Today is my birthday (June 4th). So I decided to make celebratory headcanons for my favourite boys (Ashveil - Honkai Star Rail, Rafayel - Love and Deepspace, Luuk Herssen - Wuthering Waves, Alkaid - Lovebrush Chronicles)
I wrote this over 4 days, almost without breaks, so I apologise for any possible mistakes. Also, since English isn't my native language, I use a translator
I don't claim canon; this is just my vision of the characters I love
Happy birthday to everyone who recently had, will have, or is having their birthday today!
Song: Damien Style - Goddess
When you woke up in the morning, the first thing you saw were wildflowers on the nightstand. They stood in a glass jar - a pickle jar, it seemed, because he had never owned a vase in his life. The bouquet was made up of daisies, bluebells, cornflowers, buttercups, and long blades of grass that softened the natural colours of the blooms. It was a little disheveled, just like your hair in the morning. A few petals had fallen, some stems were bent, and a tiny ant was crawling across one of the buds. Ashveil himself was quietly snuffling beside you. You figured he had come back around dawn, having spent the whole night searching for beautiful little flowers. You turned to him and kissed his forehead, thanking him for the gift. In response, he rasped, "Happy birthday"
When you had finally come to your senses after sleep and were ready to greet the new day with a smile, Narrator came scampering into the room. In his tail he was clutching a banana he hadn't finished eating, and in his little paw he held a crumpled sheet of paper covered in handwritten text. He cleared his throat importantly, shot a warning glance at Ashveil, and began to read. His low voice blended perfectly with the elegant lines about love, lending the moment a certain gravity. The poem was dedicated to you. The rhyme held steady throughout the entire piece, weaving itself into a sincere confession. Somewhere around the middle, Ashveil interrupted Narrator in a whisper, "I didn't dictate it like that, you know..." Narrator faltered, threw a disgruntled look at his master, and carried on reading. Finishing with a loud congratulations, Narrator gave a ceremonious bow and scampered away so as not to be a bother. Ashveil, turning red, began to explain how this masterpiece had come to be. He had been describing his feelings out loud, in fragments, "I want to live with her for ten more Amber Eras," "When she's near, I'm not afraid to be myself," "My darkness retreats when her soft hands touch me." And all the while, Narrator had been sitting there with a pencil, scribbling away. He had turned those scraps of passionate feeling into lovely, euphonious lines.
Still basking in the glow of the beautiful poem, you didn't notice how Ashveil had suddenly turned serious. He began to brief you on the matter at hand. The main event of the day was a detective quest that was meant to lead you to your gift. His voice took on a businesslike tone, as if this were a real investigation, and little sparks of excitement danced in his eyes. He laid out the rules: you would follow a chain of riddles, each one leading you to a new place or person, and at the end, both the grand prize and Ashveil himself would be waiting for you. The first clue landed in your palm - a piece of paper folded in half, with a single word written in his hand. You looked up to ask a follow-up question, but Ashveil had already vanished. You heard the front door slam, and the sound of quick footsteps echoed from the stairwell. The quest had begun. Riddles were waiting for you everywhere: on his desk, tucked away among his case files; inside Narrator's banana; at the coffee shop on the corner where you loved to spend time together, where the barista, who had become your friend, handed you the next envelope with a smile. In the park, on that very bench where Ashveil had first told you about his past; the note was taped to the underside, and you laughed as you peeled it off. Your friends, who had accidentally, what are the odds, Â stationed themselves in an alleyway, were holding the next pieces of the puzzle. Ashveil himself kept hovering somewhere nearby the whole time: his hat would flash behind a tree; a strange man with a fake moustache would stroll past; he'd suddenly appear at your back when you were taking too long to solve a riddle. Ashveil was always ready to come to your aid, but you just shook your head. You were his clever girl, after all. Ashveil had devised this quest to show you that he remembered every little thing about your relationship. And to keep you distracted while he prepared the grand prize.
The final riddle led you to the rooftop of a skyscraper. You climbed up a rickety ladder, your heart pounding with eager anticipation. When you pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the open air, the evening city greeted you with neon lights and a cool wind. And there, in the distance, at the very edge of the roof, stood a set table. The white tablecloth billowed gently in the breeze. On it, plates of exquisite roasted meat had been carefully arranged, along with two glasses of red wine and a simple candle in a glass holder. And at the table sat Ashveil. In his one and only suit - the one he wore only on special occasions. He rose to meet you, and a touching nervousness was written all over his face. He carefully pulled out your chair and seated you at the table, then sat down opposite you. Ashveil drew a breath, gathering his courage, and spoke a few simple words about you and about your relationship. Tears of gratitude welled up in your eyes. You had just reached for your glass to take the first sip in honour of this wild, mad day, when suddenly you heard the first burst. Red, gold, and blue sparks scattered across the dark sky, reflected in the windows of the skyscrapers. The fireworks thundered right above you, so close it felt as though their fiery tails might graze you. You turned to Ashveil, but he was gazing up at the sky, studiously pretending it was all a coincidence. But you were certain he had been preparing for this day for a very long time. That he had spent his last money on these fireworks and looked absolutely happy doing it. Because you were smiling for him.
The words Ashveil spoke that day:
"I spent the whole day afraid something would go wrong."
"I don't know how to celebrate birthdays, but for you, I learned."
"You're the only one I can forget my true nature with and just be a silly grown-up."
"The case of my life has long been solved and closed. You are the prime suspect - the one who stole my heart."
The first gift was a golden retriever puppy. A tiny, fluffy little bundle with a damp nose lay in Ashveil's arms. He was looking around thoughtfully, tilting his head in that funny way as he studied the place he'd been brought to. A festive bow, already a little chewed, adorned his neck. Ashveil held him out to you with a delighted and proud smile. This gift was a dream not only of yours, but of his too. Lately, he'd been especially tuned in to dogs passing by on the street and had been glued to videos of funny pups on the internet. And when you said you wouldn't mind having a little friend, Ashveil had responded with a shout of joy. Now, you stand there pressing the puppy closer to you, his nose nuzzling into your neck. Ashveil gazes at the two of you, mesmerised, then adds shyly, stumbling a little from the overwhelming emotion, "His little paws smell really nice, too..."
