alcapzr

[alcapzr]

this is gonna sound stupid if i’m wrong- but i’m pretty sure braeden golfs. could you do a fluff where he takes reader on a date golfing/ or mini golf and he teaches her

please and thank u

𝑯𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝑰𝒏 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑨𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝑰𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒚𝒆 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Golf date, Kinda silly tenderness, Braeden teaching the reader, Kind of simple humor,The Reader accidentally hitting Braeden, Lol I don't know what to put But it's REALLY fluffy and silly

You're lying on the couch, a blanket pulled up to your nose, watching videos of rescued puppies crying, holding a cup of half-cold coffee. Your face is bare of makeup, your hair is a lazy knot, and your overall mood says, "Don't move me from here, asshole."

And then he arrives. With that cheeky smile that looks like he's planning something. With that ridiculous little hat he insists on wearing every time it's "fitness day."

And with a twinkle in his eye that you should have recognized as dangerous by now. "Baby..." he drawls from the doorway, his voice trailing off, that soft tone as if he's about to ask you to lend him a kidney. "The weather's perfect today... and I thought we could go golfing."

You look at him with a look of, "I barely survived the week, Braeden." You take a sip of your coffee, still holding your blanket. "Golf?"

"Golf."

"With sticks?"

"Yeah, sticks and balls and white things that fly."

"Oh my God... you're so fucking boring, Brae."

He laughs, walks over to the couch, and sits on the edge, leaning down to kiss your forehead like you're a terminally ill patient.

"But it's not golf, golf. It's... golf with you," he says with the most cursed face he's made today.

You squint at him. You know exactly what he's playing. His favorite game: convincing you with affection and lips.

"What if I tell you I don't want to lift a single finger today?"

"I'll tell you not to worry, I'll dress you."

"What if I tell you I have better things to do, like... stay up watching videos of kittens dressed as dragons?"

"Then I'll tell you golf has dragons too. Lie, it doesn't. But it does... Has me."

And you see him. You see him with that stupidly charming little face, with the stubble you love rubbing your nose against, with the oversized sweater you probably stole from him and that he's now stealing back from you.

And the worst part: that high-pitched little voice he makes when he says "come on." "Come on, my love... come on!" he begs, bringing his mouth closer to yours as if that would help you decide.

"Braeden…"

"I'll buy you ANYTHING You want later."

"Braeden."

"LITERALY ANYTHING".

"That's not a game."

"And if you make a hole-in-one, I'll buy you stuffed animals."

"I'm not interested in making holes, I'm interested in your mouth."

And he laughs, because he knows you're already about to fall. He lets out a triumphant sigh and throws himself on top of you, blanket and all, and begins his real attack: Kisses. First one on your forehead. Then one on your cheek. Then on your jaw. Then on your neck,

that exact spot where you moan without meaning to. And then… the slow ones, the ones that make you drop your phone on the floor without realizing it.

"Do you still want to not go?" he asks you softly, his lips brushing against yours.

"You are the most manipulative human being in the universe."

"And you are the most beautiful in the entire world."

"What the hell does that have to do with it?"

"Everything. Because I don't want to go golfing. I want to go with you. That changes everything, doesn't it?"

You sigh. Deeply. And you kiss him. Just to shut him up. But he takes that as a "yes."

And before you can take it back, he's already pulling down the covers, pulling you off the couch, and excitedly saying, "You have some pink shorts that will fit you perfectly! You're going to be the sexiest girl on the golf course!"

And you, giggling, go with the flow. Because if there's one thing Braeden has, it's that he knows how to turn anything boring into an excuse to make you smile.

And that's why, even if you don't understand the point of golf, you go with him. Because you're not going to play golf. You're going on a date. With the only man who knows how to win you over with kisses.

You don't know when you said yes. Maybe it was when he kissed your neck. Maybe it was when he said "my love" in that soft tone he always used to ask for sexual favors or stupid plans.

Either way, you're there. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring traumatized at the golf outfit Braeden picked out for you.

"I'm not going out like that!" you shout from the bathroom.

"Yes, you are! You look beautiful, woman, do the fucking sun justice."

Pastel pink shorts. White polo shirt tucked in. Cap the same color as the shorts. And sneakers so new they still smell like a box. You look like a golfer... from TikTok. Soft girl aesthetic playing golf with daddy issues, basically a Braeden fantasy come true.

You shuffle out of the bathroom. And Braeden, who's tying his shoelaces in the hallway, sees you... and his jaw drops.

Literally. His expression goes from "oh my girlfriend's so funny" to "I want to get married right now in this hallway."

"No way..."

"What?"

"You look beautiful, dude! You can't possibly be dating me dressed like that, I feel like an NPC!"

You cross your arms. "We look like influencers who are going to take photos with the club and then leave without sinking a ball."

"So what's wrong? That's what we are!"

He approaches quickly, with the same excitement as when he finds a rare vinyl, and takes you by the waist. He gives you a resounding kiss on the cheek and then on the nose.

"You look like you're about to film a perfume commercial with millionaire golfers in Monaco."

"I mean, not at all functional."

"No, not at all. But I don't give a fuck because you look beautiful and besides, I'll carry you if you get tired."

"What if I sweat?"

"Better. That way you smell like you."

"What if I slip and die?"

"I record the video and upload it with Lana Del Rey audio."

You laugh. You don't even know why you're not mad anymore about leaving your chair and your coffee. He has that effect: he makes any absurd scenario feel like the exact place you should be.

"Are you ready, sexy golfer?"

"I don't know how to play, Brae."

"Don't worry, I'll teach you."

"I'm going to look stupid."

"Yes. But a pretty stupid one."

"Shut up."

"I can't. You look so pretty. Can I give you another kiss, or have you had enough?"

He gives it to you before you can answer. And it's not a quick one, no. It's one of those slow, gentle ones, as if instead of kissing you, he's calming you down. And when he pulls away, he whispers in your ear:

"We're not going to play golf today. We're going to have one of those dates you'll remember when you're 60 and your knees are going to buckle."

The golf course is more beautiful than you thought. Greenery everywhere, tall trees, a breeze that ruffles the hairs on your neck, and that gentle sun that doesn't burn, only warms, as if the universe wants to see you happy that day.

Braeden gets out of the golf cart with a childlike excitement. he has the clubs on hid back as if he were carrying a guitar and a smile from ear to ear as if the world belonged to him.

"Ready to conquer the green, my gorgeous version of Tiger Woods?"

"I have no idea what you're saying."

"You're going to sink a ball and feel powerful. Like Beyoncé, but with a club in her hand."

You take out your sunglasses as if to protect yourself from her level of enthusiasm. And when she passes you a golf club very carefully, as if it were a sacred relic, you look at it as if it were an alien instrument.

"How do you hold this? Like this, like a knife or like a microphone?"

"No, no, no, baby... not like that."

Braeden chuckles and stands behind you. He moves so close you can feel his chest brushing against your back, and immediately your nerves melt a little.

He gently takes your wrists, positioning your hands precisely but with unabashed affection. "Look, this is how this hand goes..." He places your right hand on the shaft, his fingers on top of yours. "And this other one... here."

"Does this feel sexy, or is it just me?"

"Totally sexy. We're playing erotic golf now."

You burst out laughing. But you don't move. Because his arms are still around you, his chin is almost touching your shoulder, and his low voice makes you shake more than the club itself.

"Now you stand up straight. Not quite. A little less. Like this."

"Like this?"

"Yes, but relax your knees."

"My love, I feel like I'm in a self-defense position."

"Well, if someone tries to rob you, I'll kill them with this stick."

You laugh again, but softer this time, because you're distracted by the warmth of his hands on yours. And then he whispers, right next to your ear:

"There. Now you're going to hit the ball... but with love, okay?"

"What kind of instruction is that?"

"The best of all, because I'm giving it to you, your handsome boyfriend and also your sexy coach"

You take a breath. You hit. The ball goes straight... to the left. It rolls slowly and crashes into a small tree.

"Wooooow! That ball went to its death like it knew you were new!"

"See why I didn't want to come?"

"No, no, no. That was beautiful. You did amazing."

"Braeden, you literally made the ball roll out of the hole.

"Yes, but YOU did it And that makes it perfect. ."

He looks at you with a smile as proud as if you'd just won an Olympic medal. And then he does what he always does when he sees your mouth pucker up: he kisses you. A gentle one, with his hands still on yours, his nose brushing yours, as if the world were that ball that went to hell and nothing mattered.

"You'll get better, I swear. But in the meantime... I can spend the whole day show you."

"Just golf or other things too?"

"Whatever you want, but first: a hole in one, my love."

You've been on the course for thirty minutes. And you've potted exactly zero balls. But Braeden isn't giving up. He's in a stubborn boyfriend mood with the patience of an angel and the face of a sinner, and you... you're sweating a little and laughing a lot.

"Okay, new strategy," he says as he stands in front of you, the club resting on his shoulder like a model from a golf catalog. "Let's have a competition."

"Competition?"

"Yeah. If I pot the ball first, you kiss me."

"And if I pot first?"

"I'll kiss you."

"Braeden... that sounds like losing on purpose."

"Never! I'm competitive. But I'm also romantic." He crosses his arms and makes a defiant face that makes you laugh. You adjust your cap, take a sip of your water, and raise the stick as if you were about to sign a contract with Satan.

"Okay. But if I make three in a row, you buy me a bag of chips, a popsicle, and a Your new Beige sweater .

"Deal. But if I make three in a row, you let me kiss your thighs later."

"Braeden!"

"What? Rules are rules."

"You're using golf as an excuse to grope."

"I use anything as an excuse to grope, honey."

You both laugh.

And you start. First shot: the ball goes sideways again. First Braeden's shot: almost in.

Second shot: you get a little closer. Second Braeden's shot: it goes straight in.

"HA!" he shouts as if he'd just won the Super Bowl. "Your turn to kiss me."

You walk over casually, put your hands on his face… and give him a little baby peck.

"What's that?" he protests.

"It's a kiss."

"No, no, no. Let's see... watch how it's done."

And he kisses you. With tongue, with desire, with his hand on your waist. Until you completely forget about the golf club.

"Now I feel rewarded," he whispers near your ear.

"You're not playing fair."

"Do you feel used?"

"I feel hot and confused."

"Perfect. You're learning fast."

You continue. And in a moment... you sink one. YOU SMASH ONE.

And Braeden makes a scene like you just won Wimbledon. "You sank one, my love! My baby golfer!"

He runs over and picks you up. Literally. He lifts you like you weigh two grams. And he starts spinning with you in his arms, while you squeal and laugh with your eyes closed.

"What the hell! You're going to make me dizzy, Braeden!"

"I don't care, you sank one! And you made it look so sexy!"

"Shut up and put me down!"

"Only if you give me a kiss like mine."

You give him one. And you don't let go. Because, why lie, it feels so good to be in his arms.

"I think my strategy is to let you win just to see you happy," he says, softly.

"You're a cheater."

"Yes. But I'm your cheater."

"Oh my God, shut up, I'm going to end up proposing to you right here."

"Will you accept if I propose with a golf ball instead of a ring?"

You laugh. But Braeden looks at you with that little face that mixes mockery and pure love. And for a second, you think so. That you could marry that man who makes losing at golf feel like winning at life.

You've been on the course for almost two hours. You've stopped pretending you're learning. And Braeden has stopped pretending he cares.

Because, in the end, neither of you are there for the golf. You're there for each other. And it shows.

Your shots are getting crooked, but he's clapping like you've just won an international tournament. He's already sweaty, disheveled, his shirt sticking a little to his chest, and you're flushed, your eyeliner smudged, and you have a smile that hasn't faded since you arrived.

"Do you want to keep going, or should we rest?" he asks in a low voice.

"Shall we rest. My body wasn't made for sports."

"But it was made to make me happy."

"Do you listen to yourself when you talk?"

"Yes. And that's why I fall more in love with myself every day."

You both burst out laughing as he takes your hand and leads you to the edge of a small hill in the field, right where there's a small tree that provides some shade. And then, the bastard surprises you.

Because the cheeky guy pulls a blanket-like towel out of his backpack and... a picnic.

Literally. He pulls out a small box with sandwiches, chips, a thermos of tea because he knows you, and two cans of juice with straws.

"Did you plan all this?" you ask, surprised.

"Do you think I was going to get you off your couch just to play golf? No, babe. This is a date."

"Braeden..."

"Shhh. If you cry, I'll pretend I'm not looking so I don't make fun of you."

You sit with him on the blanket. You eat chips while you unlace your sneakers to stretch your toes. And he lies back, one hand on his stomach and the other searching for yours until he finds it.

Silence. Delicious. Comfortable. The kind that doesn't cause embarrassment, that doesn't ask to be filled with words because everything has already been said with a look.

"I like this, you know?" he says out of nowhere.

"What? My Barbie golfer outfit?"

"No, but that's fine too." "So?"

"This. The day. The sun. You. Me."

"Are you being cheesy, Lemasters?"

"A lot. Because I really want to keep having days like this with you even though we're wrinkled and gray."

You turn to look at him. He's still staring at the sky, but his hand squeezes yours a little tighter.

"I imagine this, old folks, you making fun of my back, me pretending I can still fuck you like I used to..."

"Braeden!"

"It's the truth, love. Or what? Don't you want to grow up with me?"

You fall silent. Not because you don't want to answer, but because you suddenly feel a lump in your throat from how good it makes you feel. You look at him with tender eyes. He turns around, and his face changes too. He's no longer joking. Now he's just in love. He caresses your cheek with the backs of his fingers and smiles.

"Shall I tell you something, love?"

"What?"

"Of all the versions of you I've known... this is my favorite."

"Which version?" "The one with her hair disheveled, sitting on the grass, eating chips, without makeup, laughing like a little girl."

You kiss him. Slowly, softly, with that mix of "I love you" and "I'm listening" without having to say it.

And just when you thought the moment was perfect, he whispers to you: "And you don't even know what I have in store for the end."

"More surprises?"

"Always, love. Always."

The sun is already setting. The afternoon turns orange and soft like freshly baked bread, and Braeden is adamant that he wants to make the most of every minute with you there.

"One more round, my love. I swear, the last one."

"Brae, the sun is almost setting."

"That's exactly why. The course looks prettier this way, you see?"

"You're not fighting anymore."

"Because, yes, golf is a pain, but you love it too much to say no to it when its eyes light up like that."

So you get up from the picnic, pack everything, and head back to the green. He walks ahead of you, walking backwards while he looks at you and continues to whistle love like he's your number one fan.

"Better give me a cheer. "My girlfriend is the best even though her swing sounds like she's throwing a broom!"

"You're going too far."

"But I love you." He hands you the golf cub and positions himself behind you, like in the movies, grabbing your waist to accommodate you and whispering in your ear:

"You have to let your body go. Let it flow. Feel the cub."

"I'm going to hit you where the sun doesn't shine, Braeden."

"That's why I love you. You swing. You miss."

"Again. But now imagine hitting someone you don't like."

"Like you?"

No, someone real. Like... the one who stole your coffee the other day."

"Oh yeah, that son of a bitch."

You take flight with more courage. You close your eyes. You launch yourself with faith.

AND WHAM. You miss the ball. You hit Braeden. In the face. Right. In the cheekbone. Near the eye.

IN THE EYE!

"DAMN!" he yells, putting his hand to his face and falling to his knees."

NOOOO! NO NO NO NO NO! I LEFT YOU FUCKING ONE-EYED! "

"FUCK!"

I FUCKED UP YOUR EYE! YOU WON'T SEE ANYMORE! I'M GOING TO JAIL FOR DOMESTIC VIOLENCE!"

"I WON'T BE ABLE TO READ ANY MORE FINE PRINT!"

You panic, literally panic, you kneel in front of him, you take your hand away from his face to see the damage… And yes. His eye is red. His cheekbone is already turning purple. But it's not bleeding. It's not open. Just… swollen.

"You're going to turn black as a raccoon, for fuck's sake!"

"You're going to have to do my makeup every day so I don't get kicked out of the band!"

"Does it hurt? Are you dizzy? Are you seeing double? Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

Braeden looks at you. Blinks. And bursts out laughing. "Princess… you literally screwed me with love."

"HOW ARE YOU LAUGHING?!"

"Because no one else could have blinded me and still looked beautiful afterward!"

He hugs you with his free arm, and you just let yourself fall into his neck, half laughing, half crying.

"Forgive me, Braeden..."

"Don't ever hit me so hard if you're not going to kiss me afterward."And you, obviously, kiss him all over. You caress his little face, his purple cheekbone, and promise to bring him ice all week. Night falls as you cuddle him like a baby, and he just says to you:

"There's no sport more dangerous than falling in love with you."

You're back home now. You're carrying your backpack over your shoulder, an ice pack in one hand, and your heart in the other because you still feel like you ruined your boyfriend's pretty face.

Braeden is walking behind you, his eye half-closed and the idiotic grin of someone who's clearly in love and doesn't care that he's half-blind

"Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?"

"I'm sure all I need..."

"What?"

"...is a beer and your boobies as a pillow."

You burst out laughing and throw the living room pillow at him.

"Stupid."

He slumps down on the couch as if he'd survived a war, with a theatrical sigh. You sit down next to him, crossing your legs, and he rests his head on your thigh, his arm stretched out in a "ask this martyr anything you want" sort of way.

You gently place the ice pack on his cheek, and he lets out a dramatic groan. "Oh, your hand is so nice. Now you can rub my cock too."

"You're more of a clown than hurt, Braeden."

"It's just that when you almost lose an eye, you realize how short life is..."

He stares at you from below, grinning like an idiot, and you run your fingers through his hair with pure tenderness.

"Honestly, thanks for today."

"For making you blind?"

"No... for putting up with a sport you hate. For going even though you made fun of it every five minutes. For laughing with me, not at me. For making me feel like any place is beautiful if you're there."

"Oh, shut up." "Why?"

"Because you're going to get all cheesy on me and then I'll forget I almost killed you."

You both laugh like idiots. And he closes his eyes, half to relax and half because the other can't even open them anymore, and you stare at him with that stupid love that feels like a soft laugh.

You give him a kiss on the forehead. "I'll pick the next date."

"What if I want to golf again?"

"Then I'll break your other eye." Braeden laughs, hugs you by the waist, and murmurs against your belly:

"I'm already blinded by love anyway."

And you laugh, you laugh like an idiot, as if nothing matters to you but having him there, half-bruised but completely yours. And for the first time, golf leaves your heart feeling full.

[alcapzr]

craving braeden fluff rn

PLEASE AND THANK YOUUU

𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑴𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒐𝒏 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Talking stage,Braeden arriving out of nowhere to the Reader's building, Cole and Braeden cameo as accomplices, improvised serenade, Comical Fluff, R.E.M reference, Relationship proposal

You'd read that "don't fall in love right in the middle of the talking stage" thing on Twitter a thousand times, but you still fell for it like an idiot. As if you hadn't spent weeks glued to Braeden's 💛 writing... text on your phone while you were removing your mascara with micellar water.

As if you didn't imagine him every day playing the guitar with that Golden Retriever grin he had in every badly taken selfie he posted to his stories.

And the worst part was, they weren't even selfies to brag about. The guy looked like he just wanted to share how beautiful the sky looked, or the sandwich he'd just eaten. Not an ounce of ego. Pure idiot charm. Pure "I'd love to see you try this latte I accidentally ordered but it turned out to be delicious" vibe.

You'd been talking for like... three weeks? Four, if you counted from the time you bumped into him by chance outside a show, when he asked if you were lost or if you'd also stepped outside for air because the opening band was "kind of shitty." That was the exact phrase: "kind of shitty." And you, idiot, laughed like it had been the best joke of the century.

From then on, it was all voice notes, cute stickers, endless video calls, and a collaborative playlist that already had more love songs than any Taylor Swift compilation.

And yet, neither of them said anything out loud. The usual: "what are you doing?" "FaceTime on or are you already asleep?" "What do you think about this song?" "Is this one for you?"

No kisses, no official dates, no casual touches. Just tension. So much, delicious, absurd tension. And you were delighted.

There you were, sitting on the couch in your apartment in shorts and a hoodie, legs crossed, cup of tea in hand, and your phone pressed to your face as you reviewed for the fifth time the last voice note Braeden had sent you. The one where he said he'd dreamed about you but couldn't remember anything, just that "it was nice." God. You smiled like an idiot. Again. Like always since he arrived.

The playlist you had together played softly on your Bluetooth speaker, setting the mood for the night like an indie film. Your salt lamp softly illuminated the living room. Outside, the usual L.A. sounds could be heard: a distant car, a dog barking, someone yelling in the distance, and then… something else.

Voices? Music?

You frowned, but didn't stop. It was probably just another neighbor with the brilliant idea of breaking out the guitar at 10:00 p.m.

Nothing new. You settled into the couch, hugging the largest pillow, grinning like an idiot when you saw Braeden had just liked one of your old selfies. The one from months ago where you were wearing braids and no filter. Damn.

You didn't notice a thing. Not the small crowd starting to form on the street below. Not the small group of people starting to pull out cell phones. Not the guy running with a giant speaker on his shoulder. Not the parked car with its lights flashing, loaded with what looked like... instruments?

You were just there, in the center of your heavenly crush, convinced that Braeden Lemasters was the cutest human being on the planet. And you were probably right. But you had no idea what was going on under your balcony.

“Dude, we've literally played Madison Square Garden and you’re hyperventilating from standing under a window,” Cole blurted out, dragging the giant speaker across the sidewalk with an “I’m-not-young-for-this-anymore” look on his face.

Braeden didn’t even hear him. Or, well, he did, but he couldn’t process it because he was too busy debating whether to sing “Are You Bored Yet?”, or original song he’d written that afternoon with your name in all caps, or just improvise something like “Little baby, be my girlfriend pls” on acoustic guitar and a cracked voice.

“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, holding his guitar like it was a ticking time bomb. He turned to Dylan.

“Are you sure this is the street?” Dylan frowned, looking around like he was in private detective mode. “I don’t know, dude, you said you brought it once before. Don’t you recognize that crooked tree?” He pointed at something that was clearly not a tree but a lamppost with vines on it.

Braeden ran his hands through his hair and snorted. "Yeah, I did bring her. Once... but L.A. looks the same at this hour. All the streets are beige, all the houses have weird plants, and the same damn old bike outside. How do you expect me to remember?"

"Because you're supposed to be in love, idiot," Cole smirked.

Braeden gave him a "not the time, bro" look, but he was right. In his head, you were his favorite song, his comfort playlist, his mental breakfast. But apparently, the only thing his brain could clearly remember was the mole on your collarbone, not your fucking apartment address.

So yeah: it took them three hours to get here. Between Braeden saying, "It's this way, I swear," and then, "I think it was after that cactus store," and then, "Okay, no, that was another time," the journey turned into a Legend of Zelda: Serenade Edition-level quest.

"Dylan, tell me you recognize something now. For God's sake."

"No, but this house smells like panettone. That's a good sign, right?"

In the end, they recognized the building only because Cole said, "Hey, it's that window with the moon-shaped lights hanging from it, right? She always posts them in her stories."

"That one! That's that one! Oh shit, come on, I'm going to faint!" Braeden literally started doing squats on the stool while breathing deeply.

His heart was pounding, his guitar was half out of tune around his neck, and his stomach was in knots.

But the idiot had a goofy grin on his face because he could already imagine you coming out with a "what the hell is going on?" look on your face, and there he was, like the most golden retriever in the universe, asking you: "Do you want to be my girlfriend?" Like that. Under your balcony. In a hoodie, Vans, and with your heart in your throat.

Cole untangled the wires. Dylan plugged in the speaker. And Braeden... Braeden kept repeating the same phrase over and over again in his head. “May my voice not break. May my voice not break. May my voice not break.”

"Okay, okay, okay," Braeden said as he adjusted his guitar, more nervous than when he first played on Jimmy Kimmel. "I rehearsed this one like five times before I left the house." He took a deep breath, stood under your balcony, cleared his throat, and said very quietly:

"Hey Stephen, I know looks can be deceiving..."

"BRO." Dylan cut him off abruptly, as if he'd just blasphemed. Braeden froze, his fingers hovering over the strings and his eyes wide open.

"What? What did I do?"

"What do you mean, what did you do? First of all you are singing a song dedicated to a guy named Stephen and secondly You're going to propose singing Taylor Swift! TAYLOR SWIFT!"

Dylan was two seconds away from slapping the guitar away from him.

Cole, who was finishing adjusting the speaker cable, laughed softly and muttered: "Dude... no way. You could have asked us to play "Lover" with you too, and we could have thrown rose petals from the ceiling at her".

"Taylor is romantic, warm, relatable..." Braeden defended with a pout.

“Taylor’s YOUR crush!” Dylan shouted, half-joking, half-paniced. “You can’t propose to another girl with a song by the woman you’ve dreamed of marrying since you were 15!”

Braeden put down his guitar slowly. “Shit. You’re right. This sounds bad now. Really bad. Really... suspicious.”

“Okay, okay,” Cole chimed in. “Why don’t you sing one of ours? Like... “Pleaser.” You know it, it’s ours. And it’s catchy. And it even has a song title to dedicate.”

“Pleaser?” Braeden looked at him as if he’d proposed a Despacito cover. “Dude, that sounds self-absorbed. ‘Hey baby, wanna be my girlfriend? Here’s my own song about how desirable I am.”

Dylan cackled. “Yeah, no kidding. And then you close with “Scrawny” as an encore. Pfff.”

"you're sabotaging the most important moment of my emotional life!" Braeden complained, as he looked up again, searching for the window of your moonlight.

While they argued as if it were a festival setlist meeting, you sat in your living room, oblivious to the musical drama unfolding right beneath your feet. But that's when you were starting to have doubts.

Because it wasn't just music. Now you heard... voices. Very masculine voices. And wires dragging. And muffled laughter. And the clear sound of a guitar being tuned again. You frowned, leaning slightly out of the chair, though not moving completely. "What the fuck?" you muttered. "Could it be another one of those neighbors with their midlife crisis and a new guitar?"

It wouldn't be unusual. A week ago, one of them had played "Wonderwall" on loop like his life depended on it. You shrugged, picked up your cup of tea, and settled back in. Unaware that, downstairs, the man who had you grinning like an idiot every day was three seconds away ...

from yelling at Cole: "I KNOW WHICH ONE I'M GOING TO SING! BUT DON'T JUDGE ME!"

And then it rang. Quietly, at first. As if it had been plugged into a poorly calibrated speaker. But you recognized it instantly because that song had been on the playlist since week one. Because Braeden had dedicated it to you with a voice note saying: “I don't know why, but I feel like it describes you. Not in the sad mood, in the... obsessive mood, but beautiful.”

And there it was. “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M. Played on ukulele. At 10:27 p.m. In the middle of L.A. In a quiet voice.

So quiet it couldn't be heard clearly. You frowned. You stood up, setting your teacup aside, and walked to the window, pushing the curtains open with your fingertips.

And when you peeked your head out... BAM. A rock a small one, one of those that doesn't break anything but is still scary crashed into your balcony.

"What the fuck?" And then you saw him. Braeden. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, ukulele slung over his shoulder, his cheeks red as a tomato, sweating cold but with the most beautiful, nervous smile you'd ever seen.

Beside him, Dylan with an acoustic guitar stolen from who knows where and a face that said "I want to disappear." And Cole... with a tambourine. A DAMN TAMBOURINE. Moving it to the beat while he made soft choruses and added Christmas-style effects.

Braeden raised her voice, swallowing: “That's me in the corner... that’s me in the spotlight... losing my religion…”

And you, completely frozen, brought your hand to your mouth. Your heart skipped a beat. Your brain rebooted. “No way…” you muttered, looking down.

And since you didn't say anything, since you couldn't see yourself clearly from where they were, another small rock fell on the balcony.

This time it was thrown by Cole, who yelled: “DUDE, TELL HER TO GET OUT, WE'RE MAKING OURSELVES!”

Braeden shoved him with her shoulder, still playing. “I thought I heard you laughing… I thought I heard you singing…”

“BRAEDEN!” you shouted from above. “I CAN'T HEAR YOU, SING LOUDER!”

He looked up as if you'd just said yes to a marriage proposal. The smile. Oh, God. The huge smile that escaped him. And then he shouted from below, in a broken, excited, and loving voice: "OKAY! BUT DON'T MAKE FUN IF MY VOICE CRACKS A BIT!"

AND HE PUT HIS WHOLE SOUL INTO IT. The note broke. Dylan had to correct the rhythm. Cole started laughing as he made the tambourine sound as if they were at mass. And you were up there. Feeling like the protagonist of your own rom-com. With tears in your eyes. And a smile so big your face hurt.

Braeden Lemasters was singing Losing My Religion to you under your balcony. With two best friends as accomplices. And a whole heart hanging around your neck as if it were part of your outfit. And you just thought:

“Is this really happening?”

Braeden continued singing, his voice cracking and his heart in his hand, as he finished the last verse. Dylan lowered his guitar with a sigh. Cole made a dramatic roll on the tambourine and let it hang like a weapon of war.

"So what now?" Dylan asked, looking up at the third floor as if he still doubted you lived there. "Did you yell at her yet? Are you going to serenade her again or something?"

Braeden was silent for a second. And then as if an LED had just lit up his forehead he blurted out: "Carry me me!"

Cole and Dylan looked at him at the same time, with the same expression: "Have you lost your mind yet, asshole?"

"No," Dylan said.

"No way," Cole said.

Braeden pointed at your balcony with both hands, dramatic, as if that justified everything: "I have to go up! It's more romantic if I appear there from the front!!"

Dylan crossed his arms. "Bro, this isn't the "Wake Me Up When September Ends" video. Relax."

"It'll look better!"

"YOU'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT!"

And there you were. At the balcony door. Wearing an oversized hoodie, sleep shorts, and mismatched striped socks. Your hair a mess. Your eyes shining with excitement. And screaming like crazy from above:

"BRAE! DON'T KILL YOURSELF, I'LL OPEN THE DOOR FOR YOU, USE THE STAIRS!"

But no. NO. The cutest Golden Retriever in L.A. wanted to play Romeo. "Nooo! That has no emotional impact! This has to be memorable!"

Dylan threw his hands up to the sky: "Dude! You sang under his balcony with a ukulele! That's ALREADY memorable!"

Cole was already Googling: "How much does Braeden Lemasters weigh and how tall is the average balcony?"

Braeden ignored him. "Lift me up, Cole!" I just need them to reach me to the railing and I'll climb up!

"YOU CAN'T CLIMB UP! THI'S NOT A SCENE FROM TWILIGHT!"

And you up there. Looking at him like he was the cutest, stupidest, most in-love thing in the world. Because he was. You laughed. You giggled like a fool. With that giggle you only manage with him. And you yelled: "BRAE, I SWEAR, I'LL TAKE YOU DOWN THE STAIRS! YOU'RE NOT GOING TO KILL YOURSELF FOR ME, DUMMY!"

He stopped. He looked at you. And smiled. That smile. That fucking smile. "But I wanted to do something crazy for you."

And there you had it. Braeden Lemasters. Trying to climb onto your balcony with the emotional force of unrequited love and the logistics of a five-year-old. And as you ran down the stairs, your heart pounding and laughter stuck in your chest, all you thought was: "This guy is going to be my downfall... and my happy ending."

You ran down the stairs like they were on fire. Your robe flapping, your heart racing, and that lovelorn little laugh ready to burst forth because you already knew you were going to find something ridiculous. But this... this was modern art.

There they were. Cole carrying Dylan. Dylan carrying Braeden. Braeden screaming "DON'T LET ME GO!" as if they were about to launch him into space.

And there you were. Standing on the walker. Watching them. Dead with love. And with laughter. Because the logical thing would have been Cole carrying Braeden. Dylan carrying both of them.

But no. It was a sandwich of bad decisions, driven only by the desire to impress. "Take me higher, dude, higher! Almost there!" Braeden shouted, legs dangling, hair all messed up, a guitar hanging off his back like Link from Zelda.

Dylan was sweating like he was playing Scrawny at Coachella. "Shut up and don't move, you son of a bitch! You're going to break my neck!" Cole, below, like the foundation of an emotional Jenga tower: "Why am I carrying Dylan? WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?!"

And that was it. Right there. When you couldn't take it anymore and burst out laughing.

"What's the honor, Braeden Lemasters? Did you get bored of singing at festivals and now you're making a fool of yourself under other people's balconies?"

Silence. Chaos halted. Greek tragedy paused. Braeden watched you from his place suspended in midair.

Those huge eyes, those flushed cheeks, and that smile he only shows when you're around. And he said, in the most ridiculously beautiful voice in the world: "I made a fool of myself because I like you. A lot. A lot."

Dylan stumbled. Cole literally yelled.

You approached. Heart turned to jelly. Hands shaking, chest swollen with tenderness. "And did this declaration of love need to put your friends at risk of scoliosis or what?"

Braeden laughed. Yes. Because you deserve something silly, cheesy, and disproportionately unnecessary. Like me. Boom. Your face: red. Your body: shaking. Your soul: leaving your body to float above the scene and scream "MARRY HIM, BITCH."

And at that moment, Cole collapsed. Literally. He fell. And Braeden fell flat on his ass on the pavement. But even that didn't stop him from getting up, with a scraped knee, and walking toward you with a goofy little grin that could only mean one thing. He was head over heels in love. And so were you.

Braeden's hair was disheveled, his knee scraped, and his dignity half-dead between his attempted serenade and his human collapse.

But when he saw you he forgot his nerves, Cole's tambourine, and Dylan's guitar. It was you. Just you.

"So? What are you doing out here at eleven at night? Dressed like you're going to steal my heart or something?" you said, crossing your arms, biting your lip because yes, that lovesick idiot smile was already messing you up. Braeden laughed nervously.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He was speechless. And then, as if a button had been pressed in his chest, he said it. "I like you, Y/N. I really like you. I like you more than playing at the Madison, more than late-night sushi, more than recording a song and feeling like it's going to break. I like you enough to learn your address, get lost three times, and sing to you under your balcony even if they throw rocks at me."

You froze. Literally. Was that Braeden Lemasters? The same one who took a week to answer your "what are you doing?" and was now declaring his love like it was the end credits of a 2000s rom-com?

"Brae…"

"You don't have to say anything right now if you don't want to, okay? Just..."

And there it was. Again. With big eyes, red cheeks, and sweaty hands. The Golden Retriever from Los Angeles. Your Golden Retriever. "I just had to tell you. Because if I didn't today, my chest was going to explode. And you deserve to know that I think about you every day, every moment, that you've got me going around in my head like an eternal loop."

And you looked at him. And you smiled. And you took one more step down. And another. Until you were face to face.

Braeden swallowed. And you simply said: "You know what I deserve too? This."

And you kissed him. Slowly. Tenderly. With your fingers gripping his shirt and your soul saying thank you. Braeden held you like you were the most precious thing he'd ever held in his arms.

