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papayainsectorone · 5 days ago

Text

Salt On Our Lips

content: 18+!! soft smut, nsfw, rich kid brats, slow burn (?), mutual pining finally exploding, tender but heated kissing, breathless confessions

word count: 12,8 k

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

a´s masterlist

The yacht is spotless. It always is by the time turnover hits — brass polished to a blind shimmer, liquor shelves restocked until they look staged, every surface scrubbed and bleached within an inch of its life. No fingerprints, no smudges of salt or sweat, no lingering traces of the last party that left behind a constellation of broken champagne flutes, an empty condom wrapper in the laundry room, and a ridiculously expensive bottle of cologne bobbing forlornly in the hot tub like a message in a bottle.

You walk the main salon one last time, clipboard balanced against your hip, eyes catching on every detail. The floral arrangements stand perfectly upright in their vases, stems sliced clean. The candles remain untouched, virginal wicks whispering of restraint. The throw pillows are plumped and sculpted into soft clouds — clouds no guest ever seems to resist ruining within minutes.

“Boss,” comes Milo’s voice from the galley, a note of hesitant apology hidden under his professional tone. “Provision drop’s five crates short.”

Of course it is. Nothing says turnover day quite like a supplier fuck-up. You scrawl a note on the inventory sheet, pen biting into the paper: Missing — imported truffle oil, twelve bottles of that overpriced tequila some pop star’s publicist insists is ‘essential.’ Even as your hand moves, you’re already drafting the email in your head, framing annoyance as polite urgency, frustration wrapped in a velvet bow.

“I’ll handle it,” you call back, forcing your lips into a quick, practiced smile before Cam can see the exhaustion lurking underneath. “Just make sure the welcome tray doesn’t smell like fridge.” Charming. Efficient. Over it.

The crew moves around you like clockwork wound tight, each cog in place. Most of them you trained yourself — teaching them the thousand tiny secrets that keep a floating palace from looking merely expensive and make it feel effortless. Turnover is sacred. It’s the ritual, the stagecraft, the quiet hour when the last performance is wiped clean and the illusion resets. By the time the guests arrive, there must be no hint of the chaos it took to prepare.

In under an hour, the party will step aboard from the tender. A cocktail of models, influencers, and the name that’s been drifting around the crew mess like a rumor nobody wants to be the first to say aloud.

Charles Leclerc.

You’d rolled your eyes when the guest list landed in your inbox. Not because you dislike him — you don’t. You couldn’t, even if you tried. It’s his yacht, after all. His name signs the paychecks, pays for the imported roses that die in silent perfection every three days, for the shelves of vintage champagne no one finishes.

You rolled your eyes at the rest of the list: models, influencers, bored rich kids orbiting him like moths around a flame they’ll never quite touch. The same orbit you’ve pretended for years not to share.

Clipboard tucked under your arm, you step back and survey the welcome tray: fresh-cut fruit, drizzled honey, mint sprigs placed just so. It needs to look effortless, like it bloomed there on its own.

The tender appears on the horizon, slicing across the water, sun flashing against its hull. Exactly on time. Of course it is.

Your radio crackles softly in your ear. You lift the tablet, smile smoothing into place. Not wide — just professional. Just enough to say: welcome, but don’t get comfortable.

“Tender inbound. Confirming twelve guests onboard,” you say, voice calm. Inside, your pulse kicks a little faster.

Twelve is a lot for a yacht this size, especially a charter like this: young, beautiful, hungry for content. But provisioning’s handled. Crew’s ready. And the yacht is spotless. No one will see the hours it took to make it so.

The first to step aboard: a brunette model with blade-straight hair and barely-there sandals. Phone up, filming vertically, glossy lips parted in the practiced half-smile of someone whose real life happens in stories and reels. She doesn’t look at you. Just sweeps past.

Two more girls follow, giggling over something private. Then a guy in a linen set, no shoes, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses.

And then him.

He doesn’t lead them, never does. But the space tilts when he steps on deck. Even in sunglasses, even in casual clothes, there’s something in the way people glance toward him, wait for his cue to keep laughing, keep filming, keep being seen.

He lifts his gaze. Under mirrored lenses, you feel it: the recognition, the history nobody else knows.

“Bonjour,” he says, voice pitched low, almost intimate.

“Bonjour, monsieur Leclerc. Welcome aboard,” you answer, formal. Practiced. Like your heart isn’t knocking against your ribs.

One of the girls slides in beside him, platinum blonde, sunglasses bigger than her face. You clock her: Sofia, swimsuit brand heiress, the one who insists on vodka over tequila and only sits port side because of “angles.”

The others spill aboard in a glittering tangle: the crypto guy trailing expensive cologne, the couple from Monaco wearing identical tans, the British model with honey curls and luggage she won’t lift herself. They don’t see you — only the camera lenses, only each other.

It’s a circus. Beautiful, curated, mildly feral.

You step slightly aside, hand resting against the polished rail. “Monsieur Leclerc — if you have a moment, I’d like to review a few details with you before you settle in.”

He nods without hesitation, follows you just a few steps into the shade of the aft lounge. Here, away from lenses and laughter, the air feels cooler, your breath comes easier.

“Preferences have been confirmed,” you begin, voice steady. “Dinner service at eight. Whirlpool setup. Crew briefing complete.”

He nods, listening. Doesn’t interrupt. A small mercy.

“We also received a late addition to the drinks list — Chandon Garden Spritz. It’s been stocked,” you add, eyes flicking to his.

That earns the faintest smile. “That wasn’t mine,” he murmurs.

You don’t comment. You don’t have to.

“Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like adjusted.”

“Merci,” he says softly. Then, leaning closer, voice dropped even lower — “tu es incroyablement belle aujourd'hui.” You look incredibly beautiful today.

The words ghost against your skin as he kisses your cheek. Warmth blooms there, sharper than sunburn.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

For a moment, the quiet stretches between you, straining under everything unspoken. His gaze lingers — just a heartbeat too long. Like he wants to say more. Like he might.

Then someone calls his name — female, lilting, already half-drunk on salt air and attention.

He glances back, apology written in the small crease at the corner of his mouth, then turns and is gone.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Quiet, breathless: “Fuck.”

Then the mask slides back into place. You tap your earpiece. “Guests aboard,” you murmur, stepping back into motion.

The afternoon went smoothly enough. Your crew efficiently packed away the endless parade of designer bags, trunks, and mystery boxes that trailed behind the guests like a flock of seagulls at a fish market. The welcome had been, well, alright — except for one model who’d thrown a minor fit about the “excess carbs” in the fresh fruit platter. One of your stewards had politely explained that carbs in fruit aren’t exactly something to fret over, but if she preferred, they’d bring her another bottle of champagne instead.

You knew people like these — rich kids with too much money and too little patience, convinced the world bent to their whims.

As the sun began to dip, you made your rounds. Checked the galley: the food was prepped to perfection, the dining table set with precision, gleaming silverware aligned like soldiers ready for inspection. Everything was exactly how it should be.

But the guests were still on the upper deck, the bass from their loud music pulsing through the air like an uninvited guest. Champagne flutes clinked and laughter rolled over the waves, mingling with the scent of salt and sunscreen.

You climbed the stairs, expecting what you found. A handful of them soaked in the whirlpool, cheeks flushed and carefree. Others sprawled on lounge chairs, some half-naked, all of them loud. Charles was there, casually lounging with a brunette perched on his lap, a glass of something amber catching the fading light in his hand.

You stepped forward, voice soft but authoritative, slipping seamlessly into your service tone.

“Monsieur Leclerc, dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes.”

The girl in his lap turned toward you, a lazy smirk curving her lips as she shoved her barely covered chest toward his face like a shield.

“It’s too early for dinner,” she drawled. “We said it should be ready by eight.”

You glanced at your watch.

It was exactly eight.

You smiled politely. “Yes, mademoiselle, it’s eight o’clock now.”

She snarled back, “Well, it’s still too early. You’ll have to wait.”

You shifted your gaze to Charles. His eyes met yours, calm and slightly amused.

“If Monsieur Leclerc agrees,” you said evenly, “I’ll speak with the chef and see if we can postpone service. But I suggest you all start getting ready soon.”

He gave a slight nod.

The girl pouted but didn’t argue further. You turned away, already mentally prepping for the transition from deck party to dinner service, the delicate dance of control and chaos that you’d perfected over the years.

You descended the stairs with your smile still fixed in place — at least until you rounded the corner and slipped out of sight. The second it dropped, so did your shoulders, and you let out a long sigh through your nose.

Of course. Of course they’d push dinner. Of course she had to snarl at you like a guest star on a reality show.

You nearly ran into Camille, who was coming up from the crew mess, still clutching her tablet.

She took one look at your face and burst out laughing. “Soo... they’re not coming down, I guess?”

You shook your head, deadpan.

She grinned. “Strong start.”

“Can you just keep an eye out in case they need anything upstairs? But don’t bring them anything. Let them know drinks will be served with dinner.”

Camille nodded. “Copy that.”

You made your way down to the galley, and the smell hit you before the light did — grilled peaches, something crisp and buttery in the oven. The starters were plated already, gleaming and perfect on chilled porcelain.

Chris, the chef, looked up just in time to see your expression. His smile dropped.

“No. Don’t you dare. It’s done. I just garnished.”

You held up your hands in surrender. “Sorry, Chris. Delay request just came in.”

He threw his towel onto the counter like it was a dramatic stage prop. “Of course it did. Why would we serve food when it’s hot? Why would we serve it at all?”

You tried to calm him down. “You’re not yelling at me, right? You’re yelling near me?”

“Correct,” he barked. “At the dickheads two decks above.”

You laughed and hopped up onto the stainless steel counter beside the prep sink, grabbing the half-empty melon salad bowl and a fork. “In that case, I’m staying.”

Chris muttered something under his breath about “feral heiresses” and started rechecking temperatures. You tried calming him a biz, eating in rhythm, both of you finding some temporary peace in shared irritation.

You were still chewing when you heard someone clear their throat from the hallway.

Your head snapped up — and there he was.

Charles.

You jumped up so fast your fork clattered against the metal bowl. You straightened your skirt and tugged your hair back behind your ears in one motion, scrambling into something resembling composure.

“Monsieur Leclerc,” you said quickly, voice back in Service Mode. “How can I help you?”

He blinked, then gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “Uh... I just got everyone down and sat at the table. Didn’t mean to interrupt your—” he glanced at the bowl on the counter, the fork you’d half-thrown in — “conversation.”

You blinked once, then smiled lightly. “No interruption at all. I´ll be up in a second”

He nodded, eyes flicking once toward Chris — who had stopped moving but was pretending to chop herbs — then back to you.

You nodded again.

Dinner was, in short, a mess.

Half of them were grumpy because they had to stop their party for an actual meal. A few barely touched their starters. One of the girls asked — again — if there were bad carbs in peaches. The others were too loud, too dismissive, too glued to their phones to notice the effort your staff had poured into every course.

But you survived it.

You always do.

Later that night — or really, early morning, that soft dead hour when even the sea seems to hush itself — the final glasses had been cleared away, candle wax scraped from linen runners, and music long since died down to memory. The yacht felt different then: emptied of laughter and perfume and phone cameras, left only with the quiet thrum of engines far below and the faint salt-tang of night air.

You found yourself on the lower deck, slouched on the bench the crew claimed after hours. Though truthfully, there were no “hours off” on a boat like this — only moments stolen between guest demands, only breaths caught between perfection and exhaustion.

A half-warm beer sweated in your hand. Camille sat opposite you, feet bare, a few flyaway strands of hair escaping her bun, cheeks still flushed from sun and work.

She launched into an impression, pitch-perfect: “Umm, excuse me, do you, like, boil this water? Or is it just… naturally still?”

The group cracked, laughter spilling out all at once. Real laughter — the unfiltered kind that lives below the waterline, hidden from charter guests and owner’s eyes.

You nearly choked on your drink, breathless, stomach aching from the release. One of the deck boys — Luca, sunburned nose and salt-stiff hair — leaned forward, bottle dangling from his fingertips.

“You know what I never get?” he said, wiping condensation onto his shorts. “These girls come aboard basically naked — not even creatively naked, just…” he gestured vaguely, “but then they bring five full-size suitcases. For what? Emotional support?”

That did it. Camille wheezed with laughter, head tipped back, and you couldn’t stop yourself either: the sound bounced off steel bulkheads, sharper and truer than anything you’d let slip in daylight.

For a heartbeat, it felt… good. Stupid and good and real.

And then you saw him.

Up on the upper deck, leaning against the glass railing just above the dining area, half-hidden in low amber light that caught the edge of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. One hand wrapped loosely around the railing, the other slipped into his pocket. Still as sculpture.

Charles.

Your breath stalled in your chest.

He wasn’t doing anything dramatic. Just standing there, watching. Watching you. Everyone else blurred into the background — the laughter, the half-empty bottles, the scrape of sandals against teak. It all faded, tunneled down to just that single moment: his eyes meeting yours.

He always had that calm. That unsettling quiet, like a storm waiting behind the glass. You’d seen it in briefings, in guest meetings, even in bed — the stillness that felt more intimate than any word.

And then, slow and deliberate, he tipped his chin toward the sliding door behind him — the door that led to his suite.

A silent question. Or maybe an order.

You blinked, heat flooding your neck, fingers going tight around the beer bottle until the label crackled under your grip.

“Did you just see a ghost?” Camille teased, leaning into your space, eyebrow cocked.

You tore your eyes away, pulse still stuttering.

“No,” you lied, voice sounding far away in your own ears. “Just… never mind.”

You rose, forcing your legs to move. “I’m calling it. Early one tomorrow.”

Camille mock-saluted, Luca mumbled a good night, and someone wished for strong coffee in the morning. You echoed goodnights back, the words automatic, your mind already elsewhere.

You slipped inside, shutting the door on laughter and late-night confessions. The corridor felt colder, the hush deeper.

Ahead, the staircase branched: down to the crew quarters — narrow bunk, thin mattress, the smell of detergent and metal — or up toward the owner’s deck, where he waited behind tinted glass and polished doors.

You paused at the landing, hand hovering over the rail. Your heart thudded hard enough to hurt, breath caught between duty and want.

One step down meant rest. Safety. The version of you the crew knew: competent, untouchable.

One step up meant him. The truth you kept buried below the waterline, the affair no one could see but that colored everything you touched.

You stand at the foot of the staircase, the yacht’s gentle sway rocking under your feet. One way leads down to duty and cold sheets; the other leads up — to him.

Your breath catches, heart drumming against your ribs. And without meaning to, you’re already somewhere else — eight years ago, when all of this began.

Back then, you were new. Young. Just another stewardess in a crisp uniform, still smoothing the creases on your apron, still memorizing the endless rules recited during briefing: Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t look too long. Smile — but not too much. And above all: never, ever cross the line with a guest.

The yacht felt impossibly large then. Marble floors you were scared to scuff, brass rails polished until you could see your own nerves staring back at you. You didn’t know the crew well yet, kept mostly to yourself. Just grateful for the job, the tip, the chance to see sunrises at sea.

And then Charles arrived.

He’d just bought the yacht — barely older than you, but already carrying himself like he belonged to every horizon he could see. Soft hair falling onto his forehead, tan lines cutting across his shoulders, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Shirtless most days, droplets running down his chest from the pool, disappearing into the sharp lines of muscle and skin.

The first time you saw him, your training evaporated like spilled gin on teak. You forgot to breathe, forgot your own name for a second.

It started so stupidly.

You’d been called up to the sun deck, a tray balanced carefully in your sweaty palms — an iced drink, condensation sliding down the glass. Your heartbeat was so loud you barely heard the radio crackle in your ear.

He looked up at you when you approached, eyes dark under thick lashes, lazy smile curving his mouth.

“Merci,” he murmured, voice low and easy.

But your hands were shaking and the glass tipped, spilling cold liquid across his chest.

“Shit — I’m so sorry,” you gasped, dropping to your knees, dabbing frantically at the droplets running over tanned, sun-warm skin. Your napkin caught against the ridges of his abs, and the sudden closeness made your breath catch. Your face burned, heat crawling from your neck to your hairline.

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t laugh. Just looked at you — really looked — eyes soft with amusement and something else you didn’t know how to name yet.

“C’est froid,” he teased gently, his voice a little rougher now.

You stammered out another apology, fingers brushing his skin, dizzy with embarrassment and something hotter you wouldn’t even let yourself acknowledge.

That night, you told yourself to forget it. That it meant nothing. That you’d be invisible again by morning.

But he found you.

Lower deck, by the aft lockers, a place crew sometimes hid for a minute of quiet. You’d been leaning against the cool metal wall, heart still unsettled. Then his shadow fell across the floor, and you looked up.

Charles.

“Tu vas bien?” he asked softly. You okay?

You’d opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. He stepped closer, until you could smell salt on his skin, the faint echo of cologne from dinner.

You whispered, voice shaking: “We shouldn’t—”

He kissed you before the thought could finish. Slow at first, testing, tasting. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. And you… you kissed him back, like falling forward into something you knew would break you but felt inevitable anyway.

Your back pressed into the railing, the cold biting through your uniform. His mouth moved from your lips to your neck, his breath hot, words half in French, half in low, urgent English: “Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

Somewhere in your mind, the rules still whispered: never with a guest, never with the owner. But his hands were already lifting the hem of your skirt, and your heart was hammering yes yes yes against your ribs.

He bent you over the railing, breath hot against your ear, and the world blurred into salt air, the creak of the yacht shifting gently beneath you, the dizzy, terrifying certainty that nothing after this would ever be the same.

The memory leaves you breathless even now, years later, your hand still hovering over the polished rail.

You’d never left. Every summer, every break he took aboard, you found yourselves here again. Different cabins, different linens, but always the same hidden truth. You’d been promoted — chief stewardess now, clipboard in hand, crew under your command. But some rules, you kept breaking. Some lines, you kept crossing.

Your reflection in the dark glass of the staircase window looks older now — but the same pulse flickers at your throat, the same heat curls low in your stomach.

You draw in a shaky breath, then exhale. Quiet steps now, careful as always — so no one sees.

And you start to climb. Upwards. Towards him.

When you finally reach his door, you hesitate. Your fist hovers just above the polished wood, knuckles inches away from knocking. But before you can, it opens from the inside — as if he’d been standing there, waiting.

You slip inside quickly, barely a breath between entering and him closing the door behind you. His hand comes up, pressing flat against your lower back, pinning you gently but firmly against the wood.

Then his mouth is on yours, hot, urgent, tasting faintly of the bourbon he nursed earlier. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s anchoring himself, pulling you closer until there’s barely space left for air.

You gasp his name against his lips, your hands splayed on his chest, pushing just enough to slow him down. He half-groans into your mouth, a low sound that makes your pulse jump.

“Chérie,” he breathes, voice rough with laughter and desire, “where did the monsieur Leclerc go?”

You chuckle despite yourself, the sound muffled between kisses. He laughs too, softer now, forehead brushing yours. For a moment, you just look at each other — that small, private hush that always feels heavier than words.

His gaze roams over you, catching on something new. “Your hair is shorter this year,” he says, thumb brushing a strand at your jawline.

You twirl it nervously around your finger, suddenly shy despite everything that’s passed between you. “Yeah. I cut it a few weeks ago.”

“It suits you,” he says. Simple, quiet. Like he means it.

“Thanks,” you murmur, your voice a little small, your chest warm.

You slip away from the door, wandering toward the bed — exhaustion tugging at your limbs, the day finally crashing down now that you’re behind closed doors. You let yourself fall back onto the mattress, arms spread slightly, staring at the ceiling. “The people are all new this time around,” you say, voice edged with honesty you never show on deck.

“Yes, they are,” he answers, stepping closer.

“To be honest… they seem annoying, Charles.”

He laughs, the sound genuine, his shoulders relaxing. He comes to lie down beside you, legs still dangling off the edge of the bed. You’re on your back, and he props himself up on his stomach, chin resting on his arm so he can look at you fully. With his other hand, he brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, fingertips warm against your skin.

