#keeping the old score was a great idea | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redladydeath · 6 months ago

Text

Monthly Proto Vox AU update

For anyone who doesn't know, ever since Prototype Vox was discovered, I've been gradually putting together a backstory for Vox centered around the idea that that's how he originally spawned in Hell. It's gotten to be over 10K words long. Just wanted to make a new masterpost since I've added onto the older one 32 times.

Also, I don't think I ever posted about this, but I put this on Ao3 a few weeks ago.

Alastor goes to speak with another overlord, trying to decide whether or not he should kill them. While there, he notices that said overlord has the most fascinating little toy/pet/jester. Such novel technology… he thinks he’ll take it, whether the overlord wants him to or not!

Alastor keeps Vox around because he’s cute and entertaining. As time passes, a legitimate friendship starts to form as Alastor realizes that Vox is far more than meets the eye— tricksy, devious, and intelligent. He learns that before he arrived in Hell, Vox was a handsome, well-respected adult man, and he isn’t too keen on constantly being mistaken for a child and treated like a joke by other sinners. A pity he has to live like that… but it’s not like there’s anything to be done for it! And Alastor must say, he’s fond of his little picture box the way he is.

With Alastor’s guidance, Vox slowly accumulates knowledge and resources and discovers that he can modify his body. He jumps on the opportunity at once— he doesn’t want to live like this anymore, and he’ll do anything to be respected (or at least taken seriously) by other people again. Alastor disapproves but holds his tongue.

Time passes, and Vox changes more and more things about himself until he’s almost unrecognizable. He and Alastor get into arguments about it. It’s galling to Vox that Alastor keeps insisting he was better off in a form he hated. Mix all this with the modernity and “morality”/standards stuff, and you eventually get Vox and Alastor falling out.

Years later, Vox hates that he was ever that weak and can’t stand being reminded of Alastor, their old relationship, or his early life in Hell. He works hard to destroy/bury any traces of who he used to be, but Alastor is a walking, eternal reminder of the past he’d rather forget. Alastor is loathe to admit it, but he still misses his old friend. Sometimes, he wonders if he ever truly knew him at all.

---

Freshly fallen Vox seeking out an overlord’s protection because, holy shit, if he tries to survive on the streets any longer, he’s gonna get killed, or worse. Most sinners get asked if they can do anything useful when they go to an overlord; Vox gets asked if he can sing, dance, and do comedy routines. He can, so he’s quickly scooped up by the overlord. He supposes he should be grateful that he was able to score a comfortable job doing something not terribly unpleasant, but the dehumanization of being treated like a doll or an adorable purse dog grates on him. He remembers who he really is (or used to be) and would do anything to be seen as a man again rather than a novelty.

---

Imagine feeling so utterly desexed by your body, finding someone you think you can trust to respect you, confessing that you’re in love with them, and they laugh in your face for thinking such a thing was even remotely possible. Alastor doesn’t do a great job clarifying that he’s disinterested in a relationship out of personal preference rather than because he doesn’t respect Vox, and Vox walks away from the encounter seething, believing that Alastor never saw him as anything more than a pet or a clown.

---

Man, this would especially suck for my hc version of Vox, who used to be a small-time Vaudevillian when he was a child. Like. Yaaaayyy, time to dance around and act cutesy for people who have complete power over you… again…… when you’re pushing forty…………

---

Vox was REALLY starting to feel like he'd made an irreversible mistake before Alastor came into his life. He'd been in the employ of his overlord for four years, and he could count the number of times he'd been allowed to leave their compound on two (four-fingered) hands. They weren't cruel to him per se, but they really did seem to see him as a pet– something to trail after them all day, do tricks on demand, and show off to colleagues at parties. Any plans he had for carving out a dignified, powerful life for himself were going up in smoke. He knew a lot of things from constantly overhearing conversations about the overlord's business, but he didn't have anyone to trade that information to because of his restricted mobility. He understood that he had some pretty unique powers, but he'd never gotten the chance to use them in combat, only to perform. It was becoming clear to Vox that the only way he was going to escape this doltish, embarrassing life was if someone killed his overlord (something he couldn't do himself due to the deal they struck).

And then the Radio Demon came walking through the door.

---

Vox really has no idea what Alastor's deal is when they first meet. Like. He kidnaps him but also says Vox can leave whenever he wants. But like. where is he supposed to go??? Alastor just killed his overlord, which, yeah, Vox wanted to happen, but now he's homeless and isn't sure how to proceed. Is it safe to stay with Alastor, or is he just going to kill him next?

Vox keeps up the "silly little cartoon" persona for a while because Alastor seems to find it amusing, but things gradually slip through the cracks. He's scared Alastor will abandon or kill him if he grows bored or dissatisfied with him, but... Alastor seems to like the real him? He actually lets him speak freely and talk about whatever he wants? He uses his tech powers to turn off the in-built censors that keep Vox from swearing?? When he realizes that Vox is actually really cunning, he wants to hear his feedback on things??? Sure, he still kinda talks down to him, but Alastor's like that with everyone. This... maybe this could be more than just trading one master for another.

---

Random thoughts about Vox’s overlord

She was enamored with him from the first moment she saw him. He was just so precious! And he was willing to do anything to receive her protection!

Her industry had nothing to do with entertainment; she took Vox in purely to be her own personal jester.

Not sure if she owned his soul or just had a deal with him to give him a safe place to live in exchange for his services.

Loved treating him like a doll. Would dress him in cute, oversized outfits, carry him around in her arms, and occasionally bring him to bed and cuddle him like some sort of plushie.

There were occasions, especially towards the beginning, when Vox would snap at her or reveal elements of his real personality. Those incidents would only lead to her doubling down on the demeaning treatment. She’d experienced mistreatment at the hands of men like him when she was alive and saw asserting her power over him as cathartic and karmic.

Usually brought him with her everywhere, but would sometimes leave him locked in her office/room by himself if she had something important scheduled. Vox had initially thought he could leave or at least walk around when she didn’t need him, but no. Besides, why would he want to leave? The streets of Hell were no place for a tiny, fragile thing like him!

Vox fucking hated her and was glad to see Alastor bash her brains in and feature her on his show.

---

Mainverse Vox died by being electrocuted by an ungrounded mic at work right before they went live. This Vox died by being electrocuted while trying to fix the family TV. His kids had been begging him to at least try to fix it since the repairman couldn’t come until the next day, and they didn’t want to miss their favorite cartoon. He was feeling indulgent that day and felt that, as the man of the house, he should be able to fix things without always calling someone else to do it for him. It didn’t end well.

---

Thinking about Vox and Alastor’s first encounter.

Alastor might have seen Vox before at an overlord event, being shown off by his boss or performing for her friends. He may have seen him for the first time when he walked into Vox’s overlord’s office and saw her toying with him. Either way, Alastor was immediately intrigued. He hadn’t seen many sinners like Vox, with his screen head and cartoony body, and could instantly tell he was a highly skilled performer. His eyes followed him, even as Vox’s overlord put him aside and ordered him to get her and Alastor drinks. Vox could tell Alastor was watching him but wasn’t sure what to do about it. It’s probably not a good sign when the infamous Radio Demon is eying you like you’re his next meal.

Eventually, the overlord noticed that Alastor was not paying full attention to their conversation and was preoccupied with Vox. The topic briefly switched to him before Alastor inquired if she’d be willing to bargain for him. Vox was horrified. The overlord attempted to politely decline; she couldn’t bear to part with her precious little poppet. He was hers, and it would be cruel to separate them— they adored each other so much, after all. Alastor just smiled blithely and clarified: he wasn’t asking.

All hell broke loose in an instant. One moment, Vox was observing a conversation between his boss and her colleague; the next, the office was crawling with shadows, and his overlord was pinned to the wall, impaled on a tentacle. Vox panicked and tried to flee, but there was no escaping that room. There are two options for what happens next: either Vox is seized by Alastor and teleported out of the building, or Vox’s boss screams at him to help her, only for him to glance between her and Alastor and fix her with an icy stare.

No matter what happened, the outcome was the same: Vox found himself teleported onto the streets of Hell with Alastor looming over him. He frantically attempted to talk Alastor out of killing him, but Al just laughed jovially and told Vox that he had no intention of harming him. Vox was free to leave whenever he wanted, but Alastor would like to see just how entertaining he truly was.

---

As they're walking, Alastor notices a weird clicking sound coming from Vox. He asks what it is, and Vox awkwardly explains that he's wearing tap shoes and starts trying to take them off as he walks. Alastor is amused and tells him not to bother. He'd love to see him dance sometime.

---

Val: Baby? What were things like before you met me? Vox: Awesome. I had- I had women all over me, they just couldn’t get enough. Everyone was always dying to see my shows. I was voted the hottest person in Hell. It was great. Vox’s actual early career in Hell:

---

Thinking about one of the times Vox “mouthed off” to his overlord. He may be a performer, but there’s only so long he can stay in character, especially when said character is so undignified. He refused to play along with one of her little games and snapped at her that he was a man, not a fucking show dog.

Next thing Vox knew, he was nearly blinded by pain as his boss twisted his antenna almost to its breaking point. Her voice sickeningly sweet, she told him she knew exactly what kind of man he had been— Earth’s crawling with them. But those days are over now. Respect has to be earned in Hell; it’s not just going to be handed to him like when he was alive. The afterlife has made him a joke, and the sooner he accepts that the happier he'll be. That’s what he signed up for when they made their little arrangement, after all. She asked if she was understood and kept twisting his antenna until she got a loud-and-clear “Yes, ma’am” out of him. With that, she snapped back to normal and either cheerfully ushered him towards [whatever she was forcing him to do] or dismissed him in her typical patronizing manner.

Vox broke half the items in his room that night in a rage. He tried to leave gouges on his skin and dents in his head, but he couldn’t manage it, what with his stupid, soft little hands.

---

It doesn’t really fit with my headcanon that Alastor was super white-passing when he was alive and spent most of his life pretending to be white in order to have more opportunities, but I feel like he may have felt a kinship with Proto-Vox due to them both being “outsiders”— people who are/were constantly dismissed by those in power and have to work twice as hard in order to be taken seriously, even though they’re more skilled and competent than everyone else in the room. And so it hurt all the more when Vox leapt at the first opportunity to change who he was in order to join the class of people who had once looked down on him. It didn’t fully click with Alastor that Vox wasn’t always like this– that he was trying to return to who he once was rather than abandoning who he’d always been.

---

Vox wasn’t exactly doing himself any favors in terms of connecting with the other sinners who worked under his overlord. He was so desperate to reestablish at least some control over his situation that, on the rare occasion he got to interact with people without his boss looming over them, he was insufferable, acting as though his position as their overlord's constant companion made him superior to regular employees. It never actually made him feel any better though, since most people either just rolled their eyes or testily reminded him that his oh-so-important job was to make a fool of himself all day and be doted on by his "owner."

---

To most outside observers, it really looked as though the relationship between Vox and his overlord was genuinely loving. She was just so affectionate with him. There was never a moment when she wasn’t tittering away at his jokes, or playing with his antennas or plug tail, or scooping him up into her arms or lap, or hugging or tickling or cuddling him, or covering him in kisses, or coming up with adorable pet names, or showing him off to others as though he were the rarest gem she’d ever come across. No one ever seemed to notice that Vox was never the one to initiate these kind of interactions. Depending on who you asked, it was either the most adoring master-servant arrangement Hell had ever seen, a (possibly biological?) mother-son dynamic, or just an INCREDIBLY kinky relationship. Vox played his part well, laughing along and hardly ever letting the smiling mask slip. No one ever could’ve guessed just how much he loathed her and the entire humiliating situation or how cruel she could be whenever he dared drop the act.

Well, no one except Alastor, that is.

---

Imo, Proto Vox would just sound like normal Vox slightly pitched up, but man, Hell giving him a lisp or some other "funny" way of speaking on top of everything else would be such a gut punch for him. His good looks and his charismatic manner of speech were key to his success when he was alive, and now both of those lifelines have been severed.

---

Personal, headcanon-specific thoughts:

Proto Vox’s outfit is very similar to a costume he wore during his childhood on Vaudeville.

Alternate option: While I hc that sinners spawn naked, if they don’t, then Vox spawned in the exact 1920s sailor suit he used to wear during most of his childhood performances.

His Hell form is a punishment not only because it robs him of all dignity, but because it’s a constant reminder of a part of his life when he had no power over his situation and was treated like an object meant only to entertain.

---

Thinking about how Alastor’s “a smile is a means of maintaining control” philosophy might strike a chord with Proto Vox. When he was alive (and later, in his career as an overlord), putting on a smile was a way for him to project the person he wanted others to perceive him as. If he looked the part, then people would believe he was the confident, steady, trustworthy man he presented as. After he arrived in Hell, though, a smile became a mask he could not take off. Hell had chosen a role for him, and if he failed to play it well enough, he risked permanent death or worse. He resented having to keep that mindless grin on his face at all times. This wasn’t who he wanted to be. This wasn’t who he was. The idea that he could use that iron mask to regain control over his life was foreign to him, but it made sense. Now that he was no longer chained to a master who kept him locked into that hated role at all times, he had a choice in how he wanted to use it— for day-to-day survival or to further his true ambitions?

---

Vox and Alastor’s first encounter was at an overlord party like something out of a Regency romance, except Vox was three feet tall and didn’t notice Alastor was watching him because he was too busy performing for his boss’ overlord friends. Alastor appreciated the skill on display in Vox’s routine and was intrigued by the unusual way his “owner” treated him. Sure, some overlords treat those under them as pets, but she was so overly cutesy and “loving” with him that it stood out, especially given the way Vox feigned reciprocation. Interesting.

---

A scene/story idea: Vox is sitting at a desk in a grand, spacious office. It’s late, and he’s just killing time, wishing he had a cigar (and a mouth to smoke it with) and occasionally scribbling down notes for future reference. The stationary he’s using has the date printed at the top, though. It’s his daughter’s tenth birthday. He reflects on how it’s been three years since he last saw her and the rest of his family and how he’ll likely never see them again. He hopes his wife is throwing her an appropriately extravagant party, at least. They’d gone all-out for their son’s tenth birthday; half the neighborhood was there, even one or two of the ladies from work who had blown him in exchange for putting in a good word with the producers. It was a great time.

And then his boss comes walking in, complaining about what a stressful day she’s had, and the illusion that this is Vox’s office shatters. He hops down to the floor, taking his dance/comedy routine notes with him. His boss is busy getting herself a drink, so he hopes she didn’t notice him sitting in her chair. He starts trying to engage her in conversation, switching to his work persona (cheerful, cutesy, and childish). She did notice him, but she just smiles indulgently and says he always knows just what to do to cheer her up— he looked so silly sitting at her big, important desk. Now, she needs a bit of comfort; they’ll be going to bed now. She scoops Vox up as easily as if he were a doll and carries him off to serve as her (very angular) teddy bear. Vox keeps the adoring smile plastered on his face and tries to put aside the burning shame and rage that this is what the afterlife has reduced him to: a child, a pet, a toy meant to entertain those who wield the actual power.

---

You know, come to think of it, there’s actually some basis to Alastor feeling a bit of a kinship with Vox. Aside from the obvious shared trait of them both being communications/entertainment demons, Alastor’s demonic form is a prey animal. Al never had to deal with the consequences of having that kind of form since he spawned so powerful (unless we’re going with the theory that he made his mystery deal right when he got to Hell and draws the majority of his power from it (which would be pretty interesting in this context…)), but still.

---

Made Vox's room in the Sims

---

Vox tried to walk out of his job once. His boss pushed him too far, and he snapped, yelling at her to find someone else to play this fucked up game with; he’d rather take his chances on the streets. Next thing he knew, he was bound, muted, and blindfolded, being crammed into a tiny suitcase. His overlord told him to reflect on what he’d said. There’s no life after second death, only nothingness. Is that really a risk he wants to take?

Vox was in “storage” for the next week. He didn’t try to leave again after that.

---

When Vox’s boss finally decided he’d had enough time to reflect, she opened the trunk to find Vox barely able to move under his own power. He was trembling like a freezing cat, having spent seven whole days bound in the fetal position, unable to move, speak, hear, or see. He couldn’t even unfurl himself from said position without her help. When she took him into her arms, he clung to her, any thoughts of hate or anger gone, replaced with a desperate desire for human connection after a week of nothingness. She cradled him in her arms— sweet as a lamb and without a shred of that odious pride she’d been working so hard to stamp out of him. Whispering kind, soothing words, she stroked his shaking, silent body as she carried him back to her bedroom. She dozed off with him in her arms, secure in the knowledge that her darling little doll had learned his lesson: being her toy is a privilege, and the only possible alternative for him is oblivion.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox and body dysmorphia

Vox hated everything about his body.

He hated being so small, not even half the size of most other sinners.

He hated his face, cute and goofy-looking. He hated his “missing tooth,” which only added to his childish appearance.

He hated his head, oversized and heavy. He hated how clumsy it made him before he became accustomed to it.

He hated not having a physical mouth and being unable to eat.

He hated his voice, higher pitched than it had been when he was alive. He hated the childish-sounding lisp he had been afflicted with.

He hated how he couldn’t swear or talk about adult topics without his voice being drowned out by an in-built censor.

He hated his body and its strange combination of wood and metal, both of which bent in ways that shouldn’t’ve been possible.

He hated his hands, soft and rounded and nailless.

He hated how he had spawned without genitals, completely smooth and sexless, like a doll.

He hated how no one perceived him as anything even remotely resembling a sexual being, even though he was a fully grown man who had once had his pick of beautiful women when he was alive.

He hated how he weighed almost nothing, making him easy for others to pick up or restrain.

He hated the way nothing in Hell was built to accommodate sinners his size, forcing him to climb (or be lifted onto) things as simple as chairs.

He hated the way his boss made him dress: in baggy outfits that made his smallness even more apparent, in children’s clothes, in silly, oh-so adorable costumes. He especially hated when she insisted on dressing him herself as though he were her doll.

He hated how often people mistook him for a child or deliberately talked down to him as though he was stupid just because of his ridiculous body.

He hated how people laughed at him and how he had no choice but to make them laugh in order to keep himself alive.

He hated how, in one fell swoop, Hell had robbed him of everything that had made him him. His good looks, his charisma, his respectability— everything. Never in a million years would he have anticipated that this would be his punishment for his misdeeds on Earth, for looking down on others and treating them like objects to be pushed around, but he had to admit, it was a pretty potent punishment nonetheless. And he would do anything to escape it.

---

Vox’s boss was kind of massively projecting her own resentments and trauma onto him. She didn’t actually know that much about him. It was pure luck that her impression of him as an arrogant chauvinist who had treated the people in his life poorly was… you know… accurate.

---

Vox realized that he had a voyeurism kink the third time his boss had sex with someone while he was still in the room. Probably not the outcome she intended, but it wasn’t like Vox could do anything about it anyway. He still felt sexual desire, but he’d spawned in Hell without genitals so that energy had nowhere to go. Just another lovely part of Vox’s Wonderful Afterlife.

