#could you imagine me singing opera?

[mrzpooki]

Besides art, what other hobbies/interest do you have? For example, some of my interests include:

1. True crime (I’m actually learning to profile like how the FBI does in my free time, just more realistic than what you’d see on tv, it’s actually really easy to profile someone once you know what to look for too!)

2. Animals(especially snakes and sharks!)

3. The band Fall Out Boy (a lot of my friends wonder why I love them so much, they helped me through a tough time and their music just speaks to me)

4. Mushrooms and plants

5. Gaming(huge fan of farming and/or fantasy RPGs like stardew, Pokémon and rune factory, speaking of which Amelia’s design and personality reminds me a lot of Missasagi and Beatrice from RF5!)

I ask because I find you and your art amazing and interesting, and finding out fun stuff about artists you like is a fun way to engage and connect with them! Have a lovely day/evening/whatever time it is for you!

Hi hi!

Thats awesome! I also love True Crime!

And while I do love to draw!

I actually love to sing, cook breakfast sandwiches and play video games!

Believe it or not but I have dreamed about singing Opera but its hard! 😅 but i sing almost every song and genre! Heck! Ill sing country!

I love making breakfast sandwiches with my husband, it is a good feeling of staying home with a delicious breakfast and even having waffles(i love food!)

Who doesn’t love to play video games? I grew up with video games especially Final Fantasy games!(mainly FF14) i love all kinds even Horror! But im too afraid to play it XDXD

Im willing to take some answers! Thank you kindly for your kindness and understanding!💕♥️💕

Bonus: I love movies! Especially oldies like like Charlie Chaplin!

[literallyjusttoa]

Apollo Music Headcanons

As a god Apollo’s singing voice can be whatever he wants it to be, but as Lester I imagine it as a strong tenor (he can’t hit a lot of low notes and it pisses him off) with a bit of a rasp in it. He sings like he’s been classically trained, but with enough confidence to bend the rules in order to get the right feelings out of the song. In one word, I’d describe Lester’s singing as raw. It’s not perfect, but the imperfections seem planned in such a way that they touch you even more than perfection would.

There are multiple languages that Apollo has learned solely so he could perform the most popular songs of the era. Italian, German, Spanish, Korean, Japanese, and a couple more throughout the years. This is also how he learned English.

He uses vocal warmups as a form of stimming. Meg wakes up some mornings and hears him going “oooOOOOooooOOOOooo” and just has to deal with it. He pulls them from all over too. Sometimes it will be professional warmups that opera singers use, and other time he’ll be whipping out “mama made me mash my m&m’s” from middle school chorus

Leto has a lullaby she used to sing to Apollo and Artemis while she was still searching for a place to safely give birth. To this day, it’s the first song Apollo plays on every new instrument he picks up.

Apollo is scarily good at impressions, even as Lester. He has so much vocal control that impersonating the sounds of others comes easily. He can also throw his voice really well.

He has songs that he connects to other people. Will’s song, Meg’s song, etc. when he’s lonely on Olympus, he listens to them on repeat.

Apollo is the god of music, not the god of good music. You could bang two trashcan lids together and have a screaming raccoon as lead vocalist and he’d probably still add it to a playlist. He unironically listens to some of the most hated songs of the last few centuries. Ironically, he’s also the worst person to pass the aux to in the car. If he really cares about you, he’ll cater the music he chooses to your taste. If not, you’re getting the whiplash of the next biggest K-pop hit followed by the liturgical chants of Hildegard von Bingen. Enjoy!

[corralinesage]

Learning you by heart (1/?)

Natasha Romanoff/ Reader Christmas romance <33

Summary: You lock eyes with a stranger in the audience of an opera, her troubled appearance piquing your interests immediately, the thought of her sticking around to haunt your mind that demands answers for her predicament. Turns out that there might be more to her than you could have ever imagined.

Rating: General audiences

A/N: Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1: Columbus Avenue

Your body was cold, your armpits clearly sticky with sweat. You felt like you couldn’t quite breathe deeply enough despite the amount of breathing exercises and vocal warm ups you had already done. You fiddled with the fabric of your costume, playing with the pearls embedded into the corset of your gown. You had already gone through it many times that week, hell, you had already been on stage that day, yet it somehow didn’t stop being as nerve racking as it had been the first time. You stood behind the curtains, eyeing the brightly lit stage apprehensively, going over lyrics in your head almost obsessively, slowly starting to whisper them to yourself to make sure your mouth was capable of moving how you wished it to. The low tenor of your coworker’s voice bellowed across the stage as he held the final note ceremoniously until his lungs would no longer allow him to continue. You took one final inhale before taking steady steps onto the stage, the strobe lights nearly enough to blind you despite how used to it you were by then. You got into character, taking one more deep breath before beginning to sing.

You knew the piece by heart, it flowed out of you on its own, requiring little to no conscious effort from you, just like it had during rehearsals and the opening night. Your body moved with the music as you acted out the lyrics you were singing, the gorgeous red gown you were wearing dragging slightly behind you. The song was a dramatic monologue. You sang to the audience, telling them your version of the events that had taken place just a few minutes prior. You could tell from your tone that you were nervous. You could tell it from the way your voice threatened to slip into vibrato when it wasn’t needed. You struggled to get a proper grip on controlling your voice. You didn’t quite know why, but you felt on edge, worn out, and unsteady. You couldn’t see the audience, their ominous dark figures seeming undeniably unresponsive to your display of emotion. You looked at them with your wide eyes, the higher notes demanding a kind of concentration that wouldn’t allow you to think about anything else. You scanned the audience, deciding to make the mass of people less intimidating by choosing an individual to focus on. You had found it to be helpful when stage fright caught you by surprise, your gaze moving down from the higher levels of the theater to the front.

There was a woman there, a woman roughly your age, her grim exterior forcing your attention on her. She looked pained, the gaze of her light eyes weighed down by something that you couldn’t decipher. Your heart suddenly beat a little louder in your chest, from the strain of the high notes or the demeanor of that woman, you couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, you couldn’t stop it, nor could you tear your eyes off her. She had red hair, messy and unkempt, which stood out to you in the mass of nobility who usually dominated the crowds. She looked like she had dirt on her face, maybe even blood, but you weren’t sure if it was simply her hair curling against her cheek. She wore black clothes, almost like a uniform. She could have passed as a security guard, almost, had her uniform not resembled one of a dystopian warrior. You briefly noted the elderly couple beside her dressed in a dress and a sharp suit, their demeanors exuding high status. She didn’t fit in.

Suddenly her eyes met yours, the intensity of her gaze nearly making you choke on your own breath. She looked unwell, tears pooling in her eyes, eyelids red rimmed and raw. Her lips were pink and swollen. She was in distress and very obviously so. You felt the sudden need to help her somehow, yet all you could do was keep singing. You held her gaze, all your energy going on keeping your voice steady. You felt the way your eyes suddenly filled with tears. It happened sometimes when you were truly in character and able to channel the pain that you were communicating to the viewers, but this wasn’t that. You felt helpless, completely captivated by her grim gaze, your powerful voice and the orchestra filling the otherwise silent theater. She wasn’t okay. She was hurt, the look in her eyes longing, pained, troubled. You couldn’t explain it. You didn’t understand.

Your tears spilled over, the final long notes demanding every ounce of focus from you, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes off the red-headed woman. Your body ached, your heart throbbing ruthlessly. She kept looking at you, eyes staring at the other without a single interruption. You allowed your arm to rise up slightly as if to give your lungs more room to produce the desired notes, your other hand finding your stomach to remind yourself to keep your core tight to avoid slipping into your head voice. The final note resonated everywhere around you, on the stage, in the audience, in your head, rising into a crescendo before reaching its end. There was a brief silence, the lights turning off and breaking your eye-contact with the mysterious woman, before booming applause erupted in the audience, filling in the silence to the fullest extent. The lights came back on, the people in the front rows standing up to show their appreciation for you and the rest of the cast that walked onto the stage to receive their praise. You looked frantically around for the red-headed woman, your eyes blurry from tears, head fuzzy from whatever you had just experienced. You couldn’t see her.

“Holy shit, Y/N”, Beatrice whispered discreetly as she came to stand beside you, gently turning you to fully face the audience as you clasped hands. You looked at your cast member, unable to really say a word. “Way to end the show.” Her tone was filled with positive astonishment, so you decided to take her statement as a compliment, hoping that your performance had been up to standard because in all honesty, the only thing you remembered from it was those pained eyes that you had now lost into the crowd. You forced a smile on your face, focusing back on the applauding audience to bow for them.

“Girl, are you okay?” Beatrice asked you once you had managed to get backstage and escape the eyes of the audience. The show was finally over.

“Yeah, why are you asking?” Your hands came to your ear to remove your earrings as you both finally reached the dressing rooms, followed by a few more cast members. You looked at the Christmas decorations that were littered in the already chaotic room filled with makeup and clothing, walking to your designated vanity.

“I don’t know. You seem off.” She let out a slight chuckle. “You really sold me with that final scene.” You gave her an amused smile.

“I’m fine. Just got a little carried away maybe.”

“It was phenomenal”, she sighed, almost as if enamored by you and your talent. She was a few years younger than you and played a much smaller part in the opera, but she was nonetheless your favorite person in the cast. She knew when and how to be quiet. She knew how to give you your space, which you appreciated greatly.

“Thank you. I guess I was feeling it a little more today”, you chuckled. “You did really well yourself.” Beatrice was practically glowing.

“Thank you.” She had a childish glint in her eyes and an intense blush on her face. You knew she admired you greatly. “Care for a cupcake?” She approached your chair with a plastic container of peppermint cupcakes in her arms, offering you the selection.

“Who are these from?” You looked at the packaging for a card of some sorts, the room slowly filling with the rest of your cast members, some chattering enthusiastically, others clearly looking forward to withdrawing socially.

“On the house. It’s a little holiday treat. They brought it over right before the show.”

“Don’t mind if I do”, you hummed, picking one out of the box for yourself. You were starving. Beatrice grabbed one for herself, sitting down beside you as you began to debrief the success of the night. You tried your best to remain present for her as you ate the cupcakes, removing your false eyelashes, jewelry, and hairpins as you talked, but you could barely keep your thoughts in check. The image of that woman returning to the forefront of your mind time and time again. Was she okay? What had happened to her? You stayed in the dressing room for hours, the rest of the people filing out to go recharge themselves for the shows of the following day, but you and Beatrice were in no rush. The lights got turned off aside from the ones on your vanity, gentle Christmas music sounding from the radio that somebody had left on by accident. It sat on a table across the room beside a box of leftover Christmas ornaments. The atmosphere was comforting, so much so that you didn’t even notice the time pass as you munched on the cupcakes that you and Beatrice might have hogged for yourselves.

Even hours later, when you had gone to a very late dinner with Beatrice, you found your mind plagued by the woman’s grim eyes and distraught face. You parted ways with Beatrice around midnight, which made your predicament even worse because she was no longer there to distract you and your compulsive mind. Who was the woman and why had she made such an impact on you? You tossed and turned in bed, unable to wipe the woman’s face from your mind, unable to shake the creeping sense of… something. You couldn’t tell what it was, but it didn’t even matter because regardless of what it had been it was clearly there to stay. You slept poorly, your dreams an odd jumble of stress from the shows you had coming your way paired with the woman and her mysterious presence.

All in all, you were able to recognize how ridiculous of you it was to fixate on such an insignificant detail in the crowd, especially a few shows later when you had caught yourself scanning the audience as if she would have attended the show twice in the span of a few weeks, let alone even the same year. It was more than likely that she would never come see that same performance again. You caught yourself staring intently into the dark crowd time and time again with the woman on the very forefront of your mind. Every time you opened your mouth and began to sing on the stage during the weeks leading up to December, a ghost of that feeling of the opening week would linger in your body. You had never been so captivated by a gaze. You had never witnessed such intensity in anyone’s eyes. You tried to look back on the most meaningful people in your life, your mother, your siblings, your best friend and roommate, your ex who you had thought to be the love of your life yet came up short. You even considered the people who had looked at you with hatred in their eyes, but it couldn’t compare to the red-headed woman.

You quickly became frustrated with the idea of her. What right did she have to look at you with such intensity, with such reverence, with such agony? Who was she to plague your mind so ruthlessly and consistently? You stared daggers ahead of you as you once again waited for your turn behind the curtains to bring the show to its finish. You fiddled with your gown until you realized you were about to rip off the pearls from anger, so you left them alone, focusing your frustration on your cuticles and bottom lip instead. You watched your coworker, Daniel, belt out his last note which functioned as a cue for you to get into character. You took a deep breath, counted to five in your head, like you often did, and headed onto the stage.

