Marisol18

Valarr was sitting by the heart tree, watching the other children play come-into-my-castle from afar. The little prince, at the green age of five, was fidgeting with the hem of his cloak with his little fingers, wishing but not daring to join the game. In the middle of the makeshift castle's borders made out of tree branches, Aelor, his cousin, only one year his elder, was holding his court with a young courtier's son. Around them were at least five to six other children of the Keep, shouting out their suggestions for the identity of the lord of the keep. 

"By your weirwood tree you can only be the bannerman of Lord Tully, Lord Bracken, and so I name you" the courtier's little son declared at the entrance of the tree branch castle, his chest puffed out in certainty. 

"Wrong! You're all wrong! I'm Lord Blackwood, you've got my sigil all wrong!" Aelor shouted out in joy, pumping his small fist in the air. "Nobody made it into my castle, so I win!"

Valarr got up from his observation post, and timidly made his way to the group of boys. "Aelor, I want to play too! Maester Archibald said that I am good at learning the sigils of the houses! I could.." 

"No! we don't have any more space for you, cousin. We're already too many, and we have to wait so long for our turns", Aelor cut him off. The older princeling had never liked his cousin very much, his mismatched blue and brown eyes and dark brown hair with only a thin streak of white drawing a stark contrast to the rest of his family. Everybody else had beautiful, pure Valyrian features, even Daeron, with his dirty blond hair, had lilac eyes to show for it. But Valarr looked half Dornish in coloring, just like his father Baelor.

Rejection stung Valarr's eyes, especially after he had been so brave to get up and ask the boys to play. As he nodded and made his way back to the heart tree, a small hand reached out and tapped on his shoulder. 

When he turned around, he came face to face with you, a child of five as well. You had a big grin on your face, eyes twinkling and hair done up in a braided bun. He knew you from sight; your mother had come to court recently with her household to be a companion to his own mother. 

"Our mothers are friends, so we should be friends too!" You exclaimed, "we're going to play monsters and maidens, you should come play with us!" You waved at the little group of boys and girls a few yards away. 

Valarr blushed at the invitation. Though children were careless beings, they weren't careless enough to disregard the obvious hierarchy between their parents. Other children were taught to be weary of accidentally injuring him; leading to most other children's hesitation to let him into their games. He felt addressed to as an ordinary child for the first time in his short life, and grasped his first chance at a friendship with his small hands. 

When he nodded, you took his hand in yours, shouted out to your little group of friends that he "absolutely had to join" your game of chase, and hurriedly dragged him to them. 

That was the first time he felt the warm, fluttering happiness of making a new, genuine friend. 

-

The two of you were fast friends, soon inseparable apart from the hours spent at your lessons. When Valarr would curl up with a fairytale book under a tree, his little head already adept with his letters, — maesters called him a prodigy, already reading deftly and starting to write at only five years of age —  you'd sprawl out next to him and listen to him read aloud stories of knights, dragons, and princesses, begging him to read you another story before supper time. 

"If we were the princess and the knight from the story, we could befriend the dragon instead of killing it", you mumbled, staring into the leaves rustling in the wind and the bright blue sky. "We could fly away on the dragon, and build a castle on a beautiful unknown island. Then we'd only eat cake, and go on adventures all the time, just the three of us. We'd declare the island ours, and nobody else would be allowed in!"

Valarr's cheeks flushed pink. You liked it when he blushed, you liked pink and you liked Valarr's squishy cheeks. It was a great combination. 

"But what about our families?" He lightly furrowed his brows. Valarr, the little prince, so dutiful even at his age. 

"They could still visit us whenever they want, they're family!" You exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing.

"That'd be nice", he smiled lightly, already envisioning your castle on an island far away, living with you, the dragon, and flying into the sunset for adventures. He'd be your knight, and you'd be his princess. He'd protect you from any harm and get you all the lemon cakes you wanted. 

-

198AC

When Valarr's sixth nameday came, you'd already been six for three whole moon cycles. By then, you'd been inseparable for almost a year, and your families were completely endeared by your friendship.

You woke up on the morrow buzzing from excitement for your closest companion's nameday, almost vibrating in your chair while breaking your fast with your parents. They suggested visiting prince Baelor's family in his solar to bring his son's nameday present, a richly ornamented saddle for his pony.

"Val's six too now, Papa!" you cried out, elated by the thought of being allowed to visit your friend so early in the morning. 

"That he is, my darling." His eyes crinkled in amusement. 

You were practically bouncing at the door when your household set out from your quarters, running laps around your parents and the servants holding the big boxes meant for Valarr. 

When your little procession arrived at the door to Baelor's solar, you sprinted off and nimbly sidestepped the poor startled guards at the door, slamming the doors open and running into the room to see your dearest friend. 

"Happy nameday Val!" You shouted, running straight at him and hugging him tightly. The impact of the hug was great enough that he let out a huff of breath, and only croaked out a quiet "thank you". 

Behind you, your parents were apologizing to the guards, but entered nevertheless, and greeted the heir's household. The servants placed the present boxes on the floor next to the gift pile, then bowed before they took their leave.

"My prince, dear Jena, we wish you the jolliest and the most blessed nameday for Prince Valarr. Apologies for our daughter's.. overflowing enthusiasm to congratulate his little grace." 

Your mother dipped into a curtsy, your father bowing his head next to her. 

Lady Jena was having none of the formalities, and crossed the room in quick steps to greet your mother in a hug, followed by two quick kisses on the cheeks. "Thank you dearly to you both for the lovely wishes, that is most kind. And Baelor and I are simply delighted that our children are so close. It endears me greatly that their friendship blooms so wonderfully just as ours did."

As the adults sat on the high-backed lounge chairs while discussing their mysterious adult topics, Valarr and you padded to his little brother's crib, Valarr wishing to introduce you to his mere 3-weeks old baby brother. 

"He's so little", you wondered at his impossibly tiny hands and feet. 

"His name is Matarys", Valarr introduced him. "Matarys, this here is my closest friend", he then solemnly introduced you to the little newborn, stating your given and family name to the babe as if the little one was to remember it. You giggled at that, and played with his tiny hands. 

"Do you want to open the gifts with me?" Valarr suggested, pointing at the high-piled boxes of gifts from the entire realm. 

You nodded, excited at unboxing the undoubtedly beautiful gifts sent to the crown prince. You both sat at the foot of the pile cross-legged, delightedly tearing through the delicate packaging and revealing the gifts one by one. There was a bejeweled dagger, the pommel a golden dragon's head with a ruby in its open maw. The next was a beautifully stitched doublet, made of shining black and red velvet. Your parents had gifted him a gilded saddle and bridle for his pony, with jeweled ornaments running through the straps. As you looked through the gifts, your face suddenly saddened. 

"What's the matter?" Valarr asked, his brows scrunching up in concern. 

"I have nothing to gift you", you murmured, fidgeting with your necklace. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, commissioned by Baelor at Valarr's insistent demand for your last nameday. The fine golden chain held a delicate pendant, a huge blue topaz placed between winding golden vines. Baelor and Jena had gifted you a matching diadem, a masterpiece done by the castle's goldsmith with blue topaz ornaments and swirling ivy vines. 

You regretted not insisting on getting Valarr a present of your own, especially as he had asked his father to commission something so beautiful just for you three moons ago. 

Valarr's eyebrows furrowed further in confusion. "Your parents have already gifted me the saddle and bridle. You have no need to get me anything else."

You shook your head, and looked down to the floor in consideration. Then, you took your ring off your pointer finger, a small signet ring with your family's sigil on it. 

"I can't take that, that's yours." Valarr shook his head.

"Yes you can, I have many other rings just like this", you insisted as you took his left hand and slid it onto his index finger. "Also, now you have a gift from just me, which is good because best friends should always gift each other things for their namedays."

Valarr flushed while looking down at the signet ring on his finger. He didn't protest any longer, and smiled shyly at you. "Thank you. I'll always cherish it." He nodded solemnly with his promise. 

-

The idea came to you on a sunny day, when you were both lying in the grass, out of breath from the last game of monster and maiden. The two of you hadn't found any other children to join you, already tied up in other games or off to lessons. But playing only with Valarr was just as fun as with the whole group, his company always beat everybody else's. You were looking up at the clouds, thinking that they looked like a herd of sheep traversing a light blue lake.

Suddenly, the idea struck you. 

“Val,” you called, and he hummed in response. “We should get married when we’re older.”

Valarr craned his neck around to look at you, confusion evident in his eyes.

“If we get married, we could be best friends like this forever. Just the two of us. Septa Marya says that one day, my parents will choose a Lord for me to marry, but I don’t want to do that. We could get married like the princess and the knight, and go on adventures and see all the wonders of the world, just like in the books.” You continued, still gazing up at the clouds, imagining the scenes from the fairytales.

He smiled at that. “Yes, we should get married when we’re grownups. I’d like that. Maybe we could go sailing across the Jade Sea, I read that dragons still live there.”

You sat up, looking at him with a smile blooming on your face. "Do you promise?"

"I promise. On my honor." He sat up to face you, and nodded with all the solemness a six-year-old could muster. 

"We need a more serious promise, though. In case we grow up and forget", you added. 

Valarr hummed in agreement. "We could make a vow on the parchment. My father says that a promise made with words on a parchment and then sealed with the houses' sigils are binding." 

"If you want to promise to marry me", he quickly added, a soft blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You don't have to if you don't want to." But your excitement took momentum, and now you were consumed by the idea of being being friends with Valarr forever, without having to marry someone you did not know yet like Septa Marya said. 

"I want to! We have to get married Val, it would be the best thing! But," you hesitated. "How would we make the vow? I don't know how that works."

"I saw a parchment at my father's desk once, I can do it. We just need the big signet rings from our fathers so we can stamp the seals." Val's so smart, you marveled. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent with barely muffled giggles and whispers, as Valarr fleshed out the plan for you. Your little conspiracy meeting only ended when your mothers each sent their maidservants to collect you for supper; even then, you parted ways reluctantly.

-

The two of you chose to execute your plan while the royal party was on a hunting trip. Your parents would be absent from the Keep, with only the servants and the maester or septa to keep watch over you. It would almost be too easy to sneak off to the Hand's Tower and draft an unofficial official document. 

After your parents left the Keep, you sneaked to the solar, where your father's velvet doublet hung over the backrest of a chaise longue. When you patted the breast pocket, where you had observed your father tucking his ring into before riding off to the kingswood, you felt the distinct shape of a ring under your fingers. You pocketed it, evading the eyes of the maidservants. Your heart was beating wildly, and your hands were visibly shaking, never having taken something without leave before like this. But as you left the quarters and headed to the Hand's Tower, the anxiety soon turned into giddiness, with your giggles barely contained as you skipped the rest of the way. 

This felt like an adventure, a mischief, something that the characters from your fairytale did. Like a princess outwitting a cruel witch to reverse her spells, or a young knight valiantly stealing the keys to the cage of his one true love from the pockets of the sleeping giant. If you did this, you and Valarr could live out your dreams, never separated from each other's closest friend. 

Valarr was waiting at the door to his father's office, grinning widely from excitement. The door was not locked by some wonder, and the two of you padded in to the chamber, giggling and whispering from the excitement. 

Valarr sat himself in his father's chair, sitting at the edge of the seat so he'd be able to reach over the desk, while you sprawled across the armchair, facing him. "So what now?" You asked. Valarr was the mastermind of this plan, after all. 

"Now, we write our promises", Valarr stated, pulling out a blank parchment from a drawer after searching for a moment. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and his hand hovered over the empty page. "Are you sure?" He raised his eyebrows, seeking your confirmation with a hint of insecurity in his expression. 

"Yes! It's going to be amazing when we're married, Val. We're going to go see the God's Eye, the Free Cities, and have a baker make us treats for all meals!" You giggled. Your priorities clearly stood with confectioneries tied to the royal sugar bakers.

"I am going to need to see how to write just like father does", Valarr mumbled as he pulled a parchment with a filled out contract — something about orchards and taxes — and a seal stamped upon it, "it needs to look official."

Valarr was now leaning over the parchment, occasionally looking over to his reference material, brows furrowed in concentration so the letters would be as orderly as possible. While he painstakingly wrote down the short terms of your contract, you were busy lying across the armchair and listing off all the things you wanted to do once you were grown up. Valarr, ever the polite, dutiful child, made sure to answer with "yes, sure" or a hum every once in a while. 

Once done, he pushed the parchment filled with his over to you, his eyes shining with pride. On top of the parchment, both of your names were listed with the proper titles. 

This contract made on the fifth day of the seventh moon of year 198 AC between the two persons parties above binds them in a pact of marriage. When Prince Valarr Targaryen comes of age, the two parties will be joined in marriage in a sacred ceremony. 

This agreement is valid in every corcom circumstance without conditions.

Signed,

Valarr Targaryen 

Your lips moved quietly as you sounded the words out, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. Next to his signature at the bottom of the page, the three-headed dragon of his house was drawn clumsily. 

"What is a pact?" You lifted your eyes, curious over the new word.

"I think it means an agreement or promise in official words, I found it on this sheet." Valarr waved the other parchment in his hand. 

You nodded, quietly marveling at Valarr's adeptness with his letters. The words sounded so grown-up; and the penmanship was slightly wonky, but to you, it looked as perfect as any. 

"Now what?" You asked again. 

"Now you sign your name, and we stamp it. Then, it's official." Valarr said solemnly. 

You took the quill from his hand, and dipped it into the ink. Septa Marya had shown you how to write your name, stating that it was the foremost essential thing a lady should be able to spell. You pressed the tip of the quill into the page, your effort evident in your furrowed brows and tongue sticking out of the side of your mouth. The signature was a little shaky, but it was written in your best cursive, and you reckoned Septa Marya would be proud. Then, you scribbled the sigil of your house next to it, just as Valarr had. 

"Now, we stamp", Valarr put the stick of black wax on the desk, a slight look of hesitation on his face. He was afraid of burning his fingers on it, but he tried his best not to show it as he heated it against the candlelight and dripped the wax onto the parchment. He then rummaged through the drawers and produced a big signet ring, which he then pressed into the wax. You watched, fascinated by the process. Elated, you took the wax from his hand and copied his actions, stamping your father's signet ring into the little pool of wax. 

"Is it done? Is it official now?" You bounced in your seat, clapping your hands from excitement while Valarr blew on the seals to dry them. 

"It is", he confirmed once he was done, a big grin splitting his face. You squealed, then pulled him down from his father's chair to hug him tightly. You were going to marry Valarr, and now you were going to be best friends with him until the end of days. 

-

The news of your departure from King's Landing came abruptly on a cloudy afternoon. Your parents had summoned you to the solar after your lessons, and sat you down on the armchair across from them with a serious look on their face. 

Your initial confusion faded and a feeling of despair and sadness descended upon you as they explained that you'd all have to return home. As they went on about the inheritance conflicts between the minor houses of your region and how they, as their liege, would have to be present to manage the quarrels, your mind wandered to everything you’d be leaving behind. What of your friends here? What of the delicious cakes and beautiful gardens? And most importantly, what of Valarr, your best friend? 

Their faces blurred as your eyes welled up with tears. Although you pressed your lips together to appear brave, a helpless sob wrenched itself from your mouth. 

Your mother noticed your distressed state, leaving her seat to kneel before your armchair and hug you tightly until you'd calmed. Your mother's hand drew slow circles on your back, whispering words of consolation. 

"When do we leave?" You asked as your mother loosed her hug, teardrops clinging to your lashes. 

"In four days, at daybreak." Your father had a look of sadness as well, knowing that his daughter had found true, close friends at court. His guilt at having to tear you away from them due to his and your mother's duties as lord and lady paramount apparent in his expression. He’d always been exceptionally lenient to his only daughter’s wishes, but now he was faced with a wish he could not possibly fulfill.

But the promise. What of the promise with Valarr? You were going to get married. Panic washed over you. 

"But what about Valarr? We were going to get married. I promised him," the truth spilled out of you with a new wave of tears. You let out a poorly contained sob, and your mother held you again in her arms as you buried your face in her shoulders. 

"I'm sorry, sweetling. We both are. But sadly, it cannot be helped." She patted your back, assuming the talk of marriage was simply a talk of a child's whimsy, a play-pretend between two children. Children could be quite imaginative when playing, after all. 

You sniffled, but nodded. No more fairytale readings with Valarr, no more playing lord of the crossing or monsters and maidens with the children of the court — and Valarr, of course —, and no more pony rides with your parents and Prince Baelor's household. Your little heart ached from the farewell, but you knew you could not stay when your parents were returning to your ancestral home.

When you took your leave to go to the godswood, your eyes were still red and swollen from the tears. Valarr spotted you from afar, and got up from his seat under the heart tree — our seat, you thought — to greet you, but his face fell when he saw your expression. He placed the fairytale tome on the ground, and walked up to you to meet you halfway. 

"What's the matter?" His eyes searched your face, seemingly trying to guess the source of your distress from your look alone. 

"We're leaving, Val. Mama and Papa just told me", you choked out, the lump in your throat from suppressing another sob growing almost painful. 

His eyes widened at first, then fell into a sad frown. "But you're coming back, right?" he asked hopefully. 

"I don't know", the corners of your mouth tilted down even further, "could be months, years 'till  we get back.”

His gaze fell to the ground, his lips pulled into a taught, downward frown mirroring yours. He started fidgeting with the ring on his index finger, your signet ring on his index finger. 

"It's going to be okay", he tried to be reassuring, though his voice shook slightly. "We took a vow, remember? When we're grown up, we'll get married, and we'll see each other again then. I will make sure of it."

"Promise?" Your voice trembled. 

"Promise." Valarr nodded. Your Valarr. Your dearest, closest friend in the world. You nodded back, and you walked together to the heart tree, settling into your usual seats, and Valarr opened the book to read out your favorite story anew for the umpteenth time, the one about the princess, the knight, and the fearsome dragon. 

-

208 AC

You sat on the terrace of your ancestral home, overlooking the gardens. The warm, early spring breeze threaded through your hair, the sun shining gently over your skin. The gardeners were working tirelessly, planting saplings and flower seeds for them to bloom once summer came. The watered wine on the side table had grown lukewarm under the sun’s rays, the open book in your lap laid forgotten as you watched the gardeners work their magic.

“My lady,” your maidservant called gently from behind you. “Your lord father wishes for you to join for afternoon tea in his solar now.”

You simply nodded, closing the book shut and placing it on the side table to stand up from your comfortable seat. Your mind was still firmly with the gardens, and what it would look like once the fruit tree saplings and the flowers bloomed. You hoped that there were peach trees among those planted today, peach tarts were truly one of the most delicious creations in the whole realm.

When you reached the double doors to your father’s solar, you waved off the guard’s question to whether he should announce your arrival, and swung the doors open yourself. Your parents were already seated at the tea table, lounging comfortably while leading a hushed discussion with smiles on their faces. You chose a chaise longue to sprawl on, and picked up a lime biscuit to nibble on.

“Father, mother, what might be the joyous matter you are discussing?” You raised an eyebrow, ignoring all the crumbs that were spilling all over your gown.

“We have royal invitations to the Red Keep, we leave in a sennight’s time,” your mother turned to you, a smile spreading on her face at the thought of visiting her dear friend, Lady Jena. “It will be marvelous to return there, do you remember when we spent a year at the Keep? You used to have quite a few friends there as a girl.”

You vaguely recalled the hazy memories, already a decade past now. Running through the godswood, learning to ride a pony, the games played with the other children, and the stories read under the heart tree.

“I remember,” you smiled, “I was devastated when we left. I think I had quite a nice time there.”

“You did,” your father smiled fondly. “And we think it would be nice for us to visit again. Your mother has missed Lady Jena’s company dearly, and you could reunite with your childhood companions. We would like for you to accompany us to the Red Keep.”