The second gift was a modest little gift bag, tied with a ribbon. Inside lay a pair of matching Hawaiian shirts, neatly folded. They were colourful, covered in sprawling palm trees and lush flowers. His shirt was a deep violet, like the twilight over the city he was so used to working in. Yours was red, like the sunset over that same city. Ashveil had decided he no longer wanted to wait until retirement, no longer wanted to put life off for later, he wanted to live in the present. For you and for your future together. And at the bottom of the bag, carefully hidden beneath the fabric, lay a postcard showing a view of an azure beach: white sand, green palm trees, turquoise water. On the back, it was signed by Ashveil in his sweeping, sharp handwriting, "I promise to take you to the sea."
The third gift was the most unexpected of all. A small box, and inside it lay a set of keys with a keychain in the shape of a metal wolf. Ashveil had chosen this one specifically because he wanted you to remember him always. You looked up at him questioningly, and he answered, "It's our new apartment. Rented, for now." He scratched the back of his head nervously and turned away, unable to bear your stunned gaze. Ashveil understood that his "wolf's den" had slowly begun to confine you. The dark corners, the perpetual dimness, the smell of old books and tobacco, papers scattered everywhere, the wheezing refrigerator. All of this was his world, but you deserved so much more. You deserved to wake up to warm sunlight streaming through a large window, gilding the sheets. To close your eyes not to the creak of floorboards, but to the quiet hum of the city. To cook in a kitchen with enough room for two, where mornings smelled of coffee and something sweet. And for your puppy to have a cosy little corner of his own, too. He had been searching for this apartment for six months, trying to stay within a modest budget. When you asked where it was, he spun around with his arms spread wide. The apartment was right here, in this very building, on the roof of which you had just dined. You threw yourself into Ashveil's arms, shouting with joy into the street, giddy with excitement and happiness. The puppy scampered happily around you both, sniffing at everything. In that moment, Ashveil knew he had done everything right, and that he didn't regret a single credit spent on his beloved birthday girl.
Late into the night, you returned to your new apartment. While you had been solving the quest, Ashveil and Narrator had moved everything here so that by the time you came back, you would feel at home. The puppy had long since fallen asleep in his little basket, worn out by the day's impressions and a delicious dinner. The city outside the window glittered with lights, but you no longer noticed it. Ashveil sat on the edge of the bed and silently, with quiet focus, began to undress you. You settled onto his lap as his hand traced gently from your waist down to your legs. With a deft movement, he slipped off one of your heels and set it aside. You kicked off the other yourself, but Ashveil clicked his tongue in disapproval by your ear, "You're supposed to sit still. Tonight, I'm taking care of you." A shiver ran through your body, and you melted completely into his grasp. He shifted you further onto the bed and began to knead your feet and toes, tired after the long day. Soft little moans of pleasure escaped your lips. Then his hands moved higher, right to your hips, to ease off your tights. He pulled them down slowly, trailing smeared kisses in their wake. After that, Ashveil asked you to turn onto your stomach, and looming over you, he unzipped your dress, his fingers tickling your shoulder blades. Now you were left in nothing but your underwear, which he also carefully removed, so he could take in the sight of your gorgeous body.
You made yourselves comfortable on the large bed, and Ashveil loomed over you, his knees pressing into the mattress. His hard cock slid along your wet folds, and he began to move it up and down, slowly, almost lazily, grazing your swollen clit with the tip. You writhed beneath him, rocking your hips forward to meet him, rubbing yourself against his aching flesh, smearing your slick along his entire length. Soft, pleading whimpers escaped your throat, and he could wait no longer. In one smooth motion, he pushed into you, stretching your tight walls around his thick cock, and he stilled for a few seconds, letting you adjust to that exquisite fullness. His palms stroked your belly, your hips, your waist, while he began to move, carefully and deep, catching every flicker of emotion on your face. When your eyes glazed over with pleasure and your lips parted in a silent moan, he lost control.
Your legs ended up over his shoulders, and he entered you at a new angle, deeper still, to the very limit, so that you felt him right against your cervix. Each thrust forced the air from your lungs, and Ashveil drove into you with building speed, no longer in control of the rhythm he himself had set. You threw your head back, pressing your nape into the pillow, and moaned his name out loud, and he lost himself in that sound entirely. This was no longer measured sex; it was a wild, animal desire, a need that knew no rules. His fingers dug into your hips until it hurt, leaving crimson marks on your skin.
He began to pull out almost completely, leaving just the very tip inside, and then with one sharp, rough thrust he would slam back in, stretching you until you saw stars. You cried out every time he repeated that cruel, maddening manoeuvre, and he could not get enough of the way your inner walls gripped him, clenching around his cock in a tight, wet pulse. His only desire was to fill you to the brim, to flood you with his seed until it spilled down your thighs and stained the sheets. You felt his arousal with every fibre of your being, and your cunt squeezed tighter and tighter, drawing moans from him and making him bite his lips until they bled.
Orgasm overtook you both at the same time. You cried out, arching into a bow, your palms scrambling helplessly across the sheets in search of any kind of anchor, while Ashveil let out a growl, his head thrown back, his glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling. His cock pulsed inside you, releasing hot streams of come, spurt after spurt, filling you to the last drop. That animal growl mingled with your broken voice, and for several long seconds the world consisted of nothing but that sound and the pulsing of your bodies. He collapsed onto you with his full weight, slick with sweat, spent, still inside you, unwilling to leave your warm walls. His lips covered your neck with grateful kisses, his hot breath searing your skin. When he finally came back to his senses, his voice sounded hoarse and tender, "Happy birthday, my she-wolf."