“Well,” he says, mouth tilting into a faint grin, “some of them might be. But they’re generally good people, you know.”

You nod, half-listening, half-distracted by the nearness of him — the warmth of his body, the soft rumple of sheets beneath your palms, the hush that wraps around you both in this cabin.

His eyes hold yours, softer now, pupils blown wide in the low light. And then the silence breaks — your hand drifts to his shoulder, his mouth finds yours again.

This time, the kiss is slower. Measured. His lips part against yours like a question, and you answer by tilting your head, deepening it.

But it doesn’t stay gentle for long. Years of practice taught you both how quickly quiet longing turns into something hungrier. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against your ribs, and your breath catches in your throat.

Your hand curls at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the soft hair there, and the world beyond the cabin door slips away — the models, the cameras, the carefully arranged flowers waiting in the salon.

For a few stolen minutes, there’s only this: his mouth on yours, the soft weight of him over you, the familiar ache of wanting more than you’re supposed to take.

The alarm buzzed far too soon — though you barely needed it. You hadn’t really slept, not in the deep way that rest cures anything. Your eyes felt scratchy, lids dragging over dry skin; your head was thick, heavy with salt, shadows, and everything unsaid.

You dragged yourself out of the narrow bunk, feet hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. Above your head, the yacht’s hush still reigned — polished mahogany, chilled air that smelled faintly of orchids and sea breeze. But down here, past the crew corridor and through the heavy watertight doors, the real machine thrummed to life: laundry humming, ice makers coughing, the low crackle of the radio in someone’s pocket.

You always came back here to sleep. Always. Even on the nights when you were tempted to stay — tangled in a king-size bed and warm skin, lulled by the slow rock of the yacht and his hand drifting lazy circles across your back. But this was the rule you’d made with yourself, the only way to keep it from swallowing you whole.

It wasn’t always like this, either. Back then, your bunk was crammed in a cabin barely bigger than a walk-in closet. You remember climbing the narrow ladder, careful not to wake the girl who slept below you. Your uniform hung on a single hook, shoes lined neatly beside a metal trunk that rattled whenever the swell hit just wrong. You had to learn quickly to make yourself small, invisible.

At least now you had your own cabin — a tiny space, barely room to turn around still, but the bed was wider than seventy centimeters and there was a cupboard just for you. A door you could close. A place where, for a few hours, you could let your shoulders drop.

You pulled your hair back, twisting it into a knot you’d undo a dozen times before lunch. The elastic snapped against your wrist, fingers fumbling from tiredness. Then you slipped into your work shoes, scuffed leather with soles worn thin from years of pacing teak decks and marble floors.

For a breath, you stayed still, listening: muffled footsteps overhead, the clink of glasses being stacked, the brief static of Milo’s voice over the radio. Then you exhaled and stepped out, letting the door click shut behind you.

Within minutes, you were back in motion — clipboard in hand, smile in place, voice calm and measured as you crossed the aft deck into morning light.

Because no matter what happened behind closed doors the night before, the work never waited. And neither did he.

First stop: the breakfast setup. You moved briskly through the main deck lounge, checking that the table was properly laid out — crisp linen runners, polished cutlery, tiny jars of organic jam lined up like soldiers. You adjusted a single croissant with the tip of your finger, even though it didn’t need adjusting.

Next: drink stations. Water pitchers topped off with lemon slices, fresh juices chilled, coffee warming in the silver urn. You checked that the champagne was on standby — because apparently mimosas counted as hydration for this crowd.

Then a quick pass through crew quarters.

“Camille, you alive?” you called softly as you opened the door with a gentle knock.

She was already lacing her shoes, her hair in a sleepy bun. “Barely.”

“Good enough,” you said, tossing her a wrapped breakfast bar. “Bridge radio on, deck boys up?”

“Yep. Milo’s already pacing like someone swapped his Red Bull for rocket fuel.”

You nodded. Everything — or at least everything you could control — was ready. You pressed your earpiece into place and gave a quiet breath before stepping into the corridor that led toward the guest suites.

Time to put the face back on.

You turned the corner near the guest corridor, half-expecting silence: maybe the low rush of a shower behind a door, the muted clink of jewelry being arranged on marble. Morning quiet, the last precious breath before the day roared to life.

Instead, you nearly collided with him.

Charles.

Fully dressed already: fresh navy linen shirt, cuffs casually rolled, top buttons open in deliberate disregard of dress codes that didn’t really apply to him. His hair still damp, curls pushed back by impatient fingers. And somehow, impossibly, he looked awake. Clear-eyed. Rested.

It was like a jumpscare, but worse: the kind that stole your breath before giving it back.

“Oh shi—! Sorry. Sorry. Good morning,” you stammered, voice cracking on the last syllable as you tugged your shirt hem back into place, heart rattling in your chest.

He smiled. Not the public one — not the dazzling, press-room grin. Something smaller, private. “Good morning, chérie.”

You winced, your eyes darting to the corridor in automatic reflex. “Charles,” you hissed, soft but sharp, “don’t call me that here.”

He only tilted his head slightly, as if pretending he hadn’t heard. His gaze drifted toward the espresso machine set into the little galley nook — an absurdly expensive beast of polished chrome and brass that somehow looked like it had personally offended him.

“May I help you?” you offered, your tone back to professional, though your voice still felt too soft in the quiet.

“Yes, please, chérie.”

You bit back a sigh. “Cappuccino?”

“Cappuccino,” he confirmed, voice low.

“I’ll bring it out to you, if you’d like.”

But he didn’t move. Just shifted, settling on the barstool tucked under the marble counter, elbows braced, long legs angled out into your space. “I’d rather stay here, I think.”

Your hands hesitated for a second before you turned to the machine. You weren’t really slowing down for him — you told yourself that, anyway. It was just habit. Espresso demanded a kind of care, a ritual. Measure, tamp, lock the portafilter in with a practiced twist. Milk steamed to soft peaks, the hiss filling the silence between you.

You could feel him watching. Not greedy, not obvious — just a steady presence, eyes following the movement of your hands. It wasn’t the look he gave the cameras, or the crowd, or even the guests. It was softer. Quieter.

“You look tired,” he murmured, voice so low it almost got swallowed by the steam.

You kept your eyes on the milk jug, swirling gently. “Didn’t sleep much,” you admitted.

A beat. His reflection shifted in the stainless steel as he leaned a little closer, elbows still on the counter. “I know,” he said simply, smirking.

The words shouldn’t have meant anything. But they caught somewhere behind your ribs anyway.

The machine clicked off. Foam settled into the cup, glossy and white. You tilted the jug, drawing a practiced heart — your hand steadier than your pulse — then set the cup gently in front of him.

“Merci,” he murmured, eyes flicking briefly to yours before lowering to the coffee.

The next few days blurred together, stitched into one long, sunburnt reel of motion.

For you and the crew, it became muscle memory: dawn light spilling across polished teak, feet sliding into worn boat shoes before the coffee even finished dripping, radios crackling with clipped instructions, the hiss of steamers on linen table runners, the faint chemical sting of cleaning spray. Early mornings that bled into late nights, until your eyelids felt like they were lined with sandpaper and every laugh came out an octave too low.

The guests, though — they floated above it all, untouched by clocks or consequence. No matter how late they drank or how loud the music pulsed across the bay, they reappeared the next morning, blinking against the sun, skin still perfect, smiles still camera-ready. Sprawled across loungers and daybeds like living billboards for last night’s excess.

A few activities broke the pattern: a jet ski afternoon near a cove where limestone cliffs turned the water jewel-green; a sunset beach drop-off, toes sinking into warm sand, bottles of chilled rosé sweating in silver buckets; a wine tasting set up with trembling care on the aft deck — glasses catching the dying light, though the guests barely noticed, distracted by phones and each other.

Otherwise, the boat was their stage. And Charles was the effortless lead.

The guys — mostly old karting friends and rich kids whose surnames sounded like brand names — drifted between the jacuzzi and sunpads, trailing lazy laughter and faint cologne. All tan shoulders, designer swim shorts, bucket hats pulled low over their eyes.

The girls moved like warm breezes: barefoot, sun-bleached hair tangled by salt, bikinis that seemed less like clothing and more like suggestion. They perched on laps, arched for photos, smeared lip gloss on crystal glasses and each other’s cheeks. Always glowing. Always posing.

Charles played his part perfectly. The charming, unflappable center of gravity. The girls on his lap changed daily — a platinum blonde draped across his chest on Monday, a brunette with butterfly tattoos by Wednesday. You told yourself you didn’t care. He wasn’t yours.

And that was the truth. Mostly.

One afternoon, you rounded the upper deck stairs just as one of them — the brunette that day — straddled him outright, knees bracketing his thighs, bikini top loose enough to make her intention obvious. She crushed her mouth to his, tongue bold, hands threaded into his hair as if there wasn’t an entire crew below and two other guests filming half-distractedly.

You had to smirk at the audacity.

His hands rested on her thighs, casual, almost bored. Like she was a sunhat someone had draped over him by accident. His gaze didn’t even flick to the camera.

You kept walking. Steps practiced, pulse steady, face neutral.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, the usual sun-soaked blur of topping up towels, organizing mise en place, and dodging the endless parade of half-dressed, loud guests. You were in the aft lounge area, stacking fresh towels and making mental notes for the evening service, when suddenly—

A blur caught your eye through the glass. Someone, flew past the window like a cannonball and plunged into the turquoise sea.

You mumbled to yourself, “What the—?”

Without thinking, you sprinted toward the back deck, heart pounding. As you rounded the corner, the boy was already clawing his way up the ladder, water streaming off his sun-bleached hair. The guests on the upper deck were hooting and cheering, like he’d just won some ridiculous prize.

“Omg, are you okay? Is everything alright?” you asked, breathless.

He grinned, teeth gleaming. “Yes! Of course. That was great fun!”

Your smile faltered. “Fun? Fun? Are you out of your mind? You could have literally died!”

A chorus of “Ooooohs” came from the upper deck.

You looked up sharply, voice rising. “What are you all thinking? This is dangerous!”

They just laughed, clearly not taking you seriously.

The guy who’d jumped flashed a grin and said, “Omg, you’re no fun, come on.”

You glared, hands on hips.

Before you could say anything else, the brunette model—Charles’ current ‘companion’—called down from above, smirking, “Maybe she needs to be cooled down.”

And then, before you had a chance to process what was happening, the guy grabbed your arm.

You screamed.

Next thing you knew, he was falling backward—with you—into the water.

You hit the water with a gasp, the cold shock stealing your breath for a moment as waves swallowed the shriek you’d barely managed to get out. Saltwater filled your mouth, stung your eyes, but adrenaline surged through you stronger than any discomfort.

You kicked hard, thrashing up toward the surface. The guy who’d pushed you was already bobbing beside you, laughing like it was the best joke in the world.

Finally, you broke through, coughing and spluttering, hair plastered to your face. You gasped in a shaky breath, eyes blazing with fury.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you shouted, voice sharp enough to slice through the lazy ocean breeze.

The guy just smirked, shrugging. “Come on, lighten up. It’s just water.”

“Just water?” you snapped, glaring at him while dripping saltwater everywhere. “You could’ve seriously hurt me! Or worse!”

A few guests on the upper deck glanced down, some laughing, others raising eyebrows. The brunette model was smirking like this was all a game and honestly, you wanted to wipe that smug smile off her face.

Not Charles though, he was already on his way down the stairs.

When you reached the back of the yacht, he was already reaching out a hand to help you, but you didnt take it.

Your mic was completely wrecked—saltwater had gurgled through the tiny speaker—and your uniform clung to you, soaked through and dripping onto the deck as you climbed the ladder, muscles still burning from the shock of the plunge.

At the top, the atmosphere shifted immediately.

There stood the captain, arms crossed, his stern expression cutting through the usual yacht party haze like a blade.

“Can I speak with you—and Mister Leclerc—immediately?” His voice was low but firm, no room for argument.

You swallowed hard, heart still racing, and nodded.

Charles was already nearby, his usual charm replaced by a serious crease between his brows.

The captain motioned you both toward the bridge, where the hum of navigation equipment filled the silence.

“This stunt,” the captain began without preamble, “is unacceptable. It endangered not only your safety but also the entire vessel’s operations. The guests are guests, yes, but there are rules. Boundaries.”

He paused, eyes locking onto Charles’s.

“As the head charter, this reflects on you. I expect you to take responsibility and ensure nothing like this happens again.”

Charles nodded slowly, voice steady. “Understood, Captain.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, despite the lingering sting of wet clothes and bruised pride.

“Yes, Captain.”

The captain’s gaze lingered on you a beat longer, sharp enough to sting. Then he dismissed you both with a clipped nod, turning back toward the radar screens.

The bridge door clicked shut behind you, sealing you and Charles into the narrow passageway. You stood there, dripping saltwater onto the polished floor, hair sticking to your cheeks. Your heartbeat hadn’t quite slowed — a stubborn, angry thud under your ribs.

Charles exhaled slowly, running a hand over his damp curls, as if trying to smooth the moment back into something manageable. “Cherie…”

“Don’t,” you cut in, voice hoarse from swallowed seawater and swallowed fury. “Don’t ‘cherie’ me right now.”

He looked at you properly then, eyebrows lifting, surprised at the edge in your voice. “They’re drunk, bored, stupid — I should’ve stepped in sooner.”

You crossed your arms, shivering slightly in the air-conditioned corridor. “You think?”

Silence pulsed between you, broken only by the distant echo of music and laughter outside.

“I wasn’t laughing,” he said, quieter now. “When it happened. I came down.”

You swallowed hard, still tasting salt. “I know.” Your voice cracked on it, softer than you meant.

For a moment, the angry buzz in your chest gave way to exhaustion. The kind that didn’t come from swimming, or even from late nights and early mornings — but from years of being the one who had to keep the invisible lines in place while everyone else got to ignore them.

He stepped closer, careful. Not like the night before — no heat behind it, just… closeness. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes cast down. “I’m fine. Just… humiliated. And I’ll have to write a damn incident report on myself now.”

His lips quirked, almost a smile, but didn’t quite make it. “You do look very professional right now.” His eyes traced the outline of your soaked uniform, clinging in awkward places.

You let out a wet laugh, half a huff. “Shut up.”

A breath of relief passed between you both.

He raised a hand, paused, then brushed a stray strand of wet hair off your forehead. His fingers were gentle, as if he thought you might flinch.

“Get changed,” he murmured, voice dipping low in a way that made your pulse skip despite everything. “I’ll keep them from trying anything else.”

You nodded again, throat tight. “Thanks.”

“And cherie…”

“What?” you asked, still not quite meeting his gaze.

His voice dropped, soft but certain. “Next time, take my hand.”

You blinked, surprised. Your chest tightened — a strange, sharp feeling you pushed down before it could bloom into something you didn’t have time for.

Later that night, the yacht slipped quietly into port, gliding through a stretch of still water that reflected every light strung along the dock like molten gold. Beyond the quay, the little Italian town glowed warm under its old stones and terracotta roofs. You could see narrow alleys curling into darkness, hanging baskets spilling geraniums, lanterns swinging gently in the breeze. The air smelled faintly of salt, diesel, and lemons warmed by the day’s sun.

It was beautiful, but you barely saw it.

Your mind still felt stuck somewhere between the cold shock of saltwater in your lungs and the echo of Charles’s words on the bridge. “Next time, take my hand.”

You had spent the whole afternoon and evening running on autopilot: collecting empty glasses scattered like breadcrumbs around the decks, checking the flower arrangements, replacing towels folded so precisely they looked machine-made. Your mic, still broken from its unexpected swim, lay silent on the shelf in the crew pantry. It had been oddly peaceful without it buzzing orders into your ear — though the silence had left too much room for thought.

When you stepped out onto the main deck at dusk, the air had cooled a little, but the heat still clung to the teak. You found Charles near the railing, half-shadowed by a brass deck light, talking to Camille.

It startled you, that simple sight. Something about the two of them standing there, so casual, made your pulse hitch. Camille, sweet and oblivious, had no idea how many times you’d stood where she was now — closer to him, whispering words that would have made her eyes widen.

“Monsieur Leclerc,” you called softly, voice practiced and professional. “Is everything alright?”

Charles turned to you with that quick, boyish half-smile that still somehow felt dangerous after all these years. “Yes, absolutely,” he said, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen trousers. “I was just speaking to Camille, asking if she’d be willing to cover your duties tonight.”

You blinked, confused. Your mouth opened a little, but you didn’t quite form words.

Camille’s voice danced in to fill the gap, bright and teasing: “Mister Leclerc wants to take you out for dinner to apologize.”

The words struck you like a cold wave.

Charles watched you carefully, expression softer now, as if he could see the confusion written plain on your face. “It’s settled, then?” he asked, tilting his head, curls brushing his brow. “We’ll meet here at eight. Is that alright?”

You nodded, though your voice caught in your throat.

He gave a small nod in return and stepped away, the deck lights catching briefly on the back of his shirt before he disappeared inside.

As soon as he was gone, Camille all but bounced on the spot. “Oh my god,” she squeaked, eyes wide. “That’s so sweet of him! Imagine if this turns into, like, a summer romance!”

The words nearly made you laugh. If only she knew.

There were so many words you could use for what had been unfolding over the last eight years — secret, stupid, dangerous, addictive — but romance had never been one of them.

You hid your reaction behind a practiced smile, then slipped away to finish your last rounds. Camille kept floating by, gently nudging you to “go get ready,” until even you couldn’t find any more excuses to stall: no more glass to polish, no more stray towel to fold, no more half-invented task to keep you anchored to your stewardess uniform.

Your cabin was small, metal walls painted cream. The only mirror was a narrow strip on the inside of the locker door. You stood there barefoot for a moment, breathing in the scent of laundry soap and sea air that clung to your sheets.

It felt absurd — terrifying, even — to change into something that wasn’t uniform. But you pulled open your suitcase anyway, dragging it out from under the bedframe where it rattled against the floor.

You found the little black dress — tucked away so deep you’d nearly forgotten you’d packed it. You held it up by its thin straps, staring for a moment. You didn’t know why you’d brought it. Maybe some small part of you had known.

You showered quickly, rinsing the day and the salt from your skin, then towel-dried your hair and curled it at the ends, the iron clicking softly in your hand. You dusted on a little bronzer, a sweep of mascara, tinted your lips. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror: softer somehow, younger and older all at once.

You slipped the dress over your head, the fabric cool against your skin. It wasn’t fancy — just a simple cut, hugging your waist, the hem grazing mid-thigh — but it felt impossibly different from your uniform.

When you stepped back, you caught your own gaze in the narrow mirror. For a moment, it felt like looking at another girl — one who wasn’t bone-tired, wasn’t responsible for every folded napkin and polished glass, one who maybe, just maybe, could allow herself to want something.

You reached for the door handle, then paused.

Your hand hovered there, breath caught in your chest. For the first time in eight years, you were going to step off the yacht beside him. No shadows, no steel staircases, no quick stolen minutes below deck. This was different.

Your fingers curled around the cool metal. You let out a long, shaky breath.

Then you opened the door and stepped out — into the corridor, into the warm night breeze drifting through the deck doors, into whatever this would turn out to be.

Charles was already there when you stepped out onto the main deck — leaning lightly against the rail, the harbor lights painting soft gold across the water behind him. He wore navy dress pants that sat just a little too well on his hips, a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and his hair — always stubbornly curling — looked carefully mussed, like it had taken effort to seem that effortless.

He wasn’t looking at the view, though. His gaze lifted the second your steps echoed on the teak.

And for a moment, something in him seemed to still.

It was just a flicker — the faintest breath caught behind his ribs — but you caught it, as surely as if he’d spoken aloud. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, pausing just enough to make your skin flush warm where it lingered. His eyes glinted with a mischief that felt practiced, yet softened by something unspoken. Then, half-biting his lip to hold back a grin, he let out a low whistle — playful on the surface, though there was something almost reverent buried in the tone.

