Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

"Are you sure about this?"

Ariana tentatively placed her manicured hands on the lapels of the trench coat worn by the figure standing in front of her. 

"Yes," the woman answered. The tone curt. Self-assured. Almost cocky.

The woman looked Ariana square in the eye. A hint of a furtive smile played on her freshly applied matte red lips. Her cat-like eyes, lined heavily in charcoal-black kohl, flickered mischievously in the dim light of the closed set.  

Ariana met the woman's unwavering gaze, her fingers still nervously grazing the wide lapels of her honey-coloured, custom-made Burberry trench coat.

She drew a halting, bated breath - and slowly exhaled.

"Okay then," she softly whispered. "Let's do this..."

Verse 1

“Mean what I say, say what I mean,

Not one to play, I am as you see,

I give my word.

These other boys, they're one and the same,

I'm tryna say I want you to stay...”

The set was sumptuously lavish in this high-budget, no-expenses spared music video.

But when you're thee Ariana Grande - multi-platinum, multi-hyphenated, Grammy-award winning Ariana Grande - you can pretty much demand whatever you want, whenever you want. And your demands will be served to you, white-gloved and piping-hot, on a Tiffany & Co. silver platter.  

When Ariana first approached Republic Records with her music video concept, the executives - and all the mighty powers that be - initially thought the idea too controversial and provocative. Perhaps a little too scandalocious, even in this day and age.

They deemed the risqué move an incalculable career gamble. The audience and critic reaction far too uncertain and unknown for their liking. Because from a commercial standpoint, what the general public did not entirely grasp (and maybe, the record executives surmised, even the artist herself) was that “Ariana Grande” was a whole, entire fully-fledged business.

A walking, talking (and singing) conglomerate of various product lines and luxury-brand endorsements. The owner of the wildly successful cosmetic brand, R.E.M. Beauty, recently valued at just over US$500 million dollars.   

At a mere 31 years of age, Ariana was an accomplished singer, lauded actress and savvy entrepreneur. She was also a lucrative enterprise that employed many people and made (correction: continues to make!) a ridiculous amount of money for its numerous stakeholders and investors.

And one wrong move - such as a miscalculated but artistically well-intentioned music video - could jeopardise it all.

But in this instance, Ariana stubbornly stood her ground and insisted on an idea she knew would irrevocably break the internet and launch a thousand viral tweets.

“You know things will permanently change after this video is released, right?” her older brother counselled as he absent-mindedly poked his Salade Lyonnaise, surprisingly introspective in his serious tone and choice of words.

They were having an impromptu brunch at Grand Brasserie, an upscale restaurant in New York City, a few days before shooting began.

“I know, Frankie,” Ariana sighed. “I’m well aware of that.”

She drank her Veuve Clicquot, slowly and deliberately, her pensive gaze settling far off into the distance.

There was nothing more she had ever wanted than to make this music video exactly as she had envisioned it. If only people knew the inner workings of her illicit mind, the countless times she had replayed the scene in her head. Over and over, as if she were madly wishing it to fruition.   

Frankie took a languid sip of his Bollinger rosé. He completely understood his younger sister’s way of thinking and knew that once she had made up her mind, there was absolutely zero chance of convincing her otherwise.

“You know what, hell yeah!” he acquiesced. “I fully support your idea, sis… however unhinged it may be. And I’ll be here to hold your hand after the fallout!” Frankie laughed theatrically, finishing the last drop of his champagne.

And so, to mentally prepare for the filming of this music video, Ariana briefly said goodbye and safely stored away her saccharine-filled, candy-coated Glinda persona. A persona that she had nurtured protectively and loved immensely over the past few years.

For she, the great Ariana Grande, would triumphantly return - like a prodigal daughter that had been exiled for aeons - to the raunchy rivers and sensual lakes that she was used to. A reversion to her old, familiar stomping ground and the warm, gentle embrace of being back in her own element.

This was going to be the music video to end all music videos.

A loud proclamation to the entertainment industry and its critics, long and short-term fans alike.

I have an announcement to make, Ariana smiled.