Your mind then jogged a deep-seated memory, Valarr. Your Valarr, who had been one of your dearest childhood companions. You remembered his plump cheeks, the curious white streak through his hair, and his mismatched eyes. For a few months after your departure, you had exchanged ravens - you had help from Septa Marya to write your letters - but, as children go, the contact had dwindled slowly. But he had always held a fond, nostalgic space in your heart. 

The idea of seeing your childhood friend was not entirely unpleasant, you decided. You pouted in consideration, then asked: “What is the occasion, anyway?”

“The King has declared a royal tournament in honor of Prince Valarr’s sixteenth nameday. There will be plenty of our bannermen participating, and some of your cousins. You will not lack in company whilst we reside there.” Your father explained.

“And it would be a marvelous opportunity to find you a match! You’re a woman grown, love, and perhaps a handsome Lord or knight would catch your fancy,” your mother added joyfully.

You weighed the pros and cons on your mental scale, your pout persisting as you looked down at your tea cup. The long carriage ride to the Red Keep sounded dreadfull, but the occasion did seem quite merry. Plus, if you were lucky enough, you could secure a match of your preference as to avoid marrying an old, wrinkly Lord as some of your lady acquaintances had. Finally, you gave a nod in agreement.

“Wonderful! Remember darling, we leave in a sennight. Make sure to instruct your maids to pack your prettiest gowns! Oh, what a beautiful feast it will be,” your mother clapped her hands in elation, then sighed with a dreamy look. Your mother did always regard these occasions with her typical sense of whimsy, and her excitement to revisit her old friend, Lady Jena, only fanned her joy.

You nodded and smiled, perhaps it would indeed be nice to visit the place from your childhood again.

-

As the guests to his nameday tournament continued to stream in through the Red Keep’s gate, his eyes searched through the processions, his ears perking up at every announcement of the stewards. Most guests were arriving many days in advance to the festivities, but the presence he was most looking forward to was nowhere to be seen yet, despite the letter of acceptance sent by a raven days ago. He fidgeted nervously with the little signet ring on his right little finger, the child's ring now being too small for any other digit. 

As he mechanically greeted the arriving Lords and Ladies, his mind kept wandering off to the neatly folded piece of parchment in his desk drawer. Only three more days, he reminded himself. Only three more days before his nameday, and there would be no more proposals of marriage pacts from houses he cared little for, no more dutifully reviewing the portraits sent from every corner of the realm, and he could finally declare his intentions before his family and the council.

As the sun started hanging low, his hopes for the day were starting to dwindle as well, before he spotted a procession in the distance, the unmistakable flag whipping in the wind with your sigil proudly stitched upon it. His heart leapt up in anticipation, but he commanded himself to remain steady at his father’s side.

It seemed to take an eternity for the carriage to finally pass through the gates and spill out its inhabitants. As he duly noted your father and your mother stepping out of the carriage, his eyes were tirelessly searching for your familiar face. When he finally spotted you, it felt as if the gods had slowed time before his eyes. 

It had been almost a decade since you last saw each other. He had been besotted with you then, a simple playground child’s fancy, but now, the woman grown walking towards him, carelessly exchanging jests with your parents, snatched his breath away from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Time had changed you, but at the same time, it hadn’t changed you at all. The childish features had left your face, leaving behind a delicate, lovely visage, seemingly carved by the Maiden herself. The curvature of your nose, dropping into a philtrum and smoothing into the arch of your lips had stayed exactly the same as he remembered, as had the playful glint in your eyes. 

As the rounds of greeting went by and you came to stand in front of him, he felt as if the gods had grasped him from the present and placed him back in time, standing dejected by Aelor in the godswood, as you tapped on his shoulder for the first time and invited him to join your group to play. He had fallen back then — as hard as a six-year-old with no real understanding of love could fall — but now he was helplessly spiraling again as you dipped into a curtsy before him. 

"Prince Valarr," you greeted, his name falling from your lips sounded like the sermon bells of the Great Sept themselves to his ears. 

"My lady," he collected himself and steadied his voice, "it is good to see you again after all this time." With all the grace himself, he carefully took your hand — a beautiful hand, he remarked — and kissed the back of it lightly. He could only hope that the slight nervous tremor would go unnoticed by you. When his gaze lifted to your face again, his eyes trailed down to your neck, where the blue topaz was glinting in the notch between your collarbones. The embers in his heart were fanned into a full-blown flame as he recognized the pendant, his pendant, a sign of his childish affection for you from a decade ago. You had kept it. What's more, you were wearing it even after all this time. 

"As it is to see you," you smiled at his recognition, "I still hold our memories of childhood quite dearly." To anyone else, it might have come across as simple courtesy, but to Valarr, the fact that you held fond memories of him felt like salvation granted by the Seven themselves. 

Valarr would have been content to stand there for the rest of eternity, holding your hand loosely in his grasp, looking at your face as the setting sun graced your skin with a golden glow. But as the round of greeting went by, he was forced to let you go, and greet the rest of your household in tow. 

Then, he heard his mother speak words to your mother that sounded as though angels were descending from the heavens and blowing horns: "Dearest, it has been way too long! Oh, how I have missed you so. We must meet for a family afternoon tea, just our two households." She held your mother's hands in her own two hands, both giddy at the long-awaited reunion. 

"Of course, Jena. Whenever you'd like. I'm sure my husband and my daughter would greatly enjoy it as well." Your mother beamed, and it was decided. Your two households would take afternoon tea in two days' time, in the privacy of the royal gardens. Valarr stole a glance at you, and his heart stuttered at your soft smile. 

-

On the day after your arrival, you sat in the gardens under the white marble pergola with the other young ladies of court, as would be expected of you. Everyone was chattering excitedly about the upcoming tourney, which was no grand wonder as the castle seemed to be buzzing in preparations for it. The first day was set to be on the prince's nameday, with all the champions' jousts taking place on that day. The next few days would consist of melées and lower ranked jousts. You sat next to an old acquaintance of yours, a daughter of a bannerman of your father, only a year your senior, making her seventeen years of age. 

"Oh, I hope Ser Devin will ask for my favor! How dreamy that would be," she looked into the distance with her eyes glazed over. Currently, she was swooning over your eldest cousin, who was part of a junior branch of your house and stood first in line to inherit his father's lands and castles. Personally, you did not understand the appeal, but politely smiled and nodded as to not spoil her fun.

"And are you looking forward to seeing any specific knights in the tilts, my lady?" A girl your age sitting on your other side inquired. If your memory serves you right, she was the daughter of a Stormlord. 

"Oh, well I suppose I will cheer for my cousins, of course," you said, as it was common courtesy, "but otherwise, I must say that I am not quite sure yet. Perhaps the knights of the Kingsguard, they are famed to be the most magnificent knights of the realm, after all."

Some ladies sitting in your vicinity nodded at that. A girl you did not recognize started with a faint flush on her cheeks: "I most certainly am excited to see Prince Valarr in the lists, he is the very picture of chivalry, not to mention how handsome he is!" Murmurs rose in agreement. 

Well, you could not deny her on that front. Valarr had definitely grown into his features; soft, pudgy cheeks had long been replaced by sharp, carved lines. His mismatched eyes he used to be insecure about only added to his handsome face. But frankly, you had a hard time imagining the sweet, timid boy from your childhood being so gallant in the lists. 

"The Prince comes of age upon the first day of the tourney, I wonder what sorts of arrangements will be made in regards to choosing a match for him. How dreamy it would be to marry such a handsome prince! He is even the heir's heir, as if his gallantry and handsome face were not enough." Another lady spoke out wistfully. 

"Well, if it is his affection you are seeking, I am afraid we'd all be out of luck on that front," lamented a slim, brunette girl, surely a few years your senior. "He's already been presented with hundreds of potential matches and it's said that he turned down every single one of them, one of them from my own family."

"So do you suppose he simply has no intention to marry?" Your lady acquaintance's eyes widened. 

"Aye, or I reckon he has a paramour, every man has desires, after all," snickered the brunette girl. 

You frowned, as that sounded highly unlikely for Valarr, but held your tongue. As if the sweet, gentlest boy you used to know would ever dishonor himself and a woman that way. 

"Whoever that woman is, I do greatly envy her," another girl you did not recognize sighed deeply, "What wouldn't I give to be in her place."

-

The afternoon tea on the day before the beginning of the tourney took place in the more private areas of the godswood, the little clearing in the woods had been transformed into a small gathering space, with chaise longues and cushions placed on the grounds beneath ornamented parasols. The only other presences aside from your two families were the servants, and the occasional small children running by, playing their games in the godswood just as you and Valarr had as children. 

Lady Jena chatted happily away with your mother, lounging comfortably on the cushions. Prince Baelor sat on a chaise longue, facing your father, discussing lordly matters with him. You were sprawled out across the feather cushions and half-heartedly following the conversations when you heard someone clear their throat from behind you. 

When you tilted your head back to face the person, the upside-down face of Prince Valarr greeted you. He was holding a hand out and lightly smiling, as far as you could tell from your position. 

"Would you take a walk with me?" He asked, an almost unnoticeable hint of pink gracing the tip of his ears. 

You have an affirmative hum, then got up to your feet to turn and face him. He was offering you his left arm to hold, which you gingerly accepted. 

"Are you looking forward to the tourney, my prince?" you asked as to make polite small talk. He had grown into a quite tall young man, and you had to crane your neck to see his face at a close distance. As you did, you admired the beautifully carved lines of his cheekbones and jaw, he really had turned into an exceptionally handsome prince.

Valarr frowned slightly at that. "There is no need to be so formal, we did use to be quite close, after all." 

"Well then Valarr," you corrected yourself, "are you excited for the tourney?"

Valarr's pink flush extended to his cheeks at the sound of his name falling from your lips. "Yes, among other things, I suppose."

"One's sixteenth nameday is always an occasion to look forward to," You agreed casually. "I am sure it will be a day to remember."

Valarr's steps slowed, which meant that you came to a halt with him in tow. "Speaking of sixteenth namedays," his cheeks were really quite pink now. You wondered if he was feeling warm under the sun's rays. "I believe yours has to come to pass three moons ago, if my memory serves me right." He smiled shyly. 

You were slightly taken by surprise. Had he really remembered that detail? 

"Yes, it has. Although, I denied my parents the pleasure of throwing a tourney or any form of extravagant celebration for the occasion." You mused. 

"I had something commissioned for you," he reached into the pocket of his doublet with his free hand, and produced a small, square box. "You did tell me back then that best friends should always gift things to each other for their namedays."

You pulled your hand away from Valarr's arm to examine the box. When you opened it, small, ornate earrings made of twisting golden vines holding a blue topaz in the middle came to sight. Your breath caught at the goldsmith's intricate handiwork. 

"Valarr, this is.." You searched for words. "Beautiful, thank you. It is really most thoughtful of you." It indeed was, as you noticed that it matched your necklace gifted from him all these years ago perfectly. 

"You must forgive me," you scrunched your eyebrows, a slight pang of guilt going over you, "I did not bring any personal gift for your nameday. My parent have brought a-“

Valarr's smile did not falter as he interrupted your panicked words. "No matter, I had something in mind as to what you could gift me for my nameday, anyways."

You looked at him in confusion. 

"I would like to ask for your favor to wear at the tilt tomorrow," his mismatched eyes searched your face. For what, though, you could not tell. "For old times' sake," he added hastily. 

It made sense, you supposed. It was not unusual for knights to wear their sister’s, cousin’s, or a close companion’s favor, so Valarr simply must have continued to value your childhood friendship more than you expected. Still, it confused you as to why he would not wear the favor of a lady he wished to court.

“Of course,” you agreed, to his relief. “It would be an honor to have you wear my favor.”

He offered you his arm again to keep on walking, which you gladly accepted. As you walked further around the godswood, the sounds of children playing grew closer.

“Hai-yah!” a boyish voice cried out. When you turned your head in the direction of its source, you spotted two young boys, one with a shock of silver hair, another one with a tuft of auburn hair. They were wielding tree branches as if they were swords, clashing them against another and running wildly through the woods.

As you watched them, a strange sense of nostalgia bloomed in your chest. You distinctly remembered these woods, the familiarity growing stronger with every step. The two of you used to run through these very woods a long time ago, laughing wildly and jumping over the twisting roots.

“Little brother! Cousin! I must ask you to compose yourselves before our distinguished guest,” Valarr called out to the two boys. They slowly halted their wild chase, and padded over to you.

“My lady, may I introduce you to my brother, this is -“ 

“Matarys,” you interrupted Valarr’s introduction when you recognized the soft, auburn curls. He had been only a newborn when you last saw him, but Lady Jena’s auburn locks and Prince Baelor’s stern jaw was evident in the young princeling. “My Prince, it is an honor to meet you. Last I had seen you, you were still only a babe.” You dipped in a shallow curtsy and introduced yourself.

Valarr smiled fondly at you recalling the short meeting. 

“The honor is all mine, my lady,” Matarys bowed, albeit a little clumsily. “Are you the lady friend my brother has been talking about?” He studied your face.

“Matarys,” Valarr hissed, the tips of his ears burning. Matarys let out a giggle, but held his tongue.

“And I’m Egg, my lady!” The silver-haired boy cried out, bouncing in excitement. “My name is actually Aegon, but everybody calls me Egg for short.” He grinned.

“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Prince Egg.” You dipped into a curtsy, your use of his nickname earning a giggle out of him. 

“One day, I will be Ser Aegon of the Kingsguard! You see, I’m already training hard to be a strong knight.” He puffed his chest out, which reminded you a little bit of a small bird puffing its feathers to make itself seem bigger. You smiled fondly at his antics.

“Speaking of,” Egg turned to Valarr. “In case your squire cannot come, could I squire for you, cousin? Daeron does not wish to participate, but I would like to be a squire. Ser Donnel has already said I would make a good one! I-“

“Sure, cousin,” Valarr mirrored your fond smile at the little boy. “Gareth is quite healthy as of now, but at the event that he may not be able to partake, I will send for you.”

Egg whooped in joy, thanked Valarr, and took his leave by making an exaggerated bow. He dragged Matarys with him, who politely bid his farewells to you while Egg pulled at his arms. 

“He has grown so fast,” you murmured as you resumed your walk, “sometimes, I cannot believe how time has passed by so quickly.”

Valarr hummed in agreement, and the two of you started back to the clearing.

-

On the bright and early morrow of his nameday, Valarr Targaryen used his privilege as a crown prince of the realm, and ordered his page to summon the Small Council for the first time in his short life. After he dressed himself in a formal doublet and trousers, he opened the small drawer of his writing table, and took the small, folded parchment out. He held it in his hands, feeling the weight of the hide and the wax seal. The passing of time and his frequent touches had frayed the edges, the surface smooth from the oils of his fingers. The creases and wrinkles showed that it had been folded and unfolded many times over the past decade, but the content etched in ink was still very much legible, clear as day. He tucked the parchment safely in his breast pocket before leaving his quarters.

He willed his drumming heart to calm on his walk over to the council chamber. The nervosity made him restless, his hands lightly shaking upon close inspection. As he waited for the council members to arrive, he mindlessly turned the signet ring with your house’s sigil on his right little finger, willing it to give him courage for what was to come. 

The members of the council arrived one by one, some with still bed-tussled hair. His father, Baelor, was perfectly composed as ever, and raised his eyebrows at him in curiosity as to what the summons may be about. The remaining council members sat down groggily, and mumbled a good morrow and merry nameday wishes to Valarr.

“My Lords, father, I thank you greatly for your presence, and your heartfelt nameday wishes. I wished to bring a matter before the Small Council this morrow, ahead of the tourney starting at midday.” He did his best to speak with the quiet authority of his father, and stilled the small tremor in his voice. “As you all know, I have come of age today, and wish to let my intentions for  marriage to be known. After all, it would be my utmost duty to the realm to marry and strengthen the line of succession.”

Many nodded, Baelor merely raised his eyebrows even further at his son’s sudden declaration of his interest for marriage. After all, he had sternly rejected every single courtships and proposals until now, and he had begun to suspect that he had no intention to marry at all.

“That is most wise, my prince,” croaked the old Grand Maester. “The council has a list at ready of all the eligible ladies of the realm, including-“

“Thank you, Grand Maester. However, that will not be necessary”, Valarr interrupted with a raised hand, “for I have been promised to a lady for nigh on a decade already.”

All eyes in the council chamber widened almost comically. Using the stunned silence, he took the parchment out of his breast pocket, unfolded it carefully, and placed it on the table. Baelor reached calmly for it, and read the words carved into it, remarking the childish handwriting. The Grand Maester rose from his seat, and leaned down from behind him to inspect the document as well.

“What is this?” his father asked, eyes lifting from the parchment.

“A marriage contract,” Valarr stated plainly. “It’s been signed by our own hands, and has the official seals of our houses on it.”

“I can see that,” Baelor furrowed his brows. “When-“

“My prince, if you would excuse me,” Grand Maester interrupted. “Marriage contracts usually involve witnesses, and I can’t seem to see any accounts of them.”

“I am a witness to this contract,” Valarr declared firmly. “I was there when it was written, signed, and sealed, obviously.”

“My apologies, your Grace, but a witness is usually-“ the old maester croaked.

“I am a prince of the realm, and a man grown as of today. Do you mean to doubt my abilities to stand witness to such significant matters?” His voice deepened, summoning an air of authority and sternness seldom witnessed in him.

The room fell into silence. Finally, the silence was broken when Baelor spoke. “According to the date, this was agreed upon when you both were but six years of age. Do you mean to stand by this contract nevertheless?” The look on his eyes was illegible. 

“I do not take vows for naught, father,” Valarr stood his ground. “I have given my word upon my honor, and will stand by it. I have loved her since I was a boy, and will not take any other to wife.” He hesitated for a sliver of a moment, then added, “if she will have me.”

Baelor put the parchment down on the table, and pinched his nosebridge. The Grand Maester immediately picked up the document, and inspected it so closely, Valarr was worried he may bury his nose in it.

“My Lord Hand, the seals and signatures are indeed.. genuine. And if the prince and the lady are in fact, both of age, then I fear that there are no grounds upon which this contract can be denied.” He sighed.

Valarr watched his father’s reaction. For what seemed like an eternity, Baelor’s eyes remained closed, with his hand pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he opened his eyes to face his son, and placed his hands on the table.

“And you are certain, my son?” He asked, an exasperated look on his face.

“I have never been more certain, father.” The young prince met his gaze steadfastly.

“Very well,” Baelor huffed out, “I will speak to her father about this after the jousts today. Considering the delicate nature of this.. pact,” he waved his hand at the parchment, “I will need to approach this matter in a careful fashion.”

Valarr felt a great weight lifted from his chest, and breathed out in relief. Through the window, the sky seemed to shine a brighter blue, the trees the most vibrant green, and the sun’s rays graced everything with a golden glow.

“Thank you, father.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Do not thank me yet, son. We will see how the day goes, and whether her family will agree to this arrangement. Until then, nobody is to speak of this matter to those outside of this council.” With that, Baelor rose from his seat, and dismissed the council with a curt nod of his head. As Valarr watched the rest of the council members scurry out, he felt he could’ve hugged his father, so great was his gratitude at this moment.

-

The gates of the Red Keep was buzzing with excitement as carriages and horses carried the spectators of the tourney out of the Keep and towards the tourney grounds right outside of the city gates. As you sneaked a peek out of the carriage window, you could see children running alongside, shouting in glee as they made their way to the tourney as well. 

You held a silk ribbon in your house colors in your hands, fidgeting mindlessly with it as you watched the narrow streets of King’s Landing pass by. The topaz earrings dangled from your ears, swinging along with every bump and pothole in the road. Your parents were chattering about the participating knights, and voicing their concern for your cousins’ safety. You were admittedly not too concerned about the matter, the jousting lances’ tips were made out of soft wood, made to shatter, and your overeager aunt and uncle had commissioned very intricate armors for your cousins to joust in.

