#the world needs more words out there and more words out there leads to more reading

[h3nderyss]

touch deprived - jeon wonwoo

pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader . . . masterlist genre: fluff! wonwoo's yearning okay. word count: 820 a/n: bosh... first fic since MARCH? i wanted to make this a little more of wonwoo being such a cat bc his kitty agenda never fails... also i love cats so hehe

the sound of the apartment door unlocking was soft, but you heard it. there wasn't a reason to rush to the door, not when you knew he was home.

you heard the quiet shuffle of shoes being kicked off, and a soft thunk of a backpack dropping to the floor. then came the pause which was the stillness that always came before you saw him again after a long time apart.

and then:

"y/n," a quiet, deep voice. like a meow at midnight.

you turned, and there he was.

wonwoo, standing by the door like a stray cat finally let inside. he looked like he was both tired and longing, like someone who'd spent days pretending to be fine and finally made it back to the only place he could let go.

you barely had time to speak before he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you.

his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you close deep with a sigh so deep it made your chest ache. he pressed his face into your neck, nuzzling like a sleepy kitten, breathing you in like home.

you hugged him back, hands glued to his hair, "welcome home."

he made a small noise, a half groan half hum, and tightened his grip on you like he thought you might disappear.

"was it tough?" you asked gently, petting the back of his head.

"i'm touch deprived," he mumbled.

you blinked. "touch deprived?"

"kiss deprived. hug deprived. you deprived."

you giggled. "that serious?"

he pulled back enough just to look at you with those pretty dark eyes. "i haven't had a single kiss in over twelve days. that's like eighty-four years in cat time."

"you're not actually a cat, baby."

"you say that," he muttered, studying your face, his eyes roaming. "but i purr whenever you scratch my hair."

your face flushed immediately.

you scratched his head just to test the waters. sure enough, he melted. eyes fluttering shut, body pressing closer, his entire form softening like warm butter in the sun.

"that's cheating," you whispered.

he peeked his eyes open. "you have no idea what you do to me."

"wonwoo-"

"i had dreams of this. about holding you like this, your smell, your laugh." he leaned in and kissed your cheek, softly. "i missed everything."

you pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. his eyes were glowing, even though they were a little red from flying.

"you look like you haven't slept," you said,

"i haven't rested," he corrected, "but i will now."

he kissed you then. slowly, like he had all the time in the world. like he was memorizing the shape of your lips all over again. and when you smiled into it, he let out a tiny, content hum, rubbing your noses together like a kitten seeking warmth.

you nearly collapsed from how soft he was being.

"you're seriously like a cat right now," you spoke softly with a small smile, brushing hair off his forehead.

"good. because i'm about to curl up on you and stay there for the next five hours."

you laughed, letting him take your hand and lead you to the couch. the second you sat down, he was already on you. arms wrapped tightly around your waist, head on your chest, legs tucked by your side like he belonged in your lap.

and truthfully, he did.

he purred. literally.

"did you just purr?"

"that's the sound of a man finally at peace," he murmured, eyes closed. "my favourite person. my favourite everything."

you blushed so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. "you're so cheesy today."

"because i'm desperate for you," he whined.

and just like that, your heart fluttered again. you ran your hands through his hair.

he was quiet for a long while after that, but his hands kept moving. tracing circles on your side, his fingers curling under the hem of your shirt like he just needed the contact. at one point, he looked up, eyes glassy with sleep and affection.

"you still love me, right?" he asked softly, voice barely a whisper.

you blinked, caught off guard. "what?"

"i don't know," he said with a nervous smile. 'i just- sometimes i think i'm too quiet. or too clingy. or maybe not enough."

you cupped his face, his black hair falling perfectly and his dark eyes searching yours. "wonwoo,"

"mm?"

"i love you so much it's stupid."

he blinked. once. twice, his eyes flicking to your lips.

and then he kissed you so sweetly it nearly broke you.

no rush. no heat. just lips brushing like whispers. like he was finally full, and still wanted more.

when he pulled away, his voice was soft again. sleepier. warmer.

"don't move," he mumbled. "i'm not done loving you yet."

you smiled, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "i'm not going anywhere, kitty."

he purred again.

don't ask me how a man can purr... just go with it :p

[cbeargyu]

altar boy sins [2]

summary: the pastor’s son fucks you in the back room of the church, promising god’s forgiveness while ruining your last shred of purity.

pairing: mark lee x fem!reader

genre: smut, religious corruption, dark romance.

warnings: explicit sexual content, anal virginity, church setting, religious guilt, oral (m receiving), squirting, degradation, sacreligious language, coercion under trust, creampie, overstimulation, power imbalance, aftercare (light), public risk, no vaginal penetration.

part i.

MDNI 🔞

the days after that event in the church passed in a strange blur—quiet, heavy, stained with something you didn’t have the words to name. guilt, maybe. shame. or maybe something darker, something you weren’t supposed to feel in your chest every time you thought of him: need.

you’d avoided mark at first. not in an obvious way—just in the way a girl who’s scared of her own body might avoid the boy who took her apart with it. you thought he might pull away too, grow distant after what he did to you. maybe he’d pretend nothing happened, or worse, pretend he didn’t mean it when he whispered he’d marry you.

but he didn’t.

if anything, he became more present. more constant. more yours.

he started showing up around your house with excuses—books he thought you'd like, notes from scripture he said might help you reflect, leftover pastries from the church bake sale he said had your name on them. when he smiled at your mother, she glowed with approval. when he spoke to your father, it was always with respect and devotion. he never slipped. never let on. never gave them a reason to question how filthy his hands had been all over their daughter.

and then he told his father—the pastor—that you had a gift. that you were kind, patient, gentle with the younger kids in bible class. that maybe you should help out, become a catechist in training.

you almost choked when your parents brought it up over dinner. “he said that?” you’d asked, eyes wide, fork frozen mid-air.

“yes,” your mother beamed. “such a good boy. not like others his age. he thinks of the church, of the children, of god.”

you agreed, of course. because how could you not? because your parents looked at you like it was a blessing. because mark had smiled at you across the pew the next sunday and mouthed, i’m proud of you, like none of it was wicked.

and so you went.

every saturday morning, you showed up before mass and helped corral a dozen children into tiny wooden chairs, helped them fold their hands in prayer, helped them understand what it meant to be good and pure in god’s eyes. and sometimes, in the quiet space before their parents arrived, mark would stop by. he’d lean on the doorframe, watching you, eyes slow and dark and unreadable.

“you look cute when you’re being holy,” he’d whisper once, pulling you into the broom closet after class and kissing you so hard you forgot your name.

those kisses had become more frequent. hidden, greedy. fingers sneaking beneath your cardigan. his hand cupping your thigh as you gasped against his lips, terrified someone might open the door. you never let it go too far again—but the air always turned hot when he was near. the world always went still when he touched you.

today had been quiet.

your class had gone well—crafts and scripture, singing soft hymns while the stained glass bled sunlight over the children’s heads. when the last parent arrived to take them home, you’d tidied up, gathered your things, and returned to the small gravel path leading back to your family home. the streets of town were mostly empty, everyone tucked into their usual saturday chores. you waved to mrs. garcía sweeping her porch. crossed paths with the baker’s daughter carrying a tray of loaves. everything felt… calm.

you’d just tied your apron around your waist and started chopping vegetables beside your mother when the phone rang.

the one mounted on the kitchen wall. the only one in the house.

your mother dried her hands quickly and picked it up. “hello?”

her voice lit up at the name. “oh! mark, sweetheart. how are you?”

you froze. your fingers paused over the carrots.

“yes… oh, how careless of her.” her tone shifted, just slightly, that disappointed edge all mothers have. “i told her—always forgetting things.”

you already knew what he’d said.

“she left her bible at the church,” she mouthed at you, covering the receiver.

you looked down. heat crawled up your neck.

“you’re such a good boy,” your mother continued, now smiling again. “always looking out for her. she’s lucky to have your friendship, you know.”

friendship.

you swallowed hard.

you could hear the faint hum of mark’s voice through the line, though not the words. whatever he said made your mother laugh softly.

“yes, yes—i’ll send her right over. thank you, mark.”

when she hung up, she turned to you with a sigh. “honestly, you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached. go on, before the church locks up.”

you nodded, wiping your hands and untying the apron. your heart beat a little faster than before. something in your gut twisted.

because you hadn’t forgotten your bible. you never did.

and mark knew that.

you step into the empty church, the air cool and scented with old incense. the wooden pews stand silent under shafts of late-afternoon light. at the far end, mark leans against the pulpit pillar, bible in hand, eyes dark as he watches you approach.

“you came,” he says, voice low. “i knew you would.”

you pause, hand trembling as you reach for the bible on the lectern. his long fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you against him so your back presses to his chest. you gasp, the hard line of his body anchoring you in place.

“mark, let go,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “i just… i need my bible.” he laughs softly, breath warm against your ear. “you and that bible. but really, it’s me you need.”

he brushes a finger under your chin, tilting your face to his. “i can’t stop thinking about that night,” he murmurs. “about the way you squirted all over me. the way you begged me—fuck, you begged me like a little sinner craving my cock.”

you press your lips together, shame coiling in your belly. “stop—please,” you murmur, voice shaking.

he smiles, amused. “stop? baby, i know you love it when i say these things. god won’t punish you for being hot.” he slides one arm around your waist and with the other tugs the hem of your dress up over your hips. the fabric gathers at your waist and rides up your thighs, exposing the curve of your ass.

“i don’t want… not yet,” you whisper, knees weak.

“that’s fine,” he replies, easing you back to sit on his lap on the wooden pew. you feel the tent of his jeans pressing through his pants, hard and thick, but he doesn’t push. instead, he presses both hands to your hips, guiding you against him.

“mark,” you whisper, cheeks flushing, “please... not like last time. i’m saving myself for marriage.” your voice is barely audible, laced with vulnerability. “please don’t put your fingers inside me.”

he pauses, a slow smile curving his lips, the playful glint in his eyes softening into something tender. “we can wait,” he murmurs, fingers tracing a light line along your waist. “i promised i’d cherish you, and i will. we’ll wait until the altar, princess.”

slowly, he runs his fingers around the waistband of your panties, pulling them down just enough to slip his fingertips beneath. you bite your lip as his cool touch meets your heated skin. he slides a finger to the very edge of your cleft, tracing gentle circles across your clit.

“you feel so wet,” he growls, one hand bracing on the pew behind you as he teases you. “so desperate. look at you—dripping for me.”

you close your eyes, breath hitching. the world narrows to the flicker of candlelight and the press of his body. “mark,” you whisper, voice tremulous.

he chuckles, crooked and low. “i promised i’d take care of you,” he says, thumb brushing your clit in slow, firm strokes. “and i will.”

his touch becomes more insistent, each circle of his thumb sending jolts of pleasure through you. your hips begin to rock against his hand without thought, riding his thumb as it presses faster, harder. you can’t hold back the moans now—soft at first, then louder, more desperate.

“ah—mark—i…” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders, your back arching.

“you’re doing so well, baby,” he whispers, voice thick with pride. “so good for me. so precious.”

you close your eyes and lean back against him, drawing strength from the warmth of his body, the slow, worshipful rhythm of his touch. “mark... please,” you breathe with voice fragile.

his finger presses gently to your lips, silencing you. “shh,” he soothes, “you’re safe. it’s just you and me here. god won’t punish you for this. he’ll see how much i adore you.”

his fingers glide with slow devotion, tracing soft, worshipful circles just around your clit, never pressing too hard, never pushing past your limits. the slow burn of pleasure coils in your belly, building steadily like a flame fanned by a gentle breeze.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “every gasp, every shiver... it’s all for me. you’re mine, and you please me so perfectly.”

he leans forward, lips at your neck. “come for me, baby,” he whispers. “come all over me.”

with a shuddering cry, your body tenses and releases in waves. a hot pulse of pleasure ripples through you, and you come hard on his thumb, heart pounding as your juices spill down the front of his leg.

he holds you through the aftershock, his hand steady on your hip. when your breathing slows, he tilts your chin up. “see? nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmurs, eyes soft but hungry. “god might judge, but i don’t. you’re mine.”

he holds you close through the aftershocks, pressing tender kisses to your temple. “i worship you,” he whispers, voice thick with awe and need. “my perfect girl. i could praise you forever.”

you rest your forehead against his, body still trembling. in the silence of the empty church, you feel both convicted and strangely free—bound to him by something far stronger than any promise or prayer.

and in the quiet light of the empty church, wrapped in his arms and drenched in the heat of your first release, you believe him completely.

after you leave the church, mark walks quietly beside you down the narrow village streets, the evening breeze cool against your flushed skin. the sky fades into a soft purple as lamps begin to glow, casting warm pools of light on cobblestones. your heart still races from the tender moments shared, and every step feels heavy with unspoken tension.

when you arrive at your family’s modest home, your parents greet you both at the door, their faces bright with excitement. your mother’s eyes shine as she welcomes mark inside. “we’re so glad you could join us tonight, mark,” she says warmly. your father nods approvingly, his smile wide and genuine.

the table is set carefully in the dining room, candles flickering softly, casting shadows on the walls. as the meal begins, your parents chatter eagerly about church events, the catechism class, and the promising future they imagine for both you and mark. you feel the weight of their expectations, the watchful eyes on you, but beneath the surface, your own secret conversation with mark unfolds.

across the table, mark’s eyes catch yours, a slow, knowing smile curling his lips. his gaze is both playful and possessive. your fingers brush lightly against the edge of his knee under the table—a subtle, electric touch. he responds instantly, shifting just enough to let his hand glide slowly along your thigh, fingertips tracing lazy circles beneath the fabric of your dress.

you bite your lip, holding back a breath as the heat pools low in your belly. your eyes meet again, a silent promise exchanged between you. the room buzzes with the polite noise of dinner, but in this quiet connection, the world narrows to the secret intimacy shared beneath the table.

and there, in the soft candlelight, with your parents none the wiser, the slow-burning fire between you and mark flickers gently, waiting for the moment to flare again.

[lucanderie]

Still need to mull this over some more, but it's very intriguing how much player-defying Kris proves themselves physically capable of this chapter.

They maliciously comply with our exact wording when asked to turn a doorknob. They cover their mouth midway through a sentence. When asked to say Berdly's name, they repeat themselves loudly in shock. They do PLENTY of physical actions or gestures unprompted, such as kneeling down and touching Ralsei when only prompted to talk, pushing Susie out of harm's way for the second time, giving her their knife with a flourish, laughing or nodding to clarify a statement... as well as their unprompted hijinks at the church. They act by themselves both in the spur of the moment and premeditated, in both low-stakes interactions and highly emotional, instinctive reactions. It seems like they're capable of doing any emoting, physical gesturing, or creative prompt interpretations they so desire apart from a) speaking, b) when directly commanded to do something else and c) in many weird route sequences (will circle back to this). They know entire commands word for word before they execute them, and they are aware enough of the fact that we have goals and what those goals may be to actively conspire against us. Kris knows our "rules".

This is extremely interesting because we saw very little of this in the previous chapters- leading us to believe Kris had basically zero input on Dark-World happenings, and had less understanding of their own situation then say, Ralsei did. But here, Kris isn't just getting more clever about or more accustomed to defying us- they're proving progressively more capable of just doing things of their own volition that any possessed kid who was randomly dropped into this situation with no warning or context would not wait two days to try.

Combined with the fact that from the beginning, they defy us to limit what we see long before they defy what we actually force them to do, (even when they clearly don't like doing it!), and that there's precedent for a character's mindset determining the player's level of control with Susie, it's seeming more and more like Kris is purposefully limiting themselves in earlier chapters. They have a vested interest in "playing the part", coming across to either us or someone else like they have less agency than they do, and they get progressively more open about the amount of defiance that they are capable of.

This is just, a fascinating jump in Kris's amount of agency! At the very least, they may know a similar amount of meta-info to even Ralsei. It changes some of their earlier actions from purely-forced to compliant. And there's a lot of (non-evil, you guys) reasons they would do this- they're probably at least, (at this point), afraid of some kind of retribution from us or their co-conspirators. They want to stay ahead of us by hiding their agency, they may not be comfortable enough with themselves to show express in certain instances... And this changes their defiant actions from things that they are allowed to do into things they are willing to risk doing- saving Susie twice, not hurting Ralsei's feelings, comforting Noelle, slorking down those juice cups like they're NOTHING- all little risks they're willing to take.

This just leaves the weird route- which may either be a route where the player simply gains more control over Kris, or maybe the "proceed" commands could be more general and therefore more inclusive. Or Kris could be initially, willing to play along with freezing the Darkners in order to achieve their goal, to bide their time, and once they realize how fucked up we can get it's too late.

I don't know. I'm definitely missing things, but I just love how much more Kris we have and are eventually going to get.

[cherspastries]

Okay, but here's another question... What jobs do you think the drivers would have of they weren't a driver? Or what they would major in? (loved the story btw!! :))

YOU DON’T GET WHAT YOU WISH FOR,

YOU GET WHAT YOU WORK FOR.

WORK FOR IT

2025 Grid x Reader

SUMMARY 𐙚 What jobs I think the drivers would have if they weren’t in F1. Part 1, where I talk about the reader’s job, is here! I will be referencing this so I advise reading it first.

WARNINGS 𐙚 N/A!

WORD COUNT 𐙚 2.9K

A/N 𐙚 It was really hard to decide for all of these guys. Some of them do have doubles because I couldn’t think of anything else 😬 Maybe a university AU with some of the younger drivers is needed now. Love ♥︎ Cher

DIRECTORY | MASTERLIST | REQUESTS: OPEN

RedBull ���

Max Verstappen

Motorsports

Unfortunately I’m a firm believer that if it’s not F1 for Max Verstappen, it’s gonna be a different motorsport. He has racing so deeply imbedded in his soul that I just can’t imagine him doing anything else. I also think that he could potentially be a streamer in another universe, but I think he’s a racer first. Imagine MotoGP Max, or maybe even Nascar Max. He loves the thrill and that’s not something he’ll abandon. So, if he doesn’t make it to F1, there’s lots of other options for this boy.

Let’s go with MotoGP. Imagine the badass pairing of a bartender and a motorcyclist. It’s quite literally a match made in heaven. Bonus points if the reader also rides motorcycles, so they can go out on adventures together. Or, if that’s not your style, he loves to have you ride on the back with your arms around his waist and all.

Yuki Tsunoda

Chef

This guy loves his food, which leads me to believe that culinary school is in his alternative future. I think Yuki could live it up as a chef that experiments with food from all corners of the world— Except America. He refuses to partake in the oily food from America, as we’ve all learned.

And hey, a chef and a seamstress isn’t exactly the expected duo, but it could work. Maybe you’re the one making the uniforms for his restaurant, and designing the logos and such. Even if he’s just in the kitchen working his magic, he still needs to look good to represent his business! It works, okay?

Mercedes ෆ

George Russell

Politician

There was a video where drivers made up what another driver would do if not F1, and a lot of people suggested George was a politician, and I 100% agree. While he said he’d be a farmer, I think he has a talent that shouldn’t go to waste. He’s a very convincing fellow that has a knack for following the rules and maybe even being a bit bossy. He exudes the vibes of someone who is a great leader, so he’d likely be a pretty decent politician.

I don’t really think your jobs intertwine much, but that’s just fine. Graphic design doesn’t have the biggest role to play in politics, but he always tries to find a place to squeeze your work in. Besides, it’s not like they have to match up perfectly anyway. You both have your own respective lives, and the life that you share together. He’s still super supportive nonetheless.

Kimi Antonelli

Scientist

Scientist Kimi! I don’t know why, but I can see it. I think if we want to be more specific, he’d study pharmacology, but I can really picture him working with chemicals in some way. I need to see Kimi in a lab coat and goggles messing around with chemicals. Maybe he’s not the best and maybe it blows up in his face, but he’s having a lot of fun. Maybe he’ll accidentally create a whole new element.

And he has his tutor girlfriend to stand by his side and support him. You’re there to offer knowledge and help in all fields. An intelligent girl matched with an equally intelligent boy is a nearly dangerous duo, and people acknowledge that. All of his friends are a little scared. You have the potential to someday rule the world— But with your childish smile and his cute curls nobody would take you seriously. Maybe it’s best you stick to science.

Ferrari ෆ

Charles Leclerc

Architect

An architect and a fashion designer. Yes, this seems about right. You’re both designing, just in your own way. I’d like to think you each contribute and help each other with the designing process, and it’s always easy to tell what aspects were thrown forth by the other person. Suddenly he’s bringing math equations into your designs, and you’re bringing little details and trends to his.

Charles himself said he’d like to be an architect, but if I were to assign him something from my own mind, I’d probably say music. It’s clear it’s something he’s very passionate about, and he’s very musically talented too. I can picture the reader sitting with him and resting her head on his shoulder while he plays.

Lewis Hamilton

Fashion designer

Yet another obvious choice. Maybe him and Charles’ girlfriend can be friends. Anyway, a makeup artist and a fashion designer kind of go hand in hand. You’re in the fashion industry, and you both work with specific clientele. Maybe you’re even a package deal. Celebrities hire one of you, and they end up hiring the other too. Just for fun.

I think this choice is obvious because it’s clearly that Lewis has a talent for fashion. His work with the Met Gala, and his day to day wear just proves that. He’s always dressed to the tens in my opinion, and I think he should spread that knowledge with the world. He’s a genius!

McLaren ෆ

Oscar Piastri

Engineer

Yes, Oscar’s expressed before that he would go into engineering if it weren’t for his current career. It makes sense. The boy’s smart, and his family has a history with racing so it’s not like mechanical engineering is all that far off. I can even see him being a track engineer. I think he’d have some decent strategies to share with a team, and would be smart enough to handle all the numbers and stats.

Now, it’s not really like his occupation matches up with yours either, but again… I think that’s okay. If he was an F1 engineer, I could see him taking you along with him, so as a food critic you’re getting to travel the world and experience dishes from different regions. So maybe in that sense, you’re perfect for each other. Who knows.

Lando Norris

DJ

Similar to George, a lot of the other drivers said that if he wasn’t a racing pilot, he should be a DJ. Esteban Ocon himself said that Lando got up behind the booth and made some decent beats, so with a bit more practice he could definitely do it. He also has the necessary party boy energy to pull off being a DJ, so it makes a lot of sense in the long run.

I’m not sure how well a teacher and DJ would work, but I think that’s ultimately part of the charm. You’re total opposites. One of you is quiet and collected while the other is loud and chaotic and it makes you relationship consistently interesting and engaging for you both. If you were paired with people exactly like yourselves, you’d probably get bored after awhile. Each of you brings something new to the table.

Aston Martin ෆ

Fernando Alonso

Football / Soccer

This was hard because, much like Max, it was hard to see Fernando doing anything but racing. I was almost tempted to keep him in motorsports as well, but I chose not to because I remember Fernando saying he liked football, and that just makes a lot of sense in my mind. I definitely don’t think he’d play football as long as he raced for F1, so after he reaches a certain age he retires, but I can see him pursuing this career at some point.

The life of a football player with a wedding planner wife is rather domestic. You’re constantly doting on him and taking care of him, treating your retired lover as if he’s old and decaying. He insists that he can do everything on his own, but he does like the attention nonetheless, so Fernando sits back and lets you pamper him like he’s your princess. Hey, whatever keeps the man busy.

Lance Stroll

Business man

I was unsure about this one, but I think considering that his dad is a business man, it makes sense for Lance to follow a similar destiny. Maybe he also ends up owning his own F1 team, who knows? I think he’s a very diplomatic guy, even if he’s somewhat introverted. That doesn’t mean he’s rude or anything, so talking business would come along just fine for Lance! He’s a very smart guy. I’m picturing him as a CEO of sorts.

He doesn’t play about you, either. You get to act as his sugar baby for a while, even though you make plenty of money yourself. He loves getting to tell you to buy whatever you want using his card, and he loves spoiling you. If you need new equipment for writing, he’ll buy it. If you need help getting your books published, he’ll talk to people for you. If you need help advertising, he’s on it. Lance is there to assist you in everything. He’s your partner in crime!

Alpine ෆ

Pierre Gasly

Football / Soccer

Okay I KNOW, this is unoriginal, but if you look at Pierre’s instagram there’s lots of photos of him playing football and I think it just makes sense to me. He kind of has the appropriate build for one too? Muscular, but also very strong legs and a good runner. I can’t really describe it, just trust me.

And, since he’s still in a sport, you can continue to be his social media manager and like everything related to him. People are still stunned to find out that Pierre runs his accounts and is the one viewing everything, but they’re even more stunned to find out that a majority of the time you’re the one actually liking the posts because every time you see anything related to him you giggle uncontrollably and spam the like button. Still a perfect, dynamic duo.

Franco Colapinto

Journalism

This guy likes his gossip. Franco’s charismatic enough to be able to easily interview people, and I firmly believe in that. He loves catching up on all the latest gossip and posting about it online for everyone to see. It doesn’t matter if it’s none of his business, because he’s gonna make it his business. Either way, he tends to be fairly respectful about what he posts. Even if he wants to phrase it in the most dramatic way possible, Franco sticks to the facts. And what he assumes are facts.

He likes to work on his pieces while he’s in your shop. He’s usually sitting behind the counter while you tend to customers, typing away on his newest report back to his boss. Every now and then he gets a few weird looks, almost like people recognize him, but they aren’t quite sure if it’s actually him or not.

Williams ෆ

Carlos Sainz

Boxer

Ohhhh… Okay sorry let me compose myself. Carlos gives off these casual aggressive vibes that tell you he’s not someone to be messed with, but also he’s a very sweet guy deep down. He loves his job, but he makes sure to remain unbiased and sportsmanly throughout, because it’s important to ensure that your opponent knows they did a great job too. He always said he’d remain an athlete if he was to do something other than F1, and while boxing probably isn’t on the top of his list, I can see it happening.

A boxer and a baker. It’s very much giving cute wife who bosses her strong husband around like it’s no big deal. Sure, he’s a champion in the ring, but when Carlos comes home he has to listen to you first. You’re the one wearing the pants in this relationship. He doesn’t mind, either. It’s nice to come home and be ordered around by you.

Alex Albon

Golfer

Vet gf and golfer bf. Makes perfect sense to me. He’s out there enjoying a nice day on the fresh green grass while you’re taking care of very cute patients. It’s a win for you both, and at the end of the day you both get to come home and relax together and talk about your days.

I think golf suits Alex. I know he always jokes about being terrible about it, especially in comparison to his actual girlfriend (The beautiful that is Lily Muni He) but if he had years of experience like he does with F1, I think he’d be really talented! It’s something that he loves already, so it makes sense.

Visa Cash App Racing Bulls ෆ

Liam Lawson

Actor

Uhm, hello have you seen him acting in the VCARB tiktoks? Perfect. But also I think he’d be typecasted as a stereotypical teen in the 90’s. He looks young enough, and that’s exactly how he dresses and acts. He’d be very charming with younger audiences due to his boyish charm. He just needs to brush up on those acting skills a bit and then we have the perfect actor.

And hey, you’re an actress. It fits perfectly. Maybe the two of you meet on set. Maybe you’re even casted to play lovers, and then it just ends up being that you come out of the experience actually dating. Who’s to say if it actually works out. Lots of actors say it’s hard to date your co-worker, but you guys would have to disagree, because you’re going strong!

Isack Hadjar

Physicist

Isack’s dad is a physicist! I think it would be cute if he followed in his footsteps. Most F1 drivers do follow in their parent’s footsteps, especially their dad, but Isack didn’t. However, imagining a universe where he did is interesting. He’d probably have the brain for it, he’d just have to dedicate a lot of his time to school, which might be hard.

A physicist and a photographer. I think you guys both like to discuss your more nerdy occupations. You get to rant about photo editing and camera settings, and he gets to rant about astrophysics and a lot of stuff you don’t entirely understand, but you enjoy hearing nonetheless. This is my favorite duo, never stop being a nerd.

Kick Sauber ෆ

Nico Hülkenberg

Male model

Nobody can convince me otherwise. He has the perfect face for modeling. Ruggedly handsome with a slight stubble and nice hair. I almost gave Carlos this role, but I think Nico is perfect for a model. If he hasn’t already received offers, he should, because he’s 37 and he looks fantastic still.

A model and a sommelier is a great duo, actually. You both have jobs seen as sophisticated. You’re a killer duo, the type of couple that can kill with your looks alone. He’s always impressed by your extensive knowledge, and you’re impressed by just how beautiful he is. You like to show him off at events you’re invited to, and he likes to do the same himself. Power couple. End of sentence.

Gabriel Bortoleto

Sports commentator

Not sure of this one either. I think Gabi would be a very fun commentator, always making silly quips and witty jokes that draws the audience in while retaining that necessary sports knowledge. At first he’d definitely let the other commentators do a lot of the talking, but once he’s warmed up to the environment, you hear him just as much as you hear the others. There’s no more hiding!

I think a streamer and a commentator is a silly duo as well. Maybe sometimes you stream sports and commentate it to mimic your boyfriend, which he always pretends to be offended by, but he thinks it’s adorable in reality. He likes showing up on your streams too. I love them. I’m jealous of you, reader.

Haas ෆ

Oliver Bearman

Male model

ALRIGHT I KNOW. I’m being unoriginal again, but have you SEEN Ollie?! He’s absolutely model material as well. Tall, handsome, fit. He might need some training on how to pose and walk a runway, but he’ll get it down eventually. I can also see him being like a hand model for watches and jewelry and such. He has very nice, soft hands that are still very masculine.

A painter and a model are you SERIOUS? I know I wrote it but I’m also fangirling because wow. He can quite literally be your muse. He doesn’t even have to sit there, because there’s thousands of beautiful pictures online for you to use. Although it does make the experience a lot more special when he offers to be your live model and pose for you. It’s like something only you get to see. Yeah… Huge fan of this.

Esteban Ocon

Comic book editor

PLEASE he would have a BLAST. He gets to read all these superhero comics, and he actually gets to contribute to the process of making them. I don’t know I just love the idea of a superhero fanatic, especially someone who loves Spiderman like Estie, getting to edit the scripts for comics. He’d be so into it, too. Like “this idea is unoriginal, so you should go for something like this” because he’s already read so many comics out there that he can recite plot lines from a lot of them.

