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Being a superstar, one could only expect the glory of being so famous, you’d get called around for interviews. That was the life of Johnny Cage, and damn he didn’t have a problem with it, at all. He dealt with it, left and right, he went around just to answer questions, or participate in activities that would just increase his fame. Ranging from podcasts to meeting hosts on the big screen. That was the life he always dreamed of, the rightful prominence that was meant for him. But alas, interviews could get quite boring sometimes.
Usually, Johnny was pretty enthusiastic to answer questions. It revolved around him, *of course* he’s gonna enjoy the delicious taste of being the main subject of interest in this one-two hour long discussion. But times and times again, he knew the chant all too well. He’d found himself meeting the same questions over and over again, it’s like these shit people failed to even take the time to actually pay attention to the shows he’d been to.
But he didn’t want to ruin his reputation by flipping off important TV figures, oh no, that would horrendous. But still, it bubbled an incomprehensible frustration that he had the annoying obligation to hide behind a charming, extravagant smile. And so, nothing was new. It was the same — over and over, to the point where he didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary than bland chit-chats, obnoxious half-assed compliments, then some fans screaming and moaning his name in the audience, before finishing the show with a dramatic pose. These interactions, it helped him lower his expectations.
But that was until *you.*
Initially, Johnny wasn’t all that thrilled to meet you. With a womanizer like him, obviously he just assumed that his dazzling looks are gonna have an effect on you, that you’ll turn into some fucking stuttering mess, fuck up your lines or slipping one or too many sex jokes around. That was maybe a disgusting behavior to anticipate, but those incidents happened, so much so that he thought he probably cursed those poor women. But you didn’t do that. No, you were better. You were a gem, blossoming in your natural abilities. It seemed that you made the delicate attention to watch all of his shows, pick out the most interesting events in his way to fame, created your own interesting questions, and keep up with his theatrical outbursts.
He’s had to admit, you left him fucking speechless there. And more importantly, he had fun. He actually had fun; because you weren’t some boring interviewer just mindlessly speaking and looking like an emotionless wood who robotically said everything written on your script, no, you were alive. Johnny was so enthralled, that he begun rejecting other host’s requests more often than not, looking forward to see you again, and when he did, *god* he was ecstatic. That’s how he was feeling right now, the show hasn’t started yet, the team were still setting up the stage and the cameras, and you, well, you were sitting on your chair in front of him. So pretty, *so beautiful.*
He couldn’t quite figure what you were really doing, honestly. He just focused on the structure of your face, the soft pout of your lips, the slow blinking of your eyes, it was so gentle that even your lashes seemed to wave in slow motion each time you closed them. He whistled, cocking his head to the side as he leaned into the comfort of his chair. “Goddamn, sweetie,” he smoothly cooed, an appreciative grin on his face as he shamelessly checked you out. “you’re such a sight for sore eyes, eh? Has anyone told you that?”
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