#i feel like it's such a weird and impossible ask

[hana-no-seiiki]

YAN! DAMIAN WAYNE x TSUNDERE! STARK! READER (PART ONE)

(Excerpt from my private fic Sun&Moon)

TW/CW: OP! Reader, “Mary Sue!” Reader, Soft Yandere Vibes. Aged Up! Damian. Damian Wayne falls harder. The last scene is literally ripped straight out of Honkai Impact 3rd’s Meteoric Salvation cutscene with some changes. Reader is GN, but gets their hands perfectly manicured.

SPIN OFF TO THIS FIC

[ NEXT PART ]

Gotham Visions Academy.

You were practically destined to walk these halls. Born into wealth, surrounded by privilege, and backed by a network of names that opened doors before you even learned to knock. Your talents? Curated, polished, and paid for—every lesson, every skill, another line on your father’s invoice. And your intellect? At least that wasn’t bought. That, you were lucky enough to inherit. A gift among many from Daddy Dearest.

You were practically made to be fawned over. Worshipped. Adored.

And that you were.

Top of your class, heir to the Stark legacy, smarter than the ones who tried to impress you, and sharper than the ones who feared you. You walked through Gotham Visions Academy with the kind of ease that came with too many accolades and not enough real challenges.

Everyone wanted something from you—your notes, your secrets, your attention.

Everyone . . . except him.

Damian Wayne.

The only person in the school who treated you like you were just another student. Or worse—like you were beneath his time.

It was infuriating.

Which is probably why your heart started acting . . . weird whenever you saw him.

You didn’t like him. Obviously. You barely tolerated him. And today was no different.

You turned the corner toward your locker, only to find him already there, arms folded, back leaning lazily against the metal as if gravity itself catered to him. His eyes were focused somewhere in the middle distance, calculating and unreadable—like he was trying to decide whether or not to set the world on fire.

You stopped walking, your nose wrinkling.

“. . . Tch. You again?”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Still mistaking oxygen for entitlement, I see,” Damian said flatly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Must be exhausting.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, the hem of your coat brushing his leg on purpose.

“Excuse me for breathing in my own hallway.”

Your own hallway you spoke. Yes. You owned the hallway. Courtesy of your father wanting you to have more privacy.

He didn’t move. Just raised a brow and continued watching you with that stupid, smug expression. The one that said he didn’t need to try to get under your skin. He already lived there.

You reached into your locker, trying to ignore the fact that your hands were suddenly a little shakier than usual. Probably from the air conditioning. Obviously. Not because he was standing close enough for you to feel the warmth of him at your back.

You refused to turn around.

“You’re always here,” you muttered. ���What, are you stalking me now?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied smoothly. “You just happen to be impossible to avoid. Like a pregnant mosquito.”

You snapped the locker door shut with unnecessary force.

“At least I don’t look like a sleep-deprived Bond villain.”

“Wouldn’t you have to know what a villain looks like?” Damian asked, voice calm. “Or are you too busy pretending your father isn’t building half of them?”

Your lips parted in offense, but you didn’t fire back right away. The air between you thinned, stretched taut with something unspoken. Something both of you refused to name.

Because you knew. Just like he did. The late-night disappearances. The bruised knuckles. The matching shadows under your eyes. You both wore the same kind of silence, wrapped in different armor.

But neither of you said a word.

Because to acknowledge it would mean crossing a line. And if you crossed it—you didn’t know if either of you would stop.

“…You’re such a jerk,” you muttered instead, turning to walk away.

“And yet,” he called after you, “you keep finding excuses to talk to me.”

You paused. Just for a second.

Then you tossed your hair over your shoulder and kept walking, cheeks burning in spite of yourself.

“I-it’s not like I care, okay?! I just didn’t want your brooding face ruining my locker’s aesthetic!”

Damian didn’t respond. But you swore—just barely—you heard the faintest sound of him exhaling through a laugh.

Not that you cared.

You absolutely didn’t.

Probably.

You were intolerable.

A parasite of privilege, feeding off your father’s name, trailing arrogance like a perfume that suffocated every room you entered.

You didn’t just hold yourself above others—you reminded them of it. Every time you laughed too loudly at someone’s mistake, every time your perfectly manicured hand fluttered dismissively toward a classmate mid-sentence. It wasn’t even direct, half the time. Just those pointed glances. The offhand remarks. The carefully veiled cruelty that only someone trained to see it would notice.

He noticed.

He saw the way you mocked people who couldn’t keep up. The way you turned charm into a weapon, laced with venom, wrapped in satin. And worst of all—you smiled while doing it. Like it meant nothing. Like the world owed you attention, and anyone who didn’t give it willingly deserved to be broken.

You were everything he’d been taught to despise. Spoiled. Sharp-tongued. Useless outside your reputation.

And yet somehow, you had the nerve to act like he was beneath you.

Every time you rolled your eyes at him in class. Every smug remark. Every insult disguised as banter.

You looked at him like he was the one wasting your time.

And he hated it.

He hated you.

Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Now, high above the docks, crouched on a corroded metal beam overlooking a shipment yard drowned in fog, he replayed the most recent encounter in his head. Your voice—cutting and too proud—echoed in his skull. Some throwaway line about him having “resting brooding face” or being a “sleep deprived Bond villain.”

He’d ignored it at the time. But it stuck anyway. Like you always did. Like a thorn he hadn’t bothered to pluck.

A gust of wind tugged at his cape, the cold stinging his cheeks beneath the cowl. His comm crackled to life just as he reached for the binoculars at his hip.

“Robin.”

Bruce’s voice—gravel and steel. Urgent.

“New intel. Bomb planted in the West End docks. Clock’s ticking—thirty minutes at most.”

Damian’s grip tightened.

“Copy that.”

He leapt from the beam, landing with a practiced thud on the rooftop below. The metal groaned beneath his boots as he moved.

Thirty minutes. Enough time if he was fast. Precise. Perfect.

He needed to focus. Forget you. Forget the way your voice made his chest tighten with something unnamable. Forget the way you watched him like you knew something about him—something he hadn’t even admitted to himself.

This wasn’t about you.

This was Gotham.

And people were going to die if he didn’t move.

Still, as the city blurred around him in streaks of smoke and steel, your voice wouldn’t shut up in his head.

Typical. Even in silence, you were loud.

The wind roared in his ears as he landed hard on the rooftop overlooking the West End loading yard. From up here, the city was a mess of metal veins and dim orange haze. Below, shipping containers were scattered like broken teeth, and in the center of it all—there it was. The bomb.

Sleek. Pale. Otherworldly.

Like something pulled from a dream that had never been meant to exist.

Even from this distance, Damian could feel it humming.

“I have eyes on the device.” His voice was clipped as he tapped the comm.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. This isn’t WayneTech. Not even League tech.”

A pause. Then Batman’s voice, heavy and grim.

“It’s Aetherial Arbor energy. Prototype. Stolen off-world. That thing goes off, it takes half the district with it.”

Damian narrowed his eyes.

“How do I disarm it?”

Another silence. Then—

“You don’t.”

“Your suit can’t handle the radiation field. No one’s can. Not unless it was designed by Stark.”

He clenched his jaw.

Of course.

“Then tell him to get down here.”

But Bruce didn’t answer.

Instead, someone else landed in the clearing below him—loud, intentional. Not a graceful drop from the shadows, but a debut. A gleaming figure in white and rose-gold armor, light glinting off polished plating as they rose from a crouch and faced the bomb.

Damian’s blood went cold.

“. . .No,” he whispered.

Because it was you.

The headpiece slid back, revealing a familiar smirk—tight with fear, but cocky enough to mask it. Your white suit hugged close to your frame, the glow of the chest reactor casting its light across your features. Your hair fluttered behind you in the breeze like you’d been pulled straight out of some myth.

But it wasn’t the suit that stunned him.

It was the expression.

You looked . . . calm. Like you were finally exactly where you were meant to be.

“Don’t worry, Gotham,” you said aloud, voice broadcast through the suit’s external mic. “Daddy’s not coming tonight. But his favorite heir is.”

Damian’s heart kicked in his chest.

The others on the comm were stunned into silence. Even Batman.

You stepped forward, scanning the device. Your voice dropped in pitch, switching to private comms.

“Bomb’s already too unstable. I can’t shut it down from here. Gonna have to fly it out. Somewhere empty. Somewhere safe.”

“No,” Bruce’s voice snapped. “Negative. You’re not authorized—”

“Respectfully?” you cut in, already lifting the bomb with magnetic tethers. “Too bad.”

You blasted upward in a sharp burst of light, rocketing into the sky with the pulsing heart of catastrophe cradled in your arms. The feedback nearly blew out Damian’s earpiece, but he didn’t care.

He was already running.

He leapt from the rooftop, following the streak of white and gold through the clouds, heart slamming against his ribs.

“Don’t be stupid,” he hissed into the comm. “This isn’t about theatrics. Drop it and disengage.”

Your voice came through, soft. Distant. But raw.

“ . . . If I let it fall, someone else picks up the pieces. I’m tired of pieces.”

