#it just feels elegant and mature and loving but also casual? in a way

[choccy-milky]

Their kids are so cute omg i'm gonna dir of adorableness

lewis: then die LMFAOO NO BUT FRR THANK UU IM GLAD U THINK SO🥹🥹💖💖💖all the love for them (esp lewis) gave me the idea to draw him deflecting all the attention so ty for giving me the excuse to post it....we luv our aloof distant boi🥰

its funny bc i was JUST talking about this recently, but i dont like pet names at all BAHAH, hence why seb and clora dont call each other anything, not even nicknames.... seb calls her the light/princess/a bird sometimes as playful and teasing jokes, but doesnt actually address her like that. and clora always calls sebastian by his full name as well, bc i was basing her dialogue/my writing off the game dialogue...bc for as close as anne and ominis are to seb, both of THEM call him sebastian in full, so maybe it was a victorian thing that nicknames werent really common? plus clora's so proper that it just feels like its in her personality to always call seb "sebastian"... i feel like if she ever DID call him "seb" he'd do a double take and be like ...HUH? who are you???......are you polyjuiced? LMAO. i do imagine seb calling clora "love" when they get older tho (not in hogwarts) bc i like how simple it is, and imagining him saying stuff like 'careful, love' makes me🫠🫠🫠🫠

aw TYY💖💖 honestly i didnt give the victorian setting TOO much thought, other than making clora more modest/not used to wearing trousers etc. like the actual victorian courting process was that youd ALWAYS be chaperoned by at least 1 other person and you wouldnt be able to kiss or anything, so the fact that our mcs are in a co-ed school with free reign already ruins that, so i wouldnt worry too much about it. a lot of it you can just wave off with the excuse that wizard society is more advanced than muggle society, which is true anyway LOL. i just kept the parts that i thought were fun/made it feel victorian ENOUGH but got rid of the stuff that was too annoying (one big example being the amount of clothing they wear....i said it in the notes for one of my chapters, but i wasnt about to make seb go through like 5 different layers just to touch cloras titty LMFAO) and no i didnt have 1 specific website i used, id just google "blank in victorian times" and look through all the articles and resources i could on that subject, and take little bits of it. SO YEA i wouldnt worry about it too much, just take what you want if you think it could enrich your story, and leave stuff out if its annoying to deal with BHAHA. and GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR WRITING!!💖💖

BAHAHA yeah sebs bark was defs bigger than his bite when it came to actually having kids/getting clora pregnant LOL. he defs loves the pregnancy part, but i feel like seeing her go through the actual labour was super hard on him/made him feel guilty bc he hates to see her in pain, let alone bc of HIM. not to mention that i imagine he would still work even once they have kids, so to leave clora with like 6 kids by herself isnt something he would have wanted to do LOL. once both lewis and celeste are in hogwarts tho i actually imagine seb and clora still doing curse breaking as well (albeit less dangerous jobs/not as far away) BUT YES having a third kid that looks like seb and is sassy like anne would be SO CUTEEE...a happy accident is a good idea too, tho i kinda like the idea of it being cloras idea.....like, she gets baby fever again now that the kids are kinda growing up and sebs like no i dont wanna put u through that again... but obvs seb wouldnt be able to resist if clora was begging seb to put a baby in her LMFAOOO its already as good as done at that point😇😇 AND THANK YOU, and im glad you liked it!!!🥹💖💖💖

@the-kcm-muggleborn AWWW ur right thats so pretty.....ty for showing me!!🥹and im glad it make you think of clora...SHE WOULD APPROVE OF THESE STUDIES👌⭐🌙

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You weren’t meant to stand out—just orbit quietly beside the ones who burned brighter. But then Crowe noticed you. With his crooked smile and sunlit warmth, he pulled you in, piece by piece. Late nights. Lingering touches. The kind of closeness that made you forget how far you'd come just to feel seen.

To be chosen by him felt like a miracle. But even miracles cast shadows. Set against the glow of late-night party event, sharp smiles, and a moon who always stood just a little too far outside the spotlight, this is a story about timing, tenderness, and the truths we bury in our silences. After all, some stars shine for the world. 

And some are only for another star.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: from Anonymous. Not gonna lie, I’m writing this because Crowe’s felt like a stranger lately—faded into the background, and I don’t even know when. Perfect time to change that… and maybe break some hearts.

So, here’s the setup: Brittney—fashion major for sure—needs a model for her final piece. You volunteer. Simple, right? I also added my favorite song, Reflections by The Neighbourhood. Listen to it at the end. It’s perfect. T-T. bro i kinda cried writing this...

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: crowe x gn! reader, morally grey reader??, established relationship, mutual pinning, angst, emotional rollercoaster, slow burn, unrequited love, one-sided love.

The student council room was quiet

Too quiet, for a space usually crackling with fake smiles and veiled threats behind designer coffee cups. Today, it was just you and Crowe. No council members, no sycophants, no interruptions. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the sharp click of your heel tapping against the polished surface of the desk you were perched on.

Not seated at it. On it.

The chairs, the long table, the gilded emblems of prestige—they were all part of the decor. Crowe sat in one of them, fingers laced loosely under his chin, posture proper, however, gaze soft. He watched you the way someone watches a lit match near gasoline: unreadable, but not uninvested.

You stared past him at the window, where the night bled into the high-rise skyline of Titan City like oil in water. Neon signs blinked far below, the lights of Olympus University’s main campus flickering like fireflies trapped in a jar. Cold glass and concrete, all dressed up in elegance.

That was the city. That was the school. That was the game.

“Astrophile,” you said at last, the word tasting expensive in your mouth. You glanced at him. “Funny name for an event run by people who spend their lives in the dark.”

Crowe smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that slow, familiar way that made him look both amused and a little smug.

“It means someone who loves stars,” he said, voice soft but sure. “The sky kind. Not the celebrity kind. Though, here… they probably think it’s both.”

You scoffed under your breath, the sound almost a laugh. “Of course they do.”

Crowe leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he folded his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling like the constellations might be painted there.

“It started a few years ago,” he said. “A high-society thing, strictly invite-only. The idea was to celebrate the brightest students—the future of the elite. They picked the top 1%, dressed them in silver and black, threw them under chandeliers, and called it destiny.”

“Sounds cult-y.”

“It is. Just with better lighting.”

You snorted, gaze flickering back to the skyline, but your attention stayed tethered to Crowe—the way his silhouette leaned slightly toward you, his thigh brushing yours with casual closeness. His presence was a quiet kind of gravity, the kind you didn’t always notice until the world tilted slightly and you realized he was the only thing holding you steady. 

In the reflection on the glass, his outline blurred with yours like two pieces of a shadow that had learned to overlap. 

“So, what? They gather a bunch of legacy kids, pour expensive wine, and pretend they're the second coming of the stars?”

Crowe offered a small shrug, his voice low. “Basically. It’s branding. A night to remind everyone who runs this place.”

“And you’re invited,” you said, not asking—because you already knew.

Crowe didn’t deny it. He just gave a slow nod, his fingers rising to rub the back of his neck like the motion might relieve some unspoken pressure. His gaze dropped to the floor before he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers threaded together in a tense, white-knuckled grip. 

“Yeah. I have to go. It’s… complicated why I ever have to.”

You studied him, head tilted slightly, trying to read the silence between his words. “Then why even go?” you asked, voice quieter now, but edged with that signature dry note you always carried when concern was disguised as sarcasm. “You know I could come with you. Be your emotional support partner or something. I clean up nice.”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His head turned toward you slowly, like he didn’t want to say it—like the answer was heavier than he’d like to admit.

“Well�� you can’t,” he said finally. “Not this one.”

Your brows lifted, not in offense but surprise. Crowe had never said no to you. Not directly. Not like that. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight behind them. Measured. Certain. Kind, even. But final.

He must’ve seen the flicker of confusion cross your face, because he softened, adding, “After the event, I’ll come over. Your place. We’ll order something greasy, you’ll put on one of those awful romantic comedies with the rain-drenched kisses and bad lighting, and I’ll pretend not to enjoy them.”

You blinked at him, caught in that quiet moment of dissonance where nothing felt wrong but everything felt off. A part of you itched to ask more, to tug at the loose thread he didn’t seem ready to let unravel. But another part—deeper, sharper—recognized the shift in his tone. 

This wasn’t just an event. Not for him. 

Whatever Astrophile was, it wasn’t a party. Not really. So you exhaled, steady and slow, and nodded. Just once. Letting it go—but only for now. Whatever this was, Crowe would tell you eventually.

No—fuck that. 

You already knew.

You knew about Astrophile before Crowe ever said a word. Poor kids always knew about it—like how rats knew where the poison was kept. 

It wasn’t just a party. It was the party. 

Invitation-only, legacy-guarded, drenched in soft gold lighting and stinking of old money and newer sins. A place where the heirs of corporate empires, aristocratic bloodlines, and political dynasties came together to congratulate each other for surviving another year of inherited relevance.

They dressed it up as networking. Branding. Prestige. But everyone else knew it for what it was: a modern-day masquerade ball for the ruling class, draped in opulence to mask its rot.

You didn’t need Crowe to explain that to you.

Simple, sharp-edged thoughts rattled through your skull like bullets in a chamber: ‘You weren’t here to beg for a place at the table. You were here to take it.’ What you felt wasn’t admiration or envy. Not even ambition. It was colder. Sharper. More enduring.

A fixation. An obsession.

Everyone wanted to be high-class. That was the disease. The dream sold in every magazine, every streaming drama, every admissions brochure. Even those who’d never see wealth pretended to wear its scent. But for people like you, the truth was different.

There was a line. Thick, gleaming, and deliberate. And it wasn’t just about money—it was about access. Ancestry. Advantage. Power passed down through last names and trust funds, through club memberships and generational seats on the Olympus board.

If you weren’t born into it, you were born beneath it.

At University Olympus, that reality wasn’t whispered—it was branded into the architecture. Gold in the trim, pedigree in the curriculum, and secrets baked into every ivy-covered wall. 

Here, your family’s worth meant more than your personal achievements. Your name got you further than your GPA. You could vanish for months, cheat through every class, and still walk the stage if your father donated a library wing.

You were low-class. You knew what that meant.

People like you weren’t expected to survive Olympus, let alone thrive. You were the diversity hire. The quota student. A sympathetic marketing piece for their brochures. Smile for the camera, then vanish before you embarrass anyone.

And when you stepped out of line?

They erased you.

Quietly. Efficiently. They called it attrition. You called it what it was—institutional execution.

The ghosts of students who came before you lingered in the silence. In empty chairs. In files quietly deleted. They had screamed once, fought back, and held signs. And still, they disappeared.

But you were different.

You didn’t come here to play fair. You didn’t come here to smile and curtsy. You came to adapt. Your family needed you at that party—not because of some glittering dream, but because survival demanded it. 

How else would the right people see you? How else would they start saying your name in rooms you’d never stepped into?

Every glance had to be weaponized. Every move, a calculation. 

You’d bleed charm when needed, bite when necessary, and burn if cornered.

University Olympus wasn’t a school—it was a war zone dressed in ivy and tradition. A place where one wrong step could blackball you forever. But if you played it right? If you moved fast, struck clean, and kept your face pretty and your intentions hidden?

Then everything will go perfectly, as planned. 

Understand that climbing up in Titan City had nothing to do with merit. It wasn’t about how hard you worked, how smart you were, or how much you wanted it. 

That was the story they told people like you.

The truth was sharper. Colder. Power wasn’t earned—it was acquired. Leveraged. Inherited. You got in by knowing the right people, by being in the right rooms, by saying the right things to the right names.

And what better room than Astrophile?

One of the most exclusive events in the city. Masked as a fashion show, wrapped in silk and diamonds, but underneath—power. That’s what it really was. A glittering chessboard of influence. The kind of place where legacies mingled, where alliances were forged over champagne, where one conversation could change your entire future.

It wasn’t about the clothes.

It was about being seen. About the right photos. The right whispers. 

The right eyes are noticing you.

If you wanted to rise in Titan City, you had to be there.

Your eyes narrowed, lost in thought—calculating, cold. Crowe caught the flicker of it instantly, like a spark behind glass. Then came the soft click—the quiet creak of your desk chair shifting beneath you.

Crowe's hand slid up your thigh, slow and unhurried, interrupting your thoughts without apology. His fingers curled lightly against your skin, grounding you in the present. You didn’t move—not when he stepped between your legs like he belonged there, not when his knees brushed yours, not even when his breath kissed your lips.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His brows furrowed, eyes darker than usual, not with desire, however, a hint of something heavier. Guilt. Regret. Maybe both.

Then, without a word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or rough, or hungry. It was simple. 

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that begged for permission. It didn’t need to. It was his way of pulling you back from the edge—away from the cold machinery of your mind, the calculated climb, the next move, the next lie. His lips lingered, warm and sure, pressing against yours like a silent apology. Like he wished this world didn’t work the way it did. Like he hated himself a little for being part of it.

You blinked, caught between strategy and softness, letting the silence stretch. Then—“Oh,” you murmured, lashes lowered, voice dripping with feigned disappointment. A pout curled at the edge of your mouth as you tilted your head slightly. “Guess I’m not rich enough for Astrophile, huh? A shame. I’d look so good in designer…”

Crowe exhaled, his forehead brushing against yours. “Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” you asked innocently, fingers trailing up the hem of his shirt as if you weren’t already slipping back into performance.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. 

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You went still. Just for a second.

His hands stayed firm on your thighs, however, his grip had gentled. Like he was scared of pushing too far. “You wanted to go. I know that. And I—I could’ve pulled strings, but I didn’t. I didn’t think it mattered that much to you.”

You gave him a small, practiced smile. “It’s just a party, Crowe.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

And there it was again—that look in his eyes. The guilt. The ache. The knowing. He knew you. Knew how hard you worked to hide your hunger behind elegance. Knew that Astrophile wasn’t about dresses or runway lights. It was about proximity to power.

You tilted your head, fingers idly toying with the collar of Crowe’s shirt—just enough to remind him how close you were. “You didn’t think I could handle it?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

His jaw clenched, just slightly. “I didn’t think they deserved you.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You blinked once, then nearly laughed. Almost. But instead, you leaned in again, your lips brushing his—soft and ghostlike, a whisper of affection you didn’t let linger. “You’re sweet,” you murmured, feigning warmth.

But Crowe didn’t smile.

“And maybe I’m selfish,” he said, quieter now, voice raw and stripped of all his usual steadiness. “Because I didn’t want you to go into that place and have to become like them to survive it.”

You stilled, fingertips pausing on the fabric between you. His words pulled something uncomfortable to the surface—something familiar. Something you thought you'd buried. For a moment, you just breathed, eyes locked on his, reading the guilt sitting just beneath his gaze.

Then you leaned back on your hands, letting your lips part in a slow, calculated sigh. “You know, I could almost believe you’re trying to protect me.”

“I am,” he said, and it wasn’t just a response—it was a confession.

Your smile returned, but this time it wasn’t soft. It was the smile of someone who’d already made their next move. “Too late for that,” you whispered, the words tasting like the truth. 

Because while Crowe’s guilt sat in the room like heat from a dying fire, something colder had already taken root in you. Something that moved fast. Precise. Inevitable.

Plan A was dead.

But Plan B?

Plan B had a tall height—and a pair of high heels.

“You wanna do what now?” Brittney stared at you like you’d just announced you were going to hijack a helicopter.

You barely looked up from your phone. “To go to Astrophile.”

She blinked once. Then again. “Babe, that’s not an easy party to get into. You’re gonna get kicked out.”

The two of you sat on the sun-drenched campus lawn, a pastel pink blanket spread beneath you like a magazine spread. The breeze carried a hint of fresh-cut grass and distant flowers. It should’ve been peaceful, but Brittney—never one for stillness—looked like she was preparing to fight off a dragon. Arms crossed, legs angled like a blade, and her eyes—razor-sharp and skeptical—trained on you.

You knew she’d react like this. Brittney wasn’t just anyone—she was Brittney. Gyaru perfection: long legs, longer nails, sun-kissed skin, and hair that curled like it had been kissed by gods. Everything about her screamed power, the kind earned through sweat, manipulation, and perfectly curated Instagram posts.

But she hadn’t always been up top.

You’d read between the lines. Middle-class girl with expensive taste and dreams too big for her zip code. Not rich enough for Olympus' elite, not poor enough to be invisible. Which meant she'd been chewed up by both sides—mocked for dreaming too loud, too bright, too unapologetically.

So she made herself untouchable. Every outfit, every word, every strut across campus was armor.

And right now, she was using all of it against you.

“You do realize Astrophile is invite-only, right?” Brittney said, raising a brow as she flicked a crumb off her thigh. “Like, you’re not just gonna walk in with a cute face and a half-baked plan.”

You tilted your head and gave her a slow, knowing smile. “I know.”

She froze. For once, her perfectly lip-glossed mouth parted in visible disbelief. You watched the gears shift behind her eyes—calculating risk, outcome, and just how badly this could come back to bite both of you. “You’re insane,” she said finally, almost in awe. “Clinically.”

“And yet,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms behind your head with faux ease, “you’re not shutting it down.”

She didn’t deny it. Because even if Brittney talked like a realist, she moved like a strategist. And she knew, maybe better than anyone, that in a city like Titan, appearances weren’t just everything—they were currency. And you were prepared to cash in.

Brittney sighed, stretching her long legs out on the blanket as the breeze toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Look. If I could help, in my words, you don’t need to go to Astrophile. Do you even realize how rare it is to land an invite? It’s damn near sacred. I’ve only been because I know someone who knows someone, and even that was barely enough. Unless you’ve got the right connections, a dress worth more than your tuition, and the kind of social resume that makes you look born into wealth…”

She let the implication hang.

“And the tickets?” she scoffed. “Don’t get me started. You’d have better luck sneaking into the Vatican in hot pink heels.”

You shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Yeah. I know.”

Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Then why?” 

Because you had to, duh.

But Brittney didn’t operate on emotional pleas. She respected power plays, not poetry.

You leaned forward, voice calm, collected. “Astrophile isn’t just about fashion. It’s a signal. A stage for the hidden elite. The kind of people who don’t bother with résumés because they’re the ones writing them. I don’t care about the show—I care about the people in the front row.”

Her gaze didn’t break. You saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. She knew you weren’t wrong.

“You and I both know that Olympus doesn’t give a damn about students unless they see a headline in it. I’m not going to Astrophile to be seen—I’m going because it’s the only room in this city where not being there counts against you.”

There were a few seconds of silence. The kind that clung to the edges of your words like static. Then Brittney sighed—long, dramatic, and somehow still graceful. 

“And what? Do you think just walking in with my name is enough?”

“Maybe, I think it’s a start.”

Another pause. She clicked her tongue and leaned back on her elbows, eyes lifted to the sky. “You’re ridiculous.” But even as she said it, she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

You were about to nudge her again when her phone buzzed, the soft chime breaking through the lull. 

Brittney glanced down—and immediately froze. 

Her expression shifted. Not her usual dry skepticism or feigned boredom. No—this was different.

“What?” you asked, already leaning in. 

She angled her screen away like it was instinct, brows furrowed as she read. “It’s from Olympus.”

That made you sit up.

The university didn’t contact this side of useless students unless they wanted something or needed something from them to look good in the press. Brittney scrolled with her thumb, silent for a beat. 

Then: “No way…”

“What? What?”

She looked at you, stunned. “They’re inviting all Fashion majors to submit designs for Astrophile. Like... actual student representation. Showcasing our work.”

You blinked. Then blinked again. That was big.

You should have expected it. Olympus was always trying to claw its way into the good graces of the elite. And Astrophile? It wasn’t just a fashion event—it was a move. A coronation. Where influencers were chosen, not found. Where names were turned into brands.

And Brittney?

She wasn’t just a Fashion major. She was one of the best. Known for her bold design taste, sharp silhouettes, and tailoring that could make a mannequin cry. If anyone had the credibility to be there, it was her.

You looked at her, seeing the shift—the calculation, the rare vulnerability she kept buried under bravado. Because despite everything, part of her wanted this too. She just never wanted to be seen wanting.

“This is it,” you said, your voice lower now. “You get your name in. I get inside. We both win.”

Brittney stared at her screen, then at you.

No sarcastic jab. No clever, backhanded compliment. Just silence.

Then, finally—soft, almost like it slipped out without permission— "They never do this. Ever."

You leaned forward slightly, studying her expression. “And you’re going to enter?”

She didn’t answer right away. And that meant something.

Because Brittney didn’t hesitate.

She was the kind of woman who executed decisions with the precision of a scalpel—calculated, clean, deadly. If her name was going to be attached to something, it had to be flawless. She wasn’t just some fashion major sketching gowns in a notebook during lectures—her work had already earned whispers in underground showcases and campus gossip. She’d been biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But Astrophile?

That wasn’t just a stage. It was a spotlight.

And you didn’t just show up in the spotlight unprepared.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, tossing her phone onto the blanket with a thud, the screen face-down like it had offended her.

“Of course I’m entering.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “Perfect.”

Her gaze cut to you, sharp and suspicious. “Perfect, why?”

You didn’t flinch. “Because now it looks like we’re both going to Astrophile.”

Her eyes narrowed, head tilting with something between curiosity and irritation. “Last I checked, you weren’t a fashion major,” she said, tone edged in polished venom. “So, unless you’re planning on crashing the event in a stolen gown, how exactly are you getting involved?”

You gave her your most nonchalant smile, laced with mischief. “Easy,” you said. “I’ll model for you.”

That earned you a full pause. One heartbeat. Two.

Then she laughed—short, breathy, involuntary. Not the cold, rehearsed kind she gave to flatter donors or manipulate professors. This was different. Sharper. Realer. It cracked out of her like a fault line giving way.

“You’re serious?” she asked, crossing her arms, the corner of her lip twitching. “You? A model?”

You arched a brow, feigning offense. “Why not?”

Her expression shifted—still amused, but with something else beneath it. A touch of disbelief. A spark of interest. A test. She scanned you, gaze assessing, like she was sizing up a dress form.

“It’s not that you’re bad,” she said finally, eyes lingering on your face. “You’re cute—annoyingly so. But modeling?” She let out a breathy laugh and waved a hand, gesturing vaguely in your direction. 

“You’re just so... you.”

You tilted your head, playing innocent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brittney didn’t answer at once. Her gaze held yours, lingering—too long to be casual. Like she was digging through your eyes for something unspoken, something hidden behind the bravado.

Then she sighed. A long, theatrical exhale, like the weight of the moment demanded it. With a dramatic rub to her temple, she finally spoke. “Look. Again—you’re hot, okay? Pretty, even. But modeling? It’s not just about looking good. It’s a discipline. It’s knowing how to command a room without opening your mouth. It’s being aware of every inch of your body—how it moves, how fabric reacts to it, how light cuts across it. It’s understanding angles, tension, and control. You can’t just be different. You have to be intentional. Every blink, every breath, every step.”

Her words landed like a checklist, and you knew she wasn’t trying to be cruel—just honest. Brutally so.

You crossed your arms, your tone cooling but with a trace of amusement curling at the corners. “Okay. So who were you going to pick then?”

That gave her pause.

You leaned in, eyes locked. “Seriously, Brittney. Who in our unhinged little friend group do you think could model better than me?”

She opened her mouth—but nothing came out.

You raised a hand and started counting them off, each name a deliberate strike.

“Deryl?” You scoffed. “Sure, he’s got energy. But he treats every serious event like a food court. You really want to risk a rack of ribs ruining your centerpiece mid-rehearsal?”

She huffed a laugh, reluctant, but not denying it.

“Jess?” You tilted your head. “Too soft. She’d be gorgeous in print, I’ll give you that. But put her on a runway? One harsh glance and she’s folding like a paper crane.”

Brittney didn’t argue. Her silence was agreement enough.

“Geo?” You actually laughed. “He’d set the outfit on fire out of spite before he let someone dress him. The guy can barely commit to sleeves.”

That drew a more genuine laugh—a quick, breathy one. You saw the tension in her shoulders loosen just a little. Then your voice lowered.

“…Crowe.”

You didn’t need to explain the weight of that name. Everyone knew it. Jericho Ichabod, Crowe was a force—sharp smile, effortless charm, the kind of person who changed the temperature of a room just by walking in. He didn’t have to try. People followed him like gravity.

“He’s got it all,” you admitted softly. “The presence, the look, the confidence. If I were in your shoes, I’d pick him, too.”

But before your thoughts could sink any deeper into that particular tide, Brittney cut in, hand slicing the air.

“I can’t.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“He’s vice president of student council, and I’m also sure he’s attending as well,” she said, tone clipped, like she’d rehearsed this excuse before. “If I pick him, it’ll look political. Like I’m using his name for credibility, or worse, like he’s playing favorites. Astrophile has to be clean. No drama. No conflict of interest.”

It made sense. The show wasn’t just a fashion event—it was a launchpad. And any whiff of favoritism would rot it from the inside.

You were quiet for a beat. Let it settle. Let her hear the conviction when you finally spoke again.

“Then pick me.”

Brittney didn’t respond—she just stared at you, unblinking.

You moved forward, letting the words drop with careful weight.

“If Crowe’s off the list, then I’m your best bet. You know it. I’ve been next to him long enough to learn the tricks. I know how to keep a room’s attention. I’ve watched how power walks and how silence speaks louder than flash.”

You paused. Then: “You want someone pretty? I’ve got that. You want presence? I can summon it. And unlike the rest of them, I don’t need to be adored. I just need to win.”

Your voice dipped, low and clear.

“I don’t care if I stumble. I’ll bleed for your vision if that’s what it takes. Just make sure the audience remembers the clothes I was wearing when I hit the ground.”

Brittney was still. The air between you stretched thin—vibrating with the hum of decision. Her nails tapped against her bicep in restless rhythm. Her eyes scanned you up and down like you were a puzzle piece she wasn’t sure would fit—but desperately wanted to try.

Finally, finally, she let out a sigh that was half exasperation, half something dangerously close to impressed.

“…God help me,” she muttered, voice low. “You might actually pull this off.” But of course, Brittney wasn’t one to give the last word easily. She raised a perfectly sculpted brow, mouth curling into something sly and loaded. “Go as far as I need you to, huh? And what exactly does that mean?”

You leaned in just enough to make the air between you crackle, locking eyes with Brittney. 

Your smirk was teasing, and you could feel the tension shift as her gaze flickered to your lips before snapping back up. She blinked, just once, like you’d caught her off guard—and for a moment, you reveled in it.

“Tell me how far,” you said, voice low, laced with something daring, almost unholy. “And I’ll show you what I look like when I burn the runway down.”

Brittney’s lips twitched, a struggle between laughter and disbelief. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at you, as if weighing the gravity of your words and the audacity that laced them. 

Then, slowly, she shook her head, like she was reconsidering every choice she’d made up to this point. “You’re insane,” she said, rubbing her temple dramatically. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for.”

“Exactly,” you replied with a devilish grin, your confidence radiating like an aura around you. You leaned back, throwing your hands behind your head with a carelessness that bordered on dangerous. “That’s the fun part. You need someone bold. Delusional. Someone with main character energy and absolutely no self-preservation instinct. You need me.”

The silence hung for a moment, thick with the weight of your words. Brittney stared at you like you were both the problem and the solution, the lines blurring in her mind.

She sighed, a long, heavy exhale that spoke volumes about the burden she was about to take on. “Fine,” she said at last, her voice laced with reluctant acceptance. She rubbed her temples again, like she was trying to stave off a headache. “I’ll bless you with these hands.”

You blinked, a little lost at first. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll design you a dress,” she clarified, with a slight roll of her eyes.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh, wow. I didn’t think you’d agree to this. You’re really going to design me a dress?”

Brittney groaned, her head falling back slightly. “How about a ‘thank you,’ Britt?” She sighed, “God, why do I like you?” with a smirk, half-joking but fully aware of the chaos you brought into her life.

“Because I’m a menace dressed like a muse,” You, mocking innocence. “I don’t see the problem with that.”

Her expression tightened in a playful mix of disbelief and amusement. “All right, all right. You want to be a model? Then you’ll be my model. Just don’t come crying to me when you’ve got blisters on your feet and back pain from trying to hold in your core for hours.”

You crossed your arms with smug confidence, a look of satisfaction crossing your face. “Pain is temporary. Slay is forever.”

She gave you a deadpan stare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here we are,” you said, grinning like the world was already yours.

Brittney paused for a moment, clearly mulling over your audacity. Then, with a defeated sigh, she tossed her phone onto the blanket like it had suddenly burst into flames. “Yeah,” she muttered, “I’m gonna enter.”

Your smirk widened, a feeling of victory creeping in. 

One obstacle cleared.

Brittney caught the look on your face and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Don’t think this means I’m helping you sneak in, you little gremlin.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said with mock innocence, though the gears in your mind were already turning. You’d be sneaking in; that was a given. And you had a plan—of course, you did.

The silence between you and Brittney lingered, the soft rustle of leaves and the murmur of distant voices filling the void. 

She didn’t immediately break it, her gaze turned upward, looking at the sky as if searching for an answer to a question that was brewing inside her mind. When her focus shifted back to you, the weight of her unspoken thoughts was clear.

“Why?” Brittney’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through the stillness with precision. “Why do you want to get into something like this? What’s in it for you?”

Her question hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t answer, letting her words sink in. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t coming. “You’ve got the prince himself, Jericho Ichabod,” she continued, her tone tinged with skepticism. “I’m sure he’s got connections that could get you into anything you want. You don’t need to go through all this trouble. So what’s your angle?”

You didn’t answer right away. 

The truth? It was complicated.

To anyone watching from the outside, it might look like you were using Crowe—playing off his wealth, his quiet influence, the way doors seemed to open for him without effort. He was rich, sure. Humble, sweet, and entirely oblivious to just how ruthless the game could get. And yes, he was in love with you—hopelessly so, in that way only someone who saw the best in others could be.

But they were wrong about you.

Because you cared about Crowe.

Genuinely. Maybe too much, in ways you didn’t always show. He brought out something softer in you, something real—something that scared you more than anything else. But love, no matter how sincere, couldn’t be the foundation for your survival. Not in this city. Not in your world.

You didn’t keep him at arm’s length because you were cruel. You did it because you had to. Because you learned a long time ago that if you wanted anything in this life to last, you had to build it yourself.

Relying on Crowe—leaning on him, letting him carry you up the ladder—would only make your victory feel borrowed. And you couldn’t afford to owe anyone. Not even him.

You loved him, but your ambition came first. Not out of greed or coldness, but out of necessity. You had something to prove—to yourself, to your family, to a world that refused to take you seriously. If you didn’t take care of yourself, no one else would.

Your gaze drifted back to Brittney, her questions still echoing in your mind. Crowe might be a piece on the board, but he wasn’t the reason you were playing.

No. The real reason was deeper. Much deeper.

You leaned back slightly, the weight of your thoughts pressing on your chest as you let the silence stretch on a little longer. Brittney waited, expectantly, but you weren’t ready to let her in just yet.

“Why do you think I want to do this?” you asked, your voice quieter than usual, a rare glimpse into the part of you that wasn’t always so carefully hidden.

Brittney squinted, clearly sensing the shift in your demeanor. “I don’t know, because you want to prove something? Get ahead? Use Crowe’s connections and his love for you to get what you need? Seems like that’s the only thing that makes sense.”

You didn’t react to her words, though they were close. Too close for comfort. The truth you hid behind so many layers of your carefully crafted persona was too dangerous to let slip.

But what she didn’t know was that you weren’t just using Crowe for his connections. That was too simple, too small a reason. This was about something far bigger. You weren’t in this for yourself, not entirely. This wasn’t just about stepping into the spotlight—this was about becoming someone who could never be overlooked, someone who would finally be recognized by those who mattered.

And Crowe, though he had no clue, was a part of that plan.

