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Iterations of You and Cench (Central Cee x Reader)

Summary: You go for a day of shopping in Camden's vibrant markets and record stores, you serendipitously meet Cench. The way the day uncoils means you yearn for more iterations of you and him.

Word Count: 1 600

Notes: This was requested by an anonymous user

You were walking down a bustling street in Camden and couldn't help but allow your eyes to wander over the jewellery. The markets a medley of bright colours caught your eye, the silver bracelets with its embossed designs transfixed you. Tentatively you raised a finger and traced it gently over the floral designs, stopping at the base of the petals and admiring the complexity of the design. You thought you should pivot and and compliment the store owner's craftsmanship.

A canopy of sheets in an intricate pashmina design draped over the jewellery stand and draped over her display cascading with motility in the Spring breeze, your skirt was swept in the gusts of wind.

The jewellery was embossed to imitate  the flowers the lady has garnered inspiration from. Across the tables that were adjacent to each other there were other bracelets, pendulating in size as you moved your eyes across the display. In your periphery was jewellery strewn over necklace racks, the necklaces have pendants in deep reds, and ultramarine blue. Your eyes are bewitched by the emerald pendants that whisper to your consumerist tendencies. It’s a disposition you evade as you glance at the ring with a wide band, and detailed etches along its face. 

“How much is it?” You ask smiling at the lady who is organising her stand for the commotion of the mid-afternoon rush.

“£20” pounds, she says.

You watch her calculatedly, trying to appraise the jewellery for yourself, it seemed as if it fade if it would fade if touched by a perspiring hand. The lady busied herself while you decided to compare the signet ring and the pendant necklace, you were intrigued by the alluring nature of the necklace. It was transparently obvious that the necklace had ubiquitous purpose and had so much utility, but, the ring was going to accordion with your outfits and was imbued with your personality.  

“Thank you, I’ll take the ring please?”

“I knew you would,” they both erupted into laughter. The laughter reverberated and filled the expanse of the market, it was a medley of sounds. You were intrigued by all the market's stalls, but you magnestised towards the record store with its assortment of records and the decades of music you enveloped yourself with when you placed on your headphones in between stalls.

Slowly you approached the mirror fixing your skirt, it was ruched from the waist line and layered in between the gentle pleats of the skirt. If it was given a technical description it would be a handkerchief skirt, you had stitched it yourself and had allowed your hands to grapple with the sewing machine for hours. Your hands were strong yet subtle from hours of earnest work, your gaze adhering to the straight and zigzag stitch of the sewing machine. The curvature of the hem and the way that it extended towards the ground at the edges of the hemline was novel, you had not seen many of those before. You looked around before crossing the street, the eye catching outfits were innumerable. It was not an impervious skirt and anxious that it may be trailed along the puddled road as you crossed you bunched the material to quickly scurry across the road. The record store was geometrical, there were bricked cubes protruding from the building, the disparity between the other shops was starkly noticeable. You saunter into the store and glimpse records that are complementary to your headphones, there she goes again plays in your headphones and you start to look for the Andy Warhol record by The Velvet Underground. You reach for the record and glance the ivory cover and iconic banana and reach for the vinyl. Transcending the store you continue your search wonder struck by the organised clutter of the store, there is little room to meander. Each crevice and shelf is filled with a record or a CD, in the centre lies a carved statue player gifted by a revered local artist, you go to pick a CD, playing a game you have a deep affection for: Opening your eyes you regard a Fugazi CD for a second and are astonished at your prosperous luck. 

Elated with the CDs and vinyl you had procured you walk languorously towards the counter. An old man stood behind a pile of new CDs he was formulating their barcodes and methodically serialising each record as he removed them from the trail of boxes. His shirt was buttoned with stripes that alternated between burnt orange and sea green, a curious combo, but fashionable nevertheless. That’s what you admired about the shopping you did in you area, no one was scared to be avante-garde or seeming ‘out of style’ there was novelty to be beheld each time the eye wandered. 

Side-glancing the entrance to ensure that you were able to seamlessly exit without toppling any items in the cluttered store you noticed a man dressed differently. Not differently in the way you usually appreciated, or different in an accessory or an excessive layer that would be complementary. He was wearing a puffer jacket with a popularised insignia on the back between where each shoulder would be. His puffer enveloped him revealing a tracksuit she recognised from her insta feed as ‘Chrome Hearts,’ it was a interesting assemblage of clothes considering the spring heat. In spite of this you appreciated the rhinestones and bedazzlement of his outfit, it was a welcomed juxtaposition. 

“Hi,”

He opened his mouth and you realised that the dazzling silver details matched his grills. They encased the edges of his canine tooth on the upper row, the face left virtually bare. Amused you thought out loud:

“Even your grills supplement your outfit,” stopping yourself you batted your eyelids in awestruck shock of the words that had escaped your lips.

“Wow, miss, your direct, huh” he lets his signatory laugh fill the small space that you occupy together.

The man at the counter clears his throat declaring the brevity that constituted waiting in a line. You watch, intrigued as the guy in front of you whose name eludes you pays with his Amex, you mentally compartmentalise this but also mentally discard the observation: It was London, wealth was not rare, there was semblances of it on nearly every street, besides it was only this morning that you had seen a woman with a stack of designer bracelets on her wrist, it was not a new feat to you.

Outside you sit on a desolate park bench and gather all your belongs, you unwrap the muffin you bought earlier in the day. It's decadent flavours overwhelm you and you savour each bite.

You feel a figure behind you it is like static, curiously you turn your head, reluctant to remove your teeth from the delicious chocolate muffin you acquiesced to turning wholly around. Its the man from the record store, slowly your cheeks begin to warm, suddenly your flustered by his presence.

"I saw you buy that Fugazi CD, it seems that we have similar music taste,"

"Yeah, 13 songs?"

You enter an earnest discussion about the album and your pleasantly surprised about his know-how of the bands larger discography. Soon you are imitating the smile on his lips and you two talk boundlessly unaware of the time that has elapsed.

"Maybe we should have a shared playlist," you suggest with no inhibition.

Your dialogue begins to illuminate your mutual love of photography, food, and vintage fashion stores.

You notice a girl in the periphery stride towards him and your befuddled by them.

"Oh my God, Cench," they exclaim with little care for the eyes which look at them exasperated and confused.

The name that the girl said enlightens you of just who you have been speaking with for the vast early evening. It was Central Cee you think to yourself, you had heard his name be announced several times on the radio and had saved several songs of his to your playlist. You would never has guessed that his taste would ever include Fugazi and other bands and artist you cherished. It was a reminder that people's own personal artistry did not always serve as a testament to their taste.

You watch as who you now know as Cench smiles enigmatically and laughs at the girls jokes.

"...you know, you can find more posters at this place, I've been before and can attest to their quality, they even have ones of my music there,"

She takes the pamphlet and walks away, looking momentarily over her shoulder to grace him with an appreciative smile. It's a jarring feeling you have in the pit of your stomach, but swiftly you admonish yourself, you cannot be jealous over a guy you have known for less than one rise and set of the sun.

