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p0orbaby · 27 days ago

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Dancing in the Dark

summary: a tactics coach and a vice captain walk into a bar… have a not so secret relationship

warnings: mentions of sex but nothing graphic

a/n: i asked for requests and someone sent me this gem

word count: 3.1k

Leah texts you at exactly 12:02 a.m., a time she insists is “late enough to avoid suspicion but early enough that we’re not knackered in the morning.” The precision of it is very Leah—practical, calculated, with just the faintest whisper of rebellion. It’s always the same text—Room 308—as if she’s writing it for a stranger who might need the address for their sat nav. She never adds punctuation. You think that’s intentional, a way of keeping it casual, devoid of any intimacy that could be misconstrued.

You’ve stopped bothering to reply. It’s not that you don’t want to see her—want isn’t the word for what you feel when you see her name flash on your screen, but it’s close enough. It’s that typing on my way feels excessive when the answer’s already obvious. She knows you’ll come. You know she knows. And there’s something about that silent agreement that feels like the only part of this whole arrangement that makes sense.

The desk lamp casts a faint yellow glow across the room as you pack up. Your laptop goes into the bag first, followed by the notepad you’ve been using to scribble ideas for tomorrow’s strategy meeting. You pause to carefully align its corner with the edge of the desk—a habit you’ve had since you were a child, though you’re not sure if it’s a quirk of personality or a learned behaviour from years of Catholic school and its draconian rules about neatness.

Your hoodie is next, slung over the back of the chair like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. It’s an old one from university, the logo cracked and peeling, the sleeves stretched from too many washes. It smells faintly of your laundry detergent—a scent marketed as “ocean breeze,” though you’ve always thought it smells more like cheap fabric softener and an overactive imagination. Nothing about it suggests the ocean, or even a breeze. It’s more akin to the air freshener in a Southend-on-Sea rental cottage, the kind with faded floral curtains and a broken kettle. You wonder, briefly, if Leah would find this thought amusing. Probably. She has a way of laughing at things that don’t seem funny until she does.

The hotel corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional creak of overused floorboards. You walk quickly, your trainers barely making a sound on the patterned carpet—a gaudy, swirling design in shades of burgundy and gold that seems to scream corporate retreat. You keep your eyes trained forward, as if avoiding eye contact with the carpet will somehow render you invisible to anyone who might happen to step out of their room.

You’ve mapped out every staff member’s room, memorised the most efficient route, and calculated the probability of running into someone based on their known habits. Karen from PR always goes to bed early, probably still jet-lagged from the US tour. The physio, Jamie, is a night owl, but he’s more likely to be glued to Netflix than wandering the halls. Leah finds this level of detail ridiculous.

“You’re acting like MI5 is going to raid the place,” she’d said once, sprawled on her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a faint halo of gold catching the light as she turned her head to look at you. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know”

She’d been peeling off your shirt as she said it, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, her eyes glittering with amusement. You wanted to argue, to tell her that fun is precisely what you’re having, in the only way you know how to have it: meticulously planned, risk-assessed, and executed with the precision of a military operation. But then her hands had moved lower, and the argument had dissolved into something else entirely. Something much harder to put into words.

Room 308. You knock twice—firm, precise knocks that betray none of the absurd nervousness bubbling under the surface. The kind that makes your palms clammy and your chest feel like it’s trying to audition for a drum solo. The knocks are part of a ritual now, as familiar as tying your boots before a match or double-checking the pitch markings. Three sharp raps, never four, because three would seem impatient, and two would feel too casual, as though you’re dropping by to borrow sugar or ask for her Netflix password.

The door opens almost instantly, as if she’s been standing on the other side, waiting for you. Leah’s dressed in one of those oversized T-shirts she always wears off the pitch, the kind that blur the line between effortless and lazy. This one is black, or it might have been once, but it’s faded now, the fabric soft and worn thin at the seams. The logo across the chest is barely legible—AC__ME—as though it’s been through the wash one too many times. You can’t tell if it’s a nod to Arsenal, a subtle homage to Wile E. Coyote’s endless misfortunes, or one of those niche designer brands that only appear on people with a six-figure salary and a curated Instagram aesthetic. It’s probably the latter. Leah strikes you as the kind of person who’d know what Vetements is and pretend she doesn’t care about it while secretly owning three pieces.

“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. Her voice has this easy warmth to it, like she’s just woken up from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, the faint lilt of someone who’s just thought of something funny but isn’t planning to share it with the group. You’ve always liked that about her—how she can hold a joke in her mouth like a secret, like it’s something she doesn’t owe to anyone else.

“Hi,” you reply, because what else is there to say? Hello feels too formal, like you’ve shown up for a job interview, and anything else—anything softer, more intimate—feels dangerous. Like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff just to see how far you can lean before gravity kicks in.

Her room is a mirror image of yours, down to the garish burgundy carpet and beige curtains that don’t quite close properly. It’s a symphony of stereotypical hotel design, where the furniture all looks like it’s been bolted down as a precaution against theft. But there’s something different about hers, something distinctly Leah. It smells faintly of her perfume, a citrusy Chanel scent you’d once looked for in John Lewis out of curiosity. You’d sprayed it onto one of those paper tester strips, only to feel your lungs contract at the price tag. It smells like sunshine and sharp edges, and now it’s permanently tangled up in your memory of her.

The bed is unmade, the covers thrown haphazardly across the mattress like they’ve been caught mid-escape. One pillow teeters on the edge, a casualty of her apparent inability to sleep neatly. There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand, its label peeling from condensation. A pair of socks—crew-length, white with a small Nike tick—lie abandoned on the floor near the foot of the bed, one inside out. The room is messy in a way that surprises you. Leah, who is precise and meticulous on the pitch, leaves her personal space in a state of mild chaos. And for some reason, it makes you smile. It’s humanising, like finding out that superheroes still get toothpaste on their shirts.

You step inside, careful not to trip over her trainers—Adidas Sambas in a muted beige tone, scuffed at the edges but somehow still immaculate in their coolness. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound punctuating the silence like a full stop. You turn to face her, and she’s leaning against the dresser now, her hands resting in the pockets of her shorts. She’s watching you, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of open skies and lost afternoons.

“What?” you ask, because the weight of her gaze always makes you self-conscious, like you’ve walked into a room wearing mismatched socks.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth curving into a smirk. “You just look…” She pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air like an unfinished melody.

“What?” you repeat, a little sharper this time, though you’re smiling too.

“Like you’re trying not to smile,” she finishes, pushing off the dresser and moving closer.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying not to give away how much you like this—the quiet intimacy of it, the way she looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who knows what this feels like. Maybe you’re trying not to admit how much you want to reach out and touch her, to close the space between you with a single step. But you don’t. Not yet.

The sex is unhurried, languid. Leah moves with the same precision she does on the pitch, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, like she’s planning her next move three steps in advance. It’s the same deliberation you’ve seen in her during matches—the way she reads the game like it’s written in a language only she understands. But this isn’t a match. There are no spectators, no whistles, no rules, just her and you and the slow, deliberate way she’s undoing you, piece by piece.

Her kisses are deep, focused. They land with intent, the kind that makes you forget your own name, let alone the fragile, tenuous boundaries of this arrangement. Her mouth lingers on yours, then moves to your neck, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. She doesn’t bite, not yet, but you can feel her teeth graze your skin, an unspoken promise that leaves you gasping, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of the hotel sheets.

Her fingertips press into your skin—not hard enough to hurt but just firm enough to leave the ghost of her touch behind, as though she’s marking her territory. They trace the length of your back, down your spine, to your hips. Her thumbs skim over the waistband of your joggers before she tugs them down with a kind of casual confidence that feels maddeningly unfair. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.

“You’re so quiet,” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. She presses a kiss to your collarbone, her hands slipping beneath your shirt to push it up, her palms warm against your ribs. “That’s not like you”

“I’m—” You try to respond, but her mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, and the words catch in your throat.

“Exactly,” she says, her voice smug as she moves lower, her lips trailing down your chest, your stomach, her pace agonisingly slow. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips instinctively, barely registering the soft laugh she lets out, the sound dark and smooth like melted chocolate.

There’s no rush. Leah’s always like this—methodical, unhurried. She knows how to take her time, how to keep you teetering on the edge until your body feels like it’s no longer your own. She kisses her way back up, pausing to nip at your jaw, your shoulder, the place where your pulse beats just beneath your skin. Her hand slips between your thighs, her touch deliberate, controlled. And you’re gone.

It’s like a tidal wave, slow to build but devastating when it crashes over you. You’re not sure when you start begging—if it even counts as begging, the broken sounds spilling from your lips without your consent—but Leah doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems pleased, her smirk pressing against the hollow of your throat as she mutters something you’re too far gone to catch.

At some point, she presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She murmurs something—low, unintelligible, a slurred mix of swear words and your name. Or maybe it’s not your name. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s both. You don’t ask her to repeat it. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe, your hands clutching at her back, pulling her closer like you can merge into her, like you can stop time if you just hold on tightly enough.

By the time you collapse onto the mattress, tangled in the hotel’s suspiciously rough sheets, you’re vaguely aware of how loud you’ve been. The walls are thin. The kind of thing where you can hear your neighbour’s TV murmuring away or the occasional flush of a toilet. It’s almost comedic, really, the way you’d tried so hard to avoid being seen earlier, only to make it painfully obvious now. You half expect a knock on the door, some irate teammate demanding silence.

Leah doesn’t seem to care. Of course she doesn’t. She lies beside you, her face flushed, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she’d barely tried to secure. She’s smirking, the way she always does after these nights, like she’s just scored the winning goal and nobody else on the team noticed. Her arm brushes against yours as she stretches out, her skin warm and damp, her breathing slow and even.

The next morning, you arrive at breakfast twenty minutes late, a record even for you. You’ve spent the better part of that time in front of the mirror, tilting your head at impossible angles to assess the carnage Leah left on your neck. Hickeys, in various stages of bruise-like blossoming, dot your skin like a battlefield casualty report. You try concealer—two layers, then three—but it only makes you look like you’ve dipped your neck in cake batter. After an extensive wardrobe evaluation, you settle on a jumper with a collar just high enough to obscure the worst of it, but not so high that it screams I’ve made several poor life choices and am now concealing the evidence.

You enter the dining area cautiously, your eyes scanning for witnesses like you’re in the opening sequence of Casino Royale. The room is loud with the sound of clinking cutlery, chairs scraping against linoleum, and conversations overlapping in a way that is both chaotic and oddly comforting. You spot Katie McCabe first, standing by the buffet with a bowl of cereal that is more milk than anything resembling a solid. Her spoon hovers mid-air as she glances at you, then swivels her head in Leah’s direction, who is seated at a corner table, scrolling through her phone like she has never made a suspicious noise in her life.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and her mouth stretches into a grin so wicked it should be trademarked. She sets her cereal down and makes a beeline for you, walking with the kind of determination that belongs exclusively to people with too much time on their hands and absolutely no regard for personal boundaries.