And trust that I am a huge fan of goddess girlfriend and loser boyfriend. A model with a comic book editor? Nobody would see it coming. Imagine pulling up to the red carpet, cameras flashing as a tall, handsome figure emerges from the limo and it’s… Oh, it’s just some guy they’ve never seen before, but you look so happy that it’s impossible to harbor any judgement. It’s adorable how much you two love each other.

[taetebebe]

TOO CLOSE (DANGEROUSLY SO)

Pairing: vampire!Jungwon x afab-human!reader

Synopsis: The closer they get, the harder it becomes to hide the truth - and resist the hunger that could destroy them both.

Word Count: 1.2k

Author note: As title suggests, based on Too Close by Enhypen. My brain, body and soul has been consumed by this song. Wrote it very quickly, so please don't expect much.

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

The rooftop was quiet, the sky blanketed in clouds that hadn't yet decided if they would rain again. You sat near the edge, legs dangling over the side, your sweater pulled tightly around you.

You weren't surprised when he showed up.

Jungwon always found you.

“You always come up here when it rains,” he said softly, stepping up beside you.

You didn’t look at him right away. “You always find me.”

He sat down next to you, close but not touching. That was how it always was - his presence steady, his distance deliberate. It made you wonder if there was something he was holding back. Or someone.

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he said after a pause.

“You never are,” you replied.

He laughed under his breath, a sound like wind slipping through leaves. “That’s what you think.”

You turned toward him then, and in the dim rooftop light, his eyes gleamed, more golden than brown, too sharp to be entirely human.

“Jungwon…” you began, something tugging at the edges of your voice, “you’re not—”

“Not normal?” he finished, tone quiet. He didn’t deny it.

The wind picked up, brushing your hair into your face. He reached out to tuck it behind your ear, and for a second, his fingertips grazed your skin - cold. But not dead.

Just… different.

“You’re too close,” you whispered.

His eyes lingered on you. “And yet, you never run.”

“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”

Because some part of you already knew, and chose him anyway.

𖤐 

You met Jungwon in the library on a rainy Tuesday.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. You were both students, both quiet, both always sitting in the same corner. At first, you just noticed how still he was - like time moved differently around him.

Then one day, the power flickered out. The lights dimmed. Everyone panicked - except for you. And him.

He looked up, calm, unbothered. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve lived through worse.”

The way he said it made you pause.

From that day on, he started sitting at your table. He asked questions. Listened carefully. Seemed fascinated by the most mundane details of your life - the books you read, the snacks you liked, the dreams you were too shy to share.

He wasn’t learning about you to pass the time.

He was memorizing you.

And slowly, you found yourself falling into something not quite friendship. Not quite romance. Something in between. Something dangerous.

𖤐 

You didn’t speak for two days after that night on the rooftop - after he pulled away from your touch like it stung.

The silence felt louder than any argument.

Then, just after midnight, you heard the soft knock at your window.

Jungwon stood outside, hoodie soaked from the rain. Hair clinging to his forehead. Eyes dark and tired.

You opened it without thinking. “You’re crazy.”

“I needed to see you,” he said. “I couldn’t stay away.”

You stepped back, letting him in. He stood in your room like he didn’t belong there. Like being in your world was something he was afraid to ruin.

“You didn’t answer my texts,” you said.

“I didn’t know what to say. Everything between us… I’ve never wanted something this much before. Never felt this human.”

You looked at him. “And that scares you?”

“Yes.” His voice was a whisper now. “Because wanting leads to needing. And needing leads to losing.”

“Then say it,” you said, stepping closer. “Say what this is.”

His gaze burned into yours. “You are what I’m not supposed to have.”

And then he kissed you.

Hungry. Fragile. Like he was both claiming you and asking permission.

And you let him.

Because the danger didn’t matter anymore. Only the feeling of finally, finally being held by someone who knew what it meant to starve for closeness.

𖤐 

He stayed, curled on your bed like a shadow that refused to leave. In the soft light of morning, he looked more human than ever - hoodie slipping off one shoulder, lips slightly parted, the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression.

You sat beside him, heart still pounding from the night before.

“This… whatever this is,” Jungwon murmured, “I don’t know how to protect you from it.”

You looked down at his hand, still resting beside yours.

“You don’t have to protect me from you,” you said. “I made my choice.”

“I can live a thousand years,” he said. “But I’ve never wanted one moment more than this one.”

You squeezed his hand. “Then stay.”

He did.

Because for the first time, the closeness didn’t feel like a curse.

It felt like a cure.

𖤐 

He never showed it - not when you were around others. But you’d seen the signs. The way he’d go quiet when you nicked your finger. The way he’d grip his jaw when your pulse sped up.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said one night, sitting cross-legged on the rooftop where it all began.

“You won’t,” you said, certain.

He looked up. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

You crawled closer, until your knees touched. “You don’t know what I’m willing to give.”

His eyes flashed - hunger and heartbreak wrapped in one expression.

“You don’t have to feed from me,” you said. “But if it’s killing you not to…”

Jungwon reached out, gently cupping the side of your face. “You’re not just blood to me, YN. You’re everything I thought I’d lost when I stopped being human.”

You leaned into his touch. “Then let yourself have it. Just this once.”

And when he did - when he pressed his lips gently to your neck, fangs brushing skin, breath shaking, it wasn’t pain you felt.

It was peace.

A bond deeper than fear. A promise forged in shadow and light.

He drank just enough to steady himself, pulling away before the hunger turned sharp. His forehead rested against your shoulder, trembling slightly.

“You’re too close,” he whispered.

“I always will be,” you whispered back.

A silence settled between you. Not heavy, but full. Like everything had been said without needing more words.

Jungwon pulled away just enough to look at you. His eyes had softened, the gold in them faint now, like the fading edge of a flame. His lips, still red from what he’d taken, trembled as if overwhelmed by the weight of restraint.

“I didn’t mean for it to feel like this,” he said quietly.

“Like what?” you asked, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.

“Like I belong to you now.”

You smiled, slow and gentle. “Maybe you always did.”

A breeze swept across the rooftop, tugging at your clothes, the city lights flickering in the distance like fireflies. Jungwon took your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours — carefully, like he was still afraid you might vanish.

“I’ve lived through centuries of silence,” he murmured, voice almost lost in the wind. “But you… you make everything feel loud again. In the best way.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, steady, even if his heart no longer beat like yours.

“I feel human with you,” he whispered.

“Then maybe that’s all that matters.”

And there, on a rooftop that had once held only silence, two hearts - one ancient, one still learning - found something worth staying for.

And for the first time, he didn’t argue. He simply leaned down, kissed your forehead like it was something sacred, and pulled you gently into his arms.

Above you, the moon broke through the clouds.

And for once, the night didn’t feel dangerous.

[cinnamoonblue]

Chapter I | Lucky you

Summary: One reckless night leads to the biggest and most unexpected change in your life. How will this affect your current life and how you and the charming stranger you met only once will manage to handle the bringing of a new life to this world together is a challenge yet to be discovered. Will you be able to make the right choices while battling your own demons? Who knows, all you must be worried about now is that your period is late...

Main characters: Portgas D Ace x Reader

Supporting characters: Marco, Thatch, Whitebeard, Luffy, Sabo, Nico Robin, Boa Hancock, Isuka

Description: Modern AU | Firefighter Baby Daddy!Ace

WARNINGS: english is not my first language, explicit language, NSFW, 18+ only, contains explicit sexual themes and content, use of alcohol, slow burn, conflicted feelings, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, jealousy, suggestive themes, previous toxic relationships, mention of depression, mention/description of pregnancy, strangers to co-parents to lovers, mentions of a lot of anxiety, mentions of cheating, mentions of mental trauma, social anxiety (+ more warnings will be added if needed to)

Additional tags: Reader is super awkward and has social anxiety and low-self esteem but this changes (I don't want to spoil), Ace is emotional invalid when it comes to love, but this also changes (no spoilers)

WORD COUNT: 16,2K

main masterlist | story masterlist | next chapter ->

NOTE: I'm so excited for this story and what is about to come out of it and the journey I have planned for Reader and Ace. I really hope that you guys will like it as much as I enjoy writing it. I'll yap more in the end note, so for now enjoy ♡

Positive. All three tests show the same results, from the cheapest to the most expensive one the answer is clear – you are pregnant. Or better said – knocked up. This is everything else but a planned pregnancy.

Sitting on the tailed floor of your bathroom you try to take deep breaths but nothing your therapist has taught you works. Your heart is about to explode, and your mind is going wild. Panic is slowly overtaking you.

How did this happen? It was just one time. The one single time you let yourself have a one-night stand after almost two years without any sex or interaction with a man of any kind and you end up knocked up? This must be some kind of a joke.

5 weeks earlier

The waiting room of your therapist’s office has an inviting atmosphere, with two comfortable white fluff armchairs to sit on while you wait for your turn. A plush rug lay on the floor, muffling the sound of footsteps and creating a sense of serenity. Magazines and books are neatly arranged on a small modern glass table, offering a variety of reading material to distract anxious minds. Potted plants and tasteful artwork adorned the room, and the smell of lavender fills out the space.

Despite the calm atmosphere you are always a bit anxious before your therapist visits. Playing nervously with your fingers as you pull the edges of your hair has been a habit of yours when you are nervous since you can remember.

The reason why you went to therapy was because you have ended a three-year relationship, or your ex-partner did. During those three years you have lost a big part of yourself and who you are... were. If someone three years ago told you that you will end up in a toxic and mentally abusive relationship you most likely wouldn’t have believed them. The man you had fallen in love with, wasn’t the same man who you felt out of love and broke your heart and spirit.

It has taken you a lot and it still does to bring yourself back piece by piece, but slowly and steadily with the help of your therapist and close friends you are getting back on your feet.

The door to her office opens and you slightly lift your head. Watching your therapist sending her current patinate away with a warm encouraging smile, with whom you don’t dare to make any eye contact with; with that same smile she looks at you and invites you to enter her office. Giving her a small nod you get up and leave the comfort of the soft armchair and walk to her with a shy smile.

Walking into the now very familiar office, you take your usual spot on the nice light brown leather sofa placed in the middle of the room, next to her comfortable armchair made of the same leather. The walls painted in soothing shades of white and beige create a harmonious and calming backdrop. Natural light filters through large windows, gently illuminating the room and casting a warm glow. Potted plants add a touch of nature, while the painfully familiar artworks on the walls contribute for the minimalistic aesthetic of the office.

Once you put your bag and jacket aside you turn to your therapist as she closes the door and takes a seat on her chair. Nico Robin, a nice, intelligent and extremely gorgeous woman, an expert in her job, is the person who helps you to get back on your feet for the past ten moths. A close friend of yours at work has recommended you her and until this day you feel like you own your friend a huge favour for this. Who know how deep of a hole you would have dig yourself into if it wasn’t for your friend suggestion one day for you to go to therapy.   

“How are you feeling today (Y/N)?” She asks crossing her legs one over the other as she opens her notebook and waits for your response. “I love how your hair is today. Have you been to the hairdresser?”

Nodding with your head you give her a confident smile before your response, “I’m good and quite excited. And yes, I was before I came here. I thought to myself – why not treat myself today.”

 “I’m so happy you’re slowly getting this mindset back. You deserve it. What are you feeling excited for today?” Taking her glasses off she leans back on her armchair with curiosity spread across her features. So far into your sessions you have never mentioned being excited as current feeling; sad, lonely, confused, scared, lost, from time to time good, are your usual response, but excited – so far until today she hasn’t heard it from you.

“Well-” Leaning back on the sofa, you cross your legs and fix your posture to straighten your back a bit, but mostly to look more confident in what you are saying. “My best friend has a birthday today and we are going out, and surprisingly I really do want to go out. I haven’t felt like this in... well, you know. Months.” You chuckle with a half shrug.

Your self esteem and self worth have been broken to the ground after, and during, the time spent with your ex-partner. You recently gain some confidence to go out like you used to before. Because of all the things said from your ex, you felt like you must hide from the world. You felt so belittle that the thought of strangers outside of your family and friends to see you made your blood run cold, which also affected not only your personal, but professional life as well.

Now, thanks to the weekly therapy sessions with Nico Robin your confidence is slowly but steady coming back. Some weeks are better than the others, but you try not to get too hard on yourself, because the progress of getting yourself back together is acknowledge even by you.  

“I’m so glad to hear this. Have you threated yourself with a nice new outfit as well?” Robin smiles, more to herself than you as she hopes that you will give her a positive answer.

The first time you have walked into her office broke her heart a bit. She always keeps her professional behaviour, but seeing and hearing how a young beautiful woman like you had been constantly put down and unappreciated, while being the complete opposite off all those things made her blood boiled, especially from unsuccessful insecure men like the man who is now your ex.

“Yes, I did.” And you feel amazing about it. You don’t remember the last time you actually bought something that made you feel so desirable and sexy without doubting yourself. “Can you guess?” You playfully challenged your therapist.

She hasn’t seen much so far of this playful side of yours and she would be lying if she says that she doesn’t enjoy it. Parts of Robin feel like this is a glimpse of the old you, the one before your three years of hell. “A dress?”

“Mhm.” Humming you encourage her to continue with further guesses about the dress.

Bringing one endpiece of her glass’ frame close to her lips and biting it Robin takes her time to answer you. No matter where this outburst of confidence comes from, you won’t be so bold to go for something revealing, so it should be still something nice and convenient. “Maybe a long floral or one-color dress.”

“No.” You shake your head with a small sly smile.

“Knee high length?” Robin raises one of her brows.

Pulling one strand of hair behind your ear you shake your head again and give her the answer. “A little black dress.” A big smile spreads across your face and a laughter escape past your lips as you see the surprised reaction written on your therapist’s face. “And high heels. Red bottoms.”

For a moment and entirely purposely Robin drops her therapist persona and replies to you as a friend. “As you should and as you deserve. I’m proud of you.”

But this moment doesn’t last long as you are quick to brush it off as nothing. “It’s just a little black dress, me and probably twenty other women will be wearing the same outfit anyway.”

And here is the you she knows. Quick to belittle yourself as you are someone who doesn’t turn heads when she walks somewhere. You do, but sadly, you are too blind to see it yourself.

Going back to her professional persona, Robin moves a bit on her chair to make herself more comfortable, before she starts with the questions for which only you have the answers to help yourself. “Why did you belittle yourself again?”

The smile on your face fades quickly. “I don’t know.” You slightly shrug. “As I said, I won’t be the only one wearing this and this type of dress is always a safe play.”

“That’s true.” Robbin nods, agreeing with what you have said. “But you do know that you will get noticed tonight, right?” For some people the way Robin picks her words now might sound unprofessional, but she makes the choice of wording it that way purposely.

As much as you don’t want to have any kind of connection with any man right now, deep down you will be lying to yourself if you say that you won’t mind a glance or two from someone. At the end of the day, you are a young woman in her prime years trying to gain her confidence back and of course a man is not the key, but we are all human beings, one way or another we all look for some kind of validation or a sign that we are desired.

“In a way.” You quietly say, your voice comes out almost as a whisper. “But I doubt. I’m more looking for… for the feeling of looking myself in the mirror and say ‘wow, I still got it’.” Lifting your fist in the air and faking a fake enthusiasm makes Robin shake her head slightly.

“You’ve always got it.” She tells you confidently. “You must see it as well. Feel it.” Writing a few things down in her notebook, without looking at you she continues to speak. “But I asked you this not because I think you are looking for male attention, I’m asking because I know you will get some, and I want to know how you feel about this. Do you think what happened last time can happen again?”   

Taking a strand of your hair between your fingers, you swirl it around as you take your time to answer Robin. What will you do if someone approaches you? Definitely cut them off. You are not interested in any kind of interaction with a man, and you don’t think that you will be any time soon.

The last time a guy tried to hit on you was two months ago when you and your best friend Boa, went out for a drink in a bar close to your place. It was the first time in months that you got dressed up and ready to party, but sadly it didn’t last long. The guy was polite and nice, but the memories of your ex came back in the moment you felt the smell of the guy’s perfume as it was the same as your ex’s. It made you so uncomfortable. You had to grab Boa by the hand and drag her out of the place as fast as possible as you felt like you were choking for air. The night ended with you curled up in your best friend’s arms while crying on the sofa in the middle of your living room, reliving memories you have been trying to erase so badly.

“I don’t know what I will do.” You sigh avoiding your therapist’s eyes. There is a stubborn slip end on one of your hairs and you decide to focus on it while opening yourself up. “I don’t think that I’m ready to do anything, yet. Mostly because it’s hard to trust their intensions. My ex was also nice in the beginning, but it was all a mask.”

“But you must learn how to trust again, don’t you think?” There is no scolding or judgment in her voice nor eyes. Robin doesn’t want to make you feel bad; she wants to help you get out of your shell.

Nodding a few times you clicked with your tongue, shrugging still focused on your hair. “I know. I just don’t know how ready I am to do so.”

“Baby steps.” Robin says encouraging.

The rest of your session goes with talks about how you should try to relax in places such as bars and clubs. How you should slowly start getting out of your comfort zone, or like Robin likes to call it – your fear zone and start letting yourself going out a bit more.

“Imagine going out for a drink as another commercial deal you seal.” She gives you an example. “How do you manage so good at work if you feel so stressed out about something as simple as going out with friends in a place where a lot of people happen to be?”

A loud sigh escapes past your lips. “It’s different.”

“How so? Elaborate.” Playing with the pen between her fingers, Robin leans on the palm on her hand and waits for your response.

“First – when it comes to work, I’m quite confident in what I do.” This is something no one can deny you.

While you were in university studying business and marketing, your mother arranged you a job as an intern in a television commercial company. There you met a lot of interesting people and got close to your boss, who happened to be an old college friend of your mother, who soon after you graduated, offered you a permanent job as marketing advisor for the company. You have been working there for five years now and just two years ago your interest changed and you decided to become an agent at the same company, representing mostly models from across the country.

“But also, work me and personal life me are two completely different people.” Most of your colleagues barely know who you are outside your job. You have always been very private in your life, only your closest friends know what is going on in it, and you are very selective with whom you let close to yourself.

Of course, in the past year, your work and personal self-mixed up due to the depression you had fallen into, but you are back on track now and you plan to keep it that way.

“Why do you think work you manages better?” Her intense blue eyes pierce through you.

“Because as you know I work mostly with models, and these people are always so confident or they fake it so well, therefore I must fake my confidence, too.” Letting go of the hair strand you wrap your hands around yourself, trying to protect yourself from being exposed, slowly getting back into your shell, your voice lowers almost to a whisper. “Fake it till I make it, I guess.”

Putting her notebook aside, Robin sits on the edge of her chair and reaches out, placing her hand gently on your shoulder. “There is the answer.” She says with a smile. “If you can fake it for the people you represent to sign them jobs, then you can fake it as something as simple as going out for a drink.”

“But you know the problem isn’t the going out for the drink.” You jokingly chuckle, trying to hide the uncomfortable feeling behind the lightness of your tone.

“I know.” Pulling away from you, the dark-haired woman nod. “That is why tonight I want you to do exactly what you said.” She gives you a challenging smile as you turn your head in confusion towards her. “I want you to fake this confidence the moment a man approaches you and just try to not think much of it, and remember – you always, and I mean it, always have the choice over what you want and need.”

With a deep sigh you nod. “I’ll try my best.”

“You said it yourself – fake it till you make it. Sometimes we must do things that make us uncomfortable for the sake of overcoming them. You’re strong. I believe in you.” She gives you a little wink before you continue with another topic.

-

The laughter around the table and the cheers of another round of champagne echoes as you celebrate your best friend’s birthday. You have gathered in one of the latest most popular and fancy restaurants in the city, and Boa, being Boa, has booked one of the private dining rooms in the restaurant for only you and the rest of your group of friends.

The room is dimmed lighted, creating this nice and welcoming atmosphere. The walls are painted in a serene shade of off-white colour. The centrepiece of the room is a long oval dining table made of white marble. A lush arrangement mix of white peonies and lilies are arranged along the centre of the table, their delicate petals contrasting beautifully against the neutral backdrop, among with the white candles and their soft, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the table, the gentle shadows of them dancing on your faces.

The overall effect is one of understated luxury, something Boa has grown up with and always chase, where every detail has been carefully considered to create an atmosphere of refined elegance and comfort for her special day.

You two have been best friends since first grade. She has been your rock many times in life, and you were hers. Boa is the sister you have never gotten to have, and you are the same to her, even though she has two younger sisters, you have a higher spot in her heart than them.  

Before you know it, you two and the rest of the girls are saying goodbye. All of you are tipsy, and tomorrow all of you must work as it is Wednesday and Boa is leaving in the afternoon for a photoshoot abroad for a famous brand, which means she will be gone for at least a week, and she doesn’t want to miss celebrating her birthday with her friends. Till this day you can’t believe that she trusts you so much to a point that when you decided to become an agent, she immediately left her old one and switched to you and the company you work for.

“Girl, you and I are not going home yet.” She wraps one arm around your shoulders and leans on you, clearly drunk.

Giggling, as you have also drunk a bit too much of champagne, you try to reason her. “But we have work tomorrow, and you have a flight to catch. Don’t you wanna be fresh in the morning?”

“I wanna party with my best friend.” She leans more of her bodyweight on you, which makes you trip almost by sending you both on the ground, as maintaining your balance on high heels while being quite tipsy is something you are not very good at.

You both laugh loudly as you pull away from one another. “Okay, okay. Where should we go?” You raise your hand up to call a taxi to pick you up and drive you to some bar you two usually end up going to.

It doesn’t take long for one to stop. Both of you take a seat at the back and as you are about to tell the taxi driver where to drive you, your friend has something else in mind interrupting you before you can tell the driver where to take you. “Mister, please take us to some cheap old rock bar.” She drunkenly laughs.  

“What?” You turn your head to her in disbelief.

Boa laughs ones again, before nodding to the driver to drive to where she has told him to. “Relax.” She pushes your shoulder playfully. “We are trying something new tonight.” With an unbothered shrug she leans back on the seat and closes her eyes for a minute.

“I don’t mind, but… is it safe?” As much as you are drunk, you are still quite aware of all the possible dangers there might be, especially in a place such as cheap bars.

“It will be, trust me.” Boa replies and takes your hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I need to let go a bit tonight, so I thought maybe a game or three of pool might help with some cheap tequila.”

You are about to protest when you remember what you had promised your therapist earlier today. That you will try to fake it till you make it, and this is an opportunity to do so.

“Fine, but nothing too crazy.” Pointing your finger at her warning, she just laughs at you.

The taxi driver soon stops the cab in front of some local bar that looks more like a pub, but neither you nor Boa protest. You pay the man and both of you get out of the taxi. “I just hope that they have a pool table, that is all I want.” Boa tells you as she takes your hand and leads the way inside.

Entering the place a lot of eyes are on you two. You with your little black dress with sheer black high stockings and Boa with her long red dress with a slit are definitely not dressed for a local pub.

“I don’t like this.” You whisper to her as she makes your way to the bar. “A lot of people are looking at us.”

Looking over her shoulder, she winks at you. “They always are.” Reaching the bar, she lets go of your hand and turns towards you. “Plus, the place is not bad.”

Boa is right. The place is not bad. It is not the usual place you and she are used to hanging out in, but it is not a bad place.

The bar is quite big and there are a lot of people around it or sitting around the tables across the main floor. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the space, and the walls are covered with posters of legendary rock bands. The air buzzes with youthful energy as groups of friends laugh and chat, their voices blending with the rock music playing in the background.

Towards the back of the pub is the area with a few well-worn pool tables. The clinking of billiard balls and the occasional cheer from a winning shot add to the lively atmosphere.

Despite the initial wariness, you find the environment surprisingly inviting. It’s a place where everyone just seems to be enjoying the night, letting loose and having a good time.

“Here.” Boa says as she hands you a beer in hand. She knows that you are not a fan of beer, neither is she, but by the looks of it tonight you both are doing something out of your usual comfort zones. “I also got us a shot of tequila.” Following her gaze, you see the bartender pouring two shot glasses with the transparent liquid.

“You’ll be the death of me tonight.” You sigh, shaking your head as you grab the shot glass and cheers with her before drinking the shot in one go. The after taste burns your insides and you bite on the lemon as fast as you can so you can get rid of it. “God, I hate tequila.” Your whole-body shiver as the sourness of the lemon hits your tastebuds.

“Your nineteen years old self used to say otherwise.” Your friend makes fun of you, reminding you of the times when you were wild teenagers.

Sarcastically rolling your eyes with a shake of your head you tell your friend, “Uh, I wish I was her again.”

Boa gives you one encouraging smile before raising her own beer glass “I think we are slowly getting her back.” Hearing her saying this gives you a little boost of confidence. Clinking the beer glasses you both take a sip of it and make a face after swallowing the alcohol beverage.

Shaking your head with disgust you put away the beer and tell your best friend to go wait for a pool table while you buy new drinks for you. Boa doesn’t need to be told twice before she turns around and makes her way to the back of the bar.

While you are busy ordering your new drinks, not paying attention to the people around you, a few tables away from you three men are sitting, sipping beers and playing cards.

The day shift at the fire station has gone smoothly, which means there were no emergency calls. The three men sitting around the worn-out wooden table at the bar are here not only to relax a bit after long hours at work, but also to celebrate the possible rank promotion of one the youngest member in their department.

“I still can’t believe Pops select you for a Captain, skipping two whole ranks at the time.” Thatch, a tall man in his early forties, with a light brown hair styled with a lot of gel to stay sleek back, chuckles amazed but proudly as he puts a card down, waiting for his colleague and friend to make his move.

Marco, a man in his forties, sitting right next to Thatch, lightly hums as he pushes his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Our boy is slowly making sure to catch up to us.” Glancing with his light brown eyes at his young colleague and dear friend, he waits for his next move.

Taking his sweet time with his next move the raven-haired young man in front of them just smirks before taking a sip of his beer and placing it back on the table. Running the tip of his finger on top of the cards in his hand he finally picks one and confidently places it on the table.

“Am I catching up to you or are you slowing down?” His cocky smirk grows bigger as the card wins him the game.

“Your luck is through the roof today.” Thatch groans as Ace reaches to take the pile of cards.

“Lucky me, what can I say.” Ace says handing the cards to Marco to shuffle them so they can start a new game. “Still, just because I was selected doesn’t mean I’ll be approved.”  

“You will be Ace.” Marco encouraging nods as he shuffles the cards. “If Pops recommended you himself, that means he sees a lot of potential in you and your skills.”

“Plus, the salary you’ll get once promoted will get you that dream car of yours faster.” Thatch winks at him, knowing how to motivates the younger guy, who is like a little brother to both him and Marco.

Letting out a boyish laugher, Ace nods a few times. He has been saving to buy his childhood dream car for four years now and he is so close to reaching his goal. For a lot of people, the amount of money and time he has spent on saving for something such as a car is ridicules, but to Ace – it is the most logical thing he could do in his mid-twenties.

Independent and in his prime, Ace is living life the way he has always wanted to live it – freely and without regret for anything. Every choice he has made so far has let him to better days. He regrets nothing. He doesn’t regret dropping off college to become a firefighter. Helping people has always bring him joy, but so does the adrenalin of doing dangerous activities, and what is more challenging than throwing yourself in the flames of a burning building while trying to save someone’s life.

“Until they approve Pops’ recommendation, I can’t get my hopes up.” Taking the cards in one hand and looking at the hand he has gotten, Ace mentally smirks to himself – another win is on the way to him.

“Don’t think much about it.” Marco calmy tells him, putting the first card on the table. “After all, getting approved is the easy part, the exams and the physical test on the other hand ar-” Before he could manage to finish his sentence, he gets interrupted by his phone ringing. Pulling it up from the front pocket of his pants, he excuses himself from the table once he sees that it is his wife calling.

“I’m so happy I don’t have these problems anymore.” Thatch points with his eyes to where Marco left. He and his ex-wife divorced a year and a half ago, and since then the relationship between them has improved. The tone has gotten friendlier, no more fight, but more agreements as they must share custody over their teenage daughter.

“And I’m so happy I’ll never have them.” Ace snorts as he draws a card from the pile.

Thatch can’t help but laugh at his young friend’s comment. “Oh, Ace. I can’t wait for the day you’ll get swept away by a girl and I pray I’ll be there to witness it.”

“You can only dream about this day.” The young rebel guy response. He has made up his mind a long time ago about relationships and the whole family idea – he doesn’t want it. He has seen what married life or being in a relationship has done to most of his colleagues and friends, of course not all of them are bad – Marco being the best example of them all. He and his wife were high school sweethearts and have been together for more than twenty years with three kids, the youngest being five years old.

But this doesn’t come only from his friends’ experience, it also comes from the way he has grown up. Ace never understood the relationship between his mother and father. His father was gone most of the time, working as captain on cargo ships, and while it provided good for their family, Ace can say that most of his life he grew up without a father as he was never home.

“Didn’t it almost happen?” Thatch knowingly raises one brow at Ace.

Rolling his eyes with a sarcastic chuckle, Ace shakes his head. “No, not even close.”

“Really? I’m quite sure it you two were almost there.” Placing a card down on top of Marco’s one, Thatch leans back on the benched seats.

“What?” Ace looks at him with a surprised look on his face. “No, Isuka and I were not even close to anything as being in love or whatever.”

“Yet, you spent two years being on and off.” Putting his cards faced down on the table as Marco hadn’t returned yet, Thatch crossed his arms across his chest.

Doing the same thing with his own cards, Ace places them face down on the wooden table and leans back on his chair, propping his hand on the top of the chair next to him, he looks at his friend with a look that says that he is very wrong. “We spent two years on and off because when she stopped chasing me, I was interested in chasing her and vise versa.”

He and Isuka haven’t been in contact in more than six months, and this has been a big relief for Ace. The situation between him and his ex-girlfriend, if he could even call her this, was nothing else but a hot mess. Both were not ready at all to make any compromises, both thinking in many cases and situations being better than the other, both playing games, but most of all neither of them ready to settle, or at least Ace wasn’t ready.

