#// SAID IN THE MOST SCARED VOICE EVER YOU SCARED HIM!!!!

[papayainsectorone]

The Gap.

summary: babes we´re still just spiraling but this time from landos pov

content: grief, emotional vulnerability, emotional collapse, overwhelming sadness, clueless!lando (like get a grip dude)

word count: 4,5k

pairing: lando norris charles leclerc lando norris (x fem!reader) lol is there even a sense to this madness anymore

a thought: i’m running a bit late, but i just couldn’t get this quite right to continue hope you like it anyway! no promises on headaches because of the spirals about to happen (…is this rock bottom yet?) 😅

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

definatly confusing if read as standalone

The door clicked shut. 

No slam. No final word. No second look. 

Just that one quiet sound—soft, almost apologetic—and it still split straight through him like a fault line cracking open in slow motion. 

Lando didn’t move. 

He couldn’t. 

He stood there in the kitchen doorway, one hand half-raised in midair, fingers curled like they’d been reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore. Something that might’ve lingered if he’d just said the right thing. If he’d understood in time. 

But the moment had passed. 

And the silence it left behind was deafening. 

He felt… off. Like he was standing outside his own skin, watching himself from a few paces away. His chest ached with a strange tightness, not sharp but cloying, like the room was slowly losing oxygen. Each breath scraped down his throat, shallow and uneven. The world hadn’t shifted, not really but he had. Subtly. Severely. Like something had tilted beneath his feet without warning. 

He turned, slowly, gaze sweeping over the empty living room. The blanket you always left on the couch was still there. Your mug—half full—sat quietly by the sink. The fridge hummed.

And the world didn’t notice. 

Everything was still. Undisturbed. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing had broken. 

And he hated that. 

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched against the rising itch behind his eyes. 

I didn’t mean it like that. 

The words looped, over and over in his head, each time with more desperation. He hadn’t meant to say bitter. That wasn’t the point—God, it wasn’t even close. He’d just... snapped. Because he didn’t understand. Because everything had felt twisted lately and he couldn’t connect the dots. 

Because her silence scared him more than any argument ever had. 

He moved suddenly—paced—his steps sharp and restless against the cold tile. Palms dragging through his hair until it stood on end, sticking out in frantic, uneven curls. The weight of your absence pressed into every corner of the room. Like you’d taken something with you when you left. Something he hadn’t known was keeping the place alive. 

He stopped in front of the couch. 

It was the calm that wrecked him most. 

Not the fight. Not the leaving. 

But that you hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t begged. Hadn’t cried. 

You just stopped. 

Stopped trying to explain yourself. Stopped hoping he’d finally listen. Stopped believing he was someone who would notice the shift before the ground gave out beneath them. 

It hadn’t been loud. It hadn’t been cruel. 

It had just been... final. 

And he hadn’t even seen it coming. 

You’d fought before. Loudly, stupidly, both of you burning with the heat of knowing exactly where to press each other’s buttons. Yelling matches that flared fast and bright, doors slammed, voices cracked, tempers exploded like fireworks. But there had always been an end. Always a breaking point that gave way to silence, to breathless laughter, to stubborn apologies tangled in sarcastic jokes.

There was always the calm after the storm.

And inevitably, you slipped back into the rhythm you both knew. The push and pull. The teasing. The shared playlists, the inside jokes and lately the way your body folded into his.

But this wasn’t that.

He sank onto the stool at the kitchen counter, like the wind had been knocked out of him. Elbows balanced on knees, head buried in hands, fingers tangled in hair.

The silence was unnatural. Thick. Punishing. It wasn’t just the absence of your voice—it was the absence of possibility. The absence of return.

“Fuck,” he whispered. The word cracked in his throat, brittle and raw. It didn’t echo. Didn’t even scratch the stillness around him.

His eyes squeezed shut.

Trying to rewind.

Trying to understand.

He saw your face—the way it had hardened around the edges when you looked at him. That tired stillness in your eyes, like the part of you that used to reach for him had quietly given up. He hadn’t recognized it then, not fully, but now it played behind his eyelids on loop.

Had he crossed a line?

No, it couldn’t be that. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. That’s what you both said. Agreed on. Friends, nothing more. Just two people looking for comfort in the dark. A borrowed bed. A shared laugh. The ache of loneliness softened by proximity.

That was the deal.

Wasn’t it?

He sat up suddenly, shoving to his feet.

Started pacing again. Fast, aimless laps across the kitchen tile like maybe, if he moved fast enough, the noise in his head would stop. If he got his blood pumping, maybe it would drown out the guilt he wasn’t sure he was allowed to feel.

Because this wasn’t about love.

It wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

You were just his friend.

And he was finding something real now—supposed to be, anyway. Charlotte was real. Charlotte was easy. She didn’t ask for pieces of him he didn’t know how to give. She didn’t catch his silences mid-thought or know what he was thinking before he said it. She fit neatly into the life he was trying to build. The image. The future.

So why the hell did his chest feel like something had just been ripped out of it?

Why couldn’t he shake the image of you standing in that doorway—quiet, steady, already half gone?

Why had you left like that? With no final blow, no warning shot, just a look that said you’d already decided?

His hand hovered near the front door. Paused.

Like he could still catch you. Like maybe if he ran fast enough, said the right thing, it wouldn’t be too late.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t even know what he’d say if you turned around.

Would you turn around?

He swallowed hard, the taste in his mouth bitter and wrong. His throat tightened, and something crawled up his spine—not panic exactly, not grief. Something messier. Something meaner.

He hated that you were gone.

Hated that you hadn’t even given him a final fight. That you’d just… left. Like he didn’t deserve the heat of your anger. Like he didn’t even matter enough to be worth slamming the door for.

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he’d been collecting everything you gave him—your time, your touch, your trust—and hoarding it in a place just shallow enough to avoid responsibility.

Keeping it in reach, but never calling it what it was.

Because calling it anything felt too dangerous. Too final. Too real.

So he let it be unnamed. Undefined.

And now he was sitting in the aftermath of that decision. The ruins of something he hadn’t even admitted existed.

He dropped back onto the stool, slower this time. Like even gravity didn’t want him right now. His hands gripped the edge of the counter like it might stop the spinning.

Your presence still lingered. A ghost in the doorway. A scent in the air. A silence he didn’t know how to survive.

You were gone.

And he still didn’t understand why it felt like he’d lost the only thing that had ever been real.

His best friend.

FLASHBACK when you came home with Adam

The hum of the kettle was the only sound in the kitchen. 

Lando leaned his hip against the counter, elbows propped, chin resting on his hand as he stared at the water slowly coming to a boil. It was late. Past eleven. He hadn’t texted you. Figured you were probably out with friends.

He was supposed to get back later anyway. 

His bag was still zipped beside the front door, forgotten the second he walked in. The lights were low, the air still. The quiet felt… nice. Familiar. Like the apartment had waited up for him. 

He rolled his shoulders. Still sore from the weekend, from the flight. Eyes gritty with tiredness. He didn’t even really want tea. Just something to do with his hands. 

Then—  click.  Keys in the door. 

He perked up immediately. Stood straighter. His mouth quirked without thinking. You. 

The laugh hit first. Yours. 

That warm, bright one that always cracked something open in him. 

And then a guy stumbled in behind you—arms around your waist, both of you drunk off your asses and tangled up like you couldn’t stand up straight without leaning on each other. 

Lando froze halfway oh his way to the hallway. 

Your heel caught something—you tripped, and before he could even call out, you were already going down hard. 

“Shit,” he muttered instinctively, but it was drowned out by the guy—Adam, he’d find out soon—rushing to your side, his voice thick with wine and worry. 

You groaned. Something about your hip. 

Lando didn’t move. 

Didn’t announce himself. Just stared. 

You looked like you belonged to someone else. 

He watched your fingers dig into Adam’s sleeve as you laughed through the pain. Watched Adam look at you like he wanted to pick you up and never let go. 

That’s when you finally noticed the suitcase. 

And then him. 

He stood near the door, hoodie slouched around his shoulders, trying not to look surprised. Trying not to feel anything at all. 

“Oops. That’s mine. Hi,” he said, voice too light, too easy. 

You turned. Slowly. Like you were bracing for impact. 

And the moment your eyes locked, Lando felt something slide painfully under his ribs. You were still on the floor, dress hiked high, lipstick smudged, your expression stuck somewhere between guilt and surprise. And he could see the wine wearing off—see the realization crawling across your face. 

Adam laughed. Said something dumb. Lando didn’t hear it. He was looking at you. 

Just you. 

Then his gaze flicked once, uninvited, over your body. Over the way you hadn’t fixed your hair yet, the way your skin was flushed, the way his hoodie still hung on the hook beside the door like a ghost of a version of you he knew better. 

His jaw clenched. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, smooth and flat, like a blade sliding into something soft. 

Adam offered a hand. Lando watched him help you up, his palm landing too comfortably on your hip. 

Then your voice, trying to be casual: “This is Adam. From work.” 

From work. 

Lando nodded, but didn’t smile. He couldn’t. Not properly. 

Adam extended a hand. “You’re the guy who keeps dragging her across the world when I want to take her out.�� 

Lando looked at you again. You weren’t meeting his eyes. 

“Right,” he said, shaking Adam’s hand. “Guilty.” 

Your laugh was off. And Adam's hand was still on you. Thumb brushing lower back. Territorial. Lando’s throat went dry. He knew that move. Knew exactly what it meant. 

And you— 

You shifted out of it. Subtle. Like you didn’t want to cause a scene. 

“Adam, can you grab the wine?” you asked, too sweet. 

Lando didn’t move as he left the room. Didn’t say a word. 

Then, finally, you looked at him again. 

“You’ve never brought someone here before,” he said quietly. 

You shrugged. “Didn’t know you’d be home.” 

“Yeah,” he said, looking around like the apartment felt smaller now. “I am.” 

There was silence then. Weird. Tight. Not a fight, not a joke, not exactly awkward—just… wrong. Like he was watching something happen in his own space that he couldn’t control. 

He couldn’t even figure out why it bothered him so much. You weren’t his. This wasn’t a thing. You’d both made that clear. 

So why did it feel like betrayal? 

Why did his fists itch to punch a wall? 

He tried to shake it off. Tried to be cool about it. To lean into the humor of it all. That’s what you two always did, right? 

“Okay,” he said, backing toward the hallway. “Well. I’ll just go to my room.” 

You raised a brow. And maybe he should’ve stopped there. 

But something light (or was it bitter) rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. 

“He seems like a nice guy. I hope he’s not too loud when you have sex later.” 

The look on your face. 

You choked. “Oh my god, you idiot.” 

And he laughed. 

It slipped out of him easier than he expected. Not sharp. Not biting. Just honest. Like steam hissing from a kettle — a sudden release of pressure before he even realized how much had built up inside him. 

He raised his eyebrows and shot you a grin as he backed away, keeping it light. Trying to, anyway. 

There was the briefest pause. 

And then — your lips twitched. Not a full smile, but close enough. The corners of your mouth pulling just slightly, reluctantly. Like you weren’t sure if you wanted to let the moment soften. But you did. And the tension in his chest eased just enough for him to breathe again. 

He disappeared into the hallway before he could say anything else. Before he let too much show. 

His hoodie hung low over his hands, sleeves swallowing his fingers. His palms were clammy. His heart was thudding too fast, like it was trying to keep up with something he hadn’t even named yet. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to picture the hem of your dress creeping up your thigh when you’d leaned back on the armrest. Or the way Adam’s hand lingered on your hip before he kissed your cheek. Friendly. Casual. But long enough to matter. 

Too long. 

He hated the heat that spiked in his stomach. Hated that ugly mix of jealousy and panic and whatever the hell else was clawing at his insides. It was new. Sharp. Uninvited. 

This was the first time he’d really felt it — that slipping sensation, it was different to what happened with Charles on the grid, more intense, like the floor wasn’t quite under him anymore. Like control was something he’d never really had in the first place. Like you were suddenly a step further away, and he had no idea when that distance had begun to grow. 

But he shoved it down. Buried it beneath the usual excuses. 

It was just surprise. Just the awkwardness of the moment. That was all. He hadn’t been expecting Adam to show up, hadn’t been expecting the way your voice changed when you greeted him. Softer. Familiar. Private in a way that didn’t belong to him. 

Still, he told himself it didn’t matter. 

Because Adam left again. You laughed like you always did, bright and unguarded. You teased him, nudged his knee under the table, rolled your eyes at his dumb impressions. You shared dessert. Shared a drink. Shared his bed. 

Just like always. 

And when your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his hoodie, tugging him closer, when your lips found his like you already knew the shape of his breath — everything still felt good. Still felt right. 

So it couldn’t be anything more than a moment. 

Right? 

The next day. The day after the fight. The morning after you left, the apartment didn’t feel empty.  It felt wrong. 

Lando woke up on the couch, neck stiff, mouth dry, and a dull ache pressing at the back of his skull. Not just from the whiskey he’d downed too late. Not just from the night before. It was heavier than that, like something inside him had caved in without warning. 

The blanket he’d pulled over himself smelled like you.  Faint, but familiar. Like memory clinging to fabric.  And when he dragged himself into the kitchen, the mug was still there.  Yours.  Half-full of cold tea you never got around to finishing. 

He stared at it for too long, like it might give him answers.  It didn’t. 

By the second day, the apartment started shifting around your absence. Not dramatically—just enough to be unsettling. 

Lando hated it. 

He hadn’t realized how many pieces of you had sunk into the place.  Not until they’d been pulled out like threads, unraveling everything that made it feel like home. 

By the third day, the silence settled deep in his chest. Not loud. Not alarming. Just constant.  You existed with presence—humming while you wiped down counters, yelling through the door when your Spotify skipped a song, pacing while you fought with work on speakerphone, quoting movies from rooms away.  Now, nothing. 

Every quiet second felt like it was holding its breath. 

The week passed in a blur. 

Planes. Press. Prep. An endless stream of hands to shake, cameras to smile for, questions to answer with the right balance of charm and polish. People asking how he felt, how the car felt, how the season felt — and Lando answered them all like clockwork. Every soundbite crisp. Every grin well-timed. 

He slipped into it like armor. Seamless. Automatic. Like pulling on an old race suit that still smelled like gasoline and adrenaline. 

He wore the jokes like a uniform. Winked when he was supposed to. Laughed a little louder than necessary. Smiled too easily. Filled every silence with something breezy so no one could hear the static in his chest. 

It should’ve felt comfortable — it used to. The circus, the flash, the rhythm of it all. But now it felt... slightly misaligned. Like he was trying to walk in shoes that almost fit, but rubbed in all the wrong places. 

And underneath it all, your silence roared. 

No calls. No texts. Not even a meme, which was your language for everything from you good? to I miss you but I’m pretending I don’t. 

The absence of it was deafening. A gaping void in his phone, in his routines, in the hours when he used to hear from you most, late night check-ins, sarcastic voice notes, random photos that made no sense to anyone but him. 

And without it, he felt disoriented. Off balance. Like a part of him had gone missing mid-lap and he couldn’t figure out how to correct the understeer. 

Charlotte was waiting for him when he landed. 

She looked radiant, golden in that casual, effortlessness she always had. Like the world never quite touched her the same way it did everyone else. She smiled the moment she saw him and wrapped her arms around his neck, soft and sweet, the scent of her perfume a steadying anchor. 

He smiled back. Genuinely. He was happy to see her. 

She was safe. Familiar. The kind of presence that let his shoulders drop an inch, that filled the space with light. She knew how to make a joke land. She understood the game. She looked good on his arm. She fit. 

And yet. 

Somewhere between the pressure of her lips on his cheek and the weight of her hand slipping into his, something inside him cracked.

Because her laugh was bright, but it wasn’t yours. It didn’t build slow and spill out like it surprised even you. It didn’t make his ribs ache from trying to keep up. 

And her fingers, laced with his, felt light—too light—like they might float away if he let go. Unlike yours, which always felt grounded. Certain. Like you were holding on on purpose. 

He didn’t want to compare. He really, truly didn’t. 

But he couldn’t stop. 

She noticed, of course she did. Charlotte was sharp like that. Attuned to the things people didn’t say. 

Later, over dinner, she tilted her head and asked — not confrontational, just curious. Gentle. 

“Are you okay?” 

He hesitated, then gave her the truth. Or at least a version of it. 

“I’m just... off. We had a fight. She moved out. I haven’t really processed it, I guess.” 

That was all he said. No details. Just enough. 

She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a soft, knowing nod. Didn't press. But something shifted in her too — the subtle pullback of someone recalibrating expectations. 

She walked a little further from him on the way back to the car. Not far. Not obvious. But enough. 

And he didn’t even notice. 

FLASHBACK to the night-out with Charles and Charlotte You weren’t laughing.  Not really.  Just… smiling at the right beats. Sipping your drink too slowly, nodding like you weren’t really listening. Like you were somewhere else entirely. He knew, he noticed but he didnt say anything. 

He watched you watch him. Quietly. Like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to look. And when your eyes did meet his, only for half a second, it was like being hit in the ribs. 

You looked at him like he was a stranger. 

He leaned in closer to Charlotte though. Didn’t know why. Maybe to remind himself this was what he wanted. Or maybe to see if it would make you flinch. 

It didn’t. You looked away, eyes slipping from his like a shutter closing slowly, shutting down the moment between you.

Still, he kept watching. Not obsessively—he wasn’t that obvious, at least not yet—but enough. Enough to catch the subtle shift when you rose from your seat, the way your footsteps carried you away toward the bar. Enough to feel that tightening in his chest, a quiet panic whispering that maybe you were leaving.

And enough to hate himself for hoping you wouldn’t.

He swallowed that hope, locked it away beneath layers of rationality because Charlotte was there. Charlotte, who made him laugh with little jokes that landed just right, whose lightness filled the space without asking for too much in return. She was pretty, easy to be around, the perfect puzzle piece slipping effortlessly into the shape of his life.

He liked her. Liked her a lot, more than he expected to in such a short time. It wasn’t just a one-night thing anymore. It wasn’t just fleeting heat or passing company. It had turned into this—something in between, something complicated and undefined—a situationship that was easy and safe, a distraction and a comfort wrapped up in the same quiet package.

