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[mooishbeam]

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity. 

DING DING DING 

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium. 

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf. 

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!” 

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.  

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it. 

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe. 

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.  

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you. 

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.  

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.  

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching: 

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!” 

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy” 

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss. 

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.” 

“Then why is this happening?” 

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.  

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice. 

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.  

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life. 

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest. 

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect. 

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished. 

“Hm? Who’re you?” 

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.” 

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this. 

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly. 

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you. 

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked. 

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist. 

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.” 

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.  

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.” 

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.” 

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?” 

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours. 

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.  

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.  

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this. 

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear. 

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.” 

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response. 

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.  

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.  

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring. 

“Wriothesley! Times up.”  He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you. 

“Two minutes.” 

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.  

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.  

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe. 

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest. 

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line. 

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads. 

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette. 

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand. 

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.” 

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you. 

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand. 

 “No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy. 

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.” 

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.  

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.” 

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him. 

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze. 

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips. 

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips. 

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction. 

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl. 

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile. 

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence. 

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head. 

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair. 

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone. 

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle. 

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant. 

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face. 

“Why are you being annoying-” 

“Who were you talking to” he chides.  

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.” 

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.  

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.” 

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel. 

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word. 

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners. 

 Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course. 

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone. 

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face. 

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you. 

He promised. 

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address. 

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again. 

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.  

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly. 

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse. 

“What? I don’t know.”  “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”  

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response. 

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.  

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy. 

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-” 

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-” 

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab. 

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-” 

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”  

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes. 

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-” 

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.  

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there. 

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts. 

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.  

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds. 

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside. 

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.  

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask. 

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid. 

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face. 

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:  

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”  

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body. 

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology. 

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.  

“So, um.” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably. 

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts. 

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes. 

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.  

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you. 

“Sorry. For what I said.” 

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit. 

“You know I didn’t do it, right?” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I know.” you reassure.  

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention. 

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy. 

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours. 

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house. 

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw. 

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge. 

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom. 

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness. 

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.  

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.  

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “ 

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.  

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.  

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.  

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks. 

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance. 

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can. 

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest. 

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.  

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.  

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?”  he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.” 

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.” 

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

[hazelfoureyes]

I just need you to know this story has had me in a chokehold and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. This is gonna be a weird smutty slow burn, so still smut every post but full p in v sex will be a reward you have to work for?

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Redsmut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedysmut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

「warnings/tags: HumanAlastor x FemaleReader, implied attempt to SA, fingering, plot with porn?, Multi part work, bad kind of choking, blood kink, blood licking, just in general blood, Non-Sex repulsed Ace Spectrum Alastor, stalking, murder obvs, finger sucking, smoking kinda kills if you squint, Public sex acts, garter belt, You have a stage name but no one important uses it, Greed, Lust, Human Alastor is a little different than Demon Alastor. 」

minors dni 💅🏽

Part 1 Pretty in Red

The marriage between burlesque and jazz wasn’t unexpected. Before the Great Depression took the nation into a stranglehold, both Jazz and Burlesque were immoral wastes of time only the most barbaric sought out.

And oh, did you love it. Everyone who was made to feel like nobody flocked to your theater and the surrounding neighborhood. Men, women, the people who didn’t agree with either. The biblically inclined, those closer to sodom, the sapphic dolls. Everyone was equal in the halls of jazz rooms and theatres where burlesquers were welcome.

Because of the inclusive nature of such places, you often saw familiar faces. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone from Thursday night to be seen Saturday at a different locale.

That presented certain opportunities and challenges. When you found a good mark, it was easy to be wherever he was and play it off as fate and common interests.

And when you gained a new stalker, someone wanting a personal show, it could be hard to tell until it was too late. 

Maybe it was your greed, or just your love of attention, but you found yourself focused almost entirely on a particularly well dressed man one evening. You’d seen him around before. Clean cut, sharp suit, a welcoming smile always on display. He looked like he had money, the most attractive quality of any man you could meet.

So focused on his gleaming stare from the side booths you hadn’t noticed the man at the stage front tables. You barely noticed him the night before, or the night before that, either. Because Smiles, as you took to calling the handsome stranger in the back, had been here three nights now too.

You really put on a show. Shimmying your hips, ostrich feathers following suit with every move. Your brassiere was heavy with shining rhinestones, panties of silk and lace. Your set was almost done, all that was left was to remove your top and slink away behind the curtains to hollers and whistles. Back turned, you unhooked the painful bra and let it fall to the stage with a clunk. Foot in front of foot, you stalked the stage length. With your hand hidden from view you took the feathered fan from the stagehand behind the curtain. As the music crescendoed you turned, fan unfurling just in time to hide yourself.

Groans, mass begging from the audience. Your stage name a chant now, a prayer. “Autumn! Come on!”

As the band slowed, music dying to mark the end of your number, you scanned the crowd. Eyes blinking coyly, you mouthed, “More? Did you want more?”

People were jumping to their feet, not Smiles but that was fine, you were focused now on the adoration of the crowd. The music ended, a second of silence. 

You winked, the drums hitting one last beat as you let the fan close.

Fanfare! Men whistling, women clapping. Someone shouted a marriage proposal. You took a bow, twirled on the balls of your feet and slipped gracefully behind the curtains.

Your hands wound to your spine, rubbing blood flow back into your skin as the staff removed your headdress. Someone slipped your robe over you and you nodded a thanks, aching feet carrying you to the dressing room. It was chaos, as usual. Women buzzing around, tits and ass here and there. You smiled. You happened to enjoy this part of the job. Soft bodies in shiny costumes, lovely smells and sweet voices. If you could get dressed quickly enough, you could still take a tour of the room and slide into Smiles’ booth. 

“Enjoy the show?” You’d ask. He’d lean in, maybe blush, “Always when you’re here.” Or something like that. You’d cozy up to him, flag down a waiter for something strong and pricey, and get him properly drunk. He’d wake up outside, fine and dandy except his missing cash. 

You’ll call him a drunkard if he confronts you, accuse him of getting himself robbed after you refused his advances. You’ll say it too loudly, and he’ll run off. 

You danced a little in your seat, another game of cat and mouse about to commence. But first, a smoke.

Unbeknownst to you, the well dressed man hadn’t come to see you. He preferred your singing shows at the little dive bar two blocks over. No, he had come for the man at the front table. For weeks now, he had watched him harassing the ladies of the few joints in New Orleans that weren’t regularly hounded by police. Your smiley mark even heard stories of unsavory acts, many women leaving the dance scene entirely after.

He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for him. So he took to his hunt, following the man to come to his own conclusions. The pattern of behavior was obvious, and though he hadn’t seen what ended the last obsession, it was clear one of the performers at this club was being stalked as the next victim. 

He watched your dance with half lidded eyes, just as much as he watched the man give dirty looks to the other men cheering. Heard the, “Marry me!” shouted at you.

Yes, it was obvious to him now. 

So when the target of his interest got up and pushed his way into a staff only door, well, the well dressed man was sure to follow. 

The great thing about confidence and a nicely tailored suit is that no one questions you about why you are where you are. So while the brute he tailed had to shove past people to get wherever he was going, people smiled and made room for the gentleman who was not far behind.

He caught the street access door before it closed, allowing it to stay open just a sliver. Enough for one golden brown eye to watch the events unfold.

“Can I have a light?” The stranger asked you. You looked at him, then to the staff only entrance he just came out of. 

“I don’t think I know you….,” you handed him the lighter but he instead leaned into you, cigarette hanging from his lips. “You… new?”

You sparked the flint with a practiced thumb, taking three tries to get it lit, and put your hand out. The man didn’t budge, eyebrows rising, “You really don’t recognize me?” He asked, motioning with his hand to come closer. Your eyes glanced down the alley, cars slowly moving past the street. When you looked back, the man took your wrist in his hand. He held you so tightly that the muscles in your palm locked and you dropped the lighter. 

“What the fu-,” his hand came across your face, halting your sentence.

“I’m your best customer. Every show. I’m the one who brings flowers.”

Dozens of men bring flowers, especially on the weekend shows. You held your cheek, skin burning. Your hand pulled back, the corner of your lip bleeding from his rings. Scrambling, your mind was searching for the right words.

With a forced smiled, your shaky voice finally piped up, “Oh! Yeah! Oh geez. I am so sorry, doll. I’m just so tired, and the alley is so dark. Here, let’s go inside so I can get a better look at you.” You tried to take your wrist from him but he didn’t loosen up.

“Nah, you ain’t tricking me. You owe me.” He pulled you into him, large hand gripping your face with ease, “You can’t lead on men like this and think you don’t gotta answer for it.” He kissed you, forcing your face into his. “Bitch! Did you fucking bite me?” He threw you into the tin trash cans beside the wall, knocking the wind out of you. 

No purse, no sharp object, not even a heeled shoe to defend yourself with. You cursed, so preoccupied with Smiles you forgot your wits.

You spit out the copper saliva, his blood and yours. “I’ll keep biting, too.” 

Why scream? The sounds of the next act were bouncing off the brick walls. Upbeat jazz and applause echoing around you. No one would hear you. Men can break your body but you never had to give them your dignity. Never give them the satisfaction of a response.

No. No screaming. You instead spent your energy trying to get to your feet. He took hold of your neck now, throttling you. It wasn’t what you had expected, but as he lifted you off the ground and your little dressing room slippers fell off, you thought this was actually better. 

“Well I think that’s quite enough.”

You felt warmth, then registered wetness. Your shin scraped on the asphalt as you were dropped without warning. Trying to open your eyes, you found you couldn’t see. Wiping and blinking away the foreign liquid, you watched your attacker fall to his knees.

Blood was shooting from between his fingers around his own neck, each pulse becoming weaker and weaker, evident through the stream.

When he finally fell over, drained, you were startled to see another man with you. The light reflected off his glasses as he adjusted them, the knife still in his right hand as he did so. 

“My, my. What a mess he’s made.” The man smiled down at you, offering a hand. When you didn’t immediately react, he cocked his head to the left, “Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?”

Is that was this was? A rescue? You took his hand with both of yours, pulling yourself up. 

Smiles? You blinked away the shock, time to shift into your next part. Damsel. You weren’t out the woods yet.

“You saved my life!” As you pressed yourself into his chest, you tucked your head beneath his chin. You tried to make yourself small. “I owe you! Please let’s go inside, drinks on me!” You looked up, batting your lashes.

“I don’t think that’s wise, dear.” His gaze panned down your dress, soaked through. He could see the thinking behind your eyes.

“No, right….,” You gripped his vest, “We gotta get outta here, fast. There’s a hotel just behind the threatre.” You started to pull his suit jacket off, slipping it over yourself. “No cops, the theatre will get raided. Just— take me somewhere safe?”

You watched him look you over, arm finally extending to let you hook yours with his. 

As soon as the hotel door closed behind you, you slipped off his jacket and ran to the dressing table mirror. 

Your face was painted red, navy dress now black and sticky. It was good you stayed from view of the reception staff. “I didn’t get my rescuer’s name,” you licked your thumb and rubbed at the blood around your cheeks. 

“Alastor. It’s a pleasure.”

You laughed, “Is that what you call a pleasure?” Turning, you pulled the mostly still dry handkerchief from your pocket and dabbed the corner on your tongue. You brought it up to the frame of his glasses and wiped the blood from the metal. “I’d hate to see what you call a bad time.”

Your hand slowed, noticing the way he was looking at you. Typically men’s pupils were blown when they fell on you, but his were constricted. They flitted around your face. His hand took hold of yours, fingers separating the thumb from the handkerchief. He pulled the little square of yellow fabric free with his other hand, allowing him to hold your thumb now by itself.

His lips opened, tongue licking the blood stained finger before placing it directly into his mouth.

Your stared, horrified, as he sucked the digit clean. 

His eyes fluttered close, finger popping out of his mouth with a debauched sound. You made no attempt to take back your hand. The realization you may have hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire set in.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” You tried to sound as in control as possible. Calm. Unwavered. Offered a timid smile. 

He chuckled, “You could say that. May I?” His fingers lifted your chin. You didn’t know what he was asking. His soft smile looked downright loving. He smelled so good, notes of something earthy rising above the copper.

You nodded, because part of you wanted to see where it would go. And part of you thought you didn’t have a choice.

As his face came to yours, you instinctually closed your eyes expecting a kiss. But no, instead you felt his tongue wipe across the cut at the corner of your mouth. His breath blanketed your cheek. Then his hand left your chin, the warmth of his body gone entirely. 

You opened your eyes to see him at the door, slipping back into his jacket, “I’ll pay for the night.” He tipped his head to you and exited the room back first, eyes locked with yours until the door closed.

You just stood there in the silence left behind. But as if on cue, the adrenaline waned and your knees buckled under you. You were moments from death, now somehow spared. But what had he— Alastor, been doing there? Did he follow you, too? The cat and mouse had been flipped, or perhaps now this was a fox and hound?

Gripping the dressing table, you pulled yourself up and into the view of the mirror again. Face streaked in dried blood save for the one clean spot where your lips met cheek. 

You felt like a ghost the next day. It would be nice to tell someone about what happened but, “Hey a man tried to kill me and then another man killed him! Then he licked blood off my face and I let him. It was the most disturbingly erotic thing to happen to me in months!” would get you tossed into a wagon. 

“Are you rude or just stupid?” The theatre manager pulled you aside by the arm when you came into rehearsal. “You can’t just disappear like that, people were waiting.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Was… my absence really the most exciting part of the evening? Not the John in the gutter?”

He huffed, “So that’s it? Got a beau?”

“Wait— nothing else happened last night? After I left?” 

“This show doesn’t revolve around you. Plenty happened.”

“Excuse me,” you hurried into the back, “And sorry!”

You opened the street access door and looked into the alley. Trash cans neat and tidy, no dead man, nothing strange or telltale.

You ducked back inside. Had Smiles done this? Obviously, actually. No stranger just cleaned up the dead body. If the flatfeet had found him, the club would have been under scrutiny.

Good, you thought, and went about your work.

Rehearsal dragged on. Little details summoning you back to the night before. 

“You okay?” Another performer asked, grabbing your hand and inspecting the blood around your cuticles.

“Oh it’s not mine!” You laughed, she laughed, you walked off before she could clarify.

When applying your makeup, you remembered his hands on your face. They were so soft. Definitely a man of means. A brief intrusive thought, the other hands on your face last night.

You pranced on stage, going through the motions of your routine. Even in the empty hall, your eyes wandered to the booth he’d been in. And as you took the stage in earnest later that night you searched the crowd for the glint of his glasses and found nothing shiny nor promising.

Back in the dressing room you took a moment to wonder what the actual fuck you we’re doing. He murdered a man in front of you, why were you hoping to see him again? He had half a mind to kill you next.

But would that really be so bad?  Your life was routine, boring even. The only thing keeping your lungs expanding was the applause. Maybe the headlines of your death would cause such an uproar, dancer struck down in her prime, that you could bask in the loving glow all the way from hell.

One way to remain famous, you considered. A dramatic death.

Not that you were famous. You weren’t part of the national circuits. Just your local theatres, a common face and body to the sinners of Louisiana’s most infamous city. But, well, fame is relative. For the scene you were in, you were your own little star. 

A shining light. Shimmering. The faint light reflecting off— Blood. For a second you could only remember looking through bloodied, heavy lashes. 

“You’ve been so out of it. Trouble in paradise?” Ruth, the curviest of your coworkers and arguably the favorite of the crew, rested her chin on your head. Looking at each other in the mirror, you offered a soft smile.