You slipped into character with familiar ease, waltzing across the stage in an emotion filled frenzy as your lips formed each of the rapidly sung words, allowing yourself to get fully immersed into your role to escape the thoughts that dominated your mind, thoughts that had been dominating your mind for most of November. You directed your rage at the audience, communicating your character’s frustration through not only the tone of your voice but your expressions and gestures. And then you nearly slipped right out of your character when your eyes found an unexpected figure a few rows off from her designated seat in the audience. You had sworn to yourself that you would stop obsessively checking the seat she had once occupied, yet the habit proved to be harder to shake than you had expected to. However, all of a sudden none of that mattered.

She was there. It had to be her. Either that or you were seeing hallucinations. Had you not been met with such an intense wave of dejavú that her gaze inflicted upon you, you could have disregarded her as someone who merely shared a resemblance with the red-headed woman, but you knew you weren’t mistaken. Your voice nearly faltered, your body stilling for a fraction of a second. It was just enough for the woman to be able to tell that your reaction was her doing. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, but that simply wasn’t an option for you when you were singing. You needed air, filling your lungs in a spastic inhale before continuing to sing, your eyes glued on the woman and her now much more serene features. She looked more put together than the first time. She looked more like she belonged in the audience, her clothing allowing her to blend in.

You felt dizzy, your eyes remaining intently on her so that you would not have the chance to lose her again. She had beautiful features, even more beautiful than you remembered. Her intense eyes held your gaze just the same, a gentle smile pushing up the corners of her mouth. You felt a pull to her, a pure sense of childish curiosity that couldn’t be explained. Holding her gaze, singing to her, felt safe, yet at the same time you felt like falling apart, like you had forgotten to put on your dress before walking onto the stage. There was something in those eyes, something that couldn’t be explained. You felt your eyes fill with tears. You didn’t know why. Once again, it wasn’t part of the act. Her smile widened, your tears spilling over. You couldn’t control it, the anger of your character fading into defeat, into helpless silence as your final note reverberated around you, bouncing from the walls of the theater.

The lights went off, panic rising to your chest. You were going to lose her again. You could barely breathe as you waited patiently for the lights to turn back on, the rest of the cast joining you on stage. You saw the woman stand up among the other people in the audience, your eyes nailed on her as the applause roared into life. You felt your hands being grabbed from either side for the bow that your cast did after every show, but all you could focus on was making sure that she didn’t have the chance to escape. The lights above the seating area turned on, illuminating the crowd better, your brows drawing into a horrified frown when you saw the woman give you a fond smile before dropping her clapping hands and turning to the side to leave the row of seats. You didn’t even realize that you immediately let go of the hands that held your own, rushing off the stage without giving it so much as a single thought. Your heels clicked against the floor as you ran behind the curtains, hurrying out of the backstage area. You nearly stumbled over your feet, but you didn’t let it hinder you, rushing down the hallways to the entrance of the Metropolitan Opera House. There were some people lounging around but since your show happened to be the last one of the night, most of the people in the building were still clapping in the theater.

You looked around frantically, scanning for even a lock of red hair among the people, your feet already carrying you toward the exit. She couldn’t have gone far. You saw that one of the front glass doors slid shut, a lone figure heading for the street. You had no idea what your intention was, why you needed to see her face again, to see more of her, nor did you stop to ponder the matter. You ran after her, pushing the glass door open, your bare arms greeted by an icy gust of wind. It was snowing outside, the large snowflakes floating down from the sky in the darkness of the night, clinging to your hair and dress, melting on your warm skin. Your heels sank into the pillowy layer of snow with each step you took. There were Christmas lights and streetlamps around you, the glistening, fresh snow illuminating your surroundings. For just a moment you felt your heart stop at the magical sight. First snow.

After recovering from your sudden experience of pure awe, you started to look around at the people on the plaza that was in front of the opera house. You scanned them frantically from head to toe in search of your mysterious woman before spotting her walking along the lit-up Lincoln Center fountain toward Broadway. You picked up your speed, your arms gathering your gorgeous gown up and out of the way after nearly falling face down in the snow on your slippery heels, but you managed to keep yourself upright somehow.

“Hey!” You didn’t know why you shouted, a few heads turning your way immediately, but none of them belonged to the person you were after. “Hey!” You wished you would have had something to call her, something specific that would attract her attention. You were getting closer to her, only a dozen feet between you when she glanced back at the sound of your footsteps. Her eyes widened in shock, but she didn’t stop, discreetly picking up her speed.

Fuck, what were you doing? Why were you coming after her? Natasha’s chest squeezed with anxiety. You weren’t supposed to- She wasn’t ready, she felt exposed. She rushed forward in the powdery snow, trying her best not to look like she was indeed running away from you. How could she be such a fool, such a wuss? She should have been able to face you just fine. You were no one. She was no one. It would have meant nothing; two strangers meeting. Except none of that was true. You were everything and meeting you would mean everything. Natasha came to the intersection of Columbus Avenue and Broadway, crossing the former street to Dante Park. She glanced back once more to see you drown momentarily into a small group of people passing by which gave her the perfect opportunity to change direction and continue to Columbus Avenue down south.

You slowed down, noting that the traffic was abnormally slow for the night as you crossed the street, trying to relocate the woman again, but with significantly less enthusiasm. You were shivering, trembling from the cold, your sudden frenzy starting to fizzle out. What were you after? You were harassing some innocent stranger without any proper justification. You yourself didn’t even know what you were after and you could no longer even see her auburn curls as you reached a large, abstract clock statue that stood in the middle of the strip of walkway between the two roads, always as hideous as ever.

The snow-covered branches of the trees of Dante Park gave Natasha enough coverage to blend into the rest of the pedestrians lounging on the street. Ten seconds later she had completely lost you. She had no doubt that you would give up on your search when the two of you shared no connection. She could have easily kept going and carried on with her night, but she couldn’t. Her heart ached so violently that she could no longer take another step. She looked at the row of snow-covered benches on her left, briefly contemplating if she should sit down for a moment. The pain was immense. It was brutal. She looked back toward the crossroad where she had last seen you, spotting you by the large, ugly clock. You brushed your hands over your bare arms, shivering very visibly. You looked around, taking a few blind, aimless steps toward her direction, but you clearly had no intention to continue your chase.

You were so close to her, Natasha’s heart beating out of rhythm as she watched you briefly glance her way again, prompting her to step behind a street map post to avoid being caught. What a loser she was. There was no point in trying. She should simply leave you alone. That’s how things were meant to go, that was your designated path. She didn’t belong there, she didn’t belong in your life. She waited for a moment to be on the safe side before peeking her head from behind the post, needing one more look at you before she would be ready to let you go. Her heart jolted. You were closer, walking her way as you rubbed your hands together violently in an attempt to warm yourself up. You and your lacking clothing received a few appalled looks from bystanders, but you paid them no attention, your focus moving back to the opera house. You brought your hands up to your mouth, huffing a warm breath over them despite how little it did to stave away the cold.

You stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, slightly off where the crosswalk had been marked, too busy warming yourself up to look around. Every cell in Natasha’s body stung in fear when she saw the way your gown glistened under a pair of headlights that appeared from nowhere, the driver taking advantage of the unusual lack of traffic by going slightly over the speed limit. Natasha didn’t waste a single breath, charging right at you without a second thought or even half a consideration for her own safety. All she could see was a car that was seconds away from running you over, and all she could think about was not letting it happen. Her body collided roughly with your own as she pushed you off the street and out of the car’s way just as the driver hit the breaks. You didn’t scream, you didn’t let out a single sound. You couldn’t. Natasha heard shocked gasps and a few horrified shouts from the sidewalk, but they disappeared into oblivion as she looked at you lying beneath her in the powdery snow.

Your eyes were wide, staring up at Natasha in pure terror as you lay on your back, your icy hands gripping her waist over her wool coat. You couldn’t process what had even happened, but you could feel her hand beneath your head, protecting it from the roughness of the collision with snowy asphalt, her hips and thighs pinning you down to the ground. You felt the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, your corset making the process of breathing feel even more laborious, your head spinning alongside the world around you. All you could do was stare up at what you had just now discovered to be green eyes. The streetlights illuminated her red hair, giving it a gentle glow, snowflakes clinging to her curls as more snow came down from the sky. Her cheeks were a soft pink from the cold, the tip of her nose matching the color, plump lips an even deeper shade of rose. You couldn’t feel any pain, the coldness of your body preventing you from feeling anything at its full intensity, yet you felt like you could feel her.

“Are you okay, dorogaya (darling)?” A hint of inappropriately possessive worry bled into her tone as she uttered the words, the endearment slipping out by pure accident, reminding her to take some mental distance from you despite your very intimate position. You continued to stare up at her, your lips parting but nothing came out. You nodded your head, but it came off as more of a tremor.

“Y-yeah. I’m- I’m-” Your teeth started clattering. You were freezing out of your mind.

“Are- are you okay?” The voice belonged to a panicked boy on the driver’s seat. Natasha glanced back at the scene behind her, noticing that the car had done a full one-eighty on the snow and ice when hitting the brakes, a few cars piling at the scene, waiting to get past, some drivers exiting their cars to see if an ambulance was needed. Natasha could tell the boy was young and clearly an inexperienced driver, anger flashing within her, hot and ruthless.

“You could’ve killed her”, she said in a voice icier than the snow pressed up against your skin as she moved carefully off you, barely sparing the boy a single glance before her attention was back on you. She knelt in the snow, her helping hands pulling you slowly to sit upright. You looked at her, you looked at him, you looked at the car, the snowflakes above you. It all felt so surreal.

“Are you hurt? I’m so sorry. Oh my god, I’m so fucked.” He was seconds away from crying, his whiny tone getting on Natasha’s nerves. She turned to him again, her stoic face conveying every bit of disdain that she felt toward him.

“Get lost.” The boy was clearly taken aback by her hostility, but he didn’t seem to be the type to defy authority, his hand fumbling for the car key. “And learn how to fucking drive.” He nodded his head, some bystanders watching the scene unfold, a few coming closer to ask if you needed help, but they were quickly convinced that you had made it through without a single scrape. Or well, not exactly. Natasha brushed the melted snow off your bare arms and shoulders, taking notice of the irritated skin there. Parts of it had been peeled raw by the rough collision with the ground, but they were barely enough to be considered wounds.

“Thank you”, you blurted out suddenly after she had helped you back on your feet.

“You’re welcome”, she smiled softly, a hint of something, something that was driving you insane, behind that expression, her hand coming up to your face to brush aside some of your hair. You looked at her, observed her carefully, unsure of what to say to her or how to voice why you had come after her in the first place. You felt like you needed to explain yourself to her, but you didn’t have the words for such a feat. “Turn around.” You followed her instructions, feeling like your brain was a bit behind from the current moment. “You’ve got…” She brushed her hand down the back of your dress, saving whatever she could from your gorgeous apparel. “A bit of snow.” Your arms curled against your body automatically as you continued to shiver like a leaf in the wind, your lower lip trembling, teeth chattering. “Here.” You turned to look at her. She had removed her dark brown coat and was offering it for you to wear. It looked warm and comfortable, the effect amplified by the fur neckline of the coat. You shook your head immediately, noting that she was only wearing a thin, satin blouse beneath it.

“No, you’ll freeze”, you protested weakly, but Natasha simply shook her head.

“I’ll be okay. Besides, you’re practically already frozen. I’ve still got a few minutes.” You tried to chuckle at her joke, but you were far too cold to produce such sounds. She wrapped the coat tightly around you, making sure it fit you snuggly to stave off the cold.

“Thank you”, you mumbled, feeling a pleasant but weak heat bloom on your cheeks from her considerate act.

“Keep it. It looks good on you.” Natasha brushed her hand over your shoulder as if admiring the fit on you. It brought her comfort and serenity to know that you would own a piece of her.

“W-what?”

“I have to go, and you probably should too.” There it was again, that look, that look in her eyes. You felt a visceral reaction in your body for being looked at that way. You felt unbearable disappointment even if you didn’t expect a complete stranger to want to hang out with you for longer than necessary. She had only acted out of basic human decency. She noted the hesitant look on your face. “It’s okay, detka (baby), you can keep it.” It was only fair that she would get to slip in one more endearment before leaving. You couldn’t really react to her words, still trying to process the fact that you had just gone through a near death experience. “Look both ways when crossing the street. Please, for my sake and my sanity.”

