaks as they bounce and, with a pop, the twain meet and he’s a whole man again.

“Devil Fruits,” the matron mutters, shaking her head. She turns to you. “You can stay here ‘til he’s well enough to walk, but I want you gone by morning. Got it?”

You nod, only to grimace. “I, uh, don’t have much money. I don’t think he does, either.”

She waves her hand as she exits. “Just don’t come back and I won’t collect.”

You realize a problem. “Th-There’s only one bed.”

“One of you can sleep on the floor.”

The door closes. You are left alone with the muffled sounds of a brawl, the rhythmic breathing of a mostly unconscious clown, and your own turbulent thoughts.

Again, you are presented with an opportunity to leave. Can’t follow you if he’s out cold. Save your friends. Save your ship. Save yourself.

And again, you hesitate. He drank a lot with you. And you did laugh quite a bit. And dancing with him was like floating — the good kind, not the kind with disembodied hands. And he whacked some guys about to manhandle you. And then he pulled you out of the fight.

How was it he had described you? Back on the Merry, when he read you like a picture book? ‘Once bitten, twice shy, but when he comes around a third time, you just can’t help yourself.’

Boy howdy, do you hate how accurate that is.

Speaking of which, he hasn’t moved since he hit the bed. You pat his cheek. “You alright?”

He stirs slightly. “Mfmn.”

That’s not good. With a sigh, you put on your triage hat. Seeing as how he got bashed on the noggin, might as well start there. "Sit up.”

He mutters something incomprehensible, but doesn't fight you as you guide him into a sitting position against the headboard. It takes a moment to untie his bandanna.

You're expecting sensibly short hair. Or perhaps missed-a-few-trims-touching-his-earlobes medium-ish hair. Maybe even brushing his shoulders in what guys consider long.

But no. What you get is honest-to-god long hair, textured by salt water and adorned with little plaits, flowing out of the bandana and waterfalling down his back. In need of a good brushing, perhaps, but otherwise healthy.

You want to run your nails through it. Twirl a few strands around your finger. Pull a comb through it. Cut a lock to braid into a rope bracelet, the kind sailors give to their sweethearts to remember them by—

You give your head a good shake. Where did that come from? That’s weird. Don’t do that.

Gently, you part his hair to inspect the scalp. A few small cuts, but nothing worth wasting gauze on. A nasty lump, though. That'll for sure hurt in the morning.

Satisfied, you let his hair fall. His face is next, but this literal clown makeup makes it hard to tell what's blood and what's not. Rummaging around in your satchel, you pull out your rubbing alcohol and a gauze pad and dab away.

It doesn’t come off easy — this is definitely the good shit — but you get enough off. Barefaced Buggy isn’t much different than the regular one, just less obfuscated by whacky colors. High cheekbones. Strong, stubbly jaw. Cleft chin. He'd be handsome if it weren't for the nose… or maybe he is anyways? Some cultures like big noses. And you know what they say about guys with big noses—

Nope. No. Knock it off. Gonna behave yourself? Good. Back to work. Where were you again?

Nose. Right. Speaking of which, you're still not convinced it's not real. The intrusive thoughts win this time and you give it a pinch and a pull.

It's real. He gasps and snatches you by the wrist as his eyes pop open, wide and darting around. They’re the color of a calm river on a cloudy day, though the river is rough at the moment. Why does such a repulsive man have such pretty eyes?

"Easy, easy," you say. "I'm just checking you out— up."

If he heard the slip, he ignores it. After a moment, he drops your hand and lays back with a sigh. "W'happen?"

A few spots of blood stick to your fingers, coming from a small cut down the middle of his nose. You couldn't tell on account of the... well, everything about it. "Someone got you from behind with a chair." You go to dab at the cut. "Knocked you out cold. Smashed your face on the floor and gave you a bloody nose."

The rage returns. He snatches your wrist again. "What about my nose?" he growls, voice raw.

On one hand, you like that husky tone. On the other, this rubbing alcohol is stinging your fingers and you're not going to entertain his insecurities. "You landed right on it. A schnoz that big and it didn't do a damn thing to break your fall."

He does not like that. He squeezes tight enough to hurt and pulls you in closer. The river in his eyes whirls and churns. "You're talking a lot of shit for someone all alone in a room with Buggy the Clown."