Song: Addison Rae - Fame Is A Gun
Your morning began with silence. No balloons, no flowers, no ceremonial "happy birthday." The sun slowly flooded the apartment with soft light, greeting you with tranquillity. Rafayel had woken up before you, made coffee, and was sitting at the table with such an unruffled air, as if today were the most ordinary of days. You walked into the kitchen, still drowsy, and he kissed your temple, slid a mug toward you, and asked something mundane about your plans for the day and the weather. He was holding up perfectly, careful not to betray his boyish excitement and boundless love for you. And you knew this act far too well. Rafayel could deceive anyone: clients, critics, even himself, but not you. You saw the faint twitch at the corners of his lips whenever he turned away. You saw him stealing glances at the clock. And you were certain your cunning little fishie was up to something. He sat with you for another ten minutes or so, chatting sweetly and seemingly inventing plans on the spot, plans that didn't actually exist, "I think I'll take a stroll along the beach. Then drop by Thomas's, he's been waiting a week for my answer about the new paintings. Maybe I'll stop by the shop for some brushes, the old ones are completely useless now. And then to the studio. I'll be working until nightfall." He spoke lightly, and you nodded, pretending to believe him. Rafayel finished his coffee, kissed the top of your head, and fluttered out the door, leaving you in eager anticipation.
Having seen Rafayel off, you tidied up after your morning sit-down, washed the mugs, and freshened up. From the wardrobe, you took out the light, flowing dress he had given you a month ago. You put it on, did some light makeup, and stepped out of the apartment, looking forward to whatever this day might bring. The courtyard was lush with greenery, sunspots quivered on the stone-paved path, and you walked unhurriedly through it, straight to Rafayel's studio. It had become a habit of his to leave the door unlocked, because he trusted you with his most sacred place. Inside, it smelled of oil paints and old paper. The walls and floor were covered in chaotic brushstrokes. Multicoloured splatters had dried on the wooden floorboards. An unfinished canvas hung on the easel, and everywhere: on chairs, on the windowsill, on the floor - lay tubes, brushes, spray cans, and scraps of tape. In the depths of the studio, on a huge table, stood boxes of various sizes and shapes, tied with ribbons and wrapped in wrapping paper in soft, delicate shades. Beside them lay a note, "Your little presents." You began to unwrap them one by one, and with each new parcel, your heart beat faster. He had bought every single item from your wishlist, even the most expensive one, the one you had added with hope in your heart. You clutched the little boxes to your chest, laughing, and at one point you spun around the spacious studio, arms spread wide, breathing in the scent of paint and thinking of him.
Around midday, your phone buzzed. His name lit up the screen, and you, still overflowing with joy from the gifts, pressed the receiver to your ear, "Come outside, cutie. I'm waiting." His voice was soft, but with a hint of mystery. You stepped out, and he was already standing at the gate, hands in his pockets, the wind tousling his hair, a sly smile on his lips. He took your hand and led you toward the beach. The sea came into view on the horizon, sparkling in the afternoon light, and the white sand from which rose arches entwined with delicate flowers. The white petals fluttered with every gust of the warm breeze, as if greeting you. The arches stretched in an even row from the very start of the sandy shore and led straight out into the water. And in the middle stood a wooden swing, with the sea splashing right beneath it. Rafayel helped you across the soft sand, holding you by the elbow and guiding you with care so you wouldn't stumble on the uneven path. When you stopped and bent down to take off your sandals, he beat you to it. He lowered himself onto one knee right in the sand, with no thought for his trousers, and carefully unfastened the straps, freeing your feet. You froze, flustered, feeling warmth spreading across your cheeks, and he lifted his head, smiled his most tender smile, and touched his lips to your palm. Today, you were his princess. And he didn't miss a single chance to prove it. You settled onto the swing together, and Rafayel rocked you gently while your bare feet played carelessly with the water. Warm splashes flew onto the hem of your dress and his rolled-up trousers. You jumped down into the sea, raising a fountain of salty drops, and he stepped in after you without a second thought. You splashed, laughed, and got soaked to the skin, but neither of you wanted this moment to end.
In the evening, having changed into formal attire, you got into a business taxi. You wore a light silk dress in a peach shade, and Rafayel had swapped his wet trousers for dark tailored ones and wore a fitted blazer in place of his shirt. He gazed thoughtfully out the window, the reflections of streetlamps dancing in his eyes. The taxi stopped in front of a tall glass building. At first, you didn't understand where you had arrived. Rafayel opened the car door for you, took you by the arm, and led you inside. You passed through an empty lobby and stepped into the elevator. He pressed the button for the very top floor, and the cabin carried you smoothly upward. When the doors opened, you froze. Before you stretched a gallery bathed in soft, muted light. High ceilings, white walls, not a soul around. The entire hall had been decorated just for you. Peonies stood in tall vases, their delicate fragrance mingling with the scent of candles. And on the walls hung paintings. His finest works, the ones he had painted over the years and had never been ready to put up for sale, no matter what sum he was offered. Coastal landscapes where waves broke against the cliffs. Abstracts in which you could make out the silhouettes of two figures reaching toward each other. Still lifes with seashells and pearls. And amidst all this splendour, one painting that hung at the head of all the rest - your portrait. Rafayel walked a little behind you, quietly recounting the story of each work: where this or that landscape had found him, how many layers of paint he had used for this canvas, why that abstract was called "Waiting." When you reached your portrait, he fell silent. He stood beside you, looked at you, then at the painting, and said in a half whisper, "I don't paint those close to me. But you became the exception to all my rules." He extended his hand, and you placed your palm in his. Somewhere, soft classical music began to play, and you swirled into a slow dance right in the middle of the empty gallery. You laid your head on his shoulder, feeling his heart beat in time with the melody. The dance seemed to last forever, and no one wanted it to end. Because this evening had been painted not with colour, but with love. And the artist's signature was placed at the very centre of your heart.
The words Rafayel spoke that day:
"This morning I acted so casual, pretending I didn't notice you. But you know you're my greatest muse."
"For the rest of my life, I'm ready to paint nothing but you."
"The sea creatures are wishing you a happy birthday too, cutie. I can hear it."
"I'm happy that fate brought us together again."
After the magical evening, you finally returned to your cosy apartment. You thought the fairy tale had come to an end, but Rafayel gestured for you to linger in the living room. He stepped away for barely a minute and returned carrying three items. From the way he held them so carefully and the way his eyes glinted with mischief, you understood: the gifts were not over yet.