You were crying, maybe. Or smiling. He couldn’t tell. There was static now.

“I want to make something beautiful out of this world, Damian. Even if I only get to do it once.”

And that—

That was when he knew.

He’d hated you. He’d tolerated you. Mocked you. Fought you.

But nothing prepared him for this.

For the way his chest split open at the sound of your voice.

For the way his heart screamed against the sky.

You were light and fury and sacrifice and brilliance. You were everything he never allowed himself to believe in.

And in that moment, as the sky bloomed into distant gold,

Damian Wayne fell in love.

Dick, Jason, and Tim were all watching this go down. You know where this all leads to no?

[i-have-a-longbottom]

Bound by a Blessing

Percy Jackson x reader

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°🔱°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Summary: A dryad’s magic ties you and Percy together for a week — but by the time the bond fades, you realize you don’t want to be apart.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

You don’t realize anything’s wrong until you try to walk away from Percy — and almost get zapped right on your butt.

“OW!” You jump back with a yelp, rubbing your hip where the tiny shock got you. “What the Hades was that?!”

Percy stands there, hands raised like he’s innocent. “Don’t look at me — you shocked me too! I didn’t even do anything!”

You glance over at the dryad who just gave you both a suspiciously sweet smile. She sits perched on a low branch, legs swinging like she didn’t just ruin your whole week.

“You said you’d bless us!” you snap. “You didn’t say we’d be… zapped!” “It is a blessing,” the dryad says, pulling a leaf in her hair. “Your friendship will grow stronger when you cannot stray too far apart.”

Percy squints at her. “Define ‘too far.’” “Ten feet. Maybe twelve if I’m feeling generous.”

Your mouth drops open. “TEN FEET? For how long?!” The dryad gives you a wink. “Until the next full moon! Don’t worry — it’ll be fun!”

Turns out, it is not fun.

The first hour, Percy keeps bumping into you. He trips over your feet while you’re trying to get your armor on. You nearly whack him in the face with your sword during practice. Mr.D takes one look at the two of you bickering and says, “Gods, just date already.”

You both say, “WHAT?!” at the same time.

By nighttime, the real problem hits: you need to sleep. But your cabins are on opposite sides of camp. You stand outside your cabin, arms crossed. “There is no way you’re sleeping in here with me.”

Percy shrugs. “Unless you want to sleep outside in the grass — I mean, you’d look cute, but I don’t think you’d like the bugs.”

“You’re impossible,” you groan.

“And you love it,” he teases.

You both end up camped out on your cabin’s porch, wrapped in a single sleeping bag like a pair of dorks. Percy’s body heat is warm and calming, but every time he shifts, your heart does a weird flip.

At one point, he murmurs sleepily, “Hey… I don’t mind this, you know.” You blink, breath caught. “Being shocked every time you try to get away from me?”

He cracks a grin, eyes half-lidded. “No. Being close to you.”

You open your mouth — but all that comes out is a soft, surprised laugh. Maybe, just maybe, this blessing won’t be so bad after all.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•🌑•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

A few days had passed, and it's the last night of the dryad’s so-called blessing. You’re sitting on the dock by the lake, your bare feet skimming the water. Percy’s sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush every time he shifts.

You can feel the moon climbing higher, the magic starting to loosen. The invisible bond that tugged at you for the last week feels… thinner somehow.

“So…” Percy says, his voice breaking the soft ripple of waves. “Tomorrow we can finally get more than ten feet away from each other.”

You smirk. “You say that like you haven’t loved having me around twenty-four-seven.”

He grins, bumping your shoulder with his. “I didn’t say that.”

You tilt your head, studying him. The moonlight makes his eyes look impossibly sea-green, his hair a dark mess from the wind. You’ve spent the past seven nights practically on top of each other — every whispered conversation, every accidental cuddle, every time you woke up tangled together under the stars. And now it’s about to end.

“Do you… do you want it to?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Percy goes still. “Want what?” “This. Us. Being close.”

He swallows, glancing out at the water like it might tell him what to say. “I don’t think I could stand it, honestly.”

You blink. “What?”

He laughs under his breath, almost shy. “The last week — it was supposed to be annoying, right? Being stuck with someone? But it wasn’t. Not with you. It was the best week I’ve had in… I don’t know. Ever.”

The bond hums around you, weaker now but still warm. You’re not sure if it’s the dryad’s magic or your heart that’s making your chest ache.

“I don’t want it to end either,” you admit.

Percy turns to you, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. “Good. Because I think — I think I kinda want you around. Even when I don’t have to be.”

You laugh softly, your heart hammering. “What are you saying, Seaweed Brain?”

He grins that grin you love — the one that’s a little stupid, but so very Percy. “I’m saying… if the dryad wants to curse us again, I’m not complaining.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already leaning in, your lips brushing his. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he whispers back — just before he kisses you for real, soft and sweet, with the moon shining bright and the bond finally fading away.

Except maybe… it never really does.

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[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 30

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 8.6k+

Note: guys were on the home stretch now. only about three more chapters 😭😭😭

xxx

Ruth is… something else.

Like, no one should have this much energy for packing a weekend bag. It’s a two-day trip, not a European tour. But here we are.

It started with Chris, George, Issac, and Arthur F booking tickets to see Arthur’s show in Bristol. Casual. Then Ruth declared that’s the show she’d be attending — obviously. Which meant I had to come too, because “group moral support” apparently. And then I dragged Will in, mostly for balance. A weekend in Bristol, how romantic! I’d texted him. He sent back three kissy-face emojis and one of a cider can.

Now theres like ten of us going.

And Ruth is spiralling.

She’s knee-deep in outfit planning — full-blown groupie chic. There are rhinestones everywhere. Like, 300 of them. Loose. On my duvet. In her shoes. Stuck to her elbow. She’s armed with glitter gel, three different eyeliners “just in case,” and what looks like an entire Superdrug haul stuffed into her duffel bag.

This is the same girl who swore yesterday that she was going makeup-free this trip.

She catches my look in the mirror and rolls her eyes. “Well,” she says, dabbing glitter on her collarbone. She's practising “Bristol is no Dublin, but I do love getting drunk on trains.”

Honestly? Fair.

I’m gluing rhinestones to her shirt, knowing full well they’ll be gone the minute we step off the train. She’ll peel them off in the first half hour just to entertain herself, because for Ruth, that's how she feels connected to the chaos of the world—bright, messy, impossible to ignore.

The shirt is splayed in my lap, and the fabric glue is all over my fingers. We've both spilt the little container of rhinestones at least twice.

“I swear to God, Ruth,” I mutter, gluing the last one. I've made the ❤️ on her I❤️ Arthur Hill t-shirt a sparkly masterpiece. “By the time we’re halfway to Bristol, I’ll find these all over my flat. But go off, I guess.”

She grins, a little too widely. “I’m a work of art. You should be grateful.”

I huff a laugh at that.

I glance over at her makeup bag, which now contains four eyeshadow palettes. I know for a fact she’s going to spend a solid 20 minutes debating which one she’s ‘feeling’ today, but it’s not like I’m much better.

“Ruth,” I say, half-exasperated. “We’re not leaving until tomorrow afternoon. Why are you packing already?”

She huffs dramatically, as though I’ve just questioned her life’s purpose. “Because I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” I ask, blinking at her. “It’s just a weekend in Bristol. Arthur’s going to be over the moon to see you. Trust me.”

She stares at me, dead serious. “You don’t get it. He doesn’t know I’m coming, that any of us are coming. What if he freaks out? What if he doesn’t want me there? What if—”

I cut her off with a raised hand, shaking my head with a laugh. “Oh, come on. He’ll be thrilled. You’ve been practically begging for an excuse to show up at a show, and you think he’s going to be mad? He’s going to be so happy he won’t even know what to do with himself.”

She bites her lip, looking sceptical. “Yeah, but what if he’s too happy? What if it’s weird?”

“Ruth,” I say, rolling my eyes, “if anyone’s making this weird, it’s you. He’s going to be so over the moon, you won’t even have to say anything. He’ll probably tackle you in a hug the second he sees you.”

She groans, flopping back on the bed dramatically, her hands covering her face. “You don’t get it. What if I ruin everything? What if—”

I walk over and sit down next to her, nudging her shoulder. “You’re not going to ruin anything. If you're so nervous you can always text him you're coming."

"But then that’s no fun."  

I laugh at her now, proper laughing. "See! You know he's going to love it."

She smiles, wide at that.

We move into a comfortable lull. I start folding all of her clothes for her. And making my own outfit checklist for when I pack tomorrow, like a normal person.

I glance at Ruth, who’s half-focused on packing but mostly scrolling Pinterest for nail designs she won't ever get.

I’m just trying to block everything out. The noise in my head. The guilt gnawing at me.

I’m still pissed off at Will, still bitter about the way things went down, about our fight. He shouldn’t have ghosted me like that. But... something feels wrong, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Ruth notices, of course. I swear, the girl’s got radar for when I’m off.