“I will.” Natasha started backing away, a bitter smile on her lips.

“Wait.” You felt hurt, abandoned, but you didn’t understand why. “What’s your name?” She pursed her lips, wiping the smile off her face as she looked away as if contemplating whether your question was worth answering or not.

“Natasha.” You smiled. “Yours?” She already knew the answer.

“Y/N.”

“I’ve always loved that name. It suits you”, she hummed softly.

“Thank you and thank you for saving my life. I owe you everything.” She shook her head in mild amusement as if you didn’t quite know what her words entailed.

“You owe me nothing.” She took a few more steps back. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” She gave you one last smile before turning around and walking away, hopefully heading somewhere away from the cold. You stared after her, feeling distraught by the intimacy of the way she has said your name, an odd shiver going down your spine. You hugged the coat tighter around you, watching her disappear into the city covered by a blanket of snow.

[jymwahuwu]

JSHDJDBDJBSSJSBS THE WRIO ONE👀💦 + the fact that you can stay after serving your sentence

imagine being one of the prisoners at the fortress at first but you actually smiled at him when he's signing your paperwork for having served your sentence but he wants you to stay...

If you cooperate, you get a protective and cuddly wolf but if you don't, then you'll get a lovely 'hustle and tussle' at first. Don't worry, sigewinne has all the ointments needed to soothe the bite marks and hickies left by a beloved wolf🤭🥰

-💦anon (life is killing me but my therapy are hot men -wriothesley and Neuvillette-🦋)

💦nonny, me too lol i feel less tired just thinking about them. sending you a digital hug <3

And this… face the fact that we can't leave the Fortress of Meropide once the sentence starts, it doesn't matter if it's 10 days or not 😹💗

CW: yandere, non-con, abuse of power, spanking, forced imprisonment

You weren't actually that worried about going to jail—although you weren't so laid-back as to think it was summer camp, you weren't sighing like the others either. You live in Fontaine, after all, a country famous for its laws. Your friend has been to the Fortress of Meropide three times, and a classmate was imprisoned for 15 days for some inexplicable reason. They give you some instructions on what to do in prison and write letters to friends who are still in prison asking them to look after you.

You go to jail with the papers, but the receptionist is on leave, so you have to go to Wriothesley in person. Need to meet the "Duke"? Fortunately, you learned about Wriothesley's character from your friends in advance and breathed a sigh of relief. "Hi, do you want some tea?" Whether you shook your hand or nodded, Wriothesley put down a cup of warm tea on the table and read some stupid shit charges, such as singing for Furina but off-key, lying about not having dessert at home, hanging wet clothes on rain. The number on your sentence document is "10 days." You are clearly a victim of these stupid crimes.

During these 10 days, you have been assigned to work in Wriothesley's office to replace other prison labor. You read the manual and brew the tea, looking around in confusion, but don't see any other prisoners - are you the only one working here…? You just had to prepare tea, process and deliver documents, but…once you accidentally dropped a piece of the opera cake on the floor (his afternoon tea). Without warning, Wriothesley pulled down your panties and spanked you. Absolute…shock. Could he do this…?

You convince yourself that this might be prison discipline…right? It should be like this, right…?

After working for ten days, you hummed a song and walked briskly, holding the release documents to look for Wriothesley. With a grin, you asked him to sign it in a soft tone.

"Why do you think I'd sign?" He raised his eyebrows and looked up at you, crossing his arms.

Your raised lips froze, and the luster gradually faded from your face. "You-won't you sign?"

Unexpectedly, you receive a confession from "The Duke," the prison administrator. Knowing that it was not a reason for the complaint, you gradually felt relieved. Ask your heart, do you agree to stay -

Agree:

Wriothesley leaves you in the Fortress of Meropide, but also allows you to return to the surface. He is a humorous and considerate boyfriend. The two of you often date at teahouses, coffee shops, and the Fortress of Meropide. Once, Chief Justice met the two of you and sighed in realization. "So this is your mate, for love and mating."

You: (cheeks burning) ?????

Disagree:

There was an argument that ended with Wriothesley pushing you and placing you on the table, forcing your legs apart. It was rough but controlled force - basically no injuries except for bites and hickeys on your neck and inner thighs. Frustrated sobs gave way to reluctant moans. After this, little Sigewinne gave him a rare scolding, and examined and applied medicine to you.

Still, you can't get out of jail. Those handcuffs locked you in his office and resting area. He pats your head and tells you to be good.

[rambosgirl]

Hiii, could you write about logan x f! opera singer! reader??? And maybe make a moodboard🫶🫶🫶 thx for your works

Heck yea I gotcha babe <3 the first thing I thought of was Greatest Showman (duh) but then I also thought of Phantom of the Opera so uh... here it is, I hope you like it! Oh and I added some headcanons for you, if you want a full fic lmk

Masterlist

Headcanons

Storm, Jean, and Scott dragged him to a show of yours bc ya'll are old friends or something

He was a grump the entire time but when he heard you sing??

he was fascinated

and then they went backstage to see you??

girl he was head over heels. Forgot about Jean for the rest of time bc who is this

He would flirt like there was no tomorrow. And he'd give you pet names, his favorite being 'angel'

Despite your busy schedule and sporadic traveling, the two of you become friends. Whenever you were in town, Charles invited you to teach a few classes for students interested in music.

You loved teaching, so you always said yes. But after you finished, you and Logan would sneak off and hang out (Jean and Storm call them dates, and tease Logan about it whenever you're not around)

Logan loves listening to you practice. Your voice isn't just calming, it's fascinating. How do you hold out notes for that long? How do you reach those high notes and make them sound so rich? He doesn't know but he's here for it.

He goes to as many performances as he can, but he often struggles to fit in with the elegance of your world

The fancy opera house, galas, high-society events and people, it's not really his element. It's actually the opposite.

Not to mention the tux. DANG he looks good in it but you can tell he's wildly uncomfortable in it.

it's why he only goes to those events with you sometimes, but he does love to be with you backstage, supporting you within his comfort zone, which you are perfectly okay with.

He'll be there watching when you do your hair, perfect your makeup, and when you perform.

He also reminds you when you're not performing that you don't have to be perfect all the time, something that as an opera singer, you struggle with

You've known each other for months by the time he lets you hear his singing voice

It's a deep baritone voice, completely different from his speaking voice, but at the same time very similar

"You've got a voice that could sell out a theater. Ever think of putting the claws away to give musicals a try?"

He just let out a soft, playful scoff in response "You won't ever catch me singing on a stage"

"The circus it is then"

Insert the Logan eyebrow raise here

As your relationship grows, so does Logan's admiration for you.

sometimes when he sees you on stage in your white dress he imagines it's a wedding dress

Eventually, you tone down the performance side of your career and start staying at the mansion teaching more. You miss performing sometimes, but this means you can spend more time with your old friends, your students, and Logan.

Logan is a-okay with this he misses the white dress

but that's okay because he's planning a way for you to wear a white dress again :)))

[liliesof-the-valley]

Singer mc

How do the brothers react to a mc who can sing?

Not proofread, this idea came to me while I was supposed to be writing about a jack of all trades mc but oh well, enjoy!!

─── ୨ৎ────

Luci

Needless to say, he’s so impressed.

He thinks you should show the world this while also wanting to simultaneously have your voice belong to him

I suppose the showing off the talents you have boosts his ego in a way.

I’m pretty sure it’s canon that he’ll listen to anything except techno (I think) and regardless of the style of singing you do (be it opera, more theatre-y or metal) he’ll support you.

To be fair , though, I do think his favourite would be you singing opera

He’ll accompany you with the piano as you sing your heart out to whatever and whatever.

Perhaps if you sing a duet, he’ll join in, who knows?

Mams

Do I love him? Yes. Do I think he may try exploit this? Also yes.

Okay hear me out, once he does find out about your special talent he’s absolutely awestruck, though at first I do think his greed may get to his head.

Plots of how he can record you or help you audition in films/ musicals or how much money he would make if he—

But wait. Once he comes to his senses, he realises…

Your voice should just be heard by him, he is the great mammon, your first after all!

Needless to say, the two of you go to many karaoke parlours afterwards as well as singing whilst driving to nowhere special

Levi

To be fair, I’m pretty sure there wouldn’t be anyone who wouldn’t be impressed by your absolute delight of a voice

Levi thinks similarly, thinking of how many people you’ve sung to and how many people have heard your siren song…

Well, he is the avatar of envy after all, he’s bound to get jealous over something.

Despite his jealousy, it’s quite easy to make him feel better.

How? Easy, sing an anime op. More specifically (if he’s in a reallyy bad mood) sing the opening of hana ruri and he’s grinning ear to ear, brighter than the whole of the celestial realm.

You and him do actually do karaoke and he LOVES how your voice can just…wow.

Expect him to ask for mini concerts with you dressed in cosplay

Satan

He’s intrigued, curious and even more interested in you now.

You can sing? And not just that, this wonderful?

Some demons would take centuries to build up this kind of voice, and you (be with years of practice or being naturally talented) have achieved this skill this quickly? (Remember the perceptions of time are diff guys😭)

he treats this as sort of a science experiment, I suppose—which does mean LOADS OF QUESTIONS.

How high can you go? How low can you go? Do you know that…? Do you—

After this initial stage, he does like asking you to sing to him, especially if he’s in a mood or about to explode and like that, he’s calm again.

Asmo

oh my! You can sing?!

How cute!!

He may ask for your permission to post some videos of you singing, the world deserves to see your beautiful voice and his beautiful face!

Sing to him while he’s getting ready and he feels like the main character

Asmo has a nice voice too so I could imagine a duet between you two

Its so happens that company reached out and asked you two to sing a duet!

Well, at least your getting payed good

Asmo nights now are required to have at least one karaoke portion/place

Beel

You can sing? Cool!

I mean honestly, he’d probably find out randomly

I can imagine him realising your siren-like voice whilst you are singing and cooking

You’d casually be singing to a song from your playlist as you cook and he walks in

His jaw drops because, wow???

Almost forgot about his snack due to the sheer shock of your serene voice

anyways, he does ask you about it, thinking its something you should share with people

Belphie

there’s no way that he wouldn’t make you sing lullabies to him

In fact, that’s probably his favourite thing to hear you sing

Whilst napping together, even if he’s on the verge of falling asleep, it’s nice to hear you singing into his ears, lulling him to sleep

Hm? Belphies having problems with sleeping? That’s a lie first of all he wants you to sing to him

maybe if you sing a lullaby to him he’ll be able to fall asleep better

Come on.. just one, or two, or three, or—

[ataraxiaspainting]

The End.

Yan Kafka x F Reader.

Synopsis: Kafka always sits in the front row, despite being part of the show herself.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, thoughts of violence, manipulation, and unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: 1k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Breezeblocks by alt-J

Waltz No. 2 by Dmitri Shostakovich (feat. The Dixie String Quartet)

Swan Lake by HAUSER

Claus by Los Tres

Doin’ Time by Lana Del Ray

Lie by BTS

She’s My Collar by Gorillaz (feat. Kali Uchis)

Cha Cha by Freddie Dredd

Michelle by Sir Chloe

MONTERO (Call Me By Your Name) - SATAN’S EXTENDED VERSION by Lil Nas X

*~*~*~*

The roses are wilting.

It was destiny, fate. Such pretty things never last forever, after all, even if the entire universe wished otherwise. One way or another, they are meant to fall, like how the sun drops below where anyone can see it, being replaced with the moon, and vice versa. They fall deep, deeper than hell itself, and no one can pick them back up, unless one would be inclined to make a pact with the devil himself, doing horrendous things in his name. But Kafka has already committed such sins, so why deny doing so any longer? It is who she is. It is who you are, to be entangled in her lies and be forced to dance and to sing and to act.

With two gloved hands, she picks up the vase, spilling out the moldy water and the dying roses, the roses she got for you after you sang so well at the opera house, looking so beautiful, into the trash can underneath your makeup vanity, where little clumps of hair and emptied products always meet their end.

She’ll get you a new bouquet later. A new vase too. Perhaps instead of white roses you would like red ones instead? Kafka knows that this vase is cheap too, from one of your fellow divas, whose high notes are not as high as yours and her costumes not as elaborate or as elegant as yours.

“I honestly don’t see why you even try to befriend any of them, darling. They are all envious harpies. They can’t hold a candle to anything you do.”

