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humanjarvis · 2 months ago

Text

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay.

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

“A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise.

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell.

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame.

Sylus Qin.

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe.

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive.

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk.

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota.

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon.

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked.

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection.

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong.

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase.

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase.

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery.

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder.

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room.

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth.

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact.

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.”

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.”

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?”

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.”

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale.

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place.

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.”

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post.

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice.

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.”

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face.

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.”

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name.

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is.

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over.

It was time to stare Death in the face.

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably.

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair.

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates.

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve.

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin!

Your heart stops.

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera.

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet.

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives.

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome.

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.”

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway.

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.”

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…”

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked.

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage.

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise.

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny.

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.”

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down.

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more.

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country.

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy.

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again.

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.”

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot.

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience.

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge.

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours.

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period.

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door.

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go.

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires.

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history.

You’d started simple: his social media.

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck.

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face.

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse?

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history.

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too.

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned.

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate.

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter.

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read.

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer.

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him.

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him.

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him.

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo.

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point.

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done.

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin.

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism.

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :)

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered.

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them.

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind.

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words.

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in.

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair.

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do.

Sylus Qin is here.

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh.

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know.

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you.

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you.

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over.

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show.

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.”

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little.

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan.

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls.

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in.

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided.

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.”

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm.

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification.

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile.

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.”

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance.

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not.

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week.

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime.

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do.

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain.

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe.

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life.

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights.

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme.

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television.

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair.

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips.

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about.

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit.

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you.

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man.

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips.

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair.

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show.

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography.

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine.

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you.

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all.

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left.

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room.

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late.

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place.

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you.

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear.

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response.

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches.

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs.

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit.

“I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.”

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon.

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder.

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.”

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely.

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss.

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight.

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.”

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body.

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls.

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing.

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.”

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal.

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment.

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give.

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you.

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan.

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight.

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room.

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning.

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily.

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker.

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off.

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

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woesoftheirwretched-if · 9 days ago

Text

death, life, is there a life after death?

WOES OF THEIR WRETCHED.

| “You will be getting your revenge, no matter what the cost is and whom you have to use..”

Main blog : @pearldvs || other if blogs : none....

LINKS :

DEV-LOGS || FAQ || WARNINGS || SECRET ROS & FLINGS || MASTERLIST || BUG REPORT || THE SEED verse 9:80

PLOT: a recommended 18+ interactive fiction (that contains disturbing/dark subject matter that is not for everyone)that takes place in a mix and alternate universe of ancient medieval times. Nothing in this story will be historically accurate. Woes of their wretched (wotw-if) is where you play as a consort of a cruel king, Leif. You are going to get your revenge for yourself and possibly for other reasons but you will play as a consort and a parent.

| 18+ themes such as described nudity, graphic depictions of blood and gore, depression, rape, abuse, forced Marriage, morally questionable behavior, toxic and unhealthy relationships, child abuse, and more(you can check out the full warnings down above)

note | you will not be able to pick the gender of your child, you will have a son. the main character will start off as a bad parent towards their son and later on the game, you can still be a bad parent or try to be a great, how you choose will affect your life, other characters, and your son's life.

| mc will get pregnant regardless of gender due to magic (if amab)

FEATURES

=Choose the person you wish to be, customize your name, gender, sex, sexual orientation and appearance, you can also choose what kind of parent you want to be; loving and caring or unloving and uncaring as well with choosing what kind of lover you wish to be; loving, lying, manipulative, toxic, healthy…

=Choose your endings and life : There are bad and happy endings for anyone. Yourself, Your Son. It's all up to you, what you can get.

=Build or break your relationship with characters such as ros(romance options) and your son. Even though you can help them, there is no way to make everyone happy but it’s your choice to pick who can be or not.

=Romance anyone of the eight romance interests and 6 secret romance interests(and a few that would be seen as conversational)…but some are not really romance options, a few might die, betray or reject you… will you pick the right ones and be possibly happy? ( 14 ros in total and 4 flings )

DEMO: Prologue 0.5 —on itch io [40k words] : has beem uploaded.

| currently : working on the rest of the prologue part one...

Note: as of currently, I cannot use butlers on Itch io due to my chromebook being messy, if you want. You can download save files or export it.

NOTE; EVERYONE IS THE GAME IS MESSED UP, SICK AND THEY'RE AWARE, DO NOT BABY ANY CHARACTERS (-the kids ofc)

ALL 8 ROMANCE OPTIONS[ros] & OTHER NON-DATEABLE CHARACTERS BELOW

All romance in this story is optional and can be skipped all together if preferred. Still, the platonic relationships will be rewarding and deep on a different level. There are currently no options for poly relationships but I will think about it..

[MAIN CAST]

THE VOICE [unknown] , ?? - ◇

??? : the voice is something or someone that has been with you ever since your mother had died when you were ten years old.

?? : your mother had the voice inside of her mind for a long time when her father was killed, this voice seems to be from your mother's side and it says it is a demon.

| the voice and mc will have a complex relationship and throughout the game, the voice will be a bastard and judge you throughout the game and later on you can have a nickname for it.

#wretched : voice

MC 'DOVE' AUGUSTKINGS (ALCOTT) [genderselectable] , 21 - ☆

Backstory: You are a outcast as people would say, just in the shadows with the title of 'one of Leif's many consorts' as people would say...

📎 A person, with gold eyes and customize-able to your likings.

#wretched : mc

| customized-able looks except for eyes (gold)

° | mc will originally be a bad parent towards Emil(your child) due to trauma, its up to if you want to be a bad parent or a great parent... your child's faith will lay on your hands.

EMIL AUGUSTKINGS [male] , 7 - ♧

Backstory: your child, you had no interest in him, born out of force and no love for him, but you realize that you can take your revenge - a possible heir of the throne, your ticket to revenge.

📎 An young boy, he has light brown skin, he has gold eyes. He is short in height (4'0). His hair is dark green and short that reaches to his ears and it is neatly combed. His body is skinny and petitle.

#wretched : emil

| you are unable to name him but you can give him a nickname later on, if you wish so.

MIRSELL CONSTAN [female] , 57 - ◇

Backstory: A old woman that takes care of consorts' children, a nanny but she seems to take care of your child more. - A elderly woman, a nanny people would say. She calls herself, Emil's Mother. Not around you, obviously.

📎 An older woman, she has brown skin tone, she has black deep eyes, she is short in height (5'4) and her hair color is fully grey and white and it is shoulder length and tied in a bun. Her body is leaning towards chubby.

#wretched : mirsell

| you can choose her faith later on the game, she can die or live also she can hate or love you later on.

ARTHUR IOVMISE [male] , 47 - ○

Backstory: A man, he is an assistant of the king, he also helps the consorts - He is a strong man that is also seen scolding the consorts, his daughter was also a consort of the king but rumors say that he helped her flee.

📎 An man, he has a tan skin tone and he had dark blue eyes along with his height being tall(6'1) and his hair being dark green with some grey hairs(he has facial hair), it is short and reaches to his ears, his body type is lanky and tall.

#wretched : arthur

| depending on your choices, he can hate or love you as his own.

SONA(SOPHIA) BELLWON [male] , 25 - ☆

Backstory: A servant, he is having an affair with one of the consorts, a young woman named Emilia - He is a servant that is related to Lady Mirsell, his grandma, well not really but he says he is.

📎 An man with fair skin, he has hazel eyes and he is average in height(5'11) and he has a color that mixes of grey and blue, his hair is shoulder length and is tied in a low ponytail. His body type is lean and average.

#wretched : sona

| sona will either help you or betray you depending on a very important choice you will make and he will be important as well.

LEIF AUGUSTKINGS [male] , 56 - ♧

Backstory: He is a man that was raised by a cold mother and a ill father, he is cold as well - He is your husband, he wants a heir, a strong one. A son. Every daughter is ignored, you're lucky.

📎 An man who has two different colored green eyes with dark blue and brown skin, he is tall(6'4) and his hair color is dark green and it is ear length along with his beard which is a stubble and his body is quite muscular.

#wretched : leif

| he will die in a lot of endings except the bad endings and he is one of the main problems with your life and trauma.

ESME DAWN-BALDASSARE [male] , 18 - ☆

Backstory: your brother, despite being younger, has taken care of you, he is your sweet brother and he love you and Emil. - your his only family left and he is yours, he doesn't do much but stays at king Leif's castle at your request.

📎 An man with olive skin that is your younger half brother, his eye color is ruby red, and his height is short(5'4) his hair color is purple but with natural highlights of ash blonde and it reaches up to his shoulder and often tied in a small pigtail. His body is lean.

#wretched : esme

| no matter what you do, esme will always be there for you.

MOTHER ALCOTT [female] , 29 - ☆

Backstory: your mother, none hardly used her name in the castle, she was like a curse - she had died when you were younger, around 8. Just taken away by your father and his guards.

📎 An woman whom you called your mother, she has gold eyes like yours, she is quite tall(5'12) and her hair color is black and unevenly cut, and it is left loose. Her body is thin and bony.

#wretched : mother

| no matter what you do, she will always hate you.

+ more *on codex in the game, more characters will appear on there once more chapters are released... i will make a separate codex for more characters since putting all of them in one would be too much. (Important characters only will show or who have more appearance than others)

[ROs] 8 known ros, 6 secret ros and 4 flings

(ros : 14 in total w/ 4 flings)

| one or more of those romance options(ros) can die, betray your or your child or even reject you. you can be healthy or toxic towards characters, romance options, and even your son.

| most ros will start with slow burn, flings, and towards you can confess your feelings where some might reject or accept you but some ros are not really ros, dont trust anyone. (some ros might not like your child and will try to convince you to get rid of him, everyone is a red flag including mc)

| note. one of the ros is legally your step-son but none of the consorts(leif's consorts) feel like family and one the flings is your cousin. again, its up to you, if you want to romance the ro or sleep with the fling. One of the ros is older and does know mc when they were younger(not really but they do know and see mc when they were a child meanwhile they were an adult) and it might be seen as uncomfortable, one fling is married just uses mc for pleasure. (Again, everyone is toxic and might not show their true colors)

MICELA LENN [female] , 25 - ☆ [she/her]

Backstory: a young woman who was hired to be a nanny for the children like Mirsell but just younger - she takes care of children, she seems fond of your son, Emil. She also takes care of you, when she can. Maybe she admires you.

📎 An woman with brown skin and dark green eyes. She is short in height (5’4). Her hair is a deep shade of black, short and tied in a short messy bun. She has a lean body type . She has a gap between her two front teeth along with a small scar on her nose. Maria is seen mostly wearing her nanny’s outfit–a black dress with puffy sleeves and a white apron– but when she isn’t working, it would be a dress–a cool shade of blue dress, long that covers her knees and her arms, like an sundress– that her mother brought her before she left her home.

#wretched : micela

| she can be in-love with you or hate you in the first part of the game, depends on you.

LUCEYDELL RICHNESS [male] , 20 - ☆ [he/they]

Backstory: another consort of Leif, he is closer to you than any other consort, he seems fond of you. he is seen as feminine and often is dressed and he was originally a consort of a deity called "wraith". there are some rumors that he is the favorite.

📎 A male with light brown skin and pink eyes. He is around average in height (5’7). His hair is a very light shade of white, long that reaches his chest and tied in drill ringlets. He is average but leaning towards thin, he has beauty marks about everywhere on his face and a birthmark of something that seems like a fingerprint. Luce is seen mostly wearing his robes; it's completely white with gold undertones and has ribbons and many ties on it.

#wretched : luceydell

| he will be kind of a cock block during other routes and also toxic (more on the yandere side)

FAYETTE IRVINE [female] , 34 - ☆ [she/her]

Backstory: a dancer, a woman who has born and brought into a work of dancing and more, she is often brought by the king to perform - she often dances and has her own personal room despite her work, she is seen with kids. She cannot give birth to her own, she once said.

📎 A woman with light brown skin and dark green eyes. She is short in height (5’2). Her hair is auburn brown, long and tied in a low ponytail. She is thin in size and weight. She has a beauty mark under her eye and mouth. She mostly wears a long blue gown that is tied with many laces and noble french-wear; when not working as a dancer but is seen wearing a small dancer's wear.

#wretched : fayette

| this is the ro who knows and seen mc when they were a child but fayette never payed attention to young mc until present day(chapter one) and fayette doesn't remember them but can still be see as uncomfortable.

PANDORA AUGUSTKINGS [male] , 25 - ☆ [he/him]

Backstory: one of the king's children, they hate their father and is wanting to get the throne to avenge their mother - They are technically your step-child since marriage to the king but not really, none feels like family, they seem rude and often bothers you.

📎 A man with warm ochre skin and deep black eyes. He is tall in height (6’1). His hair is a deep shade of black like jet-black along with natural purple highlights, short that reaches up to his chin and left well-combed and slightly slicked-back with some strands in his face. He has an average built. He has two scars, one across his cheek to his other cheek, that goes across his nose and the second one on his neck. He is seen mostly wearing a royal suit–that is white and has blue undertones.