The first gift was a custom-made perfume. Rafayel handed you a full-sized bottle of dark glass, heavy and cool to the touch. Engraved at the centre of the bottle was an inscription, "For my cutie." Rafayel stepped a little way off, crossing his arms, and pretended to be studying something outside the window. You opened the bottle in anticipation, gave it a first spritz, and began to breathe in the scent. The perfume combined notes of vanilla, chocolate, and something spicy. You squeaked in approval and began to squeeze Rafayel, thanking him for such a wonderful and personal gift. He kept pretending for a few more seconds that he wasn't flustered at all, and then he burst into a stream of words, "I worked with the perfumer for three months! I told him how you smell in the morning, when you've just woken up and you're still drowsy, reaching out for me. How you smell during the day, when you come to the studio for lunch and complain about being tired. How you smell in the evening, when you settle in at my side and listen to my eloquent monologues." He waved his hand as if he were describing the greatest masterpiece in history, and went on, no longer hiding the drama in his voice, "I put so much effort into this! The perfumer hated me, I think. I made him redo the formula fifteen times because it still wasn't enough like you." He pressed his palm to his forehead with theatrical flair and collapsed onto the sofa, as though drained by his own perfectionism. But a second later, he cracked one eye open to check if you were still watching him. You laughed out loud and sat down beside him. You promised you would use only his perfume, and he stroked your head, thoroughly pleased.
The second gift was a wooden jewellery box. It was small, made of light wood, with neat metal hinges and a tiny lock with little key on a satin ribbon. But the main thing was inside. When you opened this lovely little chest, you saw a beautiful painting on the inside of the lid. Sea waves, shimmering in shades of blue and turquoise, foamy crests traced with the finest brush, and amidst the waves two little fish splashed about, a gold one and a red one, swimming side by side. You ran your fingers over the raised brushstrokes, feeling the texture of the paint. Rafayel had hand-painted it for you, shutting himself away in the studio for several evenings and setting aside his urgent projects. Inside, the box was lined with dark blue velvet, and at the bottom lay a slip of paper on which was written, in fine calligraphic handwriting, "Keep your treasures here. But remember: the greatest treasure is always beside you."
The third gift was a little box tied with a silk ribbon in a soft cream shade. Inside, nestled in a cloud of the finest tissue paper, lay a set of lingerie. Lace, with delicate ruffles along the edge, the colour of a rosy dawn over the sea. The fabric was almost weightless, and as you lifted out the set, the lace streamed through your fingers like the first rays of sunlight breaking through the morning mist above the water. Rafayel watched you with a lazy half-smile, but his eyes had darkened, and impatience already flickered in them. He glanced at the clock on the wall and smirked at the corner of his mouth. The hands showed exactly midnight. His day in the role of your prince had officially come to an end. He stepped closer, took the lace set from your hands, and placed it back into the box, covering your palms with his own. Then he leaned in right by your ear and whispered something that sent a shiver running down your whole body, "Try this on for me. And then we're switching roles. All day, I've been at your service. Now it's your turn, cutie."
You changed right in front of him, and the lace slipped over your bare body with a soft rustle. Rafayel sat in the armchair opposite, one leg crossed over the other, watching you as if you were the only painting in the room he wanted to study for hours. His palm came to rest over his own bulge, and he began to stroke himself slowly through the fabric of his trousers while you played with the ties of your bra. At his command, your fingers glided to your chest, crumpled the lace, and began to roll your hardened nipples with unhurried, almost agonising deliberation. You moaned his name softly, arching your back, and your other hand crept downward, to where the damp silk of your panties was already clinging to your swollen folds. He leaned forward, greedily following the movement of your fingers as they slipped under the elastic, and demanded in a hoarse voice that you show him just how wet you were for him. You pulled your fingers from your panties, displaying the thick, glistening thread of arousal shining in the dim light, and his chest rose with a deep, audible breath. Then he stood and crossed the distance in two strides, buried his hand in your hair, gathering it at the nape of your neck into a fist, and with a slow, almost frightening tenderness pressed downward, forcing you to your knees.
Your knees met the cool floor, the pendants on your new lingerie gave a soft clink, and you found yourself face to face with his arousal. The outline of a thick head showed through the straining fabric of his trousers, and you pressed your lips to that bulge, kissing the hot flesh through the cotton before slowly unbuckling his belt. His heavy cock sprang free, and you paused for a moment, taking in the sight: the swollen veins, the slick bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. You leaned in and licked that bead away with the very tip of your tongue, tasting the salty bitterness, then pressed your lips to the head in a feather-light, almost chaste kiss. Meanwhile, your palms came to rest on his balls, squeezing gently, rolling the heavy spheres between your fingers, and his whole body tensed, his breathing quickened. The play was over quickly, and his grip on your hair turned rougher. With a sharp jerk, he guided your mouth straight onto his cock, pushing inside all the way to your throat, leaving you no room to breathe.
You took all of him in, feeling the saliva trickle down the corners of your lips and dripping down onto the lace of your new bra, leaving wet stains on the pink fabric. Your panties were soaked through before he had even begun to move. Thick, slick arousal seeped out of you and ran down the insides of your thighs as you worked your mouth diligently, taking his full length to the very base and feeling the tip press against the wall of your throat. You gagged, pulled back for a second to gasp hungrily for air, and a long, glistening thread hung from your lips, connecting your mouth to his cock, and he gazed down at it with an expression of utter adoration. His thumb swept across your sticky lower lip, smearing the saliva and the shine, and he called you his dirtiest girl, which made your walls clench around nothing so hard that you sobbed.
Not letting you finish him off, he helped you up from the floor and pushed you onto the bed. The world flipped, and you found yourself on your back as he was already arranging you into a sixty-nine, turning you so that his throbbing cock stood right before your face while your dripping pussy hovered directly above his lips. You didn't even have time to draw a breath before he pressed his mouth to your folds and began to lick your clit with precise, rapid strokes. And even though he was busy devouring your pussy, he thrust his hips upward, hinting for you to continue your work. You gasped from the simultaneous pleasure and fullness, your thighs closed around his head, you were practically suffocating him while your mouth took him to the limit again and again, your throat clenching around his swollen flesh. Dirty, wet sounds filled the room: his tongue tormenting your swollen pussy, your moans vibrating around his cock, the slap of his hips against your cheeks. You felt a hot, merciless orgasm building, waiting somewhere low in your belly. And at the very moment your body arched into a bow and you convulsed in spasms, he broke too, spilling into your throat just as he drank down your sweetness to the last drop.