And yet, as he watched you disappear further from the room, a part of him clenched tight, resisting the ease Charlotte brought because you were still there, just out of reach.

Then, he saw him. 

Charles. 

Leaning in, shoulder brushing yours like it had every right to be there. His grin lazy. Confident. That infuriating way he had of looking like he already knew where the night was going before it even started. 

Lando’s stomach turned. 

He was saying something to you—close, low, familiar—and you… you laughed. For real this time. The kind that made your eyes soften. 

Lando couldn’t look away. 

Charlotte said something beside him again. He nodded, said “yeah” without knowing what he was agreeing to. His eyes never left you. Not when Charles leaned in closer. Not when you leaned back and didn’t pull away. 

It was unbearable. Watching that. 

Then came the dance floor. The shift. 

He didn’t even see how it happened, just that suddenly you were there, in the middle of it, swaying in Charles’s orbit. The kind of dancing that didn’t need a rhythm—just a mood. His hands were low on your waist, your arms around his neck, and Lando— 

God, he hated it. 

He wasn’t jealous. That’s what he told himself, anyway.  It wasn’t jealousy.  It was just… the wrongness of it.

He clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze back to Charlotte, trying to re-center. But it didn’t stick. His eyes kept drifting back to you. His heart thudded harder every time you laughed at something Charles said. The music blurred. The lights made everything hazy around the edges. 

He didn’t notice the booth clearing out until Charlotte turned to him, hand sliding into his. 

“We’re heading out,” she said gently, eyes warm. “You ready?” 

He hesitated. Just for a breath. Not because of her—but because of what he saw next. 

You. Standing near the bar again. Charles beside you. His arm resting lightly around your back like it belonged there. Like you were his. 

And you looked up. Right at him. 

Your eyes met. Held. Just long enough for something inside him to twist. 

Say something, he thought.  Do something.  But his mouth stayed closed. His fingers curled around Charlotte’s tighter. He watched you wait for him to speak. 

And then you nodded. Said something he couldn’t quite hear. 

Turned away. 

Charles took your hand like it was nothing. Like it had always been his to take. And Lando— 

He watched. 

That’s all he did. 

Watched the night take you from him. 

He avoided Charles on Thursday.  On purpose. 

Ducked out of sight during driver interviews. Lingering pit walks. Quiet heads-up from his trainer.  

Lando didn’t even know why he was avoiding him.  It wasn’t personal. Or was it?  Well. He knew what Charles would ask with a look long before he ever opened his mouth. 

And Lando wasn’t ready to face that yet. 

But Friday didn’t offer the same escape. 

He turned a corner near hospitality, head down, cap low. 

And then he ran into him.

Charles. 

Just standing there like it was any other race day. 

Except it wasn’t.  Not for Lando. 

Because the second their eyes met, he knew. 

He saw it. Right there, in Charles’s face. In the barely-there lift of his brows, the quiet caution behind his smile.  Lando’s stomach dropped. 

Of course.  Of course. 

He didn’t even wait for confirmation.  Didn’t need it. 

He looked relaxed. Like someone who’d slept well. Like someone who didn’t have a person-shaped hole burning through his apartment back home. 

Lando slowed. Just for a second. 

And Charles looked up. 

Their eyes met. 

It was less than a second — half that — but it said everything. 

Lando didn’t need to ask. He could tell by the softness in Charles’ face. The pause. The way his expression flickered, slightly apologetic, like he’d been caught holding something delicate that wasn’t his. 

He didn’t need to see her bag slung over Charles’ shoulder or hear your laugh from the corridor. He just knew. 

He stopped a few paces away, jaw ticking. 

“So,” Lando said, voice low and flat. “is she staying with you?” 

Charles’ smile faded. His fingers flexed once at his side. 

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “She— I picked her up, she´s not here though” 

Lando nodded once, tight. 

“Mhm.” 

And then he just walked. 

Didn’t wait for more. Didn’t give Charles a chance to explain, because there was nothing else to say. The words were already crawling like static under his skin. A sting behind his ribs. Like anger, but deeper. Hotter. 

He walked fast. Didn’t even know where he was going — just knew he couldn’t stay still. The paddock noise blurred into background hiss, voices clashing with the sound of his own heartbeat. 

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. 

Of course you were with Charles. 

Not because Charles had done anything, but because he hadn’t. Because Lando hadn’t. Because he hadn’t told you what you needed to hear. Hadn’t made you feel like you belonged. Not really. 

He knew you were gone. But hearing it out loud — seeing it reflected in Charles’ expression — made it real in a way that burned. 

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[vxnillabxn]

Hiii!! I hope it’s okay to ask, I’ve had this idea where MC breaks up with Zayne, thinking he deserves better. But after hearing how miserable he was, she comes back and admits she was scared and never wanted to leave. I’d love to see how he reacts and how they move forward.

Lowk been needing angst and comfort 🥲

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ hurt/hurt/hurt/comfort! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚did i almost make myself cry? yes. did i also love writing this? absolutely. do i approve of the reader! actions? hell no. BUT, overall, this is as much hurt as it is comfort, i hope i meet your expectations, dear anon! ♡

being with zayne was the best decision you ever made. he was emotionally responsible, he always talked things out, and he made sure you felt comfortable and loved. he made time for you, and he put aside important matters for the most crucial one in his eyes; you.

there was absolutely nothing you wanted to change about him or the lovely, strong relationship you two were building together.

again, there was nothing you wanted to change about him.

but about you?

plenty.

you didn't feel like you were enough for him. he sacrificed everything for you, he was a literal angel, and he always knew what to do to make it all feel better.

you, on the other hand, were sometimes too busy. you didn't know how to handle things, and you felt like the comfort you could offer him during his lowest moments was never enough.

you were not enough.

and you'd been repeating those same words for a month now.

how does he handle everything?

how is he able to have you as his top priority?

why does he love you so much, when you're not even half as special as him?

you can't take it anymore. you're tired, you feel drained, and you also feel guilty. zayne deserves the world. he deserves someone who's up to his level. someone who can silently manage everything perfectly. someone who has their life together, like he does.

it's not fair to be selfish and drag him along with you, not when he's been nothing but selfless all his life. he's been killing his free time, killing his social life, even killing his health —and all for you.

they say to love is to let go.

and after thinking and crying yourself to sleep on the nights he worked late shifts, you finally decided it was only fair to break up.

of course, he knew something was wrong.

he just never expected it would be this.

when you told him you'd wait at a nearby park, —one you two had never visited before— he was worried.

you didn't want to break up with him somewhere he loved. you wanted him to still go to the same coffee shop, the same restaurant, the same patisserie without connecting it to a memory this bitter.

when he arrived, he hugged you and kissed you softly.

it hurt.

it tasted so sweet, so genuine, so devoted…

you let him. it was going to be the last time, and your selfishness wanted a final reminder before you left him, for his own good.

what happened next is blurry in your mind.

you don't remember the exact words you said, but you remember his stunned silence.

you know you said it was so he could find someone better. someone who deserved him.

and you know he wasn't getting it.

he understood a lot of things.

but not this.

his eyes went unfocused, his lips pressed tightly shut.

he didn't speak.

you were grateful for that, because if you'd heard his voice, —his broken voice— you'd have apologized right there on the spot.

you held out the snowman keychain he'd made for you, your hands trembling. you wanted him to take it back.

but he didn't move.

he was frozen in time.

so, as cruel as fate is, you kept the keychain. a reminder of the only truly good thing that had happened to you, and when you least deserved it.

you walked away, trying not to cry, telling yourself you were doing what was best for him, right? for once, you were doing something in return for everything good he'd done for you.

and as your figure grew smaller, there was a soft splash on the ground.

a single drop of water.

not from the rain threatening to pour.

but from the corner of his eye.

…

one month.

it's been one month now, and you've been too busy working and hunting distractions. you've avoided the hospital even when you've felt worse than ever, both mentally and physically.

but your chest hurts badly, and more and more often you feel dizzy, exhausted, consumed.

it got so bad you had to go to the hospital, or they'd force you to take another month off to rest.

and the last thing you wanted was to stay by yourself, sulking and crying inside your messy, dark apartment.

once inside the hospital, you saw no one familiar. not even yvonne, the receptionist you'd grown closer to when you were zayne's patient before dating.

instead, another nurse stepped up to the reception desk and smiled warmly.

“good morning, dear. do you have an appointment?”

you swallow hard. you forgot to change doctors. maybe zayne did it for you.

“i… yes, i'm under dr. zayne's care.”

her smile faltered.

“oh, sweetie… didn't they inform you?”

her voice turned softer, her expression shifting to worry. your stomach dropped.

something happened to zayne, you're sure. your heart starts pounding wildly, but you keep your voice steady. you have to know.

“dr. gideon took over his patients for now—”

“what happened to dr. zayne?”

you didn't mean to sound so desperate, but it comes out fast, almost sharp.

the nurse flinched slightly, then cleared her throat.

“i'm afraid i can't disclose that information, sweetheart. but i can schedule you with—”

“thank you!”

you rush outside before she can finish. you run, vision blurry with panic and tears. you know the route to his house by heart. every shortcut, every turn.

zayne would never just leave. not unless something serious happened.

you pound on his door.

your breath is ragged, your heart feels like it might break your ribs, but you don't care.

nothing matters more than knowing if zayne is okay.

yet he doesn't answer.

and now your heart beats not from exhaustion, but from fear — because your heart belongs to him, and if something happened to him…

you can't wait anymore. you tear through your bag, looking for the spare key you couldn't bring yourself to throw away.

there it is. attached to the snowman keychain.

you unlock the door, hand shaking.

the sight inside leaves you breathless.

scattered books. blankets draped carelessly over the sofa…

and on the dining table… two mugs. one at his place, empty. another one at yours, still full. as if he kept waiting for you to come back and drink it with him.

two plates. two sets of cutlery. always two.

dusty. untouched. abandoned for…

exactly a month.

you rush upstairs, opening every door.

not in the bathroom.

not in the bedroom.

not in the kitchen.

maybe… his studio?

you approach the closed door, hand trembling. you push it open.

and there he is.

asleep at his desk. his laptop is still glowing faintly. the room is painfully neat, unlike the rest of the house.

but it's freezing inside.

you shiver, but step closer.

zayne looks… different.

his skin pale and unhealthy, dark circles under his beautiful eyes, a slight stubble on his usually clean-shaven face.

his fingers tinged purple from the cold. his brows furrowed, trapped in a nightmare.

this wasn't supposed to happen.

he was supposed to be better. to find someone up to his level.

but seeing him so broken, so not composed… you realize how badly you misjudged.

tears fall as you try to wake him. you shake him, nudge him, tug at his clothes, bury your face in his lap and sob.

“i'm sorry, zayne, i'm so… so sorry. i never wanted to leave, i…”

you bite your lip hard, almost drawing blood.

“this wasn't supposed to happen… you were supposed to be happy without me. you deserved so much better, zayne. so… much… better.”

words come out between sobs, but you cling to him like a lifeline.

and then, gently, you feel his fingers brushing your hair.

your breath catches. you look up.

he's awake. his expression unreadable, until the faintest smile curves his lips.

“you… came back.”

his voice is raw, hoarse from disuse.

you gasp, scrambling up to look at him properly.

you can't stop yourself.

you throw your arms around him, almost knocking him off the chair.

but then—

“stop.”

you freeze.

does he… not want this?

“i can sense it. you're overthinking again.”

his voice is soft, but firm.

“you did that a lot before you…” he pauses, looking away. “have i not made myself clear enough?”

you step back, but he pulls you closer.

“tell me. was i not clear?”

“zayne, i don't—”

“didn't i tell you how much i loved you? how much you meant to me?”

his voice stays calm, but his gaze… it's yours.

“please. answer me.”

your chest aches. you know the answer.

“zayne, i thought… i thought it was for the best. you're perfect. you always made time for me, even while saving lives. i have so much to work on and… it wasn't your fault. i was stupid, and—”

he hushes you gently, his fingers brushing your lips.

“i was perfect for you. everything i did, every choice, every thought… was for you. from the start of my career, and until the day i die, everything i do will always have you in mind.”

you're speechless.

he removes his hand, then stands, towering over you.

“do you know why i waited?”

you shake your head.

“you never said you didn't love me anymore,” he steps closer, caging you in. “and i knew i'd wait, even if it meant endless nightmares. even if i lost myself doing so… even if it took another lifetime.”

his hand cups your cheek, wiping your tears.

“because i only live for you. and that won't change, unless you tell me you don't love me anymore.”

your voice cracks.

“no! zayne, i love you! i did what i did because of love! i wanted only the best for you…”

“and the best for me is you, my love.”

his cold fingers warm at your skin, his voice trembles ever so slightly.

“don't you ever… ever do that again,” he stops, but adds more after a few seconds:

“every night, i woke up reaching for you,” he confesses, voice breaking for the first time. “i saw you leaving over and over in my dreams, and i couldn't stop you. i was dying without you, even if i kept breathing.”

you choke on a sob, and your lips crash into his.

it's messy, desperate —but he steadies you, slowing it down into something deep and aching, until you're both breathless.

you finally feel at peace. because it's him. and only him.

as you part, he kisses your trembling hands.

“my love… shall i remind you every day how much i need you to breathe?”

you sniffle, shaking your head.

“no. i think… it's my turn now to show you how much i need you. how selfish i truly am for wanting you in my life forever.”

“then let us be selfish, love.”

he kisses your forehead.

and everything falls right back in place.

as it used to be.

and from now on, he'll make sure it always is.

[norrisprincess]

Puppy Love

summary: Charles thought he would just take Leo to an appointment with a new veterinarian, but he didn't know that he would find himself returning to the vet and not exactly for Leo.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Veterinarian!Reader

warnings: use of y/n, fluff, use of french, smau and a little bit of angst

Author Note: I apologize for any spelling mistakes. English isn't my first language, so I used a translator to write some things!

Leo needed to get vaccinated; Charles couldn't risk Leo getting sick. That's why he walked peacefully through the streets of Monaco, On the way to a new vet that Lewis had told him was quite good since its staff was very kind to pets. The wind gently against his face while he was walking and Leo was walking with his little paws beside him.

After a couple more minutes of walking and some photos with some fans who had recognized him on the street, he had arrived at the vet. It looked like a simple place so as not to attract too much attention. It looked peaceful, the colors were a visual beauty, and no dog whines could be heard.

Charles picked Leo up and entered the vet.

Upon entering the vet, all you could hear was the soft sound of music and the occasional bark. There were some people sitting in a small living room while petting their pets and others just seemed to be waiting. He was muttering softly in French about how quiet the place was before looking at the receptionist.

“bonjour!”

(“Good morning!”)

He said softly with a small smile as he approached the counter.

“Bonjour ! Comment puis-je vous aider ?”

(“Good morning! How can I help you?”)

The receptionist said with a smile as he turned to his computer and opened the list of appointments that day.

“J'ai un rendez-vous pour mon chiot, Léo, prévu à 10 heures du matin.”

(“I have an appointment for my puppy, Leo, scheduled for 10 in the morning.”)

said Charles, stroking Leo's head.

“Bien sûr ! Un instant, s'il vous plaît.”

(“Sure! One moment please”)

The receptionist tapped a bit on his computer to confirm the appointment before turning slightly to face Charles.

“Il nous reste une place, mais Mlle Stacy n'est pas disponible… Nous avons une autre vétérinaire disponible, mais elle ne parle pas français aussi couramment. Ça vous convient ?”

(“We have a spot available, but Miss Stacy isn't available... We have another vet available, but she doesn't speak French as fluently. Is that okay with you?”)

Charles shook his head, still with a small smile, as he settled Leo back into his arms.

“Ne vous inquiétez pas, je n'ai aucun problème avec ça.”

(“Don't worry, I have no problem with that.”)

The receptionist smiled before he stood up from his seat, leading Charles towards the room where the vet was.

Before they could do anything, the door opened, revealing a woman in her 20s with slightly oversized glasses.

“Oh! Miss Y/N, you have a patient here!”

Said the receptionist with a slightly strange English but still with a warm smile on his face.

You nodded a little and gave a small smile allowing Charles and Leo to enter the room before you moved to close the door behind you.

Leo was snuggled up in your arms after a couple of minutes while you tried to calm him down so he wouldn't get scared by the injection.

“He is one of the most well-behaved puppies I have ever handled, he is adorable.”

Your voice, as soft as silk, echoed throughout the room, causing Charles to lift his gaze from Leo in your arms and focus on your face. Glasses now on your head, your hair tied back in a ponytail, and your smile that would make anyone forget their worries.

“Yes, and he's also a sleepyhead.”

Charles said, followed by a small laugh that you also had before laying Leo down on a small veterinary stretcher and moving gently around the room.

Your hands moved gently into some drawers in the room, your hands went to a package of gloves and you put them delicately, then you took a small package with a small syringe and you took a small bottle that contained the medication.

Charles watched your movements closely and realized that Leo had not moved from the place where you left him on the stretcher and there he realized that he had fallen asleep only with your caresses.

You walked softly to the side of the stretcher where Leo was, gently disinfected a part of his small thigh and brought the syringe closer before gently injecting it.

“He'll be a little sensitive since vaccines make puppies a little groggy, so it's normal if he wants to sleep all day after getting home.”

You said putting a lock of your hair behind your ear and looking at him while you threw the syringe into a trash can.

You took Leo in your arms and gently gave him to Charles while the puppy licked your hands a little.

“such a cutie”

You said before Charles thanked you and headed towards the door of that quiet room.

Charles_Leclerc ✓

liked by lewishamilton and 1,304,960 others

Charles_Leclerc Guess who can't wait to get back to the vet?

comments

lewishamilton told you that was the best vet!!!!♥︎ liked by the author

user1 LEOOOO 🐶

user2 Mr Leo himself 🤓

user3 name of the vet?

↳ user4 🤷‍♀️

user5 Charles is so handsome ❤️😍😘

user6 I think is Leooooooo

user7 Lewis on the comments 😭😂

↳ user8 THISSS

user9 Leo is love, Leo is life 🙏

user10 I need a Leo in my life 🥺

user11 ❤️❤️❤️

user12 who?

