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its-all-or-nothing94 · 2 months

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One Night // Tom Glynn-Carney x f!Reader

Summary: Where reader goes out with her friends and meets this charming, sweet (and so fucking) hot guy in a club.

A/N: This is the first fic I have published based on a real person. I don't know Tom, this is just puuuure fiction, thank you very much! It's actually just a short little One-Shot :)

Ship: Tom Glynn-Carney x Reader

Warnings: Language (is it tho?), mentions of having sex, use of alcohol, One Night Stand

You have always thought of yourself as a pretty ordinary person. You had a decent job, a decent apartment, and a group of friends that you could count on for a good time. So when your best friend, Emily, suggested you go out to a trendy new club in London, you thought, why not?

The club was packed, the music loud enough to make you feel it in your chest. You weren't usually one for these kinds of places, preferring a quiet pub or a cozy night in with a book. But tonight, something felt different. You wanted to let loose, to forget about the mundane for just one night.

After a few drinks and a lot of dancing, you found yourself at the bar, slightly tipsy and in need of a break. That’s when you noticed him. A man standing beside you, ordering a drink with an easy confidence. He had a rugged charm about him, with tousled blonde hair and an intense gaze that seemed to see right through you.

“Having a good time?” he asked, his voice smooth and inviting.

“Yeah, better than I expected,” you replied with a smile. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“Tom,” he said, extending a hand. You shook it, feeling a strange spark at the touch.

You chatted for a while and you found yourself genuinely enjoying his company. He was funny, down-to-earth, and didn’t seem to have any of the pretentiousness you often encountered in these places. He didn’t mention his job, and you didn’t ask. You talked about music, movies, and travel – all the things that made life interesting.

Your laughter mingled with the thumping bass of the music, your body moving freely to the rhythm. Tom's eyes, a striking shade of blue, sparkled under the dim club lights as he leaned in closer. Your conversation flowed effortlessly, a seamless exchange of stories and laughter that felt strangely intimate for two people who had just met.

Before you knew it, the night had flown by, and the club was starting to thin out. Tom glanced around, then leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you want to go somewhere quieter? Maybe talk without shouting over the music?"

You hesitated for a brief moment, then nodded. There was something about Tom that made you want to throw caution to the wind, to embrace this rare sense of spontaneity. "Sure, why not?"

You walked through the bustling streets of London, the cool night air a refreshing contrast to the heat of the club. Tom hailed a cab, and you slid into the back seat, a comfortable silence settling between you. The ride was short, and soon, you stood in front of a sleek, modern apartment building. Tom unlocked the door and gestured for you to enter.

You stepped inside, taking in the stylish decor. The apartment was a perfect blend of modern chic and cozy comfort, with clean lines, soft lighting, and personal touches that hinted at Tom’s personality. He led you to the living room, where a leather sofa dominated the space, flanked by bookshelves filled with an eclectic mix of literature and knick-knacks.

"Make yourself comfortable," Tom said, heading to the open-plan kitchen. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Surprise me," you replied, sinking into the plush cushions of the sofa. You watched as Tom expertly mixed two drinks, his movements confident and precise. He handed you a glass, your fingers brushing briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

"To unexpected nights," Tom toasted, raising his glass.

"To unexpected nights," you echoed, clinking her glass against his while you were blushing slightly.

You sipped your drinks, the alcohol warming you from the inside out. The conversation picked up where it had left off, but now there was an added layer of intimacy. You sat close, your knees touching, voices low and hushed. Tom's gaze never left your face, his eyes tracing your features as if trying to memorize them.

The air between you grew charged, the unspoken tension crackling like static. You felt your pulse quicken, your breath coming in shallow bursts. Tom set his glass down and leaned in, his hand gently cupping your cheek. He paused for a heartbeat, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, he closed the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, making your heartbeat quicken.

You melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer. The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you lost in the moment. The kiss deepened, your bodies pressed together, a hunger igniting between you.

Tom's hands roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine while your fingers tangled in his hair. You broke apart briefly, gasping for air, your foreheads resting together. "Are you sure about this?" Tom whispered, his voice husky with desire.

"More than sure," you replied breathlessly, your heart pounding in her chest.

What followed was a whirlwind of passion and desire. Clothes were shed hastily, discarded in a trail leading to the bedroom. You moved together with an urgency that bordered on desperation, your bodies finding a rhythm that felt both new and familiar. Tom's touch was gentle yet firm, his kisses searing a path across your skin. You felt more alive than you had in a long time, every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

You finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, your bodies entwined, the city outside just a distant hum. The night had been a blur, but one thing was clear: it was a night neither of you would soon forget.

You woke up to the soft light of dawn filtering through the curtains. You carefully slipped out of bed, not wanting to wake Tom. You dressed quietly, glancing back at him, a sense of something deeper stirring within you. You shook it off, knowing this was a one-night stand, nothing more.

You scribbled a quick note thanking him for a wonderful night and left it next to Tom before slipping out the door. The cool morning air hit your face as you stepped outside, swirling within you a mix of exhilaration, confusion, and a hint of sadness.

Back in the apartment, Tom woke up to find the note. He cursed softly under his breath, realizing he had forgotten to ask for your number. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the note in his hand, feeling a strange emptiness. For once, he had met someone who treated him like a normal person who didn’t care about his fame or his job. And now you were gone.

You walked through the quiet streets of London, replaying the events of the night in your mind. You knew it was just a fleeting moment, a brief escape from reality, but it was a night you would never forget, a night that made you feel truly alive.

As you reached your apartment, you couldn’t help but wonder what might have been. But you pushed the thought away, determined to hold onto the memory of a perfect night with no regrets. Life would go on, but you would always have that one night in London, with a man named Tom.

Later that morning, Tom found himself at their usual rehearsal spot, a grungy but cozy studio tucked away in East London. The rest of the Sleep Walking Animals were already there, casually tuning their instruments and chatting amongst themselves.

“Morning, mate,” Joe greeted Tom, plucking at his guitar strings.

“Morning,” Tom replied, his voice absent-minded.

Alex, noticing Tom’s distraction, smirked. “Someone’s got their head in the clouds. Or should I say, still in bed with that hot Y/H/C from last night?”

Tom shot him a look. “Shut it, Alex.”

“Oh, come on, Tommy boy,” Bill chimed in, drumming a rhythm on the edge of a table. “You looked proper smitten when you left the club. She must’ve been something special.”

“She was,” Tom admitted, slumping down onto a battered old couch. “But she buggered off before I could even ask for her number.”

“Savage,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Didn’t even leave a name or nothing?”

“She did,” Tom replied, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N. That’s all I got.”

“Y/N,” Nuwan mused, his fingers dancing over the keys absentmindedly. “Could be anyone, mate.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Tom muttered, frustration evident in his tone. “It’s just... I dunno, she was different. Didn’t give a fuck about who I am or what I do. Just treated me like a normal person.”

“Well, you are a normal person, mostly,” Joe teased. “Except when you’re whining about a girl like a lovesick puppy.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tom said, but there was a hint of a smile.

“Can’t believe she just legged it,” Bill said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “What, were you that bad in bed?”

The room erupted in laughter, and Tom threw a cushion at Bill. “Piss off, Caple. It was great, thank you very much.”

Alex leaned over, grinning. “So, did you shag or not?”

Tom rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, we did. And it was... it was amazing.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate,” Jack said, strumming a chord on his bass. “Bet you wish you could find her again.”

“Yeah,” Tom admitted, his voice softer now. “I really do.”

The guys exchanged looks, the teasing dropping away for a moment.