You are not here, but Kafka’s mouth always has a mind of its own, so it spins lies even when your delicate, lovely ears are not in the general vicinity. Not that she minds it. But yours is what she is quite more so than trifles with, because yours is carefully controlled by her and her alone, and you, as always, don’t get a say. It’s a sort of hypocrisy, Kafka thinks, but she doesn't mind that either.

If she has to, she’ll even sew your mouth shut, your ears shut, your eyes shut, if that is what it takes for you to stay with her. She doubts it would ever come to that, though, because you are always too fragile and too trusting to tell the difference between an Iago and a Desdemona. But the latter role would much better suit you, her little flower, her princess.

You are so precious, but also a treasure prying eyes will always want to touch and see and hear. Kafka would, in all honesty, love to cut their hands and tongues off, if it did not ruin the carefully crafted image she made just for you. Maybe later, though, when all the stage lights are off.

“Lady Macbeth, hmm?” She murmurs.

She disagrees with the role you were given entirely. But, you were not one to stand up for yourself, so Kafka let it go. 

“You really ought to leave this business soon, dearest.” Kafka looks around, her arms crossed, not impressed with the room you were given in the slightest. “You can always just come with me.” She meant it. “Imagine all the sights you would see. All the food you would eat. All the gifts I would be so happy to give you. All the hugs and kisses you would receive from me. Everything… just think about it.”

She could imagine it herself. It is not hard, really, for the mind to reject all sense of logic and bow down to the whim of what is known as human emotions, mortal joys, woes, desires, wants, and needs. She could imagine sitting you on her lap as the ship jumps to the next world she will have to visit, telling you stories of the past, present, and future, as you look on with amazement. You don’t do that anymore, now. She would do anything to see it come back. She would steal a crown and place it on your head, though you having the genuine article does not make you any stronger. If anything, perhaps it would make you weaker to her whims.

“Imagine that…” She sighs, closing her eyes as she smiles. “We can go to Penacony. Your dreams would come true there if I cannot make them true myself. You can sleep on beds worth more than this entire opera house. If only you would let me. I know it would make you happy. I know it would make me happy. So why wouldn’t it make you?”

She would listen to your ultimate pains, and your ultimate wishes, and act accordingly. She loved you. You will too, again. It is only a matter of time, isn’t it? Yes, Kafka thinks, it is fate. 

…

Kafka always sits in the front row of the theater.

It does not matter whether or not she purchased the tickets for it, the seat, or the show soon to come to fruition. No one dares talk back to her, even security. She finds comfort in that. No one gets in the way of her having the chance to see you. Better yet, no one else sits in the front row when she is present.

So, she watches, one of her legs crossed over the other, her eyes never blinking. During interludes she likes to adjust her makeup accordingly, painting on another shade of crimson to her lips. Art comes in many forms, after all.

Kafka told you that once. As always, you listened dutifully as she taught you to be.

She taught you many things, not just that. She taught you how to read constellations. She helped you learn her vocabulary in the books she gave you, often long fairytales or poems. She preferred it that way when you used to be so eager to have someone be friendly to you and not want to simply use you for their own amusement, not wanting to throw you out of the opera house altogether.

The opera house may rot after it goes up in flames, in the future, if things go her way as it always does, but she’ll stay to watch it all, to take you in as you cry and as she shushes you. She’ll be happy. Maybe you will be too, for her. It matters how good your performance is, if you even want to act anymore, after all.

The lights dim, and she shows her pearl-white teeth as she grins.

[tossawary]

So, the Jackson "The Hobbit" movies get rid of the dwarves having musical instruments, rather adding a very atmospheric humming to the "Over the Misty Mountains" song. And I like this adaptational choice just fine, I think it sounds good, and because the question of "What happens to the instruments? Are they taking clarinets and a harp and etc. on the quest?! Are the musical instruments magical?" has bugged me for years. And I do think this choice suits the general *waves hand vaguely* more "serious / grim / lower high fantasy" aesthetic cultivated by the previous Jackson "Lord of the Rings" films.

But I do like the mental image of the Company being a very literal band going on a quest, because I think it's funny and delightful and unique. If I was doing an animated movie in particular, I would not like to be rid of the musical instruments during that scene. The vibe is very magical. Very whimsical. And whimsy does not have to be wholly separate from very serious subject matters! I think it would be very cool if the dwarves had more casually magical tools generally, which would do some easy additional worldbuilding for the level of craftsmanship in this world, and could fit in perfectly well alongside hidden doors and invisibility rings and mithril shirts and glowing swords and jewelry that never comes accidentally undone.

If someone did a version where all the dwarves are carrying musical instruments throughout most of the quest in this way and the creator really leaned into the music generally and audio-visual relationship in film specifically, I would absolutely watch it. That sounds amazing. It wouldn't necessarily have to be a musical or an opera as well, though that would also be extremely cool. (Personally, I would even also watch a "Fantasia" version of "The Hobbit" FOR SURE. I am an artsy dork like that. Though it might not be my first choice in my ideal creative project.)

I think you could could do some great, whimsical scenes with the dwarves singing at various points on the road, the musical instruments breaking at certain emotional points, the dwarves trying to do little musical spells at various points, and so on. A lot of this stuff could even just be other members of the Company fussing around with these things in the background (trying to play a musical spell to light a fire) while Bilbo has a foreground conversation with Thorin or Gandalf or something. I LOVE in animated (and live) movies when you can see supporting characters bickering or getting into hijinks in the background of a scene. (Also, this world was sung into being in a way, wasn't it? Why not have more magical music?)

(OHHH, the way that Smaug could be done in a more audio- and music-focused version of "The Hobbit" would be SO COOL.)

Alternatively, generally, I've also imagined that there are other dwarves with wagons nearby to take the musical instruments away again (let's say the instruments are not magical in any way and taking them along would therefore largely just be impractical), and that the night at Bilbo's house was actually also a RITUAL meal/meeting for the members of a long journey. You're going on a quest? You seclude yourself with your company, eat, drink, talk, plan, and sing a little to bond as an exclusive group the night before heading off together. Normally, this would have been done back at their own home or something, but they had to get their burglar first.

I think this would be a cool way to slip in characters like Dis and Gimli even just in the background, as family members come to see everyone off, seen fixing Kili's hair or hugging Gloin as the Company prepares to leave Hobbiton that last morning. Thorin and Balin could be exchanging a couple quick lines about how Bilbo hasn't shown up yet, and in the background, we could see Dis hugging Fili (the true purpose of a well-done adaptation of "The Hobbit" is to break my fucking heart) and Gloin's wife drawing off with a wagon full of musical instruments while young Gimli waves tearfully! You wouldn't even have to have them say anything to slip them in!

Just... I'm listening to the Andy Serkis audiobook of "The Hobbit" right now and I want to see some gloriously artsy visual adaptations of this world.

[genderkoolaid]

Rating Yonic Words (Very Logical and Unbiased and Scientific and Impartial)

Vagina et al. - 2/10. Hard* "g" sound is awful. Its a chewy word. Would be better with a soft "g" like in the french vagin, but even thats like, 5/10. Also way overused to describe the whole set when its only the main hole, but its also the proper clinical word for said hole. "Vag" is slightly better but carries the sin of the father (hard "g"), and va-jay-jay is a solid 0. You just doubled the worst sound here. Its the yonic Cain.

*not actually hard, my brain is just too french, but i don't think this sound deserves to be called soft. it's a chewy g. forgive me for my lies

Vulva - 10/10. Love him. "V" sounds flow so nicely. You could sing this in an opera. Also actually refers to the whole kit n caboodle. May be a little clinical for some but we can change that. We can make it horny. You can help me make it horny. Betty Dodson would want you to help me make it horny.

Pussy - 7/10. Gets some points for being a classic, and its decent sounding. But the "s" sounds aren't the best, especially alongside the "p" sound. Its just a little too harsh and kind of juvenile. Good for a laff.

Punani et al. - 2 to 7/10. Gets cool points for being a descendant of the Akan language through Jamaican creole. Gets a range of points because I'm grouping poontang (bad word to say and hear) in with punani (a clear 7)

Labia - 10/10. Vulva's lovely twin. Another word you could sing. The "b" sound isn't offputting- it flows nicely between the elegant "L" and "ia." Again, a bit clinical, but so good to say. Labia (the word and the body part) deserve more love.

Fanny - 0/10. Pussy's worse sounding cousin. Replacing the "s" sounds with "n" removes the flow of pussy, which makes this the yonic-linguistic equivalent of going down a dry waterslide.

Cunt - 10/10. Its like a punch in a good way. Not too harsh, but makes its point clearly; a well-rounded sound. Can be comedic and horny but its not too unserious. Good mouthfeel. I'm a big cunt fan. Can also be an insult, but such is the way of sex organs. Such a versatile word.

Coochie - 4/10. Sorry to the coochie lovers out there but my god? The "ch" sound? Awful to hear. Get that out of my genitalia. Gets points for comedic use, which I respect.

Twat - 2/10. Sounds like the sound made when Batman decks some guy in the face. The "t" sounds here are just unpleasant, and when combined with "æ" it gets worse. Sorry Brits & co. </3

Clitoris / Clit - 9/10. Important organ we all know and love. Both long & short versions sound good, although I think it could be smoother. Way better clinical term than vagina, but I wish we had wider options for him.

Snatch - 3/10. I'm not a fan of the sounds at play here (once again, get "ch" out of here), but I find this word really funny. I cannot imagine this being used hornily. It sounds like the name of a delightful cryptid.

Quim - 4/10. What are you, from the 1700s? I think it sounds alright, the "q" isn't abrasive, but unless you are writing historical fiction it just doesn't sound right.

Any and All Metaphorical Words - 1/10. Never work outside of extremely horny contexts or jokes. Gets one point for extremely horny contexts and jokes.

[cumtastiics]

Hm, what about a yandere mafia boss and an opera singer reader?

yan! mafia boss x opera singer

tw: yandere, implied kidnapping

HELP SORRY I TOOK SO LONG UM I FORGOT TO WRITE ANYTHING

"sing for me."

you were so beautiful to him.

your voice was so soothing, it was like a lullaby.

he would often find himself lost in the melody of your words, as if they were a gentle breeze carrying him away to a place of solace. it was in those moments, when the world seemed to fade into the background, that he truly felt alive.

your beauty, both in appearance and in spirit, enraptured him. the way your eyes sparkled with mischief, reflecting the light like precious gems, could melt the hardest of hearts. and your smile, oh how it could light up the darkest room, spreading warmth and joy to all those around you.

yet, you always stayed silent.

he was only able to hear your voice when you happily spoke to others who weren't him.

so he didn't allow people to talk with you. you were more distant with him.

every night, he would lie in bed, imagining the sound that would fill the room if you were to sing just for him.

but as days turned into weeks, his longing began to transform into something darker. a seed of possessiveness took root in his heart, fed by the bitter taste of jealousy. he couldn't understand why you would lavish others with your voice, while keeping him at arm's length, like an outsider looking in.

he was so desperate to hear your voice, the way you sung reminded him always of the time he first heard you.

he was running his fingers through your hair as your head stayed in his lap, his fingers now tugging on your hair, making you yelp out in pain.

"i told you to sing."

if u want more send reqs

[starcrossedmusings]

Phantom Touches (Teaser)

Pairing: opera ghost!yeosang x f!reader WC: 397 Warnings: suspense, yeosang is only a little bit creepy

Summary: Your fascination with the famed Paris Opera House had started as a child, and now even the opportunity to work under the new owners on the housekeeping team has you thrilled. Your first week of work is full of mystifying moments, including an encounter with a certain masked phantom.

A/N: First fic on the new blog is in the works! I dreamed this up while watching Phantom of the Opera with my friend the other day and absolutely could NOT get it out of my brain. I hope you all enjoy the teaser, especially all of my theatre atiny out there ♡

Entering box eight felt entirely forbidden based on the rumblings you'd heard among the ballet girls, but Madame Giry had insisted that you had nothing to fear--the opera ghost likes his space to be kept tidy she had barked out to you, best to not agitate him, girl. As you crossed the threshold into the private suite, you noticed a lingering smell that had become familiar to you this week--that wafted by in empty hallways and whispered past darkened corners--roses and old parchment paper. Your gaze swept over the space, finding no evidence that anyone had been up here recently. This was unsurprising to you of course, you imagined ghosts couldn't make that much of a mess, even if they wanted to. Taking a deep breath and shaking out any lingering nerves, you began your initial dusting of the room, paying special attention to the baseboards and intricate moulding toward the top of the space.