She looks at me, tilting her head, a pair of glittery shoes in her hand. “You’ve gone quiet. You okay?” she asks, her voice light, but I can hear the concern lurking under it.

I try to shake it off, shrugging. “Yeah, just tired. You know, work today, packing. You know how it is.”

She doesn’t buy it. Her brow furrows, and she stops messing with her clothes. “You’ve been acting off all evening. What’s going on? Did you talk to Will?”

I freeze. I can feel the weight of her gaze on me, waiting for an answer. I don't want to talk about it. The last thing I want right now is to get into all of that with Ruth. Not when I don’t even know how I feel about it.

I sigh, dropping the shirt I was folding onto the floor. “Yeah. I saw him yesterday. We... had a fight.”

Ruth’s expression shifts, something sharper flashing in her eyes now. “A fight? What kind of fight?”

I nod, crossing my arms, suddenly feeling defensive. “A fight about how everything went down over the summer. I’m upset. He just… he was really hesitant to apologise to me about everything.”

Ruth’s lips press into a tight line. “YN, you’re not telling me something. What really happened?”

I pause, biting my lip. The truth is, I don't want to admit what I’m realizing now—that I have some grovelling of my own to do. I know she's going to tell me this too.

“It’s just… complicated,” I say, finally, avoiding her eyes.

Ruth’s gaze sharpens. “Complicated, huh? Sounds like you're avoiding the real issue here.” She leans forward, dropping the shoes on the bed with a frustrated sigh. “YN, why are you being quiet? What did you actually say to him?”

I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. "I don't know. I just… I told him I was pissed. That he ghosted me. That he couldn’t just disappear and expect everything to be fine.”

“Is that all you said?” Ruth asks, raising an eyebrow.

I hesitate, but then, against my better judgment, I continue. “I mean... I told him I didn’t think he had the right to act like I was the one who’d messed things up. Like he was the only one who needed to apologise.”

Ruth stands up, her frustration starting to seep through. “YN, you're so caught up in how you were hurt, you’re not even hearing what I’m saying. You think Will doesn’t deserve to be angry? You think he didn’t feel like a backup, like a second choice?”

I blink, I know she's right. The missing puzzle piece in my lap. “What do you mean? He ghosted me, Ruth.”

“Yeah,” she says, stepping closer. “But did you ever think about how he felt? I mean, shit, you kissed him right after seeing George kiss someone else, and you think he didn’t wonder if he was just some rebound? You think he didn’t feel like you were just using him to fill a space? You left him hanging too, YN. You didn’t give him clarity. You didn’t tell him what you wanted. All he had was your confusion.”

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. My mouth goes dry. I don’t know what to say.  

“Did you even stop to think about how he felt?” Ruth’s voice is softer now, but it cuts through me like a blade. “I love you so much, don’t forget it. But It’s easy to blame him, but you’re not blameless here. He thought you were just using him, YN. He thought you were still all wrapped up in George. How was he supposed to feel about that?”

I stare at her, my mind reeling. I had thought I was the only one who had been hurt. But now it’s starting to sink in—he was hurt, too. Will wasn’t the only one who needed to take accountability. I had been running from the truth, hiding behind my anger.

I feel a sudden lump in my throat, the guilt crawling up. I had been so focused on my own hurt, I didn’t even stop to think about his.

Ruth watches me closely, her eyes unwavering. “Yeah, it’s all well and good that he’s trying to win you back. But you need to win him back too. You can’t keep avoiding it. If you want to fix this, you’ve got to be honest. With him. With yourself.”

I let out a shaky breath, realizing she’s right. I had been so focused on how I felt—on how Will hurt me—that I hadn’t taken a second to wonder how I might’ve hurt him.  

“Do you really want this to be over?” Ruth asks quietly, her gaze steady. “Because right now, you're both stuck in this mess. But if you don’t make it right too, YN, you’ll both be left hanging.”

I nod slowly, the weight of everything crashing down on me. I don’t have all the answers yet. But I know one thing for sure—I need to own up to my part in this.

“I’ll fix it,” I say, finally meeting her eyes. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll... try to make it right.”

Ruth grins, pulling me into a hug. “Good. I knew you'd figure it out on your own but I thoguht maybe a push would be good for you.”

I laugh, but it’s weak. “Thanks, Ruth.”

She pulls back, tossing me my shoes. “Now go home and get your stuff packed. We’ve got a train to catch tomorrow, and you need to clear your head before then.”

I take a deep breath, feeling like I’ve just made a decision I wasn’t ready for. But it’s the right one. It’s time to stop running from the mess I’ve made, and try to fix it.

“Wait…” I say, brow furrowed. “How do you know so much?”

Ruth shrugs, completely unbothered, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh, Arthur told me.”

I stop putting my shoes on,turning to look at her. “How does Arthur know?”

“Chris told him.” She flashes me a look, like this is common knowledge. “And Will told Chris.”

My eyes widen. “Wait, Will told Chris? About our fight?” I blink, still processing the cascade of information. “Wait, what exactly did Will tell Chris?”

Ruth leans back, crossing her arms with that mischievous smirk I’ve come to expect from her. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. But I’m guessing it wasn’t just about your sparkling personality.”

My stomach twists, the realization landing harder than I expected. “Right,” I mumble, trying to brush it off, but the weight of it lingers in my chest. We’re getting better at communication. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I’ll ask him. It’s probably just him confiding in his mates, the same way I’m doing right now.

Fuckin’ George has gotten in my head. If anyone’s talking to Will, I almost get convinced it’s them telling him to stay away. To back off. I'm being silly, I know it, but it’s starting to drive me crazy.

I sigh, running my hand through my hair. I’ll talk to him about it. Tomorrow. Tonight, even. We were supposed to go out for dinner after work, but he had some emergency with a corrupted video file. And then Ruth had her own crisis—a rhinestone emergency. The universe is clearly conspiring against us.

The plan’s shifted now. Go get dessert somewhere. Probably late as hell and probably a drive-through. But that’s okay. Now that he’s coming to Bristol, I’ll have him all to myself for the whole weekend. Twenty-four hours a day with him. I’m excited. So excited to just chill with him. Maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally kiss me again.

But I can’t push the thought of George away.

George and Arthur are best mates, live together, of course he’s coming. I'm pretty sure it was his idea. He might have even told Ruth in passing when she was over at their flat.

I’m not mad at George anymore, but… it’s just so weird. Not being friends with him. We’re not enemies, and I haven't spoken to him since he collected his stuff. At the party I managed to completely dodge him, or he stayed away from me. Which I appreciated.

The issue comes because his presence is just another complication with Will. I don’t want it to cause any issues on the trip. How did it even get this tangled?

I'll talk to him about it. I want to talk to him about it.

But the problem still lingers, like I’ve got a knot in my chest that I can’t untie.

xxx

Because I’m a strong, independent woman, I paid for Will and my McFlurrys. I opted for the new Toffee Crisp one, trying to be adventurous, while he stuck to the old faithful, Oreo. Typical. Predictable.

Now we’re parked in our usual spot — the back corner of the McDonald’s car park closest to Ruth’s flat, the one under the flickering streetlight that makes everything feel a bit like a low-budget indie film. The car windows are slightly fogged, warm air humming through the vents, and we’re eating in comfortable silence.

He’s got one leg tucked up on the seat, knees practically to his chest, spooning ice cream like it’s a science. I’m leaning my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the orange hue of the streetlight catch in the reflection of his eyes.

My McFlurry is already melting into a soup of toffee. His, of course, still perfectly intact.

"You always eat it like you’re rationing for war," I mutter.

"You always eat yours like it’s a race," he replies, mouth full. "Every time."

We both laugh, low and sleepy. It’s late. Everything feels a little hazy around the edges, like we’re suspended between teenage boredom and something a bit more grown-up. Or something that might one day become that.

Will sticks his spoon in his cup and offers me a bite. I lean over, take it. Oreo. Familiar. Predictable. Still my favourite.

The conversation shifts, as it always does, toward McDonald’s—this time, about Australia’s version. I don’t know why I always feel the need to explain the cultural significance of the $1 Frozen Coke, but here we are. In Australia, it’s more than just a cheap drink—it’s a rite of passage. On a hot day, it’s a lifesaver, a small luxury that everyone can enjoy. I’ve never been able to explain just how much it means without sounding a little ridiculous, but I do it anyway. It’s just one of those things. The M&M McFlurry, the $1 Frozen Coke—they’re part of the tapestry of my youth, somehow.

Will nods along, always interested, but there's something about the way he listens that makes me feel understood—like he’s genuinely curious about where I come from. And for a brief second, I think about how weirdly comforting that is.

We finish talking about our respective catastrophes (mine was funnier), and the conversation turns more serious.

“Hey, speaking of Ruth…” I start, clearing my throat a bit, suddenly feeling the weight of this conversation.

“Oh god, what’s she done now? Made a poster?” Will smirks, looking up at me, but there’s a hint of concern underneath.

I snort at that, rolling my eyes. “No, uh, she knocked some sense into me today.” Will raises an eyebrow, clearly confused, but lets me continue. “I just… I’m really sorry about how I acted the other day during our fight.”

