#t: a royal audience

[ellswritings]

A Gift for the Victor

CM Punk (Phil Brooks) x Reader

TW: Lots of flirty tension, no smut but it gets pretty intense at the end, mild choking, swapping saliva, foul language, lmk if I missed anything.

Y/S/N- Your Stage Name

Y/H/T- Your Hometown

Y/W- Your weight

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

(I’m literally weak for this man. I was debating making a smutty part 2. Let me know if that’s something you’re all interested in 🫶🫶)

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

WrestleMania Forty.

One of, if not the biggest night of Y/N L/N’s career. She’s facing Iyo Sky to win the Women’s Championship. She had been fighting for this all year. Fight after fight, promo after promo, injury after injury, and she’s finally here. The entire trajectory of her career comes down to this moment. Comes down to the outcome of tonight.

She wasn’t as nervous as she thought she’d be. She worked hard to get here. Took on opponents that most people thought would crush her, but she persevered. Paul Levesque saw something in her. He still does and always will. She’s a fighter, she’s charismatic, the people love her. Over the past few years it’s been a battle between her and Cody Rhodes on who’s the most loveable face. Perhaps down the road there will be a different story lined up for her, but that’s for the future.

Right now, she has a match to win.

It’s Night Two and she’s going on right after Seth Rollins just lost his match to Drew McIntyre. The Scotsman got a bit too cocky for his own good though, the special commentator, CM Punk, beating the crap out of the heavyweight before Damian Priest came out to cash in his Money in the Bank. He stole the title from Drew, leaving everyone in awe.

However, Y/N couldn’t help but admire the way that Punk completely destroyed Drew after what the man did to him at the Royal Rumble. She and Punk have always had an interesting relationship. Flirty comments exchanged here and there, holding each other’s gaze for too long, teasing touches. It was all a part of their charm, their story.

She also really enjoyed getting under his skin, and he felt the same. Whenever they could mess with each other, in or out of the ring, they would.

Phil especially loved walking up behind her before she would go out for a match, whispering something in her ear to make her squirm, and then sauntering off like nothing happened.

Y/N was thrilled when she found out he would also be commentating on her match. They figured it would be best for press since they have such a close relationship, and their chemistry is off the charts.

She would never tell him of her excitement though. It would simply go to his head and give him a bigger ego than he already has. A small smirk covers her lips as she wraps her hands with white masking tape, putting a black X on each one. She knows this will get quite the reaction from him and the audience. Luckily, her cropped leather jacket covers them so it’ll remain a surprise until she takes it off before the match.

Paul Levesque had been nice enough to allow her new gear for this big match. He said it was time for her to get a bit of an upgrade. She wears a black, form-fitting sleeveless top, made from a breathable, flexible material that allows her to move with ease. The top has a high neckline but features cutouts along the sides, hinting at her toned physique without being overly revealing. Across the chest, her logo is subtly embossed in dark metallic silver, catching the light just right when she moves.

Her matching black shorts are a hybrid between tactical gear and athletic wear—snug but flexible, sitting comfortably on her hips with an angled, asymmetrical belt design. The fabric is reinforced with leather-like paneling along the outer thighs, giving her a sleek, armored look without restricting her agility. Subtle silver and deep crimson accents line the seams, adding just a hint of color while keeping the overall aesthetic dark and dangerous.

She wears sturdy knee-high boots with reinforced soles for impact protection. A few silver buckles line the sides of her boots, adding to the dangerous, almost mercenary-like vibe of her gear.

Her jacket—which is probably her favorite aspect of the new outfit—is a lightweight, cropped leather piece with spiked shoulder accents, a deep crimson lining, and her name stitched in jagged, metallic lettering across the back.

She felt dangerous. It really is true when they say dress for what you expect the outcome to be. And as far as Y/N’ concerned, she’s dressed to win.

She cracks her neck as Iyo Sky makes her entrance, the music blaring throughout the arena. She jumps up and down, warming up her body as she gets ready to take what’s rightfully hers. A small smile graces her face as Joe Anoa’i walks up to her briefly, patting her on the back with a small ‘good luck.’

She doesn’t let him leave without hugging him first. He’s still trying to remain in character like the professional he is, but he can’t help but soften under her arms. He’s watched her grow into the star she is, sometimes being the one to train her, so he couldn’t be more proud of how far she’s come.

“C’mon, don’t get all soft,” he tells her, placing his hands on her shoulders. He looks her dead in the eye, “Let’s see that angry face.”

Y/N laughs, “Joe–”

“Nuh uh,” he shakes his head. “Your ass better start mean muggin’ me right now or I ain’t gonna let you go out there.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, feeling silly as she does as he asks. She scrunches her face up the way Josh and Jon showed her she should and Joe nods his head. “There we go. Now you’re ready.”

As if on cue, her entrance music booms through the arena. Roman pushes her forward and she sends him a playful glare before walking out to meet the cheers and screams of her adoring fans. She immediately falls back into character, smirking at the attention. She revels in it, raising her arms up laterally as she spins in a slow circle. Her hips sway to the beat as she struts up to the ring, but not before stopping to interact with a few fans along the way.

She chuckles lowly, patting the face of one of her many overzealous fanboys. She can see the blush form on his cheeks as she walks away with a flirty wink before finishing her journey to the ring. Everyone in the arena screams the lyrics to her song out, making the moment even more special as she climbs up to the second rope, blowing a kiss out to each and every one of them.

She jumped down from her position and walked towards the center of the ring as Alicia Taylor found her place between Y/N and Iyo. The latter had the women’s championship draped over her shoulder, tapping the center plate with a small smirk. It wasn’t cocky, no, it was a challenge. A dare of some sort.

The stadium lights dimmed as Alicia raised the microphone up to her mouth “The following contest is scheduled for one fall…”

The audience screamed in unison.

“…and it is for the WWE Women’s Championship!”

Y/N shook out her hands as Alicia turned to her.

“Introducing first, the challenger… from Y/H/T, weighing in at Y/W, she is ‘The Untouchable’ Y/N L/N!”

The crowd erupted, the sheer volume vibrating through the air. Y/N exhaled slowly through her nose, soaking it in, smirking as she raised her arms and flexed her fingers, her body already buzzing with adrenaline.

The camera cut to the commentary desk, where Michael Cole, Pat McAfee, and CM Punk sat, all watching intently.

“Listen to this ovation for Y/N L/N!” Cole said over the noise.

“Philadelphia is in love with this woman,” Pat added. “I mean, can you blame them? Look at her—she was built for this moment.”

Beside him, Punk leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah, Yeah,” he drawled out. “She might think she’s all that, but let’s see if she can actually get the job done.”

Y/N’s head turned sharply toward the commentary table, locking eyes with him. Her smirk deepened, a silent, wordless challenge of her own. Punk just raised an eyebrow, as if amused.

Alicia’s voice rang out again.

“And her opponent… from Tokyo, Japan, weighing in at 114 pounds, she is the WWE Women’s Champion… IYO SKY!”

Y/N started bouncing up and down once again as she put herself in the correct headspace for this match. It helped immensely hearing the scattered boos in the crowd that came after Iyo’s name.

Every ounce of training, every second of pain and sacrifice had led to this, and she wasn’t about to waste it. As she reached the steel steps, she grabbed the edges of her custom leather jacket, shrugging it off in one smooth motion before tossing it aside.

The second she did, the camera zoomed in on the thick, white wrist tape wrapped around her hands—bold, black X’s drawn over the knuckles.

The moment wasn’t lost on the commentary team.

Pat McAfee let out an obnoxiously loud laugh. “Ohhh, would you look at that? That is a direct shot at our guy over here!”

Beside him, CM Punk, who had been lounging comfortably in his chair, suddenly sat up straighter. His eyes flickered to the screen, landing on the tape, and for a brief second, something unspoken crossed his face.

Michael Cole chuckled. “Now that’s interesting. What do you think, Punk?”

Punk exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Cute,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Y/N turned her head ever so slightly in his direction, smirk firmly in place, and tapped her fists together, making sure he saw the X’s clearly. The smirk on Punk’s face faltered for half a second before he scoffed, leaning back again.

“She must think she’s real creative for that one,” Punk snarks, but Y/N picked up on his attitude all the way from the ring.

She grinned. “Glad you approve, old man,” she mouths.

Pat snorted. “Oh, she’s good.”

Punk rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m not impressed yet.”

The bell rang.

Y/N barely had time to react before Iyo Sky came flying at her, a devastating roundhouse kick aimed directly for her head. She ducked just in time, the force of it whipping past her ear, and immediately retaliated with a stiff elbow to Iyo’s ribs. The champion staggered back but recovered quickly, using the ropes to propel herself forward before slamming into Y/N with a handspring back elbow. The move connected cleanly, knocking Y/N back against the ropes, but she used the momentum to bounce off and hit Iyo with a running knee to the face.

The match quickly devolved into a brutal back-and-forth war. Every time Y/N gained an advantage, Iyo countered, the champion’s speed and agility making her nearly impossible to keep down. The strikes were stiff, each kick and punch landing with precision, the sound of flesh meeting flesh ringing throughout the stadium. Y/N could feel the welts forming on her ribs from Iyo’s brutal kicks, but she pushed forward, feeding off the energy of the crowd.

“Come on, L/N!” Punk’s voice cut through the commentary. “You gotta be faster than that!”

Cole chuckled. “A little tough love from Punk tonight?”

“Tough love?” Pat laughed. “The man sounds like a disappointed dad.”

Punk scoffed, arms crossed. “I just call it like I see it.”

Back in the ring, Y/N managed to catch Iyo mid-air as she attempted a crossbody, using her strength to hoist the champion up and slam her into the mat with a gut-wrench suplex. Iyo arched off the canvas, clutching her lower back, giving Y/N the opening to climb the ropes.

“She’s going high-risk!” Cole called.

Punk let out a breath. “Better not miss.”

As if hearing him, Y/N turned her head slightly toward the commentary table, locking eyes with him before blowing an exaggerated kiss in his direction.

The crowd reacted immediately, laughter rippling through the audience, and Pat lost it. “Oh my God! She’s making it her personal mission to mess with you!”

Punk’s face remained neutral, but the slight twitch in his jaw gave him away. “Focus on the match, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath, though the mic still picked it up.

And she did.

All of her attention went back to Iyo as she landed a perfect cross-body. Unfortunately, it hadn’t tired Iyo as much as Y/N had hoped it would, but she didn’t give up. She never would. Not when the title is practically in her grasp.

The match itself had been brutal, both women leaving everything they had in the ring. However, the next fifteen minutes of it had to have been the worst. The air inside Lincoln Financial Field was thick with anticipation, the crowd hanging onto every move, every counter, every near fall. Y/N’s body ached, her ribs screaming from the relentless kicks Iyo had delivered, but she pushed forward, feeding off the electric energy around her.

Iyo, for all her skill and championship experience, was growing frustrated. Y/N had withstood everything—the rapid-fire strikes, the high-flying assaults, the punishing submissions. And now, as the match neared its climax, Iyo was beginning to make mistakes.

The champion was perched on the top rope, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, eyes narrowed as she calculated her next move. Y/N was dazed, clutching her ribs, struggling to push herself to her feet. Iyo saw her opportunity.

With a determined yell, she launched herself off the turnbuckle, twisting mid-air for a moonsault.

It was mistimed.

Y/N had staggered to her feet just a fraction of a second too soon, her head still down as Iyo’s knee connected—hard—against her brow instead of the planned impact to her chest. The sound of bone hitting bone was sickening, an audible crack that made the entire arena wince.

Y/N dropped like a stone.

The referee immediately knelt beside her, checking for movement, but it was the blood—thick and dark—already dripping down her face that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd.

And through Punk.

At the commentary table, he had been leaning back, arms crossed, the usual smirk on his face as he quipped about the match. But the moment that knee landed, his entire body tensed. His smirk vanished. His hands slammed against the table as he pushed himself to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

For a split second, he wasn’t CM Punk, the commentator.

He was Phil Brooks, the man who had spent his entire career in this business, who had seen firsthand what a misplaced knee like that could do.

“She’s hurt,” he said, voice lower than before, tighter.

Pat McAfee blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in him. “Whoa, hey, man—where are you—?”

Punk had already taken a step forward, instinct screaming at him to move, to get to the ring, to do something. His fingers flexed at his sides, breathing shallow as he locked onto Y/N’s unmoving form.

Then, as quickly as he’d reacted, he caught himself.

Realized where he was.

What he was doing.

His jaw clenched, and slowly, rigidly, he forced himself to sit back down. But his posture was different now—leaned forward, elbows on the desk, one hand anxiously rubbing his jaw as his eyes never left the ring.

“She’s bleeding pretty bad,” Cole noted, though his attention had drifted toward Punk now, clearly sensing the change.

Pat, of course, couldn’t help himself. “Man, I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Punk here was about to—what? Jump in there and save her?”

Punk shot him a glare. “Shut up, Pat.”

Pat laughed. “I’m just saying! Look at you! Sitting here all stiff, like you’re about to sprint down the ramp any second!”

Punk exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he tried to settle back into his usual nonchalance. “She’s fine,” he muttered, though his eyes betrayed him. They were locked on Y/N, watching as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blood that was beginning to seep down the side of her face.

Back in the ring, the referee hesitated, momentarily unsure if he should call for medical personnel, but Y/N pushed his hands away.

"I'm good," she gritted out.

Her vision was hazy, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but the last thing she was going to do was let this end with her lying on the mat, bleeding out.

Punk leaned in slightly at the sound of her voice, his shoulders still tight.

“Come on, Y/N…” he muttered under his breath, as if willing her to snap out of it.

Iyo hesitated, realizing her mistake now, but it was too late to take it back. And Y/N—still dazed, still blinking through the blood—was already pushing to her feet.

The sight of her standing, wiping the blood from her eye with the back of her hand, made the crowd erupt.

Punk let out a slow breath, watching as she squared her shoulders, forcing herself back into the fight despite the crimson streaks running down her face. The sight of it—the determination, the fire—made something flicker in his expression.

Cole chuckled, side-eyeing him. “You can admit it, you know. You’re impressed.”

Punk scoffed, but it was weaker than before. “She still has to win first.”

Pat grinned. “Oh, come on. You were two seconds away from running down there to help her! I’ve never seen you move that fast in my life.”

Punk ignored him.

Back in the ring, Y/N caught Iyo off guard, ducking under a clothesline before hoisting her onto her shoulders in one swift motion. The crowd roared, the energy surging to its peak as she took a single step forward and then drove Iyo into the mat with her finisher.

The ring shook from the impact.

Punk straightened in his seat, fingers twitching slightly as he watched the ref drop to count.

One… Two… Three.

The bell rang.

A moment of silence passed before the realization hit.

She won.

The crowd exploded, the sound deafening as Y/N collapsed to her knees, clutching the championship to her chest.

And then, slowly, blood still dripping down her face, she turned toward the commentary table.

Her gaze locked onto Punk’s.

Tears were brimming at the corner of her eyes as she held her title over her shoulder proudly. She stood up, woozy and shaky as blood continued to trickle down her forehead, but her smugness never faded. The smirk was slow, knowing, as she tapped the title against the X’s on her hands.

Punk exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but he didn’t look away.

Pat leaned in, grinning wildly. “You okay over there, bud?”

Cole smirked. “Go on, Punk. Just say it.”

Punk rubbed his jaw, leaning back in his chair, and after a long pause, muttered, “She did alright.”

Pat snorted. “You are so full of it.”

But Punk said nothing.

Instead, as the cameras focused on Y/N standing tall, bloodied but victorious, the faintest ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

That’s when a microphone is handed to the newest champion and it makes everyone in the stadium cry out loudly as she raises it to her lips. “How we feeling tonight, Philly?”

Everyone screams once again making the new champion nod enthusiastically. She didn’t know if it was the high she was on from her win, or the blood loss, but she was no longer concerned about how professional she appeared.

“Yeah, me too!” She calls out with a small chuckle. “Y’know I’ve gotta say I couldn’t have done it without all of you cheering me on like that.” The crowd once again goes ballistic at her kind words. “I also couldn’t have done it without the amazing Paul Levesque giving me the chance to achieve greatness, and for that I am so grateful.” She spins on her heel, walking slowly towards the edge of the ring that’s closest to the announcer’s table. “But there is one person in particular I owe a special thanks to…”

She leans on the top rope, looking over at Punk with the biggest shit-eating grin she’s ever sported. He can’t help but lean back in his chair, eyes bemused as he scoffs softly at her behavior. Blood still oozes down her face, but she couldn’t seem to care less.

“The man who pisses me off more than anyone else in the locker room. Who unfortunately taught me half of my move set, mostly because he’s ancient,” she mumbles the last part but the audience roars with laughter. “The best in the world… CM Punk.”

As the crowd begins to chant his name, Punk shakes his head at her antics. He watches as the woman makes her way out of the ring and walks over towards his side of the table. Her chest is heaving as she continues to try and replenish the oxygen her lungs have lost over the last half hour in the ring.

She looks good, he notes to himself. The new gear she’s sporting fits her body perfectly. It shows off her stage persona perfectly, beautiful but deadly. His eyes trail over her hands, growing slightly fond of the fact she’s rocking his signature look. If anyone else were to have done that, he might’ve lost his mind on the spot, but with her, it’s different.

“Without his incessant nagging, I wouldn’t be here today,” she says into the mic, stopping directly in front of him, never breaking eye contact.

She’s currently towering over him as he’s still sitting in his designated seat. But without warning, he stands from his spot, silently moving forward and wrapping his one good arm around her in a tight hug. Audible coos and whistles are heard throughout the arena as Punk leans forward to speak into her mic.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he tells her. “You worked hard for it. Paid your dues.”

The crowd was already losing their minds over the embrace—CM Punk, the surly, hard-nosed veteran, openly showing affection? That alone was shocking enough. But as Y/N felt the warmth of his body pressed against hers, the steady rise and fall of his chest, something in her buzzed with exhilaration. Maybe it was the fact he was trying so hard to remain in character, or maybe it’s because she was tired of this cat and mouse game they became so good at playing.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to catch the flicker of something in his eyes before he masked it. He was playing the role, staying in character, but she saw it—a crack in the armor. A slip.

A slow smirk curled at her lips as she tilted her head. “Y’know, Punk,” she drawled, deliberately stepping closer, toeing the line of personal space as she brought the mic back up between them. “I was thinking… since we’re so close and all… how about a gift for the victor?”

His expression didn’t change—at least, not outwardly. But she caught it. The subtle way his jaw tensed. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips like he was considering something. The way his fingers twitched at his sides like he had to physically restrain himself from reacting too quickly.

Still, he played his part. He always did.

Punk should’ve seen it coming. Should have.

But the moment Y/N took that deliberate step closer, eyes gleaming with something far too playful, far too dangerous, he knew he’d walked right into her trap.

His lips pressed into a firm line as she invaded his space, the warmth of her body nearly brushing against his. He should move—he needs to move—but he doesn’t. He just watches her, that smug little smirk playing at her lips, the kind that made his fingers twitch with the urge to do something drastic.

Like kiss it off her.

No. No, he absolutely was not thinking that.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to roll his shoulders like he wasn’t already bracing for impact. “What did you have in mind?” His voice was smooth, controlled—CM Punk. But there was an edge to it, an almost imperceptible waver that Y/N caught immediately.

She knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Y/N hummed, tapping her fingers against the mic as if she were thinking. She tilted her head, feigning innocence as her gaze dropped to his lips for just a second—a split second—before flicking back up to his eyes.

“Oh, you know…”

And then—she kissed him.

The moment her lips pressed against his, CM Punk ceased to exist. There was no more character to hide behind. Just Phil Brooks.

A deafening roar swept through the stadium, fans screaming, chanting, reacting with sheer disbelief at what they were witnessing. The cameras caught it all—CM Punk, the man who prided himself on being untouchable, who never ever strayed from his carefully controlled image—being kissed, in front of thousands, by the newly crowned champion.

Phil. Was. Stunned.

For the first few seconds, he didn’t even move. Didn’t even process it. He had anticipated her usual antics—teasing, pushing his buttons, making him squirm—but this? This wasn’t scripted. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t supposed to happen—but then her hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him just enough to make his knees buckle slightly, and suddenly, he was forgetting why he was supposed to stop this at all.

Her lips were soft but commanding, determined, and goddammit, he should push her away, should pull back and scowl and play it off like she hadn’t just sent a bolt of electricity down his spine.

But he didn’t.

For a second—just a second—his hand twitched at his side, instinct screaming at him to cup the back of her neck, to deepen the kiss just enough to make her regret thinking she had the upper hand here.

But then she was gone.

The absence of her warmth made his body lurch forward slightly before his brain caught up, before the noise of the arena came crashing back down around him.

She turned on her heel, already stepping back toward the ring as she raised the mic again, her voice ringing through the chaos.

“See you later, old man.”

The crowd was losing their minds.

Pat McAfee was practically feral beside him. “OH. MY. GOD. SHE DID IT! Y/N L/N JUST KISSED CM PUNK ON LIVE TELEVISION! WHAT UNIVERSE ARE WE IN?!”

Michael Cole was just as incredulous. He was barely able to hold himself together as he laughed loudly, “I– Punk? Any comment? Anything at all?”

He grabbed his headset, sliding it back on with forced nonchalance. “Shut up, Pat.”

Pat cackled. “OH, HE’S FLUSTERED! HE’S SO FLUSTERED! HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO RIGHT NOW!”

Cole grinned. “Are we witnessing the beginning of a WWE power couple?”

Punk pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to god, both of you—”

But it didn’t matter.

The damage was done. The moment was out there, in front of thousands. There was no walking this back.

His eyes were locked on Y/N as she stood at the top of the ramp, championship over her shoulder, owning the moment like she’d planned it all along. She looked so damn proud of herself.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even be mad.

The next few days were nothing short of exhausting. He hadn’t had a quiet moment since what happened at the main event. Whether it was questions from his coworkers, his bosses, or the public, it was never ending. He, of course, handled it with the utmost professionalism, never breaking character, but it was starting to irritate him the way Y/N was handling it with such ease. Like she hadn’t completely blown up both of their careers. Not in a bad way, but the scandal in itself was enough to keep all attention on them for the next few months. Yet she acted like she didn’t have a care in the world.

She easily deflected probing questions and didn’t appear flustered by the event at all. It was infuriating. His jaw ticked as he watched her from the other side of the Gorilla, laughing at something Dominick Mysterio said. Once again, acting as if nothing happened. He watched as the younger male wrestler’s eyes flicked over to him and Phil could only assume the next question that came out of his mouth was about the kiss.

Once again, she deflects the question without much effort. Y/N simply bat her eyelashes at the boy, placing her hands on his chest as if she were fixing his gear before saying something slightly flirty and walking off. Her strategy changed with everyone who asked, and it worked every time.

His feet start moving before his mind can even register what he’s doing. Y/n rounds the corner to no doubt head out to your trailer, but he manages to grab her wrist before she can make it out. Her eyes widen in surprise, but they quickly calm when she realizes it’s him.

“Hey stranger,” she grins cheekily. She made no effort to pull away from his grasp, instead shifting her weight slightly, subtly closing the distance between them.

Phil’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all you have to say?”

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice low, sharp, “maybe something about how you’ve spent the last few days dodging every question about what the hell you were thinking?”

Y/N’s lips twitched, like she was fighting the urge to laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his irritation flaring. “You blindsided me. In front of the entire world. And now, you’re walking around like you didn’t just blow up both of our careers.”

She hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. “That’s funny… last I checked, the crowd seemed to love it. I mean, the reaction was insane. Even the higher-ups don’t seem to mind all that much.”

“That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point, Phil?”

His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go. “The point is that you—” He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re just—”

Y/N’s smirk widened. “Oh, come on, old man. Spit it out.”

His jaw ticked. She was enjoying this way too much.

And worse? He knew exactly what she was doing.

She was trying to get under his skin. Trying to make him crack first.

But Phil Brooks wasn’t so easily unraveled.

He took a deliberate step closer, forcing her back until she was against the cold concrete wall. His hand finally released her wrist, but before she could so much as breathe another teasing remark, his palms pressed flat against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.

Y/N’s eyes flickered with amusement—but also something else. Something darker.

She licked her lips. “You know you want to do it again.”

Phil’s brows lifted. “Do what again?”

She didn’t falter. Didn’t waver. Instead, she reached up, trailing a single finger along the collar of his hoodie. “Kiss me.”

His lips pressed into a firm line, his heartbeat betraying his otherwise composed exterior.

“Admit it,” she murmured. “You’ve been thinking about it.”

He scoffed. “I’ve been thinking about wringing your neck, does that count?”

She laughed, soft and sultry, before tilting her head slightly, eyes locked onto his with laser focus. “Come on, Phil. The people want us together. I want you. And we both know you want me.” She leaned up, voice a whisper against his lips. “So what’s stopping you?”

Silence.

For a moment, Y/N thought she had won.

That she’d finally broken him.

Then, he moved.

Leaning in—so, so close—until their noses brushed, until she could feel his breath against her lips.

But just as she started to close the distance—

He smirked. And pulled back.

Y/N blinked, stunned, her lips parting slightly as she tried to process what just happened.

Phil tilted his head, eyes dark, mocking. “You really thought that was gonna work, huh?”

She scowled, irritation flickering across her face for the first time all night.

He chuckled, low and dangerous, before ducking down just slightly, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“You got lucky when you caught me off guard at Mania,” he murmured, voice a velvety rasp that sent a shiver down her spine. “But it’s not gonna happen again.”

Then—because he was an asshole—his lips barely ghosted along her jaw, just enough to make her shudder. His hand skimmed her waist, squeezing just once, before he pulled away completely.

Y/N swallowed, hard, struggling to keep her expression neutral as she forced herself to meet his gaze again.

Phil smirked. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that to impress me, sweetheart.”

Then—just as calmly as he’d cornered her—he turned and walked off.

Leaving her there. Flustered. And seething.

“Touché…” Y/N grumbles as she watches him walk off, not bothering to hide the fact she checks out his ass due to the form fitting jeans he’s wearing.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N had slowly been losing her control over her situation with Phil. Originally, she held him in the palm of her hand, she was the one making him flustered, but now it seems he was reclaiming some of that power. She finds herself looking for him in any crowd they’re in and he knows it. He smirks when he finds her eyes searching for him, sending her flirty winks, whispering filthy things in her ear when she’s least expecting.

He’s letting her know that she never truly was the one with the upper hand. He just needed time to adjust and make a game plan, and boy he did.

She remembers one particular instance where she was talking to Damian Priest backstage when her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out, giggling at the joke Damian made, but it was short lived as the breath was stolen from Y/N’s lungs.

Oh.

The image staring back at her was sinful.

Phil. Fresh out of the shower.

A towel hung dangerously low on his hips, water still beading down his sculpted torso. One hand was running through his damp hair, pushing it back, while the other held his phone in the mirror. His expression? A cocky smirk, one that screamed I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

And as if the photo itself wasn’t bad enough, the caption?

“Hope you’re staying focused, sweetheart. See you at the interview. ;)”

Y/N’s face ignited.

