MasukWhat's up, my lovelies!! Sorry, I went MIA for a while there again. I swear I have a perfect excuse this time. As some football fans can definitely tell the chapters I wrote for the game where kind of messy, some didn't even make sense (not even to myself as I was writing 😅) but I tried to work around it since I already dug myself into a deep whole (Should’ve just went with soccer and make my own Neo-Egoist League🥺) Point is I'm sorry for the messy writing (this is my very first book afterall) and I'll try my best next time despite not knowing a thing about some of the things I'm writing. Happy Pride Month 🥳🥳🥳
LukeThe Castellan building is exactly what Santiago described and nothing like what I pictured.From the street, it looks like every other glass and steel tower in this part of the city - tall, expensive, indifferent to the people moving past it. The kind of building that doesn't need signage is because the people who need to know what it is already do.The lobby is marble and low lighting and a security desk staffed by two people who check names against a list with the professional efficiency of people paid enough not to ask questions. Santiago walks past all of it without stopping, one hand raised in a greeting to the security desk that gets returned without comment, and the rest of us follow in. The elevator opens directly onto the rooftop.The doors slide back, and the city unfolds.It hits all at once - the bass from the speakers set up along the far edge, the open air after the sealed elevator, the sprawl of the
Luke We're out the stadium when a hand wraps around my waist. "You ghosted me last night, Luke." Santiago's voice purrs in my ear sending shivers down my spine. "You and me both, Santy." Tj's voice comes from my other side before I could respond. "Aye, Tj...thought you'd be off recovering today," Santiago shifts his focus. "Not more than you." Tj shoots back. Santiago laughs -low and easy- while his arm stays where it is around my waist, loose enough to be casual, present enough to be deliberate. I look at him sideways. Dark hair pushed back, jaw relaxed, dressed like he doesn’t care if anyone judges him. "You came to the game," I say to Santiago. Swiching the topic so they'd forget about me ditching them yesterday. "I come to all the games," he says. "I have school spirit." "You have a hospita
Luke Three minutes left on the clock and Ravenwood's lead has become a problem. Not because it's shrinking-though it is, steadily, the way a tide pulls back before something larger moves in. The problem is what's happening in the space between plays. The small collisions that linger a beat too long. The words exchanged at the line that the referee's positioning conveniently never catches. The temperature of the game has shifted in a way that has nothing to do with score and everything to do with the specific kind of pride that doesn't know how to lose gracefully. Ronan crouches out of the huddle and surveys the Ravenwood defense with those cold green eyes moving across the formation like he's reading a document he's already decided to rewrite. Zian is at the end. Ronan's eyes find him, hold for exactly one second, move on. The snap. Ronan drops back and the pocket collapses fast- Ravenwood bringing everything, no reason to protect against the run now. He steps up into the
Luke The fourth quarter arrives, and Helmshire does something I didn't expect. They get quiet. As though it's the calm before the storm. Their offensive coordinator has been on his headset for the entire break between quarters. New plays coming in from somewhere above his pay grade. Their quarterback stands slightly apart from the huddle, helmet on, head down, running through something private and focused. I watch him and revise my earlier assessment. There he is-the real one underneath the rattled one. Whoever got in his ear at the break told him to stop looking at Zian and he's actually listened. But that's not what changes the game. What changes the game arrives through the stadium tunnel at seven minutes into the fourth quarter and doesn't hurry about it. Two of them. I notice them before the crowd does because I'm not
Luke The second half is seven minutes in when I first notice them. Not because they do anything obvious. Not because the crowd reacts nor the commentator says anything worth paying attention to. I notice them because of the way the Helmshire players keep glancing at them. There are four of them on Ravenwood's side of the field. Lucien is the one everyone already knows. But the other three-the ones flanking him like they were arranged that way on purpose-carry a different kind of weight.The first is the wide receiver. Number eleven. I'd clocked him earlier for the one-handed touchdown catch but dismissed him as just athletic. Watching him now I revise that assessment. He's tall, lean, mixed race with close-cropped hair and the kind of face that looks permanently unbothered. He runs routes with an almost bored precision — every cut clean, every acceleration measured — like he's already calculated
LukeThe first quarter is barely five minutes in, and I already understand why the stadium fills up for this.It's not the sport.It's him.Lucien plays football the way he does everything else - like the outcome was already decided before anyone else stepped onto the field, and the game is just the formality of proving it.I watch him from the stands with the kind of focus I usually reserve for surveillance.Ravenwood's offence lines up. Lucien stands at quarterback, unhurried, scanning the defence across the line. The opposing team Helmshire, based on their navy and gold-has, stacked their defensive line heavy on the left. Two safeties sitting deep. A blitz package is barely disguised behind a standard formation.Lucien sees it.I know he sees it because he doesn't call a timeout. Doesn't signal the coach. He just shifts-one step right, a subtle hand gesture toward his wide receiver, two fingers tapped against his thigh for the running back.Three adjustments. No huddle. No waste
Unknown The engine cuts off before the headlights do. I stay there a second longer than necessary, watching the lights across the street flicker against glass. Second floor. left side. His room. The curtains are open. I shouldn’t be here.
Rhett I don’t drop her. Not immediately. My arm is still around her waist when I turn, pulse still pounding from the near fall. A man stands a few feet away, shoulders squared, jaw tight like he’s walked into something he doesn’t like.He looks about my age. Maybe a little older. Dark jacket.
Rhett Mmh- Fuck My head leans back against the wall when my cock is pulled out from the confines of my briefs, standing at full attention as he strokes it starting from the base to the pre cum leaking tip. His other hand is still on my waist, finge
RHETTThat voice.It’s the damn bastard from last night.His hand is still on my throat now loose while the other one is still on my waist tracing lazy circles with his thumb.There’s a sharp pinch at my ear before registering his warm breath on me and realising that he just nipped at my ear.“I as