“I’ll letcha know when I get there.”

She pinched your cheek, “Tommy said you had a new guy. I just figured-,”

“That isn’t,” you clenched your eyes shut, “no, no guy. I just got locked out last night in the alley. The sticky-,” sticky and viscous blood, “back door wouldn’t open up. I didn’t want to come in the front in my slippers so I just hoofed it home.” 

She patted your head, “if you say so! Be careful out there though. Dangerous these days.” 

An understatement.

You enjoyed the spotlight, but more than that you craved the attention doted on you after. You’d walk through the hall to the bar to adoring looks and free drinks. It bothered you that Tommy was telling the girls you had a man. You didn’t want to appear too closed off, or for word to spread to the customers. 

Last thing you needed was men passing you by for more available options. Not that the pay wasn’t fine. Ends were being met, but grifting added an element of thrill. You really did love the chase. Finding someone and deciding he would be yours, he would fall under your spell and be at your feminine mercy. It made you feel powerful, almost mythical. And the money was nice. Sometimes you didn’t even need to steal, the men would just lavish you in gifts and you’d let it fizzle out naturally. Normally their wives would snatch them back or they’d just get tired of waiting for you to leave the stage and dance into their domestic dreams. A housewife? An adopted mother to a grown man during the day, a hungry nymph at night? For what, an allowance and a home you didn’t own? Pass. Where’s that handsome man with his knife? That was a much better steel to fall onto than what these men offered from their laps.

From your view at the bar you knew he wasn’t there. But with a nod you decided the chase was still on. You were going to get your victory. If anything, this would be easier. You had dirt on him. Blackmail would be simple enough. Bloody clothes and the perfect alibi; being a woman. No cop would think you took down that hulking man. 

Ah, right. There was no body.

That would be an issue. He had to have taken it somewhere. Just find him and follow. Worst case scenario, you play the usual game and steal whatever cash was in his wallet.

Well, worst case you die. 

You slept sitting up to keep your hair set, during the day your makeup barely was there but a red lip always the star. You had three nice dresses (well, you had had four) so you figured three nights to find him before moving on.

You slinked through the crowds of the hot and sweaty dance club Moxie. Swinging music kept bodies moving, and though you kept your eyes open you didn’t catch sight of this Alastor fellow. Which was fine! You enjoyed a few dances, swing always making you feel energized. Not a waste of a Friday night.

Saturday was easy, the lounge on fifth. Smooth jazz, plush chairs, rich men. Definitely a place you could imagine Smiles to frequent. The whisky was all top shelf, and many gentlemen offered you a lap to sit. Sure, no Alastor, but you didn’t go home empty handed.

You weren’t a particularly great singer, but if the room was small enough and the piano loud enough, you could please a crowd. Your friend had you on a semi-set schedule most Sundays at her little dive too many blocks from Main Street. Her darling played piano, you sat and sang to the couple dozen patrons stuffed into the one room bar. When you finished your set, you took your bows and looked for your friend. You needed to tell her you wouldn’t be staying. 

Your polite nods and gracious thank yous were abruptly ended by a tap on your shoulder, “You dropped this, miss.” You did a mental check of your purse before turning around.

“Oh, a sight for sore eyes. Mr. Alastor.” Your face lit up, you could see it in his glasses.

“You’re too kind. Here, I apologize for the delay. I wanted to return them clean.” In his hand was your yellow handkerchief, folded neatly. You took it and found it uncharacteristically heavy. 

When you unfurled it, your brass lighter fell into your waiting palm. Your thumb caressed the engraving. 

Alastor watched your face as the lighter tumbled out. “I figured it was important, given the condition and detailing.”

You tested the weight in your hand, “Did you fill it?” You looked to him incredulously.  He nodded.

It was a surprisingly kind act, and you needed a second to regain your composure. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Your quick wit failed for a moment, but rebounded fast. “Except with a drink. My treat. To my rescuer.”

He mulled the idea, your reaction to him was interesting. Alastor had thought if he approached you first you’d show a little more fear, or shock. But you looked downright chipper to see him there. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have much time tonight. I had just wanted to return your items.”

Your smile dropped. How did he know you were here? Had he been carrying— no, he said he had them cleaned. Had he seen you here before, before the incident? A chuckle, smile brought back, “My luck is terrible. You always flee me. I hope you don’t see my company as deadweight.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses, “Not at all! I think you’d find I’m quite comfortable with-.”

“Lugging people around?” You said. That constricted pupil again, eyes wild. A chill ran down your spine. Alarms were going off. Wrong answer. You straightened your back, popping the items into your purse, “Next time.”

Alastor nodded, “Yes. Next time, then.”

You fucked it up. You knew you had, but suddenly his words felt like a thinly veiled threat. 

You turned to leave and hadn’t seen his smile sour.

It hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t anticipated you to notice the implication. Most people would have been so blinded by his charm they would fail to notice the glaring red flags. He was mildly impressed. You would be more trouble than he had expected.

Alastor knew he needed to do something about the clearly clever woman who was seemingly expecting him. He had followed you for several days, surprised to find you not spreading word about the murder. You hadn’t spoken to anyone, really. Even the man you left the lounge with, you just smiled and nodded nearly all evening while the man dominated the conversation. So, your sharp wit took him off guard. Who were you pretending to be? And why?

All of your cleverness fell apart when you tried to follow him. It was almost comical. He felt bad. This was going to be embarrassing for you.

He took several right turns and stepped into the park just outside of the bar. You thought perhaps he had gotten lost and considered turning around after you realized you’d lost sight of him. As you passed a large weeping willow, you were pulled under the curtains of hanging moss by your waist.

Back against the large tree, you could only pout.

“What are you after, stalking a man in the dead of night?” Alastor had you pinned, both hands on either side of your head. His body boxed you in, not that there was much more to see than moss and darkness.

You blinked several times. What a question. You answered honestly, “You.” He cocked a brow. Then you lied, “Your affection. Your time.”

Something akin to a giggle bubbled from his chest. “I don’t have much affection, but I have even less time.” Your eyes darted around, looking for your next move. “I-,” you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. When you broke the kiss he was staring wide eyed, glasses askew. He opened his mouth to speak and you kissed him again, longer, harder.

He seemed frozen under your mouth, lips taut. Your hands roamed his face, messing up his hair and glasses. Mind reeling. Play the nymph. Be the whore the men always said they hated. Be too strong, too forward, too much and he’ll run off like men do. You could try again another day.

Your hand reached for his lap, his hips instinctively jerking away. Perfect. Men these days can’t get it up for a woman who takes the lead. 

Alastor was entirely unsure what the fuck was happening. You were wildly unpredictable. When you grabbed at his dick, he thought his eyes would cross from the shock. Is this what ‘affection’ meant to you? He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand you. Were you really just lustful? Even after what you’d seen him—

You bit at his bottom lip, pulling slightly. Big eyes looking back at him. Your breath was already running away from you, adrenaline seemingly synonymous with Alastor. Staring up at him, you waited. His move.

It was his turn to blink. He looked off to his left, eyes swinging back to you. With a shrug, he leaned his body back towards yours. His hand slid down the front of your dress; red silk. A deer in the headlights, you tensed. The rare third option; fight, flight, freeze. Soon his fingers were tracing the lace of your stockings, climbing up the garter straps. 

His eyes were studying your face. You didn’t want to give the wrong answer again, but at this point you weren’t sure any answer was right. This was taking a sudden turn and your foot was off the brake. You closed your eyes, opting out of the scrutiny of his stare. His hand met your stomach and began to slip down again. He rested it between your thighs, longer fingers and palm cupping the entirety of your sex.

Alastor struggled to decipher your expression. It was almost like a pout, but more subtle. You hadn’t said stop or pushed him away yet. Was he right? You were just… horny? As his hand slid back up and pried their way into your panties, you trembled.

It had been so long since someone else’s hand was on you. Someone whose hands you genuinely enjoyed, who you wanted to be on you.

Is that right? You wanted him to touch you? 

Maybe it was the stare, or the smile. Probably just the adrenaline.

His hand found its place again, middle finger bending to part your folds and feel your wetness. You whimpered, hand coming to cover your own mouth. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He said it low, a husky tone he didn’t have before.

No. Maybe. You nodded yes.

“Will you be satisfied now? No more tailing me?”

No. Probably not. Another nod.

His finger pushed in, and with a kind of greed you didn't recognize your hips ground down into his palm. He slipped in and out of you with ease. You had no idea when or why you got so wet.

“I always end up dripping around you, Alastor,” you whispered through your fingers. His ring finger joined. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why did you have to bring up, well, the murder?

“A common problem for those I take an interest in.” 

Oh no. You moaned softly into your hand. Sharp mind made dull by his fingers so you didn’t, couldn’t, process his double meaning. 

Oh no. The sounds of footsteps, a pair of lovers sneaking into the park for privacy. You heard their giggles, the sounds of kisses interrupting their walking.

“Shhh”, he breathed into your ear as he worked a third finger into your heat. One knuckle, two knuckles. A whimper. His hand came to press down over your own on your mouth, a second barrier for your mewling. You groaned, the sound coming from your throat.  

Whispers. The silhouette of the two interlopers was visible through the willow’s curtains. You watched from over his shoulder, pussy clenching around him. Three knuckles deep, bottoming out.

Fuck it. You moaned freely into your hand, wiggling down onto his hand. Hips rolling, you let your little sounds of praise flow.

The couple laughed, “That’s the spirit!” A man said, a woman hushing him and pulling him away.

Alastor grinned into your neck, immensely amused. He would have better luck predicting a dice roll than your next move. 

You hadn’t realized how hollow you’d been until now, feeling so full. When alone, you focused on just cumming, fingers on your clit and mind on memories. You never bothered much with anything else.

Your hunger intensified. You wanted more. Both hands reached for his crotch again, finding nothing there for you. You could have cried. How were you a wet mess pressed against a tree and he was soft as a newspaper in a rainstorm?

Your pride stung. Men usually stood at attention around you. A half sob into the air earned you a chuckle from Alastor. “It’s no reflection of you, darling.” His nose nudged your ear lobe, “I need a little different stimulation than most.”

“Do you play for the other team?” You considered how you could momentarily switch. 

A louder laugh, “I don’t have a team.” He leaned back now to look at you. His freehand came to press on your lower stomach, gently pushing your womb down. Your brows knit, why did that feel so good? Hands going to the tree behind you for stability.

“Sure feels like you know how to play. This is-,” his hand switched from thrusting slowly in and out to moving front and back. It sent vibrations up into you. Your eyes rolled close. Shut up. Stop talking. Focus. Close.

He kissed around your open mouth, “Well, it’d be unamerican to not dabble. When necessary, or when the conditions are right.”

Double speak over, “Just tell me what to do to get you to fuck me.”

Alastor’s head fell back as he laughed earnestly, most likely alerting anyone in the immediate area. “Ha! No, this is more fun.”

“Oh fuck you,” you brought a hand around to your throbbing clit to quicken your release.

“Maybe next time, dear.” He took a second, fingers in you sliding around your walls in search of something before finding his place and continuing. Your breath noticeably changed, instead of panting you were practically holding it in. You needed the pressure, you needed something to squeeze that spring of pleasure down so it could snap back. As your face went flush, he kissed at your temple, “You look so pretty in red.”

“Oh god-,” Your head fell onto his chest, your joint effort bringing you to orgasm. 

“A little late on Sunday for prayers, don't you think?”

A tiny scream into his suit pocket, his hand not stopping until your thighs finished twitching around him. Even after his hand stopped moving you gripped him by the wrist and rolled onto his fingers a few more times. The pleasure ebbing but still spiking every time he moved against you. 

Ah, greed. That was it. He understood a little better. This wasn’t lust, not alone.  You were definitely a mix of the two. With a sigh, you released your hold and let him slide out of you. Already you felt lonelier. Already you wished to start over.

With his dry hand he smoothed out your dress. You weren’t ashamed but you suddenly felt too embarrassed to look him the eye. But you did, hearing him hum as he sucked his fingers clean. 

Why were you only ever in his mouth in the strangest ways?

“You always taste so sweet, dear. Now!” You wanted to say something clever and salacious like, ‘there’s more where that came from’ but he didn’t afford you the opportunity. He offered you his hooked arm, “It’s dangerous in the park at night. Let’s get you to a cab and on your way home.”

“Is this a hobby of yours?” Your legs were wobbly but otherwise fine. “Illegal activities in public?”

“Funny, I was just wondering the same of you. Stalking is a crime, dear.”

You bit your lip. “Touché.”

He flagged down a taxi, “Tell him where to go.” You slid into the back seat and half-whispered to the driver. Alastor leaned into the passenger side front window and after paying the man, went to close your door, “You’ve been an entertaining sparring partner. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

With a thud of the door and a growl of the engine, you were driving away from him. You could see him in the rear window. He didn’t dare to move, he didn’t need you following another step of his.

Which was unfortunate for him, as you were already scheming how to find him again.

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @angelicwillows

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

[stary-darlin]

LOVE DUEL

— boxer!ellie williams x reader

TROPE: strangers to lovers

SUMMARY: when work calls and you have nothing to do than follow your boss's rules, going to the WWE match that had a boxer you never saw before, same in her chillness when she fights and when she flirts with you infront of camera — basically fearing no one, and that what attracted you to her. Not knowing that she already had you in her wishlist of the life.

OTHER: mentions of misogyny, and just two horny mfs daydreamin' about each other :3

Ellie walked in with her coach behind her, with nothing more than the screams and chanting of her name echoing around the boxing match, her fans all around waving to her and trying to get her attention as if she was a goddess in front of them. And she loved every bit of it.

Her smirk wide from both sides of her face as she looked up at the audience, waving to them all, loving how all of their eyes were on her. She was not an attention seeker but she was an attention eater if you may say, the only difference between them both is that attention seekers are desperate for attention but Ellie? she receives it everywhere she goes, she doesn't have to work for it, the world itself was the one who needed her attention. I mean, come on, she's hot, she's smart, and she has the power of 100 men by herself. Of course, she didn't want anything after that, right? wrong. She wanted—she needed you. he interviewer who looked like a deer in the headlights with all the flashes going around the room, and she loved that about you. she loved how you looked like you were a masterpiece in an old man's house, his ass too old to even look at you for a second; overall just in the wrong place, and she would love to make herself your right place.

She took a seat on the bench infront of the boxing ring, taking her bottle from her coach and taking a sip, everyone's eyes were on her while her eyes were on you as you talked to the camera infront of you with that fake smile on that you thought you perfected but not to ellie though, she knew you. She knew you were holding your annoyance inside of you and smiling, acting happy as if you weren't scared of the men yelling by her side and chanting Ellie's opponent's name, thinking that ellie would lose because she is a women while the most gorgeous women is next to them, trying to hear through the ear-headset as you nodded. very misogynistic of them.

She smirked and waved to — you — the camera, winking as you kept the smile on, speaking about the information of ellie that you memorized from the day you got the papers sent to your desk. your hand gripping the microphone and the other brushing your hair through your fingers when the camera turned to the hallway as ellie's opponent came out, the man buffer than any man you ever saw in your whole life — which was full of skinny tired employees — gazing back at ellie, seeing that she already was looking at you with that same face-eating smirk of hers, not giving a flying fuck about the 10x sized man that was supposed to be her opponent.

All the cameras were on the opponent and ellie to catch their reactions to each other but Ellie was very much not there, waving and giggling like a little girl when she knew she catched your attention. walking to you, your team noticed it and used it to their advantage, pointing the camera at her and you before you started interviewing her.

