#tidal rush still goes hard...

[themindelectricdemo4]

flashbacks to me, circa 2018, "singing along" to telephones theme octo expansion at the start of the song by going DENWA DENWA DE-DE-DENWA

[meazalykov]

let me in

giulia gwinn x anxiety!reader

part one - part two

summary: you try to hide it, but she already knows

warnings: diagnosed anxiety, fear, zoloft mentions, angst

the moment your alarm goes off, your body tenses instinctively. the anxiety is immediate, crawling under your skin like tiny prickles, making it difficult to breathe properly. you turn over in bed and stare at the ceiling, trying to calm the racing thoughts. 

another match day. champions league. arsenal. there’s a pressure weighing down on you, like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you haven’t even stepped onto the pitch yet. 

you try to convince yourself that it’s just another game, that you’ve been through this before. however, today feels different. you can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. that today could be the day everything unravels.

giulia is beside you in the bed, sitting up peacefully while wiping her tired eyes. you lightly smile, knowing at least your girlfriend of five years has had a peaceful sleep for matchday.

once the both of you got into the dressing room at bayern campus– you slip into your bayern kit, hands trembling slightly as you button the collar of the UWCL shirt. the fabric feels heavy on your body, like a constant reminder of all the expectations weighing on you. 

you’ve played through worse moments—disappointments, injuries, even the pain of last season’s champions league exit. 

nothing hits quite as hard as the self-doubt that plagues you now. 

last season was still raw in your memory. that error against PSG, the one you couldn’t shake. the one that spiraled out of control. it was your fault, and the team had to pay the price for it. tuva and georgia had been blamed by the media, and you couldn’t stop thinking about how they must have hated you for that mistake. 

(throwback) the final whistle blows and the stadium erupts into a mix of celebration and disbelief. for bayern, it’s over. the champions league dream, shattered. eliminated from the group stage. 

you stand there, frozen, staring at the scoreboard as the reality of what just happened hits you like a tidal wave.

we’re going home. 

you can barely breathe, your chest tight and tight like it’s being constricted. every part of you aches—physically, emotionally. your stomach twists in knots. you barely register the roar of the crowd as PSG’s fans chant their victory, your focus entirely consumed by the players around you, especially georgia. she’s going to get so much hate.

it wasn’t just your mistake that led to this, but that error was the catalyst. the own goal, the one that was a collective mess of bad decisions, started with you. tuva’s tackle was rushed and you were a beat behind. and when it all fell apart, when georgia tried to clear it and it deflected off her, you saw it before anyone else—she’ll be the one blamed.

you wanted to scream. you wanted to cry. you had the tears in your throat, but they wouldn’t come. there was nothing, just a choking feeling that kept you from expressing it. all you could feel was this deep, gnawing pain in your chest. this horrible pain, like your whole body was trying to fight against the reality that had just unfolded. 

you slowly turned toward giulia, who was standing there, quiet. you didn’t know if you could face her, but somehow, your feet carried you to her. she was looking down, hands on her hips, shoulders heavy. there was no anger in her face—nothing that showed she was disappointed in you—but you couldn't help but feel the weight of everything. was it my fault? am I the reason we lost?

you hugged her then, tightly, desperately, hoping to find some form of comfort in her arms. giulia let you, her arms wrapping around you in return. she didn’t say anything at first, and you didn’t know what to say either. it was as if the whole team was frozen in time, each player lost in their own thoughts. you wanted to break down, to cry into giulia’s chest, but the tears just wouldn’t come. 

your chest ached. the physical pain of it was almost as bad as the emotional. it was a nightmare, one that you couldn’t wake up from. bayern is going home. 

you thought giulia might say something, might offer some kind of words to reassure you, but all she did was rub your back, the gesture soft and comforting. she was tired too, worn out by the match, the loss, just like everyone else. but there was no disappointment in her. there’s no disappointment, you repeated to yourself, but you couldn’t shake the feeling.

you pulled away from giulia after a moment, but you didn’t look at her. you couldn’t. please don’t be mad at me. you thought, though you didn’t speak it. don’t blame me.

instead, your eyes flicked to georgia. she was slumped by the side of the pitch, her face pale, her hands on her head. she must hate me, you thought. I know she does.

it was her name that would be all over the munich papers, her face the one everyone would point to. it didn’t seem fair, but that’s how football was, wasn’t it? the public always needed someone to blame.

your throat tightened, but still, no tears came. you felt like there should have been. like it would somehow make things better if you could cry it out. but georgia… you thought, she’s the one who’ll carry this. it’s her fault in their eyes, not mine.

you stood there, with giulia beside you, and as much as you wanted to say something, to make it better somehow, you couldn’t. words felt useless. what could I say? how could I fix this?

you wished there was a way to take the blame from georgia, to make sure she didn’t have to carry that weight. but there was no way to do that—not here, not now. 

you walked off the field slowly, your feet feeling heavier with each step. please don’t hate me, georgia, you thought one last time. and as you disappeared into the locker room, you felt like the world was closing in around you. I’ve failed.

then georgia—her calm, reassuring presence—had pulled you aside in the dressing room. 

she’d told you that neither her or tuva hated you. that things would be better next season. she had been the first to reassure you, but the damage had already been done. you couldn’t stop the guilt, the weight of that mistake, and now, every game felt like the one where you would fall apart again.

you push that last season game aside in your mind, focusing on playing arsenal now for a brand new season. the familiar hum of excitement is going through your veins but the anxiety lingers, like an ever-present shadow that you can’t outrun. 

the match begins, and the flood of adrenaline fills you. at first, you manage to push the fears to the back of your mind. you’re focused, playing as the defensive midfielder, eyes darting between the players, watching for any openings. 

then it happens—the moment you dread. mariona steps in, intercepting your pass with ease, and suddenly, the ball is in the back of your net. you feel your body go cold, your heart dropping into your stomach. the weight of it crushes you in an instant. 

your mind goes blank for a moment, the stadium blurring around you as the realization sinks in. you’ve messed up. again.

keep in mind, you’re a great defensive midfielder. the public highly rates you, the club loves you, and your ballon d’or nominations have proved that at one point. however, you were your biggest critic. you took every mistake of your own personally.

it’s a small mistake in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment, it feels like the end of the world. your chest tightens, your breath becomes shallow. you try to keep your head in the game, but your mind is racing with thoughts of failure. you wonder if the team is already judging you, if they’re whispering about you behind your back. 

your hands are clammy, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. embarrassment. shame. fear. it all rushes to the surface in one suffocating wave. 

you chase the ball, but it’s already too late. the game continues, and all you can think about is that moment, the mistake that will define the rest of the match. not knowing that bayern will pull off the win.

you feel the eyes of your teammates, even though you know they’re not focusing on you. you can’t help it—the anxiety makes everything feel magnified. every step feels like it’s being scrutinized. 

you imagine their faces, the disappointment in their eyes. 

then, glodis scores, and the atmosphere shifts slightly. it’s a small relief, but it’s not enough to quiet the storm in your head. you try to keep your focus, to keep playing, but the tension builds. your leg starts to bounce involuntarily, your knee jittering with nerves. 

it’s a tick you’ve had since childhood, a sign that the anxiety is taking hold of you. 

during halftime, georgia tries to rally the team. she speaks with such conviction, urging everyone to keep pushing. but you can’t focus on her words. your leg bounces uncontrollably, your jaw clenched in frustration. 

sweat beads on your forehead, but it’s not from the game—it’s from the overwhelming anxiety clawing at you. you can feel giulia’s eyes on you, even though you try to keep it together. she knows you too well as her girlfriend of half-a-decade. 

giulia’s gaze doesn’t leave you as you sit there, trying to steady your breathing. she notices the way your body is wound tight, the way your foot taps rapidly against the floor, the way your face is losing its glow despite the heat of the match. her brow furrows in concern, but she doesn’t say anything—not yet. 

she waits, knowing that you’ll come to her when you’re ready. the panic is still bubbling up inside you. you know she’s worried, but you don’t want to burden her.

you don’t want to be seen as weak.

part two here

[zaynessbeloved]

It was always you (and us)

⟢ summary: You were always a trio—Caleb, Zayne, and you. Bound by childhood, laughter, and a quiet promise that none of you would ever be left behind. But things change. And somewhere between late-night study sessions and growing up, you start to realize your heart is pulling in a different direction. The three of you were supposed to stay the same. But you’re not kids anymore. And some feelings don’t stay quiet forever.

⟢ pairings: Zayne x reader, Caleb x reader

⟢ word count: 8.4k

Chapter 6

The bedroom is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights slipping through the curtains. The only sounds filling the air are the faint hum of the night and the steady rhythm of your breathing.

Neither of you say a word. You lay there, stiff under the covers, aching, staring into the darkness while Zayne is right there beside you, his presence warm and solid—too close, yet not close enough.

Your body is still buzzing, still lingering on the tension from earlier. And the worst part? You know he isn’t asleep either. You can feel it—the way he shifts just slightly, the way his breathing isn’t quite steady, the way the mattress tenses under his weight as if he’s just as lost in his own head as you are.

And fuck, it’s unbearable. So you turn your back to him, trying to focus, trying to sleep— But then, Zayne moves. He pulls you in, his arms circling around your waist, pressing your back flush against his chest, cuddling you in the darkness. You melt into him instinctively, the warmth of his body so familiar, so intoxicating—

And then, without thinking, you shift just slightly. Your hips press back, grinding ever so softly against him, and— Zayne inhales too sharply. Your brain blanks. Your whole body goes still, your face burning as the realization hits— You felt him. He’s hard. 

And from the way his breath hitched, from the way his fingers twitched against your waist, he felt it too. Your lips part, your heart pounding as you hesitantly whisper— “…Are you awake?”

There’s a beat of silence, but then— “…Yes.”

His voice is slightly strained, like he knows this situation is dangerous, like he’s trying so hard to play it cool. Your face burns hotter, and before you can even process it, you do it again—

You grind against him, this time just slightly harder, pressing into him with a little more intention. Zayne inhales sharply, the sound almost pained, his breath hot against the back of your neck.

“What are you doing?” His voice is low, tight, like he’s fighting for control.

You smirk to yourself, playing it coy, keeping your tone light, innocent—

“I’m not doing anything,” you whisper. “Just shifting so I’m more comfortable.”

Zayne’s grip on your waist tightens. You can feel the internal battle happening inside him, can feel the tension humming between you like a live wire. And then— He lets you have it. He forces himself to breathe, to push whatever thoughts are running through his mind away, and settles back into stillness. But fuck, now that you know? Now that you felt him react? You’re not going to sleep tonight.

The frustration from earlier—the heat that had been building since the shower, since dinner, since the moment he stepped into that bathroom—comes rushing back like a tidal wave. You can’t stop thinking about him. About his hands. His mouth. His voice. And fuck, you still haven’t gotten the release you were so desperately chasing earlier.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t like him.Your body burns, and without a second thought, without caring about the consequences, you do it again. This time, your hips roll slowly, pressing your ass directly against the hardness pressing into your lower back. Zayne grits his teeth, his whole body tensing, and then— His hand flies to your waist, gripping you tight.

“Behave.” His voice is low. Dangerous. A warning.

And fuck—your heart does a flip. A breathless giggle tumbles from your lips, excitement curling in your stomach as you test him further, whispering— “Or what?”

Before you can process, he flips you onto your stomach, pressing you into the mattress, his body caging you in. You gasp, your cheek sinking into the soft sheets as you feel him climb over you, his hands pinning your hips down. Then— He presses himself against you. 

His hardness grinds right against the swell of your ass, and a sharp, helpless whimper escapes your lips before you can even stop it. Your body reacts instinctively, your hips pressing back, trying to grind against him again, needing more friction, more anything—

But his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your hips, holding you still. 

“Don’t.” His voice is wrecked, but firm, and fuck—it only makes you want him more. You try to move again, to grind back against him, but— You don’t get the chance.

Zayne moves fast, his reflexes sharp, catching both your wrists in one hand and pinning them against your lower back. Your breath hitches, your body trembling at the sudden restraint. Then— You feel it. His free hand grabbing a pillow, pushing it under your stomach, lifting your hips just right until you’re angled perfectly beneath him.

Your heart races, your breathing uneven, your mind spiraling at the way he’s handling you—how easily, how naturally— But then, he hesitates. His grip on your wrists loosens, his chest rising and falling against your back as he waits. Because for all his teasing, for all his control—he’s never done this before either.

And a small part of him wonders—is this okay? Does she like this?

But then— A moan slips past your lips, breathless and needy, when his fingers tighten around your wrists again, when he presses down just slightly, holding you there.And fuck, that’s his answer. His jaw clenches, his whole body shuddering as he exhales roughly against your ear.

“…Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?”

His voice is low, gravelly, dripping with something dark and wrecked. He grinds against you again, slow and deliberate, pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass, and— Your moan is helpless, your fingers curling into fists behind your back, your hips trying—failing—to move against him. Zayne groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as he inhales, trying—struggling—to keep his control. 

And then, his lips brush against your ear, his voice smooth, teasing—“You like it when I hold you down, don’t you?” 

Your moan melts into the mattress, muffled but desperate, his name slipping from your lips like a plea—like you’re begging for him to finally take you. Your body trembles, frustration radiating off you in waves, making you squirm under him, making you ache for more. And Zayne knows. He knows exactly what you want. Exactly what you need.

His grip on your wrists tightens as his free hand glides slowly down the curve of your ass, his fingers trailing against your skin in a way that makes you shudder. Then— His hand slides between your legs. And fuck, the moment his fingers press against your soaked underwear, he stiffens. His breath catches. 

His fingers twitch against the wet fabric before he exhales, sharp and shaky, his voice a low, gritted whisper— “…Sweetheart.” 

It’s not just a tease this time—it’s something wrecked, something disbelieving, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this soaked for him. And then— His grip on your wrists loosens, just slightly, as his fingers press harder against the damp fabric, feeling just how wet you are, how worked up you’ve been, how much you’ve been aching for this.

“Fuck.” His voice wavers, his jaw clenching as his fingers slide so slowly along the soaked fabric, teasing, torturing. “You’ve been like this since the shower, haven’t you?” His breath is hot against your ear, low, like he’s already losing control. 

His fingers press a little harder, a little lower, right where you need him, but not enough, and you whimper, hips trying to rock against his touch. Zayne groans, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his body shuddering as he realizes—

You were trying earlier. You were so desperate for him, so needy, that you had tried to fix it yourself. And fuck, that breaks him. Because now, the only thought in his mind is that he won’t let you do that again. Not when he’s right here. 

Not when he can ruin you himself. You arch your back more, pressing your hips into his touch—a silent, desperate invitation. And fuck, Zayne feels it. His breath stutters, his fingers twitching against the soaked fabric, and then— He obeys.

He slides his fingers against your wet underwear a few more times, slow and torturous, dragging over your heat with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble, to make you whimper into the mattress.

His voice is barely holding together now, low and gravelly as he murmurs— “So needy…”

And then—He slides your underwear to the side. The cold air against your bare, dripping heat makes you shudder, and your lips part as you try to answer him, try to tell him just how long you’ve been like this, just how much you need him—But you don’t get the chance.

Because before you can even form a full sentence, before you can even breathe, he slides two fingers inside you. A sharp, helpless moan tumbles from your lips, your fingers clenching into the sheets as your body tenses, stretching around his touch.

Zayne curses under his breath, his fingers sinking in to the knuckle, feeling just how tight you are, just how wet you are for him. 

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked, like he can’t even handle this, like he’s already falling apart.

You try to move, try to press back into his touch, but his free hand is already gripping your hip, keeping you still, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

His breath is heavy, ragged, as he leans in, lips brushing against your ear, his fingers slowly curling inside you. “There you go, darling,” he murmurs, voice dark, soothing, completely gone. “Let me take care of you.”

Your whole body shudders, pleasure coursing through you in hot, electric waves as Zayne's fingers move inside you, curling just right, sending sharp pulses of need straight to your core. You exhale—loud, broken, filled with relief and desperation all at once. Because fuck—your fingers can’t compare to his. They never could. Nothing feels like him. 

You try to speak, try to string together a sentence, but all that escapes you is a choked whimper, your back arching further, pressing down onto his fingers, silently begging for more. His grip on your hip tightens—not enough to stop you, but enough to control you, to keep you from completely falling apart too fast. Still, you try.

"Z-Zayne—” his name tumbles from your lips, breathless and pleading, but it only makes him groan, his fingers thrusting deeper inside you.

You whimper, your body trembling, your hands clenching into the sheets.

"More," you finally manage, voice barely above a desperate whisper. "Please—I need you—"

Zayne curses under his breath, his forehead dropping against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough, strained, his control hanging by a thread.

You grind against his fingers, a helpless, needy attempt to get him to move faster, to get him to finally take you, but he holds you still, his grip tightening, his fingers slowing—torturously, agonizingly slow.

"Zayne," you whimper again, more insistent this time, your body shaking with frustration, craving him, needing him. 

And then—his voice drops, his lips brushing your ear as he finally asks, low and dark— "Is this what you were trying to do in the shower, sweetheart?"

Your breath catches. Your whole body locks up. Because fuck—he knew. 

Zayne’s fingers keep moving, slow and deliberate, thrusting deep, curling inside you in a way that makes your body tremble with need. His breath is hot against your ear, his lips brushing your skin as he whispers— “Tell me, my love…”

You shudder, your whole body arching, desperate for more, but he doesn’t give it to you. Not yet. His fingers stay at that slow, teasing pace, pushing you, coaxing you, playing with you.

“Were you thinking about me?” he murmurs, voice dripping with affection and something darker. “When you were in the shower?”

Your breath hitches, a deep blush creeping onto your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hide from the truth, but he doesn’t let you. His fingers pick up the pace slightly, just enough to make your thighs tremble, just enough to make you lose yourself again.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice smooth, teasing. “You can tell me, baby.”

You whimper, your hands gripping the sheets, your body melting into his touch. And then, in the midst of your haze, you feel him shift behind you—but you don’t realize what he’s doing. You don’t realize that while he’s coaxing these soft, helpless confessions out of you, he’s also pushing his pants down, freeing himself without you noticing. 

Still, his fingers keep moving, keep teasing, keep ruining you—Until you break. 

“…Y-Yes—” Your voice is shaky, wrecked, full of embarrassment but even more desperation. Zayne groans, his body shuddering behind you, his grip on your hip tightening.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, voice so full of warmth, so full of praise that it sends another wave of heat coursing through you. 

But then, without warning—he pulls his fingers out completely. You gasp, your body jerking at the sudden emptiness, your hips moving instinctively to chase his touch, to find something, but he holds you still, his hands firm on your waist.

And then, his voice drops, low and teasing— “You won’t need to use your fingers anymore, sweetheart. Not while I’m here.”

