#she's magic and midnight lace

[goddess-of-alchemy]

[wmiqaqueen]

[swampxwitchxhattie]

[vintersang]

*   TAG DROP: For the Muse

❛   ✧  ┊ she seemed fragile like a moonflower. aesthetic.

❛   ✧  ┊ cold secrets deep inside. headcanon.

❛   ✧  ┊ when all is lost; then all is found. musings.

❛   ✧  ┊ split the ice apart; beware the frozen heart. chara study.

❛   ✧  ┊ dressed in the finest white gauze. wardrobe.

❛   ✧  ┊ magic tumbled from her pretty lips. cosmetics.

❛   ✧  ┊ all the land was covered in eternal ice and snow. arendelle.

❛   ✧  ┊ the woods are lovely; dark and deep. enchanted forest.

❛   ✧  ┊ if it's not chocolate; it's not breakfast. recipes.

❛   ✧  ┊ freezing you to the bone; the ice does not forgive. magic.

❛   ✧  ┊ every breath you’re breathing is a beautiful song. skills.

❛   ✧  ┊ we will always share the moon and stars. her familiars.

❛   ✧  ┊ the veil disappears and you'll see it all. inspiration.

❛   ✧  ┊ like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars. likes.

❛   ✧  ┊ she's so beautiful and delicate; but she was of ice. belongings.

❛   ✧  ┊ love speaks in flowers; truth requires thorns. desires.

❛   ✧  ┊ she is magic and midnight lace. meta.

[poetassignment]

Ann Marie Eleazer

[marvelstoriesepic]

Eyes made of Starlight

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Maid!Reader (Cinderella Au)

Summary: You are drawn into a royal masquerade by a mysterious woman with a magical mask.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Classism (social hierarchy themes); self-worth struggles; fantasy themes (fairy godmother, spells, illusions); power dynamics; magical disguise

Author’s Note: Oh how I loved writing the magical Cinderella vibe!! This amazing request also comes from my lovely darling!! I hope you'll enjoy this as well, beloved ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The palace walls groan with music. Light spills through stained glass. You can hear the laughter of women who never had to scrub anything in their lives.

You have no reason to be here.

You have no right to be here.

The gown does not belong to you.

The mask does not belong to you.

This moment does definitely not belong to you.

You shouldn’t be here. Not walking under crystal chandeliers, not between silk-slick gowns and heels carved from heaven. Not with perfume-laced air choking your lungs or golden music playing with your ribs. Your hands are calloused. Your eyes are too wide. You walk as if waiting to be punished.

Because you will be.

You are nothing but a maid in this place. One of many. A slip of a girl with sore fingers and silent steps, always in the background, always apologizing.

You had ash on your hands just this sunrise. Streaked across your apron. Tangled in your lashes.

You had scrubbed the same hallway twice - once out of duty, once out of nerves.

You are not meant to be here among those royals, and yet you are.

The mask that sits on your face is not just a disguise. It’s an enchantment. Deep green velvet shaped like leaves, spun with gold threads that glow when the light hits just right. You remember the exhilaration you felt when you held it in your hands after it was placed on your bed. Remember the woman who you believe put it there.

No one speaks to her. No one trusts her. They call her strange, witchy, always lingering too long in the shadows of the garden wall, half-swallowed by ivy and moonlight. She has been a part of the place longer than anyone seems to remember, sweeping corners no one else would touch, talking to birds like they can answer her.

Everyone avoids her.

They say she curses the cooks and sings to the moon and never ages a day past forty.

But you have spoken to her. Brought her bread once, tucked it into a cloth napkin with a wildflower and an apology. Timidly waved at her when you saw her standing cloaked in midnight-colored shawls that fluttered like wings.

And one night ago it was just there. The mask. Lying under your sheets, ready to be worn. You don’t know why you actually decided to do it. You never would have. It’s not a decision you would even consider. But somehow, you pulled on that mask and were suddenly dressed in a gown more worthy than your life.

You are trembling now, standing at the edge of the ballroom. The candlelight plays games with your shadow. You can feel your heartbeat tap-tap-tapping against your ribs.

The clock chimes nine.

The doors open wider and the crowd shifts.

You saw him once.

The prince.

You were delivering lines for another maid who either quit or vanished or both. And on your new route, you saw him at the end of the corridor, coming closer with each step. He had been dressed in navy and silver, his hair pulled back and his expression unreadable.

You tripped and dropped the stack of sheets in your panic, not expecting to just encounter the real prince on a simple delivery. Not as a simple maid. You hated yourself for being in his way.

And when the sheets met the floor, you didn’t breathe.

Just watched the crown prince himself bent - bent - to help pick them up.

Just watched him smile at you and ask if you were alright.

As if he wasn’t a prince and you weren’t made of floor polish and forgotten names.

You didn’t stop thinking about it since. Didn’t stop thinking about him since.

You don’t even recall if you even answered him or kept staring all while blushing so hard your skin stung.

All you are able to recall is that he had eyes like storms and a mouth made for poetry, and something about him - something in the way he looked at you, not through you - unraveled your spine.

That was weeks ago.

And now he is here.

And you are too.

He enters without fanfare, without guards, without his title dragging at his heel. He wears deep blue tonight, with black embroidery shaped like curling vines across his shoulders. His dark hair is loose, falling just below his ears.

He is beautiful. But in a way fire is beautiful. Dangerous and too bright to look at for long.

He stands there like a painting brought to life.

He scans the room and stops suddenly.

On you.

Eyes lock.

Breath caught.

Your heart drops out of your chest and slams into the floor.

He is staring. Not at the dress. Not at the mask. Not at your lips or your waist or your trembling fingers.

He’s staring at your eyes.

As if he is trying to place them in the sky.

And then he is moving. Descending the stairs slowly as if the floor belongs to him and he is offering it to you.

The crowd parts for him.

People turn to watch. Whispers start.

You want to run.

You want to melt.

You want to rewind the world and be a maid again and never take that mask from that strange woman and never come here.

You clutch the sides of your gown, panic boiling in your chest. You could run. You have to run. He can’t know.

But he’s already there and you are not moving.

“Don’t go,” he speaks and his voice is velvet.

He is standing in front of you now, impossibly close, all shadows and silver eyes staring straight into yours.

Deliberately, and without taking his eyes off of yours, he offers his hand.

“Dance with me,” he says. “Please.” His voice is deep. Genuine. A request.

A prince should not talk to a maid this way. You are sure he wouldn’t if he knew who you were.

But a maid also cannot say no to a prince.

So you take his hand with shaking fingers and the second you touch him, you are pulled into his arms, into his chest. The music swells around you as if it were meant for this.

You dance like the world has forgotten gravity.

His touch is light and guiding. One hand presses against your back, the other is intertwined with yours. He doesn’t say anything about the tiny nicks in your palm you got while hanging linens out to dry and forgetting the rose bushes behind.

Never in your life have you danced before.

Never in your life have you felt the proximity of a dance partner or the sequence of the steps to the music.

Your mind doesn’t know but somehow your body does. Your body moves as though it’s been waiting its whole life to be near him. To dance this dance with him.

Perhaps that too has something to do with the mask.

Music rises. Time bleeds away. It feels like flying. It feels like burning.

He looks at you. Doesn’t stop looking at you. And you wonder if he sees past the magic. If he sees the girl who cleans his windows and folds his sheets. The girl who dropped them in front of him and stammered out an apology so awkward she wanted to dissolve on the spot.

Your breath is suspended like the stars outside the palace windows. His hand rests against your back, the pressure just enough to keep you guided, not enough to push. The thumb of his other hand moves in slow circles over your skin and you find yourself staring at it.

His head tilts down to you.

“You keep looking away,” he observes slowly, calmly.

You look up and his gaze is already waiting for yours. “Excuse me?”

“Your eyes,” he adds, voice gentle. Quiet. “You keep hiding them.”

He leans in even closer. You hold your breath. Your steps falter.

“The most important part of dancing,” he states quietly. “is eye contact.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Everything else follows if you don’t look away.”

You feel the breath of his words against your skin and it makes you hot.

He is not teasing. Not amused. Not quite serious either, but sincere. Thoughtful. As if this moment means something to him too. As if it’s not just your heart fighting its way out of your chest.

You swallow. “Why is that?”

He pulls you closer, shifting his grip. His voice drops even softer. “If you don’t look at your partner, you cannot read them. You cannot anticipate the next step. Cannot be ready to catch them if they fall.” Something passes through his expression.

A beat. His gaze dips to your mouth. Your chin. Back to your eyes.

“And people fall.”

The words land inside of you immediately and you feel them spark a fire that heats up your neck.

You blink a few times, snapping your gaze away from him only to have his hand leave your back to turn your head in its right position - looking at him. His thumb brushes your jawline before he pulls away and settles right at your back again.

As if nothing happened.

You force yourself to nod. Careful. Like if you move too fast the spell will shatter and you will wake up barefoot in the laundry quarters with soot on your face.

He watches you some more. The way your eyes move over his face. The way your brow is twitching. The way your breath is uneven.

You almost stumble. He steadies you effortlessly as if he’d known it would happen.

“Try again,” he encourages gently. “Just look at me.”

You meet his eyes again. Fully. The ballroom fades. The velvet and glass and gossip melt. The crowd around you spins in their own perfect orbit but this is something slower. Something more important.

He leans in another time, breath ghosting your cheek. His voice is a whisper.

“Do you think I could ever forget your eyes, hm?”

Your heart drops alongside your stomach.

The clock chimes midnight.

One.

Two.

Three.

You stumble back. Out of his hold. Out of his arms. Out of his orbit.

The mask is growing warm. Too warm. Your vision flickers. Your dress begins to dull, like color draining from a dream.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking, rushed. “I have to-”

And you turn.

“Wait-” he almost shouts, desperate, confused. “Please tell me your name-”

But you are gone.

Glass slippers skim the marble. Tears burn behind your eyes and make it hard to see. The mask slips from your face as you disappear into the night, heart hammering loud enough to break open the stars.

[goddess-of-alchemy]

[wmiqaqueen]

[swampxwitchxhattie]

Witch please. I read your vibes the second you walked in the room. If I can say one thing about myself is my ability to tune into people and read the like friggen books. Don’t come at me with your hot dog water energy.

