#(remember that its okay to be vulnerable!!!)

[papayainsectorone]

When The World Holds Its Breath.

summary: after a shattering heartbreak with lando, you’re left raw and broken in the quiet aftermath, lost in grief until charles quietly arrives, offering steady, unspoken comfort and gentle presence that might just help you begin to heal.

content: grief, emotional vulnerability, crying, heartbreak, emotional collapse, overwhelming sadness, emotional support, intimacy, quiet caregiving, self-doubt, maybe confusing time jumps

word count: 4,3k

pairing: lando norris charles leclerc x fem!reader

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

might be confusing if read as standalone

The whisper of sheer curtains shifting in the morning breeze stirred you from sleep. Sunlight poured in like honey, thick and golden, coating everything in a deceptive warmth. It draped across the white linen sheets, across your tangled limbs, tracing gentle shapes on skin that hadn’t known peace in days.

Somewhere beyond the half-open balcony doors, the world was still turning. Waves murmured against the shore in soft repetition. A slow car rolled over cobblestone below, and the scent of sea salt mixed with faint espresso from some sleepy café down the street.

And for one split second—a single, fragile breath—it almost felt like everything might be okay.

You didn’t move, just sank deeper into the pillow, letting your cheek press into the soft cotton. The mattress beneath you cradled your body like it knew how heavy you’d become inside, how much of you had hollowed out in silence. The kind of softness meant for healing, or maybe hiding.

But then your body reminded you.

The headache came first. A low, stubborn throb that pulsed behind your eyes and down the back of your neck, the kind of ache you only get from crying until your ribs hurt. Your throat burned, scraped raw from sobs you didn’t even remember letting out. Your skin felt coated in grief—clammy, sticky, fevered in places. A fine layer of salt still clung to your cheeks, and your shirt, damp beneath your arms, held the shape of your misery like a second skin.

Your hair was an oil-slicked tangle, stiff at the ends, heavy at the roots. You ran your fingers through it slowly, trying to tame the knots, but it was no use. You scraped it back anyway, tying it up into something that felt a little less like defeat.

The small en-suite bathroom was waiting. Your own personal chamber of horror. Every inch of the mirror felt like a threat.

You forced yourself in anyway. The harsh light above the sink sputtered to life like it, too, wasn’t sure it wanted to witness this.

When you caught your reflection, you almost recoiled. Eyes swollen and bloodshot, ringed in a purple that no amount of rest could fix. Lashes stuck together from dried tears. Skin pale, dull, and unfamiliar. You couldn’t look at yourself for more than a second. It was like seeing a version of yourself from the other side of something irreversibly broken.

You splashed cold water on your face, again and again, until the sting chased the numbness back just a little. The shock made you gasp, but it was grounding. Real. Almost proof you were still here.

Brushing your teeth felt like trying to scrub the grief out from your bones. The mint burned your sore gums. You brushed too hard, as if it might erase the way your mouth had once whispered I love you into the wrong silence.

Toothbrush still in your mouth, you hear a soft knock at the door.

You hum a quiet reply.

Then, the door creaks open.

He steps in.

Charles.

FLASHBACKa few days ago

As soon as the door to Lando’s apartment clicked shut behind you, the weight of it all came crashing down. It wasn’t just tears, it was collapse. Full-body, breath-stealing collapse. The kind where you don’t even register you’re falling until your knees hit the hallway floor, hard. You folded in on yourself like something hollowed out as soon as you were arround the corner.

The silence roared in your ears. The taste of his words still burned in your mouth.

Everything inside you felt split open, your ribs too soft to hold your heart in place, your lungs unable to stretch wide enough for air. You had no idea what had just happened. You had no words for it yet. Only pain. Only the raw, wide-open wound of being seen and unloved in the same moment.

You couldn't breathe.

Your hand fumbled for your phone, fingers numb, limbs trembling so hard you almost dropped it. You didn’t think. You just opened the last conversation that had ever felt safe. The one that still felt like kindness.

hey you up?

The message sat there, blue bubble and all, glowing through your tears. It was only just after nine. Saturday morning. Monaco quiet and uncaring.

The reply came in seconds.

yes cherie. is this a booty call?

Normally, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Thrown something back—sharp, teasing, flirty. But now the words struck like a match against raw skin.

You didn’t laugh. You folded deeper. Your sobs tore from your chest, the kind that made your whole body shudder like it was trying to escape itself.

The message was marked read. No typing bubble. Just silence for a second.

And then your phone vibrated in your palm. Charles. Calling.

You answered with nothing—just breath, just the ugly sound of crying that couldn’t be masked or swallowed down. You couldn’t even say hello.

He didn’t wait.

“I’m coming,” he said, already moving. You could hear the background, the clatter of keys, the scrape of a zipper, feet hitting tile.

“I will come get you”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked apart halfway through the word. Just a wet inhale, a sob, a broken syllable. But it was enough.

“I’m on my way, ma belle. Just hang on.”

You sat there on the floor for what felt like years, phone clutched like a lifeline, cheek pressed to the cold wall. Your tears slowed, but only because you’d run dry for a moment. You weren’t done crying, just paused. Just wrecked.

The hallway stayed quiet. Too quiet.

Then: the elevator. A ding. Footsteps. Faster than you expected. Then slower. Then a stop.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.

Just turned the corner and saw you.

Charles.

Still damp from a shower, hair sticking up at odd angles. Hoodie slung over his shoulders, sleeves too long, one shoe untied. He hadn’t even tried. He’d just come.

And when his eyes met yours—red and swollen and barely holding it together—his face twisted, like it physically hurt him to see you like this.

He dropped down beside you without a word. Knees bent just like yours. Like he knew the posture of heartbreak already.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t push.

He just opened his arms. “C’mere.”

You moved without thinking. Curled into him like something instinctual. Like gravity.

His arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, your cheek to his chest. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, warm and steady, fingers combing gently through the mess of your hair. He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to breathe. He just held you.

Eventually your sobs turned to hiccups. Then to silence.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly, voice almost lost in your hair. “Okay? I’ve got you.”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded, your forehead pressed against him, eyes still closed. The kind of nod that says I believe you even if I don’t believe anything else right now.

Time passed like fog. Long, formless minutes.

And when you finally pulled back, your face blotchy, lips trembling, eyes burning from exhaustion, he just looked at you with something soft and breakable in his gaze. No judgment. No pity. Just a quiet sort of worry he didn’t try to hide.

Then the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s get you out of here, yeah?”

You nodded again, smaller this time. Like the weight of everything between you had turned sacred somehow, and raising your voice, even a little, might crack it wide open.

Charles didn’t say another word. He simply reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and took the bag from your trembling hands. He stood first, then offered you his other hand. Not out of obligation but like it was second nature. Like helping you up from rock bottom was something he already knew how to do.

And when you were standing—barely steady—he didn’t let go. Not until you were out of that building. Out of that hallway that still echoed with everything that had just fallen apart.

He walked beside you as if you were breakable. Not fragile in the pitiful way. Precious. He didn’t rush. Just kept step with you, his body angled protectively, like the air around you was a thing he could shield.

The second you hesitated at the passenger door, he slipped off his hoodie and wrapped it around your shoulders. No commentary. No performance. Just the warmth of him, draped over you, smelling faintly of clean laundry and something indefinably Charles.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

The drive started in silence.

Not the kind that stretches awkwardly, waiting for someone to fill it. But the kind that’s necessary. The kind born from mutual understanding that words would only bruise what was already bruised.

You curled into the seat like you were trying to disappear. Jacket pulled tight, arms locked around yourself, your cheek resting against the cold window. The glass vibrated gently beneath your skin with every bump in the road. Outside, the city rolled by in quiet tones—sunlight caught between buildings, storefronts still sleeping, the cobbled streets reflecting that soft, early grey that doesn’t belong to day or night.

The world looked like it was holding its breath. You felt like you were, too.

Charles didn’t rush. His hand was steady on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers loose. He didn’t fiddle with the radio. Didn’t check his phone. Just drove, like that act alone was a kind of care. Like he understood the rhythm of the road could do something for you that words couldn’t yet.

Every few minutes, you felt the quiet brush of his eyes. Just checking. Just making sure you hadn’t shattered completely.

You didn’t flinch when he looked. You didn’t move when he didn’t.

And then, after the silence had softened enough to not feel like a wound, he spoke.

“Do you want me to say anything?” he asked, voice low, like it belonged to the moment. “Or just… keep driving?”

It took effort to shake your head. Even more to answer.

“Just keep driving,” you whispered, barely louder than the hum of the car.

He nodded once. That was all. No questions. No expectations.

Just Charles.

Just steady, quiet Charles, beside you, but not too close. Present, but never pressing. A constant in the unraveling. The kind of calm you didn’t know how to ask for until it was already there.

A FEW DAYS LATER

You caught your reflection in the mirror just as his soft footsteps crossed the wooden floor behind you.

Your eyes looked hollow, puffy and rimmed with red, the skin beneath them sallow from too little sleep and too many tears. You almost didn’t recognize yourself. Like grief had reshaped you overthe past days.

Charles voice came gently from the doorway, careful not to break the silence too harshly. “I made breakfast… just eggs and toast. Nothing fancy.” A beat. “You want some?”

You were still brushing your teeth, minty foam clinging at the corners of your lips. You hummed, low, indecisive, somewhere between maybe and I don’t know. But it was enough for him. You saw the faint nod in the mirror’s corner as he stepped back toward the kitchen, giving you space without vanishing completely.

You rinsed your mouth and leaned forward, bracing yourself against the cold porcelain sink. The water dripped down your wrists. The taste of mint sat sharp on your tongue, a momentary relief from the lingering bitterness in your mouth.

From the hallway, the scent of warm toast drifted in. Buttery. Familiar. Comforting in a way that made your throat sting.

By the time you walked into the kitchen, Charles was already seated at the small round table by the open balcony doors. The morning light filtered in soft and golden, catching the tousled edges of his curls. He looked up when he heard you, eyes gentle, voice even gentler.

He motioned to the seat across from him, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of his coffee cup. “Come sit. Eat something, even just the toast.”

You moved slowly, like your body didn’t quite feel like yours yet. The chair felt too solid beneath you. The plate in front of you was warm, comforting. Two slices of toast, golden and crisp. Eggs, sunny side up, yolks still intact. Exactly the way you’d said you liked them once, a throwaway comment over brunch months ago.

You cleared your throat. “Merci,” you murmured. The word came out rough, your voice thin and unsteady.

Charles smiled, barely. “You don’t have to thank me.”

For a while, the room was filled only by quiet, real quiet. Not awkward or strained. Just... still. The gentle clink of his fork, the distant squawk of a seagull, waves crashing faintly beyond the balcony.

You picked at your toast, tearing it into small pieces with your fingers. You weren’t really eating. Just... touching something. Holding something. Being part of something that wasn’t unraveling.