↳ user13 LEO 👹

↳ user14 duuhhhhhh

user15 king leo 👑🐶

To Charles surprise, he found himself going to that vet almost every day, whether for a vaccine, a dewormer, or a bath for Leo, and each time, he would start a conversation with you, which you would follow animatedly.

Anyway, things didn't just stay there, but he would also ask for your Instagram and go out as friends once in a while so you two could talk a little more.

You didn't accept the outings because your calendar was a bit full at the moment, but you agreed to give him your Instagram and your phone number so you could chat there anyway.

ynxoxo

liked by Charles_Leclerc, Yourfriend and 79 others

ynxoxo I love my jobbb 👩‍⚕️🐶🐱🐹🐰

comments

Yourfriend Leclerc? 🤨 ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ ynxoxo 🙉🙈

↳ Yourfriend 🤨

user16 WHAT IS LECLERC DOING HERE?

↳ user17 THIS 👆👆👆

your_bro_ther CUTIES 🤍 ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ ynxoxo yes we are 🙂‍↕️

user18 So cute 🥹!!!!! ♥︎ liked by the author

After a tiring day at work, take a shower, put on clean pajamas, you set out to prepare something for dinner while keeping the air conditioning on.

You walked through your apartment, the only sound you could hear was your footsteps, until you turned on a small music player in your living room.

You walked towards your kitchen while the intro of ‘Espresso’ by Sabrina Carpenter played in the background at a moderate volume in your apartment.

You were going to grab some vegetables to start making your dinner before a notification on your phone disconcerted you. You decided to check in case it was something from the vet and you needed to go urgently.

A small, silly smile spread across your face when you saw who the message was from.

You put the phone back on the table and hurried to get out everything you needed to start making dinner, except you'd have to make enough dinner for two people, for you and Charles.

The nerves of someone else coming to your house, and that someone being a boy, made you burn your dinner at least twice, making you have to open the apartment windows to let the burning smell out of the apartment and not activate the fire sprinklers.

You were about to start making dinner again before a sound distracted you: the doorbell. Charles had arrived, and you still hadn't done anything. Embarrassed, you walked to the door and opened it, seeing that Monegasque who made your heart race.

“H-Hi…”

you said softly looking into his eyes.

“Hello chéri”

(darling)

He said with a smile as he ran a hand through his hair.

You stared at him in a daze for a moment before shaking your head slightly and stepping aside.

“please come in!”

You said before Charles nodded and he went into your apartment.

He stared at your apartment for a moment before looking back at you.

“your house is very cozy”

He said before you offered to take his coat and put it on the coat rack next to the front door.

“yeah, I like how cozy it looks too!”

you said kindly before Charles started talking again.

“Did you finish dinner or do you want me to help you?”

You laughed a little nervously and ran your hand over the back of your neck nervously before you decided to say something.

“In fact... I burned dinner twice, so I really need your help.”

He smiled and looked at you before rolling up the sleeves of his sweater a little.

“count on that”

ynxoxo

liked by Charles_Leclerc and 180 others

ynxoxo Pizza Date! 🍕❣️ w @ Charles_Leclerc

comments

Charles_Leclerc I had a very good time, we should do it again soon ❤️ ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ ynxoxo YESSS 👹

user19 found Charles 🏎️ forza ferrari!!!

user20 it looks so fun! Gonna do it with my bf!!

Yourfriend hmmmmm 🧐 ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ ynxoxo hmmm 😚

user21 PIZZAAAAAA 🍕

user22 couple material 😻

user23 CHARLES IS NOT SINGLE??

↳ Yourfriend not anymore girl 🤪

↳ ynxoxo What am I going to do with you? 🤦‍♀️

You were lying peacefully in your bed, casually swiping on tiktok like any other day off until your best friend shared a link of a Twitter post with you.

You came across the post not expecting anything more than some silly message about people complaining about how expensive dog food was until you saw those tweets, the ones that already had over 1000 likes and reblogs.

“what is happening?”

You quickly started reading what was happening and then after doing so, you wished you hadn't, your eyes widened and you quickly entered your Instagram only to see thousands of people asking for access to your private account, making you start to worry and decide to send a message to Charles asking for an explanation about everything that was happening.

When you sent the message, a thousand things went through your mind. You had no idea what you had gotten yourself into, you didn't even know this could happen. You just followed your heart and it led you to what seemed to be your downfall.

You got out of bed and rubbed your forehead trying to remove the sweat that had suddenly appeared on it.

Your head was spinning and everything was confusing until you felt your phone vibrate a little in your hand after a few minutes that seemed eternal given the situation you were in.

It was the last thing you saw before you decided to turn off your phone and go out to the balcony to try to get some fresh air and calm down a little.

You were standing against the wall of your living room and your eyes were fixed on the nervous figure of Charles, who was sitting on the armchair in front of you.

“Charles, I need you to explain to me what the hell is going on.”

You said with your arms crossed on your chest and your eyebrows a little furrowed due to your noticeable annoyance.

Charles raised his gaze only to have it locked with yours for a few seconds that felt like hours until he finally decided to speak.

“Look, I understand that you're angry-”

“I'm not angry Charles, I'm furious”

You said, frowning a little more while you still didn't take your eyes off him.

“I understand and you have every right to be.”

He let out a shaky sigh and ran his hands over his face.

“I know I should have told you about how intense Formula One fans were before, and I know I shouldn't have exposed you to this world. I know you don't want to be harassed on the street or online, nobody wants that, and I understand if you want to end it all right here, but I want you to know that I truly love you, and that I will always protect you from whoever wants to hurt you.”

He looked you in the eyes and got up from the chair, walking closer to you, with soft and slow steps as if each step of his could have enough force to break you into a thousand pieces.

“I'm sorry for everything that's happening, I really am. I know it was my fault for not being discreet, but I ask you please not to abandon what we've tried to build together.”

He grabbed your hands and intertwined them with his, causing you to quickly look away. You felt something liquid fall on his hands and yours, and then you realized he was crying.

“Don't take away Leo's chance to keep cuddling with you, to spend the day with you. From the moment I saw you on that date and saw how you treated Leo, with delicacy, kindness, and how you flattered him, you completely changed my heart..”

Your lower lip trembled a little and you let out a small sob, causing Charles to wrap you in a hug, a protective hug, one you didn't want to escape from, a hug that didn't feel forced but rather felt full of love.

Your hands wrapped around him and you hid your head in his neck, breathing in his perfume while he rested his chin on your head, closing his eyes as he traced soothing circles on your back with his hands.

“we would be a beautiful family…”

You murmured softly with a small laugh before closing your eyes and beginning to fall into a deep sleep in the arms of the man you wanted to spend the rest of your days with, even if it cost you your privacy on your social networks.

Charles_Leclerc ✓

liked by ynxoxo, lewishamilton, scuderiaferrari and 3,876,900 others

Charles_Leclerc I want to introduce you all, to my beautiful family, I had never felt so happy in my romantic life, I felt like my life was almost complete, and you @ ynxoxo were that almost, not only in my life, but also in Leo's life, you are a wonderful woman and I look forward to being able to tell everyone who is the woman who makes me and Leo happy every single day, I love you l'amour de ma vie. ❤️🐶

comments

ynxoxo Je taime aussi Charlie! ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ Charles_Leclerc t’aime*

↳ ynxoxo someone will sleep on the couch ☺️

↳ Charles_Leclerc just kidding mon amour 😅

↳ ynxoxo that's what i thought ☺️

user24 CONGRATULATIONS!!!

your_bro_ther Im so happy for the both of you ❤️ (but if you break her heart im breaking your legs 😊) ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ Charles_Leclerc Im going to treat her like a princess 🫡

user25 finally we have a mother 🥹

↳ user26 yessssssss finally

lewishamilton I wish you the best! 👏🏾 ♥︎ liked by the author

Yourfriend Charles x yn it’s real and im the fan number 1 ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ ynxoxo so true bestie 🫦 ♥︎ liked by the author

scuderiaferrari ❤️ ♥︎ liked by the author

user27 Charles giving likes to every yn comment it’s just 🙏

user28 adopt me 😭

user29 OMGGGGGGGG SO ROMANTIC

arthur_leclerc welcome to the family @ ynxoxo! (We all agree that Leo loves you more) ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ Charles_Leclerc Hey! 😡

↳ ynxoxo hehehe 🤭 ♥︎ liked by the author

↳ arthur_leclerc just saying

lando Destiny, give me a sign if I will find the love of my life just like Charles found his 🙏🏼

↳ Charles_Leclerc No

↳ oscarpiastri no.

↳ carlossainz55 sorry mate but no

↳ user30 no….

↳ maxverstappen1 👎🏻

↳ lewishamilton No

↳ user31 i don’t think so

↳ user32 No

↳ lando OK OK I GET IT 😓

↳ ynxoxo poor lando 😭 ♥︎ liked by the author

maxverstappen1 congratulations ♥︎ liked by the author

oscarpiastri Congratulations Charles 🎉 ♥︎ liked by the author

Charles found himself walking with Leo again through the halls of the vet where you had first met, but this time he wasn't going for Leo's vaccination appointment, he was going for you.

When he was in front of your office door, he knocked six times to let you know that he was the one there.

A few seconds were enough for you to open the door looking at Charles and almost immediately you bent down and took Leo in your arms, making the puppy lick your face and hands with excitement.

“who is a good boy? Yes you are!”

You petted Leo a little before you saw Charles leave a small bag with your favorite restaurant's logo on your desk.

“Thanks for picking up the order for me. You shouldn't have bothered…”

You said, looking at him shyly as you continued to caress Leo in your arms.

“mon amour, I've already told you that I wouldn't mind going to the other side of the world if it's for you.”

You smiled at him dazedly before laughing a little and watching Leo snuggle into your chest.

“you are like my guardian angel”

“et tu es tout pour moi”

(“And you are my everything”)

He said approaching you and stroking Leo's head a little.

He raised his hand to your chin and caressed it a little with his thumb before looking into your eyes.

“I love you”

He said, making the butterflies in your stomach start to flutter, tickling you all over your body.

“I love you too…”

After those words Charles closed the distance between his lips and gave you a kiss, a kiss so soft that it felt like a piece of heaven, like a home, it felt like everything.

As the seconds passed in your mind, all you could think about was that this was the moment you would treasure forever no matter what, right now it was just you, him and Leo.

taglist: no one for the moment 👎🏼

[raevalyntine]

art professor rafayel is head over heels for the sweet kindergarten teacher!

— fluff! (slight angst if you squint), meet cute, love at first sight, rafayel is an embarassing mess, slight humour

Professor Rafayel had always believed that art was the highest form of truth. Not facts. Not logic. Not numbers on a spreadsheet or tidy graphs in a presentation. Art. Messy, unpredictable, deeply human art. That’s what truly reveals the soul, in his opinion.

But this morning, truth felt like a cruel joke.

He sat at his usual spot in the quiet cafe just off campus, elbows resting on the table as the corner of his mouth tugged downward. Around him, warm sunlight filtered through aged windowpanes, washing the wooden floorboards in gold. It was the kind of light painters took inspiration from. The kind of moment he’d normally appreciate. Today, he barely noticed it.

His students, every single one of them, had disappointed him. Not because they weren’t talented. They were. Extremely so. But raw skill meant little when paired with indifference. His end-of-term evaluations felt like watching a gallery filled with hollow echoes of what could have been. Passionless strokes. Ideas with no teeth. Beauty without soul.

He had poured his heart into teaching, coaxing the fire out of them, week by week. But none of them had taken it seriously, even though they knew they had it in them.

So, understandably, his mood was a palette of stormy greys when the barista set his coffee on the table. A small comfort. One he had earned. He had just picked it up, savouring the warmth against his palm, when—

CRASH.

A blur of movement. A child’s head collided into him like a cannonball. The coffee jolted from his hand, the cup spinning mid-air, before crashing onto his coat and shirt in a sizzling, coffee-scented disaster. “Oh, come on—” Rafayel hissed, instinctively taking a step back, clutching his soaked coat. “Hey, watch where you’re going! My shirt…”

It wasn’t a shout, he wasn’t really angry. But it was sharp enough. Just sharp enough.

The boy—tiny thing with curly hair and big, startled eyes—stood frozen in horror.

And then... tears. Hot, fast tears rolled down the boy’s cheek, paired with loud wailings and people around him stared at them both. And Rafayel froze, napkins in hand, suddenly feeling like the villain in a children’s book.

“Munchkin!” The sound of soft urgency and concern cut through the scene like sunlight through clouds of grey.

And then you appeared.

You swooped down like a hero in a pastel dress, carrying the scent of something fresh and sweet with you as you gathered the sobbing child into your arms as he clung to your neck. “You shouldn’t have run off like that,” you murmured gently to him before turning your sharp gaze on Rafayel.

You looked like a spring morning—soft eyes, cardigan sleeves pushed up to your elbows, and–was that glitter? Smudged on your cheek? Rafayel didn’t even realise he was staring, taking in your beauty. But the lovely song that rang in his mind came to a halt when he met your eyes.

They were the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen, and he might have actually said it out loud to compliment you–if it wasn’t for the ice-cold glare you bore, glaring right through his soul. A shiver ran down his spine.

“He’s a child,” you said coldly. “You didn’t have to scare him.”

Rafayel blinked. “I wasn’t—”

You hugged the child tighter, shielding him from view, as if Rafayel were some kind of monster. Then you gave a slight bow of your head. A formality laced in frost. “Apologies for your expensive shirt,” you said, voice polite and pointed, before sweeping away with the crying child in your arms.

Rafayel stood there, blinking in stunned silence, napkins still uselessly balled in his hand. His shirt stuck to his ribs, his coffee was gone, and his dignity had clearly packed its bags and followed you out the door.

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. Unbelievable.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

But that wasn’t the end.

It should have been—just a moment, a weird little blip in the day of an overworked professor. He tried to forget it. He should’ve forgotten it. But he didn’t.

Days passed, as days often do when one is too distracted to notice them. Lecture halls filled and emptied. Canvas stretched and dried. The world moved on. But Rafayel didn’t.

He could not stop thinking about you. It began with annoyance. Embarrassment, maybe. That damned coffee incident replayed in his mind more times than he cared to admit. The way you had glared at him with that fierce little frown, cradling the crying child like Rafayel had committed a grave sin.

He should’ve forgotten it by now.

But then his thoughts would wander. To the softness of your voice, so full of warmth and quiet authority. To the way your brows furrowed when you turned to face him, how your posture shifted between protectiveness and polite hostility. To the floral scent of your sweater, caught briefly in the air as you turned away.

You kept creeping back into his thoughts. And your face… flushed with protectiveness, your mouth tugged into a scolding pout… It was, and he hated to admit this, adorable. That word kept popping up in his mind along with images of you that he couldn’t shake off no matter how hard he tried.

Every time he tried to refocus—on grading, on prepping lectures, on painting in his studio—you appeared again, like an accidental brushstroke on canvas he couldn’t paint over. Who were you? And why was his heart still beating a little faster when he thought of you glaring at him?

He sipped bland instant coffee in the faculty lounge and sighed. He took off his glasses and buried his head into his palms. “I’m losing my mind,” he muttered.

It haunted him, all of it, in stupid little ways. A child’s laugh outside a studio would make him glance up sharply. He found himself sketching faces that looked suspiciously like yours in the margins of his sketchbooks, none of them quite right, which only irritated him more. And worst of all?

He couldn’t stop wondering… Was the child yours?

The thought gripped him with a strange, unfamiliar tightness in his chest.

You were so natural with the boy. Tender, calm, instinctively attentive. You had held him like he was your world, and Rafayel… Rafayel had found himself staring that day. Not because he pitied the child, nor because of the coffee still drying on his coat, but because, for one impossible second, he had wanted to be the one held in that kind of warmth.

The shame came next.

He was fantasizing over a stranger. A mother, no less. A woman who had every right to despise him for making a child cry. Which means there’s a possibility that you’re married. To someone who probably knows you well. He didn’t mind it at all, to be honest, if you had a child, if you were a single mother. But that was a selfish hope. He shouldn’t assume. He shouldn't have been so mesmerized by the curve of your jaw, or the softness of your eyes, or the way you tucked the little boy against your chest like you were protecting him from everything wrong in the world.

He scolded himself for it in the shower. While walking to class. While cleaning his brushes with unnecessary aggression. But no matter how many times he tried to paint over the thought of you, it always bled through again, like watercolour on unprimed canvas.

You were beautiful. And it wasn’t exactly about how you looked. But it was about how you lived. How you carried yourself. It was the kind of beauty Rafayel sought in his students’ work but so rarely found.

You had it, though. Effortlessly.

And it drove him mad.

He wanted to see your expression again. Not just the anger. (Though that, admittedly, had been its own kind of devastating.) But everything else. Curiosity. Laughter. Thought. Would you tilt your head when you listened? Would your smile start from your eyes? Would your laugh be as soft as your voice or bright like sunlight?

He wanted to know. And he hated that he did.

Because if you had a family—if you belonged in a world of bedtime stories and school runs and shared morning routines—then he had no right.

So he told himself to stop. To forget. To move on.

But in the quiet hours of the evening, when the studio fell silent and the scent of oil paint lingered in the air, he would close his eyes…

And still see you there.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Rafayel was beginning to suspect that something was deeply wrong with him. Not physically, though, his body still moved with its usual elegant precision, his mind remained as razor-sharp as ever. His students still whispered about him in the hallways as if he were a living myth (which, to be fair, he sort of was—young, brilliant, devastatingly handsome. He didn’t actively seek attention, but it always found him anyway).

But mentally, emotionally—whatever it was that governed the realm of self-control? He was unraveling.

It started innocently enough. He’d taken a walk across campus to clear his head. A quiet stroll. It should’ve been calming, meditative. But as he turned the corner past the administrative building, something in the air shifted. A pull. A tug in the chest.

And then he saw you.

You, standing in profile, your hair swept up in a soft updo that left a few rebellious strands trailing along your neck. You wore a pastel sundress, something impossibly light and airy, like you had been plucked from the corner of a painting—too gentle for this world, too vivid for his imagination.

Rafayel froze. His heart—traitorous, impatient thing—skipped once, twice. He blinked a few times, wondering if he was starting to see things. But you were still there. So he stared. Was this a dream? A hallucination conjured from days of internal obsession and artistic block?

