#this is about people not knowing the difference between fiction and reality | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sweetiechenle · 3 months ago

Text

reading between the lines ✦ jeno

pairing: collegestudent!literatureprodigy!jeno x afab!collegestudent!scienceandmathgenius!reader

summary: jeno was the biggest problem you've ever had to solve, but for him you weren't quite an open book either.

w.c: 9.4k

warnings: mdni 18+, MATH, i did so much research i feel like i need to cite my sources, thank you quizlet, angst, hurt and comfort, frenemies to lovers, fluff, jeno and y/n argue a lot and yell at each other, teasing, misunderstandings, YEARNING, kissing, make-ups and confessions, plot WITH porn, love making very intimate, hard with feelings and refuse to listen to each other, unprotected sex (i better not catch y'all doing this), praising, crying, begging, groveling, pet names (baby), oral (f receiving), creampie (YUM), softdomtop!jeno (just as god intended), crack/humor, scientific talk because smart (i never took bio in college), if i forgot anything pls lmk. reblogs and feedback appreciated ♡ fiction ≠ reality. HAPPY BIRTHDAY JENO!!!

‘WHAT’ you gasped, not noticing you had barked it out until everyone turned around and glared at you.

‘i’m sorry?...’ your professor had stopped everyone to bring attention back, she gave you a quizzical look, ‘is there a problem?’

you shook your head, still surprised by your sudden outburst, ‘n-no, i apologize’ you hung your head in shame, red blooming on your cheeks from embarrassment. you had been dreading today, your world literature 1 professor had told you all a week ago that you would be paired up with a partner for your first project. your major in biology and minor in actuarial mathematics required some literature classes to help with ‘scientific writing and understanding’ as your advisor put it. so you figured world literature 1 was the easiest choice, it turned out to actually be hell on earth. your weakest subject was english and literature, you were never a reader growing up unless it was about different sciences, but you always opted for documentaries and videos than reading. growing up, you’d always dread english class, anxiously waiting for whatever science and math class you could have next.

when you tell people that your favorite subject is math and then science they would laugh and usually end it with an ‘i wish’, that was your english and history, you wish you could understand it better, but it always seemed impossible. what you were least expecting was getting paired with the best literature student you knew, jeno. he annoyed you at times, acting like a pretentious asshole going around and quoting shakespeare and some other century-dead author. when you went and quoted pythagroas near him it was now apparently a problem, you two bickered back and forth in class during group introductions about greek philosophers for almost an hour, debating if aristotle was more of a math genius or a linguistics expert.

after the heated discussion, jeno told you ‘i love a good debate, you have some crazy opinions though’ he ended up giving you his phone number. it was only the first week of classes, your first ‘friend’(?), you texted him that night, but no response came. the next week you were struggling with questions your professor had given you all to go with a reading.

you texted jeno:

‘hey is this correct? *PICTURE ATTACHED*

his response chimed on your phone five minutes later:

‘no’

and that was the only response you got, no help, no explanation, you didn’t even know what was wrong with your answer to begin with. fuck this, you ended up calling him, to your surprise he answered with a ‘what?’

you didn’t mean to blow up on him, but it just came out, ‘why can’t you be nice to me for one second and help me with this student homework?’

he sighed, making your ear vibrate with the sound, ‘take back what you said and i’ll help you’

you grumbled but obliged, ‘this homework and reading is not stupid, now please help me’

you guys ended up talking on the phone for almost two hours, discussing different themes from the reading, mostly arguing about who was right, but in the end jeno helped you get answers that were good enough. he talked you through the questions and the actual themes of the reading, the elements, and showed you how to better analysis pieces of literature. you were eternally grateful but absolutely mortified at the same time.

after that phone call, you were psyched, finally finding someone that could help you pass. you were always the person in math classes that everyone went to, you didn’t have to be that person for others anymore. although you remember all the emotional baggage and difficulty when trying to help others study and understand formulas, you wouldn’t ask much of jeno, only when you really needed it.

two weeks ago you found him in the library, doing homework with books scattered around him. the first thing you noticed were glasses that he had never worn before, big frames making his eyes look much bigger in such a cute way. you figured if you asked he wouldn’t mind if you joined him, and you figured that if you asked in an even nicer way, he could help you with the literature homework.

‘hey jeno!’ you greeted him, walking up to his table, he looked up, pink lips still in a straight line, ‘would you mind if i joined you?’

‘i guess not’ he shrugged and moved some of his books out of the way for you, now sitting across from him you smiled slightly and got out your own homework. abstract algebra was your favorite class so far this semester, you never thought getting homework would make you so giddy. you couldn’t believe some people found it excruciating, while it was just a ‘fun activity’ for you. you and jeno continue work in silence, you would steal glances every once in a while, his eyes scanning over the paper as he scribbled down notes and highlight sentences. eyebrows knitting together and whispering out words in order to analyze everything perfectly. you thought it was cute, his lips would curl up into a smile after every question got answered. sitting in front of him, you could see the perfect slope of his nose, his broad shoulders slouched as he leaned into the desk, his large hand brushing his black hair back sporadically. the golden ratio had nothing on him.

not long after the trance jeno left you in, you finished your math homework and now it was time for your enemy: literature. you looked up and glanced at jeno who was writing notes down, ‘hey’ he lifted his head, ‘do you think you could help me with this?’ you motioned down to the paper in front of you, he followed and noticed your blank page compared to his one that was filled.

‘did you even try?’ he questioned, ‘it looks like you haven’t even started’

‘well’ you started with a sheepish smile, ‘i did do the reading, but i could barely understand any of it’

he sighed, his hands reaching under his glasses so he could rub his eyes, ‘okay, and what part did you not understand?’

you grabbed your packet of papers and flipped until you found the sentence, reading out loud, ‘his sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit’, you looked up at him, offering the best pleading eyes you could muster.

he slightly rolled his eyes, ‘so, basically darcy should put away his pride of being in a higher ranking than elizabeth, but he cares more about her status than love. even while he is proposing, he still looks down on elizabeth and wants her to feel grateful that he is even considering her as a wife’

‘oh, i never thought of it that way’ you mumbled, looking down at your paper again.

‘don’t they teach you stuff like this in high school? god, i fear for your grade when we actually have to read and analyze a whole book and not just passages for exercises’

the sentence was a stab to the heart, taken aback you said nothing as shame burned through your body. growing up you’d have teachers, friends, and your parents comment on your lack of understanding for english and literature, but you’ve never heard a remark like this. it cut deep, you opened and closed your mouth, unable to give an actual response, incapable of making any snide comeback, you gathered your things, got up and walked away from him. before he started to see the tears that made its way down your face.

you avoided jeno as much as you could, you sat nowhere near him in your shared class, never looked in his direction in the courtyard and started taking different routes to other classes. it was working out great for the most part, that was until he had transferred into your biology ‘unity of life’ class three weeks into the semester, at the very last minute of course. rumors were going around that a lot of students had transferred out of his previous one due to it ‘being too hard’ and that the professor ‘was a nightmare’ and he needed a natural science requirement for his major, secondary education if you could remember correctly.

seeing him walk through the door of one of your favorite classes was a different type of personal hell, and you were having a great day so far. you softly groaned, trying to resist the urge to roll your eyes in annoyance. your desk partner seemed to catch on, jaemin turned to you, ‘whats wrong? forgot to do last nights homework?’

you turned towards him, ‘never, i was so excited for this assignment, i finished all the questions as soon as i got home… it’s just… that guy, the one who just walked in’ you glanced back to his lab table, jaemin followed with his eyes, ‘i’m in his literature class and he’s nothing but an egomaniac, basically called me dumb for not understand some passage from a book’

the blond haired boy frowned, ‘he might know some books, but wait until he gets a taste of a real challenge, he transferred too late into the semester, he’s fucked’. your lips twitched up into a smile. you met jaemin the first day of class, introducing himself as a veterinarian science major with a minor in biology. you two became quick friends after you got him coffee one morning, you ended up with two cups after the cafe got your first order wrong. he was nothing but thankful, long discussions in class that lead to topics that never related to science. you got to know him pretty well, often texting and meeting up for study groups with other students from class, you both always paired up in class whenever prompted.

‘that’s fair, would be satisfying to watch him struggle’ you whispered.

he giggled, ‘god you sound like such a sadist’

the professor pulled up his notes as he prepared for the beginning of class, ‘takes one to know one’

you opened your notebook to the current lesson: the cytoskeleton. the professor went through the slideshow while you happily took notes on cells and its structure and stabilities within the cytoplasm. once the professor was done with the lecture, he started asking students questions, seeing if they were paying attention.

‘okay, now what is a delicate coil held together by hydrogen bonding between every fourth amino acid?’ he looks over his roster of students, ‘jeno! why don’t you answer this for us’

on cue, everyone turned to watch him, his head shot up from his notebook in surprise. he obviously looked unprepared, hands nervously pushing his bangs back. ‘oh… um, i don’t know i’m sorry professor, i transferred late into this class and still need to catch up’ his hair looked wild as the tips of his ears shone a bright red.

the poor professor sighed, ‘does anyone want to help jeno out?’

you immediately shot up your hand, ‘y/n?’

you smiled dramaticly, before another breathe you answered, ‘alpha helix’

‘yes, thats correct! great job y/n… now you all need to pay attention, this will be on our first exam coming up in two weeks’ he went on about amino acids and different elements. jaemin leaned into you, ‘nice’ he whispered, a smile on his face. yeah, that would show jeno what you could do.

you peeked back at jeno who whispered ‘two weeks!?’ to himself looking distressed, you felt a pang in your heart. perhaps it wasn’t fair, stuff like this was never taught in secondary school science classes, obviously he was going to struggle. you weren’t going to seek him out and offer help though, he knew science and arithmetic were your strong suits, it was his turn to come running, beg for forgiveness and ask for help.

speak of the asshole, and it shall fart, jeno texted you later that night.

‘hey…’ you scoffed, the audacity of this guy, you resisted the urge to text him back a ‘you should know this already right?’

you texted back a simple ‘what?’

he immediately answered, ‘do you think you could help me with this bio homework and maybe study together for the exam ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡’. shameless.

giving him the benefit of the doubt, you relented. maybe it was an off day for him, ‘i guess, meet me in the library tomorrow, and we’ll start’ he hearted the message and that was the end of the conversation.

you woke up early the next day, grabbing every notebook you had kept over the years that could help jeno. you texted him right after noon, ‘this is an all day affair, meet me in an hour and bring me a caramel macchiato. don’t be late, pride & prejudice wasn’t written in a day’ he liked the message as a response. you left your dorm and headed to the library, setting up a space for a long study session. jeno comes right on time, with two coffees in his hand.

he places the bigger cup down in front of you, ‘large caramel macchiato, with extra caramel, extra vanilla, and extra drizzle’

you look up at him and give him a modest smile, grabbing the drink and taking a sip from the straw and swirling the ice around the cup, ‘thank you, lets get started’ he nodded and pulled out the chair next to you and sat down.

you got out all your notebooks, his eyes widened making you giggle, ‘jesus christ dude, how many notebooks do you have for this class?’

‘well, not all of them are from this class, i brought some from previous classes that i think could help you’ you handed over a stack of notes, which he begrudgingly took. ‘okay, now lets get started…’

you two had spent hours discussing carbohydrates, cellulose, and enzymes. sometimes arguing back and forth about answers, ‘okay so, a system of membranes that modifies and packages proteins for export by the cell?’ you asked jeno as he flipped through his notes.

‘um… integrins?’ he answered, totally unsure of himself in the process.

you smiled, ‘not quite, its the golgi apparatus, integrins are cell-surface receptor proteins… crazy how you don’t remember this from basic biology classes…’ you mumbled the last part.

but of course he still caught it, ‘what was that?’

you shrugged your shoulders, ‘i mean we learn about cells and stuff in secondary school… everyone knows that the golgi apparatus is the packaging and distribution center of the cells, i mean everyone talks about how the mitochondria is the power house of the cell, is that the only thing you remember from biology?’

his eyebrows shot up in surprise, ‘oh? so that's what this is about?’ he smirked, ‘you’re still upset about what i said last week aren’t you?’

your gaze diverted from his line of sight, thankful you wore your hair down this morning so he wouldn’t see the pink burning on the tips of your ears. ‘no… i’m just saying’

‘...saying almost the same exact thing i said?’ jeno smiled, and his eyes turned into crescent moons, happy that he caught you in the act, ‘understandable… well, uh, if you help me, i’ll help you’

you crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes at him, ‘not until you apologize, not everyone can be as good as you in literature’

‘okay, i’m sorry, you are a genius in math and science, now please agree’ jeno pleaded.

‘fine’ you answered.

another week passed and jeno finally felt comfortable taking the exam, on the other hand your literature professor started talking about a project for that class. jeno reassured you that he would help you in the best way he could, he helped you with literary analysis, notations, and rhetoric. you ended up getting an 85% percent on the most recent homework, excited to show jeno you made your way to the classroom.

‘so, jeno, i’ve been seeing you hanging out with that y/n person in our class’ you stopped before the entrance to the classroom, ‘they literally know nothing about literature and refuse to learn, how could you put yourself through that?’

‘oh, well, um, i don’t know, i’m just helping them with some stuff’ jeno answered. you peeked inside, he was with two other students, a girl and a boy, sitting together in a group.