“Look, mate,” Joe said, more seriously. “We’ve got a gig tonight. Maybe you’ll meet someone else who’s just as cool. Don’t get too hung up on one girl.”

Tom nodded, knowing Joe was right but still feeling the pang of regret. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Nuwan started playing a familiar tune on the keys, and the rest of the band gradually joined in. The music filled the room, and for a while, Tom let it carry him away, the notes and rhythms a welcome distraction from thoughts of you.

But even as they played, your face lingered in his mind, a reminder of a night that felt all too fleeting and a connection that was painfully out of reach.

You sat with your friends at your favorite coffee shop, a cozy little place with mismatched furniture and a laid-back vibe. Emily, Sarah, and Jess were all there, sipping on their drinks and catching up on the latest gossip. You knew it was only a matter of time before the conversation turned to you.

“So, Y/N,” Jess started with a sly grin, “anything interesting happen last night? You disappeared from the club pretty quick.”

You felt your cheeks flush. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Sarah echoed, her eyebrows raised. “Come on, spill it! Who was the guy?”

“His name’s Tom,” you said, trying to sound casual. “We met at the bar, hit it off, and... well, I went back to his place.”

“Oh my God, Y/N!” Emily exclaimed, nearly spilling her latte. “You had a one-night stand? With a guy you just met?”

“Yeah, I did,” you admitted, unable to hide your smile. “And it was amazing.”

“Details, please,” Jess demanded, leaning in. “How was he? What was his place like?”

“He was... incredible,” you said, feeling the warmth of the memory. “Funny, down-to-earth, and not full of himself. His place was pretty stylish too, very him.”

“Sounds like a dream,” Sarah sighed. “And you didn't get his number?”

You shrugged. “No, I left early, and he was still asleep. I didn’t want to wake him. Besides, it was just a one-night thing.”

“Still,” Emily said, shaking her head, “you should’ve left your number or something. What if he wants to see you again?”

“I doubt it,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “He probably doesn’t even remember my name.”

“You never know,” Jess said with a wink. “Maybe he’s thinking about you right now, regretting not getting your number.”

“Yeah, right,” you said, but a small part of you couldn’t help but hope Jess was right.

“Anyway,” Emily said, changing the subject, “my brother’s got tickets to this gig tonight. Some indie band. He asked me to come, and I thought it could be fun. You guys in?”

“Who’s the band?” Sarah asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Sleep Walking Animals,” Emily replied. “Ever heard of them?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” Jess said, shrugging. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Same here,” Sarah agreed. “Could be fun.”

“What about you, Y/N?” Emily asked. “Got any plans tonight?”

You shook her head. “Nope, nothing. I’m in.”

“Great!” Emily said, clapping her hands. “It’s a plan then. We’ll meet up at my place and head over together.”

As you finished your coffees and chatted about other things, you felt a strange sense of anticipation building inside you. You weren't sure why, but the thought of going to this gig excited you. Maybe it was just the idea of a night out with your friends, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you hoped for something more.

#Tom Glynn-Carney #House of the Dragon #Tom Glynn-Carney x Reader #Tom Glynn-Carney One Shot #One Night Stand #Celebrity x normalo #One Shot #TGC x Reader #Tom Glynn-Carney Fanfic

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mmelectrical · 4 months

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24/7 EMERGENCY ELECTRICIAN LONDON | FAST & TRUSTED SERVICE

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sad-boys-book-club · 2 months

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"&" Ampersand - A Literary Companion

Selected stories with the themes of Bastille's upcoming project "&" Ampersand. And, of course, a love letter to my favourite band.

PART 1

Intros & Narrators: Wallace, David Foster. Oblivion: Stories. Little, Brown and Company, 2004./ Nancherla, Aparna. Unreliable Narrator: Me, Myself, and Impostor Syndrome. Penguin Publishing Group, 2023.// Eve & Paradise Lost: Bohannon, Cat. Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2023. / Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Alma Classics, 2019.// Emily & Her Penthouse In The Sky: Dickinson, Emily. Emily Dickinson’s Poems: As She Preserved Them. Harvard University Press, 2016. /Dickinson, Emily. Emily Dickinson: Letters. Edited by Emily Fragos, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2011.// Blue Sky & The Painter: Prideaux, Sue. Edvard Munch: Behind the Scream. Yale University Press, 2019. / Knausgaard, Karl Ove. So Much Longing in So Little Space: The Art of Edvard Munch. Random House, 2019.//

PART 2

Leonard & Marianne: Hesthamar, Kari. So Long, Marianne: A Love Story - Includes Rare Material by Leonard Cohen. Ecw Press, 2014./ Cohen, Leonard. Book of Longing. Penguin Books Limited, 2007.// Marie & Polonium: Curie, Eve. Madame Curie. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013./Sobel, Dava. The Elements of Marie Curie: How the Glow of Radium Lit a Path for Women in Science. Atlantic Monthly Press, 2024.// Red Wine & Wilde: Wilde, Oscar, et al. De Profundis. Harry N. Abrams, 1998./ Sturgis, Matthew. Oscar: A Life. Head of Zeus, 2018.// Seasons & Narcissus: Ovid. Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation. Penguin, 2004./ Morales, Helen. Antigone Rising: The Subversive Power of the Ancient Myths. PublicAffairs, 2020.//

PART 3

Drawbridge & The Baroness: Rothschild, Hannah. The Baroness: The Search for Nica, the Rebellious Rothschild. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2013./ Katz, Judy H. White Awareness: Handbook for Anti-racism Training. University of Oklahoma Press, 1978.// The Soprano & Her Midnight Wonderings: Ardoin, John, and Gerald Fitzgerald. Callas: The Art and the Life. Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1974./ Abramovic, Marina. 7 Deaths of Maria Callas. Damiani, 2020.// Essie & Paul: Ransby, Barbara. Eslanda: The Large and Unconventional Life of Mrs. Paul Robeson. Haymarket Books, 2022./ Robeson, Paul. Here I Stand. Beacon Press, 1998.//

PART 4

Mademoiselle & The Nunnery Blaze: Gautier, Theophile. Mademoiselle de Maupin. Penguin Classics, n.d./ Gardiner, Kelly. Goddess. HarperCollins, 2014.// Zheng Yi Sao & Questions For Her: Chang-Eppig, Rita. Deep as the Sky, Red as the Sea. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2023./ Borges, Jorge Luis. A Universal History of Infamy. Penguin Books, 1975. // Telegraph Road 1977 & 2024: Kaufman, Bob. Golden Sardine. City Lights Books, 1976./ Wolfe, Tom. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Pan Macmillan Australia Pty, Limited, 2008.

Original artwork created by Theo Hersey & Dan Smith. Printed letterpress at The Typography Workshop, South London.

#mine #bastille #dan smith bastille #dan smith #dan bastille #ampersand #&#literature

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 10 months

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Body Electric

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader x Billy Taylor (The Halcyon) Warnings: Angst, mentions of PTSD and familial death, (consensual) infidelity, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: Tom's been sullen since returning from the Navy, and when his sister, Lois, moves from Longsight to London it heralds the end of the honeymoon period of his and his wife's marriage. Deciding a trip to the capital is just what they need to reignite the flame, Tom's wife gets much more than she bargains for when they check into The Halcyon, and she flirts with the handsome young bell boy to make her husband jealous.

Author's note: For @adragonprinceswhore and @mefools. This is not a crack fic. I have warped canon (I mean, I had to get these two to exist in the same AU anyway), so Billy didn't die when he was drafted, and has gone back to his old job at The Halcyon. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Dappled sunlight plays upon Tom’s sharp features, the occasional shadow of a tree or building passing across his face as the train speeds through the British countryside. He’d look beautiful, bathed in golden hues, were it not for the pensive expression he wears, and the faintest of dark circles that linger beneath his eyes.