---

Most sinners are horrified when they see their new forms for the first time. Vox was just devastated.

He was horrified when he first woke up, of course– transported to a strange new place, surrounded by giant monsters, and barely able to keep from swaying under the weight of his oversized head. No one paid him or his panic any mind save for a few smirks and chuckles. Vox found himself pressed up against a wall, out of the way of the flow of pedestrians, trying to process what was going on. Once he realized something was wrong with his body, he ducked into a nearby store, desperate to find a mirror (and get away from the crowds of fellow sinners). The store clerk let him in; they weren’t supposed to let newlydead into the shop since they usually just cause a scene, but Vox looked harmless, and they felt a little bad for such a tiny, fearful sinner. Vox made a beeline for the nearest mirror.

When his reflection finally came into view, Vox… he was lost for words. Seeing his childlike proportions, it finally registered that the world hadn’t gotten bigger; he’d gotten smaller. His body… there was something wrong with it. It was made of wood and metal like a puppet; only the materials seemed to bend like rubber. Worse than that, it was completely smooth and featureless; his genitals were simply gone. His hands were soft, rounded, and nailless, more like stuffed gloves than human hands. His head was encased— no, not encased, replaced with a television set that looked like it made up the majority of his body weight. Displayed on its screen was a face like something out of a cartoon: large, shiny, googly eyes, a wide mouth, and one conspicuously absent tooth. All topped off with a pair of floppy, overly long antennas that made him resemble some kind of insect.

Vox was speechless, staring at his new body. He felt tears bubbling up as he examined each part of it. He wasn’t sure how, but some part of him knew this wasn’t a dream and that this form would not be temporary. No tears fell though, trapped behind the glass of the— his screen. He couldn’t recall the moment of his death, but the realization of where he must be began to dawn on him. A soft, despairing sound escaped him, and Vox realized his voice, too, had been changed. He was not himself anymore, just this tiny, adorable thing, right out of one of the cartoons he’d been trying to repair the TV so his children could watch. A joke.

Suddenly, Vox felt someone grab him by the arm, dragging him away from the mirror, his feet barely brushing the floor. The owner had noticed a newlydead had snuck in and was having the prerequisite “What have I become?” freakout in their store. Carelessly, they shoved/threw Vox back onto the street and slammed the door behind them. Reeling, trying to wrap his mind around the gravity of the situation, Vox stumbled and collapsed on the sidewalk, surrounded by sinners who either stepped around him like he was nothing or paused for a moment to chuckle at the clumsy newlydead struggling to regain his balance under the weight of his massive head.

---

Vox's own shitty beliefs ended up being used against him during his early years in Hell.

In life, he'd treated his wife and son poorly because they complained about being unhappy with the way things were. Vox believed that if all your physical needs were met and you were able to live comfortably, you had no right to complain. He provided them with everything, and all he asked for in return was for them to be the happy, perfect wife and son he expected them to be. What was so hard about that?!

In death, the tables were turned. Vox was able to live comfortably in a safe environment, doing a job that most sinners would describe as incredibly cushy, but he was desperately unhappy. He was forced to play an inauthentic, demeaning role 24/7 and couldn't complain about it unless he wanted to be punished. Just sit there quietly and smile while the "grownups" are talking. No one wants to hear your silly little opinions. You should be grateful that you're even allowed to be here.

---

Words were Vox's boss' preferred weapon when it came to surreptitiously tormenting him, but she wasn't above using physical violence as a means of "discipline" either. Aside from the antenna and "storage" incidents, she'd occasionally employ "percussive maintenance" at the beginning of his time with her in response to breaks in character or sullen comments. Once or twice, she burnt him with cigarettes in response to particularly "bad" offenses.

---

Vox's boss would give him gifts sometimes. Little presents wrapped up all pretty with a bow. Sometimes, they were for special occasions, like the anniversary of his "coming to live with her"; sometimes, they were "rewards for good behavior." Vox would accept the presents graciously and then never open them, leaving them to collect dust in his room. There were a few occasions when she made him open them in front of her, though. Usually, they were just quaint little trinkets or clothes, but once, she gifted him a goldfish (or the Hellish equivalent) in a tiny bowl. It was the closest she'd gotten to something he'd actually want, yet it still felt like a veiled taunt. It didn't take long for the fish to die; its bowl was simply too small.

---

Vox does his absolute best to keep his past a secret from everyone, particularly Valentino. He knows on some level that it wouldn’t really change anything other than give Val and Vel something else to tease him about, but Vox’s ego is so fragile that he feels like he’d die if they found out. Unfortunately for him, Valentino is incredibly observant when he wants to be. He doesn’t know the specifics, but based on various little things from throughout the years and the pointed insults he’s heard Alastor throw at Vox, he can guess that Vox’s early days in Hell were... less than auspicious. However, he assumes Vox was just some corporate toady, and he would be just as shocked as anyone else to learn how Vox actually began his afterlife.

---

Playing with the idea that Vox’s boss hired him with no ulterior motives; she simply thought he was cute and would be an easy source of entertainment. However, as time went on and she got a better sense of what kind of person Vox was, she began deliberately tormenting him. The abuse and humiliation started off under the pretext that she was only doing it to “correct an attitude problem,” but it soon became clear that her real issue with Vox had nothing to do with his abilities as a performer.

---

It doesn’t really fit with the “lore” I’ve been putting together for this AU, but the idea of Vox trying to go in for various media/performance auditions and either being laughed out of them or told to look into less dignified roles is compelling to me. He looks and sounds so much like a goofy little child; why on Earth would anyone even consider him, especially when there are countless other sinners looking for work whose forms aren’t so distractingly cutesy?

I’ll be honest: Babydoll from Batman TAS is a significant influence on how I conceptualize Proto Vox.

---

Reminds me of fakeannafromthebox's Caterpillar Val AU. Vox is so miserable. He wants to be back in his modified body NOW, but it's going to take a while for them to rebuild it. Val and Vel tease him about it at first... until they realize that Vox is genuinely really hurt by it. He never wanted them to see him like this.

The denizens of Hell are confused as to why Vox is suddenly on a month-long hiatus when he's literally never taken a break from the media before.

---

Been considering whether it should just be happenstance that brings Vox and Alastor together or if Vox should hit his breaking point, go behind his boss' back, and send Alastor a false message in her name, hoping that it will provoke him into killing her.

---

Had a mental image today of Vox sitting in on one of his boss’ conversations with a colleague, as per usual. He’s bored and miserable until the two overlords start discussing the Radio Demon. Vox has heard stories— might’ve even caught one or two of Alastor’s broadcasts— but he’s never heard him discussed like an actual person rather than an urban legend. Vox’s boss starts shittalking Alastor, and Vox suddenly gets an idea. He begins secretly recording her, capturing all her private complaints about him on tape. Vox is terrified of what she might do if she discovered what he was doing, but at this point, he's so good at masking his true emotions that she doesn’t even notice anything is off. Vox held onto that recording until he gained access to a communications device. He hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the ways this plan could go wrong and result in his permanent death, but… he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. He couldn’t bear to stay here any longer.

Alastor figured out it was Vox who sent him that message a couple years into their friendship, but he didn’t hold it against him. In fact, he was impressed with Vox’s determination, taking his fate back into his hands regardless of the risks. He eventually told Vox so himself when the topic came up years later.

---

Vox once made the mistake of snapping that he was not a child at one of his boss’ colleagues who had been talking about him like he was too stupid to understand what they were saying. Honestly, the momentary shock on the colleague’s face was not worth the ensuing, agonizing conversation where his boss muted him, apologized to the other overlord, then prompted them to try to guess his real age, and took far too much pleasure in explaining to them that despite Vox’s appearance, he was actually 41.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox sitting in on his boss' overlord meetings like the Egg Bois in episode 3. Most of the time, his boss would hold him in her lap like a doll, but sometimes, she'd leave him sitting on the ground until the meeting ended. He wished he had a way to put the information he was “eavesdropping” on to good use, but he wasn't allowed to leave the stupid compound without being accompanied by his boss.

---

One particularly dehumanizing experience Vox remembers far more vividly than he would like was the first time his overlord stripped him naked without his consent so she could redress him in a new outfit she’d picked out. This became a semi-frequent occurrence, but it never stopped making his skin crawl. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to someone like him, and yet here he was, robbed not only of the freedom to choose his own clothes but even to dress himself if his boss so willed it.

Even over half a century later, Vox still needs to be coaxed and convinced by Valentino to surrender control during sex. He has no intention of ever telling Val why having someone else undress him puts him on edge.

---

cw sexual assault

The first time Vox’s overlord stripped him naked was also when she discovered that he had no genitals. Of course, she couldn’t let that fact go uncommented on and groped between his legs to confirm, cooing all the while about how perfect Vox was. Vox didn’t even have time to dissociate during the experience; it all happened so fast. Before he had time to process what happened, he was already being redressed in whatever stupid outfit she’d picked out for him that time. The dissociation came later.

In hindsight, Vox thinks it’s sort of darkly funny how he felt as though he’d been sexually assaulted despite not having any sex organs at the time. It’s really not.

---

Thank you!!!

Yeah, Vox is extremely uncomfortable with thinking of himself as a victim. It's easier to just compartmentalize the experience and tell himself that of course he wasn't sexually assaulted– sex wasn't even involved!

At the time, he had no idea how to feel about it. Before he even had time to process the event, he was expected to just move on with the day like nothing happened. Vox wished he could've just forgotten about it– it only lasted for a few seconds, it "didn't count" because he didn't have any genitals to grope, and, in his successful-white-1950s-man brain, groping wasn't even that bad anyway– but the feeling of violation lingered, no matter how hard he tried to dismiss it or distract himself. He eventually managed to push those feelings away, but the memory will still pop up on occasion and he'll have to convince himself all over again that it wasn't any different than all the other times his boss manhandled him.

---

Oh, I'm glad you liked the post!

Yeah, I can see Alastor giving that roach speech to Vox when he's trying to convince him to stop modifying himself. Vox is just like "You think I'm a bug???" He never noticed; he was too focused on the cartoon/TV thing. Message not received.

Alastor probably has weird feelings about the way Vox's old boss treated him. On one hand, it's kind of funny, and Alastor's clearly not opposed to treating people like pets, given his later relationship with Husk. On the other... he feels a weird sort of kinship with Vox in so many regards, and his relationship with his overlord... [leak discussion] it's uncomfortably similar to Alastor's with his contract holder– tricked into a bad deal, treated with condescension, and forced to pretend to adore them in public [end leak discussion]. Alastor likes the idea of helping Vox gain power and rise above his station, but not him changing himself in order to accomplish that goal– he sees too much of himself in Vox to stand that.

Vox doing ad reads/voiceovers for Alastor's show is a great idea. Perfect way to get back into the industry without opening himself up to mockery; plus, he's got a wonderful voice. Would also give him another reason to hate radio once he and Al split: audio-only work will always be a reminder of a time when he couldn't bear to be seen.

---

Might incorporate how long it’s taking me to come up with a name for Vox’s boss by making it so he’s only allowed to call her “Ma’am”/“Madam”/“Miss” instead of her actual sinner name.

---

Thoughts on Proto Vox in the RAM verse

Proto Vox thoughts that heavily feature my OCs

---

Once he finally gained the ability to project a functioning mouth onto his screen, Vox got himself into some… interesting situations trying to keep up with Alastor whenever they went out for drinks. He didn’t care that he was half Alastor’s size; he’s drinking just as much as he is! Maybe even more!!

Those were some of the funniest nights Alastor had (and still has) ever experienced.

---

Thinking about Vox, dead for a week or so, with cracks in his screen and dressed only in a button-up shirt he'd stripped off a corpse double his size, pitching himself to his soon-to-be overlord and trying not to come across as desperate as he truly was. The streets of Hell aren't kind to anyone, but especially not to defenseless-looking, newly arrived sinners with body parts that could potentially be resold. In his short time in Hell, Vox had already had multiple people try to strip him for parts and had only escaped them by the skin of his teeth. He'd barely been able to sleep since he arrived, constantly on guard for more attackers. He looked a fucking wreck, but that only added to his charm, in his boss' opinion. He looked like a starving Victorian orphan trying to give a serious business pitch– so cute!

---

Vox wishes he could feel comfortable in his bedroom at the compound. Being in there means he’s away from his overlord— that he can finally drop the act and just breathe. It’s a nice room, too, especially compared to the living quarters of most other employees. Vox feels as though the privacy and comfort should be enough. But… it isn’t really his room, is it?

His overlord chose the decor: soft and twee and old-fashioned. She can start pounding on the door, ordering him to come out and join her at any moment. The fact she’s too tall to fit in the room is small comfort. It feels like living in a dollhouse; there’s the illusion of privacy, but one wall is missing, allowing the owner to move things around or snatch up the doll inside at a moment’s notice.

---

Honestly, Vox's boss definitely got her "money's" worth out of Vox. He wasn't lying about being a multi-talented performer; he had a wide array of skills.

He had extensive training and experience with dance and comedy (although he was 25 years out of practice) from his childhood on Vaudeville. He was a consummate singer, good at improv, and familiar with a handful of instruments, particularly the piano. He could act fairly well (although he was always more convincing when he came up with stuff on the spot) and had even become a perfect mimic due to his demonic form.

Vox's overlord couldn't have asked for a better entertainer, and she counted herself lucky that he just happened to wander into her building one day looking for work– she didn't even need to place an ad!

Vox was proud of his various skills– he sure as hell hadn't spent years working himself to the bone to hone them for nothing, after all– but he missed being the host rather than the entertainment. He hadn't had to perform like this since he was a child, and it was just as exhausting as he remembered.

---

Vox's primary job was to be a jester for his overlord, but he was also somewhat of an assistant to her. He'd make or serve her and her guests drinks (alcohol, coffee, whatever), carry things for her (which would often be embarrassingly difficult, given his size), and run very minor errands for her (usually just delivering messages to employees a few doors down). Additionally, once she discovered that he could record audio, she started using him as a living tape recorder. She'd bring him to meetings, have him record the conversation without the other party knowing, and then play the audio back once they were in private so she could take note of the exact phrasing and use it against them later on. This last use for Vox ended up being her downfall; she kept him so cloistered that she never thought that he'd be able to use her own words against her one day.

---

Up until the incident where he tried to quit, Vox’s boss would sometimes casually threaten to replace him if he didn’t immediately bend to her will. There were countless other sinners and Hellborn that were perfectly capable of doing his job without an attitude problem; why shouldn’t she just trade him in for one of them? Or perhaps she should employ another entertainer to work alongside him (i.e. compete with him). If Vox thought he was too good for this job, then he could go back to the streets whenever he liked. These threats almost always succeeded in getting him to comply, and she was a bit disappointed when she realized they were no longer as effective as they’d once been.

---

Honestly, Vox’s boss getting another “pet” would be a whole shitshow. When Vox was alive, he once outed a coworker as gay because he was getting more airtime than him, which led to the coworker’s family institutionalizing him. And that was when the stakes were just career success. Vox may hate his job, but it’s what keeps him safe and alive. He’d feel so threatened by the new person that he’d probably end up getting them killed just to protect his position. His overlord is 100% aware of what's going on, but she gets a kick out of watching Vox do whatever it takes to stay in her favor.

---

Vox actually starts initiating affectionate interactions with her out of desperation not to be replaced. His boss (who lowkey only wanted make sure he didn’t grow complacent in his position) is delighted. The poor imp she hired has no idea what they’ve been sucked into. Vox is cold and hostile when they’re in private but then will turn on a dime the second he sees their overlord. Their boss is constantly doing subtle little things to pit them against each other, but the imp feels like they never truly had a chance of surpassing and replacing Vox. All the imp wants to do is make enough to feed their family, but in the end, all they get is being ripped in two by vines when Vox snitches on them for taking a few extra bucks from his boss’ desk.

---

In the modern day, Vox and Alastor disagree about how they met. Alastor will say that he rescued Vox from his overlord and took him in afterward. Vox will say (or rather, would say, since he never speaks about his past) that he rescued his damn self and chose to stick with Alastor because it was the best possible option at the time. Neither of them are wrong, but their mutual bitterness skews their perception of the situation; Vox, the "helpless charity case," and Alastor, the "means to an end."

---

velvette seeing the kind of clothes vox used to have to wear for work and just. vomiting on his behalf

---

Vox thought he was at a bit of an advantage when his soon-to-be boss offered him a simple deal sealed with a handshake: serve as an entertainer for her and she'll give him a safe place to live. Verbal agreements aren't as enforceable as written ones, and the vagueness of the deal left him plenty of room to wriggle his way out if need be!

What Vox didn't realize was that things in Hell don't work like they do on Earth. Sure, vague deals have loopholes, but it's the person with more power who's usually able to take advantage of them as opposed to the "victim." Additionally, written contracts have clauses– specific stipulations that must be abided by. If he'd negotiated things a bit more closely, he could've demanded that she allow him freedom of mobility or had to accept any attempts at a resignation. As is, she was able to keep him at her side at all times and threaten him into staying because there wasn't anything in the deal that said she couldn't do those things; as long as she was giving him a place to stay, she was upholding her end of the bargain.

Vox definitely remembered this lesson when he started drawing up contracts/deals of his own during his later endeavors. Deals can be just as binding as soul contracts. Vagueness is an invaluable tool when it comes to tricking people into bad deals, although granular specificity certainly has a place too, so long as you can get the sucker not to read the fine print.

---

Out of all the things Vox had to do to entertain his overlord, slapstick was his least favorite. It was just so undignified. He already hated having to play dumb and childish, but being the butt of the joke was so much worse than simply being doted on. He couldn’t stand being laughed at, but he didn’t have another choice; if his boss wanted comedy, he had to give it to her, otherwise he’d be punished. For as much baggage he had regarding dance, he would chose it over pretending to hurt himself (or genuinely hurting himself) for his boss’ amusement every time.

This hatred of being laughed at persisted even after he escaped his overlord’s clutches. Vox eventually learned to use his unthreatening appearance to his advantage, but back in the day, a good way to get your shit rocked by the Radio Demon’s tiny apprentice was to laugh at him when he wasn’t trying to be funny.

---

As of right now, Vox's sinner name has always been "Vox." He's eternally grateful that he'd already picked out his sinner name by the time he approached his overlord, because who knows what ridiculous name she would've saddled him with otherwise. However, if Vivziepop ever talks about Cockroach Vox and it turns out he didn't used to be named "Vox," then that name would've been the one he went by up until he met Alastor.

---

Vox was not an overly foul-mouthed person when he was alive, although he certainly wasn't afraid to swear if the situation called for it. However, that casual relationship with tasteful speech went completely out the window after he died. Aside from the in-built censor that kept him from audibly cursing or talking about subjects like sex, he now had a very restrictive persona that he needed to play into. Having to say shit like "Gee whiz" or "Golly" in order to keep up the "cute little cartoon" act was maddening. It was such a relief when Alastor figured out a way to shut off the censor; Vox finally had complete freedom in how he chose to speak again. Honestly, he may have gone a bit too far in the other direction, but given the culture of Hell, it's more unusual to be excessively clean with your speech than it is to swear every other sentence.

