#i don’t want to wake up to see the aftermath

[darkbluekies]

Make things right? Or make them worse? — part 2

Part 1

Yandere!doctor husband (platonic to his children) x twin daughters ocs x female!reader

Summary: the aftermath of drugging Lydia puts Nadia in a tight situation where she has to give up her own pride to save her sister

Warnings: toxic household, yandere, guilt, poison, throwing up, (things along this way, basically the same as part 1)

Word count: 4.7k

It’s in silence that she whisks the milk in the pot, but she's barely aware she's doing it. She pours some cocoa and sugar into it, continuing to whisk mindlessly. She can hear him move behind her, cleaning up after dinner. Doesn't give him attention. 

Nadia pours the hot cocoa into a white mug and places it to the side before washing the pot and whisk. In the same silence, she takes the mug and leaves the kitchen. She’s careful as she walks up the stairs, trying her best to not spill. 

She knocks softly in a pattern of two-two—a simple code she and her twin sister Lydia have come up with to let each other know that they are the ones wanting to visit … and not someone else. Nadia opens the door slowly. Her sister is lying in her bed, looking too similar to their mother, you. It hurts her in a way she can’t explain. It's as if she sees herself lay there, because in a way she does.

“Here you go”, Nadia says quietly and sits down on the side of the bed, giving Lydia the warm cup. “Careful, don’t drop it. It’s very hot.”

Lydia scoffs and she knows what she’s thinking—I’m not helpless—which makes Nadia smile. Don’t lose that, Lyd.

“Is it good?” she asks when Lydia is putting the mug against her colorless lips. 

“You put too much sugar”, Lydia whispers and smiles carefully. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let him know.”

Him. She doesn’t even call him dad anymore. 

“I’ve been lonely today, even more than usual”, Lydia whispers and places the mug on the bedside table. “It’s so excruciating being alone. I miss you so much. I miss school. I miss everything.”

The tears running down her twin sisters face make Nadia tear up too. She wipes Lydia's tears with trembling hands and sniffles. Lydia doesn't speak much anymore. Not like she used to. 

“I know”, Nadia whispers, caressing her cheeks. 

She wants nothing more than for Lydia to come back to school. Just to see Lydia anywhere else than in her bed would be a blessing. But her washed out skin, her dull eyes and weak voice makes it seem like an impossibility. Nadia would look like that too. She can see herself in her sister’s appearance. 

“What day is it?” Lydia asks quietly. 

“Thursday”, Nadia replies and clears her throat, feeling a rip from the inside.

Lydia smiles sadly and sniffles. Tears run down her face. 

“Gym class”, she whispers longingly. “I loved that.”

Nadia sniffles, voice giving up. “I know.”

Her smile falters. “I miss it all so much.”

Nadia’s entire body twitches with sobs. “I know. I miss you too. People ask for you a-and I don’t know what to say.”

She hasn’t told Lydia that she doesn’t hang out with their friends anymore. She can’t. Not when Lydia isn’t there. She can’t bring herself to enjoy herself as long as Lydia’s here. She hugs her sister and cries into her hair. Lydia hugs her back. They cry together, sobbing in each other's arms.

Lydia pulls away first, wiping her tears and her hair out of her face. 

“Crying doesn’t make it better”, she mumbles and clears her throat. 

Nadia stares at her with empty eyes. Lydia picks up the mug and takes a few mouthfuls. 

“Can you sleep here?” she asks quietly. 

Nadia nods without thinking. She has been spending quite a few nights in her sister’s bed after what happened. Lydia doesn’t want to sleep alone, scared that she won’t wake up again. She dreads to think about what would have happened if Nadia hadn’t been in her bed that night when she got poisoned for the first time. Their father wouldn’t have known and wouldn’t have taken her to the hospital. She would have died that night. 

Lydia wakes up when Nadia gets out of bed the following morning. 

“I’m sorry”, Nadia says. “Go back to sleep again.”

“Sleeping is all I do”, Lydia mumbles tiredly and pulls away the covers. “I can sleep later, I have all the time in the world.”

Pretending to have a real morning routine has helped her with the everlasting feeling of dread. It doesn’t take it all away, but for a few minutes she can pretend that nothing is wrong. 

Nadia helps her downstairs to the kitchen by the arm. Lydia sits down by the table and yawns while Nadia boils water and oats. 

“Do you want tea?” Nadia asks. 

“Yes please”, Lydia answers. 

Nadia moves swiftly through the kitchen, cutting bananas, boiling water, making porridge and filling glasses with water. Sitting together at the breakfast table is one of the few normal activities they have together. None of them say anything, morning being their only time to catch their breaths. 

They hear sounds from upstairs. The two of them give side eyes towards the stairs, seeing him walk down. He walks straight over to the coffee machine. The twins can feel themselves lose their appetite. 

“I don’t want you to leave”, Lydia mumbles when Nadia puts her plate in the dishwasher, when they're alone again.

Nadia shivers. Lydia shouldn’t sound so small, that’s not who Lydia is. 

“If I stay home he might change his mind”, Nadia mumbles, voice dry. “He might start to think it's better if I'm home. I don't want to push his thoughts in that direction.”

“What do we do?” 

“I'll come up with something. You need to focus on resting. Don't eat anything that I haven't given you, remember?”

Lydia nods. She hasn't. Every time he has come with food, she has refused to eat, scared that he will have spiked it again.

Nadia helps Lydia back upstairs and goes back to her own room to get ready for the day. Putting on clothes, brushing her hair and teeth and makeup—but not even all The makeup in the world could cover up the dark circles under her eyes, the foggy look in her eyes and the destroyed lip she has chewed on. Nothing could cover the absolute emptiness on her face.

She walks out to the white car with Dr Kry. None of them say anything. She gets into the backseat and puts in her headphones. The music drowns out the sound of the car, of his breathing. For a few minutes she can pretend that he's dead.

The car stops outside the school.

“Three sharp, got it?” he says over his shoulder. 

“Sure”, Nadia answers, holding her breath as she opens the door.

“Nadia.”

She stops dead in her tracks.

“Since it's friday”, he starts, “why don't we swing by the store on the way home and you can buy yourself and Lydia some snacks?”

“Why?”

“You both have had it rough lately.”

You don't say.

“What about mom?” she questions coldly. “What will she get? Popcorn?”

Dr Kry gives her a quick look in the rear view mirror.

“Fine”, Nadia says. “Let's stop by the store. I'm sure Lydia would love to eat anything that she knows you can not have spiked.”

With that said, she leaves the car, carelessly closing the door behind her. She swings the black backpack over one shoulder. Doesn't look back until she steps into the school. One more day.

Lydia lies in bed, the silence eating her alive. She decides to get her laptop and watch a movie to pass the time, but she can swear that she has watched every movie there is. She had started with the good ones, then when they were done she gave in and watched the okay ones … and when they were done she caved in to watch the bad ones. But when the bad ones finish, what more is there? 

She's aware of your presence in the house. Despite the silence it's clear that you are home. She thinks back of how Nadia had tried to run away with you. How brave she had been. Lydia would never dare. 

Thank God it's me who's damaged. Nadia still has a chance. I'd never be able to do anything if the roles were reversed. I'd be completely useless.

Lydia climbs out of bed in silence, slowly dragging herself over to the door, out into the corridor and over to your door. You seem surprised to see her standing in the door frame.

“Mom …”, Lydia whispers, feeling tears build in her throat.

She pulls herself over to the bed, slumping down in your arms. Crying. She can't remember the last time she cried in your arms. She stopped after her father told her that tears never solved anything, it only clogged up the mind and made it harder to find a solution to the problem. But now that she's here, wrapped in your embrace, she feels like a little child again, before everything.

“I’m sorry”, Lydia says after a while.

“What for?” you ask, wiping her tears. 

“We never should have tried to find the truth. We should have never gone to his office to look for clues. We should have forgotten about it.”

“Why are you apologizing to me, sweetheart?”

“Because I know you wanted more of us. I didn’t understand why before … but now … I understand why you wanted us to be able to live our lives. I … I don’t want to live like this.”

“I know, sweetheart … I wish I could try to help you.”

Lydia shoots you a quick, harsh look. “Then why don’t you? Why do you allow this?”

“Lydia, I—”

“You let him. You lay here, holding me and telling me that you wish that you could help me, but if you really wanted to, you would. Wouldn’t you?”

You look at her with such sad eyes that Lydia almost apologizes, but the fury takes over her limp body, controlling her.

“It doesn’t matter what I say, Lydia”, you say sadly, trying to meet her eyes which she instinctively turns another way. “I’ve tried—trust me—I’ve tried. For years, I've tried, when I still had some of the strength I used to have left in me. I never agreed to this. cursed at him when I found out. But what can I do?”

“Why do you defend him …?”

You lower your eyes. 

“I suppose that you still have the folder you read out of … in the hospital. The yellow one. If you read that, you’ll see that I’ve never had any control when it comes to your father. It pained me to fight back. Everytime I did, he pulled me back twice as hard. I don’t have the strength left, I’m sorry, Lydia.” You quieten down before opening your mouth again. “But your sister does.”

Nadia. 

Lydia’s stomach twists at the thought of her. How she has been taking care of Lydia since it all started, how she tried to save everyone. How everything was for nothing. Lydia knows very well what Nadia needs to do to make it all go away, but she can’t tell her, because she knows that she will do it right away and she can’t let that happen. 

Nadia walks through the aisle with the red basket hanging over her arm. Her eyes wander over the shelves, looking for something to grab, but nothing is appetizing. The nausea, the lack of hunger, has been following her since the first day she was forced to go to school alone. She has had to stop attending football practice because neither her head nor her body were fit for playing. She has been sent to the nurses office more times than she can count, just because of her drastic change. And she has always had to lie. Why? she thinks. Why does she have to lie to cover up his deeds? Shouldn’t she tell everyone? 

But the thought always hits her like a slap, making her embarrassed. She can’t. His threats have been clear. She will never see her sister or mother again, and to Nadia, that punishment is worse than what her sister and mother is going through.

“Can I help you?”

Nadia is pulled out of her thoughts, blinking. A shops assistant stands beside her, smiling as if getting her a carton of milk will solve all her problems. If only it was that easy, Nadia thought and sighed, shaking her head. 

“No, thank you”, she replies and grabs a random bag of chips. 

She walks down the aisle, over to the bulk confectionary. She picks up a paper bag and starts filling it with candy she knows Lydia likes. Sour gummies, licorice. She picks a few careless chocolate bites for herself, but makes sure to include all of Lydia's favorites.

She pays for it and walks out, throwing herself in the backseat. Staying silent the entire way home. She walks straight up to Lydia's room the second the car stops outside the white villa. Lydia is sleeping. Nadia places the grocery bag on the nightstand and shakes her sister softly.

“Wake up”, she says. 

Lydia squirms slightly, opening her heavy eyes. She pulls herself up so that her back is resting against a propped up pillow.

“Look what I got you”, Nadia says and places the plastic bag in her sister’s stomach.

Lydia's hands dig through the bag, smiling slightly at the snacks.

“How did you sneak this behind him?” she asks.

“I didn't. It was his idea.”

“Everyone is losing their minds.”

Nadia opens the bag of chips and grimaces. She turns The bag around, inspecting what monstrosity she accidentally took. Salt and vinegar. She gags.

“Oh, come on”, Lydia smiles weakly. “They're not that bad.”

“I don't know whose taste buds you inherited because those are atrocious.”

Lydia breaks out into a familiar smile, one that makes Nadia’s heart break. She wants to restore that smile. Wants to restore all of her.

“I'm so sorry, Lydia”, Nadia sighs. “Everytime I look at you I can't stop thinking how stupid I was. If I hadn't blurted out that stupid thing about what I heard mom and dad talk about you wouldn't be here.”

Lydia scoffs. “If I blamed you, you'd already know that. Besides, I could have said no to looking through his office. It's my fault too. I'd rather take this than live in his delusion.”

“But you'll die, Lyd …”

Lydia's eyes twitch. She swallows. “Okay.”

“No, not fucking okay”, Nadia says grabbing her hand. “I know you're just saying that to end the conversation, but do you think I'll just sit here and be like ‘oh yeah, my twin is dying because our sick father is poisoning her’, or something? Really, Lydia?”

Lydia knows what Nadia has to do to make it stop. She has to crawl down on her knees and humiliate herself. Show him that he has full control over her. For the moment, he's cooperating, seeing the angry spark in Nadia’s eyes, the one refusing to give up. Knowing that she's still searching for a solution. She needs to show that her will to fight has died, by begging, pleading. 

Lydia knows, because they're the same. A spitting image of the man she used to love more than anyone. And that's why Lydia can't allow It. She knows what it'll do to his ego. And it disgusts her.

“What do you want me to do, then?” Lydia sighs. 

Nadia groans. “I don't know.” 

Lydia picks up the bag with candy. “You could at least have chosen more candy for yourself.”

“Why? I'm nauseous. If I eat I'll just throw up and that's a waste of money.”

“And you forgot that I don't have an appetite anymore, but I'll eat it. I'll take the chance to eat candy, even if I don't feel like it … just to piss him off.”

Nadia smiles slightly, sorrowfully.

“I talked to mom today”, Lydia says after a while.

“You did?” Nadia asks, almost feeling surprised.

“Yeah … and … I don't know but she's making me angry. Why does she let all of this just … happen?”

“She doesn't. Not intentionally, anyways. She's hurt too. Imagine how long he's been doing this to her. You feel weak, imagine how she must feel.”

“She should have protected us better.”

“How? She's bed bound. Have you ever seen her walk more than a few meters? Without dad holding her?”

Lydia shakes her head in defeat.

“Trust me, Lydia, if she could she would have”, Nadia says quietly. She cups her sister’s cheeks. “I will find a way to help you … and mom. Somehow.”

Lydia doesn’t answer, but she subconsciously leans into Nadia’s touch. 

Nadia sits with Lydia all evening, watching nonsense movies until she falls asleep. She falls asleep on her shoulder, something she normally wouldn't do. Nadia isn’t the most touchy, but her sister is even less, almost seems to be allergic to it. The only one she touches is her sister, but more for practical reasons than comfort. Nadia realises that this can’t go on. She doesn’t like who Lydia is becoming. 

Carefully, she removes her from her shoulder and lays her head down on her pillow. Nadia leaves the room in silence. She makes sure to step on the right floor planks. Her legs feel heavy as she walks down the stairs. He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. She’s left standing at the foot of the stairs, staring at his back as he moves around. Something painful erupts in her. The little girl in her wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms, like she did when she had gotten a scrub when she learned to ride a bicycle. Wanted him to hold her and whisper comforting words in her ear. Something in her wants to forget what he has done and pretend that it hadn’t happened. Live blissfully unaware. But when she looks at him, all she can see is the monster who has hurt her mother and her sister, and she mourns the father she used to have. Even though they were the same person, all along.

She knows that she shouldn't do this. Shouldn't give up, give in, but if that's what it takes ..

He flinches slightly as he turns around, eyes catching her. 

“Nadia?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

She haven’t even noticed the tears blurring her vision. She took a weak step forward, almost stumbling. Dr Kry took a step forward himself, as if ready to catch her, but the space between them felt unimaginably large. 

“Please”, Nadia croaked with a voice way too thick to be hers. “Please, dad, I can’t do this anymore.”

“Nadia …”

“I’ll do whatever you want, just please make her well. Stop doing whatever you’re doing to her. I can’t watch her like this anymore. I can’t watch her wither away.”

The tears are flowing freely down her cheeks and she doesn’t bother to wipe them. Her limbs feel lifeless. 

“You’ll kill her if you keep this up”, Nadia sobs. “It’s not fair! Not to her, not to me and not to mom. You’ve said it yourself that Lydia is bright and will go far … you’ll never see that if you kill her. I can't live without her. So please, dad, I beg you. Please, please, make her well again.”

She stands there, falling apart, as he watches her with an unreadable look in his eyes, before he sighs and closes the space between them. He gently wraps his arms around her trembling frame, bringing her closer. 

“Okay”, he says softly. “Okay, okay, I will.”

Nadia gasps and pulls back. She searches his blue eyes for signs of lies, but they’re as stoic as ever. 

“Will you?” she breathes out. “Will you really?”

“If you do something back”, Dr Kry says. 

Her heart stops. “What?”

“I will make Lydia well. Only Lydia. And you will behave. No more acting dumb, trying to catch attention from people. You will continue the way you’ve been doing—as if nothing has happened. Is that clear? If you even try anything stupid, you will join your sister and mother. I don’t want to do that, but I will not ruin my family.”

Nadia nods quickly. That's better than his last threat. Lydia has to get well first, then she’ll decide what she’ll do. 

“I don’t want to hurt either of you”, Dr Kry admits gently. “I want to see the two of you together. Get some sleep now.”

He gives her a gentle pat on the back towards the stairs. Nadia pulls herself up the stairs and ends up between the door to Lydia’s room and her parents’. She walks into your room. You’re reading. 

“Mom.”

You put down the book, eyes widening slightly as you see her. 

“Nadia, what’s wrong?” you ask and hold out your hand. 

Nadia takes it, sniffling. She sits down on the side of the bed, smiling slightly through the tears. 

“I did it”, she whispers and tries to sound happy, but her voice trembles with guilt. “He will heal Lydia.”

Your face relaxes in relief. 

“I’m so happy, Nadia”, you say. 

“But not you”, Nadia continues, as if she didn’t hear you. “You’re still ...” She can't finish the sentence.

“It’s okay. I rather want you and Lydia to be well.”

“But you don’t deserve this either …”

“I know … but don’t think about that. Make sure to be there for Lydia now. I’ll be okay, Nadia.”

She doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“I wish both of you—”

“Nadia, I’ll be fine”, you reassure her and lower your voice. “When Lydia is well enough, I want you to take her and leave. You’re smart girls, you will be fine.”

“But …”

“Even if I was healed, I don’t think I can go back to a normal life. My body will never go back to what it once was and I’ll still be in and out of the hospital. I’d rather stay here in my bed where I’m familiar. But Lydia will be able to go back to her normal self. She deserves to start over. I want you to make sure that the two of you are safe and that you can do what you want to do. Can you do that for me, Nadia?”

Nadia blinks away tears before she nods carefully. You smile softly. 

“Thank you, sweetheart”, you say. 

Nadia lets go of your hand and returns into Lydia’s room. The older twin wakes up when she sits down, sleepily looking up at her. 

“Why are you crying?” she mumbles. 

“I’ve done something”, Nadia whispers. 

“Something bad?”

“He’s going to heal you.”

Lydia freezes.

She did it. I knew she would.

“Nadia, please tell me you’re joking …”, Lydia breathes out. “You did not beg him.”

“I did.”

“Nadia, that’s exactly what he wanted—”

“I know, but I couldn’t watch you wither away anymore! I want you healed. I want you back.”

“I did not ask you to humiliate yourself for me, Nad!”

“I would much rather humiliate myself and throw all my morals and principles to the side, just to save you. Fuck all that. I can’t be alone anymore. I can’t watch you hurt. I can’t watch you throw your entire life away.”

Lydia’s shoulders sink. The anger in her eyes die out. 

“I know that he wanted me to give up my pride and beg”, Nadia sighs and smiles sheepishly. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else. I can be a complete fool just to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re so stupid, Nad”, Lydia says, but doesn’t sound mad anymore. “But thank you.”

Nadia smiles slightly. 

It takes a week of no poison to get a quarter of Lydia’s strength back, but she insists on going to school anyway. It feels weird to do a morning routine together again, one that ends in both of them stepping outside the house. Lydia sits down in the backseat with Nadia, without a word. She clutches her black backpack tightly, eyes down on her shoes. Nadia doesn't say anything. Dr Kry glances at Lydia in the rear view mirror. There’s something off about her. She’s paler, almost a gray undertone. Her eyes are still sickly glassy. 

The white car stops outside the school gates and Nadia gets out, waiting for Lydia to pull herself out of the seat. 

“I’ll be here three sharp”, Dr Kry says. “You have to call me if Lydia is too weak too be here. I’ll be here as quickly as possible and drive her home.”

Nadia nods and closes the car door. Lydia gives the white car a cold look as it drives away. 

“Ready?” Nadia wonders. 

Lydia nods shortly. She holds onto her sister's arm as they walk into the building. Her body feels heavy, but not unmanageable. She moves slowly, and Nadia keeps a similar pace. 

She leads her sister to her locker and it took a few tries for her to remember her combination. They leave their belongings in their lockers and carry their computers and notebooks with them to the classroom. Twenty pairs of heads turn when they enter and Lydia wants to run away, but Nadia directs her over to their desk. Their friends are quick to bombard Lydia with questions and exclaims of ‘we’re so happy to see you again’, but she barely answers. The teacher seems happy to see her as well but doesn't make much of a scene about it, thankfully.

Despite being her favorite subject—physics—she can't find any of the old joy she used to have. She has missed so much that nothing makes sense anymore. Nadia can tell that she's gone dull again. She opens a fresh page in her notebook and scribbles: “are you ok?” and nudges Lydia's elbow to catch her attention.

Lydia glances at the page and nods and then doesn't give any signs of life for the rest of the class.

Two classes later and they're finally on a longer break. Nadia brings out a banana for, realizing how little energy Lydia has left. Their friends are talking nonstop, like usual, and Lydia finds her head pounding. If things were normal, she'd join in on the platter, but now it's too much noise, too much clatter. Nadia breaks off a bite of the banana and holds it to Lydia.

“Here”, she says.

Lydia begrudgingly takes it. 

“You don't have to treat me like a child”, she mumbles but takes a bite nonetheless.

“I'm not”, Nadia replies and takes a bite herself. “Just trying to keep you alive.”

It is meant as a joke, but as soon as she says it, she regrets it. Lydia lowers her eyes.

“Sorry”, Nadia mumbles shamefully. “Didn't mean it like that.”

“But you are though—doing it, I mean.”

Nadia glances towards their friends. Luckily they don't seem to have heard.

Lydia suddenly grimaces and shakes her head. “No, this isn't working.”

“What?” Nadia asks. “Are you feeling sick?”

Lydia nods. Nadia grabs their stuff and hurries alongside her to the bathroom stalls, leaving their friends without as much as a ‘goodbye’. Lydia hovers over the toilet, throwing up.

“Maybe it is too early for you to be here”, Nadia says quietly. “Maybe we should call—”

“No”, Lydia groans, coughing. “No. I'm not going back.”

“But you can't even stomach bananas …”

“It's just because I'm nervous. I'll be fine.”

Nadia sighs, leaning against the wall.

“Think you can drink a protein shake and keep it down?” she asks. “Or a milkshake? Or just milk?”

“Yes, I'll be fine, don't worry. Don't call him. If I go back I might not come out again and I … I can’t deal with that.”

“Okay … okay, I won’t.”

Nadia slides down the wall until she sits on the filthy floor. Normally they'd both rather die than touch the floor or the toilet without a napkin in the way.

“I'm so exhausted”, Nadia groans.

They sit there for what feels like ages in silence, just listening to their own hearts and feeling dread and exhaustion creep into their bodies. They have two years left until graduation … and then they can leave for university and never come back. But for now, they’re together again and they’ll get stronger day by day. Nadia looks at her sister who has a new look in her eyes. They’re not dull anymore. 

They have to survive. They will survive.

[shehzadi]

ya allaaaaah i feel sick tonight is going to be/is the worst night of israeli bombing so far — they’re carpet bombing palestinians while they sleep all across ghazzah and the idf has given al-quds hospital one hour to evacuate, according to an al-arabiyah report i saw that was published one hour ago

caption for the above video:

taken from: @/craving palestine IG | @/khaledbeydoun IG | aljazeera

[ofdustandashes]

Have to get this off my chest.

[laufeysvalentine]

i want you. pt 2, remus lupin

intertwined, sewn together

remus lupin x fem!reader | masterlist, pt 1

summary ༄ remus x best friend!reader -- the aftermath of you accidentally confessing your love for remus and running away, hurt/comfort, fluff

word count ༄ 4.1k

nora’s notes ༄ so sorry for the delay on this, thank you so so so much for all the love on the first part and for 200 followers??? that's gen insane i love all of you 💘 i haven't proofread so pls excuse grammar

you’ve barely gotten a wink of sleep next morning, and it shows. you finally crash in the morning to sleep through breakfast and lunch. 

at two, you’re up, but barely. you feel like absolute shit. the feeling only worsens when lily comes in, pity in her face. she knows what happened, and the pity only means one thing–there’s a reason he hasn’t come by, and it’s not because he’s in love with you. 

burying your head in your pillow, you let out a loud groan. 

“y/n?” she pulls back your covers and offers a plate up to you. “remus brought this for you, cause you weren’t at breakfast or lunch.” 

“don’t say his name in my presence,” you beg her, only half-joking. the plate she brought has all your favorite foods from the great hall, and you hate that remus knows you so well, well enough to pick them out. 

“he wants to talk to you,” she says once she’s sat on her own bed a few feet from you. “he just didn’t want to cross your boundaries. i’ll tell him off if you’d like, just let me know.” 

“i love you, lily, but it’s not necessary. it’s not his fault half of hogwarts loves him and the prettiest girl out there fell to his feet,” you huff, a sadness leaking out of you. you want to blame him. but really, you can’t. “he didn’t do anything wrong. i guess.” 

lily’s eyebrow raises as she waits for you to elaborate. “he did make you fall to his feet, didn’t he.” 

“you know who i’m talking about.” as if you could compare to celeste… although you’re pleased with the compliment. “and i’m still mad.” 

“you have every right to be,” she concedes, mouth open to say something when the door bursts open, carrying in a flustered marlene. 

“please, y/n, i’m begging you. do something about him. he’s run off and sirius can’t find him, so he’s bugged james about it who’s bugging me, and i can’t take it anymore.” her cheeks are flushed, begging, but you can’t bring yourself to listen to her. “i’d never do this to you, but i’ll truly rip my ears off for another moment of this.” 