You were speaking to someone at the admin counter, animated but polite. Your hands moved when you talked. Your laugh was oh so sweet as it floated in the air for half a second.

He was getting lost in just the mere presence of you.

And then—

“Professor Rafayel?” the admin officer called out, snapping him back into his body. “Ah, just the man! Come here for a moment.”

You turned. Your eyes met. Rafayel swore he felt the ground tip slightly beneath him.

He cleared his throat—coolly, professionally—and stepped forward, projecting the image of composed indifference. (He was, in fact, absolutely crumbling inside.)

The officer nodded at you. “This young lady has something that belongs to you.”

You looked a little startled. Then you reached into your tote bag and pulled out a small, weathered notebook. It was small and barely fit a palm, its leather cover worn and corners curled with age.

Rafayel stared at it. “My notebook?” he asked, startled. “I thought I lost it. I’ve already replaced it.”

You smiled sheepishly and offered it to him. “I noticed your name and the university logo on the inside cover. I didn’t realize it at first, but... the child who bumped into you picked it up off the floor. He didn’t tell me until later that day, and by then his mother had already come to pick him up.”

He took the notebook slowly, fingers brushing yours. It felt heavier than it should. A piece of him he hadn’t realized was missing—now returned by the person he hadn’t realized he missed this much.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes lowering slightly. “Also... I wanted to apologize. For how I spoke to you. I assumed the worst. That wasn’t fair.”

But Rafayel wasn’t listening to that part. His mind had latched onto something else. Specifically your words: "His mother had already come to pick him up."

He replayed it in his head. Twice. Just to be sure.

Then he looked at you, eyes shining with unspoken hope.

“So… that’s not your son? You’re not married?” (Rafayel wanted to hit himself for not being able to wind down the hopeful tone in his voice.)

You blinked, startled. “Oh! No—no, not at all. I’m a kindergarten teacher. His mom’s a friend of mine, and she asked me to stay with him for a little while after class since she had to work late.”

He nodded, lips twitching upward. A slow, involuntary smile. “Ahh,” he said. “So you’re a kindergarten teacher… Cool, cool, cool…”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously at the stupid grin on his face. “Uhmm yeah…” You didn’t trust that smile—not one bit. So you gave a quick, polite bow. “Well then. I’m glad you got your notebook back. Have a nice day, Professor.”

And you turned to leave. But before you could take another step, his hand instinctively shot out and almost, almost caught your wrist. 

You paused. Eyed him.

He retracted his hand quickly, flustered. There was a touch of pink on the tips of his ears now.

“Wait,” he murmured, recovering his composure. “What’s your name?”

You tilted your head, curious. “You want to know my name now?”

He nodded. “I already lost one important thing that day. I’d rather not lose another.”

You blinked at that. A blush painted your cheeks at his boldness. Rafayel thinks he has found his new favourite shade of pink, as you told him your name, shy but honest.

Then, after a small beat, you held out your hand. “Nice to meet you... again, Professor.”

“Just call me Rafayel, please,” he said, with a slight tilt of victory to it if you listened close enough. He took your hand. His fingers wrapped around your palm—warm, gentle. His grip lingered just a heartbeat longer than what was considered polite.

When you let go and walked away, Rafayel stood there like a man newly stunned. He looked down at the notebook in one hand, the ghost of your touch in the other.

Then, under his breath:

“Shit.”

He had forgotten to ask for your number.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

After that, he started drawing you on purpose, your name repeated like a mantra in his head. Over and over. Dozens of poses, all imagined. Laughing. Reading. Sitting in the sun. Holding a paper flower a child made. In that stupid pastel sundress he couldn’t erase from memory.

His desk became a shrine to your smile.

It didn’t help that his moods were now being held hostage by the idea of you. His students started whispering when he started complimenting them for sketches that he would usually frown upon. He was humming and skipping around class as he praised the students.

That was the day after he had a dream about you. A very sweet dream. One where you were holding a watercolor brush and laughing as he taught you how to blend colours. He’d woken up smiling like a lovesick idiot and had been whistling by the time he arrived on campus.

The next week, though? An absolute nightmare.

“Your composition is weak. This is emotionless. Do it again,” he snapped at one student, frowning at the canvas like it had personally offended him. He’s never mean, usually the most he gives are constructive criticisms, so this was also quite a shock to the class.

“Professor Rafayel,” one brave soul dared to ask, “is everything alright?”

He simply narrowed his eyes and muttered, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

The truth was… he missed you. He only had your name, but he’s missing you like he’s had your love and presence in his life for years. And that made him hate himself just a little bit more.

So he went back to the café. Every day. Like a fool.

He always sat at the same table. Ordered the same drink. Pretended to grade papers while secretly glancing toward the door like some tragic Victorian heroine waiting for her beloved to return from war.

You never came.

Until—

One afternoon, he saw them. A child, about the same age as the one who had spilled coffee all over his soul. Holding hands with what looked like his father. Same uniform.

Rafayel was on his feet immediately.

“Excuse me,” he said, in what he hoped was a calm, friendly tone (it was not), “could I ask which kindergarten—”

“What the fuck?” the father snapped, instantly pulling the child behind him like Rafayel was about to abduct them both.

Rafayel blinked, horrified. “No—I mean, I’m not— I just—”

“Get away from my son!” The man stormed away, shielding the child with the protective fury of a bear defending its cub.

Rafayel stood there, completely frozen, face flushed crimson.

He was mortified. He sank back into his chair at the café, sighing as he saw the father lead his son to leave the cafe.

And then… something caught his eye.

The back of the child’s shirt. A badge. Embroidered in neat yellow stitching: 

“Little Blossoms Kindergarten.”

Rafayel sat up straighter. His heart jolted. Victory. Sweet, stupid victory. He pulled out his phone, already looking up directions. Tomorrow…he was going to see you. He was going to see you, and charm you and hopefully muster up the courage to ask for your number.

And honestly? It was the most excited he’d been in weeks.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Rafayel dismissed his class fifteen minutes early. He claimed it was to “encourage self-directed studio time.” In truth, he needed to change. There were standards to uphold, even for potential emotional disasters.

He stood in front of the mirror in his office, staring at himself as if he were prepping for an art exhibition—he was the piece on display. He stripped out of his usual button-up shirts and heavy coat and chose a simple white shirt. Clean. Casual. The kind with just enough looseness in the collar to reveal a teasing sliver of his chest. He rolled up his sleeves just a tiny bit, revealing just a little of his forearm muscles. Not too intimidating, he told himself. Approachable. Soft. Slightly irresistible (There was no way you wouldn’t feel at least a tiny bit flustered in front of a man as handsome as he is, right?).

And he knew it worked. One of his students had fumbled her water bottle and dropped a very unnecessary “oh my God” when he turned around in it earlier.

But he didn’t care about the stares. Because today, he was going to see you again.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The front gate of Little Blossoms Kindergarten looked like it had been hand-painted by actual cherubs. A white picket arch, cartoon tulips on either side, the gentle sound of squeals and giggles spilling out from the playground just beyond the fence. Children were climbing, sliding, chasing bubbles—pure chaos. But beautiful chaos.

Rafayel stood near the gate, trying to look normal. He smiled politely. The other kindergarten teachers glanced his way, exchanging subtle glances behind clipboards and ponytails. Who is this tall, handsome man with brooding eyes and an artist’s slouch standing way too close to the kids?

He smiled again. They narrowed their eyes.

He took a step back.

A part of him wondered if this was his breaking point. This was insane. He was a grown man. A professor. He had critiques to give, galleries to visit, canvases waiting for him in his studio— And yet he was here, practically vibrating with nerves outside a children’s daycare, hoping for a glimpse of a woman who smelled like frosting and had yelled at him once.

And then—

There you were.

Stepping out of the building, radiant in the afternoon sun. Your hair was tied up again in that effortlessly soft updo, and you were holding a small girl on your hip, her hands tangled in your cardigan. You said something to her, and the child giggled before you gently set her down and ruffled her hair as she dashed toward the playground.

And Rafayel…

Forgot how to function as a person.

You were so beautiful. Not in some obvious, sculpted way—but in the way that made his artist’s eye ache. Your smile was sunshine softened by cloud. Your laugh, quiet as it was, bent the light around you. And the curve of your neck, the delicate way you reached to brush a leaf off your shoulder—

God, he was so screwed.

You turned���caught him staring again. And before he could rearrange his face into something normal, you were suddenly in front of him.

Up close. So close.

You smelled like cupcakes. And marshmallows. And warmth. Your lips were moving—saying something, maybe a hello, maybe a what are you doing here—but he could barely process anything over the blood rushing to his ears.

And then it happened.

He panicked. And he blurted it. Voice coming out a bit too sharp, a bit too high.

“Date me.”

…

Silence.

You blinked. Your lips parted slightly in surprise. The birds had the audacity to chirp in the distance like this was a romcom and not his complete emotional collapse. Rafayel’s eyes widened. “I mean—! I didn’t mean—no, I did mean that—but I meant it more… poetically? Respectfully? Not so—aggressively—”

You tilted your head, hiding a small smile behind your fingers. And then—miracle of miracles—you blushed, a soft pink spreading across your cheeks like a dawn sky. (Rafayel was going to faint at how his favourite colour had appeared again.)

“I think,” you said gently, “a dinner date would be nice.”

Rafayel’s brain short-circuited. Oh heavens, he must have done something right in his past life to deserve this. You didn’t think it was possible for Rafayel to look even redder than before.

“Okay,” he said. Then again. “Okay… okay…”

You chuckled,  and then you suddenly held out your hand toward him.

Rafayel’s brain went into overdrive as he scrambled to understand what you’re implying. Oh she moves fast, does she want to hold my hand? Oh god I hope it’s not sweaty. Rafayel, overwhelmed and blinking rapidly, gently placed his hand in yours.

You laughed. Full-out, melodic laughter that made his knees weaken. He wished it was possible to immortalize your laughter into a canvas.

“No, no—your phone, silly!” you teased, swatting his hand playfully. “You do want my number, don’t you? How else are we going to plan this date?”

He scrambled, fumbling through his pockets like a man in a hostage situation. His hands were sweaty. Of course they were. He hated it. He’s a mess. What if you feel uncomfortable with how he’s acting? His thoughts are running a mile a minute.

But you took the phone calmly from his trembling grip, typed in your number, and handed it back. “There,” you said with a grin. “Now you won’t have to interrogate any more poor kids and piss of their parents.”

His eyes widened. “You knew about that?”

“The staff group chat has photos.” You winked. “You looked quite suspicious lingering at the cafe, the parents are already discussing what to do with you.”

Rafayel groaned, covering his face.

You giggled again. “Text me later… Rafayel.”

You turned, waving, and disappeared back toward the building.

And Rafayel—once the picture of composure, mystery, and sophistication—just stood there.

Clutching his phone. Heart pounding. The ghost of your laughter still in his ears. You’d left him speechless and weak again. He was beginning to think it wouldn’t be the last. 

And as the playground laughter faded behind him, all Rafayel could do was stare after you, utterly undone, already wondering how on earth he was supposed to survive falling for someone like you.

[tinybeetiny]

“Sleep” Talking: C.S

->Starring: SanxReader ->Genre: Fluff ->Cw: None

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist

Seonghwa | Hongjoong | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

The bedroom was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came late at night, the world outside hushed, the lights low and golden. You were curled up beside San, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

One of his arms was draped across your waist, heavy and warm, while your fingers absentmindedly traced lazy circles against the fabric of his shirt.

You thought he was asleep.

His breathing was deep, slow. His face relaxed. He looked so peaceful that you didn’t dare move too much, didn’t want to wake him — but your mind, on the other hand, was wide awake. Filled with him.

You smiled softly to yourself and whispered into the quiet, not expecting an answer. Just letting your heart speak.

“I love you,” you breathed.

It was the kind of confession that came easy in the dark. Gentle. Unfiltered. Safe.

“I don’t think you even realize how much I do,” you continued, voice barely louder than a sigh. “It’s not just because of the way you look — though, let’s be real, that doesn’t hurt.”

You giggled softly at your own joke.

“It’s the way you laugh with your whole body. How you always make sure I’m on the inside of the sidewalk when we walk. How you pretend you’re not scared during horror movies, even though you totally are.”

You glanced over at him again, still convinced he was fast asleep.

“I love the way you hum when you’re brushing your teeth, how you hold me like I’m something precious, even when you’re half asleep. I just… I love you so much, San. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

You sighed, your fingers now still on his chest. “I hope you know. Even if I don’t say it enough, I really, really love you.”

A beat of silence.

And then

“I know,” came his voice, groggy, low, and just the tiniest bit smug.

You jumped in place, your heart lurching in surprise. “S-San?! You were awake?!”

He looks up at you slowly, still sleepy but now wearing the most devastatingly adorable grin. “Mhm,” he hummed, eyes barely open. “Heard every word.”

Your face flushed hot as you buried it in your hands. “Oh my God.”

He laughed, the sound raspy and warm in the quiet room. “Hey,” he whispered, gently tugging your hands away so he could see your face. “Don’t hide. That was the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

You tried to pout, but it melted instantly when he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

“I love you too,” he whispered between kisses. “So much it’s actually kind of stupid.”

You laughed, breathless, giddy, and buried your face in his chest instead. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the love of your life,” he teased, wrapping both arms tightly around you. “And now I have a whole list of reasons why.”

You groaned playfully, but your smile didn’t fade once, not even as you drifted off a few minutes later, cradled in his arms, with the sound of his heartbeat and your shared I love yous echoing in the quiet.

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[sevarchive]

♡ strawberry gummies ──

જ⁀➴ a shidou ryusei story. 3.9k words

synopsis: in which two kids grew up side by side in an orphanage, and swore they’d never leave each other behind, but not all promises survive growing up.

a/n: i really gave this my all, shidou’s a tough one to break in angst, and there’s so little of it out there. i rlly tried. btw this piece was written for a ticket from the ask roulette carnival! visit their original ticket here!

ryusei shidou was born rabid.

that’s what the other kids at the orphanage whispered, wide-eyed, after the first week. after he broke a chair over someone’s back. after he bit a teacher. after he smiled at his own bloody nose like it was confetti.

you were the only one who didn’t flinch.

not because you weren’t scared, you were.  but you’d lived with monsters before.

people who smiled like lies and touched like bruises. people who said they loved you and left you with scars to prove it. you knew cruelty that dressed itself up in soft voices and parental authority.

the first time he talked to you, he was outside alone, holding an ice pack to his jaw and there was blood on his temple, already crusting into his hair.

he squinted at you. “what? you lost or something?”

you shook your head.

“then quit staring. i don’t need your pity.”

still, you didn’t move. you knelt down instead and held out a bandage.

“tch.” he scoffed. “what, you tryna play nurse now?”

you didn’t answer, just started unwrapping the gauze. he hesitated. then, with a dramatic sigh and a roll of his eyes, he dropped onto the ground beside you.

“whatever. just don’t screw it up.”

you dabbed at the cut on his lip gently, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything.

“…you’re not scared of me?” he muttered, quieter now.

“no,” you said.

he didn’t smile, but his shoulders dropped a little.

and when you pulled out an onigiri from your pocket and held it out to him, he blinked, then snatched it from your hand like you might change your mind.

“…fine. but you’re weird,” he said through a mouthful of rice. “don’t expect me to share.”

but when you pulled out a second one, he didn’t argue. and from that day on, he never made you flinch.

time slipped past like a lazy tide. shidou got worse. or better—depending on who you asked. he grew taller, faster, sharper. talent curled beneath his skin like a fuse waiting to burn. feral on the field, a menace off it.

football was the only thing that held his attention. it wasn’t a sport to him. it was instinct. survival. something that lived in his bones and blood, something he sank his teeth into like it was the only way he knew he was alive. the rest of the world was too slow.

too soft. too boring. so he broke it.

but y/n stayed. always.

she watched him turn shin guards into weapons and grins into warnings. sat through suspensions and scoldings. walked him to the principal’s office more times than she could count.

everyone else saw a rabid dog in cleats. but she saw a boy who once gave her half his onigiri when they had nothing else to eat.

on one of those storm-soaked nights, the power flickered out again at the orphanage. she found him in the common room, hunched in the dark with a cut lip, a swollen cheek, and scraped knuckles.

another fight. another blame he never deserved.

someone’s wallet went missing, and no one cared enough to ask questions before pointing fingers. shidou didn’t bother defending himself. not because he didn’t care—because he knew they wouldn’t listen.

he let them hit him first. let them think they were winning before he fought back.

when she sat beside him, he didn’t say a word. just let her place a warm onigiri in his hand and a gummy candy on his knee. she gave him the first bite, even though it was her favorite. and he took it like it meant something.

“If the world’s gonna treat us like trash,” he muttered, “I’m gonna be the meanest, loudest, most dangerous pile of it they’ve ever seen.”

she turned toward him.

his eyes were wild with certainty, gleaming like something alive. he looked like a boy with nothing to lose and everything to prove.

they sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, sharing candy while the rain poured and the world outside spun without them.

and for a moment, even with bruises blooming and silence thick between them, it felt like they’d carved out their own little piece of peace.

like as long as she was there, he wouldn’t fall apart. not completely.

it didn’t happen all at once.

there wasn’t a moment where shidou stopped being the boy who shared half his rice ball in the rain. it was slower than that. quiet. like a door left ajar in a burning house—you don’t realize it until the smoke’s already in your lungs.

he got angrier and more reckless. after school, he’d vanish without a word. sometimes he came back bloodied. sometimes not. you never asked, and he never told you. but he always smiled.

a smile too sharp to be safe.

he started playing like he had something to prove. like scoring wasn’t enough unless he crushed someone to do it. he wasn’t chasing the ball anymore—he was chasing domination. fear. the kind that makes people flinch when he walks by.

you started staying up later. just in case.

and then one night, he knocked.

three slow thuds.

you opened the door and froze.

he was drenched in sweat and someone else’s blood. his shirt stuck to his skin. there was a rip in the sleeve and dried red smeared along his arm. but he wasn’t hurt. not physically.

he was grinning.

not out of joy—because he felt alive.

his eyes sparkled with adrenaline. his fingers twitched at his sides.

