#(i will try to do the same in the next reply)

[kominigiru]

here’s part 2 of milkshakes and misunderstandings :] (1.2k wc)

You wake up with a headache that feels like it’s trying to saw your skull in half. The hangover hits hard—your mouth is dry, your limbs heavy, your thoughts slow. You groan and flop back against your pillow, summoning the only person who might take pity on you.

“De,” you croak, like a child calling for a parent. “Water.”

You receive no verbal response, but you do hear shuffling from outside. A moment later, your bedroom door creaks open.

Mydei, your brother slash roommate, enters with a glass of water and a face that could sour milk. The eternal expression of older sibling disappointment. It’s the same look he wears every time you do something he considers objectively dumb—which is always.

You accept the glass without thanks, chug it like it’s the last in existence, then collapse back into your pillow. The bed dips beside you as he sits down.

He doesn’t ease into conversation. He never does.

“You have a boyfriend,” he says, flat as drywall. “I’d say congratulations, but I’m still deciding whether to kill him first or you.”

“What?” You look at him like he’s grown two heads. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“That’s not what you told me on the phone,” he replies, placing the empty glass on your nightstand with a little too much emphasis.

You blink, trying to focus through the fog of your own brain rot. Somewhere in the recesses of your memory, there’s loud music, alcohol, milkshakes, and someone really, really pretty holding your phone like it was grenade.

“I don’t remember calling you,” is all you manage to croak out.

“That’s because I called you.” Mydei sighs, rubbing his temple like this conversation is actively lowering his lifespan. “Next time, if you’re going to get drunk and get yourself a boyfriend, at least pick someone more… sensible. Out of all the people in your school, you just had to choose Phainon.”

The name hits you like a defibrillator.

You jolt upright so fast your vision whites out for a second. “What?!”

Phainon?! As in Phainon?!

Okhema University’s Golden Boy?

The captain of the basketball team?

The senior you share half your classes with?

Your (and, let’s be real, half the school’s) low-key, high-key crush?

That Phainon?!

Mydei doesn’t even blink. “He brought you home in his car after getting milkshakes. You professed your love for him and then passed out. He said Stelle asked him to take you home.”

Stelle. Of course it was Stelle. The only person alive who knows about your ridiculous, slow-burning, definitely-doomed crush.

And of course she’s friends with him. Of course she is.

But hold on—what did he just say?

“Wait—what do you mean I ‘professed my love’?”

“I mean exactly that,” Mydei deadpans. “You declared you really, really loved him. Emphasis on the really.”

You make a noise that is not human.

Your hands fly to your head, gripping your hair like you’re trying to physically hold your soul in place. Fingers twist into your strands, tangling at the roots. You curl in on yourself like the fetal position might offer some kind of emotional immunity.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, horrified. “I can never go to class again. I have to drop out, fake my death, move to Aidonia, and start a new life as a sheep farmer.”

“Good,” Mydei says without missing a beat. “Fewer mistakes for me to clean up.”

You groan and flop back into the pillow, arms over your face like maybe, just maybe, if you stop existing hard enough, time will rewind and you’ll make better choices.

But deep down, you know it won’t. Because you got drunk, confessed to your crush, and even your brother witnessed it.

This is a disaster.

I need to call Stelle, you decide, already grabbing your phone like it’s a lifeline.

You shoo your brother toward the door with the urgency of someone trying to hide a crime scene. Mydei gives you a look—equal parts exhaustion and judgment—but thankfully doesn’t argue. He exits with a muttered “good luck,” and shuts the door behind him.

The second he’s gone, you fumble with your phone and stab at her contact.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then—

“…Hello?” Stelle’s voice is groggy, thick with sleep. “Did you get home safe?”

“I did,” you whisper-shout, “but that’s not why I’m calling. Why—” you hiss, “—did you ask Phainon to take me home?!”

You hear the faint sound of rustling fabric. “Did you two kiss or what?”

Your entire face catches fire. “No! Even worse! I made him buy me a milkshake, told my brother he’s my boyfriend, and apparently—I said I really, really love him!”

There’s a beat of silence. Then she yawns. “Okay, but like… what’s the problem?”

You stare at your ceiling in disbelief. “The problem is I embarrassed myself in front of my crush, who also happens to be your friend. And worse—Mydei found out. He knows Phainon! They’re basketball rivals from opposing universities! You basically threw me at the captain of Okhema’s basketball team like I’m a drunken offering to the gods of romantic humiliation!”

Stelle snorts. “Okay, drama queen. Want me to give you his number so you can apologize or something?”

You groan. “You owe me a milkshake for this.”

“Didn’t Phainon already buy you one? That’s two milkshakes in one day. This is the greed they warned us about in the Bible.”

“Stelle—”

She laughs. “I’m helping your love life, babe, so you’re welcome. But sure, I’ll buy you any milkshake you want.”

“You better. That’s a promise.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you in class.”

The call ends.

A second later, your phone buzzes with a new message:

You’ve been staring at the number for five full minutes now. You don’t even know where to start.

Should you just apologize and pretend none of it ever happened?

Should you offer to make it up to him?

Would that make it worse?

Would he even reply?

What if he hates you now?

You chew on your lip, anxiety churning in your stomach. The idea of seeing him in class again—with all this hanging over you—is enough to make you want to spontaneously combust.

And if he leaves you on read? Or worse—never reads it at all?

No. You have to send something. You’ll drive yourself insane if you don’t.

Just wing it, you tell yourself, fingers already flying across the screen.

After multiple rewrites and a minor existential crisis, your thumb finally hovers over the send button.

The message reads:

You hit send.

Instant regret floods your system like battery acid.

You clutch your phone, staring at the screen like it might explode. Then—eight minutes later—the “Read” appears.

You scream.

You throw your phone face-down on the bed like it’s cursed.

You bury your face in your hands and seriously consider deleting your number, your name, your entire existence.

Then your phone buzzes.

You peek. One message.

You stare at it. Then you see the typing bubble pop up.

…Then disappear.

Then reappear.

Then disappear again.

You hold your breath, heart in your throat.

Another message chimes in. Then another.

And when you read it, your brain short-circuits.

© 2025 kominigiru.

note: this was sooo fun to write! as a fan of smau, i enjoyed making the fake chats (even though i had to go back and forth to make and edit it lol so if the images seem low quality and you notice the timestamps don’t make sense, just pretend otherwise ❤️). unfortunately though, this will be the last part to this series. it was supposed to be just a one shot at first but seeing as a lot of people liked it and requested for a part 2, i decided to make one.

i think romcoms suit phainon really well. he’s the ultimate male lead—the opposite of a northern duke. a duke of the south? hmmmm

also, once mydei hears abt you and phainon going out for real, he’s gonna break phainon’s spirit and crush his dreams the next time they see each other in a basketball court ❤️

[kingkat12]

on the record (clark kent x reader)

WARNINGS: piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), banter, teasing, secret office romance, established relationship, sort of sex tape but not rlly cause it'd be an audio sex tape??, fluff, porn with plot, no spoilers!<3

summary: finally, you get that interview with Superman that could make or break your career-- however, it will be done his way, or no way.

word count: 4,362

a/n: hey everyone!! I literally never write anything that isn't Bill Skarsgård related, but I saw the Superman movie today and couldn't help thinking how HOT David Corenswet was!!! so this fic goes out to my best friend who I saw this movie with, hope you like it you little gremlin (ily babes let's play starstable soon tihii) credits to @krayonimous for the gif!!<3

"Oh, come on,"

My words were whispered under my breath, dragged out by my annoyance at the sight of the front page of The Daily Planet today.

Superman Speaks: The Peace-Mission, by Clark Kent.

I pushed the paper away like it offended me, letting it slide crooked across my desk. The headline still stared up at me, taunting as ever, and I could practically hear his voice in it-- soft-spoken, heavy with concern, and full of just enough gravitas to make even the skeptics stop and feel something.

It was getting annoying, at this point-- every other week came another exclusive, and yet another quiet little masterstroke from Kent. Would it ever end?

Clark's desk was still empty, of course. The chair next to mine was untouched, his coat not draped over it yet, and I could feel my irritation fester. If that had been me, I'd have been fired a month ago. But because of these damn exclusive Superman interviews, he had secured himself a spot at the company, no matter what.

I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk-- once, twice, just to give myself something to do with the irritation.

And then, right on cue, the elevator dinged.

Voices rose-- someone greeted him before I saw him, and then there he was, walking in like he had just stepped off the cover of his own feature, glasses a little fogged from the humidity, tie not even pretending to be straight. Still, with perfectly tousled dark hair like that, and with eyes the shade of dreamy lagoons, it was impossible not to stare. He smiled, nodded, and offered a sheepish morning to the general hum of recognition around him for getting the front page. And then, just to top it off, someone clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on 'another one'.

... God.

He even had the nerve to look embarrassed about it.

I looked back at my screen like I was busy, like I wasn’t tracking the exact number of steps it took him to get from the elevator to his chair, like I didn’t hear the gentle thud of his bag hitting the floor next to mine--

“Morning,” Clark murmured, settling into his chair. 

“Barely,” I replied, eyes on my inbox-- if I allowed myself to look at him, I'd just think about how broad his shoulders were now that he was so close, and I couldn't do that to myself, not at work.

Clark didn’t respond right away; he just scooted his chair in with unnecessary force, trying to get my attention. I didn’t look over, but I knew he was smiling. “You saw the story?” he asked, all innocence.

"Impossible to miss,"

"What did you think?"

Inhaling sharply, I shrugged; "I think it's very convenient that you're always at the right place at the right time,"

Clark huffed a quiet laugh; “You didn’t like it,"

“Oh, I never said that,”

“You didn’t have to,"

I finally glanced at him, trying not to gawk at his beauty. Clark was already watching me, elbows on his desk, with that same irritating softness around his plush mouth that made him look more sincere than he had any right to be. His tie was really a disaster, though-- looped too tight, one side bunched like he had gotten distracted halfway through. 

Not that anyone but me would notice or care; it was sort of endearing on days when he didn't have a new front-page Superman interview, anyway. “It's just interesting, that's all," I said. "That Superman only talks to you. One could argue that you might be bribing him."

That only made Clark's boyish smirk widen. “Superman is a man of the law,” he murmured, teasing as always. “He would never accept bribes. I ask and he talks, that's all,”

“Mhm... Right,"

I turned back to my screen, biting down on a grin myself. I didn’t need to look at him to feel the air crackle between us. The buzz of it always gave me a high-- always. What had started out as office friction had turned into something sharper, something hotter, and now it sat between our desks like a huge elephant no one wanted to admit was there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clark lean back and stretch slightly, his tight, white shirt stretching over his broad chest-- he had the balls to look smug about this, yet that slight rosy colour appearing in his cheeks contradicted his every move. He enjoyed this too, I was certain of it. “You know,” he murmured. “You could always pitch for the next one. Superman might be up to giving you an interview... Everyone knows you're the best writer in the office.”

I looked at him slowly, not yet impressed. “Oh, really now?”

Clark shrugged again, lifting his hands in faux surrender. “It’s not my fault he likes talking to me,”

I gave him a flat look, snorting. “You’re intolerable,"

“I think you should try,” he murmured, dragging a folder out of his bag as he disregarded my last words. “He might be up for it. On the record, and everything."

That was it-- my eyes rounded out. "On... the record?" 

That was new.

Clark's blue eyes practically shimmered as he put his earbuds in, casual as ever, yet his smirk betrayed him; "Who knows? You might get lucky tonight,"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The scent hit me before I even dropped my keys-- garlic, butter, and something rich and comforting I couldn't put my finger on. I stopped halfway through taking off my coat, catching sight of him in the kitchen; Clark, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in my favourite pan like he had lived here for years.

I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding. This was my favourite sight to come home to. 

I could already sense the smile in his voice without him having to turn to me; “Hey, you,” he murmured.

Oh, wow. “You made dinner,” I breathed, watching the way his white shirt stretched across his broad back-- finally, I could gawk at him now that we weren't at work.

“You were grumpy this morning,” Clark replied, unaware of the way I was looking at him right now; or was he? “I figured you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make you.”

Of course. Of course he'd do this after our back-and-forth banter this morning. "I wasn't grumpy," I put my coat away before finally approaching Clark, leaning against the kitchen counter as I tried to see what he was making. "But you know I can't be acting over the moon for you at the office. Everyone would catch on."

He hummed, still stirring. I watched him work, letting the silence stretch between us in a way that didn’t feel uncomfortable. It never did with him-- not here, not like this. The air felt warmer than it should have, like the kitchen lights had dimmed a little just for the two of us. “Smells good,” I murmured, my back pressing against the kitchen counter as I turned, reaching up to brush a soft, black strand of his hair away from his forehead. 

“It’s your favourite,” He said it without looking up, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t planned this out from the moment he left the office. Sweet, sweet boy. 

I could only smile; I liked us when we were alone, when we didn't have to hide our feelings. No cape, no headlines, no rivalry-- just Clark in my kitchen, sleeves rolled, cooking for me because he wanted to. Because underneath everything, he knew me, and I knew him.

... More than anyone.

“Clark,” I murmured softly, dreading my next words. "I'm worried someone's going to find out that you're getting these Superman interviews because... well, you are Superman. I wouldn't want you to blow your own cover."

Clark didn't answer anything at first-- then, his brows furrowed into that look I knew too well. "Is that why you were so grumpy this morning?"

"I wasn't grumpy," I mumbled, tracing a line down his broad shoulder to his hand. "Just concerned."

Clark finally set the spoon down, resting it carefully on the edge of the pan before turning to face me fully. His blue eyes were unreadable, and it made my anxiety bubble.  “I appreciate you worrying,” he said, voice low and soft. “But I’ve been doing this a long time. I know how to keep the lines separate.”

I searched his face, and the way his jaw flexed as he chose his words carefully. I scanned the quiet certainty in his posture, how even now (smelling like garlic and city air) he held himself like someone who had the world to carry. “I know you do,” I admitted. “But... still. Every time someone jokes about how close you are with Superman, I feel like I’m holding my breath.”

At that, Clark snorted, cracking up into a smile; "You're the one that makes the most jokes about that,"

"Yeah, but that's because!--"

"If anything, you're the instigator of those rumours,"

"I'm not, I just-- Clark, do you hear what I'm telling you?"

Muting his laughter, he let his shoulders slouch, showing that he was backing down. "I do have a solution, though," he murmured. "I wasn't joking about what I said earlier."

I didn't need a mirror to know my eyes shot out a spark or two. "Me interviewing you?"

"Yes,"

"As Superman?"

"Yes,"

"That sounds... fair," I mumbled. "Finally, you won't know the questions beforehand. It's actually much more ethically sourced than how you do it, if we're taking media laws into account."

Clark huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his fingers along the edge of the counter before stepping just a little closer to me. “Ethically sourced?” he echoed. “You’re going to cite journalism codes of conduct now?”

“I might,” I said, chin lifted. “Someone has to keep you humble.”

His hand found my waist-- light, familiar, and grounding. “So, let me get this straight,” he murmured, voice dipping just slightly. “This will be a legitimate, recorded interview with Superman. Questions unapproved. No edits. No off-the-record pauses.”

“Exactly,” I nodded once, hoping to bite down my smirk. “Full transparency.”

He tilted his head, black hair kissing his forehead, blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully behind his glasses-- “Will you go soft on him?”

“No,” came my answer, instant as ever. “I’m going to grill him like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Clark grinned, all teeth this time. “I’d expect nothing less,”

The space between us thinned again, shrinking in that way it always did when we weren’t pretending. His thumb rubbed a slow, absent circle at the small of my back, and the scent of garlic and butter and whatever else he’d conjured tonight clung to the warmth around us like something domestic we were still getting used to.

“I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this,” I said, a little breathless, more off-guard than I meant to sound.

“You’ve wanted to get him in the hot seat for months,” he said, the excitement clear in his voice. “If it makes you feel better, and if it keeps people from asking too many questions, then yeah, Let’s do it. On the record.”

I held my breath, feeling my heartbeat soar. "Now?"

"Sure," Clark shrugged. He pulled me closer like it was no big deal, like he didn't know that every touch from him set me on fire-- "But if we're doing this, then we're going to do it my way."

"... What?"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Oh, I should've known.

I should've known that Clark would do something like this, that cheeky bastard.

My attitude this morning could've set this off too, I had no idea-- all I knew was that I had to keep quiet if I wanted this audio to be able to go on the record. 

Still, it was impossible not to squirm as Clark's big hands greedily grabbed at my hips, long fingers caressing my skin as his tongue swirled my right hip-bone; holy fuck. He reached for my underwear, tugging it upward to get better access, to get me twitching harder against my duvet. "You've-- You've got a lot of heat on social media lately," I started, stumbling through my questions whilst running my hands through Clark's thick locks as he continued to make me weak. 

He hummed against my skin, leaving wet kisses up along my stomach. "I don't read that stuff," he murmured. "Superman doesn't have time for selfies."

I rolled my eyes, letting out a shaky sigh. How could he be so composed, even now? Even after he somehow managed to get me out of my clothes with all of his intact and on? "You're gonna-- You're gonna refer to yourself in third person?" I glanced at the audio recording device I had propped on the bed, swallowing hard as Clark's kisses started darting down again, his lips brushing against the hem of my dampening underwear. 

"Hm?" he answered, mind clearly wandering. 

"This is on the record-- Superman,"

"And what about it?"

"Doesn't it sound a bit--" My breath hitched as Clark's hands left my hips, now grabbing at the underside of my thighs to spread my legs. I glanced down at how he had situated himself between them, comfortable and cocky as ever, blue eyes darkening with want. My voice was barely a squeak; "Pompous?"

At that, Clark raised a brow at me, clearly amused. "Really, now? Pompous?"

I decided not to push it-- I had other things to focus on, now that I really had Superman here...

Between my legs. 

"Today, the-- the secretary of defence said he was going to--" Before I could stop it, my breath hitched once again, watching Clark press open-mouthed kisses against my clothed clit. Was he trying to make this impossible? Totally. This interview would be deemed impossible by any other interviewer, surely, but me? Nu-uh. I was going to prevail, no matter how hard he made this for me. "Look into your actions," I continued. "He's going to-- look into them."

At that, Clark laughed; I could feel the rumble of his chest vibrate the bed, with how big he was compared to me. 

"That's funny?" I snapped, trying to gain some leverage.

Clark raised himself a bit, blinking up at me with that classic, cocky, all-American boy smile like he had done nothing wrong. "My actions?" he echoed, hooking his fingers around my underwear. "I stopped a war."

I shrugged, hoping to act as normal; "Maybe,"

"Not maybe," he huffed, peeling my panties down my thighs. "I did."

"Well, you did illegally enter a country?--"

"For the sake of peace," Clark was getting snappy now; if I hadn't heard it in his voice, I would've pieced it together with how he tossed away my underwear, settling between my legs once again. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" I mumbled.

"Like that,"

Before I could pry more, before I could say anything proper, my body betrayed me-- my back arched against the feeling of his warm breath falling against my soaked sex, and I held back a whimper that I certainly didn't want on my recording machine. 

"Be nice," Clark said, before gently wrapping his lips around my clit without warning, suckling me softly.

My hands practically flew into his dark, thick hair as I tried to cushion my moans into my pillow, but to no avail-- a quiet moan left me, and I could feel Clark smile against me. Still, I knew I had to keep my brain sharp, knew I couldn't give in this easily; "Did you-- consult with the president? Before trespassing?"

At that, Clark groaned against me, sending vibrations up along my spine that I had never felt before. "No," he mumbled against my sex, before grabbing my thighs harder, pushing them further against me like he wanted me to fold in half. I could only whimper as he then laved his tongue between my folds, circling my clit with the softest kitten-licks known to man-- he was trying to drive me nuts, wasn't he? 

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, so you?-- fuck--"

"Language," 

"-- Sorry," 

I could feel his smooth skin against my inner thighs, freshly shaven, and the sensation only added to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside me with every move. Clark's tongue moved in slow, teasing circles now, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against me, icy-blue eyes flicking up to watch my reaction every so often.

I wasn't going to let him win; he could have the front page for all that I cared, but not this. I sucked in a sharp breath, ready to finally let out a cohesive sentence; "Do you know why that-- looks bad?"

Clark didn't answer, too busy wrapping his lips around my clit again, a little firmer this time, which was enough to have me fighting the urge to clamp my legs around his head. 

"Superman," I tried, glancing at the recording device once more; was this footage even usable? Should I bother not calling him his real name? "It seemed like you were acting as a-- as a representative of the United States without having consulted the-- the government?"

Irked, Clark raised himself to properly look at me; with his big hands still gripping the underside of my thighs, plush mouth glistening with my slick, he suddenly didn't seem so happy to be answering my questions anymore. "I wasn't representing anybody except for me," 

"Did you not think about-- what it would look like?" Now that I wasn't getting the life sucked out of me, I could finally catch my breath. I propped myself up on my shaky elbows, meeting Clark's blue eyes with compassion. "I understand that you must've been under a lot of stress, but--"

"Oh, you have no idea,"

"But could you perhaps have considered the consequences?--"

"That wasn't as important as!--"

"What is more important than avoiding war, Superman?--"

"People were going to die!" 

At that, we both stilled. 

My mouth parted in shock at the fact that sweet, gentle Clark had raised his voice at me like that. I stared down at him, frozen. 

It didn't take long before he raised himself to his knees, visibly taken aback by how much my questions were affecting him. He blinked a couple of times, trying to recover, as his hands slowly lifted from my thighs, letting them naturally crease over his. 

None of us spoke until I dared-- "I'm sorry,"

Clark didn't move. Avoided my gaze. Didn't breathe either, as far as I could tell. 

With a sigh, I reached for the audio recording device, shutting it off; that was enough for now. The interview wasn't as important as what was happening in front of me. I didn't care that I was undressed. I didn't care. Carefully, I sat up, daring to gently cup his face; "Clark," I murmured. "You're a good man. You did what you thought was right. I don't hold that against you, no one does."

Clark's jaw was tight under my palm-- still warm, still damp from me, but set. “I know you don’t hold it against me,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, but rough. “But you still asked, like you wanted me to say it was wrong. Like you thought it was."

“I don’t want you to say it was wrong,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “I want to know that you at least thought about it, Clark... That you didn’t just act on instinct or impulse."

His eyes flicked up to mine at that, too fast, too sharp. 

There it was-- proof that Superman was human, in his own way. Impulsive. Rash. Passionate. Rattled with guilt. 

Clark exhaled like it hurt to admit his mistakes, even though he hadn't said them out loud. He knew that I knew. Carefully, he leaned into my touch, just barely, his hands now hovering over my legs, unsure if he was still allowed to touch me after raising his voice, like that one slip of temper meant he didn’t get softness anymore.

My fingers sank into his hair again, stroking through it slower now, calmer. "You saved the day, Superman," I murmured, a trying smile finding its way to my lips. "That's what's important, okay?"

"Okay," Clark echoed, his heavy blue gaze avoiding mine. 

Enough. I couldn't stand to look at that sad face anymore; "Let's forget the world for a moment, hm?" I pressed a kiss to the right corner of his mouth. "It's just you and me, now," Left. "And that wouldn't be possible without you, so come here and reap your reward."

Finally, Clark's eyes peeked up at me again, interest spiking. "What do you?--"

I didn't let him finish that sentence. 

It also didn't take long before my arms draped around his neck, pulling him down with me onto the bed with a heated kiss. Clark accepted, caging me with his broad shoulders, mouth moving against mine like he wanted to remember every curve, every push, every whimper; he let out a pleasured sigh and smiled into the kiss, melting my heart.

Clark's passion was all-taking-- he moved to softly nibble on my earlobe, licking a stripe up the shell, which he knew always got me giggling, as we got him out of his black jeans. I could feel the way our breaths clashed, how our chests pressed together in a moment of fire none of us could control, pure impulse, before his reassuring words came as always; "I've got you," he murmured, the soft head of his cock prodding at my entrance, his big, calloused hands once again gripping at my thighs.

"Need you," I breathed, nipping at his strong jaw. "Want you, Clark-- need you."

Clark hummed; "Bet," he teased, before rocking forward, just enough for the head to push inside. 

The whimpers that fell from my mouth were impossible to stop, and my hands gave his dark hair an involuntary tug. "Fuck,"

I knew he didn't like swearing, and I knew that'd be the key to getting what I wanted. With an annoyed huff, Clark pushed his cock into me, letting out a shaky sigh against my shoulder as I shuddered against him. Thankfully, he couldn't see my sheepish smile of victory; I had waited for this since the second I saw that front page article. This feeling. Him inside of me. Just us.

The first few thrusts were deeper than usual, probably fueled by our fiery interview and my affinity for cuss-words tonight, but I didn't mind-- being filled up by Clark was such heaven, that I didn't really care how it happened. I'd sell my soul for this, surely; for my fingers to burn with euphoria coursing through my veins. 

Clark pulled out halfway and pushed into me again, firmer this time, making my breath hitch as my nails left crescent moons into his broad back. "You feel so good," he murmured, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had me melting into my duvets. "Missed you like this."

"Missed you too," I moaned, pressing a weak kiss to his shoulder. "Stop-- saving the world all the goddamn-- time."

At that, Clark could only laugh; "Cause this is more important, yeah?"

"Obviously,"

"Right," he purred, his slow, deep, dragging thrusts practically muting me from that point on. I could only clench around his thick length, suppressing my cries of pleasure against the muscular range of his shoulders. 

"Want me to stop saving everyone, hm?" Clark went on; "Want me to stay here and take care of you?"

I could only whimper-- yes, yes, yes. 

With a satisfactory hum, his plush lips found my throat, sucking a mark against my skin, branding me over and over; he might as well have stamped a Superman-stamp on my neck. "I would if I could," Clark huffed, groaning against my skin; I felt his cock twitch inside of me at the intrigue of that thought, and it made me clutch him harder as he fucked me into the mattress, instincts taking over. "Would stay here-- make you feel good, make you cum, make you-- satisfied--"

I could hear it in the roughness of his voice that he was close, closer than he usually was at this point. Was it really our heated arguments today that had fried both our nerves? I couldn't tell. 

To delay just a moment more, to continue revelling in our wet union, Clark propped himself up on his knees, guiding my legs over his thighs again-- his hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing firm circles, intent on getting me over the edge first. Fucking gentleman. 

I choked down another lewd moan, the pleasure building quicker than expected. "God, Clark, I-- I can't--"

"It's okay," he murmured, watching me with those big, blue, loving eyes I adored. "Want you to let go when you're close, okay? Could you-- Could you do that for me?"

"Anything," I breathed. "Anything for you."

Clark let out a hum of approval, warm as always, as my vision started going hazy; he continued circling my clit with the nicest of pressures, making my toes curl, making my breath catch, and I soon enough had to tell myself to breathe, chanting it over and over in my head. Without meaning to, in the midst of me fighting the building feeling in my whole body, I shifted my hips-- I didn't mean for it to angle Clark deeper, but it gave me the grandest of rewards.

Clark let out the filthiest groan, feeling his cock engulfed in wet, tight heat, and that did it for him. 

I didn't mean to, I swear.

His right hand left my clit, and with both, he now gripped my hips tighter as his thrusts turned erratic, desperate, impulsive, but with awareness of his strength; it didn't take long before he buried himself inside of me with a deep, shuddering gasp of relief. His forehead dropped against mine as he spilled inside me, body trembling from the force of it, panting with the shock of his unexpected release.

I had no idea what came over me, or how it happened-- but with how Clark was angled, it didn't take more than two upward rolls of my hips, helped by his strong hands, to have my clit pressing against his body, and it was a sensation so light, so desperate, so chased and sought by all-taking arousal, that it shattered me even harder when I realized I was cumming from practically... nothing. My legs trembled as I felt my clit pulse, lashes fluttering shut at the intense rush.

Only Clark could have me falling apart like that, and only I could have Superman collapse like this on a Friday night.

He might not be a man-- but he surely fucked like one. 

[ov105]

Pink

This took a while to finish, and went in a more unexpected direction writing style wise. Finally got something out for Liz too, thanks to her pink jacket last April. I do like how it turned out in the end, and yes, lots of commas, as usual. Back to TripleS!

4,431 words of Kim Jiwon, well, Liz. Enjoy!

University life is monotonous. Yes, even factoring in the fun parts of it, school festivals, long nights out, mountain escapes from Seoul, and the liberal entertainment of vice, never forget the alcohol. No romanticized edit can represent the boredom you feel on some nights, just reviewing, worse, reviewing a topic that's becoming a chore. Though admittedly, dating was the same, a coin toss of a casual relationship, if you can even describe it as that, or a probable, actual relationship. Hopefully, in a perfect world, though, you can have both.

Living alone amplified that boredom. After giving up and shutting my tablet, after two hours I just enunciated my first word: "Fuck." I had already resigned myself to the thought that tomorrow's quiz could be sacrificed. Then, after watching whatever performative rot and gibberish I could see on my phone's feed, I was just about to give it up and try playing a game, offline, of course, to cure boredom, not transform it into anger. Sigh. One more look. One notification. 

[Are you bored?] Jiwon asked. 

I replied, of course I was. It was just past 10, and I wasn't so full, but not too hungry. Typically, it's "break-cum-procrastination time," but now someone asked to crash in my place. I have been dating Jiwon for a bit now. She was adorable on many days, goofy, silly, and fun to be around. Visually striking too, I could go on about how tall she was, but she had dyed her hair pink recently. That made her easier to spot. 

I asked her, and she was just as bored. 

[You want me to come over?]

I shot up in my bed. This could mean anything. I replied that, of course, I did. 

Another notification, her name, next to "sent a photo," with a play button beside it. Touch.

It was a selfie. Jiwon had her glasses on, angling her hand high with the phone, but she had her pink jacket unzipped, but not open. She was a brunette now—and had no bra—and wrote something on the lower left side, right below her tits, "I missed you somehow," with a kiss mark. Better than porn. It was an immediate yes from me. 

Another reply: [I'll get on the bus. You have beer there?]

I did, just six, the last six. I'm not much of a drinker, but Jiwon had an appetite for four. That was after we'd gotten used to each other, and it drove the conversations up and released her silly side, then turned it up to eleven. So it doesn't surprise me anymore.  Though, like we've done a few times now, whether it's after dates, even when it would've been wholesome during the daytime. It would end up, at her request, with her undergarments down to her ankles, bent over, pressed against the velvet IKEA couch she helped pick. This was going to be one of those nights again. 

Another photo, this time, she pulled her jacket to the side, it was the obvious sight—no shirt—just her cleavage. The shape of her tits tempted me, but I was an easy man when it came to her. I tried to find a more recent photo of myself and sent it. 

Another notification, it was a more wacky selfie, but she had opened what I sent. Jiwon was in the bus now, sitting in the back. I've seen her naked, but her teasing was always something. I remembered her photo and probably asked about the obvious.

[You really don't have a bra?]

[Nothing at all.]

She was just walking in here expecting to get a fucking. The thought of her just going out in public in her pink sweatsuit—such a loud color—while topless underneath, hoping to get her panties pulled down, and get fucked, already made my blood rush down. Though with eyes as big as hers, taking her missionary was always a treat. Yet, even while stressed out reviewing, I haven’t masturbated all day, so she was going to get more than one.

I did try to do something unnecessary. We never found it more annoying than having nothing to snack on after a session, though mostly, we just get delivery, then walk Jiwon back—though once she sucked me off in a shrub—to her dorm. I tried to intellectualize what was about to happen too; Maybe it was just about her time of the month? Maybe I played too much in our chats? Perhaps she found her fingers boring already. Anyway, she was on her way here, and my left hand was probably cheering for me; Finally, somebody else! It was about to roar its praises. 

[Can you pick me up? I don’t have a card, remember? ㅋㅋㅋ]

Oh, right. I thought it prudent to try not to make myself obvious. Maybe I should just throw a thick jacket on, too? Never mind. But anyway, just before I left my apartment, she did send a picture of herself, with a bag with what was probably some sort of bread or anything she could throw in my microwave. But food was the last thing on my mind. 

I wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to fuck on a fuller stomach, so I went into the staircase. Picking Jiwon up in the lobby of my dorm, I was glad that by then, the middle-aged man who often provided whatever semblance of security with a baton had gone up for his late dinner. From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t care much, though he has occasionally recognized Jiwon as she got off the lift—she was a dancer who never liked the stairs.

We got on the lift going to my floor. It was a more economical six-story apartment, a little dated, greyly brutalist, cheap, but not seedy. It was a slow lift so that we could get the usual pleasantries. Seeing our reflection on the elevator mirror, Jiwon grabbed my hand and put it around her waist. Glancing at the display, it says floor 3B, one more. I checked her word for myself and slid my hand up the back of her jacket. Nothing.

Ding! Jiwon just shot me a look before the doors slid open; she knew curiosity would get the better of me. 

We were greeted by an empty hallway, knowing what was about to happen once I shut the door, I just kept in mind that the walls were pretty thick as I put my passcode in and pushed the handle down. Entering, I didn’t turn the AC off, just down a bit, and hearing the electronic lock, I thought of turning it colder. Then I felt a hand grab me and turn me around. So eager.

Jiwon tried to grab my face and kiss me, but I was able to push her gently to the wall and close the gap first. It wasn’t just a peck; a full-blown make-out erupted only a step from the door. Handsy as she was, I grabbed a handful of her ass and the soft flesh of her tit, squeezing ever so gently as I knew later won’t be so much. At this time, the light pink-haired girl whom people, strolling out and about, or on the city bus, had seen mere moments ago was now getting herself groped with her lips on the offensive. Her breathing was getting heavy only a minute in, but she didn’t come here for a kiss and a hug, no? 

Pulling my lips away, I suggested the couch, and in a pause, found ourselves in front of it. As a homebody Jiwon was, she lay down on the armrest, with me having only my knees and an arm to keep me from falling onto her while we continued where we left off. Waiting on me to do something, I looked for the hem of her pants with my fingertips and got it right on the first try, grabbing her ass with my left hand and squeezing much harder than earlier. Her lips on mine, both my hands in her pants, I thought I needed to do some “magic,” well, some sort of it. My fingers had to get this maneuver right. 

