#But for now - this chapter is over. On hold. Who knows...

[cressidagrey]

Money, Money, Money

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Felicity runs Oscar’s life. Oh, and she also handles all the money. 

Warnings and Notes: Some more context for the Silverstone chapter, also some insight into Piastri family dynamics in this verse. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1: Chris Piastri

Chris had been patient. He’d waited through the contract drama, the Alpine mess, the quiet chaos that was the lead-up to McLaren’s announcement. He’d even stayed calm when Oscar casually dropped that they’d officially moved to a farmhouse—because, quote, “Felicity liked the light.”

But now he was looking at the numbers.

And blinking.

Hard.

"You’re going to be making how much next year?"

Oscar leant back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Depends on bonuses. But yeah. That’s the base.”

Chris whistled low. “Jesus Christ. That’s… real money.”

Oscar grinned. “Told you the sim rig was a good investment.”

Chris didn’t laugh. He was still holding the contract summary printout Oscar handed him ten minutes ago.

He tapped the top corner. “Okay. So you’ve got this. Great. Now who’s handling it?”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Felicity.”

Chris’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Still no financial advisor?”

“She’s more than capable.”

“And no prenup,” Chris added flatly. “Still.”

“You’re still upset abou that,” Oscar said drily.

“I’m upset you refused to,” Chris replied. “I asked you. I begged you to be smart. You were eighteen. And you married the first girl you ever kissed. You always brush it off.”

“I’m not brushing it off. I’m making a choice.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Chris snapped. “You married at eighteen. You had a child at nineteen. And you still refuse to take any precautions to protect the career we all sacrificed for.”

Oscar didn’t move. But something in his posture shifted—straightened. “What do you want me to say, Dad? That you were right? That we were reckless and dumb and ruined my future?”

Chris exhaled harshly. “I never said you ruined anything.”

“No,” Oscar said, “but you’ve never really believed us either. About anything.”

Chris blinked. “Excuse me?”

Oscar’s voice was low, but steady. “You’ve never believed us when we said Bee was planned. When we said we knew what we were doing. When we said we didn’t need help. You think we were just two stupid teenagers who got in over our heads and now you’re waiting for the fallout.”

Chris scoffed. “Right. The planned baby at nineteen.”

Oscar’s face shuttered. “Yes. Planned.”

“You can keep saying that, Oscar,” Chris said, “but you and I both know it wasn’t the timing you had in mind. You threw your entire career trajectory off-course. No nineteen-year-old plans a baby, Oscar. That’s not how this works.”

Oscar looked like he’s been slapped. “You think we’re stupid.”

“I think you were young.” Chris fired back. “And I think she got pregnant and you felt like you had no choice—”

“Don’t you dare,” Oscar snapped.

The air cracks.

Chris didn’t back down. “You were barely in junior formula. You were already under pressure. And instead of focusing on that, you were raising a kid in a rental flat with hand-me-down furniture and no job security— You were nineteen. No one knows what they’re doing at nineteen.”

“Maybe not,” Oscar said. “But we knew what we wanted.”

“And I spent six and a half million dollars making sure you got where you are,” Chris fired back. “So excuse me if I want you to think.”

Oscar went still. The words hung between them like a slap.

Chris pressed on, voice harder now. “I spent years calling sponsors, working second jobs, selling off anything we didn’t need just to keep you on the track. Your mother gave up every holiday to stretch the travel budget. And now you’re handing your entire financial future to the girl you married at eighteen and won’t even sign a piece of paper to protect yourself if it goes wrong.”

Oscar spoke slowly. Cold. “She is not just some girl.”

“I know that,” Chris said, finally sounding frustrated. “I know she’s brilliant and capable and—impressive. I know she kept you standing when things got ugly. But this isn’t about how resourceful Felicity is, Oscar. It’s about you.”

“I pay for my life,” Oscar said quietly. “Every grocery bill, every flight, every coat Bee’s ever worn—we paid for that ourselves. We’ve never asked you for help outside of racing.”

“You rushed into a marriage, a baby, and now you’ve wrapped your entire life around a girl who pawned designer handbags instead of calling us for help.”

Oscar’s fists clenched. “You think that was a bad thing?”

“I think it was pride,” Chris said, suddenly cold. “On both your parts. She didn’t want to come with her tail between her legs after her family cut her off. And you— you didn’t want to admit you were in over your head.” 

Oscar took a slow breath. “We didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

Chris’s jaw tightened. “I was obligated. I spent millions of dollars getting you to F1. Do you think I did that so you could let your teenage wife manage your future out of a color-coded spreadsheet?” Chris rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not the point anyway.”

“No,” Oscar said. “The point is that you don’t trust me. Or her.”

“That’s not true,” Chris said.

“Isn’t it?” Oscar challenges. “You think she married me for the money I might have. You think we had Bee by accident. You think I’m sleepwalking through life and one day I’ll wake up broke and bitter and you’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

Chris’s mouth was a thin line. He didn’t answer.

Oscar took a breath. His voice softened—just a little. “I know what you gave me. I know I wouldn’t be here without you. But I’m not a teenager anymore. And I don’t need you to manage me. I need you to believe me.”

***

Nicole was sitting at the dining table with a glass of red wine and her reading glasses perched low on her nose, sorting through forms.

Chris stood in the doorway, visibly agitated.

Nicole didn’t look up. “If this is about Felicity again, I’m pouring myself another glass of wine.”

Chris sighed. “You could at least pretend to take my side.”

Nicole set down the pen and looks at him over the rims of her glasses. “I divorced you, not because you were wrong all the time, but because you’re so annoying when you think you’re right.”

Chris threw his hands up. “Nicole. Please. Just talk to Oscar. He listens to you.”

“Because I don’t condescend to him,” she said pointedly. “I treat him like the grown man he is.”

Chris ran a hand through his hair. “He’s married without a prenup. He’s letting her manage millions. What happens if something goes wrong? What happens if she changes—”

“She’s not going to change,” Nicole cut in.

“You don’t know that.”

“Felicity manages my pension, Chris.”

He blinked. “What?”

“She took a look at it last year,” Nicole says casually. “Pointed out I had a dead fund and fees I didn’t need. Reinvested the whole thing in an afternoon.”

Chris stared at her. “You let your daughter-in-law manage your retirement?”

“She’s smarter than both of us combined,” Nicole said, tone sharp now. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

“She was eighteen when they got married,” Chris muttered.

“And runs a household better than most people twice her age,” Nicole replied. “Felicity could run a Fortune 500 company if she wanted. She just happens to be more interested in upcycling cabinets and taking care of Bee.”

Chris scowled. “She plays housewife, Nicole. And Oscar lets her.”

“She chooses housewife,” Nicole corrected. “Big difference. And it’s not because she can’t do more—it’s because she already did. She literally got a PhD this year because she was bored, Chris. You remember what she gave up. I do. She had that whole trust fund, the estate in Singapore —until she told her parents she wasn’t giving up the boy.”

Chris exhaled again, tight and heavy.

Nicole softened—just a little. “  get it. You put everything into Oscar. You burned yourself down to build him a ramp. But our boy fell in love, and the girl he chose? She wasn’t a mistake. She was the best decision he ever made.”

“I just want him to be protected,” Chris said, quieter now.

“He is,” Nicole said. “And if anything happens, you better believe Felicity already has a five-tab spreadsheet, three binders, and a financial nuke pointed at the problem. Don’t confuse softness for weakness. She’s not fragile, Chris. She’s focused.”

Chris was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he muttered, “I still think he should’ve signed a prenup.”

Nicole sighs. “Yeah, well. I think you should’ve watered the lemon tree before it died, but we all have regrets.”

Chris stared at her. “That’s not remotely the same.”

Nicole sipped her tea. “Isn’t it?”

2: Mark Webber

Mark Webber had long since stopped pretending that Oscar Piastri ran his own life.

Oh, he showed up on time. Did the briefings. Signed the contracts. Knew the car and the data and the long-run pace.

But when it came to logistics, taxes, insurance, estate planning, or remembering that the electrical system in their farmhouse was still running on pre-war wiring—Oscar did what every sensible man should do.

He said, “Let me ask my wife.”

Mark had found it funny at first. A bit sweet. The overachieving childhood sweetheart turned stay-at-home-wife. Until he realized, somewhere between Oscar’s seamless contract transitions and the fact that his tax filings were always submitted early and perfectly formatted, that Felicity Piastri wasn’t playing house.

She was running an empire.

Quietly. From the kitchen. Usually with flour on her cheek.

Mark had seen it up close too many times now. 

She was the one who tracked Oscar’s schedule in a calendar that put race engineers to shame.

 She was the one who had his income split across diversified portfolios before McLaren ever offered him a multi-year deal. 

And she was the one who’d once casually texted Mark a five-point list of everything he needed to fix in his personal retirement plan—because she’d overheard him complain about capital gains tax while making Bee a peanut butter sandwich.

He’d actually followed all five points.

So when he found himself holding a financial summary from his advisor, confused about a line item labeled “Australia – Deferred Liability: TBD,” there was only one person he thought to call.

The phone rang twice.

“Hi Mark,” came Felicity’s voice, crisp and warm as ever. “What did you mess up this time?”

Mark chuckled. “Got a minute?”

“Always. What’s the line item?”

He read it out. She hummed. “Deferred liability’s probably from your property sale in 2019—was that still in NSW?”

“Yeah. You remember that?”

“I remember everything. What’s the advisor’s email? I’ll send you the reference table.”

Mark rubbed his forehead. “Do I need to start paying you?”

“You couldn’t afford me,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, I’m already managing Oscar’s empire and Nicole’s pension. I’m full up.”

Mark snorted. “Jesus Christ. Does Oscar know you’re moonlighting as my financial therapist?”

“Oh, he knows,” she said breezily. “He told me to invoice you last time.”

Mark chuckled. “He still pretending he understands half of what you do?”

“He stopped pretending after I explained capital gains to him using Bee’s sticker chart,” she replied. “Now he just signs what I give him and asks if we can afford more smoked almonds.”

Mark shook his head, grinning. “He’s a lucky little bastard.”

“He knows. Oh, and by the way,” Felicity added, “tell your guy to check your international tax treaty allocations. You’re probably being double taxed on passive income through your EU holdings.”

Mark paused. “Have I ever told you you’re a menace?”

“Only every time you call me.”

And then she hung up.

Mark stared at his phone, then looked at the spreadsheet again.

There was a reason he always CC’d her on Oscar’s contract reviews. The girl could spot a hidden clause faster than most team lawyers.

He wasn’t just impressed anymore. He was a little scared.

People in the paddock liked to talk about Oscar’s talent. His calm. His racecraft. His future.

But Mark?

Mark knew the real secret to Oscar’s success wore denim dungarees, knew how to budget a household down to the cent, and had personally scared two marketing execs into submission using nothing but polite email phrasing and a well-timed spreadsheet.

In Mark Webber’s not so humble opinion: 

Felicity Piastri was the best investment Oscar had ever made.

3: Lando Norris

Oscar was still in his race suit, slouched halfway off a physio ball, towel draped around his neck. His hair was damp. 

He was scrolling on his phone one-handed, the other absentmindedly rubbing at his shoulder. Across from him, Lando was sitting upside-down in a beanbag chair like he was part of a modern art installation, frowning at his iPad and muttering numbers under his breath.

He squinted, then sat up properly. “Hey,” he said, pointing vaguely. “Do you use Capex?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “For what?”

“Investments. Advisors. Tax strategy stuff.” Lando waved the iPad like it’s obvious. “Zak’s been on about it. Wants us to think about long-term wealth management. Something about portfolio diversity and 'future-proofing our legacy.'"

Oscar hummed noncommittally. “Nah, I don’t use Capex.”

Lando raised a brow. “Okay, so who do you use?”

Oscar finally looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Like—who’s your guy?” Lando asked, a little impatient now. “Everyone’s got someone. I’ve got Simon. Charles got his brother and that weird Swiss dude. You’ve got, what, Mark handling yours?”

Oscar blinked. “I don’t have a guy.”

“You don’t—?” Lando cut himself off, leans forward. “Wait. You don’t have a financial advisor?”

Oscar shrugged. “Nope.”

Lando just stared at him. “Oscar.”

Oscar stretched his legs out. “What?”

“You’re a Formula 1 driver. You make… a lot of money. You don’t have anyone managing it?”

“I do,” Oscar said, reaching for his water bottle. “Felicity.”

Lando blinked. “Felicity who?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “My wife, Lando. Felicity my wife,” Oscar confirmed cheerfully, like he wasn’t casually setting fire to Lando’s entire concept of financial management. “She’s good at it. Better than me. She likes spreadsheets and interest rates. It makes her happy.”

Lando’s mouth opened. Closes. “No. No. That doesn’t count.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Why not?”

“Because—because she’s your wife! That’s like saying, ‘Oh yeah, my daughter handles the catering.’ It’s—It’s nepotism!”

Oscar laughed. “She’s not taking a salary, mate. She’s running our life.”

“That’s worse!” Lando flailed his hands. “You’re telling me you trust her with everything? Like, she just… handles it?”

“Yes,” Oscar said simply. “She’s good at it.”

“She’s good at—what, managing millions?”

“Actually, yeah.” He looked mildly offended on Felicity’s behalf. “She started with nothing. Budgeted down to the cent when we were nineteen and pretty much broke with a newborn because we didn’t want to depend on my parents. She made our tax spreadsheet color-coded and terrifying. She played the stock market while Bee was teething. Said it calmed her down. I was too busy trying to figure out why Bee would only fall asleep if I sang Let it be from the Beatles.”

Lando squinted. “...She has a spreadsheet?”

“She has seven.”

“And you’re just—fine with it?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said, no hesitation. “She’s always been smarter with money than me. Back when I was on a feeder series budget and Bee was in nappies, she made every cent stretch. She bought me a secondhand coffee machine when I was surviving on two hours of sleep and bad instant. She used our first proper bonus to start a fund she literally called ‘Future Stuff That Matters.’ She pays for every single house reno out of portfolio gains. I don’t ask anymore—I just send her the contract info and go race.”

Lando looked at him like he’d just confessed to free-climbing a skyscraper. “You don’t even check your paychecks?”

“I check they’ve gone in,” Oscar said. “But otherwise, I forward everything to her. Contracts, bonus details, travel reimbursements. She’s got this whole color-coded system.”

“Okay, but like—" Lando ran a hand through his hair, clearly spiraling—"there’s not even a backup guy? Like, a tax consultant? A wealth planner? An app? A spreadsheet?”

“She has all three. She showed me once. The spreadsheet had tabs called Future Stuff That Matters and Oscar’s Idiotic Tech Purchases."

Lando blinked.

"There's a colour-coded section just for sim rig accessories," Oscar added, helpfully.

“She made you a budget category for sim rig accessories?”

“I exceeded it last year. I got a warning.” Oscar grinned. “I send her the contracts, she handles the rest. I don’t even know what our heating bill is. I just get warm in winter and assume it’s paid.”

Lando collapses back into the beanbag. “You are so weirdly married.”

“I’m extremely married,” Oscar agrees. “To someone who built an emergency fund, planned our retirement, and still re-grouted the kitchen herself last month.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “You’re insane.”

Oscar smiled. “I’m stress-free.”

Another beat.

Then Lando muttered, “Do you think she’d take me on as a client?”

Oscar burst out laughing.

4: Tom Stallard

Tom had been on the phone with his mortgage broker for twenty minutes and was losing the will to live.

“No, I said I do have the updated P60, but your online portal is down,” he said through gritted teeth. “No, I’m not uploading it again through Safari, I’m using Chrome. Why does that matter?”

He ended the call with a sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “I have a master’s in engineering from Cambridge and this is the most complicated thing I’ve ever done.”

A quiet voice behind him said, “Everything alright?”

Tom turned to find Oscar, cooling off post-sim, cradling a water bottle and looking vaguely concerned.

“Oh, yeah,” Tom said, deadpan. “Just losing a slow war with mortgage applications. Spreadsheets, interest rates, new build tax. Very sexy stuff.”

Oscar hummed. “Felicity would love it.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “She likes mortgage paperwork?”

“She likes paperwork in general,” Oscar said with a small smile. “Spreadsheets. Forecasting. Financial plans.”

Tom chuckled. “Yeah, well, maybe I should hire her. At this rate my family is going to end up living in our car.”

Oscar tilted his head. “She’d probably help. She’s scary good with money.”

“Really?” Tom asked, vaguely curious. “She handle the household stuff?”

Oscar blinked. “No, I mean she handles everything. My salary, bonuses, investments, Bee’s custodial account, tax optimization. All of it.”

Tom paused. “Wait—wait, you don’t do any of that?”

Oscar shook his head. “She’s better at it. Has a system. Color-coded folders. Charts. She built a whole model to project how many years I could race before retiring without touching the principal. I think it includes inflation and… milk prices?”

Tom blinked. “You’re telling me your wife handles your entire financial portfolio.”

Oscar shrugged. “It just makes sense. She’s meticulous. She used to do it all while Bee was napping and we were living on a single paycheque and pawned handbags.”

Tom sat back, stunned. “Mate, I have a financial advisor and a mortgage consultant and I still don’t know what I’m doing. You’re telling me your wife just—does it all?”

Oscar gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah. She’s good at it. And she enjoys it. I just sign things and ask her if we can afford new garden furniture.”

Tom looked at him for a beat.

Then said, deadpan, “I think I hate you.”

Oscar grinned. “She runs my retirement planning. I’m sorted for three recessions and a space war.”

Tom groaned. “Don’t tell me that. I just cried over a fixed rate of 5.3%.”

***

Tom hadn’t meant to bring it up again. Really, he hadn’t.

He’d only stopped by to drop off a folder Oscar left behind at the McLaren HQ. A quick in-and-out. No fuss. No existential crisis over adult responsibilities.

But then he made the mistake of saying, “I still haven’t figured out that mortgage stuff, by the way.”

And now he was in the Piastri kitchen.

Holding a cup of tea.

Watching Felicity Piastri, in a linen apron with a bee embroidered on the hem, pull up an amortization schedule like she was about to perform surgery on it.

“Alright,” she said, tapping at her laptop with a practiced efficiency that made his stomach clench. “Fixed rate of 5.3%, 25-year term, first-time buyer exemption, and a deferred LMI?”

Tom blinked. “Yes?”

“Okay, well, first of all, they’re charging you too much on your escrow buffer. That’s negotiable. And you can knock 0.2% off your rate if you bundle with their associated home insurance policy.”

“I—what?”

Felicity didn’t look up. “You haven’t consolidated your super, have you?”

“I—no?”

She made a soft tsk sound, clicked twice, and then turned the screen toward him. “I’ve made you a comparison sheet. These two lenders are offering better packages with less red tape. The third one has a better early exit policy in case you want to upgrade later. You’re a high-income, low-debt client, Tom. You should be getting treated like it.”

Tom stared at the screen, then at her.

“I have never felt so financially inadequate in my life,” he muttered.

Felicity gave him a bright smile. “That’s okay. Most people feel that way after twenty minutes with me.”

Oscar wandered in, holding Bee upside down by the ankles. “She fix it yet?”

“She rebuilt it,” Tom said faintly. “She bullied my mortgage into submission.”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “I simply pointed out that he’s not a charity case and shouldn’t be paying interest like one.”

Bee giggled from where she dangled. “Mama makes the numbers scared.”

Oscar dropped her gently onto the couch. “That she does.”

Tom stood up, cradling the printed spreadsheet like it was a sacred text. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

Felicity handed him a small foil-wrapped bundle. “Banana bread. No walnuts.”

Tom looked at it. Then back at her. “You’re incredible.”

She beamed. “I know.”

5: Zak Brown

Zak liked to think of himself as a forward thinker. Risk-aware, but not risk-averse. Smart with money. Not shy about opportunity.

Which is why, after a particularly positive investor call and a lunch meeting with a tech-startup founder, he cornered Oscar Piastri in the McLaren break room, armed with a protein shake and a golden nugget of advice.

“Listen,” Zak said, leaning on the counter while Oscar poked through the fruit bowl like he wasn’t paid seven figures to do much cooler things. “If you haven’t already, you should really look into green robotics. Smart manufacturing meets sustainability. It’s going to explode in two years. Get in now.”

Oscar paused. “Green robotics?”

“Yeah. Startups, mostly. Private equity entry points. Could be a good addition to your portfolio.”

Oscar nodded slowly. “Right. Sounds interesting. I’ll check with Felicity.”

Zak blinked. “Your agent?”

“No,” Oscar said casually. “Felicity. My wife.”

Zak frowned. “As in… she checks it?”

“She handles all my finances,” Oscar replied, grabbing a banana. “She’ll know if it fits with the rest of the portfolio.”

Zak stared. “Wait—you don’t have a financial advisor?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “I have Felicity.”

“No, I mean like… a firm. A professional. Someone who manages your money.”

“I do. Felicity.”

Zak was now blinking very slowly. “You’re telling me your wife manages your finances.”

Oscar peeled the banana. “Yeah. Has for years.”

Zak struggled for a moment. “Like… salary? Bonuses?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Investments?”

“All of it.”

Zak straightened. “How much do you even know about your own portfolio?”

Oscar chewed thoughtfully. “Um… it’s green? Ethically aligned? We don’t do oil, fast fashion, or surveillance tech. And I think there’s a clause about chocolate companies with bad labor practices. Felicity added that after Bee got obsessed with cocoa beans.”

Zak made a small, stunned noise. “You don’t… manage your own money?”

Oscar shrugged. “I mean, it’s our money. She just handles it. She’s better at it. She has these terrifying spreadsheets.”

“She’s not licensed.”

“Nope,” Oscar said, smiling. “She’s just brilliant.”

Zak stared at him for a long beat.

“You make seven figures,” he said slowly. “You’re one of the most promising drivers of your generation. And you’re telling me that you’ve outsourced your entire financial future to your wife.”

“Yes,” Oscar said. “She has a whole system. Reinvested dividends, ethical ETFs, a growth fund, a rainy day fund, and this weird little stash labeled ‘Oscar’s Panic Button’ that I’m not allowed to ask about.”

Zak’s voice rose slightly. “And you’re okay with that?”

Oscar blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re a public figure!”

Oscar finished his banana. “So? I’d trust her with everything if I was a postman.”

Zak leaned heavily on the counter. “And what did she say about green robotics?”

Oscar tilted his head. “She had ethical concerns. Something about the AI lab's hiring practices and a conflict with a union group in Denmark.”

Zak exhaled. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah. She’s good.”

+1: Oscar Piastri

Oscar had long since stopped questioning where the money went. 

Not because he didn’t care—he did. He cared a lot, actually. 

But because sometime between their first apartment and the farmhouse, he’d realized something fundamental: Felicity knew what they needed before he did. 

And more than that, she knew why. 

There had been a time—back when he was nineteen, with a newborn and a contract that barely covered rent—when every cent mattered. 

And Felicity had stretched them with a kind of brilliance that made survival look like strategy. She’d budgeted nappies down to the cent. She’d thrifted furniture, sewed her own curtains, and somehow still found a way to buy Oscar a coffee machine when he couldn’t function without caffeine and 2-hour sleep blocks. 

Even then, he knew: if there was anyone he trusted with his life—or his bank account—it was her. That trust never changed. 

The first time he got a real bonus—something large, something meaningful—he handed it over without hesitation. “Use it for whatever you want,” he’d said, tired and sunburnt and half-delirious after a weekend in Spa. 

She didn’t blink. Just tucked it away and said, “I’ve got a plan.” That plan, as it turned out, involved savings accounts, index funds, and a meticulous spreadsheet labeled Future Stuff That Matters. 

Over time, their finances shifted. Grew. Stabilized. But Oscar never took that control back—not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. 

Felicity didn’t spend for status. She didn’t buy expensive handbags or flashy watches. 

She bought insulation for the attic because she wanted Bee to stay warm in winter. She bought antique light fixtures from a man named Jerry on Facebook Marketplace because “they had character.” She bought sandpaper and primer and tile grout and then used it herself. 

She handled taxes. Investments. Long-term planning. She set aside money for Bee’s education, Oscar’s retirement, and an annual holiday they still hadn’t taken. 

And she never once acted like it was hers alone—just theirs, and safe in her hands. 

Oscar loved that about her. That she didn’t treat money like power. She treated it like possibility. 

And while the outside world saw him as the Formula 1 driver, the rising star, the man with the million-dollar contracts—he knew better. 

Knew that the reason he could focus on racing at all was because Felicity kept the rest of their world running so seamlessly behind the scenes.

Once, early in their marriage, he’d jokingly called her his CFO. She’d rolled her eyes. “I’m your wife.” But honestly, she was both. Because when his paycheck came in, he barely looked at it anymore. 

He just handed it over, kissed her cheek, and said, “Tell me if we can afford a new front porch.” Felicity always smiled. 

Always kissed him back. And somehow always replied, “Already ordered the wood. Bee helped me pick the stain.”

Felicity didn’t treat money like power.

She treated it like possibility.

And Oscar had learned to see it the same way—not in numbers, but in what it meant: security. Choice. Freedom. A future where his wife could say yes to things for herself. Where Bee would never grow up thinking that survival had to look like sacrifice.

And when people—Zak, Lando, even his own father—asked how he could trust one person with all of it?

Oscar just smiled.

Because that one person had been holding their entire life together since she was nineteen, tired, and holding a baby on her hip with a spreadsheet open on her lap.

She was the safest bet he’d ever made.