The trance your in is ruptured when Cench takes your hand and you are running through sprinklers. You are overjoyed to have your rumination be disrupted by the impromptu prancing through the sprinklers.

You notice that he has a marker pen protruding from his pocket and you quickly scrawl your number on his forearm, you want to have an iteration of such a day soon. You face him and you understand his smile, slowly you turn to him and and you notice that he has a smile that eclipses you with shyness.

...

The waiter places plates of food upon the table, the plates are steaming and you salivate looking at the ambrosial spread before you.

"Do you rate the munch?"

You laugh mirthfully and glimpse uninterrupted by blinks. You want many more iterations of this.

[hearta54]

Jealousy and It's Insidious Nature (sometimes innocuous) Affect on Us

Summary: Cult leaders, religious figures, and evil eyes all have a synonymous affect on us they demand we lose our sense of self appreciation so we can find beauty in another, in the most beautiful but sometimes in harmful ways.

Word Count: 1143 words

Disclosure: I've also posted this on my Substack: @wheartsakot

I oscillate in my reading of Holy texts, am I holy? Perhaps on a good day; when I am feeling guided in my personal matters. How Hubris right, am I every man, Winston is probably looking at me slopistically from Room 101 right now: I am being extended on right now, have you ever felt that cult leaders want to destroy our sense of selves so we can be disarmed and we emulate them, maybe they are the selfish ones? and they are attempting to erase us, eviscerate us of our personalities until we reflect who they are from the inside and contemplate ourselves as them in our actions, in our words, until they gradually take us away, the shadow which once was where we stood, a mere shadow of us and the very epitome of who we were destined to be robbed, in daylight in the night time?

Thanks for reading Akot! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Maybe its the suspense that adds to the fear. I think I can say I am religious person because I don’t like to vacillate between different belief systems, but in this straying I’ve never been a polytheist. Now that I know that word: vacillate, to be indecisive and to have wavering opinions, I know that are own conceptualisations can be unrecognisable from what we want to follow.

Something, or someone, a presence that is pure is minute and is undermined against a to a world which entices us to have something impure to relish in. The party is not fun unless it filled with alcohol, I’ve always wondered what the point of alcohol was, if not for the contortion of your mental state. Contortion is kind of a mental state, this contortion is mirrored in the contrived happiness and courage what is the thinking behind it, if it is not to think, then I understand.

“Corgito ergo sum,” I think so therefore I am. Can I be if I am devoid of what makes me distinctly me, the way I think, our thinking is what renders me, me. The lover of vice in me would determine that it crumbles the inhibition and makes me entirely me.A book excerpt of this seemed so necessary especially to see the words materialise, if only you could touch them through the screen (photo from yungwildfree21 (Karmac) on Pinterest, see Bibliography below)

But after there is no recourse in the morning, you cannot retrace a path you don’t recall. Happiness is not something you can’t recall when you are in a dizzied state, dizziness is found in a happy state. Don’t be stuck on, a merry go round full of fabricated, artificial lights when light emanates from within. Drink all that you wish but its a temporary happiness, it is not a wish to be drunk but rather a wish to access seemingly irreplaceably happy which retains us in a vicious cyclical loop.

You might be pensively looking at the title and considering if there is a relation to be found in this peace. I should define jealousy through my own understanding. Jealousy is the feeling of being threatened by something someone else has: Relative to this word is envy it is indescribably an emotion and unworthy of words because it grips us so viscerally; to say it simply, envy is yearning for something which is not ours. Jealousy affects us by creating a contempt towards our own lives and it drowns us under waves which deny us air to be effusive. Is it not a miracle we breath, the chance that we live life is so minimalistic. Do not envy what they have, their vices, their love lives, their fastidious connection to their faith. It is irreverent. If you were granted their face it would not coalesce with the beauty in which you were made, it would contrast and make you an anomaly: not in an intergalactic way but in a haphazard way - as if the sculptor dropped their vase and used clay from another craftsman (crafter) hand to repair you, would the irregularities not scare you. But when I behold your face I am transfixed by your beauty the abnormalities you have distaste for are what render you ethereal: in rings alike to that of Saturn, the iridescence of fairy wings way.

The evil eye is a religious and cultural concept I approach carefully I do not want to attract reproach. We (the culture (everyone alive who makes art or sees it)) wear the evil eye to to repel a malevolent gaze. The origin of the evil eye is still being deliberated, but a quick Google search will tell you it originated from Ancient Greek and Turkey. Needless to say no one wears the evil eye if they feel they are unworthy of protection from a nefarious gaze. I guard myself in that way too sometime too…

*if you’ve made it this far please no that I am approaching the evil eye from the point of superstition*

…I don’t believe it is divine, how do you believe in the evil eye? I wear it as a symbolic reminder: Do not envy. If you wear it you know you have characteristics worthy of retainment. Jealousy hear effaces what you have, in envying something you had to sacrifice the admiration you have for yourself to want to sequester someone else’s beauty. Divinity is not here on Earth to declare someone’s beauty comparative to someone else’s. Looking in the mirror is like seeking your own beauty, what if you only saw you? photo from vintageeveryday on Pinterest)

We’re unwillingly immersed in a culture of blasphemy so many vices are omniscient in out daily lives, such is the constituent of a modern life and consumerism. Consumerism, i love the prosody of the word, it’s beautiful, the cutting entrance is hostile though, I love to consume but I barely stomach the guilt of what it enables to be robust: I am almost grateful for the absence of translucency when it comes to what genocide I may have mistakenly funded. Solipsistic of me? Certainly! Will I do better? I shall pray for the whole world!

Jealousy is the ramification of finding beauty in other entity beside yourself, fundamentally it is not necessarily a bad thing. Do not get so lost in the quest to see another’s beauty that you forget your own and are embittered when you see your own reflection.

As always free Palestine, free Sudan, free Congo, and free all the countries at war and immersed in liberation struggles censorship shields our eyes from.

With Hearts,

Akot

Calm luh (no one says that anymore but I felt like it) Bibliography for the lil Evil Eye research I did:

Cambridge Dictionary (2025). the evil eye. [online] @CambridgeWords. Available at: https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/evil-eye#google_vignette [Accessed 19 Apr. 2025].

Saleem, F. (2023). Evil Eye Origin & Beliefs Across Different Cultures. [online] Evil Eye Guard. Available at: https://evileyeguard.com/blogs/magazine/evil-eye-origin-beliefs-across-different-cultures.Start a Substack

[hearta54]

Studio With Dom (reader x Dominic Fike spicy fluff)

Summary: You and Dom are both musicians, you guys hit the studio to record a track together and Dom can't keep his hands off you...

Word Count: 629

Notes: This was hella fun send request and pls repost.