Press one finger, press two fingers. For prudence, she did have her panties on. We already had our tongues against one another, so I kissed her deeper. Jiwon moans; perfect. Her half-lidded eyes were wide open while I pulled away.

“You want to eat me out?”

I think I smirked. A bad impression of it, perhaps. Jiwon giggled as I knelt, pulled everything off her leg, and slid my hands back up. A tall girl, she always stood out from many, so don’t let Insta fool you, that also made her legs easier to fold back by the knee as I pulled away from her. She giggled and was expecting it, knowing that I always liked eating her out, and had readied and cleaned herself before she even told me. 

Jiwon knew that teasing me was enough of an excuse to get herself into my room. 

I got a whiff of her flowery scent, but wanted a taste of it. So I gave her thigh a peck, it was soft, so I put another on the other side. It only took a few kisses before there was a hickey on her left thigh, close to where I intended to land my tongue next. One flick right on her clit made it clear to her, hearing a huff leave her mouth. Sliding my tongue up the sides, and like most food, it tasted rather salty. Though quickly, I just paid attention to her pussy, with her letting out a soft moan as she held her breath, and when my tongue finished drawing, to a barely suppressed cry when I sucked on her clit. I was relentless, and that made her even louder, only shutting herself up when she covered her mouth and weakly tried to push me away. As always, it was a weak ruse. 

“You okay?” I asked Jiwon. Our stares met with a nod from her. So I continued, lick after lick, but making sure I sucked on her clit to make it matter. Wasn’t an hour of eating her out last week enough? Guess not. From holding her breath, she had shut her eyes, with her brows furrowed, arching her back a bit, exposing just enough of her skin through her jacket, with her zipper down but not yet removed. 

Slowly, I got a hold of her thighs while I continued to eat her out. It was more of a measure if she tried to lock her legs with my head in between. Between tracing circles over her clit and the occasional suckling that caused her to yelp and moan, I was more and more being greeted with the slow, telltale drip that came with my effort. Then maybe that was my signal flare to stick my finger in, I teased by sliding and poking it, just the tip, before looking up at the trapped lady on my couch. 

Jiwon had her eyes shut as her chest rose and fell, so I wasn’t about to ask. But she had that certain glow that only arousal can bring about. Even as I had dimmed the lights, just reading her face, she wanted to feel that release. She was close, and it was going to be a loud one.

She was holding her breath more now, though moaning more, arching her back and seizing up, getting wetter as her fingers grabbed onto my scalp. Closer now, so another finger in, careful, I shouldn’t be too hasty, rush, and lose the rhythm. I just knew to keep pressing where I got the loudest moans, and suck at her clit that became all the more swollen. The small, pink bulb was exposed and had nothing to hide from this tongue.

I kept pressing at Jiwon’s spot, aware that her juices would leave a stain on the couch as it dripped down my knuckle, hence the weighted blanket she lay on top of. Now, when she was close to cumming, her legs always began to close in around me, and her arms, long as they were, couldn’t push me. They often would do the opposite, and try to pull me further into her. All I could do was oblige, holding out just a little more before the inevitable came knocking. That telltale sign of a rightfully contorted face as that final bated breath left, her weight sinking and back arching as the long moans began. Her hand grabbed onto the couch as her folds tightened around my two fingers. I kept licking, and her other hand tightened around my hair, pushing me in, as she was at the peak of her orgasm now, feeling her drip to my wrist as she slowly began to come down from it.

For the first time in a while, we were able to talk. Catching her breath, a smile came from her as she patted me on the cheek. I commanded. 

“Turn around.”

Jiwon was quite slow in turning herself over, but soon I was able to undo my shorts and put them on the floor. Yet as I readied myself to fuck her, she called my attention, and the next moment, stood right before her mouth as she laid on all fours. She just looked up at me, craning her neck forward as she stuck her tongue out and took my half-hard cock in her mouth, fingers and lips wrapping quickly over the shaft. She looked up and gave five slow bobs, without breaking eye contact, before she shut them and suddenly sped up as she gave me a quick blow, uncaring if I was twitching. Still, she knew when to stop, even when it's been a while. When her lips popped, it only looked like she put on lipstick��using my cock—and it was all ready to go.

So I finally got behind her, and with Jiwon's eyes beckoning me as she shook her butt a little. I do not think of her as one, but she sure likes to act like a whore for me sometimes. So I gave in. Slightly pushing herself back while sliding my cock between her ass, teasing entry between her folds with a loud spank. Then, I slipped in. A whimper left her, and I pushed forward, my cock disappearing between her ass with the tip causing her to flinch a bit, a long exhale then a slap on her ass as I pushed my entire length inside, the tall brunette automatically snapping into that perfect, roaring in a mix of pain and pleasure as it filled her. 

Make no mistake, she always wanted to take it. 

A hand on her hip, another on her asscheek, and I started. No slow start, those few thrusts to make sure that tight fit didn't make me finish so quickly. The quick blowjob already made sure of it. There was no love for now, only lust. I started ramping up to fuck her, as per her request. Pulling my whole length out and back in, lurching her forward as my pace started to reach a tempo. Yet amongst the slapping that started, and the chorus she began to sing, we were enjoying ourselves. Finally, having an outlet for a long week that no amount of bad habits can satisfy.

Faster now, much wetter than a minute ago. Watching Jiwon’s whole body put us in lewd perpetual motion, the recoil from her ass bouncing back at me, one leg up so I can go deeper as it was met by my loins slapping against hers. It was not long before her breaths were getting shorter and feel her wrapping around my cock, only causing me to fuck her harder. I slipped out. I wanted to try something new, so I put both my feet on the couch, much like a squat, and slipped inside her again. She felt tighter this time, with my cock quickly angling downward. This caused a long groan, then a yelp as she turned her head at me, her eyes awash with pleasure as her mouth hung open. I leaned in for a kiss without breaking tempo. Though with how hard I was and my legs already burning quite a bit, I thought it prudent to throttle back and talk for a bit, finally granting myself the satisfaction of trying a position I saw some time ago. 3-2-1, noise.

I leaned in, able to put my legs down but still deep inside Jiwon, my thrusts now at a shallower tempo. I could appreciate her folds now, thinking of myself as so lucky as her lips came onto mine. I was lost staring into her big eyes when I realized, as a single twitch almost washed us over—she was fucking herself on me—but careful to match my tempo and not preempt the inevitable.

“You’re close again?” I asked. Jiwon just nodded and replied, “Maybe you should’ve asked that earlier.”

We continued in that way for a bit, a slow, gentler interlude to the fucking she asked for. Just giving myself enough time for that tightening feeling in my gut to leave me, but I couldn’t just waste the depth I was in. Yet Jiwon was already making use of it for herself. Spank! Her back arched so I might just hit her spot, her shallow, squelchy, but undeniably needy, hops making me shut my eyes as I tried to not cum before she did. Distracting myself with her lips as she made out with me, but amidst the strong stares, flicking of tongues, and slobbering of lips, she begged for me to cum in her if I wanted to. Often, I was tongue-tied when I was close, so I tried to talk. 

“How about you first?” 

She just smirked. Jiwon smirked. It was a signal for me to do something, and I wasn’t having any of it anymore.

Grabbing her by the elbow, I pulled Jiwon up. Such an angle was just right up her spot as I took back control and jammed my hips forward, the same hand I used to pull her to me was now wrapped around her neck. She looked back with an approving smile before the second one caused her to break, making her shut her eyes and bow her head. By the third one, she was a moaning mess again. I kept to the same tempo, deep but shallow, making her feel the entirety of my length as I hit her spot again and again, all while watching her ass bounce for me. Spank! Her moans began to rise again, having done her share of the work, while I fucked her to the end of it. 

She was often at her wettest when she was close, and I couldn’t guarantee I won’t follow her this time. It was delirium from her, telling me to go harder as she shook, trying to prolong the moment before orgasm that she craved so much. Yet, I followed orders, her orders, and as her back further arched, fingers gripping where she could onto me, she came—suddenly seizing up, throwing her head back and letting out a cry of exasperation as her inside squeezed my shaft. Fuck! I tried to think of anything else to distract me from following her. At her tightest, I didn’t stop moving, slow and deliberate. How counterintuitive! But she needed to ride it through, shaking, and catching her breath, her tune changing into low, weak moans as she came down. 

Pulling out, I wondered how I didn’t follow so soon as I plopped down on the couch. Just looking at Jiwon's dripping pussy, watching as it dripped down her leg, her left ass cheek somewhat red from the few hard spanks I gave her. She was face down, ass up, though maybe she’ll have her chance to see just how long I could hold. Yet I was also asking myself: Could she still ride me?

I didn’t think of what to do next. Jiwon could always do that later; it was my turn to tire now. I acted instinctively, standing before her as she lay on her back. She could only look on in shock as I grabbed her by the leg and flipped over, almost wrapping her in the towel. 

“Wait!” Jiwon yelled. 

Then, for a second, the girl I fell in love with leaned up to kiss me, deep, but it told me something. When I opened my eyes, a tit was peeking out of her jacket, grabbing it as I gave her another peck on the lips, before moving down and sucking hungrily on her nipple. She teased me for it, as always. Having her lie down, I grabbed her legs—long as they were—that I needed to angle them a bit sideways. She laid under me, full view, big eyes, round face, a slightly sweaty, long torso, and a pussy to penetrate. Her smile almost took me out of it. 

I didn’t need a guide as I pushed myself back inside Jiwon again, watching her features curl up into a grimace as she placed her head on the armrest. Her legs closed together made her feel tighter, something we discovered a while back, but had never tried with her this wet. It did allow me to do one thing; push my entire cock in. I did, and Jiwon stopped me once, then told me to continue again. 

A few deep thrusts in, just as I was beginning to fall into her siren song, listening to her moans like the way she would kill at noraebang, I almost lost track of the fact that this was supposed to be just a quickie. I then felt that familiar weight in my gut, but this time, it felt like a necessary end, having done what I had wanted. I looked down, watching her hair splayed out and down over the armrest, much messier than when she came, her expression perfectly lewd as usual. All this as my hips slammed into her, length disappearing into her pinkish folds, the recoil continuing us on. Only then could I make out a word that snapped me out of her trance. 

“Cumming!” Who? Her? 

I looked down as Jiwon's pussy contracted around my shaft. I could take it once, but I lost my grip on her legs when it happened another time, not when I was so close, almost falling mid-thrust as they opened headfirst onto her. She just smiled at me as I caught myself. Her arms embraced me and pulled me into her lips as I continued, needing to make up for my lapse. Oh, right, I needed to fuck her. 

My hips began to move again, and leaning over Jiwon a bit, we both knew the jig was almost up. If she goes this time, I'll go too. I watched her eyes dart and saw how I was railing her on the couch. Slowly, her eyes looked back up and found where the sweat had been pooling on my thin shirt, finally managing to focus on me. She knew I missed her well enough—both in idea and as flesh—to give it everything I've got in the first round. I didn't even ask, and she already answered.

"Cum in me."

I slowed down a bit—a mere feint, more so a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable. Any longer I try, Jiwon might just tell me to stop. Too fast, and she might hit me for going too hard. I needed to time and not to lose the intensity of the moment. Putting our lips together and going deep, both savoring the feeling of leading and following her into the orgasm I owed. Her moans quickly rose in volume with her embrace pulling me tighter, even talking like a pornstar at one point. She knew she did it—and liked doing it—even if my best reply was just a strained "uh-huh". Though too many times before I already told her just how tight she was, if I did, I would cackle at how porno-like it would be saying it in such a tired state. We shared one last look before she mouthed the exact words again as she pulled me in.

Thud! Jiwon let out a squeal while our lips were together. I felt her arch her back as she tightened, with me halfway out as I felt myself follow. Grunting as I unloaded deep into her, as she wanted, being in the middle of orgasm only made us cum both so much harder. Slowing down as we turn into moaning, devolved messes. The sensitivity of it all was a high we chased and came to, and only shared between us. We have given in to our base instinct; this was the outcome. 

I just hovered over as I caught my breath. Jiwon’s lips were much redder now, another kiss, after which she scrunched her nose and said something that made me giggle too. Slowly, I pulled back and sat down, seeing the wet spot on the towel, which only confirmed why it had been so easy to do something that tight. Though I was just shocked at how much I let out when my load started dripping out the moment I pulled back. As she sat up, she told me not to worry about it before heading to the shower.

I just watched as she closed the door to the shower. Grabbing my phone, I thought about her earlier message. So much for that pink jacket; it was nice on her, and I need to throw it in the laundry. We were both sweaty messes, and I did not want it on such new furniture. 

It took thirty minutes, and then a different scene was on the couch. Jiwon and I were huddled in front of it with chopsticks on a bucket of fried chicken. There was never a dull moment with Jiwon. We were more laid back now, in new clothes, though I had to rummage from the pile she would always leave when she came over. The oversized tee she was wearing made clear she had no bra on, maybe it was intentional, or it was just cold. I think we were supposed to do round two. I’m not so sure about that now. I just needed to say something obvious to break my observation. 

“Really, dipping that much sauce with no bra?” 

“You’ve seen me naked, don’t sound surprised now.”

“Fair.” 

“And you’ll see more later too.”

[hamilton-here]

Hiii! Could you please make one with angst? But with a happy ending lol 😂 Lewis and reader are friends, she confesses to him, he rejects her and hurts her by making her see that "he would never be with her" (like dating other girls and such) but because he hasn't realized that deep down he also has feelings for her until he does. And he tries to win her back , hoping it's not too late. Please and thank you very much.

𝒯𝑜𝑜 𝐿𝒶𝓉𝑒, 𝑜𝓇 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’m slowly getting these requests out, I’m trying my best. I hope you enjoy and are doing well. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis rejects your love, until he realises too late he feels the same and fights to win you back.

Warnings: angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve known Lewis for almost seven years now.

It started in the least likely of places backstage at a chaos drenched university charity fashion show. The corridor was a cluttered artery pulsing with frantic energy, half lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs and thick with the scent of hairspray, fabric glue and the adrenaline of young creatives desperate for their cue. It was narrow, lined with garment racks wobbling under the weight of sequinned gowns and clunky boots and half finished dreams stitched together with caffeine and ambition.

You were in your element as an half production assistant, half miracle worker, juggling a clipboard that had lost most of its pages to frantic hands, holding safety pins between your teeth, your ponytail crooked from the constant tug of motion. Your tote bag weighed down one shoulder, filled with lip balm, duct tape, portable phone chargers and a water bottle that had begun to sweat through the canvas. Chaos clung to you like glitter and somehow, you moved through it with practiced grace.

And then it happened. A thud against the plaster wall beside you. You turned, startled but unphased only to meet eyes with someone who looked like he had walked straight out of a high resolution billboard and directly into the wrong hallway.

Leather jacket. Dark jeans. That unmistakable halo of world weariness beneath carefully styled hair. He looked out of place not just geographically, like someone who had taken a wrong turn but like he had wandered into someone else’s life and wasn’t sure if he should knock or just walk in. And you knew the face. Everyone did.

Lewis Hamilton. The five-time world champion at the time. The man whose name was synonymous with speed, precision, and glossy magazine spreads. You remembered seeing him once on the cover of a sports editorial where they described his racing line as “poetry at 300 km/h.” But here, in that moment, his poetry looked a little crumpled.

The other volunteers froze mid-movement. One girl dropped a makeup brush. Another boy whispered “Oh my god” as if it were a hymn.

But you? You tilted your head and raised a brow. “You do know you’re standing directly under a sign that says ‘Green Room,’ right?”

He followed your gaze upward and when his eyes met the sign, he laughed something raw and unfiltered, like a note escaping a song that wasn’t rehearsed. It was a laugh that caught in his throat and spilled out too loud, surprising even himself.

“Well,” he managed between chuckles, “that’s mildly humiliating.” You smirked and handed him your water bottle without ceremony. “Maybe next time, stick to racetracks. The signage is less ironic.”

That was the start.

He followed you on Instagram that night. Sent a DM a few days later, simple and self deprecating - “Thanks for not treating me like Bigfoot.”

You replied - “Don’t flatter yourself. I treat all hallway stumblers equally.”

What followed wasn’t fireworks but more so quieter and slower. A gentle uncurling of two souls that didn’t need a catalyst, only time.

There were late night texts when the world outside blurred and all that remained were thoughts too heavy to carry alone. He sent voice notes at 3 a.m. of soft musings about insomnia and the pressure to always perform. Sometimes he’d talk about how the media made him feel like a puppet strung together with headlines and expectations.

You responded with voice notes of your own. Mundane, meandering, beautiful in their simplicity. You told him about your philosophy essay, your burnt toast, your opinion on whether cats secretly rule the world. Once, he said, “I love how you narrate even the boring parts. It’s like I’m sitting beside you, watching it happen.”

Slowly, you stitched yourselves into each other’s days.

He told you about the weight behind his wins how every trophy seemed to come with a thousand invisible bruises. The relentless politics within the team. The loneliness behind the roar of the crowd. You, in turn opened up about your own chaos. The heartbreak that had hollowed you out. The dread of deadlines. The ache of feeling like you’d never do anything that actually mattered.

Somehow, in the exchange, the loneliness didn’t disappear but it felt acknowledged. And that made it bearable.

He remembered everything. Your favourite mug which was the chipped one with stars on it. That you cried during thunderstorms, not out of fear, but because they made the world feel dramatically alive. That you hated coriander with the passion of a thousand poets. That you always lost the left earring, not the right.

When you messaged him that life was too loud, he showed up unannounced with pastries dusted in powdered sugar and a playlist titled “Inhale/Exhale.” You teased him for being dramatic and he shrugged like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. “You ground me. Let me be useful.”

You were there for the highest highs of the glittering red carpet events where he glowed under flashbulbs and you stood quietly to the side, clapping softly, half hidden and proud.

And the lowest lows. The injury that took him off the circuit for weeks. The loss of his beloved dog Coco.

He called you sobbing that night, grief stricken and unsure. You said nothing for the longest time, letting him cry into the silence, the sound of his broken heart fill the spaces between your breaths. He finally whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

Another time, after a week that left you threadbare with anxiety, he texted you two words: “Come outside.” And so you did.

He was parked across the street in a sleek black car that hummed like it had secrets. Inside, there was takeout and a blanket bundled in the backseat. He didn’t speak when you climbed in. Just pressed play on an old playlist and drove aimlessly as the stars blinked awake outside the windows. “This is the quiet you needed,” he murmured.

There were holidays that felt like borrowed pages from someone else’s diary.

Morocco - where the air smelled like orange blossoms and his bartering in markets was part theatrical performance, part genuine delight. You laughed so hard, your ribs ached.

Santorini - sunburned and stubborn, you grimaced as he gently applied aloe vera, scolding you the entire time. “For someone so brilliant,” he muttered, “you’re alarmingly bad at sunscreen.”

Iceland - fireplace crackling, the snow whispering outside. He curled beside you, legs tangled under a fleece throw, voice quiet and unsure. “I think this is the happiest I’ve been in months.”

And always the inside jokes. A shared glance that said everything. A nickname no one else understood. A secret language encoded in touch and tone, one that turned chaotic airports and crowded events into quiet fortresses of familiarity.

Photographers caught glimpses of a hand resting gently on your shoulder, your laughter tilted toward him, matching sneakers that told a story only you two knew. Comment sections overflowed with speculation.

You brushed it off, casually. “Just friends,” you’d quip in interviews, lips curved in a smile that danced on the edge of ambiguity.

“Best friends,” he once corrected during a Q&A, his gaze flickering toward you for just a second longer than it needed to. “She keeps me sane.”

But slowly, quietly, something shifted.

Not in a sudden swell of confession. Not in declarations beneath fireworks. But in the way your hand lingered on his shoulder a beat too long. In the way he watched you when you spoke, like each word rearranged something inside him. Or the sigh he let out when you laughed.

And in the silence, even that started to feel like love.

You don’t know when the crush started. You’ve retraced the timeline more times than you’d admit not because you think you’ll find an answer but because part of you wants to believe there is one. A clean moment. A sharp memory. Something you can hold up and say "Here. This is where it happened."

But love, or whatever this is, never introduced itself with fanfare. It crept in the way fog rises over water slow, deliberate and disguised as something ordinary.

Maybe it was the nights he stayed on the phone until you drifted off, his voice softening with each sentence, words unraveling into warm nonsense. Just syllables to fill the space between your breath and sleep, so the silence wouldn’t tip you into the places where fear waited. You never asked him to stay, not really. He just did. Even when he had early meetings, even when his own thoughts were tangled.

Or maybe it was the way his texts always arrived at precisely the moment when your insides clenched with loneliness. Not five minutes before. Not ten after. Right then. When the air around you was too still, too silent, and everything felt like it had slipped one inch further from your grasp. You never told him how perfectly timed he was. You just smiled at the screen and breathed again.

It could’ve been the small things like the way he waited to order food until you arrived, regardless of how ravenous he was. His menu untouched, glass of water half empty, eyes lazily scanning the entrance like he wasn’t looking for you but everything else was meaningless noise until you walked in. And when you did? The way his expression softened not lit up like the sun, but gentled like dusk.

That kind of attention is its own form of gravity.

And maybe you noticed how often he did that, waited. He waited for you to speak first when your words were slow to arrive. Waited for you to laugh when the joke was yours to finish. Waited for you to decide what movie, what drink, what path to take. He built a rhythm around you, subtle and unquestioning, like his choices bent toward your comfort.

Still, none of those moments came with certainty. There was no siren call. No line drawn in the sand. The shift was quiet. Uneventful. You never even heard it arrive only felt it once it had soaked into your bones.

One moment you were his closest friend.

The one who could tell from a single sigh whether he’d had a good day or a devastating one. The person who knew the way he curled into himself when he was overwhelmed, the pattern his foot tapped when he was fighting nerves, the exact phrasing he used when something truly mattered. You knew which days needed silence and which needed the comfort of your voice. You were the one he texted, the one he called, the one he trusted.

And then something changed.

You started watching him differently.

Not with wide eyes or flushed cheeks that would have been simple, almost sweet. This was harder. It was the kind of looking that cracked quietly. You noticed the details that never used to ache. The way he tilted his head when he smiled at someone else. How he leaned in when a woman spoke with confidence. How his gaze lingered just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You waited for your name to show up on his screen and pretended it didn’t hurt when someone else’s did.

You tried not to care. Honestly. You told yourself it was just friendship. That jealousy was an overreaction. You even laughed about it with your friend once and, called it "annoying little feelings," like they were hiccups in your heart.

But it wasn’t funny when he praised another woman’s dress. Or when he reposted someone else’s selfie with heart emojis. Or when he turned toward the laughter that wasn’t yours.

And God, you knew him. You knew him like poetry. Not just the words but the rhythm, the pauses, the places he’d repeat himself. You knew his light and his shadow. And the tragedy was by knowing him, you fell in love with every stanza. But he didn’t love you back. Not like that.

And that truth was not loud or dramatic but antagonising slow and cruel.

You were still the one he turned to after gruelling races. The one who caught him between exhaustion and adrenaline. The one who stayed on the line when he couldn’t talk, when he just needed presence. You listened to the fragments he couldn’t share with the world the fears he buried, the confusion, the bone deep weariness that sometimes clung even after victory.

You read his speeches before they made headlines. You edited out the self doubt hidden in parentheses. You made playlists for the long flights, ones that told stories through lyrics because you knew he needed comfort that didn’t sound like advice.

You taught him how to fold dumplings one rainy afternoon. The kind of day where nothing was pressing, nothing demanded urgency just steam, laughter and flour smudged on his forehead. He called it the best day he’d had in months. He said it like it was a revelation. You didn’t know how to reply.

Still, you weren’t the choice.

You watched women step into his orbit like they were born to be seen radiant, unbothered by the idea of being watched. They wore designer dresses like armour. They posed, smiled, kissed and posted. Their beauty was sharp, striking, effortless. And you? You hovered behind the camera. Never quite centre. Never quite framed.

“I don’t date friends,” he said once a throwaway line spoken between bites of slightly burnt toast, his eyes locked on his phone, scrolling through something he didn’t share with you. You laughed. You had to. “Well, lucky me. Barely tolerable at best.”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. His thumb brushed yours when you reached for the butter knife. You felt that touch days later. Like an echo in your skin.

That night you couldn’t sleep. The sentence looped like static through your head, stealing the air from your lungs. I don’t date friends.

You stared at your ceiling, counting seconds, blinking back tears you refused to name. You wondered if he would ever turn to you with different eyes not as the trusted constant, but as someone he couldn’t stop thinking about.

You wondered if he knew how long you’d been standing in the doorway.

How long you’d been holding the weight of love with hands that had never once asked him to carry any of it.

And still...you stayed. Not because you were weak. But because leaving felt like cutting off the very heartbeat of your days. He was everywhere now, stitched into the margins of your life. And even if it never became more, you stayed because those moments however fleeting, were the most honest parts of your world.

Until that night, it was all manageable.

The longing was something you’d learned to carry in silence, like a melody you hummed alone in your room. You were familiar with it by the ache that curled in your chest when he smiled at someone else, the slight hitch in your breath when he leaned against you just a little too long, the way your hands tingled every time his fingers brushed yours. You had learned, over time, to mask the tremors with laughter, to stuff down the hope with practicality. You didn’t let yourself name it. Naming things gave them power.

But that night in Monaco something cracked.

There was no storm outside. No cinematic crescendo. Just the rhythm of two people sitting shoulder to shoulder on a hotel carpet at midnight, a mess of pizza boxes between them, wine breathing in half filled glasses and the lull of shared comfort that came with knowing someone too well.

His feet were bare. His hair flattened from sleep, sticking in soft tufts. He wore your favourite hoodie the oversized one you’d always steal during chilly evenings its sleeves pushed up just enough to show his wrists, delicate and bruised from leaning on the edge of the tub earlier as he washed the day off.

He was scrolling through TikTok, nose crinkled in delight at a clip of a dog dressed like a dinosaur. His laughter clear and careless bubbled in your chest like champagne. You were watching him again, the way you always did when he wasn’t looking. The line of his jaw, the unguarded softness of his profile, how he curled slightly inward when he was truly relaxed.

And the feeling surged. Not gently, not like it had before. This time, it punched through you violently. A need, raw and irrepressible. A truth that had festered and bloomed and could no longer be contained.

“I need to tell you something,” you said. Your voice was hoarse. Quiet. You weren’t even sure he heard you until he turned, half laugh still lingering on his lips, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He expected something small. Another secret in your constellation of shared confessions. A childhood story. A half-remembered dream.

“What’s up?” he said, still smiling, still waiting for the familiar.

But your heart was thudding so loudly now you could feel it in your throat, in your ears, in the spaces between your ribs. You swore he could hear it. You were drowning in it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

And then everything fell silent.

Not the dramatic kind you see in movies, with orchestral tension and gasps - no, this silence was worse. This was complete stillness. The kind that feels like time itself has stopped breathing. That slips under the skin and makes every cell wait.

His laugh faded in stages. First his eyes dimmed, then his lips stilled, then his hand the one holding the phone slowly dropped onto his knee like gravity had decided to intervene. You watched it happen. Watched the joy drain. Watched the moment change from light to shadow.

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze dropped to the floor. Like the weight of what you’d said had become too much to look at directly. And then, finally, barely above a whisper “Love…” He said it like a warning. Like a quiet plea against something neither of you could take back.

“Don’t.” Your breath snagged in your chest. The air tasted sour. Your voice came out shaking, a bare thread. “Don’t what?”

His eyes lifted. But they didn’t meet yours fully. Just brushed past, like the truth in your gaze was too bright. “Don’t ruin this,” he said. And that, those words were the ones that shattered you. Because they weren’t said with cruelty. They weren’t sharp, or angry, or dismissive. They were spoken with fear. With hesitation. With finality.

They sounded like goodbye.

“So you don’t feel the same?” you asked, teeth clenched against the tremble.

He met your gaze then fully, finally and what you saw wasn’t love. It was pity. Small. Devastating. Glistening like tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I love you,” he said, and each syllable cut. “Of course I do. You’re my home.”

“But not like that,” you replied. The words burned as they left you. Like ash on your tongue.

He winced, like they hurt him too. “I never meant for you to feel this way.”

“And that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

He reached out, instinctively. His fingers twitched they always did, even when he didn’t know what to do with them. But halfway, he stopped. Paused. Let his hand fall into his lap. Trembling. Useless.

“I don’t know who I am without you,” he murmured, voice cracking. “You’re my best friend.” You nodded, swallowing hard, trying to stay upright in a moment that felt like drowning. “Then why do I feel invisible right now?”

He didn’t have an answer.

And that silence…that silence screamed louder than anything he could’ve said.

You stood slowly. Every movement felt like it required permission. Your hands shook. Your knees barely held. The room had grown impossibly small with the ceiling pressing downward, walls inching in. You were suffocating in a space you’d once called safe. The pizza was still warm. The wine still breathable. His hoodie still smelled like cinnamon and sea spray.

But it was all meaningless now. Props in a scene that had ended.

You walked out. He didn’t call your name. He didn’t follow. And that was the part that splintered your soul into pieces you weren’t sure would ever fit together again.

Because somewhere deep down in the parts you didn’t show, in the places where hope still whispered you had always believed he would. Believed that one day, love would wake up in him like a tide, sudden and unstoppable. You believed that when it mattered, when the moment finally came he’d choose you. But he didn’t. He stayed behind. Silent. Still.

You sat in the taxi, fingers clenched against your thighs, staring out at the ocean with your vision blurred not from tears, you told yourself. Just wind. Just movement. Just exhaustion. The driver asked your destination. You answered automatically, voice hollow.

Behind you, a room still held the echo of laughter. Of long nights and inside jokes. Of everything that had felt so real until it wasn’t. And in its centre sat the boy you loved.

Not reaching. Not following. Just silent.

The days after weren’t dramatic.

There were no slammed doors. No shattered mugs on the kitchen tile. No tear streaked faces standing in rain just for the metaphor. There were no crying fits that made your chest seize and hiccup none of that cinematic release.

Instead, there was quiet.

A quiet that felt like a blanket laid over everything. Thick. Suffocating. Damp with meaning. It settled over your shoulders and in the folds of your routine made the air feel heavier, made time crawl. You would walk into rooms and forget why you’d entered. You’d make tea and let it go cold beside you, untouched. You’d open your messages and then shut the phone off again, heart thudding for no good reason.

This was heartbreak without spectacle, a type of grief masquerading as stillness.

You didn’t cry not in the way people expected. Not the way you’d done after past breakups, when tears came with guttural sound and trembling fingers. No, this pain was quieter. Meaner. It came in waves so gentle you almost didn’t notice you were sinking.

Mornings were the worst. You’d wake up and, for three cruel seconds, everything was fine. The sunlight hit the wall the same way. The air tasted of the usual. Your limbs stretched like they always did, no tremor, no ache.

Then memory arrived. And it didn’t crash - it crept. Slipped into your mind like a whisper: he doesn’t love you back. Your stomach would turn. Your lungs would stutter. And you’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how you were supposed to be a person today.

You stopped answering his calls. Not because you wanted to punish him, God it was never about punishment. You wanted to preserve what was left of yourself. Because hearing his voice felt like standing barefoot on broken glass. He kept calling, kept leaving voicemails that sounded too soft, too sweet. That tilt in his voice reserved only for you the one he’d use when asking if you’d eaten, or if you’d slept well, or if you wanted to come over just to sit.

But you couldn’t do it anymore. You couldn’t sit in that hollow place where he loved you like a friend and you loved him like oxygen. You let his calls ring. Let his messages sit unopened. Let the distance bloom like bruises.

You muted his stories. His posts. Didn’t unfollow that felt too loud, too final, like slamming a door you weren’t ready to close. But you removed him from your daily view. Hid him from the places where he had existed like background music. Because each photo felt like a betrayal. Like you were witnessing a new version of him one that had already started forgetting you.

He was still beautiful. Still radiant and magnetic and soft around the edges where your fingers used to trace.

But now he was laughing with other people. Holding champagne flutes. Draped in designer jackets beside women who didn’t know the way he hummed when anxious. Who didn’t know the lullabies he used to whisper to calm your racing heart.

You buried yourself in work. Built a fortress out of calendars, bullet points, spreadsheets. You breathed in productivity like oxygen like it might fill the places in your chest he had hollowed out. You told yourself if you stayed busy, the pain would forget to arrive. You threw yourself into meetings, into errands, into long commutes with loud music blasting in your ears just to drown out the thoughts.

Coworkers asked if you were okay. You smiled. Said, “I’m just tired.” They nodded. Didn’t press. No one wanted the truth. No one was prepared to hear: “He didn’t choose me.” “I told him I loved him, and he didn’t want me.” “I feel like I’m living in my own shadow.” So you stayed quiet.

You tried yoga. Journaling. Deleting every playlist you’d ever made for him. You threw away the hoodie he left in your car after winter drinks two years ago. You burned a candle that smelled like the cologne he used to wear hoping maybe the scent would leave your system if you forced it to vanish.

You deleted your camera roll. Unfavourited his number. Scrubbed the evidence of him from your digital life.

But Lewis was everywhere. Not just the person who broke your heart, he was an icon. A headline. A story the world wanted to keep reading. And you? You couldn’t escape the plot.

You’d open your phone and there he was smiling under golden light, next to a woman who glowed like she was forged from sunlight. Her hand on his shoulder. Her laugh in his ear. Her world colliding with his like you once dreamed yours might. Yacht parties. Fashion weeks. A Monaco gala with someone whose name sounded like silk.

“Lewis Hamilton Spotted With…” Every notification felt like a slap. Every caption like acid poured on a wound still fresh. Because he was smiling. Laughing. Thriving.

And you were unraveling in silence.

You watched women orbit him like planets whole and dazzling and unbothered. You watched him become someone you didn’t recognise. Someone who posed for cameras with eyes that didn’t search for you in the crowd anymore. Someone who had learned to live without your voice guiding him through dark days.

And somehow, that was the worst part. Not that he moved on. But that he didn’t even need to look back.