And at some point, Dylan yelled, "KISS AGAIN, TEEN MOVIE COUPLE!"

Cole took out his phone. He recorded everything. He uploaded the story with the caption: “Brae is finally no longer single 🫶🏼”

Braeden moved a few inches away from you. He stroked your hair. And with that lovestruck face, he said: “I want to have many nights like this with you. With chaos, music, and laughter. I want to be your official fool. Can I?”

And you just nodded. Because, honestly, how the hell were you going to say no to that beautiful heart and Serenade?

[alcapzr]

cole smut please please please 🤲

𝑰𝒏𝒌 𝑺𝒍𝒖𝒕 ꨄ︎ (Cole Preston X FemReader)

Content: Smut, Cole getting a new tattoo designed by the Reader, Oral male reciving, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Boob play, Soft fingering, Cole being Sligthly sub

You're in the living room, wearing short shorts and an old Velvet Underground t-shirt, legs crossed on the couch, pretending to watch a movie. Your fingers play with a nail while your mind is elsewhere. On him. Because today Cole went to get a tattoo.

He told you with that mischievous smile he uses when he's hiding something. "It's a surprise," he murmured before coming out wearing a black hoodie and giving you a kiss on the forehead as if that would calm the curiosity that's been killing you ever since.

You knew he was going to get something tattooed. You knew it was on his side. You knew he was excited. But he didn't let you see the design. And you, who can't stand to be in suspense, have spent all day imagining what the hell he could have inked on his skin.

A lightning bolt, a phrase, a symbol... something weird, artistic, random. It's Cole. It could be a spoon drawn in a baroque style.

The sound of keys in the door cuts through the air like a razor. Your back straightens. Your body goes on alert. The door opens slowly, and there he is. His white T-shirt, half-sweaty, barely lifted on the right side, revealing the dark bandage peeking out of his side his hair a little messy. He looks damn good.

"And that face?" he says, with a half-smile as he drops the keys into the bowl.

"You took a while," you reply, without moving from the couch. "And I'm going crazy. Show me."

Cole laughs as he heads toward the kitchen to pour himself some water. The bastard acts casual, as if he doesn't know you're devouring him with your eyes. As if he doesn't notice how your eyes are glued to the hem of his shirt, to that line of skin that begins to reveal itself with the slightest movement.

"Are you sure you want to see it now?" he asks, drinking. "It's still fresh."

"Cole. Show me the fucking tattoo. Now."

His eyebrow curls. He loves this game. He loves seeing you impatient. He knows you. He knows that when your voice takes on that firm tone, you're on the verge of exploding. And he knows that's exactly what you want.

He leans closer. He stands in front of you. And with a slow movement, he lifts your shirt on the right side. The bandage is still there, opaque, covering the ink already stuck to his skin. That warm skin. That skin where you know exactly how his abdomen curves, how his V-line tenses when he clenches his jaw. Your eyes stare at the bandage. He holds your gaze.

He swallows. "You take it off," he whispers.

Your breath catches slightly. Your hands lift, hesitating for a second, and then your fingers rest on the tape. You peel it back carefully. Slowly. As if you're about to discover a forbidden secret.

The fabric peels away with a soft, wet sound, and when you pull it back completely... Your world stops. Because there, etched in soft black ink, with fine lines and minute details, is your vase. Your vase. With orchids. The drawing you made months ago. A simple sketch in your notebook, with your favorite flowers your orchids stuck in a disproportionate, melancholic vase, as if it might tip over.

You showed it to him one day, in passing, without giving it any thought. You didn't even believe he'd liked it so much. And now it's there. On his skin. On his side. On his V-line.

"What... what is this...? Im not going to let You dress anymore," you say in a whisper, touching the edge of the design without actually touching it.

"It's yours," Cole says. "I wanted something of yours... to always wear. And your orchids... they're you."

Your throat closes. Your breathing becomes erratic. And then you realize two things at once:

1. That you're never going to let him dress again.

2. That you're going to ride him tonight until that ink burns into your skin too, from bumping into him so much.

You're on your knees. Not out of submission, not out of modesty. You're on your knees because that ink needs your tongue.

And Cole knows it. After seeing him, after your eyes filled with desire not tenderness, not gentle love, but a carnal, possessive hunger you pulled him by the shirt, your eyes shining. Your lips crashed onto his, kissing him with everything you had inside, without delicacy, without limits.

Your saliva ran down his chin. You bit his lip. You licked his neck. You threw him onto the couch, your chest heaving, your heart pumping so hard you could hear it.

"Are you... okay?" he asked between nervous laughs, leaning back, his hands half-raised. "Please Don't tear up my tattoo"

"Shut up," you murmured, climbing on top of him only to instantly climb off him, leaving a trail of wet kisses down his abdomen. "I'm going to worship you, Cole. As what you are. As my damn human canvas."

And now, you're on the floor. Knees digging into the carpet. Hair tousled, eyes black with lust, tongue out. And he's standing in front of you, bare-chested, T-shirt bunched around his collarbone, jeans unbuttoned, his tattoo exposed like a holy invitation. Your tongue darts out and runs over him.

Slowly. From the highest part of the tattoo one of the open orchids to the bottom edge, right where the vase begins to disappear between his hipbone and the curve of his jeans.

You lick it like candy, as if your mouth could absorb it, memorize it, melt it with your essence.

Cole gasps. He trembles. He laughs nervously. "Whenever I get a tattoo... you become some kind of..." he inhales sharply as you bite the bottom edge of the ink, "ink slut."

You look up, your tongue poking out between your lips, slimy, dirty. "And you always come back for more." You slowly pull down his jeans, and you see him arch in anticipation.

The fabric falls away. His boxers peek out. And he's already hard. Hard from seeing you, from feeling you, from knowing you're going to suck his soul dry.

Your hand enters first, inside the fabric, warm, determined. You grab his balls gently but deliberately, massaging them as you release him completely. Your saliva drips onto the floor. You don't care. You care about him. Only him. His smell. His sound. His moans.

Your tongue darts out again. Licks from base to tip. Slowly. Then quickly. Then slowly again. And then you take him all the way. All the way. Until your eyes fill with tears. Until you feel him crash into your throat and your hands grip his hips so he doesn't dare move. Because this is yours.

You make this. This is an altar. And you're praying with saliva. Cole gasps. He presses his fingers against the pillow. "Oh... fuck... fuck..."

And you release your mouth for a moment just to spit all over him. To spit slowly and watch your drool run from tip to base of his cock. Your fingers play with the mixture of saliva and skin. Your lips close again. Your eyes are fixed on him. You're looking at him while you worship him.

"You're... a fucking bitch..." he tries to say, but his voice cracks when you gently squeeze his balls and shove your cock deep inside him again. "...fucking hell, I'm not going to hold out..."

You just keep going. One hand on his balls. The other on his tattoo. Your mouth dripping. The art you made for him now blends with the way you're undoing it. Your vase. Your orchids. Your ink. And this is just beginning.

He's slumped against the back of the chair, his head thrown back, his lips red from moaning, his hair a mess, his fingers clenching the cushions as if trying to anchor himself to something.

But there's no anchor for him. Only you. Your mouth. Your tongue. Your drool filling his abdomen as you suck him hungrily, as if you wanted to rip his soul out through his throat.

"You're going to make me... shit... fuck, I'm going to cum," Cole pants, his voice shattered, all cracked. "I'm going to cum in your mouth..."

You don't stop. Your head moves rhythmically. Slowly. Fast. Rhythmically. Your tongue caresses him like music. As if you were going to write a song on his skin with your saliva.

One of your hands continues to knead his balls with devotion, playing with the weight, the sensitivity, while the other moves up his torso until it rests on the tattoo: your tattoo. Your orchids. Your vase. Your damn art. And you squeeze it gently. Right where the skin is still sensitive.

Cole moans loudly, that kind of moan that echoes throughout the room and leaves your legs wet just hearing it. "Fuckfuckfuck, don't stop, don't stop, please," he begs, squirming. "Oh, shit, baby, don't stop... I'm going to cum, I'm going to..."

And you look at him. You raise your eyes. Your lips wrapped around his cock. Your tears marking your cheeks. Your drool dripping down your cleavage. And your eyes. Those eyes of yours that say without speaking:

“Do it. Give me everything.” And he can't take it anymore. His hips buck. His body tenses.

And then you feel it. His whole hot load filling your mouth. One pulse. Two. Three. A fucking sea of cum straight into your throat, and you swallow without hesitation. You lick it even as it trembles.

His cock throbs inside you. Your tongue follows, sucks, cleans it. Cole moans loudly. His voice cracks.

"Oh, fuck, baby..." he gasps, one hand covering his face while his other goes straight to your hair. "You're such a mess... I can't take this anymore... you're a fucking bitch..."

You pull away barely, a thread of saliva still connecting you to him. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand and smile.

"Bitch?" you ask, your voice raspy, your eyes shining, your tongue darting out to catch the last drop of him that trickles down your lower lip. "No, Cole. I'm your private groupie. Your personal ink slut."

And he laughs. But it's that laugh of his, breathy, nervous, defeated. The exact sound of someone who's been destroyed... and has loved it.

"You're going to fucking kill me..." he says, breathing heavily.

"Not yet," you reply, climbing on top of him, sitting on his lap. "You still need to mark me."

He's panting. Sprawled on the couch as if he'd just run a marathon... but it's your mouth that left him like this. Your damn mouth.

And you, on top of him, straddling his lap, giving him no respite, with that bright, determined gaze, completely ruthless in your desire.

"Are you tired?" you whisper in his ear, brushing his lips with yours.

He nods weakly, smiling.

"I don't give a shit," you murmur, and slide your pelvis down his with purpose.

Cole moans softly, and you feel his cock, still sensitive, begin to revive beneath you, responding to your wetness, your heat, your fucking hunger.

Your movements are gentle at first, as if you want to reconnect him to the world. But you know you're not here for sweet nothings. You're here to tear his sanity apart.

Your hips move. A friction that leaves him tense. A rocking that steals his breath. His hands, trembling, rise to your hips. And then, lower.

He grabs your ass with both hands, hard, as if trying to anchor himself to you, to your body, to your hot pussy that's already rubbing against his cock. "Holy shit... baby..." he moans, "you're so wet..."

"For you," you reply, with a dirty kiss that leaves his lips dripping with drool. "For your tattoo. For the way you moaned into my mouth."

You rise a little. You take his cock in one hand. And slowly you slide it in, sliding it inside you, inch by inch, looking straight into his eyes as his lips part and his head falls back.

"FUCK," he screams, with a high-pitched moan. "You're so fucking tight!"

You just sit down completely, feeling him open you up, filling your entire insides, fitting you like it was designed to. Cole yells something incomprehensible and buries his face in your chest, panting, moaning loudly, desperately.

He starts worshipping your tits. He kisses them. He sucks them. He bites them gently. He leaves them entire wet with saliva while he moans like a damn, tailor-made soft-sub porn actor.

His hands don't let go of your ass. He kneads you. He squeezes you. He spreads your buttocks as if he could see all of you. As if he needed to memorize you with his hands.

And you, on top of him, riding him slowly but firmly. Rhythmic. Cruel. Perfect. Your tits bounce against his mouth.

"Nnngh... fuck... baby... baby..." Cole moans, half-stifled between your breasts. "You're gonna kill me... oh fuck... you're so... holy shit..."

"Shut up and hold it," you say through your teeth, and you sink deeper into him, circling your hips as you milk him from the inside. "You wanted to mark yourself with my art? Now hold on as I mark you from the inside out."

Your hands cup his face. You force him to look at you. And you ride. Again and again. Fast, wet, sticky. Moans fill the apartment.

You're both noisy, wet, out of your mind. Cole moans with each thrust. Louder and louder. More and more desperate. His skin is red. His abdomen trembles. His tattoo twitches. Your nails leave marks. Your legs burn.

The sound is sticky. Skin against skin. Your wetness hitting his pelvis. Your soaked legs. His cock pulsing inside you as you ride him hungrily, like you're searching for his soul inside your cunt.

"Fuckfuckfuck..." Cole pants, his voice shaking. "I feel you all over, every part of you... you're... shit..."

And without warning, his hand moves down. His fingers push through your wetness. Through your wet skin. Through your throbbing clit. And when he brushes against you, you feel your whole body arch forward.

"Ohhh, fuck, Cole..." you cry out, grabbing his shoulders as your rhythm breaks. "There, there, there...!"

"Here?" he whispers against your chest, his voice vibrating between your tits. "Do you like it here?" When I massage you like this, in circles... right while Im inside you?"

And he squeezes you. He rubs you. He caresses you with his fingers wet with your own desire while his cock remains inside you, hot, throbbing, thrusting gently, without stopping.

You're already a mess. Your moans turn into soft cries. You're loud. You're wet. You're close. Your head falls back. Your nipples hard, pressed against his face.

And Cole, his face buried between your tits, licking, biting gently, panting like a pleasure addict. "Fuck, baby..." he growls. "You're so... so fucking perfect. I'm going to... shit, I could die here..."

But you don't let him speak anymore. You cup his face. You pull his hair. "Look at me," you command, hoarse, agitated. "Look at me while I cum all over you."

And he obeys. His face emerges from your chest, glistening with saliva. His lips red. His eyes bright, almost tearful. His breath trembling as if he's on the verge of collapse. And you kiss him. Hard. With tongue. With saliva. With moans.

Your hips speed up. Your clit vibrates against his fingers. Your body no longer responds to anything but the pulse inside you. To the damn urge to come all over him, to leave him covered in your scream, your flow, your ecstasy.

"Don't stop, Cole... don't stop..." you beg against his mouth. "I'm going to come..."

And he looks at you, with that face of his somewhere between ruined and surrendered, and nods, lips parted, fingers faster, cock firmer, body more devoted. "Come for me..." he says, his voice pleading. "Cum on me... I need you like this..."

And you do. You scream his name. You come hard. Your whole body shakes. Your scream is sealed in his mouth as you cling to his back, his skin, his chest, as if you'll fall apart if he doesn't hold you tight.

Cole embraces you. Holds you. Lets you moan against him while you tremble and your whole body vibrates. Your orgasm is brutal. Your legs are still trembling. Your breathing is ragged. Your body hot, sweaty, marked by him. By his fingers. By his mouth. For his cock, still inside, hard, throbbing against your walls while you're completely soaked, wet, open, vulnerable.

You're clinging to him. Your hands buried in his hair. Your chest pressed against his. And he's panting. "Don't move," he says, his voice raspy. "Don't... don't go."

You weren't going to. Your pussy still squeezes him lovingly. As if your body also knows this isn't over. That something's missing. That ending. That sweet explosion. That release he deserves inside you.

Your hips move, soft, in circles. Your clit continues rubbing against his pelvis. And Cole moans. That moan of his. Plaintive. On the verge of tears. Soft. Desperate. His hands return to your ass. But this time, not to squeeze. But to hold you. Hold you. Beg you.

"Please... please..." he whispers against your neck. "Let me come inside... let me... please..." You lift his face. And you see him. Puppy eyes. Frowning brows. Parted lips. Pleading eyes. So fucking yours. So close to breaking. So ready to come inside, as if that means surrendering completely to you.

"Do it," you whisper. "Break inside." And he does. Your hips keep moving. His cock throbs.

And in a second, Cole comes with a moan so broken, so needy, so vulnerable, it grips your soul. "Fuuuuuuuck...oh fuck, fuckfuckfuck" he pants against your chest, trembling, filling you with every pulse, every spasm, every drop of his essence.

You hold him as he melts. You feel him fill you, hot, thick, deep. You feel his body surrender. How he gives you everything. Cole buries his face between your tits again. He kisses you. Gently. He licks you. His lips are wet, soft, worshipping your skin.

"Shit... you're... you're too much..." he says against you, his voice ruined. When he looks up, his eyes are glassy.

Those fucking puppy dog eyes. Looking at you like you own him. His goddess. His heaven. "I love you so much it's disgusting..." he whispers. You just smile, going down to kiss him. Feeling him still inside. Still throbbing. Still yours. And there's no better place for him.

[alcapzr]

Is it crazy that I might need at part 2 of listen to vixens?😭

If you have any free time and want to write please consider writing another part :)

- anon 🤍

𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒍𝒚𝒏 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚 ♡︎ (Dylan Minnette X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Established relationship,Sequel to "Listen to Vixens" But it also works independently,Mention of Guitar Romantic Search Adventure and Permanent Price, Cole and Braeden cameo, Wallowspalloza because I still can't get over it, Kinda nepo, Public kiss, Dylan bringing the Reader on stage, Soft pick me but in a fanfict way, Well My boyfriend's in a band...

A/N: I think this is my favorite one shot I've ever written lol.

You and Dylan met just three months ago, on a night that looked like something out of a fucking music video: you were in a bar in Los Angeles with your friends from Vixens, your band, giving it your all on stage with that sound halfway between the garage soul of Amy Winehouse and the nostalgic bedroom pop of Clairo.

The song you closed that night with, "Are You Bored Yet?", obviously had to be "Are You Bored Yet?" Because Dylan Minnette was in the house, killing the place so much that even Dylan, who had gone to get a beer after rehearsal, stood still, staring at you as if you'd fallen from a fucking comet straight into his heart.

And yes, he approached. And yes, he introduced himself. And yes, you smiled at him like you'd dreamed it before.

In a matter of weeks, you became a couple, like a fucking meteor falling to Earth: intense, brilliant, impossible to ignore. You've been officially together for two months, and people say it's fast, but you feel like this is something that's been coming for you from other lives.

The sex has been explosive, the movie dates, the late-night conversations so deep they seem like poetry, and not to mention the music: your band Vixens exploded in followers, listeners, and opportunities since people found out you were dating Dylan, because obviously the guy is a magnet for attention, and so are you.

You've already opened for Laufey, you've already shared the stage with Role Model as Sally, you've already sold out small venues all over L.A., and Vixens is starting to emerge as the breakout indie band of the year.

Amidst all the love and success, Dylan has also blossomed again: Cole and Braeden joke that it's the first time they've seen him so happy, so full of light, so motivated that he's even revived songs he hadn't sung in years, like Permanent Price and Guitar Romantic Search Adventure.

And now, in the present, you're backstage at Lollapalooza, about to see Dylan rock the stage with Wallows, while you're buzzing with excitement and pride, ready to be the most awesome supportive girlfriend on the planet.

Your heart beats like a rumbling bass, because you know that love, when it's real, can be felt from afar.

You're sitting on a stool backstage at Lollapalooza, holding your cold brew, your heart pounding as if you were the one about to go on stage.

Wallows is starting in half an hour, the atmosphere is charged with energy, but all you care about is what's in front of you: Dylan, standing there, looking at you like you're a work of art he wants to bring to the stage. He's dressed the way he likes: skinny jeans, a simple blue T-shirt, a chain hanging from his neck, and that indie kid look that only gets serious when he's talking about love or music.

And now he's talking about both. "Come with me on stage," he says for the fourth time, in that tone of voice that always melts your heart.

"Babe, we talked about that," you reply softly, running your hand down his arm, feeling his prominent veins. "I don't want them to start that whole 'Dylan's girlfriend only shines because he lights her up' thing again."

"It's not that, my love," he says, crouching down in front of you, his hands on your knees and his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm not asking the beautiful Vixens vocalist for a collaboration..."

He leans closer, until he's almost holding your breath. "...I'm asking the love of my life to come up with me. Because I want you there. Because this show is yours too."

Your throat burns from how tender he is. And that doesn't help him keep insisting with little kisses on your hands, your cheeks, your collarbone, as if he's trying to bribe your soul. His tone is sweet, but his need is real.

"The girls already told me they feel like the audience only sees me more because of you..." you whisper, uncertain, with that thorn in your side that hasn't gone away since the first concert where someone shouted "It's because of Dylan that they're so popular!"

"And you know that's a lie," Dylan responds immediately. "You were a star before I walked into that bar. I was just the first to notice."

BAM. He blurts it out as if he doesn't know that those kinds of phrases screw up your emotional stability. He kisses your forehead as if it hurts him that he can't convince you yet. You see it. His eyes shine. He's dying to see you up there, even if it's just holding his hand during the first chord.

"Oh, please, Dylan..." you start, but he throws another kiss at you, this time slow and deep, the kind that makes you want to sign any contract with his saliva.

From the couch across the dressing room, Cole laughs, holding a Red Bull. "Bro, you're going to come on stage covered in lipstick," he says, watching Dylan cling to you. Braeden raises his eyebrow, mockingly, as he puts on his jacket. "And if you convince him with another kiss, he might not even come out. He'll stay backstage making you babies."

"Idiots!" Dylan replies, still holding you, burying his face in your neck. You laugh, because he curls up as if he wants to live there, between your perfume and your skin. "Come on, please," he whispers. "I just want the love of my life near me when this all begins. Nothing more."

And yes. You're having a hard time saying no.

The roar of the audience echoes like a raging surge behind the black curtain. Excitement vibrates in your chest, in your feet, in the very air. Dylan adjusts the earpiece, but he has something else on his mind: you.

Before you can change your mind, he takes your hand well, more like he grips it like you're oxygen and begins to pull you along with that smile you should have already registered as illegal.

"Dyl..." you murmur, between nervous and blushing.

"Too late, baby," he says, and places a quick kiss on your lips. "You can't escape now, Y/N."

And yes, he calls your name as if he savors it. As if that word fills his mouth with sugar.

You leave. The light hits them head-on. The audience thousands of people screams so loudly that for a second you feel the ground shake. But you don't see anyone else. Only Dylan, who holds your hand tightly as if you were his anchor.

And suddenly, as if you weren't in front of thousands of people, he hugs you tightly, picks you up by the waist, and spins you around in the air like you're a fucking indie Disney princess.

The crowd explodes. Cole bursts out laughing from the drums. Braeden just smiles and gives you a thumbs-up. Dylan pulls you down and hugs you from behind, his mouth pressed against your ear. "You can't escape now," he whispers with laughter in his voice. "I love you, and the world needs to know it."

He steps back a little, takes the microphone, and runs his hand through his hair, already tousled with affection. "Hey..." he says, in that slightly nervous voice that comes out when he's truly excited. "I just want to say... this girl you see here..." He points at you with a goofy smile; you're as red as a tomato. "Y/N can hop on an amp in heels and play in front of two thousand people without breaking a sweat, but she's dying of embarrassment just to be here with me for five seconds."

The audience laughs. Some clap. You cover your face with your hands, and he approaches and gently takes them away.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, then speaks into the microphone again. "So if you see me come out all covered in gloss and smeared with affection... it's her fault."

"Ooooooooooooh," says the audience, because this isn't a concert anymore, it's a public declaration of love that will remain in edits forever.

He kisses you. Slowly. Gently. And you respond with both hands on his face, as if you wanted to hold him there, in front of everyone, forever. The audience screams as if Taylor Swift had flown out of the sky.

And Dylan just smiles against your mouth. "Okay..." he says, pulling away a little and winking at you. "Now, let's play like love is a fucking drum set playing to the rhythm of our hearts." The crowd keeps screaming, but you can't hear anything anymore.

You're at the edge of the stage, just to the left, where the technicians are small and the flashes don't reach, but Dylan is. Every time he turns to look at you, you know: you're inside a song he wrote just by watching you breathe. And there he is. Dylan with his guitar hanging, his bangs disheveled, his T-shirt sticking to his body from so much sweat and movement. "This is for someone very special..." he says into the microphone, staring at you. And without saying your name, the whole fucking audience understands. "Only Ecstasy" begins, but slowly, in a version that's half acoustic, half soulful, half head over heels in love.

And you watch him sing with his eyes half-closed, his fingers trembling on the strings, as if his voice is coming out of his chest like a heartbeat.

He's your boyfriend. It's your song. It's your moment.

And you're there, grinning like an idiot, tears in your eyes, your heart pounding in your ribs. Cole laughs from the drums, gives him a look like, "You're so dazed you can't hit a note right," and Dylan shrugs like, "So what? My girlfriend's here." Braeden approaches the mic and jokes, "Anybody got a tissue? Dylan is drooling from love." And the crowd erupts.

But you don't listen. Because Dylan looks at you. And smiles. And sings as if his vocal cords are telling you "thank you for existing." The song changes and "Guitar Romantic Search Adventure" comes on. And you already know what's coming.

The bass rumbles, the lights flicker, and Dylan approaches the edge of the stage just to sing it to you face to face. On his knees. With one hand pointing at you. With the other holding the mic as if his soul were inside. "I Look Forward To A Little Me And You"

And you... You no longer know if you're in a dream or a fanfic. But it doesn't matter.

Because Dylan puts down his guitar, approaches you amidst the deafening noise, and plants a soft kiss on your hand. And then another on your forehead. And another, in the corner of your mouth, as if he couldn't help it. "I love you," he says without a microphone. Just for you.

"I love you more," you reply.

"Impossible," he says, and runs back to the center of the stage, as if love gave him speed.

You don't know how it happened, but from one second to the next, you're already on stage.

The sunset light falls on you like an Instagram filter, the audience is screaming your name, or the Vixens', or Dylan's, you don't even know, and you just have your fingers pressed into your boyfriend's as if that could keep you grounded.

Dylan laughs and bends down to grab another mic. "Okay, okay, okay... I have to say this because otherwise I'll explode," he says, panting a little from the last jump he did during the chorus.

You look at him in Dylan - please - don't - humiliate - me - in - front - of - Lollapalooza mode.

But he completely ignores your expression of cute terror because he's happier than a golden retriever on the beach. "You know what the most embarrassing thing is about having the most beautiful woman on the fucking planet as your girlfriend?"

The audience shouts something, but he continues: "Besides being a 1000/10, having the best band in the universe, in case anyone hasn't heard them, put Vixens on RIGHT NOW, she's never sung with me! Not once!"

You cover your face with your hands. The entire audience laughs. Dylan leans closer to take your hands and plants a peck on your knuckles like you're a medieval princess.

"Not in the shower. Not drunk. Not even with Autotune!"

"Dylaaan!" you yell, your cheeks the color of red wine.

"My love... is it public humiliation if I do it for love?" he asks, with such a cute little laugh you feel your heart sink.

Cole unleashes a dramatic drum roll. Braeden throws up his arms, as if to say, "Justice for the besotted boyfriend!"

Dylan shrugs and leans closer to the mic, half-snorting. "I'm just saying, if my girlfriend can hop on the amps, play in front of 3,000 people, open for Laufey, and dance with fucking Role Model... how could she not doing a fucking duet with me?"

You're already laughing like an idiot. Your ears are red. The wind is messing up your hair. Dylan stares at you like you're gallery art. And then, with his blue eyes shining straight into your heart:

"Do you know Brooklyn Baby, love?" You stare at him, jaw slack, nerves on edge, heart racing.

"Lana's?"

"Of course. I don't think there's any other one."

"You better know all the lyrics," you tell him, squinting.

"I learned it for you. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't memorize your favorite songs?!"

"A decent boyfriend," you reply, and he gives you another peck on the cheek.

"And I'm a ridiculously in love boyfriend."

He gives you a crooked smile. He hugs you by the waist as if he doesn't care that there are photographers, people, his parents, fans, and probably Chappell Roan watching.

And you, between nerves and butterflies, all you can think about is that this moment is already your favorite song.

The chords begin, and the crowd begins to convulse. Braeden plays the riff to "Brooklyn Baby" with sexy precision, and Dylan, still holding your hand, turns to you with a smile that says, "This is going to be history, my love."

You approach the mic as the wind ruffles your hair, and the first verse leaves your lips with that characteristic cheeky vibe:

> “They say I'm too young to love you / I don't know what I need…”

People start following you. Dylan doesn't even blink. He's looking at you as if Lana Del Rey had given him permission to marry you.

> “They think I don't understand / The freedom land of the seventies…”

Dylan raises his eyebrows and nods, like, "Oh my god, my girlfriend is art." You can hardly believe you're doing this, but your body relaxes. You start moving to the beat, seductive, relaxed, divine. The audience cheers you on like you're a headliner.

> "I think I'm too cool to know ya / You say I'm like the ice, I freeze..."

There Dylan comes over and stands behind you, pressing his chest to your back, his arms around your waist.

You continue singing without losing your composure, but you feel his warmth, his energy, his adoration floating between you both.

> "I'm churnin' out novels like / Beat poetry on amphetamines..."

And when you reach the iconic verse, you turn to him and sing straight into his eyes:

> "Well, my boyfriend's in a band / He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed..."

THERE. RIGHT THERE. DYLAN GRAB YOUR WAIST. HE PULLS YOU AGAINST HIM AS IF THE STAGE WERE A QUEEN BED IN A VENICE BEACH MOTEL. He gives you a breathy giggle, eyes twinkling, pupils dilated, smile crooked.

And without giving you time to react... HE BIT YOUR LOWER LIP. Soft. Slow. Flirty. One of those little bites that's half kiss, half I'm-holding-back-the-urge-to-fuck-you-against-the-amps.

The audience SCREAMS. Cole hits the drums sharply. Braeden lets out an "UHHHH!" into the mic. You're red-faced all the way to the chest.

But you can't help but laugh. Your hands go to his cheeks, and you gently push him away as if to say enough's enough, even though you both know you never want it to stop.

Dylan winks at you, the mic still in his hand: "The little bite was so you wouldn't tell me later that I don't interact with you onstage, huh?"

And the audience SCREAMS AGAIN because they're watching a live love story. An indie rock star head over heels in love with his favorite vocalist. And you... all you can think is, yes, your boyfriend is in a band. But you're his fucking favorite song.

The roar of the crowd still shakes the floor when Dylan charges at you bridal style, as if you were his prize, his sacred relic, his fucking Grammy for Best Love of the Year.

He comes off the stage with you in his arms, kissing your forehead and laughing like a little boy. "MY GIRLFRIEND JUST SANG BROOKLYN BABY AT LOLLAPALOOZA,DUDES!" he shouts so Braeden and Cole can hear him.

They whistle and clap from the monitor desk. Cole says something like, "When am I going to do it, God?" Braeden just yells, "ARE THEY GETTING MARRIED NOW OR ARE THEY GOING TO HANG RIGHT HERE?"

You're red. Deep red. But you're clinging to Dylan with your arms around his neck, happy as ever. Backstage, where everything smells of wires, sweat, and euphoria,

Dylan sits you on a stool as if you were fragile. But you can barely contain yourself. Your hands go straight to his face. "I'm so proud of you, Dylan..." you whisper, caressing his dripping cheek. He smiles, blue in his eyes, his voice trembling softly.

"No, baby... I'm even more proud of you." He leans closer. He kisses your nose. Then your temple. Then your lips. Slowly. As if you were still on stage, in front of the entire planet.

"We should record the duet, huh..." he jokes with a smirk. "You look so hot singing Lana. I don't know if I got more turned on playing the guitar or watching you move that mouth."

You laugh. But you don't deny it. Your hands go to his chest. To that heart that beats like crazy for you. "We'd better record it in my bed. A cappella... without clothes." You said it softly, barely audible, but Dylan is already grinning like crazy.

"In your bed? What if we record it in mine? Or on the living room couch. Or against the window. I want my neighbor to know my girlfriend is in a band. I play guitar while she sings Lana Del Rey."

Your fingers move up his neck. Your lips brush his ear. "What if we record it anywhere... but you sing to me until I can't stand?"

Dylan swallows. He looks at you as if you were a private concert. As if you'd killed him with love and desire at the same time. "God... you're fucking perfect," he whispers.

He holds you tight. Tight. As if at any moment you might disappear. And there, amidst the dimmed lights, roadies running, applause fading in the background...

You and Dylan kiss as if you weren't musicians, icons, or lovers, but old souls reunited in this life to love each other as if it were their last. And even though the concert is over... The music between you is just beginning.

[alcapzr]

Hey, really want a small angst that ends with gentle and caring smut

thank you so much :)

𝑹 𝑼 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒆 ? ꨄ︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Smut, Sligthly angst, Braeden being insecure, Jealousy, Culture Wars mentioned, Vulnerability, Oral male reciving, Unprotected sex, Comfort sex, Reader being on top, Creampie

A/N: I think the smut is more suggestive, I don't know if you like it, I mean, it's not like I'm going to stop writing smut the opposite I LOVE IT. But this time I wanted to focus more on the emotional part

The grass was damp, but you didn't care. The heat of the day still clung to the night like a badly projected movie: slow, distorted, wet.

The grass brushed your bare legs as Braeden lay beside you, one of his legs barely touching yours. A half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, his gaze lost somewhere you couldn't reach. And you just looked at him.

He hadn't said anything for ten minutes. It was strange. Because you knew that when Braeden was feeling good, he wouldn't stop: he talked about chords, old guitars, references that mixed cult films, cheap poetry, and the Beatles. But now... Now the silence was gnawing at him from the inside. And you felt it.

"What's wrong, babe?" you finally asked, without embellishment, without a sweet voice, only with the intimacy that comes from knowing everything about someone. "You're like... gone."

Braeden inhaled deeply, exhaling the smoke with that nervous pause he only had when he was swallowing something. Something that burned more than the cigarette. "Nothing. I'm... fine. Just tired," he replied, without looking at you.

But you'd already learned to read it in the commas, not the words. And that "good" carried weight.

The weight of jealousy, insecurity, and awkward silence.

Because you knew. Because you'd noticed it at dinner too.

The bar had warm lights, cheap wine in small glasses, and that fake laugh that only appears when the night drags on longer than necessary. Alex vocalist of Culture Wars had been pure charisma. Tall, charming, with that half-Texan accent that you couldn't tell if it was real or forced.

He talked to you about synthesizers, raw lyrics, dirty poetry. And you, well… you were you: a songwriter addicted to references.

There had been chemistry between you and Alex. Long laughs. You'd been kind. But Braeden… he felt it as a threat.

Coming back to the present, you turned your face to look at him. His jawline marked by the moonlight, his lips pursed, his gaze turned skyward. Beautiful like a secret they haven't told you yet.

"Did anything about tonight bother you?" you asked softly, almost caressing the words.

Braeden didn't respond immediately. He just squeezed the cigarette tighter between his fingers. "No, it's nothing. It's stupid."

"I don't like it when you say that. When you say it's stupid to feel something." He finally looked at you. And that moment changed everything.

His eyes, bright in the reflection of the distant lantern, were filled with a mixture of suppressed desire and a pang of sadness. Jealousy. But not the kind you shout. The kind you hide in silence, the kind born from the fear of not being enough.

"Did you like him, Alex?" he blurted out, dry. Low. As if it were a sin to ask.

Your heart gave a small thump against your sternum. Not because of the question. But because of the way he said it: so... hurt.

And you, who had loved him through all his phases, weren't going to let that thought take root in your chest.

You moved without saying anything. You crawled on the grass until you were on top of him, sitting gently on his abdomen. Braeden didn't move. He just looked at you, his brows furrowed, his hands motionless at his sides. Your palms went to his face.