After a few minutes, Charles broke the silence, soft and steady. “If you want, I can take you somewhere today. Just a walk. Fresh air might help.”

You looked up slowly. He wasn’t pushing. Just offering. His eyes were calm, anchored.

“I don’t think I want to go outside,” you admitted, quiet.

“That’s okay,” he said, like it was the simplest truth. “Then we don’t go.”

Something about that—his quiet acceptance—punched you harder than you expected. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he wasn’t trying to fix it. He was just there.

You dropped your head into your hands, elbows resting on the table. Your voice cracked when you whispered, “I’m such a mess.”

Charles didn’t flinch. He didn’t soften his gaze or offer empty comfort.

He just said, “You’re allowed to be.”

And that, somehow, almost broke you all over again.

FLASHBACK a few days earlier It wasn’t all tears. Not after the first day, at least.

He didn’t force you to talk, didn’t try to fill the silences with useless noise. Instead, he offered space, intentional, gentle space. The kind that made it easier to breathe without feeling like you owed anyone your healing.

The mornings were slow. Still. You’d wake in fits and starts, the ache in your chest pulling you back under again and again. But the apartment was always warm. Quiet. He’d leave fresh coffee steaming on the kitchen counter, not waiting for you to come out and get it, but never forgetting it either. A small plate of toast, sometimes fruit. Windows cracked just enough to let in the sea breeze. Towels folded at the foot of the bed, a spare hoodie draped across the back of a chair, as if he knew exactly what comfort looked like for you before you even did.

He was around but only when you needed him. You never had to ask.

On the second night, the memories came sharp and sudden. A scent. A dream. Something fractured behind your ribs. You woke up gasping, throat tight, hands gripping the sheets as if they could anchor you.

You padded into the living room like a ghost, barefoot, half-wrapped in a blanket, the dark swallowing you whole. The couch was cool beneath you, the light throw barely covering the way your body shivered, not from cold but from everything else. You couldn’t cry anymore. You didn’t have it in you. You just stared out the window, the city beyond it quiet and glittering like something unreachable.

You didn’t even hear him come in.

He appeared without sound, barefoot in worn sweats, curls flattened on one side, sleep still clinging to the edges of him. His eyes landed on you, and for a beat, he said nothing.

Then he crossed the room, grabbed a thicker blanket from the armchair, and draped it gently over your shoulders.

You thought he’d turn around, head back to bed.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sat. Right beside you. Not too close. Just there. His arms rested lightly on his thighs, fingers interlaced, gaze fixed on some quiet point out the window.

After a long moment, his voice broke the silence. Soft. Sleep-rough. Careful.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shook your head. No explanation. None needed.

He didn’t press. Didn’t tell you it would be okay. Didn’t ask what had woken you or how you were holding up. He just let the silence exist between you without needing to fix it.

And when you shifted—slowly, uncertainly—and let your legs stretch out, resting across his lap with only the slightest touch, Charles didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even shift his weight. He simply stayed, quiet and steady, like he understood that even the smallest movement might break the fragile peace you were trying to hold together.

He didn’t look down. Didn’t make it about anything more than what it was: closeness. Permission. An offering of space.

His hand moved after a long pause, gentle and unhurried, coming to rest against your shin where the fabric of your sweats had pulled up. Just a palm—warm, solid, grounding. His thumb brushed lightly back and forth, more instinct than thought.

And for a brief second, memory flared.

Lando.

You and him used to lie like this, tangled limbs and late-night movies and the kind of closeness you could pretend wasn’t intimacy until it suddenly was. His laugh in your hair. His fingers tracing shapes on your calf like he didn’t even realize what it meant. Like he didn’t know he was becoming everything.

But Charles didn’t trace anything into your skin. He just held on. Let his touch be nothing but presence. Just enough to remind you: you’re not alone.

And eventually, the ache in your chest softened, dulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath you.

Your eyes fluttered closed again, lashes damp, cheek resting against the back of the couch cushion. The room stayed dark, lamplight never turned on, the curtains still half drawn against the night.

When you woke, it was to the smell of coffee. Again.

Charles was in the kitchen, barefoot still, hoodie half-zipped. He slid a mug across the counter toward you with a quiet sort of pride, like handing someone a small, carefully built miracle.

You blinked slowly, still not quite awake. Still heavy.

He smiled. “You snore,” he said, soft but teasing.

The sound that came out of you wasn’t quite a laugh. More like a cracked breath that tilted into something lighter.

But it was something.

BACK TO CURRENT You swallowed hard, the ache in your throat blooming again like it had been waiting for the quiet. Your hands cradled the coffee mug as if it could steady you, but the steam had already faded, and the toast on your plate had gone stiff at the edges. You stared at it anyway, like maybe focus could stop the unraveling.

Your voice came low, nearly lost in the stillness between you.

“I haven’t even said thank you, Charles.”

Across from you, Charles paused. The scrape of his fork against his plate went silent, and when he looked up, it wasn’t surprise or expectation in his eyes, just calm. Just that quiet, anchored softness that he seemed to carry even when the world frayed around the edges.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice just as steady as his gaze. No warmth added for comfort. No distance to protect himself. Just truth.

But you shook your head slowly, eyes lifting until they met his and this time, you let them stay there. You let him see the cracks, the exhaustion, the fragile truth still bleeding at the seams.

And when you spoke again, it came out stronger. Not because the ache was gone, but because it deserved to be said anyway.

“Thank you,” you said, like it cost something. Like it gave something back.

His smile was small, nearly invisible, but it reached his eyes. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The day passed. The kind of quiet that felt like it was pressing down on you as much as it was comforting. You barely moved from the couch except to stretch or drink water. The hours drifted, the sky turning from silver to rose to deepening blue.

By the time the sun had started to bow beneath the rooftops, you found him again, outside this time.

The sliding door was open just enough to let in the salt-stained air. He sat curled on the narrow balcony bench, knees pulled close, one hand resting on a glass of red wine, the stem tilted lazily between his fingers. The breeze caught the edge of his hoodie, the soft fabric fluttering like a second breath.

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped out barefoot, the cool concrete under your toes grounding you in a way nothing else had all day. You folded yourself down beside him, the cushion giving under your weight, and leaned your shoulder just barely against his.

The air was thin with quiet. The horizon was painted in deep pinks, smudged with amber and violet, the sea mirroring it all below.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just sipped his wine and let the quiet stretch a little longer.

Then, a sigh. Low and heavy. Yours.

That was all it took.

He turned his head, one brow lifting gently. “You wanna talk about it?”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the sky. But something behind your ribs shifted—an ache you didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you murmured.

Charles tilted his head slightly, watching you without leaning in, without crowding. “Start with how you feel.”

The breath you let out trembled, and the words followed with it—raw and real.

“Like I’m a fucking idiot.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush to fix it. Just let the wind creak the railing again, and after a beat of silence, he nodded.

“That’s fair,” he said finally. His voice was quiet. Thoughtful.

That made you turn to him. Really turn.

And there he was—his face open and solemn in the last of the light. No judgment. No pity.

FLASHBACK after goging home with charles after the club You’d just stumbled out of the club, blinking against the sudden drop in sound, the bass still pulsing faintly through the walls behind you like a second heartbeat, too loud to ignore completely. The night air hit you all at once, cool and sharp, prickling against your flushed skin. Your arm was looped through Charles’, more for stability than affection.

Laughter and cigarette smoke swirled nearby. Neon reflections shimmered in the puddles along the curb. The night was still spinning, but slower now—just slow enough for everything to start catching up to you.

There was a tight, coiled anger sitting low in your belly, dulled by the alcohol but not erased. You’d laughed too hard in there. Smiled too wide. Tried to drown it in flashing lights and cheap liquor. It hadn’t worked. The hurt was still there—just under your skin, just beneath the glitter.

Charles glanced down at you, his brow creased. You hadn’t said much since he pulled you away from the crowd, away from the mess of whatever had gone unsaid between you and Lando inside.

“Hey,” Charles said softly, his hand brushing against your elbow like he didn’t want to startle you. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer—not with words. Just turned to look at him, eyes raw and shining, lips pressed tight to keep from trembling. There wasn’t language for what you felt. Only ache.

And then—before you even registered what your body was doing—you leaned forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t frantic. Not yet. It was tentative. Gentle. The kind of kiss that asked a question it didn’t really want answered.

But Charles pulled back almost immediately, his hands finding your upper arms, anchoring rather than pushing. His grip was light, but steady.

“Chérie,” he said, his voice low, heartbreakingly kind. “I don’t think this is what you want. Not really.”

The words didn’t sting because they were rejection. They stung because they were true. They cracked something honest open inside of you and you hated how much that hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, heat rising behind your eyes again.

He shook his head, gaze firm but impossibly gentle. “No. Don’t be. You don’t need to be sorry.”

That was the moment the tension drained from your shoulders. The moment you stopped trying to escape yourself.

Later, at his flat, you curled into the far corner of his oversized couch, one of his hoodies draped around your frame like it belonged there. The sleeves swallowed your hands. It smelled like him—clean, a little citrus, something you couldn’t name but knew instinctively.

You spoke slowly, the words falling from you one by one like pieces of something broken.

You told him everything.

How it started with Lando, innocent and stupid and so casual it felt safe. Just late nights and shared glances, shoulders brushing in hallways, jokes whispered over dinner. How you convinced yourself your feelings were manageable. Contained.

“I thought I could handle it,” you said, eyes locked on a crack in the ceiling. “I really did. I thought I could be the friend and the confidante and never ask for more.”

“And then it became more,” Charles said—not a question. Just a knowing.

You nodded, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “And now I can’t turn it off. It’s like it’s taken root. And he—he’s with Charlotte now and fuck, I want to hate her. I do. But she’s so—” your voice cracked, “—she’s so beautiful. And nice. Like, genuinely kind. And I just… I look at her and I think: of course. Of course he chose her.”

The breath you pulled in was jagged. “She’s everything I’m not, I mean have you looked at her?”

Charles didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush in with hollow comfort or easy defiance. He just watched you quietly, like he’d been watching you unravel for days and finally had the words.

“Chérie,” he said, and there was something heavier in his voice now. Not pity—frustration, maybe. Anger, even. But not at you.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t soft—it was emphatic. “Stunning. Hot actually, if I had to find words. In every way. But I need you to hear me when I say that this is—by far—the least interesting thing about you.”

Your breath hitched. You looked at him.

His jaw was tight, brows furrowed like he wanted to shake you out of the self-loathing clinging to your skin.

“The way you laugh at stupid shit and cry at movies you’ve seen five times,” he said. “The way you carry everyone’s feelings like they’re your responsibility. The way you notice things. The way you love. That’s what makes you beautiful. Not your face. Not your hair. Not some impossible standard that makes you feel small.”

You blinked, hard, the tears rising again but different this time. Softer. Looser around the edges.

His smile was soft now, bittersweet. “I’d kiss you again in a heartbeat. You know I would.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But I won’t,” he added gently, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone to catch a tear. “Because it’s not the right thing right now.”