You weren’t the pause in his step. You weren’t the person he remembered while sipping wine alone. You had been everything and now you were nothing.

And the world indifferent and cruel kept posting about him. Kept praising him and showing you how easy it was for him to shine without you.

You’d close your phone and cry silently, the kind of crying that didn’t stain your cheeks but dulled your soul. Or curled up beneath heavy blankets and counted the stars on your ceiling, wondering how you became a ghost in your own life.

You stopped wearing the perfume he liked. Stopped ordering his favourite sushi. Stopped humming the song that played during that rainy night when he danced with you in the kitchen.

And you waited for the ache to end. But it didn’t. Because forgetting him wasn’t the challenge. Accepting that he had already forgotten you that was the knife in your ribs.

So when your best friend said, “Let’s go out,” you didn’t hesitate.

You were crumbling, slowly, subtly and the invitation felt like a rope thrown into deep water. You didn’t expect it to save you. But you needed to reach for something. Something that wasn’t his name on your screen or his voice in your memory. It didn’t taste like unanswered questions or smell like the sweater you still hadn’t thrown away.

You weren’t sleeping well. You weren’t eating much, either. You’d reread the same text thread twice a day without knowing why. You’d catch yourself writing messages you never sent. Your heart was growing quieter but heavier. Like a stone tied to silence.

You knew going out wouldn’t fix anything not the hollow chest, not the ache in your throat, not the way every silence still felt shaped like him. But you didn’t go because you believed in healing. You went because you needed proof. Proof that you could still be wanted. That you could still be looked at with something like interest and not heartbreak. That even if he didn’t choose you, maybe someone else would.

You stood in front of your closet and stared at the dress.

The black one. The one that had hung untouched for months like it was waiting for a version of you who didn’t flinch when someone said his name. It was sleek, unforgiving, cut close to the body hugging hips you hadn’t dared to show and dipping low enough in the back to make you feel almost brave. You hadn’t worn it because it felt like armour. And you hadn’t felt strong enough to carry the weight of pretending.

It whispered to you. That dress. Like it remembered what you used to be before the ache. Before the wine-soaked nights of wondering. You held it in your hands and felt your ribs ache.

But tonight, you put it on.

Pulled your hair into a smooth high ponytail, glossy and sharp, like a blade down your spine. You lined your eyes with something bolder than usual, smoked just enough to suggest mystery without collapse. The mascara layered heavier than necessary. The blush sat high on your cheekbones like a challenge. And the lipstick red. Not soft berry, not shy pink. But red like rebellion. Red like warpaint. Red like you were daring the world to see you and dare to forget. The heels clicked against the floor like punctuation. Sharp, unapologetic. You grabbed your clutch and locked the door behind you like you were walking away from a version of yourself that begged.

In the mirror, you whispered, “Just for tonight, don’t bleed.” It was shaky. Hollow. But it was the closest you’d come to a vow since Monaco.

The bar was packed.

Neon signs blurred into violet and gold against the windows. Music pulsed beneath everything, a heartbeat you could borrow when yours felt inconsistent. The air smelled like spiced rum and anticipation. Laughter spilled from one corner, and a group of strangers danced like they weren’t carrying anything heavy.

You walked in behind your friend, one heel before the other, chin high, shoulders back - the practiced performance of someone who had never had their ribs cracked open for love.

You made it ten minutes before someone noticed. He was tall. Smiling. Clean-cut. His shirt was a little too tight across the chest, his cologne a little too eager but his gaze? His gaze was kind. Curious. Safe. He had the look of someone who wouldn’t dig too deep but would hold the surface carefully. He leaned toward you at the bar with practiced charm, offering a drink in one hand and some breezy pickup line in the other, the kind you’d normally dismiss with a raised brow and a polite smile. But tonight, you didn’t say no.

You nodded. You smiled. You let his gaze wash over your frame like paint over canvas. You laughed not a real laugh, but a well placed one, angled just enough to suggest openness. You rested your hand on his forearm, fingers light, nails tapping absently. Tilted your head. Let your bare shoulder catch the light.

You weren’t there to flirt. You were there to feel something that didn’t feel like drowning.

And halfway through pretending, you felt it the shift. That electricity in your spine.

That chill that slides down your back when the air changes. You turned. And there across the room, standing amid the blur of strangers and the hum of synthetic bass was him.

Lewis. Dressed in black. Collar sharp against his throat. A single chain glinting just beneath the neckline. His glass forgotten in one hand. The other dropped loose by his side, as if it had just failed him.

His shoulders squared. But stiff. His eyes locked on yours.

And his expression? Shattered. It wasn't rage, jealousy or recognition. Like he was seeing you for the very first time, and the sight burned. Like something inside him had cracked violently and without permission.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The people around him faded into static. He looked at you like memory.

You could feel your pulse behind your ears. In your throat. In your knees.And in that moment, you leaned closer to the stranger beside you intentionally.

Let your hand glide up his arm, nails brushing skin. Let your lips part in something that looked like desire but was really a shield. You angled your body in such a way that your silhouette curved in full view, the hem of your dress skimming thigh, your shoulder rolling back like you were relaxed. Like you were radiant. You fake laughed at something meaningless. Swirled your drink in its glass like it was a spell.

And you locked eyes with Lewis. Held his stare. Let him see it all the dress, the makeup, the smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Let him see you as someone that didn’t need his silence. That didn’t need his love anymore.You were fire and frost and fury.

You were saying without words - You lost me. And now you get to watch me go.

And when you finally turned away, hiding the tremble in your fingers, forcing a sip of the watered-down cocktail you glanced back.

He was gone. Shattering you all over again.

Because even then seeing you with someone else, glowing like grief hadn’t lived inside your chest for months he still didn’t fight. Still didn’t say “wait.” Still didn’t ask if you were okay. You turned back to the stranger, nodded at his question, let him believe he had your attention. But your thoughts were loud. Violent. Drenched in ache.

You weren’t sure if you wanted Lewis to come back…or if you wanted to forget you ever knew him.

Because both options felt like knives. And you were tired of bleeding quietly.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis’s POV:

He had told himself he was doing the right thing.

It had been rehearsed in the back of his mind for weeks, layered with rationalisation, wrapped in logic so tightly he almost believed it. Safe. Clean. Practical. The kind of reasoning that made sense in theory. But none of it accounted for the hollow ache that crept in afterward. None of it prepared him for the silence.

When you said, I think I’m in love with you, the words didn’t just echo they detonated. They landed like a rock to his chest, splitting something brittle wide open. He remembered the way your voice trembled, how your fingers curled at your sides, how you hadn’t looked away when you said it. You were vulnerable in a way he’d never seen you before, and instead of reaching for you, he built a wall.

He’d told you it wasn’t like that. That you were too important. That he couldn’t risk destroying the one thing in his life that felt real. And when you looked at him eyes full of quiet disbelief, of waiting for him to take it back he said, “Don’t.” Just one word. A single syllable meant to protect you, but it shattered you instead.

And he hated himself for that. Still does.

He told everyone else it wasn’t the right time. That he didn’t want to ruin the friendship. That love complicates things, and some relationships were better preserved untouched. He told you he couldn’t give you what you deserved. That he wasn’t good at love. That he didn’t want you to waste your heart on someone who’d only disappoint you.

He said all those things like armour. But they weren’t shields. They were exits. And he took one. The truth the one he couldn’t say then and can barely admit now was simple and devastating: he was terrified.

Because you weren’t some passing thing. You weren’t someone he’d forget in three months. You weren’t another girl who liked the way he smiled on magazine covers. You were you. The one who knew his tea order down to the extra honey. The one who noticed the small silence he fell into after talking to his dad. The one who always texted good luck five minutes before a race, even when the whole world already assumed he’d win.

You were the person who saw him before the lights. Before the trophies. Before the curated grin.

And the thought of touching that of risking the softness between you made his chest seize. If he hurt you, if he let you close and then wrecked it, there would be no undoing it. No way back to the version of life where your voice filled the cracks of his nights and your presence made everything feel possible.

So he made what felt like the responsible choice. He let you go. And he called it noble, even when it tore him apart.

He leaned into the noise again. Into the parties. The appearances. The photos taken beneath glowing chandeliers next to people whose names he barely remembered. The camera flashes welcomed him like an old habit. The handshakes were automatic. The charm, muscle memory.

But none of it felt good.

He stood next to women whose laughter felt engineered. Whose compliments tasted like champagne and clung like perfume. He smiled. He nodded. He kissed cheeks and exchanged numbers. But none of them knew he still hummed when anxious. None of them knew how he blinked too quickly when overwhelmed. None of them noticed when his gaze drifted toward the exit at every event hoping. Waiting.For you.

Food didn’t taste the same. Music felt background instead of immersive. Even driving the place where his thoughts used to run free felt heavy. The silence wasn’t tranquil anymore. It was suffocating. He stopped listening to your favourite playlists because they made his throat tighten. He stopped opening voice notes because they reminded him of all the ones you used to send. He started playing podcasts he didn’t care about just to keep his mind busy. Just to fill space.

He picked up his phone dozens of times. Half written messages. Voice notes that ended before they began. Memes you’d find hilarious the kind he used to send at 3 a.m. just to make you laugh the next morning. But now he didn’t know if you’d even respond.

And then there was that unread message. The one that hadn’t changed in days.

The read receipt lingered like a bruise.

He stared at it. Over and over. Wondering if he’d lost you for good.

He told himself you were healing. That maybe you were better off this way. That he had given you space and time and dignity. That his silence was a favour.

But slowly, the cracks began to show.

And then came the moment.

He was in London, surrounded by friends, laughter, shallow conversation. The rooftop bar was one you used to love. Fairy lights strung above wood paneling. Rosemary-scented cocktails. Jazz playing low and warm in the background. You’d once called the playlist “accidentally perfect” and made him promise to dance if they ever played Nina Simone.

He sat across from a woman he barely knew her laugh too practiced, her stories too polished. She spoke about Ibiza and yachts and men who built careers out of wine importing. He nodded. He smiled. He performed. Until he looked up. And everything dropped.

You were there.

Not across the world. Not buried in silence. But right there radiant in a way that made his breath forget its rhythm.

Your hair was tucked behind one ear. You wore that soft wrap dress you always paired with boots. You were laughing and it hit him like a slap. He hadn’t heard that sound in weeks. That laugh had always been his favourite song, the one he kept on repeat during sleepless nights.

He swore the world stopped. And then he saw him. The guy beside you. Confident. Relaxed. Just close enough to make Lewis’s stomach turn. And worse you weren’t turning away. You were leaning in.

He froze. Everything inside him short circuited.

Someone else was making you laugh like that. Someone else was being let in. Someone else was witnessing the version of you that used to be his.

All the lies he’d told himself. All the cowardice disguised as protection. All the guilt dressed as grace. You weren’t waiting for him anymore. And he was the one who made that true.

That night, the bed felt foreign. His hands shook. The room pulsed with every memory. And when he whispered your name into the dark, no answer came.

It was only then alone, blanketed in remorse, staring at the place you used to lie beside him that he finally said it aloud. I’m in love with her.And I let her go not don’t know if she’ll ever let me back in.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

He shows up at your flat two days later.

No text. No warning. No heads-up through mutual friends or nervous check-ins. Just the quiet, deliberate thud of knuckles against your door slow and hesitant, like someone trying not to disturb a haunted house. You freeze mid-step in the hallway, fresh from the shower, wrapped in a robe that clings damply to your skin, towel twisted loosely around your wet hair, dripping dark circles onto your shoulders.

Your phone is still in your hand. Heart pounding. Breath thinned.

You already know who it is.

You feel it before you see it. Like a shift in gravity. Like the air recalibrating itself around one specific person.

And somehow, knowing doesn’t make it easier.

You press your palm flat to the wall, just for steadiness, just for a moment longer of pretending that silence is safety. Then you go to the door, fingers still damp against the cold metal of the handle, your chest tight and your pulse hammering like betrayal.

You open it. He’s there. Lewis.

Hood up. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Jaw taut with the weight of things unsaid. His face looks softer somehow, but not gentle fractured. His lips are dry, a faint bruise near his temple, his shoulders slumped as though he hasn’t slept since Monaco. The vulnerability is jarring. There’s no PR gloss, no effortless charm, no camera-ready smile. Just a man who looks like he left part of himself behind and finally came to find it.

“You can’t just show up like this,” you say, voice low and sharper than you intended. It’s not anger, exactly. But it’s not not anger either. It’s the kind of sting that comes when old wounds are pressed too suddenly.

“I know.” His voice is hoarse, catching. “I just I didn’t know what else to do.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, not for warmth but for protection. The robe doesn’t help. Nothing could. “Didn’t we already do this?” you ask. It comes out tired. Burnt at the edges.

He drags a hand down his face, the rasp of palm against stubble too loud in the silence. “I was wrong.” You blink. You don’t trust it. “About what?”

He looks at you then. And for once, he doesn’t hide. His eyes shimmer slightly, bloodshot, rimmed with regret so deep it’s almost physical. “About everything,” he says. “About how I feel. About what I thought I could live without. About what I thought was safe.”

You let out a laugh, brittle and slicing. It tastes like irony. “Took you long enough.” He takes a half step closer, then stops. As if the floor itself has become fragile between you. “I saw you,” he says. “At the bar. With him.” You lean against the doorframe, letting your weight carry the indifference you’re trying to conjure. “So?”

“I hated it.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl at his sides. “I hated seeing you with someone else. I hated how beautiful you looked and that someone else got to be the reason. I hated that I wasn’t beside you. That I hadn’t earned the right anymore.”

He steps forward again. More desperate now. “I’ve been in love with you for longer than I even knew. Since the night we got stuck in Portugal and shared a blanket in that overpriced hotel room. Since the day you made boxed pancakes and poured syrup over them like it would fix everything. Since you laughed at my worst jokes and said my silence made you feel safe.”

You shake your head. Slowly. The ache in your chest is sharp, pointed.

“Scared of what?” you ask.

He swallows hard. The words nearly get stuck on the way out. “Of ruining it. Of being selfish. Of hurting you. Of choosing love and then not being enough for it.” You don’t respond immediately. Because everything feels heavy again. Every word, every breath. You’re not sure if it’s love or just history pulling you toward him. You’re not sure if heartbreak always deserves a second chance.

“You did lose me,” you whisper.

And Lewis he closes his eyes like you’ve sliced something in him open. “I know,” he says. His voice drops, nearly a whisper. “I watched you spiral and I kept pretending I didn’t notice. I kept telling myself silence was protection. That if I didn’t speak, I couldn’t ruin anything. But I did. I ruined everything. And it was my silence that made you feel invisible. I thought I was preserving the friendship. But I was just a coward.”

You shift slightly, robe damp against your skin, fingers curled into your side. “Safer for who?” you say. It lands like a challenge.

He doesn’t answer. He just stands there. Hands trembling. Breath caught. Looking at you like maybe, just maybe, forgiveness is possible. “I’ll never forgive myself,” he says. “But if there’s even one corner of your heart that still remembers what we were what we could be I swear I will spend every minute trying. I’ll rebuild. I’ll stay. I’ll do the work. I’ll become

You take a slow breath.Then quieter than you mean to “Say it again.”

He takes a breath like he’s steadying himself, as if every word he’s about to speak carries the weight of all the silences between you. His hands lift, slow and trembling and find their way to your face cautious, reverent. Not the touch of someone claiming you, but someone asking, again, gently, to be let in. His thumbs skim your cheekbones, familiar yet hesitant, like he’s memorizing the contours all over again. His fingertips settle against your jawline, soft and lingering, a kind of prayer made tangible.

“I love you,” he says. It’s not loud. It’s not cinematic. It’s broken in places, but true in all the ways that matter. You close your eyes for a moment, letting it in like sunlight cracking through a storm. “I love you,” he says again. Stronger this time, as though he’s building something brick by brick with every syllable something sturdy enough to hold you both.

“I love you in ways I didn’t know how to explain,” he continues, voice cracking at the edges. “I love you more than I was ever brave enough to admit. And I don’t want to live another day pretending I don’t. I can’t.”

Your lips part, unsteady. Your chest is full not with breath, but with ache, with the weight of all the waiting, with the hope you tried so hard to starve out of yourself. You lean in first.

Your kiss isn’t fireworks. It isn’t loud or breathless or rushed. It’s slow. Full. The kind of kiss that lives in the marrow of your bones that says I forgive, I remember, I still want. His lips mold to yours like he’s catching up for every second he didn’t. His hand slides back into your hair, towel damp beneath his palm. The robe falls slightly from your shoulder, but neither of you move to fix it.

Because in this moment this precise, aching, beautiful now everything else stops mattering.

You kiss like two people who broke apart and are daring to try again. But in this situation you’re kissing him back not as the girl who waited in silence. Not as the woman who begged to be seen. But as someone finally chosen.

The weeks that follow are stitched together by patience and small, sacred gestures.

There are moments when your hands hesitate before reaching for him. Moments when he enters a room and you brace for the weight of the past to settle back in. Moments when you think this is too much, I’m too fractured, he’ll leave again. But Lewis doesn’t leave.

He notices everything.

The way your voice wavers when you ask if he’s going to the next press event. How you linger in doorways like you’re waiting for the goodbye. How sometimes, when he holds your hand, you grip tighter than necessary not because you're scared of losing him, but because you still don’t trust the universe to let you keep anything.

He shows up with soft apologies layered in action - almond croissants from the bakery you adore, even on days when his schedule is suffocating. Sticky notes taped to your fridge, your steering wheel, the back of your phone: You make everything brighter. You’re the best part of my day. Still choosing you. Every playlist sent with the subject line: Earned, not given.

He doesn’t ask for all of you. Just the pieces you’re willing to give back. Some nights he texts: Sleep well, even if you hate me a little today. You don’t reply. Not at first. Eventually, you send: I didn’t hate you. Then: I missed you too.

He’s different now.

He’s quieter when he’s near you, not withdrawn, just cautious. Tender in the way that people are when they realise they’re walking through a space where damage was once done. He still makes jokes during movie nights. He still teases you about your coffee order. He still steals your fries and insists he didn’t but there’s something softer in the way he moves, like he’s making sure you know this time, he’s not taking you for granted.

One night, when you’re curled up together, the lights low and your legs tangled like you never knew how to untangle in the first place, you whisper, “I almost forgot how it felt to be enough for you.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just brushes your hair off your cheek, thumb lingering against the corner of your mouth, and replies in the softest voice you’ve ever heard, “You were always more than enough. I was just too scared to deserve it.”

You say nothing. Just burying your face into his chest, and he holds you like he’s keeping the pieces from falling again.

The healing isn’t linear. It never promised to be. Some mornings feel like the honeymoon phase they never got to have like something golden blooming across your skin. He’ll wake you with a soft kiss on the shoulder, tracing lazy shapes on your back while the kettle sings in the kitchen. His arms wrap around you like you’re gravity itself, drawing him into something anchored, something safe. You’ll laugh at inside jokes that only exist in the sacred language between the two of you, and in those still lit moments, it feels as if the world never cracked at all.

Other days are harder, shaped by memory and bruised silence. You’ll wake with ghosts clawing at your ribs not because you want to feel them, but because some pain lives in the muscle. You’ll hear his voice falter when he says something too close to what broke you. He’ll forget something small: an anniversary of an argument, the shape of a scar you’re not ready to joke about, the tone you use when you’re afraid. Your heart will flinch before you can stop it. And when someone mentions Monaco casually in passing, like it’s just another place you’ll leave the room so fast you don’t realise your hands are shaking until he catches one.

But he always follows. Not forcefully. Not with demands or questions. Just steady. He sits beside you in silence, his hand resting close to yours, never pressing. He waits not for forgiveness, but for trust to return on its own terms. And every time he whispers, “I’m still here,” you believe him a little more.

He reaches for your hand absentmindedly in traffic. Rubs soft circles on your knuckle during flights. Leaves a note in your suitcase every time you travel alone: Don’t forget how loved you are. And you never do.

One night, after a long day, you’re curled together under a tangle of blankets. Your cheek rests on his chest while he tells you a story you’ve heard so many times it’s practically a lullaby. You smile because you know how it ends. And just before sleep pulls you under, you whisper, “I almost forgot how safe this could feel.” He doesn’t respond right away. He brushes his lips gently across your temple, like a benediction, and murmurs, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever felt sure about.”

It’s not dramatic. It’s not extravagant. There are no fireworks. But there’s warmth. Quiet confidence. A devotion that doesn’t need grand gestures, just a coat left on your chair, a cup of tea brewed the way you like, a hand reaching for yours at 3 a.m. because I’m still here.

Because love didn’t return loudly. It crept in slowly. Stubborn. True.

Then again it was never supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be earned but then again that’s how it is in a soft, fierce and unshakable way.

In the end, it’s always. Forever unfolding, just in time yours.

[emmiesoverthemoon]

AISLE BE DAMNED

five: do you?

wc: 11.6k ss count: 0 warning: contains smut (you all cheer in unison) < previous | navigation | next >

thursday, 10:03 am. two days before the wedding.

the venue is stretching itself awake.

after weeks of clouds and the stubborn chill of early mornings, the first real warmth of spring has finally settled into the grass. the sky is pale blue and blinking. birds flit low over the clearing. the breeze carries with it the scent of soft earth and something blooming nearby— honeysuckle, maybe. or cherry blossoms still clinging to the trees above the path.

you’re here early.

not because you had to be, but because something about today feels tender. anticipatory. and you wanted to be here when it was still quiet— just you and the open space, the faint glimmer of sun warming the wooden trellises and the long aisle laid with mossy stones.

you kneel near the pergola, fiddling with one of the aisle markers. silk ribbon, cream-white, trailing like a ribbon from some fairytale neckline. the corners of your mouth lift softly when you fix the twist in it.

your coat keeps slipping off your shoulder. you do not fix it. there’s birdsong somewhere nearby. a bee. a breeze.

and then—

footsteps.

your pulse jumps before you look.

you already know.

you turn.

minho’s walking up the garden path, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose in one hand, bouquet of fabric samples in the other.

his eyes find yours immediately.

neither of you says anything for a second too long.

then—

“the aisle looks good,” he says. low. careful.

you shrug, smiling softly. “it will look better with people in it.”

he stops beside you. doesn’t crouch. just looks down, then up again, like he’s trying to memorise the way you look in this light.

the silence between you has changed.

once sharp. then heavy. now— light, trembling, gold-edged.

he clears his throat. “florist wants to triple-check the final boutonniere colours. your cousin mentioned wanting them to match the bouquets.”

you blink. then glance down at the marker in your hand.

your bouquet.

right.

your eyes flick back to him.

his lips twitch. “was that your idea?”

“nah,” you say, breezily. “if it were would you have a problem with that?”

“not if it gets me a matching corsage.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you want a corsage?”

“only if it comes with a matching date.”

your breath catches.

he notices. of course he does.

but neither of you leans in. neither of you pushes.

you both keep working. separately. side by side.

an hour later, you're rearranging chairs for the final walkthrough. your fingers graze his when you both reach for the same corner. you don’t comment on it. you don’t even glance at him. but your hand stays there a second too long.

when you brush your hair out of your eyes, he watches the motion like it effected him personally.

when he stands behind you at the ceremony arch, his palm hovers just short of your back.

he says, “you look like you belong here.”

you reply, “this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me.”

he shrugs. “might be losing my touch.”

you want to say no, you're just getting brave.

but instead you turn, heart heavy with softness, and smile like that will be enough.

and for now, it is.

friday, 6:54pm. one day before the wedding.

a dinner the night before the big day is held at your cousin’s favourite italian place— tucked into a side street near the venue, all golden light and hanging ferns, menus written in chalk on black slate boards. there are only twelve of you around the long table, the wedding party plus you and minho, invited by default, seated exactly where everyone knew you would end up.

side by side. elbow to elbow. knees brushing accidentally. then not so accidentally.

there’s music low in the background, clinking glasses, a shared bottle of wine being passed around. you’re halfway through your second glass and a bowl of fresh pasta when your cousin leans across the table, eyes narrowed with mischief.

“so,” she says, to no one and everyone. “am i allowed to ask if my two favourite planners have reconciled yet?”

you almost choke on your sip.

minho pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth.

you groan. “please don’t start that again.”

“what!” she grins, delightfully smug. “i’m just saying— something happened the other day. and now you’re finishing each other’s sentences again and i haven’t seen minho scowl once, which is rare. i think i’m allowed to ask.”

“no, you’re not,” minho mutters, cheeks a little too pink for someone pretending to be unaffected.

you glance down at your plate, but your smile betrays you.

“come on,” one of the bridesmaids, jay, pipes up. “we’ve all seen it. you two have been practically glowing this week. there was definitely a moment by the arch. i saw it. i have witnesses.”

“not glowing,” you mumble, trying to play it off. “maybe just— well-lit.”

“well-lit my ass,” another bridesmaid, attie, says. “you blushed so hard when minho handed you that ribbon it was like watching a live wedding proposal.”

minho groans softly. “i hate all of you.”

“no you don’t,” your cousin sing-songs. “not when she’s around.”

you shoot her a look that says i will un-cater this wedding if you continue. she only grins wider.

minho leans toward you just slightly. says under his breath, “i think we might need a new table.”

“a new wedding party.”

“a new planet.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. your thigh is pressed to his under the table now, and neither of you move.

someone calls for a toast, and all attention shifts.

except his. minho’s gaze stays on you as everyone else raises their glasses. his eyes soft. dark. unreadable.

you don’t look back.

not right away.

but when you do, the smile you give him is barely there.

and he still catches it.

friday, 8:34pm

the laughter trails behind you as the restaurant door swings shut. warm light spills onto the cobbled street, golden and flickering, but the night air is cool and crisp— spring just beginning to warm the bones of the city again. you wrap your coat a little tighter, step out onto the sidewalk, and feel minho fall into place beside you like a second heartbeat.

neither of you says anything for the first few steps.

it’s not awkward. just… full. stretched thin with everything that has not been said.

you walk slowly, not toward anything in particular. just away from the noise. away from the eyes. the pavement is uneven underfoot, and the breeze carries a faint hint of jasmine from some garden you cannot see.

minho has his hands in his pockets. the tip of his nose is pink from the cold. he looks like someone trying not to look at you. you are doing the same.

finally— he clears his throat.

"you okay?"

you nod. “mhm. you?”

“yeah. just full. and mildly traumatised.”

you glance at him. “from the pasta or from the relentless teasing?”

“bit of both.”

you smile. it feels different now— quieter. not so performative.

his voice drops a little, eyes still ahead. “you were glowing today. if anyone asks again.”

your breath catches.

you do not ask if he means it. you have no need, you already know he does.

“you too,” you say, because it is the truth. because you can still see the soft tuck of his shirt collar and the way his cuff had brushed your wrist during the table setup earlier.

a pause.

then, you ask gently: “you nervous for tomorrow?”

he exhales. slow. “not so much for the wedding. i have confidence it’ll go well— we planned it after all. it’s just… everything after.”

you laugh lightly, then hum. “yeah.”

a longer pause.

“but it’s going to be beautiful,” he adds.

“i know, it freakin’ better be.” you laugh, and so does he.

and then you stop walking.

the end of the street is near. your cars are parked in opposite directions. there is nowhere else to go tonight. not really.

he rocks forward on his feet a little. then back. shifts his weight like he might reach for something but doesn’t know how to.

you beat him to it.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?”

his gaze finds yours. it’s steady. a little glassy. a little warm.

“wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says.

you nod. take a step back. then another.

he does the same.

and you both turn away at the same time, like you rehearsed it.

neither of you looks back.

but your hands still tingle when you reach for your keys.

saturday, 8:22am. the morning of the wedding.

the sunlight drips in soft and warm, slow as honey through gauzy curtains. your dress hangs by the window, bathed in gold sunlight. on the table lies a scattered mess of makeup brushes, hair pins, a folded list with a large majority of the final touches ticked off. it smells faintly of floral perfume and the sweetness of spring— peony, peach, and the distant whisper of dew still clinging to the garden paths.

your cousin sits cross-legged on the bed, half-curled in a silk robe, holding a bottle of nail polish like it’s a weapon of emotional destruction.

“how are we feeling?” she asks, voice light but not unserious.

you press a mascara wand against your lashes and try not to blink. “i feel like my spine has been replaced with jello. i’m convinced i’ve missed something, but i know i’ve prepared everything.”

“mm. good. romantic.”

you laugh, quietly. “you nervous?”

“terrified. ecstatic. my body is held up by 90% adrenaline and 10% mimosa.”

you pause. then glance over your shoulder. “you look calm.”

“i’m lying.” she grins. “i’ve spent the last twelve hours sweating through various expensive materials. but this?”—she gestures to the room, the air, you—“this makes it feel real. i’m glad you’re here.”

you smile. it’s soft. aching around the edges.

a beat. then—

“how are you?” she asks, gently now. “like really?”

you hesitate. “tired. relieved. excited. a little confused.”

her brows rise. “confused?”

you pause again. then, low: “we talked. we… fixed things. mostly. i think.”

her eyes sharpen like a cat clocking prey. “you think?”

“we’re good. he’s… he’s good. i don’t know where we lie now.”

“so you’re still not saying anything about how completely in love with each other you are, huh.”

you scoff. “that is categorically false.”

“sure.”

“shut up.”

but you're smiling now. cheeks warm.

“do i need to lock you in a closet with him to build sexual tension?” she asks, sweetly. “old-school seven minutes in heaven style?”

“please do not.” you are completely flushed and trying to laugh off your embarrassment.

“noted. but just so you know… your bouquet’s done. and it matches a certain man's boutonnière. completely by coincidence.”

you shoot her a look.

she shrugs. “what a mystery.”

saturday, 8:23am

minho is standing in front of the mirror, shirt half-buttoned, hair a little too neatly done from the stylist’s overly eager hands. he’s quiet.

the groom leans in the doorway with his tie in one hand.

“you good?” he asks.

minho nods.

“you sure? you’re doing the thing where your jaw looks like it’s fighting your entire bloodstream.”

he exhales. slow. “i’m good. just thinking.”

“about the fact that you’ve been in love with your co-planner for the past few weeks?”

minho glares.

“what?” the groom raises his hands. “we all see it. it’s practically broadcast globally through satellite.”

“we’re not datin—”

“yet.”

minho doesn’t respond. just adjusts his collar. stares into the mirror like maybe his reflection will confess something for him.

“you know,” the groom says after a beat, “she’s really happy when she’s around you.”

minho’s hands still.

“just in case you needed to hear it again. i think it’s about time you made a move.”

he doesn’t say anything.

but when he turns back to the mirror, the ghost of a smile appears— barely there, like breath against glass. maybe it was about damn time.

saturday, 10:45am

you do not see minho until the crowd parts.

you have been drifting from corner to corner like a restless ghost, hands smoothing ribbons that do not need smoothing, tucking stray petals back into bouquets, adjusting the altar cloth so many times you have lost count. your clipboard is tucked into your elbow like a second pulse, the familiar weight of it grounding you when your mind threatens to float away.

the venue is glowing. mid-morning light slides through the canopy of early-spring green above, scattering honey-gold dapples across the white runner, the rows of cream chairs, the trellises dressed in wildflower garlands. a soft breeze stirs the petals along the aisle, carrying the gentle hum of distant laughter and clinking glass from somewhere behind the hedges.

you are checking a final arrangement when you pause, fingers hovering midair. something in your chest stirs—an unnameable prickle, a ripple of heat.

you straighten slowly.

and then—

he’s there.

just… there.

standing near the edge of the clearing, where the sunlight breaks in shards through the leaves. his suit is charcoal, perfectly cut, the lapels smooth and sharp against his shoulders. but it’s the small boutonnière that catches your breath—blush roses, pale sage, tied with the exact silk ribbon you remember fumbling with at dawn, your hands trembling from too much coffee and too many thoughts of him.

your fingers had brushed that bow like it mattered. like it meant something. like it might touch him even if your hands could not.

your heart forgets how to move.

he hasn’t seen you yet. his eyes sweep the space methodically, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other lifting to shield his gaze from the bright spill of morning. his hair is styled but still a little soft at the edges, like he might have run his fingers through it one too many times. he looks composed. deliberate. painfully handsome.

and then—

he does see you.

and everything stills.

his eyes pause. then drag over you in a slow, unguarded sweep—catching on your hair, the way your dress fits along your shoulders, the bouquet trembling faintly in your grasp.

there’s a shift in him so quiet it might be mistaken for a sigh: the slight parting of his lips, the gentle collapse of his shoulders like he’s bracing against an invisible wind.

your stomach flips so hard you feel a little lightheaded.

his gaze lands on your wrist, where the same blush blooms catch the sun.

you glance down too, as if drawn by an invisible string.

when you lift your eyes again, his mouth has softened into something dangerous. something private. a quiet, crooked thing that tugs at the corners like he’s smiling from a place so deep it does not know how to come out all the way.

you take a step forward.

he does too.

not rushed. not performative. just pulled. gentle as a tide.

when you meet halfway, the hush around you feels thick enough to drink. he stops directly in front of you, standing close enough that you catch the faint warmth radiating from his skin, the clean echo of his cologne softened by the sun.

he looks at you.

and looks.

and looks.

it feels like he is reading you, line by line, carefully, reverently, as though each detail is a verse he wants to memorise.

his voice, when it comes, is low. almost shy.

“your flowers.”

you lower your gaze to them, as if seeing them for the first time. “what about them?”

he tilts his head, hair catching the light like the delicate edge of a blade. “they match mine.”

you lift an eyebrow, lips parting in feigned surprise. “how mysterious.”

he snorts—an actual, tiny laugh—and you watch the tension ease at the corners of his mouth. “wild,” he murmurs, shaking his head as if marvelling at an impossible coincidence.

“almost like someone planned it,” you tease, voice soft but steady.

he clicks his tongue, gaze dragging deliberately over your face, lingering at your lips, then your eyes. “no. impossible.”

you laugh, quiet and airy, the kind that only happens when your lungs feel too small for your ribcage.