Cuntiana was well and truly back.

Chapter Text

Pre-Chorus

“I got what you need,

I'm thinking you should plant this seed,

I get this sounds unserious,

But baby boy, this is serious…”

The mood was buzzingly electric. The set - a stunningly decorated Art Deco office, located deep within the inner sanctum of one of the luxury suites of New York's historic Chrysler Building.  

Midnight blue wallpaper, accented with gold leaf patterns, tastefully covered all four walls of the office, which were adorned with priceless artworks. Italianate black-and-white checkerboard tiles underpinned the room, exuding effortless grandeur. 

Stepping onto the set felt thrillingly like stepping back in time. Into a bygone era that embodied the glamour of old Hollywood and called to mind the age-old saying "Money talks but wealth whispers".

As you entered the office, a Tamara de Lempicka painting - Portrait d'Ira P., depicting a woman in a lily-white dress - greeted you like a question begging to be answered. It hung on the farthest wall, in front of which a large mahogany desk stood.

The private suite gave 1930's opulence and power, all rolled neatly and vacuum-packed into a singular thirty by twenty metre space. A decadent sight the hoi polloi could only glean second-hand from the glossy pages of an Architectural Digest exclusive.

Amidst the pre-shoot chaos, a loud, commanding voice boomed across the set, cutting through the cacophony.  

“Guys, please be very careful with where you’re putting the equipment!”  

“One of those vases costs more than your yearly salary. I’m NOT even kidding!”

“Jamie, move the camera over there… no, not there. There!”

The authoritative voice belonged to Christian Breslauer - director, cinematographer and long-term collaborator of Ms Grande’s. A fellow Floridian and the brave captain of the good ship Dandelion. A man who had brought many of her creative visions to life, including the Brighter Days Ahead short film, released in March 2025.    

Christian took a long look around the office. “I feel like goddamn Logan Roy in Succession,” he chuckled. “Someone hand me a Cohiba cigar and a glass of cognac!”

“I will, once we wrap up this video.”

Christian turned around to see Ariana cheekily smiling back at him. He looked her up and down and noddingly approved of the sexy as fuck aesthetic presented before him.

“Now who is this siren?! Ari, you look stunning, my goodness,” he whistled.

“Thank you, Chris. And I’m glad you finally came around to my idea.” She warmly smiled, dramatically waving her right arm in the air to emphasise her point.   

Christian winked back at her then took a few steps around the room. “Ari, can you believe this place? It’s fucking insane!”

Ariana giggled breathlessly, “I know, it’s so beautiful in here, isn’t it? It’s just how I imagined it to be… and Val was more than happy to let us film in this apartment!”

Valerie Aponte, billionaire heiress and sole grandchild of a shipping magnate. A devoted Wicked fan and most importantly, an OG Arianator.

She was one of the few fans that Ariana had befriended over the years. A connection that began at one of those swanky soirées where the entertainment industry elite and the supremely wealthy cross paths. The plush apartment suite, in which the director and artist now humbly stood, had been in the Aponte family’s possession for many years.  

As Ariana and Chris continued their discussion on the enormous wealth of the Aponte family, a woman wearing a long coat and hat could be seen making her way towards them. Her measured footsteps reverberated on the polished marble floor as she deftly hummed the opening verse of Summertime from George Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess.          

“And how are we all feeling on this fine Thursday morning?” the woman cordially asked.  

A sultry British voice. A voice that Ariana knew all too well, was accompanied by an intoxicatingly heady yet familiar scent. Of earthy sandalwood and freshly cut magnolias, mixed with a delicate hint of cinnamon spice. Cynthia’s signature eau de parfum. An erotic scent that drove Ariana mad each time she caught a whiff of it.   

The combination of hearing Cynthia’s voice followed by the intimate smell of her perfume stopped Ariana dead in her tracks. Her mind briefly short-circuited as she opened and closed her mouth a few times, emitting neither sound nor greeting.

But before Ariana could string together a simple sentence, Cynthia’s eyes had already darted towards the direction of the painting behind the desk.

