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mountainsandmayhem · 4 months ago

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BDSMaid - Chapter 3

Pairing: Millionaire!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Rating: E, 18+, Minors dni

Series Summary: After recently graduating from university, your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. It’s only temporary and a good way to save money for when you go back to get your law degree. That’s what you’re promised at least. Easy. Simple. Mundane. That is, until one of your clients is home and everything that you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.

Chapter Summary: You decide it's time to put yourself on Joel's radar.

CW: Age gap (Joel 45, Reader 22), dual POV. Specific warnings in small red below the cut, do not read to avoid spoilers.

WC: 10k. Sorry, grab a snack!

AN: I'm continuously surprised by the love, excitement and joy that this story brings anyone but me. That probably doesn't even make sense, I'm just lost for words, tbh. Forehead kisses to @mermaidgirl30, @littlevenicebitch69, @joelmillerisapunk, and @milla-frenchy for screaming with me or pre reading this for me. @lotusbxtch gets a forehead kiss and a tip of the nose kiss for deep dive beta reading this, she's solely responsible for every semi colon.

Series Masterlist || My Masterist

I no longer have a tag list, please follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates to be alerted for future chapters.

Content Warnings: Flirty, alcohol consumption, mentions of sexual acts, kissing, mutual pining, reader being pinned against a wall, sexual tension, touching. Reader does have some description so may be considered more of an OFC.

The week after Joel removed you from his club goes by in a well-scheduled blur. You work your usual three days, cleaning mansions of people who don’t tip as well as Mister Miller. You pour yourself over LSAT study guides, practicing insane logic questions. You enjoy a coffee date with Jamie who asks you what happened the night at the poker game. You tell her a practiced lie that feels like acid on your tongue as it leaves your lips. You hate lying to your friends, especially her. You can feel that lie sitting heavily on the top of your stomach the entire time you’re with her, but you simply cannot afford to get fired with three years of law school on the horizon. You spend an evening with your roommate, Odette, watching Netflix and eating dumplings from her favourite spot, the only spot in Austin that has those little white paper boxes with the red writing.

If you decide not to lie to yourself, on top of everyone else, you also spend at least an hour a day watching videos of women tied up and dominated, thinking of Joel goddamn Miller the entire time. Since learning his full name, and the name of his club, the Google searches you swore you’d stop doing have been much more productive. You’ve found multiple blogs and Reddit posts, not just about kink, but also about Joel. It turns out that he’s well-known in the kink and BDSM communities around the world, but is essentially changing the face of kink in Austin.

One night, you get lost in a Reddit wormhole of women in Texas, and one in Paris, who have been a submissive for a man that sounds a lot like Joel. They don’t actually mention him by name but there’s advice on what he likes and doesn’t like, and how he never actually has sex with any of his submissives. It also sounds like some of these women pay him to be their dom, and, based on the conversations in the comments of one thread, it seems like he has a few submissives at the moment, and majority of their interactions happen at the club.

The club. Fuck, Jamie wasn’t kidding when she said JMK was exclusive. Anyone can join, assuming you can pay the yearly membership fees that, according to Reddit, are around $80,000 per year. From the minimal, cryptic information you find, Joel Miller is the main owner and he has two business partners. One you assume is his brother that you served the other night, but the third you are unable to find any information about.

Since everything you find online is up to interpretation, it’s hard to say what is and isn’t true. According to one disgruntled poster, once you become a member at JMKink, there are a lot of rules to follow. Everyone has to get tested monthly; it’s highly recommended that women are on birth control; and even if you’re married to the guest you bring, men must wear condoms. You can’t just bring anyone in with you: every member and their guest has an app, and the only way to get that app is from a QR code and an assigned activation code. According to another poster, the app is full of waivers and consent forms. You can’t stop the shy smile that crosses your face when you remember how concerned Joel was with your consent the first time you met.

The Monday before your usual every-other-Tuesday shift at Joel’s, you find a blog post about becoming a submissive, and it’s like it was written just for you. The writer explains how she had a hard time shutting off her brain and how, by the end of the day, she was so exhausted from making decisions that all she wanted was someone to tell her what to do for once. This led to her and her husband exploring a sub/dom partnership. Now, she feels lighter and freer; they’ve both discovered new ways to get pleasure outside of the idea of sex that society feeds us. Being a submissive isn’t always about orgasms or pleasure; it’s helped her build confidence, and she’s found that as they progress, that little voice that tells her she isn't good enough has stopped being so loud.

After reading through the post a few times, you shut your rose gold laptop and stare at the wall behind your desk. You feel seen, heard even though you didn’t speak. At first, you found yourself feeling ashamed of getting off to these videos, like there was something wrong with you for being turned on by it, but it’s really that ability to let go of control that you crave, the feeling of someone else making the decisions for once. You want that, but more so, you think you need that, and badly.

As a firm believer of ‘everything happens for a reason,’ it all comes together for you. You aren’t even nervous as the thought consumes you. If Joel shows up at his house, tomorrow I’m going to ask him to teach me.

On Tuesday, you do as you always do, following Joel’s instructions to a tee while listening to a podcast. However, today you only wear one AirPod in hopes of hearing that familiar and comforting engine rev that signals him either coming or going. Every creak or pop of the house causes your heart to flutter, but it’s never him. Much to your chagrin, Joel doesn’t come home.

Inside the envelope is that expensive matte black paper again, ‘Thanks -JM’ neatly written along it.

Great, you think to yourself sarcastically, we are on initial terms again.

Twelve hundred dollars is tucked into the envelope this time, you roll your eyes after thumbing the crisp green bills. The first tip you ever got from him felt sincere, but after walking in on him, and everything since then, it’s feeling more and more like apology money. You shouldn’t complain; people would kill to make this kind of money, but everything would be so much easier if he’d just fucking talk to you.

Your fingers run along the thick, rich paper that he uses as company letterhead. You can’t explain it, but the paper feels like Joel. It’s rough and thick, yet has a vulnerability to it, like you could easily destroy it with just a pinch of your fingers and a flick of your wrist. Your mind flashes back to his club the other night. He was literally begging you to leave, you can still hear it, the pleading in his voice as he said, “I’m sorry. I just can’t have you here, this is on me”. Your fingers trail across the golden ink of his neat handwriting and then open the paper the rest of the way. At the very bottom of the page, in shiny black print similar to the JMK logo at the top, is a phone number. Your heart slams against your ribcage as your eyes scan across the numbers.

When you get home, you unfold the note on your kitchen counter and pace the three or four steps it takes to walk the length of your small kitchen, never taking your eyes off the paper, looking at it like it’s a live bomb or like it’s going to disappear if you let it out of your sight. This is it: you could call the office, make an appointment or something. You’d probably have to lie, but you just need to see him; you need to make a case for yourself. Your stomach lurches, throat tightening at the thought of being in the club with him again. You open the freezer and grab the bottle of tequila, taking a big swig right from the bottle. It’s a cold burn and you clench your eyes as you swallow it down. Your body shivers involuntarily.

You dial before you can talk yourself out of it and before you know it you have an appointment under a fake name to speak to Joel tomorrow afternoon before your study group meets. You take two more large gulps of tequila after hanging up the phone.

Fuck, this is really happening. You take another large sip of the frozen tequila for good measure, your nose scrunching up at the taste.

Joel’s office isn’t attached to the club, it’s in a smaller building across the street and that has seemed to tamp some of the nerves that are vibrating your very core. Still, you can stop from nervously smoothing the wrinkles that have formed on the short, flowing skirt of your white sundress as you sit on the red velvet couch across from Joel’s receptionist. She is a small woman with a chin length bob, she’s probably in her late fifties and you wonder if her kids or grandkids know that she works for the owner of a kink club, or maybe she’s part of the community too. You’ve done copious amounts of research; kink isn’t just for young people, and you suppose Joel isn’t exactly young either. For all you know, she very well could be a dominatrix in her spare time.

She says your fake name in a soothing tone as she stands and walks towards the tall black door, pulling it open effortlessly. “Go on in, sweetheart. Joel’s ready for you.”

You smile at her sweetly, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously as you walk over the threshold to try to convince the millionaire whose home you clean to dominate you. The air in his large, bright office feels heavy and thick. Blood rushes through your ears as he looks up at you from his seat. He slips off his 1950’s style black horn rimmed glasses and places them on his desk. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he assesses you. Your heart lurches, knees trembling as you take a few nervous steps towards his desk. As his eyes meet yours you feel it again, that exposed and naked feeling that only his gaze seems to be able to cast. Maybe you shouldn’t have worn such a short dress, but it’s an unseasonably warm March day and even before leaving your apartment you were sweating in a mix of nervousness and excitement.

You see his lips move, but you can’t hear him over the pounding of your heart. You stop just past the door, then hear it click shut behind you. Joel’s silky lips move again and this time you hear your name followed by a calm, “What’re you doin’ here?”

The words come out before you even think about them, you practically yell them at him, “I want you to teach me.”

His hand waves to the chairs across his desk. When you don’t move he harshly says, “Sit.”

You rush across his expansive office, the plush carpet feels luxurious under your shoes. When you reach the black leather chair you sit on the very edge of the seat, your knee nervously bouncing up and down in time with your heart.

“You want me to do what?” He asks hesitantly, leaning forward in his chair. He looks absolutely beautiful in the late afternoon sun - orange hues reflecting off his tanned skin, the few greys along his temples glistening like the moon on the ocean. He’s in a black dress shirt again, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. You noticed today that he’s wearing a black watch and a gold ring on his right ring finger. Between his accessories and the veins that line his toned forearms your mouth goes dry.

“I - umm, I want you to teach me.”

The last word has barely passed your lips when he scoffs out, “No.”

Your face falls, “Joel, please. I’ve been doing research and I’ve decided that, well, that I want to be…that.”

He places his large palms on the desk, the square black diamond in his ring glittering in the sun, and pushes himself up. You crane your neck to look at him as he slips his hands into his pockets, his eyes already locked on yours. His intense eye contact wraps you up in a weighted blanket of safety and comfort, which is a dangerous and vulnerable place, a place that has the ability to rip you in half, much like you could do with that company letterhead he left you. He walks slowly to the other side of his desk. Once in front of you, he leans back onto it, keeping his hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored black dress pants.

“You can’t even say it.” He challenges.

You furrow your brows, ready to confront him like you always seem to do. In the few interactions you’ve had with Joel, more often than not, it’s been him trying to tell you what to do, you fighting him over it, and then him ultimately winning. It’s infuriating, but not this time. No, this time you’re going to win. You have valid reasons to want this, and they’re all backed up by your research. You are leaving this office as his submissive.

“I can too!”

He shrugs his broad shoulders nonchalantly, “Say it then. You wanna learn how to do what, sweetheart?”

You sit up tall on the edge of the chair, crossing your arms under your breasts, praying your cheeks don’t flush as you finally admit it out loud. “I want to learn how to be a submissive.”

“No.” One of his meaty hands comes out of his pocket, waving you off as he says it again.

“Please!” You plead, “I want to learn how to be a sub.”

Joel actually squirms at the sound of you being so needy. He lets out a harsh ‘fuck’ under his breath and then whispers your name, “I can’t do this with you.”

Got him, you think to yourself, failing to fight the smirk as you lower your voice and sweetly beg, “Please, Mister Miller?”

Joel ‘Your-Consent-is-Most-Important’ Miller is not a small man: his broad shoulders take up almost an entire door frame and he’s easily nearing six foot four, but at the sound of you calling him the one name he’s asked you not to, he moves faster than your brain can comprehend. You gasp as he lunges towards you, his hands landing on the arms of the chair, his wide shoulders pushing you back as he cages you in. Your exposed back hits the back of the chair, your short skirt riding up your thighs slightly. He is practically on top of you and for a second you can imagine that this is what having sex with him would look like. His knuckles blanch from gripping the arms of the chair so tightly, his eyes are practically black, and that familiar flush he gets when you challenge him paints his neck and cheeks.

His voice is deeper, thick with arousal, rattling your bones as he speaks slowly, “I said not to call me that. You can’t even…You can’t.” He shuts his eyes and takes a slow breath in through his nose. His tone softens as he opens his eyes, “No, I ain’t doin’ this with you, sweet girl.”

You practically writhe in your chair. Sweet girl. He’s terrifying and commanding and so fucking beautiful like this. He obviously has a soft spot for when you beg, so you soften your eyes and stick out your velvety smooth bottom lip enticingly before whispering, “Please, Joel.”

He lets out a groan as he pushes himself off the chair and walks towards the large wall of windows behind his desk, his hands resting on his tapered waist. He avoids your gaze as you sit up, squeezing your thighs together tightly to calm the need at your core. “Lemme set ya up with someone else. My brother Tommy. You were gettin’ him a drink at that poker game.”

“I remember,” you mumble, looking down at your hands like you always do when your lack of confidence gets the best of you. You can’t let that self-doubt creep in now, not when you’re this close. You look back towards his broad back. “But I really don’t want anyone else.”

“Why?” He spins towards you, the lighting behind him gives him an almost ethereal glow. There’s absolutely no denying it, Joel Miller is the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

You tuck your hands under your legs, simply stating, “I trust you.”

“You don’t even know me. I could be a horrible guy.”

You let out a sad laugh, shaking your head at him. He’s right, you don’t know him, but you have a feeling about him and you consider yourself pretty good at reading people. “You’ve never given me reason to think I couldn’t trust you. Even that first day. You were so calm and apologetic.”

Joel presses his lips in a thin line, eyes raking over you. You subconsciously slip your bottom lip between your teeth, and a muscle in his jaw flexes. “How old are you?”

“Twenty two,” you immediately regret lying; the avenue of trust is of utmost importance between a submissive and their dominant, so you quickly add, “Almost, I turn twenty two on Friday.”

“I can’t do this.” He croaks and you can’t help but feel a little bad. You’ve put him in an uncomfortable position and his voice sounds defeated.

“Please. I always felt I needed more but,” you stand up and take a few slow steps in his direction. “But…I didn’t know what more was and I - I think it’s this.” You audibly swallow pleading, “Please. I need you to help me. I want you to help me. Teach me.”

He holds his hands up and steps back as you inch closer. A silent call that signals you to stop or that he doesn’t trust himself, not here, not with you. “Jus’ let me set ya up with Tommy. You’re his type.”

Your heart sinks and an acidic taste lines your tongue. Of course. You aren’t that tall, slender icy blonde girl he had strapped to his desk. No, you have curves, and stretch marks along your hips, your boobs are a B cup on a good day. He can get whatever woman he wants, why would it be you? You look down at your hands, pushing back the nonexistent cuticle on your right thumb. This nervous habit of yours used to drive your mom crazy, ‘you’re going to have no skin left soon’ she’d lecture, but you can’t help it. The immediate result of the nail bed looking clean and perfect is like a dopamine hit. It leaves you with a feeling of accomplishment. The problem is, the initial confidence you had about this decision on Monday night has dwindled and you’ve been so anxious about this meeting that every single finger has a nicely pushed back cuticle.

It’s silent in the room for a while, you shut your eyes as you sheepishly ask, “Am I not attractive enough for you?”

“No!” He says insistently and without hesitation. His hand runs through his beard, a faint scratching sound fills the room drawing your eyes open and away from the skin of your thumb. As they land back on him you wonder what his patchy facial hair would feel like between your legs or along the soft skin of your stomach as he kissed you. His voice softens, “That’s not it. I just - I’m sorry. I jus’ can’t do this, sweetheart.”

You feel your chance to become the woman you want to be slipping through your fingers. Your plan is failing and for once in your life you don’t have a Plan B, this is the only plan that makes sense to you. Sadness creeps into your throat, “Why?”

“‘S not a good idea, sweet girl,” he answers, his soft brown sugar flecked eyes reaching out to yours.

His face and voice seem to be at war with his words. He’s saying no, but there’s a sadness in his eyes and a caring undertone to his voice. You’re not sure how you know it, but him calling you sweet girl means something to him. “Because I’m not your type?”

He shakes his head, that same curl falling into his eyes as it did in his foyer the other day. “That’s the problem, you’re exactly my type.”

Hearing that you’re this beautiful man's type should feel like you’ve won the lottery, but the way his shoulders slump as he says it only builds that lump in your throat. As you swallow the sadness down, his eyes travel to your neck, watching as the muscles flex and relax with the motion. “I - then why?”

He lets out a long breath and as he walks to the door he says, “I ain’t havin’ this conversation. I said no. And someone who is cut out to be a submissive would just take that answer for what it is.”

“You’ve made it clear that I’m not a submissive,” you counter and walk towards the door. He cracks the door open and you step in close to him, unconsciously taking in his leather and ash scent before adding, “Have a nice night, Mister Miller.”

Joel

The door feels like a feather behind his hand as he slams it shut - your body, warm and already vibrating, trapped between him and the solid piece of wood that separates the two of you from his receptionist. He made himself a promise in his rear view mirror the other week; he had to cut this off, create distance. He needed you to be just his house cleaner. Because everytime he looks into your eyes he feels the same way he felt at seventeen when he met Tiffany in that garage. Everything about you oozes sweetness and innocence, his sweetheart, his sweet girl. He didn’t think he was capable of feeling that way again. And he definitely should not feel this way for someone who is younger than his own daughter.

His large frame looms behind you, forcing your chest and forehead to rest against the door. He uses his foot to spread your legs wide. A breathy gasp passes your lips as your hands scramble for purchase against the wood grain of the door. He keeps pushing your legs apart, wide enough for your short white skirt to ride up your creamy thighs. Thighs he’s imagined wrapped tightly around his head as he makes you scream.

Joel takes a small step forward, caging you completely, making it so you’re completely at his mercy. He can smell the sweet scent of your arousal growing between your thighs; he knows if he reaches a calloused finger to the gusset of your panties they’d be soaked through. His cock is hard as steel, pressing against the zipper of his pants and the small of your back. You’re practically panting and he fights to keep his breathing steady when really he wants to mirror the quick, uneven pace of your breath. This is much more serious and intimate than when he had you trapped in the chair. This is dangerous. This could lead to more.

His strong fingers wrap around your dainty wrists. He loves the way you don’t fight him as he pulls them above your head, gathering both your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them to the door roughly. His free hand draws a slow line down your arm, then along the sensitive skin of your neck, and down your spine. Goosebumps break out over your skin and you instinctively arch your back into him, a desperate whine passes from your lips between laboured breaths, and that sound nearly buckles his knees.