That’s when you feel it.The heavy, warm pressure of him pressing against your entrance, where his fingers used to be. Your breath catches, your whole body tensing in anticipation.

Zayne groans, his fingers tightening hard on your waist as he finally, finally pushes himself inside you. The stretch is intense, your body arching on instinct as his free hand presses down on your back, making you curve even more, angling you just right. 

A sharp, helpless moan rips from your throat, a tumble of yes and please and Zayne, your fingers clenching tight around the sheets.

“Fuck—” he grits out, his head falling forward as he sinks into you inch by inch, your body stretching to take him in. And then— He sees it. The way you’re so soaked, so wrecked, that it runs down your thighs, glistening in the dim light of the room. Zayne loses his mind. 

His breath shudders, his jaw clenching, his fingers digging into your hips, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop talking. Doesn’t stop urging you on with that deep, gravelly voice, doesn’t stop praising you, teasing you, undoing you with words alone as he thrusts into you.

“Look at you, sweetheart…” his voice is low, thick with pure lust, breathless in your ear as he pulls out just slightly, then thrusts in again, deeper, making you cry out.

“So fucking wet for me…” Another deep thrust, slow and deliberate, his hands tight on your waist, keeping you right where he wants you. 

“This is what you needed, huh?” His lips brush against your ear, his words dripping with affection and desire. “You needed me to take care of you?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, unable to form words, completely wrecked by his voice, by his touch, by the way he fills you so perfectly.

Zayne groans, his hand sliding up your back, gripping the nape of your neck as his other hand presses against your stomach, feeling the way he moves inside you. 

“Good girl,” he breathes, his pace picking up, every word sending a new wave of heat crashing through you. And fuck—You’re already falling apart. 

Your voice comes out wrecked, barely above a desperate whimper as you plead— "Faster—please, Zayne—"

And fuck, he knows. He knows how close you are, how badly you need this, how much frustration has been building inside you since earlier. So he gives it to you. His grip on your waist tightens, his movements picking up, his thrusts faster, deeper, harder—the wet, obscene sound of it echoing through the dark room, making your face burn, making your body tremble.

"That’s it, darling," he groans, leaning down, kissing along your spine, his lips dragging slowly down your back before he bites the back of your neck—sharp enough to make you gasp.

"You're taking me so fucking well." His words are thick with praise, his voice dark and sweet all at once, sinking into your bones as he ruins you. 

His teeth graze your shoulder, biting down just slightly, just enough to make you whimper, just enough to make your back arch more, pressing against him, making you feel every inch of him as he drives into you.

And then—his lips brush against your ear, his voice dipping lower, teasing, taunting—"It didn’t feel the same, did it?" 

Your breath catches, a fresh wave of humiliation and arousal washing over you all at once, your fingers gripping the sheets helplessly. The moment his words sink in, the moment his voice wraps around you like silk, your body betrays you. You tighten around him—hard, your walls fluttering around his length, and Zayne feels it.

He groans, his grip bruising against your hips, his control hanging by a thread, but he still needs to hear you say it.

"Did it?" he asks again, his voice drenched in something dark, something possessive. And this time—you answer.

"N-no," your voice is shattered, breathless, desperate. "It—It wasn’t the same—I needed you, Zayne—"

Something snaps in him. He thrusts harder, driving into you with deep, unrelenting strokes, pressing right against that sweet spot inside you over and over again, making you see stars.

"That’s my good girl," he praises, voice rough, breath ragged as he watches you fall apart, as he feels you clench so tightly around him.

"You needed me, huh?" Another sharp, precise thrust. "Needed me to take care of you?"

"Yes—!" You cry out, your body trembling, your fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets, drenched in pleasure.

"Then come for me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice thick with affection and command, his fingers sliding down to rub tight, devastating circles over your clit as his thrusts drive you over the edge. And fuck—Your orgasm hits you like a shockwave.

It rips through you, violent and overwhelming, making you convulse around him, making your breath break into sharp, desperate cries as the pleasure pours down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Zayne groans, his breath catching as he feels it, as he sees the mess you’re making for him, as he loses himself completely in the way you come undone beneath him.

"Fuck, that’s it," he breathes, still thrusting through it, still praising you, still ruining you. "Such a good girl for me…"

And as your body shudders through the aftershocks, as you cling to the sheets, as his name spills from your lips like a prayer—Zayne knows. He knows you’ll never need your own fingers again. Because from now on—It’ll always be him. 

Zayne doesn’t slow down. Not even as you convulse beneath him, not even as you shake from the force of your release, your body still locked in pleasure-drunk tremors. He keeps thrusting, his pace still deep, still relentless, his grip tight on your waist as he chases his own edge. And fuck—he’s so close.

Your walls are still pulsing around him, still gripping him like you don’t want to let go, and it’s killing him. His forehead drops against your shoulder, his groans slipping into your skin, his voice shaky as he fights to hold on, to stretch this out just a little longer—But he can’t. Not when you feel this good. Not when you’re still whimpering beneath him, still wrecked from how hard he made you come.

"Fuck—" he grits out, his breath stuttering, his movements turning sloppy, desperate.

Then—his lips brush against your ear, his voice low, wrecked, pleading— "Can I come, sweetheart?" 

Your whole body shudders at the way he asks it, his voice strained, helpless.

"Tell me I can," he groans, still thrusting, still pushing so deep inside you, like he can’t stop himself. "Tell me you want it." His words send a fresh wave of heat curling in your stomach, your breath shaking, your mind foggy from the overstimulation but still craving more. 

"Z-Zayne—" you whimper, voice broken, already undone, but you want this.

"Please," you whisper, breathless and raw. "Come for me."

And fuck—That’s all it takes. The moment your wrecked plea tumbles from your lips, Zayne loses it completely. A deep, guttural groan tears from his throat, his body tensing as his hips snap forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can inside you.

His grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging into your skin, desperate, as his whole body shudders. Then— His teeth sink into the soft skin of your neck, biting down, his breath ragged, his groans muffled against you as his release spills inside you in thick, pulsing waves.

He stays like that—his lips latched onto your neck, his body pressed flush against yours, his hands still gripping you so tightly—as aftershocks ripple through him, making him shake against you. His mind is blank, overwhelmed, wrecked from how good you feel, from the way you just took him, from the way you own him completely. 

His lips finally soften against your neck, pressing a slow, tender kiss over the mark he just left, like an apology, like a silent confession. And fuck—As his breath steadies, as he finally starts coming down, as he feels you still beneath him, warm and perfect and his—Zayne knows. You’re his.

 Zayne stays still for a moment, just breathing—his body pressed to yours, your skin sticky with sweat and heat and something so much deeper. But then he shifts, his hands softening as he slowly slips out of you, careful not to move too quickly, his fingers trailing along your side as if to soothe, to ground you again.

You’re still trembling slightly, your body so spent, so sensitive, but he moves gently, turning you on your back so he can see you, check every inch, make sure you’re okay.

His brows furrow as he scans your expression, his palm brushing your cheek as he whispers—

"Was that too much? Did I hurt you?" 

You blink up at him, still blushing, but you giggle—breathless and wrecked but somehow light, teasing.

"God, we sound like horny teenagers," you mumble, laughing softly as you curl closer to him. "Except we’re grown adults." 

Zayne huffs a breath of a laugh, visibly relieved that you’re teasing again, his hand still stroking your side as he watches you with soft eyes.

"You were perfect," you whisper, quieter this time, sincere, and your cheeks flush even deeper as you add, "And if you ever do something I don’t like, I promise I’ll tell you."

Zayne blushes at that—actually blushes, his ears pink, and he bites back a grin as he murmurs, “That’s… good to know.” 

Then his eyes flick briefly to the sheets beneath you, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“…I don’t mean to alarm you,” he says with that smug, teasing tone you know all too well, “but we may have absolutely destroyed your sheets.” 

You let out a groan, dragging the pillow over your face. 

“Zaaayne!”

He laughs—really laughs—and leans over to kiss your warm cheek, proud and completely gone for you.

“And I regret nothing,” he adds, voice low and playful. Neither do you.  

The morning light filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. You’re still wrapped in the sheets, tangled in each other, your bodies lazy and warm from sleep.

Zayne stirs beside you, shifting slightly before propping himself up on his elbow, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare shoulder. He seems hesitant, like something is sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he’s overthinking it. 

Finally, after a long pause, he exhales and asks, a little too casually, "Do you have any plans today?"

You blink up at him, still drowsy, stretching slightly before turning onto your side to face him.

"Not really," you murmur, tilting your head curiously. "Why?"

Zayne swallows, suddenly feeling incredibly flustered, and he hates that it’s this difficult to ask you something so simple. But fuck—he’s never done this before. So he scratches the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you as he clears his throat. 

"I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me?" He pauses, feeling like an idiot before adding, "You know… a real first date." 

There’s a beat of silence. Then—You grin, amused but also endearing warmth spreading through your chest as you watch him struggle with something that should be so easy after everything that’s already happened between you. And you can’t help it—you laugh. 

"Zayne," you say, shaking your head, "you were literally inside of me less than twelve hours ago, and now you’re embarrassed to ask me out on a date?" 

His entire face flushes. He groans, dragging a hand down his face before grumbling, "It’s clearly not the same, alright?" 

You giggle again, but your heart swells at how genuine he’s being, how much this matters to him. So you soften, reaching up to cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the warmth of his cheeks as you look at him with nothing but adoration.

With the sweetest, most affectionate voice you can muster, you say— "I would love to go on a first date with you, my love." 

Zayne melts. His expression shifts, his lips parting slightly before his face buries into the crook of your neck, exhaling deeply, as if your words physically relieved some of his tension.

"Good," he murmurs against your skin, voice softer now, happier. Because fuck—This is real.

——

Zayne has always noticed. Quietly, subtly—without ever making it obvious. The way your eyes lit up at the sight of fresh flowers. How you always paused to touch the fruit at markets, choosing the ripest ones with the softest smile. The way you sighed dreamily whenever you saw couples lying in the sun together, whispering and laughing over homemade food. And how your fingers lingered just a little longer on pressed flower postcards, glass bottles filled with petals, or greenhouse windows dripping with condensation. 

He saw all of it. And now that he has you—now that you're his—he wants your first real date with him to be perfect. So, naturally, he makes a plan. 

First, a quiet, artsy little farmer’s market, one with stalls full of pastries, fresh produce, and the scent of roasted coffee in the air. Then, a picnic in a shaded corner of the park, beneath the canopy of trees, with food you choose together. And finally, a quiet walk through a flower garden, or maybe even a hidden greenhouse, just so he can watch your eyes sparkle again—just like they always did. 

But when you ask him about it that morning, curled up next to him, your hair messy and your smile still soft from sleep, he just scratches the back of his neck and murmurs, “It’s a surprise.”

He tries to sound casual about it. He fails. The faint blush on his cheeks gives him away instantly, but you don’t push. You love the mystery. And the way he’s being all flustered and earnest about it? It only makes your heart beat harder.

After breakfast and a few lingering kisses at the door, he finally heads back to his place to get ready, promising he’ll be back in a bit to pick you up. And as soon as the door closes behind him— You squeal. A quiet, giddy, heart-pounding noise as you flop onto your bed, face burning with excitement. 

You’re nervous. You’re blushing. You’re thinking about what to wear and how to do your hair and wondering where he’s taking you and what he’ll say and how his hand will feel holding yours in the daylight. And all the while, in the back of your mind—You already know this is going to be your favorite day.

 ——

You stand in front of your mirror, smoothing down the light fabric of your sundress—a soft, pastel color that brushes just above your knees, delicate and flowy in a way that feels sweet and a little romantic.

The weather is perfect for it—late spring tipping into early summer, warm enough to kiss your skin but gentle enough to carry a breeze. You add a simple necklace, some gloss, a bit of mascara, and try not to think too hard about the way your hands won’t stop fidgeting.

This isn’t just another hangout. Not like the ones from before—when it was you, Zayne, and Caleb all going out for boba, or spending hours curled up in someone’s living room watching dumb movies. 

This is different. This is Zayne asking you out. Zayne, your Zayne, picking you up for your first official date. And that makes your chest flutter. So when the knock comes at your door, your heart practically leaps.

You open it, and there he is. Dressed in a light button-down with the sleeves rolled up and casual khaki pants, he looks clean, soft, effortlessly handsome with his hair slightly tousled like he just ran a hand through it.

But the moment he sees you—Zayne freezes. For a second, he says nothing, just stares, his mouth slightly parted, the words catching in his throat.

Then—very quietly—“…Wow.”

The flush rises immediately in his face, climbing to his ears as he clears his throat and tries to recover, but it’s too late—he’s already been caught completely off guard by how pretty you look. So soft. So radiant in the sunlight. So you.

You smile at him—sweet, just a little teasing. “Is that your doctor-approved greeting?”

He groans under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “I—I mean, yes? Maybe? No. I—” 

You laugh, stepping closer and reaching out to fix the slightly crooked fold of his shirt collar. His hands hover for a second, like he’s not sure if he should touch you.

But then you glance up at him and say softly, “Hi.”

He exhales slowly. “Hi.” 

And suddenly—so easily—he finds your hand in his, and everything feels right. You step outside, both of you giddy and a little nervous, because yes—you’ve hung out before. But never like this. Never with all this warmth blooming between your joined fingers. Never with intention. And that’s what makes it perfect.

The car ride is filled with soft music, light conversation, and that almost unbearable but perfect buzz of anticipation between you. But the moment Zayne pulls up near the little farmer’s market nestled in the tree-lined square, your heart stutters. Because you recognize it. Not just the cobblestone layout or the string lights swaying between vendor tents—But the memory it carries.

Summer afternoons when you, Zayne, and Caleb would race between stalls, daring each other to try the weirdest food or trade spare change for the silliest handmade trinkets. The little jam-eating contests, the haphazard fruit tasting, the way you once dared Caleb to eat a raw onion like an apple—and he actually did. The secret time you and Zayne shared a warm pastry behind one of the booths and swore not to tell Caleb because he would say it was unfair. 

It hits you like sunlight—warm and sudden. You turn to Zayne, your expression beaming, full of soft disbelief and overwhelming fondness.

“You remembered,” you say, your voice catching just a little, eyes glossy with the weight of nostalgia. 

Zayne ducks his head a little, cheeks tinting with color. “Of course I did.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it tightly before grinning and tugging him forward.

“Come on, Doctor Nostalgia. Let’s go make some new memories.” 

He lets you drag him, smiling with that rare, giddy sort of smile that’s all teeth and crinkled eyes—the one he doesn’t show often, but always showed when he was with you.

The market is lively, the scent of baked goods and fresh herbs dancing in the air. Musicians strum quietly near the fountain, kids run past with sticky hands, and the stalls are bursting with color. You and Zayne wander side by side, fingers intertwined.

You try fresh strawberries that a sweet older vendor offers on a toothpick—juicy and sun-warm. Zayne points out local honey, and you both dip little wooden sticks in, humming thoughtfully before he looks at you and smirks. “Tastes like something you’d hoard in your kitchen.”

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re one to talk. You always had a thing for fancy cheese.” 

As if summoned, you stop at a cheese stall. He hands you a cracker with a soft, creamy white cheese on it, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

You pop it into your mouth and melt. “Oh my god.”

Zayne laughs under his breath. “Told you.” Then—boldly—you grab another cracker, add a dab of fig jam on top, and hold it up to him. He blinks, a little stunned, then leans in slowly, lips brushing your fingers as he takes it from you.

“Mm,” he murmurs, licking his lips with a quiet hum. “Tastes sweet.”  

You catch the way his eyes linger just a second too long on you before he adds with a sly grin—“Could’ve been the jam… or maybe your fingers.” 

Your jaw drops, your face flames, and you smack his arm playfully. “Zayne!”

But you’re laughing, so much, the sun in your hair, his hand in yours, and that warm flutter in your chest blooming until it overflows. This isn’t just a market. This is him. This is you. This is your first date—And it’s already everything.

You and Zayne weave through the market like you’ve done it a hundred times before—effortless and tethered, laughing easily, brushing shoulders as you point out random stalls, reminiscing about summers past.

“Do you remember when Caleb tried to flirt with that girl selling peaches and ended up dropping the entire basket?” you ask between giggles, gripping his arm to keep from doubling over. 

Zayne grins, wide and real. “He tripped over a watermelon crate. She didn’t stop laughing for ten minutes.” 

You pause when you reach a flower stall. Bouquets bloom in every color—sunflowers, wildflowers, soft peonies and delicate tulips, their petals opening under the sunlight like secrets. Zayne steps close to one arrangement and squints at it.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

He points at a chaotic bouquet of mismatched wildflowers, bright yellows and crooked greens all crammed into one vase. 

“This one’s you,” he says, deadpan. “Chaotic but cute.”

You gasp. “Excuse me?”

He smirks, clearly proud of himself. “Unpredictable. Bright. Wild. A little messy. Totally endearing.”

You narrow your eyes, then gesture to a sleek, almost aggressively arranged bunch of white lilies and eucalyptus. “This one’s you. Overly serious, smells like it wants to tell people they’re breathing wrong.”

Zayne chokes on a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. You smile, tilting your head. “But secretly soft if you get too close.”

He falls quiet for a second, looking at you in a way that softens every part of him. You catch the shift in his eyes just as he turns to the vendor and buys that ridiculous, messy little wildflower bouquet. He doesn’t say anything—just hands it to you with a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

“Yours suits you better anyway,” he mutters. 

Your heart flips so hard you nearly drop it. You continue on with a new bounce in your step, cheeks flushed as you both settle in near the edge of the market to split a snack—one large crepe folded and dusted with powdered sugar, filled with strawberries and cream. 

You both take turns holding it, trading bites with playful nudges and quiet moans of approval. At one point, you reach to take a bite and your fingers brush his, soft and lingering. You freeze for a second. He does too. Then you go for a sip of the smoothie he’s been holding and take the straw— Only to realize halfway through your sip that his mouth was on it just seconds ago. 

Zayne watches you, something teasing and unreadable in his gaze. “Enjoying yourself?” he murmurs.

You pull back slowly, trying not to combust. “I’m just… hydrating.”

“Right,” he says, smirking. “Very intimate hydration.” 

You groan, hiding your face behind the bouquet. “You’re insufferable.”

He leans in a little closer, his voice quieter, teasing—but warm. “You like it.”

You do. And it’s written all over your face. After a while, the market begins to quiet around the edges—the crowd thinning, the sun arching just a little lower in the sky, brushing golden light over the cobblestones.

You feel it settle in your limbs—that subtle shift between the height of the moment and the slow exhale that comes after it. Your fingers intertwine with Zayne’s, the flower bouquet still tucked carefully under your other arm, petals brushing your wrist as you both walk slowly back toward the car.

There’s a flicker of something in your chest—a little restlessness, a little ache. Maybe this is it. Maybe it’s over now. You didn’t want it to end.