You felt a flicker of something—frustration, maybe—or was it pity—as you thought about how deeply in love he was with you. He didn’t know you the way you needed him to. He didn’t see the parts of you that were cold and calculating, driven by something much darker than affection.

Geo knew. Geo, your number one hater—i will never stop brining up my man—always there to shoot you down, to remind you of the walls you kept up, the lines you never crossed. He somewhat didn’t like you, and yet, in a way, he understood you better than anyone. 

He saw the drive, the ambition that no one else could see because it was wrapped in a veil of charm and wit.

Brittney, though, she wasn’t in that inner circle. She didn’t know the full weight of what you were carrying inside, the reason you were so determined to make it in a world that was never meant for people like you. It wasn’t just about proving others wrong; it was about proving to yourself that you belonged in the same league as those you envied.

In a city where status was everything, you needed to be seen. You needed to be recognized. Not just by anyone—but by the ones who could change the rules. The ones who mattered.

You didn’t need to explain everything to Brittney. No. She didn’t need the full story, the weight behind your silence, or the quiet sacrifices you’d already made just to be here.

All she needed to know now was what mattered most.

“I’m not here to play,” you said, voice cool and deliberate, like velvet pulled taut over steel. “I’m here to win. And not just for me—for you.”

A lie, partially. But not a cruel one. 

You weren’t here to save her—you were here to survive. Still, survival required alliances. And if you wanted to get what you needed, you had to give something in return.

You’d be her model. You’d wear whatever she put you in, walk however she needed, smile, pose, flirt, and claw your way through whatever gauntlet this event threw at you. In return, you’d drag her name into rooms it hadn’t touched yet. You’d make her impossible to ignore.

Because if you were rising, you weren’t going to do it quietly—and you’d be damned if you weren’t dragging her right up with you.

“I’ll push myself,” you added, stepping closer. “And I’ll push you. If I’m putting your designs on my body, then we’re networking. We’re building. I’ll be your walking portfolio, Brittney. Your billboard.”

She went quiet. Her eyes searched yours, trying to find the angle, the manipulation, the catch. You let her. Let her sit in that silence and feel the weight of what you were offering.

Finally, she sighed. A slow exhale, as if releasing something she’d been holding onto.

“Fine,” she said, her voice low but sure. “If you’re serious about this, then I’ll take you as my model. But you remember what I said—no backing out, no second-guessing. You screw up, I’m killing you.”

You nodded once, your expression unwavering. “I don’t screw up.”

She rolled her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” you corrected smoothly, without a second thought.

“Delusional,” she shot back, her voice sharp but amused.

You smirked, unbothered. “You’ll see.”

Brittney chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Whatever. Let’s do it.”

And just like that, it was set. 

And naturally, Brittney was impatient—of course, she was. The second the plan rooted itself in her mind, she had to act on it. Immediately. Which is why you now found yourself being dragged through downtown Titan City like some unwilling extra in a high-stakes fashion documentary.

Jess—her ever-loyal best friend assistant, or as you liked to call her, The Voice of Reason—walked beside her, looking resigned to her fate. You got the feeling she’d learned the hard way that fighting Brittney when she was "inspired" was a lost cause.

Titan City was, as always, alive. The streets buzzed—the chatter of pedestrians, the blare of car horns, the steady click of heels against concrete. The air smelled like strong espresso from street cafés mixed with expensive perfume trailing behind the passing elite.

Boutiques lined the blocks, all gleaming glass and curated perfection—displays showing off dresses that cost more than rent, heels sharp enough to kill a man, and handbags you needed political connections just to wait for. Mixed in were smaller shops, their neon signs flickering promises of limited runs and underground trends.

You were already tired just looking at it.

Trailing a step behind, you watched Brittney and Jess carve through the crowd like they owned the place. They were opposites in every way—Brittney, tall and magnetic, her blonde waves catching the sunlight like she was the main character of the city itself. The sleek black leather jacket she wore fit her so perfectly it had to have been tailored for her attitude alone.

Jess was the balance. Quieter, sharper, dressed in a crisp blue blouse and tailored black trousers, accessorized with a chunky silver necklace that said, ‘yeah, I know what I'm doing. Calm, smart, grounded.’

They were mid-argument—talking trends, arguing over designers, spitting out names like grenades.

"We need something bold," Brittney said, flipping open her sketchpad without even slowing down. "Not 'statement-piece' bold. I mean walk-in-and-shut-everyone-up bold."

Jess hummed. "Dramatic, but clean. Oversized jewelry is trending, but we’re not doing costume party."

"Obviously," Brittney snapped, scribbling something down. "And no soft pastels. God help me if I see another millennial pink dress—"

"Power colors," Jess cut in before she could spiral.

Brittney stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk and turned on you. That razor-sharp gaze of hers pinned you to the spot. "And you," she said, jabbing a finger at you like you were a puzzle she was two seconds from solving. "You’re not just gonna wear the design. You are the design."

You blinked. "That sounds... horrifying."

Jess snorted, and Brittney just rolled her eyes before grabbing your arm and steering you toward a boutique like you didn’t get a say.

"Shut up and trust me. This is art in the making."

And just like that, you were dragged into the chaos of Brittney’s latest masterpiece. You couldn’t help it—you felt the buzz under your skin. That barely-there thrill winding up your spine. Somewhere between fear and excitement. The last time Brittney mentioned Astrophile, she dropped something important:

Every designer needed a showstopper model.

You’d assumed she’d pick someone seasoned. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who wasn't... well, you. But now, standing here in the thick of it, you knew one thing for sure:

You were going to prove you could be that someone.

As Brittney and Jess threw around talk of fabrics and color palettes, your gaze drifted to the vibrant windows flashing around you. A blur of color here. A glint of jewelry there. It was overwhelming—and completely addictive. The idea of standing on that runway, owning it, felt unreal. But more than anything?

It felt right. And as that realization sank in, so did another—

You couldn’t just be good. You needed to be perfect.

And it wasn’t just about looking good. It was about making a statement, commanding attention, and owning the room in a way you never had before. Brittney hadn’t really mentioned the full scope of what was required for Astrophile, but you were piecing it together now.

This wasn’t about being just a ‘pretty face’—you had to become something more. Someone who fit the part. Someone who embodied the look. It was a tall order, but you were more than willing to rise to the challenge.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when Brittney suddenly stopped in front of a boutique, the door chime ringing out like the universe signaling the start of something important—or maybe it was just a door chime. Who knows?

Regardless, she walked in with Jess, and for a second, you considered just standing outside and watching. But then you remembered: you were in the middle of some grand fashion scheme, and standing on the sidewalk wasn’t going to get you anywhere.

So, with a quiet sigh, you followed them inside.

The store was one of those minimalist places that looked like it belonged in a fancy art museum—bare walls, low lighting, racks of clothes arranged by a team of very serious professionals whose only goal was to make you feel poor and underdressed. The palette was mostly soft neutrals, punctuated by bold pops of neon to keep things ‘edgy.’

Brittney was already deep in ‘fashion mode,’ dramatically scanning every rack like she was searching for something only she could see. Jess, as usual, was more practical—holding up a few pieces and offering her two cents like the resident voice of reason.

You leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, trying to make sense of what they were saying. It sounded like a foreign language—‘structured,’ ‘flowy,’ ‘balance of strength and softness’—terms you only kinda, sorta understood, but weren’t exactly sure how to apply in real life.

“So, what are we thinking?” Brittney said, tapping her chin with her signature mix of smug confidence and absolute self-assurance. She was already sketching in her open pad, her pencil moving in quick, confident strokes, mapping out rough lines and shapes.

It was mesmerizing to watch her work. Like she was pulling something out of thin air—and you were just lucky to witness it.

“I don’t know... maybe something with... pizzazz?” you offered weakly, fully aware it wasn’t a real suggestion but still feeling the need to contribute.

Brittney glanced at you and snorted. “Pizzazz?” she repeated, like the word itself was an insult. She turned to Jess instead. “We need bold. But not too bold. Elegant, sophisticated—with a twist. You know, like ‘I’m classy, but I could break your heart if I wanted to.’”

Jess gave a knowing nod and immediately pulled out a deep burgundy gown from one of the racks. “How about this? Structured, but still flowy. Strong, but soft.”

Brittney immediately grimaced. “It’s fine. But too safe. I want something that grabs attention without screaming ‘I’m trying too hard.’”

You rolled your eyes, mostly to yourself. Safe? Brittney could make a potato sack look like high fashion if she wanted to. You had no idea how her brain worked—and honestly, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

You watched them volley back and forth, throwing out suggestions and tossing aside dresses like they were picking fruit. 

Jess suggested something classic, Brittney rejected it, sketched another idea—and repeat. It was like a chess match, except with fabric and pins instead of pawns.

Finally, Brittney turned to you, wearing that unreadable smile of hers. “What do you think? Still want to model for me?”

You straightened up, the seriousness in your voice immediate. “Of course. I’ve been thinking about it. And whatever you come up with? I’ll make it unforgettable.”

Brittney raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the conviction in your tone. She gestured toward the racks. “It’s not just about showing up, you know. You have to embody the designer’s vision. Become the walking, breathing version of their creation. You’ll need to bring your A-game—and not just be the pretty face.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in your chest.

But pressure? That was nothing new. You thrived under pressure.

After what felt like hours combing through endless racks and listening to Brittney and Jess debate the existential meaning of fabric choices, we finally left the boutique—victorious, in a way. Brittney, true to her word, promised to buy food for tagging along.

Naturally, we gravitated toward the food court’s shining crown jewel: the pretzel stand. The warm smell of baked dough, butter, and sugar hit us like a freight train. It was impossible to resist.

"Okay, real talk," Jess said, dead serious, in a quiet tone "if we don’t get sugar pretzel nuggets, I might actually die."

Brittney, flipping through her phone absentmindedly, nodded. "We’re getting everything. Nuggets, pretzel dogs, classic pretzels, lemonade, cheese dip, caramel... whatever. My treat."

You smirked a little, folding your arms loosely. "You're unusually generous today."

Brittney tossed you a sideways look, pretending to be insulted. "Don’t read into it. I just reward loyalty."

You rolled your eyes but didn't argue. Loyalty was currency with her—and you, in your own way, were rich.

The line was mercifully short. Brittney placed the order while Jess and you loitered nearby, plotting your dipping sauce strategy like generals at war. As the smells got sweeter, your bladder reminded you of the lemonade you'd chugged earlier.

"I'll be right back," you said, jerking your thumb toward the nearby restroom.

"Don’t get kidnapped," Jess called after you, half-joking.

You gave her a dry smirk. "They wouldn’t survive me."

A minute later, you come from the restroom, wiping your hands on your jeans. You scanned the food court automatically—and froze.

Jess stood by the pretzel stand, tense. Facing her were three girls, decked out in matching color schemes—burgundy skirts, white cropped sweaters. Pack animals.

At the center of it was the ringleader: Sierra, a tall girl with waist-length red hair, a smirk carved into her perfect face like a battle scar. Flanking her were her loyal shadows: Paige, a girl whose only talent seemed to be laughing too loud, and Amber, who looked like she barely knew where she was most of the time.

And standing rigid just beside them, her newly bought shopping bags crushed against her side, was Brittney.

Her outfit—once clean and sharp—was now stained, a sticky red-purple splash across the front. You spotted the empty cup rolling by Sierra's feet, like a confession.

Brittney’s expression was tight, jaw clenched, arms stiff. She wasn’t backing down—she never would—but you could see it: the calculated coldness, the armor snapping into place over old wounds. 

Sierra laughed, a sharp, condescending sound that scraped down your spine. "Aw, what’s the matter, Brittney? Thought if you dressed up like a real model, people would forget you’re just middle-class trash?"

You inhaled slowly, quietly, like a hunter getting into position. Something twisted low in your stomach—not anger, not exactly. Something colder. More focused.

You stepped closer, your movements quiet, deliberate. Jess caught your approach first, her eyes flickering toward you, then quickly away, like she didn’t want to give anything away. Smart girl.

Brittney, God bless her, looked like she was about to deck Sierra right then and there, but your presence stopped her. You gave the smallest, most subtle shake of your head. Wait.

Then, casually, you reached over to the counter where a plastic cup of bright yellow cheese dip sat waiting for an abandoned order. 

No one noticed. All eyes were on the drama unfolding.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t warn. You just moved.

Let’s just say, in a smooth, efficient motion, you ‘accidentally’ bumped into Sierra hard enough to tip the cheese cup—and the entire thing splattered across her white sweater and burgundy skirt, dripping in a slow, ugly mess.

There was a stunned, breathless silence.

Then Sierra shrieked, backing up like she’d been shot.

"You freak!" she howled, pawing at her clothes in horror.

You stared at her, your expression unreadable, your voice calm, almost bored. "Oops. Must be hard being so... delicate."

Paige and Amber immediately started shrieking too, like confused, brainless birds, and Sierra—face burning with humiliation—shoved past you, almost slipping on the floor. The three of them stormed off without another word, Sierra's ruined outfit drawing stares and a few suppressed snickers from the surrounding tables. 

Only once they were gone did you allow yourself to breathe normally. You turned to Brittney and Jess, your stance relaxed again, but your eyes, according to Brittney’s lingering look, still held that cool, irritated. Jess gasped quietly "Whoa. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Brittney said nothing at first. She just stared at you, as if seeing something she hadn't before—or maybe something she always suspected was there.

The calculating way you had anticipated the situation. The way you stepped in, silently, without grandstanding or theatrics.

Just clean, effective loyalty.

Finally, Brittney exhaled a soft, humorless laugh. She picked up one of the pretzel bags and shoved it into your hands. "Here," she said, her voice oddly gentle, almost reverent. "You earned it."

You accepted it, a small smile appears across your face, “Oh my, yes.”

Brittney lingered a step behind as you and Jess strolled ahead, your voices mixing with the late afternoon buzz of the mall. Her arms were folded, pretending to be wrapped up in checking her nails, but her eyes kept drifting up toward you.

She should be happy—she was happy—but something in her chest curled up, small and sullen. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was admiration. 

Maybe it was both.

You... you weren't from some shiny family background, no silver spoon, no high-rise apartments like the ones Brittney used to dream about before she realized even money couldn't buy her a safe place.

When she first met you, you carried yourself like it didn’t matter—like none of the status games everyone else obsessed over even deserved your attention. You were Crowe’s first close friend. Crowe’s person, his partner, if she really wanted to be honest about it.

And Crowe... Crowe never handed pieces of himself out easily.

He picked you. Vice visa.

You’re his. And he’s yours.

Brittney glanced down for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. Her reflection in the glass of a boutique window flashed back at her—glossy curls, expensive lipgloss, perfect outfit—and yet she felt oddly… hollow.

You laughed up ahead, tossing some sarcastic comment Jess' way, a playful smirk pulling at your mouth. Jess barked a laugh, leaning into your shoulder, grateful.

You made it look so easy.

Making people feel better. Taking punches that weren't even yours to block. Dismantling bullies like it was second nature—like you'd already seen far worse, fought through far worse, and this was nothing but a minor inconvenience.

No wonder Crowe likes you so much

No—Loves you, even if the way your eyes softened up whenever you even said his name was anything to go by. Despite the buzz of the mall, the noisy chatter, the stomping feet of strangers brushing past, Brittney could still pick it out—the way your voice changed.

It got all soft, sweet, like rain water falling from the sky. It was sure. It was real. It was something that didn’t even need explaining.

Brittney tugged her arms tighter around herself, fighting the cold bite of the AC, or maybe it was just the hollow ache sitting low in her ribs. Maybe someday, someone would look at her like that. Or hell, maybe she'd just get used to watching from the sidelines.

However, you caught it—the fleeting look of something almost vulnerable in her eyes before she turned away, busying herself with adjusting her bag strap.

“Brittney!”

She looked up, blinking, the sound of her name ripping her clean out of her thoughts. There you were, standing a little ahead, that dumb, perfect smile on your face. "Let’s make it back before it rains, okay?" You reached out without hesitation, grabbing her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, tugging her closer to you and Jess.

Brittney didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

You were always the one who took initiative, who cared first, even when you had every reason to keep your distance. Even when you spent most of your time alone, waiting for a guy who, honestly, probably wasn’t even free enough to be waiting for.

Crowe—with all his walls, all his mystery, all his bullshit—had picked you. Saved you before anyone else even thought to move.

And it showed in you.

The way your eyes stayed soft, even now.

The way it looked like there were tiny stars caught inside them, like Brittney could throw a wish in there if she was selfish enough. 

Or maybe...

Maybe it was enough just to stay close to stars like you.

The ones who didn’t just survive but fought like hell—and somehow still came out shining. She shook her head a little, picking up her pace, boots clacking fast against the mall tiles to catch up with you and Jess. When she finally reached you, she bumped your arm with her elbow, playing it cool, like always.

"You’re lucky you’re cute," she said, flicking her hair with dramatic flair. "Otherwise, you’d be a real pain in my ass."

It wasn’t a lie.

It was the truth—brutal, annoying, aching truth.

After Crowe started getting even busier, disappearing for weeks, like damn near an month at a time, Brittney somehow ended up standing in as backup—backup leader, backup friend, backup everything—all because he asked her to ‘keep you company.’

At first, she thought it’d be easy.

But the more she hung around you, the more you cracked jokes, shared stupid little facts, messed with Jess, or stared off with that look like you were hiding a whole library of secrets under your skin... the harder it got to pretend you were just another favor she was doing for Crowe.

You didn’t act like someone waiting for a hero.

You acted like the damn hero yourself.

And maybe that’s why Brittney was here now, standing in the middle of her own hot pink chaos of her bedroom, still making a dress for you like it was the most important thing in the world.

You were standing at the edge of the room, spinning a loose bracelet around your wrist, lost in your own head.

The walls were splashed with posters, glittery stickers, shelves full of perfume bottles, and piles of gyaru magazines shoved under the bed. The air smelled like vanilla body spray and fresh laundry. Makeup palettes littered every flat surface, a kind of chaotic clean that only Brittney could navigate.

It was a mess, but it was hers. 

And now you were in it. Like you belonged.

Brittney sat cross-legged on the bed, sewing needle between her fingers, threading rhinestones into the hem of your dress. 

She didn’t say anything. Just looked up every now and then, catching glimpses of you twirling absentmindedly near her mirror, humming to yourself, tapping a rhythm against your thigh.

After the mall incident, it became normal. You’re dropping by almost every day, sometimes with Jess or Deyrl or even Geo, tagging along. But the best days—the ones Brittney almost hated herself for liking the most—were the ones where it was just you and her.

Just the two of you, like now, in a room full of pink, rain tapping softly against the window outside, the whole world small and far away.

She tied off another stitch and looked up at you again.

You caught her eye and smiled.

And god, it made something ache in her chest so bad she almost had to laugh. She watched as your eyes looked all around the walls of Brittney’s room looked like they were losing a war.

Fabric scraps, sequin tins, mannequin limbs, open sketchbooks—there was barely a clean surface in sight. But somehow, Brittney herself moved through it all with purpose, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, a pin cushion strapped to her wrist like a weapon.

You shifted your weight on the edge of her bed, letting the mattress dip under you. The dress was half-finished on the mannequin in the corner: a masterpiece, heavy with promise, stitched with the kind of careful devotion Brittney rarely let anyone see.

You tugged absently at the hem of your sleeve, voice soft enough to be buried under the whir of Brittney’s deep focus.

”Hey... Have you heard from Crowe lately?"

The question hung between you for a moment—too casual to be innocent, too pointed to be missed. You hadn’t seen him in days. Maybe even weeks, if you were being honest with yourself. 

“Busy with family stuff,” or “Ask Geo, not sure,” Brittney had said many times before, offhand, like it was supposed to mean something. But the ache of missing him had started settling under your ribs, stubborn and heavy.

Brittney didn’t answer right away.

You caught the way her shoulders tensed. The way the needle in her hand hesitated just a little too long over the fabric. When she did speak, her voice was sharper than it needed to be. "He's... Jericho. You know how he gets. Disappears sometimes. Doesn't mean anything."

But it did, didn't it?

You could see it all over her face—the tightness around her mouth, the way her hand clenched the fabric a little too hard. Before you could push further, you heard her hiss in pain. "Fuck!" Brittney jerked her hand back, a tiny bead of blood welling up from her fingertip where the needle had bitten her.

You were up in an instant, instincts kicking in before thought could catch up. "Britt—hold still."

You ducked into her tiny bathroom, snagging the first aid kit she kept stuffed behind the mirror. When you came back, she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, cradling her hand and muttering under her breath. You sat close—closer than usual—the bed dipping further under your combined weight. Your hands were gentle, careful as you cleaned the tiny wound, the sting of antiseptic filling the air between you. 

Her eyes were on your face.

You could feel it—the way her gaze burned, lingering a little too long, searching for something you probably didn’t even realize you were showing.  "You didn’t have to," she muttered, but her voice had softened, the sharp edges dulled into something warmer, almost fragile.

You smiled softly, small, instinctive, and kept your eyes on her hand as you wrapped the hot pink leopard pattern band-aid around her finger. "I don’t mind," you said. “Like, I don't mind being your model either. It's kinda fun. Astrophile sounds... exciting."

She went still. Completely still, like a string pulled too tight.

You glanced up, blinking when you caught the way she was staring at you, like you’d said something wrong without knowing it. And then she said it. Quiet, but steady.

"I picked you because you’re close," Brittney said, voice low. "Because you fit the aesthetic without even trying... and..." She hesitated—a rare, honest crack in her usual armor— "...because I just wanted to spend more time with you."

You froze, heart stumbling in your chest, caught off guard by the sudden, naked honesty of it. 

For a second, all you could do was blink at her, wide-eyed. Then you laughed. Soft and startled, a breath of sound that escaped without your permission.

It was a sound Brittney had never heard before—light, real, pretty— and it made something strange and aching tighten behind her ribs.

And maybe that was why she said the next thing.

Why she blurted it out, unable to stop herself. "You and Crowe," Brittney said, cutting through your laugh mid-breath. Her voice was low, almost accusing, but there was something vulnerable curled under it. Something that almost sounded like fear.

"...What are you two, really?"

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you sat back a little, your gaze slipping past Brittney, past the cluttered room, past the half-finished dress—as if you were looking somewhere far beyond it all. "Crowe and I..." You exhaled, slow and quiet, trying to find the right words. 

"They say stars are always burning, even when we can't see them. Even when they drift out of sight, they’re still there. Still shining." Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, your voice growing steadier.

"We’re like that. Even if we’re not together, even if there’s distance... there’s this pull between us. Like gravity. Like... we're part of the same constellation, and no matter how far apart we end up, we’re still connected. Written into the same sky."

You smiled a little—soft, almost sheepish.

"I guess... Crowe’s my favorite star. The one I always end up finding, even when everything else feels too far away."

For a long moment, Brittney said nothing. She just watched you, something complicated and aching in her eyes. You didn’t notice the way her hands tightened slightly around the hem of the fabric she was holding. Or the way her throat worked, like she was swallowing down a hundred things she couldn’t say.

Instead, she let out a rough, exasperated breath—half—laugh, half—sigh—and shoved the tape measure into your lap. "Alright, Shakespeare," Brittney said, trying for dry and unaffected, but her voice cracked just enough to betray her. "Enough star metaphors. I need your damn measurements again before you start waxing poetic about soulmates or whatever."

You snorted, grabbing the tape measure, tossing it back at her with a lazy flick of your wrist. "Sorry for having a soul, Brittney."

"Yeah, yeah, don’t get used to it." But there was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she stood, brushing her hair out of her face.

The fitting was… painfully awkward. Hilariously so.

Brittney tried—God, she tried—to keep a straight face, forcing herself into some imaginary role of professionalism. But the moment she draped the fabric across your shoulders, her fingers hesitated, lingering just a little too long against your skin. She muttered a sharp curse under her breath and immediately jerked her hands back like you had burned her.

"Jesus, stand still," she snapped, cheeks blooming pink.

"I am standing still," you shot back, grinning. "You’re the one having a full-blown crisis over there."

"Shut up. You're—you're uneven," she huffed, clearly flustered.

"Pretty sure that’s not how anatomy works, Britt," you teased, laughter bubbling up easily when she yanked the fabric a little too aggressively around your waist. And just like that— 

It made you stumble forward, straight into her.

Right onto Brittney.

The impact wasn't harsh, just awkwardly intimate. Tangled limbs. Soft fabric. A gasp caught between your collarbones. Your breath stalled somewhere between her neck and your throat, and her hands, once so determined and focused, now lay splayed against your sides like they didn’t know what to do—hold you up or push you away.

Chest to chest. Too much warmth. Too much proximity.

She groaned in clear exasperation. "Seriously?" she hissed, a sharp edge in her voice. But you...

You just laughed. A quiet, almost guilty sound. Like velvet unraveling under tension.

And then you looked at her. 

Your eyes met, and something shifted.

There, hidden beneath her frustration, you saw it—that blue.

That deep, familiar kind of blue. The kind you always adored in paintings and stormy oceans. Her eyes looked like that. Like the kind of night sky that doesn't ask for attention but always has it anyway.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared, a breath caught in your chest that had nothing to do with the fall. And then you said it—soft, as if speaking too loudly would break the spell:

“Why aren’t you taken yet, Britt?”

Her brows scrunched. “What?”

“I mean…” You trailed off, letting your eyes scan her—artfully done hair, the precision in her outfit, the quiet elegance in her every movement that didn’t try to be elegant, just was. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “Like... you walk around looking like this and no one’s scooped you up yet? They must be blind or cowards. Or both.”

Brittney’s entire face flushed, color blooming down her throat like spilled wine soaking silk. “Don’t flirt with me when you’ve just body-slammed me,” she muttered, voice cracking somewhere between embarrassment and something more dangerous.

You grinned, still hovering far too close, like gravity had taken sides and decided you belonged there. “Just saying what’s true,” you murmured. “Don’t get mad at me because you’re stunning and terrifying. You have such pretty blue eyes...”

Brittney’s eyes narrowed, though her cheeks betrayed her with that stubborn flush. “Get off,” she snapped, firmer this time. When you didn’t immediately budge, she shoved your shoulder—harder now. Not playful. Not tentative. A sharp push that sent you back a few inches, enough to break the spell.

The warmth between you snapped like a stretched wire.

“You’re seriously—ugh,” she exhaled, flustered beyond repair. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop being you, I will call the police and say you broke into my apartment through the ceiling tiles.”

You laughed anyway, delighting in her unraveling. “Do I at least look good enough for them to believe it was worth the risk?”

“God, shut up,” she hissed, eyes wide like a cornered animal—but not scared. Unprepared. “You’re... distracting,” she muttered, like the word had weight she couldn’t shake.

For a moment, she stared at you again—longer this time. Like she wanted to say something more.

Brittney blinked, then suddenly jolted like waking from a trance.

She coughed—sharp, deliberate, like forcing her system to reboot. Then, without ceremony, she shoved her palm against your forehead and pushed you back. "Off. You're a radiation leak of comments," she snapped, tone biting but not enough to mask the fluster beneath.

You barely had time to regain your balance before the door clicked shut behind her. "Don’t touch anything. I’m getting our DoorDash," she threw over her shoulder, voice too pointed, too practiced—betraying the nerves riding her spine.

“Okay,” you replied, unfazed. Typical.

She didn’t answer. Just slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned against it, exhaling like it hurt. Alone. Or at least, only with you in the house. She stood still, motionless for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. Then, with effort, she peeled herself off the door and headed for the stairs.

The house had shifted in the quiet—muted and breathless, like it knew what she was thinking. Floorboards groaned beneath her bare feet, each creak swallowed by the hush of late-night stillness. The fridge hummed softly in the distance. The silence felt too large. Too knowing.

But Brittney didn’t notice. Couldn’t. Her head was full.

Burning. Overheating.

She pressed her fingers to her cheeks. Still warm. Stupidly warm. Embarrassingly so. You had done that—again. With your impossible grin and that voice that slipped past her guard like silk. “Distracting,” she mumbled, echoing her pathetic attempt at brushing you off earlier.

What a lie.

You weren’t distracting. You were devastating.

A walking celestial event she couldn’t stop tracking, pretending she wasn’t being pulled into the tailspin every time you passed. She paused at the foot of the stairs, catching sight of her reflection in the crooked mirror on the far wall. The picture-perfect makeup was intact, but the control beneath it?

Fractured.

"You're stunning and terrifying," you'd said. Not flirty. Not casual. Like it meant something. And that was the worst part. It did. You meant every word—you always did. That maddening, fearless honesty you carried like a blade. Or a promise.

She touched her lips. Shook her head. It didn’t help.

Your voice still lingered. Your nearness still clung. The afterglow of your smile haunted the air. You weren’t hers—probably never would be. You belonged to freedom. To chaos. To the kind of truth, she wasn’t sure she could survive.

But God... you made her want to be someone worth surviving for.

Meanwhile, you sat cross-legged in the center of Brittney’s room, the soft thud of bass from your heartbeat the only real sound now that she'd gone. The light from your phone screen cast faint glows across your bored features, thumb scrolling with no real focus—just killing time until she returned with the food you’d both been craving for hours.

Still, she was taking forever.

You leaned back slightly, arms crossed, gaze drifting around the room. The air still smelled faintly like her—berry perfume and something sharper beneath it, like citrus and nerve. Familiar. Distracting.

You weren’t planning to touch anything.

And yet—Buzz.

The sound cracked through the silence like a pin-drop in a cathedral. Your head turned automatically, instinctive and subtle. Her laptop sat open on the bed. Lit. Humming. The screen glared in the low light, untouched in her rush to get the door. No password prompt. No attempt at discretion. 

Just... open. Waiting.

A thread of messages stared up at you like they wanted to be seen.

You shouldn’t have looked. You didn’t mean to snoop.

But there it was: Jericho. Not Crowe.

The name hits wrong. Too formal. Too cold. Brittney always used it. Even when they are close friends. That name was a line drawn in the sand, sharp and sterile, like she was filing him under “miscellaneous” instead of “used to matter.”

You edged forward, unable to help yourself now, gaze tracing down the digital conversation etched into light.

Jericho: “How’re they doing?”

You didn’t need to ask who they meant.

Brittney: “They’re good. Keeping busy. I’ve been keeping an eye on them.”

Your stomach twisted. Not “they’re fun to have around.” Not “I missed them.” Just… surveillance. Like you were some chore on a checklist. A responsibility to manage. A watchful obligation. Not a friend. Not even a person, really. Something sank in your chest. Low and cold, your eyes still glued to the screen. It buzzed again.

FaceTime: Incoming Call – Jericho

And without warning—without your input—it answered. Auto-answer. Still linked to her phone downstairs. The connection causes the green and white camera symbol. Active. Your breath caught.

Crowe’s voice filtered in—low, slightly warped by digital grain but still unmistakable. “—seriously, Britt, if you’re not being honest, I need to know. This wasn’t the plan.” You could hear by the direction of his voice—he was in her kitchen or near the front room. Talking to her. Talking like this wasn’t the first time.

You crept toward Brittney’s bedroom door and eased it open just a sliver. The wood didn't creak—only a soft whisper of displaced air, like the house itself was holding its breath with you.

Downstairs, her voice filtered up—muted, casual, almost bored. “I can’t talk long,” she said, followed by the rustle of a plastic bag. “They’re upstairs, hopefully still waiting for me to bring up the food.”

You stilled, heartbeat slow and deliberate.

Then: Crowe. His voice came sharp, like it had been simmering beneath the surface. “Brittney… why them?”

You didn’t move.

“Out of everyone,” he continued, voice edged with disbelief, “you picked them to model for you?”

She sighed. “Because they’re competent? Because they get it? Because they don’t flinch when things get serious?”

“No.” His reply was immediate. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was trying not to sound angry—but failing.