“you look…” he starts, then pauses to swallow. his eyes flick down your silhouette again, quickly, before darting back to your face. “you look beautiful.”

the world tilts.

you should tease him again. deflect it. twist it into something manageable. but you can’t. not this time.

your mouth curves, slowly, as if pulled by a force outside yourself. “you don’t scrub up so terribly yourself.”

his head dips forward, chin almost to his chest, and he lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh like you’ve punched the breath from him.

he lifts his eyes again. and for a moment, neither of you says a word.

it is loud, this silence. roaring with everything unspoken— every late night working side by side, every brush of fingers that almost became a touch, every look that burned too long.

then someone calls out from the edge of the clearing, a distant voice reminding you both of the world beyond this charged little orbit.

he shifts first, straightening, his hands adjusting his jacket sleeves—something to anchor himself back into reality.

you step back, just enough to breathe again.

“see you in there,” he says, voice husky at the edges.

you nod. “see you.”

he hesitates, gaze darting one last time to your wrist, then your mouth.

and then he moves past you, toward the crowd gathering near the aisle entrance.

you watch him go.

your fingers flex on the bouquet like you are holding something too precious to name.

saturday, 11:15am

the guests are seated, prepared for the ceremony to begin.

the air holds that expectant hush that comes right before a swell of music, a collective inhalation that feels almost sacred. a few birds flit across the canopy above, their wings stirring the soft gold light that filters through the early spring leaves. petals lie scattered along the aisle like small blessings, trembling faintly with each passing breeze.

you stand just behind the trellis, hidden enough to watch without being watched. your clipboard rests against your hip, the pen looped through the top like a safety pin for your nerves.

the music shifts—low and lilting, strings that feel like the inside of a held breath—and every sound in the clearing stills.

your cousin stands at the end of the aisle out of sight, her breath shallow, bouquet cradled in her fingers as if she is afraid it might float away. the veil tucked in her hair flutters softly, catching the light like gossamer thread.

you step closer, hand sliding around hers. your thumb presses once against her knuckles, a quiet promise.

she turns slightly, eyes bright and glassy. her mouth trembles, but her smile is unwavering.

you lean in. “you’re ready,” you murmur.

she nods. one quick, shaky exhale.

and then—

she steps forward.

the music lifts to greet her, and all at once the aisle becomes a river of turned heads, widened eyes, sharp intakes of breath. every guest leans closer, pulled forward by the gravity of this first step.

you slip sideways into the front corner, clipboard now clutched against your stomach. your eyes sweep automatically—chairs, floral arches, altar drapery—all in perfect alignment. but your gaze refuses to stay there.

because across the sea of faces—near the front, standing at the groom’s side—is minho.

he is supposed to be looking at the bride.

but he isn’t.

his eyes are already on you.

fixed. unblinking.

the corners of his lips twitch like he’s trying to school his expression, but his eyes betray him completely. wide, dark, soft in a way you have only glimpsed in stolen moments.

you shift your weight to your back foot, forcing your attention to the aisle. you try to focus on the gentle progress of your cousin’s steps, on the delicate tremor of her veil, on the collective hush that holds the clearing like a fragile glass orb.

but it's hard.

so hard.

because you can still feel the warmth of his gaze on your wrist from earlier. because you can still hear the soft hush of his laugh when he called you beautiful. because you can see the ribbon of your bouquet matching the bloom pinned to his chest— proof of something shared, something secret, something yours.

the officiant’s voice rises gently, inviting the couple closer. vows unfold like the first touch of dawn— tender, trembling, careful.

your cousin’s voice cracks halfway through her vow. the groom’s hand lifts to brush away a tear that never quite fell. someone in the second row sniffles loudly. the officiant laughs softly, waiting, then continues.

you steal a glance around the clearing. heads bowed, hands pressed to mouths, tissues dabbing at eyes. and still—when you glance back, when you dare—minho is looking only at you.

your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming between your ribs. despite this, you do not look away.

not this time.

when they exchange rings, you swallow hard. your cousin’s shoulders shake with laughter through her tears. the groom presses his forehead to hers, whispering something that draws a stuttered, teary giggle from her lips.

the officiant smiles, voice bright now: “you may kiss the bride.”

and they do.

the clearing explodes in sound— cheers, applause, a jubilant swirl of clapping hands and camera shutters and flowers being waved in the air.

your heart beats so hard you feel it in your fingertips.

somewhere beneath the celebration, beneath the golden haze of that first shared kiss, your heart stutters for something—someone—else entirely.

after the ceremony, after the hugs and the first frantic wave of congratulations, after the newlyweds are whisked away for photos—he finds you.

your back is turned, scanning the programs left on chairs, counting flower bundles.

then—

a hand, firm and warm, slides to the small of your back.

you freeze.

minho's voice—low, roughened by something that sounds suspiciously like nerves—spills just beside your ear.

“you were incredible.”

your breath shivers out of you in a single, quiet exhale.

you turn your head just enough to catch his eyes, close now, so close.

and for the first time today, there is no teasing. no deflection. no mask.

only the raw, quiet truth that trembles between you like an unstruck match.

you open your mouth—maybe to say thank you, maybe to say something else entirely—but he’s already stepping back, his hand sliding away slowly, reluctantly.

and somehow—

somehow, those three words feel heavier, truer, more electric than anything else you have heard all day.

saturday, 5:32pm

the golden hour settles like honey over the clearing. lanterns flicker to life one by one, each bulb blooming warm against the deepening blue of early evening. light pools across the tabletops in gentle circles, slipping over crystal glasses and scattering off silver cutlery in soft sparks. every surface seems to glow; every guest is gilded in that soft, forgiving twilight.

you move through it all like a quiet current—calm, steady, endlessly watchful. you check on the caterers, run a gentle hand over a linen runner that has shifted, bend to rescue a stray petal caught in a breeze. your clipboard feels lighter now, more an ornament than armor.

someone calls your name. you turn— your cousin stands there, veil long gone, hair pinned up in soft, romantic curls that tumble around her shoulders. her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed pink, her fingers laced tightly with her new husband’s.

they reach you in seconds, and she pulls you in before you can even think to protest. her arms wrap around you, warm and trembling.

“thank you,” she breathes against your ear. “thank you for making this the best day of my entire life.”

you laugh, but the sound fractures on its way out, already threadbare with emotion. “you’re going to make me cry,” you murmur, voice thick.

“good,” she says, pulling back to wipe at your cheek. “you deserve it. you deserve everything.”

you open your mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to tease—but the words die before they can form. her eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the entire day presses in around you, heavy and bright and impossibly soft.

then—

a presence at your back.

you do not have to turn. your skin recognizes him before your mind does—warmth radiating close enough that your shoulder hums with it.

“you okay?” minho’s voice drifts low, almost inaudible under the chatter and clink of glasses.

you swallow, nod once. you cannot quite turn to meet his eyes, not when your heart feels like it might spill out through your ribs.

he stays for a moment longer—close enough that you feel the edge of his breath on your neck—before a guest waves him over. he steps away, but his gaze catches yours as he moves, tethering you there.

when you finally let out the breath you didn't know you were holding, the evening seems to tilt slightly—like the whole clearing has been caught between two heartbeats.

dinner winds down. plates are scraped clean, glasses refilled and traded like little secrets. clusters of guests drift between tables, laughter lifting in bright ribbons that twist up into the trees.

you spot minho across the dance floor—jacket gone, sleeves rolled, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. he looks different like this: softer, a little more unraveled, the edges of his careful composure loosened just enough to show the warmth beneath.

your gaze lingers too long. he catches it. his lips twitch, a soft, knowing curve that sends warmth flooding up your neck.

then the speeches begin.

you step quietly to the side, hands clasped at your waist, breath shallow. your cousin steps up first. her voice shakes at the beginning, thin as a trembling bowstring, but then steadies, blooming bright and clear.

she thanks her family, her new husband, the friends who have shaped her life. she glances at you, her voice catching as she says your name, telling everyone how you built this day from nothing—how your hands held every detail, how your heart held them all steady.

your cheeks burn. you look down, throat tight, a shy bloom of warmth expanding beneath your ribs.

then, it's minho turn. he moves slowly, fingers curling around the mic. he pauses, thumb brushing his lip like he’s buying himself a few more seconds.

you can tell he has no notes. nothing rehearsed.

he opens with a laugh, a small joke about emergency caffeine deliveries and endless last-minute revisions. the crowd laughs with him, easy and warm.

but then—

his voice drops, softens, grows unguarded.

“there’s a lot i could say about this couple,” he starts, gaze sweeping the guests once, then landing—steadily, unwavering—on you. “but i think the thing that stands out most is that real love lives in the smallest details. in the tiny moments no one else notices. in the care that holds everything up when the rest of us might let it fall.”

your pulse stutters. you do not move.

“and,” he continues, voice low enough that it seems to find only you, “it’s in the people who make that possible. the ones who hold the entire world together, even when they’re carrying more than they should have to.”

his eyes stay on yours.

your chest pulls tight.

someone in the audience laughs softly, dabbing at their eyes. the groom claps him on the back when he finishes, the crowd lifting glasses, the sound of cheers and glass chimes like a gentle rain.

but you can't quite hear it.

because he is stepping down, moving toward you, his gaze locked to yours like an unspoken vow.

when he stops in front of you, your breath hiccups. you manage a small, watery smile. he answers with a grin of his own—crooked, trembling at the corners, something impossibly soft hiding there.

he opens his mouth like he might say something—another joke, maybe, or a quiet question—but then someone catches his wrist, tugging him to the dance floor.

he goes, but not before his fingers ghost across yours, the slightest brush that feels like a promise tucked into your skin.

you stand frozen for a moment, heart clattering.

then your cousin finds you, bright and breathless, her fingers closing around your wrist, dragging you into the swirling ring of bridesmaids dancing.

you do not resist.

the music surges, joyous and sunlit, and the entire floor becomes a sea of laughter and blurred movement and warm, soft collisions.

every few beats, minho appears beside you—his hand catching yours mid-spin, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes, his breath grazing your cheek in quick, stolen seconds.

neither of you speaks.

neither of you needs to.

because the entire room already knows.

and, somewhere deep down, you know too.

"alright," the mc calls out, voice playful and bright, "now time for the esteemed bouquet toss! who’s feeling lucky tonight?"

the music shifts, quick and sparkly — the kind of cheeky, teasing melody that makes everyone lean forward, grinning.

your cousin steps into the middle of the floor, bouquet raised high in one hand, the other waving as she soaks in the cheers. she turns in a slow circle, laughing so hard her shoulders shake.

you hover at the edge, trying to disappear into the table linen, clutching your clipboard like a lifeline.

"get in there!" she shouts suddenly, pointing straight at you. her eyes are sharp, gleaming with mischief.

you shake your head fast, your laughter spilling out too loudly. "no, no, no—"

before you can finish, someone from behind — a cousin or maybe one of the bridesmaids — gives you a gentle shove. you stumble forward, nearly tripping, your hand shooting out to steady yourself on the nearest chair.

"you aren't working right now," your cousin crows, already victorious. "you're single. and as much of a snack as you are, you're standing too close to the food table. get. in. here."

you try to retreat, but another friend catches your wrist, dragging you into the centre of the circle. a loud, collective "ooooooh" rises from the guests.

your cheeks burn so fiercely you think they might glow in the dark. you glance back over your shoulder instinctively — and there he is.

minho.

leaning casually against a cocktail table, one arm draped lazily over the back of a chair, his other hand wrapped around a half-empty glass. jacket gone. sleeves rolled to his elbows. the line of his collar slightly open, just enough to reveal the delicate dip of his throat.

he’s watching you.

watching you like you’re the only one left in the clearing, like the noise has faded into some distant hum he can’t even hear.

his mouth curls at the corner, slow and deliberate, a private upside-down smile that does something dangerous to your insides. his eyes catch the light and go dark, molten, almost predatory in their softness.

your heart somersaults, crashing up into your throat.

you turn back quickly, nearly fumbling into the group of giggling women. someone tugs you deeper into the circle, hands all around you, laughter rising in waves.

your cousin lifts her arm, bouquet poised above her head. the crowd starts to chant. she pretends to throw once, twice — the bouquet dips dramatically to the left, then the right. squeals erupt every time she feints, arms flailing everywhere, fingers splayed in anticipation.

you shift backward, trying to vanish into the mass of elbows and perfume and hair. you repeat in your head that you do not care, that it’s just tradition, that there is no way—

but then the flowers go up.

they spin in a slow, perfect arc—white petals catching the lantern light, green stems flashing in a bright, defiant streak—and somehow, impossibly, they come straight for you.

your hands fly up on instinct. the bouquet hits your palms with a soft, shocking weight.

there’s a beat of pure silence.

then the entire group explodes.

someone behind you screeches. another friend clamps her hands on your shoulders, shaking you back and forth in triumph. petals scatter everywhere, tiny fragments clinging to your hair and arms.

you’re so stunned you almost drop the bouquet entirely.

you look up, breathless.

minho is still there.

his head tilts, eyes widening first in open surprise— then something else blooms across his face. he laughs, loud and startled, head falling forward for a second as he claps once, palm echoing sharp in the air. when he straightens, that smile is still there: soft, crooked, deeply fond.

you feel your entire body catch fire.

your cousin is doubled over now, pointing at you with both hands, tears streaking her cheeks. "i told you!" she screams. "fate! fate, bitch! i told you!"

you try to form a response—something snarky, something to save your dignity—but all that escapes is a high, helpless squeak.

the group starts chanting something you can’t even make out. someone loops an arm around your waist and parades you in a messy circle, your bouquet held high like a victory banner.

and through every dizzy spin, every blur of faces and lights and shrieks— he is there.

minho.

eyes locked to yours. unmoving. his expression carved open and raw, like he’s about to walk across the floor and pull you out of there with no explanation at all.

your pulse roars in your ears. you press the flowers tight to your chest, petals tickling your chin.

you don't know what to do with this sudden, thrilling ache coursing through you, what to do with the molten echo of his eyes on your skin, what to do with the sharp, impossible want tightening every breath.

but he does not move. not yet.

instead, he stands there, every line of him wound taut, every glance screaming what his hands have not yet claimed.

and you clutch the bouquet like a secret you have no idea how to keep.

saturday, 11:03pm

as the final chords of the last upbeat song melt into a softer, almost cinematic instrumental, the guests seem to float inward as if pulled by an invisible tide. the newlyweds step into the centre of the floor, hands already locked, foreheads nearly touching.

the music hushes to a gentle pulse, like a heartbeat. champagne glasses catch the golden string lights overhead, flickering with reflections of all the laughter and tears from the night.

your cousin tugs the mic from the stand, her other hand twisting in her new husband’s jacket sleeve. her eyes are red-rimmed, makeup smudged into something soft and human, hair slipping from its careful style in delicate little wisps that frame her face. she looks like a painting.

she breathes in once, then tries to start. "i just—" her voice catches, mouth tipping into a half-laugh, half-sob. she presses her lips together, trying again. "i just wanted to say… thank you."

her eyes scan the room. you feel them pause on your face for a moment, warm and bright and full of a thousand unspoken things.

"to every single person here tonight," she goes on, her voice finally steadying. "thank you for helping us make today… the best day of our lives."

the room erupts. people cheer and whistle, someone starts to chant her name before dissolving into giggles.

she glances at her husband, who watches her like he might never look away again. he presses his forehead to her temple for a moment, grounding her.

"we really couldn’t have done any of this without you all," she continues, sniffling through her grin. "our family, our friends… and especially," she turns, eyes locking on you now, "my incredible cousin. the person who basically held this entire event together with nothing but sheer willpower, an unholy number of to-do lists, and an ungodly amount of espresso shots."

laughter bursts from the crowd. someone yells, "she deserves a raise!" and you bury your face in your hands, shaking your head, your shoulders shaking with a helpless laugh.

your cousin isn’t done. "and," she pivots again, this time finding minho in the crowd, "to our favorite perfectionist menace. who, despite his permanently judgmental face—" a ripple of laughter breaks out, minho’s head drops forward for a second, hiding a grin behind his raised glass. "somehow made everything look like a dream."

he looks up then, mouth crooked, cheeks pink, eyes soft in a way that makes your heart seize. he lifts his glass higher, like a quiet salute.

"seriously," she says, voice suddenly tender and almost trembling, "we could not have asked for better people. for better friends."

she turns back to her husband, fingers pressing lightly to his chest, almost as if checking he’s real. he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before taking the mic from her hand, steadying her fingers in his as he does.

"we’re so lucky," he says, voice deep, low, warmth curling through every word. "so blessed. thank you for dancing with us. for laughing with us. for staying until the very last song. we hope you all felt the love tonight—because we felt every bit of it back."

someone near the back yells, "to the bride and groom!" and a wave of cheers echoes, overlapping claps and whistles and the chime of glasses lifted high.

your cousin looks at you again, eyes shining with gratitude and mischief. she blows you a kiss across the room. you laugh, tears hot on your lower lashes, and blow one back, your chest tightening in the sweetest possible way.

and somewhere—somewhere behind all that noise, in that tiny pocket of space where your world feels smaller and sharper—you feel minho watching you. again. unwavering. heavy. a quiet warmth that sits on your skin like sunlight after rain.

you glance at him just once, bouquet still clutched to your chest, fingers tightening around the stems. his mouth moves slightly, like he’s almost about to say something, but doesn’t.

your face feels too hot. you duck your head, heart drumming so loud you’re sure the entire tent can hear it.

the final slow song starts up. a few guests begin drifting out, some stay to sway under the twinkling lights—bare feet, heels discarded, heads tipped back with giddy laughter.

you watch your cousin and her husband fold into each other, their hands clasped between them, foreheads pressed together. their silhouettes sway softly in the glow, and you think—yes. this is what all of it was for. every late night. every meltdown. every stray petal fixed at the last second.

this feeling.

this impossible, bright, heart-thrumming warmth.

saturday, 11:46pm

the final songs bleed into soft echoes, low and lilting like a heartbeat winding down. guests begin to gather coats and shoes, laughter weaving between last hugs and final selfies. the entire venue feels like it is exhaling—a long, shimmering sigh after hours of heat and movement and music.

you move through it one last time, fixing a stray hairpin in your cousin’s undone bun, straightening her dress where the satin bunches at the waist. she laughs, teary-eyed, as you scold her for smudged lipstick, and she pulls you into a tight, breath-stealing hug.

her husband tugs you in next, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a quick, fierce squeeze. “text when you get home, okay?” he mumbles against your hair. you nod, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“go be married,” you tease, shooing them back into the little circle of guests lingering at the edge of the dance floor.

you finally step away, bouquet tucked under your arm—petals slightly battered from all the tossing and catching, still fragrant and soft despite it. you trace your thumb along one crushed bloom, heart thudding under your skin.

the path to the lot glows under the fairy lights, strung high and weaving between tree trunks like spilled starlight. each step feels oddly slow, each breath catching on the hush that has fallen in the garden’s wake.

and then—

minho.

waiting near the car, jacket draped over his forearm, bowtie dangling undone around his neck. his shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing his forearms—all smooth lines and delicate veins that flex when he shifts his weight. his hair is mussed, a bit of curl at the ends, no doubt from eager hands dragging him into photos and too many group hugs.

he watches you approach.

your steps slow, until you stop a few feet away.

your eyes meet.

and for a moment, it’s like the entire night—the music, the chatter, the leftover clinks of glasses—fades into something muffled and distant.

“so,” you say finally, your voice softer than you meant, almost a question, almost a breath. “driver minho on duty again?”

he smirks—the slow kind, like honey slipping down the edge of a spoon—eyes dipping to the bouquet, then back to your face. “someone’s got to make sure you and your contraband flowers get home safely.”

your laugh spills out, unsteady and a little too bright. “contraband? i only stole one bouquet, thank you very much.”

he raises an eyebrow, a dangerous arch that makes something low in your belly twist. “uh-huh.”

silence stretches.

not awkward. not really. just taut. electric.

he tilts his head slightly, flicks a glance toward the passenger side. “come on,” he says, voice low now, coaxing. “before they rope us into hauling crates back to the storage shed.”

you huff a laugh and cross to the car, fingers curling tighter around the bouquet.

the ride begins in hush— the engine’s gentle hum, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires as he pulls away. your dress rustles softly when you shift, bouquet balanced across your lap, petals catching the faint streetlight glow.

you risk a glance sideways. he’s drumming his fingers on the wheel absently, jaw flexing every so often. his other hand rests loose on his thigh— fingers tapping, slow, measured, as if keeping time with something neither of you can hear.

your own pulse thrums too loud, words coiling behind your teeth, stalling at the back of your throat.

you swallow. try again.

“this doesn’t mean we become strangers again, right?” you murmur. the words come out small, fragile as a moth’s wing. “after tonight?”

his hand stills. his head snaps slightly, eyes flicking to you like you’ve just torn open the sky.

“no,” he says immediately. urgent. “god, no. not if you don’t want to.” he swallows hard. “i’d—” he stops, breathes. “i’d seriously hope not.”

your laugh bursts out, thin and trembling. relief and something sharper tangle in your ribs. “good,” you whisper, eyes falling to your lap. “okay. i just… needed to make sure.”

he shifts again, glancing over with something raw and bright in his gaze. “it’d kill me,” he says, voice low, almost a confession, “to go back to that. pretending.”

your fingers tremble around a stray petal, twisting it until it nearly tears. your mind—soft, pink, tipsy from the leftover champagne and the warmth of him so close—sparks in wild loops.

you look at him again. his profile in the passing lights: high cheekbones, lashes dark and low, his throat shifting when he swallows.

heat rushes up your neck, want and champagne fuelling your next words.

“so…” your voice is smaller, but braver, your chin tilting slightly. “wanna come inside, then?”

his knuckles go white on the wheel. he exhales— a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a groan.

he looks at you, really looks, eyes dark and searching.

“are you sure?” he asks, voice scraping low, careful.

you nod. once. firm. “yeah. i’m sure.”

he doesn’t say another word. but his shoulders ease, like he’s just been unshackled from something heavy.

the rest of the drive unfurls in a hush—the steady pulse of streetlights flicking over his face, your breaths shallow, a quiet, shared tremor weaving between your joined silences.

when he pulls up outside your place, you don’t wait. your hand flies to the handle, you slip out, bouquet still clutched like a shield, like a secret.

you pause in the driveway, heart hammering, and glance back to him over your shoulder.

he’s already out of the car.

and he follows.

your front door clicks shut behind you with a softness that somehow echoes louder than a slam.

you hesitate, hand still on the handle, forehead tilting forward just enough to brush the cool wood. you take a breath—deep, shaking — before you turn.

you set the bouquet gently on the entryway table, fingers lingering on the petals, pressing them lightly like they might anchor you here in this fragile, electric hush.

minho steps inside a moment later, his shoulders tensed, hands in his pockets. he pauses at the threshold, gaze skating over your figure, catching at your hair, your shoulder, your dress. his bowtie hangs loose around his neck, the undone ends curled like question marks. his hair falls into his eyes — soft, slightly damp from the late air — and he doesn’t bother to push it away.

you swallow, the silence stretching.

“shoes off,” you murmur at last, your voice like a half-formed thought.

you toe yours off first, sliding them against the wall. you hear him mirror you—a soft scuff, the dull thud of leather hitting the floor.

for a long moment, you both just stand there.

the hallway light spills warm, turning the edges of his face to gold, making every small shift of his expression feel almost cinematic. his throat bobs. he shifts his weight, shoulders twitching minutely, as though he’s holding back a dozen movements at once.

you clear your throat, a fragile sound. “um… wine?”

his eyes lift to meet yours, sharp and glassy. they flicker—to your lips, back to your eyes, down to your hands.

“yeah,” he says, voice low. “yeah, that’d be good.”

you turn before you can melt under that gaze. your hands hover at your sides, then rise to smooth your skirt, then drop again. you start toward the kitchen, feel him follow, his steps careful, as if he’s afraid to wake something.

you reach for the bottle you had hidden for a “special occasion,” fingers trembling slightly as you curl them around the neck. you almost drop the corkscrew, laugh quietly to yourself—a nervous, shaky sound that echoes too loud in the stillness.

behind you, he stops at the edge of the counter, leaning just slightly forward. his hand braces on the edge, knuckles white for a moment.

you work the cork free, breath shallow, heart thumping like it might break through your ribs. you keep your eyes on the bottle, hyper-aware of his warmth so close, of his silent, focused attention.

“you okay?” he asks, voice a little hoarse.

you glance over your shoulder, startled.

“yeah,” you say. it comes out softer than intended. “just… a lot.”

he nods, once. his fingers relax on the counter.

you pour two glasses, the wine sloshing slightly from your unsteady hands. you pass him one, and when his fingers brush yours—warm, calloused—your entire body jolts, like a live wire touched to skin.

he holds the glass between both hands, almost reverently, his thumb rubbing slow circles into the curve of it. his gaze flickers over you, lingering on your hair, your lips, the line of your collarbone.

you lean against the counter, wine glass clasped tight, trying to anchor your breath. he stands opposite, still near the edge, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

you both sip, the movements oddly synchronized.

“thank you,” you blurt suddenly, the words scraping out. “for today. for… everything.”

he lowers his glass, sets it down carefully with a soft clink. his fingers stay curled around the base.

“you don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs.

your eyes sting. you shake your head, setting your own glass down beside his. your hand lingers, thumb brushing the stem, knuckles nearly bumping his.

“i do,” you insist, voice trembling. “you… you made all of this possible. i couldn’t have done it without you.”

he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“you could have,” he says, softer now. “you always could have. but… i’m glad you didn’t have to.”

your eyes flick up to his, searching, catching on the sharp brightness there. he takes a step forward—small, cautious—then another.

you push off the counter, the movement automatic, meeting him in the middle of the narrow kitchen. your hand hovers at your side, almost rising to touch him, but you stop yourself at the last second.

“minho,” you breathe.

his name lands between you like a drop in still water, rippling out.

he stands so close now you can see the faint shimmer of leftover rain at his temples, the quick flick of his pulse under his jaw.

he opens his mouth. shuts it again. you see the moment he decides to let go.

“i don’t want to go back,” he whispers, voice breaking a little at the edges. “to… whatever we were before. i don’t want to pretend i don’t—” he stops, head dropping slightly. his breath shivers against your cheek. “i don’t want to pretend anymore. i don't want to be strangers. i don't even want to be friends.”

your lips part, a soft gasp caught in your throat. you feel your fingers twitch at your sides, a thousand words pressing forward all at once.

“me neither,” you say, the words tumbling out, unsteady. “i don’t… i don’t want to keep holding it in. i love you.”

he looks at you—really looks, eyes raw, wide, terrified and shining all at once.

“i love you too,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. “you scare me,” he admits, breath shuddering out. “because you make me want everything.”

your mouth falls open. your fingers move, finally, rising to skim the edge of his jaw, trembling as they press into the skin.

“then take it,” you whisper. “take everything.”

and when he surges forward, it feels like the universe finally exhales. he closes the space in half a heartbeat, hands coming up to cup your face so gently it almost hurts. his thumbs brush over your cheeks again and again, as if to check if you’re really here, as if he cannot believe you are solid beneath his hands.

your breath hitches. he studies you—your lips, your lashes, the frantic flicker of your eyes—like you are a question he has been dying to answer for years.

and then his mouth finds yours.

the first press is soft, trembling at the edges, his lips moving slowly, carefully, as if savouring the shape of you. but that gentleness cracks almost instantly. the second kiss is hungrier, needier—he swallows your gasp, and you taste the wine, the salt of his sweat, the desperation that has been simmering between you since the day you met.

your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, tugging him closer, closer still, until your back bumps the edge of the counter. his body crowds into yours fully now, his chest pressing firm and hot against you. he groans low into your mouth, a sound so deep and rough it vibrates through your bones.

he breaks away just enough to pant, forehead pressed against yours, his breath shivering across your lips.

“i want this to be special,” he pants, voice cracked and shaking. “we… we don’t have to rush—”

you grip his shirt tighter, your laugh ragged, almost disbelieving. “minho,” you gasp, voice already wrecked, “if you don’t take me to bed right now, i might actually lose it.”

a laugh tears from his throat, sharp and stunned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shakes. but the laugh is broken halfway through, overtaken by a groan when your fingers slip up to his nape, scratching lightly.

he lifts his head again, eyes blown wide and dark, mouth already swollen from kissing you. “fuck,” he breathes, and then he kisses you again—deeper this time, as if each second without you might kill him.

you feel the shift the moment he gives in fully: the careful edges vanish, replaced by something raw, molten, unstoppable. he hoists you up with surprising ease, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, your hands diving into his hair, tugging at the strands until he growls against your lips.

you both stumble down the hallway, bumping into walls, doors, laughing in wild bursts between desperate kisses. your teeth clack against his, and you feel the vibration of his laughter against your chest. his mouth roams—jaw, cheek, ear—each kiss messier, wetter, more frantic than the last.

he finally reaches your bedroom and lays you down with a gentleness that nearly undoes you. he hovers there for a heartbeat, just looking down at you, his chest heaving, hair falling into his eyes. he looks at you like he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time—reverent, disbelieving, hungry.

your hands slide up his chest, fumbling at the bowtie still dangling, fingers trembling as you tug.

“off,” you murmur, breathless, tugging again, your eyes locked to his.

his laugh is short, nearly a moan, but he obeys instantly, shucking off his jacket and tearing the bowtie from his collar, letting it fall to the floor in a soft whisper of fabric.

you sit up, shoving at his shirt buttons with clumsy fingers, your breaths coming sharp and fast. he watches you, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dark with want. when the last button gives, you shove the shirt off his shoulders, your palms skimming over the warm planes of his arms, his chest. he shivers under your touch, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his chest—just below his collarbone at first, then lower, open-mouthed kisses that leave damp trails. he curses, his hands flying to your hair, knotting there, tugging you closer, his hips shifting forward against yours unconsciously.

“fuck,” he rasps, his voice rough, like gravel under your hands. “you’re… you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin against his skin, teeth grazing lightly over his sternum. “good,” you murmur, your voice wicked and soft at once. “maybe then you’ll finally shut up.”

he chokes out a laugh that turns into a stuttering groan when your nails scrape down his sides. he pulls you up suddenly, crashing your mouth into his again, and you fall back onto the bed with a gasp, legs instinctively parting as he moves between them.

he kisses you like a man starved, like he might never get the chance again. your lips are slick and swollen, your moans echoing between each sharp inhale.

when he breaks away just enough to drag his hands up your thighs, under your dress, he pauses, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaky.

“dress. off,” he pants, voice splintering. “please— i need to see you.”

you arch up eagerly, fingers scrambling to pull the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without thought. you hear the faint whisper of it hitting the floor, but all you can see is him—his pupils blown wide, his lips parted, his entire body trembling slightly as his eyes roam over you, devouring.

“fuck,” he breathes, reverent and wrecked at once. “look at you.”

you flush, heat licking up your chest, but before you can shy away, his hands slide up your sides, fingers hooking around your bra straps, and he leans down to kiss you—slow at first, almost reverent, as if to say thank you, as if to worship.

but that careful sweetness doesn’t last. your hips lift against him, needy, and he curses into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lower lip.

from there, it all dissolves—into heat, into sound, into the frantic, unstoppable rush of everything you have both been holding back.

your hips buck up again, helpless under his touch, and he growls low in his throat. his mouth drags down, over your jaw, your neck, your collarbones—leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses that have your fingers clawing at the sheets.

“minho,” you gasp, your voice already hoarse, the syllables shattering in your mouth like glass.

he hums against your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt there, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder. he moves lower still, the heat of his breath skimming over the tops of your breasts.

his hands are everywhere at once—cupping your ribs, brushing the undersides of your thighs, ghosting up the length of your sides. each touch sparks a new wave of heat, of want, of something so sharp it almost hurts.

he hooks a finger into the edge of your bra, glances up at you with eyes dark and pleading.

“may i?” he rasps, voice so wrecked it barely sounds like him.

you nod frantically, arching up, and he wastes no time. he unclasps it with deft fingers, sliding the straps down your arms so slowly it makes you sigh.

when he finally bares you fully, he sits back for a heartbeat, his gaze devouring you. he drags his eyes over every inch—your flushed chest, the hard peaks of your nipples, the tremor in your stomach—and he exhales a curse so soft it’s almost reverent.

“fuck… you’re unreal,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself.

before you can reply, he leans in, mouth closing over your nipple.

your head tips back with a sharp cry, your hands flying to his hair, twisting in the strands. he licks, sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk under him.

“please,” you moan, your voice dissolving into the air. “minho— please—”

he groans into your skin, switches to your other breast, lavishing the same worshipping attention until you’re a trembling, gasping mess beneath him.

finally, he drags his mouth down, tracing a line of heat down your ribs, your stomach. he pauses at your waistband, glancing up again, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“want these off,” he pants, fingers already hooking into your panties. “need to taste you.”

you nod, unable to form words, your fingers gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles ache.

he slides them down slowly, pressing kisses to every new inch of exposed skin—your hipbones, the sensitive dip just above your thigh, the inside of your knee when he lifts your leg over his shoulder. each touch is like a tiny shock, your body arching helplessly toward him.

when he finally settles between your thighs, he pauses, just breathing against you. you can feel his breath—warm, humid, impossibly close—and it makes your hips twitch, a broken whine tearing from your throat.

“so pretty,” he murmurs, almost dazed, his thumb tracing lightly over your slick folds. “so fucking pretty for me.”

you sob his name, your hands flying down to clutch at his hair, desperate to ground yourself.

and then his mouth is on you.

at first, he teases—slow, languid strokes of his tongue that make you sob, your thighs quivering around his head. he groans at the taste of you, the vibration sinking into your core, making your back arch off the bed.

your fingers tighten in his hair, your hips bucking up.

“minho— please— more—”

he growls, a sound so deep it rattles through your bones, and then he gives in completely.

he eats you like a man possessed—messy, fervent, relentless. his tongue delves deep, his lips sealing around your clit and sucking so hard your vision whites out.

you writhe under him, helpless, your moans high and wild, echoing off the walls.

when you feel the edge rush up to meet you, your thighs clamp around his head, your hands tugging so hard at his hair he groans into you again.