“marlene.” lily’s glaring at the blonde, grabbing her by the elbow. “don’t listen to her, y/n. do whatever you want.” 

as much as you feel bad, you’re not ready. you don’t want to face him, like, ever. 

and that’s what you resolve to do for the whole next week. knowing remus, he would never make you uncomfortable, not on purpose, at least, but he knows you too well to make you uncomfortable by accident. so, three days later, when you stumble into breakfast with approximately thirty minutes of sleep and bags suitcases under your eyes to match it and choose the seat farthest away from him, he doesn’t move closer to you. 

still, you feel his eyes on you the whole time, but you just stare down at your plate, making pictures with the eggs and ketchup. while half-listening to marlene’s blabbering, you craft a smiley face, then a frowny face to match your mood, a mickey mouse, and then this girl that you hate for no reason because she’s really not hateable at all you just hate her because she kissed this guy who’s your best friend but technically you’re not even dating you’re just in love with him. fuck. you push away the eggs and glance around the table. the first thing you notice is him noticing you–it’s the first day you’ve not felt too lovesick and heartbroken to ditch class and meals, for risk of seeing him, so your presence speaks for itself. even then, every morning you wake up to an artfully arranged plate outside your door, laden with your favorite foods. the same comes for lunch and dinner, and you’re not stupid. you know he sends them. 

but you can’t talk to him. not now that you know he’s not in love with you like you are with him, at least not as much. he might even like celeste by now. not “might,” he probably does. you wouldn’t hold it against him. they would be beautiful together. a fresh round of nausea sloshes into the walls of your gut. 

when you deem it socially appropriate to leave, you take the chance, getting up with the masses heading to class, trying to slip through the crowd to avoid him. 

“y/n,” sirius croons from your right, so close you can feel his hot breath on your ears, and your heart sinks. where sirius is, the marauders are soon to follow. “oh, how i missed you this past eternity.” 

you grimace at him, pushing his cheek away from your face. “hi, padfoot. it’s been three days.” 

“and what days they’ve been!” he proclaims dramatically, slinging an arm around your shoulder and pretending to faint. 

“siri. i’m not in the mood.” you mutter, slipping out from under his arm, chancing a glance behind you to make sure the blond you would recognize anywhere is not here. you’re in the clear for now, you’ve no clue where he, peter, and james have gone or why they’re so far from sirius. 

he senses your mood shift and transforms into serious sirius. “you need to get back with moony.” 

when you blow out a heavy breath, your hair flies forwards and hangs limply on your face. “a, as i said, it’s been like three days. b, we were never together so i can’t ‘get back’ with him. c, and listen carefully when i say this, i don’t want to.” he doesn’t want me are the words you leave sour and dormant on your tongue. 

“but, y/n,” he pouts. “he really misses you, even if it’s only been a little while. he’s a wreck, knowing he made you cry.” 

you’ve heard enough. of course. this is why the marauders aren’t near him. it’s a ploy, an intervention if you may. 

“no, don’t even.” you pull away from him and push through the throngs of students to get away from him. you toss out a parting over your shoulder before slipping away, “i’ll see you in class.” 

just kidding. you sneak back into your dorm and let the blankets swallow you, watching the ceiling to pass the time. remus is not in love with you. he never will be. 

as you count the amount of nicks in the ceiling paint for the forty-hundredth time, you think about him again. as you have for the past eight years. 

even if he’s not in love with you–you can’t imagine a life without him. you can’t sacrifice your friendship, all those friendly touches, the feeling of his warm hand splayed against your back, the sight of him curled in his bed with his newest book. how could you never discuss your favorite books with him again? how could you sacrifice that golden look that makes you melt over as you speak? those perfectly brewed cups of tea, vanilla-scented sweaters, knitted thickly with love? 

he’s your best friend. the answer is, you could never live without him. even if you’re in love with him and he’s not, in fact, in love with you back. you’ll just have to get over it. 

whoever painted this ceiling left fourteen cracks. 

–

you’re going to get over him, you swear it. this is what you repeat as you walk into the great hall, your eyes trained on the ground, slipping into the seat next to lily. you refuse to look at him or any of his friends. you won’t. you can’t. 

it’s the first time you’re here. sure, you came by the table this morning, but drawing pictures with ketchup until the whole plate looks like you murdered the bottle isn’t exactly engaging. now, you and marlene are conversing about stupid things: the shoes you need in your wardrobe, your favorite song to listen to while crying in the shower vs. in your bed. and important questions, like what’s better, milk or dark chocolate (dark chocolate, obviously, and don’t even think about saying white chocolate. that is not real chocolate)? 

you can feel his eyes on you, drilling almond brown holes into your skull. the urge to look up chokes you. you want to see the curve of his smile, how lopsided it leans on him, the scars that dance around his lips. but you steel yourself. you can’t. you won’t. 

–

you’re ignoring him. the problem is, it’s not really working. 

no matter where you are, you can feel his eyes on you; even if you’re across the classroom, you swear you can smell the earthiness of his cologne, his sweaters. 

fuck. 

you are not getting over him anytime soon. 

the two of you manage to avoid any contact for what feels like months–days, maybe. in the hallways, you brush past each other, sometimes mumbling an apology or two as you pass. nothing sincere. nothing short of incredibly, incredibly awkward. 

you tuck yourself into hidden corners of the library, the astronomy tower, the room of requirement, anywhere where you can get away. from him, from the scary softness of sirius’ eyes when he looks at you, the even more terrifying relative quiet from marlene, who was seemingly instructed to give you space by lily. everything is awkward. and it’s all your fault. 

when the glances stares fade, you know why, and you hate yourself for knowing. the full moon’s nearing. remus’ shoulders are sagging, his looks come from lower down. his body is aching more and more, he twists around nearly every class you have together, something you know he’s always done to try and alleviate some pain. his undereyes are bruised and swollen, and you see the brass of his cane around the common room, and you hate that you aren’t there for him. he hates that thing, he always tries to avoid using it. 

it must be especially bad this time around. 

and when lily comes into your dorm the day before the full moon, skin sunken with exhaustion, you figure something’s up. 

“lily?” you ask, jolting up from your book. the mug of tea that he drank the night you stopped talking is still by your bedside. you can’t bring yourself to move it. what if that’s your last memory with him? 

“hm?” she murmurs, flopping onto her bed. 

“what’s wrong?” you ask as you turn your body towards hers. 

she waves her head, face in the pillow. 

“you can talk to me about him,” you frown. “it’s related to him, isn’t it? the full moon?” 

the redhead sits up, looks at you. she’s not one to lie, never has been. “...yeah. james is just stressed, because he thinks this transformation has already been really painful for him, and it’s only going to get worse tomorrow.” 

your head is bobbing. you swallow your feelings–what is that, guilt? shame? you don’t know what. maybe celeste broke up with him. not everything is related to you. 

“mhm,” you say in response. absorbing. 

she hesitates, mouth opening, before shutting it again. “it’s–well, i don’t…” 

you shrug. “you don’t have to say anything, lily.” 

so she doesn’t. 

—

lily’s right. in the eight years you’ve known him, he has never looked so rough pre-transition. you steal peeks at him all day, like he’s a tv show you weren’t supposed to watch as a kid. it looks like the life is steaming out of him. his hair–artfully messy, as always—is mussed and unwashed. when he walks out of the classroom, it’s a limp, with a slow clunk to it that makes your chest hurt. you want nothing more than to rush over and help him, but no. if he wanted you, well, if he didn’t want celeste, he would have come after you. 

he doesn’t want you. you repeat that to yourself when you see him almost pass out onto his plate during lunch, making a worried sirius (yes, sirius of all people, who usually tries to stay calm in situations like these) rush him to his dorm. 

but he reappears only an hour later for potions, when his back is tensed, tight, and his shoulders are hunched over. slughorn tries to call on him twice, but he pretends he isn’t there. 

your chest aches when he doesn’t show up to dinner, and halfway through, the rest of the marauders disappear, muttering to themselves as they go. you rub your collarbone and watch, your anxiety heightened. 

once the great halls door slam, the first place your eyes dart to is the hufflepuff table. you don’t even need to look around to see her. everyone within a ten-person vicinity is ever so slightly turned towards her, like her charisma is impossible to ignore. they want to be her, be with her, know her. 

she’s speaking animatedly, tossing out an airy laugh now and then. maybe remus hasn’t told her yet. 

some evil, petty part of you relishes in that fact. 

the girls are watching you, eyes wide and lips pursed. they’re trying to read you, determine how you’re feeling. dorcas, of all people, has been checking in on you everyday since you and remus fell out, and marlene too, in her own sarcastic way. but seeing them together made you ache for a cavity that could never be filled. a gryffindor love, a spectacular love. one that existed in your if onlys. 

you head straight to your room after dinner to try and throw yourself into your homework, but the distraction doesn’t work. you can’t stop thinking about remus. is he okay? you wish you could be with him. why did you start ignoring him in the first place? 

as the stars fade into the sky, lily bursts through the door, mary an hour later. marlene sneaks in, then out, then in again, with dorcas by her hand. but as time ticks, ticks, ticks, you can’t stop from looking at it. you’re the only one awake now, but the marauders probably aren’t back yet. 

you try your hardest to battle the reluctance that accompanies you to your bed, but you can’t. you just lie there, body tensed as images of remus run through your mind. the two of you visiting his hometown, or him on your lap, your favorite place for him to be. you’ll never forget the feeling of his coarse hair against the lilting touch of your fingers, or how he would turn onto his side, nose bumping against your stomach as he nuzzled into you. 

after waiting what feels like hours, you check the clock. yes. he’s back now. you rise as quietly as you can, slipping out of the dorms and darting towards the hospital room. is he okay? 

madam pomfrey is nowhere to be seen, and as you pass blue curtain to blue curtain, all you can hear is your shuffling. no one’s here–save for one figure on the end, flat on their back, moonlight filtering through the window above them. 

it hugs him in a most flattering light, his eyes closed and relaxed. fuck, he’s already sleeping. you don’t know if you should be happy he won’t see you or not. on your tiptoes, you creep towards his bed, where there’s a chair on his right. when you touch it, it’s still warm. the marauders must have just left. 

here he is. remus lupin. 

your eyes scan his face and arms, any body part that’s left out from the blankets. he has a fresh cut running from his elbow upwards, through where his t-shirt curls around his bicep. for someone with such fresh scars, he looks so, so beautiful. 

the second you sit down on the chair, his eyes fly open. 

oh. 

he wasn’t sleeping after all. 

perhaps the most awkward minute of your life passes, the two of you just staring at each other. your lips are parted, limbs frozen, anticipating. 

“rem?” you squeak out, reaching out to touch him as you usually would. you want to trace the scar that runs down his cheek, but he pulls away, muttering. 

without even acknowledging you, he turns on his side, burying his head into the pillow. 

“oh,” you breathe. he doesn’t want you there. you’re so stupid. why the hell would you come here? you know he likes celeste. you saw them kissing for merlin’s sake. 

you’re trying your best to stifle a gasp as your eyes become sticky with tears. what the fuck were you thinking? 

“stop it. just stop it,” he groans. “why are you bothering me again?” 

your limbs are stuck in place. for some reason, you can’t think, move. your thoughts are spinning in circles, racing around your mind. nothing’s coherent right now. 

you look at him again, his muscles shifting against the cotton of his t-shirt, and swallow. this is goodbye, isn’t it? your lips twist. 

“i-i’m sorry. i know you probably want to get your rest, i’ll just–” you have to force yourself to stand up, but when you do, your hand accidentally brushes his back on the small bed, and he jerks back, electrocuted. “oh, i–sorry.” 

he jolts upright, hands on the bed to support him. “dove?” 

you pause your movements, unsure what to do. he knew who you were before, didn’t he? what happened? 

maybe he’s just delirious from lack of sleep. you begin to walk away when a warm hand wraps around your wrist, drawing you backwards. 

“y/n. i–” he stops when you face him, and you can see the exact moment he sees the tears in your eyes, as he pulls you onto the bed, thumb sweeping the wetness under your eye like it’s second nature. his palm, rough with calluses and scars, supports the softness of your cheek, and you melt. “you’re here. you’re really here?” 

his eyes, that soft amber, spilling over with uncertainty and… regret? the same way he would look after one of the marauders’ particularly nasty pranks, or snapping at one of his friends close to the full moon. 

you nod, shoulders tense. “i just wanted to come stop by. i didn’t mean to–”

“no, no,” he interrupts, his other hand coming up to rub your arm. “i’m sorry. i didn’t… i’ve just been having, er, i’ve been having dreams of you all week. i thought you weren’t real.” 

his face is sparkling with earnestness, a kind of hope you hadn’t seen on him in a while. when you don’t say anything, he takes it as a cue to continue. “i’m also sorry for everything. i thought you wouldn’t want to see me anymore. or… i don’t know.” 

“it’s okay, rem,” you promise, trying to build up the cracks threatening to crumble your voice and your resolve. you try to pull away from his touch, but his fingers just find your knee instead, massaging the flesh there. “i didn’t want to get between you and celeste or anything. it seemed like the right thing to do.” the last part of your voice comes out in a throaty whisper. 

“no.” he says firmly. 

“no?” you ask, shoulders crawling towards your shoulders. 

“no. i want you in my life, dove, always. i–celeste and i aren’t anything. i don’t like her. i never did.” his voice peters out, but his gaze on you stays strong. “there’s another girl.” 

does he hate you? want to kill you? because that’s sure what he’s doing right now, and he knows you too well to not know the effect he’s having on you. like he took the sword of gryffindor and peeked it into your chest–not enough to kill you by brunt force, but enough to maim, to let you bleed out onto the bed as you stare at him, betrayal tearing open your veins. 

“that’s nice, remus.” you don’t even know how words are coming out of your mouth at this point. maybe someone’s taken over your body? 

“i’m sorry for not coming up to you, too. i thought it was the right thing to do,” he says quietly, one of his hands dropping from your face. goosebumps follow where his skin met yours. you think the next sound you hear is the crack crack cracking of your heart. “i thought you wanted space from me. and you deserve that. i only let her kiss me cause… well, cause i thought i had to get over you.” 

what?

he’s gauging your expression, you can feel it, but again, everything’s spinning. you might pass out. what’s happening? who is this other girl he loves? 

“i’ve loved you for so long, but i thought there was never a chance that you could love me back. and then, there was that day. but, you’re you, the most gorgeous girl in all of gryffindor, and then there was me. you deserve so much better than me and how fucked up i am. so i left you alone. i thought it was right.” he glances to the side, bringing his hands to his lap. this is not real. you’re not real. he was right. this was a dream, and any minute this floaty feeling will stop and you won’t feel like you can’t feel your body and you’ll wake up hear your alarm and class will start it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real. 

but your hand reaches out to his, shaking. and the next words that tumble out of your lips are: “y-you love me?” 

“how could i not?” a laugh slips from his mouth and those eyes–those beautiful, beautiful eyes–are back on you and you can’t swallow breathe think nothing but those eyes, those sweet eyes. 

your mouth hangs open. “but…” 

“i’m sorry, y/n. and i don’t know if it’s too late, if you’ve found someone better, but i couldn’t ever leave you thinking that i don’t love you back. anyone who didn’t is a fool. an utter fool.” remus scratches at his jaw, lips pursed. “sorry. i just had to say it.” 

“you love me,” you repeat, looking at him. “you love me?” 

“i always have and i always will. loving you is a part of me, dove, the best part of me there’s ever been.” he sucks in a breath, brings your hand to his lips. when he speaks, you can feel the vibrations of his voice on your skin. “i love you so much.” 

you don’t even realize you’re crying until a tear splashes onto his cheek. you move to touch it, leaning closer to his face as your finger smooths the tear out onto his pretty skin. and then–then, oh, god, you’re so close to him. his breath is so warm. he smells so, so good. 

“can i kiss you, dove?” he asks so softly that you almost don’t hear him–you’re not even sure you do, it might just be instinct that pushes your lips together. something written into your body from birth. you were meant to be his, he yours. 

and merlin, he tastes better than you ever could have imagined. 

remus. your remus. 

a smile spreads across your lips after your next kiss, slow and so, overwhelmingly perfect. he pecks your teeth, your nose. 

“remus,” you say, but a small giggle escapes you before you can finish your sentence. this is surreal. what’s happening right now? are we sure this isn’t a dream? “what are we doing?” 

“kissing, dovey,” he answers with another kiss. “and, maybe, if you wanted, i could be yours?” 

“you’ve always been mine, rem,” you respond solemnly, and he tugs you down next to him, pulling your body under the covers so you’re flush next to him. “only now i can kiss you.” 

his palms come up to your cheeks, one to your hair, and again, the two of you connect–by your lips, sure, but also by you. you’ve connected, there’s no breaking it now. 

“and all of that you were saying?” you pull back every so slightly to look at him, to know him. “you are the most perfect soul i could ever ask for. i want you to tell me every time you feel like you don’t deserve me, because that’s just untrue. you deserve everything and more, and you are so perfect for me, i can’t even fathom how you exist.” 

at that, he pulls you back into him, plants and plants and plants his lips on your face. “there’s no part of me that doesn’t love you, dove. my heart, my mouth, my soul. all of me.” 

and when you’re too tired to kiss any longer, if that concept even exists, you fall asleep leg between his, nose pressed into crease between his neck and jaw, arms around each other, intertwined with him for the night–though, in a way, you always have been. and you always will be. 

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ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ᴡɪꜱᴇʟʏ | ʙ. ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: 5 incidents in which Bucky gets proven how lucky he is to have found you.

word count: 6.7k

warnings: MDNI, fluff, mobster typical themes, illusions to violence, more fluff, cursing, talks of marriage, starting a family etc., pregnancy, phantom pain, allusions to smutty time, slight dirty talk, my Google Translator skills for all things Russian, children, not perfetly proof-read

author’s note: Am I in my mobster era now? (Please don't try to strangle me when I butchered the Russian parts. I had only Google Translator as my trusty helper ;_; Dividers are made by @enchanthings-a and @strangergraphics!

Russian translations:

малышка (malyshka)—baby

милая (milaya)—darling

“Every day I wake up next to you, I pray to the gods and thank them for the love you give me. Every day I spend with you is more than I deserve. Every day I call myself lucky that you love me back, my dear. I love you more than anything in the world, more than the world, more than life itself. You are my everything. Thank you for making me the happiest man on this planet.”

“Should I stop telling you how good you feel around me? How good you take me? How perfect you look, all filled up with my cock and already pregnant with my baby?”

Привет, папочка (Privet, papochka)—Hello daddy

Привет, солнышко (Privet, solnyshko)—Hello sunshine

The first incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was when James Buchanan Barnes—fearsome crime lord, bratva leader, king of New York City’s underworld—found himself in the aftermath of a crossfire after a deal gone south. His doctor had just arrived to check out the gunshot wounds littering his arm and shoulder, and in his opinion, everyone made too much of a fuss about it.

He was fine. He made it out with barely any scratches.

“Nine gunshots, only one bullet I have to remove. This is a new record, Mr. Barnes.”

… a few scratches; he had to give him that.

On the other hand, his entire left arm had been reduced to nothing but a pile of scrap metal, so perhaps Bucky had been hit rather badly if he took that into account. He wouldn’t because he had to be okay, invincible even. The world he was born into was a cruel one that reprimanded one’s weakness with downfall and despair, and he had to uphold the legacy that had been bestowed upon him the moment his father took his last dying breath in the same car crash that had taken his arm. He had people to protect—his associates, partners, workers, everyone that he considered friends or even family.

Topped by only one person, one woman, who sat above them all on a throne he had created for her right next to his. Not beneath him, not a step below—right fucking next to him.

Speaking of which… The commotion outside their bedroom sounded a lot like the whirlwind he deemed to be the love of his existence, and cursing above his breath, his eyes moved a second from the slightly opened door toward the doctor holding the single bullet between a pair of forceps.

“Don’t you dare step in my way.”

Her voice rushed like opium through his veins, making the mobster forget about the burning pain of holes inside his body.

“I can’t let you in there. Not now. The doctor is with him, you don’t want to see that,” Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway, probably stacked with high-towering security men. Just as high-towering as the blond was, and still, his girl did not show fear. No, not her. Never her.

A scoff was heard, and the physician beside him chuckled under his breath as he started to clean the wounds meticulously. Even Bucky showed a rare hint of emotion around other people than her when a grin parted his lips for a moment. “You’re his second. He is his doctor. I am his girlfriend. Think again if you want to continue standing in my way, Steve. I’m not above using brute force to get to him.”

Hearing that from a woman stopping not even close to all their eye levels would be laughable with any other person, but her? Everyone knew she would move heaven and hell in order to get wherever he was. He had learned this the hard way and would never dare leave her behind again, not when she demanded to tag along.

She really is a wonder.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he had spoken those words out loud, his mind starting to struggle with the blood loss and pain seeping deeper than necessary into him.

Shuffling before the door made the brunet open his eyes again. “Fucking hell, woman…” The hardwood door opened, and he could see the woman ruling his world without even starting to grasp the extent of her power over him, turning toward his second in command. “I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers,” she spoke sweetly before she finally turned, her eyes immediately finding him on their shared bed.

Worry creased her forehead, brows deeply furrowed, eyes jumping from his shoulder to his injured arm, then right to the one missing. Without another heartbeat, she rushed through the grand but still cozy room, showcasing her taste because Bucky had let her redecorate this entire fucking house as soon as she had agreed to move in with him—after much persuasion on his part. He wouldn’t have given a fuck if she would’ve decided to paint every single wall a screaming yellow if it would’ve made her happy.

“Hey, милая.” His raspy voice from all the shouting broke a bit at the signature endearment for her, and he wished to reach a hand out to her, but the lack of his arm was jarringly apparent. So all he could do was watch her carefully settling down onto her side of the bed, scooting over the mattress, a warm, soft hand cupping his cheek while the pad of her thumb started to caress his cheekbone. “Hey, love,” she returned the greeting with a smile, worried gaze flicking to Dr. Strange. “How bad is it? And don’t you dare try to sugarcoat me like Sam bloody tried on our way here. I do possess eyes, you see that, right?”

Dr. Strange nodded while preparing the stitching material. “I have removed one bullet from his shoulder. Nine shots in total. I’ve cleaned them and will stitch them as soon as the anesthetic takes effect.” Bucky could see her nodding at the doctor’s explanation and tried to nuzzle closer into the palm of her hand. “Milaya?” She finally looked down on him. “I’m okay, ‘promise. They busted m’arm, though.”

His words turned slurred, slowly but steadily, and he focused on her soft smile that was always entirely reserved for him and baby kittens. He could live with that sort of competition.

“We will talk later, but I promise I’ll take a look at your arm, and in case there isn’t anything left to save, I’ll make you a new one, James.” She pressed a gentle, loving kiss to his sweat-covered forehead. “Now relax, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Her voice echoed in his ears when the drugs finally kicked in, clinging to the sound of her.

Yes, he had been smart enough to ignore his stupid rule of not letting anyone get closer than necessary. She proved him right every damn time.

The second incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was on a regular day in December. Snow fell softly outside the grand brownstone they had chosen to spend the holidays at rather than the house outside the city. His girl had wanted to finally spend Christmas in the buzzing city again, and he had ordered their things packed and moved within a blink of an eye.

Now, everyone enjoyed their little piece of heaven surrounded by their families. Yelena and Natasha had returned to Russia for the holidays, Steve spent time with his own wife, while Sam had decided to go south to see his parents and check in with a few associates while he was already there.

Meanwhile, the feared bratva mobster, leader of the darkest pits of New York’s underworld, watched his girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancée add a few more pieces they had picked up at Tiffany’s today to their Christmas tree, humming to the soft tunes of an old record wafting through the living room. His blue eyes, usually so menacing and threatening, rested with a loving expression on the woman he had sworn to protect with his life, one arm thrown over the back of the comfy couch he had spent a fortune on—but his queen fell in love with it at first sight and couldn’t find anything better suiting. Not that she had to. The shining black Centurion Card had been pulled out of the inside pocket of his black suit jacket the second Bucky had seen that look on her face.

He would buy her anything in this world, spoiling her rotten until she’d drown in pretty things.

“I think we need more lights,” she stated in a mumble, almost to herself, before turning toward him. “Don’t we? We need more lights, yes.” And so it was decided, and he smiled at her turning back when she started to roam through the red holiday box to find the last remaining string of colorful fairy lights. “No, wait.” Lifting a dark brow, the man watched her reach for the small package he had eyed since they’ve returned instead, all wrapped prettily and neatly.

Scooting across the soft carpet toward where he sat, his girl smiled up at him, holding the small present out to him before folding her hands over his muscular thigh, waiting patiently. “It’s not your Christmas present, but I saw it and… and I needed to do this. To have something for our tree.”

Their first real tree as a couple. The past three years, they had been too busy during the holiday season, barely being at home, not to mention the little time they would’ve had to go out, find a tree, and decorate it, so it would be appreciated as it deserved. This year, however, Bucky craved the comforts of their home, and he wanted to start collecting memories like this.

He bent over to her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, hand cupping her cheek tenderly, the little gift almost vanishing in the vastness of his hands. “Thank you, моя милая.” How in all the hells had he become so lucky in finding this woman who now grinned up at him with unabashed happiness? “Open it! Open it already!” And he obliged, feeling giddy himself as she almost bounced on her knees, unwrapping the small box and opening the lid to reveal a perfectly crafted snowflake ornament, a picture of them together in Central Park during the worst snowstorm the city had witnessed in over a decade placed inside the clear crystal. Their smiling faces, almost hidden behind scarves and beanies, angled to one another, her lips pressing a snow-filled kiss to the corner of his smiling lips.

It was perfect.

She was perfect.

Gods be damned, but in that moment, when his eyes found hers again, he felt the overwhelming urge to drop down on his knees and ask for a lifetime together. But he wouldn’t. He had it all planned out, and he used to stick to his plans. He was patient beyond compare, but not when it involved this woman before him. So instead of caving to this sensation, Bucky carefully placed the crystal snowflake onto the coffee table in front of him and pulled his girl up into his lap in one smooth motion, wrapping her in his strong arms, fingers—both flesh and metal—tangling in soft strands of hair or gripping the soft black fabric of the hoodie she wore which once belonged to him.

“Каждый день я просыпаюсь рядом с тобой, молюсь богам и благодарю их за любовь, которую ты мне даришь. Каждый день, который я провожу с тобой, больше, чем я заслуживаю. Каждый день я называю себя счастливчиком, что ты любишь меня в ответ, моя дорогая. Я люблю тебя больше всего на свете, больше мира, больше самой жизни. Ты — мое все. Спасибо, что сделал меня самым счастливым человеком на этой планете, малышка,” Bucky rasped in Russian with his forehead pressed to hers and eyes intimately locked, watching the shy smile he loved so dearly spreading on her lips and making her eyes twinkle.