When you rode past the city gates, your eyes were greeted by hundreds of colorful pavillions and banners snapping in the wind. The empty meadow outside of the city walls had been transformed into a marvelous tourney ground, bustling with life. 

The carriage stopped, letting your family step out onto the spring grass. Your parents craned their necks as they searched for your cousins’ pavillion, which was spotted rather quickly due to the tall flag with your heraldry stitched upon it. You threaded your arm through your mother’s, walking past the busy squires, merchants shouting out for the nobles to look at their wares, and steelworkers hammering away in their tents. 

Once arrived at your relatives’ pavillion, your parents eagerly entered, wishing to bid your cousins good fortune for their tilts. You were briefly distracted in front of the entrance by a small mouse scuttling about, watching its movements, when a warm touch on your shoulder startled you.

Your body whipped around in surprise, and yelped when you came face-to-face with Valarr standing before you in his armor. His broad frame, with the added breadth of the armor, easily towered over you.

“Hi,” he was already smiling, dimples forming on his chiseled cheeks. His mismatched eyes were glinting with something you could not quite place. When he spotted the jewelry dangling from his ears, his smile widened.  

“Valarr, hi,” you breathed out. 

“I wanted to come see you before the jousts started shortly,” he took a small step towards you. The heat eminating from his body was almost palpable, even through his thick steel armor. “For the favor.”

That made sense, you supposed. You did promise him a favor for the tilts today. 

You were still holding the silk ribbon in your hand, the floral stitchings along with your house sigils had been embroidered by your own hands. 

“May I-“ you gestured at his arm hanging by his side.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He slightly lifted his arm, allowing you sufficient space to wrap the ribbon around his upper arm, and secure it with a bow. 

“It’s beautiful, thank you.” He took your hand, and bent down to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I must get going, the champions must be present when the start of the tourney is announced. I hope I’ll see you in the stands.”

"You will," you smiled back at him, "happy nameday, Valarr. And good fortune in the lists today."

"I have all the fortune I need, but thank you," Valarr mused, holding up the arm with your ribbon tied around it. 

And with that, he took his leave. You blinked, processing whatever just occurred, then collected yourself and entered the pavilion to wish your cousins good fortune. 

-

Your mother's closeness with Lady Jena ensured that your family's seats in the stands were situated right next to the royal box; offering an excellent view over the jousting grounds. As you sat, the herald blew the horn, marking the start of the tourney, and announced the champions as they rode in.

The crowd burst into a roar as the knights in shining armor rode in on their mounts, you quickly spotted Valarr, the white streak in his hair a clear beacon even from a distance. Your ribbon on his arm was snapping in the wind, you could faintly hear the whispers of courtiers speculating whose favor the Young Prince could possibly be wearing. Riding on his pitch black destrier clad in elegant armor, he really did paint a handsome picture, his body moving fluidly with the horse, adeptly commanding it with a squeeze of his legs and a light tug on the rein. His black armor with his house’s sigil enameled on the breastplate glinted in the sun, and you briefly wondered whether that was done intentionally as to blind his opponents in the sunlight.

The champions raised their swords as the crowd cheered, then all bowed their heads to the royal box in a show of respect before riding off to the sidelines where their squires were waiting. The champions’ first opponents rode in as well, searching for their squires in the chaos of it all.

“Helmet!” You heard Valarr shout out to his squire, his voice a couple notes deeper than usual. He was always soft-spoken and gentle, and you had never heard him sound quite so commanding before. Soon, his white streak was hidden under the helm, and he was only recognizable via his armor.

As the knights lined up by the lists, the warhorses were impatiently huffing and stomping on the ground. You squinted to see who Valarr’s first opponent be, and identified a blue enameled fish upon the armor. A Tully, then.

The horn blew, and kicking up a great dust storm, the mounts galloped forward, the riders upon their backs lowering their lances. The first pass was over in a blink, the wooden tips of tourney lances bursting against shields and armors, and you saw that some riders had been unhorsed already.

Your eyes seeked Valarr out, and to your relief, him and his black destrier emerged from the dust cloud victorious; his opponent lay unhorsed on the ground. Valarr dismounted at the sight, and walked over with a hand on the sword’s hilt to his opponent, struggling to get back on his feet.

From a distance, you faintly heard him yell out, “I yield, my prince! I yield!” Only then, Valarr eased the grip on his sword, and held his hand out to help him get off the ground. The crowd burst out in another wave of cheers at the sight; praising the Young Prince for his chivalry. 

In the next tilts, Valarr faced five more challengers, one of them being his own cousin, Aerion Brightflame. He donned a spiky black armor, paired with a helmet showing a monstrous visage upon it. After two titillating matches, Valarr finally rode him down; after which Aerion rose against him, unsheathing his broadsword. The melée that followed was not short-lived, steel met steel in a flash of sparks and wooden shields splintered under heavy blows, until Valarr unarmed him and held him at swordpoint. 

The crowd, highborns and smallfolk alike, were roaring in his support; a glinting hope in their eyes that Baelor Breakspear’s line proved to be just as skilled in arms as he was. An ember of pride was fanned every time he raised his lance arm after unhorsing an opponent, your favor waving in the wind. Maybe it really had brought him good fortune.

Your cousins fared adequately enough, Devin, the eldest, unhorsing two opponents before being unseated himself in the third tilt. The others had not been so lucky, and fell from their horses in their first rides. But they all seemed unharmed, aside from minor scraps and bruises.

The tilts, which started at midday, continued until the sun was nearing the western horizon and a pale moon shone on the opposite side of the sky. There was only one tilt left for the day; Valarr was to ride against Ser Roland of the Kingsguard. After a brief break, Valarr returned to the lists.  He swung onto his black destrier, riding to the sidelines as his squire followed with the helmet and shield in his arms. 

As Valarr held his helm in his hands, his head turned towards the stands. At first, you thought he might be looking at his family in the royal box, but his gaze came to rest upon you. His hair was matted from sweat, dark brown strands plastered across his forehead from the heat and exhaustion, but his face held a determined look. You held eye contact and gave your dear childhood companion an encouraging nod before he slid his helmet on. You could not be sure due to the distance, but it almost seemed as if the corner of his mouth lifted in a soft smile before it was obscured by the enameled helmet.

His squire promptly delivered him the shield and put the lance in his hand, and scurried off to the weapons’ racks as to be ready when Valarr would need his next lance.

Ser Roland looked formidable as well on the opposite side of the lists, he was sitting upon his chestnut warhorse, clad in all-white armor and cloak of the Kingsguard. He was older, and more experienced, which pushed the odds in his favor. However, Valarr rode as if he had been blessed by the Warrior himself that day, the memory of the success in the council chamber that morning filled his tired muscles with strength, and he felt almost battle-high.

Not a moment too soon, the herald announced the start of the final tilt. “May the Crone guide your lance, and the Warrior grant you strength!” He cried out, then blew the start horn. 

The sound of the hooves striking the ground thundered across the meadow, the cheering of the crowds so loud your ears were threatening to ring. In a flash, both lances broke cleanly off the shields, and both riders remained seated. You held your breath as Valarr seemed to sway slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. As he urged his destrier around, you were not sure if the glint of his mismatched eyes gazing in your direction was only imagined or not.

The second pass was more brutal; the riders met in a clash of bursting wood again, but Ser Roland had met Valarr’s pauldron with the tip of his lance, sending the Young Prince reeling from his seat. In contrast, Valarr’s lance had harmlessly broken against the Kingsguard’s shield.

A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Valarr’s body lurched backwards, with only one foot remaining in the stirrups. However, to the delight of the spectators, his hooked his foot firmly around it, and pulled his body upright again, sitting tall upon his mount. 

As the horn urging the third pass blew, Valarr kicked his destrier’s sides firmly with his greaves, riding with his torso lowered against his mount, and his shield raised in defense. In the final moment before impact, Valarr’s lance drifted laterally by a minuscule bit, its tip bursting against Ser Roland’s breastplate in a shower of splinters. Ser Roland was cleanly unhorsed, landing with an uff on his back.

The crowd erupted in a roar, and you felt yourself grin at his victory. He had won his nameday tilt, your sweet, gentle Valarr had truly grown into a most gallant knight.

While the cheers died down and Ser Roland was helped up by his squires, the herald climbed down from the stands and marched towards Valarr holding the wildflower crown. The victorious prince lifted the helmet off, revealing a proud smile upon his face. He nodded to the royal box in a show of respect, to which Baelor and Jena rose their cups in response.

Valarr took the wildflower wreath from the herald, and the grounds fell into silence in anticipation to which lady would be crowned queen of love and beauty by the Young Prince. You looked on in anticipation as well, but your breath caught in your throat when he urged his destrier towards your family.

He softly called out your name, and you felt all eyes turn towards you. “Would you grant me the honor of crowning you as the queen of love and beauty?” You almost choked on your own spit from surprise. “For old times’ sake.” He added in a hushed voice, his eyes glinting under the blueish lights of dusk. Despite the apparent exhaustion, he looked beautiful. In the background, you vaguely perceived an excited squeal from your mother.

You barely registered yourself nodding before you made your way down to the railing and lowered your head to accept the wildflower crown. Valarr gently lowered it on the crown of your head, and brushed a hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. In your daze, the deafening applause and cheers from the crowds sounded almost muffled in your ears. You accepted the crown in a haze of confusion and perplexity. To the onlookers, his eyes held the look of a man utterly enamored when gazing upon you, clear as day. Not that you noticed.

-

The festivities in the Great Hall were as grand as any, if not grander. King Daeron the Good had not been frugal at all when planning his grandson’s sixteenth nameday feast, quite the contrary in fact. There were seven absolutely extravagant courses gracing the tables, not even counting the appetizers and desserts. You dug in as your hunger had grown quite insistent during the day, t’was hard work sitting unmoving in the stands under the sun. Jests aside, the food was marvelous, every course truly a testament to the castle’s cooks.

When the last course had been cleared away by the servants, the guests started to take to the dancefloor. Strangely enough, Prince Baelor had vanished from the dais around the same time. Probably some matters of the realm, you brushed it off as the Hand of the King attending to some royal affairs. You adjusted the flower wreath on your head as it was starting to slide down to your brows, and watched the dancing pairs glide across the floor. As you reached for your goblet of wine, a warm hand reached from behind and tapped on your shoulder.

“Valarr,” your face broke into a smile when you saw the victor of the day’s jousts. “My congratulations for winning in the lists today, you rode splendidly.” 

“Well fought, my prince,” your father, seated next to you, joined in with his own praises.

“Thank you, truly.” Valarr tilted his head in gratitude. “Would the queen of love and beauty grace me with her first dance?”

You looked down at his hand held out in invitation, before nodding and graciously taking his hand in acceptance. As you walked to the middle of the floor, heads turned as they spotted the crown prince and the flower wreath perched atop your head. You both took up the starting pose, with your hand placed on his shoulder, and his arms wrapping around your waist to rest on the small of your back. His hand gently held your free hand, and you drifted into familiar steps of the dance.

“Do not be alarmed,” Valarr whispered, “but I think my father has just summoned yours to his solar. I saw his page speak to your father, and leave the room with him.”

“Oh?” Your head tilted in bemusement. “Whatever might that be about?”

Valarr’s cheeks reddened at the question, and your confusion deepened. Perhaps he did not feel well discussing his father’s more confidential proceedings, so you decided to leave the topic for the sake of the poor boy. Your two families had been close for a decade now, surely they had enough matters to discuss. If it was important enough, your father would disclose it to you later anyways. 

“Your final tilt against Ser Roland was magnificent, by the way,” you teased, “I had feared you might lose your seat during that second pass, but the recovery was quite impressive.”

The poor prince’s cheeks grew impossibly redder. Even as a child, he’d never been adept at handling praise. He could only mumble out a thank you. The contrast between the valiant knight at the lists and the blushing prince in front of you was almost adorable; perhaps Valarr had not yet entirely outgrown the sweet, timid boy he used to be.

As the song came to an end, a Lord you did not recognize stood in front of you, requesting your next dance. Valarr, ever the kind, dutiful prince, took his leave to return to the dais. 

The status as the queen of love and beauty of the day came with a steady stream of dancing partners, you forgot their names almost as soon as they introduced yourself; you were never really adept with names and faces anyways. When your feet began to ache and you excused yourself to take your seat by your mother’s side, a page intercepted you just as you were about to pull out your chair. Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her husband had been occupied in a meeting with the Hand for a good while, and apparently it now required your presence, as well. 

“M’ady, I apologize for the interruption. The Hand and your father require your presence in the Hand’s solar.” The young boy, twelve years of age at most, stuttered out.

“Of course, would you be so kind as to lead the way?” You smiled as you lowered the crown from your head and placed it on the table, assuming you’d be returning in a short while.

-

The dim, torchlit corridors leading to the Hand’s solar were unfamiliar at first sight, but as you ventured further with the young page, the memories started swarming back. The afternoon teas with the two families, Valarr’s sixth nameday morrow, and sitting idly while your father discussed lordly matters with Prince Baelor surfaced with every step you took.

Soon enough, you stood in front of the familiar double doors leading to Baelor’s solar. This time, you patiently waited as the page announced you before stepping in. You were greeted by the sight of Baelor sitting at his desk, your father sat in the armchair facing him. The candlelights bestowed a rather serious atmosphere in the room. 

“Father, my Lord Hand,” you took a shallow curtsy, “I have heard you sent for me.” You searched their faces for hints as to what this may be about, but failed miserably.

“My lady, thank you for joining us,” Baelor tilted his head. “We have quite important matters to discuss with you, specifically-“ he briefly searched for words, “regarding your marriage pact.”

Your head went blank. “..What?” What is it with a marriage pact now?

Letting the evidence speak for itself, Baelor slid a piece of parchment in your direction. You approached his desk, and lifted the document to your eyes. The parchment was obviously quite old, but not old enough to crumble in your hands. The soft, smooth surface indicated frequent handling, as did the numerous creases. The writing upon it was carved into the hide in a child’s handwriting, and it contained a very briefly written marriage contract between you and Valarr. When your eyes reached the end of the parchment, you identified your own handwriting as a child, crooked and wonky in a way the late Septa Marya used to scold you about. Your thumb traced the wax seals, worn down by time but still obviously genuine.

Oh. You now feintly recalled the day where you produced this document. It came as a surprise that Valarr had kept this all this time, but then all Valarr did the last few days was surprise you. 

“Valarr presented this contract to the Small Council this morrow, he says he will not take anyone else to wife.” Baelor calmly explained, watching your face closely. “The Grand Maester has inspected the document himself, and has declared it genuine. I initially wished to discuss this matter with your father alone, but he has insisted on hearing your opinions on this. Believe me my lady, neither of us will see you married unwillingly on the basis of a pact you signed at the age of six.”

You briefly unpacked your mental balance scale, weighing your options. The benefits included the fact that 1. he was your dearest childhood companion, 2. he had grown into a quite handsome man, and 3. he was considerate, gentle and kind. The only drawback was.. Well, you rummaged through your head, but failed to come up with any. 

“Will you have him?” Baelor asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern at your silence.

“Yes, I will,” the words left your lips without a hint of hesitance as you placed the parchment back on the table.

“Are you sure, daughter?” It was your father’s turn to question you.

“Yes, why not?” You shrugged. “He’s grand.”

“Grand?” The Hand’s eyebrows rose in amusement at you describing his son as grand. You and Valarr’s antics today were certainly providing Baelor’s facial muscles with quite an exercise.

You nodded, as if your statement was to explain anything and you did not understand what the confusion was about. He truly was grand, after all. There wasn’t much else you could wish for in a future husband. The crown prince and your father were staring at you with a look one could only describe as bewilderment.

“Just to confirm, you will accept the terms of this.. contract, and take my son as your lawful husband?” Baelor asked, a slight look of confusion upon his eyes, wondering whether you had heard the question correctly.

“I will, my prince.” You nodded again, your casual tone steadfast.

“Then it is settled,” The Hand looked to your father, who nodded in agreement.

As you and your father took your leaves from the solar and shut the doors behind you, you came face to face with Valarr, who had obviously been pacing. His gaze shifted between you and your father, a look of hopefulness evident in his eyes.

“Val,” you softly called his name. “Guess we truly are getting married now.” You shrugged lightly, and giggled. 

A sigh of relief punched itself out of him, and he looked to your father.

“You have my blessings, my prince. You can consider yourselves.. officially betrothed now.” He offered a slight bow.

“That is most wonderful news,” his face split into a smile as he stepped towards you to clasp your hand within his own two hands. “I swear, I will do the utmost to make you happy, anything you want. Simply tell me, and I will see it done. Even if it is not in my power, I promise I will make it so.”

You blushed, then looked down, suppressing a wide grin. Only then, your eyes trailed down to his right hand, where the small, children’s sized signet ring rested upon his little finger. Your breath caught in surprise as the torchlight glanced off the polished band.

“You kept it,” You murmured.

Valarr looked confused for a moment, but lowered his gaze to follow yours. When he realized what you’d meant, his joyous smile melted into a more calm, fond one.

“Of course I have, it’s from you. And I promised to always cherish it.” 

Oh. You felt as though somebody had smacked you on the back of the head. Every hint, every glance, every word clicked into place in that moment. Valarr had been in love with you all along, since you were all but children. He’d taken care to remember all your childish promises to each other, even keeping the scrap of parchment tucked away safely for nigh on a decade. 

“Have you really? After all this time?” Your voice was hushed, your heart picking up its pace in your ribcage. Your lips parted slightly in awe.

“Yes, love. It’s always been you.” Finally, he confessed, his beautiful, mismatched eyes gazing adoringly at you. 

As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

- Epilogue -

When you returned to your family’s assigned quarters, your motherr was already waiting at the tea table, eagerly waiting to hear what all the fuss had been about. When your father retold the events of the evening, she was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement at your betrothal.

“In retrospect, I must ask you, daughter,” your father turned his head towards you, “have you been aware of the existence of that document all this time?”

“Frankly, I had forgotten,” you shrugged. “But now that I saw it, I do remember sneaking into Prince Baelor’s office that day.” Your parents tried to look scandalized, but the air of amusement was evident.

“Darling, she did try to tell us that one time, remember? When we told her we were leaving King’s Landing.” Your mother’s eyes lit up, recalling your confession which they both had assumed was simply a child’s fancy. “She said that she was going to marry him, and that they promised.”

“Well, nobody expects their six-year-old daughter to go and sign a marriage contract,” your father snorted. Honestly, that was a fair assessment.

“The most important thing is, it did turn out quite well,” you held up your palms in defence, a smirk on your face. “I am quite satisfied with the match, if I dare say so myself.”

Your parents laughed out at your understatement laced with a jest. Indeed, it had turned out quite alright. 

Taglist: @good-night-starlight @enouche @literallyafallenangel @rakiroad

Phil hadn’t told her anything about the match. She has no idea what the outcome will be, but just watching the first few minutes, she knew it was going to be brutal. She watches as Phil gets his hits in, the match clearly in the shine stage. However, when the cutoff comes, she flinches as Gunther’s chop echoes off Phil’s chest.

They’re both professionals. They wouldn’t sandbag each other on such an important match. But that still doesn’t mean Y/N doesn’t get squeamish seeing him get hit so roughly. She’s taken her fair share of chops, but none of Gunther’s caliber.

“C’mon baby…” she mutters under her breath, biting her nails.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this nervous,” Pam says teasingly as she walks up to Y/N, wrapping her arm around her shoulder. “Not even for your own match.”

“I just don’t want him to get hurt,” Y/N admits, her eyes never leaving the screen, but she does lean into her friend.