BACK TO CURRENT You said it softly, almost like a confession whispered into the quiet evening air. “I slept with him.”

Charles nearly choked on his wine, eyes wide with shock and a flicker of something like horror. He blinked rapidly, as if trying to reset the moment.

You held his gaze calmly, not flinching. “That’s not the worst part.”

His eyebrows shot up, but he stayed silent, waiting.

“I said I love you.”

The words hung between you, heavy and raw. Charles’s face tightened as if struggling not to faint right there on the balcony.

“Still not the worst,” you murmured.

He uncrossed his legs, shifted to sit upright, fully facing you now. His eyes searched yours, concern and something deeper swirling in their depths.

Tears welled up again, threatening to spill, and you quickly looked away, swallowing hard.

He reached out slowly, placing a steady hand on your arm. “You—”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, voice breaking. “He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. We were drunk, and…”

The words trailed off as your tears began to fall freely. You didn’t meet his eyes but looked down into your lap, overwhelmed.

Without hesitation, Charles pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you in a firm, protective hug.

Your tears began falling again, hot and silent, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. Charles didn’t let go. His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing, steady.

“Hey… hey, cherie…” His voice was low, soft in your ear. “You don’t deserve this. Not this kind of pain.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, but his arms stayed firmly around your shoulders. His eyes were warm, serious.

“I know Lando seems like the dumbest asshole in the world right now,” he said, voice laced with wry warmth, “and maybe he is. But you haven’t talked. Not really. You didn’t speak to each other, not the way it mattered.”

You opened your eyes again, and his gaze was steady.

“You didn’t admit it to yourself before, cherie. So maybe don’t expect him to know what was going on in your heart.”

You swallowed hard, but didn’t look away.

He shrugged lightly. “Still—he’s a full-on idiot for doing what he did. For saying what he said. And there’s no excuse for that. It’s not your fault. None of it is.”

You nodded slowly, barely, like your body wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Like it had forgotten what it meant to be understood.

Charles stayed quiet for a moment after that, letting the silence settle again, letting you feel the weight of what he’d said without rushing to fill it.

“I keep going over it,” you whispered, voice fragile like glass just before it breaks. “Every second. Every look. Every moment I thought he knew. I keep asking myself—was I wrong the whole time?”

Charles turned slightly, enough to look at you fully. His expression was calm but firm, eyes steady. “No, you weren’t wrong.”

You swallowed hard. Your throat burned, raw from everything you hadn’t said fast enough, loud enough. “But he said things that morning… things that cut. Not careless. Just cruel. Like he’d been thinking them for a while.”

Charles’s jaw twitched—just a flicker of restrained emotion—but his voice stayed soft. “Then that’s on him. And I don’t want to defend him, but maybe—maybe he was angry, confused. Maybe he still doesn’t know what any of this means.”

You looked down, the tears already falling again before you could blink them back. “I tried to tell him.”

“I know,” he said gently. Like he’d heard the silence between you and Lando too, somehow. Like he’d felt it with you.

When you looked up at Charles again, there was only softness in his face. Not pity. Never pity. Just a kind of quiet, patient strength that wrapped around you like a blanket.

“I wanted him to say it back,” you said, your voice barely hanging on. “And now I feel like I’ve ruined everything.”

“I know,” Charles said again, and somehow—he made those two words feel like more than enough.

You let your weight fall sideways until your forehead touched his shoulder, eyes closed. For once, there was no pressure. No need to explain. No one asking you to make sense of what didn’t.

And when his hand slid into yours—fingers curling between yours like they’d always fit there—you held on.

It was a few days later, and the apartment hunt had gone smoother than you expected. Mostly because Charles had been with you every step—taking notes, asking the annoying questions you couldn’t bring yourself to ask, somehow knowing exactly when to crack a joke and when to shut up and just stand there beside you.

You’d found one. A place that felt… peaceful. Light wood floors, big windows, a sliver of sky visible between rooftops. It was small but clean. Yours.

Now Charles was packing for the race weekend, clothes folded with more care than you thought possible from a man who usually tore his shirts off like they offended him.

He glanced at you over his open suitcase. “You sure you don’t want to come?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “No. I’d rather never go again.”

He paused, nodding once, lips pressed together like he understood. Then, with a sly lift of one brow, “Fine. But promise me you’ll go out a bit, yeah? Don’t just sit around at your new place rotting in your feelings.”

You snorted, sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Yes, Mom.”

He grinned and tossed a pair of socks at your head. “Good.”

The plan was simple. You’d move into the new apartment this weekend—while Charles was gone. The good thing? Lando would be gone too. Monaco was quiet without them, the streets a little less electric. It meant you could go by his apartment, grab the rest of your things without worrying about seeing him.

It should’ve felt like closure.

But it wasn’t like that at all. Not when you were actually standing in front of the door, keys in hand, heart in your throat.

The building was quiet, too quiet. The usual buzz of city life felt muted here, like even Monaco didn’t want to witness this. You stared at the door for a long time. That ridiculous blue welcome mat still there. Your initials scratched faintly into the bottom of the metal mailbox. His name on the buzzer.

Your hand trembled as you unlocked it.

The apartment smelled the same. That warm, slightly citrusy scent that clung to Lando’s clothes and always made your chest feel too full. The lights were off. Everything was where it had always been—too much so. It felt like walking into a frozen memory. You didn’t even take off your shoes. You couldn’t.

You started in the bedroom.

Photos on the nightstand. The one of the two of you on the beach, blurry and sun-drenched. He was laughing, your head on his shoulder. You stared at it for a beat, then laid it face down before putting it away.

In the drawer, a bracelet he bought you at a market in Italy. A stupid little thing—wooden beads and sea glass—but you remembered the way he’d grinned when he gave it to you, like he was proud of finding it. That went in the box too.

Each thing you touched felt like a ripple. Not quite pain, not anymore, but a dull ache beneath the surface. Like pressing on a bruise that wasn’t done blooming.

The last thing you took was your mug. The one that had “Wicked but Caffeinated�� written on it in gold script. He used to joke it suited you too well. You turned it over in your hands, fingers brushing the chipped rim. Then packed it away.

And just like that, everything was gone. Everything that was yours, anyway.

You stood in the doorway, the last box in your arms. The apartment stretched out in front of you, empty and echoing. This had been home. This had been everything. And now it wasn’t yours anymore.

Still, something shifted.

A weight. A breath.

This hurt but it was also a beginning. It didn’t feel like peace, but maybe something close to it. Maybe the start of it.

You stepped outside, closed the door behind you.

And after all, it did feel like closure.

tag list:

@lifesass @mara1999 @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0 @pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs @isar8tsyyy @wetrainclouds @seonaw @msimpala--67 @isar8tsyyy @gvcnnnnnnnbvszxv9 @sparklepiastri @sailorinthesie @bell1a @spikershoyo @fer23022003 @vinylphwoar @wherethezoes-at @mbioooo0000 @v3nd3ttal3on @4-ln4 @belpsbelps @mckalala @hadids-world @chlmtfilms @lorena-mv33 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @queenkisskiss @ilovemeni @plotpal @koalalafications @cherryhazee @idgasb @chxseversion @hahdb8 @simpfortoomanymen

[dumbkiri]

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐗 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

χα∂єη яισяѕση χ ƒ! мαιяι! яєα∂єя

𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭: rising from your ashes, you find yourself in your family home with a fragmented memory. except that you catch glimpses of a man in the shadows and hear a rumbling voice inside your head. the man that finds you also finds himself in a peculiar situation. one that ties him as your guardian.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: oh yeah, we're doing this. and poor mc has ptsd. slight brennan, my bad >.<

Hot. 

That’s the first thing you felt when you rose from your ashes. 

Naked. 

Is what you first saw when you looked down at yourself. Charred ashes of your old self brushed against your burning skin and you looked around your surroundings with teary eyes. 

Crying. 

Is the first thing you heard as you hugged yourself. You cried into the silent night of your broken room yearning for comfort. Yearning for the man that appeared in the back of your mind, but you don’t recall his name. Just who he was to you. A protective lover who can wield shadows and fight with lethal precision. 

Then an echo of your past was the next thing you heard. A dragon’s whine and a deep voice calling you by the nickname; Dagger. A patchy dragon with mismatched eyes flashed in your mind. You do not recall his name either. 

Both human and dragon were close to your heart. You held them in your soul for a reason. Came back to life, so you could see them again. You have to find them no matter what. 

“This roof is going to collapse on me, I know it.” 

An unfamiliar voice echoed in the broken home straight towards your vulnerable position. One you didn’t want to find yourself in front of a male no less. Frantically looking around you couldn't find anything that would cover you. So you remained still hoping that the man would not wander into your room. 

Yet fate had a different path for you. It wanted the man to find you and when he pushed the charred bedroom door open, you were greeted by handsome rough features. Brownish red curls sat close to his temple and his eyes were an amber color. Nothing sparked in your memory about him. He knew you though. 

“[Name]?” He took one more step towards you and you covered yourself as much as you could. Your eyes are drawn on the floor with broken debris and scattered burned material. “Is that really you?” 

“I…” You stifled a sob to try and make sense of it all. “I don’t remember. I-I don’t remember how I got here.” You repeated to him, so he could try and piece the puzzle for you. You don’t know what happened to you. But your body burns with this crazy amount of heat. You want to disperse it. To let it all out, but this is the wrong time. Wrong place. You don’t want to endanger this man. 

“Okay, just stay here,” The man tells you and looks back into the hallway he came from, “There’s something that can cover you. I’ll go get it.” When he turns his back on you, you shout at him, “Wait! Please, don’t leave me!” 

You’re afraid of the dark. You hate being alone. And you can find yourself shivering in your spot. There’s something else you're afraid of, but can’t quite place what it was. 

The man stops in his tracks and gives you a reassuring look, his hands raised up to gesture to the door. “I won’t, I’m just going to get a cloth for you. It’ll provide you cover. I’ll be back.” He promised and when you gave him a slow nod, he disappeared in the dark. 

Then after a few seconds, he came back in with a thick curtain and approached you with a terse grin. “Sorry, this is all I really found. Everything else is burned with holes or not sufficient enough to cover you.” He walks over to you, his boots crushing the broken debris with ease. His hands move the curtain around and he wraps you in its warmth. But you’re already feeling hot. 

“What do you remember, [Name]?” He asks you as he crouches in front of you. The man still towers over you while you sit in your pile of ashes. 

“My name,” You whisper, “I remember my name and that this is my home. I remember what I am and how I came to be. The rest is all blocked, but I’m looking for two people. Well a lover and a friend.” 

“Really?” He was amused by your response and you nodded your head. 

“My lover is someone who can wield shadows and my friend is a dragon. I need to find them in order to get my memory back, I know this.” You look into his amber colored eyes and he looks vaguely familiar. You’ve seen this man before. 

