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thecchiiiiiiii · 3 days ago

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Rose by D.O – “I might not have a fancy car, but I fancy you. So gimme a chance, If you need a lover baby” (Sophia Laforteza x Reader)

Synopsis: Bee’s often buzz around, wandering, making people annoyed, or scared when an interaction is initiated. Unfortunately, Sophia has encountered one that takes the form of a human; you.

—☆

Bee’s often buzz around — that’s just what they do.

They drift through quiet afternoons, wander into picnics and rehearsals, hover too close to skin that flinches. Some people brush them away gently, afraid of the sting. Others swat at them, panic swarming their hearts. But no matter how you react, the bee keeps circling back. It doesn’t know how to want anything else. It brings sweetness to flowers that never asked for it — and sometimes loses itself trying.

For Sophia, that bee was you.

That was you.

Not on purpose, not at first.

Sophia Laforteza. She was a second year, a freshman with a frayed backpack and bruised sneakers. She had her world: the theatre club, the corner seat at the cafeteria window, her circle of friends who moved with her like orbiting moons.

You’d seen her a hundred times before you ever really saw her. She laughed with Marquise under the big tree near the admin building. The one with roots that cracked the sidewalk tiles, so everyone tripped at least once a semester. You watched her lean over Lexie’s shoulder to see a video, her laughter spilling into the wind like confetti you couldn’t catch.

One day she dropped her pen. You were three desks away but you still saw it roll under your chair. You picked it up. A stupid, cracked pink gel pen with half the glitter worn off.

You meant to give it back. Really. But then she looked up, right at you, and your tongue turned to static. So you kept it.

It’s still in your drawer, hidden under folded poems and dried petals.

You never planned to be the bee.

But some flowers just pull you in.

—☆

You didn’t own anything fancy. No car waiting at the curb after rehearsal, no branded sneakers squeaking in the hallway. You had your backpack, your notebooks, and the corner of the library where your pen ran out its ink for her.

You were a year younger than Sophia. Invisible in your own way, drifting between rows of desks with your hood pulled up, your headphones always in but never really on. You weren’t dazzling on stage like she was with the way she stepped into the warm lights during theatre practice, humming her warm-ups while Marquise teased her and Lexie filmed her on an old phone. You watched from the sidelines. Just another pair of eyes flicking up from half-finished homework, your earbuds humming static you didn’t hear.

But you were there. Buzzing. Hovering in circles only you knew how to draw.

—☆

It started small:

Sophia’s locker had a rusted hinge that squeaked when she opened it. You learned that by heart— the soft squeal of metal before the clatter of textbooks.

When you were 14, you didn’t have a phone fancy enough for messages. So you learned to speak in ink.

A note tucked into the seam of her locker.

A square of watercolor paper slipped into her bag when she wasn’t looking.

A folded poem left on her desk before the morning bell.

The words pressed tight beside a mini portrait or a sketch of the places where you imagined she might exist with you.

Little scraps of poems slipped through that locker vent— your small voice in tight stanzas:

There’s a street behind the library

Where the shadows bend like arms.

If you ever walk there, maybe the wind

Will carry my name to yours.

You sketched city skylines and tiny trees bent toward each other like shy lovers. You painted candle flames when your words felt too cold alone.

You became a ghost for her.

You knew her locker number by accident— once, you stood behind her while she turned the dial, mumbling the numbers under her breath like a song. You mouthed them too, just once, feeling them click on your tongue.

27 — right. 14 — left. 36 — right again. Click.

After that, it felt too easy. Slipping a folded paper through the vent. A watercolor scrap with half a skyline and your shaky lines clinging to the edges:

I saw you in the hallway —

You didn’t see me back.

So I pressed this into metal,

Hoping you’d find what I lack.

You’d go home every night and write another one while Yoonchae would hover at your door.

“You’re writing again?” she’d ask, head peeking through the crack.

“Shut the door.”

“Make me.”

“Please.”

Yoonchae— your little sister, only two years behind you in school. She’d find you hunched over your small wooden desk, your lamp flickering over scraps of watercolor paper.

“You’re gonna run out of pens,” she teased once.

“Then I’ll write with pencil,” you said, tongue caught between your teeth as you pressed a brush to a tiny square of paper.

“You’re so obvious. You’re the only bee who keeps stinging themselves.”

You stuck your tongue out at her. She stuck her tongue back. Then she sat on the edge of your bed and read your lines upside down, half-lullaby, half-judgement.

When you told Megan and Lara about it, they’d grin and shake their heads, teasing you for the obvious softness in your eyes.

—☆

A note slipped into the vent of her locker on a Tuesday when the hall smelled like stale floor wax and wet shoes. You’d folded it so the edge peeked out just enough, like an invitation she could ignore if she wanted.

There’s a street I pass on my way to class,

The trees bend in pairs like shy lovers.

If you walked there with me,

Maybe they’d whisper our names to each other.

You drew two trees leaning just close enough that their branches brushed like fingers touching for the first time. Your initials weren’t there— they never were. You just drew a star on the corner as if it was your codename. You wanted her to guess, maybe, but a small part of you knew she already did.

You watched from your usual spot at lunch. She found it while pulling her jacket out of the narrow locker, the paper brushing her fingertips. Daniela leaned in, saw the edge of your sketch. Her laugh echoed down the hall.

“Oh my god, Sophia — again?”

Sophia just rolled her eyes, pretending it was nothing. But you saw her slide it into her math textbook instead of the trash. That was enough to keep your wings beating.

When you told Megan and Lara later that day. Heads bent close over your untouched lunch and then they exchanged that look, the one that made your ears burn.

“You’re hopeless,” Lara sighed, stealing a fry off your tray.

Megan propped her chin on her hand. “No, they’re not hopeless— they’re romantic.”

“Same thing,” Lara muttered. But she didn’t sound mean about it.

—☆

Yoonchae found your notebook open on your bed a week later, half your poems written sideways in the margins. She dropped onto your pillow, a cat settling in for the kill.

You found her all curled up on your blanket, reading upside down while you scribbled. You hated it and loved it at once— her nose crinkled when she hit the sweet lines, her fingers tapping your page like Morse code.

“You know she won’t read them all,” she’d say.

You shrugged. “That’s not the point.”

You snatched the notebook away, cheeks burning. “You wouldn’t get it anyway”

She leaned in, nose to nose. “Then sting her good next time. Or stop flying in circles.”

—☆

So you tried. You kept trying.

A square of watercolor paper slipped into her bag between notebooks that smelled like fresh highlighters.

You waited three days, sick with worry that the ink might smudge.

The bench by the old fountain—

You sit there, turning pages.

I pretend I’m reading too,

but all my lines lead back to you.

You’d painted the campus fountain at 1 AM, brush trembling so badly the sky turned darker than you meant. You left the smudge where it was — imperfections were honest. So was the tremor in your hands.

Sometimes you were bolder. On mornings she had rehearsals before homeroom, you’d stand by her empty desk. Knees locked, throat dry, and slide down a square sheet of lined paper. A poem on one side, a scribbled sunrise on the back.

If I could, I’d fold the sunrise

and leave it here for you —

but paper doesn’t hold fire well,

so here’s a candle flame instead.

You colored that sunrise with cheap colored pencils until your palm cramped.

Lara found you. She wasn’t even sorry about it— she just stood there beside you and read the letter.

“Oh my gosh, you’re gonna get a nosebleed one day,” she teased, reading your metaphors out loud in a mock-serious voice.

Megan just laughed behind her hand, offering you a sip of her orange soda like it’d wash the sting away.

“You’re brave,” she told you when Lara wandered off. “I’d never have the guts to keep trying like that.”

You snorted. “It’s not brave. It’s stupid.”

“Same thing sometimes.”

Sophia never said thank you. She never left anything in return. But she didn’t throw them away either. You’d catch glimpses— a folded edge peeking from the corner of her binder, a sketch tucked into the pocket of her pencil case. It was enough. It had to be.

—☆

The first time you heard Kaakit-akit was in the library, headphones slipped over one ear while your pen dragged nonsense lines in your notebook. You didn’t know what you were looking for until you looked up and there she was— Sophia, on the lawn outside the window, laughing with Lexie about something you’d never hear.

The guitar chord struck your ribs like a match.

Kaakit-akit. Alluring. A sweetness that stings.

(Kaakit-akit: Alluring/Enchanting)

You replayed it four times, fingers tapping the table in time with your heartbeat. You decided then— this was hers. Yours, too. Maybe the only way you’d ever say the thing you couldn’t say out loud.

Megan caught you then. At the library printer with your bag open, pages of drafts and half-finished poems spilling like shed wings.

“You’re writing again, bee” she laughed, snatching a folded square before you could hide it. She read it aloud, voice gentle where your own would’ve cracked:

If I could fold the sunrise

I’d leave it in your bag.

But paper doesn’t hold fire,

So here’s my trembling match.

Lara leaned over her shoulder, flicked your ear. “You’re gonna get your heart broken.”

You only shrugged. Bees don’t learn. They just keep flying.

—☆

You were 14 the day you folded your first paper flower for her.

It was math class— your seat in the back row, right under the broken ceiling fan that hummed like a tired bumblebee. You should’ve been copying equations, but your notebook was half-torn, the lines stained with pencil smudges and soft daydreams.

Instead of solving for x, you tore a page from the back. The one with doodles of her profile in the margins and folded it into a crude petal. One became two, two became three.

Each fold softened under your thumb, each crease a quiet wish: Notice me. Please.

You hid it in your pocket for days, too scared to give it. It ended up pressed flat in your pencil case, petals crooked but brave. It was almost your first sting. Almost.

So, you got brave in new ways.

You hovered near Daniela and Manon whenever you could. Holding stage doors open, offering your spare water bottle when they looked too tired to bother refilling theirs.

One humid afternoon, after helping them pack leftover flyers for the musical’s second run, you asked.

“Can I — can I ask you something about Sophia?” You hated how your voice cracked at her name.

Daniela paused mid-stack, one eyebrow cocked. Manon bit the inside of her cheek, hiding a grin.

“What about her?” Daniela said. Not cold. Not warm either.

You swallowed. “What does she like? Favorite flowers. Songs. Colors. I just… I don’t want to keep guessing.”

Manon nudged Daniela— just tell them. So, they did. White roses. Paper cranes. Pastel blues and soft rain songs. You memorized every syllable like scripture.

Before they left, you asked if, maybe— they could give something to her for you. Just once. When your hands were too obvious, too clumsy to deliver your own hope.

Daniela’s sigh was soft. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either.

—☆

Days passed by. Poems on sticky notes. Drawings of city skylines she’d never see the way you did. Sometimes you saw her smooth them flat, tuck them away before class. Sometimes you found them weeks later— folded into tight squares at the bottom of her bag when she pulled out her lunch.

One night, your sister found you hunched over your desk, pen scratching the same line for the tenth time.

“You write so much for her,” Yoonchae murmured, climbing into your blanket pile without asking.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t know how to stop.”

She pinched your cheek, gentle. “Then sting her good. One last time. Maybe then you’ll finally sleep.”

—☆

Your friends didn’t get tired of your hope, not even when Sophia swatted it away again and again.

There was that day in the cafeteria when someone asked if you were together. Sophia laughed, loud enough for your chest to tighten.

“Them? No way. They’re just… persistent.”

She didn’t see you slip past the milk dispensers, tray trembling in your hands. Lara followed you out while Megan stayed behind, eyes narrowed at Sophia.

“They’re just a bee,” Sophia told Daniela later. “It’s harmless.”

Daniela frowned. Maybe she knew then how wrong that was.

And then, you almost stopped.

Like the time you caught Sophia standing by the old fountain in your spot while your next note burned a hole in your pocket when you saw her kiss someone else’s cheek. Not a boyfriend, maybe just a friend. But that tiny moment popped your lungs open like a bee under glass.

You crumpled the paper right then. Toss it in your bag. But that night, you smoothed it out again, ink smeared, lines bent. You rewrote it on a fresh sheet at 2 AM, telling yourself maybe this would be the one she’d keep.

—☆

You heard about the fair weeks before but it didn’t click until you saw that poster taped by the admin door: Over October.

The band that sang Kaakit-akit.

“Dude— move,” Megan grumbled, until she leaned over your shoulder and read it too.

You stood there so long Megan had to tug your sleeve to make you move. But you didn’t so Megan leaned over your shoulder and read it too.

“Oh my god. That’s your chance.” Her grin was so soft you thought it might break you.

Lara took a photo of the poster, circling your name in a group chat like a threat.

Lara: If you don’t do it now, you never will.

She was right.

—☆

When the final class bell rang each day that week, your friends drifted home with aching backs and half-finished props. The hallways emptied, but you stayed. First in the corner of the library, then on the dusty bench behind the science lab where the WiFi still reached if you angled your phone just so.

You brought your old laptop— the one with the flickering hinge you’d fixed with a strip of black electrical tape. The screen glowed cold blue on your face while your fingers tapped at lines of messy code you barely understood when you first started.

It wasn’t much, that hidden corner of the internet you were building for her. A single page at first: white background, soft serif font, your poems stacked like folded letters no one else would ever open. Then you added color. A pale blush that reminded you of the sky before dawn. You found a way to embed music to loop Kaakit-akit on the landing page so that when she scanned the QR code, her song would echo softly back to her, your heartbeat coded in mp3.

Sometimes you’d pause and scroll through your drafts of half-finished confessions, scraps of lines you’d written on old receipts and tucked into your wallet for weeks. You typed them out, line by line, until the page felt like a map of your chest cracked wide open. You proofread every word, deleting a dozen, rewriting ten more. Some nights you’d just stare at the blinking cursor, half wishing you’d lose your nerve so you could sleep instead.

At the bottom: If you find this, you’ve found me.

—☆

After you saw Over October taped to that glass door, the world inside the campus shifted. It always did, every year— but that year it felt bigger, heavier. Everywhere you turned, the fair was there: creeping into homerooms, splashed across the bulletin boards, whispered about in bathrooms and half-finished class group chats.

It was the paint-smudged banners hanging from the second-floor railings — WELCOME TO THE ANNUAL CULTURE FAIR! — half of them drooping at the corners because no one remembered the extra tape. It was the old tables dragged out from storage rooms and lined up outside the auditorium, waiting for paint and price tags and hopeful student councils selling whatever they could to raise funds for next year.

Every hallway smelled faintly of bond paper, acrylic paint, and fried snacks someone was already test-batching for the food stalls. You saw Sophia everywhere in the middle of it. Her and the other musical theatre kids plastered posters for the club’s showcase, tying ribbons to the lamp posts that flickered near the main quad.

You’d pass by her at lunch when she laughed with Marquise and Lexie, a pair of scissors dangling from her wrist by a string of yarn like a charm bracelet. Once, you watched her cut out paper cranes at a bench near the quad fountain. She didn’t see you. Not really. But you stayed just close enough to catch the faint sound of her voice as she told Daniela how the flyers still weren’t straight.

It was all so loud. Students haggling over booth placements, teachers barking about cleanup rosters, your friends waving you over to sign your name on volunteer sheets you never planned to fill. You drifted around the edges of it— the bee, never the banner.

But every paper crane Sophia pinned to a board reminded you of the bouquet waiting in your head. Fourteen flowers— one for each year of you, folded small and quiet so she’d see all of you at once.

At night, you’d lie on your bedroom floor, your back pressed to the cold tile, Yoonchae’s soft breathing in the next room. The sounds of the fair would hum in your ears like a tape tearing, laughter spilling through stairwells, the faint echo of Kaakit-akit playing on repeat from your cracked phone speaker.

In the corners of your mind, you watched the stage go up. The lights strung overhead. The booths crowding the quad like petals around a single flower.

You knew your moment was stitched into all of it. Somewhere between the paper cranes and the stage lights— somewhere in the hush that would come before your song.

You just had to get there. You just had to finish folding your wings.

You folded three butterflies by hand. Each wing pressed with your tiny handwriting, each body stitched together with glue that stuck to your nails. Your fingers cramped around the delicate folds.

Yoonchae found you hunched over the dining table.

“You look like you’re performing surgery,” she deadpanned.

“Shut up and pass the scissors.”

She did. But before she left, she kissed the top of your head. A sister’s tiny blessing. “Good luck, bee.”

—☆

On your bedroom floor, fourteen square sheets of colored origami paper spread around you like soft confetti. Each one a flower waiting to be folded, creased, pressed into the shape of the feeling you’d never dared say out loud.

You worked in soft pools of lamplight. The fan overhead did nothing for your sweaty neck as your fingers folded the edges in on themselves. Petals curling, stems twisting shut with thin wire and floral tape you’d borrowed from the craft store in town.

Beside you, your phone played the playlist you’d built just for this night. It wasn’t just Kaakit-akit. It was every song that had ever reminded you of Sophia— her laughter, the tilt of her head when she listened to Lexie tell a story she’d heard a hundred times before, the way she never quite looked your way but somehow still stayed in every line you wrote.

Adie’s Mahika. Kursunada. Suntok sa Buwan. A scattering of Ben&Ben, a quiet ballad from December Avenue. Songs that made your chest ache in the nicest, cruelest way. A reminder that your tiny confession could live longer than your voice ever would.

(Suntok sa Buwan: A punch from the Moon)

You were 14— what did you know of heartbreak except the ache you folded again and again into thin colored sheets?

You decided: fourteen flowers. One for every year you’d been alive. One for each time you’d circled her in the hallways, your backpack brushing her locker, your eyes catching hers across rows of desks and iced coffee lids.

Each flower was paper. Origami petals crisp under your thumbs. Some white, some soft pink, some pale blue like the dawn sky that leaked through your window at 3 AM when you realized you were still awake, still folding.

The bouquet took shape in secret. Between worksheets and cold instant noodles, you sat cross-legged on your floor, the glue stick crusted at the edge, your fingers stained with watercolor.

Yoonchae found you there one night, knees sore, eyes bloodshot. She didn’t tease you this time. She only sat beside you, pressing petals into your palm when your hands shook too much to crease them straight.

“Fourteen flowers for fourteen years?” she whispered.

You nodded, voice hoarse. “It has to be enough.”