[coolgrl111]

Me again with more theatre actress x art 🤫💁‍♀️ I need her in phantom of the opera where she has to go through a lot of classical training and they are all so impressed or something idk 👅💗

stanford!art donaldson x theatre actress!reader

a/n: art is a certified loverboy in this 😭 my baby

you stand in the wings, heart pounding like a timpani. tonight is opening night of phantom of the opera, and after months of vocal exercises, ballet barre drills, and breath–control practice that left you gasping for air, you’re ready. your costume—white lace, a corseted bodice, and that delicate, flowing dress—clings to you like a promise. the stage lights cast your shadow long across the floor.

you inhale, taste the faint tang of hairspray and stage smoke, and step into the glow. the orchestra swells beneath you. every note, every measure, is one you’ve lived and breathed through your endless mornings of scales and runs. you feel the drama flow through your veins as you deliver your first note—pure, trembling, and triumphant.

in the audience, art sits in the third row—wearing a crisp blazer over a plain tee, chinos pressed so sharply they look ironed on, and polished leather shoes that click on the marble floor. he’s never been to a musical , has no idea how many hours of arpeggios you’ve endured to make this moment sing, but he wanted to look his best for you. when your voice rises—soaring over the orchestra, fragile yet unbreakable—his breath catches. eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, he leans forward as if gravity itself can pull him closer to you.

as soon as the delicate piano introduction to “think of me” drifts over the orchestra, you sense him leaning forward. his adam’s apple bobs; his breath catches on each tremulous phrase. when you nail that high note, his jaw drops and a single tear wells in his eye. he swallows, stunned, as though your voice has rewired his heart.

you know he’s never seen phantom—not the movie, not on stage—because you can almost feel his pulse quicken as the lights dim and the chandelier begins its slow descent. then comes the crash of crystal, the collective gasp from the house—and art can’t help himself: he throws his head back and laughs, breathless with exhilaration, awe and delight mingling in his expression.

—

you step offstage, heart still dancing with the echo of applause, and there he is—art, waiting at the stage door with a bouquet nearly as big as his grin. roses, lilies, and those tiny wildflowers you love, wrapped in a silk ribbon that matches your costume.

he spots you and for a moment you swear he might collapse from the force of his own happiness. he drops the flowers into your arms with a little laugh of relief, eyes already glistening. “you were unbelievable,” he breathes, voice thick. “every note was perfect. i didn’t even know it was humanly possible to sound like that.”

he turns on his heel and practically tugs you through the crowds, weaving through well-wishers. “here she is! the woman of the hour!” he gushes to your parents, bowing slightly in mock formality. “your daughter just blew the roof off the entire theatre.”

to your friends clustered by the door he starts again: “patrick, tashi—you have no idea how hard she’s worked. extensive ballet classes, voice lessons till midnight (he was exaggerating wholeheartedly).… she deserves every bit of that standing ovation.”

you watch, charmed and a little embarrassed, as he reruns every highlight of your performance. he’s so earnest, so in love with every syllable you sang, that his excitement spills over—you can practically see it.

and then he’s looking at you, that sweaty, beautiful art donaldson glow on his cheeks, hand still pressed to his heart. “i’m so proud,” he says, voice catching. a few tears slips free and he blinks them away, embarrassed but unwilling to hide it. “you were magic tonight, pretty girl.”

you laugh softly, brushing his hand with your fingertips. he squeezes back, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath, sweet with awe.

you’re still laughing when he pulls you in.

it’s instinctive—he has no other way to show you how completely, hopelessly gone he is for you. one hand cradles your cheek, the other still tangled in the ribbon of the bouquet, and then his lips are on yours. gentle. the kind of kiss that says i watched you become someone else tonight and somehow you’re still the girl i love.

you feel him smile against your mouth, just before he pulls away. and then he remembers.

his eyes flick to the side and land directly on your parents, standing a few feet away with identical expressions of poorly concealed amusement. art freezes.

“oh my god,” he whispers. he takes a full step back, nearly trips over the bouquet tissue paper, and turns a shade of red you’ve never seen on him before—not even mid-match in the sun.

your mom raises an eyebrow. your dad crosses his arms, fighting a smile.

“uh—sorry,” art stammers, brushing his hair back with a shaky hand. “i forgot you were here. just celebrating y/n’s wonderful talent.”

you snort, covering your mouth with your hand, while your mom lets out a soft laugh. “why are you freaked out? we see you kiss all the time.”

“i—i didn’t know,” art stammers, running a hand through his already-messy blonde hair, eyes darting like he’s searching for a way to escape. “i thought we were being, like—stealthy!”

and then, right on cue, patrick appears again.

“stealthy? bro, you make out like you’re trying to win something. pretty sure i heard you whisper ‘i love you’ outside the stage door like, five times.”

art whips around. “patrick. not now.”

“no, no, please, let’s relive it,” patrick says, grinning. “‘she’s so radiant, she’s an angel, i’d die for her, do you think her parents like me? should i bow when i see them again?’”

“i did not say that.”

“you definitely said that.”

your cheeks are flushed, but you’re laughing now, hand still tight in art’s. he looks at you helplessly, red to his ears.

“i really do love you,” he mutters under his breath. “but this is the worst moment of my life.”

you just grin and kiss his cheek, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “you’ll live.”

[lullxby]

:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ RAY OF SUNSHINE (p.j.)

summary : in which percy jackson feels attached, in some way, to a girl he just met.

w.c. : about 1k

a/n : part 2! thank you for all the support on the firsg part, there will be more to follow!

this is also on my wattpad: poet1cmystery

warning(s) : none!

| riordanverse masterlist | navigation | part 1 |

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

percy awoke near midnight, having slept for almost seven hours. he had been woken up by a nightmare, just like usual. The stars hanging in the sky painted a serene picture for him as he stared out through the small infirmary window, the view calming him quickly. for once, the camp around him was quiet. no bustling demigods, no chattering kids. just quiet. 

the son of poseidon sat up, looking around more. he was never in here for as long of a time as he had been currently. he never noticed how old the withering wood was, its brown shade falling to a reddish-beige. they were surrounded by magic but still couldn't repair the infirmary. huh. he could definitely see the imprints the apollo children had made, even just in the small room he was in. there was an overall sense of brightness, despite the late hour it was. it felt welcoming, in a way. 

he debated on going back to his cabin now or staying here until morning. the harpies would be out, so that definitely wouldn't be preferable. still, could he really stay for this long? y/n had told him to stay until he felt better...

so, he stayed, in hopes of seeing her again. he was still curious about the connection he felt to her. curious about why her eyes felt so familiar. he tried to rack his brain for answer, yet nothing came to mind. there was a faint image of those eyes on a little girl, their e/c being illuminated by a ray of sunshine. but that was where the memory faded. nothing around the young girl seemed familiar, none of the scenery. he couldn’t even tell if the memory was indoors.

percy noticed the lack of movement, even inside of the infirmary. apollo kids had to sleep too. the only sound he heard was the low chirping of crickets, occasionally seeing one of their tiny bodies hopping by, being illuminated by the fading moonlight.

the lack of light was seamlessly replaced by an orange hue, accompanying the rising sun in the distance. it must’ve been closer to morning than what he had thought. well, that just meant he got to see this mysterious girl sooner.

the stars faded slowly, as if running from the intruding daylight.

y/n walked into the infirmary, smiles and all, the view causing a small grin to even grow to his own face. the optimistic attitude she often boar wasn’t new, but still found a way to draw him in.

“oh!” she looked surprised to see him, was that bad? should he have left when we woke up? the wide smile said otherwise, but he was beginning to think it was permanent, regardless of the situation. his mind raced, and he didn’t know why. it wasn’t like this with anyone else that’d help him. why her?

“i didn’t realize you were still here. are you feeling better at least?” she questioned, concern lacing her features.

“uh, yeah,” he swallowed, trying to get the ugly taste out of his mouth, “ ‘m feeling a lot better. thank you.”

“it’s what i’m here for,” she replied cheerily, spinning on her heel and moving away from the open doorway.

 he gave it a few minutes, then slowly sat up. as the blanket fell from his shoulders, a sudden wave of cool air reminded him of the shirt he wasn’t wearing.  his eyes roamed the enclosed area, searching for the familiar orange fabric of his camp-tee. then, he saw it hanging on a plastic hanger, seemingly clean. he took slightly shaky steps towards it, eventually shrugging it over his shoulders, letting it fall past his arms. 

he walked out of the room he was in, slightly zoned out. unfortunately for him, he bumped into the girl he had been trying to figure out.

“ah, shit, sorry y/n,” he said quickly, gently reaching to grab her arm to steady her.

she didn’t seem bothered. “it’s alright, are you going?”

he nodded, releasing his grip from her arm. “i’ll see you around?” he asked, hoping the answer was yes. maybe then he could figure out where he knew her from.

“of course, percy.”

her words made him smile, even if she just meant them half-heartedly. (she definitely did, he could tell.) he stepped out into the now fully-risen sun, its rays beating down on him despite the chill held by the autumn air.

immediately, he was greeted by his short, fast-talking friend. the one and only, leo valdez.

“where have you been?” the boy exclaimed, his head tilting slightly upwards to meet percy’s eyes.

“dude, it’s been like a day,” percy said flatly.

almost on instinct, percy checked his pockets for his trusted pen. no matter how long he had had it, he still wasn’t used to the fact he couldn’t lose it. just like he suspected, it was safely sitting in the back pocket of his jeans.

percy’s gaze wondered back towards the infirmary one last time, before quickly flicking back to leo, trying to listen to what the boy was discussing as they walked further and further away.

he noticed leo looking at him expectantly, and just nodded his head, seemingly agreeing to what had just been said. “yeah, of course.”

“you weren’t listening, were you?” leo groans.

“not at all,” the boy admitted, not wanting to lie to one of his closest friends.

“tell me again?” he offered, smirking sheepishly down at leo, who rolled his eyes. still, the boy repeated what he had said, this time earning a real response from percy.

the two boys conversed, occasionally shoving each other around as they walked over the dirt pathways winding between the camp cabins. eventually, they heard a horn blow, signaling breakfast.

arriving at the pavilion, percy noticed y/n walking towards a table seating annabeth chase, piper mclean, and luke castellan. wait.

luke castellan?

why was she sitting with luke castellan? 

why did percy care? 

he didn’t. right?

no, of course he didn’t. why would he?

taglist : @iamforeverandalwaystired, lmk if you wanna be added!

[grlcarcass]

dead air, dirty talk - duff mckagan

modern!duff mckagan x reader

She hosts a late night music radio show, just getting by and keeping things entertaining with her crowd, until a charming caller with a self proclaimed ‘ex rockstar life’ becomes awfully involved.

warnings: 18+ content, power imbalance, legal age gap, humiliation, choking, mild breathplay, mentions of alcohol use, sadism, masochism, strong language

word count: 7k words

{tags: @hollywoodroses @duffrosemckagansslut }

special thanks to @hollywoodroses for your advice! ur the best.

The rain made the city glow.

Far from magically, it wasn’t remotely close to a movie scene, but in that ‘neon-reflected-wet-sidewalks-outside-the-pub’ way, where the gutters are glimmering and vaguely smell like the ever familiar city sewage.