#wretched : pandora

| he is the stepson (legally by marriage) soo... also hates you but hey, hate-fuck/j

SALLY FIORISE [male] , 24 - ☆ [he/him]

Backstory: a baker and florist, he is a young parent like you - he is working at the castle since he is the town's delight and gets paid well!

📎 An man with peach skin and black-hole eyes. He is average in height (5'9). His hair is dirty blonde that reaches his ears and it is messy but yet noble looking. He has a lean; body type. He has one beauty mark under his eye. He has scars on his hands and fingers due to his job. He wears a white undershirt with a black apron with a white bandanna on his head, with black trousers and brown shoes.

#wretched : sally

| he has a daughter that is overprotective of him, depending on your choices, you can be happy or mad with sally.

EMMY GREENBRIAR [f/m] , 25 - ☆ [depending on choice]

Backstory: a knight, your personal knight ever since an attempted murder, the king has brought you a knight. - they are always near you. Visible or not. They will stand by your side.

📎 An person with tan skin and dark green eyes. They are very tall in height (6'2). Their hair is short black hair that reaches chin but bit above and is tied up in a small low ponytail. They have a musclar build and a strong body. They have more scars on their body that is scattered every where, face, neck, legs, back. They wear a knight's amour at all times and without it, is just wearing a loose black shirt with brown trousers.

#wretched : emmy

| regardless of gender, emmy will still be very tall and very strong since some people might like a strong woman with muscles!

ADEN BASTARD [f/m] , 23- ☆ [depends on choice]

Backstory: ironically by the last name, They are a bastard. Born out of incest, their parents both siblings, surprisingly no birth deflects well they were born with an illness - They are a noble and stays close to you after their castle was burnt down, they are soon to be betrothed to an other.

📎 An person with a fair skin tone with red eyes. They are around short and average in height(5'6). Their hair is a natural blue, it reaches their shoulders and it's tied in a low ponytail that lays across their shoulder. They have a skinny body type due to the illness. They easily bruise and often is seen with bruises on their skin. They wear a mix of a nightgown and that still scream nobility instead of sleepwear, it's completely white with some red undertones.

#wretched : aden

| you can help them from the unwanted marriage or not but depending on your choices, they will no longer be a ro if they do get taken away.

MARRYJOY WHITEFIELD [nonbinary] , 22 - ☆ [they/them]

Backstory: not much is known but they are quiet and mysterious, weirdly the king is very interested in marryjoy - they are a mage but a fortune teller, the king seems happy around marryjoy, they have a secret.

📎 An person with a brown skintone and has hazel eyes. They are average in height (5'8). Their hair is white and long that reaches their past their shoulder that is left loose. They have a average build; a mix of skinny yet some chubby-iness on them. They have eye bags on their face along with a circle birthmark on their forehead. They wear a mages robe almost all the times.

#wretched : marryjoy

| marryjoy will be a problem at the start and will be seen at chapter one but rarely.

woes of their wretched.

@interact-if | @pearldvs

#interactive fiction #if #interactive game #twine #twine wip #if wip #wip if #interactive story #woesoftheirwretched #dark fiction #dark content #dark if #dark romance #writing #demo yes

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kisses4reid · 1 year ago

Text

convenient pt.3 | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,,

pt. 1 | pt.2 (you cannot read this without prior reading)

summary - spencer likes the girl from the convenience store

warnings - awkward conversations and long silences, both of them being hopeless romantics, allergies/sickness

genre - fluff!!! college!fem!reader x earlyseasons!spencer

a/n - thank you for the love and support on this series. it goes without saying i appreciate all of you all 🫶 thank u @raevyng for the cameo. sorry this is short, it’s either i upload this part or i make y’all wait for another week - i like you guys too much to do that.

“good job on you’re stem cell report, y/n. it was very informed and unique. i liked the, now who was it… william blake quote you included!” the teacher spoke before a class of 60. it was back to teaching new information before the next assessment, you were just about finished typing the professor’s notes before she spoke up. the mention of your name nearly made you jump.

a few of the students looked back up at you, some looking around because they had no clue who you were. you liked it better that way.

you also had no idea who william blake was.

“oh- um. thanks.” you say barely above a whisper. professor raena simply smiled and pushed back her shoulder length bob from her face. she started talking again, so did your friend.

“thanks? the professor who’s known to call out people for their incompetence more than smile in the classroom just praised you. that’s all you had to say?”

maybe logan wasn’t your friend per say. maybe she was just someone who sat next to you the first class and also happened to be your neighbour. she was stubborn and straight-forward, insanely intelligent and also smelt great. but she was caring, and gave you tough love when you needed it.

you glanced at her and smiled awkwardly, “i didn’t have much time to think about an answer.”

“i spend most of my time thinking about what i’d say to professor raena if she ever complimented me.”

“that’s because your-“ you suddenly muffle a cough into your hand, “obsessed with her.” you bring out a small packet of tissues from your bag and wipe your nose, nose reddening. logan leans slightly away from you and you roll your eyes.

“you’re not going to catch anything, it’s just allergies.” you lean back and try to continue typing notes but logan continues,

“you should go home, have some medicine, get some sleep.”

“i can’t, i’ve got work.” you whispered, a man in front of you turning around to shoot you with a side eye.

“you’ve told me multiple times that your manager wouldn’t care if you stole from the store. i’ve also told you many times i also don’t care.”

“yeah well… i like working there, that’s all.”

she rolls her eyes again, and waves you off, her long brown hair blocking her disappointed expression from you.

you stayed loyal to your job for two nights, for nothing. sure you got paid, and sure you got to steal some strawberry milk to ease your throat for a couple of minutes, but it felt boring. you actually started to file through the month old magazines you sold for double the price of a new one. you almost made it a third day without dying of allergies (and another secret feeling of sickness you constantly ignored), before you decided you were over it.

you stood up, flipped the door sign so the word ‘open’ faced you, and turned off half of the fluorescent lights before someone was suddenly in the corner of your eyes. spencer was opening the door so quickly you thought you were being robbed, you wouldn’t have seen him if not for the bell ringing on his entry.

“y/n.” he panted, watching your fingers hover over the last light switch. there was two lights left flickering softly above the front door and the check out desk. he looked stoic in the light, dressed in a grey sweater a little too big for him (like his mother had bought it for him telling him he’d grow into it) and black slacks. he seemed to have gotten a trim, his hair just under his ears now. “you don’t close until 1.”

he was confused, eyes wandering with a light hint of relief. like he was happy he didn’t miss you.

“yeah.” is all you said before you turned away from the light switch and returned to the register, assuming he would get his usual. but he didn’t keep walking, he just turned his body to face you. his eyes were expectant, delirious in a way like he needed something from you.

it was silent before the tension literally forced you to speak, “um. i need to close the store before i pass out. so i can uh… get home alive.” you look down and realise the pile of tissues before you was making a mountain, quickly grabbing them and stuffing them in an over filled bin.

“um.” a cat caught his tongue, he looked down to his feet.

spencer was sitting in his desk chair, scrolling on his government provided computer through forums and websites on ‘how to ask out a girl.’ not realising a majority of his team was reading them as well. he heard a small, familiar giggle behind him, quickly closing the tab and turning his head to be met with many other faces. jj slapped garcia on the shoulder with a smile, who’s hand was over her mouth, morgan and emily also smiling. spencer sighed and was about to cover for himself before morgan stepped in,

“look, pretty boy. no websites or article is ever going to teach you how to ask out a girl. they know nothing.”

emily joined, “yeah, none of those things are going to work. i mean, one of those said ‘don’t take no for an answer’. that’s straight up harassment.” she chuckled. morgan walked forward and placed a hand on spencer’s shoulder.

“all you have to do is talk. learn to what she likes, and be confident.”

“that’s easy for you to say.” spencer mumbled.

“who is this girl anyways? who’s taking our genius away from us?” garcia asked, today her hair was adorned with green themed pieces and a small pink flower clip.

spencer couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth perk up when he thought about the girl who worked at the convenience store. the girl who’s report honestly impressed him. the girl who knew his total without looking at the register. the girl who called him good looking without noticing, like it slipped off of her tongue with no second thought. “just someone.”

you were not just someone.

“yeah you should get home. you look terrible.” spencer’s eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow, “no i mean- not terrible- you never look or have ever looked terrible- i just meant today- no you- like you’re sick and obviously- i mean you don’t obviously look terrible- it’s just uh…” he nodded at himself after he noticed a smile creeping onto your face. “you know what i mean.”

“i know i look terrible, thank you.” he was slowly walking up to the register.

“you really should go home, i shouldn’t keep you here because of some coffee.”

you eyes stung and were puffed in redness, you nose dried yet running, eyebrow lines permanent from warding off a migraine. any other customer you would stay for, but you felt less guilty with him. not because you didn’t care, because you knew he did.

“yeah, thank you.” you grabbed your bag, put your empty water bottle into it and walked over to the lights, turning off the last ones, leaving you both in darkness. spencer was waiting for you, quite creepily as he was basically just a block of void. “you sure you don’t need your 3 minute lasagne?” you joked, and he smiled.

“no, this is fine.”

this? them? you thought this man was articulate.

you opened the door with a key-accessed button that automatically locked it after it closed, and walked into the warm streetlight with spencer.

“bye spencer.” you looked up to him only to find his eyes already on you. his face was plain of emotion, except maybe it was just the lighting that made you think he looked disappointed. not at you, at himself. he was silent, hands making their way into his pockets. it was a habit, you had learned. “what’s wrong spencer?” you asked softly, sniffling immediately after.

it was cold, the wind let a stray piece of hair cross your stuffy features.

“do you like old bookstores, y/n?”

you blinked, taken aback. “yeah. i like old bookstores.” you huddled into your sweater, a darker grey compared to his with a large font displaying your university.

“okay, goodbye y/n. see you tomorrow.” he hurried off into his car and you followed him with you eyes in curiosity.

you were already walking away before he could turn around and ask you something, he felt like he had missed his chance. but there would be more. spencer closed his eyes in frustration and took a breath, starting his car before texting the team’s group chat.

“Attempt One failed. 😐👎”

there was a string of messages after but he didn’t read them. all he could think about was the percentage of people who die alone, and then the percentage of people who are like you.

the next night he appeared at the normal time, around nearly 11pm. but he wasn’t the only one, logan was there with you, studying behind you on the floor.

she was bored, and needed to get out of her room, and the only person she knew well enough was you. there in her mens pyjama pants and an over-sized shirt that read ‘RIP Princess Diana’ with a photo of owen wilson on it, her computer warmed her lap and made a soft whirling sound the in the background.

“hi y/n.” spencer waved, he felt bad about last night. you were barely walking straight when you left and he could tell you wouldn’t get out of your ‘work clothes’ (whatever you wanted to wear with a vest over it) before falling onto your mattress, and he drove away. he didn’t even offer to take and walk you home, let alone give you a ride. but his hands were sweating and his heart thumping in his ears, and he couldn’t think straight.

“oh, hi spencer.” you turned from your own textbook splayed on the counter beside you to see spencer and his tall self. a bag of apples, a 2 minute bolognese container, and a bag of coffee. you scan them, weigh the apples, and watch him.

he wasn’t meeting you eyes. you furrowed your eyebrows for a second before telling him his total with a sniffle.

“i’m sorry for not driving you home,” he lifted his head, a piece of chocolate brown hair crossing his left eye, “or walking you home. or making sure you made it home safe.”

you widened your eyes slightly and sat still before spencer cleared his throat and continued, “i was nervous, about being around you. and my friends- my colleagues- told me i need to be more confident around you so.”

logan had stopped writing, glancing through her bangs up at you both. your mouth was slightly agape before you realised how stupid you looked and how awkward you were making it.

“oh- no it’s okay spencer, you don’t have to say sorry. i was- i’m fine. um,” you tilt your head with the corner of your lips quirking up with little resistance, “you talk about me to your friends?”

spencer nodded, put his hands in his pockets and thought for a second. he wished there was a better place to do this, a better person to take over for him.

all you have to do is talk.

spencer is great at talking.

“did you know that you could be scrolling for seven weeks before you can reach the end of ‘how to ask a girl out’ results on google? i was scrolling for a long time but then my friends told me to just talk and be confident, but i’m only good at one of those thing. so i was trying to ask you out last night but then i- well i failed basically, it isn’t my strong suit,” he took a breath, “so basically i’m saying sorry for not asking you out and not driving you home.”

it was silent, even a customer stopped humming.

“and also your allergy medication isn’t strong enough for your symptoms.” he glanced down to a white and blue box by your hand. you looked down, seeing logan in the corner of your eyes, hand covering her face.

“spencer-“

“dude just ask her out.”

spencer’s face dropped, and he looked over the counter to find another woman sat down, a cringed out expression on her face. his nervousness increased after he realised this wasn’t as private a conversation as he thought. wiping his hand on his vest, he continue with a gulp,

“no i can’t. not here, um. i’ll see you on monday. and i promise i’ll uh- be better? i’ll try again, so. okay see you on monday.” he quickly took his groceries and walked off quite speedily. you watched him walk away and then once he was out of sight, you simply stared at the box of allergy medication on the counter.

logan groaned in the background and said something about growing balls, but it was tv silence for you.

you didn’t know how to go out with someone, your last relationship was in your first year of high school with a guy who thought baby’s came out of a woman’s bum. not that spencer meant he wanted a relationship, no it could just be a friend ‘going out’. totally not romantic.

you slump and stuff your face in your hands. you didn’t care if you hadn’t dated for however long, he didn’t seem to be a man-whore at all. you just cared about how you were actually going to say yes to a man you’ve only talked to inside of an off-brand convenience store on the night shift.

you muffle a scream before the same silent customer placed a carton of milk on the counter.