---

I wonder if any of the other, older overlords remember Vox from his early days. His boss had a habit of bringing him to meetings and having him perform at parties, so someone like Zestial would’ve probably encountered him at least a couple of times.

On one hand, Vox is beyond grateful that none of the old-timers recognize him as “Lantana’s little lapdog.” On the other, he’s slightly offended that no one paid him enough mind back then to remember him.

Zestial 100% knows who Vox used to be, he’s just choosing to keep that information to himself for the time being.

---

Thinking about a scenario where Vox gets stuck in a hopelessness spiral that causes him to break character in front of his boss. He asks her why she’s doing this to him; what does she get out of all this? Lantana is annoyed by his self-pity and asks him if he has any idea how lucky he is.

Oh, poor Vox, forced to live in the lap of luxury. Condemned to perform wholesome little routines for one of the most powerful overlords in the city while other sinners (female and male) have to prostitute themselves to survive. What an awful fate, having to let her spoil him, love him. Countless sinners would kill to have half of what he has, and here he is complaining because his ego is too fragile to handle not being “in charge” anymore. She’s shocked he’s so ungrateful that he can’t appreciate the gift she’s given him; childhood is a beautiful thing, after all.

Vox knows it’s all lies— she enjoys humiliating him, forcing him to smile through gritted teeth as he plays the demeaning role she’s picked out for him— but after years in her clutches, a small, animal part of his brain wonders if she’s right. Is she being honest when she says she only hurts him to correct him? Does she actually believe that taking away his freedom and keeping him in a gilded cage is love? Is he really better off here than he would be out in the world, struggling to force people to see him as the man he really was used to be?

No. No, he can’t let her get in his head like this. He’s had to give up so much of himself to her; she can’t have his thoughts too. Just don’t say anything. Let her think she’s made him second-guess himself. Don’t allow her to wrestle what little control he has left from his grasp.

---

Vox’s slogan, “Trust us!” started off as “Trust me!” After a while with Alastor, Vox learned to start playing into his harmless appearance in order to gain people’s trust, only to lead them to their deaths or otherwise betray them later on. Most people thought he was either a literal child, stupid, or so weak that they could easily overpower him if need be, so it was easy for him to convince them to let their guards down. Vox managed to get his first few contracts using this method. Trust him! He couldn’t hurt a fly, honest!

Alastor loved this routine, not only because it was hilarious to watch people unknowingly dig their own graves, but because it was useful to him as well. Alastor’s reputation had become so fearsome that it was difficult to get people to stick around long enough to ensnare unless they were truly desperate. It was helpful to have Vox around to lure people in, or to just run errands that would’ve otherwise been a pain due to people’s annoying habit of fleeing at the sight of him. They were a good team, he and Vox; Alastor couldn’t understand why he would choose to give that up in order to become an off-brand copy of him. Yes, it wasn’t the most dignified niche, but it was an important one! And one that very few could pull off even half as well as Vox!

---

Random thought: Vox’s original voice made it impossible for others to tell whether he was a child or an adult. He didn’t quite sound like a real child, but his voice was pitched in such a way that he didn’t read as an adult either— sort of like when adult voice actors play kids. Vox could still hear Himself in certain inflections and in moments when he was allowed to drop the act, but it was extremely alienating, never truly feeling like himself even when he was doing something as simple as speaking.

---

I don’t subscribe to the “Valentino started off with his own abusive pimp” theory (not because I think it’s implausible, it’s just that my HC version of him only worked under the previous overlord of the sex trade for like a year before killing them), plus I think Vox and Val met after Vox was already somewhat established, but whoo-boy, the two of them meeting while they’re both still under the thumbs of their respective abusive bosses would be fun.

---

Two concepts:

Vox’s boss brings him along to an overlord party that Val happens to be performing at. Some drunk dumbass picks him up and shoves him onto the platform where Val was pole dancing— they thought it’d be funny to make the sexless little clown interact with the dirty whore. That was Vox and Val’s first meeting. (Loosely inspired by some of kibbles-bits’ art)

Vox and Val’s respective bosses start up a casual relationship, resulting in the two of them visiting each other’s bases semi-frequently. They get to talking and eventually come to realize that, holy shit, the other guy is an actual person?? And a fun/interesting/clever person too???

---

Vox: Yeah, my #%$!@ of a boss makes me sleep with her sometimes. Val: Ohhhh, me too! Well, at least Mantis Bitch is sexy~ Vox: What? No, I mean she literally makes me sleep in the same bed as her. Like kids do with stuffed dolls. Val: …Huh. Well, I guess that must be somebody’s kink. Vox: $?*@&€# %*¥=…

---

Self-indulgent 4 am whump thought (cw involuntary surgery)

what if proto vox spawned with his childhood leg injury intact? it’s usually not an issue as long as he doesn’t exert himself, but his new job requires him to spend most of the day standing and perform physically intense routines for his boss. for the first several weeks, he doesn’t let on that he’s in pain since he’s terrified of being thrown back out on the streets, but eventually, either his boss confronts him about why he’s suddenly developing a limp or he makes the mistake of mentioning it to her himself, hoping he can convince her to be a bit more restrained with her orders. either way, when vox explains that he’s had this issue since he was a child and that there’s no way to get rid of it, lantana just casually says that she’ll see to it, no problem. vox is concerned by her self-assured tone, but when he asks her what she meant, she abruptly changes the subject with a finality that tells him this is not a matter to be debated.

for the next week, vox is left wondering what she intends on doing. just as he was starts to forget about it, he gets his answer. one day, vox wakes up to find himself in an operating room-turned workshop, held to the table by a few flimsy straps and a nurse(?) gently restraining him. there’s no need to be frightened! they’re just going to see if there’s anything they can do to fix his leg, that’s all. vox tries to reign in his panic as the head doctor examines his leg, but it soon reaches a fever pitch when it’s determined they can repair the damage! by replacing the “bone.”

it’s painful, having someone saw through several layers of his wires, but not as painful as vox imagined it would be. the horror of watching it happen, though, makes it all so much worse. watching someone reach into the mess of his leg and slowly pull out a long, metal rod is like something out of a nightmare. the “surgeons” measure and examine the rod (his bone), then cut a replacement to his size and insert it back into his leg. his wires (his flesh) quickly knit back together with only a bit of help from the doctors, and suddenly vox is back on his feet, being told to return to work as though he didn’t just watch his own leg “bone” be forcibly cut out and replaced.

it taught him that his body could be modified. he never had to deal with his old injury again. vox chooses to focus on these things rather than the absolute terror he felt watching them operate on his leg. he doesn’t need (doesn’t want) to think about the experience itself, only the outcome.

---

3am thought: Vox at the beginning of his employment, trying to figure out what his boss’ limits are and what he can get away with. He’s not thrilled that her idea of “entertainment” seems to mostly consist of song, dance, and comedy, so he starts trying to engage her in conversation instead. Vox is a great conversationalist, and he knows it. His plan is to pull her in, convince her that they have some kind of genuine connection, and then use that to his advantage. That plan is dashed though when, after two or three attempts at engaging her in substantial, adult conversation, she cuts him off and briskly tells him that she didn’t hire him for his conversational skills, she hired him to entertain. If she wanted to hear him speak, she would tell him, but right now, it’d be prudent of him to shut up and do as he’d been told.

Random wondering: What would it take for Vox to finally snap? Or would he just become so good at staying in-character that he appears to have snapped/given up to everyone around him?

Idea: Alastor acquiring Vox after he’s cracked and fully given into his boss after decades in her service. It’s only with Alastor that Vox slowly starts pulling himself back together, allowing elements of his original/real personality to re-emerge. Alastor doesn’t even mean to do this; he just treats Vox with a modicum more respect than he’s used to and gives him positive feedback when he acts more like himself. Vox idolizes Alastor for “saving him from madness,” so of course he flies off the handle when they have their falling out.

Idea: Vox developing Stockholm Syndrome in this scenario. He was trapped with Lantana for so long that he had no choice but to accept that she “loved” him and only wanted what was best for him. When Alastor kills her and takes Vox home with him, Vox sees it as a kidnapping. He cries when Alastor isn’t around, mourning the loss of the master who’d kept him safe and in the lap of luxury for more than a decade. Everything’s so hard now. He hasn’t had to (hasn’t been allowed to) make any choices more complex than “what act should I perform today” in so long; it’s overwhelming. He wants to go home, but this is his home now. It feels like arriving in Hell all over again.

He tells himself he doesn’t understand why there’s a small part of him deep down that’s relieved Lantana is gone.

---

Vox was lucky his body operated on rubber hose physics. The size difference between him and his boss was so extreme that if it didn’t, she could’ve easily shattered his bones (if he had any) or dislocated his limbs, simply by handling him too roughly. All the better. She was usually fairly gentle, but since she knew she could treat him like a rag doll, occasionally, she did. It hurts, dangling in the air by the arm while the person holding you gives you whiplash every time they move too suddenly, but not as much as it would for an organic demon.

---

Three random thoughts:

1) I checked, and the height-difference between Proto Vox and his boss (and Valentino) is directly proportional to that of the tallest and smallest women in the world.

2) Shirley Temple would probably be a good inspiration for Proto Vox’s style of performance.

3) It could be interesting to play with the way Vox’s innocent and wholesome persona would interact with Hell’s general culture. Lantana kept him pretty desexed and infantilized while at “home,” but when she made him perform for groups, the comedy of the routine would be derived from contrast. Most demons wouldn’t get the appeal of his usual schtick played straight, but contrast that cutesy shit with Hell’s usual fixations (sex, profanity, and violence)? Now there’s something worth laughing about. It’s like teasing a fallen cherub.

---

the mental image of lantana telling vox to “go play” at a party will not leave me

“darling” “baby” “sweetheart” “dear”

i am slowly giving in to the whump urges

---

random fact: the way vox is treated by his boss in this au is heavily inspired by the way some imps (particularly the smaller ones) seem to be treated in the hellaverse

---

thinking about the first time lantana struck vox.

it was just so unexpected. vox could hardly even remember the last time someone had hit him— maybe when he was a rowdy young twenty-something? his parents had occasionally struck him as a child, but that was rare.

a week or two before, he’d made a comment that was a bit too sullen for her liking and she’d suddenly grabbed his arm, striking it once with an object like a schoolteacher with a misbehaving student. it’d caught vox off guard, but it was more shocking than painful, and lantana instantly moved on like nothing had happened. he didn’t expect things to escalate so quickly.

he spoke out of turn— that’s what prompted it. he’d been listening to his boss discuss business matters with an associate, and he’d tried throwing in his two cents. it was still early on; vox was testing what he could and couldn’t get away with and had thought the two of them might find his feedback worthwhile. he was wrong. he’d only gotten a couple words out before he was suddenly knocked to the floor by a blow from one of his boss’ lower arms. she didn’t even say anything, just returning to her conversation while he was left stunned on the ground.

when the colleague finally left, lantana picked vox up, sat him on her desk so they were at least somewhat closer to eye level, and laid out exactly what she expected from him from now on. he would not speak unless spoken to when in the company of others; she brought him along to these meetings to be visual stress relief, not to participate. on that note, he would not talk to her about business at all. she had no interest in his opinions, and going forward, she would not hesitate to discipline him if he kept trying to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. finally, and most importantly, he needed to remember his role. he was there to entertain her— to be a sweet, silly little distraction from the stresses of overlordship, and she expected him to act like it. it didn’t matter if she wasn’t playing with him right at that very moment, he was still “on the clock.” amuse her when she wasn’t busy, sit quietly and look cute when she was, and above all, stay in character. she would strike him as many times as was necessary in order to get that through his head, and would throw him out if he still refused to comply.

lantana asked if she was understood, and vox, terrified of returning to the streets, agreed. he left the room hating her, but also felt a strange, unwanted sense of embarrassment that he had overstepped to the point where she decided she “needed to” hit him. he should’ve known better. this woman was not to be “trusted” any more than she was to be manipulated.

---

Random thought: Proto Vox's unofficial theme would be "Make 'Em Laugh" from Singin' in the Rain

---

was thinking about female or trans male proto vox recently and got to wondering what lantana would be like in that scenario since i've made gender dynamics such a big part of her character. came up with a few different options.

---

#Just infuriating things about being three feet tall in a world where the average height is 6’6: door knobs.

Vox had three options when encountering a closed door back in his early days: knock and hope someone on the other side heard him, ask a nearby person to open it for him (which always made his skin crawl), or try to figure out a way to reach it on his own. The worst was when someone saw him struggling to reach the door knob, took pity on him, and opened the door for him, usually with a condescending comment tacked on at the end. It was such a blessing once he finally unlocked his electricity/teleportation powers and didn't have to deal with that crap anymore.

---

Random cheesy idea: Three moments in Vox’s life when the phrase “children should be seen and not heard” was relevant. The first is a time his parents applied it to him, the second is a time he said it about his own children, and the third is his boss using it against him in Hell.

---

thinking about option 2 vox. she says something snappish to her boss about not being a child. next time they go out, the clothes lantana gives her to wear are different than usual: clothes that are exactly to her taste from back when she was alive. they're somewhat oversized.

vox looks ridiculous with her stylish, refined dress hanging awkwardly on her sexless wooden frame. she's sliding around in too-large heels, and the gloves reach all the way to her shoulders, sagging pitifully around her arms. she looks like a child playing dress up; a little girl wearing her mother's clothes. it was like a slash to the heart, seeing herself like this; knowing that even if she had the freedom to choose how she dressed, she would always look like a joke.

the cocktail dress and heels got her laughed at and mocked more than usual. the pinafores and bows just made people gush about how adorable she was sometimes. it was easy to see which was the better option.

it was years before vox felt comfortable enough to start occasionally dressing her age again. alice wouldn't mock her for choosing to dress as an adult. she'd mock her for a whole lot of other things, but at least they were never tied to her appearance (aside from her peculiar modern head, of course!).

---

I know I said this verse’s Vox died while trying to fix a TV, but what if he still got electrocuted on set, but instead of a quick little zap, there was a massive, cartoonish explosion

---

Idea regarding the "storage" incident: The thing that prompted that confrontation was another overlord/business associate showing an interest in Vox. They were involved in the movie industry and thought they could put him to good use in their films, so they asked Lantana if they could purchase him or even just rent him out for a bit. Vox was thrilled– finally, a chance to get back into the industry and out of this fucking building! And it'd just fallen right into his lap! He immediately tried to say "yes," but Lantana cut him off and turned down the offer. She had no intention of giving him up, so she wouldn't let him get away that easily. Vox was pissed when she said "no." He usually held his tongue when his boss did something that upset him, but he was not about to let this person who didn't even own his soul take away this opportunity. He dropped his cutesy persona, demanded she give him a reason he couldn't go, and then tried to accept the other overlord's offer. Lantana sharply grabbed him by the arm, saying something along the lines of "Because you still haven't learned to do as you're told." She denied her now rather uncomfortable associate once again and asked them to leave. Vox tried to shout to them as they turned to leave, but Lantana just muted him, then started twisting his antenna when he tried to unmute himself. Once the other overlord was gone, Vox exploded at Lantana and tried to quit right then and there, but of course, she wasn't going to let that happen. Once he was let out of "storage," Vox was too scared of what else she might do to him to try to quit/escape again (at least, not openly).

---

Idea: Whenever she’d take him to parties, Lantana would pin an orchid to Vox’s lapel/shirt to serve as an indicator of who he was with. It worked— everyone who saw him immediately understood that he was part of Lantana’s entourage— and probably protected him from some of the more violent harassment that goes on at sinner parties, but lord, he hated walking around with a clear sign of who he belonged to pinned to his chest.

---

Thinking about Vox begrudgingly trying to remember and adapt some of his old Vaudeville routines for “special occasions” (i.e. when Lantana makes him perform for associates or at parties). That’s a time in Vox’s life that he prefers not to think about, but now that he seems to have been condemned to relive a twisted version of it, he doesn’t have much of a choice. His boss will allow him some repetition, but she expects him to come up with new material on a regular basis, and it’d just be stupid to refuse to use his pre-existing back catalogue. He’s both surprised and not surprised at all that even 25 years later, he still remembers his childhood acts so clearly.

---

Alastor knows full-well that Vox is an adult and treats him with the usual respect he’d afford one, but like… it’d be kinda funny if at least on a subconscious level, he saw Vox as a kid he was mentoring.

Like, imagine the scrappy little orphan you’ve let live in your house for the past several years suddenly confesses that he’s passionately in love with you, and you’re abruptly reminded that, oh yeah, this guy’s actually a grown man. Of course Alastor wouldn’t react in a particularly graceful manner.

Also would put Alastor's condescending treatment of Vox during episode two in a new context. He knows being talked down to drives Vox nuts because of his past, so he purposefully treats him like a kid throwing a tantrum in order to further get under his skin.

---

Aside from his performance skills, another reason why Vox was considered such a novelty was his head. Televisions were not common in Hell at the time (even among the elites), so his ability to project things on his screen was seen as quite unique. He’d sometimes have to stand still for extended periods of time and let people watch as he played whatever he could come up with in the moment on his screen.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox sitting in front of a mirror, trying for hours on end to retrain himself to talk without lisping or stuttering, or simply to speak in a lower register of voice than his new default. It never works.

---

Decided what the sequence of events leading up to the whole “first time being stripped naked” incident were:

Vox manages to get a meeting with Lantana and enters into a deal with her: he’ll be her personal entertainer if she gives him a safe place to live.

The first week or two is a “trial run” to see if Lantana likes Vox enough to keep him. During that span of time, Vox only has one or two sets of clothes: the ragged shirt he stole off a dead body while on the streets and some clothes meant for imps that Lantana provided. When Lantana decides to keep Vox, she orders a whole new wardrobe for him without telling him.

When the new clothes arrive, Lantana tells Vox that she’s decided to let him stay and that she got a gift for him to celebrate. Vox is relieved to no longer have the threat of having to return to the streets dangling over his head. He’s kind of weirded out by Lantana, but she hasn’t revealed her sadistic side yet, so he’s cautiously optimistic about his future; this “gig” may be embarrassing, but he can make it work.

Lantana leads Vox to either his or her bedroom and presents the new wardrobe to him like it’s some kind of wonderful gift. Vox is startled to see what kind of attire she picked out for him: children’s clothes, outfits that are clearly several sizes too big for him, and a handful of cute costumes. Vox tries to hide his consternation and think of a polite way of declining the “gift,” but Lantana barely lets him get a word out, going on about how happy she is that he’ll be staying with her and how sweet he’ll look in his fancy new clothes.

Before he can object, Vox feels the top he’s wearing suddenly being pulled off; Lantana wants to see him in his new clothes now. He tries to object and pull away, but it’s all in vain. His shirt is removed and now she’s going for his pants. A mortified Vox implores her to stop— he’s never experienced this kind of sudden disregard for his personal agency in his adult life— but Lantana just cheerfully talks over him, assuring him there’s nothing to be frightened of… until she catches sight of his crotch.