‘must be pretty frustrating, i don’t know why they are even in this class, fucking moron, am i right?’ the girl responded and you could hear the others, but jeno, laugh.

you could feel your heart break as your mind begin to buzz. eyes watered, and you thought back to your discussion with jaemin, of course you guys were poking fun at jeno too, but nothing this extreme. ‘i mean, i guess one could think that, but everything about th-’ you couldn’t listen anymore, turned your heels and stormed off. stopping at the end of the hallway to through your graded paper away in anger and humiliation. after everything you both did for each other, it made your blood boil in anger and betrayal, you had to get back home. you paced to your dorm, keeping your head down so no one would notice you and your state of mind right now. skipping one literature class wouldn’t hurt.

so it did, and now here you are, sitting in your literature class with the professor reading out the pairings for the first project. for the rest of the week and over the weekend, you had ignored jeno’s texts and calls, you decided you were finally done with his games. ‘y/n and jeno’ the professor read out to the class.

‘WHAT’ you gasped, not noticing you had barked it out until everyone turned around and glared at you.

‘i’m sorry?...’ your professor had stopped everyone to bring attention back, she gave you a quizzical look, ‘is there a problem?’

you shook your head, still surprised by your sudden outburst, ‘n-no, i apologize’ you hung your head in shame, red blooming on your cheeks from embarrassment.

your professor nodded and resumed her list of partners, after she announced to the class, ‘now sit with your partners and discuss what you all want to do for your projects for the rest of class’

you groaned, you weren’t ready to face jeno yet, you probably never would be. you never wanted to see or speak to him ever again, you shuffled to his seat, taking your time to get over to him and sit down.

‘hey’ he said, ‘you’ve been ignoring me this whole week, whats up?’

fake ass bitch, you thought, he didn’t care, ‘nothing, just not a good week i guess’

he frowned, ‘damn, well, if it makes you feel better, i got a 90% on my first bio exam!’ he beamed, ‘so at least now you know your hard work is paying off’

‘that’s great, glad you’ve been getting at least something out of this’ you deadpanned.

he gave you a quizzical look, but decided to drop the subject, ‘so, for the project i was thinking about covering the tenant of wildfell hall’

you literally didn’t care and let him pick whatever, ‘yeah that’s fine’

his eyes narrowed, giving you a weird look again, ‘okay… so, the book has themes of double standards, religion, morality, and love. i can send you passages that we can cover for our project…’. jeno went on for the next thirty minutes with only little nods and comments from you, agreeing to anything he had to suggest. all you wanted to do was leave, once the professor dismissed class that's what you did, picking up your backpack and storming off with jeno still talking.

you rushed down the hallway, ignoring the calls coming from jeno behind you. with his crazy athletic built he eventually caught up to you, grabbed your shoulder and spun you around. you gazed up at him, he stared down at you, looking for any answer he could find. ‘what is your problem? i thought you’d be happy we were paired up?’ he started interrogating you.

you sighed, almost giving up, ‘jeno, can we just meet up later and talk about it? i’m exhausted right now’

he sighed and his hands fell from your shoulders, ‘i’ll text you’ he nodded, and you turned around and left. once at your dorm you threw your backpack to the side and climbed into your bed, taking a well needed nap. a few hours later, your phone vibrating next to you pulled you out of dream land.

3 missed texts from jeno:

‘y/n, are you able to come over to my apartment soon?’

‘plz stop being so stubborn its annoying plz just talk to me’

‘here’s the address lmk when ur on the way’

you texted him back:

‘sorry i was taking a nap’

‘i can be there in a bit’

you got up and got ready, grabbed your backpack and left for jeno’s. once you got there it took you a good five minutes to have the courage to knock on his door. hesitant you tenderly knocked on the door, after a second he opened up the door and let you inside without another word. he was in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt and smelled immaculate, you gulped, raking your eyes over his body, strong arms and long legs, a face without imperfections. your heart burned in anger and panic, angry that he was so gorgeous it pissed you off, panic because all you could think was what the fuck am i doing right now? ‘do you want to sit down? i saw you brought your backpack, we can work on some stuff if you want?’

you nodded, walked over to the couch and plopped down, grabbing your backpack you opened it and got your laptop out, pulling up the notes from your calculus 2 class. jeno joined you on the couch, sitting a little bit to close for comfort, but you said nothing. his bare leg brushed against your clothed one, sending a buzzing sensation all throughout your body, trying your best to ignore him you stayed focused on your screen.

question 1: x³ + 2x² - 6z = 4 - 2y²

without a second thought you typed in the answer:

r³cos³0 + 2r² - 6z = 4

submitting it you smiled as the green checkmark popped up, correct on the first try. ‘damn, that’s crazy’ jeno broke the silence, you glanced over at him.

‘what?’ you said turned back to your laptop.

‘i literally understood none of that and you got it on the first try!? that’s literally fucking insane’

you laughed at his outburst, ‘it’s nothing really, it was kind of easy, just plug in the following x and y polar conversion formulas into the equation where possible, then you just rewrite everything and use the formulas to convert the equation into cylindrical coordinates’

jeno howled in laughter, which was contagious enough to make you laugh, ‘that’s insane, you’re amazing’

you cocked your head to the side, intrigued by his word choice, ‘oh? am i?’

his demeanor changed, the air felt heavy as he calmed down and moved closer to you. he leaned in, and you panicked, he glanced down at your lips and back up to your eyes. his long eyelashes met his cheeks, you followed suit and closed your eyes, ignoring the way your mind is screaming at you not to do this. heart says otherwise, as you could hear it beat in your ears, whole body buzzing as his pink, soft lips brushed against yours.

jeno moved in deeper, teeth clinking together as you ravaged your mouth, he was a starved man, and you were the last meal he would ever receive. it was warm and sensual, he reached around your waist and roughly pulled your torso into his. his nose bumped into yours as he moved his head slightly for better access, laptop completely abandoned to the side your arms lifted to his biceps, squeezing hard as you let out a soft moan. you broke the kiss as you pressed against his arms, your forehead leaned on his as you both caught your breath, between pants he smiled and laughed, you did not. anxiety ran your blood cold as now all you could think of was what he had said in the classroom about you. was this all a joke?

‘jeno…’ you started, and his smile faltered, ‘i can’t do this’ you stood up and grabbed your laptop and shoved it haphazardly into your backpack, heatedly rushing out of his apartment and down the hall to the entrance. again you ignored jeno as he called after you, his footsteps echoing behind you. you pushed the heavy door open and the air hit you with the wind flying through your hair. continuing down the lamp-lighted street, the boy was still trying to catch up to you.

‘y/n please, we forgot to talk about it’ he addressed your almost non-existent figure fading into the darkness.

he was hopeless by now, but still refused to give up, he moved again, ‘y/n!’

you stopped and turned around, walking up to him his build now growing hazy as water pooled in your eyes. ‘you wanna talk about it? you WANT to talk about it? FINE, you are such a stuck-up asshole, thinking i’m so stupid because i don’t have the best grade in our lit class. laughing about it with your friends when they call me a moron! you think you’re so great you didn’t even know what the chemical symbol was for sulfur, FUCKING SULFUR JENO’ you were yelling at this point, jabbing your finger into his chest with every emphasis in your anger. ‘you think you can play me in some fucked up game you have going on in your head, keeping me around so you can feel better about yourself and use me for help so you could pass an exam, i know i’ve asked you for help before, but at the end of it, all i wanted to do was be your friend, you could’ve said no, but i couldn’t. you gave me no choice but to give in with the deal that you’d help me in return, and you know what? i needed the help, badly. and you knew that and used it in a discussion with your friends that laughed at me because of it, you know how that made me feel? like absolute shit, i wanted to be your friend but all you have ever done was use me and hurt me, and guess what? you don’t have to fear for’ fingers motioning air quotations, ‘my grade because i got a good grade on my homework thanks to you, so thank you jeno! i really appreciate the help, i hope it really boosted your ego, maybe you can go fucking write a book about it or something, i don’t know and i don’t care, but i’m done’ your face was probably beet red at this point, while angry tear's avalanche down your face, you hastily whipped your face and snot that escaped during your outburst. his face focused into view, he was so pretty, and that made you tear up all over again, he could have been different.

he looked defeated, frustrated as his fists clenched into balls and relax over and over, ‘y/n, please let me explain, i di-’ you stopped him, placing your hand in front of his face.

‘do the math jeno, the probability that i would ever hear you out is slim…’ you turned and started walking away, briefly glancing back, he was still in the same spot. ‘it’s S by the way, the symbol for sulfur, maybe now you’ll remember it when you think back on this night… not so proud after all’ your voice cracked at the last sentence as your heart wrenched and stomach mangled, tears breaking through yet again.

you left him there.

you decided not to tell jaemin about what happened, but jeno’s absence was evident. you couldn’t sleep, all that replayed in your nightmare was his soft lips brushing against yours, and you swore you could still feel his strong arms pulling you forward, into him. the feeling that gave you clawed at your heart, beating you down every single time you closed your eyes and pictured his face smiling at you, laughing at you, annoyed at you. anything he gave you, you would take, no matter how much it broke you down. you liked him, no, you like him. even after everything he’s done, you still held a soft spot for him in your fractured heart. all the phone calls that turned into facetime when he would ask for help with math, and you had to show him the steps of a problem. laughing every time you would shake trying to hold your phone steady as he jokingly squawked, ‘keep still!’ when he would read passages to you over the phone late at night, and you’d have fallen asleep to his tender voice before he could even explain the motif. it had only been 5 weeks of class, but it felt like you had known him longer, despite your differences in subjects you both eventually subsided the arguments with long discussions and debates on why one answer was right and how the other was wrong. revelations that came to light after hours of going back and forth.

you stood in the shower, blankly staring at the white ceramic wall in front of you as droplets rained down. you thought about the day you and jeno were studying in the library, renting a study room within because you figured the discussion would be heated. it ended up in a feverish battle between the differences of cell adhesion and cell migration. by the end of it you were standing up, hands pulling at your roots in irritation trying to explain it to the boy sat down in front of you with a shit-eating grin adorning his face. ‘y/n, y/n, stop, stop, please, i can’t take it anymore’ he laughed, clutching his stomach, ‘i got it, while they are tightly associated, cell adhesion provides structural support and stability to tissues, while cell migration is the directed movement of cells from one location to another’

your arms dramatically dropped to your sides, ‘YOU KNEW THIS WHOLE TIME’ pointing, you accused him.

he laughed again at your reaction, ‘i just love seeing you like that, it’s cute, you know i just love a challenge’ he exclaimed going back to his notes.

you laughed to yourself, recalling the moment of the playful banter and subtle flirting that slipped out on occasion. you giggled, howled, and snorted a little too much at the memory, which silently followed into your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach, the shower masking the uncontrollable sobs that carried through every limb, appendage, and bone.

jaemin went on and on about some story about his roommates, you paid barely any attention, eyes glued to the door as you waited to see if he would show up. the blond boy slurred his words, leaning into you now, trying to get you to look at him. you turned your body, he was giving you a pouty face with big, shining eyes, ‘i asked you a question y/nnie. were you even listening to me?’ he tugged on the sleeve of your hoodie, his strength made you feel like a rag doll.

‘i was… and the answer is yes?’ you said, unsure about whatever he was yapping about.

he beamed and clapped playfully, ‘yippie! i knew you could use a pick-me-up, i promise it’ll be fun, the party is saturday so clear your schedule, i’ll pick you up’

your shoulder shook as you lightly laughed at his theatrics, rubbing your temple in exasperation as to what you just got yourself into, ‘sounds like fun’. you barely noticed jeno walking in out of the corner of your eye. he looked worse than you did, a hoodie with a stain, sweats that looked they were able to fall apart, mis-matched socks and unkempt hair. he kept pushing his glasses up his nose and rubbing his tired eyes. your heart skipped a beat when you noticed his dark circles that almost matched yours, his being a little worse for wear. before he could catch you staring, you quickly focused your attention to the professor starting class, going through the roaster and continuing the lecture on cells.

‘can anyone tell me the variations in cell types? jeno, got an answer?’ the professor smiled at him, everyone turned to spectate and wait for him to answer, except you.

‘um, prokaryotic and eukaryotic’ he dragged, sounding uninterested despite getting the question right.

