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youthguk · 3 months ago

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Vestiges | jjk (m)

He built a life without you — success, power, everything you once dreamed of. You spent six years pretending you didn't destroy him. One night is all it takes to tear the silence open again.

jungkook x reader | exes to lovers

warnings: second chance romance, heavy angst, explicit language and sexual content, emotional manipulation, slight depiction of addiction struggles, toxic relationships, trauma themes, mature emotional content.

wc: 15k

author’s note: I didn’t mean for this story to hurt as much as it does. But heartbreak feels a lot like mourning — and sometimes, writing is just another way to grieve what you lost. Feedback is always welcomed.

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed, longer than it should to run a comb through your hair, longer than it should to fasten the thin, trembling clasp of the necklace around your throat — because everything inside you feels reluctant, slow, half-stuck in a memory you wish you could forget but know you never will, no matter how many years or cities or mistakes you stack between yourself and that boy who once promised you the world with his trembling hands and reckless heart.

The mirror doesn’t help; it only shows you a stranger, one with hollows under her eyes and a dress that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to, an almost-pretty woman wearing borrowed pearls and borrowed courage, trying to pretend that she hadn’t spent the last hour sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing, wondering if the version of you he remembers — if he remembers at all — would even recognize what’s left.

The room smells faintly of turpentine and old paint, the corner where your canvases lean still cluttered with yesterday’s half-finished dreams, and when you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a message from Minho, simple and sweet and unbearably distant: Call me when you’re free. Love you.You don’t answer. You can’t. You wonder if that makes you cruel or simply too tired to pretend tonight.

Your fingers fumble with the cheap clasp at your wrist — a borrowed bracelet too — and in that one careless moment, memory slices through the present like a blade: Jungkook, twenty-one, grinning boyishly as he caught your hand outside the university library, threading a handmade beaded bracelet over your knuckles with such earnest pride that you had laughed, embarrassed, your cheeks warm, the world so soft around you it felt unreal.

"Now you have to marry me someday," he had teased, and you had rolled your eyes, but you hadn’t said no.

You blink hard, banishing him from the glass, watching the woman who stares back at you set her jaw a little harder, fix her earrings a little faster, breathe a little shallower — because you can’t afford to cry over ghosts, not tonight.

The group chat blinks awake: Sora: “Can’t wait to see everyone tonight 🖤 love you guys.”

The words should be comforting. Instead, they twist inside your chest like a dull knife, because you know her love is real, but you also know that weddings are for the blessed, and you — you are only here because Sora never chose sides when everyone else did.

You wonder if Taehyung will even look at you, wonder if the cold shoulder he gave you six years ago will stretch into tonight’s vows and toasts and forced smiles. You wonder if seeing him beside Sora will feel like a betrayal or just another quiet ache to add to the pile you stopped counting long ago.

But it’s not Taehyung who makes your palms sweat, your ribs tighten like a vise around your lungs. It’s him.

You haven’t seen him since the day everything broke, since the night your voice cracked on the phone and he didn’t pick up, since the day you stopped being someone’s future and became a cautionary tale instead.

Jungkook might have buried that reckless smile you once loved beneath all the sharp suits and colder women; or maybe success never touched the part of him that burned for you. Maybe hatred is all that’s left now, a slow, steady fire smoldering out of sight — or maybe you’re nothing more than a scar he learned to live around.

Either way, standing in front of him tonight will feel like pressing your hand against an old wound, desperate to prove it's healed when you already know it hasn't.

The taxi honks outside — a short, impatient sound that feels impossibly loud in the quiet dusk — and you stand because there’s nothing else to do, grabbing your small purse, slipping your trembling fingers into cheap heels, locking the door behind you with a finality that feels too heavy for such an ordinary sound.

The city beyond your window is a watercolor blur of neon and shadows. Each streetlight you pass feels like a countdown, leading you closer to the moment you'll have to face him again. Not the boy who promised you forever with handmade bracelets, but the man he's become – all sharp edges and success stories, probably with a model on his arm and victory in his smile.

The driver barely glances at you when you climb in, muttering the address with a voice that barely feels like your own, and as the car pulls into traffic, the low murmur of the radio fills the silence between your heartbeat and your fear, a love song from another decade humming like a ghost you can’t quite outrun.

Outside the window, the world blurs into a thousand small, careless lights — neon signs flickering above half-empty restaurants, the gold smudge of streetlamps bending against the slick black of the road — and you realize, distantly, that you don’t even remember when this city stopped feeling like home and started feeling like exile.

Your hands twist the strap of your purse tighter in your lap, knuckles aching from the pressure, and you wonder — not for the first time — if tonight will shatter you, or if you have already been living inside the ruins for so long that you won't even feel it when the final pieces fall.

The venue creeps into view before you’re ready, a soft, golden glow spilling out onto the cracked sidewalks like an invitation you should have never accepted, the kind of place built for promises and photographs and futures you don't belong to anymore.

The car stops with a jolt that rattles up your spine, and you pay the driver with fumbling fingers, stepping out into the cool night air that smells like jasmine and distant rain, clutching your purse to your chest like it might somehow shield you from what’s coming.

You hear the music first — faint, lilting strains of a string quartet filtering through the open doors — and then the laughter, bright and careless, the kind of laughter that used to be yours once, when the world was smaller, safer, sweeter.

Somewhere inside, Sora is probably floating down the aisle in a dress spun from dreams, her hands steady, her smile untouched by the kind of ghosts that still cling to your skin.

Taehyung must be standing there too, pride pressed into his spine, betrayal still thick in his chest like old smoke.

And Jungkook — though you can barely force yourself to think it — is breathing the same air as you for the first time in six years, close enough to touch and a thousand lifetimes away.

You press your hand harder against your ribs, feel the panic fluttering there like a trapped bird, and when you finally force your legs to move, to step toward the door, it feels like walking into the mouth of something hungry and merciless, something that has been waiting for you all this time.

"Please," you whisper to whatever god still listens to lost causes, "let me survive this night."

The lobby is bright and soft and aching with gold, and familiar faces blur past you — old friends you barely recognize, old friends who barely recognize you — and you keep your head down, keep moving, telling yourself it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine, until the lie thickens and clots somewhere at the back of your throat.

You are halfway to the main hall when you hear your name, soft and almost startled, and when you turn, Sora is there — radiant, trembling, beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes shining with something between relief and apology.

She rushes toward you before you can move, gathering you into a hug that knocks the breath from your lungs, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, let yourself believe in the warmth of her arms, the truth of her loyalty, the small, fragile spaces where you are still loved.

"You came," she breathes against your hair, pulling back to look at you with a smile that wobbles at the corners. "God, I was so scared you wouldn’t."

"I wouldn’t miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds almost real, almost steady.

Behind her, the world shifts — guests milling about, waiters balancing trays, the glittering haze of champagne — and then, through the blur of light and sound, you feel it, before you even see him.

A weight against your skin. A gravity pulling your gaze without mercy. You lift your eyes — and there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing across the room, half-turned toward you, a glass in his hand, a black suit cut sharp against the broad frame of his shoulders, his hair dark and slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times.

He looks different now — older, harder around the edges, devastating in a way that feels less like beauty and more like a warning.

The noise around you dulls, falling away like heavy snow, until it’s just him and you and the space between your bodies that aches like a phantom limb.

His eyes — the ones you once memorized better than your own reflection — find you across the golden crowd, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing: no recognition, no anger, no tenderness, just a flicker of something vast and unreachable that knocks the air from your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away — leaving you suspended in the terrible silence where strangers live, where memories rot, where love once existed and now nothing remains.

The air inside the hall feels heavier now, thick with perfume and champagne and the kind of brittle laughter that stretches too wide over old wounds, and you realize as you stand there, clutching the small wrapped box to your chest, that your fingers have gone almost numb.

You try not to look for him again — you try, you swear you try — but your eyes betray you anyway, sliding across the glittering room until they find him near the bar, a dark figure half-turned away, laughing low at something someone says, and for a moment it stings more than it should, the way he looks — older, sharper, all clean lines and heavy shadows, the easy beauty of boyhood burned away into something colder, something harder, something you could cut yourself on if you dared get too close.