“please,” you sob, nearly incoherent. “gonna— i’m gonna—”

he pulls back just enough to rasp, “come on baby, cum for me,” before diving back in, doubling his pace.

you shatter.

the pleasure explodes through you in a blinding rush, your entire body convulsing, a scream tearing from your throat as you ride the waves, hips bucking wildly against his mouth.

he holds you through it, hands gripping your thighs tight, tongue and lips unrelenting until you’re twitching, gasping, sobbing his name over and over.

when he finally pulls back, his mouth and chin glisten, his eyes nearly black as he looks up at you.

you reach for him immediately, tugging him up by the hair until his mouth crashes into yours again. you taste yourself on him, hot and heady, and it makes you whine into the kiss.

you fumble for his belt, both of you shaking, laughing breathlessly between kisses as you struggle to get him undressed.

when you finally shove his pants down, his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, and you both pause for a moment, just breathing.

he shudders when your hand wraps around him, his hips jerking forward, a strangled moan breaking from his lips. when you move to return the favour, his hand grips your hip to stop you.

“fuck— please— need you,” he pants, forehead dropping to yours. “need to be inside you—”

you nod frantically, your legs falling open wider, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“okay. yes— please— want you so bad— all of you,” you gasp.

he lines up, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, and for a heartbeat, everything stills.

he looks at you, eyes wild and soft all at once, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“you sure?” he whispers, voice shaking.

“yes,” you breathe, your voice breaking. “minho, please.”

and then he pushes in, slow and deep, and the world shatters.

you both moan—low and broken—as he sheaths himself fully, his hips pressed flush against yours. he stays there for a moment, trembling, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

“fuck— so tight— so good—” he groans, his voice wrecked.

you arch up into him, hips rolling desperately, feeling both overstimulated and understimulated simultaneously. “move,” you sob. “please— need you to move—”

he obeys.

he pulls back almost all the way, then thrusts in again hard, and your cry echoes through the room.

from there, it’s all feverish motion—his hips snapping into you at a relentless pace, your nails raking down his back, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.

he buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping at your pulse, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“mine,” he gasps, each thrust punctuated, his voice strangled with emotion and need. “you’re mine— all mine—”

“yours,” you respond, nails dragging hard enough to leave marks. “yours— fuck—”

your climax builds again, tight and bright, your entire body tightening around him.

“minho— i’m— i’m gonna—”

he lifts his head just enough to watch your face, hips hammering into you, eyes wide and wild.

“cum for me again baby,” he rasps. “wanna feel you— please—”

you break.

your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your entire body locking up, a scream ripping from your throat. you clamp down around him so hard he chokes on a curse, his rhythm stuttering.

with a final deep thrust, he spills into you, moaning your name like a prayer, his whole body shuddering as he pulses deep inside.

he collapses over you, both of you slick with sweat, shaking, the only sound your ragged, mingled breathing.

after a few seconds, he shifts just enough to press soft, trembling kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, your forehead— each one a silent apology, a vow, a promise.

you card your fingers through his hair, your eyes wet, your chest still heaving.

he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes wide and soft, a trembling smile curving his lips.

“you okay?” he rasps, voice nearly gone.

you nod, tears slipping free now, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “never been better,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

he smiles—real and open and utterly wrecked—and leans in to kiss you again, this one slow and tender and impossibly sweet.

you cling to him, to the weight of him, to the warmth, to the knowledge that you are both exactly where you were always meant to be.

at some point in the hush, your fingers begin tracing idle shapes on his chest—little spirals, half-formed letters, mindless meanders that speak louder than any words. he watches you do it, his head propped up just enough to catch every flutter of your eyelashes when you glance up at him.

he hums, a deep, content sound, low in his throat. “you writing a novel on me?”

you snort into his skin. “maybe. someone has to document all your crimes.”

“crimes?” he scoffs, tugging you closer by the waist. “what crimes? being devastatingly handsome? making you finish so hard you nearly pass out?”

your gasp gets stuck in your throat, half outrage, half something far more dangerous. your hand flies up to smack his shoulder, but he catches your wrist easily, laughing.

“did not. you’re insufferable,” you grumble, trying and failing to suppress your own grin.

“and yet,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your captured fingers, “here you are. willingly imprisoned.”

“i should have run when i had the chance,” you mutter.

“too late now,” he sings, smug, flipping your hand to press another kiss into your palm. “you’re stuck with me forever. binding contract and all.”

“contract?” you arch a brow, playing along. “did i miss the fine print?”

“page two, clause four,” he says immediately, with that infuriatingly smooth confidence. “once you let lee minho rail you into oblivion, you’re required to let him stay over. and also bring him coffee in bed. daily.”

you throw your head back, laughing so hard your ribs ache. “you are the worst. actually the worst.”

“hmm,” he pretends to consider it, dragging your wrist up to rest against his jaw. “most would say ‘best.’ in fact, top reviews across the board, mind you.”

“delusional,” you declare, leaning down to peck the tip of his nose.

he catches you before you can pull away, stealing a longer kiss that’s all soft lips and slow breaths. when he finally releases you, you’re both smiling, foreheads pressed together.

“tell me again,” he whispers, eyes searching yours.

your heart stumbles over itself, heat crawling up your neck. “tell you what?” you murmur, even though you already know.

his thumb brushes your jaw, as if coaxing it out of you. “what you said before.”

"hmm... i don't think i know what you're talking about..." you tease.

minho groans, tucking his head into your neck. "just say it. please?"

you swallow, throat thick. your free hand slides up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing at his chin.

“okay, but only because it's true. i love you,” you say again. steady this time. clear and bright as starlight.

his breath hitches. “say it again.”

you giggle softly, nose brushing his. “you're so needy.”

“yep. only for you to see. i'm dangerously needy," he agrees without shame.

you roll your eyes but lean in closer, your lips ghosting over his as you speak. “i love you.”

he surges up, kissing you so hard you nearly fall backward. his hands tangle into your hair, pulling you down until your chests are flush again. he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear those words, like he might dissolve if he stops.

when he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lashes damp. “i love you too,” he murmurs, his voice raw and hoarse. “so much it’s fucking terrifying.”

you snort, even as your chest feels like it might burst. “good. means we’re both doomed.”

he laughs, quiet and warm, and tugs you down to rest against him again. his fingers stroke up and down your spine, lazy and unhurried.

after a beat, he shifts slightly, brows pinching. “wait. so… about that daily coffee. i was only half-joking.”

you groan, nuzzling your face deeper into his chest. “god, you’re so demanding.”

“please,” he scoffs. “you love it.”

“hate it,” you mumble, muffled into his skin.

“liar,” he accuses, tapping your side. “admit it.”

you only shake your head, smirking against him.

he laughs, and the sound is so beautiful, so open, that it hooks right behind your ribs and tugs.

eventually, the silence stretches again— not awkward, but settled. content. you listen to the rhythm of his heart under your ear, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

he exhales, and his chin tips down to rest against the top of your head. “you know… i really meant it.”

“meant what?” you ask, sleep already creeping at the edges of your thoughts.

“when i said you scare me,” he admits. “because you make me want… everything. the whole stupid, messy, forever thing.”

you tilt your head, peeking up at him. his face is so close, and even half-shadowed by moonlight, you can see every line softened by the truth in his words.

“then have it,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair again. “have everything.”

he stares at you, eyes wide, lips parting— like he might cry, or laugh, or both.

then he kisses you again. slow. gentle. a promise sealed in salt and moonlight.

when he pulls back, he breathes your name like a benediction.

you hum, tucking yourself into his side fully. “now shut up and sleep before you get sappy enough to propose with a twist tie or something.”

he snorts so hard it jolts you both. “tempting,” he teases, squeezing your hip. “might do it tomorrow. our wedding would be so well planned.”

“god help me,” you mutter, but your giggle betrays you.

he pulls the blanket higher around you, his breath soft against your forehead. “goodnight, trouble.”

“goodnight, menace,” you echo, already drifting.

in the quiet that follows, his fingers keep moving— up and down your arm, over your shoulder, across your back. a quiet mantra. you’re here. i’m here. we’re here.

outside, the moon shifts higher. the curtains sway, the air smells faintly of rain and lavender.

and inside, your heart finally, finally stops running.

tomorrow will come. it will bring new mornings and shared coffees and petty bickering about the proper way to fold towels.

but for tonight— tonight is just you and him. hearts tangled. breaths shared. laughter still echoing somewhere under your skin.

a love that feels, at last, like coming home and setting down your bags forever.

and neither of you ever plans to leave.

< previous | navigation | next >

and that marks the end of ‘aisle be damned’!

i wanna take a moment to thank everyone who stuck around for this series! i had such a good time writing this, it’s easily one of my favourite works thus far. i hope you enjoyed just as much as i did, and will come back to reread whenever you feel like it! thank you for taking the time to read it all 🩷

more skz here

requests open! now that i’m done with this i can actually get my requests out LOL. so if you have one send one my way i’ll get to it eventually, don’t be shy 😎

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Safe With Me 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: the Cap makes you his special mission.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

In a blood curdling contrast to his earlier callousness, the Captain stares at you with concern. The lines of his face have rearranged into a perfect mask of compassion. He's convincing, terrifyingly so.

"Tried not to move her too much," he tells the paramedics as they roll the gurney into the ambulance. The jolt makes your groan. "Looked like a back injury."

"Possibly. We'll know back at the site." The man in a dark blue uniform replies. He's not dressed in the bright orange of the other paramedics you've seen and the ambulance isn't painted the same blinding white and red.

"I'll ride with you," The Captain invites himself. No one in this world would say not to him.

"There's room," the man says as he climbs up and locks the gurney in place.

The Captain nods as he cradles his cowl under his arm. His blue eyes drip with worry. He steps up, his weight shifting the boxy vehicle and he angles around to keep his shield from hitting the wall or equipment.

"Miss," the paramedics bends over you. "We're going to do some tests."

You groan and try to nod. The brace around your neck keeps you stiff. You wince.

"Alright," he touches your palm, "can you grip my finger?"

You curl your fingers around his. He wiggles until you release him.

"Good. Lift your hand." You can do that. "Bend your arm." That take more effort. "And how about the whole arm? Can you raise it? Just a little?"

You try. The cuff in your shoulder sears and you squeal as you can only twitch. It hurts.

He hums. "Relax." He taps your hand gently. "Torn ligaments, maybe. Or dislocated."

"But she moved her hand," the Captain argues.

"It's a good sign. Likely no paralysis. But..." The man pauses and looks over his shoulder. "Forgive me asking, do you know this woman?"

The Captain slumps down and puts his hand to his forehead. He could work a film set with that performance. He nods, lip quivering.

"I... It's a secret. To protect her. Or try to," he bends forward and holds his head. "I think... I think it's my fault."

"Captain, you can't do everything. And in this city, it's just as likely a random act of violence," the man affirms.

The Captain gulps and nods. He sniffs and sits up. His eyes are glossy as he looks at you. "I just want her to be okay."

"She will. You know we do good work, Cap. Not like the city."

"Yeah, I know," he utters glumly. "Please, call me Steve." He toys with his cowl. "Just a damn suit."

"We'll take care of her," the paramedics hunches awkwardly, "here, get closer. She needs you."

The Captain moves around the other man in the cramped space, swaying with the motion of the tires. He grabs onto the rail of the gurney. He looks down at you. His jaw ticks.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I promised..." His voice cracks even as his eyes blaze down on you. "You know, I'll always take care of you. I'll always be around."

To the other man, it must sound sweet, romantic even, but he can't see The Captain's face. It's a threat. A warning. Just like what happened in the alley.

Next time, you'll be worse off, so don't make a next time.

"We're going to be together and we're going to be okay," he gently reaches to pet your cheek.

You close your eyes, holding back your horror as he strokes you gently. As startling as this man, this hero turned villain, is all the unknown. Still that question you asked as you writhed on the ground. Why you? Before that night, you only ever saw The Captain on the news.

[billthedrake]

THE FRAT HOUSE (PART FOUR)

The beach was fun. I'd spent the rest of week hanging out with the guys during the day and sleeping with John at night. Alex gave us space, but said he looked forward to hooking up more when we got back home.

Zach and Daniel found out. There was no getting around it, really. It was clear I was going to John's room. Zach asked me about it when we had a moment alone on the beach. Rather than tell him some lie, I fessed up.

"You know what you're doing, Brian?"

"Maybe not," I said. "But it feels right. I feel I can trust these guys."

He winced. Zach definitely didn't like the house bottom idea. "You know I won't judge you man, but I love you like a brother. I don't want those guys taking advantage of you."

"They won't," I insisted. I sighed. Zach tapped into a nagging doubt I had. And truth was, I could stop this House Bottom business anytime. Chalk it up to beach week horns.

But something drew me to it, and I was trying to say what it was, for myself as much as for Zach. "I dunno, bro," I continued. "You know I keep a count of the dudes I've been with?"

That got a surprised smile from my buddy. "Yeah?" he said. "I stopped counting after like thirty." Zach went through a real daddy-chaser phase.

I laughed. "It's been exactly 10 for me.... Part of me wants to go crazy, you know, go chase lots of dick... the other part of me feels better keeping it in the Frat House."

"You got issues being a bottom," he said simply.

I nodded. "Physically, I fucking love it," I said. "But I don't like the way guys look down on bottoms." I was thinking of Army Mike from my hookup at the start of the week, but also the guys on Grindr, or even the way some of the guys would make catty, feminizing comments about bottoms.

Zach nodded. He was a masculine hockey bro who found his own peace with his sexuality. He was less hung up than I was, less inclined to give a fuck what guys thought. "I don't have patience for that BS. That's why being vers is great. You just do what you want and don't build your whole fucking life around a sexual position."

I had to take in my bro's gym-pumped build. Because of our different types, there wasn't sexual tension, but my friend was good looking. Thinning hair and maybe looking older than his 27 years. He's grown his facial hair out, though he confessed he and Daniel were trying to decide if they preferred the more youthful clean-shaven look.

"I've fucked guys," I said. "It was fun, I guess." It was a tone that said it didn’t push my buttons in the same intense way.

Zach laughed. "I honestly love that you decided what you like, Powers. Just look out for yourself."

"Bro, everyone keeps telling me that."

****

It was tough getting back to reality. Work was surprisingly busy for summer, and I had stuff to catch up on. And the previous week had given me extra motivation to spend more time at the gym. It was funny because Zach was on the same wavelength. Even if he wasn't on the market, he loved being in top shape for Daniel.

John was even more in the throes of work, and Alex was meeting all the training clients he'd had to reschedule.

But Kyle was around. He sometimes stuck to his room or had a date or something. He kind of hung out with the guys from our rec league team, but also had his own group of gay friends in the city. That Thursday night he joined me in watching some Netflix show. I'd avoided drinking since getting back from the beach, to recover and focus on my health some. But with the weekend almost there, I helped myself to a beer.

I'd gone hard at the gym, and I was kind of zoned out watching the show, but as it ended Kyle and I made small talk. Him asking me how the beach was, what we did. I filled him in, some.

"Maybe I'll try to go next year," he said.

"You should," I replied. "I definitely will."

Kyle looked at me more steadily. Like something was on his mind. Something was. "So... Alex said some stuff went down."

"Oh," I replied. I wasn’t sure how much A had told him. "Yeah. We got a little wild. It was fun."

"I feel a little left out," he said with a grin. Kyle wasn't a bro with major game. He did really well dating because he was good looking and tall and had the gay jock thing going on. But his confidence now made me realize that A had filled him in completely, maybe even set this up.

I was OK with that. "You don't have to be, man," I said.

I could tell Kyle was surprised. Like he didn't want to believe Alex but was faced with the reality that A had told the truth about me. "You'd put out for me, Powers?"

I nodded and stood up. I was chubbing already, into the idea of spontaneous sex. Somehow my tiredness was gone. "Give me fifteen and meet me in my room?"

This was the most matter of fact I'd been about sex, and it felt liberating. Like I was in control even if I was the one putting out.

"Oh yeah," he replied.

I'd cleaned up and gotten on my bed face down when Kyle walked in, tugging off his shirt. He wasn't super buff like the other guys, but he was tall and decently well built.

"I can't believe this is happening," he laughed.

"You don't gotta, White," I said. "But I want it if you do."

"God yes."

I turned and watched him peel down his shorts. His dick was big, not huge, but solid and thick, with a curve to the left.

"There's lube on the nightstand," I said. "And I'm on PReP. Just go slow to start."

"Got it."

I lay mostly face down, head resting on my folded arms, ass up. I wondered if Kyle was the kind of guy for foreplay. But other than a quick application of lube to my hole, I wasn't going to get any tonight.

I felt his presence above and behind me, nudging that tool of his into my crack and pucker.

"You take dick a lot, Powers?" he asked. I think it was surprise more than anything. He was clearly horny to be tapping my ass.

"Just guys I feel comfortable with," I answered.

"Cool."

He breached me. His caution paid off. That curved dick felt awesome pushing into me. I hiked my ass up and relaxed, letting him go deeper.

"Fuck."

There was something about sex with Kyle that felt taboo. I was buddies with all of the guys in the House and had blurred the lines between friendship and sex. But I was letting White dick me not because I was attracted to him but because he was my friend. Because he was part of the House. It was messed up maybe, but the mental part of that fantasy was turning me on.

"Your dick feels great man," I said in a dreamy, mellow voice. I was enjoying this a lot but hadn't been overstimulated yet.

"Jesus, Powers," Kyle hissed. He leaned in and really started fucking. White didn't throw a hard fuck, but he gave an appreciative one. Whimpering some in excitement, kissing behind my ear, smoothly pumping in and out.

My prostate was singing now. This was the first curved dick I'd taken, and it felt different in a good way.

"Fuck me," I hissed more excitedly. Humping back into Kyle's thrust.

"I don't think I can hold off," he grunted, apologetic.

"Don't, man. Breed me," I urged. I wasn't quite there, but I was close.

A few heavier thrusts and I felt Kyle's defenseman body jerk on top of mine, kind of collapsing his weight on me.

I didn't have lube on my hand, so I gave small thrusts against my sheets and combined with the feeling of that dick sliding in and out with softer motions, that was enough to make me cum.

"Oh GOD!" I hissed. It was fun to lose it now that White had had his pleasure.

"Nice, bro," he said in my ear, licking it as I nutted.

It was a little awkward when he dismounted. But I thanked him for being a good top.

"Jesus, Powers, I should be thanking you." He pulled his shorts back on. "That was amazing." He paused. "What do you do after buddy sex?" he asked laughing. "A fist bump seems weird."

"Don't have to do anything, White. But how about a bro hug?"

"Sure," he smiled.

We hugged it out then he left me to clean up and crash for the evening.

****

The next night, Alex called a house meeting. I had a good idea what it was about. Indeed, he pulled me aside before the other guys got home. "Just wanna check, little bro. You OK with this House Bottom business?"

I'd been doing a lot of thinking. I was OK with it, and told A as much. Still, I had some misgivings. "How's it gonna go down?"

"However you want it to go down, Bri," A said. "That's what we're gonna talk about."

We gathered in the kitchen. Kyle seemed unsure what was going on. John had a smirk on his face that suggested he had a good idea. "So guys..." Alex said. "Powers is officially the House Bottom. So we need to set some ground rules. I'll go over a couple and Bri can add whatever he wants to them."

"First, no talking about this with the other guys. Bri hates gossip and I do too," Alex said, and flashed me a reassuring grin. "Second, any of us can say no, not interested, especially Bri. Third, no messing around in the common areas." He was addressing my housemates then turned to me. "Anything to add?"

I thought for a second. "Yeah... if I'm dating someone the House Bottom thing is off unless I say so, OK?" Who knows if I'd have an open relationship or not, but I wanted to make sure the buddy sex wasn't going to get in the way of my dating life. And I wanted the guys to know that.

"Cool, absolutely," Kyle chimed in. I could tell from his smile he was getting very excited by the House Bottom arrangement.

"Anything else?" A asked.

"Not that I can think of," I said. "If something comes to me, I'll let you know."

"I have one," John interjected. We looked at him. "We gotta respect the House Bottom," he said. "He's a dude helping us out, not some pass-around bitch." Like A, John knew some of my hangups about bottoming, and it warmed my heart to realize he was looking out for me.

"Agreed," A chimed in. "The name of the game is respect guys."

Kyle had Friday plans. I sensed John wanted a crack at me again, but I slept with A that night.

****

It was fun as we found a groove. I was surprised the guys didn't go hog wild. Kyle was the shyest about hitting me up again, and John was busy with work.

I actually made the move on Alex. Surprisingly nervous, I found him up in his room, door open. He'd just stepped out of the shower, with a towel wrapped around his waist. His build was just incredible, with massive muscle. It wasn't even my chosen type I went for generally, but the jacked look was incredible, accentuated by a summer tan and a light dusting of chest fur.

I gave a gentle knock. "Hey A," I announced.

He flashed a smile when he saw me. "Hey little bro, what's up?"

I didn't answer him but instead gestured to his mostly nude state. "Got a hot date?"

He could read the question behind that. "Was gonna hit up the apps. Unless you're offering."

"I'm offering, A," I said simply. This was fun. Flirtatious and matter of fact at the same time.

He grinned and undid his towel. That long snake fell out. While Alex wasn't a short guy exactly, he wasn't tall and that dick seemed out of proportion to his frame. Particularly when it lengthened and stood up, almost mesmerizing me.

I slid off my shorts. I had a more regular piece, and it was sticking up rigid already as I kicked off my shorts and stood before my housemate naked.

"Why don't you lean over the bed, bro?" he asked as he was already pulling out his lube.

"OK," I said. Alex could be good for a more intimate connection, but maybe this was going to be a quickie. I was starting to doubt whether the House Bottom thing was a good thing for the kind of sex I ultimately wanted. But I leaned over onto Alex's bed. I don't think I noticed before how neatly he made his bed, completely folded and tucked. I braced my arms on the duvet. The woody scent of his cologne lingered on the bed.

Even without watching, I could sense my housemate crouch behind me. He parted my ass and dove right in.

"Oh fuck, A..." I hissed. I'd been slow to get into being eaten out, but if Alex Ramirez was doing the rimming, I was gonna love it. "Eat my hole, bro."

That seemed to drive A to munch more fervently, hungry in his desire to lick up into me. I spread my legs just slightly and pushed out my clean hole for him. This wasn't a quickie, this was ten solid minutes of foreplay. And Alex was going to make me wild for his dick.

When he finally stood up, he wasted no time in pressing that slicked up dong into me. Not a hard jab but a steady shove, right into my guts. I wanted it.

"Damn, little bro... this ass is velvet, dude."

"For you, big bro," I hissed in response. There was just a hint of that discomfort and stretch, but that somehow made his bottoming out even hotter. Alex had huge heavy balls that tapped against my taint.

"Your brother's gonna take care of you, Powers." With that, he pulled out and slowly slid back in. He'd lubed up really well and that fucking motion was smooth and steady. My hole gripped against the wet bone pistoning in and out, and yet my spasms simply provided more friction rather than impeded his progress.

"Fuck, bro..." he hissed.

I had no idea how deep we'd go with the brother roleplay. And it was also fraternity brother talk, too. Going back and forth in my head, and probably A's too. As he took me, I lived out the fantasy of being Alex's fraternity brother back in the day, or him being mine. Horny, unable to stop fucking.

Those hips pumped me faster. And faster. Alex's only speed it seemed. I could feel the urgency in his fuck, in his whole body taking charge of my ass. It wouldn't always work for me, but right then I grooved on his excitement.

"Gonna nut in my little brother," he hissed, the mellow voice growing strained. Then those strong fingers gripped my waist hard and he barreled into me. "FUCK!" I was getting seeded with a good dose of A's cum.

He gave me a gentle pat and slowly withdrew. I thought of telling him to push back in so I could jerk to completion, but already A was reading my mind.

"Just wanna take a look, bro," he said with a more relaxed satisfied voice. "Not gonna leave you and and dry."

I started to lift my body up and twist my head around when I felt his still hard dick bore back in. Slower now, as if he was savoring the feel of his own cum inside me. I know I loved the change of pace. I grabbed the lube next to me and squirted enough in my hand to get the right friction on my bone.

It was easy and quick to get off. Alex slow pumping me while I gave a few frantic jerks. And A's strong arm wrapped around me, pulling me up into his hard chest and kissing my neck. Him possessing me physically, and I was giving into that strong embrace. I felt my body go hot and then that wave of pleasure washed over me. Shots of my cum flung out and probably made a mess of A's duvet.

"Nice," he said. He withdrew and helped me clean up. It was great to see his content smile and we kept looking at one another. Not in an about-to-fuck way, or in a romantic way, but just enjoying the sexual chemistry. "You wanna sleep in here tonight, Bri?" he asked.

"Yah," I nodded. John could be more romantic in sex than Alex, far more romantic, but A seemed to enjoy me sleeping in his bed.

We got under the covers and A put his arm around my shoulder, drawing me close. We just talked.

"So Bri... you getting cold feet with the House Bottom arrangement?" he asked.

"Not really," I said.

"I dunno... you seemed nervous coming up here for sex tonight." His fingers softly grazed my delt muscle. Even though I'd cum I was gonna stay hard from the body contact, something that usually didn't happen with me.

He was right. I thought about it. "Maybe it's hard to just start it up." I reached over and felt for A's cock. It was soft now and I heard a satisfied chuckle as I started playing with his lube-sticky meat. "Too sensitive?" I asked.

"Nah, but I'm spent bro. I jerked off early this morning so you got the best of me just now."

"I'm not looking for round two, A... I just like your dick."

"I know, bro," Alex said, turning to kiss my forehead.

God, that was the sexiest part of Alex Ramirez for me, the way he could be an alpha without making a big deal of it or putting me down. He was confident as fuck.

I played with that meat some more. "You know," I said. "I thought the other guys would want to do me by now."

He patted my shoulder and replied. "I think they're not sure how to start up either.... I'm pretty sure John and K are grade-A horndogs waiting to come out. If that's what you want."

"Maybe I don't know what I want," I said. "But I definitely wanna try this."

A looked at me with an amused expression then pulled me into a kiss. It was sensual and deep, and I loved it.

"You're the best, little bro," he said. "How bout this? You have a standing date to sleep up here on Tuesdays. I have a later start on Wednesday."

"Yeah?" I asked. I was intrigued by the idea.

Alex nodded. "I think the regular sex will help break the ice a little for the House Bottom thing."

"That'd be hot, A," I said. I noticed his cock start to respond. "You're getting hard," I chuckled.

"I know you need cock, Bri."

The next kiss was even softer somehow. I kinda wish A went this speed more, but I also was learning to take each man with their own vibe and sexual chemistry.

He finally pulled back, like he didn't want to get carried away. That's how I knew he was fully spent sexually.

"So, bro... I think it's time to rent out the extra room," Alex said. "I'll make sure he's cool with the House Bottom thing. And of course you get full veto over the selection."

"Oh," I said. I hadn't thought of this extending beyond A, John, and Kyle. But Alex was right. If he brought another renter and housemate, the guy would have to be part of that dynamic.

"Think it over," he said, maybe sensing some hesitation.

"Yeah, I will," I said.

"We'll make it work, Bri," he said.

****

That following weekend I took a couple of days off work for a long weekend and went away for the hiking trip I had planned with my buddy Tyler. It was good bonding time, but I missed my gang. Zach and the guys in the Frat House.

When I got back from my trip, I saw the following written out in A's handwriting and stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

HOUSE RULES

1. Powers is our bro, first and foremost.

2. What the House Bottom says, goes.

3. Guys in the house can approach the House Bottom, or the House Bottom can approach a top.

4. If the House Bottom is dating someone, guys in the house won't hit him up for sex.

5. If a House Top is dating someone, the House Bottom won't hit him up for sex.

6. No sex in the common areas.

7. A blue band on the House Bottom's room doorknob means any House Top can come in for a fuck.

8. Remove the blue band if you want a private fuck. Put it back on when you leave if House Bottom wants you to.

9. No jealousy, no drama, no pushing boundaries.

10. No talking to others outside the house about the House Bottom or our arrangement.

11. The House Bottom won't skip leg day.

12. Respect the House Bottom.

John came in and saw me reading it. He was wearing a more form fitting T-shirt, which suggested he'd just come back from the gym.

"Each of us got a copy, Brian," he said. "But Alex wanted it up there for a week as a reminder."

I finished reading the last few. "I like it," I said with a smile.

That made John smile. "I helped out with the list. I was hoping it was OK. We can take number 11 out, we just that it was funny."

"It's cool," I said. "I like it." I gave the list another quick read. It made it all feel real.

As I looked back, we kind of stood awkwardly looking at each other. But John wasn't saying anything.

"It's OK, bro, you can ask me," I offered.

He laughed nervously. God, he was a cute fucker. Harris's shy thing was winning me over. "I know you just got home," he said.

"It's Ok," I replied. "You can always ask, I can always say yes or no."

He nodded. "Wanna fuck, Brian?"

I smiled. "Give me twenty minutes? Maybe thirty?" I wanted a good shower and to get properly ready for John.

"Oh yeah."

Awkwardly he stepped up, not sure if he should kiss me. But I gave a slight nod and felt that amazing skilled kiss, just a little tongue before he brought out something deeper. "That OK?" he asked, checking in to make sure he wasn't crossing a line.

"Definitely." I said. I patted his arm and told him I'd come to his room.

I found John naked and rock hard in his bed. "I was gonna look at some porn," he said as I slid into his room and shut the door behind me. "But I don't need to." He gave his big cock a soft stroke and let go, making that prick ride up into full erection. "Besides, it's been a few days."

I crossed over and climbed into his bed. The kiss was amazing but so was the body contact. My hands on John's smooth muscle and his hands roving over my body.

"Mmmf," he moaned into our kiss. "Feel like riding me, Bri?" he asked.

"If you want," I said.

He looked at me with those soulful eyes. "What do you want, man?"

I knew my immediate answer. "Missionary. Slow, then hard." With Charlie, I got off hardest in doggie, but John Harris delivered an incredible missionary fuck.

He got a big smile and rolled us over. Making out with me more impetuously, feeling me up and kissing along my neck and ear.

"I need you in me, bro," I sighed. I was SO hard against his abs and could feel his thick erection against my leg. I began spreading my legs as John pulled off and reached for the lube. A couple of pumps, which he slathered on his dick, my hole, then my own cock, and he was good to go.

"Easy," he said as he pushed.

I looked up at him and nodded. My legs were pulled back, which wasn't the most comfortable position, but it allowed John good access. He locked eyes and nudged more in.

"I love your dick," I said. I hadn't perfected sex talk, but I learned that sometimes simple is best. I was discovering that tops loved to know you want them and that their dicks are turning you on.

He slid more in, opening up my tightness then plowing forward. He didn't rest at full penetration but slowly began to pump me.

"Good?" he asked.

"Amazing," I said. "Fuck."

He went harder. Full body into it, like John often did. In two minutes flat, he'd taken me from tight to crazed and eager.

"Stroke your cock," John urged as I wrapped my hand my meat. "Get off on me fucking you."

Then he pulled on some additional power reserve from his glutes and his hips to really drive into me.

"Oh FUCK!" I cried. My p-spot was going wild, and I felt my balls tingle. I was cumming in waves of intense pleasure that preceded my ejaculation. A few more thrusts and John's thick dick began pushing the cum right out of me. "Oh fuck oh fuck," I grunted, my face feeling hot and my whole body alive with pleasure.

He was waiting for this, and my tightening guts helped him orgasm too. I felt his body clench and jerk as he got off inside me, deeply.

His face was reddened as he slowed and cooled down.

"Thank you, Brian," he said, leaning down for a kiss.

We cuddled a little in the afterglow and kissed some. I finally told John I needed to get settled in and do laundry after my trip.

“Yeah, sure,” he said removing his arm from my shoulder. It was a respectful distance he put out, as I slid out of bed and looked at him. His dick was soft and heavy between his legs.

“You’re really good at that, John,” I said simply.

He smiled. “Anytime, bro.”

****

Kyle White was shy but pretended not to be when he hit me up the next night. He must have been thinking about it all day, because he was throwing a full on boner in his shorts when he walked into the kitchen as I made a quick post-gym dinner.

"Hey Powers," he said. "Sorry for the ambush but you think you could help me out later?"

I looked down at that hardon, which curved up and pushed out the mesh fabric. Sex with John had primed the pump and I found the idea of more buddy sex appealing. "For sure, you look hard up."

He laughed. "Been working too much, but yeah..."

"Your room?" I offered. "Give me a little time."

"Of course." He patted my delt muscle. "You're the best, Powers." He then walked out and down the hall.

I scarfed down my meal, less in eagerness for sex and more because it was almost 8 and I was starved after a hard workout. Zach was pushing me more, and I was amping up leg day. I already had an amazing muscle ass and super strong legs, but I decided to lean into my best assets.

I got extra clean, with the hopes I could convince White for a longer or at least a harder session. It was one of those nights where I could take an Alex Ramirez sprint-fuck no problem, the horniness was just building in me. I knew White wasn't a rimmer, or at least he hadn't been with me, so I went ahead and applied a healthy amount of lube to my semi-relaxed hole. If Kyle enjoyed tonight's fuck, he'd partly have John to thank. I was worked up for sure.

I slipped on my old college-logo gym shorts and ball cap and padded my way down the hall. My housemate's eyes lit up when I slid into his room.

"Jesus, Powers," he said, blue eyes widened as he took in my shorter, more compact build. "You're off the charts hot."

"Thanks," I said. "Why don't you show me that big dick?" I urged.

With a grin, Kyle slid the sheets off and I gazed at that thick curved boner. I could tell the guy was leaking some. I stepped up and reached out, enjoying Kyle's amused expression.

"I'm really horny," I said. "I might be in the mood to go a little wild tonight. If that's OK."

"God yeah, Powers," Kyle hissed. I could tell he was pleasantly surprised. Our previous fuck had been no nonsense. This was something else. Kyle may have been the initiator, but I was now the sexual aggressor. I slid down my shorts and let my housemate see me erect and naked except for my ball cap and watch.