“No,” he repeated, lower now. “I didn’t want them to go Astrophile for a reason. I didn’t want them in that kind of space, Britt. You know what it’s like down there—what people become in that studio, in that scene. I didn’t want them changed by it.”

Your fingers curled against the doorframe.

“I didn’t want them swallowed up by all that pressure, all that noise. I didn’t want to watch them turn themselves into someone else just to survive in that place,” Crowe said. “I didn’t want to see them start pretending.”

Something was aching in his voice—too raw to be rehearsed. And suddenly, the weight of what he wasn’t saying sat heavy in your chest. “I didn’t want to lose who they are,” he murmured. “Even if that makes me selfish.”

You weren’t excluded. You were shielded.

Not because he underestimated you. Because he was afraid of what it would do to you—of what it would do to him, to see you fade into the same haze he was still trying to claw his way out of.

A silence hung thick between them.

Then Brittney’s voice cut through—tired and done with it. “Jericho, they’re grown. They made the choice. And once their mind’s made up, nothing—no one—is stopping them.”

You could hear her shifting the bag, checking its contents. She wasn’t even looking at the phone. She was over this argument. “You told me to keep an eye on them? Fine. That’s what I’m doing. But I told them not to go. I did. I tried,” she said, almost defensively now. 

“Doesn’t matter now. They’re not doing this for themself,” she continued. “They’re doing this for me. For the project.” And that stung in a different way. Not out of guilt—but out of something deeper. You had decided. You had committed. But underneath all that drive, all that control, was a quieter truth:

You were willing to burn a little—for her.

To prove something. To protect the vision she was clinging to, even when she couldn’t admit how much it mattered.

“They’re not dragging them into anything they didn’t choose,” Brittney added, more quietly now. “They knew what it would mean to stand in front of those cameras. They wanted to be seen.”

You imagined Crowe’s jaw clenching on the other end. You imagined him looking away from the screen like he always did when he couldn’t win the argument, but still hated losing it.

“I just didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he said eventually. The words came slowly. Bitter. “Like I just… handed them over.”

“They’re strong,” Brittney said, but there was less fire in her voice now. “More than you think.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I know they are. That’s why it scares me. Because strength doesn’t mean they won’t break. Especially not in a place like that.”

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

You stepped back and closed the door with the softest click, careful not to let the sound betray the tremor building in your chest. The hallway air felt sharper now, colder, as though the words you’d just heard had chased the warmth from the walls.

You hadn't come here to be protected.

You hadn’t asked to be shielded, to be spared.

You came to matter. To do something real.

And whether that meant posing in front of cameras or walking headfirst into Astrophile’s shadowy depths—you had chosen it. Eyes open. Chin up. No one had dragged you here.

Still, that didn’t make shit hurt less.

Your breath slipped out, shallow and slow. Your eyes narrowed, dark with thought, but your face remained still. Detached. Cold. Because that was easier—wasn’t it?

Easier than admitting what really hurt.

You weren’t sure what stung more: That Brittney spoke about you like a mission, like a tool she had to justify keeping. Or that he—Crowe—still had that kind of hold on her. That she still picked up when he called. That he still had access to her voice, her trust, her loyalties... in ways you weren’t sure you ever would.

You were already in it. Too deep now to look back.

So you repeated the words to yourself like a command. 

A creed. A curse: Keep going. Keep burning.

Push harder. Go colder. Make it count.

But the truth settled inside you anyway, slick and heavy like oil in water. It clung to your ribs, clutched your lungs, and made each breath feel just a bit more artificial.

Downstairs, you heard Brittney grab the food. Paper bags. The clink of drinks in a tray. Her footsteps moving without hesitation—her body efficient, practiced. You followed without thinking. Your limbs moved before your mind caught up.

By the time you reached her door and pushed it open, your face had already returned to form. Calm. Composed.

Your mask—the one you wore so well—was back in place.

She had no idea what you’d just heard. What it did to you. And when she finally looked up, smiling faintly, expectant, ready to return to business, you said nothing. Because there was nothing to say. 

The battle was already behind your eyes. And she wouldn’t see it. Not if you didn’t let her. So you nodded once, slow and silent, and sat like nothing had shifted.

Even if everything had.

After all, it wasn’t long before you tasted the air inside Astrophile was thick with hushed voices and the subtle hum of orchestral music piped through hidden speakers. 

Soft lights glowed from sleek, modern fixtures overhead, casting a dreamlike shimmer across the crowd gathering beneath the vaulted glass dome of the planetarium.

Above it all, the stars turned.

Projected against the curved ceiling, galaxies spun in lazy, breathtaking spirals. Nebulae bloomed in slow motion. Shooting stars flared and died in silence. The entire world outside the dome—the noise, the obligations, the expectations—faded into a muffled afterthought.

Here, the universe reigned.

Brittney, from a quiet corner, moved easily through the crowd, vibrant and conspicuously golden against the subdued black-tie backdrop.

Tonight, Brittney wore a long, dusty pink gown that shimmered faintly whenever she turned beneath the planetarium lights. 

The cowl neck of the dress draped elegantly across her collarbones, while two long ruffles cascaded from her shoulders, floating slightly as she walked. The hem swept the floor, brushing just above her gold heels, each step deliberate, measured. Gold jewelry gleamed against her tan skin—bracelets that caught the light, delicate chains layered across her collarbone, and tiny gold star earrings that winked with each tilt of her head.

Her face, reflected briefly in her small handheld mirror as she checked herself, was a study in careful beauty: soft, understated makeup that highlighted rather than hid—long, thick lashes framing her deep blue eyes, a flush of warmth brushed over her cheeks, and bubblegum pink lipstick pulled across her lips in a neat, glossy smile.

Her blonde hair, usually yanked back into a tight high ponytail with a playful bow, was left down tonight—loose, flowing, and faintly curled at the ends. It framed her face in two distinct tendrils, one dyed a soft sky blue and the other a pale candy pink, mirroring the two dyed streaks that blended into her bowl-cut bangs. Two additional tendrils, smaller and more delicate, fell in front of her ears like a calculated afterthought.

Her nails—sharp, glossy, meticulously kept—flashed when she lifted her glass, alternating shades of pastel blue and pink in a pattern that only she could make seem effortlessly bold.

She looked good. She knew she looked good.

The confidence radiated from her, a tangible heat that someone could feel even across the room. Above her, the stars continued their endless dance. 

Impersonal. Distant. Beautiful. Much like the night ahead.

She hadn't even noticed him at first.

One moment, Brittney was laughing lightly at something one of the investors said, her face tilted up toward the artificial starlight, and the next—

Crowe was there. 

Or rather—again… Jericho.

He materialized almost like an illusion—moving from a small knot of wealthy patrons near the edge of the event space, his posture relaxed but alert, a quiet command in the way he carried himself. It was jarring at first: seeing him here, in this kind of setting, speaking with rich men and women dressed in velvet and silk like it was second nature.

But then again, she reminded herself, Crowe had always been more than he let on. Humble didn’t mean poor. It meant private. 

The planetarium lights caught the edges of his outfit, drawing every eye in the room to him without him even trying. He wore a modernized version of something princely—a deep navy jacket tailored within an inch of his life, embroidered with faint silver constellations at the cuffs and collar. The fabric clung to his broad shoulders and tapered down into dark trousers tucked neatly into polished boots.

It shouldn’t have worked. It did.

His dark brown hair, usually messy and hidden under a hat or hood, was tied into a loose braid that fell over his right shoulder, several strands escaping to frame the right side of his face, pushed haphazardly behind his ear.

And when he lifted a hand to tuck one stubborn piece away, you caught a flash of his nails—long, neatly shaped, cared for with the kind of quiet precision you knew Crowe never bragged about.

His deep blue eyes found Brittney immediately. "Britt," he said warmly, arms already moving to pull her into a casual, brotherly hug.

Brittney, caught completely off-guard, "Jericho,” whether from surprise or simply just lost, hard to tell. He pulled back slightly, hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "How are you enjoying your night? You’re practically the star of the show—you showing off your project to the big leagues yet?"

Brittney, regaining her footing with a breathless little laugh, shrugged. "It's fine, I guess," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "Got a few compliments so far. Would’ve gotten more if my beautiful model wasn’t taking thier sweet time hiding somewhere in the damn event."

Crowe—blinked once, slowly, his expression shifting just slightly. Concern flickered behind his composed exterior. "Wait... hiding? Why would they be hiding?" His voice dropped lower, serious now. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

Brittney rolled her eyes with a tired, dry laugh, waving one manicured hand in a dismissive circle. "I dunno, Jericho. Think about it, maybe if my boyfriend ghosted me for, oh, about a month, and they’re not sure how they should feel about showing up all dressed up and sparkly like nothing ever happened." Her voice was sarcastic, flippant. 

Her eyes, however, were sharp. Hurt. Tired.

Jericho froze for a fraction of a second. 

Barely enough for anyone else to notice.

Brittney stared at him, dumbfounded, as if seeing something she hadn’t expected. The false casualness of her shrug didn’t hide the weight of what she'd just thrown at him. 

Crowe's face didn’t move at first.

There was a tiny shift in his posture—shoulders tense, jaw clenching for the barest second—but otherwise, he held himself still, like a statue carved under centuries of pressure.

He didn’t rush to explain himself. Didn’t stammer out excuses. Crowe... simply looked at Brittney with something hollow flickering behind his deep blue eyes. The silence stretched long enough to bruise. And then—

A ripple moved through the room. Heads turned, subtle but certain, pulled by the gravity of something... different.

You.

You emerged from the shadows of the planetarium's grand archways, the starlight bathing your form like a silent coronation. Your gown clung and floated all at once—a fitted silhouette of deep navy-blue silk so dark it almost seemed black, strewn with tiny, scattered gems and embroidered stars that shimmered with every movement.

The off-the-shoulder straps and sheer boned bodice added structure without confinement, leading down into a flowing skirt with a daring slit that revealed the strength in your step. The sweetheart neckline framed you like a whispered promise.

Hair pinned elegantly up, the glow of delicate silver jewelry catching every phantom beam of light. Your makeup was simple, precise, pretty—designed not to mask, but to sharpen.

You looked like something woven out of the night sky itself.

And Crowe—

Crowe felt the entire world stutter to a stop. For one raw, suspended heartbeat, he almost didn’t recognize you. Not because you were a stranger, however, because, somehow, impossibly, you had crossed some invisible threshold. 

From someone he cared for quietly in the background...

To something so devastatingly unattainable, he could barely breathe.

The soul-struck silence hit him hard, right to the chest. Crowe didn’t think ‘wow, you look nice.’ No. 

He thought, ‘I am not ready for the way I want you.’

You moved with effortless command, gliding through the murmuring crowd, an investor trailing respectfully beside you. As you passed by, your eyes caught Brittney’s—sharp, knowing, protective—and you stopped deliberately, every movement designed, controlled. 

With a poised smile, you spoke clearly, voice carrying just enough to be overheard by the nearest circles: “Brittney Claire,” you announced smoothly to the investor, gesturing lightly toward her. “She’s the true artist behind the evening’s highlight pieces. Her work speaks for itself.” More heads turned.

Brittney blinked, flustered for half a second before recovering, her tan skin glowing under the artificial starlight, her dusty pink dress and glittering jewelry framing her perfectly under your deliberate spotlight.

A nearby group of potential investors leaned in, suddenly far more interested.

You stepped back just slightly, allowing Brittney the room to shine, but not leaving her side—an unspoken, strategic shield against any whisper of disrespect.

Crowe watched, mute, as you navigated the room with effortless grace, elevating Brittney higher with every word, every small, calculated glance.

You didn’t just attend the event. You orchestrated it.

Without stealing the stage. It was the kind of precision Crowe knew only a few could manage. And in that moment, standing there with the stars spinning silently above him, he realized—

he might have already lost the right to stand at your side.

At first, Brittney didn’t understand what you had done. 

She just stared—a little dazed, lashes fluttering—as the investors around her leaned closer, curious, smiling, intrigued. Your voice, steady and sure, had acted like a blade cutting the way through dense mist.

You hadn't just introduced her. You'd positioned her. Protected her.

The realization hit Brittney like a slow-moving train. Her hands, manicured perfectly in alternating pink and blue, trembled slightly at her sides. For the first time all evening, she didn’t feel like a guest trying to justify her worth.

She felt... seen. Elevated. And she hadn't done it alone. 

“...Thank you,” she whispered, voice catching, almost broken by the rush of overwhelming gratitude. Her eyes glittered too much under the starry lights—not just from the shimmer of the room, but from the threat of tears she fought viciously not to shed.

You offered her only the slightest nod, a quiet flicker of your eyes that said: ‘Stand tall. Don’t waste it.’ You didn’t linger to take credit. 

You turned on your heel, skirts whispering against the gleaming floor, and walked away before Brittney could even gather herself enough to follow. Crowe moved instinctively after you. But you were faster. Not running, no—You were too composed for that. 

You glided through the crowd, deliberately slipping between conversations and pockets of laughter, avoiding Crowe without a word, leaving only the soft scent of your perfume and the trail of your long, elegant silhouette in your wake. From behind you, Crowe called your name once under his breath.

But you didn't turn. You didn’t even slow. Only a fleeting, tired expression crossed your face—like you were so deeply, intimately weary of him that it didn’t even burn anymore.

It just... hurt. 

And then—

You collided lightly with a woman.

She was striking—mid-forties, maybe early fifties—with flawless dark skin, well-coiffed hair, expensive earrings that caught the dim light. She was sipping champagne lazily, the glint of judgment in her gaze immediately clear. “My,” she said, a slow, approving tone in her voice, looking at your dress.

“Who created that gown? It’s exquisite.”

Without missing a few seconds, you placed a polished mask over your features, lifting your chin slightly with subtle pride. “Brittney Claire," you said smoothly. "A rising star. Her designs are tonight’s best-kept secret."

The woman raised a brow, clearly impressed. And then—a hand landed gently, but insistently, on your bare shoulder. Your body stiffened under the touch.

You already knew who it was without looking. Crowe.

Still, you didn’t turn right away. You didn’t owe him your attention. Not yet. Not when you had this to face.

The woman—older, elegant in the way money always tried to wear sophistication like a perfume—tilted her head as Crowe approached, the easy familiarity between you two clearly catching her eye. Her expression shifted. Sharpened.

“Jericho?” she asked, disbelief softening her voice as she set down her crystal flute. Her eyes narrowed faintly. “You know them?”

Crowe smiled—just barely, that quiet kind of smile that spoke louder than full-throated declarations. One hand remained respectfully but firmly on your shoulder, grounding you in place.

“They’re my partner,” he said.

The words dropped like stones into still water. A ripple. A hush.

His aunt blinked once. Then twice. Like the term didn’t quite register in her world of tailored norms and manicured expectations.

Then—she laughed. Polite. Brittle. 

A crack in her mask, quickly smoothed over by the glide of her hand down the front of her pristine designer gown. “Is this the one you were speaking of? From the... lower class?” Her tone dripped with disdain, wrapped in a veil of civility.

She turned to you then, smiling sweetly. The smile of a serpent.

“Tell me, dear,” she cooed, as if to a stray dog taught to dance on its hind legs. “How ever did you manage it? You speak so nicely. You clean up so well. Almost like one of us…” Her gaze skimmed you up and down, dissecting you. 

“But surely not really one of us. Right?”

Crowe’s hand on your shoulder tensed—just slightly—but you felt it.

You could’ve stayed quiet. You didn’t. Your smile didn’t waver. Didn’t twitch. But your eyes did narrow, just enough to gleam—like starlight on broken glass. And when you spoke, your voice was a razor: calm, composed, cutting.

“I’m a student model, only for the night,” you said coolly. “Built to be looked at. Paid to be seen for the sake of the artist.” You turned to her now, slowly, like you were doing her the favor of your attention. 

“I don’t belong here because I fooled anyone,” you said. “I belong here because I earned it. My presence isn’t an accident—it’s a warning.”

Her smile was no longer sweet. It was taut.

You didn’t stop.

“I’m the first in my family to step foot on a campus, let alone a ballroom. First-generation student. First with honors. First with options. I wasn’t born into legacy—I became one.” You stepped forward now, just a hair, enough that Crowe’s hand slipped from your shoulder, as if even he knew this wasn’t his to interrupt. “You want to know how I did it?” 

Your voice dipped lower, honeyed steel. “I made myself into a star.”

You sighed softly before explaining, “And not one of your cold, distant pedigree-no-no—no, I became the kind of star that burns on borrowed oxygen, that lives despite being smothered. A star that refuses to fade just because you weren’t the one who lit it.”

Her eyes widened.

“Your world,” you said, gesturing faintly to the glimmering sea of silk and champagne around you, “is stitched in gold thread and safety nets. But mine? Mine was built from fire escapes, night shifts, and public buses that smelled like rust and defeat. And still, I outshined the rest.”

Your voice lowered again—polite, sweet, and lethal.

“So the next time you wonder how someone like me got here... maybe wonder why so many of you never had to fight.”

There was silence—real silence—now. The kind that follows impact. A heavy, sharp pause that left no room for breath. Crowe’s aunt stared, eyes flat with unspoken rage, or awe, or both. 

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But Crowe?

When you finally turned to him, there was something raw in his gaze—like he was seeing you clearly for the very first time. Not as someone brought into the room...

But as someone the room should’ve been built for.

“Well," Crowe’s aunt eventually tilted her head, voice wrapped in velvet and vinegar, drawled, swirling her champagne, "your manners are certainly refined enough, dear. One almost forgets where you come from.” Almost.

Crowe’s hand shifted subtly against you, as if sensing the final blow she tried to land. But you simply inclined your head, serene.

"One's origins," you said coolly, "have little to do with one's destination."

She arched a brow, a wry, displeased little smile twisting her mouth. But you could tell you’d struck something. Something old. Something she didn’t want to admit.

Still, despite winning the exchange—despite silencing her, standing your ground, and delivering your truth like a blade—you felt it.

Something sharp, tight, and quiet began to twist in your chest.

That awful, swelling pressure that didn’t come from fear or regret, but from being overwhelmed, completely and utterly.

And worse... from knowing Crowe has been right once more.

You weren’t as prepared as you thought. All that training in poise, every silent rehearsal in your head, every thread of pride woven carefully into your outfit, your words, your presence—it didn’t matter now. Not really. Because the moment your composure cracked, even subtly, all you could hear echoing through your mind was him.

“I just don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”

And you did. You were. You hated it.

You hated that he’d seen this before you did. Hated that his concern wasn’t condescending—it was correct. You’d come here thinking you had something to prove. First for yourself. Then, maybe, for the promise of opportunity—networking, exposure, power. But in the end?

Right now?

You were only here for Brittany. Because you offered.

Because she believed in you, and you were too damn stubborn to admit you were starting to lose faith in yourself.

Yes, you spoke your truth. You carved it into the air like scripture. You lit yourself on fire just to show them you could burn brighter than the chandeliers. But none of it felt real anymore. None of it felt like it mattered.

You were still the outsider in the room full of legacy ghosts.

And Crowe had known that. He always knew. He saw the fault lines before you even felt the tremors. And that—that was the worst part. Not that he doubted you. But that he didn’t. That he saw you, saw your strength, your mind, your fire—and still, with all the love in the world, gently asked you not to do this to yourself.

And you did it anyway.

Because you wanted to win.

You wanted to show him he wasn’t the only one who could play this game and walk away unscathed. But the truth sat heavy in your throat now, like a selfish, bitter little thing.

He was right. You were wrong.

And you hated how lonely that made you feel.

So you excused yourself—quietly, gracefully. Not a single crack in your tone, not a tremble to betray you. No one could accuse you of running.

You stepped onto the nearest open balcony, the cold night air lashing against your skin like punishment.

You stood there, arms folded, chest tight, jaw clenched. You needed to breathe. You needed something steady, something real. Because for all the noise inside the ballroom, and all the glory you tried to claim for yourself, what you needed most now...

Was control. Your own control. 

Not borrowed confidence. Not brittle pride.

Just you, again.

As the stars spun lazily overhead, your mind flickered backward to earlier that evening. You sat on a stool in Brittney’s chaotic room, makeup strewn across the vanity, dresses and shoes everywhere.

However, she stood in front of you with the intensity of a surgeon, applying foundation with careful, reverent strokes. You sat still, obedient, eyes closed so you didn’t ruin her careful work.

"You look beautiful," Brittney murmured absently, smoothing blush across your cheekbones.

You hummed lightly, noncommittal.

Brittney’s hands slowed, the brush of shimmering eyeshadow forgotten halfway across your eyelid. You felt her hesitation before you heard it—the tension in the air tightening like a string about to snap. “You know," she murmured, voice low, "you’re like a star.”

You opened one eye lazily, an eyebrow raised in dry amusement.

Brittney didn’t smile. Her reflection behind you was dead serious.

“Not one of those pretty ones either. Not a harmless little twinkle in someone’s safe night sky," she continued, tone sharpening into something almost bitter.

"You’re one of those stubborn, goddamn different stars. The kind that flares too hard, too bright. The kind that was never made to fit in up there—but forces its way in anyway."

You said nothing. Let her talk. 

Because deep down... you knew Brittney rarely spoke without knowing exactly where her knife would land. “You think I didn’t see it?” she asked, her voice getting a little louder, a little rougher, her hands now resting on your shoulders, gripping them lightly like she was trying to keep you still.

"This whole thing—Astrophile, Crowe, all of it—it was your way out. Your way in. Status. Connections. Being seen.” She pulled back, pacing now, lip gloss forgotten in her hand.

“You’ve achieved more than anyone else I know," she said, fierce and furious. "Clawed your way out of a life no one ever cared to look at. But it’s not enough, is it?" She laughed once—dry, sharp. 

"Because you’re still poor. And no matter how brilliant you are, how hard you work... the world doesn’t see stars like you when you’re born on the wrong side of the sky." Her words hung there between you—ugly, brutal, undeniable.

"You’re lucky you even blend in," Brittney hissed.

"But what happens when you burn out? What happens when that fire you keep killing yourself to feed... finally runs out of fuel?"

You swallowed thickly but didn’t move. Eyes still closed. Still silent.

“And Crowe," she added after a beat, softer now, more wounded. "Are you gonna tell him? About all of it? About how heavy it is, carrying a dream so goddamn big it breaks you first?"

The question cut deep. Deeper than anything else she said.

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t need to.

Brittney stepped closer again. Caught your chin in her hand— ough, not unkind. Tilted your face up until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. And in your gaze—sharp, quiet, mournful—she saw it:

It was already too late to back out.

Because, despite everything—despite the world you were stepping into, the fires you would have to keep feeding just to stay alive— your love for Crowe had already rooted itself deeper than Brittney’s hate for the rich could ever reach.

She saw it. Accepted it. Grieved it, even.

And still, in a whisper barely louder than breath, she asked the question again:

“How do you feel about Crowe?”

Your mouth twitched upward into a sardonic, knowing smile. "That’s the second time you’ve asked me that," you said, voice low, almost teasing, but your hands tightened slightly in your lap.

Brittney smiled too, but it was small. Tight. Sad.

"I’m just asking," she murmured, returning to the vanity, beginning to work again with trembling hands, "because... if this goes further..."

She didn’t finish.

Instead, she unscrewed the tube of lip gloss, pressing it carefully across your mouth—slow, reverent—her gaze pinned to the small, subtle tremor you couldn’t quite hide. “You haven’t even met his family yet," she said, almost to herself. "And being loved by him... doesn’t mean you’ll be loved by them."

Her voice dropped lower, almost mournful:

"And being up there with the rich... Is that really a life worthy of living for you?"

You sat still. Rigid. Eyes closed.

The coolness of the gloss across your lips felt almost mocking, a soft cruelty against the sudden burning in your chest. But when you spoke, your voice was steady. Mature. Certain. "I know what I’m going into."

And even though a part of you screamed silently beneath the words, you meant it.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality, muffling the roar of the party to a distant hum. You stepped barefoot onto the balcony, the stone cold beneath your feet, the night colder still.

The stars above seemed almost indifferent.

Silent witnesses to a life you weren’t sure you belonged to. The wind pulled at your dress, your hair, your carefully composed mask, as if trying to peel it away piece by piece. You wrapped your arms loosely around yourself, not out of fear, not out of fragility—more like something contemplative.

Almost resigned. ‘Did you really mean those words?’

"I know what I’m going into."

Your chest ached in the places pride couldn’t protect. You had said it with certainty. You believed it at the time. But now... Now, standing out here where the air was sharper, crueler, less forgiving, you weren't so sure. Inside, the world churned on without you. You could almost picture it:

Crowe’s aunt drifted back to her circle of painted smiles, whispering something acidic and self-satisfied. Another little dagger twisted in your absence. And Crowe himself...

Maybe he’d notice you were gone. Maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

You had already chosen. 

Even when it hurt. Even when the air you fought for felt colder than the broken places you left behind. You stayed outside longer than you needed to. Letting the quiet gnaw at you. Letting the ache settle into your bones. You told yourself you were just catching your breath.

That you weren’t falling apart. Not yet.

And then, behind you—the balcony door creaked open.

You didn’t turn. Not right away. The air shifted, heavier with a familiar presence. And then—his voice, soft and raw and unbearably gentle: 

”Starlight."

You closed your eyes. The sound of it—low, tender, reverent— struck something deep, something fragile, something that had been shaking quietly inside you all night. He stepped closer, cautious like he was approaching something hot, a burning star.

You felt the warmth of his hand ghost over your elbow, but not quite touch, giving you the choice. You breathed out, shaky but silent, letting the wind carry it away.

"I didn’t come out here to pull you back in," Crowe said, his voice low, steady despite the storm you knew he carried in his chest. "I just—"

He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek, searching for the right words. "I just didn’t want you to be alone... if you didn’t want to be."

The stars overhead blurred slightly.

You blinked, swallowing hard. Slowly, you turned to face him.

His deep blue eyes were waiting. Bright, earnest, unwavering. There was no demand for them. No anger. Only the kind of fierce, aching patience that could undo a person if they let it.

You stared at him for a long moment.

The way he stood there, heart in his hands, without even realizing it.

The way he said starlight like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way he, without meaning to, made you believe, for a moment, that maybe you could survive this. 

Maybe even more than survive. Maybe you could belong.

Your voice, when it finally came, was a whisper against the cold:

"I’m scared, Crowe." It slipped out before you could stop it. A truth raw and bleeding and undeniable.

Crowe’s face didn’t change much. Just a small, almost imperceptible softening around the edges. "I know," he said simply. And then, finally, he reached for you—one hand warms against your chilled cheek, steady, anchoring.

"You don’t have to burn yourself alive for them to see you," he murmured, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. "I already do."

The night spun a little around you. You let it. You leaned into him, the way a drowning thing leans into a lifeline without needing permission.

And for the first time that night, you breathed. Really breathed.

Crowe didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Because in that quiet, shivering space between two beating hearts, a different kind of promise took root—one no amount of status, money, or cruel stars could ever erase.

You stayed like that for a long while. Silent. Breathing him in, breathing yourself back to life. The party behind you blurred into nothing. The night wrapped the two of you in a thin, trembling sort of peace.

Crowe didn’t rush you.

He just held you there, steady and real, letting you take what you needed. Letting you decide. Then, when the shaking in your chest had dulled to a low, aching throb, he shifted—offering you a hand.

"If you want to leave, starlight..." his voice was low, almost unsteady, "...just say the word. I'll get you out of here." His palm hovered there, open and sure. A silent promise. You stared at it. At him. And something broke loose in you.

The words tumbled out, cracked and searching:

"Where have you been?"

His expression faltered—just a flicker. But it was enough to tell you he heard everything layered in your question. Every fear, every shadow that curled beneath your ribs, whispering things like you're not enough, like he’s too good for you, like he’ll leave the moment he sees the truth of you.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with your voice trembling and your resolve unraveling like thread. But you’d meant it. While you’ve been pretending that love isn’t currency, that feelings aren’t forged from power dynamics and the sickening need to be chosen.

While you’ve been lying—to yourself, to him, to everyone—because the truth is: you never felt like you deserved this. Him. Not truly.

You came into this thinking you had something to prove. That if you played your cards just right—if you dressed the part, walked the walk, wielded your words like weapons—you could erase the gap between what you were and what he was.

But the gap was still there. It always was.

And standing there now, the weight of your own pretenses pressing against your ribs, you realized just how tired you were. Of fighting. Of chasing. Of proving.

Crowe’s brows knit together, subtle but sharp, like he saw straight through you, like he always did. “Right here,” he said, voice soft but firm. “I’ve been here. Maybe not the way you needed—but I’ve never left.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

What could you possibly say to that?

That you’ve been selfish? That you’ve used honesty like a scalpel—cutting truths down to size, offering him just enough to feel close while hiding the rot underneath? That you spun silence into safety, not for his sake, but because the whole truth made you feel too exposed, too small next to him?

That every time he smiled, you counted the ways you weren’t enough?

“Do you even know when you're coming back?” you asked, the words brittle, breaking as they left you. “Since you’ve been gone—“

You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. Ugly. More like choking.

“I’ve survived. If that’s what you’re wondering.” You looked past him, to the dark edge of the rooftop, to the glittering lights far below. “But surviving isn’t the same as living, Crowe. Not even close.”

His expression twisted. You saw the hurt there, but also the guilt. 

The kind that settles behind someone’s eyes when they know they’ve let something important bleed out between the cracks. “I tried to show you,” he said softly. “I thought you saw it. I thought you knew.”

You smiled then. But not the kind he’d remember. This one was bitter. Tired. Full of splinters. "Could've. Should've. But you didn’t." You finally looked at him, really looked. "I just kept hoping you’d want this... want me... a little bit more than it looked like you did.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cruel. 

Wasn’t kind either. Just... real. 

The kind that settles when two people finally run out of excuses.

He reached for your hand. Slow. Careful. Not demanding. 

Just offering.

“You don’t have to win anything to be with me,” he said. “This... it was never about keeping up. You don’t have to prove you deserve me.”

Your hand trembled in his. “But I did, Crowe. I do. Every day. Because people like me don’t end up with people like you unless we earn it.” You blinked, and tears slid hot down your cheeks, unnoticed. “And the worst part is? I don’t even think I was trying to earn you. I think I just wanted to prove to myself that someone like me could have something beautiful and not ruin it.”

You pulled away—not hard, just enough.

"It always felt like I was asking too much just to be seen," you whispered. "Like it hurt you to love me out loud.”

Crowe’s lips parted, but nothing came.

“And maybe that's my fault," you added, arms folding across your ribs like armor. "Maybe I made it too hard. Maybe I asked for too much without giving enough. Maybe I held you close just to stop myself from falling." You took a step back. The stars looked farther now.

“You and I…” your voice broke mid-thought, barely above a whisper, “…we were too close to the stars, weren’t we?”

Crowe didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just watched you unravel—thread by thread, truth by truth, until the shape of you started to look like something he couldn’t fix. Couldn’t hold. Couldn’t even name. 

And in the end, maybe that was the problem. Maybe you flew too high on wings sewn from panic and borrowed strength—stitched from fear and too many almosts. Maybe the gravity of loving him cracked your ribs before the fall even started.

"I never knew somebody like you, Crowe.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. You never did when it really counted. “Somebody falling just as hard.”

He could see the battle in your body—the urge to back away, the instinct to fold in on yourself, to disappear behind that polished mask of quiet composure. But you stayed. You bled in front of him. “I’d rather lose somebody than use somebody,” you said. Quiet. Clear. Like a confession buried too long.

You bit down hard, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue, grounding you in the moment, forcing the pain to stay real.

"I never expected to love you this deeply," you admitted. "Never expected to feel like this. You—" Your gaze flicked up to his, and the betrayal that shone in your eyes hit him like a gut punch.