But when you reach the car and he unlocks the trunk, he doesn’t get in. Instead— He lifts out a soft, folded blanket and a perfectly packed picnic basket. 

You stop completely, eyes going wide. “Wait—what is this?” 

Zayne just shrugs one shoulder, trying to play it cool, but his smile is twitching at the corners, threatening to break into something bigger. “What, you thought that was the whole date?”

You’re stunned—and then immediately blushing, your face warm and your heart flooding.

“Zayne,” you breathe, cheeks beginning to hurt from how hard you’re smiling.

He reaches out, tugging gently at your wrist with his free hand. “Come on. It’s not far.”

You let him pull you forward, your bouquet bouncing lightly in your arms as you walk side by side down a quieter trail that winds toward the park. And when you finally reach it— A wide, blooming tree stands in the distance, its pale petals fluttering gently in the breeze, casting soft shadows across the grass. 

Zayne lays the blanket down beneath it, fluffing the edges, smoothing it out like it’s second nature. The picnic basket lands in the center. You lower yourself down beside him, heart racing, knees folded, the flower bouquet set beside you like something out of a dream. The shade is dappled with sunlight, the air sweet with blossoms and distant music from the market behind you. 

And all you can think is— He did all of this. For you. 

You glance sideways at him as he begins unpacking the basket—neatly packed containers, fruits, drinks, even a few sweets from the market. He catches you staring. “…What?” 

You smile so softly you almost break. “You’re kind of unbelievable.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you, eyes warm and full of something so deep. Then he reaches over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re worth planning for.”

And just like that— Your heart is his all over again. Your chest swells at his words—You’re worth planning for. Because deep down, you always knew Zayne was this way—quietly attentive, considerate in the most subtle, deliberate ways. He never did things halfway. Not when it came to the people he loved. 

But hearing it now, out loud, while sitting beneath a blooming tree on a blanket he packed just for you—It hits differently. Your smile is soft and helpless as you reach for one of the strawberries from the basket—plump, red, and sun-warmed. You hold it up to his lips, biting your lower one to hide the grin threatening to break through. 

“You know,” you say sweetly, tilting your head, “for someone who pretends to be so stoic, you’ve got the softest spot for sweets.” 

Zayne raises an eyebrow at you, unimpressed—but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t pretend to be stoic.”

You hum, eyes glinting. “Mmm. Sure, Doctor.” 

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans in and takes the strawberry straight from your fingers, his lips brushing your knuckles as he bites down—deliberately slow. Your breath hitches at the closeness, at the way his gaze stays locked on yours as he chews.

He swallows, then murmurs with a faint, teasing smirk, “You’re lucky I like fruit.”

Your voice comes out softer than you intend. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Zayne’s expression flickers, caught off guard, something unspoken passing through his eyes—something warm and vulnerable. Then, just as slowly, he leans in and kisses your cheek—quiet, gentle, full of everything words can’t hold. And the smile that grows on your face after that? It stays with you for the rest of the day.

The afternoon drifts by in a golden haze, the sun warm above and the soft breeze threading through the rustling leaves overhead. You sit close, legs brushing, fingers lazily tangled on the blanket as you both nibble on bits of fruit, little pastries, and chocolate-covered almonds he somehow knew you loved. 

Laughter bubbles easily between you—soft and low, the kind you only share with someone who knows you inside and out. You watch the people in the park: couples curled up in the grass, families with kids chasing bubbles, someone walking their very dramatic cat on a leash. 

Every now and then, Zayne feeds you something small—like a bite of pastry he breaks in half, or a piece of peach he holds to your lips, gaze soft and impossibly warm. And despite his usual calm, distant air, his touch is everywhere. 

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with two fingers, then lets them linger at your cheek. He wipes a bit of sugar from the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb, gentle and focused, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And every few minutes, his thumb circles the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, like he’s grounding himself in you.

At one point, you lean back on your elbows and murmur something about how perfect this is—how peaceful.

Zayne watches you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly, he says, "You look happiest when the world slows down like this." 

You turn to him—caught off guard, chest fluttering, breath held in your throat. It’s not just what he said. It’s how he said it—like he’s memorized that look on your face, like he’s been quietly studying it for years. 

He doesn’t pull back when your eyes lock. He just smiles a little and keeps stroking his thumb along your knuckles. You don’t even try to hide your blush. Eventually, when the sun starts to sink and the sky blushes into soft amber, Zayne glances at his watch, then reaches for your hand again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, “we’ve got one more stop.”

You let him pull you to your feet, cheeks still warm from the sweet things he’s said—and the sweeter things he hasn’t.

You walk together down a quiet path, past the edge of the park, where the buildings give way to glass and light. And there it is. A tucked-away greenhouse, bathed in golden sunlight, its glass fogged gently at the corners, filled with rows of flowers blooming in soft, wild colors.

Your breath catches. Your hand tightens in his. Because it’s perfect. Exactly the kind of place your younger self would’ve run through barefoot, cheeks flushed from curiosity, pointing at petals and reading every sign out loud.

Zayne doesn’t say anything right away—just watches your expression shift, his eyes catching on the way your lips part slightly in wonder, the way your eyes sparkle again like they did when you were young.

And maybe that’s the whole reason he brought you here. Not for the flowers. Not for the walk. But for this. For that look in your eyes—The one he’s never, ever forgotten.

You walk through the threshold of the greenhouse, and everything slows. The air is warm and fragrant, heavy with the scent of blooming petals and damp earth. The filtered sunlight spills in soft gold through the glass, catching on dew-kissed leaves and lazy motes of dust that dance in the air.

But none of it compares to what’s rising in your chest. Because as you look around—at the rows of flowers, the careful serenity of the space, the tiny handmade signs that name each plant in soft script—it hits you. He did all of this. Zayne.

The boy who used to sit beside you on the swings, quiet and observant. The boy who never said much, but always noticed. The man who now stands beside you, having planned every part of this day—not just for the sake of a date, but for you. He remembered everything.

All the little things you never expected anyone to hold onto. The way your eyes lingered on blooms you didn’t dare pick. How you paused at flower stalls just a moment longer. Your old habit of reading every nameplate and pretending the plants had personalities.

And he turned it into this. Your chest swells—too full, too tender—and before you even realize what you’re doing, you turn and throw your arms around him, burying your face into his chest.

Zayne lets out a surprised breath, his arms wrapping around you instinctively, pulling you close.

You hold him tight. "Thank you," you whisper, your voice thick, barely audible against his shirt. "You remembered everything."

He exhales into your hair, arms tightening just a little more. “How could I not?.”

When you pull back, your hands still resting on his chest, he looks at you like he’s not sure if he should say anything else. So instead, he just leans in—And kisses you. Slow, sweet, unhurried.

His lips are soft, reverent, his hand cupping your cheek like you're the most precious thing he's ever held. It’s not rushed, not hungry—it’s full of feeling, soaked in the quiet magic of the greenhouse around you.

The kiss ends, and your foreheads rest together, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentleness that nearly undoes you all over again. You open your eyes and beam, cheeks glowing, unable to contain it.

"Best date I’ve ever had," you whisper, voice teasing but your eyes full of truth. Then you add, grinning wide—"You're lucky you’re cute, Zayne, or I might've cried in front of all these flowers."

Zayne pulls back just enough to blink down at you—flustered, eyes wide. “I—I’m not—cute.”

You giggle and grab his hand before he can stumble over himself further, giving it a tug.

“Come on, not-cute Zayne. I want to see everything.”

You lead him through the greenhouse, your steps light and barefoot in spirit, your laughter trailing behind you like petals. And Zayne just follows—quiet, hand in yours, smiling like he’s sixteen again and absolutely, helplessly in love.  

The sun has dipped beneath the horizon by the time you both make it back to the car, the sky a velvet blend of rose gold and pale indigo, the last threads of sunlight clinging to the clouds. Zayne opens the door for you without thinking, his movements relaxed but still laced with that quiet attentiveness that hasn’t left him since the moment the date began.

You settle into the passenger seat, flower bouquet nestled in your lap, heart still fluttering in your chest from every perfect, soft thing that happened. The drive home is quiet—not awkward, but peaceful. His hand rests on the gear shift, occasionally brushing yours. The air is filled with the smell of flowers and distant sugar, the windows cracked just enough to let the spring-summer breeze roll through.

When you pull up in front of your house, neither of you move to get out right away.

Zayne glances at you, his voice low. “Mind if I stay over again?” 

You look at him, already smiling. “You didn’t even need to ask.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have to head out early tomorrow. The hospital scheduled me for a morning shift—early rounds, one of the attendings is evaluating me.” 

Your smile falters just a little, not from sadness but from the quiet reality tugging at your soft bubble. But then he leans over and kisses your temple, as if to ease the moment. “I’ll be back after. Always.”

You both get out of the car, and he carries the bouquet and the folded blanket under one arm as you unlock your door. Once inside, everything feels safe again. Familiar. The shoes come off. The lights dim. You both move like you’ve done this a hundred times, but there’s still something new in the air—something charged, sweet, full of anticipation.

You place the bouquet in the same vase that once held the jasmines from that unforgettable night. Zayne watches you from behind, his hands in his pockets, something quiet brewing in his chest.

And then—he speaks. Soft. Careful. Almost like he’s scared to break the moment. “…Can I ask you something?” 

You turn to face him, your expression still bright from the day. “Anything.”

He walks a little closer, stopping just a breath away from you, his eyes scanning your face like he needs to commit this moment to memory.

“I know it’s only been a few days since everything… changed,” he says gently, “but it’s also been over a decade of feeling this way. And today felt like something I want to keep doing. With you. Over and over again.” 

You swallow, your heart stammering in your chest, your hands gripping each other behind your back.  

“So,” he says, his voice lower now, a little rough around the edges—vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see, “Would you… be mine?” 

You blink, and for a second you can’t speak because your throat is tight and your chest is warm and his gaze is so full of something that could break you and build you at the same time. But then you breathe—And smile. Soft. Wide. Certain.

“Zayne,” you whisper, stepping closer until your hands slide up his chest and settle near his collar, “I already am.” 

And the look that flashes in his eyes? That’s the kind of thing people spend lifetimes hoping for. He leans down, and this time, the kiss is neither rushed nor teasing—it’s home. And when you finally curl into bed later, tangled beneath the sheets, limbs brushing and hearts calm, everything feels exactly as it should be. 

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @asiaticapple @syluslittlecrows @vyntheria @ixloom819

[tentativefiction]

A Warm Touch Part 3/3

Hello everyone! Final part! If you have waited this long thank you so much for sticking around. This is only the second fic I have ever actually finished and my second time writing smut. If you have enjoyed, please leave a like and a comment, it is very much appreciated.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Knotting, biting.

Word Count: 2569

Chapter 3

Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you go for the fastenings Sylus’ tight trousers and this time he doesn’t stop you. His intense gaze burns into you as you slowly untie his laces. Curiously, you trail your hand over the obvious tent there; the dragons breath gets caught in his throat and you can’t help the thrill that spreads throughout you. As you pull the fabric down his thighs, Sylus’ arousal springs up to meets you. He’s hard- painfully so; the tip of his cock is flushed pretty pink and drooling, and you gulp at the sheer size of him. You’re no expect by any means, but he must be significantly larger than most other men and you find yourself suddenly quite intimidated by the sheer size of him. How the hell was that supposed to fit inside of you? Then, you remember what he said before- about him not being like other men. Tilting your head (a quirk you’d picked up from him) you examine him. Nothing looks amiss to your limited knowledge, if anything you find yourself ogling at how strangely pretty you find it.

Lifting your head, you find Sylus had his eyes shut. He looked like he was bracing for something. You frown.

“Sylus?” He hums and slightly cracks one eye open, “what do I do?” You flush with hot embarrassment.

Surprised he looks at you fully before gently engulfing your hand in his much larger one and leading it to his neglected cock, “I will show you.”

Eagerly, you watch as his hand envelopes yours in a tight grip on his shaft, the heat of him warming your palm. Slowly, he moves your hand back and forth along him, your hand quickly becoming sticky and wet with his arousal. You find yourself entranced, watching as his flushed head slips in and out of your palm. Sylus’ head tilts back with a breathy moan as you become more sure of yourself, still being guided by him, but growing more confident by the second.

Lewd wet sounds echo around the room as his pre-cum messily coats your hand, dribbling down your wrist and landing on your stomach. His nostrils flair, and his jaw drops open in a pained moan as your fingers repeatedly bump the base of his cock, which is expanding the more you touch him. You make a questioning sound and try to sit up, to get a better look. Quickly, you are pushed back down by your shoulders.

“Sylus?” He squeezed his eyes closed before he removes his hand that was controlling your own. He is breathing so heavily it is almost concerning as full body tremors rack him.

“It is my knot” he answers the unspoken question, eyes heavy lidded and boring into you.

“Is this what you spoke of before?”

“Yes.”

“Can I look?”

He hesitates. Checks over your face once more. Then allows you to sit up. His member still rests in your hand as you can finally get a good look at his swollen base. Gently you prod at it with your other hand, marvelling at the slight give underneath your exploring fingers. His cock jumps and his breath gets caught in his throat and you quickly stop to look at his pained expression.

“Does it hurt?”

He chokes out a laugh, “No”.

“Can I keep going?”

“….please”.

At that one little word, your mind goes still. All thoughts leave before rushing back in a heady tidal wave. The dragon never pleads. But for you? For your touch? He would do anything.

You resume your ministrations from before. This time you need no guidance. Maintaining a steady pressure, you pump his cock slowly, flicking your wrist everytime you move over the head- letting the obscene noises Sylus makes guide you on what is making him feel good. You feel your cunt throbbing in time with his own arousal as your other hand circles the ever growing knot at the base of his cock.

Sylus keens, high pitched and loud as his body crumbles above you. He crushes your body to his in a bruising grip as his hips chase the sensations you bestow upon him, thrusting in and out of your hand. His low groans turn into high pitched whines that grow louder and more frequent until he once again stops you.

“What do you want, princess?” He asks, his gaze so dark and hungry it makes your legs tremble.

“It’s like I said before. I want you.” You breathe, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.

“Yes, but how? Like this?” He thrusts into your hand once more, his own finding its way back to your cunt, his knuckles dragging teasingly in between your folds.

Taking a second, you steady yourself, “No, I want more.”

“Define more for me. Tell me exactly.” Sylus demands.

The two of you just watch each other for a second. Taking in the shared racing heartbeats and panting breathes.

“I want you to make me yours. I want you inside of me.” Shakily, you confess to him. You fight off the wave of embarrassment that threatens to flood you. You were long past that.

Sylus sharply inhales, before he growls deep in his chest. He presses his body further into your own, pinning you beneath him as you wrap your legs around his strong waist. Your heart slams against your ribcage as you guide him between your legs. He looks at you, and at the nod of your head he slowly starts pushing in. He stops immediately though at the pained hiss that escapes through your teeth. The pain rips through you at the stretch that was just too much. Concern is evident on his face as he takes in your furrowed brow and clenched teeth. He pulls back.

“It hurts” he simply states.

You shake your head despite yourself, “I’ll be fine, just keep going. Please.”

The furrow in his brow matches your own as he looks at you seriously. “Will you try something for me?”

Nodding, you focus on your breathing as the pain subsides. He asks for your hand and you give it to him. You raise a brow at him as he guides it down to your own arousal.

“I cannot stretch you properly without severely hurting you,” you glance down to his sharp claws, “you are going to have to do it.”

You nod, and at your consent he guides your own finger into yourself. The stretch is only slightly uncomfortable and you hesitate waiting for what he will do next.

“Have you ever touched yourself before?”

You shake your head, “yes, but not like this. Never… inside.”

Sylus nods, concentration plastered on his features as he guides your hand in and out in a steady rhythm. You can feel your warm walls clenching around your finger, slowly becoming more relaxed. He watches, transfixed before asking,

“Do you think you can take another?”Nodding, you do just that, gritting your teeth slightly as the mildly uncomfortable stretch comes back. “Good. You are doing so well,” he purrs.

His praise goes straight between your legs and your find yourself gasping just as your fingers hit a good spot for the first time. Your hips raise into the feeling and as you’re becoming more confident, Sylus pulls his hand back, allowing you to explore and find what makes you feel best on your own. With eyes full of heat he gently thumbs at your clit and your eyes roll into the back of your head.

Without his prompting this time, you put a third finger inside of yourself, aiming for that one spot as the dragon plays with your clit. You find a good rhythm together and soon you find yourself on the edge once more. You try to stop, to pull away, but he growls in warning and moves your hand back between your legs. The pure lust burning in his eyes is the last thing you see before your eyes are squeezing closed and you cum again around your own fingers.

You’re panting heavily as you feel Sylus take your hand on his own. Reverently, he kisses the palm of your hand, before his hot tongue is thoroughly licking your arousal from your fingers, a shudder going down his spine as he fights to compose himself. Neither of you speak for what feels like an age. You just watch each other, your hearts and panting breaths in synch.

“Do you still want it, princess?” He rumbles.

“Yes.”

This time when he guides his cock between your legs and pushes in, the sting is still there but it no longer feels like you’re being split in two. You focus on your breathing and try to stay relaxed, before he stops. He waits there, allowing you to adjust to him and you glance down expecting him to be fully inside but whine when you see you’ve only taken him halfway. Sylus croons as you flop your head back, and he gently rubs your shoulders and nuzzles his face into your neck, scenting you. Rubbing along his back, you try to convey to him that it’s okay and you feel a gentle nip on your neck, before his lips and tongue soothes over the sting.

After a moment, you nod and he understands. Slowly, he pushes in the rest of the way, your hips flush against each other and you let out a little sigh of relief. You knew he was big, but my god you could feel him in your throat. You’re stretched so much more than what your fingers could ever do and the sensation is strange and a little uncomfortable. Sylus continues to croon and rub his face against you and you know that this is his own way of trying to comfort you while forcing his hips still. You focus on where he touches you, the vibrations racking his body settling deep into your own and the way his hot skin feels beneath your hands.

“Sylus?” He hums, “y-you can start moving now.”

His breath catches in his throat, before he begins moving his hips in a slow tentative thrust. When you make no pained noises, he does it again. And again. Soon, you get used to the push and pull and find yourself fully relaxing against him once more. His intense gaze bores into you as his hips find a rhythm, his cock plunging deep inside of you, seeking out the spot that would make you see stars. He smirks victorious as he finds it, a surprised moan ripping out of you as you cling to him.

The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin resounds from where the two of you are locked in a passionate embrace and the lewd noises has you clenching around him. Sylus growls lowly in his throat and his teeth snap against your throat, barely restrained. He squeezes his eyes closed, his teeth gnashing against each other as the tight clench of your walls around him turns his brains to mush. He slams his hand down next to your head, his claws scraping grooves into the stone floor as he fights with himself, the urge to bite and claim overwhelming. Burying his face in your hair, he settles for blanketing you in his thick scent as you dig your nails into his back. Your thighs grip him so tightly he can barely pull an inch out of you before grinding back into you. You squeak as you feel the base of his cock expanding, making an obscene wet squelch whenever it pushes in and exits your cunt.