“Well, well,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to your neck, then back up to your face. “Someone had a busy night.”

You freeze. Instinctively, your hand twitches toward the collar of your jumper, but you stop yourself. Guilty behaviour. Act normal. Be cool. You shrug in what you hope is a convincing display of nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Katie tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward your neck. “What’s that, then? Tactical bruising? Working on a new game plan?”

“I slipped in the shower,” you deadpan. It’s a lie so bad it physically hurts to say, but the alternative is giving Katie McCabe ammunition, and you’d rather die than give her the satisfaction.

She snorts. “Jesus, you’ve got to at least try with these excuses”

You glare at her, but it’s useless. Katie is like a shark in open water—she can smell blood, and she’s circling. She follows you to the table, sliding into the chair next to yours without so much as an invitation. Her cereal sloshes precariously in her bowl, milk dripping onto the edge of the table. She doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

Leah, of course, is completely unbothered. She’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone like she’s reading the football section of The Guardian and not actively trying to avoid eye contact with you. Her hair is still slightly damp from her morning shower, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like yours. Katie clocks the hoodie immediately and raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Not yet.

“Just to clarify,” Katie says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next table, “are we calling this a team-building exercise or…?”

Leah doesn’t even flinch. Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Mind your business, McCabe”

Katie lets out a delighted laugh, stealing a slice of toast from your plate like she’s earned it. “Oh, it is my business,” she says, buttering the toast with an enthusiasm that borders on offensive. “You lot kept me up all night. Thought someone was being murdered in the next room. Turns out it was just—”

“Katie,” you interrupt, your voice sharp enough to cut through her sentence. Your face is burning, your ears hot enough to fry an egg on.

Katie leans back in her chair, utterly unrepentant. “Relax,” she says, taking a bite of the toast she stole. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now”

She winks at you, a gesture so insufferable you consider lobbing a teaspoon at her head. Instead, you glance at Leah, whose lips are twitching at the edges, betraying the smirk she’s desperately trying to suppress.

You shoot her a glare that you hope translates to I will kill you later, but she only raises an eyebrow, as if to say go ahead, make my day.

Katie’s still watching you, her grin as infuriating as ever. “You’re lucky it was me who heard you,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Imagine if it had been Beth. She’d have the whole squad doing impressions by now”

Leah finally looks up from her phone, her expression cool, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. “You done?”

Katie holds up her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, try keeping it down. Or don’t. Makes for great entertainment”

You slump in your chair, burying your face in your hands. You can feel Leah’s gaze on you, and when you finally peek through your fingers, she’s smiling. Not smirking, not teasing, but actually smiling, like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks.

You make a mental note to kill her later. Or maybe kiss her. You haven’t decided yet.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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cheekydimplesblog · 2 years ago

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My Thoughts: MARTINI® Floral Alcohol-Free and MARTINI® Vibrant Alcohol-Free Review

MARTINI® Floral Alcohol-Free and MARTINI® Vibrant Alcohol-Free are two new additions to the MARTINI® family that offer a unique twist on traditional mixers. These alcohol-free options are perfect for those who want to enjoy a cocktail without the buzz, or for designated drivers and pregnant women. First up, MARTINI® Floral Alcohol-Free. This mixer is made with a blend of floral and fruity…

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tiddygame · 3 months ago

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Simon started his sleeve well before he became Ghost.

It started when Joseph was about 3 1/2 and Simon got a nasty scar on his arm that made the poor kid upset every time he saw it. Joseph knew that it didn’t still hurt, but for him it was a reminder that is uncle was always in danger. It scared the kid to think about what caused it, even though Simon assured him that he was okay.

So after a brief discussion with Beth and Tommy, he figured he’d get a tattoo to cover it up. A sleeve would be expensive, but if it meant Joseph didn’t cry every time he saw the scar on his uncle's arm, it would be worth it.

It took some looking around for an artist that was willing to tattoo scar tissue and one that he trusted, but it wasn’t long before he was scheduling a consult.

Then he realized he had no fucking idea what he wanted to get tattooed.

He felt like getting a flaming skull or half naked lady permanently etched into his skin would defeat the purpose and he most certainly was not going to get something in a language he didn’t speak.

His mom jokingly suggested that he could get a floral sleeve and cover his arm in flowers.

And, well, it was close enough to a dare that he couldn’t turn it down so a few weeks later, he’s got his appointment set up to turn his arm into a garden.

He has quite a few types of flowers in there (some that his mom loves, some that Beth and Tommy had at their wedding, etc. etc.) with vines and leaves to fill in the gaps

The appointments are quite far apart with his deployment, Simon didn’t want to deal with a healing tattoo in the field. They started at the scar, covering it up and then expanding from there.

Joseph loves the flowers.

He was always so excited when Simon let him fill them in like his arm was a coloring book, even if he still struggled to stay in the lines.

He used to cry every time Simon left and it would break his heart, but now Joseph demanded that his uncle return as fast as he could so he could go back to coloring his arm and talking about sharks.

Joseph loved the flowers.

It took a while for him to go back.

There was no reason to, not anymore. He had more scars, but there wasn’t anyone he had to hide them from.

The tattoo was left unfinished for a long time, only part of his forearm was done.

Ghost didn’t care. He wore long sleeves even in weather warm enough to cause heatstroke; he couldn’t look at it.

When he did, he didn’t see an unfinished tattoo, he saw his nephew. Saw him looking up at his uncle with big brown eyes, begging Simon to carry him. Saw him sleeping under the Christmas tree.

Eventually he returned. He requested a slight change to the design and showed the artist a photo of four headstones and the bouquets that accompanied them

(There was a fifth, partially out of frame and cut off, vase empty)

The artist nodded and got to work.

In the new sketch, a few new flowers were added, but the first thing Ghost noticed were the four little garter snakes that had been weaved through the petals.

Ghost nodded and that was that.

Every now and then a rookie would see it and start to laugh, but when they remembered the reputation of the man they were laughing at, it was quickly cut off with hasty (and futile) apologies. (They were still going to end up running laps until they vomited up their lungs.)

It was rare that he was exposed enough for people to see the tattoo and from a distance, it just looked like a simple sleeve. It wasn’t long before his little garden became a lesser known rumor that followed him around and joined the other whispers.

Ghost didn’t care. He didn’t get the tattoo for himself or any prying eyes. From the moment he booked the consultation to leaving the parlor with his sleeve complete, it was all for Joseph.

The rookies could spread whatever rumors they want, his nephew would have loved it and that’s all he wanted.

The first time Soap got a proper look, he just stared at it for a while before going off on a story about when he was little and picked up a snake thinking it was a stick.

From anyone else, it would have felt like that were trying to change the subject so they didn’t have to acknowledge that The Ghost had such a “feminine” tattoo.

From Soap, it was comforting in an odd way. It was obvious that Soap wanted a better look at it, but he never pushed Ghost. Just like the mask, Soap was patient.

Later down the line, it would morph into quiet nights with Johnny tracing the lines and trying to identify each type of flower. He’d look to Simon for any clues but would complain that Simon always looked too love-struck for his facial expression to give any hints on if he was getting close.

Simon didn’t deny these claims but still refused to offer any help.

And even longer after that, Johnny would shakily color in the petals as he tries to regain his fine motor skills.

The markers would often slip out his hands and the shakiness meant he couldn’t stay within the lines, but the fact that he was there at a all, debating which pink to use on the peonies and getting frustrated with himself when he couldn’t get the cap back on, was enough of a miracle that Simon could barely keep himself together as his sleeve regained its color for the first time in years.

When Johnny was done, Simon hugged him with one arm, holding the tatted one up and away so that the new ink wouldn’t smudge.

Eventually, Simon would tell the story of why he got the tattoo, even if Johnny already had a pretty good guess based on the wistful look Simon had when talking about it. He would tell him which ones his mom loved, which ones had been at Beth and Tommy’s wedding, and which ones were just the artist adding some to make it more cohesive.

But for now, they would hold onto each other tightly, neither of them willing to separate. Maybe for some, crying over a box of sharpies wasn’t a happy ending, but Simon didn’t care. He had Johnny in his arms and that was all he could ask for.

#another cousin to the hawaiian shirt post #just so you know there was an evil ending to this that involved another snake being added but i cant take unresolved angst so you’re welcom #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #sorry got hit by another wave of grief today #you know how it be

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biplusco · 2 months ago

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Jingora Part 1: Moonlit Pavilion

Welcome to the Moonlit Pavilion - the first set in our Jingora Collection! This bedroom set is our little tribute to the calm elegance of classic Chinese design, mixed with a cozy, inviting feel. We wanted this set to capture that quiet beauty of a pavilion bathed in moonlight, and we hope it brings that same peaceful vibe into your home.

Psst... Jingora is a little blend of meanings! It comes from the word “jing” (静), which means stillness or tranquility, combined with “aura.” Together, it suggests this peaceful, calming presence—a kind of serene beauty that fills the room quietly and effortlessly.

All item is Base Game Compatible (BGC)

Canopy Bed | 15 Swatch This striking four-poster canopy bed features clean lines and geometric accents on the headboard, drawing from traditional Chinese patterns. Light, sheer drapes flow gracefully from the frame, giving the bed a soft, ethereal look, as if bathed in moonlight.

Ornate Side Table | 15 swatch A delicate floral motif is inlaid on the tabletop, adding a touch of artistry to its sturdy frame. With gracefully curved legs, this table blends functionality and beauty, serving as an elegant companion to the canopy bed.

Moonlit Dresser | 15 swatch The dresser exudes classic charm with traditional handles and ample drawer space, maintaining the wood’s natural grain for an organic touch.

Get the set now on PATREON (Public Release 23/11)

Our Social: Tumblr | Twitter | Instagram | CurseForge

@maxismatchccworlds @maxismatchccworld @sssvitlans @coffee-cc-finds @coffee-houses-finds @lanaccfind @sssvitlanz @oshinsimfinds

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artifacts-archive · 9 months ago

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Dagger with Scabbard

Indian, Mughal 1605–27

The hilt of the dagger is constructed of heavy sections of gold over an iron core and its scabbard mounts are of solid gold. All the intricately engraved surfaces are set with gems and colored glass finely cut with floral forms. The designs closely parallel those in Mughal painting of the early seventeenth century, suggesting the dagger dates from the reign of Emperor Jahangir (1605–27), whose deep love of nature, especially flowers, is well documented in his memoirs, the "Tuzuk." The blade is forged of watered steel.