“$2.50.” you grumble.

you carried logan’s computer bag as she took out a box of strawberry pocky on the sidewalk. the store was locked, the air was crisp, the light was flickering. you didn’t say much until logan couldn’t stand it anymore.

“you know when you’re this silent it’s actually pretty nice, i like peaceful walks home.” you nodded, and continued your racing thoughts with your line of vision stuck on the concrete as you both walked the block to your apartments. she sighed, “but it’s odd. you love talking. a guy likes you and you go mute?”

“his name is spencer, he does something dangerous for a living, he likes old books and drinks a lot of coffee. he gets home late at night, looks skinny but can lift a box of flour above his head with ease. he’s insanely smart and reads poetry, and helped me with my stem cell report.”

you look over at logan who looks a little disgusted but mainly confused.

“he helped me lift that box of flour without me asking. i have no idea who william blake is. i have no idea how he managed to put poetry in a biology report, and i have no idea how he can admit he’s going to ask me out and then not ask me out. his favourite colour is purple, his favourite fruit is grapes but he buys apples because they’re cheaper. and his name is… spencer.”

logan stopped in her tracks, making you copy. you flung out of whatever trance you were stuck in and raised an eyebrow at logan, “what?”

“what? oh no i don’t know, maybe you’ve just never told me about a man you happen to know a lot about, and yet don’t know anything about. you sound insane- not in the ‘loony-bin way’, in the romcom way. it’s disgusting.”

you both continued to walk, climbing the stairs to the foyer of your building before she took back her bag and gave you the pocky, mumbling, “you need these more than me.”

the elevator ride was mostly silent, and that continued before you both unlocked your apartment doors right beside each other.

“you need to ask him out, if he doesn’t do it first.” she entered her apartment before you could speak, let alone think.

suddenly your apartment felt lonely.

so did spencer’s.

he was cross legged on his plush couch on a call with penelope garcia, she was squealing every second minute trying to create a plan for spencer to ask someone out.

“spence, you’re making this very hard. how am i supposed to be your coach if i only have half a team?”

“you can find someone’s address with half a fingerprint, i think you’ll be fine.” he takes a bite of his 2 minute bolognese.

“that takes the fun out of it. i can only give you tips if i know her personality.”

spencer sighed, and thought for a second, he could practically hear penelope’s growing smile knowing she had won.

“her names y/n.” garcia squealed. “she’s smart and pretty. and her favourite colour’s purple and she studies biology. she knows my groceries off my heart and she’s allergic to pollen. she works late at night at the convenience store two blocks away from my apartment building, and she likes old book stores. she’ll be introverted around an extroverted person, but extroverted around an introverted person. she can read my expressions faster than anyone else, she tries out different hairstyles when nobody’s in the store, and she’s funny.” spencer smiles to himself, “she’s pretty.”

“you mentioned that, lover boy.”

pt.4

taglist: @jeffswh0re @hypotheticallyspeakingwitch @trashmonstersara @wannabewolf @evysian @navs-bhat @mywellspringoflife @daphnesutton @smalls155 @amortencjja @anuncalledbridge @belsreid @redmurderbaby @tatilolz @criminalmindsandhouse @forensicuntology @nomajdetective @ilikw @screechingphantommaker

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #cm #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid series

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giuseppe-yuki · 11 months ago

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shapeshifting!reader au blurbs: a series

summary: certain drivers around the grid seem to always have a pet by their side 24/7. a ferret in lando's garage, a cockatiel flying around alex's head as he walks down parc ferme, and yuki carrying a grey bunny into the media pen?? reporters and fans all swear they saw charles walk into the ferrari motorhome with his beautiful girlfriend but how come he walks out with a hedgehog cupped in between his ringed fingers?

or: some moments featuring the drivers and their shapeshifting girlfriend.

2 - logan sargeant - hawk

3 - daniel ricciardo - raccoon

4 - lando norris - ferret

10 - pierre gasly - snake

14 - fernando alonso - cocker spaniel

16 - charles leclerc - hedgehog

18 - lance stroll - fennec fox

22 - yuki tsunoda - bunny

23 - alex albon - cockatiel

24 - zhou guanyu - teacup pig

31 - esteban ocon - flying squirrel

33 - max verstappen - ragdoll cat

44 - lewis hamilton - samoyed

55 - carlos sainz - meerkat

63 - george russell - deer

81 - oscar piastri - duck

ask blurbs:

pierre, esteban - snake, flying squirrel

kimi, charles, lewis, alex, max, lando - tiger, hedgehog, samoyed, cockatiel, ragdoll cat, ferret

zhou - shih tzu

alex, george, daniel, zhou, max, franco - cockatiel, deer, raccoon, teacup pig, ragdoll cat, orange cat

fyi: i plan to update this as i write each fic. i cannot promise that each upload will be timely, as i do have school, so bare with me. if you have any prompt ideas or other shapeshifter!r animal requests, feel free to let me know :)

update: a big thank you to everyone for who followed along with me for my first ever series! it was super fun to plan and write. make sure to stay posted for the f2/reserve/team principal spinoff version! 😉 - anais

#f1 x y/n #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 x female reader #f1 rpf fic #formula 1 fanfic

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lewisvinga · 11 months ago

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when worlds collide | jude bellingham x button! reader

summary; after making their their relationship public, jude finally meets jenson

fc; sunday kalogeras

warnings; ?

all works taglist; @goldenmclaren @namgification @c-losur3 @minkyungseokie @lavisenri @ollieshifts

note; requested ! football x f1 fics are my absolute faves to write 😫

masterlist !

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yourusername uploaded to their story !

[caption 1; chef y/n reporting for duty 🫡] [caption 2; the face of someone who just realized what’s abt to go down at family dinner]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

liked by judebellingham, jensonbutton, and others !

yourusername: jude is finally jenson button approved !

tagged; judebellingham, jensonbutton

judebellingham: wow u are gorjus

yourusername: tank yew 🥰

jensonbutton: i cannot understand you kids

judebellingham: meeting the father; ✅

yourusername: yay u passed🥰🥰

jensonbutton: what can i say? he’s a good kid

yourusername: JENSON APPROVED!✅✅

username: OMG WAIT

username: JENSON AND JUDEEE😫

username: y/n’s face card is so lethal actually

fernandoalo_official: plays for real madrid, i guess he gets my approval

judebellingham: hala madrid 🤍

yourusername: u just wanna b the cool uncle don’t you ? 🤨🤨🤨

fernandoalo_official: well, yes!

username: crazy button genes wow

username: pls i need to see how this went down🙏

username: F1 ANS FOOTBALL YESSIRRRR

sebastianvettel: when will he meet the godfather next ? 🤔

judebellingham: whenever you want 😁😁😁

yourusername: ( he’s a bit nervous )

lewishamilton: hope jenson wasn’t to harsh on you both!

yourusername: oh come on, lewis, we all know he tried to be intimidating 🙄 he dropped the act after 2 mins 🙄

username: when’s worlds collide !!

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tired-demonspawn · 3 months ago

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im working on something else rn but a lil while ago i made a star wars au, so here you go :)

the main idea is written in the corner but imma tldr it(also i dont trust the upload quality of the pic): set in roughly prequel era robotnik used to be a high up republic special weapons group guy and, as a high up military guy, was assigned a jedi bodyguard, that being stone.

once his inventions got a bit too war-crime-y the republic had him jailed and stone (who fell in love with him) breaks him out and they start being weapons dealers

other misc details under the cut

okay so some of these are mentioned in the pic but i wanted to specify/expand/clarify:

stone never really falls to the dark side, that's actually why he couldn't bleed his own crystal (which let's be completely clear he would be willing to do for robotnik), he simply didnt have the hate and pain necessary to do it. he follows robotnik, his devotion and duty to him is what gives him strength in the force(think knights of zakuul)

to go with his brand, also just to show that he could, robotnik made stone a lightsaber with a black market red kyber crystal... smthn smthn your lightsaber is your life...

i went with orange for his original one because

it provides a nice contrast with the rest of his fit

it goes with robotnik's colour scheme

he simply does not have the temperament of a purple lightsaber, i dunno man the vibes are off

for my fourth reason let me present to you a quick clone wars episode concept:

(clone wars intro music)(random quote) UNCERTAINTY HAS GRIPPED THE REPUBLIC! the separatists have captured a republic military research vessel along with its scientists and military generals! it is up to only 3 brave jedi to save them.

(i fucked up the tone of the intro guy by the middle, and also i dont really have a 3rd guy i just wrote 3 cuz it seemed like a number they would use)

anyway gimmick clone wars intro aside

robotnik was forced entirely into the military uniform(including non special gloves) for a special scientific military meeting where "even jedi werent allowed" it obviously being a trap robotnik had a few aces up his sleeve, but even so, stone was told to stay on alert, because robotnik was most definitely getting kidnapped.

so when robotnik misses all 3 agreed upon check ins stone contacts the council(hes already somewhere with a lot of jedi, its not just a matter of "he thought it best to report"(and waste precious time that could be spent saving the doctor?) but "he literally cannot take a ship and leave without it raising suspicion"), he basically tells them something like "we cant waste any time arguing, im going. i am closest to the last reported location" so the council sticks 2 more people on him(if it was an actual episode they would most likely be already established, so we could see a "familiar face" interacting with this new character of stone)

anyway they find where did the seps take them because obviously robotnik chipped himself.

with the correct password(that only stone has(not that he knows that hes the only one)) robotnik can be tracked even through hyperspace(not exactly, but it at least gives a general quadrant of space, which ofc after leaving hyperspace gets pin-point accurate)

they get to the base, they sneak around trying to find how to get to the prisoners(because its nice that they have robotniks coordinates to the tenth of a milimetre, but they dont have the base blueprints)

during the dramatic peak of the ep, there's a weirdly menacing moment where the mild mannered jedi knight, that was kinda made fun of the entire episode for being "reduced to an errand boy" can actually swing a lightsaber around pretty well.

and then he unties robotnik, helps him up, asks if hes alright("of course not, imbecile! what took you?" "the tracker wasnt as accurate while in hyperspace as you theorised" "hm. well in any case none of this would happen if it werent for this stupid uniform" "i have a change of clothes prepared for you in the ship") aaannnd the errand boy is back

fast forward, robotnik was both arrested and freed, is now doing his own thing.

the two knights that were with stone in that "initial episode" are snooping around one of robotnik's labs, investigating this new arms dealer. they're on a terminal of some sort and behind them out of focus of the camera a bright orange lightsaber ignites, contrasting sharply against the red/blue tones of the lab.

"you aren't welcome here." the former jedi knight says.

and scene

so yea hope that last bit sold you on the orange lightsaber bit

originally wanted to post this au with more art attached but alas life had other plans.

anyway if you've read this far i hope you have a nice rest of your day :)

also dont be afraid to ask any questions about this au, i have so many thoughts about it, so im 100% sure i didnt include something i deffo have figured out because i either a) forgor 💀 or b) didnt know how to properly explain a vague feeling about a possible situation

#stobotnik #sth #sonic movies #dr ivo robotnik #ivo robotnik #agent stone #sonic agent stone #star wars au #my art #digital art #sonic the hedgehog

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therealcocoshady · 7 months ago

Note

Reader going into labor while Marshall is on tour 👀

Surprise Drop

A/N : found what I wrote for this Ask a while ago. I had literally forgotten about this One Shot, it was in an abandoned space of my Google Drive 🙊. I have no idea why I never uploaded it over there ! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it ☺️.

Mind you, I added my own little twist to it, because I cannot imagine him going on tour while his partner is pregnant.

CW : Cryptic pregnancy - CocoShady writing about Dad!Marshall again because I love this trope

As he was close to finishing his set, Marshall seemed in his element. The crowd was roaring and fans were rapping along as he spat his verses that resonated throughout the stadium. The performance was a testament to the amount of work that had gone into putting that tour together, from the elaborate scenography to the setlist. His team was watching him from backstage, knowing an interruption so close to to the end of the show was out of the question. But tonight, unbeknownst to him, they were in a rush to get him out of there as soon as possible. Thirty minutes ago, Paul, his manager, had received a call demanding that Marshall flew back to Detroit as soon as possible. He’d been about to tell the lady, whose voice he had never heard, to go to hell and not to call this number again if she didn’t want him to press charges for harassment, but she had pronounced the magic word : your name. « Y/N is in the hospital, so you’d better have my son in law on the next plane to Detroit », your mother had ordered in a tone that left no room for arguing. And, as if the news of Marshall’s long time partner were not enough of a compelling argument, she had added something about your life being at stake. Scary and cryptic enough.