You didn’t sleep that week. Three butterflies. Each smaller than the last. Wings trembling under the light when you held them up to the lamp at 3 AM. Between shifts and half-done worksheets, you painted paper petals— pressed every unfinished poem into the folds of a bouquet you’d hide behind your back.

Yoonchae cracked your door open once, blinking at the mess, at the petals, the watercolors, the scraps of receipt paper with half-drawn QR code squares where you’d tested your lines by hand.

“You’re insane,” she mumbled, the same way she always did when she found you like this. Hunched over your tiny world of paper and hope.

You only smiled, lifting your mug of cold coffee in a quiet toast. “It has to be perfect,” you said. “Just this once.”

She didn’t say you were hopeless. She didn’t tell you to sleep. She just pulled your blanket off your bed and draped it over your shoulders like a shield.

And when she padded back to her room, you bent your head to the last square of paper, your headphones slipping from one ear, Kaakit-akit whispering its first warm chords again.

One more fold. One more petal. One more wing for her to hold.

You planned it all. Two butterflies for Daniela and Manon. Each with a line from a song that said everything you couldn’t. The last butterfly— the smallest would be yours to hand her directly when Kaakit-akit played.

—☆

The day of the fair was a furnace. Tents flapped under tangled strings of fairy lights. You held your bouquet behind your back while people brushed past you, sticky with soda and sugar. Your butterflies were tucked into your hoodie pocket. The last fragile parts of you.

You wore your best hoodie, the one with frayed cuffs that still smelled faintly of your mom’s fabric softener. The origami bouquet felt too big in your arms, the stems pressed with your poems so tight they almost bled through the folds.

Fourteen flowers. Fourteen years. Three butterflies made of paper and half-hopes.

Megan drew a heart on your wrist with her eyeliner.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“Am I?”

But dawn cracked cruelly when you realized the QR code was missing. The door to your confession site. The one you’d coded half-under your blankets, half-hiding your tears.

You panicked. Megan pressed her pen into your palm so hard it hurt. Lara found a plastic chair behind the snack stall. The fair hummed around you, chattering, pop songs so loud it hurt your ears as if you don’t listen to that one song so religiously and oil smoke spreading like crazy— but you were shaking, drawing every tiny square by hand on the back of an old receipt.

“It’ll work,” you kept mumbling. “It has to.”

When you finished, your hands were black with ink. Lara called you insane. Megan fanned your sweaty neck with a paper plate. You just laughed, shaky and small.

—⁠☆

You found Daniela first, near the soda stand. She looked at you, at the trembling bouquet, then at the tiny butterfly you pressed into her palm.

“Please,” you whispered. “Give this to her.”

Daniela opened the wing carefully— a line from Mahika, Adie’s voice echoing through your handwriting:

“Giliw, nagpapahiwatig na sayo ang damdamin ko, napagtanto na gusto kita.”

(Mahika: Magic)

(Giliw, nagpapahiwatig na sayo ang damdamin ko, napagtanto na gusto kita: My beloved, my feelings for you are showing now that I’ve realized I like you)

She didn’t tease you. Daniela’s chest softened. She looked at you for a long moment, maybe wishing she could say something to ease the hope trembling in your eyes. Instead, she only squeezed your shoulder once.

Manon got the second butterfly by the photo booth. She tucked it into her pocket without even reading it first, then pulled it out and smiled when you walked away after giving it to her:

“Kung mapagbibigyan, di hahayaang masayang.”

— Kursunada, Adie.

(Kursunada: an object of desire/interest)

(Kung mapagbibigyan, di hahayaang masayang: If you give me a chance, I promise I won’t let you down)

“You’re brave,” Manon murmured, voice lost under the buzz of the speakers. She tucked the butterfly again into her pocket like a secret she didn’t want the wind to steal.

—☆

Time passed, the concert crowd gathered near the main quad. Fairy lights tangled with the soft dusk, and somewhere at the back, you hovered. Fingers drumming the paper bouquet, your heart a hive of fear and hope.

The fair was a maze of noise and color. Lights strung between booths, paper cranes hanging from tree branches, students shouting over pop songs and sizzling snacks. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you. With a bouquet pressed to your chest, and the last butterfly folded so carefully you could feel its tiny wings trembling with your heartbeat.

But all your planning left out one thing: when Over October would play.

When the crowd gathered near the stage, you hovered at the back, bouquet pressed to your chest like armor. Daniela and Manon found Sophia by the drink stand, her hair catching the dusk light like it was made to glow.

Daniela nudged her first. Sophia sighed but unfolded the first butterfly anyway, lips curling around the words you’d chosen like they were a secret she couldn’t keep nor let go. Manon stepped up next, pressing the second one into her free hand. Marquise peeked over her shoulder, teased her gently, and for a heartbeat Sophia’s fingers clenched around your paper wings instead of tossing them aside.

When the host called out the acts, your chest rattled. The first wasn’t them— safe. The second, safe still. But the third…

You felt your ribs squeeze around your lungs out of fear you wouldn’t find her on time.

You knew. Kaakit-akit was coming. Her song. Yours.

And you hadn’t even found her yet.

So you searched. Frantic and fearless in a way only heartbreak can make you.

You stopped students by the food stalls, calling her name like a prayer: “Sophia— have you seen Sophia? Sophia Laforteza — please, have you seen her?” You asked her classmates from musical theatre, wide-eyed freshmen who looked at you like they’d seen a ghost with roses in its arms.

You caught a teacher near the entrance gates. “Ma’am, please— Sophia Laforteza? I need to find her— it’s important.”

You asked a security guard at the side fence, voice cracking. He only shook his head, radio buzzing on his shoulder.

Megan and Lara trailed behind you, breathless, worried, but ready. Megan filming in secret when she could, Lara whispering, *“You’ll find her. Keep going. Go.”

The lights flickered. The crowd’s chatter dipped into an electric hush.

You froze— thinking you were too late.

But then, instead of the band, a single spotlight cut across the quad— not on the stage, but the crowd.

And there she was.

Sophia. Laughing at something Lexie whispered, a bouquet of friends around her, not knowing that in that moment she was your whole galaxy under that stray beam of borrowed light.

Your chest collapsed with relief and terror at once.

The opening chords of Kaakit-akit began. Warm, familiar, terrifying.

You stood frozen until the pre-chorus came, the words you’d written in a thousand poems ringing back at you in borrowed lyrics. Then you moved. You had to.

You shoved through students, apologies tumbling from your lips. Someone cursed when your bouquet brushed their shoulder. But you didn’t stop.

You were just a bee.

And she was the only flower you’d ever sting.

When the chorus hit and you heard the word kaakit-akit blooming over the speakers, you tapped her shoulder, breath catching on your tongue.

Kaakit-akit, nauulol sayo

(You’re so enchanting that you make me crazy for you)

Sophia turned around in confusion, surprise, a flicker of something softer— but the song swallowed it all.

“Sa ’twing lalapit, tanggal ang angas ko”

(And when you come close, suddenly I can’t act normal at all)

You handed her the butterfly first, the smallest one, wings trembling in her palm. The one with the hand-drawn QR code hidden in its fold. The one that held every unsent message, every late-night poem, every tiny sketch she’d never thanked you for. And then you gave her the bouquet.

‘Kay iibigin, iaalay ang mundo”

(I will love you and offer you the world)

14 flowers with 2 kinds of each, handpicked by you. Staying up late at night to research about the flower and pick a symbolism that best resonates with her.

You put your phone out, a note app open with a short message written for her, clearly rushed but still meaningful. Afraid when you say these to her, she won’t hear it like every other time you were too silenced about it.

“At sasabihing, ika’y kaakit-akit”

(And I will say that you’re so alluring/enchanting)

“Hi! I like you :)) If its not yet that obvious. I’m not expecting anything, really. I just want to confess before it swallows me whole.” typed on your note app.

The music rose.

The moment stretched.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came.

The silence pressed down harder than any ‘no’ she could have said.

So you placed the butterfly in her palm. Closed her fingers around it.

Behind you, Daniela and Manon, and her two other friends from the theatre club watched. Butterflies held tight in Sophia’s closed hands. Somewhere in the folds, your words waited— small poems, songs, a map back to you she might never follow.

Your poems stayed behind in her bag, her locker, her desk. And now, in her hands too. You wondered if she’d ever unfold them all. If she’d find the landscapes, the sunsets, the trees bent like lovers. If she’d ever think of the bee that buzzed too close and left its heart behind.

Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t.

You’d done your part. You’d stung her soft as you could.

And when bees sting, they get to rest.

She looked at you. Past you. At your friends lingering behind, holding their breath for you.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t say no.

She just held your flowers, your last paper wing.

The silence swallowed Kaakit-akit’s last chords.

You stepped back when the song ended. You smiled.

Cracked and soft as the wings you’d folded all week and waved goodbye, wondering if she'll open those letters at all.

#sophia laforteza x reader #katseye x reader #sophia x reader #sophia laforteza #megan skiendiel #daniela avanzini #manon bannerman #lara raj #jeong yoonchae #thecchi writes

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winterlico · 3 months ago

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LATE NIGHT ᰔ sim jaeyun .ᐟ

﹙ masterlist﹚──── sim jaeyun x fem!reader ⚡︎ fluff , mention kiss , make out ⸝⸝ 運命 ◦ aprox 88303 wc ‼

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The night air feels cool against your skin as you walk alone across the quiet campus, the soft glow of streetlights casting long shadows on the concrete. You’ve stayed late at the library again, buried under the weight of microbiology textbooks and lab reports. It's almost 2 AM, and the campus is mostly empty, save for a few students rushing to their late-night study spots or the occasional campus security guard making their rounds.

You’d been lost in your thoughts when the sudden sound of crashing and fighting from a nearby alley snaps you out of your daze. It’s not the usual late-night chaos, though—it sounds… different. More intense. You hesitate for a moment, your curiosity pulling you toward the noise.

Just as you approach the corner of the campus building, you freeze. A figure, clad in a red-and-blue suit, is weaving in and out of shadows, effortlessly dodging punches from a group of thugs who clearly don’t stand a chance.

Spider-Man. You’ve heard the rumors, seen the viral videos online. You never thought you’d actually encounter him, especially not this close. And not this late.

Your heart races, half from excitement, half from fear, as you stand rooted to the spot. The way Spider-Man swings through the alley, his movements so smooth, almost like he’s dancing, makes your breath catch in your throat. You can’t look away. His webbing, gleaming in the dim light, zips around and disarms one of the attackers, sending him stumbling backward.

Your eyes follow his movements with awe, but then, something happens that you didn’t expect. Spider-Man pauses for a brief moment, his chest heaving as he pulls his mask off, just slightly, to take a breath. The alleyway is silent for a split second, and in that instant, you see his face.

You freeze, eyes widening. It’s him. The guy from your biology class—Jake. You’d noticed him before, his quiet confidence and the way he carried himself. You had never suspected him to be, well, Spider-Man.

Jake, realizing what he just did, seems to snap back to reality. His eyes meet yours across the alley. A brief, awkward moment hangs in the air before he swears under his breath, pulling the mask back over his face. “Uh… not what I meant to do,” he mutters, clearing his throat.

You stand there, frozen, unsure if you should say anything. His posture is tense, shoulders squared as he awkwardly shifts his weight. There’s no denying it now—he’s Spider-Man.

“Jake?” you say, voice barely above a whisper, still trying to process everything. "You... you're—"

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me,” he says quickly, still trying to avoid eye contact. "I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. You should... probably head back to your dorm. It's not exactly safe around here."

You blink in disbelief, still not sure how to respond. “But… you just—” Your voice trails off, a thousand questions rushing to your mind. "You're—Spider-Man."

He nods, looking sheepish for a moment. “Yeah. I kinda have a thing for keeping the city safe.” His tone is casual, as though casually revealing his secret identity isn't the least bit weird. “Guess I’m not as good at this stealth thing as I thought.”

You take a step closer, still in shock. "You… you just fought off a group of guys. What are you—?"

“Just trying to keep things from going sideways,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “You know how it is. Some nights, the bad guys just don’t want to stay in their lane.”

“I can’t believe this,” you mumble, a little breathless. “You’re Spider-Man. You’re, like, a superhero.”

Jake shrugs, his typical confident smirk returning to his lips. “Well, yeah, but I’d prefer ‘friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,’ if you’re asking for preferences. It’s a bit less… dramatic.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “This is insane. How long have you been… doing this?”

He tilts his head, his eyes twinkling with mischief now. “Long enough to get pretty good at it. But I’ve always managed to keep my two worlds separate. Until now, I guess.”

“Yeah, now you’ve got me to keep a secret,” you reply, a teasing smile playing at the corners of your lips.

He gives you a playful look, raising an eyebrow. “Guess you’ll have to be careful, princess. Not everyone can handle the truth. Especially when you’re not supposed to know.”

“You’re going to keep calling me that, aren’t you?” you ask, your smile widening.

“You bet,” he says with a grin, his tone light but affectionate. “Now that you know my secret, you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

You can’t help but laugh, the tension from the strange situation beginning to ease. “I think I can handle a little teasing. You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops on you.”

Jake chuckles, clearly relieved. “I don’t think that would go over well. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun.” He shoots you a wink, his usual cocky self returning in full force.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny the way your heart flutters at the way he looks at you, even with his mask on. You’ve always admired him from afar, but this? This was something else entirely.

As the sound of sirens approaches in the distance, Jake stands tall, ready to leave. “You should head back to your dorm, princess. I’ll take care of the rest here.”

“Be careful, okay?” you say, your voice softening. There’s something about this whole situation—his vulnerability, his strength, the way he’s trying to keep it all together—that makes you want to say more, but you don’t.

He flashes a grin, nodding. “Always am. And hey… if you need anything, I’ll be around.” His wink is mischievous, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that makes your heart race even faster.

You watch as he swings up into the night, the distant sound of his webs twirling around filling the air. It all feels surreal, like you’re still caught in some strange dream. And yet, as you make your way back to your dorm, you can’t help but smile. Jake had just pulled off the biggest plot twist of your life, and you’re pretty sure this was only the beginning.

The air is still warm from the day’s heat, and the night feels like it’s just beginning to settle in as you walk back from the grocery store, your arms weighed down with bags. You’ve had a long day at the lab, and all you want now is to get back to your dorm, eat something quick, and maybe relax for a bit. The street is dimly lit, only a few other students walking to their own destinations, and the quiet of the campus feels peaceful, almost comforting. You hum softly to yourself, oblivious to the footsteps behind you that seem to follow just a little too closely.

As you round the corner near your dorm, a chill runs up your spine. You can feel it now, the tension in the air. Something isn’t right. You pick up your pace, glancing around, but it’s too late. The men step out from the shadows, blocking your way. You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest as one of them pulls a knife from his pocket, the blade gleaming under the streetlight.

“Hey, princess,” one of them sneers, his breath foul in the still night. “Looks like you’ve got some pretty nice bags there. Hand them over, and maybe we won’t make a mess.”

Your stomach drops. You can feel the panic rising, but you try to stay calm. You’ve never been in a situation like this before, and you’re not sure how to handle it. The knife in the man’s hand glints, and the other one takes a step forward, closing the distance between you.

“Please,” you say, your voice trembling. “I don’t want any trouble. Just take the bags.”

“Smart choice, but not enough,” the man with the knife growls. “You don’t get to decide anything here.”

You back up a little, but your mind is racing, trying to figure out how to escape. You know you can’t outrun them. You feel a familiar panic bubble in your chest—this is real, and there’s nowhere to hide.

But just as one of the men reaches for the bag, you hear it. A soft thwip sound in the air, followed by a loud crash as something crashes into the ground behind you. The men are distracted for just a second, looking over their shoulders, and in that moment, a figure swings down from the nearby building. You barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re pulled into the strong embrace of someone, their arm wrapping tightly around your waist.

“Did you miss me, princess?” Jake’s voice comes through the dark, warm and teasing, but there’s an edge of protectiveness in it that makes your heart skip a beat.

You look up at him, his familiar red-and-blue suit shining faintly in the streetlight, his mask pulled down just far enough that his eyes lock with yours.

“Jake?” you whisper, your breath caught in your throat. The realization hits you all at once. You almost can’t believe it—again. It’s him.

But there’s no time for explanations. The thugs are already recovering from the surprise of his sudden appearance. One of them lunges forward with the knife aimed right for Jake’s chest, but Jake’s quick, his reflexes honed from countless close calls. He dodges, twisting around and sending a webbing shot that wraps around the man’s wrist, pulling him off balance. With a swift motion, Jake kicks the man to the ground, leaving him groaning in pain.

The second attacker tries to make a run for it, but Jake doesn’t give him a chance. In one smooth move, he launches himself forward, webs shooting from his wrists and pinning the guy against the brick wall of the dorm. You watch in awe as Jake effortlessly takes control of the situation, even as the men struggle beneath his hold.

“Not so tough now, huh?” Jake taunts, his voice laced with playful confidence. He stands over the two thugs, surveying them with an almost casual expression. “You should know better than to mess with someone’s girlfriend. Especially my girlfriend.”

You blink, your heart skipping at the way he says it, the way he casually claims you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His tone isn’t possessive, but the tenderness behind the words is unmistakable.

But before you can respond, he turns his attention back to the criminals, his body moving in a blur as he effortlessly subdues them, tying them up with webbing and making sure they can’t escape. Within seconds, they’re left incapacitated, groaning on the ground, helpless.

“Done and done,” Jake says, his tone light as he walks back toward you. His mask pulls down over his face fully again, but his eyes still find yours. “You okay, princess?”

You nod, still stunned by everything happening so quickly. “Yeah. I think so. I just… I can’t believe you showed up. You saved me.”

Jake grins, that familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got my eye on you, remember? You’re my responsibility now.”

You swallow, heart still racing from the adrenaline, but there's something comforting about his words, the way he stands in front of you, making you feel like you’re safe despite everything. His presence alone is enough to calm the storm in your chest.

“I guess this is part of your superhero gig, huh?” you say, trying to lighten the mood, even though you’re still a little shaken.

“You got it,” Jake says, chuckling as he steps closer.