She can’t remember the last time he looked genuinely happy - perhaps it was their wedding day?

Her and Tom had met in secondary school, and she’d thought he was an idiot to begin with; handsome, but always mucking around in lessons, never able to take anything seriously. It wasn’t until they’d both left that they’d become an item. She’d go to the weekly dances at the Pavillion, and every week he would ask her out. The first three times she had said no, not wanting to get mixed up with a known troublemaker. On the fourth occasion she’d relented, simply in the hopes that if she said yes he’d leave her alone. But she’d found she enjoyed his company, he made her laugh effortlessly, and when his blue eyes gazed into hers it made her feel like the only girl in the world that mattered. When he had kissed her it had stolen all the air from her lungs, and from that point on she was smitten with Tom Bennett.

The night before he shipped out for the first time, she had thought he meant to slam the bed’s headboard through the brickwork of the wall with the force with which he took her. However, she had smiled to herself when she’d felt the pleasant ache between her thighs the next day.

“Something to remember me by,” he’d told her with a wink and that trademark smirk of his.

Something to remember indeed.

She’d barely recognised him when he’d returned. He was thin, tired, didn’t laugh as freely, and learning that his father had passed when the Bennett family home was shelled had darkened his mood further. He hadn’t stayed long, enough to argue with his sister, Lois, and enough to find his way between her thighs once more and make her swear to him that she’d marry him when he came back.

Of course she had said yes, there was no one in the world she could imagine wanting to marry more than Tom. But with how things are between them these days she is left wondering if he’d married her because he loved her, or because she was the one thing left in Longsight that he could anchor himself to.

They’d married quickly when Tom was discharged for the final time, the war at its end. It had been an intimate affair, and despite the toll his service to his country had taken on him, Tom still gazed into her eyes on their wedding night and made her feel like the only girl in the world that mattered.

But then Lois had announced she was taking Vera and moving to London - her and Connie had found a place they could share. A fresh start. She had hinted at wanting to move away from Longsight before, and Tom had dismissed it, insisting that the family must stay together.

He was furious when she’d chosen to go anyway, refusing to be part of the send off party for her at the train station.

“This is where mum and dad are buried, how can she do this?!” He’d raged.

“They’re just headstones, Tommy,” she had tried to reassure him, “memories go everywhere with you.”

“You wouldn’t fucking understand,” he’d seethed back at her, “you’ve still got both your parents, what have I got?!”

“You’ve got me, you’ll always have me,” she’d said quietly.

He’d fallen silent at that, bowing his head and averting his gaze. It made her chest ache to see him that way.

It’s been close to a month since they were last intimate, and she has done her best to be patient and understanding. His time in the Navy has put him through a horrendous ordeal, coupled with losing Douglas, and his sister moving away, so she doesn’t pressure him.

However, she misses her husband. She feels that he is abandoning her each time he retreats into himself, going somewhere she can’t follow. Like two ships in the night, they pass each other by, laying in the same bed physically but emotionally never further apart.

When a letter arrives from Lois, letting them know she’s settled and would love for them to visit, she jumps at the opportunity. She has some money put aside from her job at the factory, and her and Tom never got to have a honeymoon, this would be the perfect way for them to rekindle the romance in their marriage.

She is shocked, yet thrilled, when Tom actually agrees to it, and the pair of them arrange a week’s worth of leave from their respective jobs, arranging to stay in a hotel rather than impose themselves upon Lois’ hospitality. There’d be plenty for them to do while they’re there, and she can’t wait to see the sights of Piccadilly Circus and Carnaby Street, she’s never been to London before.

Tom has stared silently out of the window the entire train ride from Manchester, though she knows better than to believe he’s taking in the scenery. It’s merely so he doesn’t have to make conversation. She can live with that, she is certain that once they’ve had their romantic week away that he’ll be much more talkative on the journey back.

Everything will be fine once we’re checked into The Halcyon.

It is early evening by the time they arrive, and Euston station is a crowded rush of people when they step onto the platform. She is fearful of it for a moment, never having seen so many people all in one place at once, until Tom takes her by the hand, guiding her through the crowds towards the taxi rank. Her heart soars at the gesture, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips over his protectiveness. Perhaps he is not lost to her after all.

She stares in wide eyed wonder out of the window of the black cab as it drives through the streets of London. It is similar to Manchester in its greyness and vastness, they both have all the trappings of big city living, however, the heart of London beats to an entirely different rhythm than that of Manchester’s. The capital seems harsher, more relentless than the northern locale that she calls home. She wonders if perhaps this is the right place to try to rekindle the spark in hers and Tom’s marriage after all.

That is until they step into the foyer of The Halcyon. Her heels click against the black and white tiles of the foyer, her mouth agape as she takes in the opulence of the huge pillars, the palm trees that flank either side of the entrance, and the yellow and orange hues of the stained glass panel in the ceiling. How could they not reignite their passion when they were going to live like royalty for a week?

“Billy!” The dark haired woman manning reception calls around the corner, once they’ve checked in. “Come and help Mr and Mrs. Bennett with their bags.”

A tall, lean young man, who can’t be any older than twenty, rounds the corner. He’s handsome, with bright blue eyes, and mousy hair that’s slicked back beneath the cap of his black and grey bellboy uniform.

He gives her a tight lipped smile, the tips of his ears turning pink as he looks at her and she can’t help the way she preens at his flustered state.

Still got it.

“Second floor, Billy,” the receptionist tells him as he leans down to grab their suitcases, “room twenty six.”

Billy nods. “Right this way, please, Mr and Mrs. Bennett,” he says, directing them towards the lifts.

She can feel the bellboy’s gaze upon her in the tight confines of the elevator and smiles to herself. At least someone was appreciative of her.

He takes his leave, bidding them both a good evening once their luggage is deposited outside of their room door, and her and Tom are left alone once more.

Tom whistles low as they enter, flicking on the lights, and she feels pride swell in her chest that he’s impressed by the lavish surroundings. A shiver of excitement runs through her as her eyes move over the crisp white pillows and crimson duvet that adorn the bed, thinking that this might be where they’ll finally make love for the first time in a month.

It’s a beautiful room; lace curtains hang in the windows, ornate floral wallpaper decorates the walls, there’s a writing desk by the window, and a yellow velvet armchair is placed off to one side by the bed.

Turning back towards Tom, she steps towards him, sliding her hands up his chest, over his jacket. She smiles demurely up at him, her voice a soft purr. “So, Mr. Bennett, what shall we do now?”

“It’s been a long journey, love,” he tells her, taking one of her hands and brushing his lips against her knuckles. “Let’s just get some rest, yeah?”

“Oh…okay,” she nods, stepping back and looking away. She feels like she might cry, as disappointment weighs heavily upon her chest. This is not how she imagined their first night here would go at all.

As she lays in the darkness, listening to the strange sounds of the city, motor cars and loud voices, all seeping in through the closed window, she can’t seem to fall asleep. She turns her face towards Tom, who lays facing away from her, wondering if he’s awake too.

“Tommy?” She whispers.

“Yeah?” He whispers back.

She pauses a moment, and when she speaks again she’s unable to disguise the tremble of emotion in her voice. “Do…do you still love me?”

He rolls to face her then, and the devastation of what she’s implying is evident in the arch of his eyebrows and parting of his lips, illuminated by the light of the streetlamp that pours in through the lace curtains. She feels a lump in her throat, regretting having asked.

“Course I do,” he says earnestly, tugging her towards him, and she buries her face in his chest. He presses his lips to the crown of her head, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’ve been letting you down.”

They stay like that for the rest of the night.