“What is your name?” You ask him and he clears his throat, hoping you wouldn’t ask him that. As you wrap the curtain closer to your body, the heat inside your body begs to be released. 

“It’s Brennan Aisereigh, I’m a friend of yours. We weren’t very close, but we worked together.” He explains, his voice a lot softer. He spoke to you like it would spark your memory. His words did nothing. You don’t really remember him. 

“I see I don’t really have an effect on your memory. Must be because I’m not that memorable, huh?” Brennan tries for a joke and you give him a smile in return. 

You want to joke back, make this weird conversation a bit lighter. So you try your hand at comedy, “I’m pretty sure I would remember a man with handsome features like you.” 

Brenna huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, “Xaden would end my life if he heard you compliment me like that.” The dimples in his smile is the thing that makes him a bit boyish in appearance. 

Your eyes widen in recognition. You know that name, it’s your lover. That’s his name and it fits perfectly for a man like him. “Xaden…” You whisper his name and a glow appears in the moonlit room. “His name is Xaden…Riorson. Son of Fen Riorson. The dragon riders who become our allies.” 

“Y-yeah, that’s his name.” He shifts in his kneeled position and his eyes wander across the bare skin of your collarbone and shoulders. “Do you normally do that by the way?” 

“Do what?” You questioned back. Then you followed his amber eyes which haven’t left your barely revealed cleavage and witnessed an abnormal glow coming from inside your body. It’s bright red mixed with bright orange and you marvel at the beauty. 

Your fingers skim across your skin and you tell him, “I don’t do this at all. It’s all so new to me. Being back after my…” 

Lightning strikes outside your bedroom and you jump in fright. Instantly, you find yourself thrown into Brennan’s chest. The glow disappears and in its place swirls a darkness, like shadows curling around you in spirals. 

“[Name], you’re burning up.” Brennan states the obvious and you push him away. The lightning from earlier brings up a memory. You can see it play inside your head, the strike that came down at you so fast you couldn’t even process that it struck you. 

“Hey! That’s my family you’re talking about!” 

“You need to leave,” You tell him as you scamper backwards into your ashes. 

“How would you like it if I threatened yours?” 

“I can’t leave you alone like this.” Brennan argues back with you. He reaches for your trembling hand, but you pull away and the glow comes back. This time it’s only the color red that burns under your skin. 

“Leave. It’s painfully obvious that Sorrengail-” 

“You have to leave me, whatever is going on with my body right now. It’s not safe to be near me. I need to disperse this heat. I need to let it out, but I cannot do that with you here.” You warn Brennan and the voices of the past echo all around you. 

“It’s for you, do you know the handwriting?” 

Brennan rises to a stand and he shakes his head, “Whatever you plan on doing, it should be outside. The roof will collapse on you if you release any kind of energy from the Phoenix.”

Phoenix. How does he know about the Phoenix? Only your sisters knew about that. They were the Maidens of The Moon, their powers tie with the everlasting moon. But your mother came from a different covenant. She came from the Burning Phoenix. Powers that tie with the flaring sun. 

You tried to be a part of your sisters covenant, but your affinity for water never came as easily as fire did. Burning the letter in the echo of your past came like breathing. Now that you are reborn, rising from your ashes, you know that the Phoenix lives in you. 

The fact that Brennan knows this makes you question how. Yet there isn’t enough time for him to stand there while your body temperature rises. 

“I’ll be fine, you won’t.” You tell him and your last warning fell off your tongue when Brennan suggested something. 

“Shift.” He takes notice of your confusion and he digs into his leather jacket. His hand searches for something and he takes out a piece of parchment. With the allowed moonlight, he reads out his folded note, “Witches of the Rising Phoenix Covenant has many unique abilities. The first one being able to resurrect every time they die. The second ability allows them to bend and create fire. The third ability lets them shift into a Phoenix. So let’s try that out before we burn the Mairi family home…again.” 

You listened to his words diligently.  It’s not Rising Phoenix, it’s Burning Phoenix. He must have gotten the letters mixed up. Rising and Burning look familiar. Later you will correct him. The third ability is what catches your attention though. 

“It’s said that shifting helps you maintain your energy output. Very much like your sisters using their gryphons or you using your dragon.” Brennan tries his best to explain his knowledge on the topic of your covenant. “Fen Riorson did his best to learn from your sisters. And I’m barely scratching the surface of it. Although, I do know that when you decide to change to your…bird form… you have to feel safe in your environment.”

Safe. 

Brennan doesn’t seem like a threat to you. You're in your old bedroom, charred and broken. But it still feels like home. You can spot the runes hiding in the walls, on the floor even on the curtain you wear as a cape. You drag your eyes from the floor and up at Brennan who worries for you. 

He’s not a threat to you. You can trust Brennan. You know this deep inside. 

As you hunch over your ashes, you have a feeling that you can do this. He’s right, you’re a Phoenix. Not a Maiden. You fight with fire in your eyes, you will burn those that threaten the ones you love and your love is fierce. Although you don’t need to burn anything right now. Your anxiety from the storm outside comes from your past. Not your present. You died, yes. And now you’re living; breathing breaths that fill your lungs. 

Gradually, you feel your bones shifting and the curtain covering you feels heavier on your changing body. Your bones got smaller, you felt feathers growing on your arms and your face shifting. 

“Wow,” Brennan exhales when your transformation is finished, “Your phoenix form is stunning. More beautiful than the books described you. A lot darker than what I read from is what I mean.” 

You blink your eyes and look down to see dark purplish wings with streaks of orange that brighten up your feathers. In disbelief you try to speak to Brennan as you walk up to him. Your talons tap the floor and a windy chuckle from him makes you tilt your head. 

“Sorry, I just…you squawked at me. I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.” 

Right. He can’t speak to birds. No one can, but you can create a link with him, telepathically. You jump up and flap your wings. But you let out another squawk when you fall back onto the floor. Quickly Brennan scoops you into his arms and says, “You can’t fly for the first week. But we can help you glide with some exercises. I think we can-” 

You look into his amber eyes and when he makes contact with your bird-like ones, the link is established. A tether between you and him made of new friendship and problem-solving shenanigans. 

“Brennan, we can figure this out when you take me to my loved ones. I need to see them.” 

He doesn’t question the link between the two of you. You actually feel him welcoming it with ease. Then he shakes his head, telling you about Xaden and your dragon, “[Name], they went back to Basgaith. It wouldn’t be wise to send you there either when you’re supposed to be dead. ” 

You find him to be right in this situation. How were you supposed to go back and suddenly tell them you’re there? Alive and well. No one in the higher ups is going to accept you, not after what happened in…Athebyne. Not after what you remembered in the note. 

Varrish. 

Gods, you need to think over everything. 

“We should get going,” Brennan says and he turns towards the dark hallway. He holds you gently in his arms, afraid to crush your wings to your side. Your feathered tail swayed left and right as he walked in the empty hall. Looking around your old home, not much has changed besides it being in ruins. 

“How did you know I would be here?” 

Brennan maneuvers over large pieces of debris carefully as he speaks to you, “The history of your covenant says that the first time a Phoenix dies, she resurrects in a place she recognizes as home. You spent your childhood living with the Mairi’s and I don’t think Basgaith is home to anyone with a mark. So with nothing else to call your home, I deduced that you would be reborn here.” 

“I don’t think anyone would find Basgaith their home.” You move your head around memorizing the halls you used to run carefree in. You could hear echoes of children laughing and parents lightly scolding them to be careful. You were never careful with your siblings. 

Siblings. You have…two siblings. A brother! 

“Don’t do this! I can’t watch my sister do this! Sloane would never forgive me!” 

And you have a sister named Sloane. The anguish voice of your brother begging for you to let him fight with you made your wings tuck closer into your sides. He tried to make you stay with him. Tried to make you understand that your younger sister wouldn’t believe how you went out. 

You still can’t believe it yourself. 

“It’s a good thing you came back before the storm started.” Brennan begins picking up his pace. You could smell the earth getting wet, the storm coming closer to the both of you. And you have this feeling of anxiety creeping up on you. A fear of a storm and lightning. 

“It’s just a short flight back to Riorson's. There I can cloth you and give you some food. We can talk about the rest when I get you settled.” 

Settled. It’s weird to be in his arms when you desperately wanted Xaden to hold you. You wanted your lover to clothe and feed you. To be there for you when you rose. Yet Brennan found you and is the one caring for you. 

Surprised by your actions, you couldn’t believe you let Brennan in so easily. You blame it on his knowledge of your covenant. Did Xaden read the same history of the Burning Phoenix too? Can he understand your language like Brennan? 

“How long have you been studying my covenant for?” 

“You want me to be honest?” He asked as he made his way to his orange dragon waiting patiently for his return. 

“Yes.” You reply softly. 

“Not long,” Brennan climbs up his dragon with relative ease as he holds you with one arm, pressed close to his chest. “Honestly, Xaden told me about your sisters; Alani, Sera and Rema. The Maidens of The Moon. I know about their covenant fairly well. But nothing of what he told me about you made me think you were a part of the moon. You didn’t wield water, influence others emotions, or make illusions. Instead you manipulate light and burn a letter. You resonate more with the Sun.” 

“So you came out here on a whim? Hoping that you were right.” 

Brennan chuckles and sits in his seat, placing you gently between his legs. He looks down at you with his dimpled smile and says, “I was right, wasn’t I? I found you naked and in a pile of your ashes. I even got you to shift into your Phoenix form.” 

“Yeah, but not even I knew I was a Phoenix until my resurrection. I just…I find everything so confusing right now.” 

“It’s going to be like that for a while. You have a fragmented memory, not everything will come back right away. But you’re right about one thing. Xaden and your dragon will stir up your memories. Bring them back in a way I cannot. However, I will help you as much as I can. You are possibly the last of the Rising Phoenix Covenant.” 

“Burning Phoenix, Brennan. You got the letters mixed up.” You tell him then you fell into his lap when his dragon took to the skies. Without even thinking of the consequences, your talons dug into his right thigh, holding onto him for dear life. 

Brennan immediately freezes up and winces at the sharpness of your talons. “H-Hey!” He shouts and suddenly you transform back into a human. Your arms snake around his neck, clinging onto him as tears slide down your face uncontrollably. You cling onto him because you’re afraid to fall. He didn’t even ask if you’re okay with flying. Or if you were ready!

You don’t want to fall! 

“[Name].” He cranes his neck which allows you to dig your face into his warmth. The air whooshing through the space between you and him disappears as you focus on his voice. “It’s a short flight. We’ll be there in no time. Just keep holding on to me.” 

You don’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Instead of giving him an answer, you press yourself closer to him. While he holds your legs down on his left thigh and his right arm curls around your back. 

Then you close your eyes, lulling to sleep with the sound of his racing heart. 