The last time they saw each other was also the last time they fought over where they stood. For Ace it was clear – just people who have sex with each other from time to time and hang out if they really don’t have anything else to do. But to Isuka it wasn’t like this. She wanted something more than just being fuckbuddies with a man she has fallen for. She was tired of the games and so was Ace, but in the end while she felt like he was the right person for her, he did not feel the same way about her.

There was something that was missing. Ace couldn’t never find full comfort in her company or look at her and be like ‘Wow, I’m so lucky to have this woman by my side.’, even though Isuka was the full package – beautiful, smart, well established in her carrier, but Ace just couldn’t see himself with her. He couldn’t see himself with her or anyone else. Not because he didn’t want to. He tried. He tried many times, especially with Isuka, but at the end of the day something wasn’t enough for this magical moment of a click between two people to happen.

That is why, six months later now, he never tried to contact her again or response to one of her messages she sent a while ago.

He doesn’t mean to be rude to her or an asshole, but it just doesn’t feel right to let her on once again or tired to be friends as this has been clear from the start that it would be impossible between them especially after sleeping together for the past two years.

Ace has always believed that the friendship between a man and a woman who have had intimate relationship is impossible, and his situation with Isuka has been already complicated it doesn’t need to get any more than that.

“I’m actually glad we ended it.” He murmurs more to himself than Thatch.

Walking back into the now a bit too crowded bar, Marco grabs his jacket in a hurry before turning to the guys. “I’m sorry guys, my youngest is with a very high fever and we must get home.”

“Oh, poor champ.” Ace says, giving Marco a sympathizing look. He knows Marco’s family very well. On a few occasions he and his wife have even dropped the kids off to Ace to look after them while they go out for a date night or they must do some kind of a work which doesn’t allow them to have the kids around. “Tell him I’m buying him some ice cream when he gets better.”

“He’ll make sure to keep this promise, you know.” Pointing with his finger at Ace warningly, Marco lets a little laughter escape his lips. “It was nice to hang out with you guys. See you tomorrow.”

“Take care, say hello from me.” Thatch calls after Marco before he leaves. Turning back to Ace, Thatch gives him a mischievous look, one that tells Ace that nothing but trouble will be following them for the rest of the night. “As much as I love Marco, with a married man around is hard for two single men to have fun, am I right Ace?”

“You were married until a year and a half ago yourself - don’t forget that.” This reminder from Ace made Thatch roll his eyes.

“But I’m not anymore.” Leaning with his body closer to the table, Thatch put his elbows on the table and nods at Ace to lean closer. “I saw two gorgeous women walking in like ten minutes ago. I think they are by the pool tables. Wanna go say hello?”

Turning his head where the pool tables are Ace tries to see the girls Thatch is talking about but there are too many people standing on the way for him to take a look. Shaking his head he turns back to his friend. “Nah, man. Not tonight.” Grabbing the handle of the beer mug Ace lifts it to his lip to drink the last sip of it. “You want one more?”

Thatch rolls his eyes with a click of his tongue. “Sure, but you’re not fun.”

Laughing at him, Ace stands and makes his way to the bar. It doesn’t take long to get new beers but coming back to their table he finds it empty. Taking a deep breath in, he turns to where the pool tables are and see his friend standing there talking to a girl a bit taller than him, in a red dress, dressed up a bit too much for a local bar like this one.

Shaking his head in disapproval, Ace makes his way to his friend. “Thatch!” He calls out the man’s name who sometimes tends to go far and beyond for the lady’s attention.

“There he is.” Thatch excitedly announces, reaching with his hand to Ace, signalling him to come faster. “This is my friend Ace – Ace this is Boa.”

Leaving Ace, no choice but to shakes the girl’s hand, he places the beers on the side of the pool table, before taking her hand in his to introduce himself. “I’m sorry if he’s bothering you.” He is quick to apologise.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Boa is far from Thatch’s level. Tall, gorgeous, built like a model, who knows she might even be one, would never pay attention to a man like Thatch, who even for his forty something years still looks very good.

“Are you kidding me? Your friend here is so much fun.” Boa gives Ace a small smirk before she turns back to Thatch. “So, you’re saying you can beat me on pool?”

“Well darling, I’m not just saying it, I plan to prove it.” Thatch returns the smirk, grabbing the cue stick from the table. “Would your friend mind?”

“No, she won’t.” Boa replies as she accepts Thatch’s challenge and leans over the table to collect the pool balls. “You can play one game with her after I made your friend cry.” She tells Ace while placing the balls in the triangle.

“Oh, Boa now you get me fired up.” Thatch chuckles. “Where is your friend by the way?”

“Toilet. She’ll be here any second now.”

Hearing this Ace rolls his eyes a bit. The last thing he wants right now is to watch his friend playing billiards, while he must entertain Boa’s friend.

Despite what people might think of Ace, usually being either a player or a guy who gets lot of attention from girls, he is the quite opposite. He is very selective. Yes, he might flirt here and there, but that’s it. Neither he is a fan of one-night stands. Not like he hasn’t had his fair share with them, but it isn’t something he really is looking forward to, especially tonight.

Taking his beer from the pool table, Ace steps back and leans with his elbow on one of the side high tables. Pulling his phone from the back pocket of his jeans he starts scrolling, not paying much attention to his friend and the girl in front of him.

Coming back from the toilet and seeing your best friend playing billiards with some man made you sigh. ‘Great, now I’ll be third wheeling.’ you can’t help but think. It is not a surprise for you though. Boa has always had all eyes on her. Usually when you two go out, or with the rest of your friend group, men tend to go and try to hit on her first. They are never successful most of the time, so seeing this man who is obviously older than you two, playing with her is a bit of a surprise, but tonight is all about trying something new, right?

Walking next to her, you tap her on the shoulder, as she is waiting for the man to shoot his shot. Turning around to face you, a big smile places on her face. “Oh, there she is.” She excitedly exclaims, catching the man’s attention. “Thatch this is (Y/N), (Y/N) this is Thatch.”

The man walks to you and gently shakes your hand. “Sorry for taking your place here.”

You wave you hand to brush him off. “It’s fine don’t worry. I’m not even good at billiards.” Cucking softly, you reply.

Coming next to you Boa places the palms of her hands on your shoulders as she leans closer to you with a smile. “Thatch here is not alone. He’s here with a friend.”

It takes all your willpower not to roll your eyes. Last thing you want to do tonight is wasting your time engaging in conversations with some forty years old man’s friend. Faking a laughter and a smile you reply, “Oh, how nice.”

“Hey, Ace come meet (Y/N).” Thatch calls out his friend’s name. Turning your head to the direction where both Boa and the man are looking, at the same time a guy your age looks up from his phone and your gazes meet.

Strangle enough your heart skips a beat the moment your eyes lock. Getting up from the chair and putting his phone in his back pocket the guy takes a few steps and stands in front of you. He is tall, well built – muscular but not too much to a point where to question if he takes something to be built like this or not, raven black hair with dark brown eyes and freckles all over his cheeks, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, he is pretty good looking. A bit too good looking. You don’t remember the last time you have found a guy this attractive from just one look at him.

Ace on the other hand is starstruck on his own. To be honest, he has imagined everything else, but a cute pretty face like yours. He thought that if Boa is this pretty there is no way that her friend could possibly be prettier, but he was wrong. Very wrong. Your eyes, your lips, your nose, the colour of your skin and the way the little black dress is hugging every inch of your curves makes his heart beat a bit faster than it should.

Clearing his throat, he reaches with his hand for yours. “Ace.” Is all he says. In response he gets your name. Your hands staying a bit too long in a handshake. When the realisation hits you both you are quick to pull away.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by neither Thatch nor Boa, but he is the first to speak. “You know, my boy Ace here is actually very good at playing pool, maybe he can teach you how to do it better.”

“Are you Ace?” Boa turns to him with a smile as she hands him her cue stick. “Go ahead, please. She really needs someone to teach her a thing or two about billiards.”

Shyness and awkwardness take over you in seconds. “N-no, it’s fine.” Turning to Ace you shake your head and pull your hands up a bit like a little kid who just got caught shoplifting a candy. “You don’t need to do this, I-I’m a lost cause.” An awkward chuckle leaves your lips. “Plus, they are not done with their game, right guys?” Turning to your friend and Thatch, you are met with disagreement from them.

“No, we’re pretty done, right Thatch?” Boa smirks.

“Yes, I think we are. Wanna go out for some fresh air?” He totally ignores the looks Ace is giving him. In Thatch’s mind his dear friend needs to get laid, and by the looks of it there has been an immediate spark between you two, so it will be a shame if you don’t get some alone time to get to know each other.

Without wasting any second Boa agrees to Thatch’s offer and before you and Ace can protest, they are out of your sigh.

An awkward silence takes over you both, despite the loud music and the people around you. Seeing how tense you are, Ace feels bad, so he decides to make the first move. Taking a step to you, he leans a bit closer so you can hear him better. “I’m sorry about him. I told him to not bother you or your friend.”

This closure gives you goosebumps, so you take one step away before you turn to face him. “No, please, no one is bothering anyone. He seems nice.”

“He is, but if you want us gone, let me know.” Winking at you, he walks to the pool table with the cue stick in hand. “Wanna play one round while they are out?”

Biting on your lower lip, you nod. “Sure, why not? But keep in mind I’m very bad at it.” Grabbing the other cue stick while he is rearranging the balls in the triangle, you shyly walk closer to him.

“Nice.” Ace says more to himself than to you as he removes the triangle and turns to you with a charming smile. “Wanna go first and break them?” Taking his cue stick again he goes to the other side of the table to look for the chalk. Finding it, he walks back and gives it to you.

Taking it from his hand you thank him before applying it to the tip off your cue stick. Leaning your body and positioning your fingers to stable the stick in your hand better on the pool table, you take a deep breath before hitting the white ball in the middle. It rolls and hits the rest of the balls, but they barely move.

Scrunching your face from embarrassment you turn to Ace. “Told you, I’m bad at it.”

“Nah, it was good. All you need is a little bit more force.” Instead of going for his turn he takes all the balls again and puts them for a start break. “Go on, just a little bit more force.”

Doing the exact same thing, but with a little bit more force now, this time when you break more than a few balls move. Sadly, none of them roll to one of the pockets in the table so now it is Ace’s turn.

From his first hit he manages to get one of the balls in one of the side pockets. After it he gets two more balls in before missing and it is again your turn.

This goes back and forth a few times, none of you speaking much, until the game is finished and of course, he wins.

Ace wants to engage in a conversation with you, he really does, but he can clearly see how tens you are, almost like you are uncomfortable around him as you keep your distance like you want to run away, which makes him a bit sad, but who knows maybe you have a boyfriend or you just don’t feel attracted to him at all. Your distance has grown even bigger after he has asked you to help you fix your posture while you were about to make your move, to which you give permission to him to touch you.

You on the other hand are still on fire after that touch from him. The way he has gently placed his hands on the back of your shoulders to straighten them and then the way he wrapped his fingers around your hand, moving your arms with his to make the hit. The feeling of his touch on your bare skin made you feel something you haven’t experience in a long time, and you can’t be sure if it is because of the alcohol or the effect this charming stranger has on you, but for some reason you could feel how your body temperature has risen up.

That is why, you create a bit of a space between you two, which for some weird reason does feel wrong. You want to speak with him, but there is this pressure in you, this feeling of anxiety that is slowly creeping up that you will mess things up, so maybe is better to now say anything at all. But saying nothing also feels wrong.

Building all the courage you can built in a span of a second you turn to him with a small smile, your fingers immediately find their way to the edge of one of your hair strands and start playing with it.

Clearing your throat to catch his attention better you finally speak up. “So, Ace – what brings you here tonight?” Leaning the back of your lower body on the pool table, your head is turned to him as you observe him.

This question takes him by surprise. So far all you have talked about was billiard or how bad you are playing it, nothing too personal. Leaving the cue stick on the pool table, he walks closer to you, half charming smile on his face as he leans with one hand on the table next to you. “Let’s say little promotion from work. What about you?”

“It’s Boa’s birthday.” You reply shortly, you breath caught up in your lungs from how close he is standing next to you. Giving him a quick glance before you look away, you shoot another question.  “W-what do you do for work?”

“I’m a firefighter.” His response catches your attention quickly.

“Wow, really? That’s amazing and so brave.” Letting go of your hair now your eyes are on his. “What made you become one?”

“It was a mixture of a few things.” He replies, a bit more focused on your face, for whatever reason trying to memories every spot or line there is on. “I’ve always love helping people, but I also love adrenaline rush, so this sounded like the best opportunity a few years ago.”

This sounds a bit familiar to you or the you, you used to be like. You still help people as much as you can if you are being asked to, but the adrenaline part? It has been years since you have done something spontaneous or crazy. “So, you’re a bit of adrenaline junkie?” You chuckle with a little playful smile which you don’t realize has appeared on your face, but Ace catches it immediately.

“Maybe a bit too much sometimes.” He smirks, crossing his hands over his muscular chest, he nods at you. “What about you?”

“What about me?” You awkwardly laugh, not sure if he asks about your job or if you are adrenaline chaser like him.

Ace can’t help but laugh a bit. He has notice that the moment the attention is turned towards you, you froze, which is in a way adorable, but it also made him wonder if he is the reason why you are so tens, or this is how you are usually. “Are you an adrenaline junkie, silly?”

You can feel the heat rushing to your face when he calls you ‘silly’. It is something in the way he says it, so unintentionally playful, yet made you feel like you are sixteen again. “No, I’m not.” You say with a shake of your head. “Used to be, but not anymore.”

The slight change of your tone doesn’t go unnoticed by Ace, for which he decides to test his luck and see if he can play around this. “So, there is a wild girl hidden somewhere behind the shy one I’m speaking to right now?”

He is smooth, you give him that. Biting on your lower lip you shyly shrug. “Yea, maybe.”

Nodding his head, Ace can feel that he is slowly starting to make you relax. After all you haven’t broken eye contact with him for a while now, so this is a good sign. “What can I do to get a glimpse of this wild side of yours?”

“What can you do, huh?” Laughing at his question you place two fingers under your chin, acting like you are trying to think of something before you answer him. “Hmm, maybe if you have a time machine and you meet me back in college then you will definitely have a glimpse of wild me.”

Clicking with his tongue he raises one brow at you. “Okay, which collage you went to, so I know where to go to?” Telling him the name of the college you went to makes his brows raise in surprise. “No way. Me too. Which year?” You tell him the year you started and graduated making him snort. “What a coincidence. Me too, but I dropped off after a year or so.”

You are as surprise as he is. Sure, your college was pretty big, but there is no way you two have never crossed paths before. You are sure you would have noticed him, after all he is quite the charm. “What program were you in?”

“Something about social studies. To be honest I don’t remember anymore.” Shrugging he brushes off the subject, as to him it doesn’t really matter. “This means you must be twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-seven.” You nod with a smile. “You?”

“Twenty-seven.” He returns the smile.

Ace is about to ask you something more when he gets interrupted by your friend Boa and Thatch, who comes after her with four shots in hand. “Hey, there you two.” Boa says as she wraps her arms around you. “How did your game go?”

“He beat me.” You quickly reply, looking at Ace from under your lashes as he gives you a little wink.

“She almost got me though.” Even though he is speaking to Boa, his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Guess we can take over next?” Thatch comes in between you three giving every single one of you a glass of shot in hand.

Bringing the glass to your nose to smell what’s in it, your face scrunches from the smell. “What is this?” You look at your friend with disgust.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “We just told the bartender to make something strong and... well, strong.”

Taking a step closer to you, Ace leans and whispers in your ear. “You don’t need to drink it if you don’t want to.”

Before you can answer, Boa interrupts having guessed what Ace might have told you, she points her finger at him warningly. “Oh, she must. This one needs this drink more than any of us here.” Moving her finger in your direction she commands you to drink.

“Thank you for trying.” You tell Ace as you raise you glass to your lips and drink whatever is in the glass. Boa and Thatch follow, leaving Ace no choice but to do the same.

Whatever was in this shot, it is now burning your insides. “God, I need water.” You say more to yourself than anyone else.

“Come with me.” Ace tells you, taking your hand in his as he leads the way to the bar where they have water.

To your surprise, you don’t feel as tens as you used to a like ten-twenty minutes ago. He somehow managed to build a bit of a trust in you, so having your hand in his, letting him lead you somewhere, doesn’t feel alarming at all. It feels okay. It feels like you can trust him.

Reaching the end of the bar where the water station is place, Ace pours a glass of water and hands it to you, but to do this he has let go of your hand, which you wish he could hold for a little longer. Thanking him you take the glass from his hand and quickly drown the glass.  

“Are you okay?” His voice sounds calm, but also concern for you, and you can see the same thing in his eyes.

“Yes, I’m. Thank you for asking.” Putting the empty glass to the side you give him a small smile.

“You know if you don’t want to do something you can always say no.” He doesn’t like the way your friend forced you to drink the shot, leaving you no choice when you obviously didn’t want to drink.

“I know. Don’t worry.” You are not sure what made you do this, it is probably the alcohol, but you reached for his hand and gently squeezed it. “She did it out of love, believe me.”

Ace is a bit too shocked by your action to acknowledge what you have just said to him. Part of him feels like he is a teenager again. All you have done is take his hand in your and give it a little squeeze, yet this simple gesture made his whole-body freeze.

Whatever was in this shot it starts to kick in. Your eyes are all focused on his hand. His skin is surprisingly soft, the palm of his hand is big, his fingers long and running your eyes up him arm, you can see the way his muscles are flexed, freckles here and there. “You know, if they are going to play now, I don’t really want to stand and watch, mostly because my feet are killing me in these heels.” Finally looking up to meet his eyes you give him a curious look. “What were you guys doing before joining us?”

Swallowing hard, trying to keep his cool, trying to ignore the way your fingers play with his, he gives you a short answer. “We played cards.”

Your eyes lit up when you hear this. “Really? I love playing cards! What game did you play?”

“Poker.”

“Wanna play?” You ask him with playful flame light up in your eyes.

Raising his eyebrows in surprise Ace smirks. “You know how to?”

“Maybe.” Returning the smirk, you trace your finger on the back of his hand. “Play with me and you’ll find out.”

You are drunk. There is no way that the shy girl a few minutes ago and this new playfully version of her now are the same person if there isn’t alcohol involved. Or maybe this girl is there all the time, hidden behind many layers of who knows what, but Ace is not going to back down now, when he is finally catching this glimpse of you.

“You want me to play with you, huh?” He can’t help but tease you. Biting on your lower lip you slowly nod. “Alright pretty girl. I’ll play with you.” Nodding slowly, he smirks. Looking down at where your fingers are tracing up and down his forearm, he gently grabs it and pulls you closer to him.

This action itself makes you instinctively put your other hand on his chest. His chest feels exactly how it looks – defined and muscular. Looking at him from under your lashes your breath gets caught up in your lungs, and he has caused this to you how many times tonight? Two? Three? More?

Leaning closer to whisper in your ear, as even with your heels on he is still a bit taller than you, the way his breath tickles your skin gives you goosebumps. “What do we bet on then?” Pulling away to look at your eyes, a cocky smirk grows bigger in his face. “I mean, what do I get after I win?”

Faking a dramatic gasp, you take a small step back, pulling your hands away from him and crossing them over your chest. “What makes you think you’ll win?”

Hearing the playfulness in your voice, Ace chuckles. “Just a feeling.” He shrugs. 

“What do you want then?” One of the tables next to where you two are standing gets available and you point with your head towards it, indicating to Ace to follow you there. Taking a seat facing each other you still await his answer. “Come on, tell me. What do you win… if you win.” You say, matching his coy smile.

“If I win, and I will.” He says. “I want you to show me more of this wild girl, you mentioned earlier.”

Sober you would have back off from such bet. Hell, sober you probably wouldn’t have the courage to go this far into a conversation with some man you have just met, despite how charming the stranger is. But sober you is long gone, and after all tonight is all about trying something different, so why not?

“And what if I win?” You raise one brow challenging.

“Whatever you want sweetheart.”

Trying to ignore the nickname and how charming and smooth he can be, you look away for a moment to think what you would possibly want from him, but nothing is coming up in your mind. “I’m not sure, but I can decide once I beat you. Deal?”

Reaching with your hand across the table for a handshake to seal the deal, he takes your hand in his and give it a strong, but still delicate squeeze. “Deal.”

“Go on, bring out the cards.” You say, making the pupils of his eyes widen as he realises that they are in fact not with him.

“Um, give me a second and I’ll be back.” Getting up quickly from the chair he stops for a second and turns back to you before he makes his way to where Boa and his friend play billiards. “Do you want something to drink?”

You are not sure if drinking is the best idea, but why not? Why not get loose for one night? Nodding you tell him what to get you and he tells you to wait for him.

It is hard to explain how you are feeling currently. You are all over the place. You are excited, you feel energetic, you feel flirty, playfully; yet you also feel a bit anxious and stiff, but despite all this you feel good. You are having a great time, and you feel good. Right now, you are not sure if you are subconsciously faking it until you make it, but you are content. Plus, the company you have found tonight is quite enjoyable.

You are not sure how many minutes have passed since Ace has gone away, but he is back, which makes you turn all your attention to him. Placing your drink in front of you, you thank him.

Pulling up the cards he starts to shuffle the cards. “Since we aren’t betting on money, should we play it three out of five?” Setting up the cards in front of you and then him he awaits on your answer.

“Sure.” You reply with a confident coy smile.

Three out of five, turns to five out of eight. Five out of eight turns to eight out of ten. Eight out of ten wins turns into you two loosing tracks of time to a point where both your friends come to you to check if you want to leave but you tell them to leave you, because you are not done yet.

At first Boa wasn’t very convinced in leaving you with Ace, but it was the spark in your eyes that she hasn’t seen in a long time that made her wish you a good night and to text her once you are home.

You are totally lost in the moment with Ace. He is fun, he is charming, he is silly, he is so easy to be around. And also, he feels safe to be around. For whatever strange reason you trust him.

“Accept it, Ace.” You giggle as you win yet another hand.

Running a hand through his messy black hair, he holds his head with the palms of his hands. “You have to be kidding me.” Looking up at you with a big smile on his face he finally gives in. “Fine. You win.” Taking his glass of beer, he raises it to give you cheers.

Drinking the last sips of your drinks you place your elbows on the table leaning closer to him. “So now what?” The tone in your vice is a mixture of playfulness and genuine curiosity. You don’t want to say goodbye to him, not yet, but due to how empty the bar is starting to look, you are guessing that soon they are closing.

“You’re the winner. We do as you wish.” Mimicking your actions, he leans closer to you as well. His eyes focused on your lips. Your lipstick long gone, but your lips still look as alluring as he first saw you. It takes him all his willpower to withhold himself from grabbing your chin and pull you closer to himself to capture the taste, the feeling of having your lips on his.

You see and feel the way he is looking at you. The way he is looking at your lips. The way there is a new kind of light in his eyes, causing the sparkling of the same energy to start burn into you.

“I don’t want to go home yet.” The words leave you before you can process or stop them.

“Wanna come over to my place?” Ace, despite how drunk he is himself at this point, is aware of the risk how this might push you away, but something in him is telling that it is now or never.

At this point you are not sure if it is the alcohol, his company or the burning feeling of your skin that makes you slowly nod, eyes more focused on his lips now than his eyes. Eager to taste the feeling of his lips on yours.

-

How you have gotten to his apartment is a bit of a fog in your mind. All you remember is that you have called a cab and now you are at his place. His lips finally on yours. They feel exactly like you imagined them to be – full, soft and very skilful. You don’t remember the last time being kiss with so much passion and desire. It has been years.

But right now, caged between his hard muscular body and the door of his bedroom all your drunken mind can focus on is his burning kisses and his hands roaming around your waist and hips.

Ace is drunken by the taste of you. He feels like he can spend hours just covering you in kisses. You taste like the sweetest fruit he has ever tasted, despite all the alcohol you both have consumed.

Hearing your quiet and desperate whispers and moan drives him crazy. Finally allowing himself, he lifts the edges of your dress up to your waist and grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing it, causing a loud moan to leave your lips. “Fuck, you’re so hot.” He whispers against your lips as he slowly starts making his way down from your jawline, slowly trailing kisses down to your neck and collarbones.

Tracing his hands up to your waist and back he finds the zipper of your dress. He slowly unzips your dress despite his eagerness to trace the rest of your body with his lips.

With the dress off your body, you are left in nothing but your black stockings and underwear. Taking his sweet time observing every curve of your body he gets on his knees and start tracing kisses around your tummy, while slowly running his hands up and down your hips.

You are barely standing on your legs. If it isn’t for the support of the door behind you and the way Ace has your body pinned you would have probably already melted on the floor. The wetness between your legs grows with every passing second and you are not sure how much more you can take from his teasing.

It is like he has read your mind as he traces his finger on the waistband of your stockings, slowly slitting his index fingers on each side of your waist and taking them down. With the stockings finally off, he takes one of your legs in his hands and places it on his shoulder while holding you with his other hand steady around the waist. Running his fingers agonisingly slowly to you calf up to the outside part of your thigh, he trails the tip of his nose along the skin of your inner thigh, making you arch your back from the feeling of his breath there.

“God, your skin is so soft.” He says placing kisses on your inner thigh after every word. “You smell so good, baby girl.” Giving you a harsh squeeze on the thigh he softly bites on it, making you hiss from the mixture of pain and pleasure.

With tremble in your voice, you finally manage to say something. “Please.”

Looking up at you and meeting your pleading eyes, Ace lets go of your thigh and gets up on his feet. “Please what, baby?” Hints of teasingly mocking in his tone. Placing his hands on your waist he buried his head in the crook of your neck, leaving small kisses all over it.

Nothing but soft whines and whispers leave your lips, making Ace smile against the skin of your neck. “Come on, say it. Show me how much of a wild girl you can be.” Lifting his head from the crook of your neck, your eyes meet.

Finally, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him in a passionate hot kiss. Running your fingers all over his broad muscular shoulders up to his messy locks. This man has unlocked something in you tonight that you have thought you have lost long time ago – your passion, your sexuality, your desire.

Breaking the kiss, you lock eyes with his. Your chest raising up and down, your heart beating fast as you try to catch your breath and make up your mind. “Please, fuck me.” You whisper. “Fuck me like I’ve never been fucked before.”

Ace doesn’t need to be told twice. He lifts you up in his arms, your legs wrapped around his torso, while he carries you to his bed. Laying you down on it he finally takes off his T-shirt, making you realise that he has been dress the entire time until now.

Now with his shirt off, despite the darkness in the room and the only source of light being from the streetlights coming from outside the window, you get to finally not just feel but see his define toned up muscle body. You push yourself a bit with one hand on the bed to lift your body up so you can reach up better and trace your fingers from the top of his chest all the way down to his tone up abdomen and happy trail.

His skin is soft, from what the light allows you to see, you notice that he has quite lot of freckles spread across the top of his chest and shoulders mostly.

Pushing you to lay down on the bed he hovers over you and lock your lips in another passionate messy kiss. Reaching down to his jeans, you finally find the belt buckle. Feeling you struggling with unbuckling it, Ace pulls away from the kiss and take it off together with his jeans, leaving only his boxers on, which seems to grow tighter with each second.

You can’t help but bite your lip from the sign of the outline of his cock, hidden behind the tight material of his boxers. With the tips of your fingers, you trace down a path starting from the top of his happy trail to the outline of the tip of his member, following down the covered length.

This action alone makes Ace flex his abs and buckles his hips towards your hand, a hiss of pleasure leaving his lips. Hearing the sound of pleasure leaving his lips, this gives you the confidence to continue by stroking his member over his underwear.

“Oh yeah, baby girl. Just like that.” Throwing his head back, Ace close his eyes from the pleasure, making you give him one stronger squeeze, causing him to moan. He is melting in your hand and you are not even touching him properly but over his still covered dick.

Seeing how much effect you have on him, you raise your body a bit to pull him closer to you with your free hand and he follows. Without giving him any time, you start covering his neck with kisses.

Despite all the distractions from you, Ace’s hands make their way behind your back and unclamp your bralet, tossing it to the side without a care. Pulling away from you he shamelessly stares at your naked breast. “Fuck.” He breathes out, tracing with the top of his fingertip on the soft squishy outline of your chest making his way to your already hard nipples, barely touching while circulating his finger around, giving you sweet agonising pleasure.

You pull your hand away from his cock, letting your hands trace over his back muscles. The feeling of him on top of you making you crazy, while he covers your chest with kisses and softly punches one of your hard nipples. A gaps leaves your lips as he finally takes your other breast in hand and gives it a squeeze before wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking on it, making your back arch.

“God, fuck me already.” You whine under him, hands buried in his hair, pulling it a bit.

Letting go of your nipple, he gives it one last kiss before he looks at you. “Oh baby girl, I’m not a God, but your prayer will be heard.” He chuckles with a smirk, hands going down to your panties. Hooking in two fingers on the waistband of the lacy material he takes them off, leaving you in nothing. Ace places his hands on your ankles, slowly moving them up to your knees, where he spreads them apart, making you all exposed to him.

Your chest is going up and down, heart beating fast as he places himself between your spread legs and hovering over you, with one hand holding himself up to not crush you and the other tracing up your thigh slowly reaching your dripping cunt.

“You’re dripping wet, baby girl.” His voice has gotten a bit raspier as he whispers in your ear, his hand now covering your pussy. Sliding his middle finger in between your lips to spread you apart you both share a moan of pleasure – you of the feeling of him finally touching you where you wanted him the most, and he from all the wetness and warmth he feels from your pussy.

Running his finger up and down, teasing your clit and entrance, Ace finally enters your burning hole with it slowly, giving you time to adjust despite how wet you are, and then he slowly start to move it, trying to find that sweet spot in you, while his thumb is on your clit, rubbing and playing with it.

The moment he curls up his finger and finds that sweet spot in you, you are turned into a hot mess under him. “More, fuck.” A loud moan escapes you. “More, Ace. Please.”

Sliding a second finger into you, Ace smirks as he traces sloppy wet kisses along your neck up to your ear, biting the soft part of it. “You greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He teases you, increasing the peace of his fingers.