He doesn’t belong to you anymore — maybe he never really did — and yet some foolish, broken part of you aches anyway, aches in the marrow of your bones where even time cannot reach, where memory still reigns.

It hadn’t always been like this — hadn’t he once leaned against a chipped kitchen counter in the dead of night, grinning, offering you the last slice of cheap pizza like it was a crown, like you were something holy worth starving for? Hadn’t he once promised you — reckless, breathless — that he would fight every single battle for you, even the ones you didn’t see coming?

You had believed him. God, you had believed him so much it made you foolish.

Your throat tightens as you move forward, your heels silent on the polished floors, the soft music wrapping around you like a noose, and somewhere in the back of your mind the memories start to bleed — his parents’ disapproval, sharp and sterile in their polished dining room; the thin-lipped smiles, the cruel little glances they thought you wouldn’t notice; the way Jungkook had slammed down their checkbook one night and said he’d make it without them, because loving you mattered more than money, more than power, more than blood.

He meant every word — you never doubted that — but standing here six years later, wrapped in a borrowed dress and trembling under the weight of everything you lost, it’s hard not to wonder if they were right all along. You were the disaster they warned him about, the mistake they tried to tear from his hands, and maybe — if you’d loved him less selfishly — you would have let him go before you ruined everything he could have been.

You press the thought down, hard, like smothering a fire with bare hands, and you fix your eyes on the only safe thing left — Sora, radiant and teary-eyed in her wedding dress, laughing softly at something Taehyung mutters in her ear.

It should be enough to anchor you. It isn’t.

You force your feet to move, weaving carefully through the crowd, dodging the familiar faces, the flashes of recognition, the stares that linger a little too long.

You see him again — just for a second — Jungkook leaning casually against the far wall, speaking to someone in a low voice, his profile sharp under the warm golden lights. It hits you harder than it should, the way he holds himself now — heavier somehow, not in body but in gravity, in presence — the easy recklessness of boyhood hardened into something colder, something that doesn’t bow for anyone.

Sora had mentioned it once, in a hurried, breathless phone call you almost didn’t answer: how Jungkook had started a tech company straight out of university, how he had built it from nothing, refusing every offer of help from his family even when it would have made things easier, how now he stood at the helm of one of the fastest-rising startups in the country — a CEO at twenty-seven, sharp and brilliant and terrifyingly untouchable.

You never asked for the details — you didn’t need them. It was already clear enough: he had survived without you, built a life where you were nothing but a forgotten name.

The shame settles heavier against your ribs as you clutch the small wrapped gift tighter, pressing forward toward Sora and Taehyung where they stand near the main table, a little island of perfection in a sea of strangers.

You reach them just as they turn toward you, and for a brief, foolish moment you let yourself hope — just for tonight, just for Sora — that you can pretend the past is not clawing up the back of your throat.

Sora’s face brightens when she sees you, her hands fluttering excitedly to her mouth as if she might cry, and you feel the first crack in your armor when she pulls you into a hug so fierce it knocks the air from your lungs.

"You made it," she whispers, voice thick with emotion, and you smile — a broken thing, but a smile nonetheless — as you hand her the small gift wrapped in trembling paper.

"For you," you manage, your voice smaller than you remember it being.

Sora presses the box to her chest like it's precious, like you are precious, and for a moment the noise of the party dulls into something almost kind.

But then Taehyung steps forward, his expression carved from something colder than marble, and the weight of him — of everything you once trusted — hits you square in the ribs.

You brace for it instinctively, the way a body remembers impact even after the bruises have faded. He smiles — wide, charming, empty — and leans in slightly, his voice low and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

"I’m surprised," he says, his words like silk over a blade. "That you had the nerve to come, knowing he'd be here."

The sentence slices you cleanly down the middle, and for a moment all you can do is blink at him, your hands limp at your sides, your breath sticking somewhere between your heart and your throat.

Sora’s eyes widen in horror, but she says nothing, and Taehyung only straightens his jacket with an easy grace, as if he hadn't just peeled the skin from your chest in front of half the wedding party.

You don’t even flinch — not really. Maybe you expected it, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always believed he earned the right to hate you.

Taehyung hadn’t just been Jungkook’s best friend. He had carried Jungkook’s heartbreak like it was his own, had stitched the bleeding pieces of him back together when you weren’t there to do it. Of course he would still bear the wound like a badge of honor, would still sharpen it against your skin whenever you dared step back into their world.

You swallow down the rising sting of tears, swallow down the shame that floods your gut like dirty water, and somehow — somehow — you manage to stay standing.

You wonder if he’s right — if you should have stayed away, if you’ve become nothing more than the ghost they all wish they could finally forget.

The air outside is cooler than you expected, crisp against your overheated skin, and for a moment you just stand there on the terrace, clutching the banister with both hands like it might anchor you to something solid, something real. Inside, the wedding hums on — champagne glasses clinking, laughter blooming like overripe fruit — but out here, under the weak glow of fairy lights strung across the courtyard, it feels like another world entirely.

You press your fingers against your temples, willing your heart to slow, willing your body to forget how it trembles from the inside out.

Footsteps sound behind you — soft, lazy, unhurried — and you already know, without looking, who they belong to.

The air always shifts differently when he’s near.

Still, when you finally turn, the breath catches sharp in your throat, as if your body wasn't prepared for the sight of him after all.

Jungkook stands a few paces away, his black suit rumpled just enough to look careless rather than messy, the knot of his tie loosened at his throat. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass that tilts dangerously in his loose grip, and for a moment you can't decide if he looks more like a fallen prince or a soldier long after the war has ended.

He lifts the glass slightly, a mock-toast, his mouth curling into something that might have once been a smile if it hadn’t turned bitter somewhere along the way.

"Well," he says, voice low and rough like gravel. "If it isn’t the ghost herself."

You flinch before you can stop yourself, the words scraping raw against old wounds, but you force your spine straight, force your lips into something that might pass for calm.

"Hi, Jungkook," you manage, the name strange and sacred on your tongue after so many years of silence.

For a beat, he just looks at you — and it cuts deeper than anything he could have said.

Because for a second — just a second — you see it flicker there, the ghost of another boy entirely, the one who used to trace your skin like it was a prayer, who used to kiss you like it hurt him to stop. Gentleness pools in his dark eyes, unguarded and aching, and it guts you with how badly you want to reach for it.

But just as quickly as it came, he shutters it away, his mouth hardening into a line you barely recognize.

"So," he says, voice lighter now, mocking almost. "How’s life?"

You swallow, wishing the earth would swallow you first.

"It’s..." you fumble, your mind blanking under the weight of his gaze. "It’s good. Busy. Art shows, part-time jobs... the usual."

He nods once, a jerk of his chin, his glass tipping slightly in his grip. You notice the way his fingers tremble faintly around the glass stem, how his pupils are blown too wide for the soft light — little things that tighten the pit of your stomach before you can reason why.

"And you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "You’re... doing well?"

He huffs out a laugh — not cruel, not kind either — and sets the glass down on the stone ledge beside him, missing it slightly before correcting the movement with a small curse under his breath.

"You know everything already," he mutters, and there's something brittle under the words, something breaking. "CEO. Big company. Fancy suits. Bullshit meetings."

You flinch again — not at the words, but at the hollowness behind them.

And because some masochistic part of you can’t help it, you whisper, "Are you... okay?"

For a moment, he goes very still. Then his mouth twists, slow and sharp, and he laughs — a low, broken sound that makes the fairy lights above you seem suddenly, unbearably cruel.

"Am I okay?" he repeats, tasting the words like they’re poison. "God, you really don’t get it, do you?"

You open your mouth, close it again.

"You should have done me a mercy back then," he says, voice dropping lower, softer, deadlier. "You should have just confessed. You should have just told me you didn’t love me anymore."

"I—" You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. The guilt surges so thick it almost drowns you.

He chuckles again — the sound rougher, edged with something manic, and when he speaks next his voice is shaking slightly, like the words cost him more than he can afford to give.

