Supersonic| Zayn Malik |AU

❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞

Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an illegal street racer, and he wants her, but he's dangerous. He comes tumbling into her life, and everything is suddenly strewn about. What happens when one of Arielle's friends falls for her? What happens when Zayn gets twisted up with the wrong people? It's a story about lust, lies, and a love that develops at supersonic speeds, but suffers dire consequences.

➳ In which he loves nothing more than cars and winning, until he meets her.

WARNING: This story has scenes of violence, mature content, sexual content, drug use/references and foul language, so please read at your own discretion

Started: January 30, 2014
Completed: October 29, 2016



12. Eleven

Chapter Eleven



"Now," he says, "cook for me babygirl."


For a moment I cower away from his authority. But why am I cowering away? I don't need to be scared of him. "How dare you say that to me as if I'm here just to satisfy you?" My words come out like venom.


His face twists in shock at my retaliation, but it doesn't take him long to regain his composure. Zayn takes a step towards me, "is that what you want?" He purrs, "to satisfy me?"


I ball my fists up in fury, "no, you idiot! I'm not here to cook and clean and fuck you!"


He chuckles, as if my words mean nothing to him - as if my words went in one ear and out the other. He grabs onto my arms, rubbing them softly while leaning down until he's at my eye level, "I like this side of you, babygirl."


My hands are still balled up in fists at my sides. Zayn leans his face directly beside mine. His stubble tickles my cheek as I feel his hot breath in my ear, "feisty," he murmurs. As he speaks I feel the cool metal of his fresh piercing tapping my ear. He sucks on my lobe, trying his best to seduce me. In any other situation I'd be done for, but I won't let him get to me this time.


I've spent two days worrying about him - terrified that he was locked up in a cell somewhere, or out on the street. I've barely slept the last two days. While I was having sleepless nights and calling and texting him endlessly he was out doing whatever he wanted to do. He even had the nerve to get a piercing while I was twisted in knots! If he really cared about me and wanted to keep me, why wouldn't he care about how worried I was during his absence? One of the first things on his mind should've been calling me to let me know where he was and that he was okay.


"Now babygirl, let's say you whip up a tasteful meal."


I stare up at Zayn who has now stood up to his full height. I can't help the anger that's boiling in me. I know that he shouldn't be treating me this way. I don’t want to be treated this way. I'm not a woman that's only here to satisfy him, I'm here to be a companion, to feel loved - and I'm not feeling any of that at this moment. Instead, I feel anger, fury, and a burning desire to slap his terribly beautiful face. I lift my arm to finally satisfy my need of slapping, but he stops me in time - grabbing my wrist.


"Arielle," he clicks his tongue, "that wouldn't be wise."


I fight against his grip, desperate to slap him. But he's much too strong for me and I give up, disappointed. I debate whether or not to surprise slap him, but decide it's for the best not to anger him further. I'm not sure what he's capable of. He somehow managed to get himself out of jail, so what exactly is he capable of?


I furiously stare at him, to which he just stares back. His eyes have darkened since my attempted slap. "Take me home," I say as I cross my arms.


"How about we order in then," he suggests, his eyes still dark.


"Zayn!" I yell, "if you're going to constantly be an asshole I don't want to be with you! Take me home! Now!"


His chest vibrates with laughter, "well aren't you cute," he comments.


I begin stomping away from him and straight towards the door. I'm tired of putting up with his ego! I open the door and walk out, pulling out my cell phone at the same time. I'm halfway down his driveway when Zayn yells after me, "what are you doing?" His voice booms from the front door.


I type in Zoe's number and place my phone up to my ear. Zayn begins walking down the driveway - still shirtless, with his skinny jeans now hanging so low that the top of his boxers are tantalizing me. He's so damn hot and he's not even trying.


He takes a few more steps and he's standing before me. The phone is still ringing in my ear. "What are you doing Arielle?" He asks. I hear Zoe's voicemail, and so I hang up, carelessly typing in her number again.


"I’m calling Zoe. I told you, I want to go home. You're being a total prick for no good reason!" I put the phone back up to my ear.


I hear a heavy sigh come from Zayn. When I look at him he runs his hand over his face, seemingly giving up. "Hang up the phone Arielle."


"No," I turn away from him and take a few steps. I can't fall for this trap. I can't feel sorry for him, he's been a total ass tonight.


I feel a hand on my shoulder, and suddenly the phone is ripped from my hands. I desperately grab for it, but Zayn hangs up and places it in his front pocket. When he looks back at me his eyes have returned to their original shade of beautiful caramel. My heart swells at the sight of his beautiful eyes, and then I remember that I'm mad at him - so I cross my arms in defense.


Zayn reaches for my hand, but I pull away. "Look, Arielle," Zayn nervously runs his hand over his hair. I find myself unable to look at his eyes, and so I stare at the beautiful wings inked into the flesh on his chest, memorizing the shading. "Can you stay with me?" His voice is surprisingly soft.


I avoid his eyes. A moment of silence succumbs us. Zayn reaches forward and uses his index finger to lift my chin. "Please?" He pleads. His lip ring bounces when he utters the word and it draws my eyes to his plump lips. I can't help melting even further under his gaze. It's like all of the anger has washed away from me - like I've almost forgotten his behaviour.