His lips come to the shell of your ear, his beard tickling you as he speaks in a slow and commanding tone. “Do you feel what you do to me when you call me that. I’ve asked you not to. Multiple times.”

Your mint and lavender scented shampoo fills his nose as he nudges at you to tilt open your throat to him. He revels in how easily you oblige, cocking your head to the side like the good little girl he knows you are. He continues, lips just a hair away from your pulse point; he’s sure if he pressed his lips to it he’d feel how hard your heart is racing. “But I don’t want you to stop. In fact, I fucking love that you haven’t stopped.”

Your soft skin is warm against his rough fingers as they continue their trail down your body, running over the firm globe of one of your ass cheeks. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, distracting himself from the urge to spank you for calling him Mister Miller yet again. Finally, his fingers find a home on one of your thighs. He brushes lightly against your soft inner thighs, small little touches jumping from one leg to the other. The little involuntary twitches of your body and the needy little gasps of air you suck through your teeth has his cock straining painfully against his zipper. He’s aching for you in a way he hasn’t felt for years.

“You infuriate me with your insubordination and it makes me weak,” he mutters. “Makes me absolutely insane. I can’t stop fucking thinking about what’s underneath those clothes, and after seeing your perfect breasts and your little pink nipples… fuuuuck, baby. All I can think about is how good they’d look with my handprints tattooed on them after I slap them while you orgasm. Can’t stop thinking about how wet your little pussy must get. How tight she would be around my fingers as I claim her as mine. How fucking delicious she must taste. How goddamn sexy your cries of pain and pleasure would sound.”

Your whole body shudders against his. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you and he knows he needs to stop before he crosses a line, but the way your body responds to him is precisely how he likes it: pliant and ready. His mind reels with all the naughty things he’d like to do to you. If he reaches just a little bit higher he could finally know how you sound when you come, how silky your cunt is, how you taste. He runs the tip of his hooked nose down your neck, the light citrus of your perfume replacing the scent of your shampoo.

“That what you wanna hear?” Joel continues. “How fucking weak you make me? How desperate? I can’t do this because once I start…I ain’t gonna be able to let you go. Ain’t gonna be able to stop. Never gonna be able to have any other little play thing. It’s just you, sweet girl, only you. If I start this, this is it for me.”

Joel releases your wrists with a growl and walks away, carding his fingers through his curls and looking out at the cityscape as the sun begins to dip behind the tall buildings. He doesn’t look back, he can’t look back or he’ll fucking crack. He’ll haul you over his shoulder and take you into his club. He’ll show you everything right now and he won’t stop. His eyes flutter closed as he takes controlled breaths to slow his heart rate, the unmistakable sound of his office door opening and closing behind him.

You

You yank the door open and walk as fast as your legs will take you, your mind swirling, every emotion trying to win for first place. You’re painfully turned on, you can feel how soaked your panties are. It’s just you, sweet girl, only you. It’s like it’s been carved into your brain. Only you. You jam at the elevator close button as your lungs scream for fresh air, and as you step out into the warm spring night you suck in breath for what feels like the first time since you made this appointment last night.

Your phone vibrates in the small purse you have across your body. He doesn’t have your number, you remind yourself as you reach for your phone. Jamie’s name across your slightly cracked screen. “Hey!”

“Are you ok?” her voice is thick with concern.

Your chest feels tight, “Ya, why?”

“You sound like you're out of breath.”

You laugh a little, “Oh. I was..” fuck, what was I doing. “I mean I am walking. Like on a walk.”

Even a toddler wouldn’t be convinced by your lie, and Jamie isn’t either as she gasps loudly on the other end before whispering, “Were you having sex?”

“No! God no!” Your clit twitches at the thought of how close Joel was today. “I’m on the street, can’t you hear the cars.”

“Ok. You do need some sex though,” she laughs.

“Jamie,” you sigh, “I have to get to a study group. What’s up?”

She giggles devilishly. “Wellll - It’s your birthday weekend. I want to throw you a party at this really amazing club on Friday.”

“Umm, ya. Sure. Nothing too crazy though, right?”

“Promise you can keep your top on this time, prude.” She says teasingly and you laugh. “It’s called Mystique. The owner is an old family friend and she gave us a sweet VIP booth and bottle service, all completely free!”

You slide your key into the door of your SUV to unlock it, “Ok. Let’s do it.”

“Good, because I already invited the girls.” You sigh and your phone buzzes in your ear as Jamie’s computer dings on the other end. “Oh, weird. Your regular every other Tuesday clean just requested for you to go on Friday. Weren’t you just there yesterday?”

Joel. You say dreamily in your mind.

“That’s shitty,” Jamie continues, “That’s your birthday. The shift is only 4 hours, but I can offer it to someone else if you want.”

“No!” It comes out too eager and you remind yourself to chill the fuck out as you put her on speaker phone and open the app. “I mean, no, that’s ok. I need the money and my calendar shows 11 to 3, lots of time to get ready!”

“Text me when you’re done with your study group and we’ll hammer out the details for Friday night. We didn’t get to celebrate you turning twenty one with your insane schedule -”

“Hey!” You exclaim, pretending to be hurt.

“Ya ya, I know,” her voice an amused sarcasm as she continues, “The master plan to graduate early. Which you did. So can we please make this the best celebration yet?” Even without being able to see your best friend you know she’s dancing excitedly on the balls of her feet while giving big green doe eyes.

Friday rolls around quickly, and you aren’t sure what you’re looking forward to more; a much needed night out with your girlfriends or the possibility of Joel being home today. You’ve tried not to think about how his body felt against yours, but every few hours you found yourself with your hand between your legs, rubbing tight little circles on your clit until you came to thoughts of him, whispering Mister Miller like a church prayer.

Pulling up to his house today feels strange. He requested an extra clean this week just minutes after you asked him to teach you how to sub and after finding out that your birthday was today. You haul your stuff into his house, letting out a frustrated sigh when you find it quiet and empty. You click open your app and he’s asking you to dust and vacuum the basement, as well as wipe out the fridge. You look down at the app confused. He’s never asked you to clean the basement, and the fridge? He doesn’t cook. The eleven thousand dollar fridge is basically just a decoration to fill a gap in the countertops.

You pop in your airpods and head downstairs. The cozy white carpet of the stairs feels like plush clouds under your Keds. As you round the corner of the stairs you see everything that makes someone's house a home. So this is where he keeps it all, you think to yourself.

The short hallway from the stairs to the large open concept basement is covered in photos of Joel at all stages of his life. The first picture that catches your eye is a teenage baby faced Joel and a beautiful young woman sitting on a hospital bed, she’s smiling at the camera as Joel looks down at the tiny bundle of pink blankets in her arms. He looks so happy and soft, and it ignites a small flame of jealousy. Not at the woman, but at the happy little family.

As your eyes scan all the pictures you see that baby at all ages. There’s a picture of her holding a trophy as big as her with little cleats and shin guards on. In another, she and Joel are holding a big fish, her toothless smile bright and brilliant, while something in Joel’s eyes looks sad even though his plush lips are curved up in a sexy smile.

Another picture is of the little girl sitting on her mom’s lap; the woman doesn’t seem as vibrant in this picture. The next one to catch your eye is her holding a cupcake with a candle in the shape of the number sixteen, then him in a pressed black suit and her in her high school cap and gown. The last picture is similar, except it’s a college graduation photo.

As you peel yourself away from all the pictures you haven’t managed to look at yet, you face the main living area, a large open concept space. There’s a cozy grey sectional facing the big screen TV, shelves of DVDs surround it and you can only imagine all the movie nights the two of them had down here. There's a pool table along the far back right side of the room and to the left are a bunch of guitars, both acoustic and electric, hanging on the wall. You walk towards the guitars, there’s a stool and a small table beside the amp. An open notebook with lyrics lays on the table and as tempting as it is to read it, you look away. This space is who Joel is and he’s obviously trusting or testing you by sending you down here. He did tell you that you didn’t know him, and that he could be a bad guy, but everything here screams wholesome family man.

You dust and vacuum, then fluff the couch cushions and fold the blankets nicely. There’s an empty glass on the side table, so you grab that and wash it at the small wet bar before placing it with the other glasses. You take one last longing look at the notebook, it’s tempting but decide you are right to not read it. It’s none of your business what he writes and sings about. You picture him there, dressed casually in sweat pants and t-shirt, his large fingers plucking with a practiced finesse at the strings, you wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the floor with a cup of coffee and a book. The two of you being independently together on a Sunday morning.

Thoughts of the two of you like that are dangerous; being his submissive isn’t being his girlfriend. You’ve been very good at compartmentalizing, mostly as a coping mechanism to your past, so you find a metaphorical little box in the back of your mind to stuff all those feelings and thoughts into. As you gather your cleaning supplies, you take one last look around. maybe this was his way of showing you that you can’t have a future with him, that he’s done with the kids-and-marriage part of his life. None of that matters to you; you don’t want kids and marriage, you just want a partnership, and the support and comfort that comes with it. You want to become a lawyer, and eventually a judge, and one day sit on the supreme court and defend everyone's civil and human rights. That’s the goal, the only goal.

From this point on, any feelings for Joel Miller go in that box. If he ever changes his mind, he is my dominant and nothing else. You push the lid on the feelings box and run through your life plan as you head up the stairs. Law school and lawyer, then a relationship before judge and supreme court. That’s the plan, it’s always been the plan.

Once you’re in the kitchen, you pop open the fridge to see a single red rose. You lose a fighting battle with your face, smiling huge from ear to ear. You grab it and close the now empty fridge, bringing the rose to your nose to breathe in the sweet and powdery scent. The black and red envelope sits on the shiny marble countertop. You place the rose down and pop open the envelope. You pull out fifteen hundred dollars and a black business card. Your brows knit together as you inspect the card, flipping it over. A QR code for the JMK app, an activation code, and a note that says “Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”

You practically rip your phone from your back pocket and scan the QR code. You dance nervously on the balls of your feet as the app downloads. With shaky fingers you create a username and password, then type in the activation code. A bunch of permissions pop up, and while the baby lawyer inside of you screams that you need to read them, you’re too eager, so you hastily click accept on all of them. A profile with your newly appointed username splays across the screen. Right below your name it says “Beginner Submissive” and you roll your eyes. You upload the hottest selfie you can find of yourself to be your profile picture, smirking at what you imagine Joel’s reaction will be when he sees you in that tight fitting gold dress, a picture Jamie took of you on New Year’s Eve.

On the top right of your screen are 3 little lines, you open the menu and have two options. ‘Assigned Dominant’ and ‘Limits and Waivers’. You are eager to fill out whatever Joel wants on this app, but none of this will feel real to you until you see his name as your Dom. You giggle as you click the first menu. Holy shit, you think as the new window loads, this is going to happen, he’s going to do it.

Your heart freezes in your chest, and every ounce of excitement and happiness drains from you as you read ‘Assigned Dominant: Tommy Miller’.

When you get home, you open your JMK app again, looking at the assigned dominant screen in hopes you made a mistake. But there it is, clear as day, ‘Tommy Miller’. You lock your phone in frustration and toss it onto your unmade bed. Why would he do this? You’re sure that everything in the limits and waivers menu would have been a yes if Joel was your dom. But Tommy? Not that there’s anything physically wrong with Tommy. He’s definitely attractive, but he’s not Joel and you thought you made that perfectly clear.

After you shower you've decided you’ve cooled off enough to continue in the app. Tommy is still not Joel, but you want this for yourself, right? And it’s not about pleasure or attraction, it’s about the escape, and more importantly, it’s about having someone to push you and help you grow.

You click the ‘Limits and Waivers’ menu, a whole quiz comes up where you can rate your interest in different sexual and non sexual acts on a scale of one to five, and secondary checkmark if you’ve already done those things. You scroll through the list, this would be easy with Joel, all fives, all ‘highly interested’, or so you think. As you scroll through the list you get some real fetish level stuff - diapers, feet, scat play, being hung from hooks. You know enough not to kink shame anyone, but none of that interests you. As such, you rank them as a one, not at all interested.

You scroll back up to fill in all the stuff you’re more interested in.

Spanking, five.

Whips and Crops, five.

Paddles, five.

Nipple Clamps, five, fucking five hundred at this point.

Bondage, another five hundred. Vibrators, five.

Butt Plug, three - ya, that one surprised even yourself, but it’s Tommy, not Joel.

The little box to click if you’ve done those things remains unchecked. You aren’t a virgin, but the small handful of college boys you’ve entertained had the same two or three moves, all of which left you unsatisfied.

Odette bangs on your door, and you jump as your phone goes flying from your hand as she barges in. “Let’s get ready! Repeat twenty one, baby!”

You scramble off your bed to grab your phone before she does, one of your hands in a death grip on your towel, “Fuck, you scared the shit outta me.”

“Oh god, you were watching porn again weren’t you?” She laughs as your cheeks flush crimson. She wanders to your closet and opens the doors, “We gotta find you something real hot for tonight, you need to get laid.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” you sing nonchalantly, wandering to your vanity to run a brush through your wet hair.

A few hours later and you’re all ready to go. Jamie and Laren came over to pre-drink and do their hair and make up. The four of you blasted nineties Shania Twain while drinking rosé and doing shots of cheap tequila. You pick a floor length black dress with a slit that goes almost to your hip and drips low between your breasts and leaves your back bare. You leave your hair down, curling it loosely before applying minimal makeup, flirty false lashes and a vibrant matte red lipstick. The packaging says that it's guaranteed not to smudge for up to twelve hours.

“We’ll test that tonight on drinks and men,” Laren says as she steals it from your hand and puts it on her full, pouty lips.

Jamie surprises you with a limo. Before getting in you swipe your JMK app open and save your half-finished preferences. Tonight is not about Joel or Tommy; tonight is about you, and you deserve to be celebrated.

The table Jamie managed to secure for your birthday is perfect. You’re just off the dance floor, but raised up so that you can see the entire club. The music is loud and the room is dark, dimly lit with light pinks and purples. As you settle into the booth a young icy haired blonde girl in small black shorts and a lacy bra wanders in. “Hey babes! I’m Jade, let’s get these bottles going! Here’s the menu.”

Her eyes fall to you as she hands the bottle service menu and you both freeze. It’s her, the girl from Joel’s desk. The thump of the music fades and all you can hear is her moans and cries, the squelching of her pussy as Joel finger fucked her hard and deep. Shit, fuck, why me. She smiles at you, “Oh hey! Good to see you again.”

A chorus of, ‘again?’ and ‘how do you know each other?’ comes from your friends, all of their wide eyes staring at you.

“We don’t really,” you rush. “Just a mutual acquaintance really.”

Luckily, she gets the hint and just nods along. “What are we getting to drink ladies? I’ve heard it’s on the house so pick something expensive!”

You pick a bottle of Clase Azul tequila, Jade saying she can make different cocktails with it so you’re not all just doing shots. After a few rounds you find yourself alone in the booth while your friends go to the bathroom. Jade sits on the black leather seat beside you.

“Look, I just want to say that I’m sorry for what you saw the other week. Joel sort of forbade me from seeking you out, but if you’re in my section at the club I work at then I’m not really breaking any rules.” She’s even more beautiful up close, no fucking wonder Joel wants to give you to Tommy. It’s just you, sweet girl, only you. But you see it now, why he’d pass you along. You can’t compete with a woman like her, and from the sounds of it Joel has more than one gorgeous, tall, slender blonde at his beck and call.

“No, it’s ok. I’m actually learning to be a sub soon.” You smile at her, trying to tamp down the jealousy that’s threatening to choke you.

“No way! Joel is amazing, I only see him like once a month now but you’re going to love it.” Suddenly your entire body feels like an open wound, and the lime and salt left on your hands from tequila shots burns through you. The back of your eyes burn, frustration and jealousy don’t mix well with Rosé and tequila. You blink a few times to stop the tears.

“He actually set me up with Tommy,” you croak, “Said I’m more his type.”

Just as she opens her perfect pink lips you hear the unmistakable opening to your all time favourite Shania Twain song, and as if your friends appeared from thin air the four of you yell, “Let’s go girls!”. The icy blonde pats the top of the table in your booth with one hand and holds her other hand out for yours. You climb up onto the table, your friends getting on the chairs.

Every insecurity dissipates from your body as you sing loudly with your friends, swaying your hips to the music. You surrender yourself to the genius that was Shania Twain and Mutt Lange. As you break into the chorus for a second time, a glint of silver across the club catches your eye. Standing on the other side of the dancefloor, leaning against the bar top, is Joel Miller.

His eyes are locked on yours; he’s wearing brown dress pants and a white short sleeved button up shirt, the top few buttons are left undone and it pulls at his biceps perfectly. He looks so sexy and casual, hair pushed back as he swirls the amber coloured whiskey around in its glass. He smiles devilishly, shaking his head jovially at you as you put on a show for him. As the song ends he crooks his pointer and middle fingers at you, silently calling you over. The simple motion of his fingers makes your pussy flutter, wetness slicking your thighs since you decided to forgo underwear tonight. Risky choice with the high slit of the skirt but suddenly it’s feeling like it’s the best decision you’ve ever made.

“I’ll be right back,” you whisper to your girlfriends as they help you off the table. They call for more shots and you refrain from all out sprinting to Joel.

“Quite the show you put on up there,” he says, grabbing your bicep like he did at the poker game and pulling you gently along with him.

“You didn’t seem to mind.” You twist your arm out of his grasp and stumble. You’re definitely well on your way to being drunk, but you don’t want him to know that.

He grabs for your waist to steady you. “Careful, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not. And even if I was, I’m celebrating, so I’m allowed to be drunk. Not allowed to be your sub, but allowed to be drunk.” His eyes darken and you know you’ve crossed some sort of undrawn line, but you’re at that reckless sass point in your tipsiness and you really don’t care. A saccharine sweet smile crosses your face as you plant your hands on your hips.

“You sure you wanna play this game, sweetheart?” He practically growls.

“I’m not your sweetheart, I’m Tommy’s,” it comes out poutier than you expect. You spin on the balls of your feet and head back to the dance floor. As always, you can feel his eyes on you as you walk away. When you approach the dance floor you see a handsome man about your age looking at you. A quick glance over your shoulder confirms Joel is watching, you grab the hand of the stranger and say, “Let’s dance.”

As all young, drunk boys do, he obliges. You spin and press your back in this body, grinding your ass into him and keeping your eyes locked on Joel. How did he find you here? Why would he be out at this particular club, unless of course he’s keeping an eye on the icy blonde woman. She confirmed they only see each other once a month though, so why? Is he following you somehow?