“Why did you give me a chance?” you asked, raw and vulnerable. 

Crowe looked hollow. Shattered in the dim light, like all the air had left him. His lips parted like he might speak—but nothing came. Nothing ever did when it mattered.

“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” you said, softer now. Tired.

“I see my reflection in your eyes.” Your laugh wasn’t a laugh at all. Just an exhale shaped like surrender. “I know you’re sick, Crowe. Sick with guilt, sick with grief. I know you keep hoping you’ll fix whatever’s broken, but you never let me try. You pushed me away when all I wanted was to stay close.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, your arms aching with all the things you could have held if he’d just let you. “I heard what you said to Brittany that night,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Crowe’s head jerked. His eyes widened.

"I waited,” you continued. “Waited for you to come back. To explain. To lie—anything. But you left me alone, and it hurt, Crowe. It hurt more than I can stand. Tell me you see that. Tell me you see me.”

Still, he said nothing. But he moved.

Just a step. A single step forward, like he couldn’t stand to stay away anymore. The distance between you collapsed into something unbearable. His hand trembled as it hovered near yours, like he wanted to hold you but knew he didn’t deserve to, tracing your hand across his heart.

You could feel his heartbeat pounding—wild, guilty, begging—in the space between your ribs and his. And in his eyes: a galaxy of regret. A thousand unsaid sorries lodged behind his tongue, too afraid to be spoken, too late to make a difference.

You stared at him. So close. So damn close. 

But not enough.

He was a blue giant—brilliant and devastating, burning himself out in real time. The kind of star you wish on, even when you know it’ll never reach you.

And you?

You were a brown dwarf. Half-formed. Half-lit. Unseen by most, unfelt by many. Existing in the quiet corners of space, no one ever bothers to look for.

Unremarkable. Useless. Forgotten.

And still... even now, with your heart cracking in your chest—You couldn’t bring yourself to use him. Not even to shield yourself from the hurt. Because you knew better. You’d always known better.

And still... even now, with your heart cracking in your chest—

You couldn’t bring yourself to use him. Not even to shield yourself from the hurt. Because you knew better. You’d always known better. In the end, you couldn’t believe it.

You just… couldn’t.

Not after everything you’d done. Everything you were. After the silence, the nights you pulled away, the sharp words you’d used like razors just to see if he’d flinch—just to prove he was real, that he’d bleed, that he wasn’t some beautiful illusion meant to slip through your fingers.

But Crowe had never broken. Not even once.

He stood there now—tired, yes. Weathered, definitely. There were new shadows beneath his eyes, and the light in him had dimmed around the edges. But he was still there. Still standing. Still looking at you like you mattered. Like he hadn’t been the one dragged through every emotional minefield you’d built around yourself just to survive.

You hated that part of you. The part that ran before it could love properly. The part that pushed people away just to feel in control.

And still—he stayed. How? 

How could someone so gentle carry so much weight without shattering? How could someone so radiant choose to stay, even when your love was all thorns and no petals?

You wanted to look away. To shrink. To vanish into the hollow of your own guilt and disappear before he realized the truth.

Because the truth was this: You didn’t deserve him.

Not his steadiness. Not his kindness. Not the way he kept showing up with his heart in his hands, bleeding, broken, but never blaming you for the cuts. Again, he was a star—pure and incandescent. The kind that didn’t ask for praise, didn’t demand to be named or owned. Just existed in spite of it all. Burned without apology.

And he—he stood like he always had. 

With that same quiet ache in his eyes. That same refusal to let your damage change him. You could see it now, clear as day:

You had been cruel, and still he chose compassion.

You had been reckless, and still he offered patience.

You had been unkind to yourself, and yet he loved you in a way that made you want to be better. Not for him. But for you. And that—that was the moment your heart finally cracked open: You couldn’t believe it. You shouldn’t have had him.

But somehow… you did.

And that made losing him the most terrifying truth of all.

It was happening again.

That familiar, icy rush in your chest—the kind that made it hard to breathe, to think, to stand. You told yourself you’d be fine on your own. That you'd learned by now how to pick up the pieces alone. But you hadn’t. Not really. Not when it came to him. And now, with Crowe standing there—so close, so painfully real—you broke.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Your body trembled as you reached for him, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. You buried your face against his chest, desperate for his warmth, for the steady drumbeat of his heart that somehow always calmed the chaos in yours.

The tears came faster than you could stop them—hot and endless, streaking down your cheeks like the storm had finally torn through.

"I don’t know how to be solo, Crowe," you choked out, voice splintered at the seams. "So don’t go. No—please. Just stay."

You swallowed hard, but it was like your throat had collapsed in on itself. Your chest ached, ribs constricting as if grief had wrapped hands around your lungs and squeezed. Your arms wrapped around him tighter, clinging like you might dissolve if you let go.

And Crowe… he didn’t move. 

He didn’t push you away. 

He stood still, letting you fall apart against him, arms slowly encircling you like he’d been waiting—hoping—you’d finally let yourself need him.

"We were bright," you whispered against the cotton of his shirt, your voice muffled and wet. "Shootin’ through the sky daily..."

"Yeah," he breathed, and the word sounded like it cost him something—like it scraped its way out of a chest full of unsaid things.

You pulled back just enough to see him. His gaze was already locked on you—soft, wide, unreadable in that way only Crowe could be. But you felt the weight behind it. The ache. The tether.

"Lighting up the night wasn't always right, baby," you murmured, voice quieter now, trembling at the edges. Your eyes fell, unable to hold the intensity of his, but his never left you. He looked like someone trying to memorize a moment before it slipped away.

“Mhm.” It was barely more than breath, but it held a world of meaning—agreement not with logic, but memory. Shared chaos. Shared light.

“Every time that we realign… it’s crazy,” he said finally, voice frayed and vulnerable. Like even he couldn’t understand how you kept finding your way back to each other after all the mess, the silence, the pain.

Your hand moved before you could think, pressing flat against his chest—right over his heart.

The rhythm was erratic. Fast. Unguarded. Not at all like the mask he wore around others. You felt it beneath your palm like the truest part of him. And when you looked up, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t retreat behind walls or words or distance.

He just looked. At you. Like he’d been waiting an eternity to see your face again. And suddenly, the distance between you didn’t exist.

You leaned in—slowly, carefully—giving him space to stop you if he wanted. He didn’t. "And you save me," you whispered. The words trembled between your lips, too fragile to survive the air for long. A confession. A wound. A truth.

And then—finally—you kissed him.

Not like before. 

Not out of desperation, or fear, or fleeting passion.

But like someone drowning who had finally broken the surface. And Crowe melted into you like he’d been holding his breath for years—waiting for permission to feel again.

Your lips parted just enough to breathe, to look at him—and that’s when he moved. Slowly, carefully, he slid his arms around your waist, one hand resting gently at the small of your back, the other curling protectively at your side like he was afraid you might shatter if he held you too tightly.

Before you could even ask, he lifted you—not high, not showy, just enough that your heels left the ground, just enough for the air between you to shift and the moment to hush.

You blinked, taken off guard. "...What are you doing?"

Crowe’s voice came low and warm, a little sheepish. “Dancing with you,” he said softly.

And then, as he began to gently sway beneath the sky’s quiet hush, he added, “Like we used to... before everything got so tangled.”

You didn’t remember when your arms found their way around his shoulders, or when your body started following his lead. But your feet knew. Your heart knew. It was familiar, like a song you hadn’t heard in ages but never forgot the words to. 

His breath stirred against your temple as he held you close. 

You could feel the way his hands lingered, hesitant and reverent, as though this—you—were sacred.

"I didn’t leave you ‘cause I wanted to,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath. “My aunt… she needed me. Some event. Formal, full of high-class expectations and legacy nonsense. She wanted me there last minute, and I didn’t know how to say no. She’s... hard to argue with. The kind of rude that’s so well-dressed in charm, you feel guilty for being mad."

You rested your forehead against his. The old pain stirred, but it didn’t burn the same. The tension in your spine began to ebb with the motion of his steps and the hush in his voice.

“I thought you were ashamed,” you whispered.

His arms tightened. Protective. Immediate.

“No. No, starlight. God, no. It wasn’t shame. It was fear. I… I doubted whether I should’ve brought you into that world. Whether you deserved to be there." He paused, swallowing thickly, voice roughened by regret. “And I realize now how insulting that was—how wrong. I should’ve known you could hold your own.”

You stayed silent, eyes shut, letting him speak.

“She’s like a snake in pearls, that woman. I thought she’d eat you alive with that sugar-sweet venom of hers. I didn’t want you anywhere near it, because—” His voice caught. “Because you didn’t think I’d survive it,” you finished for him. Not bitter. Just… tired.

Crowe’s voice cracked as he answered. “No. Because I didn’t want you to think you didn’t belong there. Because that... that would’ve hurt you. And I couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling like you weren’t enough. I thought keeping you out of it was protecting you—but I was wrong. You’re stronger than I gave you credit for, and I hate that it took me hurting you to see that.”

You looked up at him. He didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze clung tighter—like he was terrified to miss another second.

“I didn’t want to be the reason you felt left behind,” he admitted, forehead pressing gently against yours now, his voice a fragile thing wrapped in guilt. “But I became that reason. And that’s on me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, grounding yourself in the rhythm of his heartbeat and the sway of your shared steps. The past still echoed—ghostly, painful—but the warmth of his touch anchored you to now.

His breath hitched. “I missed you every single day, starlight. And I know that doesn’t fix it—but I did. I do.”

You leaned into him, forehead against his, your lips close enough to ghost over his again. Voice hushed. Honest.

“I needed to hear that.”

He nodded—barely. Like, even movement might break the fragile peace that had formed between you. And still, you danced beneath the sky—two lost things finding rhythm again. Not because everything was healed.

But because you still chose to stay. With him.

Off to the side, just past the soft glow of hanging lights, Brittney stood near the balcony entrance. The shadows clung to her like silk, veiling her in quiet observation. Her gaze was locked on you—on the way you folded into Crowe like gravity pulled you to him, the way he danced with you like nothing else existed. 

He held you like he’d never let go again.

Brittney didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

She just stood there, spine straight, expression unreadable—save for the twitch at the corner of her mouth and the slight tremble of her hand as she looked down. A stack of cards. Clean. Elegant. Networked through you. Investors’ names etched in sleek fonts. Business opportunities. Dreams stitched into reality.

For her. For the dress you wore tonight.

You were her muse. Her key. Her star. And you never asked for credit—just handed her the tools and watched her shine.

She should feel proud. She was proud. 

But it ached.

The pride came tangled in something bitter, something sharp and uninvited—because part of her wished she had been the one to comfort you first. To hold you. To be seen.

After all...

She and Crowe had the same deep blue eyes. Right?

Same calm, same quiet sadness, same hidden depths. But he got there first—and you looked at him like he’d hung the constellations just for you. She saw it all. The whole performance. The whole truth. Her heart clenched, a stutter beneath her ribs. Bittersweet.

Maybe that’s all she’d ever get from you.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, lips curling into a practiced smirk, masking heartbreak behind glossy confidence. Someone should say something. Break the tension. “Well,” she called out, voice light, smooth as champagne, “someone should probably fix your makeup before heading back inside, right? Before embarrassing yourself.”

It was sharp. It was funny. It was safe. 

However, she didn’t expect you to move. Not like that. Not like you felt it. Not like you heard the ache she never spoke aloud. But then, when you and Crowe faced her from the sound of her voice, you slipped from Crowe’s hands—soft warmth turned cold in an instant—and ran. Right to her. 

“Brittney!” 

Her name hit her like a bullet wrapped in silk. Your arms wrapped around her the second you reached her, clinging to her with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. You hugged her like she was the one thing that mattered in the world.

Like you meant it.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice cracking with sincerity. “You made this night happen. You made me feel seen. You—You gave me more than anyone else ever has, Brittney.”

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe. Her mouth opened, but no words came—just a laugh, broken and bright and painful all at once. She looked away, blinking quickly, hiding the way her eyes glistened like glass under firelight.

“God, you’re such a sap,” she muttered, trying to swallow the scream in her chest. “You’re gonna get glitter on this dress, hugging me like that.” But she hugged you back. Tight. Like she never wanted to let go.

And then—Crowe. Of course.

He came up behind you, arms looping around your waist like vines finding sunlight, his chin resting on your shoulder, lips brushing your neck in a kiss that was far too smug to be pure. “Seriously?” he teased, his voice warm and low. “I give you a dance, a speech, a moment, and the second I blink, you’re already running into her arms? Some prince I turned out to be.”

You laughed. A real laugh. Loud and unguarded.

“Jealous?” you teased back.

He chuckled, nuzzling the crook of your neck. “A little. But honestly? Can’t even blame you. She is dangerously charming.”

Brittney smiled through it. Perfect smile. Perfect everything. But her arms were still around you.  

And for once, she let the mask slip. Just enough.

“You two,” she said softly, so only you could really hear it, “you’re lucky. Don’t mess this up, for the sake of myself.”

You turned in her arms, one hand brushing her cheek, tender, knowing, grateful. “Hey,” you whispered. “You’re part of this. You always have been. I love you, Brittney. In so many ways.”

Her heart stopped. Then stumbled forward again. She nodded. Bit her tongue. Said nothing more. Because maybe that was enough.

Even if you'd never know the kind of love she meant.

You turned back once. Of course you did.

The party behind you shimmered like a galaxy in motion—laughter flickering like comets, bodies orbiting one another in slow, sparkling collisions. Crowe had taken your hand again, drawn you back into the swell of music and light and gold-dusted dreams.

But still, you looked back.

“Brittney?” you called softly, pausing just before the threshold where night gave way to noise. “You okay?”

She smiled like she meant it. Like it didn’t crack something inside her to be seen by you, just seen, and not chosen.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice weightless. “I just… need some air.”

Your eyes softened. You always did see too much, didn’t you? But never the right thing. Never the thing that counted. You nodded. Held her gaze like a promise you didn’t know you were breaking. And then Crowe tugged you gently, and you went—back into the glitter and the warmth.

Back into the stars.

Back to where you belonged.

You were a star. Not just any star—no. You were the star.

A celestial wonder with laughter like comets and a smile that pulled gravity. You shimmered with the kind of warmth people mistake for salvation, the kind that wakes the dead things in others and makes them believe again. To Brittany, you weren’t just light. You were life. The night sky bowed around you, painted in hues of violet and gold, alive with everything she had only ever dared to dream.

And she—

She was the moon.

Distant. Orbiting. Forever watching.

Reflecting what little radiance she could gather and pretending it was her own. Not glowing—echoing. A mirror in silver sequins, always shining secondhand. The kind of beauty that was quiet, conditional, and cold when the sun wasn’t near.

You were surrounded by stars now, dancing where the universe pulsed with celebration. She could hear you laugh—see the way Crowe looked at you like you’d hung the constellations himself. He held your hand like it was the only anchor in the galaxy. No one has ever looked at Brittany that way. No one ever did. 

Expect you. At least you gave her light.

She leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal biting into her skin like it might anchor her here a little longer. The music pulsed behind her. The sky stretched endlessly above. 

Somewhere in the crowd, you were laughing—your hand curled in Crowe’s like a vow. And Brittany… she stood there like a monument to a love unspoken.

“I see myself in you, you know,” she whispered to the wind, voice cracking like glass. “I sold my soul for you.”

Then quieter. A confession folded in starlight:

“Maybe you should’ve stuck with us.”

Not because it would’ve changed anything. But because… for a moment, in some lost and better version of this story—

She believed you could’ve loved her back.

“I’m the moon,” she whispered, the words barely slipping past her glossed lips. “And you… you’re a star.”

A star that belonged in the heavens. Among others like you—burning, brilliant, untouchable.

Because stars don’t love moons. Not really.

They don’t stop to notice the one that’s been following them through the sky. The one who’s always been there, lighting the dark in quiet ways, giving everything without ever being asked. They don’t realize the moon is just a satellite, stuck in orbit, always just close enough to see but never close enough to touch.

And the moon never complains. Not aloud.

Because to love a star is to love from afar. To stay locked in orbit, tethered by longing and gravity you never asked for. To offer silence and smiles as placeholders for truth. To take a heartbreaking, and call it friendship—because that’s the version you were willing to carry.

But still...

Didn’t you feel it?

The way her laugh faltered when yours did. How her eyes always found you in a crowd, like they were pulled there by instinct. The way she leaned in—just enough—never more. How her voice softened like an apology when it was only ever meant for you.

But you never said anything. Never stopped her. Maybe that was kindness. Or maybe cruelty. Because Brittany, for all her glitter and glamor, would rather break than be your burden. Would rather fade than make you stay.

And you—

You were never meant for her gravity. You belonged in the sky, arms stretched toward the cosmos, flying free. Not tethered to her ache. Not caught in her quiet, collapsing world.

You were meant to soar with the rest, and she—

She was the thing left behind when you took flight.

She looked down at the cards in her hands. Her Dreams, she shared with you and made them real as you promised. Hopes that once aligned. Reflections of yours—of hers. But hers had dimmed. Yours still burned. And when she looked back up, she could see it:

The way Crowe looked at you like you held the map to every lost place he’d ever known. The way you smiled back, not just with your mouth—but with your soul.

You had found somewhere to belong. And Brittany could see it so clearly now—You belonged. 

You belonged in his hands.

And that should have been enough for her. It had to be.

Because Brittany… She understood you. 

More than anyone ever did. Loved you—not the way people say they do, but in the way that destroyed her from the inside. Slowly. Softly. Like a secret that never got spoken out loud. And she buried it under perfect eyeliner, sharp humor, and the kind of charm that made people think she couldn't hurt.

But she did. She hurts.

The jealousy bloomed beneath her skin like poison—rich and purple and still somehow beautiful. It sat behind her ribs, in the hollow where your voice used to echo.

And even as she clapped for you…

Even as you laughed in the arms of someone brighter…

She smiled.

Because loving you meant letting you shine—even if it scorched everything inside her. So what did you want from her, babe? Maybe nothing. Maybe she was already giving everything—and you didn’t even notice. Maybe that had to be enough. Even if all you ever saw in her was a flicker of Crowe’s confidence, a flash of his charisma—never her heart. Never her truth.

And that was the thing no one warned her about:

Stars don’t fall for moons who wait.

They fall for other stars—ones who burn back.

[rd0265667]

Karina as your girlfriend

Aespa GF HC

✰When you first met her, you were intimidated, and thought she was way out of your league. Tall, elegant, a being that seemed almost celestial, who just waltzed into your life.

✰You were wrong, on two counts. One, she was nervous too. Arguably more nervous than you were. She plays it cool at first, but inside? Total panic mode. You’d catch her sneaking glances when she thought you weren’t looking, lips twitching as she bit back a smile

✰Second, when you finally began dating her,  you realised she was also a sleep-deprived, clingy goofball who makes weird throat noises when she’s bored and eats snacks like a Victorian orphan

✰As your girlfriend, she pulls off a very magical blend of calm and “stupid cheese cat” ness, as Aeri called it

✰To the public, she’s the cool girlfriend, but the moment the door closes, and it’s just the two of you? It’s like her system reboots and gets the blue screen of death.

✰She’d trip over her own words, cuddle into you like a sleepy kitten, and get playfully dramatic about everything.

“You watched OUR show without me??? Traitor.”

✰When she’s feeling playful, she’ll roast you with a straight face, then give you a smirk. You know the one

✰Then when you roast her back, she either out sasses you, or plays the “sad puppy Rina” card(You were never winning)

✰She loves petnames, calling you “babe” or “honey” with zero hesitation, but if you call her “princess”?

✰She breaks down faster than a shitty car on life support. I’m talking blushing, pillow to face, legs kicking all over, the whole shebang

✰When she wants/needs to take care of you, she’s surprisingly responsible and mature. She keeps you on track, reminds you to hydrate, and organises the fridge by colour coded containers

✰But then she also baby-talks your pet and makes Dino chicken nuggets for dinner so…balance

✰When you’re upset, she doesn’t always know what to do, but she’ll wrap you in her arms, rest her chin on your shoulder, and just be there.

✰It’s heaven on earth

✰Very competitive. She got all pouty once because she claims you cheated in the game.(It was rock paper scissors.)

✰She loves compliments, but acts like she hates it. 

“You’re beautiful, Rina” “Pfft, you’re so cheesy, get away.” -Literally has not stopped smiling in days

✰Shes clingy even in the most casual ways, like her hand on your thigh when she’s near you, leaning onto your side on walks, or sleeping with her face buried into your neck

✰Cuddles are a non-negotiable, but it’s not like you were gong to disagree with her anyways

✰She sends you random “Thinking about you” texts, orders your favourite food and drinks without you needing to ask, and it’s almost like she knows what you’re going to do before you do it

✰Her lockscreen is a blurry selfie of you kissing her cheek while she’s half laughing, half hiding

“Yours is me too, right?” (You better say yes)

[chevyslate158]

Coriolanus Snow x FemReader: Halls Of Obsession 18+

A/n: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoy this dark and twisted story! 😈 Just a heads up, this is 18+ content, so please proceed with caution! ⚠️ I want to make it clear that I do not condone the relationships or behaviour depicted here. It's purely for fictional exploration especially seeing as Coriolanus Snow is typically a darker character. 🙅‍♀️💭

Also, if you're into more intense, mature themes, feel free to check out my other series, Pleasantries of 'Love' (Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Reader) 💖, with Chapter 1 just uploaded yesterday! ✨ And if you're into the Hunger Games AU, don’t miss Threads of Freedom (My OC Archer Brown x Fem! Reader, 15th Hunger Games AU) featuring a Billy the Kid (Tom Blyth) face claim!

Thanks for reading, and happy indulging in these darker stories! 💋 Word Count: 2.8K Warnings: Stalking, obsession, control, mental manipulation, emotional manipulation, gender dynamics, misogyny, unhealthy relationships, delusional Coriolanus, gaslighting, dark themes and power imbalance

Coriolanus leaned casually against the wall near the entrance of the university hall, his posture relaxed but his mind sharp, taking in every detail of the bustling crowd. Students hurried past him, eager to escape the confines of their lectures and dive into the freedom of the evening. Yet, amidst the sea of faces, his eyes sought only one. Her.

She emerged from the crowd like a ripple breaking the surface of still water, her presence commanding his undivided attention. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows caught the soft strands of her hair, turning them into a golden halo. She moved with an unassuming grace, her focus seemingly elsewhere, clutching a notebook to her chest as if it were a shield.

Coriolanus’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he watched her pause to greet a classmate, her laughter light but fleeting, like a secret carried away by the wind. His fingers flexed against the wall, the urge to step forward warring with his disciplined restraint. Patience, he reminded himself, savouring the game he had constructed in his mind. He would make his move when the moment was perfect when she least expected it. For now, he was content to remain a shadow, watching, waiting, and unravelling the threads of her world piece by piece.

The girl he had been quietly observing for months. No, not months almost a year. It had started innocently enough, or so he told himself. He had noticed her during the first week of classes, her presence standing out in a sea of anonymity. She had been sitting in the back of a lecture hall, scribbling furiously in her notebook while everyone else seemed content to zone out. There was something about her intensity, the way she seemed so absorbed in her own world, that drew his gaze again and again. By the end of that week, he knew her schedule by heart.

At first, Coriolanus had convinced himself it was nothing more than curiosity. The first time he noticed her was during a philosophy lecture. She had slipped into the room quietly, her posture rigid yet unassuming, as though she wished to blend into the background. But she couldn’t. Not to him. There was something magnetic about her serious, reserved, and entirely indifferent to the exhausting theatrics of campus life. While others vied for attention and alliances, she seemed untouchable, consumed by a world far removed from the trivialities of their peers.

That moment lingered in his mind far longer than it should have. He found himself searching for her in every lecture, catching glimpses of her bent over her notes, her pen moving with precision. There was a stark elegance in her solitude, a defiance in her silence. It was intoxicating.

Weeks turned into months, and that initial spark of intrigue began to fester. Curiosity became a fixation. He would loiter outside her lecture halls, under the guise of coincidence, timing his movements so that they would pass in the corridors or share fleeting moments in the library. He began to rearrange his schedule, reworking every detail of his routine to ensure their paths would cross—no matter how insignificant the interaction.

It became a ritual, one he both dreaded and relished. His heart would race at the mere sight of her, a mix of longing and frustration knotting in his chest. The more she remained oblivious to his growing obsession, the more insatiable it became. Coriolanus found himself consumed by the idea of her, his thoughts dominated by questions he couldn’t shake. Why didn’t she notice him? Why was she so immune to the charms and status that others bent over backward to acknowledge?

And as his fascination deepened, so too did his desire for control. She was no longer just a girl; she was a puzzle, a challenge, and in his mind, something meant to belong to him.

Coriolanus couldn’t stop himself. He memorised her patterns down to the second with an almost obsessive precision the way she tilted her head when lost in thought, the quiet hum she made under her breath when she believed no one was listening, the books she checked out from the library, and even the routes she took when walking home. Each detail was like a puzzle piece, slowly forming a picture that only he was privy to.

But it wasn’t enough. Observing her from afar no longer satisfied the gnawing need within him. He wanted more. Needed more. To know the thoughts that danced behind her quiet demeanour, to hear her voice directed at him not in passing politeness but in something personal, something real.

The rational part of him whispered that this fixation was dangerous, but he silenced it with ease. She had become his constant, his obsession. The world around him blurred when she was near, her presence sharpening every sense to an almost unbearable intensity.

It was no longer about curiosity or fascination. It was about possession. She didn’t know it yet, but she was his. She belonged to him in a way that no one else ever could. And soon, he would make her understand that too.

Today, as on every other day, she carried a precarious stack of books in her arms, her steps purposeful and unwavering. She exuded a quiet determination that fascinated him. Even from this distance, Coriolanus could anticipate her route to the library, as always.

His girl was so predictable, yet he found comfort in that. She was like clockwork, her movements steady and deliberate, her routines as unchanging as the sunrise. He couldn’t help but admire her devotion to her studies, and the way she treated her academic pursuits with the same reverence others reserved for religion. It wasn’t just intelligence it was passion, a drive that set her apart from everyone else.

Look at her, he thought, a faint smile curling his lips as he leaned casually against a column. My smart little girl, always so diligent, so focused. She doesn’t even realise how special she is, how different she is from the rest of them.

Her obliviousness to her own allure only made her more captivating. She didn’t try to draw attention to herself, yet she held it effortlessly. The way her brow furrowed in thought, the way she hugged those books as though they were her armour against the world it all made him want to pull her closer, to strip away her defences and show her that she didn’t need to carry everything on her own.

He pushed off the wall with an almost lazy grace, slipping seamlessly into the flow of students. To anyone watching, he would seem like just another young man heading toward his next task. But every step he took was deliberate, calculated. He kept a discreet distance, his sharp mind tracking her every movement without drawing attention to himself.

As she turned the corner, her destination clear, Coriolanus quickened his pace. The library loomed ahead, its heavy oak doors propped open for the last wave of students filtering in. He adjusted his stride, ensuring he reached the entrance just moments before her. The timing was everything, and he had perfected this act of apparent coincidence.

When he arrived at the library door, he paused, hand resting lightly on the wood, as though debating whether to enter. In truth, he was waiting. He could hear her measured footsteps drawing nearer, the faint shuffle of pages as she adjusted her books. A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face, a predatory smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

She doesn’t even know I’m here, he thought, the thrill of the moment making his pulse quicken. Just a little closer, my girl. So close now.

He could almost feel her presence before she emerged into view her scent, faint but distinct, the quiet hum of her energy that seemed to surround her like a shield. He waited, eyes fixed on the door, anticipating the exact second she would appear. When she finally rounded the corner, there was a brief moment where their gazes could have collided. But she didn’t look up.

She approached, her attention focused straight ahead, her gaze unwavering. Coriolanus moved, pulling the door open with a practised ease that felt almost natural. He stepped aside, his hand lingering on the door as he spoke, his voice smooth and refined.

“After you,” he said, a trace of a smile curling his lips.

Startled by the unexpected gesture, she glanced up, her expression softening into polite gratitude. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice quiet yet melodic, like the soft trill of a bird at dawn. Her gaze lingered on him for only a moment fleeting, yet enough to send a rush of heat coursing through his veins. And then she was gone, slipping past him and disappearing into the tranquil, book-lined expanse of the library.

Coriolanus’s pulse quickened, though his face remained composed, the perfect mask of indifference. Inside, however, a storm brewed. Her voice echoed in his mind, the simple thank you reverberating with an intimacy that left him dizzy. He followed her inside, his fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe, savouring the faint warmth it seemed to hold from her touch as he let it swing shut behind him.

The library was hushed, serene a cathedral of knowledge but to Coriolanus, it became something else entirely: a sanctuary for his obsession. Every creak of the floorboards beneath his polished boots felt like a ripple in the stillness, his every step calculated as he trailed her. Not too close. Not yet. She moved with purpose, her figure weaving through the maze of shelves like a shadow, each movement deliberate yet effortlessly graceful.

When she finally settled at a table near the large bay window, he stopped in the shadows of a nearby aisle, his gaze sharpening as it latched onto her. She placed her books in a neat stack, the delicate arc of her wrist as she adjusted them nearly unbearable to watch. Her brow furrowed slightly as she began to read, her lips parting just enough to hint at the silent rhythm of her thoughts.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. There was something maddeningly intimate about seeing her like this unguarded, immersed, unaware of the effect she had on him. The light streaming through the window cast her in soft hues, making her appear almost ethereal, and Coriolanus’s mind began to wander.

What would it feel like to shatter her calm? To lean in close enough that she had no choice but to notice him, to look up at him with those wide, unsuspecting eyes? Would her voice tremble if he spoke her name, the way it trembled in his imagination when he was alone late at night? Would her lips part with that same subtle allure if he dared to touch her hand, her face, her—

He clenched his jaw, tearing himself from the spiral of forbidden thoughts with an exhale that barely masked his frustration. She was so close, and yet impossibly out of reach, a cruel tease to the hunger he hadn’t yet dared to confront. For now, he would remain in the background, watching, waiting, letting his desires simmer beneath the surface. But in the dark corners of his mind, a vow was forming: one day, she wouldn’t be able to ignore him. One day, she would be his.

He selected a table nearby close enough to observe, far enough to avoid suspicion. Sliding into the chair with careful precision, he arranged a few books in front of him, meaningless tomes chosen at random, mere props for his façade. The titles didn’t matter. What mattered was his vantage point. From here, he could watch her uninterrupted, unnoticed, and unchallenged.

The sunlight streaming through the window painted her in an ethereal glow, bathing her features in soft, golden light. It was as if the universe conspired to highlight her beauty solely for him. She reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her slender fingers moving with effortless grace. Her focus remained entirely on the book in front of her, her lips faintly parted in concentration.

Coriolanus’s gaze lingered, hungry yet controlled, devouring every detail of her quiet movements. The curve of her neck as she leaned forward, the delicate furrow of her brow it all felt impossibly intimate, as though she were sharing secrets with him alone.

In his mind, she wasn’t just a girl. She was the girl. Perfect. Untouchable. The embodiment of everything he yearned for but could not yet claim. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was an ideal, a symbol of something greater. When he allowed his imagination to wander something he often indulged in when it came to her he could see it all so clearly.

She would sit beside him one day, poised and dignified, her quiet grace commanding a room in ways no words ever could. She would be the First Lady of Panem, the perfect complement to his rule. Together, they would project an image of power and unity, a vision of perfection that the Capitol would idolise and the districts would fear. He allowed himself to dream of her walking at his side in the Capitol’s grand halls, her every movement an echo of his control. Our control, he corrected himself.

And when the time came, she would bear his children his heirs perfect extensions of their union. She would be a doting housewife, tending to their home, and raising their children with all the love and care he knew she had in her. In the public eye, she would be the epitome of grace and motherhood, always poised, always revered. Yet she would still remain vital, her presence indispensable as his First Lady, supporting him, shaping the image of Panem's future with every carefully crafted word and action.