‘yes! very good jeno’ the professor praised, moving on to the next question. you started to sweat, angry that he got it right and yet you were now holding on your high c- in literature class. how come he could now catch onto science but yet, you were still unable to grapple with the concepts of a victorian classic novel? or maybe it was the fact you had skipped every class this week, refusing to work with jeno on anything, you noticed the text and calls from him were dwindling three days after the confrontation, however everyday he sent pictures of his notes and analysis on the reading and how the project was going. as pathetic as it was, you continue to lay awake in bed nearly every night rereading his text from that night:

i know you are angry and probably hate me right now and that’s understandable, but i don’t want to give up on you, on us. do you think newton gave up on the laws of motion after he failed on the first or second try? you aren’t getting the whole picture, plz give me a chance to explain, i don’t even know if you are reading this, but if you are, plz hear me out you got it all wrong about that day in the classroom, and if it felt like i was using you, i’m sorry. that was never my intention, i just like being around you, you are always quick-witted and i was just trying to taunt you so you’d pay attention to me because i really like you, ig that backfired badly lol. anyway, i hope this will change your mind, and you’ll reach out, i’ll give you time.

followed by a very unserious message that you couldn’t help but smile at:

oh, i almost forgot, don’t worry about the project, but you could come to class, i’m starting to fear for your grade again (,,>﹏<,,) (only kidding!)

another biology class and 2 skipped lit classes pass and the weekend was finally brought upon the world. you held the pleasure of assisting jaemin to a party hosted by someone he knew from one of his health classes. it took forever for you to pick out a cute outfit, but opted for a sleeveless shirt and basic jean shorts and a pair of white sneakers you found buried in the back of your small closet. you carefully did your makeup, usually not taking it too far, but this was special, and you needed to feel like a bad bitch tonight.

jaemin showed up an hour later, deciding to walk to the house 4 blocks down, saying he wanted ‘to get turnt with you’ and that he refused to drink and drive. you agreed, walking sounded better than looking for a driver or someone having to stay sober throughout the night. you exited your building and found jaemin’s car in the lot, he climbed out to greet you and whistled, eyes eating up your form, ‘damn, you look hot’

you smiled bashfully, ‘thanks jaemin, even nerds can be hot you know?’

he turned to lock his car, ‘i mean, yes, but like, you always look cute, but this is like the freaky side of you, it’s different… it’s nice’

you cackled, ‘please never call me freaky ever again, i’m going to revoke your brain rot privileges’

he admitted defeat and dropped the conversation, you both now walked down the sidewalk in perfect silence with the sun now set, surveying the rows of houses in different stages of life in the moon glow. ‘it’s this one’ jaemin nudged you, stopping, he pointed to the house on the corner, you nodded and wrapped your arm around his, linking together so you immediately wouldn’t get lost in the sea of a potential crowd. he opened the old, green door, and you followed, as expected there was a good amount of people attending and as the night worn on you figured more would pile in.

jaemin turned to you, ‘do you wanna go find some drinks?’

‘yes, please’ you quickly nodded as he pulled you through the throng of people, trying to find the kitchen.

once you were there, the host of the party seemed to also be there, ‘jaemin! glad you could make it man’ they dabbed each other up and touched shoulders embracing in a ‘bro hug’.

‘hell yeah, no way i’d not come for the first party of the semester, i brought my friend along with me!’ he pulled you closer to him, now giving you the floor as all attention was pulled towards you, wincing as jaemin jabbed at your side, urging you to get closer to his friend.

‘hi, i’m y/n’ you said giving him a genuine smile, holding out your hand.

‘oh my, you are gorgeous, and you came with this sleaze bag’ he nodded towards jaemin who just playfully hit his friends shoulder, ‘i’m donghyuck, but everyone calls me haechan, its a pleasure to meet you’ he softly took a hold of your hand and bent down to give it a little peck, you giggled at the eccentric greeting.

jaemin tore haechan away, ‘alright, not too much now’ he joked, ‘it’s time for shots’ haechan clapped and guided you both to the kitchen island that was filled with different alcohol, he picked out a clear liquid and poured them into plastic shot cups he grabbed from a neat stack. jaemin lifted up his cup, ‘fuck pharmacology’ you snickered at his comment and raised your cup along with haechan who nodded in agreement. on cue, you threw back the cup and shuddered as the sweet nectar burned your throat. ‘hell yeah! another! at the end of the night i want to be able to forget about fucking blood urea nitrogen and blood glucose’ haechan laughed and poured another in all 3 cups. after that it was another, and then another, and after about 6 shots you tapped out and opted for a gin and coke that haechan was more than happy to make for you.

more time had passed than you thought as more people flooded the kitchen, wrecking havoc on the choices of liquor, haechan handed you your cup and jaemin motioned for you both to move to the living room. people were dancing, some were playing beer pong off in the corner, and others were chatting on various furniture. ‘want to dance a bit?’ he whispered in your ear because of the loud music that made the floor vibrate under your seat, you could feel it rattling your brain. giving him a silent nod he grabbed your hand and led you through the crowd, finding a spot and finding the rhythm of the song. you bobbed your head to the beat and moved back and forth with jaemin in front of you, you always thought he was attractive, but you saw him nothing more than a friend, you felt comfortable around him. you nursed your drink slowly, already somewhat tipsy from the shots, you didn’t want to get drunk too fast or blackout. jaemin grabbed your free hand and twirled you around, dramatically moved your joined hands with fever. you laughed along with him, indulging him in an embarrassing, yet fun dance that probably made you both look wasted to others.

his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close much to your surprise, pleasanton’tkissmepleasedon’tkissmepleasedon’tkissme ran rampant in your mind as he leaned towards your ear ‘don’t look now, but a certain someone is staring at you from across the room, you let out a strangled breath.

‘do you know who it is?’ you whispered back.

‘jeno’ he mused and your lively spirited fell.

‘whats up? something go down with him?’ he pestered.

‘um, kinda, its a long story’ you faltered and jaemin frowned.

‘damn, that serious? his loss, he can look all he wants’ jaemin wanted to be lighthearted, make you smile again and keep jeno out of your mind. you were grateful as he pulled you into another whimsical dance, the joyful nature of his was infectious.

after a couple more songs had passed, you had downed your whole drink and let go of jaemin’s hand, ‘i’m gonna go find haechan and have him make me another drink, it was surprisingly superb’ jaemin nodded and said he would stay in the same spot for your return.

you hastily made your way to the kitchen, apologizing to others you had to push through. the small room was almost empty, haechan was nowhere in sight so you looked for a different drink. ‘having fun with jaemin?’ a voice boomed from behind you, one that you knew all too well. you slowly turned to find jeno smirking at you, leaning against the fridge adorned in a tight white shirt and ripped jeans, oh fuck this stupid earth, he just had to follow you here looking like that.

‘yes i am, actually’ you stated matter-of-factly.

his lips twitched up in amusement, ‘is that so?’ he moved in closer, eventually trapping you between him and the liquor table. jeno’s soft brown eyes met yours, searching for something inside, however, his eyes told you everything, hope, they screamed. his hand lifted towards your face, slowly brushed against the skin lighter than a feather, taking a piece of your hair and pushing it behind your ear, ‘so he wouldn’t mind this?’. his eyes fluttered closed as he bowed towards you.

before he could seal the deal, ‘jeno’ you stopped him.

he sighed, defeated, ‘just please talk to me, you said the probability was slim, but not zero, let me explain’ jeno begged, his large hands caressed your cheeks tenderly, they were soft and warm.

you could blame the alcohol as you finally let him speak his case, ‘fine, we can find somewhere private’

he smiled, eyes disappearing in relief. he grabbed your hand, leading upstairs and into an empty room, he closed the door behind him as you took a seat on the bed, ‘alright, grovel and explain’ you lifted your phone up to check the time ‘you have 10 minutes’

he gave you a smug smile, ‘that’s all i need baby, you know i love a challenge’ you rolled your eyes at his attempt to uplift the tension fogging the air. ‘that day in the classroom, you obviously didn’t stay long enough to hear what i had to say about you, at first i didn’t know how to respond being put into that position was hard, you didn’t ‘put me through anything’ though, i had nothing but fun with you, even if it was frustrating at times. we always figured it out. but when i heard what she said after i wasn’t just going to allow it, i said ‘yeah i guess one could say that’ because these people literally do not know you like i do, i finished with ‘but everything about that is completely untrue, they are willing to learn, but it's just taking longer than some of us who take a bunch of english and literature classes. if you got to actually know her you’d see how bright they actually are. a literal math genius and a real mastermind of science, could answer any question from the top of their head, it’s insane. so while we are strong in this subject, they are just stronger in other fields’ he explained, watching you intently. you wiggled under his gaze, making you feel same, but itched for him to go on, ‘i then told her that she should not speak on things she knows nothing about and left because i will not associate myself with someone who talks like that about people i care about’ he emphasized the last words carefully, grabbing hold of your hand and lifting you from the bed, ‘y/n, i’m so sorry, it was never my intention to hurt you, ever. i care about you so deeply, you show up in every romance novel i read, every poem i skim, the stories i write… it’s all you’ jeno gazed down at you, his eyes now searching for an answer, hope, and panic could only be found in his as you studied his features in the warm glow of the moon peaking through the window.

‘you really said that? you defended me?’ you questioned him quietly.

‘yes y/n, i would never let anyone hurt you, even if you aren’t in the room, because in that case, they hurt me too’

you hummed, the haze of your brain clouded any judgment you held, he was something different, the greatest math problem that needed to be solved. ‘thank you jeno, i guess it’s now my turn to apologize’

he chuckled at you, ‘no need baby’ you laughed softly, ‘now, can we pick up where we left off? you know, someone once told me that pride and prejudice wasn’t written in a day’ he wagged his eyebrows at you, moving you into an embrace as he kissed the top of your head. you held on tightly, holding him as you buried your face into his chest swallowing his scent so you could save it for later.

the hug ended, but he still held you close in his arms, ‘i guess i could pick up another chapter or two’ he laughed at your poor pun and drooped down, so his lips could meet yours. it was messier than the first kissed you shared with him, wet and heated as you could taste the soju on his tongue. he moved at a faster pace, devouring you like an animal, jeno walked you towards the bed, you gave in falling down with him, with him climbing on top of you, never breaking away. teeth on teeth echoed throughout the room as you moaned, his hands exploring every part of your body, making your core burn more and more.

jeno dipped down to attack your neck in kisses and sucking at the exposed skin, hands finding a way to his hair and tugging slightly at the intimate feeling of him being closer than ever. ‘please, tell me you’re mine, please want me’ he breathed out, the air softly hitting your ear, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. he was desperate, kissing you anywhere he could and waited for you to answer.

‘y-yes jeno, i’m yours’ you choked out, ‘i want you in every way’ satisfied with your response he growled and his mouth met yours once more, ‘p-please touch me’ you begged frantically, needing anything to ease the sensation that pooled in the pits of your stomach.

jeno hummed, fingers brushing up and down your exposed stomach, ‘where baby? use your words, remember what i taught you?’ it was your turn to make demands now, wasting no time you grabbed his hand and brought it down between your legs, he cupped your vagina. you groaned, you needed more. jeno grabbed the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down and threw them behind him, the cool air hit your core making you rub your thighs together in order to find little warmth.

he carefully pulled your underwear down, wanting to savor the moment of finally seeing you bare, he gulped, ‘god, you have such a pretty pussy’ he took his hand and rubbed the sensitive skin, ‘so wet. just for me, right? all for me baby’ you cried out at his words. he inserted a finger into your weeping hole, making you gasp out in surprise at the feeling of just one finger filling you up dangerously. as he pushed back and forth your legs trembled, he added another finger and brought his head down to your core, ‘i bet you taste amazing’ was all he said before he dove in deep, his tongue against your clit as he drank up your juices and sucked on the flesh.

‘f-fuck’ you mewled, grabbed a hold of his soft, black hair in order to keep you grounded, with every thrust he made as he fucked with his mouth you tugged on his hair, pulling when you would feel the band about to snap, jeno groaned, loving the way you’d use him for stability.

he stopped and removed his face, you whined from the loss of contact as his fingers also found their way outside of you, he smiled ‘don’t worry, my pretty baby, i’ll take care of you’. he threw off his shirt nearly getting drunker with the way you were taking him in, he loved being adored by you, in such a calculated way that made sense in every story. you followed suit and removed your top and bra, baring naked in front of him and laid back on the bed as he admired you from afar, ‘you’re so beautiful’ he breathed, discarding his pants and underwear he crawled back on top of you, whispering sweet nothing's as he peppered your collarbone and breasts with kisses.

‘are you sure you want this? it might hurt a little at first, but i promise i’ll go slow until you tell me otherwise’ he towered over you.

your glassy eyes met his in reassurance, ‘yes, jeno i want this’ you confirmed everything for him. he quickly lined up his cock with your cunt and gently pushed inside, his eyes never leaving yours. your hands grasped around his muscled biceps, digging your nails into them when the pain was strong. once he bottomed out he stopped to let you get used to his size, you shared sensual kisses and sweet touches, jeno doing everything in his power to make you feel loved and safe at that moment going forward, that’s all he ever wanted to do. for weeks, he had been beating himself up for taking the teasing comments way too far at times, poking fun at something you were obviously insecure about, but you did the same, he figured it was kind of the thing you two had. in reality, he wanted to push you to do better, making comments like that so you’d work harder and prove everyone wrong. no one could work with you better than him, so he had gone out of his way to ask the pressor to pair you up on the project, also making the forced proximity making you talk to him after you stopped answering his calls and messages. he should have gone a better way about motivating you, but now that he had your forgiveness, he could work on better strategies.

‘jeno, you can move now’ you rasped out, still holding on his arms like an anchor with a boat. he pulled out and pushed back in, taking it slow as you moaned at the feeling of him filling you up to the brim, jeno picked up the pace, setting a steady rhythm as skin clapping together filled the room, ‘oh fuck, just like that’ your chest heaving up and down.

he slammed into with vigor, bitting your bottom lip as you opened your mouth to let out a breathless moan, ‘yeah? you like that? fuck, you’re so tight, literally sucking me in, i never want to leave this pretty fucking pussy’ he husked, he licked your lips and kissed your jaw as he grunted, setting a faster pace, making you cry out in pleasure. he grabbed your legs and opened them wider, giving him better access to go deeper into your abused cunt. you cried as the flame in your belly raged with a thousand fires, ‘keep your eyes on me baby’ jeno demanded, automatically making you swallow as you moved your eyes to meet his, blown out pupils filled with lust as your vision of him became blurry as blissful tears threaten to fall with every snap on his hips digging into you. you’ve had flings and hook-ups before, but nothing as profound as this, the eye contact, togetherness of him never backing too far away from your hold, you were being wholly consumed by jeno. everything right down to your core, he was all you could feel, taste, see, and think about.