The boy's hands move to your hips, traveling up your abdomen. You wink at Joel, pulling your hair to the side and tilting your head so the boy behind you has access to the same spot on your neck that he had in his office. Just as his lips start to lower Joel snaps. Got him, you think. He takes a few long strides onto the dance floor, pulling you away like you’re some sort of toy, like he’s a caveman coming to take what’s his. You let him pull you, yelling an apology to the boy on the dance floor.

Even though you’re happy to go with him, you can’t let him know that. “Joel, stop it. You can’t kick me out of here too.”

He takes you down a quiet, dark hallway, barely illuminated by the red glow of the EXIT sign. “I own half this place, baby. So I can.”

You twist your arm free from his grip, “You’re the bane of my existence, Joel Miller.”

“Why haven’t you filled out your app yet?”

You scoff, anger and annoyance starting to replace the happy feeling you had when he pulled you from the dance floor. “Are you stalking me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Doms can see where their subs are at all times if they accept the location tracker on the app.”

Shit, all those menus that you just clicked ‘Accept All’ to at the beginning. Of course your dom would be able to find you, depending on the relationship they can control everything you do. “You’re not my dom!” You state.

Joel rolls his eyes. “I know. Tommy told me you hadn’t filled it all out yet and where you were. So, why haven’t you filled out the app?”

You lean back on the railing along the wall and slide your feet from your heels, placing them on the cool tile of the floor to soothe the ache in your arches. Your hands come back to grip the railing. “It’s none of your business.”

“Sweet girl, in this case it literally is my business. The JM stands for Joel Miller.”

This time you roll your eyes and then mumble, “Because I don’t want Tommy. I don’t think I’m going to fill it out anymore.”

Joel leans back against the railing across the small hall from you, pinching the bridge of his noise in annoyance, “Please. For me, can you just fill it out?”

“For you? You made it clear you don't want me. I’m filling it out for Tommy.”

He crosses his arms, biceps bulging even more against the tight fabric of his short sleeved button up, if he’s not careful he’s going to go full incredible hulk on that shirt. Not that you’d mind.

“That’s not what I’m sayin’ and that’s also where you’re wrong. You’re fillin’ that out for you. If you’re fillin’ it out for anyone else, then you’re doing this for the wrong reasons.”

You let out an unimpressed sounding huff, “I’m not.”

His lips press into a tight line as he considers his words carefully; Joel is old enough to know not to argue with a twenty-one year old who’s had tequila. “Ok, you’re not. So then why do you want to be a sub?”

He watches as your whole body seems to deflate, there’s a shift, almost like desperation in your body. Sadness lines your eyes as they meet his and your voice comes out small and uncertain. “Because I’m exhausted, Joel. I - I spend all day making decisions, and studying, and learning about civil rights law. I’m always having to come up with a plan A, and B, all the way to plan Z sometimes. And then,” your head falls back to the wall as you continue speaking to the ceiling with your eyes closed, “Then I do it all over again the next day. I can’t shut it off, my brain. It just keeps going and going. It's so loud, so constant, so fucking overwhelming and there’s no escape.”

You fall silent and he steps forward, slipping his large hand behind your neck and bringing your gaze to his. You continue, fighting against the boulder that’s forming in your throat, “I don’t think I’m good enough. Or strong enough…Smart enough. I want to see for once that I am, want to see what I can overcome. For once,” you sigh heavily. “For once I just want someone to tell me how well I’m doing.”

Joel’s eyes fall to your lips, his voice a hoarse whisper, “Fill out the app.”

You take a deep breath. You feel lighter after finally getting to confessing all of that to him. That was your plan for his office the other day, but something about him flusters you and you were completely knocked off the rails by that special unknown thing Joel has over you. You whisper, “I don’t want to do this with Tommy. Please, Joel.”

Joel’s forehead comes to rest on yours, you can see the golden flecks in his dark eyes at this proximity. He smells like mint, and that same ash and leather from his office the other day. You should ask him right now why he let you in his basement today, but he speaks before you can. “Can you please, just for once, show me that you can listen?”

“Kiss me,” you hum, trailing your hands up his strong arms.

He stiffens under your touch. “What?” he asks dumbfoundedly.

“Kiss me and I’ll go home right now and fill out the app,” you whisper, inching your lips closer to his.

“You’ll go home, fill out the app, and you will not touch yourself.” It’s not a question, it’s a deep command.

Now it’s your turn to be confused as you say, “What?”

He crowds his body closer to yours, pulling his face back slightly so he can take you all in. You’ve never seen this expression before, that flash of darkness from the first time you called him Mister Miller in your car has permanently etched itself into your mind, but it’s almost like he’s transitioned into full dominant Mister Miller now. “If you want to convince me to be your dom, it’s not going to be through just a kiss. So prove to me that you can listen, prove to me that you can be a good girl. ”

The wetness between your legs starts to coat your thighs at the sound of him asking you to be a good girl. You clench your thighs together as his forehead meets yours again.

He continues, his voice just as commanding, “If I give you this kiss, you’ll go home alone, you will not touch that dripping little cunt, and you will fill out the app.”

Your pussy is throbbing with need. You should have known better than to sass him so hard tonight. Someone as competent and experienced as Joel would know exactly how to punish his sub when they were acting up. You nod your head and hum in agreement to his demands.

“Ask me nicely.” He murmurs.

“P-please…kiss me, Joel.” Butterflies assault the inside of your stomach.

You didn’t think it was possible, but he manages to crowd you even more, your entire body pressed firmly against his. Every skin cell is screaming for his attention, every nerve firing off signals making you hyper aware of anywhere he’s touching you.

“Ask me again using that name I told you not to call me,” He knows he’s playing with fire, but at this exact moment he doesn’t care, he fucking loves the way his preferred dom name sounds coming off your lips.

“Kiss me, Mister Miller. Please?” It’s airy and desperate, your knees feel weak below you and it feels as if you can’t get a full breath in. The anticipation is killing you.

“Why?” he growls. Growing up you were always afraid of dark spaces, but if there were any monsters in this hallway they’d be running scared at the timbre of his voice right now.

Your back arches instinctively into him. You’re safe here, Joel Miller is your safety. “Because I need you, Mister Miller. Please. Just one kiss…then I’ll do anything. I promise. P-please. I need to feel you on me, Mister Miller.”

Joel bends slightly, his hands come to the back of your thighs and he lifts you, slamming you against the wall. You squeal, arms flinging around his neck as your ankles hook around his waist. He pins you to the wall with his hips and lets go of your thighs. Both of you are practically panting, his cock is hard as steel, pressing against his zipper and your bare pussy. Your skirt is covering you from exposing yourself to him but something about the glint in his eye when your bodies connect makes you think he might know you don’t have any panties on.

His hands peel your arms from around his neck and he pins them with one hand above your head like he did in his office. You whimper and grind your hips against him. His free hand wraps around your throat, holding it gently.

“No,” he growls and it takes every ounce of self control you have to stop your hips. “Say it again.”

He watches your mouth hungrily as you lick your lips and you fight back a moan. He can feel your pulse firing rapidly under his calloused fingertips. A needy whisper passes your lips, filling the miniscule space left between your bodies. “I need you, Mister Miller. Please kiss me.”

With that he slams his lips against yours. It’s a desperate and heady mess of tongue and teeth, your moans being swallowed by his greedy mouth. You tilt your head to allow him in more. His tongue devours every inch that it can reach. He nips at your bottom lip before diving back in. He takes whatever he wants from you and you let him. For the first time in years your brain is quiet. No anxiety about the quickly approaching LSAT, no thinking of whatever practice question you’re stuck on. That nagging fear of being rejected from all the law schools you’ve applied to goes silent. The worrying voice that tells you you’re not good enough disappears. Everything you are is replaced by whatever Joel gives.

You grind down onto him as you flick your tongue against his; he’s so rough yet so very soft. His tongue tastes like mint and whiskey. You can feel your orgasm building, it’s going to happen embarrassingly fast at this rate. You feel light headed from lack of oxygen and the slight push of his fingers into the side of your throat. More, more, more, you yell in your head.

Joel breaks the kiss and puts you down on your feet, holding you steady as you find your legs again. His lips are puffy and even though it’s not the time to be thinking of this, you realize there isn’t a single drop of red lipstick on his face, so it really will last twelve hours without smudging.

His thumb comes to your face, swiping along your bottom lip gently, “Put your number in my phone, sweet girl.”

He holds his brand new iPhone Max out to you and you tap your number in with shaky fingers. He sends a quick text when you hand his phone back and then he kneels in front of you, helping you back into your heels. As he stands his hand trails from your ankle, all the way up the slit of your skirt to settle on your clothed hip. “Go get your stuff and go home now, baby. There’ll be a car waiting for you out front.”

He pats your bum gently as you walk on shaky legs back to your VIP booth. You feel like a newborn giraffe as you make your way to your table.

“Where have you been?” Jamie proclaims, holding up a tequila shot for you.

You wave her off, “I think I’ve had too much. I’m gonna go but I want you girls to stay. Enjoy your night for me.”

It takes a few minutes but you convince your friends to stay and that you’ll be fine and already have a ride arranged. As you exit the club there’s a gorgeous blacked out town car parked in front. An older gentleman in a suit looks at you and nods, “Good Evening, Miss. Are you the young lady Joel Miller has asked me to escort home?”

You nod back, trying to act like this is an everyday occurrence and not the most outrageous thing that’s ever happened to you. As soon as you get home you change into your most unflattering set of pajamas, hoping that if you feel unsexy then it’ll stop that insistent throb between your thighs. Joel was so fucking close again, and this time there was no underwear in his way.

You slide open the app, Tommy Miller is still set as your dom, but you go through the preferences carefully and answer as honestly as possible as to what you want. You try to focus on the questions even though you can still feel Joel's throbbing cock pushing against you, and his warm hands around your wrists and throat. You can still taste him on your lips. You shake the ghost of him off of you and remind yourself again what you want from this, aside from mind-blowing orgasms.

You fill out every section and then hit save. Just as you are about to lock your phone and try to fall asleep your phone vibrates, the JMK app as a notification.

‘Your Assigned Dominant has changed to Joel Miller’

Your heart pounds behind your rib cage as you stare at the notification, your head feels fuzzy, possibly from the booze, or that kiss, but you can’t believe your eyes. You close out of the app and go back in, staring at where Joel’s name has replaced Tommy’s. Just as it all starts to feel real you get a text message from a number you don’t have saved. You click on the message app.

“No coming until I say so, I know you weren’t wearing any panties tonight. Messy little pussy ruined my pants. Go to sleep now, my sweet girl.”

Next Chapter

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the-californicationist · 6 months ago

Text

Pas de Deux

For @glitterypirateduck's May 2024 Ghost challenge (item #100)!

I don't write Ghost, but I love Duck too much to pass it up. <3

You invited your brother, Kyle, to come and watch your performance as Odette in Swan Lake. He makes it to the theatre, but he brings his friends. That's when you fall head over heels for Simon Riley.

You’d begged your brother to come to your final performance. You needed him there, needed to feel him in the crowd, even if you couldn’t see him out there. Kyle promised he would be there, and as you went through your pre-show routine, you hoped he would be true to his word.

You knew it was difficult for him to get away from work. You’d left him with four tickets, asking him to invite his mates, if that would make it easier. You remember seeing his soft smile as he fanned out the bright gold tickets, inwardly laughing at you for not understanding the contrast between your world and his as he commented,

“These blokes aren’t really keen on ballets, Duck.”

He’d always called you by that stupid nickname. Well, the longer version had been his favorite as a teenage boy: the Ugly Duckling. But, it was fine. You’d called him Vile instead of Kyle most of his life, so you felt like it was an even score.

“It’s important to me,” you’d insisted.

“I know,” he nodded, conceding, “I’ll try.”

So, as the lights were warming up and you were applying your third layer of powder, praying for a smooth night, your heart stretched itself out, begging not to be broken, the whining strings of the cellos and violins in the pit below your feet made the sounds that your heartstrings were feeling — too quiet, too off-key.

“Hey, babe,” one of your fellow dancers hissed at you from behind the backstage door, “Why didn’t you tell us you had a hot brother with a bunch of hot friends?”

“What?” You asked, confused, shaken out of your mental focus.

Then, over her shoulder, you saw Kyle’s face. He beamed at you, giving you a little wave. You leapt up from the floor where you were stretching, not yet in full costume, wrapping yourself in a warm wool sweater, rushing to greet him.

“You came!” You smiled up at him, wrapping him in a big hug. He hugged you back, full of his immense strength. You stood back to get a better look at him. He was all dressed up, and you couldn’t believe it. Someone behind him cleared their throat, getting your attention.

“Oh, right. Duck, these are my mates,” he pointed them out one by one, “Johnny MacTavish, John Price, and Simon Riley.”

When he pointed to the last one, you felt your breath catch in your throat. It felt as if he was the one who caught it. He was a tower of a man, and his broad, muscular shoulders dwarfed his big friends, making the dancers who were rushing by him back and forth to the stage seem so small. Unlike the other two, his face didn’t light up in a warm smile. His bright eyes simply took you in, drinking you like a long draught, swallowing every piece of you. He studied your makeup, your neck and your shoulders, all the way down your legs, scanning you like he would be given an exam.

“Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming, seriously. I’ve been trying to get Kyle to show up for months.”

The stocky man with the beard smiled back at you warmly,

“We love a good ballet, don’t we, lads?”

You didn’t miss the way his elbow jutted out to stab Simon in the ribs, prompting him to speak.

When he did, his voice was quiet, and although he had a thick Manc accent, his tone was controlled, measured, even,

“Aye. Big fans.”

“Oh, well,” you couldn’t stop staring at Simon, so you pinned your eyes to the floor instead, “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Drinks after, yeah?” Kyle said, rubbing your arm supportively.

You nodded, watching them head back to the main auditorium.

A few friends, dancers and stagehands alike, rushed up to you as they left, gushing about how attractive they all were.

“Who was that bloody blond giant? Dressed in all black. He was lookin’ at you like he was hungry.”

“I want the Scot with the mohawk. I’m not takin’ no for an answer, girlie. Oh, my God. Did you see his kilt?”

“Your brother is so damn fit! What the fuck, babes?”

“I liked the scruffy one the best. Bet that beard feels good between —”

“Okay! It’s almost showtime. Let’s circle up,” you escaped from the prop room, scurrying back onto the main stage, trying to get your head back in the game.

You went through your warmups with your dancers, and you let your costumers fit you into your opening dress. You needed to think about your work, but you couldn’t get Simon’s sharp gaze out of your mind. He did, in fact, look hungry, and the way his eyes raked over you made you feel every bit like a hot meal.

As the music began, your mind went blank, blissfully quiet and clear. Your muscle memory took over, and you powered through the motions, enjoying the feeling of your blood rushing through your veins. You trusted yourself to get you through the first act, hitting all of your marks and expecting nothing less than perfection.

It wasn’t until you put on the black mask for Odile’s dance with the prince that you began to lose your concentration. There was a wildness that took over you when you played the black swan, a ferocity that your studio director gushed about to the press and to anyone else who cared to listen.

“She’s like an animal! It’s to die for. You must come and see her on stage. It will change this ballet forever!”

You weren’t sure you appreciated being referred to as an animal, but you had to admit that there was something beastial about your transformation. The mask made you feel like you were a new person. It gave you the ability to become someone else, something else. You were sexual and aggressive, dominant and fearsome. It was just what Odile needed, and you delivered.

Except, when you put the mask on tonight, you caught a glimpse of him from backstage. He was sitting in the box that you had bought for your brother, and one of the spotlights’ films had lit his cheek. It was a soft light, but it was enough. As you took your first steps on stage, you couldn’t help but look up towards him, and the flash of hunger in his eyes was still there. So, you decided to give him your animalistic side.

You’d never danced the way you danced that night. The crowd was roaring, and your costar whispered to you,

“Go off, queen. What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, lying through your teeth.

By the time you left the stage, daring to look back over your shoulder, Simon hadn’t taken his eyes off of you for one moment, and his nostrils flared, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself from your display.

Before you knew it, the curtains closed, and you were bowing, dodging thrown roses and teddy bears, elegantly taking your leave. Your body was dripping sweat, and you rushed over to your bag, scarfing down some power gels and cracking open a nutrition bar, hurrying to bring your body back to normal after its ordeal. You’d be expected to pose for some VIP photos in just a few minutes, so you touched up your makeup, but there was only so much you could do.

“My star!” Your director burst through the back door, “Beautiful! You were incredible tonight. Bring your masks. I have some people who want to meet you.”

You nodded, scooping up your masks and giving your bag to one of the other dancers to take back to the barre room.

You schmoozed for a bit, but something itched at the back of your mind. You felt like you were being watched. Then, just while you were taking a photo with someone’s eager six-year-old, you spotted him. Simon stood behind Kyle, staring at you without shame while the other men laughed and joked with a gaggle of dancers. They had swarmed them, fluttering about, insisting to be invited for drinks, and Kyle was eating it up. You didn’t care, though. There was only one thing you wanted — aside from a hot bath and your comfy bed — and that was to enjoy those things with Simon Riley, if he agreed.

“Excuse me, Madame Savoie. I’m exhausted, and my brother is in town. May I take my leave for the night?”

“Of course!” Your director beamed at you, “After that performance, you can take whatever you want.”

She laughed. Her rich friends laughed. You didn’t, but you managed a smile.

You made your way through the crowd over to Kyle and broke the news,

“Kyle, I’m not going to make it to the pub. I’m beat. I think I’ll just walk home.”

“You can’t walk home by yourself, Duckie. You live in bloody Soho.”

“I’ll be alright. I’ll just —”

“I’ll take her,” that Manc accent oozed its way through the din, and almost everyone turned to look at Simon as he offered his services.

Kyle made a face at you, his arms wrapped around two dancers, one on each side, and he shrugged,

“Alright, Duck. Tomorrow for breakfast, though. No excuses.”

You watched as your brother untangled his right arm from one of your swans, and stuck out his hand for Simon to shake. You saw Simon pause, making clear eye contact with your brother, and extending his wide, pale hand.

You weren’t exactly sure what weird sort of ritual you were witnessing, but it seemed like the two men had an entire conversation in just that short span. Then, Simon’s attention was turned fully back to you.

“C’mon, then. I just need to get my bag.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did hold the door for you, and his huge stature did help part the crowd like some sort of biblical sea, making sure you had easy access to the exits.