"the infamous death-doer is here all of a sudden, i see." you spoke with a light tone, raising your brows as she smirked and tilted her head to the side, not even glancing at the camera.

"the infamous death-doer and ladies-attracter, y'know." she winked before laughing, her confidence over the hills. you giggled — a genuine giggle that ellie took as a compliment to herself — looking at her with those sweet-looking eyes that she would do anything to keep them in her direction.

"ladies-attracter, huh? why that nickname?" you crossed your arm, being comfortable for once since the whole time you were here. Ellie's fans screaming as they heard the nickname that ellie gave herself all of a sudden.

Ellie watched you smile with those lips of yours, oh how desperate she was for those lips of yours. "i mean aren't i one?" she raised a brow, looking up at her audience and back to you; half of the audience were girls, screaming from the top of their longs for her. you looked at her audience and chuckled, "guess it's your trait isn't it?" Ellie nodded proudly.

"well is being not scared from buff men one of your traits?" you asked, bringing the microphone to her. "you could say that, i just don't see what is so fearful about them. you only get the idea of scary because they take much space unlike what we usually see in a normal day, besides if it wasn't for their muscles and buffy arms they would be like any other man, useless, that's why they get that figure of theirs, to obtain dominance cause they don't have it without all that." she spoke confidently as she looked at the opponent and back to the camera for a second before shrugging her arms and looking back at you. "so that's your answer, darlin'"

"oh, that–" you stuttered as you looked at her with widened eyes, her words leaving you stunned. you let out a giggle, "i cannot give my opinion but you very much spoke my mind." you nodded. Ellie smiling as she heard your reply and seeing your reaction before seeing her coach waving to her to get ready. "well i will have to go, love. here," she took your hand and wrote on her number on it with the pen that you had in your cards, her handwriting cursive and rough with sharp edges like her routine in boxing that you watched last night to get to know her. Ellie turned your hand and kissed your knuckles before looking at your for the last time and walking to her coach.

You sat down as you watched the match begin, Ellie sitting in her corner of the boxing ring, manspreading with her eyes keeping an eye contact with her opponent, a smirk forms on the corner of her lips as she sees her opponent growl — trying to act scary, I guess — But it didn't work on her. She got up as soon as she saw the host standing infront of her, starting the match.

The size and height difference between the man and Ellie was very obvious, everyone doubted that she would lose except you. You believed she could do it if she had that real confidence and speed to hit her opponent at the right time. You were no expert in this but Ellie sure did, you watched four matches of hers since her debut and you saw that nothing changed. Same confidence, the same smirk, and the same hate for men. Maybe that was the thing that drove her to be who she is now; as professional as other boxers who said that no women could outstand them since they were stronger and took much longer to be who they were but Ellie pushed all that behind her it's nothing. You loved it, loved how she is who you want to be, who you desire to be with; and you wanted to know more about her.

Ellie raised her chin to the man, her expression calm, mocking him while he looked at her with an angry expression looking like a Buffalo getting ready to punch someone's ass, and no it wasn't her ass, it was his own.

Ellie let out a chuckle after the man tried to punch her straight in the face, which she dodged easily like it was a fly. Ellie took two steps back and he followed her by as if he was her little pup. Ellie quickly moved to the side, pulling his leg and making him fall so easily. The man let out a roar — yeah, maybe he was indeed a furry... — quickly getting himself up, throwing himself at her to pin her on the floor. Ellie noticed and moved away in a second as he fell on the floor like a cartoon character, she quickly sat on his back and twisted his arm behind his back with her other arm around his neck. Such an easy act that can make a bull weak in a second.

Everyone gasped at her sudden dominance over the guy who was supposed to win but didn't. The host quickly ran to the boxing ring and started counting down, Ellie keeping the man on the ground with all of the strength she had, her opponent unable to move his face slowly turning red as the host finally counted to zero. Ellie's audience stood up and screamed, chanting her name. Ellie stood up and jumped off the boxing ring like it was another Tuesday.

Every reporter watched her with their jaw on the ground. "That was– unbelievable! One round, just a couple of minutes, and the man is down!" You spoke as you looked at the camera. "For the first time, in boxing history, something like this happened before!"

Ellie's name echoed through the roof of the room, her bodyguards standing around her to portect her from the crowd that was running towards her. The spotlight was all on her, leaving the man with the failure of his own. She walked out through the hallway to her backstage, the guards closing the doors of the hallway to not let anyone get it, leaving you and the team to record the scene before it calms down.

You looked at your palm that had her number and wrote it down in your card, putting it in your bag so you could call her when you get home.

This seems like it will be a long journey, but hopefully it will be worth it.

All rights reserved to @stary-darlin , please do not copy, rewrite, translate my works on any other platform.

Requests are open!! <3

[ketaundkrawall]

hi girlie! idk if yr taking requests so feel free to discard it but i was listening to agora hills by doja cat and the idea of reader being famous artist and joost being the fan just didn’t leave me alone😭🌀🩵

thank you for the request 🫶🏻 i hope you guys enjoy it <3

Stargirl Interlude ☽｡⋆ Joost Klein

Summary: you’re a famous singer meeting one of your fans

Warnings: none, just fluff and two fangirls meeting each other (maybe smut in pt. 2 bc this ends in a cliffhanger kinda), not proofread, afab!reader, no use of Y/N

WC: 1.1k

A/N: guys pls lmk if i should do a part two (i will) 💫

What you loved most about your job was seeing the happy faces of your fans whenever you came on stage. Well, it wasn’t really a job to you, it was your destiny to stand on stage and make people happy.

You loved when the crowd chanted your name, absolutely making every stage performance of yours better when they sang the lyrics. It made you proud. And it was everything you dreamed of when you were a child. Seeing people happy and being able to help them with your music somehow.

Nonetheless, every time you went on stage you were nervous. It was a feeling that accompanied you ever since you started your career.

Today you performed in a club in Amsterdam. You’ve never actually travelled to the Netherlands before so you were really excited. Not only to perform but also to explore the city, since it was your last tour stop you were doing at the moment.

Right now you were getting all set up to go on stage. You could already hear the people outside waiting for you to come out and start the show. “You’re going to kill it babes.” Your best friend, Tommy, said as he came to a stand beside you with a drink for you which you accepted with a thanks and sipped on it. “I really hope so.” Smiling you gave him the empty cup.

Tommy always travelled with you. He has been there for you since the very beginning of your career and never left your side, always calming your nerves before the shows started and you were so fucking thankful for him. “Jeez stop being so nervous! You’re a bomb you know that and now go out there and fucking show them what you got!” He cheered you on and you laughed. Giving him one last hug and taking a deep breath you ran out

“AMSTERDAM ARE YOU READY?! LETS GET THIS PARTY GOING!” You yelled and instantly felt happiness and relief flowed your body as the crowd screamed and just went completely crazy.

And so you started your show, loving the way all the people singing with you. It really filled your heart with joy. After an hour or so you were out of breath and just needed some water. Your hair was sticking to your sweaty forehead but honestly? You couldn’t be happier. Looking throughout the crowd you smiled. “Gosh we’re having some really good looking guys here tonight done we?” You grinned and the crowd screamed.

And with ‘good looking guys’ you meant one particular one that caught your eye since the beginning of the show. Of course you knew who he was. You saw him on your TikTok the whole time, liking way too many edits that popped up on your For-You-Page.

Eyes roaming the crowd again they stopped at him for a short moment but you were sure he noticed. “Never thought an Eurovision candidate would be a fan of mine.” You now grinned at the blonde, walking towards the front of the stage and kneeling down. “Joost mother fucking Klein is listening to my music guys!” You screamed and the crowd cheered again. Eyes darting to him, you saw him laugh. It would be a lie to say you didn’t listen to his music, even though you didn’t understand a word.

Walking to the back of the stage to your DJ you said something to him and soon the melody of Europapa was blasting through the speakers and you and almost the whole audience did that silly little dance and you saw Joost laughing and cheering, definitely liking it.

After the song finished you kept on going with your show, watching Joost sing along to all of your songs. Something you never thought would happen. You played your last few songs, totally forgetting the time and soon everything was over. “THANK YOU AMSTERDAM!! I LOVE YOU!” You screamed into the mic, your eyes finding the blondes again, before walking off stage.

“Jesus babes that was amazing!” Tommy practically yelled and hugged you, making you giggle. “Thanks Tommy, hey, could you get Joost backstage?” You asked in your sweetest voice possible, bashing your lashes at him and he grinned. “Uhhh.” Scoffing you hit his arm earning a huff from him. “I see what I can do.” And with that he was off.

Walking back to your dressing room you flipped down on the couch, taking a cup with whatever liquor was inside, and opened your instagram. Your DM’s and notifications were flooded with messages, pictures and videos of what just happened. People already shipped you and even had a name for the both of you. You giggled and went on TikTok, notifications blowing up on there as well. Being so concentrated on your phone you didn’t hear the knock that was coming from the door.

As you finally did notice tho you quickly yelled a “yeah?” and the door opened. Joost standing in the doorway.

Sitting up straight now you smiled widely. “Hey.” He breathed out like he couldn’t believe he’s finally meeting you. “Hi.” You smiled back and got up to hug him. “Can’t believe I’m finally meeting you.” Joost chuckled and you smiled, pulling away. “Really?” He nodded. “Been listening to your music for a while now actually.” He confessed and it made you really proud somehow. “Well thank you.” You giggled.

Both of you sat down and started to chatter away and you couldn’t stop yourself from noticing how he was smiling the whole time as he was excitedly talking to you about everything. And you got along so well. The time flew by so fast and soon it was 4 in the morning.

“I should get going.” Joost said as he looked at his phone. You just nodded. “Yeah I’m so done. Need a lot of sleep now. Long day tomorrow. I want to do some sightseeing.” You smiled, pulling your knees to your chest. “Hey uh.” Joost started and scratched the back of his head nervously. “How about I give you my number and you hit me up? I can show you around if you want.”

Your eyes lit up as you nodded. “I’d really like that you smiled as he dropped his shoulder. You didn’t even noticed how nervous he actually was to ask you that question. Handing over his phone you quickly typed your number down along with his name. He smiled as you gave it back to him. “Then good night I guess. I see you around then.”

And with that he walked out of the club, not being able to stop the smile that was forming on his face. Taking his phone out he looked at your contact and chuckled.

You saved yourself on his phone as ‘Stargirl Interlude 💫’, your stage name.

[calicoheartz]

need need need something about Caitlin dating a famous popstar, think Sabrina carpenter

☆ espresso ; Caitlin Clark

summary : caitlin clark x pop star reader!

synopsis : you are the music scenes next hot thing , who happens to be dating worldwide famous wnba player (set a tiny bit into the future)

warnings : tiniest bit suggestive if you squint , pure fluff !

my master list ㇀♡

a/n: thank you to the lovely person who suggested this! i changed some of the lyrics in the song for it to make sense but it shouldn’t be too noticeable. Enjoy ◡̈

You were the music industry’s next hot thing. From performing at smaller venues, to headlining at Coachella; you were everywhere. Along with your wnba superstar, Caitlin Clark.

The two of you had met while you were preforming a gig at a local bar , a little right before you got your big break. Ever since then, the two of you had been inseparable. Both instantly drawn to each others passion and drive for your careers.

But with Caitlin’s demanding basketball schedule and your international shows and tours , maintaining your relationship proved to be a challenge. Only relying on calls , texts , and surprise visits whenever you can to steal a moment together amidst your busy lives.

It had been almost 3 weeks since you’ve seen your loving girlfriend. With the wnba draft and Coachella starting to kick off, the universe was simply pulling you two away from eachother.

You were sitting in your dressing room , preparing to go on stage to kick off the second weekend at the bustling festival , the biggest festival of the year for that matter. Your nerves were practically eating you alive, you knew she would be in audience. You toyed with your hair as your makeup artist finished the final touches of your look , as you fidgeted with the hem of your skirt. The skirt that perfectly hugged your curves , delicately adorned with lace and bows , your signature look.

You soon snapped back to reality, with the cheers from the audience slowly making its way into your mind. There was no doubt in your mind that this was the moment that could make or break your career. You planned on preforming your newly released song espresso , as a way to give your girlfriend a little treat on her first day back.

You made your way to the stage , sporting your signature beach waves and skimpy clothes, the intro to the song soon began and your eyes darted across the crowd. Begging to meet with the one pair of eyes you can call her own.

You hear the crowd begin to chant your name , you lock eyes with Caitlin briefly, sending a smirk your way. Prompting you to slowly begin to sway your hips as you begin to sing..

❝ now she’s thinkin’ ‘bout me every night oh, is it that sweet? I guess so ❞

you turn towards caitlin , seeing a big grin on her face , as she very well knows the melodic tune is referencing your whirlwind romance. Your hips continue to sway as the lyrics danced off the tip of your tongue , hitting every note in the process.

❝ And i got this one girl

And she won’t stop calling

when they act this way..

I know i got ‘em ! ❞

The crowd begins to scream , noticing your small wink towards caitlin , making it painfully obvious of your ode to her throughout the song

As the lyrics then again roll off your tongue like sweet honey, you continue to prance around the stage earning gasps and applause from the audience, and most importantly; a hungry gaze from your girlfriend. Her eyes practically undressed you as they wandered from your hips to your face, and vice versa. You immediately felt butterflies in your stomach, it had been so long since shes looked at you with those eyes. And as much as you wanted to jump off the stage and into her arms, you only had to finish the rest of the chorus and verse before concluding your set.

You began…

❝ I'm working late 'cause I'm a singer…Oh, she looks so cute wrapped around my finger! ❞

The music continues and you feel as if you are on cloud nine. If this doesnt fully establish your relationship with cait, then youre not sure what will. You practically feel her eyes burning into you as you resume your soft sways, slowly becoming more provocative as you reach near the end of the song. You hair slowly flows with the gentle breeze, as you shoot a glance towards your girlfriend, receiving a approving nod in return. You hear your cue, and make your way to the front to face the audience head on, you quickly hit your iconic signature pose while belting

❝ Mmm, that's that me espresso❞

And the audience erupts with claps and chants as you quickly exit the stage, locking eyes with your manager who signals you to head to the back. As you make your way down there, you feel a strong and warming embrace wrapped around your hips, with soft kisses peppering your neck. “Cait!” you squealed, unable to hide your excitement to see the brunette, she grins at your reaction, snaking her arm beneath you as she slowly begins to carry you to your dressing room.

She soon gently puts you down, as she gently begins caressing your cheek. “You did amazing” she muttered, “everytime you preform you never refuse to amaze me with the amount of talent that you have-” you cut her off with a deep and tender kiss, tasting the mango flavored lipbalm that glistened on her lips.

You giggle, simply muttering , youre my honey bee.. Come get this pollen ;)

anywaysss this is my go at pop star reader x cc !! tbh i feel like this is train wreck but you be the judge of that! tysm for reading 🎀

[apomaro-mellow]

5 times eddie singled out steve during a concert and the one time steve did it back

Corroded Coffin fans were no strangers to the deep love shared between frontman Eddie and his boyfriend Steve. To the point where magazines barely cared to feature any candid pics of them unless Eddie was flipping off the camera. "Two Very in Love People Share a Kiss at Cafe Date" didn't really sell much when it was the 50th story like that.

So when Eddie slowed things down in the middle of the concert, getting that very familiar 'heart eyes' look.

"I know my baby's in the audience. Even though he has a very comfortable room backstage. Show me where you are beautiful." Eddie's voice was slightly rough from the first half of songs.

His eyes scanned the audience until he heard a bunch of screaming from his right. The crowd was vibrating and he knew someone had spotted Steve.