Lantana pauses for a moment, caught off guard by Vox’s lack of genitals. Vox shrinks away, humiliated to have someone ogling his hated naked body. His reprieve only lasts for a few seconds though, as Lantana’s face lights up with delight. Vox suddenly feels a hand groping between his legs, long fingers probing experimentally, searching for an opening or a protrusion of some kind. Her voice sugary sweet, Lantana coos about how perfect Vox is as she runs her hand across his smooth, sexless crotch.

Vox barely has time to register the awful (and totally unfamiliar) feeling of violation blooming inside him before the hand is gone. Lantana’s riffling through the wardrobe, trying to decide which outfit she wants to put him in first, while Vox struggles to wrap his mind around what just happened. Before he even has time to catch his breath, a new bundle of clothes is thrown in his direction. Lantana “asks” him to help her put them on him, and Vox, disoriented and degraded, faintly agrees. The words aren’t even fully off his lips yet before Lantana starts pulling the new outfit onto him.

Bonus F!Vox version. Warning for discussion of dark sexual topics.

Vox has been uneasy around her new boss ever since they met. He's so serene and indulgent whenever he's with her; it just doesn't seem right for an overlord of Hell to be this gentle. So far, all the attention he's given her seems to be purely platonic, but there's something about the way he looks at her that makes Vox fear that he might start coming onto her at any moment. She's been around enough wealthy, powerful men in her human life to know how this situation could go.

When he shows her the wardrobe of little girl's clothes and cute costumes, she's horrified. She immediately assumes he got them for sexual/fetishistic purposes and blurts out that she's not a child, trying to discourage him from what she thinks he's planning. Vox's overlord patiently tells her he knows she's not a child; this is just how he wants her to dress while working for him.

Not waiting to see if his reassurance actually convinced her (it didn't), the overlord abruptly starts unbuttoning her dress. Vox panics and starts begging him not to do this– there's no point in doing this. She's utterly convinced that he's about to assault her and is terrified of how he'll react once he realizes she has no genitals or breasts. Will he throw her back out on the street if he can get what he wants? Kill her in a fit of anger? Or just find some other way of getting gratification from her?

Heedless of her pleas, Vox's boss just chuckles warmly and tells her there's nothing to be afraid of as he peels the imp dress off of her off her struggling body. Like his female counterpart, he freezes in surprise for a moment when he catches sight of Vox's featureless wooden body. Vox squirms under his gaze, terrified of what's coming next... but her overlord just smiles adoringly, runs a hand across her crotch, and tells her she's perfect before handing her a new, oversized dress and asking if she'd prefer it or something else.

Vox stands there, frozen in fear. Her boss cocks his head in puzzlement, asking what she's afraid of. Vox answers "Nothing" as quickly as she can, but the truth of the matter suddenly dawns across her overlord's face. Acting affronted, he denies that he'd ever dream of hurting her like that. What a repugnant thing to do! Kneeling down to Vox's level, he swears to her that she has nothing to fear from him and gently starts trying to coax a smile out of her. Vox, fearing what might happen if she doesn't comply, reluctantly forces a smile onto her face, relieved that he's not going to try to rape her (“Yet,” she thinks), but not trusting him any further than she can throw him.

When she smiles back, Vox's overlord glows with fondness and tells her to put the incident out of her mind; for now, they should just focus on getting her dressed. Vox puts on a forced, awkward smile, accepting the new clothes graciously. This is leagues better than being assaulted, obviously, but... she still doesn't want to dress like this. But she dare not argue with her overlord; she needs to show him that she's grateful for his "kindness." She tries to forget the feeling of his hand groping between her legs.

---

cinderella has proto vox energy in this

---

During his first year in Hell, part of Vox’s “charm” was that he often struggled under the weight of his disproportionately large head. It made it difficult to maintain his balance given how it made up the majority of his body weight, and, when fatigued, he sometimes had to resort to using his hands to hold it up. People thought it was funny how clumsy he was during that first year. Eventually, he got used to it and regained his sense of balance (after many hours of physically demanding performance, of course), but if someone pushed him, he was still liable to collapse in a heap.

---

Thinking about Vox dissociating from his work persona. He feels like he’s in a completely different frame of mind when he’s performing; like he’s just a passive observer in his own body. It’s the only way to keep his ego intact— to convince himself that the words he’s saying/choices he’s making aren’t his own. He never actually severs the connection between his work identity and his real one, but seeing “Work Vox” as a different person made it all the easier to consign “him” to the past once the opportunity presented itself.

---

Kind of a nothing idea, but wanted to post about it anyway

If Vox had actually died as a child and somehow found his way to Lantana, their relationship would genuinely be as sweet as it seems on the surface. Lantana has a soft spot for children, and here’s this lost, vulnerable little boy who’s wandered right onto her doorstep. The fact that he’s actually very talented and incredibly eager to please just made the whole situation even more perfect.

Vaughn doesn’t understand why he’s in Hell (he’s not even ten years old, for goodness sake…), and he misses his parents (well, mostly his mother) terribly. It feels like a stroke of good luck that he happened upon an overlord who was willing to take him in and treat him so well. He doesn’t even need to do anything that hard— just all the same performance stuff he was already doing back on Earth, and with a less busy schedule at that. It doesn’t take long for him to get attached to Lantana; she’s just like momma, except she’s less demanding and always wants him around, even when she has something more important going on.

#redlady speaks #proto vox au #hazbin hotel #vox #hazbin hotel vox #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #vox hazbin #vox the tv demon #2013 vox #cockroach vox #alastor #radiosilence #radiostatic

190 notes · View notes

anthotneystark · 2 months ago

Text

A stobin headcanon that won’t leave me alone

Growing up with his parents being Like That, Steve sees things a certain way. Things are either practical and aesthetic or practical and not aesthetic. And things that are not practical do not belong. He learned this when he realized Tommy’s mom kept every school picture but his own mom didn’t. Keeping those pictures wasn’t practical, just like keeping old clothes wasn’t practical. The moment it stopped being up to date, it was gone.

As such, specifically with clothes because that was what he had the option to choose for himself, he only kept things that looked good, that made sense to buy because he wanted to look good, or that were practical, comfortable. The latter he refused to be seen in and was just a few things in his closet.

Enter Robin

Robin, who almost exclusively got second hand from older cousins and thrift stores, who learned early on that yes, practicality matters, but that doesn’t mean she can’t have fun with it. It’s all about finding that hidden treasure, the big score. And Steve’s closet? It’s expensive, it’s tasteful, it’s boring

She tries, in vain, to convince him to liven it up a little, but he can’t get over the mental hurdle of picking something because he likes it. He’s too stuck on appearances for a long time, because if he won’t look good, why have it?

This, outside of saving the world, is her life’s mission (his love life is a whole other issue that they’re working on jointly) so she tries to ease him into the idea. She takes him thrifting, shows him the process, the excitement of finding something great. They go window shopping in stores and she watches like a hawk to see what his eyes catch on, where he lingers before moving on because it’s “not practical”. She starts putting together a list of things he likes but won’t get for himself, trying to figure out something easy to convince him on because if she can convince him on something little, that’s progress.

And then it happens. His eyes catch and he runs his fingers over it, and then lets it go. It’s perfect. It’s a pair of socks, and it’s definitely not anything he’s already got. It’s a fun little pattern, dogs wearing hats, and she knows he needs to have them. It takes fifteen minutes of back and forth, sometimes just looks, before he hesitantly agrees to get them.

And so it begins.

Socks are the thing she focuses on first, fun ones and silly patterns and it’s a perfect compromise. It’s a practical item and he can have that little pop of fun without compromising his aesthetic. She’s prepared to go slow, and doesn’t push too much as life goes on. Out of Hawkins, out of college, out into the world where she knows her calling is language but doesn’t know where to go with it, where he finds his calling in working with kids and they both become teachers (she teaches Spanish and French and tutors other languages in the side if any of her kids are interested, he teaches phys. ed and health and makes sure all the kids have fun even if they aren’t good at sports).

She keeps working on it, with gradual success. By the time they’re discussing if they’re going to get a divorce to marry their actual partners, with Eddie and Chrissy watching in amusement as they both look sad at the thought (because this is my story and I say they lived) before telling them that actually, they’ve decided to get married too - “I want to have an affair with you, Stevie, you wouldn’t deny me of that fun would you?” - she’s been pretty successful. His closet still has some boring nice clothes in it, but it’s got his fun sock collection, band shirts from the concerts they’ve seen over the years, sweaters that are objectively ugly but that he enjoys so much it makes them beautiful, and so much more. He doesn’t think so definitively about if he’s going to like how he looks in things, but picks things with more weight on if he likes something for itself.

(She refuses to admit Eddie helped, but one time Steve had pulled on one of Eddie’s flannels and ripped jeans to go get the mail because he didn’t feel like getting his own clothes out and Eddie had been very quick to show Steve how much he liked that look on him. And, well, the flannel was soft, so it made sense to add some of those shirts to his wardrobe. And if he picked those because of their colors too, that was still practical)

I don’t know where else I’m going with this (other than Steve takes Robin’s last name and Eddie and Chrissy have a long, drawn out debate on what name to keep before deciding that they’re keeping Munson because Wayne is the deciding factor)

(Wayne also figures out one day that he’s suddenly got four kids who call him uncle Wayne and eventually some who call him grandpa and well, that’s everything he could ever want)

Oh and Steve’s students? They have running bets about which socks Steve will be wearing every day and every spirit week has a fun sock day that is unofficially known as Mr. Buckley day (some kids do the whole gym teacher style looks he has too, and he gets a kick out of it every time)

#platonic stobin #kat writes #I’m having feels this morning about Steve learning he can express himself with his clothes in more ways than just looking hot #steddie #buckingham #I just love them ur honor #oh and #Wayne Munson my beloved #the sentiment is there even if he just comes in at the end

111 notes · View notes

biibini · 1 year ago

Note

Yoyoyooo, Im literally obsessed w ur headcanons. How do you like the idea Mizu/reader first nighttt together (nsfw??)

first night together ✧˖*°࿐

modern!mizu x reader staying the night

tags: SUGGESTIVE, cuddling, making out, first time spending the night, gentle making out, soft, fluff, first night, comfort, soft mizu, modern au, modern mizu x reader

a/n: im so behind with my asks :( but my friend found my tumblr acc so hiiiii yk who u are im typing this out while i was texting u last night hehe.

modern!mizu would be the one to ask u to sleep over

it wouldn't be meticulously planned

but hinted

typically, u would just come over and watch netflix, cook, maybe play a game or just study together before she walks u to ur dorm

mizu had hoped to maybe ask u to spend the night much earlier

but the fear of moving too fast in a relationship due to her previous relationship with [redacted] held her back

so she never had the nerve to ask

until one night rolls around

and the stars align

ringo went to visit his family for the weekend

u come over to finish a show on netflix, cuddling as per usual

its late at night and ur start to doze off

The final moments of The Great British Bakeshow play on the TV screen. You hear the judges give their final score as you slowly drift to sleep. Mizu doesn't notice how sleepy you are.

Not until your head suddenly rests on her arm.

"Y/N?"

You hum in response, internally struggling against the sleepiness. Mizu turns to get a closer look at your face to find your eyes shut, fighting to stay open. Normally, she would try to wake you up and walk you home to your dorm.

That is what normally happens.

Normally, she wouldn't be wrapping her arm closer to you. Normally, she wouldn't let your head rest against her chest.

Normally, she wouldn't let you stay a little longer.

But tonight, the stars aligned. Ringo was gone to visit his family for his cousin's birthday. Akemi was on a girl's trip with her hometown friends. Taigen was out of town for a basketball tournament.

No one could bother them.

Not tonight.

Definitely not tomorrow.

"How about you stay over tonight?", Mizu says softly. Her hand caresses your left side, hoping for her invitation to be accepted.

Oh.

The thought of staying over had popped into your mind a few several times. You never chased the idea. Besides, it would be rude of you to ask when it wasn't even your own place.

But now, the question was laid right in front of you.

You look up to answer to find Mizu looking down at you, staring at you with those piercing blue eyes. Your smile widens, accepting the invitation with a nod.

"I'll stay.", you respond.

externally, ur keeping it cool

internally, ur freaking tf out

u and mizu have been going out for a few weeks

but staying over the night? not quite yet

modern!mizu would also try to keep her cool

from ur perspective, she looks relaxed

but from her point of view, a part of her was anxious

it wasn't the fear of moving too fast

it was the fact that it was ur first time sleeping together

u guys have SLEPT together

but that would only happen when ringo wasn't home

there wasn't a lonely night

at least

not until tonight

Her hands hold onto yours, gently pulling you into the bedroom. It looked unusual in the moonlight as opposed to the familiar daylight version of the room.

"You can go wash up first. I'll find some pajamas for you.", she says reassuringly.

As you walk into the bathroom, Mizu searches for something suitable for you to wear. She hears the shower run behind the door as she scrambles for something. Anything.

She knew she didn't have actual pajamas. Her sleepwear is just filled with old T-shirts and mismatched shorts or pants. Her hunt leaves her with an oversized t-shirt from Ringo's previous workplace at Hen-Oh Ramen, a chicken ramen chain store, and blue pajama shorts. That place didn't last long after the owner was found stealing the broth recipe from their competitor.

Mizu knocks on the door.

"Hey, may I come in? I have your clothes."

"Yeah, come in!", you yell from the shower.

after u change into the borrowed pjs, u come out

mizu is just chilling in bed on her phone

drinking her chamomile tea

trying to distract herself from the thought of u in her clothes

ur pretty figure in her pjs...

u join her under the sheets

and she gets a glimpse of u

modern!mizu totally didnt short circuit

and sip a little too much and end up coughing on her drink

kinda spilled a little on her shirt

u go into the bathroom to get paper towels and help clean up

You crawl onto the bed with a few paper towels in hand. As you get closer to Mizu and her tea-stained shirt, you sit atop of her leg. You hand a paper towel to her. On the other hand, you're patting down the stains.

The chamomile tea stains are spread all over her chest and stomach. They're not piping hot but a little too warm for comfort. As you continue to pat along the stains, you inch down her lower chest to her stomach. You pat against the damp fabric and feel her stomach. It's a little soft but the harder you press, the harder it becomes to the touch.

In awe, you continue your job as you pat further along her-hard stomach. You fail to realize her face is flaring a bright shade of red against her pale skin.

"Y/N?", you look up to meet her ocean blue eyes softly gazing into yours.

They were still the same ol' blue you always admire. However, this time they looked warm. An ocean during the sunset with its gentle waves crashing into the shore.

"I got it. Just-", she says as she gently grabs the paper towel you used on the bedrest next to her.

Her arms spread wide open. She places her hands on your hips.

"C'mere.", she smiles as she gently caresses your sides.

"But the stains-"

"Don't worry about them."

You feel her hands slowly caress further up your sides. Her hands ghost over your breasts, almost cupping them. You push yourself closer to her and shift your legs over the sides of her legs. She smiles in response to your new position.

"It's an old T-shirt.", she reassured.

Still slightly anxious about spending the first night together, she recognized two decisions that could be made. One, make you comfortable and sleep well tonight. Two, make you COMFORTABLE comfortable and sleep later tonight.

Her left hand finds its way down to your hips, caressing the area. As for her right hand, you feel the callouses brush along your neck. They make their way to your soft cheeks, now a pinkish-red tint from the intimate position.

"It'll be okay. But you on the other hand...", Mizu inches closer to your face as she gently pulls you closer. Her thumb softly caresses your lips, feeling how soft and plump they are. Her touch makes your brain go crazy for her touch.

Is it needy of you? Yes.

The fact that she's just softly kissing you on your first night spent together is making your mind shortcircuit with every kiss.

But the feeling of her soft lips against you is warm and plush. Comforting. Your eyes flutter close as her left arm wraps around your lower back, closing the gap between the two of you. As you continue to kiss Mizu, you feel her body shift up and allow her back to rest against the headboard.

Each kiss becomes softer. An occasional needy kiss here and there from her. But for the most part, her lips become a deeper shade of red from your contact. You feel her right hand drag closer to your ear, her fingers teasing your neck.

You groan as Mizu comes closer for another kiss, now with more force on your swollen lips. Her grip around your lower back tightened, fighting to pull you even closer to her. Every touch and kiss heightens your sensitivity. A familiar warmth starts to grow in your lower stomach.

Mizu loosens her grip and starts kissing from your cheeks and down your neck. You feel her lips gently kiss your neck, tickling you with every touch. As she works towards the side of your neck, a moan slips out.

"I guess we have a long night ahead of us.", Mizu teased as she smiled tenderly at you.

"Mizu!", you say jokingly, retaliating against the idea.

She wasn't wrong though.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle.", she comforts you, sealing the deal with a kiss.

Continue reading here!

666 notes · View notes

forfucksakesniall · 2 years ago

Note

Heyy girll i really love your work so much and idk if u take requests but if u do can u do a lewis one where him and his wife have a daughter,(12,13yo) and lewis gets interviewed by his daughter in sky sports channel And she keep asking him funny questions etc.(like that vid when he got interviewed by a little boy)

Hello miss ma'am! Thank you so much for the support. I love this idea so much. I hope you like this.

The Interview

Lewis and his daughter come into the studio, hand in hand, and everybody looks at them in awe. It is obvious that his daughter is a daddy's girl, with the way he dresses her and styles her hair. She has her own personal stylist, and she also likes it when you do it, her mommy, but she says it's different when her daddy does it.

As they reach the chairs and the cameras start rolling, she looks around and back at her dad, seeking a sign if she should start.

“Hello Darling,” Lewis says while smiling at her.

“No, daddy! Call me by name...” she tells him.

Lewis does his old man laugh and restarts the interview.

”Sorry, sorry, umm... Hello, Eleanor.”

“Hi, Sir Lewis Hamilton.”

“Oh no! That's weird, darling. Can't you just call me daddy?”

“It's an interview…”

“Alright, Alright...”

Cut to the interview.

"If you had to eat one super weird meal before every game, what would it be?” she asks.

“Well, I’ve tried some weird food around the world, a lot of foreign foods.”

“How about a sandwich filled with marshmallows, pickles, and chocolate sauce?” she suggests.

“Your mom sure enjoyed that one just because her craving is crazy, and I wouldn’t want to try that..”

“Yeah, me either. It's icky…” she adds.

They both laugh at your weird food cravings lately because of your pregnancy. But now it's news to everyone since Lewis has always been a private person, and getting this interview was even more rare.

"What's your go-to victory dance when you score or win a race? Can you show us a quick move?”

“I usually don't show it on camera, but you could say I've got some moves, right?”

She looks directly at the camera with a side-eye without needing to say anything more.

“What? Are you saying I don’t?” Lewis asks.

”Mommy said not to call you out when you're lying.”

Lewis bursts out laughing.

“I have a question for you now,” Lewis says.

“How come you cheer on Mick when you watch the races?”