“Damn,” he murmured, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “You know, I might actually have to rewrite the whole uniform policy after this.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t quite stop the answering smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t get used to it,” you shot back, trying for teasing indifference. Your voice sounded lighter than you felt; inside, there was an ache that was part embarrassment, part delight — and all of it blooming into heat in your cheeks.

His smirk relaxed then, softening at the edges until it became something closer to quiet admiration. For a moment, the teasing fell away, leaving just the two of you standing there in the gentle hush that wrapped around the docked yacht.

The night smelled of salt and seaweed, the faint tang of diesel drifting up from the engine room, and somewhere beyond the quay, lemon trees perfumed the warm Mediterranean air. Over the water, laughter rose from a bar whose fairy lights flickered against the stone wall of the marina. The ropes creaked where they bit into the cleats, keeping the yacht close as if it, too, was listening in.

He studied you — really looked — as though trying to memorize every detail. His brow eased, and a small, almost shy tilt crept into his head. “Well,” he said finally, offering his arm to you, the gesture playful yet oddly old-fashioned, like something out of a different century. “Shall we?”

You stepped off the gangway together, the planks creaking in quiet protest beneath your feet, and onto the stone dock that curled protectively around the little port. Even wrapped in the soft dark, the village seemed to glow: pastel facades stacked like weather-worn watercolor, their edges blurred by years of salt and sun. Warm lamplight spilled out across cobbles left slick by the evening sea breeze, catching on puddles that mirrored hanging baskets and wrought-iron balconies draped with fairy lights.

Shuttered windows stood slightly ajar, releasing the hush of dinner plates clinking and murmured conversation carried on the breeze. Somewhere higher up, a guitar played — a half-finished melody drifting lazily from a rooftop terrace, winding itself into the night air heavy with salt and the faint, bright perfume of lemon trees.

It was beautiful. Stupidly beautiful. Almost too much — cinematic in a way that felt quietly, stubbornly real rather than polished.

You walked past low walls crusted with white salt bloom, under archways where the air turned cool and smelled of damp stone and old earth. Past faded doorways painted in sun-softened blues and greens, past shops already shuttered for the night — except for a lone gelateria still awake, humming gently under its awning of yellow light.

At first, neither of you spoke, and the silence settled oddly between you. Heavy, expectant. You were used to other silences — the breathless kind stolen in hidden corners, teasing words dropped like coins into the dark, laughter edged with risk. But this was different: a simple, open quiet, made of slow steps and your hand curled around the firm line of his arm, your thumb brushing the faint crease of his rolled shirtsleeve. It felt almost… vulnerable.

And he felt it too. You could sense it in the subtle tension beneath your fingertips, in the way his jaw worked slightly as if he were swallowing words that wouldn’t quite come. It struck you suddenly, almost painfully clear: for all his practiced charm, this was unfamiliar territory for him too.

So you kept walking, letting the hush of the old stones underfoot speak for you, while somewhere nearby, laughter burst and faded from a restaurant terrace. Your thoughts looped around themselves — around how strange it felt that, after everything, this felt riskier.

And then, before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out on a low, self-mocking chuckle.

He turned his head, brow arched, an unspoken question caught in the corner of his eye.

“You know,” you began, voice catching on an embarrassed laugh, “I just realized… it’s kind of funny that this — just us walking here — feels like the most awkward, and maybe even the most intimate thing we’ve ever done. And you literally fucked me on an open deck once.”

He stopped walking for half a breath, eyes wide — and then the laugh broke out of him, raw and low and a little breathless. The sound slipped under your ribs, loosening something tight you hadn’t known was there.

“Fuck, I…” he managed between laughs, shaking his head. “I really wanted tonight to be… I don’t know. Nice. To actually say sorry properly for earlier. For being an ass.”

The words hung there, softening the air around you, and you both kept smiling, even as your steps slowed to match each other’s. The lamplight pooled over the stones, catching in the pale gold of his hair, and for a second your chest tightened at how he looked at you: amusement still sparking in his eyes, but something gentler beneath it too — as if, for once, he was seeing more than just the moment.

Ahead, the harbor opened out wider, the water dark and restless under a sky scribbled with the fine lines of swaying masts. The town curled around it in a lazy crescent, and at its far end, a small trattoria spilled warm candlelight over the quay, the last handful of tables still dressed in white linen, a bottle or two catching the lamplight.

“Come on,” he said then, quieter now but steadier, as if the words had weight. “Let’s find somewhere with wine. Somewhere you can yell at me properly, if you still feel like it.”

You couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped free, your hand still wrapped around his arm, fingers tightening in a gesture that said what you couldn’t quite voice. And together you turned off the stone path, leaving behind the hush of the harbor, heading toward the promise of shared candlelight and the possibility — fragile but real — that tonight, for once, you could be seen.

You and Charles followed the gentle arc of the harbor, the stone quay cool beneath your steps, until the trattoria finally came into view. Warm light spilled onto the worn paving stones, lanterns swaying softly above rustic wooden tables set with neatly folded napkins and little glass jars holding wildflowers — daisies and sprigs of lavender catching the breeze. The scent of garlic, basil, and freshly baked bread curled out to greet you, mingling with the briny hush of the night air.

Charles paused, holding the door open with an awkward sort of formality that made you bite back a smile. Inside, the space was small and lived-in: walls patched with faded photographs of fishermen and sunlit piazzas, shelves crammed with bottles of dusty wine, the flicker of candlelight turning each bottle into dark red glass and shadows. The clink of cutlery, the low murmur of conversation, and the occasional soft laugh wrapped around you both like a well-worn blanket.

He guided you to a quiet table tucked into the corner, where the candle between you danced in the slight draft from an open window. You both settled into your seats, the nervous tension from your walk still humming between you, delicate and restless as an unsettled breeze.

The waiter arrived, and Charles slipped effortlessly into Italian — the words smooth and soft on his tongue, like water over polished stone. A few plates to share, the house pasta, a bottle of local red the waiter praised with a quick, emphatic gesture. You watched him, half-amused, half-impressed by the quiet authority and familiarity he carried, like someone who’d made places like this a second home.

When the waiter left, silence drifted back over the table. Not the comfortable quiet you’d once imagined might settle between you, but something more fragile, sharp at the edges — the kind that makes you painfully aware of just how little you truly know about the person sitting across from you when everything else falls away.

Charles was the first to speak, voice lower than usual, tinged with something that sounded almost like embarrassment. “Uhm… you’re right,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is… by far the most awkward thing we’ve ever done.”

You laughed, the sound easing a fraction of the tightness in your chest. “I guess it is,” you murmured.

His answering chuckle was quiet, a little self-conscious, and his gaze dropped to the candle flame for a moment before finding yours again. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed, the words softening as they left his mouth. “It feels like I’ve known you eight years and somehow only five minutes at the same time.”

You tilted your head, letting the edges of a smile curl your lips. “Then ask me something,” you offered, voice gentle, almost teasing — but there was something vulnerable beneath it too.

That simple invitation cracked something open. The conversation began to flow, first slow and cautious, then steadier as the wine warmed your hands and your words.

You told him about the little details you’d never thought to share before: the younger brother who’d once driven you mad and now felt like an anchor, the constant, cheerful chaos of a family house where the door was never quite shut and someone was always burning toast.

He listened — really listened — his gaze steady, his questions quiet and genuine. In return, you learned the shape of his own childhood: the smell of motor oil and sea air, a grandmother who baked bread every Sunday, the memory of late afternoons on rooftops watching ferries come and go.

Your favorite music. His. Birthdays that meant nothing and birthdays that had somehow meant everything. First loves, half-forgotten holidays, stupid teenage regrets. Each answer was like gently peeling back a layer you’d both kept hidden — not from each other, really, but from yourselves.

The waiter returned, plates carefully balanced along his arm, and set them down in a practiced, silent rhythm. First, a plate of golden, perfectly crisp arancini in front of you — their breadcrumb crust catching the flicker of candlelight, steam curling gently from where one had cracked just slightly. Beside it, he placed Charles’s bowl of pasta: ribbons of fresh tagliatelle tangled in rich tomato sauce, glossy with olive oil and crowned with shavings of parmesan and torn basil leaves.

Your face lit up before you could help it, the delight so genuine it felt almost childish. “Oh my god, I love arancini,” you breathed out, laughter threading through your words. “It’s my absolute favorite.”

Across the table, Charles’s head tilted slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know,” he said, almost too casually.

Your fork paused mid-air, curiosity slipping across your features. “You do?”

He nodded, leaning back just a little, and for a moment he didn’t look at you but at the plate itself, as if to steady himself. “You’re always eyeing them on board when Chris makes a batch,” he began, his voice softer than usual. “And the last time we were in Italy, you were practically bouncing about finally having real arancini here in town. They’re famous for mussels here too, but you don’t like those, so… yeah.”

You blinked, letting the words settle, your fingers still wrapped around your fork. “Wait — the last time?”

Charles had already turned back to his pasta, twirling a forkful carefully, like someone who needed the distraction of motion. “Mhm.”

You thought for a second, a little slower now, the memory catching up to the present. “Charles, the last time was… what, four years ago?”

He glanced up at you then, the faint flush still warming his cheeks, and he nodded again, quieter this time, almost like an apology. “Yeah?”

Your fork hovered, the heat of the food forgotten for a breath. “You still remember me saying I liked arancini four years ago — and I didn’t even say it to you?”

He shifted slightly, his shoulders tensing for a moment before easing again, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the swirl of pasta. “Yeah,” he repeated, softer still, the corners of his mouth tugging into something almost self-conscious. “I guess… now eat before it’s cold, will you?”

A laugh slipped out of you, softer than you meant, chased by something warm that settled low in your chest — something almost shy. You picked up a piece of arancini, feeling the crisp breadcrumb shell warm under your fingers, and took a bite.

The familiar taste — creamy rice, melted cheese, a whisper of saffron and pepper — flooded your senses. But it wasn’t just the flavor that made your chest tighten. It was the quiet realization that someone had been paying attention, silently, all this time — to details even you’d nearly forgotten saying aloud.

And across the table, Charles pretended to study his pasta, but there was the faintest, flickering softness in his eyes — like he’d finally let a little piece of himself show.

The evening stretched lazily onward, the gentle clink of cutlery and the soft swirl of conversation wrapping around you both like the warm glow of the trattoria’s lanterns. The wine loosened something at your edges, softening thoughts that usually stayed hidden behind practiced smiles and quick comebacks. With each passing minute, the space between you seemed to shrink — laughter pulling you closer, shared glances lingering a beat too long, until the awkwardness of earlier felt like something half-remembered and far away.

After a while, the two of you stood, chairs scraping softly against the worn stone floor. You lifted your arms overhead in a lazy stretch, the movement drawing a quiet chuckle from him. The wine had left your head pleasantly light, thoughts floating like petals caught on a warm breeze.

Outside, the dock welcomed you back with its familiar hush — the cobblestones cool under your feet, the scent of salt, diesel, and lemon blossoms curling in the air. The night felt deeper now, quieter, the marina’s fairy lights strung overhead like scattered constellations.

Then your foot caught on a raised plank, and with a startled squeak, you stumbled. The moment stretched, heart leaping — and then you were caught, steadied by arms that felt both unexpected and inevitable.

One hand pressed warm and firm to your waist, the other catching your elbow. Your palms landed against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips, rumpled from the day and faintly scented with cologne and sea air.

He didn’t let go.

Charles looked down at you, curls falling slightly over his brow, softening the sharp lines of his face. His gaze met yours — not teasing this time, not guarded, but searching, like he was measuring whether to trust himself to speak. “Just so you know,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by hesitation, “I didn’t sleep with any of the girls here.”

Your breath caught, your pulse quickening in the quiet between you. “What?” you whispered, too surprised to hide it.

“It’s just distraction,” he said, the words coming out slower now, like each one cost something. “Noise. I don’t… I don’t take them back to my room. I couldn’t.”

The night seemed to narrow around the two of you, the distant clink of halyards on masts and faint laughter from the town fading into nothing. You searched his face — really searched — looking for the shadow of a lie. But all you saw was a vulnerability that tugged at something deep and unguarded inside you.

Your gaze drifted, tracing the curve of his mouth — softer now, caught somewhere between hope and fear — then back to his eyes, so open it almost hurt to look at them.

And then, before doubt or reason could harden around the moment, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was softer than you’d imagined, slower — tasting of red wine, salt, and something sweet that felt frighteningly close to tenderness. His breath caught, and for a heartbeat, the world around you dissolved into the hush of water against stone and the warmth of his mouth against yours.

When you finally drew back, your breaths mingled in the cool night air. His forehead rested lightly against yours, your hands still on his chest, his thumb brushing just once along your waist in a motion so gentle it made your heart ache.

The dock felt impossibly quiet, the town behind you blurred into warm lamplight and distant music. And in that small, breathless space, you both stayed — neither speaking, neither pulling away, held together by the fragile, undeniable truth of what had just passed between you.

After a moment, you found your voice, though it came out softer than you meant, edged with a hesitance you couldn’t quite hide. “Charles?”

He turned, the lines of his face gentling in the lamplight, a small, patient smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “Yes?”

You swallowed, the warmth of the wine still low in your chest, mingling with the quick flutter of nerves that refused to settle. “Was… was us going out tonight… was this a date?”

He stopped walking, his boots quieting on the worn stone quay. For a breath, he just looked at you — the question hanging there, fragile as spun glass between you. Then he turned fully toward you, brows drawn slightly, eyes serious but soft. “Do you want it to be?”

The words caught you off guard, your pulse skipping painfully as you bit your lip, weighing the truth in your chest. “I’m not sure,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Do you want it to be?”

Charles didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, and the small space between you vanished. Your legs swayed slightly from the wine, the dock spinning just a little, and your hands lifted almost instinctively to steady yourself against the solid heat of his chest.

His hand rose slowly, like he was afraid you might step back. When his palm finally cupped your cheek, it was with a tenderness so startling it made your breath catch. His thumb brushed lightly along your skin — a touch that felt both careful and certain at once. “I didn’t think of it until now,” he murmured, his voice low, almost rough with honesty. “But yes… I think I would love for this to be a date.”

You couldn’t look away, your heart thudding in a quick, uneven rhythm. And then — quietly, deliberately — he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours.

This kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t hungry like those stolen moments on deck or behind closed doors. It was soft, lingering, like he wanted you to feel every unspoken word he couldn’t quite say out loud. His free hand settled at your waist, gentle and grounding, and for a few precious seconds, the world narrowed to just the two of you: the faint salt breeze, the warmth of his mouth, the taste of wine and something sweeter you didn’t dare name.

When you finally broke apart, you realized you were both breathing a little faster, eyes locked in something that felt dangerously close to hope.

The walk back to the yacht felt quieter than before. The marina had thinned, the last echoes of laughter and clinking glasses fading into the hush of lapping water and distant music. You traced the shape of his hand where it brushed yours, the silence between you softer now, not awkward — simply full.

By the time you reached the gangway, it was well past midnight. The deck lay still under the glow of the dock lights, their reflections shimmering across the black ripple of the water.

At the foot of the stairs, you both paused — that suspended moment when you know the night must end, but can’t quite bear to let it.

Charles turned to you, and in the low golden light, his eyes looked darker, edged with something tender and unguarded. “Goodnight, chérie,” he murmured, voice lower, rougher than usual — like the words cost him something to say.

Before you could answer, he leaned in again, kissing you with quiet certainty. It wasn’t rushed; it was warm, almost reverent, threaded through with a gentle possessiveness that made your chest ache. His hand curled around your waist, and your fingers lifted, brushing lightly along the rough edge of his jaw.

When you parted, your lips still tingled, and neither of you moved for a breath. You stood there, hearts pounding, the hush of the sea around you.

Then, slowly, he stepped back, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made it hard to breathe. “Sleep well,” he whispered, softer now — like a promise he wasn’t quite ready to speak aloud.

And then he turned, climbing the stairs toward the guest suites, his figure swallowed by the shadows.

You watched him go, your pulse a wild, quiet drumbeat beneath your skin — your heart still caught somewhere between the taste of his mouth and the gentle ache of wanting more.

“Charles…” you breathed, your voice catching as his fingers brushed the hem of your dress, hesitating for the briefest moment before pushing higher.

The soft lamp on the desk painted everything in gold and shadow, turning the sharp lines of his face gentle, almost reverent. His pupils were wide, his chest rising and falling against yours in quick, uneven beats.

Your dress bunched under his palms as he slid his hands upward, fingertips ghosting along your bare thighs, sending heat spiraling through you. You couldn’t help the soft gasp that slipped from your lips — and the sound seemed to unravel something in him.

His mouth found yours again, rougher now, hungrier. The kiss tasted of salt, wine, and something wilder, something that had lived quiet and hidden for too long. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging it loose from his trousers until your palms finally met warm skin.

He exhaled sharply against your lips, the breath catching in his chest when your touch skimmed up his sides. His hands slid to your hips, thumbs pressing in gently, grounding you both. Then they traced the curve of your waist, like he was relearning it — like he’d never really let himself map it properly before.

Your back met the wall with a quiet thud, breath leaving your lungs in a soft sigh. The yacht swayed gently beneath you, the movement tipping you both a fraction closer, so close his forehead nearly touched yours.

For a moment, he paused — his gaze locked to yours, pupils blown wide and breathing ragged. One hand rose, brushing your hair behind your ear, the back of his knuckles grazing your jaw. His thumb lingered, as though he couldn’t quite stop touching you, couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“This feels… different,” he whispered, voice rough, almost hoarse.

“Yeah,” you breathed back, your pulse drumming so hard you were sure he could feel it under your skin. “It does.”

You didn’t know which of you moved first, but then you were kissing again, messier this time, teeth catching on lips, breath hitching, your bodies pressed flush. Your dress slid higher with each shift of your hips, your legs brushing against his.

He groaned low in his throat when your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly — the sound raw, pulled from somewhere deep. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, nipping lightly at the tender skin just below your ear, soothed immediately by the warmth of his tongue.

“Charles—” your voice broke on his name, more plea than word.

His answer was a soft, shaky exhale against your neck, his hands tightening on your hips as though he was barely holding himself back. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, the words hot against your skin.

“I don’t,” you whispered back, voice low, almost shaking. “I really don’t.”

And with that, something inside him seemed to break loose. His mouth crashed back to yours, all heat and wanting, and your fingers tightened in his shirt as he walked you backward toward the bed — the quiet creak of the yacht, the faint scent of salt and candle wax, and the two of you, breathing each other in like you’d been starving for this all along.

He looked up, eyes dark and soft all at once, voice hoarse. “Tell me to stop if you want.”

You shook your head, heart hammering. “I don’t.”

That was all he needed.

Your calves brushed the edge of the bed, and for a heartbeat, you both paused. Your foreheads touched, breath mingling, the world tilting gently around you. His chest heaved against yours, the heat of him sinking deep into your skin.

Then you let yourself fall backward, pulling him with you. The mattress dipped under your weight, the air between you rushing out in a soft gasp.

Charles caught himself on his elbows, hovering above you, curls falling to brush your cheek. His gaze roamed over your face, raw and open in a way you’d never quite seen before — like he was afraid to blink and miss it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, the words catching in his throat like they surprised even him.

You reached up, fingertips brushing along his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble, the heat of his skin. “Then kiss me,” you whispered.

And he did.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time — less frantic, more like he meant to memorize every shape and sigh. The kiss deepened until your lips tingled, your chest aching with the weight of wanting and the softness curling around it.

His hand slid down, fingertips grazing your thigh, your hip, then up under your dress to the small of your back. His touch was sure, yet careful — not greedy, but reverent, as though he was discovering something he’d wanted too long to rush.

You shifted under him, breath catching when your hips brushed together. The quiet, broken sound he made at that — low and almost vulnerable — sent a shiver down your spine.

“Fuck,” he whispered against your lips, voice ragged. “I don’t want to hurt you. Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not,” you whispered back, your voice trembling with want and something softer that felt dangerously close to fear. “I want you, Charles.”