“Is that an original de Lempicka painting?” Cynthia asked, her eyes full of wonder.

All three quizzically stared at the object in question - a mysterious beauty clutching a bouquet of calla lilies in the same shade as her white satin gown. A scarlet red shawl draped elegantly over her arms, the vibrant hue matching her fingernails and lips. Her thin dress accentuating each shape and curve of her voluptuous body.  

Ariana was the first to break the silence. “Well yeah, we’re in fucking Val Aponte’s swanky apartment, so I would say yes, that is definitely an original painting!” she laughed heartily.

Cynthia moved slightly closer to her. “I know of an interesting little tidbit about this painting…” she offered coyly, a half-smirk forming on her red lips.  

“And what would that be, pray tell?” Ari teased.

She secretly loved it when Cynthia came up with the most random bits of information during conversations. It was one of the many quirks she adored about her - her brilliant mind, her intelligence. It was a huge turn-on, she had to admit.

But something about Cynthia’s serious tone made her pause.       

“Did you know there were rumours…” Cynthia continued, as she pointed towards the painting, her voice now low and deliberate, “that this woman wasn’t just the artist’s close friend - she was also her lover?”

“Is that so?” Ari asked.  

A loaded question that begged to be answered. Just like the painting itself.

“Yes,” Cynthia replied.

A simple confirmation. Unassuming yet so consequential in its meaning and intent.  

With her arm outstretched, Cynthia took a step closer to Ari and gently tucked a few stray baby hairs behind her ear. In turn, Ari softly placed her hands on the lapels of Cynthia’s trench coat. Their eyes met in a sudden, momentary silence.

What trivial space existed between them evaporated into thin air, in a movement that echoed two disparate yet similar halves coming together as one.   

As they whispered sweet nothings to each other, like they were the only two people left on earth, Chris immediately sensed a palpable shift in the air. It was a subtle change, unspoken yet viscerally felt. 

Time seemed to slow to a halt before him. And he became acutely aware of their undeniable energy, as if he were caught in the middle of a gravitational push and pull between two heavenly bodies.

He moved backwards to give them some space, allowing their privately tender moment to unfold before the madness began.

Art imitates life, imitating art, Chris ironically mused, as he turned away from the pair and joined the rest of the crew.

“Listen,” he shouted, clapping twice. “Listen!”

“Let’s pray for a smooth run today, folks. We’ve only got a day to shoot this. Let’s go!”

Chapter Text

Chorus

The opening black-and-white scene begins in complete silence.

The shot, a blurry close-up of a brass doorknob, slowly zooms out to reveal a closed hardwood door – tall, dark and imposing.          

A tentative moment passes and the solid door swings wide open, creaking under its own weight. A figure in a long trench coat and charcoal-grey fedora hat can be seen stepping into a palatial office, their face concealed, their confident gait measured and erect.

They head straight for the bar cart in the far-left corner of the room, stocked with Bohemian crystal decanters and amber flutes, its polished chrome finish gleaming in the soft, dim light.

An ornate clock can be heard ticking unhurriedly from the mantel on top of a cavernous fireplace, the moody flames flickering shadows across the floor. Nonchalantly, they slowly pour themselves a drink.

Cradling the glass, they walk towards a large mahogany desk but stop a few feet short. Their piercing brown eyes stare straight at the enigmatic woman in the oil painting behind the desk. With their right hand, they hold the drink up high and softly say, “À votre santé”. A toast in perfectly pronounced French.

They wink alluringly and down the single malt whisky in one smooth sip, the distilled liquid scorching a blazing path down their throat. Then, they place the empty crystal glass on the edge of the desk.

In the middle of the office, a vintage Persian rug covers the checkered floor, upon which a solitary chair stands sentinel. The figure deliberately moves towards the chair and sits down.

Stony-faced and serious, they patiently sit. Quietly, expectantly. Their head cocks slightly to the side, as if waiting for something to begin, their burgundy Oxford shoes tapping a steady rhythm on the rug.

Tap… Tap… Tap...    

Then, the first notes of the song start to play.

