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chrollohearttags · 6 months

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that cabin eren look has changed the trajectory of my life and given me the stupidest idea ever lmfaogekgs! Just walk with me for a minute

content: musician au ofc, sexual references, reverb lore (?), ony, armin and connie being aggravating as hell lmfaooo, comedy them being big ass kids, ony using the n word (nb’s keep it cute)

📝: I’m reporting live from the ER so I need something to keep me entertained. 😭 this is so dumb, forgive me.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰──── ───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰ ───

“Nah, tell them folks the full story! Go ahead.”

“Look at him getting embarrassed. He’s so cuteee.”

the sound of clicking keys and controllers rang out over the headsets, among the loud laughter and chatter coming from those wearing them. The four illustrious artists, EJ the Don, Armin Hammer, Prince Cee and Ony The God; forming the collective known as Dead Boys Society were normally coming together to perform their many hits, or even comprise music. But tonight? They had a whole other reason..or two rather!

“Tell your mama’s story, bitch. Ain’t nothing to talk about.”

on one of the very rare occasions that the gentleman accrued some free time, they decided to host a Twitch stream. Playing video games, previewing new music and just having a good time. That was until they decided to bring them out…the infamous photos.

Ony, who was in full blown hysterics, falling out of his chair in laughter as he hoisted his phone to the camera. He could barely even be contained. “Look at this nigga, bro! You couldn’t tell him shit.” And the others followed suit. “Malibu’s Most Wanted looking ass.” Armin was just in hysterics, trying to cover his face. Eren, however was not as enthused! “Say sum’, Armin. I dare you and I’m going dead in your shit when I see you again.” “Don’t get mad at me because you were the mall whore. Getting passed around.” Which was so ironic coming from him! Because during the stream, the conversation of their previous lives and how they met came about. Ony divulged that he and Connie had known each other a long time and even went to school together. The pair played basketball as well. When they were seventeen, they began working at the Bayside Mall in a shoe store. Which is where they met EJ, who had just enrolled at their high school as well. The three became really close and eventually that they not only shared an affinity for sneakers but music also. They’d compose songs, make beats and mess around during their shift. When the three of them worked together, the store was packed to the brim, even with a line out the door. Due in part to their main attraction: the cute boy from Jersey with the green eyes and the voice of angel. At any given time, there would R&B and rap playing and he would know every word. Definitely a rarity in the urban area! Connie, who vividly remembered him wanting to be in the stock room but the manager insisting on Eren being on the floor. Thanks to Ony’s suggestion! Because of that, every girl from here to Opa Locka wanted a piece, even telling him they wanted his baby! It was utter chaos. “(Y/N), ma. I’m sorry but your man had hoes. In there serenading them girls and they used to eat that shit up. They loved him. He had like three baby mamas and four step kids before he left.” Rolling his eyes, Eren would take a sip of his drink and try to interject. Defending his honor because lord knows no one else would! “Nah, they were trying to exploit me. Pimping me out for corporate gain. Bunch of bastards.” And (y/n) was just enjoying this little storytime of your man. Exposing his younger self. So when Ony showed the photos of him in his uniform with a gold chain, a tapered fade and Nikes on, posing with his fingers up, you couldn’t help but to laugh. He was just as adorable then as he was now! It most certainly wasn’t his proudest moment. Hence why he loved having hair long now.

“A white boy with a fade singing Pretty Ricky and Trey Songz and you thought we wasn’t gon’ put that nigga front and center? That was our meal ticket. We had to do something.”

and you fell clean over, unable to hold it together! Along with the chat who was spamming a plethora of ‘LMAO’ ‘s and scrambled letters. A mess! “If it means anything, baby. I think you look handsome.” Squeezing his cheeks and cooing to him as consolation. And he was not trying to hear it.

“It don’t mean shit, but thank you, princess.”

He blocked everybody that night and refused to give you any dick for a week straight because of this lil’ escapade. 😭 “I thought shit was funny, what happened?”

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mechaknight-98 · 10 days

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Perfect Night (NSFW) FT Sakura Miyawaki

Author's note: World Tour announcement when? In all seriousness where has this Sakura Miyawki been and how do I get more of her? She killed it and me a little bit

After their fiery performance, the fimmies arrived back in their hotel. Not long after arriving Yunjen called Porter, Chaewon called Aaron and Sakura texted Daigo. Luckily for them, they were all on the same ride together. When they received messages from their significant others. Kura’s message was especially hot to Daigo,

“Did you like the performance,” Kura asked in the text but along with that was a picture of her in a more than flattering situation. She hoped that Daigo would be feral for her when she got there. What she didn't know was he already was.

Daigo was barely keeping his composure as images of what he would do to Kura swam through his mind during her entire Coachella performance. He had never seen her so at ease, so powerful, so sexy, so comfortable on stage before…well as long as he knew her. She may have wanted to kiss everybody, but he wanted to kiss her everywhere. To stay composed he stayed eerily silent to Porter and Aaron, which they noticed. they figured he was in contemplation gearing up for this night…he was just not in the ways they were thinking. The trio arrives at the hotel and takes the elevator up. Daigo carried the cooler his silence persisted which began to worry his friends until right before the trio entered.

"Oh unnies it's just the boys," Eunchae said as she opened the door. The trio walked in and sat next to their respective fimmy. Daigo leaned back and crossed his arms. as he sat next to Kura after placing the cooler by the front door. Kkura looked at him trying to get a read on him but he was stone-faced. He was barely containing himself near her.

"So what did you guys think," Yunjin asked courageously, "Did we do fantastic or what?"

"Oh you all did stellar," Aaron said first before he squeezed Chaewon tightly. Chaewon did her signature nose scrunch and smiled at her boyfriend. Connor was quick to jump and affirm Connor's statement. All that was left was Daigo who was sitting next to Kkura he looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

"I am mad. you let your company have you sing in all these high registers, and try to make y'all look bad on awards shows and live performances, but you come to my home, and not only do you guys sound amazing. You put on probably one of the best live performances I have ever seen. So I am heated because y'all have been holding out on me, and you (He's pointing to Sakura) when did you become so sexy Mrs "Cute Little Voice Idol"? you owned that stage. (to the rest of the fimmies) I mean you all did, but you (Back to Sakura) for all the times you talked to me about not wanting the spotlight and wanting to fade away you very clearly blossomed today." Daigo said. Sakura looked at him surprised. As he spoke. she waited for him to say something mean, but when she processed what he said she realized that every word was genuine and he was impressed and enamored with her.

"You liked it," Sakura asked worried.

"Like it? I loved it," Daigo said in a pitch that Sakura heard very rarely from him. "I got to see my bre... my best girl shows the world why she is a borne idol after years of being verbally abused and criticized. Sakura blushed at Daigo's response, his tone was reminiscent of their more private activities and began to arouse her mirroring what she did to him earlier in the night. she also chuckled at his almost slip-up. He was ready for her and she just needed to pull the trigger.

"Oh, I am so glad. You liked it. When you walked in and were silent I was worried you hated it and were mad at us," Yunjin said relieved

"I did, and I am mad. You guys have been holding out. It isn't y'all fault because you are bound by K-pop's rules but tonight was bullshit. Y'all did great and I know it's not going to be an every-performance thing," Daigo lamented. which caused Chaewon, Eunchae, and Kazuha to laugh

"Why don't you think so," Sakura said in a tone similar to their more intimate activities.

"Because the K-pop system demands conformity, and the show you put on tonight was not "K-pop" but to me, you all have never been a K-pop group," Daigo explains. Yunjin clapped for Daigo as someone finally saw Le Sserafim as she saw it. Le Sserafim was a Korean group but not a Korean Pop girl group. Daigo not understanding took it in stride, Sakura on the other hand felt her possessive Lioness rise inside her and grabbed Daigo violently to sit him back down. Jen noticed this and decided to finally press the issue.

"Kkura unnie. when are you finally going to wife Daigo up? He loves you more than anything," Daigo and Kura reeled at Yunjin's blunt statement while Porter, Aaron, and the rest of the Fimmies laughed in joy. Kura's eyes narrowed and dragged Daigo with her to her room.

"Wait Kkura," Daigo said before reaching into the cooler and picking out some sandwiches and Angma Soju he got for the of Age fimmies. Sakura smiled when he followed her. Sakura opened the door and when she secured her "prey" she closed the door and locked it. Daigo set the Alcohol down and chose to sit on the bed as he gazed at Kkura. She was trying to hide her hungered gazes towards him.

“You aren't actually mad at me right,” Sakura asked. Her eyes were soft and kind the fire of a few moments ago a distant memory.

Seeing Kura’s current affection softened Daigo’s impassioned heart. Feeling his bravery and passion dissipate from him Daigo turned timid once more. “I could never be mad at you. Just a little miffed because of how you let people talk to you that way,”

Sakura relented and then asked a question that had been plaguing her. “Why do you like me so much,”

Daigo saw the weariness in Sakura’s eyes. It pained him. So he told her the truth.

“Well, my crush started because we were similar in age and experience. You've had tremendous pressure on you since you were like what 12? I related to that. (not to the sheer scale but you get the idea) so anytime I'd hear you talk about the situations you found yourself in and just found myself endeared to you,” Daigo explained plainly and Kura gave him a sweet smile. Seeing her so happy Daigo replied with a question of his own.

“Can you explain the ninja comment?”

Sakura burst into laughter and knowing her friend she decided a display would explain. She did 6 hand signs then several duplicates of her appeared in front of a startled Daigo.

“Oh okay,” Daigo said as he processed what was going on.

“Wait you're not freaking out,” Sakura replied

“Well, this you being a ninja magic girl isn't the weirdest thing in my life. Plus if you comfortable revealing this to me. I need to be mature enough to see it,” Daigo explained casually. Sakura laughed at the calm and collected Daigo she knew.

“Now if you are going to tell me I have to fight in some ninja battle royal tournament thing to date you that would be something I'd freak out over but for different reasons,”

Sakura laughed until she noticed Daigo’s serious expression, “why,” she asked

Daigo sighed before he explained, “I am a pacifist.” Kkura smiled

“Oh I like it, but why,” she asked

“I have issues with self-control especially when it comes to anger, violence, and moderation. So I avoid it at every cost,” Sakura laughed and countered by saying,

“Yet you play violent video games?” Daigo laughed before replying realizing he had been caught

“Well, I still get angry and have hostility burn within me. so I need a space to put that so I don't snap and become a serial killer,” Sakura heard that and smiled before laughing harder.

“You are so dramatic,” she teased. Daigo smiled as usual Sakura knew the exact words and tone to put him at ease with her.

Kkura dismissed her multitude of clones as she sat next to Daigo. She put her hand on top of his and felt a proud feeling of ownership. She knew Daigo was hers and that gave her more confidence than she realized. In his support she found strength. She leaned into him and the two fell asleep exhausted.

The next day Daigo woke up to a Sakura chatting with a male voice. At first, he was on alert until he heard the Kkura was fine.