He's just staring at me with those mesmerizingly beautiful Bambi eyes. I think he's figured out that they're my weakness. "Look," Zayn reaches for my hand again and this time I allow him to caress it between his calloused hands. "I'm sorry. I know I was out of line… just… stay with me tonight. I'll make it up to you." He's pleading with me - actually pleading with me to stay the night with him. Is it all just a desperate charade to stop me from leaving or does he actually care? Who is this Zayn?


"Are you just telling me what I want to hear?" I ask.


He grabs my other hand and lowers himself to my eye level, "no, no. I like you babygirl. I really like you," he says as he not-so-casually peeks down my cleavage. There's the Zayn I know. He tugs lightly on my hands as he pulls me towards the door, "come. We'll order in and do whatever will satisfy you," he says as a smirk dances across his lips.


He pulls me into the house and puts me down onto the couch. He sits directly beside me, so close that his thigh slightly overlaps my own. "Now, what would you like? Would you like to order some Chinese? Pizza? Chicken? Or would it satisfy you if I cooked for you again babygirl?" His voice is smooth. I gape at him. It's almost as if our roles have reversed - he's suddenly here to satisfy me, and I'm here to… be a total and complete prick?


"I don't know…" I murmur. I place my chin in my hand, appearing to ponder his questions. "You cook shit eggs." I smirk wickedly at him.


His mouth drops open in shock and he smiles, "well I'm no fucking chef like you," he teases. "Maybe you should cook then!"


"Oh no you don't mister!" I straighten on the couch and poke his chest playfully, "you're not weaseling your way out of this one." His eyes are playful, as is his mood - a total 180 from his earlier behaviour.


"Well then," he leans in closer to me. His eyes drift from mine to my cleavage once again, and I smack him playfully. "What do you propose we eat?" Zayn's tongue darts out and suggestively licks his lips.


I stiffen slightly in my seat, feeling awkward about my arousal from his sly words. I decide to play along with his charade - maybe I can give him a throbbing yet unrewarded boner. I stick my chest out - to which his eyes go wide - and seductively lean in towards him. "Oh, I have an idea…"


His chest is still bare and so I use it to my advantage, running my hands furiously over his stained skin. He grunts when I push him on his back. I grab his lower lip with my teeth, and he grunts in pain. He smirks wildly when I pull away. When I begin grinding my pelvis into his he really starts moaning. It isn't long before I can feel the arousal and his lips begin reaching for the marked skin on my neck. I push him down hard by placing my hands on his chest.


I lean in close to his ear and whisper seductively, "I want fettuccine alfredo."


I jump off him quickly and stand in front of him as he sits up. He reaches forward and grabs my bottom in his hands and squeezes, "do you now?"


I lean over and place my hands on his thighs, "and you're going to cook it for me."


He chuckles lightly, "well I hope you like burned noodles because that's what we're having then if I'm such a dreadful cook."


"Don't worry, I might help you." I tease. He raises an eyebrow.


"Alright, fine I'll help you." I say.


After forty minutes of finding ingredients and spices and pots and pans, and attempting to teach Zayn some simple cooking skills, we're finally almost finished. Surprisingly he's been really good. He's a much better cook than I had anticipated. The thought has crossed my mind that maybe he's just faking it to get closer to me, but there's still a part of me that believes he doesn't want to get closer to me - that he just wants me as a play toy until he gets bored… but he's intriguing and mysterious, and different and I want to get inside his brain. I want to learn what makes him, him.


"I'll be right back," he murmurs before running off before I can protest. As I stir some more, he quickly runs back into the room, "if you'd like, the plates and wine glasses are up there," he points to a cabinet in the corner. "Cutlery is in that drawer." He points to the drawer just a few steps in front of me.


"Where are you going?" I ask.


He sticks a cigarette out from his hand, signalling to me that he needs a quick smoke before we eat. His shoulders are now covered in a t-shirt that he threw on before we began cooking. Zayn runs off again and I'm left alone in the kitchen. I grab plates and two wine glasses out of the cupboard and place them on the beautiful counter. I can't help feeling like I'm in a chef's kitchen when I'm here - it's a comfort to me.


I scoop some fettuccine onto the plates and walk over to the cutlery drawer. When I open the drawer however, it’s not forks and knives that stare back at me, it's a notebook - specifically a pad for sketching. I think back to the day when I first woke up here, and Zayn cooked me some - actually they were fairly good - eggs. I remember he was watching me, he was sketching, until he hid the book in a drawer and I forgot about it.


My hands reach for the book and I hold it for a moment. Zayn likes drawing - he probably sketches things in here all the time. There could be more quotes in here, like the walls of chalk in his room. There could also be more drawings of cars, or sketches of half naked women. I'll never know until I open it. Do I open it? I mean, if I did I'd be invading his privacy… but I'd also maybe learn a thing or two about him. And if I don't open it, well it'd just be like I never saw it. But I can't do that. I can't just pretend that I never saw this sketchbook in the third drawer in on the center island in Zayn's kitchen - I just can't. Every time I come here I will always want to open this drawer and open this sketchbook to find out the secrets that lie inside… so why don't I just open it for a second?


My fingers run over the front page, and I lift the cover, exposing the first piece of art. It's a drawing of his car, and it's just as beautiful as the drawing in his bedroom. I flip the next page over and it's a sketch of a dog, a Rottweiler to be precise - gnawing on a bone. The next page bores a drawing of a cartoon. The next of a superhero. It's when I flip to the fifth page that I nearly drop the coiled book.


It's a stunning sketch of me, sitting at this very island on the first morning when I woke up here.




A/N: Don't forget to leave feedback! I love to receive it and I always respond! :) x

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