You came together, and for a few moments the world turned into a white, ringing void. You lay sprawled across the bed, still in your askew bra and hopelessly soaked panties, while he reclined beside you, breathing heavily and flashing that very same brazen, satisfied smile. A short chuckle escaped his lips as he took in your dishevelled state and the fact that you still couldn't catch your breath. He lazily ran his palm over your thigh, brushing away beads of sweat, and pulled you close, still trembling, pressing his lips to your temple. "Happy birthday, silly girl."
Song: Luvcat - Heâs My Man
You were still asleep when Luuk first touched his lips to your ankle. The kiss was light, almost weightless, while his fingers already wrapped around your foot, gently kneading, stroking, moving higher. He kissed your legs with tender care, pouring all his love into every touch, and with each new kiss he drew closer to what lay hidden between your thighs. You had not yet fully woken, but your body was already responding to his caresses. His skilful fingers came to rest on your panties and began to stroke you through the thin fabric, slowly, almost lazily, until you instinctively spread your thighs wider. He watched, mesmerised, as a damp spot bloomed across the cotton, growing more visible with every movement he made. Even in sleep, you reacted to him, and at this thought a smitten smirk touched his lips.
His fingers carefully pushed the fabric of your panties aside, and he froze, studying you with a doctor's concentration. A pink, swollen little cunt, slick with arousal, the swollen clit peeking out from under its hood. He looked as though he were learning anatomy all over again, on a living, trembling specimen. Luuk leaned lower and traced his nose from the very bottom all the way to the top, barely grazing the skin, only his hot breath scorching your wet folds. He breathed you in, drawing your scent deeply and greedily, because he adored your natural aroma. The tip of his tongue finally touched your clit, and it instantly twitched under that touch, pulsing and swelling right before his eyes. Now all his attention was focused entirely here, on this tiny little bud that responded to his every movement so readily, begging for more.
Luuk traced the tip of his tongue around the head of your clit, barely touching, teasing, making your pussy flow with more and more arousal. It trickled down toward your entrance, gathered into a single bead, and dropped onto the sheet. And he didn't speed up, savouring the way you began to whimper in your sleep. Then he covered your clit with the whole flat of his tongue, broad and hot, and began to move it a little faster, now tensing the muscle, making his tongue hard and demanding, now relaxing it, letting the soft flesh caress you almost weightlessly. This rhythm, these shifts in pressure drove you mad. Your legs began to clamp around his head, and the first conscious moans escaped your chest. Luuk gently pressed his palms against your thighs, spreading them wider and freeing up space to lick you deeper. He pulled away from his task for a moment, looked up at you from under his brow with a sweet, innocent smile, and whispered, "Happy birthday, my golden girl." And then his lips closed around your clit once more, and he began to kiss it, to suck it into his mouth, to circle it with his tongue, to suckle with a wet, filthy sound until you could no longer hold back.
You tried to answer something, but the words crumbled into incoherent sounds, because it was simply too good. Late in the night, you had dreamed a wet dream about him, and now he was carrying out every detail of that dream without even knowing it. He knew all your favourite techniques, spots, and rhythms. And while you were distracted by these thoughts, his tongue left your clit, and you whimpered with displeasure at the loss of contact, but a second later he thrust sharply into your vagina, pushing in deep, gathering all the moisture that had built up inside. His face burrowed deeper, his nose pressing against your clit and rubbing against it in time with the movements of his tongue. The vibrations of his own moans, the sounds he made while licking you from the inside out, reverberated against the walls of your pussy. This morning, you had already come twice on his tongue alone. He gave you no respite, driving you to the peak, dropping the tension almost to zero, then ratcheting it up again, trying new positions, tracing unusual patterns on your clit, now clamping it between his lips, now grazing it with the very tips of his teeth. Sometimes he added his fingers, thrusting them inside and brushing that very spot that sent sparks flaring behind your eyes.
During your third orgasm you squirted, arching on the sheets and crying out so loudly you could have woken the neighbours. The wetness sprayed onto his chin, his lips, his cheeks, and he didn't pull away, on the contrary, he pressed his mouth tighter, drinking you to the last drop. And then, when the final spasms released your body, he settled his cheek on your thigh with a satisfied, sated smirk and began to gently stroke your belly while you tried to remember how to breathe. You lay like that for several minutes, and then he suddenly planted a kiss on your panties and reluctantly got up. You heard him pad barefoot into the other room, and a minute later he returned carrying something in his hands. Three little things, neatly stacked one on top of the other. He climbed back onto the bed, settled beside you, and laid the gifts out on the rumpled sheets. You propped yourself up on your elbows, still a little floaty from what you'd just experienced, and reached for presents.
The first gift was a gold bracelet. You picked up the smallest box, covered in snow-white velvet, soft to the touch, with a little gold clasp in the centre. You glanced cautiously at Luuk, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod, so you opened the lid. Inside, on a tiny cushion, lay a gold plate engraved with your birthdays and from it an elegant chain extended in both directions, already fastened together. The light slid across the gold, and for a moment the numbers shone with a precious gleam. Wordlessly, Luuk took the bracelet from the box and clasped it around your wrist. His fingers lingered on your skin a little longer than necessary. He always wanted to hold onto you, and that second of hesitation spoke louder than any confession. Now two dates rested on your arm, joined by a small heart. You turned your wrist, and the chain glided over your skin, catching the morning light from the window. The gold glowed softly, spilling warm reflections onto the sheets and onto your skin. You spent a long while studying the engraving, unable to hold back a loving smile.