“I don’t know if you have insulted me just now, proclaimed your undying love for humble me, or started the dirty talk earlier than usual, but either way, I don’t mind.” Her fingers wrapped around his chin to pull his face closer to hers, lips touching when she added in a breathless whisper, “It sounded hot, so keep talking dirty to me, love.”

Giggling, his girl accepted the tender kisses of chapped lips to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her lips. He felt the uncomfortable pull on his skin again when Bucky smiled at her, his split lip still not entirely healed after a punch he couldn’t dodge in time. Under her care, it will have vanished until next week when the photographer planned to take a few pictures for their first Christmas postcards.

Bucky still struggled to grasp how his life had turned in that particular manner. He never thought he’d be one for domesticity and familiar bliss, but with her?

He was all in.

The third incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was when James Buchanan Barnes, invincible mob boss, returned home in the dead of night in a frantic temper, his entourage strolling behind him, accepting his orders with grave faces and solemn nods.

“Don’t let him out of your fucking sight. Track him as soon as he leaves his godforsaken home, track him inside his own walls, hell, track when he takes a piss. I don’t fucking care!” His booming voice echoed through the foyer, and with another deep growl, he handed his weapons to Sam; two remained in the holster, hugging his broad shoulders. He wouldn’t take them off, not until the threat was decimated under his foot. “We’ll do a 24/7 surveillance on him, boss. He won’t come near her,” Steve promised, knowing damn well what would happen to all of their heads if they couldn’t protect her.

Bucky bared his teeth in disgust. “You better not fuck this up, Steve.” This would be his first and only warning, and the blond knew that, so he nodded and retreated into his office, knowing damn well that sleep would be nothing but a pleasant memory for a while—he wouldn’t be alone, though. Everyone knew how their boss got when his queen was threatened by others. Those threats had already started to grow in numbers as soon as the underworld learned of their engagement, and outsiders trying everything to get in and on good graces with certain families smelled a quick victory.

How wrong they were in those foolish assumptions.

Sam watched his boss almost anxiously while he desperately tried to cool off, fists pressed against the pretty surface of a pretty sideboard she had most definitely chosen.

“I will kill him. I’ll kill them all if I have to.”

At Bucky’s deep rumble, Sam could only hum in agreement. He would be right at his back, killing all who wanted to harm anyone he cared for, especially those inside this building.

“I could reach out to our associates in Louisiana, get some more backup and gunpower. There’s this kid who’s a marvel with tech. Maybe he can come up with a discreet solution for the in-house surveillance,” Sam suggested, knowing damn well how excited Parker would be when he finally allowed him to tag along, currently bored out of his brilliant mind at college. Bucky looked up and over his shoulder, icy blue eyes resting on one of his best men—and friend. But the creaking above their heads let him pause in his answer, and both men stared up the stairs, knowing who eavesdropped at the railing.

Bucky sighed deeply. “We need to work on your stealth skills, малышка,” he spoke up and waited for her steps to pick up and for her to shuffle down the stairs. She did in a pair of cozy yoga pants, a large hoodie hanging on her form—the one he had worn before changing into his suit this morning—and fluffy socks with reindeer and candy canes printed all over them, her hair wrapped in a messy bun on the top of her head, strands framing her face. In her arms throned a king amongst pets, and white fur littered the soft fabric of his hoodie where she held Alpine close to her chest.

His heart ached at the sight of her in the best possible way.

Her eyes wide with worry—not for herself, but for him and all his men—jumped between Sam and himself as she reached the second to last step and waited there.

“I didn’t mean to, but… I heard voices and thought you’d come home, but then I heard everyone talking and it was kind of too late to go back to bed anyway, so I figured I could… learn a bit.” Bucky started softly shaking his head, his outgrowing hair tickling his cheeks. “You meant eavesdropping, малышка. That’s the word you’re looking for here,” he deadpanned, and one corner of his mouth slightly lifted at the sound of her quiet laugh, her fingers comfortingly petting the white fluff ball currently purring at the attention and headbutting her hand for more.

With another sigh, he stepped up to the stairs, raising his gaze to his all-ruling queen, and he felt the tension in his shoulders slightly disappear when her hand came up to his neck and rested there comfortingly, fingers playing with the soft strands of his dark hair. “I’ll be alright, James,” she whispered, and he wasn’t sure how she could say that with such certainty when not even he felt so sure. “We’ll be alright, I just know it. Nothing and no one will keep me from you, from becoming your wife and living a very happy life with the man I love more than anything in this world, giving him the cutest fur babies and children the world has ever seen.” Bucky sucked in a breath, and after gently putting down Alpine, he pulled his soon-to-be wife in a bone-crushing hug, wrapping her legs around his hips with ease. “We will live until we turn old and grey and can look back at all the memories we made along the way, annoying our children and grandkids with endless, embarrassing stories,” she continued to whisper against the soft, tattooed skin of his neck and yes, he could see all that and more, too.

It was easy with her to picture this picture-perfect life—and he would do anything to make it a reality. He wouldn’t stop at murder and anarchy, not when it came to her.

So when he slightly turned to Sam with his woman in his arms, ready to put her back to bed, he only needed to mouth the words, and it was done.

Do it.

The fourth incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was during one of those forsaken nights.

He woke with a startle and a groan escaping him involuntarily, the dark bedroom embracing him, a soft, warm body tucked into the expanse of his back, slow breathing fanning across his heated skin. His hand shot up with another groan leaving him, cupping the stump where once had been an arm, feeling the same agonizing pain he had felt in that car all those years ago, almost bleeding to death after a rivaling family had tried to kill them all off.

Unfortunately, he had survived—and the revenge had been brutal the moment he had recovered enough to go on a killing spree.

Trying to breathe through the crashing sensations, Bucky tried to move as quietly and carefully as possible, not wanting to wake the woman sleeping peacefully beside him because she needed all the rest she could humanely get. But the pain was blinding, the feeling of warm blood flowing down his skin so real, he could’ve sworn there was still an arm to lose, and his fucking legs were still tangled in the damn blanket!

With a frustrated huff, the mobster tried to just roll out of bed in a desperate attempt, not minding falling face-first to the floor, but the blanket didn’t budge, and suddenly, an arm snaked across his waist, and a warm hand rested on his muscular abdomen.

“D’not go…”

The sleepy mumble pierced through the agony, and usually, Bucky always obliged to his wife’s every demand, but not now. Not this time. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t crumble in front of her. She needed him to be strong and capable. He had to protect her and the little plum. He couldn’t show weakness, not even in the comforts of their own home. Word would get out, the pit of New York City would smell blood, they would come and kill her in front of his very eyes, make him watch when the life would vanish from her breathtaking eyes, taunting him, before they would end his life as well, releasing him into the bliss of afterlife where he would search for her, and—….

“Bucky? What’s wrong?”

Her voice, now sounding more awake and aware, startled and pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he could feel the mattress dip and move when she sat up and scooted closer to him. “Hey…” A soothing hand started to rub over his back. “Talk to me, love. C’mon, handsome, I can only help when I know what’s bothering you to such an unholy hour.” Her teasing made him almost smile—almost. But the pain returned in full force, and his hand gripped his shoulder even tighter.

“Phantom pain. It’s nothing I can’t handle, malyshka. Go back to sleep, you need it,” he rumbled quietly, his legs finally escaping the trap that was their blanket, and the man sat up, feet hitting the floor. He attempted to get up in order to leave her to the quietness of their room, but his wife had nothing the like on her mind. She held him back and scooted off the bed. “Stay. I’ll be right back.” Blinking into the dim light of her bedside table, he reached for her and tried to get up. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Go back to—”

She shushed him gently and pressed a finger to his lips. “I said Stay. I mean it.” With that, his woman granted him a serious glance before she patted into the adjacent bathroom, one hand cradling her already quite prominent bump, and all Bucky could hear was rummaging sounds in their cabinets and a quiet mumbling.

“Your papa is a handful sometimes, little one. Prepare yourself because I need you in my corner, okay? Okay.”

Smiling through the irritating pain, the mobster waited for her to return and watched her closely when she finally left the bathroom and patted back to their bed, a bottle of lotion in her hand. “You think you need the mirror, love?” Bucky glanced at the full-length mirror in their walk-in closet shrouded in darkness and decided with a soft shake of his head. “Maybe later if it’s not getting any better,” he mumbled in defeat, accepting the loving kisses pressed to his right temple and lips. “Just let me know, yeah?” He nodded at her request, and blue eyes watched her like a hawk when she settled right next to him, on the side of his missing arm, a squirt of lotion already between her soft hands warming it up.

“I told you to wake me up if it’s happening again,” his wife scolded him quietly, her incredible hands massaging the hurting stump of his shoulder. At first, it hurt like hell, but the more she kneaded and caressed, the more bearable it got. “You need your rest, milaya,” he returned with a lingering glance down her form, eyes equally heavy with worry and love when they settled on the little bump he had grown to love so dearly, it almost hurt.

Bucky felt her eyes on him in return and opened his arm when she stopped what she was doing to climb into his inviting lap, straddling him comfortably. Taking his hand into hers, she pushed the warm skin of her husband under his shirt she wore to sleep and placed his palm right on top of the soft curve before continuing.

“Not more than you need it, too. You’re running the mob empire, not me.” Her voice reminded him softly, and he let his forehead fall onto her shoulder, eyes closed, thumb caressing the warm skin of her bump, hoping, praying, he would feel something, anything. But according to all the books he had read so far, it would take a few more weeks until he could feel the slight movements their child did inside his wife. “And you’re growing a whole fucking human,” Bucky returned and got shushed again. “Watch your language, Barnes. I don’t want their first word to be anything obscene.”

But she couldn’t fool him. He heard her smile in the scolding.

A comfortable silence settled between them, then, reminding Bucky yet again why he had felt so good around her the second she had walked into that room in the hospital, only raising a brow at the sight of six buffed men clad in black suits, armed with more guns than one human could possibly need, and him sitting in the middle of it all—disheveled, still hurting, ice cold. She had smiled, wearing those ridiculous blue scrubs, and he had spotted a splash of blood on her light grey sneakers when she had come closer, pointing it out in almost something resembling disgust. Still, she only had rolled her pretty eyes at the pitiful attempt of an insult.

She hadn’t given a single fuck about those intimidating men—including him—all towering multiple heads above her, tattooed, guns always visible, the rough Russian language floating through the room occasionally. And he had respected her for that, even though he didn’t bother to be nice at first. In hindsight, Bucky would’ve earned a beating from his mother if she had been still alive. She had raised him better than treating a beautiful, kind, intelligent, and compassionate woman like he had initially treated her. But after a while, Bucky had felt how she had snaked her way into his thoughts, catching himself repeatedly thinking about her over the course of his day, starting to anticipate the next appointment to get his prosthetic measured, built, and adjusted, always looking forward to seeing her face.

She hadn’t given a flying fuck either when he finally revealed who he was and what he did, only cocking her head to the side in question and asking him, “Will you or one of your guys kill me after our time is over?” And when he had shook his head, denying those thoughts, she had smiled brightly, before turning back to the prosthetic arm she had crafted for him. “Then we don’t have a problem. Everyone has to earn their money somehow, James.” That was also the first time anyone had called him by that name since his parents had died, and he had fallen for her right then and there, ready to kneel at her feet and surer as hell that he would make her his queen.

“Don’t count on that, malyshka. Everyone around here is using filthy language, and do I need to remind you of certain… situations where the little plum currently has to listen in? Or do you want me to stop? Мне перестать говорить тебе, как хорошо ты себя чувствуешь рядом со мной? Как хорошо ты меня принимаешь? Как идеально ты выглядишь, вся заполненная моим членом и уже беременная моим ребенком?” He felt the pain slowly but steadily subside under her knowing and well-versed hands, feeling them stop in their magic as the huskily whispered Russian words flowed effortlessly over his lips, feeling her squirm in his lap.

Leaning slightly back in order to have a better look at his face, his wife bit her lower lip, making now the feared bratva leader squirm underneath her, his hand protectively pressed into her lower back, not daring to let her fall off of him. “You are a very evil man, James Barnes,” she hummed with almost a purring edge to her voice, making him grin as cocky as possible. “You married the worst of the bunch, malyshka—and you like it. You can’t hide it, not from me, never from me. Not when I’m balls-deep it that deliciously tight…—” Her lips pressing against his made him moan deep in his throat and stop taking altogether. Forgotten was the pain of the past. It still bothered him, somewhere in the back of his mind, but her scent, her taste, the feeling of his wife against him made him forget about it.

The past was the past, and now, only the present and the future held importance to him.

Lifting her with one arm with ease, the mobster carefully moved her to the middle of their bed, hovering above her and watching her pretty face with a loving gaze. “You’re my everything,” he dared to whisper. “You both are.” He felt her hands cupping his face tenderly as if he wasn’t the killer everyone feared across the East Coast as if he was something precious even though he was broken beyond repair. “And you are ours, Bucky.” She kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips, and his left shoulder without disgust, without apprehension, but with deeply felt love.

As if he was perfect the way he was.

The fifth incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was after a business trip to Sicily that had taken too long for his liking, even though the business was good and the newly knitted connections invaluable. But it had made him leave his family for far too long than humanly tolerable, not even the many FaceTime calls had eased the sting in his heart.

“Make sure Enzo receives the gift for his wife and put a little something for him inside as well. Perhaps the Yamazaki Single Malt?” The 55-year-old whisky sure would make a fine gift for the young leader of the Sicilian Mafia, remembering an evening here and there when both men had shared a glass of scotch.

Steve walked beside him as they left the car and made their way over the sidewalk and behind the gate of the old brownstone in the best area in New York City. The cherry trees along the road were in full bloom, and the spring breeze was pleasant enough that the Barnes considered taking them all out for a day in Central Park. Work could wait after two weeks away from them. “Sure thing, Buck. I’ll call Stark to get a bottle,” the blond nodded and opened the door for his boss after walking up the stairs before entering the family home as well, happy sounds wafting through the air already.

Bucky visibly relaxed when he heard his family without a phone between them and handed Steve the concealed guns. They had made a rule for the house, and everyone obliged happily because everyone had been wrapped around their little fingers since the day they were born.

And no one would dare to go against Mrs. Barnes.

“I don’t want to be disturbed for the next couple of weeks, so handle everything and only bother me with situations that need my explicit attention,” was the last order the mobster could get out before the sound of small feet erupted from the living room and barreling toward the foyer.

“Papa!”

“Dada! No, waits for meeee! Annie, pwease! Mommyyyy!”

Bucky laughed as his eldest rounded the corner in full sprint, her little legs carrying her as fast they could, and the tall brunet crouched down to catch her little body. The little girl, resembling so much his wife, looked at his face with bright eyes, hands pressing against his cheeks and squishing them with an adorable chuckle.

“Привет, папочка,” she greeted him shyly, stumbling over her sounds and pronunciations, but Bucky kissed her little cheeks with such enthusiasm that her insecurities vanished in an instant. “Привет, солнышко,” the father returned with a kiss to her forehead and watched the questioning expression morphing onto his daughter’s face. Her tongue poked out between her lips, eyes wandering to the ceiling, brows drawn together in concentration—just like his wife. But then, she looked at him again, leaning closer as if she wanted to conspire with him. “What does that mean, papa? Yelena didn’t teach me that word yet,” she whispered, and Bucky laughed again, feeling almost crushed by the happiness he felt at that moment. “It means sunshine, my sunshine.” It made her smile as brightly as the sun outside the windows before she waved at Steve. “Hi, Uncle Stevie. You can go now. Papa is mine; you can have him back in… a long time.”

Nodding to underline her case, the almost six-year-old looked expectantly at his second in command, and Bucky turned with her still in his arms, looking just as expectantly as her. “You heard the little lady, Steve. Off you go,” he teased, and the blond shook his head with a smile, bowing before them. “As you wish, Princess Anastasia.” The girl huffed and showed the blond giant her tongue. “It’s Anya, Uncle Stevie! You always forget!” Chuckling, Steve took her hand and shook it apologetically. “You are right; my apologies, princess. Enjoy your time with your father.”

And with that, he left for his office, leaving the two in the foyer when they heard another set of steps.

“Anya, next time, wait for your brother, please,” Mrs. Barnes scolded the little girl gently, a smile on her lips and the little boy on her arm. His son nodded, holding his stuffed bunny at its long ears. “Yesh, waits for me, Annie! Dada!” More excitement echoed through the home as the small boy started to wiggle in her arms, and Bucky rushed over to her, catching Elijah before he could plop out of her embrace. “Careful, little troublemaker,” he laughed and held him with his other arm, hearing Anya scoff quietly. He threw his wife a questioning look, and in return, she only rolled her eyes at their children, softly shaking her head and taking Anya to her.

“They had a… falling out earlier.” Anya scoffed again as if her mother understated the entire ordeal, wanting to be put back on her feet, and hugged her mother’s hips closely. Elijah leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder, bunny pressed tightly into his chest, watching his sister. “He ruined my homework! Miss Pepper said she’s suuuuuper excited for my solar system model, and then, papa, Eli just banged his stupid bunny on it!” Angry tears gathered in her eyes, almost rolling down her pretty face. His youngest looked positively undisturbed as he watched his sister unraveling over her homework, and Bucky sighed.

“Bunny s’not shtupid. Annie’s plant-… plants-… planets! Annie’s planets looks ugly, dada. Not pretty like mommy,” Elijah stated with confidence, making the tears finally spill over Anya’s cheeks. “I hate you! You’re not my little brother anymore!” And with that, the little girl pulled away from the soothing hands of her mother, almost tumbling over the stairs as she ran upstairs, a loud bang echoing through the house when she closed her door with force.

Another sigh escaped Bucky and his wife alike, both parents looking down at their little boy who started to chew on his bunny’s ear. “Honey, that wasn’t very nice to say,” she reprimanded her son and took him from Bucky when he stretched his little chubby arms toward his mother, keeping a hand on his little back. “Annie is sads?” She nodded and kissed the dark mob of hair her son had inherited from his father, just like the blue of his eyes. “She’s upset, baby, yes. We will give her a moment to calm down before we’re going upstairs to apologize, yes?”

Elijah nodded with tears in his eyes, and the father couldn’t hold back, so he gently cupped his youngest head and pressed a lingering kiss onto the wild dark curls. “Can me and bunny asks Miss Melina fors cookies?” Smiling, she pressed a kiss to his cheek before putting him onto his small feet. “But only one, baby!” He was already on his way, chanting for cookies.

In an instant, Bucky pulled his wife into his arms, capturing her lips with his, a rumbling moan escaping him at the taste and feel of her. “Two fucking weeks are too long, malyshka,” he stated with another lingering kiss, fingers tangled in her hair. “Tell me about it. Try to manage two kids who switch between being the bestes of friends and each other’s enemy number one multiple times a day.” Taking her in more closely, Bucky could see the dark circles under her eyes and the tight muscles around her lips. His thumb swept across the dark circles, and his lips followed to kiss them better. “I’m so sorry, milaya,” he murmured with another kiss to her forehead and felt her hand hitting him against the back of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You had to be there, and we had to stay here with school for Anya and Eli’s first day at kindergarten. We managed. I wouldn’t mind if you take over bedtime duty for a while, though.”

Bucky grinned happily at the prospect of spending time with his kids, feeling the love only a father could feel coursing through his body. “Of course, love. We’ll get you something nice on our stroll over Fifth and let the kids play in Central Park while you enjoy a book, alright? I’ll pick up a few new bedtime stories as well, so you will not even be remotely needed and can enjoy bath after bath. Would that make my wife happy?” Sighing, she leaned heavily against him, gathering strength through his strong body supporting the weight resting on her shoulders during the worst and most exhausting days—which they have had many in the past two weeks. “Sounds lovely. But don’t you dare spend a fortune on me again!” Her warning was unnecessary because Bucky would spend a fortune on his wonderful wife, and she knew that as well. “Please,” he chuckled and pressed another heated kiss to her lips, his fingers cupping her chin tenderly. “I’ll buy whatever you want, milaya. Perhaps we could even get something for us.”

He loved his wife in pretty clothes, but he loved her especially dearly in pretty lingerie he had no qualm of ripping off her gorgeous body the second she’d appear before him, reducing the masterfully crafted pieces to lacy shreds on their bedroom floor. The first time he did that, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to pull her to bed, receiving a scolding he had gotten the last time, probably as a boy. She had been royally pissed at his antics, mourning the pretty set she had bought for their first night together. The next day, she received a delivery of all the pieces she had eyed at the shops and saved online, making her closet filled with more lingerie than a regular woman would need in her entire life.

Only that she wasn’t a regular woman with a regular man. He could buy her anything and in any quantity possible, so he wasn’t one to hold back when the urge to see this goddess of a woman naked made him growl and impatient—and even a tad jealous of the fabric touching her skin instead of his hands and lips.

“You are the worst of the bunch, Barnes. Seriously.” Exasperated, she looked up at him, her cheeks warming under his touch, and Bucky nodded with a serious expression. “I am insatiable when it comes to you, malyshka. And you thrive on the power you have over me.” Eye-rolling, she shook her head again, winding out of his arms and smacking his ass with a teasing smile. “Stop being a seventeen year old horndog and move your sexy backside up to your daughter. She’ll listen to you more than me after two weeks filled with my constant presence. I’ll see what I can save from her project, and stopping Elijah from munching on too many cookies…”

The last part was barely a mumble, already distracted by whatever thought wandered through her beautiful mind, and Bucky watched her retreating back with a smile before shrugging out of his suit jacket. Throwing it over the stair railing, he made his way to his eldest’s room, softly knocking at the door littered with pictures and posters of her favorite animals and characters—he could even see the remnants of a glitter pen—and knew how lucky he could count himself when he was allowed to enter his sunshine’s room.

He had the perfect wife, two healthy, wonderful children, and had found happiness despite the way his life had taken.

He had indeed chosen wisely.

author's note: Tysm for reading my silly little writing. As usual: likes, reblogs, and comments are so much appreciated! I love to read your thoughts <3

[miniscapes333]

your FS fantasizes about you like what at night ? (18+)

PICK A PILE READING LOVES ;)

👇 [PILE - 1] 👇[PILE - 3]

👆 [PILE - 2]

Disclaimer: The images featured are not mine. All credit and rights belong to their original creators.

PILE - 1

I see them lying awake, long after the world has quieted, after responsibilities have been tucked away for the night. But they can’t rest—not yet, not when their mind is full of you. They turn onto their side, exhaling sharply, one hand resting on their chest, the other gripping the sheets like they’re trying to steady themselves. But there’s no steadying this—no controlling what happens when they close their eyes and let themselves fall into you. They see you there, in the private corners of their mind, bathed in a soft glow, looking at them with that knowing gaze—the one that tells them you know exactly what you do to them. And oh, how they ache for you.

Their fantasies aren’t just about the act of having you; it’s so much deeper than that. They picture the lead-up, the slow burn of it all—how your fingers would skim over their skin, teasing, promising, never rushing. They imagine your lips ghosting over their pulse, how you’d linger just long enough to make them shiver, to make them want. It’s the way you’d push them to the edge, not just with touch, but with presence—the way you’d own the moment, make them feel like there was no one else in the world but the two of you. They crave that—the intimacy, the way your body would mold against theirs so perfectly, like you were meant to fit together. And when they let go, when they finally surrender to the thought of having you, it’s devastating. The kind of desire that leaves them breathless, heart hammering, hands flexing against the mattress like they can feel you there.

And when it’s over, when the fantasy has run its course and they’re left in the quiet aftermath, they don’t feel relief—they feel restless. Because it’s not enough. A dream of you will never be enough. They want the real thing. They want to turn over in bed and find you there, warm and waiting, your body tangled in the sheets with theirs. They want to hear your voice, your laughter, the whispered teasing that makes their pulse spike all over again. They want to wake up in the morning with you still beside them, the evidence of the night before lingering on your skin. And until that day comes? Until they can finally have you in their arms, their bed, their life? They’ll keep fantasizing, keep reaching for you in the dark, letting the thought of you pull them under, over and over again.

PILE - 2

It starts the same way every night. Restless hands, a heavy sigh, the dim glow of the night teasing the edges of their sleepless thoughts. They toss, they turn, but it’s you that keeps them up—you who lingers behind their eyelids the second they shut them. There’s something feverish about the way they crave you, something raw, untamed. It's not just about wanting you; it’s about needing you. Like a fire licking at their skin, like something that refuses to be contained. They imagine you standing in the doorway, a smirk playing at your lips, something teasing in your eyes—like you know how much you unravel them, and you enjoy every second of it.

Their fantasies don’t start slow; they don’t have the patience for slow. No, the second they let their mind slip, they’re already deep in it—your body against theirs, heat rolling between you like a storm about to break. They imagine the way you’d grab at them, the way your fingers would press into their skin with just the right amount of desperation, like you need them just as much as they need you. And gods, they would devour you. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just hands gripping, lips crashing, bodies colliding in a way that leaves no space between you. They burn for you, and in their mind, you let them consume you. Every sound you make, every shiver, every breathless plea—it pushes them further, makes them reckless. They want to ruin you, leave their mark on you so that no one—no one—could ever question who you belong to.

But then comes the part they hate. The comedown. The moment when reality settles back in, when they open their eyes and realize that the bed is still empty, that you aren’t there. The rush fades, but the ache lingers, deep and insatiable. They run a hand through their hair, stare at the ceiling, jaw tight with frustration. Because it’s not enough. It’s never enough. No matter how vivid the fantasy, no matter how hard they chase the high of you, it always ends the same way—with them wanting more. With them lying awake, restless, desperate, waiting for the day when they don’t have to imagine anymore. When they can finally reach out—and find you waiting for them in the dark.

PILE - 3

It creeps in like a whisper—soft at first, almost bearable. The thought of you. The way you tilt your head when you’re amused, the curve of your lips when you say their name just right. They try to shake it off, bury it under exhaustion, but it never works. No matter how many nights pass, how many times they try to push you away, you return like a ghost, haunting them in the most delicious, torturous way.

Tonight is no different. Their mind sways between the hunger and the ache, between the need for you and the pain of not having you. They imagine how it would be if you were there—if they could reach out and find your body against theirs, warm and real, not just some fading mirage in the dark. Their hands twitch at the thought of you beneath them, your skin soft under their touch, your breath hitching when they claim you like they’ve wanted to for so long. It’s not just about passion; it’s deeper than that. They want to erase the space between you, to take and take until there’s nothing left separating the two of you. Every kiss, every drag of their lips along your skin, would be a promise—a silent, desperate vow that this time, they won’t let you slip away.