“Yes. Fuck yes, I am.” You breathe out, body arching as you feel the sweet burning sensation of release forming in the bottom of your belly. “Please, don’t stop now.”

Mocking laughter comes from Ace as he takes one look at your face, your eyes barely open, lips parted. “You’re close, aren’t you baby?” He coos, moving aside a strand of your hair that has fallen over your face. Whining and nodding at him, he just chuckles at you. “Then don’t hold back, baby girl. Because I don’t plan to fuck you properly until I make you cum at least once before that.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice, nor it would have mattered as your first wave of pleasure and release hits, and you are falling into pieces under him. Your gummy walls squeezing hard around his fingers, coating him with your pussy juices. You’re a mess under him and Ace loves it. “Yes, baby girl - that’s it. Let it all out.” He says as he continues to finger you not cutting off your pleasure and he doesn’t stop until he sees you calming down a bit from your high.

Removing his hand from you, he unapologetically takes his fingers in his mouth and licks them clean. “Damn, baby. You taste so good.” He tells you as he pulls away from you to reach out to the nightstand next to the bed. Opening the first drawer Ace grabs the first condom he sees and takes it. Getting up from the bed he finally takes down his boxers, the feeling of release hitting his bare skin.

He is not sure if his dick has been this hard ever before, but it doesn’t matter, because he is finally going to fuck you, and he plans to do it good. Ripping open the condom package he takes it out and slides it on his length. Getting back on the bed and nestling himself between your legs, he props his hands on each side of your head.

“Are you ready for one more?” He smirks, moving one of his hands away to guide the tip of his dick to your entrance.

Spreading your legs a bit more you are aching to finally feel him inside of you. If he has made you seeing starts just with his fingers you hope, he can do the same with his dick.

You have felt how big he is when you tease him earlier, but now with him slowly entering you, inch by inch, stretching you open for him with the just the tip of his dick, it makes you roll your eyes in ungodly pleasure mixed with a bit of a pain.

“Fuck! You feel so good.” Ace moans throwing his head back from pleasure once he gets all of him inside you. Your gummy walls wrapped around him in a tight warm grip. Noticing that you need some time to adjust on having all of him inside of you he places some kisses across your collarbones. “Tell me when you ready, baby.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck you just nod, giving him the permission to move. He doesn’t need to be told twice. Slowly, but hard Ace starts to rock his hips, moving steady in and out of you.

“Don’t go all nice on me now, Ace.” You grab his hair and pull his head up to make him look at you. “Fuck me.”

Freezing on top of you, he grabs your hand away making you let go of his hair as he stands on his knees, his body towering over yours. “I tried to be nice remember this.” He tells you before he grabs your hips pulling you even closer to him as he puts them on his shoulders. Now with your waist arch he gets a better access to your ass and gives it a hard smack, before he starts slamming into you.

His thrusts are fast and hard – exactly how you like it. His dick hitting all the right spots in you while his hands are gripping your waist strongly, keeping you in place. Seeing how much you enjoyed the slap on your ass, he does it one more time, causing you to scream his name with pleasure and your pussy squeezing around him. But your pleasure is quickly cut as he pulls away from you and your needy cunt.

“Fuck no.” He curses grabbing his hair with both hands in frustration. The condom has broken. Reaching to his nightstand to search for another one he can’t find any. Taking the broken condom off him he throws it to the side. Looking back at you and the confused look you have on your pretty face, your naked body spread across his bed, your pussy covered in your juices squeezing around nothing missing his dick he makes a quick choice one he hopes he won’t regret later.

Grabbing your face in both of his hands he gives you a sweet sloppy kiss on the lips. Tracing his hand down on your body to your clit he starts to play with it. “The condom broke. Please, tell me you’re on a pill.”

You heard nothing from what he says. All you can focus on right now is how good is he making you feel, which leads to your response being a moan, which Ace overhears for a yes – yes, you are on a pill.

Instead of getting to continue with what he has been doing, Ace tells you to turn around on your belly and lift your ass as high as you can. Doing exactly what he has told you, you embrace yourself with what is coming. The feeling of his dick until now in you has been a bit painful, but in this position, you in all fours, he is going to abuse the life out of your pussy.

Seeing the red mark formed on your ass cheek from before Ace can’t help but slaps you once more, watching the way your ass juggles from the impact of his slap. Guiding his dick to your entrance he taps it a few times with the tip, causing you to buckle your hips at him, begging him without words to fill you up with himself.

Sliding his dick in, both of you share a moan from the new sensation, the feeling like you have never been this close to anyone before is driving you both mad. Grabbing a handful of your hair, Ace pulls it, making you arch even more. “Now be a nice bitch and take it as the good girl you are.” He hisses with pleasure as he starts to rock his hips in and out of you unapologetically hard and fast.

You are a mess of pleasure and moans. The last time you have had sex was more than a year ago, maybe even a year and a half, and it wasn’t even good. But this man, right here and right now is literally rocking your world and you are willing to take every inch he has as long as the pleasure never leaves you.

Pulling your hair to get you closer to him as he leans to you, he whisperers in your ear. “You like being fuck like this don’t you? Like a little slut ready to take every inch I give to her.” In response you moan, but he wants more. “No, no, no. Use your words baby girl.”

“Yes, yes Ace.” You say, your voice almost breaking. “I’ll take all of you, just don’t stop.” Letting go of your hair he pushes your head back to the pillows.

Your pussy is squeezing and dripping all around him, making a mess on the bed and you haven’t even cum yet, but he feels like you are close, very close and he himself is not far away from his own pique.

The feeling of your second orgasm for the night starts to build up. That same feeling he has made you feel earlier is coming back – the trembling in your legs, the heat in your lower belly, all of this is coming back but stronger.

One more smack on your red ass cheek follow by a hard thrust is all what is needed to send you to the edge. You cum all over his dick, your cunt squeezing around him hard, so hard that before he can stop himself and pull out, Ace is cumming inside of you. Coating your walls white with his hot cum.

It takes some time for both of you to calm down. After collecting his breath Ace finally pulls out of you, watching your little sweet pussy leaks some of his cum mixed with your own.

Leaning over your limp body he gives you a kiss on the shoulder. “Are you okay?” He softly asks.

You are not sure if you are here on planet Earth or somewhere far away in the galaxy. You have never been fucked like this. You hear Ace asking you something, but you are too wasted and tired to answer, all you can do is just look at him.

“Hey, please tell me.” He pleads with a soft tone. It’s obviously that you are exhausted, but he needs to know if you are okay, if he has been too harsh with you or not. “Was it too much? Are you hurt?”

Hearing the worry in his voice you try your best to answer him. “Don’t worry Ace, I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine. Let’s go to sleep now.” You tell him with a sleepy voice and very heavy eyelids, but with a satisfy smile across your face.

Seeing your sweet smile as you turn around on your back, gives him the peace and the satisfaction that you are in fact okay and obviously pleased. “Give me a sec. I need to clean us both.” He winks at you, but you don’t see it as your eyes are already closing and you are already asleep by the time he comes with a warm wet towel to clean the mess you to just made.

-

The sunlight coming from the open curtain of the window irritates you. Scrunching your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as you try your best to remain asleep and ignore the irritation. Giving up, you finally open one eye. You almost never forget to put the blinds down, how drunk have you been last night to forget it?

Lifting just your head, dizziness hits you up like a truck, making you grab your head and squeeze it. A groan leaves your lips. You haven’t felt like this in a very, very long time. Your mouth is dry, and you are extremely thirsty. Giving yourself some time to adjust to the light and the heavy feeling in your head, you blink a few times. Something is wrong.

Raising one eyebrow you wonder since when the ceiling in your bedroom has turn white? Are you still drunk? Running one hand over your face you look to your right side. Instead of seeing the door to your bathroom you are met with a big dark oak chest of drawers and a lot of basketball and rock bands posters on the wall.

The moment you realise you are not home, and in fact that you are in somebody else’s apartment, you freeze. “Fuck.” You quietly curse yourself. Slowly you move your eyes down to your body, wrapped up in dark blue light covers. You can feel that your body is bare, but you hope that you are wrong and when you look under the covers you will find yourself dressed in your little black dress. Sneaking a peak under the covers, you gasp. You are as bare as the day your mother gave birth to you.

Your internal panic is interrupted by a little shift of the covers next to you. The memories of last night hits you like a truck. The guy you met in the bar with Boa, and then staying with him to play poker, and then going with him to his place and you two having sex; all of this comes at once.

You withdraw a deep breath and stop breathing. What do you do now? Is he awake? You hope he isn’t.

Allowing yourself to breath again, you slowly turn your head to the left, eyes squeezed tight, afraid to open them. Counting to three in your mind, you slightly open one eye and thank whatever power is out there that he is still asleep and his head is turned to the other side, and you are met with nothing else but his messy dark locks.

You need to think fast and stop panicking. Whatever has happened happen. Now you need to get out of here before he wakes up.

Taking the covers off from you, you slowly slide you right leg to the floor, making sure that your movements are as quiet and quick as possible. Once you feel the wooden floor on the tip of your toes, you lift your body with one hand and get up from the bed, almost loosing your balance and tripping on the ground you managed to stay still.

Cursing yourself one more time as the headache hits, you grab your head but remind yourself that there is no time for this. You have stepped on something soft. Looking down you sigh in relief. It is your bra. One out of three, no five of your items found. Putting it on quickly and tiptoeing around the room, the next thing you come upon is your dress. With one quick swift move you put it on your body and finally you don’t feel so exposed. Walking to the other side to the bed your eyes land on your stockings and purse right next to the door. Four out of five found now what is left is your panties.

Where the hell could he possible thrown them? Walking to the door to pick your stockings and purse you turn around to make sure that he is still asleep and thankfully he still is.

You can’t help but stare at his sleeping form. He is cute. Laying on his belly, both hands wrapped tightly around the pillow, slow steady breaths leaving his slightly open mouth, some of his dark locks falling over his face.

Part of you wishes you haven’t slept with him, that way maybe you two could have been friends or something, but now you must remind strangers.

Looking down your eyes spot your panties. Right next to his side of the bed. Right next to the bed. But what is next to your panties makes your eyes widen. A condom. Obviously a used one. You are happy to know that you two have used protection so there is one last thing for you to worry about, but couldn’t he throw it away in a bin or something? Scrunching your face in disgust you look away.

You have two options – tiptoeing to there, maybe risking waking him up, but grab them, or just turning around open the door and run. The decision is taken fast. With one swift and quick move you are out of his bedroom, leaving your panties behind. A parting gift goodbye for the great time you had last night some might say.

Leaving his bedroom, you find yourself in the living room and from there it doesn’t take you long to find the entrance door. There you also found your heels. Putting them on, you quickly leave the place. Running down the stairs and then outside the street, as fast as you can considering the fact that you are wearing twelve centimetres heels.

After three or four streets away from his place, you finally stop to catch your breath. Your heart is beating fast. You still can’t believe what have you done. Laughter starts building up in you and soon you find yourself laughing loudly. You can’t believe what you have done – in the best way possible.

You feel alive. You feel you. The you, you have been once. The you, you have missed so much.

With trembling hands, you pull your phone from your purse. You barely have any battery left and a lot of missed calls and text, mostly from your best friend Boa. Looking around you see a taxi passing by, so you raise your hand to stop it. Getting in the backseat of the cab, you tell the driver your address.

With the remaining life of your phone’s battery, you call Boa. She should be leaving for the airport soon. She picks up almost immediately.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been texting and calling like crazy? Are you okay?” She doesn’t even bother to say ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’, she is straight to the point as usual.

Clearing your throat your response. “Sorry. I’m fine, just… lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time? Really?” She snorts mockingly. “Did you just get up? Your voice sounds so raspy. And why are you talking so quietly? Oh my, are you not alone?” If only you could see her face right now. It is all lighten up with curiosity.

Looking at the front mirror making sure that the driver is focused on the road and not on your phone call you quietly answer. “I’m on my way home, in a cab.” As much as you are a bit ashamed, you are also a bit euphoric. A small smile forming at the edges of your mouth.

The gaps from the other end of the phone is loud. “Did you sleep with him?”

Even thought she can’t see you; you nod while humming in response, a little giggle escaping your lips. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“You slut.” Boa screams in the phone, giggling with you and sharing your euphonical feeling. “How was it? I want all the details. Was it good or bad? You know it doesn’t matter. What is important here is that after what – two years, you finally got laid.” You start laughing at the overly excitement of your friend over you sleeping with a guy. “Don’t laugh. Tell me. Now.” She demands.

“Well, I can’t right now.” You mumble, glancing at the driver. “But all I can tell you right now is-” Lowering your voice even more you whisper in the phone. “Two times, Boa. He made me finish two times.”

The memories of the charming stranger fucking you last night comes to your mind like a vivid picture, making your pussy squeeze itself, causing you pain, a sweet aching reminder of how good he has made you felt.

“Two times? Two real orgasms? Like real real?” Boa is in shock from what she has heard.

“Real real.” You repeat.

“Wow. I’m speechless. He didn’t give me the vibes of a guy who know how to fuck.” She chuckles.

A bit surprised by what you have heard, you ask in between giggles. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” She laughs. “I felt like he would be one of those guys who just stick it and move it you know, no beat, no rhythm, no nothing.”

“Yes, I get what you mean, but no.” You can feel the blood rushing to your face. “He was very rhythmic with both hands and, well… you know.”

“Lucky you. I’m so happy for you, you have no idea.” She tells you. “When are you two meeting again?”

“Yeah, about that.” You withdraw your breath with a hiss. “I ran away before he wakes up.”

“You did what?” Boa screams.

“Come on, Boa. You know how I’m currently. Last thing I need is a guy in my life.” You murmur a bit sad, the reality slowly coming to you as you remind yourself that you just had one good night, but one night like this doesn’t chance your current life.

“You don’t need to date him or anything like this.” You can’t see her, but you can feel over the phone the roll her eyes make. “You can use him for a booty call. Your personal sex toy.” She whistles.

“We didn’t exchange any contacts.”

“Oh my, you’re a lost case.” She sighs. “Anyway, at least you got laid pretty good. But want more details.”

“When you come back, I’ll tell you.” Running a hand over your face, you lean your head on the backseat.

“But this is in like a week or so.” She whines. “You know what? Fine. When I come back. I need to get to the airport anyway, but one last thing before we hang up.” She tells you know in more serious tone. “Go and buy a plan B.”

“We used protection.” Rolling your eyes and clicking with your tongue, a makeshift of a hum and laughter leaves your lips.

“Better safe than sorry.” You friend replies.

“Better safe than sorry.” The words of your best friend repeat in your mind like a broken record. You still can’t believe that all three-pregnancy test are positive.

How? How did this happen? You two have used a condom. You saw it with your own eyes. Did the condom break? It must have. But still, it is your fault for not taking extra precautions. You shouldn’t have forgotten to take the plan B when you should have taken it.

None of these matters now. You are pregnant. You are pregnant and it’s your fault – partially. It is the guy’s fault as much as it is yours. How could he have finish in you? Was he out of his mind when this happen?

Being pregnant right now is not the worst thing around this situation. The worst thing is that you have no idea how to contact or find him. All you know about him is … his name and if you remember correctly, he is a firefighter. But that is all. You don’t remember where he lives, you don’t know how usually he goes to the bar you two met at nor you remember where the hell this place is, you basically know nothing about this man except that you are knocked up by him.

“Good job (Y/N). Now what?” You ask yourself.

Now you need to find your baby daddy. No, now you need to decide if you are going to keep the baby, so maybe you don’t need to worry about finding the dad, right?

END NOTE: I have edited the beginning probably five or more times, (also side note - this was my second time writing smut, so any type of criticism over it is welcomed). I wanted to show how low Reader confidence is while still making it logical to say - fuck it, and go and sleep with a man she has just met. I hope I managed to deliver it good enough. Why she is the way she is will be revealed later on, so no spoilers, just be patient. Same goes with Ace. His past will be revealed on later on. This is just chapter one - the beginning of this journey, with I hope you are willing to follow ♡

Every like, comment, reblog and message is deeply appreciated by me so feel free to share ♡

Thank you for reading my storied ♡♡♡

Taglist - OPEN: @orange-milky @igoontoonepiece @m1kkso @boomboom-tanjiro2019 @aceismyloveforever @firelilyofthevalley @ye-old-hermit-woman @fulltravelerdreamland @ffinosie @sungiebby @mrstraffy @ren-ni @acidblack @certain-tragedies @pmgranate @praline357 @stuckinthewrongworld @hlkenoace

Comment down below if you want to be tagged when a new chapter is up ♡

writing, format, header & dividers © cinnamoonblue fanart by @usa_rinko_ on Twitter/X ©cinnamoonblue, do not copy or plagiarise my work.

[stromblessed]

henry and hans and kcd's coming-of-age themes turn into an absolutely compelling gordian knot if you insert one trope in particular, one you'll see in historical fiction and epic fantasy every so often, and one i heard a few times in my fundamentalist religious upbringing:

that homosexual attachment is a sign of immaturity

henry and hans both have some growing up to do throughout the games. henry was coddled by his parents, hans' adolescence seems perpetual. they - hans in particular - use and discard women as they please, risk their own dishonor in a dozen ways, are naive about politics, can pick and choose tenets of chivalry when it's convenient with little self-awareness, and most strongly highlighted in the narrative: they want to live a life of adventure free of real responsibility

that last one in particular isn't all bad, it's just painfully innocent, and a painful misunderstanding on hans' part especially, who is only just beginning to see how not free he truly is. but it's also, for me at least, a big part of what drives the romanticizing of hans and henry's relationship, a big part of how arthuriana can be inserted into their narrative, and an excellent tool for yearning

the trope i mentioned can basically be a way of saying: sure you, a boy, want to kiss boys. that's all well and good. but that's not real love and it's not a serious relationship because in this society, you can't take that into adulthood. when a boy becomes a man, he marries a woman, has children, takes up real responsibilities, and leaves behind childish things. and those homosexual feelings are childish because if you commit yourself to them, it will never lead to maturity - wife, kids, contribution to society, godliness, the aptitude to resist temptation. recall that in kcd's medieval period in catholicism, active suffering (be it mild or severe) without giving in is what makes you saintly

for girls and women, rinse and repeat but for all the implications that come with being female instead of male re: expectations and responsibility

a major story thread binding henry and hans together is how they free each other. hans, through his adventurous nature and his privilege, and often with his recklessness, launches henry from a life of serfdom and servitude into one of renown, heroism, and exploration. (this isn't a part of canon due to the timeline of storytelling, but i like to think that if everyone was serious about henry being hans' right hand, henry would also have been given a noble's education rather than him needing to figure it all out himself to support game mechanics) henry gets the more literal role by physically saving hans again and again, but also by being hans' one real friend and support in the world as far as we can tell. they make each other's stories more interesting and more fun. we actively want them to have that life of adventure and freedom together

and hans cements that longing by bringing lancelot and galehaut into the romantic plotline. lancelot and galehaut had that life together, and their myth is permitted and loved by kcd's medieval world because it operates within this lowercase-"r" romantic realm of loyalty, devotion, fantasy, courtly love, and friendship. even today, a capital-"r" Romantic interpretation of their story would be considered just that: an interpretation. the masses would have considered lancelot and galehaut to be the pinnacle of platonic - utter love and devotion while still being, for lack of a better word in this analysis, "mature"

i actually thought it was viciously clever of the kcd writers to include an arthurian myth in hansry's romance because of the meta of it all. a platonic interpretation of lancelot and galehaut is the mainstream. a platonic interpretation of henry and hans is (WAS) the mainstream. even in the game, henry can respond to hans' story very innocently, as though the capital-"r" Romantic undertones have flown straight over his head, such that hans has to gently guide henry toward the conclusion. i'm not even fully convinced that hans himself sees lancelot and galehaut as fully capital-"r" Romantic - i AM convinced that he heard about their life of devotion and freedom and adventure together and that whenever it was that he saw henry and put two and two together, he felt a longing so strong that it 180'd his character development

and their kiss hits like the most satisfying lightning strike ever because. you mean to tell me that's not mature?

hans is crying at the thought of henry's death, and then again at the almost-reality of his rejection. hans' voice breaks for the first time EVER in game. it's the most serious and solemn we've ever seen him, even the most desperate. it's the craziest, most delicious whiplash from every time we've seen him and his cockiness with a woman. henry experiences the full spectrum of human emotion in 2 minutes. it is by far the most serious and, in my opinion, most heartfelt love scene he can have in both games. it is absolutely the most risky romance for henry, too. and afterward, hans and henry are both all in - even though we know that hans' intentions to skirt or cancel the wedding will come to naught. they are committed

they've grown into their manhood together and made each other better people. because we see behind the closed door that henry locks, we see that their romance is just an extension of that character growth. whereas our trope would say that their growth is stunted. it's never stated outright because it shouldn't be and doesn't need to be, but the masterclass of growth and emotion in the hansry plotline stands as its own proof of the fallacy of that "homosexuality is immature" viewpoint, as well as all viewpoints that romantic relationships are cheaper or less pure than, say, masculine friendships. the only difference between platonic and romantic hansry is hans' willingness to act on his feelings, as many have pointed out before

and so i cannot even tell you how fast all the breath left my body when hanush IMMEDIATELY slams reality home with the wedding conversation. henry and hans' silent exchange. hans' immaturity has been a thorn in hanush's side for the entire story. and now he's going to strongarm hans into that mainstream view of maturity. the very thing that hans wanted all along - now keeping him from henry, the actual real physical manifestation of all the love, devotion, freedom, and recognition that hans has ever REALLY wanted. the irony is so delicious because hanush doesn't know about hans' homosexual feelings - but the theme is there, the trope is there, hovering, and haunting, and so masterfully and absolutely disproved so very recently, and so the player can only sit there, crushed and grasping for any hope

so yeah. the tangle of homosexuality being perceived as immature, vs. hans and henry showing real immaturity throughout the first game especially as they fumble through heterosexual dalliances and chivalry and politics, vs. hans and henry's gay love for each other being the most mature love they've ever experienced, vs. the platonic ideal of masculine friendship not actually being that different from true romantic devotion, vs. mainstream societal expectations of family and masculine leadership being neither much of a choice nor true freedom, vs. henry and hans' friendship and love being a real representation of a life of adventure and daring that would in fact hold them back from their society and challenge what society has led them to believe they should want out of adulthood (henry: settling down and all that comes with it, hans: power, recognition, his birthright)

[ghostlycamil4]

Hii!! Can u pls write a masked reader where no one in the class has seen her face before but one day she finally reveals it and Bakugo just goes like “oh damn they’re pretty” or smth so he falls for her thankiess 💕

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝐻𝑒'𝑠 𝐼𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝐷𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝐼�� 𝑌𝑒𝑡

thank you for being patient with this one, i was trying to find the right quirk that would actually explain why she wears the mask... plus i really wanted that soft, vulnerable moment with her and bakugo to hit just right.

Quirk: Solar Light Reaction.

Her skin absorbs solar energy uncontrollably. If exposed to sunlight, her body begins to overload with energy, leading to pain, fever, or even involuntary explosions. The mask and her full-body suit help regulate this energy and prevent an overload.

Context: Bakugo and Y/n were paired for a special training exercise against a pro hero.

The fight was so intense that Y/n had to push her quirk to the limit. She unleashed a massive amount of energy to secure the victory… but it left her completely drained.

Right after the match ended, she collapsed unconscious in front of everyone.

Recovery Girl walked out, hands clasped behind her back. When she saw him there, so still, she looked at him over her glasses with a raised brow.

"Ah, Bakugo. Something wrong?"

He took half a second to react.

"Tch... No. Nothing. Just…" he cleared his throat, turning his face slightly. "Is she okay?"

She looked at him with a mix of tenderness and restrained surprise. Then she nodded, without losing that look in her eyes that said she’d noticed everything.

"She’s stable. Still unconscious, but no major damage. What she did out there was reckless," she said with a sigh. Then, studying him. "You can go in if you want. Just don’t go yelling and wake her up."

And without waiting for an answer, she walked off down the hallway.

He didn’t move right away. He looked at the open door. Took a deep breath.

And then stepped inside.

Lying on a cot, covered in a blue hospital gown, no trace of her hero costume. Her hair—that was always tied up or hidden under the mask—fell loose over the pillow, messy, wild. He stared at it, confused, like he couldn’t match it with the image he knew.

He took a step.

Then another.

Each one slower than the last.

He didn’t know why, but it felt like he was intruding on something intimate. Like he shouldn’t be there. Like what he was about to see… wasn’t meant for him.

But then he saw you.

Your face. Full. For the first time.

And all the noise in his head went silent.

You weren’t just pretty. No. That wasn’t it. There was something in the way your features rested, in how your slightly parted lips breathed slow, in how your skin, now free from the pressure of hiding, looked so fucking perfect.

And your face… your face was a secret the whole damn world was missing out on.

"Shit… " he muttered under his breath, like a thought that slipped out by accident.

And then, you opened your eyes.

Quick. Instinctive. Like his presence had triggered a reflex.

Your gaze caught his immediately. He flinched a little, took a step back, but couldn’t look away from your eyes.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. Your voice was hoarse from sleep, but firm. Direct.

Bakugo swallowed hard.

He had no answer.

Not a single useful word in his head.

He could only think about what he’d just seen. What he was still seeing.

Your eyes widened. Your hand flew to your face, like you could still hide in time.

"Where is it? Where’s my mask?!" you asked, urgently. You looked around, uneasy, like you felt exposed.

And then he spoke. Almost without thinking.

"Why? You don’t need it."

The tone was rough, but it didn’t sound like a command. More like a complaint. Like it wasn’t fair that you wanted to hide again.

You tried to sit up, pushing with your other hand, but the IV in your arm stopped you. You winced, frustrated. Not from pain, but from helplessness.

"For fuck’s sake, you’re gonna hurt yourself! You crazy or what?!" he suddenly snapped, stepping closer.

Reluctantly, yeah. You lay back down slowly. Though now you weren’t looking at him. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling. Your cheeks, flushed. And he noticed.

And then, he thought out loud.

"You’re… really damn pretty."

The silence that followed was thick.

Your face changed immediately.

"Excuse me?!" you snapped, turning toward him with annoyance. Your brows furrowed and the blush on your cheeks deepened.

He stared at you a moment more and finally stepped back. He turned toward the door, but just before crossing it, he spoke again:

"You look better without the damn mask. Get used to hearing it."

And then he left.

No dramatics. No extra words.

And you stayed there, heart pounding like your body was soaking up light… of another kind.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[applepiiex]

TASTE LIKE HOME ! ! ! 𝒙𝒐𝒙𝒐.ᐟ

Nanami Kento x FTM! Reader— NSFW

There are just some days when your body upsets you. You don’t feel right, the skin is too tight, the shirt is too tight, the world is too tight. Those days are hard, and Nanami sees its toll on you. Good thing he makes it his mission to always remind you that he loves every. single. part of you. Note: oral!reader receiving, terms of pussy and clit, unprotected PIV.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔

You toe off your shoes by the door, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that isn’t just physical. It’s bone-deep. A tiredness that follows you into the house, into your skin.

Nanami’s already in the kitchen. You hear the low simmer of something on the stove and the soft hum of his voice not singing, just… existing out loud, the way he does when he thinks no one’s home yet.

He turns at the sound of the door.

“Welcome back.”Warm, even, calm. His voice is the first thing today that hasn’t felt like pressure.

You try to smile, but it’s half-hearted.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not late,” he says, as if the concept itself is ridiculous. “You’re home.”

That makes your throat catch, just a little. You drop your coat onto the back of a chair and step into the kitchen. Nanami’s already moving, ladling soup into bowls, slicing the last bit of green onion to garnish. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows, and his tie is loosened just enough to remind you he’s been off the clock a while.

“Rough day?” he asks, still not pressing.

You nod. You don’t want to get into it.

You sit in silence at the table while he sets everything down. He doesn’t force you to talk, he just eats beside you, calm and steady. When your hand shakes a little lifting the spoon, he pretends not to see. You know he does. That’s the thing about Nanami. He sees everything and chooses grace, every time.

Halfway through dinner, your voice slips out quieter than you mean. “I just didn’t feel good in my skin today.”

You don’t look up when you say it. You can’t. It feels silly, even though you know he’ll never treat it that way.

Nanami doesn’t respond right away. You hear the soft clink of his spoon against the bowl as he sets it down. Then the chair beside you slides back, and you feel the warmth of his hand on your thigh under the table.

“Thank you for telling me.”

That alone undoes you a little more than you expect. You blink fast. “You don’t have to say anything—”

“I know.” He squeezes your leg gently. “But I want you to hear me.”

You finally look up. His face is calm, but his eyes … god, his eyes. That soft, focused intensity you’ve only ever seen aimed at you. Like nothing else in the room matters.

“You’re mine,” he says, low and steady. “And I don’t love you despite anything. I love you entirely.”He waits. Watches you breathe through it. Then adds, softer, “Let me help.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t need to.

The rest of dinner is forgotten. The lights stay dim. His hand finds yours as you lead him to the bedroom, slowly, quietly, like neither of you want to startle the fragile comfort you’ve built in these last few minutes.

You sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, his fingers gentle as they undo the buttons of your shirt, not rushing, just letting you breathe into it. Letting you decide how far you want to go, how close you’ll let him.

You meet his eyes again. “I want you to touch me like I’m yours.”

His breath catches. His gaze darkens, not with lust, but with reverence.

“You are.”

His hands slide beneath your shirt, slow, practiced, asking without words. You nod, and he helps ease the fabric up and over your head, careful not to let it snag. You shiver at the shift in temperature, not from cold but from being seen.

Nanami doesn’t stare. He studies. His hands rest lightly on your sides, and then he leans in, pressing a warm, grounding kiss to your sternum.

And then lower to the edge of one scar.

You flinch. Not because it hurts. Just… it’s overwhelming. You feel everything. His lips pause, just barely brushing the tissue. He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “Still okay?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “Y-Yeah. Just… sensitive.”

His smile is small but sincere. “That’s okay.”

He kisses one scar again, softer. Reverent. Not skipping past it, not avoiding it. He lingers there like it’s holy. Then the other. Then just above, right beneath your collarbone, where his hands settle like he’s anchoring you to yourself.