You forced him to look at you. With your thumbs, you slowly caressed his cheekbones. And with a voice that trembled between sweetness and desire, you said: "You're the only one who makes me feel this way. I don't feel this way with anyone else. Nor do I want to."

Braeden swallowed. And you noticed how his pupils trembled.

"You're so fucking hot when you're insecure," you whispered, half mockingly, half confessing.

"Don't fuck with me," he said, closing his eyes for a second.

"No, seriously. I want you to know. That even if someone looks at me, even if someone tries... you already have me. Not by default. But because you earned it." You lowered your hands to his neck, then to his chest, slowly.

You moved subtly over him, feeling him tense beneath your thighs. The cigarette had fallen. He didn't even notice. Because now he only had you on him. His hands moved slowly up to your thighs. Hard. Shaky. And you just smiled, lowering your face to his.

"Would you like me to prove it to you?"

And there, for the first time that night, Braeden smiled. Small. Half dark. Half needy. As if he'd just surrendered to you. "Yes," he said breathlessly. "But slowly. I want... I want to feel like I'm enough."

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. It wasn't time to break him yet. You were going to rebuild him first.

His fingers squeezed your thighs as if he needed to hold onto something real. Something solid. Something he couldn't lose. And you let him.

You gave him your weight. Your warmth. Your silence, heavy with presence. His eyes couldn't hold yours for more than a few seconds, but still... he wouldn't let go of you. As if watching you was too much. As if it was painful to want you so much and still doubt that he really had you.

"Bae," you whispered, gently sinking down onto his chest. "I'm not going to do anything if you don't talk to me. And I know you're... overthinking it."

Braeden swallowed. Your fingers were already wandering down his neck, and your nose was brushing the curve of his jaw. His heartbeat was so rapid you could feel it against your chest.

"I don't want to sound insecure. I don't want to ruin the night," he murmured.

"Then say it and let the night save you," you replied without fear. Without judgment. And something in him broke a little. He hugged you. Not tightly, but with the tender urgency of someone who's been on the verge of exploding for hours.

His forehead resting on your collarbone. His breath against your skin. A hand clutching your back, as if you were going to leave. As if you'd let him.

And then he started talking. "Since I saw him... since I saw you," he began, his voice low, broken. "I couldn't get that image out of my head. You laughing, connecting so quickly. You so open, so you. And there I was, feeling like... like another accessory. Like I wasn't enough to keep you interested."

"Brae..." you tried to speak, but he shook his head softly against your skin.

"No, wait. Let me say it. It's stupid, but... there are times when I feel like I'm going to lose you at any second. That someone else is going to see you the way I see you and offer you something I can't give you. Or that you're going to realize you deserve someone less... broken. Less absorbed by their own noise."

You stayed still. Your heart tightened. He continued. "I watched you talking to Alex and felt that poisonous thought creeping in again. Like when we started. Like when I still didn't know if you were going to stay with me. And not because you did anything wrong, I swear it wasn't. It was you being you, and that's what kills me the most. That what I love most about you is precisely what I'm most afraid of losing."

That's when the lump caught in your throat. You stroked his hair, slowly. Your voice was just another caress.

"Braeden... You have no idea how you make me feel. No one sees me the way you see me. No one touches me the way you touch me, not with their hands, not with their eyes. And if you only knew... if you only knew that sometimes I'm just that same fucking scared. That I wake up thinking this is a dream too beautiful to last."

He lifted his head. He looked at you. Straight ahead. His eyes were red, wet, wide open. And in that gaze, there was so much. Desire. Panic. Love. Vulnerability. Adoration. Jealousy. And absolute surrender.

"I just love you so much it suffocates me sometimes," he whispered.

"Then let me give it back. Let me make you breathe again," you said. Your words like smooth blades.

His eyes remained fixed on yours. And you knew it was time to stop talking.

You didn't need any more words. What came next, you were going to say with your mouth. But not in sentences. You gave him a kiss. At first, slowly, one of those that taste like a promise kept. Soft. Deep.

Your lips glided over his with fierce tenderness. Until he tried to take control. But you didn't let him.

You gently bit his lower lip, holding his jaw as you lowered yourself onto his abdomen. Your tongue caressed him slowly, playfully.

And then the kiss changed: it became dirty. Wet. A delicious mix of desperation and tenderness. Your pelvis moved barely against him, a subtle friction that only increased the heat. And he could no longer contain his moans.

"Don't move," you whispered against his mouth.

"Yes, whatever you say," he said, unable to even open his eyes. He was already in a trance.

With firm hands, you lifted his shirt. Your fingers brushed against his skin as if you were redrawing him from scratch. He raised his arms without you asking. Obedient. Open. The fabric disappeared into some corner of the yard. It didn't matter.

You watched him.

His torso, defined not by the gym, but by life itself: tiny scars, moles you'd counted a thousand times, light hair trailing from his belly button to disappear into those pants that were already begging you.

But you were in no hurry. You were going to devour him at your own pace.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Braeden. I swear, if you could see yourself the way I see you..." you murmured as you slowly moved down, trailing kisses from his chest, his sternum, to his abdomen.

Your hands held his hips. Your lips moved lower. And his breathing was now a steady tremor.

"God..." he whispered, barely able to form words.

"Shhh... don't talk. Just feel it. I'm going to make you forget even your name." You knelt between his legs.

The dusk enveloped you in that corner of the courtyard, hidden by soft shadows and the silence that had started it all. Your fingers opened his pants. Slowly. As if unwrapping a sacred gift.

And there he was. Hard sighs. Hard. Trembling, exposed, completely at your mercy. "Are you okay?" you asked, because that's how you were: dirty but careful.

"Always with you. Do whatever you want."

And you did just that. You placed a kiss at the base. Then another higher up. Your tongue traced his entire cock with surgical slowness, as if you were studying him from scratch.

Braeden was already panting. His fingers gripped the grass. He wouldn't touch you. He didn't dare. He let you do it.

And then you took him into your mouth. Slowly. Wet. Everything. His hips trembled. His voice broke.

"Oh... fuck... you... you don't know what you do to me..."

But you do. You felt it in every moan. The way he bit his lip to keep from screaming.

The way he looked at you with his eyes wider than ever, as if you were the only religion he respected. You began to move. Gently at first, letting your tongue play, your saliva leave its mark. Then deeper, wetter. Soft clicks that pierced the air. And he was already exhausted.

"Don't stop. Please, don't stop," he begged in the most fragile voice you'd ever heard him use.

You looked at him while you held him in your mouth. And there you saw it all. The fear. The love. The adoration. The need to know yes. That he was yours. That you chose him. And you confirmed it with your mouth. Again and again. Until he couldn't take it anymore.

His fingers went to your hair. Not to push you away. Just to hold on. The muscles in his abdomen contracted. His hips trembled beneath you.

"I'm coming. I'm coming, baby... please..." he moaned into the night.

And you didn't stop. Because you wanted him to feel everything. The pleasure. The security. The relief of knowing he didn't need to fight for your attention. Because you were already his.

When he came, his hips lifted slightly. His eyes closed. And his name tumbled out of your mouth without you even needing to say it. Because it felt like you were screaming it with every flick of your tongue.

You swallowed his entire hot load like milk. Without fear. Without shame. Looking at him tenderly as you did so.

When you were done, you climbed back in beside him. He was still panting. His arm instantly wrapped around you.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know," you replied with a dirty but loving smile. Because you knew it. And so did he now.

The air still smelled of him. Of his skin, of his conquered fear, of the pleasure you'd just given him as if it were a holy promise, wet and unrepentant. Braeden was still panting, but his arms held you tightly now.

As if he wanted to lock you in his chest and never let go.

"Fuck..." he murmured against your hair. "I didn't know I needed you like this until you gave it to me."

You just smiled against his neck. Kiss. Kiss. Bite. "And I haven't given you everything yet, babe," you whispered against his skin, each syllable trailing like dirty taffy. "I'm just getting you warmed up."

His body tensed beneath yours, but this time not out of fear. It was pure anticipation. Ready surrender. Devoted obedience. You climbed on top of him with almost cruel slowness. Your knees were on either side of his hips. Your panties were already soaked. His bare torso beneath you, still marked by your kisses. You looked down at him.

The sun cast a soft glow on his face. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, his neck still wet from your mouth.

Braeden was the perfect picture of surrender. And you were going to paint yourself all over him. "I want to feel you... but not like this. Not fast," you told him, slowly lowering your hips until his cock touched right where you needed it most.

"I want you to know this is yours... before you even enter."

He moaned softly. The most fucking vulnerable sound you'd heard that night. Your panties were still on, but they were useless now. The fabric was so wet it was barely an idea. A useless shadow between you and him. And yet, you didn't take them off.

You wanted it like this. Slowly. Aware. Suffering with pleasure. Your hands on his chest. Your hips moving down slowly. Until you caught him between your cunt. Not inside. Not yet. Just trapped. Sliding. Wetting. Playing. "

Shit... you..." Braeden tried to speak but gasped when you slid him forward, pushing against you, not allowing him to enter.

Just the touch. Just that desperate, wet, intimate contact. You slid him back. Forward. Like you were kissing him with your clit. Braeden clenched his fists against the grass. His jaw was shaking. So were his legs.

"Do you like it like this?" you asked softly, lowering your torso so your breasts brushed against his chest.

"Yes... God... I've never been touched like this. You're driving me crazy."

"No. I'm just showing you that I love you so much I want to make you eternal."

You moved again. Slowly. As if dancing. Sliding him between your folds. The heat. The wetness. The trembling. Everything building up without entry, without explosion.

Just that slow sin of what almost is. Of what will be.

Braeden moved his hands to your hips, but didn't push. He didn't dare. "Let me in," he begged, his voice husky.

You looked at him. Tenderly. Hungrily. "Not yet. I want you to remember what it feels like to want more than just to come, how it feels to know I'm completely yours."

And you moved again. You made circles with your pelvis. You felt him throb between your cunt as if he were already begging you with his entire body. And you enjoyed every second of that divine torture.

"I'm yours, Braeden," you whispered, your forehead against his. "I'm going to mark it on your soul. But first... I'm going to wear you down."

"Do it. Please. Wear me down."

And you were going to do it. Slowly. Fiercely. Lovingly. Pervertedly. Because that's what you were with him. His storm and his temple.

Your hips were already melted,Your panties were so soaked that the fabric simply slipped with every movement, pushing all the heat in one direction: him.

Braeden trembled beneath you. As if his body didn't know whether to cry, moan, cum again, or simply die happily there.

You looked down at him. Riding him, your gaze lowered, dangerous, soft. Like a goddess who knows exactly how much power she has... and how to use it.

"Look at me," you said softly, your nails digging into his chest. "I want you to look at me"

Braeden obeyed. His eyes were already wide open, red with so much suppressed emotion. And you knew it.

You knew everything. With a firm movement, you stood up just to remove your panties. You slid them down your legs, slowly, as if it were a ritual.

"Are you ready?" you asked, now brushing his tip against your entrance.

"Yes. God… please."

You smiled. Not out of superiority. But out of tenderness. Out of desire. Out of sick love.

"Good boy," you whispered and then you plunged him inside you. All in one soft, deep, wet pull.

Your body swallowed him as if it had been waiting for an eternity. Braeden cried out softly, a broken, raw moan, clinging to your waist as if he'd just been reborn.

"Shit... you... you feel like heaven," he gasped.

"No, my love. I am your home. You are my home. And we are exactly where we need to be."

You moved. Slowly. With a rhythm of wicked affection. Your center embracing him, wetting him, enveloping him with warmth, with control, with absolute sweetness.

Every time you went down, you looked at him. And every time you went up, you said something to him.

"You're so good, Braeden."

"I love the way you fill me."

"You're so hard for me."

"I love you when you moan like that."

"I want you to come crying if you have to."

Braeden was devastated. In the best way. His hands no longer knew whether to grab you, push you, hold on. He just adored you. He implored you with his eyes. "Tell me more... please... tell me more things..." she moaned. And you gave them to him. "You're my perfect boy." "The only one who knows how to touch me like this." "The only one who makes me feel so fucking alive." "Watch me swallow you, my love." "Look at me. You're making love to me with every inch. Do you feel it?" He nodded frantically. His green eyes filled with tears. Not with sadness. With fulfillment.

"God, I love you. I've never... I've never fucked like this."

"Because no one has ever been yours. Until now."

"You're mine. All of it. Please don't go." You held him close as you continued to move. Your mouth on his neck. Your nails on his back. And your cunt squeezing him from the inside, hard, with purpose. You squeezed him like you wanted to leave your name etched into his marrow.

"There's no one like you," you whispered in his ear as you arched up to feel him deeper. "You're my prize. My sweet. My favorite sin."

Braeden let out a sob. And you kept riding him. Slower. Dirtier. More loving. Because that's who you are, completely his. And he... He's yours.

You didn't slow down. You increased it. The sound of your hips colliding with his was already indecent. Brazen. Wet.

Every time you went down, you went faster, deeper, as if you wanted to lose yourself there. As if his body were your new home and you wanted to destroy it from the inside, reshape it with your rhythm, with your filthy love.

"Fuck, I can't take this anymore," he groaned, clutching your sides as if you were the last thing he could touch before collapsing. "You're going to kill me..."

"I'm bringing you back to life, Braeden," you replied, your voice hoarse, your lips swollen from moaning. "This is love, the kind that peels off the skin."

Your nails ran down his chest, your fingers marked his collarbones, and your pelvis began to roll dirtier, rawer. Fast. Precise. Wicked. Every time you went down, you squeezed your inner muscles to hug him from the inside, making him scream.

"Fuck,fuck, baby, don't stop, please!"

"I'm not going to stop until you come crying," you growled near his ear, licking his neck, kissing his earlobe. "And even then I'm not going to stop. I want you shaking. I want you to never feel insecure again."

Braeden moaned loudly, the sound breaking like a suppressed cry. His back arched, his legs trembling, his mouth half-open. His eyes watered.

"No one... has ever... done this to me..."

"Because no one else loves you like I do. No one knows you like this. No one worships you with this tongue, with this body, with this pussy."

And just when you thought you couldn't squeeze him any tighter, you did. Your whole body squeezed him from the inside out. In an animalistic urge, you hugged him with your belly muscles while you giggled softly. The cruelest, most loving sound you could give him. Braeden screamed. Literally. A broken, stifled, wet scream.

'Fuck, I'm cumming, I'm cumming…!"

And you kept going. Riding him. Thrusting. Wetting both of your bodies to the core. You felt his cum explode inside you. So much. So much. He filled you with his soul, with his anxiety, with all that fear turned into pleasure.

With every drop of what he didn't know how to express with words, but with moans, with fluids, with tremors.

You felt all the heat flooding you inside. You felt him come crying. Literally, crying.

Braeden's eyes were open, tears streaming down his face as you still rode him slowly. As if you were giving him comfort and punishment at the same time.

"That's it. My good boy. My man."

Yes... yes... yes... —he said, not knowing what else to say.

His body no longer responded. It only received you. You were still on top. Still soaked. Still savoring his complete surrender. You leaned down and kissed him. But this time, slowly. With your tongue in his mouth. And your forehead touching his.

"Do you feel it now?" you asked softly, still moving gently.

"Yes..." he moaned, broken. "I feel you down to my bones."

You didn't get off him. Your chest still pressed against his. His warm breath on your neck. His hands, which had once trembled with desire, now caressed your back slowly... as if trying to memorize every curve with their fingertips.

Both of you sweaty. Both of you destroyed. Both of you... complete. You barely moved. Just enough to look at him.

Braeden's eyes were still bright. Not with excitement. With something deeper. Purer.

"Are you okay?" you asked, your voice soft, low, like a feather brushing his soul.

He didn't respond immediately. He just nodded, and his nose brushed yours with a gesture so tender it broke your chest a little. And then he told you. In a voice barely audible. Like a secret prayer."I've never felt so loved."

You closed your eyes. And you kissed him on the nose. Small. Warm. The kind of kiss you don't give during sex. The kind of kiss you only give when there's no longer any doubt that your soul is tied to the other.

"Braeden... you are everything that turns me on and everything that calms me."

"I didn't know someone could do both at the same time," he whispered.

You stroked his hair. Your fingers slow, sleepy, devoted. He held tighter to your waist. Not sexually. Just wanting you there. Close. Present. Real.

"We could die right now and it would be okay," he murmured. "Because I've already experienced something perfect."

You laughed softly. You kissed him again. On the cheek. Then on the forehead.

"We're not going to die. I need you for many more years. To hold you like this. To take care of you like this. To kiss you like this."

He smiled. And that smile was all you needed. They stayed like that for a while. You playing with his hair. Him with his cheek against your chest.

The dusk was still wet, but it no longer had the weight of the beginning. Now it smelled of belonging. A post-sex glow. A home.

"Do you feel mine?" you asked softly.

"No. I know I'm yours," he answered, without hesitation.

"And you?"

"Whole. All. Every part of me... is yours."

Braeden sighed. He closed his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, he slept peacefully. With you on top. Inside.

Surrounding him. Holding him. Being more than a body. Being faith, dirty love, and perverse tenderness.

[alcapzr]

hiii i love the smutty ones but id love a fluffy braeden fic!!! it can be literally anything maybe like a night in and they tell each other they love each other and they make music together and its very intimate and romantic!!!! a braeden x fem reader thank you!! also i love your writings so so much please keep it up!!

𝑴𝒚 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, First time at Braeden's apartament, Silly Tenderness, Cute and silly dinamic, Arctic monkeys soundtrack, Silver Springs 1997 joke, Vulnerability

The door opens before you've finished knocking a second time. Literally. You haven't even made it to the full "knock" before Braeden is already opening it as if he'd been standing there for half an hour, waiting for you like an excited puppy.

"Finally!" he says, with that smile of his that always seems laced with tenderness and a hint of nerves. "I thought you were going to be late and I was about to start drinking my wine alone like a pathetic, functioning adult."

He doesn't even give you time to respond. By the time you blink, he's hugging you tightly, and yes, he smells exactly as you expected: a mix of expensive shampoo, sandalwood incense, and that strange but sexy scent of an old vinyl record.

You hug him back, feeling that warmth that only he can give you, as if your body knows it's just entered safe territory.

"Already? Can I kiss you, or is it too soon for that at the door?" he asks softly, and you just smile as you reach out to plant a short, slow, “I’ve been dying to see you” kiss on him.

As you walk into the apartment, everything is so Braeden it makes you want to laugh: plants everywhere, warm string lights, a giant Smiths poster hanging a little crookedly, and a mountain of records that threatens to topple over like a Jenga tower if someone sneezes nearby.

In the center of the room, on a low wooden table with more scratches than an old VHS tape, rests an unopened bottle of red wine and two clean glasses, an absolute miracle.

"I know I said I had snacks, but my definition of 'snack' was a box of pizza I ordered like half an hour ago," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "They left it downstairs, so now it comes with a small risk of being touched by a stray cat, but... it also comes with pepperoni."

He lets out that laugh of his, as if he's embarrassed by how adorably chaotic he's.

You just smile at him, take off your jacket, and hang it on the first chair you see, which could probably also serve as a coat rack, a bookcase, and an emergency bed if he wants to.

When you turn around, he's already holding the corkscrew, looking like a kid about to show you a trick. "I don't want to brag... but I learned how to open wine bottles without breaking the cork. Like an adult. Are you proud of me, or is it still too early to emotionally validate me?"

"Depends," you say, smiling sarcastically. "Are you going to pour me a drink without staining the carpet?"

"That's asking for miracles." The bottle makes its classic pop,

Braeden chuckles as if it were a major achievement, and as soon as he pours the drinks, he hands yours to you with an exaggerated English butler bow, complete with fake accent.

"To the lady... and to me, who can't believe you're finally here, in my space, and that you still want to stay. Cheers."

They clink glasses. And it's in that little moment with the wine, the warm light, the recent hug still on your skin, and Braeden looking at you as if you were his favorite song that you know this is going to be a perfect day.

The pizza arrives just as you're halfway through the first cup. Braeden stands up as if called to arms, half-tripping over a plant in his path, and throws out a "don't go, I'll be back in three blinks" as if someone could leave his apartment with wine and unfinished promises.

When he returns, he carries the box as if he's carrying a newborn baby instead of greasy pepperoni. "The delivery guy winked at me," he announces, closing the door with his hip. "Do you think he knows I'm about to have the best night of my life with pizza and my ten-month-old crush?"

"Ten-month crush?" you laugh. "Are you giving me lore?"

"You've been my canon event, babe. Since the first time I saw you in that giant Paramore hoodie."

And you just look at him, between amused and touched, because this guy has that talent: being 70% sarcasm, 20% tenderness, and 10% chaos that falls on the furniture.

You sit down in the armchair, which creaks like it's been in an abandoned cabin for 40 years, but it's comfortable. Braeden places the pizza on the table and passes you a slice with the edge dripping with cheese.

He hands it to you like someone handing over a marriage promise. "I know it's not fancy, but this armchair is special. I wrote "Treacherous Doctor" here after an ice cream and anxiety binge."

"And you dare call me dramatic?"

"I never denied it, I just hid it better."

You finish the first two slices amid laughter, half-stolen bites, and wine that begins to warm your chests in that delicious way.

Braeden stands and claps once as if he's about to open a museum: "Okay, welcome to the official tour. We're going to make this really romantic and not at all improvised, of course."

Start with the kitchen. "Here's the refrigerator, where the cranberry juice probably expired last month lives, and a Tupperware container I think is radioactive."

Then he leads you out into the hallway.

"This is my room, where I sleep, dream about you, and sometimes write mediocre music. There are also mismatched socks and a Bowie poster watching me judge my decisions."

He shows you the bathroom like it's a gallery. "Fresh towels, double-ply toilet paper because I'm a gentleman, and a candle that smells like a "melancholic forest."

And finally, he returns to the armchair with you, extending his arms like a hipster Airbnb guide:

"And this is the VIP area: warm lights, vinyl records, a TV that doesn't have Netflix because I forgot to pay, but an armchair that sounds like it's cursed. Do you want to stay?"

You look at him like it's the most precious thing in the world.

"I want to move in now." Braeden grins like a lovesick idiot. He plops down next to you and rests his head on your shoulder, exhaling softly.

"No one's ever told me that." Literally, I felt like crying a little.

"Cry and I'll record you," you warn him.

"Record me and upload it with a "look at the love of my life being the most emotional person in the world."

You both laugh. The atmosphere is rich, comfortable, as if you've been doing this for years. But it's the first time. And it feels fucking good.

When Braeden gets back up, he goes straight to that corner of the apartment that looks like a mini church dedicated to vinyl. There are so many records stacked vertically that it makes you anxious just thinking about how easy it would be for them all to fall like dominoes.

"Okay, this is important," he says, slowly running his fingers over the covers as if he's selecting spells in a role-playing game. "The mood of the night depends on this choice."

"Don't stress," you mock. "We're not curing cancer, just looking for the ideal soundtrack for pizza with cheese melting on our faces."

"Yeah, but this is the first time you've been in my apartment, and I need the music to say, 'I want to stay with you until we're ugly old people kissing each other's dentures.'"

"God, you're so ridiculous it hurts to love you."

"I want that. Love, let it hurt a little." Finally, he pulls out an Arctic Monkeys AM vinyl, clearly his strong suit. He puts it on the turntable, and as soon as the first note of "No. 1 Party Anthem" hits, you're already grinning like a fool.

"Really?" you ask. "Are you going all emo and sensual?"

"Of course," he replies, extending his hand toward you with a dramatic bow. "Allow me this non-dance with the gentleman of your thoughts."

"We're not dancing."

"I know. But if we were dancing, this would be it."

You say it jokingly, but you take his hand anyway and get up from the couch with a fake sigh. He pulls you against his chest, slowly, almost motionless.

You're not even dancing. You're just... there. Standing. You with your cheek against his faded gray T-shirt, he with his nose buried in your hair. The warm lights make everything look more intimate. Almost cinematic.

The song progresses, and you feel his heart beat slowly against you. As if it's synchronized with your breathing.

"I don't know how you do it," he murmurs. "You walked into my house and suddenly everything feels more... homey." He squeezes you a little tighter. It's not theatrical. It's not a show. It's one of those hugs that aren't meant to be pretty, but to calm internal storms. "You make it worth turning off the music and just being silent."

Your heart skips a beat. "That was so cheesy."

"And I still haven't gotten out my indie-movie punchline: 'Stay the night and I promise not to snore so much.'"

"You're a total liar," you say, laughing. "I slept with you on Dylan's couch and you sounded like a washing machine with rocks in it."

"Okay, but this time I promise to snore sexier."

You both laugh softly, the kind of shared laughter that hangs between two mouths that no longer want to separate. He gently takes your chin and looks at you as if you were art in a private gallery. "I like you so much it scares me."

"Me too," you confess softly. And right there, without choreography or lights, without really dancing... you feel like you'll remember this moment even when you're gray-haired and wrinkled and new songs sound old.

“Okay, next step in this romantic evening at home,” Braeden announces as he plops down on the floor with a blanket and a spoon. “Ice cream straight from the tub like a couple who's already farted in front of each other.”

“What if I told you I've never farted in front of you?”

“Then we'd have to start couples therapy because that's a lack of trust, babe.”

You sit next to him, stealing the oversized hoodie he's left hanging over the back of his chair. It's too big for you. It fits you perfectly. It smells like his lotion mixed with his shampoo and a little bit of pizza, and you're your happiest self: disheveled, comfortable, and with someone who treats you like you're their home.

“What flavor did you bring?”

“Cookie dough. I mean, like you: sweet, dense, and with addictive little surprises hidden in the middle.”

"I can't handle you. Who gave you such a sweet talk?"

"Dylan. But I adapted it with more heart."

You nudge him as he passes you the spoon, and you start taking turns as if making a thousand-year-old pact with spoons.

Outside, a car drives by, a dog barks, the city exists. But inside, everything is simple and mellow.

"Can I tell you something kind of ridiculous?" he says suddenly, looking at the half-melted bottle between them.

"Hmm, if you don't have Cole living in the closet, then yes."

"No. But I have something worse: very intense domestic fantasies about you."

"Like...?"

"Like us living together. Like you cooking pancakes in this same hoodie you're wearing. Like having little plants that we don't know how to take care of but that still make us feel like functioning adults. Like buying you a ring that doesn't sparkle too much because you hate ostentatious things, but that's so much you that you cry when I"ll give it to you. Like that."

Silence. The kind of beautiful silence that doesn't bother you. It only suspends the world for a few seconds. You swallow, feeling your heart settle in your chest with absurd tenderness. As if it doesn't know where to put itself from all the emotion.

"What if I told you I've thought about it too?"

Braeden smiles that perfect, broken smile, the one that forms more on the left side and makes his dimples pop out.

"So I need to marry you sometime. Not now. But someday. Like tomorrow. Or Tuesday."

"So desperate."

"So in love."

He's quiet for a second, then pulls you down onto him, your head resting on his chest, the spoon dangling from your hand while the other is tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

"You know what else I've been thinking about?" he says, stroking your hair.

"What?"

"I want to have a playlist of movies we only watch together. Even if twenty years go by and we're apart, if one of those movies is on TV, we won't watch it until we're both together, sitting down, and having ice cream."

"That's cheesy and beautiful."

"Like you. And tonight. And this hoodie that looks better on you than it does on me."

You sigh. Because you didn't know you could feel so much in a cold apartment with a half-dried scoop of ice cream and a boy who smells of beautiful promise.

You're still lying there like two teenagers in the middle of eternal summer, legs crossed, your fingers playing with his drawstrings and his nose tucked between your neck and collarbone, as if he's afraid the moment will slip away if he doesn't hold on tight.

Braeden gets up only to turn up the volume on the record player.

"I'm going to put on something different for you at this hour," he says, moving the vinyl record with the care of a hypersensitive collector. And then it plays.

"I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust..."

The vinyl gently spits out Turner's raspy voice, and you smile, because obviously that song is already an emotional classic for people like you. People who feel a lot. People who love like they have a bomb in their chest.

"Oh, shut up, this one's getting to me," you whisper, covering your face with your hands as Braeden laughs and throws himself back in at your side. But you don't shut up. You can't. You both start singing. Softly. Between laughs. With that semi-ridiculous tone of someone who wants to be sexy but loses the note due to emotion:

“I wanna be your Ford Cortina… I will never rust…”

“Brae, this song is pure sex and tenderness,” you say.

“Literally you. Sex and tenderness in one body.”

You smack him. He returns it with a kiss on the cheek.

The song progresses. You settle into the chorus as if it were your emotional refuge. Almost without thinking, you sing together, in the same tone, on the same frequency:

“I wanna be yours…”

You look at each other. And there's that spark that takes you off the planet for a second.

“Hey…” Braeden murmurs, his voice raspy with a newborn crazy idea, “what if we make music together?”

“Like, you and I, writing and recording, like that?”

“Yeah. Something separate. A project of ours. Not to leave Wallows or anything, but something more… intimate. More you and me.”

You raise an eyebrow and dramatically throw yourself onto the other side of the bed. “Are you sure? Have you seen what happens when couples make music together? Stevie and Lindsey! There's been over 50 years of drama!"

"And you know what else Stevie and Lindsey had? Hits. Hits, babe."

"And breakups. And tears. And emotional backstabbing."

"But they also have that 1997 Silver Springs performance where they sing while crying while hating and loving each other at the same time. That's art, baby."

"Do you want to break up just to make a heartbreaking hit?"

"Only if you promise me you'll let me play guitar while crying while you try to kill me with your eyes."

You laugh so hard you almost fall. Braeden catches you with his arm, pulls you back against his chest, and continues the game.

"Imagine it: you on vocals, me on guitars, a sad little EP called "Things We Wrote In Bed." Or something REALLY Corny"

"What you want is an excuse to record me singing in my underwear again."

"And I won't deny it. But I also want the world to hear how you make me feel. In songs, in lyrics, in instrumental bridges."

You stay quiet for a second. You look at him. And you see him differently. Deeper. More honest. More in love.

"Okay. But only if the first song is called "I Wanna Be Yours 2.0."

"Done."

You seal the deal with a kiss. One of those that doesn't rush. That doesn't demand. That's just there. Like home. The song ends. But you don't.

The wine's almost dead. The pizza's cold. Your eyeliner is lower than when you arrived. And yet, you feel sexier, more comfortable, and more you than on any fancy night out.

Braeden is now sitting on the couch with the unplugged electric guitar between his legs, moving his fingers along the neck as if his head were on another planet.

"What are you doing?" you ask, curling up next to him, one leg draped over his.

"I'm trying to remember the beat I came up with last night. I half-recorded it on my computer, but I didn't put it together completely."

"Is it for Wallows?"

"No... I don't think so. It doesn't sound like that. It sounds like... something else. More sad indie." You laugh.

"Sad indie like you?"

"Exactly. Half vintage, half 'I'm sensitive but I also want to fuck you in a bar bathroom.'"

"What a specific description."

"I have you, what did you expect?"

He starts strumming softly. There are no lyrics. Just the vibe. It's a catchy beat, with a tempo somewhere between dreamy and playful, as if Mac DeMarco had made out with Clairo at an amusement park.

The notes have that "I wrote this song for you while I was showering, thinking about your boobs, but also your traumas" vibe. And you're in awe. Totally.

You look at him with your heart in your hands as he gets lost in his own world, humming a wordless melody that's already scratching your ribs.

"Do you have any lyrics?" you ask softly, almost afraid of breaking the magic. Braeden scratches his head, shy for the first time all night.

"Some random ideas... they're not finished, don't judge me."

"I'm not going to judge you, love. Tell me." He smiles, swallowing, and begins to recite without singing:

> “She looks at me like she knew I'd ruin her... but she stays anyway. As if she's already read everything in my eyes. As if her demons were friends with mine.”

You stay silent. He pretends not to notice the way your arms tingle.

"Who's the girl who inspires you so much, Lemasters?" you joke, though your voice catches.

"A girl with the face of an angel and the mind of an emotional terrorist," he answers without looking at you. "She has a mole that obsesses me."

"Wow. I know her. She must be gorgeous."

"She's unbearable. But she laughs at my jokes. So... I let her exist."

You kiss his temple. "What's that song going to be called?" Braeden picks up his guitar, plays three notes, and answers: "I swear it's not about you (but it is)."

The night is no longer night. It's an eternal sigh wrapped in vinyl, pizza crumbs, and that warmth between the sheets that smells of music, cheap wine, and Braeden Lemasters.

You're lying on your side, your back to him, and his arms surround you as if you were the last song he'll ever write. His nose brushes the back of your neck.

His slow breath caresses the hairs on your neck. You haven't spoken for a while. There are only slow caresses, as if his fingers have memorized the exact way you break and mend when he's near.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then he doesn't say anything, but you feel him vibrate softly, as if he's thinking out loud.

"Don't go to sleep yet," he murmurs, hoarse, his voice already in "doggy dreaming of you" mode.

"Why? You're fine," you ask softly, caressing his hand resting on your waist.

"Because if you fall asleep, I won't be able to tell you this without getting nervous."

You turn slightly. Not completely, but enough so that your noses are almost touching. "Tell me anyway. I'll put up with your nerves."

Braeden swallows. He has that look on his face like he's about to tell you he's killed someone, but what he's really saying is:

"I want to keep doing this with you. All of this. Vinyl, wine, cold pizza. Sleeping cuddled up with our underwear on all wrong. For you to crawl into my closet. For you to wear my hoodies. For us to let the dirty clothes pile up because we're busy recording. I want you to come over more. For you to stay. For us to repeat this until it's routine. Until your kisses are more a part of my apartment than the pictures on the walls."

You don't know whether to laugh, cry, or melt into the sheets like in those final scenes of indie movies where the ending doesn't matter because the vibe already says it all.

You kiss his nose. "That sounds like a song. You should write it."

Braeden hugs you tighter. He squeezes you like you have an expiration date. "You're already my song."

[alcapzr]

Just wanted to ask for some caring smut with Braeden again. I loved it so much I need another <3 <3

~kay

𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 ꨄ︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Smut, Dirty Talk, Dirty Tenderness, Oral Fem Reciving, Fingering, Braeden Kinda Goofy, Crying from pleassur, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Aftercare

The couch creaked softly under his movements. The lights were off except for the warm flicker of a few candles on the mantelpiece, casting shadows that danced on the walls as if they too wanted to spy on him.

Braeden held you in his arms, wrapped in his oversized hoodie that still smelled of him: sandalwood, dried weed, and something slightly sweet that you couldn't tell if it was his shampoo or just him. His hand slowly stroked your lower back, using only his fingertips.

Your head rested on his bare chest, and his heartbeat echoed in your ear like a slow, confident metronome.

"Are you okay?" he whispered. His voice was lower than usual, as if he were speaking directly to your skin, not your mind.

"Mhm..." you replied, purring.