"I thought," he says, looking past you into the night, "that I thought if I became enough — if I built something so big it touched the sky — you’d love me again or regret betraying me."

The weight of it hits you harder than any accusation.

"Jungkook," you whisper, stepping toward him without even realizing it, "please... don't."

But he moves faster. His hand closes around your arm — not painfully, but firm, desperate — and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleeve like wildfire.

"Don’t what?" he demands, voice rough. "Don’t say it? Don’t feel it?"

You stare up at him, heart beating so hard you think it might break through your ribs, and for a moment neither of you breathes.

Something in him falters; the fight drains from his body, and his grip loosens. You tear yourself free, stumbling backward as if the air itself turned against you. Without thinking, without looking back, you turn and flee — pushing the door open, slipping back into the too-bright, too-loud reception, the noise crashing over you in waves.

You don’t stop until you find the bathroom, collapsing against the cool tile, gasping for air that won’t come.

And when your shaking fingers brush against the marble counter — smooth and cold and smelling faintly of expensive soap — a memory surges up so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs:

Six years ago.

The walls of Jungkook’s tiny off-campus apartment seemed to shrink around you, the air too thick with the leftover taste of the night you couldn’t forget, no matter how tightly you crossed your arms or how fiercely you jutted out your chin to hide the hurt leaking through your bones.

You were pacing, barefoot on the worn carpet, your dress wrinkled from hours of sitting stiffly at a dinner table where every glance, every polite smile, every icy comment had felt like a slap delivered with a silver fork.

"You didn’t hear the way your mother said it," you muttered, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, your voice wobbling even as you tried to sound defiant, bratty, anything but the small, shaking thing you felt like inside. "The way she asked if I needed help... pronouncing the wine list."

Jungkook sighed heavily behind you, the sound rough, frustrated, loving all at once, and when you dared glance back at him, he was scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, his white dress shirt rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the very picture of someone who wanted to punch something but was too busy loving you to bother.

"I told them to back off," he said, stepping closer, voice low, tight. "I told them you’re it for me. What else do you want me to do, baby?"

The word burned into you — baby — the way it always did, softening your anger just enough to make room for the real thing: the sadness.

"It’s not just about you standing up for me," you said, your voice small now, your throat raw from holding too much back for too long. "It’s your family, Jungkook. They’re supposed to... I don’t know... accept me. If they don’t — if they think I’m just some poor girl you’ll grow out of — maybe I don’t belong there at all."

Your hands twisted together in front of you, trying to tie yourself into a knot too small for pain to find, and you hated how broken you sounded, how much you still cared even after everything.

For a heartbeat, Jungkook just stared at you — something fierce and wounded flashing through his eyes — and then he crossed the room in three strides, his hands gripping your arms, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

"If they can’t love you," he said, his voice a growl against your hair, "then they’re not my family anymore."

You froze — heart thudding painfully — but he only hugged you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck, like he could physically shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"I already have a family," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

And something inside you — some fragile, terrified thing — cracked wide open and poured itself into his arms, because even though the world outside these walls was sharp and cruel, even though you could feel the future trying to tear you apart already, in that moment, he was enough. He was everything.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his lips brushed your neck — a featherlight touch that sent shivers chasing down your spine — and then he was kissing lower, onto your shoulder, the strap of your dress slipping down your arm under the insistence of his mouth.

Your body betrayed you instantly, leaning back into him, your pulse pounding wild and helpless beneath your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, each word punctuated with a kiss that burned hotter, lower, softer."No one else matters.I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

His hands slid down your sides — warm, steady, reverent — and when you arched instinctively into him, you felt it: the hard, urgent line of his arousal pressing into the small of your back, undeniable, desperate.

"I love you too," you breathed, tilting your head to the side to give him more skin, more access, more of everything he wanted.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound vibrating against your neck, and his hands moved faster now, not rough, but hungrier, slipping under the hem of your dress, mapping the familiar landscape of your body like a man tracing the borders of a country he already owns but never tires of conquering.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice thick, broken, worshipful. "You’re everything."

And standing there — half undressed, half unraveled, completely loved — you believed him.

You believed that love could be enough.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere — frantic, reverent — as he lifts you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like you’re something sacred he’s afraid he’ll break if he isn’t careful, and when he lays you down, the mattress dipping under your back, his gaze devours you with a hunger so raw it leaves you trembling before he’s even touched you properly.

He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm, the other already tugging at the hem of your dress with impatient fingers, and you raise your arms without thinking, letting him peel it off you inch by inch, baring you to the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.His shirt follows quickly — buttons popping loose under his fumbling hands, sleeves yanked off — and then he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, flushed, beautiful, the muscles of his arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside and drops back over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals every thought you ever had.

You moan against his lips as he grinds down into you, the hard line of his cock pressing hot and heavy through the thin barrier of your underwear, his jeans rough against your bare thighs.The friction is maddening — too much and not enough — and you arch against him instinctively, your hands clutching at his back, dragging your nails down the ridges of muscle as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, swallowing the broken gasp you let out into his mouth.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips, grinding into you again, the air between you electric, desperate, filthy. "You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep moving like that, princess."

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy with the heat coiling low in your belly, and nip at his bottom lip, making him groan again, deeper, rougher, before he pulls back just enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones.

He takes his time there, kissing, licking, sucking soft bruises into your skin, before moving lower, capturing one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his hand kneads the other breast greedily.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked with devotion and hunger, and you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucks harder, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper, something almost frantic.

"You," you pant, grinding up into him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything. "Always you."

"Good girl," he rasps, the praise making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

And then he’s kissing down your stomach, dragging your panties down with his teeth, leaving them forgotten at the foot of the bed, and when he settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him, you think you might die from how much you want him.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself, before he licks a slow, devastating stripe up your center, making your hips jerk, your hands fly to his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he groans against you, like he’s the one losing control.

He works you with his mouth until you’re writhing, gasping, begging — filthy, broken sounds spilling from your lips as he sucks your clit between his lips, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right, making your vision white out at the edges.

"Jungkook— fuck — please," you sob, grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing the high building so fast it terrifies you.

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs, teasing you with his breath, his fingers still thrusting slow and deep inside you. "Tell me. Wanna hear you beg for it."

"You," you gasp, shameless, lost. "Need you inside me. Need you now."

He groans again, desperate, wrecked, and kisses your inner thigh before pulling away, climbing back over you, his jeans shoved down just far enough to free his cock, flushed and leaking at the tip.

"You drive me fucking insane," he mutters against your mouth, grinding into your soaked core, making you both moan.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel him, needing to be filled.

"Beg for it," he demands again, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock, just barely pushing inside before pulling back, making you whimper.

"Please, Jungkook," you cry, breathless, broken, desperate. "Need you — need you to fuck me — please —"

That’s all it takes.

With a growl torn from his chest, he pushes into you in one slow, devastating stroke, stretching you, filling you, making you gasp, making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand lifts your leg higher, changing the angle, pushing deeper, hitting places inside you that make you sob. "So tight, so good — always so good for me."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he starts to move, thrusting slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to live there.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, voice shaking. "Like you were made for me."

"Yours," you gasp, clenching around him, loving the way his eyes darken, loving the way he loses control when you say it. "Always yours."

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin obscene, beautiful, necessary.

But then — he flips you, rolling you easily until you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you start to move.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, head falling back against the pillows, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy. "Ride me, baby. Let me see you."

You move — slowly at first, grinding down, rolling your hips — and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper, making you move faster.

"You’re so beautiful," he says, voice wrecked, worshipful. "So fucking beautiful like this — my princess — my fucking queen."

You preen under the praise, loving the way he looks at you, loving the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan every time you clench around him just right, loving the way he can’t even think straight when you’re on top of him.

You ride him harder, faster, rolling your hips the way you know drives him crazy, loving the way his breath stutters in his chest every time you slam down onto him, loving the way his hands clutch your hips like he’s holding onto something sacred he doesn’t want to lose.