#artifact #India #Mughal #dagger #weaponry #steel #iron #gold #ruby #emerald #glass #wood #textile

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fashionsfromhistory · 9 months ago

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Evening Boots

1885-1890

Probably French

While the slipper and the strapped shoe were the most common choice for evening wear in the last third of the 19th century, boots did occasionally continue to appear. As with shoes, the basic evening boot was satin, either plain or featuring an embroidered vamp, usually in floral or foliate designs. Surviving examples of evening boots of the late 19th and early 20th centuries suggest, however, that those daring to wear something already outside of the ordinary often opted as well for unconventionally bold and unusual materials and trimmings. This pair of boots typifies that phenomenon: anachronistic side-lacing, novel and atypically exuberant fret and scroll motifs, and embroidery covering the entire boot, including the heel.

The MET (Accession Number: 2009.300.1477a–d)

#evening boots #fashion history #historical fashion #1880s #1890s #belle epoque #bustle era #turn of the century #france #off white #embroidery #accessories #shoes #the met

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mechanical-drawing · 6 months ago

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08 July 1876

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illyrianbitch · 7 months ago

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Memories

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: While packing some boxes, Azriel is overwhelmed by memories of your relationship.

Warnings: slight angst if you squint, established relationship, fluff fluff fluff :)

Word Count: 2.1k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The apartment was a mess of half-packed boxes and disheveled belongings.

The scent of change hung in the air, thick and heavy— and Azriel was choking on it. He stood in the middle of the chaos, a forlorn expression etched onto his usually composed face. The bedroom was empty now, save for a few scattered objects and packed cardboard boxes, ready to be taped and taken away.

Azriel wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He had expected a certain amount of sadness with the move, a certain feeling of leaving something that had once meant the world to him. Even still, he was struggling with the swelling in his heart. He felt his wings behind him now, heavy and tense, as he looked around the room, gaze landing on his various packed boxes.

He could hear chatter downstairs, could hear Cassian’s laughter and Mor’s grumbling. Azriel’s shadows were downstairs now, too, as they had stayed for the past two weeks of moving out. There was one lone shadow that bounced between the floors, updating Az on every movement and conversation— Cassian had accidentally taped Mor’s hair while attempting to fix up the final living room boxes. Mor had accidentally hit Cassian in the face as a response.

Azriel let out a deep breath, walking towards one of the many opened boxes. His golden-brown eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he gingerly lifted a delicate porcelain teacup. His fingers traced the intricate floral design and a memory washed over him.

It was a rainy afternoon, the kind where the world outside seemed to blur into a grey mist. Azriel had come to visit, carrying various items that Feyre wanted to drop off but couldn't herself due to her growing belly. It had begun to pour while he was there— in the small apartment he now stood in. You had insisted he stayed, insisted that the weather was too awful for him to make it home. He didn’t have the heart to tell you he’d traveled in worse conditions. And in all honesty, he had found himself unable to leave, anyway.

You’d invited him into your kitchen, brewed some tea and sat across from him, the table complete with mismatched cups and saucers. Azriel had his wings folded neatly behind him as he sipped the floral tea you brewed, nervous about how large he appeared to you, worried about knocking any one of your small decorations over. The sound of your laughter, bright and unrestrained, had filled the room as you both fell into a natural conversation. He realized that afternoon, in the gloomy grey weather, the awful things he’d do to see you smile again.

And was then he was met with the comforting realization that he didn’t need to do those awful things at all— because you’d asked to see him again once the downpour stopped.

A sad smile tugged at Azriel’s lips as he carefully wrapped the teacup in tissue paper. Setting it aside, he reached for a worn, leather-bound journal, its pages filled with scribbled, heavy-handed notes. The sight of it tugged at his heart, another memory pulling him under.

You had given him the journal during one of the quieter nights at the townhouse, your fingers brushing his as you handed it over. “For your thoughts,” you had whispered, your eyes sparkling with encouragement.

Azriel had never been a journal lover before, had never been one to write down his feelings, his thoughts, or observations. His job was to observe, yes, but he never thought about it farther than that, had never thought about what he could do with those things he realized, where he could put the multitudes of thoughts that often clouded his mind.

You had been the first one to ever suggest it— suggest it in a way that was sincere and genuine. You told him that it would be worth it, and when he had made a comment about no one wanting to read what he had to say, you had simply said, “I do. I always want to know what you’re thinking. But that doesn’t matter. No one but you matters.”

So Azriel had taken to it immediately, filling its pages with thoughts, concerns, and observations of various moments— he grew to adore it over time. It helped him with his impulsivity, with his anger, with his loneliness. Even his shadows had grown to love the hobby, had learned to sleep as he wrote away, had learned to delicately ghost the words on the pages as Azriel scratched away his thoughts.

Azriel’s heart clenched as he placed the journal down and a wave of emotion ran through him like a heavy tide. Tears pricked at his eyes and he swallowed, moving on to the next item—a small, crystal vial filled with shimmering stardust.

It was the first Starfall since he’d fallen for you, and the night sky had been alive with dancing glittering souls. You managed to catch a handful of stardust, bottling it as a keepsake of the perfect evening. Azriel still remembered how beautiful you looked, how nervous he had been to talk to you that he ended up making some joke about you bottling up a dead spirit for eternity. You only laughed, a sound that he wished he could’ve bottled up in a vial, saved for later like you had done with that stardust. You stared at the glass vial, admired the shimmering glow for a few moments as Azriel had admired you. Then you had given it to him with a whisper: "For you. Even in the darkest times, there's always light."

He didn’t know how to tell you the gift wasn’t needed, didn’t know how to tell you that you were enough light for him. He’d taken it with shaky fingers— which he prayed to The Mother you hadn’t noticed— and kept the vial in his leathers on every rough mission. It became his talisman, a beacon of hope and love. A connection to you.

A lump grew in the back of Azriel’s throat.

“I got the tape!”

Your voice echoed throughout the hall as you rounded the corner, a delicate smile on your face.

The smile quickly fell at the sight of your mate and you stilled, his shadows swirling around you before descending to the ground, quickly dancing over to his form. The room smelled of a bittersweet sadness, of something longing, heavy, and sad.

"Az, what's going on?” You asked softly, placing the tape on top of the open box before him. “Why are you crying?"

Azriel blinked rapidly, shaking his head softly before turning to look down at you. "I'm not crying," he said. He offered you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes— the same eyes that seemed deep in thought, seemed contemplative and conflicted.

“Azriel.” You gave him a knowing look and gently placed your hands on his face, wiping away a stray tear with your thumb. "What's wrong?"

He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. And then he took your hands in his, bringing them to his lips to kiss your knuckles. His lips were soft against your skin, his kiss feather-light and almost sacred. A warmth inside you blossomed at the softness of his touch, and you let out an appreciative, loving hum.

Azriel brushed the pad of his thumb along your fingers. His gaze fell to your left hand, to the golden ring that adorned your ring finger. A smile grew on his face. He traced it with his thumb, running over the cool metal, inspecting the intricate patterns he had the jeweler carve into the ring— something special just for you. Something as unique as the unbreakable bond you shared.

"It's just strange," Azriel said quietly. He lowered your hands. "I never thought I'd be here. I never imagined ending up so happy.”

You tilted your head at him, feeling your lips fall into a small pout. Azriel only looked at you with a sense of adoration painted through his features. He let out a small breath before he continued, taking a moment to scan the empty room once more. “I'm sad to leave this apartment because it has so many memories.”

"Oh Az," you said softly, your voice almost a comforting coo. "I'm sad too. We made some great memories here."

Azriel nodded, his gaze growing distant as he recalled the life he had built here, the life he had fought for with you. He thought of the many times he’d walked you home, when this apartment had just been yours— slightly too big for just one person, slightly too empty that even you felt like it was missing something. He thought about the first time he spent the night, how his shadows fell into place, how they strangely adored the corners of your home, the wood-paneled hallways and plaster banisters. He thought about the day he moved in, how he woke up in the middle of the night afraid that it had all been a dream, only to be lulled back to sleep by your soft whispers, gentle touch, and a whole lot of sweet, sleepy sex.

He let out a small, content laugh. "We did."

You tugged on his hand, pulling his focus back to you. When his eyes met yours, his gaze softened, and you felt a glow in your chest. You gave that divine thread between you a small tug, felt it sing deep within your ribs. A rush of life flowed through you, something bright and hopeful. The air around you changed, less bittersweet now, less heavy. You smiled gently.

"Now we'll make even more memories in a place that’s big enough for all of us."

It was then that you pulled his hand towards you, taking his large palm and placing it on your stomach. His fingers splayed over the growing bump you now adorned. From underneath your hold, you felt a release of tension in Azriel’s hands.

Tendrils of shadow hovered over his touch, gently dancing across your stomach as Azriel admired the sight before him. His voice was tender as he whispered, "How did I ever get so lucky?”

He blinked, tears welling up in his eyes again. He flickered his gaze back to your face, meeting your eyes instantly. They mirrored his own, welled up with tears that brimmed on your waterlines. You laughed softly.

The sound rippled through Azriel’s body and he felt himself melt even further into you. Even his shadows simply sat atop your belly now, almost unmoving, as if they too were admiring you— admiring all that you were. They had taken a specific liking to you since you’d gotten pregnant, never leaving your side unless it was absolutely necessary— Azriel was grateful for it, grateful that there was always one lone tendril that would keep him company, too, that would update him on you whenever he wasn’t in the room.

“You know, I'm the pregnant one with all these hormones, not you," you teased.

Azriel chuckled, eyes shining with love. The muscles of his cheeks ached with the deepness of his smile. "Forgive me if I get a bit emotional thinking about the love of my life and our future child."

You felt your knees almost buckle, felt something flutter in your stomach at his words. The love of his life and his future child. You and your future child.

"My sweet, sappy mate."

He laughed again, the sound rich and full of life. He pulled you into a gentle embrace. "I love you," he said, his voice now carrying a sincerity that made you breathless, a tone that spoke of a vow and a promise. His eyes scanned your face, taking in every feature.

Oh how you hoped your child got his eyes, got the beautiful hazel they contained, the flicker of brown, dots of green. You hoped your child got his laugh too, the deep rumble that made you feel love in every way possible. You blinked away a few growing tears.

"And I love you," you replied, your heart swelling with joy. You stepped back, giving him a gentle nudge. "Okay, now get to packing because my feet hurt and I'm really craving some ice cream."

Azriel grinned, shaking his head as he watched you walk away. His shadows trailed after you, except for one that lingered behind, wrapping around his hand as he reached for the packing tape.