Her mary janes hit puddles as she lazily makes her way up the cracked pavement, big flight jacket only zipped up halfway, the cold city wind hitting the skin behind the small slightly exposed black lace bralette she wore as a top. Even at these midnight hours she stuck to her image, hoping to be recognized one of these days.

It was nearly midnight, and everybody in the city was definitely asleep. Yet she was just clocking in.

The radio station was far from glamorous. The suspiciously stained ceiling tiles, the vending machine left with the trail mix no right mind would ever buy, the stuck front door that wouldn’t dare to budge without the help of your hip.  A little box of flickering “ON AIR” light and a secondhand incense smell, where the only audience were night owls, truckers, and the very painfully lonely assholes. 

A college student technically, firstly, but she felt like her major was just getting by. Rent was late, always. But the apartment had a window that overlooked that city skyline, and when it rained like this? It almost felt expensive. 

She threw her jacket on the ever empty guest seat, her minibag following with the jingles of her keychains. She slid into the swivel chair, and tapped the mic, one of the objectively finest things in her life. 

“Hey you lot.” she spoke lowly, speaking into the dim half-lit studio. Her voice honeyed with sarcasm, “Welcome back to your nightly reminder it’s past your bedtime. I’m your host, and hell no I’m not playing any Linkin Park.” 

The night started the same as ever, the phone blinking lazily as she did. 

First caller swore up and down that his cat was possessed. “I swear to you, she growls when I play The Strokes. That can’t be normal!” She chewed her gum and blinked slowly, she sighed to the side. “Consider her opinion.” 

Click. Next.

A woman requesting a Celine Dion song for her cheating ex. “You know, just so he knows what he lost?” 

“Sure,” she said, already queuing up an obnoxiously rowdy song, betraying her request. “This one’s for you, Greg.” she rolled her eyes.

It droned on; half comedy, half confessional booth? Most nights, she floated through the calls like a milky smoke, half listening, half thinking about her shift ending. Her tone always cool, borderline teasing, like she dared the world to amuse her.

Then came his voice.

It wasn’t dramatic, just low. Steady. Like someone who hadn’t slept in a few days but didn’t mind, yet also a curiosity behind it. 

“Hey,” he said. “First time caller. Thought I’d see what the lame and lonely are doing tonight y’know?” 

She blinked, oddly dumbfounded, she loved her crowd of course. A bunch of bored and chatty people who didn’t mind being teased and jested with. Her hand froze over the soundboard. There was a pause. Not dead air, more like a charged silence. 

He hadn’t stumbled. Didn’t have to unconsciously beg to be heard. He dared her to listen.

Frankly she just wasn’t used to that.

“Well,” she said slowly, her slender fingers pinching her bottom lip, rolling the pout between her index and thumb curiously. “You’ve officially been the smoothest first time caller on the show.”

He chuckled again, his voice that of an unpolished yet inviting young buck. “Oh I’m so glad to raise the bar, it wasn’t awfully hard. Hold your applause I beg.” 

“Oh,” she mused, flipping a switch on the board, “someone’s cocky.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’d love to hear this list, first time caller.” she mocked and giggled.

“I’d need a second call for that, you wanna play some songs on this joint eventually don’t you?” 

She raised a brow, she could feel the listeners worldwide–or, locally-wide doing the same. The show was far from that of a cohesive talkshow, the collective felt like it was a well promoted music groupchat, nothing so charming.

 He teased for more time. Interesting.

“So…” she drawled, resting her chin in her palm. You swear you could hear her amused grin over the radio. “What’s your name, our oh-so-charming mystery caller?”

A pause. “D.”

She waited for more. Nothing came.

“No last name?” she teased. “Witness protection advice such an alias? If you could call it that.”

“Something like that.”

“Alright, D Something-Like-That, what really made you call in tonight?’ 

Another pause, a little longer this time.

“Just wanted to hear needed some voice other than my own..” 

And just like that, her sarcasm wavered. Briefly. 

She leaned back in her chair, one mary jane rested on the edge of the desk, watching the rain crawl down the window in tiny silver threads.

D hadn’t filled the silence. He let it breathe, which told her a lot. Most people feared dead air. He let it exist. It was the kind of thing only people with unrelenting confidence could pull off, radioshow or not.

“You always talk like that?” she asked after a beat, voice curious and musing. “All cryptic and poetic, or is it just for me?” she teased smokily.

“Depends,” he said. “Is it working?”

She smirked, he got her there, admittedly a thrill shot up from layers behind her abdomen. “A little. But don’t get a big head about it, you’d have to best all the trucker callers who tell me Iron Maiden predicted 9/11. You’re in the league for sure, but the best in it?” she jested.

“Aw darn.” he chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time won’t I?” 

For some reason, it hadn’t felt like a threat. When most of her callers promised a call back, she already dreaded it. But him? 

Next time?

She liked this mix, unrehearsed boldness, smooth and not pushy. She liked that. It wasn’t often someone on the other side of the static actually got to her.

Most of her audience was a blend of awkward stoners, lonely oldheads, or self proclaimed “deep” Elliott Smith fans. She loved them, she was them, but it didn’t stop her from knowing how much more aware she was of them. Sharp edged, and sad in a way they hadn’t earned yet. She envied her crowd some times, more love than hate there. 

But this guy? He didn’t even try to prove anything, and it slightly unnerved her. Just a bit.

“You a music guy, D?” she asked.

He hesitated. Just for a second. 

“You could say that, sure.” he chuckled 

“Define ‘music guy,’” she pushed.

“Played a little. Wrote a little. Y’know? Lived backstage.” 

She tilted her head. “You in a band?”

“Used to be. Not the frontman. Never liked the idea too much, y’know? Just there to get drunk, high, and play. Not much else to it, y’know?”

“Ohhh,” she teased. “Mysterious past, famous rock god calling from exile maybe? You’re intriguing us.” 

“You laugh,” he said, clearly amused. “but you’re not that far off.”

She almost made a joke. Almost.

"You miss it?" she asked uncharacteristically tenderly.

“I guess I miss the feeling.” he paused. “And I miss not having to explain it.” 

She liked this, she wanted to save it in a bottle and keep it for later. 

“Call me next week,” she said, almost without thinking. “Same time.”

A silence hung between them, it was warm. 

“Yeah,” he said, quiet and sure. “I will.”

After D hung up, she just sat there for a second, staring at the blinking line that had gone dark.

The next call came through.

“Hey, it’s Alan again; remember me? The guy with the misspelled ‘Mtoely Crue’ fucked up tattoo?”

She smirked, her fingers absently tapping on the desk. “Hey you. I was wondering when you’d call to make up for your last very questionable tattoo.” 

The usual stream of callers came through; a guy who swore Ozzy didn’t eat the damn bat, a woman asking for a shoutout to her ‘super cool’ cat named Gary Glitter, and an ex-groupie proudly proclaiming how she wore the bandana of David Bowie’s guitarist after stealing it.

It was all so, mostly, predictable yet amusing. Her demeanor was noticeably different, she felt herself smiling into the mic more. Swinging her legs under the desk like a teenager with a secret.

Even when she walked home under the same dripping sky, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, she just kept hearing that voice of his.

She didn’t know what it was exactly. Just that it felt honest in a way people rarely are, especially behind anonymous lines around 2 am.

The next day blurred like a washed out tape.

College was a haze of fluorescent lights and dull lectures. She sat through a pretentious music theory class taught by some prissy asshole who pronounced “fugue” wrong, and graded as if he was some kind of Beethoven himself. 

Lunch was a pathetic half bagel and a chai latte, she ignored all her texts. Checked the station voicemail, nothing. 

By Thursday, she had almost convinced herself it was a fluke. An oddly charming stranger who stumbled into her show and played her like a damn fool for her audience.

But she couldn’t stop thinking of his voice, the steady smokey rasp, but friendly chuckles behind it. A certain gravel to it you don’t get from a mic, but from life. From late nights and hotel bathtubs and waiting too long between cigarettes. 

She continually replayed the call in her head, especially the pauses. The way he’d say “y’know” like he expected her to understand everything as he said it. Or it was just a habit, she was reading too far into it, she knew it.

The following Friday night rolled in like clockwork, it felt like the past hundred, the city buzzing under the same rain slicked sky. The comforting hum of the studio set in as she sat in her chair, fingers already itching for the mic. Tonight was the night.

She clicked the mic on, ready to get into the usual chaos of her late night crowd. 

“Alrighty, you know who I am, cut the crap and call me.” her voice danced in the air with a playful edge. “Hit me.” she tempted her awaiting callers.

The calls flooded in, each one blending into the next; people joking about how they were finally awake enough to properly understand their grandpa’s recommendations, a woman who was seriously convinced she was the bastard child of Eddie Van Halen, another just wanted a song rec. 

She kept it coming, half-listening, half-laughing, her usual dry sense of humor coating every interaction. But then, a strange shift in the feeling of the next call. 

“Hey, who’s calling us tonight?” she said, a feeling in her gut about this caller. 

A soft and familiar chuckle vibrated through the speakers, unmistakingly smooth, yet carrying that same rough edge that made him stand out before. “I’m afraid it’s me again,” came his familiar beautiful voice, rich, and warm with mischief. “Wouldn’t want you to think you’d gotten rid of me that easily.” 

She truly couldn't suppress the smirk that tugged at the corners of her mouth. D, of course, like he promised. A wave of relief and excitement washed over her, leaving that electric feeling hanging in the air.

“Back for more?” she teased, keeping her tone light, though there was that new kind of amusement she found last time he had called her. “Thought you’d let someone else have the spotlight for once.” 

“Couldn’t keep away,” he replied smoothly. “I figured I’d call in and see if you were still managing to keep up with all this music gossip crap. I have to admit, I’m impressed you haven’t lost it yet.” 

Her eyebrow arched, was he listening to her show the whole week leading up to today? She leaned closer to the mic. “Oh, I’m hanging in there, don’t you worry about me. But I do have to ask… what’s your angle this time?”

She could hear his smile, whatever that looked like, in his voice as he spoke again, and she knew it was that smirk– the one he probably wore every time he got into this kind of playful back and forth. “No angle. Just wanted to check in and see if you’re still as interesting as last week, which you’ve seem to have a knack for. I gotta know, a question that I imagine all listeners have thought of…” he began, her eyebrows raising. “Are you as interesting off the air as you are on it?”

Her pulse shot up, but she kept her cool. “I don’t know… maybe you should find out for yourself. Unless you’re a complete nutcase and lied your way up to this point about this ‘ex-rockstar life’ you claimed.” she teased. 

His ever sunny laughter rumbled through the speakers, the kind that was easy-going and mischievous. “I think that’s a dangerous idea, y’know? But hey, I get it. You probably think you know everything about this side of life, right? I mean, you’ve heard all the stories, the ones about the craziness, the tours, the late nights, the drama.” 