His eyebrows furrow as he sets his McFlurry down on his lap. “Oh, uh, what? Why are you sorry?”

I sigh, feeling like I’m about to dive into something uncomfortable. “I don’t think I’ve really articulated it before, but I am. I’m really sorry about how I acted through the summer.”

He’s quiet, just looking at me like I’ve said something really strange.

“Uh… okay,” he says, still unsure of how to react, but he doesn’t look mad, at least.

I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling awkward. This is harder than I thought it’d be. “I understand why you thought walking away was the better option, I… I made that whole thing so much worse. Like, so much worse. And I can see why you thought ghosting me was easier than dealing with all that.”

Will just stays quiet, his eyes on his McFlurry, stirring it absently with his spoon, like he’s pretending this conversation isn’t happening. I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable, or if he just doesn’t know what to say.

I shift in my seat, forcing myself to continue. “And, uh… I just need you to know… you were never a rebound. Or anything like that. I'm so unbelievably sorry I made you feel like that. And I totally see how my actions made you think that." I search his face, but he's stirring his ice-cream. " For what it's worth, I really really liked you. I regret not… locking it, uh, us, down earlier. I’ve thought about that, a lot, since we stopped talking.”

I pause, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Will doesn’t say a word. He just keeps eating his McFlurry like it's the most important thing in the world. His silence makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

“Since I ghosted you, you mean.” He finally says, his voice flat, but there's no anger in it.

I nod quickly, like I’m trying to get this over with. “Yeah. Since you ghosted me.”

He looks up at me, a smirk starting to tug at his lips, and there’s this brief flicker of something—relief? amusement?—in his eyes. “Well, don’t start actin’ like I’m some sort of saint now,” he grins, trying to defuse the tension. “But, uh… yeah, thank you. I appreciate it.”

There’s an awkward silence that stretches between us. I’m not sure how to take it, if I’ve even said enough or if I just sound like an idiot.

Finally, he breaks the silence, looking up at me from his McFlurry with a raised eyebrow. “So, er… is that why ya got us an ice cream, then? Felt bad for us, did ya?”

I roll my eyes at him, my lips twitching into an unwilling grin. “Yep. The only reason.”

He laughs, but there’s something a little more nervous behind it than usual. “Right. Of course. It’s all for charity, then?”

I chuckle, but it’s a little more awkward than I want it to be. “Exactly. And just for that, you better enjoy it.”

The silence between us isn’t as awkward now, but there’s still a weird heaviness lingering in the air. I can’t tell if it’s relief or just more awkwardness. Either way, it’s better than when we started. At least we’re not avoiding it anymore.

“I’m excited for the weekend,” he says, his voice light, eyes bright. “I haven’t seen Arthur live yet.”

“Oh really?” I raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

“Yeah, we’ve only gotten closer in the last… six months or summat.” He smiles, almost shyly. “I’m actually just really lookin’ forward to hangin' out with you.”

My heart does this little flutter I can’t ignore. “Oh, me too. I was just saying the same thing to Ruth today,” I admit, feeling a bit self-conscious, but I mean it.

He smiles back, the warmth in his expression making me want to say more, but I bite it back, shifting a little awkwardly in my seat.

“Uh, in the spirit of getting better at talking to each other,” I start, trying to sound casual but feeling the weight of the question already, “what are you feeling about George coming on the trip too?”

He looks at me, pausing. His lips press together in thought, like he’s weighing what to say. “Oh, uh, I hadn’t really given it much thought. I guess I was a little nervous about it—about one of you being... weird.” He shifts, uncomfortable with how vulnerable that sounds. “But to be honest, I do miss him as a mate. And if you’re cool with it, I’d like to still be his mate. Eventually. Probably not yet.”

I take a moment to process his words, nodding slowly. “Yeah, of course, that’s fine. I’d like to think we might be mates again too. But not anytime soon. Maybe in a year. Or two, even.” I almost laugh at the time frame, but it feels true enough.

He nods, still fiddling with the paper cup in his hands. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he mutters. “I’m okay with it too, though. I think we’ll figure it out.” He looks up at me, a little more serious now. “So, uh, as I was saying, I’m feeling fine about him being there. I cannae imagine it’ll be a problem... right?”

I meet his gaze. “I mean, yeah, I think it’ll be fine,” I say, I genuinely believe it. “I was just making sure you were cool.”

"I'm cool."

"Cool."

The moment lingers between us, the air thick with the things unsaid. It feels like we’ve put the weight of it all on the table for now, letting it settle quietly between us. At least for now, I think. But I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over. Not really.

The conversation shifts, though—slowly, almost imperceptibly. Now, it’s less about what we’re talking about and more about the rhythm we’ve found. Every question is prefaced with “in the spirit of getting better at talking to each other,” like some unspoken agreement to dig deeper, to actually listen.

There’s an odd comfort in this. In the awkwardness of it all. We’re no longer dancing around the hard stuff; now, we’re just… sharing. The words feel less guarded, more raw somehow. I can’t quite explain it, but it’s like each question pulls something new out of us, and I can’t help but feel like we’re both giving more than we expected.

“In the spirit of getting better at talking to each other, who was that girl from Dublin? The one Arthur talked about at that pre-drinks that one time?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, I stopped talking to her the day we met. She actually did move back to Dublin, mind.” He nods, eyes still focused on his empty McFlurry cup, but his lips twitch like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “In the spirit of gettin' better at talkin' to each other, is George good in bed?”

I freeze for a second, then look at him with a raised eyebrow. “Will! I am not answering that.”

He smirks, leaning back in his seat. “So that’s a yes then.”

I groan, putting my hand over my face. “Oh my God.” I shake my head, as if I’m trying to physically erase the embarrassment. “In the spirit of getting better at talking to each other, what were you and George talking about at Arthur’s sold-out tour party?”

He glances at hm, half-laughing, half-nervous. “Oh, he asked if we were talkin' again, an' I said not really, but I was going to try. He said he was happy to hear that. He also asked if he should say hi to you, but I told him I’d leave it if I were him.”

I'm quiet for a moment, staring out the front windsheid. “Huh. That’s not what I was expecting.”

He nods slowly, pushing his McFlurry cup around aimlessly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“In the spirit of gettin' better at talkin' to each other, did you talk major shit about me to Ruth? I just want to dodge another beer bein’ chucked on me, if that’s alright..”

I can’t help but laugh, but it’s a bit strained. “Uh, not crazy shit. She did try to convince me to hook up with Ieuan to make you talk to me.”

“Hey?” I can hear the disbelief in his voice.

I shrug, a little embarrassed. “It was mostly a joke, but it was funny.” He raises his eyebrows, clearly caught off guard, but doesn’t say anything else. “In the spirit of getting better at talking to each other, what did you say about our fight to Chris?”

He looks at me a little bewildered. “How d'you even know about that?”

“Chris told Arthur and Arthur told Ruth.”

He rolls his eyes, clearly feeling a bit betrayed by the gossip chain. “Slimy bastards.” he shakes his head, “I was tellin' him how I was happy we decided to be better at this stuff," he gestures between us with his spoon.  "but I also said that I reckon you didn’t quite see the full picture—that I was upset about stuff too.” He starts ripping the cardboard off of his McFlurry cup, his fingers focused on the task but his words feeling heavier. “But, uh, Still, I’ll own up — ghostin’ you was way worse, no two ways about it. And you apologised proper, so honestly, it’s no use dwellin’ on it.”

I hum in agreement, not quite able to put into words how much I appreciate hearing him say that. “In the spirit of getting better at talking to each other—”

“Hey, wait up, it’s my turn,” he says, grinning like he knows he’s about to stir the pot.

I roll my eyes, trying to keep things light, but my heart’s pounding in my chest.

“How big’s George, then? Say when.”

He holds out his hands in front of him, but I grab them before they can even move apart. I push them down quickly, feeling the heat in my cheeks. “Will! Stop it.”

He doesn’t move his hands, though. Our fingers stay interlaced, and now our faces are closer. I can’t seem to stop looking at his lips. My heart beats in my throat, and the space between us feels electric—too close, yet not close enough.

“You didn’t finish what you were sayin',” he says quietly, eyes flicking to my lips, then back to my eyes.

I try to speak, but it comes out as a soft breath. “Oh, uh…” I sputter, feeling like an absolute idiot. “In the spirit of getting better at talking to each other,” I whisper now, barely above a breath, “I overheard you talking to the older man next to us at the cooking class.”

He’s silent for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s thinking of a response, but it never comes. Instead, his gaze flicks back to me. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, barely audible, so soft I almost don’t hear it.

My breath catches in my throat. I can barely speak, but I force out a whisper. “Please.”

And then, he leans in, slow and purposeful. When our lips meet, it’s immediate—electric, like a spark igniting. There’s a hunger in it, a quiet urgency, and the confined space of the car makes everything feel closer, more intense. I shift, the seatbelt pressing against me, but I don’t care. I want to be closer, feel more of him, and before I know it, I’m leaning into him, letting the kiss deepen.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, his touch pulling me in, and I respond, the kiss becoming more insistent, more needful. Everything else fades into the background. The heat between us is undeniable, and I can feel the tension building, the shared connection, the promise of more.