‘o-oh my god’ you sobbed, hips jerking up at the feeling of the ripples burning through you, the coil in your stomach tightening, craving to break open, ‘m gonna cum’ you clenched around him, making jeno hiss above you at the feeling of tightness around his throbbing dick.

‘go on baby, cum for me,’ he whimpered as the feeling for him also grew intense, the way your cunt hugged his dick was making his mind spin. jeno mumbled incoherently ‘i’m so close baby, let go, you can let go, i got you’ from his words and the way he pounded into you made you snap, legs trembling as liquid gushed from your core and past his cock and dripped onto the sheets. light-headed and dizzy you cried out for jeno as your orgasm burst over you.

you clenched again, feeling overwhelmed by the euphoric feeling, ‘oh, fuck’ jeno cursed as he stilled inside of you, painting your insides with his seed, he groaned at the sensation of finally filling you up and properly claiming you as his and his alone. he stayed there for a couple of minutes inside of you. savoring the static of the overstimulation and pleasure of release. you winced as the hot liquid poured out of you when he pulled out, the emptiness of it all. jeno watched as his cum slide down your hole and onto the sheet, he scooped up the remaining liquid that rushed out of you and shoved it back into your clit with two fingers, making you cry at the sensitivity. ‘fuck that was… one of the best experiences of my life’ he caught his breath and plopped down facing you, he gently caressed your chin, bringing your head to his as he softly left kisses on your lips, ‘let me get you cleaned up baby’

‘m tired’ you whispered, barely able to keep your eyes open.

‘i know, but let me take care of you and get you dressed, i know theres extra clothes somewhere around here’ he started rummaging around the wardrobes, digging into them in order to find anything adequate. ‘aha!’ he put on a clean pair of underwear and sweats, ‘i’ll be right back baby’ he left the room and came back after for what felt like an eternity with a warm wash cloth and clean clothes, ‘these are mark’s girlfriends pj’s i’m sure she won’t mind,’ he hummed, wiping you clean, and dressing you in the soft, clean clothes. he picked you up so he could throw the covers back, tucking you in with a kiss on the nose, ‘you’re so cute’

you lazily smiled at him, settling into the sheets as you clung onto his warm frame, ‘who’s room is this by the way?’ you whispered as jeno shut his eyes.

‘mark’s. doesn’t matter. you’re my girlfriend now right?’ he leaned his head on yours.

‘mmm girlfriend yes. mark who?’ words fell from your mouth as you yawned, sleeping coming to find you soon.

‘mark, shark.’ he dismissed you, ‘just be ready for a stern talk when we wake up from the man himself.’ he kissed your head as you drifted off to sleep, the morning was the least of your worries now, you finally figured out the solution, the obvious answer being: jeno.

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pitchsidestories · 2 months ago

Text

In the spotlight II Alessia Russo x Actress!Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1655

summary: Reader is a rising actress, completely unaware she’s about to win a BAFTA. The shock hits even harder when it’s her girlfriend, Alessia, who walks onstage to hand her the award.

author's note: Hi, this one’s a bit different from our usual fanfics, but it's something we always wanted to try, so we’d love to know if you enjoyed it.💗

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

“Hey stargirl!”, Chloe greeted Alessia as she spotted her backstage at the BAFTA awards, carefully hugging her to not smudge both their make up. The two still had an award to present later that night.

“Hi Chlo.”, Alessia smiled at her, taking in the sight of her teammate all dressed up.

Chloe nodded toward the arrivals area where the red carpet buzzed with actors, directors, and photographers: “Does your girlfriend know you’re here?”

“No.”, Alessia replied with a mischievous grin. “She has no clue.”

Chloe mirrored the smile and raised her eyebrows: “So you will surprise her?”

“Yes, that’s the plan.”, the striker confirmed lightly, though the giddiness in her voice was tangible.

“Cute, Lessie.”, Chloe laughed, nudging her gently.

Alessia smirked and swiftly changed the subject:” Great outfit by the way, Chlo.”

Her teammate beamed and did a quick twirl to present her floor-length gown.

“Thanks. I like yours too.”

“Oh, thank you. I just hope I won’t trip over it on the stage with those heels on.”, Alessia chuckled, glancing down at her shoes and the fabric at the bottom.

Chloe looked her up and down, curling her lips sceptically: “You really set yourself up for failure with those heels and your clumsiness.”

“Shut it.”, Alessia laughed.

“No.”, Chloe grinned, as they both glanced toward the stage entrance, waiting.

“We’ve to be serious now.”, Alessia reminded her suddenly, the smile on her face fading into something more earnest. “She really earned this.”

“Fine.”, Chloe agreed, slipping into a more focused demeanour as the stage manager gave them their cue.

As their names were announced, they walked on stage. Chloe with the award in hand and Alessia clutching the envelope. On the last step, Alessias dress snagged on her heel. She stumbled but caught herself quickly.

You gasped from your seat in the audience. Your heart skipped twice in a row. First, when you recognised who was walking on stage and a second time when she nearly tripped.

Chloe stifled an involuntary laugh but quickly recovered in time to reach the microphone: “And the rising star award goes to…”

“Y/n.”, Alessia finished proudly.

Your heart jumped a third time. You had won. But you didn’t move. It took a moment for your brain to catch up with what was happening but somehow, you had already made it onto the stage.

Suddenly, you were face to face with Alessia. She looked beautiful, a dazzling smile on her lips, holding out the award to you. You couldn’t quite wrap your head around it. Your own girlfriend handing you the award you worked so hard for.

“Oh uhm… thanks.”, you managed nervously, your head spinning.

In that moment, you hadn’t realised that your fingers and hers had been intertwined for longer than usual at ceremonies like this. On stage, those small gestures and glances made the audience wonder if there was more between the two of you than simply a presenter and an award receiver.

But you didn’t have time to overthink it. You began your speech, reading from the small note you held in your free hand. Words you hadn’t expected to say tonight came tumbling from your lips as you tried to strike a balance between the personal and the universal.

Back in their seats, Chloe nudged her teammate with a smirk playing on her lips: “Stop staring at her.”

“Uhm, what?”, Alessia replied, fanning her flushed cheeks.

Glancing around, the older woman replied: “People will notice if you keep looking at her like that.”

“Oh, I’ll stop.” She hesitated for a beat before adding, in awe: “But she looks so gorgeous, it’s hard not to stare at her.”

Amused by the obvious love the footballer had for you, Chloe remarked: “I bet she knows.”

“And her words… so powerful.”, Alessia added, unable to stop herself from swooning despite her teammate’s teasing.

Grinning, Chloe said: “You actually listened? Thought you’d just be sat there with heart eyes.”

“I can multitask.”, your girlfriend insisted, her cheeks turning even redder.

Shaking her head, her friend reminded her: “You can’t even walk in a straight line.”

“Well, I’m not straight either.”, she muttered clumsily.

Then Alessia caught sight of the time on the clock behind her, your speech had ended a few minutes ago. The Arsenal player quickly shot up from her seat, muttering under her breath: “Shit, I need to go.”

“Stop whining. Anyone would be thrilled to collect that trophy.”, Chloe said with an exaggerated eye roll.

Wincing, Alessia explained: “Yeah, but I need to change my outfit too.”

While you were seated with the rest of the cast members, you noticed your girlfriend slipping away and, without drawing attention, quietly followed her into the dressing room, announcing your arrival with a gentle knock.

Normally, this was the space where you saw actresses and the occasional female director swap their high heels for sneakers. The lighting was low, the atmosphere calm.

Amused, you watched her struggle to undress without losing her balance. Then, grinning, you offered: “Need a hand with the outfit change, love?”

“I haven’t got time to make out in the dressing room.”, Alessia declared with a laugh.

You raised your hands in defence: “Oi, my intentions weren’t that filthy. I genuinely wanted to help especially after you and Chloe surprised me on stage.”

Her face lit up with a proud smile: “Thought you’d enjoy that.”

“Oh, I did.”, you assured her while stepping around to unzip her gown with careful fingers. “Here you go.”

The fabric slipped down, pooling around Alessias heels.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned in and pressed your lips to her naked shoulder, leaving a faint imprint of your lipstick on her skin.

Alessia turned around, feigning offence but the twinkle in her eyes told you that she enjoyed it.

“Hey, I said no kisses. I have to hurry up.”

You lifted your hands in mock innocence and watched her step out of her gown and into a new dress.

“Bye, see you at home.”, you winked at her.

“See you.”

At the door you paused and turned back to her: “Oh, and don’t forget; you deserve it, Lessie.”

She grinned: “So do you.”

You blew her one last kiss and left.

“Enjoyed the glamour of the film awards?”, Mariona asked as she and Alessia took their seats at the WPG awards.

Alessia nodded: “It was really cool, yes. But I feel more comfortable here.”

She glanced around at the room full of other athletes and coaches.

Mariona nodded, scrolling through her phone while they waited to be called on stage. “I get that. But uhm… Less?”

She didn’t even wait for a reply.

“The fans started to research the two of you and they found pictures of her at the stadium… wearing your jersey…”

Alessia paled immediately: “Wait? Already?”

“Yeah, you know how fast they can be…”, the Spanish midfielder said with a sigh.

“Still…” Alessia bit her lip. “Maybe Chloe was right, and I was too obvious.”

“It’s not your fault.”, Mariona said gently, placing a comforting hand on Alessia’s arm.

“She won’t like that…”, Alessia murmured.

“Try to enjoy the moment, okay?”

She nodded slowly: “Okay.”

“Glad to not be here alone.”, Mariona added quickly, clearly trying to change the subject.

A calmer smile spread across Alessia’s face: “Don’t worry, you’re not alone.”

“Thanks.”

They exchanged a warm glance under the dim lights of the venue.

“It’s your turn, Mario.”, Alessia reminded her as her name echoed from the stage.

Mariona got up from her seat: “On my way.”

Alessias name was called right after hers.

Golden boot and Player of the season winners, grinning at each other as they walked off stage.

“Congrats.”, Alessia grinned as they headed over to pose with their awards.

“Congratulations to you too.”, her teammate laughed as the cameras flashed around them.

Happily, she answered: “Thanks.”

Later that evening, you found yourself replaying the day in your mind. It all felt like something out of a film. Except this wasn’t fiction. This was your life.

With a dreamy look in your eyes, you greeted your girlfriend as she stepped into the bedroom, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

“Love? Hi.”, you said.

“Hey.”, Alessia replied, still slightly breathless. The forward clearly couldn’t wait to be in your arms, she flung herself onto the bed and rested her chin on your chest.

You smiled warmly at her, running your fingers through the bun that had begun to loosen.

“What a night, huh?”

“A pretty successful one, I’d say.”, your girlfriend hummed.

Reminiscing over the last few hours, you nodded: “Oh yes.” A cheeky grin formed on your lips. “Is the no-kissing rule still in place?”

“No. I’ve got time for it now.”, the blonde replied.

“Perfect.”

Right then, only the touch of her lips mattered.

It wasn’t until the next day that Alessia told you the public had picked up on that you two were lovers.

You knew your agent wouldn’t be thrilled about the idea forming in your head. Being out in the film industry was becoming more common, but it was still risky. And yet, Alessia felt worth the risk.

It was the Champions League final. All of Lisbon was buzzing. The dominant colours in the stadium were blaugrana and red.

“Lessi, turn around.”, Leah whispered into her teammate’s ear.

Her mouth fell open when she spotted you right in front of her. “What?”

“Good luck, love.”, you said softly.

Still in disbelief, Alessia hugged you: “You’re here?”

“Yes. Let people talk, I’m here to support you.”, you countered boldly. Relieved, she asked: “You don’t mind?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not at all.”, she said firmly.

In her embrace, you promised her: “No more hiding from the spotlight.”

The stage would be hers in a few minutes, and you’d be in the stands, cheering her and her team on, thinking how Alessia was worth every risk.

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grimmusings · 3 months ago

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Given the recent resurgence in purity culture and anti-villain sentiment on Tumblr, this feels like a good time to talk about censorship and bullying. This is not a call-out post for anything that's happened recently, just some commentary on what, to me, is a disturbing trend and some general guidelines for how to conduct yourself in fandom spaces.

Essentially, it boils down to this: You have the right to not interact with anything you choose in a fandom. You don't have the right to make that choice for anyone else.

Do you know why AO3 doesn't have content bans? It stems from anti-censorship beliefs and First Amendment rights, and it also comes from a long history of watching things like this go down in fandom. The thing about banning one kind of content--or that kind of mindset--is that it hardly ever stops with one thing, until fandoms are so scrubbed from anything that has the potential to be problematic that they collapse under any perceived threat to their rigid moral standards. If you doubt that, consider how it's taken less than a month for this to jump from Marvel to include other groups of villains and fandoms. Guaranteed, it will not stop there. (And that's to say nothing of how, historically, censorship leads to silencing marginalized groups, but that's a different post.) Conservatism is insidious and takes a lot of forms, but censorship is ultimately a conservative, even a fascist, action.

The fact is that what you enjoy reading or writing is actually no reflection on what kind of person you are. There's even an argument to be made that exploring darkness in fiction a) makes you a more empathetic human and, b) makes you better-equipped to handle those topics in real life (but that's another post too). I don't care what you want to write on your own blog. I don't care how controversial your muse or your ship is or if you write the darkest of dark fic out there. I may not want to write it, engage with it, or even see it on my dash, but I'll defend your right to write it.