“Well, I can’t promise he won’t,” Pam says softly. “But I know his main goal is to get back here to you in one piece,” she rubs her shoulder reassuringly. “You scare him more than anything, and you were very adamant about him making it back to you.”

Y/N laughs softly, looking down briefly before glancing back up to the screen. Phil lands a good strike making her grin. It was one she remembered running through with him. “I trust him. I know he’ll be okay. But…” she exhales loudly, “Doesn’t stop me from worrying about him.”

“You’ve always been a worry wart,” Pam chuckles. “You should try relaxing every now and again. It’s good for ya.”

“I’ll relax once this match is over,” Y/N huffs out.

Pam pats Y/N’s back, “Well, don’t give yourself wrinkles. At least not before tomorrow.” She pats her back before taking off towards production, one of the writers calling out to her.

Y/N zeroes in back on the match. She watches her boyfriend and Gunter climb on top of the announce table. A gasp leaves her lips when Punk takes Gunther down, the man hitting the table face first before falling down behind it. Phil falls to the floor, crawling across slowly. She knew he was selling, but part of her knew some of him was hurt.

That’s when Gunther emerges from behind the table, blood cascading down his face. Y/N covers her mouth, feeling terrible for the Ring General, but mostly just grateful it wasn’t Phil in that position. If she saw him emerge with that amount of blood on his face, she would’ve lost her mind.

Punk slides over to the corner of the ring, wincing as he catches his breath. Y/N can feel her heart rate increasing, waiting and hoping this match is nearing the end. She despises the fact he wouldn’t tell her the way this match was going to go. What was going to happen.

Punk scrambles to pull himself up the side of the ring. Gunther manages to stumble to his feet, rushing into the ring before Punk can. Eventually, Phil gets to his feet, pulling himself inside. The sweat matted his hair to his forehead. He winced once more before cornering Gunther at the turnbuckle. He throws a few strikes before hitting him with a running knee. Y/N holds her breath as Punk climbs up to the top rope before delivering a flying elbow to the Ring General.

He’s tired, she can see it. But he uses the crowd to his advantage, taking their cheers and morphing it into energy. He makes his “go to sleep” hand gesture before turning his attention back to Gunther. He tries to pick him up, but the larger man manages to slip off Punk's back before locking in the sleeper hold.

“Damn it…” Y/N mumbles, foot bouncing rapidly. They’re nearing the end, she can feel it. But Punk has never been the type to tap. He wouldn’t lose this match to the sleeper. It’s not in his blood. Creative would never book him that way.

Punk claws at Gunther’s hands, the blood on the Austrian man’s face blocking whatever sight he had. She exhales loudly as Punk makes it to his feet, fighting out of the hold. Her jaw drops slightly as Phil gets Gunther on his shoulders before delivering a perfect GTS.

She shakes her head when Gunther remains on his feet. He staggers, clearly not fully present in the moment. Punk’s chest heaves with each difficult breath before he finds the strength to hoist him up and hits him with a second GTS.

Gunther falls to the floor, allowing Punk to dive in for the cover.

1…

2…

3…

CM Punk is the new world champion.

Y/N feels her heart practically leapfrog out of her chest. She smacks a hand over her mouth, eyes welling with tears. “He did it…” she mumbles. There’s a short pause before she laughs joyously. “Oh my fucking gosh. He did it!”

She feels her feet carrying her to gorilla before she can stop herself. She can see in passing monitors the emotions on her boyfriend's face. The way tears fill his eyes as he clutches the title he so desperately wanted to win. He hugs it towards himself like if he were to hold it any looser, it might disappear from his grasp. He deserves this. Out of everyone she knows, he deserves this win. Over ten years he’s waited for this moment, and now he finally got it.

She’s about to run out there to celebrate with him in the ring, kayfabe be damned, when the familiar scream of Seth Rollins music hits. Y/N pauses, her blood running cold as she sees the back of Seth’s man bun disappear from behind the curtain.

There’s no way. He’s hurt. That’s what he and Becky have been telling people. That’s why he hasn’t shown up to work. He wouldn’t be cashing in. He couldn’t be. Not when Punk just won. Not when he just fought like hell to get a title he deserved. After losing to John Cena at Night of Champions, this had to be his moment. They wouldn’t take it away from him.

Y/N slows, her footsteps bringing her to the edge of the curtain as she peeks out from behind. She can hear people whispering for her to move away, but she didn’t care. She had to see for herself. Seth strolls out with his crutches, Paul holding his money in the bank briefcase. Punk looks gutted for a moment before covering it back up with his tough facade. For a moment, Y/N thinks it’ll be okay as Seth turns back around to head backstage. It’s just a warning. That he’s still lingering in the background.

…Until he drops the crutches.

“No,” She shakes her head in disbelief.

Before she can even blink, Rollins is darting down the runway, knee completely fine. Punk grips his title as tightly as he can, crouching down to prepare himself for the fight of his life. He’s beaten down, broken, emotional from finally winning the world heavyweight championship. Of course Seth would cash in now.

Y/N feels her blood boil, grinding her teeth together. She can’t interfere. She can’t do anything. Not now. Maybe if she had known before, she could’ve pulled some strings with creative. That’s why Phil hadn’t told her. That’s why he held the title as close to him as he could because he wouldn’t have it for long.

Seth slides into the ring, Punk dropping the title to punch him at full capacity. He tries to lift Rollins up for a GTS, but Seth elbows him in the perfect spot, causing Punk to drop him. Seth manages to get Punk down on the mat, landing haymakers on the back of his head. He grasps his briefcase before slamming it onto the Voice of the Voiceless’ back. One after the other. Y/N watches in anger as Rollins spins around and hands his briefcase to Jessica, officially cashing in.

Seth Rollins is cashing in his money in the bank contract.

With Punk practically defensless, Seth lines up in the opposite corner, gaining momentum before stomping his head into the ground. Phil falls face down, selling the hell out of the move. Seth drops to his knees, rolling Punk over before hooking his arm under Phil’s leg and pinning him.

1… 2… 3.

And just like that, Punk is no longer the champion.

Watching Seth celebrate killed Y/N. She wants nothing more than to run out there and kick his ass for what he just stole from Phil. She understands it’s part of the business. But after all this build up, all of the “almost times” creative gave Punk, they took it away again.

It’s like every time Phil gets close, it’s taken away from him. And ninety percent of his failures have been caused because of Seth. She knows that Seth has say in his storylines. He has pull with creative. He didn’t have to do this. He chose to.

Seth sits down right in front of Punk’s limp body, title slung over his shoulder while Bronson and Bron continue to rub it in. Eventually, the camera cuts and the show ends. The fans in the audience are all reeling. Seth and his faction are the first to stand up, sauntering backstage with all the power they could want.

Y/N doesn’t move away from the curtain, her feet planted firm as everyone goes about their business. She continues staring at her boyfriend who is just now struggling to his feet, leaving the ring completely deflated.

Her jaw clenches as Seth and the rest of his posse push past the curtain. Seth stops abruptly, coming face to face with the ball of fury standing in front of him. She’s not showing it, her outward appearance remaining composed, but being the manipulative man he is, he can see exactly how she’s feeling.

He tilts his head, smirk ever so present. He pats the title on his shoulder, “Do me a favor Y/N/N… thank your man for keepin’ it warm for me while I made my way out. Really appreciate it.”

He lets out that obnoxious cackle, nodding for his henchmen to follow after him. She inhales sharply, fighting every urge to turn around and get herself suspended. The only thing that stops her is when her boyfriend stumbles through the curtain, practically almost falling into her arms. She wastes no time in pulling him close to her. If this hurt her as much as it did, it must’ve felt like torture for him.

Phil stumbles into her arms, his weight heavier than she expected. His chest is heaving, the sweat on his skin still warm from the lights and the fight. Up close, she can hear how ragged his breathing is, not from the match alone, but from everything that just happened. His hands clutch at her sides like he’s trying to ground himself.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just wraps her arms around him tighter, resting her chin on his damp hair as people walk past, crew members, talent, agents, all of them casting sympathetic glances his way but saying nothing. This wasn’t their moment to intrude on.

“Let’s get you out of here,” she murmurs finally, her voice low, meant only for him. She shifts, hooking her arm around his back, guiding him away from gorilla and deeper into the maze of hallways. He doesn’t resist. His head is down, shoulders rounded, the championship dream slipping further behind with every step they take.

She keeps walking until she finds an empty corner near one of the unused dressing rooms. It’s quiet, just the faint hum of a vending machine and the muffled chaos of backstage somewhere far away.

“Phil…” she says gently, stepping in front of him. She takes his face in her hands, thumbs brushing the damp strands of hair off his forehead. His eyes meet hers, and it’s like looking at a man who just got the air punched out of his soul.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, not accusing, but pained.

His jaw works, but no words come out at first. She can see him swallow hard, his throat bobbing. Finally, he exhales, voice cracking on the edges.

“Because I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he admits, eyes darting away like he can’t bear to see her reaction. “I came back to win. To prove I could still do it. And tonight… I had it. I finally had it.” His voice breaks on that word. “And the second I did, they told me I wouldn’t keep it for longer than five damn minutes.”

Her stomach twists. She’s angry—white-hot angry—but her first instinct is to wrap him up in her arms again. So she does, pulling him against her chest, her hand stroking the back of his neck. “I’m not disappointed in you,” she says firmly, pressing her cheek to his temple. “I’m pissed for you. You’ve fought like hell to get here. You’ve eaten more crap from this business than anyone else would’ve survived, and you’re still standing. If anyone deserves that title, it’s you. Not Seth. You.”

His arms tighten around her, like her words are the only thing holding him up. He breathes out slowly. “I know I’m closer to the end than the beginning. And the time to win titles… it’s running out.” His voice is quiet now, almost a confession. “Every time I get close, it gets ripped away. Makes me wonder if it’s ever gonna happen.”

She pulls back just enough to cup his face again, forcing him to look at her. “It will. And I’ll be here every damn time it does or doesn’t. But don’t you ever think you’ve got nothing left. Not to me.”

He tries to smile, but it’s faint, like the muscle memory is there but the joy isn’t. She leans in, pressing her lips softly to his. It’s not a heated kiss—it’s steady, grounding, a promise she can’t quite put into words yet.

When she pulls back, her mind is already working, already sparking with an idea. Something he doesn’t need to know yet. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers, brushing her thumb over his cheek.

Confusion flickers across his face instantly, and his hands tighten at her waist. “No. Please… don’t go. Not right now.”

She smiles, leaning in so her forehead rests against his. “Five seconds. That’s all. And when I come back, I’ll still be yours.”

It’s the way she says it, soft, certain, that makes him reluctantly let his hands fall away. She kisses him again, slower this time, before stepping back. He watches her go with tired, wary eyes, still not sure what she’s about to do.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N’s boots hit the concrete with purpose, every step echoing in the narrow hallway. The buzz of backstage chatter, the crackle of radios, the distant thud of someone’s theme music, it all blurs into white noise behind the pounding in her ears. She’s not walking so much as cutting through the space, weaving between production crew and talent like a blade through fabric. Her jaw is locked, and her hands are fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms.

Phil’s face, defeated, exhausted, trying to hide how much it gutted him, is burned into her mind. It fuels every ounce of her anger, stoking it into something sharp and focused. She’s not just mad for him. She’s furious at the system that keeps doing this to him.

She spots Paul Levesque a few feet ahead, leaning against a road case while talking with a stagehand. Without hesitation, she calls out, her voice cutting through the noise.

“Paul.”

The way she says his name, low, firm, edged, makes him turn instantly. His brows lift slightly when he sees her expression. The stagehand mutters something about getting back to work and quickly disappears, sensing the shift in the air.

Paul holds his hands up slightly, like he’s already trying to head off whatever is about to happen. “Alright, kid, slow down—”

“No.” Her voice cuts clean through his. “You don’t get to ‘slow down’ me right now. You owe me.”

That gets his eyebrows up. “I owe you?”

“Yes.” She closes the distance between them in a few quick strides, staring him down like she’s daring him to deny it. “Royal Rumble—you remember? I was supposed to go over. But you wanted Charlotte’s big return to be the thing everyone talked about. So I waited. Then Elimination Chamber—you kept me out of the win because the Bianca, Rhea, and Iyo story needed another month of oxygen. And I waited again.” Her voice sharpens with each word. “I’ve been patient, Paul. That patience is gone.”

Paul exhales slowly, running a hand over his face. He does love her. Hell, he’s the one who’s always said she’s money for the business, and yeah, he owes her. He knows it. But her eyes right now? They’re dangerous.

He inhales sharply, long and slow, rubbing his beard like he’s stalling for time. “You’ve had good spots, Y/N—”

She cuts him off with a look that could slice steel. “Don’t. Don’t give me the company line right now. You know damn well you’ve been holding me in place because it suited the board, the booking, the storylines. Fine. I played the game. But you promised me a favor. And I’m cashing it in.”

He shifts, arms folding across his chest. “Alright… what is it you want?”

“I want to interfere in Becky and Lyra’s match tomorrow.” She says it like she’s dropping a grenade at his feet.

His brows furrow. “That’s after your triple threat with Naomi and Rhea.”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna go out there twice? Right after wrestling?”

“Yes.” Her tone is so even it’s unsettling.

He shakes his head slowly. “Becky’s supposed to win, Y/N.”

“I don’t care.” The words are quiet, but they hit harder than if she’d shouted them. “You’ll figure out how to fix it. Bayley can challenge Lyra after for the title. Hell, I’ll challenge her if I have to. But I’m not asking you, Paul. This is the favor you owe me. And I’m calling it in now.”

Something in her expression makes him pause—it’s not reckless rage, it’s cold, calculated certainty. He studies her like he’s trying to figure out what the hell could be worth her burning her one piece of leverage.

“You sure you want to use it on this?” His voice is quieter now.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

He sighs, heavy, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re gonna make my life hell, you know that?”

“Probably.” Her lips twitch, but there’s no humor in it. “But you’ll thank me later.”

He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, before finally meeting her eyes again. “Alright. We’ll figure out the right angle.”

“Good.” She doesn’t wait for him to say anything else before turning on her heel, her mind already assembling the moment she’ll make it happen. She doesn’t need him to know why she’s doing this. He wouldn’t understand anyway.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N had barely said a word the entire walk back to the hotel. She didn’t need to. Her hand stayed looped through Phil’s arm, her thumb brushing absently over the inside of his wrist in a rhythm that was more about grounding him than guiding him. When they reached their room, she quietly pulled out the keycard, pushed the door open, and gave him a soft nudge inside.

Phil moved on autopilot, shoulders still hunched, his jaw tight. She could feel the tension radiating off him, the way he was still replaying the loss in his head.

“Sit,” she murmured, pressing her palm to the center of his chest and guiding him to the edge of the bed.

He didn’t argue, but he didn’t look at her either. Y/N crouched down in front of him, tugging at the laces of his boots. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do,” she interrupted quietly, glancing up at him. Her voice was gentle, but there was no room for debate. “Let me.”

One boot, then the other, sliding them off with care. She reached for the jacket next, easing it from his shoulders, and then peeled away the black tank top he’d thrown on over his bare torso. She folded each item and set them aside neatly, not because it mattered, but because she knew the orderliness might help him breathe easier.

He huffed out a small, humorless laugh. “You treating me like I’m a hundred years old?”

“No,” she said simply, brushing her fingers through his hair. “I’m treating you like I love you.”

That shut him up for a second.

She took his hand and pulled him toward the bathroom, twisting the knobs until the water came out hot enough to fog the mirror. Phil leaned on the doorframe, watching her. “You seriously don’t have to do this, sweetheart.”

Her nails grazed his scalp as she scratched the back of his head. His breath hitched — not in a way he could control. He felt that familiar sting behind his eyes again, and it pissed him off because it meant he was gonna cry.

“You’re right,” she said softly, “I don’t have to. I want to.”

Phil just let her undress him the rest of the way, the steam curling around them, and when she stepped in behind him, it wasn’t about anything physical, it was about keeping him upright when the weight of the night was threatening to crush him.

She lathered shampoo into his hair, her nails scratching lightly, and for the first time since the match ended, his shoulders dropped. “God, that feels good,” he mumbled, closing his eyes.

“I know,” she said with a faint smile. “You always tense up after a loss. Like you think you’re gonna carry it forever if you don’t keep it in your muscles.”

“I am gonna carry it forever,” he muttered, voice low.

She didn’t argue. Instead, she rinsed the suds from his hair and reached for the body wash, her touch steady and deliberate as she worked over his chest, arms, and back. “You don’t have to win every title for me to be proud of you, you know.”

“I know,” he admitted, leaning into her hand as she washed his neck. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss me off.”

“I’d worry if it didn’t,” she teased, and he almost smiled.

When they stepped out, she wrapped him in a towel, drying his hair with another before pulling him into clean sweatpants and a soft t-shirt. He made a face when she reached for the moisturizer.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said, dabbing it on his cheeks before he could escape.

“Feels like I’m in a damn spa.”

“You’re welcome,” she shot back, and that earned her the smallest of smirks. “Making sure you don’t look like a leather belt by the time you’re sixty.”

She got him into bed, tucking his water bottle on his nightstand. It’s freshly filled with ice because she knows that’s how he prefers it. As soon as she slid in beside him, he pulled her into his chest like he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer.

They stayed quiet for a while, just the hum of the AC filling the room. Finally, he spoke. “What’d you have to do before we left?”

She tilted her head up to look at him, kissing the tip of his nose. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. You’ll see tomorrow. Tonight’s about you.”

His voice was hoarse when he said, “What I need is you.”

Her chest tightened. “Well, it’s a good thing you’ll always have me. And not just tonight. Until the I take my last breath.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I hate losing. I hate watching opportunities slip. But… I’m not stupid. I know how lucky I am to have you in my corner. Hell, half the time you are my corner.”

She smiled, brushing her fingers through his damp hair. “And you’re mine. Which is why I know your time’s coming, Phil. Because you’re you. Not because you’re CM Punk. Because you’re Phil Brooks — the most stubborn, determined, amazing man in the world.”

He chuckled quietly. “Careful, you’re making me sound like a Hallmark movie.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “Then maybe you’ll remember it.”

Phil kissed her temple, lingering there. “I don’t forget things like that.”

“Good,” she echoed, and they stayed wrapped together, the quiet settling into something soft and safe, a place neither of them needed to win to deserve.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

Y/N stood in front of a mirror in the bustling backstage area, tugging her gloves tight as she checked her gear one last time. The black-and-gold ensemble hugged her in all the right places, glinting under the fluorescent lights, her hair pulled back in a sleek style that screamed confidence. She smiled at a passing production assistant, exchanging a quick “good luck” with another wrestler who slapped her arm as they walked by.

But then her smile shifted when she caught sight of him.

Phil.

He was moving slower than usual, hands in his hoodie pockets, shoulders slouched, still carrying the weight of last night’s loss like it was chained to him. But the moment his eyes landed on her, his entire face softened. Pride replaced the heaviness, his lips twitching into the faintest smile as if the sight of her knocked the air right out of him.

“You look… Jesus,” he breathed as he stopped in front of her, eyes dragging from head to toe. “...You are not walking out there looking like that,” he said finally, voice low, a little rough.

She raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

“Because, sweetheart,” he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with his foot, “if you do, I’m gonna end up jumping that barricade, dragging you backstage in front of twenty thousand people, and finishing what this outfit’s already starting.”

Her mouth twitched into a smirk, but she didn’t flinch when he got close — close enough that the heat from his body cut through the cool air of the locker room.

“You know the camera’s gonna be right in your face,” he went on, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “And all I’m gonna be thinking about is how fast I can get you out of this when it’s over.”

She fought the shiver that ran down her spine. “I’ve got a match to win, Brooks.”