You felt safe. So comfortable. So you. Braeden lowered his hand to the hem of your cotton shorts and ran a finger just beneath them, barely grazing the skin of your thigh. You shuddered.

“You have no idea how much I love touching you like this…” he murmured. And it wasn't just desire. It was devotion.

“Just like that?” you asked, staring at him without lifting your head.

“Gentle. Slow. Unhurried. Like you've always been mine,” he said with that half-smile he only used when he was getting sentimental in a low voice.

Your legs were draped over his, intertwined, your T-shirt barely covering the edge of your belly button.

The song playing in the background was an ethereal instrumental you didn't even recognize, but it seemed to blend perfectly with the rhythm of his fingers, which were no longer just descending, but exploring with lazy curiosity, as if every inch of you were a map he'd sworn to memorize.

"Are you okay like this?"

"Yes," you said.

But it was more than a 'yes'. It was a yes, do it. A yes, touch me. A yes, I'm dying for you.

He felt it. He read it on your skin. His lips brushed your forehead, then moved down your temple, your cheek... to the edge of your jaw.

His mouth was warm. Slow. Precise. Each kiss was like a promise he hadn't yet broken. His hands were already under your hoodie, moving up your bare back. You weren't wearing anything underneath.

“God, love…” he murmured against your neck. “You’re so warm… I swear I want to never take my hands off you.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered against his collarbone, your fingers now playing with the loose waistband of his jeans.

Braeden pulled you closer against him. His hips were already pushing against you unintentionally, barely a touch, but the heat was real. His breath was heavier now, his voice deeper.

“I swear you'll kill me when you do that…” he said as your fingers slid down just below his pajama pants. “You're not even touching me properly, and I'm already hard.”

You bit your lip. “Then let me touch you properly.”

He smiled, then leaned in. He kissed you. A slow, wet, deep kiss. One of those kisses that isn't given with the mouth, but with the insides. The kind that holds nothing back. His lips tasted of mint and sweet, and when his tongue touched yours, it was as if he disconnected you from reality.

There was no time. There was no rush. Just Braeden. His smell. His weight. His heat.

Your legs instinctively moved over him, opening you wider without realizing it, while he moved a hand to the back of your neck, holding you as if kissing was the only thing that mattered in the world. You felt melted, your heart pounding in your ribs and the heat between your legs already starting to dampen your underwear.

Then he ran his hand down your back again. But this time he wasn't slow. He was deliberate. He slipped under your shorts, straight to your center, and found you already damp. Braeden stopped. He looked into your eyes.

"Are you this wet already?" he whispered, with a mixture of tenderness and brutal lust.

"You'd have no idea how long it's been..."

"I can imagine, baby," he replied with a crooked smile. "And we're just getting started."

“Don't move from there,” Braeden whispered, his voice barely a low growl, his lips still damp from the kiss.

His fingers were still between your legs, warm, large, with that perfect pressure that didn't push you away... it only announced that he was going to be there.

As long as he wanted. Your body was already relaxed, sunk into the chair as if you were part of the furniture, and he was on top of you, one knee between your thighs, his torso warm and strong against yours, and that look. That look of “there's nothing more important in the world than making you tremble.”

His hand slowly reached down and pushed your shorts down. He didn't take them off completely. He only pulled them down enough to reveal your underwear the thin lace that was already completely damp between your legs.

“Is this how you wanted me, baby?” he whispered, lowering his head to your ear. “That desperate and trembling for me?”

You couldn't even speak. You just nodded, your lips parted, your heart hammering between your ribs. Your legs opened even wider, unconscious, asking for him.

Braeden moved down, kissing your neck, then your chest over your shirt. He ran his tongue over your nipple through the fabric, and you moaned softly, arching helplessly.

“You feel so good…” he murmured against your skin. “You’re so delicious… so mine…”

Then he lowered a hand down your abdomen until his fingers brushed the wetness between your legs, still over your panties. He pressed slowly. Not directly on your clit, but a little lower, feeling all the heat you were releasing.

“You’re dripping, love,” he said with a dirty smile. “Was that from my fingers or my kisses?”

“For you,” you managed to whisper, with a stifled moan.

“Yes… of course it is for me.” And then, without warning, he slid his hand inside the fabric and touched you directly. Your hips bucked in the shock of pleasure.

His middle finger slid through your folds, slowly and exploratively, until he found your clit. He touched it barely, a gentle circle, as if caressing it to calm it... not to excite it.

“Relax, princess,” he murmured, with that crooked smile of his. “I'll take care of you. Today you're just going to open up, moan, and let me pamper you the way you deserve…”

His lips moved down your stomach, pushing your shirt up. He removed it completely, leaving your breasts exposed. He looked at them as if they were art.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said almost angrily. “I want to stay down here all night.”

And then he did it. He slid to the floor, on his knees, between your legs spread on the couch. He removed your underwear with his teeth.

Literally. He tugged at the fabric with his mouth, his eyes boring into yours. And when he had you completely exposed, he smiled. A dirty smile. Adoring. Proud. Hungry.

“I'm going to eat you so good you'll forget your name.”

You didn't respond. You just moaned his name. And when he stuck out his tongue and ran it, slowly, from your entrance to your clit, in a single, wet, delicious lick, you knew you had entered his domain. And he… wasn't in a hurry to let you out.

Braeden had his face between your thighs as if it were a temple. Your legs were spread over his shoulders, the chair trembling under your weight. Your hands tangled in his hair, squeezing without realizing it.

The first moan you let out at the feel of his tongue was involuntary… the second was pure supplication. He panted softly against you at the sound of you.

“That's it, baby… that's how I want you, releasing you for me…”

His tongue was slow, but precise. Gentle circles on your clit, then a light suction, then he went down to your entrance and licked it as if he were tasting you. And he tasted you. With hunger. With devotion. With impudence.

“God, you taste so good…” he murmured, his voice choked with desire.

“Like that…?” you managed to whisper, not recognizing your own voice. He raised his eyes, drenched in filthy tenderness.

“No, love. Exactly like that. As if you were made for my mouth.” He licked you again, this time inserting a finger. Slow. Hot. Wet. You felt your body accept him without resistance, your back arching, your head falling back.

“Do you want more, baby?”

“Yes… Brae, please…”

“One more? Or two?”

“You tell me…” you gasped.

“No, no, no,” he said with a crooked smile. “Tonight you decide. I just obey. How do you love me, princess? How do I love you? Like this. Undone. Melted. Full."

“Give me two…”

“Yes, my love.”

They entered slowly. His fingers were long, precise, careful. And his tongue never stopped. He knew exactly when to lick hard, when to lick softly, when to suck just a little on your clit to make you see stars.

“Your body is perfect… and all of this…” he pushed his fingers deeper. “This is all mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Brae… all yours…”

“That’s how I like it.” He sank deeper. He licked you as if he needed to memorize you. He circled with his tongue, pausing to kiss your center, murmuring

"you're so delicious" between sucks. And as he did so, his fingers found that inner spot that made your knees tremble. Curved. Slow. Without fail.

“You're so tight, baby… so wet. Do you know what you're doing to my mouth?”

“You're going to make me come…”

“Yes?”

“Yes… don't stop…”

“I'm not stopping.” And he didn't stop. He brought a free hand to your belly and pressed gently as he continued pumping and sucking, murmuring your name against your skin like a dirty prayer.

All you could do was moan. Writhe. Dig your nails into his hair as you opened wider, desperately seeking that climax that was already there, brushing against your edges.

“Come loose for me, love…”

“Brae…”

“I want to see you come… on my tongue, princess. Here. For me.”

“Yes—yes—yes!”

Your body shattered like glass. The orgasm reached you with sacred violence. Your legs shook, your hips thrust against his face, and your fingers gripped him like you were falling.

And Braeden… he didn't pull away for a second. He held you. He licked you through the spasm.

He let you come in his mouth like it was the only place it was supposed to happen. And when you were done, he moved up, his mouth glistening, his chest heaving, his eyes darker than ever.

"That was just the beginning, princess," he said against your lips. "Do you want more?"

And you trembling, soaked, undone could only speak the truth: "Yes. More. Everything."

Your gaze was still clouded. The orgasm was still pulsing between your legs, as if his tongue were still licking you, as if his fingers were still caressing you inside.

But he wasn't down there anymore. He was in front of you. Naked. On his knees on the couch. Naked. His chest was glowing with heat. His abdomen was rising and falling, defined, tense. His erection was evident, red, veiny, throbbing... and enormous.

And he knew it. Because he saw you looking at it.

"Are you okay?" he asked in that half-innocent, half-perverted voice.

"Mhm..."

He settled between your legs. He lowered himself on top of you, resting his forearms on either side of your head, his erection pressing against your center without entering yet. Just brushing against you. Hot. Tempting.

Braeden looked into your eyes, with that smile of his: a mixture of tenderness, malice, and something dangerously playful. “Do you want me to put it in you, love?”

“Yes…”

“Sure?”

“Yes, Brae. Please…”

“All the way?”

“Yes…”

“But all the way?”

“Braeden…”

“Just like that, balls and all?”

HE TOLD YOU. WITH HIS WHOLE FACE. WITH GOOFY SERIOUSNESS AND HOT EYES.

You let out a laugh between gasps. So did he. But his laughter turned into a moan as he thrust his pelvis slightly forward, sliding the tip of his cock into your entrance, which was already so wet the sound was indecent.

“Listen to that…” he murmured. “Your body is begging me to enter you.” He looked at you. “Do you want to feel all of me? All the way. Until you don't know where you end and I begin.”

“Yes, please…”

“Tell me nicely.”

“Brae… please, put it all in me… I need you inside…”

“That's it, princess…” Then he did it. The tip entered first. Just a little. Just to tease you. Just to make you beg. Then another inch. Slowly. Slow. Torturing. Devoted.

“You're so tight…” he murmured, his teeth digging into his lower lip. “You feel like fucking heaven.” Your nails dug into his back as you felt him push in further, halfway. “Breathe with me, baby… you'll be able to. I'll open you up…” And he did. Sweetly and firmly. He pushed all the way in.

To the base. Until his balls touched you. Literally. Until your body arched with pleasure and he let out a “fuck, my love… you’re made for me.” He stayed still inside. Feeling you. Squeezing you. Kissing your neck.

“Look how well you swallow me…”

“Don’t pull out…” you whispered. “I’m never going to pull out.” Braeden moved his pelvis slightly, caressing you inside with that perfect pressure that made your legs tremble.

Then he pulled out again… almost to the tip… …and slammed back in.

Plop. The sound was dirty. Real. Intimate.

And you moaned as if your soul was being opened. “That’s how you like it, princess?”

“Yes… more…”

“Slower or harder?”

“As you wish…”

“No. As you wish. Tonight I only exist for you.” And he began to move. Slowly. Long. Softly. With kisses. With glances. And with that dirty smile of knowing you were completely his.

The way Braeden moved inside you wasn't human. It was slow. Firm. Devotional. As if fucking you were some kind of religious act. As if your body were a shrine and his cock the only prayer you needed.

Each thrust was gentle, deep, and sure. His pelvis rubbed against yours, his hips thrusting slowly but hungrily, and his hands… God, his hands. One on your waist, holding you steady. The other on your face, caressing your cheek as if he needed to calm you down between thrusts.

“That's it, my love… like that, spread your legs for me,” he murmured huskily, looking into your eyes.

“Brae…” you gasped, moaning loudly, without filter.

“You're so loud… I love the way you sound when I slowly break you.” He kissed you. A deep, dirty kiss, full of saliva and love. And while he kissed you, he continued to fuck you slowly. All the way. Always all the way.

Your moans were now loose, uncontrolled moans. They rose and fell with each thrust. Some ended in soft cries, in sobs that came between laughs, between moans you could barely contain.

And Braeden noticed. He stopped for a second. He looked at you. Your eyes were watering. Not from pain. From pure pleasure. He was fucking you so well that tears were coming to your eyes. And he was moved. And he grew hot. Both at the same time.

“Are you crying, Princess?”

You nodded, your lips trembling.

“Does it hurt?”

“No… it's just… I've never been fucked like this…”

He smiled. And he thrust again. Slowly. Hard. Sacred.

“This is how I want you to remember me every time you close your eyes, you know?” Slap. “Like this. With my cock inside you.” Clap. “Your body trembling.” Clap. “Your little face crying because it feels so good.”

You moaned in his ear. Loud. Scandalously. Unashamed.

“Braeden, don't stop…!”

“No way, princess.” He sat you up a little. He changed the angle. He lifted your legs over his shoulders. His pelvis ground against you.

Your clit rubbed right against his pelvic bone with each thrust. Clap clap clap clap. The sound filled the room. Your screams too. And his words.

“You feel so good… so warm… so made for me.”

“More…”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes!”

“Do you want me to fuck you while I tell you I love you?”

“Yes, Brae, please”

And he leaned over you, and said it, in your ear, just as he thrust back in completely:

“I love you, princess. I love you so much I'm going to come feeling you squeeze me inside.”

Your second orgasm hit suddenly. Without warning. Your whole body shook. Your legs buckled. Your chest heaved. And you screamed. You literally screamed. And he stayed inside you, holding you, thrusting, saying: “That's it. Moan like that. I love hearing you break for me…”

Your legs were already spread beyond natural range. Your back arched. Your throat dry from moaning. Your nipples hard, your body vibrating.

And Braeden… Sweaty. Grunting. Asking your permission to come as if you weren't already his. “Can I, princess?” His voice was a low, ragged, husky moan. “Can I fill you? Can I come inside you properly?”

“Yes… Brae, please… inside… inside… don't stop…”

“Fuck…” His pelvis was thrusting without rhythm anymore. Desperate. Lost.

He pounded into you in a mixture of need and adoration, panting, saying your name as if he was praying. And then he felt it. Your pussy clenching again, pulling him, sucking him, as if your body wanted to milk every damn spurt.

“Fuck—fuck, my love, don't stop squeezing me!”

You moaned. And Braeden came. He came inside. A deep, throaty moan, filled with emotion and lust, tore through him as he thrust his entire cock inside you one last time, his hips bucked against yours. Hot. Thick. So much. You could feel every pulse. Every surge. Every hot spurt filling you, sinking deep inside you.

Braeden trembled on top of you. His chest pressed against yours. His breath panted against your neck. “Fuck… fuck, love… I've never come like this… you're milking me…” You just moaned, your eyes rolling back, feeling the heat spread inside you.

His cock was still throbbing. He kept releasing. Slowly. Heavy. As if his body wanted to empty itself completely into yours.

“You’re full of me, baby…” he murmured against your ear, still thrusting gently. “I can feel my cum staying inside… warm… just where it belongs.”

He kissed your mouth. Softly. Tenderly. But dirty in intent. “I love you like this… all mine. All full. I want you to walk tomorrow and feel it dripping out of you, princess.”

“Brae…” you whispered.

“Did you like it when I filled you like this?”

“Like this. Exactly like this.”

The room smelled of sex. Of skin. Of melted candles. Of desire that burned out and left glowing embers on your thighs, in your chest, in your still-throbbing core.

Braeden hadn't pulled out. He was still inside. His cock, soft but still warm, still nestled deep inside you, wrapped by your walls that wouldn't let go. Your legs were still wrapped around his waist. Your body, broken. And your soul... gentle.

His face was buried in your neck. He breathed slowly, as if inhaling your essence straight from the root. "Are you okay, princess?" he murmured, his voice husky, low, vulnerable.

"Yes..."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. I just... feel... full."

He smiled against your skin. "Because you are, love. Inside... and out. Literally." He laughed softly. Goofy, soft. He kissed your neck with a filthy affection.

"Have you moved yet?"

"No."

"Can I take it out...?"

"No."

"So you want me to stay here forever?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

And he stayed. Minutes. Whole. Holding you. Inside you. Until his kisses began to descend again. This time tender. Harmless. On your collarbone. On your chest. On your belly. And when he finally pulled out with a stifled moan and a hot trickle of his seed slowly leaking from you he kissed you between your legs.

Not with desire. With devotion.

Then he stood up, shirtless, unhurried. He took a damp, warm towel. He came back. He carefully opened your legs. He cleaned you tenderly. Every drop. Every fold. Without taking his eyes off.

"You're beautiful like this, you know?"

"Like this?"

"Like this... all mine. All full. Still trembling. With my cum between your legs... and my name on your lips." He put you His boxers.

Then he helped you put on a hoodie, also his. He picked you up in his arms as if you weighed less than the desire that still burned within him, and carried you back to the couch, wrapping a blanket around both of you.

He settled behind you, hugging you from behind, his bare chest against your warm back. He kissed the back of your neck. He whispered softly,

“I love you, princess.”

“Me too, Brae.”

“Promise me you'll let me fuck you like this forever.”

“If you always hold me like this afterward…”

“It's a deal.”

[alcapzr]

hiiiiii its me again i was wondering if you could write a fic based on the song pleaser where braeden he cant really tell the person how he feels but he can hint it and if they cant understand then he might as well leave. but can it end good!! with a bit of angst bc braeden is frustrated shes not picking up on the signs hes giving her. thanks!!!

𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒓 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Sligthly angst, Cole and Dylan cameo, Braeden still self-quotingm, Soft friendzone,

The sun filtered lazily through the trees in the café garden, creating warm patches on the wooden table where they were sitting.

All around them were Sunday vibes: laughter in the background, the clatter of cutlery, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and avocado. Braeden stirred his poke bowl with chopsticks in one hand and his cell phone, face down, ignored, in the other.

He wore a gray hoodie that hung over his shoulders as if the world were weightless.

You were sitting across from him, your leg crossed on the chair, eating your salmon bowl like it was the best thing you'd tasted in weeks. You were wearing dark glasses, but you'd pushed them down to the end of your nose, just enough for him to see your eyes sparkle when you talked about that Australian band you'd discovered.

"You know what's the craziest thing?" you said, waving your hands as if that would help. "They sound a little like early Arctic Monkeys, but with a saxophone. Saxophone, Braeden! Can you imagine?"

He smiled, not because of the music, but because of the way your words tangled when you were excited. He leaned his elbow on the table, twirling the chopsticks between his fingers.

"Do you realize everyone in this place is looking at us like we're a couple?" he blurted out casually, as if it were nothing.

You didn't even look up. "Well, because I'm wearing these glasses and you look like you just woke up. They probably think we came straight from fucking or something."

Braeden chuckled. You hadn't caught on. Of course not.

"Or maybe because we look good together," he insisted, pushing a piece of mango with his chopsticks. "Like... a couple."

You finally raised your head and smiled at him halfway, confused. "But we're not, right?"

You tucked your hair behind your ear as you sipped your matcha latte like it was nothing.

He looked at you with a mixture of “I’m laughing but it also hurts a little.”

"No," he said, looking down at his bowl. "But we'd make a good couple. I mean... if we were."

You laughed, distracted, thinking it was one of his Sunday jokes. The kind of comment he used to make after seeing you drip soy sauce on your white pants or after you beat him at Mario Kart.

"Sure, Brae. Just like you'd make a good astronaut if you grew your hair like in the remote era."

And you went back to concentrating on your food, while he, with his smile almost invisible, his tongue in his cheek, and his heart pounding, continued to look at you as if you were the answer to a song he'd been trying to write for months.

It hadn't even been ten minutes since you'd emptied your poke bowl when Cole appeared.

He arrived as always: relaxed, wearing flip-flops, wearing sunglasses even though the sky was partly cloudy, and carrying a brown paper bag that smelled of freshly baked banana bread. He plopped down in the empty chair next to Braeden with the comfort of someone who knows his presence is welcome even uninvited.

"Did you tell him about the plant store?" her said to Braeden as he took out two thick slices of bread and handed one to you.

"What plant store?" you asked, tearing the piece with your hands.

"Nothing, it was just a stupid thing," Braeden said, looking down.

"Nah, it wasn't a stupid thing," Cole insisted with a smirk. "This asshole bought a succulent for someone and ended up taking care of it like it was a baby."

You laughed. "And who was the lucky one?"

"No one," Braeden said quickly. "A gift," Cole said, more calmly. "For someone who never knew it was for her."

Braeden closed his eyes. Cole let out a dry laugh. You just bit into your bread, unaware that someone was speaking directly to you.

"Sometimes I wonder how you can be so brilliant at some things and so slow at others," Cole said, half-laughing.

"Me? Why?" you asked, wiping the crumbs off with your hand.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Sometimes I feel like Braeden's speaking to you in Morse code, even though the Wi-Fi's off." Braeden choked on his matcha latte. He coughed softly, shaking his head. You just looked at him, worried.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just... the tea was very hot."

Cole leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, and let out a low laugh, the kind he only makes when he's already enjoying the circus. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Sometimes feelings aren't so obvious."

"Whose feelings?" you asked.

"See? That's what I'm saying." Braeden put her chopsticks down on her napkin.

He hadn't touched his bowl in a while. His leg bounced nervously under the table. His eyes darted from your face to the cup, to the bag of bread, to the sky.

"I've been like this for months," he murmured.

"How?" you asked distractedly, looking at your phone.

"Like this," he repeated, more firmly now. "Hoping that one day you'll look at me and see the same thing I see when I look at you."

Cole fell silent. For the first time since he arrived, his smile faded. You blinked.

"What?" Braeden ran his hand down the back of his neck, as if lifting an invisible weight. He didn't look at you. "Nothing. Forget it."

Cole stood up, as if he understood he was done. He stuffed the remaining banana bread back into his bag, straightened his glasses, and said goodbye with a pat on Braeden's shoulder."Good luck, bro." And he gave you a look. One of those looks that said, "Please open your eyes before it's too late."

But you just smiled. "What's wrong?" And Braeden thought, once again, that maybe you'd never understand.

Cole had already left, the banana bread was cooling on the table, and you were still arching your eyebrow, mulling over what had just happened.

There was something odd in the air. As if the air had been filled with something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Like when you walk into a room where someone has just cried, and there's no sign of it, but you can feel it.

Braeden remained in his chair, playing with his straw, swirling it around in the almost empty glass.

"Who Is she?" you asked finally. "The girl with of the succulent. Were you going to give someone a plant and she never found out?"

He looked up. Not quickly. More like he was having a hard time meeting your eyes. As if he had to recognize you from a different place than usual.

"You still don't understand, do you?"

"Understand what?" He ran a hand over his face. The gesture of someone who's two seconds away from giving up. Or breaking down. Or saying what he's wanted to say for months, even if it'll screw him up forever. "It wasn't just a girl,'" he said without looking at you. "It wasn't a formal gift. It was... an impulse. Something stupid. Something of mine."

"Do I know her?" you asked, poking at the last bits of the bowl with your fork.

"Yes. You see her often."

You frowned. "Is she in the industry? Is she someone on the team? Because I say if she's close, you could do something?"

Braeden let out a bitter laugh. There was no humor in it. Only resignation.

"So what am I supposed to do?" he began, his voice now a little faster, more shaky. "Send her smoke signals? Tell her with little signs?" Write songs for her? Quote my own lyrics as if they weren't about her now? Quite a people pleaser if only I could please her...

You looked at him. Finally. Straight ahead. The words resonated in your chest like a strange, familiar echo. Something you'd heard before.

"Brae... why are you quoting your songs?" He looked up at you, and he wasn't upset. He wasn't frustrated. He was... tired. Like he was disassembling in slow motion.

"It doesn't count as a quote if I wrote it," he said. "Technically... they're my own words."

And then your heart sank. Because you got it. You got it all. The juicy bit. The innuendos. Cole's jokes. The songs. Pleaser.

Every word, every line, every "If I could tell you how I feel, Would you know what the words meant?" Braeden wasn't quoting Wallows. Braeden was the song.

Your fork fell into the bowl, with that tiny sound of metal against porcelain that seemed to echo too loud for the space.

Braeden wasn't putting on a show. He wasn't yelling at you or begging you. He wasn't looking at you as if he expected something in return. He was speaking to you from the place where the things you've been swallowing for so long that they've taken root live.

"It wasn't on purpose," he said softly. "I didn't want to... screw up what we have. What you are with me. What we are."

You blinked. You didn't know what to say. Your tongue caught in your throat. What are you supposed to say when you realize someone has been yelling "I love you" at you for months over the smallest of things, and you just looked away without noticing?

Braeden stood slowly. He slung his jacket over his arm and quietly pushed back his chair.

"I have to go," he murmured, not quite looking at you. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I didn't mean for it to be like this, okay? I... I had everything under control."

The lump in your throat was tightening as if someone was pulling at it from the inside.

"Brae..." you said barely, as if it were a wordless question.

He was already standing in front of you, one hand on the back of the chair, the most defeated expression you'd ever seen him wear.

"You don't have to say anything," he interrupted, with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Seriously. Just... sorry. If I messed something up. If you're feeling weird now. If you don't want the same thing anymore. It's okay."

You wanted to say something. To tell him you didn't know. That you were an idiot. That of course you'd felt it, but you never thought it was real. That he felt that way. That someone like him, so... him, could look at you like you were worth a song.

But you didn't say anything. Not yet. And he... left. He walked toward the door. He left the café. And you stood there, staring at the empty bowl as if it had just exploded in your face.

As if for the first time the bandages you didn't even know you'd put on had been ripped off.

You stayed in that chair as if your body no longer knew how to function. The coffee became too big, the lights too cold, the background music sounded like it was coming from a tunnel.

He'd talked to you, yes. Months. Yelling. But you didn't listen. And now, every damn scene came flooding back like a sick déjà vu.

"Everyone sees us as if we're a couple," Braeden had said that morning. You'd laughed. "But we're not." And he'd just looked down.

"But we'd make a good couple." And you'd replied something like "sure," while thinking about the avocado in your poke bowl.

Your mind exploded with all the times Cole had chuckled softly and said things like "the girl with the succulent" while Braeden glared at him.

The girl with the succulent plant was you. And Braeden had been dying in front of you without you seeing it. You closed your eyes. You saw it in your mind, in every possible scenario: When he came to pick you up at your house just because it was raining, even though you lived six blocks from the venue.

When he skipped a Dylan party because you were sad about being rejected from the casting and wanted to watch movies with you. When he wrote you a song and you just thought, “How beautiful, that sounds so personal.”

It was all about you. Everything. He was silently loving you, and you were looking the other way. The phone weighed like lead in your hand. You unlocked it. You entered the chat. And nothing.

Not a single message from him. Not a "Did you get there okay?", not a "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable," not even a passive-aggressive sticker.

Nothing. Braeden had given up. And you had let it get to that point. Because you were deaf. Because you were blind. Because you didn't want to accept that someone could love you so much without asking for anything in return. It started to hurt, real. In your chest. Like a strange pressure, as if you were short of breath, but it wasn't anxiety, but pure sadness. The sadness of "almosts" that become "never."

You stood up abruptly. You left bills on the table. You had to do something. Anything. But as you left, fear spoke to you: What if there's nothing left to do? What if it's too late? And for the first time... that possibility broke your soul.

Day one: You checked your messages every hour. Day two: You posted a story just to see if he'd see it. Day three: Nothing.

You didn't know if his silence hurt more or the void he'd left.

Because Braeden wasn't just your almost-something. He was your routine. Your safe space. Your chill in the form of a person. And now he was just a ghost with a guitar. Cole sent you a meme. Dylan liked a reel. But neither of them mentioned Braeden. And that broke you even more

Meanwhile, Braeden couldn't sleep.

"You're an asshole," Dylan said, his mouth full of ramen, as he watched him pace.

"Thanks, therapist," Braeden snorted.

"No kidding, asshole," Cole said from the couch, a stuffed animal on top of him. "Why did you come out like that? Why did you leave?"

Braeden sat on the floor, hands in his hair, not knowing what to say. There was no logical answer. Only that it hurt. It hurt to see you so close and not see him.

"I'm tired. I'm tired of yelling at her without saying anything."

"So why didn't you just tell her everything upfront?" Cole asked. "You're a musician, dude, but you don't read fortunes. I mean... neither does she."

"Because I was afraid she wouldn't love me back," he whispered. Silence. Dylan stood up. He poured himself more ramen. He took a sip. And without looking at him, he said:

"So now what? You preferred not knowing to knowing that I loved you?" Braeden swallowed. It felt like one of his own poorly mixed songs.

Like an unmastered demo. Like everything that breaks before someone says "I love you." Deep down... he thought he'd lost her. And you believed the same. While love floated away, ownerless, voiceless.

Six days passed. Six damn days of wondering if you did something wrong. Six days without Braeden. Without his squeaky voice. Without his fingers running through your hair. Without his half-nasal laugh that always made you laugh even when you were completely screwed.

A part of you said: that's it. A smaller, more painful part thought: if only I'd understood sooner.

So that afternoon tired, sad, and with your heart in your mouth you walked to his building. You climbed the stairs as if they were an emotional hill. And you knocked. Once. Twice. Until the door opened.

And Braeden was there. Dark-eyed. His hair tangled. And his eyes shining with relief.

"Hi..." you said barely, softly. Braeden didn't say anything. He just looked at you as if he hadn't seen you in years. As if it were impossible for you to be there. As if he still couldn't believe it. And when he saw you didn't leave, he sighed.

"I thought I'd lost you," he confessed.

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me anymore..."

"I didn't want to ruin things any further." He ran a hand down the back of his neck. "I'd already told you everything without telling you, and yet... you didn't notice."

"Braeden, I..."

"It's not your fault." He smiled sadly. "I spoke in code, hoping you had the key." Silence. And then you stepped forward.

"What if I have it now?" Braeden looked up. You said it without fear, your heart in your hand, your eyes moist: "I was waiting for you to tell me, because I was scared to death too. Because I also saw you as more than a friend. But if you didn't believe me, how could I prove it to you?"

Braeden swallowed. "So...?"

"Yeah, asshole," you said between nervous laughs. It was always you.

And that's when he hugged you. Not one of those hugs from friends who miss each other.

But one that said, "finally."

Braeden buried his face in your neck, releasing a breath he'd been holding back for days. You stroked his back, trembling. And when he pulled away, he looked at you as if you were his favorite song.

"Can I stop being cool for once?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

And then he kissed you. Slowly. Warmly. Like everything you didn't say to each other for months. When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

"So much fucking time wanting to tell you 'I love you'..."

"Then say it." And he said it.

"I love you."

"And I love you."

You didn't need more. Because finally, you both understood.

[alcapzr]

can you please write a braeden fic where they meet at lollapalooza (or another music festival) where wallows are performing and the reader is either another performer or just someone attending and her and braeden meet and spend the rest of the festival together or something like that?

please and thank you <3

p.s. i’m literally obsessed with your fics you are amazing

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝑨𝒕 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Small Wallows set at Lollapalooza, Braeden watching Reader from the stage, Vibes from Before Sunrise, Chill Day

The Barricade is not a place for the faint of heart. You have to endure the shoving, the elbowing, the infernal heat, other people's sweat, and the flying beer glasses... but for you, that's worth every damn second.

Not because you're a groupie. Not because you're a hardcore fan. It's simply because you love the music up close. Because from the Barricade, you don't just hear it, you feel it. The bass drum rumbles in your stomach, the guitarists' fingers are visible in detail, the drummer's smiles feel genuine, and the singers' eyes... well, you hadn't considered those until now.

Because it turns out Braeden Lemasters' eyes are on you. And you don't know what the hell to do with it.

"They're coming, they're coming," says the girl next to you.

You just adjust the fabric band on your wrist and straighten your top, swallowing hard. You're good at enjoying concerts, dancing, singing along from a distance... but this is something else. This is being right up front, with the three of them just a few feet away.

They get on one by one. First Dylan, wearing that Shakira t-shirt. Then Cole, waving with an innocent smile. And finally him: Braeden. Striped shirt, hair a little longer than you expected, and guitar hanging low, just the way he likes it.

And you, just you, who was so calm sipping a red Gatorade as if you were watching a game, are paralyzed when his eyes lock onto yours from the first second. Not in the section. Not in the entire barricade. In YOU.

"Dude... I think he's looking at you," says the guy to your left, a guy you don't know at all and who's half-crowded with the crowd.

"What? No, don't be stupid," you reply quickly, half-laughing.

But you can't help it: you look back. And there he is. Without moving. Without blinking. Looking at you as if the fucking sun had just risen right in your face.

You look away, uncomfortable. Too bad. He's probably scanning everyone. His brain is probably processing the crowd, and it just happened to coincide.

Uh-huh. Absolutely.

"No, really. He won't take his eyes off you. It's been like three songs and the guy hasn't even blinked. Do you know him or something?" the guy insists, surprised.

"I wish!" you mumble, letting out a nervous laugh.

And then Braeden smiles. Not at the air. Not at the crowd. AT YOU.

And you... you don't know whether to smile back or splash Gatorade in your eyes to stop yourself from getting all worked up.

And then it starts. The unmistakable chords. The riff that seems to float in the air. "Pictures of Girls."

The whole crowd screams. The guy next to you jumps. The girl with the eyeliner cries. And you... well, you keep looking at him.

And he keeps looking at you. It's not that "oh, maybe it was just a coincidence" anymore.

No, no, we're already in the realm of shamelessness. Because as soon as the first line of the song begins, you notice that Braeden is still narrowing his eyes exclusively for you.

And now he comes with a new addition: that damn little smile. That... silly. Silly. Ridiculous. The one that makes you jealous because you, too, want to smile like that at someone and have them smile back.

And the smile grows. His nose wrinkles a little, his lips curl more than professionally permitted, and you feel something inside you explode.

You literally bend down and pretend to tie your sneakers so you don't melt on your feet.

"That's it. This guy's going to throw the guitar cable at you like a wedding bouquet," says the guy next to you, between laughter and envy.

"Shut up!" you say, still watching Braeden out of the corner of your eye.

And then it happens. He trips. Not like a dramatic fall. But enough for his foot to catch a cable, his guitar to shake, and Dylan to look at him with a mix of "what's up, dude?"

You cover your mouth. Braeden laughs. LAUGHS! I mean, not like "oops," but like "I don't give a shit, yeah, I got distracted watching you and I loved it."

And he sees you again. With that little smile that's more guilty than a Catholic in a motel.

He keeps playing, and while he sings the verse of "I see you there, still shy, but smilin'," he surreptitiously nods at you.

Is he flirting with you by singing that line? Is he flirting with you live? In front of thousands of people?

Your legs feel weak. You grab onto the barricade. He notices, bites his lip... and keeps playing, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to play for an entire city and look at just one person.

And you only think one thing: Either I'll have a heart attack or I'll fall in love. There's no middle ground.

The show ends on a high. One last chord, the strobe lights, the ovation, and the classic "thank you, we're Wallows" with Dylan dropping the pick, Cole smiling with sweat pouring down his eyelashes, and Braeden... well.

Braeden staring at you as if you were the only one who came.

You stand there for a while longer, holding onto the barricade as if the black plastic were the only thing holding your soul.

Until bam, the DJ set starts. An explosion of bass, neon lights, and a voice saying “MAKE SOME NOISEEEE” that honestly makes you nauseous. “Okay, no, bye,” you say. Not your vibe.