Writing fascist characters (HYDRA, Empire, Death Eaters, etc.) doesn't make someone a Nazi any more than writing Hannibal Lecter makes them a cannibal or writing the Punisher makes them an advocate for gun violence. Saying they are breaks one of the primary tenets of roleplay: that mun does not equal muse. It's widely accepted in the roleplaying community that we don't agree with our characters' views, and we would never in a million years condone the things they do in real life. That rule doesn't go away just because you personally don't like the character.

So let's talk about what to do when you come across writing you don't agree with.

What you have a right to do: Feel however you feel about it. Ask for tags and readmores (they have a right to refuse). Decline to explain or justify why it makes you uncomfortable. Decide not to associate with people who write that thing. Blacklist. Unfollow. Block. Add to your DNI list. Vent about it in a safe space with your friends. Take a step back from the internet. Remember that the people on the other side of the screen are real, actual humans, while characters are imaginary. Embrace the fact that engaging in fiction is optional, and you can choose to stop any time you want. Trust that grown adults have the basic media literacy to understand the difference between reality and fiction. Remind yourself of the first rule of fandom, the one AO3 is built on (Don't like; don't read). Recognize that it's perfectly valid to not want to engage with something, but that expecting other people not to write it at all isn't your call to make and can lead down a dangerous path.

What you don't have a right to do: Bully or doxx other writers. Shame them for their choices when they don't agree with you. Demand explanations or justifications from them. Gaslight them into thinking nobody else will write with them if they continue to write this thing. (You don't speak for the entire fandom. You are a very small minority making a lot of noise.) Create call-out posts. Participate in witch hunts. Send anon hate or death threats. Make people feel unsafe in their own spaces. Police other people's content.

If you descend to bullying someone because you don't like what they're writing, you don't have the moral high ground. I can't believe it needs to be said, but real bullies are worse than fictional antagonists. Bullying and censorship are far more alarming threats than people who enjoy exploring dark topics in their writing. Nobody's asking you to like it, agree with it, or even look at it. And if you don't? Now is the perfect time to say nothing about it, block, and move on. Rest assured, we don't want you on our blogs any more than you want us on yours.

#[ redacted: ooc ]#tw: drama #okay to reblog

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ariel26c · 1 year ago

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🎀Things I’ve learned about Shifting 🎀

1. Background noise doesn’t matter. I come from a Hispanic family household and let me tell you hun it’s freaking loud as hell. It’s like a zoo lol but guess what? I still shifted. At some point you will start to feel your CR kinda “fade away”. I have been in this state where I am in between my CR and DR. I can hear background noise from my CR but I still feel like I’m in a different room or I hear sounds from my DR as well. Has anyone experienced this?? Let me know, I’m curious 🤨

2. Have patience. Allow yourself to relax and naturally connect to your DR. Don’t stress about having random thoughts or having an itch or things like that. Have patience with yourself like seriously you got this babe. Sometimes for me it’s feels like it’s takes 1 or 2 hours until I feel fully connected to my DR. (It’s different for everyone btw) you may take less time than I do. Those things don’t matter if you decide that those things don’t matter.

3. Methods really aren’t needed. If you think about it all methods consist of the same thing usually. It usually consists of affirmations, visualization, subliminal audios, meditation, counting, blah blah blah. If you want to use a method, then do that but don’t force yourself to do a method that doesn’t resonate with you. If you don’t like counting, then don’t count. If you don’t like visualizing, then don’t visualize. Change things up a bit and listen to music that reminds you of your DR or do something that you think is fun.

4. Just because some people like to lie about their shifting experiences doesn’t mean that shifting is fake. Just like in every community there is going to be people that are dishonest or don’t have the best intentions but that doesn’t mean that shifting is a big inside joke. Don’t allow these people to discourage you from shifting to your DR or make you doubt in its existence. Don’t depend on other people's content to feel motivated or believe in shifting. Just KNOW it’s real and motivate yourself to shift. (even though motivation isn’t needed to shift)

5. Shifting is Real. I think we all should know this by now, but I don’t think people really fully understand just how REAL shifting is. I mean you are going to be able to use all of your senses. You will be able to taste food, see your reflection in the mirror, talk to people that may be considered as fictional in this reality, etc. The process of shifting is safe but if you are shifting somewhere that has violence or gore make sure you script your own well-being. High pain tolerance, no trauma, etc.

6. Time isn't important. Just because it's been 4 years or 5 doesn't mean you can't do it. Time doesn't apply to shifting because time is just man-made thing. We created the concept of time not the Universe. Don't blame the Universe for your "Failure". (Spoiler alert: it's not failure) You just need to realize that no matter what, it will happen. It is completely inevitable. Some people have shifted after 5 years so don't give up! It will be worth it.

7. You can't fail at shifting. When you do your method, you will shift to your DR or shift to your CR. You shift all the time. We are constantly shifting consciously or unconsciously. Manifestation and shifting are very much closely related. (But that's another discussion for another time) Just like how we are manifesting on autopilot we are also shifting on autopilot. So, when you do a sleep method, and you wake up in this reality instead of your DR you still shifted. (Just not to your DR) (Get it?)

I hope you found this post helpful! :)

#affirmations #desired reality #law of the universe #shifting #shifting realities #reality shifting community #reality shift #reality shifting #shifting community #shifters #shiftblr

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n1k0laa5 · 6 days ago

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shifting and loa are real and i see you shaking, babe.

AKA what your soul needs to hear rn. seriously, pause and listen.

come here. sit down. let me rub glitter on your spine and scream at the world for you.

you’re not lazy.

you’re not delusional.

you’re not broken.

you’re not “trying too hard.”

you’re exhausted.

you’re grieving a reality you haven’t even touched yet because it lives in your chest.

you’ve said goodnight to people who don’t exist here but god do they feel more real than anyone who’s ever texted you back.

you’ve memorized the curve of someone’s voice in your DR like it was scripture.

you’ve built entire cities inside your eyelids.

you’ve tried to fall asleep in the arms of an entire universe and woke up alone.

and i see you.

because i’ve been you.

this isn’t a joke. this isn’t a “phase.” this isn’t some escapist tumblr trend for pastel soft girls and sleepy boys who just want to go kiss anime characters. even if it was. that would STILL be sacred.

shifting is real.

manifesting is real.

your devotion is real.

but it’s hard, isn’t it?

not because the law doesn’t work. not because “you’re doing it wrong.” not because you’re not god.

no.

it’s hard because you are god in a meat suit.

because you are infinite, divine, explosive, magnetic, massive, trapped inside something that needs water to survive and still cries over people who ghosted you.

you are the entire cosmos funneled into a nervous system that flinches when a door slams too loud.

you are light and plasma with a frontal cortex that gets panic attacks when it smells the wrong cologne.

and that matters.

not because it’s stronger than you.

but because it deserves tenderness.

too many people say “just ignore the 3D” and while that’s correct—it’s not complete.

they forget there’s a heartbeat in this equation.

there are inner children here.

there are people still processing grief.

there are trauma loops that don’t vanish just because you intellectually know they’re not real.

there’s a difference between saying “circumstances don’t matter” and acting like people don’t matter. and i won’t stand for the second one.

because you matter.

you matter even if you’ve never shifted.

you matter even if you can’t visualize for shit.

you matter even if your affirmations are tired mumbling at 3am through tears and cracked lips.

you matter even if you’ve been trying for 5 years.

you matter even if you stop trying.

you matter even if you get angry at the law.

you matter even if you forget you’re god sometimes.

you’re not failing. you’re healing while remembering.

you are processing centuries of generational fear in a single lifetime.

you are alchemizing flesh into frequency.

you are loving something so deeply, so fiercely, that it literally bends time.

let me repeat that:

you are loving something so deeply it bends time.

that is what shifting is.

it’s a love story with yourself across the multiverse.

it’s a soul so feral about its truth that it will keep knocking until the stars rearrange.

and what you’re doing?

what you’re reaching for?

what you’re breathing into every night?

that is the opposite of weak. that is sacred.

now let’s talk about those quiet nights.

the ones where you stare at your ceiling and whisper to your DR like it can hear you.

where you beg to go home.

and i know you don’t even mean your physical home.

you mean the place that feels like home. the one that lives in your bones.

the one where your name is loved like a prayer and not mispronounced like an inconvenience.

the one where someone strokes your hair and says “you made it.”

and fuck. that ache?

that’s the bravest ache in the world.

no one sees that part.

they don’t see you crying for a fictional world that feels more real than the one that bruised you.

they laugh and say “just write a story.”

but you’re not writing a story.

you’re trying to return to one.

you’re a soul with a homing beacon.

a compass made of longing and memory.

you know what’s waiting for you and you won’t let anyone take that from you.

and that makes you terrifying.

beautiful.

formidable.

god.

you do not need trauma to deserve rest.

you do not need a diagnosis to deserve compassion.

you do not need proof to be believed.

you do not need to be impressive to be worthy.

being a manifestor is enough.

being a shifter is enough.

being is enough.

and if your journey is quiet right now

if you feel stuck

if you’re doubting everything

if the affirmations feel fake

if the subliminals hurt to hear

if the scripting feels pointless

if you haven’t even tried in a week

if you’ve stopped hoping

that does not mean you’ve failed.

it means you are in a cocoon.

and cocooning looks like giving up.

it looks like apathy.

but it’s just surrender.

and surrender is sacred, too.

you are not alone.

you are not crazy.

you are not behind.

you are not a glitch in the loa community just because your story is taking longer.

you are the plot twist.

and when you shift,

when you manifest that love, that body, that reality, that version,

it won’t be because you forced it.

it will be because you remembered how to receive.

so until then?

breathe.

let your body catch up to what your soul already knows.

and if you need to cry,

you better sob like it’s a fucking ritual

because it is.

and i’ll hold you the whole time.

because i get it.

and i’m not leaving.

you didn’t make up this yearning.

this isn’t delusion.

this isn’t fantasy.

this isn’t escapism.

you’ve touched those worlds in dreams.

you’ve felt their weight in your bones.

you’ve had deja vu from realities you haven’t lived here.

you’ve walked into rooms and smelled the perfume of people who don’t exist on this side.

you’ve heard music that doesn’t play on this frequency.

you’ve caught glimpses in mirrors of eyes that weren’t quite yours.

and that wasn’t imagination.

that was remembering.

and i promise, when you close your eyes tonight, even if your chest is heavy and your hope feels faint,

there’s a version of you waiting with arms wide open whispering:

“i never stopped believing in you either.”

now go drink some water.

put glitter in it if you want.

whisper to your pillow.

and try again tomorrow if you feel like it.

because that’s the thing about you.

you keep loving.

and loving.

even when the world tells you not to.

and if that’s not divine…

i don’t know what is.

“Live with love. Embrace the pain, the frailty and the moments so unbearably shameful. Forgive yourself… Again and again, endlessly. Because everything… begins from there.”

— Hyuna, ALNST

love, your glitzy, overly emotional, violently sparkly, scream-hugging friend who believes in you more than oxygen.

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micky-with-no-e · 3 days ago

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The Monkeeverse is one of those things that makes less sense instead of more as you get into it. The show spans genres and never has multipart plot lines and yet somehow manages to have better continuity than many shows that rely on ongoing storylines. The show in question is fictional, but the actors share the names. Are they characters or are they people? The lines blur between them, creating an air of ambiguity. People hate them for not being the fictional characters. People accuse them of not being the fictional characters. They are mistaken for the fictional characters. The real men, ordinary men turned television rock and roll gods, are now locked into these personas in the real world. They make a film about killing themselves to escape the machine that forces them to be living comedy caricatures. The movie flops because it isn’t funny. The public doesn’t get why that in itself is ironic. Behind the scenes they fight tooth and nail to be a real band. People don’t believe they play their own music. They will perform these same songs until they die. They are sex and drugs and rock and roll given a G rating and make it through grueling schedules with cocaine. They regularly appear on the show in drag and speak out against the Vietnam war. Hippie ideals and fashion leak steadily into the show, creating even more of a blur between television and reality. They hate being The Monkees. They will always be The Monkees. They will miss being The Monkees. The Monkees will never die. The Monkees are killed on screen. Are the “blooper” clips spliced into aired episodes performed by the actors or the characters? They signed away their names and there’s no difference between them and their brand. With one signature they’ll never be taken seriously again. With one signature they’ll change history. No, as an audience you’ll never get to know how much is real or what all of it really means. It was never meant to be taken seriously. It’s not that deep. It is that deep. Anyway, take a guess whether The Monkees being on an FBI watchlist is a fictional plot line or real life.

#the monkees #head 1968 #peter tork #mike nesmith #micky dolenz #davy jones

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hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Note

Hi! How are you?

I know your requests are closed, but you’re just the best, so I thought I‘d leave that here.

Have you ever thought about Lewis dating a romance or maybe even dark romance/erotica author? How they would meet and him reading a book of hers or something like that? It would be so fun.

𝐼𝓃𝓀-𝒮𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒮𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! P4 for Lewis in quali! I’m so happy, wishing all the best for LH. I’m doing well thanks. Anyway here’s another request. Enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: A secretive romance author falls for Lewis Hamilton, blurring the lines between fiction and reality as he becomes her most unexpected love story.

Warnings: sexual content

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

MASTERLIST

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

There’s a quiet hum in the grand hall, the soft clink of glasses and polite chatter weaving through marble pillars and velvet drapes.