She blushes cutely.

“I don’t know… He looks like Ken... from Barbie.”

“Looks like I’ll be having a little talk with Mick then,” he teases.

“Daddy no! You always embarrass me when he is around…” she says back.

The interview went on with their father-daughter antics, and after a few hours, they finally finished, and it was time to head back home.

“You did great today, darling.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He smiles at his daughter's remark and kisses her on the head.

“Let's get back to your mommy and little baby, yea?”

She nods and takes his hand, heading to the car.

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fanfics #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton blurb #sir lewis hamilton #f1 fandom #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton imagines #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton oneshot #Dad!lewis hamilton

1K notes · View notes

daycourtofficial · 1 year ago

Text

Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor - Part 5

Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.

Author’s note: We’re setting things up, baby!! I’m not sure about this part tbh. It’s been a bit since I updated, so hopefully the length of this will make up for it!! 💕

Warnings: slight drinking, mentions of sex, I almost had someone order a sweet tea before I remembered that doesn’t exist much outside the south

(Part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (masterlist)

It was quite impressive, really, how Rhysand took half an hour to eat his bowl of cereal just to piss off his brother. Azriel was pacing, wanting to see you as soon as possible. Truthfully he had been waiting since you left their apartment that morning, inviting him and Rhys to come out with you and Feyre.

Azriel thinks he deserves an award for the patience he’s harboring over Rhys’s movements.

They eventually walk into your apartment, much to Rhys’s delight, to find you and Cassian bickering in your kitchen over his inability to turn the tv off at night.

“Cassian, please, stop leaving the tv on at night. I woke up at 3 in the morning and was blinded by the idle Netflix screen.”

“I’ll try, but it’s a big ask. You want me to find the remote when I’m very sleepy and just shut it off?”

“Uh, yeah that’s what I said,” you respond, leaning against the counter, waving to Rhys and Az. Rhys elects not to comment at the way you perk up at the sight of his brother. “Somehow I don’t think it’ll be the end of the world.”

Cassian mumbles out, “I’ll try,” before acknowledging his brothers. Him and Rhys start talking about something but your phone vibrates, distracting you from their conversation.

Feyre: I’m here

“Awesome, Fey’s here - let’s go.”

The four of you head down, taking the elevator down. Cassian thought about pushing all the buttons, but he knew it was a surefire way to find an axe imbedded in the side of his head within the hour.

You all head down to the parking lot, spotting Feyre leaning against her car. The second you point it out Cassian yells, “shotgun!”

You retort back, “how old are you again?”

Cassian responds, having reached the passenger door, “the laws of shotgun are anti-discriminatory, they’re not bound by age.”

You roll your eyes at him, as Azriel holds the door open for you to get into the back. You sit in the middle seat, squished between Azriel and Rhys. And if you lean further into Azriel, his thighs pressed against yours, that’s between you and Feyre’s silver prius.

The five of you walk in and find the place nearly empty. After signing consent forms and paying, you notice that there’s a bar. You and Cassian immediately get drinks, a beer and a seagram’s, and head over to the lane the owner told you to go to.

“Maybe having alcohol and an axe to throw isn’t a great idea,” you mutter, taking a sip anyway.

Cassian saunters up first, putting his beer down before grabbing the axe.

“I’m sure I’ll be a natural at this,” he tells you all, before swinging the axe back and throwing it, all of you watching as it bounces off of the target.

You snicker, but it’s Rhys who says what you’re all thinking. “Mmm, a natural. I see it.”

You all take turns in the two lanes provided, throwing a few times until eventually you all get the hang of it.

Rhys and Azriel fare much better than Cassian with their initial throws, but you and Feyre were struggling for a while, until eventually you guys began keeping score as you went. Feyre began shooting better, telling everyone that she just “needed a few practice swings in”.

In between your turns, you kept finding yourself next to Azriel, joking and poking fun at everyone else’s shooting. You were too busy with Azriel to notice Feyre and Rhys swapping phone numbers as Cassian was throwing.

Cassian turned from the lane, noticing both of his brothers having paired off with girls. He’s slightly annoyed at the fact that no one congratulated him on his bullseye. He places the ax back where it belongs and clamps down on Azriel’s shoulder as he sits next to him.

“Your turn,” Cassian grins. Azriel wants to object, peeferring to stay in your company, but decides against it, walking over to throw. You turn to watch him, but Cassian starts speaking.

“So you have the hots for my brother,” he says, voice low, causing you to choke on your drink. You turn to him, spluttering as he looks at you expectantly.

“Uh, Rhys is very nice but I don’t-“

Cassian’s raised hand interrupts you. “Not that one, sweets.”

You debate whether or not you should deny it, but Cassian looks at you and you sigh. You start ripping the label off your drink and nod your head just slightly.

Cassian grabs his beer and stands up. He looks at you over his shoulder before saying, “I think it’s mutual.”

You don’t have time to mull over his words. Your phone buzzes, and pulling it out, you see Mor’s contact lighting your screen. You answer, putting the phone to your ear. Az sits back down next to you, watching you answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi sweetie,” Mor’s smooth voice crackles over the phone. “Do you wanna get dinner?”

Az looks over at you, the sound of Mor’s voice familiar to him.

“Uh I’m out with Feyre, Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel.”

Mor huffs, “without me? You go out with my favorite guys and don’t invite me?”

You scratch the back of your head at her admonishment, “uh well it was kinda spur of the moment.”

Az takes a sip of his water as he watches you on the phone, curious about your friendship with Mor. He knew Mor somewhat well, actually. Rhysand brought her around fairly often, and Cassian brought her around somewhat regularly. He can’t believe the blonde would hide you away from them for so long and why she especially wouldn’t try to set the two of you up at some point.

Mor was, above all, convinced she was a matchmaker. No one escaped her clutches of trying to pair people up.

“Okay, whatever. I’ll forgive you if all of you come out to dinner with me tonight.”

You laugh, “ah a guilt trip. Where should we meet you? And when?”

Mor thinks for a minute, “meet me at that Mexican restaurant out on Main street. In an hour?”

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “Okay, but I can’t guarantee everyone will come. I haven’t asked.”

You know she’s rolling her eyes as she responds, “just tell them I said pretty please - they’ll come. And tell them that I’ll pay.”

Your eyebrows raise, “are you sure? I live with Cassian - I’ve seen that man eat a rotisserie chicken as a snack.”

“Well I won’t be paying, I’ll put it on my lovely father’s credit card. I’ll consider it payment for that awful dinner a few weeks ago.”

“Well, let me ask them and I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, I gotta go. Bye, love youuuuu,” Mor’s drawn out affections end as you hang up, coming back to your surroundings. Feyre has an axe in her hand, and you hear Rhys cheer as she hits a few feet from the bullseye.

“Do you guys want to get dinner with Mor? She told me she won’t forgive me if you guys don’t come.”

Azriel and Rhys share a look, but you continue. “She did say to tell you all “pretty pleasaaase.” You bat your eyelashes in a fairly spot on impression of Mor, “and that she’s paying.”

Cassian comes up next to you, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Lead with the free food next time, sweetheart.”

Leaving axe throwing behind a bit later, Cassian is grumbling about how Azriel outscored everyone substantially. Rhys leads the group outside and grins at Cassian declaring, “shotgun.”

Cassian huffs but trudges to the back with you and Azriel. The backseat is even more cramped, seeing as Cassian’s thighs could take up a seat of their own. You’re practically having to sit on both of them, and Azriel is pressed against the door to give you as much space as possible.

Between no one paying attention to him during your group outing and the fact that he lost, Cassian was overcome with the need to stir something up, so he turns to you and asks, “the world is ending and you have to sleep with one of us to save the world, who do you pick?”

You turn to Cassian, shock on your face. Azriel perks up in his seat a bit, wanting to hear what you’ll say. Feyre and Rhys even stop their conversation up front to hear.

“What kind of apocalyptic event is this, Cass?”

“A horny one?” He asks, not really sure himself.

You all laugh, “okay so I sleep with one of you and the world is saved?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“I’d pick Feyre. She’d be a gentle lover,” you say, looking towards your friend as she drove. Feyre gives you a wink through the rearview mirror, and Cassian groans.

“Nope, it can’t be Feyre.”

“Well you didn’t say that earlier,” you point out.

“Well I’m saying it now.”

“Why don’t you just tell me the parameters of who I can have sex with to save the world,” you say, a bit exasperated at this imaginary scenario.

“Me, Rhys, and Az.”

“Cassian,” you say, matter of factly, and Azriel feels his heart fall through his chest. He tries to even his breathing so you don’t notice him shattering next to you, but your voice picks up again as Cassian is cheering.

“I wouldn’t have sex with you, even in a world ending event.” You pat his shoulder. “I’d let all of us die before doing that.”

Rhys throws his head back laughing and Cassian crosses his arms, leaning back in the seat, huffing. Azriel smirks slightly, and he notices that you don’t actually answer the question Cassian posed. He also notices your eyes nervously glancing in his direction every few seconds.

The restaurant comes into view as Cassian keeps grumbling, his unanswered question long forgotten. The five of you pile out of the car, and Azriel offers his hand to you to help you get out. His hand is a little cold in yours, but you hold it a little longer than necessary, soaking in the contact.

You all walk up to the front to find Mor aggressively waving her hands at you all, trying to make sure you see her. You chuckle, and Cassian starts waving back just as dramatically.

“It’ll be about 20 minutes,” she tells you all, texting someone. You all hear the ding of Cassian’s phone right as she’s done talking, but none of you point it out.

Mor and Cassian huddle together talking, leaving the four of you to mingle. The presence of both of them and Feyre makes everyone pause, uncertain of what to say. You had never really realized how much easier talking was with Cassian nearby.

Feyre asks, “so what do you guys major in?”

“Computer science,” Azriel says.

“I’m a double major with business and engineering.”

Rhys’s major does not shock you at all. The well-tailored clothing he wears every day do nothing to combat the business major stereotype. The engineering part does, however, surprise you.

Feyre asks him about his classes, and you perk up when he mentions the organic chemistry class you’re a TA for. The two of them keep talking, bur you turn your attention to Azriel.

“Why computer science?” You ask Az, curious. It suits him, you think. It’s easy to see him behind a computer, developing websites.

“I like software development and coding.”

You groan in disgust, “I don’t know how you like coding. I have to do it for a research project and I hate it. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“What about it doesn’t make sense?”

“It’s just like a new language no one taught me.”

“I could help you,” he says, hesitating to be too forward, “if you- if you want, of course.”

“Yes, I’d love that!”

The two of you are so enraptured in your conversation you don’t notice the looks Rhys and Feyre are sharing at how obvious the two of you are.

The looks between you and Azriel, and Feyre and Rhys, are interrupted by Mor’s chiming. “It’s ready!”

The six of you walk towards a booth in the back, you, Azriel, and Feyre on one side, Cassian, Mor, and Rhys on the other. The waitress provides you all menus, and before she can walk away Cassian asks for “enough queso to make a grown man cry”.

You’re looking at the menu when Azriel nudges you with his elbow. “You never said what your major was.”

“Oh, uh I’m a biology major.”

“Biology?” He asks, a bit surprised.

“Yeah, I really like evolution and ecology. I like the diversity of life.”

“And what is your project that requires coding?”

“Oh- it’s a population survey. For the past two years I’ve been reviewing trail cam footage around the campus for what kinds of animals live on campus.”

His eyebrows raise, “you started research as a sophomore?”

“Yeah, I set up the trail cameras in August that year. They’re in the more woodsy parts of campus or areas where there’s freshwater like the fountains.”

“So you have to view thousands of hours of camera footage?” He sounded genuinely interested in your project, a response you hardly received.

You laugh, “no, it’s motion activated. But it’s still a lot to comb through.”

“If you ever want any company while you do it, I could bring some of my coding assignments and we could just work together.”

You’re about to tell him you’d love to, when the waitress comes by, taking everyone’s drink orders and dropping off chips, salsa, and queso. Cassian, who had been grumbling about how hungry he was, gives his drink order through a mouthful of chips.

After you ask her for a water and a soda, you tell Az, “I’d love that.”

Cassian pulls you into a conversation between himself and Mor, but you do catch a glimpse of the little smile Azriel gives you as you tell Cassian about the time Mor streaked across the football field during a game in high school.

The dinner is fun, made even moreso by Mor picking up the check. You all wish a Mor good night as you head back to Feyre’s car. Once the doors to the restaurant open, Rhys and Cassian yell out, “shotgun,” at the same time, and both begin sprinting to Feyre’s car, pushing each other as they run.

The three of them trudge ahead of you and Azriel, as you two walk in step next to each other. He pulls out his phone, his screen lighting up his face in the night. He turns his phone to you, an empty contact page facing you.

“I-uh just realized I don’t have your number,” he swallows hard, looking down at his phone, watching as your fingers gently grab his phone and begin typing.

He watches you click ‘send message’, watching you type something out before handing it back to him. He chuckles as he reads the message you sent yourself.

Az: oh beautiful, stunning, wonderful woman, thank you for blessing me with your phone number

His phone vibrates in his hand as your response comes through.

You: oh, Az. Flattery will get you very far.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #acotar writing #azriel x y/n

450 notes · View notes

steveseddie · 1 year ago

Text

shootin’ hoops

steddie | rated: t | cw: none | 4,6k | tags: eddie munson lives, but his clumsy ass gets hurt, worried steve, minor injuries, sharing clothes, first kiss

for my stficbingo prompt: “‘m just tired.”

click here to read on ao3

***

Eddie has always known basketball is evil.

Over the years, he’s been smacked in the back of the head by plenty of basketballs, or smacked elsewhere by the dumb jocks that play the game. Only a few weeks ago, he was being chased by Jason Carver and his band of basketball-playing goons.

So, basketball. Evil.

Eddie knew this, and somehow, he still agreed to “shoot hoops” with Steve Harrington.

Him! Eddie Munson! Agreeing to play the stupid game where you toss balls into laundry baskets! All because of his stupid crush on a boy.

If any of his friends could see him now, they would kick him out of the band and dethrone him as their Hellfire leader.

Well, no. First, they would laugh at Eddie- currently starfished on the Harringtons’ basketball court having knocking himself out after the ball he threw missed the hoop completely, slammed against the board and bounced back straight into Eddie’s face.

Then and only then, after laughing themselves into a coughing fit at Eddie’s expense, would they kick him out and dethrone him. Can’t have your fearless leader succumbing to forced conformity or whatever.

Luckily for Eddie, there’s no one here to witness how the mighty have fallen.

Well. No one but Steve, the guy he’s pretty sure he’s in love with which is fucking great.

When he agreed to play, after Steve pleaded, pouted and hit Eddie with those deadly puppy eyes, he told himself it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d get to ogle Steve in his tiny little shorts, trick Steve into putting his hands on him to show him the right way to throw a ball and maybe even score a goal and shit and get a proud grin from Steve, maybe even a high five or a hug.

But all Eddie has managed so far is to sweat through his clothes (Steve’s clothes actually- a pair of basketball shorts and an old Hawkins High swim meet shirt because the long sleeve and the ripped jeans Eddie showed up in weren’t basketball appropriate) and embarrass himself by getting hit square in the face by an evil basketball, probably giving himself a concussion in the process.

Because- fucking ouch! His head is pounding right now.

Through the ringing in his ears, he hears Steve’s sneakers squeak against the court as he jogs towards him. “Eddie, Jesus Christ!” He gasps, dropping to his knees next to him. “Fuck, man, are you okay?”

Eddie groans when he hears the concern in Steve’s voice. Fuck, this is so embarrassing. Eddie knows he’s flushing bright red and it’s not because of the midday sun beating down on them.

“Eddie, come on. Talk to me, man,” Steve urges, slightly shaking Eddie’s shoulder.

“Just leave me here to die,” Eddie mumbles, keeping his eyes tightly shut, partly because moving his face hurts, but also because he doesn’t want to look at Steve right now.

Steve huffs, shaking Eddie’s shoulder a little more insistently. “Nope, no way. I didn’t drag your ass back from the Upside Down to let you die here. Sit up, come on.”

He tugs on Eddie’s arm, leaving him no choice but to sit up. Eddie hugs his knees against his chest, still not opening his eyes. He feels one of Steve’s hands settle on his back, holding him up in that position.

“Good, that’s good,” Steve encourages, rubbing his hand up and down Eddie’s back. Because of that touch, Eddie can feel the flush spreading all the way up to his ears. He squeezes his eyes even tighter, even if it makes his face hurt, but Steve isn’t having it. “Now open your eyes for me.”

Eddie shakes his head, which is a terrible idea because it sends flashes of pain through his head, all the way down to his neck.

“Come on, Eds, let me look at you,” Steve purrs in a sweet voice that settles deep in Eddie’s lower stomach. Then Steve’s other hand cups his cheek, gently turning his face towards him. “Please,” he says, stroking his thumb over Eddie’s cheek.

And if there’s one thing that today proved is that Eddie can’t say no to a pleading Steve. It’s what got him in this mess in the first place.

So his eyes flutter open. He has to blink a few times to get rid of the blurriness at the edges of his vision but even then it’s hard to miss Steve’s big, worried eyes when they’re right in front of him.

“There he is,” Steve exhales softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a relieved half-smile. “Hi.”

“H-hey,” Eddie stammers out. His cheeks burn even brighter when he realizes how close their faces are. Steve’s hand rubbing Eddie’s back soothingly while the other one is still cupping his jaw certainly don’t help.

“Are you okay?”

Eddie scoffs. “Oh, I’m great! Just wishing the Upside Down would open up and swallow me whole so I can like, die of embarrassment there,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Steve makes an exasperated noise, either because he didn’t get a real answer to his question or because it’s too soon for Eddie to be joking about dying in the Upside Down. Eddie sighs, waving a hand through the air dismissively. “I’m fine, man, just hurt.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“My dignity.”

This time the joke does land and it makes Steve snicker. “Since when do you have any?”

“Ouch. Kicking a man while he’s down, Harrington? Shame on you,” Eddie says with a laugh, which is quickly followed by a wince. “Shit, okay, maybe my dignity isn’t the only thing hurting. My whole head is fucking pounding, I think I hit it against the ground after the ball knocked me down.”

Steve’s face pulls into a frown and the hand that was on Eddie’s back moves to the back of his head. “You’re not bleeding, thank God, but you could still have a concussion.”

“Of fucking course,” Eddie mutters, resting his head on his knees.

“We can get you something cold or I can drive you to the ER if you’d rather get checked out.”

Eddie starts to shake his head and gets dizzy so he aborts the movement, raising his hand to wave Steve off instead. “No, no ER. Some frozen peas will do the trick, good sir.”

Steve’s lips press into a thin line. “Okay, but if you start talking nonsense, I’m taking you there. I don’t care if you don’t want me to or not.”

Eddie gives him a lazy smirk. “How will you know I’m talking nonsense because of the concussion and not because I’m, you know, me.”