[charles-leclerizz]

wrong room

on the runway : lando norris x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : Smut !!! (male receiving!oral sex, (un??) protected p in v sex , light dominance, Lando being a little possessive, mutual pining, soft dom!Lando energy, swearing, teasing, light voyeuristic vibes (friends nearby), mild praise kink, overstimulation), and lots of suggestive jokes.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : What starts as a summer getaway at a friend’s villa turns into something a lot hotter when Lando walks into the wrong room - and finds you in his old hoodie, watching F1 replays. You’ve always been friendly, never close. But maybe the hoodie wasn’t the only thing you’ve been holding onto.

designer notes : well, hopefully it was worth the wait <33 . would ya'll be mad at me if I told you I haven't started chapter 3 yet? nah, cause I'm feeding you guys so well?? ok anyway, remember to wear your seatbelts. love you

The villa is carved into the hills of Côte d'Azur like a dream - terracotta tiles, arched windows, the sea glittering just beyond a blur of lemon trees and white parasols. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and freshly crushed mint. Laughter carries from somewhere deeper inside the house, floating up and over the vines crawling across the exterior walls. 

You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder and knock on the already - slightly - open door. It creaks as it swings wider. 

“Hello?” 

No answer - just music thumping softly from an unseen speaker, and the echo of distant conversation. 

You step inside. 

The marble beneath your sandals is cool. Someone’s kicked off flip - flops by the stairs. There’s a bikini drying over the back of a chair. You already know this isn’t going to be some luxury hotel - style getaway. It’s a shared house. A friend - of - a - friend kind of trip. Half of you doesn’t even remember who invited you - just that you needed the break, and this was close enough to what you craved so you said yes 

“Hey! You made it!” 

A voice - familiar - cuts through the quiet. You turn just in time to see your friend Luca come down the stairs in a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses pushed back into his curls. 

“Finally,” he grins. “You’re the last one here. Thought you bailed.” 

“I almost did.” You lift your bag with a huff. “Traffic was disgusting.” 

He helps you with your things, leads you into the living room where it smells like watermelon and something vaguely alcoholic. A few people are sprawled out on couches or clustered around the pool deck visible through the wide - open French doors. 

And then - of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

He’s leaning back in one of the lounge chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, legs stretched out in lazy confidence. Tan lines on his thighs, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, jaw still sharp even in the golden hour haze. He looks over when he hears your name. 

You haven’t seen him in maybe six months. You’ve never really been friends, but you’ve always hovered in the same social circle. Occasionally at the same parties, invited to the same post - race get - togethers, orbiting each other without ever really connecting. 

But now he’s looking at you like he recognizes something new. 

He nods, subtle. Gives you a half - smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.” 

You shrug. “Didn’t know you were either.” 

“Good surprise, then.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to that - so you just smile, polite, and follow Luca further inside. 

Your room’s upstairs, small but bright. There’s a ceiling fan and a tiny ensuite and just enough room to dump your suitcase across the bed without tripping over it. You unpack slowly, letting the noise of everyone else filter up through the open window. Somewhere below, Lando laughs - low and lazy - and you feel it like a fingertip dragged down your spine. 

You should be immune to him by now. He’s Lando Norris. A walking thirst trap with dimples and the most unserious sense of humour known to man. But there’s something about here - the off - duty version, the sun - drenched version, the one who isn’t surrounded by engineers or cameras - that makes it feel… different. 

Less like a boy on posters, more like a man below your window, dipping his feet into the pool. 

You shake your head and change into something breezy: cotton shorts, a crop top. When you finally go back downstairs, the sun’s just beginning to dip below the treeline, casting long shadows across the pool deck. 

People are already drinking. Someone’s pulled the Bluetooth speaker out again. There are half a dozen towels draped across every surface. 

Lando’s still by the pool. This time, he’s in the water, arms resting on the ledge, talking to someone. His wet hair curls a little at the ends. His back is freckled from the sun. You shouldn’t be looking. You are. 

He glances up just as you sit down. 

You pretend not to notice. 

Later, when you’re carrying two Aperol's back to your lounge chair, someone bumps your arm on purpose - gently, just enough to make the glasses slosh. 

“Careful.” 

You turn. 

Lando again. 

He takes one of the drinks from you before you can say anything. 

“That was for me,” you lie. 

“Too slow,” he grins, and sips. 

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just the heat?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” He takes another sip, gaze drifting over your legs where you’re standing in the late - day sun. 

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of how the top you're wearing hugs tighter now that it’s clung to your sun - warmed skin. 

“Is this your game? Steal drinks and flirt with every girl who makes eye contact?” 

“Only the ones who used to ignore me at parties.” 

You blink. 

“I didn’t ignore you.” 

“You never said more than two words to me.” 

“I didn’t know you,” you protest weakly. 

He smirks. “You still don’t.” 

There’s something in the way he says it - open - ended, inviting. Like he’s offering a chance. 

You roll your eyes and sit down, forcing the tension in your jaw to loosen. “You’re trouble.” 

“I try.” 

He settles into the lounge chair next to yours, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he tilts his head back to the sun again. 

The rest of the evening blurs into the kind of contented, alcohol - soft haze you only get on the second night of a trip like this - just enough comfort to start relaxing, not yet enough routine to feel bored. 

Dinner’s grilled and eaten outside. Someone plays bartender and makes the drinks far too strong. You laugh more than you expect. Lando doesn’t hover, but every time you glance over, he’s already looking. 

You should go to bed early. 

You don’t. 

You stay long enough to watch him light sparklers with a lighter he shouldn’t have, teeth catching on the cap of another beer. Stay long enough to feel the way his laugh drags across your skin from halfway across the patio. Stay long enough to admit - to yourself, at least - that maybe this time, you do want to know him. 

By the time you’re back in your room, showered and curled up on the bed with your phone in one hand and your sleep playlist in the other, you’re warm from more than just the heat. 

The last thing you see before you shut your eyes is the faint blue light of a replay clip of Lando’s onboard from Monaco. You didn’t even mean to open it. But your vague connection the world of driving means that you, just like the drivers, are addicted to watching race replays like a lullaby. You let it loop anyway - quiet, steady - as you fall asleep in a hoodie you stole from a driver party two years ago. 

You barely remember that it’s his hoodie. 

It’s hotter the next day. The kind of heat that makes everything feel heavy - time, clothes, thoughts. 

You wake up in the late afternoon, the bed tangled with your sheets and limbs, your skin still warm from the residual heat of the day before. The villa is quieter now. Most people must already be outside, and when you crack your window open, you catch the sound of a speaker playing something bassy and upbeat, mixed with the distant splash of pool water and a few hollered laughs. 

You take your time getting ready, pulling on the only clean swimsuit you packed without thinking. It’s cute, functional enough - but maybe a little revealing. Maybe not what you’d wear if you didn’t know who else would be outside. Maybe it’s stupid how long you spend in front of the mirror tugging the straps into place. 

When you finally head downstairs, the sun hits you like a wall - too much too fast, and all of it golden. The pool glimmers. Someone’s set out snacks, there’s a melting bowl of fruit beside a stack of half - read paperback books, and a cooler full of drinks wedged under the shade. 

And of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

Lying on a towel just at the edge of the pool. Board shorts low on his hips, eyes squinting up from behind his sunglasses. He’s propped up on one arm, lazily sipping something bright orange through a paper straw. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying off to the side, curls stuck to his forehead, skin flushed just enough to tell you he’s been out here a while. 

You try not to look. You fail. 

He notices. Doesn’t say anything - just tips his chin up in a sort of wordless greeting. 

You set your towel down two chairs away. Not beside him. Not directly across. Just… within view. 

“Someone’s late to the pool party,” he calls after a moment, voice lazy from the heat. 

“I needed sleep.” 

“You needed to make a dramatic entrance, you mean.” 

You roll your eyes but smile. “You think everything’s about you.” 

“Everything is about me,” he says, deadpan. 

You stretch out on your towel, trying not to notice the way his eyes drift down your legs, then flick quickly away again when you catch him. The air feels thicker than before - or maybe it’s just your skin, suddenly too aware of every inch of exposed surface. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re already sweating. The sun beats down mercilessly, and you sit up, digging through your bag for your sunscreen. You squirt some into your palm and reach for your shoulder - and that’s when his shadow falls across you. 

“You’ll never reach your back,” he says casually. 

One minute Lily and Kika where beside you, the next they weren’t.  

You blink up at him, “Thanks for the concern.” 

He holds out a hand. “Give it here.” 

You hesitate. Then place the bottle in his hand, trying not to think about how broad his shoulders look from this angle. He kneels behind you on the towel, the lotion cools against your overheated skin. 

His touch is… careful. Gentle at first. He smooths the sunscreen between your shoulder blades with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs brushing the curve of your spine before dragging back up again, just before the thin tie of your bottoms. His hands are warm and wide, fingers pressing slightly harder with each pass, until you're leaning into the sensation without even realising. 

“This, okay?” he asks, voice low - not teasing anymore, just… close. 

You nod, barely trusting your voice. 

He doesn’t stop. Works the lotion into your shoulders, your neck, fingertips grazing the strap of your swimsuit before pulling back just shy of scandal. You feel your whole - body hum, strung tight like a wire. 

And then - just as suddenly - it’s over. 

“All good,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. 

You exhale. Try to swallow. 

“Thanks.” 

He shrugs, tossing the bottle back toward your bag. “Don’t want your burning. Would ruin your dramatic entrances.” 

You laugh, light but shaky. “Wouldn’t want that.” 

You stay in the shade for most of the afternoon, half - reading a book you can’t focus on. Every time Lando walks past - dripping wet from a dive, towel slung around his shoulders, alcohol bottle in one hand - your eyes follow him before you can stop them. 

You don’t talk again. Not properly. But there’s something shifting now. You feel it in the way he looks at you longer than he should. In the way your fingers brushed his wrist earlier when he handed you a strong cocktail and didn’t pull away. In the way you can still feel his hands on your skin, hours later. 

Something’s changed. 

And you’re not sure which one of you is going to do something about it first. 

You can’t sleep. 

The villa’s quiet now - except for the creak of floorboards, the occasional pipe knocking in the wall, and the soft echo of wind sliding through open windows. Everyone else is either passed out drunk or tangled up in someone else’s sheets. The hallways feel like a lull, soaked in summer and moonlight. 

You’re curled up in bed, too warm to get under the covers, wearing nothing but the old, oversized hoodie and a faint sunburn still blooming across your thighs. You didn’t mean to put this one on - it was just at the top of your bag. Familiar, soft, slightly too big. 

Lando’s hoodie. 

You don’t even think he knows you kept it. One of those late - night party things - he tossed it to you on a balcony and never asked for it back. 

You’re not planning to see him tonight. Not thinking about the way he touched your back earlier. Not thinking about how he looked at you like he wanted to touch more. 

Your phone’s propped up on a pillow, volume low, screen lit with one of his old Silverstone onboard replays. There’s something soothing about it. The smooth rhythm of the track, the flick of the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He’s in control. Sharp. Focused.  You wonder what it’s like to make him lose that focus. 

The door creaks open. 

You sit up fast, yanking your blanket over the bottom hem of your hoodie. “What the - ” 

“Shit - ” a familiar voice mutters. “Sorry. Fuck.” 

Lando. 

He’s shirtless, in just sweats, hair a little damp like he showered but didn’t bother to dry it. His eyes are slightly wide as he sees you, as if his brain’s still catching up with what he just walked into. 

“I thought this was - ” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s not - yeah, this is definitely not my room.” 

You should say something - ask why he’s even trying to come in when most people are already knocked out for the night. 

But his eyes are stuck on your hoodie.  His hoodie.  You’re half - curled up, one leg bare up to the thigh, the hem bunched at the top of them, collar slipped low enough to show your collarbones and just a hint of skin underneath. 

“You wear that often?” he asks, voice a little hoarse. 

Your heart kicks up, fast. 

“You gave it to me.” 

“Didn’t think you kept it.” 

You shrug, hoping your face doesn’t give too much away. “Didn’t think you wanted it back.” 

He steps further into the room - slow, quiet - until he’s leaning against the inside of your door and shutting it softly behind him. 

You look at him.  He looks at you. 

Then, finally, he speaks - quiet, but direct. 

“You’re not telling me to leave.” 

You swallow. 

“Do you want me to?” you ask. 

His voice is lower now. “No.” 

You shift on the bed, pulse starting to hammer in your ears. “Then don’t.” 

He stands there for a second longer, like he’s giving you a moment to change your mind. And then he’s walking forward. 

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes dark in the low light. One hand lift - slow, deliberate - and pulls at the blanket until he brushes your knee from where it peeks from under the hoodie. 

“You look good in that,” Lando says, voice soft, hoarse. 

You smile, lips parted. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was trying to stay sane.” 

“Why?” 

He leans in, fingers tracing up your thigh, grazing higher until your breath catches. “Because if I thought about you in this hoodie too long, I’d do something stupid.” 

Your hands fist into the sheets. “Like what?” 

“Like this.” 

He kisses you hard - not rushed, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting, wanting, and now that he has you, he’s not wasting a second. You meet him halfway, fingers threading through his damp curls, hoodie riding up over your hips as he shifts between your knees and deepens the kiss. 

His hands slide up your bare thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs dragging soft circles. You gasp into his mouth when one hand cups the back of your thigh, spreading you further apart so he can settle between them. 

“Still not telling me to leave,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw. 

“I’d kick your ass if you tried.” 

The room is barely lit by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows drape the corners, but the air is thick with heat - your heat, his heat - heavy enough to make every breath feel sticky and urgent. 

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tense as he watches you. The oversized hoodie you’re wearing - his hoodie - hangs loosely, but every inch of skin you show feels like a dare. 

You flip over his lap to kneel in front of him, heart hammering hard against your ribs. His cock is already hard, proud and aching beneath the loose sweats he’s left hanging low on his hips. His breath catches when you reach out, your fingers warm as they close around him over the fabric. 

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hooded with want. 

You smile, cheeks flushed and lean in closer, tugging down his waistband, “You’re the one who walked into the wrong room.” 

His hands find your hair before you can even move - gentle but insistent, threading through your curls as you lean forward, mouth parting to tease the tip of him. He groans softly, air escaping through his clenched teeth, and you know this is going to be slow, deliberate. 

You take him into your mouth, starting light - teasing with your tongue, lips barely brushing the sensitive head. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails grazing your scalp, holding you in place even as you pull back, just enough to make him desperate. 

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he rasps, his hips pressing forward instinctively. 

You hum around him, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, sucking just enough to pull a deep moan from his throat. His hands tighten, gripping the sheets as you bob your head slowly, tasting him, swallowing every hitch of breath he makes. 

When you take him deeper, your throat tightens, the stretch delicious and thrilling. He gasps, hips jerking up just a little, and you feel it - the pulse of his arousal, steady and strong. You slow down, using your tongue to circle the head, flicking the underside with precision that sends shivers through him. 

“God, you’re so good,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

His free hand slips to your waist, pulling you up close, and you wrap your arms around his thighs, holding him steady. You want to hear everything - every ragged breath, every curse falling from his lips. 

The way his hips start to grind forward against your mouth, desperate for more. 

His fingers dig into your hair, tugging lightly, and you take it as permission to go deeper - slow, steady, careful. You feel his body tense, muscles flexing as he rides the wave you’re building, his breath hitching in ragged bursts. 

When his hips jerk sharply and he releases a low growl, you swallow him down fully, holding him there as long as you can. He curses your name, gripping your hair harder, and when he pulls away, his lips are swollen, breathless. 

You look up, cheeks flushed, and meet his eyes - glazed, heavy with want and need. 

Without a word, he reaches out and pulls you to your feet, hands on your waist firm and sure. His mouth is back on yours instantly, a kiss that’s both desperate and possessive, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you backward onto the bed. 

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin with reverent curiosity. You arch into his touch, heart pounding as he trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, whispering soft promises between each press of his lips. 

He moves with slow, sure confidence, pushing the hoodie up over your head and tossing it aside like it’s been burning him all night. 

“You’re all mine,” he breathes, voice thick. 

You shiver, overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating off his body as he trails down your stomach, palms flat and sure. His fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, hesitating just a second before sliding beneath. 

Every nerve ending in your body sings as he removes your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, exposing you completely. 

He kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles around your hip bones. 

When he finally parts your legs, his eyes darken, focused, hungry. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit, teasing with his tongue in long, slow flicks that make you bite back a moan. 

His mouth wraps around you, warm and wet and demanding, and you clutch his hair, hips rocking forward into him without thinking. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against you, voice low and serious. “Gotta keep it down.” 

You bite your lip, nodding, desperate to keep quiet but drowning in the sensation of his tongue and mouth working magic. He hums, flicks his tongue faster, and you feel the coil tightening deep inside you. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance, brushing just the tip before pulling back to focus on your clit again. 

You’re trembling, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders as he pulls you closer. 

When you come, it’s a shattered, stifled cry buried in his neck, fingers digging into his scalp as your body clenches around his mouth. 

He holds you through it, slow and steady, until you’re shuddering and soft again. 

Then, gently, he pulls back and grins up at you - wild, messy, utterly undone. 

“You taste like everything I want.” 

You laugh breathlessly and push him down, straddling him as his hands settle on your hips. 

You take your time, rolling your hips, sinking down slowly, savouring every inch. 

His hands grip your waist tight as you ride him - slow, deep, unrelenting. 

The only sounds in the room are your gasps, his moans, and skin sliding against skin. 

You lean down, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you move together - a perfect, messy rhythm. 

When he’s close, you bite his shoulder, smile against his skin, and whisper, “Not so quiet now, huh?” 

He laughs low and growls, “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

You pick up the pace, bouncing harder, nails gripping his chest as he buries his face in your neck, fingers clutching your hips. 

And when he comes, it’s explosive - deep, guttural, his body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you. 

You ride out the waves together, panting and slick, limbs tangled. 

When it’s over, he pulls you close, pressing kisses along your jaw and whispering, “That was worth walking into the wrong room.”

The morning spills into the room like warm honey. 

Golden light streaks across the sheets, catching on dust suspended in the still air. Outside the window, someone’s already put music on too loud - something distant and summery and muffled by the thick villa walls. But in here, it’s all quiet. 

You shift under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from where Lando’s body presses into yours. He’s still half - asleep, one arm flung over your stomach, curls mussed against the pillow. You breathe him in sunscreen and sweat, salt and something softer. Like linen and heat. 

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip bone. It’s the kind of touch that says he's still here, even in his sleep. 

You turn toward him, nose brushing his jaw. 

“Lando,” you whisper, low and quiet, just to see if he’s awake. 

Lando hums sleepily as you kiss his chin. “Mmm, you’re up early.” 

“Not really,” you mumble. “I think it’s nearly noon.” 

He groans. “We should hide. Stay in here all day.” 

You smile. “You drooled on my pillow.” 

He growls softly, burying his face in your neck. “Could be worse. Could’ve been your chest.” 

You laugh, legs tangling with his. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Last night you said I was talented.” 

“I said you were decent.” 

He grins sleepily against your skin, voice still thick. “You came twice. At least give me ‘skilled.’” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too hard - but you’re glowing, skin flushed from more than just the heat. 

His hand slips lower, resting over the swell of your ass, fingers tracing lazy shapes again. You’re not doing anything, not going anywhere. It’s rare - to feel like this. Not just satisfied but settled. 

Until -  

“OH MY GOD.” 

The door slams open, and you flinch, instinctively yanking the blanket up to your chin. 

Lando groans so loudly it’s borderline feral. “No. Nope. Out.” 

Oscar is standing in the doorway, already in swim trunks and a bucket hat, holding a protein shake in one hand like a fucking trophy. Squinting into the light like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“I KNEW IT,” he yells, pointing at you both. “Fifty bucks, bitches!” 

You blink, dazed. “What - ?” 

“I told Lily it would happen before the weekend was over,” Oscar continues, stepping just one inch further into the room like he’s inspecting evidence. “She said you’d pussy out. Guess who was right.” 

You blink. “Wait, you two - bet on us?” 

Oscar shrugs. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And then you started wearing that hoodie again. It was obvious.” 

Lando rolls over and shoves a pillow over his head. “Oscar I swear to God - ” 

“Hey, don’t blame me, you could’ve been subtle. But noooo, you had to be all hoodie and eye fucking by the pool.” 

You groan. “How long were people watching us?” 

Oscar snorts. “We have eyes.“ 

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, like he’s handing out a wedding gift. It’s when he sips at his gym bottle and hisses, you realise there’s probably tequila in there, “Try not to traumatize the maid staff.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The door clicks shut again. 

Silence. 

You both stare at the ceiling for a second before bursting into laughter. 

Lando turns toward you, dragging you under him again, smirking like an idiot. “We are never living this down” 

“I kinda don’t care” 

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You gonna wear that hoodie again?” 

You grin. “Only if I want everyone to know what I let you do to me last night.” 

He pauses. Smirks. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not wearing it next.” 

You shove him lightly, laughing, as he tackles you back into the sheets, messy and warm and unbothered - a little wrecked, a little teased, and a whole lot in trouble. 

But somehow, it feels kind of perfect. 

meet the models after the show ( epilogue ) :

It’s the last morning at the villa. 

People are packing. Doors opening, zippers skimming across tile. Half - melted iced coffees line the kitchen counter, and someone’s already yelling about who stole their charger. 

You’re still in Lando’s bed. 

Still in his hoodie. 

Still not ready to move. 

He walks back into the room with two mugs in hand - both his. One is basic ceramic with your initials scratched in red nail polish. The other says World’s Fastest Slut in hideous bubble font. 

He doesn’t even flinch when he hands you that one. 

“You’re really still wearing that thing?” he says, nodding to the hoodie swallowing your frame. 

You raise an eyebrow and sip your coffee. “You say that like you weren’t staring every time I wore it.” 

He shrugs, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Just surprised you never took it off.” 

You smirk. “Why would I? It’s comfy. Smells good. Annoys Oscar.” 

“Ah,” he nods, mock serious. “You stayed in my hoodie out of spite.” 

You hum. “Mostly. Partially because it makes my legs look good.” 

His gaze drags down. “Can confirm.” 

You blink. “You gonna tell Oscar that ?” 

“Absolutely not. He’s been insufferable since he ‘won’ a bet that didn’t exist.” 

You laugh, and he leans forward, catching your chin gently with his fingers. You try not to smile, but he leans forward and nudges your knee with his. 

“You’re still coming back to mine after this, right?” he asks, casual, but his tone softens halfway through. 

You blink. “Did I say I was?” 

He gives you that look - head tilted, lashes low, mouth twitching like he’s holding back something cocky. “You didn’t have to.” 

You take another slow sip of coffee. “Hmm. That so?” 

He leans in closer, fingers brushing the hem of the hoodie as he murmurs, “Only condition is… if you keep stealing my clothes, I get to start stealing your time.” 

You snort. “That was corny as hell.” 

“Did it work?” 

You meet his eyes, and yeah - it did. 

You set the mug down and pull him toward you, letting him kiss you slow, like the world isn’t about to start moving again. His hand curls over your thigh, his smile warm against your lips. 

When he pulls back, you sigh into his shoulder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come back with you.” 

“Knew it,” he says smugly. 

“On one condition,” you add. 

He raises a brow. 

“I keep the hoodie.” 

Lando grins, eyes half - lidded. “Deal.” 

You settle back into the bed, sun rising behind you, the sound of car engines and goodbyes faint in the background. But here, it’s just him. You. And the hoodie you’re never giving back. 

[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER FOUR

WARNINGS — suggestive touching, power imbalance, manipulation, dominant/possessive language, physical guidance, non-explicit dom/sub dynamics, reader overwhelmed/confused, Rafe is calculated and icky, grooming-adjacent behavior, breathy voice in ear, hand placement on hips and wrists

It’s your dad’s idea.

He tells you to get out of the house. Says you’ve been too cooped up with your books and files. Tells you to “go unwind,” like there’s somewhere to do that on a military base in the middle of summer.

So when one of the guys suggests pool at the rec hall, you say yes.

You don’t know it was Rafe who suggested it first.

You don’t know he planned it.

He’s already there when you arrive.

The room smells like sweat and chalk dust and something citrusy—you think it might be Rafe’s cologne. He’s wearing black. Just a t-shirt and cargo pants. Casual. Comfortable. Dangerous.

There are a few other guys. Most of them ignore you. One says hi politely. None of them offer to teach you how to play.

But Rafe does.

“Ever held a cue, sunshine?” he asks, already chalking the tip of one.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He smiles like he expected that.

Then he hands it to you.

It starts innocent enough.

He shows you how to stand. How to line up the cue ball. How to tilt your wrist. It’s harder than it looks.

You bend over awkwardly, squinting one eye as you try to line up the shot.

“That’s not how you hold it,” he says behind you.

You feel him before you see him.

His chest brushes your back. His hand slides over yours. One arm loops around your waist as he corrects your stance. Fingers on your hipbone.

You go still.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs near your ear. “Relax, sunshine. I got you.”

You nod—barely.

His breath is warm.

His fingers are steady.

“Keep your wrist straight,” he says. “Like this.”

He moves your hand.

“You wanna be smooth, not jerky. Control is everything.”

You swallow.

He’s pressed against you now, big and unyielding. You feel every inch of him.

“I—I think I got it,” you stammer.

But you don’t move.

He does.

One hand slips to your stomach. Not low, not obscene—just firm. Claiming. Like he’s saying stay put.

Then he leans down. Voice like syrup.

“Go on, sunshine. Show me what I taught you.”

You miss the shot.

You’re too flustered.

He makes a soft sound behind you—disappointed, amused, something else.

“Guess we’ll need more practice.”

He pulls the cue from your hands.

Then he tucks your hair behind your ear.

“You’ll get it. Good girls usually do.”