Gold-accented chandeliers cast a warm, honeyed glow over the sea of polished shoes and champagne flutes, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and carefully curated charm. It’s the kind of event where everyone seems to belong with shoulders squared, smiles poised, conversations rehearsed.

The kind of event you used to dread.

Before you became her. Before your books began to sell under the name you guard more fiercely than your own heartbeat.

Aria Vale. (your made-up name as an author to protect yourself)

The pseudonym isn’t just a name it’s armour. A veil that lets you explore the parts of yourself you’re too careful to show. You’ve built a world with Aria’s pen, one full of desperate love, dangerous men, and sins laid bare on silk sheets.

Her stories are soaked in longing, obsession, and the kind of reckless passion you’ve only ever touched in your imagination.

Because the truth is you’ve never been in love.

Not really. Not the way you write it.

Your characters crash into each other like storms, pulled by threads you’ve never truly felt in your own life. You’ve written what you think love might feel like, what you want it to feel like. Intoxicating. Consuming. Real.

But it’s always been fiction. A world you control. A world you can leave when the ache gets too sharp.

Tonight, you’re here as yourself. The "safe" author.

The sweet, heartfelt kind that mothers recommend to daughters. The kind that book clubs label as ‘comforting’, as if your words are soft blankets meant to be folded neatly and stored away.

No one here knows about Aria. No one suspects the edges beneath your softness.

You sip your champagne, smoothing a hand over your dress, your carefully chosen armour of silk and lace. A practiced smile curls at your lips as you chat with the event organiser about the literacy programs you’re supporting tonight.

You’re here to talk about the stories that save people.

Stories like yours.

Or maybe stories like hers.

You’re steady. Until the air shifts.

It’s subtle at first a ripple you feel rather than see. The room tilts on its axis for just a moment, your breath hitching with a sensation you can’t immediately name. And when you glance over your shoulder, you understand why.

Lewis Hamilton.

You’ve seen him before, of course. In glossy magazine spreads, in interviews where he seems effortlessly gracious and polished. He’s a name that travels well; a man wrapped in legacy and relentless headlines.

But seeing him in person? It’s different.

He moves like he belongs everywhere. Confident, but not loud. Powerful, but not overreaching. There’s something about him that hums something beneath the surface that you’re almost afraid to get close enough to touch.

His eyes sweep across the room, and something tightens in your chest.

Not attraction. Not yet. It’s curiosity. Recognition. Like seeing a character you’ve written walk off the page and step into your real life.

But he’s too far away to notice you. You remind yourself of this, wrapping the thought around you like a shield. Just another guest in a sea of charity supporters.

You turn back to your conversation, forcing yourself to focus. You’re here to raise money, to speak about the power of literacy, the lives changed by words.

Words you’ve always used to imagine love. Never to live it.

Because how could you write about something so convincingly when you’ve never really held it in your hands? You’ve written what you think love would feel like - the wild kind, the dangerous kind, the safe kind but you’ve always been just outside its reach, peering in through ink-stained windows.

Your characters ache for each other. They fall hard, they bleed, they fight to be seen.

But you? You’ve always written love like it was a place you’d never been, like you were mapping the constellations without ever setting foot under the stars.

You wonder, not for the first time, if you would recognise real love if it finally found you. Or if you’ve spent so long building it from fantasy that the real thing would feel foreign. Like stepping into someone else’s story.

You slip out to the balcony later, needing air. The cool night brushes against your skin, grounding you. The soft music and clinking glasses fade into a distant murmur as you breathe in the quiet.

And then -

“Escaping already?”

The voice is low, smooth, edged with quiet humour. You turn, and there he is Lewis Hamilton, impossibly close leaning casually against the stone railing. His dark eyes glint with something between curiosity and mischief, a barely-there smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Your breath stumbles in your throat.

You offer him a polite smile, a practiced one. “Just needed a break from small talk. It’s exhausting pretending to be interesting.” He chuckles, soft but genuine. “I doubt you’re pretending. I heard you’re the guest speaker tonight. The author, right?”

You nod, your pulse drumming quietly beneath your skin. “That’s me.” His head tilts slightly, thoughtful. “I’ve been meaning to get into reading more. Maybe you can recommend something?”

You pause, letting the weight of the question settle between you. You could give him one of the "safe" books the sweet, carefully folded kind. But there’s a sliver of something reckless in you tonight. A whisper of Aria Vale creeping to the surface.

“Depends,” you say, your voice silk over steel. “Do you want something safe or something that might ruin you?” His eyebrows lift, but his smile widens, amused. “You’re not what I expected.”

You offer your hand, your pulse tripping. “I’m Y/N.”

He takes it, his grip warm, his touch lingering just long enough to send sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“Lewis.”

“Yes,” you murmur, meeting his gaze. “I know.”

His laugh is soft, but there’s something in it that tugs at you. “So, will you tell me which one of your books might ruin me?” You hesitate, the answer pressing against your teeth.

The Aria Vale books are not for the faint of heart. They’re dark. Messy. Raw. They are, in many ways, your unanswered questions stitched together in ink.

What does it feel like to be desired without condition? What would it taste like to be loved until it hurt?

They are the stories you write not because you’ve lived them. But because you wish you had.

“I’ll let you figure that out,” you say instead, pulling your hand back as the event coordinator calls you to the stage. His gaze lingers on you, a silent thread wrapping tight around your ribs as you walk away.

You should return to your carefully folded life.

But maybe, just maybe -

You want him to follow the thread you left behind.

And soon enough after that encounter it starts with a message.

A simple, almost careless ping from your Instagram DMs late one night.

Lewis Hamilton:

Hey. Started your book. You’re right. It’s safe…sweet. Thought you might be more dangerous than this though 😉.

You stare at the notification, your pulse fluttering as if it’s mocking you. You’re alone in your apartment, the city humming faintly beyond your window, your fingers tightening around your phone.

You laugh softly, a small, breathy sound that barely reaches the walls around you. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, words skimming the surface of your mind.

You: You chose the safe one. That’s on you.

His reply is immediate. Like he’s been waiting for your answer. Like he’s pacing his own apartment, adrenaline still crackling under his skin.

Lewis Hamilton:

Guess I’ll have to keep looking, huh?

Your heart trips. He’s playing, but there’s something underneath it, something in the way he’s reaching.

You: Careful, you might find something that keeps you up at night.

Your chest tightens the second you hit send. It’s not a warning. It’s an invitation. A thread dangled, waiting for him to pull.

Lewis Hamilton: That’s exactly what I’m looking for.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming low in your belly. It’s ridiculous, how easily he coils around you with just a few words on a screen. But maybe you’ve always been like this susceptible to a good story, to curiosity that spirals into something you can’t quite hold in your hands.

Over the next few weeks, the messages continue light at first, playful. You send him more book recommendations, carefully curated. Only the ones under your real name. The safe ones. The ones the book clubs adore. The ones that won’t reveal too much.

He devours them, sends you photos of his dog, Roscoe, sprawled out next to your paperbacks, the pages soft from his hands. He texts you thoughtful reactions, sometimes deep, sometimes sarcastic.

Lewis Hamilton: Your main guy in this one? Bit too perfect, don’t you think? Where’s his edge? Where’s the pull?

You:

Not every story needs a man with sharp teeth, Lewis.

Lewis Hamilton:

Sure, but maybe those are the ones that keep people coming back. Danger’s interesting.

You try to brush it off. Try to stay in the safety of soft love stories and flirty banter. But then one evening, just as you’re settling into bed, your phone buzzes again.

Lewis Hamilton:

So…Aria Vale. Is she your favourite author? I heard many readers love her.

Your breath catches, a chill prickling along your skin. Your fingers hesitate over the screen, muscles tightening.

You:

Why?

Lewis Hamilton: Found one of her books on a friend’s shelf. Started reading. Couldn’t put it down. Reminds me a little of you, actually. Bold. Unapologetic. Intense.

Your stomach flips violently, heat and terror swirling inside you like a storm.

You:

Which one?

Lewis Hamilton:

The one with the guy who’s probably a walking red flag. But I can’t stop reading him. I think I might be into it.

Your heart slams against your ribs. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You:

Be careful with that one.

You watch the blinking dots, tension strung tight in your chest.

Lewis Hamilton: Why’s that?

You: He doesn’t always play fair.

There’s a beat. A pause so sharp you can feel it crackling between you, even through a screen.

Lewis Hamilton:

Neither do I.

It sends a jolt straight through you, lighting up something you’ve tried to keep buried. Something you’ve only ever written. You let the truth dangle on your tongue, but you don’t tell him. Not yet. Not until you’re sure or until you’ve led him deeper into the story.

You’ve dodged it for weeks now the truth pressing harder and harder against the walls you’ve so carefully built. You tell yourself it’s harmless to let Lewis read your Aria Vale books without knowing. That it’s just curiosity, just conversation. That it won’t matter if he never connects the dots. But part of you wants him to.

You want him to figure it out. To see you not the author everyone knows, not the soft, safe one but the woman who writes with sharp teeth and tangled hearts. You keep waiting for him to let it go. For the spark to fizzle. But instead, he keeps asking questions. Keeps digging.

Until the night you’re scrolling through your messages, and his text lands like a stone in your chest.

Lewis Hamilton:

I finished the book. The one with the man who doesn’t play fair.

It was the dedication that got me.

Panic crawls up your spine. You scramble to pull your old copy from the shelf, flipping frantically to the page you’ve memorised but somehow forgot.

“To the ones who ask all the right questions, even when they’re not ready for the answers.”

Your fingers tremble as you type.

You:

What about it?

His reply comes slowly, each word deliberate, like he wants you to feel them settle in your bones.

Lewis Hamilton:

It felt familiar. Felt like…you.

Is it you, Y/N?

You stare at the message, heart hammering wildly, like it’s begging you to lie. You could.

You could bury yourself deeper. You could keep the safe version of you alive.

But something inside you the part that writes recklessly, the part that’s starved for someone to see her won’t let you.

You:

Yes. It’s me.

Seconds drag. Long enough that you start preparing excuses, apologies, reasons you kept it from him.

Soon he replies.

Lewis Hamilton:

I knew it.

You blink at the screen.

Lewis Hamilton:

Why didn’t you tell me?

You:

I wasn’t sure you’d understand.

Lewis Hamilton:

Understand what?

You:

That I can be both things. Sweet and soft and sharp enough to draw blood.

You let the confession bleed from your thumbs like it’s been waiting for a place to land.

His next message is slow. Purposeful, almost like a quiet unraveling.

Lewis Hamilton:

You’re a lot like your characters.

Complex. Messy. Addictive.

Your pulse spikes. You chew your lip, the edges of your walls crumbling.

You:

You think you can handle all of me?

His answer makes you dizzy.

Lewis Hamilton:

I think I already am.

When you see him again this time at a tucked-away café, hidden in the quiet edges of the city you spot him instantly.

He’s impossible to miss.

His legs are stretched out under the small wooden table, sunglasses perched carelessly atop his head, curls catching the late afternoon sunlight like they were made to hold the warmth. He’s dressed simply black hoodie, jeans, a pair of scuffed sneakers but he looks unreasonably good like this. Unreasonably dangerous.

You pause at the threshold, anchoring yourself with a breath you don’t realise you’ve been holding. He’s here. He’s still here.

And sitting in front of him, perfectly in view, is your Aria Vale book. The cover soft from wear, the spine cracked. His copy is bloated with sticky notes and creased corners, a chaotic trail of breadcrumbs that tells you he hasn’t just read it more like he’s lived inside it.

Your throat tightens. When you finally cross the room, he looks up, and that smile slow and devastating blooms across his face as if he’s been waiting just for you.

“You know,” he murmurs, tapping the battered cover with his thumb, “I started this for you. Thought I’d try to understand what you write. What you…hide.”

His gaze sharpens, pulling you into the undertow.

“But then…” he continues, his voice dipping lower, velvet over steel. “Now I’m not sure if I want to finish it because I’m curious about the ending or because I’ve become obsessed with the writer.”

The words hang heavy between you, wrapped in something electric. You try to swallow past the lump rising in your throat. Nerves tangle with something warmer, something you don’t yet have the courage to name.

“Does it scare you?” you ask, your voice barely holding steady. “That you wrote this?” He leans in, resting his forearms on the table like he’s settling in, like he’s making room for the truth. “No.”

His eyes flick briefly to your lips so quick you might have imagined it before settling on yours, steady, unflinching. “That you’re this?” His grin tilts, dark and sure. “Not even close.”

You exhale shakily, trying to find your footing under the weight of his attention. You’ve spent years hiding parts of yourself between ink-stained pages.

You’ve lived in the careful middle ground, convincing yourself that no one would ever really want to hold both versions of you the sweet and the sharp. The girl who writes safe love stories and the woman who dreams of the ones that ruin you.

But here he is. Reading you. Choosing you.

“You’ve seen what they say about me,” Lewis says, his voice softening but never losing its edge. “I know how to live in that space. Between the headline version and the real one.” His thumb drags absently over the corner of the book, eyes still on you. “I know what it feels like to be misread.”

Your chest aches at the weight of his words. For the first time, you feel seen. Not just as an author, not as the pseudonym you’ve carefully guarded but as someone who’s spent years writing about love from the outside looking in.

“So, what happens now?” you ask, fingertips brushing the edge of the book between you, your pulse thrumming like you’ve stepped onto the page of one of your own stories. His thumb taps rhythmically against the paper as if considering his next move. “Now? I want to know what part of this is fantasy and what’s real.”