The next morning they sit in the hotel’s dining room for breakfast. Tom idly smokes a cigarette, a full English in front of him, while she butters her toast.

“Gonna go and see Lois today,” he tells her, taking a swig from his tea cup.

“I thought we’d arranged to visit her on Sunday?” She asks, frowning in confusion as she sets her knife down on her plate.

“We are,” Tom says, blowing smoke out through his nostrils - a gesture she has long since learned is a sign of irritation on his part. “But I’m gonna go see her today - alone.”

You’re going to start an argument, and then come back in a bad mood.

She sighs, folding her hands in her lap. “And what am I supposed to do?”

Tom shrugs. “Go to Carnaby Street, or whatever it was you were saying you wanted to do while we’re here.”

“Tommy, we’re supposed to do those things together, and I don’t wanna walk around London on my own!”

He nods, stubbing his cigarette out on the yolk of his fried egg, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. He had barely touched his food, he never does anymore.

“Alright, look, I’m only gonna be gone a couple of hours, then we can do whatever you want. Why don’t you order some drinks for when I get back, and we can start our holiday properly?”

“You promise?” She asks with a small smile.

“Cross my heart,” he says, taking a final swig of his tea. He stands from the table and presses a kiss to her temple.

“And promise you won’t be horrible to Lois?”

“I’m not promising anything for that mardy cow,” he says, giving her a wink, before walking off.

She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

Fuck’s sake, Tommy.

She goes back up to the room once she’s finished her breakfast, and takes a long, hot soak in the bath. Almost two hours have passed by the time she has her make-up finished and her hair curled. Dressed in lingerie and a satin robe, she is still deciding on an outfit when she realises Tom will be back soon and she hasn’t ordered their drinks.

Calling down to the hotel’s switchboard from the phone on the desk, she asks for a glass of white wine and a whisky to be sent up to the room. Ordinarily, Tom is a lager drinker, but she decides he deserves a treat as they’re on holiday.

Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and the bellboy from yesterday stands on the other side, holding a tray with the drinks they’d ordered.

She smiles warmly, watching him blush as he bows his head and enters the room, setting the tray down on a nearby table.

“Thank you…Billy, wasn’t it?” She asks, cocking her head.

He presses his lips together in a tight smile, glancing at her before looking shyly away again. It’s clear her state of undress is having an effect on him. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett,” he says, clearing his throat and straightening, clasping his hands behind his back. “Will that be all?”

Excitement flutters in her lower belly. It’s been a long time since a man has reacted to her so bashfully, and she’s enjoying it. She isn’t ready to let Billy slip away just yet.

“No need to be so formal, sweetheart,” she coos, “you can call me by my first name.”

He shuffles from foot to foot, huffing a nervous laugh. “Sorry, Mrs…sorry…”

“How old are you, Billy?” She asks, stepping towards him.

“I’m twenty-one.”

Seven years my junior. Not as bad as I’d thought.

“Did you serve, Billy?”

“Yes,” he says with a proud smile. “I manned the anti aircraft guns at the barracks for three years.”

The sound of a key in the lock draws both their attention towards the door, as Tom walks through it. Just as she’d anticipated, his expression is sour. He’s argued with Lois.

“I’ll leave you both to it,” Billy says, with a polite nod of his head.

She knows how this will play out. Billy will leave, and Tom will allow his bad mood to ruin their day, either by refusing to leave their hotel room, or simply sulking his way around London when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Opting to use the current situation to her advantage, she decides to be tactical, and give her husband a reminder of what he’s missing out on. If he sees another man flirting with his wife, perhaps it will snap him out of this.

“No need to be in such a hurry, Billy, we were just getting to know each other. Or do you have somewhere you need to be?”

Billy eyes Tom carefully as he walks past the both of them, taking the whisky from the tray on the desk and sipping from it.

“Well, my shift finishes in ten minutes,” he says distractedly, “so I s’pose I could–”

“Perfect,” she cuts him off, taking his arm and guiding him to sit next to her on the edge of the bed.

Tom remains silent, taking a seat in the armchair and placing his glass on the table next to it. His jaw is set, gaze dark. He only ever looks like this when he’s sparring for a fight, but if this is what it takes, then so be it.

“Do you have a sweetheart, Billy?” She asks softly, fingernails grazing his thigh, causing him to flush bright red.

“Er…well…” he removes his cap, keeping his gaze fixed on it as he turns it round in his hands. “There was a maid that worked here…Kate, her name was. I fancied her…really fancied her, but she moved back to Ireland to be with her family when the worst of the bombing hit.”

“Oh, you poor love,” she soothes, giving his hand a squeeze. “I expect a handsome lad like you has girls queuing up.”

The click of Tom’s lighter pulls their focus back to him, and he exhales a plume of smoke, staring intently at them both. “Do you fancy my wife?” He asks Billy, with a steely gaze.

Billy swallows thickly, eyes widening in panic as he opens and closes his mouth.

“It’s okay, Billy,” she says gently, “you don’t need to be shy.”

“Well…I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mrs…sorry…but I think you’re beautiful.”

This time it’s her turn to feel embarrassed, and she averts her gaze as she feels her skin grow warm.

“Yeah, she is beautiful isn’t she? Would you like to kiss her?” Tom asks, lifting his glass and taking a deep drink from it, his eyes never leaving Billy.

Her head snaps up, looking at her husband with wide eyed shock.

Why is he asking that?!

“Tommy…” she says hesitantly, an edge of warning in her tone.

“It’s fine, love,” he takes another drag of his cigarette, settling further into the armchair, observing the both of them. “Go on, kiss her.”

Returning her attention to Billy, he’s shuffled closer, looking at her questioningly.

“Is…is this okay?” He whispers, leaning in.

She nods, closing the gap and her lips meet his. He is hesitant at first. His kisses are not as forceful as Tom’s, his lips are softer. As she reaches up to cup his cheek, he seems to grow more confident, applying more pressure, a quiet hum of approval rumbling in his throat. It makes her core throb to be desired like this.

When they finally part for air, she is breathless and flustered. She looks straight to Tom. He sits, watching them casually, fingers wrapped around his glass in one hand, propped on the arm of the chair, his cigarette burning low between his forefingers in the other.

“Do you wanna touch her?” He asks Billy, a low, darkened edge to his voice.

“Yeah…yeah, I do,” Billy answers, sounding more poised than he had just moments before.

“Go on then,” Tom instructs, “brush your thumb over her nipple, she likes that.”

She gasps softly as Billy leans in again, capturing her lips with his own once more. A quiet moan escapes her as she feels his hand tentatively slip into the opening of her robe, his thumb swiping gently over the lace of her brassiere.

He is not as self assured as Tom, Billy’s touch is featherlight by comparison, but it’s been so long since someone has paid this kind of attention to her that she responds to it just the same. She arches against Billy, her tongue slipping into his mouth as she hears his cap drop to the carpet with a soft thud.

“You can fuck her, if you want to,” Tom rasps, and she glances over at him, as Billy’s desperate kisses move down her neck. His blue eyes are still dark, she’s no longer able to tell if it’s from anger or arousal, the two states look much the same when he wears them.

There’s a part of her mind that’s screaming at her that this is wrong, that they should stop. However, if this is what it takes to get Tom to notice her again, then she’ll do it, and selfishly she’s enjoying how it feels.

Billy pushes her back, and she goes willingly. “Are you sure this is okay?” He whispers, his voice betraying his nerves.

She nods, untying and opening her robe, to reveal the lacy lingerie set she wears beneath.

Billy draws in a sharp inhale, before hurriedly unfastening his belt and unzipping his trousers with shaky hands.