So, with your heart still beating fast and your soul half in orbit, you decide to do the most logical thing: run away.

You walk away from the main stage, your ears ringing, your top stuck to your body with sweat and Gatorade, and your mind repeating:

> “He smiled at you.” “He looked at you the whole show.” “He tripped over you!”

You're so caught up in that loop of thoughts that you don't even realize your steps are leading you to a smaller stage.

One with warm lights, a live indie folk band, and a quieter audience, with blankets on the grass and couples sharing cartons of juice. Much more your vibe. You sit in a corner, take a deep breath.

You take out your phone. You send a text that says: > “Guys, I think Braeden Lemasters saw me at the show and laughed after he tripped. I'm shaking.”

But you don't get to hit send. Because a shadow falls over you. And a familiar, soft voice, one of those that has a hint of a smile even when saying simple things, says:

"Can I bother you for a second?"

You look up.

And there he is. Braeden fucking Lemasters. No guitar, no lights, no artificial smoke. With a half-empty bottle of water, damp hair, sun-kissed arms, and that "you know it's me, but I still want to surprise you" face. You fall silent. "You're the one at the barricade, aren't you?" he asks, his eyes squinting from the sun and a half-smile that should already be illegal.

Silence. Your heart screams. Your legs tremble. Your soul slides to the floor.

"Um... yeah. It was me. I guess," you manage, swallowing, in the chillest voice you can muster even though inside you're screaming.

He laughs. LAUGHS. And sits next to you as if nothing happened.

"You almost killed me today, you know?" he says, pointing at his leg. And you:

"Oh, no! Did I do something to you?"

"I almost tripped looking at you," he replies, softly, almost secretly. And he adds in a tone of sweet mockery:

"But hey, I guess it was worth it."

WAS IT WORTH IT? WAS IT WORTH WHAT, DYING FOR YOU? WHAT IS THIS MOVIE?

You laugh. You can't help it. The air smells of grass, festival dust, live music. And now it smells of him.

"Can I stay here for a while?" he asks, glancing at you as his arm brushes yours.

And you, with your heart breaking and your smile trembling, say: "Of course. Anyway, you already killed me a while ago."

The band on the small stage sounds soft, half-melancholic, with acoustic touches that seem taken from a Parisian café.

The audience is sprawled on blankets and mats, sharing glances, bottles of cheap wine, and silences worth a thousand screams.

And you're sitting on the grass, with Braeden Lemasters at your side. Not as an artist. Not as a celebrity. Like a kid with bright eyes, legs stretched out, and restless hands that don't know whether to touch you or stay still.

"Do you like these vibes?" he asks, looking at the stage with his head resting on one knee.

"Much more than the DJ set that left everyone deaf a while ago," you answer, smiling as you spy on him out of the corner of your eye. He laughs softly. And that starts the conversation flowing.

First, he asks you what band you were originally coming to see. Then, how did you get the idea to come alone? Then, if you've ever been to Europe? Then, what your favorite movie is? Then, if you think people can fall in love without really knowing each other.

And you answer everything. Honestly. Calmly. Without realizing that you've not been talking to the Wallows guitarist for a while now, but to someone who looks at you like you're a poem he doesn't want to finish reading.

The conversation is becoming more intimate, softer. The stage lights dance across his face. The wind ruffles his hair. There's something incredibly quiet about the way he looks at you. As if the world around him is on pause, or in slow motion, and he just needs you to keep talking to keep from collapsing.

"Do you believe in instant connections?" he asks you after a while. The question hangs in the air, like the last note of an old song.

"It depends," you say quietly. "Sometimes I feel like I've known someone before... even if I've never met them."

"Like an emotional déjà vu?" he asks, turning his body slightly to look at you better.

"Yeah, like that. Or like the universe already had it written down and you're just realizing it."

"Wow... that was nice."

"I don't know if it was nice. Maybe a little ridiculous."

"No. It was... real." And there you stay. A few seconds, staring at each other. With the grass flattened between you. With the murmurs of the festival in the background.

With your heart racing slowly, as if in slow motion. He reaches out a hand. Not to touch you. Not yet. Just to bring it closer, in case you want to reach it. And you, without thinking much about it, let your fingers brush his. It's not a kiss. It's not a declaration. But damn, it feels more intimate than a thousand "I love yous."

"Do you want to go for a walk?" he asks, still holding your hand.

"Go for it," you say.

And you stand with him, as the stage recedes and the lights fade. Like in those movies where two strangers get lost together... ...and find each other in the process.

Walking with him through the festival feels unreal. Not because of the idea of "oh, I'm walking with Braeden Lemasters," but because of how effortless it is. As if you don't need a manual, as if the whole world has already practiced this moment a thousand times before.

The steps flow. So do the words. You passed a homemade ice cream stand, and he wanted to try the "blueberry and lavender" even though he knew he wouldn't like it. Spoiler: he didn't like it.

He offered you the spoon with a traumatized look, and you, laughing your head off, gave him your vanilla. He ended up giving you the whole cup and kept yours. The closest thing to a kiss you'vehad so far, and you both knew it.

Then you walked among hanging lights, food trucks, and people lying on blankets, until you passed a stand selling woven bracelets.

He saw them, he saw you, and without asking, he grabbed a random one, in earthy colors, and tied it around your wrist. "So you'll remember that tonight was real," he said.

You were about to answer something kind of profound, but right after as if it weren't your fault he blurts out:

"So... do you like Wallows?"

And you stare at him. That question, in that casual tone, with his tender face waiting for an answer, was a lethal combo.

"I mean, yeah..." you say, tucking your hair behind your ear. "I don't want to sound like a fangirl or anything, but... you're my favorite."

Braeden freezes. It literally feels like his brain has reset. "Me?" he asks, genuinely surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah," you laugh. "I feel like you're like... the quiet soul. Like the one who sets the mood. You're always on your trip, but when you smile on stage, it's like... ugh. I can't explain it. I find it really sweet."

Braeden dramatically puts a hand to his chest, as if he's melted from the inside out. "God, that was..." pause. "Can I record you saying that? I'll use it as my ringtone."

"Don't be ridiculous!" you say, laughing, nudging him gently.

But he's not laughing as much. He's looking at you differently. With a mixture of tenderness, interest, and something deeper he still can't say out loud.

"You know what? I'm glad I saw you from the stage."

"Did you see me?" you ask, feigning surprise.

"I saw you like... a hundred times. I remind you, I almost killed myself with a power line to see you."

And there you are again: The two of you stopping dead in front of a path lit by warm lights, with music playing in the background and your heart doing its thing. It's one of those scenes you know you'll remember even if it ends tomorrow.

Braeden looks at you. And says nothing. But deep in those eyes, there's a question he still can't bring himself to ask.

And you... you're so close to answering him. The little path you're following is lit by garlands hanging between trees. People passing by, laughter, the music from a distant stage. But you only see him.

You're talking about anything. About bad movies that turn out to be good. About food that shouldn't exist he hates pickle sandwiches, you can tolerate pancakes with bacon and honey. About childhood pets. And at one point, after you tell him your dog was named Artichoke and you had her until you were 15,

Braeden stops. He turns around. He looks at you. And out of nowhere, he blurts out:

"Hey... Can I ask you something?"

"Depends," you say, with that sly half-smile he's come to adore. He scratches the back of his neck. He's nervous.

"I don't want to be that guy. Like, that musician who flirts with fans like he's part of the after-show package. I'd be so embarrassed if you thought that. But..." He pauses, searching for words. "I had too much fun with you tonight. Like... more than I expected. And I'd love to get to know you better."

Your chest is pounding. It's a mix of nerves and surprise. The little voice in your head screaming: IS THIS HAPPENING?

"So... would you give me your number? Only if you want, obviously. But I promise I won't send you voice notes saying "what are you doing, thinking about me?" at two in the morning. Unless you ask me to."

You let out a small laugh. You have to look down because if you look at him directly, you'll melt right there. "I'll give it to you if you promise not to wait two days to text me."

"Who still does that?" he says, scandalized. "I text right away. Do you want me to text you something right now?"

"I'd think that would be very romantic," you say, handing him the unlocked phone.

Braeden grins like he's won the lottery. He types his number, puts a little heart emoji next to his name, and then sends it back to you with a smiley face that looks like it's my number, but I'm also giving my heart away with it.

And before you can say anything else, he stares at you silently. One second. Two.

"You're... like a mental break," he says. "And I don't get that very often."

Your heart swells. But in that cute way. Like someone wrapped it in gift paper and put a bow on it.

And then, without warning, he takes your hand. Just like he's done it a thousand times.

"Shall we walk a little longer?" he asks. And you can only nod, swallowing your idiotic smile.

Because yes. Braeden Lemasters is holding your hand. And you don't want this night to end.

You're sitting on a little hill away from the noise. In front of you, little lights twinkling in the sky. Fireworks from a random stage. People cheer from a distance, but you're in your own world.

Braeden leans back with his arms behind his head. You do the same. The pads of his fingers touch yours. He doesn't take your whole hand, but it's there. A tiny connection, one that says a lot without saying anything.

"I feel weird," he murmurs, looking up at the sky. You glance at him.

"Weird, good, or weird 'I want to leave'?"

"Weird, good. Very good. Like this isn't real. Like you're going to evaporate when I wake up."

"Well, I'm not a wet dream, if that helps."

"A little bit, actually," he says, and laughs softly.

And then, almost without thinking, he turns to you. He looks at you with those anxious puppy eyes. He leans in close. And with a care that breaks your heart in two, he kisses you.

It's a slightly silly kiss. Slow, gentle, without much experience but with all the desire in the world.

As if he's telling you with his mouth everything he doesn't yet dare to say with words.

When he pulls away, your eyes are still closed. And he, he has that little face that says, "Fuck off, I messed this up didn't I?"

"Was it too soon?" he whispers. "I didn't mean to be intense. It's just... I don't know. It felt good."

You open your eyes and see him. Braeden with swollen lips, red cheeks, the expression that looks like he's going to beat himself up if you don't say something soon.

You stroke his cheek with your index finger, as if his face were a painting you want to keep forever. "It felt perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're not intense. You're a nervous golden retriever who gives tender kisses. I like it."

He laughs. He closes his eyes for a second, as if processing that this is really happening. And just then, his phone vibrates. He checks it and grimaces.

"It's Dylan. He says the staff is leaving in five minutes and that either I get on the bus or I have to go back alone."

"You wouldn't survive," you say, laughing.

He reluctantly stands up, dusts off his pants, and looks at you with that "I don't want to leave, but if I stay, I'll fall more in love" face.

He helps you stand up. And before leaving, he looks at you again, this time lower, closer, his eyes shining:

"Are you going to call me, right?"

"Of course."

"Or text me. Or send me a voice note. Or a sticker."

"Would an anxious puppy do it?"

"It represents me too much," he says, smiling like a fool.

"But seriously... call me, okay? Please."

You give him one last, short kiss. Like a signature at the end of an unwritten contract.

And you watch him walk away, turning twice to look back at you.

Braeden Lemasters kissed you under the lights of a festival. He asked you to call him like his life depended on it. And you know yes, you're going to call him. Because this wasn't a fan-musician story. This was something else. And it's just beginning.

[alcapzr]

Hello idk if you’re comfortable with this but lately I’ve been dealing with some mental health issues and I was wondering if you could do a comfort fic with a wallows member and the reader hasn’t been looking after themselves properly like not eating properly, bed rotting etc… if you aren’t comfortable with this feel feel to ignore this

𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝑶𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖 ♡︎ (Dylan Minette X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Hurt comfort, T.W for mental health, Depressive episode, Dylan taking care of the reader

A/N: I know I got a lot of requests before this one but I don't know the truth is I got the vibe that they really needs it So I don't know, I suppose this is my way of helping and I also take this opportunity to say that if you have any requests related to mental health, I am willing to fulfill them. But the most important thing here is that I hope with all my heart that you get ahead soon. I can't say that I understand you perfectly because everyone carries their struggles in their own way. But I know it's frustrating Feeling like you're constantly at war with your mind, I really hope you feel better soon. <3

The room smells like you, but not like that "you" of perfume and laughter, but rather the "you" of cold sweat and dried tears.

There's a half-drunk cup of coffee on the nightstand, the blinds have been closed for three days, and your phone keeps vibrating under the pillow, as if it doesn't understand that each notification is another brick in your chest.

You haven't showered. You haven't eaten. You don't even remember the last time you spoke. Everything is on pause. Except the pain. It doesn't give you a break.

You're curled up in a ball in bed, under the same blanket that smells like Dylan, but not even that's enough. Not this time.

Your eyes are swollen, your stomach is churning, and your body is so tired that moving seems like torture. Not even crying comforts you anymore. It only burns. It only weighs.

The phone vibrates again. Dylan. Dylan again. You've lost count. You've been ignoring him since yesterday morning, when your body said "no more" and your mind went off like a switch.

"Baby, are you okay? You're scaring me."

"Please answer?"

"Just tell me you're alive."

"I'm coming to your house, I don't care. If You don't want me to"

You read it. All of them. Every message. But you didn't reply. Because what do you say when you don't even know what's going on?

Your body trembles even though it's not cold. And when you finally think you're going to manage to fall asleep or disappear, whichever comes first you hear a dry sound from the other side of the apartment.

The door. And not just any door: the front door. The footsteps are familiar. Quick. Desperate. Dylan.

"Y/N? Love! Where are you?"

You don't answer. You can't. Your throat is useless. Your chest burns.

The footsteps take him to the hallway, then to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. And finally... The click of the lock. Your door opens. Dylan walks in. And his world, finally, breathes.

Dylan stands in the doorway. And says nothing. Not yet. He just looks at you. And what he sees breaks something deep inside him.

You, curled up in a ball. Tangled in old blankets. Messy hair. Deep dark circles under his eyes. Glassy, red, cracked eyes. Pale, empty skin. Your cell phone to the side, silent. The food still on the tray, untouched. A half-evaporated glass of water. And the darkness... as if the room were depressed with you. He swallows.

And his throat won't cooperate. The pain is noticeable on his face. As if a part of him is also crumbling inside, for not having been here before. For not having noticed. For not having read your silence.

"My love..." he murmurs, barely a whisper. "Since when have you been like this?"

You don't expect him to sit down. But he does. He kneels beside the bed, not touching you. He breathes slowly. As if any movement could break you further. His eyes scan your face, your hands, the covers. Everything. And his gaze is filled with a love so sad, so pure, that it hurts more than any words.

"You haven't eaten, have you?" he says, staring at the tray, his heart sinking. "You haven't gotten up." You don't answer.

You just close your eyes more. Because looking at him is like looking at the part of you that still wants to get out of this, and it's scary. Because seeing someone love you like this, even when you can't love yourself even a little, is brutal.

Dylan wipes his eyes without you seeing him. And he sits on the edge of the bed, slowly, as if asking permission without saying it.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk, okay? Just... I'm here. I'm going to stay with you."

And without asking for anything, without pushing you, without wanting to rescue you like a caped hero... Dylan stays. With you. In the dark room. Among the dirty dishes. With sadness floating like mist. With his heart broken to see you like this, but more willing than ever to hold you until you can do it alone.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. But in this space suspended in sadness, time doesn't exist. There's only Dylan. And you, snuggled up against him. Wrapped in a blanket and in his warmth, which doesn't judge, doesn't press. He just is.

And then, when he notices your fingers move a little, barely, as if responding to his closeness... Dylan straightens a little. He tenderly smooths your hair. He caresses your cheek with the back of his hand.

"Love..." he whispers, in that low voice that always calms you. "Listen to me for a second, okay?"

You don't answer. But you don't have to. He knows you're hearing him.

"I don't want you to force yourself to be well. Or to rush out of bed. Or to smile if you can't. But you haven't eaten, my love. You haven't bathed. You haven't left this bed in days. And I... I'm here. Not because it hurts, which it does..." he swallows, "but because I need you. Because I can't imagine this world without you. Not even when you think you're worthless." His voice trembles. But he continues. "Then do it for me, okay? Just a little. Just for today. Get up. Drink some water. Eat something. Take a shower if you can. And if you can't do it alone... I'll help you."

Your jaw trembles. Emotion rises from your chest like a horrible knot. Because it hurts. Because you want to stay there. But also... because her words touch a place you thought was dead.

"Do it for me, love," he says again. "Because I don't just love you when you're okay. I love you like this too. But I need you here. With me. Even if it's crawling. Even if it's halfway. But alive. With me."

And then, you... Without looking at him yet... You just nod. Small. Slow. But yes. Because you love him. Because he loves you. And even though the world is on pause, he's giving you a reason to press play.

You break. Just like that, without warning. As if Dylan's words had tugged at the very thread holding your whole world in balance.

The lump in your throat explodes, and the tears fall uncontrollably. But this time... they don't hurt the same. This time... it's different. Because you cry in his arms. On his chest. With his hand on your back. And his scent of safety enveloping everything.

"That, love... get it out. Cry all you need. You're safe here, okay?" Dylan murmurs, his voice breaking, his lips against your forehead. He doesn't tell you to stop. He doesn't wipe your tears away as if they were in the way. He just holds you. He lets you cry out everything you've been holding in.

That emptiness. That fear. That guilt. Everything. He holds you tight, but soft. As if you were a glass vessel with your soul shattered. And when your crying begins to calm not because you're okay, but because you're exhausted

Dylan smooths your hair with his fingers. He brushes it with a tenderness that seems magical. As if with every caress he's telling you, "I'm still here."

He runs his nails over your scalp slowly, steadily, hypnotically. And you breathe for the first time in days without it hurting so much.

"You're so brave, love..." he whispers, kissing your damp forehead. "You're doing well. Believe it or not."

You just squeeze his shirt between your fingers. Like it's your lifeline. Dylan, seeing your swollen face, your red eyes, your wet cheeks, smiles with that all-encompassing love.

"Hey... are you craving anything?" he asks, caressing your cheek. "I'm not going to let you cook or lift a finger today. But I'm going to order dinner. Whatever you want. Sushi, pizza, pasta, soup, whatever."

He takes your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours. "Just tell me. I'll take care of it. Just stay here... with me. Okay?"

And you... You finally look at him. With eyes full of gratitude and a sliver of light seeping through the cracks. Because you don't know how to do it alone. But with him, it seems a little more possible.

Then the food arrives. And Dylan is the one who goes for it. You haven't moved at all, but at least you're already sitting up in bed, wrapped in his giant hoodie, with your hair damp because yes, he helped you shower beforehand, patiently, carefully, without invading, just accompanying and your eyes still red, but open. Present. Even if it's just a little.

Dylan enters the room with the delivery bag as if he were carrying gold. He sits next to you, opens the packages, puts everything on a small tray, and takes out a fork.

"I know you're not hungry. I know. But at least it's just a bite. Not out of obligation, love. For you. For your body that's asking for help. And if you can't do it alone... let me help you."

You just look at him. With your lips sealed. Your throat closed. But he comes closer, takes a small piece, and offers it straight to your mouth. And you... open your mouth. You accept it.

It's small, but it tastes like love. Like "I'm here." Like "you're not alone." Like "you don't have to do everything alone."

Dylan smiles, his eyes shining. He wipes a little bit with a napkin and kisses your forehead. "That's it, my love. Little by little." "Another one?"

You nod. And he repeats the process. He feeds you. You cuddle with his arm. As if it's the anchor you didn't know you needed. And when you finish a couple more bites, when you lie on his chest while he eats his food with one hand, he says softly:

"Love... I know this won't be fixed in a day. And I'm not going to tell you everything will magically be okay. But I want you to know something, and to believe it: I'm here for you. For everything." If you need to talk, if you need to cry, if you need professional help... I'm here. If you want a therapist, I'll find one with you. If you want company at every appointment, I'll drive. If one day you can't get up, I'll go to bed with you. I'm your network. Your helpline. Your emergency button. Your home."

You squeeze closer to him. As if those words were the softest blanket in the world. Because they are. Dylan strokes your arm, kisses your hair. "I'm not asking you to be okay, love. Just that you let me help you get better. Together. At our own pace. With love. With patience."

And you don't speak. You don't need to. Because in this moment, with his body holding you and his voice as a refuge... It doesn't hurt so much anymore.

Night falls soundlessly. As if it also knew you needed calm.

Dylan has already turned off the bedroom light, left the delivery packages in the kitchen, and put on a soft playlist in the background nothing sad, just enough to make the room not feel so empty.

You're on his chest. Literally lying on top of him. His hands caress your arm slowly, in small, rhythmic circles. His breathing sets the pace for you.

And for the first time in days, you don't feel like you're drowning. You're still broken. But not alone anymore.

"Are you calmer?" he asks softly, as if he doesn't want to burst the bubble.

You only make a barely audible noise. Like a sighing "yes." And he holds you a little tighter. Silence. Peace.

And then, without warning, Dylan whispers something that soaks under your skin like a balm:

"You're my favorite person, you know? Not just when you're laughing. Not just when you're dressed pretty or cracking jokes or dancing in the living room. Also when you're like this. Broken. Fragile. Weak. Because even at your worst... you're still you. And I choose you. Like this. Always."

Your lips tremble. But you don't cry. Not anymore. You just hold him tighter. You wrap yourself around him like he's your home. Because he is.

"Rest, my love," he whispers, kissing your forehead. "We'll continue tomorrow. Step by step. Together."

And so, pressed against his chest, with his voice like a lullaby and his body like a shield, you fall asleep. And he doesn't move. Not an inch. Because he's where he wants to be. With you. And for the first time in days... You sleep. And the world doesn't feel so terrible.

[alcapzr]

Heyyy so I just read all your braeden angsts and holy I almost cried, so good. If it's not too much trouble could you write another? I'm such a hoe for a good angst with a happy ending.

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒏𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒔 ❥︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Angst, Date gone wrong, vulnerability, rejected marriage proposal, emotional, Rift in relationship,Panic attack, Mention of parents' divorce ,Good but heartbreaking ending,

The city was cold, but not that harsh, cutting cold. It was one of those gentle, almost ceremonial chills, as if it knew something important was about to happen. As if the whole world had turned down the volume so that moment, just that moment, could be felt more clearly.

Braeden opened the Uber door for you with a calm smile. That smile of his you knew by heart: the one he wore when he was nervous but pretended not to be.

He was wearing a navy blue shirt that matched his tailored suit perfectly. His hair was a little more combed than usual, but still with loose strands falling over his forehead as if chaos were his favorite accessory.

"You look beautiful," he told you as he helped you out.

You blushed, but you hid it. The black dress was new, long, and backless. And heels weren't your style, but for him... well, for him, they were.

He'd told you he wanted to take you somewhere special. “Elegant. Beautiful. Like you,” he had said in the message.

The restaurant was one of those where everything sparkled. The gold sign, the soft lights, the valet with a face like an expensive funeral.

A waiter opened the door for you, and Braeden placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you with that tenderness of his that I didn't even know was sexy.

You walked between quiet tables and tall glasses. People spoke softly, as if even sighs were difficult. A piano in the background played something melancholic but beautiful. The kind of song that would make you cry if you were alone with wine.

When you sat down, he ordered red wine. You ordered water first, because you felt something strange. Not bad. Just... strange.

"Why this place, Brae?" you asked with a smile.

He shrugged and reached out to take your hand. That habit of his, interlacing your fingers and then stroking his thumb against your skin.

"Because no one interrupts us here." "And because I feel like showing you off," he replied.

You laughed, nervous. So did he. But behind those green eyes, there was something else. Something you hadn't seen before. Like a tense glow. Like a secret in his throat.

"Are you okay?" you asked, tilting your head.

"Yes. I just... want tonight to be perfect," he whispered.

The wine arrived. You toasted. The glass clinked like a warning you couldn't read.

Outside, it was starting to drizzle. The city dripped softly, as if the sky was nervous too.

The conversation flowed as always: laughter, sarcasm, stories from when you were in the talking stage, from when Braeden taught you to play guitar and you taught him to cry watching movies.

But he looked at your hand as if he were waiting for something. As if he was seeing it empty for the last time.

The first kiss came just after the first sip of wine. It tasted of cherry, of nerves, and of that faint electricity that ran through you when Braeden touched you accidentally... or too deliberately.

He leaned across the table with his lips half-parted, and you followed him as if by reflex. As if your mouth already knew the way, without needing a map. It was short, but gentle. Warm. And when you separated, he smiled like a child who'd just opened his favorite present.

"I can't believe how pretty you look. It's illegal," he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but the blush crept up to your ears. Braeden wasn't new to saying things like that, but this time… this time he seemed genuinely excited. As if you were something too important to him. As if he was mentally recording your every gesture.

"You look handsome too. Very… formal. Who are you going to impress?" you said with a wink.

Braeden laughed, that soft, nasal sound you loved. "The woman of my life, if all goes well," he replied.

You just smiled at him, thinking it was one of those nice things he says without a filter, unaware of how much it disarms you.

While he talked about a ridiculous anecdote about when they were filming a music video and he dropped his guitar on top of him, you looked at him with a quiet love. The kind you don't shout, but you feel it in every heartbeat.

The waiter returned with a basket of warm bread. Braeden ordered more wine. And at that moment, you noticed something strange: from the bar, a couple of servers were pointing at you.

One even nodded with a strange little smile, as if he knew something. As if they all knew something.

You frowned. "Why are they staring at us so much?" you murmured, lowering your voice a little.

Braeden discreetly glanced where you were pointing and then looked back at you with a soft, nonchalant expression. "I'm sure they recognized me. You know the drill..." he winked at you. "Although it could also be that they saw you walk in with that dress and thought, 'Jesus, that guy's lucky.'"

You chuckled and lightly kicked him under the table. "Idiot."

"Your idiot." he said, so softly it tickled your chest.

You ate again. He gave you half of his risotto. You gave him some of your pasta. Everything was intimate, calm, like a slow-motion scene where nothing bad could happen.

He wiped the corner of your lip with his fingertip. You picked a piece of lint off his jacket. There was tenderness, there was warmth.

But you didn't see that his right hand kept caressing the inside pocket of his jacket. A nervous, repetitive caress. As if inside that pocket there was a secret that weighed more than it should. And you, even without knowing it, were about to hear everything.

The wine ran out faster than they expected. Or maybe it was time that slipped away between glances, between knowing laughter, and fingers searching for each other on the white tablecloth, the one already covered in crumbs from the bread you were distractedly biting while Braeden talked about nothing and you just stared at him as if it were a movie you've seen a thousand times but still breaks your heart.

Then Braeden raised his hand, with that calm elegance that comes effortlessly, and the waiter approached almost instantly. He said something in his ear. It was short. Precise. And before leaving, the waiter nodded with a knowing smile you couldn't read.

Braeden just turned back to you, as if nothing had happened. "More wine?" you asked, curious.

"Champagne," he replied, looking at you as if he'd just whispered your full name.

"Champagne? What are we celebrating?" you asked, laughing.

"You'll see," he said, taking your hand across the table. His thumb brushed yours in circles. Slowly. As if preparing something. As if counting the seconds in his head.

And that's when it happened.

The lights dimmed just a bit. The subdued conversation at the neighboring tables reduced to murmurs.

And from a corner of the restaurant, the small, discreet live orchestra the kind you only notice when they're gone changed its tone.

The first chords were soft, barely a whisper, like a star appearing alone in the sky. And then, with subtle force, they began to play “Cosmic Love” by Florence + The Machine.

Your eyes widened as if someone had just called your name from the stage of your life. You turned toward the music, mouth agape, as if the universe had just winked at you.

That song. That song. The one you put on your private playlist. The one that played when Braeden gave you your first kiss on the beach. The one you danced to alone, drunk, at three in the morning in your room, with Christmas lights flickering behind you.

“Fucking hell…” you whispered, half laughing, half crying. You turned to him, your eyes already shining. "Did you ask for it?"

Braeden tilted his head with a soft smile, the kind he only gives you when he's being blatantly romantic. "Something like that."

Your heart sank. You didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw yourself at him in front of the entire restaurant.

"You're ridiculous," you said, your voice cracking with tenderness.

"But I'm your ridiculous self, aren't I?" And you nodded, swallowing an "I love you" you didn't say because you thought it was obvious.

Because he already knew. Because it had been written all over your eyes since you sat down. You didn't know that in his head, he wasn't just hearing the song.

He was hearing his own heart repeating on repeat: Do it now. Do it now. Before your hands start shaking.

Braeden ran a hand over his inside jacket pocket. And you just watched the song rise… unaware that you did too.

That you were reaching the peak of something that was about to break. The bottle of champagne arrived just as the first chorus of Cosmic Love reached its climax in strings and wind instruments.

The bubbles danced in the glass with an elegant effervescence, as if they knew the weight they were carrying. As if toasting to something… or to everything that was about to break.

Braeden didn't let go of your hand for a second. Not even when the waiter poured the drink. Not even when you took a sip and smiled at him. That smile of yours that had been a compass, a respite, and a home for him on his most broken days.

Then you felt it. The pressure on your hand. The change in his breathing. The slight shift of the chair.

And before you could say anything, Braeden Lemasters was already on his knees in front of you, in the middle of the restaurant.

The world stopped. The noise, the laughter, the waiters who had been whispering before… all paused.

Only you. Only him. Only the song floating like a bad omen disguised as a poem.

Braeden swallowed, his eyes fixed on yours, as if he needed to memorize your reaction before he lost it.

He pulled the small box from his jacket. It wasn't ostentatious. It wasn't big. It was just right. Like everything he is: sufficient without the need for noise. And he began to speak.

"I didn't plan this to impress you. Not because I thought you needed something shiny or dramatic. I did it because there's no way this moment isn't real, even if I make it simple or clumsy… because you make everything about me make sense. From the first time you made me laugh with that thing you said about traffic lights and the signs of the universe, I knew you were destined to make me believe in something bigger than me. Than us."

You weren't breathing. You were just staring at him. The lump in your throat was already forming.

“You… you’re the reason I write without fear. Why I can cry without hiding. You’re my favorite song. And I don’t even care if I sound cheesy, because it’s the damn truth.” He laughed, a little shaky. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. Ever since I saw how you sleep clutching your pillow and thought: I want her to sleep like this, every night, but clutching me. Ever since I saw you taking care of your nephew and knew I want you to be the mother of my children.”

The silence between you was thick. Not awkward. Just charged. Heavy. Alive.

“I know we’re not perfect. I know sometimes I shut myself away and don’t tell you how I feel. But you… you always see me. You see me even when I don’t recognize myself. And if you’re willing to keep seeing me like this, every day, with everything I am and everything I’m not, then I don’t need anything else.”

He opened the little box. The ring gleamed in the dim restaurant lights. It wasn't gigantic. It was yours. As if someone had molded it with your name and your hands in mind.

And Braeden, his eyes moist, his voice cracking with emotion and hope, spoke the words as if they were a song he'd rehearsed a thousand times in his chest:

"Will you marry me?"

And while you were still in shock, a mixture of vertigo and tenderness, he slipped the ring onto your finger. Without waiting. Without pausing. With blind faith that the answer was clear.

But he didn't know your lips were trembling for a reason that had nothing to do with love. Because love... love isn't always enough.

The ring on your finger weighed like a shackle. Not because of him. Not because of his love. Not because of the way Braeden looked at you, waiting for an answer that couldn't predict what was about to happen. But because of everything you carried inside.

Everything you had kept quiet. Everything you didn't even know was still alive. Your throat closed. Your chest tightened.

And suddenly the restaurant wasn't romantic anymore. It was a cage. Braeden was still on the floor, with that hopeful smile, unaware that your hands were shaking. That your eyes no longer shone with emotion, but with a sea of restrained anxiety. And then it happened. The first spasm. The labored breathing.

"I... I can't," you managed to get out, as if the words held thorns. "Brae, I... I can't."

His brows furrowed, first in confusion. Then in pain. "What?" he whispered, standing awkwardly. "What... what do you mean?"

You brought your hands to your face. Tears flowed on their own. They weren't pretty. They were the kind that don't ask for permission. The kind that burn more inside than out. "It's not because of you. It's not because of you, I swear it's not because of you," you said quickly, as if his heart depended on those words. "It's because of me. It's... it's all this stuff I'm carrying around inside. I don't even know how to live with myself, Braeden! I don't know how to love without fear!"

Braeden tried to move closer, but you took a step back.

"No, no. Please. I need... I need space." "I need to breathe," you gasped, as if there weren't enough air, as if your chest wouldn't open.

A panic attack in the middle of a dinner party. A scene worthy of any tragedy life has written.

"Love..." he murmured, broken. "Please talk to me. What's going on?"

And then you exploded. Because inside, you'd already been tearing yourself apart since the little box opened.

"What if one day you wake up and you don't love me anymore?! What if one day you see me the way my dad saw my mom when he stopped caring whether she cried or not?! What if this thing we feel ends and all that's left is routine and resentment, and I can't bear another abandonment, Brae?! I can't!! I can't be a wife if I barely know how to be myself!"

Silence. The restaurant didn't matter anymore. The music was no longer playing. The champagne glass was still fizzing on the table, as if mocking everything that could have been.

Braeden stood still. As if his soul had left him. As if he'd just witnessed a collapse from which he didn't know how to rescue you.

But he said nothing. He didn't interrupt you. Because he understood it wasn't his place to fight your ghosts. He just approached, slowly, as if you were an open wound. He cupped your face with both hands, with a tenderness that hurt.

"I won't stop loving you tomorrow. Not in a month. Not in ten years. But if you're not ready... you don't need to explain it. You don't need to feel guilty for being afraid."

The tears wouldn't stop. And neither would you. Because you loved him. You loved him so much it hurt. But sometimes, love can't overcome trauma. And that doesn't make it any less real.

You didn't know what hurt more. The fact that you'd said it out loud. Or Braeden's face as he tried not to break. Because he didn't cry. Braeden wasn't one for tears. But the silence with which he looked at you... that was devastating.

He stood there, the little box still in his hand, and you with the ring shining on the wrong finger. A ring you didn't deserve. Not like this. Not in that state. Not with your heart fractured in so many places that even you didn't know where to begin to put it back together.

You looked at him. And he understood. With trembling fingers, the same ones that had once caressed your sleeping back or brought smiles to your faces in the middle of a line of fans, he approached the ring.

"Can I...?" he asked, almost voiceless. You just nodded, biting your lip to keep from making a sound that would betray the inner scream rising in your throat.

Braeden slid the ring out with cruel slowness, as if plucking a promise, not a jewel. And when he put it back in the velvet box, he wasn't the same Braeden.

That boy who smiled while composing in his apartment, who took pictures of you when you weren't aware, who listened to you talk for hours even if it was just nonsense, stood there, his heart broken and not knowing what to do with your tears.

"You don't have to apologize," he murmured. "I don't want you to apologize for not being ready." But still, you did it. "Forgive me. Please forgive me. I didn't... I didn't mean to do this to you. Not like this. Not here."