It’s messy, it’s real, and it’s everything I never thought I’d want. But here, in this moment, it’s exactly right.

xxx

I’ve never travelled in a first-class carriage before. The seats are plush and inviting, covered in deep velvet, arranged so we face each other across a small, polished wooden table. Soft golden light spills from the overhead lamps, casting a warm glow that makes everything feel intimate — like the outside world has melted away into a quiet hum.

The windows are larger here, offering clearer views of the landscape as it slips past — fields blurring into towns, rain streaking down the glass in slow, lazy trails. It’s a far cry from the usual noisy rush-hour crush I’m used to.

I remember those long train rides from Manchester to London, the ones I took just to see George. The carriage would be crowded, noisy, full of strangers and suitcase wheels scraping against the floor. I’d clutch a lukewarm coffee and stare out the window, watching the miles tick by, the rhythm of the journey matching the nervous thrum in my chest.

George would sometimes do the same, making the trip in the opposite direction. There was a sort of comfort in those shared journeys — even when we were apart, the same tracks tied us together, the same clatter of wheels on rails carrying our hopes and regrets between cities.

But this — this first-class carriage — feels different. It’s quieter, softer. Like a moment stolen from the world. And somehow, sitting here with Will next to me, it’s easier to breathe, easier to believe that maybe the tracks ahead aren’t just lines on a map, but pathways to something new.

Will leans in close to say something in my ear—probably a stupid joke about Chris’s snack choices or Ruth’s knack for spraying herself while opening a can. I laugh too loudly, the warm cider already softening my edges, making everything feel a little easier.

I glance up and catch George looking at me.

It’s just a flicker of his eyes before he goes back to fiddling with his jumper sleeve and talking to Issac. But I felt it—that brief pause, like something unspoken passing quietly between us again.

Not jealousy. Not romance. Just recognition.

Recognition that this is weird. Or maybe that he fucked up. I’m not sure.

I twist the can in my hand, condensation sticking to my fingers. Will’s thumb brushes absently against my hip—he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It feels intimate. Public. I’m waiting for us to end up in the back of someone’s story.

Across from us, in our pod, Chris and Ruth are chatting.

“We’re getting off at Temple Meads, right?” Ruth asks, pulling me back to the group.

“Yeah,” I say. “I booked two Ubers to the hotel. We’ll have, like, thirty minutes to change. Tops.”

A bit later, somewhere just after Swindon, Chris offers me a job.

It’s casual—half-thrown across the table between bites of a sandwich he’s had stuffed in his hoodie pocket this whole time.

“You know we’ve got a role going,” he says, brushing crumbs off his lap. “Something backend. You’d be sick at it.”

I almost laugh. “Chris, I already have a job.”

But before I can finish the sentence, Will squeezes my hip. Not in a commanding way. Just... a reminder. Of what, I’m not sure. That I could say yes? That I don’t have to say no?

I don’t know why this is still a reoccurring theme. But in the spirit of being a better person, I don’t get upset at them bring it up again.

Instead, I blink. “I’ll think about it.”

Chris nods, satisfied. He turns to Ruth, to continue their conversation. They are deep —eyes lit up, animated hand gestures. I catch the word FIFA and realise they’ve somehow started playing togehter. Apparently, every time Ruth’s over at the flat, they’ve got a quiet little rivalry going. It’s sweet, actually. Ruth’s cheeks are a little pink, the way they get when she’s enjoying herself more than she expected to.

I glance across the aisle again.

Arthur F. is giggling—Liv must’ve said something chaotic and just out of earshot. Issac is drooped against the window like a cat in the sun. And George…

George is still staring at his phone, thumb scrolling like it’s a script he’s already memorised.

I wonder if he’s texting someone. Or just pretending to be busy. If it was the start of the year I would've shouted something at him, a jab or a joke. The fact that I cant makes me a bit sad.

I look back at Will.

"Are you going to Portugal next week?" I ask, keeping it neutral. "I’ve heard some brand is taking a handful of your mates.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Nah.” He takes a long sip of his cider. “The last trip I went on turned out to be the worst week of my life. I’d rather not jinx it.”

“What was your last trip?”

“Monaco.”

“Oh,” I say. He invited me on that one, but I couldn’t go because of work. And by the time he left, we weren’t talking. I watched all of it, the trip. Obsessively. “You looked like you were having a great time.”

“You watched someone’s vlog, I’m guessing,” he says, smirking at me.

“Yeah. It was a weird few weeks.” I break the tab off my cider can and drop it into the drink, watching it sink. “Why was the trip bad?”

“Well, we weren’t talking. That’s my bad,” he says. “And then the FAA did my boy Hamilton so dirty.”

Huh. I didn’t know that. That he had a bad time, I mean.

“I just basically got wasted and was thrilled when George missed the boat for the yacht party,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “Not that I told anyone. I just had a wine.”

More of the English countryside whizzes past us, endless fields and rolling hills blurring by in patches of green and gold. It’s still not lost on me just how cool it is to be able to travel across basically the whole country by train. The novelty hasn’t worn off yet — that feeling of being able to watch an entire country unfold from a seat, seeing it all shift and change outside the window.

It reminds me of high school, when I’d stay in Brisbane for an extra week after term ended, then catch the train to Kempsey. It would take ten hours — a whole day spent watching the scenery shift, crossing rivers, passing tiny villages that felt as distant as they were unfamiliar.

I tell Will this, and he looks at me with raised brows. “Kempsey? That sounds fake.”

I laugh, nudging him with my shoulder.

“It’s real,” I say, but I can tell by the look on his face that he’s not convinced.

We keep drinking. And then we really start drinking.

By the time were just outside of the Bristol city centre, Will and I are giggling disasters—flushed red, faces too close, absolutely no chill between us. I haven’t spoken to anyone else in over an hour. It’s like we’re under a little spell, fizzing in our own cider bubble. He kisses me, and everything else disappears.

Until it doesn’t.

The sharp click of an iPhone camera cuts through the moment like a record scratch.

“Dude,” I say to Ruth, turning to her.

“Whattttt?” she blurts out, wide-eyed. She’s buzzing too. Poor thing’s still got her nervous energy, even drunk.

“You’re both so cute.”

She buries her face in her hoodie sleeve and mutters something unintelligible.

“I’m glad you don’t hate me anymore,” Will says, grinning at her. “If you never tip a drink on me again, I’ll be happy.”

Ruth opens her mouth—probably to apologize—but doesn’t get the chance.

From across the aisle, George’s voice floats over, soft and unexpected.

“Yeah. Me too.”

My head turns before I can stop it.

He’s not looking at Will or me. He’s looking at Ruth.

And for a split second, he’s... open. Raw, almost. Then it hits him—whatever line he’s just crossed—and the shutters come back down. He shifts awkwardly, eyes darting back to his phone.

It breaks my heart. Just a little. Still.

Ruth looks like she might implode. “Oh my god, you two—I’m so sorry.”

Chris chokes on his drink. Arthur F. wheezes. The entire pod erupts into laughter.

“No, no. We deserved it,” George says, smiling. In a way that’s earnest and sorry.

Will lifts his can toward him in a mock-toast. “Too right.”

Ruth practically curls in on herself, eyes darting around for a trapdoor she can fall through.

The train jolts slightly, the announcer says we will be arriving in two minutes. Someone yells “Lads on tour!” from a few seats down. We all groan in unison.

George holds up his cider can like he’s giving a toast. “To Bristol. To chaos. And to surprising the absolute shite out of one of our best mates onstage tonight.”

“To chaos,” I echo, bumping cans with Ruth.

George doesn’t say anything, but he looks up again. At me this time. Not at Will. Not at the group. At me. And it’s not angry or bitter—it’s almost... fond. Or sad. Or maybe I’m just projecting.

I look away before I can make it into something it’s not.

xxx

Arthur is just electric on stage.

We’ve been placed in a roped-off section of the balcony now. Technically, we bought GA tickets, but... yeah. Eight mildly recognisable YouTubers (and their two weird friends) walking into a room full of people who definitely know who they are? Bit of an oversight.

Security clocked us almost immediately, then quietly ushered us away from the main floor and up here—what they called a “restricted view” zone. It’s not even bad. A little high up, sure, but it means we don’t have strangers clawing at us in the mosh pit. People can still see us, a few phones are pointed up instead of at Arthur, but everyone seems to be cool about it.

One of the guards even said he’d redirect anyone who tried to climb the steps, locked away in a stairwell behind us. It's as if we’re royalty. Or rabid animals. Either way, I appreciate the privacy.

But even from here, Arthur commands the entire room.

He’s glowing. He’s bouncing, stomping, grinning into the mic like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged. His voice fills the venue effortlessly, rough and bright, cutting straight through the chaos in my chest. I’ve seen him mess around with songs in the flat before — hummed bits in the kitchen, played chords while waiting for pasta to boil — but this is something else.