“I know your kind of nonsense, Munson,” he says with a snort. The words sound almost fond to Eddie’s ears. “Now, let’s get you inside. I’m gonna help you up. Slowly, okay? You might feel dizzy or even like you’re going to throw up so- careful.”

Eddie squints at Steve. “You sure know a shitload about concussions, Harrington.”

Steve makes a face. “That’s because I’ve had like, three. And surprisingly enough only one of them was Upside Down related.”

“Damn, dude.”

“Yeah, but at least you know I’ll take good care of you.” Steve shrugs. “Okay, come on.”

He stands up in one swift movement and offers both of his hands to Eddie, who grabs them and lets himself be pulled to his feet. As soon as he stands, his vision goes black and he sways forward. He would’ve face-planted if Steve didn’t catch him by his elbows.

“Woah, I got you,” he tells him, breath ghosting over Eddie’s face.

“Just need a minute,” Eddie mumbles, squeezing his eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

“Take your time,” Steve says, rubbing his thumbs over Eddie’s forearms, which only makes him feel more dizzy.

When he opens his eyes, Steve’s face is right there again and he gets lost in his hazel eyes for a few more seconds before he feels ready to move. “Okay, I’m good.”

Steve nods, letting go of his arms but staying close to Eddie as he starts walking towards the house, just in case. They walk past the evil basketball and Eddie glares at it. He thinks about kicking it, just to give it a taste of its own medicine, but knowing his luck, the ball would probably bounce against the wall and hit Eddie again, so he just ignores it.

In the kitchen, Steve heads for the freezer while Eddie flops down on a chair and folds his arms over the table, letting his head rest over them.

He jumps when he suddenly feels something cold press against the back of his head. “Motherfucker!” When he looks up, Steve is giving him a sheepish smile and holding a bag of frozen peas in his hand. “Dick,” Eddie says, snatching the peas from his hand and pressing them against the back of his head. He still flinches, but at least he’s prepared this time.

“Is that better?”

Eddie makes a noncommittal sound. The cold helps with the throbbing, but his head still feels like it was put through the wringer.

“Do you think you’ll be okay if I take a quick shower?” Steve asks. Eddie glances at him, who’s eyeing him back warily and biting his lip, probably worried about leaving him unsupervised.

“I think I’ll live, man,” Eddie says with a snort.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” He stands up to leave but hesitates. “Call if you need anything.”

Eddie can’t help it, he smirks up at him. “You’re gonna come to my rescue dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel? I might call you just to see that.”

Steve’s cheeks flare the brightest Eddie’s ever seen. “Never mind, you can die,” he says with no heat at all before turning around and leaving Eddie alone in the kitchen.

This time when Eddie laughs it doesn’t make his head hurt nearly as much, which means that the frozen peas might be helping. He presses the bag against his face next, trying to dull the throbbing there as well. He sits there at the kitchen table, moving the frozen peas back and forth from his face to the back of his head until he starts getting tired and his eyelids start feeling a little heavy.

He drops his head on his arms again and instantly starts to doze off. Eddie knows he shouldn’t, not if he has a concussion, but he’s tired, and taking a nap right now sounds so good-

But just as he’s about to, Steve’s voice drags him away from the brink of sleep. “Eddie, hey, Eds.”

Eddie burrows further into his arms, trying to ignore Steve who shakes his shoulder a little frantically. “Eddie?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie mutters, twisting his head to the side, towards Steve, but keeping his eyes closed. “‘m just tired. Want to take a nap.”

“Uh, yeah, no. No sleeping while concussed,” Steve says in that bitchy tone of his. “Eds, come on.” When Eddie doesn’t respond, Steve nearly growls. “Eddie Munson, I will drag your ass to the ER if you don’t open your eyes right now.”

“Fuck, you’re bossy,” Eddie huffs, but he opens his eyes, giving Steve a look that’s supposed to say happy?

Steve’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, sorry for not wanting you to die on me again.”

It’s probably not Steve’s intention, but Eddie immediately feels bad. He might not remember a lot of what happened after the hell bats attacked him, but he knows that at some point his heart stopped beating from all the blood he lost and Steve had to perform CPR on him to bring him back. And unlike Eddie, he probably remembers everything about it. It’s not fair that Eddie is making him relive that kind of worry right now.

So he forces his head up, blinking his eyes a few times so they adjust and apologizes. “Sorry.”

Steve’s face softens almost immediately and he waves Eddie off with a shake of his head. Droplets of water hit Eddie’s face and he notices that Steve’s hair is wet, water steadily dripping to the floor from the few strands that hang over his eyes. Eddie has seen Steve after a shower before but he always dries and styles his hair before coming out of the bathroom which means he skipped his hair routine today, probably so he wouldn’t have to leave Eddie alone longer than necessary.

“How’s the head?” Steve asks, brushing his hair back with a hand.

“Hurts but the peas are helping. Or they were. I don’t know where they are now.” Eddie frowns when he realizes he can no longer feel them against the back of his head, they must have fallen to the floor when he started to doze off. Oh well. “How was the shower?”

Steve snorts. “Quick,” he says. “Do you wanna take one?”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “I want to but there’s a big chance that I will fall in the shower and crack my head open if I do.”

He almost wants to risk it just to get rid of some of the sweat, but then he thinks about falling in the shower and Steve barging in to help him while he’s naked on the floor and quickly changes his mind. There’s only so much embarrassment he can take in a day.

Steve nods in understanding. “Maybe later then.” He jerks his head toward the door that leads to the living room. “Do you want to move to the couch? Just because you can’t take a nap doesn’t mean you can’t be comfortable.”

“Sure, man.”

When Steve stands up, Eddie’s eyes end up at the same level as his shirt. Which, thanks to the familiar Black Sabbath logo, Eddie realizes is actually his.

“Is that my shirt?” Eddie asks even if he knows the answer. Steve would never own a Black Sabbath shirt, not to mention Eddie remembers turning his room upside down looking for his the other day only to give up when he couldn’t find it- because it was at Steve’s house apparently.

Steve looks down at himself and his eyes widen like he’s only realizing now that he’s wearing it.

“Oh, um, yeah, you left it here the other day. I washed it and left it in my closet to like, give it back to you, but I guess I accidentally grabbed it just now,” Steve explains, running his hand through his hair a few times.

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie says, big eyes staring up at Steve in his goddamned shirt.

“Do you- do you want it back?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nah, man. It looks better on you.” And it’s true- Steve looks good in Eddie’s clothes. “Besides, it’s only fair,” he adds, gesturing down at himself, still wearing Steve’s swim meet shirt and old basketball shorts.

Steve chuckles, ducking his head and saying a little shyly, “Well, those look good on you too.”

Eddie twirls some hair around his finger and tugs it in front of his face to hide his blush. He’s ridiculously bad at accepting compliments, especially when they come from Steve.“

“Okay,” Steve says, remembering why he stood up in the first place. “Come on, to the couch.”

Standing up doesn’t make Eddie as dizzy this time and he manages to stay on his feet without Steve’s help. Slowly, he drags his feet to the living room and then flops down on the couch, tilting sideways until his head comes in contact with the cushions.

“No sleeping,” Steve grumbles when he sees Eddie’s eyes start to slip shut.

“I’m not!” Eddie says, his eyes flying open and finding Steve raising an eyebrow at him. “Okay, maybe I am, but you gotta help me stay awake, man. Put on a movie or something.”

With a frown, Steve says, “I don’t think you should be staring at screens or any bright lights right now.” Then he perks up. “Wait, I have an idea!”

And then, without explaining any further, he leaves.

In his absence, Eddie sighs and burrows his head deeper into the cushions, but before he can even think of taking a nap, Steve comes back.

“I think I might be having like a concussion-induced hallucination because there’s no way that you, Steve Harrington, actually own a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring,” Eddie says when he sees the worn paperback that Steve is holding in his hand.

Steve glances down at it. “It’s actually Dustin’s, man. Kid gave it to me forever ago, but I never read it. It’s not really my thing, but it’s yours.”

“It most definitely is, Stevie boy,” Eddie says, “but I don’t think reading will help my head any more than staring into a screen.”

“You won’t be reading, Eds. I’ll read to you,” Steve says with a shrug. “Now, lift your head.”

Eddie pushes himself from his lying down position so Steve can sit next to him, but before he can sit upright, Steve tsks and pushes his head back down so it’s resting on his lap, the right side of his face coming in contact with the fabric of Steve’s sweatpants.

Eddie is too stunned to protest or move, but he does subtly pinch himself, a little suspicious that he might’ve slipped into some kind of concussion dream.

With one of his hands, Steve holds the book open and the other finds its way to Eddie’s hair. He’d tied it up in a bun when they started playing, but it’s mostly undone by now. Steve carefully tugs on his hair tie, freeing the rest, so he can run his fingers through the curls.

It sends shivers down Eddie’s spine, makes him feel like he’s going to melt through the couch and into a puddle on the floor. He can’t stop the whiny noise that slips through his lips.

Steve’s hand freezes. “Did I hurt you?

Embarrassed, Eddie just shakes his head no.

“So this is okay?” Steve asks, scratching his scalp. Eddie just nods, afraid that if he opens his mouth some other embarrassing noise will slip out.

Eddie can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Good.”

After that, Steve clears his throat and starts reading.

Eddie quickly realizes that Steve didn’t think his plan through- he heavily underestimated how soothing his voice is, how comfortable his thigh is and how good his hand feels in Eddie’s hair.

Within minutes, Eddie feels himself starting to doze off again, but before he can, Steve jostles his thigh, the movement waking Eddie up.

“Hey, talk to me so I know you didn’t die.”

Eddie groans, pinching Steve’s leg. “I hate you.”

Steve chuckles softly. “That’ll do.”

After that Eddie starts to focus on the words that Steve is reading and it makes it a little easier to stay awake, mostly because he can’t help but correct Steve when he starts butchering the names of the characters and locations in ways that Eddie can’t begin to comprehend. It’s not until a snigger slips past Steve’s lips when Eddie tells him that it’s “Bilbo, Steve! Not Bobbin!” that Eddie realizes he must be doing it on purpose so that Eddie will talk to him.

After a while, Eddie stops feeling sleepy and his head stops hurting as much so, instead of just correcting Steve’s pronunciation, he offers commentary about the book here and there and quotes the book as Steve reads it, which earns him a fond nerd and a playful tug on his hair.

After a few chapters, Steve complains about his voice getting tired, but Eddie isn’t having it, he wants to listen to Steve read some more.

“You owe me, man,” Eddie says.

Steve snorts. “Me? I’m nursing you back to health, why do I owe you?”

“Because you made me play with you!”

Eddie can hear Steve’s eye roll. “I didn’t, you could’ve easily said no, Eddie.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to snort because the idea of him saying no to Steve is completely ridiculous. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he blurts out, “Nothing easy about saying no to the guy you have a crush on.”

Silence falls over them. Steve drops the book on the couch. His other hand freezes in Eddie’s hair.

“What?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie realizes what he just said and his whole body goes rigid. Oh shit, oh fuck.

“Nothing,” he says meekly.

“No, you said-”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, you did, Eddie,” Steve says, annoyed. Annoyed at him. Eddie bites down on a whimper- this is his worst nightmare, the thing that stopped him in his tracks every time he so much as considered telling Steve how he felt. Suddenly, he can’t keep his head on Steve’s thigh, he can’t bear to have his fingers in his hair. Eddie sits up abruptly, his vision swims, he feels sick.

“I, I have a concussion, I don’t know what I’m saying,” Eddie mutters, sitting on the far end of the couch, away from Steve.

“Eddie-”

“Steve, please just- Ignore it, please,” Eddie pleads, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands coming up to cover his face.

“I can’t ignore it-”

Of course he can’t. Your friend having a crush on you isn’t something you can just ignore. God, Eddie really fucked up.

“Fuck.” He squeezes his palms against his eyes until they hurt.

The couch dips as Steve moves- is he leaving? Eddie’s heart falls as he wonders, but a moment later, Steve is sitting right next to him, their thighs touching and their arms brushing.

“Eddie, I don’t want to ignore it,” Steve says, and his voice is unbearably soft. He doesn’t sound annoyed anymore, maybe he wasn’t annoyed at all, maybe there’s some truth to what people say about Eddie being dramatic.

“Why?” Eddie asks warily, but God help him, also slightly hopeful.

Steve scoots even closer, bumping their shoulders together. “The guy I’ve liked for weeks just said he has a crush on me, why would I want to ignore that?”

The words have Eddie whipping his head back to stare at Steve so fast that he goes dizzy. His face pulls into a grimace. “Shit.”

“You okay?”

Eddie waves him off. “Did you just say you like me? Because if you didn’t, maybe I do need to go to the ER because I’m hearing things,” he says, his wide eyes blinking at Steve.

He gives Eddie a sweet smile. “I did say that. I do like you.”

His eyes go even wider. “Holy shit.”

“Do you like me?” Steve asks, a little shy. “Or was that just the concussion talking?”

A nearly hysterical laugh tumbles over Eddie’s lips. “No, nope, definitely me. Maybe the concussion made me say it, and for a moment there I thought I fucked up, but I meant it, Steve, I like you so much that I ignored everything I stand for to fucking shoot hoops with you. I don’t even care that I got a concussion because of it!”

Instead of smiling like Eddie expects him to, Steve seems troubled. Eddie wonders if maybe he said too much. “What?”

“I know I probably shouldn’t kiss you while you have a concussion,” Steve says, biting his bottom lip and having the nerve to glance at Eddie’s mouth. “But I really want to.”

Eddie’s stomach flip flops and he needs a few seconds to remember how to form words because Steve wants to kiss him! “Ever heard of the expression kiss it better?” He asks, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smirk.

Steve chuckles. “I don’t think it applies here,” he says, but Eddie can’t help but notice how he’s started leaning in.

“We can still try,” Eddie says, leaning in too, knowing that Steve is about to break. He thinks back on the puppy dog eyes and the pouty lips he gave Eddie when he asked him to play basketball with him and decides to give it a try, batting his eyelashes at Steve and sticking his bottom lip out. “I really want you to kiss me, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes go wide and his breath leaves him in a whoosh, Eddie can feel it against his face. “Fuck, you were right.”

“About?”

“Nothing easy about saying no to the guy you have a crush on,” Steve says, echoing Eddie’s words.

Eddie starts to laugh, but the sound dies in his throat when Steve cups his cheeks and closes the distance between them, pressing their mouths together. Eddie whines instead, low in his throat, his arms wrapping around Steve’s shoulders and sinking them both back onto the couch. They’re touching in so many places, but Eddie wants more, so he opens his mouth and hopes that Steve takes the invitation.

And he does- licking the roof of Eddie’s mouth, and angling his head to kiss him deeper. And it’s so good, it’s like nothing Eddie has ever felt, and for a moment, he actually worries that he knocked himself out on the court earlier and this is just some elaborate coma dream.

But Steve feels so real- his lips against his, his shoulders under Eddie’s hands, the sinful noises that he keeps making.

Eddie swings his leg over Steve’s lap, straddling him and breaking the kiss for the first time so that he can grin down at him.

“I think we found another way to make sure I don’t fall asleep,” he says, eyes roaming over Steve- his red bitten lips stretched into a dopey grin, his hooded eyes that keep darting to Eddie’s mouth, the rise and fall of his chest, the exposed collarbone thanks to how worn the collar of Eddie’s shirt is, the mole-covered skin there that’s just begging to be kissed, bitten, marked up.

“I changed my mind,” Eddie says, picturing what a love bite on Steve’s chest would look like and wanting to get on with it.

Steve’s hands freeze where they came to rest on Eddie’s thighs, his pinkie brushing against the bare skin after his shorts rode up.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? Are you dizzy?” He asks, earnest eyes darting over Eddie’s face, looking for any sign that he’s in pain.

“Not about this,” Eddie says with a little shake of his head that makes his bangs fall over his eyes. He tugs the collar of Steve’s shirt down- his shirt. “I changed my mind about wanting my shirt back.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, his lips tugging up in a smirk. “Well,” he says, voice dropping low, his fingers teasing the hem of the shorts that Eddie is wearing. “As long as you give me my clothes back too.”

Eddie’s heart stutters, warmth pooling low in his stomach. “It’s only fair.” Then he remembers something else. “You know, I could use that shower that I passed on earlier.”

Steve raises his eyebrow.

“But I still feel a little dizzy,” Eddie says, putting the back of his hand against his forehead like a fainting maid, waggling his eyebrows at the same time. “Think you can give me a hand?”

Steve grins. “Yeah, I can do that.”

They both try to stand up at the same time, and Steve almost sends Eddie toppling to the floor but luckily manages to catch him before Eddie ends up with another concussion.

After that, they make their way upstairs, to Steve’s bathroom, kissing and touching and leaving a trail of clothes behind them.

Right before Steve closes the bathroom door, Eddie’s eyes catch the basketball shorts Steve just took off of him, discarded on the hallway floor and he thinks-

Maybe basketball isn’t so evil after all.

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #there's been so much basketball talk in the 911 fandom that i couldn't stop thinking about steve convincing eddie to play with him #only for it to go wrong lmao hope you like it!#steve harrington #eddie munson #monse writes #stficbingo

349 notes · View notes

t-r99 · 1 year ago

Text

Thank You

Oliver knows it can be hard to trust him. He would do anything to prove that he changed when he met you.

I spent way too long writing this stupid thing and now I think it’s crap. Bleh

It's because I posted this

Oliver Aiku x reader

wc: 1.3k

"What's going on with you? At this rate we'll be the laughingstock of Japan."

Aiku ignores Niou. For the first time in his life, he's distracted during a match. He's the captain of the team and their best defender, but he can hardly focus on anything other than you and your teary eyes and broken voice.

It's been two days.

It feels longer.

Aiku doesn't like being away from you for this long and that's what's fucking with him. He doesn't know when he got so attached.

He's Oliver Aiku, for goodness' sake. He doesn't do relationship issues, he usually is the issue itself, and he doesn't exactly do relationships either.

It's the first time he's ashamed of being a so called womanizer. Aiku's past antics have finally come back to bite him in the ass.

"You okay there?" Sendou asks.

Everyone is well aware of the fact that something is wrong. Aiku has been mostly quiet and keeping to himself for the past two days, having only practiced like crazy.

"'m fine." Oliver grunts.

"Get yourself together then." Niou says. "We need you out there."

The team needs him, but Aiku needs you. He feels so lost without you that it's nauseating.

Oliver thinks back to two days prior when several old flings suddenly showed up out of nowhere.

It's not like it was ever a secret that he used to get around, but it all changed when he met you. You're so much more than that, and now you think he's just a shameless cheater.

"Aiku," Niou speaks again. "get your shit together. We're going back out in ten minutes."

Oliver . . . doesn't care.

All he wants is to hold you right now. Aiku is sure you hate him, and why wouldn't you? Before you actually gave him a chance, you rejected him because of his past and reputation, then when you finally gave him a chance you ended up walking in on a bunch of girls all over him. How could anyone not think he was cheating?

If only you would talk to him. Oliver just wants to explain what happened.