“Sakura you can't keep this fling with Daigo up,” the male voice said

“It's not a fling I truly like him and he feels the same,”

“But if what you've told me is true he's not ready to deal with your life as a star or as the heir of the Miyawaki clan. You don't want him getting hurt do you,”

“I’ll protect him,” Sakura said as a hint of possessiveness crept into her voice. Daigo was her stud and she'd be damned if she was going to lose him.

“Don't let your lust or your feelings cloud your judgment. He's not the one. He's just some guy you played games with,” the man’s voice says aggressively.

“Yeah and do you know what he did for me? He's always been encouraging and helpful to me. He has always supported me listened to all of my songs and believed in me even when I couldn't. I'm not getting that anywhere else so no I'm not leaving him,” Sakura asserted.

“And what makes him so special huh? He's a coward who needs you to prop him up. He's a leech. He's going to suck you dry because he's attracted to the glitz and the glam and when it's gone he will leave,” the young man said. Something about leaving Kura rubbed Daigo the wrong way.

Daigo listened and he felt a feeling he hadn't felt In a while. A cold rage possessed him as he tried to stay in control. It was a palpable emotion as Sakura and Tobi (the guy she was arguing with felt the room’s temperature drop 4 degrees.” Sakura shivered as did Tobi. Daigo meanwhile got up undeterred and Tobi saw Daigo for the first time and his eyes went wide. See Daigo wasn't typically menacing in his presence but at that time Tobi saw Daigo not as Kura’s goofy fling but as something else. It frightened him. So he performed the better part of valor and ran away from this confrontation. Sakura turned around and was happy to see Daigo. As he got closer to her she felt his warmth as the room went back to its normal temperature.

“Hey Stud how are you,” Sakura asked in her deep sexy tone. She smiled as she watched Daigo grow hard under her gaze and voice. “Oh someone's excited,” she said with a bigger smile. Daigo approaches her and closes the door. Sakura smiles and kisses him deeply. Daigo can feel Sakura’s desire and is almost ready to succumb to it but he needs to make sure everything is alright.

“Hey Kkura what was all that about,” he asks trying to maintain his composure. Sakura feeling more aroused with each passing moment can't wait as she pulls down her pants revealing her bare pussy.

“It's nothing stud, but I need your help,” she says as she guides Daigo down she nudges his face to her core and whimpers when she feels his breath against her skin. Daigo gives in to her and dives into her pussy. Sakura moans lewdly as Daigo takes his first long and slow lick. The next lick is more intentional a long figure 8 around Kkura’s clit. Daigo has never done this before, so the actions send a jolt through her body. Kura looks down to see an extremely pussy drunk Daigo. She moans as Daigo breathes in her arousal and his mind goes blank. His only thoughts are of pleasing and breeding his preferred mate. He does another lick around her clit before going lower to Kkura’s leaking pussy. He laps up her juice and savors her taste. It's sweet like cake frosting almost. Sakura shudders at Daigo’s ministrations. Sakura smiles watching her stud lose himself. As he dives deeper into her sex she mewls at his enthusiasm until it becomes too much for her and she explodes all over Daigo’s face. Sakura’s high is abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door. She whines as she tries to sober her pussy drunk stud.

“We have time,” Daigo insists, and as much as Sakura wants to let him continue. She needs him to stop.

“No stud it's probably the girls and you know I still have responsibilities, we all can't take a week off,” Sakura chided

“Well excuse me for wanting to give you my undivided attention,” Daigo teased Sakura laughed Before having him go start a shower,

“Oh am I your servant now,” Daigo replied.

“No, but I figured you'd a little bit more time with me,” Sakura pouted as she replied. Daigo smile.

“You should have led with that,” he said and Sakura laughed Before brushing him off.

Sakura gets ready and opens the doors it's the rest of the Fimmies.

“We have 15 minutes until we need to go do schedules,” Chaewon said.

“Okay,” Sakura replied trying to hold in her frustration.

“Hey, where's Daigo oppa?” Eunchae asks

“He is getting the shower ready for me before we go,” Sakura replied. Jen having her a knowing look which Sakura glared at. The girls left her alone after that. Sakura groaned. She wanted to do nothing but quilt play games and fuck her stud’s brain out an make him a dumb little fucktoy for her today, but alas she had responsibilities. She walks into the shower and strips to an excited Daigo.

“Sorry stud we have to be quick so let's get clean and you gotta go okay?” Daigo was bummed but understood.

So the duo shared a quick and chaste shower before leaving. Daigo gave Sakura an innocent peck on the cheek before saying, “don't go kissing everybody,” he teased. Sakura smiled and said

“I won't babe.” she kissed him back and said “tonight I am going to drain those balls.” Daigo laughed as he opened the door for her.

When they got to the lobby the other fimmies, Aaron and Porter were waiting for them. The boys bid them farewell and watched as they left. Daigo excused himself to go to the bathroom.

As he was finishing up a young man approached him. He eyed the young man suspiciously (he was suspicious of everyone) as he was making a move to leave 4 other similarly dressed men surrounded him. Daigo got in a fighting ready stance before he felt a hard presence on his neck before everything went black.

“Target secured,” the young man said

#kpop fanfic #fanfic #miyawaki sakura #lesserafim smut #sakura smut #izone sakura

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pucksandpower · 8 months

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Eurovisionaries

Charles Leclerc x Monegasque singer!Reader

Summary: the “Charles Leclerc competes in Eurovision” fic no one asked for but I wrote anyway

Warnings: none that I can think of

“Why is Charles Leclerc trending in the music section?” You wonder aloud, eyes narrowing as you see the pop-up notification on your Twitter.

Opening the app, you’re met with a tweet from an official Eurovision updates account: “🇲🇨 #Monaco: Eligible to Compete in the #Eurovision Song Contest 2024.” Below it, Charles Leclerc, Monaco’s pride and F1 sensation extraordinaire, has replied to the tweet with a sly “I’m ready 🎤.”

You can’t help but laugh. The thought of Charles taking the Eurovision stage is hilarious. You respond to the tweet, “Ever considered a duet? Though I would advise keeping your day job for now 🏎️😉.” Notifications instantly start pouring in, a flurry of likes and retweets.

Your phone buzzes, a call from your manager, Rosa. “Did you see the Leclerc tweet?” She starts without preamble.

“Of course. The entire principality probably has by now,” you chuckle, imagining the reactions of Monegasque citizens.

Silence. A beat too long.

“What?” You probe, sensing her hesitance.

Rosa exhales deeply, “The Monegasque Eurovision committee called me.”

You sit up, “About the tweet?”

“More than that. They’re seriously considering him.”

“For Eurovision?” You're incredulous, “He’s a racer, not a singer.”

She hesitates, “That’s where you come in.”

A long pause ensues. The weight of her words settles around you. Rosa is never one for jokes, especially when it comes to your career.

“They want you to team up with him,” she continues, breaking the silence, “He can compose and play but they need a voice. Your voice.”

The gravity of the situation dawns on you. Representing Monaco in Eurovision is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity but with Charles? Someone you’ve only admired from afar on the circuit?

“What if it doesn’t work out?” You voice your concerns. “Our styles, our personalities ... they could clash.”

“It’s a risk, yes. But it’s also an opportunity. Both for your career and for Monaco,” Rosa reasons.

You look out of the window, the streets of Monaco stretching below. The pride of representing your nation battles with the uncertainty of this potentially bizarre partnership.

“I need some time, Rosa,” you whisper.

She understands. “Take all the time you need. But remember, some of the best things in life come from taking the most unexpected turns.”

As you hang up, Charles’ tweet flashes on your screen again, the confident smile in his profile picture making you wonder if this journey is one you should embark on.

***

“Are you sitting down?” Rosa’s voice is tense, filled with an urgency you rarely hear from her.

You shuffle around in your apartment, finding a chair by the window. “I am now. What’s up?”

She takes a deep breath, her exhale echoing over the line. “The committee’s made their decision. They want Charles Leclerc for Eurovision.”

You almost drop your phone. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” she replies, her tone betraying her surprise as much as yours. “And they want you to partner with him.”

The world seems to blur around you. Images of the grand Eurovision stage, the cheering crowds, and a sea of flags swirl through your mind, and the idea of standing there, alongside someone like Charles, is surreal.

“This is ...” you trail off, searching for words.

“Insane? Unprecedented? A media goldmine?” Rosa supplies, ever the pragmatist.

“All of the above.” The weight of the offer hangs between you, punctuated by the distant sounds of Monaco outside your window.

“What did you tell them?” You ask, after a moment of heavy silence.

“I told them we’d think about it,” Rosa says. “But darling, this is huge. For your career, for Charles, for Monaco!”

You sigh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I’ve never even met him. What if we don’t click? What if we can’t perform together? What if—”

“What if you soar?” Rosa interrupts gently. “What if this is the push both of you need?”

You consider her words, the promise they hold. But the fear remains. “What if I fall?”

Rosa’s voice softens. “Then you get back up, just as you always have. But you won’t be doing it alone. You’ll have all of Monaco behind you.”

The conversation weighs on you long after you’ve hung up. Charles Leclerc, Monaco’s golden boy, and you? It feels like a dream, one you’re not sure you want to wake up from.

That night, as Monaco’s lights twinkle beneath your apartment, a notification lights up your phone. An email with an official Monegasque Eurovision committee letterhead:

We are pleased to extend to you an official invitation to represent Monaco at the Eurovision Song Contest 2024 in an act alongside Charles Leclerc. Details to follow.

The reality sets in. And it terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.

***

“Are you the singer?” The voice unmistakably belongs to Charles, though softer than the confident tone you’ve heard in his interviews.

You turn, your heart doing a tiny flip. He’s leaning against a grand piano in the center of the room, looking more perfect in casual jeans and a t-shirt than he has any right to. You have to remind yourself to breathe for a moment.

“Are you the racer?” You shoot back, attempting to mask your nervousness with humor.

He laughs, “Touche.”

Both of you approach the piano, the room filled with an almost tangible tension. He extends a hand. “Charles.”

You shake it, feeling the calloused fingertips, likely from handling the wheel so often. “I know. And you probably don’t know me, but ... it’s Y/N.”

“I’ve heard your songs on YouTube,” he admits, releasing your hand. “You have an incredible voice.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, surprised and flattered. “You … drive really fast?”

He laughs again, easing some of the tension. “I try.”

The two of you start the rehearsal, with Charles taking the lead on the piano. The notes are hauntingly beautiful, full of emotion. You find yourself getting lost in the music, your voice blending seamlessly with the tune.

But suddenly, Charles stops playing. “Sorry,” he says, a hint of frustration in his voice. “I’m not used to this. Playing in front of someone.”

You blink, taken aback. “You’re not used to performing?”

“Not like this. Racing, I get. This is … different,” he confesses, running a hand through his hair.

You nod, understanding his fear. “Let’s take it slow. We have time.”

He looks up, his eyes searching yours. “Do we? Eurovision is just around the corner and I will be away a lot of the time for races.”

You take a deep breath. “Every journey starts with a single step. Let’s just focus on today.”

You play and sing for hours, taking breaks when needed. The connection, while still tentative, starts to form. By the end of the session, a shaky version of your Eurovision song emerges.