You don’t know why that makes your stomach flip.

You don’t know why you can’t look him in the eye afterward.

You don’t know why he watches you all night, smirking every time you squirm.

You don’t know any of it.

But he does.

And that’s the point.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-three: y/n

word count: 5.5k

warnings: this chapter contains descriptions of violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

forty-two | forty-three | forty-four

“Y/N—”

His knees hit the tile hard.

There was no time to think. There was no protocol or logic. There was just instinct — vicious, blinding instinct — as Lando dropped to his knees beside Y/N, already reaching for her, already trying to stop the bleeding with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

She was on her side, curled in on herself like her body was trying to hold in what it couldn’t. There was blood — not a lot at first, but more now. It soaked through her shirt in thick, wet patches and smeared across the floor from where she’d moved, or at least tried to. Her fingers were clumsy where they pressed against her own side, slipping and twitching with every shaky breath she tried to take.

This isn’t happening.

There was also the sound. It wasn’t a scream or a cry. Instead, it was just a wet, desperate wheeze. Her body jerked with each gasp — shallow, wet, choking sounds that made him feel like he was suffocating too.

“Hey. Hey, look a’ me.” His voice shook. He grabbed her face too quickly, too rough, trying to tilt her towards him, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Stay with me. Please.”

It hurt worse because she was trying. 

He could see it in the way her mouth moved, like she was trying to say something. His name, maybe. Or help. Or hurts. But all that came out was more blood — red against her lips, down her chin, too bright.

His stomach turned.

“Fuck—what happened?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Who– Who did this? What the fuck happened—”

He was interrupted when her body jolted slightly and her hand clutched at his wrist and she was coughing again, harder now, the blood bubbling from her mouth and dripping down her cheek.

He froze.

Then panic ripped through him like lightning.

Somewhere in the back, the phone kept ringing.

“Help!” he screamed, his throat raw. “Somebody fucking help me! Please— please, she’s— someone call an ambulance!”

He could barely breathe. His whole body felt wired and numb all at once, like he was floating above himself watching it happen.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed how her hands were still pressed against her stomach, but they were losing strength — fingers twitching, slipping, losing grip. He pressed his palms over hers, harder than he should have, trying to add pressure, to stop the leak, to fix it somehow, but the blood kept coming, dark and too much and too fast.

“You’re okay,” he said, his voice thin, breaking. “You’re alright, yeah? I’ve got you. You– You’re okay. You’re— fuck, what happened?”

In response, she could only look at him. Everything seemed to blur around the edges, including the outline of the man now holding her. Her eyes were wide and wet, dark pupils blown and drifting. 

This isn’t happening.

Her lips moved but no sound came out. There was only more blood.

“No, no, no, no—fuck!”, he muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated. He grabbed her more tightly now, easing her onto her back as gently as he could. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just—just breathe, alright? I know it hurts, I know, but you have to stay awake, okay?”

Instinctively, he still looked to her for a response. Maybe it was some desperate hope that she’d do something, make a gesture of some sort – that she’d do anything that she was aware, that she was here with him now.

It was only then he noticed the way she was shivering, the tny tremors wracking her weakening form. He didn’t know if it was fear, or shock, or from the blood loss — probably all of it. Her whole body was trembling against him and her eyes were unfocused now, lashes fluttering, her gaze slipping somewhere just past his shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–,” Lando swore loudly. His eyes darted to her side, where her hands were trembling against her stomach, barely pressing now, too weak to hold their grip. Immediately, he moved to take over, desperate to do anything to help as he pulled up her shirt just enough to see the wound.

The moment he saw it, all the oxygen escaped his lungs at once.

This isn’t happening.

Just where the cartilage met the bone of some of her ribs was a single, deep puncture wound. The incision was clean, even beneath the mess of fresh and dried blood that decorated its entrance, more blood spritzing weakly each time she attempted another shaky inhale.

Lower right lung.

Clean.

If it nicked somethin’ in there–

Lando couldn’t afford to think like that. So instead of thinking, he pressed down hard against the open flesh wound. Y/N let out a strangled cry, but at least it was sound. 

She can’t do that if she’s dead, he had to remind himself. That means she’s still alive.

She’s still alive.

Keep her alive.

Soon enough, even his hands alone weren't enough to stop the never ending flow of blood. Desperately, he spun his head around, looking for anything he could use, anything that could help. Anything even remotely useful was too far for him to reach without letting go of her, to far to reach without getting up. 

Wild eyes flitted in every direction, hoping to find a miracle. Eventually, when all else seemed to fail, Lando remembered the sweatshirt he’d been wearing.

I can use that. I can use it like a bandage and it’ll buy her time. It’ll buy her time so that she can–

So she could what?

Physically shaking the thought from his mind, Lando quickly pulled his sweatshirt over his head, before wadding it up and pushing it into the wound. As the fabric soaked up the fresh blood, rubbing up against the injury, Y/N cried out in pain again, the fabric’s brush causing her wound to burn. Her brown eyes widened with pain, her breath hitching and rattling.

“Y/N,” he called out, this time louder, hands shaking as he tried to steady her. Scrambling to find new patches of the fabric that hadn’t already been soaked in her blood, he explained, “I think– I think you’re bleedin’ into your chest. Shit—shit, I think ‘s your lung or somethin’, fuck, fuck—”

Her eyes were unfocused, her skin pale.

There was no way for him to know what was making it worse and what wasn’t, certainly not when his mind was blank and filled with static the way it was then. All he could do was hold her tighter, his palms pressed to her side as he tried to keep the warmth in. He pressed harder with little regard for her discomfort, because he would happily apologize for the rest of his life if he could just manage to keep her alive, if he could just manage to keep the cold tinge of death from creeping further up her fingertips.

“You’re okay,” he lied, smiling up at her. It was a warped, terrified quirk of his lips more than anything, but he put everything he had into making it as convincing as possible. Y/N deserved at least that much.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay, Y/N, you’re fine. ‘M right here.”

Below him, in his arms, the girl blinked slowly, like even that small action took too much effort. Her fingers twitched beneath his as blood leaked between them. Her legs twitched weakly once before going still again.

What? No, that can’t—

“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me,” Lando begged, his voice breaking completely. He’d begun to rock ever so slightly without realizing it, as if trying to soothe her to rest. “Don’t close your eyes. I swear to God, don’t fucking do that to me—”

Her eyelids fluttered anyway, as the colors only began to fade more feom view. Y/N tried desperately to focus on anything — the beaming overhead lights, the color of Lando’s eyes — but to no avail.

Oh, she realized distantly, trying to force herself to sort out her muddled thoughts. Lando’s here.

It was hard to know if she had managed to smile, since everything was so hard and Y/N was so very tired. But what she did know was that if Lando was here, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

As if triggered by that very thought, the singing pain in her side began to lessen, an odd coolness beginning to spread in its place. It was now significantly less uncomfortable, enough that she could finally allow herself just a moment of rest—

“No, no, don’t— shit, HELP!” Lando screamed, the sound so raw it scraped up his throat. The cry seemed to reverberate in the empty of the store. “SOMEONE HELP ME— SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME, SHE’S DYING!”

No one answered.

With shaking hands and blood-slicked fingers, Lando managed to pull out his phone and dial the emergency number, snapping at the dispatcher so fast they had to tell him to repeat himself. How could barely recall anything he’d actually said — their location, that she was stabbed.

He’d told them she was dying.

That he remembered.

By the time he ended the call, she was barely conscious.

“Hey. Hey, don’t fucking do this t’ me.”

He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other still pressing hard against her wound. His hands, his forearms, his clothes – everything was covered in her blood. His jeans were soaked through. Her breath was uneven, sharp and hitching.

It felt like hours passed before her eyes fluttered. Her lips parted in another attempt to speak, but all that came out was another choke. Blood bubbled at the base of her throat.

He nearly lost it then.

Hazel eyes met hers as he searched her face once more, looking for any sign she was in pain. But where there was once a grimace, now there was nothing. Nothing except familiar brown eyes, now wide with terror.

With his hoodie still pressed to her side in a futile attempt to put pressure on the bleeding, Lando was finally at a loss of what to do. There was no trick, no plan, no scheme that would whisk them away from this nightmare. There was only them, waiting on the faith that help would eventually arrive. 

As they waited, there was nothing he could do to take that look off her face. So he did the only thing he could still do for her.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he lied, his forehead pressed to hers. He had to force himself not to flinch in response to how cold her skin was against his. 

She’s not supposed to be cold. She hates being cold, always wants socks or a blanket or to lay next to me so she isn’t cold.

She’s not supposed to be cold.

“You hear me? You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, promise.”

It might have just been his own wishful thinking, but Lando almost could’ve sworn he heard her try to mumble his name. But when he looked at her eyes, they began to flutter shut.

“No. No. Stop it, stop it. Don’t– Please, sweetheart—”

The phone clattered to the ground beside him, forgotten. If the dispatcher said anything else, Lando certainly didn’t hear it. Even as he gently tried to shake her awake, her eyes continued to slip closed. 

“No, baby, hey—hey.” 

He leaned in, voice cracking under the weight of panic and heartbreak. “Stay with me, okay? I know you hate me. I know. But don’t—please don’t leave me like this.”

She didn’t answer him. 

Her lips barely parted with each dwindling breath, but that was the only sign she’d ever been breathing at all. Her lips moved, but there was no sound now. Where there once was muffled coughing or gurgling or even just weak wheezing, now there was no sound at all.

“Somebody help!” he shouted once more, one final hail mary attempt from a boy who was watching the one thing he loved fade before his very eyes. “Please— SOMEONE HELP ME!”

Nothing happened. 

No one came.

There was just the sound of her ragged breathing. Just the music still playing softly in the background, some lazy instrumental track that suddenly felt cruel. There was just the blood on the floor, warm against his knees.

As he sat there, swathed in artificial lighting and surrounded by a puddle of darkening red, Lando Norris finally broke. He cried like his chest had split open, because for him, it had. He cried until his shoulders shook and his tears fell to the tiles like a sorry attempt at washing away the damage that had already been done.

Lando Norris cried like a little boy. 

Even in his despair, his fingers curled tighter around her, holding her closer the way he used to as they laid on her couch not long ago. This time, however, his hands shook as he pressed harder. Her blood had now soaked through every layer of his clothing. He could feel it stain the skin of his knees, the fabric of his sleeves, could feel it dry into the crevices under his fingernails.

“You’re okay,” he continued to ramble quietly, his free hand searching frantically for some place where he wouldn’t somehow make it worse, where he wouldn’t somehow reap the soul from her body any faster than he already was. “You’re gonna be okay, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

As her body held on to the last tendrils of consciousness, Lando finally heard a faint sound in the distance.

Sirens.

He could hear them approaching closer, growing louder as they neared. But even then, they still sounded too far away.

Brushing the hair out of her face, Lando tried to give her a watery smile. His free hand reached for one of hers, squeezing it in an attempt at reassurance as tears streamed silently down his face. The sirens continued to grow louder as he curled himself around her further, like he was putting himself between her and the rest of the world, as if he was afraid someone would take her away from him.

He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered shakily, “Don’t go where I can’t follow, okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Even when the ambulance finally arrived, his hand never left hers.

Not once.

While the EMTs rushed to prepare the ambulance to take her, Lando appeared to be lost in his own world. The rest of the world faded into the background as he kept all his attention on her, nothing more important to him when every second she was in her arms could be her last.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other still pressing down on the gash in her side, and gently brushed his fingers against her cheek in soft strokes.

But she was so still now.

So quiet.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. “You hear me? You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna get through this, and I’m gonna tell you m’sorry a thousand fucking times, and you’re gonna roll your eyes and make fun of me for crying. You’re gonna tell me I’m being dramatic and tell me to shut up and maybe— maybe even let me kiss you again someday.”

Y/N’s eyes finally slipped closed.

Panic consumed Lando like a tidal wave inside his chest. “No. No. Y/N—open your eyes. Please.”

The ambulance lights hit the windows as they finally drove away: red, then blue, then red again.

Lando didn’t remember walking through the doors of Princess Grace Hospital.

He could only vaguely recall being in the ambulance, muttering things under his breath, his words only soft enough for Y/N to hear. He remembered being upset about something…

But about what?

It took effort to recall the details with any level of clarity. As he strained himself to remember, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the chaos of the emergency department as the main doors swung open before him.

One medic was already haunched over her, checking vitals and shouting numbers. Another was holding pressure on the wound — not his hands anymore, someone else’s hands. That shook him more than he’d expected. She was bleeding out under someone else’s hands now.

Forcing himself out of whatever haze threatened to cloud over his mind, Lando rushed to keep pace with the rest of the medical personnel as they transferred her from one stretcher to another. 

He followed them as far as they let him.

“Sir, you can’t come past this point—”

His brows furrowed, immediately upset. “She’s my— I’m with her!”

Still, Lando wasn’t allowed past the double doors. He barely got a glimpse of her being wheeled away — her face slack, lips blue, oxygen mask pressed too hard against her skin. He tried to follow, tried to push his way after her, but someone — a nurse or a security guard, maybe both — held him back by the shoulders.

“Sir, you need to let them work.”

He nearly decked the guy, but he couldn't conjure the strength to. It was as if when she had left through those doors where he couldn’t follow, his strength had left him too. Instead, he just stood there shaking, covered in blood that wasn’t his.

Lando stood there for a moment. Just stood.

Someone said his name — maybe one of the nurses.

But the hallway started to stretch. His ears rang. His vision blurred around the edges, the sterile overhead lights casting everything in too much white.

As a nurse ushered him into a seat, his leg bounced. His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. The front of his shirt grew stiff with her blood — and no one had asked him to change yet, probably because no one could even look him in the eyes.

Once he was seated, that was when they proceeded to ask him her full name. He gave it without hesitation. They asked her date of birth — he knew that too. 

But medical history? Allergies?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t fucking know.

He’d memorized the sound of her laugh. The rhythm of her breathing when she slept. The exact way she liked her coffee down to the swirl. But he didn’t know what kind of blood ran through her veins, or whether she could take O-negative, or if she’d ever had surgery before.

Something like anger burned in his throat at the mere suggestion that Lando didn't know her. Who the hell were they to even think that? They were’nt the ones who had to know what it felt like when your heart lives outside of your chest. They weren’t the ones that had their hands stained red with her blood. They weren’t the ones who had to listen for the faintest sound of her breathing after knowing what her heartbeat sounded like when she slept. They weren’t the ones who had to watch her go still before their very eyes.

They took her into the OR, and he was left in the waiting room.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

He hadn’t taken a sip of the vending machine coffee someone handed him. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom. Hell, he hadn’t even breathed right since the EMTs took her from his hands.

Now he just sat and waited. When he got too restless, he forced himself up onto his feet and paced. Back and forth, back and forth — near the entrance, then the vending machine, then the desk. Then he sat. Then he stood again. Then he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like that would stop the image of her from flashing over and over in his mind — her on the floor, her blood in his hands, her fingers slipping from his grasp like the whole world was tilting.

She’d been in surgery for three and a half hours.

The nurse at the desk had said they’d update him.

They hadn’t.

When it felt like time had slowed to a glacial pace, he’d gone to the front desk and asked if they could tell him anything — how deep the wound had gone, what organ had been hit — but they just kept saying they were doing everything they could. That she was in “good hands.”

Lando didn’t give a shit about good hands.

He just wanted her.

He wanted her yelling at him, telling him to go home. He wanted her brushing him off, rolling her eyes, pretending she hadn’t missed him even though he could always tell when she had. He wanted her awake. Breathing. There.

Yet as the clock ticking menacingly on the wall of the waiting room never let him forget, she was somewhere behind a wall of double doors, split open on a table, while strangers stitched her back together and tried to keep her from bleeding out entirely.

Lando pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He wasn’t crying.

He refused to cry.

He’d cried enough already.

Instead, the endless hours left him with ample time to play it all over and over again in his mind, like horror film he never wanted to see. Scrunching his eyes shut, his ears echoed with the memory of when the paramedics tried to pull him away from her. He’d screamed at them. 

Don’t touch her. Don’t move her. Don’t take her away from me.

They hadn’t listened.

In the ambulance, he just kept whispering to no one: “She has to be okay. She has to.”

Somewhere around hour five, his breath started catching in his chest again. His hands felt like ice. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, trying to steady himself.

One of the nurses nearby seemed to notice the way Lando was hyperventilating as if the walls were closing in on him. She tried to get him to eat, to get some rest. 

Lando wordlessly waved her away without answering.

The truth was that he was stuck. He was stuck in the moment he saw her eyes start to close, in the way she’d tried to say his name but couldn’t, in the way her hands slipped away from his and her body went so, so still.

He remembered thinking, This is what it looks like when someone dies in your arms.

And he hadn’t realized until just now that he was still holding her weight, even when she wasn’t there.

Physically, Lando Norris was sat in the emergency room of one of the best hospitals in the world, armed with a soft paper cup of lukewarm coffee that he wasn’t drinking, squinting every time the doors swung open just in case it was someone with news. However, in his mind, Lando was still on that café floor, still whispering to her through the blood, still begging her to hold on.

“Are you here for Y/N Y/L/N?”

Lando instantly bolted upright. “Yes. Is she—?”

“She is still in surgery,” a nurse said calmly. “We just wanted to inform you. It is… taking a while.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, voice too rough to sound like himself.

The nurse hesitated. “It means she lost quite a lot of blood. And her body isn’t responding well to the transfusions.”

That news marked the beginning of hours of pacing and stopping and pacing again, of every clock tick feeling like a needle to the back of his spine. He’d already asked the nurse’s station a second time too — no update. She was still in surgery. The damage had been extensive. The blood loss alone would’ve been enough to kill her if they’d gotten there even five minutes later.

What do you even say to that?

It was hour six when a surgeon finally emerged, just after 4 a.m. He looked middle-aged, and weary-eyed, rubbing at his face like the surgery had aged him in real time as he approached where Lando sat in the waiting room.

“She made it through surgery,” he stated first. “But it was close.”

That word didn’t leave Lando’s head.

Close.

“She lost a significant amount of blood,” the doctor went on, voice calm but firm, like this was just another case. “The stab wound punctured her lower lung, missed a major artery by about a centimeter. We had to do an emergency thoracotomy and abdominal exploration to control the internal bleeding.”

“She’s had two transfusions already,” the doctor added. “Her body’s reacting slowly. It could be the stress, could be the shock. Maybe also she was on the floor for longer than anyone realized.”

Then hee paused, as if trying to decide how much to say.

Lando only stared.

“They’ve had to go very slow with the replacement as she is rejecting some of it. It’s not uncommon. But it is dangerous. And the wound was… close. It missed her major artery by about two centimeters. We had to transfuse more than we expected — her body’s not accepting the new volume as quickly as we’d like. We’re monitoring for signs of organ stress.”

Lando’s mouth was dry. “But she’s alive?”

A beat.

“She made it through surgery,” the doctor said. “The blade missed several critical nerves by millimeters. But she’s still in critical condition. We need to see how she responds.”

Lando nodded once. Truthfully, it was about all he could manage. All the exhaustion of the day caught up with him at once, every muscle and joint aching as if he had spent the whole day sparring or running. Everything felt weaker, more fragile somehow.

“She’s being moved to ICU,” a woman came to inform him afterward. “She’ll be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. Those will be critical. If she stabilizes by tomorrow morning, her chances go up. If not…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

They didn’t let him see her right away. “ICU protocol,” they’d explained.

But through the small window of the door, he could see the outline of her body beneath the thin white blanket. Tubes in her arms. Wires on her chest. The hiss of a ventilator helping her lungs do what they should’ve been able to on their own.

She looked nothing like herself.

She looked… small.

He pressed a hand to the window, even as it smeared blood across the glass. He didn’t wipe it off, content with finally being able to see the steady rise and fall of her chest, if even from afar.

They let him in around 3 a.m.

The nurse didn’t say much — just nodded toward the hallway and told him to keep it quiet, and please don’t touch any of the monitors. He didn’t answer, just followed the linoleum path past doors that weren’t hers until he reached the right one.

When they finally did let him see her, he wasn’t ready.

He’d thought he was. He’d spent hours pacing that waiting room, rehearsing what he might say, bracing for the worst, calculating how many apologies he’d need to string together just to deserve breathing the same air as her again.

But when he stepped into that sterile, humming room and saw her lying there, he was startled by how pale she was. It confused him to see her, to see the girl he loved hooked up to more machines than he could count. Her skin appeared faintly clammy under the pulse monitor’s clip.

Looking at her, the words left him entirely.

He hadn’t spoken since they let him in. Instead, he just watched her, just let his eyes move over every inch of her like he was memorizing her face all over again. Her lips were chapped. Her knuckles scraped. Someone had cleaned the blood off her hairline, but he could still see the faint trace of it, like something haunting the edge of her skin.

It was too quiet inside.

Machines hummed softly. One beeped — slow, steady. The fluorescent lighting had been dimmed to a low twilight glow, casting shadows on the walls like ghosts that refused to leave. It only made her look more pale, highlighting the way her lips parted just enough to see the breathing tube. Her arms were tucked with wires and tape and bruises blooming beneath the skin.

Lando sat in the stiff plastic chair at her bedside, elbows on knees, head bowed like he was in prayer. He wanted to reach for her hand, but he flinched when he found that her arm was hooked to an IV line, fingers limp against the starched sheets. A compression cuff hissed softly every few minutes. The bruises on her ribs were starting to surface now — angry, blue and blooming like ink stains.

At least she’s alive.

His elbows braced against his knees. His hands folded in front of him. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“Hey,” he said quietly, because anything louder would’ve felt wrong. “You look terrible.”

He waited for a beat, but there was no laugh or eye roll or snarky comeback about his own disheveled mess. In the silence of the room, there was just the soft hiss of the ventilator, the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Something about the sounds irked him. Slowly, he rubbed a hand down his face, cleary tired beyond just what anyone from the outside could see.

Y/N would’ve been able to see.

He missed her.

“I never meant for this t’ happen,” he muttered. His voice sounded too loud, even though it was barely more than a whisper.

“I was going to let go,” he added, quieter. “I wasn’t going to bother you anymore. I just… I just wanted to see that you were okay. That you moved on. That you—”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. 

“But I ruined everything,” he finished, his voice wavering.

He looked down at his hands, still tinged red no matter how hard he scrubbed them raw. He looked down at the hands that had done everything they could to try to keep her alive, only for her to end up like this.

Of course you couldn’t keep her alive. 

He was The Reaper, after all. And everyone knew that Reapers could only take lives, not save them. And Lando Norris had never known how to hold anything without killing it.

He stared at her. The only part of her that moved was the slow rise and fall of her chest — mechanical, borrowed, a rhythm not her own.

“I don’t know how to make this right,” he said after a long moment, almost to himself. “I thought I could keep you separate. Like maybe if I loved you hard enough, it would cancel everything else out.”

He let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t sound quite right.

“But it doesn’t work like that. You can’t love someone enough to undo what you are.”

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. He never cried when it mattered most. He just sat there, with hands that didn’t know how to be empty and a silence that felt like penance.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispered. “I’d take it if I could. Every drop of it. Every minute.”

He reached for her hand, then hesitated, then folded his fingers around hers gently – like if he was any less careful, he might truly break her beyond repair.

Her fingers didn’t move. The machines went on ticking, reminding him that time was still passing — still moving forward, even if he didn’t know how to follow it anymore.

He didn’t let go. The thread bracelet was still around his wrist. It was half-soaked with blood, but still there. He looked at it now, turning it over between his fingers. It was proof that she would always be a part of him, long before she’d even known the truth.

“I don’t even know if you’d want me here,” he murmured, voice rough from too many hours without speaking. “If you knew I was sitting here like this.”

Out of habit, his thumb traced mindless patterns over the back of her hand. It reminded him of warmer times, of simpler ones. Lando would give anything he had to go back to then.

“I used to think the worst thing I could do was lose you. But now I’m starting to think it was letting you know who I really was. Like if I’d just stayed Liam a little longer… you might’ve never looked at me like that.”

He swallowed, hard.

“I don’t want to be the reason you stop loving anything. Not this place. Not your work. Not people.” He shook his head. “But I ruined it. I fucking ruined it. And I would trade everything I’ve ever built just to go back and not—”

He let his eyes fall shut for just a second.

That single second was just long enough to miss the sound of the door creaking open. It was just long enough not to hear the footsteps behind him.

The sound of a safety being turned off was unmistakable, the quiet click of it echoing in the silent room.

Lando didn’t even need to turn around to know what it was. The cold metal pressed to the back of his skull was confirmation enough.

He froze. 

A beat passed. 

Lando didn’t breathe.

“I knew I’d see you here, Norris,” the man behind him whispered. Alex Albon leaned in slightly — just enough for Lando to feel the weight behind the gun now.

“You’re so fucking predictable when it comes to the people you love.”

a/n: ...

[feministdragon]

this is Chapter V now:

"You see, John, the women have specialized — even in motherhood.” Then he went on at considerable length to show how there had arisen a recognition of far more efficient motherhood than was being given; that those women best fitted for the work had given eager, devoted lives to it and built up a new science of Humaniculture; that no woman was allowed to care for her children without proof of capacity.

“Allowed by whom?” I put in.

“By the other women — the Department of Child Culture — the Government.”

“And the fathers — do they submit to this, tamely?”

“No; they cheerfully agree and approve. Absolutely the biggest thing that has happened, some of us think, is that new recognition of the importance of childhood. We are raising better people now.”

I was silent for a while, pulling up bits of grass and snapping small sticks into inch pieces.