You woke to Dom nuzzling his cheek into the crook of your neck you loved the way his dark brown curls caressed your skin like that's what they were crafted for and his morning stubble -which he always shaved, you sometimes wondered what he'd look like with a beard - grazed you.

"Good morning beautiful," Dom whispered staring into your eyes his incessant need was perfectly visible in those big brown eyes.

Any tiredness you were clinging onto was forgotten as Dom kissed you softly at first, growing hungrier as his hands roamed over your waist slowly creeping under your blush pink shirt, he whispered sweetly dirty things into your ear, kissing your neck and sucking on that spot that made you clench. Truth be told you could stay here all day with him forever letting your limbs get tangled until you weren't sure which belonged to you and which to Dom.

"Dom..." You gasped his name.

"Y/N?"

"We should get up," you had a day to seize together and a world beyond the four posts of the bed you both shared.

You went to climb out of bed when Dom stopped you.

"Baby where do you think your going?" He said smiling sweetly wearing a questioning look on his face.

You were left wondering what he had planned as he walked out the room gloriously shirtless, Calvin Klein boxers slung low on his hips.

There was a twenty minute Domless interlude before he trailed back with two steaming egg benedicts he chuckled at your glee. He knew how much you loved egg benedict, egg anything really (Y/N is so real for this)

Dom watched you eat slowly, he had finished his breakfast minutes ago.

"Y/N, finish up pretty, we have to hit the studio."

Your stomach twirled not just because Dom was watching you intently giving you raging butterflies but also because today was your first time recording music with Dom, you wanted it to be perfect.

...

In Dom's Porsche he caressed your upper thigh mindlessly as he kept his eyes on the road heading to his favourite studio in downtown L.A. His touch made the nerves you had felt wither and you could finally breathe evenly again.

...

You admired Dom as he laid down the hook of your song the way he confidently mixed the vocals and recorded the guitar riffs making an effortless melody. It had taken you much longer to record the piano piece even though you'd been practicing it for days. Your eyes were also glued to him because you loved the way he looked in baggy black jeans and fitted white tee with a red Clayborne symbol on the back.

You turned back to your notes app formulating the lyrics of your verse.

"Baby, what you got there?" Dom walked behind the chair you had cocooned yourself in enveloping his arms around you and placing his head on yours.

Your notes read:

If I don't belong to you

Something's gone wrong

I'll always find you

No matter what planet I'm on...

"Y/n, this is great, lets record this right now," Dom was shouting dragging you to the booth.

You sang everything so smoothly with a slight falsetto at the end. When you were done Dom was jumping up and down elated.

Now in front of Dom you said, "How was that?"

Dom grasped your face pulling you towards him and in a dizzying maneuver pinned you against the wall. His tongue laced with yours and held your waist so firmly it bruised.

Suddenly you were on the couch and Dom's hands were lowering into your flare pants and kissed down your stomach...

"Amazing, it was amazing," he whispered in a raspy tone and he stuffed your panties in his pocket

...

THE END

[hearta54]

Studio With Dom (reader x Dominic Fike spicy fluff)

Summary: You and Dom are both musicians, you guys hit the studio to record a track together and Dom can't keep his hands off you...

Word Count: 629

Notes: This was hella fun send request and pls repost.

You woke to Dom nuzzling his cheek into the crook of your neck you loved the way his dark brown curls caressed your skin like that's what they were crafted for and his morning stubble -which he always shaved, you sometimes wondered what he'd look like with a beard - grazed you.

"Good morning beautiful," Dom whispered staring into your eyes his incessant need was perfectly visible in those big brown eyes.

Any tiredness you were clinging onto was forgotten as Dom kissed you softly at first, growing hungrier as his hands roamed over your waist slowly creeping under your blush pink shirt, he whispered sweetly dirty things into your ear, kissing your neck and sucking on that spot that made you clench. Truth be told you could stay here all day with him forever letting your limbs get tangled until you weren't sure which belonged to you and which to Dom.

"Dom..." You gasped his name.

"Y/N?"

"We should get up," you had a day to seize together and a world beyond the four posts of the bed you both shared.

You went to climb out of bed when Dom stopped you.

"Baby where do you think your going?" He said smiling sweetly wearing a questioning look on his face.

You were left wondering what he had planned as he walked out the room gloriously shirtless, Calvin Klein boxers slung low on his hips.

There was a twenty minute Domless interlude before he trailed back with two steaming egg benedicts he chuckled at your glee. He knew how much you loved egg benedict, egg anything really (Y/N is so real for this)

Dom watched you eat slowly, he had finished his breakfast minutes ago.

"Y/N, finish up pretty, we have to hit the studio."

Your stomach twirled not just because Dom was watching you intently giving you raging butterflies but also because today was your first time recording music with Dom, you wanted it to be perfect.

...

In Dom's Porsche he caressed your upper thigh mindlessly as he kept his eyes on the road heading to his favourite studio in downtown L.A. His touch made the nerves you had felt wither and you could finally breathe evenly again.

...

You admired Dom as he laid down the hook of your song the way he confidently mixed the vocals and recorded the guitar riffs making an effortless melody. It had taken you much longer to record the piano piece even though you'd been practicing it for days. Your eyes were also glued to him because you loved the way he looked in baggy black jeans and fitted white tee with a red Clayborne symbol on the back.

You turned back to your notes app formulating the lyrics of your verse.

"Baby, what you got there?" Dom walked behind the chair you had cocooned yourself in enveloping his arms around you and placing his head on yours.

Your notes read:

If I don't belong to you

Something's gone wrong

I'll always find you

No matter what planet I'm on...

"Y/n, this is great, lets record this right now," Dom was shouting dragging you to the booth.

You sang everything so smoothly with a slight falsetto at the end. When you were done Dom was jumping up and down elated.

Now in front of Dom you said, "How was that?"

Dom grasped your face pulling you towards him and in a dizzying maneuver pinned you against the wall. His tongue laced with yours and held your waist so firmly it bruised.

Suddenly you were on the couch and Dom's hands were lowering into your flare pants and kissed down your stomach...

"Amazing, it was amazing," he whispered in a raspy tone and he stuffed your panties in his pocket

...

THE END

[hearta54]

my advice to anyone who’s thinking about writing as a hobby would be that if you’ve already started thinking about it there’s nothing i can say that will save you so let it rip dude

[hearta54]

Falling Asleep with Dom (reader x Dominic Fike Fluff)

Requested by Anon.

Summary: After a long day at the studio you and you're husband Dominic Fike go to bed and when you can't sleep he reads to you. He never falls asleep before you. It's going to be a long night...

Word Count:

Notes: Send more Dom requests pretty pls and thank u, someone told me there's a drought and I 100% agree.

...

You and Dom giggled as you stepped back into your new house, Dom had surprised you with it last week, it was still a bit bare but it had character and warmth. And in the morning when you read your book and sipped ginger tea (it's good for vocals) you indulged in the view of the hills. Dom couldn't have picked a better spot in LA, he has good taste, I'm so glad I married him.