After consulting Tracy and some other trusted members of the team, they had agreed to let him finish the show. They knew he’d freak out as soon as they broke the news to him and, frankly, they needed the time to handle the logistics details and hurrying him to the airport. The private plane had been chartered, the driver already waiting for him outside of the venue, and his bags had been packed. For now, though, only few people knew about the disruption. They didn’t have enough details, and they couldn’t risk freaking out the whole team with a possible tour cancellation. Hopefully, you’d be alright and Marshall would be able to keep the tour going. Paul was nervously pinching his nose, silently hoping that he wouldn’t have to call the insurance company. The simple report of a performance at a later date would cost tons of money. Not to mention the PR they’d have to handle. And the manager absolutely refused to think about the worst case scenario.

When Marshall finally wrapped the last song of the night, Paul gestured for him to hurry up, not allowing for a proper goodbye to the crowd. As soon as he saw the frown on his manager’s face, he could sense something was wrong. « We need to get you out of there. A plane is waiting to take you back to Detroit. Y/N’s mom called. She is in the hospital ». There was no mention of your life being at stake, Paul figuring out that the urgency in his tone was enough and that the last thing anyone wanted was for Marshall to have a meltdown. He felt his heart sink, his mind running through all of the possibilities, none of them being good. He’d had you on the phone merely ten hours ago and everything seemed fine. « What happened? Is she ok? », Marshall asked. « I don’t have more details, Marshall. But from what I gathered… It’s serious and you need to get back », Paul replied. That much, he had figured. You were strong and definitely not the type to have him fly back over a sprained ankle. If you’d had your mother phone his manager, it must be pretty serious. Enough for his mind to go to the worst-case scenario. His vision clouded as he imagined you in a hospital bed, after some car wreckage or another tragedy. However, his assistant shook his arm and reminded him that he needed to hurry up.

Within minutes, they were being escorted to a car and driven to the airport. Then started the longest plane ride of his entire life. He tried calling your phone but it went straight to voicemail every time. Same for your mother’s. And the hot shower taken in the private plane’s bathroom, nor Tracy’s word of reassurance were enough to ease his mind. After a couple of hours, he finally received a text from his mother in law, addressing the numerous texts and voice messages he’d left. « Things are progressing. We’ll explain everything in person as soon as you get there». He wasn’t sure who ‘we’ was, or what ‘things’ were progressing. By the time the jet touched down in Detroit, Marshall was a nervous mess. He went straight to the hospital, leaving Tracy to drop his stuff home and, as he rushed to the reception and through the hallway, he finally spotted your mother outside of a room. « Is-Is she…Is Y/N ok? » he asked, absolutely out of breath. His mother in law placed a reassuring hand on his forearm and nodded, an undecipherable expression on her face, that looked like a mix of relief and exhaustion. « Everyone is fine, Marshall. We’re glad you came so quickly » she replied in a gentle voice. He let out a sigh of relief. You were fine. You were alive and breathing and, in the moment, that was all that mattered. Without a second thought, he opened the door to the hospital room and finally set his eyes on you.

You were sitting up in bed, arms wrapped around yourself, your eyes wide and full of worry. You looked exhausted and fragile and he immediately rushed to your side, wrapping his arms around you. « Babe. Oh, God, you scared me. What happened?! » he asked. « Marsh, » you said softly. « I-I didn’t know. I, I swear I didn’t…». He didn’t register what you said, his undivided attention on you and the sensation of his beating heart, processing the relief, the fact that you were fine. But then, he spotted your mom walking towards a corner of the room, where a small bassinet was standing. His eyes widened in shock. « What the fuck? » he let out.

It couldn’t be. He’d been home just two weeks ago and you were fine. And most of all : absolutely not pregnant. He certainly didn’t wear his glasses as much as he should, but he was certain he would have noticed if your body had been preparing to eject a human the size of a watermelon. He stared at you, then you mother, in shock. Tears were silently streaming down your face, while your mom looked at him with sympathy, as she held a baby wrapped in a soft, yellow blanket. « They said it was a cryptic pregnancy, » your mother explained. « Looks like this little one was playing hide and seek. No symptoms at all ». For a few seconds, Marshall was unable to breathe. He looked at you, trying to wrap his head around the news, replaying the last few months in his mind, wondering if there had been signs he’d missed. But you hadn’t seemed tired, did not eat more than usual, did not put on much weight… Nothing. Then, another wave of realization hit him. The vasectomy. About ten months ago, you’d convinced him to get one. None of you wanted to have a baby and you were fed up with your hormonal contraception, so he had agreed. And yet, there you were, in the hospital after giving birth to a tiny human whose gender, according to the blanket, was neither boy nor girl. A tiny, pale yellow chick. But you didn’t cheat. You would never do that to him. That much, he knew. He stared at you silently, not understanding how it was possible. « The surgery », he said. « How… ? I-I’m supposed to shoot blanks ». You looked down, realizing the turn this was taking. You’d asked the nurse very same question. « They told us to keep using protection for two months after it », you whispered. « We didn’t », he murmured. « Holy shit ».

You looked at him, giving him an apologetic glance. « I’m sorry », you whispered as you teared up again. The past few hours had been a blur of pain and shock, and now you were terrified. You had never expected to give birth out of the blue, to a baby you didn’t know was there, and nothing had prepared you to deliver that type of news. Marshall pulled you into his warm embrace and help you tight before placing a kiss on your temple. « It’s not your fault, my love » he said. Then, feeling heavy and fearful, he got up and walked to your mom, to have a look at the baby. He was immediately struck by the resemblance to his own baby pictures, that didn’t leave any room for doubt. That was his baby. « Is it…? », he began, mesmerized by the tiny, sleeping infant. « A baby girl. A very healthy baby girl », your mother announced with pride. « And I think she wants to meet her father », she added with a soft smile. He swallowed dryly then nodded. She handed it to him, and he held her with gentle care, feeling his whole world shift. The tension of the night immediately melted away, giving way to tears of relief and emotion. « Hi there » he whispered. « I’m-I’m your Dad ». He took his eyes away from her, looking up to you. « She’s beautiful » he said, his voice thick with emotion. You nodded, visibly relieved by the way he reacted. You were still feeling distant and hazy, not fully realizing that this baby was yours. You’d held her a couple of times but nothing had kicked in yet. Marshall, however, seemed immediately taken by the little one, as he was looking at her with amazement. The initial tension in his stance had eased up and, minutes later, he was cradling her as if it were the most natural thing for him, with the confidence of someone who’d been there before.

You stared at each other in silence, his eyes silently assuring you that everything would be alright. Then, your baby girl stirred and let out a soft cry. As if she wanted to remind the room of her presence, commanding attention. He looked at you with a grin and shook his head. « Guess she’s got my attitude », he joked. You mustered a smile and nodded. « Yeah. Your knack for surprise drops too, it seems ».

#eminem fanfiction #eminem x reader #eminem fluff #marshall mathers imagine #marshall mathers x reader #eminem imagine

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garez19 · 4 months ago

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unsent

yandere streamer x loser reader: [part i]

notes: female reader, not proofread, english is not my first language. have a very lovely day everyone!!! wc: 1.6k

alden, he called himself. he didn’t have lots of viewers, though you remembered some of his clips going viral once or twice. he still seemed content with his lack of fame though, and you could guess he wasn’t expecting to be popular anyways as the games he played were very niche, and did go unnoticed by the mainstream. you, however, liked exploring the pits of the internet, finding weird websites and lurking abandoned forums everyday. being an unemployed loser let you know all about the media. and for some odd reason, your favorite part about this addiction was when you got a notification from his channel. “denonthebeat IS LIVE NOW!” how you liked clicking on it in a heartbeat. how you liked listening to him ramble about his not-so-funny life stories. you couldn’t help but think how similar you two were most of the time—considering your almost identical music taste and the way you laughed at the same things, how his audience kept calling him a socially inept loser that needed a life.

he was the man in your dreams, and it was a tragedy he didn’t know your existence. hell, he probably didn’t even know your nickname, let alone the adoration you had for him. but, there was nothing you could do except being a ghost and watching him interact with a bunch of people who seem to like consuming the sort of content. because deep down, you know him acknowledging you wasn’t going to change much except that he would be familiar with your nickname maybe.

but the point was, your obsession over him wasn’t decreasing. you didn’t seem to grow away from him. and that was the one and only problem as for now —except getting a job and moving out, of course— and there was nothing to do about it. you couldn’t go and tell him you liked his content, or that you would like to get to know him on a deeper level. you were close friends in your world, maybe even closer than close friends. in reality, he was just another loser with a questionable digital footprint.

and when he answered one of the questions on live, your whole world turned into a dystopia, an unfamiliar bitter taste left in your tongue. you were making it too big of a deal, you knew it, yet, this screen was all you had—-a small utopia you have created. it’s full of suffering, but you’ve always considered yourself a girl full of hope. this world, the screen, was too small for you to explore, but he made it seem bigger, full of colors. so when he answered, you didn’t know what to do.

“oh, well, love is confusing, you see.” he shrugged. “there is this girl I’ve had the biggest crush on, and I can say that adoring someone often leaves you confused. but it makes you more ecstatic.” he said. there was a different kind of light in his eyes, or so you assumed. “so ecstatic that you get the urge to create. like, when you cannot get your feelings reciprocated, you just, well, you just go and create something out of that love.” he added. a heavy ache on your chest, the urge to vomit. the urge to tell him to fuck off and report his account for bullying. as if. as if he knew you. as if.

“anyway. if you feel like they show some signs, I’d say go for it. my situation is rather different though.” he smiled. he seemed hurt though, that much was recognizable, even through the screen. “or create something, if it feels too heavy to carry. I mean, I solely make content because of her— since I can’t seem to distract myself from being a sappy loser.” he laughed. hell, this was your favorite part of him, the way he wore his heart on his sleeve often made you admire him. this was what you hate him about the most, he wore his heart on his sleeve.

the comments calling him a loser and making fun of didn’t seem to affect him, as he was reading some of them and sneering.

“what is she like? oh… well, I don’t want you to clip this and upload it on youtube calling me a loverboy, pass.” he said. this could’ve been a fun topic if you weren’t oh-so-fucking in “love” with him. others were having fun though, as they kept spamming questions about it. “why the fuck is everyone so nosy with it?” he laughed. and you agreed. why can’t he just shut up about it and play your favorite game? or watch stupid videos and react to them? this was the first ever time you contemplated leaving the stream. the first ever time you didn’t have fun. “where did I meet her? take a fucking guess pal. over the internet, of course.” he, once again, answered another question. fucking loser, you mumbled, as if your situation was any different. as if you didn’t live on the internet. “we live in the same city though, she’s just too much of a loser to go out,” he added. you frowned. you weren’t going to listen to him ramble about this person any more, so you just closed the tab. you had better things to do anyways, like replaying your favorite game. the one he also seemed to like a lot.

“what the hell?” he cussed out, seeming puzzled. “she fucking left.” he kept clicking on random buttons as the chat went crazy over the whole situation. “dumbass.” he said, clearly annoyed. questions from the followers didn’t seem to stop. “oh my god, of course it’s not her,” he answered the allegations, “I was talking about my sister who was supposed to be a moderator.” he lied quickly. he didn’t even have a sibling to begin with, but he didn’t want you to have any suspicions as he had a very little follower list. “well, that’s all for today anyway,” he got ready to end the stream.

“have a good day, everybody.” click.

is she not having fun anymore? he assumed, his mind running miles. he had planned his schedule very carefully, and he couldn’t watch it go to ruins. not when he calculated every single interaction he could have had with you.

and well, it was true that you “met” on the internet. but that wasn’t the only time you did, nor was it the first time.

he was running out of time, he believed. when the teacher was asking dumb questions to how to get to know someone and pairing students up. “ask your partner how you break the ice.” she said, putting you two up. it wasn’t the way to strike up a conversation, that was for sure, and in an ideal world he wouldn’t have to do that anyway, since these people kept blabbering about their hobbies and stuff he couldn’t care less about. so when he turned his seat so he could talk to you, he wasn’t expecting anything. 5 minutes left.

“well, in my o—“ he was interrupted when you stood up. he looked up at you as you asked for permission to go to the bathroom. 4 minutes left. at least you were also on his side in this battle. well, socially awkward kids were everywhere, no? he knew you weren’t going to come back, realizing you’d been looking at the clock and contemplating leaving. you had squinted your eyes, hand on your chin— you decided to leave.

3 minutes left. he took a peek at his classmates, their awkward glances darting towards each other. the other pair next to him was doing fine. the girl –though she looked wimpy at first– was holding her own, keeping the conversation going and checking in with her partner’s opinion. 2 minutes left.

right then, you came back to the class. ready to pick up your bag and get out of here. you sat down, collecting your stuff. and although you two were on the same side, he still wanted an answer. he was not having fun here, and might as well make it everyone’s –everyone he had to interact with, to be precise– problem.

“what do you do to break the ice?” he asked.

you can’t escape from your fate, you thought to yourself.

“well, try to find hobbies you both share, ask them questions, stuff like that,” you answered, not hesitating to give the most cliché answer. “how about you?” you asked, repeating the question. 1 minute left. “you wanna go grab a coffee?” he offered.