And just like that, the dysphoria quiets. Not gone. But dulled by the weight of his love.

When he pulls back, your eyes are glassy, but your voice is steady. “Kento…”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Let me love you. Just like this.”

And you let him.

His mouth meets yours, gentle as a familiar rhythm is settle between your lips. Then, his mouth pulls back and kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your neck. Down to the jugular nutch, your collarbones, and so on.

A soft whimper escapes your throat as Nanami kisses your scars again, then moves down your stomach. His fingers gently pulls your sweatpants down, leaving you in your boxers at his disposal.

“You okay?” He asks as you nods, running your hands through his blonde locks softly.

His mouth moves further down, kissing your thighs as one hand sneaks up to open your legs. You aid, spreading them as Nanami massages your thighs.

Kissing the inner thigh, Nanami begins to move closer and closer to your heat. Trembling, he meets yours eyes as you give a subtle nod, which he takes eagerly and begins kissing above your clothed groin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the movement making you shiver a little. Your boxers damping, you push Nanami off so you can shuck the uncomfortably wet fabric off.

“So beautiful,” he repeats, using his fingers to spread your lips slowly, running them up and down your wetting lips.

Christ, no matter how many times he’s done this, you never get tired of his fingers.

“Can you look at me?” You whisper, the sounds of your breathing and the wetness gathering on Nanami’s fingers being the only sound in the bedroom.

Nanami doesn’t speak, just looks up to meet your eyes as his mouth locks onto your crotch.

You inhale, meeting his eyes as Nanami looks at you so lovingly as his mouth begins to kiss and lick you. Fingers now massaging your thighs once more, you whimper at the sensation.

Getting eaten out used to make you so nervous, so dysphoric. But with Nanami? It feels heavenly.

Another gasp is pulled out of you as a finger slips inside you. Long, it reaches that little spot inside you that Nanami knows all too well.

Gripping the sheets at your side, you choke out another moan as Nanami’s mouth moves up to lick your clit.

“Kento…” is murmured through your lips, looking back down at Nanami between your legs.

His finger is pumping inside you, hitting that spot right on as his eyes are closed, like your pussy is the only thing in the world. Like he’s drowning with it.

His tongue is flicking against your clit at an unpredictable rhythm that keeps you on your toes. The combination of the two, and the groan Nanami lets out, makes your thighs begin to tremble.

“Gosh…” you finally begin to find your breath as his pace picks up, eyes opening to meet yours. Hungry, he looks.

One hand lets go of your thighs, sneaking up your chest to push your back against the bed. Legs being hiked over his shoulders, he begins to move with a new found purpose.

“Ah! God— Kento!” You shout, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.

He’s a man on a mission now, tasked with making your abdomen clench and back arch as you find your hands in his hair. Both trying to bring his face closer and push him away as you get overwhelmed, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head.

“Kento— I’m close—“ the words are torn from your throat as you feel his tongue move off your sensitive bud to slip inside you. One hand releasing your wrists as his thumb rubs your clit. Vigorously.

“Kento— Wait—“ you can help the moan that breaks your sentences. Coherent thoughts long gone as you feel your orgasm approaching rapidly.

“Come on baby, you’re right there,” Kento murmurs into your pussy, the vibrations finally sending you over edge as you cum hard with a shout of his name. Hands moving to hold Nanami’s hair tightly, your body convulses as he licks you through your orgasm.

“Such a beautiful boy,” he says. Chin drenched as he licks his lips, he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.

Stroking himself for a few seconds, you try to catch your breath as you look up at him. His eyes are hooded with a desire that makes you shiver. Resting on your back, you close your eyes as you feel him slide up and down your slit, soaking his cock in your juices.

Some rummaging can be heard, so you sit up and tap at Nanami. Shaking your head, “I just want to feel you.”

The search of the condom is abandoned as Nanami kissing your forehead as he slips the head in.

“Christ…” he mumbles as he begins to push in, painfully slow to drag out the stretch. Hands going to your side as he uses the bed for leverage.

“You’re still so tight…” he says quietly into your ear. Finally bottoming out, your arms move to hold his shoulders as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. But that doesn’t fly. Nanami moves to push you back down on the bed, seeing you laying down and spread out for him.

“You’re stunning,” he says as he begins pulling in and out, angling his hips just so he can continue reaching that collection of nerves inside you.

“Mmm, so warm. So wet. So tight. Such a handsome man,” he purrs as he brings one of your arms up and begins kissing your palm, wrists, and fingers. He begins to worship your body, like it’s the most priceless piece of art in the world. Rocking his hips into a rhythm you know all too well, he draws out more whimpers from your lips.

“Kento—“ he cuts you off by dropping your hand and moving his thumb to trace slow painful circles are your clit.

As if you’re still not sensitive from your first orgasm just mere minutes ago.

“Wait— Kento baby— I’m still—“ you try to protest, but get cut off by another moan as he pushes the little bundle down.

“I know baby. But see how much I love your body? So perfect for me,” Kento rasped, before bringing your legs up to fold you into a mating press.

Now, his pubes are the ones brushing up your clit, the new feeling adding another layer of pleasure as the angle allows him to push further into you.

His balls slap against your ass, the sound of the flesh so vulgar, mixing in with the sweat and the gasps you let out.

“Ah— Ah— Ah—“ is the only sound you can make out. Nanami moves his hands right by your head, your own arms moving to hold onto his back. Nails dig into his skin, scratching down as you desperately try cling on to him.

He’s always been so good at this, it’s downright criminal.

“Feel good, baby?” He asks, voice rough as he picks up the pace, fucking into you like it’s his last mission.

You nod, whimpering as you cling on to him quicker. “Yes— God!— Yes, Kento. So good…”

He moves harder. Faster. His horribly skilled hand coming back between the two of you to rub that little bud again.

Your stomach begins to cramp, your eyes squeeze shut, your hands digger deeper into his back.

“Kento, I’m close—“ You can’t finish as he begins to kiss your forehead, your temple, your cheek. Coming up to mouth, he whispers right into your lips, “Come for me.” And by mighty you do.

Shaking as your jaw goes slack, his hand quickening against your clit, he feels you clench and tighten up as you orgasm violently.

“Kento!”

“Fuck—“ he moans right back, his orgasm rapidly approaching. Fucking you through your own finish as he approaches his, his hands come off your puffy pussy as he begins pounding you like it’s life or death. Snapping his hips violently, you’re a whimpering mess as he grunts above you.

“Inside, please,” is all you need to say as the groan is violently ripped from his throat as he freezes. You feel the warmth flood you, and Nanami’s hands give out as he lowers your legs.

You finally seem to catch enough air. Legs cramping up a little, but able to relax now that Nanami moved off to your side to hold you.

And he does. For a while.

You should get cleaned up, but right now, Nanami holds you like you’re the most precious thing on the planet.

[wendichester]

hello hello!! 🔆 anon is back! :]

so work’s been rough lately and what i would GIVE to be comforted by one of the boys after one of the really hard days :[

if it’s possible, could i request an established relationship w sammy (just ‘cause i think this is more of a him type thing) comforting reader after a really rough day? love ya lots! 🫶🫶🫶

-🔆

⋆˚✿˖° all the time in the world,

summary. sam's always there to comfort you when you need most.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. comfort, fluff

wordcount. 484

notes / warnings. emotional exhaustion,

You don’t cry often. Not the ugly, exhausted kind of crying. Not the bone-deep, heart-heavy kind that sneaks up on you after you’ve been pretending to be fine for far too long.

But today? Today wins.

You don’t even make it through the front door. You open it, drop your bag on the floor, and Sam is there—standing in the hallway with that crease between his brows, already reading you like a map. His whole body softens the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, voice a gentle thrum. “Rough day?”

That’s all it takes. Two words, and suddenly your chest tightens and your throat burns.

You nod. Barely. And then you’re shaking your head instead. Both. Neither. You don’t even know.

Sam doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions. He just crosses the space between you in two strides and wraps his arms around you, strong and solid and safe. His hand curves against the back of your head, pulling you into his chest, and that’s when the tears come.

Quiet at first. Then a little harder. Then you're just crying—fingers curled into his shirt, face tucked beneath his jaw, all the weight you’ve been carrying spilling out.

He just holds you.

No rush. No pressure. Just his heartbeat against your ear and the soft, repetitive hush of his voice.

“I got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long you stand like that, but eventually the tears slow. Your breathing steadies. The tension in your shoulders finally starts to melt.

Sam pulls back just enough to look down at you, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Wanna talk about it?”

You sniff and give him a tiny, crooked smile. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay. Later.”

Then he kisses your forehead—slow and warm and grounding—and leads you to the couch like you’re made of porcelain. He throws the softest blanket over your lap, the one you always steal, and hands you a mug of tea you didn’t even realize he made.

You blink. “You’re magic.”

He chuckles, dropping beside you. “Just good at reading the woman I love.”

You lean into his side with a sigh, resting your head on his shoulder.

For a while, there’s no talking. Just the quiet hum of the TV in the background, his fingers stroking lazy patterns over your thigh, your breathing syncing with his.

Eventually, you whisper, “I think I’m just tired of pretending everything’s okay.”

Sam nods, pulling you closer. “Then don’t. Not with me.”

You melt against him, heart swelling. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He grins, kissing the top of your head. “Clearly committed a few past-life heroic acts to land you, so I think we’re even.”

You snort. “That was cheesy.”

“Still true.”

And yeah—your day sucked. But Sam? Sam makes it better just by being there. Just by loving you exactly how you need it.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[larsons-ahegao-face]

Okay, HEAR ME OUT.

Larson/Daniel.

It started ONLY because I wanted Larson to say "ARTHUR I FUCKED YOUR DAD ARTHUR" and now it looks like the sweetest and funniest malevolent ship.

It's not just crack, I swear! Details below the cut↓

The connections of the wealthy and powerful in New York reach far. Grand banquets and gatherings are held both for business and pleasant past time. And of course a heir to the Larson family, owner of – some might say – miraculously profitable mine is a familiar figure to Daniel Saltzman.

These upper-class gatherings are traditional, he could even say essential. But Daniel thinks the opulence with which they are held is like a feast among the plague. And surprisingly one young man agrees. Daniel sees pragmatism and the ability to see the bigger picture in Andrew Larson. The young man seems wise beyond his age, there's no recklessness one might expect from a young heir.

Daniel thinks of Andrew as an "old soul". For Larson Daniel feels almost like someone from his own, real youth. For both of them the other is a breath of fresh air in their social circles.

They bond further over losing their wives and children... Though "Andrew" needs to be careful with what he says, he's been dying to talk to someone who understands. Daniel never pushes the topic but is grateful he's not alone in this specific grief.

Andrew seems to be a religious man himself, Daniel can tell by the way he talks about fate and devotion and surrendering to your God's will. (Larson constantly almost slips up and says "Gods", plural)

People see them together at horse races, in pool rooms and galleries and think – ”Mr. Saltzman took the youngster under his wing, how generous of him". It plays so nicely into Larson's "timid little Andrew" persona, he briefly thinks it could be useful but mostly he just enjoys himself. Caught up in otherwordly pleasures and pains he almost forgot how nice a simple conversation over a cup of tea can be. He doesn't bring his business (licid or not) into Daniel's house. And eventually Andrew is at his house A LOT.

Daniel genuinely tries to give advice and guidance while Larson tries to hide his chuckles. He finds is so, so amusing and plays along eagerly.

And there comes Arthur...

Post season 3, but no deal with Kayne AU basically. Boys still come to New York to lay low, plan their next move and eventually try to dig under The Order – solely because Larson mentioned a way to separate them and it's their only lead at this point. For now John and Arthur pick up cases here and there and try to get back on their feet. Daniel still invites Arthur to talk but he puts it away for as long as possible. Until he needs to gather information for a client at a gathering with a very strict guest list.... He was not in a position to ask Daniel for a favor but – contradictory as it is – it somehow felt better than just talking to the man.

They're not rushed in this world, there's no immediate danger, so they have more time and by the evening Arthur makes a promise: they meet twice a month for coffee. And Daniel of course takes him to that meeting.

Daniel still has a hard time believing Arthur is a private eye so there's a second promise. "Just. Don't steal anything from that parlor, okay. You don't need to do that." Arthur stumbles over his words trying to explain he is an investigator! A professional! For real!

The professional is handed a bill for a taxi, patted on the shoulder and sent on his merry way until they meet again to go to said black tie meeting together.

And how inconvenient it is that Larson is also attending.

John warns him immediately and Arthur freezes, mortified "Is... Is that-"

"Andrew!" – Daniel greets the man as he comes closer.

To Arthur's horror they greet each other as friends. Friends who wink at each other and shake hands way too gently and for WAY too long. (So long that Arthur has time to consider squeezing himself in between them to make it stop)

Larson glances at him and John swears that his eye twitches.

"Oh, I'm sorry Andrew, this is Arthur, my-"

"Son"

Larson's face is unnaturally still and polite.

".... Son. Since when... Do you have a son, Daniel?"

"Son in law. We reunited recently. I thought he could use meeting new people here in New York. You seem to recognize Andrew here, Arthur. Have you two met?"

"Oh, probably not, not that I recall" – Larson is quick to answer.

"Not that I recall" – Arthur echoes. He and John watch the man closely for the rest of the evening. But from a safe distance of course.

Why is Larson all over his father and how on earth Daniel tolerates it becomes almost a more pressing question than their ongoing case.

Soon enough spending time with Daniel means spending time with Larson as well.

Imagine Arthur just visiting his only family left to bond with him and there's this bastard lounging on Daniel's sofa. He's in Daniel's kitchen making them tea and Larson knows exactly how his father likes it. Hell, Daniel must have told him how much sugar Arthur puts in his tea because when he sips the drink (with caution and only out of fake politeness) – it's perfect.

Once Arthur briefly mentions to Daniel that he needs to pick up some new clothes to impress a particularly wealthy and picky client and is met with "Oh, Andrew has some spare clothes at my house. You're roughly the same size, they might fit you. Don't be shy Arthur, he won't mind you borrowing them." The pure disgust and disbelief on Arthur's face.

He is so concerned for Daniel's safety but every time he tries to catch Larson red handed turns out the man is up to something awfully innocent. Daniel just raises his eyebrows at him, "Andrew" is being disgustingly sweet, they both are very condescending to Arthur.

Dirty looks are exchanged between Larson and Arthur when Daniel isn't looking. Also dirty looks are exchanged between Daniel and Larson regardless of whether Arthur is in the room....

TLDR:

• Age gap BUT NOT IN THE WAY YOU THINK

• They're both very religious and devout :)

• THEY'RE BOTH LONELY! AND ONLY WISHED GOOD FOR THEIR FAMILIES, MADE SOME MISTAKES AND LOST EVERYONE THEY LOVED!

• They can sugar-daddy each other :)

• Distinguished gentlemen :) Probably both feel nostalgic of the past... Can do old people activities together!

• Arthur is just trying to protect Daniel from an evil cultist but Larson playing it out like "Aww boy doesn't like his dad's new booooyfriend. Typical. I thought you were a little more mature than that though, Arthur :)" ← very funny to me.

"John we need to cockblock my father in law NOW"

[geeinthejungle]

wasteland, baby.

Summary: Your journey with Auston during the 2024 playoffs, where everything changes.

We need to talk.

Four words no one EVER wants to hear from their partner. Or read. Or...anything.

Auston had sent the text exactly 18 minutes ago and you’d been spiraling ever since.

You were sitting in your car outside his condo for at least ten of those minutes, engine off, fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel as if you could throttle the meaning out of that one vague, horrible sentence.

Did he want to break up? Did he cheat? Did he ask for a trade? Had he realized that dating you was some sort of colossal mistake and now he had to fix it before playoffs?

Your chest was tight, stomach twisted up in a knot that might never come undone.

You don’t even remember walking up to the door.

With a trembling hand, you forced yourself to knock. It’s not loud. Just a soft, uneven tap-tap-tap that gives you away before you even open your mouth.

The door swings open.

He's standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hat on with tufts of hair sticking out of the back, curls damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looks tired—more than tired. Haunted by back-to-back home losses and whatever weight comes with being Auston Matthews in April. Even in the midst of leading the league in goals.

"Hey," he says softly, voice lower than usual. His eyes flick across your face like he’s reading your pulse in every blink.

"Hi." The word barely escapes your lips. You clear your throat, forcing your chin up. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean ‘get it over with?’”

You laugh—but it’s brittle, edged in panic.

“Auston, you literally texted me ‘we need to talk.’ That's the universal code for ‘I think we should break up.’ Everyone knows that.”

He hesitates for a second and you're seriously regretting every decision you’ve ever made because it has led you to this very moment.

And then he laughs—a short, exhale of disbelief—and runs a hand down his face. “Babe, no. Oh my god. No, that’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

He steps back, letting you in. Felix trails behind him, tail wagging like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. He noses at your leg, whines softly.

You blink down at him. “Hey, buddy,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears. Felix presses into you like he can sense the leftover adrenaline in your bones.

Auston waits until you take off your shoes before tugging you into his arms, wrapping you up like he needs to feel you breathing to relax.

He kisses the top of your head. Then your temple. Then your lips—slow, careful, like he’s afraid you’re still going to vanish.

If this is the last kiss you’re ever going to get, you want to savor it before he gives you whatever earth shattering news he’s holding onto.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should’ve phrased it better. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, settling against the warm skin of his back. You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. It’s a little fast. Yours still hasn’t slowed.

“Then what did you want to talk about?” you ask, quieter now.

He sighs and guides you to the couch, where Felix hops up and curls into his usual spot. Auston sits beside you, close enough to touch, but still a little tense.

“The playoffs,” he says, voice low. “I just, I wanted to be honest. The schedule’s brutal. I’m gonna be gone a lot, and even when I’m not physically gone, I might not feel totally here, y’know?”

You nod, throat tight. He glances at you and keeps going.

“I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring you, or losing interest, or pulling away. I care about you. So much. More than I expected to this early on. But I also—this is the biggest part of my year. The goal is the Cup. It always has been. I need to be locked in with the boys, and I just didn’t want that to come off like I was locking you out.”

There’s a pause. You let his words settle. Let yourself believe him. Trust him.

You take a breath. “I get it, Aus. I do.” You curl your fingers around his. “This is your job. Your dream. I’m not here to get in the way of that. So thank you. For saying it instead of just disappearing.”

His shoulders relax just enough that you notice it. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll miss you like hell. But I’d miss you even more if you lost yourself trying to split in two.”

He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding. His eyes soften, the kind of look that makes your chest ache.

“God, you’re so great.”

“Yeah, I know,” you deadpan, nudging him lightly. “So great I thought you were going to break up with me and still came over.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth—gentle, warm, apologetic. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

You nod. “It’s okay. Just…please try your best to come back with the Cup.”

He laughs quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “That’s the goal.”

“Ah, I see what you did there.”

The hours pass too quickly, the evening a blur of quiet conversation, shared silences, and Felix curling up at your feet like he’s guarding something precious. When it’s time to leave, Auston walks you to the door, his fingers laced through yours like letting go would physically hurt.

You're not ready either.

You pause just before reaching for the handle, turning to face him. He’s already watching you— his honey brown eyes hooded and warm, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face in high definition for the days he won’t be able to see it. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist—barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” you ask, teasing, but not really.

His smile curves, slow and deliberate. “You have to go,” he murmurs, stepping closer, close enough for your bodies to brush. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna forget every single thing I just said about staying focused.”

You tilt your chin up, matching his energy. “I wouldn’t complain.”

He leans in, close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips. “You’re not helping. At all."

Then his mouth is on yours.

It starts soft—sweet, even—but there's a heat humming beneath it, a current that builds as his hands slide to your waist and pull you flush against him. You melt into the kiss, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers diving into the curls at the nape of his neck. He groans softly into your mouth, a low, involuntary sound that makes your stomach flip.

You kiss him like you’re trying to make the next nine days disappear. Like maybe if you pour enough of yourself into this moment, it’ll last.

His grip tightens, then roams—up your spine, firm and steady, anchoring you to him. Your hips brush, and the spark of contact lights you both up from the inside out. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, until your knees weaken and your back finds the support of the wall behind you.

He pulls away just enough to whisper against your lips, breath ragged. “You really know how to test my self-control, don’t you?”

You smirk, dragging your nails lightly across the back of his neck. “I like seeing you flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” he lies—then kisses you again, harder this time. Like he’s trying to undo the inevitable. Like he’s trying to burn the taste of you into memory.

Felix huffs from the couch, dramatic and perfectly timed.

Auston leans his head back and laughs, breathless. “Cockblock.”

You both laugh, but when you meet his eyes again, the moment hangs heavier. The goodbye lingering between you starts to settle.

He reaches for the door again, but your fingers curl around his wrist.

“I just need one more. Something to hold me over while you're gone,” you murmur, already stepping into him.

He walks you backward until your hips bump the kitchen counter, then lifts you up like it’s nothing. The cool surface meets the backs of your thighs, but all you can focus on is him—his hands holding your face, his mouth crashing into yours. This kiss is heat and want, all breath and desperation, his tongue sliding against yours with a low, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

One of his hands disappears into your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper. You feel him everywhere—his chest against yours, the pressure of his fingertips, the tension barely leashed in the way he moves.

When he finally pulls back for air, his lips hover against yours. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You breathe out a soft laugh, forehead resting against his. “Just giving you a little extra motivation.”

You hop off the counter, legs a little wobbly, and reach for the door again.

“Call me when you land in Boston?” you ask, fingers lingering on the handle.

He nods. “I will. Promise.”

You step outside. The air feels colder somehow.

He doesn’t close the door right away. Just watches you walk to the elevator. You glance back just before the doors close.

Auston is still there.

One hand braced on the doorframe. A ghost of a smile.

Eyes on you like he’s trying to count the seconds until he gets to see you again.

You don’t say goodbye.

Neither does he.

You just keep looking.

Until the doors close, and he’s gone.

The next nine days are a blur. Deadlines, meetings, scrolling through your phone like it might bring him closer. But living in Toronto while dating one of the city’s biggest public figures?

Painful.

He’s everywhere. You see his face on billboards during your drive to work, his voice sounds in commercials over brunch, he's on highlight reels in the background of bars. And yes, you’ve texted here and there. A few “good mornings,” the occasional “how was practice.” But it’s not the same. It’s not his voice in your ear, or his hand on the small of your back. It's not him.

And no one really knows. You haven’t told your friends—partly because you’re not ready to share, partly because you know what would follow. Questions, curiosity. Some would want to meet him. Others would ask for tickets. Everyone would have something to say. You’ve only said you’re seeing someone. That you’re happy. That’s all they need to know.

Auston’s not known for putting his business out there anyway. Rumors, speculations, grainy photos in the offseason—but two public relationships in eight NHL seasons tells you all you need to know. Privacy matters. And the last thing you need is someone digging up photos of you from grade eight.

Game one in Boston? A disaster.

5–1. Not the kind of start anyone wanted. Not you. Not the city. Definitely not the team.

You didn’t hear from him that night. Twenty-one minutes of ice time probably left him drained and face-first in a hotel pillow before you even left your friend's house, where you'd been watching the game. Still, the next morning you texted him—something simple. One game doesn’t define the series. Game two is yours.

You didn’t expect a reply. But he liked the message. Sent a single blue heart.

And somehow, that was enough of a boost of energy to get you out of bed.

You cleaned your apartment, packed a week’s worth of clothes, and drove downtown to Auston’s. Melissa, his dog sitter, greeted you warmly. Felix had already gone for his walk, she said, and was snoozing by the window when you stepped inside. The second he spotted you, though, the fluffball practically launched himself into your legs, whining until you scooped him into a hug.

Being with Felix felt like being with Auston. He was spoiled, dramatic, and occasionally too smart for his own good—but so, so sweet. The two of them were more alike than you’d ever tell them.

By the time puck drop rolled around for game two, Felix was tucked against your side, one paw on your thigh, his head resting on it like you were a human pillow. He stayed there the entire game.

And Auston? He played out of his mind.

One goal. Two assists. A 3–2 win to tie the series.

The second the final buzzer sounded, your heart jumped into your throat. He was coming home. And the only thing you wanted was to kiss him. Talk to him. Feel him.

You felt like some army wife waiting for her husband to return from war—only, you weren’t married, you were staying in a million-dollar condo, and his version of war was a high-stakes hockey tournament with a thirty-pound silver trophy at the end of it.

It was just past 1 a.m. when you heard the door open. A soft shuffle, the click of keys hitting the counter. Then—

There he was.

Auston didn’t even bother putting his bags down properly. He just dropped them by the door and walked straight into the living room.

Right to you.

You barely had time to register him before he dropped onto the couch, onto you, arms wrapping around you like he could fold you into his chest.

“You’ve been home for five minutes and you’re already trying to suffocate me?”

“Suffocation’s my love language,” he mumbles, shifting so you’re straddling his lap. “Now, there's something I've been thinking about since the minute you left last time.”

He kisses you slowly, thoroughly—like he’s trying to remember every curve of your mouth. His lips are soft, his hands warm on your back, and God, he smells like hotel shampoo and his usual cologne and a little bit like sweat and flight delays. You breathe it in like oxygen.

He’s home.

One of Auston’s favorite things about you—though he’s never really said it out loud—is that you’re his escape. With you, he’s not #34. Not the guy expected to carry a franchise. You don’t pepper him with stats or ask him about power plays or bring up what the Toronto media thinks he should’ve done on the penalty kill. You just... talk. Or don’t. Sometimes it’s enough to sit in silence and let the noise of the outside world fade.

Tonight, you talk about the Biebers’ baby announcement. How he wants you to meet Justin and Hailey soon. You ramble about brunch—some crème brûlée French toast you swear changed your life. He insists his chef Chris needs to steal the recipe immediately.

“I missed this,” he whispers into your neck. “Nine days was a really long time.”

“It was,” you admit, jaw cracking with a yawn. “I hated it.”

“Me too.” He yawns too, stretching with a groan. “You ready for bed?”

You nod, letting him pull you up off the couch, stealing a quick kiss.

Felix sprints up the stairs the second you stand—clearly knowing the drill. You both brush your teeth side by side, bumping shoulders in the mirror. Auston hands you one of his shirts—your favorite, the worn-soft one with the tiny hole near the collar.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest, legs tangled, his breath warm on your hair.

And for the first time in over a week, your world feels like it's moving at a normal pace.

2:47 a.m.

Auston had passed out the second his head hit the pillow. The kind of dead-to-the-world sleep that only happens after a grueling game and days of travel. It lasted exactly thirty-two minutes.

He’d felt off since the plane landed—achy, sore, heavier than he should feel two games into a series. At first, he’d chalked it up to playoff wear and tear. But now?

Now his insides were twisting violently, like his stomach was trying to crawl out through his throat. A cold sweat had broken out along his spine. He threw the duvet off, rolled onto his side, curled in on himself, and clenched his eyes shut like that would stop it.

He was overheating, but shivering. Skin on fire, teeth nearly chattering. He took long, slow breaths—counting them like he could outlast it.

He couldn’t.

An hour later he was lurching out of bed, barely making it to the toilet before he vomited so hard it knocked the wind out of him. His arms trembled as he clutched the rim, back arched in protest, body betraying him over and over.

The sound of retching yanked you out of sleep like a violent thunderstorm.

Your first real night of deep sleep in days, wrecked in seconds.

Immediately, you sat upright, heart pounding, reaching for Auston. All you found were empty sheets. Then you heard it again. Guttural, awful, the sound of someone being ripped inside out.

You scrambled into the bathroom.

“Oh my god, baby.”

He was on the floor, hunched over the toilet, dripping sweat. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through. His hands were white-knuckled on the porcelain, arms visibly shaking from the effort.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you whispered, kneeling beside him, your hand rubbing firm circles over his shoulder blades.

“F—fuck,” he panted, head hanging. “It hit so fast—I couldn’t—”

He gagged again, jerking forward violently, ribs seizing. You winced as he coughed and spat and gasped for breath, his body wrung dry but still convulsing.

“Okay,” you murmured, trying to sound calm. “Um—I’m gonna grab some water. Don’t move.”

He groaned. “I honestly don’t think I can.”

You flushed the toilet for him. He slumped forward, resting his head on the cool ceramic, breathing hard. Felix padded in behind you and curled up beside him protectively, like he sensed something was really wrong.

You bolted downstairs—panic fueling your movements. You grabbed water bottles, painkillers, a bottle of Prime, and, miraculously, a thermometer from the back of a guest bathroom drawer. You returned to the bathroom moments later, breathless.

Auston had managed to rinse his mouth. Barely. He looked like hell. Pale. Damp. Eyes glassy with fever. Felix now sat practically in his lap.

You dropped to your knees and pressed the thermometer into his mouth. “Here, water. Just sip. Slowly. Do you feel any better?”

He shook his head, lips pressed shut around the thermometer. You soaked a washcloth in cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it to the back of his neck.

Beep.

You looked down.

103.1

Your stomach dropped. Your brain short-circuited.

Auston was sick. Really sick. And no one knew. Not the team. Not the media. Not his coach. Just you. And game three was in thirty-seven hours.

You watched, helpless, as he threw up again—water, this time. His body couldn’t keep anything down.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

Once the worst of it passed, he let you help him stand. He was dead weight against you, legs barely cooperating. You guided him to bed, peeled off his damp shirt, and laid a fresh towel across the pillow before easing him back down. You laid the cool rag across his forehead.

He blinked at you—eyes glazed with fever.

“Baby,” you said gently, “I need to unlock your phone. Just for a second.”

He didn’t argue. Just barely raised his head as you held it up. His face unlocked it, and he collapsed right back onto the bed.

Who the hell were you going to call? You'd met Steph Marner in passing, once. You didn't even know if Sheldon Keefe knew you existed so that was out of the question. You scrolled through his extensive contact list and settled upon your safest choice.

Judd.

Auston's agent and basically his right hand man. Judd went with him everywhere. He would know exactly what to do. You shared the contact with yourself and put Auston's phone back on the charger, immediately calling your new lifeline.