Her grip tightened around her phone as she struggled to process the absolute audacity of this man.

She must’ve gone silent for too long because Damian furrowed his brows, concern flashing across his face.

“Hey, you good?” he asked, nudging her lightly. “You just turned, like… bright red. Do you have a fever or something?”

Y/N let out a choked sound, hastily locking her phone and shoving it back into her pocket. “I—I’m fine. Just—uh—hot in here.”

Damian raised a brow, clearly not buying it, but before he could press further, one of the producers walked by and called out, “Y/N! You’re on in an hour for your interview. Punk’s already getting mic’d up.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Of course he was.

Damian patted her back. “Good luck with that. You look like you need it.”

She glared at him before storming off toward the interview set, her mind still short-circuiting from the damn picture.

The interview was with Cathy Kelley, who greeted them both with a bright smile as they settled into their seats. Y/N knew she was supposed to be professional—that was literally her job—but sitting next to Phil, who was clearly feeling himself today, was making it impossible to focus.

He was too close, his body angled toward her, his scent still faintly fresh from whatever expensive body wash he used.

Kelley beamed as she turned to the camera, perfectly composed and ready to dig into the interview fans had been dying to see. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with two of the most talked-about names in WWE right now—CM Punk and Y/S/N.”

Y/N barely managed a smile, still recovering from the photo Phil had sent her. She’d tried to push it out of her mind, but the smug look on his face told her he knew exactly how much he’d rattled her.

“Thanks for having us, Cathy,” Phil said smoothly, his voice dangerously casual.

Y/N forced herself to focus, nodding along. “Yeah, should be fun.”

Phil’s hand slid onto her thigh.

Y/N tensed, resisting the urge to slap it away.

Cathy, oblivious to the slow psychological breakdown Y/N was currently experiencing, launched into her first question.

“So, Punk, you made your big return last year, and a lot of people wondered if you’d still be able to keep up with the current roster. But after the fight you put up in the Royal Rumble match, I think it’s safe to say you haven’t lost a step. How do you feel about your performance?”

Phil pretended to think about it, shifting slightly so his fingers inched higher on Y/N’s thigh. “You know, Cathy, I think I did alright. Besides tearing my tricep, I’d say I held my own. I mean, I’m me. It’s not really a surprise, is it?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Oh my God.”

Phil grins, squeezing her thigh out of spite which makes her gasp slightly. She feels a chill run down her spine as he looks completely unbothered. “What? You disagree, sweetheart?”

Cathy laughed. “Y/N, what was it like for you, being part of WrestleMania? And not only that, but winning the Women’s Championship?”

Y/N opened her mouth—only for Phil’s hand to start massaging her thigh ever so slightly, working its way inward.

She barely stopped herself from choking.

“I—it was—uh—” She cleared her throat. “It was amazing. One of the best moments of my career, for sure. I’m really grateful that I was presented with the opportunity.”

Phil hummed in agreement, tapping his fingers against her leg. “Definitely one of the biggest moments.”

Y/N refused to look at him.

Cathy moved on. “Punk, since coming back, you’ve had some… let’s say, heated interactions with some of the younger talent. Guys like Seth Rollins and Cody Rhodes haven’t exactly been welcoming. Any thoughts on that?”

Phil shrugged. “Look, I don’t expect everyone to throw a party just because I’m back. Some of these guys have been carrying the company for years, and suddenly, I show up and steal the spotlight. But hey—” He smirked. “If they don’t like it, they can try to do something about it.”

Y/N muttered, “Cocky bastard.”

Phil heard her.

And instead of ignoring it, he leaned in just enough for his breath to tickle her ear.

“You like it, though, don’t you?” he whispered.

Y/N nearly jumped out of her damn seat.

Cathy, unaware of the absolute war happening beside her, chuckled. “Well, speaking of heated interactions…” She turned her attention fully to them. “We can’t ignore the elephant in the room. The moment at WrestleMania. The kiss.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Cathy smiled knowingly. “The fans have been going wild, and the speculation is at an all-time high. So, I have to ask…” She turned to them expectantly. “What exactly is going on between you two?”

Y/N braced herself, ready to deflect, when—

Phil beat her to it.

“Yeah, Y/N,” he said, voice thick with mock innocence. “What are your thoughts?”

You smug, evil little—

Y/N shot him a look that could kill.

Phil? He just smirked, his fingers idly tracing circles against her thigh, his expression pure amusement as he watched her flounder.

Cathy raised a brow, intrigued. “So, there is something going on?”

Y/N forced a tight-lipped smile. “I think… I think what happened at Mania was—”

Phil’s hand slid higher.

Y/N lost her train of thought entirely.

Cathy tilted her head, waiting for her to finish, but Y/N’s brain had short-circuited.

Phil, meanwhile, just relaxed, completely at ease, knowing damn well she was falling apart.

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists.

He was enjoying this.

Finally, she somehow managed to bullshit her way through a vague answer about the unpredictability of wrestling and keeping the fans entertained.

Cathy nodded, sensing she wouldn’t get a real answer, but her amused expression said it all. “Well, whatever’s going on, I think I speak for everyone when I say we’ll be watching closely.”

The interview ended, and the second the cameras cut, Y/N grabbed Phil’s wrist and yanked him toward the nearest empty hallway.

He let her, still smirking.

Once they were alone, she whirled on him, shoving his shoulder hard. “What the hell was that?”

Phil barely stumbled, still annoyingly amused as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What was what?”

Y/N let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, stepping closer, her frustration boiling over. “Oh, don’t you dare. You were messing with me the entire interview!”

Phil tilted his head like he was actually considering her words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Y/N let out a growl of frustration before shoving him again, her hands flat against his chest. “Bullshit, Phil! You—” She gestured wildly, completely losing it. “You—your hand, your voice, that stupid smirk, and then the ‘Yeah, Y/N, what are your thoughts?’ Like you didn’t just spend the last ten minutes scrambling my brain!”

Phil barely reacted, just staring down at her like she was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was mocking, his lips twitching with a lazy grin. “Did I distract you?”

She groaned, shoving him again. “You were being a little—”

“Careful,” he warned, low and teasing, as he caught her wrists.

But Y/N didn’t care. She ripped her hands away, pacing as she fought the urge to scream. “You’re playing hard to get now? Now?! After everything?” She turned back to him, rage and frustration and something dangerously close to desire burning in her expression.

Phil just leaned back against the wall, completely unfazed.

And that made her snap.

She grabbed the front of his hoodie and yanked him forward, her teeth gritted. “You think this is funny?”

His grin widened.

“Oh, I think it’s adorable.”

Y/N pushed him again, but Phil caught her easily, his hands gripping her waist as he let out a low chuckle. “You thought you could outplay me, princess?” He clicked his tongue. “How cute.”

Y/N’s breathing was heavy, her hands shaking as she glared up at him, her face inches from his. “You are such an—”

He cut her off.

Not with words.

With his hand, pressing firmly over her mouth.

Her eyes widened, a muffled sound escaping.

“Stop talking,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dark and smooth.

Y/N’s breath hitched as his fingers slid down, palm curling around her throat. Not tight—just there, warm and commanding, his thumb brushing against her pulse point, feeling how fast it raced.

Then, finally—

He kissed her.

It was hot, consuming, and completely overwhelming. His lips moved against hers with absolute confidence, taking what he knew she’d been begging for. His fingers tightened, his other hand gripping her hip, pulling her flush against him.

Y/N melted for half a second—then fought back, her hands fisting in his hoodie as she bit his lip, just to be a brat.

Phil let out a low groan, then snapped.

He pressed her hard against the wall, his grip on her tightening as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers, swallowing the smallest whimper she let out.

By the time he pulled back, Y/N was breathless, her knees weak, her entire brain fried.

Phil smirked, his thumb brushing over her jaw. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight. Be ready by six.”

He goes to walk off with that same smug grin, but Y/N catches him again. He turns around, raising a questioning eyebrow as he watches her usually bright (e/c) darken. She yanks his arm back towards her before slamming her lips into his again. His hands move back down to her waist, squeezing the soft flesh there as her hands shoot up into his hair, lightly tugging at the strands which makes him groan into her lips.

The two of them slowly pull apart, a small strand of saliva connecting them, but Y/N raises her finger up, breaking the string. Phil watches as she sucks her thumb into her mouth, cleaning their shared spit off her finger. He feels his jeans tighten uncomfortably as Y/N leans up to whisper in his ear.

“Only if you promise to have me for dessert.”

[littlexdeaths]

stage tech eddie munson x actress reader

warnings: 18+ only here folks, modern!college au, dry humping, little bit of kissing, just two ‘friends’ practicing, ami’right?

a/n: shoutout to both @keeksandgigz and @hippiegoth97 for hyping me up and encouraging me to finish/post this. also full credit to keeks for giving me the idea for that one specific eddie line in here hehe. you are both angels and ily 🫶🏻

“eddie, i don’t know about this…” you hesitate, silently praying he can’t hear your quickening pulse due to your close proximity. “this isn’t too weird?”

it’s a precarious position you’ve found yourself in, straddling the lap of one of your tech crew. and if anyone were to peek their head in the auditorium they would think something much more scandalous was taking place.

but between the two of you, this was just a friend helping out another. even if the utterance of the word friend made you want to shrink inwardly.

because you felt way more than friendly feelings towards the guy seated beneath you.

“hey, it’s alright… just,” he pauses, hands carefully slipping around your waist to coax you fully onto his lap. “there— see? i don’t bite.”

but eddie’s cheeky grin does nothing to slow your accelerated heart rate.

“besides, if you can’t do this with just you and me… how do you expect to do it in front of an audience?”

he gestures to the sea of empty seats, but the unyielding reassurance in his eyes has you relaxing fully onto his lap.

“there you go,” he mumbles, glancing down at the pages of your open script beside him.

while you fully knew what you were in for when you auditioned for this show, you didn’t exactly expect yourself to be thrust into the role of leading lady veronica sawyer.

you had been gunning for the role of ditzy, but adorable heather mcnamara— but were utterly surprised to find yourself cast in the role of veronica instead. but it was a challenge you were more than willing to take on. 

so when eddie (amongst the rest of the cast and crew) had seen you struggling during beginning rehearsals for dead girl walking— he of course offered to help you work on your confidence outside of scheduled rehearsals.

while his intentions were mostly pure, he can’t deny that having you in his lap was making him feel things he would be too ashamed to admit aloud. he just hopes his lower half can keep itself in check for the next hour and a half.

you blow out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, allowing your hands to rest fully on his shoulders. you can feel his muscles contract beneath your fingers when he sets your script back down on the stage floor.

“so, from the full steam ahead line?” he asks.

but you’re suddenly rendered speechless when the dimmed stage lights reflect the deep flecks of gold in his eyes.

oh you were so royally fucked.

“u-uh, just before that?” you suddenly break his intense gaze but your next move has heat soaking into your limbs.

you slide your hands down the front of his chest, only stopping when you reach the hem of his t-shirt. your eyes flick back up to his in a silent question, to which he just nods. 

“gonna ride me till you break me, right?” he grins, his hand gently squeezing your hip in a reassuring manner. 

but his words send a shock through your system and without thinking you quickly rip the soft fabric up and over his head.

it hits the stage floor with a silent thud and before he can react your lips are on his neck. light as feather when they trail down the base of his throat, the encouraging, yet snarky words of your director now flooding through your head.

i want passion, give me horny teenage aggression!

so when you suddenly shove him until he’s lying back on the stage, you can see the flash of surprise that flits over his features. but you somehow miss the way his cock stirs beneath his jeans and the hunger that reflects in his eyes. 

“sorry, you okay?” you whisper between kisses down his chest and eddie swears he’s gone to heaven.

“yeah— yeah, shit. keep going.”

you bite back a small smirk at the breathless hitch in his voice but continue your descent down his torso. you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath your lips and the faint tinge of sweat on your tongue. 

it takes all of your remaining resolve not to lick over the dark ink that swirls across his hip bone, but you are suddenly reminded of exactly where you are and why you are even doing this in the first place. 

focus. 

but when your fingers carefully card through the patch of hair just below his navel to reach for his belt buckle— it’s eddie who has to pull himself together.

while you’ve been attempting to count the beats of the instrumental break in your head, you soon realize you’ve gone on a little longer than originally intended. but eddie hasn’t bothered to correct your mistake.

the male was far too enamored with how good your lips feel against his skin. your eyes flick up to meet his ever darkening gaze as you sit back up, tossing your head back with your arm stretched high above your head.

“full steam ahead— take this dead girl walking.” you sing.

“h-how’d you find my address?” he stutters.

“—let’s break the bed, rock this dead girl walking…”

eddie’s a little stunned before he can deliver his next line at the subtle roll of your hips. the male merely leans up on his elbows to bring you closer as he tries to look anywhere but your chest.

that spark of confidence has re-ignited within you and eddie can’t help but feel a surge of pride fill his chest as he watches you in complete awe.

“no sleep tonight for you, better chug that mountain dew,” you tap your thumb against his jaw when you cup his cheek, fully immersing yourself in this moment with him.

he nods almost frantically, echoing JD’s breathless sentiment as his warm palms envelope the bare skin of your thighs. you gladly push one of his hands up higher beneath your pleated skirt, until he’s nearing the curve of your ass.

every movement and graze of his skin feels natural, like his hands are meant to be on you. it had never felt like this when you rehearsed with jonathan, that feeling of red hot desire was always missing whenever he gripped you tighter. 

but when eddie continues to pull you in, it ignites a flame deep within you, one that you never expected anyone to stoke again. 

you playfully tap your palm against his cheek in a mock slap and guide his dominant hand to tug on the loose strands of your hair.

“touch me there and there and there…” you gasp, yanking open the snap buttons on your blouse. 

eddie’s eyes nearly pop out of his head when he takes in the lacy pink fabric of your bra, unable to tear his gaze away as you start to rock your hips down into his. 

when you feel the bulge that’s now entirely pressing against your clothed core, it only encourages you to guide his hands up to completely envelope your breasts. 

any remnants of the blocking and choreography have completely left your mind as you both desperately grind against each other. 

the male meets your thrusts with almost perfect precision, his fly catching on your clothed clit in a way that has your whimpering in between breathy lyrics. 

those sparks that have been building up inside you are about to completely burst into a raging fire, threatening to swallow you both whole if you aren’t careful. 

“— wait, wait!” he all but groans when your lips press against his jaw. 

his body seizes up beneath you, all in an effort to stop himself from completely busting in his jeans. each drag of your hips feels too good and the pretty noises you’re making have him wondering what you’d sound like moaning his name instead. 

control yourself, munson.  

eddie is panting by the time you finish belting out your final note, your body practically slumping forward against his bare chest. he cradles you a little softer, fingertips gently trailing over the bare skin of your back. and it has a shiver running down your spine.

when he finally speaks, he can’t hide the titillate lilt in his voice. 

“… so, you wanna run it again?”

[mssoapart]

Day 7

Free-day (Out of order and late) Alenoah as Sherlock/Moriarty.

I like it when two characters play mind games and scheming against or with each other.

I didn`t plan to create an AU, but – my rant and bits of literature/character analysis (The Vision). Also, draw concept sketch.

Noah (Detective Sherlock Holmes). I mean, they're both geniuses, introverts who don't care about social opinion and some versions depicted him as being good with dogs. In Victorian England, I totally see Noah opening a detective agency, because you either go working on a plant or you might use your geniuses’ intelligence to solve crimes, like game puzzles, and make monies to pay bills and buy new books because in 1800 many books were expensive and produced in small quantities.

Plus! I might look at this too far, but I think the Sherlock and Watson analogy was implemented in London episode when they strip team Chris just to Noah and Owen for investigation.

Owen (Dr. Watson). Basically in the original books, Watson plays the role of the guy, your typical visual novel MC, well narrator, who has character, but his whole purpose is just to be a witness to detectives doing, asking questions for the audience. This leads to usually representing Watson as either annoyed with Sherlock's antics or (usually in kids' media) naïve but with good intentions because of this simplification, to show his kindhearted nature in cartoons and caricatures he is portrayed as chubby, which is what we need! But all of them did service in the Anglo-Afghan War, even Disney version mentioned it. (Also if you want to do Nowen version of Jhonlock I don`t mind, sure go for it)

Alejandro (professor Moriarty). Do I really need to explain? Both archvillains in their stories. Professor, respected in society for his talent and achievements, wealthy, but behind all of that façade he`s "Napoleon of crime". He doesn’t usually do crimes himself but rather, schemes, orchestrates the events, or provides the plans that will lead to a successful crime, like paying money to a court so that someone can be released from prison.

Heather (Irene Adler). OK, in the original books (all books written not by Arthur Conan Doyle are basically fanfics) her character and Sherlock don`t date (But if you like, it`s fine). She was more like “I know what you are” towards him.  I want to base it more on Warner Bros Sherlock where Irene works with Moriarty, but they also try to get rid of each other. She is also famous for blackmailing royals, If it isn`t most Heather thing I don`t know what is.

Eva (Mrs. Hudson). The landlady. I think it would be funny, she yelling at them to pay their bills in time.

See you next week

[svt-kiki]

( 🍸 )　𝐌𝐄𝐓 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐀　　⌅ .　

　✴︎　SEVENTEEN’S KIKI MET GALA DEBUT !!!　

────📄 ❛ THE ADVENT OF KPOP’ ANDROGYNOUS QUEEN　·　ROCKIN’ WITH LUXIROUS PURPLE TUX

dear readers, the day officially had came. the first monday of may in new york city can means only one thing — the met. this year’s dress code is “tailored for you,” inspired by the costume institute’s accompanying exhibition “superfine : tailoring black style,” which explores the history of black dandyism and its cultural impact. about this couple of years, the waves of kpop stars also reached to the met gala ( respectfully so ), just as what’s happening in the front row every hot season. so it’s natural that tons of royal fans praying their favs name on the guest list of the year. and this past years, there’s a name has been sparked not only among the fans but within the world of show biz and fashion industry with anticipation. the muse to several designers, film makers and show runners ( even actors, too, but that’s just some rumors so we don’t go further in here ), the idol, who captured people’s heart and leave them unforgettable impression.

no other than her, seventeen’s kiki.

and a good news is, we no longer have to wait with itching. the japanese idol / actress finally made her met gala debut in year of 2025. now the question is, who she’s gonna wear? there was a huge debate for months after months, and every candidates are huge name in the household. but don’t worry, we will tell every detail of it.

kiki showed up to fifth avenue with astonishing purple tuxedo, all crafted by a living fashion legend, yohji yamamoto himself. “as soon as i’ve heard the theme, i knew i wanted to work with him,” she spoke on the interview later. “his works has several strong features, and tailoring, and suits, are on the top of list. he has been kept pushing boundaries and shaking up the borderline between two different territories that society makes us believe unbendable. he resets the idea of norms, inspiring people that nothing can limits you. he taught me how to speak in fashion, and being myself with it.” then she added on amusingly, “also, i would be mortified if i didn’t wear yohji with this dress code!” she and yohji’s master-disciple relationship all began in 2019. this was around the time her fame started uprising among the couturier. from the start of the career, he kept crushing the standards in western europe and reconstruct the “as should be” in fashion, just like it was named revolution in black, from the impact he brought to paris alongside with rei kawakubo, the founder of comme des garçons back in 1980s. it is all about rebels against its wits and making changes — so as kiki, and black people.

kiki was considered maverick, the black sheep in the industry when she made public appearance in 2015. now it sounds like a bad joke, but people mocked and disregarded her for being single female presence in a huge co-ed group with multinational members. “people thought our company lost their mind,” she laughed about it while looking back the past in vanity fair interview. she was like no other idol. she haven’t sung about a girl who wanted a love from the boy. she didn’t have a chance to wear cute mini skirts and do a twintail to approach the audience in more promised, popular concepts as a female idol. she wears the pair of jeans, loose fit t-shirt just like other members, and more importantntly, she does interact with boys. boys and a girl, live, laugh, love in the same group. it was indeed revolutionary, and throughout the years her presence brought changes in kpop industry. lots of people pointed out she being a resource of public friendship between male and female peers singlehandedly. she unashamedly speaks up about unhealthy capitalism, toxic beauty standards and mental health in her world. how she acts rebelliously with a grace, resembles the way black people fight against the discrimination in society, trying to brought a revolution through the fashion. of course, it can be too careless if we speak kiki’s revolutionary among the industry and the literal movement for human rights, the history of the struggling for survive equally. however, if we look at the structure of the two elements, they are both working to break down the norms set by the environment, and yohji yamamoto is a brand with a similar history in this regard.

so, it all make sence that she choosed prince for the night’s inspiration. one of the reason she bowled everyone over is her outfit was vivid in the color of purple. this was surely a surprise for fashion people, because when it comes to colors, black is an absolute house code of yohji. it’s literally a signature color of the brand, yet he successfully embodied the spirit of the creation through her by burning those norms and normality of itself. “i mean... we originally planned in black,” yohji thoughtfully uttered in the final fitting video for the gala. “but if we think the theme of this year, it was kind of apparent that many people would attend in the color of black. in addition, vibrant color played huge role in black dandyism. in the process of researching, she ( kiki ) mentioned the impact of prince and how he influenced not just musically but in the term of gender. neutral, disturbing the boundaries very deliberately. he is sexy, but very chic. he and i gathered attention around the same period of time as far as i remembered, so i always had deep respect for him, although our path hadn’t crossed as i’d wished.”

there’s no need to explain the color of prince, as much as the black in yohji. to pay homage to the legendary gram rockstar, the overall silhouette of the tuxedo is tailored like a long coat, with pants that are wide but formed into the shape blending with the jacket and her body, adding the essence of a zoot suit. the costumes also included the reference of double collars and many buttons shirt from his past creation, a nod to the tailoring process for suits, which is also the main theme of the night.

what her peaces reminded me ── from the left, givenchy 1999, 1998, yohji yamamoto 2013, anna sui 1992, jacques fath 1993

kiki gracefully covered the actual costumes with a sophisticated gray coat when she left the mark, so the moment she appeared on the blue carpet, croud cheered for dear life. i mean, the hat with a feather? and the umbrella? oh, she fed more than enough spectacular for starved fashion people who were on the streets and the online to witness the biggest event like to watch super bowl. moreover, she never forgot to be thankful to the mentor, welcoming yohji yamamoto under the umbrella for the photo, after she astonished everyone by actually opening that prop, let the sewn black-purple crystal strings dropped from the hem, the purple rain. kiki’s choice was thoughtful, meaningful, never asking for the attention as she understands this is a huge opportunity to celebrate black culture in fashion — yet, she always got turned into the main sensation in the room because simply being, her.

her pack is definitely one of the fan’s favorite, not only carat ( as we speak, they meant when the fans were the one who let them shine, just look at her ) but enthusiastic met followers and high end fashion magazine. she was included in the countless lists from all over the world, such as harper’s bazaar, vogue, elle, the new york times and vanity fair. also in the vogue video hosted by emma chamberlain, she mentioned the excitement about her new friends in state — colman domingo and ayo edibiri — are going to co-chair the gala. “i’m probably one of the newest in their contacts, but they are always so warm and welcoming. i give them my best regards and wish they have amazing night.” it is difficult to determine who first stated these words, so we cannot give an exact quote, but it would be clear that it is speaking nothing but the truth. she is the people’s princess — or, prince may be the right choice for this time.

✉️　i would love to make kicheol edition for little met gala drabble if i had an energy for it

© SVT-KIKI　/　2025 .　

( tag list )　@smh-anon @jennwonwoo @angie-x3 @scarlet789 @cheeksung @babilou-pov @piratekingateez2001

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 2: Harbor Gateway]

A/N: Thank you for the warm welcome you have given this series!!! I am sick with bronchitis currently so this has been a big bright spot in an otherwise miserable week 😅 I can't wait to show you where this story is going, I hope you're ready for it 🥰💜

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent...at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon's right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, ice cream, judgmental parents, aggressive Akitas, we're literally in Minnesota!!!

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Afterwards, Mason pulls his clothes back on as you are absentmindedly drawing stars in the steam on the windows of his Chevy Silverado. On the other side of the glass is inky Minnesota night, a full moon dissolving away, glowing freckles of constellations. You’re staying with your parents and Mason has roommates, so the truck was the expedient choice. It was good, not that you finished; you didn’t say anything, he didn’t ask, but even if he had you would have told him not to worry about it. It can take forever, especially with an audience. You’d rather wait until you’re alone.

Mason glances down at the used condom on the floor of his Silverado, hastily discarded, viscerally slick in a way that becomes sickening in the letdown, as the endorphins and the adrenaline slip away and the blood pumps slow and unclouded. He smirks as he asks: “You sure you don’t want to get back on the pill?”

You sigh, drawing another star. You are still naked and sprawled across the back seat, glistening with sweat in the moonlight. “Well I tried three different prescriptions and had three miserable experiences, and I’m really not interested in playing side effect roulette again. And I can’t risk my skin going insane and random bleeding when I’m running around all over L.A. trying to get parts.”

“What about that little sperm assassin T-shaped thing?”

You look at him. “An IUD?”

“Yeah.”

You wince, engraving another star into the steam on the window. “I don’t think I like the idea of having a piece of metal shoved up inside me.”

He laughs. “But you’ll get silicone implants?”

You shrug; you can’t deny the irony. “I don’t need an IUD to be an actress.”

“Look, I’m not complaining about the tits thing,” Mason says, holding up his hands. “Obviously I’d enjoy them too. And you’d still have them when you move home, so it’s not a waste even if the acting thing doesn’t work out.”

You already know he feels this way, and yet still, it hurts. “When I move home?”

He smiles and crawls back on top of you, his Carleton College hoodie whispering against your belly and chest, soft royal blue cotton on damp skin. He had been a Political Science and International Relations major who took Theater Arts 195: Acting Shakespeare for an arts credit. He was beyond terrible and had no appreciation for the field whatsoever, but he was tall and strong and jolly, an earnest corn-fed Midwestern boy, and when one day after class he’d asked if he could take you to Culver’s for a burger and frozen custard, you’d said yes.

Here and now, in the back seat of his Chevy Silverado, Mason kisses your forehead. Then he ghosts his thumb over the ridge of your orbital socket and cheekbone, where your dark glittery eyeshadow has smudged like a spreading bruise: Galaxy by Anastasia Beverly Hills, Elysian by Natasha Denona. “I’m not saying you aren’t good. But how many people on this planet get to be movie stars? It’s just not realistic. And it’s about so much more than talent. It’s about who you know, and luck, and chemistry, and looks, and a bunch of other things that are mostly out of your control. You’re never going to be the type of girl who’s an influencer or winning Miss America, you’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t very, very pretty. And I loved you anyway.”

Loved, past tense. You and Mason stopped using that word a year ago; now the nostalgia is painting memories like the walls of an old house. His memories, anyway. You sit up and start yanking on your clothes: oversized yellow Santa Monica crewneck, black sweatpants with elastic cuffs at the ankles. “I think I’m going to get the gummy bear implants.”

Mason licks his lips. “Yum.”