The question sinks into you, sharp and heavy. You’re not ready to answer it.

Your throat tightens as you force the words out. “Why?”

His response lands like a promise. Like a dare wrapped in silk.

“Because if you wrote those things from experience, I want to know what it’s like to be the man who gets to keep you.”

Your stomach drops. A flash of panic, then something else -something…hollow.

Because he doesn’t know. You didn’t write those stories from experience. You wrote them from longing. From aching curiosity. From the dusty corners of your imagination where you pieced together what you hoped love would feel like, what you wished someone would one day want from you.

You’ve never lived the things you wrote about.

Never been the woman in those scenes.

Your fingers hover over the flagged page in the book, the one you marked for him, the one you told yourself you would show him if he asked. You flip it open slowly, the familiar lines swimming beneath your gaze.

You push the book toward him, meeting his eyes. “This one’s real.”

The words scrape out of your throat like confession.

His lips twitch, a dangerous glint flickering in his gaze. “Noted.”

But your heart is thudding too loudly for you to hear the rest of the world.

Because you just lied.

Not to manipulate him. Not to protect yourself. But because you wanted it to be real. You wanted him to believe you’re the woman you’ve spent years pretending to be on the page. The kind of woman who knows how to fall apart in someone’s hands and still be wanted after.

The kind of woman he’s been reading.

But you’re not her.

You’ve never been her.

You’ve only ever written what you thought love might feel like. You’ve only imagined what it would be like to be claimed, to be chosen, to be wanted recklessly.

And now Lewis is here. Reaching. Believing. And you don’t know if you can give him what he thinks he’s found.

But you don’t stop him.

You don’t correct him.

Because something inside you - something small and desperate is clinging to the impossible hope that maybe you can become her. Maybe you can live the story you’ve always written for everyone else but yourself. And maybe, just maybe, Lewis is willing to help you figure out which parts of you were fiction and which parts are waiting to be written.

When you attend one of Lewis’s races, you think you’ll blend into the background another anonymous face in a sea of lanyards and team colours.

But from the moment he sneaks you into the paddock, weaving you past tight security with that signature grin and a palm pressed firmly to the small of your back, you realise he has no intention of letting you disappear.

He keeps you close. Tucks you into his side like you belong there. But not publicly. Not yet. You’re still his secret, still tucked between the pages like the stories you once kept hidden.

In public, he’s careful. A brush of his hand at your lower back when no one’s watching, soft glances when he thinks you’re not paying attention, lingering touches that tell you exactly where his mind is. To the world, you’re just a guest. A quiet supporter. A shadow in his orbit.

But in private?

He’s relentless.

Curious. Consuming. Always asking.

What’s real?

What’s fantasy?

What line hasn’t he crossed yet?

You tease him, whispering half-finished scenes into his ear late at night, your voice low, watching the way his jaw tightens and his hands flex as you blur the boundary between what you’ve written and what you’ve only ever imagined.

It happens slowly, quietly, in the way his hand starts to find yours without thinking, in the way he calls you just to hear your voice when he’s between flights.

You don’t remember the exact moment it changes you only know that one day, when he’s walking you back to your hotel after dinner, he doesn’t let you go.

Instead, he pulls you to him on the curb, presses his lips to yours like he’s answering a question neither of you asked aloud, and when he pulls back, he just murmurs, "You’re mine, yeah?"

And you don’t hesitate. You just nod. "Yeah. Yours." From that moment, it’s real. Not the teasing. Not the game. You’re his. He’s yours. It’s the start of something neither of you planned to write.

One night, after a race, you’re wrapped in the haze of adrenaline and champagne-slick celebration when you lean into him, your fingers brushing lightly along his chest.

“You’re dangerous,” you murmur against his skin, your palm pressed to the solid thud of his heartbeat.

His response is immediate, his hand wrapping around your wrist in a grip that’s firm but never harsh, tethering you to him as his thumb strokes your pulse.

“You wrote me this way.”

And maybe you did. Or maybe you just found him exactly as he is.

You don’t correct him. You don’t have the words for the storm he’s become in your life.

The hotel room that night feels too quiet. The low hum of the city floats up through the cracked balcony door, but all you can hear is the thud of your heartbeat, a frantic rhythm that doesn’t slow as you watch Lewis peel off his race jacket and toss his cap onto the armchair.

He’s still buzzing from the win, from the roar of the track, from the pressurised high of being in control for hours at speeds most people wouldn’t dare touch. But here, with you, he’s not in control at all. And you think he likes it that way.

You hadn’t planned to follow him back here. You’d told yourself you were just going to congratulate him, to say goodbye at the hotel lobby. But here you are. And you both know why.

He collapses onto the sofa, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest, his gaze dragging over you like he’s still trying to figure out where you end and his obsession begins.

“So,” he drawls, dark and slow, “is this where you finally tell me which parts of your stories are based on real experience?” You slip off your heels, feigning indifference even as your pulse pounds in your throat. “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

His jaw tightens, his tongue pressing into his cheek as his eyes flicker, darkening with a heat that steals the air from your lungs. “Because when you tell me things,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “you still sound like you’re holding back.”

You cross the room with careful steps, each one deliberate, your dress whispering around your legs. “Maybe I like making you guess,” you murmur, a spark lighting in your chest.

“You’re playing games.” There’s no frustration in his voice, just an insatiable interest. He’s not used to being unsure, but you think he likes it likes the chase, the unanswered questions.

“So are you,” you counter, stopping in front of him. “You’ve been sending me my own words like they’re weapons.” He grins, all teeth, his hand reaching out to trace a slow line along the hem of your dress. “Maybe I’m trying to see if you’ll break your own rules.”

“You know,” you whisper, dipping your chin as you thread your fingers into his curls, “most men would run if they found out the woman they’re seeing writes stories like mine.”

“Good thing I’m not most men.” The words drop between you like a challenge. The low, smoky heat in his voice stokes something dangerous in you, something that’s been waiting for him to pull.

When you step between his knees, the silk of your dress brushing against the rough denim of his jeans, it’s not a casual decision it’s a deliberate offering, a silent surrender to something you’ve spent your life writing but never really living.

His hands, large and sure, slip around your waist, sliding down to the curve of your hips, anchoring you to him as if you’ve always belonged there. His thumbs press slow, hypnotic circles into your sides, like he’s savouring the weight of you in his grip.

“Tell me what you want, Lewis,” you whisper, your voice a low, taunting lilt, even as your heart slams against your ribs. His gaze drags over your face, his breathing shallow but controlled, dark eyes locking onto yours like he’s already decided. “I want to know what it’s like to be one of your characters.”

You smirk, brushing your thumb along his lower lip, watching the way his breath hitches. “Even the dark ones?” His answer is a gravelly promise. “Especially the dark ones.”

Your stomach flips, heat blooming low in your belly. “Careful,” you murmur, your lips brushing his as you speak, “they don’t always get a happy ending.”

His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left to pretend, you’re in control. His voice, a velvet growl, ghosts over your skin. “Then we’ll write a new one. Just for us.”

And then he kisses you. Not softly. Not sweetly. Devours you.

His mouth is urgent, desperate, like he’s been starved for you, like every restrained glance and whispered scene has been slowly unravelling him until this moment. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you like you’re something decadent, like he’s been imagining this for weeks.

You gasp into him, your hands threading through his curls, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from his chest. His grip is greedy now, sliding down to cup the backs of your thighs, lifting you without warning as though you weigh nothing to him.

“Lewis,” you gasp, the sound breaking somewhere between surprise and want as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. “Say it again,” he demands, his lips trailing down your neck, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the delicate skin, his teeth grazing just enough to make you tremble. “Say my name like that again.”

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders as he walks you toward the bed, his control so absolute it makes your pulse thunder. “Lewis,” you whisper again, softer this time, like his name is the first word you’ve ever written that’s truly yours.

When he drops you onto the mattress, his body follows immediately, his hands already sliding up your calves, pushing your dress higher and higher until you’re exposed beneath him. His palms glide over the bare skin of your thighs, his thumbs pressing softly into the tender flesh.

“You’ve written a lot of scenes,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the inside of your knee, sending a shiver up your spine. “But I’m starting to think you left out the best ones.” You arch a brow, breathless but teasing. “Maybe I was waiting to write them with someone who could handle them.”

His grin is pure sin as he hooks his fingers into the lace at your hips, slowly dragging your underwear down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. “Lucky me.”

His mouth finds your skin again, trailing a path from your knee to your thigh, each kiss deliberate, each brush of his stubble pulling a soft gasp from your lips. When his mouth finally settles between your legs, the first slow, firm stroke of his tongue makes your back arch, your fingers tangling desperately in his curls.

He hums against you, satisfied, relentless, like he’s intent on memorising exactly what it takes to pull you apart. His hands pin your hips down when you try to wriggle away from the intensity of his pace.

“Don’t run,” he murmurs, his breath hot against you. “You don’t write runners.” You let out a strangled laugh, barely coherent. “You’ve…been paying attention.” His tongue flicks expertly, his pace unrelenting. “I’ve been taking notes.”

When you finally fall apart on his tongue, when his name tumbles from your lips like a plea, he doesn't let up not until you’re shaking beneath him, breathless, completely unraveled in a way you’ve only ever imagined in ink.

He kisses his way back up your body, his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his lips as his hands push the straps of your dress from your shoulders, sliding the fabric down until you’re bare beneath him. The way he looks at you then raw, reverent, like you’re both his temptation and his undoing makes your throat tighten.

He leans in, his forehead pressing to yours. “Tell me,” he breathes, his voice thick with want. “Tell me what’s real.” You drag your fingers through his curls, pulling him impossibly closer. “You’re real.”

His smile is soft, but his eyes are still burning. “What else?” You press your lips to his jaw, to the hollow of his throat, whispering the truth you’ve been holding back. “This is the only chapter I didn’t write first.” His breath catches, and for a moment, the world stills. “Then let’s make sure we get the ending right.”

When he sinks into you, slowly, deeply, like he’s trying to brand himself into your bones, the gasp that tears from your throat feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever given him.

His pace is measured at first, his hands tangled with yours, fingers laced above your head, holding you open for him as he moves, his hips meeting yours with a rhythm that feels like poetry and ruin all at once.

“You feel -” you try to speak, but your breath shatters. “Perfect,” he finishes for you, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “You feel perfect.” You nod, unable to hold anything back as he drives into you, his control slipping, his kisses growing messier, more desperate, like he’s trying to chase the parts of you no one else has ever touched.

When you come again, it’s with his name gasped like a prayer against his mouth, your body trembling beneath the weight of him. He follows soon after, groaning your name into your skin like he’s been waiting his whole life to say it this way.

After, when you’re tangled in the sheets, your breathing still uneven, he traces lazy patterns along your back.

“So,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, “which part of tonight was from your books?” You grin, your cheek resting against his chest. “None of it.” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. “None?”

You shake your head, your smile soft but wicked. “I never wrote that far. I was waiting for the right man to finish the story with me.” His thumb strokes your cheek, his voice low and reverent. “Then I hope you’ve got a lot of blank pages left.” You laugh, full and unguarded, as you curl into his chest, already writing the next chapter in your mind.

Days later…

The first clue hits social media like a spark to dry paper. A blurry photo of Lewis leaving a bookstore, one of your Aria Vale paperbacks in his hand. It’s a small detail one you would have laughed off if it had been anyone else. But it’s him, and the fans are sharp-eyed and relentless.

The headlines start trickling in:

• Lewis Hamilton spotted with a dark romance novel, unexpected new reading habit?

• Lewis Hamilton reading Aria Vale? Is the F1 champion secretly into dark romance?

At first, it’s amusing. Funny, even. People think it’s a curiosity, a footnote in his otherwise pristine public image.

But then someone finds more. A now-deleted comment you left under a post from a tiny indie author years ago using your Aria Vale pseudonym. An old interview, buried deep in YouTube’s archives, where you quoted a line that perfectly matches a dedication in one of your Aria books.

It doesn’t take long before the fans piece it together.

The internet catches fire.

• LEWIS HAMILTON SECRETLY DATING DARK ROMANCE AUTHOR ARIA VALE

• THE SWEETHEART AUTHOR WITH A SINISTER PEN NAME! WHO IS SHE REALLY?

• LEWIS HAMILTON’S GIRLFRIEND WRITES EROTIC NOVELS AND HE’S LOVING IT

Your phone won’t stop buzzing. Your publisher calls. Your publicist panics.

Your carefully split life neatly divided between soft romances and sharp-edged fantasies is crumbling. There’s no time to decide how you feel about it before your phone lights up again.

Lewis.

“Hey,” he says, steady, calm, even as chaos swirls around you. “I saw it. It’s everywhere now.” Your throat tightens. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t what you signed up for.”

“Stop,” he says, firm but warm. “I’m not going anywhere. Let them talk.” You shake your head, pressing your fingers to your temples as the headlines burn across your screen. “You don’t get it -”

“No, you don’t get it,” he cuts in, his voice soft but resolute. “I don’t care about the noise. I care about you. I care about the girl who made me fall for her before I even realised it.”

Your chest aches, years of hiding, of dividing yourself into acceptable pieces, suddenly pressing in from all sides. “Lewis…” you whisper, tears pricking at the edges of your vision.

“Let them see all of you,” he says, his voice a tether you didn’t know you’d needed. “The sweet author. The dangerous one. The woman who writes messy, complicated love.”