"Baby, I'm tired," whined Dom.

The long day at the studio had left you both fatigued. You admired the way his dark curls cascaded over his face framing his features and when his face stretched to yawn, you couldn't help but yawn too.

You yelped, abruptly Dom had picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder, laughing eruptively he walked stridently up the staircase and you gripped the dark oak bannister careful not to slip.

....

"Wow, y/n, you look so beautiful," you'd transfixed Dom.

"I know Damn, I always look cute." Dom laughs not breaking his gaze.

You were wearing a cotton, pink, boy short and tank top PJ set with perforated hearts. As you climbed into bed and lifted the blanket you saw Dom was shirtless - it still made you nervous - and he was wearing grey Calvin Klein boxers (Calvin Klein boxers on top fr) they made you think of his campaign from a few years ago, you felt your cheeks heat up.

You traced the squarish red cross on Dom's chest, his skin was supple and warm.

"Want me to go do your skincare?" You asked, still tracing his tattoos, you were focused on the one on his stomach now.

"No, I'm too tired," not liking his response you huffed.

"Maybe tomorrow," he hummed, he took your hand gently and placed it on your own pillow, the tattoo tracing made him not want to sleep.

You burrowed your head in the space between his shoulder and neck and he meets you with strong arms around your waist. These were your favourite times.

"Y/n, why aren't you sleeping, I'm going to read to you." Dom reaches to your bedside table and starts reading the book your on. He can't ever fall asleep until you have.

"Oh, and no fake sleeping this time," warns Dom teasingly.

Two chapters go by and you decided to feign a slow, consistent heart beat so Dom can sleep, he has a show at The Greek tomorrow and you want him to do his best. When you feel Dom's breath start to slow you smile to yourself. His eyelashes fan over his under eyes and you think about the apple tattoo below his right eye (live, love, laugh Apollonia).

You don't realise his eyes bat open until it's too late.

"You're such a liar, y/n" groans Dom, tired.

You go to kiss his plump lips (why his bottom lip so juicy tho), but he turns you over and he's on top now.

You shiver as his hand runs slowly up your leg lingering at your waist band.

"You never learn, y/n, do you?"

...

THE END

SEND DOM REQUESTS PRETTY PLS AND THANKU

[hearta54]

Cherry Red Guitar

(Dominic Fike x Reader)

Summary: You're looking for a cherry red electric guitar but walk out the shop with much more than you expected. Singing lead for Lameboyz means getting to know the guitarist...

Word Count: 1 295

Notes: I loved writing this, and want to write more Dom stuff. DON'T BE SHY SEND REQUESTS. ENJOY!

It was one of those Spring days when there was warm, sprightly sunlight - but not too warm so you felt suffocated in your crocheted green sweater - there was also a subtle breeze which bit the air. You loved the way your dark-washed, flared jeans bunched around your beaten converses (Converses look a little better when they've been through it) as you perused the street for the guitar shop. Your eyes scanned across a shop's peeling sign; there was a middle-aged man outside smoking a billowing cigarette and leaning against the creviced brick wall. This would be good.

A bell rang when you crossed the threshold, your eyes flickered to the teeming shelves; you focused on finding a cherry red electric guitar, like the one on your Pinterest board. Feeling a presence behind you, you turned around, slightly vexed at being disturbed. All frustration dissipated when you saw soft brown eyes, grown out brunette curls dyed blonde, and a nose which curved like the crescent moon; his name tag said Dom.

"What you looking for?"

He smiled checking you innocently making your stomach giddy with butterflies. The consistency of his was voice was smooth with a raspy undercurrent; the faded wooden floors underfoot felt like they shifted. Ugh this boy.

"I'm looking for a cherry red electric," you said this coolly trying to not give yourself away.

"Specific huh," he chuckled biting his lip. The flirtatious tension was smothering in the best way possible.

"You sing? Cos my band Lameboyz is looking for a lead."

"Yeah, I do actually."

"Sweet, text me and I'll send you the details so you can come jam," suddenly he took your arm and slid your sweater up revealing your forearm (each inch burned, electrified) Dom wrote his number on your forearm, the lid was trapped between his iridescent teeth. You gazed at him just as he met your eyes. The bell jingled breaking the static.

Dom turned to walk away looking behind his shoulder he said,

"Cya ..."

"Y/n."

"Cya, Y/N."

...

You walk up to a garage and can hear a guitar riffing; whoever the guitarist is, is really talented. Slung comfortably against your back is the cherry red electric Fender Dom found for you yesterday.

Uncertainly you call into the garage; one of the band members opens the door, a boy with long dirty-blonde hair. Dom is perched crouched behind the amp holding a black electric guitar.

"Wow, that was you playing?"

"Why so surprised, girl?"

His response steals your quick wit, avoidantly ducking your head you take out the lyrics Dom texted you.

"Are we all good to start."

The band jams congruently, it feels invigorating to hear the music come to life: The melodies come easily and your shocked by the smoothness and tone of Dom's voice. He's so rock star.

"That was a solid session guys, I'm feeling good about the show next week, this is y/n our new lead singer."

The show. Lameboyz was performing at a small festival next weekend.

You get to know the band members while exchanging gushing compliments about everyone's performances. In your peripheral you spot Dom watching you intently drinking from a cup; rolling your eyes nervously you turn back to your conversation.

When the band members slowly begin to trickle home the sky is dark and starlit... eventually it's just you and Dom left.

Intrigued by a crate of records you thumb through them: The Beatles, Radiohead, Frank Ocean, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Drake's Take Care.

A warm breath hovers over your ear, "you sounded good, y/n."

"Thank y-," a sudden pull of your waist turns you so your facing Dom with your back against the records.

"No need to thank me, I was just saying," he whispers.

Dom is distracted by the dark sky

"You should let me drive you home, it's dark out."

His car is slightly worn and old, but charming nevertheless, the convertible roof is cool.

The ride passes with a quiet Frank Ocean CD playing and mellow conversation speckled with intervals of subtle flirting. ...

As your about to place your phone on your bedside table it buzzes

"Good night, gorgeous."

"Good night, jit," you text back.

That night sleep doesn't come easily; Dom is in every corner of your mind.

The day of Lameboyz set creeps closer and each day you and Dom text more. He hasn't said anything or asked you out; each time hope threatens to rise you push it back down insistently. If I don't hope I can't get hurt... right?

...

The morning of the set reading a text from Dom forces a spectacular smile to stretch across your face.

"Can't wait to see you soon."

Slinging your guitar case over your shoulder you check yourself in the mirror one more time; smoothing your army green cargo skirt and fixing your vintage flared white tank. Realising how hard your smiling you force yourself to stop, I don't want to crease my concealer.

...

Leaning on the bonnet of his car and practicing his guitar licks you see him from afar. A warm heaviness in your stomach scares you,

Seeing you approach, Dom stands up, "hey y/n."

"Hey Dom," your name on his lips only deepens the feelings.