The second gift was a notebook. You picked up a rectangular object wrapped in kraft paper, which rustled pleasantly under your fingers. On the front, a wax seal stood out. Shiny, gold, with a crisp impression on which, in neat lettering, were the words: "Doctor Herssen." You ran your finger over the wax, feeling its ribbed texture, and carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside was a notebook of impressive size. The cover, made of soft leather in a warm caramel shade, settled into your palm, and the scent of leather mingled with the aroma of fresh paper. You opened it, and the gilded edges of the pages scattered before your eyes. Inside, everything was exactly the way you liked it: lined planners, habit trackers, neat tables and diagrams. Everything you needed to sort your thoughts, to take them apart, to understand yourself through notes and records. And among these structured pages, some were left completely blank, meant for doodling, for those moments when you might want to drift off and let your hand roam free. Wordlessly, Luuk handed you the pen he always carried with him. You smiled, opened the first page, and began to carefully trace each letter, "Today Luuk and I are celebrating my birthday together. I am happy." And then he took the pen from your fingers and placed his signature, confirming that he, too, was happy.
The third gift was a cosy pair of home pyjamas. It was neatly folded and tied with a soft satin ribbon. You undid the bow, and the fabric slipped into your palms. It had been made especially for you, and you could feel it in every detail. The colour was yellow, not loud or garish, but muted. Luuk gazed at you and said, "I searched for this shade for a long time. I wanted it not to be bright, but to feel like home. And most importantly, I wanted to be able to see it. This one turned out to be perfect." Your eyes sparkled at the realisation that now his grey days would be tinted with the warm glow that only you could give him - the only colour his eyes could truly perceive. The pyjamas were incredibly soft, the fabric clinging to the skin, promising comfort and peace. The set included a light top and shorts for summer, and warm trousers with a sweatshirt for winter. Everything was kept in the same style, simple yet refined: along the sleeves and the hems of the shorts ran a delicate line of lace stitching, and on the chest of both the top and the sweatshirt was a row of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. You ran your palm over the sweatshirt and noticed embroidery on the collar, done in gold threads that glimmered softly, "L. H." The letters had been stitched with care and, at a certain angle, were barely visible. This secret was meant for you alone to know. You pressed the pyjamas to your chest and breathed in the scent of new fabric. After thanking Luuk with a sensual kiss on the lips, you ran off to change.
After the gifts had been given, you, now changed into your new pyjamas, took Luuk by the hand and pulled him toward the kitchen to grab a bite to eat. He followed you with a smile, anticipating your reaction. And there on the table, waiting for you, was a chocolate cake. Tall, covered in dark glossy glaze, with neat drips running down the sides. Luuk had baked it himself while you slept, and now candles showing your age stood proudly on the surface, planted exactly in the centre. He flicked the lighter, and tiny flames began to dance, reflected in your eyes. You made a wish, drew a deep breath, and blew out all the candles on the first try. And then, unable to resist, you gathered a little cream from the edge of the cake with your finger and smeared it across Luuk's lips. He froze for a second, murmuring, "Actually, this whole cake was meant for you, but if you want to taste it together..." He leaned in and kissed you. Softly, unhurriedly, sharing the sweetness of the chocolate with you. His lips were warm and sticky, and you laughed right into the kiss, feeling the cream mingle with your breath. You stood there kissing in the middle of the kitchen, smeared, happy, while the cake waited patiently for its turn, as you savoured the sweetest moment of that morning.
You quickly snacked on the cake, got ready, and headed out of the house, travelling light. Parked outside was a solid, polished car, which belonged to Luuk. He drove calmly, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing your knee. You chattered away nonstop: telling him who had already wished you a happy birthday, guessing what your besties might have got you, sharing your plans for the evening. He listened, nodded, sometimes offered a brief comment, and with all this carefree talk the journey flew by unnoticed. The car stopped at an old, abandoned botanical garden. Luuk had chosen this place on purpose. There wasn't a soul around, and the two of you could quietly seclude yourselves with each other and become one with nature. Overgrown alleys stretched deeper inside, drowning in greenery; the damp scent of earth mingled with the smell of fallen leaves; and overhead, the crowns of enormous trees, at least a hundred years old, closed together. It felt as though time had stopped here, and nature had triumphed in its unhurried conquest of everything people had once built. You walked along the path, and the secluded atmosphere of the garden gently invited conversation. At first you spoke of little things, but gradually your words grew heavier, and behind every phrase lay something stirring that you had been carrying inside for a long time. And then you finally found the courage and confessed. That sometimes, when Luuk wasn't there, you missed him too much and cried into your pillow. You were frightened by how fast time passed and by the thought that one day you might not have enough of it to live everything you were meant to live together, and you would go your separate ways, leaving lost years behind. You fell silent, feeling an unpleasant lump rising in your throat. Luuk listened and didn't interrupt you. He nodded whenever he agreed with your thoughts. And when you had grown completely downcast, he silently drew you to him and began to slowly stroke your head. His palm was warm and heavy, and that simple gesture made everything feel a little lighter. He suggested heading back home soon, so that there, in the quiet and comfort, he could help you sort through everything that had built up inside.
At home, Luuk sat you down opposite him in a soft armchair, and you saw his gaze shift. He became a focused and engaged psychologist, one who genuinely wanted to help his client. You took out the notebook he had given you that morning, and together you began to work through your fears. He asked you to write down every anxious thought, and then methodically, step by step, he helped you break them down into their parts: where there was a real problem and where it was only your imagination, what could be changed and what was worth accepting. His voice was calm and steady, but sometimes he would step away from the role of doctor. He would set down his pen, take your hands in his, and speak no longer as a psychologist, but as your loving boyfriend. He promised you firmly that he would always be there, that you would never be left alone with your fears, that he would not let time steal what belonged to you. You spent several hours in these reflections. Luuk listened to you, asked questions, helped you rein in thoughts that had once seemed uncontrollable. And then, when yet another anxiety had been defeated, you suddenly caught yourself laughing. Lightly, freely, as if a heavy burden you had been carrying on your shoulders all this time had finally slipped away and crumbled to dust. Luuk looked at you, set the notebook aside, and said quietly, "You can go on living peacefully now. And I will always take care of any difficulty you face."