She raised a brow feeling the challenge settle into her chest. “I mean, sure. I’ve heard some pretty wild stuff. But I bet you’ve seen a lot more than you’ve led on, D.” she giggled.

He chuckled. “I’m sure I could tell you a few stories that would blow your mind, but who knows? Maybe they’re better left off the ears of a radio show host, y’know?” he jested.

She leaned forward, rolling her eyes and musing, her tone intrigued and teasing. “Oh, don’t be so mysterious. You think you can just be all cryptic on my show and not expect me to want to know more?”

“Well, I’m a fan of mystery,” D replied, his voice lowering a tad. “Especially in people who can keep up. I’ll give you a hint, though. Being on the road isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. After a while, you start seeing how shitty it can be, y’know.” 

“I’d imagine.” she said softly. 

His voice shifted. “It’s humbling to get back into the spot you were before the big lights. Even for a little.”

She was quiet for a moment, letting the tension linger between them before speaking again. “Sounds like you’re not in that life anymore?”

His laugh was soft, yet gravely and laced with amusement. “No. That bit is behind me. The memories stay for years. They stick around. Like the people who truly get it, the ones who really know what it’s like, y’know?” 

Her curiosity peaked, but she didn’t lead on. “So, you’re saying I’ve got to be in the elusive ‘get it’ club to understand?” she asked with a playful edge. 

“Maybe,” D teased. “Or maybe I’ll just show you what happens when you start looking beyond the hairspray and pretty men. You know, in person?”

Her heart skipped. There it was again! That invitation, hanging in the air like a challenge she couldn’t resist. 

“I guess I’ll have to be properly schooled this weekend.” she chuckled. “If you think you can handle all of my beauty and charm… and wit.” she said ever so sarcastically. 

D’s voice dropped to a lower amused pitch, “Oh I know I can, I’m sure. But we’ll see how tough you are, no audience, no mic.” he chuckled.

“I guess we’ll have to see. Check your inbox, send the deets there.” she giggled. The listener count had spiked up, she hadn’t even noticed. She was too busy writing the caller number on a nearby notepad to contact this illusive D. 

After that shift the plan was set, her phone buzzing moments later.

D: So, Saturday night, 8PM. Guess you’re calling out sick to your loyal listeners?

She stared at the message, the playfulness in his text was unmistakable. It kind of hit her though, she hoped it wasn’t some total uggo just playing around. He didn’t have to be a looker or anything, she kind of just created some hot fantasy subconsciously. Her fingers hovered the keyboard, then she bit a fraction of the skin of her bottom lip and typed. 

You: You better not be all talk. I’ll be there, abandoning my favorite group of loners for you.

The typing popped up on her screen. She couldn’t help but giggle.

D:  I already promised. See you at the station.

Saturday morning came by fast, and the hours were slipping by before she could really prepare for meeting up with this D character. On the off chance he wasn’t some behemoth troll, she decided to play the game and get all pretty regardless. 

Standing in front of the mirror, a bundle of excitement and nerves playing in her gut. Her hair cascaded in soft waves, hands trembling as she worked her locks. She had already chosen a simple outfit, a black slip dress and black sheer stockings. She slid on kitten heels, trying to at least look like she was there for a “good time” and not too try hard.

The clock struck 7:45pm and at this rate, she had been ready for hours. Waiting around, not wanting to be too early. Her heart raced as she took one more good look in the mirror. She sighed and got her purse, excited and nervous all at once. She stepped out of her apartment, and locked the door behind her. 

The rain had settled in the past couple of days, a grey gloom remained. The neon lit reflections make an appearance in the vague drizzle. She tried to wind up her confidence she led on in her show, and that she had interacted with him this entire time with. 

The idea of being around a personality who collided so well with hers made her stomach flip in anticipation. 

When she stood by the radio station, she immediately scanned the street, watching oncomers with intent. She immediately glanced down at her phone, going to ask where he was when an extremely tall figure stood in front of her. 

She looked up, she picked up on the features before her brain could even scream out his real name in all of its astonishment.

 His hair was styled in a tousled way, the hints of grey but the natural blonde shone through his hair. His face was the same as the magazine covers that had moved her to make a show about the genre, only aged, only more scruffy, timelessly rugged. She took it all in, his tattooed arms, the way he dressed in a simple black band shirt, a cross chain, how it hung off his slender body?

She was awestruck, Duff Mckagan stood right before her. Guns N Roses was everything to her, absolutely everything. One of her immediately loved bands, always updating the show on their every news, more so than other bands. This was the best possible thing to come out of this. 

The dazed look on her face, jaw hung slightly open. He listened to the show, that asshole knew what kind of reaction this would get out of her this whole time. Warranting the smirk she had imagined behind the static, being plastered on the face of her absolute favorite bassist. Who knew now that he was, she knew immediately he’d hold all of her spoken affections to him.

Duff smiled down at her, his hands in his jean pockets. “You look like you’re thinking of running out of here.” he said, his voice so warm and clear, yet all the more rough now that it was in front of her. 

Her heart thudded, this was her absolute dream since she started the show. An unrealistic one sure? A girlish unmistakable attraction built inside of her, one that was always there of course, it was Duff McKagan. But this was also D, the personality that charmed her to no end. 

Her face crept into a shy smile, trying to force that personality she had put up for days. “Not quite,” she looked up at him, “Just taking in the fact you’re not… you’re… you?” she stuttered. In disbelief understandably.

He smirked still looking down at her and her gloomy little get up, he liked this. “Oh I’m sure I’ve lived up to all your expectations, huh? All those praises you’ve been throwing my way” he said, clearly amused by the idea. “I thought I was just another call-in but, you talk about this old bassist more than you let on, y’know? You had no clue.” 

She wanted to die and melt into the earth, in a good way. Her cheeks immediately flaring pink. Of course he was going to bring that up, she thought. Her lips twitched between embarrassment and amusement. “I—what?” She tried to recover quickly, though she could already feel her face warming at the thought of it. The unabashed admiration she had casually thrown into the open radio air, wrapped up in excited ramblings about GnR? She was so screwed.

Duff chuckled sensing her realization, “I mean it’s cool,” he continued. “You’ve been raving about me and the old guys for weeks. What was it you said? ‘Unparalleled character’ or something like that?” His smirk was practically etched into his face. “You like me? If that even scratches the surface of it.” 

She was still extremely embarrassed and also excited for how this night could possibly continue. D was Duff, she was here, that electric personality was her all time favorite. How would anyone recover? She gulped quietly and pursed her lips, trying to. 

Duff laughed again, low and rich, like a guilty pleasure. “Oh I’ve been listening alright. Don’t think I missed a word. Couldn’t help myself, y’know? You’re so charming when you talk about me. It’s like that sarcasm and wit just becomes girlish gossip in those segments.” 

There was something about the way he said it, something that made her wonder if he was playing her or if he actually enjoyed her vocal passion about him, she was after all cool-headed, and relaxed on air. He picked up on that demeanor change when she spoke about Guns N’ Roses.

She didn’t know how to respond to that, so instead she deflected with a quick and really shaky sarcastic reply. A hand to her hip, looking up at the statue of a man with red flushed cheeks “So what’s your point Mckagan? You’re just trying to get me to say I think you’re as cool as your band right?”

“Oh absolutely,” he responded. His voice dripped with mock sincerity. “Because if you don’t admit it, I might just have to leave you right here by your own radio station, and go find someone else who gets it.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re too cocky for your own good,” she shot back through an unstifled smile. “You know you have a huge ego.” 

He nodded with his hands in the air in mock defense. “At least I have some talent to back it up, do you know who I am?” he jested.

She raised a brow, the challenge in his voice making her heart race. “Oh so you’re a legend now? Tell me, should I be getting your autograph or…” she led on.

“Aw come on.” he replied, his voice a playful murmur. “Don’t pretend you’re not into it. You've been talking about me for weeks, I’ve only just started calling in two weeks ago.”

She almost let her composure slip, as if that mattered at this rate. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or deeply worried you’ve been keeping track for all this time.”

“Both,” he said with a chuckle. “I’d definitely say both.”

Their banter felt like it had its own rhythm, playful and flirty. Their eyes kept locking for longer than it should. Despite the teasing, she felt a real connection here. It was chemistry and curiosity. Like they were both looking for something, and daring the other to find it in each other. It was tense and rich, a thrill she had longed for in her boring grey life.

The night stretched on, full of shared stories, laughter, and the ease that came from spending time with someone who just gets it. They finally decided to head back to her place, a few blocks away. It wasn’t about impressing each other, just wanting to know more. 

“So you’ve been in that world for a while. It’s hard to imagine you just leaving the whole thing.” she mused, leaning against the counter. Duff sat on one of her stools on the other end, leaning on his elbows. 

“Wasn’t an easy decision, but it gets to a point y'know? I’m old.” he said, taking a drink on his now second bottle of beer. She nodded, as cool as she was trying to be, she couldn’t help but look onto him. How beautifully he had aged, she was far younger than him of course. A college student, and he was in his early sixties, but she couldn’t help the way she looked at him. He was just too appealing. 

Regardless she found herself nodding.

The night stretched on, with drunk laughter and comfortable silences filling the apartment. They  shared stories, and they both felt the chemistry growing between them, it was undeniable. Her hand grazed his arm as she reached over for another shot, which they were so drunk they hadn’t exactly remembered getting it out.

They gave each other a drunk knowing glance, everything was slower, every little touch just a bit more hypnotic and obvious. She felt a shiver go down her spine as his darkened gaze looked at her after the mistake. They stared at each other way too long, pushing past the barrier of the radio show host and her favorite caller. They were long past it a couple shots and stories ago.

Interrupting her thoughts, he leaned into her neck as she sat on the stool next to him. “You know, as charming as you are on the air…” he began. Her fingers tensing around her empty shot glass. “I think I’d approach you, persona or not.”

She stiffened at the feel of his half-grown stubble grazing her neck, the exact kind of masculinity that ruined women in stories like this, all this time firmly believing she was stronger than that. But she was just no different was she? Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes going wide no matter how she forced it not to show. 

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice came out too light, too airy, too not her. She hated it. Hated how it stripped her of the venom straight from her tone with just his closeness. Her usual bite dissolves distressingly fast, melting into something so shamefully soft. 

Her hands rose, sliding under his arms to his neck, her fingers clinging there as if instinct told her to not let him get away. He leaned closer, their bodies pulled by an invisible heat.

This was Duff. Duff. 

The same man whose music had sparked only the dirtiest nights alone in her younger years. The man she’d praise to hell and back on air without a clue he was listening. None of the lines she’d drawn for herself mattered now, not his age, his legacy, not the sinking guilt that she should’ve known better? She didn’t care.