"There you are." Eddie bit his lip, grin threatening to split his face. "This next one's for you."

The crowd was a mix of screams and awws as the beginning melody of It's Always Been You was heard.

2. Another day, another venue. This time, the afternoon crowd at a music festival. It was one of Eddie's favorite kind of scenes. People of all types, letting the music take them in broad daylight. A good mix of diehard fans, casuals, and people who had never heard them play before.

Eddie knew for a fact that Steve was sitting in a little foldable chair, with some drink from one of the booths. He always looked so unassuming with his soft hair and even softer clothes. But Eddie could never let him forget his inner badass. Nor did he let anyone else forget.

"Lil pop quiz for my fans", Eddie started. "One of our fan favorites The Knight's Arrival is inspired by someone very special in my life. Can we get a chant going for the man who has always been my knight in shining armor?"

A very enthusiastic chant for Steve started and Eddie thought his heart might burst. It was like a triumphant reprisal of those times the school would cheer on the ex-king on game night.

3. Sometimes the band put an age restriction on a concert. Now Eddie was of the mind that children didn't need to be coddled or have things censored for them. But also, he didn't need to lay it all out when there was a kid in the audience.

It was these kinds of shows that Eddie let it all hang out. More than one song was inspired by his nights with Steve. His angel's voice even featured on one track, letting out husky moans as Eddie brought him to the brink in the recording booth.

And tonight Eddie was hot. Hot enough to have already taken his shirt off and throw it to the audience. Hot enough that when he went backstage and saw Steve, he was only thinking of one thing. Eddie kissed him deep, tongue licking at the roof of his mouth before a word could leave his lips.

Crash was keeping the audience going with a drum performance. One that started with a simple beat that slowly intensified.

"I want them to hear you", Eddie said against Steve's mouth.

Steve's hair was already tangled in his hair. "You wanna dangle me in front of them?", he smirked.

"Show them you're mine", Eddie started nibbling at his jaw. "Show 'em how good I love you down."

Eddie got the headset mic rigged onto Steve. His sweet boy was already hard, just as turned on from seeing Eddie in his element as he ever was. Eddie slid down to his knees and unzipped his boyfriend's pants.

It started quiet. Not even audible as Crash really got going on the drums and got close to the climax. The room erupted as he reached the end. And it was in the calming of their cheers that they finally began to hear it.

"Eddie, mmmfuck."

They stirred in unison. Steve's voice rang loud and clear as he received a pleasure the rest of them could only speculate on.

"Fuck, sso good. Don't stop. Don't stop-ahh."

For a moment all they heard was Steve's quickening breaths before he called out Eddie's name, dragging it out like he was falling down a well.

Eddie came out moments later, licking something off his lips to cacophonous cheers. The bassline to Take a Bite began. He wished he could've told his high school self that one day he'd get a standing ovation for blowing a guy.

4. "Before we get started tonight I gotta make an announcement!", Eddie came out, already on 100. "First, where's my angel baby. Help me find him."

As usual, a particular part of the audience went wild and moved in a way that could only mean Steve was there.

"Can I get a parting of the Red Sea?", Eddie asked, moving his hands apart and getting that part of the mob to split like Moses. Steve stood there in the middle.

"Get used to that gorgeous. My fellow rockers, scholars, and mischief makers - I am officially a kept man." He flashed the ring on his finger to a din of screams. "Wedding's next fall and we're registered at every corner liquor store! 5-6-7-8!"

5. Eddie felt like he was home. In the middle of a set, shredding in a way that made him feel alive. The current song made it even better. One of the best collaborative efforts of the band. All of their fingerprints were on this track.

The crowd was just as amped up, giving back everything they got. There truly was no place he'd rather be.

Then he caught sight of his Steve, standing just off stage in the wings. And he was overcome. None of this would be possible without him. And even if Eddie and his boys somehow made it to stardom, it all meant nothing without his sweetheart.

Eddie casually walked over, fingers still moving as he got closer to Steve. He only took his hands off his guitar to grab his fiance and dip him as they kissed. Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie's neck. This wasn't his first time being kissed on stage.

And just as other times, the crowd went wild, while Jeff, Gareth, and Crash rolled their eyes through the playing.

6. Steve watched, absolutely lovestruck as Eddie sat on the couch, eating cereal. Dustin's baby, little Deana was propped up on cushions next to him, clearly satisfied as she sat there content. They were uncles babysitting for the weekend.

Steve walked over and grabbed the remote from off the coffee table, holding it like a mic. "All the babes out there, are you ready to rock?", he pointed to Deana.

Her new eyes got large at the movement and sound and her little fists waved in the air.

"But before I go on, I gotta give special love to someone tonight", Steve turned his gaze to Eddie. "To the greatest thing since sliced bread, I could watch you eat Coco Puffs all day."

"You're such a cornball", Eddie beamed, cheeks turning pink. "Can't believe you're doin it in front of a baby."

"Oh, don't tell me the god of rock is getting bashful? So when I wanna shout you out in front of our niece, it's cheesy. But when you call me out in front of thousands-"

"Shut up and kiss me." Eddie put the half finished bowl on the floor and grabbed Steve by the wrist, pulling him right into his lap.

Steve let out a little breath between kisses. "Dustin's gonna have a fit if he finds out we made out in front of his baby."

"What he don't know won't hurt him."

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hi ! So I had an idea for a Matthew Patel x reader fanfic, where the reader is playing Ramona in his Scott Pilgrim musical, and when they have to kiss for the play, in front of the whole theatre, they see sparks, but can't talk about it until the play is over. Like realizing they're in love or something, I hope I explained it well- thanks<3

"🎶 Howwww do I tell him my exes are evil?🎶"

Standing alone on the stage, you sang your heart out to the adoring audience, the spotlight shining down upon you and your dyed rainbow hair.

You weren't even nervous about performing for Scott Pilgrim's Precious Little Musical anymore. Everything seemed to come naturally the moment it came time for your soliloquy as Ramona Flowers.

Indeed, for the play you were starring as her, with your first solo number being an emotional lament on the inevitability of Scott fighting all seven of the evil exes in order to date you freely.

It seemed silly when you read the script for the first time...but now?

You were absolutely killing it, as you could hear a few cheers from the crowd.

Even Ramona herself was sitting there, looking quite entertained by your reenactment of her...whereas the real Scott Pilgrim was right next to her, appearing the exact opposite. He just seemed really confused and annoyed..

But you couldn't blame him for feeling somewhat mocked considering he was presumed dead after his fight with Matthew--only to suddenly come back without much of an explanation and realize this musical was all about him.

Speaking of whom, he probably felt more insulted by Ramona's actual first evil ex starring as him, wearing his coat and a ridiculous orange wig that hardly looked anything like his own hair.

Nevertheless, his other friends and all the Exes seemed to be genuinely enjoying the show. Some even teared up at your incredible acting skills and moving singing voice.

Among them was Matthew, who was hanging out backstage and preening himself until it was time for his cue.

You two have been friends for a long time, even before he knew the League was something that existed. Being theatre kids, you two were more than eager to get this musical to take off..and maybe get it on Broadway itself if the opening night was received well.

So far..it was being received extremely well. Every other actor knew their lines and sang flawlessly, putting their heart and soul into each performance just as you and Matthew did.

Although....there were a few minor hiccups--such as the part where him, Scott, Ramona, some of their friends, and the remaining Exes were all mysteriously warped out of the theater by a red portal. But they eventually returned and everyone figured it was part of the play, so it continued on without a hitch.

During one of the final acts, there was a "special" scene planned that you and Matthew have only 99% rehearsed...

Because the other 1% had to be done right the first time. It was the most highly-anticipated part of this musical:

The kiss.

One that proved Ramona truly loved Scott, forever securing their happily ever after.

When it came time for the scene, the stage darkened everywhere, with the light only shining down on you and "Scott". He took a deep breath as he turned to you, taking your hands into his own, wearing a gentle smile.

You both stared into each other's eyes for a long time, soft piano music playing in the background.

Your heart was thumping in your chest, as was Matthew's as you two tried to focus on your line delivery and nothing else.

"Ramona?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"...I love you."

"I love you, too. You saved me. Saved our relationship..and I could never thank you enough."

"Hah, I should be the one thanking you...because I finally stood up for myself, and for us!"

"Oh, Scott.."

At that point, some of the spectators began to chant for the kiss--with Wallace being the loudest, of course--and you could only smile bashfully, not realizing how fast this part came up until now.

Yet for some reason, Matthew appeared unusually nervous, red rising to his cheeks as he squeezed your hands rather tightly. You didn't know why he was acting this way, considering you've seen him do kiss scenes in past plays.

But you figured that since this was his first major theater performance, he was only nervous about wanting everything to be perfect. So you gave him a reassuring nod that said "it's okay, you can do this."

Fortunately, he seemed to understand, as a moment later he pulled you into a passionate kiss, lips crashing against yours.

The volume of the applause and cheering grew tenfold; some people even gave you a standing ovation even though the play was nowhere near over.

They loved it.

They absolutely loved it.

And honestly? You kinda liked kissing Matthew in front of everybody, partially wishing this wasn't just for the play..

But while the special effects team went to work recreating the "spark phenomenon" with glitter, confetti, and more....there was something going on between you and him that nobody else could see:

The real sparks that manifested after you both parted.

Your heart jumped into your throat as you watched them fade away, before looking at him.

Judging from his face, you knew that he most definitely saw them, too.

You've been skeptical of the sparks in the past, as you've dated several people yet never saw them at all.

So...why were you only seeing them now? And why with Matthew, of all people?

Did it have something to do with you dressing up like his ex-girlfriend?

Or was he finally looking beyond that curtain and discovering that he actually loved you?

Regardless, now wasn't the time to be thinking about any of that stuff, as you noticed he was slowly going off-script...something that you've never seen happen before. His hands shook and he seemed to forget his mic was still on.

"S-Sparks.." He stammered out, still giving you a wide-eyed stare.

"I...guess there were sparks, after all." You hastily salvaged the situation with a small laugh, putting your improv skills to work. "I never believed in such things until I met you, Scott Pilgrim."

After the lights dimmed, the cheering persisted as you grabbed his hand and half-dragged him backstage. By that point he seemed to have snapped out of his trance, deciding to scramble to prepare for the final musical number with everyone in the cast coming out.

But despite him returning to his snippy attitude with the makeup artists, he could barely look your way without blushing immensely...and quite frankly, you couldn't get rid of your smile.

'Shit..he's in love with me, I just know it..' You sighed as you sat comfortably in the chair, letting the wardrobe crew swap your dyed wig with a different colored one.

As badly as you both wanted to talk about what just happened...you knew it had to wait.

For the show must go on.

........

After the musical was finished, you changed your outfit and searched around backstage for Matthew, hoping you could finally discuss the sparks you both saw.

Soon you stumbled upon him, Gideon, and Julie...and for a moment, you were nervous.

Considering what happened between the two guys, you figured all hell was about to break loose--and apparently it almost did during the play since Gideon rigged the overhead area with dynamite. It was out of pure revenge for all of his assets being taken.

Yet it seems all was forgiven as they hugged it out, laughing with tears in their eyes, before Gideon and Julie walked away hand-in-hand.

Now that Matthew was finally alone, you had your chance.

"Since when did you two become besties?"

With a small yelp, he spun around quickly, relaxing as he realized it was only you. "Oh! Uh..no. I just...decided to give him back the company, and he let me keep the musical." He grinned, although it appeared rather forced. "That's all."

"I see.." You sighed, stepping closer to him. "Listen, we need to talk about-"

"I know." He answered bluntly. "I....saw them, too. And those weren't any special effects. They were legit."

"...are you sure about that?"

Matthew looked taken aback, as he just gawked at your question.

"Let me rephrase that," you cleared your throat. "I confess that I saw them because of you. The real you. But..I don't know if you saw them because of the real me."

"...I'm not following."

"Did you only see them because I looked like you ex-girlfriend?"

"N-No!" He nearly shouted, his cheeks flaring red as his stare remained intense. "I've moved on from her, I swear!"

Part of you remained skeptical yet. "I may need some convincing."

Before he could ask you why, you interrupted him by bringing him into a kiss this time. It initially shocked him, but he quickly melted into it, cupping your face in both of his hands.

Just like before, the sparks were there. Not as brilliant or explosive as the first time...yet they were all the proof you two needed.

Now you knew for sure that your love was real and true.

Matthew was quick to pull you back in for one more kiss after seeing them, desperate and wanting you as close as physically possible.

It probably would have escalated into a full-blown makeout session had you not heard the voices of the other Exes drawing nearer.

You immediately parted and saw them all standing there, looking utterly shocked at what they were witnessing. But you had no shame, instead smiling and waving to them as you held his hand.

"Great news, guys...G-Man's not the only one with a hot date anymore." You winked to your new boyfriend, whose ears turned red with embarrassment.

The group then smiled back, happy for your new relationship and trusting that you'll treat him with all the love and respect he deserved.

Before either of you knew it, you were being carried out of the theatre on the shoulders of Todd and Lucas, while the rest of the gang--along with Scott and Ramona--followed suit, eager to celebrate the play's success.

But tonight wasn't just about that.

It was also about what the future held in store for you and Matthew.

[ivypos-writes]

put your lips (where i’m rotten)

— aemond targaryen [1/?]

[SERIES MASTERLIST] | [GENERAL MASTERLIST]

summary: There are times when Aemond thinks he hates her, if only for the crime of reminding him about the chains of servitude shackled to his throat. Other times, he convinces himself that he feels nothing towards her at all. She is a stranger. A no one. A face without a soul. She is but another prisoner within these walls; a spoil of war, only one he never wished for.

He cannot condemn her for existing.

(He does. He does.)

Or, in which war puts them together, bound by duty and united in wrath.

warnings: 18+, aemond x unnamed!betrothed, angst, implied/referenced abuse, arranged marriage, falling in love, tension, morally grey characters, doomed from the start, dual pov, they’re both miserable and broken, eventual smut

word count: 6.3k

notes: i’m ready to descend into brainrot now that s2 is over. english is not my first language. all reviews are very appreciated! thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

She knows rot when she sees it.

The hall has been prepared with utmost care for the arrival of the dragon prince. Servants scrubbed every surface three times since the sun rose—if one were to strain their eyes intently enough, they would find remnants of wetness pooling in the crevices and cracks of old stone. The floors were swept; the tables set for a feast, the scale of its grandiosity a stark contrast to the usual quality of their dining. All the torches have been lit. She has never seen this much light within these walls before.

Their household’s banners previously hanging down the walls have been replaced with a golden dragon painted over green, and she makes a point of refusing to look at it once, convinced that her distaste will be too strong to be passed off as something less treacherous than it truly is. The winged creature is foreign. Its embroidered jaws bring promises of misery.

She has been forced into her best gown—except it’s not really hers, but her sister’s, and the difference in their build shows. The fabrics draped over her waist are tighter than she’s used to; the coarse bodice digs into her ribs with a crushing force, and her bust threatens to spill from its confines with each slightest movement. Dark skirts cascade all the way down to the ground, and she holds onto them with trembling fingers, chanting inaudible prayers not to trip and plummet to her knees in front of an audience. Pride is something that still belongs to her, however fleeting; however scant. She will cling to its shredded remains for as long as she can. If she is little more than a property to be sold, then she’ll be a property standing with a raised chin and a fixed gaze. She will not stumble. She will not fall.

They dressed her in red. She hates red.

The gown shimmers in warm golds underneath the stray rays of sunlight, and she quickens her pace to evade them. Reds and golds. Green. How hurriedly they have stripped away whatever remnants of identity she possessed until this day—and they managed to do so with just colours. She has been dressed for slaughter. A pretty victim. A comely prey.