After your emotional outpouring, Luuk decided that now it was not your soul that needed relaxing, but your body. He put on a light comedy in the background, dimmed the lights, and laid you down on the sofa. He settled beside you and began to knead your muscles methodically and tenderly. His fingers moved along your back, your shoulders, your lower back, finding every point of tension and gently easing it away. At times he traced his nails across your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake; sometimes he stroked you with broad, warm palms; and every now and then he leaned down and touched his lips to you. You melted under his hands, feeling the fatigue of the whole day slowly dissolving, giving way to peace. The comedy played softly in the background; for a while you still listened and chuckled quietly at the jokes, but Luuk's hands proved far more interesting than any script. His touch became the only thing that mattered. Gradually your breathing evened out, your eyelids grew heavy, and you slipped into sleep, feeling him continue to stroke you through your drowsiness. He didn't stop until he was certain you were sound asleep. And then he carefully covered you with a blanket, kissed your temple, and sat beside you for a long while, keeping watch.
The words Luuk spoke that day:
"I hope I'll become an important part of your notebook."
"I'm glad you trust me with your sadness."
"You're the most colorful person I've ever seen in my life."
"With me, you're safe."
Song: Buck Owens - Made In Japan
At exactly midnight, you were still awake. You sat on the bed with your legs tucked under you, and Alkaid settled beside you, and together you greeted the first seconds of your birthday. He wished you a happy birthday in a quiet, slightly sleepy voice, kissed your temple, and pulled you close. You were just about to go to sleep, looking forward to a long and eventful day, when suddenly Alkaid leaned forward and, with an unexpected confidence that was not at all typical of him, said, "Let's run away." You looked at him in surprise. You had no one to run away from; you already lived alone together. But in his eyes burned a spark of teenage recklessness that you couldn't help but want to encourage. He explained that he wanted to wander with you in complete solitude, in some interesting place, and the best option was to catch the first available night train and get off at whichever station. You agreed, and an hour later you were sitting in an empty carriage, pressed close to each other, watching the dark silhouettes of trees rush past the window and the rare lights of distant houses. You got off at a tiny station, barely a metre by a metre, the name of which you didn't even remember. Around you lay a small town, quiet and cosy, with narrow streets and low houses whose residents were still asleep. You walked along the empty pavements, holding hands, and there wasn't a soul around. Just you, the silence, and the feeling of complete, absolute freedom. This place seemed almost heavenly: peaceful, empty, enveloping, as if it had been created just for the two of you. You breathed in the fresh morning air and felt calm spreading through you. Alkaid walked beside you in silence, but his silence spoke louder than any words. This escape became the best beginning to your birthday. Daring, spontaneous, and incredibly romantic. The kind only he could have made it.
You returned to the city just before dawn, and now the initiative passed to you. You tugged Alkaid by the sleeve and, like a little child, blurted out that you wanted to go to an amusement park. He froze for a second, and a flicker of fear crossed his eyes. You knew he didn't like crowded places, that crowds exhausted him and made him anxious. But you assured him that it was early morning, the park had only just opened, and there would be at most a couple of early birds like yourselves. Alkaid hesitated for a moment, but in the end he nodded, trusting you. To his dismay, there turned out to be far more people than you had bargained for. A new ride had opened that very day: a huge roller coaster, and it seemed the entire city had decided to be the first to try it out. You felt his palm tense in your hand and squeezed it tighter. The whole time you were in the park, you never let go of him, holding his hand, lacing your fingers together, trying to distract him from the noise of the crowd. You bought an enormous pink candy floss, and he finally smiled, calmly and without the earlier tension. You went from one ride to the next, cheering him on before every climb, laughing when he squeezed his eyes shut on the sharpest turns, and clapping your hands when he opened his eyes and admitted it hadn't been so scary after all. By midday he had completely relaxed and was the one to pull you toward the Ferris wheel. You rode it, gazing down at the city from above, and then went on, from ride to ride, until the sun began to sink toward the horizon. You covered almost everything, and Alkaid, flushed, dishevelled, but absolutely happy, said it had been the best trip to an amusement park of his entire life. And you were overflowing with emotions: a childlike delight, like the moments when your parents finally let you buy something you had dreamed of for so long, and an unshakable pride in Alkaid, who had managed to step over his fears for your sake.
After the noisy park, you returned home and collapsed onto the bed without even getting undressed. A short nap refreshed you, and just a couple of hours later you pulled Alkaid into the kitchen. You took out cookie cutters, flour, cocoa, spices, and the two of you began to mix the dough. You, as always, were a little clumsy in the kitchen; you spilled flour past the bowl, and a white cloud settled on the countertop, on the floor, and, of course, on your T-shirt. Alkaid laughed quietly, looking at you, and then he carefully smeared cocoa powder across your nose, leaving a funny brown spot on its tip. You gasped in surprise and, in retaliation, scooped up a handful of flour and lightly dusted it over his hair. But the flour almost blended in with his light strands, as if nothing had happened. You fooled around, getting messy from head to toe, and the kitchen turned into a sweet battlefield. Between mixing the dough, you kept getting distracted by kisses. He kissed your forehead, smudged with flour, your cheek, the corner of your lips, and then your lips themselves, long and tenderly, while the dough waited patiently for its turn. Together you cut out little stars with the cookie cutters, laid them out on the baking tray, and put them in the oven. And while the gingerbread biscuits baked, you sat on the floor, pressed close to each other, messy and tired. The scent of ginger and cinnamon filled the apartment, and when you took the finished biscuits out of the oven, you began to eat them straight away, still warm, washing them down with tea. Alkaid said he had never tasted anything more delicious, because they contained a special ingredient - your love.
Late at night, when the city outside the window had grown still, Alkaid took you by the hand and led you toward the door. You threw on some warm clothes, he grabbed his backpack, and you quietly slipped out of the house. The nearest field greeted you with cool air and the scent of night grass. There was no one around but you and the boundless sky. He spread a blanket right on the soft earth, and you lay down side by side, pressed tightly together, sheltering each other from the cool of the night. Above you stretched a sky so thickly strewn with stars that there seemed to be no empty space left between them. Alkaid began to tell you about each one with the passion of an astronomer. He pointed out constellations, tracing invisible lines between the lights with his finger, and told you about every one of them. About the Great Bear, which always points the way north. About Cassiopeia, like an upside-down letter "W." About Perseus and Andromeda, bound together by an ancient myth. His voice was soft and steady, and you, a little drowsy, listened with your head resting on his shoulder. Sometimes he fell silent, and you simply gazed at the sky, savouring the quiet. And then he would begin again, about distant galaxies, about nebulae, about how the light of some stars takes millions of years to reach us, and how those stars might no longer exist, yet their light is still here. You listened to his stories, and they felt like a lullaby woven from stardust and his love for you. That night, you learned so much, not only about the stars but about him too. About how, as a boy, he had spent hours at his telescope, dreaming of one day showing someone most dear to him everything he had seen. And now that someone was you. He noticed your eyelids growing heavy and reached for the backpack he had brought with him. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of something unusual inside, and your drowsiness instantly faded.