But reality always hits like a cold rush of air. When they open their eyes, the bed is empty, their hands still searching, their body still burning with a craving that has no satisfaction. And gods, it hurts. It’s the kind of hunger that lingers in the bones, the kind that no amount of dreaming can sate. They roll onto their back, exhaling sharply, frustration thrumming in their chest. Because they know—no fantasy, no restless night, no imagined touch will ever be enough. They need you—not just in the shadows of their mind, not just in the spaces between wake and sleep, but in their arms, in their life. And until that moment comes, they will keep wanting, keep reaching, keep aching for you in the dark.

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[theemporium]

[2.6k] following the aftermath of the impromptu vegas wedding, little leclerc and max navigate married life. and charles is still not coping well with the whole situation.

series masterlist

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“Does this mean I get to sit in the Red Bull garage in Abu Dhabi?” 

Charles’ head snapped around, his jaw clenched and his nostrils flaring. And if he wasn’t currently on hold with the fifth lawyer he had contacted in the last hour, you could’ve sworn he would’ve jumped over the bed and smothered you with the pillow you were currently holding to your chest. 

“Don’t give me that look,” you muttered as you rolled your eyes. “Maybe I want a change of scenery. I’m always in the Ferrari garage.”

“You’ve seen the Alpha Tauri and the Alpine garage too,” Charles retorted. 

You shot him a blank look. “That’s because you have Pierre watching over me like a stalker.” 

“No, he’s just being your friend,” your brother tried again. 

“So him barking at the mechanic who was just getting me water had nothing to do with the promise you made him keep?” You countered, watching as a flush of pink spread across Charles’ cheeks. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“Liar, Pierre told me about the promise,” you mused, watching as his face burned even brighter at your admission. 

As it would turn out, finding a last minute lawyer to completely null and break the marriage was much harder than Charles ever intended it to be. And after he was practically forced to halt his attempts until the race had passed, the high of P2 didn’t seem to thwart your brother’s efforts in completely shattering the connection between you and Max Verstappen. 

He had spent every free and waking moment trying to sort out the mess, including now contacting lawyers back in Monaco to get involved. And yet, the boy seemed to be getting nowhere. 

“Shouldn’t you be focused on the last race of the season instead of this mess anyways?” You continued as your eyes glanced over at the clock on the wall. “We need to leave for the airport soon. I don’t think they are going to hold the jet because you’re phoning divorce lawyers—even if you’re Charles Leclerc.” 

“You seem eager to stay married to him,” Charles grumbled under his breath as he narrowed his eyes at you. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Was this planned? Have you been seeing him for a while now?” 

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” You shook your head, letting out a huff as you pulled the pillow closer to your chest. “How come Yuki isn’t getting as much shit as I am?” 

“Because Yuki is not my sister,” he stated simply, pausing for a moment before he continued. “Plus, Yuki and his partner seem very happily married.” 

You perked up a little. “Wait, you know who he married?” 

“Well no,” Charles admitted, his brows furrowing together. “But he must be, no? He’s been happy ever since the wedding. They must be keeping it private.” 

“Apparently he didn’t even tell Pierre,” you said to your brother, leaning back against the headboard with a sigh. “Maybe he’s embarrassed with who he married.” 

“Can’t be more embarrassing than marrying you—OW!” 

“Don’t say stupid things then,” you snapped back at him with an innocent smile on your face. “You’re just pissed I got married before you.” 

Charles’ glare hardened. “No, I’m pissed because you got married in Vegas of all places.” There was a pause. “And the fact you practically married a stranger!”

“Max is hardly a stranger, you’ve known him since you were like five years old!” You argued back.

“Still a stranger!”

“You are so dramatic,” you commented. “Maman accepted it, why can’t you?”

“Maman is confused,” Charles muttered with a crease between his eyebrows. 

You raised your brows. “Did you say that to her?”

Charles’ face paled a little. “Well no—”

Your grin widened.

Charles blanched. “Don’t you dare!”

You cackled as you reached for your phone. “This is payback for disrespecting me and my husband!” 

...

...

“I don’t understand why I have to be blindfolded.”

“It’s a precaution insisted by Christian.”

“Do all wives have to be blindfolded then?”

“The ones with the former name Leclerc do.”

You pressed your lips together to hide your smile as you wrapped your arms around Max’s bicep, letting him lead you into the Red Bull garage with the black cloth tied over your eyes. You knew you probably didn’t have long until Charles came running to drag you out of the Red Bull garage and back to the red side, so you took up Max’s offer in the meantime. 

You didn’t count on Christian Horner being two steps away from Red Bull’s very own Christian Grey to his garage guests. 

“Does this mean I get to blindfold you when you come to the Ferrari garage?” You asked, your voice lighthearted and your tone teasing. 

“It is one of the scenarios I would let you blindfold me,” Max answered and it took everything in you to not suddenly halt your steps. 

“Max Verstappen, you little flirt,” you said as you let out a disbelieving laugh, hoping the boy hadn’t turned back to look at you when you could feel your face heating up. 

“You’re my wife. Surely I’m allowed to flirt with you now,” the Dutchman retorted, his hands moving to rest over yours as you two finally came to a stop. 

“You’re saying you wouldn’t have flirted with me before?” 

“That feels like a trick question,” Max snorted before his fingers nimbly undid the knot behind your head, letting the blindfold fall away from your eyes as he stood in front of you with an almost smug look on his face. “But I would have flirted with you if I didn’t think your brother would have my balls for it.”

“So you just married me instead,” you retorted with a smile of your own.

“What can I say, I don’t half-ass things,” he said with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

“I should have known you give the vibes of a Vegas wedding kinda guy,” you remarked as you blinked a few times, getting used to the shift in light as you began looking around the garage. It didn’t look too different from the Ferrari garage, but it was still intriguing to witness it all. 

A different team. A different car. A different work ethic. 

After so many years with Ferrari, it felt like being in a foreign country as you stood amongst so much blue.

“What kind of wedding would you have wanted?” 

The question snapped you out of your daze, whirling your head around to look at the Dutchman with a curious expression. You waited to see if a witty remark was going to follow, but he continued to stare at you expectantly and you realised he was genuinely waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. “I mean, I know my mother always wanted me to have a fairytale wedding at some pretty venue in a white dress and—”

“I didn’t ask what wedding your mother would have wanted, I asked what wedding you would have wanted,” Max interrupted, and your lips parted a little in surprise. 

“A fun one,” you replied. 

Max’s brows furrowed together. “A fun one?”

“Yes, a fun one. You asked me what wedding I would want and it’s a fun one,” you repeated with a nod of your head, smiling a little at the visible confusion written across his face. “Everybody always talks about weddings being so intense and stressful and that’s just…not me. I don’t care about where it is or what season it’s held in. I would just want to be with the people I love and I want to have a good time.” 

He nodded, his lips pressed together as though he was processing your answer. “Surely the Vegas wedding fits that.”

“It would have if my family and friends were there,” you said, laughing a little. “Despite the dinner invite, Maman will probably string me up for not getting married with her there.”

Max’s eyes widened comically. “Wait, she was serious about that?” 

You snorted. “She’s already sent me the menu.”

“I am actually having dinner with your mother?” Max hissed and, for the first time in your life witnessed with your own eyes, you could have sworn he looked nervous.

“She won’t bite,” you laughed. 

“Oh my god, I am meeting your mother.”

“Well, she does want to meet the man I married.” 

“Oh my god, I am meeting your mother as your husband.”

...

...

“Be honest: would you have made me a bridesmaid at your wedding?” 

You blinked, looking up from the burrito bowl you had managed to grab from Ferrari’s catering before you looked at the blond across from you. 

“Or a bridesman. Whatever you call it,” Logan continued as he looked at you expectantly. 

You stared at the American with a fairly blank expression, though it didn’t seem to do much to his eagerness for you to answer the question. Though, you didn’t know why you were surprised about the whole thing. The last week had been Logan throwing random questions at you, Arthur laughing at your facial expressions and Oscar deeply sighing at the whole interaction. 

“You weren’t even invited to the wedding,” Oscar pointed out, poking about the salad bowl he had. 

“Neither were you,” Logan retorted.

“And thank god for that, Lando showed me the pictures,” Oscar grumbled with his nose scrunched up. “I would have been traumatised for life if I witnessed it with my own two eyes.” 

“Hey,” you frowned, kicking your foot out under the table until you hit his shin. “You know what, I’m suddenly excited not to see either of you during the winter break.”

Oscar snorted. “Sure.” 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Logan piped up, his attention shifting to you once again. “Would you let me?”

“Depends,” you answered honestly as you leaned back in your seat. “Would you want to do a speech?”

Logan scoffed. “Obviously.”

“Then no,” you replied almost instantly.

The boy gaped at you. “What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” you stated simply before you glanced over at Oscar too. “Neither of you, if I’m being honest.”

Oscar’s brows furrowed together. “Woah, what did I do?” 

“Existed,” you grumbled under your breath, only for the Australian to be the one to kick your shin under the table this time. “Ouch!”

“Not so fun, is it?” He grumbled back at you. 

“You didn’t even have a speech at your wedding! Surely no speech is worse than a bad one,” Logan added, far too invested on a speech you doubted he could even write.

“That’s not true. Yuki did a speech,” you told him.

Both boys’ raised their eyebrows. “He did?”

“Probably, seems like something he would do,” you shrugged. 

“Or maybe his partner gave it,” Oscar added. “Whoever that may be.”

“I can’t believe he still won’t tell us,” you said with your lips turned downwards. “In the Red Bull garage, Christian even asked him and he just giggled before running off.” 

“Maybe he’s a private guy.”

“You were in the Red Bull garage?” 

“Your difference in priorities are baffling,” you noted with an amused expression. “Yes, I was in the Red Bull garage. And Yuki being a private person is a load of bullshit. He’s the biggest gossip on the grid, he’s just sneakier than everyone else.”

“Which means he would hide it better,” Oscar pointed out. 

“At least Yuki would let me say a speech at his wedding,” Logan muttered under his breath.

“Would he though?”

“Shut up.” 

“I’m just saying—”

“You know what, I hope Lando scars you with more photos from her wedding,” Logan threatened, staring at the Aussie with narrowed eyes.

“Hey, my wedding photos aren’t that scary!” You frowned.

“The one of Max’s tongue down your throat says otherwise.”

“I am literally trying to eat my salad, can both of you shut up?”

...

...

“So, are we gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“Your wedding.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Ha! Sure!”

Max’s brows furrowed together as he lifted his head, only to find the Australian staring at him already. They had both been huddled in his driver room in between meetings and practise sessions, enjoying some peace and quiet before the social media team tried to rope them into some weird activity. However, what Max assumed would be a mostly silent hangout where he could read over some data quickly devolved into the older Australian making little remarks until he finally gave in and put his tablet down.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh nothing,” Daniel said as he gave the boy a casual shrug, though his grin only seemed to widen in response. Max was about to open his mouth, to tell him that was fine before he returned to his work, but the Aussie already began speaking again. “I just think it’s such a funny coincidence that your childhood crush is now your wife.”

Max froze, his cheeks instantly heating up at his words. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“No? The conversation where you told me you had the fattest crush on Charles’ little sister growing up and used to constantly try to impress her on the karting races she visited doesn’t ring a bell?” Daniel continued, feigning innocence despite the fact he could see Max’s face growing pinker by the second.

“I think you have the wrong person,” Max said as he cleared his throat, suddenly finding his tablet interesting once again even though the numbers and words on the screen were practically gibberish to his whirling mind.

“And the conversation where you couldn’t stop talking about how pretty she was when you bumped into her in the paddock on Charles’ first Formula One race?”

“You must have imagined that conversation.”

“What about the time you ignored that famous actor because Lando told you he flirted with her when he visited the Ferrari garage?”

“I have no recognition of that.”

“And the time you—”

“Is there a point to this?” Max suddenly interrupted him, his face feeling as though it was on fire and his heart beating wildly in his chest and the smug look on his friend’s face was doing little to help the feelings bubbling in his stomach. 

“I am just waiting to see when you’re going to admit you masterminded this whole thing,” Daniel said to him, so sure and blunt about the statement.

“I didn’t mastermind anything,” Max said with a frown. “We got drunk and we got married in Vegas. Many people have done it before us. Many people will do it after us too.”

“And the fact she was your first love?” Daniel questioned.

“She was not,” Max scoffed, pausing for a moment before he continued. “And even if she was, I don’t like her like that anymore.”

“Oh, of course,” Daniel snickered under his breath. “So I am assuming you’re rushing to help Charles find a divorce lawyer then?”

Max paused for a few seconds too long. “Yeah, I mean. After the last race, obviously. My focus needs—”

“To be on a race that has no effect on your life other than adding another trophy to your shelf?” Daniel teased. “As if you couldn’t be talking to lawyers on the radio whilst racing with your eyes shut.”

“It’s just not a priority right now,” Max huffed out, clearing his throat a little.

“Uh huh,” Daniel laughed, shaking his head. “You know, usually the first step is a date, not marriage but I am going to respect whatever lil’ mastermind plan you have concocted in your head.”

Max let out a whine, throwing his head back. “I don’t have a plan!”

Daniel raised his brows. “So inviting her to watch the race from the Red Bull garage is just a random act of kindness to the enemy then?”

“She’s my wife, not the enemy. And it’s not random at all.”

Daniel snorted.

“Oh fuck off,” Max grumbled. “This is why you weren’t invited to the wedding in the first place.” 

“Actually, you did—”

“Shut up.”

...

liked by arthur_leclerc, oscarpiastri, landonorris and 261, 738 others

yourusername season over and out🫡gonna go bully charles with the dutch national anthem for three months now

view all 13,547 comments

landonorris that's just evil

yourusername shut up or i will bully you too

landonorris why are you so rude when i am literally your personal photographer

yourusername you still made me pay for dinner

user IS THAT MAX???

user omg not the red bull/ferrari contrast

user i wonder how charles is taking this

arthur_leclerc still badly

oscarpiastri i have been begging for you to wear a mclaren cap all year

yourusername keep begging, loser

user the montagues and capulets could never

logansargeant i'm taking the blue as williams support too

maxverstappen1 keep telling yourself that

yourusername be nice

user HELP THE WAY HE IS PROTECTING THE RED BULL BLUE IN THE COMMENTS

user this is my roman empire

charles_leclerc take this down

yourusername no

charles_leclerc take this down please

yourusername still no

maxverstappen1 too much red

yourusername you said i looked good in red :(

maxverstappen1 i said you looked good in red bull merch, get your facts right

yourusername someone's cranky after all the shots last night

user THEY HAVE JUST ACCEPTED THE MARRIAGE AND BLATANTLY STARTED FLIRTING ON MAIN STOP

charles_leclerc why would you say this

.

[svt-luna]

Omg please do a aftermath of let the world burn. It would be so cute!! 💕

𝜗℘ SHE WILL BE LOVED

❛ 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦— 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥. ❜

timeline: 2022

synopsis: Despite her injury, Luna takes the stage with unwavering grace, surrounded by the love and support of her fans and members, proving that no matter what, she will always be loved.

warnings: fluff, cursing, mentions of blood and stitches, injuries, protective!svt, established relationship, fluff, fluff, and more fluff, domestic!JeongNa (guys! ik i have written it but… I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE!)

due to popular demand, here is part two or the aftermath of my recent one-shot Let The World Burn. this is a short but sweet one-shot for you my lovelies!! enjoy and happy reading 💘

╰ ౨ৎ let the world burn

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ writings masterlist

Luna should have expected this.

She really, really should have seen this coming.

Luna wasn’t sure why she thought she would wake up the morning after her injury in peace, left to her own devices, allowed to exist in quiet recovery like any other grown adult.

That was never going to happen.

Not with the people in her life.

Not when she was surrounded by—

Hens.

Mother hens.

Thirteen of them.

And it all started with the original, the queen mother hen herself: Luna’s actual mother.

The second Luna cracked open her eyes that morning, still groggy from sleep and weighed down by the dull throb in her ear, her phone was already buzzing against the nightstand. She barely had time to sit up before she reached for it, still clumsy with sleep as she swiped to answer.

“Mom?” Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep.

Her greeting barely made it through before her mother’s voice came barreling through the speakers.

“Jiyeonie-ah! Oh my god, finally! Why didn’t you answer last night? You manger told me everything that happened. Are you okay? Does it still hurt? Are you taking your medicine? Are you lying down? You shouldn’t be lying down too much! Have you eaten? You need to eat something. Wait, you need to drink something first! Hydrate, baby! Oh my god, is Jeonghannie there? He’s there, right? Tell him to make sure you—”

Luna groaned softly, pressing her forehead against her drawn-up knees, the phone balanced between her shoulder and her ear as her mother’s voice rattled off at rapid speed.

“Mom…” she mumbled, still half-asleep. “I’m okay…”

“You don’t sound okay! You sound tired— are you not sleeping enough? You need to rest! That’s the most important thing. And make sure you don’t touch your stitches! Did they give you extra gauze? They should’ve given you extra gauze. What if it gets wet? Do you know how dangerous that is? You—”

Luna yawned. “Mom…”

“What? I’m just worried! You scared me, you know that? When your manager explained everything to me, I almost fainted! You didn’t even call me to tell me you’re hurt— I had to find out from someone else! What if it was worse? What if—”

“Mom.” Luna sighed, shifting slightly against the pillows. “I’m okay. I promise. It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

That was a bit of a lie, her ear was throbbing— but she figured her mother didn’t need to know that.

“That’s what you always say! But then you run around like nothing happened and make it worse! You have to take care of yourself, baby. You can’t just—”

As Luna listened to her mother’s concerned rambling, her fingers idly traced patterns on the duvet. Next to her, Jeonghan was still lying down, his back to her, his face buried into his pillow as if he was still deep in sleep.

But Luna wasn’t stupid. She could see the way his eyes twitched, the barely-there shift of his fingers against the sheets.

He was awake.

More importantly— he was listening.

No, not just listening. He was memorizing.

Every single thing her mother rattled off— every concerned instruction, every reminder, every worried scolding— Jeonghan was filing them all away in his brain, silently taking notes without ever opening his eyes. He wasn’t even pretending to sleep for her benefit. He was pretending for her mother’s.

Luna narrowed her eyes at the back of his head.

Traitor.

She turned her attention back to her phone. “Mommy, I promise I’ll take care of myself,” she reassured, her voice softer now.

Her mother huffed. “You better. And tell Jeonghannie— he better make sure you do!”

At that, Jeonghan shifted slightly, still pretending to sleep, but now suspiciously closer to her. She felt the ghost of a smile twitch at her lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed. “I’ll tell him.”

And just like that, mother hen number one was handled.

But the second she hung up the call, she barely had a moment to breathe before mother hen number two took his place.

Jeonghan stretched lazily beside her, finally dropping the act as he turned onto his side, blinking up at her through still-heavy lids. His voice was rough with sleep when he murmured, “She’s right, you know.”

Luna groaned, letting her head fall back against the pillows. “Not you too…”

But of course, it was him too.

Mother hen number two was her boyfriend, after all.

And just like always, Jeonghan was careful not to overdo it. He knew how much Luna hated being fussed over, how easily she got annoyed when people hovered too much, so he did what he always did— he made it seem effortless.

After ordering room service for breakfast, he didn’t outright tell her to take her medicine. Instead, he placed the pills next to her orange juice, nudging them closer to her side of the table without a word.

When Luna pouted at him, he just raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to do it for you?” he asked, plucking the pills off the table and holding them up.

Luna rolled her eyes, snatching them from his fingers. “Fine.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Good girl.”

Luna glared at him as she downed them with a sip of juice.

After breakfast, as she got up to head to the bathroom, he reminded her, “Don’t get your stitches wet, Nana-ya.”

Luna sighed, already dragging a hand down her face. “Hannie, it’s my ear. How am I supposed to shower without getting it wet?”

“Easy,” Jeonghan said. “Just wash your body.”

She scrunched her face at that. “I’m not a caveman like you. I need to wash my hair.”

Jeonghan gave her a look, completely unfazed. “You’re saying that like my hair isn’t prettier than yours.”

Luna gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Mm.” Jeonghan leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “My hair’s silkier. Shinier. Probably smells better too.”

“Oh my god.” Luna groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Jeonghan just grinned, looking far too smug.

“Han, I’m being serious!” Luna whined. “I need to wash my hair!”

That was when Jeonghan’s expression softened just a little. He sighed, moving closer to cup the back of her neck, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against her skin.

“Go wash your body first,” he murmured, voice softer now. “Don’t get your ear wet. After that, I’ll help you wash your hair.”

Luna frowned, eyes narrowing. “How?”

Jeonghan just patted her backside twice before waving her off toward the bathroom. “Don’t worry about it.”

Still confused, yet trusting, Luna did as he said. She showered like normal— except she only washed her body, carefully avoiding her ear, the stitches still covered by gauze from yesterday.

Once she was done, she wrapped herself in a towel and stepped back into the room— only to find Jeonghan sprawled out on the bed, scrolling on his phone like he had all the time in the world.

“Now what?” Luna asked, tilting her head.

Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his screen off, tossed it onto the bed, and rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie with the kind of lazy precision that should not have looked as good as it did. His eyes flicked toward her, a playful glint in them as he nodded toward the bathroom door.

Luna barely had time to process the moment before Jeonghan gently nudged her toward the bathroom, his fingers curling around her waist as he guided her. She held onto the towel wrapped securely around her body, her brows knitting together in confusion as she glanced back at him.

“Welcome to Salon Yoon,” he drawled, stepping past her to open the door with an exaggerated flourish. “Where we provide premium services for injured girlfriends who don’t know how to listen.”

Luna blinked at him. Then blinked again. “I— what?”

Jeonghan simply hummed, already moving toward the bathroom counter as if this were an entirely normal thing. He grabbed her shampoo and conditioner, setting them down with an air of professionalism that made her squint at him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she said, stepping inside, the tiles cool beneath her bare feet. “Are you actually serious?”

Jeonghan turned, giving her a look that was so deadpan she almost laughed. “Would I be wearing my professional stylist face if I wasn’t serious?”

“You don’t have a professional stylist face.”

“Exactly,” he shot back smoothly, already reaching for the sink. “Which is why you should be honored that I’m making an exception just for you.”

Luna rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further as he gestured for her to step closer. He was still acting as if he were running a real salon, adjusting the sink nozzle, twisting the water handle slightly, testing the temperature with practiced ease.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered as she shuffled forward.

Jeonghan smirked, hands reaching for her shoulders as he gently turned her around and urged her to lean back against the large sink. “Salon Yoon prides itself on customer satisfaction.”

“Salon Yoon is about to get sued for fraud.”

Jeonghan ignored her, his fingers brushing against the nape of her neck as he carefully pulled out the hair tie keeping her damp locks in place. Her hair tumbled down, cascading over his hands, and he hummed in approval as he smoothed his fingers through it.

Then, just as nonchalantly as ever, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Luna blinked up at him, momentarily thrown off, her heart skipping a beat. Before she could react, he pulled away, his voice quieter this time as he murmured, “You’re so pretty.”

Her breath hitched slightly, and for a second, she forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

Then Jeonghan tapped her chin lightly. “Now lean back.”

Luna did as she was told, still slightly dazed, reclining against the sink as Jeonghan turned on the water. Warmth trickled down, and she let out a small sigh, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

That was until the position started to feel off.

“Hannie,” she mumbled, shifting slightly. “This is… a little weird.”

“You’re fine,” he said absentmindedly, already lathering shampoo between his hands.

“No, I’m not— baby, my back.”

“I thought you were stronger than this,” he mused, fingers working gently through her hair.

Luna let out a short laugh, squirming. “Not when I’m bending backward like I’m in a horror movie! You could’ve at least given me a chair— ah!”

Jeonghan tsked as she nearly jerked up, his grip steadying her. “Stay still.”

“I am still—”

“You’re wiggling.”

“Because this is a stupid position,” she whined, squirming again.

Jeonghan sighed heavily, like she was the one being difficult, as if he wasn’t the one who decided this was a good idea. His fingers pressed lightly into her scalp, massaging in small circles, which was almost enough to make her forget the discomfort.

Almost.

“Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Hm?”

“My neck hurts.”

Jeonghan exhaled sharply through his nose, biting back a laugh as he continued working the shampoo into her hair. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re literally torturing me right now.”

“Oh? Should I stop then?”

“No,” Luna admitted, sinking further against him. Then she wrapped her arms around his torso, clinging onto him like a lifeline as she let out another giggle. “I need to hold onto something. This is ridiculous.”

Jeonghan, to his credit, barely faltered. He merely looked down at her, the corners of his lips twitching as he muttered, “You’re being so needy right now.”

Luna peeked up at him, grinning. “But you love me.”

A long pause.

“…Unfortunately.”

Luna gasped dramatically, smacking his side as he chuckled. “Take that back!”

“Nope,” Jeonghan said, still laughing, still diligently lathering the shampoo through her strands. “Now, stop moving before you make me mess up and I get shampoo in your stitches.”

Luna huffed, resting her forehead against his stomach. “You’re lucky this feels nice.”

“I know I am.”

She groaned, but there was no real bite behind it. Jeonghan, the absolute menace, was clearly trying not to laugh again, his fingers still gently carding through her hair.

And somehow, despite the weird position, despite the fact that she knew he was going to milk this for all it was worth later— Luna couldn’t help but smile.

Soon, the sound of water running over her hair gradually softened before stopping altogether.

Jeonghan’s fingers, which had been threading through her strands with the utmost care, gave one final pass before he reached for the faucet handle.

“And… done,” he announced, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You’ve officially survived the first— and last— session of Salon Yoon.”

Luna blinked up at him, her vision still slightly skewed from being in such an awkward position for so long. She tried shifting, but the second she attempted to lift herself up, a dull ache shot through her lower back, and her muscles refused to cooperate.

A slow, dreadful realization dawned on her.

“…Hannie,” she said, her voice small, lips curving into a pout.

He was already reaching for a towel when he hummed in response. “Hm?”

“I’m stuck.”

Jeonghan stilled.

Luna flailed her arms weakly. “I literally can’t get up.”

Silence.