“They’re a type of silicone, but they’re supposed to feel more natural and be less dangerous if they rupture.”

“Will you have scars?” he says as if the notion has just occurred to him, troubled, perhaps a little revolted.

“Well yeah, they have to end up under my skin somehow.”

Mason shudders, then he has another thought. “Who’s going to take care of you after surgery when you’re all sore and zonked out on opioids?”

“My roommate Baela said she would. She’s had friends who have gone through it already.”

“Okay, good. I wouldn’t want you to be alone out there.” Mason touches the back of your head, a quick fond gesture. He’s the only man you’ve ever been with, and even that took a while, months of trying to envision him undressing you before you were sure you could do it without flinching, without being afraid or shy or bewildered. But in the end it had been easy, always easy, which is why you keep coming back to him like a comet. Your elliptical orbit takes you far away and then close again, and such natural patterns are effortless to keep.

You say, the edges of your lips curling into a furtive smile: “I’m definitely not alone.”

Mason groans. “You’re going to hook up with that new agent guy, aren’t you?”

“What? No! No way, he has a fiancée.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s more amused than annoyed. “Okay, whatever.”

“You know I don’t date anyone.” Which is why each time you’re home visiting, Mason gets a text: Want to get lunch at Culver’s? or Can you drive me to Target? or Pick me up around 9 p.m.?

Mason smirks and taunts: “I don’t know, with the way you talk about him you sound kind of obsessed.”

“I’m just grateful. Someone finally gave me a chance.” You look to the window; the steam and your hand-drawn stars have evaporated away. “And yeah, he’s interesting and he’s cute, and he’s kind of mean but then unexpectedly caring sometimes, and I think he’s one of those people who are really good at what they do but only when they’re inspired…but that doesn’t mean I’m into him romantically.” A pause. “And even if I was, there’s no harm in a super-secret, one-sided crush.”

“Okay. Have fun with all the adulterous sex.”

You chuckle. “Thanks, but that is not the plan.” You slip on your flip-flops, shimmy out of the back seat, and trot around the Silverado to the passenger’s door. Mason climbs into the driver’s seat and turns his key in the ignition. You ask: “What happened to that ballerina girl who was in your Instagram stories for a while?”

“Had to ghost her, she got super clingy and controlling. She was texting me at work all the time and got pissed off when I was putting a ton of hours into that election thing for CNN.” Mason is a political analyst. He turns to you. “You ever feel like people are the best versions of themselves before you really know them? Then you get too close and all the cracks start showing.”

“I think people are wonderful. You just have to find the ones you click with.”

“I should have figured you’d say something like that.” He steers his truck out of the otherwise empty parking lot in Lac Lavon Park. “I’m looking forward to you being home again.”

“I’m not.”

You both laugh, and then Mason drives you to your parents’ house.

At the dining room table, Mom and Clara are researching wedding venues, vast countryside estates and metropolitan historic hotels. Clara got engaged two weeks ago during a vacation to Turks and Caicos. In the living room, Dad and Tripp are watching commentary on the NBA Finals. Tripp’s name isn’t really Tripp; he is the third James in a row, named after your father and grandfather, and Tripp is short for triple. All over the house, there are Akitas lolling in plush dog beds and clicking around on Brazilian Cherry hardwood floors. They have faces like teddy bears, but their dark eyes track you mistrustfully, as if you are an intruder.

No one asks where you have been. They barely acknowledge that you are back. “Hello, dear,” your mother calls distractedly from the dining room, and that’s all. You jog upstairs to the bathroom you share with Clara before anyone can notice your smeared makeup and the unsavory post-car-sex sweat gleaming on your skin. You get into the shower, turn on water so hot it is nearly scalding, and close your eyes. With your back pressed to the jade green tiles, your hand wanders down over your belly and stops between your legs. Your mind cycles through fantasies, but nothing seems to be working.

It’s not real. It can’t hurt anybody.

You imagine that Aegon is the one touching you, and in under a minute it’s over.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I want there to be horses,” Clara says, scrolling through her phone and ignoring the food on her plate: roast chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, green beans sauteed in garlic and olive oil, panzanella salad. Mom prepared it all herself, not because there was no help available—your parents have a housekeeper named Angela who comes by several days per week—but to prove she could. In the living room are shelves heavy with books by Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, Cat Cora, Julia Child, Nigella Lawson. You hear echoes of ambient clicking, Akitas meandering down hallways and staircases.

“Horses?!” Tripp replies with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, gesturing to the sliding glass door. “Don’t you get enough horses in your everyday life? Don’t you have like five right out there?” Your parents’ house sits on ten acres of land, including a barn and several paddocks for Clara’s rescued Thoroughbreds.

“I want beautiful horses,” Clara insists. “Unusual, photogenic, so they can be in the background of all the photos. Maybe Friesians or Haflingers?”

“I’m not sure we can sort the venues by types of horses available, dear,” Mom says. All that’s on her own plate is a heap of green beans and a few pieces of skinless white meat chicken.

Clara moans and drops her face into her hands. “It’s so overwhelming!”

“You’ll find a place you like, Clara Bear,” Dad says mildly, painstakingly slicing meat off a drumstick with his fork and knife.

“And Owen is no help at all. Every time I ask for his opinion he just tells me to do whatever I think is best, but I don’t know what’s best, that’s why I’m asking him!”

Your mother pats Clara’s shoulder reassuringly. “Guys don’t care about weddings,” Tripp says, twisting around in his chair to see the television in the living room. On a rerun of E! News, the hosts are discussing Chris Hemsworth’s rigorous fitness regime and Meghan Trainor’s “mommy makeover.” You peek under the tablecloth. One of the Akitas, Yuki, is glaring as she waits for you to drop something for her to eat.

“You could do something like that,” Mom says to you, and you realize you haven’t been listening to the conversation.

“Sorry, do what?”

“You could be a wedding planner or a real estate agent. Those are actual careers, but there’s more creativity involved, isn’t there? And didn’t you take a design class in college? That would certainly come in handy.”

“Hm,” your father says with a frown, still dissecting his chicken. He would rather you go to law school like Tripp. You would rather lie down in traffic.

“I took a set design class, Mom. Because I was studying how to be an actress. And that’s what I’m doing right now in Los Angeles, trying to be an actress.”

“You could become an architect!” Mom bursts out with sudden enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

You titter evasively. “I can’t draw, Mom. Or use the modeling software, or do math.”

“You know, you don’t need any specific degree to get into law school,” Tripp says, and your father gives him a nod of approval. “You could have majored in dance or bagpiping or Egyptology, it doesn’t matter. All they want is a high undergrad GPA and a 168+ LSAT score, and I bet you could get that if you studied. You can even retake the test a few times if you need to.”

“Why do you do that?” Clara snaps at him. You eat your panzanella salad and pretend not to be listening. Beneath the tablecloth, Yuki growls. You toss her a few cubes of Italian bread so she won’t bite you.

Tripp shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Do what?”

“Why are you always wasting your time trying to convince her to grow up and get a real job? If she wants to embarrass herself, let her. I have problems that I’m trying to solve, so how about applying yourself to those instead?”

“Are you serious? You think I should be calling around to wedding venues asking about their selection of exotic draft horses?”

Clara aggressively stabs at her green beans with her fork. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Hey, hey, kids, no swearing,” your mother says. “It’s Father’s Day. Be respectful.”

Dad turns to you. “You could be an entertainment lawyer, how about that? You could work in intellectual property or negotiating contracts.”

You smile warily. “I’ll think about it, Dad.”

Clara says to your parents: “Well I hope all the money you’re throwing out the window to support her in California isn’t coming out of my wedding fund.”

You close your eyes and think: I can’t spend my life in a cubical. I can’t spend every minute of every day trying to forget who I am.

“Shh, shh,” your mother pleads, rubbing the back of Clara’s clenched hand. “You will get exactly what we promised you, that amount is still set aside for your wedding. Nothing she does affects you.”

“And it’s only until the end of the year,” your father adds. “Then the vacation is over.” Then the meager allowance they are funneling to you will stop and you will be ordered to return home to pursue an honorable course of existence. You have six months to succeed in Hollywood, or the dream dies.

Your father is now asking Tripp about his summer associate position at Latham & Watkins in Chicago. Your mother is advising Clara to get a wedding dress with a corset back so it can be adjusted in the event she gains or loses weight at the last minute. Underneath the table, Yuki is growling again; she noses your knees threateningly.

“I got an agent,” you say, and everyone looks at you.

“Really?” Mom asks, sounding a little perplexed.

“Who is it?” Dad says.

“Aegon Targaryen. He has a small office in Elysian Park.”

“Oh, I think I recognize the last name.”

“His family is in the industry.” You are beaming; you can feel the heat rising in your face. “But Aegon kind of does his own thing and tries to stay out of the limelight. He was an actor when he was my age. And I guess he thinks I can get roles, so that’s really exciting.”

Your mother seems concerned as she nibbles at a shred of white meat. “Is he an older man?”

“Not that much older. He’s thirty-five.”

“Well, be careful, darling,” your father says gravely. “Who knows what his intentions are.”

Clara evidently agrees. “Men can be so creepy. I had this one professor in pharmacy school who cheated on his wife with one student, then cheated on her six months later with a different student. And then he retired to Boca Raton and was never heard from again.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Tripp says to your father. “We read about Clinton v. Jones in torts class, it was wild, I didn’t know he was such a freak even before the Monica Lewinsky thing…”

After dinner, while your father and Tripp are flipping through television channels in the living room and Clara is upstairs on the phone with Owen, you go to the kitchen where your mother is washing dishes in a bubble-filled sink. Again, she doesn’t have to do this; Angela will be here to clean the house tomorrow. But it’s part of being a perfect homemaker, and if she’s not good at this then she’s not good at anything.

She glances over when she hears you come in. “Did you get an appointment with one of the doctors your father recommended?”

“I did, yeah. I have a consultation on Friday.” You lean against the marble countertop and cross your arms so you don’t fidget nervously. From a dog bed on the floor, Mochi glowers at you. “Do you think I should get the surgery?”

She shrugs; you’re not certain if she is more indecisive or apathetic. “Your cousin Madison had a nose job the summer before college. Your old classmate Emma got a blepharoplasty and then met her husband three months later. Practically all of my friends have had breast augmentations, and I’ve certainly never regretted mine. I think if you’re going to get anything fixed, it makes sense to pick that.”

You try again to elicit a strong opinion, whether an endorsement or objection. “I don’t think I’d want to do it if I didn’t feel like it was necessary to be an actress.”

“Well, regardless of whatever you have going on in California, you’ll either have to get them done now or after you have children,” Mom says. “I love you and Clara and Tripp, but you destroyed my body. At least doctors can repair breasts. My bladder is still useless.”

You stare at Mochi distractedly. The dog huffs, unwelcoming. “What was the recovery like?”

“Oh, hell,” your mother says. “But once you heal up it’s worth it. I can wear square necklines and strapless dresses again.”

“Technically, you could have worn whatever you wanted.”

She gives you an impatient look, a you’re too old for that sort of frustration. “No one wants to see some sad flabby woman.” She is including your father in this statement. You remember being home for Thanksgiving Break during your freshman year at Carleton and inadvertently stumbling upon emails from one of the hospital interns when you used his laptop to buy movie tickets: indecent inuendoes, flirtatious photos, no smoking gun but certainly more than was appropriate between colleagues. You had tried to tell your mother, and she had deflected over and over again until you realized that she didn’t want to know; it was easier to be carried by the currents of momentum than to rock the boat until it sank. “This agent of yours…is he celebrating Father’s Day with his family?”

“No, Aegon lost his dad when he was in college.”

“That must have been difficult,” she says vaguely as she scrubs a pot with a green Scotch-Brite dish wand. Your parents are now at the age when their friends have begun to succumb to strokes and heart disease and cancers, and the lurking specter of mortality both horrifies and fascinates them. “What did he die of?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mom?!” Clara shouts from upstairs. “Osaka is puking in the hallway!”

Your mother sighs and dries her hands on a dish towel, then leaves you alone in the kitchen. You linger there for a while, listening to the faint drone of CNN from the living room television, then leave the house through the sliding glass door in the dining room. Outside the sun is setting, and you gaze westward as the aging daylight turns the tall green grass and silhouettes of horses to gold like the mines that first brought settlers to California. You slide your phone out of the pocket of your denim shorts and take a photo, then post it to your Instagram story with the caption Home and a smiley face emoji.

A minute later, you receive a DM. Aegon has typed: This explains the big horse girl energy

You laugh and respond: They belong to my sister, I am personally very anti-horse

You hope he’ll continue the conversation. You don’t have to wait long. How’s Minnesota? Aegon asks.

You stop and consider how to answer, then decide not to overshare. Devoid of palm trees…but good!

There is a pause—perhaps thirty seconds—and then Aegon types: How’s the ex-boyfriend?

Is he curious or jealous? You smile. Still not standing in the way of anything :)

Aegon reacts with a heart emoji, then immediately switches it to a thumbs-up. You cannot ignore the wave of warmth and fondness and exhilaration that overwhelms you. Logically, you know he’s engaged to another woman. Emotionally, it doesn’t seem relevant.

You think: It’s just a crush. It can’t hurt anybody.