He belongs on stage. The lights love him. The crowd’s energy bounces off him and comes back louder.

And I’m sure, because of the earlier commotion, Arthur knows that some of his mates are here. But... does he know Ruth’s here?

That’s the part we don’t know.

Ruth, who has somehow convinced a security guard to listen to her entire life story in under three minutes, has now managed to talk him into letting her through to the front barricade. She’s marching past the railings like she’s storming the Bastille — and, of course, she’s dragging me along with her.

Instead of weaving through the crowd like a normal person, we’re escorted to the back of the venue. The security guard nods as we pass through a small, narrow walkway between the crowd and the stage, the air heavy with the thumping bass and the rising cheer of the audience. It’s an odd feeling, being separated from the rest of the crowd — a little too close to the action but still set apart, like we’re in a VIP section without the perks.

We’re placed right in front, just off to the side. It’s like we’re standing in the eye of the storm — everyone in behind us is dancing and singing, but we’re slightly apart, and the spotlights make us feel visible, like we’re part of the show without actually being part of the crowd.

And then Arthur spots her. He’s halfway through Dead at the Disco, shredding through a wild guitar run, his eyes locked on the crowd, but the second he sees Ruth — in her ridiculous, glittering bedazzled t-shirt, mouthing every word like her life depends on it — his whole face lights up.

The smile is massive. A little sickening, actually.

It’s so wide you’d think someone just told him he won the lottery and Taylor Swift’s private number.

The song ends with a burst of cheers, and Arthur takes a moment to kneel at the edge of the stage, chatting to a group of fans who say they’ve travelled from Sweden to be there. It’s cute. He thanks them twice, signs someone’s boot. He's still taking into the mic, cracking jokes.

Then he straightens up, walks back to the mic stand, and waves at his band. They gather close. The guitarist nods, adjusts his capo. The bassist laughs nervously.

Arthur turns back to the mic, running a hand through his hair.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “This next song is... a cover.”

The room goes mental. Everyone screaming. Hands in the air. Someone behind me audibly gasps.

“We’ve only practised it, like, three times in the last month,” he continues, licking his lips. He’s nervous now. Actually nervous. “But there’s someone here tonight... who I want to sing a song to.”

The crowd goes feral. You’d think Beyoncé just walked on stage.

He laughs into the mic, steps back like he needs space from the reaction.

“You know who you are,” he says. “Sing along if you know it.”

The band starts.

It’s not slow, but not upbeat either. Warm. Echoing chords that ripple across the venue like a tide. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it right away. My heart is thudding in my ears, and Ruth is already gripping my arm.

Then the lyrics start.

And she screams.

“Ohmygod ohmygod,” she gasps, shaking me now. “He’s singing my favourite Harry Styles song.”

I blink.

That’s what this is.

It’s Adore You. But stripped back, live, reimagined — no glossy synths, just a four-piece band bringing it to life with jangly guitar, kick drum, and Arthur’s gravel-soft voice turning it into something entirely his own.

I look over at Ruth. She’s absolutely stunned, mouthing the words like a prayer, eyes fixed on him like he hung the stars. And maybe, right now, he did.

He’s not even looking at the crowd anymore.

He’s looking right at her.

xxx

As the last chord of Adore You fades into cheers, Arthur steps forward again, flushed and glowing, already gearing up to speak to the crowd.

I lean into Ruth and press my hand lightly against her back.

“I’m gonna head back up,” I whisper-shout in her ear.

She doesn’t look at me — she’s too busy being mesmerised. Her mascara is hanging on, but only just. She nods, lips parted, eyes still locked on the stage like Arthur might vanish if she blinks.

I slip away quietly.

A security guard helps me to get back to the balcony stairs. My heart’s still thumping in my chest, not just from the music, but from everything — from the way Arthur looked at Ruth, from the way Will looked at me during the train ride, from the fact I’m tipsy and high on live music in a dim venue with far too many feelings hanging in the air.

By the time I climb the steps back to our little cordoned-off balcony nook, the opening chords of Hey Arthur! start — that stupidly catchy crowd-pleaser he always ends his sets with.

Will turns as I slip into the space beside him. His arm is instantly around my waist, pulling me in like he’s been waiting. I don't get to say hi to him. Our lips crash together before either of us says anything.

His hands are cold from the drink he’s holding, and the kiss tastes like cider and spearmint gum. His hoodie’s bunched between my fingers, and the music is pounding through the floor beneath us, matching the rhythm in my chest.

"You're aware there are cameras, right?" Chris calls out behind us. He sounds like he’s trying to laugh and also warn us at the same time.

Will doesn’t even look at Chris. He just catches my hand and pulls me toward the stairwell like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.

The security guard opens the door for us, and Will pulls me through. The door to the staircase clicks shut behind us.

We’re suddenly in a hush — not silent, but muffled. The music outside becomes bass and echo. There’s a dim amber glow from an old emergency light overhead, casting shadows on the concrete walls.

We don’t say a word.

He presses me gently against the wall, hands settling on my waist like he’s grounding himself. His forehead rests against mine for a moment — just long enough for me to feel the heat of his breath, the buzz of everything that’s gone unsaid. Then he leans in, and we’re kissing again.

This time it’s messier. Hotter. Less careful. His fingers dig slightly into my hips as I tug him closer by the collar of his hoodie, the concrete wall cool against my back in sharp contrast to the fire licking up the sides of my chest.

Somewhere beyond the stairwell door, the crowd is chanting, “Hey Arthur!” in that rowdy, chaotic way that only a room full of half-drunk superfans can. The sound echoes up into the stairwell like it’s part of the soundtrack to our own scene — one Arthur never meant to score.

Ruth is down there, living her fairytale. Meanwhile, I’m here, half-drunk, fully flushed, making out with a boy in a dim stairwell like I’m starring in some half-lit indie film no one will ever see. It’s ridiculous. It’s reckless.

It’s perfect.

He kisses me through the chorus, his lips sliding down to my jaw like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it. I gasp into his mouth, fingers knotting in the front of his hoodie. He laughs, low and soft, like I’ve said something funny without speaking.

Then the music cuts. The last chord hits.

We freeze.

A beat of silence — then the roar of applause outside, followed by muffled voices spilling into the hallway below us like a tide. The show’s over.

We break apart, not quite reluctantly. My chest is heaving. His hair is a mess. His thumb brushes against the corner of my mouth, catching on the smear of lip balm and adrenaline. He grins at me like a troublemaker caught mid-heist.

I try not to grin back. I fail.

We’re idiots.

But god, it’s fun being idiots together.

We return to our little balcony pocket hand in hand, cheeks flushed and hair wind-tossed from the stairwell. No one says anything at first — but they're all glancing at each other. George gives me a big, genuine smile. I can't help but give him one back.

There's a ripple of chatter through the group, a general commotion about what we’re doing next. Some want drinks, some want food, and someone — Chris, I think — half-jokes about calling it a night, only to be booed instantly. The obvious move is to go backstage first. Arthur knows we’re here. And Ruth is probably already there by now.

“We should go say hi before anything else,” I say.

A chorus of “Ohhhhhhh” rises up like a schoolyard taunt, teasing and knowing. I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Will’s hand is still loosely laced with mine.

xxx

Backstage smells like old beer, hairspray, and the heat of too many bodies in one small space. There are cables and cases and water bottles everywhere — the beautiful chaos of a show that’s just wrapped.

We round the corner, and there they are.

Arthur and Ruth, hand in hand, tucked into their own private bubble. She’s in his hoodie now — of course she is — and he’s whispering something into her ear that makes her laugh, all nose-scrunched and giddy.

Issac is the one to break the moment.

“Arthur! Fantastic show!” he calls out, arms thrown dramatically wide like he’s about to announce the second coming of Christ. He’s clearly a little drunk — not sloppy, just theatrical, his shirt rumpled and voice slightly too loud.

Arthur and Ruth jump apart, like they’ve been caught making out behind the bike sheds. Ruth immediately flushes. Arthur tries to play it cool, but it’s no use — the rest of the group floods him like a wave.

“You were insane, man!”

“That cover? You’re kidding me.”

“Dead at the Disco? My new religion.”

“Bro, I cried.”

“I actually teared up — no joke.”

“Guys!” Arthur finally calls out, voice half-lost in the overlapping chatter. “Thank you all for coming! A brilliant surprise.”

A cheer rises, messy and loud, someone clinking a drink can against someone else’s shoulder. Chris is doing a little drumroll on the wall with his fingers. Ruth actually curtsies, and Arthur groans into his hands.

Then the chaos shifts into its next phase.

“Where are we going now?”

“Someone said there’s a rooftop bar near here.”

“George, you’re from Bristol — where should we go?”

“I moved from Bristol. That doesn’t make me Yelp.”

“George, come on. Pub oracle. Speak.”

George sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling. “Alright, alright. There’s a pub near College Green that won’t card if you look confident, and a place with good chips and shite lighting that we used to sneak pints into after sixth form.”

“You had sixth form?” Will mutters near my ear. “Thought he crawled out of a vat of lukewarm Strongbow.”