He looked down at the shadow, a smile tugging at his lips as its gentle, calm movement. "Alright,” he murmured, “Let's finish this up and get our girl some ice cream.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: @rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen

azriel tag list: @thisiskaylin @serrendiipty

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literaryvein-reblogs · 23 days ago

Text

Word List: Rose

beautiful words with "rose" to try to include in your poem/story

Agarose - a polysaccharide obtained from agar and used especially as a supporting medium in gel electrophoresis

Gyrose - marked with wavy lines; undulate

Morose - having a sullen and gloomy disposition

Primrose - any of a genus (Primula) of perennial herbs with large tufted basal leaves and showy variously colored flowers

Roseal - (archaic): resembling or suggesting a rose

Roseate - resembling a rose especially in color; overly optimistic; viewed favorably

Rosebay - rhododendron; fireweed

Rosebush - a shrub that produces roses

Rosedust - a grayish red to reddish brown

Rosefish - redfish (i.e., any of various reddish fishes)

Rosemaling - painted or sometimes carved decoration (as on furniture, walls, or wooden dinnerware) in Scandinavian peasant style that consists especially of floral designs and inscriptions

Rosemary - a fragrant shrubby Mediterranean mint (Salvia rosmarinus synonym Rosmarinus officinalis) having grayish-green needlelike leaves used as a seasoning

Roseola - a rose-colored eruption in spots or a disease marked by such an eruption

Roseroot - a perennial fleshy herb (Sedum rosea) whose roots have the odor of roses; also called rosewort

Roset - resin

Rosetan - pearl blush (i.e., a brownish pink to light grayish brown)

Rosette - a disk of foliage or a floral design usually in relief used as a decorative motif

Rosewater - affectedly nice or delicate; a watery solution of the odoriferous constituents of the rose used as a perfume or a flavoring

Rosewood - any of various tropical trees (especially genus Dalbergia) yielding valuable cabinet woods of a usually dark red or purplish color streaked and variegated with black

Siderose - full of or like iron

If any of these words inspire your writing, do tag me or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

More: Word Lists ⚜ Roses ⚜ Bloom ⚜ Blossom ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

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lyrenminth · 5 days ago

Text

Wedding dress

Fluff.

******

The melodic whispers and tinkling laughter of your daughters, Rosie, seven, and Julie, five, drifted down the stairs, while you made dinner. Their older brother, ten-year-old Liam, was away at summer camp, while Joe was training for his upcoming season.

Suddenly, their laughter grew closer, tinged with a nervous excitement that piqued your curiosity. "What are you two up to?" you inquired, a playful sternness in your voice.

"Nothing!" Rosie exclaimed, her eyes wide with a mischievous glint. "We saw a video about wedding dresses and we want to see yours!"

"My wedding dress?" you mused, a faint smile in your lips. "It must be tucked away in storage somewhere"

"You can wear it again!" Julie piped up, her voice filled with childlike wonder. "Like a princess!" She curtsied with a flourish, her tiny hands clasped in front of her.

"Oh, darling," you chuckled, "I don't think I'd quite fit into it anymore" You gently corrected her, "But I can certainly show it to you."

"Yes! Yes!" they chanted, their voices filled with excitement as they bounced on the balls of their feet.

With dinner simmering gently on the stove, you ascended the stairs, the girls trailing close behind like eager puppies. Their tiny hands helped you rummage through the overflowing attic closet, their excitement mounting with each discarded box. Finally, they stumbled upon it – a pristine white box, nestled amongst forgotten treasures.

"We found it! We found it!" they shrieked in unison, their voices echoing through the dusty attic.

You carefully carried the weighty box down to your bedroom and placed it delicately on the bed. "Open it, Mommy! Open it!" Julie urged, her impatience barely concealed.

"Let's open it together," you suggested, inviting their eager participation.

As they lifted the lid, a wave of nostalgia washed over you. You remembered the day you wore that dress, the intoxicating blend of excitement and nervousness, the feeling of walking on air. You remembered the way the sunlight had danced on the delicate lace, the way Joe's eyes had widened in awe when he saw you for the first time. You even remembered the faint blush of wine staining the pristine white silk after you tried to drink and dance at the same time.

"It has lace and flowers!" Rosie gasped, her tiny fingers tracing the delicate embroidery. Julie, ever the impulsive one, couldn't resist and pulled the dress out of the box. "Ooh, it's so heavy!" she exclaimed, struggling to hold the weight of the designer gown.

You gently untangled the fabric, revealing the mermaid silhouette and the voluminous skirt that could be detached for easier movement. A sigh escaped your lips as you admired the intricate floral details that adorned the corset, delicate and understated. This dress, you realized, had once made you feel like a goddess, ethereal and enchanting.

Joe's face, filled with a mixture of awe and tenderness, flashed through your mind. He had looked at you that day as if you were the only woman in the world. His grin lived free on your mind, his possesive hands around your waist.

"Mommy, you need to wear it again!" the girls declared in unison.

You hesitated, a playful doubt creeping into your voice. "Do you really think so?"

"Yes! Yes!" they insisted, their eyes sparkling with anticipation.

With a resigned shrug, you conceded. "Alright then, let's see what we can do."

The girls transformed into whirlwind fairies, assisting you in the delicate task of slipping into the dress. Rosie, a budding makeup artist, meticulously applied a touch of blush to your cheeks while Julie, the consummate stylist, brushed your hair with gentle strokes.

You settled into a chair, basking in the playful chaos of their ministrations, when Joe's voice broke through the feminine chatter. "What in the world is going on here?" he inquired, a curious smile playing on his lips.

"Daddy! We're playing princess with Mommy!" Julie announced, her big blue eyes sparkling with excitement. "Does she look pretty?"

"She does, always," Joe replied, his gaze lingering on your figure with an intensity that made your heart flutter.

"Did you see? It's her wedding dress!" Rosie exclaimed, her voice filled with a sense of wonder.

A blush crept up your neck, betraying your embarrassment. Ten years of marriage, and he still had the power to make you feel like a blushing schoolgirl.

He stepped into the room, his eyes tracing the lines of your figure. The dress, once so loose, now clung to your curves, the lace at the back straining against your skin. You felt a pang of self-consciousness, a stark reminder of the passage of time. "Turn around for me, babe" he called. You sent him a warning glare and he just laughed. You turned around to show him the back. "So pretty, momma" Julie exclaimed, her little fists tucked under her chin, clueless about the hungry stare in her father eyes. Joe´s hands were instantly on your ass.

"Damn" he whispered on your ear. "Do you want to recreate our honeymoon?" You got goosebumps, and grabbed his shoulders to reach his level. "Do you?"

"Kiss the bride!" Rosie yelled, excited.

"Yes, kiss her" Juli demaded "Kiss, kiss, kiss" they chanted.

Joe grabbed you by the waist and leaned in to kiss you. It was short, but feeling his lips on yours always brought you joy.

The girls jumped on his dad and Joe caught them before it was to late.

You were glad they could have these memories. It was important to show them what love could look like.

#joe burrow #nfl #joe burrow x reader #fanfiction #joe burrow fan fic

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motherismotheringggg · 11 days ago

Note

Hi, I really do love your stories and all that you give, I hope you have a fabulous day or evening. But I did have a request where you had Nicholas and maybe Cooper(or the readers' friend male or female) trying to fight for your love idk or something, and it turns into this mess where you all end having a three-way with each other and the reader can't up their mind and just wants both of them. Also, it would be cool if the setting was a 90s luxury vibe. But again, do have a good day, evening or night.✨️

crystal decadence 💎

summary: this lovely anon request; reader is the daughter of a wealthy family in beverly hills and her family is throwing a dinner party. when her mom invites the two guys she’s been seeing to the party, it open the reader’s mind to a world where she can have it all

type: post grad rich female reader x post grad rich nicholas x post grad rich cooper; set in the 90s in beverly hills

warnings/tags: masturbation (f!), face sitting (f! on m!), there’s more world building than anything

author’s note: IM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO DO THIS 😭 little fact about me, i love a period piece!! anything from the 60s - 90s i just ADORE so this was so much fun to write. admittedly there’s more world building than smut but I'll probably do a part 2 and 3 to have individual smuts with both of them - anywho, hope you enjoy!!

word count: ~9783

taglist: @blackynsupremacy ,@emluvsuxo , @hoffmansgirl , @godzillawillsaveus , @purple-1995 , @ilovecheetahchrome , @nicholaslut

💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎💎

The Beverly Hills sun poured in through the boutique’s tall windows, hitting the glossy tile floors with a golden glow that felt almost tangible. The air smelled of fresh leather, high-end perfume, and a faint hint of gardenia from the floral arrangements that flanked the entrance. Rows of designer dresses shimmered like liquid gems, the silk, satin, and sequins catching the light with every slight sway. Each display felt more like a gallery exhibit than a store, each piece deserving of admiration and awe.

You sat in the swivel barrel chair behind your best friend, Dionne, as she twirled in front of an oversized gilded mirror, her chocolate brown curls bouncing in sync with her movements. The mirror’s ornate frame, covered in gold leaf, practically glowed under the natural light. Dionne’s face was scrunched in disapproval as she examined herself from every angle.

“I like this one, but it does nothing for my figure,” she pouted, tilting her head. Her delicate fingers brushed over the fabric of a soft blush-colored wrap dress that, while gorgeous, wasn’t quite up to her standards.

She turned to you for commentary, something that either agreed with her sentiments or changed her mind, but her face was more pouty than hopeful, there was no changing her mind.

“I think you’ll look great no matter what but we can always go see what they have at Guess,” you suggested, giving her a hopeful look with a reassuring smile.

“They just got a new shipment, and you’d look good in literally everything they make.”

Minutes later, the two of you strolled down the sunlit promenade, every step a subtle strut. The sidewalk’s terrazzo design gleamed under your designer heels, and the rhythmic clack of Dionne’s shiny loafers echoed like a soundtrack to your own personal runway show. The air buzzed with the soft hum of luxury cars idling at the curb, their drivers patiently waiting for their impeccably dressed clients to emerge with shopping bags in hand.

The Guess storefront came into view, its iconic black-and-white logo framed by lush green hedges. The moment you stepped inside, the air conditioning hit you with a refreshing burst, carrying the scent of new denim and crisp linen. A sales associate—all sharp cheekbones and impeccable tailoring—approached with a silver tray of champagne flutes.

“Welcome in, ladies,” he said, his smile as polished as his cufflinks. “Champagne?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Dionne grinned, plucking a glass from the tray with a practiced elegance that could’ve put an heiress to shame. You followed suit, taking a delicate sip. The bubbles fizzed on your tongue, cool and crisp, just indulgent enough to remind you that you were exactly where you belonged.

Dionne darted off toward the dresses, her eyes sharp and focused like a predator stalking prey. You’d seen her shop a million times before, but every outing was its own spectacle—the slow, intentional grazing of fingertips across fabrics, the sharp “no” she’d mutter to anything less than perfect. You were mid-sip when your phone buzzed in your Fendi baguette bag. With a sigh, you fished it out, glancing at the screen.

Mom flashed across the display.

“Hey, Mom,” you said, balancing the champagne flute in one hand while holding the phone to your ear.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her voice was honey-smooth but edged with the brisk efficiency of a woman accustomed to getting things done. “Are you still out shopping?”

“Yes ma’am, I’m at Guess with Dionne. What’s up?”