As Dom goes to say something the rest of the band pulls up; with a sigh you both join them. You pretend to ignore the surreptitious, knowing glances between the keyboardist and drummer.

...

You've missed performing and the roaring crowd reminds you why you love to sing. When Dom harmonises with you, you transcend and you are the music.

...

Gathered in Dom's hotel room the band is drinking; you're clinging on to your sobriety but the others are quickly becoming inebriated. They're hilarious, you don't really know someone until you've seen them drunk. Dom hasn't touched a drink, tonight he's seeking clarity... like he's going to make a revelation. When the laughter becomes hushed by lolling heads Dom and you help everyone to their rooms. On the way back Dom and you are hysterical from the drunken antics. You relish the candor of Dom's shining eyes and the easiness of his laughter.

Sitting on the floor of his hotel room you reminisce the performance and the melody of your voices together. Suddenly you have the nerve...

"Do you think you could teach me that guitar lick?"

Dom's face animates, excited to show you.

Cocooning behind you he guides you your fingers along the fret board when they get tangled. Keeping a steady, inconspicuous heart rate is trying.

"Your good at this," he breathes into your ear, the tension breaks your composure.

Dom places the guitar on the side and looks at you with darkened eyes; you hold your breath.

"I meant to say earlier, but I'm so glad we met and I was wondering if I could take you out for this picnic in the hills... there's a field of flowers and..." Dom trails off when he realises your staring at his lips.

Craning his head to reach yours, your lips connect; pushing your bodies closer there's no more space for anything else but right now. Running his hand through your braids Dom's other hand grasps your waist roughly, you've both been wanting for this a long time.

When you both run out of air and detach reluctantly; Dom bites his lips looking at the floor.

"I've been waiting for this."

"Me too."

...

Dom walks you to your hotel room and stays until you fall into a slumber.

You dream of wanting a cherry red guitar and leaving the store with it and a perfect boy's number scrawled on your forearm. It's a dream, but that's exactly how it happened. Thank God for cherry red guitars.

...

THE END

[hearta54]

❤ Dominic Fike and I Are Para-social ❤ (Poem)

Notes: Enjoy my love sick musings over Dominic Fike. THIS MAN IS EVERYTHING!!! This is my first poem on here.

Word Count: 162

Warning: You may fall seriously in love with this man.

PSA: PLS SEND REQUESTS

Para-social they say; one-sided, expending unrequited emotion and time 

shaking my head in dismay I feel the connection, deeper meaning shines shyly like the sun peaks through the blinds 

Dominic Fike, quite possibly the first love of my life 

a beautiful disjointed tapestry on his skin 

the same skin that I wish was electrifying mine

when I think of everything and anything it ceases at him 

the drawling voice, and the catching sound of his laugh 

beauty so potent I cried, I knew what it meant for someone to be ‘so beautiful it’s painful’ alas

in times like this, my heart is fragile so I cradle it like glass 

his fingers as they strum his guitar, the piano he plays at his concerts so afar 

from his apple tattoo and his dark curls I love my babydoll 

para-social, so I don’t let disappointed scar my heart until it turns cold...

Dominic Fike and I are para-social, so I can still hope?

[hearta54]

❀Masterlist❀

Hi guys, I'm working on posting more... For now enjoy the few I've written :) PSA: SEND REQUESTS PLS

✦ Central Cee ✦

X-Reader One Shots

Love For Piano and Love For Cench

He's A Distraction

✦ Dominic Fike ✦

Poems

Dominic Fike and I Are Para-social

X-reader One Shots

Cherry Red Guitar

Falling asleep with Dom (fluff)

Studio with Dom (spicy fluff)

✦ Personal Essays ✦

Jealousy and It's Insidous Nature (sometimes innocuous) Affect on Us

[hearta54]

He's A Distraction (Central Cee x Reader)

Summary: You're a dedicated student and going to Cambridge and become a doctor is your stars and heavens. To make that happen you have to move schools, a boy was never meant to be part of the picture. But Cench looks so good in it...

Word Count: 2 472

Notes: Sorry this is a bit long, I would love if you guys would send requests.

You scroll fixatedly on your laptop, scanning the screen in intense concentration and stopping each time something caught your attention. Reading the Cambridge Medicine webpage was an addiction; in the past you had tried to dissuade yourself from accepting this, but how could you not when it always stared blankly back at you? Addictive but productive, each time you re-read the sentences you had engraved into your memory you grew closer to your dream. And when you closed your eyes at night, you saw yourself in lavender scrubs and a pearly white lab coat; living your dream of being a Cambridge Alumni doctor.

Three A*s needed for entry motivated you to be an excellent student. You didn't mean to behave exaltedly but your current school was inadequate in innumerable ways. Today in biology, there hadn't been enough dissection kits, so the class had taken notes robotically and brushed over the practical. Defeated, you remembered how you had trudged home dubious; how could a school implore success in its students and not have the right resources? A memory of sitting in an examination room at Queen Victoria's Sixth Form Academy unnerved you, yes, you had sat the scholarship examination. It had been strenuous and the competition in the room had been palpable, even so, you didn't feel as if you could compete successfully. Falling asleep, you were plagued by these worrisome thoughts even in your dreams.

Obnoxiously the sound of your alarm erupted immersing the room and awakening you. Each morning when you woke up, a void would open gaping at you, existing ostentatiously: It was a persisting sense of loneliness at first; an innocuous reminder to cherish time with your parents. But this was difficult when they both left for work as the sun just began to emerge teasingly over the horizon. Your mother worked as a university professor, such a nominal salary for an intelligent woman, and your dad worked as a nurse; anyone could tell you nurses were underappreciated, numbers didn't have to. A smart knock was being emitted from the hallway, who was at the door?

A postman adorned in fluorescents held a letter for you to take, when you hesitated a second too delayed, he dropped it, walking swiftly to his flagged motorbike and zooming down the road. A Queen Victoria's Academy insignia? You felt so inauspicious as you leaned on the door prying the seal delicately open. Covering your face with your hand you peaked at the verdict through the intricate gaps between your fingers. "We would like to congratulate your success on the recent Academic Scholarship examination and invite you to accept a scholarship place with us." No words can grasp your joy it's transcending.

Yawning tiredly, you stretched placing your feet into your fluffy slippers, the night had gone and went without a wink of reprieve - you were consumed with nerves for the day ahead: Your first day at Queen Victoria's Sixth Form Academy. Opening the door, you walked across the creaking timber to make breakfast alone as you did every morning. You were befuddled to see your mother occupied in the kitchen handling an assortment of kitchenware ,readying a breakfast spread; usually you would just eat cereal; before you were pancakes, fresh fruit niftily cut, orange juice and array of salivating dishes.

"Mum why are you not at work?"

"I wanted to drive you for your first day, I can't begin to express how proud dad and I are," she said beaming excitedly.