“But you should know, I’ve got a pretty personal interest in protecting you now.” He pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you. “Don’t go wandering off at night again. It’s dangerous out here.”

“I won’t,” you promise, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake smirks, then without warning, he reaches for your hand, gently pulling you close to his side. “Good. Now, how about we get you home safe and sound, princess?”

Your heart skips again as you look up at him, feeling the warmth of his hand in yours. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

You walk with him toward your dorm, the weight of the grocery bags almost forgotten, your mind still racing with everything that just happened. But as Jake keeps you close, his hand never leaving yours, the world suddenly feels a little safer. It’s not just about the bad guys anymore. It’s about him, and the way he makes you feel like nothing could ever go wrong with him by your side.

You’re still trying to process what just happened—your near-mugging, the way Jake swooped in, effortlessly neutralizing the threat, and now, standing in front of you with that signature grin of his. The adrenaline is still pumping in your veins, and your heart is pounding, not just from the close call but from the way Jake has completely thrown you off balance.

You should be taking a breath, maybe calling the authorities, or even just walking back to your dorm to recover. But instead, Jake is standing there, eyes gleaming with that mischievous spark, as if the world’s danger doesn’t even faze him. His tone is casual when he speaks, though there’s something more playful underneath it, something you can’t quite place.

“You know,” he says, his voice low, teasing, “since I’m already here… How about I take you home in style?”

Your heart skips a beat, the words barely registering in your brain before the rest of what he says sinks in.

“Style?” you repeat, blinking at him, still trying to catch your breath. “How… what do you mean?”

Jake’s grin widens, and before you can fully process the situation, before you can even think about arguing or running away, he does the last thing you expect.

One smooth motion, and you’re scooped up effortlessly in his arms. Your breath catches in your throat, panic flooding in as you instinctively grab onto his shoulder. “Jake—! Wait, no—!” You try to pull away, but his grip on you is firm, secure.

“Relax, princess,” he says, his voice teasing. “This will be fun, I promise.”

Your pulse races as the world shifts beneath you. You don’t have time to respond before Jake leaps off the ground. The wind rushes past you, your feet no longer touching the ground. The sharp sensation of flying fills your senses as he swings between buildings with you still cradled in his arms. You yelp in surprise, your heart leaping into your throat. You’ve never experienced anything like this—never thought you’d be soaring through the night sky like this.

“Jake!” you shout, gripping him tighter, your body instinctively tensing at the rush of the swing. Your eyes are squeezed shut as your heart races, the wind tearing past you too fast for your brain to keep up.

Jake’s laughter echoes above the sounds of the city, clear and carefree. “Don’t worry, princess, I’ve got you.” He shifts slightly, adjusting the way he’s holding you to make sure you feel secure, though the way your body is pressed so close to his only intensifies the wild thrumming in your chest.

It’s not until the next swing, when the world blurs in a rush of neon lights, that you dare open your eyes.

The city sprawls beneath you, like a million little lights scattered across a dark canvas. The buildings rise high, their sharp silhouettes glowing against the dark sky. The streets below are quiet, almost peaceful, and for a moment, it’s as if you’re outside of time. You can see everything—the bustling city, the people moving like tiny dots below you. It feels surreal, like something out of a dream.

The initial shock starts to wear off, replaced by something else, something more exciting, as your grip on Jake’s shoulder slowly loosens. Your eyes widen at the breathtaking view before you, and with the night air rushing past you, you can’t help but let out a soft laugh, the thrill of it all sinking in.

“This is… this is crazy,” you breathe, your voice trembling, but not from fear anymore. From exhilaration. You can feel your body relaxing into his arms as you start to get used to the rhythm, the swings between the buildings, the pull of gravity, and the rush of flying through the night.

Jake glances at you from the corner of his eye, still grinning, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Told you. It’s like nothing else, right?”

You nod, still wide-eyed. “I didn’t expect this. I’ve never—”

“Never flown between buildings like this, huh?” Jake interrupts with a playful tone. “It’s a first for everyone. But I’m glad you’re not freaking out.” He flashes you a wink, his cocky grin back in full force.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’m too dazed to freak out,” you mutter, looking down again at the city lights below you. It’s like you’re suspended in time, the whole world below you both still and peaceful.

Jake’s voice drops lower, more thoughtful now as you continue to swing. “There’s something about the city at night. Everything feels different from up here. Feels… right, you know?”

You look at him, a little surprised by the shift in his tone. There’s something soft in his gaze as he looks at you, something more than the usual teasing or playful banter. It’s just the two of you up here, suspended in the air, and for a moment, you feel a strange kind of connection—a shared understanding.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your heart still fluttering. “I think I get it now.”

Jake smiles, but it’s softer this time, a subtle warmth in the way his eyes linger on you. “You’re braver than I thought, princess. Not a lot of people could hang on this long without panicking.”

You can’t help but laugh, a little embarrassed. “Well, when you’re Spider-Man, I guess you kind of have to keep up, huh?”

Jake laughs with you, his voice light and carefree, and you feel the tension from earlier slip away. With every swing, the city below you seems more alive, the world seems more exciting, more full of possibility. In Jake’s arms, you feel a sense of comfort, despite the insanity of it all.

As you continue to swing through the night, you can’t help but wonder if maybe this crazy ride isn’t so bad after all.

The air feels charged as Jake swings through the city, his movements fluid, graceful, like a part of the night itself. You’re still wrapped up in his arms, the wind whipping around you as he deftly maneuvers between towering buildings. Every twist and turn has your heart racing again, but not out of fear this time—out of exhilaration. The grip you have on his shoulder has loosened entirely now, your arms still around him but relaxed, and you're actually enjoying the sensation of flying.

As you approach your apartment building, you can feel the change in the atmosphere, the pace slowing down as the towering structures of the city give way to smaller buildings and quieter streets. The lights here are softer, the night air a little cooler, and it feels more like you’re heading into a familiar place, not something far away or foreign like the dizzying heights of downtown.

Jake’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. "We’re almost there," he says, his tone relaxed, the usual mischievousness still present but softer now. He doesn’t need to remind you; you can tell by the way he adjusts his swings that he’s already figured out where your apartment is.

Your apartment building comes into view—a sleek, modern structure in the middle of the city, its glass windows reflecting the soft glow of streetlights. The familiar sight of it comforts you a little, grounding you after the wild ride.

"Hold on," Jake warns, his grip tightening slightly on your waist as he starts to decelerate. You nod instinctively, your arms tightening around his neck just to make sure you don’t lose balance.

With expert precision, Jake swings to a stop just a few yards away from the entrance of your building. The motion is so smooth that, for a moment, you almost forget that you’ve been soaring through the air like Spider-Man’s sidekick. He sets you down gently, his hands lingering on your waist for just a second longer than necessary as he steadies you.

You stumble a little, catching your breath and trying to steady yourself. The world feels like it’s still moving even though your feet are back on solid ground. Jake watches you with a soft grin, his eyes warm, almost like he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

"Not bad, huh?" he says, his tone teasing but affectionate.

You take a deep breath, still trying to get your bearings. “That was… insane,” you manage to say, your heart still racing, but the excitement isn’t fading. It’s lingering, buzzing beneath your skin.

You glance at him, trying to put your thoughts together. "I never thought I’d be doing that... not in a million years. It was... incredible."

Jake’s grin widens, and there’s a flash of pride in his eyes. "I told you, you’d get used to it. Besides, I make a pretty good tour guide, don’t I?" He winks, clearly amused by the situation.

You roll your eyes, but it’s playful. "You know, you’re insufferable," you say, trying to hide your smile, but it’s not really working. The way he’s looking at you makes your heart flutter.

Jake shrugs, his expression shifting to something softer, more genuine now. "Hey, I can’t help it if I’m good at what I do."

He gives you a quick, teasing nudge with his shoulder. "But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay. You’re… pretty tough for someone who looks so harmless."

Your heart skips at his words, and you look away quickly, not sure how to respond. But before you can think too much about it, Jake’s voice cuts through the silence again, playful but with a hint of something more.

"Well, I guess I better let you go inside now," he says, his smile lingering as he takes a small step back, allowing you to move toward your apartment’s door.

You hesitate, your fingers still curled slightly where they rested on his shoulder. The warmth of his presence is still there, lingering, and for a moment, you don’t want to let him go. You don’t know what to say—what to do—but the lingering tension between you both is undeniable.

"Jake…" you start, but the words trail off. You try to meet his gaze, but your cheeks flush, and you look down at your feet, still unsure of what to say.

He doesn’t rush you, though. Instead, he steps closer again, his hand reaching out for yours, his touch warm and reassuring.

"Yeah?"

His voice is soft now, and you can feel his proximity, his presence making everything feel just a little more intense. He looks at you with an unreadable expression, the teasing tone from before replaced with something else. Something quieter.

You feel your heartbeat quicken again, unsure of the moment but still wanting to say something—anything. But as you open your mouth, ready to speak, Jake cuts you off, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"You’re safe now, princess," he says, the words carrying more weight than before, as if he’s letting you know how much he means it. “I’ll always make sure of that.”

His gaze softens as he holds your eyes for a long moment, and something shifts between you. It’s like everything is finally clicking into place, like the chaos of the night has settled into a peaceful, if confusing, calm.

Before you can process it, Jake leans forward, his lips brushing your cheek in a soft, quick kiss. It's barely there, but the effect is immediate—your heart skips, your mind goes blank for a split second, and when you pull back, you see him grinning at you, that same mischievous spark back in his eyes.

“That’s my good deed for the night,” he teases, his voice returning to its usual playful tone, though there's something more in it now. His fingers linger on your hand for a moment before he steps back, giving you space.

You blink, still caught off guard by the sudden gesture. "Jake, what—" You start to say, but he’s already stepping back, that same cocky grin back on his face.

"I'll see you around, princess," he says casually, his voice full of that teasing warmth you’ve come to expect. "You’re safe now. You can head inside. Get some rest."

And before you can even respond, he’s already turning away, his figure melting into the shadows as he swings off into the night, leaving you standing there, feeling a little lost and a lot confused.

You stand there for a long moment, the cool night air pressing against your skin, the softness of his kiss still lingering on your cheek. What just happened? You shake your head, still feeling the rush, still caught in the mix of emotions. Maybe you will get some rest after all... but Jake definitely isn’t helping your mind settle.

With a sigh, you finally unlock the door to your apartment and step inside, your heart still racing, your thoughts swirling.

It’s late again, another night that started out mundane and calm, but turned into something far more chaotic. You’d been wrapping up a late-night study session in the library and decided to walk back to your apartment after grabbing a quick snack. The usual peace of the campus at night, the soft hum of the streetlights, is suddenly interrupted as you turn a corner and find yourself face to face with a group of men blocking your path.

It doesn’t take long to recognize the danger when one of them steps too close, a grin stretching across his face as his gaze lingers far too long on you. His tone is slow, deliberate, like he’s sizing you up. "Hey there, pretty thing. Out for a walk all alone at this hour?"

You freeze, heart racing, eyes darting around, trying to assess your options. But before you can react, another one of them steps forward, his hand reaching toward you. The touch is far too close, and your breath hitches in your throat. Panic begins to bubble in your chest.

And that’s when you hear it—the sound of a thud, followed by the unmistakable, familiar voice.

"You’re not going anywhere."

Jake. He’s here. Again.

You blink, and in the next moment, you’re already being pulled behind him, the sound of his web-slinging catching the air as he lands with a perfect crouch between you and the men.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” Jake’s voice is dangerously low, filled with a sharp edge you’ve never heard before. The usual teasing lilt is gone, replaced by something possessive. You’re used to Jake’s antics, his mischievous grin, his cocky swagger—but this, this is different.

The group of men stumbles back a few steps, and one of them mutters something under his breath, clearly not prepared for this. The tension in the air is thick, every muscle in Jake’s body coiled with protective intent. You don’t need to see his face to know his jaw is clenched, his fists tight by his side, ready to act if necessary.

The one who had gotten too close to you sneers, stepping forward, but Jake is faster, his movements a blur. With a quick flick of his wrist, a strand of web shoots out, yanking the guy backward into a trash bin with a satisfying crash.

The remaining two men hesitate, clearly unsure if they should fight or run. They glance at each other, but before they can make their decision, Jake’s voice slices through the night again, steady, commanding.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” he says, the warning clear. "Leave. Now."

And just like that, they turn tail and bolt, disappearing into the shadows of the alley. Your heart is racing, but your body relaxes just a little as the threat disappears. You’ve been through this enough by now to know Jake’s got everything under control.

Still, your hands tremble slightly as you try to collect yourself, still shaken by the incident. You glance up at Jake, who’s standing just a few feet away, his posture rigid, his attention focused entirely on you.

He doesn’t move at first, only watches you with that intensity that always seems to make your heart skip. His gaze softens slightly when he sees how shaken you are, but the possessiveness is still there, lurking just beneath the surface.

You take a small step forward, your voice small but steady, “Jake, you— you didn’t have to… you didn’t need to go that far…”

Jake’s eyes flicker, and then his lips curl into a soft smirk, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now that makes your breath catch. He steps closer, reaching out for your hand, but it’s not to pull you in for a comforting hug like he usually does. No, this time, his fingers brush over the back of your hand, a subtle claim.

“I do what I want, princess,” he says, his voice lower than usual, thick with emotion you can’t quite place. “And you’re my responsibility. You think I’m going to let anyone touch you like that?”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. There’s something in his eyes, something protective that you’ve never seen this intensely before. You’re not sure how to react to it—how to process it, even.

Before you can say anything, Jake’s hand gently pulls you toward him. You step into him, your body instinctively seeking his warmth, his safety. He leans down slightly, his breath warm on your ear, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. The feeling is overwhelming, and you let out a shaky breath, feeling his heartbeat through his suit.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, the tension in his voice now softening. His fingers find your chin, lifting it gently so that your eyes meet his. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, though your voice trembles a little. You can feel his protective energy still surrounding you, but you don’t want to seem weak. Not now.

He doesn’t seem to believe you, though. His thumb brushes over your cheek, the touch gentle but deliberate. “I don’t like seeing you scared,” he mutters, his voice laced with an emotion you’re starting to understand. “Don’t like anyone laying a hand on you. You hear me?”

You nod, your breath catching again at the way his eyes darken with something more intense than you’re used to seeing. You’ve always known he cared for you, but this? This is different. This is possessive, raw… personal.

He steps back for a moment, and you watch as his posture shifts, like he’s about to leave. But before you can process it, Jake takes a step forward, his hands cupping your face carefully.

You don’t have time to react before his lips are pressed gently to your cheek, soft and lingering. It’s quick, but there’s something intense about it, like he’s reaffirming his presence in your life. The warmth of his lips makes your heart flutter, and you can’t help the little sigh that escapes you.

Before you can say anything, Jake pulls back, his eyes locking with yours. His grin is softer now, less cocky, and more… genuine. The possessive edge is still there, but there’s a tenderness now that makes your heart beat a little faster.

“Get inside, princess,” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s trying to ground himself after all the chaos. “I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe.”

You nod, your chest still tight from everything that happened. But there’s something reassuring about him, something in the way he holds you, in the way he never lets go. You start to walk toward the entrance of your building, but Jake follows closely behind, his presence never straying too far from you.

Before you reach the door, he stops you one last time.

"Hey," Jake says, his voice a little sheepish now, though his eyes are still burning with that protective fire. “A kiss on my cheek, princess? For a job well done?”

You stop and turn back toward him, raising an eyebrow. “You’re asking for a kiss now?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but you can see the playful twinkle in his eyes. “What can I say? I’m a hero. I’m entitled to one.”

You stare at him for a second, the weight of everything still heavy between you two. But then, without thinking too much about it, you step forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.

Jake’s eyes widen slightly, a pleased smile creeping across his face as you pull away. His eyes soften as he leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, as if claiming it just as much as he claimed your heart.

“I’ll make sure you’re safe, princess,” he whispers softly, his voice barely audible now, but you hear the promise in it.

You smile, feeling your heart flutter for him all over again as you step inside your apartment, a strange warmth spreading through your chest as you close the door behind you. Jake may have been a hero tonight, but you couldn’t help but feel like you were becoming his hero, too.

It’s late, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a soft, heavy blanket. You’ve just gotten into bed, the weight of the day finally catching up with you as you settle into the cozy warmth of your apartment. Your mind is still a little restless, running over thoughts of schoolwork, the things you need to do tomorrow, and of course, Jake. You haven’t seen him in a couple of days—he’s been elusive, but that’s nothing new. You understand; it’s his mysterious nature that makes him… well, him.

Just as you’re about to close your eyes, a sound interrupts the silence—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap at your window. You freeze, heart jumping in your chest, and for a split second, your mind runs through the list of possible explanations. Could it be an animal? Maybe the wind?

But then, another tap, a little louder this time, followed by a distinct creaking sound as something shifts in the air. It takes you a moment to realize what’s happening, but when you finally do, your heart skips a beat.

You jump out of bed, rushing to the window. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.

Spiderman—Jake—is hanging upside down just outside your window. His suit is torn in multiple places, bruises marring his face and limbs, and blood is splattered across his chest, dripping down in thick streaks. His usually vibrant mask is barely hanging on, with one side of it barely clinging to his face.

Panic rises in your chest like a tidal wave. You don’t even think twice before pulling the window open, your hands shaking as you grip the edges.

“Jake!” you whisper-yell, trying to keep the panic in your voice at bay as you quickly push the window wider. “What the hell happened?”

He tilts his head slightly, his face still obscured by his mask, but you can see his eyes, faintly glowing in the dim light. His usual confident smirk is nowhere to be found. Instead, his lips are pressed into a thin line, his breathing heavy and labored. He swings himself inside, collapsing lightly onto your bed in an uncoordinated way.

“Could’ve warned me before you came crashing through the window,” you mutter, though your voice cracks with worry as you kneel beside him. “What happened to you, Jake? You look—you look awful.”

He gives you a weak, almost painful chuckle, but it sounds strained, as though even that small movement took everything out of him. “I’m fine, princess. Just… had a run-in with a couple of new guys,” he says, voice laced with exhaustion.