……

ιηѕρσ ѕσηgѕ:

Dark - Hans Zimmer

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬: @luvly-writer @blueeclipsepaperstudent @honethatty12 @poeticbookwormcat @cheappremingerfromdelululand @eep500 @littlepippilongstocking @86laura11 @lxnvmvrzx @what-will-be-your-verse @sheblogs @fangirling-galore @callsigns-haze @side-angel @faeofthemoonandstars @jesschalamet @abysshaven @bisexualbitchsgotass @books-hlmc @r0sluvs @galaxystern08 @bwormie @littleemissperfecttt @lagrandeourse @steph-fowlie @casiiopea2 @nisarelle @matrixmoxi @eepyfaerie @thegirlwiththepurpleshelves @smileysunshinesworld @brieflyclassymortal @noonenuts @nikfigueiredo @marydreamsfantasies @taleiaargenis

[multiheadcanons]

MERCS AND MAGIC

scout: scout didn’t believe in magic until he met demoman, and it wasn’t solidified until he met merasmus on halloween. now, scout is not only a believer in magic of the general sense, this man hasn’t stepped on a crack since he took the job. and when he does it on accident, he is off to the nearest phone to check and make sure his ma is okay. he’s damn near got a phobia of black cats. and everyone is accused of cursing him when he’s having a bad day. he’s right a quarter of the time.

soldier: soldier didn’t believe in magic until merasmus became his roommate. now, he still hardly believes in magic. anything good that happens is due to the glory of his american spirit, and anything bad is a terrorist attack. its at a point that magic doesn’t really… work on him anymore. simply due to his aggressive rejection of the bad juju. he does, however, accuse everyone of being a witch during halloween, so that month may not be the time to make wishes and hopes and curses in his general vicinity.

pyro: do you believe in magic…. in a pyro’s heart, how the music can free them, whenever it starts… of course pyro believes in fucking magic dude, pyro is still fully convinced the tooth fairy and santa exist. the team does everything in their power to keep this lie alive. which is why, when pyro is alone in their room, giggling in the midnight hour, and one of their offense teammates swings by, they get the chills. they know that the tooth fairy isn’t real… so who is pyro talking to?

demo: if i had to put demo in a dnd class, he’s an unwilling wizard. he was not born with this, he did not drop to his knees and pray for this, it chose him and he decided he was gonna learn how to use it. though, frankly, the best word to use for demo is cursed. the man is cursed, and it puts the team in interesting situations on the battlefield. they swear they should’ve died more often, especially as they compare their stats and quotas. and they notice demo, though a beast when it comes to damage output, also has some of the highest death rates on the team. and then they remember. they remember how sometimes, the bullets slow, or the bombs hitch in their detonation, or the enemy spy just… pauses. and, as they make eye contact with demo, and they know he will be unable to make it before they meet their fate, as their eyes squeeze shut, they open to air still filling their lungs. and a scotsman’s corpse, just too far out of reach to aid him. and they wonder to themselves why they didn’t do more to help.

heavy: if you ask heavy, it is a firm statement that he does not believe in magic. even the witch woman who comes around every halloween is nothing more than a crazed hag, and he denies the fact that the witch won’t die. they just aren’t killing it hard enough. what goes unstated is his unshakable belief in omens. and he sees omens in everything. a bird flying opposite to the rest of the flock, a snake abandoning an easy kill, a hesitant look in his counterpart’s eye, hell, a cloud shaped like vaguely like a skull is enough to have him question whether what he is doing is right. and he has no words for tavish. he just knows that he, himself, was not born with an eye for the supernatural. so he avoids it. what heavy doesn’t realize is he’s got a… penchant for imposing his subconscious will. sometimes he thinks of death and things collapse around him. sometimes his yelling at his teammates to halt catches their ears before the bullets catch their body, when he knows he was a solid five paces too late, and can’t even confirm he opened his mouth. but he thought it. and the team is critically vulnerable to his Stare Of Refusal And Denial. SORAD for short. even when they know that what they want to do outweighs what misha will do to them. its just not worth it, suddenly. misha attributes this to his early parentification. he’s scary looking. it helps. he denies the way their eyes glaze over as they follow orders. simply a coincidence. it can also be argued he just has a lot of pull with the team. nobody really wants to contest heavy, in any way.

engineer: now don’t get dell wrong, he has dropped to his knees for as many bad times as he has for good ones. but he wouldn’t say he is a believer of anything. however, that doesn’t stop karma from following his ass like a fat kid follows an ice cream truck at a complete stop. if dell gets a hair up his ass to be even marginally more cruel than needed, it finds its way back to him tenfold. him telling a homeless man he’s out of cash when he’s got a five in his pocket he knows he doesn’t need will result in a sudden emergency that requires five hundred dollars. pocketing a wallet he found on the ground results in his going missing and charges made in his name. when he was younger, he was known as a man who had a string of terrible luck. and he was having terrible luck because he was doing terrible things. its still aggravating to feel the repercussions of his actions when others seem to never face the music. but it keeps him good. at least, keeps him in the lighter shades of morally grey.

medic: the doctor would not call himself a religious man. he just happened to make a deal with a real devil. this has emblazoned his ego. most things go his way, even when he doesn’t want them to. and he’s pushed this. of course, not with his wildest desires, those wouldn’t be as satisfying if he just got them. but he remembers the one time he tried to rely on his friend on the other side. as he sat quietly beside the hospital bed. and he thought it, and spoke it, and swore it on his own life that it was going to be okay. and it’s the first time he felt so small, so insignificant to the grand scheme of the world, that as he did everything in his power to get what he wanted, what he really, truly wanted, he was denied. and the seed in his mind that asked himself if he was meant to be a good and honest man blossomed into a wondrous, resounding no. and then he quit trying. now most everything goes his way! and he is quite pleased with himself and his own advancements.

sniper: mick swears up and down he’s seen little people crawling through the walls. teeny, tiny people. he’d think they were faeries, but they have no wings. he’s told by most everyone that it was his imagination in the australian outback going wild. giving himself things to think about. but he knows that’s not true. because he’s seeing them in the base, now. and things are going missing. the team thinks it’s mice. he knows it’s not. he just doesn’t know how to get proof. and he couldn’t help the grin of vindication he got when engineer approached him, when nobody else was around, and said he’s seen them too. had no idea what they could’ve been otherwise. they’re taking his screws, and spent bullet shells. neither one of them have any idea what these diminutive creatures could possibly be planning.

spy: spy does have a natural luck about him. but he’s so on top of his shit all the time and (at least in public) incredibly composed, it’s hard to think of it as anything other than him being a man with an iron grip on his schedule. but if anyone knew the shit spy has done, most would wonder how he’s even alive at that point. spy has gotten lucky break after second chance after close call after eleventh hour power after deus ex machina after act of god, and made it through most situations relatively unscathed, if not in better standing than when he left. and it’s like he saps luck from the people around him. if spy is in the casino, nobody’s having a good day except for spy. he’s been banned from most of them, and the ones he’s allowed at he gets kicked out after three jackpots. and it doesn’t help he’s a hell of a liar. he can get most anything he wants.

[entering--hyperspace]

Cannot imagine whatever is going on through Mr Leonard Echowatcher's head. You spend your life yearning for a world where you lived differently, where the day wasnt soaked in war, blood, and battle. Where you could envision a future where you have a partner and a family with friends to live gracefully with. But then you are given such opportunities only to find you were never taught to be gentle, you have a gentle, empathetic nature and yet the physicality of it is a stranger to you. You are expected to raise a child with gentle hands so that she saves the world, What does that even mean? How can you accept your growing love for your friend when you were never taught how to love, that intimate love is a luxury best left forgotten, there are no need for such things in war. He has to learn to become the things he wanted bc he grew too old to develop it naturally. He becomes a father to taimi fumbling his way into learning how to care and parent, he is defensive of Aurene bc he is from a culture where they arent expected to raise their own young and yet has to do so with a dragon. It feels like a test, He has to prove both to others and to himself he is capable of being a father, of nuturing, that calloused, stained hands can still be gentle. He has to accept that love is a terrifying leap of faith in vulnerability in order to gain a partnership that is considered a rarity. I love the idea that he spent 30 years yearning for things he thought he would never have and when he is actually given those opportunities (albeit admittedly through unusual circumstances) he has to learn how to actually live in them, becuase they were always just Concepts until now. Ohhhh my god Mr. Leo you are my everything

[taraxacum-vulpes]

why is everyone pretending like cyberpunk edgerunners is good. the writing is so bad i hate it

[chericheribaby]

……sometimes I do resent the fact that i never got the chance to have a teenage romance :/

[thebluebygracieabrams]

wow when i think about it maybe this year wasn't that bad

[red-moon-at-night]

I am very Normal

by the way, if anyone has a higher quality image of the back of the Undercover CD I would be most grateful. because I am low-key fighting for my life here with some of these runes

[thesunsethour]

josh toby phone call in s7 ep 10 running mates my beloved…

[wolfkcst]

if your muse ever found eivor during the aftermath of werewolf ,,, would they cover them with blanket or at least get them something warm to cover up in? 🥺

the typical 'naked and vulnerable' when they turn back from a werewolf 🥺

[citizenn]

[selfcontainedunivcrse]

thinkin. bout my guys. vwoop n rc are like similar guys with different dials switched. And they both live in a society ... They both deal with the alienation from society in different ways.

Vwoop is coping by being good at society. It's winning. It's making society where there isn't, and so good at learning what it's supposed to do and conforming :3.

RC tries to integrate into a society that largely has nothing to do with it, + a society that is largely formed on Family, and while not exclusively nuclear and monogamous (so one social relationship does not rlly inhibit others in that way), it's still that this is what the people are doing, and that's how relationships are formed. And it's the classic aromantic moment, when society at large is mostly concerned with forming the family structure. Shrugs helplessly.

Vwoop does not think the world would turn without it. It's not always confident that it's doing a good job or being helpful or that people excessively Like it. But it doesn't ever really think like that y'know.

[urfriendlywriter]

25 "you've no idea what you do to me," vulnerability dialogue prompts !!

(feel free to use <333 tag me when yall write!! my favs are 5!! 10, 3 )

"God, I need you."

"I've craved this more nights than I can remember." :'')

"Would it assure you if I say.. that I'd be honored to protect your vulnerability with me?"

when you both sleep together after a traumatic event, you holding them

^ they silently whisper, "I'm scared.. That you'll leave me once you see how much I need you. that this love will consume me, make me.. clingy, and you'll see I'm just.. broken"

"Can you hug me?" By a really vulnerable you and they still at the request before one hand moves to your back, holding you against them - perhaps more tightly than necessary.

They make a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, pressing their forehead against yours, "What would I be without you?"

"Would you... would you be okay if I put my arm around your shoulders? Like, hugging you from the side?"

^ "Would u want to?" you ask but they hadn't expected you to ask if they wanted to. your question implies that you care about their feelings too, and it touches something deep within them. "Yes," they admit softly. "I do."

Cuddling but its them on top resting their ear over ur heart and listening to its beatssssss

3 am truth exchanges and both your voices are really quiet, intimate and genuine, eyes shining with lots of emotions that you both honor and hold close.