Then, the corners of Jeonghan’s lips quirked as a knowing look crossed his face. Amusement twinkled in his eyes, but instead of teasing her immediately, he exhaled through his nose and softened, tilting his head.

“Ah, my poor baby,” he cooed, setting the towel down as he moved closer. His hand reached for the back of her neck, fingers warm and gentle as they curved around the delicate skin there. His other hand slid to the small of her back, applying just enough pressure to support her as he effortlessly lifted her upright, treating her like she was nothing more than a fragile newborn.

Luna let out a breath, her head falling forward to rest in the crook of his neck. The stiffness in her back and neck throbbed faintly as she adjusted to being upright again, but Jeonghan just held her there without a word.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles against the nape of her neck. His tone was teasing but filled with quiet affection, the kind that made warmth bloom in her chest. “Did my baby hurt herself again?”

Luna huffed against his skin, refusing to answer.

Jeonghan smiled, letting her stay nestled against him for as long as she needed. He didn’t even complain when her wet hair dampened his hoodie— he simply reached for a dry towel and began carefully patting her strands, drying them as gently as he had washed them.

For a moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in a comfortable silence.

Luna closed her eyes, letting herself melt into the feeling of his hands in her hair.

But before she could get too lost in the warmth, Jeonghan suddenly shifted.

“Alright,” he said, his tone light. Before she could process what was happening, his hands found her waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the bathroom counter.

Luna blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What—?”

“It’s time to change your gauze,” Jeonghan said simply, reaching for the medical kit they had left on the counter the night before.

Luna let out a small groan, tilting her head back slightly. “Ugh. Already?”

“Doctor’s orders,” Jeonghan reminded her, opening the kit with ease. Then, his gaze flickered back to her, softer now. “Do you want me to do it, or do you want to do it yourself?”

His voice was gentle— no pressure, no assumptions. Just a quiet understanding of her independence.

Luna appreciated that about him.

She exhaled, considering for a moment before nodding. “You can do it.”

Jeonghan didn’t hesitate. The second she gave her approval, he was already gathering the gauze and antiseptic, his movements precise and steady. He worked in silence at first, carefully peeling away the old gauze just as they were instructed the day before.

Luna barely winced, but even the slightest flinch didn’t go unnoticed.

Jeonghan clicked his tongue, his free hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Shhh. Almost done.”

Luna pressed her lips together as he dabbed the antiseptic along the stitches, the sting mild but annoying. “It’s not that bad.”

Jeonghan hummed, unconvinced. “Says the same person who just got stuck bending backward.”

Luna scowled. “That was your fault.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, too focused on securing the new gauze properly. “You’re doing great,” he murmured absentmindedly, his voice dipping into something softer.

Luna found herself watching him closely.

He had always been like this— playful and mischievous in most cases, but when it truly mattered, when it came to taking care of the people he loved, there was no one gentler than Yoon Jeonghan.

A few more seconds passed before he finally gave a satisfied nod. “All done.”

Luna sighed in relief. “Thank you, Jeongie.”

Jeonghan smiled, leaning in to press a light kiss to her lips. “Of course.”

The kiss was brief, but it was enough to make her heartbeat stutter. She reached for him before he could pull away completely, her arms looping around his neck as she tugged him back in.

Jeonghan didn’t resist.

His hands found their way to the counter, resting on either side of her hips, effectively trapping her there. Their lips met again, this time slower, deeper, the familiar rhythm of their movements melting into something effortless.

Luna sighed into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair as she tilted her head slightly to deepen it. Jeonghan exhaled, his hands flexing against the counter before one of them lifted to rest against her thigh, his thumb brushing idly over her skin.

Soft, unhurried, lingering.

When they finally pulled away, Jeonghan smiled. “See? You did survive Salon Yoon.”

Luna let out a breathy laugh, resting her forehead against his. “Barely.”

He chuckled before stepping back, giving her room to hop off the counter. As she straightened up, he stretched, rolling out his shoulders.

“Well, I’m gonna shower. We need to leave soon,” he announced casually, shaking out his arms as if preparing for a marathon. Then, with a playful smirk, he threw her a look over his shoulder. “You should wash my hair next.”

Luna snorted, crossing her arms. “Not a chance.”

Jeonghan gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “What? After everything I did for you? This is the gratitude I get?”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “Did I ask for a salon appointment?”

“You needed it.”

“You forced me into it.”

Jeonghan sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Such a cruel, cruel girlfriend I have.”

Luna rolled her eyes, walking past him as she grabbed her clothes. “Salon Yoon is officially blacklisted.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Shame. I was gonna offer a full-body massage tonight.”

Luna paused mid-step, then slowly turned to look at him.

Jeonghan’s smirk widened.

“…Fine,” she muttered, pretending to think about it. “But only if I get to charge you next time.”

Jeonghan chuckled, already making his way toward the shower. “Oh, baby. You owe me for this.”

Luna groaned, throwing a towel at him before disappearing into the closet to change.

Jeonghan’s laughter echoed behind her.

Once Luna and Jeonghan were dressed and ready, it wasn’t long before their manager called out to them— it was time to go.

Stepping out of their room together, they barely made it a few steps down the hallway before Luna was immediately intercepted.

A flurry of movement surrounded her, and in the blink of an eye, Jeonghan found himself standing alone as his girlfriend was unceremoniously taken from his side by a group of very determined mother hens.

“Okay, that’s enough of you,” Seungkwan announced dramatically, stepping between Luna and Jeonghan like a bouncer separating two unruly patrons. “It’s our turn.”

Before Jeonghan could so much as blink, a force stronger than gravity itself— otherwise known as the collective will of SEVENTEEN— swept Luna into their embrace, effectively cutting him off.

Mingyu wasted no time gently slinging an arm over her shoulder as he walked with her toward the elevators, eyeing her with a look of exaggerated concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not dizzy? Nauseous? Seeing stars?”

“No,” Luna laughed, playfully rolling her eyes. “I feel fine.”

“Are you lying?” Joshua teased, nudging her gently as they walked. “Because you know we’ll find out.”

Luna let out an exasperated sigh, though the corners of her lips twitched with amusement. “I’m seriously okay, guys.”

“Good,” Dokyeom said, squeezing her other shoulder. “But just in case, you should hold onto me. I’m very strong.”

Jeonghan, who had been completely sidelined, raised an eyebrow at them from a few steps behind. “You guys do realize she has an actual boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, and she sees you all the time,” Hoshi waved him off dismissively, linking his arm with Luna’s other side. “She’s ours right now.”

Luna let out a laugh as she was guided into the elevator, the members practically barricading her in.

“You see her all the time too,” Jeonghan sighed in amusement, shaking his head as the doors closed on them.

The members were even more careful with Luna than usual as they made their way out of the hotel and toward their designated vans.

Joshua kept a firm but gentle hand on her back, ensuring no one accidentally bumped into her as they walked. Jun and Wonwoo walked slightly ahead, subtly making sure the path was clear. Even Dino, usually the one being mothered by her, was extra attentive, keeping an eye on her from the side.

Mingyu, still acting as her unofficial bodyguard, turned to their security detail with a completely serious face. “If you see anyone looking at her too hard, just… take them out.”

Luna snorted. “Gyu-Gyu.”

“What?” He shrugged. “You’re injured. You deserve extra protection.”

Despite the humor, she could feel the underlying care in their actions. Every touch was softer, every glance filled with quiet concern. They didn’t hover obnoxiously, but they were there— just in case.

By the time they arrived at the stadium, they naturally fell into their pre-show routine. Everyone went their separate ways to prepare— some warming up their voices, others stretching, a few sitting on the couches, simply lounging on theirs.

Luna, as always, took her time checking her equipment.

Her backup in-ears were waiting for her, neatly placed inside a small black case. Unlike her main ones, which had exploded during yesterday’s rehearsal, these were brand new— freshly made and double-checked by the staff.

Still, as she stared down at them, her fingers hesitated for a split second before picking them up.

She was lying if she said she wasn’t traumatized.

She knew logically that today’s soundcheck would be fine. The staff had reassured her multiple times that everything was double and triple-checked, that the malfunction had been an unfortunate freak accident.

But still.

The memory of the sudden pop, the sharp pain, the ringing in her ears— it wasn’t something she could just shake off overnight.

As if sensing her hesitation, Seungcheol appeared beside her, his presence grounding as he leaned down slightly to catch her gaze.

“They’re brand new,” he told her softly, motioning toward the in-ears. “I promise you, they’re safe.”

Luna exhaled slowly before nodding. “I know. I just…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

Seungcheol nodded in understanding, his voice gentle. “You’re allowed to feel nervous about it.”

Luna let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” he reassured her immediately. “It was scary. It makes sense that you’re still shaken up.”

She let out another breath, this time a little steadier.

“You only have to wear one, right?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, left ear only. Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay,” Seungcheol smiled. “Then let’s put it in together.”

He held out his hand, palm up. Luna stared at it for a moment before smiling softly and placing her in-ear in his palm. With careful precision, he helped her put on the device.

“There,” he said, voice warm. “See? All good.”

Luna smiled. “All good.”

Seungcheol grinned and gave her a gentle nudge. “You’re gonna do great as always.”

She met his gaze, feeling the warmth of his reassurance settle over her. “Thank you, Cheollie.”

“Anytime,” he said, patting her back before standing up. “Now let’s go kill soundcheck.”

Luna inhaled deeply, exhaled just as slow, then nodded.

“Let’s do it.”

The time had finally come.

Luna took a deep breath as she sat in front of the mirror, checking herself one last time before they stepped onto the stage for soundcheck. Her fingers instinctively reached for her hair, carefully pulling strands forward to drape over her right ear. She needed to keep it covered.

Not because she was ashamed or embarrassed, but because the last thing she wanted was for this to become an even bigger deal than it already was.

Their fans— Carats— were always so incredibly attentive, always noticing the smallest details. If they saw her without her right in-ear, if they saw even a glimpse of the gauze covering her injury, they would worry. And she didn’t want that.

Satisfied with how her hair fell naturally over the side of her face, she reached for her sunglasses, slipping them on gently.

The Bangkok sun was relentless, the heat pressing against the hotel windows all day, and she knew stepping onto that stage would be no different. But the glasses served another purpose too. Her eyes were still slightly puffy from crying yesterday. The pain had been one thing, but the sheer shock of what had happened—her in-ear exploding mid-rehearsal— had shaken her more than she let on. She could still hear the sharp ringing that had followed, the way the force had left her momentarily stunned, the warmth of the blood trickling down her ear before anyone even realized what had happened.

Luna inhaled deeply and let it out slowly.

It’s fine. She was fine.

Dressed casually in a black sleeveless vest and comfortable denim jeans, Luna stood up from her seat, stretching her arms as she turned to the others. The atmosphere in the waiting room was its usual pre-soundcheck mix of excitement and ease. Some members were doing last-minute vocal warm-ups, others were adjusting their own in-ear monitors or joking around to shake off any fatigue.

The familiar routine was comforting, grounding.

Soon, their manager peeked in, giving the signal.

It was time.

As they made their way to the stage, Luna adjusted her mic pack, careful not to tug at the wires too much. Jeonghan, who had been walking beside her, reached for her hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. A silent reassurance. He knew she was pushing through it, and he knew better than anyone when she needed quiet support rather than words. She gave him a small smile in return.

Then, the moment they stepped onto the stage, a wave of energy hit them.

The floor seat VIP ticket holders— who had been let in earlier than the general audience— were already waiting. The second the members appeared, the crowd erupted into cheers, waves of arms lifting phones into the air to capture the moment. Some fans waved frantically, while others simply stared in awe, taking in the sight of SEVENTEEN under the daylight, dressed down in their casual clothes, looking effortlessly cool even in their relaxed state.

Luna smiled, lifting her hand to wave as she followed the others onto the main stage. Soundcheck was always casual, a chance for them to run through a few songs, interact with the early audience, and test the equipment one last time before the actual concert.

The familiar opening beats of their first song played through the speakers, and immediately, they all fell into their natural rhythm, singing as they moved around the stage freely.

Everything was going smoothly.

Luna crouched near the edge of the stage, reaching down to interact with a fan holding a sign with her name on it, flashing a bright smile as she waved. The fan looked ecstatic, practically jumping in place.

Just as she was about to move, she heard loud laughter from behind her. Turning her head, she caught sight of Hoshi and Seungkwan sprinting across the stage, their voices ringing out in exaggerated yells as they chased each other.

She couldn’t help but laugh.

Shaking her head at their antics, she pushed herself up from her crouched position. And in that exact moment, the wind picked up.

Unbeknownst to her, the strands of hair she had so carefully placed to shield her injury were swept back, exposing her right ear. She had already turned away, walking back towards the others, completely unaware that a few fans had caught sight of what she had been trying to keep hidden.

The gauze was unmistakable.

At first, there was a flicker of confusion among the audience. Some fans turned to each other, whispering, their eyes darting between Luna and their phone screens, zooming in to confirm what they had just seen.

Then, voices began rising, overlapping in concern.

“Jiyeonie-ah, are you okay?”

“What happened to her ear?”

“Is she hurt?”

The murmurs grew, but the music was still playing, and the members were already waving their goodbyes, preparing to head backstage. Luna, still completely oblivious to the commotion, continued waving at the crowd before following the others offstage.

But the news spread fast.

The VIP fans who had been inside, the first to witness it, were already posting online. Tweets flooded in, accompanied by blurry screenshots and shaky videos from the soundcheck.

“Wait… I think Luna is injured?? She wasn’t wearing her right in-ear, and I swear I saw a bandage on her ear???”

“Omg I was there, she looked fine but her ear definitely had gauze on it…”

“WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS, IS SHE OKAY?!”

“I HOPE IT’S NOTHING SERIOUS, PLEASE SOMEONE CONFIRM???”

“I feel sick. What if she’s in pain and she’s just pushing through it… PLEDIS SAY SOMETHING.”

The conversation spread like wildfire. The fans outside the stadium— who had been waiting to enter— caught wind of it and immediately started discussing it amongst themselves. Fans at home, across the globe, who hadn’t even seen the soundcheck yet, were already trending Luna’s name, demanding answers.

It escalated so quickly that PLEDIS had no choice but to release an official statement.

Hello.

This is PLEDIS Entertainment.

We would like to inform you about SEVENTEEN member Luna’s current health status and her activities moving forward.

On September 30, Luna sustained an injury to her right ear due to a mechanical malfunction during rehearsals. The incident occurred when her in-ear monitor suffered an unexpected technical failure, resulting in a minor explosion. She was immediately attended to by the on-site medical staff and received prompt treatment.

Following thorough medical examinations, it has been confirmed that while she sustained an injury to the upper right ear, there is no damage to her hearing. Luna has been advised to wear protective covering over the affected area and will be using a backup in-ear monitor for her performances moving forward.

Despite the injury, Luna has expressed her strong desire to continue participating in the scheduled performances. After receiving medical clearance, she will be performing at today’s concert as planned. However, PLEDIS Entertainment and SEVENTEEN will be prioritizing her health, and adjustments may be made as necessary.

We sincerely thank the fans for their concern and support for Luna’s well-being. We will continue to monitor her condition and ensure she receives the necessary care.

Thank you.

The statement was meant to reassure fans, but it only fueled the discussion further. Theories, reactions, and messages of concern flooded social media. While some fans were relieved to hear that she was cleared to perform, others were frustrated that she was pushing through the injury at all. Debates sparked, some arguing that she should rest, while others trusted her decision to perform.

But one thing was certain— everyone was watching.

And that’s what everyone did— watch.

The members watched as Luna sat in front of the mirror, getting ready, their eyes subtly flicking toward her every few minutes. They watched as the makeup artist worked delicately around her face, avoiding any unnecessary movements that might jostle her injury. They watched as her hairstylist carefully sectioned her hair, keeping it loose enough to frame her face but firm enough to stay in place, ensuring that no accidental brush of fingers or tools would graze her ear.

They watched.

Luna felt it. She didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t tease them about it the way she usually would, but she felt it.

Their eyes, their concern, their restraint.

Even in the smallest actions— Jeonghan handing her a bottle of water without her needing to ask, Mingyu hovering close whenever she moved as if ready to steady her, Hoshi’s usual playful banter softened just a little, less teasing, more quiet support— they were watching.

She focused on the routine. Foundation, light but enough to cover any signs of exhaustion. Eyeshadow, a soft shimmer that caught the light just right. Lipstick, a natural pink shade that enhanced her smile. Every brushstroke was careful, every movement measured. Her stylist secured her in-ear monitor in her left ear, making sure the wire was tucked neatly behind her, while her right ear remained bare, hidden beneath the natural fall of her hair.

As if nothing had happened.

And when it was time— when the lights dimmed, the crowd’s screams rumbled through the stadium like thunder, and the members gathered in their final huddle before stepping on stage— they all knew the act would become reality.

The moment the music hit, the moment their feet touched the stage, everything else would fade.

And that’s exactly what happened.

The fans watched.

They watched as Luna emerged under the bright lights, her presence commanding, her energy unwavering. They watched as she moved, as she danced with the same precision and fire as always, as if nothing had happened. They watched as her voice rang through the stadium, clear and powerful, as if she hadn’t spent hours the day before wincing in pain.

They watched as the members gravitated toward her, as if by instinct.

How Jeonghan naturally positioned himself beside her during their line where he usually didn’t. How Seungcheol subtly glanced her way between lines, making sure she was keeping up without strain. How Joshua smiled at her every chance he got, quiet reassurance in the form of a familiar gaze. How Hoshi toned down his usual playful shoves, how Dino kept close whenever formations shifted, how even Vernon— who usually kept to himself— would linger nearby.

The fans watched.

They watched as Luna’s face appeared on the big screen, her smile lighting up the entire venue. The cheers were deafening, a mix of excitement and relief, because they knew. They knew she was hurt. They knew she wasn’t supposed to be resting, and yet here she was— dancing, singing, smiling, like nothing had happened.

And Luna, knowing that they knew, took a deep breath between songs, stepping toward the mic as the crowd quieted just enough to hear her.

“I’m okay. I promise.”

She chuckled softly, her voice light, reassuring. The fans screamed in response, some laughing, some yelling back, some probably scolding her in their own way. But she knew they understood. She wasn’t going to let them worry. Not tonight.

So they watched.

They watched as she continued, giving every move, every note, every moment her all.

101%, just like she always did.

Because that was where she belonged. On that stage, in front of them, giving everything she had.

And as they watched, they were simply glad.

Glad she was still there.

Glad she wasn’t too badly hurt.

Glad she was Luna— just as brilliant, just as unstoppable as ever.

Luna was just as glad.

Glad that she had them.

Glad that through all the pain, the exhaustion, the momentary fear of not knowing if she would even be able to stand on this stage tonight— she had made it.

And she wasn’t alone.

She felt it in the way the fans screamed her name, their voices layered with excitement, relief, and something deeper— an unspoken promise that they were with her, no matter what.

She saw it in the way their lightsticks waved in perfect synchronization, the entire stadium glowing like a sky full of stars, a constellation drawn just for them.

She read it in their signs, hastily written messages that said things like ‘Luna, we love you!’ and ‘Don’t push yourself too hard!’

They were worried, she knew. And yet, they were still here, still cheering, still supporting her like they always had.

She was glad she had them.

She was glad she wasn’t hurt worse. The pain was there— lingering, dull in some moments and sharp in others— but it wasn’t enough to break her. The wound on her ear throbbed beneath the gauze, a quiet reminder of what had happened, but she could still sing. She could still dance. She could still stand under these lights and give her all.

And she was glad she had them.

Her members. Her family.

She felt it in the way Seungcheol watched her out of the corner of his eye, in the way Jeonghan subtly brushed against her shoulder whenever they crossed paths on stage, as if to remind her he was there. She saw it in the way Joshua would smile at her just a second longer, in the way Mingyu offered his hand to help her down from a platform when she didn’t even need it.

She heard it in the way Seungkwan and Hoshi made an extra joke just to make her laugh, in the way Dokyeom sang to her a little louder when their voices harmonized, in the way Minghao and Jun still hyped her up between songs like nothing had changed.

She felt it in how Vernon, Wonwoo, and Woozi, usually quiet and reserved, made sure to linger near her during breaks. How Dino, the youngest, made sure to carry the energy just a little more, as if silently telling her that he would cover for her, just in case.

She was loved.

Not just by the fans who cheered for her. Not just by the members who watched over her. But by all of them, in ways both big and small, in ways that filled every corner of her heart.

Luna was glad.

Glad that through everything, no matter what, she had them.

Glad that she was loved by them.

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: ̗̀➛ requests are always open ♡ - lunaఌ

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[rainydayathogwarts]

can i request ron weasley x reader where they have noooooo shame about pda? like they’d be in the common room making out & basically dry humping & they’re not even embarrassed or thinking about moving until their friends tell them to get a room!🎀🤭

Shameless - Ron Weasley

wc: 777!!!

The aftermath of the post-game party is nearly more hectic than the party itself. Some people are recovering from their intoxicated state, and there’s more than a few people asleep on stray couches in the common room. A couple of friend groups, including yours, are sat around a table, beers in hand whilst playing silly games of truth or dare, or even spilling secrets without the need of being asked. You stand with your boyfriend in the corner of the room, leaning against his chest and inhaling his scent, feeling the thump of his heart against his chest. Ron presses slow kisses in the crook of your neck, and you peacefully sip your drink, staring at your friends who can’t help but giggle a little bit too loudly.

You smile, shutting your eyes softly when Ron’s teeth graze against the soft skin of your neck, arms trailing upwards to rest against Ron’s rather muscular ones wrapped around your waist. You pull away from Ron’s loving kisses, spinning in his arms to stand chest-to-chest with him. Ron doesn’t waste time before leaning down and chastely kissing you, before pulling away to look deeply into your eyes, hands leaving your torso to hold yours.

When Ron drags you over to the single-person armchair in front of the fireplace near your friends, you don’t think to push him away, instead happily sitting on his lap and throwing your arms over his shoulders. Ron’s arms are tight around your body, and he’s instantly pressing fluttering kisses on your neck again, causing a surprised giggle to bubble in your chest. You push Ron away from you by his chest, leaning forward to connect your lips to his when he finally disconnects from your neck. One of Ron’s large hands comes up to cup your cheek, his other hand resting on your thigh, just underneath the hem of your skirt.

You shift on Ron’s lap, moving your legs in the limited space you have to turn your whole body around to straddle Ron’s thighs. He makes a strangled noise, which is swallowed by your kiss, both his hands tightly gripping your hips and pushing them down against his. Gasping into the kiss, you strew your hands in Ron’s hair in an attempt to be brought impossibly closer to him.

Neither of you have had much time together between study sessions for your different subjects and Ron’s quidditch practice, so you made the most of any spare minutes together. Yes, even if it was at an afterparty with all your friends around. Ron’s fingers dig into your sides so hard you’re sure the top you’re wearing is creased, but in that moment nothing matters apart from the way your boyfriend’s lips are moving against yours.

On the other side of the fireplace, your friends are relentlessly teasing you but you can’t hear a word of their mock complaints. Seamus spins a bottle that just so happens to land on Hermione, who chooses ‘dare’ — she’s already revealed too much tonight. Her eyes go wide as she hears his dare, but the shot of vodka sitting on the table as a forfeit looks too atrocious. Hermione did not want to throw up tonight. She attempts to complain, but Harry and even Neville both think it’s too amusing. Hermione stands, and with one last look at everyone waiting in anticipation, she approaches you and Ron.

Once Hermione’s close enough to you two to see all the gross details of you making out, and the nearly invisible movement of your hips against Ron’s, she finally fulfils her dare. Her fingers dig into your sides in a tickle and she runs back to the group as you jump away from Ron with a shriek so loud someone on the other side of the room wakes up with a groan. Ron is clearly shocked, looking up at where you ended up standing, his palms up in a confused gesture. Your jaw is slack, mouth opened wide in shock as you turn to look at your group of friends, all sat down on the floor and leaning on each other while laughing at your dramatic response to Hermione’s dare.

“What was that?” You screech, ignoring Ron as he stands up, wrapping his arms around you in comfort. “Um, a sign to get a room!” Responded Harry mid laugh, gripping his abdomen. Ron hummed, muttering a “Well, never a bad idea.” Before guiding you towards the staircase leading to the boys dormitories.

“No, not our dorm! I want to sleep tonight Ron!” Yelled Seamus hopelessly, sighing and reaching for the shot of vodka on the table to finally accept his fate.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Aftermath - Chapter 8

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something out of nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

warnings: lando makes an appearance in this one. abusive language used, including sexist name calling. pairing: max verstappen x leclercsister!reader word count: 3.9k words a note: here it is babies!!! the last one in this series. i know it's been different from what i usually write, but this has been so much fun. extra special thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl as usual for beta reading and holding my hand at 2am when i wake up struck by an idea hahaha <3

Aftermath - Chapter 1 Aftermath - Chapter 2 Aftermath - Chapter 3 Aftermath - Chapter 4 Aftermath - Chapter 5 Aftermath - Chapter 6Aftermath - Chapter 7 Master List

madmaxx1 posted

52 likes liked by ferrarisprince16, babyleclercpriv, jadebby, and others madmaxx1 pretty pretty girl ferrarisprince16 hey! so this is insane! >>>artiebartie yeah! stop thirsting over our sister >>>madmaxx1 never babyleclercpriv <3 jadebby god you two are so cute it's gross

missleclerc posted

missleclerc surprise! some new pieces are debuting at @/nessasgallery TONIGHT. I'll be there to discuss this new direction my art is going in along with what (and who) inspired me to try such a drastic new approach to painting. I hope you'll drop by and take a look, it would be lovely to see you! maxverstappen1 does this make me your muse??? >>>charlesleclerc hey! my car is up there right next to you! that means I'm a muse too! >>>missleclerc you two are ridiculous >>>user0298 uhhhhhhhh... user1029 ferrari and red bull without a mclaren in sight. iiiiiiinteresting >>>user1100 i think this is all the breakup confirmation we need user455 oh shes in LOVE LOVE with max >>>user444 oh this is so messy. i love it. give me 12 more seasons right now.

“If we don’t leave in the next ten minutes, we’re going to be late for your own event, pretty girl.” Max tuts at you from the doorway of your bedroom but there’s no bite behind his words. 

You glance up at him from your vanity where you’re sitting doing the last bits of your makeup. He looks heartbreakingly handsome in crisp white button-down underneath a tailored navy blue sport coat and matching slacks. His hair is combed neatly to the side, gelled into submission in a way that makes you want to rake your fingers through it just to muss it up. 