You swallow hard, the weight of it all settling in your bones. “You’re really okay with this?”

“Okay with it?” He laughs, low and warm. “Babe, I’ve been waiting to brag that my girl writes books that make grown men blush.” A shaky, breathless laugh tumbles from your lips the first genuine sound you’ve made all day.

“Oh, and by the way,” he adds, mischief seeping back into his tone, “your next book? It better have a dedication for me.” You smile, your heart beating lighter for the first time in days.

To the man who didn’t knock before entering, he broke the door down and rewrote the ending.

And maybe this time, it’s not just a story.

Maybe this time, it’s yours.

As the press winded down, your opening book event began.

The signing event is packed, the air buzzing with an energy that makes your skin prickle. The bookstore hums with life excited chatter, the soft shuffle of feet across carpeted floors, the faint scratch of pens as assistants organise stacks of your books. But this time, it’s not like all the other times.

For the first time, you’re here as both of you.

No longer just the soft, sweet author with safe, tender love stories. No longer the carefully curated mask. No longer hiding behind the veil of a pseudonym. You’re standing here fully exposed as Y/N and as Aria Vale.

The placard on the table reads both names in bold, the truth finally stitched together for the world to see. You were terrified when it first leaked.

Terrified when the articles came. When the fans started piecing it together. When the sweet romance readers realised they’d been falling in love with the same characters that dark romance readers were obsessing over the same author, two faces of the same coin.

But instead of turning away, they came. In droves.

Some hold paperbacks from your earlier years the soft ones, the ones with delicate brushes of hands and slow-burn kisses. Others hold the book. The new one. The one you wrote after Lewis walked into your life and blurred the lines you’d drawn so carefully in your stories.

This one is different. Messier. More honest. Raw in ways you used to be too afraid to write.

It’s not the story you thought you’d tell. It’s better.

You move through the crowd, signing book after book, meeting readers who now know all of you. Some giggle nervously, telling you they loved the sweet romances, but it’s clear from the glint in their eyes that they devoured your darker ones too. Others thank you for writing characters who don’t fit neatly into boxes or characters who are soft and sharp, sweet and sinful, all at once.

You hear your name from every direction both of them now like a melody that no longer splits you in half. But still, even in the rush, even in the noise, you feel him.

You glance toward the back of the crowd, and there he is. Lewis. Leaning against a pillar, dressed low-key in jeans and a crisp black tee, sunglasses perched casually on his head, his smile easy, warm. He’s not here to draw attention. He’s here to see you. He’s here to witness you.

He doesn’t push forward. He doesn’t claim space he knows you’ve earned for yourself.

Instead, he stays just far enough away to let you shine. But close enough that when you look for him you find him. When the line slows, when the flurry of photos and sharpie clicks fades into a soft lull, you catch his eye.

He mouths two words:

Read it.

Your pulse skips, quickens. You know exactly what he means.

The dedication. The part you couldn’t bring yourself to read aloud. Not even to him.

You shake your head, chewing your lip as your assistant slides a fresh copy across the table. The weight of it feels different now. He watches you with that soft, knowing patience that has undone you more times than you can count.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you flip open the cover. The page is clean, untouched, but you know what’s there.

For L.

- You didn’t ask to be written into my story. But you walked in anyway.

Somewhere between the pages, I stopped creating you and simply started loving you.

Your throat tightens. It’s so simple, but it carries the weight of every guarded step, every chapter you lived before you let him in. You weren’t brave enough to write that kind of love before Lewis.

You trace the edge of the words, the ones you almost left unwritten, and when you look up he’s already moving.

He doesn’t wait for an invitation, doesn’t care who’s watching now. He strides toward you, the distance between you dissolving like ink in water. His sunglasses dangle from his fingers now, his gaze fully, entirely on you.

When he reaches you, he leans over the table just enough that his knuckles graze yours, his touch deliberate, grounding.

“I told you I’d rewrite the ending,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for you despite the dozens of ears nearby.

His thumb brushes along the side of your hand in a quiet, intimate sweep that makes your heart stumble.

You look up at him, your smile trembling but radiant, and you lean into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah, you did.”

Your fingers curl lightly around his, and for the first time in your life, you don’t feel split in two. You don’t feel like you have to choose which version of yourself is worthy of being loved.

You don’t have to hide anymore. Not behind pen names, not behind stories, not behind carefully constructed lines.

Lewis saw both sides.

And he didn’t walk away. He walked in.

You squeeze his hand once, lingering, and then pull back just enough to press a kiss to his knuckles. The gesture is small, but the weight of it feels seismic. You glance at the queue still waiting, the stack of books still unsigned. You smile at the next reader, your heart lighter than it’s ever been.

And maybe, just maybe, this is your favourite story yet.

Because this time, you didn’t write the ending alone

Soon after the event diminished down the two of you returned where you were staying. The hotel suite is quiet now, the echo of the signing event left behind in a blur of flashing cameras, endless introductions, and the rhythmic scrawl of your signature on hundreds of waiting pages.

You’d made it through exposed, vulnerable, fully seen. No pseudonyms to hide behind. No pen names to shelter you from the weight of your own story.

And Lewis had been there the whole time.

Not at the front. Not chasing the spotlight.

Just there. Solid. Steady. Unwavering. Yours.

You step out of your shoes with a quiet sigh, sinking your toes into the plush carpet, your body aching from hours of standing. The dull ache in your wrist from signing copies feels almost like a badge of honour. A scar you’d wear proudly if it meant you didn’t have to split yourself in half anymore.

Your chest feels oddly light. Not just relieved. Weightless.

You feel him before you see him his presence like gravity pulling you closer. Lewis moves behind you, his arms sliding around your waist, his chest pressing to your back as he rests his chin on your shoulder. His touch is firm, steady, his warmth wrapping around you like a sanctuary.

“You did it,” he breathes against your skin, the softness of his voice grounding you. He kisses the curve of your neck, lingering. “The whole world knows now. And you didn’t flinch once.”

You release a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, the sound threading between a laugh and a sigh. “I was shaking inside the whole time.” His arms tighten slightly around you, his thumbs stroking gentle circles along your waist. “Didn’t show.”

You close your eyes, leaning back into him, feeling his heartbeat slow and strong against your spine. “Thank you for being there.” His reply is low but certain, his breath ghosting over your skin. “Always.”

The silence that settles between you is thick but comfortable. There’s nothing pressing you now, no crowd, no cameras just the hum of the city outside the window and the pulse of unspoken words between you. His lips graze your ear, his voice dipping into that familiar teasing lilt.

“So…For L, huh?”

You huff, your body warming instantly, a grin pulling at your mouth. “Don’t start.”

“You didn’t ask to be written into my story,” he recites, drawing out each word, kissing a slow trail along your jaw, “but you walked in anyway…That’s sweet. Real sweet.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, your blush betraying you. But he doesn’t stop. He never does when he’s teasing you like this. When he knows he’s got you on the edge, right where he likes you.

“You stopped creating me,” he continues, pressing another kiss to the hollow of your throat, “and started loving me. Babe, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

You turn in his arms, smacking his chest half-heartedly, but he catches your wrist effortlessly, pulling you right back into him, a playful spark in his eyes softening into something tender, something dangerous in its sincerity.

His thumb brushes gently over the pulse at your wrist, his voice dropping into something quieter, something that feels like it sinks straight into your bones. “I love that you wrote it,” he says, his gaze flickering to your lips and back to your eyes. “But you know, right? I would’ve walked into your story either way. Even if you tried to lock the door.”

Your throat tightens around the ache blooming in your chest. It’s terrifying, being loved like this being chosen with this kind of certainty.

“I didn’t know if I could ever write this kind of story for myself,” you whisper, your voice barely holding. “I thought I’d just guess what it would feel like. That I’d only ever get to imagine it.” His forehead presses to yours, his breath warm against your mouth. “You don’t have to guess anymore.”

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s deliberate, unhurried, like he’s reading every word you’ve ever written into the shape of your mouth. His hands slip down to your hips, walking you back slowly, step by step, until the edge of the bed presses into the back of your legs.

He eases you down onto the mattress like you’re precious, like you’re breakable but the way his hands grip your thighs says he knows you’re anything but. His mouth leaves yours, trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat, each one pulling a shiver from you.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands deftly working the buttons of your blouse, slow and teasing, each one undone like he’s unwrapping something meant just for him. “About your next book.” Your breath catches as you card your fingers through his curls, your pulse thudding beneath his kisses. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he hums, undoing the next button with a patience that borders on torture. “It should be about a man who falls for a woman who writes dangerous stories.”

Another button slips free.

His lips find the new skin he’s revealed, warm and soft.

“She tries to keep him at arm’s length,” he continues, “but he’s stubborn. He pushes past every defence. Refuses to let her tell herself she’s too much.” Your breath stutters, your fingers tightening in his hair as his mouth moves lower, dragging heat across your ribs.

“And maybe,” he breathes, his voice rough and honey-sweet, “there are very specific scenes she’s imagined but never written. Things she’s only let herself dream about.” Your laugh shivers from you, shaky and breathless, as you tip your head back, giving him more.

“Scenes, huh?” He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes glinting with mischief and something much deeper. “Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “And I think we should write them. Together.”

His hand slides up your thigh, his fingers coaxing your legs apart with slow, deliberate pressure as he dips closer, his mouth grazing yours. “Tell me something you’ve only ever written, baby. Something you’ve only dreamed about.” His lips graze yours. “Let’s make your next fantasy real.”

Your confession slips out in a rush, your voice raw and trembling with the weight of wanting. You tell him the scene you buried in locked drafts the one you never finished, the one you never thought you’d get to live.

His grin is slow, wicked, burning into you. “Perfect,” he breathes, kissing you with a hunger that leaves you gasping. “Now let me show you how the real thing feels.”

The rest unravels like a story written by trembling hands his, yours, tangled and desperate. His mouth traces every line of your body like he’s committing you to memory, his hands leaving bruising fingerprints that feel like promises. He takes his time languid and thorough stripping away every thread of hesitation until all that’s left is you, bare and trembling beneath him.

He reads you like one of your own chapters.

Listens to every breath, every gasp, every soft whimper that escapes your lips.

“More,” you plead, not sure if you’re asking for him or the words you’ve never written. “You have me,” he answers, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress. “You’ve always had me.”

When he finally pushes into you, slow and deep, the stretch burns in the most delicious way, and you swear you’ve never felt anything so devastatingly real. His hands frame your face, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged as he rocks into you, his rhythm steady, purposeful, like he’s rewriting every page you ever doubted.

“You feel it?” he groans, his voice thick, broken. “This is your story now. Ours.” You can’t form words, can only moan, clutching at his back as your bodies move in sync, your skin slick, the air between you thick with the scent of sweat and longing.

He pushes you right to the edge, and when you fall, you do it wrapped in his arms, your body shaking beneath the weight of something you can’t write - you can only live it.

He follows soon after, burying his face in your neck, his breath a hot, desperate rush against your skin as he spills into you, his grip on you unrelenting. When the tremors subside and your heartbeats start to slow, he shifts just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing sweat-damp hair from your temple.

“We’re definitely writing the next one together,” he murmurs, his voice still rough, still edged in breathlessness. You smile, pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder. He grins, slow and soft, his hand cradling your jaw. “And it’s going to include all the ways I’m gonna ruin you.”

You huff a laugh, your body too deliciously sore to pretend you don’t love it. “Promise?” His gaze darkens, possessive and tender all at once. “Baby, I already have.”

And as the night folds in around you, as his arms lock around your waist and your breathing syncs again, you realise this is the first story you’ve ever written where you don’t know the ending. And that’s exactly what makes it your favourite.

It surprises you, how easily your life begins to stitch itself into something whole after that night.The lines that once divided you between who you were in public, who you became in your books, who you thought you had to be begin to blur, and instead of crumbling under the weight of it, you start to feel free.

Lewis never asks you to separate the parts of yourself. He never flinches at the mess. He simply holds all the versions of you in his hands, like he’s always known you were meant to be a little complicated. A little dangerous. A little undone.

The world catches up eventually. The headlines come and go, buzzing with curiosity about you, about him, about this unexpected pairing of a Formula 1 driver and a dark romance author who writes stories that make people blush and ache and crave.

But Lewis never lets the noise touch you. He holds your hand through the chaos, kisses your temple before every public appearance, anchors you with his quiet steadiness when the spotlight burns too bright.

You write your next book with him stretched out on the couch beside you, his head resting on your lap as you type, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your thigh.

Sometimes he reads over your shoulder. Sometimes he quotes your own words back to you at the worst possible moments, grinning like the troublemaker he is. Sometimes he suggests scenes you pretend to scoff at - too indulgent, too daring but you always write them anyway. Because he’s right.

You dedicate the next one to him, of course. The two of you wrote it together.

This time, there’s no hesitation.

To L — For all the stories we haven’t told yet. And the ones we’ll live before we write them.

When he reads it, he kisses you like it’s the first time all over again, his thumb tipping your chin up like you’re something precious, something his.

"You know I’m going to hold you to that, right?" he murmurs against your lips. "All the stories we haven’t told yet."

"Yeah?" you breathe, heart tumbling in your chest. "And which ones are those?"

His grin is slow, wicked, a promise.

"Guess we’ll just have to find out."

And maybe that’s what you love most now - that the ending isn’t written.

That with him, the best parts of the story are still unwritten, still unfolding, still yours. And for the first time in your life, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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