“There was a good deal of talk about Eugenics, I remember,” I said at last, “and — what was that thing? Endowment of Motherhood?”

“Yes — man’s talk,” Owen explained. “You see, John, we couldn’t look at women but in one way — in the old days; it was all a question of sex with us — inevitably, we being males. Our whole idea of improvement was in better breeding; our whole idea of motherhood was in each woman’s devoting her whole life to her own children. That turbid freshet of an Englishman, Wells, who did so much to stir his generation, saw women only as females and wanted them endowed as such. He was never able to see them as human beings and amply competent to take care of themselves.“Now, our women, getting hold of this idea that they really are human creatures, simply blossomed forth in new efficiency. They specialized the food business — Hallie’s right about the importance of that — and then they specialized the baby business. All women who wish to, have babies; but if they wish to take care of them they must show a diploma.”

I looked at him. I didn’t like it — but what difference did that make? I had died thirty years ago, it appeared.

“A diploma for motherhood!” I repeated; but he corrected me.

“Not at all. Any woman can be a mother — if she’s normal. I said she had to have a diploma as a child-culturist— quite a different matter.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“No, I suppose not. I didn’t, once,” he said. “Any and every mother was supposed to be competent to ‘raise’ children — and look at the kind of people we raised! You see, we are beginning to learn — just beginning. You needn’t imagine that we are in a state of perfection — there are more new projects up for discussion than ever before.

We’ve only made a start. The consequences, so far, are so good that we are boiling over with propositions for future steps.”

“Go on about the women,” I said. “I want to know the worst and become resigned.”

“There’s nothing very bad to tell,” he continuedcheerfully.

“When a girl is born she is treated in all ways as if she was a boy; there is no hint made in any distinction between them except in the perfectly open physiologicalinstruction as to their future duties. Children, young humans, grow up under precisely the same conditions. I speak, of course, of the most advanced people — there are still backward places — there’s plenty to do yet.

“Then the growing girls are taught of their place and power as mothers — and they have tremendously high ideals. That’s what has done so much to raise the standard in men. It came hard, but it worked.”

I raised my head with keen interest, remarking, “I’ve glimpsed a sort of Iron hand in a velvet glove back of all this. What did they do?”

Owen looked rather grim for a moment.

“The worst of it was twenty or twenty-five years back. Most of those men are dead. That new religious movement stirred the socio-ethical sense to sudden power; it coincided with the women’s political movement, urging measures for social improvement; its enormous spread, both by preaching and literature, lit up the whole community with new facts, ideas and feelings. Health — physical purity — was made a practical ideal. The young women learned the proportion of men with syphilis and gonorrhoea and decided it was wrong to marry them. That was enough. They passed laws in every State requiring a clean bill of health with every marriage license. Diseased men had to die bachelors — that’s all.”

“And did men submit to legislation like that?” I protested.

“Why not? It was so patently for the protection of the race — of the family — of the women and children. Women were solid for it, of course — And all the best men with them. To oppose it was almost a confession of guilt and injured a man’s chances of marriage.”“It used to be said that any man could find a woman to marry him,” I murmured, meditatively.

“Maybe he could — once. He certainly cannot now. A man who has one of those diseases is so reported — just like small-pox, you see. Moreover, it is registered against him by the Department of Eugenics — physicians are required to send in lists; any girl can find out.”

As I read I'm starting to think that Gilman is not precisely eugenicist, in the sense of *unfit people* being bred out of existence. No, I think what's going on here is that *unfit men* are being manipulated into a different way of being. I don't think you can call this eugenics, although you definitely could call it social engineering.

I need everyone in radblr to go buy urself a copy of "Herland"(1915(?)) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman as soon as possible. Yall do not understand. I cannot believe this isn't like, basic radfem/female separatist literature already.

Same author as "The Yellow Wallpaper", three men find a land consisting of only women which is a literal utopia. The men question their own failures in patriarchal society while the women of this land politely exchange information with them about their own lands.

You have no idea how therapeutic this book is. men casually say "oh no man can do that!" and the women respond "oh, no man? can women do it?" and the men go "oh yeah, also no women". There's also such brilliant regular feminist thinking through the book;

"These women... were strikingly deficient in what we call "femininity". this led me very promptly to the conviction that those "feminine charms" we are so fond of are not feminine at all, but mere reflected masculinity- developed to please us because they had to please us, and in no way essential to real fulfillment of their great process."

Insane for 1915 and such a fucking relief and pleasure to read. I hope all the anons who have asked me about radfem books see this bc yall NEED IT

[svckmyballzfr]

“I know it’s over”

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Maki Zenin!reader

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 - “Where else I can go” Tw: neglect, Injury, obsession, abandonment, Torture, Abuse, SA, Death, Suicidal thoughts, Suicide, brief description about [name]’s eyes sorry (this is a disclaimer for the whole story + sorry about the bad grammar and typos, I won’t rewrite until I’m bored)

[Somewhere In Tokyo]

The sun was setting as it rained, the streetlight outside of the school buzzed as it flickered.

Heavy breathing was heard in the hallways of said, school “Well Well , if it isn’t Yuta Okkotsu my favorite weakling”

“Don’t you come near me” Yuta said shakily as three boys surrounded him in the empty classroom.

“Oh come on, don’t play hard to get” The bully said with a smirk.

“I said don’t …” Yuta said trying to said tuff but failing miserably as the bully itched closer to him. “Come on I just wanna slug you one more time before i graduate!” The bully laughed and his little minions joined in.

“Stop it..” Yuta muttered as he clenched his other arm looking down.

“Since it’s our last time together, maybe I should just kill you” The bully said as he walked closer.

“D-don’t touch me! RIKA” Yuta said in a panicked tone looking up as the bully had gotten closer with his hands towards him. A large shadow then appeared behind the bully and he froze with a wavering presence behind him.

“hm? Whatcha say?” The bully asked confused as large hands with sharp nail and went to both sides of his face. “Argh!” The bully let out a noise as his face was pulled back behind him.

….

The rain got heavier outside as yuta had crouched by the walls of the classroom muttering “I’m sorry” Blood leaks from the locker next to him slowly and it slowly opens to a mangled body.

Yuta was now sitting in a chair, in a room full of Tailsman with small lamps surrounded in the dark room to give light. He looks up staring at all the Tailsman that reached to the dark never ending ceiling.

….

“A complete cover up and a secret execution? Boy that’s some story” Gojo said unamused “The child in question did consent though.” One of the higher ups replied but Gojo quickly responded “He’s underage, just sixteen years old, and who knows how many he have cursed”

“So you’ll take him?” One of the old hags of the higher ups asked “Yes, Yuta Okkotsu will attend Jujustu high school.”

….

Yuta had his head down with his arms crossed still sitting on the chair “You make this in shop class?” Gojo said infront of him holding up a twisted knife “Yuta Okkotsu..” he finished “I-it used to be a knife..” he said softly

“I tried killing myself” He hugged his knees closer and slowly looked up “But…Rika wouldn’t let me. Gojo just stared at him “Kinda dark.” he tossed the twisted knife away. “guess what? You’re starting at a new school today.”

…

The next day at Yuta got ready for the day where he would Jujustu high! He got to walking in the hallways tiredly with his eye bags shining in the sun.

“Did you hear about the new transferred student coming today? I heard he stuffed 4 of his classmates in a locker” Panda said while he walked with [name] and Inumaki

“You mean he killed them?” [name] asked “Tuna mayo” Inumaki added “Nah, gravely injured”

“If he’s cocky I’ll put him in his place” [name] said holding her bag on her shoulder. “Bento flakes” Inumaki sighed

“Students of all grades!” Gojo said exaggerating with hand motions “We have a new student! Give him a hand!!!!!”

‘God it’s too damn early for his bullshit..’ [name] said with a her head leaning on her hand, with her legs crossed.

“not one hand…” he said sadly

“Heard the kid’s a real wet blanket, the last thing I need is an another moody rookie to look after.” (Whatever that means..)

“Salmon”

Panda hums in agreement with Inumaki, Gojo sighs and puts his hand out “Oh well then! You can come on in now!”

Yuta then opens the sliding door and as soon as his foot stepped in the classroom they sensed his cursed aura and ever stepped he took it got stronger. Panda tensed up and got aggressive and [name] eyes widen, a large menacing curse was sensed behind him and made a strange noise while facing the 3 students, [name] unzipped her bag, Inumaki put a hand on his tall collar getting ready to use his cursed technique.

Bruce Wayne had never truly possessed a reason to resent [name]—not a logical one, at least. He simply did. Or, more accurately, the reason was etched into [name]’s eyes: the exact same eyes as her mother’s.

Every time Bruce looked at her, he saw those eyes staring back—haunted by their shape, their color. He recoiled, not out of hatred, but from something far more : fear. Because he knew precisely why they unnerved him.

Her mother—the woman he loved—had abandoned him. Abandoned the Waynes. She had walked away from the life they had built, forsaking them for her Clan—a group that viewed weakness as expendable and loyalty as conditional. A Clan that had never seen her as a person, only as power.

That memory alone, of her turning her back—festered inside Bruce like a wound that refused to heal. The thought of her always lingered, sharp and unforgiving, and [name] carried that echo with every glance.

So when Bruce received a call from Naobito Zenin, irritation boiled in his chest. He instructed Alfred to sever any lines of communication. He didn’t want to hear from them. But curiosity clawed at him, and eventually, he took the call.

“Maybe M/n is finally ready to crawl back. Fine. I’ll entertain it—but I’ll make her work for it,” he had thought, even allowing a slight smile at the idea of seeing her again. Just like old times… M/n, Satoru, and him—together. A family of sorts, fractured but familiar.

But that smile shattered when Naobito’s voice turned somber. M/n was dead—she had died months ago. And now, there was a child. A daughter. His daughter.

He could barely choke out a response. “What.”

It was too much. Jason’s resurrection. The chaos of the Red Hood. And now, this?

Bruce had Gordon collect the girl from the airport and order a DNA test immediately. He needed proof—needed something solid to stand on.

The results were : the child was his. And… impossibly, she was Satoru Gojo’s as well???

The moment she stepped through the manor doors, Bruce hadn’t yet been briefed. But when his eyes met hers—one luminous blue like Gojo’s, the other the rich hue of M/n’s—he knew.

Even beyond the strange eye color, everything else was him. The cheekbones. The jawline. Even her posture. She stood tall for a six-year-old—too tall. But those eyes... they unraveled him.

He couldn’t be near her.

If he stayed, he feared he might crumble. Or worse… lash out at something so heartbreakingly innocent.

“I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,” he murmured, voice hollow and clipped, before retreating to the Batcave.

There, beneath the weight of grief he’d never prepared for, Bruce collapsed to the floor. Hands gripping the cold ground, lungs burning, air slipping through him like smoke. Pressure mounted on his chest, like unseen hands crushing his ribs. His limbs trembled. His heart thundered like a war drum in his ears.

“No, no, no, no… please stop…” he thought as panic overtook him. His vision tunneled, lips dry, mind spinning into a storm of sorrow and helplessness.

.

.

.

.

Dick never had anything against [name], he knew her mother was really close to Bruce and had seen the woman before plenty of times as robin and he couldn’t help but grow fond of her. I mean that’s basically his mother! So was nice, caring and also helped him when he had a problem with something between him, and Bruce! He could’ve hate her, never! But that changed when she had left, when he was nightwing. How could she? For that clan.

So, when Dick was in the kitchen he had got surprised by a voice behind him and when he turned he had thought it was M/n but smaller! Those eyes. Blue and e/c eyes…he got scared and kicked the poor child.

‘I mean who is this child?? Why do they have M/n eyes, and Gojo’s eyes…’ he soon snapped out of it when he seen blood dripping from her head.

hey sorry I’m so sorry…” Dick said and helped her up.

“I-It’s o-ok I’m a big girl..” [name] says as she wipes the streak of blood of off her forehead.

“Let me-“ Before he finishes he gets a text from Alfred [Master Bruce has passed out in the batcave. Please hurry here master Dick.]

“You said you were a big girl right?” He said turning his head to her. [name] nods her head eagerly.

“Then you’ll be fine handling it. I have to go. When I come back we can go to the arcade.” Dick offered a smile then left and hurried to the batcave where Alfred stood with a worried expression.

….

The next day Bruce had woke up in his bed when dick sat near with his hands on his face.“Bruce.” Dick stood up when Bruce had sat up on the edge of the bed. “What happ-“

“I can’t be a father for that girl.” Bruce interrupted and Dick froze and looked confused “The girl little that just came to the manor. I can’t be her father. That isn’t my daughter.”

Dick just stared at Bruce with a frown “Bruce-“ Bruce silently began to cry with a hand on his eyes “I can’t..” he said shakily, dick sat next to him with a hand on his back “Ok.”

Of course Dick didn’t approve of this, I mean who would??? But he could obviously see that Bruce isn’t in the right state but It’s ok he’ll be a big brother for her to lean on and see as a father…one day. Right?

.

.

.

.

Jason hated [name].

Or at least, that’s what he told himself every single time he caught her in the corner of his eye, every time someone so much as brought up her name. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, cross his arms, and say something cruel like-

“She’s a spoiled bratty bitch whose mother was a dumb whore that got herself killed.”

He said it like it was truth. Cold, harsh truth.

But deep down—where the rage throbbed and the loneliness curled into something even colder—Jason knew he was full of it. Every time he dragged her mother’s name through the mud, he was really just trying to bury how much he missed her. M/n was the only person who ever made him feel like more than a burden. She treated him like he mattered—like he was hers.

He cried harder than anyone when he found out she died. No one saw it. He made sure of that. But behind all the noise and anger and bravado, he wept for her. For the mother he never truly had, but almost did. Until she left. Until she abandoned him—right after he was kidnapped. After the Joker. After everything.

And now she was dead?

Jason couldn’t even look at photos of her without feeling like the world was cracking apart at the seams. He hated her for walking away. Hated her for dying. Hated how much he still loved her.

He had ignored Dick’s call two days ago. Didn’t want to hear anything that had to do with the manor. With Bruce. But something in Dick’s voice… something had kept him from deleting the message. So now here he was—back in the same house where everything had started to rot.

Dick looked like a wreck. Pale. Exhausted. Haunted.

Jason didn’t bother hiding his sneer. “What’s wrong with you, dickface?”

Dick barely looked up. “She’s dead.” His voice cracked like glass. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Jason blinked, confused. “Who?”

“M/n… I just wanted to tell you. She has a child. And she… she’s here.”

Dick couldn’t even finish. He left the room without another word.

Jason stood there for a long time. Heart pounding. Head spinning.

He wandered into the library, trying to escape the weight of it all. Grabbed a book—anything to pull him out of his own head. Tried to focus. Tried to not feel.

But the pages blurred. Wet. His hands were shaking.

Tears? No. No, stop that. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

But he did. God, he did.

No mission, no alias, no mask could erase the ache of being loved—and left behind.

She had come into his life. Treated him like a son. Then left. Had a baby. A new child. And then died.

Where was his closure? Where was his chance to protect her? To yell at her? To forgive her?

Jason slammed the book shut and sat frozen, chest heaving.

Then someone bumped into him.

His book hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh, sorry—” a small voice stammered.

He looked down.

It was like someone had punched him in the gut.

Those eyes. One blue. One [e/c].

His hands curled into fists.

So this is who she died for? This… replacement? This child? Is this the one who got her love in the end? Got her last words? Her final breath?

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

The girl looked down, ashamed. “...oh.”

He scoffed, bitterness thick in his throat. “Another one of Bruce’s adopted mistakes?”

“I-I’m his kid! I promise… a-and you’re my brother, right?” she said quietly, voice soft and trembling.

Jason didn’t answer. He smirked—sharp and humorless.

She thinks I’m her brother. Like she gets to call me that.

He knelt slightly, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder, watching her flinch beneath his grip. “Look, kid,” he said, voice like ice, “you’re just one of Bruce’s little distractions. And soon enough, he’ll forget about you too—just like everything else you care about. You’re not special. And I’m not your brother.”

He let her go and turned without another glance as she stumbled into the bookshelf behind her. The sound echoed like guilt.

But Jason kept walking.

And as he stormed off down the hallway, jaw clenched so tight it ached, he swore something to himself in silence.

‘You ruined the only good thing I ever had—just by being born. So don’t expect mercy. Not from me.’

Yuta explains that the Cursed Spirit is Rika, a childhood friend whom he had promised to marry when they grew up. Rika died in a freak accident and became an overprotective spirit that harms anyone who threatens him. 

During his first mission with [Name], Yuta successfully summons Rika on his own for the first time to save them from a Cursed Spirit. Three months pass in his school training, and he grows close to [Name], Toge, and Panda. One day, on a mission together, Toge and Yuta are attacked by a high-level Curse. The man behind the attack was Suguru Geto, a previous student and old friend of Gojo, who defected from the school and killed over a hundred innocent people on a mission.

Geto attempts to get Yuta on his side so they can make use of Rika, but Yuta refuses when he insults Yuta's friends due to unsettled circumstances. Geto declares war to activate a portal to the under-world: he will release a thousand Curses upon the city to remove non-sorcerer humans, as he believes them to be undeserving and beneath sorcerers. Geto's real reason for the war, however, is to distract Gojo so he can kill Yuta and add Rika to his collection of cursed spirits. Gojo realizes this upon learning of Yuta's background, and sends Inumaki and Panda back to the school to protect Yuta and Maki during the night of Geto's attack. Geto overpowers them all, leaving only Yuta conscious. Enraged at seeing his friends hurt, Yuta promises himself as a sacrifice to Rika in order to strengthen their bond. As a result, Geto is severely wounded. He is found by Gojo, who after reflecting on their past friendship, executes him.

.

.

.

.

[name] stood quietly at the edge of the room, her gaze resting on Gojo’s sleeping form. The soft rise and fall of his chest was the only proof he was still here—still breathing, still fighting. But earlier… she’d seen his face after the fighting. The way his expression cracked when he thought no one was looking. The way his hands trembled before he shoved them deep into his pockets.

Her eyes drifted to the blindfold resting against his forehead, slightly askew. With a small breath, she stepped closer, fingers twitching nervously as she reached for it. She gently lifted it from his eyes, careful not to wake him, and replaced it with her own glasses, pressing them onto his face with a little huff.

she slipped the blindfold over her own eyes.

“Gosh, how does he see with this thing?” she muttered to herself with a crooked smile. “I’m literally blind right now.”

She took a step—and promptly bumped into the wall with a soft thud.

“Ow…” she mumbled, rubbing her arm.

Laughter—low and breathy—broke the silence behind her.

She whipped around, the blindfold slipping halfway off her face. Gojo was awake. Sitting up. Watching her.

And smiling.

His eyes—those eyes—were soft and bright like sunlight scattered across an endless ocean. Their glow lit something warm and dizzying inside her chest.

“H-HUH?! THIS IS A DREAM!” [name] blurted, panicking, leaping into the weirdest stance she could think of on the spot.

“Oh wow, I’m terrified,” he teased, clapping dramatically. “Is that… the ancient Fighting Crane meets Confused Flamingo technique? Legendary.”

[name] tried to hold the pose, struggling to stay serious. “Silence! I am the blindfolded warrior, guardian of the living room!” she declared, wobbling slightly to the left.

“Well then, oh mighty warrior,” he said with a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes, “I challenge you to a duel. But only if you can pass… the tickle trial.”

“Huh? Wait no—NO!” she shrieked as Gojo lunged, grabbing her sides with the lightest poke.

She burst into uncontrollable giggles, twisting away and finally pulling off the blindfold in a fit of laughter.

“You blue eye bastard!” she panted, catching her breath.

He sat up, smiling softly now. “Yeah, I tend to break the rules. Especially for a smile like that.”

For a moment, there was silence—the good kind. Then his voice turned gentler.

“Hey, [name]… could you take that bandage off?”

She blinked, confused. “Oh. Sure—but I kinda can’t see too good with that eye,” she murmured, fingertips brushing the edge of the gauze as she slowly peeled it away.

Her partially blind eye met his, and he stared.

“I was right,” he whispered, stepping forward with small, steady steps.

“What?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

She felt it, then. The heat of tears soaking through her shirt. His shoulders trembled against her. The strongest man she knew was quietly falling apart in her arms

“You’re my daughter.”

She froze in his embrace. And then slowly, carefully, wrapped her arms around him, like maybe, just maybe—someone loves her.

A/N || sorry for the wait but here’s the chapter!!! And boom here’s the big plot twist!!! btw name won’t have six eyes or anything, just related to gojo!! SO YES GOJO IS OUR PAPI TOO GUYS 😜 (ALSO ANOTHER AUTHOR I LOVE LIKED MY SERIES AHHHHH!!!!! TYYYYYYY ILYSM (I follow you😝) Also about the genetics thing, M/n genes pull the stronger genes into [name] ,but there is a possible, a little chance that if there is a third party, their genetics can also be in said baby (not logically obvious)

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[softjeekies]

Waiting After The Rain

↳ chapter 8

previous chapter // next chapter(coming soon)

Pairing: ot8!stray kids x pregnant omega!reader

Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.

Warnings: nothing explicit but they allude to the fact that the pack members have sex, a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory

A/N: enjoy :)

Changbin is a strong alpha. He’s physically strong, but he is also extremely emotionally intelligent. His pack is his life; he’d do anything for them, and he hates being put in situations he can’t fix right away. Nobody he loves should ever have to suffer.

“Changbin, baby what happened? Han and Felix are at Y/N’s door and she’s not answering, They’re scared, I’m scared.” Hyunjin’s calming voice echoes through the garage as he walks towards the alpha placing a gentle hand on his cheek.

“He found her. I knocked him out.” Hyunjin gasps, and his gaze drops down to Changbin’s irritated knuckles, which are a little swollen; you could tell they were going to bruise.

“Did you call the police? Did he touch her? Did he touch you? Oh my god, we have to call Chan.” Hyunjin spits out words faster than Changbin can really process but he hears the name he needs the most, Chan.

“Yeah, let’s call Chan. Help me get these groceries inside and we will call Chan, get everyone home and we can figure this out.” Hyunjin nods and immediately starts grabbing bags, The tension is high between the two as they load groceries inside and into their rightful spots. The smell of extinguished fire and wilting roses mix in the air as Changbin finally picks up his phone to call Chan, he needs his pack alpha but he knows Y/N needs him more.

“Hello?” he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding at the sound of his alpha’s voice.

“Chan! Please don’t freak out but we went grocery shopping and everything was fine until we ran into Y/N’s old alpha and he said these horrible things about her, I saw red, and I punched him. She’s been completely nonverbal since she saw him and when we got home Y/N locked herself in her room and won’t come out or even answer anyone. I’m the only alpha here and everyone’s so upset, I don’t know what to do” He hears a growl from the other side of the phone before Chan takes a deep breath.

“I’m coming home. I will call everyone else, don't worry we will all get home to you guys and we will handle it as a pack.”

“Thank you, Chan.” Changbin feels a tear slip down his cheek but brushes it off, just happy the rest of his pack will be here soon. He hangs up and stares at Hyunjin for a moment before running upstairs only to be met with two whining omegas sitting in front of your door.

“Changbin, Y/N won’t answer us, what happened?” Felix speaks desperately hoping to get some kind of answer from the alpha.

“We ran into her ex-alpha at the store, She’s okay physically I think it was just too much for her to handle,” Changbin speaks calmly, in hopes to keep his omegas calm as well.

“Oh my god, what if she went into a drop and that’s why she’s not answering? She can’t be under this kind of stress, it's not good for the baby.” Felix has always been the one who frets the most over the other pack members, he bursts at the seams with love for everyone so any pain or issue needs his full attention. Changbin takes it upon himself to try knocking on your door, and of course, he doesn’t get a response either.

“Come on bunny, you’re safe here. Nobody is going to hurt you.” The silence that follows rips Changbin’s heart apart.

They stay by the door for what feels like hours before the front door opens and the rest of their pack members join them. Everyone is pretty upset but Jeongin’s shaking form accompanied by the tears in his eyes is a sight that breaks them further. When Chan picked Jeongin and told him what happened, something in him snapped, he managed to growl and whine at the same time. A million emotions took over his body but this wasn’t shocking to Chan at all, he was a baby alpha his emotions were already all over the place and after their talk on the ride to work this morning he could understand why the young alpha felt so strongly about this.

“So, you took care of Y/N last night?” Chan was nosy when it came to his pack. He’d say he was just keeping tabs and caring like a good alpha should but he was truly in everyone’s business. Jeongin does his best to hide his blush, he loves his pack alpha but gosh he’s so embarrassing.

“I know we all love each other equally, we’re all practically soulmates but you and I both know we all have our person… You and Felix, Minho and Han, hell Changbin has both the betas. But what about me? I love our relationship but I think Y/N is what’s been missing.” Chan’s mouth gapes open for a moment thinking about the pack dynamics. Because yeah they all do love each other, they all kiss, cuddle, spend heats and ruts together, and even do that stuff outside of their cycle times but they did have a bit of a buddy system going on and somehow Jeongin had gotten kind of left out of that. Chan felt terrible but his heart warmed at the thought that maybe you were guided here for a reason, like a missing puzzle piece. As the car stopped in front of Jeongin’s job at the library Chan looked at him for a moment before placing a gentle kiss on his lips that of course Jeongin reciprocated.

“Just be patient with her, yeah? Have a good day at work baby.” A smile spreads across the younger alpha’s face before he nods and heads into work.

Jeongin takes gentle steps towards the door like he was walking through a land mine, he gives the door four gentle knocks before speaking up with desperation.