You ignore him, your hands already reaching for the nearby med kit you keep on the shelf for emergencies like this—though you never imagined this would be the reason you’d use it. As you pull out gauze, antiseptic, and bandages, your mind races. You’ve seen him hurt before, but this is different. This time, it feels personal. He looks vulnerable, and it makes your heart ache in a way you can’t explain.

You gently tug at the edge of his mask, and though he doesn’t protest, you can tell he’s trying to hold on to whatever pride he has left. You pull it off, revealing the familiar face you’ve come to know so well. His hair is messy, sweat beading on his forehead, and those sharp, alluring features are softened by exhaustion. His eyes are unfocused for a moment, as though he’s still struggling to come back to reality after whatever fight he’s just survived.

"Jake," you murmur, sitting next to him on the bed, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "You’re hurt. I need to clean you up, okay?"

He gives you a soft nod, too tired to say anything, and you don’t waste another second. You start with his arm, gently cleaning the blood away as carefully as you can. The sight of him—torn, vulnerable, and trusting you enough to let you do this—pulls at your heartstrings. You can feel his muscles tense every now and then, but he doesn’t complain. You think he’s probably too exhausted to even speak.

“You really know how to make an entrance, don’t you?” you say softly, trying to inject some humor into the situation to lighten the mood.

Jake chuckles weakly, his voice hoarse. “Well, it’s not exactly my first choice of grand entrances… but it works.”

You let out a short laugh, your fingers moving to his chest next, carefully dabbing at the gashes and bruises there. He hisses a little as you touch one of the deeper cuts, his jaw clenched, but he doesn’t pull away. You bite your lip, trying not to show how much his pain is affecting you.

“You’re not fine,” you say quietly, more to yourself than to him, your fingers now gently pressing the gauze against his ribs to stop the bleeding. “You’re hurt… badly.”

He glances over at you, his eyes softening just a little, and for the first time, you see a flicker of vulnerability that he normally hides so well behind the mask. “You’re right,” he admits quietly. “But I’ll be fine. You always take care of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you, princess.”

Your heart swells at the softness in his voice, and you try to ignore the way his words make your stomach flutter. You focus instead on taking care of him, cleaning his wounds, bandaging him up with steady hands.

“There,” you say, pulling back and looking at your work, “that should hold for now. I’ll have to check your other injuries, but… you need to rest. And I need you to stop throwing yourself into dangerous situations.”

Jake leans back, leaning against the edge of the bed with a soft sigh of relief. “I’m not a kid, princess. I can take care of myself.” He pauses, glancing at you with a flicker of something behind his eyes. “But… I don’t mind you taking care of me.”

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips despite the situation. “Oh, you don’t mind, huh? Well, don’t get used to it.”

Jake smirks, though his expression is softer than usual, more grateful than teasing. “You know you love it,” he murmurs, his eyes almost sparkling with exhaustion and amusement.

You lean back slightly, still worried but trying to ease the tension. “I love making sure you don’t bleed out on my bed.”

He chuckles weakly, his head resting back against the wall behind him. “Fair enough.” He closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a deep breath. “Thanks, princess. You’re the best.”

Your chest warms, a mix of worry and fondness flooding you. You glance at him, taking in the sight of him sitting there, tired and bruised, but still him. Jake. Your Jake. You wish you could keep him out of harm’s way forever, but you know that’s impossible. He’s not just Jake; he’s Spider-Man. And no matter how much it hurts to see him like this, you know he wouldn’t change a thing.

But for now, you’re content to just sit next to him, making sure he’s okay, knowing that—no matter what comes next—you’ll always be here for him.

The soft moonlight filters in through the window, casting gentle shadows across the room. You’re still processing everything—the way he crashed through your window, his bruised and battered body, the way he insisted on being fine despite it all. But now, with him lying next to you, his arm wrapped around your waist and pulling you close, you can’t help but feel a strange mixture of relief and concern.

You let out a soft sigh, turning slightly to look at Jake, who’s still awake beside you, his head resting against the pillow. His eyes are closed, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he’s content to just be here, with you.

"Jake," you murmur softly, your fingers tracing small circles on his chest, trying to steady your thoughts. "Are you really okay?"

He exhales a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. "You’ve asked me that a thousand times tonight, princess," he teases lightly, his voice husky with exhaustion. "I told you I’m fine."

You roll your eyes, still not convinced. "You’re not fine. You’re covered in bruises and bleeding all over the place. Don’t lie to me." You feel the heat of his body against yours, his warmth strangely comforting. But the worry still lingers in the back of your mind, twisting your insides.

Jake opens his eyes then, his gaze soft but serious as he looks down at you. "I’m sorry, okay? I didn't want to worry you," he admits, his voice low. "But I guess I failed at that, huh?"

You nod, though your heart sinks a little at the vulnerability in his voice. "You always try to protect me, don’t you?" you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. "But who’s gonna protect you when you get hurt like this?"

Jake’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, but then he gives you a soft, almost tender smile. "I’m the one who’s supposed to be the hero here, remember?" he jokes, though there’s no real humor in his tone this time. "Guess I can’t help it if I need saving every now and then."

You shake your head, the feeling of helplessness creeping up on you. "You’re not invincible, Jake. You can’t do it all alone."

He shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow so he can look at you better. "I’m not alone, princess," he says seriously. "I’ve got you. I’ll always have you."

You feel your heart skip a beat at his words, warmth flooding your chest. You bite your lip, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. "You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d probably lecture you about taking better care of yourself," you tease, but your tone is softer now, more affectionate.

Jake grins, his expression relaxing as he leans in slightly, his forehead gently touching yours. "I know, I know. But I’ll let you lecture me when I’m not bleeding out." He laughs, a little chuckle that makes your heart flutter. "You’re the best, you know that? Even when you’re mad at me."

You push him lightly, though you can’t help but smile back at him. "I’m not mad, I’m just… worried. You scare me sometimes, you know that?" Your voice comes out more fragile than you intended, and you immediately regret it.

Jake’s smile falters for just a moment, a fleeting shadow crossing his features. Then, without warning, he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you. "I don’t want to scare you," he murmurs softly, his voice low and soothing. "I promise, I’ll try not to. I just… I have to do this. It’s who I am."

"I know," you say, your voice quieter now, the weight of everything finally hitting you. "I just… wish you didn’t have to do it alone."

You can feel his chest rise and fall with his breath, his fingers lightly brushing against the small of your back. "I’m not alone. Not anymore."

The words settle between you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet hum of the night filling the room. It’s strange, but comforting. Like this moment, as fragile as it is, is enough.

You finally let yourself relax into his embrace, feeling his warmth and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. "Jake," you murmur, your voice soft, "stay with me tonight. Please."

He doesn’t hesitate. "I’m not going anywhere, princess."

You close your eyes, the steady rhythm of his breath lulling you into a calm that you didn’t know you needed. You feel his hand gently stroke the back of your hair, his touch soothing, his presence grounding you.

And as you drift off to sleep, you realize that, despite everything—despite the danger, despite the fear—having Jake here, safe beside you, is all that matters right now.

Hours later, you’re woken by the softest of movements beside you, a slight shift in the air that has you blinking your eyes open. You immediately feel the warmth next to you, and when your gaze flickers to Jake, you realize he’s no longer lying a safe distance from you. Instead, he’s shifted closer, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips as his arm slips around your waist, pulling you in against his chest.

At first, the shock of his closeness makes you freeze. Your body tenses instinctively, not sure how to react to the sudden intimacy. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your cheek, and you can feel his warmth, his body pressing gently against yours. He’s not unconscious anymore, but he’s still too hurt to move much.

He mumbles something against your hair, his voice barely audible, but it’s enough to send your heart skipping a beat. “I’ll be fine, princess… just needed you close.”

You let out a soft breath you didn’t even know you were holding, your mind still racing to catch up with the reality of the situation. The fact that he’s pulled you this close so effortlessly makes your stomach flutter in a way you can’t explain. This is Jake. Your Jake. And even though his arms feel a little too tight around you, the weight of his closeness feels… right.

Slowly, you relax into his embrace, the warmth of his body soothing your nerves. The feeling of his fingers lightly brushing over the fabric of your shirt as he pulls you closer feels so natural, despite the tension in the air. You can’t help but feel a little comforted by the fact that, in this moment, it’s not the superhero or the fighter beside you. It’s just Jake.

But the faint ache in your chest doesn’t go unnoticed as you shift slightly, adjusting to his position. You can’t help the little sigh that escapes you, not from discomfort, but from something deeper. Something more protective, more concerned. You don’t want to see him like this again. It scares you to think of him out there, fighting for lives—and for you—only to come back like this, broken and bruised.

Jake shifts again, his hand moving up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb brushing over your hair as if trying to comfort you, even though you’re the one taking care of him. You meet his gaze, the softness in his eyes a stark contrast to the usual mischievous glint, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s just the two of you. No Spider-Man, no danger, just Jake… your Jake.

“You should get some sleep,” he murmurs, his voice low and quiet, his hand gentle against your back as he pulls you even closer, your chest now flush against his. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this… again. But I’m glad you're here.”

You press your lips together, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through you at his words. You thought you might feel suffocated by his closeness, but instead, you feel something almost comforting. Even if you didn’t ask for this life, even if you never expected any of this to happen, Jake is here. And as much as he’s the one always looking out for you, it’s moments like this that make you want to look out for him, too.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper, “but only because you’re impossible to get rid of.”

Jake chuckles softly, his breath tickling your ear, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “You know you love me, princess.”

You smirk, but there’s a warmth in your voice as you reply, “Maybe. Just don’t get used to it.”

His grip around you tightens just a little, and you can feel the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corners of his lips as he pulls you closer again, not saying a word, just content to hold you close. The night settles back into a peaceful silence, save for the occasional sound of his breathing, deep and steady.

You drift off to sleep in his arms, the weight of everything finally starting to feel a little lighter. And even though you know there will be more challenges ahead, more times when he’ll get hurt, more nights spent worrying, you feel a quiet peace in the fact that, at least for tonight, you’re together. Safe.

#enhypen #enhypen fic #enha fluff #enhypen jake #enhypen x reader #jake sim #jake x reader #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #jake fluff

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yan-lorkai · 11 months ago

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ooh could you do something similar to your octa-trio with darling interested in marine bio but instead it’s darling interested in zoology with savanaclaw?

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: This is feeding into my obsession of learning random things so well, I've been binge reading everything about hyenas and lions these past few days lol. I hope you like it, darling!

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ "Leona, is it true that lions have a roar that can echo for eight kilometers? And that lions can't purr? And that female lions are the main hunters?" Question after question. Leona feels a growing headache, but also an urge to laugh. They're all such basic and silly questions, yet he's happy to know that you want to know more about lions, more about him.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ His tail is wagging and his ears are twitching but if you point this out, he'll stop answering you and is going to pretend that nothing happened. For each question answered, you have to do something for him; usually Leona asks that you join him for a nap in his room or that you talk about your day, as he likes your voice and finds it relaxing to hear.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A lion's pride is his mate. So Leona holds you close so you can't escape from him to go around Savanaclaw asking other beastmen about their features and habits.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ "Ruggie, it's true that hyenas can purr? Can you purr for me, please?" You ask, softly, shiny eyes looking into his as you wait for something, anything. A sparkle of pink rush to his cheek as he laughed a little. "Oh! And it's true that the 'laugh' is actually a vocalization used to communicate excitement, fear, or submission? And that up to 80 hyenas can live in the same pride?"

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Oh goodness, you are feeding a little into his ego wanting to know all sort of things about hyenas now. He can't give the answer you want for free though, you have to give him a little incentive, maybe a few kisses, maybe food or you can try helping him on his errands and scratch his ears for him, either way, give your best shot as he is rooting for you. If he feels satisfied enough you will have your answers, otherwise, you can try again tomorrow.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ He like this, having you cling to his arm, asking him things, it's cute. As a hyena, he's used to be throw around, to sacrifice and give freely to feed the kids in the slums and work harder than most. He feels a little greedy and he doesn't hide it.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ "Jack, I have a few questions... How do wolves choose their leader? Is it true that wolves have an incredibly powerful bite force, capable of exerting up to 1,500 pounds per square inch?" You squint at him, right now, in his human form, Jack didn't seem capable of such things, even more with a mandible like that. His ears twitched a little, he was probably trying to think about how to respond to you, already knowing how you went to his upperclassmen with the same kind of questions. "By the way, wolves have a wide range of vocalizations to communicate, right? And they are also great at adapting to another habitat?"

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Jack stares at you like a little dog, his tail wagging while a blush comes over to his face. He answers your questions to the best of his abilities, taking his time, so you spend more of your free time by his side. Your interest in wolves, in him more specifically, ignites a flame of interest inside him, maybe he really do have a chance with you and he'll do anything to get you to fall in love with him. For now, Jack indulges in your curiosity, he let you get close to him before trapping in his maws.

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darlingdaisyfarm · 2 months ago

Text

BOY GENIUS IN LOVE

tags: nsfw, college!Ford, first relationship, fem reader, obsessive behavior, “good girl” (forgive me im weak), reader wears skirts, first time, fingering, oral sex, public sex, both u and Ford are virgins

this was a request from anon that i saved to drafts but tumblr deleted it (i’m so sorry). it was about college Ford getting addicted to you after you start dating. i hope you see this anon :(( im so sad tumblr deleted my draft + ur ask

ᯓᡣ𐭩 you met him in the back of the library, of course. because Stanford wanted silence in its purest form, though it looked like he was hiding. you were the only other person who’d choose the fifth floor annex by choice. most people thought it was dusty, haunted or simply boring. but you liked how the lamps gave off that golden-honey glow, and how the windows were always cracked open. it was pretty there.

Ford noticed you first. not that you were hard to notice. . . your soft knits and pleated skirts and glossy stockings that clung to your thighs, Ford thought you’d been dipped in onyx. always with a pen tucked behind your ear. such a smart little thing. but more than that, you read. properly. Ford watched your lips moving faintly when you hit a complicated passage, head tilted, looking like a lost kitten.

Fiddleford said he was being stupid, lurking in the same row as you day after day and never saying a word. “yer gonna pass out from sheer repression,” he said, rolling his eyes as Ford scribbled in the margins of his notebook rather than say hi. but Ford couldn’t help it. he was already enchanted. smth about the way your eyes lit up when you found the answer to your own question in the footnotes of some scientific text. how you bit your lip and tapped the page when you were trying to commit a theory to memory. adorable.

you noticed him the day he dropped his bag, books exploded across the linoleum, so you knelt down to help before he could even stammer out an apology. your hands brushed and both of you looked up at the same time. his glasses awkwardly slid down his nose. you gave him a smile. “you’re always back here, i was starting to think you were a ghost.”

Ford laughed but it came out like a cough at first because he was still so damn nervous. then he relaxed into it, eyes crinkling at the corners behind those big, sweet lenses. “you’re the ghost,” he blurted and then panicked. “i mean— not like that! i just mean, you always vanish before i can say anything. not that i’ve tried. well, i have. in my head. you know.”

“wanna study together sometime?” you asked, and to him it was the most romantic thing you could’ve possibly offered. Ford nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. the next time you sat together, he brought you coffee and three backup pens. and you caught him staring at your stockings every time you crossed your legs. it was adorable.

the first time he noticed, it was unintentional. purely visual input. you were sitting across from him in the tiny study alcove you’d both claimed. he brought the books, you brought the snacks. and you leaned back to stretch so the hem of your skirt fluttered. the sunlight from the library window lit you up, letting a slow golden spill across your thighs, where your stockings ended and soft skin began. Ford saw garters. he saw lace. and immediately forgot the square root of negative one.

very weird cough escaped him as if he'd choked on the dust. get yourself together, Stanford! you didn’t seem to notice though, but it sat with him for the rest of the afternoon, searing into his hippocampus. you were wearing different stockings every day. he hadn’t imagined it. he knew he hadn’t.

and every time, he told himself: don’t look. don’t think. don’t you dare be the kind of man who makes this weird. you were his friend now. study partners, even. you brought him your class notes when he was sick, and he helped you fix your calculator when you dropped it, and sometimes you brushed lint off his sweater without even thinking about it and he had to pretend his brain wasn’t screaming inside his mind every time it happened.

and it got worse. because you liked him. you liked liked him. you smiled when he said smth about gravitational waves. you leaned in when he explained interdimensional theoreticals. you brought him muffins. you poked his shoulder when he got smth right. you played with the strap of your bag when you were nervous. and eventually, finally, you asked him if he wanted to get coffee with you, but, like, not as a study thing.

he said yes so fast he knocked over his water bottle.

Ford didn’t know how to behave around you after that. it wasn't because you were different, but because he was. Ford felt like he’d touched something radioactive as he was sweating through his t-shirt, short-circuiting when you showed up in a plaid skirt and wine-red tights. the coffee date turned into a bookstore visit. the bookstore turned into a walk. the walk turned into a shared burrito at that food truck you liked, both of you giggling and wiping salsa off each other’s mouths.

and then there was the second date. where you wore lip gloss that shimmered beautifully when you smiled, and you said, “you look cute when you fidget,” and Ford had to literally reboot his nervous system. he was so tense he dropped his fork. couldn’t stop rubbing the edge of his coat sleeve between his fingers.

your thighs are right there. you know what you're doing. you have to. right? no! no, you're just pretty. girls are pretty. you don’t have to turn into a werewolf about it, Stanford. but god, what if you'll sit on his lap. what if you'll climb into his lap and Ford would feel the fabric of your stockings against his—

stop. stop. stop. stop.

you laughed at smth he said about string theory. he was sweating because you crossed your legs. unexpectedly, you handed him a piece of your dessert and Ford stared at your lips for five seconds too long before he let you feed him.

you weren’t trying to kill him. probably. maybe. but you liked how shy he got. how he pushed his glasses up when you leaned in too close, and how he flinched every time your thigh brushed his under the table. and when you walked home together that night and your fingers barely touched, you heard him swallow so loud it made you giggle.