“I-I am sorry… I do not think I will last much longer,” Sylus manages to gasp out through his heavy breathing, as his hips gain a mind of their own, grinding his expanding knot into you as it threatens to catch.

Breathless, you gasp, feeling yourself beginning to stretch beyond your limits. You try to wiggle your hips away, to escape the unrelenting stretch and pressure, but are engulfed by his huge obsidian wings and firmly pulled into the hard panes of his body. His fingers find your clit and move in quick little circles, forcing pleasure to zap through you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you suddenly cum, wailing and throwing your head back.

Sylus groans as his teeth scrape against you, his knot so swollen it barely fits inside of you anymore, “please” he whimpers.

Unsure of what he’s asking, you nod anyway, willing to give your everything to him in the simmering haze of your orgasm. You’re desperate for him to cum too. His knot sinks into you for the last time just as his teeth sink into the juncture of your throat and shoulder. You groan in a strange mixture of pain and pleasure as Sylus whimpers into your neck. His hips grind uncontrollably into you, unable to do anything else as he cums explosively, thick white pumping into you as he clings onto you for dear life. Sylus twitches as his hips continue to flex, still pumping load after load into you, seemingly not stopping anytime soon as you card your fingers soothingly through his hair.

After a while, he stills. Slowly, he pulls his teeth out of you and his tongue soothes over the sluggishly bleeding wound. He purrs lowly as he rests his weight against you, crushing you into the floor, unable to move. It feels strangely comforting. You feel safe and warm. Teasingly you clench around his length and he shudders as another spurt of his cum shoots into you.

“Careful” he growls out a warning, swiping his tongue against your throat and savouring the taste of you.

You lay there together in comfortable silence, basking in the afterglow. You pet him wherever your hands can reach, and he licks and rubs his scent into you with determination. In what feels like no time, his knot deflates and he slowly pulls out of you. Immediately his release gushes out of you, flooding your thighs and the ground beneath you. Sylus watches with a dangerous gleam in his eyes and a low rumble in his throat as he licks his lips. Playfully, you swat at his shoulders and he grins at you, before slowly standing up.

“Where are you going?” You sit up with a wince as Sylus walks to the other side of the hoard room.

He spares a glance back at you, “to get you some blankets”.

You gawk at him, “What? Now? You’re just up and leaving?"

He doesn’t speak, but crouches down the other side of the room, pulling out an astonishing amount of soft looking blankets and other thick looking materials.

You stare at him, mouth open and speechless, “wait… you had those the whole time?” You point an accusatory finger.

“Did I not say I would find them for you? You are the one who told me it would take too long.” He smirks.

He walks back towards you and begins covering you with the abundance of fabrics.

“Bastard” you mutter half heartedly with a soft smile, eyelids heavy and fluttering.

Faintly you can feel him slipping under the blankets next to you and a gentle pressure between your thighs as he cleans you dutifully. The last thing you feel before drifting into sleep is the gentle press of soft lips against your forehead.

“Sleep well, my beloved.”

[andreas-river]

47 and 30 please please pleas-

Prompts: 30. "make me." & 47. "bite me." with Ghost.

A/N: hello anon! I saw your submission telling me which character you wanted, don't worry I gotcha ;)

TW: fem!reader so description of female body, reader gets to his nerves but for a good reason, smut, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, male masturbation, some hurt/comfort and fluff at the end.

Want to make a request with other prompts?

NSFW under the cut, please MDNI!

You've been playing with him more than usual lately, trying to get to his nerves so he could finally let off some steam. You had a specific goal in mind, because it wasn't even the first time that Simon came back to the barracks with the need to break something for the stress he was facing.

Being a Lieutenant was hard, you could tell when he sat at the end of the day, breathing heavily and trying to calm down. Still, it felt wrong to take it all out on you, but you made it hard to hold back. So that night, you didn't want to leave his room until he was completely relaxed.

You stood in front of his bed, your arms crossed, your eyes burning. He stared at you, the look in his eyes telling you that he had finally given up.

He took a deep breath and came closer. "You should go."

You take a step too, a cocky smile on your face as you whisper right into his lips, still covered by his mask.

"Make me."

His eyes light up as if your words flipped a switch inside him, firm hands already on the exposed skin of your neck as he pushes you onto the bed, your body pinned between the mattress and his weight, leaving you breathless for a moment.

Simon's eyes are wild on your form beneath him, searching for something - some trace of remorse or perhaps a grimace of pain, but the only thing he sees is a cocky expression on your face that begins to drive him into a lustful rage - awakening him much more than he expected, the adrenaline rushing wildly through both of your bodies.

"Is this what you want, mh?" he quickly removes his mask, not giving you enough time to catch his full face as he begins to plant sloppy kisses around your neck, feeling a trail of saliva dripping down.

Your breath is heavy as he helps you out of your clothes, removing them without taking his eyes off of you.

Your body burns with desire, the need to feel him whole, skin brushing against skin, calloused fingers as he presses firmly against your hips, pulling his body down to your core.

You feel his mouth exploring every inch of your skin - as if he had never felt it against his lips, burning hot like lava ready to explode - he makes you squirm beneath him, trying to wriggle away, but he stops you, but you need more.

"Simon…" your lips quiver, your whole body actually shakes, feeling like you are being pulled like a violin string.

He hums something against you, acknowledging your voice but continuing to kiss your tights.

"Please… bite me…" your cheeks burn at your own admission, and you gasp in surprise as his mouth finally lands in your wet folds, instinctively grabbing the sheets beneath you.

A wave of pleasure runs down your spine as his tongue explores all around, but your body jerks in surprise as he sinks his teeth right where your clit is, your mouth open in a silent scream. It doesn't hurt at all, it's a kind of pain that goes at the same pace as the pleasure.

He caught you off guard as he alternated between these two actions, his tongue and then biting, enough to leave the mark but without doing you any real harm.

A series of pleas leave your mouth, finally giving you what you want - but actually giving him what he needed - as he slides two fingers right into your cunt, the squelching sound making you feel even closer to your climax.

Your ears begin to ring as he buries his digits deeper, hitting that special spot that makes you see stars in your vision, sucking even more hungrily at your clit, hips jerking as you arch your back as your ogasm hits you like a tidal wave, your body shaking as you desperately try to get a grip on the reality around you, your eyes squeezed shut, feeling your heartbeat in your throat as you try to regain your senses.

You almost didn't feel it when he stood up, stroking your breast lazily as he kissed it, then felt something fall on your stomach, making you finally open your eyes and meet his, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

The realization hits you only when your eyes travel down his body, his cock pressed against your skin. "Did you just jerk off?"

And he laughs, the sound so foreign to your ears - it's a rasp, like it's coming directly from his chest - and you end up giggling with him, your chest warming at the thought of him finally relaxing, and because he really deserved it.

[rookfeatherrambles]

The Archives were silent as the grave, foreboding and dark as Jon let himself in with the heavy gold key around his neck. For a moment, he stood in the quiet, musty dark as he contemplated what he was about to do, but then Jon uttered a quiet “Lux!” and a small white light flared to life in his hand. He coaxed the flame brighter as he started walking. The Archives were enormous, magicked to be as big or as little as the Archivists needed. Jon’d only seen one Archivist up close, and he wasn’t keen on repeating the experience. He said no other words, practically holding his breath in the heavy darkness, left hand held aloft to light his way, the muted tapping of his cane against the polished stone floor the only sound he permitted himself to make. Jon could feel something on those dusty shelves calling out to him, plucking at his wards with curious fingers. He followed the sensation, keeping his intent clear in his mind.

What secrets is Elias hiding from me?

He found his answer in an ancient, unmarked box of historical records. Pulling it down from the shelf caused a small tidal wave of dust to cascade onto him, and once he was done spluttering, Jon set it down on the floor and used his cane to lower himself next to it. It opened easily, but Jon never noticed the glittering green and gold asp, coiled at the bottom under the papers it was guarding - until he felt the burning bite in his hand. He cried out and jerked his arm back, and the snake came with him, detaching itself as it fell to the floor, hissing. Jon stared at it with horror, and its black tongue flicked at him as it stared at him with pale grey eyes. He recognized its eyes. Clutching his injured hand to his chest, Jon hauled himself onto his feet. He needed to leave, and quickly. Before-

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Jon?” The calm voice sounds behind him, almost cold. Jon hears the voice behind him and trips over his own feet, knocking precious artefacts from the shelves as he falls. He’s suddenly very dizzy, feeling sick, and there’s a spreading numbness climbing his arm like ice, stealing all sensation. “E-Elias-” He tries to run, but stumbles, and then the Archmage is there, steadying him. Jon stares at his concerned expression, guilt and regret rushing through him in equal measure. “You’re ill.” Elias takes Jon’s hand and examines the bite. “Something bit you.” "H-how did-?" Jon can barely talk through the chatter in his teeth now. He's dying, he's sure of it. "I heard you scream, I came running. I was in the library." "Sn-Snake, it was a-" He groans and sags as the nausea swells, unable to finish his sentence. Elias keeps him upright, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. He's sweaty and feverish. "You shouldn't have come down here without me, Jon, its dangerous." Jon wants to shout back, "No, its YOU who is dangerous," but he has no energy. And he doesn't know, not for sure. And then he sees it, movement at the collar of Elias's robes, and scales in the light. The snake slides out from around the Archmage's neck, and flicks its black tongue at him, eyes gold. Not grey. It may be the venom slowly pumping its way through his bloodstream, but Jon goes very cold and very still. "It was you," he whispers, horrified and betrayed. "You should have listened to me, Jon," Elias says grimly, and then he smiles. "But don't worry. I care too much about you to let you die here."

Jon lets out a yell as Elias drops him, and he hits the ground, unable to bear his own weight. In the light, in his fading vision, he sees the older man looking about the shelves for something, and then let out a satisfied, "Oh yes," when he finds it. It is getting very hard for Jon to breathe, and his heart feels like its beating out of his chest. Elias crouches before him, and holds up a small, golden charm. Jon is too sick to recognize it. "Don't worry, Jon," Elias says, almost cheerily. "Cats have a remarkable aptitude for processing poison."

And before Jon could so much as release a sound, he presses it to his skin. And Jon screams.

[hedgiwithapen]

Prompt: that Old Guard!Cisco thing you've talked about :)

Cisco wakes up, aching. For a moment, he's relieved. Dr. Wells being the Reverse Flash, the Trap being fake all along, it was all just a really awful nightmare. He makes a mental note to avoid burritos after 1 am for the foreseeable future.

Except that his shirt still has a bloodstain over his heart. And he isn't slumped over his desk or his couch, but the hard floor of the subbasement. Above and behind him, the trap looms like a cage. Cisco swallows. 

"Oh, no," he says, quiet. It still echoes. 

Dr. Wells killed him. Dr. Wells confessed to murdering Nora Allen, to being the Reverse Flash, and then he killed him. But somehow he's still alive.

Not for long, Cisco thinks bitterly. He's no speedster. The minute Wells--Thawne, he said his name was Thawne--learns that he fucked up the murder somehow, he'll just kill Cisco again.

Unless... Maybe, if he doesn't realize Cisco's a threat. If he changes his shirt, claims he doesn't remember anything... Faking Amnesia's gotta be the dumbest trick in the book, but he's a little short on pages at the moment. He's already going to die, probably. 

Cisco bites his lip, then stands, wobbling, and goes to get his laptop. He'll find a way to leave a message, just in case. Not for Caitlin-- Wells probably already killed her.

Cisco staggers at the thought, the sudden grief. He swallows hard. He has to play this exactly right.

He can hear Wells talking, his voice echoing down the curved corridor. 

"Barry, I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do, he was too fast..."

Cisco took a breath, and a step. 

"Cisco!" Barry yelped, running for him. Cisco held back the flinch at the lightning, letting Barry hug him. He was damp, the suit was soaked. "Oh my god, I was--I thought you were--Dr. Wells said--"

Dr Wells sat in his wheelchair, his eyes redrimmed. From crying, not evil lightning, Cisco notes. Fake crying, probably. He stares at Cisco. Cisco stares back. 

Caitlin rushes into the hug. "Cisco, how did you get away?"

"Uh," Cisco says, trying to piece together an answer that'll fit with whatever story Wells was spinning. 

"I really don't--I hit my head pretty hard. It's all kind of a blur. Can I sit down?" Before he finishes, there's a chair under him.

"I'm so sorry," Barry says, earnest. "I should have been there to save you. There was a tidal wave, and--Joe's in the hospital, but--Dr. Wells said--Caitlin said..."

"The Reverse Flash kidnapped you both," Caitlin interrupts. "Dr. Wells thought you were dead, I thought...."

"Yeah," Cisco says. " I... really don't remember--I came in here to see if there was anything to find Mardon and... then I was in the hallway. I../"

"I'm just glad you're alive," Caitlin says. "Let me make sure you don't have any internal bleeding, or--a TBI--well, you must, if you don't remember--but--" She cuts herself off, going to find her flashlight and kit.

"Cisco," Wells says, urgency in his voice. Cisco makes himself smile and not shudder back. "I'm...I can't tell you how good it is to see you."

"Yeah," says Cisco. "I'm glad you're alright, too."

"Here," Caitlin says. "Barry, can you get him to the medbay for me?"

Cisco blinks twice, feeling the sheets beneath him. "Fast," he says. He looks around. " So. Uh."

"Cisco," Caitlin says, looking at Barry. " You really don't--do you remember why you wanted me to..." she lowers her voice. " distract Dr. Wells? Before he got taken?"

"Oh," Cisco says, looking around. Barry's hovering anxiously. Wells isn't here yet, which is either good or extremely bad.  "Uh. Yes. I think I'm a metahuman."

"Oh," says Caitlin. "That's... it?"

"Pretty much," Cisco says.

"What can you do?" Barry asks. 

"Mmmmm, you might wanna sit down. Wait. FIRST you might want to get Iris, and Joe and Eddie, and maybe my family if you can and get them very far away and not tell anyone where, ok?"

*

The dreams start that night. Cisco's barely asleep on Joe's couch, the rest of them all piled into the house for the sake of numbers. Eobard Thawne's body lies somewhere in the pipeline, left after being sure. Both Eddie and Joe's gun's worth of bullets sure. He dreams of a woman in the water, drowning, and wakes with a hand over his heart. 

He doesn't speak of it the next morning.

None of them want to leave, not even to go get coffee, but some how the world goes on. Barry stopped the tidal wave but there's still so much fallout from that, and the fight through the streets.  Cisco stays on the couch while Iris sits in the kitchen, writing her article for a noon deadline, even though she was up half the night with it already. 

When the front door splinters, Cisco braces.

"Hey, kid." A woman with short cropped hair says. " Need you to come with me."

"Uh.. no," Cisco says. Somehow dying twice in a day has made him braver.  

The woman looks over her shoulder. A handsome guy with a beard extends a hand. "You're one of us. For your safety..."

"No, thanks," Cisco says, inching a hand for his phone. He needs Barry to get here before Iris hears and yells and gets her very-much-not-immortal-neck snapped, or whatever. "I'm good."

"You died yesterday," says the Woman.

"Yup," Cisco says, still going for his phone, until the guy with the beard spots his hand.  "And yet!"

"People will notice."

"They definitely did."

"All the more reason to hide. This City isn't safe for you. There's rumors about a lab..."

"Which I work for," Cisco interrupts, then wishes he hadn't when he sees the murderous look in the guy's eyes. "Doing totally normal things. Like make  stuff that can stop giant lightning storms that almost took out the police station. tech stuff. Very cool. Can you leave?"

"You're going to end up in a cage if you stay."

"I mean, maybe, but seeing as how everyone I'm friends with is already on whatever shady science and evil government wish list, I think I'm good here."

"...explain." The woman sits. "I'm Andy."

"And we're sitting. Cool," says Cisco. "Feeling a little outnumbered here. can I phone a friend? Also a metahuman, great guy."

"No."

"Well, it's his house," Cisco says, poking the beacon button. "Look, I hope you're here to be concerned and not kidnap me, because really, I'm fine. And the last time someone tried to kidnap one of my friends it didn't go great. it was a whole thing like, a month ago? So really, I'm in good hands here."

"A month ago," the guy repeats. "I'm Joe, by the way."

"Oh, that's going to be confusing."

"That wouldn't have been an army base, would it? Blown up entirely?" Andy asks.

"It was a team effort," Cisco shrugs.  A flash of gold lightning breaks one of the intact windows in a roar. 

"Hey Flash," Cisco says. "Got company! Probably fine."

"Explain," Andy says. "From the beginning."

"Well he's the fastest man alive, and fifteen years ago....Look, this might take a while."

"We have time."

[kernelbastard]

@dr-spectre

I just noticed the typo. WHY CAN'T WE EDIT REPLIES FFFFFFFFF

Anyway,

I'm new here, so this might be way off, but, y'know... Canon is a gentle suggestion.

I think that both Tide Goes Out and Bomb Rush Blush were, to some degree, the Squid Sisters being pushed into rivalry in order to make the music sell better. Therefore, they were given these songs as pre-written material that didn't actually fit their artistic vision and instead served to appeal to the widest possible audiences.

To be completely honest, I don't have a ton of thoughts on Bomb Rush Blush. I love Callie as a character, especially since I saw your analysis of her, but her style of upbeat pop isn't generally my thing, so I have no clue how to come up with lyrics for her. This'll be entirely Marie-focused as a result. That being said, I'd love to hear your take on it for Callie!

Let's get the lyrics out of the way first. The first version to drop, at least in Tide's case, would probably be the Caitlin Koi one. No shade to her, of course, but her style of lyrics for this one seems to prioritize making it sound nice. They absolutely CAN be deep - some of the more recent songs showcase that really well! Just look at Unconscience, the writing on that one's incredible - but in some cases, her lyrics seem to follow more of a Swedish pop approach, y'know? It can be very "I Want It That Way"-esque, which makes a lot of sense for the Squid Sisters' careers.

That being said, I usually listen to Tide Goes Out slowed down by a lot (I just think it's smoother that way), and that does change the tone a bit. So, down the line, I think it'd be nice if they each got to re-release the songs and change them as they see fit.

Marie's ends up being a lot more depressing. Essentially, it's a love song, centered around an unhealthy relationship that she wishes she could make work, but she doesn't believe she's actually strong enough to mend.

Who would've thought, that you and me,

We could never come true? (But maybe it's true)

Nothing soft for you and me ('cause we cannot be, cannot be)

But baby, let me know

If we're a tragedy, do you feel it?

Can you feel it, feelin' me?

So what can I say?