Today, she is a stranger. A newborn rising from the ashes of a dead. Past is gone, and all that remains is the possibility to mould herself into something new. Something better. Maybe—maybe—something that aches a little less. She is not herself; she mustn’t be herself. If she remained herself, she would flee.

Her father’s pride appears to have once more conquered all financial hardships their household faces; to have grown overnight, skyrocketing to a whole new level. The tables seem to groan underneath the weight of various meals that they normally cannot afford. The multiple flagons are filled with wine that had thus far been stored in the cellar, considered too valuable to be wasted. The prince’s palate must be too delicate for anything less than overpriced liquors and spiced meats, and so her father has gone out of his way to provide the best quality service. He’s always been quick to quell any and all issues one ought to consider, if only for a short-term semblance of glory and importance. What other opportunity to flaunt his scarce resources and remnants of wealth if not before a dragon prince? Coin matters little in the face of royalty—or so he says.

She wouldn’t know. Rarely does she pay his words too much mind.

The raven arrived with the rising sun a fortnight ago. The words scribbled on the parchment were short and concise, and carried promises sunken deep into ink. Promises of blessings, according to her family. What she saw instead were promises of pitiless duty. The Dowager Queen herself announced that her son would be gracing their home with his presence. A royal visitor. An unwed man coming into the household of a man with an unwed daughter.

Too many whispers of war have been heard across the realm not to ponder its many components. A thing in exchange for another. An arrangement. A trade. She knows how this works; she knows how this ends. Little fool, her sisters would call her, but she is not so foolish to be unaware of what this is about. The day must come, and sooner rather than later; a girl cannot remain a girl until her soul withers with age. She always knew this much.

It is well within her father’s right to succumb to a new sort of haughtiness. He wears it like an armour that doesn’t quite fit him; wears it in a way that evokes not envy, but utter disdain. If anyone thought him boastful before, they must be eating their words now. She is half-convinced that, fuelled by this recent sense of smugness, he has written to every lord in the area to brag about this sudden development. Gods know that there is nothing he loves more than the feeling of being important.

A Targaryen prince willing to take his daughter for a wife. His plain, insignificant daughter. His forgotten daughter. The very same daughter he never wanted.

He certainly seems to want her now, what with his newfound interest in her—or, rather, in whatever merits she may bring to his name. His previous indifference has converted into ineptly feigned affection; aloofness has turned to an overbearing sort of attentiveness. His touch is softer. Almost kinder. He greets her in the mornings and invites her to dinners, and calls her by her name instead of girl. Gone are the days of blissful solitude she used to shrink herself into. She can scarcely remember when she was last left to her own devices.

The girl she once was would have wept in joy at this sudden shift. The woman she has grown into has long since become too bitter to find an ounce of appreciation for it inside her heart.

(She wants nothing from him. She hasn’t wanted anything for a while now.)

She bit her own tongue so many times over the course of past days that it has gone numb. Whenever her father descends upon her with another onslaught of artfully crafted care and tenderness, she keeps her mouth shut.

It is how she spent this morning: in stubborn silence.

It is how she stands now, spine rigid and fingers buried in her dress, mouth pressed into a thin line.

No one seems to take notice of her, anyway. She may well have been swallowed by the ground beneath her feet. The hall is buzzing with equal measures of exhilaration and unease; servants scurry about, performing last-minute fixes, and she half-expects them to drop to their knees and collect specks of dust with bare hands. Her father barks orders from his seat at the highest table; he is already clutching a cup of wine, face flushed and chin wet from the red substance. His new lady wife watches his antics with the corner of her mouth turned downwards, eyes shining with the one thing that they share: disgust towards him.

She wishes to occupy herself with something—to cherish the last of freedom. It is too late, though. It has been too late for a long time.

It is a thunderous screeching that alerts them of their guest’s arrival first. All chatter dies in its echo, and the walls seem to shake from the booming noise. A large shadow crawls inside through the narrow windows, bathing the chamber in gloom. Darkness lasts only for a short moment, and yet her heart pounds wildly against her chest at the sight. Something cuts through the skies. Something wild and menacing.

Her heart stops.

Too late. It’s too late, and the realisation haunts her.

Stories about the second son of the late king have been spreading throughout the realm like wildfire since she remembers. She was just a girl when she heard of him first—and he just a boy who had lost an eye. Rarely ever was Prince Aemond’s name brought up in conversation without the purpose of retelling the story of his maiming, as though it was the only thing about him worthy of mention. Years passed, and throughout their length all that was remembered of the young prince was what he no longer possessed. What had been taken from him. A most hideous scar, they would call the mark of the past, stretched over the whole side of his face. A cripple, they’d name him.

Aemond One-Eye.

She supposes that he is now known as Aemond the Kinslayer.

This is war. War demands bloodshed. Time and time again, she has been told that women do not understand its vices, too delicate and fragile of hearts. It must be the truth. She doesn’t see how killing one’s own blood could ever be condoned nor understood, and yet such is the case now. This is what has become of the realm. It is a canvas ready to be painted in reds.

When she was younger, there were traces of sympathy flashing inside her heart. Sympathy for the boy who had been hurt by his own kin; sympathy for the man he could have grown to be, if only his injury hadn’t rendered him damaged. Prince Aemond Targaryen lived his life with a dark shadow clouding over his head, preventing him from rising above. Prince Aemond Targaryen nurtured bitterness and hatred, and when he erupted, the earth was bathed in innocent blood.

She is older now, and he is no longer a wounded boy, but a ruthless man. All remnants of past commiserations have been eradicated during a single storm.

Kinslayer.

When the murderer enters the hall, all she senses is cutting coldness. Silence grows suffocating; she breathes in and breathes out, and hopes she won’t choke on it. There is a heavy hand that comes to clutch her shoulder—her father’s. She can smell the wine; knows that it is him even without glancing sideways. His fingers dig into the flesh near her collarbone with a bruising force, and she interprets the message for what it truly is: a warning. Do not ruin this for us. Do not ruin this, or I’ll make you regret it.

And he would. She knows that he would. He possesses a brutish strength and not an ounce of mercy. His touch leaves raw imprints behind.

(An unknown abuser may yet prove less monstrous than the one she has known for all of her life. It is the same thing she’s been telling herself for the past weeks. If she repeated it enough times, would it become true? Or would it only serve as another lesson?

But oh, does she truly need to learn anything else? Hasn’t she learned enough? Is there more—always more, forever more? She cannot. She cannot.)

She has nothing to fear. There is a murderer in these very walls, and yet she fails to gather any of the dread she tasted on her tongue before. Footsteps echo through the hall, her heartbeat matching the rhythm with ease, and she stands with nothing but emptiness inside her chest. Even trepidation has abandoned her. She is hollow. Unresponsive.

When she curtsies, she does so without meeting the prince’s gaze. Her eyes are dropped to the ground, and there is hatred that flickers inside her mind, directed only at herself. She had sworn that she'd remain proud until the end of this farce, and yet here she is, scarcely toeing the line of the beginning and already cowering before him.

She catches sight of dark boots and black leather.

He is standing right before her.

Smoke fills her nostrils, heavy tendrils crawling down her throat and squeezing. She doesn’t let herself cough. Her eyes are molten. She keeps them lowered.

“My prince,” she says through gritted teeth, and the words coat her tongue in acidic aftertaste, foreign and foul and entirely unwanted.

Does he sense the bitterness that spills from her mouth? It is so heavy that she nearly chokes on it. Her lips must be stained with it. Stained crimson red. Stained gold and green.

“How good it is to welcome you into our home, Prince Aemond,” her father says, standing tall by her side. She feels him shift; his fingers curl around her elbow. “We are honoured to receive you.”

If he expects that she’ll add anything to this speech, he is wrong. She holds her tongue, even when her father’s grip turns vice, and stubbornly keeps her eyes downcast. There it is: a wet splotch on stone floors, right beside her feet. They shouldn’t have mopped them so many times.

The answer comes in a low hum, seconds or minutes or ages later. It is a soft sound—so soft that it nearly evades her ears. She catches it only through her own silence; only because her heart seems to have stopped, bathing her insides in dreadful hush. It dies in the cold air, and yet its remnants seem to cling to her skin, forming goosebumps in its wake.

Her hands shake. She tightens them into fists.

“My lord.” The Prince’s voice is not what she would’ve expected: gentle, velvet smooth. She knows that his gaze must be turned to her; her skin burns when he adds a low, “My lady.”

Lightning strikes outside the windows. It is storming again, and she wonders if it is a bad omen. It must be. She makes the mistake of raising her eyes towards the openings within stone walls, chasing the memory of the bolt, and then it happens.

Prince Aemond’s face is illuminated with the light of the nearest torch. The glow bathes him in golden hues, though the warmth does little to cut through the sharp lines of his features. He must be made of stone—there is polished blankness that shrouds his countenance, and it doesn’t falter under her gaze. With curious eyes, lost in the moment, she traverses the curve of his jaw; the sharp angles and porcelain-white skin. A leather patch keeps his eye covered, and there is an old, vertical scar peeking from beneath its confines. This is the mark that they spoke of. The mark that has shaped him into what he is.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer.

When his eye finds hers, she holds her breath. Violets and lilacs flicker in his gaze; it is endless fields of flowers underneath golden rays of sun. It is fire. Scorching flames.

She knows rot. She knows it, because her own heart has long gone into a state of decay. Rot rules everywhere that affection does not; everywhere that seeds of tenderness and care were never planted. It is this rot that she finds deep inside his eye: swelling, flaring up with each breath.

Perhaps the prince, too, has never been loved.

A beat slips by. Her heart rises to her throat. She counts seconds as they near a full minute, and all the while her eyes do not strain from his gaze, glazed over and stinging. It is a test—one she knows she must pass, though the reason why remains unclear. The prince seems to be searching for something; his eye turns intense, raining fire upon her flesh. He will leave her scorched. He will turn her to ash.

Time stretches and twists; warps into a distorted shape. It runs in circles and keeps her a prisoner suspended in its vicious grip. Wasn’t it storming outside? There’s nothing but a heavy silence now, foreboding and sweltering. There’s nothing but fiery purples.

Kinslayer. She has grown to anticipate the blow, forever prepared to bleed, and this habit does not dissipate now. He is a prince. The son of the king. The brother of the usurper. If he is not pleased with her, he will be free to inflict punishment upon her flesh and mind and soul in whatever ways he desires. Who would stop him? Certainly not her father, for he himself has been lost to blinding rage too many times. Certainly not her. Weakness runs thick in her blood. She may veil it with stubborn pride and determined gazes, but it will never wilt away.

For a short moment, lost within the depths of his eye, she almost thinks he will unsheathe his sword. That he’ll put its tip to her neck. That he’ll end this before it truly begins—cut through invisible shackles around her neck, taking her head clean off.

There is silence and dread and despair, and doesn’t he see the haunted look inside her eyes? Her lips remain frozen, but her gaze alone screams to him.

Do it, she urges him. Do it, or we will be eternally doomed.

He will. His eye burns and her chest heaves, and the blow is sure to come any moment now—

And then the corner of the dragon prince’s lips quirks, and her fate is sealed.

There is a beast nesting on the empty fields outside the castle.

She once owned a stallion the colour of pitch-black night, gifted to her on her tenth name day. He was a wild thing, forever untameable, deemed too aggressive to mount. No number of lashings or rewardings ever dissipated his fiery nature, and all that her father’s stable boys repeatedly ended up with were hands raised in defeat. A beast, they called him. A dangerous beast.

It took her over a year to gather strength and courage. It took three nights before the horse allowed her to even come close. In the end, she did mount him—amidst the dark murk of night, with only the moon and the stars watching from above. At this point, there was no one who paid her any mind, all remnants of care for her wellbeing long forgotten. It must have been the reason why no one ever noticed. She could have broken her neck or shattered her spine, and there would have been no witnesses. She rode the stallion until the moon gave way to the sun; rode him until she was breathless from exertion and satisfaction and utter, unbridled delight.

Mounting a dragon must have been much more arduous a task. It is a wonder it only cost the prince an eye. The expanse of scaled flesh is enormous enough to cover the entirety of the grounds within sight; greens of grass are replaced with a deeper, more subdued shade. She searches for the beginning and end of the creature, but yields upon only being able to distinguish the wings. They are torn in several places. The wounds must come from the past wars.

Vhagar. She once read a book about Old Valyria and its fruits—about Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, and the beasts they had ridden to take over the realm. The dragon laid upon the fields is a breathing piece of history. Her old scars carry the memories of the Conquest. Her eyes have seen things preserved only on paper.

She is every bit as mighty and breathtaking as she is described in many old tomes. Dangerous. Savage.

…asleep.

Of course, even a dragon sleeps, especially one this ancient. She wishes that she, too, could seek refuge from lucidity. The previous night was full of nightmares and sounds of rain, and she carries the testament of it in dark shadows underneath her eyes. Rest remains outside of her reach. Perhaps she is unworthy of it.

This is where she usually seeks solace: in the tower deemed haunted, long abandoned by all the residents. When she cannot sleep, she climbs the many stairs, rising to the highest point where the gaping holes between the pillars allow her to glimpse outside. She watches. Imagines herself somewhere amidst the fields—a different person, living a different life. She’s rather good at it: daydreaming. More often than not, this habit is what keeps her sane.

The tower isn’t truly haunted. If it were, one ghost or another might have pushed her from the window. She always stands close enough to fall. A step from dark abyss. Half a step, if she feels particularly brave about it.

Or perhaps it is, and the ghosts that do haunt it are not kind enough to put her out of her misery.

It doesn’t matter. The briefest sound that echoes from behind is not one made by any spirit.

The dragon prince may think himself sly, but she senses the weight of his gaze on the back of her spine immediately. It is much like the day before: fire nipping at her skin, spreading out in quick bursts. She stops herself from trembling. It will not do her any good to remain a lamb ready for slaughter—if the predator is permanently tempted, it will finally charge.

Her spine straightens; ears strain, searching for the sound of his footsteps. Prince Aemond is light on his feet, but she has spent too many nights anxiously waiting for her father to barge into her chambers in search for release from pent-up rage.

He smells of fire and rain. His scent fills her nostrils to the brim.

“She looks rather peaceful for a beast.”

Her own voice sounds strange to her ears, and she bites the inside of her cheek, hoping that the prince did not catch its waiver. This is the first time she spoke to him willingly—not prompted by politeness or bruising fingers atop her skin. Should she have bitten her tongue instead? Bowed her head and awaited him to break the silence first?

Right away, she regrets speaking at all. Will her words offend him? She knows little about the Targaryens, and even less about their dragons, but surely there is a strong bond between the two. Maybe beast is too strong a word. How else should she have described the being before her eyes, though? It’s an omen of death. It is death itself come to take them all.

Her expression hardens. She doesn’t care if she offends him.

The dragon prince moves forward upon her words, as though emboldened by the fact that she hasn’t sent him away or shrieked at the sight of him. Through the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the fabric of his cloak. He seems forever clad in leather, wearing it like armour. It is darker than night, even when sunlight shines upon its surface.

He is taller than her. Sharper. In some ways, Prince Aemond reminds her of a sword. If she were to touch him, she’s half-convinced her skin would be left bleeding, sliced through by the mere outline of him. This sharpness of his is a weapon. It keeps everyone repelled. The prince’s eye is focused on the sight before him; as expected, he stands with his good side on display, no doubt unwilling to let her glance at the scar any more than necessary.

“When she sleeps, perhaps,” he says, quietly and softly. “Vhagar hasn’t known much peace. She is a seasoned warrior.”