“I’m nearly ready, mister bossy pants.” You shoot back before switching off the light on the vanity and standing up. 

Max rolls his eyes but takes advantage of you walking towards him, smile on your face, and blatantly ogles you. The way the navy blue lacy dress hugs every dip and curve of your frame has Max checking his watch, wondering just how late you two could be without raising suspicion. 

“Don’t get any ideas.” You giggle, wrapping your arms around Max’s waist before pitching up onto your toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You were just scolding me that we can’t be late and then you come in here looking at me like that.” 

“It’s not my fault you look like a goddamn masterpiece in that dress.” He murmurs against your neck as he drags hot, open mouthed kisses down towards your collar bone. 

The way Max talks to you now, the reverent way he looks at you like you’re a piece of art in the most normal of situations, the way he always has to be touching you even with just the tips of his fingers, it’s everything you’ve ever craved from a relationship and everything you thought you didn’t deserve. 

Two weeks have passed since that night in your studio and while Max had to be gone for half of it for a race, one that you had solidly refused to attend until the dust between you and Lando settles a little more, it’s almost as if you two have been together for years now. The way you’ve slotted yourself into his life and Max into yours is so settling, so calming that you’ve caught yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’ve caught yourself waiting for him to behave like Lando, to push you away or do something that proves that Lando was right all along. 

Max knows you’ve been waiting for it so he’s made an extra effort to prove to you that it’s never going to happen. He knows you’re still healing, still recovering from what the British driver did to you so he hasn’t pushed. He hasn’t pushed to label whatever it is you two are to each other. It doesn’t matter to either of you because if you’re both in Monaco, you’re together. Max comes down to your apartment to watch while you cook dinner or you go up to his to cuddle on the couch and spend the night. It’s been a blissfully quiet time but you can both feel that private time coming to an end. 

The comments on your post from earlier had been mostly positive but it was pretty apparent fans had put two and two together. People knew you and Max were…something. They had figured out that a breakup had taken place even if nothing had officially been announced. You knew that once you arrived to the gallery tonight, hand in hand with Max, that was all it was going to take to confirm to the public that you and Lando were over and you had moved on. 

The thought of what Lando might do after he sees the coverage of tonight, and you know there will be coverage, has anxiety sitting heavy on your shoulders. Max clocks it instantly, shaking his head. He reads you so easily now, he always has but since that night in your studio, he’s been even more in tune with you and your moods. 

“Don’t go there. It’s going to be fine. Everyone who loves you, who matters, is going to be there and we won’t let anything or anyone ruin tonight, okay?” 

You nod, attempting to tamp down the anxiety that blooms hotly in your chest. You hated how much control Lando still had over you sometimes but you were getting better, bit by bit. “Thank you.” You whisper, nuzzling into the crook of Max’s neck while inhaling the scent of his cologne. 

“I have something for you.” Max murmurs into your hair in an obvious attempt to distract you. 

You pull back, eyes sparkling up at him. “You do?” 

Distraction successful. 

Max reaches into the back pocket of his slacks and pulls out a rectangular velvet box. You blink up at him in confusion. “Max…” 

“It’s just something small to show you how proud I am of you, how wildly in love I am with you.” He says, the words skittering up your spine before settling deep in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never been loved in the way Max loves you and it’s always seemingly knocking you off your center. “Go on, open it.” He whispers, watching as you turn the velvet box over in your hands. 

The hinges on the box whisper open and you’re momentarily speechless when you see what is nestled in the black satin. A diamond tennis necklace winks up at you with dozens of brilliant cut diamonds set in what looks to be platinum, stealing the very breath from your lungs. The stone that sits nestled in the center though is what renders you completely speechless. A large emerald cut brilliant blue sapphire stone sits in the middle of the necklace, the color a perfect match to the navy blue of Max’s Formula 1 car. 

“Max.” You whisper, unable to find any other words beyond his name. 

“Do you like it?” He asks, eyes searching yours earnestly, looking for approval in your face. 

“It’s…” The words to describe the beauty of the piece sitting heavy in your hands escapes you. Your breath hitches in the back of your throat, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. The diamonds, so bright they seem to shimmer with the captured light, blur and swim together as tears prick at your eyes. “Max,” You manage again, your voice thick with emotion that you struggle to get a handle on. “It’s breathtaking.” 

He reaches for the necklace, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a surge of pleasure down your spine. His touch, simple as it is, is familiar but charged with a new intensity. He lifts the delicate chain, the cool metal a stark contrast against the warmth of his skin, and fastens it around your neck after you spin for him while lifting your hair out of the way. The weight of the piece settles against your skin, a physical reminder of his affection, his love for you. Love. The word echoes int he quiet space of your mind, a sound so heavy but exhilarating that it has fresh tears threatening to spill over. 

“Turn around.” He murmurs, voice husky. Max takes a step back, eyes raking over you, a slow appreciative burn in their blue depths. 

You obey, your movements a little stiff and unsure. As you turn, the sapphire catches the light, flashing a vibrant, rich blue against the pale glow of your skin. You spot your reflection in the mirror across the room just as you turn back to face Max and your breath catches again. The necklace transforms your outfit into something extraordinary. It’s not just beautiful, it’s…meaningful. It’s a symbol of his belief in you, his pride in being with you, his acceptance of you, flaws and all.

 It’s a promise, whispered against your skin. 

“It’s too much.” You whisper, the words barely audible. The sheer extravagance of the gift, the depth of the emotion behind it, is almost too overwhelming. 

Max steps closer, his hands slipping around your waist as he pulls you against his body. “It’s not too much.” He says, his voice gentle but firm. “You deserve the world, everything beautiful and bright and good. And this?” He gestures to the necklace clasped around your neck, the sapphire resting in the hollow of your throat, “This is just a small token of my love.” 

“Thank you.” You whisper, the words wholly inadequate and insufficient to describe the way your stomach is swirling with emotion but it’s all you can manage in the face of such overwhelming emotion. You reach up, your fingers tracing the cool surface of the center stone. It feels like a piece of him, a tangible representation of the connection you both share. And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet him of unspoken emotion, you know that whatever happens tonight, whatever Lando might do to ruin the night or in the future, you’re not alone. You have Max. And that, you realize, is more precious than any piece of jewelry that Max could ever give you. 

f1.gossip.news posted

f1.gossip.news in a move that shocked...absolutely no one, charles leclerc's little sister stepped out hand in hand with new flame max verstappen tonight. while her and lando never officially announced their split, we've all seen the writing on the wall. her insta post announcing her new artwork debuting tonight featuring the red bull driver was all the confirmation we needed that her and the mclaren driver are dunzoooo. what do we think, chat??? user7575 she is GLOWING! good for her. >>>user0209 seriously, i haven't seen her or max look this happy in ages. user3221 i can hear the dishes breaking in lando's apartment from here in london >>>user0202 seriously. imagine losing the championship last year AND THEN YOUR GIRL to max verstappen. WHEEEEW BOY. user1992 this is so messy. i love it.

The light from the gallery spills out onto the sidewalk, casting a golden glow out into the street that guides you and Max towards it’s doors. It doesn’t escape your notice that the last time you walked down this sidewalk at night towards Nessa’s gallery for a show of yours, you were alone and desperately sad. 

Tonight though? Tonight is completely different. Your arm is tucked securely in Max’s elbow as he walks with towards the gallery with you after dropping the car off with the valet. The necklace he’d given you that night sits securely around your throat, an outwardly sign of the budding relationship between you two. As you approach the gallery, you see your brothers waiting for you but this time, all of their significant others are also waiting for you as well. 

Charles is the first one to intercept you, catching you up in a tight hug before whispering how lovely you look tonight in your ear. You’re passed first to Arthur and finally to Lorenzo, who makes a joke about the rock around your neck. Through it all, Max sits back quietly, watching you glow under the attention of your brothers. Jade, Alexandra, and Charlotte all make a fuss over your outfit and paw at the necklace, swooning over how it practically sparkles under the gallery lights. 

When you finally make it into the gallery, there are dozens of people already there. Nessa sees you walk through the door first and pounces on you instantly. 

“My darling!” She coos, wrapping you up in her arms and squeezing you tightly. “You are shimmering with happiness.” She comments, eyes darting to where Max stands behind you, hands tucked neatly into his pockets as he talks with Charles and Arthur. “And I suppose we have that man to thank for that.” 

“Partly.” You agree, but you know it’s more than that. You feel as though you’ve been given a second chance tonight. You were so close to losing everything, to succumbing to everything that Lando had put you through over the last three years that this first night out feels like your first taste of what life should feel like. You knew you had Max to thank for a lot of that, but it also wasn’t lost on you how much you had also fought to be there for yourself. “I’ve done a lot of work on myself the last few months too.” 

Nessa nods, running a protective hand up and down your bare arms. “I know, your art has changed! It feels lighter but also there’s so much more depth to it. I’ve had several inquiries about the one of your man after Brazil.” She says, eyes alright with dollar signs. 

“Unfortunately, that one is already sold.” Max cuts in, slipping his arm around your waist before handing you a glass of red wine. 

You startle, not realizing that you had already sold a piece so early on in the night. “It is?” 

Max nods, taking a sip of his drink. “I came in yesterday afternoon while you were taking a nap and bought it.” 

Your head snaps to Nessa, looking for confirmation. “Paid twice my asking price.” She murmurs, smirk playing at her ruby red lips. Traditionally, she never sold a piece before it was debuted but Max had been persuasive and insisted on locking down the piece without you knowing before hand. 

“Max!” You hiss, bumping a shoulder into his. “I would have just given it to you if you’d asked! I was planning on doing that anyway!” 

Max shrugs, small smile on his face. “I wanted to make sure no one beat me to it. And of course I paid for it! Allow my girl to give her work away for free? Just because I’m the muse doesn’t mean I get special treatment.” 

You’re fairly certain you blush deeper a deep red than the scarlet of your brother’s Ferrari at the praise Max heaps on you. Nessa hides a knowing grin behind her own wine glass before excusing herself to go talk to a client that had just walked in. 

Max and you are left alone in the center of the room and for a moment, the silence that settles over you two is a comforting blanket. It’s not hurried or anxious, the energy between you tonight. It’s a calm, steady thrum of energy that passes easily from Max to you without having to do much more than exchange a glance or quick brush of fingertip against bare skin. You watch your family swirl around the room, each gently checking in on you in their own time as they mingle and you feel yourself relax into the vibe of the evening. 

You’re two glasses in and having a hushed conversation with Jade as Max stands beside you, backs to the door, when a sudden tension snaps through the gallery. On the opposite side of the room, the door at the front of the gallery snaps just a touch too loudly, pulling your attention in that direction. 

The figure that stands just inside the gallery sends your stomach dropping through your toes. 

“Shit.” Beside you, Max’s hand finds yours and he instinctively shifts to put himself between the rest of the gallery and yourself. 

You knew this was going to happen. You had felt it in your bones tonight as you had gotten ready. You knew that Lando would never let you have this. Knew deep down that he’d never let you fully get away from him without having the last word. If there was one thing that Lando couldn’t stand, it was being made a fool of. And you knew that showing up here tonight on Max’s arm, wearing Max’s jewels would set him off. 

You deserved what was coming. 

You try frantically to step around Max, feeling the need to absorb the fire you knew Lando was going to spew everywhere. But Max won’t allow it. Without a single glance in your direction, Max shifts his weight once again and you find yourself even further away from Lando now. Somewhere to your left, you sense Charles and Arthur step in front of you two and you’re certain Lorenzo is around somewhere. 

“Typical LeClerc behavior. Hiding behind others who are more powerful than you in order to save face. Learned from the best, didn’t you baby?” The venom in Lando’s voice sinks it’s claws into your bloodstream, threatening to drag you under. 

Around you, conversations cease instantly, all attention on the scene happening in the corner of the room. 

You weren’t going to let Lando win this though. You were done giving him the power to control you, done dodging the confrontation in an attempt to quietly end things between you. He just wasn’t getting the hint and if he was going to behave like this, then fine. You were fed up. 

Pushing through Max and Charles, you stand in front of your ex-boyfriend, head held high. “Lando, this is neither the time nor the place to do this.” Your voice is deceptively calm, not giving away a bit of the fear that trembles just below the surface. 

Lando sneers, rolling his eyes and then his gaze snags on the necklace at your throat. The navy blue stone catches the light, winking over at him with an antagonizing shimmer. He takes half a step closer and you feel Max shift again, but this time he comes to stand beside you instead of in front of you. 

“Wearing his collar already, huh?” He bites out. A chorus of gasps ripple through the gallery but you just tip your chin up higher, used to his attempts at humiliation. Lando’s gaze shifts to Max beside you and a cruel smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me, Verstappen. Does she still make that little cooing noise right before she comes? It was always the sweetest little sound, you know the one I’m talking about, right?” 

Humiliation burns through you, hot and bright as Max reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze. Another ripple of disbelief peppers through the crowd but Max barely blinks. “You know, I’ve never heard her make that particular sound.” He pauses and Lando’s face lights up in a brilliant smile, as if he’s won. “Usually, she’s too busy screaming my name when I make her come though so she’s never been one to make quiet little sounds with me.” 

Silence. 

“I always knew you were a cheating whore.” 

A sickening crack rings out in the otherwise silent room as your brother’s fist connects squarely with Lando’s jaw. 

“Charles!” You gasp, hand flying to your throat as you watch Lando stagger back. 

Charles shakes out his hand, received to be able to move all of his fingers. He can’t imagine that call to Maranello going well if he’d had to phone about a broken hand. 

“Keep my sister’s name out of your filthy fucking mouth, you piece of trash.” Charles spits, voice a mask of sheer deathly calm.

Max steps forward, a silent demand for order radiating from the way he stands. “Enough.” His voice is unwaveringly calm as he watches Lando struggle to his feet, clutching at his left eye where a deep blue bruise is already blooming. “Get the fuck out of here before I call the police. I don’t think Zak would be to happy to hear about tonight’s shenanigans or enjoy having to read the media coverage after his star driver gets arrested for harassment.” Max takes half a step towards Lando and you enjoy the way the Brit scrambles away. “If you so much as sneeze in her direction ever again, I will make it my life’s mission to see your entire life ruined, Norris.” Max is practically nose to nose with Lando now, his glare cutting down your ex-boyfriend so he appears about two inches tall. “Are. We. Clear?” 

****

Later that night, Max startles awake, unsurprised to find himself alone in your bed. He knew you were restless tonight. It had taken him nearly twice as long as it usually did for him to pull your body to release underneath him. And after, when you had tumbled head first into sleep, naked beside him, you weren’t settled like you usually were when you slept beside him. 

So no, he wasn’t surprised to find you gone and the bed long cold beside him. 

Pulling on a pair of boxers, Max wanders into your spare bedroom that’s morphed into somewhat of a second studio space. He finds you exactly where he expects you: facing away from him sitting in front of a half finished canvas. You’re bathed in a brilliant blue moonlight, wearing nothing but his white dress shirt from earlier and his necklace you still haven’t removed. 

“Come back to bed, my love.” He murmurs into the crook of your neck as you drop your head onto his, sinking into the warmth of his embrace. 

A soft sound of agreement hums in the back of your throat as you place the brush on the table beside you. Max is a touch surprised with how pliant you are, instantly following his suggestion without much fight but he also knows today took a lot out of you and the thing you sometimes craved was the ability to shut it all off. 

“I wasn’t getting much work done anyway.” You murmur, standing and leaning into his embrace even more. The room is chilly anyway and you find yourself needing Max’s touch more than anything else in that moment. 

You allow Max to tug you out the door towards your bedroom, knowing that he’s able to read you perfectly. He doesn’t rush you though. He lets you linger for a moment in the doorway, your gaze snagging lightly on the painting behind you. It’s a gorgeous landscape that you’re known for, something you haven’t been able to paint in what feels like a lifetime. The moonlight paints silver streaks across the floor, illuminating the painting that you had spent the last hour just starting at. It’s a peaceful scene, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had filled your day. A small, contented sigh escapes your lips and Max squeezes your hand just enough to pull your attention back to him. 

Once back in the bedroom, the chill of the room sends a shiver down your spine. Max, ever attentive, pulls back the covers, gesturing for you to climb in first. He watches as you curl up on your side, tucking your knees up in towards your chest. The white shirt slips off your body, revealing the delicate curve of your spine. He slides in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. Max reaches out, his hand finding the curve of your hip and gently pulls you closer until your back is flush against his chest. He wraps an arm around your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach. 

You melt into his touch, the warmth of his body radiating through you. His breath is warm against the back of your neck and the steady rhythm of his heart is a soothing lullaby you’ve come to depend on at night. The events of earlier linger in the back of your mind, but here, in Max’s arms they start to feel a little more distant, muffled almost. He kisses the nape of your neck softly, a quiet reminder of his constant presence in your life now, how he’ll never allow you to be alone of face anything by yourself anymore. 

“Better?” He whispers, voice low and rumbling against your bare skin. 

“Mm-hmm” You hum, snuggling deeper into his embrace. You reach down and take his hand that sits on your belly, intertwining your fingers with his. The simple act of holding his hand grounds you, reminding you that you’re not alone anymore. You turn slightly in his arms, just enough to look up at him. His eyes, even in the dim light of the bedroom, are filled with tenderness and understanding. 

“Thank you.” You whisper, your voice thick with emotion. 

Max smiles, a soft, reassuring smile that makes your heart ache in the best way. “For what, liefje?” His Dutch accent is thick now, as it gets when he’s tired and emotional. 

“For everything.” You say, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “For being here. For understanding. For taking care of me.” 

He pulls you closer, his hold tighenying slightly. “Always.” He murmurs against your lips. “Always and forever, my love.” 

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, you know that no matter what happens next, you and Max will face it together. This, right here, in his arms, is your happy ending that you’ve been chasing after your entire life. 

Tag list:

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[sweetdispatch]

Boxes - J. Hughes

masterlist | Part 1 pairing: Jack Hughes x fem!reader summary: Aftermath of the words that Jack said to you warning: swear words note: thank you for all feedback to first part! if not you, i would never sat down to write continuation❤️ taglist: @dancerbailey3 @kammafffffff

Those words were ringing in Jack’ head. He couldn’t believe he said all the awful things to the woman that he loves. Every time he remembered about it, he wanted to cry. He knew you didn’t deserve them. He was mad at the whole situation. He regretted that he took out his anger on you. Every day, he was waking up in an empty bed. He knew he fucked up and knew he could handle the situation better. 

Why didn't I say that I need space? 

Why didn’t I just talk with her? 

Why did I act like a total idiot? 

Those were his thoughts that were haunting him every time Jack woke up alone and every time he was going to sleep. He missed your presence in the apartment. He missed the smell of the perfume you were using, seeing your cosmetics all over the sink, your music playing softly from your phone when you were baking. Most importantly, he missed your presence. 

This silence around the place was killing him. Jack finally understood why you were always checking on him. To be sure he’s alright. He wished he could check on you how you’re doing. He was hopeless. He desperately needed to hear your voice and make sure you’re doing fine. His favorite hobby was scrolling his phone and watching your pictures when you were happy. 

All Jack could remember, except his words, was your cry. This sound was haunting him. Never before, he heard your voice so raw and so painful. He regretted that he didn’t react. That he didn’t appear next to you with apologies and just ignored you. Days went by and he was falling into a deeper hole. 

You were a mess. You couldn’t believe that Jack treated you like that. After all those years together, he spoke to you like you were no one to him. These words he said to you were ringing in your ear. You could survive being called bitch but when he called you a shag, you lost it. You were wondering if all the time Jack was thinking about you like you’re just sex object. 

You were staying at your friend's place trying to figure out what’s next. You wanted to move out from New Jersey, you wanted to escape this city and leave him and the problems behind you. All your things were in Jack’ apartment that you earlier called home. You needed to get there and take from there but that meant facing him. 

Your friend was trying to tell you that she can get those stuff for you but you knew you had to do it. Everywhere were laying your things. In the living room were standing your figures that you’ve been collecting and Jack put them there so they won’t be in the box. In the kitchen were your favorite cups that you brought from home. 

None of your family knew about this fight. You didn’t want to tell them what happened until you figured out what you were going to do next but Jack’ family knew. His mom was calling you everyday to check on you. Quinn did the same thing and tried to apologise for how stupid his brother is. Luke was taking you out so you don’t have to sit at home alone and sink in those words. They treated you like a part of family and were fuming at Jack for treating you this way. 

They all remembered how you were always next to him, no matter what. How helpful you were to him during summer. That’s why they couldn’t understand why Jack said those words to you. He was hearing from his family all the time that he lost the best girl he could ever find. He knew that and didn’t need a reminder. 

Week went by. Jack tried to contact you everyday but you never picked up the phone. He was having updates about how you were doing from his family and it was killing him when he heard that you’re a mess. You were a mess because of him and his anger. He wanted to apologise to you. 

After a week, you figured out what you want from the future. This also means that you need to go to your old apartment to collect your things. When you arrived with boxes at the door, you took a deep breath. Sure, you could ask Luke to take out Jack somewhere but you knew that you have to face him. You opened the door and walked into the apartment. You spotted that the kitchen and living room were a mess. 

From the couch, Jack looked at you. He couldn’t believe that you were standing there but then he noticed the boxes. He knew that you came to grab your things and he couldn’t blame you but it still made him sad. He wanted to say something but the words were stuck in his throat.

“I came to grab my things and I’m gone” You said on the verge of tears. You started putting things into the box when you heard. 

“I’m sorry” Jack said, his voice was shaky. 

“Save it please” You told him, focused on your job here. 

“I really am sorry. I regret every word I said to you. I lost my temper and snapped” Jack tried to explain himself and you laughed. 

“Always having an excuse. Just drop it” You told him firmly. 

“Look, I know that you hate me now but I really regret it. Everyday it haunts me what I said to you. You’re not an annoying bitch or shag. You’re the woman I love and those words should never leave my mouth” Jack told you and from his voice you could tell that this is sincere. 

“It’s hard for me to believe you. You said it with such an ease like you truly meant them. For the past week, I was thinking about them and now, I feel like our whole relationship was pointless. Like you saw just sex in me” For the first time, you looked at him.

“You know that’s not true” Jack said with a sharp voice.

“Do I?” You fought back.

“Yes! I love you and I want to make it up to you” Jack pleaded. 

“There’s nothing you can do. I simply don’t trust you anymore. I love you but this love hurt me too much. Can I have a guarantee that you never again snap at me like that?” Jack didn’t say a word. “Exactly. That’s why I need to move with my life and find myself again. I’ve been so caught up with you that I lost ability to being myself” 

“So this means that we’re breaking up?” Jack asked with tears in his eyes. 

“This relationship was over the minute I left the door. If you would really care, you would come and check on me when I was crying over those words but you were just sitting on the couch. You acted like I was a burden” You ran your hands through your hair. “All I wanted was to help you get through this rehabilitation” You sighed.

“I’m really sorry. If I could turn back time, I would never say those words. I would tell you what was bothering me” Jack said, defeated. 

“But you can’t” You told him and went into the bedroom to pack the rest of your clothes. 

 “Can we at least stay friends? Please?” Jack begged you. He needed you to have around. 

“I don’t know. I’m moving out of town and I don’t really want to talk with you on the phone about my life” You told him truthfully. 

“Where are you going?” Jack could feel that you’re slipping through his fingers.  

“Far away. I want to leave this city behind me” You said and grabbed the box to put it into the car. You did that couple more times until the apartment was free from your things. “I guess it’s a goodbye” 

“I’m really sorry for the pain I caused you. It was never my intention and I’ll never forgive myself for ruining our relationship” Jack said and you pulled him into a hug. 

“I hope the rehabilitation will go smoothly. Good luck in your life Jack” And like that you left the apartment. For good. 

Jack stood there looking at the door, hoping that you’ll walk and tell him that everything’s alright. It never happened. You really left him and now, without your things, the apartment felt cold. Like you never even lived there. All the things he had left were the memories. This argument was haunting him and he couldn’t believe that he ruined a perfect thing. You are supposed to be his wife. Mother to his children but now, you were a stranger to him.

[annieiswriting]

long night — short night

summary; spencer arrives late at work which is weird, morgan has an idea of why…but hey, he has a dirty mind!

warnings; allusions to smut

a/n; very short!

gif ; divider

Spencer arrived in late this morning, rushing to the small kitchen of the sixth floor. There, he met Derek, pouring himself hot chocolate.

“Well hello there genius!” he mused as he saw his tired form. But there was…something different about him, the famous cliché of the aftermath. “Long night?” He smirked. Reid hummed.

“Very,” he yawned, putting a lot of sugar into his mug. His eyes were met with a mischievous smile from his coworker. “N—not that kind of night!” He stuttered.

Oh, yes it was.

He sat up with the sheets covering his chest, searching for his clothes. Careful not to wake you. It was still early, and you usually woke up later than him, as you worked as a teacher in kindergarten. You already cuddled for a long time, when he was supposed to be already up.

“Don’t go—” you sleepily murmured, coaxing him, seeking him even in the darkness of the room. He softly grinned, putting his shirt on.

“Maybe we’ll see each other tonight, angel.” he spread a few kisses along your temple.

“Well I don’t want a maybe!” you whined.

“I know—”

Morgan’s brows perked up in amusement.

“You have the same clothes as yesterday, and you never put the same clothes on twice a day.” He smirked.

[kooppss]

Damage Control

Sexy Disasters With Feelings masterlist

You and Jungkook try to navigate the aftermath of last night's mistakes. But what exactly was the mistake? Chances are, both of you have different answers.

warnings: cursing, mention of alcohol, mention of sex.

word count: 3.1K

a/n: Are we even surprised it took this long? This one’s a bit shorter because I wanted to start the next chapter from a specific point. Hope you don’t get too much whiplash from Jungkook's behavior in this one. As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts, theories, and hopes for them ❤️

Baby, we both know

That the nights were mainly made

For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

You wake up in your bed.

Alone.

At least there’s that.

For a split second, you find mercy in the silence, before the events of last night come crashing to your mind. 

Why did you do this? Are you really this stupid?

Ugh.

You yank the covers over your head, hiding from both the world and yourself.

Mortified. It's the only word that fits. But even that feels like an understatement.