“guy pulled a knife on me after the game,” he said, laughing under his breath. “so i broke his wrist. and his face. might’ve cracked a rib too. not mine. his.”

you stared at him.

“was it about me again?”

he scoffed. “yeah. they always think hurting you is the way to get to me. they’re not wrong.”

he stepped into the room like it belonged to him. he was pacing now, still riding the high.

“i told them to stay away. i warned them. i begged them to try me.”

he stopped, turned toward you.

“i can’t let anything happen to you. you’re the only thing i give a shit about off the field.”

you didn’t say a word.

he took another step closer, lowering his voice now, like it mattered.

“you know that, right?”

you looked up at him. his face was flushed. blood dried on his cheek like war paint. he reached up to touch you—just a brush of his fingertips against your jaw. gentle, even now.

“so i scare them. so what? fear’s better than failure.”

“i didn’t ask you to protect me,” you whispered.

he paused. his hand fell back to his side.

“you didn’t have to.”

for a moment, it was quiet. he wasn’t smiling anymore.

he looked away.

“i know you hate it,” he said. “the blood. the fighting.”

you didn’t deny it.

he rubbed his temple, messy blond hair sticking to his skin.

“i don’t wanna miss it,” he mumbled.

you blinked. “what?”

“your birthday. it’s next week, right? sixteenth.”

your breath caught.

he laughed softly—no grin this time. just a small, tired sound.

“i was gonna take you somewhere. somewhere nice. just us.”

you looked at him. he wasn’t angry now. just... worn.

“i remember when you turned thirteen,” he said. “you made me that stupid little paper crown. said i was king for the day. i kept it, you know?”

your chest ached.

“i just wanted to keep you safe,” he whispered. “that's all i was trying to do.”

he sounded younger than you remembered.

for a second, the mask cracked. and behind it, the boy you grew up with was still there. bloody. bruised. tired. but still ryusei.

still yours.

i was holding the damn onigiris again.

tuna mayo. her favorite. the ones we used to split when we were kids. i’d always act like i hated them; too soft, too sweet, but i never said no when she handed hers over. never could.

i was sitting on the curb outside the field. dirt on my cleats. blood dried on my sleeve from some fight i barely remembered. practice was done. the sun was already dipping low. and all i could think about was her.

she wouldn’t get out of my head.

every match, i looked up into the stands like she might be there. every time my fists curled, i heard her voice in the back of my skull, soft and stubborn, trying to reel me in like i wasn’t already too far gone. every time i scored, i thought—she’d be proud of that one. and it pissed me off. how she was still inside me. everywhere.

i wanted her beside me. always. i wanted her to wear my name like it meant something. like a warning. like a promise. because that’s what she was. mine.

even if i never said it, i built entire futures around her in my head. mornings with her humming while she made tea. nights where we argued and yelled and then she’d sit next to me and press her hand to my chest and all the noise would stop. that was the life. the one i wanted. the one i swore was coming.

so i went back. to the orphanage.

i had the onigiris in my bag like some idiot. remembered her saying she missed them once, and i thought maybe—just maybe—if i showed up with them, she’d smile like she used to.

but the second i stepped through the door, i knew. too quiet. too still. no laughter echoing down the hall. no voice calling my name.

the staff looked at me, and i already felt it in my gut.

"shidou."

"where is she?"

they paused. my skin went tight. my jaw clenched.

"where is she," i asked again, lower this time.

"she left. she was adopted."

no. no.

my ears rang. my heart started punching my ribs. adopted. like she was some stray someone could just pick up and take. like she didn’t already belong to me.

i ran. didn’t stop to think. like if i didn’t move fast enough, the world would close around me and rip her out for good.

i saw her. in the back seat of a car. just her outline through the glass.

she didn’t see me. i shouted her name. over and over. my throat burned.

she didn’t turn around.

i ran until i couldn’t breathe. until my legs were jelly and my chest felt like it was going to cave in. like if i just got close enough, i could grab her back.

but i didn’t make it. the lights disappeared. the road went silent. and i was alone. no sound. no blood. no bruises.

no her.

“they’re for you!” i screamed, chest heaving. “i bought them, y/n! with my own fuckin’ money! didn’t steal—didn’t hit anyone—i stayed clean! for you!”

my hands were shaking. the onigiris were half-smashed in my grip, warm and ruined.

“it’s tuna mayo. you like that shit. i remembered. it’s your birthday, isn’t it? sixteen. i was gonna say happy birthday like a dumbass and you’d roll your eyes and—fuck—”

my throat closed up. i could barely breathe.

“why didn’t you wait? why didn’t you turn around?!”

i dropped to my knees, still clutching the food like it meant anything. like it could bring her back.

“i was right there. i was right fucking there, and you left anyway…you left me.”

i turned and slammed my fist into the nearest wall. again. and again. and again. didn’t matter what it was made of. i just wanted it to hurt. i wanted to bleed. i wanted something real. something to hold onto while the rest of me fell apart.

my knuckles split. blood dripped down to my wrist. i kept going. i screamed. not words. just rage. grief. failure. all twisted together, tearing out of me like it would kill me if i kept it in.

i dropped to my knees. breathing like i’d just played the longest match of my life. but there was no whistle. no finish. no reset.

y/n was it. the leash. the brake. the voice in my fucked-up head saying stop. when i was ready to burn the whole goddamn world, she was the reason i didn’t. and now? now she was just gone.

i couldn’t punch through this. couldn’t fight it off. couldn’t bleed hard enough to feel anything but empty.

if someone looked me in the eye right then and told me to give something up—anything—i wouldn’t even blink.

football. my future. my name. everything i ever clawed for.

i’d throw it in the fire, laughing.

just to hear her say my name again. just once. that’s all.

y/n thought that maybe if she stayed quiet, if she didn’t let the weight of it settle too deep, leaving wouldn’t hurt as much. but it did. even now, in a soft apartment tucked into the quiet corners of france, it still ached like an old bruise.

her new parents were gentle. they spoke carefully, always asking how she felt, always treating her like she might shatter if they pressed too hard. but no amount of kindness could reach the place inside her that never left.

her body moved forward, but her heart stayed behind. it stayed with ryusei.

she thought of him more than she wanted to. sometimes it came without warning. the sound of boys yelling on a sidewalk. gravel crunching under worn sneakers. a rice ball in the corner store that looked too much like the ones they used to split. she missed him.

not just the version the world saw, wild and brutal and on fire, but all of him.

the boy who once curled up next to her in the dark and whispered promises he never learned how to keep.

she had told herself that leaving would protect them both. that maybe he would stop fighting so hard if he was not always trying to protect her.

but then she saw him again. not in person, but through a screen. a u-20 match playing late one night. his name caught her off guard, and when she looked, it felt like the air left the room. and when the camera caught his face, she saw the same expression he used to wear when he came home bleeding and didn’t want to talk about it.

after that, y/n could not stop. she watched every match, every interview, every replay. she looked for him in every frame, searching for proof that he was still there, that he had not turned into someone the world could not love. she watched to see if he looked angry. she watched to see if he looked like he remembered. she did not think he ever forgot her. and she knew, without question, that she had hurt him more than she meant to.

if she could go back, if she could hear him calling her name just one more time, she would not have walked away. she would have turned around. she would have stayed.

because she loved him. because she still did. even now, with nothing left but flickering screens and memories sharp enough to bleed.

one night, y/n booked a flight without thinking. told herself it was to watch a match, just to see how he moved now—how he lived without her—but she knew better. it wasn’t about football. it never was. she wanted to see if there was anything left of the boy who once shared half an onigiri with her when they were ten.

she found him outside the stadium, half-hidden by shadow and sweat, hoodie pulled low over his eyes. his teammates passed without looking at him. he leaned against a vending machine like the world bored him. and when she called his name, his head lifted slow, cautious, like he didn’t trust what he was hearing. their eyes met.

for a moment, everything stopped. the noise, the crowd, the city. she saw something flicker—wide and open and almost afraid.

then it was gone. like it had never been there. the light left his eyes. and ryusei turned away.

“wait—ryusei, please—”

her fingers caught his sleeve. he tore away from her like she’d stabbed him.

“you don’t get to say my name anymore,” he muttered, voice gravel and glass.

her throat tightened. “i had no choice.”

“you always had a choice. you just didn’t choose me.”

“that’s not fair—”

“you think i care about fair?” he stepped closer, eyes burning. “you got in that car and didn’t even look back. not once. i begged you with my fucking legs. chased you until i couldn’t breathe, and you kept going.”

she felt it. that old ache, crawling up her spine.

“i missed you,” she whispered. “i never stopped missing you.”

he shook his head.

“i needed you,” he said. quiet, almost shaking. “you were the only thing i gave a shit about. and you left me like i was nothing.”

“i was scared.”

“so was i.”

he swallowed hard, chest rising and falling with the kind of pain that had nowhere else to go.

“you think i didn’t cry for you?” he spat. “i would’ve set the world on fire for one fucking word. one goodbye. you didn’t even give me that.”

“i thought leaving would protect you,” she said.

“you broke me.”

he looked at her like she was the ghost of something he used to pray for.

then he stepped back.

“you’re too late.”

and when he walked away, this time she didn’t follow.

after that night, ryusei got worse. whatever restraint he had left burned out fast. he played like he wanted to hurt people—opponents, teammates, anyone who crossed his path. fines piled up. warnings blurred together. he stopped showing up to meetings. he stopped sleeping.

on the pitch, he was a wildfire. off it, he was wreckage no one could stop.

his name started flashing across the news for all the wrong reasons. leaked footage. street fights. blood. a busted lip in one clip, a shattered nose in another. he slammed someone against a wall after a foul in training and walked off grinning. he did not care if they suspended him. he did not care if the entire world labeled him a monster.

the only person he wanted to see him had already looked away.

eventually, they brought him in interrogation, sat with his hands cuffed, wrists scraped raw, eyes dulled by exhaustion.

the questions came fast, one after the other. about the charges. about the career he was setting on fire. he barely answered. gave nothing but silence and smirks. his eyes kept drifting, unfocused, locked on corners of the room where no one stood.

when one officer leaned forward and asked if he even wanted to save himself, ryusei looked up, slow and far away, like he was listening to someone else.

like the voice in his head was the only one that mattered.

“this is what you’ve become?”

he blinked hard. it was the officer. of course it was. but when he blinked again, it wasn’t. it was her.

“i did this for you,” he muttered, breath unsteady. “i fought so no one could hurt you. i—”

“you lost me anyway.”

his head snapped up. something cracked in his chest. “shut up. shut UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP—”

but she kept going.

“you didn’t protect me. you scared me. you broke everything you touched and called it love.”

he lurched forward, chains clanking against the metal table. eyes blown wide. breathing jagged.

“don’t say that,” he whispered, trembling. “please, don’t say that. i love you. i still do. just stop—stop looking at me like that—”

she tilted her head. “i don’t even know you anymore.”

he screamed.

not words. just noise. animalistic and raw, the kind of sound you make when your soul’s been dragged out of your throat and shattered on the floor.

he stood, dragging the chair with him, throwing his body toward the vision that wasn’t even there. the officers yelled, reaching for him. he didn’t hear them. he was clawing at his chest, his arms, the air—anything to tear her out of him.

“MAKE HER STOP!” he begged, collapsing to his knees.

his voice was wrecked. small now. childish.

“please… please just make her stop…”

shidou was walking back from the field. still in his cleats, hoodie pulled low, blood crusted on his sleeve from some fight he already forgot. the match was over. the streets were quiet. but something restless still gnawed at him from the inside.

then he heard it.

someone's crying. choked between hiccups.

he turned the corner and spotted her, little girl, alone on the curb, knees pulled to her chest, face hidden.

shidou slowed. something in him paused. something about her small shape, the trembling, the way she looked so alone...it reminded him.

of her.

so he crouched in front of the kid. cleats dug into the concrete.

“you good, short stuff?” he said, voice flat. “you look like the world ended.”

she didn’t answer, just sniffled louder.

he sighed and dug into his hoodie pocket, pulling out a crumpled strawberry gummy. it had been there a while. he wasn’t even sure why he still carried them.

“here,” he muttered. “don’t cry.”

she looked at him—wide eyes, watery—and slowly reached out.

but before her fingers could even touch the candy, a voice roared behind him.

“hey! get the hell away from her!”

shidou’s head snapped up just as a man came barreling over. the stranger shoved him back, nearly knocking the gummy from his hand.

shidou stumbled, more stunned than anything.

“what the fuck’s your problem?” he barked.

“my problem? you’re some grown asshole cornering a little girl!” the man snapped, shielding the child behind him. “she’s ten! what the hell are you doing?”

shidou’s face twisted.

“you think i’m trying to hurt her?” his voice was dark. low. “seriously?”

the man glared. “don’t play dumb. what were you giving her, huh? you some kind of freak?”

shidou’s grin fell.

he stood up slowly. too slowly.

“i gave her a candy, you moron. i had one. that’s it.”

“oh yeah? you think that makes it better? you're a monster!” the man snapped. “back off, or i’m calling the cops. y/n, come here—”

that was the mistake.

the second he heard it, that name, shidou froze.

“what… did you just call her?” he asked.

the man blinked, thrown off for a second—but then his face twisted with something meaner. louder.

“y/n,” he barked, tugging his daughter behind him. “my daughter. now back off, freak—”

that was it.

something inside shidou cracked.

he slammed the man against the wall, fingers twisted in his collar, hard enough to make the siding groan. the man gasped, eyes wide.

“you don’t get to say that name,” shidou snarled, spit flying from his teeth. “you don’t know what the FUCK it means.”

“GET OFF ME—!” the man choked, trying to shove him away. “you sick piece of SHIT! GET OFF—!”

his daughter sobbed behind him, too scared to move.

“you’re disgusting,” the man spat, voice sharp with panic. “you look like you belong in a cage. you are a monster—look at you! you're scaring a kid, you FREAK—MONSTER!”

shidou’s hands shook.

he’d heard those words before.

freak. monster.

over and over. in classrooms. on the field. from people who never looked past his fists. but it never stopped cutting.

he wasn’t even trying to hurt anyone. not this time. he just wanted to help.

just wanted to be something good for once.

but no matter what he did, the world still looked at him like this. like he was made of teeth and violence. like he was already beyond saving.

his chest heaved. his voice broke.

“she was the only one who didn’t look at me like that…” he said, voice cracking. “she was all i fucking had. and you think i’d hurt her?” his grip tightened. “you think i’d touch something i’d kill the whole GODDAMN world to protect?”

the man didn’t answer. he was too busy staring at the wild, broken thing in front of him: the fury, the heartbreak, the grief painted into every inch of shidou’s face.

and the little girl just cried louder.

he reeled his fist back.

and then—

someone screamed his name.

not the little girl. not the man.

her.

shidou’s whole body went still. his fist hovered in the air. his breathing stopped.

“y/n,” he breathed, like the name itself was keeping him alive. “oh my god. you’re—fuck—you’re really here.”

his voice cracked. his hands trembled.

“i thought i was losing it. i kept seeing you—kept hearing your voice—and i thought it was just my head fucking with me again but you’re—”

he laughed, breathless and broken. “you’re here. you’re here.”

he took a step closer, blinking through the tears already falling. “look at me. please. just look. you saw it wrong. it wasn’t—i wasn’t hurting her. i swear. i was just trying to help, that’s it. i heard her crying and—shit, y/n—i would never—”

his voice faltered. he rubbed at his eyes like it would somehow fix the wreck of himself.

“don’t look at me like that. don’t—don’t look scared. please.”

his hands reached forward, hesitant, like she might disappear if he touched her.

“you know me. you know me. this—this isn’t who i am. not to you. i never wanted to be—whatever the hell this is. i just—i just wanted to keep you safe.”

“i’ve missed you every single fucking day,” he whispered. “i didn’t forget anything. i couldn’t. you’re still the only thing that makes this life feel like it’s worth anything at all.”

his voice dropped, soft and begging.

“just say something. anything. tell me i’m not too late.”

and then—

her expression didn’t change. her voice was steady, but it sliced deeper than any punch he’d ever taken.

“you are.”

and she walked away.

but she came back.

not right away. not after the fight, not after the world turning its back on him. but eventually. y/n moved back during the winter, after everything. people even said she was crazy for it. she didn’t care.

she found him in a rehab facility near the coast—quiet, twitchy, eyes a little too empty. he looked like someone who'd been living with ghosts.

she became the reason he started healing.

at first, she just visited on sundays. sat with him in the courtyard while he stared at the sky like it might have answers. she brought snacks, old books, the onigiri he used to pretend he didn’t like. then one day, she didn’t leave. told the nurse she’d stay the night. told him she wasn’t going to keep loving him from a distance anymore.

he didn’t cry. he just looked at her like she’d handed him the whole damn sun.

eventually, they found a place together, nothing fancy. it was close to the train station and two blocks away from a bakery that always smelled like caramel.

he even started therapy. y/n always held his hand after every session, no matter how drained he looked walking out. and little by little, the walls started to come down.

and she—god, she lit up their life like it was her second chance too. danced around the kitchen barefoot. sat on the counter in his oversized shirts. called him “my husband” even before the wedding.

when he proposed, it was stupid. he blurted it out over burnt toast and toothpaste still on his mouth. she laughed until she cried. said yes anyway.

they got matching rings. she teased him for crying at the city hall. he denied it. later, she caught him staring at the silver band on her hand like it was the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

he also stopped playing pro. said he didn’t need the noise anymore. started coaching at a small local school instead. the kids loved him. she swore it was because they didn’t know how violent he used to be. he said it was because he was the coolest bastard on earth. she told him he was lucky she loved him.

a few months after that, she told him they were expecting.

he didn’t sleep that night. just kept his head on her stomach, whispering things like, "you’re gonna be so loved, little punk,” and “i swear to god, i’ll get it right this time.”

they painted the nursery yellow. she taught him how to fold baby clothes. he read parenting books even though he hated reading. started keeping strawberry gummies in his pocket again—for her.

at night, he’d fall asleep with one hand resting on her bump, the other tangled in hers. the fan spun overhead. her breath warmed his collarbone. he hadn’t had a nightmare in weeks.

he felt safe. he felt whole.

some nights, they’d lie on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, lights off, dreaming out loud.

“i’m scared,” she whispered once, palms on her stomach.