“Y/N, it’s me, Jeongin. I heard what happened, I’m so sorry that happened today. I wish I could of prevented that, fuck I wish I could kill him. But for now, I just want to take care of you, so please let me.” The whine of a desperate alpha feels like a stab to the heart for his pack members, they all want to fix it so bad. When Jeongin gets no response he turns to Chan with heavy tears.

“Do something.” Jeongin cries to his alpha, begging, pleading, it’s a pitiful sight.

“You think nobody is trying? We can’t force her to open the door, Innie, calm down.” The growl that erupts from the alpha’s chest should have been a warning sign. He starts screaming his pleas for somebody to help him help his omega, Seungmin does his best to hold him still and stop him from hurting himself or someone else, or worse breaking down the door. With one swift movement, Chan’s hand finds Jeongin’s neck and scruffs him. He instantly becomes putty in Seungmin’s arms and they drop to the floor softly together where the beta can scent him into further relaxation.

“You know I don’t like doing that Innie but I don’t need you scaring her any more than she already is.” The younger alpha whines at his pack alpha’s words and curls into Seungmin’s lap whimpering.

Chan places his forehead against your door to give one final plea to be let in.

“We’ll wait for you, okay? Whenever you’re ready we’ll be here.” So they waited. After a couple of hours, Minho made dinner for everyone and they ate it in front of your door, They even left a plate for you.

It was one in the morning when the pack had decided to rest, or at least try to. Seungmin suggested that maybe you just needed space and you would come to them when you were ready.

Little did they know you were behind the door listening to everything, fighting an internal battle of whether you should seek them for comfort or run away from them. Are they a threat? Everything and everyone feels like a threat, and you need to protect your pup at all costs. Once you were sure the coast was clear you opened the door, just to grab dinner. You weren’t hungry, but your baby needed food and nothing matters more to you than your pup. They waited so long for you and you felt terrible, but you couldn’t face them, you couldn’t admit how much this had set you back. The thought of interacting with your new pack members terrified you. The old ideals that alphas are threats to your pup and omegas are your competition replay in your head like a song, a horrendous out-of-tune song. But of course, your pup betrays you too, you need to pee so bad. Your ear is up to the door and you don’t hear anybody moving around, so you peek out, the coast seems clear. Gentle tip toes get you to the bathroom without any mishaps and you’re ready to bolt back to your room and continue your solitude but you freeze in front of a door. Hyunjin’s door. The beta’s scent fills your nose and it’s like you’re in a trance.

Beta safe. Beta will protect us.

You hesitate with your hand on the doorknob, the scent isn’t filling you with fear like the other scents were, maybe it would be fine. Growing up betas weren’t really in your life, you didn’t get to form much of an opinion on them just being told what your family thought of them. Betas are rare but not considered super important to more traditional packs, in a grand scheme of biology though they were vital. Betas are like glue for packs, biologically made to be calming, rational, and caring. Hyunjin could be dramatic but god does he have a huge heart. He is like love in werewolf form. You have to be safe with him, right? So you enter the room and slowly stride towards his bed taking a seat. This causes him to stir but before he can say anything you speak.

“Please don’t touch me.” Hyunjin’s mouth hangs open but if you were looking at him you would see how it turns into a smile.

“Of course. Did you want to lie down?” You don’t answer but you do lie down, that’s an answer enough. Hyunjin keeps his word and doesn’t touch but he looks, silently checking you over for any injuries even though Changbin said nobody touched you, he needed to see for himself to calm his instincts.

“Are they mad at me?” Your words sound like gunshots in Hyunjin’s ears, How could you think that?

“What? No! No no no! Nobody is mad at you, we get why you reacted like that. It’s scary, you have every right to be scared.”

“I shouldn’t be scared of you guys…” Hyunjin has to calm himself before speaking, holding back a whine from ripping out of his chest.

“You’re scared of us? Oh! I’m sorry, is there something we can do to help?”

“You can be upset with me. I’m upset with myself too.”

“There’s no need for any of that. Yeah, it’s upsetting that you’re scared of us but we don’t expect you to get rid of all the damage that coward did to you so quickly, You’re triggered right now, we get it. We’ll wait for you.” Your heart warms at his words, though you don’t feel deserving of their patience. Your body turns to face the beta, both looking at each other for a moment.

“May I touch?” His question bounces around in your head for a moment, the idea of your own consent feeling foreign once again. You give it nonetheless. Hyunjin takes in your nod of approval by placing a gentle hand on your bump.

“Is the puppy okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?” The words settle deep in your brain.

“Not right now. I hope one day I will be.”

“I promise, we will do everything in our power to help you be okay.” Hyunjin pulls you closer to him before placing a gentle kiss to your hairline, so soft you’d almost miss it if you weren’t so hyper aware of your surroundings.

“What if you guys can’t fix me?” Your eyes bare your soul to Hyunjin.

“We don’t want to fix you, because you don’t need fixing. I know we haven’t known each other for that long but I know you’re perfect just as you are. Just thinking about you makes my heart do insane things, you have no idea how tremendously down bad we are for you.”

“I’m sorry for holding back from you guys, I’m scared, and today just really set me back.”

“My love I’d wait until the end of the earth for you. You’ll get back on track soon, back at square one doesn’t mean the race is over.” Your mind wanders, thinking about how you’d come out of this situation. A part of you wishes you could just skip to the good part, cuddled up with the entire pack, no fears just pure love and adoration. What if there was no good part?

“Why don’t you get some sleep? You and the pup have had a long day.”

“Can you scent me?” The question feels a little too intimate and scary, but before you can even second guess it the beta gives in without a question.

“Anything for you.” Hyunjin smiles before pulling you as close as possible, allowing for his fresh rose scent to engulf you and ease you into a relaxing sleep.

[blackbirdsblackberries]

I Hate The New Hero

Chapter 12: I Swear To God...

Meanwhile, you didn't get the pleasure of going to sleep like Dick did. Your identity is as good as compromised. If only you had enough money to leave… 

Pacing around your room you try to think of what to do. The best option would be leaving - not just Gotham, but America as a whole. But, where would you go? Where would you get the money for a ticket AND the money to start over? 

You could sell some of your gear, or become a henchman - it’d only be for a bit! Just until you can get your money up, then you’d quit and make your escape. Yeah. That could work. But, did you really have it in you? To harm and steal? To know you’d been the cause of so many people’s lives? You couldn’t do that.

Sighing you sit down in your bed and pray for the night to finish so you can go to school.

-

Tim, however, is stuck at Bruce’s desk as Bruce monologues about how important it is to respond to messages in a timely manner. He forgot to message Bruce back about whatever he messaged him. 

“- Honestly, what would have happened if I was in trouble, or one of your brothers were in trouble and you decided to not respond.” Bruce states, it was rhetorical and Tim holds back an eye roll. The message wasn’t even that important… Okay, it kinda was. But, school got in the way and he kinda forgot.

“Well? What are we going to do now? If Y/N is Aranea that means-” Tim cuts off Bruce’s rant, already plotting. “That means we’re going to keep this information under wraps. We forgo plan A. If Y/N finds out we know she’d freak. Same with the others.”

The two talk for a bit longer, making up a new plan. After mere minutes of deliberation the two form a plan. 

-

Damian was confused and annoyed, you were an idiot, a hateful, disgusting and vile idiot. Yet, he was nothing if not observant, he noticed how you share the same figure as Aranea, he noticed how the ‘hair’ is a wig, he noticed all these things. 

However, he’d rather die than admit maybe you were Aranea, you had to be a sister or a cousin, someone else! And for you to hate your own blood family… It’s horrible to think about. Sure, he and Jason typically stay back from you, but that doesn’t mean their hatred is any lesser than the others. He’s sure Jason aches to put a bullet through your head any time word gets back to them about your shit talking.

To Damian, Aranea is an angel sent to comfort him, an older sister figure to help him vent his emotions, he doesn’t know where he’d be if it weren’t for her. What he’d be.

He won’t ever let someone extinguish her light..

-

The next day rolls around and you sit up, having barely slept. Rubbing your eyes you get up and proceed to get ready for school, trying not to think too hard about last night. When you get to school your friends aren’t waiting for you out front, weird. Shrugging it off you head inside the building - they were probably either late or getting something to eat before school.

Walking down the halls you pay no mind to Tim, who for some reason was staring at you with the same look one would give a shelter puppy - or an old dog about to be put down - it was sickening in a way, being watched by him like that. Did Dick tell him? He must’ve. That's why you’re getting the look you’re getting. 

You speed up slightly before turning into your first period class. The day passes in a blur, you don’t see your friends, Tim doesn’t talk to you, no one even looks at you. Something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong. When the day ends you waste no time in packing your things and leaving, the school’s suffocating atmosphere feels as though it’s lifted when you step out of the gates. You can’t bring yourself to head home yet, can’t bring yourself to enter another stuffy place.

Opting to walk along the grimy streets, rats scurrying by as if they were workers late to work. Everything seems to slow down for a minute as you walk, Gotham is a horrid, putrid wasteland of a place, yet for someone who has lived here all your life, you find this wasteland to be like a field of different types of flowers - colorful in ways unseen, quick to die yet surrounded by other life. No one dies alone in Gotham. Not truly. 

Your spider senses shoot to the heavens, freezing, you feel a kind of dread overcome you. Someone was watching, someone was waiting, someone was following. You're in danger. You have three options here.

You run, alerting the stalker you know of them. The person may be faster than you. 

You turn around to face the stalker, once more alerting the stalker you’re aware. You can’t tell who it is, they could be stronger than you, could have weapons.

You continue walking normally, not letting them know. This could lead to them attacking from behind.

Taking a deep breath you bend down, pretending to tie your shoelaces - you’ve been standing stationary for around ten seconds, if you started walking once more it may alert them. You soon stand up before continuing to walk.

The walk was uneasy, the presence of the person causing your spider senses to react violently, headaches, nausea, dizziness, the instinct to run, all of it was too much. You hated this. But discomfort is much more preferable than death. 

You curse your luck - for some reason people just weren’t around today. Though, even if they were, no one would intervene. They aren’t heroes. They wouldn’t risk their lives for a girl they don't know. 

The figure can be felt catching up to you and you bite back the scream of frustration, tears starting to rise. Why was everything so complicated?! You hate everyone! Fuck Timothy, fuck Richard, fuck Bruce and his rat son Damian, fuck Jason, fuck Stephanie, fuck Cassandra, fuck Duke, fuck Barbara - you know what? Fuck anyone who associates with that dysfunctional, borderline evil family!

You feel the person right behind you now, hell, even if you had normal senses you’d be able to tell. You turn just in time for a bag to go over your head before being knocked out. 

Taglist:

@rissareader @delias-stuff @hogwarts9 @marsmabe @randomlyappearingartist @coralaura @nervousalpacalady @citrushalo @chericia @soriansick @v0idl1nq @scrumdidiliyumyum @kittykatcreatster @feral-childs-word @anon34570 @shycreatorreview @sunny-sp3lls @fluffypackofships @cynniee @yuyuzi-ling @coffeeaddictxd @starryperson @readermommy @niggrrooo @bunbunboysworld @yanrandom @fluffypackofchips @vanilliona @wizzerreblogs @cens0r3d

[daryltwdixon]

chapter 10

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst & fluff, violence, blood and gore, main character death, animal death (im so sorry), Pre-Boston QZ, Stockholm Syndrome, slow burn, raider!joel, captor!joel, homestead, kidnapping, dark themes, I also just learned what whump means so we're including that too || a/n: this is unlike anything i've ever written, and this is the scene the entire story was written around. please heed the warnings as this is a very heavy chapter. sorry to those who wanted to see joel kicking ass, he does it but you can't see bc im so bad at writing action lol / yes the formatting is intentional. yes i know it hurts. please be kind in your comments, I'm just a baby

It all happened very fast.

And yet it felt like it was all in some horrible, mind altering slow motion.

The handlers at the edge of the clearing let go of their leashed infected like hellhounds surging forward, screams and snarls excited by the sudden noise. They ran into the clearing as gunfire cracked through the trees. Your vision didn’t catch up with it all until Joel moved, turning on the spot and shoving you hard toward the porch, yelling for you to Run!

You stumbled up the steps, heart jackhammering, the world turning into sound and chaos behind you. You crossed the threshold, barely turning the knob with your sweat slicked hands, and were halfway through the door when you felt something rushing past you in a big, furry blur—

Samson.

He shot around your legs with a burst of movement, all muscle and fury, teeth bared as he tore toward the sound of Joel’s voice, toward the chaos.

“No, Samson!” you cried, reaching too late.

The dog vanished into the fray just as the door slammed behind you, Joel still outside. You could hear the crack of his revolver now that he’d reached the porch steps, but there was no time to dwell. He told you to hide, to get into one of the rooms, to lock it behind you.

And so you did– you turned and ran, nearly tripping as you flew through the house, ducking into the first bedroom and throwing the lock shut behind you. Your breath came too fast, too thin, lungs barely working as you collapsed to the floor and backed up, feet sliding across the floor until your spine hit the old radiator.

You sat against it gasping. Hands fumbling, you reached for the knife in your pocket, flipping it open with a trembling thumb. You stared at the blade, its cold, familiar edge waiting for the threats that screamed outside the house.

Your heart slammed into your ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. You stayed locked in that room, pressed to cold iron at your back, while Joel fought outside. While Samson tore across the dirt, brave and loyal and so, so stupid.

And you—what were you? You felt like a child hiding beneath the covers, a coward with a blade she barely knew how to hold. You told yourself you’d be ready, that you’d be strong when it mattered. But now that it was here, you were trembling alone, praying as if that alone might be enough.

You sat there with the knife clutched in your fist, pressed so tight your fingers had gone numb. The room felt like it was shrinking, the edges blurring, and the only thing keeping you grounded the rhythmic pound of your own heartbeat slamming against your ribs. The radiator dug into your spine, but you didn’t move. Your mind wouldn’t let you.

And after a while of only being able to hear your own blood roaring in your ears, you realized the chaos outside had gone quiet.

No more shouting. No more gunfire. Just a hollow, buzzing silence. Your ears strained, clinging to any sound, but all you could hear was the rasp of your own breath and the thud of your pulse in your neck.

Maybe it was over. Maybe Joel had driven them off. Maybe he’d already be climbing the porch steps, bloody but alive, Samson at his side, ready to take you into his arms and tell you it was done.

Please, you thought. Please let it be done.

Then came the sound of shattering glass.

You flinched hard, knife jerking in your grip, nearly falling from your grasp, but you kept it tight. Somewhere outside the door, a window had broken, the sickening crunch of splinters and shards spraying across wood. You could hear footsteps, but— no, not quite footsteps. A scraping sort of noise, a slapping of feet, wet and off-rhythm, stumbling too fast, like something wearing a human body but not quite knowing how to use it. You got up, slowly crawling to the door, and pressed your ear to the wood.

You could hear the ragged breaths, those waterlogged lungs breathing in the air of the house. It was a low, starved, inhuman rattling of breath.

Your blood froze.

No. No, no, no, no—

But then, there was more. A padding of movement suddenly on the glass, the infected screaming at the sound of it, and a snarl matched it, loud enough to travel through the door and shake the walls of your heart. And you knew. Knew who it was. Samson’s bark echoed through the house, sharp and feral. He was after it. That sweet, dumb, brave boy had gone after the infected. You heard his claws scraping against the floor, the snarl in his throat, the heavy thump of his body throwing itself toward the thing that dared to trespass into your home.

Samson’s voice, if a dog could even have one, went raw and ragged, erupting into a series of snarls and screams so violent they didn’t even sound like him anymore. And as you pressed your ear harder to the wooden door, the sound of him rattled around your skull like a loose train over rusted tracks. You felt it in your bones, could hear the wet thud of bodies hitting wood, the skitter of claws trying to find purchase on the floor.

But worse than that, worse than a dog fighting for its life, fighting for your life is that high, shrill, gut-wrenching cry that cuts clean through the noise and leaves silence in its wake. It shattered you—froze your lungs mid breath.

And suddenly, when your lungs filled again, it wasn't with air, but with cold, burning dry ice fury. You realized you didn’t care that you could die, that if you opened the door, there was a strong possibility of a nightmare on the other side.

You ripped the door open, slamming it on its hinges. The creature turned unnaturally fast, all instinct and no humanity. As soon as it saw you it lunged, and its body collided with yours so fast it knocked the air from your chest. It was heavier than it looked, wiry and wrong, all muscle and hungry hungry hungry. Its hands clawed at your shoulders, jaws snapping inches from your face, bloodied teeth gnashing as it screamed that shrill, inhuman sound right into your skin.

You hit the wood floor hard, but the pain didn’t matter. All you could feel was that earth-shattering vehemence—the kind that made your blood churn and your vision blur. A scorching ice storm tore through your veins, wild and merciless, for your dog, for your home, for this sacred little life you had carved from the dirt with blood and sweat and aching hope. Anger for Joel, who had fought tooth and bone to keep you safe. And as the infected’s face loomed closer, snarling, breath rank with rot and death, all you could think of was him. Joel. Your Joel. The man who thought he was no good, who still stood between you and the fire, who was out there now, doing just that. You hoped he was still breathing. You prayed. And as you prayed for his life, you screamed and sobbed and thrashed beneath the weight of that thing, your hands searching with desperation. One found its jaw and shoved, just enough to shift its balance, just enough to move. The other rose like instinct, like fury given form, and drove your blade up through its mouth, straight into the soft ruin of its brain.

It collapsed on top of you all at once, heavy and lifeless, and still your sobs came wracking, splintering through your ribs, aching deep in your chest. You shoved it off with trembling arms, gasping as you scrambled backward, until your spine met the cold, comforting iron of the radiator once again. You pressed against it like it could hold you steady, like it could anchor you to something that still felt like home.

By the time your breathing began to steady, your body came alive with reality. You ached in places you hadn’t even felt the impact. Your skin prickled with heat and cold in turns, a clammy sheen sticking to your neck and chest. A buzzing sensation crept through your limbs, like your nerves were trying to fire all at once. Just the adrenaline wearing off, the shock. 

But as you waited there and the silence thickened, your heart began to beat harder again, not with panic now, but with fear. Real fear. The kind that settled into your bones, the kind that felt like knowing. Where was Joel?

As if your prayers were suddenly answered, you heard the front door open, accompanied by low and steady footsteps padding through the front room. But then, that instinctual part of you that was responsible for keeping you alive shot a flare of panic through you. You clutched the blade tighter, heart thudding like a war drum in your throat. What if they had found you? What if they’d killed Joel and they were coming to finish you off now?

The footsteps were slow and uneven, floorboards creaking under their weight as they got closer. There was no voice, no words, just the echo of boots and the soft drag of an undeniable limp.

You saw the shadow looming closer to the doorway before his familiar, big, rough hand pushed the door wider and stepped through. He was looking down at the body on the floor, the blood that was pooling around it, before looking up at you.

Joel.

His shoulders filled the frame, blood smeared all over him as his face was drawn pale and utterly familiar. He held his hand against his side, cuts all down his face and neck from the fight. For one fleeting breath, your soul unclenched. He was alive.

But then he stepped forward, and your breath caught like a fishhook in your chest. Your spine went stiff.

“Stop,” you gasped, “Don’t— just stay back, don’t come any closer.”

Your hands came up between you like a barrier, shaking but firm, with eyes wide and glassy. His boots halted on the threshold, and for a moment, he looked like he’d been shot. Your pulse skyrocketed again, fear icing your veins and blood rushing to your ears. You couldn’t tell if the light headedness was from being forced to the ground in the attack or the panic that thrummed through you now.

“What—?” he began, stepping forward again, both of his hands reaching, open and supplicating.

“Joel!” you shrieked, scrambling and keeping your hands up, one with the knife still clutched tightly, “I said stay back!”

He stopped cold, breathing hard, and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes, something more painful than all the cuts and bruises and wounds on his body. You wondered, then, if he remembered the way your voice echoed the same way against the walls when you demanded for him to let you go all those months ago.

How that felt like such a far, far away dream now.

Your chest heaved, skin feeling lit on fire, feeling like it was screaming, wanting to peel away from the inside. The adrenaline was fading, and what was left behind felt like flames in your blood.

“What happened?” he asked, void of softness and gentleness now. 

You didn't answer. 

Instead, you reached for your shirt, bloody fingers pulling at the collar, and shifted it aside.

His eyes dropped, and all the color drained from his face as he exhaled every ounce of air left in his lungs, “Oh, Christ.”

It was as if his entire demeanor crumbled in front of you. He remained standing, but his face fell into an awful, splintered, painful look of grief, so pure and immediate. Like the pain was so sharp it gutted the breath from him.

You watched, frozen, as he sank to his knees in front of you, looking at the angry, blistering red bite on your shoulder.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice cracking on the word. It nearly shattered you then and there.

“I’m sorry,” your voice broke, lips trembling as tears blurred your vision. You looked at him, at this man who had lost so much, survived despite it all, and fought so hard to feel again, now sat in front of you unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, a useless whisper, “Is Samson…?”

He closed his eyes, answering only in the way his jaw tightened, his head dropping forward with a silent sigh.

You let out a strangled sob, knees curling into your chest as it hit you all at once. The dog, the bite, the way Joel picked his head up and looked at you like he couldn’t bear to breathe without you.

He began to crawl forward, reaching—

“No!” you cried out, jerking back so violently your shoulder throbbed with pain against the radiator behind you.

“Please,” he said, breath stopping in his lungs, “Don’t do this.”

“Stay back Joel,” you warned again, voice stern and barely holding together, “I mean it.”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

He shook his head as if trying to wake from a nightmare, eyes locked on you with that same desperate ache that once made you fall for him,

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whispered, voice small and broken. 

“I don’t care.”

He pushed forward again, steady and unstoppable, like he’d decided if this was it, he’d meet it holding you.

You shoved at his chest as he got close enough, dropping your knife with a clattering to the floor, “No! Joel, stop! I said no—I don’t want to hurt you!”

But he was stronger, always has been. And now his arms wrapped around you, holding you like he’d try to keep you tethered to him, to the world.

You still shoved at his chest fruitlessly, sobbing as he said, “Stop fighting me, please, baby, just—just let me hold you.”

He didn’t flinch against your weak punches, he didn’t move, just held onto you tighter, soothing you with soft whispers, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

You were shaking, every part of you trembling like your bones wanted to come apart when finally your hands stopped fighting him. Like whatever had sunk its teeth into you was burrowing into the deepest parts. But Joel’s arms never loosened, if anything, they held tighter, his hands splayed across your spine, touch heavy and grounding.

“Please,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what you’re asking for anymore. For him to go. For him to stay. For this to not be real.

But Joel just pressed his lips to your temple, to your hair, to the damp skin at your hairline. Again and again and again. His breath stuttered against your scalp as he kissed you like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, “It’s okay. I ain’t gon’ leave you.”

You let out another sob, quieter this time. Less wild, the panic still there, coiled tight in your chest, but it dulled beneath the weight of him, his body anchoring yours, his voice soft and sacred.

Your hands gripped the front of his shirt now, no longer pushing, just holding, clutching fabric like a lifeline as your head sank against his chest. His scent wrapped around you, that firesmoke burn, the smell of sun kissed leather and something undeniably him. The most familiar thing in the world.

You cried into him, hiccuping as his hands slid up your back, one cradling your head, the other splayed wide over your spine. He didn’t tell you to stop, to breathe. He just held you, steady and unshaken, as your whole world caved in.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, barely more than a whisper.

You lifted your eyes to his as your sobs slowly began to fade, your breath still stuck in your throat. His hand came to your face, cupping you so gently, so softly you almost started to cry again. Your hand came up in return, fingers red with blood, cupping his face back.

“I’m s–”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “‘Nough of that, please,” he whispered, hazel eyes pained and aged, “This ain’t your fault, baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time. I should’ve…I could’ve…”

It was turn to cut him off, but this time you leaned up, kissing his lips so, so gently. 

You pulled away just to meet his eyes again, and they glistened, but no tears fell from them. 

“I love you.” you whispered.

His mouth pulled together in another tight frown, chin wobbling, his hand petting your hair over and over like he was trying to soothe the both of you.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” he whispered to you, kissing you back. His mouth was shaking, breathing uneven as his lips molded to yours.

He eventually lifted you off the ground, carrying you with the intent to make your way to the bedroom. But you stopped him suddenly as you came into the main room, your hand finding his chest.

“Will you…” you looked over at the chair, old and worn by the empty hearth, “just one more time.” you whispered.

His hands tightened around you, and he nodded, “Yeah, alright.”

He set you down, not before making sure the moth-eaten blanket was down so your knees were comfortable. He began to bring over the firewood, pushing it into the hearth and getting it lit. The warmth was welcome against your clammy skin, your blood beginning to heat and make your skin rise in goosebumps.

When the fire was lit, he moved to sit behind you, and called to you.

“Come here.” His voice commands. Though it’s…soft. Not cruel, not mean.

Not anymore. 

It hasn’t been in a long time.

You move without hesitation, the old floorboards warm beneath your skin as you settle in front of him. The fire in front of you reminds you of everything that’s come before this. The first day, when every snap of the burning wood made you flinch, uncertain and raw. Of each quiet meal shared in the hush of survival, each pot of water boiled for a bath, a kindness, a ritual.

It glows now, steady and golden, casting both of you in ribbons of amber and shadow despite the afternoon sun still reaching through the windows. And for a moment, it feels like time has folded in on itself, like you're still there at the beginning, and somehow at the end all at once.

Joe’s old armchair groans when he shifts, knees spread, a hand already reaching. His fingers are warm and gentle when they gather your hair, undoing your braid. The brush is missing bristles after all this time, its wood worn soft. 