You were entirely alone in this wing of the opera house...until you weren't.

You felt before you heard. The presence buzzed in the air, making the little hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. And the smell--roses and parchment--intensified. The feeling of someone standing behind you overwhelmed your senses and you turned around to find...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A shiver ran it's way down your spine as your gaze once again scanned the room for whoever had clearly entered, but whoever they were, they must have vanished as soon as they came. The smell had also quickly disintegrated back to it's mild counterpart. You felt crazy. Hell, maybe you were crazy.

And yet, maybe you weren't.

Because now there was something laying on one of the plush velvet-lined seats. Something that most certainly hadn't been there before you entered the box. A note sealed with wax, and a single dark red rose. Your name was written on the outside with scrawling flourish. You carefully opened the note, looking around wearily before peering at it's contents.

My Dear Y/N, I do hope you pay more mind to my space than the last maid they assigned to my box. She was dreadfully incompetent. Madame Giry assures me you are much better suited for the role. And much more attractive. Do not disappoint me. ∼Opera Ghost P.S. I do hope you will sing for me. Giry also assures you have talent worthy of my time.

[dramaticallytotal]

TDWT Headcanons Pt. 5

Part 1 Last Part

• Heather, Leshawna, Eva, and Sierra were Bratz girlies.

• Courtney, Gwen, and Bridgette were Barbie girlies.

• Lindsay and Izzy were all. Bratz, Barbie, Polly Pocket, My Scene. You name it. While Lindsay was in it for the fashion, Izzy liked to put Barbie dolls on ceiling fans star-fished and turn in on and try not to get hit. Also, for makeovers. Izzy also chewed the rubber Polly Pocket clothes.

• Gwen was also a Living Dead Dolls girlie.

• Eva, for some odd reason, gives me cabbage patch vibes.

• Courtney is also very American Girl Doll coded. But also Eva, in the sense she always wanted one.

• I don't know why but I felt the need to make those headcanons even though they have nothing to do with WT XD

• Chris found out Noah can actually sing because his sister Noelle messaged him from their mom's phone since Chris is...ugh...friends with his parents. Noelle got mad that Noah wasn't actually singing even though she knew he could. So she ratted him out to Chris and even shared a video from when they were younger, and Noelle had him perform Phantom of the Opera with her in their living room. She was Erik, he was Christine.

• So Chris tells him he has to sing a song all by himself in New York because Broadway is there, and he was inspired by the video. Noah is so pissed! He knew Noelle was actually mad at him for eating the last of the Rava Ladoo before he left! But she said it was fine! He makes it a point to tell her this during a confessional. He may also be planning to hack into her accounts and post one of the embarrassing videos he had of her.

• Then Noah got an idea. This show is supposed to be family-friendly. If he sang a not so family friendly song, then it would have to be cut! Thankfully, Chris told him he could pick a song to sing, so he quickly told the band what song and hoped they knew it. They did and were all trying very hard not to laugh as they could already imagine Chris's reaction. Then Noah grabbed an intern around his age that he knew named Tristan, who sang and sang well.

• Please imagine Noah singing Sugar Daddy from Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Going all out and everyone is just STUNNED. Alejandro is so flustered, but he can't look away. Izzy, Eva, and Owen are rocking out and cheering for Noah. We love supportive best friends UwU

• Trent and Cody have stars in their eyes and are already trying to come up with arguments of why Noah should join their emo band. I mean boy band.

• Chris is impressed and pissed because he definitely has to cut the song, but it's okay. He's just going to make sure Noah actually sings from here on out.

• Alejandro definitely did not lie awake at night thinking about Noah's performance. Nope!

• When Lindsay is annoyed with someone, she purposefully calls them by the wrong name. She does that already because it's part of her character, but when she's annoyed? She takes it up a notch.

• Yes, Lindsay isn't the smartest person, but come on, she's not that dumb! She's on a gymnastics team and a really good one at that. In order to stay on the team, she has to have decent grades. But she knew that people love a dumb blonde, and she's all for playing the part.

• Tyler may be clumsy, but the dude is actually really strong. We've seen he has an uncanny strength in his fingertips, but also he was able to pull his sled with his team plus random crates. He's actually won a pull-up competition without really trying.

• Heather can do anything in heels. When she was younger, she idolized Michelle Pfieffer's Cat Woman. She saw the way the woman did everything in heels and was just like, "that's gonna be me." And she did it.

• Bridgette is totally a tarot card girlie. I mean, we know she likes crystals from her biography, so I can totally see her being a tarot card reader. Coincidentally, Gwen was a rock/ gem kid, so they tend to talk about rocks/gems and what they mean and it's just a nice break from the competition for the both of them.

• Cody and Noah aren't actually mad about the whole awake-a-thon kiss thing anymore and tend to make jokes about it because they figured if they didn't, others would and they would be pretty cruel about it. So what better way to skip that treatment than to show it doesn't bother them?

• They tend to call each other stupid pet names, but they stopped that because of Sierra. But Cody is still pretty protective of Noah and also considers himself his wingman.

• Alejandro is definitely not glad they stopped because he definitely wasn't jealous.

• DJ and Leshawna tend to jam out together from her playlist since both have a love of music. DJ used to play the trumpet in school for a bit, and Leshawna can actually play the drums pretty well.

• Leshawna sees Tyler as a little brother of sorts. He reminds her of a kid she met when she volunteered at the community center at home, and the poor dude is so clumsy she can't help but try and take him under her wing. Plus, she likes his determination.

• Harold, Noah, Trent, and Tyler were all Scouts. Noah only made it to being a Beaver Scout, not because he couldn't handle the training because he could and got bored! Trent and Tyler made it to be Cub Scouts, but Trent stopped because he got more into music while Tyler was asked to leave because of how many times he got injured.

• Harold made Venturer but then auditioned for Total Drama. He is hoping to get back to it and make Rover!

• Trent has a habit of sneaking Gwen treats from first class if his team wins. She finds it absolutely adorable and makes sure not to tell her team, but she always sneaks him thank you notes.

• When they aren't competing, the kids tend to make their own small competitions like who can do the most push up, who can hold a note the longest, who can steal something from Chris's room without him noticing. Or who can add something to his room and how long it takes for him to notice.

• Also, they bet so much, oh my god. There's a pot where they bet snacks, whatever cash they brought, favors, and secretly votes.

Next Part

[early20sfailingplenty]

I’m obsessing over a lot of musical rn, and imagine the brothers (separately) with a s/o who can sing really good (like has a broadway voice) and loves to sing different songs from musicals. I think they’re the type of partners who love to hear their s/o sing!!

All three brothers would be captivated by having someone who can sing!

I feel like Vincent especially would be; he listens to opera and probably musicals too (speaking from personal experience, it's a thin pipeline from enjoying either one to the other), so he might be the brother to have 'requests' for things you can sing! He'd sit and listen to you while he works, looking up every now and then to make sure you know he's still listening and enjoying, and then when you're done, he sets his work down and lifts his mask just enough for you to be able to see him smile.

It's as close to a thank you as you'll get from him.

Bo is a metal listener (like me ~ 🔥😍) so he probably wouldn't enjoy listening to musical tracks as much as Vincent, but he does enjoy the fact that you can sing. If you have a Broadway voice, you have a professional range, and he'd probably be curious about the highest and lowest you can reach with your voice. Might even try to work it into the Ambrose way of things, to see if he can lure other people in with the promise of a show! It'd certainly generate some more money around the place so he could work essential repairs and treat you to something every now and then!

Lester has no preference for musical genres and is happy to sit and listen to you sing anything, at any time and anywhere, to your heart's content. He always compliments you sincerely, thanks you, and wants to know what all your favourites are.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 3 - The Morning After

Summary: Despite her better judgment, Valerie and Elvis are fast growing closer. He invites her for a late night dinner, where they share secrets and hamburgers.

Author's notes: This is my last rewritten chapter. Four and beyond are brand new. You'll love them. <3

My eyes snapped open, heart doing the cha-cha against my ribs. Have you ever woken from a dream so real you can still feel it clinging to your skin? That's what this was—except it wasn't a dream. The phantom sensation of his eyes on me, the ghost of almost-kisses, the memory of that voice wrapping around my name like honey dripping from a spoon.

I fumbled for my nightstand, nearly sending last night's untouched water crashing to the floor. There it was. The ticket. Glossy and real and solid proof that I hadn't imagined the whole thing. That I, Valerie Pedretti, professional nobody from Chicago, had somehow caught the eye of the most famous man in America.

"Christ," I said to the empty room. My voice sounded wrong. Everything was wrong. He was married. That was a fact, like death or gravity or the way my hands shook when I reached for the telephone. I groaned into my pillow, but the sound came out more like a strangled cat trying to sing opera. I needed to call Deena before my brain exploded all over these nice hotel sheets.

The phone rang twice before Deena picked up, her voice fuzzy with sleep and irritation. "Val, hon, it's ass o'clock in the morning. This better be good—"

"Trust me, Dee, it is." I took a deep breath, the words crowding in my throat like teenagers at a concert. "I'm not coming home just yet. I've decided to stay here a few more days."

That woke her up. I could practically hear her sitting bolt upright, the bedsprings creaking through the line like an old dog stretching. "Sinatra?"

"No." I pressed my head against the window glass. It was cool. The sun was already fierce in the desert. I chewed my lip, tasting yesterday's lipstick. "I maybe kind of sort of accidentally had a ‘moment’ with a celebrity last night."

Dead silence. The kind of silence that happens right before an atomic bomb goes off. Then—

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" 

I yanked the receiver away from my ear, wincing. In Chicago, dogs were probably howling. "Yep. I'm in deep doo-doo, Dee."

"Deep doo-doo?! More like the motherlode! Valerie, you little minx!" Deena's voice climbed higher with each word, like a cat scaling a hot tin roof. "How'd you manage a thing like that? I want every lurid detail. Emphasis on lurid."

I flopped back against the pillows, laughing despite myself. Good old Deena, straight to the good stuff. "I can't give you all the details yet. But let's just say he's someone we've both heard of. I'll give you three clues. Very famous, very talented, and very, very handsome."

I left out 'very married.' Some truths are better swallowed with a chaser of denial.

Deena made a sound like a teakettle having religious experience. "You're killing me! You can't just drop a bombshell like that and not give me a name! Landing a whale like that..." The line went quiet for a second, and I could practically hear the gears turning in her head. "Wait... is it Sinatra? Dean Martin? Joey Bishop?" Another pause. "Oh honey, please don't tell me it's Liberace. You know he doesn't go for—"

"I can't say."

"Since when do we have secrets?"

"Since now." The words came out hard and flat.

"Well hell." Deena laughed. Not a real laugh. "At least tell me if he's worth it."

I thought about his hands. His eyes. The way he moved like there was music in his bones.

"He's worth it."

"You sound sure."

"I'm not sure of anything." That was true. The only thing I was sure of was the ache in my chest when I thought of him. It was like hunger, but worse. "Maybe I'm crazy."

Deena huffed out a sigh that could've stripped paint. "Fine, keep your secrets, you incorrigible tease. But I'm telling you, Val, when an opportunity like this falls into your lap, you gotta strike while the iron's hot, if you know what I mean."

I burst out laughing. You could always count on Deena to cut straight to the chase with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. "Why Deena Jane Lovelace, are you trying to corrupt me? I feel like I should be clutching my pearls."

"I'm serious Val, you deserve to let loose and have some fun for once in your life. Live a little! Sow some wild oats! Ride that stallion till you break the saddle!"

I closed my eyes and thought about all the other women who’d probably had this same exact conversation with their best friends. The sun through the window was too bright. It suddenly all felt too much. "Maybe I'm just another girl to him."

"You're never just another anything."

We were quiet then. I could hear her breathing through the line. All those states away in Chicago, probably still in bed with her hair a mess and yesterday's makeup smeared under her eyes. She was my best friend. She was wrong about this.

“And even if you were, so what?” It was Deena who broke the quiet. "Look, I know you. You've got a bad habit of getting in your own way when it comes to men. Always overthinking, always holding back. Always tying yourself down to some jerk who isn't good enough for you..."

The laughter died in my throat. Because there it was, the ghost we hadn't named yet.

Andy.

Deena's voice softened like butter in the sun. "Oh honey. Are you worried about that chump again? Because I will fly to Vegas and smack you upside the head myself. That boy is staler than last week's bread and you know it."