The tapping fades into the distance and the searing sounds of a muffled trumpet fill the room – insistent and blistering in its repetitive delivery. It plays a soulful cry, something that would not have sounded out of place in an intimate 1930s jazz club.  

As the brass-heavy intro unfolds, the figure reaches into the pocket of their double-breasted trench coat and takes out a cigar and a gold-plated Zippo lighter – a singular word engraved on the metal in beautiful cursive script.

Their eyes widen as they silently mouth it: “Dandelion”. Their thumb reverently tracing the engraved letters.    

In one fluid stroke, they flick open the lighter and spark up the cigar – a dexterous, well-practised motion. They watch the thick plume of smoke rise and swirl, but through the milky white haze, a slight almost imperceptible movement catches their eye.

The silhouette of a woman emerges through the door. The song announcing her arrival as it transitions unexpectedly from a trumpet sound loop to a pulsating bass line.   

Mean what I say, say what I mean. Not one to play, I am as you see...

The smoky haze dissipates as the camera pans closer, revealing a woman in an oversized mink coat – the rich brown fur enveloping her body, save for a glimpse of leg sheathed in sheer black stockings.

She shimmers in the subdued light, her ears adorned with a baguette-cut hoop earring, each decked with a luminous pearl. A white-gold cobra choker, crafted from three rows of octagon-cut crystals, graces her delicate neck. All Swarovski, of course.  

Ariana demurely hesitates and leans by the doorframe, allowing the mysterious figure in the trench coat to drink every inch of her, fully devouring the sight of her presence with their hungry eyes.

Satisfied with what they see, they sit upright and inch forward. The shot zooms in on their angular face, their eyes still concealed by the brim of their fedora hat. They furtively lick their lips – full and luscious, beautifully painted and lined in a matte Bordeaux-red colour. Ariana smiles clandestinely. She takes this as a cue to proceed. She has the woman’s undivided attention now.

These other boys, they're one and the same...    

Lithe of limb, Ariana steps forward. Her graceful stride punctuated by her patent Louboutin stiletto heels, clicking in sync with the dirty trap beat of the song. Her high ponytail swish from side to side, mirroring the suggestive cadence of her hips. This is a different Ariana. A grown and sexy Ariana. The likes of which the public have not seen before. Until now.

I got what you need, I'm thinking you should plant this seed...

Ariana now stands between the woman’s spread open legs, sensually licking her vermilion red lips as she searches and finds their silk tie, roughly pulling them up on their feet – the spirit of Positions era Cuntiana possessing her completely.

She swiftly unfastens their trench coat to unveil a crisp white shirt underneath, which barely covers the faint outline of their nipple rings. Ariana’s mink fur coat quickly follows suit, with both items of clothing now discarded in a jumbled heap on the floor.      

And yes, I promise. If I'm being honest. You can get anything you'd like. Can't you see I bloom at night...?

What lies beneath the fur coat makes the woman step back in equal parts surprise and pleasure. Their mouth falls open as they lasciviously examine Ariana from head to toe – and then greedily, back up again.  

Ariana closes her eyes and sways provocatively to the beat, wearing nothing but a sheer rose lace and tulle bra, her small pink nipples peeking through the transparent material. Her hands roam over her toned body, veering down to her matching black lace briefs, where she playfully fingers the straps of her onyx suspender belt. Her sensual dance illuminated by the crackling fire.

Boy, just don't blow this. Got me like, ‘What's your wish list...?’

Like a magnet drawn, the woman places their hands on Ariana’s swaying hips and attempts to pull her close. But in a surprising move, Ariana deftly puts her hand on the woman’s chest and forcefully pushes them back down on the chair. Sit, she silently commands. The woman obediently complies, a wry smile forming on their lips.

You can get anything you'd like, I'll be your dandelion…

Ariana grips the woman’s shoulders with both hands and straddles their thighs. She rolls her body like a writhing serpent, her cobra choker glimmering in the hushed velvet light. The woman catches the seductive rhythm and gyrates with her, their supple bodies flowing in unison to the intoxicating beat, their heads simultaneously leaning back in carnal ecstasy.