It's waiting to walk us away

When I learned it's true, what did I, did I do?

Not what I should

What I yearn for's you, I really truly do

I swear I would

Follow you, follow you

Honey, I don't want you crying tonight

But you and I, you and I,

You are not my fate

Meanwhile, for Tidal Rush, it goes like this... (Again, most of this is from Koi's videos)

When I learned it's true, what did I, did I do?

Not what I should

But I miss you, too, I really truly do

I swore I would

Fight for you, fight for you

Callie, I don't need you lying to me!

Just 'cause you and I, you and I,

You are not the same...

[...]

Mortified that you and me

Could unravel so soon

[...]

Let me, let me know!

I'm scared of losing you,

So if it's true,

I don't what to do...

There are some pretty clear parallels here, but what really got me attached to these lyrics are the key differences - not just in what kind of relationship it's about and what the context is, but, more subtly, the idea that Marie doesn't tend to fight for the things she wants, UNLESS it's to help Callie in some way. Because, holy SHIT, that hits a little too close to home!

The long and the short of it is, I think Marie has a lot of apathy holding her back, but her love for her family is strong enough to pull her through it. Unfortunately, she's gonna have a hard time being independent and living a life she's genuinely proud of if she can't do it for herself, too...

So I think this new version of the song should be about her and Callie both FINALLY being happy with who they are. They still support each other and have gotten better at communicating, but they can also function just fine as individuals. Also, beyond that, they're HAPPY!

Notably, Tidal Rush has a little bit more Tide than Rush, while Blushing Tide is more Blush than Tide. Not by a lot, but it's noticeable. And I think that's important, because it means Marie isn't as insecure about her leadership, and can now let Callie take the spotlight without worrying about it becoming a competition.

... Also, this doesn't mean much, but I think it'd be cute if Callie got a little more of a punk vibe moving forward. Like, that sort of Miley Cyrus or Demi Lovato thing, although probably not as intense since she already did some of that while working with Octavio. It'd contrast with Marie's more traditional tone really well, I think.

Alright, I think that's everything... Now I'm gonna pass out for the night, work really took it out of me -_-

Edit: WAIT ONE MORE THING!!! I think this version of Tide should imply a happy ending! Like, something to show that Marie is willing to fight for herself now, too. I'm too tired to think of lyrics right now, but if Callie's love song gets to be a little "edgier", Marie's should get some softness to balance it out, too, y'know?

[littlefreya]

As I was saying

Summary: You recently found out that you’re pregnant and Henry is being all sorts of over-protective and annoying about it and won’t shut up about what you should or shouldn’t eat. So you find a creative way to shut him up...

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader (no description of body type or ethnicity thought it’s mention that Henry is taller)

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: 18+, RPF, fluff to smut, early pregnancy, blow job, bodily fluids, slight FemDom/SubMale, My overuse of poetic sex metaphors, cottagecore!

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, or parts from it.

A/N: This story was born out of a convo I had with my sweet @the-soot-sprite​ about the photo above. Many thanks to @agniavateira​ my solid rock who betas all my work and to @firefly-graphics​ for the dividers

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed my story. I work hard on each one of them and your validation means the world to me. 🖤

As I was Saying

Henry’s velvety voice carried through the cottage like seductive vapours of honey liqueur. It wasn’t often that he'd sing a blissful tune so casually out of the blue—after earth-shattering sex perhaps, which indeed you had the night before. However, this morning, his chants were laced with a new flavour of sugary bliss. 

Two little pink stripes. That's all it took for his eyes to shimmer the way precious cobalt is kissed by a moonlight glow.

Sneaking about in the mien of a curious little mouse, you trod after the pleasant tune of his voice, which was now accompanied by a soft rustle. Wander laved your face once you leaned against the kitchen door frame, peering at the prodigious man who stood in front of the open fridge. 

Preoccupied, he appeared to be ransacking through the shelves with the song ‘Cheek to Cheek’ thrumming on his tongue.

“Heaven... I'm in heaven…”  

Fingers clutching at the edge of the wall, you pressed into the chilled surface with a relaxed smirk, lingering on the irresistible view when your ease of mind faded with a blink of an eye — while methodically rummaging through the fridge, Henry threw fresh food straight into an open trash can.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice rising to a high-pitched yip. 

Henry made a soft flex; the muscles of his back rippled in a tidal motion. Though acknowledging your presence, he proceeded to hover a finger over different products. 

“Cleaning up the fridge," he answered absentmindedly.

With a soft shove, there went your French cheese. 

“That’s brand new!” you protested and rushed toward him, alarmed. 

Towering over the trash can, you considered diving in to salvage the precious bulk of cheese from the dreary pit. Henry glanced at you from the corner of his eyes, testing your resolve while his claw grabbed some papaya salad leftovers and pushed it over the edge of the shelf, joining the rest of the discarded meals. 

“It is,” he nodded and closed the refrigerator door, carrying on to the high cabinets. With a slight wrinkle between his brows and a hand scratching the stubbles of his dimpled chin, he narrowed his eyes to scrutinise the items carefully. “I'm pregnant-proofing the kitchen. I called Hanna while you were asleep. She created a proper daily menu for you with the dos and don’ts: less sugar, more veggies and protein.” 

It took you a moment to process his words, your eyes narrowing while asking, “Hanna? As in Hanna, your nutritionist?”

Henry nodded at your question, a faint crease lining his cheek. “That’s the one. Don't worry, princess, she specialises with pregnant women.”

Unwittingly, a somewhat inhuman growl sounded in your chest. You were only getting used to the idea of developing another person inside you, and here stood your husband, already seeing fit to dictate your diet. Slithering into the narrow space between the heavy man and the counter, you tilted your chin to meet his stare while your fists pressed into your hips assertively. 

“Listen here, Cavill! You might have jizzed me one too many and succeeded in putting a baby in there, but this is still my body. I can take care of my own pregnancy diet.”

With an arm stretched above your head, Henry offered a charming display of pearly whites to pacify your strained nerves. His dimples nearly managed to beguile your senses when your eyes flared at the sight of what was held between his long fingers.

“No! Henry, no! Not the coffee!”

“Oh, I’m afraid so, my love. You shouldn’t have any caffeine at your current state.” Despite his argument, the tenderness of his gaze stroked upon your face like a warm ray of sunlight piercing through heavy clouds. Lazily it dropped to your belly, the cascading heat cradling your unborn child. 

Words of protest left you for a sliver of a moment, too in awe of the dreamy grin on his face. 

Thoughts of how beautiful you’d look rounded and full with his child illuminated him that you swore his skin developed a glow over the night. Didn’t they always say women are radiant when they are pregnant? Well, it seemed that in your case, it applied to your husband as well.

The charming haze of bliss almost swallowed you up; but you quickly slapped yourself back into reality, reaching a hand in an attempt to stop Henry from throwing away your delicacy. Though taller, Henry held his hand far out of reach, a hint of a smugness stretching his lips.

“A pregnant woman is allowed to have a little bit of caffeine!” You muttered and sent both hands in an attempt to retrieve the box while Henry teased you by throwing it from one hand to the other, further fueling your annoyance. 

Vexed to the point of frustration, you stood still and sighed, “you know what else is bad for the baby?” 

Henry paused his foolish games and tilted his head as he waited to hear your answer.

“His father at the morgue after I’ll kill him. Now stop that and hand it over! A pregnant woman can have a cup a day, according to Google.” 

“Nope,” Henry clicked his tongue, his laughter replaced with a severe stare. “Love, I know they say it’s okay to have a teeny bit, but I’ve been doing some research while you were asleep, and it’s not recommended. Caffeine increases heart rate and blood pressure, which is not good for you nor for the baby. It also increases urination, which may cause dehydration.”

Clenching your jaw at the onslaught of information he bestowed, you watched his lips move while none of his words registered. Preoccupied with the rules of a “healthy” pregnancy, Henry was set on being the practical one, completely forgetting to enjoy the moment. And damn, it was the moment to celebrate. All you wanted right now was to stay in bed for a day, ride your handsome husband to hell and back and eat as much ice cream as possible.

“Everything you eat from now on goes to our baby,” Henry proceeded to lecture on a thing you were perfectly aware of.

Ire found you within seconds, embroiled with pregnancy hormones which made him further intolerable at the moment— intolerable

... and delicious.  

Soaked with hunger, your eyes raked his sight: the thickness of his muscles was apparent beneath a plain black t-shirt and those good old grey sweats outlined the source of your current predicament. Your fingers twitched just from thinking about it, mimicking the sensation of squeezing its girth and eliciting those low groans that made your heart flutter. 

But his chatter still interrupted your sultry thoughts. If only there was a way to get him to shut up, you mused. Then your eyes focused on the soft bulge that winked back at your hungry glare.

Unaware, Henry turned toward the table to grab a bulk of informative documents he printed earlier in order to educate you of your pregnancy, he licked his thumb and began to read through, “As I was saying….”

Hastily, you exploited his lack of attention and took a step forward, your fingers latching around the hem of his sweats. With one swift movement, you fell to your knees and tugged his trousers along. 

Lost in his passionate speech, Henry was still muttering nonsense when your hand seized him; but as the lushness of your tongue bedded his soft cock without warning, all that could be heard in the kitchen was a husky gasp. 

Feeling the warm silky flesh swell and harden within your mouth, you sent your eyes up to peer at him, admiring the sight. Nothing spoke of your power better than the wrinkle between his shut eyes and his mouth agape with all air draining from his lungs. There you were, lowered to your knees with a maw full of his cock and yet, he was the one who lost his ability to speak and had his legs quaking of need. 

Unable to help yourself, you sent one palm to feel the tremor that ran through the muscles of his thighs while the other cradled his heavy sac. 

“Uh……” he finally managed to utter, a groan of bemused bliss pushing itself between his parted lips. “What… what are you doing?” 

You crooked an eyebrow in response and answered by dragging your mouth along the length of his shaft. Your pillowy lips ran across ridges and thrumming veins, your jaw loosening until you felt him deep in the back of your throat. 

Locked in the cavernous cage of your maw, he tightened his gut and shuddered with pleasure. Though, the low unbridled groans that sputtered from his chest fueled your enticement just as so; memories of how the same thick girth that brimmed your mouth would split open your narrow canal made both your eyes and abandoned cunt tear of desperation.

It always beguiled you how much arousal could be found in bringing him to his rapture without touching yourself. The harder he throbbed on your velvety serpent, the more you soaked.  

With fervent strokes, you feasted on the briny flavour of his cock; the tendons vibrated with bliss while your tongue twirled and pushed around them. You pulled, sucked, and pumped him in your warm mouth, milking the senses of a man infinitely stronger—a man who succeeded in conquering your womb yet now crumbled to nothing at the touch of your tongue.

“Fuck…. Babe… keep going,” Henry breathed out a plea. The documents held by his hand slipped between his fingers as he pressed his palm to the cabinet with a thud, and began to rock his hips back and forth to fuck back into your mouth. Like feathers, the white slips floated around you, landing onto the ground while you worked him to his ecstasy.  

His other hand found your head, caressing lovingly and trying to take control: yet his strength waned and his head fell back with a moan. Faster, harder, you sucked your husband to the point of submission while hums of admiration laced around his rigid length. Your eyes beamed as you watched his resolve shatter. Your fingertips toyed with the coarse hair at the apex of his thighs, your thumb seeking the tendon at the base of his cock and pressing into it, urging him to spill his gift down your throat.

“I’m going to… I’m going to…. In your throat… fuck.”

With a guttural grunt, he thickened against your tongue; the overflow of salty-sweet cream glazed your mouth and then flowed down your flaring throat.

The room thrummed with the buzz of the refrigerator, Henry’s heavy exhales - these were the sounds of your triumph. Wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you cracked a smile and neatly pulled his trousers back on before you rose to stand straight. 

Overwhelmed and drenched in sweat, your husband scrutinised you while you reached for the box of capsules and tilted your head.

“You were saying?”

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

Iunno, it’s still static sprites that go on a pre-rigged skeleton. It isn’t that much more work. Source: I’ve literally worked on mobile game that uses similar techniques. That said the characters I worked on aren’t nearly as dynamic as they’re only seen from the waist up, but looking at limbo’s animations they need just a couple alternate arms and hands for the most part. Plus there are three variants it feels like they intended a full separate summer servant and then went with costume instead.

i debated answering this bc if i have to see more posts about this subject ill scream but im tired and petty atm and honestly feel like we're not even asking them to make MORE servants just like

instead of making it so its 7 female summer alts and 3 male costumes just make 6 female alts and one summer male alt as a test drive or something. like its frustrating to see people making posts about how the devs couldnt make more costumes for the men bc of crunch time the extra female costumes are more simple etc etc etc like that isnt really the point? the point is that constantly giving ppl 7 of one kind and 3 lesser versions of the other is unfair and people ARE allowed to wish theyd put a little less effort into one side and more into the other, even if the posts DO get annoying. like the valkyrie welfare has six alts- and yes, yes theyre all very similar with basically only the hairstyle changed but have we EVER had a male welfare with a similar amount of attention given to them? are we now not allowed to be annoyed that they couldnt...idk give tai sui his grown up form as a costume as well (which DOES have a sprite, it shows up in his np, even if theyd have to animate some more movement) without someone coming in chiding us for not being appropriately considerate of how hard the devs work?

i KNOW game development is hard and there's a lot of work that goes into it especially with how detailed and intricate fgo sprites are, but theyve persistently been given feedback that people want this and have done nothing to acknowledge it except doing in-game actions which, to the people who are asking for it, can read a lot like taunting or mockery. yeah, it's nice that they included the extra art hasendow did, but doing it for a wildly popular guy after a tidal wave of people begging for more male alts last year reads a LOT differently than the outfit for shuten douji, who has a welfare alt as well as her 'other self' in the event in a swimsuit. do you understand what im saying? ibuki and douman were released at the same time, and one was VASTLY more popular and profitable, but only one got a multi-ascension alt with a bonus costume and i think it isnt actually unreasonable for his fans to feel put out by that.

like, idk, i just think people are more upset than usual this year bc after all the fallout last year with how bad it was it had felt like fgo was actually getting more equal with how it treated it's cast-and with the announcement that there was going to be three ssrs, i legitimately thought that they WERE going to do a male summer alt, but were worried about the reception so weren't messing with the number of female summer ssrs-and i think other people thought that as well! but instead they continued with the same pattern they've always done, EXCEPT that they made 3 of the summer female alts ssrs instead of 2- which shows they're willing to buck tradition but not in the way people are asking for. the male summer alt thing isnt a new problem, they've had ample time to know that people have really really wanted it, they just dont want to do it, and its really annoying that when you complain about it you get a rush of people coming to defend the devs in various ways-they can't do summer alts of the men NOW bc what about the previous men who already got costumes, they cant do summer alts of the men NOW bc they just changed companies, they can't do summer alts of the men NOW bc they never did before, etc etc etc its just annoying like ok. i get it. you dont want to hear people complain! but if working on all these alts is so hard they can also cut down on the number of female alts...

like does this make sense? i know this is incoherent and probably whiny im just tired of whenever people are like 'hey can we actually change this annoying aspect of the game' people rush in to explain why it's impossible for it to change. they also said that about pity and quick casters and a whole bunch of other stuff that they then changed more recently, people were allowed to get their hopes up even if it was 'premature of them'

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

BESTIE BESTIE BESTIE CNA I PLEASE HAVE A PROPOSAL/MARRIAGE/DOMESTIC WILL IMAGINE YOU HAVE COMPLETE FREE REIN OVER IT BUT JUST MAKE IT FLUFFY PLS ILY

Of course, bestie! I hope just proposal is okay 👉🏻👈🏻 But I made it extra fluffy just for you uwu

~~~~~~~~~~

One night, Will wanted you to rush home from work, not even telling you what for.

Of course, your paranoid mind went haywire and thought up impossible scenarios like it usually does. But all those fears washed away in a tidal wave when you opened the front door to your house with Will.

You were hit with the sweet smelling aroma of flowers and candles, that were lighting up the home. Rose peddles were scattered across the floor to form a pathway to another room in the house, beckoning you to follow.

The path stopped at the dining room, where the table was decorated elegantly with your favorite flowers in a vase, the fine china that you rarely used set on either side with its matching shiny utensils, the plates holding a delicious looking gourmet meal that had your mouth watering in mere seconds.

Being the softie that you were, tears welled up in your eyes immediately, so touched that someone would go through such trouble to do something this nice for you.

"Happy anniversary, love."

You quickly turned around to see Will, the love of your life, dressed up all fancy in a suit, wearing the biggest smile on his face that mirrored yours. "I'm not even dressed up!" You laughed tearfully.

"There's something for you in our bedroom." Will motioned, sidestepping away from the doorframe to allow you to pass by.

You gleefully speed walked to your bedroom, gasping lightly when you saw the outfit that was laid out for you on the bed. It was so gorgeous that it felt like something you'd only see in your dreams. "Oh my god, Will..." You whispered.

"Do you like it?"

"I absolutely love it. It's so beautiful...do you wanna help me put it on?"

Will smirked. "As much as I'd love to, there's a hot meal waiting to be eaten and I definitely don't want it to be cold by the time I'd be through with you."

You quickly put the outfit after you had a blushing fit, and you thought you looked great in the clothing. It made you feel amazing.

You thought you were done blushing, but as soon as you walked back into the dining room, Will's face of pure adoration and awe caused all your blood to rush back into your cheeks. "It looks even more beautiful with you in it."

Even after all the years you spent with Will, he could still very easily make you blush with just a look. "Oh, hush..." You giggled, taking a seat across from him. "This looks amazing, Will, really. You really went above and beyond."

"How could I not when it's our five year anniversary?" Will grinned.

The whole dinner went perfectly, as you expected, but it was hard for you not keep eyeing Will in that suit he was wearing; he was started to look more delicious than the meal. But you did notice he was fidgeting a little in his seat, perhaps he was feeling the same way? You soon figured out that your theory was completely wrong.

Will took a deep breath. "Okay..." He took another deep breath.

"Are you okay, babe?" You asked with a nervous giggle.

Will chuckled breathlessly. "I don't know."

"What's wrong?" You asked with a more concerned tone.

Will grinned, looking down to, what you could only assume from across the table, pull something out of his pockets. His face was flushed red, and you could faintly see his forehead shine with a really thin sheet of sweat.

"Oh god, darling, are you sick?"

"No! No, no, no...I'm...here goes."

Will suddenly stands up from the table, accidently bumping his knee, making the whole table shake. You were getting more nervous by the second, but couldn't help but laugh as flowers fell over onto the leftover food. "Oh, lord, sorry!" Will rambled, trying to get his bearings by taking a deep breath, quickly composing himself.

Will walked to your side of the table, taking a hold of your hand before getting down on one knee.

Your eyes widened. "Will..." You whispered, your voice already shaking.

"Y/n L/n, we've been together for five amazing years. You are the love of my life and I don't know how I'd survive without you. When I think of the future, you are always there right beside me and I wouldn't want it any other way. I want you, forever and always. So..." Will finally pulled out a little velvet box, opening it to reveal the most gorgeous ring you've ever seen in your life. "Will you marry me?"

You never thought you'd be one of those people who cry when they get proposed to. You always thought it was so cliché and soppy, but here you were trying to hold back your thick tears of joy.

It took zero hesitation. You quickly threw yourself into Will's embrace, hugging him tightly. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes. Yes times infinity, yes!" You laughed, surely staining his nice suit with your happy tears.

When you pulled away to plant a passionate kiss on Will's lips, you stopped to see he had tears streaming down his face as well, displaying an expression of pure happiness and relief that made your heart swell larger than it already had. "I was so nervous." He giggled.

You grinned. "There was no reason to be. I would be an absolute fool if I said no."

"God, I love you so much." Will said softly, placing his forehead against yours, planted a feather soft like kiss on the tip of your nose.

"And I love you, Will Poulter. So, so, much."