I climbed onto the bed and straddled him. I took a second to feel up his smooth ripped torso. White wasn't built like John or Charlie, and those bigger dudes were definitely my normal type. But Kyle was a tall, athletic guy, and what most guys would consider a total catch.

I rode his cock a little then leaned up and reached back. John Harris was thicker by far, and my hole had its muscle memory from the night before. I slowly pressed back and felt Kyle's bare dick enter me.

"Jesus, Powers," he hissed. "You're already lubed."

I nodded and smiled. I sat down on him more fully. I had to pause about three or four inches in, getting used to that curve. But White felt good, real good. He was using me to get his rocks off, and I was using him. Slowly I began bouncing up and down about an inch or so, working more of that hardon into my guts.

His hands now clenched my outer legs. "Take my cock, man..." then he caught himself. "Hope that's not against the rules to say."

I shook my head. "I'm good, White," I replied. "We're friends, but don't let that get in the way of a good fuck."

He smiled and nodded. And fucked up into me. THAT felt amazing. Even then the doubt in my head made me wish I didn't love this so much. I wished I was a top like these guys. But damnit I loved this feeling. The stretched and full sensation in my ass combined with the stimulation of my p-spot. I held off jerking off as I rode Kyle and that made it all more incredible.

"Shit, man, I'm gonna cum if you keep that up, Brian," Kyle said, his sexy smile getting more serious, almost whimpery.

That made me go into full power bottom mode, riding him urgently and milking him off with my ass muscles. It was hot to watch him get into that orgasm and to know I was being loaded up good.

Indeed when I rose off I reached behind and felt a heavy amount of semen ooze out onto my fingers. It would be enough, I decided as I gripped my boner with my cummy hand.

"Put it back in me, White," I urged, settling back onto his crotch.

He nodded and dutifully guided his still rigid meat into me. I settled all the way down into his lap, feeling the curve stretch my insides as I jerked and kind of rode back and forth on his dick.

My own cum was great. I stopped comparing them. If I was gonna be House Bottom, I knew I had a lot of incredible orgasms ahead of me.

I finally let go of my dick and caught my breath. Kyle looked up at me with satisfaction and also an impressed look. He definitely wasn't expecting sex this good. I hadn't either. Slowly I rose off and felt his hockey jock load seep out more easily. It took me a sec to get over my sea legs as I dismounted. But I climed off the bed and patted his leg.

"I needed that, man, thanks," I said.

"You have no idea, Powers," Kyle grinned. "I'm gonna sleep well."

"Good." I said. I reached for my shorts and slid them on. It turns out these would be my unofficial House Bottom shorts, something easy to slip on and off as I walked through the house to my top's bedroom.

And now I was walking back to my room. Maybe A was right that John and Kyle had a real horndog side waiting to come out. But for now I was feeling like I was the one letting my horny side show.

****

John actually found the next housemate. An ex and sort-of friend of his from another city had a partner who was an econ professor who commuted in and was looking for a place two to three nights a week. It was a perfect arrangement. The room was pretty small and came with less rent. It had less natural light than the rest, and A had furnished it for this kind of rental. We all liked the idea of a roommate who wouldn't be around all the time.

Mark was the guy's name, and he came by the house the next Wednesday to meet us and for us to meet him. He was strikingly handsome, easily in his late 30s with premature gray that was really make a salt and pepper look kick in. Mark was friendly as he shook our hands. A gave him a tour of the place and showed him the room. When he came back to the living room, the guy seemed interested, at least if I could read his facial expression right.

I took a second to appraise him physically. About six foot even and solidly gym built. Not jacked like John, and maybe more normal, but definitely fit, with nice, broad shoulders and a broad chest beneath his button-down. I didn't know how this would play out, but A told me I had veto over anyone. I now looked over at Alex and gave a small, imperceptible nod of agreement. Alex smiled back.

Alex and Mark sat down, and A went over the basics. Finally he broached the big subject.

"So, this may be a deal breaker," Alex started. "But we all have an arrangement with Brian here. Kind of a no-strings sex thing."

I could see the caution in Mark's eyes, but Alex continued. "Look, you wouldn't be expected to be involved, I know you have a partner. Just know what may go on behind closed doors." He picked up a piece of paper and slid it to Mark to read. The House Rules.

I could see a surprised amusement on the man's lips. "You guys are wild," he said looking up at us, then pointedly at me. "And you're the House Bottom?"

I blushed. "That'd be me," I replied.

He paused. "I'll have to think about this. And run it by Eric."

"Of course," Alex said. "It's not an orgy thing, I swear. But we want a housemate who'll fit in and feel comfortable."

Mark said he'd get back to us in the next week. He must not have been TOO freaked out because he was still friendly as he shook our hands and bid goodbye.

"Oh well," Alex said after he left. "We'll find the right guy." A was convinced Mark was going to say no.

Only the next morning he text us. "I heard back from Mark. He's a go."

****

Even after he started staying in the frat house, I still wasn't sure if Mark was gonna be a House Top or just a housemate. That was OK. I had my Tuesday nights with Alex, and John was around more and horny lately. I even gave Kyle a blowjob, wanting to try something new and to take a break from bottoming one night.

But on the second week of Mark's living with us, I got a knock on my door. He'd just come home from campus and was dressed in his professorial clothes, book satchel slung over his shoulder. "Hey, Brian," he said.

I looked up from my computer. A workmate had coaxed me into a fantasy football league, and I was researching stats for the week. "Hey," I said. "What's up."

A sly grin crossed his face. "So this House Bottom thing... I just ask for it?"

This was unexpected and welcome. I would have been fine not sleeping with Mark, but doing so would complete the Frat House vibe. "Pretty much," I said, leaning back. "It's a yes or no thing, but often yes." I added, "I didn't know you were interested."

"I had to ask Eric. We're open, and he hooks up when I'm out of town..." He paused and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "You probably don't need the full story."

I shrugged. "Either way is cool. You wanna give me a few minutes and come back?" I didn't spell it out, but Mark got that I was planning to clean out for him.

"Definitely. Fuck, this is fun."

It was even more fun when Mark came back, himself freshly showered and bare-chested. My suspicion was right that his body was somewhere between normal and gym-pumped. He didn't groom his chest hair and he had the hint of love handles. But as he got naked I enjoyed seeing that cock. More of a tapered torpedo shape, thick at the base and elongated at the end. Like A, Mark had big heavy balls, though his clung tightly to the stalk of his shaft.

"How you like to...?" he asked.

"I have my preferences, but I also like exploring what feels right a guy," I replied.

"Works for me." He stepped up to the bed and climbed on, connecting with my naked body. "Is kissing OK?"

"Not required but definitely OK."

Mark was very physical in his style. Feeling me up, kissing all along my neck and body, climbing on top of my naked form and thrusting against me as we made out. I loved it, the newness of a new man.

He finally pulled back and picked up the lube I'd set out. His brown eyes looked at mine intently as he slowly fingered me. Sensual and deep, those digits probed in and out, and he added more lube from time to time until I was good and wet.

"I'm going in raw, OK?" he stated as much as asked, then placed my legs on his shoulders and scooted into place.

The tapered shape was perfect for boring into me and opening me up. He didn't rush entering me, but seemed to savor my ass before he slowly pumped. Even at a slower pace his whole body seemed into the fuck, leveraging full penetration with each thrust. He looked down on me with excitement.

"Were you a jock?" he asked.

I nodded. "Hockey. Division I." I was proud of the fact, but also figured it would turn Mark on.

It did. "Fuck." He thrust in more urgently. "One of these days I'm gonna have to get the full story about how this started."

"Me taking dick? Or the House Bottom thing."

"Either," he smiled. He fucked a little quicker now. The rhythmic stretching was definitely a new experience. The Mark experience. I was getting into it even if I didn't have the same prostate feeling I sometimes craved. "How you doing?” he asked. “It might not take me long."

"Lube up my dick and I'm good anytime."

He paused and did as instructed before he resumed a steady thrust. My palm wrapped around my prick, and I felt it. That made my butt nut come alive and I could feel each of Mark's movements against it inside me.

"Gonna cum..." he announced.

"Do it." My voice was pinched, since I was close to nutting too.

I actually beat him, my sperm flying all over my chest and abs. I didn't expect the orgasm to be intense, but it was. Just two seconds later Mark let out an excited cry and got his own nut, deep inside me. He was the kind of top he stopped thrusting as he came and I got to watch his facial expressions as he pumped me full.

He pulled out and we kissed.

"You good, man?" he asked.

"Very," I said. Mark had surpassed my expectation of the fourth housemate.

He smiled and patted my chest. "I can't make this an all the time thing. But we'll do this again, OK?"

"Yep. Just hit me up when you're in the mood."

He shook his head, like he couldn't believe I was so nonchalant about putting out. Deep down I wasn't really, but there were two Brian Powers, one the conservative Catholic boy who wondered what the fuck I was doing, and the other an out of control gay dude in the big city. I had a good idea which one was winning out.

I told Mark good night as he got up and put on his sweatpants. I'm often wiped after a good lay, but that evening I felt wide awake. Maybe because it was Thursday and I was already anticipating the weekend. Maybe I'd line up a hookup outside of the house. Or go out to the bars. As fun as the House Bottom thing was becoming, I didn't want to be closed off to dating again, even if I wasn't rushing that either.

I slid on some sweats myself and a long-sleeve T and went out to the living room. John was there, watching TV. Uncharacteristically he was drinking a beer on a weeknight.

"Tough day?" I asked as I came in and sat on the sofa.

He looked over at me. "It pays the bills. But yes." He took a sip from his can. "How bout you Brian?"

"Long. But it's been a good day."

He paused and looked over at me. "Wow," he said with a sly smile. "Did Mark sample the goods finally?"

I laughed. "Are you psychic?"

That got a chuckle in return and a sexy smile. I loved John's smile. He was classically cute, and after having sex with a man nearing 40, I enjoyed John's relative youth in contrast. "I'm learning to read you more, Powers," he said. He spread his legs and leaned back in the sofa cushion. "Besides, I was gonna hit you up earlier, but your room door was closed."

"Shame," I said. Until that moment, I thought I was spent for the evening. But looking at John I was mesmerized by his cute looks and his muscled bod. He was wearing shorts and his furry legs were fucking solid. And his meaty chest stretched out his polo shirt. Since moving into the house, he'd gone for shorter buzzed haircuts. He said he had better luck with that look. I liked both, but he had a point.

John smiled and his eyes probed mine. "Yeah, shame."

"If you don't mind seconds..." I offered.

He had a naughty, almost guilty look on his face. "Never done that actually."

"You wanna try it?" OK, bad Brian Powers was out in full force that night.

He nodded and scooted over. The House Rules forbade doing anything in the common area, but maybe kissing was allowed. Either way, John Harris was giving me one of his amazing kisses and I was responding in turn. I ran my hand up his tree-trunk thigh, stopping myself before I went any higher.

"My room, buddy?" he asked.

I nodded.

John stood up, that thick meat of his now chubbed in his shorts as he grabbed the remote to turn off the TV. My dick was even more fully hard, improbably.

It was a classic John Harris fuck. Missionary, lots of kissing, lots of power to his thrusts. Slow, then hard. His thick dick pounding my p-spot to a hard orgasm before he let loose with his.

Only this time I got the invitation to sleep in his bed for the night.

We lay quietly and just held hands. It was weird, but right.

"John, is this messed up?" I asked.

"I don't think so, Brian, but you gotta listen to your own heart." He squeezed my hand gently. "You know I'll respect whatever you decided with us. But... well, I've enjoyed the hell out of this so far."

"Yeah?"

"You brought me out of my shell. More than you know." His voice got that shy quietness now. "Each time I'm... in you.. I just feel lucky that a guy like you would be into me."

I leaned up and looked at him. It was crazy he didn't realize how fully hot he was. I knew some of his lingering body image issues but maybe not the extent. "You have no idea, John," I said. "I try not to make a big deal out of ranking men, but you're my number #2 top I've had. You're incredible."

He smiled big. "Yeah? Is Alex number one?"

I shook my head. "Charlie."

John knew most of that story. "You miss him, Brian?"

I nodded. "I do sometimes. But I don't dwell on it. I gotta figure out when something's real and when it's not."

He seemed to think that over. "Maybe it's not cut and dry. I was with Drew for several years. It was real and it wasn't. Sorry to get sappy on you, Brian."

I squeezed his hand back. "Not at all. I like talking."

He could tell I was sleepy, and he was getting there too. "Ready for bed?"

I nodded. We kissed softly and then turned out the light.

[arcanumofthestars]

Hot and Bothersome - Miromabby

Hey guys, as I said on my other blog, I'm terribly sorry for the delay, but I faced some difficulties with a power outage yesterday so I was unable to post. Requested by: Anon Word count: ~1.8k Warnings: None Miromabby hanging out on a hot day!

“Isn’t it a little too quiet today?” Rumi said, looking up from her plate. 

Zoey nodded, mouth full of ramen. “I mean, Jinu, Baby and Mystery told us they’d be going out today…” she finally said, gulping down the rest of her food.

“Wait. I thought all of the boys were going out?” Rumi cringed, thinking of how much of a torture the world outside of their home must be without her beloved and holy AC.

“Rom and Abby stayed with Mira? Probably?” Zoey replied, wiping her mouth.

The girls’ eyes widened at once, the paper towel falling from Zoey’s fingers and slowly drifting left and right as it landed on the floor without a sound.

“Why is it so quiet?” Rumi repeated, voice almost trembling. 

Both heads turned to the couch, as they got off their chairs and pushed them towards the table, not caring for the food anymore. Rumi grabbed a butter knife, approaching the living room, Zoey clinging at her waist. Since the couch was facing opposite from the table, they got around before Rumi charged with her weapon of utmost efficiency, only for her to stop in her tracks a second later.

Splayed out on the cushions slept Abby, manspread so wide it would be a miracle if he didn’t wake up sore. Romance was leaning on his boyfriend’s right shoulder, mouth slightly agape. His hand was in Mira’s hair, her having curled up with her head on Abby’s lap.

The knife slipped from Rumi’s fingers, and she anxiously bounced around, trying to catch it before it hit the floor. Once she had finally settled down, she couldn’t help one eyebrow from raising. “Uh huh. Now we know why.”

“So cuteeeeee!” Zoey whisper-squealed.

Pictures were taken, messages were sent and sharpie -a lot of it- was used.

…

“Have you guys seen my hair straightener?” Romance’s head peeked out from Mira’s room.

“Nope” Mira said, pushing the straightener under the cushion with two fingers, pretending to be scrolling on her phone. She looked up from where she was splayed on the couch, whole body stretched on the bottom cushion. “Why are you in my room?”

“Honestly, I don’t think anyone else in this place would even use it. Logical deduction.” Romance tapped a finger at his temple, walking into the living room. “You should try it sometime. Now. Where. Is. My. Straightener.”

“Why would you even need a straightener right now?” Abby turned around from where he was looking out of the ceiling-high windows.

“I can’t go out like this!” Romance exclaimed, pointing at his hair.

Abby blinked, plopping onto the couch close to Mira’s head, who complained with a soft “Hey!”. 

“Your hair looks exactly the same as always…” he said, an answer that didn’t seem to please his boyfriend.

“How can you say that!-”

“Look-” Mira interjected, stopping briefly to nod at Abby who had just placed her head on his lap, “I really can’t be bothered with this right now, it’s so hot I can’t even think properly. So either go search in silence, or do something else. Also in silence, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, come on, I need to go out in twenty minutes!”

“There is absolutely NO logical reason for a being with cognitive ability greater than that of a rock to be outside a building today.”

“Jinu and Baby are going shopping though-”

Mira’s eyes sparkled for a fraction of a second, hearing the word ‘shopping’. She quickly dismissed the idea though, since Rumi and Zoey probably wouldn’t be going. Shopping with Jinu and Baby could be a handful.

“You can go another day. It’s not like the others will disappear afterwards.” Abby said, his fingers massaging Mira’s scalp. “We are incredibly heat resistant…” he added, zoning out momentarily. 

“One more reason to go out and not miss- wait a minute-” Romance abruptly stopped, crouching down next to the couch. Mira groaned, covering her face with the palm of her hand.

“I knew you had it!” Romance rose from the floor, pointing an accusatory finger at his girlfriend. From his other hand was dangling the ‘missing’ straightener. “Now I can go out at least.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” Mira stated, pulling him next to Abby in one swift motion. Romance joined his lovers on the cushion with a yelp, the device falling dangerously towards the floor before he caught it.

“Remind me why we got a ninja girlfriend?” he asked Abby, immediately leaning on his shoulder.

“Shut up” Mira mumbled, dragging his hand to rest on her head next to Abby’s without looking up from her phone. She awkwardly scooted closer, getting more comfortable.

“Ah,” Abby sighed, “I’m afraid we fell in love with her, darling.” The solemn expression on his face shifted into a grin once he saw the glare Mira sent his way.

“Well, if that is the case,” Romance inspected his nails “I’m guessing I won’t be moving from here for a little while. You guys wanna watch anything?”

“I’m just gonna put on whatever.” Mira said, finally putting down her phone in favor of clumsily reaching for the TV remote that was laying on the table.

“I’m gonna go get snacks.” Romance decided. He got up, ignoring the grabby hands Abby made his way, and headed to the fridge.

“I think we have some leftover smoothies in the fridge from yesterday.” his girlfriend said.

“And I think Mystery got Zoey some ice cream?” Abby looked over his shoulder. “It should be next to the ramen.”

“Aren’t you all about keeping the bod?” Mira teased, poking at his side.

“Yes, but, for you, I think I’ll make an exception.” He replied with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to eat it all and get a stomach ache now, would we?”

The hunter rolled her eyes. “What a gentleman.”

“Are you guys sure we can… interfere with Zoey’s ice cream? Last time it didn’t go so well…” Romance trailed off, shivering at the thought of the bite marks on Mystery’s biceps.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, we can always ask Jinu to get some more.” Abby said, frowning when he saw Mira bite her lip. “What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, since you don’t mind facing forces greater than you…” she trailed off, passing him the TV remote.

“I’m feeling dangerous today.” Abby’s signature smirk found its way to his lips again. He took the remote, lightly grazing Mira’s fingers with his own.

Just as he found some random k-drama to watch, Romance returned from his short trip to the fridge, balancing a tray with three smoothies - strawberry, blueberry and caramel -  and three bowls of ice cream.

“Hey, watch out, you don’t want-”

His lovers watched in horror as their boyfriend tripped over his own feet, the tray ungracefully flying over their heads. On cue, Abby shot up, Mira’s head falling on the couch. His hand closed around the first glass, while reaching out for two bowls just in time. Romance had already caught the other two glasses. They both couldn’t do anything but stare, as the last bowl of Zoey’s cookies and cream ice cream made its way towards the floor. In the last moment, Mira simply stretched her arm, catching it without even looking. She gently placed it on the table.

All snacks now out of the danger zone, the hunter sneered. “You dance on those feet?”

Her boyfriends fell on the cushion, Abby putting her head back on his lap carefully. Romance huffed in annoyance, a subtle embarrassed blush on his cheeks as he crossed his arms.

Abby decided to relieve the tension by handing each one of them a bowl and a spoon, followed by a kiss on each of his lovers’ lips, hitting the “play” button. Mira settled onto his lap as Romance’s hand found its way back into her hair, taking out the small elastics gently.

“This is… nice.” Mira abruptly broke the silence, grabbing Abby’s hand. Her boyfriends hummed in agreement.

“I thought you couldn’t stand being in the same room with us?” Romance raised a teasing eyebrow. “Maybe we should just-”

“No.” 

He and Abby shared a look of confusion, the latter leaning slightly more over the girl, waiting for an explanation.

Sensing the conflict in her boyfriends’ minds, Mira continued. “Look, I know that sometimes I can be very… aggressive and” she momentarily cringed at her own words, “kind of… dismissive? Rumi said it was like that at least.” she mumbled the last part, more to herself. “The thing is… I want you guys to know that I don’t mean it. Most of the time at least. It means a lot to have you here and…” she trailed off again, looking away.

Abby lightly grabbed her chin, turning her to face him and Romance. “We know.” he said.

His girlfriend sighed, getting up to shyly hug the both of them before laying back down.

…

Mira woke to the sound of giggles. As soon as she opened her eyes, two pairs of legs could be spotted, disappearing into the kitchen. Romance’s hand twitched on her head, as he let out a low grumble, waking up Abby as well in the process. 

Mira rubbed the sleep from her eyes groggily, only to find a dark smudge on her fingers. Grabbing her phone and turning on the camera function, she sighed in exasperation, as her boyfriends had that exact realisation at the same time. 

“Ok, seriously?” Abby deadpaned, checking his reflection on his own device. He lightly touched the mustache that had been drawn on his upper lip, checking how it looked from different angles. “No, wait. I think I actually like this…”

Mira rolled her eyes. “Yeah, of course, the pointy eyebrows reeeeeally add to the look.” She got up, on her way to find some wet wipes.

“What even is this?!” Romance shrieked, spotting himself on his boyfriend’s phone screen. Lifting his bangs, he huffed, smudging the word “LOVEBIRDS” that had been messily drawn on his forehead.

“You’re just making it worse.” Mira said, walking his way from behind the couch and softly grabbing his hand. “Wait here.”

Making her way to the kitchen, she found a dark towel that Jinu had gotten to dry Derpy after his baths and -hopefully- hadn’t used yet. She held it under the tap of the sink for a few seconds, letting it soak in the water before going back to the living room.

Ignoring Abby taking selfies next to her, she sat on Romance’s lap, lightly tapping his forehead until the letters had all faded. Taking the towel from her hands, Romance returned the gesture by erasing the angry faces adorning her own skin.

Once he was done, he turned to Abby. “Oh, no” the man shook his head, “I think I’m keeping these for a while.”

I'm terribly sorry if this is too short, but I already have plans for a part 2! Don't forget to check my announcements blog @thecrystallcave for a new fandom poll here. Line dividers by @uzmacchiato

[withluvvenus]

　　܀　　🗝️　　𖧁˳　　a letter for you　　✿　　𑁯ᰍ　　℘

　

　

　　for context　　in my nyc romcom dr , matt and i used to send each other letters instead of texting and calling because our parents hadn't given us a phone when he moved away . when we did receive phones , it was too late .

　

　letter one　　. 　　delivered one day after moving . 　　received one day after .

　　dear venus ,

　　　　hi this is my first time writing a letter so give me time okay? mom said to write a letter for santa but i wanted to write a letter to you instead, because santa can't bring the gift i really want. guess what i want? ok i'll tell you. i want you to live right next door to me again. i miss you, dearly. i give you my favoirte stiker . 🧁

　　love , matt .

　letter twelve　　. 　　delivered on random tuesday . 　　received on thursday .

　　matt ,

　　　　i miss you so much matt. when will you come back to me? mumma tells me i need to learn how to braid my hair but i just want you to braid my hair. come back home matt. don't leave me matt.

　　from , 　　venus .

　letter fifty three　　. 　　delivered on my birthday . 　　received two days after .

　　dear venus , 　　　　happy birthday!!!!!!!! i miss you so so so much and i want to put cake icing on your face and hug you nine times because you're turning nine. you're one year away to becoming a ten year old like me!! but then i'll be eleven. you'll always be younger, and shorter, and prettier. i sent you a gift and my favorite (i can spell that word now) sticker book! i hope you like it.

　　love , matt .

　letter seventy nine　　. 　　delivered on his birthday . 　　received two days after .

　　matt , 　　　　hi matty!!! its your special day!! (when im writing this at least). you're eleven now!! thats a big number, im so happy for you. i hope you're happy and having an amazing day!!! you deserve it. you deserve everything. happy birthday. i wish i was there to give you your birthday punches. but since i'm not, just pretend for me, okay? i miss you. i hope you like the gift! bye bye here's a butterfly sticker 🦋

　　from , 　　venus .

　letter four hundred and seventy　　. 　　delivered on new years eve . 　　received never .

　　dear venus , 　　　　i've been writing for you since last year's new years. you haven't replied to any of them yet. have you come to hate me? what did i do dear? did i say something in my past letters to make you upset, so upset to ignore me for almost 365 days? please, if you're getting this letter, please just say something. tell me something. i want to know. i got a phone by the way. i slipped a piece of paper with my number into the envelope. will you add me back? i wanna hear your voice again venus, oh how i've missed your voice so much. i miss being able to sit with you on your porch or on my trampoline in my backyard, talking about absolutely nothing at all. i miss your smile, i miss when you convinced me that if you smiled hard enough the dimple on your right cheek would pop out. did you know i only denied to believe you so you could smile for me more? i bet you didnt, you were too busy trying to prove me wrong. i love that about you, yknow? the way you're so stubborn to the point it's kind of refreshing. i really like it.

　　　　you're convincing me now, without words, that you hate me. that i have done something awful and you won't bring yourself to tell me. or have you just simply moved on? moved on from whatever we were, the childlike immature mess? the crush i had on you, the one i still have? even from miles away, i crush on you. isn't that insane? god, i'm confessing to you over a letter and not face to face, that kills me. but i think the feelings aren't mutual, so i'll leave you alone. i love you.

　　love , matt .

　letter four hundred and seventy one　　. 　　delivered on new years . 　　received never .

　　hi matty , 　　　　are you busy? why wont you send me letters or reply to me anymore? its always the same greeting cards from your family. write to me matt, i miss you. i like you. a lot. always. 🪼

　　with love , 　　venus .

　　　　　　　　　　　　　 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗹𝘂𝘃 ✶ 𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝘀

[loveesiren]

𝕓2𝕓

Kwon Jiyong x reader

a/n: for the BRAT SUMMER 2025 CHALLENGE!!! Thank you my beautiful sister/niece (don't ask) for putting this challenge together! we love Charli in this house and I'm so grateful I got to be apart of this challenge! <3

song: b2b - Charli xcx

warnings: angst, toxic situationship, brief mention of abuse, brief alcohol/sobriety

w/c: 2k

I miss you.

You stared at the glowing words on your screen, jaw clenched, stomach twisting. Of course he texted. He always texted. Maybe not right away—sometimes it took weeks, sometimes months—but eventually, the message always came. Like clockwork.

You rolled your eyes and typed back without hesitation.

Fuck off, Jiyong.

Your thumbs hovered after hitting send. You meant it. Or… you were trying to. Because no matter how many times you swore it was the last time, no matter how many nights you’d spent crying into your pillow, it always ended the same way.

Your phone buzzed again.

I love you.

Three little words. Sharp, hollow, and dangerous.

They meant nothing coming from him. They never had. But god, did you want them to. You wanted to believe them so badly your chest physically ached. Because those were the same three words that had pulled you back a hundred times before. Like a siren’s song in a storm. You knew better, but you still listened.

Your thumbs hovered again.

What happened to Ariel?

Ariel. His latest obsession. His shiny new thing. You’d seen them everywhere—splashed across headlines, smiling for paparazzi, their hands laced together like it meant something. You tried to be indifferent. Tried not to care. But each photo felt like a tiny blade to your ribs.

You knew it wasn’t real. Not really. Because nothing was ever real with Kwon Jiyong. He collected people like souvenirs—pretty, perfect, but ultimately temporary. He liked control. He liked possession. He liked knowing he could wreck you with a single text.

His reply came faster this time.

She’s not you.

Classic. Goddamn classic. He always knew exactly which thread to tug.

You bit your lip, hard. Frustration bloomed behind your eyes, and you threw your head back with a groan. You’d built yourself back up. You’d healed—mostly. You had routines, boundaries, therapy. And yet, here you were, sitting alone in your apartment at midnight with your heart racing over him.

Because it wasn’t just about the love. It was the craving. The need. The way your body remembered his. The way your soul twisted when you tried to forget.

Then it came.

Can I come over?

You stared. Time slowed. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your head screamed, No. Don’t do this. Not again. You won’t survive it next time.

But your body was already betraying you. Your fingertips twitched with want. Your mind flickered with memories—his lips, his voice, the way he used to look at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

It had been almost a year. And yet, he still had this hold. Like a ghost with unfinished business.

You inhaled shakily, fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. Don’t. Please don’t. You’re stronger than this.

But strength had never been your strong suit when it came to him.

Okay.

-

The knock came an hour later.

You’d been expecting it. Dreading it. Rehearsing it. But still, the sound made your heart seize in your chest like it had been punched from the inside. You stood frozen for a moment, hand hovering near your ribs as if steadying yourself might keep you from breaking.

One last glance in the mirror. Your eyes were already glassy. You blinked hard, smoothed your hair, wiped the invisible tear that hadn’t even fallen yet.

Then you walked—slow and heavy—toward the door. Fingers curling around the handle like it might burn you.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Kwon Jiyong, in all his beautiful, infuriating glory. Ripped black jeans slung low, combat boots dusty from the street, a loose tank top that revealed the newest ink decorating his arms—stories you hadn’t been part of. People you’d never know. A life he’d lived without you.

He grinned like none of that mattered. Like this was easy. Like your heart wasn’t beating itself to death against your ribs.

“Hey, Jagiya,” he said, voice smooth and dangerous. “Miss me?”

You stared. Lips parted, but silent. There were no words for the ache blooming in your chest. Just sadness. Bone-deep. A sadness that had settled into your bloodstream a long time ago and never truly left.

His smile faded just a little, softening into something close to genuine. He reached for your hips and pulled you into him, arms locking around your body like the promises he never kept.

“You smell the same,” he whispered, nuzzling into your hair like nothing had changed.

You stood stiff in his arms, your own arms slowly curling around his torso out of instinct, out of memory. A part of you still wanted to collapse into him, to bury your face in his chest and forget the last year ever happened. But your heart knew better.

He’d been with her. Ariel. And probably others. You’d seen the photos. Heard the rumors. Watched him parade someone else around like she was irreplaceable, only for him to end up here. Like always. At your door. Like a fucking ghost haunting the only home he knew how to return to.

Because Jiyong didn’t do alone. He didn’t like the silence. He needed someone to reflect his shine, to feed the hunger in him. And maybe you were just convenient. Familiar. Easy.

That thought shattered something inside you.

You pulled away suddenly, his touch still clinging to your skin. Your eyes darted around the room like they were searching for an escape hatch. “Uhm… do you want a drink?”

You didn’t see the way his smile faltered. How his chest sank just a little.

“Sure,” he said quietly. “Water. I, uh… I stopped drinking.”

Your hand paused mid-reach for the whiskey bottle on the counter. That made you freeze. You turned slowly toward him.

“I’ve never met you sober,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He offered a weak smile and slid onto the barstool at your kitchen island, fingers tapping the edge like he was nervous. Jiyong. Nervous.

You grabbed a glass, filled it with cold water, and set it in front of him with shaking hands. Then, without a word, you poured yourself a shot of whiskey.

“So this isn’t a drunken booty call?” you asked, still avoiding his eyes, still gripping your glass like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

“No. It’s not.” He paused. “I missed you.”

You laughed bitterly, but it was hollow. “You miss me after every breakup, Jiyong.”

He flinched at that, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. If you didn’t let it out, it would rot you from the inside.

“I love you. I always have,” he said gently, that syrupy voice he used when he wanted to slip under your skin.

But this time, it cut like a knife.

“You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, your voice cracking with pain. “You don’t get to waltz in here and say that after everything.”

He opened his mouth, but you kept going. “You hurt me. Again and again. You leave, you lie, and then you show up when she’s gone, when they’re gone, and suddenly you remember I exist. I’m not some fucking safety net, Jiyong.”

Your chest heaved. You were trembling now.

“I-I can’t… I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, blinking rapidly as the tears finally broke through. “I can’t keep pretending you love me when you only show up when you’re lonely.”

He stood. Came around the island like he was going to fix everything with touch, with words, with eyes that always saw just enough of you to break you.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, the other lifting your chin. His gaze was soft. Too soft. Like it hadn’t witnessed the wreckage he left behind.

“Listen,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

But you shook your head, pulling away from him, tears streaking down your face now. “No, you’re not. You’re not sorry. You never are. You’re just scared of being alone tonight.”

He didn’t reply. Just stared. 

“I think you should go,” you said, your voice trembling but firm, eyes fixed on the floor. You couldn’t look at him—not now. Not while your heart was tearing itself in half for the hundredth time.

He stood there, breath shaky, the silence stretching between you like a wound. “Please…” he whispered. “Please don’t make me go.”

His voice cracked. It sounded so small. Pathetic, even. And for a second, that familiar ache inside your chest pulsed again—the one that always made you soften. The one he always counted on.

But not this time.

“We can’t keep doing this, Jiyong,” you snapped, still refusing to meet his eyes. “We’re fucking toxic.”

You heard the sharp inhale from him. Then—

“But that’s us, Y/n,” he pleaded, stepping closer, his voice rough with emotion. “Through all the bullshit, through everything—that’s us.”

You let out a broken laugh, sharp and bitter. Your eyes finally met his, glassy and full of rage. “What’s ‘us,’ huh? Hiding bruises and black eyes behind sunglasses? Bandaging up wounds we gave each other the night before? Crying over words we can’t fucking take back?”

Your voice cracked with the last word. You were trembling, heart pounding in your chest.

“Pretending we made up just because the sex was good?” you choked out. “Only to do it all again the next day? That’s not ‘us’, Jiyong. That’s a fucking tragedy.”

He blinked, and a single tear slipped down his cheek. “It’s worth it,” he said quietly. “You’re worth it.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head as your own tears spilled. “Because you always leave me.”

Your voice rose now, raw and furious.

“You get bored of our chaotic fucking life, and you run. You disappear into someone else’s arms—some new girl, some easy fantasy—and then, when you get tired of her, when you realize she doesn’t know you the way I do, you crawl back like a fucking ghost that refuses to stay dead.”

Jiyong winced, like your words physically hit him.

“You’re not here because you love me,” you whispered, stepping back from him like his presence burned. “You’re here because you’re scared to be alone. Scared to be stuck in a room with your own goddamn thoughts!”

Something shifted in his face. Guilt. Shame. Maybe realization. Maybe just regret.

Then he moved.