"Look at you," Jungkook groans, voice so low and rough it makes you clench around him without meaning to, "riding my cock like you were fucking made for it."

You whimper, heat flashing through your veins at his words, and grind down harder, faster, setting a brutal pace that makes the bed creak beneath you, the headboard thudding faintly against the wall with every desperate movement.

"You like this?" you gasp out, nails dragging down his chest, watching the way his abs tighten under your touch, watching the way his eyes darken impossibly. "You like me using you like this, Kook?"

"Fuck, baby," he curses, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts again, squeezing them greedily as he thrusts up into you, matching your rhythm. "I fucking love it — love watching you fuck yourself on my cock — love how messy you get for me — how wet you are, fuck, you're dripping all over me —"

You moan at his words, at the filth of them, at the way he says it like he worships you, and the pleasure inside you coils tighter, tighter, unbearable.

"You drive me insane," he pants, bucking up harder, dragging guttural sounds from deep inside your chest."You ride me so good, baby — fuck — gonna make me come just from watching you —"

"You’re so big," you whimper, losing yourself completely, grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own high with no shame now, loving the way he watches you like you’re something holy and obscene all at once. "Feel you so deep — filling me up — love it, Jungkook — love you —"

"Say it again," he begs, his voice wrecked, desperate, lost to you. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you gasp, nearly sobbing with it, pressing your palms flat against his heaving chest to steady yourself. "Love you, love your cock, love everything about you —"

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, hips pistoning up into you, chasing your pleasure with frantic, punishing thrusts. "Take it — take everything, baby — it’s all yours —"

You feel the orgasm building, spiraling out of control, and with a shaking hand you grab his wrist, dragging his fingers to your clit, needing more, needing him.

"Touch me," you gasp, voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, need you — need you to make me come —"

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease — just rubs tight, messy circles against your swollen clit with the rough pads of his fingers, fucking into you harder, faster, his mouth open on a gasp as he watches you fall apart above him.

"Come for me," he groans, wrecked, begging. "Show me how good I make you feel — want you to fall apart on my cock — fuck, baby, please —"

And you do — you shatter with a cry, back arching, nails raking down his chest as you come hard, clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so violently your vision goes white at the edges.

Before the last waves of your orgasm even finish crashing through you, Jungkook’s hands are gripping your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back, knocking the breath from your lungs with the sheer force of him, the sheer need — and then he’s pushing into you again, deep and hard and desperate, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside your trembling body.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, doesn’t give you a second to breathe — just fucks into you in long, dragging strokes, slow enough to make you feel every thick inch of him, deep enough to make you cry out again, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, holding him there, locking him to you like you’ll never let him go.

"You’re mine," he gasps against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged and tasting like desperation and devotion."Always fucking mine. No one else gets you — no one else ever fucking will —"

"Yours," you sob, clinging to his back, your nails raking down the slick muscles there, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow, proof that you were here, that you belonged to him in every filthy, holy way.

"You feel so good," he pants, thrusting harder now, the rhythm messy and beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene, perfect sound of your bodies coming together. "So fucking good around me — fuck, baby, you were made for this — made to take me — made to be mine —"

You whimper, lost to him, to the brutal tenderness of it, the way he looks at you like you’re breaking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

"Want you to come inside," you gasp, dragging your nails up his arms, feeling him shudder under your touch. "Want to feel you — want you to fill me up, Jungkook — please —"

He groans like the sound is being ripped from somewhere deep inside him, thrusting deeper, faster, his hips snapping against yours in wild, desperate movements that have you seeing stars.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out, voice wrecked, forehead slipping to your shoulder, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin."Gonna fucking come so deep you’ll feel me for days — fuck, baby, can’t hold it — can’t —"

You tighten your legs around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and he loses it — with a hoarse, broken cry of your name, he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you, his whole body shuddering violently against yours, cock pulsing as he fills you up just like he promised.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your soaking, fluttering walls, his body trembling from the force of it, from the emotion choking both of you.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate bursts against your throat, each exhale brushing hot and trembling over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can feel the way he’s still fighting for control even though it’s already shattered, the way his whole body trembles against you, the way his heart hammers so violently inside his chest you can feel it pounding against your own.

When he finally lifts his head — slow, heavy, reluctant — his hair falls into his eyes, messy and damp from sweat, and you barely recognize the expression on his face, so raw and wrecked and open that it feels like a sin to look at him and a greater sin to look away.

His eyes are glassy, undone, burning with a kind of desperate devotion that punches the air straight out of your lungs, and you realize too late that he’s not just holding your body — he’s holding everything he has left.

You barely manage to blink back the sting of tears before he’s reaching for you again, finding your hands where they lay limp and boneless against the mattress, threading his fingers through yours with a fierce, almost frantic tenderness, squeezing tightly, like if he lets go even for a second, you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.

He keeps your hands pinned above your head, locked against the pillow, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s not the desperate, sloppy thing you expect — it’s slow, reverent, aching, his mouth moving against yours like a promise he’s too afraid to say aloud.

The kiss deepens slowly, messily, lazy and languid, tongues tangling, teeth scraping, lips dragging — a thousand whispered apologies and confessions bleeding between the spaces where your mouths meet and part and meet again.

Every tiny shift of his hips still buried inside you makes you whimper into the kiss — makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his whole body — because even now, even after he’s given you everything, he’s still not satisfied, still not ready to be apart from you, still thrusting shallowly inside you, tiny desperate movements like he’s trying to fuse you together permanently.

His nose brushes yours, clumsy and sweet, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh against your mouth, pure emotion bleeding out of him in every ragged exhale.

"Can't... can't let you go," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking with the weight of it, with how much he means it."You're mine, baby. Always mine. Always, always —"

You squeeze his fingers tighter, pressing your forehead against his, your heart splitting wide open inside your chest, because you can feel it too — the way you still belong to each other, stitched together by something reckless and terrifying and beautiful that no amount of distance or time or heartbreak could ever fully tear apart.

And as he rocks into you again, slow and tender, just to stay connected, just to keep you in his arms a little longer, you kiss him back with everything you have, everything you are, everything you’ll never be able to say.

You don’t know when it happens — maybe in the soft press of his forehead against yours, maybe in the trembling way his hands refuse to let go of yours, maybe in the way your bodies are still joined so completely it feels like one breath between you — but something inside you shifts, something warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile blooming deep in your chest, and for a moment you think you might actually break from how much you love him.

You think about how unfair life has been in so many ways — how you weren’t born into a family with silver-lined houses and gilded bloodlines, how you’ve spent so much of your life feeling like you were always standing on the outside looking in — but none of it seems to matter anymore, not when fate, or luck, or some reckless, merciful god saw fit to gift you with the only treasure that ever really mattered.

Jungkook.

You think, with a fierceness that leaves you trembling, that maybe you weren’t born into riches, but you were still the luckiest person in the world, because somehow, against every odd, you were loved by someone like him — someone who fought the whole world just to keep holding your hand.

You think about the past three years — about finding your way to each other through crowded lecture halls and late-night coffee runs and countless small moments stitched together into something so much bigger than either of you could have imagined — and you realize you’ve never been as happy as you are right now, wrapped up in him, in his messy devotion, in the future you were stupid enough to believe was already written in your favor.

You had friends — good ones.Taehyung with his bright, mischievous smile; Sora with her endless, unconditional love; Sungwon and so many others who filled your days with laughter and reckless plans — but when it came down to it, when the world blurred at the edges, it was always only him.

You needed only Jungkook, and he needed only you.

Even when you fought — and God, you fought — you always knew it was temporary, just a storm passing between two people too stubborn and too desperate to ever really let go.It was never about the two of you. It was always about the others — about the judgment of his parents, about the sharp words whispered behind closed doors — and even then, Jungkook had made it clear where he stood.

He cut them off without hesitation — the gold, the promises, the blood-ties that once weighed him down like anchors.

He built a life with you instead, stubborn and scrappy and achingly beautiful, guided by nothing but your trembling hands and his reckless heart — and somehow, against everything, it had been enough.