“I think … I think we could actually pull this off,” Charles admits as you pack up.

“With a lot more practice,” you reply, smiling.

He grins, the confidence you expected from him back in full form. “Challenge accepted.”

Walking out of the studio, you can’t help but feel a tiny flutter of excitement. This partnership, as unlikely as it seemed, might just work.

***

“I’ve never been to this bistro,” Charles admits, looking around the quaint little place you’ve chosen.

“It’s a hidden gem. My little escape in Monaco,” you reply, sipping your tea. “Sometimes the noise of the city gets too much.”

He nods, fidgeting slightly. “I get that. For me, it’s the track. I love racing but our world can become ... suffocating sometimes.”

The vulnerability in his words surprises you. You’d always seen Charles as a fearless driver, not a man who needed an escape.

“You know,” you start, “I always thought you loved the thrill, the fame.”

He chuckles, but there’s a shadow in his eyes. “I love racing. The fame, not so much. I love the fans. I love Ferrari. But it’s overwhelming at times. Especially when the car is underperforming.”

You feel a connection in that moment, the shared weight of expectations. “Music is my escape. But sometimes, the pressure to always be on, to always perform ... it’s draining.”

He looks at you, a new understanding dawning in his eyes. “I never thought about it that way. We’re really quite similar, aren’t we?”

The conversation flows naturally after that, moving from work to personal interests. You discover shared hobbies, like a love for old movies, and differing opinions, like his disdain for pineapple on pizza which you adore.

“Pineapple on pizza is a crime,” he declares, feigning outrage.

“You have no taste!” You retort, laughing.

The afternoon slips away, the two of you lost in conversation. It feels like two old friends catching up, not two professionals thrown together by fate.

As you leave the bistro, Charles hesitates. “Would you like to come to a race sometime? See the action up close?”

You smile, touched by the offer. “Only if you come to one of my performances.”

He grins, “Deal.”

In the days that follow, your rehearsals gain a new depth. The newfound friendship seeps into your music, turning the notes and lyrics into pure emotion. The song evolves, reflecting the story of two individuals finding harmony in the most unexpected place.

Rosa notices the change too. “There’s a spark,” she comments one day, after a particularly moving session. “Both in the music and between you two.”

You blush, dismissing her with a wave. “It’s just the music.”

But as the days blur into nights and rehearsals become more intense, you can’t help but wonder if there’s truth in Rosa’s words.

***

“Is it always this chaotic?” Charles whispers, leaning close so only you can hear as you both step backstage of a popular talk show. Bright lights, cameras, and a bustling crew create a vibrant atmosphere of controlled chaos.

“Welcome to my world,” you reply with a smirk, feeling the familiar adrenaline of a live performance. “A bit different from the paddock, isn’t it?”

His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Just a tad.”

A producer approaches, positioning you and Charles for the interview. As you settle onto the couch, Charles’ arm grazes yours, sending an unexpected jolt of warmth up your arm.

The host, a vivacious woman named Martina, begins, “We have Monaco’s sensational Eurovision duo with us today! Charles Leclerc and Y/N Y/L/N. Tell us, how has this partnership been?”

Charles shoots you a glance. “Unexpected at first, certainly. But every moment has been an adventure. We’ve learned from each other and it is reflected in our music.”

You nod, adding, “It’s been a blend of two worlds. And the result is something neither of us anticipated but we have come to love.”

Martina’s gaze flits between both of you, sensing the underlying tension. “There’s undeniable chemistry between you two. It’s clear to me even now. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Your heart races and you see Charles shift uncomfortably. The question, though posed in jest, holds an element of truth that neither of you has addressed.

“We’re focused on our music and representing Monaco to the best of our abilities,” Charles replies smoothly but the tips of his ears redden.

Martina, sensing a scoop, presses on, “But off the stage? Any sparks?”

You force a laugh, trying to diffuse the situation. “We’re just getting to know each other. Our priority is Eurovision.”

Once off the set, Charles runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you’ve come to recognize as his way of dealing with stress. “That was intense.”

“It’s just the beginning. The closer we get to Eurovision, the more questions like that we’ll get.”

He stops, turning to face you, his eyes intense. “What if there is some truth to their questions?”

The air grows thick, the world narrowing to just the two of you. “Charles ...”

He takes a step closer, his voice dropping. “I can’t ignore it anymore. Every time we’re together, there is this pull.”

Your breath catches, the confession echoing your own feelings. “I feel it too. But right now, everything is so complicated.”

He nods, looking defeated. “I know. Let’s just ... focus on the music for now.”

***

“Are these feathers?” Charles asks, a touch of panic evident as he examines the ornate costume handed to him.

“Welcome to Eurovision,” you say with a wry smile, adjusting the shimmering fabric of your own dress which seems to be a riot of sequins and colors, reflecting the vibrant spirit of the competition.

He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “This is a bit different from my usual race suit.”

You laugh, playfully nudging him. “Just wait till you see the pyrotechnics.”

The two of you stand backstage as acts from different countries, each more extravagant than the last, parade before you. The dazzling array of costumes, the eccentric set designs, and the sheer scale of the event are overwhelming.

Charles, sensing your nervousness, takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve got this.”

You nod, leaning into his touch. The tension between the two of you has only grown, making moments like these all the more intense.

Suddenly, a voice announces, “Next up, representing Monaco, please welcome Charles Leclerc and Y/N Y/L/N!”

Your heart rate spikes. Charles leads you to the stage, the grand piano at its center surrounded by a sea of lights creating an ethereal atmosphere.

He starts playing, the haunting melody echoing in the cavernous venue. As you join in with your vocals, the world seems to fade away. It’s just the two of you, lost in the music.

The song builds to its climax. You move closer to Charles, the emotional depth of the lyrics pulling you in. The final note lingers and you find yourself drawn to him, your faces mere inches apart.

The audience, sensing the electricity between the two of you, erupts in a frenzy of cheers, pulling you back to reality. You share a charged glance with Charles, the applause deafening.

The performance, though only a few minutes, feels like a lifetime. As you walk off stage, Charles wraps an arm around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. “We did it.”

You bury your face in his chest, the heady mix of adrenaline and emotions making everything feel surreal. “We really did.”

***

“And the winner of the Eurovision Song Contest 2024 is ...” The host’s voice draws out, adding to the tension in the room, “Monaco!”

The words hit you like a tidal wave. The arena explodes in applause and cheers, bright lights flashing everywhere. Confetti starts to fall and the air is pure magic.

Charles, equally stunned, turns to you, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Is this real?” He breathes, pulling you into a tight embrace.

Overwhelmed, you cling to him, the weight of your accomplishment settling in. You won Eurovision.

Breaking the hug, Charles lifts you in sheer joy, spinning you around, the world blurring past. Both of you are laughing, tears of joy mingling with the glitter on your face.

As the celebrations continue, you spot the Italian competitors cheering raucously. Somehow, they’ve managed to pull out a Ferrari flag, waving it as proudly as if they had won.

Charles notices too, laughing. “They really do love their racing.”

You smirk, nudging him playfully. “Or maybe they just love their racer.”

The moment is interrupted as you’re whisked away for the winner’s interview and your encore. But the mania doesn’t stop the two of you from sharing stolen glances and smiles.

Later that night, as the euphoria begins to die down, Charles finds you on a balcony overlooking the city. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” He murmurs, joining you by the railing.

You nod, taking a deep breath. “Winning was the dream. I didn’t think about what would come after.”

He chuckles, “You and me both.”

The night stretches before you, the city lights twinkling like stars. You lean into Charles, drawing comfort from his presence. “What now?”

He takes a moment to think. “Now, we take on the world together.”

***

“I wrote something last night,” Charles says hesitantly. The two of you sit in his apartment, the aftermath of your Eurovision win still a fresh memory.

You tilt your head, intrigued. “For the piano?”

He nods. “But it’s more personal than anything else I’ve composed. I was thinking ... maybe you could add lyrics to it?”

Curious, you watch as he moves to the piano he has against the wall, his fingers delicately dancing on the keys. The melody is raw, filled with emotion. It speaks of longing, of new beginnings, of unspoken feelings.

It’s beautiful.

“That’s incredible,” you breathe once he finishes.

He looks up, vulnerability evident in his eyes. “It's how I feel. About all of this. About you.”

The confession hangs in the air, a delicate thread connecting the two of you.

“I’ve been feeling the same,” you admit, your heart racing. “I wrote some lyrics too. But I didn’t have the melody for them. Maybe ...”

You share the words you penned down, the emotions you felt towards Charles clear as day. Together, the two of you create a song, a musical odyssey of the path you’ve walked together and the deepening connection between you.

Hours pass, the world outside forgotten. The song takes shape, evolving with every note and word.

Charles breaks the silence, his voice soft, “This is special.”

You nod, feeling the weight of the moment. “It is.”

He moves closer, the space between you disappearing. “Every moment with you is.”

Your heart flutters, the intensity of his gaze making you breathless. “Charles ...”

But he silences you with a gentle touch, his fingers brushing your cheek. The world seems to stand still as he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

It’s a new beginning, a promise of what’s to come.

***

“I’m so nervous,” you confess, wringing your hands. The roar of the crowd outside, waiting for the Monaco Grand Prix to begin, is deafening.

Charles pulls you into a comforting hug. “It’s just singing the national anthem. You’ve performed on much bigger stages.”

“But not in front of the entire racing community and Monegasque royalty,” you counter. The idea of serenading the beginning of Monaco’s most prestigious race, especially with Charles being one of the contenders, fills you with anxiety.

He smirks. “You’re worrying about a three-minute song when I have to race for nearly two hours?”

You punch his arm playfully, “Oh, hush. You love it too much to complain.”

His expression turns serious and he takes your hands in his. “It’s just like any other performance but this time, for our people. Focus on that.”

His words sink in. You’re not just singing for the crowd. You’re singing for Monaco. For Charles.

As you step out, the sun glints off the polished cars lined up for the race. The noise is deafening but one look at Charles, his eyes filled with pride, grounds you.

Drawing a deep breath, you begin. Your voice, clear and strong, rises above the commotion, capturing the spirit of Monaco. The crowd falls silent, lost in the beauty of the moment.

When you finish, the applause is thunderous. Charles rushes over, lifting you off the ground in a bear hug. “That was incredible,” he whispers in your ear.

You laugh, the tension from before dissipating. “Now go win the race.”

He winks. “Only if you promise to sing for me every time.”

***

“Do you ever think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t tweeted that day?” Charles muses, lying next to you on a grassy hill overlooking the city. The stars twinkle above, the night air filled with the scent of blooming flowers.

You chuckle softly, turning to face him. “I would probably be preparing for another solo concert but not much would change for you. You’d still be busy reveling in your racing glory.”

He grins, playfully nudging you. “So you admit I brought excitement to your life?”

You roll your eyes. “Excitement, chaos, media frenzy ... take your pick.”

Silence settles between you two, comfortable yet filled with words unspoken. The city lights below seem distant, the world reduced to just this moment.

Charles breaks the silence. “I can’t imagine my life without you now.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart. “Neither can I. It’s been a wild ride.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer. “A ride I would relive in a heartbeat.”