Why would she need anything else? Coriolanus thought darkly, the edges of his mind sharpening as the fantasy took root. Why would she want a career, a life outside their shared vision, when her true purpose would lie at his side, nurturing their family and cementing their legacy? Her talents and her intellect could be better put to use in other, more appropriate ways. A career would only distract her from what truly mattered: him, their children, their future.

No, he would make sure she saw it that way. He would make her see it that way. After all, who else could offer her a life so perfectly tailored to her? She won’t need to dream of anything else, he mused with a quiet, satisfied smile. Her place is here, with me, where she belongs.

And yet, here she was, utterly oblivious to his existence. The thought stung, a sharp reminder of how far he still had to go. But it didn’t matter. She would notice him eventually. He would make sure of it.

She’s mine, he thought, his fingers curling around the spine of a book he had no intention of reading. She just doesn’t know it yet.

His fingers brushed the cover of the book in front of him, though he made no move to open it. His attention remained fixed, darting between her and the room around them assessing the space, the people, the exits. Each detail was catalogued each movement of the room mapped in his mind. Nothing was left to chance. This was no fleeting infatuation it was an obsession, controlled, deliberate, calculated.

He knew more about her than he should. Her favourite coffee order, the way she always sat in the quiet corners of campus, lost in her thoughts, with the world completely unaware of her presence. And there was the subtle, almost imperceptible habit she had twirling her pen between her fingers when her mind wandered, a small gesture that somehow made him feel as if she were revealing a part of herself to him. Even though she had never spoken more than a few words to him, these details felt like secrets, intimately shared, as if they were his own.

The minutes stretched into hours, the soft hum of the library wrapping them both in a cocoon of stillness. To her, it was an ordinary afternoon another in a long line of study sessions and quiet solitude. But to Coriolanus, it was an intricately choreographed performance. Each movement, each glance, each breath was a part of his game, a carefully measured step toward embedding himself into her world.

He didn’t need to speak to her not yet. The thrill, the power, lay in the waiting, in the quiet observation, in learning everything there was to know before making his move. One day, she would look up and realise he had always been there, patiently building the foundation of something inevitable.

His lips twitched into a fleeting, almost imperceptible smile as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her. This was just the beginning. Soon, the pieces would fall into place, and when the time came, she would have no choice but to fall in line. She was his. He had already decided. This was only the beginning.

[akiranzee]

muzan x gn!reader who is literally like the very epitome of elegance. like so refined, elegant, polite, respectful and all that! no vulgar language, fancy way of speaking.. like just elegance impersonated.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ MUZAN WITH ELEGANT S/O!!

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✧ it annoys him and amuses him all at the same time.

✧ why? because there will always be one prick in the world who’d be so opposed to you, saying you’re weird and stuff, and your response would just smile and say “we’re unique individuals after all”. ✧ so yeah, he hates how you’d smile about it and likes when you piss the person off more, acting all chill like that. ✧ other than that, he also doesn’t like it when you answer him briefly, like, when he suggested you’d eat at this restaurant and that, you’d simply nod and smile, in which he hated because he wants to hear your own thoughts, your own words, your own voice. ✧ it also makes him wonder how you — not even of old age yet, could speak so knowledgeable, and act so mature. ✧ more or less, people your age would still be fooling around, and say nonsense things. but you — muzan swears, you’re just so different even with all of them combined. ✧ instead of saying, “can you pass the sauce to me?” with a sweet voice, instead you’d say, “would you mind passing the sauce to me?” with a refined voice, and of course, with your signature smile. ✧ and if you’re talking to someone, and you didn’t catch a word they said, instead of just saying, “what?” you say, “i’m sorry, may you repeat it one more time?” ✧ and if you accidentally bump into someone, instead of saying a casual “oh! i’m sorry” you instead say; “oh! i apologize. please forgive me.” with stopping in your tracks and facing them with an apologetic and concerned look in your face. ✧ others won’t even bother to wipe their stained lips with sauce or whatever, even asking their significant others to wipe it off for them, but you — you’d always bring a tissue or a handkerchief everywhere you go, and wiping the stain off your soft lips, making muzan wish you’d just let him wipe it off at least once. ✧ but sometimes, he also likes breaking you off your elegant state, loving the look of your nose scrunched up when you see or smell blood. it just disgusts you so much. ✧ aside from all that, you also have an impolite side of you, which is when there’s a thief, you’d simply raise your leg up and trip them, having the others chasing them catch them. ✧ someone wants to harrass/take advantage of you? no worries, you’d “accidentally” push them away so hard, that they stumble down, as you mutter a soft, sarcastic “sorry” and walk away as if nothing happened. ✧ muzan sometimes wonders just how much patience you have to simply smile there while a person is literally trash-talking you, in which he, by the way, politely tells to fuck off. ✧ sometimes, muzan wishes that you’d just get out of your elegant state and cling to him sometimes. ✧ and lastly, you’re a very independent woman, that sometimes, when you both hang out together, he’d just feel really useless, and you’d be the first and last person to ever make him feel that way.

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a/n: i’m not elegant myself so uhh🤐.

© akiranzee || do not steal, plagiarize, or repost my works without my permission.

[spoilbratksworld]

- Evie is a total sweetheart, but she also has high standards—so if she chose you, you must be something special.

- She adores romance and is all about the fairytale love story, so expect grand romantic gestures and lots of sweet moments.

- While she values looks and fashion, she falls for you because of your personality and how you treat her. Loyalty, kindness, and a little charm go a long way with her.

- She loves holding hands, fixing your collar or hair, and occasionally resting her head on your shoulder.

- She’ll always hype you up with sweet compliments like, “You look absolutely dashing today, my prince.”

- She’ll probably design clothes for you because fashion is her love language, and she wants you to look your best.

- Evie isn’t the jealous type, but if someone flirts with you, she’ll just smile sweetly and casually pull you closer to show you’re hers.

- However, if someone seriously disrespects your relationship, she can be quite intimidating with her sharp words and regal presence.

- She fully believes in "Look good, feel good," so if you're feeling down, she’ll pamper you—face masks, stylish outfits, and affirmations to remind you how amazing you are.

- Romantic picnics, where she brings handmade pastries and fruit tarts.

- Stargazing on a rooftop with a cozy blanket and soft music playing in the background.

- Couple spa days where she insists on skincare routines together—because self-care is important!

- Dancing in private, whether it’s a waltz at a fancy event or just swaying in her dorm room.

- She’s elegant, kind, and incredibly supportive, always encouraging you to chase your dreams.

- She’s playful but mature, knowing when to have fun and when to be serious.

- She calls you her “Prince Charming,” even if you insist you’re not royal.

- You help remind her she’s more than just her beauty and talents—she’s a wonderful person inside and out.

[married-2-the-music]

K-pop Discography Deep Dives: Girls Generation / SNSD (Part ONE)

Girls’ Generation debuted in 2007, with nine members: Taeyeon, Seohyun, Yoona, Yuri, Tiffany, Jessica (who left in 2014), Sunny, Sooyoung, and Hyoyeon, and soon became one of the most popular groups of the 2nd generation of k-pop with their catchy retro songs and down-to-earth image. Also, I’ll be using the names Girls Generation and SNSD (Sonoshidae, their Korean name) interchangeably through this.

Here are my credentials: So, I’m absolutely a fan of Girls’ Generation, although I’m in that weird space where I’m more than a casual one yet not quite a SONE (a full fan), but just like with Sunmi, I have a feeling that this deep dive will make me one. I’ve heard almost all of their title tracks, and a decent amount of b-sides, but since they have over 100 songs, I’m sure I’ll find some new ones to love too. I’m also a fan of both Taeyeon and Tiffany’s solo careers.

Their 2007 debut was Into The New World, and I honestly do not know what to say about this song. It was the reason I wanted to do this review in the first place, because in my opinion, it’s the best k-pop song of all time, and I’m not even a SONE. It’s upbeat and ultra-poppy, cheesy as hell, wonderfully hopeful, and has an instantly recognizable, soaring chorus that I can sing from memory (although not as well). I’ve probably seen this MV dozens of times, but I still chuckle at the dance break and can’t stop smiling at the take-off in the last bridge and how young they are, just barely older than I was when I became a k-pop fan. In the years after Into The New World was released, it’s become an important protest song in Korea, and to many now—myself included—it’s more than just what it was meant to be.

Full warning: there is no way that I could view any song fairly after this strong a debut, but I do really like the song Girls Generation, and actually didn’t know that this was a cover until this deep dive, since I can only associate it with them. It’s very bubblegum from its first moment, heavier on the aegyo than its counterpart, but the song’s slower pre-chorus, SNSD’s great voices, and that smash of a chorus manage to prevent the cutesiness from being overwhelming.

From the 1st album, simply entitled Girls Generation, I enjoyed the springy, vintage (somewhat Christmasy?) vibes of Ooh La La, the lovely harmonizing in Complete and Tinkerbell, the elegant classical flourishes in the background of Kissing You, and the guitar and excellent vocals in Honey. Overall this album feels incredibly 2nd gen, and gave me waves of nostalgia.

Gee is probably one of Girls’ Generation’s most well-known songs, and it’s easy to see why. With simple but fun choreography, and a chorus that constantly walks the tightrope of being incessantly catchy and just a little grating, it’s a total earworm. It takes a lot to make me enjoy such a cutesy song, but I think it was the combination of nostalgia and humor or maybe just how much I wanted to dance, and enjoy this one I did. As an aside, I’d forgotten that Minho from SHINee makes a cameo in this video, so that was a nice surprise.

From the EP, Gee, I had two main hidden gems. Way To Go is very much the kind of inspiring, upbeat bubblegum that I love, and also feels very nostalgic. Dear Mom, as I expected, is more of a ballad, and reminds me a little of Chung Ha’s Goodnight My Princess, with a sweet, heartfelt message to the girls’ mothers that made me text mine and ask how she’s doing. (Love you, Mom!)

Genie (or in Korean, “Tell Me Your Wish”) is a song that I thought was released later into their careers, with the slightly more mature image it uses. While still very bubblegum, it’s more polished, with a 70’s / 80’s synth background that began SNSD’s long run of retro-inspired singles. This isn’t one of my favorites of theirs, probably because in the years since it’s come out so, so, so many more k-pop songs have used the same style and thus it doesn’t sound as unique as some of their other tracks. I do still like it though.

From the EP, Genie, I had a good time dancing to the electronic beats of Etude, and the hrd-hitting synths of Boyfriend. One Year Later is a collaboration between Jessica and Onew from SHINee, so I was drawn to it right away; it chooses an understated coffee-shop feel that eventually blossoms into a strong ballad that really suits the warmth of their voices, and serves as a great album closer.

Oh! goes back on the somewhat more mature image that Genie established, going for a cheerleader concept, but sticks with the retro pop, this time pulling from a much more 80’s video game synth. It’s very much emblematic of the era it’s from with the nearly cloying aegyo, but unlike with Gee, most of that is in the MV and less so in the song. I like this one too, more than Gee, but I don’t find myself repeating it that much; I think it needs more of a bridge.

Run Devil Run is the second single from this album, and was highly unusual for the time since “cutesy” girl groups did not do this kind of hard-hitting synth. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still very much a pop song, but today it would be considered “girl crush”, like TWICE’s later-career pivot with Fancy and I Can’t Stop Me. I was worried the first time I heard this one that it would have an anti-drop, but thankfully the vocalizing in the second half of the chorus assuaged my worries. I actually showed this song to a friend of mine who enjoyed it so much that she bought it! And now “you better run, run, run, run” is stuck in my head for the foreseeable future, which I suppose is my own fault, isn’t it?

From the repackage album, Run Devil Run, I had a lot to choose from as a hidden gem. I enjoyed the choppy hook of Echo, the runway-ready confidence in Show! Show! Show!, the full-speed-ahead chiptune in Stick Wit’ U, and of course Key from SHINee’s feature in the youthful Boys & Girls.

Hoot is next up, and besides Into The New World, is my favorite so far. For some reason, it’s not talked about much as one of SNSD’s best singles, which always boggles my mind, because it’s just so delightful. I mean, it’s a spoof of classic spy movies with a percussive 60’s retro beat and such good clothes! That vocalizing under the last chorus gets me singing along every time. I even had a poster of it on my wall in high school, and it was the first k-pop choreography that I learned (albeit, very badly; I looked like a dying chicken). My only gripe is that I have no idea why this song is called Hoot and not Shoot or Trouble, which both would’ve been better names, but I digress. From the EP, my hidden gem was the jazzy, ballroom dance inspired Snowy Wish.

The Boys, admittedly, is one of those songs that I appreciate more than I actually like. I respect that it’s a classic and an important moment for k-pop, but as one reviewer said, “it feels more like a spectacle than a song, but what a spectacle it is.” Though it’s very catchy and I do hum along whenever it comes up on my shuffle, I’ve just never been a fan of anti-drop choruses, and even when they’re done well (like here or in many BTS songs), I always find myself thinking how much more I would like the song if it was changed. It feels more like a 2NE1 song than an SNSD one, though they sell it pretty well and their vocals make it at least twice as enjoyable.

From the album, The Boys, I enjoyed the dancefloor beats of Telepathy, the interesting distortion and slowdowns in Trick, the roller disco of Vitamin, the classical flourishes in My J, and especially the jazzy super-spy influence in Top Secret, which was my hidden gem and feels like a natural successor to Hoot. I also enjoyed Mr. Taxi’s Korean version, but we’ll discuss that later.

I Got A Boy, like The Boys, is a song that I appreciate more than actually enjoy. Also like The Boys, it’s a song that popularized what’s now not uncommon in k-pop: the trend of songs that are a hodge-podge of genres and tempos, and admittedly, pulls it off. I’m not the biggest fan of the hip-hop segments, but the 1st chorus, the bridge, and the hook of “here comes trouble” are pretty great. I find myself caught off guard by the breakdown and switch up every time, even though I know it’s coming, which I know is the point, but it gives me a bit of whiplash, truth be told. This is more a me thing than an issue with the song, though, because it achieves exactly what it sets out to do.

From the album, though I liked both the choppiness of Talk Talk’s chorus and the guitar breakdown in Express 999, my hidden gem was absolutely the super catchy Dancing Queen. Though it’s named after the ABBA song, its very specific instrumental really reminds me of The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour.

Mr. Mr. is one of those songs that arrives, like many of SNSD’s best tracks, with a “let’s go!” and wastes no time going into its excellent chorus. It pulls from bonafide disco, and feels like the best combination between a ballroom dance in its slower moments and a club hit in its faster ones. Its bridge and last chorus’ high note is, and I don’t say this lightly, perfection, and I can never resist replaying it at least once (or mouthing along). From the EP, my hidden gem was the pathos-driven Goodbye, though I’m sure it connected more with me since this was Jessica’s last release with SNSD, and I’m sad to hear her and her great vocals go. It’s hard to make a ballad engaging, but this is a catchy, somewhat bittersweet one, which is a personal weakness of mine.

We’re ending with Mr. Mr. for this week because as mentioned, Jessica didn’t renew her contract after the seven years were up, and thus this makes for a natural stopping point. Next time, we’ll be doing a boy group supplemental and part two of this Girls Generation deep dive. Tschüss!

[sk-lumen]

do you think as a high value woman, it's fine to have one night stands probably once in a while? as long as you're doing it on your own terms?

Hi darling,

Listen, I can talk about high value mindset and elegance for hours, but at the end of the day, your life has to work for you.

I know it's not easy, in this day and age, to resist the temptation of casual hook-ups (or FWB, F buddies and whatever other situationships). Because of how society at large is set up, it's easy to feel lonely, disconnected, hungry for some deeper connection. If anything, I would say society as we see it today was designed to keep people this way: unhappy and disconnected. Media normalizes it, men are taught to feel entitled to it (or at least to normalize it as well), and that leaves many women thinking they have no choice but settle for crumbs if they are to have their needs for affection/intimacy met.

Or, there's also another side to the story. Men (or any gender, goes either way) that are heartbroken from past relationships find themselves emotionally unavailable or unable to invest 100% into a relationship again, they're still healing. But they also don't want to be deprived of affection, intimacy, feeling wanted or loved, even if for a night/arrangement.

I'm not going to say it's easy to say no. We're all human. We have needs, whether they're physical, mental or emotional. That's one truth, that I find no point denying.

Here's another truth: by principle situationships are a bad idea because at the end of the day, most often someone always ends up hurt, usually you as the woman. You give the most (your sacred feminine energy, your nurturing, your body, your health, your time)... and receive the least (a night of pleasure or let's be real, not even that much). Women become emotionally attached through physical intimacy; you can negotiate your way around that fact with self-denial bravado or intellectual discourse all day, but it doesn't change it. And that's the least of worries. As a woman, you can get pregnant, or you can end up with who knows what STDs or STI's - and yes, that is an essential, mature, responsible conversation to have with yourself and the respective partner(s). You can't toy with your health like that.

That being said, if "on your own terms" is your loophole to having it both ways, both having your high value mindset and your emotional/physical needs met... if that means only getting involved with men that you've carefully vetted in every important sense of the word, and you find that this arrangement works for you now and then, then power to you, and I say that unironically. Just make sure to check in with yourself often and well, check with your intuition that it's the right thing for you.

I would never judge a woman that chooses to do so. I will always celebrate a woman's right to choose for herself. Making messy choices doesn't mean you suddenly lose your high value woman status, it just means you're human. But you do owe it to yourself to learn from the past, and make better choices for your overall happiness.

And listen, this glow up lifestyle is not a religion, there's no bible of rules or values you have to hold yourself up to infallibly or you're out. What I and many other ambitious, lovely, go-getter ladies write about here on Tumblr are all guidelines and sensible advice to help you forward. The focus is to find what works for you. What helps you become your best self.

(PS: I used male/female gender dynamic because that is the focus of my blog, that is what I have experience with and as such can best advise on. But you can apply this regardless of gender dynamic or orientation.)

Hope this helps.

Much love,

Lumen

[dat-town]

not gonna miss this chance

Characters: Han Seojun & soloist!female reader

Genre: fluff

Setting: true beauty au, set a year after the tv show’s ending timeline

Summary: Your career is on the verge of ending, hence your management puts you up to do a duet with the infamous Han Seojun. You have heard too many rumours about him to keep track of and yet, none of them could have prepared you for the feelings that came with meeting him.

Words: 4.1k

Self indulgent little snippet because he deserves happiness too.

You had heard of Han Seojun before meeting him, of course you had. Everybody who was in the industry had heard of the hot trend of a Newstagram star-turned idol and his band's shining debut from a year ago. They were told to have snatched teenage girls hearts all over Korea with their good looks and soulful music. You had heard their title track and you had to admit it was nice but nice wasn't enough in a cut-throat industry like entertainment.

Look at you, starting training at twelve, debuting at fifteen and now barely twenty-one you were on the verge of becoming a thrown away doll. Once you had been called cute and the it girl of your generation and now? People were saying you got boring just because your music had matured. Gosh, you couldn't keep singing about first love like your hit song had been for the rest of your life for god's sake. Your last album had been a flop, your company had been losing money and you were still afraid that even with a year left of your contract, they would cut you. But your manager had begged them for a chance and here it was: a collaboration with the newest love of Korea.

But the thing was, Han Seojun had quite a reputation and you didn't know who to believe. Some said he was well-mannered and hard-working. Others gossiped that he was always flirting with his makeup artists and Chen claimed he had been rude to her even when he had just been a ‘nobody’. Not that you were particularly fond of Chen either but as a fellow solo female singer you were a tad bit worried how the infamous singer would treat you.

Well, standing in front of Move Entertainment, you were just about to find out. Taking a shallow breath you followed your manager's lead, bowing to the receptionist and getting into the elevator after taking your visitor's badge. You had heard the company has gone through many changes after the executives were replaced due to the revealed Seyeon scandal but everything looked expensive, shiny and new, unlike in your small agency.

“Hey, I’m Lim Heekyung, nice to meet you. Seojun will be in a minute, too,” a woman in a pantsuit walked up to you on the right floor with a confident smile as she introduced herself. She led you to a meeting room which was apparently customized for a few people only and started preparing papers. She looked excited which was a relief and nice to see, at least someone from Move Entertainment was happy for this project apparently. You were a bit afraid they would see you like a leech, trying to cling onto their new star’s popularity.

“Shall we start? Seojun is a fan of dramatic entrances anyways,” Miss Lim laughed joyfully as if it wasn’t new to her that the idol didn’t make it on time. Ah yeah, you had heard rumours saying that he had something on the company and that was why they were so lenient with him.

You sat in silence, let your manager do the talk about the collaboration project. Seojun could play the guitar, you could play the piano, apparently it was perfect for a ballad duet, though if you used instruments yourself it added to the preparations time. But luckily, there was a songwriter named Leo at the company who had already sent in a few samples specifically for Seojun, so you didn’t have to start from zero.

“Ah, I see you started without me. What did I miss?” A tall boy opened the door wide and flipped down onto the chair across you casually. He had grown into his lanky limbs and with those wide shoulders hugged by the leather jacket, helix earrings in one ear and soft brown hair brushed to one side, it wasn’t a surprise how many female fans swooned over him. But there were a lot of handsome boys in the business, just his looks – no matter how confident he was in them based on the way he carried himself – wouldn’t make a difference.

Miss Lim patiently let Seojun know about the advances and only when she mentioned your name, did the boy glance at you. His dark brown eyes had a sharp form, just as piercing as his gaze, but the cunning smile spreading over his lips softened it a bit. He looked at you as if he wanted to see through you, to figure out how he should have approached you. You expected a snarky or arrogant comment, but in the end, he just flashed a blinding smile at you, one you could see on his posters, before turning back to Miss Lim.

“What’s the schedule?” he asked simply and you both were notified about the deadline of deciding and finalizing the song, the dates of planned recording sessions and the photoshoot. Since there would be no promotion period, it all would be done within a month and half from start to finish. You were a bit relieved hearing that and leave Move Entertainment without any confrontation.

You thought you were good at masking your wary feelings since the further meetings went well and the first recording session went okay-ish. Although both of you had been a bit scolded by the producer for not putting enough feelings into your singing. He claimed that the demo sent by Leo was much more emotional which made Seojun scoff and mumble under his nose. The PD called it for a day, making you promise to practice for next time and one by one they all left. Your manager told you that he would bring the car while you refresh yourself in the bathroom, so you really didn’t expect anyone to wait for you when you stepped out of the restroom, much less Han Seojun.

"Spit it out," he bit out barely glancing your way as he leaned against the corridor’s wall.

"What?" you spluttered as you were really taken aback by his out of blue appearance and question. The guy let out a tired sigh at your obliviousness and pushed himself away from the wall just to walk up to you, towering over your height with his.

"You look at me as if I killed your hamster or something. Which rumour about me bothers you? I fucking can't keep walking on eggshells around you, especially when it's just the two of us," he tsked and you gulped at the sudden called out. You didn’t think it bothered him, or that he was considerate enough to ‘walk on eggshells around you’, you merely thought he was so distant from everybody. It was still better than what Chen had told you.

"Oh, I… nothing. It's stupid. Sorry," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed for your your actions but Seojun apparently wasn’t satisfied without a real answer as he carried on:

"I didn't bully kids in high school but I threatened ones that deserved it, I didn't only get a pity chance from the entertainment, one of our makeup artists is actually one of my best friends, I'm not…"

"Chen told me you are rude and arrogant and have no respect for girls," you blurted out to stop him from speaking because you felt like you didn’t deserve to hear all that. He didn’t owe you any explanation for the way he was. You were just co-workers for a project after all, you had no place in his life, nor he had in yours, so he shouldn’t have been that bothered by your opinion but you understood that he felt uncomfortable due to your silent accusations.

Hearing your hasty interruption, the singer scoffed, a laugh-like sound leaving his mouth.

"Well, I have no respect for girls like Chen who harass my friends and turn their lives into hell just to go on a date with me," he said and it made you blink slowly.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. Check your facts before you go around believing such crap," Seojun stepped back with a roll of his eyes.

The whole situation made you feel made about how you acted, so you wished to apologise but it fell from your lips all too carelessly: "Sorry, I was just worried. This is my last chance, so–"

"Last chance?" the guy quirked a brow at you, curious but you quickly waved his question away.

"Nevermind, I just need this song to do well."

"Of course, it will. I'm Han Seojun, it will turn to gold under my hands," he grinned and made eccentric gestures as if he was about to do magic. You couldn't help a smile. “Or well, vocal chords.”

And turn it to gold, he did.

The rest of your recording sessions went smoother, even the previously grumpy PD complimented your for the development in your chemistry. Funny, you wouldn’t have thought that the wall pulled up between the two of you mattered that much, but at least you didn’t have a knot in your stomach, nor did you worry about every small thing you did around Han Seojun. He also acted more casual, more playful, joking around when both of you had a bit of time to take a breather. He snapped silly pictures, showed off with his height, smirked when he got too close but despite all his bravado and lowkey flirting, you believed even he wouldn’t have jeopardised his career over something like this.

Maybe that's why wrapping up the recording felt a tad bit weird: you got used to his presence, his jokes, his beautiful, deep voice that you could have fallen asleep to. Sure, sometimes he was cocky, a bit rough around the edges but he was a great singer and a fun guy. The project seemed to work out well and you loved it a lot, so you hoped the listeners would appreciate it as well.

But before all that you had one photo shoot together for the promotional pictures and the single's cover. You were grateful for the simple pastel colour background and elegant setting. The warm light latte colour and the clock in the background really fit the song's vibe. Luckily, your dress was decent and pretty as well, you didn't have to feel uncomfortable in it at least.  However, you didn’t expect that happy yelp coming from one of the makeup artists stepping into the dressing room. You turned to face the girl, wondering whether she was your fan judged by her excitement.

"Oh my! I'm so happy to finally meet you! Seojun told us about you so much!" she beamed at you which obviously took you back. Well, that you didn’t expect at all. He spoke of you to others? Ah. Apparently to the makeup artist who was most probably that certain one of his best friends he had told you about?

"Don't exaggerate, Imju, I mentioned her like what… once?" Seojun walked in on cue. He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, trying to avert the topic. "How's Suho?"

You had know idea who that said guy was but after a moment or two you could breathe properly once again while listening to their chatting.

“Just the usual. He’s excited about your duet.”

“Of course, he is,” Seojun grinned, a bit snarky but you could hear the proud undertones of it. When he looked at you, you were surprised by him leaning close though as he quieted down until only you could hear it. “Don’t worry, Jugyeong is really good and just stop her if she gets too gossip-y.”

“Are you talking about me behind my back, hah, Han Seojun?” The pretty girl called Jugyeong raised her fist as if she was about to hit the idol but he just laughed it off and left you two alone when he was hurried onto the set to start with his individual shoots.

“Have you known each other for a long time?” you couldn’t help but wonder as you were seated to get your makeup from her.

“Ah, almost 4 years, I think. We went to high school together. Plus, he’s best friends with my boyfriend. Though, they are always bickering like a married couple,” Jugyeong chuckled joyfully as she started with the cushion. You closed your eyes, listening as she kept going on about the time when Seojun had been obsessed with his motorbike, getting into trouble with his mother. It was strange hearing about a whole other side of him, mama's boy but the image tugged on your mouth, making you smile even though you weren't sure you had the right to know all that. You also learned that Seojun's sister was dating Jugyeong's brother and you felt so involved with the girl's trust albeit it was your last meeting, you were sure Seojun must have only told good things about you.

Hence, you felt shy under his knowing gaze when you walked out of the dressing room. He must have known that Jugyeong couldn't shut up for the life of her, so he looked a bit uncertain, too, stretching the back of his neck, forcing a cunning smile onto his smile when you took your place next to him.

To fit the ballad's theme, the setting was a piano decorated with flowers and you were instructed to sit beside him as if you were about to play a four hands piece. As you did what you had been told, you were very much aware of the way your arms brushed, his long fingers over the keys close to yours, his smile small but genuine.

"Great, great, guys! Someone help her onto the piano and Seojun, stand in front of her," the photographer directed the next scene but before any staff members would have rushed up to you, the singer next to you shushed them.

"I can do it," he insisted as he stood up and looked you in the eyes, silently asking for permission. You nodded while holding your breath back before Seojun put his hands on your waist above the fluffy tulle skirt part and counting on three, he lifted you onto the lid of the beautiful instrument.

You crossed your legs, watching in awe as your pink skirt fell down on waves  but your breath hitched for an entirely different reason when you looked up, gaze meeting Seojun's feline eyes trained on you. You had never seen him look at you like that, lacking playfulness or suspicion or curiosity. He looked open, vulnerable, outright starstruck. Your lips parted meaning to ask something but your brain shut off when you heard the shutter of the camera go down and the director yelling compliments at you. It made you snap out of it and later, you blamed the evident blush on your cheeks on the makeup. Seojun blinked too, his guarded expression back in no time, finishing the photo shoot professionally, always lingering close to you, but never touching you. Even though you wouldn’t have minded.

"Hey," Seojun peeked into your dressing room just as you were about to leave, packing up, with a smile on his mouth and sparkles in his deep brown eyes. But unlike half an hour ago when he wore a fancy suit and looked at you like a prince would have looked at his princess, he acted just as casual as he looked in his denim jacket over dark tee. "Wanna grab something with me if you finished for today?"

His question took you back but first thing first you glanced towards your manager, eyes begging for permission which you had gotten with a sigh.

"Just be discreet and call me if you need me to pick you up," your manager shrugged, leaving you two alone with a knowing look that told you to be careful. You didn't need to be told though, you knew how much depended on the current public response to your image.

"Seems like a green light. Have you thought of anything specific?" you turned back to the boy with a subtle smile.

"Not really but I know a few less frequent, secluded places to avoid much talk about us," he said and you nodded, following his lead. Masks, caps and hoodies on, you barely talk on your way to the tent with the lovely ahjumma who welcomed Seojun (two heads taller than her) with a pinch of his cheeks and told you to get seated.

"Are you a regular here?" you inquire, carefully pulling down your mask since not many people are around.

"You could say that," the boy hummed letting you adjust to the place at your own pace, not pressuring you with extra reassessments about how safe it is there. Yet, he is so casual as if he wasn't afraid of a getting mobbed by Dispatch out of the blue. Not that it happened to you a lot of times but you heard stories and at such a crucial time in your career, you feared something like that more than anything.

"Do you want to come up to mine instead?" Seojun blurted out suddenly which made you wide eyed in a span of a moment as you splattered out a surprised yelp. "Come on, I don't mean anything by it. You just look really nervous being in the public," the singer said, his deep voice softening, soothing by the end and you needed to take a breather before answering. You didn't think it was so obvious but apparently you had never been a good liar with him.

In the end, you decided on going over to Seojun's place, so he asked the ahjumma to pack your food to go and you headed towards his flat a few blocks from the company. It was a small but cozy place, much softer and brighter than you expected, lots of pastels and photos of friends and family. While the boy busied himself in the kitchen, getting you plates, chopsticks and beer, you were encouraged to look around and you couldn't help but smile at his photos with not only his band members but high school friends, too. You had seen photos of his graduation with Jugyeong, then another one of his debut with her and another guy.  He was a recurring person on a lot of pictures, so you assumed that he was the so-called Suho.

"He's Jugyeong's boyfriend," Seojun affirmed as he walked up to you which you acknowledged with a hum and smiled at his photos with his sister and mother. The makeup artist was right when she said he was only tough on the outside.

"You knew Seyeon?" you whispered as your gaze shifted of a picture of three boys smiling widely into the camera. The middle one was the talented boy you had known  from the news of his committed suicide. Such a tragedy.