A warrior. A killer. Her jaws swallowed a boy of four and ten.

Kinslayer.

She gulps down a bile in her throat and waits for whatever comes next.

They should not be alone. For all her wishes to remain a person and not a possession, she has learned the customs of a marriage by heart. She knows the vows. She knows what happens once they’ve been exchanged. If her father’s wishes are granted, they will be wedded sooner rather than later—certainly not here, but in King’s Landing, blessed by the king himself. She will wear green, and then nothing, and then pain. She will be a wife and a mother, and never again a human. But they are not yet proclaimed betrothed, and she shouldn’t be standing with him in an abandoned tower without a chaperone.

Maybe they’ll catch them and accuse her of impurity. Maybe she will be spared, left to rot in these walls, left to die alone. Maybe, maybe, maybe—

“You don’t seem afraid.”

Her eyes turn to him.

Last night, he sat beside her father, sharing the wine and keeping his silence. He did not look at her once. He did not speak to her at all. She was glad for it, sat herself on the far end of the table, away from chatter and flattery and lickspittles. Her hands shook throughout the entire feast. It was the one indication of remnants of fear she could not control.

She is rid of it now. She must be. Fear will not save her.

“I only fear what I don’t know,” she answers, voice hollow, and doesn’t let her gaze falter. She wants him to feel its weight on his skin; wants him to shudder, bucking under the pressure of pure resentment. “This sight is rather clear.”

Prince Aemond glances at her—shortly, quickly, his eye averting straight away as though scorched by the sight. She watches his cheek twitch. It is the first time his stone-like face moves.

“Is it?” he muses, his voice unchanged.

Her ire grows flared.

She turns to him fully, abandoning the stretch of the landscape and the beast that disrupts it. “A prince barged into my father’s house with the rising of a war.”

She has been granted the right to dress herself this morning. The skirts that she buries her hands within are a dull shade of grey. She will never again wear her house’s colours—if gods are kind, though she doubts it, she won’t wear reds and greens, either. There is no self that she may cling to anymore. She is an empty shell. Grey canvas. Void.

Her spine aches. She straightens in an attempt to stand taller, eager not to be looked down upon. It does little to cut through the difference in their heights, and she catches a trace of amusement that flickers through his eye, gone in a blink.

The prince hums. She bites the inside of her cheek. Her throat is dry, but she must continue now that she’s started.

Mouth twisted in displeasure, she takes a breath. “He brought his warrior dragon, if only for the promise of retribution were his request to go unfulfilled.”

This seems to catch his interest. Briefly, Prince Aemond turns to face her, eyebrow arched. “Request?”

“Demand,” she corrects.

“A grotesque picture.”

“Do you dislike honesty?”

“I dislike exaggeration.”

She wants to scream. To step forward. She wishes she could grow wings of her own and flee this wretched place.

He knows nothing about grotesque things. His life has been filled with riches and freedom and power. A dragon. A spoiled princeling. Prince Aemond’s wrath needs not to be smothered; it comes in fire and blood and results in ashes. He is a man of violence—a man like her father. His heart is rotten.

“There is no way to paint this picture any less grotesque, my prince. Is it exaggeration to assume you’ve come to claim your first spoil of war?”

“You?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question.

“Me.”

The prince’s lip curves. He must be pleased with her misery.

“How presumptuous,” he murmurs quietly.

“But not untrue.” She tilts her head, watching the prince turn towards her again. “Or are you here for some other purpose?”

He isn’t.

King Aegon’s banners have been hung from many towers in these lands, ravens coming and going with a frequency that often left the skies shrouded in dark wings. It was only a matter of time before the demand for fealty reached these grounds. They have long anticipated it.

Her father will give him an army prepared to draw and shed blood; he’ll give him a daughter forced to spew out royal offspring. He will see this as a transaction—as an opportunity to rise above high lords who would dare think themselves his equals. War will tear throughout the realm, and all the while he himself will remain holed up in the safety of his castle, basking in newfound glory but unwilling to earn it. She will be the one to earn it for him. He’ll forget all about her before a moon passes, and she will spend the rest of her life selling herself to bring his name pride. Just another daughter. He has enough of those to no longer try to remember their names.

The prince seems to concede, for he says nothing. There is no satisfaction that comes with having won; she stands in the aftermath of her victory and feels nothing.

She wishes for another storm. Overcast skies seem to evoke the dragon prince’s wrath. If lightning struck, would he offer her the mercy of pushing her off the tower? No, she thinks. Prince Aemond does not appear to be particularly merciful. Perhaps, though, if he were to look at her face under the light of thunderbolts, he’d decide her unsightly. She is rather plain-featured—neither tall nor short, nor shapely enough for a woman. Any of her sisters would have made a better match for a prince of the realm.

She doubts he cares, though. Gods know that she doesn’t.

Prince Aemond rotates his body. They are now face to face. She sees all of him: violet eye and a leather patch and the scar, pink and red and greyish. Her breath catches. She hates that it catches. In another lifetime, she might have thought him striking. His is a regal kind of beauty—this much cannot be denied. He is all silver. It reminds her of the moon.

A murderer. A beautiful murderer.

Her chest heaves.

She must not fear.

“A spoil of war,” the prince echoes as though tasting the words on his own tongue, lips pulled upwards. His eye flashes to her face, its corner crinkling. Purple glints under the sunlight. “The lady has a proclivity to make statements she does not quite understand.”

“The lady,” she spits, gathering the last of her boldness, “understands enough to make such statements.”

Prince Aemond hums once more. “I’m sure you think so.”

“If you wish to correct me, my prince, you are free to do so. I am but an humble servant.”

A prisoner. A prey. More dead than alive.

They stand close enough together that it is improper, though she doesn’t recall the distance between them fading. Stray rays of sunlight keep them separated, bathing the leftover space in a warm glow. They will not breach it. He is clad in black, and she in grey, and none would dare to step into anything lighter. From here, she could count the little scars speckled on his face, silver like his hair. She could trace the length of his nose and find remnants of freckles he must have worn in his youth. She could, she could, she could. She won’t.

He lowers his face so that they’re closer. Like this, she cannot escape his gaze. The warmth of his breath. The eyepatch. The scar.

“My brother, the king, has sent me to receive your house’s pledge of allegiance. When given a task, I obey.” He is so close that even a whisper seems more like a scream. “Whatever comes next, I assure you that it will not be by my own choice.”

Like a willing victim, she holds his gaze, even when she wishes to flee from its fire. It does not get any easier. She tingles all over.

“You’re a prince,” she murmurs quietly, and though she doesn’t mean it, the words sound like both an accusation and begging.

“A prince carries the burden of duty no less than a lady does.”

“Then it would seem that both of us are equally chained.”

Only they aren’t. It is an attempt at blissful ignorance to pretend it to be true. He is a prince, and a dragon rider, and a murderer. If he wishes to, he can rid himself from the burden in a swift manner, be it through a sword or through fire.

Why won’t he? Why, why, why?

She doesn’t understand. He was supposed to be a cold-blooded murderer. She searches for traces of violence in his eye, desperate to catch even a glimpse of it, and finds nothing.

(He must have deemed her undeserving of his wrath. It only makes sense. Her own has abandoned her long ago.)

If he wishes to say anything in response, he chooses to instead swallow the words. It is for the best. Whatever they may have been, she has no desire to hear them.

Silence is heavy. It cuts through her skin and her bones, sinking into the cavity of her chest like a burden she must carry. Her eyes return to the lands outside—to the beast sprawled out on the grass. Do dragons have hearts? They must, she thinks. Even such beasts must have them. No being is spared from the curse of being able to hurt.

Cold air bites her cheeks. Her fingers are long frozen. Her own heart beats a steady tune, no longer frantic with anxiety. Breathing is a little easier.

Perhaps she’ll get used to it. To him. To the shackles.

Just before Prince Aemond disappears behind the entrance, she allows herself to speak. “Has the king decided when we are to be wedded?”

He doesn’t look back. “Not until the war ends.”

Good. She hopes that he does not survive it.

There is no one in the courtyard to bid her farewell.

In search of the last remnants of comfort, she wraps the black cloak tighter around her body. The raging storms of the past days have ended, smothered by sunlight. The skies are clear. It is a warm morning, and yet she feels as though she were freezing to death. Her eyes sweep across the yard once, twice, three times—and drop to the ground when they find nothing.

She has no disappointments left in her. She’s long since exhausted them all.

A week has passed since Prince Aemond’s arrival, and since every single day stretched out into an unbearable length, she is glad that it has finally come to end. They have gone by with constant noise, be it false cheers and flattery or too-loud music. She is sure that all the wine has run out. The dragon prince endured the continuous feasting with composure worthy of praise before getting sick of it—he must have decided it a sufficient period of time before their imminent departure, for he was quick to announce it the day before. She is not sure whether such short notice eased her anxiety or fuelled it. Her hands never seem to stop shaking.

One last time, she traverses the expanse of familiar stone. These walls have watched her grow up. They’ve been a witness to her laughter and tears; to the cries she buried deep inside her chest. She has endured years of suffering, and has learned not to let her pain show. This place has shaped her. It planted seeds of anger and bitterness that have blossomed into her being.

If she leaves, she will never return.

It is a kinder fate. Or maybe it isn’t. She would die here—forgotten, not mourned, reduced to insignificant bones once covered in insignificant flesh. She will die there. It is imminent. Such is her fate. She welcomes it with longing and fear and emptiness.

“Do you wish to travel on dragonback, my lady?”

She turns towards his voice, though she wishes she didn’t. Prince Aemond strides in her direction in quick motion, hands neatly folded behind his back, head held high. He is made of silvers and whites and always, always blacks. There is something inside his eye that wasn’t there before, and though she knows that she shouldn’t let herself get lost, her eyes sink deep into the prince’s skin as they search for meaning.

He must be mocking her. She wasn’t made to rise any higher than the solid ground beneath her feet. She is a creature of no importance; a worthless soul caged inside a worthless body. Her lip twists in displeasure; she may be plain and common, but the dragon prince’s jeers have no right to be made.

The carriage doesn’t bring any promises of comfortable travels, but she’d rather suffer from an aching spine than endure the prince’s close proximity. She’d surely choke on his scent; burn from the heat of his body. Would he hold her close? Would he push her off the scaled beast once they’ve ascended above clouds? Her eyes search his, but she finds no answers. She didn’t think she would. More often than not, gazing into the prince’s one eye leaves her with only another onslaught of questions.

Prince Aemond is quick to recognise the rejection. In truth, she thinks he never expected her to agree. He nods to himself and doesn’t meet her eyes again. It is for the best. She is tired of burning.

“I hope your nights are warm and peaceful,” he murmurs before he stalks away.

She hopes that he’ll slip from his saddle and fall from the skies.

One last look. Just one.

All of it is just stone.

In farewell, she spits on the ground. Nothing happens. It is not sacred. Bitterness remains on her tongue.

Her palms are bleeding from the way she’s been sinking her nails into flesh. She gathers her skirts in one hand and climbs the wooden steps to the carriage. They groan beneath her feet. So does the seat she plants herself upon. Her heart pounds and then stops and she cannot breathe, and still death does not come. Wouldn’t it be a kinder fate to die here? Die before she has gone forth?

Skies darken. It will be raining again.

She leaves the walls she has bled in behind. She will now bleed elsewhere. Somewhere foreign. Somewhere colder.

[cherryswisherz]

triggered

jana x oc

warnings: oc is going through a breakup

get it the fuck together jaz. lock. in. 

staring into the mirror, i study every aspect of my face. my curls flow down my back. my face is beat to perfection. the jewelry i have on costs more than my rent. 

i should be ecstatic.

i'm living every girls dream. 

there are 5000 people outside this bathroom door, chanting my name, waiting for me to give them memories they'll die with. 

and yet i'm in here, staring at myself, fighting the urge to say fuck this shit and go home. 

my phone dings, and i ignore it, thinking it's my manager, telling me i need to haul ass and get on stage. 

but then it dings again. 

holly never texts twice. 

i pull out my phone and it's paige. 

i forgot she's here. 

paigey be you. be great.

oh fuck her for that. 

now i have  to go on. 

with a sigh, and a quick tune up in the mirror, i open the door, march to the stage entrance and wait for my que. 

the music starts and i walk with all the confidence i can muster and smile at the deafening screams of my name. 

jazmin! jazmin! jazmin!

paige is front and center, with all her teammates and azzi. 

i used to be the number one pazzi shipper. i fought for this relationship to happen. i practically shoved paige out of the closet myself so that she and azzi could be together. 

and now here they are with my face on their shirts and holding each other in their arms and i want to throw up. 

not because i don't want them together, but because seeing that makes the loneliness in my chest seem bigger. 

i don't even really miss her.  i just miss having someone to call at 3 am when i can't sleep. i miss having someone to call first when i get news. i miss having someone to hold. 

i guess you could say i miss being in a relationship, rather than the person i was in a relationship with. 

"hey guys !" i yell into the mic, and everyone screams. "thank you all for coming out today, i love you all so much!" the crowd is deafening. "i wanna give special shout out to my sister, paige and the other members of the UCONN womens basketball team for being hear today!" the camera pans to paige and the girls, and i do a double take when i see a girl around my age, towering over everyone else. "i love you paigey!" the crowd goes wild. 

the concert began and i used my show to work through all the mixed emotions i was feeling, bringing my audience with me through them. 

we danced during my verse on my type. laughed during b.s. . cried during none of your concern.

and after an hour and 30 minutes of singing, dancing, crying, and yapping between songs, the concert was over. 

and i could a breathe again. 

until i was bombarded by my 6'1 sister and her ginormous friends. 

everyone told me how amazing i look and sound and how they listen to my music everyday. these are things i hear everyday so i say the same response i say everyday. 

"thank you so much." 

"aye we're boutta go to a club, you trynna roll with us?" paige asked, rubbing her hands together and looking at her girlfriend, who i'm just now realizing is wearing a semi-skimpy outfit. 

so is everyone else, actually. 

and now they're looking at me like i can't say no. 

so i don't. 

"uh yeah!" i chuckle uncomfortably. "just let me change real quick."

*luh time skip*

i'm actually glad i came out. 

we got a section. bottles galore. music is booming. 

the vibes are actually immaculate. i'm two shots in and kk is twerking in my lap as big boogie talks about taking caramel colored baddie to poundtown. we vibing for real. 

i've learned the beautiful girl from earlier is named jana. she doesn't really talk, and i guess she'd too young to drink because she's been babysitting ginger ale all night. 

"i'm gonna go get a bottle of casamingo!" i annouce, bouncing up from the counch and stomping down the stair of our section. 

when i reach the bar, i pay the bartender and wait for my bottle. but while i'm waiting i hear my name being called and i assume it's a fan, so i turn around with a huge smile, only to be slapped in the face with the sight of my ex-girlfriend, kristen.

she looks exactly the same as she did three weeks ago when we broke up. and for some reason that pisses me off. it makes my blood boil and my breath quicken. 

i'm ripped out of my trance when i hear the dj yell, "WE GOT JAZMIN INNA HOUSE!!!" 

fuck. he's gonna make me sing. 

"COME UP AND GIVE SOMETHING GIRL!" he shouts and everyone screams in agreement. 

in a daze, i walk to the stage and grab the mic. 

everyone chants, 

freestyle freestyle freestyle

and then the dj, who i'm beginning to really fucking hate, plays a beat i've never heard before, leaving me not knowing what the fuck to do. 

i look to our section, and see my sister with her phone up, recording. i see azzi giving me thumbs up like the sweetheart she is. i see kk clapping and cheering with everyone else. 

i see jana, with a look of fear in her eyes. 

like she can tell that i'm freaking fuck out, so she is too. 

but i can't go out like this. 

so i catch the beat, and sing whatever comes to mind. 

saying everything that's been on my mind for weeks now. 