“Perfect,” she said, her tone lifting like she’d just solved a puzzle. “I need you to pick up a few things for the party tonight. Just some last-minute items. You know how your father gets about everything being 'just right.'”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Sure, I’ll grab them.”

“Also,” her voice grew lighter, playful even, “I know you always get bored at these dinner parties so I made sure to invite more people your age tonight. I thought you’d like that.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed, eyes wandering to where Dionne was now holding up a silky champagne-colored slip dress. She held it against herself, giving you an expectant look.

“You know, Michelle’s son Ethan will be there. And Janine’s daughter, Ashley, you two did cotillian classes together in middle school. Oh! And two of those handsome boys you’ve been seeing lately…”

Your attention snapped back to the call. “Who?”

“Cooper and… Nicholas,” she said matter of factly. “I’ve seen them around you a few times and I know their families so I figured you’d appreciate them being here too.”

Your heart did a double beat almost falling out of your chest. Cooper and Nicholas. Cooper AND Nicholas. The two names bounced in your mind like a neon marquee.

“Are you still there, darling?” your mom’s voice pulled you back to reality.

“Yeah..yeah. I’m here,” you said, fighting to sound nonchalant. You glanced at Dionne, who’d lowered the slip dress and was watching you now with raised brows, her curiosity clearly piqued. “I’ll get everything on your list. I gotta go.”

You ended the call and slipped the phone back into your bag with hands that felt just a little too warm. Dionne’s eyes hadn’t left you.

“What was that about?” she asked, suspicion and delight mixing in her tone.

“Cooper and Nicholas are coming to the party tonight,” you muttered, finishing the rest of your champagne in one long, unbothered sip.

Dionne’s eyes went wide, then her grin stretched slow and wicked. “Both of them?”

“Yes.” You placed your empty glass on a nearby counter, grabbing another from the silver tray like it owed you money.

Her face lit up like she’d just been gifted a Birkin bag. “Oh, girl, you’re in trouble.”

She wasn’t wrong. You’d been seeing both of them—flirtations, lingering touches, stolen kisses, heavy petting in the back seat of their respective BMWs fresh off the lot —but nothing official. And now they’d both be at the same party, breathing the same air, under the same glittering chandeliers.

“You know what?” Dionne’s tone had the same decisive finality as a stylist’s finishing touch. “We’re gonna make sure you’re the most stunning thing at that party tonight. If Cooper and Nicholas want to compete, they’re gonna have to fight over a goddess.”

She yanked a sleek black mini-dress off the rack and held it up to you like she’d just discovered a gold mine. The silk fabric draped like molten lava, daring yet elegant.

“This. This is the one,” she said, eyes practically glittering.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror. The dress’s sharp lines and bold color did something to you, something powerful. Your reflection wasn’t just you. It was her. It was the girl who walked into a party and owned it.

————

The driveway to your home was already lined with sleek black sedans and luxury SUVs, a telltale sign that the party prep was well underway. As you stepped inside, the familiar symphony of controlled chaos greeted you. Maids buzzed about, fluffing cushions, arranging floral centerpieces, and wiping already spotless surfaces. The chefs moved with precision in the kitchen, their crisp white uniforms stark against the warmth of the marble countertops as the aroma of hors d’oeuvres drifted through the air.

When you reached the kitchen, you found your parents deep in conversation. The room was immaculate, bathed in the golden glow of a chandelier overhead that refracted light across the glossy marble countertops. The air carried a faint mix of roasted rosemary and aged wine, a scent that instantly evoked a sense of affluence and occasion.

Your father’s voice carried with its usual self-assured timbre, smooth as the leather of his oxblood loafers, a tone he reserved for strategizing. He stood by the kitchen island, one hand loosely gripping a crystal tumbler of scotch.

“This party will show him everything he needs to see,” he declared to your mother, his other hand gesturing with purpose. The sharp lines of his tailored pinstripe suit caught the light as he moved. “Once he sees my connections, he’ll have no choice but to promote me.”

Your mother stood nearby, her posture perfect, the pearls around her neck gleaming like tiny orbs of moonlight. Her nails—painted a classic red—tapped rhythmically against the stem of her wine glass. She listened intently, her expression serene but her eyes sharp, showing just how much this evening meant to her too.

It was your father who noticed you first, his face breaking into a grin that softened the otherwise calculated air about him. “And if all else fails,” he began, a touch of warmth entering his voice, “the fact that my daughter has joined my boss among the ranks of Stanford grads will seal the deal.” He opened his arms wide in invitation.

You stepped forward, letting yourself be enveloped in his cologne—a heady mix of cedarwood and power—before moving to embrace your mother. “You know I’m not a fan of using my education as a bargaining chip,” you teased, your lips curving into a small smile as you pulled back.

Your mother placed a manicured hand on your shoulder, her touch both tender and commanding. “It wouldn’t hurt,” she replied with an indulgent smile, her tone as polished as the sterling silver trays being carried past by staff. Then, her demeanor shifted, her voice taking on that quiet authority you’d grown up respecting. “Now, I need you to look over the seating arrangements before the guests arrive. There’s assigned seating for dinner, and I’d like your eyes on it to make sure it’s perfect.”

“Got it,” you replied, already glancing toward the dining room. From where you stood, you could see the flicker of candlelight bouncing off the long, polished mahogany table.

The place settings were immaculate: fine bone china with intricate gold detailing, crystal water goblets arranged like jewels, and name cards written in calligraphy so precise it could only have been commissioned. The centerpiece—a sprawling arrangement of deep red roses and soft white lilies—sat elegantly beneath another grand chandelier, a testament to your mother’s exacting standards.

“Don’t forget,” your mother added as she lifted her glass to her lips, “your uncle will be sitting next to Mr. Whitmore. Keep their egos balanced, darling.”

With a soft laugh, you nodded, stepping toward the dining room to inspect the scene. The sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor echoed faintly as you moved, the weight of the evening settling on your shoulders.

The dining room greeted you with the soft glow of candlelight, casting a golden hue over the sprawling mahogany table. The pristine white tablecloth looked almost too perfect to touch, and every detail, from the gold-embossed place settings to the hand-folded linen napkins, screamed elegance. The centerpiece—a lush arrangement of red roses and white lilies—stretched nearly the length of the table, its fragrance subtle but ever-present.

You ran your fingers lightly over the place cards, each bearing names written in delicate calligraphy. You knew your mother well enough to expect near-perfection, but there was always room for a few tweaks, and this was your chance to ensure things aligned with your vision. As your eyes scanned the arrangement, you found your name near the middle of the table, right next to Jason Mitchell, one of your mom’s friend’s sons. An Ivy League basketball player, Jason was pleasant enough, but you couldn’t imagine a night of forced small talk with him.

Just across the table, you spotted Dionne’s name. A smile tugged at your lips—at least your mother had the sense to seat her close. But across the table wasn’t close enough. You quickly slipped Jason’s card out of its holder and replaced it with your own, moving him to the other side. That was better. You and Dionne would have the whole evening to share knowing looks, inside jokes, and quiet commentary about the spectacle unfolding around you.

Satisfied, you continued down the table. Your mother’s place was naturally toward the head, right next to Nicholas Whitmore, a family acquaintance who always managed to dominate the conversation. A few seats down from them, you spotted another familiar name: Cooper. You paused, fingers hovering over his card. Something about seeing his name there sent a jolt of nervous energy through you.

For a moment, you hesitated, chewing lightly on your lip. Cooper was already close enough, but a small part of you—the part that couldn’t resist the chance to tilt the night in your favor—wanted to shake things up. You plucked Cooper’s card from its spot and swapped it with the one next to Dionne, biting back a grin as you imagined her teasing you later. And then, almost without thinking, you reached for Nicholas’s card.

Sliding it into place beside yours, you felt a rush of something you couldn’t quite name—excitement, nerves, or maybe a bit of both. You stared at the new arrangement for a moment, the butterflies in your stomach stirring. Should you change it back? This has the potential to blow up in your face.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you turned on your heel, grabbing a small bowl of fruit from the sideboard on your way out. The quiet clink of your heels against the marble was drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat as you hurried upstairs.

Your bedroom awaited, a sanctuary fit for a young socialite. The space was expansive, with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a stunning view of the city skyline. Plush cream carpets covered the floor, so soft you’d forgone wearing slippers long ago. A canopy bed draped with sheer white fabric stood as the centerpiece, its silk bedding in soft blush and ivory tones. A vintage vanity, lined with your collection of luxury perfumes and makeup, sat to the side, while a wall of custom closets held the curated wardrobe that your stylist loved to call “your personal archive.”

But it wasn’t any of that that caught your attention this time. It was the bouquet of pink tulips on your bed. The sight of them stopped you in your tracks. They were vibrant, freshly cut, and tied with a delicate ribbon. Resting against them was a small handwritten note. You picked it up, the paper soft and expensive beneath your fingertips.

“Can’t wait to see you tonight and make you mine.”

The signature at the bottom was unmistakable: CH, followed by a small heart. Your heart fluttered in response. Cooper. Of course it was him. He always knew exactly what to do. He remembered that tulips were your favorite — a detail Nicholas never seemed to catch on to, despite how many times he’d brought you roses. Roses were lovely, but tulips? Tulips felt personal to you, especially since Cooper knew why you liked them so much.

One sunny morning, a breakfast date with Cooper led to a stroll through the park. The air was crisp, the kind that made everything feel lighter, and the vibrant bed of tulips in bloom instantly caught your eye. You paused, pulling out your sleek Contax G2 to snap a photo, then another, and another.

Cooper chuckled, hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you. “Why so many?” he asked, his tone warm and teasing.

You smiled, lowering your camera. “When I was little, my grandmother used to sit me in her garden while she planted tulips. She was this elegant, no-nonsense woman, but in the garden, she was different. Softer. Tending to her flowers was her favorite kind of hard work. It always felt like our secret world, just the two of us.”

As you spoke, your voice softened with nostalgia, and Cooper listened intently. His usual playful demeanor shifted; the teasing glint in his hazel eyes was replaced by something deeper. He wasn’t just hearing your story—he was falling for you with every word.

The way you spoke about your grandmother, the light in your eyes as you shared this piece of yourself—it was mesmerizing. Cooper’s gaze lingered on you, filled with a quiet adoration that made the moment feel suspended in time.

From that day on, he made a silent promise to himself. Every time he saw you, he’d show up with a single tulip in hand. The first time, he offered it with a shy grin. “One for now,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “and maybe a bouquet later.”

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from the memory. Fully expecting it to be Cooper calling to see if you’d gotten the flowers, you smiled as you reached for your phone. But when you glanced at the screen, your breath caught.

Nicholas.

You hesitated for half a second before answering. “Hey, Nicky.”

“Hey,” his voice was warm, that lazy, playful drawl he always had when he was in a good mood. “Just wanted to say I’m really looking forward to seeing you tonight. I know you’re gonna look amazing. You always do.”