"Uhum. We were best friends. Him, Suho and me," Seojun nodded and without having to ask, he told you how they had gotten to know each other, what were their favourite past time activities and how they fell apart when he died. You could see he was hurting even now as he was talking about it, so you grazed your fingers against his knuckles as though to say you were there for him to listen, or whatever he needed.

Talking about his best friends and how a group of guys including someone named Chorong stuck by his side over the years warmed your heart. It was nice to know that not everyone had it as lonely as you who basically missed out on high school and memories from that time to be able to turn your dreams into reality. Your only friends were also in the industry but it made things both easier and harder.

"What about you? What did you mean by this being your last chance?" Seojun asked like a loaded gun but after everything he had just told you, you knew you could trust him with this and being in the industry for a while now, he must have understood, too.

You told him about the rising expectations, about your image and your company's ultimatum. It actually felt nice to talk about with someone other than your manager. Especially since Seojun seemed to understand exactly why you felt conflicted over the matter. You have given your youth to this dream of yours, so giving up on it would have felt like betraying yourself and everyone who believed in you but you weren't sure you could give it another 10 years of your life no matter how much you liked music. You had decent CSATs result, maybe you could have applied for a university program. Seojun even offered to arrange a meeting between you and Suho who was studying to become a proper songwriter.

You talked for hours and ate the tteokbokki even though it had gotten cold long ago and you couldn't remember when was the last time you had felt so light. You felt giddy even with just the tiny bit of alcohol in your system by the time you knew it was time for you to go.

Once you had felt relieved knowing that promoting your duet would be only one performance but recently, you started dreading the moment because that meant that you wouldn't have any more excuse to see Seojun. In the backstage, this time around you greeted Jugyeong like an old friend and teased to give Seojun a funny makeup before walking up to your  own assigned staff members. Your look was full of sparkles and glow fitting the silver colour of your dress, completing the ethereal vibe off the stage you were going to do and the beautiful song you had grown to love so much you held it close to your heart. The last rehearsals went smoothly and if you noticed Seojun's gaze lingering a bit too long, you didn't comment on it.

"Are you nervous?" he asked before the final recording and you knew it would have been unreasonable to deny it, so you replied with a small smile.

"A bit."

"Don't be. You're pretty and you'll do amazing," he reassured you and the way he said those words oh so easy. As if they were natural. As if he believed in you and maybe this was all the reassurance you needed because when you walked up onto the stage, not taking your eyes off his, it felt like it was just the two of you there. All the stress about not being good enough, about being judged for who you were and what you wanted to do with your life was subsided as you focused on the moment, just to sing this one song with one while trying to fight your heart's crazy beating.

You didn't really have the luxury to have crushes. You had always been concentrated on your work, you couldn't let yourself have distractions, especially since love scandals always affected girl worse than guy. At least that was what you told yourself for always putting up a wall around you and guarding your heart all too well. But during the past few weeks, between playful or flirty remarks, between smiles and ruffling hair, Seojun took apart your wall brick by brick even if he wasn't aware.

So it might have been only a few days since you had last seen him but in that rare moment of boredom, alone in your room, you realized that you missed him. Hell, you liked him and the feeling made me want to scream into your pillow as if you were a silly teenager. As if on cue, your phone buzzed with a new message and seeing the KakaoTalk ID made you shy.

duet partner, han seo jun

so...

i've been thinking

you

sounds dangerous but ok

duet partner, han seo jun

don't get sassy with me, miss

you

what have you been thinking about?

duet partner, han seo jun

that i don't want to miss my chance

there's this girl i like

i thought of asking her out

do you think she would say yes?

you

oh. well... why wouldn't she?

i mean, you are talented, handsome, funny and reliable

duet partner, han seo jun

and what about my job? it's busy and a bit crazy

don't you think it would be unfair of me to ask?

you

I think you should let her decide that

duet partner, han seo jun

okay

are you free on friday?

you

um, sure?

duet partner, han seo jun

cool, then go on a date with me?

[duskholland]

Meet Your Match || Mob!Tom Smut

Summary ↠ It’s always awkward when your current boyfriend meets your ex, but it’s a whole new level when it transpires that your ex-boyfriend is the leader of Tom’s rival mob...

Warnings ↠ 18+, contains mature nsfw material. There are extended warnings beneath the cut, but this is quite heavy. 

Word count ↠ 5.9k

A/N ↠ Genuinely am shocked that this came out of my head tbh. It is very intense so please consult the warnings before you dive in ! The entire concept of the first half is very random and almost crack, but then the second half...phew. Sheesh. Thanks to V, mischiefandi, for suggesting I write in a hot Irish mobster as Y/N’s ex...love that for her, and I love you V. I hope you all enjoy this :)

This is a part of my mob!Tom series – a collection of oneshots set within the same universe. You don’t need to read the other parts for this to make sense! You can find the other parts in my masterlist.

18+ do not touch this if you are a minor. 

extended warnings: lol. mob themes including gun mention and punching, a broken nose ft minor mentions of blood, a bit of a dodgy ex who makes some uncomfortable comments, alcohol, possessive!jealous!Tom, d/s dynamics, soft!dom!Tom, mean!dom!Tom, thigh riding, oral (f receiving), spitting, orgasm denial and edging, guided masturbation, rough sex, doggy-style, like two minor instances of spanking, he calls her slut once. im not here to fuck around this goes hard so if you aren’t into rough stuff this isn’t for you. also includes unprotected sex -- please practise safe sex (condoms provide barriers against STIs as well as unwanted pregnancy. pls be safe irl). i would like mob!tom to rail me thank u. enjoy.

--------- Meet Your Match ---------

You’d never given much thought to the possibility of Tom meeting one of your exes. Why would you, when being with him is infinitely more satisfying, loving, and enjoyable than it had ever been with one of them? 

But if you’d had to imagine it, you would’ve pictured it casually. Maybe you’d be out somewhere together - at a café, or a market, with Tom’s arm wrapped safely around you. You’d see your ex - whoever it may be - and there’d be an awkward encounter. The exchange of painful hellos and goodbyes, maybe some piercing stares, and pinched words. Then, you’d move on, and that would be that. 

Never, in your wildest dreams, would you have imagined you’d run into your ex-boyfriend whilst in attendance at a meeting of the London mobs. 

It’s a special event - a large, networking occasion, organised by Tom, as an opportunity for him to meet with his partners and rivals, as they come together to cordially bond over beer and discuss business plans. It’s hosted right in the centre of Piccadilly, in the elegant conference room of a luxurious hotel. You’re just starting to relax and settle in when you glance across the room and see him:

Aidan. Your ex-boyfriend. At… A meeting of the mobs of London? 

“What the fuck,” you mutter. You almost drop your glass of champagne as you narrow your eyes and stare. The conference room is vast, adorned with glittering chandeliers and large banquet tables, but it’s undeniable: Aidan is here. 

“Everything alright, love?” Tom’s by your side, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders. He’s in remarkably high spirits this evening. The event is fully underway, and judging by the snippets of conversation you’ve been hearing, Tom’s latest plans are coming into fruition - something about warehouses, and a shipment of class A drugs. But none of it matters now, because your mind is entirely elsewhere.

“No,” you state immediately. 

Tom cranes his neck, his eyes seeking you out. You manage to drag your gaze away from Aidan for a brief second.

“What is it?” He’s looking at you with those deep, warm brown eyes, and his gaze is so tender it makes your breath hitch. One of Tom’s fingers moves up to caress your cheek, and you find yourself shifting guiltily on your feet.

“Who, exactly, did you invite to this meeting?” You ask your boyfriend, speaking in hushed tones. Your eyes slip back to Aidan, and you feel yourself relax as you note he’s still deep in conversation with a few men. 

“Suppliers, rivals, allies… Anyone of importance, really.” Tom narrows his eyes, his thumb brushing over your chin as he looks at you closely. “Why?”

“Did you know that you’ve also invited my ex-boyfriend?”

Judging by the look of utter shock on Tom’s face, he had not, in fact, realised his fundamental truth.

“Who?” He asks immediately. His face shifts through several shades before settling on jealous, with his eyebrows bunched together. 

You turn around, resting one hand on the broad shoulder of Tom’s suit before using your other to point out across the crowd.

“Aidan.” 

Tom squints his eyes, a small rumbling noise travelling up his throat. “Aidan?” He repeats, his voice flooded with confusion. You hum affirmatively. “Bloke with the blond hair? Irish?” Again, a hum. Tom releases a short, curt chuckle. “Angel, he’s not called Aidan.”

“What?” You exclaim. 

Tom releases a deep sigh. “That’s Gordy. He runs the Eastside.” 

You feel your jaw loosen. A fake name. “Gordy Byrne?”

“The one and only.”

“Shit.”

You’ve been with Tom for a year. Over those long, fulfilling twelve months, you’ve picked up on several important key pieces of information about the London mob: it’s split into three factions, each sector run by a different figurehead. Tom and his family control the South-West, and they’re in constant disagreement with Gordy, of the East, and Monique, of the North. Each third is continuously testing the waters, trying to take over land, and supplies, and emerge as the solo Kingpin of London. The fragile alliance between the three families is constantly on the verge of disintegration. 

And Gordy is your ex, who you’d met three years ago at the same exclusive club you’d worked in when you’d met Tom. Your relationship had lasted eight months and ended on equal terms as you’d mutually agreed the spark had fizzled away. Despite the considerable span of your relationship, you’d had no suspicions that he’d been involved with the mob. The thought is incredibly jarring.

“Seems like you have a type,” Tom comments, his voice entirely too flippant. 

Before you can call him out on his apparent feelings of resentment, your evening takes a further turn as you realise Gordy has spotted you and is now working his way through the sea of people towards you. 

He looks just as you remember: 6’2, blond, green-eyed. His shoulders are stocky and broad, and his suit bulges with disguised muscles. He maintains that signature swagger you’d come to associate with him, his eyes glinting as he throws out a wild smile. Your eyes catch on the presence of a few new golden teeth fixed in his mouth, and then to the tattooed knuckles that hang by his side.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Gordy greets, green eyes skimming across you appreciatively, “Who’d ‘a thought we’d meet again?”

All you can really do is let out a squeak of agreement, and pull away from Tom’s side to greet the man with a kiss on the cheek. The familiar scent of Gordy’s musky cologne drifts up your nose, and it makes your head spin.

“What are you doing here?” You ask as you pull away, looking at him incredulously. His pale cheeks wear a scruff of fuzz, highlighting the high arches of his cheekbones. 

“What are you doing here?” He returns, his Irish accent twanging. His eyes shift over to Tom, then back to you, and then they watch as Tom reaches out and carefully tangles his fingers with yours. “Wait…”

“Evening, mate,” Tom greets, voice a little clipped. You feel the grip on your hand tighten, and you let him reel you back into his side. You find home beneath Tom’s heavy arm as he repositions it across your shoulder, keeping you near. “I see you’ve already met my girlfriend.”

The air seems to flicker with tension.

“Interesting,” Gordy comments. He shifts his attention back to you, drawing the lines of your face with his curious eyes. “Didn’t take you for the type, Y/N. Would’ve stuck around if I’d thought you could handle this life.”

His words dig into you, and you find yourself clenching your teeth.

“You told me you worked in banking.”

“Oh, I do.” He runs his fingers down the front of his designer suit, winking. “The mob is quite a lucrative business.” He pauses, and something a little like guilt flashes over his face. “You know my real name, yeah? Gordy, not Aidan. Sorry about that. I hate the lies, but they’re for protection, y’know.”

You feel almost dizzy as you bring your glass of champagne to your lips and throw it back. The bubbles do little to soothe down your discomfort.

“Wow,” you manage. Your eyes shift up to Tom, who’s looking at Gordy with apprehension in his gaze. You understand why: for the past two months, Tom’s been engaged in a brutal turf-war with Gordy’s family over in the South-East. Men have died, shipments stolen. You know one of Tom’s primary motivations for the meeting tonight was to see if he could reach some kind of agreement with them, but the circumstances were tense enough as it was, before this. 

“Isn’t this fun,” Gordy comments. He’s eyeing up Tom now, a cocky smirk hanging from his plush lower lips. “Well, Thomas, it’d seem you and I have a lot more in common than we’d thought, eh? Maybe we’ll be able to come to an agreement.” 

Your stomach turns, and you feel Tom tighten his grip on your arm. He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his tone is so severe that it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Don’t talk about Y/N like that,” he warns darkly. “We will not be making any deals tonight, Gordy.”

You raise your eyebrows, trying to meet his eyes but finding that Tom ignores your attempts and instead keeps staring straight ahead at your ex-boyfriend, a determined frown hanging from his thin lips.

“Why’s that, Thomas?” He quips.

“I don’t like your attitude, I don’t like your policies, and I don’t like the way you’re looking at my girlfriend.” 

Gordy arches an eyebrow. His hand slips down slowly to rest on his hip, but not before his suit jacket has ridden up just enough to expose the sleek outline of his gun, hanging low in the holster on his belt.

“Is this how it’s going to be, Tom?” He asks, shifting his eyes back to you. “Eh? I bed your bird and suddenly business is off the table?”

You can feel the mood sour, and as much as you’d like to reach out and give Gordy a piece of your mind, you are painfully aware of the circumstances: you are standing in the lion’s den. Despite the meeting of Tom’s creation, you know that there’s no chance in hell that Gordy has walked into the evening alone. To initiate any sort of heated discussion whilst surrounded by London’s most notorious gangsters would be a disastrous move.

“Tom,” you murmur, recognising all too well the signs of anger that curl out across Tom’s face: his clenched jaw, the deep frown marks on his forehead, the tight line of his lips. “Let’s go.”

For a moment you think he’s going to follow you. Tom lets you shrug off his arm and take his hand, and his posture loosens as if he’s about to turn and walk across the room with you. But then, of course, Gordy just has to get in the last word.

“Oh, well, if you’re going, you won’t mind giving me a goodbye kiss, eh, Y/N?” He peers at you with mischievous eyes, his voice lilting lightly. “Just like old times?”

Tom’s moving before you can even attempt to stop him, and you hear a loud crack as his fist sweeps up and collides with Gordy’s nose. The man doubles over, groaning profusely, and your eyes widen as you take in the stream of blood that immediately begins to pour from his face.

“Tom!” You exclaim, your eyes wide and your hands shaking. Your boyfriend grabs at your fingers, squeezing your digits in his.

“He’s not allowed to disrespect you like that,” he mutters darkly. 

“I don’t need you to defend me, I can do it myself,” you hiss back. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you feel the hot lump of anger melt away as Tom looks at you through those brown, golden eyes, his mouth positioned into a guilty smile. 

Two men emerge from the crowd and flank Gordy’s side. You feel a deep swell of fear pool in the pit of your stomach, and instinctively your fingers move down towards your bag for the switch-blade you’d buried alongside your lipstick. But you find your actions stilling as Gordy clears his throat, rights himself and holds up a bloody hand.

“It’s fine,” Gordy tells his guards. He tilts his head in your direction. “I deserved it. No disrespect to the lady.” His beady green eyes move to Tom. “We can finish this discussion some other time, Thomas. Good evening to you both.” 

Before waiting to see if Gordy turns around and walks away, you tighten your grip on Tom’s hand and lead him out of the large conference room. It’s completely silent, and the groups of people seem to part like the sea as you escort your boyfriend from the scene, his lips brushing over the back of his bruised hand as he winces. You don’t say anything, not until you’re safely stowed away in the backseat of a large car, the doors locked, windows tinted, and driver separated by partition.

“Love, look, I’m sorry, but I-”

You cut Tom off by climbing from your seat and meeting his mouth with a deep, needy kiss. Your boyfriend releases a noise of surprise, and his hands shift up to grab at your waist as he pulls you onto his lap eagerly, pressing back against your lips with fervour. It’s messy, and you enjoy running your hands through strands of his unruly hair as he keeps you close, his fingers grasping at every area of your front and sides, mapping you out.

“What did I do to deserve that?” Tom murmurs, his curious eyes meeting yours. “Thought I was in trouble.” His hands cup your cheeks, and you give him a coy smile.

“You shouldn’t have punched him,” you tell him, biting your lip as his thumb brushes over the soft skin of your face. “I’m glad that you did, though. He was a dick.” 

Tom hums. “And also the enemy, love.”

Your eyebrows knit together, and you sit back on Tom’s wide thighs as you sigh. “I can’t believe he runs one of the other mobs,” you mutter. “I can’t believe I’ve dated two mobsters, and I didn’t even know.”

Tom’s smile doesn’t quite stretch to his eyes, but he still manages a short chuckle. “I hate the thought of you being with him,” he admits. His eyes stir with something darker, and his fingers dig into your waist. “I hate the thought of you being with anyone other than me.”

You bite your lower lip as you twirl the short strands at the nape of his neck around your fingers. “It was a long time ago,” you tell him. “Our relationship wasn’t anything of consequence.”

Your boyfriend chuckles, but he’s still got that hungry glint in his eyes. You feel a shiver roll down your spine as his gaze sweeps across your face, his hands shifting up to rest on the curves of your breasts. Your dress is thin, and the neckline meant you had to go without a bra. A soft gasp falls past your lips as Tom’s thumbs brush over the lines of your nipples, which prick in response to his touch.

“Is our relationship of consequence?” Tom asks, his voice dancing. He’s staring at your chest now, his smirk widening as you instinctively push further into his hands, enjoying the feeling of his large, warm palms groping at your breasts.

“Of course.” You swallow and bring your fingers away from his neck. With careful movements, you reach up and pull the straps of your dress from your shoulders, meeting Tom’s gaze as you roll down the front of the garment, exposing your bare chest to him. “I love you.”

Tom seeks out your neck with his lips, and you release a small gasp as he sucks firmly on the base of your throat, his fingers moving over your bare chest. You can feel his mouth pulling the blood to the surface of your skin, but the pain makes you cry out in pleasure as your fingers wrap around his suit jacket and fist at the expensive material hugging his back. He takes his time as he works his way up your neck, sucking and biting, and then soothing the throbbing marks with gentle laps of his tongue and soft, open-mouthed kisses. By the time he reaches your ear, you’re squirming in his lap.

“You are mine.”

His tongue teases the lobe of your ear as his hands move all across your bare back, caressing your skin gently with his palms. The cold metal of his silver rings bites to touch, but you shiver in enjoyment.

“Yours,” you agree. Tom shifts from your neck to look at you straight on, his eyes full of dark, heady lust.

“Mine,” he repeats. His mouth is on yours, and you let him prise apart your lips with his tongue. His hands fist at your hair and he pulls you closer roughly, and your teeth collide as he kisses you sloppily, groaning into your mouth. It’s messy - with noses bashing and his digits tugging at your strands and your lips moving everywhere, slick with spit - but you feel him gather you up in his arms as he holds you. He owns you.

You make-out until the car arrives home, at which point your lips are tender and puffy and your entire body throbs with persistent arousal. Tom’s eager with his affection, but you can feel the underlying pulse of fear coasting through his veins; you want so desperately to placate it: to let him know that he has nothing to worry about - that you are his now, and probably always will be. Tom’s not alone in his discomfort - you, too, feel jilted and unbalanced after running into a ghost from your past. You need Tom desperately, in more ways that one. You need him to look after you - to hold you, be firm with you, and show you your place within your relationship. You need him to be your dom, and you crave the release of submitting to him entirely - with your mind, body and heart.  

“You can do anything you want to me tonight,” you tell him. You’re standing at the foot of the bed, Tom sitting up against the headboard. His suit jacket lays off to the side, tie hanging loose around his neck and his top two buttons undone. You’ve made a mess of his hair, but he looks so fucking pretty with his chestnut curls all tousled and his lips bright pink and inflamed. 

“That’s funny,” Tom comments, eyes glinting as he tilts his head to the side, “I thought I could already do that.” 

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself biting your lower lip as your face fills up with heat.

“Do you want me to take off my dress?” Your fingers toy with the straps, which are all rolled up and uneven thanks to the hastiness in which you’d scrambled from the car.

“No.” Tom sits up, and he pats his thigh invitingly. “Take off your panties and come up here.”

You tease him a little bit, enjoying the way his gaze weighs down your figure. You’re slow to push your dress up to your waist, and you make a show of hooking your index fingers beneath the band to reveal lacy panties. You tug at the material until it falls to pool at your feet, and then you delicately step away from them and approach your boyfriend. You have a sudden thought that it’s as if you are the prey, walking straight into danger, but you welcome it: Tom’s looking at you, his expression hard but excited and his eyes swimming with darkness, and it makes your throat dry up. 

“Such a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?”

The material of Tom’s slacks feels coarse against your centre as you straddle his left thigh. His hands press at your waist, pushing your cunt straight against his leg, and the contact makes you moan softly.

“You look so pretty with your neck all marked up.” Tom presses a light kiss to one of your hickeys, and you gasp as a line of pain ripples out across your skin. “You look like you’re mine.”

“I am.”

“I know.” Tom strokes his hand through your hair, eyes watching you carefully. “I’m just going to remind you.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” You ask, your voice wavering.

He hums, the noise suspended with confidence. “You’ll see.” His hands dig into your waist a little firmer, and he starts to guide your movements. “Work yourself against my thigh, darling. Make a nice wet spot for me.”

His words make you moan, and you’re quick to comply. You recognise the dark glint in his eyes and the layers to his voice - he’s slipping away into his harder, more dominative side, just as you find yourself eager to oblige him. You grind yourself down over his thigh, and his trousers are rough against your flushed centre. The friction burns beautifully. A few moans slip past your lips, and your eyes squeeze shut as his hands press over you, digging into your waist, guiding you. Tom is very much in control, and as the seconds slip past, you give into it.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs, rich voice drifting into your ears. You bite your lip, your hole clenching around nothing as you swivel your hips and feel the pressure to your hot bud.

“Feels really good,” you admit, voice a whimper. “Love it when you let me touch you.” 

Tom takes your chin between two fingers, looking at you with a hard stare. He pulls your face to him, his tongue licking a wide stripe over your lips. As you try to push forward for a kiss, he just moves away, a teasing smirk on his lips. “No,” he says softly, “You’ll take what I give you, and you won’t be greedy about it. I don’t want to have to punish you, babygirl.”

You nod quickly, the movement hurried and messy. It’s getting hard to think of anything other than the fact you’ve made his trousers slick with your arousal. The burn between your legs is gradually swelling to a crescendo.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Your fingers find purchase on his shoulder, and you find your forehead dropping down to rest there too as your breathing hitches.

“Are you close, darling?” He’s very soft and gentle, and it makes you whimper out a small noise of agreement. Tom chuckles, pulling at your hair as he brings your face back up, his hands bearing down on your hips to halt your movements. “Lie down for me, please.”

You scramble from his lap, your centre pulsing as it leaves his thigh. Your eyes catch on the way you’ve left a large, wet mark on his trousers, and you watch with wide eyes as Tom stands from the bed. He walks around to the foot of the mattress, his figure commanding your complete attention. 

“I’ve been thinking about what I’d like to do to you,” he says, speaking quietly. His nimble fingers work down the buttons of his shirt, popping them quickly. Once his shirt is discarded, Tom works on his slacks. As the metallic sounds of his belt clicking fill the air, he smirks at you. “Are you going to be good for me?”

“Yes,” you say immediately. You squeal as Tom grabs at your ankles and pulls you to the edge of the bed. He kneels on the floor, hauling you closer until your thighs are over his shoulders and his face is near your heat. Your dress scrunches up at your waist, and you whimper as his hands press your legs apart. “I’ll always be good for you.”

“Is that right?” Tom asks, index finger running lightly over the inside of one of your thighs. He looks up at you, eyes hooded and blown wide with lust.

“Yes.”

“Prove it to me,” he instructs. “If you think you’re about to cum, you need to tell me.” Tom’s gaze darkens. “If you disobey me, you won’t enjoy what happens.” With tender lips, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, looking at you with a gentle smile. When he speaks again, his voice is lighter, “Is this okay, darling?”

You nod.

“Words.”

As two of Tom’s fingers spread your puffy outer lips, you stammer out a broken, “Yes, I understand.”

“Good girl.”

He dives in quickly, and the press of his warm tongue against your pulsing pussy makes you cry out. You’re already feeling hot and bothered from the time you spent rutting against the coarse material of his trousers, and the pressure soothes you. He’s too far away to touch, so you curl your hands into fists and pull at the silky bed linen, eyelids fluttering shut as his tongue caresses you, over and over.

Tom makes out sloppily with your cunt, two of his slender fingers pulling up to push into your heat. He fills you easily, taking the edge off your desire as his tongue flicks over your clit, unrelenting, hard. He’s eager for it, holding nothing back as he coaxes you quickly towards a high, moaning and grunting into your centre. The vibrations drive you mad, and your mind spins off as he holds you in place.

“S-Shit,” you stammer, back arching. As much as you don’t want to say it, Tom’s already pushing you towards climax. As he curls his slender digits up against you, his tips brush against your g-spot, and it has you seeing stars. “I’m gonna cum, Tom.”

All movements stop. Tom’s mouth pulls back from your cunt, and his fingers still inside you. Your walls clench around him, but he relaxes them, halting all stimulation of your sensitive pussy as you whimper.

“Good,” he coos. Your eyes seek him out, and you moan as you see his chin slick with your juices. “You taste divine, sweetheart.” His free hand strokes over your inner thigh, calming you with gentle circles and caresses. “We’ll do this a few more times, I think. I want you dripping onto the sheets. I want you to forget about everything apart from me, and how desperate you are for me.” His teeth nip at your thigh, and you squirm.

True to his word, Tom works you up, over and over again. Each time he brings you to the edge of a high, he pulls back at the last moment, leaving you teetering on the edge for a painful second before your climax goes ebbing away from your reach. The time it takes to build up to each edge narrows considerably with each completion, and you find yourself growing desperate for more. Your skin is hot and prickles, your forehead breaking into a sweat. The muscles in your legs ache from the exertion of almost spasming into climax, time and time again, and your throat hurts from your eager, desperate moans. He’s a demon, his deep brown eyes watching you closely, sharp ears picking up each noise and sound, and he seems intent on drawing this out for as long as possible.

“I think that’s enough,” Tom finally says. Your sigh of relief is so loud and pronounced that it makes him chuckle. “What, you didn’t like that?” His hand comes down over your inner thigh, slapping softly. As the pain ripples across your skin, you whimper. “Don’t lie to me, angel. I know you love it when I’ve got my head between your legs.” His large hands slip under your thighs, and he pushes you up the bed, slipping up over you. With his body suspended above you and a hand either side of your head, Tom raises his eyebrows. “Open,” he instructs.

What he does next makes your eyes roll back. You open your mouth immediately, and he chuckles darkly. One hand holds your jaw, and you watch as Tom purses his lips, eyes you intently, and then spits directly into your mouth. The taste of your cunt spreads out across your tongue, and your hole clenches around nothing as you moan loudly.

“Swallow,” he says. You close your mouth and do just that, and then you stick out your tongue for him to see. “Good,” he coos. Tom kisses you suddenly, the action hard as he sucks on your tongue. When he pulls back, he kisses your nose. “Pretty girl, aren’t you? My pretty girl.”

His lips skate all across your face, dusting you in warm kisses of reward. 

“I love you,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. The gratitude you feel towards him for knowing exactly what you need is boundless, consuming. 

“And I love you.” You share a tender moment of understanding as Tom brushes his hand over your face, and in the look you exchange, you know that he feels as you do: appreciation towards your partner, for reading you and obliging you. He hums softly, slipping away from you after a final kiss to pull off his boxers. “Take off your dress for me, love. Give me a show.”

You’re shaky on your feet, but you manage to stand in front of the bed. Tom sits up against the headboard, working his hand over his erect length as he watches you. You tease him, just like you know he enjoys, taking your time as you roll the sleeves down and unzip the back. The material goes tumbling to the floor, pooling at your feet, and then you’re entirely naked - wearing only his hickeys, and his spit between your legs. 

“Beautiful,” he says, eyes glinting. “You’re an angel, aren’t you?” When you shrug bashfully, he nods. “My angel. C’mere.” You move to him, but he stops you before you can reach for his cock. “I want you to lie down here and show me how you get off.”

“But I want--” 

He shuts you up with a hard stare. “Do you really want to finish that sentence?” When you’re quiet, he hums. You can’t stop staring at the way his hands slide over his length. Your mouth waters at the thought of letting your tongue wander over his leaking tip, collecting the beads of salty precum. “Do this for me, and then I’ll let you have what you want.”

You part your legs, your thighs aching. As you dip your hand between your legs, you whimper to feel your slick mixed with Tom’s spit. Your skin is soaked, and as you nimbly press two fingers into your hole, you find it looser, already stretched from Tom’s exploration earlier. You can feel his eyes on you, watching your hand move as you slowly fuck yourself with your fingers, getting pleasure from the knuckle of your thumb as it brushes up against your clit.

As you begin to whimper, Tom swoops in with his final lesson of the evening. He reaches down, wrapping his hand around yours, guiding your movements. He sets the pace and the angle, speeding up your thrusts. The sound of your wetness sloshing around makes you cry out loudly as he edges you perfectly, like he knows your body better than you. 

“You see this,” he mutters, voice husky. “I give you pleasure. It doesn’t matter if it’s my tongue in your cunt, or my fingers, or my cock. This cunt?” He curls your fingers, and they brush up against your g-spot, making you cry out. “This cunt is mine. You are mine.”

You almost lose it right there, the deep husky tones of his dominant voice sending you spinning, but then Tom pulls away. As your walls flutter weakly around nothing, he pats at your hip.

“Hands and knees, darling.”

Your arms shake as you roll over, adopting the position. Again, Tom stands at the foot of the bed, pulling you back until you’re spread open for him. You feel his cock, dragging through your slick folds, teasing your tender clit until your hips jerk forwards. Your bud aches almost painfully, your body pulled tight with an overwhelming need to climax.

“Please,” you beg desperately, dropping your head between your arms. “Please, please.”

Tom’s hand smooths over the curve of your ass, silver ring biting coolly against you, “Does my darling want to feel my cock?” 

“Yes, please.”

“Hmm.” Easily, he slips the tip of his cock past your entrance. “I suppose you deserve it,” he teases. “Been such a good little slut for me, haven’t you?”

When Tom finally fucks into you, the moan you release is almost pornographic. He’s been teasing you, over and over, drawing you close to orgasm only to jerk it away from you each time, but now that he’s got his length buried up to the hilt inside you, you know it’s been worth it. Nothing compares to the relief you feel as you realise you’ll be allowed to finish soon, your walls squeezing his cock. 

The pace is punishing, and everything blurs together. His hands on your hips, holding you in place, pulling you back rhythmically to meet with his thrusts. As his slick cock pounds into you over and over, his flushed tip nudges against your g-spot. The stimulation makes your eyes tear up, and a few hot tears skate across your cheeks as you whimper and cling to the sheets.

“Fuck, princess, you’re fucking perfect for me, aren’t you?” A hand falls over your bum, and you moan. “So tight and warm. Feels so snug around me, lovie. So perfect.” Tom’s voice comes out firm, but it wavers, and you can imagine the grimace of pleasure on his face. “Always take me so well.” His hand moves to the top of your back, and he pushes you into the bed. Your face buries into the sheets as the angle adjusts, and you gasp loudly as the adjustment means he can rail you harder. 

“S-Shit,” you moan. “Love your cock, Tommy. Pl-Please.”

“What do you need?”

You whimper, the power of his thrusts fucking you further into the mattress. “W’nna cum.”

“You can play with your clit then.”

Tears fly down your cheeks, and it feels overwhelming as you nudge a hand between your legs to fondle your bud. Tom’s hands hold your hips, keeping you nice and open for him, and you’re glad for the heavy pressure on your skin. It keeps you anchored down.

“Are you close?” He asks, grunting heavily as he feels your walls squeeze him.

“Yes.”