Yesterday, after making the biggest mistake of the century, you hastily grabbed your clothes from the floor and rushed to the bathroom. You muttered a lame "good night" before disappearing from the living room, ignoring a naked, confused, wide-doe-eyed Jungkook sitting on the couch.

You thought you'd at least have the decency to feel bad in the moment. That you'd lie awake in bed, twisting and turning, struggling to fall asleep. But no. You slept like a fucking baby. For twelve hours, no less. Like you didn’t just fucked your roommate senseless. Like he didn’t fuck you senseless. 

What the fuck was that?

Your stomach growls.

It’s been hours since your last meal, and you're pretty sure there’s still some alcohol lingering in your system. You need food—carbs, salt, oil. Something to help absorb both the alcohol and the regret settling deep in your gut.

You push the covers off, groaning as you tilt your head back.

You really don’t want to go out, to face the consequences of your mistakes. But if you’ve learned anything from this mess, it’s that you can’t avoid it. In some way or another, it’ll come back at you. It’s better to face it head-on.

Why does it have to be a problem anyway?

It was a one-time thing.

You’re both adults that are– no, were sexually attracted to each other. And now it’s out of your system.

So, you fucked. No big deal. 

You can do this.

So what if it was the best sex you’ve had in a while? Maybe even ever...

No. No need for thoughts like that. Traitorous brain.

It was one and done.

Your stomach growls again.

What is it with it? Does it have a personal vendetta against you? Why does something as stupid as hunger have to make you face the world?

You get up from bed, grab the hoodie tossed over the chair, and pull it over your head as you shuffle to the kitchen in search of something to eat. When you enter, you’re met by Jungkook’s back as he stands near the sink, washing dishes. You can tell his shoulders are tense, his whole body stiff as he leans slightly toward the sink. He’s already dressed in his gym clothes. Probably just finished eating before heading out.

“I’m surprised you’re not avoiding me this time,” Jungkook says without turning to face you. You can’t see his face, but his tone is firm, even, cold.

No good morning? No hello? Something?

You’re still standing at the kitchen entrance, not daring to step inside. You stutter, unsure of what to say. “I–I–”

He places the bowl he just washed on the drying rack and moves to clean the next dish. He continues speaking without waiting for you to answer. “After you basically shoved me away and fled last night, I figured you’d hide in your room for at least a few days.”

He calls you a coward.

Not with words, but between the lines.

You stay silent. Stunned silent. You knew leaving like that was a shitty move, but you didn’t expect Jungkook to clock you out. To read you like that. Why does he even care? Weren’t you just another girl on his conquests list?

Jungkook places the utensils in their holder by the sink and grabs the towel to dry his hands. He sighs heavily before finally turning around to face you.

He looks at you, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, waiting for you to say something. He looks like he already knows you’re going to say some bullshit. He looks tired, resigned, impatient.

You look down, feeling your cheek heat up with shame. You were so fixated on the one mistake you made last night that you didn’t even think about the other one. You’re so caught up in running from your problem that you don’t even notice you’re creating new ones.

“I’m sorry. For leaving,” you say quietly.

You hear Jungkook sigh again, and you look up. He pushes his hair back, leaving his fingers tangled in it for a moment. His features are softer now, less harsh than before.

“Why did you leave like that?” he asks quietly, looking down before meeting your gaze again.

You don’t have an answer. What can you tell him? That you couldn’t handle the mistake? That he was that good, you started to wonder what else he could do to you? He won’t let you forget, and you can’t make the same mistake twice.

“I was tired.” You can’t look at him as you lie. It’s not a complete lie, but it’s far from the truth. You both know it.

“Tired?” Jungkook repeats, and you can hear the doubt in his voice. But his tone isn’t angry—it’s sad.

You hum softly and nod. It’s a cowardly answer, a way to escape the truth, but you don’t have the courage to face it right now.

“Okay,” he says evenly, running a hand through his hair again.

You hate this. You hate the weird silence, the uncomfortable tension between you two. Yesterday felt so easy, so fun. Why did it have to be ruined?

“I didn’t want you to ask me to give you back my Squirtle.” It’s a weak attempt to break the awkwardness. You know it, but you have to try.

Jungkook chuckles quietly. His laugh is hollow, lacking its usual warmth, but you can see he’s also trying.

“I would never. Squirtle is yours.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t give it back even if you asked,” you reply, trying to tease. He chuckles again, still stiff, but the air between you two starts to loosen.

“Maybe we can continue the conquest sometime?” you add carefully, not wanting to push too much.

He gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Sure.”

“I—I need to go to the gym now,” he says, stepping forward and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” You step aside from the kitchen door, letting him pass.

He gives you a small nod of goodbye as he walks past you.

As he’s almost at the door, you call after him, “Jungkook.”

He turns around, looking at you.

“We’re good?” you ask, the uncertainty still hanging in the air.

“Always,” he says with a smile, then leaves.

You head back to the kitchen, searching for something to eat. At the back of the freezer, you find a frozen bagel and toss it in the toaster, then cook yourself some bacon and eggs. You make a sandwich and take a bite. It helps tremendously with your tired body, but does nothing to ease the weird feeling the talk with Jungkook has left. Your phone buzzes on the table, snapping you out of your thoughts.

[14:03 pm] Sienna my 💖: where are my girlssss

[14:03 pm] Sienna my 💖: wanna meet??

Should you tell your friends what happened last night? You’re itching to spill it all out, but you don’t want to talk about it. You already know what they’ll say. You know it was a mistake. And you definitely don’t want them to get the wrong idea about you and Jungkook.

The phone continues to vibrate with messages as you contemplate what to do. You decide not to decide. You’ll see how you feel when you meet them. You grab your phone and enter the group chat.

[14:04 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: <sent a photo>

[14:04 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: lunch with my man ♥️

[14:05 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: I’m downnnnn

[14:05 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: but later? 

[14:05 pm] Sienna my 💖: my favorite couple 😍

[14:07 pm] You: youre so cute im gonna die 🥹

[14:07 pm] You: yeah

[14:07 pm] You: but lets do something chill?

[14:08 pm] Sienna my 💖: dinner at my place?

[14:08 pm] You: 👍

[14:10 pm] HanniBoo 🐞: 👍

[14:12 pm] Sienna my 💖: see u later 😘😘

Yesterday was a dream.

Spending time with you like that, joking around, it felt natural, easy. Jungkook feels like he can act more like himself around you, drop the cocky mask he wears around other girls. It’s an effective front, but with you, he doesn’t feel the need for it. And that should scare the shit out of him, because only a few people know that side of him. But it doesn’t. It’s fun. It makes him feel warm, happy, light—without all the layers. He doesn’t even know how you manage to bring this side of him out.

It isn’t even about the sex.

Even though it was fucking amazing. The moment he was inside you, he knew he was in trouble. He knew he’d miss it the moment he had to leave you. Everything about you was perfect for him.

Yesterday was a dream.

Until it wasn’t.

Why did you leave like that? He was about to ask if you wanted to sleep in his room—or yours. He felt like a fool. So stupid. So small. After he let his guard down like that, after he allowed himself to be more real with you, and that was your reaction?

Fuck. 

Wasn’t he good enough? 

‘Fuck you out of his system?’ Pffff. 

How stupid was he? 

It’s just making him want you more.

When he hears you enter the kitchen, his body tenses. He uses every bit of his willpower not to turn around, not to grab you and ask, why?

He didn’t expect to see you at all. He’d planned to finish his pre-workout meal and leave as quickly as possible. He needs to go to the gym, clear his mind, maybe talk with Jimin about it. He needs more time to think, to process what happened, to figure out how he feels. He doesn’t want to talk to you when he’s this messed up.

But as you step into the kitchen, he knows he’s mad.

Mad at you for leaving him like that.

Mad at you for making it more than just sex.

Mad at how you make him feel.

Yet, when he turns to face you, he realizes he isn’t mad at all.

At the sight of the shame on your face, the slight blush creeping to your cheeks, he knows he’s not mad. 

He’s in trouble. Because all he wants is to close the gap and hold you. To tell you he’ll never be upset with you. 

That yesterday was a dream.

Until it wasn’t.

He needs to get out of there, to collect himself.

He can’t hold you. Can’t let his feelings loose around you.

You made it clear this isn’t what you want. Alas, why would you leave like that?

But when you ask him if you two are good, he can’t bring himself to say no.

Because he knows he’ll take whatever you are willing to give him.

“I’m home,” you call out as you come back from dinner with the girls.

You don’t see Jungkook right away, but you hear noises and see his keys on the table by the door, so you know he’s here. You head over to the couch, scrolling on your phone.

When you hear him step out of the kitchen, you look up at him.

And you hate how effortlessly good he looks. He’s in his usual uniform—black sweatpants and an oversized shirt. His hair is still a little damp from the shower he probably took recently, and a clean scent drifts through the living room.

When he sees you sitting on the couch, you catch the surprise flicker across his features. Like he didn’t expect you to be here. Like you don’t live here too?!

But then, as he sits next to you, his expression shifts into a smug smirk.

He grabs the controller from the coffee table and scrolls through his game library with one hand, while his other hand casually settles on your thigh, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Want to continue Pokémon?”

You look at the hand on your thigh.

Big, warm, confident—his hand slightly gripping your thigh.

Nope.

You swat his hand away a few seconds too late. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

“What?” he asks casually, not even bothering to look at you.

“Want to start a new game?” he continues, as if nothing happened.

And here you thought you needed to clear the air, to make sure whatever weird vibes lingered from your morning conversation were gone. But as Jungkook continues to stare at the screen, acting like nothing happened, you realize you need to have a completely different conversation.

“You know that what happened last night was a one-time thing, right?”

You watch as he freezes for a second, his finger halting on the joystick.

He turns to look at you, a cocky smirk playing on his face.

“Sure.” His tone drips with condescension and amusement.

And then, without missing a beat, he turns back to the screen.

Ughhh. He’s so annoying. You know it was the stupidest mistake of your life.

“Jungkook,” you say sternly. “I’m serious.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t even bother to look at you this time—just keeps scrolling through the game store.  

What did you expect? Of course, this is how he’ll act.

You need him to understand that this was a one-time slip-up, that whatever is going on isn’t a thing, that it was over last night—and that it wasn’t even supposed to happen in the first place.

“This is never happening again,” you continue, even though it’s clear he’s already checked out of the conversation.

“Huh.” He doesn’t even bother with an actual response this time. “I heard this Supermarket simulator is really good. Wanna give it a try?”

What the fuck is he on about?! You could murder him, you swear.

“Jungkook!” you snap, way too loud. But you can’t hold it anymore; he’s driving you insane.

He slowly sets the controller on his lap and turns his body toward you.

“What?” His tone is innocent, but the cockiness oozing from his whole being says otherwise.

“Were you even listening to what I said?” you shoot back.

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ like a child. “One-time thing. Won’t ever happen again. Understood.” He finishes with a little nod. You might have thought he was genuine—if you didn’t know him better.

You feel like you’re about to lose it. This man is driving you insane. Your face is getting hot, and you exhale sharply through your nose, trying to hold it together.

“What are you so worked up about?” he asks, almost chuckling. “You wanna talk about what happened?”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it!” you snap, your voice louder than you intend. You probably sound a little crazy, but it’s not your fault. He’s making you lose your mind. “I want you to understand what I’m saying.” You try to sound serious, fighting to calm yourself down. You don’t want to lose it completely.

“I understand,” he says, flashing that pleased smile like this is some sort of game.

“You don’t seem to understand by how you're acting!” Shit. You’re about to explode.

“How am I acting?” he asks, pretending he has no clue what you want. “What do you want me to do? You said we won’t fuck again, and I said okay. What more do you need? Want me to pinky promise? Want me to cut off my dick?” 

Fucking infuriating, stupid, annoying, unbelievably childish Jungkook. “We need to talk about what happened.”

He smirks. Why the fuck he smirks? 

“You said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he says smugly.

He’s pushing you to the edge of your patience. “Well, apparently we need to, because you just have to act like a dick.”

"Okay. What do you want to talk about? How it was the best orgasm of your life, and you're still saying we won’t do it again?" He speaks evenly, but you see the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Jungkook!”

“What?” he smirks, clearly enjoying scandalizing you.

He continues, still smiling. “Wanna talk about how I saw your legs wiggle even though you tried to ru—” “Okay, I get it. It was good, yeah. That’s not the point,” you cut him off quickly. “Good??” He scoffs. “So, what’s the point?” “I just want to make sure things aren’t weird between us.” You try to explain. Tired from this annoying back and forth. “Why would they be weird?” He asks, genuinely not getting it.

What’s there not to get? How can you explain this to him? You try to explain, stating the obvious. “Because we fucked?” 

“Yes?” He says it like both a question and a statement, a touch of content smugness lacing his tone.

“And we live together?” You drag the words out, as if you’re explaining it to a toddler.

He opens his eyes wide and scrunches his brows, looking at you like you’ve just said the most tupid shit ever. 

You can’t with him.

“I just don’t want things to be weird around here!” You yell at him, throwing your hands up in exasperation, trying to emphasize what you’re saying, and he’s still refusing to understand.

Jungkook leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, that easy smile still on his face. “You’re the one making things weird. I said I understand.”

He smirks, looking away from you. 

You know he’s about to say something stupid.

“Maybe you don’t really want it to be a one-time thing.”

You’re seething by now. “Jungkook, I swear I’m gonna kill–”

“Geez, relax. I’m kidding. I get it.” He stops you before you can complete the sentence. “No weird vibes, okay?”

“Okay.” You agree, not because you believe it, but because what more can you say?

“So, Supermarket simulator?” he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

a/n2: I highly recommend the Supermarket Simulator. 10/10 game.

Back to the series masterlist

[rootedinrevisions]

Terrified to Lose You Two

Summary: Jake is gone. And you don't know when or if he's coming back. Left to navigate the aftermath of that night on your own, you try to convince yourself it was nothing. But when weeks turn into months, and an unexpected scare leaves you spiraling, it becomes impossible to ignore just how much his absence weighs on you.

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, Pregnancy Scare. Also just a lot of angst and worrying. Maybe mutual idiots with feelings?

Word Count: 3,551

Author’s Note: This took WAY longer than I planned it to. But honestly I hadn't originally planned on this to have a Part 2 but since there was interest decided to see what I could come up with. I know the ending is kind of open ended. I'm not sure i I want to have a Part 3 or not. So I tried to leave it so that this could be the end or there could be more. I hope you all enjoy it and that it ends up being worth the wait. xx

You don’t know how long it’s been exactly. Days blur together when there’s no news. No updates. No messages. 

Just an empty space where Jake should be.

You wake up in the middle of the night, stomach twisted in knots, reaching for your phone before you remember he’s not going to text you.  

Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

And that thought is a black hole, threatening to swallow you whole.

So you keep yourself busy. Work. Exercise. Anything to outrun the restless energy clawing at your ribs.

But your body feels…off. It’s subtle at first. A gnawing exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. A vague nausea that lingers in the back of your throat, never quite enough to make you sick, just enough to make food unappealing.

You brush it off as stress. The lack of sleep. The sheer weight of waiting for Jake to come back. Or even just to hear news that he and the others are okay.

Then you check the date. 

Your heart stops.

No. You count again.

No. Your stomach lurches as you double check your calendar, fingers tightening around your phone as if that might somehow change the numbers.

Late. You’re late.

And suddenly, the exhaustion, the nausea, the hollow ache in your chest…it all feels suffocating.

No. No, it’s stress. It has to be stress.

You can’t be. That doesn’t make sense. You’re on the pill. You never miss a dose. You’ve taken it every day at the same time like clockwork.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

You take a slow breath, pressing your fingertips against your temples. Stress messes with your cycle. That’s all this is. The waiting, the worrying, the exhaustion, it's all too much, and your body is just reacting to it.

You try to shake it off. You try to be rational.

But then the symptoms start feeling more real.

A wave of nausea hits you out of nowhere while you’re brushing your teeth. You gag, barely managing to stop yourself from getting sick. Later, in the shower, the steam makes your head swim. The next thing you know, you're gripping the tile wall, knees nearly buckling, blinking against the sudden dizziness.

Your heart pounds. You breathe through it, shaking your head. It's fine. You just stood up too fast. You didn’t eat enough today. Except you did eat. You had half a sandwich, a protein bar, and a coffee. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Wasn’t it?

The doubt creeps back in. By the time dinner rolls around, even the thought of food makes your stomach turn. You stare at your favorite takeout sitting on the counter, appetite gone, throat tight.

Panic wraps around your ribs.

No. No, this isn’t happening.

You can’t tell Jake because he’s not here.

You can’t tell anyone else because they’re all gone too.

You're alone.

So what do you do?

You do the worst possible thing. You start Googling.

And suddenly, every symptom lines up perfectly. Fatigue. Nausea. Dizziness. Loss of appetite.

Sitting on the bathroom floor phone gripped tight in your hands, you stare at the search results until the words blur together.

The answer is simple. You need to take a pregnancy test.

But you don’t move. You don’t get up. You just sit there, legs curled up to your chest, heart hammering in your ears.

What if it’s positive? What if it’s not? What if—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re overreacting. You tell yourself to wait it out.

But no matter how many times you try to push it away, the what if won’t leave you alone.

And deep down, you already know you won’t be able to breathe until you know for sure.

So you make the appointment. And then you drive yourself there. Alone.

The waiting room is small, sterile, and too quiet. You sit stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, phone gripped tight in your hands. You refresh your notifications. Again. Again. Hoping for an update.

Nothing.

You swallow hard, tapping your foot against the floor. The walls feel too close, the air too heavy, and for a second, you consider just walking out.

Maybe it really is just stress.

But before you can make up your mind, a nurse calls your name.

You force yourself to stand, legs unsteady as you follow her back. The blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, the pulse oximeter clips onto your finger, and you try not to wince when she frowns at the numbers.

“Heart rate’s a little high,” she notes.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s probably just—” You hesitate, glancing away. “I’ve been anxious.”

She nods, scribbles something on the chart. “What brings you in today?”

You exhale slowly. “I haven’t been feeling great. Lightheaded. Nauseous. My appetite is weird. And, um… I’ve been having some stomach pain.”

The nurse hums, nodding along, but then her next question knocks the air from your lungs.

“Could you be pregnant?”

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to say no. You’re on birth control. You’re careful. This shouldn’t even be a question.

But you’re late. And you do feel off. And there’s that sliver of doubt you haven’t been able to shake.

So instead, you hesitate.

“Maybe.” Your voice is small, unsteady.

She nods again, like she hears that answer all the time, and scribbles another note before setting the clipboard aside.

“We’ll do a test,” she says gently. “Just to be sure.”

And then you’re left alone in the exam room, staring at the speckled tile floor, hands twisted in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’ll handle it, whatever it turns out to be. But no matter how many times you try to convince yourself, your hands are still shaking as you wait for the results.

Alone.

The knock on the door is soft, but it makes you jump.

The nurse steps back inside, glancing at the chart in her hands. “Your test was negative.”

You exhale. Your shoulders dropping, lungs finally expanding. But it’s not a relief. Not really.

Because nothing has changed. Jake is still gone. You’re still waiting. You’re still alone in this.

Your fingers curl against the paper lining of the exam table, the crinkle loud in the silent room. You should feel better. This should ease something. But all it does is leave a hollow ache in your chest.

Because the fear is still there. The uncertainty. The realization that for one brief, terrifying moment, you’d considered what this could have meant.

You press your lips together, nodding vaguely as the nurse talks. She is going on about something. You think she might be recommending rest and hydration. And there’s something about stress management.

You barely hear her.

Because all you can think about is Jake.

How much you miss him. How much you need him to come home. And how utterly terrified you are that he won’t.

By the time you’re walking out of Urgent Care, stepping into the cool night air, the weight of it all crashes down on you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

You don’t want to be alone in this anymore.

But for now?

You have no choice.

* * * * *

It happens when you’re least expecting it.

You’re at The Hard Deck, nursing a drink that you don’t really want, when Nat slides onto the stool next to you. She greets you casually, like she always does, but something in her expression shifts when she gets a good look at you.

"You look like hell," she says.

You huff a laugh. "Feel like it too."

She leans in slightly, voice lower. "Jake’s back."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the ribs. You blink. Swallow. 

“What?”

“Got back a few days ago.” 

She says it so easily, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not the most important thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. A few days. Jake’s been here. Alive. Breathing. Walking around San Diego like everything is normal. And he didn’t tell you.

The realization stings. You force yourself to breathe through it, to keep your face neutral as you take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

Nat studies you, like she can hear all the things you don’t say.

If it meant anything to him. If that night, the things unsaid, the way you held onto him meant something, wouldn’t he have reached out?

Wouldn’t he have wanted to see you?

You tell yourself you don’t care. That it doesn’t matter.

But deep down, it does.

Because while he’s been fine walking around, acting like it was just another mission, just another day, you’ve been going through hell.

And now? You don’t know what to do with that.

So you don’t tell him right away. Not about Urgent Care. Not about the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, sick with worry.

But the moment you see him later that night? All of it comes rushing back.

The moment you spot him across the bar, your heart slams against your ribs.

Jake looks exactly the same. Same cocky smile. Same easy confidence. Same damn twinkle in his eye as he laughs at something Coyote says, a beer dangling from his fingers like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Like he didn’t just vanish for three months. Like you didn’t spend sleepless nights wondering if he’d ever make it home. Like that night…the way you curled into him, the way you needed him meant absolutely nothing.

You wait. Wait for him to look over. To acknowledge you. To do something. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Your stomach twists, but you shove the feeling down. Maybe this is your answer. Maybe you were the only one who spent the last three months thinking about that night.

Maybe it was nothing to him.

If he’s going to act like this never meant anything, like you’re just another face in the crowd then fine.

You can act like that, too.

You tell yourself you won’t look again, but your gaze betrays you. Every few minutes, your eyes flick to where he stands. And every damn time, you catch him already looking.

A half second too long. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

But neither of you move. Neither of you say a word.

Hours pass like this stolen glances, fleeting eye contact, both of you waiting for the other to be the first to break.

"You know he asked about you, right?" Natasha says, nudging your arm as she slides into the seat beside you.

You blink. “What?”

“While we were deployed,” Bradley adds from across the table. “Not all the time, but enough.” He shrugs. “It meant something to him. That night you went home with him.”

Your chest tightens, but you shake your head. “If it meant something, he would’ve reached out.”

Bradley gives you a look. “He just got back.”

“It’s been three days,” you counter.

“Maybe he thought you would reach out,” Natasha offers.

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. “Well, then I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

They exchange a glance, and then Bradley huffs, shaking his head. “Fine. Be stubborn. But you’ll never know unless you talk to him.”

Natasha smirks, tipping her glass toward Jake’s direction. “And for the record? He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night.”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. You won’t be the first to move. You won’t. The ball is in his court. It’s his move.

But somewhere between your resolve and your next drink, you realize that if you don’t talk to him tonight you’ll regret it.

So you stand and start making your way over to him before you can overthink it or talk yourself out of it.

Jake spots you coming the second you stan. By the time you come to a stop in front of him he’s already turned towards you, his beer poised halfway to his lips.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. Then, he exhales. “Wanna step outside?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “Yeah.”

The night air is cooler than you expect, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. The sounds of the bar fade slightly as you both step onto the patio, stopping near the railing.

Jake leans against it, looking over at you. “How’ve you been?”

You don’t answer. You just wrap your arms around yourself, and that—more than words—tells him everything he needs to know.

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a beat, then nods, exhaling softly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jake shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, quietly he says,“I would’ve called. Sooner, I mean. But I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I spent the last three months thinking about that night. Wondering if you would come back home.”

“Were you really that worried about me?”

You let out a small humorless laugh. Then before you can second guess it and change your mind you just say it. “I was late.”

Jake turns fully toward you now, his brows drawing together. “Late? Like…”

Your throat feels tight, but you push through. “Yeah. And you…you weren’t here…none of you were.”

Your eyes are locked on the wooden planks of the patio below you. But you still hear the audible inhale of air that Jake takes. 

He clears his throat before he says anything. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “So are you…”

You shake your head. “No.”

Jake exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit.”

Neither of you speak for a few minutes. Then he shifts closer to you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the warmth of him brushes against you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You glance away from him, your eyes look out past the sand at the water and the horizon as the last remnants of the sun dipped below the edge of the horizon.

You take a deep breath and then look over at Jake. Your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you let him in. You let him see the fear, the uncertainty, the weight and pressure that you’ve been carrying around for the last three months.

“I guess I didn’t know what you’d say,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper.

Jake goes silent again. And you feel the way the air shifts between you, the way his eyes stay locked on yours but his mouth doesn’t move. Your stomach twists. Your hands start to shake. And suddenly it’s too much.

The weight of the last three months. The waiting. The worrying. The wondering if you’d ever see him again.

You feel your chest tighten. You need to get out of here. Before he can see the way your breathing picks up, before he can see you break, you take a step back. Then another.

Jake doesn’t move.

You turn to go but before you can take another step, his hand closes gently around your wrist.

“Wait.”

His voice is quiet but firm. Steady.

You freeze.

“Just…wait.”

His grip is light, barely holding onto you, like he’s afraid if he pulls too hard, you’ll slip right through his fingers.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through the lump in your throat. “Jake, I can’t—”

“Please.”

That single word makes you stop. There’s something there in his voice…something raw.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back around.

Jake watches you, jaw tight, something heavy in his gaze. His fingers loosen, but don’t let go.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally, voice rough. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

He nods, but his brows furrow, like that’s not enough. Like he needs you to really believe it.

His thumb brushes over your wrist absently, a slow, grounding motion. “I wouldn’t have left you alone with…that.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.Because part of you believes him. And part of you doesn’t know what to do with that.

Jake takes a breath. “Come sit with me?”

Your instinct is to say no. To run. To protect yourself before he can hurt you again. But when you meet his eyes, all you see is sincerity.And maybe you’re too tired to fight him anymore.

So you nod.

Jake leads you to one of the patio benches, waiting until you sit before he lowers himself beside you.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The sounds of the bar filter through the open doors, but out here it feels quieter.

“I should’ve called you when I got back,” he admits, voice low.

You blink at him. “You think?”

Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I thought about you. More than I probably should’ve.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nat and Rooster were ready to throttle me with how much I talked about you.”

Your heart stutters. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because I was scared,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze. “Scared I’d come back and you’d tell me that night didn’t mean anything. That I didn’t mean anything.”

Your lips part, stunned into silence.