Andy. Just thinking his name was like stepping into a time machine - back to high school dances and drive-in movies and dreams small enough to fit in a burger joint uniform pocket. Sweet, goofy, going-nowhere-fast Andy. The kind of guy who thought putting on a tie meant wearing his good Arby's visor.

If I squinted hard enough, Andy's Arby's visor almost looked like a crown. Almost. He was... well, he was Andy. A burger-flipping, belch-ripping goofball who could always make me laugh, even when I wanted to strangle him. He was comfortable as an old shoe, familiar as my own reflection. About as exciting as watching paint dry in February.

But Elvis... Elvis was pure electricity in a black leather jacket. He made me feel like I could set the world on fire with just a smile. When a man like that looks at you like you're the only woman in the room, it does things to a girl. Things that don't involve overthinking or holding back or remembering why you shouldn't.

Deena, bless her heart, could read my silence like a book. "Val, I'm not saying you gotta marry the guy. But would it kill you to have a little fling? To let yourself get swept off your feet, even if it's just for a little while?"

I gnawed my lip, considering. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to stop being a good girl, always doing the safe thing, the smart thing. Maybe it was time to take a chance on something wild and wonderful, consequences be damned.

That's the thing about consequences, though. They have a way of showing up to the party whether you invited them or not.

"Okay, okay, you've twisted my arm," I said, grinning so hard my face hurt. "Operation Ride That Stallion is a go. But if I end up with saddle sores, I'm blaming you."

Deena's cackle could've scared crows off a cornfield. "Atta girl! You just remember every gory detail so you can replay the highlight reel for me later. And Val?"

"Yeah, Dee?"

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"But you'd do everything..."

"That's my point!"

After I hung up, I stood looking at my reflection in the mirror. Same face as always. Same brown eyes, same olive skin, same mouth that was a little too wide, same nose with the strong profile (Mom always called it “distinguished.” I called it “rhinoplasty-ready.”). But something was different. Something in the eyes maybe. Or maybe it was just that I was looking at myself the way he had looked at me.

Looking back, I should've seen it as a sign–me trying to dress up enough to belong in Elvis's world. Like putting a paint job on a Plymouth and calling it a Cadillac. But hindsight's always twenty-twenty, isn't it?

I was midway through my third wardrobe panic when the doorbell rang. Standing there in my slip, hair wild as a tumbleweed, I yanked open the door—and promptly tripped over a box on the floor. Big. Expensive-looking. The kind of box that makes promises. Its label read “Suzy Creamcheese,” and I just knew it was the one of those boutiques where they probably charged you just for breathing their air.

My hands shook as I picked it up. There was a card. The handwriting was messy, like he'd been in a hurry. Or maybe like he wasn't used to writing his own notes. When I read the message inside, I forgot how breathing worked.

"Songbird, let's make beautiful music together. Wear this tonight. I'll be the one in black. Yours, Jon Burrows"

Jon Burrows. His alias. Like we were spies. Like we were lovers. Like we were anything but what we were, a married man and a girl who should know better.

Inside the box was the kind of dress that would've made the Pope need confession. It shimmered like sin and promised trouble, the fabric probably worth more than my entire life savings.

My first thought was that he'd probably bought a million dresses just like it for a million other girls. My second thought was that I didn't care.

But that's the funny thing about falling for someone like Elvis. You know going in that you're not the first, probably won't be the last. But somehow he makes you feel like you're the only one who matters. At least for now.

In any case, the dress slid over my curves like water, like destiny, like everything I'd ever wanted but been too afraid to reach for. In the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me. She looked dangerous. She looked ready. She looked like someone who could make Elvis Presley forget his own name.

I just hoped she knew what she was doing better than I did.

With an hour to kill before the show, I clicked my way down to the casino. The dress moved like smoke around my legs. The shoes he'd sent pinched my feet but made me feel tall. Strong. People looked at me different. Or maybe I was walking different. Maybe that's what confidence feels like. Like armor made of silk.

I sat down at the blackjack table. The cards were good to me, they kept coming up hearts. That should have been a warning, but I wasn't reading signs right then. I was too busy feeling lucky.

That's when I felt it. Eyes on my back. Not the good kind of eyes.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing all alone?"

He was old. Fat. His ring could have anchored a yacht. The kind of man who thinks money makes him God's gift to women.

"Playing cards," I said. I didn't look at him. The dealer hit me with a queen. Twenty-one.

“You here for the show?”

“Mm hmm,” I kept my eye on the cards. 

"Ah. One of those Elvis girls." He said it like he was diagnosing a disease. "Fresh meat."

The words hit hard. True words usually do. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his fresh meat when a hand landed on my shoulder. It was warm and steady.

"Darlin', there you are! Been lookin' all over for you."

I spun around to find myself face to face with a tall drink of water in a ten-gallon hat. He had one of those faces that time had worked on like a wood carver, all weathered planes and honest angles. The kind of face that made you want to trust it right off the bat.

"Play along," he whispered. "Looked like you could use a rescue."

Relief washed over me like cool water in August. "Oh! Yes, of course. So sorry, I got a little turned around..."

He steered me away from Mr. Pinky Ring and his grabby eyes, waiting until we were safely out of earshot before introducing himself properly.

"Chick, at your service," he said, tipping an imaginary cap with an old-world sort of charm. "I'm with the International. And unless I miss my guess, you must be Miss Valerie?"

My eyes went wider than poker chips. "How did you...?"

His laugh was warm as Texas sunshine. "Let's just say Mr. Burrows ain't subtle when he's sweet on a girl. I'm supposed to take you to his dressing room."

He looked at my dress. Nodded approval. "That'll give him the vapors but good."

Something warm bloomed in my chest. Elvis had sent someone to find me. Had asked for me specifically. Maybe this wasn't just another notch on his belt. Maybe...

But I shut that thought down hard. Hope was dangerous. Hope got you hurt.

But Chick must've caught my expression falling like a bad soufflé, because he patted my elbow with fatherly affection.

"Chin up, darlin'. I know this whole thing has you tied up in knots, but trust me–that boy thinks the sun rises and sets on your pretty little head. I ain't never seen him so gaga."

I managed a wobbly smile, even as my heart did a two-step against my ribs. Chick was sweet to say so, but he didn't know the half of it. Falling for Elvis was like trying to catch a comet with your bare hands–bound to end in flames.

Chick led me through the back halls of the hotel. They all looked the same. Like a maze. Like a dream where you keep trying to find a door that moves. The carpet was thick and red and swallowed our footsteps. 

"Been with Elvis long?" I asked.

"Long enough to know trouble when I see it." He looked at me sideways. Not unkind. Just knowing. "And honey, you're trouble."

"I don't mean to be."

"Nobody ever does."

We stopped at a door like all the other doors. Chick tipped his hat. "This is where I leave you. Remember something though - if he's fool enough to let you slip away, I'll be waiting in the wings."

He winked and was gone, boots silent on the thick carpet. I stood there. The door looked bigger now that I was alone. Everything looked bigger.

I took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to steady my nerves, smoothed down the dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home, and knocked. The sound seemed to echo like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

The door swung open, and there was Elvis. Not the Elvis from television or magazines. Just Elvis. White shirt. Gray wool pants. Hair a little messy like he'd been running his hands through it. When he smiled it wasn't his stage smile. It was something else. Something that made my insides go soft.

"Well if it isn't my good luck charm." He pulled me inside. Fast. Like he was afraid someone might see. "Get in here before we start a scandal. I can see the headlines now - 'Elvis Presley Corrupts Young Songstress.'"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The nervousness went out of me like air from a balloon.. "I think you're overestimating my ability to cause a scandal," I said, settling onto his couch like I belonged there. "The most exciting thing that's ever happened to me was winning a pie-eating contest when I was twelve."

His face lit up. He clutched his chest and staggered backward. Ham acting. Good ham acting. "A pie-eating champion? In my dressing room? I'm not worthy!"

Then he was on his knees in front of me. His hands were warm on mine. Big hands. Strong hands. Guitar player's hands. His blue eyes danced with mischief. "Tell me your secrets, o great pie queen. The people need to know."

Just like that, he wasn't Elvis Presley anymore. He was just a man with laugh lines around his eyes and a smile that could melt steel. That made him more dangerous. Not because he was famous, but because he was real.

We talked. Easy talk. Good talk. The kind where you forget to watch what you're saying. He sprawled on the couch while I sat in a chair. The distance felt important. Safe. But then he looked at me. Really looked at me.

"I'm scared about tonight." His voice was different. Quiet. Raw. "Scared as hell."

I blinked at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "You get stage fright?"

"That ain’t even the half of it," his laugh had more edges than a broken mirror. "Honey, I'm about ready to shake out of my skin. Haven't played a venue this big in years." His leg bounced. His fingers drummed against his thigh. Nervous tells. Real ones. "Keep thinking I'll get out there and forget everything. The words. The moves. My own damn name."

Elvis Presley, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Who'd have thought?

"But you've played hundreds of shows for thousands of people. You're a pro!"

"That was before." The words came out bitter. "Been doing movies for too long. I haven’t exactly done much live performing lately. Feels like starting over."

Looking back, I should've seen it then–the cracks in the armor, the way fame sat on him like a crown made of thorns. But I was too busy falling to notice the warning signs.

He looked at me. His eyes were very blue. Very young. "Truth is, I keep thinking I'll make a fool of myself. In front of everyone." He paused. "In front of you."

Something squeezed in my chest, soft and fierce all at once. "Hey," I said, covering his restless hand with mine. "You are not going to make a fool of yourself. Know how I know?"

His fingers curled around mine like a lifeline. "How?"

"Because I've seen you dance. Even if you forget every word, just do that hip thing. Nobody will give a goddamn what comes out of your mouth."

For a moment, Elvis just stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Then he threw his head back and laughed–not his polite laugh or his stage laugh, but something rich and real and unrestrained.

"Lordy, woman!" he wheezed, clutching his stomach. "You really are somethin' else, you know that?"

I grinned, pleased as punch at making him laugh like that. "I'm serious! Those things are lethal weapons."

"You're a mess." But his eyes were warm. Soft. "An absolute mess."

"And you'll be fine," I said. I squeezed his knee. The muscle was solid under my hand. "The second you see all those faces out there - all those people who love you - it'll click. You'll remember who you are. Why you do this."

Elvis looked at me for a long moment, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. "You really believe that, don't you?" he said quietly. "You really think I've still got it."

"I know it." And I did. The way you know some things without knowing how you know them. "You're gonna kill it tonight. And I'll be right there cheering you on."

Elvis's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes suspiciously bright. "What did I ever do to deserve a gal like you in my corner? I must've been a saint in a past life."

"Well, I don't know about sainthood, but you definitely rocked a mean pair of blue suede shoes," I teased, trying to lighten the moment before I drowned in those eyes.

It worked. He threw back his head and laughed again. The sound wrapped around me like a blanket. "Baby, you're too much!" His grin was pure boy. Pure trouble. "Stick with me, kid. I'll show you a thing or two about rocking more than just shoes."

The promise in his words sent heat crawling up my neck. Amazing how he could make something so innocent sound like sin with chocolate sauce on top.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Presley."

"You better."

Elvis glanced at the clock and sighed, some of the laughter fading from his eyes. "Guess I better start getting into my glad rags. Show's about to start, and I've got a whole lot of hearts to break."

I should have asked whose heart he meant to break first. But I didn't. I never did ask the right questions.

He stood and pulled me up with him. "Walk me to the stage door?" His voice got that vulnerable edge again. "Would mean a lot to have you there."

My heart said yes. My head knew better. "There'll be photographers."

"Yeah." He sighed. The sound hurt something in my chest. "You're right. Smart girl."

I squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. "I'll be with you every step of the way," I promised. "In spirit, if not in body."

He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. It felt like a brand. Like a promise. Like a lie. "You're my guiding light tonight, honey. My lucky star."

Standing there in his dressing room, drowning in those blue eyes, I felt like I could happily spend the rest of my life mapping the planes and angles of his face. Must've been temporary insanity that made me reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger on the warm skin of his neck.

Elvis growled—actually growled—low and rough in his throat. His hands found my hips, tugging me closer until I could feel the heat of him, smell the spicy-sweet scent of his cologne. "Y'know, I've half a mind to cancel this show and..."

Someone knocked. Sharp. Loud. I jumped like I'd been shot. Elvis muttered something that would've made a sailor blush.

"Thirty minutes, boss!" A voice called through the door.

He let out a hard breath, his fingers flexing on my hips. "Guess that's my cue," he said ruefully. His eyes never left mine. "To be continued. Bank on it."

