omgggg please write the firefighter prompt i need it and i love your writing 😩
I’m a firefighter and you started a fire in your kitchen but you’re still flirting with me even though you’re not wearing pants and I’m carrying you down a ladder as you compliment me on my muscles
When Zayn had first picked up the cake mix in the store, eyes lighting up, Harry’d just laughed. Shaking his head, he warned, “You’re gonna kill ‘im. Or me.”
“Shut your mouth, you dickwad.” Zayn mumbled, jabbing him in the side with his finger. “Louis’ll love it,” he’d promised before throwing the box into the cart.
And, well, Harry had almost been right. Except it’s himself he’s almost killed this time, having accidentally set fire to the now ash-stricken mass in his oven.
He hadn’t known that was possible. Not really.
Yet. Here he is, standing in the middle of his kitchen. He’s watching the thick, gray smoke swirl closer and closer to him, the deafening smoke detector beeping at least every second to tell him something he’s well aware of at this point.
All from a fucking chocolate cake gone awry.
Zayn can’t take his eyes off of the burning orange, the flames beginning to lick up from the stove to the cabinets.
The reality only sets in when there’s a smash and his door slams open, hitting the wall with a thump. Zayn jolts at the noise, eyes widening as he begins to finally process the scene in front of him. Realizing for the first time how, just maybe, it’s getting a little bit harder to breathe with every second that passes.
“Is anybody in here?” The yell comes before he does.
But when the cause of the slamming door rushes through, all of Zayn’s worry is once again gone as he does a quick once-over of the firefighter in front of him.
It’s hard, of course, to get a really good look, considering the (at least) five bulky layers covering the man and the quick movement of his body as he takes in the area.
“We gotta get you out of here,” the man persists, stepping closer to the blaze. Closer to Zayn.
And then Zayn catches the fireman’s amber eyes, looking brighter than Zayn knew was possible, orange reflecting through them, going clear past the opaque mask.
The man’s eyes are so golden, so trusting. And then his forehead is scrunched up, his eyebrows knitting together, and there’s a pity behind those eyes. A flash of fear.
“Time to go, uhh…” The boy moves his hand in a circle as if that will suddenly get Zayn to do something, react like he should be reacting.
But Zayn can’t get out his name, can’t even take in a breath. His mouth won’t work, his lungs won’t work, and he’s damn well sure his limbs won’t work.
From the corner of his eye, he calmly takes note, as if from far away, that the fire has quickly eaten through all his cabinets, now quickly approaching him.
But that still doesn’t get him to actually do anything. Instead, there’s one, other small thought that sneaks up for air from the back of his mind: his pants are still in the dryer.
And there’s a concentrated heat on his legs, the smoke tickling skin where it shouldn’t be.
His eyes trail down, and it’s like all of his public speaking nightmares wrapped up into one. Because he’s standing there, surrounded by a raging fire in his own kitchen, unable to move. And he’s in his boxers.
Not to mention they’re Superman themed, Man of Steel in big letters right in the front.
In a font you cannot miss. And. Especially a font a fit firefighter, trained to pick up the most minute details in any sort of emergency, cannot miss.
Not only is Louis’ cake gone, his apartment in ruin. But now Zayn’ll have to live the rest of his life knowing some hot fireman had to see him in his boxers. Zayn Malik: the worst cook in the world, but also the most embarrassing man in the world.
Louis will never let him live this down.