The barre room was a bright, white open space, and the wooden floors popped and creaked as you walked across them.

Your impromptu bodyguard followed close behind, but he paused near the door when he was presented with the huge room.

“I’d hate to meet that ballerina,” he chuckled.

You turned around, confused by his comment,

“Which one?”

“The one who hit her head on the ceiling to make them build it this bloody high.”

You looked up to where he was pointing, laughing at his odd joke,

“It’s for the piano,” you explained.

“That’s even scarier,” he grimaced, staring up at the high ceiling as if pianos would start falling from it.

You laughed harder, then, imagining a flying baby grand.

“No! No,” you caught your breath, “The sound. It helps us hear the music.”

“Ahh,” he nodded knowingly, conceding to you, “I see. That makes me feel safer.”

You knelt down and started to pack your back, changing your shoes and slipping out of your outer costume, laying the pieces out like you had been trained to do.

“So, which one do you like better?”

“Hm?” You looked up at him, and he bent his knees to squat down in front of you, plucking your white swan mask out of your bag and touching the fine silk bow with his thumb.

“Which swan?” He asked, his eyes staring at you carefully. You got the sense that your answer really mattered to him.

“Well,” you said carefully, “Every girl wants to be Odette. She’s the star. It’s her story. And she gets to fall in love with a prince. But… once you play Odile, I think you realize that there’s… well, there’s something to be said for falling in love with yourself, too.”

You smiled, grabbing your black mask by the nose and holding it up to your eyes, glaring at him to make your point.

“Same person on the inside, though,” he commented, looking down at the white mask in his hand.

You stood up, and you grabbed his hand to help him up,

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“You’re not going to find a tutu that fits me, love.”

“No tutus for you, I promise. Just… stand here. Like that. Put your hand out like this. Good.”

Once he was in position, you grabbed the white mask from him and tied it around your face, willing your sore body back into position.

“This is Odette,” you said, making your hands and feet flutter to life. You spun into his hand, letting him feel the weightlessness of your body as you moved against him, the soft silken rustle of your leotard against his huge, callused hand. Eventually, you came to rest facing away from him, your thigh brushing his hip in a long, extended arabesque. His hand never moved from your waist, and you leaned into it, letting him balance you, his palm warm against your belly through the thin fabric.

“And this…” you replaced the white mask with the black one, changing yourself for him, metamorphosing right before his eyes, “...is Odile.”

This time, you challenged him, making him feel your muscles and bones with each spin, pushing against him like a threat. You could feel his uncertainty, but he naturally steeled himself, grabbing you with more power, trying to harness your energy. But, you knew he couldn’t. He didn’t know what do to. All he could do was stand there and feel you as you moved against him, aggressive and virulent.

As Odile, your final arabesque pressed into him lustfully, translating that fiery rage, your thigh slammed flush with his body, your hips forcing his hand to grip you to keep you from pushing him backwards.

Then, you stepped away, removing the mask and doing a little bow for effect.

“I see,” he murmured, seemingly unphased. But, even though he tried to hide it, his slight adjustment in his black dress pants did not slip by you. He stalked closer to you, closing the space that you had opened. His thumb came up to rub your cheek, right at the edge of the black mask, “Does the mask help?”

You dropped your volume to match his, still catching your breath a bit from the turns,

“Yeah, it reminds me that I can be someone I’m not.”

“Or maybe you can finally be someone you are,” his thumb traced your smooth skin down to your mouth where your lipstick stains and cracked powder were surely a right mess. But, he didn’t care. He pressed the pad of his finger to your bottom lip anyway, moving so carefully and deliberately you felt like you were under his spell.

“Maybe.”

“Hm,” he said noncommittally, backing away from you, releasing you from his invisible hold.

You finished packing, and you made your way into the dark night with him, walking quickly to get out of the spitting rain. He kept his arm around you, wrapping you in his warmth, shielding you from passersby.

Your mind was racing. You had taken this stranger home with you, no questions asked. It was a risk that you just didn’t take. When was the last time you even had a bloke in your flat, much less one that you desperately wanted to snog? At least you had cleaned yesterday. It was too small of a place not to pick up at least a little bit each day. There was no room for you to be messy.

“This is me,” you jingled your keys and pointed up to the tall, modern apartment building, gleaming in glass and steel amidst the historical Soho houses and businesses.

Every floor was the same. It was all modern and white, almost sterile. You felt like you lived in a museum.

“Mm, posh,” he commented, a little disgruntled.

“Free,” you rolled your eyes, “The ballet company houses all of us here.”

“Why can’t my free accommodations ever look this good?”

You cracked open the door to your flat and let him inside. Your cat, Mustard, immediately began her figure-eight dance between his legs, her favorite hello to every person who dared enter her domain.

“What do your accommodations usually look like, then?” You asked, pouring out some kibble for the cat and hanging your bag on its hook.

“Usually a tent, sometimes a cave. They even gave us a house once, no windows in it, but hey. You win some, you lose some.”

“I worry about Kyle, you know. You lads don’t have an easy job.”

“He’ll be alright. He’s a good one.”

“I know,” you smiled softly, staring up into Simon’s eyes, then you remembered your manners, “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, I’m alright,” he smiled back, turning his head to look around your flat.

You gave him the short tour,

“Bathroom’s in there, and here’s my bedroom slash office slash den… Only enough room for the bed, really. I’m not here very much.”

“And…” He spoke slowly, carefully, no joviality in his tone this time, “Is it alright that I’m here, love?”

He eyed you cautiously, moving toward you, towering over your small frame, his hulking shoulders curling in on you, casting dark shadows across your vision, keeping you from the light.

You peered up at him, ignoring his question,

“Do you want to shower with me? I’d fucking murder someone for a hot shower.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, bending forward so that he could press his soft lips to your mouth, kissing you as gently as you’d ever been kissed. But, you could tell, just by the way he moved his jaw, letting his tongue lazily trace your bottom lip, there was so much more fervor under his skin, waiting to be unleashed. Right now, he was Odette, on his best behavior.

But, you wanted to see his Black Swan. Where was the beast that you knew must lurk within?

He pulled away from you, smiling a bit, and you giggled softly, dragging him along by his wrist, ducking into your spacious bathroom. It was the one thing you loved about this place. There was no living room to speak of, but damn if the bathroom wasn’t perfect. The huge glass shower was enough for a party of four, and the dual shower heads made you feel like some sort of royalty. You couldn’t wait to let your muscles soak under the cascade. Maybe tall, blond and handsome could put those strong hands of his to work and rub you down.

You stood in the mirror together, looking at each other, and you started to undress. He twisted a finger under the collar of your sweater until he could feel your skin. Then, he slipped it off of your shoulder. You dropped your arm, letting it slide to the floor. Then, as slowly as he could, you watched as he writhed his finger under your leotard’s strap, pulling it down your arm. When it got to be too taut, you helped him, removing your arms and rolling the soft nylon down your aching body.

Your wig was still on, but you weren’t about to wear it to bed, so you took it off in front of him, running your fingers through your short curls, letting your close-cut fingernails scratch your scalp.

Now, as you stood in the low light of your bathroom mirror, you were naked in front of him, standing with your back to him, covering your breasts in the mirror. Simon bent his head down so he could kiss your neck, and you felt him wrap a big hand around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. His kisses felt hot, and they were deeper than before, more hungry, pressing into you with more power.

You sighed, enjoying his mouth as it worked on you, but well-aware of just how caked on the sweat and the makeup were after a show, making excuses for yourself,

“I’m sweaty,” you whispered.

“I know,” he smiled, sticking out his fat, pink tongue and licking his way up to your ear, just to make his point.

He wrapped his arms around you, retreating for a moment, looking at you in the mirror. Then, when he saw you covering yourself, he gently pushed your arms away, making you reveal your bare breasts to him.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he praised you, kissing your scalp chastely.

You turned your back to the looking glass to face him, and you tangled your fingers between the buttons of his dress shirt. You weren’t in any hurry to peel him apart, but as you did, you saw more and more evidence of his hard life. His enormous muscles were inked with old tattoos, war scenes etched into his creamy flesh in black and gray. But, carved across his skin were tens of deep, jagged scars, standing as proof of the cruelty he’d endured.

You let your mouth fall to his chest, kissing him indiscriminately, licking when you wanted to, nibbling when you wanted to, giving in to your hedonism fully.

He untucked his shirt for you, peeling it off of his shoulders, and you watched as his muscles rippled and bent around his bones, stretching under his will. You worked on his belt, and he watched you take him apart, both of your heads craned down, staring at your hands as you freed him from his trousers. The zipper fell smoothly, and all that was left were his boxer briefs, underneath which hung a very girthy cock.

You touched him through the fabric, and he let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

“You’re a big man, Mr. Riley,” you teased, playing with his head through the thin fabric, meeting his gaze and finding him fully unraveled. His eyes were hooded and lustful, and it made you wonder how he liked to be touched so you could keep him like this, under your spell.

He tucked his thumbs in his pants and pulled them down, bare with you, and he held your body flush to his in a warm hug. You could feel his cock trapped between you, wet and warm on your belly, and his big hands came down to grab two handfuls of your ass, prying you apart so that the cold air of the room would hit your pussy and tell you how wet you were, enjoying the feel of your meat between his fingers.

“Good thing you’ve got a bloody big shower, love. Might actually be able to stand under the tap, me. Can’t believe it.”

You watched him step into the large glass box and turn on the stream, the heat making him sigh. You joined him, jealous of the feeling, and let your own shower head beat your muscles into submission.

You hissed in pain and he heard it, snapping his attention to you like a dog with a bone.

“What is it?”

“Sore. End of the week is hard.”

He poured some of your soap into his hand, way too much, but you didn’t correct him, and he commented as he bathed you,

“I read about it before we came, you know. Read about the story. About what you have to do to be the star. Hard work, that.”

“There are harder things,” You said in a low voice, tracing a particularly suspicious-looking wound in the shape of a bullet on his right hip.

“Not many. Turn around,” he commanded. You were pleasantly surprised how much you liked it when he took control.

Here, in the warm nest of the shower, you gave him your weakness and let him take care of you. He massaged your shoulders and your back unprompted, rubbing slick suds all over your skin, and he washed your hair. You moisturized on your own, letting him smell all of your tonics and potions, washing your face as he fondled your ass again, enjoying you fully.

You felt like time had stopped.

You washed him, letting your hands roam, caring for him as he had cared for you, and when you were both clean, you couldn’t help but linger on each other a bit. He reached between your legs and explored you for a moment, swiping his huge finger through your curls. When he found your warmth, so different from the steam of the shower, and a different wetness, too, he sighed.

“Is it alright if I stay the night?” He asked.

It surprised you. You assumed that getting naked and showering in front of a man who would be immediately boxed up and shipped back to Khandor on the next flight out would have stayed without asking. He would have assumed that his presence was his invitation.

You nodded,

“Please stay, Simon.”

He touched your breast, plucking at your nipple softly, seeming like he was uncertain despite your answer. You pried,

“Are you worried about Kyle? Did he say something —”

“No,” Simon smiled, “He knows you’re a big girl. It’s just been awhile… for me.”

“If you want to go…” You let your hands spread wide across his chest, purposely avoiding his cock, not wanting to sway him in a covinous way.

He shook his head,

“No. I just want you to be sure. I can’t… We leave again, and I can’t make promises.”

“No promises. I know what you do. I know who you are because I know who Kyle is. You aren’t misleading me here, Simon. But, if you don’t take me to bed, I might lose my bloody mind.”

The smile that spread across his face then was a true one. It couldn’t hide. It squeezed his cheeks up into his eyes and wrinkled their edges like a paper fan. His full lips pulled tight across those white teeth, his incisors long like fangs and just as sharp. And he blushed, that pale skin giving away his feelings to you.

He kissed your forehead and turned off the taps, retrieving two towels and bundling you in one, on your way back to bed, you snatched your lotion and started to put it on in a half-assed way, hurrying for his benefit.

“Hey, stealin’ my duties?”

Simon plucked the lotion out of your head and nodded to the bed. You lay down for him, waiting for what he had in store. He pumped the lotion into his hand, less this time, you noticed, and began at your thighs. His wide palms rubbed and massaged you until he had covered you, paying attention to your hands and feet, before commanding you again:

“Flip over, love.”

You gladly did, sighing and moaning shamelessly as he rubbed lotion all over your back and legs. When he got to your round, plump ass, he took more of his time.

“Watchin’ you move up there on that stage, tryin’ to seduce the bloody prince, fuck… it made me feel like you were dancing for me. The way you move… your body… I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”

“I was,” you confessed.

“What?” He stopped massaging you, putting the lotion on your table and crawling into the bed with you.

You waited until you were under the covers with your head firmly planted on his chest before admitting it to him,

“I was dancing for you tonight. When I saw you with my brother… you were all I could think about. I could see you in the box, when I was Odile, and I wanted you to look at me.”

“I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

You weren’t sure who kissed who, but you were now trapped within each other, sucking at each others’ mouths, moaning and writhing in each others’ arms. Snogging like you were dying.

His cock was already hard, but you felt its smooth, silky body pressing and throbbing against your belly as he held you close, hungry for your wet hole, eager to be the one to fill it.

You let your hand fall between you, jerking him off, rubbing slick circles around his head until he had to break your kiss to cry out for you. You raised your leg over his hip and moved to put him inside you, but he shook his head and started chanting in short, breathless whispers,

“Wait, wait, wait…”

Then, he disappeared, leaving you at the top of the duvet alone, licking and sucking his way down your body until he reached your pussy. As he began to eat you, he also spread you apart. You’d never felt so exposed before, but he wanted to lick your petals, slurping them into his mouth like the lobes of a sweet orange, one by one devouring you in your sensitive state.

Your hands scratched at his scalp, which he seemed to enjoy. You watched his eyes flutter with pleasure after a particularly vigorous passthrough.

“Taste so fuckin’ good. Gimme that come, baby,” he growled, gently circling your entrance with two thick fingers before fitting them into you with a wet, slick sound.

“Oh!” You called out, staring down at him as he planted his mouth over your clit, suckling at its swollen body, razing your nerves to ashes.

It didn’t take long before he had you coming for him, and when he felt you tense up beneath his hands, that true smile was back. He sat up on his knees and helped you come back down, slowing his movements just enough to calm your breathing, but keeping you precariously balanced on the edge where he wanted you.

“Turn over on your belly, love.”

For some reason, it made you feel incredibly vulnerable to have him behind you, and your body shivered from the tension. He noticed, and he lay himself over you, soothing you, whispering right into your ear,

“I’ve got you, love. You wanna stop, we’ll stop. No problem. That clear?”

You nodded your head, and he met your eyes, making damn sure. Then, satisfied, you heard him digging around in his discarded dress pants, the crinkle of the foil condom, and then the slick roll of the barrier slipping over his head.

“Thank fuck for condoms,” he laughed, “Might give me a chance to last more than a few minutes in this pretty fuckin’ cunt.”

You laughed with him, shrugging,

“You come, we try again. I’m not bothered.”

“Mm,” he nuzzled your ear, laying his body over yours and letting you feel his weight. His cockhead was tickling your entrance, but he didn’t go any further, saying, “This must be my white swan I have beneath me. Sweet on me, huh?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded, reeling from the sensation of his tip rolling around your hole’s entrance, desperately grinding for more.

“What would the black swan say to me, huh?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, meeting his eyes, and just like you had in the barre room, you showed him your other side. When he saw the flash in your eyes of your wildness, he knew he’d gotten his wish. You shoved your hips down, spearing yourself onto him before he was ready for you, making him gasp as your pussy slaked over the first few inches of his cock.

“Give me your cock, Simon.”

He recovered, biting his lip and thrusting into you, stuffing himself inside of you deeper and deeper,

“There she is. My girl…”

The power that he used to fuck you was beyond anything that any other man had dared give you. You didn’t know this was a possibility. Your whole body was trapped beneath him, being kissed and crushed and fucked into a wet, submissive mess. His arms were planted beside you, pinning you in, and honestly, you had never felt so safe.

You could smell your coconut body wash on him, mixing with whatever it was that made him a man, musky and dark, a hint of his Camel Blues. You wanted to bathe in him, just as he had washed you with his hands. Instead of soap, you wanted it to be him, smearing himself all over you, caking you in his essence.

“Fuck, you are so tight. Squeezin’ me. Fuck…”

He was off of you in a flash, and before you knew it, he’d flipped you over. He spread open your legs and played with you for a moment, trying to stop himself from coming. His cock was in his other hand like a vice, and you watched him struggle with no small sense of pride.

You decided it was your turn to lead this dance, and you sat up, kissing him full on the mouth, letting your tongue loll against his, sensuous and warm. Then, you wrapped your knees around him and shoved him back toward the foot of the bed, riding him down. When you caught your balance, you reached behind you to feed him into your pussy again, pressing into him with your weight.

“Wait! Oh, fuckin’ hell.”

Simon’s hands went to your hips and then immediately to cover his mouth, stopping himself from gasping from the sensation. You ignored him, bucking against his huge cock, discovering you could take him even deeper. As you began to grind against him, you let your hands play in your folds, vibrating your clit and driving yourself wild. Your other hand went to his balls, rolling them gently in your hands behind your back.

“Ungh… You are gonna make me come, love.”

As soon as you heard his confession, you released him from your hand and paused at the top of your thrust, hovering on his tip in midair, teasing him ruthlessly.

“Oh… you —” Simon never finished his sentence because he grabbed you around your hips and dropped you back to the bed, prowling over you and huffing like a stuck bull. You were laughing in gasping breaths from the shock of his strength, and you almost missed the moment when he began to press his swollen rod back inside of you, spearing you mercilessly.

You whimpered, wrapping your hands around his neck like a lifeline.

“Mmm,” he purred proudly, “She needs me, now. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, letting him kiss you languidly with soft, pliant lips.

“Needs me like this, huh? Tell me.”

“I need you, Si—”

“Tell. Me.”

“I need you so bad! Please, please… fuck me like this. Fuck —”

He covered your mouth with his own and chased down your orgasm like a thief, watching as your eyes got wide, pulling away so he could hear you keen.

“Yes, yes, yes…” He chanted in your face, not moving away for a second, unwilling to miss even one moment of it.

“Simon…” You whined, feeling the shock of your release and the afterburn of your pleasure as it flooded through your core, messy and salacious.

“Feel so good, baby,” he was barely speaking above a whisper, sounding like he was drunk, struggling to keep his rhythm.

“You gonna come in me?”