You believed in it with a desperation that left no room for doubt: that love like this could survive the world outside your window, that he would catch you when you fell, fight for you when you bled, hold on even when everything else told him to let go.

You were the luckiest girl in the world — and lying there beneath him, your fingers locked together like a prayer you hadn't realized you'd been whispering for years, you truly believed that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Because back then, you still believed forever could be real. Back then, you still believed love like this was enough to save you both.

You believed that nights like this could hold back the tide of everything waiting to destroy you. And that Jungkook — your Jungkook — would be the one thing in this world that never broke.

The next morning, sunlight bleeds soft and golden through the thin curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and discarded clothes and the two of you, still wrapped together, still skin to skin, still smelling of sweat and sex and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like forever.

You wake first — blinking slowly, drowsily, your body aching in the most delicious ways — and for a long, perfect moment, you just lay there, staring at him, at the boy who somehow managed to crawl inside your chest and build a home there without you ever realizing it was happening.

Jungkook is sprawled on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head, his other hand still loosely tangled in the sheet that barely covers either of you, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — messy hair, flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised lips parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still dreaming about you even now.

You can’t help yourself.

Your fingers move without permission, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the muscles shifting slightly under your touch, warm and firm and familiar, and you take your time — outlining the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the sheet — memorizing him, hoarding him, because some part of you already knows you’ll never love anyone like this again.

He stirs under your touch, a low, sleepy groan rumbling deep in his chest, and before you can even think about pulling away, his hand is shooting out, grabbing your wrist and dragging you down for a kiss — lazy, messy, desperate in the way only mornings can make kisses desperate.

You giggle against his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to tease, "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, trouble," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open but his mouth already chasing yours again, already greedy for more.

You shift slightly — intending only to reposition yourself — but when you move, you can feel it: the hard, heavy press of his morning erection against your thigh, hot and insistent and utterly unignorable.

You smirk against his lips, pulling back just enough to glance down, and then back up at him with a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

"Someone’s awake," you whisper, sliding your hand slowly, wickedly, down his chest, your nails grazing lightly over his abs, watching with smug satisfaction as his whole body tenses under your touch.

"You’re evil," Jungkook groans, head tipping back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck flexing beautifully as he tries and fails to control himself."Pure fucking evil."

You laugh, delighted, and throw one leg over his hips, straddling him easily, feeling the thick, twitching heat of him pressing against your bare core through the thin layer of the sheet.

"Am I?" you ask, feigning innocence as you grind down ever so slightly, making him curse under his breath, making his hands fly to your hips like he can’t help it. "I thought you liked me like this."

"Like you?" he rasps, his voice cracking deliciously. "Baby, I fucking worship you."

The words burn through you, leaving you flushed and reckless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin — above his heart, across the slope of his pecs, down the tight ridges of his stomach — while he fists the sheets, his muscles trembling under your tongue.

"You’re killing me," he groans, head thrashing slightly against the pillow as you kiss lower, lower, lower still.

"Good," you whisper against his hipbone, laughing softly when he growls in frustration.

And then — slow, deliberate, teasing — you trace your lips along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock throbbing against your mouth, so big and thick and perfect you almost moan at the taste of him, the sheer heat of him.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses, his hands flying to your hair, not to force you down but to anchor himself, to keep from losing his mind completely.

You lick him lazily, dragging your tongue from base to tip, savoring the way he twitches against your mouth, savoring the broken sounds falling from his lips, savoring the way his thighs tremble under your palms.

"You’re so big, baby," you murmur against him, your voice sweet and filthy all at once. "So hard for me. You want me that bad?"

"Always," he gasps, his hands tightening in your hair. "Fuck, baby, you’re so good — driving me fucking insane —"

You giggle breathlessly and press teasing kisses all over his length along the thick vein pulsing along the underside, nipping playfully at the swollen head, loving the way his hips jerk up off the bed like he can’t help it, like he needs you too much to stay still.

"Please," he groans, utterly wrecked now, his voice shaking, desperate. "Please, baby, please suck me — need your mouth so bad — fuck, need to feel you —"

You finally take pity on him — finally wrap your lips around the flushed, leaking tip — and the sound he makes is nothing short of obscene, a strangled moan that punches straight into your core.

You suck slowly at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, hollowing your cheeks to create a suction that has him cursing, babbling, begging.

"God, you’re so fucking good," he pants, hips thrusting shallowly up into your mouth."Look at you — look so pretty with my cock in your mouth — fuck, baby, you’re made for this — made to suck me off —"

You moan around him, the vibrations making him curse even louder, and then you take him deeper, swallowing inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat, until he’s gasping your name like a prayer, until his hands are trembling in your hair.

You bob your head faster, working him with your mouth and your hand, feeling him grow even harder, even heavier against your tongue, until you know he’s close — until you feel his thighs tensing, his breath catching, his hands fisting desperately in your hair.

"Baby — fuck — gonna come —" he warns, his voice raw, frantic.

You suck harder, faster, moaning around him, and with a broken, hoarse cry, Jungkook falls apart, spilling hot and salty down your throat, his body jerking helplessly, his mouth falling open in a silent, beautiful scream.

You swallow everything, licking him clean, savoring the taste of him, savoring the way he collapses back against the bed like he’s been hollowed out, like you’ve stolen every thought he ever had except for you.

And when you finally lift your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Like you hung the fucking stars just for him.

You crawl back up his body slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of warm, trembling skin under your palms, and when you finally reach him, when you finally meet his mouth again, he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’ll never get enough, like he’s still drunk on everything you just gave him and desperate for more.

It’s a messy, perfect kiss — mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, gasps and laughter bleeding into each other until neither of you knows where you end and he begins — and when you finally break apart, panting against each other’s lips, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to savor the weight of you pressed so completely against him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks — just breathing each other in, suspended there, floating somewhere that isn’t entirely the world and isn’t entirely a dream either — and when he does finally find his voice, it’s rough, low, laced with something too big for either of you to name.

"I know," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, "that we live in a bubble."

You blink, lazy and drowsy and sated, but he just smiles — that soft, crooked smile he only ever gives you when it’s late and the world feels far away.

"I know," he says again, threading his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like something precious. "That out there—" He jerks his chin vaguely toward the window, toward the city waking up beyond the glass. "—the world is still waiting for us. Still expecting things from us. Still trying to pull us apart."

You frown at that, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten, pouting without meaning to, your voice soft and bratty and unbearably adorable when you mumble, "I don't want the world."

He chuckles, the sound low and full of something aching and infinite, and pulls you tighter against him, like he can shield you from everything with the sheer force of his body alone.

"You," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, each one softer than the last, "are my whole world."

And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, endless — you realize it’s true.

In this little bubble made of tangled sheets and whispered promises and reckless hope, there is no city, no parents, no expectations, no fear.

present time

The fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror buzz faintly, a cruel, ugly sound in the soft, gilded hush of the wedding venue, and for a long, dizzying moment, you just stand there — your palms flat against the cold marble counter, your chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon you didn’t realize you’d started until it was too late.

Your reflection stares back at you, wild-eyed and red-rimmed, mascara smudged in soft gray shadows beneath lashes that flutter helplessly against the tears you can’t seem to stop.

You try. God, you try. You dab at your eyes with trembling fingers, blotting the damage, smoothing your hair, painting a brittle, empty smile onto your mouth — the kind of smile that fools no one and saves nothing, but maybe buys you just enough time to get the hell out of here before the weight of the past buries you alive.

Your heart still races from the memory, from the aftershocks of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your mouth, his voice breathing love into the hollow places you hadn’t even realized existed until he filled them.

You stand there, willing yourself to move, whispering that the past can’t touch you anymore, that you’ve outgrown this kind of pain — that you have to be stronger than you feel.

But grief — true grief — has no sense of time, no mercy for logic or willpower; it doesn't politely fade into the background like an old scar — it waits, it sleeps under your skin, and then one careless thought, one familiar smell, one remembered kiss, and it awakens ravenous, dragging you back under as easily as if you had never crawled out at all.