“i’m not,” he answered. “not with you.”

and then—

"who the hell are you talking to, freak?" his cellmate muttered, half-asleep.

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist ; like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[sturniqlo]

LIGHTS UP— C.S

pairing: boyfriend!chris x girlfriend!reader

summary: you are losing yourself meaning chris is losing you too

an: my interpretation on this song for this fic is way different than the actual meaning i fear

cw: depersonalization, breakup, no happy ending :(

fine line marathon

you sat on the kitchen floor in chris' hoodie and a pair of your pajama shorts with your knees up to your chest. it was almost two in the morning. you weren't crying, and that was what scared you the most, not the sadness, but the numbness you felt. the way everything felt far away, and you tried your best to reach for it, but you couldn't ever reach it.

chris was asleep peacefully in your bed down the hall, were you should be curled up next to him. you used to count down the hours until you got to see him next, and now you count the ways you'd become someone else. you remembered how it all felt in the beginning. how alive you were. how chris saw you, really saw you, in a way no one else ever had. he loved every part of you.

even the ones you tried to hide. you would always trace the line of his jaw at night and whisper things you'd never said out loud before. but over time, something shifted. not him, but in you. you stopped laughing as hard. you started hesitating before you spoke. your smile didn't reach your eyes anymore. and you couldn't recognize your own voice anymore. you couldn't recognize who you saw in the mirror. who were you?

it wasn't about chris. he hadn't dimmed your light, if anything he was the one who kept it on. but something inside you had cracked and the light started to leak out on its own.

chris was the best thing to ever happen to you. he remembered the little things about you. brought you your favorite drink the way you liked it. he always listened to the playlist you made for him on your third date. still touched you like were something to be cared for— loved for. not handled.

and now, you felt nothing.

it wasn't that you stopped loving chris, it was that you stopped recognizing the person he loved.

everything started so quietly. a growing disconnect. a strange delay in your emotions, like your body and heart weren't syncing up anymore. you'd be with chris wrapped up in his hoodie, his arms around you on the couch and your brain would wander off. you would still kiss him, smile at him, and tell him you loved him, because part of you still did and you wanted to be fully in. but it just didn't settle right in your chest and it hurt you. it hurt that you couldn't tell him— you didn't want to tell him.

as the weeks went by, you realized how unfair you were being to him by not telling him. it wasn't because you didn't trust him, but because you didn't trust yourself. how do you explain to the person you want to continue loving that you're feeling hollow inside without making the person blame think they failed you?

he hadn't failed, if anything he was the one holding you together.

the next night, chris came over like he usually would. you two were curled up in bed, the streetlights from outside poured through your curtains and dimly lit the room. as you lied in bed staring at the ceiling, the weight of your own skin felt unbearable. you wanted to leave it and go crawl in the corner and disappear for a while.

chris stirred next to you. "can't sleep?" he said groggily. you blinked, coming back to reality. "no." chris reached for your hand that was on his chest and your body tensed instinctively, not from disgust, not from fear, but from disconnection. and he noticed your tense. "you okay?" he asked, turning his head towards you. you hesitated.

no, i'm not. i don't know who i am. i feel like a copy of myself. i feel like im living as someone im not. i'm scared you see someone i no longer recognize. instead you spoke differently. "yeah, just tired. just wanna fall asleep." he pulled you closer, trusting you. believing you.

the next morning you stood in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. you touched your cheek and moved you mouth into a smile. it looked like you, but didn't feel like you. chris walked in behind you, reaching for the toothbrush he kept in your bathroom. he met your gaze in the mirror and gave you a sleepy smile, you smiled back. and you hated yourself for how easy it was to fake it.

three days went by and you asked him to meet him outside your building. you couldn't do it inside of your place where it held too many good memories from when you still felt like yourself. he showed up in his signature hoodie and jeans, his hair messy from the wind. chris smiled like he always did. the kind of smile that made you fall in love with him.

"hey, everything alright?" he said as he pulled you in for a forehead kiss. you almost backed out and were about to lie. "i don't know how to say this.." you began, your fingers trembling in the pocket of your hoodie. "but i need to be honest." chris' smiled slightly faded. his shoulders slightly tensed, but he didn't interrupt you.

"i— i don't know who i am anymore." you said straight up. "and i don't want you to love the lost version of myself." his eyes searched yours. "what do you mean?" he whispered. "i feel like i've been acting lately. like i've been performing as someone who is put together and— and good... connected. but im not. not lately." you shook your head as your eyes blurred with tears. you hated that you were doing this to him.

he stepped closer. "why didn't you tell me sooner, baby?" a tear slipped from your eye and chris wiped it off. "i didn't want you to think it was your fault. please tell me you don't think it's your fault... even if you don't believe me." he frowned a bit but nodded. "it's not my fault." he said quietly. "but does this mean you don't love me?" his voice faltered. "no," you whispered. "i'm not sure if i love anything right now."

the silence that followed hurt more than if he had yelled and stormed off. but chris didn't do that, he just looked at you— really looked at you. and you could see it in him, the heartbreak, the confusion, but also the understanding. because he knew you. even now. "i don't want to be another thing you're pretending for." he said. "if you need to leave... i won't fight it." you felt another hot wave of tears. "you've never don't anything wrong." you said. "i know, baby, i know. but that doesn't mean you're not allowed to leave."

a small part of you that you still haven't lost wished that he would fight. that he would plead. but he didn't. because chris loved you enough to let you go. even when it hurt. even when it wasn't his fault.

you two didn't speak a while after that.

he walked you up to your door anyway. like a goodbye. he kissed your forehead at the door and spoke against it. "i hope you find your way back to yourself, and hopefully back to me." and when he spoke, you felt a drop of wetness hit your forehead, his tear.

and oh how you hoped the light would eventually guide you back to him.

[dragonridersandhighlords]

To Reach You | Garrick Tavis

Garrick Week Masterlist

Summary: When a mission takes a dangerous turn, Garrick is forced to make an impossible choice—and proves there's no distance he wouldn't cross for the person he loves.

Note: For Garrick Week Day 3: Distance - @empyreanevents

Pairing: Garrick Tavis x Reader

Warnings: battle injuries, hurt/comfort

Word Count: <1k

They were surrounded.

The hillside, once quiet under gray skies, now thundered with the screeches of wyverns and the deafening crash of spells colliding. Garrick’s blade sang through the air as he ducked, pivoted, parried, but his gaze kept flicking—again and again—across the battlefield, seeking only one thing.

You.

Your dragon Aestra’s furious roar cuts across the noise, and Garrick’s heart seized. She wouldn’t scream like that unless—

Then he saw it.

Your dragon’s wings faltered mid-air, a sharp veer to the left before she managed to stay aloft. Garrick’s eyes dropped to the ground below and found her—collapsed in the dirt, unmoving.

“No,” he breathed.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. One moment, he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Xaden, defending the eastern ridge.

The next, he was gone.

There was a thundercrack of air collapsing behind him, a pulse in the threads of time and space as Garrick wielded his hidden signet, ripping through distance like it was nothing but paper. It burned through his body like wildfire, but he didn’t care. He would pay the price later. If there was a later.

He landed in a crouch beside you, knees slamming into the blood-soaked earth.

Your eyes were closed. Blood streaked your temple, shoulder twisted unnaturally, and your side was already dark with soaked-through fabric.

Garrick’s hands were trembling before they even touched you.

“Hey. Hey, no, come on—” His voice cracked as he pressed two fingers to your throat. Your pulse was there, weak but still there.

Relief hit so hard it nearly knocked him over.

“Chradh,” he called, not lifting his gaze from your face. “Get us out. Now.”

The dragon didn’t hesitate. Chradh shrieked alongside his mate, protective and primal, lowering himself as close as he could. Garrick barely managed to lift you—cradling your body like you were made of glass—before hauling himself into the seat. He held you against his chest the whole flight back, his clothes stained with your blood and his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

He didn’t realize he was whispering, over and over again, “Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me,” as the air around him shifted with the use of his signet again.

It took Brennan and two more healers to stabilize you. Garrick stood outside the infirmary, fingers twitching like they were still coated in your blood, feeling like he might tear through space again just to rewind the day and fix it before it ever happened.

Someone from the squad found him eventually, probably Xaden. Told him the enemy was driven off. That the rest of the mission had gone sideways without him, but they'd made it out alive.

He just nodded once and walked into the healer’s ward like he hadn’t heard a word.

When she finally woke, pale and quiet against the linen sheets, Garrick was already beside you. He looked like a ghost with dark shadows under his eyes. His hand was wrapped gently around yours, and the look on his face—when your fingers twitched against his—was the most human he’d looked in days.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He leaned closer, forehead brushing against yours for the briefest moment.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, low and broken.

You tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You used your signet,” she murmured. “Someone could’ve seen—”

“I don’t care.”

“Garrick—”

He pulled back, gaze sharpening. “I don’t care about orders. I don’t care about secrecy. I don’t care what Brennan or Bodhi or even Xaden says. I felt our bond snap like lightning through my spine and I knew you were down. You think I’m going to stand there and wait for permission to save you?”

You blinked at him, lashes wet. “You could get court-martialed.”

“I could survive that. I won’t survive losing you.”

Silence fell between you, thick and raw. Your breath hitched, and Garrick leaned forward again, one hand cupping the uninjured side of your face with devastating gentleness.

“I don’t care what it costs. I’d do it again. Every time. I’ll always come for you.”

A tear slid down your cheek. “You’re such an idiot,” You whispered.

He smiled faintly. “Your idiot.”

You squeezed his hand with what little strength you had. “Perfectly mine.”

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo @fictionalrelapse @poisonivy2267

[pipsweet]

chapter three | masterlist

warnings : small reference to mc's mom's violent death, strong language, angst

The few times Caleb was ever angry at you had one thing in common. It scared you shitless. Not because he was especially cruel or explosive, but because it made you come to a realization.

Caleb was always different to any other guy you’ve met. Whereas other boys had short tempers or had very clear and strict expectations of you, Caleb was calm and permissive. You were sure when you broke one of his model airplanes that he would lay into you. But he just smiled and told you it was okay, very unlike most ten year olds.

It was like that ninety-nine percent of the time. Through the years, the two of you grew to expect things of each other that were the foundations of your bond. You would never do anything to intentionally hurt each other and you could always count on one another.

He had only gotten angry with you two times since you met him. The first was after he had met your dad. You and grandma weren’t home, so that left him to answer the door. The man was well manicured with an unfriendly disposition. He asked for you impatiently. Him being twelve and this being a stranger, he was wary to say anything. How did Caleb know he wasn’t lying?

“Okay listen little boy, I don’t have all day and frankly? I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

Caleb lied and said he had the wrong house. It was no use, Through his phone calls with grandma, Caleb gathered that he didn’t want you to have anything to do with him or grandma. He was taking you away. For good. And he was taking you all the way to Snowcrest.

The trouble came the next time he showed up at the house. You and Caleb were in his room as your dad and grandma spoke in the living room. Grandma hated him just as much as Caleb did, but she explained to Caleb very carefully how crucial it was that they didn’t bar you from having a relationship with your father. It was only then that he realized how selfish he was being.

Of course he didn’t want you to go, but one of your parents was alive. Oh, what Caleb would give just to see his mother or father again. Losing his mother when he was five prepared him in a morbid way for losing his father to the chronorift catastrophe. He had to experience that twice, but you didn’t. You could live a normal life.

Through the door you cracked to eavesdrop, you heard all of your father’s promises of endless “love”. All the toys money could buy, the three pets he bought, the luxurious room he has waiting for you. Every word he spewed was about money, money, and more money. Caleb knew he was well off from what you told him. It was why your real grandmother married your mom off to him.

He couldn’t help associating your father with that. You living with him felt like you were selling your soul. But it was your choice, not his.

You vehemently refused. Your father offered temporary one-week stay for you to get a feel for living with him. No matter what grandma said, your answer was a resounding no. Then grandma dropped the bombshell.

“Your father… he got married to someone shortly after he left your mom. They had a kid together. You have a half-sister, honey.”

After hearing that, the case was closed for Caleb. You had two living immediate relatives. You should be with them. Caleb was distraught, already mourning your absence. You were confused, as you had no intention of going.

“Why are you crying? I’m not going! I’m not! I refuse to leave with him!” you announce defiantly. Caleb rubbed angrily at his already raw eyes.

“What about your sister?” he sniffled.

“What about her? I don’t even know her! I know you guys more than I know either of them! I don’t want to leave you guys!”

“Just go,” Caleb let a hint of his frustration show in his voice.

“No! I said no! I won’t leave you guys—”

“Stop being stupid!” he shouts.

You stare at him, glassy eyed. You couldn’t believe he raised his voice at you. You couldn’t understand why he wanted you to go so bad. This outburst set the tone for any other instance Caleb got mad at you. Whenever he got angry, you got more aware of a terrifying prospect. Losing Caleb. Losing him physically, sure. But losing him as your best friend? Pushing him to the point that he doesn’t love you anymore? It kept you up that night. You kept crying until you had no tears to spare. You wanted to crawl into his bed like you usually do, but you were scared to confirm that he hated you.

Caleb didn’t know why he said that. He was just so angry at you for not giving it a chance. For missing out on something so crucial. He didn’t want you to leave. He didn’t even want you to go for that one week, but how would he feel if you kept him from living with his parents?

His outburst pushed you to try it out. He was wracked with grief the whole time. Grandma coldly suggested that they might have to ship all of your things if you decide to not come back after that week. Caleb clutched one of your stuffed animals at night, crying into the synthetic fur. He did that every night, horrified by the fact that you never called once.

But eventually there was a knock at the door. By the time Caleb raced to see you, grandma had already opened the door to reveal you in tears. You were inconsolable. You and your sister didn’t get along and she was the clear favorite. That monster didn’t even treat you like his daughter. You explained that you felt like the fourth pet.

The second time was during freshman year. You were excelling, surpassing Caleb as the top student in the district. Your drive was palpable, it made Caleb a little competitive. Even stronger than your new work ethic was your hatred for wanderers. You taped a printed out picture of a wanderer, an image that used to reduce you to tears, to the punching bag grandma bought you. One day Caleb came down to the basement to see you punching and kicking away until the wear and tear became too much. The bag tore open, spilling out its contents onto the basement floor. You heaved, looking at the mess before looking at him guiltily.

That hatred was unexpectedly dangerous. Hunters from the UNICORNS division raced to Bloomshore High after reports of energy fluctuations. It was too late. Five wanderers were ripping through the school, sending all the students and staff into a panic.

Thankfully, most buildings were equipped to handle this horrifying scenario. You watched as a heavy metal barrier slammed down in front of the door you were running to. You stumble, regaining your balance before scanning your surroundings. The sound of metal slamming repeatedly echoed through the mostly empty building. Mostly. You could hear them. Their roars rumble through the halls. You still had time to knock, the barrier still had time to rise and let you in.

Your feet were frozen in place.

Across campus, Caleb slides under the barrier just as it's closing to the horror of his teacher. He was texting someone in your class to check if you were there. His heart dropped when he saw that you were unaccounted for. This was stupid, he knows this, but it would haunt him for the rest of his days if something happened to you.

The roars grew closer, and you can hear the impact of it's feet thudding rapidly against the floor. You reach for the blade inside your boot shakily, your trembling breaking the tears free from your eyes. Your heart pumped rapidly as you held it firm, gritting your teeth.

The wanderer slid from around the corner and you felt your chest constrict with that same debilitating fear as that day. You saw it amble toward you in slow motion, transporting you back under the debris. The image of the monster slashing your mother open played in your mind and the anger began replacing the fear. You raised the blade at the monster, blood pounding in your ears and blocking out the sound of the hunters screaming for you to get out of the way.

The monster leapt just as it had in the commercial you saw at thirteen. Your mind emptied of anything not pertaining to avenging your mother.

Just like that day, something encompassed you. It wasn't light this time but red and blue streaks. You were hoisted into the air and sent careening into the wall of lockers. Ear-piercing gun shots ring out and the wanderer lets out one last scream before thudding to the ground.

The pain in your shoulder hadn't dawned on you yet. The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins. Your eyes are locked on the felled wanderer lying on the ground.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?"

If it had been anyone else, if he had spoken in any other tone and hadn't cursed for the first time since you met him, you might not have been shaken from your daze. Your head cranes up to face him, almost flinching at the unbridled anger in his face.

"C-Caleb-"

Caleb needed you to understand gravity of what you just did and he needed you to understand quick. It's too bad that he was being a bit irrational himself.

"You couldn't have saved her!" he shouts like the words are being torn from his body. He clenches his jaw, unable to look at you.

"When are you going to stop..." Caleb trails off, rubbing his face after catching a glimpse of the betrayal on your face, "when're you gonna stop beating yourself up for something you had no power to change?"

"As if you know that-" you clutch your throbbing shoulder as you rise from the floor, glaring at him, "as if you know anything! You don't know everything, Caleb! You're not the boss of me or my guardian. I'm so fucking sick of you pretending you know better than me."

"Okay, kids, we're going to need you to clear the area. You can step outside with the other Hunters by the courtyard," a woman with an authoritative edge to her voice steps between the two of you, shooting you both a warning glare. You storm away and Caleb is tearing himself apart. Too stubborn to follow after you and see if your arm is okay.

"I may not be your guardian but I clearly know better than you! I actually have an EVOL and even I wouldn't do something that stupid!" Caleb shouts after you, a desperate attempt to make you engage. You don't you just turn your head to shake it at him disapprovingly.

It stays like this for a couple days. Overly-obedient-Caleb makes sure to tell grandma right away. You scoff, dropping your utensils on your plate, looking at him incredulously.

"Wait... you what?" grandma's greys had become a more dominant force in her hair, drowning out the black almost completely by now. She's mellowed out in her later years, much less reactive and more serene. Even now she seems a little confused. It's not like you to be this reckless, after all.

"You're an asshole," you hiss as you depart from the dining room, slamming the door to your own.

It went back to normal eventually, Caleb tricked you into attending a picnic with all your favorite foods. You begrudgingly attended. You always wonder if Zayne hadn't come into your life during the most tumultuous time in you and Caleb's relationship, would the three of you be close friends?