Then you remember what your mother asked, and as you stand outside in the fading dusk light you Google Aegon’s father Viserys Targaryen. He has his own Wikipedia page. You scroll to the bottom, where it reads in nondescript black letters: On October 27, 2009, Targaryen passed away at his Malibu residence after a long illness.

~~~~~~~~~~

You have just finished ringing up a Like It-sized Apple Pie A La Cold Stone when Josh says: “Hey, there’s an old guy asking for you.”

“What?” You look towards the ice cream freezer and there he is, dark jeans, green Nike Killshots, a yellow Hawaiian shirt that’s too big for him. “It’s my agent!” you shout as you rush over to meet him, loud enough that everyone in the shop turns to stare.

“Shh,” Aegon says, but he’s laughing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask from behind the counter.

“I got some good news, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Cool! Should I make you ice cream first?”

“Um, sure.” Aegon surveys the menu of Signature Creations. He seems overwhelmed; he actually looks a little panicked.

“Are you usually a chocolate or vanilla person? Or peanut butter, or coffee? Or mint?”

“Strawberry,” Aegon says.

“Strawberry,” you echo, surprised. “Okay, I think you’ll like Our Strawberry Blonde.”

“Neat.”

“Because, you know, it has strawberries and you’re blonde.”

“Sounds literally perfect for me,” Aegon says, smiling.

“What size?”

“Uh…” He reads the labels on the cups in the display case. “The big one.”

“No, you have to say the real name.”

He chuckles. His cheeks are pink, his turbulent blue eyes sparkling. “I’m not saying that.”

“Then I’m not making you ice cream!”

He groans. “I want an Our Strawberry Blonde in the size Gotta Have It.”

“Cup, cone, or waffle cone bowl?”

“Stop asking me questions or you’re fired.”

“Waffle cone bowl,” you decide. Aegon studies you as you work, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side: scraping a mound of strawberry ice cream out of the freezer with your metal spatulas, taking it to the cold countertop, and smashing in graham cracker pie crust, caramel, fluffy whipped topping, and fresh strawberries. You use one of the spatulas to expertly scoop the mixture into a waffle cone bowl, not spilling a drop. Then you hand Aegon his ice cream and ring him up at the cash register. He pays in cash.

You ask Josh, the manager on duty, if you can take your fifteen-minute break now. He frowns. “I thought you were going to refill the yellow cake and Oreo cookie mix-ins first.”

“Hey,” Aegon says. He waves a ten-dollar bill in the air to show it to Josh and then dunks it in the tip jar. “Do it yourself.”

“Fine,” Josh mutters to you. “But you don’t get a second over fifteen minutes.”

There’s no time to waste. You hurry to a small table by the window. It’s 8:30 p.m., and outside the world is indigo-dark and threaded with inorganic sparks of headlights, streetlights, kaleidoscopic neon signs. Your eyeshadow is vibrant and pink, because no one cares about that when you work at an ice cream shop: Push by Natasha Denona, Coax by Urban Decay.

Aegon takes his first taste of his ice cream as he sits down in the chair across from you. “You were right, this is delicious. A bop, not a flop.” Then he notices the bruise on your right wrist. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“Oh. One of the Akitas bit me. Don’t worry, I can cover it up with concealer.”

Aegon is irritated. “Why is your mother letting her Akitas bite you?”

“It was my fault. I forgot that Oni doesn’t like when people pet his feet.”

Aegon sighs, stirring his Our Strawberry Blonde. “You want some of this?”

“I can’t,” you say reluctantly.

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I already had a little cup when I got here this afternoon so I have regrettably hit my ice cream quota for the day.” And then, when Aegon clearly does not approve: “I try not to restrict too much but obviously staying the same size takes effort. That’s not a disorder, it’s just reality.”

Aegon seems to debate arguing, then instead scoops up a heaping spoonful of ice cream and holds it out across the table. “Come on. It doesn’t count if it’s on my spoon.”

You smile sheepishly and open your mouth for him. Your lips close around the plastic spoon: coldness, sweetness, the grit of pulverized graham cracker pie crust, the infinitesimal black seeds of strawberries that catch between your teeth. When Aegon begins to pull it away, you grab his hand and don’t let go until you’ve licked the spoon clean. He laughs hysterically as he watches you. “I haven’t had strawberry ice cream in forever,” you say.

“Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla girl.”

“I am,” you confess. “I know the joke. But I really do always get the vanilla-adjacent flavors. Cookie dough, French vanilla, sweet cream, cheesecake…”

Aegon smirks playfully. “Pathetic.”

“So you’re an enlightened being because you eat strawberry ice cream.”

“Boring people like vanilla. Kids like chocolate. Interesting adults like strawberry.”

“Do you actually have good news for me or did you just come here to be a ghoul?”

“I got you a part.”

“What?!” you squeal, and people are gawking again. This time, Aegon doesn’t tell you to be quiet. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he replies, grinning like he can’t help it.

“A part in what?”

“It’s small,” Aegon warns. “It’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

You scream; Josh scowls at you from behind the counter. “Oh my God, no way, no way!”

“You’re going to be the wife of a guy the doctors kill with negligence. Three scenes, two are pretty short and unremarkable but then you get to yell at the surgeon in the last one. Gives you the opportunity to show some range and make an impression.”

You can’t believe this is happening. “They aren’t going to make me audition first?”

“Well…it’s very last-minute,” Aegon says. “The actress who was supposed to do it has a drug problem or something, I guess, so she ghosted and they were scrambling for a replacement. And I completely fabricated your credentials.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, I typed up a resume and sent it over and they loved it. So try not to talk about your actual experience because none of it will match.”

You shake your head, stunned, amazed. “What if they try to contact one of my alleged former employers?”

“Then they’ll be talking to Aemond, and he will lie and say you were an absolute pleasure to work with.”

Aemond Targaryen: Aegon’s younger brother, a screenwriter, a philanthropist, a well-respected entity in Hollywood, and you know this from the Googling that preceded your first meeting with Aegon last week. “And Aemond doesn’t mind helping you commit fraud?”

“It’s not a favor I call in very often.” Aegon finishes his ice cream, then begins breaking apart the waffle cone bowl and shoving shard-like pieces into his mouth.

“When’s the shoot?”

“Very very early on Thursday, that’s the bad news.” Thursday is two days from now. “So I’ll have to pick you up at your apartment at like 5 a.m.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

He smiles, gnawing on a chunk of his waffle cone bowl. “I figured.”

“You’re going too?” The hope is unmistakable in your voice.

“Of course I’m going.”

“I didn’t think agents usually went to film shoots.”

“Well, fortunately for you, your agent is imminently fleeing Los Angeles and has already parted ways with most of his clients and really has nothing else going on besides hiding in his office and playing a Nintendo 64, so I figured I could make it. And also if I’m going to be enthusiastically recommending you to people, I should probably see you work at some point.”

You wiggle your eyebrows flirtatiously. “Do I get to make out with my fake husband?”

Aegon is amused. “From what I understand, you get to chastely kiss him once. They’re sending the script over to my office first thing in the morning, so you’ll only have a day to learn your lines.”

“That’s enough time. I’ll make it work.”

“Always so agreeable,” Aegon muses. So desperate is more like it.

Thursday. “Is the shoot just one day?”

“Yeah, they should be able to get everything they need from you on Thursday morning. Why?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday and I was just wondering if I’d have to reschedule it.”

Aegon is immediately vigilant. “What kind of appointment?”

“Uh…” You smirk guiltily. “It’s just a consultation. No slicing yet.”

“And you’re going to cancel that,” Aegon says flatly.

“Seriously?”

“Do you want implants because you want them or because you think other people want you to have them?”

You hesitate. “Both.” That’s probably a lie.

Aegon leans back in his chair and studies you. “Yeah, you’re cancelling that appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because when I agreed to sign you, you told me that you’d do anything I say. And I’m telling you to cancel it.”

“But why don’t you want me to get implants? Everyone gets implants.”

“Because once you begin to treat scalpels and needles as prescriptions for everything you don’t like about yourself—or everything that other people don’t like about you—it’s very difficult to stop. First it’s your tits, then it’s your eyes and your nose, then it’s your chin and your cheeks and your neck and your ass, and it’s just this revolving door of painful, dangerous, unnecessary procedures that are condemning you for being mortal, that are carving away your humanity one incision at a time. I’ve seen it happen to more people than I could count, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Because you seem very, very human, and I’d like you to stay that way. Which means you don’t cut yourself up because some agent or producer or casting director told you to.” Then he adds, perhaps as an afterthought: “And anyway, you don’t need implants.”

You smile, then reply quietly: “You’ve never seen me.”

Aegon grins. “I don’t care if you have twelve nipples under there like a fucking beagle, you don’t need plastic surgery.”

You both laugh, and the tension evaporates, and even if you don’t cancel the appointment—Aegon is one person, the entertainment industry is omnipotent and eternal—you are glad he seems to like you the way you are. Behind the counter, Josh is waving manically to get your attention and summon you to return to work. You pretend not to see him.

Aegon asks: “Why don’t you like horses?”

“They freak me out. They’re all teeth and legs and they’re huge, I’m always scared they’ll step on me.”

“Your dad’s a doctor, right? I thought all rich girls had horses.”

“Where I’m from, a lot of women ride horses to distract themselves from the fact that their husbands are riding their receptionists or interns. I’d rather have no horse and no awful cheating husband.” And Aegon stares at you and turns serious, because perhaps you’ve inadvertently addressed the elephant in the room: he has a fiancée, and neither of you are acting like she exists. You swiftly pivot. “I’ll make an exception for you, though.”

He appears startled. “What?”

“The Chinese zodiac. You’re a horse. So you’re the only horse I like.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Aegon chuckles uneasily and gets up to throw his trash away, then stands under the florescent lights with his hands in his pockets, his blonde hair falling out of its gel and hanging over his forehead. He gazes down at you pensively; you are still seated at the table. “When does your shift end?”

“I’m closing tonight, so I’ll be done around 10:30 or 11.”

“Okay. Can I come back to pick you up and drive you home?”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

He gestures to the inky dark window, incredulous. “Because obviously you shouldn’t be walking alone in Harbor Gateway at midnight? You know there was a shooting a block from here last week. I looked it up.”

“I walk home all the time.”

“You really need to stop doing that.”

“You are being very dramatic for a non-actor.”

“Listen, I can’t go to my house and try to fall asleep while I’m wondering if you’re getting mugged or murdered.”

You look at Aegon. He does seem genuinely worried. “You can drive me home.”

“Great. See you in two hours.” He strides away and shoves open the glass door; the little metal bells hanging there jingle.

“Aegon?”

He halts mid-step and turns around. “Yeah?”

“Does Becca know where you are right now?”

His face is some amalgamation of emotions you can’t read, and this is unusual.“Why do you think I paid in cash?”

And before you can reply, he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

On Thursday, June 19th, Aegon picks you up in his white Chrysler Sebring convertible while the city is still asleep. The sky is dark, the streetlights passing by overhead, infinite pinpoint supernovas. There are hardly any other cars on the road. Aegon’s hair is a mess and his eyes are bleary; he’s sipping a Starbucks coffee with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other. He is wearing a suit, but he still manages to look unpolished, his white shirt half-untucked and his black tie too skinny. He sets his coffee down in one of the cup holders and passes you something venti-sized and iced.

“I got you a vanilla latte, vanilla girl.”

“Aw, thanks! Skim milk?”

“Nope,” he says, smiling. You smile back and take a gulp of it, cold and sweet and bracing. “What’s your hype song?”

“I can’t tell you,” you say, embarrassed.

“Why not?”

“You’re going to terrorize me.”

“Don’t Stop Believing? Don’t Stop Me Now? I Gotta Feeling?”

“Lose Yourself.”

Aegon throws back his head and cackles, his hair flying in the wind. “That’s definitely a fireable offense. I’m ditching you the second we finish this shoot.” But he taps around on his phone and plugs in the aux, and then Eminem is thudding through the speakers as the Sebring sails north and the red-gold dawn rises on the horizon, a celestial message from the East Coast, an omen from the future.

Aegon drives you to Prospect Studios in Los Feliz, just east of Hollywood. Filming will be indoors on a soundstage. You spend what feels like forever in hair and makeup, and the costume designer—who had prepared for a different actress—dresses and redresses you over and over again, frowning at your chest and waist and thighs, and you have a sudden pang of nauseating panic and dread: I don’t belong here. What the fuck was I thinking?

Then you are in the scenes under intensely radiant artificial light, and just like it did in your roles back in Minnesota, the real world vanishes and all that exists are these characters, these moments, and your body and mind become theirs, and perhaps even your soul too. Your husband is handsome and kind, and here in this liminal fictional space you love him, and when the surgeons wheel him off to the operating room you are full of blind naïve surety. Then the doctors update you on his condition and you are still hopeful, but it becomes a fragile thing, like something that shatters when it’s dropped from a height. And then he is dead, he has been taken away from you, he has been stolen, and you are eclipsed by a blood-red wrath that is animalistic and unforgiving. After each take when you are ripped back through the veil and into reality, you can’t remember exactly what you did or said, and the director doesn’t have many critiques so you aren’t sure how it’s going.

But when it’s over, while you are still standing on the soundstage with the other actors, Aegon puts on his sunglasses and smiles at you from across the room; and you remember what he said outside his office on the day you first met—you are so bright, sunshine—and you know you’ve done a good job.

[scorpioriesling]

Invisible String - Part 3

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Eris x reader

Warning(s): angst ofc, comfort. Please be advised; future parts might not be suitable for all audiences. Proceed with caution.

Summary: You'd taken the nanny position for the royal family over a year ago, not expecting what would come of it or how close you'd grow to the child you cared for. Things became tough for Eris when his wife left him and his daughter, and he found it increasingly harder to raise Riley himself. He soon realizes, you've provided a lot more than the typical job description duties for his daughter... and maybe for him, too.

SR’s Note: I added in the advisory so that younger / uncomfortable readers won't begin the series without knowing or expecting potential risks in content to come. For those who enjoy or look forward to content as such -- get excited! Nonetheless, I hope readers will enjoy this series that came to me in a dream one night. (; Much love to all.

Tags: @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @talesofadragon @rcarbo1 @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @a-frog-with-a-laptop @kitsunetori @dannul @velarisdusk @lamarmotta @paintedbyshadows @i-know-i-can (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Part 2

You'd practically torn apart every drawer in your dresser and tossed out every hanger in your closet at this point. All those clothes you'd put away were for nothing; your room was a disaster. Yet, you could not find anything suitable enough for an outing with the Autumn heir and his daughter.

"The PINK one," the four year old chimed in for the hundredth time.

Her commentary was not necessarily helping, either.

"Riley, I'm not sure that the pink is my favorite," you say, and she scootches to the edge of your bed, hopping off and trotting over to your closet. She watches as you furiously flip through the remaining hangers, and her fist closes around a fistfull of marigold fabric.

"This!" She says, tugging on a rather simple milkmaid-style dress you hadn't worn in years, honestly. It was cute, it at least had some floral detailing on it.

You sighed, looking down at the beaming child. You'd done her hair first; half up, half down with a biiiig bow, just as she'd requested. A bow to match her fluffy gown and pretty flats, of course. She truly was the definition of Princess.

"I suppose-"

"Yay!" She twirled, her dress billowing out around her. She wafted toward the corner as you slid the dress on, adjusting it to fit before stepping out in front of the large mirror to inspect it in full. You'd barely laid your eyes on the full outfit before Riley bounded over to you, her mouth wide as she gasped.

"You look so pretty!" She said, wrapping her arms around your knee as her eyes met yours in the mirror. You smiled at her, leaning down to give her a hug.

"Thank you Riles! You look very pretty today too." You complimented, and she giggled, her fingers drifting through the ends of your curled hair. You decided on a few minimal jewelry pieces and flats, pushing your accessory drawer closed when a thin, marigold ribbon fell out. Riley noticed it, racing over and picing it up for you.

"We match?" She asked, extending the hair accessory to you on an outstretched hand. You took it from her; all you could do was agree, tying half your hair back and fastening it in a bow at the back.

"We better go find your dad," you suggest, straightening the last few imperfections of your dress before Riley's attention is caught at the doorway.

"Oh my -- Riley, you look wonderful!" Eris' voice compliments from your doorway, and she bounds over to him, getting caught in his arms in an instant. He kisses her cheek, both of them looking to you after a moment's pause. "You both do," he adds, quieter this time. You turn slightly, blushing at the compliment as you retrieve your purse from your bed and walk towards them.

"As do you, Vanserra." You brush past him with a wink, heading down the hallway with all the confidence in the world today it seemed. Riley's footsteps bounded behind you, the three of you on your merry way.

✧･ﾟ: *

You'd ridden to the Town Square on horseback; Riley with her dad, of course. When you'd gotten to the main district, he'd gotten off with Riley first, helping you next like a true gentleman. His hand lingered for a moment around your waist, the heat of his touch enough to send a thrill down your spine.

Stop it. You chastized yourself. You still work for him, you know.

Riley gasped, pointing toward the center of the streets, the crowds and vendors bustling with business this afternoon. "Daddy, look!" She squealed, pointing and hopping from foot to foot in anticipation. His hand held hers, beginning the trek through the busy streets. You accompanied her other side, sure to keep close to her just in case.

"Look! Daddy!" She shrieked in delight, and Eris scratched the back of his head, failing to recognize which vendor Riley was pointing out. You looked ahead, trying to decipher what might have her so intrigued. That’s when you saw it.

You leaned over, gently tapping his shoulder. He looked to you, and you placed your fingers atop your head, pointing down at Riley and then ahead. He looked forward, the realization dawning on him then.

“Oh! I see, the lady with the crowns?” He asked. Riley shrieked, jumping up and down as your trio continued on, making way toward the craft table. Eris looked to you, silently mouthing a thank you. You only nodded once, giving him a small smile in return.

Riley let go of her father’s hand, leaping toward the table full of play pretend crowns when she was close enough to see it fully. She oogled over them all — finding it hard to choose just one.

“Good morning, folks!” The older woman behind the table greeted, and you bowed your head in polite greeting as well.

“Hi, I like all these,” Riley said, and the lady chuckled.

“Well, aren’t you a little cutie,” she cooed, and Riley nodded.

“Actually, I’m a Princess.” The lady smiled at her, and Riley inspected a pink bedazzled one more closely.

“Oh, I bet you are, aren’t you!” She said. She seemed to only just now notice Eris, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise.

“Why, if it isn’t the High Lord's son himself! Oh, goodness,” She said, curtsying hastily. Eris smiled politely.

“No worries, ma’am. Good morning to you too. Lovely day today, isn’t it?” He said, and her eyes lit up.

“It isn’t isn’t it? Gosh, what a beautiful day-“

“Daddy, I want this one!” Riley thrust a golden crown with red gems glued to it into the air, and Eris stepped forward.

“Alright dear, alright.” He chuckled, fishing out a few coppers from his pocket. “How much for this one?” He asked. The old woman waved a hand, shaking her head.

“Nonsense; it’d be my honor to give one of my crafts to the Autumn Princess.” Riley beamed, putting her new crown on her head in delight.

“That’s very kind of you, but I insist.” He dropped a few coins, definitely more than the piece cost — and the lady gave him a gracious smile.

“Thank you!” Riley said, and the woman nodded to her.

“You’re teaching that one well, Eris!” She said, and Eris waved as you all made your way to the next table.

✧･ﾟ: *

You’d only made it by about five more tables when the face painting station came into view. Of course, that was next on the agenda, and of course, it had the longest line of children. Nonetheless; Riley patiently waited her turn, standing calmly between a few other rowdy kids while you and Eris watched from the fountain a few feet away.

“That’s all you, you know.” He said, your sidelong glances meeting for only a moment. “Her, manners, I mean. How well behaved she is. Her patience,” he explains. You clasp your hands together, his shoulder resting against the stone so close to the side of your face. You were grateful, anyway; he shielded the midday sun from your view.

“She doesn’t get that from you?”

He lets out a sharp laugh, looking at you incredulously. “Oh, absolutely not. Me, as a child… Gods, I wish there was a way I could repay my mother for how reckless I was.” He shook his head, and you bit your lip to hold back your giggle.

“You seem like you’ve got this-“ he gestures his hand in a circle, motioning to Riley who looks over and mistakes it as a wave. She waves, and both of you wave back at her, that little smile so contagious.

“It just seems like you’ve got this whole thing figured out already. Like, you’ve always got an answer for everything.” He scratches his chin, and your mouth tilts in a side smile at his words.

“Eris, truly, I don’t though. I mean, I don’t even have kids myself...yet.” You say, and he lets out a long breath. Your mind races, thinking of everything you know you shouldn’t in that moment.

“You want them someday, though?” He asks. Your expression must say something, because he quickly fumbles his words. “I’m sorry, that’s, um. That’s really personal, I didn’t mean. That.”

You look down at the pavement, more than the afternoon sun warming the skin on your cheeks. “Well,” you say, your eyes daring a glance at him only to realize his face is rather flushed as well. “Riley won’t need a nanny forever, right?”

Eris runs a hand through his hair, readjusting his position against the wall of the fountain. “No, no. I suppose she won’t.”

“Look! She’s almost done,” You say, watching as the artist cleans her brush in the water one last time. Eris tries to peer around people and get a look at what design she got, and you curl your fingers around the rather large muscle of his upper arm.

“Wait! Don’t look — what do you think she got?” You ask, and Eris’ gaze wavers between where your fingers hold tight to him and your eyes trained on his.

“I…. uh… I don’t know,” he says, failing to come up with a good guess. “Probably the pony; little girls love ponies, right?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I bet you one copper that she comes back with a bunny painted on her cheek.” You guess, and he shrugs.

“Alright, suit yourself. One copper it is, then.” Riley scooted back in her chair, bounding over to you with a wide smile on her face. Eris watched as your smile grew with every step his daughter took toward you two, a fluffy, pink bunny painted right on her cheek.

✧･ﾟ: *

Riley started getting a bit fussy after the late lunch the three of you had shared, indicating it was indeed her naptime. She refused to be carried by her father through the busy streets, preferring to walk between you two hand-in-hand instead.

"Swing me!" She shouted, skipping along as she gripped your fingers in hers. Eris looked to you and sighed, but you only shrugged.

"Alright dear, but only a few times, we're nearly to the horses-"

"Okay, Daddy, okay!" She said, rearing back and preparing to be swung off her feet.

"One, two, three!" Eris counted, lifting her in time with you off her little feet, sending her flying into the air a few inches as she squealed in delight. When her feet hit the ground once more, she laughed with joy, asking again and again for the same thing.

You watched as the little girl fell asleep soundly against her father's chest, drifting off with the rocking atop the horse as you'd made the trek home. It made you happy to see Eris getting to do these little things, even if it was just carrying his daughter inside and lying her down for her nap. You'd taken to the kitchen, noticing the darkening sky and decided to prep for the evening meal as you'd be cooking for one extra this evening.

"I didn't realize how much went into what you do."

You didn't need to look to know he'd come into the kitchen, his voice only a few feet away. You continued to pull out the various pots and pans needed, closing the cabinets with care to not wake Riley.

"I'm not sure what you mean," you say, walking toward the fridge in search of the vegetables. Eris stalks over to the island, leaning against it as he watches you pull things out.

"I just meant. Well, I don't get to spend as much time with her as I'd like." He says, and you stand, shutting the refrigerator door behind you. You walk over and stand beside him, laying out the veggies on the countertop before you.

"I see," You say. He was talking about his daughter, you knew that. A soft rumbling sounds from outside, and you glance behind you. The sky outside the window has indeed darkened; you hoped the thunder would only enhance her slumber, not stir her from it.

You bent over, reaching in the cabinet for a cutting board and placing it on the island. Eris went quiet next to you, and you risked a glance at him. Your face fell when you noticed his downcast eyes, so full of light and love just hours ago now replaced with something darker.

"What's... what has you so upset-"

"I'm the only parent she has left," he says harshly, his hands bracing the edge of the marble. "I barely know a thing about my own kid, and I don't get to see her often because of my damned job, my position in this court that I'd give up in an instant if I knew she'd be safe-" he stops, the last word broken by a crack in his voice. His knuckles had gone white against the counter, and your eyes had widened at his outburst.

You reached out a timid hand in comfort, but pulled back as the image of last time flashed through your mind. The way he freaked out when you put your hand on his arm, just trying to be there for him...

You weren't sure what he wanted from you.

"Eris... I don't know what to say." You couldn't think of what to do, shaking your head slowly as your hands hung limply at your sides. "I'm... I'm really sorry, about today, if I stepped on your toes by going with you guys, I know how important your time is with her, I just-"

His head turns, looking to you in that moment. You hadn't realized how close you stood to one another, his intense gaze feeling like fire as he scanned your face. You couldn't read him -- his eyes watered, and he looked... frustrated? Confused? What was it?

"Look, I'm sorry, I'll just leave you alone-"

"Please don't," he whispered, his eyes falling to your hands as a tear ran down his cheek. "Please. Don't leave."

Your heart throbbed, pins prickling the backs of your own eyes. In that moment, you reached both of your hands out, not caring the repercussions of your actions as you slid your arms around Eris' ribs, pulling him into you and holding tight. He breathed deep, his torso shuddering as you fought back your own tears while running your fingers up and down his back. His hands gripped your waist, his strong arms enveloping you as he allowed himself to finally relax against your touch, finally accepting a bit of the comfort you so desperately had been trying to offer him.

"Eris," you said quietly, the rainfall the only other sound in the room over the quiet sounds of your combined breaths. "You have to understand that you are a good father." His fingers flex around your waist, holding you tighter as he takes in your words.

"Riley talks about you all day long," you continue. "She waits everyday for you to come home, and I really think you don't give yourself enough credit for all of the things you do for her each and every day." You say.

"She knows your work is... not, well. Normal," you say, and he nods against your shoulder. "I think everyone knows that you do a lot, and you've been through so much," you chuckle humorlessly, pressing your cheek against his chest. "The main thing we care about, honestly, is that you come home safe every night."

He pulls back slowly, his hand sliding from your waist to brush a piece of hair from your forehead. You hadn't realized it'd stuck to your cheek -- a stream of wet from the corner of your eye was proof of that. His fingers remained lightly cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing across your skin as he continued to hold you against him.

"You truly are a Queen." Eris says, his soft smile drawing a little chuckle from you. "Beautiful inside and out."

Your cheeks are ablaze from his words, your breathing unsteady as his fingers pull you closer, his lips mere inches from yours. You can see every caramel hue in his irises, every light freckle dusting the bridge of his nose when-

A sharp crack sounds behind you, the room illuminating with the bolt of lightning that flashes across the sky. You flinch, embarassed as the moment passes and you're left in darkness again. You realize you'd clung tighter to Eris, and he'd done the same; both of you releasing your hold on the other at the same time.

He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a short laugh. "Uh, well," he chuckles, gesturing to the spread of forgotten vegetables on the countertop before you. "This is another thing I am not proficient at." He shrugs, and you nod, wiping your palms on the skirt of your dress.

"Oh! Right, um, well. I'd be happy to show you, if you'd like. I thought for dinner tonight, we'd do traditional autumn stew?"

✧･ﾟ: *

The rest of that night was nice... for the most part.

Dinner was nice. The three of you enjoying it together was nice. Riley insisted on having movie night afterwards, so Eris set up the projector and the three of you snuggled together in the living area under a mound of blankets and pillows to watch Moana... which was nice. You'd even fallen asleep there, and to wake up using Eris' arm as a pillow... well, you'd be lying if you said that wasn't nice, too.

What was not so nice, was the morning after.

You'd woken up first, enoying the sight around you in the dim light but eventually you made your way to the kitchen for some tea. The first light of morning hadn't risen yet, which meant you had some time before Riley would wake up to prepare a meal for her... and her father, too. You were pondering what to make when footsteps behind you had you whirling around in the dark, squinting to make out the figure before you.

"Don't worry -- it's just me," Eris whispered, and you rubbed your eyes, taking him in more clearly. He was already fully dressed, not in his usual attire or how he would dress when spending time at home, either. He was in his armor, the various straps and ties secured across his chest and arms making your eyes widen and forcing you to wake up quickly.

"Where are you going?" You asked, and he stepped closer, his voice a hushed whisper.

"I recieved word that I would be needed this week for correspondence in a few of the other courts," he says, and your heart lurches. "I am hoping to be back sooner, but-"

"Wait. You're leaving for an entire week?" You squeak, and he nods gravely. You shudder, but you feel his fingers wrap around yours as he brings your hand to his lips.

"I promise, I will try to be back sooner." He says, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. You shake your head, your mind racing with a million dark thoughts you wished you weren't having this early in the morning.

"What about Riley?"

He sighs, dropping your hand and scratching his chin. "Last time I had to leave like this, you remember she didn't handle the goodbye well-"

"So you think leaving without saying anything is better?" You ask, your frown evident. His head drops between his shoulders, and his hands lightly hold onto your shoulders.

"Y/N, you know it kills me to leave like this," he says, his eyes pleading in the dim morning light. "I can't go through that again with her." He says, and you sigh. It was horrendous last time, her wailing and sobbing as he left for his mission lasted days when she was told what wsa happening. You still felt the guilt in your gut by not telling her what was going on though.

Your fingers found his, your gaze firmly holding his. "I'm telling her today after you've gone. She at least deserves to understand what's happening." He nods, pulling you in quickly to his chest. Your heart skips a beat, the anticipation, fear, and something else all mixed together like the bubbling water of the Cauldron inside of you.