You draw a shuddering breath, taste salt and bitterness on your tongue, and turn away from the mirror before you can shatter completely.

The wedding hall is a kaleidoscope of color and noise as you step back into it — laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking together like tiny, mocking bells — and for a moment the world tilts under your feet, the sheer vibrancy of it so at odds with the funeral you feel unfolding in your own chest.

Someone calls your name — a polite, curious lilt — and you manage a weak smile, nodding vaguely at a group of guests you barely recognize.

"Leaving so soon?" a woman asks, genuine surprise softening her features.

You mutter something about a headache, about early work tomorrow, about anything that isn’t I’m drowning and if I stay here another second I will die where I stand.

You make it halfway across the floor before you feel it — that unmistakable pull, that gravity that never stopped tying you to him even after everything tore apart.

You look up, helpless against the instinct, and there he is — Jungkook, across the room, frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he can feel you slipping through his fingers all over again.

For just a moment, it’s there — the worry, the confusion, the stunned, aching tenderness he still hasn’t managed to bury.

But beneath it, something harsher stirs — raw and unrecognizable, dark enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

It flickers at the edge of him — in the slight tremble of his hand as he sets his drink down too fast, in the faint glassiness in his gaze that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with exhaustion, with habits he can’t seem to outrun.

He looks... thinner, somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like the success sewn into the cut of his expensive suit is holding together a body that's burning itself out from the inside.

It twists inside you, sharp and familiar, because you recognize that look — the hollow stretch of someone slipping out of their own skin, the weight of a world too heavy to carry sober, the slow erosion of time when surviving becomes the only thing left. Even after everything — after the betrayal, after the years — your heart still aches for him without permission, as natural and inevitable as breathing.

The years sharpened him: the expensive suit, the calculated ease — but none of it masks the way he carries his grief like a splinter buried too deep to remove. And somehow, with a clarity that feels like a blade to your ribs, you understand: no matter how high he climbed, no matter how much he built, some part of him never moved forward either.

Something inside him still folded back to you. He takes a step forward, almost involuntary, like he doesn't realize he's doing it — but it’s enough. It’s too much. You break the gaze like it burns, shove your way through the crowd, nearly tripping in your haste to reach the door.

The evening air slaps your face, cool and sharp, as you stumble outside, waving frantically for the first taxi that slows down, ignoring the concerned calls of a few lingering guests.

You hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind you — faster now, urgent — and you don't have to turn around to know it's him.

You keep your eyes down, refusing to look and to hope. You dive into the taxi, slam the door, choke out your address to the driver with a voice you barely recognize as your own.

The car pulls away, and you catch a final, fleeting glimpse of him through the window — Jungkook standing alone on the curb, hands clenching uselessly at his sides, his face carved into an expression that looks far too much like grief to belong to someone who supposedly moved on.

A vicious thought flickers through you — wondering if he feels the same hollow ache, if the hatred ever faded, or if somewhere deep down he never stopped loving you.

The city blurs past — streetlights smearing into liquid gold, shop windows flashing by like tiny, glittering ghosts — and you press your forehead against the cool glass, your breath fogging a small circle into the world you can no longer reach.

The thing about loss is that everyone tells you it gets easier. That time smooths out the jagged edges, that grief dulls like an old knife, that someday you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt to remember. But the truth — the ugly, merciless truth — is that time doesn’t move forward at all.

It folds, bends you back into the shape of your own broken heart, trapping you inside memories you thought you had outlived, making you relive every kiss, every fight, every promise you failed to keep as if it’s happening right now, as if it will always be happening, as if you will never truly escape the moment you realized forever wasn't a promise after all — it was just another kind of lie.

The taxi carries you deeper into the night, but part of you never moves at all — still trapped six years ago, clinging to the boy who held you through every storm, still bleeding in the ruins of everything you couldn’t save — and maybe, you realize, some pieces of you always will be.

***

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and wet paint when you stumble through the door, still half-frozen from the chill outside, your thin jacket doing little to protect you from the colder, heavier things clinging to your skin.

Minho is slouched on the battered couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees, his pencil tapping absently against the paper in a restless rhythm, and he looks up at you with surprise when he hears the door click shut.

"Back so soon?" he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if you’re real or just a ghost wandering in from the street.

You shrug, forcing a small smile that feels brittle and wrong on your face. "It was boring without you," you lie, peeling off your shoes, your jacket, your skin, your heart.

He smiles — small, touched — and you hate yourself a little for the way you can’t feel anything when you look at him.

Because it isn’t the wedding you fled from.

It wasn’t the guests or the champagne or the polite conversations that drove you out like a storm looking for somewhere to crash.

Jungkook, standing across the room like a living wound you couldn't stop bleeding from, his eyes carving you open in places you thought had long since scarred over.

How predictably stupid it was to think that six years of silence — six years of precision avoidance, of carefully stepping around mutual friends and blocked numbers and old memories — could survive a single collision without splintering into a thousand sharp-edged regrets.

You told yourself — foolishly, naively — that you could be normal tonight, that you could smile and toast and laugh at old jokes without shattering, that you could pretend you hadn’t once built a whole life inside his arms only to lose it all in a breath.

You laugh under your breath — a dry, humorless thing — as you drift toward the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower before he can ask any more questions.

The hot water scalds your skin, but it does nothing to burn him out of you. You press your forehead to the cool tile, water pouring down your back like tears you refuse to shed where anyone might hear, and you find yourself whispering silent, stupid prayers to a world that stopped listening to you a long time ago.

You beg the water, the walls, the hollow silence — anything — to take it away, to stop the endless aching, to grant you even a moment’s relief. But grief doesn’t listen.

It isn’t a wound that scabs over, or a fever that breaks; it is a parasite, patient and merciless, sinking its teeth into your ribs, your spine, your lungs, gnawing through every part of you until you forget there was ever a time you were whole.

When you finally step out, you feel no cleaner than before, just wetter, colder, heavier.

You towel your hair half-heartedly, throw on a worn sweater and sweatpants, and emerge from the bathroom with the blank, practiced face of someone who knows how to act normal when the world expects it.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice the cracks you’re bleeding from. He tosses his pencil onto the coffee table and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair.

"Club canceled the gig again," he mutters, frustration curling under his words like smoke. "Said they’re cutting back on live performances."

You offer him a tired, sympathetic noise — something noncommittal — as you collapse into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into your bones like a second skeleton.

"I should probably find another part-time job," you say absently, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing down like a hand around your throat.

Minho hums, toeing off his sneakers with a grunt. "Maybe we’re just idiots," he says after a moment, not cruel, just tired. "Thinking we could survive as artists in a world like this."

A faint, broken smile tugs at your mouth — because isn’t that the cruelest joke of all? Not the falling apart, but the fact that, for one bright, reckless moment, you believed you could win.

"Maybe," you whisper, voice almost lost to the hum of the cheap refrigerator rattling in the kitchen.

He tilts his head, studying you with a quiet frown. "Since when did you stop believing?"

You only sit there, silent, because there’s nothing left inside you that knows how to answer. Because the truth is — you stopped believing the night Jungkook walked away.

Not because Minho isn’t good enough, not because you don’t love your art anymore — but because something inside you shattered that night, something vital, something sacred.

But because when Jungkook accused you, when he looked at you like you were something dirty, something cheap, something less — it broke more than your heart.

It shattered more than your heart — it stripped you of the faith you once had in yourself, the belief that you were someone capable of being loyal.

And no matter how many paintings you hung on cold gallery walls, no matter how many late shifts you survived or coffees you poured or exhibitions you faked your way through, you never really found her again — the girl who believed she deserved to be loved without shame.

You glance at Minho, who has already gone back to sketching, his pencil moving in soft, furious strokes across the page, and you feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles you over.

He is good, and he is kind — steady in ways that should have made you feel safe, in ways that deserve something better than the hollowed-out version of you still clawing through the wreckage.

Minho deserves someone whole. Not this — a girl still haunted by a boy she couldn't bury, still stitched together with threads too thin to hold under real weight.