Suddenly he was in front of you, pressing you back against the wall—not rough, not violent, but desperate. His hand came up, fingers wrapping softly around the base of your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. His touch was featherlight, but it still made your breath catch in your throat.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your chest rose and fell rapidly beneath him.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He just stood there, breathing hard. His eyes flicked down to where his hand rested on your skin, and for the first time, you saw it: restraint. A flicker of something different in his eyes. Sobriety. Clarity.

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip with agonizing tenderness, like he was memorizing the feel of you—knowing he shouldn’t.

He stared at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever ruined. 

“If I love you…” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “then I have to stop coming back. I have to stop breaking you.”

His hand dropped away like it weighed too much to hold.

“I’ll stop crawling back,” he said softly, a finality in his tone that made your knees go weak. 

Then he turned. No begging. No last-minute kiss. Just silence.

You didn’t stop him.

He walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the night without a backward glance. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound echoed in your ribs like a gunshot.

You stood there motionless, a tear tracing down your cheek as your chest tightened, your mouth parting to suck in air you suddenly couldn't find.

You didn’t know if this was truly the end. But for the first time… it felt like it might be.

And that was terrifying.

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[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 28

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 7.2k+

Note: Lets seeeeee where we go from hereeee

xxx

God, I want a coffee.

I step into the café and get smacked in the face by the smell of roasted beans and other people’s ambitions. The door swings shut behind me with a polite clatter, sealing me in with warmth and the low hum of desperation. There’s a line, obviously. There’s always a line. It’s one of those damp, grey London mornings where everyone’s chasing caffeine like it’s a religion.

I am so aware that I stink like shit. I've been for a run, my hair has been needing a wash for 2 days. This cap is staying firmly on my head

I shuffle forward, phone in hand like it's a lifeline. I open and close the same three apps. Glance at the messages I didn’t reply to. Scroll through a feed that makes my life look curated and calm and maybe even enviable. All the while, I’m pretending I’m not replaying last weekend in my head for the hundredth time — the wet concrete, the pleading, the look on his face when I told him to get up.

I tried a new parkrun this week — different park, different crowd. Bit of a change of scenery. In an effort to “expand my horizons” or whatever I wrote in my Notes app at 1 a.m. last Sunday. I got a PB today. Personal best. Fantastic stuff.

On paper, I’m thriving.

I’ve been doing so well this past week.

I’ve been ticking all the little boxes. Pilates. Painting. Baking sourdough like I’m on the fourth season of my own breakup montage. Hating my job only 65% of the time — which, frankly, feels like growth.

What I haven’t been doing is thinking about the way his voice cracked when he said my name like it was a question. Not wondering if he meant it as an apology, or if it was just another messy attempt to clean up the mess he made.

That’s a big fat lie, it's all I've been thinking of.

I order my coffee (oat latte, extra shot; its different every time) and tap my card against the reader with practiced ease. The barista doesn’t even look up. There’s something oddly comforting about that. Like I could be anyone. Like I am anyone.

I step aside to wait, wrap my arms around myself, try to focus on the buzz of conversation, the hiss of steaming milk, the clink of mugs on ceramic. Ordinary sounds. Safe sounds.

But still…

The only thing plaguing my mind is Will.

Last weekend.

Drunk as a skunk — which, honestly, is impressive considering he’d stopped drinking three hours earlier. Then came the spectacle: him on his knees, wet-pavement and slurring, telling me “I’m sorry” like it was a full sentence. Like it fixed anything.

Who does that?

The more I think about it, the less it feels real. Like a fever dream starring someone I used to sleep with.

I pick up my coffee and start to move to the door.

"YN!"

I turn, startled.

It’s Orla. One of Will’s producers. She's tucked into the corner booth by the window, smiling like the sun finally showed up. She's got that effortless-cool thing going — cropped jacket, wide-leg trousers, trainers that look expensive but I bet she got them in a deal. She's beaming.

“Come sit!” she calls out, waving me over like we saw each other last week and not... four months ago? Six?

I hesitate, but only for a second.  Then I head over.

“Oh my goodness, so good to see you!” I say, sliding into the chair on the outside of the booth. And it is. Weirdly, genuinely good.

Talking to Orla is easy. Always has been. We slip into conversation like it’s a coat we’ve shared before — comfortable, well-worn, familiar in all the right ways.

She tells me about the tour — says it was stressful but went well. She and James are heading out on another one soon. Possibly take the tour to Australia. She asks if I know any good venues in Brisbane and starts scribbling them down in her notes app like she actually values my opinion.

I mention, kind of offhand, that someone called Daniel told me Orla had recommended me for a job. She raises her eyebrows, surprised I didn’t take it. “You would’ve smashed it,” she says, like it's obvious. I tell her I was touched to hear Daniel say that, genuinely — especially after everything.

We don’t talk about Will, of course we don’t.

He’s the obvious thread between us, the elephant taking up the whole booth.

We don’t talk about George either.

Before the summer, I was starting to become real friends with Orla. Like, actual friends. She used to text me about gigs and send me dumb memes and ask how I was doing without making it weird. I felt like we were building something that had nothing to do with the guys.

And then… everything got messy.

I really felt like we could’ve been good mates.

Sucks how life gets in the way of that sort of stuff.

She fills me in on what everyone else is up to. James got a No. 1 album — a No. 1 album — which she says so casually I nearly choke on my latte. I laugh and shake my head, and she grins like she’s still a little stunned herself.  

“Ieuan’s up for a photography award too,” she adds. “And get this — Nike bought some of his prints.”

“Nike?”

She nods, proud in that way that’s not boastful — just genuinely happy for him. “Yeah. Mad, right? The one with the storm cloud and the floodlight — you remember that series?”

I do. Just barely. But I nod anyway, and for a moment it feels like we’re back there — late nights and shared playlists and photos taped to their studio's walls.

And Will? Has he told you he flung himself at me last weekend?

I don’t ask it. The question just hovers in the silence between us, unspoken but very much there. She doesn’t mention him. Neither do I.

Instead, I tell her about Ruth. Her and Ruth only met once — in passing, briefly — but they hit it off like they’d known each other for years. It was one of those electric little moments you don’t see coming. They talked non-stop about obscure indie films and somehow ended up deep in a conversation about moss walls. I don’t even know how.

“She asked about you the other day,” I say, smiling. “Said she missed your laugh.”

Orla lights up at that. “She was brilliant. Can’t believe we only met that one time. I heard on the grapevine she’s going out with Arthur Hill?”

I hesitate.

“I don’t know what’s going on there,” I say. “I think they’re figuring it out? To be honest, I’ve got nothing.”

She nods, but doesn’t push.

That’s completely true. Ruth and I talked about her and Arthur the next day over dinner (we ate a cheeseboard and grapes and called it dinner). The long and short of it is that Arthur asked to meet up with her — just a fun, casual thing. And she went to the club to call it quits with him, in person, properly. To explain it all. How she was too intertwined.

Arthur took it well, but he was upset. He asked her not to lose his number, just in case.

And then she got too drunk. He took her home, tucked her into bed, and crashed on the couch like some kind of half-ghosted gentleman. The whole thing was a bit surreal — like something out of a movie, if the movie had less kissing and more existential dread.

She said the gesture made her soul sing but her heart sink. That it was too much and not enough, all at once.

We talked about it, whilst stuffing out faces with brie. I told her — and meant it — that I don’t care if she goes for it. That she deserves happiness. If she wants him, she should take the leap. No judgement. But she’s more stubborn than me, which is really saying something. If anyone could believe it.

Orla smiles at the end of my little Ruth monologue, one of those fond, knowing smiles that feels like being seen.

There’s a beat of quiet while she sips her coffee, eyes flicking briefly toward the door. Then, like it’s no big deal, she says, “I should tell you before it gets awkward — Will’s coming. I’m waiting here for him.”

Of course he is.

Part of me wants to stay. To see him. To watch how he reacts — if he stumbles, if he blinks too long, if he says something too soft, too careful. But the louder part of me — the one that’s been doing the healing — wants to get up and go. Say thanks but no thanks, and leave him sitting in his own silence.

Before I can let that part of me win, Orla grins toward the door like she’s seen something mildly amusing and slightly cursed.

“Speak of the devil.”

And there he is.

Will.

Also in running gear, also vaguely sweaty. Glad I’m not the only one who smells like effort and unresolved tension. But unfortunately — and I do mean unfortunately — he looks… good.

Not “accidentally ran into my ex situationship in a Tesco aisle” good. More like critically acclaimed festival circuit good. Like he’s about to break someone’s heart in slow motion to a Phoebe Bridgers song.

His hair’s damp, his sleeves pushed up, and there’s that stupid familiar calm on his face — the one he always wears like armour. Effortless. Disarming. Dangerous.

He sees us, and his eyes land on me like he’s been expecting me, somehow. No flinch. No panic. Just a slow, deliberate walk to the table like this is fine. Like we’re fine.

He reaches me first.

Doesn’t say anything. Just slides behind me, and—suddenly—his hands are on my shoulders. A gentle squeeze. Warm. Familiar. Firm enough to say I’m here, but soft enough to ask is this okay?

It’s shocking. Stupidly shocking.

I should pull away. I should shrug him off. Instead, I lean into it — like my body forgets we’re mad at him. Like I forgot.

It’s only for a second. But it’s enough.

He lets go, steps around the table, and drops into the seat next to Orla like he hasn’t just short-circuited my entire nervous system.

“Alright?” he says, voice low, trying for casual.

So casual I could scream. Or throw my latte in his face. (Tempting.)

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it? We’re just opening with ‘alright?’ Like you didn’t go full sad indie boy on your knees in the rain last week?”

He winces — a full-body flinch like the memory physically pained him. “Yeah, I went a bit daft last week… proper drama queen, on me knees in the rain and all.”

Orla, mid-sip of her coffee, lowers her cup very slowly. “I’m sorry—what now?”

Will doesn’t look at her. “Not my finest hour.”

“That’s one way to describe full-blown pavement repentance,” I mutter. “I thought you were gonna burst into song.”

He groans, covering his face with one hand. “Please. Let’s never speak of it again.”

“Oh, we’re absolutely speaking of it again. Probably annually. On the anniversary.”

“I hate that you’re funny when you’re mean,” he mutters, peeking at me through his fingers.

Orla’s eyes ping-pong between us. “Did I miss a mini-series? Why do I feel like I’ve walked into season three, episode ten, and someone just got recast?”

Will shoots her a look. “Sorry, yeah. Bit of... backstory.”

“Backstory,” I echo. “That’s generous. Bit of a Greek tragedy, more like.”

He leans back, mock casual again. “Well, look, if it helps: I’ve been cringing about it constantly. Like, stomach-turning, can’t-sleep-at-night levels of cringe. So. You win.”

“I didn’t realise it was a competition.”

“It always is with you,” he grins. “That’s half the fun.”

And just like that, the tension thins, slipping away like bad smoke. Stupidly, against every instinct I have.

It’s always been like this with him. I steel myself not to say a word, and somehow, within a minute, he’s already melting my walls down. When he disappeared, he never tried to break back in—no calls, no messages, no second chances. It was all stoney stares and half hugs. But now, something’s shifted. The walls are cracking again, and this time, it’s not just the walls melting—it’s me.

Cue the barista—arms crossed, face locked in that universal you’re-not-paying-me expression—as she strides over like the sheriff of caffeine enforcement.

“If you’re not ordering food, I’m gonna have to ask you to move along.”

We all snap our heads up, caught mid-whisper like a bunch of schoolkids frozen under the glare of roll call.

Will blinks. “Believe it or not, this here’s a proper emotional reunion—not just hanging about, honest.”

The barista doesn’t buy it. She glares at us like she’s one breath away from dousing us with a spray bottle labeled Customer Repellent.

“Alright, alright. I’ll catch you lot outside. Gonna grab me coffee to-go.”

I grab my coat, shaking my head but smiling despite myself. There’s still a storm swirling beneath my skin, but… this feels better. Lighter. Manageable.

Will bumps his shoulder against mine as he heads to the counter—quiet. Testing the waters.

He still won’t say what I know he wants to.

That’s fine. Neither will I.

Outside the café, a crisp breeze stirs the fallen leaves along the pavement, their orange and brown hues a sharp contrast against the damp grey stones. The morning sun tries to push through the thick October clouds, casting a pale, soft light over the waking city. The faint clatter of footsteps and the distant rumble of buses fill the air, mingling with the comforting scent of fresh coffee drifting from the café door. Orla turns to me, a curious look on her face, her breath forming small clouds in the cool air.

“Wait—so what happened last week? I’m completely lost here.”

I glance around, the city still holding onto that damp October chill, but the sky’s starting to lighten just enough to promise a new day. “You don’t want to know,” I say with a wry smile. “But I guess you definitely do.”

Orla leans in, eyes wide, a grin tugging at her lips. “Spill.”

“Last week,” I begin, “Will called me late at night, out of the blue, asking me to help get some of my friends home safe after a wild night out. Ruth, actually, and another guy we know.” I pause, watching a leaf tumble across the pavement. “So, he sits with me for a while at the hospital, and then, in the early morning, he tells me everything about why he ghosted.”

Orla raises an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” I confirm. “I don’t know how much he’s told you, he's literally your boss, but... it doesn’t paint him in the best light.”

Orla blinks, processing. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

“Yeah, and then outside,” I continue, “he’s on his hands and knees begging me to forgive him. Like, literally on the street. Although, I think it was more just a half-drunk ramble where he said, ‘I’m sorry,’ but, like, not for what.” I shake my head, still picturing the scene—him looking totally lost, like a bloke who'd just realized he’d been caught stealing chips from a takeaway.

Orla laughs softly, pulling her coat tighter around her. “You always find yourself in the messiest situations.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “And just when I think I’m out, he pulls me back in.”

She nudges me gently. “I was about to say, you guys looked pretty comfortable in there. Not what I was expecting.”

I smirk, glancing back toward the café door as Will reappears with a tray holding four coffees—two iced, two hot. “Maybe. But right now, he’s got some serious apologizing to do.”

Will spots us and starts walking over, a sheepish grin on his face. “Alrighty then!”

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Come on, Shakespeare. Let’s get going before you start acting for tips.”

“What?” Will raises his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just warming up. You might wanna stick around—I’m saving my best performance for the studio.”

He hands Orla one of the hot coffees, and me the other. The lid says Oat FW + 1. “That’s for you,” he says, as if it’s no big deal.

I raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that’s my order right now?”

He shakes his head, grinning like a kid caught red-handed. “You’re so weird that your coffee order changes. But I saw the docket for your first one.”

I blink, surprised by the detail.

“And I know you and Orla usually drink two coffees each in the morning,” he adds, nodding like it’s the most obvious fact in the world.

We stare at each other for a beat—his quiet kindness catching me off guard. I shouldn’t be surprised. He knows everyone’s drink order at the pub. But I am surprised. I'm not exactly his best mate right now.

“Right,” he says, glancing at the tray, “Orla and I have to get going to the studio. Filming day today.” The fourth coffee now makes sense—left in his tray are his and James' coffee orders.

“You’re more than welcome to come, of course,” Will says, with a sly grin, “but I assume you’d want a shower first.”

He’s right, of course.

I roll my eyes, taking a slow sip of the warm oat milk latte. “Hey, says you."  I finish my sip of coffee, "Thanks, though.”

He bumps my shoulder lightly, a small but steady connection. “Anytime, YN. And for your information—I’ve got a shower at the studio. I live the lavish life.”

I laugh, and they both smile and wave as they start walking off in the opposite direction from where I need to go.

Damn.

It's not even 9am.

xxx

Ruth and I have started our Lunches again. On Thursdays now. Ruth works from home on Fridays now, which, as much as she claims it’s "better," is just another excuse to lie in bed and pretend to work. Lame.

That’s how I ended up here, listening to her beg me to go to a party at George's flat. I mean, it’s Arthur’s flat too, so that’s why Ruth’s invited. She’s got this way of making everyhing sound like a great time. The thing is, with her it probably will be.

She wasn’t going to go at first—idiot—making all these “I don't even like him” excuses. But now that I’ve convinced her she needs to get out, she’s convinced I do too. She’s walking a delicate line, and I’m caught right in the middle of it.

“Please come with me!” Ruth practically whines, her hand clutching my arm with a desperation I know all too well. “I don’t know any of these people. You know all of them! You literally have 30k followers on Instagram, you’re one of them!”

I cringe, remembering how I became an Instagram sensation overnight. My follower count’s dropped to 20k, as I haven’t posted anything since the premiere. I deleted the app off my phone months ago because I couldn’t be bothered with the endless scroll and seeing edits of my exes. But of course, Ruth knows just how to get me.

“Ruth, I’m not one of them, I literally don’t have Instagram installed.”

She leans in, eyes wide, practically pleading now. “But if you really don’t want to, I totally respect that. I’ll drop it. And I will also drop Arthur if you tell me to.”

I wave her off—she’s being ridiculous again. I cross my arms, trying to act aloof, but the fact that I’m even thinking about it means she’s winning this battle. I feel the familiar pull of Ruth’s energy, the constant pressure of her need for validation that she’s dragging me into. I’ve always given in because... well, we’re both messed up like that.

"If I go, can’t we go to Maccas afterward?"

She laughs at me, shaking her head like I’m the one being ridiculous. “Maccas? Maccas, really? What is that, some Australian thing? You’ve been here too long to be saying Maccas.” she shakes her head, “Ha. Yeah, sure, we can go to Maccas after,” she mocks, grinning at my accent.

I raise an eyebrow, a challenge in my tone. “Ugh, fine, I’ll go. Only to prove to you it’s not a big deal for you and Arthur to go out.”

She grins like I’ve already lost, leaning in conspiratorially. “Yeah, yeah. I know you’re just trying to be the good friend here. But admit it, you’re low-key curious about Will being there, aren’t you?”

I hate how well she knows me.

And I hate even more that she might be right.

At the mention of his name, my stomach flips—annoyingly. Like it’s got a mind of its own. A tiny knot, right under my ribs, tightening before I can shut it down. I’m not curious. I’m not. I don’t want to see him. I want to be civil with him, maybe eventually—but that doesn’t mean I want him near me. Not at a party. Not around people. Not... like that.

“Will?” I try to sound dismissive, maybe even bored. “What, are we setting up a double date now or something?”

Ruth raises an eyebrow, clearly delighted. “Maybe. Who knows what’ll happen when we’re all in the same place at once? He’s like a magnet, right?”

I scoff, trying to laugh her off. “Yeah, a magnet for bad decisions.”

But the traitor organ in my chest is already thudding a little faster.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go. But it’s not about him. Just for you, Ruth. Because someone has to make sure you don’t fall headfirst into Arthur’s dimples.”

She shoots me a smug look, and I can tell she already knows—already knew—she’d won.

Again.

xxx

The flat looks exactly the same — still that borderline student-housing feel despite the fact that these boys earn a ridiculous amount of money — but now it’s layered in the chaotic glamour of a proper BYO party. Bags dumped in corners like forgotten parcels. Every flat surface claimed by cans and half-sipped bottles, already sticky with condensation. There's a deck of cards abandoned on the arm of the sofa, and a half-arsed cheeseboard on the table.

I have been to so many flat parties this year it’s verging on comedic. Every one of them smells vaguely of Lynx, cheap lager, and someone’s regrets.

The music’s thumping through the plasterboard, too drill-heavy for me — someone with no business near an AUX has clearly commandeered it. Someone who I don’t recognise on the Bluetooth, nodding to himself like he’s curing world hunger with this playlist.

Arthur spots us first. He strides over with his usual golden retriever energy, and — to my surprise — pulls me in for a hug. It’s warm, genuine. Disarming.

“YN! I’m so glad you came,” he beams.

Then he pulls Ruth in — and that’s where the temperature shifts. The hug lingers. His hand settles on her back, her fingers hook behind his neck, and she just sort of… melts. It's annoyingly tender.

I watch them like I’m seeing something happen in slow motion. She was so adamant, too. No Arthur, too messy, too close to George. But now? She’s making heart eyes like a Year 9 in a school play.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says when they break apart — barely. He grins and laces their fingers together like it's muscle memory, then tugs her away, muttering something about introducing her to his mates. She already knows all their names. I've told her. Probably too many times.

I turn and make my way to the kitchen, pushing a few bottles aside to wedge our drinks into the fridge. Someone’s brought blue WKDs which feels illegal, somehow. I’m mid-fridge-Tetris when Chris appears beside me, popping up like a forgotten puppy eager for attention.

“YN!” he grins, going in for a quick side hug.

Ruth reappears, glowing from Arthur's proximity. She gives Chris a warm hug too, just as Harry appears with the energy of a man mid-three-beer confidence arc.

“I’m Harry,” he says to Ruth, holding out a hand.

They all launch into some chat I half-listen to. Something about comedy club venues and who’s been banned from The Blues Kitchen.

I turn back to Ruth, now that they're all engaged in some conversation. “Hey real quick,” I say, blinking. “Why are we proud of Arthur?”

“Oh,” Ruth says, lighting up. “He sold out his tour. That’s what this is for. The party, I mean.”

Oh damn. “That’s cool.” I say.

“I’m trying to figure out which city to surprise him at,” she muses. “Dublin’s on the list. Never been. He’s doing Paris too but that feels… I don’t know, on the nose.”

I jab an elbow into her side. “And what happened to shutting him out, hmm?” My smirk is obnoxious. Earned.

She shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Ugh, I don’t knowww,” she whines, drawing the word out like she wants it to disappear into the floorboards. “I think I really like him.”

I want to roll my eyes. To say you’re an idiot, we all know this. But I don’t — because the door opens, and everything in the room shifts.

It’s Will. And James!

James is a surprise. He rarely turns up to these things — bit too clean-cut, too career-focused, too not chronically online. I didn’t even think he and Arthur were that close. Will either, to be honest. But then again, Ruth swore I was wrong. Apparently, Will went on Arthur’s channel recently for a drinking challenge. Which is saying something — Will usually treats drinking collabs like a contagious disease.

Shows what I know.

God, Ruth would make a killer influencer. She’s made for this. Lurking in corners one moment, soft-launching a situationship the next.

“I’m gonna go say hi to James,” I tell her, casually. “Haven’t seen him in months.”

She gives me a look so smug it could be copyrighted. “Sure you are,” it says.

I roll my eyes. Hard.

James is excited to see me, which is nice. He pulls me into a hug, muttering about how he can't believe he didn’t go to the café, as he missed me.

I turn to Will. He's smiling at me. Like a proper, eyes-crinkling smile. “Nice to see you’re still rocking your charity shop boots.”

I roll my eyes. Something I’ve been doing a lot lately. “Nice to see you too, Will.” I want to say to him it’s an op-shop, but I can’t be bothered to open that can of worms.

The party thumps on. I’ve successfully evaded George. To be honest, he might not even know I’m here. There’s no shot of that at all, but it’s a nice thought. I’m catching up with people I haven’t seen in ages. As much as I’ve denounced this whole world, so many people in it are excited to see me.

I’m halfway through telling Reev about how I still have the bedside table he saw for me on Facebook Marketplace when I spot Will across the room. He’s deep in conversation with George, and James is there too. It’s not like a bad conversation or anything—actually, it’s kind of pleasant. But then, James leaves to use the bathroom, and everything shifts. The dynamic suddenly changes, like a flick of a switch. Will’s posture straightens, and George’s tone lowers just slightly.

I can feel it from across the room.

I tell Reev I’ll be right back, giving him the “I need a top-up” excuse. It’s half true. I do need a drink, but it’s not the drink I’m really focused on right now. I move toward the fridge, the hum of the party falling away as I try to make sense of what’s happening.

I stand there, staring at the two of them, trying to look casual, but every move they make feels like it's happening in slow motion. Will shifts his weight, glancing briefly at George as he scratches the back of his neck. His lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. George says something, and Will’s expression changes, just for a moment—more serious, more guarded.

I study them closely, searching for something. Anything.

I don’t know what I want to find, or if I even want to find anything. Maybe I’m waiting for Will to call George a twat, something I can laugh off, some kind of back-and-forth to break the tension. Maybe I want George to step up, to make this weird, unspoken thing between them clear. Maybe I want a reason to justify the knot in my stomach, to give myself an excuse for the jealousy that's prickling up my spine.

But then, something shifts in my brain.

I realize I’m not in some stupid love triangle fanfiction. This isn’t some dramatic scene from a story where everything gets tangled in the most convoluted way. These guys are mates. Even with all the history, with all the tension from before, they’re just—good friends. They’re laughing, they’re relaxed, and maybe there’s less to this situation than I care to admit.

I’m not all that. I’m not the main character in this plot, and this isn’t my moment.

Their conversation ends, George walking off to the other side of the flat. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t catch my eye, thankfully. I would’ve hated that. But Will does. Of course he does.

His gaze is on me instantly, that same damn smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. I know the look. It’s the same one he gave me back in the summer, when we’d sneak off into rooms like this, when we’d pull each other into messy situations and then act like nothing had changed. But now, there’s something different. The air feels thicker between us, and I can’t tell if it’s the remnants of whatever we’ve been through or just the fact that he knows exactly how to make my heart skip.

I’m not sure what to do with the way he’s looking at me. I shouldn’t even care.

But I do.

And now he’s smirking at me. Getting under my skin all over again. Little shit. He knocks his head towards my old bedroom. The one we used to sneak off together to all the time. Well, twice.

And the other times that weren’t at parties.

He’s daring me to go in. Or asking? Or challenging? I can’t tell.

But he wants me in that room.

Fuck.

I turn around, looking for Ruth, but I can’t see her immediately. She’s probably off with Arthur, doing whatever Arthur and Ruth do when they’re left alone. I would say be hooking up in his bedroom, but I honestly couldn’t say for certain. The host gone from his own party is criminal, but I respect Ruth’s hustle.

My gaze flickers across the room, over the tops of heads, and I can’t find her anywhere. I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself to leave the room if I don’t spot her. But she’s nowhere. I glance back at Will—he’s still watching me. His gaze lingers, that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips. The kind of smile that gets to me.

I look away.

Just keep moving. Don’t turn back. I’ve done this before. I’ve left situations that are less complicated.

Right?

I turn back toward the crowd, my feet pushing me in the direction of the door to the balcony. But my hand hovers near the doorframe of the old bedroom, like my brain is suddenly on pause. I know exactly what Will's doing—he’s baiting me, pulling me back into this tangled mess between us. He doesn’t know it, but it’s working. It’s like we’re caught in this weird push-and-pull game.

Is he really daring me to walk in? Or is he just messing with me? Maybe both.

I should turn around. Go outside. I can go talk to Chris or someone. Even Harry. Leave it. Forget that this is even a thing.

But then I see Will shift his weight, that subtle movement that says he’s waiting for me to make a choice.

The room feels closer now. Almost suffocating, as if it’s been pulling me in from the moment I stepped into this flat. I’ve been avoiding this. Avoiding him. But I can’t get away from the fact that there’s something still... unresolved.

Fuck it.

I turn back to the door, my decision made without even really deciding. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath this whole time, and now that I’m here, I don’t care how far into this mess I wade. I push through the crowd toward the familiar bedroom door. It's been months since I’ve been in there, it's not mine anymore. Never fully was.

I’m going in.

I turn on my heels, drink still in hand, straight towards my old bedroom. I don’t shut the door fully. I never do.

It’s different in here. All the shit is gone. No more exercise bike or a box labelled "Wires??". George has clearly made this room his streaming spot. There’s soundproofing cubes on the wall joining his. Wish I had that when I was here, for both of our sakes.

I walk to the end of the room, and take it all in. I couldn’t even walk this far back. It feels so big. It’s a little bit like when a restaurant you used to work at has been gutted and it’s a new one. Like, so much of my life happened in here, and you'd never know.

Although the desk is the same one that was in here. It’s a little tatty compared to the nice swanky new furniture, but if it ain't broke don’t fix it, I guess.

The door clicks shut behind me. I turn to see Will.

He looks unreal as always.

His hair is the perfect length right now, his mullet curling at the base of his neck, styled effortlessly in a way I know took a lot of effort. He's wearing an oversized black t-shirt, a large jacket, and a string of pearls. Classic.

We’re standing quite far apart. He’s at the door, near where my bed used to be. Last time, we couldn’t have even been this far apart in here if we tried.

"We have to stop meeting like this," I say.

"Oh but we're so good at it." He smirks, looking around the room. "It’s no longer your shitty graveyard," he says.

"No more tripods for you to knock over."

"Shame," he says. "I was hoping to practice. Goal is the Olympics in 2032."

I smirk at that. He knows those Olympics are going to be in Brisbane. He always finds a way to drop in that he actually listens.

The silence between us stretches, thick and heavy, the space between us charged with a thousand unasked questions. His hands, buried deep in his pockets, are the only thing holding him together. I can feel the weight of everything unsaid, the history that clings to us like smoke, wrapping itself around every movement, every breath.

I want to ask him a million questions. Why did you get on your hands and knees for me? You weirdo. Or Why didn’t you fight for me? Was I not worth it? Or even can you come fix my coffee table? You put it together like shit.

But I say none of that. I can’t. Not yet. Not when he’s looking at me like that. Like I’m a goddamn puzzle he’s trying to fucking solve. It’s always that look. Am I that complicated?

Of all the questions I muster, I ask him.

“Last time we were here, when you blanked me all night,” he looks at his feet as I say it. “Would you have snuck in here after me, if I came in?”

“I was hoping you would,” he says, lifting his gaze, his eyes meeting mine. “But you didn’t, and I can’t fault you for that. I was being a right bellend.”

“Too right,” I say back, my arms crossed. My heart sinks, a familiar ache threading through my chest. Ugh. I should’ve just done it. Regret is a terrible thing, especially when it’s about something that happened three months ago. “What would you have said to me?”

He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “I would’ve told you to give it a right shot with George, that you deserve happiness, and I have a feeling he likes ya.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I would’ve told ya I’m so sorry for ghosting your flat-warming dinner, that I was a coward.”

“Really?” The word tastes strange in my mouth. Did he really just say that?

“I’d like to think not,” he mutters, almost to himself, eyes drifting to the floor. “I like to think that I would’ve told you everything, that I was sorry for going ghost for a month, but explained everything and maybe you and George wouldn’t have had to happen.” He sighs, a long, drawn-out thing, his fingers brushing the back of his neck again. “But you didn’t come in.”

My breath catches. I could’ve come in. I could’ve walked through that door, into the mess of feelings and confusion, and maybe we’d be in a very different place by now. I want to argue, to say it wasn’t just me — but I don’t. The words fall heavy in the space between us.

“You could’ve just said all that,” I murmur, my voice unsteady. “It didn’t have to be specifically in my old bedroom.”

He nods, looking up at me, his eyes clouded with something unspoken. His head hangs, his hands pressing into his pockets as if he’s trying to hold himself together. “I know,” he says, his voice a quiet admission. “I know.” He takes a big sigh in, his shoulders slumping with the weight of it.

The air between us thickens, almost suffocating. Every second feels like a fragile thread, stretched too tight, about to snap. I want to speak, but the words feel lodged somewhere between my chest and throat. The tension crackles in the room, sharp and palpable, but neither of us dares to break it.

“Uh, well. I- uh,” he stammers, looking at his feet for a moment before meeting my gaze once more. “I wanted you in here to say, uh, clearly. From my performance a fortnight ago, you can tell that I’m sorry, and that I, uh—miss youse.”

What.

“And I was, uh, wonderin' if you wanted to maybe...” He breathes in, almost like he’s bracing himself, his words taking on a nervous edge. Then, a slow whistle of air escapes his teeth, and he looks at me. “Go on a proper date with me. Dinner and a movie? Or an arcade or something.”

What do I even say to that? My mind stalls, completely blank. Is he serious?

“In daylight even,” he adds, his voice softening. “Proper date stuff.”

I stare at him, still processing, still unsure if this is all real. He’s standing there, in my old bedroom, with all this history swirling between us. There’s nothing but him and the weight of his words in the air, and my thoughts are scrambling to catch up. This isn’t how I expected any of this to go.

I look at him, trying to make sense of his quiet plea, his sincerity practically crackling in the space between us. He’s not rushing me, but it feels like time is bending under the weight of the silence.

He’s giving me an out. A chance to run. A chance to not have to face whatever this is. But I can’t move. I can’t say no. I don’t want to.

I clear my throat, pushing out the words before my brain can catch up. “I’d love that,” I say, surprising myself as I let the words slip out before I can second-guess them.

A warm smile breaks across his face, like the sun finally cracking through clouds. It’s genuine, a soft exhale of relief. “Brilliant.” His head cocks slightly, as if he’s still trying to read me, make sure he hasn’t missed something. “See you tomorrow evening. I’ll pick you up at 7.”

I’m still reeling. My mind is racing, but somehow, it feels like a weight has been lifted. It’s like the air in the room has shifted, some invisible force relaxing around us. The tension that had been simmering for months, maybe years, is suddenly gone, and I’m left standing here, dazed and unsure of what to make of it all.

I think maybe this is the part where we make out, against the door, like we used to. The same door we’d sneak off to, away from prying eyes, letting all of our friends notice we’ve disappeared.

The familiar warmth of his body against mine, the closeness, the urgency, the way he’d always pull me in like he was starving for me—every one of those moments floods back, each one sharp and clear in my mind. The times we’d lock ourselves in here, no words spoken, just the sound of lips meeting, breaths shared in the dim light because I couldn't be bothered to turn a lamp on.

 The way his hands would slide under my shirt, the way he'd press me up against the wall and then laugh like we were two kids getting away with something. The feeling of him—daring, bold, reckless—and yet somehow always so damn gentle with me, as though I was the most fragile thing in the world.

It’s funny how time works like that. One minute, I’m locking eyes with him, feeling the intensity of the moment settle between us, and the next, he’s standing there, motionless, waiting for me to make a choice. It was always like this, wasn’t it? A game of give and take. We would both always push just enough to get what we wanted, but never quite enough to make us crack open. He wanted me close, but I never really let us get too close.

But this... this is different. There’s no push. No tension in the way he looks at me anymore. Just that soft, lazy smile. and a promise to pick me up tomorrow at seven. A date. A proper one. A part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. We can barely get through one conversation without the ground shifting beneath us, but now he’s asking me out. Like it’s that easy.