Your hands moved between you, fingers brushing over his chest, finding the buttons of his shirt. The fabric parted under your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady pound of his heart under your palm. He shivered at your touch, leaning into it, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

His shirt slipped off his shoulders, falling somewhere beside the bed, and you traced the lines of muscle, the faint scars, the curve of his collarbone. He caught your wrist gently, guiding your hand to his heart, pressing it there, letting you feel the wild rhythm that matched your own.

Your dress bunched higher as his palm skimmed up your thigh, the heat of his skin searing through you. He moved slowly, carefully — like he didn’t want to startle the moment into breaking. When his hand finally slid around to the small of your back, he pulled you closer, chest to chest, the warmth of his skin against yours dizzying.

The kiss turned desperate again, your fingers twisting into his curls, his breath stuttering when you tugged gently. His teeth caught your bottom lip, the faintest scrape, soothed instantly by his tongue.

You gasped into his mouth, hips arching against him, and the quiet groan he gave back vibrated against your lips, raw and unguarded.

When you broke apart for air, your noses brushed, both of you breathing hard, hearts racing. His hand rose, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing softly over your flushed skin.

“This… this feels different,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. “Feels like more.”

Your chest tightened at that, your lips parting to answer, but nothing came out — just a shaky exhale, your forehead pressing to his.

And then you didn’t need words.

Your bodies spoke instead: every soft sigh, every quiet gasp, every whispered “yes” filling the small cabin with something tender and hot and painfully honest. His mouth traced the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat; your hands roamed his back, nails dragging lightly over warm skin, feeling him shiver above you.

When finally he settled fully over you, his hips pressing into yours, your breath caught on a sharp inhale. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else — the yacht, the sea outside, the past between you — disappeared.

All that was left was the softness in his gaze, the heat of his touch, and the quiet, dizzy certainty that this was more than either of you had ever meant it to be.

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

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ghstyles · 2 months ago

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Subtle | FWFW Extra

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WC: 3.2

Summary: Harry subtly, and not so subtly, says he wants to have a baby

FWFW Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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The first instance was so subtle that Y/N almost missed it. They were walking through Hampstead Heath on a crisp autumn afternoon, with the leaves turning gold and crimson around them. A young mother passed by with a stroller, her baby bundled up against the chill. Harry's eyes lingered on the infant longer than usual, a slight smile playing at his lips before he turned his attention back to their conversation about his upcoming studio session.

A week later, they were having breakfast in their sunlit kitchen. Harry was scrolling through his phone while Y/N reviewed case notes for her internship, Grumps watching them both with his perpetual look of feline judgment from his perch on the windowsill.

"My cousin Ellie just had her baby," Harry commented casually, turning his phone to show Y/N a photo of a tiny newborn with a shock of dark hair. "Seven pounds, healthy delivery."

"That's wonderful," Y/N replied, glancing up from her notes. "She looks beautiful."

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful as he gazed at the image. "Yeah, she does," he said softly, before setting his phone aside and returning to his breakfast.

The third hint came when they were reorganizing the guest bedroom that doubled as Y/N's study. Harry paused in the middle of moving a bookshelf, surveying the room with a contemplative expression.

"This room gets great natural light," he observed, glancing toward the large windows that overlooked their garden. "Good for a nursery, don't you think?"

Y/N looked up from the box of books she was unpacking, a slight furrow in her brow. "I suppose it would be," she agreed cautiously. "Though it works well as a study too."

Harry nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response. "Just thinking aloud," he said lightly, returning to the task at hand.

The hints became slightly more transparent when Harry's sister Gemma visited with her toddler son. Harry spent most of the afternoon with the boy on his hip or playing on the floor, his natural ease with children evident in every interaction. Later, as they were preparing dinner after Gemma had left, Harry's expression was wistful.

"James is getting so big," he commented, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. "It goes by fast, doesn't it?"

"Mmm," Y/N hummed noncommittally, stirring the pasta sauce.

"You were great with him today," Harry continued, glancing at her with a small smile. "Very patient when he kept wanting to show you the same toy car over and over."

Y/N laughed softly. "He's a sweet kid. Easy to be patient with."

"Our kids would be like that, I think," Harry said, his tone deliberately casual despite the weight of his words. "Sweet-natured but persistent when they want something."

Y/N nearly dropped her wooden spoon, caught off-guard by the direct reference. "Our hypothetical children seem to have quite the personality profile already," she managed, keeping her tone light.

Harry just smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he returned to his chopping.

The following week, they were shopping for new bedding when Harry inexplicably detoured to the children's section of the department store. Y/N found him examining a tiny pair of pajamas with dinosaurs printed on them, a soft expression on his face.

"Aren't these brilliant?" he asked when he noticed her watching him. "Look at the little feet."

Y/N approached cautiously, eyeing the admittedly adorable sleepwear. "Very cute," she agreed. "But I think we should focus on the sheets we actually came for?"

Harry reluctantly returned the pajamas to the display, but not before adding, "I always loved dinosaurs as a kid. Would be fun to share that with a little one."

Y/N merely raised an eyebrow, steering him back toward the bedding department.

The hints became even more obvious when Harry rearranged his touring schedule, declining several international festival offers that would have kept him away for extended periods.

"Don't you usually do the Australian circuit?" Y/N asked, peering over his shoulder at the calendar on his laptop.

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Wanted to be home more next year," he explained. "Keep my options open."

"Options for what?" Y/N pressed, sensing there was more to his decision.

Harry swiveled in his chair to face her fully, his green eyes meeting hers with unexpected intensity. "For whatever might come up," he said meaningfully. "Life changes. I want to be prepared for that."

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly, understanding dawning. "Are you rearranging your entire career schedule around a hypothetical baby that we haven't even discussed having?"

Harry had the grace to look slightly abashed, though determination still shone in his expression. "Not entirely," he hedged. "But I'm thinking ahead. Isn't that what responsible potential parents do?"

Y/N shook her head, torn between exasperation and a reluctant tenderness at his planning. "Harry, we should probably have an actual conversation about this before you start declining career opportunities."

Harry nodded, reaching for her hand. "You're right," he acknowledged. "I'm getting ahead of myself. But I'm ready for that conversation whenever you are."

The subtlety was completely abandoned a few days later when Grumps knocked over a potted plant, spilling soil across the kitchen floor. Harry was sweeping up the mess while Y/N scolded the unrepentant cat, who watched the cleanup efforts from the safety of the counter.

"You're a menace in your old age," Y/N informed the orange feline, who blinked at her slowly in what could only be described as feline disdain.

"He's just asserting his dominance," Harry chuckled, emptying the dustpan into the bin. "Probably worried about his position as the baby of the family."

Y/N shot him a look. "The only baby in this family is the twenty-seven-year-old rock star who refuses to put his dirty socks in the hamper," she retorted.

Harry grinned, unperturbed by her deflection. "I was thinking more along the lines of an actual baby," he clarified unnecessarily. "You know, small human, cries a lot, utterly adorable?"

Y/N crossed her arms, unable to avoid the conversation any longer. "Harry."

"Y/N," he countered, setting the broom aside and stepping closer to her.

"You've been dropping hints about babies for weeks now," she said, trying to keep her tone measured. "Some subtle, some about as subtle as a brick through a window."

Harry didn't deny it. "And you've been expertly dodging every single one," he pointed out, though there was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle observation.

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her golden-brown hair. "It's a big conversation to have," she said quietly. "Life-changing."

"I know," Harry acknowledged, his expression softening as he reached for her hands. "That's why I've been trying to ease into it. Apparently not very successfully."

Despite herself, Y/N smiled. "The dinosaur pajamas weren't exactly subtle."

Harry laughed, the sound warm and rich in the quiet kitchen. "I got excited," he admitted. "They had little claws on the feet."

Y/N shook her head, but allowed him to pull her closer, his arms encircling her waist as he looked down at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"So," he said softly. "Can we have that conversation now? The baby one?"

Y/N studied his face, the earnest green eyes, the slight nervous tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he was allowing her to see, and felt something shift inside her chest.

"Yes," she agreed quietly. "Let's talk about it."

Harry's face lit up with such naked hope that Y/N felt her heart constrict. "Really?"

"Really," she confirmed. "But talking is all I'm committing to right now," she added quickly, seeing his enthusiasm. "This isn't a yes to actually having a baby."

Harry nodded seriously, though he couldn't quite suppress his smile. "Understood. Just talking."

He led her to the sofa in their living room, sitting close enough that their knees touched. Grumps followed at a dignified pace, jumping up to claim his usual spot at the far end, watching them with a suspicious yellow eye as if he understood perfectly well what they were discussing.

"So," Y/N began, feeling slightly awkward now that they were actually having the conversation. "You want to have a baby."

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I do," he confirmed. "With you, specifically."

The clarification made Y/N smile despite her nervousness. "Well, I should hope so," she teased. "Why now, though? We've only been married a year."

Harry considered this, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand. "It's not really about timing in the conventional sense," he said slowly. "It's more that... I'm ready. I feel settled in a way I never have before. My career is established, we're solid, and..." he paused, searching for the right words. "I want to build something permanent with you. Something that's ours."

The simplicity and sincerity of his answer touched Y/N deeply. For someone who had spent most of his adult life in the transient world of entertainment, surrounded by people who came and went, the desire for permanence was profound.

"What about your career?" she asked, voicing one of her practical concerns. "You're still touring, recording. A baby would change all that."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the reality. "It would," he agreed. "But I've been thinking about that. I can scale back touring, be more selective about projects. Work from home more. I don't need to be on the road as much as I used to be."

He squeezed her hand gently. "And I know your career is important too," he added. "I'm not suggesting you give anything up. We'd figure it out together, find a balance that works for both of us."

Y/N appreciated his consideration, though she still had reservations. "It's a huge responsibility," she said quietly. "Once we make that decision, there's no going back."

"I know," Harry acknowledged, his expression serious. "And I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't absolutely certain about us, about our future together."

His gaze held hers, steady and sure. "I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible. And I want to share that love with a child, our child."

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, unexpected emotion welling up at his words. "I love you too," she whispered.

From his end of the sofa, Grumps let out a disgruntled meow, apparently unimpressed by the display of human sentiment.

Harry laughed softly, breaking the intensity of the moment. "See, even Grumps has an opinion," he joked, reaching over to scratch the cat behind his ears. Grumps allowed this attention for precisely three seconds before swatting at Harry's hand with retracted claws, a warning rather than an actual attack.

"I think he's voting no," Y/N observed with a small smile.

"He'll come around," Harry predicted confidently. "Probably appoint himself guardian and supervisor. He already thinks he runs this household."

"Doesn't he, though?" Y/N teased.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Finally, Y/N spoke again, her voice soft but steady.

"I'm not saying no," she clarified, meeting Harry's hopeful gaze. "But I'm not saying yes yet either. I need time to think about it properly. It's a big decision."

Harry nodded, bringing her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "Take all the time you need," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere."

Y/N leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "Thank you for being patient with me," she murmured.

Harry smiled, his green eyes warm with affection. "Always," he promised, before closing the small distance between them for a tender kiss.

Grumps watched this exchange with feline disdain before jumping down from the sofa and stalking away toward the kitchen, tail held high. Human mating rituals were clearly beneath his dignity, especially when they threatened to disrupt the peaceful kingdom over which he presided. Some battles, even a cat knew, were lost before they began.

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Later that night, as moonlight filtered through the partially drawn curtains of their bedroom, Harry and Y/N lay tangled in their sheets. What had begun as gentle goodnight kisses had evolved into something more heated, their conversation from earlier seeming to have kindled a particular intensity in Harry.

His lips trailed down her neck, lingering at the sensitive spot just below her ear that always made her breath catch. His hands wandered over her body with familiar reverence, tracing the curves he'd come to know so intimately over the past year.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured against her collarbone, his voice deeper than usual, roughened with desire.

Y/N's fingers threaded through his hair, her body arching instinctively as he moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the swell of her breasts. He took his time, as he always did, savoring each response he drew from her, the slight hitch in her breathing when he grazed her nipple with his teeth, the soft moan when his tongue soothed the sting.

But tonight, there was something different in his attention, a new focus that became apparent as he continued his journey down her body. When he reached her stomach, his pace slowed deliberately, his kisses turning almost reverential. His large hands spanned her waist, thumbs gently stroking the soft skin of her abdomen.

"So perfect," he whispered, pressing his lips just below her navel. "You'd be so beautiful pregnant."

Y/N's eyes, which had drifted closed in pleasure, snapped open at his words.

Harry didn't seem to notice her reaction, continuing his attentive worship of her midsection. "Our baby would grow right here," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Safe and loved."

He pressed another kiss lower on her stomach, his hands sliding to cradle her hips. "You'd be the most gorgeous pregnant woman," he continued, his voice a mixture of awe and desire. "Carrying our child."

Y/N couldn't help the giggle that escaped her, a combination of the ticklish sensation of his stubble against her sensitive skin and the sheer transparency of his intentions.

"Harry," she said, her voice tinged with amusement as she tugged gently at his hair, urging him to look up at her.

He raised his head, his green eyes dark with desire but questioning.

Y/N smiled down at him, shaking her head slightly. "I got the hint already," she laughed softly, pulling him up toward her.

Harry had the grace to look slightly sheepish, though there was no real contrition in his expression. "What hint?" he asked with exaggerated innocence, even as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"The very subtle baby propaganda you're currently conducting," Y/N replied dryly, cupping his face in her hands.

Harry grinned, not bothering to deny it. "Is it working?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"It's a bit transparent," she informed him, trying to maintain her stern expression despite the warmth spreading through her at his eager enthusiasm.

"Can't blame a man for trying," he murmured, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss that quickly rekindled the heat between them.

When they parted, both slightly breathless, Y/N regarded him with fond exasperation. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," he agreed without hesitation, his hands resuming their exploration of her body, though he pointedly avoided lingering on her stomach again.

Y/N laughed, the sound turning into a gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, discovering how ready she was for him despite, or perhaps partly because of, his transparent attempts at persuasion.

"Fuck," he breathed, his expression darkening with renewed desire. "You're so wet for me."

His touch became more purposeful, circling her clit with practiced precision that had her arching beneath him. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

"Yes," she gasped, her hips moving instinctively against his hand.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right as his thumb continued its maddening circles. "Or do you want my cock?" he questioned, his crude language a stark contrast to the tender words he'd been whispering moments before.

Y/N moaned, her body tightening around his fingers. "Your cock," she answered without hesitation, past the point of coyness or teasing.

Harry's eyes darkened further at her words, and he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste her as he positioned himself between her thighs. The sight of him licking her arousal from his fingers with such obvious pleasure sent another rush of heat through her.

"No more baby talk," she warned breathlessly, even as she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer.

Harry smirked, lining himself up against her entrance. "For now," he conceded, before pushing into her with one smooth thrust that had both of them groaning.

He set a deliberate pace, deep and thorough, his eyes locked on hers as he moved within her. One hand gripped her hip while the other braced beside her head, giving him leverage to drive into her with increasing intensity.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled, his composure gradually unraveling as their bodies moved together. "So tight around my cock."

Y/N responded in kind, her nails digging into his back as she met each thrust. "Harder," she demanded, beyond coherent thought as pleasure built within her.

Harry complied immediately, his hips snapping against hers with renewed force. "Like this?" he panted, adjusting the angle slightly to hit exactly where she needed him.

"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back against the pillows as the tension coiled tighter in her core. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," he assured her, his rhythm becoming more erratic as his own control began to slip. "Come for me, love. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His crude encouragement, combined with the relentless friction where their bodies joined, pushed Y/N over the edge. She cried out, her body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through her.

Harry followed shortly after, driven past restraint by the sight and sensation of her climax. He buried himself deep inside her with a final thrust, her name a rough prayer on his lips as he found his own release.

They remained connected as they caught their breath, Harry's weight a welcome pressure above her. Eventually, he shifted to lie beside her, drawing her close against his chest as their heartbeats gradually slowed to normal.

After a comfortable silence, Y/N tilted her head to look up at him, a mixture of amusement and affection in her hazel eyes. "Just so we're clear," she said, her voice still slightly husky, "amazing sex isn't going to make me decide about having a baby any faster."

Harry laughed, the sound rumbling pleasantly beneath her ear where it rested against his chest. "Noted," he acknowledged, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Though it was worth a try."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "Like I said. Ridiculous."

Harry merely grinned, unrepentant, as he pulled her closer. "You love it," he murmured confidently.

And as she drifted toward sleep in the warm circle of his arms, Y/N had to admit, if only to herself, that he wasn't entirely wrong.

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a/n: I’d give this man as many babies as he wants

Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl @harryssunflower17 @lizsogolden @daphnesutton @spinninc @behindmygreyeyes @wheredidmyeyesgo @matildasatellite @drewrry @inlikea-coolway @jerseygirlinca @nosebeers @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhund

#ghstyles #fwfw #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut

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japanbizinsider · 2 years ago

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beloveds-embrace · 6 months ago

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So, someone may have already thought about this, but after reading the comments from other folks in the neglected!aus of the Dukedom, I'm looking for a sliver of hope for poor Duchess.

What if there is a newly-hired maid who actually gives a shit about Duchess's well-being, but also not one to take bs? When she notices the duchess being treated unfair, she's quick to ask the rest of the staff. They're no help, and John just turns a blind eye to it. "If you're so worried, then why don't you take care of her yourself?" says half-heartedly.

Challenge accepted (with the utmost diligence).

Because regardless of how things are, she's not gonna let The Lady of The House wither and waste away. Anything Duchess needs, Sweet Maid will be the one to take care of it, not accepting any help or pity from anyone. Plus, less problems means less rumors.

The manor was cold.

Not in the way that stone and drafty halls made a place cold, but in the way that loneliness settled into the bones of a home, making it hollow. You felt it in every ignored whisper of your name, in the meals left at your door but never shared, in the glances that once lingered but now flickered away, as if your presence was something to be endured rather than cherished.

You had learned to sit in that silence, to let the days pass with only the ticking of the grand clock to keep you company. No one seemed to mind that the Duchess of the house was wilting. Not the servants who barely acknowledged you, not the man who had vowed to be your partner in all things.

So it was a surprise when a sharp knock interrupted the monotony of your existence.

You barely had the energy to respond. “Enter.”

The door swung open, and in stepped a young woman dressed in the crisp uniform of the household staff. But unlike the others, she did not hesitate in the doorway, did not cast you a wary glance before hurrying off to complete some other, more important task- because you were at the bottom of the list of importance to them.

No- this one marched inside with purpose, hands on her hips, bright eyes scanning the room like a general surveying a battlefield.

“Oh, absolutely not!”

You blinked, fully looking at her. “I beg your pardon?”

The maid- Shirin, you would later learn- looked positively appalled, her gaze darting between the untouched vanity, the dust gathering in the corners, the discarded meal trays with barely a dent in them.

“This is unacceptable!” she declared.

You almost laughed. You had never heard one of the staff speak so freely before, but you didn’t mind. At least she was speaking to you.

Instead, you tilted your head, studying her. “And you are?”

Shirin straightened, her expression softening when her eyes met yours. “Shirin, Your Grace. I’ve just been hired, and let me tell you, I do not approve of how they’ve been treating you.”

Your lips parted, but before you could respond, she was already moving- striding toward the heavy curtains and yanking them open, letting sunlight pour into the dim room.

“Goodness, no wonder you look so sick! They’ve been keeping you in the dark like some tragic ghost.”

You winced at the sudden brightness, but you found yourself watching, entranced, as Shirin moved with swift efficiency. She gathered the abandoned trays and muttered under her breath about the nerve of leaving food for a Duchess like she’s a stray cat, shaking her head in obvious disapproval.

You frowned. “Why does it matter to you?”

Shirin turned, her brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “Because you’re you!” she said, as if that should be obvious.

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

With a huff, Shirin clapped her hands together. “Alright! First things first, we’re getting you properly bathed, dressed, and fed. No more arguments.”

You raised a brow. “I haven’t argued.”

“Oh, you will,” she said knowingly, already heading toward the bathing chamber. “But I’m terribly stubborn, and I always win, my lady.”