You sat at the kitchen visualizing your mother's small, slightly dated and mediocre car driving alongside the avant-garde and luxurious cars of your new peers. Your stomach knotted half ominously and half guiltily. She seemed so happy to drive you and had sacrificed work to drive you, your inner monologue whispered insisting to take the bus would leave your mother forlorn.

"I'm glad you're taking me; I didn't really want to take the bus on my first day anyways."

Lies.

The academy's tree-lined boulevard was now in sight, driving alongside it now; planting your face against the misty window, eager to catch a glimpse. Your mother's car was now aligned with the curb which signaled a convenient space to leave; grudgingly you opened the door slowly as if peeking into a foreign world - in a way you were. You breathed in a long breath of courage as you slung your bag across your shoulders.

"Bye mum, thanks for the ride," you said, genuinely grateful.

"My pleasure darling, I love you, see you after school." Your mother grinned, pride cascading her face and carved smile lines. Guilt ebbed slowly as you watched your mother drive away. As her car dissipated to a speck in the distance a humble maroon car pulled to the curb, your mother had dropped you off with a car of a similar stature. You felt an unspoken sense of camaraderie. I'm glad I have someone to share the embarrassment with.

A boy emerged who appeared to be in the upper-sixth form - your year. He didn't seem ashamed of his car or even the slightest bit alienated; instead, he was confident, you could read if from his aura: it preceded him. Staring now, you saw his dark hair which was styled into jaw length box braids. His cutting cheek bones were iridescent, catching the sunlight, and you marveled at the softness of his plum bottom lip...

"I love you mum, thanks for the ride," he spoke to his mother with a genuine smile.

"I couldn't say no after you begged for a ride, could I? Have a good first day, Oakley."

What! He had asked for a ride. The guilt came gushing back, you weren't like him, yes you could relate about your car which was vain and face level. But he appreciated his mother wholly and wasn't attempting a façade to fit in with the elitism around. You felt a searing pang of shame. Frozen in thought you only broke out of this state when you felt dark coffee eyes meeting your gaze. The dwindling blare of the lesson bell dismissed you from the intense, awkward situation. Walking towards the office to meet the enrollment officer you chastised yourself sternly: This was the year of academic success entailing A*s, boys could tear down everything you had worked so hard for in a painful heartbeat.

The enrollment officer had distributed timetables to the small group of scholarship students; some of them gave a condescending air: Almost as if the fact testing had terminated slipped their minds, but most were nice and proffered kind but shy smiles, clipped at the edges with perceptible nerves. You navigated the halls wearily searching for your chemistry lab, the school was grandiose but tastefully understated. The look of old money attracted your gaze, it was a world away from where you had come. Walking the winding stairs, you see your chemistry class meters away from the landing 'room 299.'

Having arrived ahead of time allowed you to peruse the chemistry lab, it was a spectacle. Advanced modern equipment, granite bench tops, the most powerful microscopes... It left you speechless. You were broken from your trance by your classmates trickling in slowly and the booming voice of your new chemistry teacher.

"I am Dr. Olsen, I have a doctorate of chemistry from Oxford itself, trust you are in more than good hands," he paused to chuckle at his own joke but carried on when the students unreciprocated his mirth.

"This is the only chemistry class in the upper sixth form, that should allude to the arduous nature of the course. Therefore, to maximise your concentration I have taken it upon myself to devise a seating plan."

Dr. Olsen trailed off when the class began to groan resentfully.

"You can thank me when you receive your A-level results at the end of sixth form. Right then, in the back row, Y/N and Oakley Caesar-Su, Veronica Windward and Yasser Malik ..."

Oakley, You had been seated next to the boy from earlier this morning. You knew you shouldn't be smiling to yourself, chemistry was an imperative A-level. You weaved yourself to the back row and sat next to him.

"Hi Oakley," your voice had manifested much more timidly than you had expected.

" Yeah hey y/n, call me Cench, only my mum and tired old teachers like this one call me Oakley."

You giggled unexpectedly, he grinned back his gaze lingering. As Dr. Olsen droned on about Titration you took down notes studiously, beside you Cench was doing the same; writing down notes swiftly. You couldn't help but notice his handwriting was neat and prettily round, looking at his notes you dropped your pen. From your stool you reached down to retrieve it, on the way back up you bumped heads with Cench who had thoughtfully wanted to help.

"Oh my days, I'm sorry y/n, you good?" He was asking searching your eyes for signs of hurt.

You went to assure him you were okay when you got cut off by no other than Dr. Olsen...

"You two in the back Oakley and y/n quiet please."

"I am sorry Dr. Olsen I was just _"

"I don't want a justification take notes like everyone else, or get out," he said belittlingly.

Your cheeks got hotter as the class snapped their necks rubbernecking to witness your embarrassment, you looked at your notes mortified.

"Look, Dr. Olsen, You don't have to chat to her that way, she bumped her head and I was seeing if she was okay, yeah." Cench's jaw was locked making his cheek bones even more enunciated.

" Don't talk back Mr. Caesar-Su, detention after school." With an angered demeanor he resumed his lesson. You fought away guilt as you continued taking notes, if only I had gripped my pen tighter.

Trailing the halls advancing towards the exit, you're clouded with gratitude tinged with empathy for Cench, you hadn't meant to get him in trouble. Nor had you meant to tarnish his reputation in front of the strictest teacher. In your periphery you see Cench and your heart soars.

"Hi, Cench, I'm so sorry about earlier, I didn't think you'd get in trouble for trying to help."

"Don't worry about it y/n, that prick shouldn't have -"

"Right, students before we go into the room, these are the rules of after-school detention..." A teacher drawled these words with an expression of boredom.

You gave Cench an apologetic look over your shoulder before you opened the door, you were met by a smile and a shrug of the shoulders from Cench. The whole way home your mind is scattered with intrusive thoughts of him, you don't want them there but you don't want to fight them away either.

Cench's POV:

Detention dragged on just as I thought, thoughts of y/n appeased this listlessness because thinking of her had made it bearable. As we had worked on our assignments in silence I had chosen to continue my English literature essay. I could say I had not made much progress because the silence which filled the room was unsettling, but really it was because it was y/n who occupied my mind. Y/n with her guileless smile, her sharp and dazzling intellect, the clocked tick some more and I spent the time like this: Thinking up an interminable list of why I like y/n. Really and truly I had only met her today, but something about her...

Wrapping a towel around my waist and drying my wet braids, I hear a ping from my phone. 'You have received an email from..." It's a notification from the enrollments officer. Is this about today, I know I went overboard but I wasn't gonna let that prick talk to y/n like that.

I check what she has to say and she's saying I have to pick an extra-curricular to fulfil my scholarship expectations. That's calm, I'll join the Charitable Cause Club, I heard y/n is in it.

Y/N's POV:

At your desk you're riddled with inconsolable worry. In two days will be the chemistry exam which will make thirty percent of your semester grade. Staring at the notes in front of you which feel insurmountable you begin studying. It is well after midnight when you finally turn off your lamp and resign to sleep.