~~~~~~~~~~

Hope you enjoyed @poulterfilms !!!

[swaps55]

Mnemonic

This is an AU version of a standalone scene from Cantata that I rewrote with kissing. Because there was a lot of UST and I am weak. 

Ao3

14 June 2180, Hades Gamma, Farinata System, SSV Myeongnyang

For a biotic, the armor never really comes off. What they carry under their skin is like a live wire, a current always in need of grounding.

Standing face-to-face with half a dozen L2 biotics holding the chairman of the Parliament Subcommittee for Transhuman Studies hostage on the MSV Ontario makes it a lot easier for Kaidan to see how much he takes for granted having a safe place to do it. And knowing how.

Reparations for the L2 side effects are a pipe dream. But a pipe dream Colin Daggett and his people needed to cling to, whatever the cost. And it had almost cost them everything.

Shepard doesn’t say much as they arrange for the survivors to be transferred to the Madrid’s brig and the engineering crew arrives to secure the Ontario for the trip to Arcturus. He says even less on the way through the airlock back to the ‘Yang, and the rest of the squad take their lead from him.

When they’re back on board the ship he disappears, sucking the air out of the room with him. They kit down without him.

“You’re an L2, aren’t you?” Pendergrass asks as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her uniform, armor plating in a heap at her feet.  

Beaudoin jabs her with an elbow.

“Yeah,” Kaidan murmurs, fingers tracing the amp port on the back of his neck when he removes the protection plate. He flexes his fingers, gravity well jumping into his touch. As he reaches for his chest plate to store it in his gear locker, an electric shock passes through him.

When 23:00 rolls around, Kaidan shows up in the mess as usual, figuring he’ll keep it simple tonight and just make some pasta. Shepard is there waiting, as usual, picking at a spot on the table while Kaidan pulls out a pot and finds a container of pasta. The entire time the water boils Shepard doesn’t say a word, stubbornly lost in thought.

Kaidan tells himself he’s not going to do more than olive oil and garlic – it’s been too long of a day for effort – but by the time he gets it to the table there’s parmesan cheese, parsley, and even a little red pepper in the mix.

“You going to tell me what’s up, or do I get to guess?” Kaidan asks when he sits down across from him and hands off a fork. He spent too much energy on going above and beyond with the red pepper to bother with a second bowl. They’ll just have to share.

Shepard looks up, almost in surprise. “Just thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking ever since you got Chairman Burns through the airlock. Maybe you should think out loud.”

The gravity well churns as Shepard stirs eddies in it, in tune with the twirl of his fork in the pasta bowl. “Everything that happened on that ship hinged on what Daggett did with his pistol.”

His toying intensifies, until blue energy shimmers around his knuckles. This one’s been chewing at him. A snap of electricity skips between his finger and the fork, and he drops it with an annoyed mutter. He looks up.

“You pulled the gun out of his hands,” he says.

And Shepard had put a bullet between his eyes. The fight had gone out of the rest pretty quickly.

“He wasn’t going to put it down,” Kaidan says. “We all knew it.”

“No. He wasn’t. And if you hadn’t been there, that standoff turns into a clusterfuck where everyone dies.”

A soft smile tugs at Kaidan’s lips. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there.”

Shepard picks up the fork again, staring at it with an unfocused gaze before he stabs it back in the bowl and twirls more pasta.  

“I couldn’t have done what you did. I can’t refine a field like that. I was prepared to shoot everyone in that room. But you pulled the gun right out of his hands.”

Only because Shepard had given him the chance. Whether Shepard had done it with purpose or actually hesitated is a question he hasn’t been in a hurry to examine too closely.

“We work together, remember? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

Shepard huffs. “Yeah. We have.”

“But you’re just gonna get bent out of shape about not being able to do everything yourself, anyway.”

“Have you met me?” Shepard says with a helpless shrug.

“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. He pushes his chair back. “Come on, then.”

Shepard casts him a suspicious look. “Come where?”

“To the gym.”

“Alenko—”

“Come on.” He nods towards the elevator and starts walking, smirking a little when Shepard’s chair scrapes against the floor and his feet hit the deckplates.

“You’re just dying to give me a taste of my own medicine, aren’t you,” Shepard grouches when they board the lift.

“Oh, definitely.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Apparently not when it comes to taking people’s pistols out of their hands.”

Shepard chuckles, though he tries to choke off a smile by looking down at his feet. When they get to the gym Kaidan digs a canteen out of his locker and sets it down on one of the sparring mats.

“I’m guessing that your training didn’t include a lot of control drills,” he says.

Shepard shakes his head. “Tulak wasn’t big on control. Overwhelming tidal force tends to be the krogan approach.”

“You don’t say.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Alenko.”

Kaidan grins and points to the canteen. “Start simple. Just lift it off the ground.”  

Shepard rolls his eyes, but taps into the gravity well, corona enveloping him in a shroud of snapping blue tendrils. The hairs on Kaidan’s arms stand on end.

It’s so rare he gets to just watch Shepard work. All unrestrained power, from the loose, angry snarl of his corona to the sweeping mnemonics, make him seem larger than life. When he swipes the canteen off the floor he does it with his entire arm. The canteen leaps into the air, nearly hitting the ceiling before Shepard wrangles it. He only holds it still for half a second before sending it skidding to the other side of the gym.

“Hm,” Kaidan says.

Shepard gives him a withering look before marching off to fetch the wayward canteen. “It’s small. I don’t do well with small.”

“Not sure the size trips you up as much as you think it does,” Kaidan muses. “That mnemonic of yours applies some pretty impressive force automatically, so you’re already playing catch up if you’re trying to control the speed or direction.”

“See, I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or giving me shit.”

“Both.”

“Har.”

Shepard resets the canteen and comes back to Kaidan to try it again, standing close but not so close their fields intersect. Kaidan watches through three variations that all end almost the same way, too much force being applied to the canteen, making it nearly impossible for Shepard to control where it goes, or where it doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter that he’s not accomplishing what it intends. The way the gravity well cants under his touch, the way his corona lights him ablaze like a flickering star, the way it caresses every nerve in Kaidan’s body like a swash of silk is mesmerizing. Kaidan swallows before trying to speak.  

“Good news is, if we ever need someone to punt a suspicious canteen into space, I know who to call.”

Shepard rolls his eyes. “And if you’re not around to yank pistols out of terrorist hands?”

“Well, first, I will be around. But second, as for the pistol, yanking it towards you isn’t so different from kicking it away from you.” He cracks a grin. “In your case you just need to be prepared to duck.”

“Have I mentioned that separating the pistol from the person holding it wouldn’t end well for anyone?” Shepard says. “If you were to go hold that canteen in your palm and ask me to do what I just did, you wouldn’t like me very much.”

I doubt that.

“One problem at a time,” Kaidan says. “Let’s work on controlling the canteen by itself, then we’ll add clutter.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“You need a new mnemonic. You’re fighting yourself by adding force and trying to take it away at the same time.”

“I’m sensing a metaphor.”

Kaidan smirks. “Think that says more about you than it does me.” Before Shepard can protest he raises an arm. “Watch me. You don’t have to use my mnemonic, but I want you to see something different so you can visualize it.”

Shepard folds his arms across his chest, but does what Kaidan asks. A nervous thrill runs through him at the undivided attention.

Kaidan waves a wrist, a hard-learned, hard-fought mnemonic that now feels as natural as breathing. Dark energy rushes through him, responsive and willing, as his fingers flex and settle a field over the canteen. Very little mass-shifting needed to pick up a light-weight canteen, which makes it tricky to keep from doing exactly what Shepard did – send it spinning out of control. But Kaidan has spent years perfecting his ability to do exactly this, so the canteen rises off the floor until it reaches eye level. Kaidan closes his fist and holds it still, floating almost motionless in mid-air.

“That mnemonic is so damned subtle,” Shepard says with an appreciative shake of his head. A flush builds at the back of Kaidan’s neck.

“Easier for me that way.”

Shepard grunts and unfolds his arms. “I was never good at levitation.”

“Because your mnemonics always apply force.”

“Need force to yank that pistol.”

“Sure, but if you want to control it, you need to learn how to hold it still.”

“I’m not good at still.”

“I know,” Kaidan says, lips curving into a smile. “So come here and let me show you.”  

Shepard strays a step closer into Kaidan’s biotic field. The blend of auras creates a low keen through his nerves, familiar but always striking. The canteen wavers before falling to the ground.

“Sorry,” Shepard mumbles, but doesn’t back away.

“It’s fine,” Kaidan says, lifting the canteen again with another float of his palm.

Their eyes lock for a moment before Shepard clears his throat and looks down at Kaidan’s hand.

“You put everything in your wrist.”

“Yeah,” he manages. “You do it all with your arms.”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe, if you’re looking for finesse, try to create a mnemonic that’s a little, uh, smaller.”    

“With my wrist.”

“Right. Um, I’ll show you. Here.” He steps in front of Shepard, angling his body to align their right arms. He takes Shepard’s right hand guides it to his wrist, tingle running down his spine when his fingers close around it. Shepard glances at him with soft eyes that stop the breath in his throat, but doesn’t object.

“Hands-on teacher?”

“Best way to learn,” Kaidan replies, gaze flicking to Shepard’s mouth before going back to the canteen. “Just follow my lead. Don’t act on the canteen. Concentrate on what my arm does. Visualize it.”

“Sure,” Shepard murmurs.

Kaidan reaches into the gravity well, his own corona unfurling, a steady candle to Shepard’s flaring torch. Goosebumps rise on Shepard’s arm, a subtle reminder that he’s human after all, one Kaidan is almost never close enough to witness.

He takes a deep breath and flexes his wrist, Shepard’s fingers loose and feather-light against his skin. A crackle of dark energy passes between them before he snares the canteen and turns his wrist palm-up to lift it off the floor, Shepard close enough his breath washes over Kaidan’s cheek. The canteen wavers but Kaidan keeps it afloat for several seconds, the mingle of auras, ripple of kinetic energy and closeness of Shepard enough to make him dizzy.

He lets it go with a clatter and puts space between them.

“Does that help?” he asks, trying not to sound breathless.

“Yeah. It does.” Shepard’s gaze stays on him, still and steady. “Might take a while to hard-wire my brain for something in the wrist.”

“Doesn’t have to be that. It could be something else. But you associate those big movements with force. Take that away, you might have more luck with leaving velocity out of the initial execution, so you can add it how you need it. Have more control over it.”

Shepard’s mouth crooks in a half-smile. “Sure I’m not a lost cause when it comes to control?”

“I’m sure.”

Shepard breaks his gaze and focuses on the canteen, brow furrowed in concentration. Twice he catches himself using his arm, then nearly wrenches his wrist trying to restrict the movement.

“It’s so ingrained,” he says with a shake of his head.

“That’s why they work,” Kaidan says with a smile. “Here.” He steps close once again, positions reversed with his hand on Shepard’s wrist this time. “Let me help.”

“Fuck, your hands are cold,” Shepard says with a laugh.

Hastily, he loosens his grip. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shepard says with a grin.  “Go on.”

Gently, Kaidan closes his fingers again. Shepard trains his eyes on the canteen, though they dart to Kaidan ever so briefly.

Shepard’s corona is so bright, so fierce, it’s a wonder he can wrangle it at all. Kaidan breathes in deep, letting his own kindle, the snick and crackle as they blend together forming a resonant hum that hovers just under his skin.

When Shepard’s arm moves, Kaidan tightens his grip, keeping the motion small. Instead of his usual languid, fluid posture, Shepard’s arm is stiff and resistant against him. The canteen spins in a circle but stays on the ground.  

“Breathe, Shepard,” Kaidan says softly. “Just let it happen.”

Shepard inhales deep, like someone trying to relearn how. This time they move together, Kaidan picking up the slack when Shepard falters, until the canteen hovers briefly in the air. It’s more under Kaidan’s control than Shepard’s, but it’s a start, and that’s what matters.

They gutter out and the canteen falls, but Kaidan doesn’t let go and doesn’t step away, not yet, not quite yet, not while the remnants of kinetic energy are still sharp in the air and he has to remind himself to breathe, too.

“How do you do that?” Shepard murmurs. “You worked around me, without…taking over. How do you do that?”

Their eyes lock for just a moment. God Kaidan could get lost there if he’s not careful. “Practice. Years of it.”

Let go.

He means to. He means to. In his head he loosens his hold on Shepard’s wrist, drops his hand away and puts space between them. That’s what he tells himself to do. That’s what he intends to do.

But while he does loosen his grip, instead of fall away, Kaidan’s fingertips brush Shepard’s knuckles, the pad of his thumb running along the round muscle of his palm.

It’s an accident. Just an accident. So many of their touches are, but rather than move or pull away, rather than let it be just another one of those excusable, explainable slips, Shepard exhales, the breath fluttering out of him, then splays his fingers wider, as if making room for Kaidan’s to slot between them.

Let go, let go.

But instead he explores the open space Shepard has left for him, fingertips light, hesitant, ghosting Shepard’s skin as he finds where they fit, hovering, hoping, but never daring to rest. Never giving up the ruse.

It’s an accident. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

Shepard stays still as a stone save for the rise and fall of his chest. They’re close enough now their cheeks almost touch, though whether Kaidan moves or Shepard does to close that gap he can’t say.

The next time Kaidan’s fingers trespass through that open space, Shepard closes his around them and traps them there.

Kaidan’s breath hitches.

The gravity well sighs as Shepard calls to it, glow of dark energy limming their hands, accompanied by a soundless hum that strums every nerve in Kaidan’s body before settling in his groin. Without thinking his other hand comes to rest on Shepard’s hip, needing something, anything, to hold onto.

A soft sound stirs in Shepard’s throat. Kaidan’s hand doesn’t stay on that hip for long, because Shepard seeks those fingers out, too, lacing them together. Kaidan folds both arms until Shepard is surrounded by them. There’s no imagining any space between them now – their cheeks rest against each other, Kaidan tightening his hold until Shepard is snug against his chest.

Shepard turns his head, but after briefly meeting each other’s gaze, his eyes drift down to Kaidan’s mouth.

Kaidan can still let go. There’s still a way out. Chalk it up to adrenaline, nerves leftover from the standoff on the Ontario. They can walk it off, laugh, pretend it never happened, continue on like they always have.

But he doesn’t let go, and then the millimeters between Shepard’s lips and Kaidan’s no longer exist and the window is gone.

Shepard’s mouth is warm, soft, lips tinged with the salt of his sweat. They start out slow, cautious, neither of them daring to think about it too hard, but that’s not a problem for long, because soon there’s no room to think about anything at all.

Nothing else matters but this.

Slow and cautious becomes deep and headlong, Kaidan pushing his tongue between Shepard’s teeth, Shepard sighing into his mouth and taking him in. His fingers tighten around Kaidan’s, the glow of dark energy rippling out from their joined hands until it swallows them whole. Kaidan gasps at the sensation.

Shepard kisses him harder.

God.

Kaidan wants to spin him around, throw his arms around his neck and meet him head on, give in to everything, all of it, but he can’t bear the thought of turning loose of that hand.    

They part when they run out of air, both straining to catch their breath, fingers still entwined, Shepard still firmly ensconced in Kaidan’s arms as his corona fades.

Shepard rests his cheek against Kaidan’s, ensconcing himself a little further.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Shepard’s fingers flex within his, twining and retwining, never letting go.

“You…don’t seem surprised.”

Kaidan closes his eyes, breathing him in, a star he’s somehow pulled down out of the heavens and trapped right here in his arms.  “No. Felt it…for a long time now.”

“Oh.”

“…Yeah.”

Their coronas may have faded, but the mingle of their biotic fields is a constant, soothing whisper under Kaidan’s skin. A small, contented sound slips from Shepard’s throat.  

“Why didn’t I see it?”

Kaidan huffs. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us are very good at this kind of thing.”

Shepard tightens his grip on Kaidan’s fingers and pulls them to his chest. The race of Shepard’s heart thrums under their joined hands. If Kaidan had any illusions about letting him go, they’re gone now.    

“I think I’d like to learn,” Shepard says.

Kaidan’s stomach flips. “Me too.”

They stay still, Kaidan content to hold him, Shepard content to be held, until their lips find each other once more. Kissing Shepard is easy, effortless, like it’s something they were meant to do, a safe place for the live current running under their skin to go to ground.

Shepard, against all evidence to the contrary, is…safe.  

Shepard gazes at him when they part, and butterflies cut loose in Kaidan’s stomach.

“You’re very good at that,” Shepard murmurs.

“We’re very good at a lot of things.”

“Yeah. We are.” He draws Kaidan’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Kaidan admits. “What do you want?”

“You.”

A shiver runs down Kaidan’s spine, the euphoria of that one, single word enough to make him lightheaded. So simple. So complicated. They’ll have choices to make, all of them with compromises and consequences. But that’s something for tomorrow. Right now there is only the truth.  

“I want that, too.”

Shepard releases Kaidan’s hand to turn until they’re face to face, then runs his fingers through the hairs growing over Kaidan’s right temple. All the while those glittering eyes search Kaidan’s face, as though reconciling all the things he knows with the things he’s learning for the first time.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile spreads across his face, pure, open, and full of possibility. “Taste of my own medicine, huh?”

“Well…” Kaidan shrugs helplessly, and Shepard’s grin only gets deeper.  

“Seems like I should have let you teach me a few things a long time ago.”

Kaidan flexes his fingers, a curl of dark energy igniting in his palm that draws out goosebumps along Shepard’s arm. “All in the wrist.”

Shepard laughs. It’s like music. “You and me.”

“I like that,” Kaidan murmurs, before kissing him again. “I like that a lot.”