"One week. I'll see you then," he says against your hair, releasing you as he quietly makes his way to and out of the front door.

✧･ﾟ: *

That whole week was Hell.

Riley asked at least once a day when her father would come home, and you felt worse and worse when you couldn't give her a straight answer as you weren't entirely sure yourself as to when he'd return. Honestly, it made you sick not knowing exactly what was going on either, and having to put on a brave face every morning was beginning to weigh on you more than you liked to admit. You truly wished you didn't care so much -- but the tethers around your heart pulled everytime you imagined the worst, thinking of what could be happening to Eris-

"Y/N is sad." Riley stands near the end of the kitchen counter, her limp beagle dangling from her fingers. Her tired eyes were swollen and red, and you lift your head from your hands on the counter at the sound of her voice. You glance toward the clock. 9 pm.

"Riley, honey, I put you in bed an hour ago-"

"But Y/N is sad too." She walks softly toward you, the braid you'd done in her hair now slightly mussed from the tossing and turning she'd likely done in her bed before she'd woken up. She approaches, wrapping her arms around your thigh and pressing her cheek to your exposed skin. Tears threaten the corners of your eyes, all of the emotions hitting you in full today. It was the seventh day Eris hadn't come back, and you were both feeling the weight of his absence it seemed.

You bend down, kneeling before her to engulf her in your arms in a proper hug. She shakes lightly against you, and you can't help the single tear that slips free, dripping onto her soft hair. Her fingers grip onto your silky pajamas, clutching you tightly.

"I miss daddy so much," she mumbles into your shoulder. Your hand runs over her little back, trying to provide her comfort while keeping your own tears at bay.

You take a shaky breath, your voice broken as more quiet tears fall down your cheeks. "I know sweetheart. I miss him too."

✧･ﾟ: *

Riley ended up drifting off in your lap, and you'd opted to carry her to your room. The distance from the kitchen was shorter, and in an effort to not stir her again, you laid her in your plush blankets, tucking her in and watching as she snuggled into the warm blankets with contentment. You left the lamp on in case she woke up, but closed the door this time; Gods forbid you had another emotional breakdown and woke her once more.

You retreated to the living room, reaching for a few blankets in the dark room when the creak of the side door sent a chill down your spine.

Were you hearing things?

You froze in place, every drop of blood in your body turning to ice when you heard it swing shut.

Definitely not hearing things. Someone was in the house.

Your head spun, cheeks ablaze and palms clamming up all at once. This hadn't happened before, or yet, anyway. Eris had touched on this issue when you first started working here, but what had he said about intruders? You couldn't remember.

The pit forming in your stomach grew as your mind raced, trying to think of any escape, any plan, any action to get Riley out of here before you both met your end. Gods, what had he said when you were hired, anyway? Something about his swords, in his room, maybe? Those were all the way down the hall -- you'd never make it in time.

You took a silent step toward the foyer, then another. The intruder would be in the kitchen soon, and you wouldn't waste any precious seconds you had to save Riley. You had to move, now.

Passing the small entryway table, you contemplated the vase atop it for a moment. Honestly, it would only wake Riley and alert the intruder of her presence. Maybe he would just take you and leave, if you could be quiet enough. You had a better shot defending yourself with your fists anyway -- the glass decoration would simply shatter anyway.

You rounded the corner, sucking in a breath as you heard a low moan coming from the kitchen. Your heartbeat faltered, an invisible pull like a magnet drawing you closer. You squinted in the dark, trying to make out any shapes or forms through the dim lighting.

Another low groan, only this time you recognized it. Your clenched fist loosened, and you took a few quick steps toward the small faelight to flick it on, revealing the horrific scene before you.

"Eris?"

✧･ﾟ: *

You worked quickly, trotting around the master washroom with supplies as your mind seemed to fog over. You felt as though this was a silent film, and you were a puppet; nothing was real, you couldn't hear, or think, or register what was going on before you-

"Y/N, please-"

"I'm working on it," you say absentmindedly, your fingers shaking as you begin soaking the rag clutched in your hand with cleaning solution. Eris' eyes widen, and he stares at you silently.

Only when the rag is practically dripping do you look up at him, barely able to look him in the eye before muttering, "this is going to hurt like Hell." He nods, and you quickly press the rag into his abdomen, his muscles immediately tensing around the area. He sucks in a sharp breath, the following few are ragged as he white-knucke grips the counter behind him.

"Gods, Y/N-"

"Hold still." You command, your tone lacking warmth as you move to press against the long gash, attempting to stop the blood free flowing from it. He groans again but you keep going, readjustign the cloth until you've wiped most of the blood away and the wound is clean for the most part.

You retreat to the medicine cabinet, grabbing a jar of salve and some large bandage wrap from it before standing before Eris once more. You gather some of the cool jelly on your fingers, making to apply it but Eris' hand grips your shoulder in an instant, and you break from whatever panic mode you were in and look up at him.

"Wait," he whispres, pain lacing his voice as his brows knit atop his forehead. You blink, realizing that in your momentary panic-ridden attempt to help him, you were not providing what he may have needed most and not gotten much of this past week.

Your eyes dropped, and your fingers lightly wrapped around his, your thumb running over his long digits. "I'm almost done, I promise," You say, with a lot more compassion this time. His eyes meet yours, and you fight against the stinging behind yours as you move toward him, your fingers brushing over the marred skin. His fingers tighten on your shoulder, a pained gasp coming out of him again.

"Shh, it's alright," you say quietly, working as quick as you can. "Almost done, I promise," You cap the salve, tearing open the bandage wrap before aligning it over his wound. His forhead finds your shoulder, his head resting on it as the muscles around his knife wound continue to retract at your touch. You lightly wind your arms around him, securing the wrap around his midsection and completely covering up his injury. It's then that you feel the warmth of his hands on you; his hands that had been holding onto you this whole time, but now had he relaxed a little, his heat had begun to return.

You stepped an inch closer, the familiar lump in your throat from earlier returning as every word you ached to say raced through your mind. Your arms found their way around his neck, and he squeezed you tighter when he felt you holding him. You threaded one hand through his hair, softly running your fingers through it while the other traced up and down lightly across his exposed back.

"You really scared me," you whispered. A small drop of water landed on his shoulder, but you didn't care. You'd allowed yourself to be vulnerable earlier in front of Riley, and it is healthy to show that you can't be happy all of the time, and that's okay; maybe Eris needed to see that too.

He nodded against your shoulder, his head turning as his nose brushed the dip of your neck. His fingers rested on your lower back, holding firm as the two of you sat in comfortable silence, a million unsaid thoughts unshared between the two of you.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly after a few minutes, his lips brushing against your skin with the action. Your body tingled, it itched, you burned inside, just wishing things could be different. You pulled back an inch, moving to look up at him through your wet lashes. He shook his head slowly at you, his thumb brushing over the tear trails down your cheeks.

"Please don't cry," he says. You chuckle, sniffling a little before unwrapping your arms from him. His hands catch yours, keeping you close to him before you can go to far.

"I hate leaving for so long." He said, his eyes dropping as he thought about how and what to say. "I don't like to be away like that."

You swallowed thickly, nodding with the effort. "Riley missed you. A lot. She asked about you every day..." you trailed off, looking to the side. He nodded, his hand letting go of yours and moving to cup your cheek, guiding you to look up at him again.

"I miss Riley, always," he said. "But, I also miss you."

Your heart seized, your chest caving at his words. You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. How, in this worls, would you be able to say everything you wanted to, in just this moment?

You couldn't. You knew you wouldn't be able to. Not in just one moment like this. In the dim lighting of his master bath, just the two of you alone in the quiet -- he looked devastating, a few strands of his short hair brushing against his forehead as he gazed down at you. His gaze, his eyes, burning into yours with desire; you only hoped you coveyed every ounce of love you had in your body with a stare like that alone.

So, you did what felt right.

You pressed up onto the balls of your feet, his left hand on your hip balancing you as your lips finally met his. Every nerve ending in your body was ablaze, the feeling of those pillow soft lips on yours sending your mind into a state of bliss. His hand threaded through your hair, the other snaking around your lower back to press you closer against him.

You pulled back, just for a moment to make sure this was what he wanted as well. You barely had time to blink before his hands pulled you back in, his lips moving against yours with even more desire, more passion, the need only growing.

Your hands rested on his chest, fingertips pressing in slightly when he skated his tongue across your bottom lip. You allowed him in, surprising him when you swiped your tongue across his, the desire to explore every inch of his mouth one you'd been ashamed you'd had for months -- until now. He groaned, his grip on your waist tightening before his hand slid a bit lower, tracing the curve of your ass under his palm.

When you finally pulled back, gazing up at him with a small smile, you felt the heat between the two of you becoming rather warm in the small room. Whether it was eminating from him or it was how hot you felt inside, you couldn't be sure.

"You should... we should... it's late," you fumbled, chewing on your lower lip nervously. He nodded, loosening his grip on you a little but continued to pin you with his intense gaze.

"We should sleep," he agreed. You nodded, turning toward the door and making to leave but his fingers threaded lightly through yours. Your cheeks heated, and you looked to him as he smirked over your reaction.

"I..." you looked to his torso once more, and gasped. "Oh! I'm sorry, uh. Yeah, um. I can, help you. Get to bed, if that's. What. You, need." You stumbled out, and he chuckled lowly. You laughed nervously, and he pulled you against him once more. You squeaked at the feeling of his fingers gripping your hips, his lips pressing a small kiss just beneath your ear before his words sent a chill down your spine, despite the room's warm temperature.

"Maybe, you should just stay in here with me tonight."

Your backbone straightened at his suggestion, and he huffed a laugh once more. Your eyes met his, and a small smile played on your lips as you answered back.

"My bed is taken for the night, anyway. What's the harm?"

✧･ﾟ: *

Part 4

[stardancerluv]

What the Emperor Wants

Part Eight

Summary: Justice is served, feelings are realized.

Warnings/Notes: 18+ & over! P in V consensual sex, implied violence…death in the coliseum, drinking, old time thoughts about the gods & life.

Sol Invictus: Roman god of the Sun, Pluto: Roman god of Death, & Ursa: Bear

❤️s, comments, feedback & reblogs are always welcome! Thank you for reading! (A bit long!)

Sitting in the royal box of the coliseum made you nervous. You had only stood and served prior to this day. As you settled in your seat you felt like all the eyes were on you. You knew that wasn’t the truth of the matter but it didn’t help. Your heart kept a steady beat.

“Don’t worry. The eyes will be on me soon enough.”

Startled, you glanced at Geta. A slow smile spread across his face.

You glanced around the intensity of his gaze made you shift where you sat. Taking a breath before looking back at him. “Sire?”

“Justice is going to be served.”

“Good.”

*******

This was going on to send ripples in the water. He looked forward to seeing if it would bring about a storm. Regardless, the earth will be free of one enemy. Perhaps, others will scurry out of the shadows and reveal themselves.

The herald, called for the attention of the vast audience. Trumpets sounded. He felt as if the gods, were on his side as he walked to edge of the royal box.

“People of Rome!”

He shouted. A thick silence fell over the arena, it ceased what remaining words flew from people’s lips.

“People of Rome!” He repeated, he looked over the seats.

“When dawn broke this morning, before Sol Invictus flew across the sky to bring us the sun; a man snuck into my dwelling. He wished for me to meet, Pluto.”

The crowd erupted. He allowed them to scream their disgust, their unpleasantness.

Easily, the herald brought the coliseum once more the order.

“My trusted guards, have questioned him.”

He let his lips curl into a wide smile.

“And it is here I will let you all witness justice. You will see what happens to anyone who tries to end my life.”

The clanging of metal filled the colosseum as the gates rose up, the man beaten and bruised was brought out. Seeing his condition pleased him greatly.

“Now, I will allow you and the gods to choose his final fight.”

A snarl followed by a loud, guttural roar filled the arena. A lion, pounced and rocked his iron cage. He circled in the small space eager to be released.

“Shall we allow a lion have its way?” He called out.

The man now standing by himself could be seen trembling at the place the guards had walked him too.

The creaking of a much larger cage came into the arena. Just as some of the loose sand was kicked up in a breeze and blew when a roar from the depths of its belly was heard. A bear, far taller than serval men stood on its hind legs and banged against his cage. Spit, fangs were bared as it roared once more.

“Who shall this assassin be brought to justice by?”

The crowd went wild. Their screams, their cheers were far louder than both of the beasts that were in the arena.

He watched from his perch, the man fell to his knees. His eyes, which had once been filled with hatred and malice now were watery and full of pleading, remaining on his knees. He completely forgot the sword the guards had dropped near him as he appeared to cry out with pleas for mercy. The man who had wanted him dead not that long ago.

A laugh erupted from his throat and he threw back his head in amusement. His crown of golden leaves remained where it rested atop his head.

Power, surged through him. He spread out his arms. He got his answer. It was as if the words had been whispered in his ear.

“The gods have spoken!” He hollered.

The crowd, once again silenced.

“Today, a bear is what deliver the sentence!”

The men who drew out the lion, returned it to the shadowy tunnels where they fed and kept it ready for any match or punishment.

The men who brought in the bear, bowed to him before turning to the locks that held the bear secure.

The man jumped to his feet, barely able to grab the sword left for him. He bowed quickly. That irked Geta, but he would be dead soon enough, he mused.

The bear, shook himself off ignoring the men who retreated back to passageway from which they came. He appeared to look around.

“Be the hands of the gods, great Ursa!” Geta called out.

The bear rose at his words, letting out a roar. He had been trained well. Geta smiled. The bear finally saw the man. He lowered himself onto all fours.

“Now for justice.” He said softly and caught the eyes of you, his brother who actually looked pleased for the first time in a while and the general. Who looked actually ill at ease. he shrugged it off. He knew he liked the freedom of a battle. The landscape of the earth beneath his feet as he fought along side his legion with a sword in hand.

Sitting down, he saw as the bear and the man clashed. A scream and roar mingled and became one. The man did manage to graze the bear’s shoulder with the blade before he was knocked into the air from the full force of the bear. A fight ensued.

Geta, glanced away to see you. There was a flush in your cheeks and your eyes looked as if a storm had rolled in, reminding him of how you spoke of things to him. But your emotions, he couldn’t be certain of. He watched as you turned towards him, surely you felt his gaze up you. Your eyes met his.

“He is getting what he deserves for what he attempted to do. In the underworld, he will never forget.” You said, with a great strength behind it.

It pleased him.

“Yes. And he will know that a girl, who is as delicate as a spring’s bloom saw him and foiled his dark, devious deeds.”

“Anything to keep you and Rome, safe and at peace, Sire.”

********

“I had thought, you told the others we would be joining them for the festivities being held. Food, dancers would be brought out for your pleasure.”

Your stomach was still in knots, after watching the man torn apart by the bear and fights that had been held after to further celebrate the justice that had been severed. The gladiators had fought with great pride that afternoon.

Wine, the fruit did nothing to calm you. A shadow of what could have been, fell over your heart. If you had not returned for his crest that held your clothing, it would have been a completely different day. You were certain of it.

Your place, would be different. You would mostly would have been in that arena. You knew in your heart that Caracalla despised you. Though, with this glorious delivering of justice and Geta’s kind words, you would continue to live, to breath.

“That is true. They will be. Wine, will be poured. Toasts will be made. Words, will fly in my praise. Though as a man, an emperor I wish to take a moment.”

“If that is your will, Geta. I can give you some solitude if it is what you wish?”

A light chuckle came from him. You glanced at him, his eyes that met yours were bright as if the sun itself was blessing the fresh earth it chose to shine upon.

“No, that is not what I wish.”

The warmth of his hand on your lower back could be felt through the soft fabrics you wore. He easily guided you to his quarters. Once the door, closed behind the two of you.

“I need to be one with you.”

“Geta?”

“Yes?”

You watched as he carefully took his crown off and laid it on a table near where the two of you stood. Your heart quickened in your chest. With quick pace, he was in front of you.

“This is a pleasure, the great Venus has given us. I wish to feel it once again.”

His fingers grazed the curve of your jaw.

You closed your eyes and nodded. “I wish to feel it as well. But then shall I retire for the evening?”

He shook his head. “No, we shall go and enjoy the banquet, watch the dancers. I want one of my favorite possessions at my side.” He smiled.

Something about his words, that smile made a fluttering in your stomach. It was the very emperor, that wished for you and no one else. In all the stars and prayers you made, would have been something you ever thought would be bestowed upon you.

“This will be our own display of gratitude to the gods for the justice served today.”

His thumb grazed your lips, your heart began to thud like the night before. If not harder since now you knew what you would be feeling.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

********

“Wait?”

“Yes?”

He let his eyes move over you. A softening of his words, that came to his tongue urged him to speak. You had been the to save his life. Not the guards that stood outside his door.

“You are far lovelier than any fresco, in my domus. I will have to fetch in artist in the coming seasons.”

“Truly Geta?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

His hand glided down your soft side, the fabrics made you only more pleasing. He brought his hands to your hips and squeezed. You winced, parting those flower petal pink lips.

“Just as your breasts, shall be good for a baby to eventually suckle these hips,” He smiled. “These hips,” He repeated will help carry that baby. A real gift from the gods.”

“You think so, Geta?”

Your breathless, made him pull you against him. He loved how you felt against him. Made his desire in his lions for you tighten.

“Certainly. Now go and lay down.”

“What of my clothes? Will they not be amiss?”

“No one will take sight.”

He watched as you went and laid down and pulled aside where the fabrics met and parted ways.

“Remove the scrap of modesty fabric, I want nothing to hinder me.”

Stepping closer, he finally he freed himself. The coolness of his room gave him a gentle relief from the heat of his passion. He came to kneel beside you, open and ready to receive him.

“Do you want to see more of me, Geta?”

“Yes, that would be very pleasing.”

His heart squeezed as he watched you pull the folds of fabric away from your full breasts. You were truly his own living piece of art. The gods, truly pleased him with giving you to him.

The soft sound from your lips as he entered you and the one that came from him became one. It felt so good.

“You were made for me.” He managed to say before he began moving in and out of you.

Your body tightened as your moans grew louder. He had braced himself on the bed underneath the two of you. Easily, he lost himself in his passion as it took ahold of him.

“Yes, yes let me hear you.”

“Yes, Geta. My emperor.” Your moans and breathlessness grew louder, stronger.

His body tightened as he felt his pleasure growing. That’s when he remembered the soft bud at the apex of your legs, the ones that caused you flutter around his length. He needed to feel that again. Reached down, his thumb gently grazing it. Your body matched and moved with him.

“Give yourself to the pleasure. Let it fill you.” He urged you.

He let his thumb graze your soft bud once more. Your moans filled his room with more beauty than a lyre and seeing that he was the cause, made him move even deeper into you. Causing, his pleasure to finally come over him, and soon he was filling you with the seed only he possessed. The strength he felt earlier came over him. He felt as everything had the soft glow a sunset would give all within its reach.

*******

“These are the dancers from the new providence brother, are they not divine?” Caracalla, leaned in smiling as he nodded to one who swished near. Hints of jasmine, lingered in her wake.

“Yes. I knew that alliance would reap several good tidings.” Geta, smile and sipped at his wine.

At the moment, he was still settling into the comfort from the pleasure you and him shared. Everyone, there was in good spirits even his brother. Turmoil between them could come back another day but tonight there could be peace.

He knew of the history of Romulus and Remus, he truly wished that history would not befall him and Caracalla. Though, he would never push away the lingering of his trust he had for his brother in his heart.

As you sat near Geta and watched the dancers while nibbling on some fruit. Something blossomed in you. After, his pleasure had taken him over, he had for moment pulled you closer to him while his breathing finally calmed. He glanced back at you from over his glass, as if he had known your thoughts and gave a fleeting smile, it stirred a warmth in you.

@honey-eyed-munson @amethyst-serenade @screaming-blue-bagel @kitkat80 @blondie324 @alyisdead @hellomadamebutterfly @heartsforjosephquinn @helsa3942

[pluralzalpha]

From the BBC Mediacentre:

"Juno Dawson is a #1 Sunday Times best-selling novelist, screenwriter and journalist, whose books include the global bestsellers, This Book is Gay and Her Majesty’s Royal Coven. Her debut short film was The Birth of Venus and she created the first official Doctor Who scripted podcast, Doctor Who: Redacted.

Juno says: “I started watching Doctor Who with my grandma when I was ten-years-old in the 1990s. From writing fan-fiction for an audience of one, to scripting the best TV show of all time is truly a dream come true. I can't wait for fans and newcomers to see the new season.”

Inua Ellams is a writer and curator, whose published books of poetry include Candy Coated Unicorns & Converse All Stars and The Actual. His first play, The 14th Tale, was awarded a Fringe First at the Edinburgh International Theatre Festival, and other plays include Barber Shop Chronicles, which played at the National Theatre, Three Sisters and The Half-God of Rainfall.

Inua says: “For as long as I can remember television, I've been a Doctor Who fan. I started watching when I was 10 in Nigeria. The show invited me to dream, to live beyond my reality. Getting to write for the show felt like touching God; it was blasphemously humbling and exciting, and I can’t wait to share my story with the world.”

Pete McTighe is a writer and Executive Producer on the forthcoming spin-off The War Between The Land And The Sea. He has created, written or Exec'd dramas including The Pact (BBC), The Rising (Sky), A Discovery Of Witches (HBO), and Wentworth (Fox).

Pete says: “The TARDIS is my home away from home, so it's been a joy to step back inside, with Russell at the console and the incredible team at Bad Wolf hanging on for dear life. I love this show with all my heart, and am really proud of what we've been able to achieve with my next episode.”

Sharma Angel-Walfall originally hails from Manchester and won the inaugural Channel 4 New Writing Award that set her off on her screenwriting journey. She has been in a number of writers’ rooms, including Rapman’s Supacell (Netflix), Sally Wainwright's The Ballad of Renegade Nell (Disney+), A Town Called Malice (Sky) and Noughts & Crosses (BBC). She was a writing consultant on Paul Abbott’s Wolfe (Sky) and wrote an episode of Sharon Hogan’s Dreamland for Sky (starring Lilly Allen and Freema Agyeman).

Sharma says: “I am buzzing to be a part of such an iconic show! I am a massive Russell T Davies fan, so it is a dream come true to be able to work alongside him, especially on a show that I love. It’s a real privilege to be a part of the Doctor Who family. I have loved every minute!”

Russell T Davies, Showrunner says: “Doctor Who takes its talent from a glittering galaxy of names, and these extraordinary writers span the skies. We’ve got old hands, new stars, voices from theatre, radio and literature, the whole works! It’s the most wild and exciting season of Doctor Who yet, and I can’t wait to unleash their brilliant work.”

Good to see some more varied voices on the show again.

[tikitania]

The Tszikaridze Exam….

I watched the exam in its entirety last night on Telegram, hoping it would appear on YouTube soon, and here it is.

I have so many thoughts….but here’s my initial impression.

First off, Tzikaridze describes this class as “his vision for the future of ballet and tribute to ballet past.” If so, God help the Vaganova school.

There were clearly a lot of luminaries in the audience: Gracheva, Fadeyev, almost all the coaches from the Mariinsky, and teachers from Vaganova. Even Victoria Tershkina was there. I couldn’t help but sense that that the applause — especially in the beginning — was uncomfortably polite from the gallery audience. I bet they were in shock!

What I’ve always loved about Russian ballet is the primacy of flat shoes for most of class. The theory behind this is training the feet to feel the floor and build strength through the feet. I’ve felt that’s what made their technique so beautiful is the extension of their lines through the entire legs to the toes. But here, the girls are in pointe shoes for the entirety as if they were in the Royal Ballet. There can be arguments pro and con, but I’m old fashioned on this front.

The barre work seemed in keeping with last year’s exam, which was a head scratcher — blisteringly fast, but also very brief in duration. There didn’t seem the normal progression from pile, tendu, fondue, releve….it was just a few grand plies then off to the races. I really missed the Vaganova port de bras. The ugliest element were the grand battement EN POINTE. It looked terrible and felt cruelly fast for no explicable reason. I was also struck by the lack of leg extension across the board. No one really impressed me…

In the center, it’s clear the Tsikaridze wants to create a performance rather than conduct a classical ballet exam. Everything was showy while also feeling unnecessarily fussy. All I wanted to see was a stable long-held ecarte with an elegant transition. (I’ll go back and plug in time stamps for the stuff I found especially galling.)

The jumps all seemed to be about grand jetes. I don t recall a ton of petite allegro, but I’ll watch again. (It was so late and I did nod off a bit….could have slept thru it.)

These girls appeared strong and generally more muscular than a typical Vaganova graduate, and I wonder if Tzikaridze is simply working with the material he was given — or has the focus on jumps, strength, super fast fouettés sculpted these stronger, less swan-like bodies? I dunno….but given both companies preferences for long, willowy dancers, I’d be very surprised if many of these girls get invited to the Mariinsky or Bolshoi. There were a couple who caught my eye, and I need to double-confirm their names before jotting them down here.

All in all, it was both a memorable exam for its unorthodoxy, but also forgettable in that no one really stood out.

More later…

[myreia]

The Crux of Me & You

ao3 | tumblr tag | my writing

all stories are set in aureia malathar's canon. [g] = general (all audiences), [t] = teen (some language, more difficult themes), [m] = mature (strong language, mature themes), [e] = explicit (explicit sex scenes)

—01. Heavensent [G] Timeframe: A Realm Reborn patches Prompt: First Meeting Summary: A chance meeting on the battlements opens the door to something that will change both Aureia and Aymeric’s lives. Words: 2,659

—02. In the Company of Sorrow [T] Timeframe: Heavensward, post-The Vault Prompt: Hurt | Comfort Summary: The loss at the Vault has left its mark. But who is to blame? Who is responsible? Aymeric, for his recklessness? Aureia, for her inaction? One night of finding answers may only leave them with more questions. Words: 2,767

—03. Seeing Red [T] Timeframe: Stormblood Prompt: Swap jobs Summary: As battle rages across Ala Mhigo, Aymeric faces a new enemy with his lover’s weapon in hand. Words: 2,469

—04. The Toll of Lovers' Wont [E] Timeframe: Heavensward patches Prompt: Touch | Teasing Summary: When Aureia suddenly returns to Ishgard after vanishing during a mission, a relieved Aymeric turns a blind eye to his other concerns to welcome her back. Make love first—then everything else can fall into place. Words: 2,767

—05. Nightbloom [M] Timeframe: Stormblood Prompt: Song | Music Summary: Ala Mhigo rises in a chorus of celebration. But high above the city in the Royal Menagerie, Aureia faces a dire understanding of herself, where her secrets have led her—and what it means for the man who loves her. Words: 3,365

—06. Under Me, So Quite New [E] Timeframe: Heavensward patches Prompt: Intimacy Summary: While attempting to steal away for a weekend, a storm downs Aureia’s airship and she and Aymeric must take refuge in an abandoned cabin. Soaked to the bone, their linkpearls disconnected, and very much alone, they take a night to fully explore the depths of their relationship. All of it. Words: 8,785

—07. Requiem for Us [T] Timeframe: Stormblood patch 4.5 Prompt: confession | i love you Summary: Sometimes the only choice is to let him go. Words: 3,232

[lewismcqueen]

you first.

lh44 x black!reader

part one | part two

summary: 'Thought I'd simmer down as I got older, can't shake the devil sitting on my shoulder, who...invited you?' wc: 2500~ a/n: finally writing the lewis hamilton band au of my dreams lol. this'll be another two-parter. Meaning...only two parts. Pls move accordingly <3 enjoy!

The venue you’re playing at tonight—the place where it all began—used to feel bigger. 

It used to be a gaping maw filled with strange eyes that weren’t your friends’, and therefore more ready to judge. More willing to find fault. You got up there with nothing but your guitar, a college-ruled notebook full of lyrics, and unbridled ambition.

But then the venues got bigger, the audiences more eager as you realized that many of them had come to see you, no longer just a placeholder or opener for who they really wanted to see. That nervous little girl with heat-damaged ends and rectangular prescription glasses became a young woman who hid the nerves more convincingly, until her outfits got bolder and she started getting color in her braids when she visited the salon. Venues became festival stages, where your image is projected onto screens that are larger than life. 

Now the venue feels small, but not cramped the way your bed gets before your parents realize they need to switch it out. No, the swaying phone flashlights and chorus of voices reciting your lyrics make it feel like coming back home. You smile as you strum the final chord on your guitar, and there’s a split second of silence as the last song comes to an end. They say it’s the silence after a note rings in the air that creates the magic. There’s a beat of it before the audience erupts in raucous applause. 

You thank them, your voice hushed with reverence as your eyes scan the crowd. There’s not so many that you can’t at least try to remember every face, which is a nice change from a mass of bodies too far away to see beyond those lucky enough to get the front row.

There's a girl wearing an oversized band t-shirt, her teal-streaked fringe clinging to her forehead a little with sweat. Next to her is a tall man with a high-top fade and large wire frame glasses that remind you of the 80s. The guy next to him is a bit shorter, and of a lighter complexion. He wears a knit sweater in a deep, royal purple contrasted by a single silvery chain draped around his neck that glints in the low light. He has dreads that are tied up so that they hang stylishly over one side of his face.

Wide, brown eyes stare at you dead-on, his expression ambiguous in a way that unsettles you. Something like loss. Something like regret. Minus the beard, the guy’s face kinda reminds you of—

Wait. Wait. There’s no way it’s actually him.

You know that face from a long, long time ago. You know that face, because there was also a point in time where you couldn't escape it. 

Recognition—sudden, bone-chilling recognition—colors your features before you tear your eyes away and exit the stage through the back. Your manager Jen is standing close by in her usual white tee and denim jeans, her curls slicked back into a bun. Her brows furrow as soon as she spots you.