“I know,” he murmured, thumb skimming along her hip. “And I’ll be out there cheering for you, like a good boyfriend… but don’t think for a second I’m not gonna be picturing you in that gear under me the whole damn time.”

Her breath caught before she shoved his chest lightly. “You’re disgusting.”

He leaned into her touch, pressing his forehead to hers for a moment. “I mean it. You look ready to steal the whole damn show. Hell, they might as well not book the rest of the card after you go out there.”

Her grin was warm, but her eyes searched his face. “You okay?”

“I’m better than I was,” he admitted, rubbing her hip. “Still pissed about last night, still wanna punch a wall about it, but… seeing you like this? Knowing you’re about to go out there and own it? Makes it a little easier to swallow.”

“Good,” she murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Because I need you supporting me. I need you loud.”

“Loud is my specialty,” he said with a smirk. “You know I’ll be yelling my lungs out for you.”

“Perfect.” She straightened his hoodie, her voice dropping just for him. “When this is over, we’ll figure out how to get that damn title around your waist. One way or another, it’s gonna happen.”

His hands slid down, gripping the back of her thighs just enough to make her laugh. “Don’t go making me promises I’m gonna hold you to.”

“Oh, I know you will.”

For a second, they just stood there, locked in their little bubble while the chaos of SummerSlam prep swirled around them. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes locked on hers like he wanted to memorize her face before she went out.

“You’ve been patient,” he said quietly, like it was something only she deserved to hear. “Too patient. You deserve this win tonight, Y/N. And I hope to God you get it. Not because I’m biased—well, okay, I am—but because you’ve earned it ten times over.”

Her chest tightened, and she pulled him in for a slow kiss, not caring who saw. “You’re my favorite thing in this business, Phil. Win or lose.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers.

“Yeah.”

He smiled, that rare, real smile that only came out when she got past all the walls. “Go out there and make ‘em remember why you’re the best. And, uh…” he squeezed her butt, earning a playful swat from her, “kick their asses for me, too. At least one of us should come home with gold.”

She was still smiling when Rhea’s music hit, the bass thundering through the arena. She kissed him once more, quick but full of intent, before pulling away.

“Be right back,” she promised. “Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

He watched her walk toward the curtain, pride radiating off him even as that ache from last night lingered.

“Go get ‘em, champ,” he called after her, his voice low but firm.

And she didn’t even have to look back to know he’d be right there, front row, making good on his promise to be loud.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The arena was already buzzing from the last match, but the lights suddenly cut, plunging the crowd into darkness. A heartbeat thumped over the speakers, slow, steady, then built into a rapid pounding as golden spotlights swirled through the arena. A wall of smoke rolled across the stage, and a giant LED screen lit up with Y/N L/N in bold, metallic gold lettering.

Then her music hit. The first beat sent the entire crowd into a frenzy — chants of “Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!” echoing from the rafters before she even stepped through the curtain.

She emerged slowly, bathed in golden light, draped in a dramatic floor-length jacket that shimmered with rhinestones and metallic threads. A championship-caliber entrance without even holding the belt. Her hair was perfect, makeup sharp, and her ring gear matched her larger-than-life presentation, sleek, black-and-gold with intricate designs that glittered under the lights.

Y/N paused at the top of the ramp, smirk tugging at her lips as she looked over the roaring crowd. She lifted her arms, fingers splayed wide, as pyros exploded from both sides of the stage, golden sparks raining down behind her. The smoke curled around her boots as she began her walk.

This wasn’t a walk. This was a strut.

Every step said I own this place.

Fans leaned over the barricade to reach for her, some holding handmade signs with her catchphrases, others just screaming her name like it was a prayer. She tossed her head slightly, smirking at the camera that panned low, catching her gear sparkle with each stride.

Halfway down the ramp, she stopped, turned to face the hard cam, and pointed directly at it with a devilish smile. The camera zoomed in just enough to catch her mouthing: Watch closely.

When she reached the ring, Y/N grabbed the middle rope, leaned back in a teasing stretch, and then slid under the bottom rope in one smooth motion — straight into a kneel. She popped up fluidly, discarding her jacket, and locked eyes with Naomi and Rhea, who were already waiting.

Naomi leaned against the ropes with a cocky smirk, tilting her head as if to say, cute entrance, but it won’t help you. Rhea cracked her neck, pacing like a predator waiting to pounce.

The three of them began to circle. The energy was tense, the crowd buzzing, each woman looking for the slightest opening.

DING DING DING.

Y/N and Naomi lunged first, locking up. Naomi tried to overpower, but Y/N transitioned instantly into a deep arm drag. Naomi popped back up — only to be met with a spinning heel kick from Y/N that dropped her to a knee. Rhea came charging, looking for a clothesline, but Y/N ducked under, springboarding off the middle rope to hit her with a flying forearm.

The crowd roared.

Rhea rolled to her feet, smirking like she appreciated the fight. She swung wide with a lariat — Y/N ducked again, grabbed Rhea by the arm, and launched herself into a tilt-a-whirl headscissors, sending the eradicator sprawling into the corner.

Naomi took advantage, yanking Y/N down by the hair. The boos from the crowd only made her grin wider. She stomped Y/N into the mat, then dragged her up for a snap suplex, following with a quick cover.

1! Kickout.

The match quickly turned chaotic. Rhea bulldozed both women with a double clothesline. She hoisted Y/N up for a delayed vertical suplex — holding her there long enough to let the crowd count — before slamming her hard to the mat. She went for Naomi next, driving her into the corner with shoulder thrusts.

Y/N came flying in from behind with a running knee strike to Rhea’s back, sending her stumbling forward. Y/N grabbed Naomi and hit her with a flawless rolling German suplex, bridging into a pin.

1! 2!

Rhea broke it up with a boot to Y/N’s ribs.

From there, the momentum swung wildly — Y/N countering Rhea’s Riptide into a DDT, Naomi countering Y/N’s springboard crossbody with a mid-air dropkick, Rhea catching Naomi out of the air and throwing her like a ragdoll. The crowd ate up every reversal, every near-fall.

Then came the final sequence.

Rhea had Y/N in her sights, charging for a big boot — and connected. Y/N went down hard, the crowd gasping. Rhea tried to drop into the cover.

However, Naomi slid in at lightning speed, using her momentum to push Rhea into a roll up pin. Normally, Rhea would kick out of that easily, but Naomi grabbed Rhea by the waistband of her gear and yanked it just low enough to force her to stop kicking out or risk giving the crowd a full moon. The crowd erupted in a mix of shocked laughter and boos as Naomi stacked her up.

1! 2! 3!

DING DING DING.

Naomi popped up, smirking like the devil as she clutched her title to her chest. The boos rained down, but she just held the belt high and mouthed “Still your champ” into the hard cam.

Meanwhile, Y/N sat up slowly, huffing, one arm wrapped around her ribs. Across the mat, Rhea was glaring daggers at Naomi, but when her eyes shifted to Y/N, something unspoken passed between them.

Rhea had never pinned or submitted her. Not once. Tonight was supposed to change that. It hadn’t.

Y/N gave her a slow, knowing smirk, like she’d just silently reminded Rhea: You still can’t beat me.

Rhea’s jaw clenched. The war between them wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The second she stepped through the curtain, the roar of the crowd still ringing in her ears, Y/N was met with a line of crew members, producers, and fellow wrestlers, all throwing her smiles, fist bumps, and quick congratulations.

“Hell of a match out there,” one of the camera operators said as he passed, still shaking his head like he couldn’t believe some of the spots she pulled off.

“You looked like a damn superstar,” one of the makeup artists chimed in.

Y/N offered a polite nod and a small smile to each person, slowing only when she reached Paul Levesque.

Paul’s arms opened before she could even speak, pulling her into a solid, fatherly hug. “I’m proud of you,” he said in that gravelly tone, giving her shoulder a pat before pulling back. “You’ve got the TLC match to get your bearings before you head back out for the Becky and Lyra match. You good?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Paul.”

He gave her a knowing look, like he was reading between her words, then let her go. She continued down the hallway, her ribs aching from that brutal whip into the turnbuckle earlier. All she could think about was getting some ice and a moment to breathe.

But when she rounded the corner toward the locker room, she froze. Phil was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the hallway like a hawk. When his eyes landed on her, his expression shifted instantly, softening into that rare, unguarded smile he saved just for her.

He pushed off the wall and walked straight to her, pulling her into his arms before she could even say hello. His hand slid up the back of her neck, holding her close. “I’m proud of you, kid,” he murmured, his voice low but firm, the kind of tone that didn’t invite debate. “And… I’m sorry you didn’t get the title.”

She shook her head, pressing a kiss to his cheek like it was nothing. “Phil, it’s all storyline. I’m good with it. Honestly? I’d rather build the suspense.”

He smirked faintly but his eyes softened. “Yeah, well, suspense or not, you just put on the match of a lifetime. People are gonna be talking about this for years.”

That pulled a genuine exhale of satisfaction from her. “Hope so.”

It was then that he noticed the deep purple marks already beginning to bloom along her ribs. His brow furrowed instantly. “Jesus, babe, you’re already bruising. How hard did she hit you?”

“Phil—” she chuckled, resting her hand on his arm, “—I’m fine. A little banged up, sure, but that’s nothing new after a big match like that. You know that.”

“I know it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He eyed her like he was considering wrapping her in bubble wrap before every match.

She laughed, cupping his jaw in her hand, her thumb brushing along the edge of his scruff. “Tell you what… after this is all done and over with, we’ll grab dinner, go back to the hotel, and just… relax.”

His expression softened immediately, his shoulders loosening. “Yeah… I like that idea.” Then his eyes narrowed as she stepped toward the locker room door. “Wait– what are you doing?”

Her smirk was borderline mischievous. “Got something to take care of.” She opened the door halfway, glancing back over her shoulder. “You might wanna hang out by a monitor.”

His brow shot up, arms folding across his chest. “Should I be worried?”

She just winked. “Always.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“And you love it,” she shot back before slipping inside, leaving him in the hall with a grin tugging at his lips despite himself.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The arena air buzzed with electricity, the steady roar of the crowd mixing with the faint metallic scent of pyros long burned out. Under the shadow of her black hoodie, Y/N moved like a phantom through the narrow backstage corridor, every step fueled by a dangerous cocktail of focus and fury. She kept her head low, strands of hair peeking out just enough to disguise her features from passing crew members.

From somewhere up ahead, she caught Phil’s voice, loud, tense, and scanning the area like a man who had already been searching too long.

"Hey, have you seen Y/N?" he asked a stagehand, the irritation under his words barely restrained.

The guy shook his head. “Nah, man. Not back here.”

Phil swore under his breath, his footsteps moving off in the opposite direction.

Y/N didn’t slow. She couldn’t. The pounding of the crowd beyond the curtain was calling to her. But before she could hit the opening that led to the arena floor, another voice cut in, sharper, cockier, and laced with that infuriating arrogance she could recognize anywhere.

“…I’m telling you, it was worth it,” Seth Rollins was saying, his tone smug and conversational as if he were discussing what brand of coffee he liked. He was leaned casually against a road case, talking to Bron and Bronson Reed, both of whom looked entertained. “Faking the injury? Oh yeah, absolutely no regrets. It was never about the title for me, boys, it was about making sure Punk didn’t get it. That was my mission.”

Bron chuckled. “Pretty ruthless, man.”

Seth smirked wider, the glint in his eyes pure malice. “Yeah, well… if keeping him down means keeping his little girlfriend out of the spotlight too?” He gave a little shrug, feigning innocence. “That’s just a bonus. Why should she get her moment if it kills him to watch?”

The words hit Y/N like a match to gasoline. Heat surged in her veins. Her fingers flexed at her sides, itching to grab the nearest object and smash it over his head. She didn’t. Not yet. Instead, she let that fire simmer, let it curl through her chest until her pulse matched the deafening thrum of the crowd outside. This– this was the fuel she needed.

By the time she stepped through the curtain, the noise doubled, wrapping around her like a tidal wave. The match outside was chaos. Becky Lynch and Lyra Valkyria brawling on the floor near the timekeeper’s area, the referee distracted, the crowd rabid for every hit.

And then it happened. Becky grabbed a steel chair, raising it high above her head, about to crash it down on Lyra’s ribs. Y/N didn’t think. She ran. Charging down through the audience, weaving between stunned fans, she vaulted over the barricade just as Becky’s arms began their swing. Her hands shot out, snatching the chair mid-air.

The crack of metal stopping echoed.

Becky’s head whipped around, fiery hair swinging, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What the—?!”

She didn’t get to finish. Y/N yanked the chair from her grip and slammed the edge into Becky’s gut, sending her stumbling back into the barricade. The crowd exploded into a chorus of shock and cheers, camera flashes strobing across the chaos.

Corey Graves’ voice rang out from commentary. “What the hell is Y/N doing here?!”

Becky shook her head, still processing, but Y/N was already on her. A swift forearm to the jaw snapped Becky’s head sideways, and then Y/N was unloading. Kicks, punches, a vicious elbow that sent Becky sprawling to the floor. She didn’t stop. She grabbed a kendo stick from under the ring, the hollow rattle of bamboo promising pain, and cracked it across Becky’s back once, twice, three times, each hit more brutal than the last.

The stick splintered in her hands.

The audience was on their feet now, the roar deafening.

Michael Cole’s voice cut through, speculative and sharp. “I don’t know what’s going through Y/N’s head right now, but this… this could be revenge for Seth Rollins lying about his injury!”

Y/N grabbed a steel chair again, unfolding it just enough to slam the seat into Becky’s spine. Lynch let out a guttural cry, collapsing to her knees. Y/N didn’t hesitate, she hooked Becky’s arm, spun her around, and drove her down onto the chair with a snap DDT that left Becky motionless.

With Becky down, Y/N turned to Lyra, who was still slumped near the barricade. She reached down, grabbed a fistful of Lyra’s gear, and hauled her up with surprising ease. “C’mon, champ,” Y/N muttered, almost taunting. She shoved Lyra under the ropes, then physically dragged her over to Becky’s prone body.

“Cover her,” Y/N ordered, voice low but picked up by the camera mics.

Lyra blinked in disbelief, but her instincts kicked in. She hooked Becky’s leg. The referee slid into position.

One. Two. Three.

The bell rang, the crowd going ballistic as Lyra was handed the championship. Becky rolled onto her side, groaning, her eyes glassy with disbelief.

Y/N stood outside the ring, chest rising and falling with adrenaline. A slow, almost unhinged laugh rolled from her throat. The camera zoomed in on her face just as Becky’s realization sank in… she had lost the title, and Y/N was the reason why.

Y/N started walking backward up the ramp, her gaze locked on the nearest camera. She leaned in, pulling her hood back just enough for her smirk to show. “Oh,” she said, her voice dripping venom, “was some of my passive behavior misleading?”

The crowd roared at the callback to Becky’s words from the night before.

Y/N took a few more steps up the ramp, then glanced back at the lens one last time. “Tell your husband, Big Time Becks…” she said, her smirk widening, “I’m just getting started.”

With that, she disappeared backstage, leaving destruction, confusion, and the echo of her laughter behind.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The second Y/N stepped through the curtain, the energy backstage was a live wire. Heads turned. People stopped mid-sentence. Agents, production crew, even the camera ops had that what the hell just happened? look on their faces. No one had been told. No one had seen it coming.

No one except Paul Levesque.

He was standing off to the side, headset half off, that small smirk tugging at his mouth when her eyes found him. They didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. Just one sharp nod from him, one from her, and the silent acknowledgment hung between them: Yeah… we pulled that off.

She kept walking, chin high, the chaos swirling around her like a storm she’d just set in motion.

She was three steps from clearing gorilla when it hit — the stomping, rapid sound of someone coming fast.

“HEY!”

Seth Rollins, with Bron Breakker and Bronson Reed flanking him like muscle, stormed toward her. Seth’s eyes were wide, jaw tight, the kind of furious where you can’t even blink without it shaking through you.

“You outta your damn mind?” he barked, voice already loud enough to pull attention from everyone nearby. “Who the hell do you think you are, getting involved in my wife’s match?!”

Y/N stopped mid-step, slowly turning toward him. Her smile was thin, razor-edged. “I think I’m the woman who’s man you screwed over when you decided to lie your ass off just to keep him from holding his title.”

“Ohhh, here we go,” Seth laughed, except it wasn’t amused, it was sharp, mocking. “You really wanna play the victim here? Your boy got outplayed. Simple. You don’t get to come sticking your nose in MY business because you can’t handle it.”

“This became my business,” Y/N shot back, taking a step toward him, “the second you made it personal. You couldn’t screw him out of a championship clean, no, you had to try and drag me down with him.”

Seth tilted his head, grin curling like he was daring her. “Oh, I’ll drag you down any day of the week, sweetheart. You wanna play in the big leagues, you better be ready to get knocked on your ass.”

Her voice dropped lower, dangerous. “Say ‘sweetheart’ again. See how quick I put you on your ass right here.”

The air between them went tight.

Bron and Bronson shifted, ready to step in if this went sideways, which, by the way Y/N moved in closer, nose almost brushing Seth’s, it was about two seconds from happening.

“You think you’re some kind of hero for this?” Seth sneered. “Newsflash — you just painted a target on your back so big, I could hit it from the parking lot.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. “Good. Makes it easier when I swing back.”

The tension spiked. Seth’s smirk faded into that slow burn glare, and his shoulders squared up. Y/N mirrored it, neither willing to break eye contact.

That’s when Phil appeared.

It was like he came out of nowhere. One moment Seth was in her face, the next, a hard shove sent Seth staggering back a step.

“You wanna fight somebody, Rollins?” Punk’s voice cut through the shouting. “Try me. I’m not hard to find.”

Now everyone was yelling. Agents moving in, Bron barking for people to calm down, Paul stepping forward to keep things from boiling over. Seth was still jawing, trying to get around the people holding him back, while Y/N stood there breathing hard, eyes locked on him like she’d finish this right now if they let her.

Finally, someone managed to herd her and Punk out of gorilla.

They stormed down the hallway in matching, wordless anger. Her hands were still clenched. His jaw was still tight. By the time they hit an empty stretch of hall, Punk stopped, dragging a hand down his face before running it through his hair.

“You are gonna give me an ulcer,” he said finally, voice still sharp but laced with something almost — almost — like laughter. “I can’t get any more gray hairs, Y/N. I’m maxed out.”

She smirked. “You love it.”

“No,” he corrected, stepping closer and pulling her into his chest. “I love you. You stressing me the hell out? Not so much.”

She shrugged against him like this was nothing. “I couldn’t just sit there and watch him brag about screwing you over. Not happening.”

“I mean– Y/N what the hell were you thinking?” He pulled back enough to look at her. “How the hell did you even…? Paul doesn’t just hand people a green light for something like that.”

Her grin was pure mischief. “I cashed in my favor.”

He blinked. “What favor?”

“The one from Rumble. And Chamber.”

Punk’s face went slack. “No. You didn’t.”

“Yeah,” she said lightly, like she’d just told him she bought milk on the way home. “Guess I’m fresh out now.”

His hands dropped from her shoulders in disbelief. “Y/N, that’s… you could’ve used that tonight for the title. For literally anything. Why would you burn it on—”

“You,” she cut in simply. “Because I don’t care about a title. I care about you. And it was worth it to wipe that smug look off Seth’s face.”

He opened his mouth to argue — but she kissed him before he could. When she pulled back, she was smiling. “They wanted to screw with you, so I screwed with them. Simple math.”

That fire in her eyes hit him like a freight train. It made his chest tight, and, if he was honest, his pulse a little faster for entirely different reasons. “You’re insane,” he said finally, smirking despite himself.

“You’re welcome.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned in and kissed her, slow, lingering, because yeah… she was insane, but she was his.

“Come on,” he said finally, voice low. “Let’s get the hell outta here before I start a fight I can’t finish.”