Hope and bliss flashed across his face, and he kissed you again, pressing his nose right beside your nose and muttering into your mouth,

“Fuck yes, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

As he came, he held his breath, locked, frozen in time, his eyes wrenched shut and his mouth wide open in a silent scream. You held his head in your arms, keeping him close to you, keeping him safe like he had kept you.

When he finally took a breath, it was ragged and gravelly. He panted like a tired hound, sucking in air and leaning against you to recover. For a while, you just lay together, his big body draped over yours, healing in you, using your wet come as a salve.

Then, he slipped away, leaving you bereft at the loss.

He pulled you into his arms, making sure you were covered and warm in your bed, finding your eyes and kissing your cheek, wordlessly thanking you for what he had done to you.

“Do you want me to go?” He whispered, his eyes closed as if he couldn’t face the answer.

“Please, stay. Don’t leave me, Simon. Not yet.”

“C’mere,” he sighed, curling his body around yours, securing you in his arms, breathing with you until you both tumbled into a deep, dark sleep.

AO3 Link

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #call of duty #gpdrecs #gpd #gpdrecs writing challenge #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghostchallenge

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queen-of-reptiles · 1 year ago

Text

𝚂𝚆𝙰𝙽

description: in which katie mccabe's girlfriend is on her final run of Swan Lake as Odette, and sometimes all you need is a bit of love to help say goodbye.

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katie mccabe x female reader

disclaimer: this is all a work of fiction - she never dated Rue and Caitlin in this :)

warnings: Nothing too bad, a little saucy and slightly sexual comments.

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y/n just posted

liked by katie_mccabe11, leahwilliamsonn and 98, 211

tagged birminghamroyalballett

y/n:

From Birmingham to Salford, to Sunderland to Edinburgh, to Plymouth and now back to Edinburgh to say goodbye.

This last year has been nothing short of breath-taking and a dream. To the cast who have been fantastic, thank you, I have made some lifelong friends.

To my dance teachers and directors, you gave a little nobody the chance to be her dream and I cannot be more grateful to you for that.

And finally, Odette, thank you for your have turned me into the princess a young girl once dreamed of being.

The best of luck to all those continuing, and onto the next journey.

love,

y/n xx

view 1098 comments...

ceasermorales: You are so fantastic! I will miss you very much, my odette! 🤍

y/n: My prince 🤍🖤

username1: I am such a big fan, you have been the best Odette we have ever seen! 😭❤️❤️

Username2: OMG i follow you on TikTok! I love you!

katie_mccabe11: beautiful as always! <3

username3: uhhhhh Katie? What you doing here?

username4: omg is Katie lurking??? 😭

username5: well ig Katie has never publicly dated anyone???

username3: no please Katie cannot be taken!! 😫😫😫

username6: bitch you're delusional, let Katie date people, she's not yours just cause she has never talked about her love life!!!

username7: THE WHOLE ARSENAL TEAM HAVE LIKED THIS!! 😱😱

yaoqinshang: It has been nothing short of an honour understudying you - thank you for all you taught me - I will miss you!

y/n: Knock them dead kiddo - love you xx

rosannaely: Gonna miss you !

y/n: Going to miss ya too xoxo

isabellahoward: gonna blow their minds out there !! xx

username8: omg what is she doing??

y/n: xoxo

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katie_mccabe11 just posted on her story

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Twitter/X

username1: Has anyone seen Katie's story????

username2: WHO IS THIS GIRL ON KATIE'S STORY?

username3: Her name is y/n! This is her @ - @y/n - she is ballet dancer ! She just finished her run as Odette in the Royal Birmingham Ballet.

username4: omg i watched her dance last month she was sooo good!! 🥺

username5: SHE IS SO PRETTY AS WELL

username6: she's quite big on Tiktok also thank you for finding her!

username7: Katie having a potential new gf who is A BALLET DANCER of all things is insane!!!!

username8: She is also a ballroom dancer! my friend took a few masterclasses off of her and said she is like the sweetest thing!

username9: sunshine x stormcloud OMGOMG OMG cute!! 🥺❤️❤️

username10: they could just be friends though?

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katie_mccabe11 just posted

liked by, leahwilliamsonn, arsenalwfc, and 129, 388 others

katie_mccabe11 how does she do this? 😶

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username1: omg omg its her!

username2: IS THIS CONFIRMATION? 🧐🧐

username3: cool katie, cool.

username4: NOOO why would she be with her??

username5: she ain't even that pretty wtf??

leahwilliamsonn: I don't understand how much talent can be in one little body? Like how does she do it?

katie_mccabe11: I think she's a witch honestly

bethmead_: well, we alllll know who she's put a spell on if that's the case...

leahwilliamsonn: 🫣🫣

caitlinfoord: do you think she could teach me?

y/n: I would gladly! 😘

katie_mccabe: no, we need Caitlin to be actually able to play, not broken.

y/n: aw 🙁

cailtinfoord: aw 🙁

jade_mc7: she's so cool - so much cooler than Katie!

laurynmccabe15: agreed

c_mccabe11: agreed

_deanmccabe: agreed

katie_mccabe11: OI little shites 😠

arsenalwfc: we agree too Mccabe clan.

username6: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

see more comments…

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y/n just posted

liked by, katie_mccabe11, caitlinfoord and 298, 356 others

tagged katie_mccabe11, caitlinfoord, leahwilliamsonn, bethmead_ and 4 others

y/n what a fun day :)

view 2126 comments

username1: SHE’S HANGING OUT WITH THE ARSENAL GIRLIES??

username2: SHE AND KATIE HAVE TO BE DATING?

username3: the way Katie is looking at her behind the camera 😩

leahwilliamsonn: I still don’t get how you go up on your toes 🤨

caitlinfoord: I never want to learn, trying was enough 😭

bethmead_: you mean face planting was enough …

kyracooneyx: I think i could do ballet full time 😁😁

y/n: deffo, career change in the works 😘

katie_mccabe11: that photo of me ?? 🙄

y/n: don’t i love it !!

username4: 🧐🤨

viviannemeidema: 🩷

y/n: 🩷

isabellahoward: CAN I COME NEXT TIME??

y/n: YES OMG 🖤

see more comments…

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katie_mccabe11 just posted

liked by, y/n, leahwilliamsonn, and 321, 838 others

tagged y/n

katie_mccabe11 happy three years love - lucky to have ya to keep me calm <3

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y/n just posted

liked by arsenalwfc, bethmead_ and 211, 983 others

tagged katie_mccabe11

y/n three fantastic years with you, I cannot explain how much i love you and how grateful I am to have had you in my life.

I’m so glad you knocked me down in that park all those years ago, because it has led to the best thing in my life <3

Too many more my love xxx

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twitter/ X

username1: 3 YEARS??

username2: WE DIDNT KNOW FOR THREE YEARS???

username3: HOW? three entire fucking years

username4: i want more content of them now

username5: HARD LAUNCH KATIE

username6: I’m so confused with this relationship 😭😭

username7: THEY ARE SO CUTE #y/nmccabe

username8: HOW HAS THE ENTIRE ARSENAL CLAN KEPT THIS QUIET

arsenalwfc: IT WAS HARD!

see more tweets…

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y/n sighed as her phone blew up yet again, her notifications going insane on the bench next to her as she watched her girlfriend train.

Jonas was shouting football instructions y/n vaguely recognised from the sidelines as the training session drew to a close.

y/n was lucky, Jonas was fine with her in the training sessions having been with Katie so long, the team loving her and the fact a lo of the training staff's children had private dance lessons with y/n.

As the session slowly drew to a close, y/n left her phone blowing up on the bench as she went around and helped with picking up the cones.

She found herself at the training centre more often recently, finding it boring being at home while she waited for the announcement of her new job, the BBC still keeping it quiet.

As y/n bent down and grabbed another cone, two familiar hands placed themselves on her hips and as she stood back up she was pulled back into a chest.

"Alright, twinkle toes?" Leah asked with a mock Irish accent, y/n laughed as Katie's head popped up at the sound of her, the Irish woman rolling her eyes at her teammate who had her arms around her girl.

"Oi, Williamson, hands off!" Katie yelled, leaving Caitlin and Alessia who rolled their eyes as the Irish woman chased down the currently benched blonde captain.

Katie's hands pushed Leah from y/n, the blonde stumbling as Katie wrapped her arms around her lover, pressing a long kiss to her lips as y/n squeaked and turned to face Leah worriedly.

"Katie careful with her!" The dancer chided her girlfriend who rolled her eyes as Leah pouted, leaning into the natural worry the dancer had for her.

"Yeah Katie, careful with me." Leah mocked and the Irish woman scoffed.

"No." Katie chided as y/n tried to move from her arms.

"I wanna help." The dancer whined at her girlfriend. Katie just shrugged and kissed her again, Leah groaning in disgust as she walked off, wanting to go bother someone else.

"Y/n! Your phone's going mental!" Kyra calls from across the pitch, y/n pulls away from the worryingly addictive lips of her girlfriend and looked toward the young girl.

"Yeah, I know darling, just leave it." y/n called, Kyra grinning at her as she followed the rest of her team inside, leaving the two lovers alone on the pitch.

"Social media still going mad over us?" Katie asks her worriedly, her slightly clammy hand coming up to cup her love's cheek as she nodded.

"Yeah, but it will die down eventually." The girl said unbothered.

"You sure you are still okay with us going public?" Katie asks and the dancer giggled.

"Too late to take it back now Katie-bear." She smiled, Katie hushing her use of the nickname which melted her heart.

"Shh, if the girls heard that nickname I would never heard the end of it." Katie tells her and the dancer in her arms laughed, Katie's hands squeezing her waist tighter at the sound which made her heart light.

"Oh yeah, you have to keep up that big bad wolf persona." y/n mocked with a giggle, Katie looking at her offended.

"Excuse me, I am a big bad wolf." Katie defended.

"In your dreams lovie." y/n laughed, but she screeched when Katie threw her over her shoulder, Katie's strong hands holding tight to her thighs as she began to spin in circles.

"Ready to say sorry?" Katie asked, her grin wide at the sound of her lover's giggles.

"Okay, okay I'm sorry." She called, which caused Katie to place her back on her feet, the Irish woman's hands coming to rest on her hips to steady the dizzy girl, who hadn't been able to spot on a place while being spun.

The dancer giggled again and Katie couldn't help but cup her face and pull her in for a kiss, their lips meeting and Katie quickly deepening the kiss.

Katie's arms moved back down to grip the hips of her lover, pulling her closer to her body, y/n's small arms wrapping around Katie's neck, holding tight as she pulled herself up and closer.

Katie's tongue infected her mouth, claiming her as she squeezed her tighter to her body, both of them too caught up in the deep kiss to hear Leah coming to look for them.

"Oh come on!" Leah huffed. "Take a breath!" She yelled at them, Katie rolls her eyes as her hand slips down and squeezes her girlfriend's ass to annoy the blonde who gagged from afar.

y/n pulled away giggling, as Katie squeezed once more before letting her go, the Irish woman grabbing her hand as they walked toward Leah, the blonde holding the dancer's phone in her hand.

"You two are sickening." Leah says, a thump echoing her statement causing Leah to whine, and cling to the dancer who instantly comforted her.

"Katie!"

"What?"

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y/n just posted on her story

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END

hope you enjoyed the added little fic xoxo

hope this is what you wanted @lionesses-lions xxxx

I will probably make a part 2 honestly. :)

Queenie xx

#katiemccabe #katiemccabe imagine #katie mccabe x y/n #katiemccabe x reader #social media woso #woso #woso imagines #woso community #woso soccer #woso x y/n #woso x reader #woso fanfics

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ahollowgrave · 7 months ago

Text

Character Arc --

-- romance/friendship

you started this story a little hard, or awkward, or stubborn. that's okay. it's harder than it should be to admit, but what you really want is love. that's what your story is all about - not just the act of loving, but the allowance of it. the confession that you do not want to fight or bleed or save the world, but to simply feel the way two hands fit so easily together. you will have two chairs and a table and you will shut your blinds, and you will say the word love without faltering. this is a happy ending, and you do not need to feel guilty. it hurts our hands to fight - never to hold.

Pretty fitting, I think!

][ Tagged by: ][ @selnyam & @uldahstreetrat ][ Thank you both!

][ Tagging: ][ @the-sycophant @snakemoltsiren @but-first--tea @yloiseconeillants @fheythfully & You (: ]

[ QUIZ HERE ]

#Answered #Character Quiz #Odette Hollows #Sorry if you've already done this and I missed it!!#feel free to tag me in it or otherwise throw it at me !!#and thank you two for tagging me <3

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goldenamaranthe-blog · 7 months ago

Note

Can we get Clara and Odette learning about Charlie and Vaggie in the university AU

Hi, Anon!

Oh, this is too easy, and too fun! Big sister teasing time, let's go!

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Hell Pride University AU 3: "Protective" Big Sisters

Vaggie: (entering her apartment late at night with a giddy smile on her face after a successful third date - she and Charlie actually kissed good night)

-Light Flicks On-

Clara: (sitting in the arm chair like a mafia boss)

Odette: (sitting on the couch with her white, fluffy cat on her lap)

Vaggie: .....I thought you guys were visiting Mama Carmine tonight for dinner. And, Odette, that cat better not hack up any hairballs in my apartment!

Odette: (petting the cat in her lap) Mother asked that we make sure you were alright. You never miss family dinner night.

Clara: Where have you been?

Vaggie: Uh, out. I'm twenty-four. I can go out. I'm a big girl.

Odette: A big girl who lives in a studio apartment above her sisters' condominium.

Vaggie: Hey! I pay for this with my own money! You two still use Mama Carmine's money. Why don't you just move back home and leave me be?

Clara: Because Mom asked us to watch you and make sure you were safe. (pulls out her phone and scrolls through pictures) Now - (Shows a picture of Vaggie and Charlie holding hands scandalously during dinner and blushing) - spill it. How did you get with the princess of Pride?

Vaggie: (blushes) .......Fuck.

#college au #human au #hell pride university #vaggie #odette #clara #carmine mafia #protective big sisters #thanks anon

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daydreaming-en-pointe · 10 months ago

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the swan and her princess (part 1)

summary: Swan Lake isn’t all beauty and grace, contrary to popular belief. And you experience firsthand that as you wage a one-sided war with your “rival” for the role of the Swan Princess, Odette.

pairing: Gwen Stacy (Spider-Woman) x fem!Ballerina!Reader

word count: 842

warnings: uses of Y/N, lots of ballet terms and references, the teacher displaying blatant favouritism ig?, mildly petty reader 💀

a/n: I finally got around to doing it! yay :D academic rivals to lovers ftw honestly

gearing up for my first official chapter-based fanfic WHOOOOOOOOO

dividers by me btw! it’s my first time doing dividers so any feedback would be appreciated <3

part 1 // part 2 (pending)

glossary:

Swan Lake: Swan Lake, Op. 20, is a ballet composed by Russian composer Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky in 1875–76. It is now one of the most popular ballets of all time. The ballet is based on a German fairy tale, and tells the story of a prince named Siegfried who falls in love with Odette, a princess who has been turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer

Odette: Odette is the main female protagonist in the ballet "Swan Lake," which is composed by Pyotr Tchaikovsky. She is the White Swan, also known as the Swan Princess/Swan Queen.

Anna Pavlova: Anna Pavlovna Pavlova was a Russian prima ballerina of the late 19th and the early 20th centuries. She was a principal artist of the Imperial Russian Ballet and the Ballets Russes of Sergei Diaghilev. (basically, every ballerina’s idol)

first position: In the first position, the heels are together, with toes turned out until the feet are in a large, open V or a straight line.

relevé: Relevé is a French term meaning "raised up." It is one of the basic ballet moves. The dancer starts in a demi-plié (a move where the dancer bends their knees halfway while keeping their feet on the ground) and then rises up into demi-pointe (on the balls of the feet) or en pointe (on the toes), either on one foot or both feet.

“Let’s take it from the top, Y/N. More turned out this time. And your ‘wings’ aren’t flowy enough. You are the very Swan Princess, not a struggling cygnet. You die gracefully.”

You blew air threw your nose a little more forcefully than you usually would, trying your best to follow your ballet teacher’s instructions.

“Ah, Gwendolyn! So nice of you to join us.”

That statement was usually used sarcastically in most settings. So why did your teacher’s voice take on a note of adoration? You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, not even looking at the new arrival. All she ever did was drop into class half an hour late - without even doing her hair in a proper bun - and get showered with praises for everything she did. Always Gwen this, Gwen that. You were so sick of it.

“Gwen, if you decide to try out, you would be a perfect fit for the White Swan,” Your teacher eagerly told her, and your ‘flowy feathers’ tightened into fists. Just brilliant. In her eyes, you had no chance at Odette, did you? Once again, Gwendolyn Stacy would swoop in and snatch up something you had worked so hard for, spending hours upon hours on late nights at the studio practising alone, all because the teacher thought she was the next Anna Pavlova. But every time, you bit your tongue and kept your head down. One day, you would show them. You would show them all how good you were. And little Gwendolyn Stacy, the number one teacher’s pet, would watch and weep.

You cleared your throat to jolt your teacher out of her rambling. “Miss? My audition?”

She blinked as if she were just noticing you. “Ah, right. Yes, you may continue.”

You were ready to hurl your pointe shoes at both of their annoying faces, but you focused on making yourself extra turned out and extra graceful. Oh, how the tables would turn when you got this role.

You risked a glance out of the corner of your eye and noticed with a smug satisfaction that Gwen was staring at you, eyes wide. Completely enthralled.

Ha-ha, Gwendolyn Stacy. Look upon actual, hard-earned talent and despair.

You finished the Dying Swan - the Swan Lake piece you were doing for your audition - and bowed, standing in first position with your head held high.

“Thank you, Y/N. That was very nice. Everyone, let’s get started. Get your shoes on and get into your positions at the barre, please.”

Ugh, the barre positions. Your arch-nemesis, apart from a certain Gwen Stacy. Well, maybe not apart from her, since your barre position was right in front of her.

“One, two, three, four - hold, two, three four…”

You tuned out the voice of your ballet teacher; the exercise was purely muscle memory to you by now, and her voice was only distracting you at the moment.

“Hey, Y/N.”

You were pulled out of your intense focus by the voice behind you. Once you realised who it was, you had to resist the urge to scoff. “What is it?”

“I, uh… I just wanted to say that you did amazing. It was very graceful. You’ll make a good White Swan.” That almost made you lose your balance in a relevé and twist your ankle, because what?