“You good?” she asks, silver watch catching the stage lights that manage to filter through.

You nod, but the way you’re clutching the neck of your guitar says otherwise.

Because this isn’t really where it all began. Not exactly.

It began in your dad’s dirty garage, just wide enough and empty enough to fit a speaker and a drum set. Maybe even a mic stand. More importantly, it’s got enough room for yourself, Jennifer, Sebastian, and Lewis - a new kid from the UK that lived on an air base nearby. His dark hair is cropped short, and he looks at you like you’re already friends. Sebastian had introduced him the moment your last guitarist left, swearing up and down that the kid was practically the next Jimi Hendrix and could take his place easily. 

The first thing that struck you about Lewis was that despite being the new kid in town with no more than one real friend, was that he was not a timid boy. Polite, sure, (maybe a little too polite - he insisted on firmly shaking everyone’s hand the day you met him), but he walked around in his white polo and blue jeans giving off the impression that he already belonged, and was just waiting for everyone else to get with the program. He waltzed through your garage like it was a second home, collar popped and all. 

That’s why your eyes narrow when, not even two weeks in, Lewis mentions he can sing, and even makes some of his own music at home. A solo act in the making. He says it casually, but you have a feeling that he might be vying for your spot as frontman. Lewis seems like the type to want to be the center of attention.

“Sing a few bars for us then,” you chime in. You’re sitting on the guitar speaker with your chin in both hands, your voice saccharine with a smile that is all teeth. “You probably know a couple of our songs already. Let’s hear it!”

Lewis scratches the back of his neck, his ears reddening a bit. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look bashful. He must think he’s being cute.

“I mean I’m not, like, Usher or anything. I can carry a note or two but—”

“Nah, don’t give me that,” you interrupt. “You look like you can sing your ass off. Give us a verse, maybe the song we did last week?”

The untitled song you’d practiced last week was tailor-made for you. You, with your endless riffs and power notes and belted choruses. Let’s see what this kid’s made of.

Lewis blinks, licking his lips nervously. “Well, alright.”

He makes his way over to the keyboard set up right by the speaker, and begins playing the main chords. How the hell did he memorize those after only hearing the song once? At any rate, the song is nearly unrecognizable when Lewis sings it. He is nearly all falsetto, his voice light as a breeze and clear as your neighbor’s crystal wind chimes. He’d make a stellar RnB heartthrob, but not a frontman for a rock band. The thought relieves you.

The three of you applaud at the end of it, Lewis shrugging it off with a lopsided grin. 

Jennifer chirps, “Your voice is so pretty!

“Thanks, but I’m way better on the guitar.”

“You could add in some harmonies, though!” adds Sebastian. “We finally have two singers.”

You hop off the speaker and approach Lewis to clap him on the shoulder. The force of it makes him jump. 

“I think I’m with Lewis on this one. Good thing you’re our guitarist though, right?”

He glances down at your hand on his shoulder, and his grin deepens into a real smile.

“I’ll be the best guitarist you’ve ever had.”

You wink. “I’m counting on it, Hamilton.”

And he was right - he was the best damn electric guitarist you’d ever had. You don’t realize it now, but he’ll also be the last.

Lewis’ playing was the embodiment of the word ‘sharp’. He played aggressively, but with precision that made every note rip through the air like a sheet of notebook paper being torn in half. He also loved to add embellishments to the sound - a bit of distortion here, reverb there. Some days he wore a metal slide around his finger, sometimes not. Lewis made every note sing regardless, the air buzzing with energy. It made Jennifer’s bass playing bouncier, Sebastian's drums more feverish. 

Sometimes he’d match your riffs, the little genius. With his guitar. His playing even made you dance one time - spinning and sinking to your knees, Lewis following in a call-and-response until you were both on the floor, riffing your hearts out. He was as tuned in to you as the rest of the band was tuned in to him. As wary of Lewis as you originally were, you can't deny that he makes you feel invincible when he plays beside you.

It shouldn't be shocking, then, that Lewis slots into your friend group like a puzzle piece you didn't even realize was missing. You try to scare him off with your dark humor, but he plays off of it - sometimes lightening the mood, other times managing to go darker. Lewis cracks jokes that make the entire lunch table laugh, but he always glances at you first. You interpret this as competitiveness, and roll your eyes at him, but part of you finds it endearing that he cares that much.

You appreciate Lewis in your own way. Threatening to beat someone up for making fun of his tooth gap, for example. He looks terrified when you do, but thanks you profusely anyway. There's a silent agreement that this is just how things are going to be until Lewis passes by your garage one Tuesday afternoon. 

You're strumming an acoustic guitar while mumbling through a song he doesn't recognize, a purple notebook sitting open on a chair beside you. You have on distressed jeans, and an old-looking yellow cardigan that looks out of place in your usually all-black wardrobe. It makes you look small.

“That sounds nice,” he calls out from just outside the garage door. He's close, but doesn't want to step inside without your permission. You speak without looking up.

“It's missing something.”

“Can I come in?”

You nod, and soon Lewis is hovering over the notebook, eyes scanning the lyrics as you bring them to life.

“Bridge.”

You stop playing abruptly and look up. “Huh?”

Lewis gives you that bashful, ‘I am pretending to not know what I'm talking about’ smile and scratches the back of his neck. 

“I mean, the song sounds like it's building up to something, but you're making the jump too soon. It needs a bridge.”

Lewis fidgets beneath your gaze as you stare at him. “You…probably didn't ask for that advice. Sorry, I—”

“Do me a favor, Hamilton.”

He blinks.

“Uh, sure. What's the favor?”

“Stop apologizing so much. It's annoying.”

Lewis opens his mouth—presumably to say ‘sorry'— but then promptly closes it and just nods.

“See you this weekend?” 

You give him a blank look. “Where else would I be?”

-

It isn’t until Jennifer’s mom stops by that the four of you consider playing at the annual school talent show (you thought the event was ‘lame’ and ‘for try-hards’, so you usually made the band skip out on it). 

“Y’all are making all that noise just for only the neighbors to hear?” She quips with a smile after a particularly thrashy number. The woman holds a plate of freshly-baked cookies in one hand, the other resting on her hip. Jennifer had clearly inherited her mother’s affinity for khaki-colored capris.

“Good afternoon, ma’am!��� Lewis greets, all sing-songy like he’d been taught to recite it. You tilt your face away from him to roll your eyes. You never did come to like his incessant politeness. “Are those biscuit—er, cookies for us?”

“Sure, but only if you guys promise to at least sign up for that talent show, goodness!”

Sebastian nods a little too enthusiastically, causing his shaggy, dirty-blonde hair to fall over his eyes. “Oh, we will!”

Jennifer snorts before looking to you, and you shrug. “Eh, why not. We never play at those anyway.”

You’ve made a lot of mistakes in your lifetime, but you look back on that decision as one of the worst. The talent show goes well enough - most of your classmates didn’t even know you sang until that night. You’re on the keyboard, while Lewis plays his guitar like it’s his last day on Earth. He has a mic in front of him, too. Feeling generous, you had given him a couple lines in your verses - the less shout-y, more emotional bits. He sounds beautiful, amplified over school-issued speakers. 

You glance at the crowd and notice a couple of jaws dropping, and in the front row there’s some guy with only half a head of hair in a crisp-looking shirt nodding his head, impressed. He’s watching Lewis intently, never taking his eyes off him. It makes you feel uneasy.

When the auditorium clears out afterwards, you notice two figures standing by one of the double doors. You recognize one as Lewis’ dad, though you’ve never had the opportunity to speak to the man directly. The second is the balding guy from the crowd. They look deep in serious discussion. Maybe a family friend?

Sebastian is calling your name next to you.

“Yo, are you coming? Jen’s mom is baking tonight. Come on!”

Eyes still gazing ahead, you nod dismissively, pulling just one of the straps on your backpack over your shoulder. “Yeah, I’m coming. Just…give me a second.”

Sebastian shrugs, and joins Jennifer in moving through the aisles to make their eventual exit. 

Lewis’ dad has called his son over. He must not know the man, because his dad’s gesturing as if he’s making an introduction. They shake hands. The guy seems to be offering praise, because Lewis looks at him the same way he looks at you whenever you tell him you like his harmonies: starry-eyed and a little pleased with himself. The two men shake hands this time. Something has just been negotiated.

“Oh, that was just some talent agency guy, says his name’s Ron,” Lewis explains that same weekend after you ask him. He gives you a sly grin. “Why, you want his number or something?”

You shake your head and return your focus to the keyboard. You’re trying out melodies, something to set your new lyrics to. Lewis is busy tuning his guitar.

“Nah, I’m good. I don’t think I wanna be part of some bigwig label, or anything like that.”

“You could probably be a big star though,” Lewis says. You don’t see the admiration in his gaze. “I’m sure if more people heard you blow the roof off of the place like you do in here, you could—”

“I’m not some future burnout pop star like you, so can you just drop it?” you snap, and you immediately regret it. He turns away, a closed expression settling over his features.

“Alright, jeez. You’re the one who asked,” he mutters beneath his breath. “My dad brings these label guys around all the time ‘cuz he wants me to get signed, or something. I don’t really want to, though.”

You turn to him again. “What do you want?”

Lewis frowns, like you’ve asked him something offensive. “I wanna play with you guys.”

You’re not sure whether to be relieved at the boy’s commitment, or annoyed that he treats having a dad with connections to talent agencies like no big deal. An annoyance, even. So you just keep messing around on the keyboard.

“Cool.”

He plays even more aggressively that week. As if he’s got something to prove. To whom, you have no idea. But it ends up meaning nothing.

The following Friday, Lewis doesn’t bring his guitar. He’s dragging a small suitcase behind him, gnawing on his bottom lip. The rims of his eyes look red. 

Lewis got signed, and he’s moving away to be somewhere closer to a recording studio. The whole garage goes quiet. You don’t know what enrages you more: the fact that he lied, or the fact that he doesn’t even have the self-awareness to seem happy about it.

Instead of saying goodbye, you explode, hot tears stinging your eyes. You don’t even remember all of the things you call him that day. Maybe you don’t want to.

The band stops meeting after that. You tell yourself it’s because you could never find another guitarist.

[conundrumoftime]

Celedriel week ficlet for day 1

[screeching in sideways] it's not quite midnight here yet I have still made it for Day 1 of @celedrielweek!

For the theme of 'First meetings': as-yet-untitled, 1250 words, T for canon-typical violence/hunting I think.

-----

Thingol calls the three of them to a private audience and they arrive late and laughing as though they were still children to be scolded. They all know the matter at hand, anyway - there are few secrets in Menegroth that the king’s daughter and his nephews can’t find out between them.

“More Noldor,” Lúthien says, pretending it’s tiresome.

Her father corrects her, again: these are Teleri of Olwë’s kin. These are the brothers and sister of Angrod who already came to Doriath as a messenger. The children of Finarfin will be welcomed in Menegroth.

“They’re still Noldor!” Celeborn objects, a little louder than he’d intended. “Have we not dealt with enough of their kin claiming kingdoms all around us?”

Galathil says “Oh, shut up,” and Lúthien nods, the light of humour in her eyes belying her solemn expression. “If they’re here in Doriath then they can’t be claiming kingdoms elsewhere, can they?”

“Unless it’s Doriath they want.”

“Maybe you should ask them that when they get here.”

“Maybe you should ask them.”

“They are guests and we will receive them as such,” Thingol says, and the two of them fall quiet and Galathil smirks. “All three of you will be there in court robes this evening and you will all welcome them as your equals, the scions of a royal house. I will hear no comments about their kin unless they offer such and no demands to know their intentions. We will offer them shelter for they have faced great hardship in their journey to our lands.”

Celeborn who has heard too many tales of the cosseted Noldor says “Yes, sometimes it rains.“

 “Celeborn, take your brother’s advice and shut up or I’ll cement an alliance the way the dwarves do and marry you to Angrod’s sister.”

Celeborn concedes defeat and silence to the background of Lúthien’s laughter. 

—

They are Noldor. There is a dancing, unearthly light in their eyes and their golden hair is braided in twists and loops, although it seems less elaborately so than the host of Fëanor and tied only with thin, dull-coloured twine.  They all wear furs over faded and much-mended cloth garments, none of the finery of the Noldor that Celeborn has seen before; they themselves seem worn and tired. But they are still Noldor and they stand with their heads held high before the thrones of Doriath’s king and queen.

 Celeborn sits at Melian’s feet, Luthien and Galathil beside him. The heavy torc he wears for such occasions presses uncomfortably on his shoulders and the wine-red robes feel a little ridiculous before guests dressed so pitifully. He resists the impulse to scratch where a cuff irritates his wrist and watches.

Thingol and Melian lead the conversation, speaking in an older, archaic Telerin that Celeborn knows only from old sagas. Angrod bows deep and introduces his brothers with their Sindarin names: Finrod, Aegnor. And the sister’s name is Quenya still: Artanis.

She is tall and golden-haired as her brothers. When they all lay down their arms at Thingol’s feet she leaves a horn-handled knife beside theirs. She alone bears a Quenya name, though; and she alone has a stole of bright white fur over her shoulders, fastened at her neck with a tarnished, broken silver brooch.

He watches. He says nothing.

Only later, as they are led to dine at the feast prepared and he is seated beside Artanis (Lúthien’s idea of a joke, he supposes), does he try to speak to her. She and her brothers seem so faded against the bright colours and light of Menegroth; she does not seem particularly ashamed but she surely sees, she can’t not see. There’s a pride and defiance in her sharp eyes as she glances about her. He does not wish her to feel that Thingol’s court are purposefully humiliating her and her brothers. He does not wish her to feel humiliated at all.

“Your fur stole,” he says, and she doesn’t understand the word so he touches it to show her what he means, hoping a little too late that such contact will not be considered inappropriate by her people - “it - this - it is very fine.”

She nods, tense and a little suspicious still but seeming glad of the gesture of friendship. “Thank you,” she says.

“A gift?” 

She blinks at him as if the question is as strange to her as the language. “No,” she says. “It is mine,” and then breaks to ask something of her brother who sits at her other side, and then returns with the word she sought: “My kill.”

He isn’t sure what the Noldor hunt, and he doesn’t recognise what manner of animal this came from - the fur is thick but coarser than he’d thought and pure white. Not a deer, he thinks. “Mountain hare?” 

But she does not know the word for hare in his language, it seems, and he certainly does not know it in hers; rabbit is the closest they can reach and this makes her snort at him as if he has suggested something utterly ridiculous. 

“Morco,” she says, and he shakes his head, apologetic, but then she twists around to point at the pillar at the far end of the table where beasts of Beleriand are carved in a winding procession. And then she rises from her seat and leads him by the arm to show him herself, tapping her fingers on the snarling figure of a bear standing tall upon its hind legs. “Morco,” she says, satisfied.

“A bear?”

“In the snow. North.”

“You killed a bear?”

“Knife,” she says, pointing to the blade he wears at his belt. Then she lifts her braided hair from her shoulder to show him silver scars of puncture wounds left by great teeth.

He runs his hand once again over the fur of her stole, bowing his head in appreciation of what it means. Pride tugs a smile from the corner of her mouth. 

—-

“You realise I said that in jest,” Thingol tells him later. “I do not actually intend you marrying one of the Noldor.”

“I was merely being friendly to our guests as my king commanded, Uncle.” He’s a little drunk by then - more than a little, possibly - the feast has been long and the songs and the stories enjoyable, and the visiting children of Finarfin given as hearty a welcome as long-lost friends. And he’d had spoken to Artanis a few times more, but not in any manner other than as a host should, no more to it than that. 

Thingol had been ill at ease ever since news reached Doriath of the new host of Noldor arriving to join Fëanor’s. Understandable, yes, but surely no need to be quite so determined to see problems and plans and intentions where none exist. 

“I have raised you since your childhood,” Thingol says. “I know you.” But there’s no anger in it; he’s too relieved by how well the night has gone. “Ah, well. If you find yourself getting any ideas along such lines, simply remember the image of her covered in bear’s blood and that should dissuade you.”

Celeborn dismisses it with the wave of an arm, laughing, reassuring his uncle that there will be no need to dissuade anything; he has no intention of marrying one of the Noldor, of all the peoples of Middle-earth. 

(He will indeed find himself thinking of her covered in bear’s blood a great deal after tonight, but it will not dissuade him in the slightest.)

[spaceorphan18]

Awards Show :: A Klaine Fic

Summary:

Famous Klaine AU

Kurt and Blaine are both nominated for a major theater award. They attend the show, while trying to navigate when and how to reveal a major secret.

Rated T: for mild language, small amount of drinking, and mild sexy times.

A/N:

for Klaine Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2024 - for @jayne89 <3 Thanks for to @snarkyhag for the beta! Ao3 Link Found Here Hope you guys like it! Thanks for reading!!

*****

Kurt Hummel exits the backseat of his car and takes his first step onto the red carpet.  The scene is pure pandemonium.  The red carpet is lined with reporters and cameras, actors and celebrities, and ropes that hold off thousands of screaming fans.  Every time he steps foot into one of these hooplas, he has half a mind to get back into the car and sneak in the back way.  Unlike most of his colleagues in the theater world, he’s never been a huge fan of these events.  Sure, he’ll discuss the gossip and the fashion until the cows come home, but having to live it is always a different story.  

He nervously plays with his phone as he makes his first few steps down the carpet.  He shouldn’t have it with him, he knows, but it’s a strange source of comfort.  It’s something to do with his hands, which might otherwise be stuffed into the pockets of his very expensive suit.  

He hears sudden clicks, and he knows already that there are cameras pointed in his direction.  He should be used to it.  In some ways he is used to it.  But it never fails to surprise him that there are people who actually want photos of him. He’s gone for a simpler look this year -- a gorgeous teal jacket and pants, paired with a royal purple shirt, with a silver pin for an accent.  The whole thing is textured, and the cut is flattering and appealing, and much more toned down than the eccentric design he wore the previous year.  

He takes a deep breath and moves forward.  He hears his name being called from multiple directions.  Some are the event guides, ushering him to go.  Some are the photographers, dying to get that first shot of him arriving.  But a majority of the screaming is coming from the fans.  He doesn’t love the crowds.  He doesn’t. But he does try his best -- for them.  

He gives a smile, and a wave, and inches closer to the ropes where they’re all standing.  They’ve come all this way, and have probably stood outside for mere glimpses of the celebrities for hours.  It’s insane - but there was a time when he may have done the same, just for a brief interaction with someone he admired.  

Before going to the fans, however, he takes a quick moment to scan the carpet ahead of him.  There are plenty of people he recognizes, plenty of people he’s worked with before, a few big names that make him seem like a small fish in a big pond, and a few faces he doesn’t recognize at all.  But one in particular stands out.  Standing in his bright, mustard yellow suit is Blaine Anderson.  

Kurt takes a moment to watch Blaine as he easily moves along the crowd; chatting, signing autographs, laughing and whatever the fans are telling him.  He positively glows in the energy.  He always has.  Kurt shakes his head, fondly.  He loves his job, but feels more at peace when an audience is quietly sitting and watching him on stage.  When he has the ability to turn it all off, and connect with the character and the story and come alive as a different person.  Being him has always been difficult.  But Blaine has no such difficulty.  It’s admirable, really.  And he adores Blaine for it.  

He then sneaks a quick second to check out Blaine’s ass, nice and round and on display whenever Blaine reaches his arms out to sign another autograph.  Kurt bites his bottom lip, thinking about earlier that morning, when he had seen that ass up close and person.  He grins, thinking about it; thinking about how despite their growing celebrity status, some things remain just between the two of them.  

For a quick second, Blaine turns his head behind him and, as if a magnet were drawn between them, notices Kurt.  He beams, wiggles his eyebrows for a second, and then goes back to the fans.  Tonight is not about him and Blaine.  Tonight is about the show.  They both know that.  Which is why they keep what they have together on the down low.  But it doesn’t stop them from stealing a moment or two.  

Kurt turns back to his side of the carpet, ready to address the legions of people waiting on the other side of the rope. As he approaches, their yells become deafening, and most of what they’re screaming is incomprehensible.  The only thing he really can make out is his name.  

He smiles brighter, trying his best to appear as kind as possible, as he takes a marker and begins to scribble his name on a Playbill.  Most of the fans are respectful.  And while overwhelmed, shower him with compliments -- everything ranging from ‘I loved your performance, it moved me so much’ to ‘can I have your babies?’.  He always has to chuckle at the range he finds.  

There’s always at least one person, however, who gives him pause.  “Hey, did you and Blaine Anderson break up?” It's a young woman with a nose ring attempting to take a photo of him with her phone -- who seems less interested in him than whatever gossip she’s going to share online.  “Cause, like, y’all haven’t spoken to each other in weeks.  Online, I mean.  Like, y’all are done, aren’t you?” 

He lets out a sigh, tries his best not to look back at Blaine. He knows that with celebrity comes lack of privacy.  He’s been bracing for it.  But what he has with Blaine is special, and he’ll protect that the best he can.  Kurt moves on to answer another fan, who has a question about a wig he wore in a previous production, ignoring the girl with the nose ring. 

***

The interviewer is a tall, platinum blonde woman with a too dark tan and a bright, shimmering gold dress that clashes with her skin.  Kurt has talked with her before - as she works for one of those websites that streams all its content on YouTube or some specialized streaming service.  He can’t remember which one, and the ‘M’ on her microphone doesn’t help any, but since he’s being shuffled to every journalist out here, he just goes with the flow.  

“Kuuuuuurt,” her high-pitched voice cries.  “Kurt Hummel everyone.” She says it to her audience in the camera, wherever that might be.  Kurt gives a friendly smile and waves to the people watching on the other side of the screen.  He may not like this part of the job, but he tries to always give his best to the fans.  “How excited are you to be here?” The woman, whose name if he remembers correctly is Karlee, asks.  

“It’s a pleasure.  And surreal. Always surreal,” he replies, truthfully.  

“Before we get too much further, we have to get your bestie over here,” she says, unexpectedly.  

Kurt isn’t quite sure what she’s talking about until she waves a hand (one that’s holding a cue card in it) over to someone behind him.  “Blaine Anderson, get on over here.” 

Oh.  Oh . 

Blaine comes up right next to him, all friendly smiles and charm and doesn’t give Kurt one ounce of attention.  He does, however, slightly push his elbow into Kurt’s arm.  Kurt pushes back.  He almost gives a laugh, but retrains.  

“Karlee, what a delight, honey, you look wonderful,” Blaine coos, taking her hand, and giving her cheek a kiss.  

Fucking Blaine, always being so suave.  Kurt bites his bottom lip, amused at how easily Blaine does it.  Blaine is definitely playing it up with the playful banter, but he also is well aware that it keeps the attention off of Kurt.  Just as Kurt likes it.  They do make a great team.  

“Look at the two of you, matching tonight.”  

Kurt and Blaine turn towards each other, both pretending to be shocked.  

I told you they’d notice -- Kurt says with his eyes and a grin, thinking about the hours-long conversation they had about what to wear. 

Blaine gives a casual shrug, but Kurt can read him like a book.  Who cares? We’re hot and they love it.  

We’re supposed to be low profile, Blaine. 

We’re theater actors, Kurt, nothing about us is low profile.  

They probably shouldn’t be doing their secret exchange, not when they’re supposed to be paying attention to Kaylee, not while everyone is watching, but Blaine has such beautiful honey-gold eyes… the shield Kurt always has up, especially in public, is dented just a little when those eyes shine so brightly on him.  

After a few moments of fashion talk, Kaylee hits them with something completely different.  “So, the two of you met a decade ago now on the stage during the original run of Show Choir! -- which ended up being such a surprising hit and thrust you both into the limelight.  I hear now there are talks of a movie version -- any chance you’ll be involved.” 

“No,” Kurt says, maybe too quickly and too sharply.  He owes that show everything.  And yet he never wants to relive any of it ever again.  Blaine eyes him and knows… 

As always, Blaine manages to be much more diplomatic in response.  “I think I can speak for Kurt when I say -- we will always cherish what that show was for us.  It got us both on our feet.  It taught us everything we know now. But it’s time to let a new generation take the reins.  And, I mean, we’re both pushing thirty now.  No one wants to see thirty-year-olds playing high school students. Even on stage.”  

“Of course, we’ll cheer on whatever new cast takes it on,” Kurt adds, hopeful that it sounds encouraging enough for the soundbite it’ll inevitably become.  

Kaylee throws her head back in laughter as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.  “Well, it’ll be exciting to watch for sure.  So, the two of you are both nominated tonight for your phenomenal roles in such different productions.  Kurt, you’re nominated for your devastating turn where you play an American Civil War soldier figuring out his sexuality.  While Blaine, you have a haunting turn as a ghost in what everyone has been calling an epic space opera on stage.  Your roles are so different and yet have hit audiences so hard.  How do you feel about that?” 

“It’s cliche, I know, but as everyone says, it is an honor to be nominated,” Kurt says. “And I think that everyone nominated tonight deserves to be here.  I think it speaks to the writing and production and power of the stage that we are allowed to have such characters to play.  And I think it speaks to the power of storytelling that you can have such a variety of characters and yet be so moved by them.  I think we both feel really, really lucky that there are so many good shows being produced right now.”  

“I think Kurt’s said it beautifully,” Blaine adds.  “I can’t possibly top that.” 

“One last question -- any fun plans to celebrate tonight?” 

Kurt gives her an odd look, then for a split second, gives Blaine a panicked look. 

She knows? 

She’s talking about celebrating winning an award, Kurt… 

Well, I did win this morning… 

They share knowing looks.  

“I’m sure there’s plenty of trouble we can get ourselves into,” Blaine says with a sly grin.  

****

Kurt throws back his second shot and slams the glass on the bar.  Nothing like having something in you to calm the nerves.  He knows his limits, and when the bartender asks if he’d like another, he shakes his head and nudges the glass away.  Normally, he settles for a nice cocktail at these things, but his anxiety has been climbing all evening.  It’s not that he thinks he’s going to win - he’s aware of all the betting pools and the articles, his chances are very slim considering who he’s up against.  It’s the fact that the spotlight is so firmly on him.  It’s the fact that there are much better places he’d rather be.  

He should go mingle; should go say hi to the dozens of people he knows, and attempt to make a connection with those he doesn’t.  But he’s not as cut out for this one might think.  The first time he went to one of these things it had been awe-inspiring.  Surreal.  Kind of amazing.  Now that he’s been to them enough times, the shine has somewhat worn off, and it feels like another part he has to perform.  

“Drink too many of those, and you’ll be slurring your way through your presenting duties.”  Blaine comes to his side, leaning against the bar with a charming grin on his face.  

“Is it over yet?” Kurt laments. 

“This is the fun part, Kurt.”  

“You are having fun, I am surviving,” Kurt says.  He contemplates another glass, and looks over to the bartender, signaling him over.  Blaine puts a hand over his, and shakes the bartender off, knowing better.  Kurt lets out a heavy sigh.  “Do you think we should have come together?” 

Blaine gives him an odd look.  “It was your idea not to.” 

“I know.” 

“You wish we had?” 

Kurt contemplates.  It’s such a loaded question.  One that they’ve both mulled over countless number of times.  Weighed pros and cons.  Sought outside help.  There are no easy answers to such questions.  “You’re the one thing I don’t want to share with the rest of the world,” Kurt says.  He doesn’t meet Blaine’s eye, but keeps it firmly on the bar.  “And yet, I’m bursting on the inside to do just that.”  

Blaine’s face softens, and he squeezes Kurt’s hand.  “That’s sweet, Kurt.  You already know how I feel about it.”

“I do…” He does.  Kurt looks over to Blaine to see his shining eyes looking adoringly at him.  There are hundreds of people in the room and yet it’s just the two of them, an allowed moment of privacy among the crowd. “You know, the fans think we broke up.” 

Blaine tilts his head at him, shaking it.  “Since when have you ever cared what they think?” 

“I don’t,” a smirk crosses Kurt’s face.  “I just thought it was funny.”  

“Social media detectives will be the death of us all.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to like some of my cat videos and Liza Minnelli memes,” Kurt jokes.  

“We should get Tina to work with you on your social media presence,” Blaine says, as if they hadn’t argued about this a thousand times.  

“And she should really lay off yours,” Kurt counters.  “I mean, the noodle incident…” 

Blaine rolls his eyes and ignores him.  “Maybe it is time to talk about being more public.  As a couple.” 

Kurt winces.  “We are not letting Tina…” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Blaine says.  He’s serious, very serious.  “Maybe it’s finally time, all things considered.” 

“Or… we could release an official statement and let it be?” Kurt says.  They’ve managed to be just the two of them for so long.  He doesn’t want that to change.  “I don’t want to be featured on the cover of People magazine.”

“Being featured on the cover of People magazine isn’t so bad you know,” Blaine says.  His charm returns as they both think of the framed cover in Blaine’s bathroom.  

Kurt lets out a playful, annoyed groan.  “Any chance you have to bring up how officially sexy you are…” 

“It wouldn’t hurt you to indulge me every once in a while.” 

“I already suck your dick, Blaine, you don’t need me to kiss your ass, too.”  

Blaine lets out a hearty laugh.  “I have it on good authority that you are actually very good at kissing my ass.”  

Kurt gives him a sharp glance.  “Fuck you.”  

Blaine gives him a dark look, as if challenging him to do just that.  Kurt wishes he could lean over and kiss him.  Fuck all the people and the cameras and the undoubted mess it would create.  He wants to kiss Blaine so badly, and has enough alcohol in him that it might be worth it.  

Blaine’s sober enough for the both of them.  “C’mon, we have a ceremony to attend.”  

****

Kurt bounces on the balls of his feet.  He and Blaine are waiting backstage, just the two of them, as the ceremony rolls on beyond the curtain.  He can hear the presenters for the award for musical score doing their bit.  There’s audience laughter, and some applause, and someone said something that struck a chord.  He suddenly doesn’t feel all that well.  

Blaine looks at him, concerned.  “Are you nervous?” 

“No.” 

“You’re nervous.” A sweet grin climbs on Blaine’s face, as he judges his shoulder against Kurt’s.  

Kurt holds himself tightly.  “Do you know how many people will be out there watching us?” 

“We’re delivering an award, Kurt.  It’s not like we’re performing,” Blaine says.  He almost sounds disappointed about it.  “It’s not like anyone is going to be paying any attention to us.  All we have to do is make sure we get the name right.”  

“We have to do witty banter,” Kurt argues.  “They’ll all be paying attention.  What if they really don’t like what we’re wearing? What if they miss that we have amazing on stage chemistry? My god, what if they don’t find us funny?” 