For the first time in ages, you felt something unfamiliar flutter in your chest. Something warm. And you weren’t quite sure what to do with it.

Within minutes, Shirin had the bath drawn- hot water steaming as she added fragrant oils with a hum. She returned to your bedside, hands on her hips.

“Well?”

You hesitated. You didn’t even know why- and yet tou hesitated.

She softened, stepping closer. “Your Grace,” she said gently. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

Something in you cracked, and without a word, you let her help you to the bath.

She was kind but firm, helping you undress without making you feel small, washing your hair with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. When you were clean and wrapped in the softest robe, she helped you to a chair before the vanity, brushing creams onto your face with careful strokes.

“See?” she murmured. “Not so bad, my lady.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “No,” you admitted. “Not bad at all.”

Shirin, and you found yourself helpless against the warmth of it. She squealed when she noticed your own smile.

By the time you were settled in fresh clothes, Shirin had already changed the linens, aired out the room, and brought in a meal that smelled heavenly. The warmth of the plate alone almost made you tear up.

She cut the food into small bites- not in a condescending way, but in a way that said she simply wanted to make things easier for you.

You took a tentative bite, and Shirin lit up.

“Oh, thank the stars, you’re eating!” she cheered.

You gave her a look, but there was no real heat behind it.

“I always win, my lady. I told you so!” She reminded you with a wink.

And for once, you didn’t mind losing.

Meanwhile, the rest of the staff had noticed Shirin’s warpath.

She was sweet with you- warm, chatty, the very definition of a doting maid. But with them?

“Oh, no no no,” she had scolded Johnny that morning. “You expect the Duchess to eat this?” She had snatched the meal away with a huff, muttering about standards before personally overseeing a proper one.

And when she had cornered John, her expression turning so positively icy, she hadn’t even pretended to be intimidated.

“If you’re so worried, then why don’t you take care of her yourself?” he had muttered, dismissive, too focused on his work to care about a singular maid taking pity on you.

Shirin had only grinned. Fine. She will take the very best care of you!

#noona.asks #noona.writes #chose the name shirin bc it means sweet in my mother language lol

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carionto · 4 months ago

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The terrifying sound of silence

"Where is the Human?"

A question that incites dread across the Galaxy. And no greater when the Human in question is an engineer.

For weeks after her arrival aboard the Coalition joint exploration vessel Ulmanar's Resilience, the Human Jenna had been pestering everyone about the technical specifications, tolerances, build schematics, design philosophy, power outputs, and countless other microscopic details.

At first everything seemed normal, Humans are known to be curios, especially the technically minded ones, and her job would entail managing parts of the vessel's systems, so everyone was as helpful as they could.

Then Jenna started tinkering.

'Optimizing' is how she described it.

Admittedly, most of her modifications resulted in marginal improvements to energy distribution and mechanical motion efficiency. Although the fact the power reactors started to make audible noise was... unusual, but the readings said everything was fine, and the fact a day passed without explosions put everyone at ease - this was partly why a Human engineer was brought along in the first place.

During a short stop at a supply station before our first descent onto an uncharted planet, Jenna was the first to rush off with several cargo drones in the direction of the shipyard district. She was the last to return mere minutes before the scheduled departure, all covered in dust and oil, and the drones straining under the weight of everything she had procured.

"Don't worry, it's gonna be awesome." she declared.

It had been a while since our training and none of us had encountered other Humans in the meantime, so all of us had forgotten to immediately be alarmed by those words and question everything she was doing.

The following weeks of transit to our destination were marked by a severe lack of Jenna interactions or even sightings. The shuttle bay was a mess of disassembled craft, loose parts flung about, and sparks and rattling noises coming from the bowels of whatever was going on.

Unbeknownst to us, for the idea itself was ludicrous, Jenna was only within the vessel half of the time during this period. The other half she was in her spacesuit tinkering with the exterior of the vessel. Laser cutters and cold welding, not to mention the vacuum of space, make for a very silent work environment.

Perhaps it was instinct for most of us to avoid the confusing actions of a predator species descendant, as once we arrived to the designated planet, we learned we only had two surface shuttles left. Out of sixteen.

"This baby can land now!" Jenna happily said.

Confused beyond measure, we asked: "What do you mean 'this baby?"

"The ship, you know, Ulmanar's Resilience. We can land the whole thing now instead of doing this boring shuttling down thing. Plus the terraforming bot wouldn't fit in a shuttle anyway."

"The what?" our confusion continued.

"Yeah, we're gonna terraform this planet, right? That's what I got from the briefing back before joining you guys." she explained with innocence in her eyes.

There must have been some miscommunication, but the work had been done, and as far as our own technicians (who were scolded harshly for not keeping track of such grand changes to the entire vessel) did confirm that, as far as their understanding of mechanics and physics went, Ulmanar's Resilience can now indeed endure descent and commence takeoff from up to a 6G world.

So I guess that's what we're doing now. Preliminary surveys from past unmanned missions had suggested this world was once in the past and potentially now habitable again, and we suppose the Humans had decided to just set that in motion before more detailed analysis had occurred.

"Oh yeah," Jenna interjected, "if it turns out this place is, like, super dangerous and a threat to the Galaxy if we accidentally wake something up, I modified one of the scanning dishes to be a deep drill laser. Two hours of firing it at the core of the planet and it'll go boom."

...

"The planet, not the laser dish. That will explode if left on for more than three hours."

...

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #humans are deathworlders #humanity fuck yeah #carionto

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todropscience · 4 months ago

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HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT: HOW BLUE RUNNERS USE SHARKS TO HUNT

Predators have evolved countless strategies to improve their hunting success, from camouflage to coordinated attacks. A recent study has revealed a particularly intriguing behaviour in the blue runner (Caranx crysos): shadowing sandbar sharks (Carcharhinus plumbeus) to get closer to prey undetected. By swimming just beneath the sharks, these fish avoid triggering the usual alarm responses in their prey, allowing them to strike with greater efficiency. This behaviour was observed using baited remote underwater video (BRUV) and dive-operated video (DOV) surveys around Lampione Island in the Mediterranean. When blue runners approached prey on their own, the fish quickly formed defensive schools. However, when they used sharks as cover, the prey’s reaction was delayed or even absent, significantly increasing the blue runner’s chances of a successful hunt.

This discovery not only sheds light on a new form of predator-prey interaction but also highlights the ecological importance of large marine predators. While the sharks themselves seemed unaffected by the blue runners' presence, their role as unwitting partners in this hunting strategy suggests that declines in shark populations could have unexpected ripple effects on associated species. As intense fishing continues to reduce shark numbers worldwide, such behaviours may become rarer, potentially altering the dynamics of marine food webs in ways we are only beginning to understand.

Reference: Cattano et al., 2025. To see and not be seen: Carangids hide behind sharks to prey on fish. Ecology

#Caranx crysos #Carcharhinus plumbeus #ethology #animals #science #marine biology

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fatehbaz · 4 months ago

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can't stop thinking like this when i see posts

"three types of animals defined by utility and simplified transactional relationship to humans. including categories of productivity, domestic companionship, or passive/threat/disgust/pest":

British and colonial American institutional and folk taxonomy of "the natural world" in the eighteenth century. The unofficial-but-still-influential way of imagining animals in "utilitarian" ways that support material accumulation and colonial "productive land" and "land improvement." Like a secularization of previously explicitly-religious "great chain of being" schema but adapted for Englightenment-era scientific cosmology that reifies racialized imaginaries of environmental space and reinforces class/racial/species hierarchies with technical expertise.

"we have to do something about the distances":

Britain and the United States in the nineteenth century trying to control the globe and conquer "frontiers" and obsessively trying to more quickly and efficiently move trade, industrial products, information, communications, administrators, indentured laborers, and imperial military across seas and vast distances to cement hegemony by utilizing technical expertise with railroad networks, sailing ships, steamships, investments in cartographic surveying, latitude/longitude establishment, canals, and elaborate systems of telegraph lines.

"they should make a big heavy machine beast that can pull tons of black iron across grasslands and such":

British Empire technicians, Canadian administrators, and their US advisers from 1900-1930-ish when the Canadian "federal government also established breeding programs designed to cross cattle with bison or yak to create a new [ultimate] range animal" with "a reserve stock of pure blood bison of the highest potency" and an "enthusiasm for stocking northern [boreal and northern Great Plains] environments with exploitable game populations" when "nothing, in fact, captured the imagination of bureaucrats and private promoters in the early twentieth century more than the idea of importing domesticated reindeer from northern Europe as a the vanguard of a settled and prosperous agricultural civilization in northern Canada." And they partially pursued the project as "a response to the success of Americans" in "assimilating" the Inuit by importing 82,000 European reindeer to Alaska by 1916: "[A]n Alaskan Bureau of Education Report proudly proclaimed [...]: 'within less than a generation, the [slur] throughout northern and western Alaska have been advanced through one entire stage of civilization.'"

And in the same decade with British administrators in Southeast Asia, when they pursued the "purchase of elephants whose labour made possible the logging and transport of this harder-to-reach teak [in Burma]. By the period between 1919 and 1924, elephants represented the largest assets owned by the biggest timber firm operating in the colony […]. This animal capital, of around three thousand creatures, represented [...] the equivalent of roughly a third of the corporation's liabilities [...]. And these elephants must have been busy. This five-year period saw half a million tons of teak exported out of the colony, the overwhelming majority of which was exported by a handful of large British-owned firms. Their ownership of these beasts of burden gave imperial trading firms a considerable advantage."

"america will be a manufacturing nation once more , We're going to build great and terrible machines, so great and terrible they carve the land they walk on, the sun will set and it will rise and the forge will still burn and the hammer will still ring true folks"

Without comment:

[Quote.] [O]n the morning of February 20, 1915, [...] Franklin K. Lane, the secretary of the Interior […] intoned to the crowd, “The seas are now but a highway before the doors of the nations […]. The greatest adventure is before us, the gigantic adventure of an advancing democracy, strong, virile, kindly, and in that advance we shall be true to the indestructible spirit of the American Pioneer.” The fair did not officially commence, however, until President Wilson […] pressed a golden key linked to an aerial tower […], whose radio waves sparked the top of the Tower of Jewels, tripped a galvanometer, and closed a relay, swinging open the doors of the Palace of Machinery, where a massive diesel engine started to rotate. […] [T]he PPIE was organized to commemorate the completion of the Panama Canal […]. As one of the many promotional pamphlets declared, "California marks the limit of the geographical progress of civilization. For unnumbered centuries the course of empire has been steadily to the west." […] One subject that received an enormous amount of time and space was […] the areas of race betterment and tropical medicine. Indeed, the fair's official poster, the "Thirteenth Labor of Hercules," [the construction of the Panama Canal] symbolized the intertwined significance of these two concerns […] that crowned San Francisco as the Jewel of the Pacific. […] The construction of the Panama Canal unfolded against the backdrop of […] the installation of American colonial rule in Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, Guam, and Hawai’i. […] In San Francisco, […] this meant the presence of artifacts such as Fountain of Energy, a strong male mounted on horseback […] crowned by figurines of “Fame” and “Valor.” Referred to by its creator as the Victor of the Canal, this sculpture symbolized “the vigor and daring of our mighty nation […].” In his address titled "The Physician as Pioneer," the president-elect of the American Academy of Medicine, Dr. [W.H.], credited the colonization of the Mississippi Valley to the discovery of quinine […]. [A]t the Pan-American Medical Congress, where its president, Dr. [C.R.] delivered a lengthy address praising the hemispheric security ensured by the 1823 Monroe Doctrine and "the combined genius of American medical scientists […]" in the Canal Zone. […] [A]s [CR]'s lecture ultimately disclosed, his understanding of Pan-American medical progress was based […] on the enlightened effects of "Aryan blood" in American lands. […] [End quote.]

Source: Alexandra Minna Stern. "Race Betterment and Tropical Medicine in Imperial San Francisco." Eugenic Nation: Faults and Frontiers of Better Breeding in Modern America. Second Edition. 2016.

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mbari-blog · 2 days ago

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MBARI’s Piscivore camera system gives us a glimpse into the secret lives of ocean predators and their dynamic surroundings! 🦈📸⁠ ⁠ Piscivore (pronounced “pie-si-voar”) can be deployed on a variety of autonomous vehicles, including the innovative long-range autonomous underwater vehicle developed by MBARI engineers, making it possible to survey vast areas of the ocean efficiently and inexpensively.⁠ ⁠ The system uses a flashy piece of metal to attract curious predators, allowing researchers to collect visual observations of these animals alongside important environmental data (e.g., salinity, temperature, chlorophyll, oxygen, pH). After recovering the system and downloading data from its two cameras, MBARI researchers use machine learning to quickly analyze the hours of video recorded by Piscivore to find encounters with marine predators.

#mbari #ocean #sealife #science #technology #sharkweek #sharksoftumblr

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whoistartaglia · 1 year ago

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trust falls with genshin mem

neuvillette would catch you and it would be something out of a romance novel. one hand supporting your back, the other your legs. the perfect bridal-style hold. when he realized you’re just playing a prank on him, he’ll gently and gracefully return you to your feet, and sneak a chaste kiss on your cheek as he does so.

wriothesley would try to be a bridal-style hold but start it too late. this leads to him to awkwardly clutch your legs and arm. he might try to adjust his hold and make it slightly better, but if he can’t, he’ll make you do it again, despite your protests it won’t be a surprise anymore. if he does convince you to give him a redo, he’ll have a mostly perfect hold, even as you playfully roll your eyes in faux annoyance.

zhongli would catch you before you even knew you were committing to the fall. a firm touch on your back stops the trust fall before you can even yell it out. what can he say, he knows you better than you do yourself sometimes. if you try to do it again later, zhongli will also best your attempt. and if you try once more, he’ll keep that hand lingering on your back. just in case.

xiao would be very confused and almost let you fall, until his instincts kick in and his body autopilots to catch you. his hold will be firm and uncomfortable as he rights you back to your feet. he gives you a look like what are you doing? he might also ask if you’ll ill, and if you admit it’s a prank he’ll laugh, once, and then ask you to never do that again. you and your mortal antics scare him sometimes, y’know?

childe is familiar with this prank from his siblings, and he’ll play one back, by not catching you until the absolute last second. you think you’re about the hit the cold hard ground, until childe’s hand slips under your back millimeters from the impact zone. everything after that is a whirl as childe bypasses getting you back on your feet, but instead hefts you over his shoulder, maybe twirling you around. what were you thinking, pranking someone with younger and older siblings?

kaeya would warn you that he’s not going to give into you’re little prank before you start the fall. he knows what you’re up to as you survey your surroundings and decide on a place to land incase he’s not quick enough. you ain’t that sly. if you should decide to go ahead with the prank anyways, you’ll see kaeya was just bluffing, even as he grumbles with you now in his arms. give him a peck on the lips, he deserves it.

diluc would literally stop everything to catch you. pouring a drink? it’s on the floor. reading a book? not anymore! his catch might not be terribly graceful, but it’s efficient and gets the job done. you don’t touch the floor and you’re not very disoriented by the end of it. he might ask you not to do that again, before huffing out a small laugh at your prank. a dusting of rose can be seen on his cheeks at the romantic position you put him it.

alhaitham will catch you without looking. yeah, he’s just kind of cool like that. you��ll do your trust fall and alhaitham’s arm will reach out, cushioning your fall and either guiding you to the floor or righting you immediately. he’ll only look at you when it’s over, raising an eyebrow in a judgemental stare, before returning to whatever he was doing beforehand. what can he say, he’s a busy scribe/acting grand sage/boyfriend.

kaveh would fall with you. whether he was also planning a trust fall or just decided to join in, you can’t decide. all you know it that you were falling, he was falling, and seconds later, you had landed, and so had kaveh. except you landed on a confused, slightly miffed, and a little hurt, kaveh. you both laid there in bewildered silence, both trying to understand what just happened. kaveh technically did break your fall, even if it was in rather unfortunate circumstances.

#genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact fluff #genshin fluff #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #neuvillette x reader #wriothesley x reader #zhongli x reader #xiao x reader #childe x reader #kaeya x reader #diluc x reader #alhaitham x reader #kaveh x reader

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edenesth · 3 months ago

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ATEEZ as Anime Leads

Pairing(s): anime lead!ateez x female!reader

Word Count: 7.2k

A/N: Y'all, I'm so sorry for going MIA for so long. As you may or may not already know, work has been wearing me down, and I just cannot find the energy to work on By Order of the Black Pirates at the moment, but here's a little something I managed to put together to make up for my prolonged absence for now. (Not tumblr labelling this as potentially mature content before I even posted it lol.)

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

Hongjoong ↠ Levi Ackerman (Attack on Titan)

A legend within the Survey Corps, Captain Hongjoong is ruthlessly efficient, intimidatingly skilled, and always ahead of his enemies. His squad respects him, fears him, and secretly admires the way he silently cares for them despite his harsh words. Off the battlefield, he's a perfectionist who despises messes but has a surprising appreciation for art and music (though he'd never admit it).

He's sharp, disciplined, and highly respected, commanding attention despite his height. But beneath the icy exterior lies a hidden soft spot—a long-time female comrade who's been fighting beside him for nearly as long as he's worn the Wings of Freedom: you. You understand his silences, steady him when the world feels too heavy, and are one of the few people who can challenge him without fear. You're his anchor—the reason he hasn't lost himself to the war.

Like him, you had once been cold and unforgiving, having lost everything—and everyone—you loved to the Titans. Grief turned to rage, and rage into resolve. You rose through the ranks not out of hope, but out of sheer will to survive and destroy what had destroyed you. And yet, somewhere between brutal training sessions and blood-soaked battles, a quiet bond formed between you and him. It was never loud or obvious—but in shared glances, covered flanks, and unspoken understanding, it was undeniable.

Even now, though nothing has ever been said aloud, your feelings for each other linger in the spaces between orders and footsteps, in the way his gaze lingers just a moment too long, or how your voice softens when speaking only to him. More than comrades. More than friends. Something steady. Something real.

He fights not just for victory, but for a world where his people—and you—can finally live freely. It's a dream he clings to more tightly than he'll ever admit.

But even dreams must be set aside when reality demands action.

The air was thick with shouts and smoke as the news spread like wildfire—Titans had breached within Wall Rose. Panic surged through the streets while soldiers scrambled into formation. At the heart of it all stood the Captain—unshaken, sharp, lethal in focus—barking orders with steely precision, coordinating with the Military Police, the Garrison, and scattered Scout units to hold the defence line. His voice was calm, but his eyes never stopped moving—scanning, calculating, already thinking three steps ahead.

Then came the second report. The Royal Family was still within the inner district. Vulnerable. Exposed.

You didn't wait. You tightened your gear with practised hands, stepping forward without hesitation. "I'll protect the Royal Family. You focus on the defence," you said, your voice steady, your gaze locked with his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Hongjoong hesitated.

His hand shot out, curling gently around your wrist. Not to stop you, but to hold you. A plea lingered there, unspoken. His sharp, storm-hardened eyes locked onto yours, and in them was a flicker of something rare—fear. Not for the city. For you.

"We can do it together," he said softly, but his voice lacked its usual command. It sounded almost… vulnerable.

In that fleeting moment, a thousand words passed between you. All the years spent side by side. Every mission, every loss, every quiet glance when words failed. You reached over with your free hand and rubbed your thumb gently over his skin, a simple, grounding gesture—one that somehow spoke louder than anything you could've said.

"I'll be okay, Joong," you assured him, gently. "This is what we've been training for."

And something in him shifted.

Because in that moment, Hongjoong realised that what scared him more than losing the battle… was losing you. But he let you go slowly, reluctantly. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to trust you, just as you'd always trusted him.

"Stay alive. That's an order," he said, slipping on the stoic expression you knew so well—one you'd always admired, even if you could see the storm brewing behind it.

You smirked. "I will, Cap. After all, it's my turn for cleaning duties next, right? Wouldn't dare miss it for the world."