“Thanks,” you said, leaning back against your pillows. Your tone was sweet but eyes drifted to the tulips again, their petals catching the golden hour light filtering through your window.

“And listen,” Nicholas continued, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve got something planned for after the party -- If you’re up for it, of course. I’m pretty sure this will make things a little easier for you.”

You let out a breathy giggle. Nicholas knew his spontaneity and charm, aside from his good looks, could win you over. His voice blurred as your thoughts floated back to a different time, another moment when he’d swept you off your feet with his easy charisma and his knack for pulling you out of the whirlwind.

The summer after you graduated college was relentless—interviews and expectations piling on, leaving you breathless. You’d stood Nicholas up that week, overwhelmed by the chaos, but he didn’t seem to mind. He showed up at your door, calm and sure.

“You need a break,” he said, his brown eyes steady and warm. “Pack a bag. Just a change of clothes and a bathing suit.”

You didn’t argue. Moments later, you were in his car, the city fading behind he as Sinatra played softly through the speakers. The scent of saltwater greeted you long before Nicholas turned off the road onto a secluded beach.

The ocean stretched endlessly before you, sparkling under the sun. Without hesitation, you kicked off your shoes and ran toward the waves, laughing freely for the first time in weeks.

Nicholas followed at his own pace, watching you with a soft smile. “Don’t forget to breathe!” he teased, his voice light.

When you ran back, drenched and beaming, he wrapped a towel around you, pulling you close. “You’ve been carrying so much,” he said, his hand brushing your cheek. “But you don’t have to have it all figured out. Life is still beautiful, still yours to enjoy.”

Tears pricked your eyes, and you whispered, “Thank you, Nicky.”

“Always,” he murmured, his fingers lacing with yours as the waves rolled in behind you.

“Y/N…hello, are you still there?”

Nicholas’s voice pulled you back to the present. His tone was gentle but curious, a soft nudge to bring you back. “You okay? You got quiet on me for a second there.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, blinking away the memory. “I’m here. Sorry, I was listening… I think the red turtle neck would look nice, trust me.”

“I’d wear one of those rainbow umbrella hats if you told me to”, Nicholas replied with coyness, you could tell came with a snide smirk on the other end.

Your lips curved into a smile. “And I’m sure you’d look great regardless,” you checked the time on your side table alarm clock, “And if I don’t start getting ready now, you’ll show up looking better than me at my own party. I’ll see you tonight”

“See you tonight beautiful,” Nicholas said hanging up the phone.

Your phone slipped from your hands onto the bed, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It wasn’t lost on you how complicated things had become. Nicholas and Cooper had despised each other long before you’d come into the picture. Their families had always been at odds, but the animosity had only grown after the tennis match.

You’d gone to support Cooper, not realizing Nicholas was his opponent. The tension in the air that day had been palpable, charged with more than just competitive energy. When the match ended and they’d both approached you simultaneously, their expressions a mix of confusion and hurt, it all unraveled.

They’d each thought you were there for them. Words were exchanged, chests puffed, and if one of their coaches hadn’t intervened, fists might have flown. It was messy, a little brutish, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t kind of hot.

The memory replayed in your mind, and your breath hitched as the details sharpened. You remembered the way Nicholas’s strong hands curled into tight fists, veins bulging along his forearms, his usually calm demeanor flickering with fiery intensity. Then there was Cooper, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump, his sharp blue eyes boring into Nicholas like he was daring him to make a move.

Both men had staked their claim over you in no uncertain terms. Nicholas, his deep, steady voice, a calming but commanding presence, telling Cooper to back off because you’d come to see him. Cooper, refusing to yield, had stepped forward, his broad chest rising and falling as he fired back with his own confident assertion that you’d made it clear who you were there for.

The more you remembered, the hotter you felt, a warm tingle blooming low in your belly. You couldn’t stop your mind from drifting to the way they’d looked in that moment—two powerhouses, their towering frames practically vibrating with restrained aggression, both ready to fight for you. The thought sent a spark straight through you, and you instinctively squeezed your thighs together, desperate to quell the growing ache.

But it wasn’t enough.

You pushed yourself off the bed, deciding a cold shower would help clear your head. Your bathroom was an opulent retreat, the centerpiece of your suite. Marble countertops gleamed under the soft glow of chandelier lighting, and the oversized walk-in shower, enclosed in glass, boasted multiple showerheads and a luxurious rainfall feature. You turned the water on, adjusting it to a cool but comfortable temperature, and stepped inside, the mist already softening the tension in your muscles.

Still, as the water cascaded over your skin, you couldn’t shake the thoughts from your mind. The memory of Nicholas and Cooper’s heated argument twisted into something darker, more intoxicating. You imagined them in a different setting, their rivalry spilling into the bedroom. Instead of fighting with words, they’d use their bodies to prove who could claim you more thoroughly, more passionately.

The vivid thought sent your pulse racing. You pictured Nicholas, his strong hands gripping your thighs as he whispered in your ear, his usually composed demeanor unraveling as he sought to make you lose control. Then Cooper, not to be outdone, trailing heated kisses down your neck, his cocky smirk melting into something desperate as he worked to outdo Nicholas, both of them vying for your moans, your gasps, your finish.

The ache between your legs became unbearable. Almost on autopilot, you reached for the detachable showerhead. You adjusted the settings, angling it just right as the water pressure hit your throbbing self. A gasp escaped your lips, and your knees buckled slightly, your free hand bracing against the cool marble wall.

You let your eyes flutter shut, the fantasy playing out behind your lids as the water pulsed against you. The imagined sounds of their voices—Nicholas’s deep, breathy whispers and Cooper’s rough, low groans—mingled with the steady rhythm of the shower. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing the sensation as you rode the wave of pleasure building within you.

The cool tile of the shower wall met your back as you slammed against it, your body arching with the building tension. The relentless spray of the shower head pulsed against you, sending waves of heat coursing through your body. Your hand instinctively reached up, cupping your breast as your fingers found your nipple, squeezing and pinching in rhythm with your escalating pleasure.

Breathy moans slipped from your lips, the sound mingling with the soft hiss of water against the tile. Each whimper was sharp and unrestrained, your breaths hitching as the pressure built higher and higher. Your eyes clenched shut, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, but the name that spilled from your mouth was entirely unexpected.

“Nicholas…” you moaned, the sound raw and unfiltered.

Your eyes snapped open, startled by how naturally it had slipped from your lips as if your subconscious had been holding onto it all along. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat spiraling through you, tightening the coil low in your belly.

Your free hand shot out to steady yourself against the opposite wall, your body trembling as the fantasy took hold. “Cooper…” you whimpered, voice laced with yearning. The thought of both men worshiping your body pushed you closer to the edge. Your lips parted, a soft cry spilling out. “That feels so good, baby…”

The vivid image filled your mind—Nicholas’s boyish grin turned wicked with desire, Cooper’s hands firm yet tender against your skin. The imagined weight of their attention, their touch, tipped you over.

Your body tensed, a shuddering gasp escaping you as the release swept through, leaving your legs weak and trembling. You clung to the wall for support, your breath stuttering in the aftermath. The tension slowly ebbed away, the pulsing water washing over you, grounding you back in reality.

A quiet laugh bubbled up as you ran a hand through your wet hair, shaking your head at yourself. “Get it together,” you muttered with a wry smile, reaching for the towel hanging nearby. Wrapping it snugly around your body, you stepped out of the shower, cheeks still flushed and thoughts lingering far longer than you intended.

----

You and Dionne lingered in the backyard’s conversation pit, the kind of luxurious setup that made you feel like you were in the pages of an interior design magazine. The space was undeniably chic—a sunken circular area surrounded by sleek stone walls, with plush cream-upholstered seating that invited you to sink in and stay a while. Overhead, string lights crisscrossed in delicate patterns, casting a warm, golden glow over the backyard. The faint scent of jasmine mixed with the lingering aroma of grilled vegetables and rosemary from dinner, while the hum of crickets filled the gaps in your conversation.

You’d both done your due diligence, making just enough small talk with the party guests to keep your mom off your back. Now, the two of you finally had a moment to yourselves. Dionne, dressed impeccably in a silky lavender blouse that shimmered in the light, swirled the champagne in her glass, watching the bubbles rise before taking a sip.

“Cooper’s family came in right behind mine,” she began casually, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “And get this—he had a Van Cleef bag in his hand. When I asked him about it, he didn’t say much, but he did mention that he knew you’d love it.”

You inhaled sharply, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. “It’s probably the Alhambra butterfly necklace. I pointed it out on our last date,” you said, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “I could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes.”

Dionne laughed, her voice a warm melody against the night air. “Girl, you are so lucky. I mean, seriously. The two hottest guys from our prep school—not to mention they’ve only gotten hotter—chasing after you like this?” She gave you a playful nudge with her elbow. “I love this for you.”

You tilted your head, a wistful smile creeping across your face as you exhaled. “Yeah… it’s a lot to think about.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly with mock seriousness. “So, what are you gonna do? You’ve got to choose one eventually.”

You chuckled softly, taking a sip of your own champagne. “I don’t know, Dee.”

With a grin, she leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, I say you pick whoever’s better in bed.”

You shot her a look, one eyebrow raised, and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God, wait—you didn’t!” She set her glass down on the low table in front of you, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned closer. “Spill! I thought for sure, with all those drives up to the mountains with Nicholas and Cooper, you’d—”

You cut her off, laughing as you waved a hand dismissively. “No, no! Part of the fun is keeping them waiting. You know me—I like a little suspense.”

Her jaw dropped in exaggerated shock, and she gasped. “You’re telling me… you’ve gone all this time and haven’t…?”

You grinned slyly, lowering your voice just enough to make her lean in further. “Kissed them enough to fog up car windows? Sure. Teased them with neck kisses and… other things during movie nights? Of course.” You paused, watching her expression as she hung on your every word. “But I’ve been keeping them on their toes. The tension? The chase? It makes everything so much hotter.”

Dionne burst into laughter, throwing her head back. “You are such a tease,” she said, still laughing. “Pure agonizing tease. But I’m here for it. Whoever you pick tonight is gonna be the luckiest man alive.”

You shrugged with a playful smirk, murmuring under your breath but loud enough for her to catch, “Maybe I’m considering both.”

Her gasp turned into a shocked laugh, loud and unabashed. “You didn’t just say that!”

Before you could reply, the patio door creaked open, and your mom’s voice rang out, cheerful but commanding. “Dinner’s ready, girls!”

The two of you exchanged a look, Dionne biting her lip to keep from giggling as you grabbed your glass. “Coming!” you called back, your voice perfectly composed.

As you stood to head inside, Dionne leaned close and whispered with a wicked grin, “I’m sure you will be.”

----

The dining room was a masterpiece of luxury, with its vaulted ceilings and gilded accents that sparkled under the glow of cascading crystal chandeliers. The table stretched nearly the entire length of the room, draped in an ivory cloth embroidered with golden threads, each place setting carefully arranged with fine china and polished silverware. The scent of freshly cut roses mingled with the faint aroma of roasted vegetables drifting in from the kitchen.