You shared the contact with yourself, put his phone on the charger, and hit call.

No answer. His phone must have been on Do Not Disturb. You weren't surprised, it was barely 6am.

You called again.

And again.

Finally—on the fourth ring—his sleepy voice on the end of the line hit your ears. "This is Judd. Who is this?"

“Hi—it’s me. Y/N. I’m really sorry, I know it’s early, but—Auston’s sick. Really sick. And I didn’t know who else to call.”

There was rustling on the other end. A sharp breath and a few curse words. “How bad?”

“Bad. His fever’s 103. He can’t keep water down. He’s sleeping now but I don’t think he could stand up again if he tried.”

“Okay. Okay, good job. I’ll get the team docs over within the hour. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you,” you exhaled. “Seriously.”

“You did the right thing. Just keep him cool. I’ll see you soon.”

Just like Judd promised, Dr. Forman and half the Leafs medical staff arrived in what felt like minutes, filing into Auston’s bedroom with quiet urgency. It was like watching a pit crew descend on a totaled race car.

They took vitals, blood pressure, checked his pupils, asked questions you didn’t know how to answer—when did the vomiting start? Was there a fever spike? Had he eaten sushi in the last 48 hours?

The moment they hooked up the IV and you saw the clear liquid drip into his arm, you had to swallow hard against a wave of emotion. Auston didn’t even flinch. His arm lay limp at his side, barely twitching when the needle went in. Even though the man was covered in tattoos and built like a linebacker, that scared you more than anything.

His skin was graying. His lips looked painfully dry. And he hadn’t said a full sentence in over an hour.

The doctors promised to monitor him throughout the day and said they’d reassess later to determine his availability for game three.

You already knew what Auston would say. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t sure he'd be able to get out of bed today, let alone play a full game tomorrow.

They were gone within the hour, replaced by a series of soft knocks on the front door.

You padded downstairs, assuming it was Judd again—maybe back with more electrolytes or a doctor from Switzerland. Instead, you opened the door to four people...and immediately wished you were wearing literally anything else.

Two older adults stood in front, both holding suitcases. The woman had warm, curious eyes. The man had a neutral expression, the kind that probably didn’t change much in crisis—or weddings. Behind them stood two younger women, both staring at you like they’d just walked in on a very intense hostage situation.

There was a pause.

You suddenly became extremely aware of the fact that you were in one of Auston’s oversized hoodies, with a visible stain near the pocket, and your hair looked like you’d been electrocuted during a tornado. Which was, coincidentally, how you felt.

“Hi,” the woman said gently, stepping forward. “I’m Ema. Auston’s mom.”

You immediately stepped aside, trying not to panic. “Oh—hi! Yes! Come in, sorry. I just—yeah. Sorry.”

“This is my husband Brian,” she continued, gesturing. “And these are our daughters, Alex and Bre.”

“I’m Y/N,” you said quickly. “I...I don’t know if Auston’s mentioned me.”

“He has,” Bre said, grinning. “I forced it out of him a couple weeks ago when I caught him smiling at his phone like an idiot.”

Alex snorted. “Let me guess. He didn’t tell you we were flying in?”

You shook your head. “He, um...didn’t really get the chance. He’s—he’s actually really sick. The team doctors just left. That’s...kind of why I look like a raccoon who lost custody of her kids.”

Brian frowned instantly. “He’s sick? When did this happen? I talked to him last night and he seemed fine.”

“It started early this morning. He woke up feeling awful and he’s been completely out of it since. He couldn’t keep anything down. He’s upstairs resting now. They gave him an IV.”

Ema’s hand flew to her mouth. “Dios mío. My baby.” And without waiting another second, she turned and made a beeline for the stairs.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Bre said, blinking. “Auston—my brother, Auston—threw up. In front of you. And let you take care of him?”

You gave a half-smile. “He didn’t exactly have a choice. He was on the bathroom floor clinging to life. I thought he was gonna pass out cold.”

Alex looked vaguely impressed. “Wow. He must really like you.”

“I think he just physically couldn’t argue.”

“Oh my God,” you said suddenly, cheeks flushing. “I didn’t even offer—do you guys want water or coffee or anything? Help with your bags?”

“No, you’re good,” Bre said, already dropping her purse and sitting on the couch like this was a regular Tuesday. “But we do have a few questions for you.”

Brian sighed like a man who’d done this song and dance before, taking his and Ema’s bags to one of the guest rooms without another word.

Meanwhile upstairs, Ema stepped into the master bedroom and nearly staggered at the sight.

Her son—her baby boy—was curled under a blanket, IV in his arm, lips cracked and colorless, cheeks flushed with fever. He looked ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. She moved quietly across the room, hand to her chest, tears threatening.

She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his damp curls back from his forehead.

“No hockey,” she whispered softly, fiercely. “No games. No cameras. Just rest. You get better, okay? That’s the only thing I care about.”

Alex and Bre settle on opposite ends of the sofa, coffee mugs in hand, eyes flicking over you like customs agents. They’re polite—smiles and thank-yous—but every question has a security-checkpoint edge. And you really couldn't afford to be put on their No Fly list.

Bre starts her expert questioning, “so… what do you do when you’re not reviving my brother from the dead?”

“I'm a Global Wealth Management Specialist at Scotiabank.” And currently an unlicensed ICU nurse, you almost add.

Alex speaks up next. “And you two met… ?”

“At a charity gala in October. If he’d felt human this morning, he’d have warned me you were coming. Believe me, I’d have surrendered the hoodie and staged a hair intervention.”

Both sisters laugh but the appraisal lingers—part protectiveness, part hope.

Before the next interrogation round, the front door bangs open and Judd strides in, half-jogging up the stairs. Twenty minutes later he trudges back with Ema, looking as if someone replaced his blood with cold coffee.

Judd sinks down onto the loveseat, “he’s a statue. The man hates sitting still and hasn’t even twitched.”

“Doctors think it’s really bad food poisoning, maybe viral," you inform him. "They’ll said they'll reassess this afternoon.”

Ema’s eyes sheen. Brian’s palm lands gently on her shoulder. She snaps into mom mode.

“I need tortilla-soup ingredients, oatmeal, Sprite, ginger…Chris just got here—I’ll text him a list.”

Kitchen drawers bang, phones beep. Brian and Judd start muttering about ‘contingency plans’—code for what the hell do we do if he can’t skate tomorrow? Bre and Alex retreat to grab a nap. You finally steal five minutes, gather a change of clothes from the master closet, and slip into the guest bath. The hot water drums your back, drowning out the clatter of voices downstairs.

Auston surfaces from fever-dream sludge, every muscle aching like he played three overtimes in full gear. His eyes track an unfamiliar tube taped to his forearm. IV. Throbbing headache. Lips cracked.

Phone. 10:04 a.m. Training-staff text: REST. NO RINK.

Another from Dad two hours ago: Landing soon.

They were here. His family. They were in this house. And you—his girlfriend of four months—had met them without him even getting a warning out. No prep. No soft launch. No time to be your buffer, your protection. No time to clean the puke off his hoodie or the fear out of your eyes.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, attempting to sit up. His muscles screamed. Felix moved from the foot of the bed and curled close under his arm like he knew his dad was unraveling.

Auston dropped his head back against the pillows.

“It’s gonna be a long day, Snuff,” he mumbled, gently stroking the dog’s fur.

Just then, his door creaked open.

His mom slipped in like she always did when he was sick—soundless and soft, already reading him before he could speak. He felt like he was five again.

“Auston,” she breathed, clearly relieved to see his eyes open. “It’s good to see you up a little, papi. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a Cybertruck,” he muttered, his voice dry and frayed. “Glad you guys made it though. Um…” He swallowed. “Where is she?”

Ema raised an eyebrow. “She?”

“Mom,” he said, almost groaning. “Where’s Y/N?”

Understanding dawned on her face.

"She’s fine," Ema said, her voice easing into gentleness. "She's showering off whatever germs you tried to gift her. We like her, by the way. She’s been a warrior all night.”

“Did I scare her off?” His voice cracks.

Ema smiles, settling into the little bit of room Felix left on the other side of Auston. “No. If anything, she’s more worried about you than hockey, and that tells me plenty.”

Auston sags back, relief and fever combining in a light-headed swirl. “So…you met her.”

“I did,” she replied, walking toward him to check his forehead again. “And she’s still here, so clearly we didn’t scare her off.”

“I didn’t tell her you were coming,” he said, eyes drifting closed again for a second. “I forgot. I didn’t warn her. She met everyone and I wasn’t even there to—”

“Auston.”

He blinked open at the tone in her voice.

“She handled it. She’s kind. Smart. We like her,” Ema said simply. “She’s been up all night taking care of you, by the way. She looked half-dead herself when we walked in, but still stood at the door and let us in like she was the hostess and not your fevered nurse.”

He winced, pressing a hand to his eyes. “God, I hate that. I didn’t want her to have to deal with any of this. I didn’t even… we didn’t even talk about meeting families yet.”

“I figured,” Ema said, pulling his blanket up over his shoulder. “But life happens. And sometimes, it throws up all over your plans. Literally, in your case.”

He laughed weakly, coughing halfway through. “Mom…”

She kissed his forehead again, warm and grounding. “You need to rest. I’m making your favorite soup, the team doctors are coming back this afternoon to reassess, and once she’s out of the shower, I’ll tell her you’re asking for her.”

He nodded, eyes already sliding shut again.

“…Tell her I’m sorry,” he murmured, “that she had to meet the circus without the ringmaster.”

Ema smiled, smoothing back his damp curls.

“She’ll hear it from you soon, mijo. And don’t worry. I think she likes the circus.”

She left quietly, heart clenched and full at the same time.

Outside the bedroom, she found you barefoot in the hallway, towel slung over your shoulders, hair damp.

“He’s awake,” she said softly. “And asking for you.”

Your lips parted. “Really?”

Ema smiled. “Go on, mija. He needs you.”

You stepped past her, breath catching in your chest.

Whatever this was—messy, unplanned, sickly and chaotic—it was also very real. And in that moment, as you reached for the doorknob, you were more sure than ever: you weren’t going anywhere.

You push open the door softly, just enough to peek in.

"Aus?"

He's propped against a few pillows, eyes open and hazy, hand resting protectively over his stomach like it’s a wound. His face is pale, lips cracked, and a thin sheen of sweat still clings to his temple. But he manages a small smile when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “Come here.”

You don’t hesitate, crossing the room so fast Felix lets out a grunt and scrambles off Auston’s lap, hopping to the far side of the bed like he needs quiet but still refuses to leave his side.

You sit gently on the edge beside him. “You’re awake. How are you feeling, patient zero?”

“Very funny,” he rasps, voice still dry but amused. “I feel…better, honestly.”

You narrow your eyes, not buying it for a second.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters. “I do. And I’m playing tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I'm shocked.”

He leans his head back against the pillow, wincing slightly, hand still rubbing light, unconscious circles over his abdomen. “Let’s talk about the real emergency, my family. First of all, I’m so—”

“If you’re about to apologize for getting violently ill and forgetting to mention that your parents and sisters were flying in, please don’t.” You shake your head gently. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

He looks at you with a soft guilt behind his eyes.

“They’re great,” you continue. “They’re sweet, and they absolutely adore you. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

“I know, but still…” he exhales shakily. “I should’ve been there. You met my entire family in a ratty hoodie with puke on it and no warning. I should’ve helped make it less scary. And instead, I was in a full-blown fever coma while you played hostess and nurse.”

“Baby,” you say gently, placing your hand over his on the blanket. “This wasn’t exactly something you could plan for. It’s fine. You’re good. You’re here. I just want you to get better. Preferably soon, because I’m pretty sure Judd is five seconds away from crying.”

Auston lets out a weak laugh and immediately presses his hand firmer to his stomach. “He’ll be fine. I’m sure he and my dad are downstairs right now crafting about eight contingency plans.”

“That’s actually exactly what they’re doing.”

He closes his eyes and smiles. “Of course they are.”

You let yourself lean into him slightly, forehead just brushing his shoulder.

The two of you sit there in silence for a beat. Then Auston’s face twitches. His nose scrunches.

“…Wait. Do you smell that?”

You lift your head. “The soup?”

His entire face goes slack with dread.

“Oh no,” he whispers, eyes suddenly wild. “That’s my mom’s chicken tortilla soup. I can smell the lime and cilantro—”

He lunges weakly forward, grabbing the trash can from the floor and dragging it close just in time. His whole body curls as he vomits again, nothing but bile this time, and your hand immediately finds his back, rubbing slow, gentle circles over his shoulder blades.

You whisper something soothing, but he can’t really hear it.

Auston’s breathing is shallow, head tipped back against the pillow, eyes half-shut. You’re about to wipe his mouth again when he croaks out—

“Can you…grab the mouthwash?” His voice is strained, almost pleading. “I’m gonna puke and I can’t deal with the taste.”

You nod immediately, hopping up to grab the travel-size bottle from the bathroom. By the time you’re back, he’s already gripping the trash can again with both hands, knuckles white, swaying slightly like he’s trying to out-stare the wave coming for him.

You kneel beside him, unscrewing the cap as fast as you can, but it’s too late—his whole body tenses, and he heaves again into the bin. It’s dry, painful, and drawn-out.

Downstairs, you can hear the shift in the house like a needle dropping on a record. Bre’s voice from the hallway: “Is that him again?”

Judd’s already halfway to the stairs. “Shit.”

In the kitchen, Ema freezes with a spoon in hand. The pot on the stove simmers behind her, untouched.

Brian closes the fridge slowly. “That sounded bad.”

Alex appears in the doorway to the kitchen, lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s still throwing up?”

“He couldn’t even smell the soup,” Judd mutters grimly walking back down, grimly looking toward Ema. “As soon as it hit the air, he lost it.”

Ema puts the spoon down like it weighs a hundred pounds. “I didn’t think—he always wants that when he’s sick. That’s his comfort food.”

“I know,” Judd says gently. “But his stomach isn’t ready. None of him is.”

Ema brushes at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I feel helpless.”

Bre leans against the wall, arms folded but face softening. “I hate this. I hate hearing him like that. It sounds like it hurts.”

Alex nods, trying not to tear up herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this sick.”

Judd looks toward the stairs. “She’s been up there with him nonstop. She hasn’t even eaten.”

Ema turns, wiping her hands on a dishtowel with sudden urgency. “I’m taking it off the stove. Maybe he’ll handle crackers later. I can make some tea instead. Something gentle.”

Brian squeezes her shoulder. “That’s good. That’s what he needs.”

Back upstairs, Auston finally slumps back against the pillows, eyes glassy and skin gray. You hand him a wet cloth and he presses it over his eyes, completely spent.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“Stop apologizing,” you whisper, placing the mouthwash next to the bed, though he doesn’t have the energy to use it yet.

You stroke his hair back from his forehead and glance toward the door, already hearing the cautious footsteps of someone heading up to check on him again.

“Do you want me to tell them you’re okay?”

He shakes his head weakly, eyes still closed. “No. Just…just tell them not to make any more soup.”

The consensus, unanimously, is that Auston needs to sleep.

He’s still curled up on his side, one hand resting over his stomach like a weight he can’t put down, eyelids heavy and glassy. You’re half-sitting, half-leaning against the headboard, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“Why don’t you nap, mijo?” Ema says softly from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying not to physically hold him from afar. “Your body needs rest.”

“I’ve been sleeping all day,” he mumbles, though he’s clearly fading again. “It’s boring.”

“You threw up soup smell, I think your entertainment privileges are revoked,” you murmur.

That gets a faint huff of a laugh, but he doesn’t argue again. A few minutes later, he’s out. Not just lightly dozing—fully, deeply asleep, breathing even, chest rising in slow, heavy intervals like his body has finally given in.

When the medical staff returns a few hours later, they’re more serious this time. They adjust his IV, add another bag of fluids and administer a low-dose antibiotic to jumpstart recovery in case it isn’t just food poisoning. They check his vitals, talk quietly to you and Ema while he sleeps, and promise they’ll be back in the morning to reassess.

He stirs as they leave, blinking sluggishly at you. “I’m not throwing up.”

“You’re not,” you say gently. “That’s a win.”

His stomach rumbles, just loud enough to make Ema perk up with too much hope.

“Wait—do you think you could eat something?” she asks.

“Maybe.” He shifts upright slowly. “Something easy.”

You fetch him a small bowl of oatmeal while Judd cracks open a sleeve of saltines like it’s treasure. Auston manages to eat a few spoonfuls, sipping at water in between bites. When he swallows his last cracker without flinching, Ema nearly bursts into tears.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathes, hand covering her mouth.

You catch her expression—her whole body trembling with relief—and without saying anything, you shift on the bed and pat the spot beside her son.

“Here. You take over,” you whisper. “You’ll sleep better near him anyway.”

Ema doesn’t hesitate. She crawls in, careful not to disturb Auston too much, and immediately rests her hand on his back, rubbing slow circles just like you had earlier. Felix shifts to lie at the foot of the bed, quiet and unbothered, the perfect nurse.

You stand, brushing your hands off on your leggings, and lean over to kiss Auston’s forehead. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, okay?”

“Mm,” he hums, barely conscious, already halfway back to sleep. “Thanks.”

The house stays quiet that night, but no one truly rests.

Brian is in one of the guest rooms, seated in a chair with the lights dimmed. He’s dozing in and out, arms crossed, brow furrowed deep with worry. He knows Auston won’t sit this game out without a fight, and the idea of him playing through illness makes his stomach churn.

Bre and Alex are in the other guest room, whispering before falling asleep. Neither one wants to admit how scared they were seeing their brother like that—pale, limp, quiet. He was always the strong one. They don’t know how to help, so they do the only thing they can. They sleep. They’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow.

Downstairs, you’re on one couch, curled under a throw blanket with your phone face-down beside you. Judd is across from you, hands behind his head, legs dangling over the arm of the sofa. Neither of you says much before sleep wins.

“You good?” he asks, just once.

You nod. “We’re getting there.”

Judd closes his eyes. “It’s gonna be a hell of a couple days.”

In the master bedroom, Ema doesn’t sleep.

She stays tucked beside her son, smoothing his hair every so often, watching his breathing, wiping the sweat from his brow when it resurfaces. Felix sleeps with his chin on Auston’s shin like a little guardian. Ema whispers prayers in Spanish that she used to say when he was a baby. He doesn’t stir. Doesn’t vomit. Just sleeps.

When morning comes, Auston wakes with a bit more color in his cheeks, a little less weight in his eyes. He sits up carefully, stretches, feels the IV port still taped to his skin, and groans.

Ema jolts. “¿Todo bien?”

He nods. “Better.”

She doesn’t cry again, but she comes close.

“I think I can go in,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “Just drive there. Slow. Take it easy.”

“You sure?” she asks, hopeful but hesitant.

“I need to move,” he says. “Game three’s tonight. I’ve got time.”

Ema watches him get up and head to the bathroom, steady but still a little fragile.

She doesn't stop him. She just whispers a thank you to no one in particular.

Auston miraculously makes it through morning skate. He looks pale and gaunt in the locker room, tugging on his gear with slow, deliberate movements, but he doesn’t complain. He takes his usual pregame nap—it lasts longer than normal, nearly two and a half hours—but no one says anything. Not because it isn’t noticeable, but because they’re all too afraid of what it might mean if they do.

Nothing about this gameday goes according to routine. First, there's too may people around, watching him like he's a ticking time bomb. Second, he’s quiet. Too quiet. No chirping, no pregame playlist, no nervous jokes to loosen the mood. Just a heavy, unsettling silence. He’s dressed and ready to head out, suit hanging off his frame a little looser than usual, eyes sunken and complexion dull.

"I'm going to be fine," he says, preemptively, catching the stares. “This is the playoffs. Nobody’s playing at 100% right now.”

"Nobody’s playing at less than 40% either," Alex mutters under his breath, crossing her arms. “Just—be careful. If you aren’t feeling well, don’t push yourself too hard. It’s a long series.”

He nods, offering hugs and quiet see-you-laters. You don’t say anything when it’s your turn—just wrap your arms around him and hold on a little longer, resting your head against his chest. You feel how warm he still is, how shallowly he’s breathing. You don’t want to say don’t play. You know he wouldn’t listen. So you hope the hug says it all.

23 minutes and 16 seconds.

That’s how long he plays.

You have no idea how he made it through the entire game, and neither does his family. Ema and Brian look physically ill through most of it—hands clenched, eyes wide, shoulders taut with tension. Bre and Alex don’t speak during the third period. Judd is glued to the railing in the box, jaw locked, watching Auston like he’s waiting for him to keel over on the ice.

After the final whistle, it takes over an hour for Auston to come out of the locker room.

The players who’ve done interviews are already trickling past the tunnel where you’re all waiting. You try not to look as worried as you feel, but it’s getting harder with each passing minute.

“Can you…” you murmur, glancing at Judd, “…maybe see what’s happening? He’s been in there for a while.”

Judd doesn’t argue. He gets on the phone immediately, pacing and whispering, hand braced on his hip like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. You hate that you’re trying to read his face, but the more he nods, the more your heart drops.

He hangs up and sighs, running a hand down his face.

“He’s getting another IV. He was super dehydrated. Almost passed out in the locker room. They’ve got him in the trainer’s room right now getting fluids. Should be out in 10 or 15.”

No one says anything. Not for a long time.

When Auston finally appears, he looks… wrecked.

He didn’t bother putting his suit back on. He’s wearing team-issued grey sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up despite the sweat beading at his temple. His face is ashen. There are faint tremors in his hands, one of which is pressed to his stomach like he’s trying to keep it from caving in. His gait is sluggish, unsteady. Like he’s walking underwater.

You rush to him the second you see him, hands reaching for his elbow instinctively. He gives you a weak, apologetic smile and silently presses his car keys into your palm.

“Can you drive?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I really don’t think I should be behind the wheel right now.”

“Of course,” you murmur, cupping his jaw for a moment. “You ready to go?”

He swallows hard, nodding once. “Yeah. Just… slow, please.”

In the car, he reclines the seat back the second he’s in, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. He flips on the AC and angles all the vents toward his face. His breathing is shallow, every exhale an effort. You keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, gently rubbing circles.

“You okay?”

“I’m good,” he says, but the sound he makes a second later—a faint groan as he shifts in the seat—betrays him.

Five minutes from his building, he suddenly sits up. “I need you to pull over. Now. Please.”

You swerve to the shoulder just in time. His door flies open and he’s bent double, vomiting violently onto the side of the road. You reach out instinctively, but wait until he’s done before resting a hand on his back.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “Okay. Okay, I’m good.”

You don’t believe him, but you nod. “Let’s get you home.”

By the time you get to the condo, it’s all hands on deck.

You’re half-carrying your 6'3" boyfriend from the car to the elevator, and once you’re upstairs, Brian and Judd are waiting. They each take an arm, helping him up the stairs to his room. Auston doesn't speak. Doesn’t even take his shoes off. He collapses face-first onto the bed and passes out instantly, hoodie still clinging to his sweat-damp skin.

You let him sleep. He needs it.

Judd and Brian spend the next hour on the phone with the team doctors, weighing options, asking pointed questions about whether this is sustainable—whether they should consider pulling him from the lineup. Ema sits at the edge of the bed, brushing the hair off Auston’s forehead, tears in her eyes. Her son just gave everything he had, and it's not enough. Not if this is what it costs.

Bre and Alex peek into the room, exchange a worried glance, and silently retreat. They’ve seen Auston exhausted before. But not like this.

You stay close, watching the rise and fall of his back, and wonder how much longer he can keep doing this—how much more his body can take before it forces him to stop.

He wakes up just past midnight.

Not gradually. Not groggy.

Suddenly and completely awake, blinking up at the ceiling like he has no idea where he is. His skin is no longer ghost-white. The pounding in his skull is gone. His stomach is calm. He’s…sweaty, yes. But otherwise?

He feels almost human.

He slowly pushes himself up and glances at the clock. 12:17 a.m. He shifts and hears a soft voice.

“You’re up,” you say quietly, sitting forward in the chair.

Auston turns toward her, surprised. “You stayed?”

“I wasn’t going to leave you alone like that.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed and gives you a long look. “You’re too good to me.”

You smile, small and tired. “You were really sick, Auston.”

“Still don't feel 100% back.”

“But…?”

He stretches a little. “But I don’t think I’m dying anymore.”

You laugh under your breath. “Progress.”

He stands slowly, testing his legs. “Gonna shower. I smell like the flu.”

You walk out to the kitchen, where Auston’s mom is stirring a mug of tea.

“How is he?” Ema asks.

“Awake,” You reply. “Wants a shower.”

Ema doesn’t even pause. “Go in there with him.”

You blink. Bre snorts and Alex elbows her. “Sorry—what?”

“Just to make sure he doesn’t pass out and crack his head open,” Ema says calmly, sipping. “He lost a lot of fluid. And that boy’s stubborn. He’ll say he’s fine and then he'll slip and crack his head open.”

You hesitate. “Wouldn’t he—like—want you?”

Ema smirks, giving you a look. “For some reason, I highly doubt that. You should probably go.”

You knock on the bathroom door. “Auston?”

“Yeah?” he calls back, water running.

“Your mom’s making me come in and make sure you don’t pass out in here.”

He's quiet for a moment, letting the warm water continuously run over him. Then, “sure she is. You just wanna see me naked.”

You push the door open and shut it behind you. “Trust me, Matthews, I’ve never seen so much vomit come out of one human being in my entire life. Sex is the very last thing on my mind.”

There’s a pause. Then a raspy laugh from behind the frosted glass. “God, don’t remind me.”

“You projectile vomited on the side of the road. I will never forget that.”

He laughs again, then groans. “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re thoroughly turned off.”

“Yup. You’re officially on a very unsexy probation.”

You sit on the closed toilet lid, arms crossed, listening as he soaps up. He’s slow about it, and you doesn’t blame him. You can see the outline of his large frame behind the fogged glass, the slight wobble in his movements.

“You okay?” you ask after a moment.

“I think so,” he says. Then quieter: “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile to herself. “Anytime, Aus.”

There’s another pause before he speaks again. “You know, you could join me in here. For safety reasons.”

You snort. “You’re lucky I’m even in the same room after watching you puke a piece of your soul."

He laughs softly, “still worth asking.”

You shakes your head, smiling despite yourself, and get up to grab a clean towel.

The sun filters through the bedroom curtains just enough to make the room feel gently lit, the kind of soft, quiet morning light that doesn’t demand anything from you. Auston stirs first. His body feels… normal. He blinks up at the ceiling, surprised by how much better he feels—like he’s been pulled back from the edge.

The chills are gone. The tight grip around his ribs has loosened. His stomach has settled into silence. He’s still tired, sure, but not sick anymore.

He turns his head slowly and sees you curled on your side facing him, one hand tucked under your cheek, the other still resting gently on his arm like you never stopped making sure he was breathing.

God, he loved you.

He watches you for a moment. The tangled mess of your hair, the dried salt of worry still dusting your lashes. You're wearing his hoodie—still. It dwarfs you, but he loves that you haven't taken it off.

Without thinking, he reaches out and runs his fingers along the curve of your cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You stirs slightly, then blink up at him, bleary and beautiful in that real, undone way that makes his chest ache.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Hey,” he says back, softer. “You stayed.”

Your mouth curves into a sleepy smirk. “Didn’t think you could survive another six hours without adult supervision.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

Just outside the cracked bedroom door, Ema Matthews is halfway up the stairs with a fresh towel and a cup of ginger tea in her hands. She pauses when she hears voices—he’s awake. She steps silently back, giving them privacy. Listening for just a second more, her heart aching in the best way.

Inside, Auston shifts so he’s lying on his side, facing you. “What… day is it?”

“Thursday,” you murmur, stretching slightly, your voice warming. “You’ve been pretty out of it since Monday night.”

“Feels like I missed a month.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his arm as he snuggles closer beneath the covers. “You didn’t miss much. Just that my boyfriend was violently puking enough to fill a couple bathtubs, I met his parents while smelling like his vomit and wearing the same hoodie three days in a row, and I’m pretty sure I’m best friends with Judd now.”

Auston lets out a low, scratchy laugh, the sound hoarse but warm. His eyes crinkle, still glassy with exhaustion but glowing just a little brighter than before. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” You shift to face him, curling slightly into his side. “He doesn’t think I’m a blood-sucking gold digger anymore. I think I finally won him over.”

He chuckles again and lets his head fall onto your shoulder, cheek resting there like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be. The laugh vibrates softly against your skin. “Sounds like you weren’t busy at all.”

“Not really,” you murmur, wrapping an arm around him without thinking. Your hand rubs gentle, absent circles across his back, feeling the faint tremor in his muscles and the heat still clinging to his skin.

He goes quiet for a beat, like he’s trying to find the right words—or maybe bracing himself for them.

Then, slowly, Auston lifts his head and looks at you. His eyes, even tired, are steady and full of something heavier than gratitude.

“Thank you.”

You blink, confused for a moment. “For what?”

“For staying,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “For dealing with all the chaos. For taking care of me. For…not running away when I couldn’t even stand up without help.”

Your heart clenches. You cup the side of his face, brushing your thumb along the rough edge of his jaw. “You’d do it for me.”

“Still.” His throat bobs. “You didn’t have to. And you did. You didn’t even hesitate.”

The intensity in his gaze knocks the wind out of you. It’s not polished or pretty, it’s not the effortless charm he wears on game days. This is Auston raw—sick, worn down, scared—and still trying to love you the best way he can.

You nod, and without another word, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s slow, gentle—hesitant at first, like he’s afraid he might break something if he pushes too hard. The kind of kiss that says I missed this even though it’s only been a few days. The kind that lingers. No urgency. No need to rush. Just him, and you, and the quiet acknowledgment that this means something more.

When he finally pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

“I don’t feel like I'm dying anymore,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm.

You smile. “Well, your breath is slightly better,” you tease, brushing your nose against his. “So I believe it.”

He groans and drops his face into the curve of your neck, lips barely brushing your collarbone. “I knew I should’ve brushed my teeth first.”

“Too late now,” you whisper, fingers threading into his hair. “I’m already exposed to every bodily fluid you’ve got.”