You covered your face again, shaking like a leaf in a gale. Braeden took a step toward you, but stopped. And that was worse. Because you knew him. You knew he wanted to hold you. You knew his instinct was to comfort you.

But how do you comfort someone who just told you they love you but can't promise you "forever"?

"I thought you were ready." His voice cracked, as if each word rasped in his throat. "That it was us against everything. That this was what you wanted, too."

"It is. It is, Brae. But... not now. I can't give you something I don't have completely. I can't promise you forever if I don't know if I can handle today."

And then you saw him look at you as if he were losing more than a promise. As if he were being dumped for the second time. And it hurt. It hurt more than you'd anticipated. Because you were losing him too, even if you loved him.

Because sometimes, love doesn't save. Not if there are unhealed wounds. Not if fear screams louder than "I do."

Braeden sat down slowly, burying his face in his hands. He didn't cry, but the silence weighed like mourning. You knelt before him, not touching him, just looking at him.

"I'm not leaving, Brae. I'm not going to leave. I just... I can't jump without knowing if I can fly yet."

He looked up. And for the first time, you saw a real crack. Not in you. In him. "Then tell me this isn't the end. Because I wouldn't know how to live without you."

Your heart broke in two. Because you didn't know how to live without him either. But you didn't know how to live with yourself.

"Then tell me this isn't the end," he'd said, his voice shaky.

And you... you cupped his face with both hands, though your fingers were trembling just like his when he'd put the ring on you minutes ago.

"It's not the end. It's just... it's not the next chapter. Not yet. But I don't want to close the book, Brae."

He looked at you with those eyes of his, so wide, so sad, so full of pent-up love that seemed ready to spill over.

"Then I'll wait for you," he whispered. "Because I love you. And I can't imagine wanting this with anyone else." You swallowed the lump in your throat.

"Just promise me something," he added, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Don't take too long. Because you don't know how hard it is to live with the doubt of whether you'll ever say yes again."

Your lip trembled. Damn, how it hurt when the love was real and the moment wasn't.

"I promise. It won't take me forever. But I need to learn to love myself without destroying myself, Brae. Because I don't want to drag you into my internal war. You don't deserve that."

He nodded, his eyes closed. "And you don't deserve to feel guilty for not being ready." Pause. He took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. "We'll keep going. Together. Just... without rushing. Okay?"

"Yes," you whispered, and hugged him with everything you had left. And that night, you didn't break up with him.

There were no goodbyes. Just a pause, like the ellipses in a letter that's not yet finished.

You left the restaurant without looking at each other much, without saying much. Braeden put the ring box in his jacket pocket, like someone protecting a memory more than a jewel.

You held his hand, as always. And though the tears didn't stop, they weren't from pure pain.

There was relief. There was love. There was promise. When they got in the car, he turned on the radio without saying anything, and Taylor Swift's "Daylight" just started playing.

Braeden just murmured, "Sometimes you just have to wait for the sun to rise, right?" And you squeezed his fingers, glancing at him.

That man was still your home. And one day... when you were ready... maybe it would. Maybe the altar would no longer feel like a war. But for now, you had his hand. And that was enough.

[alcapzr]

hi!! ik you’re taking a little break rn but could you make just a random super fluffy braedan fic like them just staying home and him being clingy kinda like the one of dylan with the laufey song?

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝑴𝒚 𝑯𝒐𝒎𝒆 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Use of weed,Braeden being cheesy, Kinda deep talk , Staying at home, Fluffy tenderness,Silly dynamics, Crative silly pet names, Reader softly bullying Braeden

Your apartment smells of vanilla, cheap incense you left burning half an hour too long, and the reheated pizza you're eating sitting on the floor, a blanket pulled up to your ears. The lights are dim, a random movie is playing in the background that you're not even watching, and the window is half open, letting in fresh air with the scent of the city night.

And then... KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

You frown because you're not waiting for anyone, not even your thoughts. You crawl to the door without removing the blanket, and when you open it...

"SURPRISE, MY BEAUTIFUL LITTLE WORM!" Braeden says, with a smile so big it seems it's about to swallow the universe.

Before you can say anything, he throws you a hug so tight it almost rips your soul out. Literally. His arms squeeze you as if you'd been in a coma for ten years and he finally found you in the hospital hallway.

"Oh... let me breathe..." You laugh, but you don't do much to break free. It feels so good. As if the world paused for a second.

He smells of his expensive shampoo and recent sleepless nights, and you melt a little more when he says, still hugging you:

"I brought you something babe... it's called 'Cannabis sativa.'" And he pulls out a bag with his classic "I was good, but not that good" smile.

You look him up and down and burst out laughing. "If when you're sober, you look like a golden retriever who swallowed a battery, I don't want to imagine you high."

He gives you a face of mock indignation. "Was that a compliment?" Because I took it as a compliment.

And you just blurt out a "Sure, darling," as you pull him inside, still covered with the blanket and bare feet. He kicks off his sneakers, flops down on the floor with you without asking, and stares at you like you're the meme of the crying puppy with stars in its eyes.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've seen all month... and I saw a sunset in Santa Monica."

"Oh my God, Braeden... we haven't even gotten off yet."

And he: "I don't need to be high to adore you, baby. Just looking at you is enough to get me high." You cover your face with the blanket. He lies down next to you.

The movie continues, the pizza continues, the night is just beginning.

The room is bathed in a soft orange light thanks to the small lamp that Braeden insists “creates a recording studio atmosphere at 3 a.m.”

Now you're cross-legged on the carpet, the blanket halfway across your body, a pillow behind your back, and the joint between your fingers.

Braeden sits across from you with narrowed eyes, a smile that won't fade even if his favorite hoodie catches fire, and his hands on his knees as if he's about to give you a guided meditation class.

“Okay, okay, This already hit me…” he says, exhaling and staring at the ceiling as if he's just discovered the meaning of life.

“So what are you thinking now, Socrates with curls?” you ask, taking another drag.

He points his finger at you, dead serious. “Listen to me… listen to me carefully…” He pauses dramatically, as if he were in the Roman Senate. "Can you imagine if we were plants...?"

"Good Lord."

"NO! Listen. If we were plants... and a flower grew every time I kissed you... we'd have a fucking botanical garden in bed."

You choke on laughter. Literally. Cough, laugh, hit your leg with your hand.

"You're an idiot. A gorgeous idiot, but an idiot nonetheless."

Braeden crawls toward you like he's in a silent movie and hugs you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. "I'm being romantic, sweetheart. Don't bully me."

You let him hug you, feeling his chest rise and fall as he tries not to laugh anymore. The joint now rests in the ashtray, and your fingers play with his on your waist.

"Sometimes I think my brain gets cornier when I'm high... but maybe that's how I'm always with you."

You turn to look at him, and he's eyes closed, smiling like the world is perfect for a little while.

"You want to know something else I thought?" he murmurs.

"Go on. Enlighten me, my Dalai Lama in a hoodie."

"If you were a cloud... I'd rain kisses on you."

You push him back, laughing. "SHUT UP, BRAE!"

He falls back with a high-pitched laugh, the kind that infects you even if you don't feel like it.

And you, so damn happy, throw yourself down beside him. Hands clasped together. Smoke drifting gently. He speaks again.

"I love you so much it makes me nervous."

And you, for the first time that night, don't say anything. You just squeeze him a little tighter.

You're still lying next to him on the rug, your head resting on his arm and the shared blanket up to your waist.

Outside, it's already dark, and even though the movie is still playing in the background, neither of you is paying attention.

There's something about the silence between you and Braeden that's more comforting than any soundtrack. He's lying on his back, turning his head to look at you as if his eyes weren't enough, as if he had to memorize you again.

"Can I say something without you making fun of me?" he says softly, his voice like velvet and grass.

"Mmm... it depends. Is that another botanical metaphor?"

"No, love. This is serious."

And there you see it. The different look in his eyes. The slightly deeper breathing. The way his hand nervously seeks yours.

"I swear... of all the things I've done in my life..." He pauses, as if gasping for air. "... nothing has made me feel more at peace than lying on the floor with you and talking nonsense."

You smile softly, your fingertips touching his. "You get so poetic when you smoke."

"It's not the weed. It's you. You're my home, you know?"

And there, your breath catches in your throat for a second.

He straightens a little, tucks your hair behind your ear as if you were fragile, as if he didn't want to upset you. His voice now sounds husky, intimate, as if he's speaking to you from deep within your chest.

"I know sometimes I seem all crazy, everything's spinning, all chaos, but... you calm me down. You're the only place I don't have to pretend I'm okay."

You bite your lip, and for a moment you're speechless. Because you know he means it. Because you see it in his eyes, glassy, warm, honest.

"I don't want anything that isn't you," he adds. "Not a new album, not a tour, not an award. I want you."

And you only manage to whisper: "Are you going to be that cheesy at every smoke?"

He laughs softly, his head resting on your forehead.

"Only if you're with me. Only if you put up with me. Only if you kiss me afterward."

You move closer. There's no kiss yet. There's no need for it. You're in his space, he's in yours, and for a moment it seems like the world falls silent so you can hear him say things he'd previously kept secret.

You're exactly where you want to be. And so is he.

You're wrapped in a blanket, the light dim, the smoke floating in soft spirals around the room as if the night had melted in slow motion.

And Braeden keeps looking at you. Not in that casual way of someone seeing something beautiful. He looks at you as if he doesn't know how you exist.

His hand slowly strokes your arm, his fingers barely touching your skin, drawing meaningless lines that only he understands. His other hand plays with a lock of your hair, tangling it, untying it, picking it up again. Every so often, he drops a kiss on your forehead. Then on your temple. Then on your cheek.

He doesn't say anything at first. But the look in his eyes says it all. Until...

"Have you ever imagined what it would be like to live with you?" he asks, as if he's saying, "Do you want to watch another movie?"

You look at him, half laughing, half nervous. "Are you going to be that direct?" He shrugs, but doesn't look away.

"I already told you, you make me cheesy... and weed gives me courage."

You nudge him gently. "Okay, then say it. Get it out. What would it be?"

And he lights up. Literally. As if you'd given him permission to dream out loud.

"I imagine waking up with you with my hair all messed up, putting on my giant hoodie even though you own twenty of your sweaters."

"Obviously, yours smells better."

"Exactly. And then you having breakfast sitting on the counter while I make coffee and you steal the fruit from the bowl. You always steal fruit."

"That's so true."

"And I see you dancing like a fool while the toaster warms up. Then we go to the studio together. You reading, me recording. Or sometimes just being in the same room. That's enough for me."

He's quiet for a second. He brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I imagine us buying plants to water together and we end up watering each other. I imagine our arguments about which TV show to watch and you always winning. I imagine the early mornings when I can't sleep and you look at me and say, 'Come, curl up here.'" His voice cracks a little. "I imagine so many things with you. So many that I don't know if they're fantasies or plans anymore."

You're silent. As if you can't breathe. And it's not the weed. It's not the scene. It's him. It's just that no one has ever told you this. No one has ever said it like this.

Braeden leans closer, rests his forehead against yours.

"I want to see you in all my lives. In all of them. If there's an afterlife, if there's karma, the universe, God, whatever... let me have the chance to find you again."

And you, unable to help yourself, cup his face in both hands and say softly:

"You're ridiculous... but I wish you were. I wish you'd always find me."

And there you stand, noses touching, the silence filled with everything that doesn't need to be said.

The smoke is already dissipating, but the atmosphere remains thick, warm, as if the two of you had created a small universe where time moves slower and feelings resonate louder.

Braeden has his head resting on your thigh, giving you gentle bites through your pants like a puppy who doesn't know how to handle so much love. And you... you don't know what to do with that men all over you. Literally.

"Can I say something cheesy?" he murmurs, his voice thick and low.

"Brae, the only thing you've said in the last two hours is cheesy. It doesn't even counts anymore."

"Mmm... then I'm screwed." He straightens, sits down at your level.

Your foreheads are almost pressed against each other again. And without another word, he tucks your hair behind your ear. With the gentleness of someone touching something sacred.

"It's just... I like it when you look at me like that. Like it gives you peace. As if you felt safe with me." Your eyes lock with his. He smiles softly, as if he knows he's reading you. "And I like it when you touch me like you'll never let go."

His fingers slide down to your waist, playing with the hem of your shirt, not invading, just exploring. "Can I hold you again?"

You don't respond with words. You settle on your side and lean against his chest, burying your face in his neck. He wraps his arms around you, one around your back and the other around your hip. He squeezes you so tight you want to cry.

Not out of sadness. Out of relief. To feel at home.

"You smell like me," he says softly.

"You too."

"I want it to always be like this. I want to be able to hold you and feel like this is my place."

His lips brush your forehead, then your cheek, then your neck. Each kiss is slower, quieter, fuller. His hands never go lower. They only caress, trace on your back, learn your shape. And you... you too. Your fingers tangle in his hair, you stroke his scalp, and he sighs against your skin as if his soul is escaping.

"Brae..."

"Mhm?"

"I like it when you hug me like you don't know how to do it gently."

He laughs softly. "I just don't know. I don't know how to hug you even a little. I'll never know."

And he kisses you again. Long. Deep. With lips that tremble but don't stop.

After hours of laughter, slow kisses, and half your body numb from lying on the floor, you end up climbing onto the couch. Or, well, you both climb onto the couch. Braeden climbs on top of you as if it were legal.

You're lying down with a blanket, legs stretched out, and Brae is lying half-crossed on top of you, his head on your chest and his arm wrapped around your waist as if you were the last lifeline on the high seas.

"What are we watching?" you ask.

"It doesn't matter. When I'm with you, everything is my favorite movie."

"Brae?"

"Yeah."

"You're high as fuck My love." He lets out a sleepy chuckle against your collarbone. His laughter from the joint has subsided, but he still has that lovely slowness of someone drunk on affection.

The TV starts playing a movie you didn't even notice. Maybe an animated one. Maybe an indie comedy. It doesn't matter. Because his breathing slows down. Heavier. Deeper.

And suddenly... he's not moving anymore. You look down. And there he is. With his hair all disheveled, his face half-squashed by your shirt, and his red eyes still shining, with those long eyelashes sticking to him as if he were dreaming something beautiful.

He makes you sigh. Literally. You can't help it. You take out your phone. You take a picture. One that will cherish your soul forever. You focus on his little face, his parted lips, his little hand clutching your hip. Everything.

You upload it to your best friends' stories with a simple: "He literally told me, 'You're my home,' I'm going to die of love, bye, RIP me."

Then you just put your phone aside and stroke his hair with the tenderness of a French film. Braeden stirs, murmurs something.

"Mmh… my love… don't go…"

"I'm here, Brae. I'm not moving."

And he falls asleep again. Softly. Slowly. Innocently. As if he didn't know that every word he says to you is etched into your bones. And you close your eyes. The world out there can keep turning. You're already where you want to be.

[alcapzr]

HIII!! I know your having a break since it’s exam season for you so I hope you do well!

But here is my request (I also don’t mind what wallows member who ever you think may fit this more!) but basically reader is in a band is busking on the street not just for money but from more attention from locals for their band and I was thinking maybe the wallows member of your choice could find them on the street and maybe flirt a little idk :)

𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝑻𝒐 𝑽𝒊𝒙𝒆𝒏𝒔 ♡︎ (Dylan Minnette X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Love at first sight, Reader being the frontwoman of an indie band, Dylan being Vixens' first fan, Conciert at a bar, Dylan promising the Reader that Vixens will open for Wallows

The L.Asky seemed to melt into gold as Dylan walked leisurely down Sunset, wearing a black hoodie. He was alone, headphones hanging around his neck, as if the world were silently playing for him. He had this habit of wandering aimlessly when he wasn't rehearsing, recording, or interviewing.

Letting his feet take him wherever they went. Perhaps that's why he ended up in front of a small bar, one of those with dangling lights and a patio with metal tables, where something or rather, someone immediately caught his attention.

Your voice. There was live music, but it wasn't just any old music. It was a cover of "He Can Only Hold Her," that Amy Winehouse soul gem, only reimagined... softer, airier, more ethereal, as if Clairo were singing it between sighs.

The drums were barely tapped and the chords floated like sweet smoke, but your voice your voice, was what made Dylan take off his hood with an almost automatic gesture.

There you were on a makeshift wooden stage with dim lights, microphone in hand, eyes closed as you let each word slide like hot caramel.

You were wearing a short cream-colored dress, black boots, and eyeliner framed your gaze like a damn work of art. Your band, The Vixens, was subtly backing you, but you were the center of attention.

An underground goddess. An indie muse straight from the fourth track of a forgotten 2000s vinyl.

Dylan felt something stop in his chest. He didn't know if it was the rhythm of the song or the beat of his heart. Then you did something that nearly killed him. You grabbed a stack of flyers with a Spotify code and started throwing them out to the audience. Each one had your hand-drawn face, your signature next to it, and the caption: “Listen to Vixens and fall in love.”

Dylan grabbed one without thinking. He held it between his fingers, curious, smiling softly. He looked at you. He'd been watching you since he heard your voice, but now that you noticed… you froze for half a second.

Because you recognized him. Dylan Minnette. Actor, musician, gorgeous face. And now, a fan of your band.

You felt nervous. The lyrics stumbled a little, but you continued. Your cheeks heated. You swallowed. And he was still there, standing with his hands in his pockets, biting the corner of his lip, watching you as if you were the only star in that decadent sky.

And just as you finished the verse, he let out a soft chuckle. Not a mockery. A reaction. As if your talent had done something to his chest. As if, for the first time in weeks, someone had truly surprised him.

And you, you didn't know if you wanted to keep singing... Or go down and hide under the stage.

Your heart was racing faster than the bass in the background. You felt like the floor had been lifted from under you and the world had suddenly turned upside down.

Because it was one thing to sing in front of strangers, and another to sing in front of Dylan freaking Minnette watching you as if your voice was stripping him to the bone.

You closed your eyes for a second and breathed. You had to finish the show. Professional. Serene. But your legs were shaking.

You glanced at your drummer, and still smiling for the audience, you leaned close and whispered in her ear:

"Last-minute change... we're closing with 'Are You Bored Yet?' It's going soft, but give it a chill vibe. And yes, it's what you think," you winked at him. "He's here."

The bassist gave you a silent laugh, as if to say, "No way, dude," but nodded knowingly. Your keyboardist gave you a thumbs-up. Your girls were a kick-ass squad. They had your back even when a celebrity crossed your path.

You approached the microphone, grabbed the setlist paper you had at your side folded, with cross-outs and your usual scribbles and without thinking, you placed a red kiss on the bottom corner. Ruby woo lipstick, thanks for so much.

"Well... we're going to close with a cover we hadn't planned," you said into the microphone, your voice firm but smiling sideways. "If you know Wallows, you know what's coming."

There were shouts from the crowd, but you couldn't see anyone. Only him. Dylan, standing with the flyer still in his hand, tilted his head slightly, half surprised, half intrigued. As if he wanted to make sure he'd heard correctly. The keyboard intro began slowly. The rhythm was familiar. The lyrics were like a caress.

"What's wrong? You've been asking, but I don't have an answer..."

Your voice changed. You weren't imitating Dylan, nor were you making an exact copy. It was your style: softer, more nostalgic, with that tinge of shameless vulnerability that only you knew how to manage.

And as you sang, you gave one last gesture to the stage: You took the setlist paper with your kiss on it and threw it to the audience with a theatrical twist. As if it was nothing.

But it wasn't "nothing." It was everything. Because he caught it. With one hand. Without taking his eyes off you. His eyes dropped to the paper, saw the red lipstick mark, and then returned to you.

He smiled at you with that damn crooked smile that breaks panties and egos. And you, almost tripped over the microphone cable, you were so nervous.

But you kept singing. And every time the line “'Cause we could stay at home and watch the sunset…” came on, you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

And he didn't move. Not an inch. As if he didn't want to be anywhere else.

The music had already dimmed. The bar's lights were in that awkward transition between “cool indie show” and “please leave now.”

People were still wandering between the tables, some still excited, others already nursing warm beers. You, meanwhile, were trying not to pass out on the merch table. Your hands were folding The Vixens T-shirts with your hand-painted logo, and your fingers were shaking more than a crash cymbal when your drummer gets excited.

You were stacking stickers, stuffing flyers into envelopes, pretending everything was under control. But it wasn't. Dylan, fucking Minnette, was still there. And the worst part is that you felt it before you saw it. Like a thick energy walking toward you. Slow steps. Gentle confidence. Staring eyes.

"Does this place also accept blushes as payment?" His voice, deep, with that flirtatious tone that doesn't sound like flirting until you analyze it three hours later in the shower.

You looked up, and there he was hair disheveled with that intentional carelessness that smacks of "I'm handsome and I know it, but I'm not going to tell you." In one hand, he held the Spotify brochure; in the other, the setlist with your kiss.

You gulped. You pretended you hadn't recognized him instantly. "Only if it comes with exact change," you replied with a nervous smile, arranging stickers you'd already ordered three times.

Dylan looked down at the paper with your kiss on it and raised it slightly. "Did this come with the ticket? Because if it's part of the merch, I want a signed one too."

"That's going to cost you extra," you told him, not quite looking up, but with your cheeks as red as your lipstick.

He laughed softly. And then he leaned closer. Not enough to invade you, but enough for you to smell his scent: clean, with warm notes, like wood and freshly bathed skin. "Seriously... you sing like a witch. That version of "He Can Only Hold Her"… I have no words. I've never heard anything like that."

You looked up and saw him smiling at you for real. Not as a public figure, not as an artist talking to another artist. As a fascinated man talking to a woman who had left him dumbfounded.

"Thanks... she's my favorite. Well, one of many. Do you like Amy?"

"I've liked her more for the last fifteen minutes," he said, his eyes dropping to your mouth when you spoke.

FUCK. Your skin prickled with goosebumps. And you, darling, tried to deflect the heat rising up your neck, grabbing a bag of pins as an excuse.

"You're the one from Wallows, aren't you?" you asked, with a feigned innocence you didn't even believe.

Dylan laughed, ducked his head, and ran his hand through his hair, blushing, but with that "you saw me, huh?" expression. "Guilty."

"So what's an international star doing in a dive bar watching up-and-coming bands?"

"What if I told you I came to fall in love?"

You blinked. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow slightly.

"With music, of course." And he smiled with that big, snarky mouth that knows what he said wasn't so innocent.

And you, ...you pretended your legs weren't shaking while you gave him a cloth bracelet with your band's logo on it.

"Then take this. I made it." He took it, without taking his eyes off you, and murmured:

"I'm taking more than that."

The conversation didn't die down. Dylan leaned on the merch table while you pretended to continue sorting things, but you were already more focused on his mouth than on the flyers.

Most of the audience had left or were outside smoking, and the background music had changed to a soft indie instrumental that filled the silence like velvet. He had The Vixens bracelet on his wrist. And you, your heart echoing in your chest.

"So where can I listen to what you're doing without having to hacking Spotify?" he asked with that swallowable little smile, pointing at the flyer with the QR code. You bit your lip, somewhere between nervous and excited.

You took your phone out of your pocket and opened your SoundCloud, showing him your profile with a few original songs still in beta, recorded in your room, but with love and tears and your entire universe inside.

“It’s indie and kind of grunge, but… it’s my trip,” you said quietly, showing him the screen. Dylan took your phone carefully, as if it were sacred. He put the headphones around and pressed “play.” And he fell silent. Listening. Closing his eyes for a moment.

When the first chorus ended, he took them off, squinting at you, as if you’d told him a secret.

“Okay, I don’t want to sound like that pretentious guy who “discovers bands,” but you sound like Grimes in 2012.”

“Excuse me?” you blurted out, laughing nervously.

“Are you comparing us to the Visions era?”

“With the best kind of weird nostalgia, honest lyrics, beautiful voice. You’re… like Grimes and Clairo had an emo daughter with generational trauma and glitter on her eyelids.”

You covered your face with your hand, laughing. Heat rushed straight from your chest to your cheeks.

"Okay, that was the best pickup line I've ever heard. I'm not even going to lie to you."

Dylan crossed his arms, as if taking that comment as a challenge. And he lowered his voice a little.

"Do you want one better?"

"I don't think you can top that," you told him, smiling.

He looked at you as if he were plotting the line in his mind, and then, with his tongue touching the roof of his mouth and his pupils fixed on your mouth, he murmured:

"If you let me hear you sing again... I swear I'll quit music and become your full-time groupie."

PAUSE. REWIND. WHAT?

You stared at him. You literally didn't know whether to laugh or kiss him or both. Your smile broke into nerves and heat in your cheeks.

"That... was dirty. But emotional. I like it."

"I do that too," he said, lowering his gaze for a second before biting his lower lip.

You were already on edge. From laughter. From euphoria. From desire. And just as you were about to answer, Dylan took your phone, turned up the volume of your songs a little, and said:

"Would you like to listen to this together somewhere else? I have a home studio a few blocks away. Nothing unusual. Pure sound and warm lights."

And you... ...you were already saying yes before you could even finish nodding.

The night was gentle. You were walking with your backpack half-open, full of rolled-up Vixens posters, tape hanging from your arm like a bracelet, and the light but firm stride of someone used to promoting their work with nails, sweat, and flyers.

Dylan walked beside you, carrying a metal thermos containing your paintbrushes, some markers, and some paint to scratch walls without damaging them "aesthetic activism," you told him.

"This is what real stars do," you told him, peeling off a piece of tape with your teeth.

"This is what the people I'm slowly falling in love with do," he replied, without thinking.

You stopped for half a second, just to glance at him.

He stopped too. He had his hands in his pockets and a subtle smile, like someone who knows there's no turning back.

“You say that as if you didn’t come looking for attention,” you said playfully as you stuck the poster on a lamppost.

“I didn’t come for attention. I came for a beer. And I found a fucking gem.” His eyes dropped to your legs, then back to your face. Harmless. Or so he pretended.

The street was lit by the neon lights of a liquor store, a closed restaurant, and a comedy show poster. The city looked like a movie set, but you were already used to it feeling that way when you were in “promo mode.”

Dylan, on the other hand, seemed fascinated. “And you always do this alone?” he asked as you perched on the edge of a bench to reach a wall of ads.

“Yeah. The girls help me, but today was my route. Although, well… I’m not alone anymore, right?”

He laughed softly. He leaned closer, holding your waist for a second "to steady you." And you felt it. His large, warm hand wrapped around you, barely, but with hidden intentions. He didn't leave it for long. Just long enough to make your stomach churn in a good way.

"You're going to think I'm crazy," he said after a few silent steps, "but there's something about you that feels familiar. As if I've heard you somewhere else. Or somewhere else."

"I was probably your groupie in a past life," you told him, with a mischievous smile as you pasted up another flyer with lipstick lining the edge.

Dylan looked at you as if that didn't sound so far-fetched. "I don't know if you believe in that stuff, but... if we're reincarnated, I'll bet you and I already had something unfinished business."

His words floated like thick smoke between you. And you, who wanted to play it cool, didn't know whether to keep putting up posters or stick to him. But you ignored him. You bit your lip and kept walking. You stopped in front of a closed store with dirty windows, where a gray wall was perfect for the promo.

You pulled out another poster. This one had your face, your makeup purposefully smudged, and a phrase: “She sings what you’re afraid to say.”

He read it. Twice. “It’s real,” he murmured.

“What?”

“That phrase. Your voice. Your gaze. Everything you do. It makes me uncomfortable because it moves me so much.”

You didn’t respond. You just looked at him. And that gaze lasted half a second longer than usual. Half a second more intimate, more daring, more shaky.

“Let’s go to the studio,” he finally said. “I want you to show me everything you do. And not just what you record.”

You were about to cross the street. You were already mentally picturing yourself entering the studio, looking at his vinyl records, talking about plugins and reverbs… but he stopped. Literally, he stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the curb.

"Change of plans," he said suddenly. You looked at him. Huh? Did you change your mind, Dude? Did you kick me out? But no. His gaze was soft. Almost protective.

"I don't want you to feel like I'm pressuring you. Into anything. Not the studio, not to open your art, not… me."

You blinked, slightly surprised. You'd seen it all: guys who want to use your music to flirt with you, who promise help in exchange for "one night," who make their interest seem like an investment. But Dylan wasn't doing that. He was walking slowly beside you. And looking at you as if you were the most beautiful thing that had happened to him in weeks.

"I like it this way," he continued, his voice low, almost confidential. "Walking with you. Hearing you talk. Feeling like we don't have to rush anywhere." And that's when he killed you. Because he said it without any strategy. Without wanting to be liked. Just because he felt it.

"Then let's walk," you told him, with a half smile and your heart fluttering in your mouth.

You followed the sidewalk heading nowhere, passing corners lit by old lanterns, feeling the city breathe slowly.

He listened to everything you told him: how you wrote your first song in the shower, how The Vixens' name came from a school notebook, how you dreamed of filling a small theater with your people.

And suddenly, in one of those pauses where the conversation lowered its voice... He turned a little. And he did it to you. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Slowly. With the tip of his finger. And he tucked it behind your ear as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

"There you are," he whispered, almost without realizing it.

"Where?"

"Where your little face should be. Without the wind hiding it from me."

You laughed softly, biting your lip to keep from letting out the "oh no way" that was coming to you.

And he smiled, tilting his head tenderly. As if you gave him tenderness and desire at the same time. As if you were something fragile he wanted to protect, but also something so strong that he wanted to keep it.

"Dylan..."

"Tell me."

"You write like this too, don't you?"

"Like how?"

"As if you felt more than you should in a single afternoon."

He stopped again. And looked at you. With those eyes that were slowly undressing you... but your soul first. "Yes. But with you... I feel differently."

And you, no longer knew if you were cold or if it was the words that were leaving you trembling.

The city had paused. The cars were no longer passing. The streetlights illuminated only what was necessary.

And you kept walking beside him with your heart in your throat and the stupidest smile you've ever had in your life. You were on a narrow sidewalk in front of a closed mechanic's shop. The old sign was half-blinking, the floor had oil stains, and yet, Dylan looked at you as if you were in Paris under the Eiffel Tower.

"So what?" he asked playfully. "Are you going to let me beg or are you going to give me The Vixens' Instagram?"

"Depends... are you going to stream the whole EP or just the one I sang today?"

He let out a deep chuckle, the one that sounds like you've told him something too good. "I'm going to stream you."

And you choked on your own existence. He stopped in his tracks, took his phone out of his pocket, and opened his notes app. He passed it to you.

"Put down your number. To “negotiate.” You know, the opening thing for Wallows I don't know, I would be interested in You opening for us. ."

Yeah. Negotiate. OF COURSE, GORGEOUS.

You typed the digits with trembling fingers, then added:

"And yes, we also do acoustic shows."

He read it. He smiled. And looked up, softer than ever.

"I like you."

"That much?"

"Enough to not kiss you... even though it's burning to do so."

You fell silent. Your stomach was turning. Your lips slightly parted. He leaned in slowly. Very slowly. His face close. His breath hot. His hand was almost touching your cheek. Your eyelashes were fluttering. Your lips were parting a little more.

And then... SCREEEECHHHH!! A white truck skidded right around the curve, jumping over a puddle like something out of Jackass. The water flew out and...

WRAP! It covered you completely. Clothes, shoes, dignity included.

"FUCKING WHORES!!

"GET IN HERE OR YOU'LL WAKE UP IN CLAY JENSEN'S BED!!" your friends shouted from the windows, hanging off the damn bus as if they were part of the dcc.

You, dripping. Dylan, gaping. The moment… destroyed. And yet. Still. He looked at you, soaked, frozen, speechless… And he started laughing.

Laughing like he couldn't stand it anymore. As if he hadn't seen something so perfect in years. He took off his sweater. He put it over your shoulders.

And when he looked at you… It wasn't to kiss you. It was to promise you he would. Very soon.

"I didn't want to kiss you…"

"No?"

"But I wanted to."

[alcapzr]

can you do a braeden fic inspired by their song uncomfortable pretty please??? its kinda a depressing song so maybe somehow incorporate a way in the end they have a good ending

𝑼𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 ❥︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Angst, Difficult times in a relationship, indifference, monotony,Lost connection, argument, Reader and Braeden taking a break,Short time apart, slight emotional dependence, good ending

The car smells of expensive perfume and the remnants of a night that didn't go the way you wanted.

Braeden drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on his thigh, but he doesn't even touch you. He just rests there. Inert. Like his laughter. Like you. The street is dark and quiet, but the car sounds louder than usual. Maybe it's not the engine. Maybe it's your thoughts, rumbling.

"You had fun," you say. You don't ask.

"Yes," he answers. He doesn't think about it.

Silence. The same silence that sneaks into the space between his hand and your skin. It's there, but it's not there. Not anymore.

You raise your eyes to the windshield, watching headlights pass by, traffic lights, a city that keeps turning even though you're stuck in the same conversation that never gets said.

"How was your day with the Label guys?" you ask, as if you still care. As if you still care.

"Same as always. Chatting about projects. They liked the new set." Braeden doesn't look at you. He hasn't looked at you even once since you got in the car.

Not even when you opened the back door because he forgot to unlock the passenger door. Another sign. Another "no."

"That's great," you lie. It sounds believable, but inside you're already swallowing the urge to cry. Again.

You run your fingers over the fabric of the dress he chose himself when he asked you what you wanted to wear with him. He said he wanted you to look "untouchable." Now he doesn't even seem to want to touch you.

You look at him, finally, for the first time in this already heavy night.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes are fixed on the road. His lips have been closed for an hour. Since he greeted a new producer with a smile more real than the one he gave you at the entire event.

"Shall we go straight to your apartment?" you ask, your voice cracking, without realizing it.

Braeden takes a while to answer. As if he's considering it. As if he's not sure whether he wants to sleep with you or not.

"Yes."

And that "yes" doesn't sound like desire. It sounds like routine. Like commitment. Like what's left of what you used to be.

The silence returns. Heavy. Unbearable. And then he says it. The thing that hits you first. It's not direct. It's not cruel. But it's the kind of line that sticks because of what it doesn't say.

"You've been so quiet lately."

"Me?" "ME?"You swallow. You press your fingers against your own leg.

"You too."

Braeden sighs, slowly, with a weight you don't understand. Or you do. You just don't want to put a name to it.

"It's nothing. I'm tired."

Tired of what, Braeden? Of work or of me? But you don't ask him. Not today. Not yet. Because you're not ready to hear the answer. And because, deep down, you already know it.

The apartment smells of old lavender and the candle she always leaves lit so it “smells like home.” This time it doesn't smell like home. It smells like nostalgia.

He leaves the keys on the nightstand without saying anything. He doesn't help you take off your coat. He doesn't look at you.

You take it off anyway. You leave it on the chair. You do everything as if you were at home. But it doesn't feel like home anymore. It feels like an AirBnB with too much silence.

“Do you want tea?” he asks from the kitchen. Not because he wants to make you some, but because he doesn't know what else to say.