He lifted his face from her neck, she swore right there he could read her mind. His dark gaze looked at her flushed face, drinking in the way she blinked slow and heavy– no longer daring him of anything, but asking for something. Subtly. Shamefully. Like he had her under some kind of spell, which he did.

The way her thighs came together didn’t go unnoticed, his rough hand slid down, thumbing a slow teasing path along her inner thigh, beneath the hem of her already short dress.

“Oh don’t try to look so tough now,” he murmured briskly, inches away from her face. His tall frame slid off the stool with ease, crouching down in front of her. She jolted when his knee touched the floor, like the sheer shift in position made everything more real. She could feel herself beneath her dress getting more needy. She gripped the sides of her stool hard. 

“You were all mouth today,” he muttered, clearly enjoying himself.  “Slick little comebacks, your sarcastic radio shtick, right?” His other knee hit the floor. He looked up at her with something between amusement and mock pity, his lip curling slightly.

“All that ‘cool girl’ edge for your little phone-in fan club,” he murmured, dragging his fingers higher on her leg. “But just look at you now.”

Her breath trembled in her throat. Duff tilted his head slightly, like he was just admiring her unraveling. Watching her. Loving how he’d peeled it all back without much effort. And that smug, devastating look of his?

It violently ruined her composure. 

Because he was right. She was all mouth. 

His hand slid higher, thumbing the inside of her thigh with practiced ease, and he grinned like the devil when she shuddered more frequently under his touch. Still firmly gripping the sides of her stool like they were the only thing keeping her tied to reality, she was coming completely undone.

“God look at you,” he murmured, low and amused, watching this ‘cool girl’ fall apart in real time. “Didn’t even have to try.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her mascaraed eyes were wide and glassy, lipstick smudged from drinking moments ago, a normalcy that felt like eons ago. 

“This is the same girl right?” he asked from between her thighs. “The same girl who talks circles around her callers? You sounded so in charge over the radio. So untouchable.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered at how humiliatingly true that was. He knew everything. He listened to everything. All those nights she’d talk so highly about all these famous musicians like they were her gods, how they carved her into the personality that she was, flirted with him without knowing it was him. And now here she was, on his knees between her legs, looking like she was going to be the next bitch he’d sink his teeth into.

“God, you should hear yourself.” he said, leaning into her right inner thigh, his thin lips and stubble making themselves known as he talked against her leg. “Begging in your breath. You’re not even hiding it anymore.” 

Her face burned. Her thighs trembled. She was so wet it was actually embarrassing, her panties clinging to her anatomy in  the worst way. She tried to shift, close her legs instinctively, like closing them even a tad would recover herself.

“Oh hell no, you don’t get to play shy. Not after all that big talk and praise.” he cooed, all wicked and low between her. His every annunciation felt on the sensitive skin between her legs. She felt like she was on fucking fire. 

He looked up at her hungrily, he rolled her eyes. “You gonna cut the shit and tell me how bad you wanted this?” he asked, breath hot. “You ever touch yourself listening to my voice on those late night shows? I bet being a media outlet just gave you so much content.”

She gasped, the humiliation a fire in her stomach. Her lips quivered. “I… maybe.” 

“Oh, maybe?” he mocked, his fingers dragging across the soaked fabric between her legs. “C’mon. The girl who always has clever little comebacks on her show is unsure of herself now?”

She groaned, bucking her hips forward. Desperate. It was messy. Sloppy. Her thighs parted with no fight at all at this point. Her heels digging into her floor for leverage. She needed him, and the raw shame of how quickly she had folded only turned the both of them  on.

He smiled at this, “Yeah… there she is.” His voice smoothly darkened, like he personally knew this side to her for ages. They had met today, but he was oh so familiar with how much she liked him. “My messy girl,” he said, satisfied with her physical honesty.

Her panties were practically pasted to her, the heat between her legs pulsing with every syllable he threw at her. His ever growing ego, already keeping him from being quiet.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he muttered, sliding his hand beneath her, not to fuck her,  to cup her. Palm curved perfectly to feel every wet, hot pulse of her cunt as she dripped down onto him, her arousal leaking into the creases of his aged hands.

“Fuck. Won’t you listen to yourself? Look at the fight you lost so miserably.” he mused.

She sobbed a pathetic, strung out wail. He took that same hand, slick with her and slapped her cheek with it. Not hard, just enough to make her feel it. To leave a warm humiliating wet mark across her skin. Her head jerked slightly with the motion, a deranged glaze in her eyes. 

Her cheeks were blazing, she didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed locked to his, dizzy and dark and so painfully needy, it hurt.

He grabbed her jaw, fingers digging in, almost cruelly.

“You stay the fuck with me baby, don’t get all dumb now. You wanted to be seen, didn’t you? You talked a big, big game.” 

She was beyond thought, rational ones at that. She just asked. It’s all she could do.

“Please. Fuck… fuck– please.” she pleaded, hardly breathing.

He scoffed, loving this side of her, as humiliating as this was for her. He was growing more and more fond of her as far as she let go. “Oh please what?” he cruelly taunted. “You even asking to do something dirty? Or are you just doing all this to sit here, sob on my lap while I make you cum without even taking my cock out.”

Her moan broke mid air, her hands tangling in his shirt. She didn’t even know what she wanted, she felt like she never knew anything until now. 

He stood over her, still sat in the same stool where she was just chatting with him. Looking up at him desperately. One hand remained knuckle deep in her cunt, the other violently gripping her face, never for a moment letting her gaze slip from his intense one.

He spits on her face, her eyes only fluttering shut for the first time in ages to avoid his spit. She let it slide down her ruined face. Her own fluids and his spit melting into each other as they remained on her face. 

He slapped her again. “You’ll remember this every time you hear my voice now, huh?” he lowly said, nearly inside of her ear. “Next time you sit this cute ass in that little booth, playing those tapes and old interviews? Just know one of ‘em lived in your headphones, and now he’s the reason you’re a shell of the cool girl they know.” he threatened so deliciously.

She had a dazed and weary longing look, her eyebrows turned upward and glassy. She nodded as if he was the only thing in the world that she could ever need to get by, to be told what to like, hate, what to do. She felt so completely his. 

She came. Hard. Her hips violently bucking into his hand, her full body shattering against him with a cry that would’ve embarrassed her if she still had any pride left.

But she didn’t.

Of course she didn’t.

This is all she wanted, to be the lame one in any interaction. To not be the more knowing one, to be completely and utterly subordinate. 

Her orgasm didn’t even fully release its grip on her, thighs still twitching, her body malleable and soaked with aftershocks when he grabbed her wrist and stood her up in one full motion. 

Her mess sliding down her leg, not getting a chance to even soak into the fabric of her underwear.

She was so excited.

She squealed and gasped as he spun her onto the counter, where their remaining beer and empty shot glasses reminded them of how they even got here.

The cold edge of the counter met her ass with a sharp thud, and before she could catch her breath, he was already caging her in, surrounding her in his tall stature.

“It pisses me off that you think we’re done, you’re cute for that.” he said darkly amused. Hell yes. This was all she wanted, the be talked circles around for change, for anyone to truthfully best her. This was heaven.

She barely had time to breathe before he yanked her dress up with both of his hands, bunched it around her waist and shoved her panties aside, ripping her sheer stockings in the process like they were garbage.

Her eyes watched everything he did, to the point where she held her breath to see what he was going to do with her exposed entrance. He tugged violently at his belt, throwing it aside. His force just as mean to her as it was to the button of his jeans.

He slammed into her as soon as it got out, not even giving her a chance to see any vein, nothing but the size and girth.

She choked on a scream, her fingers clawing behind his neck, the sudden stretch of him inside of her blinding. She never felt more lightheaded, like she was far from alive. It was perfect.

He didn’t ease in. There was no ceremony. No sweetness. Just filth. 

Just a man who’d listened to her voice for months, jerking off to her smug little interactions and her high praise of him and his band. Finally under him, where he firmly believed she belonged this whole time.

His hips snapped against hers in a brutal rhythmic slam. She wasn’t sure if she was moaning or sobbing, or even begging. Whatever it was, he drank it in like it made him harder.

He gripped her hips so tightly, she’d bruise. She wanted it to bruise, she never wanted this heightened ecstasy to leave her even months after. Each thrust knocking the wind out of her, hair sticking to the mess on her face in strands. 

“Say something now.” he panted, leaning into her. “C’mon little host, our lady of the hour. No more one-liners to share with me?” 

She didn’t try, she didn’t want to try. Her past persona a disgrace in her mind if it kept her from treatment like this for ages.

“That’s what I thought.” he dimly smiled, a soft gesture of thumbing away her stuck hair from her face. “My poor thing, that attitude surely didn’t last long.”

He didn’t slow, didn’t stop.

She couldn’t even count how many times either of them probably came, too mentally far away to even recognize it. 

And she loved it. Every second. Every degrading word. The physical example of her being the least smart one in the room, an erotic humbling she had longed for everyday.

She finally embraced what she thought she was better than for ages, a slut, a gross perverted radio host with the furthest of innocent intentions with her hoped connections.

The apartment had gone quiet, save for the steady hum of her body still trembling in the aftermath. She was completely laid out on the counter. A little bruised, a little adored. 

She brought her weak hands to her body, finding every physical evidence of his rage all over her, every indent of his teeth marks brought an exhausted smile and gasp as she found them. 

Duff was resting his forehead on her lower abdomen. His chest rising and falling with unhurried breaths, watching her like a satisfied animal. 

Her lips were red and kiss bruised, mascara smeared from the corners of her eyes. She never felt more settled. Anchored. 

He came up and held her to his naked body, none of them remembering the motions of getting naked. He kissed her forehead, he sat her on his lap on the stools. Gentle. Disgustingly gentle for a man who just made her sob and drool all over her own kitchen counter.

“You done pretending? For me at least?” he whispered into the crook of her neck, peppering it with kisses. Her voice was hoarse. “It’s beyond you.” 

Duff spent the night, the shower and sleep after it all the more of a reminder of what pretending to be a proud cool-headed girl kept from her. 

She lied in bed with Duff, the most tired and gratified she had ever been. She knew what she’d have to do.

It was the last time the “ON AIR” light would glow.

She leaned into her mic, her voice all polite and graceful. Changed.

“If you spent your 2-4 AM’s with me, I wanna thank you personally. Thank you for wasting your time with me. Even the weird ones. It’s not forever, I love you guys too much.”

A pause as she held her finger over the switch. 

“I just wanna thank a very special one of you.” she said, her eyes glinting upward. “I’m happy to have put on the rawest show for you.” she said softly into the mic. 

Click.

She slung her bag over her shoulder, switching the light off in the room without any reluctance.

The “ON AIR” light blinked off. The silence was as erotic as ever, not empty. She felt claimed.