You press your palms against your thighs, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, and the thought slips in, unwelcome but familiar — that maybe grief is not something you outlive, but something you learn to carry, heavier with every passing year.

If some loves do not die cleanly, if they rot instead — festering quietly inside you, hollowing out everything they once touched — then maybe that decay is the only thing you have left to claim as yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

Time doesn’t heal wounds so much as it teaches you how to live around them — teaches you how to carry them in the quiet spaces between conversations, how to fold them neatly into your chest where no one else can see, how to laugh and nod and keep moving even when the old pain still howls beneath your skin.

You learn that grief becomes a kind of muscle memory — a reflex, a twitch just beneath the surface — and eventually you stop noticing the way you flinch when the world presses too hard against the places you are still bleeding.

You learn to live with it, folding the weight into your bones until it feels almost natural. You master the art of pretending — smiling, nodding, breathing like you're whole — and you almost convince yourself it's enough, until something sharp and familiar tears the stitches open all over again.

It’s been a week since the wedding.

A week of avoiding every thought that bears his face, every memory that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. A week of moving through your days on autopilot, smiling when expected, speaking when required, dying quietly in the spaces between.

When Sora’s message pings onto your phone, you almost don’t answer.

Sora:"Hey love, can you meet me at Primrose Café today? Need help planning honeymoon stuff! 🤍"

You hesitate — thumb hovering over the screen — but guilt sinks its teeth into your ribs and drags you under.

You owe her — more than silence, more than your fear, more than the cowardice clawing up your throat. So you tell yourself it’s fine, that he won’t be there, that it’s just coffee, simple, harmless, easy — but the lie tastes bitter even before you swallow it.

The café bells chime softly as you push the door open, the warm smell of roasted beans and vanilla flooding your senses — and for a brief, stupid moment, you allow yourself to relax, to believe that maybe today will be easy.

And then you see him. Jungkook is already seated at a corner table, his hands folded stiffly around a coffee cup he isn’t drinking from, his eyes dark and unreadable under the soft light.

The world tilts. Your stomach drops through the floor.

You freeze, every muscle locking tight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, to run — but then you see Sora, waving you over with that bright, frantic smile she only uses when she knows she’s asking for forgiveness before the crime has even been committed.

You move because standing still feels worse — because running has never really saved you, only delayed the inevitable.

You slide into the seat across from him, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, feeling the air thicken around you, feeling the familiar prickle of his gaze skating over your skin like a brand you can’t scrub off.

Sora clears her throat awkwardly, twisting a napkin between her fingers.

"I know this is... a lot," she says, voice too loud, too brittle. "But I just— I love you both. And with me and Tae... with everything changing... I just want us to be able to be around each other without... without it being like this."

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on Sora, on the way her hands shake slightly while she bites her lip like she’s scared you’ll hate her for this.

You could never. She’s the only reason you still have anyone at all.

"I’m not asking you to be friends," she rushes on, voice cracking slightly. "Just— just civil. For me. For family events. Holidays. Birthdays. I don’t want to have to choose between the two people who mattered most to me for so long."

The weight of it all presses down harder.

You nod because it’s the only thing you can do without breaking apart in public.

Sora’s face softens, relief flooding her features, and she reaches across the table to squeeze your hand briefly before rising to her feet.

"I’m gonna give you two a moment," she says, and before you can protest — before you can even breathe — she’s gone, leaving you alone in the heavy, aching silence of too many unsaid things.

You feel his gaze on you — steady, sharp, unbearable — and for a long moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up.

But eventually, inevitably, you do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, the past hits you like a tidal wave — dragging you back to the night everything shattered, the night you learned that some betrayals don't bleed out cleanly but rot inside you for years.

The night everything you believed in burned to ash in his hands — the same night you lost him, and somewhere along the way, yourself too.

Six years ago

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind of suffocating stillness that clings to your skin, and you had been sitting alone in your small apartment, half-listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, your sketchpad abandoned at your feet, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and slow, like maybe — finally — you could start piecing yourself back together after the stupid little fight you had with him a week ago.

You weren’t expecting anything.

Which is why the furious, violent banging at your door made you jump so hard you nearly toppled off the couch, your heart slamming against your ribs as a thousand terrible possibilities flashed through your mind — none of them preparing you for the sight waiting on the other side.

Jungkook.

But not the Jungkook you knew — not the boy who used to kiss you until the world melted away, not the boy who used to call you his princess like it was a sacred word.

This Jungkook looked like something broken loose from a storm — wild eyes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his rage, with his grief.

"Who is he?" he choked out the moment you opened the door, his voice raw, splintered at the edges."Tell me who the fuck he is, Y/N."

You blinked at him, confused, terrified, stepping back instinctively as he stormed past you into the apartment, his presence filling the small space with something frantic and electric and wrong.

"Jungkook, what are you talking about?" you asked, your voice shaking, your hands reaching out to him without thinking — but he jerked away like your touch burned him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together."I saw it! I fucking saw it — you and him — you telling him you loved him like I meant nothing!"

The words didn't make sense.

They slammed against your brain but refused to stick, refused to arrange themselves into anything real, anything you could understand.

"I— I don't—" you stammered, tears already welling up because the look on his face — God, the look — was worse than anger, worse than hatred.

It was betrayal, heartbreak — and somehow, impossibly, you had been the one to put it there, even if you didn’t understand how.

"You're protecting him," he spat, eyes glinting wet under the cheap ceiling light. "You love him that much, huh? You love him so much you'd throw everything away?"

"No!" you cried, stepping closer, desperate, frantic. "Jungkook, I swear to you — I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

But whether he didn't listen or simply couldn't anymore, it made no difference — the part of him that once trusted you was already too broken to reach and had already shattered beyond repair.

He shook his head, laughing hollowly, wiping his mouth like he was trying to scrub the taste of you from his skin, and then he was gone — slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook, that your bones rattled inside you.

You stood there for a long time after, staring at the door, at the emptiness he left behind, feeling something inside you collapse so completely it left nothing but ashes in its wake.

You called, you texted, you sat up all night watching your phone flicker to life and die again, over and over, until even the light felt like a knife against your eyes — and still, he never answered.

And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you understood that this wasn’t a fight you could fix with an apology or a kiss or a whispered promise under the covers.

This was something bigger and fatal. Days passed — long, gray, aching.

When he finally agreed to meet, it wasn’t at your apartment. It was somewhere neutral, somewhere cold — a small, empty parking lot behind a coffee shop you used to visit when you were too broke for anything but each other's company.

You spotted him leaning against his car, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the tension vibrating through him even from yards away. You approached cautiously, heart hammering against your ribs, clutching your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from whatever was about to happen.

He didn’t speak at first — just unlocked his phone with shaking fingers and shoved it toward you, and you saw the images, the videos, spilling across the screen like a slow, relentless gutting.

You — in a too-short dress you didn’t remember wearing — laughing too loudly, leaning too close to a stranger, kissing someone whose face you couldn't place, slurring out words you didn't recognize as your own — "I don't care about anything. I love you. I love you."

You stared at the screen, horror blooming in your chest so fast and so hard you thought you might be sick.

"I—" you stammered, throat closing, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the phone."I don't— I didn't—"

But you couldn't say it with certainty. You remembered going out that night after your fight, remembered the sharp, desperate need to forget how much it hurt when he raised his voice, when he walked away. You remembered drinking too much, laughing too hard.

But after that, your memory dissolves — slipping into darkness, into empty spaces where something should have been, leaving you grasping at shadows that will never take shape.

"Say something," Jungkook rasped, his voice barely more than a breath now."Fucking say something, Y/N."

You lifted your eyes to him, saw the devastation there, saw the way he was barely holding himself upright — and you realized, with bone-deep certainty, that you had destroyed him.

You had destroyed everything beautiful you had built together — every late-night secret, every whispered promise, every desperate, trembling hope — crushed under the weight of one stupid, reckless night you could barely even remember.

"It’s not real," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue."It can’t be real."

But doubt had already sunk its teeth into you, gnawing at every fragile truth you thought you knew, until even the ground beneath your feet felt like it was crumbling away.