Stanford still thought about that first day. your lip gloss. your pretty outfits. the curve of your handwriting. but now he also thought about what it’d feel like to have you sitting in his lap during office hours, flipping through flashcards while he tried not to pass out.

and worst of all? you hadn’t even kissed him yet.

you didn’t talk about it, not really. no one ever said “we’re dating” or “you’re mine” or “i like you like that,” but it was so obvious it almost hurt. your name was always on his lips and his glasses were always smudged with your lip balm. you sat together everywhere, shared drinks, pulled each other close by the elbow, touched fingers when you passed things back and forth. and god forbid you go more than three seconds without feeling some part of each other.

and you grinded. you grinded so much. behind the library stacks. in empty classrooms. in stairwells between lectures. his coat wrapped around both of you, covering to keep it decent while your hips rocked against his, your hands in his brown hair, his handsome face flushed and dazed, breathing into your collar, afraid of making a sound.

his thighs were so solid, wrapped in those tailored wool trousers he wore all the time. cruel things, rough where they shouldn’t be, pressing into your softness, and it made the friction so good, too good, made your breath shake every time you rubbed against the hard shape of him and whispered his name.

“we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t do this here,” he always said but then why his hands stayed on your waist and his hips pressed up into yours? “someone might see,” he’d whisper against your throat, even as he kissed you under your ear, even as you rocked against him slowly, dry humping like crazy and nothing else mattered but the way you could feel him, stiff and thick through all those layers.

you’d whimper and he’d shudder. you’d breathe into each other’s mouths and whisper things like “feels so good” and “you’re so warm” and “i think i might come just like this, fuck, Ford, i’m gonna—“ and he’d hold you tighter, breathing so hard because he was going to die right there if you didn’t stop, except neither of you could stop.

and it just kept happening. the tension wound tighter and tighter. the kissing got hotter. his hand found your ass under your skirt one day and didn’t move. in respond, your fingers brushed the bulge in his pants during a movie night and you both sat frozen, breathless, two dorks in love.

you didn’t mean to give him a hand job. it just. . . happened. you were both in his dorm and he looked so flushed and desperate and pretty, you’d never seen his pupils that blown out before.

“i want,“ he said, eyes fluttering shut. “can i? i want to touch you, no. i want you to touch me.”

“yeah, okay. yeah, Ford, it’s okay.” his cock was warm, so hot through his boxers, twitching when your palm brushed over it, and you both gasped as if it was the end of the world. you watched his needy face while you touched him with slow, trembling and unsure strokes, fingers so nervous but gentle because you didn’t know exactly what you were doing but god, he whimpered and it vanished all your doubts away.

“oh my god,” Ford putted his hand over his mouth, trying to keep it all in. “feels so good, please, don’t stop, that’s s-so—“

he came in your hand. messily and helplessly. with his red face buried in your shoulder as he gasped and gasped and said your name and begged, thrusting into your hand. by the end of it it all was so sticky. heaven on earth. both of you giggling and out of breath and kind of in shock about the whole thing.

and then he wanted to try. his hand went under your clothes, had been aching to go there for weeks. six fingers trembling as he pushed your panties aside and touched your folds, your clit, your soaked softness. “you’re, you’re wet, you’re already so wet,” Stanford kissed you while he fingered you, moaned right into your mouth. and his fingers were so fucking clumsy, but you guided him with gasps and whines and little “right there, baby, like that, oh—fuck, yes—“ and your smart boy just listened, eager and panting, his whole arm flexing as he tried to give you what you needed.

when you came on his fingers it was with your forehead pressed to his, your skirt all rumpled and his name falling from your lips in hoarse sounds. Ford smiled, kissing your cheeks, your nose, your fingers. you both laughed again.

it happens on a tuesday. not a particularly romantic one, not a holiday or a celebration or an anniversary (though you both will end up counting it like one, later). you’d both been studying again, him pacing while he monologued about theories, you curled up on his bed taking notes, your thighs bare and crossed under you. he couldn’t stop staring.

you looked up, caught him. and blushed, chewing your pen cap. “what?” you asked innocently. and Ford just blinked at you, waking from a trance, and answered, softly. “i really want to make love to you.”

and that was it. just two awkward nerds with their hands shaking as they slowly stripped each other down to skin.

the first time he slid inside you, shaky, too slow, panting softly into the crook of your neck, you both cried out at once. “oh my god,” you whimpered, fingernails pressing into his back leaving red marks. “Ford, Ford, it’s so big, it’s so—“ he gasped, body trembling. “youre so tight, darling, didn’t know it would feel like this. . .”

you clung to each other, rocking messy, with no rhythm at all, your shaking legs wrapped around his waist, moaning so loud because neither of you had any idea how to handle it. and when you came with stars behind your eyes, it was so intense you sobbed into his chest. he followed only some minutes after, gasping your name like a man drowning.

that should’ve been the end. but he kept going.

you didn’t mean to fuck again that night, and definitely not twice more the next morning, but Stanford couldn’t help himself. because he’d discovered oxygen and now couldn’t survive without the feel of you around him.

it didn’t take long before Ford’s libido eclipsed all else. poor genius, he’d always been obsessive. hyperfocused, easily fixated, nerd who could talk for hours about things like rifts in spacetime or secrets of the universe without even stopping to breathe. you should’ve known that once he got a taste of you, once he got to feel your thighs clench around him and your cunt flutter so tightly when he moaned your name, he’d treat you like one of his beloved discoveries.

but no one warns you about what happens when a man so smart gets addicted to your pussy.

wednesday is lab day so you lean over the table too much and fiddle with your pencil between your pretty lips. Ford sits across from you hard as a rock, biting his tongue while he tries to listen to Fiddleford talk about transistor configurations. but it’s hopeless. he keeps slipping off to the bathroom just to stroke himself thinking of you, spilling into his palm with a bitten-back moan, forehead pressed to the stall door. he doesn’t even make it back in time for the quiz.

but it’s not enough. it’s never enough.

it’s been two whole days since you last stayed the night in his dorm. two agonizing days of him jerking off under flickering dorm showers, biting his lip to keep quiet while the water beat down on his flushed skin. mondays make him unbearable. he won’t even look at you in class because he knows, if he does, he’ll spend the whole hour with his cock stiff under the desk at the sight of your lipgloss or the shape of your thighs under that skirt.

by 4pm he’s dragging you into the back of the library, shoving you up against the wall between reference books you’re never gonna read, panting against your cheek. “i missed you,” as his fingers fumble to shove your underwear aside. “i need it. i can’t concentrate.” your panties down to your thighs, his cock already pressed between your folds before you can catch your breath. your arms loop tight around his neck, mouthing soft kisses against his jaw as he slides inside.

you started carrying spare panties in your bag. stopped wearing bras under your blouses because he couldn’t keep his hands off you anyway. he’d bend you over his desk, shove a hand over your mouth, fuck you until you were blinking up at him all dazed and dripping. once he even took you right by the astronomy hall, gripping your hips while he fucked you so hard his glasses fogged up.

“you feel too good,” he’d whisper in between thrusts. “i swear, didn’t know it could feel like this—“

and the worst (best) part? he was good at it now. so good. all those fumbling, clumsy first thrusts turned into something downright ravenous.

Ford learned fast, like he always did. one time you were trying to study, nose deep in a textbook, sprawled on your tummy with your feet kicked up behind you, wearing a little sweater and nothing underneath but knee-high socks and. . . that was a mistake.

“Ford, baby, i have to finish this chapter, we got exam tomorrow“ but he was laying kisses on the backs of your thighs, pushing your panties aside and groaning when he saw the shine of you already waiting for him. “don’t worry,” he murmured, pulling his cock free. “i’ll help you concentrate.”

you tried. really tried to keep reading. you bit your lip and gripped the pages. but then he pushed inside and suddenly it was so hot for no reason in the middle of November. your eyes widened, hips tilted up of their own accord, and you whimpered over your textbook while his cock thrusted into your softest parts.

“just read,” Ford whispered, mouth against your ear, one hand pressing on your lower back to keep you tilted up. “be a good girl and study while i fill you up.”

you came like that, making such a mess on his cock, face in your book, ruined your exam notes. and he didn’t stop even after, just rutted slower, deeper, staying inside because “you’re so warm, so perfect, i wanna live here.”

and he meant it. because now, he fucked you every day. sometimes more than once. until your legs shook and your panties were just too damp to wear. while you studied, while he explained theories into your mouth.

you study in his dorm but Ford's too distracted by the way you sit with your legs open so. . . best solution is him fingering you under the table while you review notes, moaning under his breath every time your cunt clenches around his fingers. “this isn’t studying,” you try to protest, biting back a moan. “yes it is,” Ford replies, kissing the shell of your ear. “studying your anatomy, sweetheart. i think i deserve an A.” he makes you finish twice before you even look at the next chapter.

but no, calling it just fucking would be wrong. it was always tender, sensual even. messy hair, flushed cheeks, his voice breathless, telling you how beautiful you were as he pushed inside.

Stanford Filbrick Pines, the boy genius, gets so addicted. he goes from “i’m not sure i’m doing this right” to “i don’t think i can go twenty-four hours without being inside you.”

and it’s every day, every goddamn day. multiple times, if he can swing it. he wakes you up with soft little kisses, a gentle hand already palming at your chest under the blankets, and by the time your eyes flutter open he’s rutting against your hip like a dog in heat.

but thursdays. . . you don’t know what it is about thursday. the schedule? the way he only has one lecture in the morning? whatever it is, it makes him feral. yeah, thursdays are the worst for you, because that’s when he gets bold. when he puts you in his desk chair, throws your leg over the armrest, and kneels in front of you between essays, unbuttoning your blouse. “you’ve been working so hard, love, you deserve this. let me take care of you. please.” he groans, burying his face in your pussy, making you sob and shake and come again and again while your notes flew off the desk and your fingers knotted in his soft brown curls.

and that wasn’t even the beginning. thursdays meant getting bent over the counter before breakfast, groped in the hallway, shoved against the peeling wallpaper and kissed so hard your knees buckled.

by week seven, it’s a game of where. it doesn’t matter when anymore, because any time is fair game. he’s fucked you in the dorm stairwell, in the math department’s basement closet, in the cramped little photo booth at the student union during your lunch break, one leg on the little bench while he thrusted into you.

once, Ford got so riled up mid-lecture he leaned over and whispered, “your skirt’s too short. you’re not wearing anything under that, are you?” and when you didn’t answer fast enough, he stood up, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into the hallway like a man possessed.

he bent you over a bench by the lockers and fucked you so fast and rough your vision went white at the edges. then he went right back to class with sweat at his temples and still aced the damn presentation. unbelievable

you learned not to wear skirts if you actually wanted to make it through the day without being groped. you learned to bring water and snacks because he’d fuck you until you were lightheaded.

by finals week, he was sliding your underwear off under the table in the library, whispering, “just sit on my lap, please, baby, i’ll be quiet, i swear. i just need to feel you around me.”

there’s no break and no off switch. not that you were complaining, but weekends were dangerous. he makes love to you for hours on sunday mornings, long, slow, thick strokes that have you drooling into the pillows, whispering praises into your mouth while he fucks you so gently it makes you cry from how soft it is. saturday afternoons he’d go down on you until your thighs shook, then hump against you like a boy losing his mind over his first crush.

Ford’s kisses made you weak. no, everything about him made you weak. his hands, his mouth, his voice when he whined in your ear that he couldn’t think straight without your cunt around him.

but every thursday, he shows up behind you, hard already, “you busy? no? good. because i need to be inside you. right now. or i’ll lose my mind.” now, every day's a new excuse to be inside you <𝟑

#gravity falls x reader #ford pines x you #ford pines smut #ford pines #ford pines x reader #stanford pines x you #stanford pines x reader #gravity falls smut #gravity falls x you #stanford pines #gravity falls #young stanford pines #x reader #stanford pines headcanons #gravity falls fanfic #grunkle ford

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sculkapologist · 2 years ago

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I’m not sure exactly how to put this to words, but I think it’s fascinating that minecraft players have sort of… figured out a lot of things that make spaces beautiful, but also, the base game doesn’t have to and shouldn’t do them. Minecraft is beautiful, but it lives within its own bounds, where trees are square and come straight out of the ground and rivers are just water with dirt and gravel and sand at the bottom. YOU can construct a natural-looking coastline, or build complex trees, or vary textures of dirt and coarse dirt and rooted dirt and just a bit of concrete powder to keep the pattern looking natural along a dirt path, but minecraft itself has to operate under the rules of what its things are: Dirt is dirt. Rooted dirt is dirt that an azalea tree has put roots in. Path blocks are paths. This holds it back, and that’s good, because if the whole world already looked like a dedicated builder had been terraforming it for hours, then how could you ever build anything there? Every new space minecraft adds looks beautiful but in a way that begs you to improve it. We know how to make Minecraft prettier, but the only reason that’s fun is because Minecraft itself refuses to take our advice. I think that’s neat.

#minecraft #block game yelling tag

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notmorbid · 8 months ago

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these violent delights.

dialogue prompts from these violent delights by micah nemerever.

i never told you my name.

who puts those awful ideas in your head?

you're forever assuming the worst.

what's that face? you look like you're going to cry.

you're one of those people who worry all the time, aren't you?

i don't worry, i ruminate. they're distinct actions.

nothing made you. you just are.

beautiful things are supposed to hurt.

people tell you you're shy all the time, don't they?

i don't know how i ever got on without you.

a little trouble is a good thing for a young person.

i wasn't born yesterday. i know what kids get up to.

it's good to have guns to stick to.

you could do anything to me and i'd let you.

i'm not ready to be seen. not yet.

i don't need you to treat me respectfully. i'm not made of glass.

tell me you love me, at least. please. i need to know somebody does.

do i look normal? i can't tell if i look normal.

you can get away with anything, as long as you act like an authority on the truth.

don't tell me what i want.

you know you're just about the worst liar i've ever met.

i don't think you've ever felt anything that didn't hurt you.

you're so square, you're a cube.

i just want you to believe me when i tell you you're worth something.

there are limits to what you can expect people to understand, without living it.

you can't fight everybody all the time. you still have to live with them.

i forget how blue the sky can be outside the city.

i'm going to push you off a cliff, you fucking boy scout.

thank you for trusting me with this.

be a kid while you still can.

please believe in the things i try to tell you, instead of the things you think you deserve to be told.

if the sun touched you for even a moment, you'd go up in flames. like a vampire.

your voice changes when you're angry.

what a lonely, dreary thing it is to know the truth.

you never look away, even when your eyes are closed, but i'm never certain you can see what's really there.

tell me you need me. in those words.

can i tell you something? that i'm all but certain you won't believe?

i never lie to you. but sometimes, i wish i could.

you never let me pretend the truth is alright when it isn't.

you have a profound, elusive sadness about you.

you didn't. please tell me you didn't.

you and your awful little games.

why would i bother to grow my own conscience when you're always around to pester me?

you're going to help me escape.

this house is a shadowbox, never meant for human things.

you have no right to stop me, and you're not going to try.

you're sweet, when you want to be.

do you want me to kill ____? i mean it.

it might do you good to be an orphan.

you're just so sincerely creepy.

wealthy people pay handsomely for the privilege of ignoring cries for help.

i've never seen you like that before. not once.

i've decided to learn to be impulsive.

the worst damage humans do isn't rooted in malice, but in thoughtlessness.

there's such a thing as right and wrong. anyone can figure out the difference if they're willing to think for themselves.

there's no part of you i can't see.

i don't want to hurt you. please don't let me.

you're ridiculous, sometimes. but that's alright.

i don't want you right now. go home.

i'm not like you. i don't even have a shape of my own to hold anything else in place.

i'll never matter the way you do, and you know it.

say what you need to say.

if you say the word 'deserve' one more time, i'm driving us off a bridge.

i've been meaning to talk to you about ____.

i'm worried about what you're getting into.

you don't see me. you can't. you never could.

it's your life. you're entitled to make your own mistakes.

i want you to know you deserve better. you don't have to put up with ____.

you scare the hell out of me. you really do.

you look the same way you always have.

i was worried i'd lost you.

i'll take care of you. i don't need you to be brave.

all i want to do is make you happy, and you're the unhappiest person i've ever met.

i would rather be cruel than weak.

i want you to let me be nice to you today. i don't care if you think you deserve it.

this place looks like somewhere in a jigsaw puzzle.

it's always been real for me. every second.

please don't say anything to my mother.

we can't fix it if you don't tell me what happened.

i'll call you when i can stand the sight of you. don't hold your breath.

hiding the truth is still lying.

i thought you'd finally trust me if you knew i'd kill for you.

i'm just as much of a monster as you are.

i was missing part of myself my whole life, until i met you.

righteous fury leaves no space for fear.

you can always talk to me. about anything, okay? i love you no matter what.

you played [game] in school, didn't you?

no one tolerates boredom worse than the idle rich.

someone needs to be looking after you.

you know you can't actually stop me, right?

i want to be able to look at you.

when you need to, you will understand.

i'm only ever early when i'm afraid.

people talk themselves into the strangest things when they want to look impressive.

in the end, there's no difference between trusting someone and underestimating them.

#rp meme #rp memes #ask memes #inbox memes #sentence starters #rp prompts #ask meme #thriller meme #lgbt #historical meme

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reilemon · 8 months ago

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Beneath the Collar

♡︎ synopsis: What do you tell yourself when you develop a crush on a hot priest? 'It'll pass.' But what if it doesn't?

♡︎ pairing: priest!Zayne x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: personal sacrilege, mutual masturbation

♡︎ word count: 13k

♡︎ a/n: the fifth story for kinktober 2024. i know i wrote something else as a prompt for this story, but it kinda didn't fit into the vibe. I hope you'll still like it.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

You’d been absentmindedly wiping down the counter, eyes flicking to the clock every couple of minutes. You were anticipating the weekend as if it was your lifeline. The shop was nearly empty, just a couple pastries left. You could already taste the freedom that awaited once you locked up. Saturday nights were your escape. You’d head out of town and finally let loose with your old friends. You couldn’t wait to slip into a tight dress, feel the beat of music thrumming through your veins, and drown the stress of your quiet life with a few too many drinks.

You loved the buzz, the way you could disappear into the crowd. It was so different from the slow, predictable pace of this town—so different from the way you had to be here, composed, calm, responsible. You could already imagine the way your friends would greet you with shrieks and hugs, the taste of sweet cocktails on your lips, the feel of someone’s hands on your waist as you danced the night away.