“Charles,” you begin, gathering your thoughts, “we’ve been through so much together and I cherish every moment. But we also need to think about our future. The media attention, the expectations ... it’s a lot.”

He nods, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I know. But we'll face it together. Like we have from the start.”

The promise in his voice fills you with warmth. “Together,” you echo, sealing the commitment.

***

“You’re not serious,” Silvia’s voice cuts through the room. “It’s the biggest sponsorship event of the season. For Ferrari! You can’t miss it.”

Charles looks torn, running a hand through his hair. “It’s Y/N’s first major solo concert. She’s been there for me, every step of the way. I need to be there for her.”

You feel a pang of guilt. “Charles, I understand the importance. If you can’t make it—”

He interrupts, looking you straight in the eyes. “This isn’t just about the concert. It’s about us. About our priorities.”

The room is thick with tension. On your side, Rosa, always the mediator, attempts to defuse the situation. “There must be a way to do both.”

Charles shakes his head resolutely. “I’ve made up my mind.”

Silvia looks at him, her eyes pleading. “You know the implications of this, right?”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I do. However mad the sponsor may be will be worth it.”

Later, the two of you find a quiet corner.

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper.

He pulls you close, his touch reassuring. “But I wanted to. More than anything.”

You look up, eyes glassy. “Why?”

“Because,” he starts, searching for the right words, “these races, these events ... they will always be there. But moments like your concert, they are once in a lifetime. And I don’t want to miss a single second of our journey together.”

The emotion of his words takes your breath away. “Charles ...”

He places a finger on your lips, silencing you. “I love you.”

The words hang in the air. Voice choked with emotion, you reply. “I love you too.”

***

“Do you ever think how surreal all of this is?” Charles murmurs, both of you backstage at the 2025 Eurovision finals, invited back as guest performers. The arena pulsates with excitement, the memories of your victorious performance still fresh in many minds.

You laugh, adjusting your dress. “Every single day. Especially today, coming full circle.”

He takes your hand, the spark between you as electric as ever. “It feels like just yesterday we were thrown into this wild ride.”

A stagehand signals that it’s almost time. The two of you take your positions, the familiar chords of your winning song filling the air. The audience roars in approval, their cheers echoing the joy of that fateful night.

As the final note lingers, you turn to Charles, preparing for the bows. But he isn’t sitting behind the piano. Instead, he’s down on one knee, a small velvet box in hand.

The realization hits you like a tidal wave, your hand flying to your mouth in shock.

Charles speaks loud enough for the world to hear, “From the moment we met, I knew my life had changed forever. I can’t imagine a day without you by my side. Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”

Tears stream down your face, every emotion amplified. “Yes. I want that more than anything,” you manage to whisper.

He slips the ring onto your finger and the world fades away as his lips find yours. You see the Italian delegation cheering wildly out of the corner of your eye and can’t help but laugh. The hosts may have changed. The competitors may have changed. But the love of Italians for il Predestinato will always live on. They’ll have to get in line, though. You just officially claimed the title of his biggest fan.

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charlottelie · 2 months

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oh, lucifer?

chapter i. (or, selkie sees a snake) ✧･ﾟ

tags: reader uses she/her pronouns, fem!reader, reader is a trapeze artist, sinner!reader, reader works at lu lu world, no use of y/n, ducks galore

You hadn’t meant to. Your guiding philosophy in life and afterlife had always been ‘Ask for forgiveness, not permission’, and it seemed so sound a maxim that you were usually slightly bemused when you found yourself in the unfortunate position of actually having to ask for forgiveness. Upon your arrival in Hell you had thought, Well, I certainly didn’t mean to end up here. Upon your arrival in Lu Lu World you had thought, Well, I wouldn’t say I exactly intended to join a Hadean circus. You hadn’t meant for either of these moral catastrophes to come about—that is, your sending yourself to the Other Place and your working at a fairground—but, despite all your good intentions, here you were. Rotten luck.

You also hadn’t meant to be late for your act again, but here you were, late as always. You dusted your hands with chalk, briskly clapping them more out of habit than anything else as you examined your makeup in a misty mirror someone had propped up outside the dressing rooms. A poster on the wall, framed by peeling paint, announced your act in proud block capitals: Selkie, the Flying Seal! They had put you right before the interval. Did that make you the star performer? Third-best, at any rate: best were the acrobats, Belladonna and the Bedbugs, the grand finale, and second-best was Sunny’s balancing act, which opened the show. You could hear someone approaching, and fast. Your boss, no doubt, come to gently encourage you to get the fuck onto the stage.

You looked at him mildly: Didier, who insisted it was pronounced ‘Didi-AIR’, tall, half-imposing, mostly composed, rarely generous, currently furious beyond belief.

“Selkie! Where the fuck have you been? You’re on in thirty seconds! Ten, nine, eight—”

You liked to think of him as sort of a lost soul, someone you’d taken under your wing, although, of course, he had been the one to take pity on you and hire you in the first place, and, of course, it was your soul that was on the line. “I’m sorry, Didi-yur,” you said quietly, and he scoffed. As you watched him thoughtfully, compassionately, he grabbed you by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-led you onto the platform—surely a textbook case of abuse in the workplace, if you weren’t in Hell—and you gave him a final glance of serene benevolence before, at his command, you whipped around, stepped into the blazing golden lights of the great circus tent, waved to the crowd, flashed a smile, and leapt from the platform into the open space before you.

The breathless silence. The hot dusty air. The rush in your stomach like an oncoming wave before you lightly caught the bar another performer had flung towards you, adjusted your grip, and neatly somersaulted to another swing. Here a half-turn, here a straddle whip, and here, at the very peak of the motion of the trapeze, you let go, and hung impossibly in the air for a second before you plummeted, as you were wont to do, and were caught by another trapeze artist. Of course the dizzying leaps and the melodramatic plunges were part of the act. You knew the movements, the swings and the sways and the somersaults; you were, admittedly, at home here. The onlookers roared in delight; your heart, admittedly, soared. But as you spun, leant back, shifted your weight, glanced at the audience, you noticed, about three rows from the front, an unprecedented, unsolicited, indeed undesirable arrival: the strangest demon you had ever met. Or, at least, the strangest demon in the past three days.

The fine kettle of fish was this. Belladonna, Sunny, Pell-Mell, the clowns, the knife-throwers, the knife-throwees, even the Bedbugs, bless their hearts, had all signed their souls over to Didier. He had expected the same of you when you had been given the job. But you, unused to asking, used to getting, were not prepared to quite merrily hand over the one thing that had guaranteed your continued existence to a man in a slim red tie. And so you had taken on a different sort of contract—which could have been hot, but, regrettably, Didier was not inclined to make such exchanges. You were simply paid far less than what you needed. That was all. The prosaic truth. He had you under contract, but nothing so poetic as a soul-binding one. You simply sewed your own costumes, went without breakfast. You scrounged around for whatever you could whenever you could. You had taken up residence in a formerly-disused caravan with the structural integrity of a multivitamin capsule.

You had found there was little glory in starving, little romance. It was the banality of it that struck you, when you sighed weakly after your taps wouldn’t turn on, or Didi cut off your electricity, or you found you would have to choose between food and heating. It was the endless rolling of the cold and empty days that you suspected would grind you down in the end. But of course they were punctuated by your dazzling nights, your whirling wheeling flights through the grandly lit top tent that drew so many to Lu Lu World. And of course you were resourceful.

In your life you had always been willing to bend the rules. In your death you were no different. You had the right kind of mind for business, and your business was, up there and down here, remarkably effective. Any con, put-on, cutup, cantrip, flimflam, ramp or scam anyone could think of, you’d done it. You once stole a woman’s shoes and sold them to her husband’s mistress for twice the retail price. Double-joke was on her, because purple was not her color. Only yesterday you had sold a sweet-looking sinner an ‘astral lightning rod’ meant to attract ‘negative interdimensional frequencies’ and channel them into their neighbors’ houses. The lightning rod in question was a refashioned rake you had found in the bins outside the gift shop. To put it plainly, as it were, if it had to be said, you were a, quote-unquote, ‘scammer’, though you and yours would never call it that. You hadn’t meant to end up in this trade, after all. You would like to think you had an entrepreneurial mindset.

This entrepreneurial mindset had landed you in a stall (without a permit, obviously) in the Lu Lu World food court, having donned a wig and taken on the persona of a charming Texan aunt. Here you sold separately heart-shaped chocolates you had bought in bulk, meticulously unwrapped, and meticulously re-wrapped in shiny pink paper, to whichever passing demons or sinners appeared lonely or gullible or both. You told them all these chocolates, if consumed, would make anyone fall in love with them. To a pale imp in a band T-shirt you had sold three for five times what you’d paid for a box of eight; to a fishlike sinner whose disinterested girlfriend had abandoned him for the fairyfloss stall you sold five at, you told him, fifty percent off (which was three times the usual price). They had told their friends; their friends had flocked to your stall; soon afterwards, your original buyers had come back for more. But now there was a lull in business, as there usually was at this time of the afternoon. So when you noticed a duck demon – literally, a demon the size and shape of a duck, albeit a cartoonishly cute one – with an odd gait and a faraway look in his eyes, you were thrilled to have once again hit the jackpot.

You called him over excitedly. “Hey there, friend, what’s got you looking so glum?” That caught his attention. Hook. “You know, I see all sorts of people come through here. But ain’t none of them got such a positively chap-fallen look on their faces—not to insult you, gorgeous.” He was watching you with wary curiosity. Line. “Come on. Don’t you wanna tell old Mrs. Appleby all about it?” Sinker.

“You’re not married,” he said. Sinker? That was strange.

“What?”

“You’re not married. You’re not wearing a wedding ring.” Was he one of those? A flirt? Read: creep? Those were often easier to sell to.

You pointed at your sign. Mrs. Appleby’s Apple-licious Treats. “Mrs. Appleby. That all that ambiguous?” you said, which won you a small smile from this bizarrely fluffy, bizarrely yellow duck. He flew surprisingly gracefully (you, the Flying Seal, knew what made a graceful flight) towards your stall, perching on the countertop just in front of your merchandise. And as he did so, you felt a dull crackle of power in the air, but, habitually incautious, you ignored it. Perhaps an Overlord-adjacent was taking a piss behind the neighboring food truck. Something like that.

“It’s just heart-shaped candy,” he said. Usually demons looked like they’d just crawled out of a monsoon drain. Not this duck. He looked like a dapper gift-shop-plushie, the kind that comes with a sweet tag with their inevitably adorable name, written beneath it, Please look after this [relevant animal]!

“Just heart-shaped candy? Why, this is the best heart-shaped candy you’ve ever had the good fortune to feast your eyes upon! ‘Why is that, Mrs. Appleby?’ Why, I’ll tell ya!” He seemed to be enjoying himself, not least because he hadn’t left. “This chocolate is magic!” That earned you another smile.

“Really? Is that so?”

“Sure is. Straight from my distant uncle Asmodeus. Just eat one, wait three hours, and you’ll be feeling sprightly as a spring lamb. Two’ll have all the hens—or the men, don’t look so dejected, whatever you prefer—running after you like you’re catnip and they’re a litter of kittens.”