The guest seat wasn’t empty tonight, Duff proudly coming up to wrap his arm around her and walk her out. Smugly looking down at her as she was his prize.

She was something else entirely as she left the station for the last time.

note: this was my first fanfic i hope you enjoyed <3

[andy-15-07]

Dancing in the Dark

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader Word Count: 2151 Harry Potter Masterlist | request

The Yule Ball was in full swing at Hogwarts, the enchanted Great Hall transformed into a winter wonderland of twinkling lights and shimmering icicles. Guests, both students and staff, mingled beneath soaring enchanted ceilings that mimicked the starry night sky. Among the dancers and laughter, two figures moved almost as shadows—one in a midnight-black cloak, his expression as guarded as ever, and the other, vibrant and warm with her deep brown hair and matching eyes that shone with a secret mirth.

Severus Snape stood near the periphery of the dance floor, his dark eyes fixed on the swirling couples. Ever the reluctant participant in frivolities, he had vowed to avoid such distractions tonight. Yet the magic of the evening, combined with the warmth that had settled between him and Y/N over the years, made resisting difficult. Their secret union—known only to the two of them—had transformed what would have been mere cohabitation into a partnership that whispered of forbidden tenderness and subtle defiance.

Y/N, elegant in a dress of deep forest green that echoed the quiet confidence in her eyes, spotted him. With a determined glint in her gaze, she moved through the crowd. “Severus,” she called softly, her voice carrying just enough to catch him off guard.

Snape’s features tensed at the sound, and he turned to see her approaching. For a moment, he appeared as if he might retreat into the shadows entirely, but then she smiled—a secret smile that seemed to illuminate the dim hall. “Must you always seek to disrupt my solitude?” he murmured, though his tone lacked its usual iciness.

“Disrupt?” she teased as she reached him, lightly tugging his hand. “Or perhaps liberate it?” Her playful remark was laced with both affection and a challenge. “Tonight is too special to waste watching others dance.”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering around the room as though calculating every potential risk. The Yule Ball was not just a celebration; it was an event where every glance and whispered conversation could unravel the delicate tapestry of secrets they had so carefully woven. Yet, as her hand tightened on his, he felt the old defiance stir—a readiness to break away from protocol, even if just for a few stolen minutes.

“Very well,” Snape conceded in a low voice, the single word charged with more meaning than any declaration could ever convey.

They slipped away from the main crowd, finding refuge in a quieter alcove where the strains of a slow, melodic tune drifted softly. The space was nearly deserted, lit only by flickering candles that cast gentle, dancing shadows on the walls. It was here that Y/N’s eyes, warm and earnest, met his. “I’ve missed this—us,” she said softly.

He arched an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Missed what exactly?” he replied, though his tone betrayed a hint of vulnerability.

“This,” she said, stepping closer until there was barely a whisper of space between them. “The closeness, the quiet understanding. The moments when it’s just you and me, away from everything else.”

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them. Snape’s heart, usually so guarded behind layers of duty and bitterness, softened imperceptibly. “It is dangerous, you know,” he warned gently. “Our lives… they demand discretion.”

Y/N laughed quietly, a sound that reminded him of distant, happier times. “Dangerous, perhaps, but worth every risk,” she countered, her tone resolute. “Every day with you, even in the shadows, makes it worth it.”

Their conversation paused as the soft strains of the music shifted into a slow waltz. The notes seemed to invite them to the dance floor once more. Without another word, Y/N extended her hand, an unspoken invitation. Snape’s eyes, dark and brooding, softened as he took it. “Let’s not allow others to see what we share,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Hand in hand, they stepped onto the dance floor. The swirling figures around them blurred into insignificance as the couple found solace in each other’s presence. The waltz carried them effortlessly, their movements synchronized in a way that defied the rigid formalities of the outside world. With every turn, every gentle step, they carved out a small haven amid the revelry—a secret dance known only to them.

“Tell me, Severus,” Y/N said between the soft hum of the music, “do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if we weren’t bound by these restrictions? If we didn’t have to hide?”

His gaze remained fixed on the space ahead, as if he were peering into an impossible future. “Every day,” he admitted. “But fantasy is a luxury I rarely afford. Our world… it is not kind to those who dare to dream too openly.”

She squeezed his hand lightly. “Then let’s dream in the dark,” she whispered. “Let this night be ours, free from the expectations of the world.”

As the dance continued, their dialogue deepened. They spoke in half-whispers, the language of shared secrets and mutual understanding. Y/N recalled childhood memories of enchanted winter nights, while Snape spoke of battles fought in silence and the quiet victories that defined his days. Each word, each sentence, built a tapestry of memories and hopes—threads that only they could see.

“I remember when you first challenged me,” Snape said softly, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believed it was a foolish endeavor. Yet here we are.”

“You were always reluctant to see beyond the surface,” Y/N replied, her tone both teasing and sincere. “But I saw you—a man of depth, of passion, of hidden tenderness. And I had to know if the rumors were true.”

Snape’s eyes flickered with amusement. “Rumors, indeed. Who would have thought that beneath this mask of stern duty, there lies a heart capable of defiance? A heart that beats in time with yours?”

The music shifted once more, slower now, and the soft murmur of the distant crowd seemed to recede further. In that moment, they were alone in their shared world—a world where words were more than mere sound, where every syllable carried the weight of their clandestine bond.

“You know, Severus,” Y/N began, her voice tender, “there’s something I’ve always admired about you. Even when the world seemed so cold, you never lost your sense of loyalty—to your principles, to the few who truly mattered.”

He regarded her for a long moment, the stern lines of his face softening as he looked into her eyes. “I have learned that loyalty, when true, transcends even the most oppressive circumstances. And you… you have taught me that love can exist even in the darkest of times.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a soft laugh from a nearby group, but they remained undisturbed in their private reverie. The gentle cadence of the dance was a reminder of what they shared—a secret union, a bond that defied the judgments of the world outside these enchanted walls.

“Do you ever regret it?” Y/N asked suddenly, her voice barely audible over the music. “Choosing this life of secrecy, this path of constant caution?”

Snape paused, his eyes distant for a moment. “Regret?” he echoed slowly. “There are moments when the weight of our secret feels unbearable. Yet every time I see you, every time I feel the warmth of your hand in mine, I know there is nothing I would change.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that spoke of both joy and sorrow. “Then let us not waste another moment hiding in the shadows. Tonight, we belong solely to each other.”

“Tonight, we are free,” he agreed, his voice firm yet gentle.

As the dance drew to a close, they lingered in the embrace of their shared moment. In the midst of the festivities, their whispered declarations and secret smiles wove a story of rebellion and devotion. The Great Hall, with its brilliance and splendor, was but a backdrop to a more intimate narrative—a tale of two souls bound together in silence and defiance.

Later that evening, as the crowd thinned and the echoes of laughter subsided, Y/N and Snape found themselves alone in a quiet corridor away from prying eyes. The corridor, lined with ancient stone and flickering torches, held an almost palpable sense of history—a history in which they had carved out their own hidden chapter.

“Do you think anyone will ever know?” Y/N asked softly as they walked side by side, the soft rustle of their footsteps the only sound.

Snape’s reply was measured, thoughtful. “Some truths are meant to be whispered, not shouted. Our bond is our own, and if the world cannot see it, then it is ours alone to cherish.”

Y/N’s hand found his once more, a silent promise passed between them. “I believe that someday, the truth will shine through. Until then, we have these moments, these dances in the dark.”

He gave her a look that mingled both admiration and protectiveness. “And in these moments, we will be whole.”

Their conversation continued as they strolled through the quiet corridors, reminiscing about past Yule Balls and sharing hopes for a future where their love need not be concealed. Each exchanged word reinforced the unspoken promise that bound them—loyalty, love, and the fierce determination to carve out a life that defied the constraints of the world around them.

In a secluded corner of the castle, they paused before a portrait of a long-departed witch, its eyes twinkling knowingly. “It seems even the portraits agree,” Y/N said with a light laugh. “They know that some love stories are too powerful to be confined by convention.”

Snape’s normally reserved expression softened. “Perhaps one day, when the time is right, we can share our truth with those who matter. But for now, let our secret be our sanctuary.”

The portrait’s painted eyes appeared to wink as if in silent approval. In that moment, surrounded by centuries of magic and mystery, Y/N and Snape felt an almost tangible sense of unity—a merging of souls that transcended the limitations imposed upon them.

Their night was far from over. Later, while the festivities continued in distant halls, they retreated to a quiet classroom converted for the evening into a private lounge. There, beneath a tapestry depicting the founders of Hogwarts, they allowed themselves to be vulnerable once more. Over steaming cups of spiced tea and the soft glow of enchanted candles, their conversation delved into the complexities of their past and the fragile hope for their future.

“Do you ever think about what might have been if we weren’t burdened by duty?” Y/N asked, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

Snape’s voice was a quiet rumble. “Every day. But duty and sacrifice have been my constant companions for as long as I can remember. You, however, have shown me that there is beauty even in the fleeting moments of freedom.”

She reached across the table, her hand brushing his. “Then promise me something,” she said, her tone earnest. “Promise that no matter how dark the night, we will always find our way back to this light—our light.”

He looked into her eyes, the vulnerability there a rarity. “I promise,” he said firmly. “Even if the world tries to tear us apart, even if secrets continue to shadow our every step, I will always find you.”

Their words, simple yet profound, echoed in the silent room. The tapestry above, a silent witness to their pledge, seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly glow. For in that moment, beyond the constraints of Hogwarts’ ancient stone and the expectations of society, they existed solely as two hearts in perfect synchrony.

The hours slipped by, each minute filled with whispered confidences and the soft music of their shared laughter. As the first hints of dawn crept into the horizon, they reluctantly parted, each returning to their own responsibilities while carrying the warmth of their secret night like a cherished talisman.

Before parting at the castle’s threshold, Y/N leaned close and whispered, “Tonight was ours, Severus. And no one can ever take that away.”

He pressed his lips briefly against her forehead, a silent vow etched in the gesture. “Never,” he replied, his voice low and resolute.

And so, in the quiet aftermath of the Yule Ball, with memories of an enchanted dance lingering in the corridors of Hogwarts, Y/N and Snape carried on with their lives—a secret romance hidden in plain sight, a tender rebellion against the constraints of a world that could never understand the beauty of their union.

Their clandestine meetings, filled with dialogue that spoke of shared dreams and quiet courage, would continue to be the heart of their existence. In every stolen moment, in every whispered promise, they nurtured a love that was both fragile and indomitable—a love that, even in the darkest of times, danced defiantly in the shadows, waiting for the light of a future where truth might finally set it free.