“valid answer.” you replied, thinking it was just another example. you were ready to leave the class, and he couldn’t help but give a quiet chuckle. you weren’t sure what to make of it. “yeah, yours wasn’t exactly ‘valid’ though,” he snickered.

“why not?”

the second he opened his mouth to answer, the bell rang. you didn’t even wait for an answer, and there was an unbreakable ice there, or maybe unmeltable in a sense. but, either way, he was having fun. maybe he was really wasting time in this class, in this school, but maybe, he could make it at least somewhat enjoyable. the following days were as dull since you had been absent for the week. the next week, when the class was finally familiar with each other, you attended the lesson. socially awkward kids everywhere, yet he wasn’t sure if you were shiesty or just didn’t care about the situation. you still didn’t put any effort, that was the only recognizable thing about you. and you didn’t appreciate it when he tried to help you out here and there. you gave out a fake smile, thank you, you muttered, and go on with your simple life.

you reminded him of himself, the only difference being you didn’t try to make fun of socially awkward kids. and you weren’t as curious about him as he was about you. your goddamn phone and that one notebook you kept scribbling in made it hard for him to reach out.

good thing he had lots of time to waste.

#yandere male #yandere #yandere fic #yandere fiction #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere original character #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #male yandere #female reader #yandere streamer

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heliads · 13 days ago

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Fireworks - Charles Leclerc

Ferrari hosts the party. The sponsors circle like sharks. You and Charles, the latest pair of teammates, find a way to escape.

masterlist

a/n: two months without uploading we come back with rpf. living the dream xoxo

It’s New Year’s Eve, and despite the party roaring around you, you’ve never felt more alone.

Ferrari hosted. Of course. It’s a good opportunity for dancing and a better opportunity for networking. You can see Fred in a corner, chortling over a glass of champagne while he attempts to extort some Pirelli execs for graining insights. Somewhere in the crowd, the hiring managers are trying to poach every strategist that comes across their path, and the media department has never been happier than when everyone is looking good and rich and pleasurable, which they do.

Just like always, you suppose. You didn’t know what to expect when you signed the contract making you Ferrari’s second driver, but when you pulled back the scarlet curtain, everything was just as luxurious and exquisite as it appeared on the outside. You never wake up from the dream, not in a way that matters. Not in a way that will ever cleave the golden thread tying you to the seat, the expectations, the contract you signed last year. It’s your first season as a Ferrari driver, but so far you’ve only spent your time praying it won’t be your last one.

So far, the pressure is mostly coming from your own head. In January, your only races have been on the sim, and so far your times have been more than respectable. So they tell you, at least. Still, after each circuit around the digital track, you can’t help but shoot nervous glances towards the engineers on hand, trying to tell from every furrowed brow or caught breath whether you’re truly on track for a successful season.

The real test will come when winter testing comes and goes, when you line up for the first round of qualifying in your new Ferrari. A million eyes will be looking your way. They’re already saying you won’t make the cut, or that you’ll blow your teammate out of the water. The Tifosi cannot decide whether you’re going to flunk out or lead them to success, and honestly you couldn’t tell them either way.

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass as you try to calm yourself down. You’re here to smile and convince the sponsors that the Scuderia are going to work wonders. How can you do that if you look like you’re going to throttle somebody?

“Having fun?” An innocent voice comes from behind you.

You turn around hastily, already plastering on a fake smile, but you’re able to let the ruse drop a little when you find your latest teammate approaching you.

He arches a brow at your sudden change in response. “Sorry, did I startle you?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, not at all. I just thought you were one of the sponsors.”

Charles pretends to shudder. “No, thankfully. We are safe here for the moment, I think. Look, they’re circling already.”

You have to fight not to laugh. “We’re supposed to be creating a welcoming environment for the guests, Charles. Not comparing them to sharks.”

He smiles in spite of your teasing. “Is that why you jumped so far off the ground when I came over? You were so excited to welcome them?”

You huff. “Can you blame me? The first person I talked to all evening asked me directly if I planned on obeying team orders or putting up a fight. I take it back, they’re worse than sharks.”

Charles pulls a face. “Bringing up team orders is a low blow. Was it someone from Sky? Or Rosberg?”

You shake your head. “No reporters here, thankfully. Tonight is strictly business. We might as well be in another strategy meeting.”

Charles glances at you. “Well, you look wonderful, even despite the sharks.”

You feel your face heat up in spite of yourself, and decide you should probably slow down on your champagne. That must be why you feel like there’s a rain of fire wherever Charles looks at you. Not for any other reason, not because he keeps shifting closer to you with every word you say under the guise of trying to hear you better, and certainly not because he was warned about a hundred times to only talk to sponsors tonight, yet he can’t stop himself from constantly coming to you.

There was a lot of online discussion about how you and Charles would be as teammates. Most seemed to reach the conclusion that you’d do alright, probably bear the collective burden of being a Ferrari driver for better or for worse and use it to further your friendship. A few thought you’d fight, but the majority of voices indicated that you were likable, and so was he, so you’d get along just fine.

Fine doesn’t even begin to cover it. Fine can’t put into words how it feels when you and Charles have officially only been teammates for less than a month now, but you’ve known him for longer, plus harbored a secret crush on him for longer still, and yet never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined how close you’d become. Charles insisted on giving you a personal tour on your first day as a Ferrari driver. He’d bought you lunch and used that shared meal as an excuse to keep staring at you so obviously that his own race engineer came over and laughed at him for it.

You’d laughed, too. Mainly to cover how relieved you were that you were a bit more subtle when it came to your own staring problem, or the fact that you can’t seem to do anything but be hopelessly in love with him. You’ve already had one too many nights where you stayed late at the factory and he offered to drive you home. The green beams of the stop lights flashed overhead, lighting his handsome face sporadically, just enough for you to see the cautious smile on Charles’ face when he reached over to lace your fingers with his as he drove one-handed, tapping drum beats on the steering wheel as he went. You don’t think you could be more hopeless. You don’t think you could possibly grow more infatuated with him, and then you surprise yourself the next day, and the next.

“It shouldn’t surprise me anymore,” Charles continues, oblivious to the thoughts racing through your head or perhaps just distracted by the similar ones occupying his, “You always look good. Tonight especially, though.”

“Charles,” you whisper, trying to convince yourself you have any semblance of control over what you say to him next.

“Y/N,” he mocks playfully, “It’s true. You’re the loveliest person here by a long shot.”

“You’re supposed to be flattering the guests, not me,” you insist halfheartedly.

Charles smiles, knowing he’s won. “And why is that?”

“You haven’t convinced the sponsors to be on your side yet,” you answer.

“And you?” He asks, leaning closer still. All you can see is him, all you can feel is the heat of his breath dusting your cheeks. You wonder if he tastes like the champagne forgotten in your glass. The thought, once born, refuses to leave your head.

You hold his gaze steadily. “You had me convinced a long time ago.”

That does it. Charles takes your hand, pulling you matter-of-factly through the party even despite your less than urgent protestations. He only stops moving once you’re far enough away that you can’t be spotted by eagle-eyed PR agents who would want to stop your fun. Charles holds open the door to a balcony, then follows you out. The night air is a little brisk, but you can’t feel it, not when he draws close to you again, sliding his fingers around your waist as if even the few inches between you is just too far.

“They’ll be looking for us,” you whisper.

“Let them,” Charles urges. “We’ve got time.”

Time, as it turns out, is the one thing you do have in abundance. The year stretches before you, vast and untamable like a new circuit. You have no idea where the season will lead you, if you’ll hate him by the end of this or love him more in spite of it all. All you know is that Charles is here with you now, promising you this moment, at least, and the next one while he’s still got it.

Behind you, fireworks roar into the inky sky, startling you. Charles laughs quietly and leans forward to kiss you. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Happy New Year,” and you don’t bother to murmur it back before kissing him again. If you make a wish, if you still have the neurons left to think about anything but this moment, this kiss, this man, you would wish for this good thing to last forever. You would wish that the next time you taste champagne, it’s not just on Charles’ tongue but on the top steps of a podium. You wish for victory and you wish for love and you wish for the life you’ve always wanted. You wish for this, the first step in the greatest race of your life.

The sparks of the fireworks roar and crackle around you, a hundred shades of promise. You can see them when you close your eyes, when you reach for Charles. You have him now, at least. You have him now.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy, @juphey, @faerieroyal

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc oneshot #charles leclerc fanfiction #f1 #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 oneshot #f1 fanfic #formula one #formula one imagines #formula one x reader #formula one fanfic #f1 rpf #formula one rpf

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eerielakeerie · 1 year ago

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hey guys if you somehow missed it Dallon Weekes’ twitter acc was hacked. the hacker has tweeted some rly gross stuff. Dallon and Breezy are aware and are doing what they can.

Dallon is still on idkhow’s twitter and has been posting from there. he has verified this via his instagram. he has since blocked the original Dallon account.

i cannot believe this has to be said but DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THE HACKER. and ESPECIALLY do not ask for a follow or ask about dallon’s likes, mutes, or blocks. this is a srs breach of privacy and it is NOT okay. REPORT THE ACCOUNT FOR IMPERSONATION AND THEN MOVE ON. THAT IS IT.

also while we are here, an old Brobecks album was also leaked on Spotify. DO NOT STREAM IT. Breezy and Dallon have both stated that they were actively working on posting it Properly. the leak not only makes that harder for them to do that, but any money generated from it WILL NOT go to the former band members like a legitimate upload would.

so. to recap. DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THE HACKER. DO NOT STREAM THE LEAKED BROBECKS ALBUM.

ETA: afaik Dallon has had access to his accounts again for quite a while!

#dallon weekes #the brobecks #idkhbtfm #i DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME #idkhow #bandom #ham shut up challenge #has dallon not suffered enough #they say they dont even know who he is but the energy is giving. 15 year old stan to me idk

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gothicdolores · 5 months ago

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I know it’s unpleasant to talk about these things, but it absolutely goes against ao3 TOS to take another authors work and upload it on your account for ANY REASON

The person uploading Stupe’s work is doubling down and admiting that Stupe DID NOT GIVE THEM PERMISSION to do this

Stupe’s work is fully accessible in fanfiction.net

It’s not going away, and though she DOES have an ao3, she did NOT get around to uploading HER OWN STORIES to her account - if any of you care to read stupe’s updates on her ffnet profile, you would see that she went through very hard life events when she was doing so and OBVIOUSLY prioritized her spouse over her fics

WE AS READERS have to RESPECT HER

This kind of behavior is NOT okay, and i have made my opinion clear: doing stuff like this is the ULTIMATE disrespect to a writer, especially one who cannot defend herself

@/yautjalover I know your audience is much larger than mine w good reason, so I would appreciate a reblog if you feel inclined, otherwise I’m okay w untagging you saw you were going thru some shit so I untagged you, don’t worry about it👍🏼

I really need more people to report this fic, it’s very simple and googable but I can also walk people through it

I would also tag and approach writers that use Stupe’s AU to get their opinion on this, as they have done the GOOD thing of directing people to Stupe’s actual fics and page, instead of stealing it like this person has

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62418388

#yautja #yautja x human #yautja x reader

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valeisaslut · 1 month ago

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3 YEARS?!!

oh my god in her sleep, on the guitar, ellie miller my baby.

“How she left with your heart in her hands and didn’t look back.” i know you know you cooked with that.

Just imagining Ellie being begged by Joel to go to rehab is bringing me to tears. how come in every au she’s still a girl who needs her dad. i should replay part 1

i cannot fathom how fucking awful that mustve been for y/n to be blamed for everything. lowk reminds me of Amber Heard (still feel bad for her ngl)

JOEL MVP IM IN TEARS (can we tell i don’t have a good relationship with my dad)

“Your voice, your strongest weapon, was now was working against you. It kept betraying, trembling with every word, cracking more horribly each time you tried to swallow the grief. The grief of singing songs you once believed in. Songs that were alive when she still was yours.” I died. my funeral is monday.

“Not because you wanted to. Not because you could. But because it was all you had left to give.

And the only thought echoing in your skull was how impossible it felt that this had once made you happy. That once, the stage had been freedom. Purpose. Joy.

Because now, it felt like a sentence.”

you are so sadistic bc how could you want characters to go through this much 😖😞

“‘You’re safe,’she murmured. ‘You made it through. It’s over, baby. The show 's over.’”

i need a rachel.

“‘I’m done, I'm done,’ you choked out, not even able to hear your own voice over the pounding in your ears. ‘I’m done. I can’t do this anymore—I’m not going back, I won’t—I can’t—I—I want it to be over—‘“

Nothing can describe this absolutely debilitating feeling of throwing in the towel.

I know you know you cooked with:

“‘She won’t recover if you kill her first.’”

the taco bell weed penthouse 😞

HER FAMILY DIDNT CALL??

crying for and mourning yourself is another level of dread and helplessness

“You flopped backward on the pillows, arm thrown over your eyes. ‘So maybe I’ll just go back to my fucking hometown in the South. Marry a man. Have a lavender marriage. Get a dog named Earl. Die slowly.’”

But in a way, that would be dying quickly. it’d be suicide, killing every aspect of herself to live this life.

“You sighed, turning to face the wall. ‘Maybe I’ll move to a little town in Argentina. Change my name. Get three cats. Upload music to SoundCloud under an alias.’”