“Hold on now. You’re trying to sell me chocolate…chocolate-ified love potions? Love potion-ified chocolate? Love-ified—”

You waved a hand at him in pleasant dismissal. “Now, don’t you overthink it, honey. I just saw you needed a helping hand and Auntie Appleby thought she’d take a”—you surprised even yourself with this one—“quack at it.” For a glorious moment he struggled between delight and disappointment. Then he laughed, genuinely, and smiled at you with something like satisfaction.

“Two’ll make me catnip. What’ll three do?”

You paused, then shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, I ate three, and look at me now.”

And after that it really had been sinker, and you’d sold him a box of ten and wrapped it up in pink parchment and given it to him in a pretty heart-shaped bag with added glitter. You wondered if he’d realized he was being fleeced. There was an air of irony about the way he treated you, but you were pleased to play along. A sale was a sale.

Naturally, though, you tried not to encounter people you’d sold something to after you’d sold it to them. You’d been a little careless today, telling them to wait only three hours. You’d thought that’d be enough to get them out of the grounds, but this duck was persistent. As usual, you hadn’t meant for this to happen. He still had his heart-shaped bag. He was sitting smugly in a seat far too large for him. Did he recognise you? Could he recognise you? The Flying Seal was a far cry from homely Mrs. Appleby. It could have been a coincidence. Perhaps he just liked the circus. It wasn’t strictly unusual to re-encounter your customers. But he was watching you intently, you realized, before you had to maneuver yourself into the arms of your closest friend in the circus, your counterpart, Pell-Mell, the Soaring Fiddler. And then, still incautious, you let the strange duck slip from your mind, and flung yourself from the catchbar again.

Lucifer had decided to visit Lu Lu World less out of curiosity and more out of boredom and a vague sense of duty. It was, after all, his theme park. He’d been reckless, coming as a duck, but who’d guess this out-of-place, out-of-sorts waterfowl was the Lightbringer himself? Besides, he’d wanted to watch the circus. He hadn’t quite known what to expect. Perhaps he’d expected to be disappointed.

But now he watched you in what seemed your most natural state. Flying, entertaining. Even without the wig and the bizarre Texan accent he recognised you (he, of all people, knew what made a good trick, a good show). He saw how you fed on the crowd’s cheers like they kept you alive. It was miraculously complex and miraculously simple. You were happy they were happy. He watched you as you rose and dove through the air as your namesake might through water—easily, happily, unembarrassed—and the lights, your smile, the spectacle, recalled to him, dimly, as if seen through rain, something he had felt a long time ago.

You landed delicately on the platform opposite the one you had arrived from. “Selkie, the Flying Seal!” the ringmaster declared triumphantly. You winked mischievously at the audience. Did you realize they were thrilled with you? Could you realize it? Did the whole performance require a level of obliviousness? You caught the outstretched hand of your fellow performer, a small, slender girl sporting a glossy bob, and lifted her onto the platform. The two of you gave a final bow, and you, beaming, looked not down at the audience but up at the distant lights.

Lucifer decided half-consciously that he ought to come back.

#hazbin hotel #lucifer x reader #lucifer x you #hazbin x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin imagine #hazbin x you #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer #lucifer morningstar

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fionapplesauce · 4 months

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In Serve to Whom (2023)

Collaging sonic meditations with performance-specific scenography and digital-visual archive projections, “In Service to Whom” integrates Solange’s spirit in music, design, visual art, and cultural archive and preservation into one four-act performance.

This piece features Solange alongside a 10-piece ensemble and centers orchestral works composed by the artist between 2018 and 2023 (“Villanelle For Times,” “God Rest Your,” “Bridge-s,” and “In Past Pupils and Smiles”), alongside her contemporary music. These compositions were inspired by repetition, gospel vocal arrangements, minimalism, and the Black southern marching band music of football games frequented by the artist in her hometown of Houston, Texas. The performance also debuts the world premiere of two original works: a duo tuba piece titled “Not Necessarily In Arms Reach” for two tubas, and a solo cello and double bass number titled “If the Promise is Large”.

In each act, everyday mundane gestures demonstrate the personal expansiveness of the artist’s sustained creative process, culminating in a rare view into the immersive world of grounding practices that continue to evolve Solange’s artistic fingerprint. As she contemplates the evolution and maturation of her artistry, “In Service To Whom” was created and developed around the posture of rest, and speaks to the artist’s reemergence into the world of everyday life following periods of personal incubation and self-revitalization at home.

#solange #solange knowles

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gasparodasalo · 2 months

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Christoph Nichelmann (1717-62) - Concerto for Piano and Strings in c-minor, I. Allegro. Performed by Raphael Alpermann, fortepiano, and Akademie für Alte Musik Berlin on period instruments.

#christoph nichelmann #classicism #classical music #piano #orchestra #period performance #period instruments #rarely performed composers #fortepiano #pianoforte #piano concerto #concerto #strings #string orchestra #pianist #period piano #keyboard

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professional-yapper · 3 months

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Proximity

Neteyam x Olangi! Reader

Warnings: angst, arranged marriage, reader's sheltered asf and is low-key very awkward and blunt as a result, reader's direhorse dies, Neteyam gets insulted within five seconds of meeting them, slowburn I think, neteyam getting misnamed repeatedly

(nobody ask me about the accuracy of anything)

Neteyam was to be mated to you, the child of the olo’eyktan of the Olangi clan—the nomadic clan of the plains, direhorse riders.

To put it simply, he was nervous. His hands were gripping the edge of his loincloth so tightly he worried vaguely that it might tear. His mother kept sending him worried looks, and his father—Toruk Makto—had his hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, keeping him walking towards the Olangi camp like Neteyam would try to run away.

Since the Olangi were a nomadic people, his father had to plan everything out perfectly so that they would not come when the Olangi had already moved on. It had caused his father a lot of stress, Neteyam knew, but as they approached the camp, his father’s tight grip relaxed.

They'd taken their ikrans most of the way, but his father had made them the last little bit, saying the last time he'd sought out the Olangi his winged mount had startled their direhorses quite a bit, and he didn't intend to repeat the accident.

The camp was made up of simple cloth tents- animal skins, maybe, stretched over wooden poles whittled down to gleaming off-white.

The area was alive with children of all ages running around outside and playing, little squeals and shrieks snatched away by the warm evening breeze.

Cooking fires dotted the ground like red stars, adults and older children tending bubbling pots, haunches of meat skewered and turning slowly.

And, of course, direhorses tied up to the tents themselves, cropping grass peacefully, whickering to one another every so often.

It was nice. Calm. The grass, golden with summer dryness, rasped against Neteyam's calves as he walked. The air was heady with the smell of herbs and animals- not entirely unpleasant, he noted.

As they reached the outskirts of the camp, a small group approached them, the olo’eyktan at the head. He was tall, taller than Neteyam's father, with a bone piercing through his nose. The rest of the group was composed of a shorter woman with long, dangling bone earrings who Neteyam guessed was the tsahik; three near-identical young men, probably your brothers, all the same height as the olo’eyktan and therefore they towered over Neteyam, even from a distance; and a young person painted in rich, earthy colours, decorated with bone jewelry. The olo’eyktan’s youngest. You.

Neteyam’s future mate.

His father and the olo’eyktan both performed the usual greeting, and Neteyam was prodded forward to do the same. Tuk, Kiri, Lo’ak and their mother remain behind Neteyam and their father, but he can feel their support wholeheartedly, warm and constant.

At least, the support of Tuk and his mother. Kiri is less than pleased with the union, but then again, she is rarely pleased with anything. She says it's barbaric, the arrangement of a mating between two people who have never met.

Lo'ak just despises that Neteyam's new mate will take up his time, time that Lo'ak thinks should be spent on more entertaining things. Like disobeying their parents and whatnot.

You returned the gesture, and Neteyam realised with a little spark of sick fear that this was it. You would return home with him and his family, and you would be his mate. You would be together forever, in the eyes of Eywa.

He couldn't even begin to imagine how that would go. Your expression was blank, devoid of any emotion that could possibly clue him in to how you were feeling.

Your eyes, outlined boldly in red, flicked over him, and he felt oddly naked beneath them.

Then you made a face that was somehow both confused and disbelieving. “How do you climb with those legs, or even keep your balance with that tail?” you asked him, voice cutting through the serene silence.

One of your brothers muffled a snort, earning a sharp elbow from one of the other two.

“Parultsyìp!” the tsahik, your mother said, scandalised. Lo’ak stiffens beside Neteyam, and Neteyam knows his brother well enough to know that a rude retort is on the tip of Lo’ak’s tongue.

You wince at your mother's cry, ears flattening against your head in childish irritation.

Of course, you hadn't intended to be rude. Why would you? You weren't stupid, you knew you had to make this work or you would be miserable for the rest of your life.

But you had never seen Omaticaya before. You'd grown up on tales of Toruk Makto, of course, the sky demon with the skin of any average Omatikayan man, who'd come from a star and saved the Omaticaya- sort of, your older brother Kalzi had whispered to you afterwards, just giving you one of his annoying, knowing smiles when you had asked him what he meant.

You hadn't even been born when Toruk Makto came to your tribe, seeking their help.

But Toruk Makto was your childhood hero. Big and strong and smart and... Oh, everything in between.

You had imagined the Omaticaya to look something like you, of course. Strong limbs, hard with muscle from an early age. Though, of course, their muscle would be born from climbing trees and whatnot, rather than wrangling and spending days on the back of a direhorse.

Thick tails, for balance- though, again, theirs would be needed for balance when high up as opposed to when riding.

Not that you had spent much time thinking on the appearance of a tribe you had never seen in your life. It, stupid though it seemed now, had just been something you'd pondered once and accepted ever since.

Yes, now it seemed incredibly stupid, as you stood there staring at your future mate, whose name you didn't even know. Neteyam, you think your mother has told you.

And, of course, your mouth had gotten ahead of you and voiced your confusion and disbelief before you could stop yourself.

Your future mate (Neteyam?) stared back, expression carefully calm.

His little brother didn't seem so inclined, however, and was giving you a glare strong enough to burst your head like an overripe fruit.

"Apologise," your father said firmly, his hand coming down on the back of your neck. Hard.

"Oh, there's no need-" Toruk Makto began awkwardly, waving a hand in dismissal. "They didn't mean it badly."

Your father made you apologise anyway.

You weren't a kid anymore, but you sure as hell felt like one as you forced out the most sincere apology you could muster, still staring at Neteyam in disbelief, eyes roving over every inch of his abnormal body.

To his credit, Neteyam accepted your apology graciously, carefully avoiding meeting your eyes again.

"Well," your older brother Zütxu said cheerfully, clapping his hands. "This has been sufficiently awkward. Join us for dinner? It's the least we can do, since you've come all this way. My idea was to put them on their direhorse and send them on their way and be done with them, but-"

"Zütxu!" your mother said, clutching at her nonexistent pearls for a second time. "Must all my children make disgraces of themselves?! Great Mother."