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

They barely made it halfway down the hallway before Phil’s fingers found hers again — not the casual, fleeting brush they sometimes shared, but a deliberate grip, threaded tight like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go. His hand was warm, solid, the kind of hold that tethered her to him no matter how many people they passed. The corridor stretched on, but the air between them was heavier than the carpet under their boots. He didn’t even try to disguise it — the way his gaze stayed locked on her profile like a predator who had already decided the kill was his.

They passed a couple of people in the hallway to their room. One offered Phil a quiet nod. He didn’t return it. He wasn’t looking at anything but her.

By the time they reached the room, that look had only deepened. The second the door shut behind them, the quiet was deafening. Y/N turned, half ready to speak, but froze. That stare rooted her to the spot.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t the kind of heat you saw in the ring. It was quieter. More dangerous. His hoodie was still unzipped, hair a little mussed, eyes darker than they’d been under the arena lights. “You know,” he murmured, stepping forward at a pace that forced her to back up a fraction, “I still don’t get you.”

Her brow arched. “Don’t get me?”

“Yeah,” he said, head tilting slightly, gaze dragging over the curve of her mouth like he was memorizing it. “How someone like you could love someone like me this much. After… everything. The messes, the screw-ups, the nights I’m more of an asshole than I am a boyfriend.”

Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “You think I’m just here for the highlight reel?”

“I think you’re here because you’re out of your damn mind,” he shot back — but there was no bite, just a strange mix of disbelief and raw awe that she could feel in her chest.

She stepped closer, fingers catching the lapels of his hoodie and tugging gently. “I’m here because you’re mine. Good nights, bad nights… win or lose, you’re it for me, Phil.”

Something in him flickered, like she’d just touched a locked part of him no one else had ever gotten near. His hands slid onto her waist, fingers curling over her hips as though anchoring himself.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low, almost gravel. “Talk like that, I’m gonna forget why I was pissed off.”

“Maybe I want you to forget,” she teased, leaning in until her lips brushed his but didn’t close the gap. “Maybe I like you better when you’re only thinking about me.”

A breath of a chuckle escaped him, dark, quiet, before he closed that space, catching her mouth in a kiss that was slow but bruising, the kind that left no question about who she belonged to.

When he pulled back, he stayed close enough for his breath to mingle with hers.

“You know,” he murmured, thumb tracing her jawline, “we’ve been at this for years. No titles. No rules. Just us. But every time I’m with you… it feels like we already own the place.”

She smiled against his lips. “We’re not stopping until we actually do.”

His eyes burned hotter. “And when we do, every single person’s gonna know you made me a king.”

“And you made me your queen,” she said without hesitation.

That snapped the last bit of restraint in him. His grip on her hips tightened, pulling her flush against him. “You have no idea,” he murmured against her ear, his voice dropping into that gravelly tone that made her skin prickle, “how many times I’ve thought about you like this. No cameras. No crowd. Just you telling me I’m the only one who gets to put their hands on you.”

Her smirk was a slow burn. “Why tell you… when I can show you?”

His jaw tightened. She could feel it under her lips as she kissed along his jawline, lingering just under his ear. He swore softly, catching her mouth again, the kiss rougher this time, the kind that stole every ounce of air from her lungs.

“You love me like I’ve never been loved before,” he muttered against her lips, his hand sliding under the hem of her shirt to splay against warm skin.

“Good,” she whispered, eyes locked on his. “Because no one else is getting the chance.”

That was the breaking point. His hands roamed higher, slow but certain, his mouth finding the line of her throat while she leaned back just enough to let him. The world outside their room didn’t exist anymore. Every touch, every breath, was him claiming her all over again, and her letting him.

Phil pressed her back until she felt the wall behind her, his mouth slanting harder over hers, his tongue teasing at the seam of her lips until she opened for him. She tasted faintly of the powdered pastry she snaked from catering earlier, but underneath was just her. The taste he knew better than his own damn name.

When his hands slid down, gripping her hips and pulling her flush against him, she gasped against his mouth. He didn’t let her pull away; he chased that sound like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured against her lips, each word brushing hot over her skin. “And I swear you fucking love it.”

“I do,” she whispered back, her smirk barely there before he kissed it away.

His hands roamed — over her waist, up her spine, back down to the curve of her thighs. He lifted her without breaking the kiss, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The wall supported her, but it was him that held her there, solid and unshakable.

They were both breathing harder now, heat curling in the space between them. His mouth trailed from her lips to the line of her jaw, then lower, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot beneath her ear. She bit back a moan, but he caught it anyway, smiling against her skin.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice rough. “That’s mine.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“Damn right,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “You’ve been mine since the day you walked into my life. And nothing — nothing — is ever gonna change that.”

The way he said it made her chest ache in that dangerous, beautiful way. And when he kissed her again, slower this time, there was no mistaking it, he wasn’t just claiming her body, he was laying his whole heart out in the open.

Y/N laces her hands through his hair, the unmistakable feeling of his erection grinding directly against her core. She gently massages the back of his head, a small moan escaping his lips. She swallows it with a need one could only consider primal.

She reluctantly pulls her lips from his, Phil opening his mouth to protest but is cut off as she maneuvers her way across his jaw and down his neck. Each kiss she leaves sends a round of chills down his spine. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his girlfriend skillfully traces shapes with her tongue along his perfectly salty skin. He gasps when she bites the connecting point between his neck and collarbone before marking him as hers.

“Makeups gonna have fun with that tomorrow,” he murmurs, not able to stop the way his hips continue grinding into her.

She hums before looking up at him and sucking another mark on the opposite side in the exact same spot. “Good… let it serve as a reminder.”

Without much warning, she unwraps her legs from his waist. Phil can’t bring himself to do anything besides watch his girl as she drops down to her knees in front of him, never breaking eye contact. Her fingers trail up to the waistband of his pants before dipping below, just barely, but it’s enough to make his dick twitch behind the fabric. She licks her lips, tugging at the clothing.

“I know this weekend was hard for you,” she says, barely above a whisper. “But if you let me… I wanna take care of you. Make you forget all about the sting of what happened. Show you that you’re the real champion. And that everyone else is just existing on borrowed time.”

Seeing the way she’s so willing to do whatever it takes to stroke his ego, makes his cock grow even harder. Y/N licks her lips at the wet spot forming at the crotch of his pants. She doesn’t wait for permission, the needy look in his eyes communicates it enough for her. She hooks her fingers through the waistband of both his pants and his underwear, sliding them down his legs with ease. Punk helps her out, stepping out of the leg holes before discarding them to some random corner of the room.

He tilts his head with a smug smirk as he watches his girlfriend salivate over his dick. The tip oozing with precum, bright red and ready for whatever she wants to do with it. Her lashes flutter as she looks up at him, leaning forward ever so slightly. Her tongue pokes out of her barely parted lips as she kitten licks his aching tip.

“Fuck…” he exhales shakily, the minimal contact still feeling like everything he could ever want.

Y/N smirks before trailing her tongue from the base to his tip, taking her sweet time, relishing in the way his toned stomach clenches from the sensation. He tilts his head, hand lacing through her hair as she leans forward and takes the whole length of him in her mouth. He tries not to yank her hair from the sudden wave of pleasure, but Y/N pulls back off of him briefly.

“Don’t be gentle,” she commands. “I can take it.”

Phil raises an eyebrow, “Sweetheart, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I can take it,” she reiterates. “Use me. I know you’re still angry.” She grips the base of his cock with her hands, pumping slowly as she leans forward to suck on the part of his dick not covered by her hands. She bobs up and down, speaking when she can. “Take it out on me.”

Phil stares at the beautiful woman below him, moaning softly as she takes his entire length, drool pooling at the corner of her lips. Her bright eyes are begging him, pleading with him to lose control. His grip on her hair tightens, “If I do this… there’s no turning back,” he warns, voice dropping an octave. “No begging me to stop–”

“Fine,” Y/N nods, pulling off of him with an obscenely pornographic pop. “Deal. No begging. I can do it.” She nods, never more determined to do anything. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

She surges forward once again, his tip hitting the back of her throat. Phil’s eyes roll into the back of his head as she manages to take him deeper, forcing herself to gag on his length. “Jesus,” he praises. There’s nothing hotter to him than his woman forcing herself to gag on his cock. Not because she’s forced to, but because she wants to.

He wastes no time after that. He fully grips her hair in his hand, holding her head in place as he pounds into her mouth at a relentless pace. She uses her tongue, working it around him like a professional. Like she was made to suck his dick. All of the anger he felt, the frustration that’s been building up is all coming to a head, and she’s taking it like a champ.

He feels himself twitch in her mouth as he sees a small bulge at the bottom of her throat. Her eyes are watering, mascara leaking down her cheeks, but she’s never looked so damn satisfied. She likes this. Her nails are digging into his thigh as she silently begs for more.

He pulls her head backwards, “Get up,” he commands.

The gravelly tone of his voice shoots a jolt of arousal straight to her core. She stares at him, never breaking eye contact as she maneuvers to her feet. That’s one thing she’s always killed him with, the way she can always keep her focus solely on him. He smashes his lips to hers, bruising and a lot less controlled. She wants him to let go, to use her, that’s what she’s going to get.

Y/N moans into his mouth, his tongue sliding past her lips and intertwining with hers. He can taste his own residue on her mouth and it makes him all the more impatient. He swats her ass, telling her to jump. She does as she’s told, only removing her lips from his so he could see where he was going. She continues kissing down his neck, leaving another mark or two in her wake. There was no getting around this tomorrow night for Raw. Everyone is going to know. And truthfully, he doesn’t care.

He tosses her on the bed, Y/N wasting no time as she scoots her way up to the pillows, her smile the most tantalizing thing he’s ever seen. He hadn’t even realized she’d been fully clothed the entire time. He can still see the way her gear pokes out from underneath her sweatpants and tank top. The image of the gold and black fabric clinging to her skin making him more turned on than before.

“Strip. And do it slowly.”

Y/N just grins all innocently as she reaches for her top first. The way she looks at him, all cute and soft, acting as if she isn’t the filthiest woman he’s ever met. She does as he asks, slowly pulling the top of her head to reveal that same gear piece he’d been thinking about all night. She loops her hands behind her, untying the back which allows the entire thing to fall off her body. His attention is suddenly only focused on the perked nipples staring directly at him. His tongue darts across his lips, and before she can even start at her sweatpants and bottoms, he’s lunging forward.

Y/N moans, hands shooting up to his hair as Phil sucks her right nipple into his mouth. The sensitive peak causes another wave of arousal to crash over her. She knows she’s soaked through her gear and most likely her pants. There’s no way the cloth has been able to hide how hot and bothered she gets by this man.

Her head flies back as he sucks a mark into her breast before moving over to the next and repeating the same process. She enjoys the way his teeth graze the flesh. She gently massages his head like she always does, hands running through his hair. It only spurs him on more as he starts grinding his still thick erection against her thigh.

“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” He mumbles against her skin, kissing down her stomach until he reaches her sweats. He slides them off, leaving her just in her gear bottoms. “Going out there and getting involved in Lynch’s match. All for me.”

Y/N nods, “All for you,” she agrees. “Wanted everyone to know I did it for you.”

Punk laughs, dark and almost evil. He moves a hand up, cupping her pussy with his hand. He can feel the heat radiating off her, the way she’s dripping and begging to be fucked. “You’ve always been a cock slut, haven’t you? I knew you were wet before, but after you get my cock in your mouth, you turn into a fucking drinking fountain.”

Y/N moans at the words. Some nights she adores it when they make love, but other days, she really does need it rough. And quite frankly, so does he. He slowly pulls her bottoms off, loving the way her pussy clenched around nothing when it’s exposed to the air. Once he gets them fully off, he lifts the fabric up to his face, shoving his nose into the wet spot where she had been dripping for God knows how long.

“So fucking sweet,” he mumbles. He glances at her, watching as she tries her hardest not to move without his permission. She’s always been such a good girl. He grins, looking directly into her eyes as he sticks his tongue out, licking the remnants of her juices off the bottoms.

Y/N moans at the sight, growing more and more needy. He doesn’t make it any better when he groans lowly, closing his eyes as he relishes in her taste. She doesn’t have to say anything though as he’s suddenly crouching down, grabbing her thighs forcefully. “That was good, but I think I want it directly from the source.”

Without warning, he shoves her legs further apart, diving face first into her aching heat. Y/N arches her back without prompting, careful not to close her legs. She’s learned the hard way not to move unless he tells her to. His tongue probes in and out of her perfectly, he knows her body better than she does. She whines as his finger finds that rosy bud that makes her see stars. “That’s right whore,” he chuckles against her core. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

He was relentless with his ministrations. Y/N couldn’t keep quiet even if she wanted to. She knows their neighbors can hear exactly what they’re doing, but the thought of people hearing how good Punk is with his mouth turns her on even more. “Shit,” she says in a breathy whisper. “Feels so fucking good.”

Her pleasure only intensifies as he buries a finger inside her pulsing core. His tongue moves up to her clit as he starts pounding into her with his finger. He wastes no time before shoving a second and then third finger inside of her. He lifts his head, beard drenched in her juices. Seeing her this fucked out just from his tongue and fingers is enough to make him cum on its own. “You’re such a good girl. Goin’ out there and getting even for me,” he praises her. “And now you’re letting me use you how I please. How did I get so lucky?”

Y/N’s always been a sucker for his praise. Phil simply groans into her core when he feels more of her arousal gush around his fingers. He knows her inside and out. She’s never been able to resist how he talks to her. She always said her favorite thing about him is his mouth.

“I’m the lucky one,” she finally manages to gasp out as he starts pistoning his fingers in and out of her. “So lucky.” The next sound that comes out of her is a mix between a scream and a moan. “Fuck! I love you.”

Phil licks one more stripe up her pussy, pulling his fingers out as he crawls up to her. He smashes his lips to hers, Y/N moaning as her own arousal spills into the mouth. She loves the burn his beard leaves on her face. “I love you too,” he mumbles against her lips.

Y/N loses all sense of the world around her as he slides his dick inside of her. Phil curses lowly, enjoying the way she encases him perfectly. “You’re so tight f’me,” he whispers against her jaw. “Fitting me like a fucking glove, princess.”

She can feel every part of him splitting her open. He’s buried to the hilt inside of her and she knows what she’s in for. She feels him slowly pull out, both of them watching his dick slide out of her, coated in her slick. Both of them are entranced by the sight until suddenly he’s shoving himself back inside with no remorse.

Y/N gasps but it’s cut off by Phil’s hand curling around her throat. It’s not enough to hurt her, but it’s enough to make her feel lightheaded, amplifying the pleasure she’s getting from the man above her. “Stupid fucking Rollins,” he growls. “Thinkin’ he can take my championship.” He leans down, sucking a ready nipple into his mouth, biting down slightly. “He has no idea what’s coming to him, does he? Has no idea how crazy my girl is. How far she’s willing to go to get me what I want.”

Y/N tries to nod her head, eyes hazy. Phil just smirks at the blissed out look on her face as he plows into her. His pelvis practically meets hers with how deep he’s going. She knows she’s going to bruise, and part of her wants them to be the deepest and most colored bruises she’s ever had. She wants people to see how he owns her.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Y/N mewls, voice raspy from the way he’s still constricting her airways. “I’ll burn it all down for you.”

Punk chuckles, leaning down to kiss her once more. “That’s my girl…”

He pummels her pussy, finally removing his hand from her throat so he can place it on her lower stomach, amplifying the pressure his cock is providing her. Y/N’s mouth falls open in a silent scream. Her hands shoot up towards his back, her nails raking perfect lines down his skin. Punk groans, loving the way it feels.

“God, I’m obsessed with you,” he grumbles, each thrust hitting her cervix harder. He nuzzles his nose into her neck, breathing in the aroma that’s so specifically her. He kisses the sensitive spot behind her ear, a rush of chills forming on her skin. “You don’t even realize what you do to me. What runs through my mind when I see you walking backstage in the skimpy shit you call gear.” Y/N cries out as he hits that spongy spot inside of her over and over again without stopping. “My perfect slut.”

Y/N rolls her hips back into him, moaning into the now humid air. She pulls him closer to her, his chest now pressing against hers as he continues thrusting into her. “You like that?” He asks mockingly. “You like knowing how fucking crazy you drive me?” He sucks another mark on her neck this time, the fingerprints from how he was choking her still present. “And that sometimes I just can’t help myself. I’ll go back and watch some of your old matches just to jerk off at how fucking sexy you look.”

And just like that, the coil inside her snapped. Her entire body shudders, pussy clamping around his cock as if it was trying to suck all the life out of it. However, he didn’t lighten up. She said he could use her how he pleased, and he planned on it.

Punk curses, pounding into her faster now. The overstimulation makes tears brim at the corner of her eyes, but she knows better than to beg him to stop. She wanted this and he needs it. He reaches up, groping her breast roughly as his thrusts become sloppy.

“I’m gonna cum inside this pussy,” he pants, sweat forming at his brow. Y/N arches her back, nodding frantically. “That’s what you want, huh? Want my seed so fucking deep that everyone will know who you come to bat for?”

Y/N gasps, silently affirming everything he’s saying. She can feel her second orgasm building as he pounds into her a few more times. It only takes one more look at her completely undone form for him to explode inside of her. He yells out a string of curses before leaning down to kiss her bruisingly, hips stuttering. He barely pulls away, glancing down at where their bodies are joined, his cock covered in cum, glistening in the light like the most holy thing he’s ever seen. She winces slightly as he starts pulling out, but part of him can’t resist. He slowly brings his hand up, fingering her clit that’s still pulsing between her folds.

Y/N flinches, another wanton moan escaping her lips. Her pussy lips are puffy and perfectly coated in the cum that’s slowly dripping out of her. He doesn’t let much escape though before shoving his finger back inside of her, not letting a single ounce of his spunk go to waste.

Y/N pretty much falls limp, her body sinking further into the mattress beneath her. Her chest rises and falls with every bated breath. She’s been in a lot of taxing matches before, but none of them have taken her out more than this.

The room’s still thick with heat, the sheets a mess of tangled fabric and flushed skin. Punk’s breath fans against her neck as he slowly pushes himself up, bracing his forearm against the mattress while the other stays lazily draped over her stomach.

"Jesus," he murmurs, still catching his breath, his voice rough but threaded with amusement. "You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know that?"

Y/N smirks, eyes still half-lidded. "You’ve been saying that for years. Still kicking though."

Punk chuckles low in his chest, brushing damp hair from her forehead before pressing a kiss there. "Barely."

He sits back, taking a long look at her like he’s trying to burn the image into his brain. She doesn’t flinch from it, she’s long past shying away from the way he watches her.

"Y’know… you might think you’re slick, getting off on my ring gear," she teases softly, fingers dragging down his arm. "But I always knew. I just liked it too much to call you out."

That earns her a lopsided grin. "Should’ve known you’d turn my creepy into romantic."

"You make it too easy." She leans up, brushing her lips across his jaw before pulling back. "Now help me up before I actually melt into the mattress."

He rolls his eyes but slips an arm under her legs and one behind her back, lifting her with an ease that makes her roll hers right back. "Show-off."

"Shut up and let me take care of you."

In the bathroom, steam curls up from the tub he’s already started filling. He lowers her in slowly, like he’s afraid she might bruise if he moves too fast. The water laps against her skin, and before she can tease him again, he steps in behind her, settling so her back rests against his chest.

"Comfy?" he murmurs against her ear.

"Mhm. Could get used to this."

"You should," he says, like it’s a promise.

For a while, they just sit in the quiet, the only sounds the water shifting when he drags his hands lazily along her arms. "So," he starts, breaking the stillness, "about the whole Becky thing. Interviews, fan questions… what’s the game plan?"