The words Alkaid spoke that day:
"You are my guiding star."
"I will never grow tired of being by your side."
"Your smile is worth all my fears."
"With every day, I want you more and more. I suppose I'm a little greedy in that sense."
The first gift was a star certificate. You pulled a small envelope out of Alkaid's backpack, made of thick paper. Its colour resembled a twilight sky, and scattered across its entire surface were tiny silver stars. Inside lay a folded sheet with beautifully handwritten text, confirming that from now on, one of the stars in the constellation of the Great Bear bore your name. He had chosen the one closest to the star "Alkaid (Benetnasch)," so that even in the heavens you would always be near each other. The coordinates were neatly inscribed at the top, and below them was a sketch of the constellation, where two points, yours and his, were joined by a fine line. And then Alkaid touched your chin and gently turned your gaze toward the sky. He pointed his hand in the direction of the constellation and said quietly, "See? That bright star is me. And the little one beside it is you."
The second gift was an album of your photographs. You untied the twine wrapped around the album and ran your palm over the cover. It was made of soft cardboard in a light green shade, and in the centre a sticker was affixed: "Photographer: Alkaid. Muse: Y/N." Alkaid sat a little way off, nervously fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, as you opened the first page. Inside were photographs, and the main character of every one was you. You in the morning light in the kitchen, sleepy and dishevelled, with a mug of tea in your hands. You laughing, your head thrown back, without shyness, not hiding your smile behind your palm, and the camera had captured that sincere, unguarded moment. You reading a book with deep concentration, wrapped in a blanket, unaware that he was watching you through the lens. On every page, beside the photographs, he had carefully written dates and short captions. Each inscription was a tiny memory, frozen between the lines. You lifted your eyes to Alkaid and noticed the camera in his hands. You didn't have time to strike a pose or fix your hair before he pressed the shutter, catching your true emotions in the frame. "We'll add this one at the end of the album when we get home, to finish it off for good."
The third gift was a plush teddy bear. Alkaid held the toy out to you, and a bright blush instantly spread across his face, flooding his cheeks and even the tips of his ears. He was more embarrassed by this gift than any other, because he had made it with his own hands. It seemed he had picked up a needle for the first time in his life, and the traces of his diligent work were still visible on his pricked palms, which he awkwardly tried to hide in his pockets. The teddy bear had turned out clumsy, but that was where all its charm lay. One ear was a little larger than the other, the bead eyes sat not quite symmetrically, and on its back there was a small patch made of fabric in a slightly different shade, because at some point the material had been hopelessly ruined and he'd had to improvise. Alkaid hadn't tried to hide this patch; on the contrary, he had sewn it on as neatly as he could, and now it had become the bear's defining feature. In its paws, the toy held a tiny star cut out of felt and sewn on with the same uneven but painstaking stitches. You pressed the teddy bear to your chest, feeling tenderness spreading through you. This gift was a reflection of Alkaid's patient, meticulous love for you.
You returned home, and you could barely stand on your feet. The long day, filled with the brightest moments, had left behind a pleasant but all-consuming weariness. Alkaid helped you make it to the bed and laid you down on the sheets, undressing you slowly and tenderly, accompanying every movement with his lips. First he pulled off your T-shirt, and his lips brushed your shoulder, lingered on your collarbone, travelled across your chest. He undressed you as though he were unwrapping the most fragile treasure, and every inch of bare skin was immediately covered in kisses.
Your eyelids were growing heavy, your breathing was steadying, becoming almost drowsy. He noticed this and, with a soft smile, offered to help you fall asleep. His fingers glided over your body, exploring every curve, until you had completely relaxed under his touch. He ran his palm over your belly, moved lower, and his fingers slowly parted your wet folds. With his thumb he found your clit and began to rub it in soft, circular motions, teasing you, drawing you out of your drowsiness and making your hips tilt ever so slightly to meet him. You let out a quiet moan, and he knew you were ready.
He sat you on top, gently guiding your hips. He took his cock in his palm and ran the tip along your wet pussy, sliding up and down, brushing against your clit and making you shudder. And then he brought the tip to your entrance and let you sink down. You lowered yourself onto him slowly, feeling him fill you to the very end, feeling every ring of muscle clench around him, taking him in completely. Your bodies pressed close together, and he began to move. Not sharply, not demandingly, but smoothly, rhythmically, as if rocking you on waves. His hips rose and fell at a slow, hypnotic pace, and every thrust was steeped in care. With one hand he held you by the waist, helping you move, while the fingers of his other hand continued to stroke your clit, no longer teasing, but sustaining a steady, warm pleasure that spread through your entire body. He covered your shoulders, your neck, your collarbones with kisses, and his lips kept returning to your ear to whisper how beautiful you were, how much he loved you.
At first, the weariness receded, giving way to arousal. You came alive, your fingers slid into his light hair and gripped it, your breath grew uneven, and your hips began to match his rhythm. But your strength was fading, and soon your body grew heavy with a pleasant weight once more. He felt it and didn't try to rush. He simply kept moving at that same soft, soothing pace, guiding you toward a quiet, relaxed release. You came almost soundlessly, only a slight shudder passing through you in his arms, and your inner walls tightened around his cock, pulsing and drawing every last drop out of him. He came after you, spilling into you with hot, thick seed, filling you to the brim. The warm wetness spread inside you, as if wrapping you in an invisible blanket. He stayed inside, pressing your limp body to his chest, while his palms continued to stroke your back in slow, gentle motions. You fell asleep on top of him to the beat of his heart. And he, leaning down to your ear, whispered so softly he barely disturbed your sleep, "Happy birthday, my satellite."