Gwen Stacy thought that you’d get the role?

Oh. That was new.

Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were just imagining the whole ‘undeserving slacker’ thing and painting her as the bad guy…?

You almost giggled at that. Nah. This was definitely some ploy to get you to relax a little, to stop practising almost obsessively. Yeah, she was just trying to ensure you weren’t a threat. The moment you let down your guard, she would snatch up the role of Odette. You just knew it. Well, she could try all she wanted; you would not make it easy for her.

“Oh, I know,” You replied coolly, ending the exercise with everyone else and turning to offer her a politely bored smile. “But thank you.”

Gwen’s smile dropped a little and her eyebrows scrunched together slightly, her piercings glinting in the studio’s warm light. “Okay, well… I’ll see you around, I guess.”

She reached down and grabbed her duffel bag, unceremoniously dropping her teal pointe shoes into the mess of clothes and who knows what else she kept in it.

You kept your eyes on her until she disappeared out the studio’s door after a quick goodbye to the teacher. She was like a ghost, always appearing and flickering out just as quickly as one. And somehow always getting away with it, every single time. Not to mention… she was also somehow really good. Despite missing classes and coming late.

“Remember, class. Now that I’ve seen all your auditions, the roles will be up next week. Don’t be late,” your teacher called as you all left the building.

You kissed your teeth in annoyance. Yeah, don’t be late. Unless you’re Gwen Stacy.

Good grief, that girl would be the death of you.

Taglist: (reply to be added!)

@hobiebrownismygod @l0starl @therealloopylupin2099

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charliesangel67 · 4 months ago

Text

Home with you:

Authors note: I wrote this so much faster than I thought I would. Anyway, just a cute lil drabble based off a Mamma Mia theme bc I just re watched it and forgot how good it was.

Parings- Jensen Ackles x Fem!reader

Word Count- 769

Warnings- Mentions of drinking, nothing else, pure fluff.

“So, when you're near me, darling, can't you hear me? S.O.S.

The love you gave me, nothing else can save me, S.O.S.”

I sang as I moved around the kitchen, swaying my hips to the music and occasionally stirring the soup I had cooking on the stove. I heard a key turn in the lock and turned to see my boyfriend walk into the house, dropping his bags in the hall before coming to give me a hug. I giggled as he held me tight in his warm embrace.

“Oh, Jensen. I've missed you so much,” I said to him when he finally let go. “I missed you too, sweetheart,” he responded, leaving a soft kiss on my lips. “How was Louisiana?” I asked, interested in how the filming went. “Not bad. We did have to put filming off for a day because of storm warnings, and our scenes for the day were supposed to be outside.”

“Oh, that's too bad,” I responded. “I'm gonna go upstairs and take a shower real quick, okay? I'll be back in 10,” Jensen said before leaving a kiss on my cheek and heading upstairs, carrying his bags with him. A couple of minutes later, I had set the table, plated up the soup with bread on the side, and Jensen was coming down the stairs in a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Gosh, he looked handsome.

“What's for dinner, sweetheart?” he asked as he got himself a beer from the fridge. “Tomato soup with bread. I don't think beer goes very well with it,” I stated, eyeing him.

“Fine then, I'll have the beer later.” He put up his hands in defeat and I giggled. We talked over dinner about filming, The Boys, and what I did over the 3 weeks that he was away.

“Well, I drove out to Austin to catch up with Maya.” “Oh, really? When was the last time you saw her? Hasn't it been since Gen's baby shower?” Jensen asked, surprised that I had brought her up.

“Yeah, since Odette. I just wanted to hang out with her a little. I stayed over for a couple of nights and we went hiking and shopping. It was fun,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, facing Jensen while he sat at the table sipping his beer. “I'll pack up the dishes. You go have a shower, love,” he announced.

I stepped out of the shower, the fluffy towel feeling soft on my skin. I dressed in my silky blue pjs and dried my hair. When I walked down the stairs to greet Jensen, I saw there was a box on the counter.

“Ooh, what's this?” I asked curiously.

“I ordered some donuts so that we could have a movie night,” Jensen stated from the far side of the kitchen, preparing a big bowl of popcorn.

“I'll grab the drinks and choose the movie!” I yelled as I raced to the fridge to get him a can of soda and myself some wine so I could pour a glass.

“Whatever you please, my love,” Jensen whispered under his breath.“What movie are we watching tonight?” asked Jensen as he entered our bedroom with the popcorn and donuts in hand. He had already changed into his pjs and was looking sexier than ever.

“I have chosen an absolute classic, a personal favorite of mine, and most teenage girls.”

“Oh gosh. Lemme guess: She's the Man or 10 Things I Hate About You?” Jensen questioned.

“No! Although either of those would've been a good option. I have chosen to go with a more musical one. We are watching Mamma Mia!” I announced excitedly.

“OK, I'll pre-warn myself about the crazy singing,” Jensen laughed as he leaned in to kiss my lips.

“I'm just kidding, love. Sing as loud and as crazy as you want. I love your singing,” he whispered in my ear, making me smile.

Together, we belted out every word to "Mamma Mia", danced to "Dancing Queen," and drank a lot of wine. By the end of the movie, I was too dizzy to even walk downstairs, so Jensen took the empty box and bowl to the kitchen, and I went to brush my teeth. I lay in bed, suddenly feeling the bed shift over from Jensen's weight. I turned over to kiss him. “I forgot to tell you earlier, welcome home, babe,” I said before giving him another passionate kiss.

“When you're gone, how can I even try to go on?

When you're gone, though I try, how can I carry on?”

#fanfiction #fanfic #dean winchester x reader #jeffrey dean morgan #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural fanfic series #jensen ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles fanfics #jensen ackles x female!reader #jensen ackles x reader

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mrwxrldwide · 2 months ago

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more oc shit???? I’m hyperfixating on them and I hate it because I’m the only one that can create anything involving them

Also I think before I forgot about Gabriel 😭, so he’s here now guys

Song list in order:

1. Nasty Dog — Sir Mix-a-lot

2. Bad Idea! — Girl in Red

3. If You See Amy — Britney Spears

4. Falling Behind — Laufey

5. Wildest Dreams — Taylor Swift

6. Piano Sonata No. 16 in C Major, K. 545 “Sonata facile”: I. Allegro — Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

7. Monster — Kanye West, JAY-Z, Rick Ross, Nicki Minaj, Bon Iver

8. Army Dreamers - 2018 Remaster — Kate Bush

9. Girl Anachronism — The Dresden Dolls

10. 99 Problems — JAY-Z

11. Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now - 2011 Remaster — The Smiths

12. Harpy Hare — Yaelokre

13. American Idiot — Green Day

14. Skyfall — Adele

#estelle the yapper #miss yapalot #anastasia ivanov #alexander nancy #lucas lorenzo #luka romanova #carmen morales #carlos gonzales #sofia russo #gabriel schmidt #adam altruist #veronica williams #samuel harvey cortez #odette amin #felix holloway #my oc stuff #my ocs <3 #criminal minds oc

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barblaz-arts · 4 months ago

Note

OH OH OH YOU DREW THE CARMINE SISTERS, I AM SCAMPERING AROUND MY ENCLOSURE, CHEWING AT CINDERBLOCK, I AM BOUNDING OFF THE WALLS THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!!

Glad to know you're excited about some Carmine daughters content because I've had ideas for some things for a while now! I've talked about this on Twitter, but I have this idea to crack ship Odette with Velvette and then Clara with Emily

Hear me out, hear me out!

I know they have never interacted and don't have any indications that they will, but I have my reasons! And it's, well, I wanna give Carmilla a migraine. It would be sooo funnyyy

Mostly that's my reason for VelDette. Make it a kinda toxic thing, where Velvette flirts with Odette to take advantage of the fact that she's the daughter of Hell's top weapons dealer, and to fuck Carmilla over. Odette would be smart not to take Velvette seriously though, and Velvette ends up falling for her for real, but she's still who she is, and things don't work out.

For Clara and Emily(Emilara?) I want things to be more wholesome. The show has set up Emily and Charlie to be inverse parallels of each other, right? Charlie the princess of Hell who is the daughter of Lucifer, Emily the youngest Seraphim of Heaven and under Sera's care and guidance, both who believe that sinners deserve a second chance, but with one being supported by the parent while the other is asked to subdue beliefs. All I'm saying is, all that Emily is missing to complete the parallels is a girlfriend, and if Charlie as a demon gets to have an angel gf, then we should give Emily a demon gf :3

Why Clara tho? Because it would give a hilarious sense of irony for Carmilla to see the daughter she killed an angel for get courted by an angel who is basically Heaven's princess lol

Again. I just really really want Carmilla having a migraine over this. I wanna draw her chasing away an overlord and a seraphim with a shotgun for making out with her daughters.

#asks #hazbin hotel

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scribbleseas · 2 months ago

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Straight Laced, Chapter XI: To Be A Perfect Heroine…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

EXTRA TW: MENTIONS OF suicide (just in terms of the Swan Lake storyline!) And again this is a reminder to read the general trigger warnings. This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! It’s been a long time coming for this chapter. I hope this one can finally answer some of the questions you’ve all been having…in more ways than one <3. I hope you find somewhere comfy to read this and get a snack because this baby is over 10,000 words. More than 18 pages, 11-sized font on my Google Docs. Some of these scenes I’ve had in my mind for 2 years!! Hope you love this one.

Happy Reading,

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 11, 1895

The Royal Opera House’s Backstage, Your Dressing Room

Just as you warned the stubborn Earl, his insistence to speak with you made you late. If you wanted your makeup to be flawless for the final performance, you couldn’t stretch for your usual 30 minutes. And you did want your makeup to be flawless. It wasn’t an option, under Natasha’s leadership.

At least your pre-performance routine was just as ingrained into your subconscious as the show itself was. Every step you took to ready yourself helped you submerge deeper into Odette, a desperate attempt to comprehend the last two days of your turbulent life. Starting with your stage makeup, you spread rosewater across your face to rid it of debris. Natasha used to handle this routine for you, but Ciel asked you to start taking care of your own makeup, purchased by him. It was a precaution he insisted upon, given that Amelié died from a poison that invaded through the skin.

You made careful eye contact with your reflection in your vanity mirror, noting your bitten lips and tired eyes. You sighed, eyes darting to the clip of stationary attached to the corner of the glass. Ciel’s home number was still adhered there, the Earl adamantly refusing to remove it in the event of an emergency.

You pressed your face into a towel, drying it. The familiar smell of rosewater alerted your senses; awaiting the stage was like electricity crackling through your veins, despite your melancholy. Still, your mind was rightfully conflicted, overdrawn.

William Wood was not the killer you had been chasing all this time. Ciel suspected that Natasha was. Gwen had apparently lied to you to harm your relationship. But even still, Ciel once warned you that he was a liar. A manipulator who tended to work people like the game pieces his company manufactured. Only the best were so difficult to decode:

“I care about you more than you know, Y/n.” Ciel always sounded so at ease, so sure. You felt that he always had a perfect arrangement of words sitting on the tip of his tongue, to falsely promise, to serenade. To lie.

“You do not,” you had insisted, ignoring the earnestness in his sapphire eye. It couldn’t be real. You felt a flare of stubbornness in your chest, urging you to shove him away.

“I do.” He refused to blink. Adamant in spite of the weight that his accusation had.

Natasha Wood was one of the only people in your life that believed in you. He didn’t know her like you did.

Before Natasha, you had your mother… Until she died about four years into your studies at the Paris Opera School of Dance. You were nine years old. On top of your enrollment, she couldn’t afford the medication that the doctor’s prescribed for her cough. It had only grown more severe week by week, until she was coughing up blood and her lips tinged with blue. Your father only gave your mother so much money to encourage her to keep their rendezvous— and you, of course —a secret.

“Waste this money on my end of life care? When my shining star of a daughter has her whole life ahead of her? I will not do it,” your mother always insisted. You remembered how her cold hand felt against yours, it was iron, despite being clammy with oncoming death.

After she died, the dance school allowed you to continue studying there, your talent promising enough to be worth fostering. By the time you were fifteen (or fourteen, was it?) you were old enough to make the school a profit through its dance foyer to make up for your free education.

You’d never forget the final rasp of her breath.

Following the curve of your cheekbones, you highlighted your face with a soft shade of pink. The spotlight tended to wash out ballerina’s features. Now, you stared back at Odette, the White Swan. Y/n Y/l/n was the star hidden beneath, but no matter how seasoned a prima ballerina you were, not even you could shove the complete extent of your worries far beneath your costume.

You remembered the shock that pounded at your chest when Violet told you about William quite well, how most of her allegations were true. You thought you knew the owner of the opera house. Could you have been so misdirected by your mentor, too?

Until the second Ciel stopped you from entering the carriage, you had a practiced apology for Natasha waiting on your lips. You were supposed to be so sorry for not telling her about her husband’s infidelity and crimes, for your means of investigating her husband being so intimate. For imprisoning him without her knowledge.

Now? You felt as if you were prosecuting your older sister. Her every word, her every glance. Once it was in search of approval, now, it was for…bloodlust? You couldn’t see it. Natasha could hardly walk without assistance—how could she kill anyone?

Why would she hurt anyone? What motivation would Natasha have? Killing her own cast members? For her husband’s violence against them? It was unfathomable. No version of an explanation would stop bile from creeping its way up your throat–each new explanation that came to your mind was only more vile than the last.

Though, you had to ponder: why would Ciel make such a claim if he was not sure? Your mutual need to solve the case was one of the first feelings you had in common. You should have put aside your pride and joined Ciel to interrogate William, or at the very least, listened to the Earl’s concerns. He had something he needed to tell you, but you simply wouldn’t hear it, too occupied with your own hurt.

It was too late for regret, you supposed. You could only meet him after the show and hope for the best.

Mechanically, you rolled your performance tights up your legs, carefully inspecting them for pulls or tears in your body-length mirror. Satisfied, you slid on your ivory pointe shoes, ensuring they were straight laced and spotless, free of grime. Lastly, you stepped into one of your Odette tutus, this corset flaring into a feathered shirt with gold detailing lining the neckline and bodice. It only felt right to wear for your last Swan Lake performance— it was the first iteration of the costume you wore after inheriting the role from Janet.

Janet’s lifeless face flashed in your mind, painting over that fond opening night memory with a new coat of guilt. The young woman had been a beautiful dancer, and a nice person who provided for her family. And her sick mother’s prescription, you made yourself flinch, dry mouth relieved when you took a drink of Sauternes. You poured yourself half a glass, the previously unopened wine bottle a precaution you tucked in the back or your wardrobe for emergencies. If this evening didn’t qualify itself as an emergency, you weren’t sure what would have.

Perfectly on time, your dressing room door flew open, never following a knock. Approximately 30 minutes before the curtain ascended, Natasha always made sure to lace your bodice for you, always finding fault when another cast member did so. The director pushed the door open with the bottom of her cane, her cool seagreen eyes scanning your makeup, dragging down your figure.

Looking for notes to make, you noticed.

“It is good to see you, Y/n,” Natasha said, her expression unchanging from stormy indifference. You couldn’t place when the director had lost her supportive smile, the warm, yet authoritative way she would request for more—for better—and when a frigid insistence stiffened that inspiring patience. When did fear settle in your stomach instead of admiration? “I was worried about attendance today, after Maisie. Quite a tragedy—she was talented.”

The apology you practiced died on your lips, killed by your surprise and uncertainty. Until now, Natasha never addressed any company losses— she attributed them as disappearances from a ballerina being unable to handle the pressures of the industry. You had assumed she didn’t know better because the press was restricted from covering the mysterious company deaths, the Queen fearing public panic, according to Ciel’s acquaintance in the press. After Maisie Stannard died near the steps of the British Museum’s gala, the press had no choice but to cover the incident.

Therefore, Natasha had no choice but to address it with her employees. It was a loss to the company, now well-known by the rest of the country.

That being said, she certainly wouldn’t reveal that William was currently pacing the confines of a holding cell. All the public knew was that Maisie Stannard was killed—no one knew of any of the other company deaths. William’s arrest was only knowledge of Ciel’s (and his accomplices, of course), the State, and Natasha’s. You couldn’t imagine what the director told the rest of the company in order to explain William’s prolonged, sudden absence—especially after he’d only been back from France for about a week prior to you and Ciel arresting him.

Ciel suspected Natasha of shooting Maisie. Of poisoning Amelié, forcing Janet off of the Tower Bridge–you didn’t even know the gruesome details from Eliza’s body, when they found it. Your guilt for suspecting the currently lacing your feathered corset in her usual meticulous way was so consuming, you forced yourself to think of Violet’s distressed cries to remind yourself of who you were being cautious for. You had to solve this for the victims, their loved ones, preventing any more murders. You had to justify yourself—it was a serial killer investigation, after all.

You would have to touch base with Ciel.

“I cannot imagine who could have done this to her,” you mumbled evasively, finishing off your wine glass with a flourish. You welcomed the selection’s competing tastes of acid and sweet butterscotch, and tried not to lament over the untouched cigar in your drawer. The smoke would have done better to soothe your nerves, but arriving late had limited you.

“A young, beautiful woman, a ballerina who was married to a successful man,” Natasha mused purposefully, “you would be surprised, Y/n. Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. As Odette, should you not know that? The perfect heroine always does.”

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. You were unsure of what to make of Natasha’s words.

Ciel once told you that you needed to make your target speak in an investigation. They already had their agenda—evading you—and sometimes, what they refused to say was more telling than what they did.

Natasha had to be aware of your role in her husband’s arrest; that to some degree, you were an accessory to the Queen’s Guard Dog’s investigation. She was gauging you— whether or not that was in defense of her crimes, as Ciel would have suspected, or looking to get a sense of what Ciel made of Maisie’s death. After all, they’d arrested William, in part, because they believed he was the killer. Was she attempting to learn if they had their suspicions turned elsewhere? If she was their suspect, she would want to know if her cover was still intact.

You needed to control yourself, put on the facade of a sad, yet trusting employee. Blissfully unaware and shallow—the purse dog of a wealthy Earl. Limited, materialistic, uncaring. Almost as if you were reprising the woman you were prior to starting this investigation. In your own way, you could be the perfect heroine.

“I do, of course,” you answered, double-checking the measured bow that Natasha pulled the lace into, each cross section between the eyelets matching perfectly. The director was nothing if not precise, now turning to fasten your headpiece’s clips into your hair, already twisted into a braided ballerina bun. “Odette is too trusting, putting her future in the whims of a man who only just met her,” you admitted, the words making you feel like a hypocrite.