He's looking down at his phone, screen black. While he wants to text you, he honestly has no idea what to type out anymore.

Aiku's mind drifts again and he thinks back to two days ago.

What do I say? I should . . . He sighs. Oliver really has no idea what to say. He's already called and texted numerous times but you haven’t answered or replied.

He sees your face in front of him again and he hears your voice echo in his mind, "I knew it. This is what I was scared would happen but you promised and now . . ." You didn't yell at him, but he honestly wishes you had. You just sounded defeated.

Aiku wants to bash his head into the nearest wall in an effort to erase the memory from his mind.

His phone vibrates, barely a minute before half time is over.

It's not from you. Of course it isn't. Oliver doesn't recognize the number, but the bottom of the text says that it's from one of your friends, reading, I was asked to text you that you're being pathetic. Come on, you're better than that.

Asked? Asked by whom? By you?

Aiku gulps. Does that mean you're watching the match from home? You've never actually been interested in sports, but if you're watching even when hurt and pissed at him then maybe . . .

Oliver puts his phone away.

He's still a bit distracted now that the second half has begun, but it's not as bad anymore. He now knows you watched the first half and Oliver hopes you're still watching.

You know a bit about the sport even though you're not a fan, and you've praised him for his skills plenty. It swells his ego like never before to have you tell him he did a great job on the field.

He's thinking about it now while facing the opposing team's striker. If everything between you two was okay right now, he would defend the goal and block the shot, make sure no one would score, his team would win, and he would get to go to you and get praised and smothered with kisses all over his face, he absolutely loves it.

God, he really wants to see you.

It was close, but they won.

The team celebrates but Oliver sits defeated, towel on his head with his hair covering his eyes.

He managed to get his shit together enough to block every shot from the opposing team but now that the match is over he's once again reminded of how you're not there to tell him he did well.

Aiku takes his gloves off and tosses them to the side.

The team notices, but no one says anything. They think he's mentally reprimanding himself for his performance in the first half.

Oliver only got himself together because he knew you were watching, not wanting to disappoint you. Now he wishes he could just hug you and annoy you with endless, "Did you see what I did? I was amazing, wasn't I?"

He grabs his phone, hoping he'll unlock it to find a message from you, but there's nothing.

Nothing, He thinks, locking it again.

Aiku gets up and showers. The team wants to go out for a celebratory dinner but he declines.

That finally makes everyone start to pester him. One is asking what his issue is, another asks if something happened, someone tells him he's acting weird, but Oliver ignores everything.

"I want to be alone." He says, picking his bag up.

What an idiot he is.

You're too good for him, he doesn't deserve you.

Aiku pushes the exit door open and looks up.

"Wha-. . ."

He's dreaming right?

The second your eyes meet you look down, brows furrowing. You look both hurt and anxious, hands balled into fists by your sides, shifting your weight on your feet, just uncomfortable.

Are you uncomfortable because you're finally in his presence again? The question crosses Aiku's mind and he swears he feels actual physical pain.

He drops his bag.

You're honestly caught off guard when he sprints up to you and engulfs you in a near suffocating hug.

Oliver clings to you desperately, pulling you into his chest with a relieved sigh. He nuzzles into your shoulder for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of holding you in his arms again, then turns his head to kiss your cheek and buries his face in the side of your neck. "I never wanted to hurt you." Aiku mumbles.

He sounds so defeated.

You don't do much, only putting a hand on the back of his head. "What happened the other day?" Your voice is small and quiet.

"I don't know." Oliver admits.

"You ever cheated on me?" You ask.

Deep down you know that the answer is no. Oliver dotes on you and never fails to show how much you mean to him. Sure, you had your doubts in the beginning, but he's never given you a reason to think he was fooling around with others.

Oliver gives a soft, "No." and hugs you tighter.

"Okay." You mumble, playing with his hair. "I believe you."

"Yeah?" Aiku sighs in relief. "Thank you."

"It's not easy, though."

"I know." Oliver is well aware of his reputation. He's never cared before, but he does now. He cares because it affects you. "I'm sorry."

"You were really pathetic in the first half." You suddenly say and he snorts, smiling. "Did my message help?"

"Why didn't you text me yourself?" He asks.

"I wanted to see you in person before talking over the phone."

Oliver pulls back enough to look down at you. You're looking away from him with a small pout on your face, a light blush on your cheeks. "Thank you." He kisses your temple.

#blue lock #bllk #oliver aiku #oliver aiku x reader #oliver aiku x you #aiku x reader #blue lock oliver aiku

327 notes · View notes

sceletaflores · 6 months ago

Text

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ wip wednesday!

thanks for the tag @guiltyasdave <3

wip #1 • SINK IN MY WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

there's something off with logan...

this is the feral!logan fic that won the last poll i posted. i'm almost done with it, literally all i need to do is finish up the smut but it's been kicking my ass every single time i try and sit down to actually finish it :))) which is so great and fun for me :)))

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze. "I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs. Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest. “Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward. The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus. You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long." Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip. “Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a low, gravelly purr, sending a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.” His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake. You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry. "Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it. Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest. He stops in front of you, close enough that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you. “There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser.

wip #2 • ALL THAT GLITTERS...

a billionaire walks into your job, and then into your apartment…

omg...a bruce wayne fic? yeah i don't know either...i just got way too into the dc universe by accident and had one (1) single idea that i thought fit his character too well to not write it. will i actually ever post this? i don't know. am i having fun with it anyway? yes, maybe a little too much fun. don't read into it i'm just throwing this at the wall because it's plagued my mind for days.

You snort, shaking your head as you walk down the hall, but you can't help the way your mind starts wandering. Maybe Rachel is right, was that your big moment? The story you'd pass down to your grandchildren once you got old enough that your filter had gone? "Yes, it's true, grandma had one crazy night with the Bruce Wayne." You shake your head, dispelling all thoughts of what might have happened had you not spent the whole lunch nervously poking at a way too overpriced plate of pasta and shoving your own foot in your mouth. Bruce—Mr. Wayne—clearly felt some kind of pity towards you that day. He was known for his charitableness, helping you score that holiday bonus and taking you out was just that—charity. You had to admit it was good press, a good headline to splash across the magazines he frequented. You could see it so clearly in your mind. BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY BRUCE WAYNE CHARMS BUMBLING SALES GIRL WITH LUXURY LUNCH! HEART OF GOLD, OR JUST ANOTHER PR STUNT? You sigh, the memory of his perfectly polite smile gnawing at you. He didn’t look uncomfortable, though. If anything, he seemed...amused. Not in the cruel, condescending way you feared, but in the same way someone might look at a puppy struggling to climb a too-tall staircase. Endearing, maybe, but ultimately a fleeting novelty. It wasn’t like the Bruce—Mr. Wayne—was secretly harboring some deep, hidden interest in you. He’d paid for lunch, helped you out with a well-placed favor, and probably forgot about you the moment he left the restaurant. A man like him doesn't chase after someone like you. He chases after pretty trust fund babies, A-list actresses, supermodels. Not women working commission at Harrow & Bloom that live in broken down apartment complexes where there's only one elevator that's been out of order since you moved in. And honestly? That was fine. Better, even. You didn't need that kind of stress in your life, the stress of being thrown off the deep end and into the public eye all because you were photographed on your solemn walk of shame out of Wayne Manor. You were over it. Completely over it. That's what you tell yourself as your wrench the door open with a little more force than necessary and— And Bruce Wayne is on the other side, standing in the hallway of your shitty apartment complex in a perfectly pressed suit looking extremely out of place. Bruce Wayne is on the other side of your door. The door that you slam right back shut directly in his face just as he opens his mouth to speak. What the fuck?

kisses!

i know it's not wednesday anymore...but i'll tag some beloved mutuals anyway! sorry if you've been tagged already <3

no pressure tags! @ebodebo @artemis-b-writes @elflutter @eupheme @javier-pena @raeinyourdreams @moonlight-prose @silverskyeline @superhoeva

#wip wednesday #tag you're all it #even though it isn't even wednesday #anymore #but still!#kisses #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #x men x reader #marvel x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x reader #batman x you #dc x reader #dc x you

76 notes · View notes

witchofhimring · 5 months ago

Text

Disloyalty (Chapter 1)

Book One Masterlist (Loyalty)

Synopsis: Time has gone back and everything as is it once was, except you. After spending your first life being the pawn of others you are ready to even the score.

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader

Aemond Targaryen x Ellyn Baratheon

Alys Rivers x Aemond Targaryen

Jaecerion Targaryen x Reader

Jason Lannister x Reader (minor)

(more to come!)

Y/n Tyrells Profiles

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, childbirth, emotional turmoil, death, unrequited love?, humiliation by Ellyn Baratheon, marital abuse, marital consummation, misogamy (internalized as well as external), brief depictions of smut, mentions of rape (not to the reader), morally grey reader

You sat there in the cold dark, mud clinging to your skin. Resting against the Weirwood you were only faintly aware of it digging into your skin. The only physical sensation of importance was a stinging pain in your wrists and heavy painful breaths. Images of Alys and her green eyes were still imbedded onto your eyes. Light emanating from wherever was scarce. Shrouded in darkness you were hard to spot. Faintly you were aware of music playing near by.

Where were you? The archaic energy pulsing out of the tree made you realized it was a Weirwood. That was the only thing you were certain of. Was this the afterlife? Had the Seven sent you here to pay for heresy? A sickening panic brought you to life. Suddenly you could sit no more. The idea you were stuck in hell frightened you, and like a child you staggered up in terror. A great pain erupted in your heart as the situation set in. Owen, your son, was dead. Your dear little boy whom you had failed to protect. A wail of pain was wrenched from you. His little face floated in your mind. He was surrounded by blood with blue lips. The questions that had haunted you chanted like a morbid chorus. Collapsing to the ground you shuttered. You were stuck in this hell, forever to be tormented by the death of your son.

"To Prince Aemond and Princess Ellyn!" Jerking up you looked to see it was not just you and the tree. The light was coming from windows above. With trembling legs you stumbled a few paces and looked up. Above loomed the Weirwood. Through the branches you realized this was a garden, enclosed by the castle. Stepping further back you realized this was not just some castle.

It was the Red Keep.

Tapestries hung from the windows with the Stag and Dragon intertwined. The music now registered in your head. On the upper floors people were running to and fro, laughter on their lips. The sent of a feast permeated your senses. You looked back at the Weirwood and its many face. Twisted face forcing the bark to mold into grotesque mockeries of faces. Silently you stared down at those other faces. Were you in hell after all? For why would the Seven have the Old Gods were they could reign over man in hell? Unless this was not hell at all. Maybe this was some strange dream, perhaps that was all death was. One long endless dream.

You walked forward to those faces. Once they may have frightened you. But you were dead so they could do no harm, right? Closer you drew and one cold, bloody hand touched a face. Flesh contacted flesh. Your eyes met hollow but very much alive ones. "Hello?" For the first time you spoke to them, not out of fear. "Have you seen Y/n?" Cerilla's hatefully familiar voice floated, pleasing as the stench of dragon dung. You faded into the shadows. Looking down for the first time you realized this dress was not one recently one. In fact, you had not worn it since Prince Aemond married Ellyn.

Cerilla and one of her friends came into the garden. A thrill of hatred passed through you. If only there was a knife you might kill her then and there. A pity your body was not quite one with your brain. Your body felt like it had just been violently ill and only now just recovered. "I do not think she is here." Said Cerilla's friend, a girl you only knew by sight. Her dress was blue with flowers. This girl was a Florent. The same as that evil bitch Jenna. Jenna Florent. She had sent you to your death and taken everything for herself. If the Sven Hells's existed you hoped hers was a deepest, darkest part where no light ventured. "I suppose not. Think she has blubbered off into the forest?" Both girls laughed and departed. What they did not know was that Y/n had heard. And you emerged from out of the shadows, covered in blood and a look of hatred upon your face.

Your heart beat painfully. This pain inside might as well kill you. For a moment you remained paralyzed with pain. Then you realized it was not just pain, but rage. A rage that threatened to overtake you. It acted as a balm for your physical weakness. Banishing any thoughts of exhaustion you strided forward. The Red Keep had many passages. The nearest one was just behind a statue of Queen Alysanne. For the first time in two years you stepped into the Red Keep and flood of warmth filled you. So overpowering that you froze, completely forgetting you purpose. You were back where it all began. In these halls lay many memories, both good and ill. You only moved when your mind warned you someone might come. You gave the Weirwood one last glance before disappearing.

It helped that you knew the Red Keep so well. Every time someone passed you hid with ease. Everyone was either dressed in their house colours or of Targaryen or Baratheon. Once you made it to the door everything was dark. Time had passed but you knew this place well. Going up the stairs you finally reached a familiar place, your room. It was just as you had left it two years ago. Your blue sheets lay as they always did. A green dress hung over a chair, just as it had two years ago. Anyway, had you not gotten ride of that dress? Silently the door shut as you examined the room. Everything was familiar. You opened the curtains so see the moon in all its splendor. The forest outside seemed to breath with life. A surge of such intensity came and you dwelt in it. Closing e/c eyes you took it all in, the cold air, pine and so many other scents lingering. The moonlight more powerful than any sun.

A knock broke the brief spell. You tried to speak but only a croak came out. The door opened and Elinor stepped in. Suddenly nothing else mattered. In silence you simply stood there. Over the past year you had thought of all the things you would say, but now nothing came to mind. Numbly you just looked at her, every thought scattered.

Elinor quickly grabbed you by the arms and regarded with horror your appearance. Covered in blood and dirt Elinor likely thought you had been attacked. "Y/n! Oh Gods I better-" Elinor made to call for a servant. But you seized her sleeve and shook your head. "Please do not." "But you are hurt. Look at you!" It did look pretty bad. "I went into the forest and slipped on a carcass." You were quick to lie. Elinor still checked over you, only relived when she realized there were no wounds. "Very well, lets clear this up. I am sorry for startling you I just thought...well never mind. I will call for a maid." You needed no worries. Elinor could yell for all you cared. She was here.

The dress was immediately taken from you. Likely it was unsalvageable. A large basin was brought in and Elinor sent the servant away. Warm water washed away everything. You were rubbing away a stubborn piece of dirt from your knee when something alarmed you. On your right wrist was a long thin line. Like someone had slit your wrist. You tentatively touched it and then realized the same mark was on your other wrist. Two long thin marks scared your wrists.

"I was worried about you, taking into the forest like that. But I do not want you to think I am chastising you. I know today has been very hard." She was right, it had been hard. Thought it was hard today for a different reason than it had two years ago. Right now your thoughts were a million miles from anything regarding Prince Aemond and Ellyn. Instead you attempted to make sense of everything around you. Whether this was a afterlife or not. Had the past two years been all some strange dream? The memories felt too real, the mind was a powerful thing. Everything around you was clear. You had always been lucid in those dreams that felt so real. But even then it felt different. This was not a dream and maybe not even the afterlife.

Elinor laid out a nightgown on your bed. Making sure she could not see your wrists you put it on any got into bed. "Goodnight my sweet girl." Elinor placed a loving kiss to your cheek. You did not want her to leave. Nevertheless you watched her blow out the candle and close the door

In the darkness you lay, tormented by your thoughts. Without Elinor they came howling back with a vengeance. Most of all the weight of your lost son. Tears rolled silently down your cheek. Why had he died while you lived? Every parents askes these questions when they lose a child. It is one without answer or meaning. A simple snuffing out of light. A dreamless death was preferable to this. A blank nothingness was better than whatever existence you were thrown into. You had missed Elinor terribly but it could not protect you from all this pain. His blue bloody lips haunted your very soul. He had died alone in agony and there was nothing you did. You just let it happen.

You did not sleep that night, the moon passing through a dark nighttime sky. You watched it and resented your son not being there. He should have seen so many more sunrises. You heard the sounds of young children bellow, likely being allowed this rare privileg because of the wedding. Owen should have had the opportunity ty to play. To feel the deep bond that one friend feels for another. His life had been so brief, a sudden spark snuffed out, and yet his presence was a burn to your heart. A mother should never have to feel this.

You shot up. The reality hit you like an avalanche of rocks. A sickening thought occurred. This may not be a dream or the afterlife. If neither were true then there was another option.

Some say there was a God who could turn back time....

"Helaena!" You threw off the covers and did not even bother to put a robe on. The urgency made you nauseous with fear. Bursting out the door you ignored the cry of a maid. You were practically flying down the hall. You had to make it down there it time! Approaching a flight of stairs you were nearly there.

A hand which possessed an alarming amount of stress seized your left arms. Slamming into the stone wall your skull seemed to rattle. "Where are you going, you little snake?" Someone had you pinned against the wall. When your sight cleared you realized who it was. Cerilla had you right against the wall. The very girl who had your son killed and mocked your pain. She was right in front of you. "Get off me!" You roared. Did she not understand there was no time! "I asked you where-" You were beyond angry. First she had Owen killed and now had come back to mock you more! "For fuck sake Cerilla get off me now!" You screaming caught attention and suddenly there was an audience. People roused from sleep had come out to see the commotion. "What is going on here?" Jaecerion walked through the crowd. Going weak at the knees you nearly collapsed. Even Jaecerion was alive. "Y/n was causing trouble and I-" "I was doing nothing but this wild little bitch attacked me!" There was a gasp from the onlookers but you did not care. You wriggled and finally Cerilla let go. You made to run but Jaecerion stuck out a hand. "Jaecerion please." He saw the desperation in your eyes and looked to Cerilla. "Cerilla, what was Lady Y/n doing?" Cerilla's eyes were unusually wide and her hands were clenched. "She was running in an unruly manor and I was concerned she would run into someone." Cerilla tried to justify. "So was Y/n trying to cause trouble?" You just wanted to leave. "Jaecerion I do not have time." To everyone's astonishment you ran right past Jaecerion's arm and disappeared.

You were almost there, just a flight of stairs left. One level and you would be there.

Then a blood curdling scream rendered apart the calm night.

You could not bring yourself to go to Helaena. Once you realized it was over you collapsed against the wall. You were too late. Footsteps were racing past you in a hurry. The familiar scent of blood added itself to the Red Keep. Once more Jaehaerys Targaryen's story would become part of this cursed places legend. He would once more joining the line up of deceased people, cut down before their time. And you could have stopped it. Instead you just lay there in bed and stared at the wall. Helaena was now suffering as you are because of oversight. You were angry with yourself, and then angry at those who had cut him down. Once more the Blacks had struck and killed. Your swelling hatred found its fixture on Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. Last time they had both died, but their son sat on the throne. They still won despite everything. Despite all the blood, they had won.

Rooted to the spot you stayed in the stairwell. Jaecerion was still with you. Everyone else had left but him. Beside you, Jaecerion had come and placed an arm around you. 'Y/n?' Your legs seemed unwilling to move. Realizing this Jaecerion picked you up in his strong arms. Your mind was a thousand miles away. Barely aware of what was going on around you. Things swam in front of you. Hands placed themselves on the cold face in a vain attempt to block everything out. A great tempest stormed inside feasting on rage and despair. Ripping at everything you were, everything you ever would be. Settling itself in your very soul these festering emptions would plant themselves. Roots would sink into every part of who you were, blooming in all its malignant nature.