That earns you a weak laugh, muffled against your skin. He pulls you closer, like he still can’t believe you’re here.

And then it happens.

The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them—soft and unsure but impossibly real.

“I love you.”

You freeze. Just for a second. Your heart skids in your chest, but not from fear.

You pull back just enough to see his face. He looks terrified. Like he said it without meaning to. Like it slipped past the defenses he’s spent years building.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t run.

You lean in, smiling gently.

“I love you too.”

Relief crashes over his features—messy and immediate and so full of emotion that you feel your own eyes sting. He kisses you again, quicker this time, smiling against your mouth like he can’t believe this is real.

“Say it again,” you whisper. “Please.”

His thumb strokes along your cheek as he looks at you like you hung the moon. “I love you.”

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Again.”

He laughs, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you. I'll say it all day if you want me to."

Outside the bedroom door, Ema presses her hand to her heart, a tear slipping down her cheek as she listens.

Her son is going to be okay.

And better than that—he’s found someone who will love him through the sickness, through the sweat, through the chaos and the ugly, and not once ask for anything in return.

She tiptoes away, the smile on her face soft and certain.

[acesw]

Reverse: 1999's Story Themes in the Form of Arcs

As we know now there are 3 story arcs in Reverse: 1999: The Timekeeper Tetralogy (Chapters 1-4), the Equilibrium Trilogy (Chapters 5-7), and now the Homecoming Series (2.0 Series, Chapters 8-10).

All 3 of these arcs are very integral to the main story and I found them quite interesting to think about how there are particular themes that stand out among them.

Disclaimer: These are very incoherent ramblings of someone who has had little sleep. Don't take all of what I said here to heart, nor limit down the overall themes into categories as narrow/overgeneralised as what I go over here.

I want to just rant talk about this here since it's early in the morning and I talked about it in a call. As much as this will sound incredibly incoherent, let's get started.

The Timekeeper Tetralogy — "Pillars"

The term "pillar" can be described as a metaphor for resilience, crisis, saviors, any of the sort. Chapters 1-4 primarily centers around this theme as we dive into the world of Reverse: 1999 for the first time. We're introduced to a world that is in chaos due to the "Storm" and the harsh changes that come with having to live through constant tragedy. From these calamities, people need something or someone to turn to for hope, or for them to be saved from this rubble, no?

It's in this series that it establishes the substantial roles hold by our main characters and factions; most importantly, Vertin's role as the Timekeeper. It becomes clear that she is highly sought out by many because her profound altruism shines through as a person who sought freedom more than anything. She showcases the impact and change she brings to be able to progress forward to making that change.

Of course, it's not just herself, we also have characters such as Madam Z, Druvis III, and Sonetto, whose actions become highly influential to the changes that needed to be pushed through to allow the Foundation to progress. There are also characters like Schneider, who plays a role in saving the lives of those they consider their own (e.g. Schneider trying to save her own family) in spite of the world that functions against them.

I think of "pillars" as a way that the first four chapters of this game brings the words "leadership" and "saviour" to light. The highlighted characters are very central to how they lead others out of conflict, whether temporarily or permanently.

Equilibrium Trilogy — "Belief"

Belief describes in the faith and trust held towards something or someone. How is this different from the first part and how does it connect? In Chapters 5-7, this word becomes very central to how many characters think. Many of the characters in this arc tend to have something or nothing to believe in.

All of them: 37, 6, 210, Sophia, Isolde, Marcus, Hofmann, Kakania, Lucy, Enigma, Ulrich, Semmelweis, Lorelei—Even someone like Heinrich—They all held beliefs that particularly influenced not just their personal stories but the overall narrative. Their communities held beliefs that had become their downfall later once it is shaken.

For example: Greta Hofmann is a mixed human that has lived through repeated tragedy. She has lived to see her brother nearly commit suicide, her colleagues be reversed, even the people she meets disappear right beneath her feet. Yet from all these years, it has drastically changed her perspective on arcanum and arcanists. She had accepted that there was no way to go back from where it all started in time; it becomes important to how she sees how the tides must be shifted through how the arcanists are able to see fit. It does not mean that she believes in arcanist supremacy, rather, it highlights the importance of the role that arcanists play into the world they are all in now.

When thinking of the word "belief" here, I really mean that each and every event, each circumstance, is particularly influenced by what the characters believe in. And what comes out of it strikes back at those beliefs, severely impacting how these characters view the world after they are faced with the effects.

The Homecoming Series — "Home"

It's quite in the name, isn't it? The 2.0 series is unique in that their event stories particularly tie back to the main story in some way. While that is in itself a major writing flaw, the theme particularly sticks out in all of the stories.

This series emphasizes on the theme of "Home" and how many yearn to return to it. Even if it were destroyed or taken from them, they still yearn to go back to where they found comfort and where they feel most safe. It becomes central to many conflicts in the story, and every character involved in this series so far has been affected by it in a way.

"Home" does not have to mean a physical building either, it can mean family, close friends, and kindred spirits as well.

There are characters like Joe, Anjo Nala, and Fatutu who are all facing conflicts from being essentially removed from their homes, or fighting their way through to return back to that home in such a way that it affects not only them, but their communities and families as well. Then there are those like Lopera, Barcarola, and Recoleta, who all have left their homes, but still feel this sense of longing to return in a way that they seek the comfort those homes once gave them.

It doesn't always prompt them to go back, but they always miss and yearn for what they had left behind or what they had lost. They yearn to return to a place they considered a place of safety and comfort, only to be met with conflict and a place now unfamiliar.

Afterthoughts

While having pulled an all-nighter and gaining a headache from staying up, I genuinely enjoyed getting this out of my system and it helped with organizing my thoughts about this game's story. While it has it's ups and downs, there's no doubt that I genuinely do appreciate the story as it is. These themes have been really fun to identify and explore, and it impacts how I see the story itself.

Thanks for reading my tangent here. As always, feel free to leave your own thoughts as you see fit.

[sirfrogsworth]

What did I do while suffering from an ear infection all last week?

I argued with a Trump supporting boomer @mtnman451.

Why?

My ear discomfort was so ever-present that I couldn't concentrate on anything for more than a minute or two. I was hopelessly bored. So I decided to see how long this guy would continue responding due to always needing to have the last word.

I almost gave up at one point.

He nearly tired me out.

But then he pulled me back in.

We started arguing about the kind of gun used in my dad's favorite movie, Quigley Down Under.

Just to be clear, I am posting this for one person. I am using my large platform to publicly show that someone on the internet was wrong. It will not make the world a better place. It is probably not great for my mental health. But sometimes you just gotta embrace the petty.

If you have no interest in a stupid internet argument, feel free to ignore this. But I really really needed to be correct about this. And I am letting my pettiness take the wheel and digging in to vent my frustrations about people who cannot ever be wrong on the internet.

Here is a little of the argument...

mtnman451 You know it's funny. You think you're so smart and are all happy about you're supposed "Gotcha Moment. Have you ever seen the movie "Quigley Down Under?" The lead character only uses a Sharp's rifle during the movie and the major antagonist gives him crap because Quigley doesn't seem to know how to use a Colt Revolver. I believe the exact thing Quigley says to the antagonist when asked about it is "Well Sir, I never had much use for one." At the end of the movie when Quigley takes out 3 men in a fair gunfight including the antagonist, Quigley walks up to him as he's on the ground, dying and looking shocked that he had just gotten shot and says "I said I never had much use for one. I never said I didn't know how to use it."

sirfrogsworth Quigley was actually my dad's favorite movie. I enjoyed it very much as well. But I'm afraid you are not shooting with the Shiloh Sharps or the Colt 1860 Army.

You are firing a toy cap gun, friend. All noise and no bullets.

You are angry, incoherent, and neither your arguments nor your insults make any sense.

mtnman451 you need to take another look at that movie because the Australians in "Quigley" weren't armed with 1860 Colt Army Revolvers. 1860 Colt Army Revolvers were .44 caliber and the revolvers used by The Australians were of a smaller caliber. If you knew your guns, you'd know that.

sirfrogsworth Elliot Marston (played by Alan Rickman) carried a .44 caliber Colt 1860 Army. He even refers to it as the "Army revolver" invented by "Col. Colt." He then places his identical "backup revolver" in Quigley's belt before the final duel.

I actually have an interest in antique guns and have always wanted to collect non-working replicas but never had the money. So I'm pretty sure I know the guns in my dad's favorite movie.

You are free to check the Internet Movie Firearms Database to verify.

mtnman451 Go back and watch the movie. He's not packing a .44. you want to see what a .44 looks like? Here you go.

sirfrogsworth Do you enjoy people making you look stupid?

Here is the photo you just shared overlaid on a still of Rickman's gun in the movie. It's the same fucking gun, dude.

mtnman451 Yes, it's exactly like this one. A .36 Caliber Colt.

sirfrogsworth The 1860 Army uses the same frame as the .36 caliber Navy model. In the movie he clearly says, "Are you familiar with the Army revolver, Mr. Quigley?" The film takes place around 1860 and he says it is a "recent invention of Colonel Colt."

mtnman451 hm. Same frame you say? No Shit sirfroggysgoneacourting. It's a wonder why those who don't know what they're talking about mistake the two, isn't it? Do you or your Dad own any black powder weapons? I do. Ever held the two in your hands? Seen them side by side? I have. Ever fired any black powder weapons? I have. I've fired more guns of every type from muzzle loading rifles, single action percussion cap pistols to semi automatic pistols and Class 3 Federally regulated firearms. Have you? It's possible but I highly doubt it.

sirfrogsworth So… you can't be wrong, can you? Like it is physically impossible. You just double and triple down and quadruple down?

If you can show any kind of evidence aside from "I know guns" then I'd be happy to reconsider. But it has to be actual evidence and not "I WAS PLAYING WITH GUNS BEFORE YOU WERE IN DiAPERS!"

I know you are super good at shooting things but I am super good at research. Either play in my sandbox and PROVE your claim or fuck off.

mtnman451 Oh I could be wrong but I'm not. Now while Tom Selleck served in The US Military and throughout his Film and TV career handled many different and powerful weapons like a .44 colt, if you recall he used The Remington Army .44 in "The Shadow Riders" where he played a Union Cavalry Officer to "Magnum P.I. where he used an ACP, that's the .45 Automatic Colt Pistol, btw. I don't think a bunch of British and Australian Actors such as the ones in "Quigley Down Under would have had as much experience handling pistols of that size as they pack a pretty Damn Big Kick. a .36 Caliber Colt would be much more manageable in the hands of a neophyte.

sirfrogsworth So, none of that is evidence. That is pure speculation. Your entire argument is that Alan Rickman wasn't man enough to fire a blank firing prop gun? That's silly. And does not prove anything at all.

Do you not understand what evidence is?

My evidence is the character said it was an Army. And online sources have verified it as the Army.

You just have vibes.

Even the Internet Movie Firearms Database thinks you are wrong. And they do solid research.

mtnman451 If you were so good at research, why didn't you just go here in the first place?

sirfrogsworth I TOLD YOU TO CHECK THAT SITE. That's where I learned about the gun years ago. In my very first reply I said, "You are free to check the Internet Movie Firearms Database to verify."

mtnman451 And yet the guy that's "Super Good" at research never posted it.

And now, some "Super Good" research...

I found the definitive difference between the .44 Colt Army and .36 Colt Navy revolvers.

Here is the cylinder of the .36 caliber Colt 1861 Navy that Mr. Mountain Man claimed was used in the movie.

Here is the cylinder of the .44 caliber Colt 1860 Army that I claimed was in the movie.

Please draw your attention to that seam in the cylinder. This was to account for the larger bullets.

Here is a scene from the movie where Alan Rickman's character is firing the revolver.

I've always wanted to do this...

I think of all the times I was correct, this is the most correct I have ever been.

Also, while the show's canon claimed Magnum P.I. used a .45 ACP Colt 1911, they had trouble finding blanks for it, so the prop gun was a 9mm.

I guess Tom Selleck didn't have to handle that really big kick after all.

Will Mr. Mountain Man 451 finally admit he was wrong and apologize for his overconfident firearms claims?

I eagerly await him changing the subject and never admitting his error.

Because it is the Trump way.

If you are wrong about something... no you aren't.

Just be louder and wronger until everyone gives up.

[chu16a-blog]

Benji Dunn x Reader - Ennemy to Lover (Part 2/6)

Paring: Benji Dunn x Reader

This is chapter 2/6 chapters. This fanfic is already completed, I just upload one chapter per day, ehehe

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

CHAPTER 2: PARIS ROOFTOPS

The team had traced your signal to Paris, a private showing in a tucked-away art gallery near Montmartre. The building was sleek and modern, all glass walls and sharp white angles, the kind of place where secrets dressed up as elegance.

For you, it was more than a hideout, it was the next step in disappearing.

The gallery served as a meeting point with an old arms contact turned fixer. He had what you needed: access to a backdoor encryption key tied to the CIA’s tracking grid. With it, you could finally vanish from their radar, no more pings, no more traces, no more ghosts in your shadow. No more cute guys chasing you.

And yet, in the quiet hours leading up to tonight, you’d found yourself distracted. Curious, even. About him.

The man from Berlin. The one who’d said hi instead of pulling a gun. You’d made a few discreet enquiries, hacked into a system or two. It wasn’t easy but you managed to put a name to that flustered face.

Benji Dunn.

It shouldn’t matter. He was CIA. A tech operative with no field experience, judging by the way he held himself. Harmless on paper, too harmless to have gotten that close to you. Still, something about him stuck.

You shook the thought off. Tonight was about the plan. Make the trade. Get the key. Erase yourself for good.

If it went smoothly, your next stop would be Geneva, where the future you didn’t dare imagine might finally begin.

From the surveillance van parked across the street, Benji watched you through a live camera feed patched in from one of the hacked gallery security cams.

“There she is,” he muttered, leaning closer to the screen. “That’s her.”

You stood near a sculpture installation, exchanging a few quiet words with a sharply dressed man. Your posture was relaxed, but your eyes constantly scanned the room, sharp, alert. Calculating.

Benji’s breath caught for just a second. Okay… seriously? Why does the world’s most dangerous fugitive have to be so, so.. stunning? His brain scrambled somewhere between admiration and mission protocol. Focus, Dunn.

Then, without ceremony, you took the case and walked out.

“She’s moving. She’s got something.”

“Visual confirmed,” Ethan said through the comms. “Luther, track her.”

Benji didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “What the hell is in that key?”

As you vanished from the camera’s view, he exhaled sharply, already moving to intercept.

Luther hacked traffic cams. “She’s heading north, fast. Rooftops."

The rooftops of Paris glistened under a light rain, turning every step into a gamble. The skyline blurred past as Ethan vaulted over a rooftop ledge.

Benji flanked from the opposite direction, breathing hard, eyes flicking between rooftops and the signal tracking your movement.

“There, northwest corner,” Luther said in his ear. “She’s on the move.”

Benji spotted you just as you sprinted across a skylight, a silhouette framed in fractured neon. You turned, mid-stride, and looked over your shoulder.

Not at Ethan.

At him.

Benji felt the moment freeze just a fraction of a second, your eyes catching his across the gap. No smile this time. Just sharp awareness.

Then you vanished over the edge.

Benji picked up speed, heart hammering. “I see her! I think I can—”

His foot hit a slick tile. His balance faltered. “WHOA—!”

The rooftop pitched sideways in his vision, and suddenly, he wasn’t falling.

A hand caught his wrist. Firm grip. Cold rain. A flash of your face above him.

You.

For the second time.

He stared, too stunned to say anything.

Your grip tightened, jaw tense as you leaned back slightly and stabilized him. Your eyes scanned his face, assessing.

"You okay?"

Benji opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

You paused just a beat longer. Then nodded once, decisive. “You’re okay,” you stated.

Before he could gather a single word, you let go and took off, vaulting over the adjacent roof like you’d never stopped.

Benji remained there, crouched on the ledge, blinking at the empty air you left behind.

His comm crackled.

“Benji?” Ethan’s voice. “What happened?”

He exhaled slowly. “She… she saved me.”

“You sure?” Luther asked.

“She didn’t hesitate. Could’ve let me fall. But she didn’t. She pulled me up like it was nothing.”

A pause.

Ethan: “She’s fast. Faster than me. That’s not normal.”

Luther: “Still think she’s dangerous, Benji?”

Benji stared across the rooftops, voice quieter now. “She’s supposed to be… but she just saved me.”

Then, almost to himself, “And she smells really good.”

“…What?”

“Nothing! Nothing. Focused. Super focused.”

Luther chimed in: “Starting to think we’re not the good guys in this story.”

At the safehouse in Paris, the room was dimly lit, screens flickering with maps and intercepted communications. Ethan, Benji, and Luther sat around the table, sifting through the fragmented intel.

“Something’s not right,” Ethan muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Why does she keep running, always just out of reach, but never strikes?”

Luther nodded thoughtfully. “The CIA files paint her as lethal. Cold. Remorseless. But she’s passed up at least a dozen clear opportunities to take us out.” Looking at Benji.

Benji caught avoiding Luther’s gaze and leaned closer to the monitor, eyes scanning the data. “Either she’s the world’s nicest assassin… or someone’s been feeding us a pack of lies.”

Luther’s fingers danced over the keyboard. “Most of the intel has been scrubbed or fabricated. The only thing I managed to get from the database is the weapons she stole, the Cyberspine, but I can’t get access to details.”

He paused, eyes narrowing at the screen. “There’s one lead. A codename—, ‘Project Helix’. But the files are heavily redacted.”

Ethan stood, rubbing his chin as he paced the room. “We know for certain she stole the Cyberspine. And looking by how desperate the CIA wants it back, it probably dangerous.”

Luther crossed his arms, eyes sharp. “But why? We have no idea what she plans to do with it.”

Benji swallowed, still unsettled. “Is she going to sell it? Use it herself? Or maybe destroy it?”

Ethan stopped and faced the others. “That’s what we need to find out. We capture her alive and get answers, no more guessing.”

Luther nodded. “Priority one: extract intel. Whatever she’s planning, we need to stop it.”

Benji added quietly, “And if she’s not the ruthless killer they described... maybe there’s more to this than just a simple theft.”

He didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

He tried, God, he tried, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw hers. That glance across the server room. The sharpness of her movements paired with the softness of her hands when she held his. The ghost of her perfume, something warm and unexpected, lingered in his mind like static.

She hadn’t killed him. She could have. She didn’t even threaten him.

That should have been enough to shut it down, to keep things black-and-white. But it wasn’t.

Benji turned in bed again, groaning into his pillow. Enemy, he reminded himself. She’s still the enemy.

But some part of him, deep and stupid and stubborn, hoped she wasn’t.

[stargrillzz]

THERE YOU ARE

SUMMARY: There were always signs, you just need to pick them up.

NOTE: I don't know if at this point in life, 2025, anyone will still be looking for Zayn fics, but yesterday I started listening to his entire album again and I just love him so much.(Khai here it’s a lil bit grown but still a kid) xoxo

Zayn’s country house was tucked in a quiet fold of the English countryside, hidden away from the world in the most beautiful, stubborn kind of way. The long dirt road leading to it was lined with wild hedges and crooked fences, and the house itself—warm brick and low windows—sat in the middle of a green field that rolled gently toward the horizon. It felt like another world here, like time slowed down just for him.

You loved it more than anywhere else. Even more than your own mansion back in L.A. with its glass walls and sharp, cold views of the Hollywood Hills. This place… this was peace.

You had been here for three days now. The guest room practically had your name on it at this point, and Zayn never made a big deal about it. You didn’t need to text before showing up. Sometimes, he’d just glance up from the kitchen with a smile when he saw you walking in with a duffle bag, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because, well, it was.

You’d met almost ten years ago, back when you were just a scrappy 19-year-old with a voice and some half-finished lyrics, standing in a London recording booth, trying not to freak out because One Direction had just walked in.

Zayn was the one who caught your eye first. Not because he was trying to — he wasn’t like that. But there was something about the quiet way he moved, how he kept glancing at your notebook while pretending not to, and the way he finally leaned over during a break and said, “Those lyrics… they’re actually really good.”

That was it.

That was the start.

Now here you were — both older, more famous, a little more worn out by the industry — yet still exactly like that first day: sitting side by side, talking about music like it was your shared language.

Zayn had set out an old patchwork blanket across the backyard grass while Khai danced around it, twirling with one of her little dolls in hand. His daughter was sunshine personified. She had his eyes, his cheekbones, and somehow, his calm spirit too. She didn’t need to be the loudest kid in the room. She just was, and everyone noticed.

Zayn was sitting with one leg stretched out, his arm lazily propped against a pillow. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off the tattoos that still made your heart stutter sometimes, even though you’d seen them a thousand times.

“She’s obsessed with those daisies,” he murmured, watching Khai pick another one with serious concentration.

“She’s got good taste,” you replied with a soft smile, tucking your knees to your chest.

For a moment, it was just the sound of the wind moving through the trees and Khai’s tiny voice humming something under her breath. You reached over to grab your water bottle, and that’s when he said it — casually, but with a glint of something more in his voice.

“I’ve been thinking we should make a song together.”

Your head turned to him, brow raised. “Really?”

Zayn’s eyes were on you now, steady and warm, the kind of gaze that always made you feel like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s been a while since we sat down and wrote something.”

You leaned your head on your shoulder, smiling. “It has.”

He shifted a little closer, letting the sun catch the edges of his jawline, that slight scruff making your stomach flutter for no good reason.

“That’s true,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the thought together out loud. “But for the album I’m working on, I want that. A song… ours.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of the word settle between you. Ours.

Not just a song with you. A song belonging to both of you.

Zayn always had a way of making even the smallest words feel like poetry.

Your mouth curved into something soft. “Then let’s do it,” you said, voice low and warm. “Let’s make it something real.”

He nodded again, but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

You both looked out over the backyard, where Khai had now plopped herself onto the grass, muttering to her flowers like they were in on a secret.

You stood and brushed off your jeans, padding barefoot across the lawn. The grass was still warm under your feet, and the air smelled like earth and lavender and a little bit like the cinnamon candle Zayn had left burning on the windowsill earlier.

“Hey, Khai,” you called gently.

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight, and her face lit up the way it always did when she saw you. “Aunty!”

You laughed and dropped beside her onto the grass, landing with an exaggerated oof that made her giggle. She immediately climbed onto your lap, tucking her legs under her like a baby bird settling into a nest.

“What’ve we got here?” you asked, picking up a handful of daisies.

“Bouquet for Daddy,” she said proudly, clutching one in each hand. “But he can’t see yet. It’s a secret.”

“Ohhh,” you whispered dramatically. “Got it. Operation Secret Flowers.”

She giggled again, then leaned her head on your chest, and the peace of the moment wrapped around you like a silk scarf — weightless and delicate.

From a few feet away, Zayn sat back on his elbows, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. That gaze. The one he saved for his most vulnerable thoughts.

He reached for his phone quietly and snapped a picture.

In it, you and Khai are laughing like nothing else exists except this exact second in time.

Zayn stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering just above the screen. He did something he rarely did, post it.

The way Khai won’t let you go, holding you as you were the most incredible thing ever, he was melting.

zaynmalik

Liked by louist91, niallhoran, and others.

zaynmalik Peace 🪽

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Then he locked the phone again and looked back up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, private smile.

And then, his phone buzzed again.

He glanced down.

From: Management Subject: INTERVIEW CONFIRMED – FRIDAY, 12 PM Podcast format. In-studio. We need you on this. You know why.

His jaw tensed subtly. The warmth of the moment dimmed just slightly, the edges curling in like paper near a flame. He locked the screen and tossed the phone beside him on the grass.

You didn’t notice right away — you were still on the ground with Khai, your laughter floating up into the trees — but something in his face had changed. His expression wasn’t cold exactly, just… far away.

You sat up slowly, brushing grass from your arms. “Z?”

He blinked and looked up, as if pulled from somewhere distant. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

He gave you a quick nod, too quick. “Yeah, just… label stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of label stuff?”

He hesitated. “Interview.”

“Oh.” Your voice dropped slightly. “One of those.”

“Yeah.”

You watched him for a beat. “Do you have to go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward to pluck a daisy from Khai’s pile and twirled it between his fingers. “Apparently. It’s time I… I talk about some things.”

You knew what he meant. The last few months hadn’t been easy. Headlines. Assumptions. Long silences and constant pressure. Zayn had never been the kind of person to speak just to speak. But when he did open up… he meant every word.

You looked at him, really looked — the shaved head, the tired eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones that somehow made him look even more beautiful, in that tragic artist kind of way.

“Well,” you said softly, “if you go, just remember what you said earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That the next song will be ours.”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Right.”

You turned back to Khai, who had just tried to fit six daisies into your hair and declared you a “flower monster princess.”

Zayn sat there a moment longer, watching the two girls he loved most — one his daughter, the other something he hadn’t named yet — and knew, deep in his gut, that whatever he said at that interview… wouldn’t matter half as much as the song the three of you had already written together just by being.

The recording studio was nothing too flashy—clean-cut, brick walls, cozy lighting, vintage rugs under the chairs and cables, and the soft hum of a city afternoon outside the windows. A quiet kind of intimacy filled the room, the kind that invited honesty even when it wasn’t planned. It smelled like fresh coffee and worn leather, and the podcast host’s smile was warm and inviting, but Zayn still had his guard up in that low-key way he always did.

He adjusted his mic once, then twice, leaning forward a little, eyes focused on the foam cover like it might bite him. But his shoulders weren’t tense. His hands, ringed and tattooed, stayed folded loosely in his lap. There was a certain calmness in him lately—earned, not faked.

“All right,” the host said, pressing a button with a satisfying click. “We’re live.”

Zayn nodded once.

“Zayn Malik,” she started, with that signature smooth-radio voice, “you’re back with new music. And fans are losing it over this album. Can you tell us what it’s about?”

Zayn exhaled softly, smiling without showing too much. “I can’t say too much just yet…” he paused, glancing sideways like he always did when his mind wandered, “but it’s definitely one of my most personal projects.”

The host leaned in, intrigued. “More personal than Mind of Mine?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Each song reflects something real, y’know? Parts of my life. Things I’ve gone through. Some dark… some really beautiful. It’s weird to say, but after everything, I actually feel proud of where I’m at. And I hope… I hope people connect with it. That’s really all I want.”

There was something in his voice when he said that—like he meant it more than anything.

The host smiled. “That’s beautiful to hear. Now…” she clicked her pen like she was switching lanes, “We’ve seen a lot of photos of you and a certain pop star lately. One of the biggest in the world right now, actually. Can you tell us something about that?”

Zayn laughed—head tilted back, that soft, rough sound escaping his throat as if it genuinely caught him off guard. “She’s my best friend,” he said, brushing his shaved head with one hand, “my greatest support. We spend a lot of time together, yeah. But it’s more than just that.”

He paused for a second, as if weighing the next words carefully, and then met the host’s eyes again. “She’s helped me through a lot. Like… a lot. Everyone knows I’ve had my dark moments. She never left. Not even at my worst.”

The host put a hand over her chest, visibly moved. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zayn just smiled.

“And the photo you posted,” the host continued, clicking again, “of her and your daughter… those girls looked so close. So warm.”

Zayn’s face softened. His voice did too. “That’s what makes me happiest, honestly. She always made it a priority to make sure I was being a good dad. She encouraged me to be better. She’d show up on days I didn’t even realize I needed someone. She’s been more than emotional support… she’s been like a lighthouse, y’know?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be who you are today without her.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I mean that.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence in the room—like even the mic was soaking it in.

“She’s a huge part of your life,” the host said softly, “and fans are wondering… will she be on the album?”

“Of course,” Zayn said, smiling. “Again, this album is like… a piece of my heart. And she’s one of the most important things in my life. So yeah, she’s in it. Her presence is all over it.”

The host leaned forward again, clearly catching the subtle weight in his tone. “Sounds like a beautiful friendship. She was truly a lifeline for you.”

Zayn nodded, this time slower. “She is. Especially during the lowest points. Times when I couldn’t see a way out. She was always there. Even when I was pushing people away. Even when I didn’t want help… she was just there. Didn’t let go of my hand.”

The host blinked, visibly emotional. “That’s rare.”

Zayn’s smile returned, lopsided and private. “She’s rare.”

There was a small pause before the host switched gears again, flipping through her notes with quiet fingers. “And now she’s featured on your new album, which, for fans, is going to be a huge deal.”

“Super significant,” Zayn agreed. He leaned back a little, shoulders relaxing more. “Also… I mean, it’s kind of mind-blowing when you think about it. We’re both artists. Music’s always been our thing. And that creates something special between us.”

The host tilted her head, eyes glinting. “A special connection?”

Zayn looked up and met her gaze. “It’s a special connection,” he echoed, almost reverently. “Yeah. Actually, we met through her collab with the band I was in. That was the start of everything.”

“And now?”

“Now… we sit together at the piano. We don’t even have to talk sometimes. We just write. We hear things in each other’s lyrics, in the notes. It’s like… we understand each other without needing to explain. That’s rare too.”

Zayn’s eyes lit up as he spoke—really lit up, like a kid describing their favorite storybook.

“She’s really important to me,” he said, quietly, but firmly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that fills a room with its own heartbeat.

The host chuckled suddenly, breaking the moment. “It sounds like the connection is deeper than I thought,” she teased lightly, though her eyebrows said romantic tension alert.

Zayn felt the shift instantly. He ducked his head, his laughter lower this time—quiet, a little shy. He stared at the floor with that familiar smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say anything at all.

And somehow… that silence said everything.

The world outside had dimmed into stillness, the last light of the countryside sun slipping beneath the fields like it didn’t want to intrude. Zayn’s house was quiet in the way that let you hear the small things: the creak of the wood when someone shifted their weight, the soft ticking of the vintage wall clock in the hallway, the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room. No paparazzi. No producers. No demands. Just the two of you and the simple comfort of being where you didn’t have to pretend.

It was Friday night.

Somewhere out there, people were popping champagne bottles and posing for the flash. Your phone buzzed hours ago with invites to industry parties in the city—ones you’d never respond to. Because here, in the cozy little studio of Zayn’s country house, barefoot and wrapped in the hoodie he’d tossed you earlier, was exactly where you wanted to be.