[natsaffection]

Hi hi I know this is a random request but I just watched smile and I was terrified so I was wondering if you could do like a wandanat x reader where the reader watches a scary movie on their own coz they was bored and wandanat were working and reader gets super scared and runs to them and they just laugh at her because she is so scared but explain it’s just a movie then they watch the movie with her instead and it leads to ya know lol

Sorry if this is a weird request ignore it if it is sorry :)

Comfort. | WandaNat

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Threesome, fingering, slight begging

Word Count: 1,1k

A/N: Again something Cuteeee. When I wrote it, my Tv suddenly turned off and it scared the shit out of me (it was midnight when I wrote it) That’s a sign..

The rain pattered gently against the windows of the cozy apartment, a soothing backdrop to the evening’s activities. Natasha and Wanda were both deeply engrossed in their work, papers and laptops spread across the dining table. Their focus was intense, each woman lost in the tasks at hand.

In the living room, you curled up on the couch with a blanket, deciding to pass the time with a horror movie. The movie was one you had seen recommended, but the eerie soundtrack and sudden jump scares quickly proved to be more unsettling than you had anticipated. With each creak and shadow on the screen, your anxiety grew, until a particularly terrifying scene caused you to yelp and scramble off the couch.

Heart pounding, you bolted from the living room, seeking the comfort of your partners. Natasha and Wanda looked up in surprise as you burst into the room, your wide eyes and trembling hands betraying your fear.

“What’s wrong?” Natasha asked, her voice laced with concern. You hesitated, feeling a bit silly for your reaction. “I..was watching a horror movie, and it just…it really scared me. I wanted to see you both.“

Natasha and Wanda exchanged amused glances. Wanda couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. “Oh, sweetheart, you got scared by a movie?”

You nodded, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Yeah… I know it’s just a movie, but..” Natasha chuckled, standing up and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s take a break, shall we?”

Together, they guided you back to the living room. Natasha grabbed the remote and paused the movie, examining the screen with a raised eyebrow. “This is the culprit, huh?”

You nodded again, feeling more embarrassed by the second. “Yeah.” Wanda sat down on the couch, patting the space beside her. “Come here. We’ll watch it together.”

Natasha settled on your other side, sandwiching you between them. With a teasing grin, Natasha pressed play. The movie resumed, and Natasha and Wanda’s amused expressions helped to ease your nerves.

As the movie played on, Natasha made playful comments about the unrealistic plot points, exaggerating her reactions to the scares. “Really? Who runs into the basement?” she quipped, making you giggle.

Wanda, meanwhile, conjured a small red glow in her hand, creating comforting patterns in the air to distract you from the scarier scenes. “Remember, it’s all just special effects,” she said, smiling.

Your fear gradually ebbed away, replaced by a sense of security and warmth. Natasha’s arm around you and Wanda’s playful magic made it easier to endure the scary scenes.

When the movie reached a particularly steamy scene, you felt yourself blush deeply. You glanced at Natasha and Wanda, expecting them to fast-forward, but Natasha simply raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Well, this movie just got interesting.” Natasha murmured, her voice low and teasing.

Wanda giggled, her fingers tracing light patterns on your arm. “Looks like we chose quite the film, didn’t we?” You felt a mix of embarrassment and excitement, your heart racing for a different reason now. Natasha’s hand began to move slowly, her fingers brushing lightly against your thigh, while Wanda leaned in closer, her breath warm against your ear. “Feeling better now?” Wanda whispered, her voice sultry. You nodded, your breath hitching. “Y-yes, much better..”

Natasha’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned in to kiss you softly, her touch both tender and possessive. Wanda’s hand joined in, caressing your other thigh, their combined warmth making you feel cherished and desired.

As the movie continued in the background, forgotten for the moment, Natasha and Wanda exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with affection and a hint of mischief. Natasha’s hand slid up your thigh, her touch light and teasing. “You know,” she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear, “we could make this evening even more interesting.”

Wanda’s hand mirrored Natasha’s movements, her fingers trailing up your other thigh. “I think that’s a wonderful idea..“ she murmured, her voice low and inviting.

Your breath quickened, your body responding to the gentle, teasing touches. “What do you have in mind..?” you asked, your voice trembling with anticipation.

Natasha’s smile widened as she leaned in to kiss you deeply, her hand sliding under the hem of your shirt. “Just relax and let us take care of you. Let you forget the creepy scenes.” she whispered against your lips.

Wanda’s lips found the sensitive spot on your neck, her kisses soft and tantalizing. “We want to make you feel good.” she breathed, her hands roaming over your body.

Natasha’s hands moved with expert precision, peeling away your clothes with a mix of tenderness and urgency. Wanda’s touch was equally skilled, her fingers dancing across your skin, igniting a trail of warmth and desire.

As Natasha’s lips traveled down your body, her kisses growing more intense, Wanda’s hands continued their exploration, each touch sending shivers of pleasure through you. Natasha’s tongue flicked out to taste your skin, her movements deliberate and sensual.

Wanda’s fingers found their way between your thighs, her touch light and teasing. “You’re so beautiful..” she whispered, her voice filled with admiration and desire. Your breath hitched, your body arching towards Wanda’s touch. “Please..” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Natasha’s eyes met Wanda’s, a silent exchange of affection and understanding passing between them. With a nod, Wanda’s fingers moved with more purpose, finding your most sensitive spot. Natasha’s lips and tongue followed suit, their combined efforts sending waves of pleasure crashing over you.

The intensity of their touch increased, each caress, kiss, and stroke designed to bring you closer to the edge. Natasha’s mouth worked in perfect harmony with Wanda’s fingers, their movements synchronized and relentless.

Your moans filled the room, your body trembling with the overwhelming sensations. “I’m so c-close..” you gasped, your fingers gripping the couch cushions.

Natasha’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she increased the pressure of her tongue, while Wanda’s fingers moved faster, their rhythm perfect. “Let go,” Natasha urged, her voice husky and commanding. “Let us take you there.”

With a final, shuddering breath, your body tensed, and you cried out in ecstasy. The climax washed over you in powerful waves, leaving you breathless and spent. Natasha and Wanda held you tightly, their touches gentle and reassuring as they guided you through the aftermath of your release.

As your breathing steadied, Natasha pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You did so well, Detka..” she murmured, her voice filled with love and pride.

Wanda smiled, her eyes glowing with affection. “We love you so much.” You nestled between them, feeling more loved and cherished than ever before. “I love you both..” you whispered, your heart full.

The three of you stayed intertwined, the movie long forgotten, the rain outside continuing to fall softly against the windows.

[bnny0rgnz]

A/N : Hey guys! Here's the next chapter, will be posting the next one soon and the playlist as well. This chapter will be focused in Darlene's POV and the next one will be more focused in Lucian's POV. I tried to be a little bit subtle with Darlene's wall breaking. Her future wall breaks WILL NOT spoil the next chapters, I promise you guys that. Enjoy the chapters!

The Celestial Effect

Stars danced across the midnight sky like they were alive—tiny flames pulsing above the Earth, each one carrying stories untold. Clouds lazily drifted past, obscuring some of them, but nothing could hide the one star meant to fall.

Darlene sat in the back seat of her family’s car, her head resting against the window, eyes locked on the sky. The silence in the vehicle wasn’t awkward—just the quiet hum of shared fatigue. Her parents, weary from the long drive, had said little since they left their small hometown. Gotham wasn’t exactly a dream destination for most, but for Darlene, it was the beginning of everything.

They were heading toward a new life, one sparked by a single letter of acceptance. Darlene had gotten into her dream academy for fashion design. She’d already imagined the looks she’d create, the runways she’d rule. But if only it were that simple.

See, Darlene wasn’t like other girls.

She always felt different—not in the quirky, I'm-a-special-snowflake kind of way. But different like the universe occasionally whispered to her. Like the stars themselves leaned down and said, "You're one of us."

And they weren’t wrong.

Her mother had always been a mystery, even before she revealed the truth. One night, while Darlene lay on the rooftop watching the sky, her mother sat beside her and told her what she was. Not who, but what.

"I wasn’t born here," she had said, brushing a thumb across Darlene’s cheek. "I was cast from the sky—a fallen star, given form so I could walk among humans. I met your father, and for the first time, I wanted to stay."

Darlene remembered laughing, thinking it was some wild bedtime story. But then, her mother had shown her. Her skin shimmered, her form briefly bending into an ethereal, starlit glow before returning to normal. It was beautiful and terrifying and… real.

“And you,” her mother had continued, placing a hand on her daughter’s belly, “were formed differently. When celestial beings carry life, the stars fall. One drifted down, entered me, and became you."

It explained so much. Why Darlene could manipulate stardust into weapons, clothes, even full-blown star-motorcycles when traffic got too annoying. Why she always felt like she was seeing things others couldn’t. Why she could sometimes hear things before they happened—and why she could break the fourth wall, her awareness of being in a story stretching further than most could even comprehend.

She was never meant to just live. She was meant to shine.

The car turned into the city limits, the skyline of Gotham rising in the distance. It was gritty and dark, full of crime and corruption—but Darlene didn’t fear it. She was here for a reason. To start over. To meet her people.

And she had a feeling she already knew who they were.

Darlene’s arrival at the academy was met with surprise. Not because she wasn’t qualified—she was brilliant. But because the girl practically sparkled with energy. She was Gotham’s newest enigma. A magical girl from the stars wrapped in a pink cropped jacket and glitter-laced sneakers.

She made friends easily—sort of. She chose people. And one of those people was you.

The moment she met you, Darlene knew.

“She’s the one,” she whispered to herself behind a locker. “Main character energy all the way.”

Of course, she didn’t say that out loud. Not yet. She played it cool. Let things unfold naturally. But she was always aware. Always watching the narrative thread as it stitched its way between you both.

When you made the decision to become a vigilante after witnessing the flower effect—a transformation of blooming life in a world full of crime—Darlene didn’t just support you. She revealed herself.

“I’m a vigilante too,” she had said that night in the abandoned subway, where flowers crept through the cracked tiles. “Starling. Gotham’s former magical girl. And now, your new partner.”

The look on your face had been priceless.

Together, you both crafted your suits, and even designed masks to keep your identities safe. Darlene made yours herself—shaped from shimmering, vine-carved starstone. A perfect match to your floral aesthetic. And she made sure hers still screamed space-princess-but-deadly.

And then there was Azrael.

Grumpy. Mysterious. Trained to kill.

You two had only recently started training under him. After begging him repeatedly.

He had criticized everything at first.

“You drop your shoulder when you strike,” he’d told you.

“Your power is loud but your form is lazy,” he said to Darlene.

But you didn’t stop. Neither did she.

Eventually, he caved.

And now, the three of you were Gotham’s strangest trio.

It had been a few days since that training session where Lucian (Azrael) revealed his name. Since then, things had gotten… familiar. Not friendly—Lucian was still a stone wall—but there was something.

And today, Darlene decided to break the pattern.