Blaine shakes his head dismissively.  “I’ve never known you to not be funny.” 

Kurt holds up one finger.  “I have a sophisticated, dry wit that not everyone gets.”  

“You do remember that this witty banter was pre-written and all we have to do is say the lines, right?” Blaine says.  “I can’t believe you’re nervous.  You’ve performed on stage naked before.”  

“Yeah, for like five people,” Kurt hisses.  “There are at least five million people watching this.”  

Blaine narrows his eyes, looking troubled.  “You’re really having an issue with this.” 

Kurt bites his bottom lip.  He is, and he doesn’t like it.  It’s not really because of the sheer amount of people.  He doesn’t mind performing in front of them.  It’s not like he’s never been in front of large crowds before.  It’s the fact that it’s he and Blaine.  Together.  With everyone having their eyes on them. Everyone watching every interaction they’ll make, and how it’ll be scrutinized and torn apart and he wishes that not every public interaction they have needs to be put under a microscope.  He wishes they didn’t have to endure that type of pressure.  

He breathes heavily.  “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”  

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have done all those shots.” Blaine actually gets him to laugh.  

He looks at Blaine in wonder, always wondering how he lets it all roll off his back.  “How is it nothing phases you?” 

“Things phase me.”

“Really?” 

Blaine tilts his head at him.  “You have seen me at my worst, Kurt, you know that.  They just aren’t the same things as you.  It evens us out.  It’s why we work.”  Blaine comes in close, rubbing Kurt’s arms.  “Going on stage with out an audience - that’s something that phases me.  Jesse St. James’s dog, which might actually be a demon in a dog costume, phases me.  And seeing you like this.  I don’t like seeing you like this.”  

A warmth spreads through Kurt’s chest.  Suddenly, his fears begin to melt away.  He loves this man.  He loves him so deeply.  Kurt has tried so hard never to care what other people think of him, he isn’t sure why it bothers him so much now.  Only that Blaine means the world to him, and he wants nothing more to protect that.  Wants to protect the person who makes him feel grounded and loved and safe.  

“I’ll be okay,” Kurt says, though he turns his head away.  

Blaine knows him better than that.  He says nothing, but watches him carefully.  

A production assistant rounds the corner, shouting that they have two minutes to get into place.  

Kurt stands up, straightens, puts his more professional face on.  He can do this.  They can do this.  

“You ready to see who’s going to win best costuming?” Blaine asks.  He sneaks a hand down to Kurt’s giving it a squeeze before they start heading out.  

“I really hope it’s April Rhodes.” 

“Kurt, she’s not nominated in this category.”  

“I know, but did you see what she was wearing? It’s this insane fuchsia, ‘80s inspired dress, which I think you could totally pull off something like that if you wanted to go outside your comfort zone and try.”  

The color drains from Blaine’s face.  “Oh god no, Kurt.  No.”  

****

Their category is close to the end of the night.  The hosting portion of the evening flew by in a blur, and Kurt hardly remembers being on stage nearly an hour before.  He’s been sitting, bouncing a knee anxiously, during the rest of the ceremony.  

He had been asked if he wanted to bring a plus one.  He had turned it down, not sure who he should ask.  His dad and stepmom would have come, but Carole’s sister is in the hospital and they just wouldn’t be able to make it out to New York.  All the rest of his friends and colleagues seemed to have found dates or family members that would attend.  

Blaine had asked if they wanted to go together.  Kurt had said no.  

They hadn’t talked it through enough.  Hadn’t consulted their teams. Hadn’t worked it out with Tina -- god, Tina would have a fucking field day showing off their relationship.  It had seemed like too much of a hassle.  And at the time, Kurt hadn’t felt ready.  

And then this morning happened.  It still feels like a hazy dream -- wrapped up in bed together, not even awake enough to get the coffee.  The way Blaine held him so comfortably in his arms.  Every morning should be like this one.  Every morning should be absolutely perfect.  

He can see Blaine’s eyes - so perfectly bright and loving.  

Marry me.  

What? 

Be my husband, Kurt. 

He had always expected it at some point.  Kurt knew almost the day they met that their lives would be intertwined.  But he had always expected Blaine had bigger plans.  He’s not sure what he had expected.  It’s not like Blaine was going to hire every large ensemble in New York to sing on the stage where they met as rose petals fluttered down from the sky.  That’s just insane. 

But off the cuff? Unplanned? They hadn’t even had sex that morning (yet).  They hadn’t even had coffee.  

And Blaine just asks him.  Takes his breath away without even trying.  

How could he possibly have said no? 

He could be sitting next to his fiance right now.  Instead, he’s sitting next to an elderly woman, the mother of a nominated set designer.  The other side is the aisle.  Up a few rows and over a few seats is Blaine, smiling happily as the actress on stage reads through the list of names.  

He’s not nervous for himself.  All the articles he read (more than he should have) listed him near the bottom of possibilities.  And that is fine.  As Blaine often says, they’re both still young, and have plenty of time to do more amazing things in their careers.  Kurt did not write up a list of people to thank, nor tried to memorize any speeches.  He didn’t let himself get too caught up in the idea of winning.  

But Blaine has a real chance.  He’s been a buzz in the community.  Everyone wants to work with him.  He’s had more job offers than he can even handle lately.  And he looks so adoringly hopeful as they wait for the actress to open the envelope.  

“And the winner is…” she says.  Kurt holds his breath.  “Jonathan Bailey as Oscar Pennington in Penny For Your Thoughts .” 

Kurt lets out a sigh that feels like relief.  He smiles kindly and claps, unsurprised that the frontrunner of the race actually won.  He looks over to Blaine and despite the grin plastered on his face, Kurt knows him enough to see disappointment there as well.  

After a moment, when Blaine knows there aren’t any cameras on him, he throws a look back to Kurt.  Kurt gives a kind shrug.  

Hey, at least we have each other. 

A genuine grin crosses Blaine’s face.  We do.  

*****

The rest of the ceremony passes by without much incident.  During one of the performances, the mics cut out but the entire cast belted out their song anyway and the winner of best writing for a show thanked their writing partner but not their famous wife which will be slightly scandalous in the morning but other than that, there aren’t any upsets or unpredictabilities, which makes for a rather boring time.  

Just as it’s ending, Kurt gets a text from Blaine : Wait for me . 

It’s like herding cattle to get out, but eventually Kurt is able to, and waits off in a corridor for Blaine.  Blaine, of course, is the social butterfly, and has to talk with everyone as he makes his way out.  Kurt could join him.  Maybe he should join him.  But he stands on the sidelines and waits.  Waits until Blaine finally catches his eye, and there’s a certain type of thrill that comes when Blaine’s entire face lights up.  It’s a face that’s saved solely for Kurt, and there’s always a tiny pang of relief when it’s there.  

“So, get this,” Blaine says as he walks over.  There’s a giddiness all over his face. “So, I managed to run into Jonathan Bailey, as one does. We chatted for a little bit and he said we should come to his afterparty.  I mean, he said to me, but told me to bring whoever I liked.  You are never going to believe who’s else is going to show up, I--”

“I promised Rachel and Jesse we’d attend their party,” Kurt replies quickly.  There’s something about a major party, with lots of famous people, lots of people in general, that gives Kurt pause.  

Blaine gives him a bewildered look.  “Kurt, they throw the same, boring party every year.  They didn’t even come tonight.”

“Well, to be fair, Rachel asked me, but she never mentioned you, so technically, you’re free to do as you like.” It comes off a little more dismissive than he intends it.  They never did talk about after the show, but the plan had always been Rachel and Jesse’s.  

Blaine gives him a somewhat confused stare.  

“What?” Kurt asks.  

Blaine takes him a little further down the corridor, so they aren’t seen as people continue to file out of the theater.  “Why are you being like this?” 

“Being like what?” 

“You don’t care about Rachel and Jesse’s party - nor would they notice if you’re even there.”

“Oh, Rachel will notice…” 

Blaine clenches his jaw but holds back on whatever he’s thinking.  “Okay, why don’t we stop by Rach and Jesse’s for a second, then head over to the other party.  Kurt, it might be a good opportunity to make some good new connections.” 

Kurt considers, but he doesn’t love the idea.  “Maybe…” 

“Would you rather just go home?”

He is tired.  It has been a long day, and his bed does feel enticing.  Besides, there’s all the rest of it to consider.  Does he have the energy for it? “You should go.  I don’t want to ruin your night.” 

“Kurt, you never ruin my night,” Blaine says.  He reaches for Kurt’s hand, and gives it a squeeze, only to drop it quickly, as a couple of men in tuxes turn down the corridor and walk past.  “What is this about? Are you upset about how the night went? Hit your limit with people? Or… is it me?”  

The look of devastation on Blaine’s face breaks his heart.  It’s not Blaine.  It’s never been Blaine.  “No, of course not.  I don’t know, Blaine, I just don’t want to argue with you.” 

“We can’t argue if you won’t talk to me.” 

Kurt takes a moment as Blaine waits for some kind of explanation.  “When I’m with you - I don’t want to think about being with you.  I just want to be with you.”  

Blaine narrows his eyes, confused.  “I don’t know that I follow.” 

“I just want us, together , and if we go to that party…” 

“Everyone will know that we’re together?” 

“That’s not what I mean.”  

“Kurt, we’re getting married,” Blaine says. He looks as tired as Kurt feels.  “We have to figure this out at some point unless… this isn’t something you really want.”  

“You are always what I want,” Kurt responds quickly, to assuage Blaine’s fears.  

Blaine lets out a little sigh and crosses his arms.  “Kurt… I really doubt this one celebrity party is going to be an issue.  Even if someone does see us.  Or notices.  Or we let ourselves be ourselves.  Who cares, Kurt? When have you ever let anyone else dictate how you live your life?”  

Blaine is right.  When has he ever let anyone tell him what to do? But it’s about more than just him.  It’s about them .  “I can’t lose you,” Kurt says quietly.  

“What?” It’s not what Blaine expects to hear.  

“I can’t lose you.” Kurt looks up and into Blaine’s eyes.  “You are etched into my very soul and I don’t know if I can function anymore without you in it.  And the idea that some outside factor might come along and take you from me…”  

Blaine softens.  “I’m not going anywhere, you know that.  And when things get fucked up, as they always seem to get fucked up, I’ll be right there with you - saying ‘fuck you’ to the world.  We’re a team, remember?  But, if you just want to go to Rach’s or just go home, that’s what we’ll do, okay?” 

“No,” Kurt says.  Just the idea of this party makes him nervous, but Blaine doesn’t.  He’s right.  It’s about time they start taking the world by storm.  “No, you’re right.  I think we should go to this party.  Rachel’s going to want to play tacky karaoke games anyway.”  

Blaine lets out a laugh, then reaches out for Kurt’s hands and takes them.  “Are you sure?”  

Kurt does something then that surprises even himself.  He leans in and gives Blaine a hard kiss.  Because he can.  Because Blaine is going to be his husband.  Because he wants to spend the rest of his life kissing his husband.  And maybe it doesn’t matter who sees it anymore.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”  

Blaine’s eyes twinkle.  “...okay.” 

“So, who is it that’s going to be at this party? Is it one of the Bridgerton cast? Please tell me it’s one of the Bridgrton cast…”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

***

When Kurt finds Blaine, he’s seated on a lounge chair at the back of the club, scrolling through his phone.  Kurt gives a smirk, and takes another sip from his champagne glass as he walks over.  Blaine doesn’t look up.  Kurt slides onto his lap anyway.  Blaine smirks as he finishes reading whatever is on his phone, then opens his arms to cradle Kurt.  Kurt lays head on Blaine’s shoulder, and giggles into his champagne.  

The club is hopping, there are a ton of famous people everywhere.  Some people he knows personally.  Most people he doesn’t.  Kurt doesn’t really care.  There’s so much going on that he and Blaine can be in their own secluded little bubble, and no one will really notice. 

“Hey you,” Blaine says, leaning his head against Kurt’s.  

“Hey.” 

“Did you get a chance to talk to-”

“...Yeah.” 

“Yeah? Good?” 

“So good,” Kurt coos. He snuggles closer into Blaine.  “I can’t wait to tell Rach.  She’s been blowing up my phone, by the way.  I’m ignoring her for now, but you know she’s going to be a beast when she sees us next.  And I know what you’re thinking - you’re right, we should have stopped by and we didn’t stop by and god this means we’re going to have to attend one of her murder mystery dinners and good lord there isn’t enough alcohol to get me through one of those things…” he stops short when he notices Blaine’s a bit dazed and not really listening.  “You’re being quiet.”  

Blaine waits a beat and tries to shake it off.  “Just thinking.”  

Kurt brushes a stray hair off Blaine’s forehead.  “About what?  Are you feeling it -- that you, that we lost?”  

“Maybe a little,” Blaine says.  He looks tired more than disappointed though.  “It’s fine, though.  Next time, and I know there will be a next time, it’ll happen.  And then next time, I’ll be able to thank my husband.”  He gives Kurt’s nose a little bop.  “You.”  

“Mmm, I like that,” Kurt hums.  He brushes his nose against Blaine’s.  “I get to marry you.”  

“You do.” 

“And move in with you.”  

This gets a smile out of Blaine.  “Kurt, we practically live together now.  Your apartment is more like a storage space.”  

“Oohh, we should keep it,” Kurt says.  “It’ll be like a secret hideaway.”  

Blaine adoringly shakes his head at him.  Yes, he’s had maybe too much to drink, but it’s still endearing to Blaine.  “Or, a giant closet to keep all of your clothes.”

“That is a smart idea,” Kurt says.  “A very smart idea.  It’s a good thing I’m keeping you.”  

Blaine looks down at their hands. He takes the champagne glass from Kurt, finishes it, then places it on the table next to him.  Then takes Kurt’s hand and laces his fingers with Kurt’s.  “You know, Kurt, I think you may be right.  There’s a part of me that’s not ready to give this up.  Or share it.”  

“See…” Kurt snuggles, again, against Blaine’s shoulder.  Feeling slightly vindicated.  But then a heaviness falls between them.  “Do you think things are going to be different tomorrow?” 

“Yes.” 

The happy little bubble they were in begins to evaporate.  “We should probably call Tina then.”  

“Well, if we’re going to do this, might as well do it right,” Blaine agrees. 

Kurt gives him a little, suggestive smirk.  “Yeah… do it right.”  

Kurt looks deeply into his eyes.  It’s scary how much he feels for this man.  It’s everything. 

Blaine leans forward and kisses him.  It’s hard and sure and reaffirming.  It doesn’t matter that they’re in public, in a place where everyone has a cellphone out.  It doesn’t matter that there are always repercussions to their actions.  He just wants to be with Blaine and Blaine wants to be with him.  For always.  

“Hey, Blaine?” Kurt says, dazed as they break apart.  

“Yeah?” 

“I wanna go home now.”  

***

Back home, they’re making out on the bed.  They’re both half undressed, clothes haphazardly thrown around the room.  Kurt’s on his back as Blaine hovers over him.  The kisses are slow and measured and easy.  Normally kissing has a means to an end.  But Kurt’s happy to be in the moment, to just enjoy Blaine’s touch.  He’s in no hurry to chase other, more driving feelings.  

“Mmmm, Blaine?”  

Blaine gives him an extra long kiss before responding.  “Yes?” 

Kurt grins.  “I think I may have had too much to drink.”  

Blaine stops, then rolls off him and onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow.  “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” 

Kurt stays on his back, staring at the ceiling.  “I dunno if we can fool around tonight.”  

“That’s fine,” Blaine says gently.  “We have tomorrow completely open to fool around.”  

Kurt lets out an amused laugh and turns his head towards Blaine, singing a little.  “Mmm, I love that idea.” 

Blaine is about to say something else when his phone lets out a little ping.  He reaches behind him and grabs it to investigate.  “Oh, it’s Tina answering our message.  She said she’s happy to meet us tomorrow, just to let her know what time.”  

“Make it Tuesday,” Kurt says, wiggling his eyebrows.  “I am very booked tomorrow.”  

Blaine lets out an easy laugh, and texts back Tina.  There’s another ping.  “Tina is fine with that.”  He’s about to set his phone back down when another notification comes through. “Oh, and she sent us a notice.  We made a best dressed list.”  

Kurt whips the phone out of Blaine’s hand.  “Hell yeah, we did.”  He scrolls through the article.  He’s a bit too tired to read what they’re saying, but there’s a photo of them on the red carpet, doing the interview, looking very classy and best dressed indeed.  He starts to scroll through, looking at the other celebrities.  

“Ooooh, it’s April Rhodes.  See, I told you what she was wearing is to die for.  You could totally--”

“No,” Blaine says firmly, knowing exactly what Kurt’s thinking.  

“Yes,” Kurt whines a little.  “What if I promise to give you a blowjob underneath it…” 

“Tempting, but still a hard no, Kurt.”  

There’s another ping from the phone.  Kurt gets irrationally annoyed by it.  “What does Tina want now? If she doesn’t stop, I’m going to make her watch our sex tape.”  

Blaine gives him a look.  There isn’t a sex tape (yet) but he’d still punish Tina with it if there was.  Blaine takes his phone back.  “You know, she’d probably enjoy that.”  

Kurt grumbles.  “True.”  

“No, hey, it’s Rachel,” Blaine sits up a little.  “Oh no.  There’s some buzz online. Some people saw us getting into the car together.”  

“Well, that’s annoying.” Kurt takes the phone again and reads through the website Rachel sent.  It’s nothing more than speculation and gossip, but the invasion of it feels more personal than it should.  He isn’t about to let it ruin his good evening.  “You know what? I have an idea. We control our own narrative.”  He opens the camera app.  “Okay, kiss me.” 

Blaine looks at him in shock.  “What?”  

“Kiss me.  Anywhere.  We’re taking a photo.”  

Blaine’s eyes open wide.  He understands exactly what Kurt’s doing.  It’s insane.  It’s crazy.  It’s a bit ridiculous.  And he thinks in that moment, Blaine loves him just a little bit more.  Blaine scooches closer, and kisses Kurt’s cheek.  Kurt makes a cute face and snaps the photo.  

It’s not really the best photo they’ve ever taken, but it’s cute.  It’s candid.  It’s very them.  

“Are you okay if I do this?” Kurt asks.  

He probably should be more sober before doing this.  But he knows he won’t regret it in the morning.  Blaine, a very sober Blaine, gives him a nod.  Kurt feels a swell of pride as he opens up Blaine’s Instagram app.  He uploads the photo and adds a simple caption : still won tonight.   

He looks at Blaine and takes a deep breath before he hits upload.  A shiver runs through him.  He can’t believe he just did that.  But my god did it feel good.  

“You are amazing, Kurt Hummel,” Blaine says.  He comes in close, giving Kurt a real kiss this time.  “You always continue to surprise me.” 

“Well, I just have to show you that you aren’t the only impulsive one in this relationship,” Kurt says, throwing the phone to the end of the bed.  He turns completely, giving Blaine a harder kiss.  God, does he love this man.  He will always love this man, no matter what happens.  

“The internet is going to roar tonight,” Blaine says.  He caresses Kurt’s cheek, cups his chin and draws in for another kiss.  “You know that, right?” 

Kurt looks deeply into Blaine’s eyes, and sees forever.  They are a team.  They’re in this together.  And no matter what tough road lies before them, at the end of the day, they’ve got each other.  Kurt pulls Blaine close, and lovingly looks at the man who takes his breath away.  

“Let them.” 

[apomaro-mellow]

King and Prince 31

Part 30

The crowd was filled to the brim. Eddie’s inner circle was seated in the royal viewing box. Eddie wasn’t there yet though. Because of course he had to make an entrance. As a great black bird, he flew over the venue, his cry echoing through the field. He landed in the center of the arena in an explosion of black shadows as he took his human form to the cheers of his subjects. 

“Dearest people of the land!”, he addressed. “We have gathered to settle the dispute between two men. But before I introduce them, let me settle the rumors. I am indeed courting Steven of the house Harrington.”

There was a hushed murmur among the audience. So it was true. Their king was trying to gain the favor of a prince from a country that had until recently been challenging their borders. The people had chalked up the lull in activity to the usual break when the demobeasts went into hibernation. But could it have been because of this? Eddie wouldn’t reveal that Steve had been taken hostage and had turned into a ward of his castle. That was Steve’s story to tell should he wish it. Eddie would only say what his people deserved to know.

“That brings us to today. For one man has sullied the names of us both and my intended requires satisfaction.” He was beaming, happy to have someone who burned with a righteous fury for him.”Without further ado! Our combatants!” He gave a sweeping bow to applause as Jason and Steve entered from opposite sides of the arena.

“Jason Carver has laid down words that he refuses to take back. Steven Harrington has thrown down the challenge. What are the terms?”

“Apologize to your sovereign and swear fealty, or meet your end at my hand”, Steve said, expression hard and unforgiving.

“I will do no such thing. And when you yield to me, your only path will be banishment”, Jason replied, face just as stern.

The clasped arms and then turned to go back to opposite ends of the arena. Eddie floated over to the viewing box and waited for both of them to grab their weapons of choice. Jason picked up a sword and shield, a classic decision. When he turned to meet Steve’s gaze, he could see that the prince’s choice wasn’t quite as common.

Steve went without a shield. And grasped tightly in both hands instead was a war hammer. The staff stopped just short of his shoulder, the head about twice as large as his own. The rod ended with an iron counterweight. Eddie looked to Lucas.

“Has he been training with that this whole time?”

“He’s a pro”, Lucas praised.

Dustin’s whole mouth showed with his smile. “Carver is about to get tenderized like a steak.”

“A brutish weapon befitting a barbarian”, Jason said, more to the crowd than to Steve.

Steve’s expression didn’t change as he got in his stance and waited for Eddie to officially start the bout. Eddie stood from his seat, his voice reverberating through all in attendance as he shouted.

“BEGIN!”

Jason did catch Steve a little off guard when he lunged first, closing the distance between them. With the kind of weapon Steve was wielding, most would keep away. But he could guess as to why Jason wanted the first blow. He wanted this to be quick and decisive. Anyone would fold with a few well placed cuts and stabs.

He was probably also hoping to tire Steve out. Steve would make sure it wasn’t so easy for him. When Jason lunged, he stepped out of the way and swung his hammer. Jason raised his shield to take the blow and blocked it well, but his eyes popping said he hadn’t been expecting the power behind it.

Jason re-evaluated, taking a step back. And where he retreated, Steve would advance, making wide swings that had Jason backing up even more.

Eddie’s hands were clenched into fists in his lap. He had caught Steve training Lucas a couple times and sure he took things seriously, but it was a master putting a student through his trials. Eddie hadn’t been allowed to view Steve’s personal training this week. But he’d seen knight after knight tending to their bruises. If he’d been able to watch Steve then, was this the sight he would’ve seen? Steve moving like both a dancer and a predator, his hammer his loyal partner.

The hollers of the kids told him that even this was different than what they had seen. He imagined Steve wouldn’t attack his knights with the ferocity he was meeting Jason with. At one point, Steve slammed it down and Jason just barely jumped out of the way. When Steve pulled it back up, Eddie could see the dent in the ground. A hit in the right place and broken bones would be the least of Jason’s worries.

Then Steve stopped his onslaught, taking a breath as he circled Jason. When he started again, Jason raised his shield to each attempt, seemingly blocking them all. 

“He’s gonna turn Carver’s arm to paste”, Nancy commented.

Part of the crowd was raising their voices in cheer for Jason, unable to see what Nancy’s eyes did. Steve kept going for Jason’s left side, wanting him to use his shield. Because while it stopped him from hitting Jason’s entire body, it still took the brunt force of the hammer coming down on it. And that was evident as each time his arm was slower and slower to rise.

Tired of being on the defensive, Jason lowered his shield to jab at Steve. He managed to get a few knicks in, going for Steve’s head each time and giving him cuts on his neck and face. Eddie’s leg bobbed anxiously. He didn’t think Steve would lose. The only question was how much damage would he take before claiming victory.

The crowd wasn’t sure what to make of Steve, many recognizing him from dominating the spring games but not knowing his true identity then. In a shocking move, Jason dropped his shield and threw his sword at Steve. He dodged and it lodged itself into the ground, but that confusion was enough of a distraction for Jason to tackle him to the ground. The staff of the hammer stood between them, both men pushing on it.

“Forfeit and all will be forgiven”, Jason said. “We will wed and this can all be forgotten. I’ll make an honest man out of you.”

“What?”

“You know I’m the right choice.”

With a roar, Steve pushed Jason off and rose up to his knees. “You’re vile and I’m going to end you.” he set his hammer, head side down and grabbed the sword Jason had been using. He tossed it back to him, waiting for him to pick it up.

When Jason did, Steve picked up his hammer again. This time he didn’t hold back. He advanced, forcing Jason to make fruitless slashes. Steve used the end of his hammer to knock Jason’s wrist, forcing him to drop the sword. He could see the fear in Jason’s eyes but didn’t let up. His next strike was with the head of the hammer, getting Jason right in the leg and making him fall to the ground. 

Steve stood over him, hammer poised to strike. But he paused to look at Eddie, his shoulders rising and falling as he panted. 

Eddie’s eyes had been glued to Steve’s form. As had everyone else’s. But at this pause, the crowd hushed, waiting for their king’s decision. Would he smile with grace on the Carver boy? Or would he approve his execution?

Eddie stood up. “He is at your mercy, Your Highness.”

It had been so long since anyone had referred to Steve like that. With any sort of respect or reverence for his title. He looked down at Jason, imagined his head cracking like a melon and the crowd cheering for him. The rightful order restored. He slammed his hammer down, splitting the ground under it, but not Jason’s head.

“You live by the grace of me”, Steve said, picking his hammer up and raising it above his head to thunderous cheers.

Jason was stationary on the ground until people came to gather him and check over his wrist and leg. 

Eddie jumped out of the box and ran right to Steve, grabbing his free hand and lifting it up. “Our champion!”

Steve was able to deposit the hammer with one of those employed by the castle’s armory and Eddie walked him out of the arena. Once out of sight from most of the crowd, Eddie scooped Steve up and Steve let him, exhausted from the fight.

“You were magnificent, a vision, unstoppable. Like a divine spirit of justice incarnate. Poets could spend ages trying to capture your excellence in words and would fail to do so.”

“Oh but I’m certain you’ll try”, Steve teased as Eddie carried him back to his tent to be tended to and freshen up. There were games scheduled for the small folk and for children as well. No need to let this good weather and arena only see one bout today.

When Steve rejoined the public, it was on the arm of the king and to his viewing box where all who could see observed their lord and ruler feed this mighty warrior by hand. And Steve had been right about Eddie trying his damndest to capture his feats in writing. Because just the next day, he awoke to about half a dozen love letters all about the previous day’s fight.

Part 32

Taglist CLOSED

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent  @snakeorsquid  @ignoremyworld  @theclichefortunecookie 

@goodolefashionedloverboi  @just-a-tiny-void  @0body0disphoria0  @cinnamon-mushroomabomination  @samsoble 

@jamieweasley13  @y4r3luv  @xtkxkrzrizir  @un-knownperson  @greekgeek24 

@justdrugsformethanks  @potato-of-the-lord  @notaqueenakhaleesi  @swimmingbirdrunningrock  @queenie-ofthe-void 

@nebulainajar  @lil-gremlin-things  @nicememerino  @robininblue  @hornedqueenofhell 

@anne-bennett-cosplayer  @moomkin77  @here4thetrama  @bookworm0690  @autumncrocusandladybug

@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-steve

[silcodependent]

Sway Chapter 16

Silco x Fem!Reader

4K Words - NSFW (18+ Violence) Warning: Violence, Sexual Assault, Attempted Rape

If you would like to skip potentially triggering content stop reading at the line: “They threw me--ME--out! Bullshit! I told them--you were mine but they didn’t listen. I told them. I told them you were mine.” Nox spoke quickly and quietly, in looping phrases. Was he talking to you or to himself? And pick up at the last 2 lines of this chapter.

The audience was a live wire and so were you. The audible gasps of the crowd reached your ears in the rafters as you were lowered in bit by sparkling bit, seated elegantly on a life-size crescent moon. The notes rang out from the piano casting a spell of silence throughout the room. The overture gave way to beginning notes of the melody, breathing life back into those who looked on struck with awe. The familiar tune of Only a Paper Moon started quietly on the piano, the two of you alone in front of the masses. Your sweeping movements atop your celestial chariot was reminiscent of something ancient and divine. A presence both fully forgotten and intrinsically recognized in the collective memory of those looking on. 

The soft notes of the piano gave way to the surging energy and sound of the rest of the band unveiled by the drawing of scarlet velvet curtains. The music moved from verse to pre-chorus to chorus as you proceeded to perform, to swing, to strip from your perch sending glittering pieces of your costume raining down on the audience below. The bellowing cheers that greeted you nearly drowned out the band. A pity really, the music was truly beautiful and adapted for a full band just for tonight. They had been practicing for weeks. But it was hard to complain looking down at the faces below thoroughly immersed in the world you had created.

The house was packed. Sold out according to Remy and looking out over the full seats below, you believed it. Every seat filled, every table and booth spoken for, and every spot someone could stand was crammed with bodies, Undercity pressed into the sides and shoulders of Piltover’s elite. The sight had you smiling from ear to ear. You needed the encouragement on a night like tonight, Silco’s absence still haunting a hidden piece of you.

But you were a professional, a true and dedicated artist who would not look back. And once you began, you found it shockingly easy to push the evening's earlier events from your mind as you focused solely on the performance. The conversation with the audience. And my, how they spoke back. It was the loudest you had ever heard them and that was saying something. You had missed them in a way you hadn’t understood over the last month, and they made it clear they missed you too.

As good as you were at staying present, there were a few moments that you were unable to keep those striking eyes of fire and ice from your mind. The first had come during your second number, placed intentionally at the top of the show for him as much for you. A tribute and thank you for all he had done for the Royale Sweet, which now felt wasted. There had been a faint tremble in your breath and in the right arm of your first arabesque when the music had begun. This dance inspired by Silco, written after your morning together, a daring blend of Ballet and Burlesque. Would anyone else understand or appreciate something so outside the realm of your typical performance?

Once you had forced that shuddering breath from your lungs, you forced out all other thoughts too, losing yourself to the complete focus of the dance. Pirouettes, Grand Jetes, Sissonnes, and Sissonne Attitudes executed with deft and joyful precision. It surprised you just how much of Ballet’s storytelling lent itself to burlesque in the quiet smaller moments. Casting a coy look over your shoulder during a perfectly placed Derriere. Untying the ribbon to your wrap during Shenae Turns across the stage. The way your breasts would bounce just so as you went on pointe. The way your pasties gleamed under the stage lights as you moved through your Port de Bras circle. You loved the impressive moves but the simpler ones seemed to be key to engaging in the conversation of Burlesque. The softness in your hands and shoulders at each reveal. The audience seemed to hold their breath as they watched you. As you finished the final phrase of the dance, holding your pose to your dismay and delight you could see patrons jumping to their feet with their applause. A standing ovation. It left you in awe. Enough to soothe some of the pain of who this dance had been for. A gentle salve to knowing that the eyes this had been meant for would never see it. A welcome reminder that this art was wonderful, beautiful and worth it--no matter where the inspiration had come from.