You want to yell at him, “Do you want to talk to me? Ask me how I am? Tell me you missed me even though we were together all night without touching?”

But you say, “Yes, chamomile.”

And you feel like the phrase "Yes chamomile " is the saddest you've ever said in your life.

You hear him open the cupboard, take out the tea bags, turn on the kettle. He doesn't ask if you want honey. You don't ask for it either. You sit down on the couch. You cross your legs. You play with the hem of your dress.

Braeden takes longer than usual. Not because of the tea. Because of the downtime. Because of fear. When he finally approaches with the cups, he places them on the small table so carefully it seems like he's laying down weapons.

"Thanks," you murmur.

"You're welcome," he replies, but he doesn't sit next to you. He sits down on the other couch. He there. You here. The same thing is happening to both.

He drinks the tea. You imitate him. And there's no noise, no music, Nothing.

"Are you okay?" he says suddenly, as if he's just noticing you exist. As if he's saying it more to himself than to you.

You want to laugh. Or cry. You're not sure. "Yes."

A lie. And you know it. And he knows it. And the worst part is, no one dares to deny it.

Braeden runs his hand down his neck. You take another sip. The tea tastes like cardboard. Or maybe everything tastes bad when love is dying in front of you and you don't know how to save it.

And then he lets out another sentence that hurts more than yelling. It sounds casual, but it's a direct kick. "Lately, it seems like we're not on the same page."

You look at him. Finally. For the first time all night. And you see him. Really. He has dark circles under his eyes. His hair is messy. His lips are dry. And his eyes have that strange gleam, the same one people have when they're no longer sure if they want to stay or just don't dare leave.

You must have that face too.

"Maybe not," you answer. And that's the most honest thing you've told yourself in weeks.

Braeden looks down. You too. There's no yelling. No fighting. No drama. Just that horrible shit that's worse: the weariness. the lukewarm indifference. the silence that no longer cares, only buries.

And then you wonder when was the last time he told you he loved you without you saying it first. And you don't remember. And that's when you understand: your relationship has already begun to end... and no one is stopping it.

The cup of tea is already cold. Like your hands. Like the way Braeden looks at you, without really looking at you. There's something about his body, about the way he leans back in the chair, that tells you he's no longer here. Not like before. Not with you. Not completely.

And then he lets out the sentence. Just like that, without anesthesia. As if he was throwing a stone at your chest, in a monotonous voice, as if he was talking about the weather:

"You realize everything is the same... you say the same lines... I'll die on my time."

Silence. Absolute. Your heart freezes. Your lips part. Your eyes don't blink. Because it's not just any sentence. It's a quote. From his song. From “Uncomfortable.” And now he uses it as if it were a prefabricated breakup paragraph.

"What?" you whisper.

He shrugs. Like it's nothing. Like he doesn't know what he just did. And you explode. But not screaming. Not throwing things. You explode the way things explode when they can't take it anymore.

"Don't come to me with that bullshit, Braeden."

He looks up, only just surprised that you're raising your voice."Excuse me?"

"You're not even thinking about telling me anything real. You literally just quoted a fucking song. Your song. You just quoted "Uncomfortable." You think I'm not going to notice?"

Braeden frowns. He opens his mouth. He closes it. He doesn't know what to say to you. Because you're right. Because you're always here, and he's just on autopilot."

"Are you saying goodbye with recycled lyrics? Is that what we are now? A bad line of yours?"

"It's not that..." he murmurs, uncomfortable.

"Of course it is!" You stand up. You put down your cup. You cross your arms. You're shaking. You don't know if it's from anger or sadness. Or both.

"You're leaving without moving from your chair. And I'm staying while you make me feel like I'm in the way of a space that used to be ours. Don't treat me like a fucking verse, Braeden."

He stands up. Not to get closer. Just to appear to be doing something. The silence echoes off the walls.

"I just don't know how to talk to you lately..."

"Then start by not talking to me like you're in a Zane Lowe interview, asshole!" Your eyes fill with tears. His do too, but you don't know if it's from guilt, fear, or because something of what they were once still remains. You turn away.

"Don't quote me, Braeden. Don't quote me. Love me or leave me. But don't repeat verses as if that's enough to make you stay."

And there, there, something breaks. You don't know if it's inside you or between the two of you. You only know that it can't be heard, but it hurts. It hurts more than a slammed door. It hurts more than being forgotten. It hurts like it hurts to see someone who's still there, but no longer wants to stay.

The microwave clock reads 2:37 a.m. Braeden isn't sleeping. Neither are you. You're each in a different room, but the same insomnia envelops you. From the living room, you can hear him walking barefoot. Every now and then, he coughs. He sighs. And you, lying on the edge of his bed that bed where promises were once made with kisses all you can think about is how you got here.

To this point where talking no longer helps, it only hurts. You don't cry. Not yet. You're in that strange stage where everything is a pressure in your chest, but nothing comes out. Where crying doesn't reach you, but the pain sets in.

You hear the bedroom door open. Slowly. As if asking permission. As if knowing he's done. Braeden peeks his head in. "Can I...?"

You nod. You don't have the strength to say no. But you don't have the strength to say yes either. He sits on the shore. He doesn't dare touch you. He doesn't even look at you.

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad," he says, in that cracked voice that's no longer his own.

"But you did," you reply, staring at the ceiling.

"I know." Silence. Again. The kind that's not awkward anymore, it's normal. Which is even scarier. "I don't know how to approach you anymore," he confesses.

"Well, start by not treating me like someone who's going to break if you tell him the truth."

Braeden lowers his head. He rubs the back of his neck. You swallow. You're going to break. But this time, for you. Not for him.

"Braeden..." you whisper, and he looks up as if the world is collapsing around him. Your lips tremble. So does your voice. But you say it. Because you can't go on like this anymore. Because loving shouldn't hurt like this.

"I need time."

The world stops. You don't see it, but you feel it. Her body tenses. Her breath catches. Her soul cracks.

"Time?"

You nod. You bite your lip. You don't want to cry. But you're doing it anyway.

"This... this isn't doing us any good. You're here, but you're not. And I'm... like, waiting for you to come back without leaving."

Braeden blinks. He's in shock. He didn't see it coming. Or maybe he did, but he kept denying it.

"Are you leaving me?"

"I'm asking for space. To see if there's still something left to save. To see if you want to save it." Your hands are trembling. So is his lower lip.

"I don't want to lose you."

"Then prove to me you're still here." Not with words. Not with verses. With actions, Braeden. With truth."

He nods. He doesn't trust his voice. He gets up. He walks away. And you, as soon as he closes the door, cry silently with the pillow against your face, because asking for time is also a way of breaking down, when what you most want is for him to stay and tell you: "There's no need for time, all we need is to love us again like before cause that the pices fit, perspective hits." Because obviously he would quote "uncomfortable" again, but at the end of the sentence so that we don't notice.

The suitcase isn't full. But it weighs as if it were. It weighs because what you pack isn't just things, it's memories, plans, hopes... and everything you don't know if it'll ever come back.

Braeden is leaning against the bedroom door, silently watching you fold your pajamas with trembling hands. He hasn't said much since last night. But his gaze hasn't stopped begging you not to.

"Are you just going to leave like that?"

"I'm not leaving forever," you say, without looking at him.

"And where are you going to stay?" "At a friend's house... or a hotel. I haven't decided."

"A hotel? Seriously?" He closes the door with a soft click. He takes a few steps toward you. "Why are you doing this?"

You look at him. And it hurts. It hurts because you love him. Because he's there, broken, and you are too, but you can't continue being two people who love each other badly.

"Because if I don't, I'll end up hating you." And I don't want that, Brae".

He frowns. "Is there anyone else?"

Your heart breaks like crazy. Not because of jealousy. But because that question only confirms how far apart you already are.

"What?"

"Is that why? Because of someone else?"

You close the suitcase. You lean closer. And you cup his face. "There's no one else." Precisely because of that. Because the only one is you. And I don't want this shit to consume us to the point where we no longer recognize each other. The routine is killing us. And Feeling uncomfortable is becoming a habit."

Braeden bites his lip, holding back. His eyes fill with tears. He can't stand it.

"But if you leave... if you leave now... what if you don't come back?"

"Then make me want to come back. Make this space worth it. Make me remind you how much we mean to each other."

He kisses your forehead. Slowly. As if every cell in his body refuses to let go. "Promise me you won't stop thinking about me."

You look at him, and there is the love of your life. Lost. But still shining beneath the fear. "I couldn't, not even if I wanted to."

And with suitcase in hand, you leave. But you leave your heart in the hall, next to Braeden's guitar and the dried flowers from your first anniversary.

Because this isn't goodbye. It's the bravest attempt to save something worthwhile. Even if it hurts. Even if it burns. Even if it seems like everything is breaking.

Days passed. Not many. But enough to hurt. You haven't seen him on social media. You haven't heard him in interviews. You don't see him with Dylan or Cole. And that's saying something.

It's not like you're stalking him... Or maybe you are. But you don't even know what you're hoping to find.

Maybe he's just as screwed up as you are. That he's alone. That he hasn't filled your void with anything or anyone.

And he is. Braeden doesn't leave his apartment. He hasn't played guitar. He hasn't answered Dylan's messages. Cole went to see him once, but he didn't even answer. Because to him, you're not traveling. You're absent. And he doesn't know whether to bring you back or let you go.

You're in a hotel. You lie to yourself and say you're okay. That sleeping alone feels good. And at night you roll over and hug a pillow that doesn't smell like Braeden, and it pisses you off.

Braeden sits in his living room and watches TV with the volume down. The videos of you two on his phone are muted, but he watches them over and over again, as if he could wring words from your frozen laughter.

There's something he doesn't understand: Why does silence weigh more than arguments? Because he said hurtful things to you, so did you. And yet, this emptiness is what hurts the most. More than any scream.

He almost dials. Sometimes he already has the text written. A "Where are you? I miss you." A "Can I tell you to come over now?" A "I can't stand another day without you."

But he never sends it. And neither do you. Because you're both waiting. Let's see who gives in first. Who breaks. Who dares to say: "I've understood your worth." And that's precisely why it hurts more.

You're at the hotel. The lights are off. The laptop is lying next to you, the documentary in the background that you're not even watching.

The cell phone is next to the pillow, as if you were waiting for it. And then it rings.

Brae. 💕 2:14 a.m. Incoming call.

You stare at the name flashing on the screen. It doesn't vibrate. It rings. Because you yourself turned off the "do not disturb" feature three days ago. Even though you said you wouldn't answer if he called. But you do. Because it's him.

"Hello?"

Silence. Just his breathing. "

Are you okay?" you ask, swallowing.

And then the voice. That low voice. Broken

"No. I'm not okay. Not since you left."

You sit up. Your heart leaps to your throat. His voice sounds like when he's crying, but he wants to pretend he isn't.

"I know you said you needed time. And I understand. I swear I understand. But…"he swallows the lump "Can you come? Or let me go. Please. Just five minutes."

Your voice trembles too. "Brae…"

"I don't know how we got to this. And I'm not calling to blame you. I'm calling because I'm going crazy without you. And if this is going to end, I need to see your eyes when it does. And if it's not going to end, I need to hold you now."

You're already crying. You don't know how, or when. But his voice, his words, the fucking time...

"I'm sending you my location."

Not even 12 minutes have passed. There's a knock on your door. And there he is. With red eyes, his hair a mess, and one of your hoodies in his hand. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

You just hug each other. Tight. As if you'd been drowning and could finally breathe. And there, between tears, between familiar skin, he whispers like a promise:

"I'm not going to let routine take me away from you again. I'm not going to lose you again. I don't want everything to feel uncomfortable again."

[alcapzr]

i NEED a Braeden fluffy 😿🙏

- anon 🤍

𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝑻𝒐 𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒔 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Braeden introducing us with them, Dylan and Cole cameo, sligthly hurt comfort, Reader being a bit anxious

A/N: This was the last request I wrote before my break so I think it's shorter than other one shots so I apologize.

There's something in the air today that doesn't let you breathe fully. It's not the heat. It's not the coffee you drank without breakfast.

It's that today you're going to meet Dylan and Cole. The friends of the love of your life. The ones who've seen Braeden through her worst and best moments, the ones who've been there forever. And now... now it's your turn to fit in.

You're in the apartment bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror as you tie your hair for the fourth time. You untie it. You tie it again. Then you untie it again. You sigh.

"What if they don't like me?" you ask suddenly, like someone ripping off a Band-Aid.

Braeden appears in the doorway, shirtless, with a toothbrush in his mouth and that adorable "huh?" expression. He looks at you through the reflection. He's muttering something unintelligible, the toothpaste foaming in his mouth. He rinses quickly and comes back with a serious face.

"What did you say?"

"What... what if they don't like me?" you repeat, lowering your gaze. Your fingers play with the hem of the hoodie you're wearing, obviously because you wanted to smell like him to calm yourself.

Braeden comes up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder.

"They're going to love you."

"What if they don't? What if they think I'm intense, or that I have nothing in common with them, or that I'm the ridiculous girlfriend who disrupts their long-standing relationship?"

He sighs softly. He kisses your cheek. Then your neck. " Can I tell you something?" His voice is low, soft, confident. "Dylan and Cole are my best friends, yes... but I don't care if they don't like you, because I already chose you. Period. And besides, of course they're going to like you. It's you." You're smart, sweet, funny, and you also know more about music than the three of us on tour combined.

You laugh softly. "That's not true."

"Shhh," he says, turning you so you're facing him. "Today we're just going to eat, laugh, and have a good time. And if you ever feel uncomfortable, just tell me and we'll go. I'll take care of you. Okay?"

Your eyes fill with sparkle and controlled anxiety. He wipes away a tear that's threatening to fall. And then he plants a kiss on your forehead. "Besides, you look gorgeous in that hoodie of mine. You're going to kill Dylan from rage."

"Why?"

"Because he wanted that hoodie, and I never lent it to him. But I did lend it to you. Because you're my person."

And that's it. That's when your heart melts. That's when your nerves calm down a little. That's when you know that, no matter what happens, you're on the right side of history: by his side.

The restaurant is nice. Kind of fancy without being pretentious. Full of hanging plants, warm lights, and an indie playlist playing in the background that one of them probably put together.

And while the atmosphere should calm you down, it doesn't. Because you see them. There are Dylan and Cole, sitting at a table by a huge window. Cole wearing an olive-green jacket, playing with the straw in his mineral water. Dylan wearing a gray beanie, checking something on his phone.

Both talking quietly, laughing about something.

Braeden notices your immediate panic. He squeezes your hand tightly. "Breathe," he whispers near your ear. "I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

But your head is only thinking horrible things. "What if they see me and think I'm too basic?" "What if they ask me questions about Wallows and I screw up?" "What if they look at me and realize there's nothing special about me?"

Braeden cuts off your thoughts with a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Meet the people I love most in the world. Well... after you," he winks.

You walk toward the table. And you feel like you're heading toward your final judgment. But then something unexpected happens.

Dylan looks at you first. And instead of that "I'm analyzing her" look, his face lights up. He stands immediately, with a huge, genuine smile. "Finally!" he says. "We finally meet you! Braeden can't stop talking about you, huh.'

Cole stands up too, a little more shy but just as smiling. "He brought you in an official hoodie, that's already the maximum level of trust," he jokes as he gives you a soft hug. "Welcome, finally."

And you... you freeze. Not because it was bad. But because it was so beautiful that your brain didn't expect it.

Braeden smiles like a little kid. He adjusts your chair. He sits next to you. And when everyone's in their seats, Dylan orders a shot "because this occasion deserves it." Cole lets out a weak laugh and comments something like, "If we don't scare her with our pranks, this is going to work out really well."

You just breathe. You relax. And you give Braeden a look that means: okay, maybe they were right.

The first words have already been spoken. The first nerves have already subsided. And now everything flows as if this has been going on for years.

Dylan says he once fell asleep during an interview in Germany and Braeden tried to cover for him by speaking in German he clearly didn't master.

Cole adds that Dylan once almost set the drums on fire during a soundcheck, and you're already crying with laughter. Literally, tears are coming out. Braeden just laughs and pulls you closer. Because yes, you're glued to him. He hasn't let go of you for a second since you sat down. One of his hands caressing your thigh under the table. The other playing with your fingers. And you're leaning on his shoulder, your head in his neck as if that were your natural place.

"You're much cooler than I expected," Dylan tells you, looking at you with genuine warmth.

Cole smiles and nods, placing his glass on the table. "Yeah... I mean, Braeden was nervous about introducing you, and now I understand why. He didn't want us to screw up."

You let out a shy laugh, and Braeden laughs even louder.

He kisses your forehead shamelessly. "Of course you weren't going to screw up. I love you, but if You made her feel uncomfortable, I'd tell you to fuck off."

Everyone laughs. The atmosphere is already so soft, so intimate, you could swear you're at a dinner party with friends who've known each other forever.

Braeden turns to you, softly, just for you: "I told you it was going to be okay... and now look at you. You're the heart of the table."

He gives you another kiss. This time on the cheek, slowly. And you just melt. Dylan looks at You and makes a joking face. "Ugh, you're so in love I'm going to get diabetes."

Cole lets out a knowing laugh. "I can already picture you as old people in matching sweaters."

Braeden, without letting go, answers very seriously: "We've got them. Didn't I show you the picture?"

You're dying of laughter. And you hug him tighter. Because you do. You feel loved. Safe. In your place.

The dinner was a success. The laughter never stopped. You felt so comfortable that, at times, you forgot these three guys fill stadiums.

But as they left the restaurant... oh, that's when you remembered. As soon as they walked through the door, a group of fans spotted them.

"Braeden? Dylan? Cole?!"

"Are they Wallows?!"

"BRAEDEN, I LOVE YOU!"

The cell phone flashes went off like crazy fireflies. And you... well, you froze for two seconds. Until Braeden pressed himself against you, put his arm around your waist, and whispered in your ear: "Relax. It's okay. I'm with you."

And right after, to a fan who got too close, he said firmly, still smiling: "We'd be happy to take a picture, but give me a sec, okay?" And he pulled you aside. As if you were the most precious thing he had to protect.

And you... you just watched. Not from a distance, but from within. You were no longer the new girl, nor the stranger. You were the one Braeden held by the hand in the midst of the commotion. The one Dylan looked after like a sister, jokingly telling you, "Stay back or Brae's hardcore fans will kidnap you." The one Cole made laugh while they waited for the album signings to finish.

Braeden returned quickly, as if time away from you wasn't negotiable.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah... it's just weird," you said softly, as you made your way to the parking lot. "I never thought I'd be in the middle of all this."

He smiled at you, that soft, loving smile he gave only to you. "I didn't think I'd be with someone who made me feel this at peace either. But look at us."

And as he opened the car door for you, he stole another kiss. And Dylan yelled from behind "Stop eating each other, I'm sleepy!"

"And I'm hungry again!" Cole added.

You just laughed. And Braeden, already inside the car, hugged you from behind, and in that moment, with the engine starting, friends talking overhead, the murmurs of fans fading away... you knew that world was as much yours as it was theirs.

Dylan and Cole went straight to another bar “so as not to disturb the romantic moments,” Dylan said, winking.

And you, well… you were floating. Between tiredness, the food, and the peace of feeling part of it. Braeden closed the door, took off his jacket, and sighed. And you, automatically, sat down on the couch with your legs crossed.

“Do you want tea?” he asked from the kitchen.

“Only if you drink it with me.”

“Of course. Mint?”

“Always.”

He came back with the two cups and sat next to you, half-defeated. His body sought yours without asking permission. Your leg over his. Your arm wrapped around his back. And suddenly, without warning, without pause… he opened up:

“You know something weird?” he murmured, without looking at you, his eyes fixed on the cup. “I was scared shitless today.”

"Why?"

"Because you're important. Very important. And they... they're like my brothers.

"And you were afraid they wouldn't like me?"

"I was afraid you'd feel like you didn't fit in."

Your heart stopped for a second. "Brae..."

"It's just... I always felt sort of dissociated from my world. Sometimes I don't even feel part of it. And you... you anchor me, you know?"

There was a silence. One of those heavy, sincere ones that hurt and heal at the same time. And then you saw it. That expression on his face, like he was removing an invisible armor. As if he'd just confessed something he'd been keeping to himself for years.

You approached, put your cup on the table, and cupped his face in your hands.

"I was scared too. I thought I wouldn't be able to handle their energy, or that they'd laugh at me, or that they'd tell you I'm too simple or too intense or too whatever..."

"They never could. Because they love you. Do you know how many times Dylan teased me that he wanted to meet you? And Cole?" As soon as he saw us a pic of us together, he said, "Now I understand why you talk about her so much."

Braeden leaned against your chest. He slumped down.

And you hugged him as if it were the only thing you knew how to do. As if his silences were your language. As if he, too, found a home in you. And so you stayed.

With the TV on in the background. With the tea forgotten. With their bodies crossed like lines that no longer know how to separate. And when you thought he'd fallen asleep, you heard him whisper: "Thank you for staying."

"Thank you for choosing me."

[alcapzr]

a cute fluffy braeden fic please 🙏🙏🙏

𝑪𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝑳𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐 ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Wallows landing in Mexico, Set in May because I still haven't gotten over seeing them live lol, Public Kisses, Braeden loving Reader and Mexico, I discreetly throwing facts about my country, Cole and Dylan cameo, Pre Pepsi Center show, Dr Simi Plush

The plane hums softly, like a long sigh. The screen in the seat in front of you shows a tiny map where a blue line traces its passage over the clouds: from Los Angeles to Mexico City.

But you don't care about the map. You care about Braeden's head, leaning against your shoulder.

"You're warm," he whispers against your neck, his voice raspy from lack of sleep. "I like it."

His arm circles your waist with that habit only couples who already know each other by heart have. His eyes are closed, but he's not falling asleep. He just wants to be close to you. To hold you, to pamper you, to feel that you're really there and not just a bad dream between shows and tours.

Across the aisle, Dylan is fast asleep, his mouth half-open, his headphones dangling as if they've given up. A couple of rows back, Cole snores shamelessly, cuddling a mushroom-shaped travel pillow. You laugh softly.

"Did I tell you about the first time we went to Mexico?" Braeden murmurs, in that excited little voice that escapes her when she starts to remember.

"No," you reply, turning your face toward him, brushing his nose against yours. "Tell me."

He opens his eyes, tiny in the dawn light streaming through the window. And they light up. "2022. Corona Capital. The heat, the chaos, the fans screaming like we were headliners... it was crazy. I'd never felt anything like that. When we started playing "Scrawny," the audience sang louder than us. I could barely play from the excitement."

You see him smile with pure nostalgia. "Then we went to Lunario in 2023. Remember I sent you a video?"

"Of course I do. You had a hideous shirt," you mock. Braeden lets out a low laugh, the kind that makes his chest vibrate against yours.

"It was plain white! It wasn't hideous. It was basic."

"Basics are hideous," you correct. He shrugs.

"Basics are fashion, babe." He strokes your side with his knuckles, as if drawing invisible letters on your sweater. Then he lets out a long sigh.

"And now you're going with me. To Mexico. First time."

His eyes sparkle. As if you were a dream finally fulfilled.

"You don't know how much I wanted you to come. Dylan and Cole are used to touring, but you... you deserve to see what it feels like. You deserve to see us down there and scream with everyone. I want you there when we play "Are You Bored Yet?" at the Pepsi Center, and I want to see you recording me when I play in Monterrey. I want to show you off in Guadalajara."

"Show me off?"

"Yes," he nods. "As if you were my best song."

You struggle to breathe for a second. Because that line melts you. Because you've never been loved as softly and as sincerely as Braeden does when he's not singing. "And also..." he continues, lowering his voice, "I want to take you to my favorite place."

"In Mexico?"

He nods. "I won't tell you what it is right now. But you're going to love it. It's a secret. Mine. And now it's going to be yours too."

Your heart beats fast. Because you know he's not just talking about a physical place. He's talking about sharing the most intimate part of him. His roots, his connection to music, his nostalgia, his private moments. And you're there, just on the verge of entering.

The window lets the first rays of light shine over the city as it begins to awaken. Braeden kisses your forehead and you close your eyes, his soft scent of sweet tobacco and cheap hotel shampoo seeping into your senses.

You're going to Mexico with Wallows. But you're by his side. And that's a different kind of concert. The plane barely lands and Braeden leans out the window as if it's the first time he's set foot in Mexico.

"Did you see it? Look at that mountain... it's Popocatépetl. Active, like me with you," he jokes, and you nudge him, but grinning like an idiot.

As soon as you step into the terminal, the noise starts to rise like wildfire. And not because of Dylan or Cole, who are already half asleep, pulling their suitcases. It's because of Wallows. And this time, you're going with them.

A few fans not hundreds, but enough are waiting for them. Screams, flashing lights, hand-drawn signs. A couple of girls on the verge of tears. Another one screaming “¡Braedeeeen te amo cabroooon!” and you don't know whether to laugh or protect him.

But he just laughs. And he squeezes your hand tighter. Because he hasn't let go since you got off the plane. And he's not going to. A girl with a BTS backpack and Wallows stickers on her phone approaches them, trembling. She looks at you, wide-eyed, as if you were famous too.

"Are you his girlfriend?" she asks, as if the world depended on your answer. Braeden smiles. "Yes, she is," he says before you can say anything.

And you feel your whole body speed up. The girl gets even more excited and pulls out of her backpack Mexico's current national treasure: a Doctor Simi plush toy with a banner that says "MODEL AND MORE TOUR."

She hands it to Braeden, and he hugs it like it's a Grammy. Then he passes it to you.

"We're going to take this one on stage, okay?" he says, as if it were already obvious.

"Of course," you reply, hugging Doctor Simi with a lump in your throat. Because you don't know whether to cry from emotion or tenderness. Because the fans don't just love him. They're also loving you. And that... that hurts a lot.

Dylan waves to everyone. Cole makes little hearts with his hands. And you're right behind, clinging to Braeden, listening to some fans murmur your name, because obviously Braeden always shows you off, and all you hear is fans saying, "Are you the one from Lollapalooza?" "Are you the girl from the rehearsal video on his IG stories?" "Are you the girl with the tattoo that looks like a lyric from 'Don't Wait?'"

And Braeden doesn't let on. Hhe just pulls you a little closer, until her lips brush against your ear: "They're getting to know you. And that makes me so fucking happy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he nods, his voice low and firm. "Welcome to my world."

You hug the Doctor Simi plush toy like a talisman. And even though you haven't even set foot in the hotel, the venue, or tried the tacos al pastor that Braeden has been promising you for weeks, you already know this tour is going to be different. That this country, this love, this Braeden of yours, is going to change everything. And yes, Mexico is opening its arms to you. But he... he already opened his heart to you before.

The hotel is on Reforma, the heart of Mexico City. The windows on the 15th floor of the Sofitel reveal the beautiful chaos of the city: cars honking, taco stands that smell to the sky, buildings mixed with a light mist, and that unique energy that makes everything seem alive.

You walk into the room holding Braeden's hand, still carrying the Doctor Simi. You throw it on the bed, and it bounces as if it's excited too.

"I'm shaking," Braeden says, taking off his jacket and sitting on the edge of the bed, moving his leg as if it's been hit with a battery.

"Why?"

He looks at you. He runs his hand through his hair as if that'll help him organize his thoughts. But it doesn't help. The bastard is still a knot of emotions. "Because I want everything to go well for you here. For you to have a great time. For you to feel everything like I did the first time. And because..." he lowers his voice, nervous, "... because today I'm going to take you to my favorite place in all of Mexico."

You frown, but with a smile already waiting to come out. Because Braeden has that "I have something planned and I'm dying of nerves" face, as if he's going to propose to you and not invite you to a gazebo or a bar.

"What does that mean?"

"Get dressed up," he replies, suddenly standing up and walking toward his suitcase as if that will help him escape his anxiety.

"Not super elegant or anything, but... you know, dress like we did when we went to the theater in New York. Something nice. Something you."

You look at him with a raised eyebrow. "And you?"

"Me too. I'm going to wear a shirt. A button-down. I mean, formal, but cool. But not as cool as you because I don't want you to overshadow me, but I do want you to feel like you're on a date. Is it a date? Yeah. Did I already say that? Shit. I'm saying a lot."

You walk over and hug him from behind. And Braeden lets out one of those sighs that seems to calm earthquakes.

"I like it when you're like this," you whisper. "Because it means you care."

He turns in your arms, his gaze a mixture of tenderness, restrained desire, and a hint of insecurity.

"I swear I don't know why I'm so nervous. I've taken you thousands of places. We've traveled together. We've slept together. But this... this is different. It's Mexico. And this place... it's like... my favorite corner of the universe. And I haven't shown it to anyone. No one. Not Dylan. Not Cole. Not my ex. No one."

That leaves you speechless. Because he said it like that, so suddenly, so sincerely, that your heart skipped a beat.

"So..." you ask, squeezing his hand. "Are you going to share your universe with me?"

Braeden smiles. That smile that starts small and ends like the sun rising between his lips. "Yes. But only if you get ready in less than an hour or I'll leave alone," he threatens you dramatically, as he heads into the bathroom with his shirt hanging over one arm.

You watch him disappear behind the door with a lovelorn smile. And as you take out your favorite outfit, apply only the necessary makeup, and apply that scent he always smells on your neck, you already know: This isn't just another date. It's an entrance to Braeden's heart. And he's waiting for you with the doors open.

You leave the hotel with Braeden on your arm, and night begins to fall, and the Mexico City sky turns that hazy purple that looks like runny paint. The car lights, the horns, the noise it's all a harmonious chaos that moves you more than you thought.

Braeden squeezes your hand as you walk down Paseo de la Reforma, and you turn to look at him, because his face is flushed. As if he hasn't slept in days, but the pure excitement is energizing him.

'Did you know Maximiliano planned this street? he says suddenly, as if he was filming a documentary. "That emperor. He wanted it to be like the Champs-Élysées in Paris, but with a Mexican vibe."

Did you You secretly studied history or something?

"No, but I read it on a guide last time. And it stuck with me. Because I thought it was beautiful that someone wanted to bring beauty to a place and the city made it their own. Like... like us."

"Like us?"

"Yes. We're from somewhere else, but we're here, and we both fit right in."

Boom. Your heart shrinks like a wet napkin. Yoy pass by monuments you can't really look at because he keeps talking, pointing, telling you about the jacaranda trees, how they bloom in March and turn everything purple. You listen and look at him as if talking about trees were an act of poetry.

"And look, right now it's not their season,"he tells you while pointing at the bare trunks "but when they bloom, it seems like the sky is falling to pieces on the sidewalks."

"Do you always talk like that?"

"Only when I'm nervous and deeply in love."

Your laughter mingles with his as you arrive at the Metrobús station. You watch him scan the card so casually that it disconcerts you.

"Do you have a Metrobús card?"

"Of course," he answers, as if it were a mandatory requirement for a responsible boyfriend.

"I've had it since 2022. A fan gave it to me."

"So now we're going to the subway?"

"Yes."

"You? On the subway? You don't even speak Spanish, Babe."

He shrugs as you hold onto the poles inside the packed bus.

"That's the magic. I don't need to speak it to feel it. Everything here is... visceral. No one expects you to understand. You just get on, move forward, get lost for a while, and then find something beautiful. Like you."

And there you go again: gulping because this guy is giving you everything.

He pulls you against him when the Metrobús slams on the brakes. He covers you with his body when someone passes too close. He strokes your hand over his jacket as if it were a promise in Braille.

You get off at the Hidalgo station and the city air hits you suddenly. It smells of corn, car exhaust, wet history, confetti, and piloncinllo even thought Is not the season.

Braeden stares at the subway map as if she's reading a poem.

"It's almost here," he says, his eyes shining. "I swear it's worth it."

"Where are we going?"

"To my favorite part of the world."

The subway shakes slightly as the door closes. You were just about to rest your head on her shoulder, feeling the sway of the train like a city lullaby, when Braeden says to you

"Get ready, it's here."

"What do you mean, here? We haven't even been here half a minute!"

"I know. But that's part of the charm. We're going to transfer."

You and he leave at the Bellas Artes station, and as soon as you cross the white-tiled corridor, he takes your hand again.

You notice Braeden walking as if he's known this place forever, even though it's the first time he's done it with you.

"Do you know why I like this corridor?" he asks out of nowhere, staring up at the ceiling.

"Because it looks like something out of a Wes Anderson movie?"

"Exactly. But with a higher chance of someone selling you gum or singing to you through a horn."

You let out a laugh as you go down the stairs and enter the other platform. The orange subway is coming. He gently pushes you inside, and a woman accidentally pushes you, but Braeden waves to her as if they were friends, and the woman smiles at him.

"I like you," you tell him.

"Why?"

"Because you adapt. And yet, you're still you." The train moves forward.

"Next station: Garibaldi-Lagunilla."

You turn around slowly. "Braeden. What the hell is Garibaldi?" He laughs as if he's been waiting for you to ask that. That mischievous laugh you already know, the one that tenderly announces chaos.

"You'll see. Just trust me."

You blink. You try to remember. You've heard that name. You've seen it in memes, videos, TikToks... and you know it's not exactly the most fancy place.

"Isn't that where the mariachis are?"

"…Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Okay, yeah. But trust me. We're not going where everyone else is. We're going close. To a corner almost no one knows about."

He intertwines his fingers with yours just as the train stops and the doors open.

Garibaldi. And as you step out, you feel like this isn't just another subway ride. It's the prelude to something important. A surprise. A little piece of the city and of Braeden that will change you forever.

You step off the subway, and the smell of corn on the cob, tequila, distant cigarette smoke, and fried foods hits you. Neon lights in the shape of bottles and colorful letters shine everywhere.

You blink, dazzled, as Braeden takes your hand and pulls you through the crowd.

You don't go where the mariachis are. You don't go for the cheap beers or the noisy bars. You go downtown. Right where that enormous kiosk is, the one with lanterns hanging between the palm trees and rusty benches full of history.

"Brae?" He stops in front of the kiosk, lets go of your hand only to hop up the step and reach out to you, with a small but emotional smile.

"Get in."

You do. You get in. And there you two are, standing in the middle of the empty kiosk, surrounded by flickering lights as if you're in your own movie. Everything is quiet. All you can hear in the distance are trumpets, the applause of some tourists, the murmur of the city.

"Do you know when I first came here?" You shake your head. "After the Corona Capital set, in 2022."

You look at him in surprise. You didn't know he'd wandered around here alone. "I was lost," he confesses. "Literally. I got separated from the staff, the taxi left without me, and my phone was dying. I didn't know the city well. I wandered aimlessly and ended up here I Walked from Iztacalco to here It took me about two hours ."

He leans against the kiosk's railing, looking out at the plaza, as if he were back there, alone, lost.

"I sat right there," he points to one of the benches in front of you. "I didn't understand a thing. Everything was in Spanish. I was tired, sweaty, frustrated... and suddenly I was hit by this smell of tequila, street food, people laughing. Music everywhere. And I don't know. It was like the city embraced me. As if to say: don't worry, you'll be okay here."