“Speaking on the subject—unexpected ugliness—I want to apologize. I heard about Mr. Wood’s —” you started, deciding that the smartest way to protect yourself from Natasha’s probing was to behave exactly as you had initially planned to. Apologizing would convey the submissive guilt the director would have expected from you. In doing so, you would assure her that there was nothing amiss between you, shielding the fact that Ciel had cautioned you in the first place.

“Twenty minutes to Act One, I expect my company members to be focused on the show. Especially my principal dancer,” Natasha’s piercing eyes flashed, her words dipped in ice, no matter how she tried to inject warmth back into her face. She looked older than she did three months ago, her worry lines more prominent in her fair skin. Exhaustion showed itself in deep bags beneath her impatient stare.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy has the highest jumps, the widest turns. She is the embodiment of grace and poise. I would much prefer you to be spending your spare time on a barre rehearsing instead of surveying my personal affairs. You will be able to continue being my prima ballerina, yes?” She pulled her lips into a wry smile, an expression that was close to pity.

You didn’t expect Natasha to engage with you about her husband’s arrest, but you wanted to watch her. Decode how she decided to evade you, seeing that she didn’t so much as let the words escape your mouth.

Not to mention, you weren’t surprised that Natasha chose to demean your talent. She knew your dedication to managing her opinion of you well, having fostered your need to please alongside the rest of the company’s. All of this to say: Natasha chose to turn the focus of the conversation back to you, denying your disguised request to discuss William.

“Yes,” you repeated, forcing your gaze to fall downcast and self-consciously hesitate to return to meet her eyes. “I do appreciate this opportunity, Natasha,” you added pathetically, watching the director’s warm authoritarianism resettle in her face confidently, reinforced by your obsequious behavior. Her thin lips managed a smile. You had reassured her, and that in of itself, worried you. It proved she was hiding something. “You won’t hear anything more of it from me.”

“Focus is a crucial asset for ballerinas,” Nastasha assured you too brightly given her stormy entrance. She gestured to her cane with her chin—it leaned on your vanity behind you, since she needed both hands to tie your costume and affix your headpiece. You obediently handed the medical accessory to her, more than familiar with the director’s gestures.

“Remember to stop by Polly’s office after tonight’s performance. She wishes to triple check your measurements for a spare Sugar Plum costume. We were hoping to have these appointments finished after practice yesterday evening, but with you here now, I would like it complete,” Natasha said, plucking a stray hair of yours off your shoulder and letting it fall to the floor.

“Of course. I will see her immediately after the performance,” you answered simply, biting back your frustration at her dig. Natasha was subliminally critiquing your decreased amount of time at the opera house. Before Ciel roped you into his investigation, you spent most of your time in the opera house’s studio, fiercely guarding your promotion by rehearsing as much as you could manage. Now, you attended your mandatory rehearsals and classes, but nothing more. Instead, you opted to rehearse in the safety of the dance studio Ciel had Sebastian create for you.

“Do give tonight everything you have, Y/n,” Natasha pressed her weight back into her cane, giving you a final once over before she opened your door, preparing to leave. Each night, Natasha helped you with the finishing details of your costume and circulated through the rest of the company to solve any last-minute issues. “The end of this run also sets the tone for the beginning of Nutcracker season.”

“I will never give a performance that I cannot be proud of,” you replied truthfully, painting on an Odile-inspired devil-may-care smile for Natasha. “Allow me to remind you why you chose me for this role.”

“You know what I like to hear,” she answered, casting a wink at you from over her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could, Antoine, the dancer performing as Prince Seigfried, interjected with a clear question on his face. Knowing better than to wait for Natasha, you showed yourself to the backstage wings.

In the chaos that took place backstage, you always focused on the excited chatter of the audience and the pre-performance orchestral music from the other side of the curtain to fuel your adrenaline. You could feel their energy, it radiated in waves. For the next three hours, you were Odette, Queen of the Swans, and Odile, the deceptive daughter of sorcerer Von Rothbart.

You could meet their hardships with the same honesty and emotion you faced your own, and step off the stage to put a real end to this investigation.

That was what set you apart as a professional.

Two Hours Later

The Royal Opera House’s Main Stage

This was the final scene of the show. The Lakeside, Odette’s last stand.

You were poised in the air, the music growing severe as Von Rothbart carried you, pulling Odette out of Prince Siegfried’s protective arms. Until this second, your characters had been entangled with one another, dancing intimately in forgiveness. The music had been soft, portraying a delicate, damaged love slowly on the mend as Siegfried pleaded with Odette, guilty of falling for Odile’s ruse at the ball.

Now, the dark stage flickered, illusions creating the look of lightning and crashing drums replicated rolling thunder.

You entered this scene with a heavy premonition in the pit of your stomach, and you allowed yourself to wear that alarm on your face like an accessory to better portray the story. You were just as distressed as your character, the innocent White Swan. Moments ago, she returned to the lake, heartbroken because Prince Siegfried professed his love to the wrong woman. He had been fooled, but the curse still forced Odette back into her swan form, leaving her to mourn her humanity with the rest of the cursed swans. In spite of her forgiveness, the damage had already been done.

The curse may never be lifted. They could never successfully be in love. It could never be—a sentiment that was familiar to you. Even so, it stung like a fresh wound, never seeming to dull night by night.

The lovers shared a brief dance, only to be torn apart by the sorcerer. Now, the prince reached, his fingers only managing to graze hers longingly. Your eyes followed the missed touch, your head jerking upwards as if you were further panicked by the failed attempt.

Now you were caught between both dancers, each hand held by opposite forces. Love and death, Prince Siegfried and Von Rothbart. At this point in the performance, Odette was dancing on the line between her life and death, breaking the curse and succeeding through love or not breaking the curse and succeeding through death.

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made, you couldn’t keep yourself from thinking over your old mentor’s words. You always thought of Natasha when you danced.

The woman was everything you wanted to be: a self-starter in spite of her immigrant status, a brilliant talent, thoughtful, confident. She had landed a marriage that had appeared loving and fair, and she was still a dancer, in spirit.

The foreboding melancholy settling on your shoulders, your Odette was more skittish than she normally was. She was rather unsteady as the two men guided and pulled her every which way, one trying to hold, one trying to capture. You allowed yourself to feel weightless: it was the best means for Odette’s dancing to look just as induced upon her as it was in the moment. You even allowed your head to fall lazily in line with your neck with every turn, constructing the facade of a woman succumbing to her curse, tired of begging for a way out of the cursed life that held her hostage.

For a moment, you let the tension leave your body, draping lifelessly over Von Rothbart’s supporting clutches. The sorcerer had successfully pulled the White Swan out of her prince’s hand. Odette was exerted within her life. She knew that her curse was permanent, and yet, she craved her self-determination. Her right to love. The right to live as she wanted to, everlastingly.

The perfect heroine? Were there truly always sacrifices to be made? You wondered, flicking your wrists and positioning your fingers as your Odette confidently broke free from the sorcerer’s grip and stepped up the short stairway. Without another second, she threw herself into the lake. The orchestra played dynamically, the swell of music portraying the death of Von Rothbart, the antagonist collapsing and dying from Odette’s sacrifice.

Their deaths left the prince to follow Odette, preferring to die and reunite with her in spirit rather than live without her. The cast of swans—the rest of the company—remained on stage, watching in equal parts awe and horror. Both you and Antoine, the prince’s dancer, jumped into a stage opening that the stagehands kept lined with mattresses to make the short fall as safe as it could be as the group had a final intricate dance number. You realized that this would be your last time getting back to your feet after making that show-stopping jump.

Now, you were made of energy as the both of you ran back behind stage to the wings to make your final entrance for the season. You could never see the audience under the blinding stage lights, but you could always feel it. The opera house always held its breath, the silences between Tchaikovsky’s masterful creations were always punctuated with quiet sniffles from the audience.

Swan Lake was a tragic love story, after all. You would know—you felt well-acquainted with the idea of tragic love. Falling head over pointe for a stone cold, callous Earl without ever meaning to. In fact, while trying not to in the midst of a murder investigation. The very investigation that you felt you were on the precipice of closing.

Would your story end like Odette’s? you wondered. A young woman making her final stand in the face of heartbreak.

You supposed, this performance was nothing more than a storyline. A fable. Nothing to build silly premonitions over, in spite of the danger of your situation.

After your music cue, the spirits of Odette and Prince Siegfried stepped back out onto the lit stage, hand in hand. You shared one last jeté, jumping across the stage in perfect sync, before the audience to show that their plan had succeeded, ending the show in each other’s embrace in the afterlife.

To signify the official end of the story, the stage lights faded out to allow the company to arrange itself for final bows alongside another passionate swell of Swan Lake’s theme from the orchestra. You and Antoine remained still until the stage was completely black, unwilling to ruin the intimacy your characters created for the audience. Lovers who couldn’t bear to be without one another.

Only when the lights flickered back on, the both of you faced the audience to accept their cheering with gracious smiles, wiping away the bittersweet beauty your characters evoked. The rest of the company quickly filed in around you, mechanically dropping into a curtsy on the same note. The minor characters took turns bowing next, including Wolfgang, the prince’s tutor; the Queen Mother, and the four little swans. In order of prevalence, the main characters swept into bows.

Following Von Rothbart and Prince Siegfried, you took five measured steps in front of the rest of the cast and swept yourself into a deep curtsy. The spotlight burned your skin, the hair pins that kept your headpiece fastened dug into your scalp, and your feet throbbed in your pointe shoes. Sweat rolled down your neck and your lungs felt as if there was fire in them, given how hard your chest heaved, but you were elated, nonetheless. A cheering audience was nothing short of a drug. All of these people were here to see you and your company dance. It was an honor, almost enough for you to ignore the disappointed sting in your heart that Ciel would never see you perform in these roles.

Still, stared into the crowd, beaming. You survived. Only now, another confrontation awaited you. One much more dangerous than a bit of acting.

You never thought you would find yourself cutting off a standing ovation on a closing night of a show. This moment, hearing the appreciation and wonderment you gave to legions of people was supposed to be one of the most euphoric parts of your career. Knowing that the hours of labor, exhaustion, and hunger could culminate into a moment this fulfilling. You had just closed a run of Swan Lake as London’s foremost company’s only principal dancer—by all definitions of the word, you were at your prime as a dancer.

But that didn’t matter to you as much, not at this moment. Instead, you righted yourself from your curtsy, blew the faceless audience a kiss, and exited the stage.

You had an investigation to solve, at last. This fitting would be the last step, you were as certain as Odette, though you hoped your ending might be more merciful.

In your haste, you didn’t bother to stop by your dressing room—there was no need.

Polly would have to make her rounds to collect all Swan Lake costumes, anyway, and by going to her office in this ensemble, you saved her the trouble of looking for one of your corsets. Besides, the last you wanted was Natasha in your dressing room to help you unlace it and there was no reason to waste time walking to the other side of the backstage wing. Especially since there was no possibility of Ciel arriving at the ballet tonight.

Entering Polly’s office helped settle your jumbled nerves, at least for a moment. The space never changed; the aging woman was extremely particular with where she kept all of her tools and materials. Each one had its own exact space in her workstation, and nothing was ever a centimeter out of place. As always, the costuming director’s frail shoulders were hunched as she counted silently to herself, measuring a piece of scarlett fabric. She counted to herself, meticulous eyes narrowing before she cut the piece off the rest of the fabric roll with sharp scissors.

“Hello, Miss Y/n,” she greeted you warmly. Her back was to you, but she always knew her visitor before she turned. “Are you well?”

Without this woman, there would simply be no ballet. In two weeks, she had five variations of Odette and Odile costumes for you each, all perfectly tailored to your dimensions. You imagined that the woman could give Sebastian a challenge in terms of clothing creation and tailoring—she was an institution at this ballet. Typically, no one could manage a lie past her.

You couldn’t settle on how to respond, the silence causing her to turn, standing from her short seat. Polly was short enough to have you looking down at her, somewhat.

“How are you?” you tried for a weary smile, knowing it was thin and unconvincing.

“You look like Natasha, when she was your age,” the woman commented, eying you skeptically. She gestured towards her full-length tri-mirror, and you obeyed, knowing the routine for confirming your wardrobe measurements well. You had to strip from your costume, and Polly took careful measurements of your body, well aware that these corsets had to forcefully enforce a ballerina’s trained body.

You felt yourself redden, uncomfortable with the comment. Until now, Natasha was all you wanted to be.

“All lovesick, is all I mean. Don’t you think William put her through it too? All men do it,” Polly said sagely, helping you unlace the tight knots Natasha twisted your corset into. “Especially with beautiful women like you, who haven’t lived here very long,” she chided, hanging the corset on a wire hanger for you.

“Lovesick?” Your mouth felt dry. Of course you were. You were just as confused about your feelings towards Ciel Phantomhive as you were about your thoughts on the true killer. It might’ve been Natasha. There was a chance, and the thought of such a reality took the air out of your lungs. “I am not,” you tried for another smile, laughing weakly. You always smiled. You always laughed. It was supposed to work.

But with Polly, it didn’t. Your weak smile flickered off, unencouraged by the costume director. Of course—she worked there longer than Natasha did. 18 years, you once heard. 18 years of handling fittings like these for stars on the rise, stars about to implode. Stars in the process of doing just that, leaving disappointment and heartbreak in their wake. An ache for what could have been. You suspected that without Polly’s comforting nature, the company would lose ballerinas much more often due to Natasha’s unfailingly brutal honesty.

In response to Polly’s raised, skeptical eyebrows and set line her mouth fell in, you sighed. Still, her eyes sparkled as if she was amused by something in you. That look made you think of Ciel.

You unfastented your head piece self consciously, “I think it may be Natasha, actually,” you ventured, using one of Ciel’s tactics, at the thought of him. “Share an insecurity, it will create a false sense of intimacy, and they might overspeak. People who feel comfortable with you are more likely to make a mistake.”

“I feel concerned about her,” you made a show of admitting, like you were guilty of mentioning her.

Polly also allowed you to undo your pointe shoes, giving you a spare pair of soft socks for your bare feet. They ached, as they always did after performances—sometimes they throbbed in protest to carrying your weight. At least the clean, soft material was more welcoming than the wood of Polly’s step riser would have been. You stepped up, only clad in your undergarments, but you didn’t mind with Polly.

“I thought she was certainly…spread too thin, but I thought she’s been quite well lately,” Polly answered ponderously. She wrapped her small measuring tape around your waist, pulling it in to match its perimeter. You tried not to think about what you ate that day—there were many more important concerns at stake. Polly knew Natasha better than anyone else, perhaps she knew something you did not. “She wanted me to keep this between her and myself, but I think that more of us oughta know the good news: she started massage and manipulation therapy for her hip.”

Massage and manipulation therapy? That was a practice where doctors had injured individuals strategically stretch and work their healed limbs after a long injury put them out of use. Only, you didn’t know Natasha’s injury was healed enough to qualify her for it—you were under the impression that the director could hardly stand without her cane, much less withstand massage and manipulation therapy. Her mobility was supposed to be almost entirely extinct.

“What use would Natasha have for therapy? I believe she cannot walk or stand without help,” you mused.

“Oh, no, dear,” Polly shook her head, writing your waist measurement on a notebook. She put the pad of paper back down before you could catch the number she wrote down. “She can walk and stand without a cane, and that is all. No running, no dancing, none of that, after what happened. The cane only helps her manage. Now she’s going three times a week to rebuild strength, she told me.”

“What exactly happened? Do you know?” You risked the question, your intuition begging you to press forward. You felt your palms grow sweaty with anticipation. This was what you were missing, you were convinced. One of your biggest uncertainties regarding Ciel’s theory was: how could Natasha manage to kill all of these people without being caught on top of mobility challenges? You tried not to seem too desperate to know, scanning over your curious expression in the length mirror. Polly was measuring the widest point of your hips.

“I tell you this as a warning, only. As something to learn from,” Polly insisted, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You gave her a resolute nod, taking an uneasy breath in. Natasha rarely spoke about her injury, its exact name, the incident that caused it. You assumed she considered it to be a weakness—a failure of hers.

“It was a complex hip labral tear. From over practicing,” Polly told you, noting down your measurement. She continued to repeat the process for the rest of your body. “She was the principal dancer in Sleeping Beauty, recently married to Will. Here all night, all day, few breaks. She was scared, I think, to lose the life she found,” she recalled, painting a fond picture of a dancer not unlike you. Hungry for her spotlight. A moment of appreciation. Wanting to love and be loved by everyone and more.

“But she wouldn’t hear anything about stopping—even after the doctors told her to take the rest of the Sleeping Beauty season on break. She refused,” Polly said, shaking her head. “And then, she tore her hip, ruining her range of motion. They told her if she tried to do anything more than walk, the damage could leave her in a wheelchair.”

A wheelchair. Your blood ran cold, chastened. Natasha was less than five years older than you; not even 30 years old yet. Technically, she would have had half a dozen more years as a ballerina, if she had been more careful.

Still, Natasha’s injury came in her prime. You couldn’t imagine the pain of being in the midst of your breakout role, only to have to stop for an unknown period of time. The thought of having to willingly surrender the euphoria of curtsying to a cheering crowd made your chest hurt. Natasha probably felt as if her life was ending. Dancing was the only part of your life that kept you alive, at least.

“But now, I suppose, she’s rested long enough to start getting help again. And as long as it’s helping her, I don’t mind holding down the costuming fort, so to speak,” Polly chuckled, wrapping her measuring tape around your shoulders. She always liked to ramble when she worked, and you didn’t expect it to work in your favor. You couldn’t believe you didn’t think to speak with Polly sooner.

“And she has three appointments in a week?” You asked, swallowing in spite of your dry mouth and throat. You thought of the calendar you saw at the Yard’s headquarters with Sebastian and Ciel. Where you noticed a pattern. The very pattern that you and Ciel had believed to implicate William.

Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. All days where the full cast and crew were at the most occupied with full-Nutcracker rehearsals. These were supposed to be nights where Natasha stayed at the Opera House late to handle costume construction with Polly, influencing every step from the sketches to the final clothing ensemble. Nothing went on The Royal Opera House’s stage without her approval, making her take the time to stay late so frequently.

Unless she wasn’t truly with Polly. William would otherwise have no way of knowing where his wife was if she wasn’t at home—he wouldn’t care to verify where she was, so long as he was confident she wouldn’t be looking for him. The only person in the Opera House after hours was Polly, making only her word Natasha’s alibi.