You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you’d become until you started thinking about it. The endless days of baking, of small talk with customers who didn’t really know you, of going home to an empty apartment. This wasn’t the life you’d imagined.

The chime above the door rings, pulling you back from your thoughts. You straighten instinctively, slipping back into your practiced routine, eyes flicking up with a tired smile ready—until you see him.

The man who steps in isn’t like any customer you’ve seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, understated clothes. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the stark white collar around his neck—the unmistakable sign of a priest. Yet you can’t help but stare at his features - his sharp jawline, the raven-black hair falling slightly across his forehead, and those intense green eyes. He looks cold, distant, his gaze hard and unreadable as it sweeps the room before landing squarely on you.

You can feel your heart pound as your breath catches. You aren’t supposed to feel this way. He’s a priest, for God’s sake. Yet here you are, rooted in place, unable to tear your eyes away from him. You shouldn’t be thinking about how strong his hands look, or how his lips might feel if they ever touched yours. Guilt twists in your gut, making you flush with shame.

You swallow hard, the professional smile faltering for a second as your thoughts race. What is a man like him doing here? He doesn’t look like the type to indulge in something sweet.

He steps forward, approaching the counter, and the closer he gets, the more you can feel your façade slipping. You force yourself to break eye contact, focusing instead on the pastries.

You need to say something, anything to break the tension. “Good evening,” you finally manage.

“I’m sorry for coming in so late,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, instantly making you feel butterflies. “I was hoping to grab something before you closed.”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation professional, though your mind is anything but. “Of course,” you reply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again.

His eyes flick over the display case before returning to you, making your heart flutter. “Macarons,” he says after a moment. “Do you have any left?”

You blink, thrown off by the unexpected request, by how he knows exactly what he wants. “Ah—no,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Sorry, they sold out earlier today.”

He nods once, but doesn’t seem disappointed. You half-expect him to say something more, maybe ask about the next batch or try one of the remaining pastries. But he doesn’t. His eyes flick to the empty spot where the macarons should’ve been, then back to you.

"Thank you," He doesn’t smile, just offers a polite nod before he turns and walks toward the door. The air feels lighter the moment he steps out, but your heart is still racing, your mind still tangled in thoughts you shouldn’t have.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what just happened, your hand still resting on the counter as if anchoring you back to reality. Slowly, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

‘What the hell was that?’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Later that evening, you stand in front of your mirror, smoothing your dress down over your hips, but your thoughts are miles away. You’ve been looking forward to this night all week— but now, you can’t stop thinking about him.

As you spray the perfume on your neck, your mind drifts back to the way those cold green eyes had fixed on you with such unnerving intensity. You replay the interaction over and over in your head as you fix your lipstick, each swipe of color across your lips bringing back the memory of his deep, steady voice.

You grab your heels and slide them on, trying to push the image of him away. It’s your night - you should be thinking about the friends you’ll be laughing with, the strangers you might flirt with, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. And that damn collar, the way it stood out against his sharp jaw, mocking you.

You sigh, frustrated with yourself as you grab your clutch and head for the door. Tonight is about fun, freedom. As you step outside, you convince yourself that by the end of the night you will forget all about him.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stand just outside the church, a box of macarons clutched in your hands. The crisp autumn air hits your face, cooling the remnants of your hangover. You wince slightly as the last pulse of your headache throbs behind your eyes. But it’s nothing compared to the nervous energy swirling in your stomach. The night before is a blur of music, laughter, and drinks—too many drinks—and yet, through it all, he was still there. No matter how hard you tried your mind kept circling back to the priest.

You woke up early this morning, despite the dull ache in your head, the need to see him again pulling you out of bed far earlier than your body wanted. You spent more time than usual getting ready, trying to make yourself look presentable. Like you hadn’t spent half the night dancing under neon lights, sweat mingling with perfume. Like you were fresh and composed, not some hungover mess delivering macarons to a man who probably didn’t even remember you.

Now, as you stand outside the church, watching as the last of the congregation trickles out from Sunday mass, you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ You glance down at the box in your hands. Last night, you’d come home and found the extra macarons sitting in your fridge—fresh, untouched. And somehow, in your alcohol-soaked brain, you’d convinced yourself that bringing them to him would make sense. That maybe, just maybe, seeing him again would clear your thoughts.

Inside, you hear the faint echoes of voices, the last goodbyes being exchanged. Your pulse quickens, the nerves settling in deeper now. ‘What if he thinks I’m crazy?’ You glance up at the church doors as they swing open again. More people spill out, some of them familiar faces, regulars from your shop. You offer a small, polite smile to those who glance your way, though the last thing you want is to be seen here, holding this box like some desperate girl with a crush.

The crowd thins, and finally, you see him. He steps out of the church, tall and composed, his dark coat catching the cool breeze as he exchanges polite nods and handshakes with the remaining parishioners. Your heart stutters in your chest when his eyes land on you, sharp and focused, just like yesterday. His gaze flickers with confusion as he approaches. The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be more stark. He’s the picture of calm and control, while you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves.

"Good morning," he greets, his voice low and even, though there’s a hint of curiosity in it. His eyes drop to the box in your hands, and then back up to meet your gaze. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

You force a small smile, suddenly feeling foolish again for showing up like this. "I, um..." You glance down at the box before awkwardly extending it toward him. "I brought these... for you. Macarons. I had some extras, and I thought..." Your voice trails off as you realize how ridiculous you sound.

He hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the gesture, his brow furrowing slightly as he looks between you and the box. "That’s very kind of you," he says after a beat, his tone polite but still laced with confusion. He takes the box from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through you. "But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why bring them here?"

You feel your face heat up, the embarrassment creeping in again as you try to explain. "I just... yesterday, you asked about the macarons. And I had some left at home, so I thought..." You trail off again, unsure how to finish without sounding completely absurd.

His eyes soften slightly, the confusion changing into something more like understanding. "I see," he says quietly. He looks down at the box in his hands, then back at you. "Thank you. This was... thoughtful."

There’s a long, awkward pause before you gather the nerve to ask, "Have you visited my shop before? I mean, you knew we sold macarons, but I don’t remember seeing you."

He glances away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you, his tone still measured and calm. "I have stopped by a few times, yes. But more often than not, my colleagues bring me your macarons. They speak highly of your pastries." His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, but the closest thing you’ve seen from him. "They’ve made sure I know where to find the best sweets in town."

You blink, processing that information. ‘So, he has been there.’ A strange mix of relief and disappointment washes over you—relief that he’s not a complete stranger to your shop, but disappointment that you missed those visits. Still, knowing he’s tasted your work fills you with a sense of pride.

"I see," you murmur, nodding. "I wasn’t sure, since... well, you don’t seem like the type to indulge in sweets."

He raises an eyebrow. "I do, on occasion," he says, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Especially macarons."

Another silence falls between you. The cold morning air feels sharper now, the quiet around the church almost too loud as the last of the parishioners filter away, leaving just the two of you standing there.

You feel the urge to say something, anything. "I hope you enjoy them," you say quickly, nodding toward the box in his hands.

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "I’m sure I will," he replies, his voice softer now, though his serious demeanor never wavers. "Thank you again. This was... unexpected."

You nod, unsure what else to say, and suddenly, the weight of what you’re doing—standing outside a church, hungover, giving a priest macarons—hits you all over again. You swallow hard, feeling the need to leave before you make things even more awkward.

"I should probably go," you blurt out, taking a small step back. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning."

He watches you, his gaze steady, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply nods. "Take care,"

You turn and start walking away, your heart pounding in your chest, the cool air biting at your skin. You feel a little silly, a little reckless, but something about the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he accepted the macarons... it stays with you.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday arrives quicker than expected, and this time, you're determined to play it cool. You still went out the night before, but you kept it light—a couple of drinks, no wild partying. The ache behind your eyes this morning is faint, nothing like last week’s pounding. You’d woken up with enough time to fix your hair and choose an outfit that’s both casual and appropriate, though you spent longer than you’d like to admit deciding on it.

As you step inside the church, the scent of old wood and candles washes over you, calming your racing heart just a little. The crowd is larger than you expected—families, couples, elderly regulars. You quietly slip into a pew near the back, hoping to blend in.

You settle in, your eyes scanning the front of the church, seeking him out. There he is, standing at the altar in his robes, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s facing the congregation, his expression stoic, speaking in that calm, steady voice that fills the room with reverence. At first, he doesn’t notice you. He’s focused on his sermon, his attention on the crowd as he guides them through the service.

And then, as if he can sense you watching him, his gaze flickers toward the back of the church—and locks onto you.

For a moment, the rest of the congregation fades into the background. It’s just you and him, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should. There’s no surprise in his expression, but his gaze isn’t the distant, detached look you remember from before. Your breath catches, and for a second, you’re not sure what to do. You glance down at your hands, trying to steady yourself, but when you look back up, his eyes are still on you. He’s quick to recover, though, returning his focus to the sermon, but the brief connection leaves your pulse racing.

The rest of the mass is a blur. You try to listen, to follow along with the prayers, but all you can think about is the way he looked at you. The quiet intensity of his gaze, the way it felt like he was seeing more than just another face in the crowd.

As the mass ends and people begin to rise from their seats, you remain seated for a moment longer. You watch as the crowd shuffles toward the exit, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, offering their thanks and farewells. For a second, you think about slipping out quietly and disappearing before he notices you again. It would be the easiest thing to do—walk away, avoid any awkward conversations.

But just as you start to stand, your eyes find his across the room. He’s still speaking with a couple of elderly women near the front, but his gaze shifts—briefly, unmistakably—back to you. And there’s something in that moment that makes it impossible to leave. Before you know it, you’re moving toward him, your pulse quickening with each step.

You tell yourself it’s only polite to say hello, maybe thank him for the sermon. It’s what people do, right? But the truth is, you haven’t attended a church service in so long, you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to talk to a priest. What do people even say in these situations? Your mind races as you approach, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to say.

When you reach him, he finishes his conversation with the elderly women, offering them a polite nod before turning his attention to you. For a moment, you stand there, unsure of how to start, but before you can stumble over a greeting, he speaks first.

"Good to see you again," Zayne says, as he offers you a barely visible smile. It’s subtle, just a small upturn at the corner of his lips, but it’s enough to make your heart race. "I don’t recall seeing you here before last week."

You blink, feeling like you’re caught red handed. You fumble for a response, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Oh, no, I—I haven’t been here before," you admit, glancing down at your hands before looking back up at him. "I mean, I used to go to church when I was younger, but... it’s been a while." You force a small smile. "I’ve been in this town for a few months now, but I guess I still feel kind of... new. I’m trying to, you know, be a part of the community."

It’s a half-truth, but close enough to reality.

Zayne listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he considers your words. "It’s understandable," he says after a moment, his voice softer now. "Moving to a new place can feel... isolating." His gaze lingers on you. "I’m glad you’re finding your place here."

You nod, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Yeah, I think I’m making some progress."

You’re unsure of what to say next, but Zayne is the one that speaks next. "Those macarons you brought last week," he begins. "There was one flavor I hadn’t tried before—rose, I believe?"

You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. "Oh, yeah," you say, a giddy smile creeping onto your lips. "I like to experiment with new flavors in my free time. I wasn’t sure if anyone would like that one."

He nods, with a faint smile. "It was... different. Unexpected, but in a good way."

Your smile widens at that, unable to contain the warmth blooming in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much his opinion would matter to you. "I’m always experimenting," you admit, feeling more at ease now. "Sometimes I stay up late trying out new combinations."

The air between you feels lighter, warmer. "I can tell you put a lot of effort into it."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you’re not sure how to respond. But before you can say anything, Zayne shifts the conversation slightly. "We’re hosting a bake sale next week," he says, "It’s for a local charity. I was wondering if you’d have the time to volunteer."

Volunteer? At the church? You’ve never done anything like that before. But the idea of working with him, of contributing in some way—it tugs at you, and before you can think it through too much, you find yourself nodding.

"Yeah, I’d love to," you say quickly, the giddiness from earlier still bubbling beneath the surface. "I mean, I’m sure I could make time."

His gaze softens, and there’s that almost smile again. "Good," he says. "I think your talents would be appreciated."

You nod, feeling strangely content. Working with him, even if it’s just for something simple like a bake sale—seems like a small step forward, a way to stay close without pushing too far.

As the crowd continues to thin, you realize you’ve lingered long enough. You take a small step back, your heart still racing from the interaction. "I’ll see you next week, then," you say softly, offering him a final smile before turning to leave.

"Yes," he replies. "Next week."

You can feel his gaze on your back as you exit the church, the weight of it lingering long after you step outside into the cool autumn air. And though you try to tell yourself that it’s just a bake sale, just a way to be part of the community, you can’t shake the excitement simmering beneath the surface.

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The bake sale was a success. The air was filled with the scent of baked goods and laughter, but you hardly had time to enjoy it. Zayne, ever the center of attention, had been pulled away in a dozen directions the entire day. When you’d arrived early that morning, hands full of pastries and stomach full of butterflies, you barely got a chance to exchange more than a quick greeting.

He had smiled at you, brief but warm, though his attention was quickly snatched away by people needing his assistance, asking for advice, or organizing last-minute details. Of course, he handled everything with calm efficiency. You watched him navigate the chaos with admiration, though a part of you ached for more than those fleeting glances you stole throughout the day.

Now, as the sun begins to set and the crowd dissipates, everything is finally winding down. The tables have been mostly cleared, the leftover baked goods packed up, and most of the volunteers have either left or are chatting amongst themselves. You’re still tidying up, folding a tablecloth when you feel a presence beside you. Zayne.

"Need any help?" he asks.

You offer him a small smile, shaking your head. "I’ve got it," you say, too aware of how close he’s standing. "But thank you."

"You did a lot today," he says quietly. "The bake sale wouldn’t have been as successful without you."

The compliment, though simple, warms your chest, and you can’t help the slight flush that rises to your cheeks. "I’m just glad I could help," you reply, glancing at him, and there it is again—his gaze, lingering just a fraction too long.

"Will you be attending mass tomorrow?" he asks after a pause, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

For a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. Attending Sunday mass on a regular basis was not something you imagined for yourself when you moved here. But neither was the crush on a priest. You tilt your head slightly, offering a small smile. "I might," you say. "But... I’d be more than happy to help out around the church too. If you need extra hands for events or... anything else." The offer hangs in the air.

Zayne’s eyes hold yours for a moment longer, before he nods, his lips curving into that barely-there smile that always makes your heart race. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As you both finish the last of the cleanup, the weight of the day settles over you. The connection between you and Zayne feels more real.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Days pass after the Sunday mass, and your mind is restless. You had hoped—foolishly—that this crush would fade. That the flutters in your stomach and the lingering heat in your chest, and somewhere else, would disappear. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s grown stronger. It’s more than just attraction now—it’s curiosity, fascination, a desire to know him beyond the surface.

You had gone to mass that Sunday, and the entire service, your eyes had found his. After the service, you exchanged pleasantries as usual, but there was something beneath the surface. The way he smiled at you, as if holding back. And then, before you left, he had handed you his phone, suggesting that you exchange numbers, “in case there’s any more help needed with events.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request, and yet, your hands had trembled slightly when you typed your number in. A simple exchange of phone numbers shouldn’t feel like this, but you couldn’t shake the thrill it gave you.

Now, days later, you’ve been staring at his name in your phone for what feels like hours. Your fingers hover over the screen, your mind spinning with a thousand excuses you could use to text him.

‘Just invite yourself over.’ Tell him you’ve been working on new desserts and want to share them. It’s innocent enough—after all, you’ve done it before, and he was more than happy to accept. Why should this time be any different?

You lean back, the phone still in your hand, your thoughts a tangled mess. ‘It’s not wrong to want to see him, is it?’ When you’d exchanged numbers, had there been something in the way his hand brushed yours? Something more than just casual contact?

Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone, heart pounding in your chest. ‘One message. That’s all. Just one message to bring him something.’ It’s innocent. Harmless.

You begin to type. “Hey, I’ve been experimenting with some new dessert recipes. Thought you might like to try them. Could I drop some by?”

Before you can second-guess yourself again, you hit send.

The message disappears, leaving you staring at the screen, your heart racing.

Your phone buzzes a minute later, and you can hardly breathe as you open the message.

“That sounds great. I’d love to try them.”

His reply is simple, casual, but the effect it has on you is anything but. You glance around your apartment, suddenly feeling the weight of what you’ve done. You’re going to see him again, and this time, the meeting will be more personal, more intimate. ‘Just you, him, and those damn desserts.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You close the shop with shaky hands, flipping the sign to "closed" and locking the door behind. You try to calm your nerves as you walk toward the church.

‘Why am I doing this?’ you ask yourself for the hundredth time. You always shared your new recipes with your two employees—they were your taste-testers, your go-to feedback. So why now? Why are you heading to a priest, of all people?

‘He’s the customer experience,’ you remind yourself, a weak excuse at best. However, if anyone could give an honest opinion, it would be him—level-headed, composed, with that quiet seriousness that always unnerves and excites you. It’s just an opinion, nothing more. You repeat it like a mantra as you approach the church.

The doors creak open as you step inside, the familiar scent of incense filling your senses. The church is mostly empty, the soft glow of evening light filtering through the stained-glass windows. As you enter, you spot Zayne standing outside the confessional. He’s speaking quietly with an older woman, but his eyes flick up as soon as you walk in. The moment he sees you, his expression changes for a split second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat.

The woman finishes her conversation, offering him a polite smile before heading toward the door. Zayne watches her go, and when she’s gone, he turns his full attention to you.

His lips curve into a subtle smile. "Good evening," he greets you with that calm authority that always makes you feel both at ease and strangely vulnerable at the same time. "Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble."

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady as you return his smile. "No trouble at all. I just closed up the shop, so... it worked out."

He nods, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before gesturing toward the back of the church. "Shall we?" He leads you down the quiet hallway, until you reach his office—a small, private room tucked away from the rest of the church. The walls are lined with bookshelves, a modest desk in the middle, and a soft lamp casting a warm glow. Zayne closes the door behind you, and for a second, the air between you feels thicker than it had before.