[hyewka]

warnings. sub!tyun, noona!reader, desperate shit, degrading, use of whore/slut, handjob

flirt freshman!taehyun who, even if he looks polite and at times would even be described as cute, is definitely a heartbreaker. stringing along, fucking, then ghosting.

you see right through his nice guy act when he subtly hits on you, flashing you his white pearls, blinding smile that show off his dimpled cheeks and the way his eyes form into crescents, his simple charms almost, almost having an effect on you. but you know better, you’ve already passed this chapter of your life, getting yourself fucked over by cute assholes. so you reject any and all advances that he makes on you, even as so far as to completely ignore him whenever he addresses you in a group setting.

you wanted to protect yourself, because again, you knew better. but what you dont realize is how often your blatant rejections have been either straight up cruelly humiliating or just plain harsh to the younger boy. not until you’re stuck with taehyun as you awkwardly wait in the car for your friends.

“why dont you like me?” he starts, quiet as he looks out the window. you turn to look at him, a little astonished that he decided to confront you. then you quickly recollect yourself, clearing your throat.

“who told you that?”

he scoffs, a sneer retching his expression. “you’re kidding aren’t you? i don’t think i know anybody more repulsed with me than you. everyone can see it. you almost jumped out of the car when they told you i was going to sit in the back tonight.”

it’s like hes been keeping all of his thoughts behind a lock with how fast everything spilled out of his mouth and you take in a breath. “okay now that’s an exaggeration.”

“not really.”

then it falls silent again, hearing the distant horns of cars and you awkwardly shift. he’s right, its not.

then suddenly, his eyes shift from the window to you, and the eye contact catches you off guard, you can make out the slight furrow of his brows and the small pout that rests on his lips—you’ve never seen him look like that. you avert your gaze almost immediately.

but he’s still staring. and it has you nervously tapping your finger on your lap.

“i like you, noona.”

your eyes widen a little. not because of the confession, you knew it was coming eventually. something about this variation of gentleness with his voice that you don’t think you’ve quite heard…ever coming from a man has your heart beat just a little faster. noona? its nothing new coming from taehyun, but your hands still slight dig into the fabric of your skirt. “if that wasn’t already obvious enough.” he says bitterly with a non humored laugh.

you spend the entire night, staring at your blank empty google doc, wallowing in all thoughts related to taehyun. it kind of pisses you off that he’s managed to chip a little away from your wall, you usually disperse any thought that comes up in your head that has to do with him. but now you choose to give yourself a leeway, just a little to think over whether he was being genuine, and whatever happened in the car was taehyun serving his heart on the platter to be so…vulnerable, or if it was just the last trick up his sleeve to lure you in like a toy he can’t have.

but then you remember the little features—the way his brows slightly turned up, the way his bottom lip instinctively stuck out, just a tiny bit—the way his eyes twinkled, just somewhat, as cliché as it is to say, it felt genuine, real.

when taehyun sends you a text that night, with a string of other unread messages from weeks or days ago before it—you come to the conclusion that he likes you, really likes you.

sorry, ignore what i said today

i don’t want you feeling uncomfortable around me any more than you do

your heart swells a little, simultaneously feeling the guilt conscience slowly creeping up on you. maybe you really did misread him this entire time.

so imagine your surprise when the next time you see taehyun, a week later, it’s at a frat party, looking down at a girl clinging onto his arms with those same twinkling eyes, smile, dimples, gentle look—eventually laughing then biting down on his lips as he looks away, the red on tips of his ears making you fume more than you’d admit. you don’t know what it was, what exactly made you insane enough to stomp over to him in long strides, wobbly pushing through the drunks, seeing red as you grab taehyun by the arm when he’s of reach—the surprised look on his face only lasting for a second before you furiously turn around, dragging him away from the confused girl that he was getting way too flirty with.

he could’ve easily shaken off your grip, it was weak, but he followed, he let you take him, only when you push him in a non occupied room and lock the door does he finally say something.

“hey, what the fuck was that—”

then you go for it. throwing all logical justifications and reasoning, you pull him into you harshly by the collar of his shirt, crashing your lips onto his. you don’t know what you expected, up to now it felt like you’ve been on airplane mode, but you know it wasn’t what taehyun returns. even if youre the one who came onto him first, he kisses back even more passionately, leaning into you, so quick to be receptive, hands going up to your cheeks as he lets you walk him hard into the door, latching onto your lips as if its a taste of a drug that has him hooked right from the first dose.

he’s so…desperate, it scares you, and turns you on at the same time. every time you try to pull away a little he reels you back almost immediately following your lips, the kiss becoming open mouthed as he breathes in and gets more and more messy, sloppy—he’s so sloppy, it’s the last thing you expected from him.

you finally manage to pull away, both of you catching your breath, with his lips glistening and red, mouth agape, chest heaving, up and down as he stares stunned.

“wha—um, so—fuck, sorry, no wait—” hes stumbling over his words. again, something taehyun never does. whenever hes spoken to you, it always felt so calculated, like every word hes thought over, because it felt so perfect. hes always collected.

you clasp your hand over his mouth, weakly, but he stills shuts up his ramble and jumble of words, blinking at you, with those god damn adorable brown eyes.

“kindly, shut the fuck up.”

his brows twitch a little, but he’s still silent.

your eyes search for something in his, you don’t know what, but it feels like you’ve gotten a green light, sighing. “i wanna fuck you.”

“shit.” he marvels, feeling his breath against your palm, his eyes still just as wide. you don’t know what exactly he’s thinking but if the dick already poking against your thigh was any indication, it was that he wanted it. really bad.

you slip your hand off his lips, then you whisper, fixated on how plump they are, “open your mouth.”

he blinks confused, hesitant until you take it upon yourself to rub your thigh against the tent in his pants, having him almost immediately buckle as he lets out a sinful groan. you should know he’s probably not into what you’re into, so you ease into it, testing the waters as you press yourself flush against him, rubbing your leg up and down against his clothed dick. “feel good?”

“y-yeah, shit, noona, please touch me.”

“i am touching you,” you swipe your hand over his bottom lip, fuck, they really are pretty. and so kissable. you’re shocked you haven’t kissed them sooner.

“no, i want your hand.”

you scoff, he’s so confident with what he wants, and so demanding. bratty. he’s probably so used to dominating. “this isn’t enough? me getting off your crusty dick isn’t enough for you? you’re feeling good, aren’t you?”

you press harder and with no consent of his own, his breaths knocked out of him, a slight squeak by the end that has his ears running red again. your thumb slips into his mouth, easing into it, slowly, before you fully press on his tongue as the friction of your knees against his cock gets more and more frantic and torturous. “you tell me you like me then decide i’m not worth the headache, a week later you run off to another innocent girl you’ll try to break the heart of after getting your fill. someone needs to keep you in check for becoming such an asshole, no? do you have no shame?” you mock, feeding him another finger in his mouth so he can’t retort like you know the smartass in him would do.

he sucks on them, surprising you as you feel his tongue licking eagerly…fuck, how badly did you misread him?

but you can tell with the way his eyes involuntarily water, and the way he shakes his vehemently, he still has the audacity to deny everything.

you scoff, slipping them out of his mouth, string of his saliva coating your fingers and shoving that hand down his pants, promplty grabbing his dick, marveling at the soft, wet feel. he already spilled so much pre-cum—slut. he likes this.

“you don’t like me, you have no right to be jea—hahhh..fuck, you can’t be jealous, you c-can’t. shit, faster, faster please noona, noona…” he whines, delirious as he gets lost at the feeling of your hand, bucking his hips, clearly getting frustrated with how irritatingly slow you’re tugging at his dick.

“i don’t. i don’t like you. i don’t like slutty men who’re bad.”

he whimpers, and fuck does that noise have you pooling your underwear.

“how have i been bad? how? i’m always good to you, i always—”

you twist your hand a little and his head immedietely falls back against the door, mouth hung open as he lets out pathetic, needy pants, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“like it? is it how you imagined it’d feel to have my hands wrapped around your cock?” you press, kissing down his jawline, hand letting out wet sounds as you jerk him off with more speed

“yes, yes, so much better noona, so much—” he chokes on his own words when you suck on his neck, feeling him let out shuddering breaths. cute.

when you use your other hand to trail up under his shirt, feeling up his muscle, you can hear him gulp, and for whatever reason, it turns you on even more.

“fuck, you’ve been trying to dom me, haven’t you?” he breathes out.

you let out an airy laugh out of your nose, grazing your thumb over his nipple, the hitch of his breath being your undoing. “i have been domming you—this entire time. what, don’t like it when a womans in charge?”

he shakes his head immediately, “no, no, i like it. i really do, i like it a lot. i like it when its you, noona.”

even when you have his mind sent to overdrive, he still knows exactly what to say to have your heart racing, it’s dangerous.

“hm?” you hum, throat dry, trying to forget the comment thats repeating over and over in your head. he likes it when its you. you scoff a laugh, “you really know how to get a girl going huh?”

“would treat you right. give me a chance noona, i’ll treat you like a queen.”

“a queen?” you laugh, then pretend to ponder on it as you play with his bud more, his dick leaking through your hand—he’s enjoying it all too much. “think would like goddess more.”

he moans wantonly when you thumb his tip, then transitioning to jacking off his shaft in frantic speed, it gets him delirious. “goddess, goddess, fuck—i’ll treat you like a goddess baby, swear.”

“sure you wouldn’t ghost me?”

his breath hitches again, head dipping into your shoulder, jaw practically hung open, mix of moans and whines spilling out of his mouth dumbly—who would’ve thought, huh? “never. so pretty, you’re so pretty and smart, and and—”

“such a slut, just want your dick touched and you’ll say anything.”

you feel him shake his head, still panting heavily as he grabbles onto you for support. he’s clingier than you expected, he holds onto you so often.

“faster…faster please, ‘m sososo close.” he sobs, his shaky breath fanning on your shoulder.

you chuckle, giving him what he wants, the wet squelching sounds heightening until he breaks. “gonna—gonna-” he spills before he could even finish his sentence, with a high pitched noise he cums in his pants, no doubt creating a big stain in the area of his crotch.

well, shit.

but when he lifts his head, a dopey smile on his face, eyes glazed over still, you think he might not mind all too much.

############

note. long overdue sub taehyun and a noona smut from me 🙏 did they fuck. no. will there be a future continuation of this au. perhaps.