"We'd love to join you for dinner," Toruk Makto cut in smoothly, ushering his family forward.

Lo’ak is still annoyed with your earlier insult. Neteyam can feel his younger brother bristling at his side, but he simply nudges Lo’ak. “You cannot blame them for being confused. They have never seen Omaticaya before,” he murmurs.

“You don't know that!” Lo’ak hissed in response. “They were being a jerk!”

“Ao’nung was the same way, remember?” Neteyam reminds his brother. “But he is a good friend now. They will not be like that always.”

“You have too much faith,” Lo’ak grumbled, before squinting up at his brother. “It’s because they're attractive, isn’t it?”

Neteyam just scoffs and smacks Lo’ak upside the head.

A few minutes later, they are seated around a bonfire with the rest of the Olangi clan, everyone eating and talking happily. Neteyam finds himself seated next to you, as he expected.

You are silent, the fire reflecting in your eyes, in your glistening body paint, in a way Neteyam cannot help but stare at.

Then your eyes flick to him, glancing over his face momentarily, before they drop back down to the food before you. "I am sorry, even if I don't seem it," you say after a moment. "It was stupid of me to make assumptions. And... even more stupid of me to act like you should've fulfilled expectations you weren't even aware of."

"It's fine," Neteyam shrugged. "I'm not upset or anything. I guess it's justified. I didn't know what you were going to look like either."

You nod. A few moments pass as you pick at your food before you speak again. "I thought you would look more like me." You take a minute to explain your theory to him, flushing as you do.

Neteyam laughs, the beads in his braids clicking against one another as he moves, his eyes glittering in the firelight also. He tilts his head, shifting a little closer to you. "May I?" he asked, reaching for your arm.

You nodded, holding it out for him to take, confusion written in your face.

Neteyam grips your arm gently, feeling the corded muscles within. "Omaticaya are not so bulky," he said carefully. He didn't want to upset you in some way. Of course, you'd already insulted him, but you'd apologised and he could see you hadn't meant it in such a harsh way. "In the forest, we have no need for it."

You nod, touching his own arm with your free hand, noting how you can wrap your hand around it entirely. "We ride before we can walk," you say, taking his hand and pressing his fingers into the top of your thigh so he can feel for himself. "Our leg muscles develop first. From riding and also hunting on foot. Then our arms, from handling direhorses and whatnot. Our core muscles too. Mama says we developed thicker bodies to accommodate the strength we need for our lifestyle."

Neteyam nods, feeling the hard muscle beneath your dusty blue skin, though he's careful not to let his curiosity cross any boundaries. He can feel his ears angling forwards to catch your words as you speak quietly, the rattle of the off-white beads in your own hair, his skin tingling with warmth as you wrap your hand around his arm.

He has hopes for this union after all.

This is deffo going to have a part two lol. Reader is also pretty much an Aonung variant I realise now. Idk if any of what I said about the Olangi is canonical it's all what makes sense to me. Please please tell me your thoughts!!! 🫶

Part two >

#avatar #aonung #avatar x reader #atwow #avatar 2 #avatar fanfiction #loak #neteyam #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you #neteyam atwow #jake sully #neytiri #kiri #tuk #tuktirey

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bethanythebogwitch · 11 months

Text

I must make an apology. Last Wet Beast Wednesday I declared that I was balancing out the vertebrate/invertebrate balance of this series. However, I realized that all the invertebrates I've covered have been arthropods. This is a grave misrepresentation of invertebrate diversity and I must make amends. Thus, this week we're returning to the no bone zone and talking about siphonophores.

(Image: a collage of different siphonophore species, sourced from Wikipedia)

Siphonophores are cnidarians: soft-bodies, radially symmetrical organisms that also include jellyfish, anemones, and corals. They are definitely amongst the weirdest of cnidarians. Most of them look like either a jellyfish or an anemone, but siphonophores run a whole gamut of shapes: from the jellyfish-like Portugese man-o-war to the vaguely comb jelly-like Praya dubia, to whatever the heck this thing is

It looks like a bunch of glass vases on a stick (image: Marrus orthocanna)

Their appearance is the least weird thing abut them. Siphonophores are colonial organisms. Each individual animal is composed of multiple smaller organisms called zooids. All zooids share the same DNA, but are specialized to perform different functions as determined by their morphology. Because each type of zooid is specialized to perform a single function, they are dependent on each other to survive and cannot exist alone. Cnidarians exist in two forms, which many will switch between during their life cycle: sessile polyps and mobile medusas. Siphonophores do this differently, with each zooid type being either a medusa of a polyp. Biologists have described multiple types of zooids found across many species of siphonophore. These include nectophores (used for propulsion), gastrozooids (used for digestion), palpons (used to regulate gastrovascular fluids), gonophores (used in reproduction), and pneumatophores (gas-filled floats only found in some species).

(image: a diagram of different zooid types. Source)

There are 175 known species of siphonophore. The majority of species are pelagic, remaining in open water their entires lives, though a few reside on the sea floor. While they do have some ability to direct their movements, like jellyfish, they are often pulled along by currents. The majority of species live in the deep sea and deep-sea species are often larger than shallow-sea species. Like their jellyfish and anemone relatives, siphonophores are predators who use tentacles to capture prey. Each tentacle is covered with stinging cells called nematocysts that fire venom-coated barbs into organisms that touch them. The prey is then pulled into gastrozooids and digested. Most species are capable of bioluminescence, which is likely used for defense. Some species also develop bioluminescent lures used to attract prey. Some siphonophore can get extremely large, with the species Praya dubia reaching u to 50 meters (160 ft), making it longer than a blue whale and possibly the longest animal in the world depending on how you measure the bootlace worm.

(image: a Praya dubia catching fish)

Siphonophores reproduce with varying methods, some of which are poorly-understood. A new colony usually begins form a single fertilized egg. This egg hatched into a single protozooid that then produces other zooids via budding. In many species, the protozooid will form a central stalk from which groups of other zooids will bud. Other species use polyps that can be ejected into the water carrying eggs and sperm which they use to fertilize themselves. In any case, special zooids called gonophores are used to make the gametes. Different species are either dioecious (each colony has either male or female gonophores) or monoecious (each colony contains both male and female gonophores.

(Image: a diagram of a siphonophore life cycle. Source)

Cnidarians are believed to have existed since the precambrian, though as soft-bodied animals fossilize more rarely, the exact origin of siphonophores is not known. Some scientists speculate that the colonial nature of siphonophores may represent an early stage in the development of true organ systems. If this is correct, the development would go something along the lines of colonies of single-celled organisms -> colonies of single-celled organisms with differentiated functions -> siphonophore-like colonial organisms -> individual organisms with differentiated organ systems.

This one's called a "long, stringy, stingy thingy". No really, look it up (image: Apolemia uvaria)

The most famous siphonophore and the first one described is Physalia physalis, the Portugese man-o-war or bluebottle. It is a neuston, an organism that lives at the boundary between water and air. Its most notable feature is the enlarged float filled with carbon monoxide that keeps it floating at the surface of the water. The float functions as a sail, letting it travel thousands of miles. Stinging tentacles trail below it to collect prey. The sting of a bluebottle is very painful to humans and can even be lethal in rare circumstances. Many a beach trip has been ruined by a man-o-war sting. Its morphology and development is different enough from other siphonophores that I may dedicate a whole post to it in the future.

(image: a Portugese man-o-war)

#wet beast wednesday #marine biology #biology #zoology #ecology #animals #invertebrate #cnidarians #siphonophore #animal facts

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carnal-lnstinct · 1 year

Text

✿✿✿

pairing: sesshomaru x human!reader content: established relationship, domestic fluff, humor, slightly ooc sesshomaru: eating human food A/N: I found my old sesshomaru rp blog and got inspired to write this. Also didn't proofread this so fingers crossed.

The soft sound of a crack and annoyed grunt that followed brought your eyes up from your bowl just in time to see two bits of broken chopsticks fall to the floor from his hand. His brows were tense, the squint of golden eyes cursing the flimsy workmanship of tools, all tools by default, made by human hands. His hold was careful, delicate, and precise in maintaining an acceptable grip on the tools, yet a small adjustment between his fingers and clawed digits had snapped through yet another pair of chopsticks. They are perfectly adequate for humble village folk who made do with them, but for a powerful youkai like himself more comfortable with the luxury of those fitted for his hands, these may as well have been twigs pinned by carriage wheels– Exercising restraint or no.

That annoyed look on his face said it all for you and you purse your lips to stifle a soft titter, trying to hold your own food in your mouth while you chewed. Sesshomaru’s stare then finds you, the daiyoukai setting down the bowl of cooked meat from his other hand and letting the remaining pieces of chopsticks fall before him.

He was one whose presence you allied with mastered grace and control, yet witnessing him struggle to even hold human chopsticks in his hands without breaking them forced an amused smile on your face. Endearing him all the more in your graces. You love every chance you get to see that dignified composure break and learn about these tiny flaws of his. Sesshomaru was someone you could describe as nothing less than beautiful perfection in this world, especially compared to the likes of a human like yourself. Without much guidance or thought, you held him on a pedestal but when moments like this happen you learn that even a regal creature like himself could be relatable. His stubbornness to prove himself never failed to expose who he was behind his title and eminence. A man, like any other, who every once in a while deserves a private moment of being his honest self. You just wish it lasted longer, but his pride in his heritage would not allow him to be as such for more than a passing moment.

It’s not his fault his powerful claws could do such a thing without even trying, it couldn’t be helped. But it’s his determination to dine with his wife in her human village, to try and try again despite a repeat performance of broken pair after broken pair. It spoke highly of the restraint he must truly hold himself to when those same claws brush over your skin and you press yourself into them with complete faith.

“You find this amusing?” He dryly delivered to your ears only making your smile widen.

“Not at your expense, My Lord.” You uttered in an airy tone with your eyes lowered from him, trying not to allow a laugh to slip. You can feel the sear of his glare and hesitate to make eye contact, only to give yourself time to compose before the urge to laugh takes over. You set down your own bowl and reach for his, gathering a saucy, rare cut of meat. “I can look into having a special pair fashioned for you.” Maybe Master Totosai would help? If you asked nicely, but maybe humble chopsticks fit for a demon would belittle the blacksmith’s skills. It’s not like you can just waltz up to any other demon, let alone make such a trifle of a request. You’ll run it by Jaken to see if he can be of assistance

You let the last bit of juice drip from the helping before lifting it up toward Sesshomaru, looking up at him expectantly.

“I am not concerned with this.” Sesshomaru answers, composure restored as he ran a hand through his hair, loosely tucking it back behind his ear and tossing the length over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, a quiet sigh falling from his nose and he leans forward with an open mouth gathering the helping from the end of your chopsticks.

“Shall I continue to feed you, then?” You insisted in a lighthearted tease with an arch brow

“...” His brows narrowed as he chewed, keeping his eyes closed as he did. You smiled lovingly.

“It would be no trouble at all.”

He reopens his eyes and looks at you, glare softened. Safe to assume how you would go about this little chore you encouraged piqued his curiosity. When his mouth stills and throat softly bobs, he answers.