“We’re not training today,” she declared as Lucian approached.

He stared. “Who are you to decide that?”

“Come on, brooding death boy,” she said. “Let us live for once.”

You, ever the polite one, added, “Please, Lucian? One day off won’t hurt.”

He sighed heavily. “Fine. One day.”

Which led to the three of you sitting in a retro diner booth, sipping on milkshakes and teasing each other between bites of greasy fries.

Darlene leaned over the table, winking. “So what’s the deal with your name? Azrael sounds like you walked out of a comic book.”

Lucian didn’t flinch. “It means death. I chose it because my powers bring it.”

He went on to explain the black storm dust that seeped from his hands—the very thing that could put people into an irreversible sleep if he deemed them dangerous enough.

“I don’t kill. I judge,” he said flatly. “And I only deliver what they’ve already earned.”

Darlene blinked. “Okay, Batman 2.0.”

You nodded. “That’s… a heavy burden.”

Lucian tilted his head at you. “It is. But it’s mine.”

Darlene smirked and turned to the camera that wasn’t really there.

“Remember this, guys,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Chapter twenty-something. Mark my words.”

Lucian didn’t smile.

But he did smirk.

And that was enough.

The next couple of days passed in a blur of aches, bruises, and starlight. It was training, training, and more training. But to Darlene, that was just part of the fun.

From the moment I got in that car, I knew Gotham was going to be something different. Not just because it was cold, dark, and perpetually brooding, but because I was with Y/n—an actual hero-in-training—and Lucian, the stoic, skull-masked warrior with an attitude as big as the moon.

They were doing things I'd only seen in comic books—throwing punches that knocked criminals out cold, taking down goons with the kind of precision that only a highly trained assassin or vigilante could achieve.

One day, as we headed back from another brutal training session with Lucian, I found myself staring at Y/n. She was limping slightly, but she carried herself with grace. Even with sore muscles, she was as composed as ever. When she wasn’t doing ballet moves in the middle of a fight, she was graceful. When she was punching bad guys into oblivion, she was deadly.

But, I have to admit, I enjoyed watching her after those intense days. Y/n had this calming aura about her, one that almost made me forget the fact that we were part-time vigilantes in a city full of crime and chaos.

A few days later, I found myself on the couch in my living room with Y/n. I had started noticing that while she appeared to be adjusting to her powers and her new life as a vigilante, there was still something missing—her sense of self.

She’d wake up early, sit at the window, looking out over the city as if waiting for something. Every movement she made seemed delicate and intentional, like each one had a purpose, even though she would never say it. I couldn’t help but notice the faint sadness in her eyes when she thought no one was watching. I knew she was trying to fit into this new role, but sometimes, it was like she was still finding out who she was.

It wasn’t the same with Lucian. That guy was stone. He didn’t budge. He didn’t smile, he didn’t laugh. He’d stand there with his arms crossed, his skull mask like a permanent fixture. Sure, he trained us hard—too hard at times—but he had his own reasons, reasons that didn’t involve anyone but himself.

A month passed.

The Batfamily was still trying to track us down, though they had no idea what to make of us. I could see it all playing out like a bad detective show, only with a lot more confusion and way less popcorn. It was getting to the point where I could feel their eyes on us—even when they were miles away. And of course, that only made the whole thing more fun. Gotham’s finest were scouring the city for these mysterious vigilantes—us—and still, they couldn’t figure out who we were. Every time they tried to catch us in the act, they ended up in the wrong place, looking like they’d missed the party by hours.

Darlene here, by the way. I’m still the one keeping tabs on everything—especially on Y/n’s every move. See, I might seem all flippant and carefree, but you can bet I know how to observe when things start getting interesting. And Y/n? Well, she was getting good at this whole crime-fighting thing.

Now, every time we showed up at a crime scene, the Batfam seemed to appear five minutes too late. I almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

It was another night, just like every other. The city hummed with chaos, but we were ready. Lucian, Y/n, and I had spent the past few days honing our skills—throwing punches, throwing stars, throwing everything.

Lucian was surprisingly good at showing restraint when it came to letting us get a shot in. He stood off to the side, watching, calculating every move we made. It didn’t matter that Y/n could take down a dozen goons with nothing but her ballet moves and flower vines. Or that I could create glowing star hammers out of thin air. He never smiled, he never laughed, but I swear, if he had a dollar for every time he rolled his eyes at us, he’d be richer than Bruce Wayne.

“We’re getting better,” Y/n said, adjusting the fabric of her suit as she stretched. The lace and flower patterns sparkled under the dim Gotham streetlights, and I couldn’t help but think how ridiculously pretty she looked in that outfit. It didn’t scream “vigilante” as much as “graceful warrior.”

“You’re looking good,” I said with a smirk.

Y/n’s lips twitched. “Thanks.”

“I know. But seriously, the Bats are out there again, probably three blocks away from here, thinking they’ve got us cornered.”

“Oh, are they still trying to catch us?” she asked, clearly amused.

“You know it.”

“You’d think they’d learn.” She glanced over at Lucian, who stood several feet away, arms crossed.

“Yeah, but you know how Batman is. Obsessed with rules. It’s like... a whole thing,” I muttered, using air quotes around “rules.”

As if on cue, the sounds of sirens filled the air, and the familiar sight of Gotham’s notorious criminals stormed a bank.

It didn’t take long for us to get there. Within minutes, Lucian’s shadowy figure darted across the rooftop, and Y/n was already leaping from building to building, a trail of flowers blooming in her wake. The robbers didn’t stand a chance. As they fumbled with their weapons, vines erupted from the ground, curling around their legs, holding them still.

I leapt in next, my stars transforming into a shining sword in my hand, cutting through the air. We had this—just like always.

Then, of course, we heard of the bats. Tim, Dick, and Jason were right around the corner, having caught sight of us on the surveillance footage. We just hoped they wouldn’t notice the flowers and stars.

By the end of the night, news channels were buzzing with the latest story: Gotham’s mysterious trio of vigilantes had struck again, saving the day with flowers, stars, and some serious martial arts. They watched, puzzled, as news reports praised “Aetherius,” “Celestique,” and the unknown “Azrael.”

The next day, at the Batcave, Bruce was pacing.

“Who are they?” he demanded. “How are they so fast?”

Tim squinted at the monitor. “There’s no record of any vigilantes like them.”

Barbara sighed. “How can we not find them? It’s like they know we’re coming before we do.”

“Maybe they’re too good for us,” Jason muttered, earning an incredulous look from Dick.

“We need to track them down,” Bruce said, his voice low. “Before they start thinking they own this city.”

Back in Gotham’s underbelly, we continued our patrols, trying to stay one step ahead of the Batfamily. The media loved us, but we still had work to do. Crime was everywhere, and it wasn’t going to stop just because we showed up.

But hey, at least we had fun along the way. And if the Batfamily didn’t want to be friends? Fine by me.

The Batfamily kept showing up.

I could feel it. Every time we hit the streets, they were right behind us. Gotham’s finest—Bruce, Dick, Tim, Damian, and the rest—had a knack for following our every move, even when we were miles away. It started getting... exhausting. And Lucian? Yeah, he didn’t like it. At all.

He’d stand on the rooftops, arms crossed, watching as the Batfamily's surveillance team tracked us down for the hundredth time. Each time they showed up, it only made him more frustrated, and it showed.

One night, after another robbery had been stopped in record time, the Batfamily was, predictably, right around the corner. Tim and Jason were watching the monitors as usual, trying to piece together where we might be, while Bruce was barking out orders in that unyielding, all-business voice of his.

Damian, however, wasn’t listening to any of it. He had his own focus. As the footage flickered across the large screen, his eyes narrowed, glued to the image of Azrael—no, Lucian—fighting off the robbers.

Azrael moved like a force of nature. He didn’t just fight; he flowed. The way he effortlessly flipped one of the robbers, disarmed another, and incapacitated the rest with that dark, stormy dust was beyond impressive. In fact, it looked... almost effortless. Every motion seemed like a deadly dance—too clean, too precise. There was nothing like it in the Batfamily's own training. No one could move like that.

Damian’s lip curled slightly as the footage showed Azrael’s fast movements, his sleek black skull mask, and that eerie black dust swirling around him. He felt his jaw tighten in frustration.

“They’ve got skills,” Damian muttered to himself, as if the words tasted like acid. His green eyes glinted with jealousy, though he quickly masked it, retreating into his usual stern expression. “But they don’t have the discipline.”

His eyes flicked to the next part of the footage, where another figure—Y/n, the one they called Aetherius—had appeared. She was dancing through the robbers with her flower vines, effortlessly disarming them, her movements more graceful than anything Damian had ever seen.

His gaze sharpened, fingers tapping in rhythm as if he could feel the pulse of the fight through the screen. “That's not natural.”

Damian didn’t want to admit it, but there was a growing knot in his stomach, something he couldn’t explain. Watching the footage made him feel... small. These vigilantes—this trio—seemed to be better than him in every way. Their fighting style was fluid, almost supernatural in its precision. And for the first time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they might just be more effective than the Batfamily.

He barely heard Tim’s voice as he started discussing strategy, or Bruce’s calm instructions as they plotted out their next move to catch the trio. Damian's thoughts were consumed with the image of Azrael, with the way he moved—unpredictable, but calculated. It was as if every motion was choreographed for maximum impact, with not a single wasted movement.

“They’re...amatuers,” Damian whispered under his breath, though it was more to himself than to anyone else. “But they’re also a threat.”

Jason, who had been standing next to him, glanced at Damian. “What?”

Damian snapped out of his thoughts, his usual scowl quickly returning. “Nothing.”

But Jason raised an eyebrow. "You look jealous."

Damian shot him a withering glare, but it didn't stop the growing frustration that bubbled inside of him. Jealous? He was the son of Batman. He was trained from birth to be the best fighter in the world. Yet, these three—these strangers—were better than him in ways he couldn’t understand. And worse still, they were the ones Gotham was starting to call “heroes.”

They don’t deserve the recognition, Damian thought bitterly. He would prove it. They were nothing more than interlopers.

And so, without even realizing it, his jealousy began to simmer into something darker. Something that might lead to inevitable confrontation.

As the days passed, the Batfamily—especially Bruce—focused all their efforts on tracking down the trio. The surveillance cameras, the intel, the informants, all aimed at identifying them. But despite their best efforts, the trio always stayed one step ahead, leaving Gotham wondering about the mysterious vigilantes and their uncanny ability to strike swiftly and without mercy.And Damian, for all his stoicism and control, found himself only growing more frustrated by each passing day. He didn’t want to admit it to anyone, least of all to Bruce, but every time those figures appeared on the screen—Azrael, Aetherius, and the one called Celestique—it felt like a reminder that he had more to prove.

[wmiqaqueen]