You look at him, your heart heavy. Braeden, that musician who seems so controlled on stage, is now showing you that vulnerable side of him. That intimate memory he kept to himself... until today.

"Ever since then..." he continues, "I swore that if I ever truly fell in love with someone, I would bring them here. To this place where I felt everything would be okay. Because I want you to feel it too."

He pulls your hand. He presses you to his chest. He hugs you tightly. And there, in the middle of the kiosk, with his heart beating as if it were also part of the city, you know that this is no longer just a memory of his. Now it's yours.

Braeden moves away just a few inches. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at you, as if he's already said everything with his silence. Then he kisses you. And it's not just any kiss. It's one of those kisses you know from the first time, even if you've been together for months.

A kiss that smells of someone else's tequila, that slips in between laughter, music, and warm lights. His hands stay on your waist, yours tangled around the back of his neck.

There's no rush. There's no audience. There's no band. It's just you and him, in that kiosk where everything feels softer.

And then it sounds. "Ese lunar que tienes, cielito lindo Junto a la boca, no se lo des a nadie Cielito lindo que a mi me toca"

You open your eyes, confused. He smiles. The mariachi band a few feet away has started playing "Cielito Lindo," because of course, you're in Garibaldi, and here no one needs permission to sing from the heart. Braeden intertwines your fingers.

And without saying a word, he begins to move with you. Little by little. Suavecito. Clumsy, like a gringo who can't dance with a partner, but beautiful because he does it with you.

You laugh. "I don't understand a word you're saying," you murmur tenderly. "It doesn't matter," he replies, looking at you as if you were the only person in the city. "Sometimes you just have to let yourself go."

And that's what you do. You dance. To the rhythm of the mariachi, to the beat of your hearts, to the rhythm of the city that is now yours too. A turn. A laugh. Your foreheads together. You kiss his cheek. He kisses your nose.

And then he sings softly with you, making up the words because he doesn't understand everything either... but it doesn't matter. It feels good. It feels real. And when the song ends, there's no need to applaud. All you need is to hold each other tightly.

"Thanks for bringing me," you whisper.

"Thanks for coming with me," he replies.

That night, you return to the hotel in silence, but in that comfortable silence, of a couple who don't need words to know what you feel.

You go to bed, arms around each other. You fall asleep on his chest. And before closing your eyes, he strokes your hair and murmurs:

"Tomorrow you'll meet thousands of people shouting at us from below the stage... but today, here, you were only mine."

And you just smile. Because yes. You were his. And Mexico bore witness.

[alcapzr]

Hi I feel kinda guilty for asking this during ur exam. However, I thirst for smut so could you write a fan fic of braeden lemasters where him, reader, dylan, and cole were all childhood friends, but braeden and reader have gotten romantical. I would also love if it could be fluffy, smutty, and slightly angsty just because they've been waiting for so long.

Again so sorry for bothering you if you're stressed about exams. I get mega anxiety during exams so feel free to completely ignore this. <3 <3

𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑾𝒆 𝑻𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕... ? ♡︎ (Braeden Lemasters X FemReader)

Content: Fluff, Smutty at first ONLY, A bit of angst Reader being Literally the fourth member of Wallows, Childhood friends to Lovers, Love confession, First Kiss, Tenderness, Nervous smiles, Dylan, Isabella, Cole and Emma cameo, Flashbacks, My longest fic to the date, I don't know what else to put in content because it literally has everything

His fingers are intertwined with yours as he thrusts slowly into you. Not fast. Not dirty. Not clumsy. Not out of a party impulse or the heat of being drunk. It's because he loves you. And you knew it, even if he hadn't said it yet, but his body tells you with each sweet, tempered, and so fucking intimate thrust that it feels more like a declaration than a fuck.

You are down, completely naked, legs spread and tangled around his waist. He on top, keeping up the pace because his body is shaking from how much he wants you, but even more from how much he's feeling you.

"Look at me," he says, his voice cracking, hoarse from talking so much at the party. "I want to see your face when I enter you again."

And you do. You look at him. You see him glassy eyes, wet lips, a strand of hair falling across his forehead, and that low moan he lets out when he sinks back inside you like he's known you forever. Which he does. Because he does.

Your fingers tighten on his. You're both sweating, the sheets are rumpled, the air smells of cheap perfume, spilled beer in the living room, and Braeden. Home. "I feel you everywhere..." he groans, shaky, moving with a murderous slowness that makes you arch.

You're receiving him completely, completely open, your eyes half-watering because it's the first time you've ever done this, and you had no idea it would be this... intimate. Not this tender. Not this real. You didn't know making love with your best friend would feel so fucking amazing.

Your back arches as he moves down and kisses your neck. Sweet little kisses, as if he doesn't want to leave a mark, but as if he needs to mark you completely. He bites you barely, gasping between sentences

"You're perfect... I can't believe you're here with me. Like this. Finally." His voice sounds like he's crying with happiness, as if he's feeling for the first time.

You stroke his back, scratch the back of his neck. Your fingers tremble, but you do it because you want it, because you've wanted it your whole fucking life, and he's inside you, loving you with his body as if it would disintegrate if he stops.

One of his loose hands reaches for your face, holding it tenderly and with such intensity that it makes you moan louder than before.

"B-Brae…"

"Shh… I'm here. I'm with you. Always."

When he says it, you cry a little too.

He pauses for a few seconds, still inside, and rests his forehead against yours.

"Are you okay?" he asks in the softest voice in the universe.

"Yes," you reply, still holding his hand. "I'm... very good."

"Am I not going too fast?" he murmurs, his lips almost on yours.

"No. I like it this way. I like you."

And that sentence makes Braeden break. He kisses you, slowly, with soft tongue, as if the world was made for that kiss in that bed.

His hips move slowly again, but now there's more intention. More touch. More desire, charged with everything they kept quiet.

"I've always dreamed of this," he whispers against your mouth. "To be with you like this. To fuck with... with you."

"Then do it. Make me yours, Brae." Your legs squeeze him. Your hips lift. He moves down to bite your shoulder, continuing to move inside you. And that intertwined hand… he never lets go. Ever.

You both tremble. You both moan. You both move with a connection so clear it hurts. As if their souls already knew how to dance together. And it's in the middle of that slow, tearful, kiss-filled fuck that he says it for the first time without saying it

"I love you. I love you so much it hurts, Y/N..."

You don't answer. You just hold him tighter. Deeper. More you. You feel his body give way a little. You feel him tremble. Almost coming. Your lips on his neck. His name on your mouth. And you smile, your face buried in the pillow while Braeden is still inside, moaning and sweating and trembling on top of you, and okay okay, but... how did you get here?

[FIVE HOURS EARLIER] 🌄 6:21 PM – At Cole Preston's house, Los Angeles, CA. Backyard BBQ vibes.

“Did you bring the chips?”

“Of course, Dude,” you reply, laughing as you wave the bag of chips like a rock star. Cole gives you an approving look from the grill, wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Cook (Only If You’re Emma).”

“You’re the MVP. It literally wouldn’t be the same without you, Y/N.”

“Are you saying that about the chips or about existing?” you respond, all dramatic.

“Both, duh,” Dylan chimes in from a lounge chair, with Isabella lying on his lap, tangled up like two cats who don’t know what modesty is.

The afternoon smells of charcoal, craft beer, and sunscreen. The sun is shining brightly, the grass is green, Wallows is playing in the background just because they're the kind of people who put on their music when they're together, but with aesthetic irony.

And you're there, as always, the unofficial fourth member of the group, the one who appears in some videos, the one who intervenes in PR when the record label screws up, the one who's been around since before Braeden even thought about dressing up as a woman for the "Nobody Gets Me (Like You)" video since forever and always.

And speaking of the devil…

“You took a while, slowpoke,” Braeden says as he comes up behind you and lightly taps you on the neck with his ice-cold beer. You bristle and throw a chip in his face.

“I was just finishing up a text to a reporter who thinks Dylan and I got back together like it wasn't almost 10 years ago.”

“God, again?” Cole says, indignant. “Why can't they understand that you're like our sister and that Isabella has him eating out of her hand?”

“Because I have an unstoppable sexual aura, Preston.”

“Clearly,” Isabella interrupts with a laugh as she applies sunscreen to Dylan like he's her baby. It's all so… casual. Familiar. Comfortable.

Cole's house is your safe zone. The fairy lights are starting to come on even though the sun hasn't set yet, and you're sitting on the grass, holding a passion fruit craft beer, watching Braeden move the cooler around, and it makes you think things. Things you shouldn't think. Things you've thought many times before.

Things you sometimes think he thinks too... but then he laughs and walks away, and you're left like that, on emotional standby, your heart just as confused as it was in 2015.

"Are you looking at me?" Braeden asks suddenly.

"What?" "You've been looking at me for a while."

"Oh, no. I was just... looking at the cooler. It's in good shape," you reply with all the dignity you can muster.

Braeden smiles at you as if he knows. As if he's noticed that extra second, that change in breathing.

And instead of saying anything, he throws a folded napkin at you. You open it. It's a quick drawing. Of you. Sitting just as you are right now. But with a flower crown on your head and a beer in your hand.

Your heart is pounding like a badly mixed drum. And Braeden just shrugs and heads back into the kitchen, whistling something by Mac DeMarco.

You laugh. Because this is what you do. You tease each other, you run away, you silently adore each other.

"You blushed, girl," Emma says, seeing you still holding the napkin.

"Must be the sun."

"Uh-huh."

And you don't know it yet, but that night, that same Braeden who draws you on napkins... is going to fuck you with your hands clasped around his neck like you're his religion.

The afternoon stretches like bubblegum. The sun is already beginning to tint the shadows orange, and the beers are multiplying unchecked. The smell of burnt chicken fills the air, courtesy of Cole, who's still fighting with the grill as if it owes him money.

But you're lying on a blanket, laughing with Isabella and Emma as if the world were nothing but laughter and senseless nonsense.

"Okay, but why do they always draw aliens with big eyes? What if they actually have tiny, granny-eyes?" Isabella says, balancing a bottle on her forehead.

"Because no one wants to be abducted by an alien with eyes like a dead fish, dude," Emma replies, deep in a conversation that's going nowhere.

"Well, I do," you say. "If they're going to invade me, I don't give a fuck about the yes bit they should have big hands."

The three of you are silent for a second. Then burst into laughter. Isabella points a finger at you.

"You're a pervert, and I love you."

"I am THE pervert, baby," you reply, in a made-up French accent.

Behind you, Cole curses as he drops a wing on the grill. No one pays attention. He asked for it by calling himself a chef without knowing how to use a grill.

"Imagine marrying someone who doesn't even know how to grill a fucking wing," Emma says, taking a sip of her drink. "I'm completely screwed."

"Put poison in the wedding toast and play the sad widow," you say.

"Burn down the house and fake your death at the Bachelorette party," Isabella finishes.

You laugh. You don't notice Braeden isn't there. Or that he's staring at you from across the patio. Inside, in the dimly lit kitchen smelling of open beers, Dylan crosses his arms against the marble island and watches Braeden.

Braeden pretends to be checking his phone, but he's not seeing anything.

"Are you going to keep staring at her like an idiot all your life, or are you going to do something about it?"

Braeden looks up. He sighs. "Don't start."

"Dude, I'm not even starting. I've seen this so many times I could direct the movie. And spoiler alert: it ends with you alone."

Braeden doesn't respond.

"Listen to me," Dylan says, quieter, more serious.

"It's not like when we were 16. It's not that game of 'I'll wait for her to break up with the guy,' of 'maybe at the next party she'll sit near me,' of 'if I hold her tighter maybe she'll understand that I love her.' No more." The silence is thick. "It's different now, Bro. If she gets someone else, it's not a game anymore. Maybe there won't be a next time. Maybe you'll end up seeing her married to someone else. Or raising her kids. Or just... growing old next to a guy who isn't you. And you're there, looking at her from afar with that same old face: the 'I saw her first.'"

Braeden purses his lips. He bites the inside of his cheek. "I just don't want to ruin what we have," he murmurs, barely audible.

"You know what ruins what you have?"

'Shut up."

That you've looked at her like that for over 18 years and still haven't told her. Dylan lowers his voice, but leans in a little closer. "Why do you think you wanted her in These Days? Do you think it was a coincidence that you wanted her to be the one who throws the rock at us, the one who knocks us down, the one who literally unplugs you at the end?"

Braeden doesn't answer. He knows.

"And Especially You?" Who did you write it to, Brae? Who else did you sing "Some Things Leave Me Confused, But Especially You" to?

Braeden closes his eyes for a second.

"You changed the script of Bad Dream just so she'd be the one to wake you up. Literally. We all get stabbed to death, but she touches you and the nightmare is over. What more do you need to realize?"

Dylan watches him. There's no mockery in his tone. Only genuine concern.

"When we were The Narwhals... we always rehearsed at her house. Never yours. Never mine. Never Cole's. Always hers. Because you wanted to be there. Because it felt right there. Because she's your home, and you know it."

Braeden swallows the emotion like liquid fire. "I'm afraid she'll say no."

"And aren't you afraid you'll never know?" Silence. "The worst thing isn't her saying no, Brae. The worst thing is waking up one day and her calling to tell you she's engaged. The worst thing is watching her wedding as the fucking male bridesmaid. The worst thing is knowing you missed your chance, not because she didn't love you, but because you never said you loved her first."

Braeden puts his phone down on the counter. He covers his mouth for a second, taking a deep breath.

"You think no one notices," Dylan says, already standing, ready to leave him to his pain. "But we all know. And she... she knows it too. She's just waiting for you to name it."

And you're out there, oblivious. Lying on your back, watching the sky turn lavender.

"Do you think we were lesbian witches living in a forest in another life?" Isabella asks, hugging a pillow.

"Of course," you answer without hesitation. "And I'm sure Braeden came to bring us firewood while Dylan and Cole ended up baking bread shirtless."

Emma laughs. So do you. You don't realize you just said his name first without thinking.

And a few feet away, the owner of that name has just decided he can't live another day without telling you everything.

Dylan takes a slow sip while Braeden remains silent.

"Bro, I'm not trying to pressure you," he adds, softer this time. "It's just that so many years have passed. You know how you feel. So do I. And, let's be honest… so does she."

Braeden looks up with a hint of fear. "But do you really think she knows?"

Dylan smiles, but it's that smile that holds no joy, only resignation. "I think she suspects it. That she's suspected it many times. But you always do something to extinguish it. You always back out at the last second. And she... she's not going to wait forever for someone who doesn't move."

Braeden swallows. The ice in his beer has already melted. His throat too. "It's just... what if I screw up? What if I say something and she never sees me the same again? What if I lose her?"

Dylan looks at him for a long time. Then, very quietly: "What if you're already losing her by staying silent?" Braeden squeezes his eyes shut, as if he could close the door to that truth. But he can't.

"When we met her..." he begins, almost in a whisper. "We were 10. And I... I didn't even know why I got nervous when she sat next to me. And then we grew up." And we started playing at her house. And I'd see you and Cole trying to flirt with anything that moved... And all I could think about was her. How she laughed. How she listened to us sing like we were the fucking Beatles. How she cried when I broke my ankle and we couldn't play that shitty festival in the Chang brothers' garage."

He laughs. Bitter. Sad. Sunk in nostalgia.

“She was never just a friend. Never. But I always thought that… I don't know, that I had time. That one day it would be 'the perfect moment.' And then she met that jerk from the programming course, then you dated her for a month and you two had a fight, then Cole introduced her to his cousins and seemed to like one of them… And I kept waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Dylan’s voice is almost clipped. But firm. Braeden doesn’t answer. She just takes a deep breath, as if she’s about to say it out loud for the first time.

“Hoping that she’d know. That one day, she’d figure it out on her own. That she’d look at me the way I look at her. That she’d say, ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’ And that I could answer, ‘Because I didn’t want to lose you, but now I don’t care if I do, as long as you know how I feel.”

Dylan lowers his head, swallowing back his emotion. “Dude… it’s not about if she loves you. It’s about when you’re going to dare.” And if you don't dare now, tomorrow could be too late.

Braeden looks at him. "What if it's too late?"

Dylan doesn't say anything. He just watches him. And his silence is worse than any response. In the distance, your laughter continues to fill the yard.

You're with Emma, telling them about a stupid idea to make Wallows plushies that smell like each of them "Braeden's is going to smell like cedar and creative anxiety" and Isabella applauds you like it's the best pitch on the planet. Braeden smiles. But that smile hurts. Because it's the smile of someone who loves in secret. And is afraid of loving at the wrong time.

FLASHBACK – 2010. LIVING ROOM. 14 YEARS OLD.

The sound of Scott Pilgrim vs. The World bounces off the walls. Ramona appears on screen with her electric blue hair. The remote is buried in blankets, and the bowl of popcorn is abandoned on your stomach, while your legs rest stretched out on top of Braeden's.

There's you, him, Dylan, and Cole. All of them, wearing the same poorly washed hoodie from some indie band they'd loved for three weeks. You, with knee-high socks and a sweater three sizes too big that they swore belonged to your brother but Braeden knew was yours.

And then, he takes your hand. It's not casual. It's not accidental. It's on purpose. His fingers brush against yours, slowly. And you... You don't do anything.

You don't even move. You just intertwine. As if you'd been waiting for that gesture. As if you already knew that hand was going to feel like home.

"What's this?" Cole asks, half a popsicle stuck to the corner of his lip. "A live teen rom-com? Let me know when you kiss so I can go puke outside?"

"Wow, that's intimate, huh?" Dylan says with a half smile. "Are you going to propose after the credits, or something?"

Braeden just laughs softly, without looking at them. He doesn't let go. Neither do you. But your cheeks burn. And he looks down too. As if holding your hand was a secret. But one he wanted them to see. Even if he couldn't say anything else.

PRESENT.

Isabella's laughter is lost in the music from the patio. Emma talks to Cole about stupid conspiracy theories.

And you... you walk. Your eyes have already seen it. Braeden. Still. Quiet. Looking like he swallowed something and needed to vomit. You approach.

Dylan notices. He watches as Braeden straightens his back at the sight of you. How his fingers clench as if they're about to sweat something other than nerves. And just before you arrive... Dylan pats him on the back. His way of saying, "I can't save you from this now, dude." "It's your turn."

He doesn't say anything. He just walks away. He leaves the space. Because he knows if you don't do it now... you'll never do it.

And you arrive. In front of Braeden. With the same sparkle in your eyes you had at 14. Only this time, your hands shake a little more. Because this time, you're not kids anymore. And this time, love can't just be found in a look.

"Can we walk a little?" Braeden says. His voice sounds like it's stuck in his throat. You don't ask. You don't hesitate. You just nod. Because you, too, felt that strange tension in the air.

Not uncomfortable. But thick, like electricity that hasn't found a place to land. He digs his hands into his pockets as he walks beside you. Not too close. But not too far. Just enough so that his arm brushes against yours as his steps quicken with nerves, and then he slow down to wait for you.

You walk to the back of the yard. Between the branches that separate the patio from the more wooded area of Cole's house. And there it is. The hammock. The same one as always. The same one where you once fell asleep on top of it without realizing it while you were writing the demos for "Quarterback." The same one where Dylan almost fell over with a beer on him. The same one where the four of you laughed so hard Cole almost peed himself. Braeden looks at her. He bites his lip. And sits down.

"Do you want to...?" He makes an awkward gesture, with an even awkwarder smile.

You don't answer. You just plop down next to him. Your legs touch his. Just like always. Only this time, Braeden doesn't relax. In the background, the group's laughter sounds distant.

Dylan is making fun of something, probably one of Cole's stories about his failed dates. Emma lets out a "yuck!" followed by a roaring laugh. And you could swear Isabella is yelling "kiss, kiss, kiss! for the hell of it."

But you're not listening properly. Because Braeden doesn't say anything. And that screams louder than anything else.

He doesn't move. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't make any jokes. He just presses his lips together, like he's holding something burning inside.

And you can tell. You can tell, like always. But this time, you won't say anything. Not this time. This time, you wait. Because you know what's coming needs to come from him. No jokes. No interruptions. No fears.

And Braeden… Braeden looks up at the sky. Takes a deep breath. And closes his eyes. As if it's now or never.

"Brae…" "What's wrong?" Your voice is soft. As if you're afraid of breaking something.

And he… is already broken. He swallows. His lips tremble slightly. And he looks at you. And it's then, right then, that you realize. He's not angry. He's not drunk. He's not uncomfortable. He's… overwhelmed.

"I shouldn't tell you like this," he whispers. "Not like this. Not today. But if I don't do it now, I never will."

Your heart stops. Or at least it seems that way.

"Ever since we were ten, ever since the first day I saw you fight with that jerk in sixth grade because he wouldn't let you use the drums… ever since then, I knew you were different. That you were you. You, the one who always laughed with crooked teeth and a burning soul. You, the one who learned the lyrics before us and shouted from the garage for us to make harmonies like the Arctic Monkeys. You, who cried with me when I sprained my ankle and couldn't play. You, who bought me my first real microphone with your birthday savings. You, who were always there, even when I never had the balls to be with you completely." His voice cracks.

—

"I loved you when you dated that guy from the robotics workshop. I loved you when that guy was picking you up at rehearsals, and that's why I wrote the line "He looks more like your type." I loved you when you dated Dylan, and I thought if anyone deserved your heart, it was him, because at least he dared. I loved you when I saw you cry for someone else. And it hurt. It hurt so much I wanted to rip my chest out. But I stayed. I always stayed. Because being your friend was better than not having you. Because I swear I'd rather help you fall in love with someone else than risk losing you by telling you how I feel."

He pauses. The music continues playing in the distance. But you can only hear him. Every word. Every scar.

"It wasn't a crush. It was never a fucking crush. It was love. It is love. And I don't know what you're going to do about this. I don't know if you're going to tell me that you felt it too, or that you feel it, or that you once looked at me the way I've looked at you since we were kids with out-of-tune guitars. But I couldn't keep it quiet any longer. Because I'm tired of being afraid. I'm tired of not being enough to tell you."

Tears. One. Two. And he doesn't hide them. Because he's finally not hiding anymore.

"I love you. Always. Since the first fucking day. Since you were just a little girl with a fiery voice and a stormy gaze."

He wipes his face with his sleeve. And takes a step back. "I'm sorry if I ruined everything. But I couldn't continue being your friend as if I weren't burning up inside every time you hugged me. I'm leaving for a moment. Just... just don't hate me, okay?"

He turns around. And you stay there. Standing in the middle of all the truths you didn't see coming. And all the ones you kept quiet out of fear.

The world goes on. The laughter still sounds in the distance. The music, the crackling of the branches, the murmur of the night. But you... you're frozen.

His words still burn into your skin. As if they've been etched into every inch of your body. And suddenly, without warning, without stopping... the memories come flooding back.

FLASHBACK (Year 1 of high school. 16 years old. Crying in her room over an idiot with acne who got back with his ex after saying he loved you.)

"Don't cry over that asshole, Y/L/N," Braeden murmurs, handing you a melted ice cream and plopping down next to you on the rug. "He doesn't know what he's missing."

You wipe your face with the sleeve of the hoodie that also happens to be his. And he... He just looks at you. With the softest eyes you'd seen all fucking week. "I swear, when someone is worth it, they'll be grateful for every tear you shed for jerks like him."

"What if that someone never comes?" you asked, broken. And he, without thinking, in that voice that was always your refuge, said:

"Then it'll be me. But don't cry anymore, okay?"

FLASHBACK (2017. Recording “These Days.” Him from the front, guitar in hand, singing. You behind the camera, tears catching in your throat, not knowing why.)

It was one take. Just one. A stupid slow-motion take where he sang alongside Cole and Dylan from the scaffolding:

"I need to know if you're feeling it or I'm wasting my time."

And you, idiot, smiled. Because he sounded so honest. So full of him. Of everything he never said. And that day you thought: If anyone ever looks at me the way he looks at the microphone, I'm going to fall in love. What you didn't realize was that he already did. That Braeden had always looked that way... but it was at you.

FLASHBACK (You at the "Nothing Happens" release party, him across the courtyard kissing a blonde girl in a plaid skirt. Your drink trembling in your hand.)

Dylan noticed. Cole did too. And you... you pretended not to see it. You swallowed your anger. You swallowed the lump. You swallowed the "why does it hurt if we're just friends?"

And that night, when you got home, you repeated to yourself a thousand times: It's not jealousy. It's just that I don't like seeing her with him. That's all. That's all. But it was never just that. And you knew it. You always knew it.

PRESENT

Now you're back. In the middle of the night. Your heart like a frantic drum. And you finally understand. What hurts isn't that I told you.

It's everything you felt too and buried. Everything you never said because you were scared to death. Fear of ruining it. Of losing him. Of being without your best friend. Without your refuge. Without him.

And then you breathe. Just once. But enough to tell you, finally, without trembling: What if it was always him?

Your legs move before your brain can process it. Your body reacts as if the world is ending, because maybe it is. Maybe it will if you don't reach him. The music fades away. The lights. The voices. Everything blurs. Everything, except him.

"Where is he?" you ask, agitated, as you turn the corner and literally crash into Cole's chest. The glass he was holding falls to the grass. He takes a step back. He looks at you, his eyes wide open.

"Is everything okay?"

"Where is he? Braeden? Where did he go?"

Cole takes a second. Just one. And in that second, you feel something else inside you break.

"He left," he murmurs.

"What?"

"He said he was going for a walk. That he needed some air. I saw him walk past the back fence about five minutes ago."

And you're there. Hands on your chest. Heart pounding in your ribs. Head thrumming. Feet about to explode. And then you say it. "No fucking way, Preston."

And you run. Like never before. As if with every step your soul, your childhood, your best friend, your last chance leaves you. The damp grass soaks your sneakers. The night turns into wind on your face. The trees blend into shadows. And you just run.

With the flashbacks pounding in your temples. With every fucking song you recorded together echoing in your ears. With every time he hugged you without asking for anything in return. With the confession still trembling in the air.

"Brae!" you scream. "BRAEDEN!" Nothing. Just the crickets. Just the echo. And then you see him. Just before he crosses the hill. Just before he disappears into the trees. "BRAEDEN!"

He stops. Turns. And his eyes, even from a distance, look red. You arrive. Breathing like your chest is breaking. Which you are. He opens his mouth to say something, but you hold up your hand, trembling.

"No. Don't leave. Not without hearing me out."

His expression changes. From shock to fear. From fear to hope. And you, through tears, finally blurt out what you've kept quiet for years:

"I don't know when it happened. I don't know if it was when you were twelve when you made your first riff for me, or when you were fourteen when you held my hand watching Scott Pilgrim, or when you defended me from my idiot ex in high school. I don't know. But I fell in love. I fell in love with you. And it scares me. It scares me so much because you were always my everything and I didn't want to lose you."

His eyes tremble. "You didn't lose me." And he says it, without filter, without fear, without doubt His eyes bore into yours.

He doesn't say anything. And neither do you. You just stand there. Breathing the same air. Trembling with the same intensity. Feeling the wall you've built with fear for years crumble.

Braeden takes a step toward you. Slowly. As if he doesn't want to scare you. As if he still can't believe that yes, that this is happening. His hand rises. And he brushes your cheek with his fingertips. He caresses you like you're art. As if you've been on the verge of breaking and he can't allow it.

"Are you sure?" he whispers. And your heart explodes. Because it was always him. Always.

"Yes," you answer softly. "For so long, Brae. I just... didn't want to see it. I was afraid it would hurt to lose you."

His fingers run down your jaw. They caress the line of your neck, your temples, your nose. As if he needed to memorize every detail. As if he wanted to reconstruct you with caresses.

"I never left," he says, barely audible. "I was always here. Waiting. For you. Only for you."

His other hand rises to your waist. And you place yours on his chest. You feel it throbbing. As strong as yours.

Braeden leans in slightly. Your foreheads touch. Your eyelashes touch his. Your breath and his are now one. "Can I...?" he begins. But he doesn't finish. There's no need. Because you're already leaning in too. Because your lips are a breath away from his. Because there's no turning back. "Do it," you whisper. "But slowly."

He smiles. Small. His eyes sparkle. And a shaky breath escapes him. "Slowly, always," he murmurs.

His fingers intertwine with yours. And there, in the middle of the field, between the trees and the distant music, the two of you stay still. About to. So fucking close. So fucking ready. Not even kissing yet. Just touching your soul with your eyes. He doesn't kiss you. Not yet. But his hand is already on your face.

Braeden's fingers tremble barely when they brush your cheek, as if he doesn't know if he can. As if he still doubts you're there, in front of him, your eyes shattered and your mouth trembling with so much desire.

"I don't know if I can touch you without breaking," he whispers.

And you... You swallow. Because you understand. You, too, are on the brink. You, too, are shattered inside. But finally, for the first time in years, you're both broken on the same side.

"Touch me anyway," you tell him, almost voiceless. "Break with me."

The air hangs. And your heartbeat feels like bombs. His fingers trail down your jaw. They run over your neck. And with his other hand, he strokes your hair with a tenderness that makes you blink slower. As if it weren't you. As if you were everything he never allowed himself to have.

"I waited for you so long," he murmurs. "Sometimes I thought you were a dream. That you were going to disappear."

You shake your head. With your face in your hands. "I never left."

"But I did," he admits, swallowing hard. "I left every time I saw you with someone else. I left when I couldn't take it anymore. I left when it hurt. And yet..."

"I stayed."

He nods. His eyes shining. And his mouth barely open, as if he wanted to cry and kiss you at the same time. "Because it was easier to keep quiet than to risk you not wanting me around anymore."

"But I always wanted you around," you whisper.

Silence. Short breaths. A tremor that shakes them just from being so fucking close. And then you do it. Your hand rises to his face. Your fingers brush his sparse beard, his cheek, his brow. And you see him close his eyes. As if your touch were a slap in the face from reality.

"You're trembling," you tell him.

"So are you," he replies. You laugh softly. Their noses almost touching. With nostalgia soaked into their bones.

"What if this doesn't work?" he asks, his voice small.

"What if It does?" you answer.

And then, there's no turning back. You're so close you can't tell if they're his tears or yours. So close you can count his freckles. So close it hurts. Your lips are a breath away. Just one. And Braeden looks at them. And you look at his. And everything... everything is about to change.

Your nose brushes against his. Your eyelashes touch. His lips... so close, so fucking close, it seems the entire universe is contained in that tiny space between you and him...

Braeden takes a deep breath. As if he's about to throw himself into the void. As if kissing your mouth is as dangerous as it is sacred. As if he's afraid of ruining it... of not being able to stop.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice so low that not even the wind can hear it. You nod. And you smile. A shaky, broken, emotional smile. A smile only he's seen so many times. A smile only he knows.

"It was always you."

Then it happens. And it's not a kiss. It's the kiss. The one that isn't given. The one that's expected. The one that's been stored in your soul for almost two decades, and when it finally arrives, it shatters everything into sweet pieces.

Your lips meet his as if they already knew the way. As if all the times you were silent had served to memorize exactly what it felt like to kiss like that. Slowly at first. Like someone praying. Like someone crying. Like someone afraid it might end.

His hands hold your face as if you were made of glass. As if instead of a mouth you had a wound. As if kissing were a way of asking for forgiveness for everything that wasn't.

And you... you don't let go. Not this time. Not now. Not after all the silent crying you've done. Your fingers dig into his neck. Your lips part slightly. And the kiss deepens. More needy. More real. And you laugh with your mouths together.

Because You can't believe it's finally here. Because You both thought this moment would never happen. Because kissing like this feels like closing an old wound with gold thread. A "finally" disguised as a touch. An "I love you" said with the teeth, not the voice. A "I dreamed of you so many times" between gasps that seek nothing more than to stay.

When you separate, just a few millimeters apart, you're crying. Both of you. Without shame. Because love when it's real also hurts beautifully.

"Do you know how many times I dreamed this?" he murmurs, his forehead pressed against yours.

"And do you know how many times I denied it because I was afraid of losing you?"

"You don't have to be afraid anymore," he replies, kissing your cheek, your nose, the corner of your mouth.

"I'm here. Forever, if you want. But not as your friend this time."

"No. This time… like the love of my life.

And then he kisses you again. Slower. Deeper. More confident. As if there were nothing left to fear. Because there's no turning back. Just the two of you, after 18 years, finally meeting in each other's mouths.

You go upstairs in silence. With small steps, hushed laughter, breaths that escape through your skin. Sneaky. Almost complicit. As if you know any noise could give you away… or make you explode. The hallway is empty. The bathroom too. And just as you pass the kitchen and hear Cole saying something about "not touching his cereal,"

Braeden turns to you with a chuckle. "We're two seconds away from looking like typical teenagers sneaking out of the party to fuck at the host's house.

"So?"

"I love it."

"Shut up and open the door."

You do it. The one to Cole's room. That room where you slept on the floor so many times, where you played Mario Kart at three in the morning, where Braeden lent you his hoodie without asking because you knew he was "the good one."

And now, that room... is going to be filled with something it never had before: all the desires that were suppressed for 18 damn years.

The door closes with a soft click. The world stops. And Braeden, still processing that you're there, that you look at him like that, that you don't hate him, that you chose him, approaches slowly.

"Last time I ask," he says, in that small voice he only used when it was you and only you. "Are you sure?"

Your hands rest on his chest. You feel him tremble. Or maybe it's you.

"Since we met," you answer. "It just took me this long to accept it."

Braeden smiles. And kisses your forehead. And looks at you as if you're the only thing that exists. And then... he kisses you.

But not in a hurry. Not with hunger. But with that intensity that only comes when you're swallowing the universe you've dreamed of a thousand times.

Your fingers brush the back of his neck. His run down your waist. And between caresses and trembling and breathy sighs, your clothes begin to fall off. His T-shirt first. Your jeans next. Your hands sliding over familiar but new skin. Your mouths recognizing each other as if they'd been waiting a lifetime to get it right.

FLASHBACK – 16 YEARS OLD You crying over your first heartbreak and Braeden on the porch, giving you ice cream and saying no one would ever love you the way you deserved.

FLASHBACK – 18 YEARS OLD The two of you dancing in the garage, sharing headphones, the world far away.

FLASHBACK – 21 YEARS OLD You sitting alone in the video for "These Days," your gaze searching for him off-camera.

FLASHBACK – 25 YEARS OLD Him watching you dance with someone else and looking down as if something inside him was breaking.

PRESENT

And now, without words, just skin… all of that burns. It melts. It's redeemed. Braeden barely pulls away, his breathing ragged, his pulse in his throat, his pupils dilated.

"If I die today, I've already won," he whispers, his forehead against yours. "Because you're here. Because you're with me."

Your fingers run down his back. Your lips seek his again. And this time there's no turning back. The bedroom door closes. The noise fades away. And you... You already know what happened next.