Hey Val do you have cats or a soundcloud we don’t know about.

“The city was still there.”

actually hit so hard bc life is still going world is still turning, ellie is still there somewhere, but she is not the focus.

“‘And this one… I wrote a long time ago. After I found her in the bathroom. I don’t think I ever really came back from that.’”

Going through that would be so traumatizing honestly. I think about that all the time myself.

“‘Let them cry in the club.’” LFMSOOO

LMFAO RACHEL HAVING A LAW DEGREE OFC YOU NEEDED TO MAKE HER MORE OF A SELF INSERT BABE

“They didn’t understand why, after all that, after everything—you still sang about her like she was holy”

OH MY GODDDDDUHHH THE WORLD

DOESNT EVEN UNDERSTAND THEY PLAYED A PART IN THE BREAK UP. THRY WERE WHY ELLIE DID DRUGS WHICH LEAD TO EVERYTHING ELSE.

“‘Supernova isn’t a comeback album. It's not a rebrand. It’s not an apology or a reinvention. It's a war report. My version of the story.’”

OHHHHHH MYY GODDD IM SORRY FOR BEING RECEPTIVE BUT MY JAW CANNOT FALL FARTHER.

"’Because that’s what a supernova is—a dead star. A star that explodes at the end of its life, and still manages to shine brighter than ever before. A last, defiant burst of light.Brighter than anything else in the sky. Brighter even in its ending.’”

how tf did i not pick up on that when i first read it i feel stupid.

“‘And if the main person who inspired this album is watching…’” stab me in the heart sure why not?

“‘I hope you know I made it through.’

Your voice cracked a little. Tears started flowing with more force.

‘I hope you found your way back to yourself, wherever you are. I hope you’re safe. I hope you're not afraid of your own name anymore.’”

stop it. please i beg they deserve joy. hell, I DESERVE JOY.

“‘I will love you until the day I die. Always .’”

OH GOD. pouring one (bottle) out tonight.

ABIGAIL ANDERSON WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!

“And then she kissed you.”

Ms.Anderson consent. por favor. hello. i already don’t like her.

“Inside: a diamond necklace. Massive. Blinding.”

oh thank god i thought it’d be a ring.

“She hadn’t asked about your day. Not about what you were writing. Not how you were feeling.

Just sports. And how hot you looked. And diamond gifts you didn’t ask for.”

exactly she’s not our girl who only eats the blue peanut m&ms.

“Music didn’t just tie you together. It fused you. Deep and sacred and permanent .”

Rocket Queen 2:16

“#1: Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Ellie Williams”

oh. my. god.

oh my god. no like oh my god.

this is a spiritual reading. a sermon. you’ve taken each line and wrung it out like it bled into your veins and now we’re just here, lying side by side in the wreckage. i feel like i just had a religious experience in reverse.

starting off with “3 YEARS?!!” as a war cry is so real because yeah. three years of silence. of grief calcifying into survival. and then you hit me with "ellie miller my baby” and i was done. flatlined.

she’s still a girl who needs her dad. in every timeline. in every universe. the world changes, but that truth doesn’t. and the fact that you connected that to your own relationship?? i’m holding your hand. i’m holding it so gently.

“I know you know you cooked with that.” yes. yes i did. and i appreciate that you said it.

the quotes you pulled. the way you felt them. "the stage felt like a sentence" / “she won’t recover if you kill her first” / “the city was still there”—you understood. you saw the entire shape of the ache. you didn’t just read it. you carried it.

and the commentary??? “her family didn’t call??” / “taco bell weed penthouse 😞” `(I DIED AT THIS ONE LMAO) / “thank god i thought it’d be a ring” no like HOW ARE YOU FUNNY AND TRAGIC. who gave you this much power.

you quoting “you still sang about her like she was holy” and then immediately screaming about how THE WORLD PLAYED A PART IN THEIR BREAKUP… i’m sobbing. because YES. people always forget that kind of harm. the passive destruction. the watching. the silence. the shame they encouraged. ellie didn’t burn out in a vacuum—she got watched into ruin.

and the fact that you caught that “Supernova” isn’t just a metaphor but a scientific fact wrapped in grief?? like “a dead star that shines brighter at the end”??

“stop it. please i beg they deserve joy. hell, I DESERVE JOY.” YES YOU DO. YES THEY DO. YES WE ALL DO.

and then abby shows up and you’re just like “Ms. Anderson, consent. por favor.” NOOOOO 😭😭😭 CONSENTIMIENTO. POR FAVOR.

you are everything. your brain is perfect. this message is going in the vault. thank you for screaming and mourning and clawing through every inch of that chapter like it was a grave you were trying to resurrect someone from. you get it.

🕯️ meet me at Rocket Queen 2:16.

#val answers anons!💜

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pleaseletmeinibeg453 · 25 days ago

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Paper cuts

|Jelsa, Modern AU, Enemies with Benefits, Fake dating, Forced Proximity|

Agent Elsa Stenford [NID-SO-ES-07] — Operation Report Upload Log

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-08

—Time (UTC): 23:16

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A5-7C9B)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2214)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access.

---------------------------

Operation Silent Raven is an ongoing mission targeting a covert illicit arms trafficking network operating primarily in South Carolina. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Delete ‘ongoing mission’ — this is filler from someone unfamiliar with concise reporting. Vague and redundant.] This report details recent operational progress, intelligence collection, and actionable recommendations. [Flag—Acting supervisor: You clearly do not understand report structure. This useless sentence wastes time and space.]

The primary objective is to identify, monitor, and dismantle the arms trafficking chain responsible for the flow of small arms and light weapons through various transit points in the region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Restating obvious without any specifics or measurable targets reflects poor understanding of operational goals. Omit.] HUMINT sources have verified the existence of a new maritime transit corridor utilizing the seaport. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “HUMINT sources” is lazy projection. You apparently cannot be trusted to identify sources properly. Brackets demonstrate careless drafting.] SIGINT intercepted encrypted communications that suggest coordination between traffickers and local facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggest’ is weak speculation, unbefitting a professional intelligence report. Either confirm or remove this guesswork.]

Financial forensics have traced suspicious funds transfers totaling approximately $8 million USD linked to traffickers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Provide specifics or this bland, meaningless statement reveals superficial analysis.] Technical surveillance detected multiple covert meetings in [Urban Centers], corroborated by photographic evidence. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Using placeholders signals either incompetence or utter disregard for accuracy.] On 2022-06-21, interdiction team, operating with local law enforcement, seized 250 illegal firearms at the port city warehouse. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Poorly structured sentence; the muddled passive voice further obscures the facts you apparently cannot clearly present.] Two principal suspects were detained, providing critical intelligence that identified higher-level facilitators. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Passive construction and vague attribution further demonstrate your failure to take ownership of this data.]

Informant “Falcon” supplied actionable intelligence regarding a planned arms shipment scheduled for early June. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Finally, a clear statement, but unfortunately, it’s buried among verbosity and filler.] Operational security protocols were heightened after detecting possible surveillance by hostile intelligence actors. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Possible’ surveillance indicates your uncertainty and it undermines the entire assessment and betrays inadequate situational awareness.] The network disruption has temporarily halted major arms transfers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Temporarily’ suggests you lack the insight or confidence to forecast outcomes. Such ambiguity is unacceptable.]

Surveillance and intelligence collection continue focusing on secondary facilitators and financing channels. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Non-specific, passive phrasing again. You appear unable to report with decisiveness or clarity.] Coordination with allied intelligence agencies is ongoing to leverage broader interdiction efforts. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Allied intelligence agencies” — weak and meaningless. Omit.] Risk assessment indicates elevated threat levels against NID assets involved in this operation. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Without elaboration, this statement is worthless. The absence of detail is either negligence or incompetence. I’m leaning towards the latter, although the first one also seems to be your defining trait.] Approve expansion of covert operations targeting secondary facilitators and financiers. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Recommendations lack essential resource planning and rationale, further exposing your inexperience.] Request additional SIGINT and counter-surveillance resources. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Additional’ is meaningless without quantification. This sloppy request reflects poor operational understanding.] Initiate an inter-agency task force to address cross-border financing and logistics. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Unsubstantiated recommendation with no defined objectives — this is amateurish.] Continue monitoring and protection of key HUMINT sources and operatives. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Failing to specify protection protocols reflects a dangerous oversight on your part.] Attachments include interdiction team after-action report, financial transaction analyses, SIGINT intercept summaries, and photographic documentation of seized arms and facilities. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Referencing attachments without actual inclusion indicates either incompetence or disregard for proper reporting. Which one is it?]

Flag—Acting supervisor: This report is miserably inadequate and reflects a disturbing lack of professionalism and capability. The careless placeholders, vague assertions, passive voice, and speculative language betray your failure to grasp even the basic standards of intelligence reporting. Such work not only wastes time but actively hampers operational efficiency. REWRITE.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Agent Elsa Stenford [Code:NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Report Review – Operation Silent Raven

Classification: TOP SECRET // EYES ONLY

Agent Stenford,

Your submitted report for Operation Silent Raven is wholly inadequate and reflects a concerning lack of analytical rigor, operational discipline, and professional attention. The presence of unresolved placeholders, vague assertions, speculative conclusions, and critical data gaps is unacceptable at this operational level and wastes valuable time and resources.

This level of oversight is incompatible with the standards expected from an intelligence officer assigned to this unit. You are to:

1. Eliminate all placeholders and provide verified, cross-checked intelligence.

2. Remove speculative or assumptive language; include only confirmed, actionable data.

3. Rewrite sections for clarity, precision, and direct accountability — passive formulations are unacceptable.

4. Deliver detailed, concrete descriptions of sources, operational locations, timelines, and outcomes without ambiguity.

5. Ensure all referenced materials are attached, properly labeled, and internally consistent.

6. Strengthen recommendations by specifying exact resource needs, operational impacts, and executable directives.

7. Fully address risk assessments with defined threats, probability ratings, and specific mitigation strategies.

The supervisor-annotated version of your report (File ID: SR-Report-Rev1-JF) has been uploaded to the secure review system. You are to address all marked corrections and resubmit the fully corrected report no later than 1800 hours today. No further extensions will be granted.

Jack Frost

[Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Agent Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-09

—Time (UTC): 17:38

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SIENTRAVEN_AAR_v2.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack FrostJack Frost (NID-SO-JF-01), Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), National Intelligence Directorate

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0525-2316-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report (Revised Submission)

Agent Stenford,

I have completed my review of your revised report on Operation Silent Raven. The annotated document is attached under:

Attachment: SilentRaven_Rev2_ES07_JFcomments.secure

To be precise: this submission remains below acceptable operational standards. Your continued use of speculative phrasing, unsupported assertions, and vague recommendations demonstrates a concerning lack of analytical discipline. This is not a matter of inexperience. You are not a trainee, Agent. At your level and position, you are expected to understand and apply the standards of rigor, precision, and clarity required in all agency reporting. That expectation is not optional.

Your report exhibits repeated failures:

1. Speculative language where concrete analysis is required;

2. Lack of referenced source attachments, despite multiple directives;

3. Unquantified risk assessments, absent methodological support;

4. Action recommendations devoid of operational specificity.

This is not a learning exercise nor is it a second chance, Agent Stenford. I should not be required to remind you of the foundational protocols governing intelligence reporting. You are expected to deliver work that reflects your clearance level, your operational rank, and your assigned responsibilities — without need for remedial oversight.

You are hereby directed to produce a final, fully compliant, actionable revision and submit it under secure protocol no later than 1300 hours tomorrow. Failure to meet this directive will result in formal escalation to the Division Office for immediate performance review. There will be no further instructions, no extended clarifications, and no tolerance for repeated submission failures.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

Operation Silent Raven: A report

1.⁠ ⁠Executive Summary:

—The target group’s network activity has intensified in the last 72 hours, with encrypted communications suggesting a planned operation within the capital region. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Suggesting” is a charming euphemism for “guessing.” Precision is not your forte, is it?]

—HUMINT sources indicate the possible involvement of an external actor, potentially destabilizing regional security. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Possible” and “potentially” — a truly inspiring display of hedging. I applaud your commitment to ambiguity.] While these indicators warrant heightened surveillance, conclusive evidence regarding the exact nature and timing of the planned event remains unconfirmed. [COMMENT: I look forward to the day when ‘unconfirmed’ is replaced by ‘confirmed.’ Continue taking baby steps, we’re all here to babysit you and instruct on every level, not to do our job.]

2.⁠ ⁠Intelligence Sources:

SIGINT: Intercepted encrypted transmissions on frequencies 8.1 GHz to 8.3 GHz, believed to originate from multiple cell towers in the downtown sector. [Flag—Acting supervisor: “Believed.” A masterclass in non-committal language. Bold. Yet, it fails to meet the minimum standards of verification.] Metadata analysis aligns with previous hostile activity patterns.

[Flag—Acting supervisor: Please specify the parameters of your analysis. Otherwise, it reads as a hopeful suggestion rather than intelligence.]

HUMINT: Confidential informant reported unusual meetings near industrial sector 4. Reliability assessed as moderate; corroborating SIGINT incomplete. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Moderate’ is an imaginative way of saying ‘I’m not sure.’ The agency appreciates your creativity but prefers facts.]