As you vanished across the rooftops, racing toward the inner gates, he didn't call after you. He didn't try to stop you. But his eyes followed your silhouette until it disappeared into smoke and sky.

And for the rest of that long, brutal day—through blood, through fire, through crumbling walls and falling Titans—he fought not just for Wall Rose's survival… but for yours.

And somewhere deep within, a vow was made: Whatever it took, he would make sure you came back. Because the world he was fighting for meant nothing without you in it.

Seonghwa ↠ Miyamura Izumi (Horimiya)

By day, Seonghwa is the quiet, polite, and well-mannered student—the kind others admire from a distance but rarely approach. But behind that calm exterior is a side he shows only to those closest to him: a cool, rebellious heart with quiet fire. With his hidden piercings, long hair, and effortless confidence, he's full of surprises—but the biggest surprise, even to him, is you.

You, his girlfriend. You, whom he once believed was far beyond his reach. He used to admire you in passing, quietly captivated by your determination, your strength, and the way you carried your heavy responsibilities without ever faltering. Back then, he never imagined you'd even notice him, let alone choose him.

And yet, here you are—his, and only his.

Around you, he softens in ways no one else gets to see. He makes bento lunches just the way you like, hugs you from behind without a word when he knows you're tired, and leaves thoughtful little gifts or notes in your bag—quiet reminders that you're always on his mind. He doesn't always speak his feelings out loud, but when he does, his words land with precision and sincerity, like an arrow to the heart.

…A soft heart wrapped in ink and silver—a contradiction only you get to understand.

Even now, sometimes, he still couldn't quite believe it. That someone like you—so bright, so admired, so far from the quiet corner he once kept to himself—had chosen him.

He remembered the first time he truly saw you, not the flawless girl everyone admired from afar, but the real you. Barefoot in oversized clothes, hair tied up messily, gently scolding your little brother as you wiped a nosebleed from his face. Seonghwa had only meant to walk the kid home after a minor scuffle, but instead, he found himself standing awkwardly in your living room, watching as you moved about—washing dishes, sweeping the floor, smiling in a way that felt… unguarded. Unfiltered. Real.

You, the top student. The girl everyone thought had it all together. And him, the quiet loner with piercings and tattoos no one saw under his uniform, always by the window, always apart.

But in that moment, something shifted. The distance between your worlds blurred. And instead of turning away, you chose to let each other in. You kept each other's secrets.

And he kept coming back—not because of obligation, but because of the comfort he found in your brother's cartoons, your overly salty popcorn, and your presence.

One visit became two. Then three. Then too many to count.

Through shared silences, quiet laughter, whispered confessions, and more than a few chaotic turns… here you were. His.

The memory drew a soft, almost dreamy smile to Seonghwa's lips.

Still drifting somewhere between thought and the warmth of the present, he instinctively tightened his hold around you. His eyes roamed over your peaceful face—your lashes fanned gently against your cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly, your breathing slow and steady in rhythm with his own. Your head rose and fell lightly on his chest, your body curled perfectly against his side, as if you were made to fit there.

These quiet afternoons, tucked beneath soft blankets after a long school day, had become his favourite part of the day. Moments like this, where time felt suspended—just you, him, and the quiet hum of comfort in the space you'd built together.

Unable to help himself, he leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin. And still, even now, a part of him couldn't quite believe it. That you were real. That you were his.

He could stay like this forever.

His heart fluttered when you shifted closer, still half-asleep, your lips brushing lightly against the curve of his neck. He bit his lip, fighting the urge to smile like a lovesick fool, and gently tugged the blanket higher to shield you from the world a little longer.

Just a little longer— "Hyung! You've slept long enough! Come play with me!"

Seonghwa stiffened, eyes widening in quiet panic as your little brother's voice echoed through the hallway, followed by the soft creak of your bedroom door swinging open. He turned toward the sound, only to see the boy peeking in, scanning the room to check if you were awake.

"Shh! You'll wake your sister—" he began to whisper, but it was already too late.

You stirred with a sleepy groan, nose scrunching as your hand landed lazily on your boyfriend's chest. "Just go, Hwa," you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Or he won't leave us alone."

He let out a quiet laugh, his palm moving soothingly along your back. "Alright, baby," he said softly, beginning to shift.

But just as he started to rise, your fingers curled around his, holding him back. Still half-asleep, you mumbled under your breath—just loud enough for him to hear, "Just remember… you'll have to make it up to me later."

Heat rushed to his cheeks. His ears flushed pink as he looked down at you with a flustered grin, heart flipping at how effortlessly you made him fall all over again.

"I will," he whispered, squeezing your hand in return. And in his mind, he was already counting the minutes.

Yunho ↠ Suoh Tamaki (Ouran High School Host Club)

As the king of the Ouran Host Club, Yunho is charming, dramatic, and effortlessly lovable. He sweeps people off their feet with his playful nature and signature over-the-top romantic lines, always knowing just how to make someone feel special. But for as long as he could remember, it was all part of the act—attentive, courteous, and dazzling, because it was his job to be.

Until you.

The person he once thought was just an interesting addition to the club—someone bold, odd, and refreshingly unbothered by his theatrics—turned out to be so much more. He still remembers the day he discovered the truth, when the "boy" he'd thought he was mentoring turned out to be a girl with fire in her eyes and a heart just as chaotic and kind as his. At first, it shook him.

Then, it changed him.

Because falling for you wasn't dramatic. It was quiet, unexpected… real.

Now, his attention isn't something he switches on for guests. With you, it's effortless. Natural. Constant. He notices your moods before you say a word. He brings you your favourite tea without being asked. His flirtation, once a performance, becomes a tender language reserved only for you.

The boy who once cared so much about his reputation now finds himself caring only about your happiness.

He still fills a room with laughter, still makes a fool of himself just to lift others' spirits. But when he looks at you, there's no act. No audience. Just him and the girl who changed everything.

It was just another day at the Host Club, or at least that's what it looked like on the surface. Music Room 3 buzzed with its usual golden glow—teacups clinking, girls giggling, soft piano music floating through the air. Yunho smiled on cue, laughed in perfect timing, and delivered another outrageously corny pickup line with the same dazzling confidence that made him the club's beloved king.

But something was off.

He bit his lip behind another charming smile, careful not to let his internal unease show. His patrons swooned at every word, completely unaware that while he played the role flawlessly, his mind was elsewhere, searching.

His eyes swept across the room instinctively, scanning for one specific person. You weren't at your usual spot by the corner table arranging flowers, nor were you behind the curtain where you sometimes read during sessions. In fact… now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen you since this morning.

You'd greeted everyone in passing, your voice cheerful but quick—before slipping away during the chaos of setup. He hadn't even gotten his usual forehead kiss, the tiny daily ritual that kept him grounded more than he liked to admit.

Still, it was a full Friday. The club was at capacity, and Yunho knew he couldn't abandon his post just to chase after a hunch. So he smiled through the growing tightness in his chest, telling himself he'd find you the second this session ended.

But then—mid-sentence, his eyes flickered past his patron to the ceiling-high window behind her… and his heart dropped.

The sky outside had turned a murky slate grey, the glass streaked with raindrops. A flash of lightning blinked across the sky, followed by a low rumble that made the chandeliers tremble ever so slightly.

Crap.

His smile faltered just for a second, barely noticeable.

She's afraid of thunder.

"Would you ladies excuse me for just a moment?" Yunho said smoothly, flashing a disarming grin as he set down his teacup. "I've just remembered we're running low on the special blend. It wouldn't be right to serve you anything less than perfection, now would it?"

The girls giggled, nodding in agreement, utterly charmed. "Of course, King Yunho~!"

With one last practised wink, he turned on his heel and strode briskly away—his expression dropping the second his back was to them.

His heart pounded in his chest as he made his way out of the room and into the hallway, the soft sounds of the host club fading behind him. Guilt gnawed at him.

The skies had been gloomy since morning. Why hadn't he paid closer attention? You had barely spoken to anyone today, and he should've known. Had he been thinking, really thinking, he would've cancelled the entire session. No smiles, no rose petals, no silver trays—just him holding you close, whispering nonsense until the storm passed.

But he hadn't. And now you were nowhere to be seen.

He checked every possible spot—the storage cabinet, the back hallway, even the balcony where you sometimes went for air. Nothing.

"Come on, think," he muttered, brushing his hair back in frustration. Where would she go?

Then it hit him.

The changing room.

Just as another thunderclap cracked across the sky. He broke into a sprint, nearly sliding around the corner before throwing open the door to the old backstage changing room—dimly lit and quiet, the hum of the storm muffled by thick walls.

And there you were.

Curled into yourself in the corner, knees pulled tight to your chest, trembling beneath the soft folds of your cardigan. Your face was turned away, but he could see your shoulders trembling, your breathing uneven.

His heart clenched at the sight. He didn't call your name, didn't want to startle you. Instead, he stepped inside quietly, kneeling beside you with the gentlest touch to your arm. "Hey… It's me," he whispered, voice softer than it had been all day.

Your head turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. "Yunho…?"

He gave a faint, guilty smile. "Yeah. I'm here. I'm so sorry—I should've noticed sooner."

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you tightly in his embrace. You didn't resist. You melted into him, burying your face into his chest as another low rumble rolled through the sky.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss there like a silent vow. "I'm not going anywhere."

And this time, he meant it more than ever.

He held you close, his arms firm yet gentle, his heart still racing from the sprint—and from the guilt twisting inside him like a vice. "I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "I should've known. I should've been paying more attention to you today."

You shook your head from where you were tucked against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pressed yourself even closer to him.

"This is why I didn't say anything," you muttered, your voice muffled but clear with emotion. "I know you, Yuyu. You would've thrown everything aside… and I didn't want to be selfish."

He let out a soft huff, cradling the back of your head as he kissed your temple, lingering there. "You have the right to be," he murmured.

You started to protest, "But those girls—"

But before you could finish, he tilted your chin up and silenced you with a kiss—gentle, warm, and firm, the kind that held both comfort and promise. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath soft against your lips. "They can wait," he whispered. "You're my only priority."

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let his words sink in, and for the first time all day, the storm outside didn't seem quite so loud. Because in his arms, you were safe.

And to him, you were everything.

Yeosang ↠ Tuxedo Mask (Sailor Moon)

By day, Yeosang is calm and enigmatic—every bit the poised gentleman who draws curious glances without trying. But by night, he becomes Tuxedo Mask, the elusive, rose-wielding guardian who appears just in time with quiet grace and unwavering resolve. His elegance and composure mask a heart full of silent emotion, a past steeped in forgotten promises and lost love.

Ever since regaining the memories of his past life, everything has changed.

The dreams, the visions—it all made sense. You were his Princess Serenity. The one he'd sworn to protect. The one he'd loved across lifetimes. And the one he'd unknowingly pushed away in this one, back when he was still lost in confusion, detached and cold.

The guilt haunted him—how he'd once kept you at a distance, not understanding the pull in his chest every time you looked his way. But now that he remembered, now that he knew who you were, he carried the weight of that regret every day.

And in its place bloomed a fierce, unwavering devotion.

Now, everything he does—every rose he throws, every enemy he faces in the shadows—is to shield you. To make up for lost time. To ensure that in this life, you'll never have to fight alone again.

Because to him, you weren't just someone he watched over.

You were his beginning, his end—his forever.

No matter how many times you insisted that you could handle yourself—and he knew you could—Yeosang couldn't bear the thought of standing idly by while you faced danger. Not anymore. Not after everything.

As much as he respected your strength and the unshakable bond you shared with your fellow Sailor Guardians, he was always nearby. Always in the shadows. Always protecting you, whether you asked him to or not.

Because what kind of man—what kind of Prince—would he be to let the woman he loved throw herself into danger without him at her side? Especially when he knew the truth better than anyone: that your powers resonated more fiercely, more beautifully, when you were together.

Your Sailor Crystals were tied, always meant to work in harmony.

And tonight was no exception—another night under a starless sky, another battle sparked by Queen Beryl's dark ambitions. As the darkness spread and your transformation light burst into the air, he was already moving. Already there.

Because he'd sworn long ago—across time, across lifetimes—he would always fight beside you.

The clash ignited like thunder through the streets, the Sailor Guardians surging forward in formation, your powers weaving together in a brilliant, unified force. Together, you pushed back the tide of shadow, cornering one of the evil queen's generals beneath the shattered remains of an old monument.

The battle was nearing its end.

Sparks of light clashed against crackling shadows in the ruined city square, and for a moment, it felt like victory was yours.

"We've got him!" Sailor Mars shouted, fire crackling at her fingertips. You stood at the front, tiara glinting under the moonlight, heart pounding with adrenaline and pride. "One final blast—together!" The Guardians prepared their strike, light surging in a vibrant crescendo.

But in that single heartbeat, just as your focus narrowed, a low chuckle slid from the battered general's lips.

Too late, you saw the glint of energy in his palm. A dagger of dark magic, hurled not at your teammates, not even in desperation to escape, but at you. Straight at your heart.

Your body locked in shock.

There wasn't enough time to summon your shield. You couldn't move.

But he did.

A blur of black and crimson. The whisper of a rose on the wind.

"No."

Yeosang.

He crashed into you just as the bolt struck, arms tightening protectively around you. The impact seared across his back, his coat burning at the edges—but you were safe, cushioned against his chest, wide-eyed as you realised what had happened.

He didn't even flinch. Only breathed out your name, shakily, as if making sure you were still here.

You clutched his coat, voice trembling, "Yeo…"

He glanced down at you, the pain in his eyes overshadowed by something deeper. "You didn't think I'd let anything touch you, did you?"

You opened your mouth to protest, but he pressed his forehead to yours. "Not again. Never again."

Behind him, the Guardians finished the final strike, the general disintegrating into dust.

But in that moment, the only thing you could see was him—your guardian, your prince, your Yeosang—holding you like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

Because to him, you were.

San ↠ Nanami Kento (Jujutsu Kaisen)

In the world of Jujutsu Sorcery, San is calm, composed, and exudes pure authority. He prefers logic over recklessness, making him one of the most reliable fighters in battle. While he claims to hate overtime and unnecessary stress, he always ends up taking care of others, offering wise advice and silently protecting them from harm. His cold exterior is just a front—he deeply cares, though he shows it through quiet gestures more than words.

Though many assume he remains connected to Jujutsu High out of loyalty to Gojo, the real reason is a little more complicated—and a lot more personal.

It was you.

You, the brilliant alumna who somehow made chaos look graceful. You, who challenged him just by existing, who made him feel something close to warmth, even in a world riddled with curses and blood.

You, a fellow alumna and now a teacher in your own right, were the real reason he never fully walked away. Maybe he didn't mind helping train the next generation… if it meant catching glimpses of you between lessons. Maybe he didn't complain about overtime quite as much when it meant late-night patrols with you.

Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Unbothered king… unless it's you. Then he notices everything.

So when reports of another Jujutsu terrorist attack came in—Geto's name scrawled across the chaos once more—San didn't hesitate. He scanned the mission details and found yours almost immediately.

He knew the curse you were assigned to. Knew it was a special grade. Knew what that meant.

And suddenly, overtime didn't matter.

He was already moving before anyone could stop him, before anyone could question why someone so notoriously strict about his hours was volunteering to stay behind. But he didn't care. He'd assessed the curse, gauged its strength, and the answer was clear.

You could win—but you wouldn't walk away unscathed.

And that wasn't something he could live with.

So when you turned, surprised to find him there as you prepared for battle, irritation lining your voice—"What are you still doing here, Choi? I'm not one of the kids. You don't have to worry about me. It's past your working hours, just go. I'll be fine."—he only scoffed, fingers already at his collar as he loosened his tie.

"I'm not about to set a bad example to your students," he said smoothly, though the flicker in his gaze betrayed deeper concern. "Besides, it wouldn't be very responsible of me to leave a fellow colleague to finish this off on her own."

The battle ended quicker than either of you had anticipated. You'd already worn the special-grade curse down, but with San joining in—precise, ruthless, and composed as ever—it tipped the scale completely in your favour. A flash of his cursed technique cleaved through the creature's core, and with one final strike from you, its form disintegrated into black mist.

Silence settled in the aftermath, broken only by the faint hum of cursed energy dissipating. The Curtain flickered once… twice… then dissolved around you, revealing the moonlit city beyond.

Both of you stood there, catching your breath. Bruised, scraped, but victorious. "You know I could've handled that on my own," you muttered with a tired smirk.

San exhaled slowly, pretending to fix his watch, though his hand lingered longer than necessary. "I know… just wanted to help."

He didn't meet your eyes, unsure what he'd see—disapproval, amusement, or worse, understanding. But instead, you stepped closer. Close enough for him to feel your presence settle warmly into the space between you. Your hand reached up, and before he could process it, your thumb gently wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his chin.

"You had something," you said softly, fingers lingering for the briefest second longer than necessary.

The touch froze him.

His breath caught, his usual composure faltering just enough to let the fluster creep in. His mind raced—did you feel it too? The pull? The quiet gravity that had been gnawing at him every time you walked into the room?

You pulled away like nothing happened, but there was a glint in your eyes. The kind that told him maybe, just maybe, you knew exactly what you were doing.

"Thank you, Sannie, for your help," you said, bumping your shoulder into his, your tone light.

And just like that, you turned and walked off, leaving his heart pounding far louder than any curse ever could. He stared after your figure, dazed, on the brink of saying something more—something real—when you spun around with that familiar cheeky grin.

"I'm sure Gojo would be pleased to hear you're so willing to help after hours. Prepared to get busy?"

San groaned, dragging a hand down his face to hide the heat rising in his ears. "You really don't know when to stop." But he was already moving to follow, gaze still soft, expression still dazed.

He wasn't sure what had just happened.

But he knew one thing: he wanted more.

Mingi ↠ Rengoku Kyojuro (Demon Slayer)

With a booming voice, infectious laughter, and boundless enthusiasm, Mingi is the true embodiment of warmth and strength. He fights with passion, determination, and an unshakable resolve, inspiring everyone around him to push forward no matter the odds. He treats everyone like family, encouraging them with uplifting words and radiating kindness even in the darkest of times. He lives without regret, protecting those he loves with everything he has.

Even in the toughest battles, he always smiles and says, "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

He was bright, passionate, and larger than life.

But even the brightest flames have their moments of dimness. And in those quiet, flickering moments—when the laughter fades and the weight grows heavy—he has you.

A fellow Hashira he had met at the very start of his journey. You, who had stood beside him when his fire was still small, unsure, and constantly stifled by doubt. You, the quiet but unshakable force who never let his flame go out.

Not many know, but you are his foundation. The reason he can smile for others. The reason he can carry so much and still say, "I've got this." When his father questioned his worth, when the voices of self-doubt echoed louder than the roar of battle, you were the steady voice that reminded him he was enough.

Behind every smile he gives to the world, there is a moment shared with you. His flame may burn bright for all, but you…

You are the one who keeps it alive.

That thought clung to him long after yet another battle had ended. Tonight's battle had ended, but Mingi's heart hadn't stopped racing. Not from the fight—he could handle demons, wounds, even pain—but from the moment you were nearly struck, the way your blood had stained the ground, the way time seemed to freeze around him in that one terrifying second.

He hadn't let it show. Not in front of the others. Not while the mission still hung heavy in the air. But now, back at the Butterfly Mansion, all he could think about was you.

The Flame Hashira paced past the infirmary rooms, checking every cot—yours was empty.

His stomach twisted.

He scoured the garden, the corridors, a quiet kind of desperation building behind his ribs until—

He paused at the faint smell drifting through the corridor. Sweet potatoes. He followed it like instinct, his body moving before his mind even caught up.

There you were.

He leaned against the kitchen door frame, the sight of your familiar silhouette grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"What, pray tell, could you possibly be making this late in the night?" he asked, a smile playing on his lips.

You jumped, nearly fumbling the tray as you turned, eyes wide like you'd been caught stealing from the pantry. But then your gaze softened when you saw him, and so did your shoulders.

You beckoned him over.

He was at your side in seconds, eyes dropping to the tray of steaming sweet potatoes—his favourite. "I was going to bring them to you—"

You didn't even finish.