You had nearly forgot that you fixed the seating arrangement; Nicholas next to you, Dionne across from you, and Cooper next her, across from Nicholas.

You were deep in conversation with a family friend about your post-college job search, nodding thoughtfully as you explained your next steps and goals. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses from the party faded into the background, your focus entirely on the discussion. You hadn’t even noticed Nicholas and Cooper making their way toward the table.

Before you realized what was happening, Nicholas was at your side, effortlessly pulling out your chair. His hand—large and warm—found its place on your waist, guiding you gently but firmly back to your seat. The subtle pressure of his touch sent a shiver up your spine, but you maintained your composure, offering a polite smile as you wrapped up the conversation.

His gesture wasn’t just polite—it was deliberate, designed to be noticed. A murmur of approval rippled through the room, subtle but unmistakable. You caught the small smile tugging at your mother’s lips from across the table, her eyes glinting with pride at the display of gentlemanly behavior.

You murmured your thanks as you sat, letting him slide your chair in. His cologne, an enticing blend of cedar and spice, lingered faintly in the air as he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“My pleasure,” he said, the words brushing against your ear like a secret meant only for you.

Across the table, Cooper’s reaction was immediate and impossible to miss. His jaw tightened, his hand gripping the back of his chair as he glared at Nicholas with barely concealed irritation. The muscle in his cheek twitched, and his eyes flicked back to you, darkened by an emotion you could only describe as possessive.

Despite his simmering frustration, Cooper stayed seated, refusing to make a scene. Dionne flashed you a look of saucy approval, you hid your smirk before the server came over to take your order.

As Nicholas returned to his seat, Cooper’s gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, his eyes tracing your features before he finally turned his attention to the wine list in front of him.

You sat there, calm and poised on the outside, but your heart was pounding.

The servers moved seamlessly around the table, placing delicate plates of appetizers before each guest. The room was alive with the clink of silverware and soft murmurs of conversation, but your focus wavered as your father stood from his seat, raising his glass with an air of practiced authority.

“To community,” he began, his voice steady and commanding as it carried across the room. “To connections that bring us together and strengthen us—personally, professionally, and beyond.” He gestured toward his boss with a respectful nod, his smile warm but calculated.

He turned to you next, his eyes softening. “To my brilliant daughter, whose success continues to amaze us all.” His glass tilted toward your mom as his smile widened. “And to my wife, the love of my life, whose support has made all of this possible.”

The table erupted in polite applause and scattered cheers, and your mom lifted her glass with an appreciative smile. “To family,” she said, her voice bright and sincere. “And to the man who keeps ours grounded and inspired every day.”

The momentum of the toasts carried on as others chimed in. Your uncle stood to wish everyone health and wealth, and a few other family friends added their sentiments about the joys of togetherness and new opportunities. You thought the flurry of toasts had finally come to a close when a brief silence settled over the room.

But then, a low screech of wood against polished floors cut through the quiet as Cooper rose from his seat.

“And a toast,” he began, his voice clear and bold, the room instantly drawn to him. His gaze was locked on you, his hazel eyes shimmering with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “To Y/N, for her beauty and grace.”

The air seemed to still as the words left his lips, his tone brimming with sincerity. “Since the day I met her, she’s done nothing but charm me and challenge me to be a better man.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as every eye turned toward you. You managed a smile—tongue-in-cheek, though your cheeks burned with heat. You could feel Dionne nearly vibrating across from you, barely able to contain her giddy excitement as she pressed her lips tightly together to suppress a grin.

Next to you, Nicholas’s expression darkened like a brewing storm. His fingers curled around the stem of his wine glass with such force you thought it might snap. His jaw clenched visibly, the muscle ticking with restrained fury as his eyes shot daggers at Cooper.

Your mom, ever the master of social nuance, caught your eye with a subtle nod and an intrigued glint in her gaze. Whatever this was, she seemed to think it was not only entertaining but possibly advantageous. Your dad, on the other hand, looked utterly bewildered, his brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced between you and Cooper.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, Dionne, raised her glass high, her voice ringing out cheerfully. “To everyone here tonight!”

The collective relief after Dionne’s toast was nearly tangible as glasses were raised, and the murmur of polite conversation began to hum around the table once more. Everyone seemed eager to let the tension dissipate—everyone except for Nicholas, who still hadn’t lifted his glass.

His knuckles were white as they gripped the base of the wine glass, the sharp angles of his jaw working overtime as he stared daggers at Cooper. It was a standoff only the two of them seemed to be fully aware of, the air between them crackling with silent hostility.

Cooper, ever the opportunist, didn’t let the moment pass unnoticed. “Come on, Nicholas,” he said with a sly grin, his voice just loud enough to draw a few curious glances. “Don’t be a barbarian—it’s a wine glass. You just grab it and raise it when everyone else does.”

The jab was subtle but sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. Nicholas’s jaw clenched so tightly you wondered if he might crack a tooth. His eyes burned with a fury that would have sent most people scrambling, but Cooper only leaned back slightly in his chair, his confidence brimming.

Cooper cocked his shoulders with an ease that was almost infuriating, a smirk tugging at his lips as he shot Nicholas a wink. It was the kind of victorious, self-assured gesture that screamed I’ve won this round, and it left no doubt in anyone’s mind about who had taken control of the moment.

Nicholas finally, begrudgingly, raised his glass, his movements slow and deliberate as if every second of compliance was a battle. His dark eyes flicked back to you briefly, the intensity in them leaving a shiver down your spine.

Dinner had gone smoothly, though the charged undercurrent of tension was unmistakable. The low murmur of conversation, the clinking of silverware against fine china, and the occasional burst of laughter from the adults filled the air.

The dining room was grand, with soft golden light spilling from an ornate chandelier above the long table, casting a warm glow over the elegant table settings and half-empty glasses of wine. Cooper and Nicholas, seated strategically to keep you in their orbit, continued their subtle battle for your attention.

You maintained a composed and neutral demeanor, responding with polite smiles and light conversation. Internally, though, you were keenly aware of their every move. Dionne, sitting opposite you, occasionally met your eye with a knowing smirk, clearly enjoying the game unfolding before her.

She couldn’t resist adding fuel to the fire. Between bites of her crème brûlée, she tossed out quips like, “Y/N needs a man who’s not intimidated by success. Nicholas, are you intimidated by women with success?” Her tone was teasing, but the twinkle in her eye left little doubt she was having fun watching them squirm.

Nicholas smirked, tapping the rim of his glass. “Oh, I’m more than capable of keeping up, Coop. It’s just a matter of knowing how to play the game.” His eyes never left you, the unspoken message clear.

Cooper leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s not about playing the game, Nick. It’s about winning it.” He raised an eyebrow, letting the words hang in the air as he slid a teasing glance in your direction. "And trust me, I know how to win."

Nicholas chuckled again, the sound low and confident. “Winning isn’t always about being first. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when to take your time.” His voice dropped a notch, a subtle invitation lingering in his words.

Cooper wasn’t backing down. “Taking your time? I guess we’ll see how far that gets you when the clock’s ticking.” He gave you a wink, his tone playful yet laden with challenge. “I work better under pressure, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Nicholas quipped, his gaze sharp. “But we all know who’s got the stamina for the long haul.” His lips curled into a knowing smile as he leaned forward, his voice a bit lower. "Some things can’t be rushed."

Cooper’s grin widened, the tension crackling in the air. “Maybe. But there’s a difference between stamina and strategy. And I’ve got both on my side.” He turned toward you with a knowing look, making sure to catch your eye before adding, “You’ll see what I mean.”

Nicholas shot him a sly glance, clearly not phased. “I think she already has, Coop.” He met your gaze, the connection undeniable, before turning back to Cooper. “But we’ll see how the game plays out.”

You and Dionne could hardly contain yourselves, struggling to stifle chuckles and your face getting hot from tension from the boys but trying to withstand the heat pooling in the pit of your stomach.

-----

The party had gradually wound down, the lively buzz of conversation and laughter from earlier now replaced by a soft hum of voices in the backyard. A few remaining guests lingered with your parents, gathered in the cozy conversation pit beneath the glow of string lights. The gentle rustle of the breeze carried snippets of their relaxed chatter, the occasional clink of glasses punctuating the calm atmosphere. The backyard was a picture of tranquility, the perfect wind-down to an otherwise bustling evening.

You, with a gentle nudge from Dionne, signaling that with everyone outside it’s the perfect time for you to get away with Nicholas and Cooper to your room. You put your hand on Nicholas’ thigh at the dinner table, speaking just above a whisper for him to join you in your room. You see the excitement bubbling in him, but it quickly diminished when you invited Cooper as well.

What had started as a laid-back conversation about clothes and music had spiraled into a heated argument between the two -- it was loud and abrasive but exactly your plan.

You sat on the edge of the bed while they stood on either side of you and argued.

“God, everything about you is so trite,” Nicholas scoffed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

Cooper’s lips twitched into a sardonic smile. “Trite? Coming from you?” He gestured toward Nicholas, his voice steady but biting. “That’s rich coming from like the Ivy league frat trash."

Cooper’s gaze darkened. “Everyone knows how many times you got arrested for disorderlies, daddy came and bailed you out each and every time and now you have a cushy job at his firm because no one would hire your ass! ”

Nicholas straightened, stepping forward, his voice low and dangerous. “At least I can keep her interested. You? You’d bore her to tears with your lectures about art-house films and overpriced coffee.”

“You think she wants some overgrown frat boy? Grow up. She deserves someone who’ll treat her right, not drag her into your mess.”

“Oh, because you’re the knight in shining armor?” Nicholas sneered. “I bring something to the table you never could”

Cooper took a slow breath, his calm exterior fraying. “That explains why you showed up empty-handed tonight, huh? Not even a rose. Thoughtful as ever, I see.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek Van Cleef bag, holding it up for emphasis. “This, at least, shows I care enough to know what she likes.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “You think gifts are the way to her heart? Please. She can buy that for herself. I give her what she needs.”

Cooper tilted his head, his voice dropping into a low growl. “You don’t even know what she needs.”

As their words grew sharper, the room seemed to heat with tension, and you couldn’t help the twinge deep in your core. Their arguing wasn’t just about their preferences or styles; it was about you. The way they both stared at each other, the venom in their words—it all pointed back to the same thing: they were fighting for you.

“Boys, please,” you interrupted, your voice low but firm, cutting through the heated tension between them. It wasn’t a harsh tone—just commanding enough to grab their attention and stop the bickering. Their arguing immediately ceased, leaving a palpable silence in its wake.

“Claiming you both know what I want without actually asking me? That’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” you said, your teasing tone relieving some of the aggressive energy in the room. Though the animosity between Nicholas and Cooper lingered beneath the surface, their eyes were now focused entirely on you, brimming with adoration.