“I think you deserve to cum, don’t you?” He pauses briefly, cursing lowly, pace faltering. “Let go, darling. Let me feel you squeezing me. I want to feel what I do to you.”

The action of his deep, fast thrusts mixes with your fingers on your clit, and you cum with a  loud, quivering scream. Tom holds you down, fucking into you as you spasm and writhe in the sheets, and after a few, mind-numbing moments of pleasure, you feel him follow you with a grunt. His hot speed paints your walls, his noises of heady enjoyment mixing with yours, and it just prolongs your climax.

When you calm down, Tom carefully pulls out from you. You whimper at the loss, feeling a little out of it as he turns you over, pushes you up into the centre of the bed and pulls you on top of him. Your head settles in the crook of his neck, his hands palming over your back as he kisses the top of your head, over and over again.

“So good for me,” he mumbles. Your legs tangle together. You can feel his cum spilling from your hole, dripping down onto him, but he doesn’t seem to care. “My best girl. I love you so much.” 

You hum quietly, rubbing your hand over the top of his arm as you whimper. “Love you too,” you manage, voice hoarse. 

Tom’s hands cup your face, and he gently coaxes you up until he can meet with your eyes. His fingers brush away the teary residue from your cheeks, and he kisses you softly.

“Mine,” he mumbles against you, smiling into your lips as you hum in agreement. One of your hands folds into his curls, and you feel your heart stirring contentedly in your chest.

“Yours.”

---------

lol. hope you enjoyyyyed :) 

I’m intending to do some mob!Tom blurbs next week for mob!Monday, so if you have any concepts you’d like to see, please send them to my ask box!

ask box is open for your thoughts!! I’m dying to know what you think of this... 👀

masterlist linked in bio!

[sitp-recs]

Do you know of any fics under 10k that aren’t too angsty? ❤️

Hi anon, I most certainly do! Thanks so much for sending this ask, I was super excited when I saw it because I’m always happy to celebrate short fics - they could use more appreciation! I’ve wanted to do a proper shorts reclist for a while so I indulged myself and went big, hope you don’t mind! Putting this together was quite hard - going through my bookmarks I realized that I usually go for angsty shorts 💀 so I tried my best not to include anything too extreme, I hope these are okay!

This became a lil monster with 40 recs (and I have lots more hehe) so I decided to sort them by genre - the last category includes light angst (more on the contemplative side) because I can’t help myself. Shout-out to @tackytigerfic for giving me a 2nd opinion and helping me polish this - and for being a darling in general. Happy readings!

ROMANCE/COMFORT

1. Sun Stroke by @peachpety (2020, E, 3k)

Warm, sexy and wholesome, this fic makes my heart soar with the magical beach setting, amazing friendship dynamics and the sweet get together with a delicious side of smut!

2. oxygen [Fic & Art] by @maesterchill (2020, T, 4k)

Tentative acquaintances become something more over a shared smoke at the balcony. Sexy, mature, deliciously atmospheric and full of promise - plus Healer Draco is always a treat!

3. Catch the Snitch (No, Catch My Heart) by @prolix- (2020, E, 4.5k)

Gorgeous bath fic where Harry and Draco just... take care of each other. The raw emotion packed here! Lush and vivid build up with stunning body worship, hot and intimate and breathtaking.

4. Thermodynamic Equilibrium by DorthyAnn (2017, T, 5k)

This quiet comfort fic gives our boys some well deserved healing through physical touching and late night companionship. Love the 8th year atmosphere, soothing and familiar.

5. Blue Sky Is Living Here Today by ignatiustrout (2018, G, 5k)

The loveliest kid fic you’ll see today - real characters, gentle longing, soft understanding. It’s a joy to watch dad Draco through Harry’s smitten eyes, as he realizes there’s no rush to live that love.

6. Gravity Centered by @carpemermaidtales (2019, E, 6.7k)

Possibly my favorite Quidditch fic, this has an original premise and amazing Drarry dynamics, casual and organic, sassy and familiar, with a perfect lil twist at the end!

7. Up The by @shiftylinguini (2018, E, 7.5k)

One of the funniest PWPs I’ve ever read, clever and charming with easy banter and delicious smut. A sweet and sexy glimpse into the Drarry married life! Cw Mpreg

8. And a Malfoy in a Pear Tree by lauren3210 (2015, E, 8k)

Sweet sweet coffee shop Christmas romance! Love the light and fun atmosphere, the easy banter and cute wooing while supportive Ron cheers in the background, what a treat!

9. Ice Snakes, Glow-worms and Wolverine Stew by khalulu (2015, M, 8.4k)

Khalulu writes the softest Drarry, it never fails to put a smile on my face. This has a gentle and sweet get together, with lovely slow burn, a gorgeous San Francisco setting and matchmaker Kreacher 💗

10. Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (2020, T, 8.8k)

This delicate comfort fic has a special way to tug at my heartstrings - a gorgeous tale about found family and the unexpected wonders of life. Gentle, magical and breathtaking in its simplicity.

HUMOUR

11. in charge by @bonesliketambourines (2020, E, 2.4k)

The ultimate brat Draco, bossy and confident and absolutely gorgeous with his long hair and impossible snark. Charming and funny, this packs so much character and domestic bliss under 3k! Perfect spoiled Draco is perfect.

12. The Morning After by birdsofshore, capitu (2015, M, 5.3k)

This is hysterical and so delightfully creative - Draco exploring Harry’s kitchen and charming a prudish appliance is the kind of cute, silly endeavor I need with my morning coffee!

13. The Spoiling of Sex From Enthusiastic Ignorance by @cibeewastaken (2020, E, 6k)

I’m impossibly enamored with Cibee’s drama queen Draco and his passionate missions! This time he’s decided to get some good diq, and the dialogue and mutual pining will make you smile from beginning to end.

14. All Tied Up by MyNameIsThunder (2020, M, 6k)

This is a secret relationship delight! Sneaking around gets so much better when dramatic Blaise is losing his shit to protect the Council of Serpents’ integrity! A+ faux-drama, super fun and sweet.

15. Luckiest Fucking Size Queen Alive by @l0vegl0wsinthedark (2016, E, 6.2k)

My favorite brand of thirsty and chaotic Draco; being inside his mind is such a crazy ride and you won’t stop laughing for a second. Amazing dialogue and insanely scorching smut as per loveglows’ usual 🤤

16. Sex Ed for Aurors by curiouslyfic (2010, M, 8.7k)

This is a Harry triumph, so fun and charming! Here he’s the one chaotic and thirsty, for a change - I’m obsessed with his internal ranting under the lust potion. Brilliant narrative and top notch characterization, a classic!

17. Ferocious Determination, Insufficient Deliberation, and a Slightly Wrong Destination by Faith Wood (2012, E, 9.5k)

Drunk Draco has never been so absurd and I LOVE it! This goes from hilarious to vulnerable and sweet in a heartbeat; pining Draco is a precious thing and Harry’s gentle persistence made my heart swell.

18. Stand Back: I'm About to Perform Archaeology by Blowfish_Diaries (2018, E, 9.7k)

This fic could definitely use more appreciation - I had a blast with Draco’s hilarious voice and their cute married banter! The plot is quite original and I love the 8th year domestic vibes.

19. The Full Monty by @magpiefngrl (2017, E, 9.8k)

The calendar fic we deserve 👏🏻 this is ultimate thirsty Draco being completely obliterated by Harry’s casual attractiveness but mostly by his kind heart and big smile. One of my favorite comfort reads, hilarious, sweet and so damn sexy, the full monty combo is here!

20. Aural Gratification by birdsofshore (2014, E, 10k)

This fic is a classic, charming and hysterical with an adorable Harry thirsting over Draco’s smooth voice. Such an original concept and engaging read, not to mention the rewarding shade of smut!

SMUT

21. Tense by Faith Wood (2013, E, 3k)

Me, reading smut for the dialogue? It’s more likely than you think 😂 this fic is hilarious and hot all at once, with perfect banter and clever dialogue, really a smut triumph!

22. Under Your Skin by @p1013 (2020, Explicit, 4k)

Great premise and the sexiest build up, ugh so much teasing and anticipation as pierced Draco takes Auror Harry’s control away 🔥kudos at the A+ twist and promising ending!

23. The Slytherin Urn by @icmezzo (2015, E, 4.6k)

This fic’s geniality slaps me in the face, what a fascinating concept! Redemption kink and magical theory walk together as Harry loses his mind over competent Draco doing some badass curse-breaking ritual.

24. Once Bitten by Frayach (2012, E, 5.6k)

Still one of the hottest things I’ve ever read, lush and raw and absolutely breathtaking. Dark and tender at once, it explores biting kink with unapologetic precision and I love that!

25. Matched Set by astolat (2016, E, 5.7k)

One of my faves by the genius astolat, this is a perfect mix of hot size kink, A+ dirty talk and a brilliant and nuanced plot showing how Harry navigates his post-war reality. A must-read!

26. Teeth by @amelior8or (2020, E, 6k)

This fic is an emotional rollercoaster and goes from light-hearted and casual to vulnerable and tender in a second. Hot and intimate feat scorching wall sex, gut-punching lines and enthusiastic consent🔥

27. Born Slippy by @dracoladon (2020, E, 8.3k)

My favorite clubbing fic ever, clever and sensual, a master class in UST including the drunk haze confusion and panty kink as a treat! I can’t even talk about this fic without blushing 😳

28. The Page Eleven Wars by fireflavored (2010, E, 8.5k)

Competitive boys fighting for dominance both in bed and at the gossip column’s first page This is peak enemies to lovers: witty banter, hot smut screaming switching rights and feisty stubborn idiots finally getting over their asses.

29. The Things They Never Say by @bixgirl1 (2017, E, 9k)

Angry porn with (many) feels, this feels like a punch to the solar plexus. The explosive Drarry chemistry gives way to something quieter and gentler and full of longing, ugh but it aches so good. Absolutely exquisite!

30. Sweet Indulgence by @the-sinking-ship (2020, E, 10k)

The title says it all; this is a lush and charming read, with chaotic but nuanced Draco pining over authoritative, edgy Harry 😳 steaming pent up tension that culminates in glorious semi-public smut, is your body ready?

CONTEMPLATIVE/SOFT ANGST

31. Sharing a Pack by sugar_screw (2016, E, 2.7k)

A fully fleshed-out love story in less than 3k, with complex characters and powerful feels. Raw, poignant and unbelievably romantic.

32. Still Life by orphan_account (2019, M, 3k)

A superb and gut-punching story where Harry realizes all the little things that make Draco so very different from him - and falls in love anyway. Powerful in its simplicity and concise elegance.

33. Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix) by mindabbles (2010, M, 5.8k)

Draco finds his way post-war and Harry meets him in the middle. Aching and bittersweet but also hopeful, with a delicious side of coconut cake, Harry in black robes and Romeo & Juliet as soundtrack.

34. Let Me Have You and I'll Let You Save Me by Frayach (2012, M, 6k)

Enemies to lovers deluxe version! Come and feast on this original narrative, amazingly clever, rich and detailed, telling us an unlikely but inevitable love story.

35. A Pain of Our Choosing by @lqtraintracks (2020, E, 6k)

Broken boys fucking through their issues and healing together during the post-war is so my jam! A+ LQT goodness, this fic is evocative and quietly devastating, but full of feels and hope.

36. Our Little Life by @tackytigerfic (2020, M, 7k)

I’ve screamed about this brilliant fic recently; inventive, poignant and utterly romantic, this fic shows all the ways in which Harry and Draco find each other across space and time.

37. the keys to your kingdom by thistle_verse (2016, E, 7.5k)

A beautiful love story packing an impressive amount of character, conflict and emotion. We are invited to witness as work partners Harry and Draco finally take a leap of faith and grow out of their casual arrangement.

38. Clear As Mud by scoradh (2005, M, 9.8k)

Subtle and heart-wrenching, the sharp and clever narrative creates fascinating dynamics between this brilliantly written Draco and poor oblivious Harry trying to make sense out of it. An all-time fave. Cw: infidelity (not Drarry).

39. fine i'll hold my breath / til i forget it's complicated by teatrolley (2015, E, 10k)

Fucks buddies gone wrong but make it soft so we get to watch as pining Draco patiently waits for Harry to get the memo. Sweet and intimate, with lots of late night talks and comfortable silence.

40. Tidings of Comfort series by @blamebrampton (2012, G, 10k)

Quietly cathartic and atmospheric, this fic is a poignant balm to the soul; such a beautiful tone, such lovely interactions! A must-read for those who enjoy church settings, honest talks and redeemed Draco. All-time fave.

[wandsandwheezes]

Fake It | Weasley Twins | CH4

one // two // three

Warnings | 18+ SMUT, mature themes, fake relationships, secret relationships, love, sex, drama, angst, fluff, cheating

Summary // Fred Weasley has been set up to publicly date Y/N, London’s best Quidditch Seeker in order to drum up some publicity. Y/N however has a different ginger man on her mind; George Weasley.

A/N // im so sorry to the vanilla beans for this one xxxx

Green was definitely your colour. At least that’s what George thought as you ran down the stairs, the dress you were wearing was elegant and sophisticated but still casual, George thought you looked absolutely ravishing in everything you wore. You smiled lovingly at him when you caught him staring. You hadn't spoke to Fred since the incident when he tried to kiss you, having well and truly avoided the topic for at least 3 days. you were not looking forward to having to feign your love for each other. 

Despite the fact that Fred had already apologised, it didn't make things any easier. "You look beautiful." he stated, as you straightened his tie and flattened down his hair, "And you look a mess, Fred". His tired eyes looked at you pleadingly, as his hands came up to button his suit jacket. George and his heavy stride came barrelling down the stairs, when you spotted him, he looked like a work of art, his features were glowing and he was clean shaven, perfect hair hanging and framing his face, a request from you that he should grow it out a little more than usual. He didn't look stressed or worried like Fred did, and in this moment you realised the toll that days like this took on Fred and George did too. 

The shop was perfectly pristine, the new massive display fully stocked and the centre of attention, Fred had briefed the employees this morning, making sure that they knew the drill. Crowds and the press were all gathered outside in anticipation, the volume growing so much that you began to hear it from within the confines of the shop. 

When the doors swung open, it well and truly became show time. You hung delicately off of Fred's arm, as you stepped out of the opening doors, huge flashes of cameras, as well as cheers of excitement all bombarded your senses, however it was nothing compared to the thrill of the stadium. 

Fred began to deliver the speech about the new line of products, taking a moment to thank the investors and patrons of the shop, George followed on by unveiling the collection of items from the new line, the gorgeous green packaging complimenting your dress perfectly. Your eyes were fixated on the man of your dreams as he talked with such passion and vigour. You had to remind yourself that there were hundreds if not, thousands of eyes on you and that you probably shouldn't have been staring at George the way you were but you just couldn't help it. Fred once again takes to the stage to begin the personal thank yous before the store opens. 

"we want to thank the family for their continued support in our endeavours, also, Cheryl, our press manager and last but very not least my gorgeous girl, who has been with us every step of the way." he beckoned you onto the stage, as he continued, "Even though she has quidditch practice out of her ears for the big game next week, she always finds the time to brighten my day." His hand snuck around your waist before travelling down to firmly grab your ass. 

Fred's mind was racing, he thought that here would be the perfect opportunity to finally have his lips on yours, crashing them down onto you without even a second thought. There was absolutely no way you could pull away in front of everyone, you were conflicted. The frantic flashing, as well as cheers and woos from the crowd were distraction enough. It was stopping you from hurling sick directly into his mouth at the thought of George being subjected to this bullshit. 

George watched the events unfold before him, stopping himself from ripping you away protectively. He wanted to cut off Fred's hand more than ever, disgusted that he had the balls to grab your perfect ass so candidly in public - an ass that didn't even belong to him. George was absolutely livid, he could tell your discomfort a mile away. His heart shattering at how hopeless and weak you were to the situation. 

The doors of the shop finally opened and shoppers began to swarm in, ready to grab the latest products and creating a comforting blanket of noise. Cherry was smiling happily at you, sending a wink and a thumbs up your way. Your eyes however were searching for your Lover, disappointed he was nowhere to be seen, you pull out your phone to see a text from less than a minute ago.

>> Toilets, Now. Don't make me wait x

This was not good, but your heart raced faster with every step you took towards the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar when you got there, slipping into the cosy room you noticed George there and waiting, you shut the door behind you, flicking the lock before you heard him cast a silencing charm on the room, you heard the sounds of the bustling shop slowly fade, leaving the only audible sound as your staggered breath. 

George's strong hand was on your cheek as he kissed you passionately. This kiss felt right, a thousand sparks of electricity coursing through you the very second your lips touched and you felt as if the whole world was spinning. His lips were the perfect warmth against yours, the sticky saliva rolling off both of your tongues as he parted your lips with his, taking the opportunity to swipe his tongue over yours, letting you know who you belonged to. He was moaning into your mouth, an action that made your cunt throb with anticipation. He pulled away only enough to spit directly into your mouth before feverishly shoving you down to your knees. "Use that wet mouth of yours, now Princess."

Your needy hands were unbuckling his belt, metal clinking against itself as you pulled his hard on out from his trousers, you obliged immediately, lips wrapping around his cock as you sucked, taking him deep down your throat. The sounds you made as you gagged on his thick shaft were sending him to heaven, his hand was firmly gripping your jaw as he coaxed nearly his whole length down your throat. You pulled away for air, moaning as he slipped out of your mouth, your hand came up to stroke him quickly before taking him past your lips again. This time however, George took no solace as his hand gripped into your hair, making it the perfect leverage to hold your face in place as he rocked his hips, cock fucking every flicker of anger directly down your throat. Hearing you choke and splutter with every thrust was only egging him on more, it was one of his favourite sounds and he couldn't get enough. 

"I hope he fuckling likes how my cock tastes." he growled as he locked eyes with you. "That's it take it all, my good little cockwhore." he was still fucking your mouth, chasing his own release, your hands gripped the back of his thighs as he pushed himself fully into your mouth, hot streams of his cum hitting the back of your throat, spilling out of your mouth as he pulled himself free. His thumb swiped from the corner of your mouth, "Swallow like a good little girl." he marvelled at you eagerly taking his thumb into your mouth. He smiled proudly when you opened your mouth, seeing every last drop gone. 

You loved it when George used your mouth like a fuck toy, it didn't happen often, but when it did, he was often angry like now or stressed and desperate for a release. "Up. get up on the sink." he commanded, you immediately pulled yourself to your feet, sitting up on the sink, his hands coming up to spread your legs apart as he found himself on his knees before you. "Tell me who you belong to." you sighed as his finger hooked quickly into your underwear pulling it to the side, you felt his breath fanning over your exposed pussy. "You, George, only you."

"Good, let's see if Daddy can help his pretty girl then, hm?" His sinful lips had attached to your clit, sucking slowly as his tongue lapped over it, the pleasure of being touched pulled a long desperate moan from you, you thanked that he had at least silenced the room, because with every motion and movement of his skilled tongue, you were moaning and spluttering, desperate to have a release. "Georgie, your tongue is so good!" he hummed in appreciation, thumb running through your sticky sweetness before coming up to circle over your clit at an antagonising rate. "I wanna cum daddy, please, feels too good." he chuckled, lips pressing dainty kisses along your inner thighs and right over your tight hole, before blowing a gentle cool breeze over your whole wet and glistening cunt. 

His hands found your thighs, hooking them into his arms to move and press your back against the wall. "I don't even care if we get caught or if I'm taking too long anymore, you're mine and I fuck you when I want." he pulled your hips down onto him, making you bounce against him a little, you knew it wouldn't take you long to be coming all over him, you were already a blubbering mess for him, pulling every moan from your lips as he kissed you feverishly. He knew he'd hit the right spot when you clenched all around him, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. He pulled out of you, leaving you sat on the counter as your legs still shook from the orgasm running through your muscles. 

He used the mirror to make himself presentable once again, smirking as he left you blissed out on the counter, pressing a simple kiss to your lips. "Such a good girl, I love you, baby." He was out of the door before you knew it and you were left with your own juices running down your legs. You looked in the mirror, taken back by just how fucked out you looked, making yourself smile, George really did do a good job with his girl. You pulled yourself together, quickly, using a spell to fix up your hair and makeup, thankfully in time for Cherry to burst through the door. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you."

The small clip of her heels against the hardwood floor as you followed her to find Fred, was enough to pull you back down to earth, still high off the rush of ecstasy. It was no doubt she was wrangling you and Fred together for a picture opportunity, spotting George smirking as he clocked just how distracted you were. Smiling and posing for the cameras was second nature, Fred was watching just how happy you looked, his heart beating faster at the thought that you were smiling because of him. 

"Simply another perfect kiss from a star couple!" Cherry beamed before parading off to talk to the reporters. Fred's brow furrowed, "Another?" he queried, you'd realised now that he hadn't yet seen the paper with yourself and George caught on the cover. "She's probably comparing us to someone else, Freddie." you shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, Probably." sadness falling to the pit of his stomach, the girl he was crazy for wouldn't even look at him, and he wanted nothing more than the electricity of his lips against hers once more, he needed it, no - he craved it. 

>>>>> Chapter 5

taglist //  @starlightweasley @slytherinsunrise @gcdric @theweasleysredhair @whiz-bangs78 @weasleysflowr @vogueweasley @minty-malfoy @vivianweasley @feetoffthetablee @thisismynerdyself @rip-us @witch-and-a-half @sarcasticallywitty15 @pandaxnienke @loony-loopy-lupinn @pigwidgexn@starkidpotty @mrmoonyy @mackaywhore​ @softlyqoos​ @colorfulprofessornickelangel​ @fandomscombine​ @satellitespidey​ @txtdreamss​ @aaannabbanana​ @kaylahmarie​

[wizkiddx]

stop caring

yooo, so this is actually taken out of one of the sort of I guess series-esque things I’ve written, but it kinda just got shit at the end so I've given up and just wanted to post this instead. So sorry if some of the backstory isn't that clear or anything

tomhollandxfamous!reader

Summary: after your break up you bump into tom at a charity event and when shit hits the fan personally for you, someone who understands you is really what you need (angsty!!! maybe a bit of fluff too?)

TW: panic/anxiety attacks + mentions of assault

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3 months. 3 months you’d managed to avoid the boy that had given you the most joy in the previous years. 3 months without your best friend; of even when you’re with company feeling like a part of you was just absent. 

And you had been thriving. Well… that’s what everyone thought. That’s what you tried to portray, because no matter how ‘famous’ or ‘successful’ people perceived you to be - ultimately you were like anyone else. Making your insta pop off after the breakup. And so to the outside world, through the very very small lense of social media life was great. Parties, friends, work. 

You were a woman in demand - in all senses of the word. 

But of course, as is the 21st century world, it was a lie. Instagram showed only snapshots of what can be very long 24 hours in a day. Naturally, a select few obviously knew - your best friend, Y/f/n being one of them. Yet still you were missing that one support, that one person who would drag you back to reality whenever you got too much into your own head. It actually rather annoyed you, how dependent you had got on him, in every part of your life. 

And you really hadn’t expected to see him here today. You’d had your assistant check the guest list, he wasn’t on it. While getting ready, you had avoided all the products that reminded you of him; that soft nude lipstick he loved you in so much; your favourite (exfavourite) earrings. Had you known it, you would have worn these. Just because you knew it would get on his nerves a little bit. Nevertheless here you were, perhaps a little underdressed for the charity dinner in a dress you’d already worn before (because apparently that was a sin in the world of Hollywood). You couldn’t pin point from when, but it was simple yet elegant if you did say so yourself. A dark blue satin dress, that sat off your shoulders in a Bardot style; hugged your waist to accentuate your curves; then flowed outwards down to the floor with a slit up your right leg. It was simple compared to the sequin studded, diamanté jewelled dresses the rest of the women seemed to sport but it made you feel comfortable. 

Besides, that’s what you needed today. This was the first time after the breakup you’d attended a public event without your best friend-turned-assistant-turned-absolute-life-saver. Y/f/n had been the greatest with you all through your life but especially recently, she deserved the break to go back home and see her family. It was a pretty decent excuse too, her cousins wedding, so you were in absolutely no place to complain.

Evidently it just HAD to be this event then, while you were flying solo, that you’d be faced with…well with his face. His fucking gorgeous, perfect and oh so sweet face. 

Just seeing him, just seeing Tom fucking Holland, had the most intense burst of adrenaline course through your veins as you desperately scanned the rest of the room. Looking for an out, an excuse, someone to latch onto for the rest of the night. A distraction even. 

Never one to admit it openly, but really you knew your coping mechanism of the past months had been to sleep with who you wanted. Because the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else right? You knew it was stupid too. Not because of slut shaming or anything ( we aint got no outdated views here), but simply it wasn’t you. It wasn’t a good idea for you. It didn’t fit. 

Tom hadn’t seen you yet, so if you latched onto someone you’d likely be in the clear. So obviously, when your frantic glances landed upon Joe Keery, you literally sighed in relief. Joe was great, stranger things was a bit of a guilty pleasure for you - especially when you were in your trailer and bored. Just due to your line of work, you’d met a couple times, he seemed like decent crack and to you knowledge was single. 

Unsurprisingly then, you almost marched over to Joe, ignoring the slightly shaky feeling in your leg as your hearing seemed to focus completely on the sound of Tom’s bright laugh. 

It was your choice too. You’d chosen to end things. It was on you. Well really, both parties were equally guilty. Tom was the one who had been too tired and highly strung and exhausted to put effort into the relationship. Stupidly though, you were too in love to realise for so long, in doing so draining yourself in the process. The constant flying cross country to see him, when he couldn’t ever return the favour because he was too busy. It was chipping away at you, even if you didn’t notice. It took an intervention by your manager Davey and Y/f/n for you to see things for what they were. To see that Tom didn’t care as much as he used to. 

He tried to fight for it, of course Tom did, because he also truly and deeply loved you. Nonetheless though, it was too late. And that was it. You closed that book and returned it to the library. Something your mind occasionally drifts back to  and you think ‘huh that was a good read’ - yet that is the only space it occupies in your mind. 

OR that’s how it should be. Not you yesterday, comparing everything your date did to Tom and deciding everything was worse. Not you today, seeing him and nearly being floored by the way the suit was tailored to his body oh so exquisitely. Not you now, hearing his bubbly laughter and having to fight your muscles from taking you back into his arms. 

In short, you were highly strung and pining over a boy you’d killed your chance of happiness with. 

Not to blow your own horn, you knew Joe wouldn’t be against having your company for the evening. After all, you were a young, beautiful and upcoming actor. You were ,at the very least, self aware. And so for a good few hours you almost forgot about Toms presence, spending the time before the speeches sharing a ridiculously overpriced bottle of wine (or two) with him. He was funny. He made you laugh, even if he was pushing the limits occasionally and teetering just on the right side of socially acceptable. It was risky and in that moment, with the alcohol in your system, it made him seem more and more of an attractive shag. 

By the time the speeches started you were both overly giggly and had to keep shushing each other as the presenter called for quiet. Inherently, you knew exactly the location of Thomas - who he was sat around; the main he’d had at dinner; the brand of beer he’d been ordering.But that was subconscious. You were here with Joe. 

Under your voices, whilst getting some disapproving looks from the older, more mature, members of your table you and Joe sat through the first boring speech whispering jokes under your breath - making each other clamp their mouth shut to avoid bursting out laughing. Though tipsy, you were very aware of Joe inching closer and closer, while his hand was casually brushing yours or your shoulder or waist more often. You knew this was low, being so blatant in front of Tom. To be quite frank though, should you care? And did he care?

The answer in your head at least, was an almost certain no to both. 

One speech merged into another spent giggling away until Joe did something he didn’t mean. Heck he didn’t even know. His jesting quickly had toppled completely over into absolutely not category. Your brain felt like it was swimming as the name you’d avoided after that incident , almost ten years ago. The flashbacks came thick and fast. You an innocent young actor wanting to make a way in the industry. And him. A powerful, ridiculously important slightly overweight 50 year old with bad breath. That room in the corner of his hotel that you were completely lost in. 

You were going to be sick. 

Somewhere, distantly, you heard Joe saying something… asking you? Asking you if your were good? It was drowned out by a roar in your ears, you jerkily nodded your head. You knew your breathing was jilted, shaky and shallow. You knew your heart was exploding. It actually felt like a heart attack, the way it seemed to be beating as though it were going to break out of your chest. This time you really really needed an out. 

So without any words, leaving a bemused Joe, your chair screeched on the floor as you stood up, garnering the attention of the whole room. The heads literally swivelled to stare at you, judgement clearly there as you frantically half ran to the back of the room, pleading if your head fro the toilet to be nearby. You needed to be away from everyone and safe. 

Thankfully your escaped the room and the beady eyes, locating the bathroom where you threw a cubicle open, shakily locking it before collapsing into the wall in floods of tears, harsh sobs racking your frame as you clutched your hands to your knees and rocked slightly back and fourth. You dress being a full length ballgown was spilling out into the the nearby cubicles and under the door, but presumably you were alone in the loo - not hearing any other signs of life beyond your own sobs. 

This always happened when you had your anxiety attacks. It was like clockwork. Zone out, stop hearing, loose control of breathing, heart starts pounding, make a quick escape to a toilet, cry and then…

Well back before Tom, it had been to throw up. That was the only thing you’d ever found to ground you enough to get your body backorder your own conscious control. It was like a wave of relief after, like the drowning feeling in your lungs had just evaporated away. But the Tom happened. The first time he’d seen you panic he hadn’t a clue what to do either. SO he had just sat with you, not wanting you to be alone in that state and waited. That panic though, had lasted so long that you’d almost made yourself pass out from the hyperventilating. When that had happened, Tom had gone into emergency mode. He had been scared to touch you, in case that made you worse, but when he saw your body going limp he didn’t have a choice. He’d collected you into his arms, with your head against his chest. Being this close to calling an ambulance, the relief Tom felt when your breathing got more and more regular was unparalleled. 

Together, when he had you lying in his bed (recovered, if mortified and exhausted) was when you realised that you hadn’t been sick. And that was because of him. You’d grounded yourself on his heartbeat and breathing, listening to it and making yours sync up. Thats what had saved you that evening. 

Now however, Tom was gone. This was the first panic attack you’d had since he’d been gone. Of course while you were together you were rarely in the same place, even so you’d phone him. But not now. 

This all led to you sat clutching your knees as your mascara dripped down your cheeks as you had to fight to get enough oxygen into your body. You didn’t want to get into that vicious cycle of making yourself ill again. It really hadn’t been healthy.

Who knows how long you were sat there sobbing before you heard the door open and in response you clamped a hand to your mouth trying to stay silent. This irrational fear overcame you as you sat stock still, fearing the footsteps on the marble floor of the fancy function venue. Even the toilets were pretty posh. 

“Y/n?…. It’s-it’s Tom.” Oh. My. Fucking. God. That was all that was going through your brain as you bit you lip - presumably painfully, yet you didn’t really feel pain in your current state.  “Look I saw you leave and I know your on your own tonight… I-I couldn’t leave you on your own if your… well you know.” Everything was going so so fast in your brain, that it actually scared you into stopping crying, so much so you felt your hand flop back down to your side. “…I was waiting outside because I didn’t want to errr you know… but you’ve been 20 minutes so I need to know your good…..okay?”

The boy was too fucking good. And stubborn… he was too stubborn and you knew he wasn’t going to give in. It was also fairly evident that he knew you in here - there was no pretending you didn’t exist. 

“Y/n? Come on you gotta let me know.”

“I’m fine. You-you go.” Only when you spoke was it evident to yourself just how not-okay you really were. Tom just chuckled and spoke again.

“How long have you known me for? That’s just not going to happen is it.” You already knew this, but something about the way he said it made you realise a sad laugh, momentarily making you feel a bit more in control. He seemed to like that response, you heard him bend down and then saw the bottom of his tux as he sat down leaning against your cubicle door.