He doesn’t speak. Just parts your hair, gently combing through it in slow strokes, smoothing it back from your damp temples as if this were just another morning, not the end of anything.

With each stroke, your body melts more and more. When the brush catches slightly on a knot near the base of your skull, to the side of your neck where your skin throbs and screams, you flinch slightly. Your breath hitches, the pain searing through you. Slowly, he pulls the knot free, keeping your locks away from your shoulder, and you exhale, your eyes locked on the flames.

When he finishes, you don’t move right away. Just sit with him in the hush, the fire casting flickers of gold across your faces. Then, quietly, you turn toward him, not yet reaching, though every part of you aches to. 

“Joel,” you say, soft as breath.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the fire, like he’s been staring into it for years.

Then he blinks and looks at you with silent reverence.

“You promised me,” you murmur, voice tight with everything you’re afraid to say. “You promised that if—”

“I know.” His voice breaks like a snapped branch. Just those two words, and already it sounds like the weight of them might crush him.

That’s when your hands move. Shaking, you cup his face, thumbs brushing over his thick beard, the roughness of his face. His eyes shut hard, lines deepening across his face as if he’s trying to hold something back. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer until you’re leaning into him, flushed against his chest.

You lean in, resting your forehead to his, and for a beat, neither of you speak. There’s just breathing—yours fast and shallow, his slow and unsteady.

“There’s so much you don’t know,” he whispers, “so much I could’ve shown you. I should’ve taken you away from here when we had the chance, taken you far—”

You kiss his lips gently, only brushing against him to silence his anguish, “Stop,” you whisper, “Everything you’ve done, everything we’ve done…it’s been…I never thought I’d have a life like this Joel.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, pulling you into him completely, his head tucking into the crook of your neck. After a moment, his hands wrap around you, and he lifts you into his arms.

You curl into him automatically, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you. Your cheek presses against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you breathe him in. Sweat, firewood, the faint scent of your soap still lingering in his shirt from the last time he washed it. The smell of home.

He carries you to the bedroom upstairs and lays you down like something sacred, like setting you down too fast might shatter you. The covers rustle around you as he tucks them in tight, one hand smoothing over your arms, your chest, as if he could keep everything from unraveling if he just holds you close enough.

You’re trembling now—harder. Your skin burns, sweat trickling down your temples despite the way your teeth chatter.

He slides in beside you, wrapping his arms around your shaking body, cocooning you in the warmth of him. The way your body interlocks with his, chest to chest, belly to belly, your arms around his waist and his around your shoulders, your head between his jaw and shoulder. It couldn’t be coincidence, could it? You were meant for this. To be here, with him. To be held by him. Like your bodies had always known how to find each other, like they'd been waiting their whole lives to remember.

And for a few minutes, there’s nothing but silence. His heartbeat thuds steady and strong where your palm rests against it, your breath stuttering in your chest.

But then the dizziness starts.

The edges of the room blur. The floor tilts. You shut your eyes tight, trying to force it away, but it doesn’t stop.

Joel feels it and he shifts, hand sliding to your cheek, tilting your face toward his. “Hey. Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

You try to speak but your tongue is heavy and throat thick. “I feel…” you breathe, voice shaking as you shake your head, “something’s happening.”

Your eyes flutter open, vision swimming, but he's right there, face close, eyes wide and scared.

“I can feel it,” you whisper. 

Joel swallows hard. You can see it in his throat the way his jaw clenches, his hand flexing against your back like he’s bracing for impact.

“You have to,” you say, voice breaking. “Joel, you promised.”

“I–I…” he says, the words stuck in his throat.

“I can’t be one of them. I won’t. I won’t hurt you.” You try to keep your voice steady, but it fractures, your lip wobbling as tears rise fast. “Please.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you, his face lined with pain, his mouth pulled tight like he’s holding in a scream.

“I always wondered,” you whisper, “how much of the person is still in there. In those first moments. When they’re still… runners. The way they sound, Joel…when they’re screaming and crying while tearing into someone. Do you think it’s the real them in there? Watching it all?”

Joel shakes his head slowly, his eyes steady on you, “I don’t know,”

“If I turn… if I see myself hurting you… if I know it’s happening and I can’t stop it—” Your voice cracks and you cover your mouth as a sob punches out of you. “Don’t make me live through that, Joel. Please.”

Tears stream down your cheeks, warm and silent, soaking into the pillow beneath your face. You don’t even feel them anymore. Your whole body is pulsing with heat, the fever blooming beneath your skin like wildfire.

Joel doesn’t speak right away. He just pulls you into him like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together—his arms crushing around you, chest to chest, heart to heart. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to commit it all to memory.

“I won’t let nothin’ happen to you, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, shaking, lost. “I promise. I promise.” It sounds more like a prayer than a vow. Like he’s begging God for more time, even though you both know it’s run out.

Your body shakes in his arms, but slowly, the violence of your cries dull. His warmth seeps into you again, grounding you for just a few more moments. Just enough to open your eyes and look at him, your lashes heavy, breath shallow.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper when you say it for the second time.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I don’t say it enough. I didn’t tell you how you saved me—how much of my life has been because of you. And I want you to know... even after everything, even now—I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Joel.”

His throat works, his eyes shining. He nods, just once. Like that’s the most sacred thing he’s ever been told.

“And I’m yours,” he says in return.

You both fall quiet again.

For a moment, there’s peace. Just the rhythm of Joel’s hand on your back. The warmth of his chest against yours. His mouth brushing your forehead, your hairline, the corner of your eye. He kisses you like he’s trying to chase the sickness from your skin, as if he could just hold onto you hard enough, it won’t take you.

Your breath stutters. The heat becomes unbearable—coiling in your stomach, your spine, spreading through your limbs like liquid fire. Your fingers twitch, and at first you barely register it. Just a flicker, a reflex.

But Joel goes still.

You feel the shift in him. His breath catches, his hand falters.

Another twitch. This one stronger as your arm jerks, your leg following. Your muscles pull in ways you’re not asking them to.

No. No, not yet.

You force your eyes open. The room spins and blurs around the edges, but Joel’s face is there, close and stricken. Your vision swims, but you find him. You always do.

“Joel…” you whisper. It comes out garbled, slurred, like your mouth doesn’t quite belong to you anymore. You can’t stop shaking. Your hand fists in his shirt like an anchor, like maybe he can keep you here if you just hold tight enough.

His voice breaks as he leans in, as his hands cradle your face. “I’m here. I’m here, baby. I love you. I love you, I love you—”

Your limbs jerk violently. Your jaw tightens until your teeth grind. Your head lolls forward, then back. A low groan builds in your throat—not yours, not really, but it comes from you all the same.

Still, you feel him. Hands on your face, his lips at your temple.

“I love you,” he’s whispering, again and again, panicked now, broken. “I love you, I love you—”

You try to find him again. Just one more time. Your fingers claw weakly at his shirt, but you can’t see his face anymore. Can’t see anything through the blur and fire and blood pounding in your skull. There’s only heat, only screaming inside your veins.

You don’t hear the whisper of metal against cotton, the shift of weight as he reaches for his knife.

You’re somewhere else in your mind, through the fire and the heat. Lost in the noise, the tearing of your own mind. In the last fragments of what made you you. Like sinking below the surface of a lake in winter—frozen on top, black and endless underneath. Your mind is a room with all the windows shattered, wind howling through the broken panes. You're still there, somewhere in the wreckage, but your body is a distant thing, just meat and memory.

But you can hear him, from somewhere above the frozen ice in your mind. Joel’s voice moves back through the static like warm water through it, slow and thick, muffled at the edges but still his. Still him. It trembles, low and wrecked, but it reaches you, finding some last corner of your mind not yet taken. 

“You’re okay. You’re so good. So good, you hear me?”

You think you try to nod. Maybe you do.

“I love you,” he says, as if it’s the last time he’ll ever be allowed to speak it aloud. 

“I got you. I got you.”

You want to tell him it’s okay. That you’re not scared anymore. That he made this life feel like something real. That even if it was short, even if it ends here, it was still worth it. Because it was him.

But you can’t. Your lips won’t move.

And his voice starts to drift, the edges blurring like it’s being pulled back into that darkness, that lake. 

Then, with a quick pressure to the back of your skull, there was nothing.

No darkness.

No light or sound or warmth.

Nothing.

As if someone pulled the cord to the stars.

taglist: @orcasoul, @ilovetoomanymen, @niceforcum, @glaszdoll, @therewastherewas, @axionn, @aleariixx, @izzy698, @shivispunk @demonsasss, @pedropascalsbbg, @urlivingdeadgirl, @televangrl, @mani-pedro, @erska777, @samarav, @levlli, @harriedandharassed, @tomie-it-girl, @streamermattsgf,@uravitsy, @lostinthestreamofconsciousness, @umadirectioner, @quistals, @cinnxmxngxrl, @ithinkimaslutforharry

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 7

“P-pregnant? You? How? When? Who!?” Natasha watched as Abby tried to make sense of her ‘sudden’ pregnancy. As if the 5 of them hadn't been dicking her down for weeks at that point. Especially Jinu and Mystery. “Well, when a man and woman love each other very much-” Baby started with a smart alec tone making Abby hit him upside his head with an empty soda can with their faces on it. “Fucking dumbass.” He muttered. “Guys, read the fucking room. She's obviously scared about this.” Romance replied as he took Natasha's hand in his gently.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?” Jinu asked as he offered her a hot cup of tea. “I… I never got pregnant before. I never thought about it before..” That was a lie. She thought about it all the time. She always wanted to be a mother but she couldn't tell them that. They were young. They had their whole lives ahead of them. She couldn't ruin their youth by making them fathers so soon. “I think I'll-” “Can I listen?” Jinu asked. “Listen?” “The fluctuations of the soul… I've been able to listen to them now. Can I listen to it?” Nodding, Natasha lifted her shirt and watched as Jinu put his head to her stomach then after a minute, smiled.

“Oh it's strong. It's definitely a fighter.” He chuckled. “You're gonna be a mama. And we're gonna be dads.” Mystery smiled softly. “Who's the biological father though?” Abby pondered before grabbing a drink from the fridge. “Well we know it's not Jinu.” Baby smirked. “What!? Why couldn't it be me!?” Jinu asked offended as he moved his head from his lover's stomach. “We never seen you two fuck. What makes you think it is you?” Romance added with a teasing smile. Jinu suddenly pulled out his phone and pressed play on a recording he had made.

‘Oh fuck! Jinu! Deeper! Mm! Fuck me!!’ The recording was of him and Natasha in the recording studio. He had her bent over the table with one hand holding her head down while the other held her arms behind her back. ‘Good little minx. You just couldn't wait until I was done working could you?’ Baby then shrugged and held up his hands in a mock form of surrender. “My bad. I didn't know you was fucking her like that.” A tiny bit jealous, Mystery laid his head on Natasha's shoulder. “I hope it's mine…” He mumbled.

“Hey, if it's not, we still have plenty of time afterwards to impregnate her with our own seed.” Abby grinned. “Fertile soil provides the best fruits.” Romance replied. “Lest we tend the soil with care to bring a more astounding crop.” Mystery added nuzzling his head into Natasha's neck. “Why are you guys talking about me like I'm a garden!? And the baby is not produce!” The next day, as the others rested from their concert the night before, Jinu awoke early to find Natasha missing in bed. Then, a sweet delicious smell filled his nose and he inwardly groaned.

She was up cooking for them. Even after they told her they would make their own meals for the time being.

Yawning heavily, the man dragged himself to the kitchen, in which upon entering, his suspicions were correct. Natasha was cooking omelets in one skillet and rushing to scoop rice into bowls for them afterwards. “Sweetie…Come back to bed… you're supposed to be resting.” Jinu sighed. “I'm not showing yet and I've only thrown up 3 times this morning. I'm on a roll. I find keeping myself busy really helps with the morning sickness.” Natasha smiled brightly.

She looked to be full of energy, but looks could be deceiving. Her legs were trembling slightly and her caramel complexion looked slightly pale. She was pushing herself through her sickness to cook for her lovers. How sweet. And incredibly dumb. “Sweetie, let me take over. You need to at least sit down.” Jinu stepped forward to take the spatula from her hand. “What? No! I'm fine! I'm so f-fine. Like the both of you…” She mumbled. “Both? Oh no, you need to lay down. Now.” He scooped her up and placed her on the couch.

Draping a warm blanket over her and kissing her forehead. “I'll finish breakfast. You stay here. And I mean it.” He said in a serious tone before walking back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Baby emerged from the bedroom. “Why are you up so damn early? Where's Natasha?” He was always a grump in the morning. “First off, it's 8:30 and second, she's on the couch. She decided to make breakfast. After we told her not to drain herself.” Jinu replied. “Damn babe. You must really like putting yourself through a bunch of unnecessary shit. On another note… your tits are fatter. I like.” Baby smirked as he laid on the couch next to her.

“Mm go away. My tits are a normal size…” Natasha mumbled as Baby pulled her on top of him. Her head laying on his chest. “Sure babe. Sure.” Not long after, the others soon arrived. “Damn I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.” Abby yawned. “Oh wow, love the savagery. It's so you.” Romance grumbled trying to wake up and still a little bitter about how Abby kept kicking him in his sleep. “Food please.” Mystery watched as Jinu set the table before taking his seat. Turning his head, he then scrambled out of his seat towards Natasha.

“Is she alright?” Baby nodded as he petted her head while she slept. “She's so cute. Makes you forget she's hundreds of years older than us and probably capable of killing us in just one strike.” Romance smiled softly. “I love her.” Mystery replied with such fondness leaving the rest in shock. They felt the same but to actually hear the words aloud… it was a feeling they couldn't describe. “Me too dude…” Abby spoke. “I love her as well.” Romance smiled. “Yea. I love her too. Hard not to.” Baby added. “We all love her. Deeply.” Jinu responded as he stood next to Abby.

Finding that they were too comfortable near the couch, the group decided to have breakfast in the living room while watching TV with the volume on low to not disturb Natasha. As Jinu's eyes drifted around the room, he smiled to himself. This was home. This was family. And he would die before anyone would try to destroy it.

[enjakey]

THE CERTAIN ROMANCE OF WINGS AND WAR

Teaser (5.4k)

Chapter 1 coming out June 30th 2025 (send an ask or comment to be added to taglist)

PAIRING: [DAD!JAKE SIM x FEM!READER]!MAFIA AU

TW/N: Mafia au | soulmates au | angel/devil wings au | childhood best friends au | frenemies au | I didn’t know I loved you until I lost you | eloping/running away | family friends au | found family au | cheating, blood, drugs, mentions of sex, alcohol, lots of cussing, mentions of murder, guns, therapy, trauma, abandoning children, adoption care, estranged families, physical abuse, anger issues, characters make terrible decisions, some characters have sexual relations but not romantic, mentions of a lot of fucking each other over (betrayal), can't trust anyone.

SUMMARY: in a world where people grow wings when they fall in love, Jake believed he’d found his perfect match- until the woman he trusted vanished, leaving betrayal in her wake and revealing love as merely a tactic in her game. He was head of his powerful mafia family, Jake leads alongside Sunghoon, with Jungwon and Niki as his loyal muscle, and remains tied legacy to Y/N’s family, co-founders of their criminal empire. But their seemingly unshakable world collapses when Jake’s misplaced trust ignites a hidden war, culminating in the death of a close member- a loss that fractures alliances and leaves scars stretching across cities and time. And amid the chaos, Jake is left raising his daughter alone.

When Jake stepped into the bar, the humid press of bodies and the sharp bite of spilled alcohol closed around him like a vice, choking off his breath. The room pulsed with music and neon lights, a kaleidoscope of movement and color that only deepened the gnawing dread twisting through his gut. It felt as though a heavy shadow was perched atop his shoulders, pressing him forward even as every instinct screamed for him to turn back. Somewhere among these wooden tables, beneath the golden glow of overhead lamps and the sweet, acidic tang of whiskey, his reckoning waited for him.

He paused near the threshold, scanning the crowd with eyes that burned from too many sleepless nights. He searched for familiar figures- the lean frame of Sunghoon, who usually hovered near the poker tables; Niki’s mess of hair that bobbed and swayed in time with the dance floor’s rhythm; or the sight of Jungwon, head bent over a pool cue as his hair fell over dark, watchful eyes. But the faces around him were all strangers, laughing into their drinks, pressing close in the low haze of music and cigarette smoke.

A dull throb started in Jake’s temples as he forced himself deeper into the bar, past sticky tabletops and the bitter scent of stale beer. His senses were on high alert, each step deliberate, as if crossing a battlefield rather than a room meant for celebration. Yet even amid the chaos, one smell anchored him- the faint, comforting waft of his favorite beer drifting from somewhere ahead. He knew instantly where his brothers and friends were waiting for him. And the laughter rolling out from that dark corner- sharp, mocking- sliced right through him.

The sound was familiar, once a melody that meant belonging. But now, it made his stomach turn. Because a year ago, Jake would have slipped into that circle without a second thought. He would have poured his own drink, fired back his own biting jokes, and felt utterly at home. But tonight, he felt like an intruder approaching his own execution.

He moved toward the booth, shoulders squared, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his trench coat, fingers curled into fists as if he could hold himself together through sheer will.

It was Y/N who spotted him first.

Her eyes caught the shifting lights, glinting like shards of amber glass. For a fleeting instant, a softness sparked across her face, as though she was genuinely glad to see him- but it vanished in a blink, replaced by a slow, sharp smirk that curled the corners of her lips. Jake felt something squeeze painfully in his chest at the sight. Once, that smile had meant secrets and inside jokes. Now it promised war.

And he knew, with bone-deep certainty, that this night would not end well.

He braced himself.

“There you are!” Y/N crowed, voice bright as she threw both arms into the air, one hand wrapped tightly around the neck of a whiskey bottle. Her hair spilled across her shoulders in waves, dark as spilled ink under the neon glow. Jake winced at the sight of the bottle, at the telltale flush in her cheeks. Normally, he’d have scolded her, reminded her to slow down, to take care. But tonight, he didn’t say a word. He merely inclined his head, acknowledging her and the group with a curt nod, as the others greeted him in low, disjointed murmurs.

Jay sat close to Y/N, one arm slung protectively around his half-sister’s shoulders. His eyes were sharp, tracking Jake’s every move like a hawk waiting to strike or intervene- depending on how the night turned. The delicate gold pattern on his dark wings shimmering in the pulsing lights as he shifted

In the world they lived in, love left its mark not only on hearts but on bodies. When two people fell in love, they grew wings- a pair of white for one partner, and black for the other. Nobody seemed entirely certain what the colors signified- purity and darkness, perhaps, or simply a cosmic balance of opposites- but Jake knew one thing for certain- in his world, most men, himself included, ended up sprouting black wings.

But then there were the rare lovers, the fated pairs everyone secretly envied- soulmates whose wings blossomed not in plain color, but threaded with intricate veins and swirls of gold. Like a constellation woven into feathers, the gold marked them as a bond beyond ordinary love- a connection said to transcend lifetimes, anchored in something divine.

Jay and his wife, Chelsea, were one of those rare pairs.

It was such an extraordinary occurrence that local news outlets had practically camped outside the gates of their compound, desperate to run feature stories about the gold-winged couple. Tabloid headlines speculated about how their wings must look in flight, if the golden glow was visible even in the dark. Paparazzi tried snapping photos at impossible angles, eager to sell proof of their shimmering wings to gossip magazines.

But Jay and Chelsea refused it all.

They declined every interview, every offer for a glossy magazine spread, choosing instead to keep their story private. They belonged to a mob family, after all, and the risks were far too high. Gold wings didn’t just mark love- they painted a target on your back for rival factions eager to exploit your weakness or your happiness.

Jay and Chelsea’s story was almost storybook-perfect. They’d met in college, enrolled in the same economics class. From the very first day, there was a magnetic pull between them- lingering glances across the lecture hall, shared laughter over coffee outside the library. During a crowded house party one October night, their fingers brushed while reaching for the same beer bottle, and that tiny touch seemed to seal their fate. Within a week, they woke up to find gold beginning to shimmer along the curve of their shoulder blades. By the end of the month, full wings had unfurled, bearing matching golden markings so unique it was like they shared the same fingerprint.

In every sense, Jay and Chelsea were perfect. They moved in quiet synchronicity, understood each other’s moods with a glance, and made even the darkest parts of mob life seem manageable. To watch them was to glimpse something miraculous.

Yet even in a world where love could quite literally sprout wings, obsession bred bitterness. People broke off relationships simply because their wings came out plain white or black, unable to accept the absence of gold. There were forums online dedicated to decoding every tiny speck of color in new wings, hopeful posts from strangers praying their black feathers might still glow gold one day. Some lovers lingered together in misery, waiting for the gold that never came.

Jake had always thought that was foolish. A pair of wings didn’t dictate love- or so he’d told himself, especially after meeting Emily. When he fell for her, his own wings grew in black, feathered and sleek, the color of midnight oil. Hers were white, pale as frost. No hint of gold ever came, no divine stamp of soulmate-hood.

And Jake told himself it didn’t matter.

Even as he caught himself glancing enviously at Jay and Chelsea sometimes, watching the soft glint of gold move beneath their shirts as they laughed together, he clung to the belief that love didn’t need wings to prove itself.

But deep down, a quiet fear curled inside his ribs, whispering that maybe, just maybe, it did.

Jake’s eyes swept the rest of the booth. Sunghoon, perched beside Jay, rolled his eyes the moment their gazes met. He raised his beer in a silent toast- or maybe a warning- and shoved an empty chair out with his foot, the legs scraping a rough protest against the sticky floor. Jake hesitated for a fraction of a second before sinking into the seat, feeling every pair of eyes weigh down on him.

It wasn’t awkward silence that followed. It was anticipation. Like the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the first crack to appear in the fragile facade holding all of them together.

But Jake’s attention snagged on Jungwon, who sat small and drawn beside Y/N. His hair hung forward like a curtain as he stared down into a tall glass of orange cocktail that trembled slightly in his grasp. His lips hovered near the rim but never touched it. A spear of protectiveness shot through Jake’s chest. He wanted to reach over, tilt Jungwon’s chin up, and ask if he’d remembered his meds tonight. But his throat closed around the words before they could escape.

And then he saw Niki. His brother leaned back against the cracked vinyl of the booth, eyes ringed in red and blown wide from whatever he’d taken earlier. A bruise split the delicate skin of his lower lip, purple blooming like ink beneath pale skin. Jake felt his own jaw tighten, heat pulsing up the sides of his neck. He wanted to demand who’d hurt his brother, he wanted to hit someone for leaving that mark. But even now, he held himself in check.

Because tonight wasn’t just about bruises. Tonight was about all the wounds they’d been pretending not to see.

“You’re like an hour late, bro,” Niki drawled, one eyebrow arched high, his grin a wicked crescent as he leaned closer over the table. His eyes were wide, expectant, as though daring his brother to tell the truth for once in his life.

Jungwon and Sunghoon both cringed, almost in sync, at Niki’s tone.

Jay and Y/N shared a quick glance, a silent communication honed over years. It was the kind of look that said brace yourself- because everyone knew what was about to unfold.

Jake’s jaw tightened visibly as he curled his fingers into the wood grain of the table, ignoring the sharp sting as his healing cuts stretched and split. His eyes turned flinty as they landed on Niki, staring him up and down like he was trying to calculate just how much trouble his little brother was ready to cause.

“I was running some errands,” Jake said finally, rolling his eyes, the lie slipping off his tongue as smoothly as air. He swept his gaze around the table, daring anyone to challenge him.

He was desperate to hold on to some shred of control, even as the walls pressed in closer around him.

“You’re lying,” Y/N cut in sharply, her voice slicing through the noise of the bar like a blade. It wasn’t even an accusation- it was simply the truth stated aloud, the truth Jake had no intention of admitting.

Jake’s first instinct was to snap back, to warn her to watch her mouth, to stay in her lane and not start a fight tonight. But the words never made it past his teeth. He didn’t have the right anymore- not after everything.

Besides, Jay was already leaning in to whisper in Y/N’s ear, murmuring for her not to push things too far. Y/N only shook her head, exhaling as though his caution exhausted her. Jay chuckled, though his gaze shifted back to Jake, dark and assessing. It was a look that made Jake’s stomach twist because it told him exactly how thoroughly he was seen. Then Jay’s mouth tilted into a smirk, and Y/N clicked her tongue against her teeth. Jake knew then there was no escape.

Y/N had always taken pleasure in pushing his buttons. It was practically a sport to her- one she’d perfected over years of knowing exactly where to press and how hard. She’d drag him right to the edge until something ugly burst out of him, and not even Jay’s gentle hands on her shoulders could ever fully hold her back.

She’d grown up around Jake. She knew every scar, every soft spot, every secret shame, and she wasn’t afraid to wield that knowledge like a weapon.

Once, they’d screamed at each other across rooms, volleying insults that could make grown men flinch. Jake used to warn her to drop it, used to hiss for her to shut up. But tonight, he didn’t even try.

Tonight was different.

Because tonight, Jake knew he deserved every blow she was about to land. He knew he’d fucked up. And there was a part of him that almost wanted her to say it all out loud, so he could stop carrying it in silence.

“One thing,” he heard her say in his memory, her voice cool and trembling with rage. “I asked you for one fucking thing. And you still did it.”

“You know I know Dad was with you, right? And so was Emily?” Niki interjected suddenly, his grin wicked and sharp, his eyes flicking between Jake and Sunghoon like a cat toying with a trapped bird.

Sunghoon flinched, surprise flashing over his face. His eyes flew wide, but he stayed silent, gripping his beer bottle tight enough that the glass creaked. He knew Jake needed to hear whatever was coming next- even if it ripped him open.