He freezes, looking at Tom. “I…I don’t have a sheath.”

“Don’t need one,” Tom replies nonchalantly, crushing his cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “Best not keep her waiting.”

She pulls the gusset of her knickers to one side as Billy hovers over her. She can feel she’s soaked already. Billy is not quite as girthy as Tom, but still an impressive size that causes her breath to catch in her throat as he starts to press inside.

Tom chuckles quietly from where he sits. “She’s tight, isn’t she? Tightest little pussy I’ve ever had. Go careful.”

His words cause her to ache with want, and she moans wantonly as Billy bottoms out with a grunt. He’s gentle, much more so than Tom would be, slowly withdrawing before pushing back in, a dusting of pink prominent across his cheekbones.

“You won’t break her,” Tom tells him, “can just imagine how wet and warm she feels. Fuck her harder, and wrap one of her legs around you. She goes mad for that.”

She cries out, white hot sparks of pleasure swirling in her gut as Billy does as he’s told, the shallow pants of his breath puffing hotly against the side of her face.

Turning her head, she looks at her husband and he smirks, eyes raking over the scene before him as Billy continues to rut into her.

“T–Tommy…” she moans.

With each push of Billy’s hips into hers, she can feel her climax building, she’s right on the precipice, but it seems Billy is too. He tenses, a groan escaping him.

“Don’t you dare come inside her,” snaps Tom.

As if on cue, Billy pulls out, making her whine at the loss, coating her thighs in his hot spend as his jaw slackens and his brow furrows.

Before she’s had a chance to recover, Tom is rising from his seat towards the bed. “You can go now,” he tells Billy.

Still struggling to catch his breath, Billy nods, clambering off of her and fastening his trousers and belt back up. He stoops to pick up his cap, before hurrying towards the door, followed by Tom.

She lays there, dumbfounded and breathless, through glassy eyes she watches Tom hand Billy a bank note. “You’ll not tell anyone about this, d’you understand?”

“Y–yes, sir.”

She hears the door click closed, and Tom walks back over to the bed. His pupils are blown wide with lust and it sends a shiver through her.

“Enjoy yourself, love?” He asks, grabbing her thighs and tugging her towards the edge of the mattress, making her squeal.

“Are you angry with me?” She asks quietly, feeling shame bloom heavily within her chest.

“No,” he says distractedly, attention focused on her core. His thumb swipes through the stickiness that’s been left on her thigh, spreading it slowly over her skin. “No, I’m not angry.”

“You’ve been so absent lately,” she says sadly, propping herself up on her elbows. “Just wanted your attention.”

He straightens, nodding in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. I’ve been neglecting you, and that’s my fault. But don’t worry, I won’t anymore. Now–”

She clenches around nothing as his hands move to his belt, and she hears the metallic clink of it opening. “Now you have my full attention, and I’m gonna make sure you get all of it.”

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gfl-electrical · 4 months

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muiitoloko · 7 months

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Could we have a "Money" sequel?

Title: The Fall

Summary: The fall of Lionel Shabandar.

Pairing: Lionel Shabandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Obscenity, jealousy, possessiveness, fear, manipulation.

Author's Notes: This sequel is about years ago when you were just Lionel's Sugar Baby, not his wife. And oh, I was too lazy to review this, so it might just be a big, pointless piece of shit. ( I'll let you know later, so a lot can change.)

First part here

As Lionel Shabandar sauntered into the fancy bar, his eyes scanned the opulent surroundings, searching for his newest conquest. But what he found instead made his blood simmer beneath his polished exterior. There you were, his Sugar Baby, nestled cozily beside a younger, handsome man, your laughter filling the air like tinkling bells. His jaw tightened imperceptibly as a surge of possessiveness prickled at his senses.

Dismissing the couple with a flick of his hand, Lionel made his way to the VIP area, settling onto a plush couch with his cell phone in hand. With calculated nonchalance, he tapped out a message to you, feigning ignorance of your whereabouts.

Minutes felt like hours as he watched you from afar, his patience waning with each passing second. Finally, a notification lit up his screen, and he clenched his jaw as he read your response, the lie dripping from each word like venom.

"I'm just getting ready to sleep," you claimed, your eyes darting as you glanced at the man beside you.

Lionel's grip tightened on his phone, his gaze piercing through the distance to where you sat. A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes as he contemplated his next move, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

As Shabandar's fingers danced across the screen of his phone, a sly grin crept onto his lips. He knew exactly how to play this game. With calculated precision, he crafted his message, each word dripping with veiled menace and thinly veiled accusation.

"You looked stunning in that dress," he typed, his tone deceptively casual. "Did you use my money to buy it?"

He observed with satisfaction as you tensed beside the other man, your eyes darting nervously around the room. But before you could formulate a response, another message from Lionel appeared on your screen, cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Dismiss whoever this man is and meet me outside," he commanded, leaving no room for negotiation.

As you reluctantly excused yourself from the company of the younger man, Lionel wasted no time in leaving the VIP area, his demeanor exuding a potent mix of authority and impatience. He stood outside, a figure of power and control, waiting for you to emerge.

As you finally left the bar, your cheeks burning a little with embarrassment, Lionel's eyes bore into you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. You knew you shouldn't feel guilty for seeing another man, especially since you and Lionel weren't exclusive, but there was something about the way he looked at you that made you squirm with guilt, but you'd be damned to let it show.

With a swift movement, Lionel grabbed your arm and pulled you towards his car, his grip firm and unyielding. You stumbled slightly in your heels, but he didn't seem to notice, his focus solely on getting you into the car.

"Get in, you little tease," Lionel commanded, his voice dripping with barely contained fury as he gestured towards the passenger seat of his sleek black car.

You complied, sliding into the seat with a demure glance, though there was a glint of mischief in your eyes as you watched him out of the corner of your eye. Lionel's jaw clenched as he caught your gaze, a silent warning flashing in his eyes as he closed the door behind you.

As he settled into the driver's seat, the tension between you two hung thick in the air, palpable and electric. Shabandar's sleek car sped through the darkened streets of London, the tension between you two hung thick in the air like a suffocating fog. Lionel's grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles white with restraint as he struggled to contain his simmering rage.

"You've been a bad girl, haven't you?" Lionel growled lowly, his voice a dangerous rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "Seeing other men behind my back, using my money to fund your little escapades."

You met his accusing gaze with a nonchalant shrug, a careless flick of your perfectly manicured nails betraying your indifference. "Oh, Lionel, darling," you purred, your voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "I was just having a bit of fun, you know how it is."

Lionel's jaw clenched at your flippant response, his eyes narrowing in frustration as he fought to maintain his composure. "Fun?" he echoed incredulously, his voice laced with barely contained fury. "You call sneaking around behind my back and spending my hard-earned money 'fun'?"

You chuckled softly, the sound like music to your ears as you watched the fire burn behind Lionel's icy exterior. "Of course, darling," you replied coyly, your eyes gleaming with mischief. "You can't expect me to sit around and wait for you all the time, can you? A girl has needs, after all."

Lionel's grip on the steering wheel tightened even further, his knuckles turning white with anger as he struggled to keep his temper in check. "You think you can just toy with me like this?" he seethed, his voice low and menacing. "You think I'll let you get away with this betrayal?"

But you merely shrugged, a smug smile playing at the corners of your lips as you leaned back in your seat, your eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh, Lionel, darling," you mocked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "We weren't exclusive, remember? Besides, if anyone's been toying with the other, it's been you and your little one-night stands."

Lionel clenched his jaw and didn't respond, continuing to drive, his knuckles turning white against the leather of the steering wheel. How could you do that? His mind raced with a mixture of anger and hurt, his pride wounded by your blatant disregard for his feelings.