Mingi pulled you into his arms, his hold firm, almost desperate, burying his face in the curve of your shoulder like he was trying to make sure you were real. Warm. Alive.

You stood still for a beat, then melted into him, your hands moving gently to his back.

"I thought I lost you today," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"But you didn't, Mangi," you replied softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. "I'm right here."

He held you tighter, as if afraid you might slip away again. The warmth of the kitchen, the soft scent of the sweet potatoes, the steady rise and fall of your breathing—it was all he needed to breathe again.

You pulled back slightly to look up at him, your hand reaching up to brush a bit of dirt and dried blood from his cheek.

His eyes widened just slightly at the tenderness of the gesture.

"Sit. Eat," you said with a faint smile, trying to lighten the moment. "Even flames need fuel."

He let out a quiet laugh, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. He took your hand before you could turn away again and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, just for a second longer than necessary.

And in that quiet kitchen, long after the chaos had passed, Mingi knew something with absolute certainty: You weren't just the reason his flame stayed lit.

You were the reason he kept burning at all.

Wooyoung ↠ Howl (Howl's Moving Castle)

In a castle that moves across enchanted landscapes, Wooyoung is the enigmatic and breathtakingly beautiful wizard who leaves a trail of admirers wherever he goes. Flirty, dramatic, and effortlessly magical, he revels in the attention and mystery he creates—until it comes to you.

Because beneath the teasing smiles and grand entrances, his heart belongs to one person alone: you.

You, who first stumbled into his life like a quiet storm. You, who challenged his ego and saw through the layers of charm and chaos.

He may have a reputation for dodging responsibilities and laughing in the face of danger, but when it came to you, there was no hesitation. He searched high and low, dabbled in forbidden spells, crossed paths with demons and stars alike—all to break the curse that bound you.

Wooyoung could still joke, still charm, still wear his flamboyant coats and wink at danger. But every spell he cast, every risk he took, was fueled by one unshakable truth:

He loved you more than magic itself.

You didn't know. Or if you did, you never said. And so, he never crossed the line. Instead, he remained near—your chaos and your calm, your shield and your shadow.

He still enjoyed making you blush when he whispered sweet nothings, still tucked roses behind his ear for the sole purpose of handing them to you like he hadn't been thinking about it all day. But that affection, as loud as it felt in his chest, remained unspoken.

Even in the stillness of night, that truth clung to him.

It was well past midnight when the castle's creaks lulled into a rare hush. The stars blinked lazily beyond the ever-shifting windows. Restless, you wandered barefoot through unfamiliar corridors of the castle, drawn by the faint glimmer of soft golden light slipping under a closed door.

You pushed it open gently and paused.

The wizard was alone, standing in the centre of a dimly lit room you'd never seen before. It was quieter here, older. Shelves filled with weathered books, scattered scrolls, and constellations drawn in shimmering ink surrounded him. And in the middle of it all, floating weightlessly, was a glowing orb.

He didn't look at you at first. Just kept his gaze on the swirling light inside the orb, as though caught in a memory.

"What's that?" you asked softly.

He turned his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "A star," he said. "Or… what's left of one."

He lifted a hand, fingers brushing the edge of the light. "I caught it when I was young. Gave it my heart in exchange for power. For magic. For something I thought I needed to survive." He let out a quiet breath. "It used to feel like a mistake."

You stepped closer, drawn not by the light but by the shadow in his voice. "And now?" you asked.

He finally looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, usually full of mischief and fire, softened like stardust settling over calm water.

"Now I think maybe I gave my heart away for a reason," he murmured. "So it could find its way back to something real."

Back to you, my love.

The orb dimmed slowly between you, as if the memory had played its final note. You were close now—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to notice the flicker in his gaze as it dropped to your lips before darting away.

You reached up without thinking, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

He stilled, then leaned ever so slightly into your touch. "You always ruin my dramatic moments," he said quietly, the smirk in his voice not quite reaching his eyes.

You smiled, not pulling away. "Then maybe you should stop letting me in on them."

"Not a chance," he whispered, stepping back just enough to keep from overstepping. "You're the only magic I trust with the whole show." And just like that, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to stay, to linger, to be near.

The world outside could crumble. But in this quiet room, with unspoken feelings and lingering touches, it felt, for just a moment, like you might already know. Like maybe, you were staying on purpose.

And so you did. You lingered.

You could have made some excuse, about wandering in your sleep or being curious about the light. But you didn't. You simply sat on the edge of a low couch near the wall as he returned to his place by the now-fading orb, casting a spell with a flick of his fingers to let the rest of the room dim into golden quiet.

The silence between you wasn't awkward. It never was. But tonight, it felt heavier. Charged. Something unspoken rested in the space like the star that once glowed there.

You glanced at him—really looked.

Wooyoung, with his dishevelled hair and candlelit skin, the robes hanging off one shoulder like they were too tired to be dramatic anymore. The boy who gave his heart to a star, who smiled through shadows, who searched the world to save you without expecting anything in return.

And suddenly, you felt it.

Not like a burst of clarity—but a soft click, like something that had always been there slipping quietly into place. A feeling that had grown with each glance, each teasing comment, each quiet act of care.

You'd spent so long thinking you had time. That his affection was playful. That maybe your own heart had been mistaken for something fleeting.

But it wasn't.

You loved him.

Not because he saved you. Not because he made you laugh when things were falling apart. Not even because he gave you stars. But because in a world that shifted constantly beneath your feet, he was the only thing that ever truly felt like home.

Your breath hitched just slightly. He must've sensed it, because his eyes met yours again—and this time, he said nothing. Just watched. Waited.

You smiled, quiet and real, and whispered, "Thank you, Woo."

"For what?" he asked, his voice low.

"For giving me somewhere to come back to."

He swallowed, a rare flicker of vulnerability slipping through the practised charm. And though neither of you said what you both now knew, it didn't matter.

Because something had changed.

And neither of you would ever be the same again.

Jongho ↠ Kageyama Tobio (Haikyuu!!)

On the court, Jongho is a powerhouse setter—calm, calculated, and relentless. His focus is razor-sharp, his skills unmatched, and his presence alone can change the pace of a match. He demands excellence, not out of arrogance, but because he sees the potential in every player. That desire to push others forward often earned him the nickname "King of the Court"—a title not of admiration, but of criticism, painting him as cold and controlling.

But off the court, those who truly knew him understood better.

Behind the intensity was someone goofy and awkward in the most endearing way. Someone who practised until his hands were bruised, who carried the weight of the team quietly on his shoulders, and who loved deeper than he knew how to say.

And then there was you.

His personal cheerleader since childhood. The one who never wavered, who stood by him when others misunderstood his passion for tyranny. Who shouted the loudest at his games, defended him in the hallways, and always reminded him that being different didn't make him wrong. You believed in him before anyone else did.

You, who had grown from the tiny kid with scraped knees into someone he now looked at with something deeper than just friendship. Something he hadn't quite found the courage to name—yet.

Maybe on the volleyball court, he was a king.

But to you? He just hoped to be something more.

It was thoughts like these that echoed louder than the sound of sneakers squeaking against polished wood, long after the gym had emptied.

Everyone else had gone home. The lights above buzzed quietly. He was alone, except for the ball bouncing back to him, the tension in his chest, and the self-imposed pressure gnawing at his focus.

Sweat clung to his brow as he reset for yet another drill, breath steady but heart pounding. The upcoming match loomed heavy on his shoulders. He couldn't afford mistakes. He couldn't let anyone down.

He served again. And again. And again. Each time just a fraction off from perfect. Frustrated, he exhaled sharply, pausing to rest his hands on his knees. His mind raced—every error, every comment, every moment where he wasn't good enough replaying like a cruel loop.

Then the door creaked.

He tensed, not ready for any more eyes on him.

But then he heard your voice.

"You know, most people go home after practice ends."

He froze mid-serve, the ball slipping from his fingers and bouncing harmlessly away. He turned slowly, trying not to look too startled—or too thrilled.

You stood there with a half-smile and a bag of snacks in your hands, wearing that same look you always did when you found him overworking himself again: exasperated, but soft around the edges.

"I brought your favourite," you said, walking toward him, holding the bag up like an offering. "Figured you'd still be here. You never know when to quit."

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I'm predictable."

"You're relentless," you corrected, stepping close enough to press the snacks gently into his hands. "And a little too hard on yourself."

He met your eyes then—really met them. The gym felt quieter suddenly, like the whole place was holding its breath.

"I just… I don't want to let anyone down," he admitted, voice low. "I know what they say about me. Controlling. Too intense. But I push because I know they can do it. Because I care."

You smiled, the kind that always seemed to pull the air right out of his lungs. "I know. That's why I've never stopped cheering for you."

His hands tightened around the bag. For a moment, he forgot about the court, the pressure, the weight of the upcoming match. All he saw was you—standing in front of him, as you always had.

"You've always been there," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Even when everyone else looked at me like I was too much… you never did."

You tilted your head slightly. "That's because I've always seen you, Jjong. Not just the King of the Court."

He hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before the words slipped out, shaky but sincere. "I think I… I don't just want to be your friend anymore."

Your breath caught.

The gym lights flickered slightly overhead, but neither of you moved.

You stepped a little closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then stop talking like you're afraid I might not feel the same."

He blinked, stunned for a moment, before the smallest, most genuine smile curved on his lips. And in that quiet space between old memories and new feelings, Jongho thought—for once—maybe he really didn't have to be perfect.

Not when you already chose him anyway.

I hope y'all enjoyed this! Sorry if the last few members' parts didn't quite meet expectations because my dumbass worked on them in a pretty sleep-deprived state HAHA anyway, how did y'all like the matches? Do you agree with them?🤭

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

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reasonsforhope · 1 year ago

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"As solar panels heat up beyond 25°C, their efficiency decreases markedly. Green roofs moderate rooftop temperatures. So we wanted to find out: could green roofs help with the problem of heat reducing the output of solar panels?

Our research compared a “biosolar” green roof — one that combines a solar system with a green roof — and a comparable conventional roof with an equivalent solar system. We measured the impacts on biodiversity and solar output, as well as how the plants coped with having panels installed above them.

The green roof supported much more biodiversity, as one might expect. By reducing average maximum temperatures by about 8°C, it increased solar generation by as much as 107% during peak periods. And while some plant species outperformed others, the vegetation flourished.

These results show we don’t have to choose between a green roof or a solar roof: we can combine the two and reap double the rewards...

How did the panels affect the plants?

In the open areas, we observed minimal changes in the vegetation cover over the study period compared to the initial planted community.

Plant growth was fastest and healthiest in the areas immediately around the solar panels. Several species doubled in coverage. We selected fast-growing vegetation for this section to achieve full coverage of the green roof beds as soon as possible.

The vegetation changed the most in the areas directly below and surrounding the solar panels. The Baby Sun Rose, Aptenia cordifolia, emerged as the dominant plant. It occupied most of the space beneath and surrounding the solar panels, despite having been planted in relatively low densities.

This was surprising: it was not expected the plants would prefer the shaded areas under the panels to the open areas. This shows that shading by solar panels will not prevent the growth of full and healthy roof gardens.

What were the biodiversity impacts?

We used environmental DNA (eDNA) surveys to compare biodiversity on the green roof and conventional roof. Water run-off samples were collected from both roofs and processed on site using portable citizen scientist eDNA sampling equipment to detect traces of DNA shed by the species on the roof.

The eDNA surveys detected a diverse range of species. These included some species (such as algae and fungi) that are not easily detected using other survey methods. The results confirmed the presence of bird species recorded by the cameras but also showed other visiting bird species went undetected by the cameras.

Overall, the green roof supported four times as many species of birds, over seven times as many arthropods such as insects, spiders and millipedes, and twice as many snail and slug species as the conventional roof. There was many times the diversity of microorganisms such as algae and fungi.

Encouragingly, the green roof attracted species unexpected in the city. They included blue-banded bees (Amegilla cingulata) and metallic shield bugs (Scutiphora pedicellata).

How did the green roof alter temperatures?

The green roof reduced surface temperatures by up to 9.63°C for the solar panels and 6.93°C for the roof surfaces. An 8°C reduction in average peak temperature on the green roof would result in substantial heating and cooling energy savings inside the building.

This lowering of temperatures increased the maximum output of the solar panels by 21-107%, depending on the month. Performance modelling indicates an extensive green roof in central Sydney can, on average, produce 4.5% more electricity at any given light level.

These results show we don’t have to choose between a green roof or a solar roof. We can combine them to take advantage of the many benefits of biosolar green roofs.

Biosolar roofs can help get cities to net zero

The next step is to design green roofs and their plantings specifically to enhance biodiversity. Green roofs and other green infrastructure may alter urban wildlife’s activities and could eventually attract non-urban species.

Our green roof also decreased stormwater runoff, removed a range of run-off pollutants and insulated the building from extremes of temperature. A relatively inexpensive system provides all of these services with moderate maintenance and, best of all, zero energy inputs.

Clearly, biosolar green roofs could make major contributions to net-zero cities. And all that’s needed is space that currently has no other use."

-via GoodGoodGood, May 12, 2024

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naburi · 10 months ago

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YOU SAW US, DIDN’T YOU? PART 2

Part 1 - YOU SAW US, DIDN’T YOU?

SANA X MINA X MOMO X READER

TAGS: FOURSOME, GIRLXGIRL, TEASING, THREE WAY KISSING, TONGUE PLAY, REVERSE GANGBANG

2.3K WORDS

She felt the eyes of the part-timer surveying over her chest area, often getting her boobs “accidentally” elbowed whenever they were at work. While the other brushes her hands from her lower back down to her butt. Momo didn’t mind their antics until she found herself getting cornered by the two during a night shift.

“There are two new part-timers, take care of them,” the shift manager informed her of the newcomers, Momo has been working in this coffee shop for almost a year now. Every customer knows her well due to her “noticeable features,” wide smile, blond hair, and great personality. You can also say that new customers have become regular solely to have set eyes on the blond girl.

“Hi, I’m Sana, and I’m Mina,” the two students introduced themselves shyly. They can only work a night shift due to them having classes in the daytime. Without asking them direct questions, Momo noticed the strong bond between the two. She even laughs every time they tell her that they are dating, not knowing that the newcomers are not kidding. Few weeks passed by, from assisting customers to making coffee by themselves. The two students are able to learn the job quickly. They also become instant customer’s favorites.

Laughters and giggles filled the coffee shop whenever she served the coffee to the customers as they were hooked by the woman’s young energy and charisma. Male and even female customers are asking for her number as they want to get to know more about the light hearted woman. Sana quickly turns down these advances and always says that it’s against company rules to give private information to the customer. There’s no such rules in your coffee shop.

Awe and admiration are evident when Mina is on duty. Customers can’t help themselves take pictures of the woman every time they are in the same vicinity as her. She moves fast yet gracefully, efficient yet elegant. Like a living painting, all eyes are set to her. Look for any imperfection, you will find none. Mina doesn’t interact with the customer the same way as Sana and often just gives them a polite smile to their compliments.

The two newcomers set a more playful tone even with their coworkers, everyone seems to be more energetic when they are around, a long day feels not so tiring when you’re having fun at your work. The energy that they bring is greatly appreciated by Momo, thus letting their “unusual” antics go under the rug. There are times that the two will go to the comfort room at the same time, “playful” touching between the two, insinuating jokes, and their touchy tendencies around the blond girl.

It’s a Tuesday night, Momo noticed that there’s less customers than expected. She ordered the two to start cleaning the kitchen so that they can clock out early. Momo starts disinfecting the tables and chairs when the last customers go out. She took her time tiding the coffee shop yet there are still a few more minutes before they can finally clock out. The three of them are at the counter, Momo started leaning at it, crossing her arm under her boobs which made it more noticeable the big shape of it, her bubble butt protruding out. The two girls on both of her sides look at each other, smirking, knowing they share the same thoughts.

“Ohh,” Momo jerks as she was surprised when Sana slapped her big ass.

“You really have a big ass, Momo-nim,” saying respectfully as if she didn’t just slap her ass.

Momo asks her if that’s the reason why Sana keeps touching her ass often. The only thing the junior can do is to laugh because what Momo said is true. How can she keep her hands on a woman like Momo? Her body can compete with even the most famous adult star, like it’s made for one thing only, to be fucked. Sana gives her butt more playful slaps while complimenting how perfect her ass is. Compliments turn to confessions as her light slaps turn into groping. Sana admits how she “admires” her Senior. Momo’s face turns red with what Sana just said. She stood up straight to compose herself.

“I’m sure you caught me looking everytime,” Mina said while she moved her hand inside of the woman’s apron, caressing her right boobs over her clothes. “You didn’t even hide it,” Momo said as now her face is an inch closer to her. Mina slowly moves her lips to meet Momo’s, as their lips meet, it stays for a few seconds grasping the situation they are in. Mina moves tongue slithering between the soft lips of Momo, inviting her for a make out.

Sana positioned herself at the back of Momo, successfully removing her apron after carefully maneuvering, not wanting to interrupt their kissing. She now started to unbutton the woman’s top revealing her round mounds. Momo moans softly in between kisses as Sana is now groping her boobs. Mina notices this, quickly putting one of her nipples in her mouth. Sana moves in front of Momo to have her turn to kiss the blond girl. Sana’s tongue moving in tune with the blonde’s while Mina swirls her tongue in her nipples.

Momo’s hands hurriedly reached to play her clit as the dual sensation she is feeling right now is making her body hot. She didn’t care that they are doing it in their workplace or if someone can take a peek inside and notice the three of them. Momo can’t take it anymore as she takes Mina by her hair and moves her hair besides sana for them to have a three-way make out session, three tongues swirling in the name of pleasure, three tongues intertwined with one another.

The three of them look at each other while they are catching their breath after an intense makeout as she pushes Momo to bend down against the counter. Her arms are holding to the counter while her head is resting on it. Sana forcefully pulls her pants up revealing her wet underwear. She moves down the wet undies as she puts her tongue on her slit. Momo jerks by the sudden attack on her slit but a high pitched moan slips out of her as her hanging boobs are getting attacked by Mina’s hungry mouth. Sana grabs both sides of the big ass in front of her face to stabilize the blonde girl as she keeps jerking due to how stimulated she is.

The three hit a sudden pause as a loud honk and a roaring motorcycle engine is heard in front of the coffee shop. You are now waiting for your girlfriend, Momo, to give her a ride home, ever since she started working here. You drive her home to make sure she goes home safe. “My boyfriend is here,” She said cautiously, looking down at the two. “Let him in,” Sana smirks.

The shop door slightly opens revealing your girlfriend is wearing nothing under her apron. Her round boobs are barely covered by it, with a smile on wet lips. Your curiosity on how your girlfriend is in this situation got covered by how your mind fantasizes what you can do to her in that look. “Lock the door,” Momo said as you walked inside. The three women are standing in front of a chair at the center of the coffee shop. “Come have a seat,” Sana said to you. You are too shocked on what’s happening thus all you can do is to listen to their instructions. Mina reaches to unbutton your pants revealing your semi hard cock. It doesn’t take a minute for it to be fully erect as your girlfriend pecks it with kisses. Your girlfriend in front of you, with Sana and Mina on her side is now kneeling in front of your cock. Momo started it by putting your head in her mouth, licking it while it’s inside. Sana gives your cock a long licks as her tongue is exploring every part of your shaft. You moan as Mina is at the bottom putting your balls in her mouth as she alternately licks them.

“F-fuck,” you struggle to keep your moans until a you finally left out a loud groan. The three girls heard it and took it as a compliment. Mina is now sharing your shaft with Sana, having their tongues meet as they both lick it on each side. The two women, wandering their hands over their own body as they started to strip their clothing. Sana removes her top to play with her boobs while she is still licking your shaft. Sana noticed you staring at her body, got turned on by your lustful look. She stands up to move closer to your face. Your girlfriend tugs her pants, signaling her that kissing you is off limits.