She tilts her head back enough to meet his eyes. "Easy. I tell them I did it because it was fun, and because messing with people is one of my hobbies."

Punk snorts. "Cute. But you know they’re gonna try to spin it into some big dramatic storyline about me not being able to fight my own battles."

"Let ’em," she says, without missing a beat. "You don’t need to prove anything to them. And for the record? I’d do it all over again. Ten times. Just to watch their faces when I walked out there."

Something shifts in his expression then, softer, almost reverent. He kisses her temple, lingering a little longer than necessary.

"I love you… more than anything," he murmurs.

Y/N smiles, her cheeks flushing from how soft he sounds saying it. “I love you too.” Her fingers find his under the water, tangling together. "I hope you know you’re stuck with me forever, Punker. No matter what.”

He doesn’t say it, but the thought hits him like a freight train. Yeah… Forever sounds about right.

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

The crowd was still a roar in her bones when she stepped through the curtain. Signs with her name and Punk’s blurred together in a neon sea, some praising her, others cursing her, but all of them loud. Y/N didn’t rush. She let the reaction breathe, soaking in the split of cheers and boos like they were oxygen.

Her and Paul agreed for her to cut a promo about why she did what she did. It was a perfect way to set up a feud and explain storyline wise why she did what she did. While it was more personal than it was for work, they had to find a good way to intertwine the two.

She slid under the bottom rope, straightened to her full height, and leaned against the ropes with the mic in hand. The noise swelled again.

"Y’know…" She took a deep breath, letting her gaze drift over the arena. "I’ve never liked liars. Not in my personal life, not in this ring, not anywhere. And lucky me, I work in a place where the biggest liar of them all holds the World Heavyweight Championship."

A fresh wave of boos rained down at the not-so-subtle shot.

"Seth Rollins," she said, pacing the ring now. "A man who spent months… no, years… talking about hard work, about earning your spot, about fighting with honor. A man who loves to preach about being the standard in WWE."

She stopped dead center, smirking without humor. "And yet, the second CM Punk claws his way back to the top after ten damn years… the second he earns his shot fair and square… Rollins throws every word he’s ever said into the trash because he’s too bitter, too jealous, to let someone else shine."

The crowd roared again — some agreeing, some trying to drown her out. "Punk deserved that title more than anyone in this company," she continued, her voice sharpening. "And Seth couldn’t take it. Couldn’t handle that maybe, just maybe, someone was better than him. So he cheated. He played dirty. He took something he didn’t deserve."

She paused, adjusting her grip on the mic. "And when someone like Seth wants to fight dirty? Well… I can do that too. I didn’t get revenge. I got even. And you can cry about it on Twitter, you can chant about it in this arena, but the fact is—"

Cult of Personality hit like a thunderclap. The crowd exploded.

Her head snapped toward the stage, expecting Becky, maybe Seth — definitely not him. Punk stepped out in his classic tee and jeans, hair damp, smirk carved across his face like he’d just won the lottery.

"What the hell…" she muttered under her breath as he started down the ramp, slapping a few outstretched hands along the way.

When he slid into the ring, she leaned toward him, mic lowered. "What are you doing out here?"

He just grinned wider, like he was in on a joke she hadn’t heard yet. Punk took the other mic from the timekeeper and turned to face the crowd. "I wasn’t gonna come out here. Figured this was your moment to talk your talk. But, uh…" He glanced at her, eyes glinting. "Turns out I’ve got a couple things to get off my chest."

The arena quieted just enough for him to start pacing. "First of all… yeah, I lost. Seth Rollins beat me. You can call it skill, you can call it strategy, you can call it whatever helps you sleep at night. But here’s the thing — I don’t stay down. I’m not done. I’m getting that title back, and when I do, there’s not a damn thing Seth can do about it."

The crowd popped. He pointed toward Y/N. "And I’ve got her to thank for reminding me what kind of fight I’m capable of. ’Cause she didn’t just watch from the sidelines. She didn’t let someone she loves get screwed over and shrug it off. She went out there and made sure they knew there are consequences for screwing with us."

Y/N smirked a little at that, but before she could respond, Punk’s voice shifted. Lower. More deliberate. "But there’s something else," he said, stepping closer until they were just a foot apart. "Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. Because the truth is… I’ve had a lot of fights in my life. In this ring. Outside of it. But the best fight I’ve ever been in was keeping you."

Her chest tightened. This was not where she thought this was going.

"I’m not an easy guy to love," Punk went on, eyes locked on hers. "Hell, I’ve spent most of my life convinced I didn’t even deserve it. But you… for some reason I’ll never understand, you’ve been here. Through every high, every low, every self-inflicted mess I’ve made. And not only did you stay… you made me better."

The arena was pin-drop silent now, thousands of people watching a private moment unfold under the brightest lights. "You make me want to be the guy you already think I am," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. "And you make me feel like maybe… just maybe… I’ve got more to fight for than titles or glory or proving people wrong. Maybe the whole point was just… finding you."

Her eyes burned, and she shook her head slightly, trying to blink it away. And then Punk reached into his pocket, and the crowd lost it.

Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth as he dropped to one knee, mic still in hand, holding out a ring box. "I could’ve done this last night, or in a hotel room, or somewhere quiet where it was just us," he said over the deafening noise. "But I want this on record. I want this on tape so we can play it back when we’re old and cranky and yelling at kids to get off our lawn. I want every single person here to see what you mean to me."

He flipped open the box. "Y/N… will you marry me?"

The pop from the crowd was deafening. She was laughing through the tears now, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it. But she was nodding before she even realized it. "Yeah," she breathed. "Of course I will."

Punk stood, sliding the ring onto her finger, and they kissed dead center in the ring while the place absolutely erupted.

When they finally broke apart, she grinned at him through glassy eyes. "You are such a sap."

"Yeah, but I’m your sap," he shot back without missing a beat. "And now everybody knows it."

cmpunk

liked by y/nwrestles, americannightmarecody, roxanne_wwe, and 150,456 others

tagged: y/nwrestles

cmpunk: She said yes 💍

View all 10,125 comments

y/nwrestles: about damn time, old man. 08.04.25 ❤️

619iamlucha: Congrats, you two! Couldn’t be happier for you both 🙏

charlottewwe: Finally!!! Love this so much. You’re perfect for each other 💕

uceyjucey: Happy for you, Uce. Lock it down. 🔐

biancabelairwwe: This is the CUTEST 😭 so happy for y’all!!

tripleh: Congratulations! Now let’s get this wedding booked before your next match. 😉

mikethemiz: Congrats! Can’t wait for the bachelor party. 🍻

roxanne_wwe: my parents are finally getting married 😭😭😭

rhearipley_wwe: This is actually adorable. Congrats.

wrestlingfangirl93: this is literally my roman empire 😭😭😭

cmpunkspromos: NO WAY?? THE POWER COUPLE IS ENGAGED 😭🔥

wrestleobsessed: I’m crying in the club rn.

straightedgearmy: Congrats to my fav wrestler and the only person cooler than him 😎

lariatlover88: the way he looks at her >>>

heartbroken_hogan: Damn, was really hoping I’d be the one marrying Y/N. Guess I’m screwed 😞💔

cmpunk: Damnnnnn, nice try though. She’s. mine, but keep practicing.

wrestlingwithmyfeelings: CM PUNK… SOFT?? never thought I’d see the day

steelcagequeen: I’d let y/n suplex me any day but she’s taken now 💔 congrats tho

The locker room was silent, apart from the TV mounted on the wall, that only minutes ago broadcasted Raw, but now was broadcasting a random show I didn’t care about enough to remember the name.

I could hear the wrestlers and various crew members moving around in the backstage of the arena, sometimes catching a little bit of conversation here and there. People coming and going in the hallway, making me stare at the door as if it would suddenly open and welcome the man I am waiting for.

The man of the hour, the World Heavyweight Champion—Roman Reigns.

Once again tonight, he was advertised on the show.

The attraction of the night because let's be honest, everybody talks about him, whether they like him or not. The Tribal Chief is the star, the main event, the head of the table.

The ring is and forever will be his home.

Nowhere else is he more comfortable than in a ring, under thousands of people's eyes—and millions watching from the comfort of their home.

The day he finally leaves that ring, a long period of grieving will follow.

Nothing will ever be the same.

There was a before Roman Reigns and there will be an after.

The latter being harder to replace, to forget.

Roman Reigns will never be forgotten, nor will he ever be replaceable.

Because Roman is not just a pleasure to the eyes, leaving anyone jealous of his physique and his handsome features, but he is an incredible athlete with undeniable charisma.

A 6'3 man and 200 something pounds of muscles and hard work. 41 years young and still killing it in a ring, as if he was still 20 or 30 years old. Superman punches and spears done to perfection, putting each of his opponents at the back of the line, after the 3 counts.

1. 2. 3.

The ring bells and the champion is crowned.

Still the Heavyweight Champion, he can hold his title proudly in the air until the next man decides to challenge him.

A fighter in and outside of the ring. Every single time.

Defeating other wrestlers and defeating cancer, his lifelong battle—one he will never truly be done with, always having to keep beating its ass.

No questions asked.

He can turn the whole arena into a cult, thousands of people lifting their ones to the sky, acknowledging and serenading him with OTC chants and calling him the Tribal Chief and the Head of the Table.

It's so easy for him to grab a microphone and cut a promo, making everyone sit down and listen to him, drinking in each and every single words that he speaks.

His presence is felt, not just seen.

When he enters a room, everyone stares.

When he's there, everyone knows without even having to look.

The air shifts, the energy changes.

That's the effect he has.

The night is over, but you can still feel the chills on your body, his entrance music never forgotten in your brain and you never seem to be able to keep your finger down when anyone mentions him because this is more than wrestling.

This isn't just a promo, it's a show of respect. It's legacy. Family. Bloodline.

It's so many things at once.

What a privilege to be in the front seat of it all, to be the woman he always comes back to and have the chance to be called his.

Although, I have to admit, it is hard for me to stay focused on what he does or says out there.

He's too much of a distraction himself.

Growls and grunts while in the ring resemble the same ones he makes when he's doing another stipulation of a wrestling match.

Only exception, this type of match doesn't take place in a wrestling ring.

Anywhere else but there.

Similar actions but different scenarios.

Different finishes.

Him on top, while I'm under him, sometimes switching to spice things up.

He has the upper hand, sometimes I do, the same way it works in that ring.

No belts to win. No opponents to beat. Not even a bell ringing signaling the end of the match.

None of that.

The goal is simple.

Conquer each and every curve and crevice of my body.

Two winners but no loser. Everyone wins in this game for two.

Claiming my body with what God blessed him with, marking me as his as we both unravel together. Him feeding me through ropes and ropes of his love while I take all he has to offer me.

Watching him wrestle or even just stand and look handsome in the center of the ring as he delivers greatness, baritone voice echoing through the microphone, never fails to leave me wanting more.

Craving the same kind of energy.

The same force.

Raspy and husky voice whispering dirty and nasty words in my ear. Praising my submissive self, letting him use my body as he pleases. Hands and dick claiming my body like no one has ever done before.

Dominating me.

Taking what’s his while giving me what I need. Wanting him to manhandle me, maneuver my body in any way and all the positions imaginable. Body at his full disposition, ready to please and obey all his commands.

I want to be his good girl.

Heavy footsteps stopped in front of the door, before I even had the time to think, it opened, revealing a tall and imposing 6’3 man in all of his glory, his title in hand.

“Hey, bab-” I barely had time to greet him accordingly, the energy shifting. Roman’s eyes locked on me instantly, wandering up and down my body and making me feel like a piece of meat. I felt shivers run down my body, my pussy starting to show appreciation and need for the man in front of me, now licking his lips and reaching behind him, making sure the door was locked.

Intruders and unexpected guests weren’t welcomed to our little private after party.

“Perfect. Exactly the person I need right now,” he smirked, beckoning me over with his pointer finger, carefully putting his title down. “Come here lucky girl…”

The look he gave me just now, I recognized a little too well. Seen it plenty of times before.

Eyes undressing me. Permanent smirk staying on his plump and delicious lips.

I knew exactly what he wanted.

What he needed.

Those eyes hid absolutely nothing about his real intentions, brown orbs now looked nothing like it.

Now dark and filled with something else.

Lust? Need? Love?

Probably a mix of the three.

That dangerous tongue of his, teasing and demonstrating what plans it had for me later against his own lips.

Long fingers making my body miss the way he touches me. Pleasing me with only a brush of them. Long digits entering my holes, playing tricks only they knew how to master.

The lack of privacy and intimacy this room provided and the fact we were now done here for the night, asked for me to try and bring some common sense back into the situation.

“Roman! You really can’t wait until we’re back home?” Seeing as I didn’t move from my spot—sitting on the leather couch in the middle of the room—he slowly strutted his way to me, making my pulse quicken and panties moisten.

We had a comfortable bed waiting for us at home and I wanted nothing more than to have him all to myself but not here.

To be fair, I knew we wouldn’t make it home anyway. The ride home required us to take his private jet. And knowing how impatient and uncaring he is about fucking me anywhere he wants to, it was certain we would reach our highs while being high up in the sky.

Still, I preferred fucking in a jet then here, providing us more privacy and intimacy.

I had other plans but I guess he also had plans of his own.

It was a special day for him.

His birthday.

I didn't want to celebrate it in a locker room.

“Do I look like someone who can wait?!” Voice husky and deep with need and lust, my body instinctively responded, preparing to receive whatever he felt like offering me tonight.

Pointing down to the evident bulge in his pants, indeed it looked like he couldn’t wait any longer.

Roman—like the impatient man he is—had to take matters into his own hands.

In one quick motion, expertly grabbing the back of my thighs, he picked me up, hands gripping the meat of my thighs, securely keeping me in place.

I yelped, eyes wide, not expecting him to do that. Instinctively, my thighs wrapped around his waist, the grip on his fingers almost bruising on my skin from how tightly he held onto me.

Low moans left my parted lips but that’s all that came out.

The rest was stuck.

Words caught in my throat, blocked and unable to come out. A switch he didn’t yet turn on.

Soon, though, I’ll be trying to lock it back again.

If he even allows me. I doubt it.

Turning around, he nearly pushed me into the wall, right next to the door he erupted in seconds ago. The wall was cold and rough against my skin. Air almost suffocating, tension high, a lethal combination making it pretty much impossible to get out of this situation with clothes on.

The warmth of his body, the feeling of his rough hands on my legs from under my dress, the feeling of his skin, of his muscles as I grabbed his biceps, it was all too much.

Lips and teeth attacking my neck with open mouthed kisses and nibbles, like he wanted a taste of me. His cologne and faint smell of sweat from his earlier action in the ring, were the last things my body needed for all my senses to be filled with him everywhere.

Like a drug, it gave me a rush, a need.

I craved more, drunk off of him.

More kisses. More touches.

Now, all of him had invaded each and every one of my senses, unable to focus on anything else but him.

That’s the usual effect this man has on me.

I’m used to it by now. Losing all sense of control and common sense when he claims my body with the slightest of actions.

Wearing a dress tonight was definitely a good idea, Roman easily making his way in between my legs. His throbbing cock knew exactly where to go, finding the treasured land easily as soon as it was released from the constrict of his pants and underwear.

The surprise when he pushed my panties to the side and pushed—shoved—his dick all the way inside my pussy.

I gasped loudly at the welcomed but unexpected intrusion. Eyes squeezed shut at the stretch, nails digging into his arms, clawing and marking the skin.

This comes with no surprise with the amount of time he and I have fucked—this man has one hell of a dick and he knows how to use it.

Except, his cock isn’t only long but also very thick.

Adjustment needed for me when he feels like coming inside to play.

But not like he cared about that little detail right now.

One way or another, he will find his way in.

He always does.

Tight pussy pulled him in, locking him in place but still, it didn’t stop him from pushing and trying to thrust his way fully inside, making himself at home.

My breath caught in my throat, already feeling full and I could tell—and feel—he wasn't even half way inside.

Stern eyes and commanding voice, Roman wasn’t worried about me.

He knew his pussy and memorized the way it felt and how it fitted his size perfectly.

“You know it fits, just take it,” he growled, hissing at the way my tight cunt fluttered around him. He tried pushing himself inside again, groaning desperately. “Come on, lemme in…”

Perfect dick making me feel like I was about to be split open. Legs widening, pussy squeezing and spasming, wanting to welcome him inside but barely hanging on with that much hardness to deal with.

And God knows, that was almost impossible to achieve.

Roman usually makes sure I'm ready, fully prepared to take him by using some foreplay.

Not tonight.

Not when he's that horny and he can't control himself.

Moaning loudly, I whined, looking up at him with hooded eyes, holding onto him for dear life. “...So big-mhmm-full—”

Still wondered how the hell he managed to fit all of him inside of me. He’s some kind of magician for sure because there is no way.

I could feel his burning gaze on me, eyes locked on the way my face contorted in both pleasure and discomfort, my cunt still trying to make him fit inside my tight opening.

Thank God I never had any problems getting wet with him, helping him move in and out, lubricating and facilitating the passage of his huge cock in my tight pussy.

Roman let out a groan again, getting frustrated at my greedy pussy that wanted him inside but wasn't quick enough to get used to his impressive size.

Patience was never his biggest quality.

When he wants something, he wants it now, not later.

“What did I just say?! You know it fits!” I cried out as he fed me one deep thrust, nearly feeling him in my stomach. “Stop whining and fucking… take… it.” Three deep and strong thrusts made me see a glint of the stars and successfully managed to turn me on even more, wet pussy seconds away from turning into a Slip N’ Slide.

It's a good thing Roman loves those.

“Ro-Roman…” I managed to let slip from my mouth, voice strained. Whimpers followed soon after as his tip started teasing my hidden and spongy spot deep inside of me.

With the pleasured sound he just let out and the way I felt even fuller, I think he had managed to force his way inside, losing control of my pussy.

The sounds coming out from down there were nasty and nearly pornographic.

Sounds of skin slapping on skin, his balls ricocheting against my ass each time he pushed back. My pussy joined in on the concert too, mixing in some of its very own sounds—squelching sounds.

The whole mix created the perfect mixtape for a good time.

Whoever was to walk by at this instant, would know exactly what kind of game was being played on the other side.

Not only was it hot in here, but the room, filled with moans, grunts and whimpers, only added to the arousal of us both.

“That’s it…” he growled, feeling my cunt clenching and squeezing his meat, trying to accommodate his size. “Perfect pussy, remembering me each time like I never left…” he leaned down and bit my earlobe. “And if I could… I’d stay buried in it all day long…”

Deep thrusts and rolls of his hips followed his words. My ears almost went deaf, overwhelmed with the intensity of it all.

Unable to focus on anything else but the way he was taking possession of my pussy and my whole body, with each snap of his hips on mine

“See this shit?” He looked down at where we were connected, one hand reaching behind my neck to make me look too. “Perfect. Just fucking perfect," he closed his eyes and bit on his bottom lip before looking down again, “Like always, this pussy welcomes me in like second skin.”

The sight alone almost made me gush out on his big cock instantly. His long length drove in and out of me, eaten up by my tight and wet pussy. Glistening in my juices, he was moving fast and with purpose, hitting all the spots with perfect precision.

Eyes moving up on me, on the way I was falling apart in his arms, he chuckled.

“You love this shit don’t you? Daddy’s dick splitting you open and turning you into a slut for me... I know you love this, sweetheart,” he chuckled some more when I answered him with a loud whiny moan and breathless cry of his name. “Shit-you’re squeezing the hell out of me right now…” He hissed, leaning to stay inches away from my face, our lips teasing a kiss.

Words were unnecessary.

My pussy was doing all the talking anyway.

Growling again, Roman smacked my ass, making me whine and almost lose it right here and there. “Babygirl’s getting close, huh?” He mewled in my ear, “Wanna cum? Make a mess on daddy?”