“I don’t get why you need to lie to us all the time,” Y/N chimed in, shaking her head, hair tumbling over her shoulders. She pursed her lips, the last traces of compassion draining out of her expression as she noticed Jake’s white-knuckled fist clenched against the table. “Want a drink?” She asked lightly, tilting her head, her eyes sparkling with false innocence. It was almost comical how gentle her tone was, considering she was about to skin him alive.

“Thanks,” Jake muttered, his voice rough, as Y/N slid Jay’s beer across the table toward him. He caught it just before it tipped off the edge, feeling the cold condensation bleeding into his heated palm.

“Now tell me,” Y/N continued, leaning back slightly, her whiskey swirling amber in the low light as Jay waved a waiter over for another round. Jake lifted his chin at her in silent challenge, signaling her to keep going. Sunghoon’s lips pressed into a hard line while Jungwon fidgeted, trying and failing to meet his brother’s eyes.

Y/N’s gaze was unwavering. She took another slow sip, savoring it, then lowered her glass to the table with a soft clink.

“How’s Emily?” She asked, voice casual, eyes glinting like sharpened glass. “The baby’s coming in… what, a few weeks? Did you decide on a name yet?”

Jake drew in a careful breath, chest tight as he tried to remind himself that this wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. People had babies every day. People asked about baby names every day- Y/N was going to be the aunt, after all. But somehow, in this moment, with every pair of eyes fixed on him like knives, it felt colossal.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and slightly strained. He nodded, fingers drumming lightly on the neck of his beer bottle. “A few. Amber, Emma, Robin, Luna. She says Blue is her favourite.”

Y/N made a soft, thoughtful sound in the back of her throat, swirling her whiskey lazily. “Luna’s my favourite.”

Niki let out a sharp snort, tipping his chair back on two legs. “What kinda name is Blue?” He scoffed. “Emily’s always been stupid- honestly.”

Jake’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “You’re gonna find an excuse to shit on her for everything?” His voice came out tight, barely controlled, like a stretched wire ready to snap.

Niki rolled his eyes, dropping his chair back onto all fours with a loud thump. “Are you just starting to learn that?” He shot back. “You act like this is new.” Jake’s lips parted to retort, but Niki was already pressing forward, sharp as a blade. “What’d Dad say, anyway?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Jake shot back, growling it before he could stop himself. He didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but he was done waiting for the inevitable. He was just counting down the seconds until the accusations started flying, until they flayed him open in front of everyone.

He tightened his grip around his beer, glass biting into the tender cuts already splitting across his knuckles. His skin stretched painfully, stinging and raw, as if even his own body was punishing him for being here.

Y/N tilted her head, her mouth curling into a faint smirk as she studied him with glinting eyes. She looked, for a moment, almost… delighted. Because Jake, for the first time in a long time, looked cornered.

Jake Sim- who’d once made men twice his size tremble with a single stare- sat there looking like an animal bracing for the blow. And it wasn’t an enemy doing this to him. It was the people who knew him best.

It was humiliating.

He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears, loud enough that he barely noticed Sunghoon shifting beside him, subtle and restless. Even Sunghoon, for all his sighs and annoyed glances, wasn’t stepping in to save him.

Jake clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. He was furious with himself- for letting them see how rattled he was. For letting himself be afraid of people who technically worked for him, who were supposed to follow his orders.

All of them worked under him. All of them owed him loyalty. Yet somehow, it felt like they held all the power now. And that scared Jake more than anything else.

“Fine, tell me then,” Y/N said, leaning forward on her elbows with a lopsided grin, eyes glittering like she was daring him to lie again.

“Anything to do with Emily does not concern you,” Jake snapped back, each word sharp enough to cut. He hated how his voice trembled at the edges, hated even more the cold pit that seemed to sink deeper into his stomach the longer this conversation went on. He knew they had a point. He just didn’t want them to be right.

“Technically, it does,” Jungwon piped up, his voice unexpectedly firm.

Every head at the table turned toward him. The clink of ice in drinks, the thump of bass from the dance floor, all seemed to fade for a second as silence fell.

Jungwon looked back at Jake, brow furrowed. “You only met her because of us,” he continued, sounding almost offended that nobody else was saying it. Y/N blinked at him, as if startled that Jungwon- usually the quietest one- was suddenly dropping truths like grenades.

“Still doesn’t mean you have to know everything,” Jake bit out, his glare searing a hole into Jungwon’s forehead, but he didn’t flinch.

“Jake,” Jay interjected calmly, folding his hands together on the table. “You met her ‘cause of them, or no?”

It wasn’t a demand, not quite. Jay had a way of asking things that cut through the bullshit without ever raising his voice. It was the same directness Y/N possessed, except softer around the edges.

“Yes.”

The word left Jake like a rock falling out of his chest. Saying it felt like slitting open his own ribs and laying bare the truth for them to pick over. He could feel blood rushing in his ears, felt his skin burning hot like his veins were on fire. His ears turned red. His jaw ached from clenching so hard. For a second, he thought his eyes might start bleeding if he didn’t breathe.

“Now was that so hard?” Y/N taunted, her mouth twisting into a smirk so familiar it made Jake’s teeth grind together. Her dark eyes sparkled with something suspicious and triumphant.

Yes. It was.

“Honestly, I don’t fucking get what your issue with Emily is!”

And just like that, the dam broke.

The ugly side of Jake came roaring out, slamming into the center of the table with the weight of years of secrets and resentments. His voice echoed over the music, harsh enough that nearby tables turned to look.

Jungwon blinked rapidly, eyes darting toward Sunghoon, who sat stiff as a board, looking caught between intervening and staying silent.

Jay stayed where he was, fingers interlaced, an awkward cough stuttering from his throat as he glanced toward Y/N. He half-expected her to flinch back from Jake’s outburst- but Aspen she straightened her spine and lifted her chin higher, her expression solid as stone.

Y/N and Niki, of course, were grinning like wolves. Cynical excitement glittered in their eyes, an energy electric enough to prickle along the skin of everyone at the table. Sunghoon, meanwhile, seemed to sink a little lower in his seat, pressing the heels of his hands into his temples like he was bracing for an explosion he’d seen coming miles away.

Niki had always hated Emily. From the very first day Y/N introduced her to them in university, he’d wanted nothing to do with her. That distaste only deepened after Y/N and Emily’s brutal falling out.

Back then, Y/N and Niki had spent entire semesters running interference, trying to keep Emily and Jake on different paths. They knew Emily’s type. They knew how slick her lies were, how her smiles were calculated, how she could tilt her chin and say exactly the right words to slip past a man’s defenses.

They hadn’t wanted anything to happen to Jake. But when had Jake ever cared about their concern?

All their worst fears had finally come true the day Emily managed to wrap Jake around her little finger. When she convinced him that no one else could handle him the way she could, that only she could soothe his volatility, his dark moods.

She’d whispered that she could help with business, too- because her family owned a weapons manufacturing company, with ties that could be useful.

Jake fell. Hard. Head over heels for her dark hair and ice-pale skin, for the cool glint in her pale eyes. He fell for her like a man starving for air.

And now, she was pregnant. And the baby was coming in a few weeks. And somehow, Jake still insisted none of it concerned anyone else.

“Ever since I met her, you lot just distanced yourselves from me. You were the ones who started acting differently around me,” Jake said, eyes hard and voice edged with bitterness. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Jake. Why don’t you ask yourself that?” Y/N scoffed, though she quickly turned and passed Jungwon a soft smile when she saw him cringe. Jungwon shook his head, mumbling something under his breath, and when Jake shot him a sharp look that asked, what the hell did you just say? Jungwon only turned away.

“The answer is right in front of you, Hyung. You just won’t accept it,” Niki snapped, his voice raw with frustration. He glared at his brother, fearless, stabbing his finger toward Jake like he was delivering a sentence. “You’re the one who shut us out. You’re the one who fell head over heels for someone we told you to stay away from!” He pointed sharply between himself, Y/N, and Jungwon. “You’re the one who kicked us out of the house because Emily wanted you all to herself!”

Jake’s mouth opened, then closed again. He didn’t know how to justify any of it. The silence that fell around the table was suffocating.

“You’ve been ignoring your brothers, Jake,” Y/N said quietly, voice like a blade sliding between his ribs. “Forget about me and Jay. They’re your brothers, and you pushed them away.” She pointed towards them- Sunghoon and Jungwon ducked their heads away from Jake’s gaze, Niki glared right back. 

“She’s got you wrapped around her fingers, don’t you see that?” Niki spat. “Your whole damn life revolves around her now. And you’ve changed. For God’s sake, you’ve become so fucking blind!” He threw his arms wide, the gesture almost theatrical, but the bitterness behind it was real.

Jake stayed silent for a long moment, staring down at the table as if the battered wood could offer him an answer. He ransacked his mind for some kind of snarky comeback, but nothing felt strong enough. Because the worst part was- they were right. Every single word. And the knowledge gnawed at his insides like acid.

“You’re serious, right?” Jake’s voice came out low and dangerous. “You’re jealous? Fucking jealous because I don’t pay attention to you?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Niki growled under his breath, shooting Jay an incredulous look across the table.

Jay let out a heavy sigh, mirroring Niki’s frustration.

“You think we’re jealous because you give Emily attention?” Y/N let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Please.”

“It’s not about jealousy,” Jungwon finally burst out, finishing off his third cocktail in a single gulp. Jake rolled his eyes at his younger brother’s sudden surge of confidence.

“Exactly! It’s not about that!” Y/N exclaimed, shaking her head so hard that her hair fell forward around her face. “It’s about you changing your priorities and turning a blind eye to the people who always had your back. Hell, you finally talked to your parents today after so long and it didn’t even end well! Do you not see what she’s doing to you?” Her eyes were wide and fierce, her arms flailing as she tried to drive the truth into his skull.

“You think she’s manipulating me?” Jake shot back, voice trembling with a mixture of rage and something dangerously close to fear.

“Finally! My god, I thought you’d gone illiterate too,” Niki sneered, leaning back in his chair and locking his hands behind his head. Sunghoon and Jay both reached over to smack him lightly on the arm, telling him to knock it off, while Jungwon and Y/N shook their heads in exasperation.

Jake growled low in his chest, the urge to punch Niki square in the face riding high on his nerves.

“Yes, Jake. She’s manipulating you,” Jay said wearily, dragging a hand through his hair as if this conversation physically drained him. His wings shifted behind him, the faint shimmer of gold threading through the black feathers, and Y/N whispered a soft thank you into his ear.

“You don’t know shit, Jay,” Jake shot back, voice brittle.

“Hey, I’m being the nicest one out of all these assholes, and you’re gonna say shit like that?” Jay snapped, his eyes blazing brighter against his skin.

“You think you know everything just because you and Chelsea fell in love and grew your soulmate wings,” Jake bit out, hoping the words would cut as deeply as they once might have. But he realized, with a cold sinking in his gut, that his insults didn’t seem to land anymore. Not with anyone at this table.

It was painfully clear how much he’d lost. How little he seemed to matter to the people who used to be his world.

“What the hell does Chelsea have to do with this?” Jay fired back, pushing himself up from his chair until he was looming over the table. His expression was thunderous, shoulders squared, wings fluttering, ready for a fight.

Jake mirrored his movements, leaning forward until their faces were only inches apart, his palms planted flat on the table as silent threats hung between them like charged electricity. His wings threatened to open. He darted his eyes briefly toward Y/N, desperate to see if he’d managed to scare her- but she just sat there coolly, clicking her tongue against her teeth.

The lack of fear in her gaze made Jake’s blood boil even hotter.

He’d always been jealous of Jay. Deep down, he couldn’t deny it. Jay hadn’t just fallen in love with a random woman- he’d fallen in love with his soulmate. The delicate golden patterns shimmering on both his and Chelsea’s wings were a permanent reminder of that fact.

Jake wanted that. Desperately. He wanted it with Emily. But even after all these years together- after professing their love for each other- their wings remained ordinary black and white. But he wasn’t complaining- he still loved her.

It felt like the universe was playing a sick joke on him. And instead of acknowledging all the red flags that had been flapping around him like warning signals, he’d chosen to keep lying to himself because it was easier. Because facing the truth meant facing the possibility that he’d wasted time on someone who was never loyal.

“No, I don’t think I’m an expert,” Jay said, voice finally leveling out. “But since you love being right so much, let me give you something to be mad about.” Jake clenched his jaw. Jay took a slow breath, then started counting on his fingers. “I know Emily is a shitty person. I know her family is shady. I know she doesn't care enough about love or wings to stay. And you are gonna regret ever trusting her.”

With each statement, Jay jabbed his finger into Jake’s chest. 

“She’s pregnant with my child. Where could she possibly be going now?” Jake spat, but even he sounded tired, defeated.

He didn’t even know why he was trying anymore. He’d already lost the fight long before it started.

“We’ve known Emily way longer than you have!” Y/N shot back. “Of course we know what we’re talking about. There’s a reason we tried to keep you away from her. But no- you just had to do the one thing we begged you not to do.” Her voice was shaking now, but with rage, not fear.

“You’re talking? You never do anything I tell you to do!” Jake shouted, flinging a hand in her direction. A round of dramatic gasps circled the table.

Jay lowered his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, collapsing back into his chair just as Jake did the same.

“At least I didn’t blow up my relationship with my family in the process!” Y/N snapped. Jake lowered his head, though his jaw kept flexing like he was chewing rocks. “You’re a mobster, Jake. You’re supposed to be smart. Do you not see that she’s going to leave your blind ass!?” She practically screamed the last words. Niki let out a wicked grin, lifting his beer bottle and tipping it in Y/N’s direction in solidarity.

“Bullshit!” Jake shouted, his voice raw. “Can’t you see that I’m happier with her? Why can’t you just accept that? I’m about to start a family with her,” there was almost a note of pleading in his tone, buried under the anger.

“She doesn’t even want to marry you,” Niki deadpanned. “Until now, I thought you were just blind and illiterate. But you’re immature too. Huh. Guess we’re learning new things every day.” He took a long, mocking sip from his beer.

Jake slammed his fist into the table so hard the glasses rattled, the tips of his ears burning red, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “Watch your fucking mouth!” he growled.

Niki just lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug, while Jungwon blinked rapidly and Sunghoon exhaled a ragged breath.

“No, Jake. You don’t have the right to say that to any of us anymore,” Y/N said firmly, folding her arms over her chest. “You lost that right when you shoved us all away for some girl from a shady-ass family. So come talk to us when you decide to actually listen to what we’re trying to tell you.” 

Her gaze was steely as she stared at him down, more powerful than any anger he’d ever seen in her eyes.

Niki stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle but decisive. “We should go,” he said quietly, glancing at Jungwon. The two brothers exchanged a silent nod before Jungwon stood as well, grabbing Y/N’s hand as the three of them prepared to leave.

“We’re only telling you this because we care,” Y/N said, pausing as she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Jake’s with an intensity that felt like a knife. “But it’s pretty clear it’s worth nothing to you.” She gave Niki’s hand a squeeze. “You coming, Jay?”

Jay shook his head slightly. “Sunghoon’s supposed to drive me home. You know I’m a shit flyer when I’m drunk.”

“We’re taking a cab,” Y/N pressed her lips together, gave Sunghoon a silent nod, and turned to leave. And just like that, Y/N, Niki, and Jungwon walked out the bar doors- just as Jake had walked out of their lives.

[susielesbianism]

So. Suselle. A few things:

Susie is still keeping the existence of the Dark Worlds from Noelle. The lie doesn't seem to be holding up particularly well, but she's still making an effort to keep her from knowing about it.

Noelle all but says that the Dark Worlds might give her the chance to heal her sick (possibly dying) father in chapter 2.

Susie now knows the end of the prophecy, and whatever it is, it's clearly something devastating, going off of how Susie and Ralsei act in that scene.

Noelle's mom is manipulating Kris to do... something involving the dark worlds (and holding some kind of past promise over their head to do so).

Related to the above, she may now be manipulating Asgore (if she indeed is the one who gave him the black shard). Not that this is related to Susie much, but point is Carol's in a position where she can be considered a major villain, even if her motives as of now are unclear.

The Roaring Knight, who is basically Susie's arch-nemesis at this point, is most likely a corrupted version of Noelle's older sister Dess, going off of the antlers and the bat that turns into a sword.

Optionally, everything regarding the Weird Route, especially after chapter 4 where Noelle seems to be abandoning her crush on Susie in favor of this something else she's got going on with us Kris.

I think we might be in for a rough one gang o7

[ahgasegotarmy116]

He Doesn't Deserve You | A Jeon Jungkook Series | Chapter Ten

Summary: Meeting his family is something you're not sure you should've agreed to...but there's no turning back now. Pairing: Noona reader x Jeon Jungkook (She's 28 and he's 22) Word Count: 1.8k~ (I'm sorry it's so short but it felt like a good place to stop) a/n: It's been way too long since I last updated this and I know the update is short but I feel like if I held onto this for any longer it would've take me forever to finish the rest of it but I hope you enjoy! Start from the beginning

The ride over to Jungkook's house is quiet, some might say silent, the only noise being the soft hum of the engine and the various sounds of cars passing by. 

"I hope you know they're going to love you" Jungkook whispers once our eta hits about ten minutes out, giving me a last second pep talk.

"What if they don't?" I mumble, my hands fisting the hem of my sweater, the turtle neck seeming so much tighter than it usually is, making me tug on the collar. Nervous fidgeting something I've been plagued with since I was a child. 

An unfortunately it seems like that's not about to change anytime soon.

He startles me when he places his hand over mine, slipping it under where my grip on the sweater is practically iron. I loosen up for him just enough to let his fingers lace through mine, bringing it up to his lips and placing a kiss on the back of my hand.

"You'll do great, and you can use me as a human shield if you need to. Although my sister will probably end up wiggling her way between us" he chuckles, imagining the scene now. 

"You still haven't told me much about them" I point out and he hums.

"My sister Jieun is six, my brother Jiwon is ten and then my oldest younger brother is Junseo who's twelve" he lists off as if they were a shopping list.

"Okay well that doesn't tell me much about them" I chuckle and he shrugs. "You'll learn more when we get there" he smiles softly at the thought of me meeting his family.

I sigh and close my eyes, quietly saying his siblings names under my breath so I can memorize them. He notices but doesn't say anything, placing another kiss on the back of my hand before letting go, opening the garage door so we can pull in.

He comes around to open my door for me and before I'm even able to get out the door to the garage flies open and Jieun runs out to greet us. 

"Jungkook Jungkook you took forever! Can you please help me make cookies tonight. Please? Mom bought the ingredients for them but she didn't have time to make them" she pouts once she gets to the end of the message that she's clearly been dying to say to him all day.

"Oh" she says softly when she notices me, hiding behind Jungkook and peeking out from behind him, holding onto his shirt making me smile.

"Sorry, she's a little shy" he chuckles bringing her out from behind him and crouching down to talk to her, her eyes still a little wary of me. "This is y/n, can you say hi?" he says, the soft tone he uses with her makes my heart flutter.

"Um, hi" she says, her loud and excitable behavior from when she first came out a distant memory. "Hi Jieun, it's nice to meet you" I say softly and her eyes light up a bit, surprised to see I already know her name. 

"Let's go inside so she can meet everyone" Jungkook says softly still and she nods, taking Jungkook's hand, with him instinctively reaching for mine which I take, my heart beating a million miles a minute. One down, three to go.

Once we enter we're met with a clean simple house, the low hum of the tv with Jiwon sitting in front of it soon catches my eye. 

"We're home" Jungkook calls out, immediately alerting everyone that he hasn't come home on his own making Jiwon's head turn. His eyes land on me first and then on Jungkook, then to our interlocked hands and he jumps up, making a bee line for the hallway. 

"Hey!" Jungkook calls out to him, but I chuckle and place a hand on his arm. "It's okay, kids get nervous around people they don't know". Despite my reassurance Jungkook still spares a glare down the hallway before turning back to Jieun.

"Where's mom?" he asks but she shrugs, "I dunno, maybe in her room? I'll go check!" she says and scurries down the same hallway her brother had disappeared down. 

"They look just like you" I smile, watching her disappear as well, my focus soon going back to him. "You should see Junseo, he's practically a carbon copy of me" he says, leading me over to the kitchen. "Well except for the fact that the kid is a wiz. Always in his room studying or reading. He's a freshman in high school already so he's got a lot of homework these days" he says and I pause at that. 

"You said he was only twelve though. Did he skip two grades or something?" I ask, my eyes gone wide at the thought of it. "Yeah, they let him skip third and fourth grade, figured they wouldn't be challenging enough for him" he smiles to himself, clearly proud of his little brother.

"Did you want something to drink?" he asks, grabbing a cup from the cabinet leaving me just requesting water and thanking him softly once he's handed it to me. 

"Come on! You have to see her! She's so pretty" I hear Jiwon's voice making me chuckle, already taking a shine to him. "I don't care about some girl. I need to finish my homework" what I assume is Junseo's voice following. 

"Hey" Jungkook says, his voice a lot sharper with the boys, making them freeze when they come into view, both of their eyes wide, going between Jungkook and I. 

I watch as a rosy blush blooms on their ears in embarrassment.

"Junseo come here" Jungkooks says, that sharp tone still present leaving Junseo's eyes turning down as he comes closer. "She's not just some girl. She is very important to me so I expect you to be respectful. Got it?" he scolds and Junseo nods, bowing to me slightly and mumbling an apology. 

"It's okay Junseo, you can go finish studying" I say and his head pops up, the blush now reaching his cheeks after hearing me speak to him. "Thank you" he says quickly, his voice cracking slightly leaving his eyes widening again, turning around and practically running back to his room. 

"That's funny, I've never seen him act like that before" Jungkook hums and I chuckle. "He really is your 'mini me'" I agree with his earlier statement  and he frowns. "Come on, I have a lot more game than he does" he scoffs and I nod.

"Yeah, but seems like you both have the same taste in older women" I say making him choke on air. His coughs make me chuckle, giving him the glass he had gotten me and rubbing his back while he drinks the water.

"I see that you're already making a fool of yourself in front of her" I hear an amused voice say behind me. I turn and see a woman with a tight slick back bun and a white pressed uniform, the confident way she carries herself leaving my eyes now the ones widening just a bit.

"Sorry mom" he coughs a few more times and clears his throat. "This is-" "It's so nice to finally meet you" she cuts him off, basically admitting to the fact that he's spoken about me enough for her to know exactly who I am.

"It's nice to meet you too Mrs. Jeon. Thank you for having me, you have a lovely home" I say and she smiles, a glint in her eye now helping me relax. 

"Thank you for coming to help with these little rascals. Jungkook looks practically torn to shreds by the time I get home most mornings but hopefully they won't give you too much trouble" she says, smoothing down Jieun's hair after she's stepped out from behind her mom, her posture now a little less wary.

"I'll do my best" I smile leaving her returning it, a little nod showing me that she believes in me. 

"You're welcome to stay the night if you'd like. I'm sure Jungkook will be a complete gentleman and sleep on the couch, right?" his mom says, directing her line of sight over to him, clearing his throat and nodding right away.

"And if he doesn't at least make sure what ever's done behind that closed door cannot be heard" she says after covering Jieun's ears leaving Jungkook choking again. "I'll make sure he behaves himself" I say and pat his back again, leaving her smiling. 

"I knew I liked you" she chuckles, excusing herself so she can gather all of her things before she goes to work. "Be good for Jungkook and y/n" she calls out to the three and they respond simultaneously with a 'Yes mom' making me smile at the clear routine of theirs.

"Be good" she directs a laser focus on Jungkook, and he nods. "Have a good night at work" he says and she smiles, satisfied with his response. 

"Thanks again" she says as her final farewell, this now directed at us both leaving the pair of us waving until she closes the door, Jungkook practically slumping against the counter, the tension he was clearly feeling leaving his body.

"You were more nervous than I was" I laugh, turning to face him and resting against the counter as well, his slumped form now straightening.

"You should've seen the way she's treated my past girlfriends on first meeting" he says, filling the glass he had taken from me with fresh water before handing it back to me. "How many girlfriends have you had?" I ask, taking a sip but keeping my eyes on him.

"Like three, no four or five...ish" he says, rubbing the back of his neck and a deep red blush reaching his cheeks. "You don't have any kids right?" I ask and smile when he gets even more panicked.

"No! No no no absolutely not" he shakes his head over and over. "I promise I really don't. In terms of calling them girlfriends it was always a little unclear. Like we got to the talking stage and then we'd spend some time together but then they'd get upset because I couldn't spend enough time with them and break up with me. Only three of them ended up meeting my family though" he explains and I nod. 

"I believe you" I smile, clearly showing I was joking, leaving him letting out a breath. "If I did I would've told you" he says softly and I nod. "I know" I smile again, this one softer, one reserved just for him and I can tell he can see the difference. 

I reach up and fix his hair, it having gotten quite ruffled in the process of convincing me his own bloodline so far has begun and ended with him.

He pulls me closer and buries his face in my neck, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist.

"What's this for?" I ask, holding him close as well. "I'm just really happy they like you" he mumbles just loud enough for me to hear, making me smile. "Me too" I say softly, the picture frame of their family of six behind him catching my eye, the last of which still being a mystery.

"Me too"

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[cameronsbabydoll]

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER EIGHT

WARNINGS — Violence threats, toxic jealousy, hierarchy disrespect, power imbalance, references to hickeys/marking, possessive behavior, tense confrontations, emotional manipulation, 18+ only.