The space itself wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t have the sleek walls of your L.A. label’s studio or the soundproof velvet panels of Zayn’s London one. But it was warm. It was full of him. Guitar stands leaned gently in corners, unused strings coiled on tabletops, and handwritten lyrics stuck to the wall with old tape. There was a small upright piano in the corner, a little scratched but beloved, with a mug of cold chamomile tea resting on top.

You were curled sideways on one of the overstuffed sofas, knees drawn to your chest, a pencil tucked behind your ear. Zayn sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his notebooks balanced on his thigh. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tattoos soft and inked against the glow of the warm studio light. The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was alive. It crackled with unspoken understanding, laced with comfort that only came from years of friendship.

You watched him for a moment. He had that look again—brows drawn in soft concentration, lip caught between his teeth, pencil tapping against the corner of the page. Every so often, he glanced up at you. You tried not to smile when you caught him, but you always did. And each time, Zayn just smiled back like it wasn’t even something to be embarrassed about.

That’s when you said it. Barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re the lullaby the universe wrote to silence every ache I ever carried.”

He didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his eyes were already warm, already smiling. It was one of those smiles that started in his eyes, slow and soft, like it took its time reaching his lips.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full of something gentle. “Seriously. That’s a lyric I’d tattoo on my arm.”

You shrugged a little, looking down at your notebook like it didn’t matter. “Maybe we could slow it down,” you murmured. “Like... take it down a couple notches. I think a slow song would really breathe on this album. Something stripped.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said. “R&B, maybe. Something quiet, like... like two people talking in the dark.”

You looked at him again. He was already looking at you. Neither of you looked away.

Then he stood, brushing his palms on his joggers. “Come here,” he said, motioning toward the piano.

You blinked. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just walked to the piano, lifted the lid, and slid across the bench with an inviting tilt of his head. You padded across the studio, your socked feet making no sound, and sat beside him, your legs folding neatly under the bench, shoulders brushing just faintly.

The space on the bench wasn’t exactly generous, but neither of you made a fuss about it. Your thighs touched, just barely, and his arm brushed yours as he adjusted himself to find the right key. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

He started first, letting his fingers trail softly over the keys, finding chords like muscle memory. It was a slow, dreamy progression, like rain tapping on windows at midnight. You watched his hands, fascinated by how natural it looked—the way he knew just where to go, just how long to hold.

After a moment, you placed your fingers on the keys too, joining in. A higher melody, floating softly above his chords.

You felt his eyes flick over to you, not in a way that interrupted the moment. Just... noticing. Appreciating.

“This is nice,” you said softly, barely louder than the piano.

He nodded. “Feels like a conversation.”

You smiled. “A musical one?”

“Yeah. Like the lyrics haven’t come yet but... the feelings already know what they want to say.”

You both laughed gently at that, but the truth hung in the air between you.

A few minutes passed in that peaceful, fluttery stillness. No pressure. No studio heads watching from behind the glass. Just four hands, two hearts, one quiet night. He started humming under his breath, a soft little melody that hadn’t found its words yet, and without thinking, you matched it, your voices blending softly in the glow of the old table lamp.

You turned slightly, looking at him. “What if that’s the chorus?” you said. “We layer both our voices? Like... overlapping harmonies.”

He looked at you like you’d just solved the universe’s riddle. “That’s exactly what I want,” he said. “Like a dream and a memory singing to each other.”

Your heart squeezed a little.

Then he nudged you with his shoulder. “Play the chorus again. I’ll follow.”

You laughed, cheeks warming, and played the melody a little louder this time. He caught on quickly, joining with a low harmony that gave you goosebumps. Your hands bumped once on the keys and you both froze—then looked at each other and broke into quiet giggles.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t move his hand.

“No, that was my fault,” you murmured, smiling down at the keys.

He glanced sideways at you, his voice even softer now. “I like this. Being close like this.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded, still smiling, still playing.

“Me too,” you said after a beat. “Feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Zayn looked at you like he wanted to say something else—something maybe bigger than the moment allowed—but instead, he just bumped your shoulder again, and said, “Alright then, let’s write something that'll make the world cry.”

You both laughed, and the music kept flowing. The notes between you melted into lyrics. His hand stayed close to yours on the keys. Your head dipped toward his shoulder more than once. There was no tension. No awkwardness.

Just music. Just closeness. Just two hearts quietly, unknowingly leaning into something far deeper than friendship.

And neither of you had to say a word.

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yourusername nights like this

You had never thought you’d actually say yes to a movie role, but there you were—starring in a full-blown, romantic drama with an emotional arc that dug deep, just like the classics. It was the kind of film that gave people goosebumps, that made strangers fall in love all over again just by watching the characters breathe around each other. And tonight? Tonight was the big premiere.

Outside the theater, the evening air was brisk but gentle, carrying with it the scent of perfume, pavement, and red carpet anticipation. Flashbulbs sparked in every direction, music thrummed quietly under the noise of gathered voices, and every movement felt ten times more important under the lenses of dozens of paparazzi.

You stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in a creamy, oversized faux-fur coat that spilled elegance and warmth around your body like a blanket of snow. Underneath it, your dress glowed like candlelight—silky, backless, hugging your figure like it was made just for you. A soft golden sheen shimmered every time you turned, and your hair was pulled up in a graceful twist, a few tendrils loose around your face.

Zayn had agreed to come with you.

That alone had already made your heart flip three times before you even stepped out of the car. He wasn’t one for crowds, and certainly not for red carpets. But when you’d asked him—quietly, with a small smile and hopefulness in your voice—he didn’t hesitate. He had simply said, “Yeah, of course I’ll go. Just tell me what time to pick you up.”

And he had. He’d shown up, clean-shaven, hair buzzed short the way he wore it lately, dressed in an all-black tailored suit that clung to him like it had been stitched to his bones. His sharp jawline was even more prominent beneath the warm lights, and his tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs and collar like little secrets he wasn’t hiding, just not showing off. He looked—well, he looked breathtaking. But you didn’t tell him that. Not yet.

Now you stood smiling for photos, your co-star beside you, tall and broad and dripping with charisma. He leaned in every now and then to whisper something cheeky—maybe about the way you almost tripped, maybe about the woman in the third row flashing too many teeth. Whatever it was, it made you laugh, and you didn’t notice it, but Zayn had.

He was watching you from a few feet away, hands in his pockets, brows subtly furrowed.

He didn’t know what the feeling was exactly. It wasn’t rage, not at all. Just… tightness in his chest. Like a string had been tugged. A quiet alarm in his ribs that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was protective instinct. Or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you laughed with someone else. Either way, before he could second guess it, he moved toward you.

You were just turning to face another camera when you felt it—Zayn’s hand brushing yours, then gently taking it. You blinked in surprise, your co-star pausing mid-smile.

Then Zayn brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

Soft. Simple. But the message behind it? Crystal clear.

Your co-star laughed nervously and took a step back, suddenly remembering he had more photos to take elsewhere.

And Zayn stepped in beside you, his palm sliding with natural ease around your waist, fitting there like it belonged. Like it had always belonged. You barely had time to process it, but your body leaned toward him instinctively, your shoulder brushing his chest.

He looked down at you, eyes warm beneath his lashes.

"You look beautiful,” he said, low enough that it didn’t make the cameras click. “You always do, but... wow.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched just slightly, or the way your heart fluttered inside your chest like a wild thing trying to break free. His gaze was soft but intent, like he meant it, like he saw you in this sea of glitz and wanted to pull you out and into his world.

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheeks warm despite the breeze. “It means a lot to me that you’re here. Even more so knowing you're not a very public person.”

He smiled, lips curving slow and familiar. “I’d do anything for you.”

You wanted to say something back, but the cameras flashed again, and the moment was frozen in time—your arm around Zayn’s, your laugh half-caught in the air, his hand settled protectively at your back.

“Guess I’m stealing all your press tonight,” he murmured teasingly in your ear, drawing out another soft laugh from you.

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “Let them write whatever they want.”

Zayn pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let them.”

For the rest of the night, he stayed by your side—through interviews, through press lines, even during the screening when you cried a little watching your own movie and he subtly slid his pinky against yours in the dark. And the whole time, his arm returned to your waist again and again, like he needed the confirmation that you were still there, and that you were his to hold—if not completely yet, then maybe someday soon.

And you? You let him. Because whatever that feeling was blooming in your chest—it didn’t feel like acting anymore.

zaynmalik

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zaynmalik proud of you, in every aspect.

The afterparty lights blurred behind the tinted windows of the black car as it pulled away from the theater, tires humming softly against the pavement. You didn’t go. You’d smiled and thanked everyone, posed for a few more pictures, waved politely to co-stars and directors, but once you saw Zayn waiting quietly by the car—with one hand on the open door and that look in his eyes like he didn’t care for crowds or cameras or flashing lights unless they were dancing across your skin—you knew you weren’t staying another second.

The moment the door closed behind you, the silence wrapped around you both like a blanket, and you let out a long breath. You didn’t even realize how tense your shoulders were until they dropped, and the quiet hum of the car made everything feel slower, softer.

Zayn sat beside you in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers toying absently with a ring on his hand. His jacket was open now, and he smelled like cologne and something warm and clean—like cedarwood and coffee and maybe the lavender laundry detergent you told him to start using months ago and he never admitted he liked.

You looked down at your heels, unstrapping them slowly and tossing them gently to the floor of the car. Your bare feet curled against the leather seats.

“God,” you exhaled, leaning your head back. “Why do I always forget how exhausting red carpets are?”

Zayn chuckled under his breath, turning slightly to face you. “Because you make it look easy.”

You smirked at him without lifting your head. “Flatterer.”

He shrugged. “Just saying facts.”

The city lights flickered through the window, dancing on his face as he looked at you. You felt his gaze but didn’t look yet. Not just yet.

You could feel the static between you both. That soft buzz. The one that always came after long days or intense moments. Like your souls had synced up again without words, without effort. It had always been like that. Since the very first time you met. You’d chalked it up to creative chemistry. But lately, it felt like something deeper. Quieter. And stronger.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “In the movie.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes meeting his.

“Really?” you asked, voice soft. “You liked it?”

He nodded, his expression gentle. “It felt… real. Like you weren’t acting. Like you were just… feeling.”

“I was,” you admitted. “It was harder than I thought it would be. That kind of love story—it’s rare. You want to do it justice, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze lingering. “You did.”

There was a pause. A long, easy one. The kind that only happened between two people who didn’t need to fill the silence. You reached over and took his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers curled around yours immediately.

“You looked good tonight,” you murmured without looking at him. “Really good.”

You felt his thumb brush softly across your knuckles. “I felt like a bodyguard in a suit.”

You laughed, tilting your head toward him. “You were more like a prince.”

Zayn’s mouth twitched. “A prince who nearly elbowed a photographer for getting too close.”

“I saw that,” you said with a knowing smile. “You really didn’t like my co-star, huh?”

He looked out the window, playing it cool. “He was fine.”

“Zayn.”

His jaw twitched. Then finally, he turned back toward you. “Okay, maybe I didn’t love the whispering and the leaning in and the smirking.”

You tried to hold back your smile, but it crept in anyway. “You jealous?”

He looked at you for a long beat, then shrugged with an honesty so simple it cracked something open in your chest. “Yeah. I think I was.”

Your smile faded, replaced by something softer. Something slower.

“Why?” you asked gently, still holding his hand.

He didn’t look away this time. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the most important person in my life and watching someone else make you laugh like that made me want to…” he trailed off, lips curving faintly. “Be closer.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering. “You’re already close.”

Zayn leaned in then, not enough to scare you, not enough to blur any lines you weren’t ready to blur, but just enough to feel his warmth move closer, enough to smell the sweet hint of mint gum and whatever soft cologne clung to his shirt collar.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in the dimness of the car, “but sometimes I wonder if I could be closer.”

You didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure your voice would come out steady. So instead, you slid your hand up, tracing the line of his wrist, the smooth skin just under the cuff of his sleeve. His pulse beat strong and steady under your fingertips.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I don’t think we would.”

You looked at him then. Fully. The way you did when you were writing music together and you were on the edge of a breakthrough. The way you did when he was speaking about something important and you wanted to catch every word.

His eyes were the same ones you’d seen in a hundred different moods. But tonight, there was something in them you hadn’t let yourself name until now.

“I’m not saying anything has to change,” he added quickly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hand again. “Just… I’m here. However you want me. I’m here.”

Your lips parted, the words trapped just behind them. And then—

The car pulled to a gentle stop in front of his countryside house, the porch light glowing in the distance like a lighthouse calling you both home. The driver didn't turn around, just nodded once through the mirror and stepped out to open the door.

But neither of you moved.

Zayn looked at you again. “Want to stay over?”

You looked down, smiling faintly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I do.”

He helped you out of the car, his hand steady in yours. The night air wrapped around you both as you walked up the steps. And somewhere behind you, the last of the city lights flickered and faded.

But in front of you, something new was beginning. Quiet. Gentle. But real.

And this time, neither of you was afraid of it.

When you walked in, you let out a slow breath. His house was warm, quiet, still holding onto the smell of sage from earlier in the week. A faint trail of incense. Everything familiar. Comfortable. Like home, but not yours — his. Still, your shoes came off by the door like instinct. Zayn did the same. You slipped your coat off and hung it over the arm of the couch.

You caught him looking.

“What?”

His voice was soft. “You just looked so good tonight. And now you’re here like this… it’s just kind of messing with my head.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “You looked good tonight too. All serious and handsome and broody for the cameras.”

He rolled his eyes and took a step toward you too. “I was brooding.”

“And then you kissed my hand like we were in a black and white movie,” you teased, your voice light, but your heart beating just a little harder as he stepped even closer.

“I saw that guy whispering in your ear,” he admitted, voice low now.

Your lips twitched. “He was telling me he couldn’t believe how good my highlighter looked.”

Zayn grinned, eyes dropping to your cheeks. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You were standing inches apart now, in the soft light of his hallway. Neither of you moved. Not really. You just looked at each other for a long second. The buzz of the premiere still clung to you, but it was muted now, replaced by something far more real. Quiet. Intimate. Unspoken.

“You want to change?” he asked. “Get more comfortable?”

You nodded slowly, eyes not leaving his. “Can I steal one of your shirts?”

Zayn’s smile deepened, like it was something private he didn’t want to show the world — only you. “You don’t have to ask.”

You made your way to his room, and he followed. In his closet, he pulled out a t-shirt — worn, soft, smelling like him — and handed it to you without a word. You changed in the bathroom, carefully folding your dress and setting it on the counter. When you came back out, barefoot in just his shirt, the sleeves grazing your fingers, he looked at you like he might forget how to breathe for a second.

“Better?” you asked.

“Dangerously better,” he murmured.

You walked past him, pretending not to hear the way his voice had dropped, and made your way to the kitchen. He followed again, this time slower, his eyes lingering on your back. You opened the fridge. “Do we have tea? Or are we doing the rebellious, post-premiere glass of wine?”

“I have wine,” he said, stepping around you. “But I also have those sleepytime tea bags you like.”

You smiled. “You remember.”

“Of course I do.”

He put the kettle on while you sat on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You watched him move — slow, familiar, so domestic in a way that was dizzying when paired with the memory of him on the red carpet just hours earlier, dressed in all black, jaw clenched, hand around your waist like it belonged there.

“You were jealous tonight,” you said after a beat.

He didn’t turn. “Was I?”

You bit back a smile. “You kissed my hand like you were challenging someone.”

He finally glanced back at you, his voice softer now. “I don’t like sharing your light with people who don’t know how to treat it.”

Your chest tightened, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

Zayn stepped toward you, his hands slipping into the space on either side of your legs as he leaned against the counter. He was close again. Close enough that you could smell the remnants of his cologne and something earthy — the fabric of his hoodie from earlier, maybe, or the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know what this is becoming,” he said, voice lower now, more uncertain. “But I know I’m not ready to let go of it. Of you.”

You looked at him, really looked — at the tired around his eyes, the vulnerability sitting on his lips. Then you reached up, slowly, and cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to let go,” you whispered. “You don’t even have to figure it out tonight. Just… stay close.”

He leaned into your hand. “I can do that.”

You shared tea on the couch after that, your legs tucked under you and his arm slung over the back, fingertips playing with the edge of your sleeve like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The TV played something quiet neither of you really watched. Your head eventually rested on his shoulder. And after a while, he kissed the top of it — just once.

It was nearly 2 a.m. again, and the world outside Zayn’s house had gone completely quiet. No car sounds, no wind, not even the distant bark of a neighborhood dog. It felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you inside the softly lit studio — that familiar, sacred space that had grown to feel more like home than anywhere else lately.

The session hadn’t started with the intention of recording anything deep.

Zayn had texted you earlier: “Got something stuck in my head. Can’t sleep. You up?”

You were already halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed, and by the time you’d slipped into sweatpants and thrown on a hoodie, you were already at his door, your hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t even attempted sleep — messy curls pulled back in a bun, long sleeves half-pushed up, and a mug of tea in his hand that had clearly gone cold.

Now, almost an hour into the session, the lights were low again — not for the aesthetic, but because neither of you had the energy for brightness. Only the small amber bulb in the corner glowed, casting long shadows on the walls and a warm sheen on the keys of the piano.

Zayn was sitting on the bench, legs spread slightly, barefoot, his phone on the floor beside him. You were right beside him — too close for just friends, if anyone had walked in. Your thighs brushed. Your knees leaned in together as you shared the piano.

He was playing something slow. Something soft, unresolved, delicate. You rested your chin lightly on your hand, elbow on the piano as you watched his fingers move.

“You keep writing about someone,” you said quietly, voice barely above the music. “Is it always me?”

His hands faltered just slightly on the keys, then kept going.

“Most of the time,” he admitted, not looking at you. “Even when I’m trying not to.”

You turned your eyes down to the keys.

Zayn leaned back just a little, shoulder brushing yours. “Is that… weird?” he asked, softer now, like he was scared you’d pull away.

“No,” you said. “It makes me feel something I don’t think I know how to explain.”

He tilted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Try me.”

You sighed. “It’s like… it’s like being seen and undressed at the same time. Like I didn’t know someone was watching me love them quietly until I heard you sing it.”

Zayn didn’t respond at first. His hands had gone still on the keys, and his jaw shifted a little, like he was holding something back. Then, slowly, he reached forward and played a single, long chord — one hand resting gently across the low keys. The kind of chord that hangs heavy in the air, then dissolves, leaving only silence.

Then he said, “Can I show you something?”

You nodded.

He stood, walked over to the soundboard, and pulled up an unfinished track you hadn’t heard yet. He motioned for you to sit near the booth mic. You obeyed, sliding into the chair inside the small glass room. He adjusted the headphones on your ears himself, letting his fingers brush against your jaw when he tilted them into place.

When the track started, you were stunned.

It was soft — a minimal, heartbeat-like beat under warm, layered strings. His voice came in first, fragile and almost raspy, like he’d been holding back tears when he recorded it:

“You’ve seen every part of me, Every shade, every fracture. But you never once looked away. You never asked for less…”

Then, almost immediately after, your own voice — sampled from old takes, harmonizing behind his like a ghost, like a memory.

Your lips parted slightly.

You looked up, and he was already watching you through the glass.

He pressed a button, his voice coming into your headphones.

“I made this the night after the premiere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Zayn…” you whispered.

“I keep trying to say it in conversation, but I get scared you’ll leave if I make it too real.”

His hand found yours, gently covering it. His forehead grazed yours first, like a question.

And you answered it by closing the last inch yourself.

His lips met yours, slow and warm, like something that had been waiting to happen for years. There was no urgency, no rush — just the quiet realization of something that had always been there. You kissed him like he was a secret you’d known forever, and he kissed you like you were the chorus he never wanted to end.

When you pulled apart — barely — your hands stayed locked together, your noses brushing. And then you leaned in again — not just for another kiss, but because you were finally falling into the thing you’d both written into your lives for so long.

You’d helped Zayn tuck Khai in, both of you brushing her hair away from her eyes, laughing quietly at the way she’d insisted on wearing her sparkly skirt to bed. She was asleep in minutes, one hand still clinging to her pink ukulele like a shield.

Now, the hallway lights were dim. The moonlight poured through the windows in slivers, streaking silver across the wooden floor. The breeze had cooled just enough to be felt on your bare arms as you padded back downstairs in socks, one of Zayn’s long-sleeved shirts now draped over your frame. The same gray one from earlier — still loose, still warm, still him.

You heard the soft clink of glass as you reached the bottom of the stairs. In the kitchen, Zayn was rinsing two glasses under low light, the warm glow of the under-cabinet bulbs catching the angles of his jaw and casting long shadows down his neck. His sleeves were pushed up, tattoos like ink bleeding through candlelight.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard you. And smiled.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to leave her room yet,” you murmured, stepping barefoot onto the tile. “She was holding my hand in her sleep.”

His eyes softened, and you watched something flicker across his face — affection, admiration, maybe even awe. He handed you one of the glasses, something fizzy and citrusy, the ice clinking softly. His fingers lingered against yours as you took it.

“She adores you.”

You smiled gently. “I adore her.”

He leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped around his glass, the other tucked into the pocket of his joggers. His eyes traced over your face, resting on your mouth longer than they should’ve. Neither of you moved.

“What?” you asked softly, almost breathless from nothing but the weight of his gaze.

“You look like you belong here,” he said, voice like velvet, low and too sincere.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“Like this house missed you when you’re not in it,” he added. “Like… I do.”

Your throat tightened.

You walked toward him slowly, the glass still in your hand, unsure if you were moving because you wanted to or because something stronger than you needed to close the distance.

“You’re saying dangerous things, Malik.”

He didn’t smile this time. He just set his drink down and straightened slightly, closing the distance between your bodies, not quite touching, but so close you could feel his breath.

“I mean every word,” he whispered.

Your chest rose, your breath shallow. You set your glass beside his. The tile felt cool beneath your feet, but your skin was hot — your entire body hyper-aware of how close he was.

“Zayn…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, his hand finally brushing your hip.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does to me.”

You swallowed, trying to smile, but your lips parted instead, your eyes searching his face for something solid to grab onto — and finding nothing but that same depth, that same gentle pull you’d been falling into for weeks now. Maybe longer.

“I’m scared,” you whispered honestly.

He stepped closer, his hand resting flat against the small of your back now. “Of what?”

“That this doesn’t stop. That I won’t be able to leave.”

His hand tightened slightly.

“Good,” he said, barely audible.

“Zayn…”

His name again — this time not soft. This time you gasped it because his mouth was finally on yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent.

It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve wanted it for too long — slow, steady, overwhelming. His lips moved gently against yours, like he was still unsure if you’d change your mind, like he was tasting the truth of it before it could disappear. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you in, your chest flush to his now, and when you melted into him — because you did — you felt his exhale shake.

You pulled back barely an inch, noses brushing, hearts racing.

It was late afternoon by the time the golden hour rolled into Zayn’s countryside home, bathing everything in honey-colored light. The house felt like a warm cocoon, quiet except for Khai’s giggles floating faintly from upstairs, where she was playing music and dancing in her room. Zayn had just checked on her—she was in princess pajamas, spinning in circles, making up choreography to a song from Encanto, absolutely in her own world.

Downstairs, you sat curled up on the L-shaped sofa in the open living space, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, a half-read poetry book resting on your stomach. The big windows were open wide, and the scent of grass, lemon trees, and sun-heated wood floated in. The breeze fluttered the edge of the gauzy curtains. Outside, the last light filtered through the fields behind the house, and inside, it caught in the gold specks of dust suspended in the air.

You glanced up when you heard him descend the stairs slowly, barefoot, a little flushed from running around with Khai.

“She’s in her own concert up there,” he said, his voice low and warm as he made his way toward you.

You smiled. “She’s got better moves than I ever will.”

Zayn grinned, walking past the couch to the open kitchen area, grabbing a glass of water. You watched the way his tattoos caught the light on his forearm, the casual way his oversized grey t-shirt slid off one shoulder, hanging loosely off his frame. He leaned against the counter and looked at you, soft and unreadable.

“You’re always looking at me like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t move from yours. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

He walked slowly back toward the couch, glass still in hand. “Yeah. I’ve known it for a while now.”

Zayn sat beside you, but close this time—close in that way that made your heart thunder a little in your chest. His arm brushed against your knee, and he set the glass down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. You felt the way the air shifted between you. It wasn’t just the heat outside.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said quietly, “that something’s been happening for a long time, and maybe you were both pretending it wasn’t?”

You swallowed, the softness of his voice curling around your chest like silk. “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that speaks louder than words. The room held its breath with you.

Zayn reached forward slowly, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw.

“I don’t wanna pretend anymore,” he said. His voice was lower now, like he was afraid to break the spell. “Not when you’re sitting here, looking like that, in my house, in my life, every day, and I keep stopping myself from…”

Your breath hitched. “From what?”

He smiled faintly. “From touching you like this.”

His hand cupped your cheek then, so careful, so tender, and the pad of his thumb swept along your skin as he leaned in. Your eyes fluttered shut just before his lips brushed yours—not rushed, not hesitant, just warm, deep, and unguarded. His mouth moved with a kind of reverence, a soft hunger, like he was savoring something he’d imagined a thousand times but never dared to take.

You shifted toward him, your hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath it.

The kiss deepened, slow but intense. His hands slid along your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The hem of your soft loungewear shirt rose slightly as your bodies pressed together.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, his hand splayed along your back, grounding you.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yeah… I just didn’t think you’d ever actually do something like this.”

Zayn exhaled a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “I didn’t think I had the right to.”

“But you do,” you whispered, tracing his jaw with your fingers. “You always have.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain. There was something unspoken between you, something that had been growing for years but had only just now bloomed fully in the golden light of his living room. You both moved in sync—his hands exploring, yours tangled in his neck, your hips slowly shifting against his lap, heat and want tangled with every breath.

Still, it never felt rushed. It never felt anything less than meaningful.

Zayn pulled back slightly, catching your face in his hands again. His eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, quietly, like a truth that had lived inside him for years.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

From upstairs, faint music played on, a child’s voice singing. And in that moment, surrounded by warmth, sunlight, and the deepest, rawest affection you’d ever known, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. Not tonight. But maybe that’s exactly why it did — because there was no performance, no expectation, no carefully crafted script. Just you in his hoodie, your bare legs tucked under you, the wine half-forgotten on the coffee table, and Zayn sitting so close that his warmth soaked into your skin.

The kiss had already happened. And the second. And now you were breathing him in with a hunger that surprised even you, clinging to his shirt as your back met the couch cushions again.

Zayn kissed you like he needed to, like it had been sitting under his skin for years. There was no hesitation in him now. Just quiet confidence, a gentle hunger. His body pressed against yours — not too heavy, not too fast. He still kissed you like he was trying to memorize it. Trying to figure out if this was real.

Khai was spending the weekend with her grandmother, and the house, usually pulsing with her little footsteps and laughter, felt oddly still — but not empty.

You and Zayn had cooked together earlier. Nothing fancy — just some pasta, a bottle of wine, and a playlist of old R&B songs playing low in the background. You wore one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, the sleeves falling over your hands, and Zayn hadn’t taken his eyes off you all night. Not really. He was subtle, careful — but you felt it. That gaze. That heat. Something unspoken had been stirring between the two of you for a while now, and tonight… it hummed louder.

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm air of late spring. The kitchen lights were off, just the warm lamp in the living room casting amber light across the hardwood floor.

You tilted your head back and let out a soft sound when his mouth traveled to your neck, slow and reverent, like he had all night and no intention of rushing it.

“Zayn…” you whispered, your fingers curling into the hem of his t-shirt. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

He laughed quietly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “It’s real. And if it’s not, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

You felt him smile against your skin as his hand slid beneath the hoodie again, resting over your ribs — the warmth of his palm grounding, protective. Your body reacted instantly, arching into him. The fabric was thin between you. Too thin. Not enough.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice rasped, eyes flicking down to your thighs — the hoodie bunched just above them now, your breath shallow and lips kiss-swollen.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Please.”

That single word undid him.

Zayn kissed you again, slower, deeper, and this time his hands moved with more certainty, sliding the hoodie over your head and tossing it somewhere behind the couch. You were bare beneath it — no bra, nothing but soft skin and want — and he stared at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You’re driving me insane.”

You reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the moment your hands touched his skin — warm and sculpted and already familiar from all those platonic touches that suddenly weren’t — you sighed, like it was exactly where you were meant to be.

He kissed you again, one hand slipping behind your neck to tilt your head up to him, and the other tracing the edge of your waist, just above your underwear. His touch was maddening — slow, teasing, hot — and every time he moved closer, it still didn’t feel like close enough.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” he murmured, mouth against your collarbone. “The way you look at me… how you always sit too close... how you know me better than anyone.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. “Then show me.”

That was it.

He stood, lifted you with such ease it made you gasp and laugh all at once, and carried you upstairs — your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, his mouth never leaving yours. You didn’t know which room he brought you into — his or the guest one — but the bed was soft, and the windows were still cracked open, and the breeze made the curtains flutter like you were inside a movie.

Zayn laid you down with such care it made your chest ache. His body followed yours, his hips slotting between your legs as he leaned over you, his hands framing your face like you were something sacred.

“I’m not just your friend anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t be.”

You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you, breathless and needy and full of that silent finally that had lived in your chest for far too long.

He made love to you like he’d been waiting years — like this wasn’t just a night, but a shift in your entire story. His hands roamed your body with reverence. His mouth whispered your name like a vow. There was laughter too, in between the panting and the kissing — because it was Zayn, and it was you, and somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him breathless one moment and giggle when he muttered something about you being “unfairly hot” the next.

But then it shifted again — deeper. He slowed down. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand beside your head as he moved inside you, and suddenly it wasn’t just physical.

You stared at him, eyes glassy, heart too full.

He leaned down and kissed your lips, soft as a secret. “You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

You nodded, overwhelmed in the best way. “Better than okay.”

When it was over, he didn’t let go of you. You stayed tangled, skin warm and damp, his arm tight around your waist, his lips moving lazily against your shoulder.

“You ruined me,” you murmured.

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “We just started”.

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