I elbow him, and he catches my wrist in retaliation, grinning.

“You’re warm,” he says.

“Cider,” I reply. “And the stairwell was warm.”

Behind us, Ruth is whispering something to Arthur, and he just nods, leans in close, presses a kiss to her temple like it’s nothing. It hits me somewhere low in the chest — not jealousy, just that happy ache that comes from watching someone else’s joy in real time.

I feel Will’s fingers thread between mine again. Solid. Uncomplicated. For now.

“I vote pub first,” Chris announces. “And then we chase chaos.”

We’re trailing behind George down the street. I don’t feel weird about it. Not really. I want to ask if he’s going to go see his dad tomorrow — if he’s okay, really — but the moment isn’t right. Not tonight. Not when we’re all a little drunk, a little dizzy, high on each other’s laughter. And besides, George and I… we’re not exactly in the kind of place where that question would land softly.

It’s strange. But then again, so was that time he dated me for three weeks just to realise — or remember — that he didn’t like me like that. And never really did.

Will’s arm slides around my shoulders again, easy and instinctive, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He drapes himself over me, presses a kiss to the top of my forehead — warm, absentminded, fond. I look up, and I’m reminded just how tall he is. How solid. How strange it is that things feel easy again.

The night hums around us — streetlights glowing like fireflies, friends yelling about chips and directions and who owes who a pint.

I don’t feel like I’m on the outside of something. I feel in it. Like I belong.

God, it feels good to be young and alive and a little bit in love with the world again.

xxx

TagList: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz @luvnarthur @capnjosh @ellouisa17

[peachhcs]

could we maybe get a glimpse of younger matt & bella or maybe their first kiss?

admitting feelings during truth or dare is kind of cliche but i feel like that's something that would've happened that led to them finally admitting their feelings HAHA

au masterlist

they'd been dancing a weird in between since school ended and now it was august and matt was leaving for erie in four days with no further progress made in their relationship. his friends kept telling him he needed to make a move or else he'd go to erie and she'd find someone else, basically pressuring and fear mongering the boy into asking bella out before someone else could. he knew their teasing was stupid, but a small part of him worried that what if it actually did happen?

what if some other guy asked bella out and she liked him more than matt because he'd be around more?

matt tried not to let himself think that though because him and bella did have something going it was just a matter of taking the next step to ask her out. the hockey player just didn't know how to..

bella was witty and liked things that were funny, always mumbling sarcastic remarks about homecoming asks, so matt wasn't sure if he did something similar that she would even like it. he wanted her to like it and his time was running out.

they sat in his room together while she helped him pack up his clothes. the only sound was the soft hum of music coming from bella's phone because she hated doing things in silence, always needing to listen to some type of podcast or music which was a bit ironic considering she was a tennis player and played most of her games in silence.

matt kept stealing glances at her from across the way, his mind replaying every scenario that would lead to him asking her out, but anytime he thought he had a good idea, he chickened and got scared to actually do it.

"you're really bringing all of these shirts?" bella raised her eyebrow after folding what felt like the 10th collared shirt matt owned.

"i mean i kind of have to. i'm a hockey player," the boy defended and bella slowly nodded.

"right. you have as much clothes as i do," she laughed. matt rolled his eyes though.

"i do not."

"yes, you do. you already have two full suitcases," they looked at the two big suitcases up against the wall. the hockey player flushed and then shrugged.

"it's all my suits. i have to have style for the games," matt defended, but bella wasn't buying it. she just smiled though as she continued folding and they fell into another comfortable silence.

the whole thing felt impossible even though it shouldn't be. matt knew bella like the back of his hand yet he had no idea how to ask her out.

the doubt clouded his mind faster than he could stop it. what if he really didn't know her? he cursed internally, shaking his head. he couldn't think like that. he did know bella.

"so are you excited or nervous or what?" the girl talked again, her eyes landing on the boy on the other side of the bed.

"maybe both? i'm excited to play but nervous to leave home," matt admitted.

"at least you're not too far away, so if you did need something it's really not that far from home," bella said and the boy nodded. that was the bright side of it and he was glad he wasn't going far, far from home. 3 hours was nothing.

"yeah, right. i'm excited for the experience though. i can't wait for you to come see me play," matt grinned and bella flushed.

"you better save me a front row seat. is that how it works?"

"i'm not sure, but i'll see what i can do," the two shared a smile and matt swore his heart felt like a firework anytime bella smiled at him like that. it was so sweet and soft, so much more softer than how she smiled at everyone else like he was her soft spot.

after another eon of packing, matt suggested going for ice cream at the local place down the street. him and bella walked side by side, their hands nearly brushing as she talked on about her summer intensive she was going to next week.

"charlie's gonna be there so i'm excited to see her. i may even go see her over in vancouver before school starts again," the tennis player beamed.

"that should be fun if you do it. i don't think i've been to vancouver in awhile," matt hummed. he kept eyeing bella's hand that was dangerously close to his, wanting to just intertwine their fingers but taking that jump seemed way too scary in his mind.

he was gonna be in erie by the time he got the courage to finally do something about these feelings.

bella got her usual moose tracks while matt stuck with plain mint. after paying, they sat at one of the benches, soaking up the warm weather and people watching. bella loved people watching, always having some type of story to make up about each person that walked by.

"i think it's their first date," she muttered quietly when her and matt looked over at two teenagers around their age at the next table over.

"what if they're like us though and just friends?" the boy wondered and the girl shrugged.

"maybe, but it's giving first date. he's all nervous and trying to impress her by talking about the goals he scored," bella hummed and matt eyed the two again.

now how did that guy gain the courage to ask her on a date? matt was desperate for some of that courage.

"she definitely looks like a newly divorced mom trying to keep her kids happy," bella pointed out another woman who just rolled up into the parking lot.

"i don't know if you can say things like that," matt said but the girl shrugged.

"do you think i'm wrong?"

he looked at the mom getting her 3 kids out of the car. the baby was crying and the other older two were tugging on her shirt impatiently.

"no.."

"exactly. i'd hate to be a mom stuck with 3 under 3 and no partner. like, that's my hell," bella shook her head.

"do you think you would be in a position where that would happen?"

"well, no. i hope my partner would never do that to me, but you never know. i could marry a man that hates me," matt blinked at her words. he was definitely certain that he wouldn't leave her, but he was getting ahead of himself. he hadn't even asked her out and he was already thinking about their future with kids.

"well, i hope you don't marry a man that hates you," matt mumbled and he missed the way bella eyed him as if she was trying to get him to take the hint. unfortunately, the boy was a bit blind when it came to that kind of thing.

the sat there for another half an hour just making up funny stories about people that walked by before deciding to head back to the house where the hockey player had a few more things he needed to pack away. bella mentioned how she needed to do her own packing and told matt she'd see him later when they hung out with some friends.

the brunette was a bit bummed, but that meant more time to devise a plan to ask her out. he sat with his thoughts while packing, testing out loud different things he could say but all of it seemed a bit corny after hearing it leave his lips.

"hey..brought this up. are you..talking to yourself?" johnny stuck his head into his little brother's room. matt's face burned in embarrassment.

"uh thanks and uh..no. i wasn't."

"are you asking bella out?" johnny being the older brother he was just had to poke his business into everything.

"uh..yeah," it was useless to deny it.

"i fucking knew you two would get together. i called that shit from a mile away. kind of bad timing though since you're leaving.." johnny came further into the room and his brother rolled his eyes.

"yeah, don't remind me. i've been trying to think of something clever but it's just..it's not sounding right," matt hoped his brother would have something better than what he was planning.

"well she's never liked anything extravagant, so you don't need to make it big. the best experience i've had is when nothing is planned and it just comes out on a whim. that's how you do it."

"yeah, but that's you. that's now how i do things," the younger boy rolled his eyes again.

"i'm just saying though. sometimes being unprompted is the best way. you're hanging out again tonight. maybe it will just come out then," johnny shrugged.

"i doubt it. i'd rather just stick to planning it out," matt said.

"okay, whatever you think, but don't be surprised when it just rolls off your tongue," johnny left the room much to matt's relief because he was actually being no help and the whole asking bella out thing was starting to feel hopeless.

maybe he really did just need to let her find a guy here that would be around and had more courage that matt did right now. the hockey player cursed to himself again, his thoughts sour.

jen made everyone punch and cut up some fruit knowing how much the kids liked to snack. matt paced back and forth across the kitchen, his mom eyeing him every time he passed the counter.

“what’s up, schaef?” she finally asked.

“it’s nothing,” matt shook his head but his mom knew him better than that. she raised her eyebrow.

“you’ve been pacing for five minutes now. is something wrong?”

“no, nothing’s wrong. just thinking,” the taller boy mumbled. jen didn’t usually pry and always wanted her boys to tell her things on their own time, but she hadn’t seen matt look so distressed in a long time, so she wanted to try and get something out of him.

“are you nervous about leaving?”

“like sort of,” he shrugged.