You’ve been holding your breath all morning, like the air itself might give you away. The base feels smaller today, the concrete walls closing in, every sound too loud—boots on gravel, a distant radio crackling, the hum of soldiers in the mess hall. You’re clutching a clipboard, your chest, pretending to review supply requisitions, but the words swim in front of you. All you can think is about is the mark on your thigh. Not your neck, thank God, but high enough under your skirt to make you paranoid every time you move.

Last night, in Rafe’s bunk, his hands were relentless, his mouth, his teeth. You’d begged him to be careful, whispered “not where anyone can see,” but he’d just grinned, his lips brushing your skin as he murmured, “Don’t worry, sunshine. This one’s just for me.” You’d been too lost in him to argue, too caught up in keeping quiet under his hand, in the way he made you unravel. Now, in the sober light of day, you’re terrified someone will notice—not the mark itself, but the way you’re carrying it, like a secret that’s too heavy to hide.

You’re in the supply office, sorting through crates, when your dad finds you. The door swings open, and his boots hit the floor with purpose, like he’s marching into battle. You flinch, the clipboard slipping in your hands, and turn to face him. His eyes are sharp, scanning you like he’s looking for evidence.

“You missed breakfast,” he says, no greeting, just the Captain’s voice, cold and direct. “And you were late with the inventory report yesterday.”

You swallow, your throat tight. “I’m sorry,” you say, setting the clipboard down to keep your hands from shaking. “I overslept. I’ll get the report done today.”

He doesn’t move, just stands there, arms crossed, his captain’s bars glinting under the fluorescent light. “You’ve been off,” he says, voice lower now, like he’s trying to keep this private. “Distracted. Careless. That’s not my daughter.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the floor, because looking at him feels like confessing. “I know. I’ll do better.”

He steps closer, and you feel the air shift, heavy with suspicion. “Look at me,” he says, and you force yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes flick over you, lingering on your face, your hands, the way you’re standing—like you’re hiding something. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

The question hits like a punch, and you shake your head too fast. “No, Dad. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers flex at his sides. “If someone’s messing with you,” he says, slow and deliberate, “you tell me. I don’t care who they are. I’ll handle it.”

Your heart lurches, because he’s not just talking about trouble. He’s talking about someone. You force a smile, small and shaky. “Nobody’s messing with me. I’m just… tired.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, then nods, but it’s not agreement. It’s a warning. “Get that report done by noon,” he says, turning for the door. “And stay out of the barracks. I don’t want you wandering where you don’t belong.”

The door shuts behind him, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your hands are trembling now, and you press them to the crate, trying to steady yourself. You’re safe, you tell yourself. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

But then you hear it—a low chuckle from the corner of the room.

You spin around, heart in your throat, and there’s Rafe, leaning against a stack of crates, a cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers. He’s in his fatigues, dog tags glinting under his t-shirt, looking like he’s been here the whole time, watching.

“Jesus,” you hiss, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He smirks, twirling the cigarette. “Checking on my girl,” he says, voice low and teasing, but there’s something darker in his eyes, something possessive. “You’re jumpy today, sunshine. Daddy got you spooked?”

You glare at him, but it’s weak, because your pulse is racing, and not just from fear. “You can’t just… sneak up like that,” you say, glancing at the door. “If he’d seen you—”

“He didn’t,” Rafe cuts you off, stepping closer, his boots silent on the concrete. “And he won’t. I’m good at keeping secrets.” His eyes flick to your skirt, and his smirk widens. “Like that little mark I left last night. You still feeling me?”

Your cheeks burn, and you cross your arms, trying to hide how much he’s getting to you. “This isn’t a game, Rafe. He’s suspicious. He asked if someone’s messing with me.”

Rafe’s eyes darken, and he closes the distance between you, his hand brushing your arm, just enough to make you shiver. “Is that what you think this is?” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Me messing with you?”

You open your mouth to answer, but before you can, the door swings open again, and you jump, stepping back from Rafe like he’s fire. It’s not your dad this time—just Private Daniels, a skinny kid with a mop of red hair, carrying a box of ammo. He freezes when he sees you, his eyes darting to Rafe, then back to you.

“Uh, sorry,” Daniels mumbles, setting the box down. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.” His gaze lingers on you, and you see it—the quick glance at your neck, where your hair’s shifted just enough to reveal a faint bruise. Not the mark on your thigh, but another one, smaller, from Rafe’s teeth two nights ago. You didn’t even know it was there.

Daniels’ lips twitch, like he’s fighting a grin, and you feel your stomach drop. “Nice hickey, Captain’s kid,” he says, voice half-teasing, half-awed, like he’s stumbled on gossip too good to keep quiet.

Rafe goes still, and the air in the room shifts, heavy and electric, like a storm about to break. “What’d you say?” he asks, voice low, deceptively calm.

Daniels blinks, realizing too late he’s stepped in something dangerous. “N-nothing,” he stammers, backing toward the door. “Just… kidding.”

Rafe steps forward, slow and deliberate, and Daniels freezes, his bravado gone. “You think it’s funny?” Rafe says, his voice soft but laced with menace. “Talking about her like that? In front of me?”

You grab Rafe’s arm, your fingers digging into his bicep. “Rafe, don’t,” you whisper, because you can feel it—the violence simmering under his skin, the way he’s itching to make Daniels regret it. “He’s just a kid.”

Rafe doesn’t look at you, his eyes locked on Daniels, who’s practically shaking now. “Apologize,” Rafe says, and it’s not a request. It’s an order.

“I’m sorry,” Daniels mutters, eyes on the floor. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Get out,” Rafe says, and Daniels doesn’t need to be told twice. He bolts for the door, the box of ammo forgotten, and you hear his boots slapping the concrete as he runs down the hall.

You let go of Rafe’s arm, your heart racing, your breath shallow. “What the hell was that?” you hiss, stepping back. “You can’t just… threaten people like that. He’s gonna talk, Rafe. He’s gonna tell everyone.”

Rafe turns to you, and his expression is hard, unyielding, like he’s not sorry at all. “Let him talk,” he says, voice low and rough. “Let the whole fucking base know. You’re mine, sunshine. I don’t care who sees.”

You stare at him, your chest tight, because he means it. He’s not playing anymore, not hiding, not pretending this is just a fling. He’s protective, possessive, like you’re his territory, and he’s ready to fight for it. It’s terrifying, because you know what it means—if Daniels talks, if your dad finds out, it’s over. Not just for you, but for Rafe. He could lose everything. His rank, his career, his freedom.

“You don’t get it,” you say, voice breaking. “My dad will destroy you. He’s not just my dad, Rafe. He’s your commanding officer. He could have you court-martialed.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches, and he steps closer, his hand cupping your face, his thumb brushing the bruise on your neck. “He can try,” he murmurs, voice dark and dangerous. “But I’m not letting you go. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes, because you’re caught—between Rafe and your dad, between what you want and what you know will happen if this keeps going. “You’re insane,” you whisper, but there’s no heat in it, because you’re starting to wonder if you’re just as insane for wanting him.

He smirks, soft and mean, and leans down, his lips brushing your ear. “Maybe,” he says. “But you like it.”

You don’t answer, because you can’t, because he’s right, and you hate it. He pulls back, his hand dropping, and steps toward the door. “Finish your inventory,” he says, casual again, like nothing happened. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Rafe,” you call, desperate, but he’s already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

You sink to the floor, your back against the crate, your clipboard forgotten. You touch the bruise on your neck, wincing, and try to breathe, but the air feels too thick, too heavy. Daniels saw. Your dad suspects. And Rafe… Rafe’s ready to burn it all down for you.

You’re still sitting there when you hear voices outside—Daniels, talking fast, nervous, to another soldier. You catch fragments: “hickey,” “Cameron,” “Captain’s gonna flip.” You close your eyes, your heart sinking, because it’s starting. The whispers, the rumors, the truth you can’t hide.

That afternoon, you’re in the mess hall, trying to eat, when your dad sits down across from you. You freeze, your spoon halfway to your mouth, because he never eats with you here. Not in public. Not with his men watching.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just cuts into his steak, his knife scraping the plate. Then, without looking up, he says, “I heard something today. About you and one of my soldiers.”

Your stomach drops, and you set the spoon down, your hands shaking. “It’s not true,” you say, too fast, too desperate.

He looks at you then, his eyes hard, searching. “I hope not,” he says, voice low. “Because if it is, I’ll bury him. And you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

He stands, leaving his plate half-eaten, and walks out, his boots echoing in the silent hall. You feel eyes on you—soldiers, officers, all watching, all knowing. You touch your neck, the bruise hidden under your hair, and try not to cry.

That night, you don’t go to Rafe. You stay in your room, door locked, staring at your notebook. You don’t write, because you’re too scared of what you’d say, of what it would mean to admit how much he’s changed you.

But you know he’s out there, waiting, watching, ready to claim what he thinks is his.

And you’re not sure you can stop him.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

We’re already more than halfway through 2025—have you checked in on your New Year’s resolutions lately? Today, we’re diving into your next blessings, because I can feel the collective craving something to look forward to—something to spark excitement again.

It’s hot, it’s sweaty, the days are longer, and we want to enjoy every ounce of them. So, take a deep breath, choose a pile, and discover the next blessing coming into your life.

You’re just one step away from a beautiful new chapter.

🌫 Pile 1: Clarity After the Storm

For many of you, your blessings are arriving in a very sacred and special way. You’re coming out of a fog—an internal conflict that’s kept you confused and uncertain. It’s been hard. You’ve been hanging on by a thin thread, just hoping that something would shift. You’ve been pushing forward, trying to persevere through heavy times that felt never-ending.

But here’s the good news: perseverance is paying off. The mist is lifting.

There has been a veil over your life for a while—a mental and emotional haze, perhaps even spiritual confusion. You’ve been in survival mode, not thriving, just getting by. But that cycle is coming to a close. What’s next is true, divine clarity.

Not the kind of clarity that leaves room for doubt—but decisive, empowered, embodied clarity. Confidence. Alignment. A return to your vitality.

Your blessing is this: You are coming into your own. No more tiptoeing. No more confusion. You will know who you are, what you’re here for, and exactly where you’re headed.

🔥 Pile 2: The Power Move

For you, the blessing is freedom at last. This summer, something shifts—and you are finally released from what has been holding you back.

You’ve been struggling to maintain balance in your life. Whether that means neglecting your body, abandoning routines that once grounded you, experiencing financial instability, losing a job, or grieving a relationship—you’ve been in a cycle of depletion.

That cycle ends now.

You’ve been watching your passion dim under the weight of life’s burdens. You wanted to soar, to laugh, to create, to live—but you’ve been stuck in survival mode, constantly trying to grasp stability, only for it to slip through your fingers again and again.

But here’s the turning point:

You’re about to make a power move—one that shifts your entire reality. This choice will align you with abundance, direction, and joy.

You are your own blessing.

The next decision you make will lead to a path that is clearer, brighter, more aligned. A path where you can finally feel creative, courageous, and grounded again.

Your blessing is liberation through empowered action.

🤍 Pile 3: Relationship Harmony

For this group, the blessing that’s coming your way is relational—whether in love, friendship, or family.

You’ve been in a season of miscommunication and emotional distance. There’s been tension, withdrawal, silence, and misunderstandings. Perhaps you’ve felt ghosted. Perhaps you’ve felt confused about where you stand with someone you care about deeply.

It’s been exhausting. The emotional back-and-forth. The overthinking. The moments of connection followed by uncertainty. Life may have been overwhelmingly busy too, pulling your energy in multiple directions. And all that inner and outer chaos left you paralyzed, unsure of how to move forward—or even how you feel.

You may have gone inward, convinced things just wouldn’t work out. You surrendered. But in truth, your heart never gave up. You wanted so much more with this person—or people—and you felt shattered when it didn’t unfold the way you hoped.

But now?

Reunion. Reconciliation. Relational harmony.

Your blessing is coming in the form of emotional connection—moments of real understanding, affection, compassion, and warmth. The tension will ease. The connection will feel soft again, genuine again, possible again.

You’re coming back together. Not in chaos—but in love.

🪷 Pile 4: Autonomy & Stability

Your upcoming blessing is independence and stability.

You’re moving out of a place where you were once disillusioned—holding on tightly to high hopes, dreams, and idealized visions of what could have been. You genuinely believed something was meant for you, so you clung to it, even as it began to collapse.

But it didn’t bring ease.

It didn’t bring comfort.

It demanded too much of you—your energy, your peace, your spirit.

And now, it’s falling away. Not to punish you, but to free you.

Your blessing is the ability to finally let go. You no longer need to beg something broken to stay. You’re stepping into your sovereignty, reclaiming your autonomy, and getting back to yourself—back to self-love, self-care, and self-devotion.

You’re rebuilding.

You’re rising.

You’re remembering who the hell you are.

This time, you’re not dependent—you’re interdependent. You’re no longer searching outside yourself for worth or clarity. You’re choosing the path that serves your highest self.

Your blessing is becoming whole, stable, and self-led again.

🔥 Pile 5: Creative Spark & Inspired Action

Your blessing is a renewed zest for life and a passionate return to your creative projects.

You’ve spent a long time in a fog of stagnation—buzzing with ideas, yes, but unsure how to act on them. You found yourself stuck in cycles of overthinking, second-guessing, procrastinating. You wanted to build something great, but discipline kept slipping through your fingers. Routines fell apart. Structure felt too rigid.

You were at a crossroads, uncertain about what to do next.

But here’s where your blessing begins:

Your inspiration is returning.

Your spark is reigniting.

You’re entering a powerful phase of motivation, clarity, and action.

No more sitting on your gifts. No more doubting your potential. No more playing small. You’re gathering momentum. You’re seeing signs. You’re inspired by the world around you. You’re creating, moving, and saying yes to life again.

This is your time to seize the moment. Your next chapter is rooted in doing—not just dreaming. And everything you need is already within you.

Your blessing is your own readiness. You are the fire now.

🌊 Pile 6: Release & Reclamation

You’ve been stuck in the past—emotionally tethered to someone or something that no longer serves you. You couldn’t let go, no matter how hard you tried. You replayed the memories. You held onto hope. You clung to what was already slipping away.

And in doing so, you missed other blessings.

You turned down opportunities.

You held yourself in emotional limbo.

You didn’t grow, not because you couldn’t—but because all your energy was spent on holding on. You lost time, financial chances, and maybe even yourself in the process.

But now, your blessing is here:

You’re letting go.

You’re coming back home to yourself.

No more enmeshment. No more identity wrapped around someone else’s love, approval, or absence. You are becoming your own anchor now.

You’re learning discipline. You’re rebuilding slowly, with care. You’re protecting your energy with boundaries that hold. You’re regaining your stamina. You’re no longer people-pleasing or playing small.

You’re reclaiming your power—and you’re doing it fiercely.

The blessing is you.

The freedom is yours.

And the path forward is finally yours to define.

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

[band--psycho]

Poly!141 x Reader - Stop The Wedding (Part 13)

Bit of a longer chapter this one! I hope you all enjoy this!💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

Catch up on the previous part here: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12

Warnings: Feelings of worry, car chase, car crash, mention of blood, paramedics, ambulances. being unconscious, cuts, bruises, concussion, dislocated shoulder, medical inaccuracies

COD Modern Warfare Masterlist /Taskforce 141 Masterlist /Join My Taglist

The paramedic was right, you were lucky. 

Your right shoulder was dislocated; you also had a cracked rib and a rather large cut on the top of your forehead; but other than that,  the injuries you’d sustained during the crash, were simply cuts and bruises. 

The doctors said they’d know more once you regained consciousness; but for right now, their outlook for you was good. 

Unlike Y/f/n... 

The four men didn’t know of their condition; seeing as  they weren’t family so they weren’t allowed to know anything… all they knew was that they were rushed into surgery upon arrival at the hospital. 

That was enough for them to gauge the severity of Y/f/ns injuries. 

The room you were in was near enough completely silent, except for the sound of the heart monitor machine; which thankfully kept beeping at a steady rate. 

Much to the relief of the men in the room. 

Simon was standing in the corner of the room closest to you; leaning against the wall, his jaw was tight as he stared straight ahead, much like he had done at home moments after you left.

He was unable to stop his mind from playing out scenarios that ended much worse than the one that happened. 

Occasionally he’d glance over at you; reminding himself that you were alright for the most part….that you were safe now. 

But every time he looked at you; he felt anger burning through his veins; Graves, Shepherd and whoever was driving the car was going to pay for this; he’d make sure of it. 

Of course he wouldn’t be alone. 

He knew that.

John, Johnny and Kyle would all help in hurting the fuckers that did this to you. 

Johnny was already pacing back and forth along the far wall; his agitation rolling off of him in waves; he'd occasionally stop and look at you for prolonged periods of time, as if you’d wake up if he looked at you long enough.  

But you didn’t. 

And that’s when the Scotsman would start pacing again. 

Kyle was by your side; sitting in the chair closest to your hospital bed; his eyes never leaving you, unless it was to blink. 

His hand was hovering over yours; as though you were glass that was on the verge of shattering. 

He was terrified to touch you; but he couldn’t pull his hand away, so it just stayed there, inches above yours.

John had been in and out of the room; popping his head in to see if there’d been any changes and to make sure his partners were holding up okay, before disappearing again to make calls. 

~~~~~

Currently John was on the phone to Kate; one of the very few people he still trusted, hoping that there was some way she could find out any information about the car; or some other information that would prove Graves or Shepherds involvement. 

“It was a black SUV, windows tinted, no plates, left as soon as they veered Y/f/ns car off the road,” Kate explained, making a small frown tug on Johns lips.

He knew he needed proof before he did everything.

Kate understood his silence; she knew what he needed and she’d try her best to aid him in finding the proof that was needed, “I’ll track it through traffic cameras and see what I can find out,”

It was a long shot. 

They both knew that. 

But it was worth a shot.

Even if she could identify the driver, that would be something. 

Or if she could work out where the car was left, John and the others could go and investigate the area seeing as the car would probably be burnt or destroyed by now. 

“Thanks Kate,” John said softly; he knew that she didn’t have to do this and appreciated the fact that she was taking the time to help them.

He thought she’d end the call there; and knew by the prolonged silence that there was something else she wanted to say. 

“What is it?”

“You know if Graves or Shepherd are involved in this, Y/n won’t be safe, Y/f/n might not be either,”

A short sigh fell from John's lips as he ran a hand down his face. 

Of course he knew this. 

All he’d been able to think about since they got to the hospital was how he was going to keep you and Y/f/n safe; knowing that if Graves or Shepherd were involved they’d use Y/f/n to get to you. 

That’s why he’d been making so many phone calls; trying to sort out a safe house, somewhere safe where they could all go once they could leave the hospital.

“We’ll keep them both safe,” John stated; his voice sounding calm and collected, like it was going to be the easiest thing in the world. 

His answer made a sigh fall from Kate’s lips this time, “What if they don’t want you keeping them safe?”

Despite hating her words; John understood Kate’s concern. 

There was every possibility that you and Y/f/n would want to get as far away from all of them as possible; he couldn’t blame either of you for that.

But he just had to make you both understand that as long as Graves and Shepherd were out there that there’d be a risk to both their lives.

He wasn't going to leave you.

He thought last time that he was doing the right thing by putting distance between him and you. 

He was wrong and there was no way he was going to let that mistake happen again.

He was going to keep you safe this time; as well Y/f/n.

“Have you thought about what happens if Y/f/n doesn’t make it?”

Kate’s question hung heavy in the air. 

That was a worst case scenario he didn’t want to think of. 

He couldn’t bear to. 

Because the worst case scenario meant that Y/f/n didn’t leave this hospital….that he’d have to deliver the news to you that your best friend had died. 

You’d already lost so much; he knew it would break you if you lost Y/f/n too. 

“They’re strong,” John said simply; knowing that there was every possibility of the worst case scenario happening; but he had to remain hopeful. 

“John,” Kate began, “If Y/f/n dies, Y/n could blame you guys….”

“I know,” John replied back, guilt lacing his voice as he hung up the phone.

He wouldn’t blame you if you did. 

They may not have driven the car that caused the crash, but they were still to blame. 

He should’ve kept you at the house; should’ve let Y/f/n inside and you all could have talked…could’ve come up with a plan. 

But he didn't know that there was going to be a car chasing you and Y/f/n.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing, and if he had a time machine he’d go back and change it so that neither you or Y/f/n got hurt, but he couldn’t. 

All he could do now was be there for you and Y/f/n if they survived the surgery and keep you both safe; regardless of if either of you wanted the protection he was offering or not. 

And he was almost certain that Simon, Johnny and Kyle would agree with him.

This time when he walked back into your room at the hospital; he had no intention of leaving. 

“Any news?” Johnny asked, halting in his steps as soon as he noticed that John wasn’t just briefly popping in to check on them all. 

“Not really,” John answered, shaking his head slightly, “it was a black SUV, with tinted windows and no plates,”

He watched as Johnny's lips tugged downwards into a frown and he hated it. 

Hated that he couldn’t give anybody the answers they needed. 

“Kate’s gonna call me when she’s got more news,” John continued softly, looking at Johnny with a small reassuring smile on his own lips, hoping that his words would be enough to raise his spirits a little. 

Johnny didn’t say anything; simply nodded at John's words, but he didn’t go back to pacing this time, instead he just stared at you. 

John moved closer to the hospital bed you were on, until he was standing behind Kyle, his eyes fixed on you. 

Simon’s eyes darted from each of the men in the room before landing on you. 

A moment of silence fell across the room; each of them reflecting on how easily they could’ve lost you.

Then a small sound broke the tension that had grown in the room. 

It wasn’t much, a slight change in your breathing followed by a faint twitch in your fingers; but it was enough. 

Enough to snap all of the men out of their thoughts. 

Kyle's hand was on yours in an instant, his other hand moving to your face, his thumb delicately brushing your forehead, ensuring that he avoided touching the nasty head wound you’d obtained from the crash.

“Hey, hey….it's alright, you’re alright,” he soothed, watching as your eyes fluttered open, showing slits of your y/e/c eyes behind their slightly swollen lids.

He could already see the sudden pain turning to confusion which quickly morphed into recognition as your eyes fully opened, glancing around at everyone around you. 

“Wh…what..happ…” your words trailed off into a wince, as you tried to move, unable to do so.

“Easy, sweetheart,” John said with a calmness in his voice, moving slightly so that he was standing next to Kyle and not behind him, “you’re safe and we’re all here.”

Kyle continued holding your hand, rubbing small circles onto the back of your hand just like he used to do when you were stressed.

“What…happened? You repeated, your eyes settling on Kyle. 

“You were in a crash,”

It was like Kyle’s words triggered an instant replay of what had happened. 

You were with Y/f/n in their car. 

They were driving to your house..

Someone started following you in a black SUV, it kept crashing into the back of the car…

You’d called Simon, you were heading back to their house…until Y/f/n lost control of the car…

“Y/f/n,” you breathed out, the sheer panic for them evident in your voice as you tried to get up from the bed.

You were trying desperately to ignore the pain you felt shooting through your right shoulder, as well as your chest, all whilst trying to ignore the exhaustion that was washing over your body. 

You remembered looking at Y/f/n just before the crash…remembered seeing the fear in their eyes and it made your heart ache.

“You need to rest,” John cooed softly, sitting down on the side of the bed. 

A small groan fell from your lips as you attempted to move again; caring little for how much pain you were in, “I need to know where Y/f/n is,”

“They’re in surgery, Bon,” Johnny explained, walking over to the other side of the bed and sitting down on it, mirroring John; stopping you from getting out of the bed.

“Surgery…” your voice was barely above a whisper as you processed what Johnny said; your mind continuing to replay the moments just before the crash, “we were being followed,”

“We know,” Simon stated, turning to look at you, the phone call replaying in his mind. 

“Kate’s looking into it,” John added, hoping that his answer would help to console you. 

And they did. 

Briefly. 

Until you remembered what you’d been discussing with the very men in this room. 

The information that you’d learnt.

"Shepherd? Phillip….”

“We know they had something to do with it, we just can’t prove it yet…” John answered truthfully.

You didn’t want to believe that your Fiance had planned for this, or worse, to happen; but given what you’d found out about him…you weren’t really sure who he actually was or what he was capable of.

But was he really capable of killing you and Y/f/n?

Would there not have been other ways to do it, instead of in the middle of the day where anyone could drive by and help, and why didn't he make sure you were both dead...? 

“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Johnny continued, seeing how the doubt was growing in your eyes from Johns answer. 

“We’ll find everyone involved in this,” Kyle declared softly to you, raising your hand gently to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

“And we’ll make them regret it,” Johnny assured you, anger burning bright behind his blue eyes. 

You knew by the look in the Scotsman’s eyes that his words were not a statement, they were a promise. 

Simon remained silent. 

He simply nodded his head at Johnny's words as he made his way to the Scotsman side.

His silence a promise to you that they were going to find whoever caused this crash.

“We’re not gonna let anything else happen to you, sweetheart,” John knew you were probably going to bite his head off for using the nickname he used to use when you were together for a second time, but he didn’t care. 

Maybe it was the probable concussion you’d gotten from the crash; maybe it was just because of everything that had happened today…but you actually found comfort in hearing some of the nicknames you used to be called by them. 

It made you feel safe.

They made you feel safe, despite everything that had happened.

That feeling of safety was a feeling that was short lived though; because then you heard the familiar voice of Phillip from behind the door, at first you thought you were wrong. 

You hoped you were wrong.

But when the door opened; he walked through it, his eyes meeting yours, ignoring the four other men in the room.

The concussion definitely must have been doing something to your brain, because you could’ve sworn you saw genuine worry in Phillip’s eyes when they met yours. 

Tagging:

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