You sit across from each other at the small desk. You set the box between you, showing a display of your latest creations. Zayne’s intense green eyes take in the array of sweets.

"These look incredible," he says as he leans in. He reaches for one, pausing as if to savor the moment. "Shall we start?"

You nod, your voice wavering as you describe the little creation.

As he finishes the first dessert, followed by more praise, his eyes drift over the others in the box. His eyes linger on a small orange-tinted one. His brow furrows slightly, and he glances up at you. "Is that… carrot?" he asks, with reluctance in his tone.

You laugh softly, "Yes, it’s a mini carrot cake," you say, your voice light and teasing. "I’ve been thinking about adding it to the menu."

Zayne’s smile tightens just a little. His fingers hover near the pastry, but he doesn’t reach for it. "Carrot cake... that’s..." He trails off, clearly searching for the right words, though his discomfort is obvious. "I’m sure it’s delicious," he adds, his tone strained with effort.

You can’t help but chuckle softly at his expression, the idea of Zayne being uncomfortable with something as simple as a carrot cake is both endearing and amusing. "You don’t like carrots, do you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him with a grin.

Zayne shifts slightly, his ears tinged with a faint blush as he gives a sheepish smile. "I’ve never been... fond of them," he admits.

You laugh again. "That’s completely fine," you say, shaking your head. "You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended."

Relief washes over his face, and you can’t help but find it charming. "Thank you," he says with a smile, his voice more relaxed now. "I’m sure it’s wonderful. Just... not for me."

You nod, smiling back at him as you make a mental note not to add the carrot cake to the menu after all. Who would have thought Zayne, of all people, would have such a small but specific dislike?

As you both settle into a comfortable rhythm of tasting the remaining pastries, the earlier tension eases, replaced by the easy conversation and laughter that flows between you. There’s something natural, almost soothing, about this—sharing these quiet moments, watching his reactions as he tries each new flavor, the occasional teasing smile crossing his lips.

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to push the boundary just a little. “I won’t ask what made you become a priest at such a young age,” you begin, offering a shy smile to lighten the weight of your words. “But I have to admit... I do wonder what you do when you’re not here. What’s Zayne like when he’s not... well, Father Zayne?”

Zayne’s lips twitch slightly at the question, as though he’s surprised but also amused by your boldness. He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.

“Well,” he begins, a faint chuckle escaping his lips, “I don’t have much free time, to be honest. Between the church, the community events, and my other responsibilities, it’s hard to find a moment just for myself.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “But when I do get some time, I like to read. Mostly fiction—novels, stories that take me somewhere else for a little while.” His voice softens with a hint of something like nostalgia. “I also try to visit new restaurants when I can. There aren’t many options in this town, so sometimes I take trips to the city just to try something different.”

There’s something so relaxed, almost vulnerable, in the way he talks about it that makes you feel like you’re seeing a side of him that few people do. A side that isn’t weighed down by the responsibilities of his role, but is simply... Zayne.

He shifts the conversation, leaning forward slightly as he looks at you. “What about you?” he asks, his voice warm with genuine curiosity. “When you’re not experimenting with food, what do you do in your free time?”

“Well,” you begin, shifting in your seat, “when I do take a break, I like to drive out of town, too. I’d meet up with old friends, go out for a drink or two... but honestly, I like the quiet here. It’s different. Calming, in a way.”

Zayne nods, his expression thoughtful. “I can see that. There’s something peaceful about being here, away from the noise. But I imagine it must get lonely sometimes.”

His words strike a chord in you, and for a moment, you feel a vulnerability creeping in. You hadn’t expected him to understand, but somehow, he does.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “It does.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light— as someone who, like you, is navigating his own struggles, his own desires.

The rest of the evening continues with light topics and soft laughter. But as you glance out the window you see it’s pitch-black outside. You glance at your watch, feeling a pang of reluctance as you realize it’s time to go.

“I should probably head out,” you say softly, not wanting to break the moment but knowing it has to end.

Zayne nods, though there’s a hint of something in his eyes that shows he feels the same reluctance. He stands, walking you to the door of his office. “Thank you for the desserts,” he says, his voice feeling more personal now. “And for the conversation.”

You smile. “Thank you for listening. And for the... honesty.” There’s a moment of hesitation before you step toward the door, the space between you suddenly feeling too close. He opens the door, and as you step out into the quiet hall, you glance back at him one last time.

His eyes linger on you. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice low, and for a second, it feels like there’s more he wants to say, but the moment passes.

“Goodnight,” you reply, turning to leave, your heart still racing from the quiet intimacy of the evening.

As you walk out into the cool night air, you can’t help but feel that this connection—whatever it is between you and Zayne—has deepened. And as you head home, your thoughts linger on him, wondering where this path will lead.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips a beat. It’s a message from Zayne.

“The desserts were incredible,” it reads. “You have a real gift for combining flavors. Thank you again.”

You smile, rereading the message a few times before typing out a casual reply. His words, the thoughtfulness behind them, mean more than they should. You tell yourself it’s just feedback—he’s just being kind, just acknowledging your work—but the fact that he took the effort to write this message... it lingers in your mind.

Days pass, and the messages continue. They’re not frequent, but every other day, you’ll receive something from him—a thoughtful comment on one of your desserts or a small exchange that feels more personal than before.

One evening, your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a picture—a grainy snapshot of a small, scruffy-looking cat sitting outside the church doors.

“This little guy hangs around the church sometimes. I think he’s starting to expect me to feed him,” the message reads.

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself as you look at the picture. You quickly type out a response: “He’s adorable! Have you tried petting him yet?”

A minute later, Zayne replies: “I’ve tried. He runs away every time I get close.”

You smile to yourself, finding the image of Zayne—a man so composed, so in control—being outwitted by a stray cat endearing. You imagine him, kneeling down, trying to coax the little creature closer, only for it to scurry away. There’s something so human about it, so... normal.

“That’s adorable,” you reply, the smile still on your face. “Keep feeding him, and he’ll come around eventually.”

The conversation carries on like that—simple, easy exchanges that make you feel more connected to him in ways you hadn’t expected. But with every message, every small insight into Zayne’s life outside of his role as a priest, the ache in your chest grows. The attraction you’d hoped would fade has only grown stronger, and now it’s not just about the way he looks or the way his voice makes your heart race. It’s about him—his quiet strength, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but still finds time to send you a picture of a stray cat.

You know you shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a priest, and you’re well aware of the boundaries that are supposed to exist between you. You’ve tried telling yourself that it’s just a crush, something that will pass.

But it hasn’t.

Late at night, you lie in bed, staring at your phone, your thumb hovering over the screen as you reread his latest message for the hundredth time. You feel a warmth spread through your chest, a soft ache blooming alongside it—a gnawing longing.

Your set the phone beside you as you exhale, closing your eyes. The ache doesn’t go away. The thought of him consumes you. Every night, it’s the same. You tell yourself not to think about him, not to let your mind wander to those places where it’s dangerous to go, but you’re powerless to stop it.

You imagine his hands—strong yet gentle—the way they would feel against your skin. You think about his lips, how they’d taste, how they’d move against yours, how they’d trail lower. Your body heats at the thought and before you can stop yourself, your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. The room feels too quiet, too still, as your breath quickens, and all you can think of is him.

Every night, you touch yourself to the thought of him. It’s become your secret ritual, a way to chase the frustration and desire that builds up inside you. You picture the way his body would feel pressed against yours, the way his breath would hitch as he gives in, as the control he fights so hard to maintain finally snaps. You can almost hear his voice��low, rough with need—as he murmurs your name, telling you how much he’s wanted you, how long he’s been fighting it.

Your fingers move faster. And just as you reach the edge, teetering on the brink of release, you whisper his name into the darkness, your voice barely audible.

When it’s over, you lie there, breathless, your heart pounding in the silence of your room. The guilt creeps in, just like every night.

During the day, at the shop, you go through the motions—serving customers, smiling, chatting. But your mind drifts back to him, and you wonder –

‘Does he ever think about me like that?’

You think of him during the slow afternoons at the shop, when the world feels like it’s moving on without you. You wonder what he’s doing, if you cross his mind in those rare moments when he’s alone. Or if you’re just another parishioner to him, someone he texts about cats and pastries and nothing more.

The next time your phone buzzes, and you see Zayne’s name light up the screen, your heart skips a beat, followed by that all-too-familiar flutter in your belly. He’s sent another picture of the cat, this time with a playful caption:

“Still no luck with petting him. I think he likes to torment me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. Warmth spreads through your chest, but the ache follows closely behind.

You type out a response, light-hearted to match his tone. “Maybe he’s playing hard to get. He knows you’ll keep trying.”

The response comes seconds later, “You’re probably right. I’ll keep trying. Maybe one day he’ll trust me.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday mass comes, and you sit quietly in the back, as you’ve grown accustomed to. Zayne stands at the altar, delivering his sermon with the same calm and captivating demeanor. The words, though meaningful, drift over you like a gentle breeze—comforting, yet distant. You can’t help but let your mind wander, your gaze occasionally flitting up to meet his. Each time your eyes find his, there’s a momentary spark, a flicker of something that passes between you.

At first, it’s subtle—a glance, nothing more. But as the moments pass, the weight of his attention seems to grow heavier. His gaze lingers on you for just a heartbeat longer than it should. The words coming from his mouth slow for the briefest second, just enough to notice, before he corrects himself and continues. But the flicker is there, a momentary lapse in the composed, unwavering Father Zayne.

You feel a rush of heat rise in your chest. ‘Is he losing focus because of me?’ The thought sends a thrill through you, though you immediately try to brush it off as wishful thinking. But then, it happens again.

Zayne’s sermon flows smoothly as usual, but this time, when his eyes find yours again, there’s a subtle shift in his expression. His voice falters, just slightly, as if he’s momentarily forgotten his place. He pauses, clearing his throat, his gaze quickly flicking away. You feel your heart pound in your chest, and you know he felt it too—his usual calm shaken, if only for a moment.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. A pair of elderly women seated a few pews ahead of you exchange a glance, their heads turning slightly as if they’re trying to figure out what—or who—might have caused the good Father to stumble. They lean toward each other, whispering quietly, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, a mixture of excitement and guilt flooding through you.

Zayne continues, his voice steady once more, but you can see the subtle tension in his posture now—the way his hands grip the edges of the lectern just a little tighter, the slight crease between his brows as if he’s fighting to regain control. You try to focus on the sermon again, to pull yourself out of this strange, charged moment, but it’s impossible.

When the service ends, and the last of the parishioners trickle out, you step forward, your heart still pounding in your chest. Zayne looks up, and you can tell he’s still unsettled from earlier.

But he smiles. "Good morning," he says, his voice quieter now. "I—uh, hope you enjoyed the service."

You nod, offering him a small smile in return. "I did. Though, I have to admit... I still don’t understand most of it."

Zayne chuckles, "As long as you’re here, that’s what matters," he replies, and for a moment it seems as if there’s more he wants to say but can’t quite find the words.

Before either of you can speak again, you glance toward the doors and realize that, during the service, the skies outside have opened up. Rain pours down, tapping against the windows with a steady rhythm. You curse softly under your breath, realizing you hadn’t brought an umbrella.

"Looks like I’m stuck for a while," you murmur, half to yourself, half to Zayne.

He follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a thoughtful expression. "You don’t have an umbrella?" he asks.

You shake your head, feeling a bit foolish. "No, I didn’t think it would rain today."

Zayne pauses for a moment, as if thinking about something, before he speaks again. "I could walk you home," he offers. "I have an umbrella, and I need to head out anyway. We could talk about the next bake sale on the way."

Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of walking alone with him.

"Are you sure?" you ask, though you already know what his answer will be.

Zayne nods, that soft smile returning to his lips. "Of course. It’s no trouble."

And just like that, the decision is made. You follow him to the coat rack near the entrance, where he retrieves a large, dark umbrella. He opens it with a swift motion, then gestures for you to step under it with him. As you do, the two of you step out into the rain, the world around you suddenly feeling smaller.

You walk side by side, the umbrella barely covering both of you, forcing your bodies to press close together. His arm brushes against yours every few steps, the warmth of his presence almost too much, making it difficult to focus on what he’s saying. The scent of rain mingles with the faint hint of his cologne, and it makes your head dizzy.

At one point, your eyes meet again, and for a split second, Zayne’s step falters, just slightly. His words stumble as he’s explaining something about the church’s plans for the sale. He catches himself quickly, but when you glance up at him, there’s a flush of color in his cheeks. And in that moment, you wonder – ‘Is he affected by this as well?’

As you walk, the rain begins to lighten, turning into a soft drizzle, but neither of you rush to part ways. The conversation continues, easy and unhurried, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the church, the responsibilities, the complicated emotions swirling between you. It’s just the two of you, walking in the rain.

When you finally reach your street, Zayne stops in front of your building.

"Thank you," you say with a smile.

Zayne smiles, that familiar softness in his eyes again. "It was my pleasure."

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment, it feels like something hangs in the air between you. But before either of you can break the silence, Zayne steps back, offering a small nod.

"I’ll see you soon," he says, his voice quiet.

You nod, watching as he turns and walks away. As you head inside, you can’t shake the feeling that the space between you and Zayne is growing smaller with every encounter. You wonder if the boundary between friendship and something more is becoming increasingly blurred.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head. The way he had looked at you, the subtle hesitations in his words, the fleeting touches. You found yourself waiting for a message from him, hoping for a hint that he felt something.

But the message never came.

You tried to brush it off at first. ‘He’s busy.’ The church had its demands, and the bake sale was coming up soon. He probably had a hundred things to take care of. But as the days passed, the silence grew heavier. Each time your phone buzzed, you found yourself hoping it was him, only to feel that familiar stab of disappointment when it wasn’t.

When you finally couldn’t stand the silence any longer, you sent him a message, keeping it casual. You told yourself that it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d reply, and everything would be fine. But when his response came, it was short, almost curt.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen. You told yourself you were imagining things, that maybe he was just having an off day. But the pattern repeated itself. Another message from you, another short, impersonal reply from him. It was as if a wall had gone up between you, growing taller with every passing day.

And then there was the shop. Zayne had always made a point of visiting at least once a week, stopping by for a quick chat and dessert. But that week, he didn’t come. Each day, you glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see him walk through it with that quiet smile, but the door never opened for him.

The absence weighted on your mind, leaving you questioning everything. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ you wondered, replaying your last conversations over and over in your head.

You tried to focus on work, on the bake sale preparations, but your mind kept drifting back to him. You thought about sending another message, something more direct. But each time, you hesitated. ‘What if he’s distancing himself on purpose?’ The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest.

By the time the weekend approached, the doubt and confusion had hardened into something else—hurt. You couldn’t understand why he had gone so cold, why the easy warmth between you had turned into this frigid distance.

And as you stood behind the counter of your shop, watching the door and waiting for a familiar face that never came, you realized something. ‘He’s avoiding me.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Saturday, the church is buzzing with activity. Tables are set up along the hall, covered in pastries, cakes, and breads that you had carefully crafted over the week. The sight of them should be enough to fill Zayne with excitement. He usually enjoyed events like these. Always eager to chat with volunteers, admire the work of the community, and, if he was honest with himself, look forward to seeing you.

But today, as he scans the room, his gaze lingers on the table where your pastries sit, beautifully arranged and ready to be sold. He can feel a flutter of anticipation. ‘She’ll be here.’ he thinks to himself, hoping to see you among the busy volunteers. You hadn’t come to last Sunday’s mass, and even though he had tried to keep his distance, part of him had been looking forward to seeing you today. He hadn’t realized how much he missed your presence until you weren’t there.

But as the minutes tick by, his eyes sweep over the table again, and something unsettling clicks into place. You’re not here. Instead, your two employees are standing behind the table, chatting with customers, offering samples and smiling as they go about their work. The sight of them, rather than you, feels like a punch to the gut.

Zayne takes a deep breath, as he walks over to the table. He exchanges polite greetings with your employees, but his mind is racing. ‘Why didn’t she come?’ He expected you to be here, after all the work you had put into the preparations. He glances around the room again, hoping maybe you’re somewhere else, mingling with the other volunteers. But you’re nowhere to be seen.

The knot in his chest tightens. For the first time in days, the weight of his own silence, his distance, hits him with full force. ‘She didn’t come because of me.’ His guilt, which he had been trying to push down, now rises to the surface. This time, for a different reason. He remembers the unanswered messages, the short replies, the way he had deliberately pulled away, thinking it was the right thing to do.

He moves through the rest of the bake sale with that guilt gnawing at him. Every time he passes your table, he feels the weight of your absence, the emptiness it leaves behind. And though he tries to focus on the event, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with parishioners, his mind is elsewhere—on you, and how he pushed you away with his silence.

As the crowd thins and things begin to slow down, he can’t resist any longer. He approaches your employees again, keeping his tone casual.

“She did an incredible job with everything,” Zayne says, offering a small smile as he glances over the leftover pastries. “I was hoping to thank her in person, though. Is she around?”

One of your employees, a young woman with a friendly smile, looks up at him. “Oh, she’s not here,” she says. “She’s actually out of town right now. I think she’s with her friends for the weekend.”

Zayne’s chest tightens. ‘Out of town?’ ‘With friends?’ The information feels like another blow. He hides his reaction, nodding politely.

“Ah, I see. Thank you both for participating,” he says, his voice a little more strained than he intends.

As he walks away from the table, the guilt intensifies. The thought of you spending the weekend elsewhere, with your friends, leaving the bake sale in the hands of someone else, feels like a quiet rejection. ‘She didn’t want to see me.’ The guilt twists in his chest, tighter and heavier than before.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stood in your kitchen for a few minutes, debating what to do. You weren’t planning on attending tomorrow’s Sunday mass—again. The thought of sitting there, with Zayne at the altar, pretending everything was normal, made your stomach twist. But the tablecloths. They needed to be returned, and the idea of just dropping them off quickly, quietly, without having to see anyone—without having to see him—seemed like the easiest solution.