[cbeargyu]

what you want

summary: you and taeyong have been best friends since college, sharing your adult lives side by side—your flower shop, his branding firm, countless shared memories. but as you near your 30s, the yearning to become a mother grows unbearable. during a reunion trip to jeju island, a tipsy conversation turns into something tender, raw, and irreversible. what begins as comfort and shared vulnerability becomes something deeper—intimate confessions, unspoken love, and the beginning of a quiet forever.

pairing: bestfriend taeyong x fem!reader

genre: slow-burn, friends to lovers, emotional smut, soft romance, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, eventual pregnancy.

warnings: breeding kink, unprotected sex (consensual, emotional context), impregnatio, pregnancy mention, emotional vulnerability, suggestive adult themes (18+), heavy romantic tension with soft resolution.

wc: 4,5K

notes: hi hiiii, okay so i've been dying to read smutty taeyong fics lately and it's been ALMOST impossible to find 😭 like 90% are mxm and there's barely any tae x reader content out there... if anyone has recs pls drop them in the comments ily. alsooo it's probably painfully obvious by now that i'm obsessed with the whole breeding kink + domestic fluff combo BYE that's literally my favorite thing ever 😩🫠💗

you’ve always been close to taeyong.

since college, really—when you met in that ridiculously stuffy marketing class during your second year. he was late that day, hair still damp from a rushed shower, a printed branding portfolio tucked under one arm, and somehow, he still managed to slide into the seat beside you with an easy smile and that soft voice.

you became inseparable after that. group projects, late-night convenience store runs, silent study sessions that turned into hours of talking about everything and nothing. you built a quiet rhythm with him, one that never required a label or explanation.

you opened your flower shop right after graduation. taeyong built his own creative agency, specializing in branding and design—sleek, intentional, always poetic in its aesthetic. you sent him flowers for his launch day; he designed the logo for your storefront for free. "it’s a gift," he said when you tried to pay him, his voice warm over the phone. "besides, i owe you for all the coffee you bought me during thesis week."

now in your late twenties, things feel stable. solid. your dreams are real. you run a blooming business. taeyong’s agency is doing well. life, on the surface, is soft and good. but there’s one thing that sits heavily in your chest.

you want a baby.

you’ve wanted one for years. even when you were young, you imagined yourself as a mother before anything else—before being a florist, a business owner, a woman navigating city streets with earbuds in and a tote bag full of errands. you crave that connection, the physicality of pregnancy, the quiet intimacy of raising someone who came from you.

but dating? nonexistent. your schedule is tight, your circle small, and the men you do meet are more interested in weekend flings than parenting plans. you’ve been obsessively reading about IVF, sperm donors, even traditional remedies your grandmother used to whisper about. you bring it up to taeyong one night, half-laughing as you scroll through forums.

“i don’t know what to do,” you admit, looking over the rim of your mug at him. “i’m not seeing anyone. i don’t want to wait until i’m forty. and i want to carry them. i want to feel them growing inside me.”

taeyong goes quiet.

he doesn’t have the answers, but he listens. tells you that you’d make an amazing mother. suggests maybe you could consider adoption, but you shake your head gently.

“i want to be pregnant,” you whisper. “i want them to be mine from the start.”

he nods.

he doesn’t push.

a few days later, he messages you.

taeyonggie👺 [11:13am]: remember our old classmates? they’re planning a reunion trip to jeju. want to go? they said you’re welcome too.

you hesitate, then say yes. maybe a change of scenery is what you need. something about the sea and the quiet and the way jeju always smells like citrus and wind.

you don’t expect to feel so at ease.

you arrive together, him beside you on the plane, headphones shared between you as you both doze off mid-flight. you’re staying at a cozy hotel not far from the beach—modern but warm, all wood accents and soft lighting.

there’s a mix-up at check-in.

“two rooms for y/n and taeyong?” the clerk asks.

“no, just one,” taeyong corrects, glancing at you. “two beds, please.”

you nod. it’s nothing new. you’ve stayed over at each other’s apartments before. this is the same. right?

your room has two full-size beds, a window view of the ocean, and barely enough space for both your suitcases. you joke about how you’ll end up tripping over each other, and taeyong just grins, tossing his duffel onto the bed by the wall.

the first two days are calm.

nakamoto yuta—now a travel content creator, all sun-kissed skin and open laughter—is the life of the group. seulgi, working as a creative director for a fashion label, is effortlessly elegant, always with a camera around her neck. also in the group: kwon eunbi, a vocal coach; hwang minhyun, managing a production company; kim seolhyun, running a podcast on pop culture; and kim hanbin, now a choreographer.

you spend your days exploring the island.

taeyong helps you pick tangerines from the orchard. you braid small wildflowers into your hair, and he snaps a photo when you’re not looking. he buys you honey ice cream and insists on carrying your bag when your shoulder starts to ache.

it feels like nothing’s changed.

but there’s a moment.

you’re inside the hotel lounge, grabbing drinks. yuta and taeyong sit near the back, shoulders low, conversation soft between them.

“you still in love with her?” yuta asks, voice easy but not teasing.

taeyong chokes on his drink. coughs. blushes.

“no,” he says, eyes flickering. “i mean, not anymore. that was...college. i’m over it.”

yuta raises a brow. “you sure?”

taeyong doesn’t answer right away. his fingers tap against the glass, slow. thoughtful.

“she wants a baby,” he says eventually. “that’s all she talks about now.”

“so give her one,” yuta shrugs.

taeyong laughs quietly. like it’s ridiculous. like it’s tempting.

he doesn’t bring it up again.

but something shifts.

you notice him watching you a little longer than usual when you laugh. his gaze lingers on the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone, the way you absentmindedly rest a hand over your stomach when you’re lost in thought.

you don’t say anything either.

you’re still just friends.

sharing a room.

sharing a life.

almost.

dinner that night is golden.

the kind that stretches out with laughter, grilled seafood, tangerine wine, and flickering lanterns strung up between pine trees. the restaurant is open-air, tucked near the cliffside with a view of the ocean glowing beneath the full moon.

everyone's a little tipsy by the time dessert comes around. yuta’s telling stories about backpacking in morocco and the time he accidentally ended up at a wedding. seulgi keeps taking pictures of everyone's reactions, cheeks flushed from wine. hanbin and seolhyun are arguing about the best era of k-pop choreography. eunbi sings a soft verse of something nostalgic, and minhyun smiles so softly you wonder if he's thinking of someone he left behind.

taeyong is beside you. always beside you. refilling your glass with something citrusy. resting his arm along the back of your chair. letting his knee bump into yours and not pulling away. the heat from him is steady. familiar. almost too much.

later, the drinks keep flowing back at the hotel. minhyun brings out a bottle of plum soju he brought from seoul, and that’s when it really starts. shots. dares. flushed cheeks and slurred memories.

you’re warm. glowing. a little too honest.

“i mean it,” you say, your voice low, shoulders loose as you sit with taeyong on the floor by the balcony door, away from the noise. “i think about it every night. sometimes i dream about it.”

he looks at you, gentle. “dream about what?”

you lean your head against the windowpane, watching the wind rustle the curtain.

“having a baby,” you murmur. “being pregnant. the little kicks. the soft cries. the weight of them on my chest. it’s so clear in my mind. like… i can almost feel it already.”

taeyong swallows.

you’re drunk. not sloppy, just vulnerable in a way you rarely let yourself be.

“i’ve tried not to obsess over it,” you continue, voice quieter now. “but it’s hard. i want it so much. and i know it’s selfish to want the whole experience—the belly, the pain, the birth. i just… i don’t want to feel like i missed it, like i missed the chance to be the kind of mother i’ve always seen myself becoming.”

taeyong doesn’t know what to say. you can feel it in the silence. his fingers curl slightly, brushing the edge of your sweater.

“you’d be such a good dad, you know,” you say suddenly, eyes half-lidded, smiling gently now as the alcohol softens your words. “like… annoyingly good.”

taeyong blinks.

“you’d be the kind that warms up the milk just right. that kisses tiny foreheads. that always carries extra snacks. that reads the bedtime story even when he’s tired. you'd probably cry when they take their first step.”

he laughs under his breath, a little shaky. your words are melting something in him.

“and your baby would have your eyes,” you add, like it’s nothing. “those pretty lashes. and maybe your laugh. and you’d panic the first time they got sick. and hold them all night until they stopped crying.”

he’s staring at you now. full-on. wide-eyed, a little undone.

“you’d be so gentle,” you whisper. “you already are.”

taeyong shifts. swallows again. his voice is rough when he finally speaks. “don’t say that.”

you tilt your head, confused. “why not? it’s true.”

“because,” he breathes, gaze flicking down to your lips for half a second before pulling back to the ceiling. “you’re drunk. and i’m trying really hard not to do something i’ll regret.”

you blink slowly, the alcohol making everything feel suspended.

you’re suddenly aware of how close you are. how intimate this has always been. not the words. not the night. just you and him.

taeyong stands. runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“i’m gonna get some water,” he mumbles, stepping away from the room.

you stay behind, heartbeat thudding, his warmth still lingering beside you.

you meant every word.

but you don’t know if he’ll ever believe that.

taeyong returns to the table with your glass of water clutched between his fingers like it’s something to hold himself together. his pulse is still uneven, the weight of your words clinging to him like sea salt in the air—soft but undeniable.

you’re laughing at something when he returns. yuta’s grinning, telling a story about a disastrous photoshoot in cambodia that involved a monkey, a drone, and his own foolish confidence. your cheeks are still flushed, but your expression dims a little when your eyes catch his, like you can feel the shift. like you remember what you said.

taeyong sets the glass in front of you gently, and you whisper a quiet “thanks” without looking up.

he doesn’t sit down again. instead, he hovers, letting the chatter of the group wash over him, standing on the edge of it all. seulgi pulls hanbin into a debate about concept staging in idol tours, seolhyun’s already half-asleep on the couch, and minhyun is texting someone with a small smile. the night has thinned out. the fire outside has died, leaving only the dim golden lights strung overhead and the soft hum of a playlist playing someone’s nostalgic mix of late 2010s ballads.

by the time the clock hits nearly two in the morning, someone mumbles about calling it a night.

you blink blearily, your words slurring just a bit now, your weight leaning more and more toward the backrest of the couch. taeyong’s already there before anyone else moves, slipping a hand beneath your elbow and helping you to your feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“come on,” he says quietly, warm breath by your temple. “let’s get you to bed.”

you nod sleepily, your body soft, trusting. your fingers find the edge of his jacket sleeve as he steadies you, and he doesn’t pull away. the walk to the room is silent, the hallways dim and muffled. your steps are clumsy, and he catches you more than once, his hand curling around your waist like second nature.

inside the room, it’s dim and warm. the faint scent of saltwater and clean cotton lingers in the air from earlier. you collapse on the edge of the bed you claimed the night before, one of two queen mattresses sitting side by side with a single nightstand in between. the tension returns with the silence, thick and cloying. he walks to the dresser and grabs a bottle of water, offering it to you.

you drink half of it. then sit there. watching him.

he avoids your gaze at first. fiddles with the hem of his shirt. looks out the window like he might say something—then stops himself.

but you’re still drunk. and honest. and maybe a little bold in the way you never let yourself be.

“you know,” you start, voice quiet, “i wasn’t drunk when i said you’d make a good dad.”

taeyong turns slowly. you meet his eyes.

you swallow thickly, fingers wringing the edge of your pajama top. “i’ve thought about it before.”

he blinks, lips parting like he wants to ask but isn’t sure if he should.

you continue.