Cench's POV:

Standing around the classroom I see y/n, her eyebrows are nearly touching in what looks like worry while she reads her chemistry notes. I never thought she would panic during exam season, I think she's the smartest in our whole class. Watching her worry like eats away at me I really don't like it.

Lying awake on top of my covers despite the cold. My mind turns to y/n for the infinite time and I stop randomly at the Starbucks order she has in the morning sometimes. A regular matcha latte with two pumps of vanilla syrup and a strawberry icing doughnut embedded with fresh pieces of strawberry. Trust man's not simping... it's deeper than that.

Y/N's POV:

At 7am on a Friday morning, the library is empty. The comforting silence interrupted sporadically by the tinkering of the librarian. Today, is the day of the chemistry exam and no matter how much you study you don't feel ready for the exam. You feel warmth on your head, the feeling of someone watching you so you glance up straight into coffee eyes. It's Cench leaning on a bookcase your favourite Starbucks order in hand. Your heart skips several beats.

"Hi y/n, your such a neek you know, studying at this time." Cench says this as his eyes flick across your face, enthralled.

"I don't know, you can never be prepared enough," you retort, trying to fight a smile from showing on your lips but failing.

"I don't know about that, you'll do great, your as smart as you are cute. Which makes you very smart."

You feel your cheeks getting hotter and you stare blankly at your notebook.

Never taking his eyes off you Cench puts the drink and a paper bag down on the table.

"I got you a little something, good luck, yeah."

You watch him as he walks away, with his bag slung over one shoulder. Suddenly you are filled with the confidence he has in you.

Taking a few sips of your matcha leaves you refreshed, reaching into the paper bag your heart squeezes when you see a strawberry covered doughnut. How did he know. Looking inside the bag for napkins you see a strip of paper, unfolding the paper you read the message.

It says: You should go out with man. Scrolled on the bottom is a phone number.

You gasp earning a reprimanding look from the librarian. Your mind wanders visualising what your date with him will be like.

...

THE END

[hearta54]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 (𝐂𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐞𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

Summary: You have a long-lived crush on Cench, the boy across the road, piano is one thing you share. At a piano examination, you find out if your persistent feelings are reciprocated.

Notes: Originally was going to write about Tae-Moo from Business Proposal; thought this suits Central Cee better. Plus he's hot as f!ck.

Warnings: alcoholism, abusive father, a little swearing

Word Count: 2 453

When you played the piano it was like the notes were emitted from your finger tips, rather than from the instrument you love. You closed your eyes and let memory lead into the crescendo of Fur Elise. Playing the piano was a form of ecstatic escapism; it allowed you to transcend reality and exist in a void untouchable by what drained you.

Dad could drain a pungent bottle fast, even faster than he could drain you. Drifting into the decrescendo the melodic keys helped you block the intrusive thoughts you had about him. He used to be better, a memory which was slowly fading from memory. But if you were to be honest … those days when he embodied something other than an absent and sorrowful father were lost in a network of messy incidents, spurred by the violent man he became under the influence.

Sometimes dad was cordial and added to a pleasant ambience but this didn't overshadow his bad days. On these days, you would crawl within yourself, barricaded in your room playing until your fingertips felt numb and your hands lost their supple dexterity. Feeling a need to escape as your parents argued downstairs, mother was made timid by him; so she tread carefully, but even then he was so volatile. So temperamental.

So mother lived in crippling fear: That a chair would be thrown too hard, or that dad would drink too much alcohol. Extra shifts at the hospital was how she coped, running and adamantly refusing to confront - this tainted you with disappointment. Piano was the way you fought. But in rare instances when your favourite composers didn't ease your worried mind you turned to Oakley, the boy across the road.

Placing your sheet music atop of your keyboard you allowed yourself to sink into an inviting daze. Oakley Neil H.T Caesar-Su is it weird that I know his whole name, his friends call him Cench, Cench was an anomaly he made rap music and dressed in tech fleece but under the guise of his demeanor he was one of the best pianist you had witnessed … Grade seven.

When Cench played it was riveting, unconsciously tilting his head to the side and getting lost in the keys he looked like a worthy muse. You digressed, thinking about the way his plump lips upturned when he smiled. The way his dark curls caught the sun when she watched from afar. Afar... because Cench barely registered your existence.

Last week in music class, late as always; he bumped into you. As he retrieved your folder you thought you had glimpsed a twinkle in his eye. But it must have been the glare of the sun because your eyes lingered and his were unbothered; turning away. Changed into your satin PJs you switched the lamp off - some dreams were best left for sleep.

...

Morning had arrived, but as the sun rose smoothly you were ruminating. Casting your memory back to last night, you revisited the way your hands had glided over the keys. Each note seamless and crisp melting into the songs you had beautifully played. You hoped you would play as effortlessly today. Today was a pinnacle and would hopefully affirm the hours of practice and offer a haven which floated more away from what was happening at home and into your future at The Royal College of Music.

Doing your therapeutic morning skincare, you thought listlessly of life there and the endless respite it unlidded. Today you had chosen a white turtleneck layered by a wooly grey cardigan and cute pleated skirt, with opaque tights - for the glacial London winter - and legwarmers. Leaving your room you slipped on your Doc Marten's - a complementary staple in your closet.

They had not been cheap, but with the aid of your part-time job which was not overly lucrative; you were able to secure the shoes and cover the significant costs of piano tuition. Walking down, you treaded softly on the worn carpet, you could hear the wretched sound of beer bottles clinking in the kitchen. Clinging to the bannister you steadied yourself; Cench would be at the piano exam. So you put on a façade of bravery and nonchalance even though you knew it was erosive.

"Hi y/n slept well," his words weren't slurred yet. You were flummoxed, dad was usually rooted in self-interest. When did he start looking beyond himself?

" Dad..." Your words caught in the static air, it sounded so raw.

"Mmm."

"Do you think you can drop me to my piano exam it's a bit far by bus, mum is working and -" Glass smashing to smithereens startled you; you covered your head instinctually.

"Who do you think I am. A fucking taxi, take the bus. You and your God damn piano," he was seething, as he turned around you took in his bloodshot eyes. So temperamental. He wouldn't have been good to drive anyways. Rigid and shaking you rushed up the stairs hurriedly and stuffed your bag blindly with your sheet music. Your eyes were too watery. You shut the door behind you with trepidation, not wanting to spark another polarizing outburst.

Tears streaming endlessly down your face you breath caught as you saw Cench leaving his house across the road. Seeing you he seemed perturbed like he'd seen something he shouldn't have. You watched aghast as he put his earbuds in and pulled his quintessential Trapstar hoodie to shroud his possessing curls. Walking down the street with your eyes downcast, you felt mortified, you felt Cench had seen a part of your life you worked so hard to hide.

You bumped into something unmoving, "ugh," you scoffed exasperatedly. Could my day get any worse? Glancing upwards you were dumbfounded by who stood in front of you.