Not a single word of excrement has left your mouth. "And you're talking too much shit for someone with a busted nose," you spit. "You want it to get infected? Scar up? It'll look even worse."

It's blunt, but you're right. And you know he knows you're right. He's a fool, but he's not foolish enough to not listen to a professional.

What you don't expect is the way his face drops for a moment. All of the anger, all of the bluster, all of it gone. All that remains is a boy with shocked eyes. Hurt eyes. Vulnerable eyes.

But only for a moment. The walls go back up and the angry man returns, albeit at a simmer and not a boil. He drops your wrist and scowls, avoiding your gaze.

Your stomach sinks. Being snippy is one thing, but you don't like being mean by accident. Even to a jerkoff like him.

With a gentle touch, you take his jaw. "This'll sting," you say as you press the pad to his nose.

He hisses, but doesn't pull away. "How bad is it?"

Now that the blood's gone, not bad at all. "Just a scratch. Won't even need a bandage."

He fixes his gaze somewhere past you. “Shame.”

And you continue to feel bad. It doesn’t look that bad on him. You were right earlier. It does suit him. You discard the pad. “Sorry ‘bout what I said,” you say. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

Buggy he continues to look past you. He waves his hand, only to flinch. He tries to hide it with a scoff.

Your soft eyes don’t miss. “Give it here.”

He huffs and grabs the injured hand with the other, yanking it off at the wrist. He plops it in your own hand and crosses his arms.

You almost laugh. But you hold it back.

You pull his glove off, revealing calloused fingers and shredded nails. When the seas get rough, he works the ropes with everyone else. And he's been at it awhile.

"You're a career sailor," you say. You're not sure why you're surprised.

“Only trade I know,” he says.

Fingerbones intact, if not a little bruised at the knuckles. "Piracy pay that well?”

He gives a bitter smile. “You’d be surprised what you make in tips.”

Maybe you’re just drunk or maybe that was actually kinda funny. Regardless, a laugh almost manages to escape this time. Almost. You catch it in time for it to turn into a weird snorting sound.

The bitterness evaporates like mist in the morning sun as he finally turns his gaze on you. His smile brightens his whole face, scrunching the rivers of his eyes into little oxbow lakes.

Yep. He’s handsome. That little crush burns in your chest.

You swallow some infatuation-flavored bile. "Take your shirt off," you say. "Wanna— Wanna check your ribs."

He regards you for a moment. Wordlessly, he pulls his scarf from his neck and tosses it to the floor. Next goes the sash-belt thing. Finally, he shrugs out of the vest.

You're not sure what you're expecting. A sea of scars, perhaps? The mottled, diseased skin of a syphilitic sailor? A gaping void where his heart ought to be?

No. What you get is an expanse of smooth skin, dipping and rising with mountains and valleys of lean muscles. Hair covers his pectorals, thickest on his sternum. A soft belly pushes against his waistband as he breathes — not a gut by any means, but a logical consequence of indulging one's every desire. A thin trail of fuzz leads down below his trousers, growing thicker as it dips below. The carpet matches the drapes, apparently...

Your cheeks heat up. Don't even think about it, girl. Just check him out and be on your way— up. Check him up.

"Does it hurt anywhere?" you ask. You trail your fingers down his ribs, gently poking and prodding.

"Not particularly." Pressing the side of his pec makes him hiss. “Alright, maybe there.”

You lift his arm — his hard, wiry arm — and lean in close. A bit of a bruise is blooming, but it doesn’t look too serious. What is serious is how distracting the smell of fresh sweat is.

His sweat. On his skin. Glistening. Like dew. Musky. Tangy. Tasty.

He says something and it doesn’t even register. The thoughts drown him out. Do it, they say. Stick your face in there.

A light poke to your cheek yanks you out of your… whatever the hell that was. You turn to see his hand hovering. Its fingers wiggle in a wave. “Hello? Anyone aboard?”

You shake your head hard enough that you can feel your brain bouncing around. “Sorry. Thinking about contusions.”

“Should I be worried or not?”

You press your thumb into the bruise. “Does it hurt to breathe?”

He squeaks like a mouse. “When you’re doing that, yeah!”

The sound of pain is a big turn-off for you, which is exactly what you need right now. You jam your finger against the bruise one more time just to hear him yelp. “You’re fine.”