But you were never one to back down from a challenge, your own stubbornness matching his in its intensity. As the silence stretched between you, you took a deep breath and squared your shoulders, steeling yourself for the confrontation to come.

"How could I do what, Lionel?" you countered, your voice calm and steady despite the turmoil roiling beneath the surface. "I haven't done anything wrong. We never agreed to be exclusive, remember?"

Lionel's grip on the steering wheel tightened even further, his frustration boiling over as he struggled to find the right words to convey his feelings. "That doesn't excuse your behavior," he finally spat out, his tone laced with bitterness. "You knew how I felt about you, and yet you still chose to see other men behind my back."

You scoffed at his accusation, rolling your eyes in exasperation as you leaned back in your seat. "Oh, please," you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't act like you're some innocent victim in all of this. You've had your fair share of dalliances, haven't you? Or have you conveniently forgotten about all those one-night stands?"

Lionel bristled at your words, his pride wounded by the reminder of his own indiscretions. But before he could formulate a response, you pressed on, your voice taking on a steely edge as you asserted your own autonomy.

"I fulfill my duties as your Sugar Baby, don't I?" you challenged, your gaze meeting his with unwavering resolve. "I please you, I entertain you, whenever you want to see me. Isn't that enough?"

Lionel's jaw clenched even tighter at your words, his frustration reaching a boiling point as he struggled to regain control of the situation.

Lionel parked at the curb for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Without a word, he unbuckled his belt and pulled you into him, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. You melted into him, your body responding instinctively to his touch as you kissed him back with equal fervor.

Lionel growled against your lips, his teeth grazing lightly against your skin before he pulled back, his gaze burning with determination. "From now on, we're exclusive," he declared, his voice low and commanding.

But you couldn't help but click your tongue in amusement, a sly smirk playing at the corners of your lips. "No," you replied, your voice laced with playful defiance.

Lionel's eyes narrowed in confusion and frustration, his brows furrowing in disbelief. "Why not?" he demanded, his tone betraying his irritation.

You snorted, a smug smile spreading across your face as you met his gaze head-on. "I doubt very much that you could be faithful to me, Lionel," you retorted, your words dripping with sarcasm. "You're too much of a flirt, always chasing after the next pretty thing that catches your eye."

Lionel bristled at your accusation, his pride wounded by your blatant disregard for his feelings. "I may very well be faithful," he protested, his voice tinged with indignation.

But you weren't about to back down, not when you had him right where you wanted him. "Oh, please," you scoffed, rolling your eyes in disbelief. "I know you too well, Lionel. You're incapable of being faithful to anyone but yourself."

Despite his protests, you could see the doubt flickering in Lionel's eyes, the uncertainty gnawing at his resolve. And deep down, you knew that you had him right where you wanted him. You had always wanted Lionel, not just for his money, but for the man himself. And now, you finally had the chance to make him yours, to have him all to yourself.

As Lionel's resolve wavered, you felt a surge of triumph coursing through your veins. You had played the game of manipulation with finesse, and now you were on the verge of claiming your prize.

"Come on, darling," Lionel urged. "You know I can be faithful to you. Just give me a chance to prove it."

You tilted your head to the side, your expression a perfect mix of skepticism and contemplation. "I don't know, Lionel," you mused, your tone teasing yet hesitant. "You've given me quite a lot to think about."

But Lionel wasn't about to take no for an answer, not when victory was so tantalizingly close within his grasp. With a charming smile, he reached out to take your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

"Please, my dear," he implored, his gaze locking onto yours with unwavering intensity. "I'll do anything to make this work, to prove to you that I can be the man you need. Just give me a chance, and I promise you won't regret it."

You couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at Lionel's desperate plea, knowing full well that you held all the power in this situation. With a coy smile, you nodded in acquiescence, your heart pounding with anticipation as you watched Lionel's expression shift from triumph to relief.

"Alright, Lionel," you relented, your voice soft and melodic. "You've convinced me. I'll give you a chance to prove yourself, but don't think for a second that I'll let you off easy if you break my trust."

Lionel's smile widened into a grin, his eyes sparkling with genuine gratitude as he pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and comforting. "Thank you, my dear," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't let you down, I promise."

But even as Lionel basked in the glow of his apparent victory, you couldn't help but smile to yourself, knowing that the real game had only just begun. As he drove you back to his mansion, his arrogance palpable in the air, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement coursing through your veins.

Once you arrived at the mansion, Lionel wasted no time in leading you inside, his confidence unwavering as he showed you around the opulent surroundings. But as you stepped into the lavish living room, your eyes widened in shock and horror at the sight that greeted you.

In the corner of the room, lounging regally on a plush velvet cushion, was a massive lion, its golden mane shimmering in the soft glow of the room.

You couldn't help but gasp in terror, instinctively taking a step back as your heart pounded in your chest. Lionel, ever the picture of calm and collected, merely chuckled at your reaction, his arm instinctively wrapping around you in a protective gesture.

"Don't worry, my dear," he reassured you, his voice dripping with amusement. "That's just Percy, my loyal companion. He won't harm you, I promise."

But you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped you, your eyes darting nervously between Lionel and the lion. You had never been to his house before, your dates always taking place in the safety of your apartment or in fancy hotel rooms. And now, here you were, face to face with a real-life lion, and you couldn't believe your eyes.

Lionel's laughter filled the air, his amusement evident as he watched your trembling form with a mixture of fondness and amusement. "I can assure you, my dear," he teased, his voice laced with playful flirtation, "you have nothing to fear from Percy. He's as gentle as a lamb, aren't you, boy?"

The lion let out a low rumble, its eyes sparkling with mischief as it regarded you with curiosity. Despite Lionel's assurances, you couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at your stomach, the primal instinct to flee rising within you.

But Lionel wouldn't hear of it, his grip on your arm tightening as he pulled you closer to him. "Stay close to me, my dear," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "I'll protect you from anything that dares to harm you, even if it's my own pet."

With his strong arm around you, you felt a surge of reassurance coursing through your veins, your fear gradually giving way to a sense of security. And as you watched the lion with cautious curiosity, you couldn't help but marvel at the strange and wondrous world that Lionel inhabited.

He led you into the bedroom, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over you as he closed the door behind you, shutting out the unsettling presence of his pet lion. You sank into the plush bedding, the soft fabric enveloping you in a cocoon of comfort as you let out a contented sigh.

Lionel approached you with a predatory gleam in his eyes, his hands reaching out to grasp your waist as he pulled you closer to him. His lips brushed against your neck in a tantalizing caress, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine as you melted into his embrace.

With a sigh of contentment, you relaxed against him, your body moulding to his as you surrendered yourself to the intoxicating sensation of his touch. But just as you began to lose yourself in the moment, Lionel's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade, his tone laced with suspicion.

"Did that man at the bar do something for you?" he questioned, his voice low and menacing. "Did he make you wet?"

You couldn't help but snort in disbelief at his audacity, the absurdity of his question causing you to roll your eyes in exasperation. "No, Lionel," you replied dismissively, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "That man did nothing for me. Unlike you, he lacks the charm and skill to truly satisfy a woman."

Lionel stood proudly before you, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction coursing through his veins. He had managed to quell the doubts that had plagued his mind, reassured by the undeniable truth that you belonged to him and him alone.

"Open your legs, my dear," Lionel commanded, his voice laced with a hint of arrogance as he reached out to you. His fingers trailed eagerly along the hem of your dress, anticipation coursing through him as he prepared to lay claim to what was rightfully his.