“Yes! He seems like a smart man, Doctor Wallace. She started seeing him in August,” Polly answered, blissfully unaware.

Unless she was truly pursuing physical therapy— which you doubted this timing — she successfully convinced Polly to maintain this lie for her. Telling the whole company that Natasha was assisting her these nights when she was either on a futile mission to restore her leg or killing her employees.

“So she has not stayed late with you since August?” You could have sworn your heart stopped, in that moment.

“She usually stops in one night a week, at some point. But otherwise, it’s just me. And that’s alright with me, dear, I promise,” Polly misinterpreted your indignation as frustration on her behalf. “More hours is more pay,” she gave you another laugh and wrote down another measurement, blind to your distress.

You felt Natasha’s lies crash down upon another like a house of cards. You gasped, feeling your heartbeat raise in alarm. The world seemed to stall for a moment, hesitating alongside you as your chest tightened with just as much rage as it did surprise. You could’ve sworn your reflection in the three-way mirror was shades lighter in panic.

“Polly, I need to leave,” you said urgently. Still in your undergarments, you pulled a robe off of a hook in the wall, tying it around your waist as you walked. You ignored the costuming director’s protests, her asking if everything was alright. You couldn’t falsely assure her. Not when you felt the sky falling down.

“I have something I need to do now. We can finish another time,” you could hardly recognize your serious tone, it was non-negotiable and about the angriest you’ve heard yourself. Tears brimmed your eyes.

You had to finish this. You couldn’t leave her office without finishing this. No one else was going to die in the hands of this woman.

In fact, you hadn’t thought through your destination until you found your knuckles rapping intently against Natasha’s office door, only several doors down from Polly’s. Technically, the space was William’s office, but he rarely used the space, causing Natasha to commandeer it for her own purposes. You were pleased she did—it wasn’t close to your dressing room, making the private space even more of an oasis free from criticism.

“Natasha! I need you. This is Y/n,” you said, knowing the director was there. She never remained in the foyer long. After she finalized patrons’ payment and ensured that each one was satisfied, she retreated into her office to analyze that performance’s sales revenue. She would stay until she finished adding those numbers to the opera house’s monthly financial records.

“You can—” she started from the other side of the door, but you were wiping your eyes, twisting the knob, and entering before she finished giving you permission. Startled, the director regarded you with irritation hardening her angular features. “Come in… You know to knock, please,” she reminded you, intentionally finishing the statement you interrupted. “Now what might I do for you?”

Being face to face with Natasha made the encounter feel all the more petrified. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It was almost as if you forgot how to put your incensed words into English. You had so many accusations, so many questions to aim at the woman, you couldn’t decide where to start.

“I only… wanted to thank you. Again. For this opportunity,” you said, starting off the safest way you could think of, yet probe her as subtly as you could dare. “I would not be at this point in my career without you.”

Natasha tilted her head, setting her fountain pen down on her desk. You watched her wrestle with her response: acknowledging your gratitude, subtly poisoning your confidence regarding your career, wanting to gauge if you were investigating her, despite your efforts before the show. Of course. She had to be careful around Ciel Phantomhive’s partner.

“Y/n, you have to remember that you find yourself opportunities. Life is not kind to those who wait for opportunity. That is especially important for you to remember with Lord Phantomhive at your side, now. Never allow yourself to rely on anyone,” Natasha said, fulfilling your prediction and criticizing you. How did it take you so long to notice this pattern in your director?

“These rich men...they are never forever,” she snorted bitterly, taking an uncharacteristic drink out of a wine glass. You never saw Natasha drink. “They use you. And lie,” she continued, hesitating before fixing her posture and rising from her office chair. Natasha picked up her cane and used it to help support her as she walked to her cabinet and picked an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Though we should commemorate the end of this season,” Natasha told you with a new degree of stiff friendliness in her voice. She poured some of the dark wine into a clean wineglass for you, offering the drink to you. “You worked hard to make yourself worthy of Odette and Odile. On top of this drama that Phantomhive dragged you into,” she said his name like a curse.

“I appreciate that, Natasha,” You accepted the glass, but you didn’t take a drink, wary of the wine’s contents. “I did work tirelessly, and–”

“And you do handle the scrutiny well,” your director continued, interrupting you. “Better than I ever did.” She only could have been referencing the disdain she faced for marrying William Wood, though he wasn’t a noble like Ciel, he was from an incredibly wealthy family. You doubted British elite society would ever treat a foreign ballerina kindly, much less five years ago.

You were silent, unsure of what to say. In just minutes, Natasha managed to gain control of the conversation, grabbling the upperhand from you. It was effortless for her. The woman was the very picture of composure. You couldn’t help but wonder if she considered herself to be the perfect heroine from her own description.

Was Natasha manipulating you now, too?

“I try my best to ignore them. They do not and will never know me, so I should not concern myself over what they believe,” you replied noncommittally, forcing yourself not to break eye contact with your director. The air was tense. You felt as if she could see straight through you, and right into the real reason you were there.

Natasha hummed begrudgingly, “it is big of you to know that, and so young. Not too long ago, I would have done anything to live your life.” Her smile unsettled you, and at this point, you trusted yourself more than you did her.

“Why don’t we toast?” the director asked, picking up her glass in one hand and again, using her cane to help her walk to you. “To your career. Your partner. Your success.”

“Fine,” you agreed hesitantly, tapping your wineglass against hers. You watched Natsha take a short sip of wine, but you couldn’t force yourself to do the same. There was no way for you to know it was safe.

Naturally, Natasha had been monitoring your hesitation, her smile—which started out thin enough for you to feel suspicious—wavered. “Is there something wrong?”

Your eyes darted to the office door behind you. Suddenly, you deeply regretted your impulsivity. You might have been out of your depth, confronting her without a plan or any support. This was what Ciel had feared when you were arguing with him about your plan to trap William: a situation where you were in danger with no easy way out.

“No! No, of course not,” you said unconvincingly, painfully aware of the symptoms of a long day beginning to encroach on you, as well. Your feet still throbbed, despite being in Polly’s soft socks, made specifically for aching feet. Your eyelids were heavy which was no surprise, since you hadn’t had proper sleep in days. Especially not last night— how could you have slept after Maisie? “I simply…do not feel much like drinking.”

“You? Not wanting a drink?” Natasha replied incredulously. “Come on. Have a toast with me. Why are you being so uptight with me, now? You do trust me, don’t you? I am your director,” Her long nails tapped on her glass, her face molding into hurt.

It was one sip. What was one sip? The wine bottle was already open—it seemed to be the only open selection in the cabinet. How would she only poison yours?

You paused, realization dawning on you. She was manipulating you.

You wondered if Natasha guided you into that line of thinking as she so often did, pointing out when a corset appeared tight on you to motivate you to eat less, asking you when the last time you considered cutting your hair was to inspire you to cut it. Telling you to enjoy Ciel as a subscriber as if sex work was your choice. All you ever wanted to do was dance.

“Are you the one killing us, Natasha?” The question slipped out between your lips before you could stop it. Tears welled in your eyes, and you couldn’t keep the tremor out of your voice. You stared down at the wine in your hand, a tear streamed down your cheek and made a ripple in the blood-red liquor. Your face felt hot.

“What are you asking me?” Natasha’s questioning laugh was hollow. She finished off her drink and left the empty glass on the desk. She was being clear: this was your last opportunity to drop the question.

“Did you kill the missing ballerinas? I mean they’re dying in other companies too, but m-mostly…this one,” forming words felt impossible. You didn’t know how you were controlling your tone so well.

She laughed again, tones of disbelief making the sound sound rough and condescending. Her eyes were ablaze with rage and disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you, you accuse me of murder?” Her knuckles were white, fingers tight around both the cane and the glass in her hand. “I have half a mind to kick you out of my company right now for this insult!”

This was the only way, you braced yourself. You thought of the victims you were avenging, not of the danger that stood in front of you. And if you died, you were fairly certain Natasha had no way to evade the consequences. There was a backstage full of company members. You trapped her.

Still, you need to commit to guiding her rage. Natasha was too logical for a mistake. Her emotions needed to overtake her.

“I’m not sure why I just asked that, I’m so sorry,” you lied, “we can just forget about this,” you suggested, backing up towards the door. Your hand reached from behind you to blindly search for the doorknob, only for Natasha to put all of her effort in swinging her cane in the slim space between your fingertips and the doorknob.

You scrambled away from the swing—and from the doorknob, unfortunately. In your fumbling, you dropped your wineglass on the floor. The glass shattered on the floor, its contents spilling in a burgundy pool around the fragments. Only in socks, you stumbled on the spilled liquid, making it easy for the director to usher you away from the door. You struggled to stand back up, feeling the full impacts of your performance and the miserable way you treated your body, compiling and attacking you with just as much vengeance as your director did.

You were decently certain that all you had to eat that day was a quick slice of quiche and some fruit. That fuel ran out well before your performance’s intermission and was nothing but a distant memory to your body, now.

“No,” Natasha’s face was devoid of all kindness. In looking into her cold eyes, you had no doubt that she was a murderer. Not anymore. “You asked for honesty. How is this for honest?” She locked the door, continuing to back you further into the wall by the cabinet she took the wine out of, driving you away from the exit and further into the office. Silent tears fell down your face, but you refused to let her see you sob.

“I liked you, Y/n. I thought we were kindred spirits in a world of weak, spineless, nobodies, who want to try to become dancers when they cannot even stand up straight,” Natasha snapped. She didn’t bother using her cane to walk, merely holding it like a weapon. But she cast it aside once she had you against the wall—not unlike the submissive position her husband forced you into in your own dressing room.

You were approximately the same height—if anything, Natasha had a centimeter or two on you. She still had a bad leg, even though she could clearly walk, but clearly, she had a deep wealth of lethal knowledge.

“I never would have thought you would be one of them,” she continued, casting her cane aside for a pocket knife that she fished out of her skirts. You were strangely calm, despite the panicked, rapid pace your breath came and the hot tears that still spilled down your face. “But if it’s you or me, I will always choose me.”

That wine had to be poisoned. You thanked your instincts.

“You have made that outstandingly clear, Natasha,” you retorted. “You even managed to put yourself before your own interests by screwing yourself out of a career!” you yelled back at her, channeling your rage. Every time she snapped at you, each time she disparaged your dancing, the way your body looked, each time she prepared you for a new patron. “And now what’s left of you is nothing but a bitter woman past her prime. And that is your fault. But y-you take out your f-failure on us!”

“And you? You’re an ungrateful bitch,” Natasha hissed back at you, sliding a thin pocket knife against your throat, causing you to cry out. So close to her, you could smell the wine on her breath and her eyes looked bloodshot. Her pupils were dilated.

You needed to find help. Soon, if you wanted to live. Continuing to taunt Natasha in her office would surely end in your death. While such a sacrifice would surely be enough to convict her, you hoped to see it through. You, in your own way, were the perfect heroine. You knew there was a sacrifice to be made, but if you could help it, you hoped to live.

Swan Lake was only a story, after all.

“And you plan to try to kill me in here?” you asked, gasping as she pressed the blade deeper into your skin. You could feel the painful sting across your nerves, down to your fingertips and as pressure against your windpipe. “H-How will you… get away with it?”

“Shut up,” Natasha laughed again, catching on to your efforts to disregulate her. Painfully smart, she was.

You tried to speak again, but Natasha pressed the blade harder to discourage you. You were at a loss, having allowed yourself to get here by storming in with no plan. Fueled by nothing besides rage, betrayal, and regret.

She looked pleased, content with the way she had managed to turn your attack on her into your demise.

Until there was a knock at the door.

“Mrs. Wood? Is Y/n in there with you? I have been looking for her— I must escort her home.”

You would know that voice anywhere, anytime. No matter what. It made goosebumps erupt on your arms. Ciel had come to the opera house in search of you, despite your best efforts to push him away. Despite your best efforts to convince yourself that he was lying and he didn’t care for you, or anyone, save for himself. The accusation felt shallow, now that a real narcissist had you at knifepoint.

“Ci—!” You started, only for Natasha to shove her hand against your mouth before, forcing her to let go of the collar of Polly’s robe, which she had balled in her first to keep your neck close to her weapon. You had both of your hands to fight her knife hand, trying to pry the small weapon out of her thin—frustratingly strong—fingers. Your arms shook with effort.

“No, Lord Phantomhive, she is not here!” Natasha called over her shoulder, allowing you to use one of your hands to push her face further away, hoping her body would follow her head. You had no combat experience, limited to knowing choreographed fighting on stage. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” She mumbled in your ear, hardly having stumbled from your efforts.

The doorknob rattled as Ciel likely realized it was locked.

You had to get her off of you. Well aware that your arms were locked in a stalemate with her knife, you brought your knee up and dug it into her stomach, causing her to curse, holding her stomach in surprise. You used her surprise to push her away and take steps towards the door as quickly as you could manage, only for Natasha to catch your wrist and pull you back.

“Ciel, please!” A sob that had been building in your chest ripped out of you as Natasha pushed you back into the wall, only this time, you were poised on the wall next to the door.

“Y/n!” It sounded like Ciel kicked the door. “On behalf of Her Majesty, let me in there this instant, Natasha!”

“Get him to leave, or I will kill you. Here,” Natasha whispered, taking hold of your chin to force you to look into her eyes. This was the face that 11 ballerinas saw before they died. Natasha’s bloody hatred of you looked just like William’s, irate and predatory. You had no doubt that the woman would kill you.

“Y/n, do what you must to get her off of you! You can handle her!” You heard Ciel call to you, now that he was decently sure that you were with Natasha—against your will. “I need to break this door open. I don’t care if it’s your bloody director’s office—”

“Why are you doing this to us, Natasha?” You whimpered, repeating the question when she refused to answer. You felt blood bleed down your neck where she pressed the blade, but you couldn’t stop asking. You deserved to know. It didn’t feel as if she was pressing hard enough to kill you—you suspected she wanted leverage over Ciel.

“Why are you hurting us?” you demanded. “Why, why, why?”

“Because I should still be the prima ballerina of this company! Like the rest of you ungrateful whores! My husband should want me in the way he wants the lot of you! I should have my applause! My life back! Give it back!” Natasha yelled, slamming your back against the wall by your shoulder. Black spots danced in your eyes, from your exhaustion. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

“I want my life back! You don’t deserve my life! I’m brilliant. Bloody brilliant. The lot of you—you’re nothing, but me? Me? I am a real ballerina. You all are nothing, useless little rodents you all are! In spite of my best efforts to teach, you all can never just learn!” tears raced down Natasha’s face, as well.

Her words, her tears, ignited a fresh anger in you. You worked most hours out of the day for this woman’s approval, only for her to feel this much contempt—no, resentment, towards you. She tore you down at every step, masquerading it as support. And blamed you for her vitriol. From an injury she brought upon herself.

“I took nothing from you,” you rasped, “none of us ever did. We all worshiped you. And you kill us for it. You. Are. Deranged.” you said strongly, in spite of your pain. You used the rest of your strength to curl your hand into a fist and push it forward, aiming for her nose to stun her. Ciel, for emergency’s sake, took the time to show you how to throw a proper punch. You made certain your thumb was untucked and….

Immediately, your hand erupted in pain, starting in your knuckles and expanding outward. You felt her face yielding to the force more vividly than you thought you ever could, the sound making a dull thud. Clearly, however, Natasha was in more pain, the shock causing her to drop her knife.

Natasha swore in, presumably Russian, and doubled over. She held her face, recoiling with pain. You caught blood dripping down her lips, coming from her nose. Her face immediately swelled.

Before she could recover, you unlocked the door, revealing a panicked Ciel. He seemed to be bracing himself to kick it down, his left leg braced into the ground while he was aiming to drive his right heel into the bit of wood next to the lock. Of course, he knew how to kick a door down. You couldn’t keep yourself from laughing at how absurdly good the Earl was at everything.

You felt delirious, looking at Ciel with your director behind you, bleeding. Because you punched her. Because she was the serial killer you had been looking for all this time. The seriousness on Ciel’s face made your smile crumple, re-recognizing the importance of what had just occurred. You hadn’t stopped crying at all, your face was soaked with tears as much as it was with sweat.

There was some of your own blood smeared on your chin and cheeks from Natasha’s hands—you could smell the iron, you could see Ciel’s gaze investigating the stains to ensure they weren’t open wounds. He had already sized up the cut on your throat the moment he righted himself and pulled you into him, away from the director.

Immediately, you were safe in Ciel’s warmth, shuddering as he put his wool jacket over your shoulders. He was speaking to you, but you could barely bring yourself to register his words. Ready to collapse, your head heavy and gloomy. You hadn’t noticed you were shivering, and yet, he did. Ciel let you hide your face in his neck, the height difference between you was always minimal.

Sebastian stepped inside from behind Ciel, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Sebastian,” Ciel snapped, knowing the butler was behind him without turning around. He had his stare fixated on Natasha as some company members moved to restrain her, despite her cursing and thrashing. Ciel had made a scene in demanding the door be opened, and Natasha must have been loud enough for onlookers to hear. “Take care of this. I don’t want there to be a media scene. Find us in Y/n’s dressing room when you’re finished.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian replied. “Very well done, Miss Y/l/n,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling. He put his hand on his heart and bowed to Ciel, but this was the first instance he bowed to his master with you standing next to him.

You could have been persuaded that you imagined it.

“Ciel…” you spoke as he guided you away from the rest of the company, the arriving officers, and Natasha as she protested her arrest. You felt weak. Almost empty for idolizing a woman who hurt you and so many others. Who thought so little of so many who thought she was the template to success.

Natasha and William hurt you all, and without Ciel, you never would have come to know that. And he had warned you. But you didn’t listen, when you needed to.

“Thank you for coming here, anyway. I appreciate that you would…come. After everything,” you said, the apology was difficult for you to say, but needed. “I cannot know why you would be so kind to me, but you saved my life again.”

Ciel took your arm in his, more than aware that you were exhausted. “What do you mean you cannot know why I would be so kind to you?” He asked, an eyebrow raised at you. “I thought I was clear earlier today: I want to be with you. And I should apologize, too, honestly.”

“Mutual forgiveness and we can have another talk, later?” you requested, settling into your chair. Ciel locked your dressing room door behind the both of you for privacy’s sake. He pulled out your First Aid kit from under your vanity to start caring for your neck.

“Mutual forgiveness,” he agreed, settling down next to you.

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