“Do as you like.”

#My writing #sesshomaru x reader #sesshomaru imagine #inuyasha #sesshomaru

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hotvintagepoll · 1 month

Text

Propaganda

Merle Oberon (Wuthering Heights, The Scarlet Pimpernel)—She was mixed race (born in India and her mother was Sri Lankan) and still managed to make it in the British and American film industries (by passing) despite a rough start in life and industry racism. She was the first Asian person to be nominated for any Academy Award (best actress in 1935)! She also survived a car accident in 1937 and kept on acting until 1973, despite potentially career-ending facial scars. Also, she met her third husband while they were filming a movie together in 1973 (her last movie and she still looks great!). They fell in love and got married in 1975 when she was 62 and he was 36. She died 4 years later in 1979. Iconic.

Thelma Todd (Monkey Business, Horse Feathers)— A comedy great who could go toe to toe with the Marx brothers. Watching her in horse feathers made middle school me feel things. Unfortunately, she died tragically, so I'd be careful when looking up pictures of her - there are a good number of crime scene photos mixed into the results. Overall a lovely lady 😊

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Merle Oberon:

Beautiful. Talented. Biracial. Also please refer to the following promo from the aforementioned A Night To Remember, in which she plays the writer George Sand:

Her performances always give off this perfect blend of of being composed, refined, and aloof while still being deeply passionate and I eat it up every time.

Linked gifset

A rare example of a WOC working in lead roles in this era (mostly because she worked very hard to pass as white and had to hide her south asian heritage sadly). She has this very regal vibe but also a simmering intensity—even holding her own as Cathy opposite Laurence Olivier as Heathcliff.

I need all the gothic fans to STAND UP for our cathy!!

She has such a unique face when it comes to old hollywood actresses - a lot of them start to melt together in my brain - but Merle has always stood out to me<3

Thelma Todd:

Gifset link

Gifset link 2

She was both the beautiful and charismatic lead and a comedic star that deserves her place beside her frequent co-stars, Laurel and Hardy.

#thelma todd #merle oberon #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 2

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futurecorps3 · 6 months

Note

Hey! I was wondering if you could write a Kaz brekker x reader fic. Where the reader has a nightmare and Kaz comforts them if you can please.

𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

Masterlist<3

Summary: Req sums it up!! Pairing: Kaz Brekker x fem!reader Warnings: Mentions of drowning, death, nightmares ofc and I think that's it, lmk if I missed any Word Count: 674. tiny!! Requested: Yes

There it was. That heavy feeling in her chest. Y/N could recognize it anywhere; it was part of her routine now, and she couldn't be more grateful. Kaz's arm pressed tightly against her, guarding her even in her sleep. She smiled contently and opened her eyes after tilting her head to see her lover's hand.

Or so she thought.

A big rock tied with a rope stared back at her, beginning her descent into some large body of swampish water, as if her stare was its cue to stop resisting gravity. She tried moving her hands in a futile attempt to swim to the surface, to try and overpower the force of the rock against the water and her body, but they were also tied.

Y/N watched as the light got further and further away. She was still holding her breath but soon realized that this was the end of her. Kaz came to mind immediately. God, she'll miss him. Will she even be able to miss? Soon enough, she thought, when water filled her lungs, the mystery of existence would be answered.

She hoped whatever awaited her, whether it was a perpetual calm or a realm filled with endless meadows and a place to rest, would be nicer than the life she led before she met him. He was a lifeline. Ironic, isn't it? She probably would've laughed if she wasn't about to die.

Should she pray for a quick recovery for Kaz? It will be hard for him to get back up. They both knew almost by experience that there was no God or Saint, but like, what if, right? She didn't know any prayers, so she did not pray. Y/N really hoped he got back on track quickly, though. After all, routine was everything for him, and now she wouldn't be able to brew him a nice cup of tea every morning like she had been doing for the past five years.

"I hope he can find his cup in the drawer; it's a bit hidden so Jesper doesn't take it," she thought as she sank even further, just like the pebbles she used to throw on the beach with her sister all those years ago. Tears started streaming down her face, and she could somehow feel them, like they couldn't blend in the water that surrounded her. She was scared. She didn't want to die scared.

In all those years working with the crows, Y/N was certain her life was on the line in every single job they performed, but that didn't scare her. If she died during a heist, she'd die surrounded by the man and friends she loved; there were certainly worse fates than a fatal bullet wound. Fates like this one. She'll die cold, wet, and her body would probably never be found. That did scare her.

Then there was an impulse to move that washed over her. To do anything in her power to at least try and get out of this situation. She kept sinking, now squirming and failing to squeeze herself out of the ropes. Desperation came, and she started screaming, her lungs filling up quickly. She started coughing violently, closing her eyes and then a pang to her heart.

"Y/N, wake up!"

The girl was greeted by a pair of concerned, brown eyes that she wouldn't mind drowning in. She immediately noticed she was sweaty under her nightshirt, and her collarbones were also wet, but from the tears that ran down all the way from her eyes to there.

It was a nightmare.

As she composed herself a little, her boyfriend lit the oil lamp they kept on her nightstand and crawled back to her. "Breathe for me, Y/N. Come on," the girl heard faintly, still in a sleepy stupor. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath. Kaz took her hand and placed it over his chest, just like she did when he had trouble similar to this.

It was rare now, but the first nights they spent together were often filled with sweet nothings whispered and labored breaths in an attempt to calm Kaz's racing heart and mind. She blinked rapidly and tried wiping her eyes dry. "It's okay, breathe with me, love," he whispered, rocking both of them back and forth gently as his girlfriend tried to follow his pace.

The Bastard of the Barrel may have dreaded few things in this life, but seeing his girl suffering, at the mercy of her own mind (which also happened to conjure the most beautiful depictions of love, translated in words and acts that warmed his heart), was almost unbearable. He knew the feeling all too well, and to even think she had to go through it all as well made him sick.

So he did what he knew helped.

He stayed there for long minutes, breathing consciously for the both of them and whispering things like "You're doing so good, it's okay" or "You're fine, love. Steady breaths... there you go." Words of affirmation worked heavily on her, and Kaz was very aware, so he resorted to them immediately.

After a long while, the room stopped spinning for Y/N, and she could breathe normally again. She hugged Kaz in an exhausted manner, whispering a small "thank you" that made her sound almost frightened of breaking her newfound peace. Her eyes felt heavier than before when she first got into bed with Kaz, and she just rolled over and lay next to him, turning to face him.

He had this calming aura to him. She couldn't explain it as anything other than magical, and since both of her best friends were Grisha, she wouldn't be surprised if it was. The girl stared at her boyfriend's eyes and felt safe and warm inside; the complete opposite of whatever was happening in her head just moments ago.

"Bad dream?" he asked, stroking her hand beneath the covers. "Yes. A very bad one," Y/N feebly uttered. "Do you want to talk about it before we go back to sleep?" "You worked hard all day, and I don't feel like—" "You know I don't mind." That was true. Kaz had a horrid sleeping schedule, even when she tried to keep him in check, which meant he spent most of his nights reading or planning their next heist. Truth is, he'd stay up listening to Y/N and comforting her rather than buried in piles of blueprints and books.

"I'm drained, w-we can talk about it in the morning. When there's more light," she nodded, smiling a little bit before closing her eyes, not before grabbing her boyfriend's hand and circling it around her waist. "Wait," he grumbled, getting up and checking if her eyes were open again, the bed dipping behind him. She looked at him quizzically, resting her weight on her arms and contemplating murder if he didn't let her rest after that literal nightmare.

"What?" "Your shirt is wet, you might catch a cold if you sleep in that when you get warmer in a while," he said absentmindedly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, dodging Y/N's side of the bureau fully on purpose and grabbed one of his black sleep shirts, walking with soft steps towards the bed.

"Up," he asked, and his girlfriend's heart melted when he carefully replaced the clothing, making sure the fit was right, even when his would be inevitably longer on her shorter frame. "Better?" the Bastard of the Barrel mumbled, looking at her while folding the discarded shirt and tossing it gently over to the loveseat they had at the foot of their bed.

"Never better. T-thank you, love," Y/N smiled, getting back into her position and receiving a peck on the cheek, courtesy of the man who once broke a man's fingers one by one because he wouldn't tell him where she was, followed by a small "Always" before cuddling back.

They talked about her nightmare in the morning over coffee, and the silliness of her ever feeling anything other than safer when Kaz Brekker was around hit her. She had never known such peace before him, and he promised that no matter what, she'd never die on his watch. Y/N was counting on that.

˚ · • . ° .

Holy shit this is so short and it took so long cause I'm going through writer's block!! I'm so sorry. Hope you enjoyed nonnie<3

Remember, the best way to support writer’s works on here is by REBLOGGING WITH TAGS. I’d very much appreciate it if you did!

Thanks again, stranger. Hope you have a nice day<3

NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO REPOST AS THEIR OWN/TRANSLATE/OR COPY MY WORK IN ANY PLATFORM OR SPACE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT CONSENT.

#kaz brekker x female reader #kaz brekker fluff #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker smut #kaz brekker angst #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker #six of crows #six of crows fanfiction #six of crows imagine #six of crows duology #six of crows x reader #shadow and bone x reader #grishaverse x reader #six of crows fanfic #six of crows x you

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queenshelby · 2 months

Text

The Director (Part Three)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity

Later that day, you were set up on set two for your first scene with Cillian who paced around nervously, re-reading his lines again and again as he waited for the takes and positioning to be ready.

You stood there, offering him a smile, but sensing his inner turmoil, you quietly retreated to the background, allowing him to take a few deep breaths in order to calm hisonedown nerves.

There was a talent in acting that never ceased to amaze you and even, back when you met him, your husband James had a passion for it of some sort. This kind of passion however had since been lost for him but, for Cillian, it was something that you could still sense radiating off his every movement.

You had watched some of Chris's earlier takes on set one and saw the freckled actor immerse himself into every scene, adding a level of depth and emotion that was far beyond what you had experienced in most movies.

Maybe it was his background in theatre that gave him his signature accuracy in his expressions and dialogues that left you in awe, or maybe it was because of the potent charisma that he exuded right now. Either way, you couldn't help but admire how engrossed he became within this character.

"Are we ready, Cillian?" you asked him eventually, bringing him back to reality.

"Yes, yes. I am ready," Cillian replied softly, his gaze fixed on you with a rare warmth before you explained to him how Chris wanted this scene to play out.

Striding over to set two, you observed Chris and the cameramen get into position, adjusting the lighting, and reviewing the scene's blocking. Cillian took a moment to collect himself and then nodded.

"Alright," he whispered, all nerves dissipating as he took his position and transformed into the character of Oppenheimer.

Chris gave you a thumbs up and with a nod, you called out action.

The set was electric with this magnetic energy, a charge that composed the heartbeat of every photograph, every scene.

The dialogue was like a tightly woven dance as, together, Cillian and the other actor swayed to the rhythm.

The sequence of words and movements in this seductive choreography was fascinating, each action and reaction ripe with meaning and intent.