The second time Silco entered your mind that night was during one of your final acts, one that had been built around audience participation. You had planned to give it to him. To find him in the audience, mark him as your victim and give him every bit of your special attention. That plan in tatters, you eyed row after row for another victim.

You certainly had extra time, you had planned your beats with time to get to Silco in one of the back booths but with him gone you could take in all that the room had to offer. You spotted a rowdy group from the Academy three rows back, all loud and obnoxious, save one man that looked wholly out of place. A small uncomfortable smile lingered on his soulful features yet he appeared happy to be here, taken by the show and glamor of the evening. His large brown eyes glistened with curiosity but there was a sorrow that seemed to contour his handsome countenance. To his left you noticed a cane. A mantra rang in your head, learned from long ago: An outsider recognizes an outsider. You had found your victim.

Making your way to him through the mass of people, the men to his left only got louder with your proximity. The man seated beside him was rather beautiful, and he seemed to know it, flattening his broad shoulders against the back of the banquette with the expectation of your approach. A devilish grin spread across your lips as you locked eyes with his, a bright hazel that stood out against his olive skin and dark hair. He smiled wide, a heat now burning behind his gaze that quickly transformed into confusion as you stopped squarely in front of his friend. The man before you was nearly his friend's opposite; pale, slight, longer well kept chestnut hair, large features-- but damn if he wasn’t just as beautiful in a way that pulled at your heart. There was a quiet melancholy that surrounded him, telling you a story of a life of being unseen and passed over. Not tonight. You would make sure of it.

You sat on the table in front of him, notably free of any drinks or glasses, earning you loud cheers and gasps from the audience as well as a wide-eyed stare from your victim. You kicked a leg over him in an impressive display of your flexibility and pressed your heel into the banquette just beside his head, moving your other leg to mirror it, giving him a private view of the area between your legs with both of your legs spread framing his face. His blush was impossible not to notice, but you found it endearing. Breaking from your script you reached forward to caress his cheek, his jaw. Another display of your flexibility. His amber eyes met yours in an intimacy that surprised you. Something indescribable in the connection found in them, in the way they saw you. It felt rare and raw and fully enchanting. Like making love. Something you could get lost in with no desire to be found.

You forced yourself back to your practiced choreography, playing with the gossamer fabric panel of your skirt that hung between your legs, the only bit of modesty provided in your positioning. Casting the fabric over his face, its drawn out airy descent gave him a slow sizzling peek at what lay beneath. The shouts from the other men at the table were deafening. The friend to his right had forgotten his disappointment and had instead moved to delight at watching his friend alternating between cheers and staring in slack-jawed amazement. You laid back on the table, with a slight arch to your back, moving your hands slowly down your body in time with the music. Those large golden eyes felt like the languid touch of a lover as you felt them follow your every move. Your hand was his soft and tantalizing, dragging down your neck, your clavicle, your breast, your ribs, your stomach laden with intent. Finally your fingers reached the apex of your thighs and tugged the panel of your skirt free, lifting yourself off the table with the extreme arch in your back. The crowd went wild at this move, just as you had planned. Drawing your head back up to meet his gaze you were greeted with the sight of those big brown eyes with their pupils nearly blown out at the sight of you. Gods help you, you loved it. Teeth pressed into  your lower lip you leaned forward, wrapping the panel of your skirt around his shoulder like a scarf before kicking off the wall into a slow controlled flip into a standing position. This nearly brought the house down and you still had a bra to take off. 

You sauntered back towards the stage reveling in the roar of the crowd, leaving your victim behind to the hollering and congratulatory claps on the back from his friends. From the look on your victim’s face, he could hardly believe what had just happened himself. You were happy it had been him. Happy you could give him the attention that made him like he belonged here. He did. Everyone belonged here. But you couldn’t help but think of how you had planned those moves, that moment for someone else. Imagining the hungry look you had wished to see on Silco’s face brought a heat to your chest. A thought you forced down with the final reveal of your pasties.

The music built to its final crescendo as you shimmied, twirling your tassels, each crystal catching the light and dancing in it. For a single suspended moment you were the tantalizing, glittering fantasy. But moments like that were never long enough. As the horns eked out their ending notes, your eyes caught the movement at the edge of stage right. A figure, a man, attempting to climb on stage? Colored splotches swam in your vision from the stage lights as you tried to make out what was happening between moves as the song drew to a close.

The clapping covered the sound of raised voices at the foot of the stage as you quickly made your exit, ducking behind a curtain backstage to get a better view of what exactly was happening. 

Nox. It was always Nox. 

Had he been here the whole time? It was surprising to see him here after the falling out with Gabriel, although you supposed it shouldn’t be. When had Nox let anything get in the way of his good time, friends or family be damned. The sharp sound of angry voices came a split second before the sound of falling glasses and a toppling table. What was Nox doing? Drunk no doubt, but you’d never seen him violent. But there was no denying it as you watched this stranger from the safety of the dark. His hands on one of the bouncers, shoving, screaming, raising to hit him. A gasp broke through your lips. Who was this man? Not the Nox you knew. Not the goofy guy who had closed the bar down with you all summer long. Not sweetheart with a snaggle-toothed smile that had asked you to marry him a dozen times and meant every one. You didn’t know this man at all.

His words came to you distantly, as though there was a part of you that refused to hear them.

“She’s mine! That was supposed to be me- Move! She wants me-- she’s mine!”

Nox was down before he landed a single blow. A hard hit across his face and he crumpled to the ground. You weren’t sure he was still conscious when the bouncer dragged him towards the door. Nox… It made you sick. But there was no time for the sorrow and disgust you swallowed. The show must go on and with one more number before the finale it certainly would.

Before you knew it, you were giving your final wave goodbye from your signature martini glass, which had been modified into a champagne coupe for the evening to celebrate the reopening, and watching as the curtain fell on your most momentous performance to date. The crowd had been incredible, better than you could have ever asked for. All your hard work had paid off and every nerve in your body vibrated with elation. Joy and relief washed over you as you basked in your glass, in no hurry to rush this moment. You had no idea how truly tense you had been and now that it was over--you could finally breathe. And that’s just what you did. Tossing your head over the back of the bowl you filled your lungs with a deep breath through your nose, holding it a beat before releasing it slowly into the air above you. A small moment out of time. A quiet pause at the foot of chaos. A gentle appreciation of now.

It wasn’t long before you were toweled off and redressed to meet your public in a favorite costume of yours, an ensemble of shimmering emerald from your garters to the extravagant necklace you wore and everywhere in between. The time flew by in a dizzied blur meeting each of the patrons that lingered after the show. Incredibly kind as they were, you were slightly disappointed to see who wasn’t among them. Silco was nowhere to be found and neither was the gentleman you had used earlier in the evening. As the adrenaline of the night wore off, you found yourself desperate for your bed.

“Congratulations to the Princess of Piltover!” Remy exclaimed, pulling you into a warm embrace.

“I hope that’s not a title that sticks.” You mumbled into his chest.

“There’s never been anything like you and there never will be. Tonight’s show was proof of that. They adored you! More than I even thought possible!” Remy’s words were sincere, even if the champagne seemed to lead the conversation. 

“Thank you.” You said looking up into his warm honey-brown eyes. He truly was dashing. It made you wonder why he wasn’t sharing this evening with a special someone. 

“You have a lot to be proud of.” He added with a gentleness that was at odds with the kind of celebration that surrounded you.

“So do you.”

“This is just the beginning, kid. The sky's the limit!” Remy said, raising his glass and finally releasing you. It made you realize how cold you were. How utterly tired. 

“Well for tonight, it’s the end. I’m exhausted.” You tossed over your shoulder as you pulled on your coat. You loved this coat. It was an outfit unto itself and made the cold weather more enjoyable just by the wearing of it. 

“Headed home already? You haven’t even touched the champagne!”

“Tomorrow!” You called back to him as you made your way to the stage door.

“Sleep well! You deserve it!” Remy shouted over the chattering sounds of the bar determined to drown him out. It was nice to see the place lively after a show, even with only a handful of people lingering, speaking excitedly as the staff cleaned and closed around them. It felt like you had truly built something and you had.

Still, you welcomed the quiet and the cold air on your face stepping through the stage door into the stillness of the night. The alleyway and loading dock cut into the hillside provided you a perfect reprieve from the eyes of patrons. From the eyes of anyone really. The stage door was little more than a light at the end of a dingy tunnel where you loaded in most of your props and the club unloaded most of its trash. For all the glamor of a place like this, sometimes you felt more at home beside the dirt and dumpsters. There was something unpretentious and fully necessary that you couldn’t quite put your finger on but you found it comforting.

“There you are!” Rasped a voice from behind you.

Whirling, you turned to see Nox pushing off the brick wall of the club, his face cut and swollen from his fight with the bouncer. It made you wince just to see it.

“Nox--”

“They threw me out! Can you believe that?” Nox said just a bit too loudly. Something was off. That uncanny feeling from earlier returned as you studied him carefully.

“They threw me--ME--out! Bullshit! I told them--you were mine but they didn’t listen. I told them. I told them you were mine.” Nox spoke quickly and quietly, in looping phrases. Was he talking to you or to himself?

She is mine. His words from earlier rung in your head, now with the show behind you you were able to fully absorb them. 

“Nox--” You repeated forcing a hard swallow. 

“How could you touch that guy like that? HOW?” The harsh echo of his voice bounced off the bricks lining the alley. 

“Nox I didn’t--”

“It should have been me! All this time, Irene. You know it. You know it! We’ve been doing this dance for months.” He was closer to you now, something strange and staccato in his movements that made your hair stand on end. 

“Nox I was glad to see you--”

“I know! I know!” He interrupted, “But you still let it happen. You let them. You let him--” His words descended into frantic rambling more and more with each sentence.

“I don’t know what you're talking about, Nox.” The exhaustion of the night creeping into your voice. Whatever this was, this wasn’t drunk. You’d seen him drunk a hundred times, but this, this frightened you. Scared you stiff and left you frozen in place.

“It’s obvious. So obvious. But you--you just won’t let it be. You’re mine, doll. Always have been. Why can’t you see that…” His voice was almost a whisper now as he leaned into you, taking your face in his hands.

The warmth of Nox’s breath washed over your face and you took in his glowing yellow eyes. His hands were sticky on your skin and made your skin crawl. His face drew closer to yours and suddenly your stupor was broken as you pressed your hands into his chest and pushed him away with all your force.

Nox stumbled several steps back but managed to keep his footing. He lifted his head slowly to drink you in and the expression of rage carved into his features stole the breath from your lungs. Trembling you began back away, one shaky step at a time. 

“Enough!” He growled. 

He was on you in a flash. Arms and hands harshly gripped every part of you in an endless array you couldn’t escape from. Your limbs were not your own as you pressed and scraped and fought. His lips on yours drowned out the sound of your cries. Nox’s desperation evident as he forced open your lips, strangling the sounds of your protest with lips and teeth. Suddenly Nox hissed and you stumbled out of his arms onto uneven concrete. He was bleeding, a thin scratch below his cheek bone shone under the single street light. Quickly you looked down at your hand finding a matching hue coating the tip of your finger.

“You’re mine.” He growled again, charging toward you. Hands and feet uselessly scraped the ground as you tried to back away only to collide with the dumpster behind you. Strong rough hands grabbed your thighs and pulled you forward in one harsh motion. You let out a small yelp as your head hit the ground from the force. Nox was strong, stronger than he looked and with spots dancing in your vision your stomach churned with the realization of just how helpless you were.

“Nox, please--!”

“You’ll see. You’ll see, Irene. We’re meant to be. You’ll see.” He repeated like a frantic mantra as he pawed at your clothes, lifting your coat and fumbling for your garter belt. You screamed. You kicked. You flailed your arms wildly past the point of any formulated plan, just one desperate shot in the dark after another.

“Nox stop!” You shouted, “Don’t-” Your words were interrupted by the feeling of a hand in your hair pulling your head cruelly off the ground before slamming it back into concrete with a force that stopped the words in your mouth and replaced them with an agonizing groan.

Your head was warm and wet and darkness came in clouds at the edge of your vision. A dream, surely. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. The weight of your head lolled to one side and you watched as Nox ripped your underwear, unable to summon the strength to move.

“Nox…” Your voice was a hoarse whisper. 

No. No.

Your breath came in short bursts as you tried to move your twitching fingers. As your brain screamed to you useless body to move, to do something, anything.

Nox’s hands were at his belt and he was muttering all the while.

“You’ll see, you’ll see. You’re mine Irene. You’ll see.”

A feeble whimper forced its way past your lips, willing all your strength into your legs, a last ditch attempt to get away. But it was futile. Nox pressed himself on top of you repeating the same sick phrase again and again.

“You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”

A distant part of you hoped that your injuries, that this darkness would take you before you could feel him force himself inside you. That same part of you wondered if you’d live through this, wondered if you wanted to. 

This wasn’t Nox, this was some monster. Some yellow-eyed demon who had devoured the man you knew and was going to do the same to you. He was going to eat you alive.

In the darkness above you there was a glint of silver that arched through your vision like a shooting star and in that millisecond you made a wish. Help.

Then it was warm, terribly warm and wet. Eyes flitting to the source you saw Nox’s head lowered, reaching, reaching, clutching. He looked up at you desperately, eyes wide, grabbing at the collar of your coat, revealing the crimson cascade that flowed rhythmically from his throat as his hot blood spilled over you, the evidence of a life extinguished. Your eyes locked with his as you watched the life retreat from them. Nox was dead, his lifeless body draped over you as you looked on unable to move. Then there was a heavy shift as his body was rolled off you and onto the ground beside you with the kick and prod of a metal toed boot.

Snapping to your senses you scrambled back as far as you could before you met the familiar cold metal behind you. Trembling, you forced in a shaky breath watching a tall dark figure wipe the scarlet from his blade on the fabric of Nox’s shirt, returning it to the shining silver you had wished upon moments before. Straightening to his full height, he seemed to grow impossibly taller and taller still, his face finaling turning from Nox’s lifeless body towards you, still half cloaked in shadow. The unmistakable light of a red orange orb, a glow in the darkness.

Silco pocketed his knife and extended a hand to you.

“Sorry I’m late.”

[xoxorealitygalore]

Nasty Dancer X

Summary: Due to her unyielding confidence, Aphrodite earns her spot on the main roster, becoming The Bloodline's manager — or rather, Sefa's Special Counsel. His Wisewoman. But can she maintain her bold, unapologetic style when faced with her greatest challenge yet: working alongside her ex-boyfriend?

Taglist: @xbriexx @christinabae @blackchickinthedesert @bratzzzdoll

Nasty Dancer Masterlist

Previous: Chapter Nine

Aphrodite Receiving High Praise From WWE Officials

WWE Superstar Aphrodite is quickly becoming one of the most talked-about performers in the company, earning rave reviews from both fans and officials alike. The rising star has been making waves recently, and WWE officials are taking notice of her exceptional work inside and outside the ring.

Her recent appearance on WWE SmackDown was a major highlight of the week, marking her first televised match since her in-ring debut at the Royal Rumble event on February 1. As the seventh entrant in the women’s Royal Rumble match, Aphrodite made an immediate impact, and fans were buzzing about the potential she showed. However, it was on SmackDown that she truly cemented her place on the main roster.

According to CBS Sports, WWE staffers and talents were seen watching closely in the Gorilla position and other backstage areas as Aphrodite competed in her first WWE TV match. It’s not every day that the company’s internal team watches a performance with such attention, and this level of intrigue speaks volumes about Aphrodite's growing reputation.

One of the key aspects that has garnered widespread praise is her remarkable storytelling ability. Aphrodite's seamless integration into The Bloodline, one of the most prominent factions in WWE history, has only served to elevate her profile. Her natural charisma and knack for building tension in matches and promos have made her a standout performer, even in a group already filled with top-tier talent. Whether it's her interactions with Solo Sikoa, Jey Uso, or other members of the faction, Aphrodite has proven to be an invaluable asset in the ongoing storyline of The Bloodline.

Her storytelling goes beyond the traditional aspects of WWE matches; she brings a depth and emotional resonance that is often lacking in many other performances. Aphrodite's ability to connect with the audience and convey the emotional stakes of a storyline has impressed both her colleagues and WWE officials, positioning her as a future star of the company.

Beyond her in-ring work, the praise for Aphrodite’s commitment to her craft is undeniable. She continues to improve with each appearance, gaining confidence and refining her style. Whether as a dominant force or a subtle character, she’s shown the range needed to thrive in the fast-paced world of WWE.

Looking ahead, the future seems incredibly bright for Aphrodite. With high praise from WWE officials, her role in The Bloodline, and her undeniable talent, it’s clear that this Superstar is poised for greatness. Fans will undoubtedly be watching eagerly as she continues to rise through the ranks of WWE, and with her storytelling abilities and dedication to the craft, it won’t be long before Aphrodite is a household name in the world of professional wrestling.

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noitsreallyaphrodite Through thick and thin, we’ve got each other’s back. #BigBrother 💕

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Aphrodite sat on the edge of her hotel bed, one leg crossed over the other as she absentmindedly gazed out of the window, her eyes catching the fading light of the day.

The bustling streets of Dortmund, Germany, lay below, filled with the usual ebb and flow of locals and tourists alike, each going about their day without a thought of the incredible spectacle that would soon unfold inside the city’s massive arena. She was here for the Road to WrestleMania tour, a journey that saw WWE Superstars traveling across Europe, visiting eleven cities over three weeks to connect with the fans who had supported them through thick and thin.

At the moment, Aphrodite was listening to the familiar voice of her older brother, Lykos, over the phone as she finished seeing her ring gear.

“So, we’re thinking about matching tattoos,” Lykos said, his voice laced with a hint of excitement. He was always the creative one in the family, the one who dreamed up the most outlandish ideas that, more often than not, became reality. Aphrodite smiled softly at his words, leaning back against the pillows, her fingers absently stitching the fabrics of her wrestling top as she listened intently.

Matching tattoos were a tradition among her siblings, something they’d done to honor their shared bond. Aphrodite wasn’t sure when it had started, but it had become a ritual of sorts. Their names were all derived from Greek mythology, a connection to their Greek heritage that their parents had instilled in them from a young age. Each sibling carried with them the names of gods, goddesses, and mythical figures. Tiasa, Bia, Cyrene, Adonis, Lykos, and Xylon.

Her brother’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she focused again on his words. “Shit, it’s between getting the planets representing each sibling and the larger circle being the order we were born or a Greek symbol of our names with Roman numerals of the order we were born,” he said, his excitement clear. Lykos always had a flair for the dramatic, and even something as simple as a tattoo design became an elaborate, thoughtful discussion.

Aphrodite raised an eyebrow as she processed the idea. A celestial theme was fitting. The planets seemed like a symbol of their individual personalities, each orbiting the other in a delicate dance. It was something that could bind them together while also celebrating their uniqueness.

The other design, a Greek symbol tied to their names, with Roman numerals marking the order in which they were born felt more personal, more intimate. It wasn’t just about the symbolism; it was about the story behind the design, the invisible thread that connected each sibling to the others. Aphrodite found herself torn between the two ideas.

“Well, let me know which one y’all pick,” she finally replied, her voice warm but thoughtful. She didn’t have a strong preference for either design, but it was important to her that whatever they chose would represent their bond in a way that felt true to who they were. Family was everything, after all.

Before Lykos could respond, Aphrodite heard the door to her hotel room creak open, and her eyes flickered toward the figure that entered. Joseph walked in with a bag of food in his hands, his face lighting up as he saw her sitting there, phone pressed to her ear. “Bye,” Aphrodite said as she rushes off the phone with her brother.

A chuckle escaped his lips as he set the bag down on the small table beside her, his teasing tone cutting through the conversation.

“Damn, Dottie, over some food and a man. Cold, bye,” Lykos joked from the other end of the line.

Aphrodite rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’ll talk to you later, Lykos,” she said, cutting the call short with a playful tone. “Love you, brother.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lykos said before hanging up.

As Aphrodite placed the phone on the bedside table, she turned her attention fully to Joseph, who was already unpacking the food he had brought. His presence was comforting. She had been traveling nonstop, moving from city to city, with no time to catch her breath. But in moments like this, with him by her side, everything felt just a little more manageable.

Joseph had always been the calm to her storm. Where Aphrodite was passionate and sometimes impulsive, Joseph was grounded and patient, qualities that had drawn her to him in the first place. They balanced each other out in ways that made their relationship feel effortless.

“So, what do you want to do for your birthday?” Aphrodite asked, her voice light and playful as she reached for a fork from the tray.

Joseph paused for a moment, his expression softening as he looked at her. He wasn’t a man who cared for extravagant celebrations or grand gestures. He’d always been the type who found joy in the small, intimate moments. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care what we do on my birthday,” he said, his voice sincere and steady.

Aphrodite’s heart fluttered at his words, but she couldn’t help the pang of guilt that tugged at her. Joseph’s birthday would fall during their time in Belgium, and though she would be there with him, the constant whirlwind of their schedules and the pressures of being part of the WWE roster made it difficult to plan something special. Still, she was determined to make it memorable for him in her own way.

She pouted slightly as she looked at him, a teasing glint in her eyes. “We’ll be in Belgium, Sefa,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of playful resignation.

“I don’t care,” Joseph replied, brushing off her concerns with a shrug. “I’ll be with you, and that’s what matters.”

Aphrodite smiled softly, feeling a rush of affection for him. She knew he didn’t need grand gestures, but she still wanted to do something meaningful, something that would show him just how much he meant to her. “I’ll figure it out,” she said, her mind already whirring with possibilities as she thought about what they could do together in Belgium. Perhaps a quiet dinner in a charming café, or a private stroll through the historic streets of Brussels, away from the chaos of the tour. The idea of spending a simple yet intimate day with Joseph felt like the perfect gift, one that didn’t need to be extravagant to hold meaning.

As the evening stretched on, Aphrodite and Joseph shared a quiet meal together, the world outside their hotel room fading into the background.

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noitsreallyaphrodite Wishing the happiest of birthdays to someone truly exceptional.

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rikishi #BlessedAndChosen

Over the next few days, as the WWE Road to WrestleMania tour continued its journey through Europe, Aphrodite found herself thinking more and more about her family. Her brother’s tattoo idea had sparked something within her.

Being away from her siblings during this time made her miss them in ways she hadn’t anticipated. They had always been a constant in her life, and despite her busy schedule and the chaos that came with her profession, she couldn’t help but feel sad she wasn't experiencing this with her siblings.

As she traveled from city to city, from the bright lights of Barcelona to the historic streets of Vienna, she found herself thinking about her siblings.

They were her foundation, the ones who had shaped her into the person she had become. And though she stood on the grandest stage of them all, WWE’s WrestleMania, with millions watching her every move, it was moments like these, small, quiet moments with the people she loved that reminded her of what truly mattered.

The time in Belgium arrived sooner than she expected, and as she and Joseph explored the charming city, Aphrodite found herself filled with gratitude for the life she had built, both in the ring and beyond. The world of WWE was exhilarating, but it was the connections she had with her family and the people she loved that truly grounded her.

And so, as the countdown to WrestleMania continued, Aphrodite embraced the moments of peace and reflection, knowing that no matter where her journey took her, she would always have the love and support of those who mattered most. And that, in the end, was more than enough to keep her going.

The air in Belgium was crisp as the day unfolded in all its charm. The quaint cobblestone streets of Brussels, with their medieval buildings and rich history, wrapped themselves around Aphrodite and Joseph as they wandered hand in hand, their laughter echoing against the narrow alleyways.

It was Joseph’s birthday, and despite the whirlwind of their WWE schedules, Aphrodite was determined to give him a special day, a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos.

She had planned the day with meticulous care, wanting to blend the beauty of the city with simple pleasures that Joseph would appreciate. Their first stop was the Cathedral of St. Michael, an awe-inspiring structure with towering spires that seemed to scrape the sky. Inside, the light filtered through colorful stained-glass windows, casting hues of ruby, sapphire, and emerald across the cool stone floors. The silence of the cathedral felt almost sacred, a quiet contrast to the outside world. Aphrodite could see the wonder in Joseph’s eyes as he took in the grandeur of the space. It wasn’t just the architecture that fascinated him. It was the history, the stories imbued in every stone and every corner.

Next, they went to the Grand Place, Brussels’ central square, surrounded by opulent guild halls and the striking Town Hall. The square was alive with tourists and locals alike, all drawn to the beauty of the ornate buildings and the rich culture of the city. Aphrodite took Joseph's hand, guiding him through the crowds as they marveled at the stunning architecture and vibrant life around them. For a moment, it felt as though time slowed down, just the two of them in the heart of a city that had seen centuries of history.

Their day wasn’t complete without indulging in one of Belgium’s greatest culinary delights: waffles. Aphrodite had insisted they stop by Maison Dandy, a famous spot known for its decadent waffles. They sat at a small table near the window, savoring the warm, golden treats dusted with powdered sugar, and for once, no cameras were flashing, no fans calling out their names just the two of them, enjoying the sweetness of the moment. Joseph’s eyes twinkled with appreciation as he took a bite, his laughter light and carefree.

As the afternoon sun began to dip, casting a warm glow over the city, Aphrodite knew it was time for the second part of her surprise. Later that evening, when they returned to their hotel room, she had arranged for a small, intimate gathering. The room was filled with a sense of quiet excitement, as Joseph’s brothers and cousins arrived, each one with a grin on their face, knowing what was coming.

The cake, a rich, decadent chocolate creation, sat on the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by candles ready to be lit. Aphrodite could feel her heart race as she gave Joseph a playful nudge, signaling that it was time for the celebration to begin. The door opened, and one by one, Joseph’s family filed in, their voices rising in cheerful unison as they began to sing "Happy Birthday."

Jon was the first to stand and deliver his usual theatrics. With an exaggerated gasp, he clutched his chest as though overcome with emotion. “Oh, my baby brother!” he cried dramatically, throwing his arms wide as though preparing for a grand monologue. Aphrodite couldn’t help but smile at Jon’s antics. He was always the dramatic one, the life of the party, and tonight, it seemed, was no exception. His voice cracked as he continued, making everyone chuckle. “I remember the day you were born, Joseph. You were so small, so innocent, and now look at you! I’m so proud of you. I love you more than words can say.”

The room was filled with a mixture of laughter and affection, but then, to everyone’s surprise, Jon’s voice wavered. His theatrical sobs became genuine as tears welled up in his eyes. “I just—” His words were lost as he wiped his eyes, still trying to compose himself, though his emotions had overtaken him.

Joseph stood there, not surprised, as Jon’s emotional display turned into full-on crying. And to everyone’s shock, Jon wasn’t the only one who broke down. Joshua, stood next to him, his own eyes welling up with tears as he put a comforting hand on Jon’s shoulder.

Joseph moved to comfort his older brothers. He chuckled softly, a warm, affectionate laugh that seemed to put everyone at ease. “Come on, you two,” Joseph said, wrapping his arms around both of them. “You guys are such babies.”

As he comforted them, Aphrodite watched the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and tenderness. It was a side of Joseph she rarely got to see. The loving, patient baby brother who had to calm his much more emotionally charged siblings. It reminded her of just how deeply Joseph cared for those around him, how much he was rooted in family.

“I forget how emotional those two can be,” Trinity whispered with a grin, her voice filled with affectionate teasing.

Aphrodite nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Yeah, they always put on a show, don’t they?”

Trinity shook her head in amusement. “I swear they do.”

The night continued with laughter, cake, and more shared stories from their childhood. Jon and Joshua eventually calmed down, wiping their tears and regaining their composure, though they still offered teasing glances at Joseph. Their bond, though often tested by distance and the chaos of their respective careers, was unshakeable. It was clear that family was everything to them, and tonight, Joseph’s birthday was a testament to that.

As the evening wore on and the last of the cake was eaten, Aphrodite pulled Joseph aside for a quiet moment. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with affection, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I’m so glad we could be here together,” she murmured, her voice low and sincere.

He smiled down at her, his eyes soft with gratitude. “Me too.”

As Joseph wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, Aphrodite felt a sense of contentment settle over her. This was what mattered. This was what she had always been fighting for, these quiet, tender moments, where the world stopped and all that mattered was the love they shared.

Next: Chapter Eleven