But he doesn’t even step towards me. He steps back. A deliberate, almost final motion that signals the end of whatever it was we were about to do (we were about to do nothing, im delusional. Were stood 3 feet apart). Back into the living room, back into the blur of bad drill rap, back into the noise and the mess of the party. Leaving me standing here, still breathless, still unsure if I’m ready to face whatever comes next.

I blink, still trying to comprehend it. He’s gone. Just like that.

I stand there a moment longer, trying to fight the disappointment gnawing at me. It’s stupid. I don’t even want this. But it’s there. And I hate how much it stings.

I'm upset my ex-situationship asked me on a date and left it at that. Didn’t make it weird or complicated. God I'm so pathetic. Especially for him.

And I’m left with nothing but the sound of drill music and the slow hum of my own thoughts.

What. Even. Just. Happened.

TagList: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz @luvnarthur @capnjosh @ellouisa17

[thatnightlamp]

LEMAN RUSS MODERN AU, SLICE OF LIFE, FLUFF.

You wake up to something licking your face.

It's not your husband.

No, your husband is asleep next to you, arm flung out like a bear carcass, hair a mess of golden tangles, snoring like someone started a chainsaw and left it in a pile of gravel. The tongue in question belongs to a Newfoundland named Ragnar, who has no sense of personal space and, apparently, no comprehension of weekends either.

“Ragnar,” you groan, shoving his enormous, drooling head off your pillow. He just pants at you, happy as a clam. Probably wants breakfast.

From downstairs, you hear it.

The howling.

The daily, ungodly wolf chorus of Freki and Geri, who, despite being actual wolves, have somehow become the mascots of the entire rescue operation. Technically, wolves aren’t allowed in most counties. Technically, you’re not even sure this county exists on paper. But Leman insisted this was the spot, “Remote enough to hide a hundred mutts,” he said, and who were you to argue with a man who once punched a coyote for looking at him funny?

You groan and shove yourself out of bed. Leman shifts, cracks one eye open, and mumbles, “They’re just excited. Logan probably got into the kibble again.”

“Again?” you say, pulling on your hoodie. “He figured out the latch again?”

Leman grins sleepily. “Smart boy.”

You trudge downstairs, accompanied by Ragnar, who thunders down like a sentient sofa. You pass Bjorn, the ancient basset hound who moves only twice a day and groans like a dying god every time. He doesn’t even lift his head as you pass, just lets out a sigh that smells faintly of death and sardines.

In the kitchen, the chaos is in full swing.

Logan, a wiry blue heeler with eyes like he’s seen war, is standing on the counter. He has indeed opened the kibble bin and is eating with the methodical focus of a tactician. Freki and Geri are howling in encouragement from the backyard, pressing their massive, shaggy bodies against the glass like uninvited specters of winter.

“Off,” you bark. “Logan, off the counter!”

He gives you a look, judgmental, calculating and then jumps down with the grace of a soldier clearing a trench.

You open the back door. The wolves barrel in.

Geri immediately headbutts you in greeting. Freki knocks over a chair trying to jump up and lick your nose. You sputter and try not to drown in wolf affection.

“Every morning,” you mutter, wiping your face. “Every damn morning.”

Leman wanders in ten minutes later wearing nothing but boxers, boots, and a mug that says "World’s Hairiest Husband". His hair is tied back in the world’s worst bun. He scratches Freki behind the ears and kisses you like it’s still your wedding night. He tastes like coffee and dog breath.

“Let’s check on the new arrivals,” he says brightly.

That’s how your mornings always go, cleaning, feeding, brushing, chasing, bribing with chicken jerky, prying socks out of someone’s mouth (often is Harald, the Irish setter who loves laundry), and checking in on the rotating cast of new rescues that show up like Leman’s life is a magnet for strays and weirdos.

Today’s newbies are adjusting surprisingly well. Ulrik, a serene old great dane with cataracts, is curled up beside Canis, the chihuahua who thinks he’s six times bigger than he is. Canis rules this household through sheer spite. He once bit Geri on the nose. Geri cried. You had to give him ice cubes and pet his enormous head for thirty minutes.

Your favorite, though, the one you can’t help but spoil is the wiener dog.

His name is Njall.

You don’t know why Leman gave the most unassuming dachshund such a legendary name, but it fits. He’s fearless. He once chased off a bobcat. He wears little sweaters. You carry him around like royalty and whisper secrets into his floppy ears.

“He’s plotting something,” Leman tells you seriously when you tuck Njall under your arm like a hairy baguette. “I see it in his eyes.”

“He plots naps and snacks,” you reply.

“Same thing I do,” he says, patting his stomach.

You glance outside the window and notice Geigor, your Siberian Husky escape artist, is already halfway out of the yard, digging like it’s the WW2 trench. “LEMAN!”

He sighs and grabs the duct tape. “Third time this week.”

---

You go to town once a week. It’s an event.

You both load up the old, dented pickup that Leman swears is “a veteran of fifteen crusades” (he means it’s just very old and has survived a moose attack), and bring a rotation of dogs into town for adoption meets, vet visits, or errands.

Today, you’re bringing Erik, a poodle mix with anxiety, and Kjell, the world’s most judgmental corgi. Kjell judges everything, your coffee choices, your hair, your driving. He once stared down a cop at a traffic stop and made the man apologize.

You park outside the café. Leman ties Erik and Kjell to a post outside and says, “You get the coffee. I’ll get the meat pies.”

You return ten minutes later to find a small crowd of people gathered around your dogs as Leman explains in his booming, overly proud voice: “Yes, this one’s part fluff. That one is fifty percent vengeance, fifty percent pettiness.”

Kjell stares solemnly at a passing poodle and pees directly on the welcome mat.

You love this life.

You didn’t expect to, at first.

Moving to the middle of nowhere to live with a warlord looking man who runs a dog farm wasn’t in your five year plan. But then again, your five year plan didn’t include falling for someone who treats broken creatures with more gentleness than most men treat crystal glassware. You’d never seen anyone brush out matted fur with tears in his eyes until you met Leman. You’d never seen anyone build a ramp for an old three legged pug without even being asked. You’d never seen a man comfort a shivering mutt by crawling into the kennel and just… sitting there.

He made a world where creatures no one wanted get to feel wanted.

And he made space for you, too.

---

Evening comes fast on the farm. The sun dips behind the tree line, casting golden light over dozens of napping dogs and two wolves curled by the porch like sentries.

You sit beside Leman on the swing. Njall is in your lap. Freki is using Leman’s foot as a pillow. The crickets are loud. So are the snores.

“We need to rebuild the south fence tomorrow,” Leman says lazily. “Skold nearly ate through the post.”

“Skold’s a pomeranian.”

“Exactly,” he says with great concern. “He has dark energy.”

You lean into him and close your eyes. His arm is warm around you.

“I love this stupid, hairy life,” you murmur.

“Me too,” he replies, kissing your temple. “Best mistake I ever made was dragging you into it.”

You fall asleep like that, surrounded by snores and wolves and warm fur and peace.

And in the distance, you swear you hear Kjell judging the moon.

[headdinthewall]

PERFECT ── g.clarke ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : you and george meet at an influencer event in paris and spend the rest of your holiday messing around a/n : sorry i’ve been gone for so long i’ve just had no motivation to write anything lol. this one’s a request & it’s quite long x content : suggestive content ,, sneaking around ,, mostly fluff

─────── YOU’D BEEN FLOWN out to Paris on behalf of a sponsorship amongst other British influencers. It was awkward at first, not knowing anyone there, but you swiftly made friends with the girls — Flo and Liv — and were then introduced to the guys on their behalf.

What you didn’t know was that the guy you’d been eyeing (and he’d been reciprocating) across the bar was associated with your new friends.

You’d been slowly sipping a strawberry daiquiri, eyes flickering over to the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

Though the lights were dim, you could see his piercing, electric blue eyes focused on you. He had a waterfall of curls on his head, once perfectly styled mullet was now slightly messy, which somehow made him all the more attractive.

He was drinking a beer, taking periodic sips as he laughed with his friends, periodically meeting your eyes through the crowd of people.

When Liv came up to you with her bubbly greeting and gesturing for you to join them, you nodded.

“This is Isaac, Arthur, Flo — you already met — and that’s George.”

You smiled, introducing yourself to them all with little hugs, but you felt something linger in George. Maybe it was his hands around your waist or just the sheer tension and energy between the two of you, but it made your heart threaten to break down your rib cage and leap from your chest.

After a while, you split from them, returning to the bar to order another drink, unaware that George was following behind you.

You felt a soft, gentle hand on your hip and then he spoke low on your ear, “Can I get you a drink?”

Once you’d gotten over how flustered you were, you replied, “I already ordered one, but thanks for offering.”

“Can I buy your next one?”

You smirked, deciding to be a bit bold, “Trying to get me drunk?”

His eyes widened, “No! No, not at all, sorry if it came across that way.”

“Relax, I was messing with you.”

“Right.” He nodded, “Just wanted to do something nice for a pretty lady.”

“Just pretty?” You teased, raising your eyebrows.

“Well, I wanted to say gorgeous but it seemed a bit too bold.” He chuckled.

“Nothing too bold about complimenting a woman.” You shrugged, thanking the bartender as your drink arrived, “Unless you follow it up asking for sex.”

George burst out laughing, “That’s a wild thing for someone to do.”

“Yeah.” You hummed, holding eye contact while taking a sip, “Wild.”

He met your gaze, eyes holding the same taunting, heated energy that yours did.

─────── THE AIR WAS thick and heavy, making it difficult to breathe — and that’s not just because your face was previously buried in George’s hotel room pillows. The lust-filled environment you’d created was incredibly overwhelming whilst simultaneously being incredibly sexy.

You laid beside him, staring at the ceiling while panting and recovering from the tasteful peak you’d both reached together.

He broke the silence, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

You blinked, turning your head to look at him, “… Sorry?”

“Tomorrow.” He reiterated, “You’re here for the same amount of time as us, right? I’ve got no plans with the other guys, so … what do you want to do?”

“I dunno, what is there to do here?” You shrugged.

George pulled up his phone, researching some places to go in Paris.

“We could go to Montmartre.” He suggested, toying with his moustache with his free hand.

“Where?”

“Montmartre, it’s apparently a village on top of a hill.”

“Yes, George, brilliant idea, take me somewhere that I can’t pronounce.” You giggled.

“I don’t even know if I’m saying it right.” He put his phone back on the bedside table as you sat up.

His hand danced across your bare back, tracing your spine with light touches. You looked back over your shoulder with a dazed smile, absorbing his relaxed and comfortable manner.

“I should go.” You reluctantly whispered.

He hummed, but it was like he wasn’t really considering your words, “Or you could stay.”

“George—“

“You can sleep in one of my shirts, or naked, both is good.” He proposed, “Just … spend the night, yeah?”

“And in the morning?”

“I’ll walk you back to your room, wait for you to get ready, do your makeup — even though you don’t need it.”

“Aren’t you a flirt? Just met me tonight and already throwing in the big ones.” You snorted.

“Well, considering we just fucked, I think a compliment is the least I could do.” George said sincerely, hand still not having left your back, “Besides, who cares if we only met tonight? I can confidently, hands down say, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s a bold claim, Mr Clarke.” You smirked.

“Bold but true.”

─────── MONTMARTE WAS BEAUTIFUL. Thank god the weather was lovely otherwise it would’ve ruined the whole experience. You took a tour of the Sacré-Cœur, and he took some photos of you, then you went for a little walk around the village, trying your absolute hardest not to trip over the wonky cobblestone pathways.

You sat in a dainty, quiet cafe, having little conversations about the day and how it had been. There were multiple times where you both just sat in silence, staring at each other with blissful expressions and dilated pupils.

“George Clarke, I didn’t take you for a cafe-date type of guy.” You said, sipping your coffee.

“I am a man of many secrets and surprises.” George fluffed up his hair.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“What do you want to know.”

You thought for a minute, “Something you’ve never told anybody— or, like, something only a few people know.”

He rubbed his chin, sitting back in his chair while thinking deeply, “I don’t— Hm, no I cant say that one.”

You giggled at his little joke.

“Okay, so, I studied sports science at university.” He revealed, holding his hands out.

“Oh! Did you finish?”

“Last night? Yeah.”

“George!” You hissed, looking around to reassure yourself that no one had heard his little retort.

He barked out laughter, “No, um, I dropped out of uni. It just … wasn’t my thing.”

You nodded, understanding considering you knew a lot of people who dropped out.

yourusername posted a story !

‘i cant pronounce this place😵‍💫’

─────── GEORGE HAD RENTED a super fancy convertible for the night. You laughed as he drove through the streets of Paris, zooming past the canal and around the Eiffel Tower. You awed as you went past, looking back at him to see if he was seeing what you were — but his eyes were cemented to you.

You shuffled up out of your seat more so you could get a clearer picture, tucking your lip beneath your teeth as you focused. When you finally got the perfect shot, you were giddy, giggling to yourself and tapping your feet in the foot well of the car as you showed George.

“Good picture, but not nearly as beautiful as the one taking it.” He flirted, tucking your hair behind your ear and then zooming off.

You felt high on his affection and effort. You’d spent the whole day with him and not once did you feel upset or bored or uncomfortable. It was nice to go to a quiet place and not have to worry about being spotted or having cameras thrust in your faces — though you’d always secretly fantasise about that kind of life.

The two of you stumbled back into the hotel, hand-in-hand, cackling away. You received odd looks from some of the staff at the front desk, but it only made you laugh more. While in the elevator, he kissed you thrillingly.

You pulled away with a chuckle, pointing to the camera. He shrugged, not caring, and then hauled you over his shoulder, carrying you back to his hotel room.

George dropped you onto his bed and removed his jacket. You stared up at him, thumb nail between your teeth as you admitted him undressing.

Next was you, and he spared not a single inch of skin from his lips, making his way down your body. He looked up at you as he got between your legs, maintaining his steel gazed eye contact as he hooked your legs over his shoulders.

“Wait—“ You shot up just as he lowered his mouth, “What happens when we get back to England?”

George blinked, sitting up himself, “Whatever you want to happen. If you … want to cut me off and say ‘thanks but no thanks’ you can do that, but if you want to give this a real shot, I would be happy to try.”

“I—“

He silenced you with a kiss, “You don’t have to decide right now. Just … let me make you feel good, okay?”

You nodded, “Okay.”

[letsnowtalk]

Watkins Warpath

—

They called it the “Game of the Month” before tip-off.

By halftime? They were calling it the beginning of a rivalry era.

LSU vs. USC.

You vs. Juju.

And the energy? Unmatched.

Sold out arena. Celebs courtside. WNBA stars in the crowd. The air buzzing like a playoff game, but this wasn’t the league—it was just college. College that felt bigger than life, because of you.

And because of her.

⸻

Warmups felt like foreplay.

Juju was already on one—loose, cocky, chewing gum like she owned the building. She watched you stretch from across the court, licking her lips when your shirt lifted and your stomach showed.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, eyes shameless. Her teammate nudged her.

“That your girl or what?”

Juju smirked. “Not yet. But tonight might change that.”

⸻

Tip-off.

You didn’t even pretend to hide the smirk when Juju came out guarding you.

She was in your space the second the ball was in your hands.

“You wore that lip gloss just for me, huh?”

You chuckled. “Please. You wish.”

Juju grinned, hand on your hip. “I do. And you know it.”

⸻

The battle was instant.

You crossed her twice in the first quarter—hard. She responded by draining a pull-up jumper in your face and slapping your ass on the way back down court.

Technical? Maybe.

But the refs weren’t trying to kill the show.

The crowd ate it up. Twitter exploded.

🎥: [clip]

“Juju guarding her like she her girlfriend 😭”

“😭😭 She playing defense and flirting at the same time like it’s normal.”

“This is a real life love and basketball showdown rn.”

⸻

By the second half, you were both gassed—but locked in.

Tied game. Three minutes left.

You caught the ball at the top of the key. Juju stepped up. No space.

You hesitated, then jabbed, drove hard left, spun back right—she bit. You rose.

Splash.

The crowd erupted.

But Juju just nodded. “Okay. I needed that.”

On the next possession, she answered. Step-back three. Right in your face.

She winked. “Don’t get soft on me now.”

⸻

LSU won it. Barely.

Final score: 81-77.

You had 26. Juju had 24.

And when the buzzer sounded, both teams lined up—but Juju didn’t wait for the handshake line.

She came straight for you.

Pulled you into a tight, sweaty, intense hug.

Cameras snapped. Phones recorded. Your teammates screamed in the background, but all you felt was her hand resting low on your back and her lips near your ear.

“You make it real hard not to fall for you.”

You leaned back just enough to look at her. “That a problem?”

“Only if you leave without me.”

⸻

So you didn’t.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you both walked out of the arena tunnel side by side—hoodies on, hair damp, smiles low and private.

You were trying to keep it chill. Lowkey.

But of course?

You forgot what it meant to be you.

⸻

Viral Tweets..

“Y’all… she just left with Juju. Hand on her lower back. REF DO SOMETHING.”

TikTok…

“THE WALK OF SHAME BUT MAKE IT SAPPHIC ROYALTY. 😭😭😭”

“Why do I feel like we’re watching the start of a marriage.”

⸻

Back at UConn?

Azzi saw the clip the second it went up.

She didn’t comment.

Didn’t post.

Didn’t like.

But she did text.

AZZI: You’re really doing this?

You stared at the message. Then put the phone down without replying.

⸻

You weren’t doing anything.

Not really.

Just playing the game.

And if Juju kept playing you like that?

She might just win.

Or lose harder than she ever has.

⸻

[imsogonesposts]

Birthday Kisses

|| ao3 || haymitch masterlist || requests are open !! || happy belated birthday haymitch ||

summary: celebrating haymitch’s birthday with him! (wc: 734)

warnings: slight spoilers for the first chapter of sotr, but thats it!!

There weren’t many upsides to having your birthday fall on the same day as the reaping day. The only real upside Haymitch could think of was that after the usual two tributes were reaped, he could spend the remainder of the day with you in his arms, kissing him stupid as he thanked every star in the night sky that neither you, him, or anyone largely important to him were picked for this year's Hunger Games. Spending the first half of his birthday scared out of his mind that he would be reaped wasn’t ideal, no, but at least after that he could relax and spend the day with the one girl who meant the most to him. 

“Happy birthday,” you said with a smile, a smile that always made Haymitch feel all warm inside, as you handed him your present. 

He took it with a smile of his own as he moved to press a kiss to your cheek. “Thank you, baby,” he replied as he carefully tore the newspaper you had used to wrap the present to reveal a small framed painting of the two of you along with some gumdrops from the Donner family's sweet shop. His smile only grew as he looked at the painting. It wasn’t anything professional, Haymitch highly doubted most people in District 12 would even be able to afford a professional painting, but the quality was still incredible, so much so he was almost scared to touch it, scared he would somehow smudge the drawing. 

“I traded a few eggs with one of the Covey kids for that,” you explained, eyes studying Haymitch’s face, looking for any sign he didn’t like your gift. You were happy to see there were none as he continued to stare in marvelment at the painting. “And I know you don’t like Maysilee Donner very much, but Haymitch you have to try the gumdrops they’re so good!”

You were barely able to finish your sentence before your boyfriend pulled you towards him in a bear-like hug before pecking your face with kiss after kiss, that you just couldn’t help but to laugh at his actions. 

“I love it,” a kiss to your cheek. “Thank you,” a kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” a kiss to your lips, one you couldn’t help but smile against. 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you when he eventually pulls away. “Yeah, you like it?” You ask with a smile, you could feel the heat that had risen to your cheeks thanks to the barrage of affection you were just given. 

Haymitch nodded his head yes before taking your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it, “of course I do,” he said with a smile so wide that his eyes were crinkling at the corner. You don’t think you’ve seen him smile like this since you had first told him that you loved him. “The painting’s beautiful,” he continued with a kiss to your cheek, “you’re beautiful,” a kiss to your other cheek, “and sweet, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you say through a laugh before giving him a short, sweet kiss that almost made Haymitch want to melt on the spot. When you pull away, you place the bag of gumdrops in his hand with a wide-eyed smile. “Try them,” you encourage with a nod. 

The boy only shakes his head with a laugh, opening the bag to give you the first gumdrop he pulls out of the bag, a red one, before popping the next one he takes out, a purple one, in his mouth. “Mmm, these are good,” he says as he throws another gumdrop into his mouth. “Thank you, baby,” he says as he moves to press yet another kiss to your cheek. It felt like every time you were with Haymitch, you were covered in his kisses, not that you entirely minded, not when he looked at you like you were the reason that the sun remained shining every day. Like you were the brightness that helped light his life. 

“I love you,” you told him with a smile, moving to kiss his cheek. 

“I love you too,” he replied, his hand moving towards your chin to gently tilt your face away from his cheek and to his lips. “For the rest of my life,” he whispered before kissing you. 

[metallicames]

Hi I love your writing. I was wondering if you can write a fic where both James and Jason fall in love the reader. James and Jason met the reader separately on two different occasions. Both James and Jason don’t know that they fell in love with the same person. Whoever the reader ends up with is up to you. I’d love it to be angsty.

I admit... it took me a long time to write this story because I had too many different ideas... I hope you like how it turned out.

Between Two Fires

Warnings: just sweet love making, passionate kisses, a little bit of angst.

You have no idea how you ended up in this situation, it feels unreal, like something out of a movie.

It all started at that concert of some unknown band you didn’t even want to go to.

The venue was small, thick with smoke and sweat. Red lights pulsed in time with the drums coming from the stage, while the crowd’s screams blended with the guttural sounds of the amplifier. The smell of beer, leather, and sweat was everywhere.

But then he smiled at you: Jason.

You bumped into him at the bar while you were desperately digging through your bag for cash to buy a beer after the concert. He handed you his drink, laughing and saying: “Here, take mine. I overdid it. I don’t even know why I got another one.” Light eyes, long messy brown hair, a kind but shy smile. You introduced yourselves and started talking. At first, it was a bit awkward, but then you discovered you had so many interests in common: music, movies, the outdoors. He was like an open book, transparent and sincere. He made you feel safe, as if the chaos around you faded every time he looked at you.

After that concert, you went out a couple of times. Once to the movies, shared milkshakes and stolen kisses, tender and sweet. The next time, a long walk in the park with music blasting through your headphones.

Jason was sweet, a little clumsy at times, but always present. He was the kind of guy who apologizes just for brushing your arm for too long and who got worried if he sees you unusually quiet. Over time you started to feel comfortable, appreciated, and safe.

But then he came along: James.

You meet him one night at a friend’s house, one of those nights where no one really knows what they’re celebrating, but everyone drinks like it’s New Year’s Eve. And you’re no exception. While sipping yet another drink, you feel someone’s eyes on you. You turn around and see him staring at you from across the room. Tall, broad shoulders, worn leather jacket, and a dark look. He’s holding a beer, and when your eyes meet, something inside you freezes. He intimidates you, but instead of backing away, you find yourself moving closer without even realizing it.

There’s something magnetic about him. It’s not just his beauty, it’s…his intensity.

You approach him confidently, a confidence partly fueled by the alcohol.

You greet him. He doesn’t answer. He just gives you a small smirk, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, as if he’s mocking you… or tempting you.

“James” he says after a moment, in a low voice.

His tone is rough, as if he’s not used to saying his name, because really, everyone already knows it. And you do too. He’s James Hetfield, from Metallica.

“Nice to meet you... are you having fun?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though you feel tense and dizzy inside.

“Mmmh yeah. As long as there’s alcohol, you know.”

At first, he only replies with monosyllables. He’s not like Jason. He doesn’t make you feel safe, he makes you feel off balance.

He asks sharp, uncomfortable questions, the kind no one else would dare to ask. But he intrigues you and you realize you want to get to know him better.

Time passes, and you find yourself in the parking lot, sitting on the hood of a car while he stares into your eyes.

He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, every word is deliberate, every sentence has a purpose, it feels like he’s digging inside you.

Even though he’s clearly drunk, his eyes are scarily lucid.

He talks about music, anger, death, dreams.

And slowly, you begin to see something behind the tough-guy mask: a young man burning inside, a wounded soul who uses music as his only escape.

There’s a connection. Raw and visceral.

As if you’re two magnets drawn to each other.

The music from the party is distant now, just a blurry background you no longer feel.

While he talks, you can’t stop looking at him, your bodies getting closer and closer, a thick tension builds between the two of you until, suddenly, he kisses you.

He does it with urgency, without grace, without thinking.

His mouth crashes into yours, your tongues instantly tangling.

He sucks on your tongue, bites your lips, then your neck.

He presses his hips into you, pushing your back down onto the hood, his large hands gripping your hips with force.

He presses against you gently but firmly, as if he wants you to feel every inch of his body on yours.

You’re practically lying down now, with him on top of you.

You feel his erection against your thigh, hard, insistent and your body responds without filters.

You’re wet. That kiss has driven you mad, opened you up as if he’d already fucked you.

Every rub of his body against yours makes you vibrate inside.

You move against him, seeking him with your hips, as if you could take him like that, through your jeans.

His hands roam over your body, gripping your skin, pulling you closer.

His mouth tastes of beer, and his skin of something you can’t quite identify, but it drives you wild.

And just as you’re about to lose all control, a male voice calls out from a distance.

“Het!” the voice shouts irritably. “That’s my car, dick!”

You both pull apart instantly. You, with swollen lips, ragged breath, trembling legs. James turns to the guy without flinching, raising his hands in mock surrender, but with that cocky smile you’ve come to know is part of him. “Relax, man, I warmed it up for you.”

The guy shakes his head, muttering something unintelligible as he approaches the hood.

James looks at you again, his gaze suddenly a bit more serious. He leans into your ear.

“You’re dangerous, Y/N.”

“You are the danger” you reply, breathless. He chuckles softly, almost embarrassed.

You both move away from the car and spend a little more time talking, sitting on the sidewalk.

You tease each other, trade jokes, and every time he touches you - a hand on your knee, a finger tucking a strand of hair behind your ear - your body tenses.

Your thighs clench instinctively, as if to contain the desire still pulsing inside you, alive, insistent.

Then, out of nowhere, one of his friends shows up, completely drunk, stumbling toward you with a dazed expression and a goofy smile.

James stands, grabs him by the shoulder, laughs in his face, and tries to hold him up.

Before he leaves, he turns to you and slips something into your hand: a backstage pass, crumpled and a little sweaty.

“Promise me you’ll come” he says, with a look you can’t quite decipher.

You nod without thinking, maybe a bit too quickly.

Then he disappears. Lost in the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the party.

You stay there, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, your heart pounding, your mind clouded by alcohol, desire, and that strange euphoria he left on your skin.

You look at the pass in your hand.

And for a moment, you wonder if any of it actually happened.

Two days pass before you manage to think clearly.

The kiss, James, and his intensity still buzz inside you like a song you can’t stop listening to. But at the same time, you realize it was an instant of passion driven by alcohol and the thrill of the moment, and you start to feel guilty.

Then, just as you’re trying to rationalize it all, your phone rings.

It’s Jason.

“Y/N! You have to hear this! I auditioned… and I got in! I’m the new bassist for Metallica!!!”

Your heart stops.

“What???”

“I know, it’s crazy! I didn’t tell you anything because I wanted to surprise you. They contacted me through a friend if mine. I went, played… and boom! They want me on stage already next weekend!!! Madness! You’re coming, right? It’s my first concert with them… I can’t not see you there.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I’m so happy for you.”

You say goodbye and with a sigh you lean your back against the wall.

You’re honestly happy for him, but inside you feel like a battlefield.

Jason. James. Metallica.

Neither knows about the other.

And now you’ll see both of them on the same stage.

One who looks at you with the sweet eyes of a boy in love.

The other who burns you with just a glance and gives you no certainty.

On the night of the concert, you’re in the crowd, squeezed against the barricades of the pit, practically front row.

Adrenaline is through the roof.

The crowd is wild, lights flashing, smoke filling the air.

Then you see them come on stage.

Jason looks for you almost immediately. He smiles at you. He’s visibly emotional and incredulous, like a kid living a dream.

His gaze is pure. Happy. Proud.

But your heart races when James appears.

Guitar slung over his shoulder, confident stride, sharp eyes under the red lights.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

But when he does, it’s like a punch to the stomach.

His gaze pierces you.

He recognizes you. He shows nothing on his face… but the corner of his mouth twists into a half-smile that seems to say: I know your eyes are only for me.

And maybe he’s right.

Because while Jason plays, you smile and get emotional but.. it’s James who leaves you breathless.

The concert ends in an explosion of lights and screams.

The crowd is delirious.

Jason jumps off the stage with the energy of someone who just touched the sky with a finger.

You’re there, still front row, hands sore from clapping, heart pounding, not just because of the music.

You slowly head toward the backstage, where the chaos is almost worse than in front of the stage.

Technicians rushing everywhere, cases and beers scattered around.

You make your way through the crowd, your pass swinging from your neck as you look for Jason, but it’s James you see first.

He’s sitting on a worn-out couch, a half-empty bottle in hand, sweaty and shirtless.

Around him, two girls laughing and getting too close, one sitting almost in his lap.

James smiles, but it’s a tired, dull smile, almost disinterested.

When he looks up, his eyes meet yours.

For a moment, he seems sober.

His eyes dig into you, but he doesn’t move.

No gesture. No words.

And in that moment, you understand.

He will never be yours. Not the way you want.

James is a fire, and you’re not made to burn forever.

You turn and walk away briskly, almost running.

And finally, you find him.

Jason is in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, still holding his bass, sweaty and euphoric.

When he sees you, he smiles with that expression he’s always had just for you.

“You were amazing!! Really incredible.” you say to him enthusiast.

"I had so much fun! The best night of my life!" He flashes a bright smile like someone who knows they just achieved their dream.

You talk for a few minutes about the concert, but then he notices something different on your face and his smile falters soon after.

“Y/N… are you okay?”

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat is too tight.

But you can’t lie to him.

“Jason… there’s something I have to tell you. It’s important.”

He stiffens slightly, as if his body already knows.

But he stays still.

“Tell me.”

“A few weeks ago… before you knew about the audition… I… I met James. We kissed. It happened… and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jason doesn’t speak right away.

He turns to the side, leaning against the wall.

A long silence separates you.

“..James? Why?” he finally asks, voice low and broken.

“I don’t know… the alcohol, the party, the thrill of the moment…” You feel terribly guilty but he deserves the truth.

He doesn’t speak, just stares at the floor, then takes a sip of beer.

“Fuck… tell me it was just a kiss.” He raises his gaze and for the first time you glimpse anger.

“Yes… just a kiss. But it was… wrong. And I only realized it now. I actually want you. Because I like the person I am when I’m with you.”

He looks at you. His lips tremble slightly.

He takes a step toward you.

“It’s not easy to hear… you hurt me. But I want to believe you, I'm fallig in love with you Y/N..”

Then, in a gesture that seems like relief, he hugs you. Tight.

As if afraid you might run away again. And you stay there, in his arms.

You kiss.

This time it’s different from before, no longer tender and sweet, you feel the desire and let yourself be overwhelmed.

You end up in his dressing room, a small room dimly lit by a corner lamp.

There’s still the smell of the stage, sweat, adrenaline.

At first, he’s a bit awkward.

He looks at you like he’s afraid of doing something wrong, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands.

“Are you sure?” he starts to say, but you stop him with a kiss. Sweet. Slow.

Your hands find each other, your mouths meet.

Every movement is an exploration.

No rush, no dominance. Only tenderness mixed with passion, and that silent desire to be close, to forget the rest of the world.

Jason’s fingers tremble a little as he pulls your shirt off, but then he looks at you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

You make love on the uncomfortable dressing room couch, bodies sweaty and tangled.

His forehead against yours, breaths seeking each other. It’s tender, but also burning.

You surrender to him as if you know, deep down, it’s the safest place you could ever be.

Your bodies intertwine in a deep, primal rhythm. His breath merges with yours as your movements grow more intense.

He holds you tight, as if wanting to imprint the memory of every touch, every moan onto you.

When it’s over, you stay there, lying down.

He strokes your hair silently. And in that moment, you feel grateful. For him. For forgiving you. For not making you feel guilty.

You want to tell him, but you remain silent.

Then, suddenly, a violent noise.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three sharp knocks on the door.

So loud you both startle.

And then that booming voice.

“Newsted. To the bus. NOW!”

You recognize it.

James.

His voice echoes in the small dressing room like a gunshot. Authoritative. Impatient.

It snaps you back to reality.

Jason gets up. He says nothing, but you see a flicker of tension in his eyes.

You get dressed slowly without speaking, but before leaving the dressing room Jason kisses your temple, like to reassure you and that gesture says more than a thousand words.

He grabs a beer, says goodbye, and gets on the bus waiting in the parking lot to take them to the hotel.

James passes you by, you stop him, wanting to be clear even with him, even if maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

"Hey James… the other night, I know maybe you don’t even remember, but we messed up… actually, I messed up. I’m seeing Jason and…”

“Y/N… no need to justify yourself, I get it.”

He doesn’t show any emotion, doesn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing if he’s disappointed or angry. He’s like an enigma, as he has been since you met him.

“He’s a good dude, you know? I like him.” His voice, slightly slurred from alcohol, sounds sincere, but his indifference irritates you, and the words come out of your mouth without thinking. "Is that it? That was your idea of interest? A drunken kiss and then off you go chasing someone new..." You wanted a reaction, and you got it.

He steps closer, his presence towering over you.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? You spend the whole night talking to me, opening up… You tease me, let me get a taste and then tell me you're already seeing someone else? Fuck you." The tone of his voice makes you tremble.

He grabs your arm tightly, his lips now just inches from your ear.

“I just hope he doesn’t know he’s only the convenient choice…because I know what you really want Y/N” He whispers through gritted teeth before throwing you one last devilish glance at you and then boarding the bus with the others.

And you stay there, stunned.

A shiver runs through you, and that shiver, that slash of instinct that struck you like lightning, makes you realize you’re not free from his spell yet.