"go figure you were the trigger you brought me to an obstructed view when you knew the picture was bigger who am i kiddin? knew from the beginnin you'd ruin everything you do it everytime you are my enemy, you are no friend of mine, muhfucka"

the crowd is loving it, swaying their flashlights to the music. paige looks so proud of me. she knows how i've been struggling since everything happened so i think she knows what a release this is. 

i look over to kristen who looks delectable, like always and it's pissing me off because the sex was great, but everything else sucked. but it's been so fucking long and i know that if i had 5 minutes to talk to her earlier i would have been back at square one in that toxic cycle of fucking and making up. 

"wanna fuck you right now i just turned the light out know and you know when the sun go down that's when it would all go down been a minute been a while ain't let nobody hit since you hit it i know you always know what to do with it but ain't no me and you without you in it damn i'm boutta burn this bitch down think i need to lie down cause i'm not trynna wild out now. but right now..."

i think of the screaming matches. the broken phone. the hole in my wall.

"don't know what i'm capable of might fuck around and go crazy on cuz might fuck around have to pay me in blood this ain't the way that you want it might catch a case in this bitch don't let m catch you face t face in this bitch trying my hardest not to disrespect you but after what you did, man what you expect? you muhfucka"

i find jana in the crowd because her face is so calming to me, and i don't know why. her eyes are closed and she's just vibing with a small smile on her face. 

she's not recording or anything, she's just enjoying the moment, and that warms my heart. 

"trynna let the time fly trynna let the time go by trynna let the time heal all trynna let the time kill all of our memories all you meant to me all that's history i'll calm down eventually fall back into me maybe i'm overeacting baby i don't know what happened you know all of my bad habits you know it's hard for me to control that shit man cuz when i get mad i get big mad shoulda never did that, get back in my bag in my feelings i'm a bad lil bitch and uh-"

i look back to kristen, who's wearing a pained expression on her face. 

good.

she know it's about her. 

"i'm triggered, when i see your face triggered when i hear your name triggered, i am not okay you need to stay out my what triggered when i hear your name triggered i am not okay you need to stay out my way." 

and then it's over, and the crowd cheers, and i hurry off the stage, back to my section where my friends all hug me and tell me that it was beautiful. 

and when the crowd settles, and i've taken another shot, because i felt entirely too sober, someone taps me on my shoulder. 

it's jana.

"can i get your number?"

"huh?" i ask confused as to why she'd want my number. 

"uh..." she looks around for a second. "i just wanna pay you back for the bottle."

jana hasn't been drinking.. why would she need to pa-

a light bulb goes off in my head and it all come together. 

"here." i hold my phone to hers and our contacts share to each other. 

am i ready for this?

probably not.

but.... we gotta start somewhere right?

niyah speaks lawd they got me writing a seriessss

taglist: @patscorner @riyahtheballer @mattslolita @thaatdigitaldiary @janaelalfysblunt @mrsengstler @kmoneymartini @sageworld

@darkskinchristiandiorpostergirl @justliketoreadsowhat @pboogerswbb @pb524830 @dnftpn @sierrale8ne @ohbueckers @mrsarnold @wbbgetsmewetter @paigesbabygirl @ch12334

@pppaaiiiggggeeeeee @uwupaige @paigeluvvr @colorthecosmos444 @authentic-girl03 @makethemhoesmad

[lavenlady]

⛓︎ Caged Bird ⛓︎

Tf one Yan!reader x Sentinel Prime

part 2

( I have never really seen a yandere reader or I'm just blind, but I have decided to write it anyway. Enjoy :3 )

TW : yandere behaviour, kidnapping, non-con(?), unhealthy relationship, forced relationship, toxic relationship, character death

ꗃ As one of the miners, you loved Sentinel Prime

ꗃ Chanting his name whenever he appeared, buying merch of said hero, even wanting to be in Iacon races just for him to give high-fives to the audience - you deeply wanting to be one of them

ꗃ Noone really batted at eye when you too came to love the Prime, everyone loves him!

ꗃ Noone really knew that you took it to the extreme, growing so found of the Prime that you learned to sneak of work - you thanked Orion Pax for tips - just to see him from afar and admire stalk or even protect

ꗃ Some bot went missing? Probably an accident. A miner didn't leave mines in time? Well, it was their fault. Some equipment blew up and hurt someone? They should have been more careful

ꗃ Your obsession was deep and formed so early on that you learned how to mask it, everyone saw you as an ordinary fellow miner with two unusual friends - Orion Pax and D-16 - and a common fascination with Sentinel Prime

ꗃ Thanks to your friendship you got dragged into their mess

ꗃ After the race you went to check on your friends

ꗃ How delighted you were when Sentinel Prime congratulated them and even shook your servo

ꗃ You never wanted to wash it after, wanting his touch to linger as long as it could

ꗃ Then your superior - Darkwing - threw you to 50-sub level

ꗃ You all meeting B-127 and going to the surface after finding a message to try and find the Matrix, somehow Elita-1 tagged along

ꗃ You all learning the truth, while your friends argued, you were sitting silently and thinking

ꗃ As stated above you are a protective, worshipping yandere, now add delusional and deranged to that mix, even worse - you were quite intelligent

ꗃ Sentinel couldn't really want to kill the Primes - at least not willingly - right?

ꗃ Your mind set - you were going to punish him for his crimes... but with a little twist, you couldn't really let him leave you, you didn't want your devotion go all to waste

ꗃ You were simply going to show him your love obsession

ꗃ You just had to work smart - like you always do

ꗃ You all were taken by the High Guard and later Sentinel's guards appeared

ꗃ You managed to not get captured and helped Orion with revealing the truth, and ofc ramming the train into Sentinel's tower

ꗃ Then the fight happened

ꗃ D-16 shoots Orion and rips Sentinel in half

ꗃ Orion returns as Optimus Prime and banishes D-16, now turned Megatron

ꗃ Everyone was happy that the treachery of Sentinel came to an end

ꗃ You on the other end were nowhere to be seen... and so was Sentinel's body

ꗃ Gaining some medical skills in the mines helped you to somehow keep Sentinel online and let you protect control him

ꗃ You really wanted to give him back his lower half, but first he had to earn it

ꗃ At first Sentinel was sure someone will know he was trapped with you, it's not like you could hide it that well and soon he would be saved or taken to prison... right?

ꗃ You would disappear for long periods of time and return to him, telling him about your day and always have a gift for him - imagine his terror when you managed to get to Arachnid without being spotted and noone really seeing it until it was to late - her mangled frame infront of him, one of his best and loyal warriors completely destroyed to the point that if he didn't know her, he wouldn't recognise the corpse

ꗃ He tried to escape - he really did, but the punishments following it were brutal and hurt each time more than before, being kept here like a caged bird with noone but himself to try and break free was a nightmare

ꗃ Gaining the rest of his frame was a relief but at the same time a curse, now having no cog and no means to transport, he was still stuck with a worshipping, delusional, deranged and overprotective yandere with noone to know he was still there - he preferred rather to die than live like this, but he had no say in the matter, he didn't exist anymore to the living

" Don't worry sweetspark, those disgusting Quintessons can't tell you what to do anymore, now you have me to protect, pamper and care for you! Isn't it amazing? Now you are finally free with me by your side! Forever! "

□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□

( Master list )

(Don't be afraid to request :3)

[itsthatmff]

Watching you win a fight ||| Monster Trio, Ace

Just something i came up with out of boredom.

She/her pronouns used.

Requests are open anytime !

Luffy

“Woaah, that’s my Y/N !!”

Would be super happy and proud of you, like actually

Wouldn’t stop bragging to the other straw hats about how you beat that enemies ass

After fighting his own enemy he’d come rushing to you thinking you’d need some help beating yours, but when he sees the enemy knocked out, and you standing there heavily breathing, His face would brighten up so much.

“You actually beat him Y/N !! You’re so cool. You didn’t even need any help” he’d come up to you with the brightest grin on earth.

He’d keep on complimenting you about how well you’ve done, and he’d ask you to tell him about the entire fight in detail.

If you think he’d leave you alone and stop talking about it, you’re wrong. Dude mumbles how amazing you fought even in his sleep.

Even though he’s obviously much stronger than you, he kinda looks up to you when it comes to fighting.

Zoro

“Care fighting me next?”

The fact that you beat a super strong enemy all by yourself made you 100 times more attractive than you were before to Zoro.

Good looking AND can fight ?? Thats like a Win-Win right there.

And the way you were still looking so beautiful even with bruises and blood on your face and body, made his heart skip a beat ngl.

You both would be fighting in the same spot, and sometimes he’d turn around to check on how you were doing with the enemy. Seeing you finally defeat the enemy all by yourself would put a big smirk on his face that he couldn’t hide for gods sake.

Wouldn’t even hide how impressed he was, as when it comes to his passions , like fighting for example, he can’t help but butt in and give his opinion.

“You did really well.”

He’d be kinda shook even, especially if its his first time watching you fight. The way you recklessly knocked out others made his crush just grow bigger.

He’d jokingly say to fight him next. Which is just another way of him saying “you’re actually making me fall in love with you.”

He would NOT forget that fight of yours ever. Sometimes when he tries to take a nap, he likes to envision how attractive you looked in that fight.

He definetly respected you before, but now his respect towards you increased by thousands.

Sanji

“Y/N-swaan, punch me next <3”

Sanji.exe stopped working

He’d probably be midst in a fight, then he’d turn around for a second to catch you in his sight. The torn bloody clothes were enough for him to drop the cigarette between his mouth.

He’d probably tell his enemy to shut up and let him watch the fight in peace.

Would be supportive 100%. Like he’d be yelling as if he were in an audience.

Would make a fan chant. Like duh, he’s your number 1 Fan

After the fight he’d make an extra special meal for you, saying how you “fought so hard” to deserve it. (The other crew members wont even get to taste a single drop, he’ll make sure of it)

He’d probably randomly ask you to hit him afterwards. I feel like he’d be into that 💀.

Ace

“That’s so hot. Not me, I mean you.”

If it’s the first time he’s seeing you beat up an enemy, he’d be flabbergasted. Is there something you can’t do at this point ??

He’d quietly watch you, with a wide grin. Once you’re done and turn around to face him, the coolness in him fades away. Your serious face and the scarred clothes swoon him instantly, and his face turns pretty red.

Poor man would be stuttering and struggling to even get a word out. He’d catch a chance and treat you out to dinner though. Not before checking in with a doctor to see if you have any severe wounds.

He loves the fact that you’re such a strong and independent woman. Just thinking about it makes his stomach turn 360 degrees.

He knows you can protect yourself, but if you somehow still get hurt, he’ll turn MAD mad. He’d skewer whoever hurt you for dinner.

100 % will praise you after beating an enemy as a boyfriend. Sometimes he’ll hug you and fall asleep with his face on your shoulder whilst praising you, so he’ll mumble some words like “well done princess” WHILE HES SLEEPING, IN A FIGHT. that definetly confuses most enemies that are supposed to be fighting with ace at that moment.

Loves imagining you saving him from a fight. He’d be staring holes at the kitchen counter just thinking about it.

The type of guy to just sit back and watch others getting their ass beaten by his girlfriend for fun.

[linkito]

Kiss prompt #10 desperately for Scarian <3

this went in a direction i didnt expect so hopefully it's enjoyable<3 also ft. a very scribbly doodle at the end

Scar tilts his head, baring his neck in offering to Grian’s blade. His words almost don’t register to Grian. 

"You may slay me—"

And he was about to, wasn’t he? He already struck Scar once, only hesitating because of the man’s clear unwillingness to strike back. Why wouldn’t he fight back?? 

Nothing stopped Scar before, when a stupid piece of paper escaped Grian’s grasp. 

After everything they’d been through, nothing stopped him then, so why now?

Why is Scar smiling, laying down his life for Grian like it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made?

“I can’t,” Grian stammers. “I literally can’t.” His  sword slips from his grasp, cutting a thin slice down Scar’s neck as it falls. Scar doesn’t as much as flinch. 

His eyes do travel upward, however, a weakly hopeful look flickering across the crimson red. “Oh,” is all he says at first, as if he still doesn’t believe what Grian said.

Grian doesn’t either, to be honest.

Not because it isn’t true, but because it ultimately might not be up to him. 

He’s heard them— the voices of players passed. Their cacophonous rage has been blaring in Grian’s ears from the moment he awoke on his last life. A symphony of violence calling for blood, for an end to this nightmare.

The spectators want a fight.

They want blood. A victor. An end.

“Then—“ Scar says tentatively, that hope still alive and blazing behind his red eyes— eyes that should crave violence, not— “do you want to fix the sand castle? Can we… can we win together?”

Grian can hear the symphony rise, a unanimous no ringing through the air, suffocating Grian where he stands. They won’t have it. The ghosts won’t allow it. But—

Grian’s legs buckle, falling to his knees before Scar, meeting him down at his level. Scar’s hands hover on either side of him, worried he may faint. The gesture isn’t lost on Grian, that Scar was still ready to catch him if he were to fall. 

It only makes everything hurt that much more.

Fight, fight, fight, FIGHT.

Their chanting is relentless and Grian looks up at Scar with such fear, he— can Scar not hear them? Does he not feel the pull? The call for death and destruction?

Or perhaps Scar grew numb to it long ago.

“Scar…” Grian says, his voice hoarse, entirely drowned out by the grating shrieks of those they have killed. 

Scar’s hands are on him in an instant, fingers threaded through his feathered ears, sheltering him from the cacophony. “Shhhh,” he says, and against all logic, the chorus subsides, merely a whisper carried along the ripples of the pond. 

With what little clarity Grian can grasp in the momentary silence, he grasps onto Scar the same way, hands tangled in his hair, palms covering his ears— urgent and desperate— and he pulls. 

While he can still hear the rapid heartbeat in his throat, Grian kisses Scar with all the sanity he has left, taking this moment for them alone— no care for the audience they never asked to have. No trace of violence they never asked to embrace. 

Just lips against his, passionate and dear, loving and anguished— something urgent, yet drawn out, neither of them willing to part, the awareness of what is to come burning at their insides. 

Please.

Not yet.

[elisysd]

Epilogue

Masterlist - Previously

Monaco - May 2024

“Charles Leclerc is the Monaco Grand Prix winner!” 

The room erupted in cheers and cries. Hugs were met in awkward embraces while tears were streaming down his loved ones faces. Years of hard work and sacrifices finally paid off. And it was so worth it. He could feel his own tears on his cheeks but he didn’t care. That win mattered more than any others. Frantically he searched for his team on the side and ran towards them. Arthur was crying, Lorenzo was not far from doing so, Joris was a happy mess, Andrea was beaming with pride but the only face that truly mattered to him was so far in the back that the only thing he could notice was the hair and the sunglasses perched above. He tried to tell everyone to move so you could make your way to him but no one was hearing him and far too soon he was dragged away from the red sea acclaiming him like the hometown hero he was. 

On the podium, he tried to engrave every sensation he was feeling. The sun on his face, the cool breeze making its way under the monegasque flag resting around his shoulders, the applause and chants from the crowd. When he opened his eyes, he met almost immediately yours. You were there, next to his mom who was keeping her hand in yours. You had cried and maybe you were still doing so. 