Feeling me clench and dripping down on him, he went even deeper, helping me bounce back on him, meeting him in between his thrusts. His baritone and raspy voice drove me insane and made my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Cum for daddy.”

It was all I needed.

My body started shaking, eyes squeezed shut as he made me cum hard. I felt like I was screaming but nothing came out. Mouth hung open, eyes closed.

My pussy was so tight and gripping him so hard, I felt him twitch.

“Lemme get a taste of this juicy pussy…” Opening my eyes as I felt the material of the leather couch under me, they quickly rolled to the back of my head.

Feasting on me like he hadn’t eaten a full meal in days, Roman's mouth was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Licking and exploring my pussy, he had just fucked so, so good seconds ago.

My clit, my lips, even my asshole.

Nothing was left untouched.

I felt empty. No longer feeling the hardness of his sex inside of me. It was a weird feeling considering how only minutes ago, this very same pussy was struggling to even make him fit.

Now, it didn't want him to leave. She wants him back.

Although, I'm not one to complain about some cuni.

Neither did this pussy.

It's disgusting to hear and feel how drenched my pussy is, knowing Roman didn't give a damn about it, not letting his mouth and tongue miss a single spot.

I could picture the whole scene and how it would look like it was taken from a porn scene.

My whole sex life felt like a porn scene at times with Roman. The amount of filth and freak it combined was almost embarrassing.

I can't get enough of him and he can't get enough of me.

We ruined each other for anybody else.

The softness of his lips around my clit contrasted perfectly with the roughness of his beard scraping my inner thighs. As instinct, my legs locked around his head and my hands reached for his hair, uncaringly tugging and pulling at the strands, making his manbun look a mess.

None of us cared about it for now.

He groaned into my cunt at the feeling and quickly pulled his face away, still a glistening mess covered in my juices. He didn't care, acting like it was nothing and swapped my hands away from him to bury himself in between my legs again.

Legs spread wide by his hands, he went back into driving himself inside of me, drilling my pussy in fast and deep strokes, penetrating not only my cunt but my whole soul.

Now he was going to chase his nut, clearly on the verge of erupting inside of me after all that.

“ROMAN!” I cried out in pleasure, shutting my mouth quickly in embarrassment, my hand barely containing my voice echoing inside the locker room.

I was sure everyone in the arena heard me.

Of course, Roman didn't give two fucks about it.

For all I know, it only encouraged him.

“I know… feels good, huh?” Removing my hand from my mouth he shook his head with that damn dangerous and wicked smirk of his. “Nuh huh. Don’t hold back, babygirl. Wanna hear you… Whose dick is it?"

I was a fucking mess.

My head was spinning, on cloud nine. Breathless, I struggled to find the strength to use my voice cords but I managed to answer him. "M-mine. It's mine. M-my dick."

“Damn right babygirl, it’s all yours… and you know how to make it yours," he licked his lips and moaned at the taste of myself on his lips, igniting his own arousal even more.

“Daddy…” I whined loudly, feeling that familiar feeling building up inside of me again.

He grabbed my body and nearly made me dizzy from how fast he maneuvered me and forced me on my knees. Pushing me against the arm of the couch, I didn’t have time to breath, that he was back taking my breath away.

“Oh-FUCK! D—DADDY!”

“You’re doing so good babygirl… Taking daddy so well… I’m gon’ give you your prize, pretty girl… You gon’ lemme cum in this pussy, huh? My pussy?”

All I could do was nod.

Throat dry from all the screams and moans that came out of me and an overexposure to good dick—to him.

“Use your words, baby… You know daddy don’t like feeling ignored, I need to hear you…”

“Mhmm-yes,” I muttered under my breath. I felt the grip of his hand on my hair tighten.

"Yes what?"

"C-cum. I w‐want your cum," turning my head to look at him, it was now my job to get what I wanted. "Give me my cum. Give me all of it, daddy. Don't leave me empty. I want it s-so bad."

My pleas and desperation every time he's about to cum, always drives him crazy.

He loves this shit.

Loves knowing how badly I want to feel his warm seed inside of me.

I turn feral at this point each time.

Starving, I need him to feed me with his white and sticky cum, an evidence of how much he loves me and I gave him pleasure.

Make a mess everywhere, I don't care, as long as I get filled by him.

A stuffed babygirl, is a happy babygirl.

Roman nearly collapsed on top of me, followed by a deep grunt and one last snap of his hips against mine. Buried to the hilt inside of me, his whole body shook and I shivered as soon as I felt the first spurt of cum. "Yes, yes, YES. Give it to me-fuck."

Breathless and bodies sticky with sweat, we stayed connected together for long minutes trying to catch our breaths and recover from our respective orgasms.

"You okay?" Roman asked, pecking my shoulder. He always hated how carried away he can get at times, too horny and in need of feeling my pussy around him that he doesn't take the time to do foreplay and ask me if I'm ready to take him.

"Y-yes."

"Promise? That was a lot," his hands went straight to work, caressing and rubbing my body.

I smiled and lifted my head to look at him. "That was fucking amazing," he leaned down to kiss me and I pulled away after. "Happy birthday, champ."

itoshi rin

people have accepted that speaking to either of you individually is already stressful enough. speaking to both of you at once? psychological warfare. 

it's not intentional. the two of you are actually having completely normal conversations. "did you eat?" "yeah." "good." all the while the poor staff member standing a meter away feels like they're interrupting a classified government meeting. 

your couple photos should not be legal. neither of you smiles. neither of you poses. rin has one hand lazily shoved into his pocket while you're standing beside him with sunglasses on, and the photo ends up looking like the cover of vogue's "people significantly cooler than you" issue. 

social media has given you the nickname: the final boss couple. because there's genuinely no visible weakness??? people spend hours trying to find an awkward candid. they can't. even the awkward candids look expensive. 

once, a reporter asked how the two of you maintain such a cool image. rin answered, "we don't." you answered, "he forgot his phone today." "... why would you tell them that?" "i'm keeping the public informed. thought we should try honesty this time." 

fans loved you even more because apparently the only person capable of ruining rin's intimidating image is you. 

whenever the two of you leave fashion events together, paparazzi stop yelling directions because they already know they'll get the shot they want. you naturally fall into step. rin naturally reaches for your hand. your outfits somehow always complement each other without matching. 

one photo. 30 million likes. comments just saying: "yeah no they're endgame." "i'd fold if they looked at me." "this isn't a relationship, it's a concept." 

itoshi sae

sae has always carried himself like someone who exists six steps ahead of everybody else. then you appeared. and you matched his frequency perfectly, effortlessly existing beside him like you've always belonged there. then everyone realized– oh. that's why nobody else ever looked right next to him. 

the two of you don't do excessive affection in public. you don't need to. sae lightly adjusts your collar before cameras start rolling. you brush invisible lint off his sleeve. he waits half a second longer so you can catch up before walking. your relationship consists of tiny gestures that = absurd amounts of chemistry. 

there's a reason fashion brands practically fight over you two. you could both be wearing the simplest outfits imaginable – white shirt, black trousers, plain sneakers, but somehow it still looks editorial. 

people in the comments are zooming in trying to figure out why. spoiler: they can't. 

interviews become hilarious because reporters keep trying to expose who has more aura. "who wears the pants in the relationship?" you blink. sae blinks. "we're both wearing pants." the interviewer has to laugh because that deadpan answer was funnier than anything they had prepared to receive. 

fans genuinely say the two of you don't feel like boyfriend and girlfriend. you feel like... a matching set. like buying one without the other feels incorrect. 

whenever somebody edits videos of sae walking through madrid, they immediately splice in clips of you without even thinking. because in everyone's head, you're part of the picture now. 

nagi seishiro

everyone expected nagi to date someone who balanced him out. instead, he found someone who somehow matched his exact wavelength. 

people don't understand how two people can look this effortlessly cool while simultaneously sharing one functioning brain cell. 

you're both sitting in the airport lounge wearing oversized clothes, headphones around your neck, looking like off-duty models... and then someone overhears your conversation. 

"did we check in?" "... i thought you did." "i thought YOU did." "... oh shit. we should probably do that." 

it’s like the laziness contributes to the aura. 

nothing about either of you looks rushed. you don't chase trends. trends chase you. 

fan edits of the two of you are genuinely outrageous. any audio that’s used in your edits trend within the next 24 hours. clips of nagi looking at you like you're the only interesting thing in the room. clips of you absentmindedly fixing his hood while he keeps talking about a video game. 

40 million views. comments filled with: "they're literally just existing." "AND THEY'RE WINNING." 

nagi loves that there's zero pressure around you. you're both comfortable enough to exist in silence for hours. which also means people constantly mistake the two of you for looking "cold." 

in reality? he's currently texting you from two feet away because he's too comfortable to speak. nagi: hungry. you: then say it. nagi: this is easier. 

even your domestic moments have aura. convenience store date. he's carrying six snacks. you're carrying iced coffee. the sunset hits at exactly the right angle. somebody secretly takes a photo. and then it's circulating everywhere with the caption: "omg love actually exists." 

mikage reo

if couples had brand deals just for existing... the two of you would've been billionaires. 

everything about your relationship screams put together. you don’t meticulously plan it. but reo manages to make everything look intentional. 

"wait..." "what?" "our outfits match." "they do?" you look down. navy. cream. silver accessories. neither of you discussed it, yet it happened anyway. 

when the two of you walk into charity galas, luxury events, fashion weeks, award ceremonies, everybody turns. not like “OMG!!!” but in the very human, involuntary way where your eyes just... follow people who naturally command a room. 

reo absolutely loves hyping you up, but he does it so casually that people don't even realize he's doing it. "that's nice." "thanks." "looks better on you than whoever designed it." "reo 🙁" "what? i'm right." he says it like it's the most obvious fact in the world. 

fans adore the fact that your energy matches so perfectly. you're never trying to compete. nobody's carrying the other's image. you both elevate each other. 

it's the kind of relationship where people stop saying, "he's out of her league," because the second they see you standing together... they immediately go, "actually, no. they're in the exact same league." 

your edits are criminal. paparazzi photos. airport walks. gala entrances. trophy ceremonies. luxury vacations. random grocery store runs somehow looking like magazine spreads. 

the comments are never normal. "this isn't boyfriend and girlfriend anymore." "this is a franchise." "your honor, they're simply too powerful together." and finally, of course, "#mydreamcouple." 

bachira meguru

everybody agrees that the two of you have zero swag gap, but nobody can explain why. you're not trying to cultivate some mysterious "power couple" image. half the time bachira has your bag slung over his shoulder because "it matched my fit better," and you're standing there letting him wear your sunglasses upside down because he insists it makes him "look like an alien celebrity." it should be embarrassing. it isn't. 

bachira has absolutely no understanding of personal space, but because it's you, nobody thinks twice about it. he'll walk up behind you and hook his chin over your shoulder while you're talking to somebody, lace your fingers together in the middle of a conversation because your hand was "available," or absentmindedly play with your bracelets while waiting for food. 

everybody else would get shoved. he gets away with it because you instinctively lean back into him every single time. 

your candids always go viral because they're never staged. one photo is the two of you doubled over laughing after bachira accidentally scared himself with his own reflection in a store window. another is him pointing excitedly at a pigeon while you're trying (and failing) to look serious. 

comments are in shambles. "they're both losers." "the coolest losers i've ever seen." "need whatever disease they caught." 

people always assume you're the calmer one in the relationship until they overhear you encouraging him. "jump it." "bet." "WAIT DON'T ACTUALLY–” too late. 

shidou ryusei

the two of you radiate the exact same flavor of "this conversation could become a public disturbance." 

shidou has the energy of someone who wakes up every morning ready to make somebody else's day more complicated. you look him dead in the eye and decide to join him. 

every date becomes a spectacle through absolutely no fault of your own. for example, you go bowling. shidou celebrates every strike like he won the world cup. you celebrate every spare with the exact same enthusiasm just to annoy him. by the end of the night, you're both getting politely asked to lower the volume. 

"they hate to see two people have fun." "they're literally staring." "because we're icons." 

nobody questions why you're together after seeing the way you egg each other on. "i bet you won't." "watch me." this is genuinely how half your memories begin. 

the funniest thing is that shidou becomes weirdly protective around you. he's still loud and dramatic and accidentally kicking chairs because he talks with his whole body. but if somebody's rude to you? his smile disappears so fast it gives everyone whiplash. 

fans call you the "double or nothing couple." because every interaction between the two of you is either completely wholesome… or ends with security getting involved. 

karasu tabito

karasu swears the two of you don't flirt. he always says: "we're just talkin’." 

everybody else watches him spend 15 minutes making fun of your music taste before immediately carrying your shopping bags without being asked. like sure… whatever you say bro. 

conversations between you two sound like competitive hating. "you take forever to reply." "i'm employed." "that's crazy because i saw you reposting memes." "don't bring evidence into this???” it's impossible to tell who's winning because you're both laughing by the end. 

the reason people say there's no swag gap is because neither of you tries too hard. you don't coordinate outfits. you don't post matching captions. you don't manufacture "couple goals." you just naturally end up looking like the best-dressed people in every room because your styles complement each other without looking copied. 

karasu absolutely lives for making you break character. you'll be standing there looking cool, arms crossed, serving face... then he quietly says something so absurd that you snort. camera flashes. now that's the photo everybody likes the most. 

every edit of you two has comments saying: "they flirt like they're trying to lose an argument." or a more accurate one: "this is literally two twitter users in love." 

kaiser michael

people online have a running joke that dating michael kaiser requires surviving a weekly performance review. then they watch him interact with you. and it’s like "... oh." turns out he actually does know how to be pleasant. 

the funniest thing about your relationship is that you're the only person who doesn't react to his theatrics anymore. "did you miss me?" "you were gone for 12 minutes." "it was a long 12 minutes." "i managed." every person within earshot starts laughing because you delivered that line with a sae itoshi ahh expression. 

the two of you clean up so ridiculously well that every event feels like a magazine shoot. kaiser always knows exactly where the cameras are. you don't. he casually moves half a step so you're standing in the better lighting before the photographers even start taking pictures. 

"did you just..." "yes." "that's kind of crazy. how do you always know where the camera is? are you a dictator or something?" "don’t start with that again." 

people love your relationship because you never inflate his ego. he'll fish for compliments. you'll hand him constructive criticism instead. "be honest." "your hair looked better yesterday." "... you wound me." "wahhh, you'll live." 

fans say your relationship works because you're one of the only people alive who treats michael kaiser like... michael. not michael kaiser™. 

ness alexis

people expect you to be the cool, mysterious one who balances ness out. then they realize you're sitting there asking him follow-up questions while he passionately explains something nobody else even noticed. 

"wait, go back." "really?" "yeah, i wanna hear the rest." he lights up like a star. 

there's something ridiculously satisfying about watching the two of you interact because everything feels... practiced. not rehearsed. like you've spent so much time around each other that your brains automatically fill in the blanks. 

he hands you the straw wrapper because he knows you fold them into little stars. you grab his charger before leaving because he forgot it (again). 

people online always say you "match each other's freak," except your version of freak is accidentally spending 45 minutes discussing one completely random topic because neither of you realized how much time had passed. ness yaps. you encourage the yapping. that's the ecosystem. 

"am i talking too much?" "probably." "... should i stop?" "no, i wanna know how this ends." wow! you just bought yourself another 20 minutes. 

fans adore seeing the way you look at each other because it's painfully obvious neither of you is pretending to be cooler than you actually are. the relationship has style, sure. but what people envy most is how easy it looks. 

the comments are always full of "they look like they actually like each other." which, on the internet, is apparently the highest compliment a couple can receive. 

chigiri hyoma

there are couples that look good together. then there's the two of you, where people physically stop scrolling because the photo loads and their first thought is, "oh brother, these two again." 

they’re not tired of seeing you, but it’s just that every picture somehow looks like it belongs in an ad campaign. 

chigiri has this quiet confidence that never asks for attention and you match it perfectly. neither of you are loud in public. you don't need to announce yourselves. you just walk into a room looking put together and now everybody's wondering if they should've dressed better. 

the funniest part is that your conversations are painfully normal. "do we need milk?" "we bought milk." "did we?" "you're holding it." someone across the grocery store is secretly taking a photo because they think they're witnessing cinema. 

people online have a conspiracy that the two of you practice your candids. the truth is you don't. chigiri just naturally slows down to match your pace. you instinctively fix the collar of his shirt before he steps outside. he'll reach over and tuck your hair behind your ear without interrupting the conversation. none of it is planned. it just happens after spending so much time together. 

every comment section eventually reaches the same conclusion: "they don't even look like boyfriend and girlfriend." "they look like they were released as a matching set." 

barou shoei

everybody expected barou to date someone who'd either worship the ground he walks on or constantly argue with him. but surprise! he found someone who looks him dead in the eye and goes, "move." "... excuse me?" "you're standing in front of the fridge." "... oh." 

that's when people realized why your relationship works. you don't entertain his diva moments. you simply keep the program moving. 

barou is unbelievably particular about everything – the house, his schedule, his meals, his clothes. the list goes on. you somehow fit into all of it without changing who you are. if anything, you've made him slightly less dramatic (emphasis on slightly). 

one time, a fan spotted the two of you furniture shopping. instead of the intimidating king everyone expected... barou spent 15 minutes comparing two nearly identical black dining chairs while asking, "which one's better?" "they're literally the same chair." "would you just look closer." that story made it onto twitter before either of you even got home. 

everybody loves the fact that you can match barou's intensity without trying to overpower him. he's commanding. you're composed. together, you have the kind of chemistry that makes people go, "yeah... i wouldn't interrupt them." 

you’re the perfect couple. 

yukimiya kenyu

if there were an olympic event for serving face, the two of you would've brought home gold, silver, AND bronze. 

every picture of you together has people zooming in like they're conducting forensic analysis. "who took this?" "what filter is that?" "where is that jacket from?" 

the answer is always disappointingly simple. one of your friends took it in about seven seconds. 

yukimiya has an eye for aesthetics, but dating you made him even worse. you'll ask him if your outfit looks okay. instead of saying yes... he'll start adjusting your necklace, fixing your sleeve, brushing invisible lint off your shoulder. "there." "was anything actually wrong?" "no, not really." 

the two of you accidentally become fashion references for fans. every few weeks somebody posts, "trying to dress like [name] and yukimiya." followed by a mood board full of neutral and monochrome colors, expensive sneakers, and accessories that cost more than rent. 

the best part? the second cameras disappear, all elegance leaves the chat. you're arguing over whose turn it is to choose dinner. he's reading five-star reviews. you've already ordered takeout. 

"you didn't even let me finish researching." "my bad, i got hungry." 

hugo vivian

hugo has the kind of confidence that makes it seem like the entire room belongs to him. you walk in beside him looking equally unbothered. now everybody else feels like they're trespassing. 

your relationship has an effortless energy of "we've been doing this forever.” no awkward hovering or wondering where to stand. he'll casually open the car door for you while continuing his conversation. you'll straighten his tie without either of you acknowledging it. it's all second nature. 

french media absolutely adores the two of you because every public appearance turns into free marketing. luxury brand event? best dressed. football awards? best dressed. grocery run in sweatpants? still best dressed. 

people always expect hugo to be the smoother one. they're wrong. you'll catch him staring for half a second too long. "what?" "... it’s nothing." "vivian." "... you look pretty." "that took you 30 seconds to say." "i had to process it first." 

your edits are ridiculously popular because they never rely on the “loud” moments. it's always the tiny clips – him waiting until you've gotten into the car before closing the door, you fixing the cuff of his jacket before an interview, both of you laughing because neither of you could pronounce an english reporter's last name correctly. 

the comments always read: "damn, they've got absolutely zero swag gap." "they make looking in love look so easy." "i just know his heart is going poum-poum."