Jaecerion set you down on the bed. Green sheets rustled under your weight. Suddenly you were very cold, and it was not from the open window. This felt like one of those wretched dreams you got in Harrenhal. Except there was no escape from this one. Trapped in the nightmare you spiraled into the darkness. Laying down in his bed felt like being buried alive. Nausea boiled in your belly causing physical pain to clench like a fist. Hands curled into tight fists as you imagined them covered in blood. Jaehaerys's blood sticking to your skin, crawling up to your elbows.

With a great lurch you bolted up and vomited right onto the floor. Hands were touching you and fear became overcoming. 'Let go! You dashed to the other side of the room in a grazed frenzy. Two figures stood by the bed and in your madness you thought them ghosts. Crouching down you clasped hands together in some sort of prayer. Every breath seemed magnified, sounding like a great gust of wind each time it passed through cold chapped lips.

'Y/n?' Elinor's voice seemed far off. But you looked up and realized Jaecerion and Elinor were both looking at you. No ghosts. Blinking, you were brought back to reality. Your hands were not bloody. But that smell of freshly spilt blood never left, at least for you. bringing your hands to your mouth you closed burning eyes. 'Y/n, lets get you back to bed.' Elinor gently helped you up. 'I will summon a maester.' Jaecerion said. And you were lead back to the bed where once more dark thoughts surrounded you like a rope around the condemned's neck.

The nightmares came back. For the first time since living in Harrenhal you could hear the voices of the beyond. Everything was dark and despite reaching out you could not make any bearing. Everything seemed to fall away, like you had jumped down a deep hole with no end. The lack of control made you want to rage with helplessness. Would being brought back truly bring you victory? Or was this simply a cruel joke by beings greater than yourself? And what was the point of all this? Was this punishment for your sins?

When you woke up gasping and in a cold sweat they thought it was from the shock of Jaehaerys's bloody death. This was partially correct. The scent of his blood and headless stump sickened you. Having lost your own son you could only feel more pity for Helaena. Now there was also the combined feeling of deep shame. You could have stopped his death. At least his chances may have been better. Just like last time the assassins' hacked off a little boys head. Dread settled in your belly. If this could happen then what else could? Of course there was the obvious answer. Jaehaerys had died because of your inaction, not divine providence. Either way, there was only regret and grief.

Outside you could hear guards. Aegon had the castle shut down in the wake of his sons death. Despite having no love, or even liking for Aegon, you felt immense pity. Helaena's descent into madness seemed natural in her case. You had not seen Aegon after the death of his son, but you heard that he tore apart his room. Viserys's model of Old Valyria had lain in pieces afterwards. Soon Kings Landing would be in mourning, the stench of hung rotting corpses would fill the air, mingling with those killed in Rhaenys's flight from Kings Landing. Kings Landing was filled with the stench of the dead.

All day you spent inside. It did not matter that there was noise coming from outside your door. Or that there was a draft blowing in from outside. You had sworn vengeance and yet here you were, paralyzed with fear and helplessness. Soon rage seeped in. There was no one preventing you from going on. Jenna was busy with other matters for now and you were not a prisoner. You as of now could not go out.

The next morning you forced yourself to get out of bed. Every cell of your body ached and your eyes throbbed painfully. Elinor had you take a cold bath which held a little. Dressed in a dark green and at the door you did not want to leave. Finally, cautiously, you stepped out. The guard watched you with observant eyes. Suddenly the hair on your skin stood on end. You did not like the way he looked at you. Who was he? In your last life you had hardly paid attention to him. That made you feel small, insignificant, and that made you angry. Very angry.

Like a ghost you wandered the halls. You thought of all the stories you had been told. Of dead princes and builders who ventured into the castles deepest bowels, never to be seen again. Perhaps you could fall into the darkness and become a mere legend. Like the small insignificant little girl you were. That night you wandered back to bed. But you did not fall asleep. Something in you, an ever vigilant part, commanded all your senses. 'Stay awake.' It told you. So that night, laying in your bed facing the door. You waited. The guards shadow lingered outside. For hours he did not move. Stained ears did not pick up another's movement. That was until another's footsteps caused you to freeze. They were lighter, silk slippers on the floor. And then the guard, the man meant to protect you, left. You could see his shadow through the bottom of your door. His footsteps echoed off the stope. In a leap of faith you got up and silently opened the door. there was no one there. You could have gone back inside. The warm safe bed was inviting. Instead you slipped outside. There was a statue near by that could provide a hiding place. Soon enough he came back, accompanied by another. The woman's face was covered. But you could tell it was not Cerilla. her mouth was small like a rosebuds. Moonlight was just enough that you could clearly see the lower half of her face. There was a small mole just above her upper lip. Analyzing, you noted her appearance. There was a slender neck and slightly cleft chin. This might very well be a friend of Cerilla's. Although they had tormented you it was hard to place these few features by memory. You tried to listen carefully to her voice. 'Has she done anything suspicious?' Rage spiked through you. Who did this girl think she was?! The guard replied that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Little did they know you were listening. A bag of money was placed into his hand and the girl was off. Waiting, you watched like a silent predator. Nails dug into the stone, your teeth were bared like a panther waiting to pounce. And soon that anger turned to elation at the daydream of making them pay. Some evening of the score that was sweeter than any pastry from the Keeps kitchen. At some point you slunk back to bed when the guard had gone. Despite having hardly rested you were wide awake, heart singing with joy.

Waking up you felt strangely calm. Too exhausted to feel anything you lay there looking up at the wooden ceiling. Last night you had dreamed of Owen. It had been so peaceful, only it ended and the nightmare continued. This waking nightmare was worse than any other. Running through forests covered in blood was better. Anything was better than this half existence.

You could hear whispering by the door. Getting up you wondered if this was also your imagination. Or perhaps a spy. You opened it and heard someone dash away, green skirts disappeared down the corner. Hastily you peered down the hall. Someone was running away. Although you could not recall her face you realized it was one of Cerilla's friends. 'What the fuck?' Creeped out, you went back inside and locked the door, leaving the key inside. Why was Cerilla spy on you? Likely she would write back to Jenna, but about what? You doubted Jenna would care very much about you simply lying in bed.

Elinor came in a few moments later. 'Y/n, do you know where the guard is?' You shook your head, keeping the truth quiet. Likely Cerilla paid him something. If the man who looked out for your safety was in her pocket, who else was? Only Elinor were you certain of. Feeling suddenly angry you quickly ate breakfast, even though a concerned Elinor advised otherwise. Once that was finished you were dressed. Having no desire to interact with anyone, and having a sudden burst of energy, you told Elinor to leave. She had been concerned but you assured her all that was needed was quiet. After waiting several minutes to be sure she was gone you got up and looked outside. The guard had not returned yet. Slipping out you walked down the halls. Few were awake this early on. The morning was young and the sun not yet in full splendor. Shadows crawled alone stones set down by men slain. The red made you think of blood and ghosts dancing along the halls. Flittering about they haunted the place lamenting their untimely, unjust deaths.

Your feet took you to the lower levels. Sun and light was no longer available the deeper you went. Torches let of small flickers of light providing a small guide. Wandering, you allowed the misery of this place to engulf you in all its terrible power. Jaehaerys's ghost seemed to be right next to you, with blood trickling to the floor. For some time you were amerced in the catacombs. When you heard voices above and realized they were that of the living you decided to leave. It would not do you any good to be caught half dressed in public. You did not like to be laughed at. To avoid company you crossed through the courtyard. The Weirwood tree called to you in its ancient voice. For a moment you looked at it before disappearing inside.

You had assumed that Cerilla could make nothing of you laying in bed. That had been a miscalculation on your part. As the day went by you heard the full story that Cerilla concocted you felt the desire to throttle her. Apparently you were so aggrieved at Aemond's marriage that you collapsed and vomited. People snickered in the hall. Poor Jaehaerys had died and they cared more about some malicious rumor. Fingernails imbedded themselves into the skin of your cold palms when Erald Swann, Cerilla's cousin, made a ballad about a whore who's lover left her for another. Fingers tightening around the knife you wondered what it would be like to plunge it into his heart.

You had hated them back then too. But now ideas emerged from the darkness, dark ones. Fantasies in which you slaughtered every one of them. At night you would lull yourself to sleep with the knowledge that one day you would get even.

The ladies gathered in the Sept to pray. Last time, a lifetime ago, you had gone to this same place for comfort. Those cold stone unfeeling gazes looked at you. Now merely a shadow in your life, you felt nothing except apathy. Some part of you felt loss. Something was dead inside of you, having been slowly strangled to death. The lights flickered and you wished to dash them across the floor sending this place up in a great blaze. Afterwards, you slipped away.

Alone you walked in those old halls. Everything else, life, happiness, companionship, felt so far away. Heart beating you wondered if it might break. Unwillingly tears rolled down your cheeks. It seemed you were not yet past such emotions.

'You know I did see the Lady Y/n today. She looked quite aggrieved.' Having not taken care to remain aware of your surroundings, you realized this was near Ellyn's chambers. Through an open door you could hear Cerilla's putrid voice wafting out. 'Well the little slut better know her place.' Ellyn. Frozen, you suddenly were pulled back to the present. Your face turned ever so slightly, like a predator listening. Stalking slightly closer you strained to hear what they would say next. 'I do apologize that she is in your service, princess.' Of course Cerilla was sucking up to her. Her white neck looked so thin, so delicate.

You turned on your heel and walked away. Nearly running you raced back to the bedroom. Voices echoed, people stared. You heard someone lady with dark hair made a snide remark in your direction. Everything before you became hazy and the voices in your heard increased with fervor. Every word was magnified, scalding you, washing of you leaving behind wounds. You imagined blood running down their faces. Nails slashing at their skin. Howls of agony.

With a gasp you nearly collided with someone. People snickered and you soon saw why. Aemond Targaryen was before you. Recoiling as if presented with a ghost you wished the ground would swallow you right up. His face was that of a stranger. The boy who swam in the alcove was long gone for you. You tried to familiarize his face to memory. But everything about Aemond was so foreign he might as well be a stranger, because he was one. And now looking at him you realized something. Your love for him was gone. It had been something you knew for a while. Yet now it became fully clear, acknowledged.

'Lady Y/n. You best be careful.' The men behind you were laughing. Every one of their faces branded themselves in your mind. You were trembling, not out of fear, but rage. They laughed and laughed and you were the greatest fool. Your pride ripped at you with all its powerful fury. Aemond looked down at you as one might a mere passer by. Clearly the past meant nothing to him. He might throw it away, but it would sustain you.

Without so much as a word you speed off into the shadows. The Red Keeps cold bearing down on you. 'Then I shall keep her in my power.' Power? What did Ellyn know about power, what did any of them know!? You had gone through time, spilt your own blood! Looking at your hands, you realized, through the haze of pain, that another type of power was open. Alys had mentioned your mothers family. Reed blood that gave you blood of the First Men. If you could harness whatever power this was.......

'Change coats.'

'Running of blood!'

Just like last time you were woken by these words. Startled awake you immediately got out of bed. Pulling out a piece of parchment you wrote the words now. Whatever they meant you knew were significant. 'Running of blood' you could understand. But what was 'change coats' about. Surely it could not mean you would change sides. No, that was impossible. The very idea was ludicrous.

This morning you were filled with a strange energy. After months of being a prisoner it was liberating to be so free. Throwing open the window you could feel the breeze and summer air. Even the stink of King's Landing was welcome.

You were resolved to fight. Armed with knowledge of future events and the power of gods you would bring all your enemies down. Now you were certain of your fate. To perish or fight. Once you had blindly stumbled into the former. Your wrists throbbed painfully. Looking down you traced fingers over the scars. How did Alys do it? What power had allowed her to change time itself? She spoke of The Old Gods and a wheel. Having grown up in the Faith of the Seven you knew little about the north. It had been considered heresy and the maesters and septas tormented you with the Seven Hells. Now the world had been turn upside down. If this cold northern power would help you then so be it. Who cared what the future would be, so long as vengeance was to be had.

There was the obvious problem of where to begin. You could hardly go up and ask someone how to do magic. Only Alys could truly help you, but she was at Harrenhal. Would it be prudent to summon her? Given your station Alys would not be able to deny you. Or she might flee like last time. And who was to say Alys would even help you. Even if you were to bring her, what then? People would talk and there was no where to keep her. Despite being a lady this was not your castle. keeping Alys a secret would be hard. At Harrenhal Alys was infamous, bringing her to the Red Keep might make your situation close. The only way you could have her come would be to attain power through marriage. Soon they would betroth you to Jason Lannister. But you doubted he would keep his nose out of your business. Yet who else could you marry then?

Most nights you lay awake mulling over the past. Elinor brought you tea to help with sleep, which remained on the night table, untouched. In the moonlight you examined the scars on your wrists. Tonight you would likely dream again. Under a loose floorboard was a small dream diary. While you figured out what to do with Alys it would be prudent to keep an eye on these dreams. Books were hidden in various parts of your room. If Cerilla was spying on you it was best to hide anything suspect. Of course these books anyone could take out. But if someone found multiple books about the north in your room they might ask question. It would be just like that bitch to get you in trouble.

Not that the books told you anything about magic. Just mentions of old traditions and the north's history. Granted, knowing more about the north might help. But you were still left deeply frustrated. This far down south it was hard to find anything that could help. Andal tradition demanded that anything south of Moat Cailin be subjected to their ways, except for the few Weirwood trees scattered around. You had tried to get information from the tree. But aside from muddled visions and whisperings, nothing useful could be deciphered. It left you in a miserable mind.

At some point in the night you thought someone was outside the door. Someone who was not your guard. Pretending to sleep you saw the outline of a skirt. 'Some spy.' You thought.

The next morning you had an idea. The girl might not be able to find anything, but you did not like to be spied on. Rage made you want to hurt this girl. She would regret ever having played a role in Cerilla's schemes. True it was a ruthless plan, definitely spiteful. But she had destroyed the only place where you might be able to hide from prying eyes. So you would do the same to her. There was nothing would now not do. Long ago in another life time you might have balked at doing such things. Now it gave you a pleasure you had never known, ever truly indulged in. You had raged against Ellyn in the past, but only when she provoked you. Never alone had you been the architect of ones misfortune. You would posses power, whatever magic you may harness, and the power to reap vengeance on your enemies.

'Y/n, Princess Ellyn has summoned you.' Pulled out of your thoughts, you saw one of Ellyn's handmaidens standing by the door. Oh, right. You were in Ellyn's service at this time. In all honesty it was a bit funny. Once she had terrorized you so, now hatred had melted that fear. Besides, there were those you now hated more. Despite that, you remembered the interaction clearly. Being imprisoned for months on end gave one time to reminisce. You had poured over every detail and thought of ways you could avenge yourself. And to your savage delight, you could. She would dismiss Cerilla and have you alone tend to her. And on a table near by were nails filers. Sharp pieces of metal to style nails, or slice through skin.

In that moment a thought occurred to you. Had the handmaiden, who had now departed, seen the smile that curled upon your face she might have thought twice. Getting up you decided that yes, you would be more than happy to help. Slowly you made the walk to Ellyn's chambers. Last time you had walked slowly out of nerves. Now you did so in order for the time to be right. Your hands shook with excitement. Oh she would regret summoning you. Whatever accusation she hurled would pale in comparison to what was about to happen. She wanted to ruin your reputation, you would destroy hers.

To enter Ellyn's bathing chambers one had to walk through her bedroom. Six ladies sat sewing or talking in low voices. Good. They would hear the scream. A few looked up and you, one or two gave greetings. No one seemed to notice you looked unnaturally gleeful. A maid opened the door and you stepped into the moist, heavily perfumed room. It was like stepping back in time, because you were stepping back in time. Everything was just as it was last time. Ellyn in a bath, Cerilla fussing over her hair, and a maid. Cerilla gave you a nasty look. Much good it did, your attention was all on Ellyn. You would deal with Cerilla later. 'You. Get the herbs.' It was strange to see Ellyn so healthy. Jaecerion had not gotten to her yet. 'You never should have been so cruel to me.' You thought.

Nothing was said as you placed the herbs in warm water. You could feel Ellyn's cold blue eyes on you. Luxuriously she stretched out and eyed you imperiously. She had no idea what was about to happen. 'I think this suits you.' You wanted to say something. Ellyn no longer scared you as she once had. But for your plan to work everything had to go as it did last time. 'The Princess is speaking to you.' Yipped Cerilla the little lap dog. 'If the Princess whishes me to answer she may say so herself.' You heard the water splash as Ellyn got up and in a moment was out of the tub. Her nails dug into your skin just as they had last time. Back then it had hurt, but since then you had faced far worse. There were no tears in your eyes. Because you were no longer that little girl. You had always been prideful, but buckled under Ellyn.

'I am the Princess, you are my lady in waiting! You are nothing compared to me.' When her grip tightened you cried out. Louder than last time so they would all heart. 'I will keep you by my side if only to further vex you. Every night I will have you wait as my husband loves me. And when I have his son you may be here to assist. Then maybe I'll send you to the Silent Sister to release you from your torment.' Cerilla and the maid left, the door slamming shut. This was so easy you wanted to laugh. Last time she had laughed, you remembered. Not this time.

'How do you know it will be a boy.' You had leaned in very closely. The whisper could only be heard by you two. A hot ugly flush crept up her cheeks. 'No laughter?' You thought. Suddenly you were thrown back against the table. Behind you could hear the clattering of nail files. 'I am simply curious, no brothers...I mean. And I have heard some men put away...deficient wives. Perhaps you, not I, will be sent to the Silent Sisters.' Ellyn's hands closed about your throat. Her thin nails scratched at the skin. 'You bitch! I will have you flayed alive!' She hissed, and unlike you her words could be heard outside. Suddenly Ellyn jerked back, because in your hand was the nail file. It sparkled n the sunlight. Pale, unmoving, Ellyn stood here frozen. Then she sneered. 'I am a princess. You can not harm me.' 'Oh, your right. You seized her by the arm. An insidious smile curled on your lips, shocking the princess. And then in front of Ellyn you cried out 'Please don't hurt me!' all the while smiling. You forced the nail file between thin fingers, the sharp edge pointed right towards you. But you can harm me'. That was when Ellyn, with horror, realized what you were about to do. But it was too late. Pointing the razor towards flesh, you stabbed.

Warnings: Angst, heartbreak, trauma, mentions of child morality emotional turmoil, death, unrequited love?, humiliation by Ellyn Baratheon, marital abuse, marital consummation, misogamy (internalized as well as external), brief depictions of smut, grey reader

Taglist:

@daenerysqueenofhearts

@le-petit-lulu

@aemondswifeisme

@mandiiblanche

@gknj9495

@minakay

@strangersunghoon

@iilsenewman

@moonlightfoxx

@gknj9495

@heartb8k2