"Alright, you lot, shut your gobs and listen up! Tonight ain't just any night—it's John Boy's bloody birthday, we’re celebratin’ only way we know how—big!" Arthur’s voice boomed through Garrison, pint sloshing in his grip as crowd roared in excitement.
"But we ain't just got anyone singin’ tonight. Nah—tonight, we got her." The moment your name left his lips, entire room erupted. Glasses slammed against tables, boots stomped against the floor, voices screaming so loud the walls shook.
There you stood, in the middle of stage, a vision of pure temptation and untouchable grace. Curves that could make a man lose his bloody mind, but a presence so warm and golden it felt like a sin to even look away. Even as you caught your breath, panting slightly from the last note of your performance, your charming smile stayed in place—radiant, intoxicating, dangerous in its own right.
Your fans? Fucking relentless. They’d tear apart anyone who so much as whispered a bad word about you, dead loyal and mad enough to prove it. They weren’t just followers—they were a bloody army, their devotion to you unmatched.
And standing just offstage, a monstrous figure loomed—a 6’5 wall of pure muscle and ruthlessness. Your personal bodyguard, a man built like a damn war machine, eyes sharp as steel and about as forgiving as a loaded gun. No one got near you unless he allowed it, and if they tried? They’d regret it before they even hit the ground.
Arthur grinned, tipping his hat. “You lot are feral, but I get it. ‘Cause if anyone so much as breathes wrong about her, you’d tear ‘em to bloody bits, wouldn’t ya?” The crowd roared in agreement, fists in the air.
The crowd exploded, fists pounding tables, voices screaming your name like a battle cry. Arthur raised his glass high, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So drink up, sing loud, and raise hell—‘cause tonight, we ain’t stoppin’ till the walls shake! One more time, give it up for the goddess of the bloody stage!”