"Hi y/n, you alright, everything calm yeah?" Cench was looking directly into your eyes, his earbuds out.

You nodded, clutching at fading conviction. How could you tell Cench your problems when he barely knew you? So dishonestly you made it seem like everything was fine; insecurity hoodwinked you into believing he would think you were 'too much.'

Almost smirking, he rolled his eyes tilting his head to one side like he was lost in demanding piano piece.

"Why do girls always move shady? I can tell your not fine, you were tearing up and that _ " he sighed seeing the resolve you had in being stoic.

"Alright then y/n, your fine I guess. The piano exams are time away, taking the bus is mad _" he was stopped short by a honk from a car blaring rap music.

"Anyways good luck, don't stress too tough, your piano skills are hard," Cench said this as the car drove away erratically.

Piano skills? Cench knows about my piano skills? Maybe you're not so self-deluded.

...

Raveled in the chaos of the morning, walking into the revered and coveted Royal College of Music was an exhale. The school was the cornerstone of all your dreams, you could always visualize it vividly. And now here you were for a piano exam, it was a reminder that it was real and not just a conjuring of your escapist imagination.

Walking through the hall you took in the surreal architecture and basked in its splendor. I could get used to this. Peeking at your crumpled pamphlet you realised the auditorium was on your left: 'Auditorium 9B.'

You sat down in a velvety plush seat and felt yourself inflate with hope, a place hear would be a gateway to magic. A piano piece began softly, enthralling the dozens of other pianists scattered in the vast, gilded auditorium. Flicking your eyes heavenwards you saw him, playing as gracefully as ever. Sometimes you thought to yourself Cench was born solely for this very thing.

Cench's POV:

I have played this piece a thousand times before now; I perfected it and made it radiate real talent even. Just so that when I got on this stage, I could stare at y/n and absorb her beauty. I committed every detail of her face to memory before the eighth bar - What can I say I'm a quick learner innit. The truth is I am worried about y/n, I know her dad is an alcoholic, I just don't want her to know I know. She'll get embarrassed and hurt, and I don't want to see her like that, ever. This piano exam is important, grade eight is what I need to come here; so why is all I can think about how to tell y/n I like her? I shake these feelings off as the keys fade for the end. These man are tapped if they say I didn't make Grade 8.

...

Y/n's POV:

Speechless and hypnotised is what you are. Making your way up to the mahogany stage, butterflies battle for dominance in your stomach. This mix of nervousness for the performance and the fact Cench will be watching is both nauseating and intoxicating. You inhale filling your squeezing lungs. The conductor motions for you to begin, the sheet music you have on the ledge... It's not Fur Elise, like you were assigned it's the one you've been experimentally writing. Horrified you close your eyes. Lost. You begin to play anyways. Confront don't run. You play until the amounting crowd is rendered delirious with applause and Cench is peering funnily at you in the audience, you brush it off. That's probably the look of disinterest.

As the curtains closed you saw your future becoming narrower... and narrower. There was an office which you were meant to report to promptly, to hear results. Practically tiptoeing in anticipation you felt yourself drown in dread. Not commencing to Grade seven meant bidding this school a sorrowful goodbye, before you even had a chance to enroll! It wasn't just the prestige, or the vigor which made this school shine in a pearly light, it was the love for music and adorned opportunities it created. For some a school like this was a pretty ornament on a promising resume, but for you, this was your youthful life's work.

Now standing outside the tastefully decorated office, you heard two adults discussing tersely, the conductor and examiner. Knocking lightly on the door, you were further unsettled at how swiftly it swung open. For the millionth time that day, you sat in a seat powerless; while others dictated your fate.

"Ms. y/n last name, we were shocked when you played the piece that was not assigned to you, but it appears you wrote it, yes?" The conductor drawled.

You cleared your throat hurriedly, looking intently at the poker-faced men.

"Yes sir, I did," it came out a near whisper.

"Excellent, welcome to grade seven, I look forward to seeing you at the Royal College of Music in the very near future."

...

You were beyond ecstatic. You honestly had no words to describe this feeling it was bliss and euphoria intertwined. The rain sprinkled predictably as you walked to your bus stop: You couldn't help but romanticise life at times, but this moment was a smidgen of actual romance in your life. Your gentle musings of how much you loved the piano led way to someone you might adore just as equally.

You could hear fast steps behind you through your beige XM4s, thinking it was just another jogger it didn't faze you.

"y/n..." your name caught in Cench's throat. Hearing his voice made you rip your headphones off. Ugh So unsubtle. You stopped to see what he had to say, Cench was only a few inches away. But you wished he was closer... Closer still. As close as possible.

"Hey y/n I saw you walking, can man walk with you," he said this confidently but his eyes were slightly down cast.

"Yes, of course," you replied, letting your heart soar with the possibility of this being the day you would turn a new leaf together.

You walked together to the bus stop talking about piano and your shared dream school, until you could see the tall, red bus blinking at you in the distance.

"There's my bus, see you in music class, Cench," you tried to mask your disappointment as you reluctantly climbed the steps.

"Where do you think I'm going, we live on the same street still," he chuckled rolling his eyes; exciting the butterflied entrapped in your stomach.

"Oh okay," you smiled awkwardly.

Cench's POV:

I am sitting so close to y/n in the bus right now. What if I just leaned in and... Truthfully I am overwhelmed with nervousness right now. This never happens ever. I don't want to talk to her about what happened this morning; she doesn't seem ready and the way she's smiling right now and just looking around the bus. Man she's so cute. Bu there are things to discuss..

"Y/n.."

"mmhmm," she was looking into my eyes and I thought my mind would go blank.

" I - I actually like you a lot... I have for time, I can't lie." Holding my breath. I'm hoping... I hope she responds the way she does in my head.

Y/N's POV

The air left your brain, the moment felt ethereal. You had pictured and edited this moment innumerable times in your imagination. And you always thought it was just remain a figment. Looking into Cench's dark, enamoring eyes you could see he was waiting for your answer.

"I like you too Cench... I have since forever." Your smile turned impossibly large and you faced the front, excited for what's yet to come and beaming.

"Since forever huh, babe don't be silly," Cench's smile was a reflection of a sunny day.

"It's true - " you mumbled realising what he has said. Babe.

Cench placed a warm hand on your cheek. His lips were soft like you had always envisioned; grazing over yours slightly - searching for reciprocation. You opened your eyes wide in awe and surprise, pressing your lips against his. You could feel Cench smiling into the kiss; his lips were sweet and fit yours perfectly. Slowly his hand trailed to grip your waist while the other stayed on your face. Moving your lips together he pushed his tongue in your mouth and roamed everywhere he could; you saw a different galaxy.

Gasping quietly you both pulled away grinning stupidly.

"You're so beautiful y/n you don't understand," whispering for only you to hear, he wrapped his arm around you moving closer. You put your head in the soft spot between his neck and the edge of his shoulder closing your eyes. You thought about love. Love for piano and Love for Cench.

....

THE END