Then, with one last scorching look that turned my insides to melted butter, he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving me weak-kneed and panting in his wake.

*

The house lights dimmed and the band struck up, and holy shit, did that crowd go wild. The kind of wild that makes you wonder if they've been saving their screams up special, just for this moment. Shrieks and whistles drowned out the opening bars as a single spotlight pierced the dark.

And there he was.

Elvis prowled onstage in a black gi-style jumpsuit that probably had its own insurance policy, his hair gleaming like polished onyx under the lights. The audience lost what was left of their minds, but Elvis? Elvis’s eyes searched only for me. He caught my gaze and grinned, a private, knee-weakening thing that set every nerve ending aflame. I clutched my glass so hard I thought it would shatter. 

Sweet mercy. Maybe Chick hadn't been exaggerating after all.

The show was something else entirely - all hip-swiveling, high-energy dancing, and enough eye contact to melt the sun. Elvis shimmied and crooned and thrusted like his life depended on it, but every so often, his gaze would find mine across the crowd, dark with promises that made my toes curl in my fancy new shoes.

During "Love Me Tender," he changed one of the lyrics ever so slightly, singing "for my songbird" instead of "for my darling." If you weren't listening for it, you might've missed it. But I heard it. And when he winked at me right after, I nearly spontaneously combusted right there in my seat.

That's the thing about falling for Elvis. Every little thing feels like a secret message. Even when your brain knows better, your heart keeps right on believing.

I spent the whole show strung between pure joy and pure terror. My skin felt electric every time he looked my way. He was marking me as his. And God help me, I wanted to be marked.

That little voice of reason - the one that sounded suspiciously like Deena - tried to pipe up. I was sure that if she knew the whole truth, she’d hate me. "He does this with all the girls, dummy. You aren't special. He's MARRIED, remember?"

I told that voice to stuff it where the sun don't shine. For one night, I just wanted to pretend this was real, that Elvis's heated promises were mine and mine alone. That maybe, just maybe, he actually did feel something genuine for the nobody from Chicago.

By the time he got to "Can't Help Falling in Love," I was gone. Lost. My skin felt too tight for my body. Elvis took his bows like a king receiving tribute. Blew kisses. Reached for grabbing hands. My own hands stung from clapping. My face ached from smiling.

He'd done it. He'd absolutely killed it. The nerves, the self-doubt - all of it had vanished the moment he hit that stage. And something in me knew that if he asked, I was going to go all the way. No holding back, no second thoughts. Just full steam ahead off this cliff we were dancing on.

I barely noticed Joe until he materialized at my elbow, grinning like he had all the secrets of the universe tucked in his back pocket.

“This way, Miss Pedretti.”

Riding high on adrenaline and something that felt dangerously like hope, I let myself be herded to Elvis's suite by security guards built like brick walls with legs. The place was already jumping - a whirlwind of backslapping and champagne popping and enough cigarette smoke to give cancer to a small country.

I recognized some faces from before - Red and Sonny and the rest of the Memphis Mafia playing court jesters to Elvis's king, Colonel Parker looking like a cat who'd found the canary, hotel bigwigs in suits worth more than my car. But there were new faces too - starlets with magazine-cover smiles, hangers-on hoping for their big break, and a surprising number of blue-haired ladies clutching Elvis albums like holy relics.

For a second, panic grabbed me by the throat. I was a minnow in a shark tank. But then Jerry caught my eye across the room and waved me over with a friendly wink.

"There she is!" he crowed, throwing an arm around my shoulders like we were old war buddies. "Didn't our boy knock 'em dead tonight?"

I grinned up at him, letting his easy friendship settle my nerves like a warm shot of bourbon. "He sure did. I've never seen anything like it. I thought that one gal in the front row was gonna faint when he smiled at her."

"Aw, that ain't nothing!" Red chimed in, snatching champagne off a passing tray like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. "Back in '56, we had girls dropping like flies every time he so much as moved a finger. Quite a time to be alive, let me tell you!"

The Memphis Mafia folded me into their ranks like I'd always been there, trading stories and jokes that made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself. It was intoxicating, being on the inside looking out instead of the other way around.

Speaking of intoxicating... Elvis was holding court across the room, surrounded by suits and sparkly dresses like a king with his courtiers. He caught my eye over their shoulders and winked, his grin electric even from thirty feet away. That one look hit me like a lightning bolt straight to the gut.

That's when I felt it. The warning tingle. Like in those old movies when the hero knows trouble's coming. But I was already too far gone to listen.

I was debating the merits of "accidentally" bumping into him when a gnarled hand clamped onto my wrist. I turned to find myself nose-to-nose with a little old lady in a pink pillbox hat that probably remembered World War II firsthand. Her eyes, magnified by glasses thick as Coca-Cola bottles, peered up at me with the intensity of a prosecutor at a murder trial.

"Priscilla, dear, is that you?" Her voice shook like autumn leaves. "Oh, I just have to tell you how much I admire you! Standing by your man all these years. Through thick and thin. You're an inspiration!"

My stomach dropped. Fast. Hard. She thought I was his wife. His real wife. His married wife.

"Oh, no, I'm not—" I stammered, heat climbing my neck. But she was already barreling ahead like a runaway train, clutching my hand in her paper-dry grip.

"Albert and I made it fifty-three years," she said. Still had my hand. "But you and Elvis - the army, those awful Hollywood girls, all that time apart. It's a wonder you've managed so well!"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What could I say? Sorry, ma'am. I'm not his wife. I'm just the latest girl he's trying to bed while his real wife sits at home. Looking in those rheumy eyes, bright with admiration, I couldn't do it.

So I just smiled and patted her hand, mumbling something about the power of commitment. She beamed at me like I'd just handed her the secret to eternal life and tottered off to spread her marital wisdom elsewhere.

I sagged against the wall, guilt sitting in my gut like a bad burger. What kind of person was I, playing at being Elvis's devoted wife when the real Mrs. Presley was probably at home wondering where her husband was and who he was with? And why wasn't she here on opening night, anyway?

The room suddenly felt too hot, too close, like all the air had been sucked out and replaced with cigarette smoke and accusations. I needed space. I needed air. I needed—

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you, Valley cat."

Elvis materialized in front of me, like the devil when you say his name. His jacket was gone. Shirt half open. Hair damp with sweat from the show. He looked good enough to eat. And he knew it.

I plastered on a smile, trying to shake off my guilt. This was supposed to be a magical night, wasn't it? My one chance to live like a star, to be Elvis's girl, even if only in the shadows.

"Hey," I managed, praying my voice didn't betray the tornado in my head. "If it isn't the man of the hour himself. I'd ask how it feels to kill it, but something tells me you already know."

He laughed, low and throaty like good aged whiskey, and took my hand. My pulse jumped at the casual touch. "Careful with those compliments, honey. My head won't fit through the door."

"I'm not worried." The banter felt good. Safe. "If your head gets too big, I'll just deflate it. I'm handy that way."

"A real Jill of all trades, aren't ya?" he drawled, tugging me closer until I stumbled, caught off guard by his nearness. His hands found my hips, steadying me, and I swear each finger burned through the silk like a brand.

His eyes held trouble. Heat. "Stick around. Maybe you'll show me just how handy you can be."

Christ. The implications in those words could've set fire to a wet paper bag.

Before I could string together a coherent response, he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear like a whisper. “The boys are gonna clear out these folks. Stay a while. Keep me company."

My throat went desert-dry. I stammered, cursing my suddenly uncooperative tongue. "If you're sure I won't be imposing..."

He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes, and something in his gaze softened like butter in the sun. "Valerie, trust me. There is nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with you."

How did he do that? Make every word sound like a promise written in stars?

The next hour passed in a blur of goodbyes and meaningful looks across the room. The crowd thinned out gradually, some folks leaving under their own steam, others getting gentle but firm assistance from security. Soon it was just Elvis, his core crew, and me.

I perched on the arm of a velvet sofa, trying to blend into the scenery while the guys swapped tour stories and inside jokes. Elvis sprawled in a chair nearby, nursing a coke, sneaking me these molten looks that made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

Finally, Red stretched and heaved himself up like a bear coming out of hibernation. "Welp, I'm about ready to hit the hay. These old bones ain't what they used to be." He shot Elvis a look heavy with meaning. "Reckon y'all got things handled in here?"

Elvis's lips twitched, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah, man. I think we're good. Y'all head on to bed now. Me and Valerie here will just... clean up a bit."

The silence that followed was loaded as a gun on New Year's Eve. Then, with a chorus of goodnights and knowing winks that made my cheeks burn, the Memphis Mafia filed out.

And then there were two.

Elvis finished his drink and set it aside with deliberate care. Then he unfolded from his chair with the kind of grace that should've been illegal in at least forty-eight states. My heart started doing the cha-cha against my ribs as he approached, all leashed power and barely contained heat.

He stopped close. Very close. I could smell his cologne mixing with stage smoke and sweat. Could have touched him. Wanted to touch him.

"C'mon, darlin'." He held out one ring-laden hand, his eyes molten in the low light. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

I slid my hand into his, letting him pull me to my feet and into the circle of his arms. Had to tip my head back to meet his gaze, my hands coming to rest against the solid wall of his chest.

"Private sounds perfect," I breathed. "Lead the way."

His grin flashed quick and sharp as a knife in the dark. He laced his fingers through mine and led me through a door I hadn't even noticed, into a hallway lined with identical mahogany doors.

We stopped at one. Elvis produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it, gesturing for me to go first. I stepped inside and froze, blinking in the sudden brightness. It was a suite that would've made Midas jealous - all plush carpets and gleaming wood and what looked suspiciously like actual gold leaf on the ceiling.

But what caught my eye was the table in the center of the room. It was set for two, with crisp white linens and gleaming silver, bottles sweating gently in a golden bucket. Candles waited unlit, promising romance and secrets and things we probably shouldn't do.

My heart did a funny little skip. He'd planned this. Planned a private, romantic dinner just for us.

I turned to him, words stumbling over themselves like drunks at closing time. "Elvis, this is... you didn't have to..."

He shrugged. For a second I saw that country boy under all the flash. "Wasn't any trouble. Just thought it'd be nice. Just us. No crowds. No eyes." His mouth quirked. "Plus figured you'd be hungry. I know I am."

Right on cue, my stomach let out a growl that would've made a lion proud. We both looked down at it, then at each other, and burst out laughing.

"Well, I reckon that's my answer!" Elvis wheezed, clutching his side. "C'mon, let's feed that beast before it stages a revolt."

Still snickering, he pulled out my chair with a flourish that would've done a French waiter proud. I sank into it, half-expecting him to ring for room service or summon some harried assistant with silver platters.

Instead, Elvis disappeared into the adjoining kitchenette and returned with... a greasy paper sack?

My eyebrows must've hit my hairline because he grinned like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "What, did you think it'd be all caviar and champagne? Nah, that ain't my style."

He dumped the bag over our fine china. Burgers and fries spilled out. The smell hit like a fist. Grease and salt and cheese and everything right about late night food.

"Sent Sonny for these,"  Elvis explained, sliding into his seat with more grace than any man had a right to possess. "Knew I'd be craving some post-show grease. And I figured, what's better than sharing a little taste of home with my songbird?"

There it was again. Songbird. That name that made me feel owned and scared all at once.

"You figured right," I said, snagging a fry that was probably worth more on that china than it had been in the paper bag. "Nothing better than burgers after midnight. Although..." I squinted at the foil peeking out from under a sesame seed bun. "Is that... peanut butter?"

The guilty grin came back. Made him look sixteen. "Caught me. Peanut butter and bacon. Picked it up in the army. Sounds crazy but trust me - it's heaven."

We dove into our burgers like we hadn't eaten in days, the silence broken only by appreciative moans and the rustle of foil. And damn if he wasn't right about that peanut butter and bacon combination. Not that I'd ever tell him that - his ego was healthy enough as it was.

"So," I said, dabbing at a spot of ketchup on my chin, "you were in the army?"

He stopped mid-bite. Those blue eyes went wide. He swallowed. Put down his burger. "You really didn't know?"

"Well," I said carefully, studying my fries like they held the secrets of the universe, "I, uh… I never really followed you that closely. I mean, of course I know your music and all. But the details of your life? Nah."

He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his features. It was like sunrise breaking.

"What's so funny?"

"Just thinking I found the only girl in America who doesn't know my whole life story."

Heat crept up my neck. "What do you mean?"