"not just in the abstract. not just... you as someone’s dad. but you as my—" you stop, heat blooming up your neck. you exhale. “sometimes, i think about what it’d be like if you were the one.”

he says nothing, but his expression crumbles—something tender and wounded flickering behind his eyes.

“i mean, we’ve been in each other’s lives forever,” you say, softer now. “we grew up together in every way that matters. you’ve seen me fail and get back up and fall apart again. you’ve never walked away. not once. not even when i was unbearable. i trust you with everything. i always have.”

taeyong doesn’t breathe.

you keep going.

“so yeah. i think about it sometimes. about what it’d be like to have your kid. to raise them with you. to wake up to you and a messy little human with sleepy eyes and your stupid laugh. and maybe i’m insane, maybe it’s just my hormones or my loneliness or whatever—but the thought doesn’t scare me. it grounds me.”

you laugh, a little bitterly, wiping at the corner of your eye. “and that’s the worst part. because i know you don’t see me that way. or if you did once, it’s long gone. and i shouldn’t be saying this—i know that. but there’s something about tonight that makes me feel like i’ll burst if i don’t.”

taeyong moves before you can finish.

quiet. careful.

he kneels in front of you. not touching you. not yet. just there, looking up at you like he’s memorizing every curve of your face.

his voice is raw.

“don’t say i don’t see you.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’ve always seen you.”

your breath hitches.

taeyong lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “you talk about me being a dad like i wouldn’t spend every second wondering how the hell i got so lucky to build a life with you. like i haven’t already imagined it too. maybe not with words. maybe not out loud. but… i have.”

you whisper, “you have?”

he nods.

“every time you smile like that. every time you bring me coffee with your name scribbled next to mine. every time you hug me like home. yes. i have.”

you don’t move.

he reaches for your hand—slow, reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“but i never let myself say it,” he murmurs. “because i didn’t want to mess this up. not with us. not with you. and definitely not like this. but if i’m being honest… the thought of you carrying my child?” he swallows. “that doesn’t scare me either.”

the room is silent.

you stare at him, your fingers trembling in his grip.

you whisper, “then kiss me.”

he does.

not rushed. not heated.

just true.

the kind of kiss that feels like coming home after years of wandering.

like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t crazy after all.

the kiss deepens slowly.

taeyong’s hands are warm on your cheeks, cradling you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. you melt under his touch, your fingers sliding up his neck, into his hair, pulling him closer, closer still—like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

he’s the one who gasps first when your lips part just enough to whisper his name. it falls from your mouth like a secret you’ve kept buried for too long, and he swallows it whole.

he pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his thumbs brushing over your flushed skin. you can feel his heart racing beneath his shirt.

“y/n…” his voice is hoarse. “are you sure?”

you nod, soft and breathless. “i’ve never been more sure.”

and there’s something in your voice—something so certain, so full of quiet longing—that makes taeyong inhale like he’s taking you in for the first time.

his lips find yours again, slower now, more deliberate. his touch trails from your face to your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, like he needs you close enough to feel everything—the way your body trembles against his, the way your thighs tighten around his hips, the way your breath stutters when his mouth moves down your neck.

he tastes your skin like a prayer, like something he’s dreamt about in the quiet hours of the night when your voice was the only thing that could calm him down.

you whisper into the space between kisses, into the curve of his jaw, “i want it to be you.”

his breath hitches.

“i want your baby,” you murmur, your hand pressing over his chest, right where his heart is pounding. “i want to carry your child. someone small and perfect and warm, someone who has your eyes… your smile.”

taeyong lets out the softest sound, almost like a whimper, and you feel his fingers tighten on your hips, his body tensing like he’s trying to hold himself back.

you lean into his ear and say it again—this time slower, your voice shaking. “i want your baby inside me, tae.”

his hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, reverent and gentle. “god,” he breathes. “you have no idea what that does to me.”

“tell me.”

he leans back just enough to look at you—really look at you. his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen and parted.

“i think about it all the time,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “what you’d look like with my baby growing inside you. your belly round and soft, your body glowing. coming home to you with your shirt stretched over the bump, your hands cradling it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

he presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another, lower. “i want to see you like that. i want to wake up and run my hands over your belly, feel it kick. talk to it. kiss it.”

you whimper, your fingers knotting in his hair. “tae…”

his hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, thumbs brushing over your hipbones like they belong there. “i want to fill you up,” he murmurs, voice thick and trembling. “not just for tonight. not just for the fantasy. i want this to meansomething. it does mean something.”

you nod, cupping his face. “i know. it does to me too.”

he kisses you again, deeper now, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you down onto the mattress. the room is quiet, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the window, and everything feels soft. intimate. warm.

he undresses you slowly, carefully, as if every piece of clothing he removes reveals another piece of your heart. your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer until there’s no space between you, nothing but breath and bare skin and whispered names.

when he enters you, it’s slow and deep, like he’s savoring every inch, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him. your back arches, and he moans into your neck, your name a broken sound on his lips.

you’re both trembling—emotion thick in your chests, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. because it’s not just sex. not just lust. it’s home. it’s years of friendship and quiet yearning finally coming undone in the safest way possible.

taeyong presses a kiss to your temple and whispers, “you’re perfect. you’re mine.”

you cradle his face in your hands, smiling through the tears. “give me everything, tae. i want to feel you. all of you. i want to feel you stay.”

his rhythm falters, just for a second, overcome by the weight of it all. “i’ll give you everything. i’ll give you a family.”

you tighten around him at the words, gasping.

“i want to make you a mom,” he whispers. “tonight.”

you nod frantically, lips parting, “do it. please. i want to feel it—i want to feel you—when you fill me.”

taeyong groans, hips stuttering, burying his face in your neck. “fuck. y/n…”

you whisper, “put a baby in me, tae.”

he thrusts deeper, harder now, the restraint beginning to crumble. your bodies are slick with sweat, moving together with a kind of desperation that feels like both a beginning and a promise.

when he finishes—inside, just like you wanted—it’s with a gasp, his arms locked around you tight, like he’s scared to let go. and for a long moment, neither of you move.

“i want you full of me,” he says against your mouth, already hardening again. “i want to make sure.”

you nod, dazed. open. warm.

“don’t stop,” you whisper. “please don’t stop.”

and he doesn’t.

he makes love to you over and over again, slow and focused, like each time is another chance to seal your wish into reality. sometimes he holds your hips, watching your face as you fall apart for him. other times he lays you on your side, kissing your shoulder while whispering how beautiful you are, how perfect you’d be with his child inside you.

when dawn breaks, you’re tangled together in silence. your body aches, sweet and sated. your thighs sticky, your heart full. his hand rests on your stomach again, like he’s already waiting.

he is groaning your name, whispering over and over, “mine. you’re mine. our baby. our future.”

you’re crying. he is too.

and when the trembling stops and the world is still again, he kisses your lips, then your cheeks, then your stomach.

“i can’t wait to see you grow,” he whispers, resting his head just below your ribs.

you run your fingers through his hair, heart pounding.

you whisper back, “i hope it has your eyes.”

the sunlight pours through the thin curtains like a slow, golden confession. the air smells like salt and lemon shampoo. taeyong wakes up first this time, his arm heavy over your waist, your back pressed flush against his chest. sunlight filters through the cream-colored curtains, warming the bare skin of your shoulder.

it kisses your bare shoulder first, then the soft curve of your waist, then the scattered marks taeyong left across your chest like constellations only he could read.

you’re the first to stir, eyelids fluttering open to the unfamiliar ceiling of the hotel room. for a second, you forget where you are. but then you shift slightly and feel the weight of an arm draped across your stomach, the steady rise and fall of a chest pressed into your back, and the unmistakable warmth of taeyong’s body, still wrapped around you like a second skin.

his breath ghosts against your nape, slow and deep, and you realize he hasn’t let go of you all night. not once.

you smile.

when you turn your head just enough to see his face, it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. he’s peaceful like this—softer, younger somehow. his lashes rest against his cheeks, and his mouth is parted slightly, lips still swollen from all the kisses you gave him. his hand, large and warm, is splayed gently across your lower belly, protective and possessive in the same breath.

you reach down and lace your fingers with his.

as if he feels it, he stirs, humming sleepily against your skin. his nose nuzzles into your shoulder. “mmm… morning,” he mumbles, voice thick and low, still soaked in sleep.

you twist around slowly in his hold so you’re facing him. he blinks a few times, eyes still heavy, but when they focus on you, they soften in that way they always have—like you’re the center of his world and he’s been waiting all night just to see you again.

“you stayed,” you whisper, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

he smiles lazily, eyes fluttering shut again. “of course i did. where else would i go?”

you tuck yourself into his chest, your nose against his collarbone. “you feel so warm…”

his arms tighten around you instantly, drawing you closer until there’s no space between you. “you kept me warm first,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “i didn’t want to let go.”

you stay like that for a while. breathing together. existing.

and then you feel him shift, one hand still resting over your belly, thumb drawing lazy, absent-minded circles over the skin there. he hums, low in his throat. “do you think… do you think it worked?”

your breath catches.

you look up at him, searching his face. he’s watching you carefully now, no longer groggy, eyes wide open and impossibly tender.

“i don’t know,” you whisper. “maybe.”

he leans in, kisses your forehead. then your temple. then the spot just below your eye. “i kind of hope it did.”

you feel your throat tighten with emotion.

“you do?”

“mmhm,” he nods, nudging his nose against yours. “i kept thinking about it last night… the way you’d look months from now. the way i’d get to take care of you. rub your back. cook for you. kiss your belly every morning.”

you let out a small laugh, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“i’d be so annoying,” you murmur. “always crying. craving weird stuff. complaining about everything.”

he smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear. “you’d be perfect. i’d love you more every day. and our baby… our baby would be lucky.”

you bury your face in his chest, overwhelmed by the sweetness of it. the certainty.

he strokes your back gently. “and if it didn’t happen this time… we try again,” he says softly. “no rush. no pressure. just us. just love.”

you pull back, tearful and smiling all at once. “you want to try again already?”

he grins, lips brushing your cheek. “i want to make love to you every morning for the rest of my life. but yes… also for the baby.”

you laugh, breathless, and he kisses the sound right out of you.

his hands start to wander again—slow, exploring, remembering. he murmurs against your lips, “can i stay inside you today too? just like this… all day?”

you nod, whispering, “don’t leave me empty.”

and he doesn’t.

he makes love to you again—this time slow and languid, under the weight of sunlight and morning warmth. he kisses your face like you’re already glowing. like you’re already carrying a part of him.

when he comes again, deep inside you, he doesn’t look away. he holds you through it. kisses your tears. whispers your name like a promise.

afterward, he pulls the blanket over your bodies, still tangled. still joined. he keeps his hand on your belly, and you both stay quiet, smiling softly.

as if the future is already there.

[phagodyke]

nvm im too tired and overstimulated for this shit