You drop his arm. You try to move away as quickly as possible while still looking casual and not tripping over yourself. You fail and land on your ass. Not hard enough to hurt, but an uff escapes you all the same.

Buggy giggles, peering down at you. “I love a good pratfall.”

He looks good from this angle. Above you. That worries you. “You’re completely fine. Worst thing you’ll have in the morning is a lump and a hangover.”

His brow wrinkles. “Not gonna check out my legs?”

Oh, you’ve already spent plenty of time checking out his legs. Nice boots. Muscular thighs. Trying to figure out if the bulge in the crotch was fabric or something else.

You grab the edge of the bed and haul yourself up onto it. “Do they hurt?”

“Sister, all of me hurts.”

You sigh. “Bring your knees to your chest. First one, then the other.”

His left knee joint pops out from its rightful spot on his leg. He presses it to his chest, then repeats the action with the other. He looks at you expectantly. “Now what?”

A banged-up half-naked clown, sitting on a bed, holding his knees in his hands. The situation is amusing enough, but something in his expression, the tone of his voice… it breaks you.

You slide from the bed back onto the floor as loud, cackling peals burst forth like floodwaters through a dam.

It feels good to laugh so hard. It hurts your ribs, your stomach, and your cheeks, but it's a good hurt.

The fit subsides, leaving you flopped on your back, arm slung over your eyes, trying to catch your breath. A few giggles bubble forth, and you do your best to swallow them.

You fling your arm from your eyes to see Buggy gazing down at you, resting his head on his arm, eyes scrunched up. “Didn’t think that one would get you."

“Shut up.” You climb up to your knees. “And stop making me laugh.”

“But you’re so cute when you laugh.”

You snort. “You tried that one earlier.”

Buggy frowns. Deeply. He moves his head to his fist, leaving his gaze level with your own. “But I meant it.”

“You’re full of bird shit.”

You try to move away, but he grabs your arm and guides you back down. He stares right into your eyes, straight into your soul. “I meant it,” he says firmly.

For a moment, you believe him. Your voice of self-doubt is silenced. The voice of what an unladylike laugh. No man could ever find that attractive. How do you expect to get a husband sounding like that?

His voice disturbs your ruminating. "Y’know, if you join my crew," he says, "you can laugh like that all you want. As loud as you want. Whenever you want."

It's probably the alcohol. It's probably because he's half naked. It's probably because you're a weak woman. Whatever the reason may be, to your horror, you do consider it.

It could be a good time. You enjoy his company. You enjoy laughing. You enjoy adventures and making mischief and romance. Both the kind with the wind in your sails and the kind with a man in your arms.

Perhaps even this man.

But you can't. You know you can't. He’s cruel. He’s crazy. You couldn't live with yourself if you betrayed your friends. Not to mention that there'd be no escape if it all went wrong.

In your moment of weakness, he slips a finger under your chin. Millimeter by millimeter, he guides you closer. His eyes drift shut as his nose bumps yours.

Don’t do this, your good sense screams. You’re drunk. He’s drunk. Stop thinking with your snatch. Don’t—

The slightest bit of nerves quiver in his voice. “Something wrong…?”

Everything. “Nothing.”

You push forward and finally, finally, your lips meet his.

It’s nothing like your previous kisses, sudden and sloppy. This one is slow. Measured. Gently crackling like the soft flame of a low fire, radiating warmth.

A featherlight moan escapes him as you pull away. His eyes search your face, bracing himself, waiting for something, hoping in vain that he won't find it.

You lay a hand on his jaw, stroking his cheekbone with your thumb. “What is it?”

His gaze drifts to the side as he inhales sharply. “Waiting for the punchline.” He swallows. “No way something this good could happen to me.”

This poor, pathetic man after your own heart. “I got a punchline for you. What did the sawbones say to the clown?”

Shining eyes peer at you. “I dunno. What did the sawbones say to the clown?”

“She said...” You lean in close. “‘Kiss me again.’”

Those eyes go wide.

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Part the 3rd goes up Thursday!

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#buggy the clown #buggy x reader #buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader #kiss marry kill #one piece x reader #one piece #one piece live action #fan fiction #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #x reader #emberly writes #smash or pass #the curious courtship of buggy the clown

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