IMINT: Limited satellite imagery from 23-25 MAY shows increased vehicular movements near potential staging areas, but imagery quality insufficient for identification of personnel or equipment. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Including non-identifiable imagery is an excellent way to fill pages. Whether it aids operations is another matter. But who cares?]

3.⁠ ⁠Operational Assessment:

The convergence of SIGINT and HUMINT suggests preparatory steps for an operation targeting critical infrastructure. [Flag—Acting supervisor: ‘Suggests’ again. I see a pattern. Perhaps next time try ‘confirms’ or ‘demonstrates.’] Risk assessment places the likelihood of attack at moderate (probability 0.55), with potential impact categorized as high due to target significance. [Flag—Acting supervisor: : Quantify your methodology. Numbers plucked from thin air are less useful than no numbers at all.] Recommended actions include intensifying electronic surveillance, deploying field assets for direct observation, and liaising with allied cyber-intelligence units to monitor digital footprints. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Vague directives are the hallmark of an inexperienced analyst. Details and accountability please.]

4.⁠ ⁠Recommendations:

Immediate deployment of SIGINT intercept teams in the identified frequency bands. Enhanced HUMINT debriefings with source ES-27 to confirm meeting details. [Flag—Acting supervisor: The lack of specificity here suggests an admirable level of trust in the reader’s imagination.] Coordination with Cyber Ops for real-time network traffic analysis. [Flag—Acting supervisor: Nomenclature alone does not constitute a plan. Flesh this out.]

Notes [Acting Supervisor] :

—Formatting inconsistent with NID operational report guidelines. You’ve transformed a simple formatting standard into an elusive art form. Bravo.

—Failure to attach referenced supporting materials AGAIN. This recurring omission hinders operational efficacy. Consider attaching documents next time.

—In conclusion, REWRITE.

---------------------------

Agent [Code: NID-SO-ES-07] — Field Report Upload Log (Revised Submission)

—Logged into secure terminal: Vienna Safehouse Terminal-2

—Date: 2022-07-10

—Time (UTC): 13:00

—Connected to secure node: NIDNet

—Report file: OP_SILENTRAVEN_AAR_v3.enc

—Encryption status: Secured with NID Master Key — encryption signature verified (Checksum ID: F1A9-7C3B-R2)

—Recipient(s): Jack Frost, Section Chief Special Operations (SO-92A), Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4), NID

—Transmission channel: Priority-One Secure Uplink (Classified Level: TOP SECRET)

—Transmission status: COMPLETE — audit log updated (Reference Log ID: ES07-0710-1300-R2)

—Backup status: Encrypted local backup stored (Partition ES-07-SAFE); master copy uploaded to Central Ops Archive (Vault-4, Revised Submission Folder)

—Field confirmation: Agent ES-07 signed digital attestation; no tampering detected; self-authentication successful

Note: Automatic alert dispatched to Division Supervisor terminal. Clearance authentication required upon access. Revision flag registered under Audit Protocol 4B.

---------------------------

Secure Directive

From: Jack Frost [NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations / Acting Division Supervisor [Code: NID-SO-92A/DS-4]

To: Elsa Stenford [Code: NID-SO-ES-07]

Subject: RE: Secure Directive – Operation Silent Raven Report , Revocation of Field Authority and Immediate Reassignment

Agent Stenford,

I was informed last afternoon that due to shifting operational priorities, the report in question [Ops Silent Raven] is no longer required.

After review of your latest submission — the revised report you provided earlier today — I must formally acknowledge that the material remains below acceptable operational standards. While I did not realistically anticipate any significant improvement, it is nonetheless disappointing that even after detailed corrective input, your output failed to meet the basic analytical and procedural thresholds expected of an intelligence officer at your level.

However, the time I was forced to expend personally correcting and annotating your repeated errors constitutes an unacceptable diversion of supervisory resources. You have now occupied more of this division’s time and attention than your current role warrants.

Accordingly, effective immediately, your independent field authority is revoked. You are reassigned to trailing support under Intelligence Officer Logan Parrish [CODE: NID-SO-LP-33], Team Blue. While Officer Parrish holds the same formal rank as you, his superior reliability and competence justify his lead role in this arrangement.

You are to operate strictly under Officer Parrish’s direction, with no independent decision-making or external communications without prior clearance. This corrective assignment will remain in place until further notice and serves as a necessary intervention to address the persistent deficits in your performance.

You are to report to Team Blue at 07:00 hours tomorrow, prepared and fully compliant. Written acknowledgment of this directive is required by 16:00 hours today. Noncompliance will result in immediate formal disciplinary action.

Jack Frost [Code: NID-SO-JF-01]

Section Chief, Special Operations (SO-92A)

Acting Division Supervisor (DS-4)

National Intelligence Directorate

---------------------------

Elsa Stenford read the message over and over again, because she knew it wasn’t serious. It must be a mistake. A joke. That’s what it was. Maybe if she read it again, it would change, it would shift and it would fix itself. So she read it, the words physically burning her, over and over again, but it stayed the same. She just stared at it, mouth hanging open, eyes wide with shock, unblinking.

“Elsa?” Merida’s voice shattered the silence in her head. “Are you—”

“THAT MISERABLE FUCKING BASTARD! THAT FUCKING—” She stopped herself, but there was just too much rage and hate in her, enough for her to combust and paint the walls red. "FUCKING PIECE OF SCUM! I FUCKING HATE HIM, THAT USELESS, ARROGANT, SLIMY RAT!"

---------------------------

24 notes · View notes

justinspoliticalcorner · 4 months ago

Text

Jason Koebler at 404 Media:

[Update: After this article was published, Bluesky restored Kabas' post and told 404 Media the following: "This was a case of our moderators applying the policy for non-consensual AI content strictly. After re-evaluating the newsworthy context, the moderation team is reinstating those posts."] Bluesky deleted a viral, AI-generated protest video in which Donald Trump is sucking on Elon Musk’s toes because its moderators said it was “non-consensual explicit material.” The video was broadcast on televisions inside the office Housing and Urban Development earlier this week, and quickly went viral on Bluesky and Twitter. Independent journalist Marisa Kabas obtained a video from a government employee and posted it on Bluesky, where it went viral. Tuesday night, Bluesky moderators deleted the video because they said it was “non-consensual explicit material.” “A Bluesky account you control (@marisakabas.bsky.social) posted content or shared a link that contains non-consensual explicit material, which is in violation of our Community Guidelines. As a result of this violation, we have taken down your post,” an email Kabas received from Bluesky moderation reads. “We trust that you will understand the necessity of these measures and the gravity of the situation. Bluesky explicitly prohibits the sharing of non-consensual sexual media. You cannot use Bluesky to break the law or cause harm to others. All users must be treated with respect.” “Hello—the post you have taken down was a video broadcast inside a government building to protest a fascist regime,” Kabas wrote in an email back to Bluesky seen by 404 Media. “It is in the public interest and it is legitimate news. Taking it down is an attempt to bury the story and an alarming form of censorship. I love this platform but I’m shocked by this decision. I ask you to reconsider it.” Other Bluesky users said that versions of the video they uploaded were also deleted, though it is still possible to find the video on the platform. Technically speaking, the AI video of Trump sucking Musk’s toes, which had the words “LONG LIVE THE REAL KING” shown on top of it, is a nonconsensual AI-generated video, because Trump and Musk did not agree to it. But social media platform content moderation policies have always had carve outs that allow for the criticism of powerful people, especially the world’s richest man and the literal president of the United States.

Bluesky briefly deleted AI video depicting Donald Trump sucking on Elon Musk’s toes in protest of DOGE’s purges on the basis it was “non-consensual explicit material”, before reversing that decision due to the newsworthiness of the video.

#Bluesky #Censorship #AI #Elon Musk #Donald Trump #Marisa Kabas

44 notes · View notes

thirsty4villains · 1 year ago

Text

Cool Heat

Summary: You're an assistant for the Avengers. Loki has been hiding up in his room for the past week. You go to check on him and he's reverted back to his Jotun form, but he's not quite himself. The two of you discover that Jotuns go into cycles of heat, and Loki hasn't been in his Jotun form for over a millennia...

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Mentions of dubcon

Tags: Loki lives in Stark Tower with the Avengers, PIV, smut, humor, romance, Jotun!Loki, dom!Loki, spanking, more tags to be added

Find me on AO3, Wattpad. Previous chapters/other Loki fics on Tumblr by me here.

Notes: THANK YOU GUYS FOR BEING SO PATIENT, I'm sorry this chapter took so long to roll out. Real life stuff, I hope y'all understand. Please enjoy!

Tagged users: @nyxxharmonia @mischief2sarawr @drunkbirdbug @lorelibrarianlizbit @strawberry--fawn @thenotoriouserg @hereforsmutbcicantgetenough @salvinaa @bellajg21 lorielulu7

CHAPTER 4

You woke up feeling more rested than you did most mornings. If you knew Loki was this good at sex you may have hit him up earlier. Asshole or no, he knew what he was doing. Last night’s events replayed in your head repeatedly: your dream that wasn’t a dream, your conversation, and ultimately the conclusion. They spun around in your head as you tried to assess because it was hard to believe that you had sex with Loki. You also wondered, was it wrong that you weren’t angry at him for having sex while you were unconscious? It definitely wasn’t right of him, but you’d been feeling so lonely and horny – horny for him – that you didn’t care. You quite enjoyed it, actually.

After mulling these thoughts, you took a shower, got dressed, and threw the sheets in the washer. It was nearing 11:00 am on a Tuesday. Shit, you were supposed to submit some reports to Coulson by nine!

You ran to the elevator and went back up to the penthouse. Gathering your paperwork and opening your laptop, you opened up the S.H.I.E.L.D. database and began uploading the work you should have submitted two hours ago. Thankfully, there were no text messages, emails in your inbox, or missed calls on your phone, so Coulson must be preoccupied this morning. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the time stamp that read 11:28am.

In this moment you were eternally grateful the majority of your work was remote because if you came into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters three hours late because you slept in, Fury would have your head.

With that problem finished, you went to check on Loki. Back down in the bedroom areas, you stood in the hallway and knocked on his bedroom door. A sense of deja vu swept over you.

“Come in,” the god’s voice said behind the door.

The knob turned and you entered Loki’s room. He sat on his bed, staring at the wall opposite him. He seemed not all there.

“Loki?” you asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Not worse, but not better, either.”

“So you’re still..?”

“Still enormously frustrated sexually? Yes.”

A wave of insecurity washed over you. “It wasn’t… bad, was it?”

He shook his head. “Quite the contrary, it was exactly what I needed. I felt better, instantly. But it came back as soon as I awoke this morning. The fundamental issue I am facing, however, is this dreaded blue color – and these horns. I cannot will this form away with magic no matter how hard I try.”

You apologized for his state.

“Are you not disgusted by me?” the god asked. “After last night?”

“I already told you that it’s okay, you weren’t yourself,” you said.

“I also meant… after.”

“Like, the actual sex?”

He nodded.

“Are you not disgusted by this brutish, carnal form? How rough I was with you. These horns… these claws…” He sneered after looking at his own nails.

“No.” You blushed. “It was really hot, actually.”

For the first time in days, he laughed an actual, genuine laugh. “Sincerely? You human women are so strange. No Asgardian woman in their right mind would bed a Jotun.”

“Their loss,” you said.

He furrowed his eyebrow at you but also, perhaps there was a hint of a smile?

“No matter, my predicament is… URGH!”

Out of nowhere, Loki curled his right hand into a fist and punched the wall. Little pieces of drywall flew outward. Loki retracted his hand and a fist-sized hole was left behind in its wake. He dusted off a thin layer of powder from his knuckles.

You jumped back. “What was that?!”

Loki’s shoulders heaved. “I don’t know! That’s the problem! I don’t know. I have no clue why this is happening now, and why it’s so drastic. I get these changes in mood, like I’m nothing but an adolescent again who cannot even master his own emotions. I feel virile yet emasculated. We had intercourse, so why was it not enough?”

He punched the wall a second time. With gritted teeth and labored breaths he stared at it and you were unsure if the god was lost in thought or would lose his temper entirely. You watched his pecs and the dark blue ridges upon his body move up and down with his breaths. His lean arms, the biceps on them; those horns, those eyes…

Okay, snap back to reality. Loki’s having a crisis. Sex is the only thing that made him feel himself again, even if it was just for a few hours. Like he said, he was in heat; maybe just one go isn’t enough to get the job done.

“Well, we know what we have to do, then.” You outstretched your arms, offering yourself.

He turned from the wall. “What are you –”

“What position do you want me in, Loki?” You interrupted, asserting yourself. You fought the blush creeping up your cheeks. “On my back? On my side? Do you want me to blow you first? Pick one. You want to fix this, right?”

Loki stood there in shock; examining your face, your body language. Or was he checking you out? He dropped his fist that was prepping to punch the wall and his lips stretched into a devious grin.

“On the bed, all fours.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” you replied.

Stripping yourself of your clothes, you approached his bed, staying in the crawling position upon his mattress.