You complied eagerly, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you lifted your dress, revealing the delicate lace of your panties underneath. Lionel's breath caught in his throat at the sight, his arousal growing with each passing moment as he drank in the sight of you, his little mouse, ready and waiting for him.

With a wicked grin, Lionel leaned in closer, his fingers trailing teasingly along the fabric of your panties as he pressed himself against you. He could feel the heat of your arousal radiating through the thin material, a silent testament to your desire for him and him alone.

But as Lionel's fingers delved beneath the fabric, a smirk of satisfaction spread across his lips as he felt the truth for himself. You were dry, completely untouched by the man from the bar, your innocence preserved for him and him alone.

"See, my dear?" Lionel murmured huskily, his voice thick with satisfaction as he gazed down at you. "That man did nothing for you. You belong to me, body and soul."

You couldn't help but smile at his possessiveness, your heart swelling with affection as you reached out to him, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Only you, Lionel," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "Only ever you."

With a triumphant grin, Lionel captured your lips in a heated kiss, his passion igniting a fire within you that burned brighter with each passing moment. And as you surrendered yourself to him completely, you knew that there was nowhere else you'd rather be than in the arms of your lion, your lover, your king.

As Lionel's fingers trailed teasingly along the fabric of your lace panties, you couldn't help but squirm beneath his touch, your arousal growing with each passing moment. His touch ignited a fire within you, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your veins as you surrendered yourself to the intoxicating sensation of his hands on your skin.

Before long, you were wet and writhing beneath him, your body arching towards his touch as you begged for more. Lionel's smirk widened into a satisfied grin as he felt your arousal, his own desire reaching dizzying heights as he realized the power he held over you.

With a swift movement, Lionel ripped the lace panties from your body, leaving them in tatters as he discarded them onto the floor. You protested slightly, lamenting the loss of your favorite lingerie, but Lionel simply chuckled in amusement, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Don't worry, my dear," he reassured you, his voice low and husky with desire. "I'll buy you thousands of other panties, all more exquisite than the last. But for now, I just want to taste you, to feel your sweet essence on my tongue."

With that, Lionel buried his face between your thighs, his tongue delving eagerly into your slick folds as he savored the taste of you. You moaned in ecstasy, your fingers tangling in his hair as you urged him closer, desperate for more of his delicious touch.

Lionel's lips and tongue worked tirelessly to pleasure you, his movements skillful and calculated as he drove you to the brink of ecstasy and beyond. Every flick of his tongue sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, your body trembling with anticipation as you neared the edge of release.

Lionel then also used his fingers to take you to ecstasy, penetrating you with his fingers with a skillful precision that left you gasping for breath. His touch ignited a fire within you, sending you spiraling towards oblivion as he explored every inch of your trembling body.

But Lionel wasn't content with just his fingers, oh no. He wanted to mark you, to claim you as his own in every way possible. So as he pleasured you with his hands, his teeth grazed lightly against your skin, leaving behind small, red crescent moons as evidence of his possession.

You whimpered beneath him, your body writhing with pleasure as he devoured you like the lion he was, his hunger insatiable and relentless. And when you finally reached ecstasy, your world exploded into a kaleidoscope of sensations, your vision blurring as you surrendered yourself completely to him.

As you lay there, spent and breathless, Lionel stood up with a satisfied smirk, his chin shining with your essence as he undid his pants with deliberate slowness. Each movement was deliberate, calculated, as if he were savoring every moment of anticipation before claiming his prize.

With a low growl, Lionel pulled down his pants, revealing the throbbing length of his arousal as it stood proudly before you. You couldn't tear your gaze away from him, mesmerized by the sight of him, by the power he held over you.

And as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with desire, you knew that there was no turning back. Lionel was going to take everything from you, body and soul, and you were more than willing to surrender to him completely.

As Lionel stroked himself for a moment, his eyes lingering on your glistening core, he felt a surge of desire coursing through him. With deliberate movements, he reached for the condom, his fingers deftly wrapping it around his throbbing length as he prepared to claim you once more.

Meanwhile, you lay in bed, your body still trembling from the force of your orgasms, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of your lips. You shifted lazily in Lionel's expensive sheets, reveling in the luxurious feel of the fabric against your skin as you basked in the afterglow of your shared passion.

With a contented sigh, you rolled onto your back, inhaling deeply as you buried your face in Lionel's sheets, the scent of him surrounding you like a warm embrace. But before you could fully lose yourself in the moment, you felt the bed shift as Lionel climbed onto the bed behind you, his presence looming over you like a shadow.

With practiced ease, Lionel pulled you close, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he positioned himself behind you, his arousal pressing eagerly against your trembling flesh. You gasped softly at the sensation, your heart racing with anticipation as you prepared yourself for what was to come.

But just as Lionel was about to penetrate you, a scratch sounded at the door, causing you to tense in surprise. Lionel's grip on you tightened, his irritation evident as he called out to the intruder, his voice firm and commanding.

"Percy, not now," he barked, his tone brooking no argument. "Daddy's busy tonight, you'll have to find somewhere else to sleep."

You couldn't help but chuckle at Lionel's stern tone, finding amusement in his paternal affection for his pet lion. He penetrated you, ignoring the scratches on the wood caused by his beloved lion behind the door, you couldn't help but moan from the sensation of him stretching you, your walls parting to accommodate his girth. With each strong and fast thrust, you cried out in pleasure, burying your face in the pillows as Lionel drove into you with a relentless intensity.

"God, Lionel," you gasped, your voice muffled by the soft fabric of the pillows. "You feel so good, so deep..."

Lionel's grunts of exertion mingled with your moans of pleasure, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room as you surrendered yourself completely to him. But just as you were on the brink of ecstasy, the door finally gave way under the lion's force, and Percy walked in, eager to sleep on the bed.

Lionel's movements faltered for a moment as he glanced over at the intruding lion, his irritation evident in the furrow of his brow. "No, Percy, not now," he admonished, his tone firm yet affectionate. "Daddy's busy, you'll have to find somewhere else to sleep."

But Percy paid no heed to Lionel's words, his attention fixated on the bed as he padded closer, his tail wagging eagerly behind him. You couldn't help but tense at the sight of the massive lion, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him with trepidation.

Lionel, however, seemed unfazed by Percy's presence, his focus solely on the task at hand. With a determined glare, he resumed his thrusting, his movements becoming even more fervent as he sought to bring you both to the pinnacle of pleasure.

But despite the tension in the room, Percy made no move to harm you, his gaze softening as he climbed onto the bed beside Lionel, his massive form dwarfing the both of you. You watched him warily, unsure of what to expect, but to your surprise, he merely settled down beside Lionel, his tail swishing lazily in the air.

Lionel paused for a moment, his hand reaching out to stroke Percy's mane with a gentle touch. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice laced with affection as he glanced over at you with a smirk. "Do you want to pet Percy, my dear?" he asked, his voice low and inviting.

You hesitated, fear flickering in your eyes as you glanced at the massive lion beside you. But before you could voice your apprehension, Lionel caught you by surprise, pulling you to your knees and wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Now, now, don't be afraid," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear in a tantalizing caress. "Percy won't harm you, I promise. He's just a big softie, aren't you, boy?"

As you came face to face with the lion, you couldn't help but tremble with fear, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him with wary eyes. But to your surprise, Percy merely regarded you with curiosity, his tail wagging lazily behind him as he sniffed the air.

"Go on, my dear," Lionel encouraged, his voice low and soothing. "Give him a pet. I promise he won't bite."

With Lionel's reassuring words echoing in your mind, you tentatively reached out to touch Percy's mane, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his soft fur. To your surprise, he didn't recoil or lash out, but instead leaned into your touch, his eyes closing in contentment as he let out a low rumble of pleasure.