He leaned back. Watched me. The look made my skin prickle. "You're the first girl in a long time who hasn't tried to impress me. Who doesn't hang on every word. Who doesn't agree with everything I say just to please me."

"That's sad," I said.

"Sad?"

I waved a fry in the air. Trying to find the right words. "You're a person. Real flesh and blood. With thoughts and feelings beyond what magazines print. It's sad people don't want to know that side. The real you." I paused. Wondered if I'd stepped on a landmine. "Must be strange. Meeting new people who think they already know everything about you."

"Well. What they think they know." His face went soft. Something warm and raw that made my heart flip. "You mean that, don't you? You really wanna get to know me. Not Elvis the star. Just Elvis."

"'Course I do," I said softly, surprised by how much I meant it. "You think I'd be eating burgers at 4 am with just anybody I meet? I promise you I am not that kind of girl." I winked, trying to lighten the moment before it got too heavy.

As our appetites gave way to pleasant fullness, we talked about everything and nothing - favorite movies (his: "The Way of All Flesh," mine: anything with cowboys), craziest fan encounters (had to give it to Elvis on that one, though my tale of a particularly persistent flasher in Boise nearly made him snort soda out his nose), best practical jokes played on unsuspecting bandmates (turned out we both had a gift for the strategic placement of whoopee cushions).

But as the laughter died down and the food dwindled to crumbs, a tension crept into the air between us. That elephant in the room we'd been dancing around all night, getting bigger and harder to ignore with every passing minute.

You know in horror movies, when you want to yell at the girl not to open that door? This felt like that. But like every girl in every horror movie, I opened it anyway.

"Elvis." I took a breath. Steadied myself. "Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but... what about your wife?"

He stiffened as if I'd jabbed him with a cattle prod, his jaw going tight as piano wire. For a moment, I thought he might shut down completely, retreat behind that million-dollar smile and leave me out in the cold.

But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping like Atlas getting tired of holding up the world. "It's complicated."

My stomach knotted like sailor's rope. "You still love her?"

Silence stretched between us, long as a California highway. Then, soft: "I'll always care for my wife. She's been in my life a long time. But love?" He shook his head. His eyes looked far away. "No. Not anymore."

My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. "What happened?"

He rubbed his face, suddenly looked all of his thirty-four years. Maybe more. "We grew apart. Wanted different things. Been living separate lives a while now. Barely talk except when we have to." He stopped. "Think we both know it's done. Has been for a long time."

Looking back now, I see it clear. The practiced pauses. The perfect timing. The way he probably told that same sad marriage story to a hundred girls in a hundred hotel rooms. But that's the thing about hindsight - it's got 20/20 vision and a mean streak a mile wide.

The night wore on, and I felt my eyelids getting heavy. A glance at the clock told me it was just before six in the morning, though time felt different in Elvis's orbit, like we existed in our own little bubble where normal rules didn't apply.

"I hate to say it," I said, stifling a yawn, "but I think I should be heading back to my room. It's been an amazing night."

Elvis reached over and took my hand, his eyes doing that thing - that soul-searching, make-you-feel-like-the-only-girl-in-the-world thing that probably took years to perfect. "Will you come back again? I feel like we've barely scratched the surface. There's so much more I want to talk to you about."

Hook.

I smiled, my heart fluttering like a teenage girl's diary entry. "I'd love to."

"Great. How about—"

Line.

I held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Why don't you call me and invite me? Properly, I mean." Playing hard to get while already caught - how's that for irony?

His lip curled in that practiced amusement, a mischievous glint in his eye that had probably launched a thousand panty-drops. "Etiquette, huh? Alright, I'll play by your rules. I'll call you tomorrow night, say, around five-thirty? Room 2806, right?"

And sinker.

"I'll be waiting."

"Lamar," Elvis called out, smooth as silk. "Would you be so kind as to walk Miss Pedretti back to her room?"

With a final squeeze of my hand and a promise to call, Elvis bid me goodnight. And there I was, floating on air like I'd just starred in my own personal fairy tale, trying to convince myself I wasn’t just the latest in an assembly line of wide-eyed dreamers who thought they were special.

The next day crawled by slower than molasses in January. I couldn't bring myself to leave my room, terrified I might miss his call. By the time five-thirty rolled around, my nerves were wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.

When the phone finally rang, I waited two rings before picking up - didn't want to seem too eager, after all. As if I hadn't spent the whole time pacing a groove in the carpet.

"Hello?" I answered, trying to sound like I hadn't been staring at the phone for the past hour.

"Could I please speak with Valerie?" That voice, smooth as Tennessee whiskey, made my knees go weak even over the phone line.

I couldn't resist playing coy, like we were reading from a script he'd written just for us. "Who’s calling?"

"Elvis."

"Elvis who?"

There was a beat of silence, followed by a low chuckle that probably melted panties coast to coast. "You're a bonehead."

The playful exchange was just what my ego needed–more fuel for the fantasy that I was somehow different, somehow special. Elvis proceeded to explain the arrangements he'd made—he’d have his people call to arrange another late night dinner tomorrow. I hung up the phone, my heart soaring with anticipation.

Maybe staying in Vegas a little while longer wasn't such a bad idea after all.

If only I'd known then what I know now... but that's the thing about falling. By the time you realize you're in trouble, you're already halfway to the ground.

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[medra-gonbites]

Baldur's Gate 3 Companion Head Canon Music Edition

Ok soooo ! Recently my bestfriend and I wrote and composed a song about BG3 (which we might release one day) and it got me thinking about the Tadfools (as if I don’t already think of them 15 times a day) and imagined what their band would look like and which instruments they would play and thus voilà my rendition:

Karlach | Drums

Look at her and tell me she does not play the drums. She would sometimes have to be asked to stop because she would not notice everyone has stopped playing but her. She just has the proper energy, rhythm, not to mention arms, to rock that drum set and start a solo Whiplash style.

Lae'zel | Harmonica

“What is this shiny rectangle? “whistle metallically” Oh. This sounds… beautiful. Like the screeching of a blade on a sharpening stone, but… Better!” And that’s how Lae’zel picked up on the harmonica, true story, I was the harmonica!

Wyll | Main Vocal and Violin

Yes, Wyll would absolutely sing and dance and become an icon on the Sword Coast. He also plays the violin. I don’t know, maybe it’s the horns, but I could also see Duke Ravengard enrolling him at conservatoire at age 6 to play the violin. He writes most of the lyrics

Shadowheart | Bass and Back-up Vocals

Shadowheart is a bass player. Look at her smoky eyes and her pout: she obviously plays the bass! She matches her nail polish to the colour of her bass (black, purple, white). She is always down to jam and she also provides Wyll with beautiful back up vocals when he needs it. Her timber is quite ethereal as well.

Astarion | Electric Guitar

Astarion has massive rockstar energy. He did try to play with his teeth on more than one occasion but that breaks the strings. He has several guitars, guitar straps, dedicated stage outfits and hundreds of guitar picks (which he does not even use but hoards like a dragon).

Gale | Synthesizer

Gale is a piano player but why constrain himself to a regular piano when he can make it sound like space music. Or any other instrument really. Fender Rhodes with a distortion and reverb to the max? Yes, please. He tried the keytar and while he does like the funkiness of it, he prefers the horizontality of regular synthesizers. I also believe he’d compose a lot of the songs.

Now for the one who are not part of the band but do play an instrument:

Minthara | Band Manager

Sorry I do not see Minthara as a musician. She’d be an amazing band manager or music producer though. If I must attribute her an instrument I would say the harp as she canonically has a lute but I imagine the discipline it takes to learn the harp is quite in character and would be a funny contrast; the angelic sound it makes, opposed to… Well, Minthara.

Halsin | Bansuri

And he made it himself from bamboo or wood. He plays it during his session of guided meditation or when he is alone in the forest. Usually attracts dozens of critters and little animals and it makes him look like a Disney princess (Although he has never seen a Disney film himself.)

Jaheira | Steel Drum

She learned during her hippie phase in college back when she would travel to Puerto Rico and/or Jamaica twice a year. She still has her old steel drum and will take it out if you nag her long enough or if she is in a celebratory mood. She might play it at your LuAu themed birthday party if requested.

Minsc | Triangle

It is the only instrument that he can play. It looks relatively simplistic but it is actually quite tricky to play as it requires great timing and a little bit of technique. Minsc is a natural at both. He likes being part of an orchestra and finds the agitated man with a stick the funniest of all people.

Boo | Church Organ

I have no argument to justify this but the hilarious image of a miniature giant space hamster playing the phantom of the opera on a huge cathedral organ. 

Gortash | Acoustic Guitar (but not really)

Gortash will claim he plays guitar. He will claim it even faster if he is flirting (approximately 2 minutes into the conversation and/or maybe before even asking your name). He, however, does not. What he can do is play one song (wonderwall or alleluia take your pick) that he learned by heart back in highschool specifically to brag at parties and bag dates. In adulthood it works way less.

[bittersweetimaginings]

Saw that you wrote for Alex DeLarge!! What if he had a girlfriend who was a professionally trained opera singer?

Shiny thing - Alex DeLarge x Opera singer! Reader HC!

⚠️Content warning: Descriptions/mentions of possessive, abusive and overall toxic behavior.

*These characters do not belong to me, all rights to their respective owners, this is just a piece of entertainment by and for fans.

Summary: You become Alex’s newest interest.

Reader’s pronouns: She/Her

Keys: Y/N = Your Name.

Recommendation: None(? I think…Consider donating to my Ko-fi!

Author's note: If you want to send your own request, please check the Disclaimers & Rules post and the MASTERLIST post to see more content and which characters are available.

It's no secret that for Alex, classical music holds a special place in his heart.

So it's only natural that you, with your talent as an opera singer, drew his absolute attention.

The moment he heard such a beautiful melody leave your lips... he was ensnared.

How could he not be? He just knew you were right for him. He had to have you.

At first, Alex would go above and beyond with his lovebombing attentions, more so than with any other girl, mostly because he views/considers you to be above them all.

Which, considering this is Alex DeLarge we are talking about, is not necessarily a compliment.

You see, Alex views most women he's interested in as toys he can play around with and discard, maybe even faithful dogs that must do his bidding whenever he requests something from them.

But you... you're on a different level, admittedly mostly for your talents, grace, and knowledge of music.

He views you as a precious object he needs to acquire, maybe a precious nightingale he's on the hunt for, and the only thing he can think about is how nice it would be to have you as his precious pet.

Even if you "play hard to get" or reject his advances, Alex will find any way possible to get close to you and eventually have you.

He finds in you a certain level of understanding he doesn't find with anyone else.

Who else can he talk to in depth about the good ol' Ludwig Van? His parents? They are too busy ignoring their son's antisocial tendencies. Most of the girls that fawn over him mindlessly agree to everything he says. His droogs? Georgie is an asshole far too concerned with himself, Dim a brute, and Pete... well, he can't even remember the last time Pete showed interest in anything really.

So he talks with you instead. Something that he surprisingly seems to enjoy.

He might constantly ask you to sing for him.

He'll never say it to anyone, but he really loves it whenever you sing to him with his head resting on either your lap or your chest and at the same time you run your fingers through his hair.

Like I said, you'll "enjoy" a "higher" treatment than most of the girls he has dated: He'll let you speak more and more freely, will tolerate a certain level of confrontation on your part whenever you are angry at him, hesitates more in involving you in his criminal endeavors, spends more time with you, is noticeably more gentle in his behavior towards you, more protective of you, and will think once or twice before behaving aggressively towards you. Like I said, mostly because he views you as a shiny precious thing.

But because of that very reason, he will behave much more possessively towards you.

His anger bubbles up quicker whenever he might spot you talking to anyone, especially any other guys, his droogs included (the dudes have even been instructed not to talk to you whenever you're with them). I imagine this being because deep down Alex might have a horribly fragile ego; losing you to another man will mean losing control and in turn a blow to his twistedly grandiose self-perception.

Given Alex's reputation and the fact that every guy that tries to approach you ends up mercilessly beaten, it is only a matter of time when everyone close to you finds out about your relationship with him and because of this, you might end up being isolated or shunned from your community.

Which sucks for you, but Alex couldn't be happier to have your complete attention.

But ultimately, this is Alex who we are talking about. No matter how extraordinary of a person you and your talents make you, ultimately for Alex you are still a thing, a shiny one, but a thing nonetheless, and there will come a time when little ol' Alex becomes bored with your tricks and chases after the next shiniest thing, leaving you broken and forgotten.

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