The campus auditorium smelled like old velvet and fresh nerves. Rows of folding chairs filled fast, students spilling into aisles, queer club banners draped crooked over the balcony. The stage lights hummed hot, casting everyone in a golden glow and shadow. A single microphone stood centre like a dare. Elara adjusted the Leica on her strap, heart jackhammering against ribs. Nova paced backstage, silver ring twisting on her finger, curls tied back with a ribbon that matched Elara's fishnets.
They had turned community service into a coup. The dean's "approved" slam became the biggest event of the semester. Flyers everywhere. Open mic. No censorship. Prizes: gift cards, darkroom access, track gear. Judges: the dean herself, a poetry professor with purple hair, and Jett the bike courier who delivered vibes and weed in equal measure.
Elara peeked through the curtain. Capacity crowd. Phones ready. Someone had chalked *Love Wins* on the sidewalk outside. Someone else had crossed it out with *God Hates*. Security milled, tense.
Nova stopped pacing and grabbed Elara's hand. "We got this."
Elara squeezed. "We are this."
They kissed quickly, rings clinking. Backstage buzzed. Poets warmed up: a trans guy practising breathing exercises, a nonbinary kid scribbling last lines, a lesbian couple arguing over who went first.
7:59 p.m. Lights dimmed. Spotlight hit the mic. The purple-haired professor took the stage.
"Welcome to Vireo's first unsanctioned sanctioned slam. Rules: three minutes. No hate. Everything else goes."
Cheers erupted.
Elara emceed the first half. She strode out in black boots and a leather jacket, mic in hand.
"Poetry is foreplay. Let's get wet."
Laughter. Whistles.
First poet: a freshman with shaking hands. Poem about coming out to abuela. Tears in the front row.
Second: a senior on hormone therapy, verses about the body as a construction site. Applause thunderous.
Intermission. Elara and Nova are backstage, adrenaline high. Nova pushed Elara against the prop wall, hand under skirt, fingers slipping inside lace. Quick. Dirty. Elara bit Nova's shoulder to stay quiet, came clenching around two fingers, knees buckling.
Nova licked her clean, grinning. "For luck."
Elara fixed her lipstick with a thumb. "Your turn soon."
Second half. Nova judged the middle round, scoring with paddles they'd painted rainbow. She held up a 10 for a poem about period sex, blushing fiercely.
Then the open slot. Elara signed them up anonymously: *Secret Fiancées.*
They took the stage together. The crowd hushed. Phones up.
Elara started.
*We met in a flash*
*accidental exposure*
*your skin the negative*
*I couldn't delete*
Nova continued, voice steady.
*I ran from the light*
*You developed me slowly*
*red safelight glow*
*where secrets grow*
They alternated lines, bodies close, rings hidden but pulsing.
*Grape on my finger*
*gravel in your knees*
*yes in the snow*
*please please please*
The crowd leaned in. Some cried. Some filmed. The dean nodded slowly.
Final stanza together, hands linked.
*We slam for the girls*
*who hide under doors*
*who develops in the dark*
*who run from their wars*
*our love is the mic*
*drop it and see*
*who picks it up broken*
*and still chooses we*
Silence. Then the explosion. Standing ovation. Chants of *encore.* The mic feedback squealed. Someone rushed the stage, hugged them hard.
They bowed, laughing, tears mixing.
Backstage, chaos. Poets swarmed. "Who are you?" "Publish this!" "Marry me instead!"
Elara and Nova slipped away to the green room, door locked. Celebration urgent. Nova bent Elara over the makeup table, skirt flipped, strap from the backpack sliding home. Deep thrusts, mirror reflecting rings and sweat. Elara came watching them, Nova's hand over her mouth.
Nova next, against the door, leg hooked over Elara's hip, fingers and tongue until she squirted on the carpet.
They cleaned up giggling, lipstick on collars.
The slam crowned winners: the trans guy first, nonbinary kid second, lesbian couple tied for third. Prizes handed. Dean announced a yearly event. "Named after tonight's mystery duo."
Crowd chanted *Secret Fiancées.*
Elara and Nova watched from the wings, arms around waists.
Afterparty in the quad. Bonfire from approved permits. Marshmallows. Beer. Poems shouted over flames.
They sat on a bench, rings now visible. Whispers spread. "It's them." "The roommates." "Engaged for real?"
A girl approached shyly. "Your poem saved me. I came out to my mom tonight."
Nova hugged her. Elara snapped a photo: girl's tears firelit.
Midnight. Hate crashed the party. A group of frat guys, drunk, chanting slurs. Bottles thrown. Security overwhelmed.
Nova tensed. Elara grabbed the portable mic from the slam.
She climbed a picnic table. "Listen up!"
The crowd quieted.
"Poetry isn't just words. It's armour. Repeat after me."
She started their slam poem. Line by line. The crowd joined. Louder. Frat guys drowned out. They slunk away, shamed.
Bonfire roared higher. Chants turned to songs. Queer anthems. Dancing.
Elara and Nova are in the centre, spinning, rings flashing firelight.
2 a.m. Back in the room, exhausted triumphant. They stripped slowly, rings last to come off, placed on the nightstand like trophies.
They made love reverently. Nova on her back, Elara above, sixty-nine slow, tongues lazy, savouring. Came whispering lines from the slam.
Elara entered Nova with the strap, missionary, eyes locked, rings back on fingers, clinking with every thrust. Nova's legs wrapped tight, heels digging back. They came together, quiet and deep, tears on pillows.
After, Nova traced Elara's ring. "We should tell people."
Elara nodded. "Tomorrow."
They slept tangled, slamming echoes in dreams.
Morning. Campus hungover but changed. Poems taped everywhere again, but now with permission. The dean's office flois oded with support emails.
Elara and Nova walked to the cafcafend in hand, rings proud. Stares. Smiles. A few glares.
At their table, friends waited. "Spill."
Nova grinned. "We're engaged. For real. Rooftop ye,s st,uck."
Cheers. Hugs. Questions fired.
"How long?" "Rings real?" "Wedding when?"
Elara laughed. "Secret since the misning. R of the mistakeings cheare ap bu,t ours. W are notedding someday."
The table toawas sted with orange juice.
Afternoon. Track meet. Nova's first 400. Elara in the stands, camera ready, ring glinting.
Nova won. Personal best. CroThe crowdared. She pointed to Elara, blew a kiss.
Locker room after. The team congratulated. Coach clapped her back. "Bring your fiancée to the banquet."
They fucked in the showers, water hot, Nova's medal around Elara's neck, clinking against rings.
Evening. They hosted a mini-slam in the dorm lounge. Poets from the night before. New ones inspired.
Elara read a fresh poem.
*The mic broke*
*under our weight*
*but we kept speaking*
*body to body*
*ring to ring*
Nova sketched live, projected on the wall.
The crowd wept. Applauded.
Night. Back in the room, they made love to the memory. Nova tied with the ribbon from her hair, Elara edging with a vibrator and tongue. Nova begged in poetry. Came reciting Elara's lines.
Elara untied, let Nova dominate. Spanking, biting, strap hard and fast. Elara came screaming wife.
They collapsed, rings tangled in sheets.
The slam had broken the mic.
But it built them unbreakable.