Jake laughs softly, shaking his head. “Turns out, I’m an idiot.”

You watch him, the raw honesty in his expression, the vulnerability he rarely lets show.

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to ask the question that’s been haunting you since the morning after you last saw him.

“That night…” Your voice comes out softer than you intend, barely audible over the distant hum of the bar. “Did it mean anything? To you?”

Jake’s eyes snap to yours, something unreadable flickering across his face. For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his answer.

“Yeah.” Jake exhales, running a hand through his hair before settling his gaze back on you. “It meant too much.”

Your breath catches. “Jake—”

“I thought about it,” he continues, voice steady but raw. “More times than I should admit. But I convinced myself it was better to leave it alone. That if I reached out, you’d tell me it was a mistake.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Hell, I figured you probably regretted it the second it happened.”

You shake your head instantly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I didn’t.”

You swallow hard, hands gripping the edge of the bench. “I never regretted it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence settles between you, thick and weighted.

Jake watches you like he’s searching for something—like he’s waiting for permission to believe you. Then, slowly, he leans in, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now.

"So where does that leave us?"

You don’t know.

All you know is that after months of silence, of doubt, of wondering—Jake is here. Right in front of you.

And maybe that’s enough.

[cupofteatoyou]

What if she chose me -pt2

You’re not sure what wakes you first—the faint golden light slipping through the curtains or the weight draped heavily across your legs.

You blink blearily at the ceiling, your head pounding just enough to regret every shot Mapi cheered you into. The hoodie you slept in has twisted halfway around your torso, your mouth is dry, and you're pretty sure your left sock is missing.

And then you feel it.

An arm, definitely not yours, tightening around your waist.

You glance down.

Mapi is wrapped around you like a very clingy, slightly snoring octopus. One leg thrown over yours, her face smooshed against your shoulder, one hand tucked under your hoodie like she's trying to absorb your body heat through osmosis.

You try to move.

She groans softly and immediately tightens her hold, nuzzling closer with a dramatic sigh. “No,” she mumbles into your collarbone. “You live here now. You’re mine.”

You blink. “Mapi…”

“Shh.”

“We have training in three hours.”

“Shhhh.”

You try again, gently tapping her back. “I need water.”

“You need love.”

“I need Advil.”

“You need cuddles.”

You’re almost laughing now, your body sore and your brain foggy but your heart a little lighter than it’s been in weeks. “Do you do this with everyone?”

“No,” she murmurs. “Only my special Norwegian daughter.”

“Mapi,” Ingrid calls from somewhere down the hall, her voice calm but edged with suspicion, like a mother who knows her child is up to something.

You barely manage to lift your head off the pillow. “Do I… say something?”

“No,” Mapi whispers against your neck. “If we’re very still, she won’t see us.”

“Ingrid’s not a T-Rex,” you hiss, trying not to laugh.

But it’s too late.

Footsteps approach. Then a pause.

Then—

“María Pilar León Cebrián”

Mapi freezes.

You glance toward the doorway just in time to see Ingrid appear, dressed in a sleek black training hoodie, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed, and somehow looking extremely unimpressed for someone whose girlfriend is currently wrapped around a semi-conscious defender like a human blanket.

“What did I say?” she asks.

Mapi lifts her head just slightly, eyes still closed. “That I should wake her gently.”

“Gently doesn’t mean ‘kidnap her and emotionally imprint like a baby duck,’” Ingrid deadpans.

Mapi doesn’t move. “She needed comfort.”

“She needed electrolytes.”

“She needed love.”

“She needs pants.”

You look down. Mapi’s hoodie is still hanging off your frame, and your sweatpants have somehow twisted halfway down one hip. You groan and cover your face with your hand. “This is the weirdest hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

Ingrid walks over, crouches down, and rests a hand on Mapi’s back. “Bebita, I love you, but if you don’t let her up, she’s going to miss breakfast, hydration, and the last ounce of her will to live.”

Mapi lifts her head with a groan, hair a wild halo around her face. “Fine,” she mutters, rolling off you with the grace of a very hungover barn cat. “But I want it on record that I’m being emotionally evicted.”

“You can re-cuddle her after she’s conscious and fed,” Ingrid says, standing up and offering you a hand.

You take it, stumbling to your feet, still wobbly but grateful.

“Coffee?” Ingrid offers, ever the anchor.

“God, yes,” you whisper.

From the couch, Mapi’s muffled voice groans, “I want one too—extra love, extra sugar, and someone please tell my calves to stop screaming.”

“You did a cartwheel in platform boots,” Ingrid reminds her.

“A queen must suffer for her art.”

You and Ingrid exchange a look.

Then laughter.

You follow Ingrid into the kitchen, the quiet shuffle of your socks on the tile somehow sounding louder in the early-morning hush. The place is sun-drenched now, soft golden light pooling through the windows, casting long lines across the counter cluttered with the aftermath of last night—empty bottles, half a lime, one rogue glittery boot.

Ingrid moves like she’s done this a hundred times. Which, honestly, she probably has. She goes straight to the counter and starts fiddling with the French press like it’s a second language.

You hover awkwardly for a second.

Then—

“Sit,” she says gently, without looking up. “You look like a baby deer that got hit by a karaoke machine.”

You half-chuckle, dragging yourself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Feel like it too.”

She finishes pouring and slides a mug across the counter toward you with both hands—like it’s sacred.

“Anchor,” she says, simply.

You lift the mug with both hands and take a sip.

“God, yes,” you whisper, eyes closing as the warmth spreads through your chest.

She turns back to the stove without fanfare and grabs a pan with practiced ease. Cracks eggs with one hand. Tosses bread into the toaster. She moves through it all without speaking, but somehow, it’s not awkward—it’s kind. Like she knows what people need without having to ask.

You sit with the coffee pressed to your lips and just breathe for a minute.

“Toast or no toast?” she asks.

“Toast,” you say. “If it’s not cursed.”

“No promises,” she says, but her tone’s warm.

A few minutes later, she sets a plate in front of you. Eggs. Toast. A few slices of avocado arranged into something vaguely artistic.

You blink. “Did you just… food-style my breakfast?”

She shrugs, leaning on the counter across from you, sipping her own coffee. “If we’re gonna suffer, we might as well suffer like people with taste.”

Mapi groans again from the other room. “Did someone say toast?!”

“No one said toast,” Ingrid calls back. “Go back to pretending you’re dead.”

“I’m not pretending,” Mapi says loud enough to be heard . “I’m haunting.”

You smirk into your coffee, cutting into your toast with the edge of your fork. “At least haunt something useful. Like my quads. They’re still trying to evacuate my body.”

“Can’t help you,” she groans from her cushion-grave. “The afterlife doesn’t include cardio.”

Ingrid, who’s been moving through the kitchen like it’s a calm storm only she knows how to navigate, rolls her eyes—though a soft smile’s tugging at the corner of her mouth. She finishes her toast, wipes her hands on a dish towel, and throws a glance toward the oven clock.

“We’ve got just under two hours,” she says. “Plenty of time before we need to leave.”

“For what?” you ask, suspicious.

“Shower. Rest. Hydrate. Mentally prepare for war.”

Mapi lets out the world’s most dramatic sigh as she enters kitchen “I choose to rest in pieces.”

You grin around your mug. “You’re so annoying in the morning.”

“She’s annoying at every hour,” Ingrid says, reaching toward chair to grab a clean towel which u just noticed. She tosses it to you without missing a beat. “Here. Go shower before you start smelling like Mapi.”

“I smell like adventure and bad decisions,” Mapi croaks, still standing in kitchen entrance..

You take the towel gratefully and start heading toward the hallway, then pause—glancing down at the hoodie and sweatpants you're still wearing. The same ones from last night. The only ones you own here.

You head back in kitchen “Uh… problem.”

Ingrid raises a brow. “What kind of problem?”

“I didn’t bring anything to change into,” you say. “I wasn’t exactly planning to get… emotionally adopted mid-party.”

“You’re lucky I’m tall,” Mapi whines.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing at Ingrid. “Wait, how tall is she actually?”

Ingrid smirks“Officially? Five-five.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“She insists it’s five-six on a good day.”

“That day doesn’t exist.”

Ingrid snorts . “The woman wears platform boots to stretch into average height.”

“This is slander. I am perfectly average-sized.”

“You’re average-sized if the average is a feral gremlin with glitter in her hair,” you call over your shoulder.

“I am a petite force of nature,” Mapi yells. “Respect the brand!”

You look at Ingrid, deadpan. “You Should start keeping a stepstool in the locker room”

“She already has one,” Ingrid says, stone-faced. “She just tells everyone it’s a ‘meditation platform.’”

You wheeze. “I’m going to get hit with a hairbrush.”

“Worth it.”

Mapi, who is now back on coach,lets out a high-pitched “I heard that!”

Ingrid returns with a Barça training top and a pair of sleek black shorts. Both clearly too big for her—clearly meant for someone else—but they’re clean, folded, and smell faintly of her eucalyptus laundry detergent.

She hands them to you with a small smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll look better in it than I do.”

You hesitate, something warm blooming in your chest. “You sure?”

She nods once. “It’s yours until laundry day.”

“Thanks,” you say, a little softer than you meant to.

Mapi makes a fake gagging sound from the couch. “This is gross. Stop being wholesome. I haven’t had enough caffeine to feel my feelings yet.”

You flip her off as you pass the living room, towel and borrowed clothes in hand. “I’m showering. Try not to die until I get back.”

“No promises,” she calls after you.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, press your back to it, and exhale.

The quiet hits you like steam before the water even starts running. You twist the knob and wait as heat fogs the mirror, the air growing thick and warm. You strip off yesterday’s sweat and spilled tequila, stepping under the stream with a hiss of relief.

Hot water. A clean shirt. A moment to just… exist.

No pressure. No eyes watching.

Just you. Here.

Breathing.

Alive.

You scrub your face. Run your fingers through your hair. Let yourself lean into the tile, forehead pressed against the wall as water runs down your spine.

The ride to Ciutat Esportiva is short, but your nerves stretch it longer.

Mapi’s leaned dramatically against the window beside you, sunglasses still on like she’s allergic to the sun and accountability.

“Reminder,” she mutters without opening her eyes, “if I collapse during warmups, avenge me.”

Ingrid sighs. “If you collapse, I’m dragging your body to the physio room and pretending I don’t know you.”

The locker room is mostly quiet when the three of you step inside.

The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, the air still fresh and cool, untouched by the whirlwind it’ll become in twenty minutes when the rest of the team arrives. For now, it feels like a brief pocket of peace—or at least, the kind where only Mapi is talking.

She walks in like she owns the place. Hood still up, steps dramatic, one boot slightly untied.

“If I die on the pitch today,” she says once again, tossing her duffel into the open cubby beside Ingrid’s, “bury me in glitter and dramatic lighting.”

“You’re not dying,” Ingrid replies, already opening her locker and starting to pull out her boots. “You’re stretching. Dramatically.”

“Same thing,” Mapi mutters. “My hamstrings are writing their will as we speak.”

You trail behind them, bag slung over your shoulder, still dressed in Ingrid’s Barça top and borrowed shorts. You find your assigned cubby again—tucked a few down from Ingrid’s, a bit separate from the noise that’s yet to arrive—and settle onto the bench slowly.

Your body aches in a familiar, almost reassuring way. Legs heavy from yesterday’s drills. Shoulders tight. A dull throb along your calves from the half-chaotic dancing at Vicky’s place and the full-speed pressing drills before that.

“You okay?” Ingrid’s voice cuts in, quieter now. She’s crouched down, lacing her boots with easy precision, eyes flicking to you once without pressure.

You nod, managing a faint smile. “Yeah. Just… first full day nerves.”

Ingrid nods once. “Good. That means you care.”

“She cares too much,” Mapi calls from across the bench, flopping dramatically onto her side like she’s posing for a magazine called Tactical Cramp.

“She was rehearsing defensive rotations in her sleep.”

Your mouth drops open. “You don’t even sleep in the same room.”

“I heard it through the wall.”

“That’s because you scream-snore,” Ingrid adds casually.

Mapi points at both of you without sitting up. “This is slander, and I will be pressing charges. Emotionally.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you start peeling off your hoodie. It’s warm in here now, the kind of close, heavy locker room warmth that settles in before movement begins.

Ingrid’s already finished changing. She tosses you one of her extra water bottles and moves toward the mirror to tie up her hair, her reflection calm and unreadable.

Mapi, still halfway horizontal, props her chin up in her hand and eyes you.

“You seriously ready for this?” she asks. Not teasing. Just… curious.

You pause, bottle half-open.

“Not really,” you admit. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Mapi grins. “That’s the spirit.”

She finally sits up—slowly, painfully, like her joints are filing a complaint—and slaps a hand onto your shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “If you mess up, I’ll yell louder than the coaches so no one notices.”

“She will,” Ingrid confirms from the mirror. “Unfortunately.”

Then—

A sharp gasp.

You turn just in time to see Mapi freeze mid-sock, one knee on the bench like she’s mid-proposal. She’s staring at you like you just descended from Mount Olympus holding a football in one hand and vengeance in the other.

“Okay,” she announces, dramatically loud. “WHAT is your body made of?”

You blink. “I—what?”

She steps closer like she’s inspecting a crime scene. “you were all hoodie and mystery all this time. Now? You’ve got arms.You’ve got back. You’ve got architecture.”

From her locker, Ingrid sighs. “Mapi…”

“No, no,” Mapi cuts her off, gesturing wildly. “Look at her! This isn’t a footballer’s body. This is a Marvel phase-four stunt double. This is ‘I bench press defenders for fun.’”

You’re about to laugh—and then the door to the locker room swings open with a sudden clang.

Vicky strides in, mid-sentence, something half-spoken on her lips—until she sees you.

And she stops. Dead.

The door thuds shut behind her as she takes in the scene: you standing there in the snug training kit, mid-change, and Mapi gesturing like she’s conducting an orchestra.

Vicky’s eyebrows lift slowly, her expression flickering through at least three stages: surprise, appreciation, and then something more playful.

“Well, damn,” she says. “Good morning, Noruega.”

Mapi throws her hands in the air. “RIGHT?! Finally, someone gets it!”

Vicky doesn’t even look away from you. “I mean, I knew you were hiding something under that hoodie, but this is—”

“Objectification,” you mutter, fighting a smile.

“Admiration,” Vicky corrects. “Also, who let you walk around looking like a Nike campaign? We’re trying to focus here.”

And just as you’re about to fire back—

The door opens again.

This time slower. More footsteps.

You glance up just in time to see Alexia walk in—shoulders stiff, jaw tight, expression unreadable—and just behind her, trailing a few paces back, is Jana.

Your heart drops half a beat before you catch it.

Jana’s eyes flick over the room once, sharp and assessing. Her gaze lands on you for a single beat too long, her lips pressed into a line. And then—just as quickly—she looks away.

Alexia, meanwhile, doesn’t say a word. But the way she looks at Jana, then at Vicky, then briefly at you? It’s not nothing.

It’s tension. Coiled, quiet, dangerous.

The whole locker room shifts by a degree. No one speaks.

Vicky breaks the silence first, tossing her boots down and flopping onto the bench like she didn’t just witness a scene straight out of a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers fanfic.

“Well,” she says. “Training’s gonna be fun today.”

Mapi nods solemnly. “I feel like I should stretch before the drama.”

You sit back down, heart still thumping, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words and charged glances.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, all you can think is Game on.

The scrimmage is fast.

Sharp touches. Narrow spaces. Everyone’s pressing like it’s the Champions League final, not a Friday morning.

You’re running on instinct now. Ball, space, timing. Sweat slicks down your back, your thighs burn, and every time Jana gets near the ball, something in your brain flicks sharper.

Maybe it’s tension. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s still the echo of her slap.

You don’t even think.

It happens fast.

One mistimed slide. The kind you’ve done a hundred times before. You clip Jana’s ankle—barely—but she goes down with a sharp exhale, skidding across the turf. Your heart lurches.

“Shit—Jana, sorry!” you gasp, already rising.

You don’t even get the words out fully before—

“Are you serious right now?!”

Alexia’s voice cuts through the air like lightning cracking down the middle of a cloudless sky.

She’s storming toward you, fury in her stride, braid swinging behind her like a warning.

You straighten immediately, instinct screaming defensive posture. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She’s just getting back from injury,” Alexia spits, gesturing wildly. “And you’re out here throwing slide tackles like it’s the damn World Cup final?”

“She’s fine,” Jana mutters from the ground, sitting up.

But it’s too late.

Alexia’s locked in. On you.

And then—

Mapi.

She appears like a windstorm in glitter boots, stepping between you and Alexia so fast it’s almost comical.

“Excuse you?” Mapi says, holding out her arms like she’s physically shielding you from verbal radiation. “If you’re going to yell at my child, you go through me first.”

Alexia blinks. “Your what?”

“She’s mine,” Mapi snaps. “We’ve bonded. We’ve had trauma. There were Jell-O shots involved. She is under my emotional custody now.”

You stand behind Mapi, blinking in shock. “Wait, what—?”

“Stay out of this, bebita,” Mapi says over her shoulder. “Mommy’s working.”

Alexia scoffs. “She just wiped out one of our most important players!”

“And you’re screaming like she broke her leg on purpose,” Mapi fires back. “Maybe she just made a mistake. It’s called being new. Not war crimes.”

“She could’ve reinjured her!”

“She didn’t!” Mapi shouts, arms flailing.

“I’m protecting my players.”

“I’m supporting mine.”

“She’s not even yours to support!”

“She’s wearing my wifes hoodie and stole my heart in one night, Alexia. Try to keep up.” Her voice is fire, biting through the thick air. She means every word, and you can feel her standing there—fierce, protective, ready to burn the whole pitch down for you.

But Alexia—

Alexia’s not backing down.

She scoffs, bitter, sharp. “You think this is cute? You think this is just about breakfast and banter?”

Mapi takes a step forward, but Alexia beats her to the next line.

“She could’ve reinjured her. You don’t come into this squad, two days in, and throw yourself into players like that.”

Mapi’s arms fly wide. “It was a mistimed slide, not a tackle from hell! If Jana didn’t roll twice and make it dramatic, no one would’ve even blinked!”

Alexia’s jaw tightens. “You don’t get to decide what’s dangerous.”

“And you don’t get to decide who’s allowed to make mistakes!” Mapi shouts.

You stand frozen between them, breath heavy in your throat, still tasting turf and adrenaline and regret. The argument plays out like you’re not even there, voices crashing back and forth like waves.

But then—

Alexia looks at you.

Just for a second.

And that’s when it hits you.

This isn’t about today.

Not really.

The heat in her eyes isn’t about a slide or a bruise or tactical discipline. It’s about the night before. About Jana. About you.

You feel it, as sharp as a blade behind the ribs.

Alexia isn’t just angry that you clipped Jana’s ankle.

She’s angry that you stayed.

That you didn’t storm out after being slapped. That you didn’t cry or rage or demand an apology. That no one forced you out.

You see it now—etched into the rigid lines of her face.

You made it harder for her to hate you.

You didn’t say a word yesterday. You didn’t run.

You stayed.

And that, somehow, is the part she can’t accept.

Your hands are still, but your chest burns with the weight of understanding.

You glance at her again. Her mouth is set. Her shoulders rigid. She doesn’t look at you anymore.

But she doesn’t have to.

You know now.

And it hurts more than anything she could’ve said.

The tension is suffocating.

Mapi’s chest rises and falls with fury, her fists clenched. Alexia’s back is turned now, but her silence carries more heat than her shouting. Ingrid hasn’t moved from her spot a few paces away—still, unreadable, eyes fixed on you.

And you?

You’re standing in the wreckage of the moment, pulse pounding, throat dry.

That look Alexia gave you still hasn’t left your skin.

You didn’t say it out loud.

But you know.

And maybe that’s worse.

“Okay,” a firm voice cuts through the air, smooth and cool like water over flame.

Marta.

She walks in from the side of the pitch, face unreadable but eyes direct—serious. Not angry. Just done with the heat.

“Everyone take a second. Cool down,” she says, and there’s no room for argument in her tone. “We’re training. Not tearing each other apart.”

Mapi huffs, pacing a short circle like a tiger in a cage. “She started—”

“She escalated,” Marta says calmly, cutting her a look. “But if this keeps going, the only thing we’re doing is making it harder to move forward.”

Another voice follows her—lighter, but still grounded.

Caroline Graham Hansen.

“She’s right,” she says, her voice soft but steady, brushing her hair out of her face. “This can’t turn into sides. Not over one tackle.”

Her eyes find you.

Not judging. Not patronising. Just watching you. Seeing more than most would in a glance.

“It was messy,” Hansen adds. “But not malicious.”

You nod once, tight.

“She knows that,” she continues, voice quieter now. “Even if she’s not ready to say it.”

You don’t respond.

Because you can’t.

The weight of Alexia’s look still sits on your chest like a stone.

Mapi moves to your side again, quieter now, but still seething. Her hand brushes your arm—checking in, steadying, like a tether that refuses to break.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Mapi mutters.

Marta exhales. “Maybe not. But neither does the rest of the team.”

She glances between you and Alexia—still across the pitch, saying nothing.

“There’s already been enough damage,” Marta says, eyes narrowing. “Don’t let it grow legs.”

Mapi doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t argue, either.

Ingrid finally steps forward, her hand ghosting over the back of your shoulder. “C’mon,” she says softly. “Let’s move.”

Hansen nudges Mapi with her elbow, a quiet look exchanged between the two of them. Not playful. Not sharp. Just grounding.

And finally, slowly, the team starts shifting back into motion. The circle breaking. The storm dispersing.

But you’re still standing in the center of the mess it left behind.

Not because of what you said.

But because of what you know now.

And once you know something like that…

…it never really leaves.

[lustlovehart]

Hiii! I've never done this before but... What if Scara and reader had a fight... Like a fight fight... and reader was seriously injured due to him being blinded be emotions... What do you think would the aftermath of this...?

A/n: Yet again, another ask that i was originally gonna js give a short thought to, turned into something longer *sigh* (I need to stop doing this).

Summary: [Angst/Comfort ] He could never say sorry, even in the moments it mattered.

Warnings: Harm to reader, Scars, Unrealistic Writing of getting hit with lightning

During his time in the fatui, no one exactly had the galls of stopping his rampages. The balladeer is quite famed for his regular intervals of anger, you’re no stranger to it yourself, you’ve seen him mad. it’s just…

Hes never been angry towards you.

You’d get the occasionally scoff every now and then if you uttered something he found foolish, but never has he lashed out at you to such a degree. Not to this level. He’s painfully reminded by his ignorance as soon as his hand crafted eyes lay sight upon your bare form, a body, a human body, covered in scars from lightning. Lightning he inherited, lightning he engaged, lightning he struck you with.

There’s no doubt, the silence is defeaning while you sit with him in the empty room, waiting for one of the medical professionals in the fatui to check on you.

He’s silent. It’s rare. He’s never been quiet for more than 5 minutes with you. He’s either complaining or attempting to make small talk a vast majority of the time, typically the former. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t even stare at you like he always does. You’re about to break the silence before the harbinger breaks it for you.

“You don’t look okay.” He doesn’t look at you, his vision trained on the white tile at his feet.

“Yeah. you struck me with lightning.”

…

“oh.”

It doesn’t hit you until he releases a quiet ‘oh’ from his mouth. Something you probably know better than anyone else that has been on teyvat within his 500 year lifespan.

This man can not say sorry.

“oh? Oh? Kunikuzushi put your pride away for one second.” you don’t try to hide the frustration in your voice. You truly did not mind the eccentricities the puppet in front of you holds, you never did, not even when you first met him.

He still doesn’t answer but you can see the way his face winces and widens in the same moment. Seems he got way too accustomed to ‘Kuni’ and ‘Scara’ to remember that you do in fact remember his given name.

“What else should I say to you? I’ll strike harder next time?” He isn’t getting mad, he was only infuriated earlier, but not now. You can see his demeanor start changing. Whether it be in the direction you want it to go, you’re not sure yet.

“Maybe a sorry? An apology? A “oh forgive me [Name] I love you so much?” He doesn’t answer you, he only scoffs and fall back onto the back of his chair. You don’t miss the way his fingers dig into the cloth of his clothing, probably using it as a replacement for human skin.

The man can’t breathe, but you can hear him inhale and exhale before his next words.

“i don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean to- well not at you.” It comes out softer than the other words hes said to you the entire period of time in the room. His eyes are finally off the floor, trying their best to maintain contact with your own.

Once again, all thats left between the space of you two, is silence. You look away from him for a moment, fiddling with the blanket draped over your legs. You’d like to assume that’s the closest you’ll get to an ‘I’m sorry from him’, but you can’t accept that, so you don’t reply. Ever since waking up, you never were able to see the scars on your body, only the ones on your arms. You wonder if they look hideous.

Your hand reaches behind you to your back, your fingers grazing whatever part you assume suffers scarring.

“Are you worried about how it looks?”

“No, not at all, fighting is commonplace in the fatui.”

“Lying isn’t good, you told me that yourself didn’t you?” Damn him and his pristine memory. You can never remember where you leave your keys yet he can remember things you’ve said to him years ago?

…

“No matter how scarred and beaten you are you’re still [Name] are you not?” With the way he’s looking at you, you’re sure this is another thing he’d want to keep out of the publics knowledge. “Even without your face i’d strike someone down for you in an instant.”

“Oh like you did to me?”

“…” Seems the sweet moment was ruined. You don’t mind though, it’s funny to you.

The weeks that followed still held some tension. You’d refused to see him for awhile. When asked by some trembling lower subordinate, one in which the harbinger had personally sent, why you weren’t seeing him, your reply made the soldier fear for his own downfall.

“He’s insufferable right now. I’ll talk to him when he shows me he’s not a man child who can’t admit his faults.” You’ve always been able to put up with his outbursts, but right now, you realize maybe you should turn up your attitude with him.

After that unfortunate event, not unfortunate for you, for the fatuss, your days have seemingly been more dull. You’ve forgotten just how eccentric the balladeer is. Waking up never seemed so boring, the puppet would either be by your side in the early mornings, or knocking on the door ready to whisk you away.

Seems that routine is coming back.

“Oh? Have you finally swallowed your ego-“

“I’m sorry.”

Seems he couldn’t go any longer without you, how sweet.

Tagging this, I was super confused if this could be characterized as angst w/ comfort or fluff. I just did both though.