Cillian's piercing blue eyes, ardently focused on his scene partner, sparkled like stars as they artfully exchanged dialogue.

You stared in awe, observing Cillian's methodic and confident stance, incredible presence, and the emotions he poured into the scene. The raw intensity and precision conveyed through this performance left you feeling stunned, you thoroughly understood why Chris had chosen him for this role.

"Cut," you

finally called out, your voice barely audible after the intimate scene.

Cillian blinked, snapping out of the trance, offering you an endearing smile which allowed a breath of relief to pass through your lips.

"Overall, excellent," you instructed him with a nod of approval, enthusiastically clapping your hands as you watched Cillian's body language relax considerably.

"But I think we should take the scene again and move the camera to the other side this time," you said while discussing a particular issue with the lightening with Chris.

"I agree Y/N," Chris said, looking at the pictures through the screen and the stills from the other camera. "Cillian, do you think you can pull this off again?"

Chris said, addressing him confidently. Cillian, with his ever-present Irish charm, flashed a smile.

"Sure," he answered, his eyes sparkling with ambition and the following takes confirmed what you had expected - this man was nothing short of mesmerizing. With every one of five takes, he effortlessly surpassed all expectations and, in the process, unwittingly awakened a strange feeling within you.

"You zoomed in on the last one. Why?" Chris asked as he looked through your work while Cillian was waiting patiently to be dismissed for his next scene. "Why did you choose this angle?" Chris asked curiously while Cillian looked at Chris, and then over at you, awaiting your explanation.

You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts before speaking, "Well, I think we need to bring more depth to this scene. From this angle, we can see the nuances of Cillian's expressions more clearly. His blue eyes, in particular, convey a multitude of emotions in this scene, from intense concentration to a subtle vulnerability, which will draw the audience in and make them feel as though they are a part of it. It will be a powerful moment, I promise you," you confidently told Chris, who nodded in agreement.

"Good pickup Y/N," Chris said beaming at you, pride beaming in his eyes as he appreciated your input in this particular scene.

"My pleasure," you replied, momentarily sidetracked from the lingering heat that still radiated from Cillian's last scene before he was moving on to the next scene.

Cillian gave you a knowing smile, before nodding his goodbyes and striding off towards set three.

From that moment on, it was in itself a thrill to observe his meticulous artistry, as he spun stories of duplicity, desire and a passionate yearning for truth with just whispered words and heartbreakingly moving gestures.

It couldn't be denied that he was one of the most magnetic actors you had ever met, and you couldn't help but be captivated by his presence.

Even Emily Blunt, whom you have known for many years and who has been a close friend of yours since about 2018, noted your intrigue after as little as two days on set as she whispered in your ear, "You have it bad for our Irishman, don't you?" she giggled, nudging you gently with a familiar playfulness that took you aback.

You blushed, heat rising in your cheeks as you candorockily laughed shortly thereafter. "Oh stop it, Em! I do not," you muttered, feebly as you nudged her back "Despite, I am married and so is he I believe," you told her while the truth was that Cillian stirred up something inside of you that you hadn't experienced in years.

"So what? Looking doesn't do any harm," Emily teased, an impish smirk playing on her lips as she unapologetically stated the obvious. "I still look around and my husband doesn't mind, but then again, your husband is an idiot, so who knows what he would do if he found you gushing over someone else," she added, rolling her eyes.

"James is not that bad," you lied, knowing very well that Emily was speaking the truth. Your husband was abusive and arrogant, and at least the latter was publicly known within the industry.

Doors had been closed to James due to his behavior, yet he still believed that his privileged status afforded him preferential treatment.

It was no wonder that you felt trapped in your marriage; his sense of entitlement made it impossible for him to accept the concept of separate lives.

Through it all, you struggled to maintain a healthy homelife balance for your precious children and he had threatened you many times that, if you were to leave him, he would ensure that neither you nor your father's clients would get any more work through his father at Universal.

You may have told Emily about this at some point during a late night heart to heart but you didn't want anyone to know about the toxic dynamic between the both of you. Not so that they would gossip about you, but so that you wouldn't be confronted with pity.

The thought brought you back to the present as you sighed at Emily's words. "Okay, you are right. He is an idiot sometimes," you admitted, smiling wistfully as she patted you on the shoulder.

"James is bad for you, Y/N," she said with a knowing frown. "You should leave him," she added, but you merely shook your head, unwilling to acknowledge the suffocating reality of your own marriage.

"Let's not talk about him anymore," you suggested, changing the subject in an attempt to steer clear from the toxic, lingering shadow of your husband. "I need to focus on work," you told her and she nodded.

"Alright then," Emily said, giving you a supportive squeeze just as Cillian walked by, greeting you both.

"Hey," he said with an easy smile, his eyes twinkling with unspoken warmth that sent shivers down your spine.

"Oh, hey Cillian," Emily replied with a low, flirtatious whistle just to tease you both as you were preparing for the next scene in which Robert Oppenheimer meets his wife Kitty, portrayed by no other than Emily herself.

"You are early," she then observed while you stood there, blushing slightly and, just as you glanced up at Cillian, he flashed you another smile.

"I finished my other scene early," he told you both in a low voice. "So, I figured I would come here to see whether the next scene is ready to go," he then said honestly, looking at you and a pause lingered between you as you exchanged a lingering glance.

"Give me five minutes. I am waiting for Chris to approve the setup, but here is what I think the scene should look like," you replied, summoning up a mental picture of the scene with Emily and Cillian. You began to give him a rough idea, accessorized with hand gestures while Cillian listened with genuine interest.

In this moment, you felt your creative passion surge. There was nothing quite like generating captivating scenes and characters and seeing them come to life.

As you explained the dynamics, vivid images inched their way to reality, the scene unfurl as if drawn by an unseen scriptwriter.

"When you explain to Kitty how quantum mechanics work, I want you to place your hand on hers after lifting it up from where she is resting it, using just two of your fingers gently. Just like this," you started to explain while guiding his hand upwards and intertwining your fingers with his to show him how you wanted the scene to look.

"And I want you to use those eyes to look right into hers as I will have the camera zoom in on your face," you told him while Cillian's eyes stayed locked on yours as the words sunk in and his hand still rested against yours.

A charged sense of connection crackled between you both and for a lingering moment, time seemed to stand still before he finally released your hand gently.

If you thought the previous scene had stirred something inside of you, the contact of your skin against his ignited a flame that threatens to burn you from the inside out.

"Alright, I see," Cillian said, his voice a bit hoarse as he slowly pulled his hand back, creating an emptiness in your grasp that, for a moment, made it hard to breathe. It took all your restraint and professionalism not to shiver just by the lingering heat of his touch.

Emily looked at you both knowingly before walking away with a soft giggle, unwilling to push her luck and leave you both alone to process what had just happened.

"Uhm, where are you going Em?" you asked as you saw her leave and Chris arrive, just in time for the next scene.

"Just to the bathroom. I will be quick," she chuckled , casting a coy smile over her shoulder at Cillian and you before disappearing into the distance.

An awkward silence fell between you as you tried to regain your composure, attempting to shake the unbidden attraction that had bloomed between the two of you.

Cillian cleared his throat, breaking the tension hovering in the air between you before gesturing towards the set. "Alright, well, I should go get ready then," he stammered slightly, his cheeks now matching your earlier blush and, while Cillian re-read his lines again, you took some time to speak with Chris.

Deep down, you told yourself that experiencing a flutter of attraction was completely normal - and allowed - as long as you did not act on it.

"Y/N, are you alright?" Chris asked, sensing some inner turmoil.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you replied with a reassuring smile, collecting your thoughts, before turning to Cillian and Emily again who had returned from the bathroom.

The two of them were chatting briefly and you showed them where to stand and rest their hands during the scene.

As expected, their on-screen chemistry was simply intoxicating - a simmering tension that crackled between them like an electric current.

You directed the camera man, snapping photos, and gave them a few minor instructions as you watched in awe, thinking that there was literally something electrifying about their interactions.

Every glance, every whisper, and every gesture exuded a kind of unspoken confession between the two before the scene ended with a shot of the two of them within three takes.

"And- cut!" you called out, feeling a familiar flutter in your chest while Chris nodded with approval.

"I think that's a wrap for today," Chris announced as the entire crew started to pack up and leave the set one by one. Emily and Cillian went off to their trailers to change and freshen up, chatting amicably as they walked away why you went through some particulars with the camara crew and Chris.

"Thanks for holding up the fjord for Nilo for these first few days. You fit in well," Chris told you warmly, giving you a pat on the back as you chatted about finalizing certain details for the next day of shooting.

You beamed up at him with gratitude, unable to contain the pride brimming within you.

"It's no problem at all," you assured him, your mind already planning out the sequences for tomorrow. "I am enjoying it and I am grateful for the opportunity," you added honestly, feeling yourself relax as the weight of the day's work began to dissipate.

"You deserve it, Y/N. And I'm glad I can give you this opportunity to flex your artistic muscles," Chris smiled, his eyes radiating a warmth and understanding that touched you deep within your soul. "I will see you at 5am tomorrow, alright?" he then asked, dragging you out of your own world and reminding you of the quickly approaching new day.

"Sure thing," you answered with a nod before turning around to get the set cleared for tomorrow.

You wanted to be involved even in the work that you were not directly responsible for because, ultimately, you were pedantic about making everything right.

It was your innate sense of responsibility and dedication that made you successful in the first place and it would continue to propel you further up the ladder of success.

With that in mind, you rolled up your sleeves and dived into the work of preparing the set for the following day which is when you were startled by Cillian himself.

"Hey," Cillian said, approaching you from behind and placing his hand on your shoulder.

You looked up at him, momentarily speechless but then managed to find the words to ask him what he needed. "Shit you startled me. Is everything alright?" you asked as you turned to face him.

"Yeah," he replied with a smile. "I actually just got a call from the car-hire company, and they approved the claim. My assistant just printed the papers out for you," Cillian told you as he handed you three pieces of paper, his hand lingering for just a moment on yours as your fingers brushed against one another.

You couldn't shake the feeling that there was an undeniable pull between the two of you, an attraction that was not just physical but intellectual and emotional as well.

"I am sorry again, about the accident," he then said while finally pulling away his hand while spotting two large scars and a bruise on your forearm.

"It's fine. Thanks," you said, realizing that he had seen the injuries on your arm, causing you to quickly pull down your sleeve to cover the burns.

Cillian, like any gentleman, deliberately ignored the burns, not wanting to pry or make you feel uncomfortable. But his concern was obvious in the crease on his forehead.

"Uhm, well," he then hesitated, his gaze lingering for a moment before continuing. "Emily, Robert and I are going for some dinner later if you would like to join us," Cillian said confidently, his casual tone somewhat masking the deeper meaning behind his invitation.

Though socializing after a long day at work was the last thing you wanted to do, you saw no reason to protest.

"Yeah, sure, that would be lovely," you thus said with a warm smile, politely accepting his invitation and already mentally preparing yourself for a night out.

You would do anything for Em and, besides, this could be nice opportunity to get to know Cillian in a less formally charged environment.

To be continued...

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