[sleepyowlwrites]

find the word tag CCCXIII

I had wanted to get a little more writing done before overnights started, but it's not going to happen. the next two weeks are going to be very interesting. today, my sister was telling my dad that she's worked at her job for 90 days now, and that's a nebulous amount of time. 3 months is real, 90 days isn't. my dad goes "quarter of a year" and I pause in my video gaming to be like "woah that's weird." @spacetimewraithwrites

blind (the sleepy stash, 2020)

“Past mistakes are in the past. By doing nothing you are not making amends. Perhaps you've acknowledged a mistake but there is no atonement in silence. You let your affections blind you to a truth, and it had grave consequences. Now it there are new consequences that will also be grave if no actions are taken by those that can prevent them."

raw (dirt in the doing)

“I don’t want to be quiet anymore,” Hawk had said, the words so raw that Jet had been unable to look him in the eye. “If you’re trying to make a difference, I want to do it with you.”

Jet still doesn’t like Hawk, but he knows it’s nothing to do with principles, but rather with his own failings. He feel inadequate, like nothing he does matters, even to the people he begrudgingly cares about, but Hawk manages to find a strange amount of joy in even the smallest acts of cheating the system in favor of the lower end of the food chain. Jet wishes he could find such easy fulfillment.

Even the fights that bring him an adrenaline rush and string him out to the edges of his being aren’t a substitute for personal life satisfaction. Jet doesn’t know what he’s missing.

page (heartbeat, 2021)

There had been twelve explosions in total, each one nearer than the last, so that instead of the sound gradually moving farther away from him, it had only increased in volume and weight as it continued, like a large tidal wave about to sweep him away into its depths.

Liu Sang is shaking, his pencil tip boring holes in the paper of his notebook. He gathers himself and refocuses, only for his hand to waver so badly he ends up drawing on everything but the page. The panic is entirely too familiar at this point, almost mundane in its occurrence, except for the fact that it still seizes his entire being and shatters all his confidences and strength as if this were the first time. He grips the pencil hard enough to whiten his fingers and makes it move across the paper in mostly orderly lines. Liu Sang doesn’t really see them. He trusts in his skills to make it make sense.

By the time the last of the dust and dirt has settled and the sound in the air has dissipated while still ringing in his ears, Liu Sang has a smudged but clear map of the tunnels under the ground beneath him and he can breathe. His lip is bleeding, but he’s used to biting it while his heart hammers.

fair (the name was: family, 2020)

"Sage." Bellamy's voice was low, almost whispered. "You know what I did."

She knew that was a question, "what had she done?" and she fought with how to answer. He didn't need to know, but she felt he deserved it. His crime was known to her. It was only fair. "You were willing to kill to get on the dropship," she said quietly, watching his eyes watch hers. "I was too."

Bellamy didn't move, didn't speak, but his expression suddenly softened, like her admitting to the same crime had just lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. She thought it might have.

"Tomorrow," Bellamy's voice was rough, "I'll tell the kids you'll be resuming teaching them. Okay?"

The last word seemed to be asking a lot more of her than just things going back to normal. Still, "Okay," was all she said in return.

official (meta-portal bs)

so they're are all at Jacob's house in the woods, because of course they are, the losers who get lost, and Jacob makes them a nice dinner. Kevin says "I kinda thought you guys would like, be a little more hostile to an assassin" and Jacob's like, "I don't think you qualify, sweetie" and Kevin's like "yeah I was never supposed to amount to much" and Sunwoo's like "I mean, we could look at this as failure, or we could look at this like congrats, you went against the system. don't let 'em get you down" and Eric says "as your prince I officially pardon you for having no intention of taking my life" and Kevin says "thanks and I'm sorry your kingdom is being taken over by evil Chanhee" and Eric is like "Chanhee? that witch who looks like an angel? he's evil?" and Jacob is getting a headache and tell Eric to eat his peas

strange, superior, stern, same. BONUS: scarce, steam. @spacetimewraithwrites @souliloquyyy @softestruler @stuffaboutwriting @stardustspiral @sleepy-night-child

[starlightrows]

Something Sweet

Chapter 3: Concerts and Cupcakes

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Series Masterlist

Pairing: Modern!Paz Vizsla x reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: NSFW, smut, vaginal fingering, p in v sex, Paz is a consent king, cumming outside (in this fandom? Shocking I know), swearing, angst at the end

Summary: You and Paz continue to spend time together and you have the misfortune of meeting “the guy” your friends warned you about... Gideon.

The following Tuesday you and Paz hang out with the group like usual, and give no indication that anything has changed or that you have plans to go together to the outdoor concert next weekend. But you can’t deny, you’re excited for it.

Finally Saturday rolls around. This time, you decide, it is a date. Or at least you’re gonna treat it like one. You pick a pretty sundress, comfortable shoes, do your hair and makeup. You also put a bag together with snacks, sealed mason jars with rum punch, a picnic blanket and a lawn chair.

Paz picks you up in his truck, and helps you load up your stuff into the back. He even opens the passenger door for you! The park is set up with a walking path, several meadows, sports fields, a playground and water feature fountain and an amphitheater surrounding a beautiful community center building.

The stage is set up for the outdoor performance. Community members and concert goer’s set up their picnic blankets and lawn chairs on the grassy slope of the amphitheater. Children run and play. Couples young and old share glasses of wine and snacks waiting for the concert to start.

After getting the blanket and the chairs set up, you pass him one of the jars of rum punch and sit back to chat and hang out until the concert starts. You take a moment to pause, and look about at all the happy people enjoying the warm summer evening and spending time with their friends, family, neighbors…

“This” you gesture with your hand “this is what I always wanted…”

Paz smiles warmly, sipping the drink you made for him. “Yeah, once you get a taste of living in a place like this… you can’t ever go back to living in crowded city where people don’t want anything to do with each other”

You chuckle “Or back to a rural town where your closest neighbor was a 10 minute drive away”

“I don’t know what sounds worse, never seeing anyone or being surrounded by people that act like you don’t exist” he shakes his head

“Well, I’m glad we both made it here” you say happily “because this is amazing”

Paz can’t hold back the smile on his face. Seeing you so happy and content, he can’t help but feel like the two of your were both meant to find this place.

The concert starts up, and the band is amazing! They play a lot of covers of popular music you hear on the radio and a lot of throwback music that used to be popular. Everyone in the crowd seems to know all the words. The band involves the crowd getting people to get out of their seats to singe and dance.

You feel alive and free, electrified by the familiar music and friendly atmosphere. You take Paz’s hand when a song you really love comes on, and drag him out of his seat to dance. He surprises you by offering almost no resistance and actually sings along with you. The two of you don’t sit down again until the concert is over, dancing and singing the night away.

When the concert ends, you’re a little bummed out it’s over. But Paz recommends that you stay a while in the park and let the crowds thin out before leaving, and you are more than happy to stay. The night air is warm, and the sun hasn’t quite set yet.

The two of you lay out on the blanket, folding down the lawn chairs to make room. Laying of your backs, you watch the sky dim. Turning orange, pink, violet and then fading to a deep midnight blue as the stars start to appear. He’s telling you an animated story story about him and Din pulling pranks and getting in trouble together as kids. You’re smiling and laughing, feeling incredibly warm and light.

Eventually he does have to drive you back to your apartment. He walks you to the door and lets you unlock it before you turn around. He’s standing close, very close.

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight” you say softly “I had so much fun”

He smiles, “Thank you for saying yes”

“Goodnight” you whisper leaning into him

“Goodnight” he closes his eyes and leans down, pressing his lips to yours. He breaks the kiss, pulling back a little.

But you pull him back, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him again. He responds in kind, sliding his large hands over your hips and holding you to him while he kisses you.

This time you break the kiss, pulling away and leaning your forehead on his. You push the door open behind you with one hand. You glance behind you inside, and back to him. A silent invitation. But he doesn’t respond, he doesn’t want to assume anything.

“Stay” you ask softly

That’s enough for him. He kisses you again, and walks you backwards inside. Closing the door behind him. He leans back against the door and pulls your into him, getting you to hop up and put your legs around him.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this. Your soft lips, gentle hands, quiet breaths and moans as he kisses you. He wants this. He has wanted this. And the little sundress you’re wearing has only fanned that flame today. But still…. he has to be sure. He pulls back and bit.

“Hey, hey, hey” he whispers “tell me you want this. Tell me this okay?”

Your heart flutters. Surely he knows that you want him, but he wants to hear it. He needs to hear it.

“I want this Paz” you say, kissing him again “I want you”

He squeezes your hip, and kisses you again. You drop your legs back down, and lead him back to your bedroom. Pulling him down onto the comforter with you.

His hands roam over your body catching at the hem of your dress, and sliding up along your thighs. You hum into his mouth, and slide your hands under his shirt. You pull your hands back and lift your hips and then your back, to help him get your dress worked up over your head and arms.

He reaches back with one hand, and pulls his shirt up over his head and drops it down on the floor with your dress. You shiver a little, taking in his broad bare chest and well muscled forearms. He on the other hand is lovingly gazing down at you. Soft skin, gentle curves, pretty… matching… panties and bra.

He leans back down, eager to feel your soft skin against him. His hand smoothes over the material of your bra, fingers trailing over the edge and slipping down underneath. Your breath catches in your throat. His hands are firm and worn, textured against your supple breast.

“Still okay honey?” He asks, moving his lips down to kiss your jaw and down your neck

“Y-yeah” you run your fingers through his thick dark hair as he kisses his way down to your collarbone, still tenderly stroking and squeezing your breast.

He kisses all the way down to your breastbone, and slips his hands around your back to undo the clasps of your bra. Sliding the strap over your shoulders and carefully tossing it away with the rest of your discarded clothes. He cups both in his hands, rolling his thumbs over your nipples, and brushing his nose over your soft skin. Slowly kissing his way up the slope of one of your breasts, he tilts his head over and draws your nipple into his mouth sucking gently.

“Beautiful” he mutters pulling off and switching to the other, “so beautiful”

You try your best not to squirm in anticipation, but Paz notices.

“You getting wet for me sweetheart?” He purrs, his hand leaves your breast and trains down to stroke you through your panties finding them slightly damp. “Oh love, do you like when I touch you?”

“Yes” you shutter out “Paz… please”

“Don’t worry gorgeous, I’ll give you what you need” his fingers dip below your panties, and slide between your folds.

Your eyes flutter shut. His fingers move with ease, aided by your slick. He stops for just a moment, to help you shimmy out of your panties, before he goes right back for your wet heat. He pushes in a finger and swallows your breathy gasp with his own mouth as he kisses you. His pace is slow, for now curling his finger within you. He adds a second finger stretching your opening a bit wider, relishing your soft moans and whimpers of pleasure.

You flinch, and cling to his arms in a reflexive movement as this thumb swipes over your clit and begins rubbing in circles. He picks up the pace, building you up quicker.

“There you go honey, my fingers feel good?” He huffs

“Yes… Paz… feels so good” you moan “please”

“Come on sweetheart, come on my fingers” he keeps up his pace, putting more attention into stimulating your clit.

The pressure builds up, every pass of his thumb over your clit seems to wind you up tighter until finally it snaps! Washing over you like a tidal wave, leaving your breathless and soaking.

He kisses you again, and begins stroking through your folds again, allowing you to ride out waves of your orgasm. You kiss him back, when your senses return to you a moment later.

“How is it that I am completely naked and boneless in pleasure, and you’ve still got pants on” you joke “doesn’t seem fair”

He chuckles and pulls back, going to undo his belt. You sit up with him, seeing the tent in his pants and moving to help him shed his jeans.

He steps out of his pants and boxers, and stands before you, hard and dribbling precum. He’s massive. Granted, he’s a big guy, you figured he would be proportional… but he is impressive to say the least.

“Not to give you an ego, but holy shit” you chuckle, making no attempt to hide your gaze.

How can any man hear that, and not have a bit of a head rush? He grins. “You like what you see sweetheart?”

“Get over here” you laugh, reaching out with both arms. He obliges you, and let’s you pull him down again to kiss. You can feel his cock pressed against you, insistent and aching. You roll your hips against him, teasing… inviting.

“Your turn” you whisper, reaching down and lining him up with your entrance. This time his breath hitches, he’s rather worked up and it’s been a while since he had a partner.

As he presses in, your warmth consumes him. Your walls are tight, velvety soft, and wet. He grunts a bit and he pushes forward, watching himself disappear within you. You moan too, the stretch is delicious and pleasant.

He sets a steady pace, drawing your legs up, placing one hand at your hip and the other above your head.

“You okay?” He grits out, always so attentive

You moan in response, “Yes, you can go a little faster, I’m good”

He follows your direction and picks up his pace, taking your moans and pleas fore more as guidance. He’s pounding into you, and groaning.

“Close” he grits out “where?”

“Outside” you gasp “anywhere you want”

He gets in a couple more good thrusts before he abruptly pulls out and jerks himself off, spilling his load over your stomach.

Having just came his mind is clear, and his body is calm. He realizes he finished before you could come a second time, a fact that he remedied by pushing his still hard cock back in and resuming his pace and dropping a hand down to rub your clit.

“Come on gorgeous” he praises “one more”

He’s getting a bit over stimulated, but he pushes through for you. Your orgasm is white hot, and searing. Unlike the first that crested like a wave, this one explored like fireworks behind your eyes as your cum on his cock.

You lay together for a couple minutes, breathing heavily, and savoring the postcoital bliss. You reach out, and lace your fingers with his. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb.

“The concert next week is supposed to be smooth jazz” he chuckles “any chance you’ll let me take you on a second date?”

You laugh and lean over, and kiss his cheek. “It’s a date”

In the weeks that follow you and Paz continue hanging out with your friends on Tuesday nights. Going to the outdoor concerts on Saturday nights, and now going back and forth between each other’s apartments for dinner after work. Watching movies together, testing new recipes, learning new baking techniques and of course enjoying each other in the bedroom.

At first you both agreed not to tell anyone in the group. It’s a new relationship, and you didn’t want to get teased or asked a thousand questions. You just wanted to enjoy it, and each other. But as summer drew to a close and the chill of fall started turning the leaves and picking up the breeze, you couldn’t pretend or deny it anymore.

Of course literally everyone already knew or had their suspicions. What kind of people spend that much time together outside of work, aren’t in a relationship?

———

A few weeks into September you’re working on making new macrame plant pot holders during one of the slower parts of the day and listening to quiet music, humming along as you work. When the door opens and the bell tinkles to alert you. You look up, smiling at your customer. An older man, with a dark complexion, thin mustache, and an unsettling smile. Nevertheless you’ve had stranger clientele before, and you treat them all the same.

“Hello, can I help you find something today?” You greet him

“No, actually I was hoping that I could help you” he says approaching the counter.

“Oh? And how is that?” You have a bad feeling about this.

“My name is Gideon” he introduces himself “and I have a vested interest in the economic and cultural growth of this city”

Gideon. That name rings a bell. This is the guy your friends had told you about. You square your shoulders, stand your ground, and keep a neutral expression as he tries to dazzle you with ideas of “the city of tomorrow”.

“Of course, to make all of this come true all of the buildings in this area would need to be cleared and updated. I would love to make you an offer for your storefront, upto and exceeding ten fold what you paid for it”

“Mr. Gideon” you cut him off “it may surprise you to know that I am already fully aware of your vision for this city. What you seem to fail to realize is that no one that lives or works here shares your vision”

“That’s where I believe you are mistaken little girl, there are many who think this city has great potential” he says calmly “I know this city can be more than what it is now. I know it and I want it. Believe me, I get what I want”

“Unfortunately for you Mr. Gideon, you do not get to make those kinds of decisions. And no one will sell out to you to turn our dreams into your profit” you’re getting irritated now, and just want him to leave. You really want to call Paz.

“I could make you a rich woman. I am not the only one that would benefit from this change” he tried to persuade you

“Money can’t buy happiness Mr. Gideon. I worked my whole life to be here, and I am happy having my business here. And I will continue to be here as long as it makes me happy. Come Hell or high water I will stand” you say with confidence and surety, almost daring him to challenge you again.

Finally he backs off, but insists you take his business card… “In case you change your mind, or you find your business no longer makes you happy”

The second the door closes behind him, you grab your phone and call Paz, asking him to come over to your shop as soon as he can when he’s done closing. I Gideon gets in a sleek black car, and speeds away just as Paz comes through the front door.

“You okay?” Paz asks, coming behind the counter. You peer out the window and watch the car make the right hand turn off of the street.

You’re frustrated and upset, you gesture out the window with one hand and smack the other down on the counter.

“You guys warned me about they guy Gideon, but you didn’t mention how much he would infuriate me” you grumble

“Gideon was just here?” Paz asks

“Yeah, came in here preaching about how he’s going to transform this city and make us all fabulously rich,” you tell him “when you know good and well he would cheat us out of every penny he could”

He wraps his arms around you and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You told him to fuck off right?” He asks

You wrap your arms around him too, and lean your head on his chest “Pretty much. I worked too long and too hard to get here to give it up”

“Good” he says “A guy like him will never understand why we do things the way we do. Your flowers and my bread are more than just…. things for others to buy for us… he’ll never understand something like that”

That’s exactly right. Boba has his pub. Din has his tattoo shop… everyone worked hard to get what they have, and it means something to each of us. Men like Gideon will never understand that.

About a month later, the weather has turned cold and the days are getting shorter. You and Paz have been making plans for Halloween, and working on fall flavored treats for Paz’s bakery.

But tonight you are over at his apartment, baking cupcakes, watching YouTube videos and practicing frosting piping techniques.

You’re sitting on his countertop, giggling and licking frosting off your finger tips when your phone starts ringing. You grab a tea towel and wipe off your hands to answer the phone.

“Hello” you answer, still smiling and stifling a laugh. Paz contains his own laugher so you can hear whoever in on the other end of the line, and bends down to check on the next batch of cupcakes baking in the oven.

“Wh-what?” Your voice is horrified. Paz looks up at you still sitting on the counter. Your eyes have gone wide, and he can visibly see your body language change.

He stands up quickly and wipes off his hands too, giving you a questioning look.

“We’ll be right there” you say in grave tone “thank you”

Your hand drops down into your lap.