“Is …is this your first one… since?  You both know what he was talking about. Since you broke up. 

“Uhmm I-“ You swallowed down a fresh rise of nausea, somewhat determined to not throw up when you ex is barely a metre from you. “Yeh I suppose.” In didn’t seem a revelation to Tom, yet he still hummed lowly in response as the room drifted back to silence. 

“You… you wanna try to breath with me?… You don’t have to open the door just…”

Croaking a please in response because this feeling was really blood awful and you wanted it to end, Tom started exaggerating his breathes, as you shakily and eventually managed to start to time it with his. Without thinking, when Tom’s palm snuck half under the door you immediately grabbed and squeezed it - the contact helping to synchronise your body with his. 

It should be an alien feeling after your time apart. But no it felt oh so natural and so very right. 

Once you’d collected yourself and realised how bloody stupid this whole situation was  you withdrew your hand back, loosing the warmth as you shook your head in disapproval of yourself. So very fucking stupid. He was silent for a bit, letting you think things through whilst still sat outside your cubicle. 

“You good now?” You hummed in agreement and you felt Tom’s head fall against the door, looking up to the ceiling. “Want me to go?”

“If you want to” That was met with silence, but a very telling lack of movement that spoke a thousand words.

“You should get out of here… you wanna avoid the trigger again and I mean I know you’re exhausted.” The boy had researched panic disorder and attacks when he found out you suffered with it - he probably knew more of the psychology of it than you, whilst never having any first hand experience of it.  Annoyingly he was right, as per, after attacks you always always slept for hours - it was just a draining process. “I’ll get you a car if you want?…. I’d like to make sure you get back okay if you don’t mind.” With only your cold and empty residual feeling left, his words still managed to ignite a spark of warmth in your chest. 

“I’m not going to ruin your evening Tom.” You tried to refuse even if it was very very forced and very very hopeful he wouldn’t give in. 

“I was having a crappy evening. Sitting in the ladies toilet talking to my ex through a toilet door has actually been the highlight.”He chuckled playfully in a self pitying way, somehow again making you giggle. And so he had you standing on slightly unsteady feet, your black heels held in one hand because no wasn’t the time to put yourself through teetering around on pin needles. The shuffling outside the door meant Tom stood up too - before you unlocked the door and opened it. 

Prior to seeing Tom your eyes locked on the sight of your reflection, in the mirrors above the sinks opposite you. Perhaps the only way to describe it… it was a sight. The shock being in the juxtaposition between the elegant dress, which even having been crumpled on a bathroom floor had somehow managed to survive and still look near the off-the-hanger; but your face? Oh that was a shit show. You’d cried your makeup off almost completely, leaving your face blotchy and shining as well as the ever so telling smudged mascara under your bottom lash line. 

You had to laugh or you’d just start to cry.

“Don’t worry I’ve seen you much worse.” You saw in the reflection as Tom leaned in and whispered in your ear, making your eyes roll and head shake as you looked from him back to you. 

“I look like a paps dream.” Without instruction, Tom bolted into a nearby cubicle, wrapping layers of toilet roll round his hand before offering it to you as a makeshift wipe.

“This is the glamour of Hollywood don’t you know? Wiping your face with bog roll”Thankfully taking it, you offered Tom a thankful smile as he stepped back, giving you space as he leant against another cubicle pillar. Once you finished up blotting your face, Tom had already shrugged off his jacket walking toward you as he offered it out. Tilting your head to the side in a questioning manner Tom just shrugged, saying it’d help avoid the paparazzi just in case. In reality you weren’t so sure, but anyhow you still appreciated the gesture and draped it round your shoulders with a muttering of thanks. 

At this point his phone pinged, the car was outside, so without any words exchanged he led you to the door, checked the hallway was clearly before guided you back to the exit. There didn’t appear to be anybody lurking around, which you were oh so thankful for as you almost threw yourself in to the safety of the blacked out car. Tom followed and you both, almost comically as if scripted, released a sigh in unison as you melted into the seats. That had you chuckling dryly as you sat in silence. 

“You know we can’t move till you say where you’re staying?” Teasing you, Tom shot you that ever mischievous grin that made the blood rush through your skin. After you’d told the driver, the car pulled swiftly out the laibi.

“Did he…did he say something?” Tom’s demeanour had steeled up and you looked questioningly up at him. “Joe… you looked…close.”

“Oh”. You were taken aback. You should have seen this coming to be fair, him asking for the trigger this evening - and yet you were more shocked at his jealousy. How he looked pained to mention Joe by name. “Um no… well sort of…it was a joke. He didn’t mean it but it er…it took me back.” Tom knew your history, he knew what happened all those years ago and he nodded slowly , keeping his eyeline straight ahead. 

“He’s a dick.”

“No he’s not…. He- he was sweet enough . It was all me.”

“What?”

“I pushed myself on him. I-I saw you… I was spooked.” Tom left it to drift back to silence. He had a lot of thinking to do too. 

He’d obviously kept up to date with you. Call it a professional interest. That was the problem being in love with someone when you weren’t allowed to be. But it hurt like hell, especially when he heard what you were doing. Because he knew this wasn’t you. He knew you sleeping around wasn’t going to help you recover - in fact he thought (and quite correctly) it was the opposite. That long term it’d only cause you more and more pain. 

“You know, you don’t have to do this?… I-I know it isn’t you. I’m not insulting or anything I’m… I’m just worried.” You knew he was being truthful . And infuriatingly he was right. Which only made it even more annoying. 

“Why do you care though?” Looking out the window that was all you could think to say. That was your subconscious talking as you didn’t really want the answer. Or you desperately did but you knew it’d be hard to get over. 

“Y/n” He sighed, making you look across at him “I’ve not stopped caring… I’ll never stop caring.”

Wasn’t that just a knife to the heart. You held your breath momentarily, not knowing what to think (nervermind say) in response to that. Everything in that car seemed to freeze, Tom’s eyes piercing the deepest and darkest parts of your mind as he stared at you. You both really weren’t over it. You were both hurting. You missed each other.

And you were about to dive in all over again. 

But then the indicator ticked on. The car pulled to a stop. The ignition switched off by the driver. You were at your hotel. The journeys end - quite literally. 

Tom felt it too. He knew if ever there was a chance, however rogue and unlikely, of you two working things out it was within this journey. And he’d failed.

“I-uh…I-this is me” Stammering through, distracted by the way Tom’s eyes shone with disappointment. 

‘Yeh - yeh it is I guess.”

“Well er… thanks for, well you know… for saving me. You er-you really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to”

“Yeh well er thanks…. And er-Oh! Your jacket” You realised, already tugging the tailored suit jacket from your shoulders. 

“No no it’s really okay. I have loads anyway.” See?In Hollywood you really weren’t allowed to wear the same thing twice. 

“Oh-okay. Well er….I’ll see you around I guess?”

“Can I walk you to your room, just to-check no one bothers you?” Tom was trying. Desperately trying. He could feel you slipping through his fingers again, this time he wanted to put up more of a fight. You shook your head thought, a sad smile gracing your lips. 

“I’d say yes but I think I know where that’d end up…. And I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Defeatedly nodding, Tom just smiled in a tight-lipped fashion, equally as sadly at you. 

“I’ll errr I’ll see you around.” While gathering yourself and preparing to exit the car, your hand on the door handle. Tom responded with a ‘yeh’ but before you left you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek, before whispering under your breath..

“Thankyou Tom.”

part 2 ish of sorts --> link

[cacoetheswriting]

nsfw alphabet - berlin

A/N: (request): The title says it all so a smut warning is in place.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex?)

Believe it or not Berlin, or should you say Andrés, is quite affectionate after sex. He’ll press his body closely against yours and place intimate soft kisses across your collarbone. He’ll ask if you enjoyed yourself, if you need anything. However  most of all he likes to listen to you whispering words of affirmation. Knowing how much he means to you makes Berlin feel better about himself.

B = Body Part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Berlin’s favourite body part of yours is most definitely your ass. He loves how it looks in jeans, skirts, that red jumpsuit, but most of all he likes it bare. He’ll grab, caress, clasp and knead the flesh when you’re having sex - smack it when he can, even in public. 

When it comes to himself however he doesn't have a favourite body part per-say - anything he can use to pleasure you really. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum basically)

He loves to come inside of you, of course. His cock pumping deep until he explodes and the white extract drips slowly down your thigh mixing with your own wetness. Although what he enjoys most of all is erupting in your mouth. Sometimes when he feels his own climax nearing he’ll pull out of your dripping pussy, climb up to straddle your face and plunge his wet hard-on into your mouth. It doesn't take long for the first shot of his cum to blast against the back of your throat - the gooey soo coating your tongue, filling your mouth completely and eventually being forced out between your lips. 

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Berlin secretly enjoys watching other people hit on you. There is something about the way you react, casually flirting back just to see if he'd get jealous, that gets his motor running. Of course he uses that drive to punish you for such flirtations the second he gets you alone.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

To say he's experienced would be an understatement, however, his sexual maturity is not what makes him so skilled at pleasuring you. Berlin took his time exploring your likes and dislikes in bed very early into your relationship. He can read your body like a map, knows where you’re most delicate and exactly what buttons to press to get you going. 

F = Favourite Position (this goes without saying)

As much as he revels in power play and taking charge in bed, there is something about the cowgirl position that Berlin cannot say no to. He loves the feeling of you kneeling on top and pushing off his chest as you slide up and down. His hands exploring your body freely, groping your ass, fingers pulling on your nipples. Not to mention how incredibly hot you look. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

Definitely more on the serious side. He’ll tease you to assert power and make the infrequent dirty joke however overall Berlin is more somber when you’re in bed and focused on making you feel good rather than making you laugh. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He doesn’t really care about what he looks like down there. Occasionally he will clean himself up but it’s very rare. Not that you complain; in your opinion it makes him look more manly. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Berlin is not the romantic type. He enjoys being close to you and will shower you with affection but after sex rather than during.

J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

He is not ashamed to admit he jacks off frequently; it is human nature after all. What he prefers though is to masturbate with you - usually as a form of foreplay. He’ll order you to pleasure yourself and watch you intensively and pumping his hard cock while you rub your clit. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

The dark haired thief very much has a BDSM kink. He doesn't get to act on it often but when he does, well it is safe to say you have trouble walking the next day.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Anywhere and everywhere - you don't even have to be alone as long as you can be discreet. The mere thought of your naked body rubbing against his is enough to get him going, and once he’s turned on he simply must have you. It doesn't matter where you are; or who's around.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

A better question would be what doesn't get him going. Berlin gets turned on just by looking at you. There have been times even where he’d be looking at an object such as a table and his mind would wonder - how he’d love to bend you over that and have his way. 

N = NO (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Even though he doesn't mind other people flirting with you, a big no no is sharing you with anyone. You are his and his alone therefore threesomes or group sex is definitely off the table. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc,)

Receiving - and damn are you good at that. He loves looking down at you as your sweet lips are wrapped around his erect member. The sensation he gets as your tongue slides over his cock while you suck on the head. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He likes to pound you asserting dominance and power. Fingertips digging into your waist, his mouth kissing yours, he enjoys fucking you fast barely giving you a chance to breathe. Although when he wants to he can go slow, mainly to tease you are quite simply admire your beauty. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

It would be safe to say that he prefers quickies to conventional sex. He revels in the fact he can have you whenever he wants to; fuck you shamelessly leaving you breathless, legs quaking. Of course if the two of you have more time to spare he’ll pleasure you slowly, properly. Taking you bit by bit.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

As long as what he wants to try is okay with you, anything is fair game. He would never do anything to hurt you purposefully or make you uncomfortable therefore even though he is the dominant in your relationship, you need to approve whatever it is he’d like to do to you. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Usually one or two, maybe even three - depending how long and taxing each round is. 

T = Toy (do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He is a proud owner of a few toys from various vibrators, handcuffs, spanking paddles, and even nipple clamps. He doesn't use them often, but when he does he makes you feel things you have never felt before. His favourite little toy to use on you is a remote controlled vibrator - pretty self explanatory. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Berlin is quite the tease although no bigger than you. In your relationship, you are the one that acts like a brat, petering and tormenting him. You know exactly which buttons to push to turn him on to the point of no return. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

He’ll mainly talk dirty to you, whisper all of the things he’s going to do to you, call you ‘his slut’ because he knows how hot and bothered that gets you. 

W = Wild Card (random headcanon for the character)

Despite his brooding and dominant exterior, Andrés is tender and compassionate. He always puts you first. Your comfort and safety are of utmost importance to him. He’ll hold your hand, embrace you when you least expect it, and listen to everything you have to say. He’s a great listener.

X = X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

Perhaps the biggest you’ve been with. He’s quite thick, and stretches you out well hitting all of the right spots. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Remarkably high. It surprised you at first because you wouldn't have expected it from the older brooding thief but you’ve come to appreciate and definitely enjoy it. 

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’ll wait for you to fall asleep first; like a true gentleman. Once your eyes are closed and he can hear your soft elegant snores, he’ll snuggle even closer to you taking in your scent and drift to sleep with you safely in his arms.

-

[ajaxsbeloved]

hii!! if u write for xingqiu, can i request some cuddling headcanons w his s/o?? thank u!!

-: cuddles:-

feat. xingqiu

genre. fluff

summary. cuddling with xingqiu makes your life a little more comforting especially when he cuddles you like this

warnings: none

authors note. here it is, i hope you liked it! i’m so sorry if it’s too short, i tried to make it longer but my brain said “no thoughts. head empty” for now T-T

xingqiu has some of the most relaxing cuddles to be honest, they’re a lot like him in the sense that they’re elegant and gentle

he’s very well timed if that makes sense, meaning that he’ll just naturally be ready for cuddles when they happen

he’d finish up eating and drinking something or just getting ready to start a new book when you come in and decide you want cuddles or when he feels sleepy and wants to initiate them himself

he likes to hold you in his lap (or sitting in between his legs) and read, sometimes he’ll let you sleep but other times he’ll read out loud and it’s really calming to listen to

he also likes it when you hold him, it gives him a sense of security and it makes him happy to know that someone is caring for him

xingqiu is very mature and while i don’t expect him to be bouncing off the walls i think that he’d probably be a little more open and childish with you because you’re the only person he trusts to see that side of him

during the day cuddles with him are very calming and relaxing, they’re soft and gentle while during the night they’re filled with giggles and cheesy/loving comments that put you to sleep (that is if you don’t have a heart attack hearing him say such things so casually)

his grip is firm but still gentle and caring, it’s almost loose if it weren’t for how he pulls you back to him when you try to get up

his favorite places to cuddle are by window sills and on the couch, while he does like to cuddle in bed that’s more of a “cuddle because of lights out for the night” type of thing and he prefers day time cuddles where he can just take naps with you

if you’re just laying on the couch he’ll sometimes lay down on you with his arms around your waist and head in your neck area and that way you can both take a nice little nap

sometimes, on the special occasion he’ll even sing or hum a little bit and when he does it’s like a spell that makes you sleepy but you try to stay awake so you can keep listening

if you’re struggling to keep your eyes open he’ll just look down at you with the most loving smile on his face and he’d give you a sweet kiss before telling you to rest and then going back to singing or humming

once you’ve fallen asleep in his arm he just looks at you for a little bit with a quiet smile before sighing (meaning he’s glad he’s relieved some stress with you) and resting his head on either your shoulder or head, he’ll fall asleep soon after

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

euphemia volpe has never wanted for very much; a safe place to sleep, a soft place to land. to love someone, and be loved back. she has all of those things now, but it's most unfortunate for her that she has fallen in love with a man who will never be satisfied with what he's got.

pt. i: contact is crisis

words: 3.3k

warnings: language, some depictions of a relationship that is not entirely healthy, extensive use of my very basic knowledge of italian (padded with google translate, thank you google!), and an unfortunate amount of endearments and pet names. this does not deviate from john wick chapter 2's canon ending, so please bear in mind this will contain major character death.

rating: m for mature language ??? probably closer to t, but will change later on.

notes: as some of you may know, this has been (unfortunately) sitting on my drive since i first watched john wick chapter two almost a year ago--maybe over a year! i can't remember. all i remember was seeing santino and going "SOMEONE has got to kiss that man". so you know, here i am. this short-fic (only a few, short parts) will take place over the span of the events of john wick chapter 2. yes i built some tiny amount of lore for the camorra. yes i had the opportunity to write a fix-it fic and did not. no i am not taking criticism at this time !

special uber big thank you to my beta and my wifey @starcrier who read this a year ago and when i casually said, "hey, so what if i posted this" told me to do it. also @faithchel, who through the occasional sly prompt slid in from ask games (i see you) has been a true angel while i sort through this, and equally as encouraging!

and of course thank you to you all, who read this. i know this is not the usual content you followed me for but i appreciate you all the same. <3

“I cannot believe that I will marry a man so stupid.”

Euphemia is practically frothing at the mouth, she’s so mad; she storms into the chic New York loft, tossing her purse onto the nearby counter, her heels clipping against the polished floor decisively. It’s late; the silk slip of a dress draped across her body brushes the floor in a sweeping train, and she balances herself on the counter with one hand while she steps out of the stilettos with the assistance of the other.

“Euphie, luce della mia vita,” Santino says, striding in after her and completely at ease. He is, infuriatingly, as he always is; perfectly composed, his dark curls in place and his suit immaculate. Euphemia eyes him through the mirror of her vanity as he sidles up behind her. “We’re not married yet, princesa, so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Luce della mia vita,” Euphemia drawls mockingly. She drips the words in honey on the way out of her mouth, sliding a dainty, glittering bracelet from her wrist and dropping it on the counter. “You sound like a fucking idiot, Santi.”

His gaze darkens, but his voice is still silky when he says, “Watch your tone, cara mia.”

“What for?” Euphemia thinks she wouldn’t be able to watch her tone even if she wanted to; not anymore, not with this hanging over her head. She turns to stare at her fiancé, pressing her index finger to his chest. “You’re going to get killed by Baba Yaga anyway. No point in behaving myself, is there? Idiota.”

“Euphemia.”

“You leave John Wick alone, Santino,” she bites out. “You don’t ask for a thing from him. Of him. About him. I don’t want John Wick near my life.”

Santino grabs her wrist, the hand with the engagement ring sitting on it—snatches it out of the air like a cobra striking, grips it with hands that usually are much kinder.

“Everything that you have now is a gift from me,” he warns her, voice pitched low. “You like your nice engagement ring? Your nice dresses? This nice loft we live in?”

His fingers grip, nearly bruising; these are the only times that he doesn’t handle her with care, that his elegant fingers don’t splay against her skin reverently—when she’s pissed him off.

“I’ve given it all to you, all of these things, this life that you like having and don’t want John Wick near, so I would suggest watching your tone for that.”

There is a brief moment where Euphemia thinks she might finally, right now, resort to the violence of slapping Santino in the face. The threat is not lost on her; it’s Santino’s favorite thing to do when he’s angry. And for her to commit an act of violence against her fiancé would be unthinkable almost every other time, in any other situation. Euphie would not have considered it in the least, but there are times—on occasion—where she thinks for a second that she doesn’t recognize him; that he’s become some amalgam of all of the men who have grabbed her too hard or told her she owes them. Men who have used her meanly.

And Santino has divulged his plan to push John Wick for a favor.

So, yes: she thinks she might, but then her hand is moving of her own volition, sliding the engagement ring off of her finger and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, the more pacifist choice than what her mind is screaming for her to do.

“You have never had nothing, Santi,” she says, biting out the words, “so allow me to enlighten you; I have had nothing before you, and I will be just fine having nothing again.”

His eyes narrow, gemlike slits that sit heavy on her. She yanks her wrist of his grip and says, “And it is a good thing we are not married, si? A divorce would have been so messy.”

“Euphie,” Santino says in a sigh that lacks venom, as though he weren’t just threatening to take everything from her, as though she were the hysterical one, “don’t fuss.”

Don’t fuss, he says, because Santino has only ever had women before that bend themselves over backwards until they break for him; don’t fuss, he says, because he likes and maybe loves her, she thinks, but he doesn’t like or love when she talks back. Santino has always had someone to wait on him, to serve him, and Euphemia has never seen his parents together but she would that his only vision of marriage is that of a subservient, dutiful, loving wife.

“Oh, but my darling,” she coos, very undutiful and decidedly not subservient, “I wouldn’t want you to have to worry about all of the nice things you give me. You can enjoy them all yourself, for the brief time before Baba Yaga kills you for asking him to do a job he does not want to do, when he has announced his retirement.”

It’s a terrible way to feed the monster inside of her. That monster is a pusher, a puller, the kind that picked and chipped away at Santino until he lost that shred of his manicured control and gave her something, anything she could work with. It was impossible to love a man who was so buttoned up there was nowhere for her to put her love.

His expression tightens in the way that she recognizes as his controlled fury; bottling it, merchandising it, saving it for later. Santino is not incapable of killing his sister himself, but for some reason—a reason that Euphemia is sure is only known to him—he won’t. Some stupid shit about blood and family, probably.

“Take the ring back.” Santino’s voice is smooth, belying the danger lurking just beneath. He fishes the engagement ring out of the pocket of his suit jacket, where she’d dropped it, and picks up her hand again; this time, his fingers don’t grip with bruising force, but cradle. Euphemia thinks she might have pushed him, then, right to the line, because his eerie calm is unsettling as his fingers meticulously slide the engagement ring back into place.

He says, “There, you see? This is where your engagement ring belongs and will stay. Here, on your hand. Just like this is where you belong and will stay—here, with me.” His hand comes up to her face; she turns away, and he catches her chin and forces her to look back at him.

“You know I will get you anything you want,” Santino murmurs, “but you have to ask.”

Nicely, is the implied word. A good fiancé, a good wife, wouldn’t storm out of the car after he mentions John Wick in passing, ripping through the loft, calling him names. She knows all of this and she thinks, then maybe I’m not a good anything.

But she can tell when she’s pushed Santino’s buttons just enough—enough to make a point, and not enough to incur his wrath. Not entirely.

“Please, Santi,” she says, her voice still hard but softer than it was before, and already Santi is shaking his head so she plunges on recklessly, “do not cash in John Wick’s debt to you. Ascoltami, I know you—I know you will do something to put yourself and John Wick on opposite sides of the playing field.”

Santino’s gaze is sharp and clear. He drops his hand from her face, shrugging, and says, “So what? I will be playing chess, and John Wick will be playing checkers. You worry too much, Euphie.”

“What you mean to say is that I think before I act.”

He shrugs, and threads his fingers through her hair, reaching up with the other to brush loose strands of it from her eyes. He rumbles pleasantly, “Don’t you trust me?”

Euphemia grits her teeth. Her hands come up to grip his wrists, watching him with a prickle of dread in her chest. “Don’t you trust me, Santi?”

Santi’s gaze darkens. Like that, he drops his hands from her, tucking them into the pockets of his slacks as he turns and wanders further into the bedroom, taking all of his warmth with him and leaving Euphie to marinate in the cold glow of the vanity’s lights.

“You can say no,” she says after him, frustrated. “You don’t have to keep an air of mystery about it.”

“What do I do then, tesora?” Santino demands, turning to look at her from the foot of the bed where stands. “Kill her myself? You know I can’t. You know that you cannot ask me to do that.” A pause, and then, with an added air of entitlement: “And Wick owes me.”

There are complicated feelings wrapped up in the whole of it, she knows; Santino, who wants what his sister was given, but cannot bring himself to end her. Euphemia, who only wants Santino, who doesn’t care if he has a seat at the High Table or if he’s a sister-killer or not, who only wants him to look at her longingly like he did when they first met, just for forever instead of a brief moment in time.

And both of them, intrinsically linked, because Santino isn’t wrong when he says that he’s given her everything she has now and Euphemia isn’t wrong when she says she would be okay with nothing again.

She doesn’t ask it of him; he is right, that she can’t, that she wouldn’t. Gianna has only ever been kind to her, at least face to face, and if Santi’s sister had any reservations about Euphemia, then Euphie would find herself in a completely different situation. Not engaged to the only other heir to the D’Antonio empire, that was for certain.

Instead, then, she says, “I cannot ask you to do it, you’re right. I cannot ask you to do it, and I cannot keep you, and I cannot throw you away, Santino. I was less tired when I had nothing.”

She turns away and walks herself into the bathroom, fingers trembling as she undoes the delicate zipper of the gold dress, letting it pool at the floor in a whisper of fabric. The engagement ring sits heavy on her hand. It’s beautiful—and just what she wants, and also the thing that she fears the most, because she doesn’t know what it means to Santino and only what it means to her.

“Euphie.”

His voice comes from the doorway of the bathroom. She turns on the hot water in the tub, a beautiful porcelain clawfoot that she picked herself. It was one of the first things that Santino gifted to her, the first essence of her in the loft that is now almost entirely half-and-half the two of their tastes.

Euphemia doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t know what to say, so she ties up her hair and shimmies out of the last of her clothes. She can feel his eyes on her, waiting for her to flower into submission and turn around and beg, oh, please Santino, forgive me, but he should know better because she has never and will never do that for him.

“Cara mia.”

“Do not.” Euphemia’s voice wobbles. She slides into the bathtub before it’s full, the water stinging her skin where it touches. “I can’t stand to hear your voice saying sweet things to me when you are willingly walking yourself into your grave.”

“You are being a little dramatic.” He makes his way over to her, kneeling down beside the porcelain tub, ghosting his fingers over her forehead and then the bridge of her nose, fluttering in a way that treasures her and causes her grief all at once. “Just one job, Euphie. That’s all I’m going to ask of him. And then it’s done, and you won’t have to be worried about the Boogeyman.” The pads of his fingers dip into the hot water and then skim along the slope of her collarbone, raising goosebumps on her skin. “And John Wick, whose lifelong peace you are very concerned about, can go back to his dog and his car.”

Euphemia thinks, it’s never just that, with you, because she knows Santino—she knows he’s hungry, has always been hungry, a boy magicked into a man’s skin all hurt and needing and starved, unable to inhibit himself properly. No self-preservation telling him when to stop, never telling him when enough is enough. Not really.

I see you, though, she thought, her gaze flickering over Santino’s face to trace the handsome lines of his expression. She would have never agreed to marry a man before she saw him without his face off; without knowing the monster underneath.

But while she knows this, and she sees Santino D’Antonio for what he really is, she is an idiot and a fool and loves a man sick with the magic of his own perceived destiny, a destiny he believes he is owed, so she says softly, “Promise me, Santi.”

“On my life,” Santino replies with that boyish charm she knows so well. He speaks as though he is not going to leave her in the morning to visit Baba Yaga, as though she doesn’t fear he won’t ever come back. “Now give me a kiss, princesa.”

“I mean it, Santino—”

“I do, too.” He cocks his head to the side. “I won’t ask twice.”

Euphemia acquiesces; not because she fears what he’ll do if he does feel he has to ask twice—because he does hate that—but because as much as she says she would be happy to have nothing again, she is content to bask in the something that she has now, while she has it.

She kisses the corner of his mouth. He slides his damp fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and says, “Do you love me?”

“Of course.” Her voice feels rough with an emotion she doesn’t want any of. “Of course, Santi, that’s why I—”

“All I need is a yes or no, my little fox, not an essay.”

Her eyes narrow. She turns her face from him; he shifts his position at the end she’s leaned against, dragging his hands along her shoulders to ease the tension in her muscles. Her body reacts instinctively to him. She is a long cry from the girl scamming rich men out of their wallets and time, but there are some things she is still weak to; touch, the acknowledgment that she has a body, that she is real, to be reassured that she is alive.

Santino is so very good at that. He leans over the end of the tub and kisses her cheek, fingers working into the knots of her shoulders.

I am so afraid, she thinks, her eyelashes fluttering shut. I am so afraid that I will never see old age on you.

“Tesora.” His voice is a lull. Pulling her back in, pushing her back under, reminding her that to relinquish herself to someone is a luxury she does not want to go without anymore. To let someone else take control, to not have to worry about making decisions all the time; this is something that she always wants.

“Yes,” Euphie says, “of course I love you, Santi.”

She can feel his smile against her cheek.

“Good girl.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tell me your favorite words.”

It’s both early and late; the clock’s cool blue numbers are keeping her awake; Santi’s hand slides along the curve of her hip admiringly above the silk of her nightdress, and his nose brushes the bump at the base of her neck. Euphemia shifts. When she does, the edge of her engagement ring catches on the silky pillowcase, but she doesn’t care—it will always do that, because Santi won’t pick another and Euphie won’t ask him to.

Goosebumps prickle along her skin with the air conditioning, cranked as high as she likes, whispers across it when her shoulder slides out from underneath the comforter. She rolls over to look at him. It’s unsurprising that he’s still awake, and he doesn’t look surprised to see she’s awake, either.

“My favorite words?” she prompts. Santino brings his hand to her face, his thumb dragging absently along her lower lip.

“Si,” he replies. “You are always reading. You can speak a few languages. You must have favorite words, no?”

His request does bring a smile to her face, tired as it is. They may have spent the rest of their waking evening wandering around each other like wounded dogs, wary and licking their wounds, but they are here now, together, in their bed.

Euphie says, “It is late, Santi.”

“And I cannot sleep.” He brushes his nose along her jawline. “But perhaps the soothing voice of my one greatest love will lull me.”

She laughs. Her hand finds his, their fingers interlacing, woven together. He pulls back from her and kisses the engagement ring, but he is waiting. He means it.

“Tendresse,” Euphemia says, the word rolling soft out of her mouth from misuse. Santino quirks a brow expectantly and kisses the pulse point of her wrist. “Tenderness.”

He nods sagely. Against the soft skin of the inside of her wrist, he murmurs, “You are a most tender creature, Euphemia D’Antonio.”

Her fingers slide out of his, running along the slope of his cheekbones and then the bridge of his nose. “That is Euphemia Volpe. If you’ll recall, we’re yet to be married.”

Santino leans in, captures her fingertips playfully with his teeth, and then kisses her palm with a warm, rich chuckle that sends pleasant heat spiraling down her spine. “You will never forget that I was fool enough to say that to you, will you?” he asks. “Tell me another.”

His eyes are just as warm as his voice, and twice as earnest. In these moments, Santino is the most charming; boyish and quick-witted, unburdened by the elements of the world, by his own desires. He thinks of nothing except them. Euphemia feels like she’s in her own little world with him, in their bedroom at three in the morning, while the air conditioner whirrs and ticks and he asks her something so unimportant, like what her favorite words are.

And then, Santino leans in and kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, and the underside of her jaw to prompt her.

“Amore,” she murmurs, feeling like the breath has been sucked out of her lungs by his longing. His tenderness.

“Oh,” Santino says, against her temple, “I know that one.”

When his stubble tickles her neck, she squirms, shifting away from him so hat she can take a breath; but he chases her, leans in and captures her in his arms so that he can nose the hair by her ear and kiss there.

“Euphie, my gorgeous girl,” he says in the way that wrenches her heart; drenched and drowned in adoration. “Perfetto e tutto mio.”

Santino wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, his fingers tracing constellations on her back where the night dress slips away from her shoulder blades. Sweet Santi, covetous Santi; she is his greatest art piece, his favorite collector’s item, and in these moments she has never felt more treasured. There is something equal parts safe and selfish in wanting someone to treasure you.

“Say it for me, Euphie. You know I love when you do.”

She buries her face into his neck. Her eyes burn. He will go to Baba Yaga tomorrow, and she will have to pretend not to know, or it will wreck her. Euphie considers ways to keep him in bed in the morning; delay him, make him forget about John Wick and this glory that he is chasing forever.

“Sono tuo,” she murmurs. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes If he feels them against his skin, Santino makes no indication than to card his fingers through her hair. “Always, Santi.”

Always, always, always yours.