Cooper shifted, sitting down beside you and resting a hand gently on your thigh. “Sorry,” he said, his voice soft and apologetic, but his expression still held a hint of smugness as he flashed you his charming, dimpled smile. “He just brings out the worst in me.”

Nicholas scoffed from across the room before dropping down on your other side with a dramatic plop. “As if you don’t deserve it,” he muttered, but his eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that betrayed his annoyance.

“What can I do for you?” Cooper asked, taking your hands in his, his lips brushing against your knuckles in a gesture that felt as much a declaration of his feelings as it was a jab at Nicholas.

“Relax,” Nicholas cut in, his tone flat and stern, clearly irritated by Cooper’s display. His gaze never left yours as he leaned in closer.

The exchange made you chuckle, and to diffuse the tension, you leaned toward Nicholas and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline. His eyes softened slightly, the hard edge of his frustration melting away under your touch.

You took a steadying breath, your heart thumping in your chest as both sets of eyes bore into you, waiting. “I appreciate the gifts, the dates,” you began, your tone gentle but deliberate, making sure they both felt the weight of your words. “You know I do. But I want—need—more.”

Both of them stilled, their hesitation palpable as they processed your words. The room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You met their gazes, your voice calm but dripping with intent as you added, “I want you both to show me.”

Nicholas blinked, his brown eyes wide, stunned into silence for a beat before he managed to stammer, “You mean… both of us? Now?” His voice cracked slightly, a mix of disbelief and anticipation.

You gave him a pointed look, your eyes heavy-lidded and smoldering. Bedroom eyes, they used to call it, and now you wielded them with purpose.

“Like… at the same time?” Cooper’s voice was shaky, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His uncertainty didn’t stop him from leaning forward slightly, his gaze sweeping over you with a mixture of awe and yearning.

Instead of answering, you rose from the bed with a fluid motion, standing in front of them. Slowly, you reached for the zipper of your dress, letting the straps slip down your shoulders with deliberate care. Every movement was intentional, slow and teasing, as you drew the fabric down over your body. Their eyes were glued to you, neither daring to speak as the tension thickened in the air, the anticipation palpable with every second.

When your dress finally pooled at your feet, you stood before them in nothing but the delicate lingerie you’d chosen earlier—an ensemble designed to accentuate every curve, every detail meant to entice. The way their jaws tightened, the way their gazes roamed your figure, drinking you in, was all the confirmation you needed.

Their eyes tracked your every movement as if they couldn’t look away, taking in the way the soft fabric slid from your body and the confident way you climbed onto the bed. Positioned at its center, you gave them both a look that was equal parts commanding and inviting. They remained frozen, caught between anticipation and hesitation, until you broke the silence with a playful challenge.

“Are you going to keep me waiting?” you teased, your tone sultry yet light.

That was all it took. In an instant, both of them sprang into action, fumbling with buttons and pulling at their clothes. Their movements were uncoordinated at first—hands catching on shirt sleeves and belts—but as their layers peeled away, the uncertainty melted into something more primal. Even as they undressed, their eyes never left you, their hunger for you evident in every glance and the way their chests rose and fell with heavy breaths.

Nicholas was the first to make his move. He crossed the mattress with a deliberate pace, crawling toward you with a confidence that sent a shiver down your spine. The way his back muscles rippled with each movement made your pulse quicken, a delicious ache building inside you as you watched him close the gap.

When he reached you, his large hands found your waist, his grip firm but reverent as he gently pulled you closer to him. His lips pressed soft, lingering kisses to your stomach, each touch sending waves of warmth and electricity through your body. The sensation of his breath on your skin, the way his fingers brushed against your sides, left you breathless.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and almost reverent. His hands slid up to cradle your torso, his thumbs tracing lazy circles against your ribs as he kissed his way upward, pausing just below your sternum.

Behind him, Cooper hesitated for a moment, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of awe and determination. Then, as if spurred on by Nicholas’s lead, he climbed onto the bed, his movements slower and more deliberate, but no less intense.

Cooper reached out with a steady hand, his touch on your jaw both tender and possessive as he guided your face to his. His lips claimed yours in a kiss that was deep and consuming, filled with a need that made your breath hitch. His kiss wasn’t just a gesture—it was a declaration, a challenge to Nicholas as much as it was a promise to you.

As your lips moved together, you couldn’t ignore the way Nicholas’s hands continued their deliberate exploration, his mouth now dangerously close to your pantyline. His hot breath against your skin sent shivers racing up your spine, the contrast between his slow, teasing movements and Cooper’s demanding kiss leaving you feeling utterly undone.

Cooper’s grip on your waist tightened as though anchoring you to him, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a fleeting but intimate gesture. Before Nicholas could draw all your attention, Cooper broke the kiss just enough to press his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered, “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

His words made your heart skip, but before you could respond, Cooper took your hand, guiding it deliberately to him, pressing it against the hardness straining against the fabric of his underwear. The heat of him, the way he swelled and grew under your touch, sent a flush spreading through your body.

Your lips trailed to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, and you bit down lightly at the juncture of his collarbone. Cooper’s low groan vibrated against your lips, and the way his hips involuntarily bucked against your hand made you smile against his skin.

Nicholas, clearly unwilling to be ignored, let out a soft chuckle against your stomach. “Don’t forget about me,” he teased, his voice thick with heat and a hint of frustration. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss just above your hip bone before his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slightly.

In one smooth motion, Nicholas pulled your panties down and tossed them aside, his movements confident and deliberate. His hands immediately found your most sensitive spot, his thumbs massaging slow, tantalizing circles against your clit, sending sparks shooting through your body. A moan escaped your lips, muffled against the warmth of Cooper’s neck, but the tremble in your breath gave you away.

Nicholas smirked, clearly pleased with your reaction. “You're so wet,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. His words only made the fire in your belly burn hotter. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”

The praise sent a wave of heat rushing through you, and before you could catch your breath, Nicholas moved with purpose. He slid down the bed, lying flat on his back, and with a firm but gentle grip, he guided you over him. “Come here,” he commanded softly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His strong hands gripped your thighs, and he used his biceps to brace you down onto him, holding you firmly in place.

As soon as his mouth met your core, a shudder of pleasure rippled through you. Nicholas’s tongue moved with expert precision, lapping at you with a hunger that left you breathless. The flat of his tongue pressed against your most sensitive spot before he shifted to flick and swirl, his lips sealing around your clit to suck gently.

You tried to keep your composure, to maintain your focus on Cooper, but it was impossible. Your lips faltered against his skin, your head falling back as a strangled moan tore from your throat. Cooper chuckled softly, his hand coming up to steady you as your body trembled.

“Losing focus already?” Cooper teased, his voice low and warm against your ear.

You tried to respond, but Nicholas’s tongue was relentless, his hands gripping your hips to keep you steady as he worked. Your back arched involuntarily, and your hands flew out to brace yourself, one landing on Cooper’s chest while the other tangled in Nicholas’s hair.

Nicholas hummed against you, the vibrations making your thighs quiver. He tilted his head slightly, his tongue diving deeper to explore every inch of you, his pace never faltering. Your breath came in ragged gasps, and your head fell forward, resting on Cooper’s chest as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

Nicholas’s hum of approval sent shockwaves through your body, his tongue moving with precision as if he knew exactly how to unravel you. Cooper’s lips on your neck were hot and insistent, his teeth grazing your skin before he soothed the marks with his tongue. His large hands kneaded your breasts, his thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples, each motion sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your chest.

Your moans filled the room, their names tumbling from your lips in a desperate symphony that seemed to drive them further. Nicholas’s voice rumbled against you, low and commanding. “Good girl,” he praised, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs as he worked his tongue deeper, his nose brushing against your sensitive bud in a way that made your toes curl.

Cooper’s hands slid down your sides, grounding you in his touch as his kisses became hungrier, more possessive. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your ear, his voice thick with admiration and arousal.

The idea of them putting their differences aside, silently agreeing to focus on your pleasure, sent a new wave of heat surging through you. The coordinated rhythm of their touches left you completely undone, your body trembling as they spurred you closer and closer to the edge.

Your fingers tangled in Cooper’s hair, pulling him closer as your other hand gripped the sheets beneath you. “I—I’m so close Cooper, I'm gonna cum” you gasped, your body teetering on the brink. Nicholas responded with another hum, his tongue circling your sensitive spot with precision, while Cooper pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your moans as you finally shattered.

Your release washed over you in waves, your body arching as you cried out, their names spilling from your lips like a mantra. Nicholas slowed his pace, helping you ride out the high, his hands rubbing soothing circles into your thighs. Cooper held you steady, his kisses softening as he murmured reassurances against your lips.

When the aftershocks subsided, you slumped against Cooper’s chest, your breathing ragged, your body tingling from head to toe. Nicholas looked up at you with a satisfied smirk, his lips glistening. “Told you I’d make you feel good,” he teased, his voice thick with pride. Before sauntering off to the bathroom, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss that left you breathless. The taste of yourself lingered on his tongue, and when you bit his lip playfully, a low, guttural moan escaped him. He pulled away with a grin that promised more, leaving you flushed and wanting.

Cooper stayed close, his hands gently stroking your sides before he tilted your chin up and kissed you again. His lips were softer, slower, carrying a tenderness that made your heart flutter. As the kiss ended, he pulled back and reached for his jacket, retrieving a sleek Van Cleef bag.

“While he’s away,” Cooper said, his voice low and intimate, “I wanted to give you this.”

From the bag, he pulled out a delicate Alhambra butterfly necklace. The intricate design shimmered in the soft light, the wings adorned with mother-of-pearl framed by gleaming gold. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each detail reflecting thoughtfulness and care.

Your breath caught in your throat as he stepped closer, holding the necklace carefully. “I know this isn’t a deciding factor,” he continued, his tone earnest, “but even if you end up with him, I know how much you wanted this. You deserve it.”

Speechless, you turned your back to him, your hair falling to one side as he clasped the necklace around your neck. His fingers brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Crossing the room, you stopped in front of the vanity, your reflection glowing. The necklace sat perfectly against your collarbone, a symbol of Cooper’s thoughtfulness and affection.

You ran your fingers over the pendant, a soft smile spreading across your lips. The more you looked in the mirror, the more the reality of your situation sank in. Two incredible men, each devoted to your happiness in their own ways. Nicholas, with his passionate intensity and relentless focus on your pleasure. Cooper, with his tender gestures and unwavering desire to see you smile. How could anyone possibly ask for more?

Your fingers lingered at the base of your throat, tracing the butterfly before letting them trail lower, a coy smile tugging at your lips. “You know,” you said, glancing back at Cooper with a spark in your eye, “if you’re going to spoil me like this, I might just have to make it up to you.”

Cooper chuckled, his gaze darkening with desire as he closed the distance between you. “I think I like the sound of that,” he murmured, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

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