Who are you kidding, the minute the rumors started going around that Zayne was your boyfriend, Zayne became public enemy number one for Caleb.

─★ consider liking and reblogging!~

a/n: obviously next part will be about apple snow? apple frost? and MC and just Caleb's jealousy in general.

[isles-of-man]

Oscar let out a quiet, amused breath, his lips curving into something between a smirk and a real smile. “No notes in the margins, I’m not that uncivilized,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But I did leave a few pages folded. Marked some of the parts I’ve found... most useful. The ones that put comfort first, especially for the woman involved.” His voice carried that familiar undercurrent of teasing, a gentle edge to keep the moment light, but his eyes didn’t stray from hers—serious underneath the humor. “I don’t care much for the grand metaphors or dramatics. But I do care that you never feel unsure or scared. I’d rather you laugh at the language or scoff at the diagrams than ever feel alone in any part of this.” There was a steadiness in his tone now, the kind that didn’t demand her trust but quietly invited it.

When he noticed her looking for the book, something about that small, unguarded gesture grounded him. Her curiosity was sincere, and it softened him in a way he wasn’t entirely used to. “You’re allowed to be curious,” he said, his voice gentler now. “It’s natural. You shouldn’t have to pretend otherwise just because we’ve both been told how married people are supposed to behave.” A short pause followed, thoughtful but without weight. “Frankly, most of the men who act like experts couldn’t make it through five pages of that book without either panicking or bragging.” His mouth twitched again. “Usually both. And the advisors know fuck all if you ask me" he grumbled, hating their interference between them so far.

He leaned back a little, adjusting slightly so there was more space between them—not to push her away, but to show her she could take as much or as little of it as she needed. “If you do have questions,” he said, a little more deliberately, “even if they feel strange or too specific or too... blunt, I want you to ask them.” His eyes held hers. “I’ll always answer you honestly, even if the book phrases something like it was written by a bard in the middle of a thunderstorm.” There was a flicker of amusement again, but his sincerity didn’t waver. “And if it helps to read it together sometime, I don’t mind that either.”

He drew in a breath, choosing his words carefully now. “I’ve had experiences, yes—but those weren’t relationships built on trust or balance. Not like this.” His voice lowered slightly. “This is the only time I’ve wanted to be known properly by someone. And for you to feel safe in asking anything—especially about something as intimate as this—is a part of that.”

Then, a quiet breath of levity returned to his tone. “I should warn you, though... chapter three insists on comparing foreplay to preparing a banquet. It’s unbearable.” He gave her a dry look, half-laughing at the absurdity of it all. “If anything, that alone might be reason enough to read it together. Just so we can mock it as we go.”

It was nice to hear him immediately say he understood where she was coming from, that she did not see any hurt come across his face. It also felt deeply assuring to hear that if he were in her shoes he also would not have taken it well. It was difficult to quite understand how he felt in this situation, she could not picture herself like him with all those years and to one day suddenly have a partner. She at least had expected a marriage to happen within these years of her life.

"Oh I most definitely did threaten stowing myself away on some ship." She said with a nod and a small laugh. Eleanor had thrown out all sorts of things at her father to try and get him to change his mind about this arrangement, obviously none of those worked.

"Well let me tell you, I'm probably the most appreciative person in the world when it comes to having a patient partner." She stated the obvious, because if they had rushed or pushed things she definitely could see herself sleeping in the farthest side of the castle from him.

"I do want to try...even I do not really know what I am trying." It was fascinating to hear how frightened he was at some of this. That it gave him more fear and worry than actual battle. It helped her think that he was not too different from her in someways, even though there were still major differences between them. "You've surprised me too, I didn't think you would be such a good listener to all of my talking." She said light heartedly, there were certainly many things that surprised her about him. How good she was being treated was one of the best.

"I intend to read each and every one of them." Eleanor stated confidently before glancing around to look for one book in particular. "Have you left notes in the margins of the sex book?"

[malsmind]

▸002 ⋅˚₊‧ Runaway ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰

⚠︎ ∿ smoking weed ∿ regret ∿ emotional unavailability ∿

၊၊||၊ Come Over When You're Sober, Pt. 2 ⌗ 2

𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 @delilahsturniolo

you always thought you’d be able to figure him out. maybe that was the first mistake. thinking people like him came with a map. chris was all sharp edges and quiet nights, lips that tasted like smoke and eyes that looked like he’d already seen too much. you wanted to understand him.

fuck, you tried.

sat next to him when he barely spoke. waited for the texts he only sent at 2 a.m. laughed at his sarcasm even when it stung. held on even when he pushed. because there was something in him—in the way he looked at you like you were a fire he was too afraid to touch but couldn’t stop staring at.

and you?

you just wanted him to stay. just long enough to learn how he worked. just long enough to make it make sense. but chris didn’t stay. he never stayed.

“you don’t get it,” he’d mutter.

and you’d say, “then make me get it.”

but he never did. not really. he’d just go quiet. reach for the blunt. look away. he hated it when you cried. hated that he was the reason. but he never stopped making you cry either. and that’s the part that hurt the most. you remember the worst one.

the fight.

it started over something small, it always did. he forgot to call. you said you were worried. he laughed.

“worried? for what?”

and you just—you broke.

your voice cracked, “why do you always do this? why can’t you just let someone in for once?”

and he just sat back, eyes tired, as if he’d already lived the conversation in his head a thousand times before. then—he lit the blunt. took a drag. shrugged like it meant nothing.

“life ain’t fair, y/n. everyone’s fake as fuck. no point.”

his voice was flat. detached.

“there’s no need for you to cry. i told you this wouldn’t work.”

and god—you hated him in that moment.

hated how calm he was while your chest was falling apart. hated that you believed him when he said this mattered. because it did matter. you mattered. but maybe not enough. not to him. you left that night. slammed the door. wiped your cheeks with your sleeves and promised yourself not to look back.

and chris?

he didn’t chase you. he sat on the balcony instead, watching the smoke curl into the night sky. pretending your footsteps didn’t echo in his head like a song on repeat.

he never meant to hurt you.

he didn’t know how to be loved. not the way you did it. not so soft. not so all in. you saw him, really saw him. understood things he never said. noticed the way his hands shook sometimes. the way he slept with his back to the wall. the way he flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at him. and you still stayed. that scared the hell out of him. because all he ever wanted was to disappear. start new. runaway from this place, from his past, from the version of himself that couldn’t stop breaking things. but suddenly, he didn’t want to run alone.

he wanted you.

he just didn’t know how to say it. so he said the opposite. because that was easier. that was safer.

“this won’t work.”

what he meant was: i’m scared.

what he meant was: don’t leave.

but it was too late. you were gone. and maybe this time, for real. he doesn’t go out much now. doesn’t talk much either. his friends ask what happened, and he just shrugs. smokes. changes the subject. he still has your sweatshirt, the one you left in his car. he wears it sometimes, it still smells like you. like comfort, like something he never should’ve let go. he plays the song you liked, the one you put on when he was anxious. the one that made you smile while humming out of tune, he wonders if you ever think about him.

if you’re okay. if you’re better without him.

he hopes so.

but he also hopes you miss him a little. because he misses you in all the ways he can’t say out loud. he still wants to run. still wants to disappear. but now, all he thinks about is how he should’ve asked you to come with him.

how he should’ve said, “fuck this place. let’s go. just you and me.”

instead, he let you walk away. and now he’s stuck in a city that feels too big, too loud, too fucking empty without you.

and the worst part?

he did it to himself.

[ghostxmio]

Squid Game S2 fanfic

A Hwang In-ho x AFAB reader fanfic where reader is a VIP pretending to be a player.

The doors closed with a heavy metallic thud as you stepped into the holding chamber. The air was cold and stale, sterile like a hospital but without the promise of healing. The other players shuffled in around you, eyes wide and shoulders hunched. You kept your head down, quiet, acting just as shaken as they were. It wasn’t hard to pretend. You had studied the fear on their faces, learned how to mirror it until no one could tell the difference. In truth, you weren’t just another player. You were the heir to one of Asia’s most powerful private conglomerates. A name that moved boardrooms. A face never shown in public. But here, dressed in a plain uniform and stripped of status, you were a ghost among the desperate. You had chosen to be here.

Your cover was simple. You were here to find your brother. You said he had disappeared months ago, and this was your only chance to uncover what happened to him. You cried at the right moments, trembled when it made sense, and whispered just enough truth to make the lies sound soft. It didn’t take long for someone to notice you. Gi Hun. He didn’t smile like he used to. His eyes were sharp now, full of pain, but still kind. He offered you his name, asked if you were alone, and when you nodded, he told you to stick with him. You did. You made sure to.

Red Light Green Light was the first game. The moment the doll turned her head, bodies started dropping like flies. You didn’t move a muscle. You didn’t need to fear death. Your protection had been arranged before you ever stepped foot in this place. You could’ve walked across the field without stopping, but that would’ve blown your cover. So instead, you froze, stumbled, flinched, and reached for Gi Hun like you were clinging to life. He pulled you across the finish line. You let your knees give out and buried your face in your hands. When he sat beside you, breathing hard, you whispered that you were scared. He nodded slowly and told you again to stay close.

When the vote came, you made sure you were called after Gi Hun. He pressed the red button with a heavy hand and muttered that he wanted to go home. When your turn came, you stood under the harsh spotlight and hesitated just long enough to look unsure. Then you pressed red as well. Your voice was soft. Stop. You walked back to Gi Hun’s side and pretended to be shaken. He looked at you with quiet surprise. You told him it just felt wrong. He told you that you had done the right thing.

The vote was tied. Tension crackled through the dormitory. And then he arrived. The masked man in black. Hwang In-ho. He stepped onto the platform and pressed the final vote. Green. Continue. The games were back on. He didn’t look at the players. He didn’t need to. You watched him disappear into the shadows and knew from the way he carried himself that he had never once left control.

Teams began to form again. You joined Gi Hun’s group. Jung Bae was loud and emotional, always trying to lighten the mood. Jun Hee, the pregnant woman, sat quietly, her hand always over her belly. Daeho, a marine, stood silent but watchful. You made yourself useful by being small, quiet, and thoughtful. You gave Jun Hee your milk at lunch. You offered her half your rice. You smiled and said nothing when she cried and called you her angel. You knew what you were doing.

When a new player joined your group, Gi Hun tensed. The man had a calm face and unreadable eyes. He said little. He helped when needed, but Gi Hun never trusted him. You knew why. It was In-ho, pretending to be just another player. Unmasked, playing with them. The irony of it made your chest ache. You stayed quiet, watching him the way he watched others.

During the pentathlon, he underperformed. On purpose. He used his right hand for gonggi and fumbled. You watched him slap the table, frustrated, his mask of failure nearly convincing. Then came the spinning top game. He switched to his left hand. The top danced on the floor like it was weightless. You didn’t miss the difference. Neither did Gi Hun.

That night, the lights went out. You weren’t in the dorm anymore. You were in the VIP lounge, sitting with the others in a deep green silk blouse and tailored trousers. Your hair was styled, your mask was off. You stood in front of the massive wall of screens, watching the dorm plunge into chaos. The others made bets and drank. You stayed quiet. On the boys’ bathroom feed, In-ho fought in the darkness. His movements were clean, sharp, brutal. You leaned closer to the glass. One of the VIPs laughed and said the players thought he was on their side. You didn’t laugh. You just kept watching.

The third game was Mingle. You were grouped with In-ho, Jung Bae, and a man you didn’t recognize. He killed someone within the first few minutes to claim a spot. You cried. You shook. You played your part. When the game began to thin out, you realized the rules only allowed two of you to survive. You made your move.

You spotted Jun Hee hesitating outside a side room. You pushed her inside and locked the door behind her. Inside stood Myung Gi, her child’s father. She gasped. You looked at her one last time, whispered good luck, and turned back. Then you stumbled into the hallway and gun shots and screams pierced the ears of player as you dropped to the ground, clutching your stomach like you had been shot.

A guard ran toward you. He recognized your face and knelt down quickly. You whispered that it was time. He nodded, scooped you up, and carried you into one of the player coffins. You felt the lid seal over you and exhaled slowly. You were alive. Just as planned.

You returned to the VIP lounge dressed in black and gold, your hair pulled back, your posture effortless. The other VIPs welcomed you with knowing smirks. One offered you a glass. Another commented that you had played it well. You smiled politely and said it was just business. Then your eyes went to the screen.

Gi Hun was on the move again. Jun Hee had survived, her face pale but determined. Whispers of rebellion moved through the halls. Players were coordinating. Breaking rules. Turning guards. There was a plan. You felt it in your chest. A quiet flicker of something you hadn’t felt in years.

Hope.

One of the VIPs beside you laughed as a player yelled at In-ho. Said he had betrayed them. Another smiled and said it was funny how they still thought he was on their side. You said nothing. You watched In-ho’s face as the rebellion collapsed, piece by piece.

Gi Hun lost. Jun Hee cried. The other survivors were dragged away.

You stayed still.

The game was over.

But your part in it wasn’t.

You were still in the tower. Still in the silk. Still alive.

And you weren’t done watching In-ho yet.

Another fanfic continuing this for s3 is in the makes :3

[aquarianbeat]

Older boyfriend Toji x reader

Best friend’s dad x reader

Jealous Toji 😮‍💨

TW: Suggestive language, suggestive thoughts, being annoyed at dog like curses

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Please don’t post anywhere without my permission and DEFINITELY don’t use in any AI training.

MDNI

Just some baby fluff for one of the loves of my life☺️

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Toji crossed his arm across his chest and scowled down at Megumi.

He’s gonna kill him.

Not his son Megumi, the one who’s currently in the next town over at university.

No. He’s gonna murder the backstabbing, monstrous, disgusting little purple worm he named after his son.

Toji had left early this morning for a job, he had left the curse at home (it was a fast, one-well-placed bullet sort of job) but he would never make that mistake ever, ever again.

Megumi was sleeping. Peacefully curled up in Toji’s bed, snoring softly, stinking up Toji’s new cream satin sheets with the smell of a curse that’s never had a bath in its worthless little life.

Toji’s teeth ground together.

Sleeping in his bed… well, Toji could probably forgive that one. (As soon as the smell washed out.)

What he could NOT forgive was that YOU were curled up around the miserable little monster, wrapped around him, squeezing it in your sleep like Megumi was some kind of lumpy, purple puppy.

To make matters even worse, the top of the curse’s head was pressed up against the bottom of your tits. Your torso was fully covered, dressed in the same black oversized shirt he had left you in a few hours ago, but it didn’t stop the jealousy twisting up his throat.

His girl should only be wrapped around him.

Toji coughed. Loudly.

You didn’t stir. It would take an act of god (or the thrust of his cock deep inside your sweet little pussy) to wake you up once you were asleep. Megumi, however, opened one of his beady little eyes, sliding it open just a crack…

The creature's eyes inflated to the size of tennis balls. The murderous look on Toji’s face was all the creature needed to see to know that he needed to be scared for his pathetic little life.

Megumi bolted up, yanked himself out of your arms with a frightened little squeal, and hucked himself out of the bed, scuttling out the door.

Toji took a step towards the curse with half a mind to hunt the creature down and end his meaningless existence simply because Megumi had dared to cuddle with you in his bed, but then you murmured something in your sleep.

Nothing audible, just meaningless babble, but a little crease formed in between your eyebrows and the next thing Toji knew he was crawling across the bed, scooping you into his chest. It’s where you would always belong, sleepily burrowing into his arms.

Thankfully, you still smell like you, and not like curse. He nuzzled his nose into your neck, breathing you in as you groggily blink wide eyes up at him, a little confused.

“Toji,” you coo, smiling up at him as soon as he registered. You beamed up at him like he gifted you the sun, the greatest most vibrant thing the sky.

God. When you looked at him like that he wanted to squeeze you so tight you melded into him. Toji still hadn’t told his son Megumi about how he was fucking one of Megumi’s best friends from university, about how he even planned to put a baby in you one day, but those were thoughts for another time.

“You’re home early,” you said, your voice happy and slightly in awe, like somehow you were the lucky one now that you got to spend a little more time together, and not him.

“Yeah, I’m home. You wanna tell me why that little backstabbing runt was in my bed? Why my girl was wrapped up all cozy with—“

“Toji baby.” You started to giggle, a soft breathy laugh pressed into the side of his throat, and even though his heart warmed at the sound, his frown deepened.

“What?”

You slide your lips up the side of his neck and nip at his earlobe, your teeth pressing into his skin. “Are you gonna spend the next few minutes complaining about your pet dog keeping me warm or are you gonna let me welcome you home properly?”

She rolled her hips, dragging her hot, slick center over him nice and slow. Just how he liked.

[calmcoldevening]

Slashers when reader sexually overstimulates them?? (P.s love your writing style💕)

Overstimulating short headcanons || Slashers x reader

Michael Myers

• His breathing is rapid, as if he's run a marathon, and his body is covered in sweat. It seems like that's all there is. But this damn mask, which he doesn't remove even during your intimacy, conceals much more.

• His face is flushed, and there are unshed tears in his eyes. Large drops are already streaming down his wet cheeks. A drop of saliva drips from the corner of his mouth, and his tongue is swollen and almost hard in his mouth.

• He wants to whimper, but he can't. He feels good and hurts at the same time.

• His back arches erotically, his ass comes out backwards for all to see. His wet skin begs to be slapped.

• This fat ass and tits demand your attention.

• He enjoyed it. After this, he will follow you always and everywhere, like a loyal shadow protector, and remind you of himself, as if saying that he wants to do it again and again.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba whines and meows, trying to cope with his emotions. He's never felt anything like this, so he's both excited and scared. He whimpers, moans, and makes all these sweet sounds to get your attention.

• Your hands on his hot skin feel like a divine touch, and his entire body is covered in your hickeys and the marks of your lips. He's completely and utterly marked as yours.

• His body wants to pull you closer and push you away at the same time, and this confusing situation makes his head spin. He feels hot, wet, and good. So good, in fact, that he wants to scream.

• If you stop and give him a moment to breathe, he will exhale heavily and bury his face in your neck, softly purring and cooing nonsense. He loves you so much and is happy that you are giving him such pleasure.