He stands before you, trying to get your eyes to focus. He says your name once, twice… he shakes your hand a little

“The fire department” you say “my store front…. burned down”

Something Sweet Tag List: @gallowsjoker @simping-for-clones @mxndoscyarika @hayley-the-comet @blackmarketmummy

[myelocin]

maybe we could have been it | akaashi keiji

synopsis: akaashi thinks of you, the faded photograph next to the ring with the bigger stone he didn’t need to spend a couple paychecks on, and the chocolate cake that reminded him of home. of you. (sidepiece to on the faded side of the photograph)

characters: akaashi keiji, you, mentions of miya osamu

genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, post breakup

wc: 1500+

a/n: fam why did i write this i am in pain ;;;;;; all the same (plz i beg listen to it it’s the whole soundtrack to this whole story KJSDFSK)

sometimes, akaashi thinks, he kind of wants to do something stupid. 

he knows that if he really looks at things, it’s only just a matter of closing a notebook, ripping off a few pages, booking a ticket, and betting on adrenaline to give him the five second boost he needs to call up bokuto and ask for your address to fix things. 

but that isn’t the case, and the adrenaline is only waist level at best. akaashi knows he isn’t overwhelmed enough to pick up the phone and dial a familiar set of numbers. even when he does get to that point, adrenaline rises only towards chest level. he can still breathe, and with that breath akaashi knows his actions at this point will still be guided by reason.

so even if bokuto’s asking him if he’s heard from you lately, and the question of “how is she?” is at the tip of his tongue, when akaashi shifts he feels the water sway around his chest while the horizon before him is as clear as day. 

in the moment, he’s aware that if he stays and lets the waves rise, he’ll drown if he goes under. neither the rush nor adrenaline holds him under, and akaashi, in a way both dreads and praises the fact that his head is still above the water.

his fingers pause in place, and he thinks of the polaroid of you, the ring, and nara in his wallet. 

then he breathes, and it kind of aches, but he can still breathe. 

he can still reason. 

his heart clenches and he tries to tell himself it’s because of the nerves and the almost slip up of his crafted composure, and not because his heart is screaming for you.

bokuto stays silent on the line, so akaashi knows his clock is ticking. 

so “no,” akaashi would be the words he always hears himself reply, and he’d swallow the question he’s tried asking time and time again for months now back down just like that. “i haven’t heard from her.”

“that’s okay,” is the reply he gets, and from the tone of bokuto’s voice, akaashi knows there wouldn’t be an extension offered for the conversation. sometimes he thinks that if the world were to throw a lifeline at him, he would ignore rationality and ask for you. 

because for a while, he looked and listened for one. he looked at your profile, and counted the days where you were last active. listened for bokuto’s voice just with a bit more attention whenever he’d mention your name, and what you’ve been doing. 

just that lifeline, akaashi thinks to himself every time. if the world, or in this case, you, were to give him just that, he’d be on the next flight back to tokyo. 

then the world gave you happiness, he realizes. 

happiness that was manifested in the form of miya osamu, a few kind words that sent a tidal wave of everything good your way, and a bakery with your recipes right across the onigiri shop you found home in. 

the silence that follows, akaashi notes, is the kind that stretches like from the night that started your end.

because perhaps it was just borrowed time. 

the love between the both of you was as real as life, but a forever wasn’t guaranteed with just love and hope as armor. the reality of the fall out, had been there all along, akaashi realizes. initially it was a little hard to face, but he supposes that it’s difficult because it truly was love at its purest  form. 

love, in accordance to your story, had always been just an emotion that’s raw and so, so unapologetically beautiful to the point that it tore you open when reality came and announced how love alone wasn’t enough to satiate the way of the world.

so akaashi cries that night he finds miya osamu’s name, because like the heartbreak he felt when he parted with you, the emotion that announced its arrival in the moment, he realizes, is killing him all the same.

his finger hovers over the send button on the right side of his phone screen, right next to the congratulations that took a couple shots of the strong kind of liquor to type out. the faded photograph with the two people smiling in nara sits on the table next to the ring he finally bought without having to blow a couple of paychecks.

he knows that there’s no one to blame, so he downs another shot—squeezing his eyes at the burn that he tells himself he welcomes on the back of his throat.

the chocolate cake in spain doesn’t taste anything like yours, he smiles to himself. when akaashi closes his eyes, more tears prick at his eyes when he hears your voice muffled by the walls that separated the kitchen in the apartment from his office.

and perhaps that was already a way the universe foreshadowed the inevitable end of love, for the both of you. another shot downed, but despite the burn still present in his throat, he grabs the bottle and pours himself another. a couple smiles still stare at him, faded, from the photograph akaashi keeps his eyes trained at.

you probably smiled in the kitchen that day, akaashi thinks to himself. eyes sparkling, tongue poking out in concentration, and a radiance that hung around you because he knows that during the last few months of the relationship, that was really the only time he saw you blooming.

he hears your voice again, but he doesn’t make out what you say; he finds himself wincing at the realization that recalls the words written in his contract vividly instead.

that night akaashi keiji downs almost seven shots because it finally dawns on him that all this time he’s only been hearing you, and never took the time to listen.

so, congratulations, the screen on his phone reads, but even with the liquid confidence setting fire to his veins in the moment, he takes his phone in his hands and deletes the message instead. smiling at the chocolate cake in front of him, he foregoes the eighth shot in his glass, and takes a bite from the slice instead.

if he were a little more sober, akaashi knows he’d have wiped his face from the tears by now, but all he registers is the thought that he thinks he’s crying, because somewhere between the second and the third bite, he suddenly sees you; apron around your waist, oven mitts that looked a little too silly on your hands, and a bit of frosting that he remembers always found its way on your cheek no matter how careful you were in the process.

it doesn’t taste the same, he cries, but then cries harder because he doesn’t remember how your recipe even tasted in the first place.

but the smell of chocolate lingers in the fucking air, and if he closes his eyes he knows he’s going to think of home, and of you.

you, an apartment that was home for so many years, and a love that was kept alive because of borrowed time.

this it it, akaashi thinks, the smell of chocolate right under his nose.

this was home, he heaves, dropping the fork and hiding his face in his hands when the weight of the ending finally settles on his shoulders.

you were home, and you were love.

he cries harder, sounding a little more broken. the photograph remains still in its time; the people with the smiles changed, and the memory of nara remembered with a different kind of sentiment now.

so that night, akaashi turns off his phone, caps the bottle, pockets the photo and the ring, and gives the rest of the cake to his neighbor’s son who he remembered has a bit of a sweet tooth. he lays in bed with the image of you, a ring that didn’t look like the one hidden in his drawer, and the radiance he feels is now connected to the name miya osamu.

then he books a ticket.

a one way ticket headed to tokyo, because akaashi keiji supposes he doesn’t regret the time he spent with you.

so, when he finally settles on asking you how you’re doing—he smiles because you reply that you’re doing just fine. and the ring on your finger doesn’t fly past his line of vision, because he suddenly feels the lump in his throat again.

“four years in spain, huh?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“yeah. extended a year, i might be permanently transferring there in the future,” he replies, a statement he knows is only a lie, and this time he looks straight towards you and not at the wall behind you.

you smile. 

and you look happy, akaashi thinks.

“you went out of schedule,” he hears you laugh softly.

“i guess i did,” akaashi replies, laughing along to the irony of your words, before he finally says, “i’m sorry.”

 -

[dclsbaby]

mykonos-crossed lovers (part i) 🦋

🎶 playlist for part i

prologue

part ii

part iii

part iv

Summary: When you drunkenly book a girls trip to a tropical Greek island to help mend your broken heart, you would never for a second think it will take you exactly to where he is. Him. A tale of the right person at the wrong time, an overused cliché made into plots of movies you never thought would live through in your reality. Two people, still madly in love with each other, hearts still broken, suppressed by the alcohol and distractions consumed on this trip. Will they let their egos get in the way, protect what’s left of their already broken hearts, or will let their hearts speak?

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: angst?

Author’s Note: hi everyone, thank you so so much for the responses to the prologue! I am so overwhelmed and did not expect to receive so much kindness it makes me wanna cry hahaha 🥺 thank you a thousand times over! and if this is your first time getting to know the fic, I highly suggest you read the prologue before diving into part 1! This chapter is sort of a filler chapter (I know it has 2.6k words lol), it shows how (y/n) have been doing since the break up & how the trip came about, I hope it’ll make sense once you read it 🤍 thanks for reading x

Gif:

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It’s been months since you last spoke to him. Him. The thought of him still hurts. The idea of him existing without you, hurts. As much as you try to fight it, you still remember him like the back of your hand. You could draw on paper the contours of his face by memory, by instinct, like remembering your way home. He was a love you have never experienced before. Something about his magnetism seemed impossible to resist.

You and Dominic broke up nearly half a year ago. Your hopes of an amicable breakup were destroyed by him. His confusion, his anger, his frustration made it impossible for you two to stay friends. He couldn’t even begin to imagine being just a friend to you when his entire heart belongs to you. He called you selfish for leaving, he called you stubborn for having your mind made up without letting him put up a fight when he was ready to battle anyone, even you, to save your relationship.

The first few months were difficult, but the first few weeks were excruciating. You barely ate, as the numbing in the pit of your stomach constantly made you nauseous that your body couldn’t digest anything you ate. You couldn’t bring yourself to shower and get dressed, and spent days laying in bed, wallowing in sadness. Overtime, you just learn to live with the pain.

Since then, you’ve had good days, and slowly but surely stopped faking smiles and replaced them with genuine ones. But your bad days felt like hell, with your mind often teasing you with memories of him that you’ve suppressed enough to compartmentalise, then it comes back to you all at once, and consumes your entire soul. The pain is suffocating, like being crush by tidal waves, leaving you no time to run for shore, the waters dragging you, pulling you in many directions. All you could do was be still, stay paralysed, and pray that it goes away. That’s what remembering him felt like.

Then on other days, you often wonder how you were able to manage all this, with the pain still fresh whenever you think about it, but I guess we’re all guilty of pushing our feelings to the side and pretending that everything’s alright, when it’s the opposite. You’re still alive, despite it all. But you want to live, not just survive.

The truth is, you did not leave because you fell out of love. In fact, you were too in love—it’s a crime. He was your entire life. Days were spent waiting for him to come home from training and matches. Missing him during away games. Your entire happiness depended on him, and that terrified you. You weren’t happy with yourself either, and expected more out of your life. The burden of having a prosperous career, a stable income, a life for yourself that you loved, becoming too heavy to bear. You had all these dreams and goals set for yourself that you never got to actualise so you could be by his side. Your love for him was insurmountable, that you couldn’t accommodate anything for yourself. No matter how hard you tried, you will always put him first. It was natural. Even though he never asked for all your attention, you couldn't simply choose between yourself or him, because you would always choose him. Over and over.

So you did what you had to do, break your own heart, and his, to love yourself.

Since your breakup, you finally moved out of your friend’s place and got yourself a nice two-bedroom flat at the city centre with a stunning view of the city. You landed yourself a job as a junior editor for British Vogue that demands commuting to London several days a week. As you thrive in difficult situations, the breakup forced you to submerge yourself in work, mainly to avoid the pain, but it propelled you to get to where you are.

Trying to get over someone who is in the public eye was a different battle. It seemed as though everywhere you went, he’s there. You see him on billboards, TV screens, his face painted on murals, quickly becoming a tourist site. Occasionally, you would watch his games out of habit, and listen to the prideful Evertonian crowd chant his name. You witnessed his first England senior team debut, and tuned in to England v. Wales on the TV for old time’s sake. You watched him score his first senior England goal behind a screen. Your eyes welled at sight of him living his dream, poaching the ball into the net, scoring the first goal of the game, making his country and family proud. You feel the rush of adrenaline he felt as he ran to his teammates and celebrated. You can’t help but share this sense of pride, as you’ve watched firsthand how hard he has worked to get to where he is.

But on days where he isn’t on your mind, you do not want to be reminded of him. It’s difficult to cope when you encounter pieces of him that takes you back to the worst day of your life, and his.

Like last night, for instance. You had been scrolling on your social media when it was brought to your attention that a magazine had published an issue with your ex on the front cover, spotted on a night out with a blonde you don’t personally know but you could’ve sworn you’ve seen before. Perhaps another one of those so-called “influencers”, you thought to yourself. You know that you have no right to feel jealous or upset, as you broke up with him and this was bound to happen, but selfishly, a part of you had hoped that he wouldn’t find anyone else, or at least not before you did. You’re frustrated at yourself for letting him have this effect on you even months after your break up.

Succumbing to your bad habits, you give in to your impulses and pop open a bottle of red wine to calm your growing anxiety. Two glasses of wine, a takeout, and a season of Gossip Girl later, you find yourself slightly drunk, nerves calmed, and a little drowsy so you quickly change into your satin pyjamas and tuck yourself in bed.

You decide to turn on the TV for some background noise and quickly close your eyes. By some twist of fate, you hear a painfully familiar voice giving his thoughts at the end of a game he’s won. The sheer volume of his voice on the TV causes a sharp pain in your chest as you scramble to reach for your remote in the dark, with your eyes half opened. and change it to anything but a sports channel. That’s it, you thought to yourself. I need to get the fuck away.

Still drunk and not entirely aware of what you’re doing, you reach for your laptop on the nightstand. The brightness made your eyes squint a little bit, but you managed to type out a link and open a travel booking site, and scroll through different pictures of tropical islands you’re longing to get to. Anywhere but here, you thought. You selected options that you thought looked the blue-est, the most expensive, a party town, and had the most five star restaurants.

By the end of it you have booked a return flight to Mykonos for 5 people where you will be staying at a grand, luxurious 5-bedroom villa located at the party central of the island. You couldn’t be bothered to check how much it cost you. All sense of ration gets thrown out the window when you mix heartbreak with alcohol. When you told your friends of what you had just done, it was safe to say that they were surprised but absolutely ecstatic that you have booked a much needed getaway with the girls. With a three-day notice, you all quickly scramble through your closet and go on an online shopping spree to pick out your outfits for the holiday.

***

Days later, you find yourself landing on Mykonos island on a sunny afternoon.

“I can’t believe you’ve managed to pull all this off within days,” your friend says as you all walk through the pebbled entry way of your villa, and open the door. “Holy fucking shit,” another friend says in awe of the sight. The villa was filled with white interior, bright lights, wooden tables that give off beach vibes, and an infinity pool where you could swim as you watch the sunset, with a view of the blue sea. With 5 bedrooms to choose from, your friends collectively decided that you should take the master that had direct access to the pool, which you happily accepted but it wouldn’t matter anyway, as you’ll all probably stay in one room.

Once you’ve unpacked, you pull out your white cardigan and make your way out the terrace to catch a view of the sunset and have a moment by yourself. You take a deep breath of the fresh air with a hint of sea breeze as you try to take in the stunning view of the island. You are filled with gratitude as you bear witness to something so beautiful as you watch the sun sink into the blue Aegean Sea. Despite the peacefulness exuded by the view, your heart can’t help but feel Dom. You remember when he had brought up wanting to spend this exact summer in Mykonos with you, but life had other plans.

***flashback***

Dom was laying in bed with his laptop screen on his chest, an arm to support his head as he scrolled through the travel booking site. He had been looking through different options, but he has his mind set on a lovely town in Greece, Dubai’s overrated after all, he thought.

“Me, you, blue skies, tanned skin, bike rides around town, what do you think love?” asked Dom. “Where’s this?” you ask, moving closer to him as he shows you his laptop screen. “Mykonos. It’s not too far away, I’ll have enough time to rest before pre-season starts,” he replies. “That sounds like a plan,” you smile at him. “But we’ll book it closer to the summer, yeah? In case anything comes up,” you said as you plant a kiss on his cheek. He nods as he bookmarks the site and drifts off to sleep with you shortly after.

Unbeknownst to you, later that night he quietly opened his laptop and quickly booked the trip for you two as a surprise. Anything that will come in the way will just have to be compromised. He was adamant to make sure he gives you the best summer of your life, it is what you deserve after all, he thought.

***

You had forgotten about your conversation with Dom until you stood on the island. Your thoughts were interrupted by your friend’s footsteps. “Hey, you okay babe? You’ve been out here for a while,” she asks with concerned eyes. “I’m alright,” you said. “Or I will be,” you add, giving your friend a forced smile. Your friend wraps her arm around your shoulders as you two make it back inside to have an early and quiet night with the girls, exhausted from all the travel.

***

The next day you woke up a little late, with only several hours to tan before having to get ready for your dinner reservation at one of Mykonos’s famous restaurants that looks over the sea. A little frustrated at yourself for sleeping in, you went to the bathroom to wash your face, put on some light makeup, and change into your swimwear.

You join your friends who are sprawled on the sunbeds. “So, where is this place again?” you asked your friend who booked the dinner. “A restaurant by the sea located at party central babe. Everybody, I mean everybody goes here. They’ve got the best food and music,” she replies. “Think of Mamma Mia 1,” another friend chimes in. Your eyes widen at the imagery. “Better have some great alcohol too, I’m desperate for some,” you laugh. “That’s my girl,” your friend says.

***

By the late afternoon you and the girls are getting ready for dinner. Makeup bags and its contents sprawled on the floor, you had to tiptoe around makeup products and brushes, careful not to step on them. After long deliberation, you decided to dress up in co-ord that hugs your figure and fits you like a glove, paired with your favourite heels, settling for an elegant yet fun look. You decide to keep your hair down and put on some natural makeup to balance out the bold colour. After about 30 minutes of taking pictures of each other and some group photos, you finally made it out the door.

The location was spectacular. The ambience was complemented with bright lights to lighten the dim Mykonos sky that has turned a shade of dark blue, almost purple. The food was divine, a little overpriced for your liking, but it was worth it. The restaurant turns into a nightclub close to midnight, and you and your girls were eager to start your first round of drinks. Fruity drinks were passed around, made with fruits freshly picked from the gardens. Watermelon margarita was your drink of choice, partly sweet, partly sour, and just enough tequila as your first drink of the trip.

The restaurant was packed, you could’ve sworn you had seen a star of a Spanish series you’ve just finished watching on Netflix. The guests were well dressed, many had bravely eccentric taste, mixing patterns and sparkly jewellery, paired with funky footwear to add some flair. In Mykonos, you will not encounter the same judgment as you would walking down the streets back home.

Your friends stood up to dance the second the alcohol kicked in. You took your time, savouring your drink, wanting the night to last. You smile at the sight of your happy friends, so full of life, not giving a single care in the world. As you’re sitting there, observing people, you suddenly feel your chest get heavy. It’s hard to put into words what this feeling is like, but it pushes you to shut down in social settings, overwhelmed by strangers and loud music that makes your ears ring. It is a feeling of unexplained anxiety, where you need a second to correct your breathing, and calm yourself down. Not now, you thought, not here. You often feel these random bouts of emptiness since you left Dom. You try to push the discomfort away, and think of anything else but him. You stood up and walked to the edge of the restaurant by the white border wall to get some fresh air, and take in the view of calm waves under the night sky to collect some peace of mind.

You place your elbows on top of the border, and rest your head on the palms of your hands. A bystander would think that you’re a scene from a movie, a damsel in distress, longing for her love interest. But this was no movie, no fairytale, no knight in shining armour to protect you, no lover to sweep you off your feet.

Or so you thought.

Your focus on the sounds of splashing waves was interrupted by familiar footsteps, getting louder and louder as it creeps its way closer to you. The scent of the sea began to mix with an all too familiar scent of tobacco vanilla. Only one person came to mind. It can’t be, you thought.

“(Y/N)?,” his voice breaks.

It’s him.