As the song nears its heated climax, Ariana reaches beneath the chair and pulls out a bouquet of flowers, the stems loosely held together with an emerald-green ribbon. A floral arrangement of yellow blooms and white, puffy spheres.

A bouquet of dandelions, if you will.

With a coquettish smile, Ariana brings the bouquet to the woman’s lips, daring her to blow. The woman pauses, her questioning eyes lingering on the flowers.

Are you sure? her hesitant expression seems to ask.

Ariana nods and tenderly cups the woman’s cheek with her left hand. With the other, she gently lifts her fedora hat and lets it fall from her fingers to the floor. Their eyes meet and hold for what feels like an eternity, though lasting only a few seconds.

Plant the seed, Cynthia, her gaze dares.

Cynthia looks at Ariana and winks.

Your wish is my command.

Leaning in, she inhales deeply, her chest rising like the surging tide on a full moon.

She purses her lips, and with a slow and deliberate exhale, she sends the seeds spiralling into the smoky air, like tiny sparks from a smouldering flame. They float gingerly, weightlessly, as they drift back down, brushing the air like a warm sigh. They settle across Ariana’s dainty collarbone and the curve of her heaving chest, the delicate flecks of soft white resting against her bare skin.              

Ariana lets out a shameless, inaudible moan.

The seeds are now planted.

Epilogue

The music video gradually faded to black as Ariana closed her Apple laptop. It was five in the morning, and she had watched the video at least seven times, replaying the part where Cynthia blew the dandelion seeds over and over again. Cynthia groggily stirred next to her, the ivory white cotton sheets scarcely covering her luscious, firm breasts.

“What are you doing, love?” she murmured, turning her body towards Ariana, her husky voice still heavily tinged with sleep.  

“Oh nothing, Cyn. I just couldn’t sleep so I was watching the video.”

Cynthia rubbed her eyes and pulled herself up against the padded headboard. She let the sheets slip off, her gloriously taut physique coming into full view.

“Babe, you haven’t slept?” she eyed Ariana with a raised brow.

Ariana lightly chuckled, “No, I just couldn’t wind down. I’m still buzzing from the music video launch party last night.” Her eyes now trailed down Cynthia’s naked torso, “And also, how could I sleep after all our bedroom shenanigans?” A salacious grin spread across her lips. 

Cynthia cheekily pouted and inched her body closer. She wrapped her arms warmly around her slender waist, the heat of Ariana’s back against her chest enveloping her.

“You should’ve told me, love. I would’ve stayed up with you if you couldn’t sleep?” she said tenderly as she planted a line of kisses on Ariana’s shoulders.

“It’s ok, Cyn, you needed your rest. After all, I did make you come three times last night,” Ariana snickered like a naughty little schoolgirl. “You’re an Earth sign and I’m a Water sign, so that means we can go all night, right?” she added matter-of-factly.

“Baby, what do I do with you?” Cynthia shook her head with a sweet smile. “Star signs, exospheres, dandelions, planting seeds? I really wonder what goes on in that gorgeously fascinating mind of yours.”

Ariana giggled, whimsical and bright. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she sang playfully into the crisp morning air as she hopped off her side of the bed, a pep in her step.  

Cynthia let out a laugh and switched on the bedside lamp.

“Ugh, what time is it, anyway?” She grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand and tapped the Do Not Disturb icon. “Bloody hell, I slept through my alarm!” she groaned, throwing her head back onto the feathery pillow.

She squinted and took another look at her phone. Over a hundred text messages – from friends, family and various people in the industry. Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the deluge of notifications, only stopping when she saw a familiar name: Capri Hakeem, her childhood best friend.

I’ll start with you, habibi, she decided.

She opened his message. It contained no text, just a link to a billboard article.

Cynthia took a long look at Ariana, who stood in front of the bathroom sink, innocently humming a Broadway tune as she tied her long hair into a tight, neat bun.

She held her breath and clicked on the link.

The breaking of the internet had begun.