Brahms Heelshire

• He whines and cries like a little baby because he's scared (for the first few weeks of your relationship). In fact, he's so overwhelmed that you'll have to calm him down for a long time after your intimate moments. His body has never been prepared for contact, and I mean, his previous babysitters were afraid of him, and he used to kill them. There was never a chance that someone would accept and love him for who he is.

• He's a little pervert, so if you use toys on him, he'll cum without a penis. A lot. But he'll whine and push his cock into your hand or stomach so you can stroke him and make him feel better.

• At these moments, it's the most desperate "Mommy/Daddy" he's ever said. His voice is very high-pitched, more like a meow, and he's asking you to stop because he's feeling too good and it's making him scared.

• After this experience, he needs to cuddle up against your chest and fall asleep in your bed. But when he's a little recovered... "That was so good, let's do it again!" "Would you love me if I was a worm?" "Have you done that with anyone else?"

Art the clown

• During sex, he acts both seriously and childishly at the same time. He may make faces, try to tickle you, or poke at you, simply because he is a demon and has never delved into the details of human sex. However, when you bring him to such a powerful orgasm, he falls silent, suddenly becoming serious, his eyes closing and his lips parting in a silent moan.

• He begins to mark you in various ways, biting and scratching, but he does not ask you to stop. He likes it. More than you think. He feels like he's found a new drug, other than killing stupid people.

• But if it goes on too long, he'll decide to return the favor and bring you to the same state. And then he'll flip you over, pin you to the bed, and use all the sensitive spots he's already learned to give you the best orgasm of your life. Those fingers are very skilled.

• He's as satisfied as a well-fed cat, a predator. So he'll stalk you and get you in alleyways or in the victims' houses just to repeat. He likes dirty sex in a pile of blood.

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

if you don't run

summary: you’ve been hurt before, and love feels dangerous. but dominic’s falling and when he starts to give up, you realize you don’t want him to stop trying.

word count: 2.6k words

⸻

You could feel him looking at you again.

That sideways glance he thought you wouldn’t catch the kind that came just after a joke, or in the quiet between songs on his playlist. The kind that lingered a second too long on your face before he turned his attention to anything else. You knew it by now. It was soft, almost hesitant, like he didn’t want to scare you off by being too obvious. But it was there. Every time.

It made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t have the words for.

Dominic was always too much in the ways that scared you most.

He didn’t play games. Didn’t hide behind cold detachment or vague texts. He didn’t make you guess. When he liked you, you knew. It was in how he laughed a little harder when you were the one who said something dumb. How he leaned in, not away, when you were at your worst. How he let you be quiet, but never let you feel invisible.

He was too open. Too soft around you. Too ready to care and that terrified you more than anything else.

Because you’d been here before. You’d let someone in before. And you’d paid the price for it in sleepless nights, broken trust, and a heart that still flinched at the idea of “almost.”

So you kept your distance.

You smiled when you meant it, but you rarely stayed the night. You answered his questions, but never gave too much away. And when he texted just to say “drive safe,” or “don’t forget to eat today,” you’d stare at your phone too long before responding with something simple, something safe.

You didn’t know what to do with someone like him. Someone who noticed the way your hands fidgeted when you were overwhelmed. Someone who asked about your past and didn’t flinch when you told him it wasn’t pretty. Who stayed, even after.

“You ever gonna stop looking at me like that?” you muttered one night, curled up on the far corner of the couch, a throw blanket pulled halfway over your legs. The glow from the TV cast faint shadows across his cheekbones.

He didn’t even blink. “Like what?”

You hesitated. Swallowed hard.

“Like you’re waiting for me to fall into you.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just looked at you, really looked at you and said, with a softness that knocked the air out of you,

“I’m not waiting. I already did.”

Silence.

It wrapped around the room like fog, thick and charged. You looked away first, heart in your throat, eyes suddenly too warm.

You weren’t sure what scared you more that he meant it, or that you wanted to believe him.

The thing about Dominic was… he always tried. That was the problem.

He brought you your favorite drink without asking. Picked up on your moods before you did like how you went quiet when something was wrong, or how your fingers curled around your sleeves when you were trying not to cry. He’d write lyrics with lines that mirrored things you said in passing, turning your words into something beautiful before you even realized they mattered to him.

And he kept showing up.

Even when you canceled last minute. Even when you changed the subject anytime the word “relationship” got too close to the surface. Even when you looked at him like you wanted him but never stayed long enough to admit it out loud.

“I’m not ready,” you told him once. Voice low, fingers nervously twisting the hem of your hoodie.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push. He just nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

But even patience has its limits.

And that look the one he gave you every time you walked into a room was starting to shift.

From hope… to something tired. Something like almost letting go.

And for the first time, the thought of him stopping of him finally giving up made your throat ache.

Because maybe, despite everything, you were falling too.

Just slower. Just quieter.

Just scared.

⸻

He told himself to stop hoping.

At first, it was just small things. A delayed reply to a message that used to get an immediate smiley face. The way your voice tightened when he asked how you were really doing. The way you always seemed to find the exit before the night got too quiet before it became just the two of you and the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

Every time you smiled and then pulled away, it chipped at him.

Every time you changed the subject when things got too close, when his fingertips grazed the edge of something real and your walls snapped back up like muscle memory, he felt it.

Every time he texted just to check in “you doing okay today?” and hours passed without an answer or worse, no answer at all, it left a quiet ache in his chest he didn’t want to name.

He’d been here before.

He knew what it looked like when someone wasn’t ready.

He knew what it felt like to want someone who was too scared to be wanted.

But with you, it was different.

It always felt like there was something just beneath the surface hovering at the edge of your mouth, buried in your silences. Something soft. Something real. Something that wanted to be let out but didn’t quite know how.

So he stayed.

He kept trying. Kept caring. Kept holding space for you without asking for anything in return. Kept leaving the metaphorical light on, hoping you’d eventually stop standing at the edge and come inside.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the trying started to feel like begging.

Until he realized that he was showing up for both of you, and you weren’t meeting him halfway. That he was spilling softness onto the floor, only for you to step around it like it didn’t matter.

So one day, he didn’t show up.

No text. No call. No invite to hang out or meet up after the studio. He stayed quiet. Not because he wanted to punish you but because maybe, finally, he had to start protecting his own heart too.

And honestly, he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Until you did.

⸻

You were standing outside the studio winded, nervous, your hair a little messy like you’d rushed to get there. There was something in your eyes he hadn’t seen in a while: panic.

Like maybe losing him did scare you.

“Hey,” you said, voice barely audible above the street noise, like the word had to fight its way past the fear in your throat.

He looked up, caught off guard. His features softened immediately, but there was something cautious in his expression. The sparkle was dimmer. The easy warmth had been replaced by something quieter. More careful.

A soft smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I messed up.”

Dominic let out a low laugh not bitter exactly, but sad in a way that cracked something in your chest.

“I don’t think you know how hard I was trying,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, like the truth still hurt to speak out loud.

“I do,” you said. Your voice broke a little, and you didn’t bother to hide it. “That’s why I got scared.”

His expression flickered. Just a second of raw emotion, the mask slipping.

“I wasn’t trying to break you,” he said. “I just wanted to love you.”

You took a slow, shaky step closer.

The air between you was thick with everything you hadn’t said. All the almosts and maybes and what-ifs.

“I’m still scared,” you admitted. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Dominic stared at you for a long moment, jaw clenched like he was holding back everything he wanted to say. Then he exhaled slow, heavy like he was finally setting down the weight he’d been carrying.

“I won’t stop,” he said, voice soft, steady, real.

“But you can’t keep running.”

You nodded, your heart in your throat, your fingers twitching at your sides like they didn’t know what to do without the usual armor.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He reached out tentative at first, like he still didn’t believe you wouldn’t flinch. But you didn’t.

You stepped into his touch, into him.

And for the first time, you didn’t pull away.

⸻

His apartment was dim and warm when you stepped inside, familiar in a way you’d never let yourself admit before. The lights were low, just the soft amber glow from a lamp in the corner and the streetlight filtering through the blinds. The air smelled like him like clean laundry, warm wood, and something citrusy and sharp, like the grapefruit body spray he swore he didn’t use but definitely did.

His hoodie was still draped over the back of the couch, sleeve dangling like it had been waiting for you to pick it up. A half-finished glass of water sat on the coffee table. Shoes kicked off by the door. The lived-in kind of space that made your chest ache because it felt too easy, too safe.

You stood there in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, like your feet weren’t sure if they should cross the threshold. But Dominic didn’t rush you. He never did.

“Wanna put something on?” he asked quietly, already slipping out of his jacket. His voice was low, tired, but not cold. It was the same voice he always used with you gentle. Unassuming.

You nodded, even though your chest was still fluttering with nerves and whatever this fragile new beginning was. You could still hear the words you’d said outside the studio echoing in your head. I’m still scared. But I don’t want you to stop.

He flipped through Netflix absently, eventually settling on some animated show you’d both mocked the first time but secretly enjoyed. It was dumb and colorful and comfortingly familiar. You didn’t care what it was. You just wanted something to fill the silence without pushing you to speak.

You sank into the couch beside him, not touching but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his thigh. Your fingers tugged at the hem of your sweater like they didn’t know what else to do. You didn’t say much. Neither did he.

Half an hour in, something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just the way your muscles started to relax, like your body finally got the memo that you didn’t have to keep running. The way your head slowly, naturally, tipped to the side until it found his shoulder. You felt the give of fabric, the soft cotton of his long-sleeve shirt against your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath it.

You didn’t pull away.

And Dominic he didn’t say a word.

He didn’t stiffen or hold his breath. He just let you be there. His body still, heart pounding, but steady. You didn’t have to look at him to know what this moment meant to him. You could feel it. You could hear it, almost his breath catching slightly, his thumb brushing once against the cushion like it needed something to anchor to.

Your legs curled beneath you. His arm moved behind you slowly hesitant, like he didn’t want to break the spell and you let it settle around your shoulders. It was light, barely there. Just a touch. But it was enough.

Neither of you said anything else.

The show continued, voices rising and falling in the background. The flickering colors of the screen painted your face in pale blues and purples. It wasn’t about the show anymore. It never really had been.

Eventually, the credits rolled. You didn’t stir.

The screen dimmed to black, and the room grew quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the occasional sound of a car passing outside.

Dominic looked down at you, still asleep against his shoulder. Your breath was slow and even, lips parted slightly, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks. Your hand had slipped from your lap and now rested against his chest.

His heart tugged so hard it almost hurt.

He didn’t dare move.

Didn’t want to risk waking you. Didn’t want to risk losing this.

Because this, this quiet closeness, this calm in your body, this sense of safety he hadn’t seen in you before, this was what he’d waited for.

Not grand declarations. Not fireworks.

Just this.

You. Choosing to stay.

⸻

You woke to the sound of birds outside the window and the faintest ache in your neck.

The apartment was washed in early morning light, pale and hazy through the blinds. Dust floated lazily in the sunbeams. The air was still, quiet like the city hadn’t fully woken up yet.

You blinked slowly, trying to orient yourself, and then you felt it: the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. The warmth of his arm, still draped around you. The fabric of his shirt soft against your skin, a little wrinkled from sleep.

Dominic was still asleep.

His head had tilted slightly against the back of the couch, mouth parted just a bit, curls messy and half in his face. He looked peaceful like this. Not the kind of peace that came from rest, but the kind that came from not needing to guard anything. Not in this moment. Not with you.

Your fingers had ended up clutching the hem of his shirt, and your legs were tangled loosely with his like your body had made the decision to stay even while your mind was still catching up.

You stayed like that for a moment, just breathing.

There was something sacred about mornings like this before the noise, before reality came flooding back in. Something tender in the quiet. Like if you moved too quickly, it might all vanish.

Dominic stirred softly, the hand on your back tightening slightly like his body realized you were awake before his brain did. He let out a sleepy exhale, eyes fluttering open.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t move away. He just looked down at you with a slow, drowsy smile.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.

You smiled back, just a little. “Hey.”

There was a pause. Not awkward just full.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” you said quietly, like you were still afraid to break whatever this was.

He let out a soft laugh, eyes still half-closed. “Best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

Your cheeks warmed.

He brushed a thumb gently against your arm, then added, a little quieter, “You stayed.”

You didn’t look away this time.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

He leaned his head back again, exhaling like the confirmation settled something deep in his chest. Like all the trying, all the patience, had finally meant something.

“Want coffee?” he asked after a beat, voice lighter now, but still careful.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Only if you make it. Yours tastes better.”

“Yeah?” He grinned lazily. “Thought you didn’t like how I do it.”

“I never said that.”

“You made a face.”

“I always make faces.”

He laughed real this time and you felt it under your cheek, low and warm and safe.

You didn’t move just yet.

Neither did he.

Because after all the hesitations, the almosts, the pulling away, this, this was the beginning of something.

And for the first time, neither of you were afraid to see where it would go.

⸻

a/n: sorry for the late posting i worked this weekend and today was my first night off, i hope you enjoy! thank you for reading!

[cocoavanille]

A little something for @drarrymicrofic : wound cw: blood

Not everyday a criminal kidnaps one of the top-3 curse breakers in the country, specifically the one who deals with dissonating magical zones and artifacts. Not every day Harry comes back from Wales to find out his husband is missing.

Tracing spells don't work, the bracelet in form of a snake Draco always has on his wrist is either made into dust, or the enchantments are broken. After assesing the situation there's no doubt in Harry's mind – the criminal who escaped last time – torn down the magical border between an old cursed temple and surroundings, is at it again and needs Draco to get access to some other place or artifact.

Emily almost whispers by the end of the sentence, Harry shakes his head.

– No offence, Harry, but you're way to calm about this, it's been three days, it's unlikely he is... you know.

– If we only find the body then he hasn't earned his place in the bloody raiting. Listen, he's the most arrogant, annoying person ever, he's anxious and has a built-in flight response. But he's also magically smart and no stranger to playing the role he needs to survive. And I am barely keeping myself sane, so stop trying to console me and fucking focus.

Ron narrows the search and they stop at two places worthy of a risk from the criminals' point of view.

– Ron and Emily go east, me and Astoria go west. Be careful, that history lover is quite dangerous.

When they apparate at the line of the border, Harry's heart rate spikes – the wards are down, someone's definitely here! And this old temple has a dragon buried inside, if someone is able to reach the depths to get hold of the death commanding lyre, they're all fucked.

Draco knew what he was dragged into. Knew he shouldn't give this creep access to ancient magic, capable of throwing the balance of things off. He was taken hostage to deal with the seal on the entrance and later be used as a sacrifice – Malfoy-Black is almost strong enough to feed the lyre and make it submit. But the madman is undereducated on many accounts and he used it to his advantage.

When Draco was bleeding on the cold stones at the center of the rune-driven spell, the only thing he could see was the sun peaking through the crack in the roof and sparks of dark red magic flying around.

– Why the fuck don't you reply to me?!

The fool swears in panic as the lyre starts playing a song he isn't commanding. Draco doesn't hold his tears back – his hands split open probably hurt like hell, he doesn't feel anything above chest, he's nauseous, but through the streams of thick blood the song he hums on an energetic level pulses, light and melancholic, concentrating the deep charms and whiffs of powers in this place to suddenly envelop the criminal and lock him in a cage of sorts, in a shape of a sphere a little above the ground. This takes almost all of his strength – once the runes loose their shine Draco closes his eyes and concentrates on healing spells. The blood, clean and untainted by lyre's magic, returns to his body. He manages to close the wounds and send a signal outiside, after that everything falls black. The last thing he hears is someone's steps. If he dies here it's truly hilarious: a step away from using the lyre to command death.

Draco wakes up in the hospitali bed, cozy and warm under the blanket. Someone's brushing his cheek with cold fingers and his conscience snaps back into the body immediately: Harry's nervous, he needs to wake up.

– Hi.

Harry smiles at him, sitting on the edge of the bed. Draco slowly checks in with his body and raises a hand to grab his, make it warm again.

– The beauty of your eyes is definitely something that makes me scared I'm already dead.

His voice hoarse and uneven, but Harry laughs, finally loosing this desperate touch to his facial expression.

– You're very much alive. In fact, the healers said to give you a pat on the back for using the reversal spell, smart move. Get well first, the details of what happened can wait.

Draco moves to sit up and is very grateful Harry lands a hand, because everything spins immediately. Being in contact with such powerful foreign magic set the system into overload at last. And he's more or less used to it, thanks to the job!

Harry holds the glass while he takes little sips and then finally exhales the fear that got stuck in his chest. That was no pleasant three days trip – first twenty hours he was tortured to unlock the entrance. Then came up with a plan. But Harry doesn't need to know those details.

– Did you manage to take him from the sphere?

– Thanks to you. He's in Azkaban, don't worry, I personally lead the trial.

Draco sighs, slapping his hand.

– Don't remind people of our marriage to often and to bright, it's a bad look on you.

– Say that again and I'm going to exhaust you when you're healed and home.

Draco raises his brows and shifts forward, tracking the shape of Harry's face with the tip of his nose.

– Is that a promise, mr head auror? I'm all yours.

Harry rolls his eyes and kisses him, anxiety melting away by the second. Wounds heal, hard times pass. While you're alive, you're winning. Especially him – being married to his ex rival, pain in the ass, arch-nemesis and a reason to keep going is a dream come true and Harry doesn't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks.

They've lost enough happy days to other people's bullshit. No more.

– If you're going to space out like this I don't want the punishment.

Draco yawns, shooing him away with the gesture.

– What does your capricious ass want?

– Hmm... Probably some sweet-talking, long passionate kisses, hair pulling and a good pounding. After I reagain some ability to sit without feeling dizzy that is.

Harry immediately softens at the sight of Draco falling to the right and lays him down, kissing his forehead.

– Take a rest, sweetheart. And... Sorry I was late. You've practically had to save yourself.

– It's not your fault, Harry.

Draco looks at him with such intense mixture of emotions he can't fake a smile. He will eat himself alive for what happened and they both know it.

– Harry. You can't control everything, it's alright. We're alive. That will do for good news. Snap out of it and write to mother, will you? I want to see her.

– Sure. Astoria will check in with you the day after tomorrow on the lyre and chain of events, until then get everything out of your pretty head.

Draco chuckles, closing his eyes.

– As long as you think I'm pretty, honey, I'll survive anything.