You didn’t expect the rain. The sky had been calm when you left, but halfway to the church, the clouds burst open. Within seconds, the rain comes down in torrents, soaking through your clothes as you clutch the tablecloths tighter, your feet pounding against the wet pavement.

By the time you reach the church, you're drenched, the fabric in your arms heavy and useless. Gasping for breath, you push open the door. Your shoes squeak on the stone floor as you step inside, water dripping from your clothes and pooling beneath you. You wipe a hand over your face, trying to gather yourself.

"Hey," a voice calls from deeper within the church.

Your heart skips a beat. You recognize that voice immediately. Of course, it had to be him.

You’re standing there, dripping wet, trying to catch your breath and your bearings when Zayne steps closer, his eyes scanning over your soaked clothes. There’s a flash of concern in his expression, though he quickly tries to mask it with something lighter, a smile playing on his lips.

"You really don’t like carrying an umbrella with you, do you?" he teases softly, trying to ease the tension, and it works—just for a moment. You chuckle, shaking your head.

"I guess not," you manage to say, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your shivering.

His smile fades slightly as he takes in the sight of you, soaked and visibly trembling. “You’re freezing,” he says, his voice gentler now, more serious. “Why don’t you come to the rectory? You can dry off and change into something warm.”

The idea of going to the rectory, the space where Zayne lives, feels like crossing a line, a line you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks. You shake your head, stepping back slightly. “I’ll just call a cab. I’m just here to return these,” you say quickly, you murmur, gesturing to the tablecloths. "I don’t want to intrude."

But Zayne steps forward, his brow furrowed as he looks you over. "You’re not intruding." he says, his voice more insistent now. "You’ll get sick if you walk back out like this. Please, just let me help."

You look up at him, the concern in his eyes stirring something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to suppress. The rain outside is relentless, and despite your instinct to retreat, you find yourself nodding. "Okay," you whisper.

Relief flashes in Zayne’s eyes, and he nods, stepping aside to lead the way. "Good. Follow me."

Zayne leads you into the rectory, the warmth of his home. He guides you toward a small bathroom. “Take a hot shower,” he says, “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and I’ll leave some of my pajamas for you to change into.”

You nod, stepping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

As the hot water runs over your skin, you feel the tension in your body begin to ease, the heat chasing away the lingering chill. You try to focus on the steam rising around you, on anything but the fact that you’re in his home, about to wear his clothes.

When you finally step out of the shower, you glance at the folded set of Zayne’s pajamas waiting for you on the bathroom counter. You slip into them, the soft material comforting against your skin, and can’t help but take in the smell of his fabric softener – fresh, floral scent. As you step out the bathroom, suddenly you’re self-conscious, aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. The loose fabric brushes against your skin with every movement.

You walk timidly toward the living room, your heart pounding in your chest. As you step into the room, you find Zayne waiting for you, seated on the far end of the sofa. He’s placed two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. The room feels intimate, almost too intimate, with just the two of you here, the rain still tapping against the windows outside.

Zayne looks up as you enter, and for a moment, his breath seems to catch in his throat. His eyes widen slightly, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes, fresh from the shower. He clears his throat, his gaze quickly dropping to the tea in front of him, but the redness on his face betrays him.

You feel your own cheeks burn in response, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the loose fabric hangs on you. You move quickly to the far end of the sofa, sitting down with careful distance between the two of you.

"Thank you... for the shower," you say. "And for letting me stay while my clothes dry."

Zayne glances at you, his eyes flickering briefly over you again before he focuses on his hands resting in his lap. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice a little strained.

You give him a small smile, wrapping your hands around the warm mug of tea, grateful for something to do with your hands.

Zayne speaks first, before the uncomfortable silence could stretch, “I heard you were out of town,” he says, his voice soft but probing. “What are you doing here?”

His question catches you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so directly.

“I was supposed to be,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening around the cup of tea, the warmth barely grounding you. “But... the friend I was supposed to go out with caught a cold. She cancelled last minute.”

The explanation hangs between you, and even though it’s true, it feels flimsy. You look down, staring into your cup. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’

Zayne’s gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s waiting for something more. Then, he continues. “And the bake sale?” he asks, “You didn’t come.”

The question lands like a blow. You know why, of course. Your throat tightens as you try to form a response.

“I—uh, I got caught up,” you say, your voice faltering.

You know how weak that lie sounds. But he doesn’t push. Instead his gaze softens as he looks at you. "I’m glad you’re here now," he says quietly.

You stare at him for a moment, his words sinking in, and a small, ironic chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it. "I find that hard to believe,"

Zayne looks at you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, his brow furrowing slightly as he waits for you to elaborate.

"I thought..." you begin, but then pause, biting your lip as you glance away, trying to gather your thoughts. "I thought you didn’t want me around."

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Your eyes find his and the vulnerability in them makes your chest tighten.

"I’m sorry," he says softly. "For keeping my distance. For... pulling away."

The apology lingers between you, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them, but also the pain. He’s struggling—just as much as you are, maybe more.

"I thought..." he starts, his voice faltering for a second. He pauses, his hand moving to the white collar at his throat. "I thought keeping my distance would help, that it would protect both of us. But it only made things worse."

You swallow hard as you watch him. His fingers linger on the collar for a moment longer before he drops his hand, his eyes filled with a quiet regret. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I started hearing things. Rumors. People talking about... us." The words make your heart skip a beat. "It was like a wake-up call, a hard one." His fingers brush the collar again, this time more deliberately. "That I’m a priest. And I took vows. Vows I can’t break."

You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt you see in his eyes, but before you can, he continues, his voice even softer now. "But no matter how much distance I try to put between us, you’re always on my mind." He looks away for a second. "Everywhere I go, everything I do... I can’t stop thinking about you."

You don’t know what to say, what to do. Zayne’s vulnerability, his confession of how deeply you’ve affected him, makes the tension between you almost unbearable.

His eyes meet yours again. "You’re everywhere," he whispers, his voice almost breaking. "And I don’t know what to do about it."

Zayne’s words linger in the air, pulling at your heartstrings. You want to say something, to ease the pain, and you don’t know if you can. Not when you’ve been feeling the same way.

"Zayne..." you say softly, "I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling," Zayne’s gaze drops to the floor, shoulders tense. Seeing him like this makes your chest tighten, but you can’t stop now. There’s too much unsaid.

"But I can’t stop thinking about you either," you confess, your voice trembling slightly. The words make you feel exposed, but it’s the truth you’ve been holding in for so long. "You’re in my thoughts all the time. It’s like... no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, I just want to be near you."

Zayne looks back at you, and you fight every fiber in your body to close the distance between you.

"I care about you, Zayne," you whisper. "And I hate seeing you like this. But I can’t pretend that what I feel isn’t real."

He’s quiet, his breathing shallow as he processes your words. Neither of you has the answers, but in this moment, it’s enough to know that you’re not alone.

"I’ve tried to ignore it," you continue, your voice shaky but honest. "I’ve tried to stay away, to give you space, but..." You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what’s been burning inside you for so long. "It’s not just the little things. It’s all of it. The way your touch lingers... even when you barely graze my skin. I keep thinking about it, imagining more, wishing you would... touch me, hold me.”

Your cheeks burn as the words leave your lips. This is it. There’s no turning back now. You’ve held this in for so long. And now, it’s out there between you, impossible to ignore, to pretend it doesn’t exist.

"I want to feel you," you confess softly. "I want to feel your hands on me. I can’t pretend I don’t need this anymore."

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move. His breath is shallow, his eyes locked on yours as his fingers flex slightly against the fabric of his pants. You wait, breathless, watching him.

"I want to touch you," he whispers finally. "I’ve thought about it more than I should. About how it would feel…” Then, his expression falters, frustration flashing across his face. “But I can’t."

The empathetic side of you understands him completely, and you don’t want to push him. But at the same time, you can’t just let this moment slip away.

Your hand moves instinctively, slowly sliding down your chest in a deliberate motion. "You don’t have to." you murmur.

You don’t wait for him to respond as you reach up, your fingers tracing the top button of the shirt. Then, one by one, the buttons come undone, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room. You hesitate for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you look at Zayne. His gaze is fixed on you, the unbuttoned shirt, eyes betraying everything his words deny.

Your fingers slide along the edges of the unbuttoned shirt, and, with a steadying breath, you shrug your shoulders slightly, letting the material slip down your arms. The shirt falls away, delicately sliding off your skin. Your skin is bare now, exposed under the dim light, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Your nipples are hard as the air brushes over your skin.

Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, and you can see the deep flush flood his cheeks and ears. His gaze roams over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, his pupils dilated. He’s stunned, frozen in place, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—what he’s allowed himself to see.

His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out, to touch you, but he doesn’t. He’s rooted to the spot, his body betraying him with how tightly he’s gripping the sofa, the knuckles of his hand turning white from the force of his restraint. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—he’s completely consumed by the sight of you.

Without another word, you let your hand slide down, your fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants. Zayne’s eyes follow your movements. You pause for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Zayne lets out a ragged breath, his body tensing as he watches you, helpless to do anything but stare. Your fingers tremble as you hook them into the waistband of your pants, eyes never leaving Zayne’s. You push the pants down slowly, the fabric sliding over your legs and pooling at your feet, leaving you sitting in just your underwear.

For a moment, you hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. You give him one last chance to stop you, to pull back before things go any further. "If you want me to leave," you say, your voice low, "you should say it now."

Your words hang in the air, the final chance for him to take control, to push you away. But Zayne says nothing. His lips part slightly, but no words come. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t tell you to leave. Instead, his eyes stay locked on yours, his silence a wordless plea for more.

That’s all the confirmation you need.

Your hand slides down slowly, Zayne’s eyes following every move. You let your fingers brush over the front of your underwear, and you know he can see the obvious damp spot, his presence alone having you already soaked through the fabric.

His pupils dilate as he watches, and for a second, you think you hear him let out a soft, involuntary sound—something like a groan—but it’s barely audible. His chest heaves, and his grip on the sofa tightens even more, as if he’s hanging on by a thread.

"I think about you all the time, Zayne," you whisper, your voice trembling. "And when I do... this is how I touch myself." Your hand presses down on the damp fabric. "There’s nothing wrong with this," you continue, your voice silky and sweet. "Not if you just watch."

The words feel like a challenge, a tease. Zayne’s face is a mixture of conflict and desire, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes are glued to your hand, to the way your fingers move against the fabric of your underwear, his gaze filled with hunger he can’t hide anymore.

Your hand moves in slow, deliberate circles over your underwear, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body, and you let out a soft moan. The sound makes his jaw tighten, and he shifts in his seat, clearly aroused but still holding himself back. His gaze flicks back and forth between your eyes and your body, torn between wanting to pull away and being unable to look anywhere but at you.

Then, finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Take it off," he rasps, his voice trembling with the weight of his words. His eyes meet yours, and there’s no mistaking the command in them now. "I need to see... all of you."

His words send a rush of heat through you, making your entire body tingle. There’s no hesitation in his voice this time. Without a word, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, your fingers trembling slightly as you slowly slide the fabric down your hips. The underwear slips down your legs, falling softly to the floor, leaving you completely exposed before him. You sit there, vulnerable, your skin glistening with arousal. You can feel his gaze on every inch of your body, lingering on your thighs, your hips, and finally, on the slick wetness between your legs.

"You’re... so beautiful." he breathes, his voice barely audible, filled with astonishment and desire. Zayne swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to steady himself. "Show me," he says, his voice low, trembling with desire. "Show me how you touch yourself... when you’re thinking about me."

Your heart races, your entire body flushed with heat as you slowly slide your hand down your stomach, your fingers grazing over your slick skin. You let out a soft moan as you begin to touch yourself, your eyes fixed on Zayne. He’s completely captivated, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he watches you.

Your fingers move with a growing urgency, sliding over the slickness between your folds. The sight of you touching yourself, moaning softly, has him teetering on the edge of his restraint. You’re watching him just as intently as he watches you, and you need to see more.

"Touch yourself too," you whisper softly. His eyes snap up to yours, stunned. "It’s not so bad," you add. "You’re not touching me. We’ll just… watch each other."

Zayne’s jaw clenches. His eyes are locked on yours, a storm of guilt and desire brewing beneath the surface. But then he slowly reaches up and unclasps the white collar at his throat.

For a moment, he holds it in his hand, his fingers trembling as he looks down at the small strip of fabric. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sets it aside on the table beside him. His hands move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, each motion slow, as though he’s still hesitating at the threshold. When he’s halfway down, Zayne pauses, then pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, slipping free, leaving him bare from the waist up.

The muscles beneath his shirt are more defined than you had imagined. Your eyes roam over every line, every curve of his body, taking in the way his chest moves with each heavy breath. He sits there for a moment, shirtless, his collar gone, his identity as Father Zayne falling away along with it.

He’s just a man now—just Zayne.

You swallow hard, your fingers still moving, your own arousal building with each second that passes. "Please," you whisper. "I want to see you. All of you."

Zayne’s hesitation doesn’t linger for long, before he undoes his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse races as the pants drop to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear, his arousal straining against the thin material. His eyes flick to yours, searching, almost pleading. He’s asking without words—asking if this is what you want, if this is what you’re ready for. And you are.

You nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. With a shaky breath, Zayne hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, and you can see the tremor in his hands. But he doesn’t stop. He slides them down slowly, the fabric falling in one fluid motion, leaving him completely naked.

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as you take in the sight of him. His erection stands thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need. Every inch of him is raw, masculine, breathtaking. He’s stunning, more than you could have imagined, and for a moment, you’re lost in the sheer power of him—his vulnerability and strength laid bare before you.

Your fingers slide over yourself again, the slick heat of your arousal making you moan softly, your body shuddering from the touch. Zayne’s erection throbs visibly as he watches you. His hand twitches at his side, his body screaming for release, but he waits for you to give him permission, waiting to be told it’s okay to let go.

"Touch yourself," your voice is breathy, filled with need. "Please, Zayne."

His eyes flick between your hand and your face, but then, slowly, he wraps his hand around his length. The sight of him finally surrendering, of his strong hand gripping himself, sends a surge of heat straight to your core. You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as your fingers move faster.

Zayne lets out a low groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he strokes himself. The room is filled with the sound of your combined breathing, the soft moans that slip from your lips, the slick sound of your fingers slipping inside your wet entrance. You’re both completely lost in each other now, and there’s no going back.

Zayne’s hand moves slowly, rhythmically over his length, his breathing heavy and uneven as he watches you, his eyes filled with a hunger so intense it makes your pulse race even faster. His breath catches in his throat, and you know he’s still holding back.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with warmth. “It’s okay... I want this. You don’t have to hold back.”

Your words seem to wash over him, his eyes flickering with something like relief. His gaze is locked on your body, the way your fingers are soaked with your wetness, the slick sound filling the quiet space between you. His jaw clenches as he tries to steady himself, his hand stroking his length with increasing need.

"You’re... beautiful," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. "God, you’ve been... in my head... in my dreams... almost every night."

His confession makes your squeeze around your fingers, a soft moan escaping your lips. The raw honesty in his voice, makes your body tremble as you teeter on the edge. Your fingers press harder, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you feel the tension in your body building, coiling tight, ready to snap.

You can see he’s close too—his hand moving faster, his body tense with the effort of holding on. But even now, even with his own release so close, his eyes are locked on you, filled with a hunger.

"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice low and rough. "I want to see you... let go. I want to hear you... Please..."

That’s all it takes. His voice, thick with need, and the sight of him on the brink, unravel you completely. Your breath hitches, turning into ragged gasps as pleasure overtakes you, your fingers moving faster, desperate to prolong the sensation as wave after wave crashes through you, each one more intense than the last. And all the while, Zayne watches, his hand moving faster, desperate to join you in the release.

Your breath steadies, your hand still resting on your wet folds, the space between you now feels too wide. "Come closer," you whisper. "I want you closer... please."

The raw need in your voice, the tenderness of your plea, draws him toward you, erasing any hesitation. He hovers over you, kneeling between your legs, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. His arousal still hard and throbbing, inches away from you, his gaze filled with so much want that it makes your own body heat up again.

"I’m... I’m so close," Zayne gasps, his voice shaking, laced with desperation.

"Let go," you whisper, your voice soft but unyielding. Your eyes lock with his, your breath hitching as you speak. "Let go on me, Zayne."

His eyes widen at your words. He looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s about to argue, to get up and find something else—a tissue, anything to keep from crossing that final line. But the hunger in your gaze, the trembling of your body beneath him pulls him back into the moment. The sight of your hand sliding over the slickness between your thighs seals his fate. His hand tightens around himself, his strokes quickening as his control shatters.

"Please," you whisper, your soft plea the final push he need.

And then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he finally lets go.

The first hot spurt of his release hits your belly, warm and wet, the sensation eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. His body trembles violently above you, his muscles taut and shaking as his hand moves over himself with desperate need. He groans deeply, the sound raw and primal, as more of his release follows, thick and hot, landing between your thighs, coating your skin. His breath hitches, his body tensing with each spasm of pleasure as he watches the way his release paints your skin. His hand continues to pump his length, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, caught in the overwhelming force of his orgasm.

Zayne closes his eyes as the last drops land on your flushed skin, his body still above yours.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The air is thick with the weight of what just transpired, but there's no guilt, no regret. His breath is still ragged, your own chest rising and falling with the same uneven rhythm.

When Zayne opens his eyes, they’re soft with awe—filled with pure, unguarded admiration.

"You..." he whispers, his voice rough and shaky, barely able to finish the thought. His eyes trace the glistening trail of warmth he’s left on your stomach, the way it pools between your legs, marking you with the undeniable proof of how far you’ve both fallen. "You’re... perfect."

A soft, breathless smile plays on your lips. "So are you," you murmur back.

For a moment, Zayne just stares at you, his eyes filled with something deeper than words can express. Then, he leans forward, pressing a soft, featherlight kiss to your forehead. The gesture is so tender, so filled with affection, that it takes you by surprise. It feels fragile, like something you both need to hold onto, if only for a little longer.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours again, and for the first time, there’s a sense of peace. Just the quiet aftermath of something real—messy, complicated, but undeniably real.

And for now, that’s enough.

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