"That's it," Lionel murmured, his hand guiding yours as you stroked Percy's mane with increasing confidence. "See? He's just a big softie. Nothing to be afraid of."

Encouraged by Lionel's words, you continued to pet Percy, your fear gradually melting away as you lost yourself in the sensation of his warm fur beneath your fingertips. And as Percy relaxed under your touch, you couldn't help but feel a surge of confidence coursing through you, emboldened by the trust that he placed in you.

Meanwhile, Lionel resumed his thrusting, his movements slow and deliberate as he pounded deeper into you with each stroke. You moaned in ecstasy, your body trembling with pleasure as you surrendered yourself completely to him, your fingers tangling in Percy's mane as you lost yourself in the sensation of his touch.

As you and Lionel reached climax after a few more thrusts and bites from Lionel on your neck, you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you, your body trembling with ecstasy as you surrendered yourself completely to him. With a low groan, Lionel spilled into the condom, his release hot and powerful as he emptied himself inside the rubber.

But before you could fully recover from the intensity of your shared climax, Percy suddenly pushed his head against your stomach with a certain force, causing both you and Lionel to topple off the bed. You fell onto Lionel's chest with a soft thud, the impact knocking the wind out of you as you landed on top of him.

Lionel grunted in pain as the breath was forced from his lungs, but he refused to let go of you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he pulled you closer to him. "Damn it, Percy," he muttered, his voice strained with discomfort. "That wasn't how I imagined my fall."

"What are you thinking about, my dear?" Lionel asked, his tone tinged with curiosity as he emerged from the suite's bathroom, towel drying his hair as he looked at his wife who seemed lost in thought, lying comfortably on the bed.

You snapped out of your reverie,, your mind racing with memories of your past as Lionel's Sugar Baby. But you couldn't let him know that, not when you were now his wife too. So you quickly conjured up a lie, flashing him a bright smile. "Oh, just thinking about the new dress I wore," you replied casually, hoping to divert his attention away from your true thoughts.

Lionel snorted irritably, pretending to be irritated. "And how much did that dress cost me, hmm?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow in mock annoyance.

You chuckled softly, rolling your eyes playfully. "Oh, you know me, darling," you teased, reaching out to trace a finger along his jawline. "I couldn't resist splurging a little with my allowance."

Lionel sighed dramatically, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "You never cease to amaze me with your extravagant tastes," he remarked, though there was a hint of fondness in his voice.

Meanwhile, Percy entered the bedroom, his massive form adorned with pink bows in his mane, causing Lionel to look on in shock. "What on earth is that?" he exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief.

You laughed at his reaction, finding it amusing how flustered he was by Percy's appearance. But you didn't respond to his question as you called Percy closer, beckoning him to come to mommy. After all, you considered yourself the lion's mother now that you were married to Lionel, who was undoubtedly the lion's father.

As Percy padded over to you, his massive form adorned with pink bows, you couldn't help but smile affectionately at him. "Come here, my handsome boy," you cooed, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his furry forehead. "You look absolutely beautiful with those pink bows that mommy put on you."

Lionel watched in disbelief as you showered Percy with affection, his indignation growing by the second. When he noticed Percy's claws painted with pink nail polish, he was even more incensed, his pride wounded by your blatant disregard for his beloved lion's masculinity.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" he exclaimed, his voice rising with indignation. "Percy is a male lion, he shouldn't be wearing roses and bows like some pampered poodle!"

But you merely ignored his protests, your attention focused solely on Percy as you continued to lavish him with attention. After all, you always got what you wanted, and Lionel was no exception. You were a manipulative shrew, and Lionel was wrapped around your finger, just as you liked it.

With a triumphant smirk, you leaned in to kiss Percy once more, ignoring Lionel's sputtering protests as you reveled in your victory. After all, you had him right where you wanted him, and there was nothing he could do to stop you.

As Lionel's protests fell on deaf ears, he realized with a sinking feeling that he had truly fallen, a victim to your manipulative charms. But try as he might, he couldn't deny the undeniable truth: you always got what you wanted, and he was powerless to resist you.

With a defeated sigh, Lionel sank onto the bed beside you, resigned to his fate as he watched you dote on Percy with a mixture of frustration and begrudging admiration. After all, there was no denying that you had a way of getting what you wanted, no matter the cost.

And as he glanced at Percy, his massive form adorned with pink bows and painted claws, Lionel couldn't help but feel a surge of indignation at the sight. But deep down, he knew that he was powerless to stop you, that you held all the power in this relationship, and he was merely along for the ride.

With a resigned shake of his head, Lionel reached out to stroke Percy's mane, his touch gentle yet hesitant. "You're a lucky lion, Percy," he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You have a mommy who spoils you rotten and a daddy who can't say no to her."

But as Percy nuzzled against him affectionately, Lionel couldn't help but smile, his heart swelling with a strange sense of pride. After all, he may have fallen, but at least he had fallen for you, his manipulative shrew of a wife. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

#lionel shabandar #lionel shabandar x reader #gambit #alan rickman x reader #alan rickman

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freddiemercurylegendabovelegends · 4 months

Text

Roger Taylor was born in Norfolk, on the east coast of England, and he spent his teens in Cornwall, the summer resort area in the southwest. His background was respectable and ordinary – “the boring middle class,” he calls it – but he’s been captivated by rock ‘n roll ever since the age of eight.

“It was like a bit of a dream then,” he says.

He started playing acoustic guitar at nine, and then when he was 12 he decided to take up drums and electric guitar. “Basically I was a frustrated guitarist,” he says. “But I seemed to be better at drums. My father just bought me a drum, and I took to it and started adding to it and found I could get along well.

Taylor was a 19-year-old dental student in London when he joined his first real band – an outfit called Smile which also included future Queen guitarist Brian May. He quit after a year of dental college because he “just couldn’t be bothered any more,” but then he decided to go back to school for a degree in biology from East London Polytechnic. But by that time Queen has been formed.

“Brian and I were very disillusioned,” he recalls. “But we had known Freddie and eventually, after about six months or so, Freddie persuaded us to start Queen working. Which we did. It was pretty hard going in the beginning. We had quite a few bass players, we went through about five or six until we found John, who was the only one who really fit in.” And after that came the problem of finding the right contract, which wasn’t accomplished until 18 months after the band’s formation, when they hooked up with the new production arm of Trident Studios.

“We wanted to do it right. We wanted the right contract with the right people. So we were really very careful. I think we could’ve moved a bit quicker, but I think that probably was the best idea. It took a lot of patience, a lot of faith, but we got a pretty good deal in the end. We were offered quite a lot of deals by virtually every major company over here, but this really seemed like the best thing to go for at the time.”

- Roger Taylor

Interview, 1975 - Circus

Queen’s Roger Meddows-Taylor – His hands are soft but his beat is hard

By Frank Rose

📸 Pic: Early 70s - Freddie Mercury with Roger Taylor sitting on Volkswagen Karmann Ghia (1955-1974)

#1975 #interview #legend #queen #brian may #john deacon #freddiebulsara #zanzibar #queen band #freddie mercury #london #roger taylor #uk #circus magazine #volkswagen

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scribbleseas · 11 days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Reading,

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 11, 1895

The Royal Opera House’s Backstage, Your Dressing Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking for notes to make, you noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

You would have to touch base with Ciel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was what set you apart as a professional.

Two Hours Later

The Royal Opera House’s Main Stage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was Natasha manipulating you now, too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swan Lake was only a story, after all.

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

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

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

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

Until there was a knock at the door.

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

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

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

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

The doorknob rattled as Ciel likely realized it was locked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could have been persuaded that you imagined it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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