“i get it. it’s sad to leave all of your friends, but erie isn’t even that far from here. i’m sure everyone will wanna come down to see you,” jen assured and matt nodded.

she knew she still hadn’t gotten to the root of her son’s quietness though. he was a bit spaced out standing at the edge of the counter so jen kept talking, "when does bella leave for her summer intensive?"

matt's head snapped back to his mom at the mention of her, "uh..like a few days after i leave."

"is she sad you're leaving?"

"i think so, yeah. i dunno. she probably doesn't want me seeing her sad," the boy chuckled and his mom nodded.

"she's always been strong like that. you two have been hanging out a lot this summer."

"i mean we always hang out a lot," matt shrugged, not sure what his mom was getting at.

"i know, it just seems like more this summer. her mom and i always talked about how you two might end up together," jen was teasing but she quickly realized maybe the teasing was true because matt went quiet again. he looked at his mom and she raised her eyebrow.

"did i hit a nerve?" jen wondered and the hockey player flushed. he hid his face in his hands for a moment before nodding.

"we've been like..i don't know. figuring stuff out? we've been like..dancing around each other all summer and now i'm leaving and i just don't know what to do," matt admitted. his mom's expression softened out as she paused what she was doing to walk around the counter and hug him.

he folded into his mom's arms like she would just tell him everything would be okay.

"i get it. liking your best friend can be scary, especially when you're leaving, but if you really her then the distance doesn't matter."

"i know, but i just..i don't know how to like..ask her out. she's not the kind of girl who likes really showy things so i don't wanna disappoint her or something," matt frowned as he pulled away from his mom's hug.

"sometimes the best asks come when you're least expecting them. don't pressure yourself, okay? whatever happens, i know she'll like it," jen smiled.

"that's what johnny said. i just hate going with the flow. i'd rather have a plan and stick to it."

"and that's okay too, but i promise it will work out. don't worry," the older woman squeezed his arm. matt nodded, still feeling the same way he did before he told his mom what was going on, but this time he decided to take the advice and just hoped something would come out of his mouth by the end of the night.

—

"truth or dare, matt," bryce looked at the hockey player, a smirk on his features. the boy flushed and eyed his friend with a look that said "don't try anything" because he knew his friends would say something stupid.

they'd been playing truth or dare for the last hour, most of it being stupid dares like posting something embarrassing on a story. it was all lighthearted but matt knew his friends loved to stir the pot and with them knowing he'd been trying to ask bella out...they were bound to try something.

"truth," matt said, watching how bryce leaned back in his chair and looked at their other friends.

bella sat on matt's other side oblivious to the looks being shared.

"is it true you have a crush on bella?"

the entire group fell silent. matt’s face reddened and he didn’t even dare to look over at bella beside him. god, he should’ve known his friends would say something like that. bryce was snickering with the others and poor matt was too red in the face to say anything.

this was not how he planned for things to go.

“come on, matty. answer the question,” bryce urged but nothing fell from matt’s lips. he was frozen in fear and embarrassment.

“i’m gonna get more snacks,” bella determined, swiftly standing up and turning on her heel before matt could even look at her.

he watched how she went inside and then he glared at his friends when he regained his composure.

“dude,” he looked at them.

“what? it was about time,” bryce mumbled.

“why’d you chicken? you could’ve told her!” nathan exclaimed.

the hockey player shook them off, quickly standing to go find bella and apologize for whatever just happened. he ignored the way his friends mumbled things under their breath as he walked away.

when he slid the doors back open his gaze flicked around the kitchen in search of her. god, what if she hated him now?

he heard rustling coming from the pantry. matt carefully poked his head in, relieved when he saw bella reaching for a bag of peanuts. she was on her tiptoes, her fingers brushing the bag but she kept missing it. she turned when she felt matt’s presence.

“can you help?” she motioned to the bag.

“oh, yeah.”

he easily reached the top shelf. when he handed her the bag he studied her face for any hurt or whatever from bryce’s comment, but there wasn’t anything.

“what?” she laughed when she noticed matt staring at her.

“i’m uh..i’m sorry for..bryce. he was just being stupid,” matt shook his head but bella raised her eyebrow.

“why are you apologizing? it was funny.”

the hockey player blinked. he studied her face for another second and still, there was no hurt or anything in the expression.

“you thought it was funny?”

“well, yeah. i mean i know bryce is always joking with that stuff so i didn’t take it personally. plus, i don’t need bryce telling me you have a crush on me for me to find out,” she laughed again and matt was speechless.

she knew? the whole time?

“wait you know?” he muttered and bella nodded.

“for the record, i like you too and i know i wouldn’t marry a man that hates me because i know you could never hate me.”

there was so much that just happened in the last thirty seconds. bella was staring up at matt still while he tried wrapping his head around everything.

“is this the part where i ask you out?” it was all he could think of, his cheeks reddening but not out of embarrassment this time.

bella giggled, “if you want it to be.”

“would you wanna be my girlfriend?” he smiled and bella did too.

“i thought you’d never ask.”

it happened so fast. matt leaned down to close the space left between them, his lips on bella’s in seconds. it was cliche to kiss in the pantry, but it was also perfect.

sure, matt never had a full plan, but this was probably the best outcome he could’ve gotten.

when they pulled apart there were big smiles on each of their faces.

“ask me the truth or dare next and we’ll go shock them,” bella smirked and matt laughed.

they went back outside where the others watched them carefully. bryce raised his eyebrow, wondering if anything happened. matt didn’t say anything as he pretended to ponder who to choose next.

“okay, bella. truth or dare?”

“wait, wait. you didn’t even answer yours,” nathan cut in.

“no, it’s not true,” matt tried to hide the grin on his lips while his friends rolled their eyes.

he looked at bella who raised her eyebrow.

“truth or dare?”

“dare.”

“i dare you to kiss me,” matt said and without hesitation, she reached forward to capture matt’s lips in hers.

they could hear the gasps leave everyone’s lips watching them kiss.

“hold on a minute,” bryce spoke up, confusion written all over his features.

“oh something totally happened between them when they went inside!” nathan exclaimed.

matt and bella didn’t say anything except smile at each other when they pulled apart.

[lith-myathar]

.

[skitskatdacat63]

Fernando Alonso × Unconventional Drinking Implements

[dyketennant]

oh i can already tell i’m about to have some really unpopular opinions about the edge of sleep tv show

[vampireradiation]

Man, I would find so much solace and comfort in the obsessive love related tags if they weren’t all just like kinda unwell teenagers roleplaying anime characters. I’m not one to shit on what mentally ill young people do to cope so whatever but like… girl you’re not a yandere it’s just your first crush please stop.

[seilon]

I just realized I didn’t really announce this despite it being a Big Deal but. finally got a top surgery date and secured it with a big ol deposit. august 5th. kinda hard to process in a way

[flaming-toads]

.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Oh and aren't they also gonna charge like 50 USD for that book too? Yeesh

I haven't seen the price range, but yeah I don't know. I mean, I'm sure the artbook part will be super cool! I'm actually curious of what it may reveal about the game's development, this part is interesting to me. But yeah, they *really* could have done without the Timeline shenanigans. People would have bought the book without that incentive.

[skeletalheartattack]

If you were a chulip character how would players kiss you?

find and present to me a working copy of Dragon Ball Z Budokai 1 for the PlayStation 2 and you can kiss my stupid ass

[goldensunset]

re: the music rant I tagged you in I am so sorry for tagging you in my double-dose caffeine fueled haterism explosion post. truly was off the shits and did not realize how much random garbage talking points I was ready to spill on the first person to ask

but i love haterism…..

[carmenized-onions]

chip having ‘wannabe x but i’m a cheerleader’ vibes is canon actually. and on that note: anyone who doesn’t vote syd in that poll is a coward!! ok maybe not but like LET CHIPPY KISS GIRLS

also tumblr on app doesn’t give me character limits so y’all are gonna hate me when the friday chapters drop!! >:) weeeewooo

let's check in on that poll again, actually, i think last time i checked richie lost second place to her--

OH SHIT SHE'S IN SECOND BABY!!!! GO SYD GO SYD!

Genuine fact, when I was kicking around the idea of a character in The Bear that was a fixer, I thought a queer handywoman that Sydney falls Head over Tails for would be vv fun-- I also thought (and still do think) that if Tony were genuinely a canon character, Richie or Syd would be so perfect for her. And she them. SO THIS ALL TRACKS HONESTLY. I also should say, I swear I'm not a coward, I only voted for Mikey because I thought he didn't have a fighting chance against Syd-- I could not have been more wrong.

Funny enough, speaking of, the Chippy v Tony poll is still running and Chippy is winning.... The way you bitches fold for the older brother,,,,, i'm snitching i am-- jkjkjkjk, like I said, also prefer Chip-- It's just like. Fun to say Chip.

Also Friday has dropped as you've probably seen your ass get tagged in it and i am SO excited to hear what you think-- Though I know collecting all of those thoughts probably takes a good amount of effort, so DON'T SWEAT TAKIN TIME AND BREAKS W/ IT!!!

[lesbianfakir]

What came first, the depressive episode or the art block?

[wtfspocks]

It’s overthinking o’clock