Sana respects this as she kneels back in her position. Momo stands up to be the one to kiss you while Mina removes her pants and sits on your lap. A wet sensation in your laps made you look at Mina, grinding her wet slit in your thighs. A warm mouth also catches your attention as Sana effortlessly engulfs your big cock. Momo has been trying to get used to your sizes but Sana is out here deepthroating it like it’s nothing. This made you pull Momo blond hair to give her a torrid kiss.

Mina pulls Sana who has your cock deep in her throat to her as she wants the kneeling girl to eat her out. Mina sits on a chair beside you spreading her legs, Sana sees this and crawls in between her thighs to give her slit the tongue it deserved. Momo wasted no time sitting on your cock. Her arms on your shoulder as she slowly sits on it. Her messed up look turned you on even more knowing that the two girls are the one responsible for it. She moans as she finally puts all of your cock inside her. She started moving slowly but you're already turned on by the sight of Sana licking Mina’s slit. You grab your girlfriend’s waist and start to pound her up. Her boobs sways everytime you trust her up violently. Her messy blond hair compliments her lewd face as Momo can only moan in ecstasy. She tried to cling on your shoulder, moving her round boobs closer to you. You catch one of them with your mouth while groping the other hand with your mouth. Momo moans loudly with how you stimulate her body.

Sana wanting to join the action, moves her boobs infront of your face, this time, Momo didn’t interfere thus sucking the perky boobs of the woman. Mina took this opportunity to catch Momo’s lips and put her two hands on her erect nipples. The four of you moan in unisons. Heavy breathing, you all tried to catch your breath as you changed position. You are now standing up, your girlfriend still impaled in your cock. You carry her to a table in front you, her eyes are set on you, waiting for you to make a move. You slowly picks up the pace, fucking your girlfriend on top of the weak table. The table shakes every time you trust your cock deep in her. You worry if this continues, it will break the table but Momo didn’t care. She gives a lustful look, asking you to fuck her more through her gaze.

The two girls are watching your cocks keep disappearing inside Momo, Sana sits on the other table beside you, she brings down her pants to play with her slit. She plugged her fingers inside her while she imagined your cock pounding her. Mina wants to help the fingering woman. She puts two of her fingers to penetrate Sana’s slit. The four of you watching one another and getting turned on by the sight of the other. You’re pounding on Momo got faster as you saw how Sana is enjoying Mina’s fingers. While Mina gets turned on by seeing you fucked Momo. Your girlfriend slit tightens as she gives a long moan. “I-I’m c-close,” she said as she can’t speak properly. You hug your girlfriend’s waist to give her a harder pounding.

Sana and Mina paused for a few seconds, anticipating the orgasm of your girlfriend. All Momo can do is to let out a loud cry of pleasure as she orgasms. The two women are in awe with the sight of your girlfriend’s release. She later flat on the table as you pull out your soaking wet cock. Sana quickly moves on your cock cleaning it with her mouth while Mina tastes Momo’s slit. The look Sana looks at is enticing, her wide open seductive eyes are locked unto you while she puts your cock in and out of her throat. The both of you know what the other wants but you��re afraid to hurt your girlfriend. “Go on, Sana, you deserved it too.” Momo said while looking at the two of you.

The woman bent herself down onto the table, spreading her tight glistening slit in front of you. You aligned your tip in her slit and noticed how tight it is compared to your thick cock. “Destroy my pussy, please,” She begged. In one motion, you penetrate her tight inside, moving deeper till you put all of your cock in. “Arghhh” Sana moans in pain, enduring your thick cock. She pleaded with you to pound her now. Her inside is much tighter than your girlfriend, it likes it’s gripping around your cock to fuck her more. Your one hand on her waist while the other is holding her hair. You pound the tight woman with the last energy you have. Your cock started twitching as her walls tightened signaling the two of you are near. “Cum on her,” Mina says as she is still licking your girlfriend's slit. Sana’s moans filled the coffee shop as felt your hot cum inside flowing inside her triggering her own orgasm.

Few weeks have passed, Momo does night shifts more frequently to “supervise” the two part-timers. It’s the summer break and a new part-timer has joined their coffee shop.

“Hi, I’m Nayeon!”

#twice x reader #twice smut #reader smut #k pop smut #sana smut #mina smut #momo smut #sana x reader #mina x reader #momo x reader

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whosashan · 5 months ago

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Hi! I love your LADS fics <3 if u dont mind i would love to know how youthink each LI do domestic things like grocery shop w mc, thanks <3

FEELS LIKE HOME

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x reader

SYNOPSIS: Your life together, in its quiet, domestic rhythm.

A/N: Hi there, thank you for your request. Hope you enjoy!

Xavier

Ever since moving in with Xavier, even the simplest errands had taken on an air of unpredictability. Grocery shopping was no exception.

Determined to finally stock the fridge, you clutched a neatly written shopping list as you walked into the store, intent on sticking to it. Xavier, on the other hand, had a more relaxed approach—one that involved significantly less planning and significantly more mischief.

It started small. A bag of chips appearing in the cart when you weren’t looking. Then a carton of ice cream. A six-pack of soda. You narrowed your eyes as you plucked out the offending items, holding one up in mild accusation.

"I didn’t make this list just for fun, you know."

Xavier merely smirked, his blue eyes filled with quiet amusement. "We need essentials."

"Essentials," you echoed, unimpressed, holding up a family-sized pack of cookies.

"Exactly." His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your stomach flip—like he was enjoying this little back-and-forth just as much as he enjoyed sneaking things into the cart.

What started as minor offenses quickly spiraled into an all-out game. You tried to stay vigilant, but Xavier was faster, smoother, slipping snacks and treats into the cart with the precision of a seasoned thief. You had no choice but to fight back, slipping in a bar of chocolate when he turned to examine the pasta aisle.

"I saw that," he murmured, his voice low with amusement. His lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile as he plucked the chocolate from the cart and placed it back on the shelf.

You pouted in protest. "Oh, but your three bags of chips get to stay?"

"I work in subtlety," he replied smoothly, nudging the cart forward. "You, on the other hand, have all the stealth of a toddler hiding candy under a pillow."

You gasped in exaggerated offense, swiping the chocolate back and tossing it in with a triumphant smirk. "Then I suppose I’ll have to improve my technique."

By the time you reached the snack aisle, your little competition had escalated into a full-fledged debate over which brand of candy was superior. You stood your ground, arguing passionately, while Xavier, ever laid-back, leaned against the cart with his arms crossed, letting you talk—only to counter with a single, calm statement that completely dismantled your argument.

"You realize we could just get both, right?"

You huffed, grabbing both bags and tossing them into the cart. And somehow, as if by unspoken agreement, you both continued, plucking item after item from the shelves until nearly half the aisle sat stacked in your cart.

"You’re a bad influence," you muttered as you surveyed the damage.

Xavier merely tilted his head. "And yet, you’re the one who just grabbed another pack of cookies."

Before you could argue, he did something entirely typical of him—pushed the cart forward, only to grab your wrist and, with surprising ease, hoist you into the basket, careful not to cause any damage to your groceries or you.

You let out a small yelp, gripping the sides as he casually maneuvered the cart down the aisle. "Xavier!"

"What? You fit." He glanced down at you, his expression unreadable as always, but you caught the slight quirk at the corner of his lips. "Besides, this is efficient. You can’t take things out of the cart if you’re in it."

You wanted to argue, but between the sheer ridiculousness of the situation and the warmth of his hand resting briefly on your knee to steady you, you found yourself grinning instead.

That was, until you locked eyes with an unimpressed store employee.

Xavier slowed the cart to a stop, gaze shifting to the employee, then back to you. The moment of tense silence stretched—before you both burst into laughter. You scrambled out of the cart as Xavier muttered something about "killing all the fun," and the two of you made a swift retreat to checkout before you got kicked out entirely.

By the time you stepped out into the cool evening air, arms laden with overstuffed grocery bags, Xavier glanced at you with that signature, unreadable expression of his. And then, with no warning, he took off running.

"Xavier—" You barely had time to react before instinct kicked in, and you were sprinting after him, the two of you racing down the quiet streets toward home, breathless with laughter.

Your carefully planned grocery trip had turned into something else entirely. Chaotic. Unpredictable. Unapologetically fun. But then again, that was life with Xavier.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Zayne

You stirred in bed, feeling the space beside you empty, the sheets cool where warmth should have been. Zayne had already left for work, but his scent still lingered—a mix of clean soap and the faintest trace of a scent that's just him. Instinctively, you reached for his pillow, pulling it close in half-conscious longing. That’s when you noticed it—a small sticky note resting beside it, the crisp handwriting unmistakably his.

"I made you breakfast. It's on the kitchen counter. Remember to take care of yourself. I love you."

The simple words sent warmth through your chest. Zayne wasn’t one for extravagant displays of affection, nor was he particularly expressive when it came to feelings. But it was in the little things—like these notes, like the way he always made sure you ate, like the way he remembered details most would overlook—that his love showed through.

You stretched and finally climbed out of bed, padding into the kitchen to find the breakfast he’d prepared. The eggs were perfectly cooked, the toast golden, and the coffee just the way you liked it. As expected, everything tasted incredible—sometimes you wondered if there was anything Zayne couldn’t do.

As you ate, your eyes landed on another note stuck to the fridge.

"Check the fridge."

Curious, you opened it and were immediately greeted by the sight of a neatly placed slice of your favorite cake, wrapped carefully in a container with a fork resting beside it. You couldn’t help but grin as you took it out, snapping a quick photo before sending him a message.

"Spoiling me, aren't you?" You attached a picture of yourself mid-bite, looking perhaps a little too pleased.

Zayne’s response was nearly immediate. "It is only natural for me to take care of my lover."

A simple statement, and yet, it sent warmth creeping up your neck. Even after all these years, he still had a way of making you blush without even trying.

The day carried on, and you went about your usual routine, tidying up a little before getting ready to step out for errands. As you slipped your coat on, your fingers brushed against something in the pocket. Frowning slightly, you reached in and pulled out yet another note.

"Remember to dress accordingly to the weather."

A soft laugh escaped you as you shook your head. He must have left this here last night, anticipating that you’d rush out without checking the forecast. Peeking out the window, you realized it was colder than expected—of course, Zayne had been right. You sighed, grabbing a scarf before stepping out, a smile still tugging at your lips.

The rest of the afternoon went by quickly, and by the time you returned home, you were met with the familiar sight of Zayne’s neatly arranged shoes by the door, signaling his return. You found him in the living room, his tie slightly loosened, his posture still composed despite the long hours he’d likely endured.

"You’re home," you murmured, leaning against the doorframe.

His gaze lifted from the book he was reading, his expression as neutral as ever. "I am. Did you eat properly today?"

You smirked, walking over and settling beside him. "I did. Thanks to my very considerate boyfriend."

Something flickered in his eyes—an emotion softer than words, yet unmistakably there. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the exhaustion of the day melt away in the quiet comfort of his presence.

A moment passed before he spoke again, his voice low, careful. "Did you like the cake?"

You tilted your head up to look at him, your smile turning teasing. "Are you fishing for compliments now?"

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to deny it, but instead, he simply sighed, shaking his head. "I am simply ensuring you were satisfied."

You chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. "It was perfect. Just like you."

For a moment, he said nothing—just exhaled, eyes closing briefly as if he was letting himself absorb your words. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he murmured:

"Good."

And that, with Zayne, meant more than a thousand words ever could.

Rafayel

Laundry day with Rafayel was never just laundry day.

It started simply enough—sorting through the mountain of clothes that had mysteriously accumulated over the week. You had just finished separating the whites from the colors when Rafayel waltzed into the room, barefoot, a loose button-up hanging off his shoulders in that effortless, disheveled way of his.

He took one look at the scene before him and let out an exaggerated gasp, pressing a hand to his chest like you had personally delivered a fatal wound.

"You started without me?" he whined, flopping dramatically onto the nearest pile of clothes. "Cutie, I thought we were in this together."

You snorted, tossing a sock at him. "You say that like you actually planned on helping."

"I was going to!" he defended, sitting up. "But now you've ruined my motivation. My artistic spirit is wounded." He pointedly rolled onto his stomach, chin resting on his hands, watching you with an exaggerated pout. "You should be making it up to me, not assaulting me with socks."

"You are literally lying on dirty laundry, Rafayel. That’s not exactly poetic."

He gasped again, as if personally offended by the very suggestion. "How dare you? Everything I do is poetic!"

Shaking your head, you grabbed a handful of warm clothes from the dryer and began folding. Rafayel, of course, made no move to help. Instead, he idly played with the hem of a shirt before suddenly holding it up with an exaggerated grin.

"Ah-ha! Finally, my masterpiece is complete!"

You blinked. "What?"

He slipped the shirt over his head with a flourish, the fabric way too tight for him. "You see, love, I have transcended fashion. This? This is avant-garde."

You stared at him, deadpan. "That’s my hoodie."

"Our hoodie," he corrected, sauntering over to steal another shirt from your pile and drape it over his shoulder like some kind of runway model. "Face it, darling, all your clothes look better on me."

"You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met."

"And yet," he purred, leaning in dangerously close, "you love me."

You sighed, but you didn’t argue. He grinned, pressing a quick kiss to your nose before finally—finally—deciding to be useful.

Sort of.

Because, of course, Rafayel didn’t fold clothes like a normal person. No, he dramatically shook out every single shirt, twirling them through the air before attempting what could only be described as the worst folding technique you had ever seen.

You groaned. "That’s not how you fold a shirt."

"Ah, but is there truly a right way to fold a shirt?" he mused, lifting one like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe. "What is folding, but the physical manifestation of conformity?"

You grabbed the shirt from his hands, folding it properly in two swift motions. "It’s this. This is folding."

He let out a scandalized gasp. "You just destroyed art."

"Rafayel."

"Fine, fine," he sighed, plopping down beside you. But then his gaze flickered with something mischievous.

Before you could react, he grabbed a sock from the pile and tossed it at you. You barely dodged before retaliating with a towel.

And just like that, the war began.

Socks flew. Shirts were used as shields. Rafayel dived behind the laundry basket, dramatically crying out, "You betray me, cutie!" when you landed a particularly good hit. Eventually, he tackled you onto the warm pile of unfolded clothes, pinning your wrists above your head with a victorious smirk.

"Yield," he murmured, voice dipping into something softer, something almost sincere.

You swallowed, suddenly all too aware of how close he was, of the warmth of his breath against your skin.

"...We still have laundry to finish," you muttered.

His lips twitched, eyes gleaming. "You’re so practical. Can’t we stay like this a little longer?"

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers curled slightly under his hold. "Five minutes."

Rafayel grinned. "Deal."

And if the laundry still wasn’t done hours later… well, that was just another beautiful tragedy in his book.

Sylus

The first time Sylus attempted to braid your hair, you thought you were about to lose a chunk of your scalp.

“Hold still,” he grumbled from behind you, fingers threading through your strands with the delicacy of a man who had definitely never done this before.

“I am holding still,” you shot back. “You’re just yanking like you’re tying up a hostage—ow!”

He exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and amusement. “Well, excuse me, princess,” he drawled, tugging a little harder just to be a menace. “Didn’t realize I was dealing with such delicate conditions.”

You huffed, swatting at his knee. “You volunteered for this, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I was under the impression that braiding hair wasn’t some arcane ritual requiring years of training.”

“You could’ve just let me do it myself.”

"And miss the chance to watch you suffer? Not a chance."

Despite his relentless teasing, though, he actually kept trying. You caught him watching tutorials on his phone when he thought you weren’t looking, muttering under his breath about over-under techniques and damn YouTube instructors talking too fast.

And after a few weeks of unsolicited (but secretly welcomed) practice, you found yourself sitting in front of the vanity, Sylus standing behind you, fingers surprisingly deft as they worked through your hair.

"Huh," he mused, his breath ghosting over the top of your head. "Not bad."

You blinked at your reflection, reaching up to touch the braid. It was clean, even, woven with precision—shockingly well-done.

"Sylus," you said slowly, turning to look at him. "You actually got good at this."

He smirked, arms crossing over his chest. "I can be gentle when needed, kitten."

You narrowed your eyes, pointing a finger at him. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet, here you are, willingly letting me touch your hair," he shot back, smug.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. Sylus was like this—sharp words, endless sarcasm, always keeping his true intentions tucked away beneath layers of teasing. But you knew better. You knew the quiet effort he put into things like this, the way he never did anything half-heartedly—not when it came to you.

"Fine," you sighed dramatically, tilting your head in mock defeat. "Guess I’ll just have to keep you around as my personal hairstylist."

Sylus snorted, hands already reaching to undo the braid, just so he could redo it better. "Didn't expect anything less from you, princess."

And as much as he teased, as much as he grumbled, you had no doubt that this would become a new routine—because Sylus, for all his rough edges, was the kind of man who showed his love not through words, but through every little, unspoken action.

Even if it meant begrudgingly mastering the art of braiding, just to spoil you a little more.

Caleb

It started as a joke.

You had been curled up on the couch, flipping through old photos when you stumbled across one from years ago—an old, grainy snapshot of you and Caleb, tangled up in a mess of blankets and pillows, grinning like idiots in the dim glow of a flashlight.

A pillow fort.

You snorted, nudging Caleb’s arm with your foot where he sat beside you, one arm slung lazily over the back of the couch. “Remember this?”

Caleb glanced at the photo, and something flickered in his expression—fondness, amusement, something else you couldn’t quite name. Then, slowly, he smirked.

“Oh, Pipsqueak,” he drawled, tilting his head to look at you. “Are you saying you wanna build one now?”

You scoffed. “I never said that.”

“But you want to.”

“I do not—”

“You so do.”

And that was how, ten minutes later, you found yourself watching Caleb steal every blanket and pillow in the apartment with entirely too much enthusiasm.

He had always been bigger than you—towering over you even as kids—but now, with broad shoulders and an easy confidence to match, he looked even more ridiculous draping a fuzzy pink blanket over the top of the fort like it was some grand architectural achievement.

“You’re taking this way too seriously,” you muttered, watching as he wedged a chair into position for support.

Caleb flashed you a grin. “You say that now, but someone was always the first to throw a tantrum if our forts fell apart.”

Heat rushed to your face. “I was ten!”

“You were dramatic.” He reached over and ruffled your hair, and when you swatted at his hand, he caught your wrist with ease, tugging you closer just to be a menace.

“Still are, actually,” he murmured, voice low as he leaned in. “Kind of cute, though.”

You scowled, pushing at his chest. “Let go.”

Chuckling, he finally released you, settling down inside the finished fort with an exaggerated sigh. The fairy lights you had strung up inside cast everything in a soft golden glow, the air warm and filled with the scent of fabric softener and him.

After a moment, you crawled in after him, adjusting the pillows before flopping down beside him. “Alright, not bad,” you admitted.

“Not bad?” Caleb repeated, raising a brow. “This is my best work yet.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness in your chest was undeniable. The last time you’d done this, you’d been kids—sneaking flashlights under blankets, whispering secrets and bad jokes late into the night.

“…Feels kind of nice,” you murmured. “Like old times.”

Caleb’s expression shifted—softer now, something warm flickering behind his gaze. His arm curled around you without hesitation, pulling you into his side, his touch firm but easy.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice a little different now, a little rougher. “But this time, I don’t have to leave when morning comes.”

Your heart skipped.

Because he was right. Back then, your forts had always ended with him sneaking back to his room before sunrise. But now?

Now, he wasn’t going anywhere.

You swallowed, curling into him slightly, fingers toying with the edge of the blanket. Caleb's hand settled at your waist, squeezing just enough to make you squirm, feeling ticklish.

Your face burned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And, okay—maybe you didn’t. Especially not when he kissed the top of your head, his voice a little quieter when he added,

“…Love you, Pipsqueak.”

And in the glow of the fort, in the warmth of his arms, you smiled.

#love and deepspace #caleb x mc #lads xavier #love and deepspace x reader #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #zayne x #lads zayne #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deepspace headcanons #lads caleb #lads sylus #lads x reader #loveanddeepspace #lads fluff

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