It hadn’t been a walk in the park for both of you since Abu Dhabi. You had moved back to Paris and had been swamped by work and opportunities. The podcast had taken off very well and you knew you partly had Charles to thank for that. It was going on so well that your old boss had come crawling back to you, trying to persuade you to sell the projects to the channel so it could have a broader audience. You politely declined the offer but not without asking Jean and Marion if they were interested in working with you. Your new goal was to expand the coverage to Formula 2 and Formula 3. Moto GP was also a target, but you couldn’t do it on your own, especially since Susie Wolff had offered you to partner with the F1 Academy. And besides the podcast, you also had a Youtube channel where you were broadcasting reports and soon a website. A lot of work that you couldn’t achieve all alone. Jean and Marion hadn’t given a lot of thought to the project, accepting almost immediately, eager and enthusiastic to work with you again. 

Needless to say that you had barely enough time for your personal life. But it didn’t matter, you were managing it. Whenever Charles had time, he was coming to Paris and you were trying your best to fit him in your schedule. Your relationship with Charles was going slowly but you both didn’t mind. You were taking your time, truly getting to know one another in every way possible to the point that now you could say you were knowing his soul by heart. And he could say the same about you. All was well. 

You were waiting near the hospitality where Charles was going to arrive any minute now. You couldn’t wait to see him, especially since you had good news to tell him. You had kept it for yourself for a while now, waiting for the right opportunity to tell him. If Monaco was working out, it would have been an added bonus and if it didn’t, it would have been nice comforting news. You were glad it was the first option. 

He finally came through the door, hair a mess and his trophy firmly pressed against his chest. 

“Congrats, champ!” you said as you put a hand on his cheek.

“I did it. I finally did it. Can you believe it?”

“I do. Because I always had faith in you and in your talent.”

“Not always,” he winked, giving you a slow kiss, shushing you as you were about to reply.

“I have something to tell you,” you slowly said, both hands laid flat against his chest as you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in. 

Charles took your hands in his, guiding you towards the sofa as he gave you a worried look. 

“It’s not bad,” you quickly reassured him. “On the contrary, I think it will make you happy,” you paused before continuing. “With how much the podcast and everything revolving around it grows, I thought it was time to search for offices. That way, it will be easier to separate my professional life with the personal one. I need it. And maybe it will be the occasion to recruit some new people. And I found ones which I really loved. I signed the lease on Friday, so I guess it is official.”

Charles gulped, unsure of what to say. On one hand, he was happy for you, truly. He loved seeing you going for things you were passionate about. But at the same time, it was hard to see you building your life so far away from him.

“I’m glad, that’s nice,” he managed to say. 

“Yeah, and I’m sure you will love them.”

“I have no doubt. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to travel to Paris to see them, though.”

“That’s a good thing, they are in Monaco, then,” you winked as his mouth was opening and closing in disbelief. 

“Monaco? But… how? Why? When?”

“Because I wanna get closer to you. I want to see you more and have more time for us. I think that if I’m there, it will be easier to find the right balance. As much as I don’t like the idea of delegating, I know that I need to. And if it results from being by your side more than a few days a month, then I think it’s only right to take that step. And who doesn’t want to have a view of the sea from the office?” 

Charles was at a loss for words. He had so many questions to ask but didn’t know where to start. 

“So you’re leaving Paris?”

“I do. I found an apartment in Menton. And who knows, if everything goes to plan, maybe in a few months, we can move in together.”

It was not the first time the subject was dropping but you had quickly come to an agreement that you both needed to find the right pace in your relationship and as long as you were comfortable by being the way you were, there was no need to rush anything. And as you both had discussed it, the day you would move in together, it would be in a neutral place where no bad and bitter memories were living in the walls. 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he asked, stars in his eyes, cradling your face. 

“I know, I am. But I can only be amazing if you are as well. And you, Charles Leclerc, you are the most perfectly imperfect man I’ve come across. I love you today, tomorrow and for as long as you will want me.”

“Then, I hope you are ready for forever,” he smiled. 

“Even forever doesn’t seem long enough.”

Author's note: What a ride it has been but the final word has been written down. Again, thank you for everything and your support. Genuinely, I think that if you hadn't been there motivating me, this story wouldn't have been finished and I would have given up a long time ago. So thanks you. This story is more yours than it ever been mine. Thank you for bearing with me and the messy schedule upload. Until next time and until then, I will take a few weeks of rest while preparing the next story. I'll post snippet soon.

Don't hesitate to leave a comment or an ask, as well as reblogging and leaving a like. Besides the fact that I absolutely love to read you, it helps a lot for the story to find its audience. I also have a taglist for this story, so if you want to be added so you never miss a chapter, let me know.

If you wanna be part of the taglist, let me know.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @thirstylion @cmleitora @charizznorizz @sltwins @boherahpsody @herondalism @roseamongthorns13 @aundercover @snowflakesfluff @fictional-l0v3r @queensassybitchsworld @jehun @reengard @valntynebaby @janeh22

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[thebisexualdogdad]

John Constantine x male!reader x Zatanna Zatara headcanons

*Matt Ryan as Constantine and Jade Tailor as Zatanna*

● 3 magicians/occultists sure make for a hell of an interesting relationship

● traveling around the world keeping the paranormal and supernatural at bay

● and always enjoying a good drink at the end of the day

● or before noon if it's just that kind of day

● which it often is because exorcisms can take a lot out of you

● going to Zatanna's magic shows and proudly cheering her on from the front row

● and always volunteering yourselves when she asks for audience participation

● John still gets a kick whenever she cuts him half

● when you or John annoy Zatanna she just casually drops a spell to turn you guys into rabbits

● "what did we do this time??"

● "you guys ate my leftovers again that I clearly labeled were mine!"

● Zatanna also has to stop you and John from doing stupid shit like when you drunkenly dare each other to try on doctor fates helmet

● "come on Z we weren't really gonna do it… again"

● Zatanna is extremely protective of her boys

● you've seen a lot of scary demons in your day but none are more terrifying than Zatanna when you or John are in danger

● John taking you and Zatanna to punk shows

● Zatanna pushing John into a mosh pit as a joke but he actually had a blast

● "bloody hell loves did you see that! That was awesome!!"

● stealing John's trench coat to mess with him

● "I would be mad because no one touches my coat but damn do you look good in it"

● and then one time you did a spell to swap John's and Zatannas outfit

● John was loving it "I mean it's a little tight on the boys but my ass sure looks good" he says as he's proudly checking himself out

● you've been banned from pretty much every movie theater because of John talking during the movie

● "he's the killer it's so obvious" he says as he throws popcorn at the screen

● "how can I be disturbing the other guests when this movie is bloody garbage!" He yells as you three are being escorted out by the usher

● it's not uncommon for one of you to find your partners surrounded by old books

● "what are we dealing with this time?"

● "not sure yet but in the last month there's been four mysterious deaths in Louisiana that we need to go check out"

● "I'll call Abby to see if she and alec can meet up with us, maybe they've heard something"

● "not that bloke again, he smells like a damn swamp"

● "John..."

● taking turns on who gets to be in the middle when you sleep

● but John always has to be the little spoon

● he refuses to be anything but the little spoon especially after sex

● and damn is the sex good

● using spells to make sex last all night long

● along with magically enhanced sex toys

● like self binding scarves

● magical wax that alternates between being hot and cold for the ultimate temp play

● or John being able to feel you inside him while you're fucking Zatanna

● Zatanna chanting spells that makes your bed float into the air

● you and John are sure to keep Zatanna thoroughly satisfied

● and Zatanna knows her way around a strap whenever she's in the mood to top you two

● John loves it when he gets a good pounding from both you and Zatanna

● and he will happily take one of you in his mouth while the other rails his ass

● lots of adrenaline filled sex after jobs go wrong and one of you nearly dies

● and pulling over to the side of the road to have sex in your car mid road trip to your next job after two of you have been fooling around in the backseat or one of you teasing the driver from the passenger seat

● so much sex around your magical safehouse in Atlanta

● which occasionally results in the unleashing of evil spirits when you accidentally knock over an mystical artifact

● "Oh that could have been really bad"

● "yeah we really dodged a bullet there but can you get back to going down on me now"

[ggukkiedae]

MIYA Kicks of Her Solo Tour, and I Went to All Three Days in Seoul

By: Shin Yeseul || 11:30 AM || June 17, 2024

MIYA started her tour “Headliner 2024” with three days in Jamsil Olympic Stadium!

Back in 2017, I wasn’t an ARMY, but I randomly ran into Miya. We talked for a bit, and her personality made me want to check out her music. Since then, I became a fan, and I managed to get tickets to all three days of the Initial Seoul stop with the help of my friend Yongsun (I love you, thank you).

I’m here to share my experience on day 1.

First of all, her stage outfits were amazing! My favorite was her act 2 outfit, which she posted on her Instagram account. I’ve included some photos in the cover of this blog post!

Before the concert even began, music videos were playing! Not just her music videos, but also BTS music videos! Although, as a Czennie as well, I’d have to say seeing the video of Miya and Mark’s SM Station both surprised me and made me sad (I miss them as a couple T.T).

Aside from the usual guidelines and lightstick connecting videos, there was a notice shown on the screens every now and then about 45% of the ticket and merchandise sales from “Headliner 2024” would go to medical and relief missions to help the people of Palestine, just like she said in her live a week prior to the concert.

At 6PM precisely, the lights turned off and the opening VCR started. It was insane, it showed some of the biggest scandals she was victim to from the early petition to remove her all the way to the last name fiasco. Then it showed her solo debut and all her achievements as a soloist and a producer, composer, music engineer, and lyricist.

Then the first act started. It began with “My House”, the first “Oh” playing without music and Miya’s silhouette appeared. There was a pause, and chills went through me as everyone’s cheers grew louder. There was the musicless chant of “Who they came to see? Me!” with the white cloth coming down at the word “me” and revealing Miya. There was another moment of silence. Goosebumps rose on my skin as she scanned the crowd. Then, the moment she smirked, the music started up again. No words can express how exhilarating the opening felt. “My House” is definitely the best song to start off a concert titled “Headliner 2024”.

She gave a ment after “My House” to welcome everyone to the tour, then finished the act with “Picture”, “Play”, another ment, “Drama”, then “Holy Moly” before the lights turned off for the next VCR to play.

The VCR started with news outlets discussing her change in “Blood, Sweat, and Tears”, saying she’d be better off not going into sexy concepts. It was at that moment that we all knew the next act would be the more recent songs. We were right. The VCR showed the reactions to her Chapter 2 Comebacks with the more mature concepts.

Act 2, which had my favorite outfit, began with low pink lighting and “bet u wanna” and “got her own”. Her ment was quicker, joking around about making sure minors who came to her concert had either their parent’s consent or a guardian with them. She continued the act with “7 rings”, “b.i.t.c.h.”, and crowd favorite “bloodline”. This act had her more interacting with the audience in comparison to Act 1 that was solely performance.

The next VCR began, this time showing netizens’ comments about how she seemed to be too different from the other members of Bangtan. It played a clip from an interview for her solo debut of her saying “People said I was different from the oppas, so I decided to actually show them what different is”.

Act 3 started off with a y2k vibe based on the songs “Shooting Star”, “Blue Flame”, and “Thirsty”. After her ment, she picked up the mood with “AYAYAYA”, “Wow Thing”, and “SHHH!”, which got everyone excited.

No one was prepared for the next act.

The VCR was different from the others. The screen was black, and an excerpt from one of her interviews on her solo debut schedules played: the audio of her saying “the members? They’re everything to me”. There was no background music when it showed seven different clips of her hugging each member before they enlisted. At the end of everything, there was a video of her getting into a car, the visuals fading to black while a reporter’s voice played saying “Now that the BTS boys are all enlisted, Miya is officially on her own for a while.”.

The lights slowly went on, showing Miya on the extended stage, guitar in her arms. Everyone’s hearts broke as she performed “breathe” live in front of an audience for the first time. She followed it with “Clued Up” before going into a ment.

She asked us all if it was okay to slow things down for a bit and to take a moment to introduce some people in the crowd who meant a lot to her. The screens behind her shifted to show people in the crowd, seated together and all looking a little confused before waving at everyone and waving their lightsticks around.

It was all seven boys of BTS.

I still remember vividly the smile on Miya’s face when the seven of them were shown on the screen. She smiled and introduced them one by one and asked them what they thought of the concert. The boys showed various versions of approval from different hearts to thumbs ups and head nods. “Glad to hear you’re enjoying. I have a surprise for you, if ARMY don’t mind.”

We all cheered, thinking she would perform “Mikrokosmos”, or “Magic Shop”. She carried her guitar over to a piano that was lifted onto the stage near her and sat there. I can’t explain the rush we all felt when Jungkook’s masked face was zoomed into on one screen the moment Miya began playing the opening notes of “Euphoria”.

Miya performed one of the members’ solo songs each, completely acoustic, and each time, the song owner’s masked face was zoomed into on one screen while she was shown on the other screen, making it look like they were facing each other.

She did “Euphoria” for Jungkook, “Inner Child” for V, “Serendipity” for Jimin, “Closer” for RM, “On The Street” for J-Hope, “Snooze” for Suga, and “The Astronaut” for Jin.

Were we all tearing up? Yeah, but so were the tannies! Once she finished everything, she got up and smiled into the crowd, in the direction of the boys. While walking backwards up the runway to the main stage, she thanked them for coming and for being her strength and her family before she introduced the last song of the concert. She performed “Trivia: Why”.

Of course, even if she said that was the end, we all knew it wasn’t. We had ARMY Time, where we all sang “LOVE”’s first verse and chorus.

Then, the lights dimmed again, and the band started playing “Nonsense”, her collaboration with Sabrina Carpenter. She changed the second verse (her original part in her collaboration) into a rap! Not to mention, she came from the crowd! She walked around while performing, taking photos with, hugging, waving at, and interacting with ARMY the whole time. Yongsun and I were a little sad she didn’t get to go to where the tannies were, but they were on the third floor of audience, so it was understandable.

She ended the song on the main stage where she began “Hype Boy”! She’d dance during the chorus, but interact with fans during the verses. Before the last chorus, the music vamped, and she introduced each of her band one by one. It was an all-woman band! She then introduced her dancers, all of which came from the dance studio that she and Jungkook set up and fund together: “Do Studios”.

After the last chorus of "Hype Boy", she thanked her friends who came. For Day 1, it was the tannies, her brothers Yoonsung and Chan, Chan brought Felix and Leeknow with him, the whole of NCT Dream + Jungwoo, the whole of TXT, Kep1er’s Yujin and Bahiyyih, The Boyz’s Sunoo and Eric, the whole of Enhypen, and Boy Next Door’s Myung Jaehyun.

Day 2 had the tannies, Viviz’s Umji, Red Velvet’s Yeri, the whole of SHINee, Chungha, Kiss of Life’s Julie, Hori7on’s Marcus, Unis’s Elisia and Gehlee, and Aespa’s Ningning.

Day 3 had the tannies and her family members, who had flown in from Australia to watch her. That’s her mom, her dad, Yoonsung (with Eunseol, Yoonseol, and Hanseol), Chan, Hannah, and their youngest brother.

These are just those she mentioned, you can find threads on twitter of other idols who watched her concert. She even reposted some of their stories or posts about it on her Instagram stories!

But she never failed to mention how thankful she was to ARMY, not just for coming to see her, but for also being a part of her effort to help people in need.

With that, she ended the whole concert with “good parts” and “Celebrity” all while roaming through the crowd and interacting with people as much as she could from both the ground and the main and extended stages.

All in all, I would say “Headliner 2024” was an amazing experience, from the song choices to the VCRs to the emotions to the cause and all the way to Miya herself. There’s a reason every location sold out in an average of 2 minutes.

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