To your side he stripped as well, and he was already rock hard. That blueish purple cock sprang from his pants, rearing to go. He climbed onto the bed behind you, examining your backside. You jolted forward as his cold hands touched your thighs. You’d forgotten how cold he felt. His icy fingers traced the smooth skin of your legs.

Then out of nowhere, he spanked you. A cold, red handprint decorated your bottom.

You gave a small screech, jolting forward again – both from the low temperature and the sudden smack.

“You like that?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm,” you muttered, nodding.

Another smack, and this next screech was mixed with a moan.

“Your assertiveness was quite endearing, but remember your tone when speaking to your king.”

He spanked your ass again.

“My – my king?” you asked.

“Yes, your king. Did I not mention to you the other day that I was kept as a bargain by Odin? I wasn’t any Jotun child, I was Laufey’s son, the king of the Jotuns.”

Another spanking. You felt yourself grow wet amidst the pain.

“N – no, you didn’t mention that part.”

“Though I failed to conquer Earth, and Thor is the first heir to Asgard, since Laufey is dead I am still a king in my own right – of Jotunheim.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, my king.”

He gave you one last spanking, a lighter smack, a playful one. “I forgive you,” he said, lowering himself over your back, so his lips could graze your ear. He placed his hands on your butt, to soothe the irritated skin. The iciness felt good but you also squirmed due to your skin being so sensitive there.

With his new position, his cock rested against your cunt. You prevented yourself from lurching forward. He rubbed the cold member against your lips.

“Now your king shall claim what is his.”

Without further warning, Loki penetrated your opening, sinking completely within you. His chilly member made you clench around him. You gasped as you acclimated to him. Oh god, he was big. You didn’t know how you could forget since the last time you fucked him was literally hours ago, yet you were still in awe. His cool, dextrous fingers brushed your hips, finding the perfect place to grip in order to rail you. Then, he moved within you, and you already felt your juices coating him and your own thighs. Completely at his mercy, you allowed him to take all of you, as you kneeled on the bed, all fours, like an animal. He slipped in and out of your cunt at a deliciously fast pace, hitting the right spot every time. Your arms barely kept upright as you tried to keep up the weight of yourself and your balance as the god of mischief rocked your body.

While fucking you, Loki removed one hand from your hip to grasp your hair and tugged. Your head tilted backward so that you were forced to look straight forward instead of below. On one hand you could count how many times you were in Loki’s room, and you didn’t realize until now that he had a mirror mounted above the bed frame, so when he pulled your hair you were forced to look at the scene. You, your tits hanging, on hands and knees, and the blue god of mischief with one hand fisted in your hair and his cock taking you for all you’re worth. His mouth flashed a devious smile as your eyes connected through the mirror, and his red eyes gleamed of hunger and dominance. He tightened his fist in your hair and spoke.

“Enjoying the view?”

In your pleasure you found it difficult to form words.

He spanked your ass. The combination of that, your hair, the view ahead, and your cunt sent sparks through your body. A high-pitched moan escaped your lips.

“I asked you a question.”

Your legs quaked like jello, but you managed to say: “Yes!”

The light in the god’s eyes danced. Another smile graced his face, “Good.”

He released your hair. Your head fell forward again, your arms collapsed underneath you, and now your face was buried in the mattress. With nothing but your ass in the air, Loki continued to drive into your pussy, chuckling at the state of you; tired, splayed out, and completely surrendered to him. He gave another playful spanking on your behind.

You gathered the blankets underneath, balling them in your fists as Loki delivered your pleasure unto you. All you could do was hold on, listen to the sounds of his hips slapping your skin and the wet noises of furious lovemaking, and praise his body into the bed. Your legs, before jello, were now an autumn leaf shaking in the wind and you knew you were so close. Loki dug his claws into your hips, claiming you once again and you were gone. Shouting into the blankets, your cunt tensed before finally releasing, and you climaxed on the god’s cold, pulsing cock; riding the waves and yet somehow keeping your ass in the air.

Your climax, however, was the catalyst for his own and Loki burst within you, sending a final few thrusts into your hole. He filled you again, uttering his own release to the heavens. Then you both collapsed onto the bed.

When he found the strength to roll off you, you excused yourself to his bathroom to clean up. After that, as well as re-brushing your hair and getting dressed, you entered his bedroom again to find him on the bed reading a book. Loki was still naked as the day he was born. One long, lean blue leg was crossed over the other as he lay back. Your eyes traced the ridges of his Jotun form up along his toned body, then up his face and ending at the curve of his horns. His eyelashes fluttered against his ruby-red eyes. How in the world did he see himself ugly in this form?

You spoke up: “It’s getting close to afternoon. I’m gonna make breakfast. Want anything?”

Loki looked up from his book and nodded. “Yes, I’ll be up in a minute. I’ll have whatever you are having.”

“Cool,” you said, returning upstairs to the penthouse.

In the kitchen you pulled out the cookware and ingredients to make scrambled eggs and hash browns. The items sizzled on the pans, filling the kitchen with the aroma of eggs, potatoes, and spices. Your stomach growled in approval and restlessness. Loki joined shortly behind you, now clothed in his usual garb of black and green. His horns stood high and mighty, even regal, atop his head, cutting through the air.

“This is the first time I have been out in this state at midday in nearly a fortnight,” Loki remarked. He looked around the room, almost as if he’d forgotten what it looked like bathed in noon’s light.

“That’s rough. I’m sorry,” you said. “How do you feel now?”

“Better – much. I had thought I would need intercourse once and this would go away. Now, I am not so sure. I am hoping… soon.”

You nodded. “Yeah, especially since we don’t know when the others will come back from that mission, and if you’re still ‘sick’,” you airquoted. “...by the time they get back, I’m pretty sure they’re going to start getting nosy, maybe even suspicious.”

Loki growled, not enthused by that thought. A slight tingle tickled your southern area. Instantly, you wondered: were you an asshole for being attracted to his irritability? It’s not like you meant to, but the growling was, well…

“Do you need help with the cooking?” Loki said, interrupting your thoughts.

“Yes, thank you.” Good distraction from that moral dilemma. Thank you, Loki. “Actually, could you help clean up? Put some of the things away for me while I watch the stove?”

The god nodded and proceeded to help with his tasks. Cabinets were opened and closed as he put the spices away, he went and washed the silverware you weren’t using anymore, and threw the eggshells and other trash in the garbage. The food would be ready in just a few minutes.

The kitchen grew quiet again when he finished. So quiet, you thought he may have slinked off somewhere – to the bathroom or something. Until you felt a pair of hands on your hips.

“And you are well after our encounters?” he asked, his voice low and husky. His cool breath tickled your ear.

One of his hands moved lower, cupping your ass slightly. A jolt of electricity flowed through you. He had you pinned between his front and the kitchen counter.

“The eggs,” you said in protest.

“What about the eggs?” he quipped, squeezing you lightly.

“They’ll burn. Don’t distract me.”

“Then don’t get distracted.”

Loki proceeded to move his other hand to your other ass cheek, kneading both hands on your behind through your shorts. His mouth lowered closer to you, gliding his cold tongue against your neck. The hairs on your arms stood on their ends, goosebumps budding. The god licked slowly, deliberately. You shivered and Loki chuckled lightly against your skin. He bared his teeth -- his fangs -- and grazed the points over your carotid.

You tried to pay attention to the cooking food; flipping over the eggs, watching the potatoes, adjusting the heat as necessary. However, you were facing much difficulty ignoring the rising heat within your body.

Loki switched between teeth and tongue, lapping and nipping at your neck. You gasped when he bit your earlobe, smoothing over the pain with another lick. One of his hands moved to your front, sneaking underneath your shorts and underwear to play with you. His fingers toyed with your slit, wetting them in your slick and using his lubricated digits to circle your clit. You did your best to not lurch into the hot stove with his cold hands pleasuring you. Your hands gripped the handle on the oven as you moaned aloud.

“I told you not to get distracted,” the god teased. You opened your eyes – which you didn’t realize you’d even closed and quickly removed the eggs from the heat. The ends browned a bit, but they were nowhere close to burned; just a bit more cooked than you’d like them to be.

Your hands returned to the oven’s door handle, bracing yourself so your legs wouldn’t give in. Loki teased you mercilessly: one hand on your ass, the other playing with your clit, and his mouth, tongue, and lips attacking your neck and ear. You could already feel the hickey forming.

“Turn your head toward me,” the god urged.

You did, and met his gaze. He stole a kiss, deep and wanton, and cold; deliciously and illicitly cold. As you kissed, you realized this was your first one with him. A bit backwards, given you’d had sex twice before even kissing, but not unwanted. No, not unwanted at all. His kiss made you lightheaded and shivery, especially as he dove his tongue into your mouth. All this while he massaged your clit, soft and engorged and wet.

When the kiss broke, you took the hash browns off the heat too. “It’s hard to not get distracted when I can’t even see what’s in front of me.”

“Well, there’s no more distracting then, given the food’s done.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Loki yanked your shorts and underwear down your legs. They pooled at your ankles. He barely gave you any time to shake them off before parting your legs for him, exposing your opening for him, and he entered you swiftly. You gave a choked sound as you adjusted to him, his thick, chilly, irresistible cock planted within you. His hands moved; one on hip and the other under your shirt to pinch your nipples.

“I thought you were good,” you croaked.

“Oh, I’m more than good now,” Loki uttered as he began to move within you.

“I mean… We just fucked… not even twenty minutes ago, and already… Mmmf.” You bit your lip as he hit that sweet spot within you.

“What can I say? I finished cleaning up, then I began watching you. Your shorts barely covering your ass, accentuating your thighs, how your hair cascades down your shoulders. Something like a switch flipped inside me. I had to have you. You won’t deny me now, surely?”

“N – no.” Your thighs pressed together and your eyes shut closed. With anyone else this would be too much, but with him you didn’t find yourself growing tired, nor sore, nor overstimulated. Something about Loki, his touch, his voice made you want his sex just as much as he required it for his sanity.

So he fucked you there, on the kitchen counter, in front of the stove. The god of mischief thrusted into you, his chest pressed against your back. The chill of his skin radiated from his chest through your shirt, and of course his cold hands on your breasts and cock buried inside you aroused your senses and your attention. He drove his cock upward, and the best you could do was hold on for dear life as he fucked his divine jotun lechery into you. As they did when you were taken from behind, your thighs shook, your pussy clenched, and with a snap Loki spilled his frigid seed into you. His fingernails dug into your hips and teeth sunk into your neck as he completed his final thrusts, filling you with his load.

The two of you took a moment to catch your breaths. His chest rose and fell against your back, his wintry breath panting upon your skin. When he removed himself, a wet plop noise sounded as his cock exited you. His seed within you trickled down your legs, droplets of him dripping onto the tile floor. You moaned impatiently upon his removal, as you were still flushed with arousal.

“Patience, woman,” the god spoke. “I am not yet done.”

Without warning, he grabbed you and moved you to an empty space on the counter. Placing you with your back against the granite, he lined his still erect cock with your entrance. His hands grabbed your ankles, resting them on the dip of his shoulders and again, he drove into you.

You screamed.

The frost giant god railed you with his cock, with complete and total access to your cunt, filling you to the brim. Within seconds, he hit the sweet spot within you at the perfect, fast, desperate pace, and you came on him. Your walls pulsed and contracted as you rode his cold member through your orgasm, screaming at the ceiling of Stark Tower. All the muscles in your body relaxed and you finally opened your eyes to see the face of a demon grinning lasciviously at you. His raven black hair rested upon his shoulders, a pretty contrast to his sapphire skin, and you watched him as he fucked you to a second completion.

A third time today – or was it fourth, since technically you fucked after midnight last night, and then this morning, and now… Your brain was too addled but yes, four was probably right. For a fourth time today, Loki came inside you, his member pulsating within you, ejaculating and filling you once again.

He bent down and bit your neck before separating. His scarlet eyes roamed over your body, entirely used and spent. He chuckled to himself. You must have been quite a sight at the moment, with your hair every which way and utterly drenched of him.

With a flick of his wrist, a golden hue emanated from his hands and then disappeared – the mess with it. All of his cum – on the counter, inside you, on the floor, vanished as if it had never existed. With a light head you carefully sat up and jumped down from the counter.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Loki said.

“I’ll be fine, I just need food. It’s not customary for me to fuck multiple times before breakfast. I’m on an empty stomach right now and I just came three times in half an hour.”

You redressed yourself and plated the food. “Great, well, it’s almost cold now. You interested in cold eggs? ‘Cause that’s what we’re getting.”

“Are you saying you regret our tryst?” he teased.

“No. Yes… I don’t know. No, no I don’t regret it, but I don’t want cold breakfast either!”

You plopped your plate on the dining table harder than was necessary and sat in the chair, ready to eat your sad breakfast.

The god flicked his wrist again, and instantly steam emanated from your food. The smell of warm food filled your nostrils again and you devoured your breakfast.

“Would a ‘thank you’ hurt?”

“Fank you,” you said, mouth half-full.

Loki quirked an eyebrow at the utter impropriety. He redressed himself and joined you at the table.

“We are probably going to need to fuck once breakfast is finished. I’m already feeling the urge again.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” you muttered. This was the worst best problem you’ve ever encountered.

And he was true to his word. When the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, Loki had you on the counter again.

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