"I need you," you whispered again, broken, desperate, hating yourself for even daring to ask when you were the reason he was bleeding out in front of you."I need you, Jungkook. Please. Now more than never."

For a heartbeat, something soft and familiar cracked through his face — something that looked almost like the boy who once loved you without fear — but it withered too fast, collapsing into bitterness, into fury, into a sadness so sharp it barely looked human.

"You needed someone to pay your bills," he snarled, stepping back like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "You needed someone to lift you out of your shit life, and I was dumb enough to think you actually loved me."

The words sliced clean through you, sharper than any knife.

"I never—" you tried to say, but your voice cracked, the tears spilling over now, unstoppable, humiliating.

He laughed — a hollow, broken sound — and wiped his mouth again like he could still taste your betrayal.

"You played me," he said. "You played me, and I fucking let you."

And then he was gone again — turning away, walking off into the night — leaving you standing there under the flickering streetlights, broken, abandoned, a ghost of the girl you used to be.

Present time

The silence between you stretches so taut it feels like it might snap and slice both of you open, and when you finally blink, the café shifts back into focus — cold coffee on the table, the faint scratch of chairs against wood, the distant hum of conversations you can't quite catch.

Jungkook is still sitting there, watching you with an expression that isn’t hatred, not exactly, but something worse — something exhausted, something hollowed-out, something like a man still bleeding from wounds that never truly closed.

You straighten in your seat, fingers tangling awkwardly in the hem of your sweater, your mouth dry, your heart thudding against your ribs like a battered bird desperate to escape.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first.

"You still painting?" he asks, voice low and rough, like it scrapes his throat just to speak to you.

You nod, barely, afraid if you use your voice it might crack apart.

"And still working those shitty jobs?" he adds, the corner of his mouth curling into something bitter, something that was never his real smile.

"Yeah," you whisper, and it sounds so small you almost hate yourself for it.

He doesn’t respond at first — just looks at you, and for a moment you think he might say something else, something sharp or cruel — but his gaze drops to his hands instead, to the way they tremble slightly as he grips the paper cup, knuckles whitening.

Your throat tightens.

You notice it then — the way the shadows cling too tightly under his eyes, the way his skin looks drawn and dry, the way his body seems almost too light in the chair like he's been losing something important slowly and no one cared enough to notice.

Without thinking, without weighing the danger, you lean in slightly, voice breaking through the shield you’ve built around yourself.

"Are you okay?"

The words are soft, tentative — a whisper stretched thin with guilt and fear — and for a second, just a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something startled and hurt and unbearably familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Jungkook huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing not with malice but with a tired kind of disbelief.

"You don’t get to ask me that anymore," he says, and the way he says it — low and tired and irrevocably sad — stings worse than any shout could have.

You drop your gaze, staring at the table between you, counting the little scratches and coffee stains like maybe if you focus hard enough they’ll tell you what to say, how to breathe, how to survive this.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, struggling under the weight of everything that’s never been said. And then — so low you almost don’t catch it — he murmurs:

"It’s funny, isn’t it?"

You look up, and there’s something broken and almost wistful in the curve of his mouth, something too raw to be a smile.

"So many years," he says, voice rough, thick with the kind of grief that doesn’t dull, "and it still fucking hurts."

You swallow hard, your throat burning, your hands curling into fists in your lap just to keep from reaching for him.

"Me too," you whisper, the truth of it carving fresh wounds into your lungs.

He turns his gaze on you then, sharp and cutting, and the tenderness in his features vanishes like smoke.

"Then why don’t you just confess it already?" he snaps, and for once it doesn’t sound cruel — just desperate, like he’s begging you to make sense of the senseless wreckage you both live inside.

Your chest caves inward.

"I didn’t cheat," you say, the words trembling between your lips, and you hate the way your voice shakes, hate the way the tears well up without permission, blurring the world around you.

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid.

"Don’t," he says, voice low and strict, the command so familiar it punches straight through your ribs. "Don't you dare cry. You don’t get to cry. You did this to me."

And maybe you would have obeyed and swallowed the tears like broken glass and let them shred you from the inside. But the truth rises before you can stop it, ugly and shaking and alive.

"I was pregnant."

The words tear themselves from your mouth, leaving you gasping, weightless in their aftermath, as the world around you collapses into a silence so complete it hums inside your skull — your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your eyes locking helplessly onto Jungkook as he goes rigid across from you, his body stiffening, his face freezing, until he looks less like a man and more like something carved from stone.

You stay frozen too, trapped in the wreckage of the moment, breathless, unmoored — suspended in that terrible space where time folds in on itself, where every grief you thought you had buried, every memory you thought you had survived, comes roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Across the table, Jungkook stares — not with anger, not even with disbelief, but with the hollow, shell-shocked emptiness of someone standing at the edge of their own undoing, with no ground left to stand on.

part 2

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

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clockwayswrites · 5 days ago

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Bird Flight, Part 47

masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3

“Are you still feeling like you want to go back to the Manor tomorrow for Sunday dinner?” Danny asked.

They were out at one of Danny’s favorite cafes for breakfast, needing both the nourishment and the wonderful blessing of caffeine. They had spent the last few days basically hiding in Danny’s apartment, and it was a literal breath of fresh air to be out. Danny hoped that it also spoke well about Tim’s mental state.

Tim sucked down the last of his sugary monstrosity before, instead of answering, he asked, “Can you come with me and stay for dinner?”

“Absolutely,” Danny said without any hesitation. “We’ll need to take a taxi or something though, I don’t have a car.”

“I can call Alfred, or I guess… there’s always Dick,” Tim said with a little frown, “but he’ll ask questions. Jason has a car now, I think? I’ll text him later and ask.”

Danny gave a little nod and finished off his last bit fruit. He always liked to save a strawberry for last. “Alright, but if it’s too much for anyone, and that includes you, we can just take a taxi.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim agreed. He pushed back his chair. “I’m going to go wash my hands. That sandwich was great, but so messy. Are you still good to go to that hobby story you were talking about?”

“I have plenty of energy still.” Danny made sure to accompany his words with a smile, wanting to assure Tim that he could manage. He was a little on the achy side, sure, but it wasn’t like they hadn’t just been sitting and enjoying the late morning for the last half hour.

Tim eyed him a moment before nodding and getting up. As Tim weaved his way through the tables towards the back of the restaurant, Danny pulled out his phone to update Bruce.

‘Tim has been fed and caffeinated,’ Danny wrote. ‘Plan atm is to be there tomorrow for dinner. Both of us.’

‘How is he doing? How are you doing?’ Bruce quickly sent, one after another.

‘Tim’s better. He’ll be okay,’ Danny assured Bruce first. ‘I’ll be ok too. Just sore still.’

‘If I can do anything…’

‘Of cou—’ Danny had started to type when it felt like a bucked of ice water had been dumped over him. For a moment he was left gasping and struggling to keep a hold of his phone.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong with HIS PEOPLE.

Danny swiped the group chat open without a thought. And then stopped. This wasn’t Sam or Tucker or Jazz. This was close. This was…

Tim.

Danny jolted out of his seat. He barreled past the other tables to the back of the cafe. The bathroom was empty. The back door was open. There was a smear of blood.

“Danny?” Bruce answered the call immediately.

“They took Tim.”

“What—”

“I don’t know who! They took Tim from the cafe. They must have been there watching. I have this—I have this panic button from, um, Batman, but it’s daytime. I don’t know if…” Danny stared down at the button he had pressed down with a trembling thumb. The rest of his keys cut into his hand. “I don’t know if…”

“Stay there,” Bruce ordered. “Danny, just stay there. I’ll make sure that—”

Danny hung up the call. He couldn’t listen to Bruce and focus. He had to focus. He couldn’t expect another hero to come to the rescue. He had to find Tim.

Tim was HIS and he would find him.

#*whistles innocently*#dp x dc #spirit halloween ship #birdritch

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cacoetheswriting · 23 days ago

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nice to each other

chapter two from the little mess you made.

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) word count: 4k

summary: eddie, standing face to face with you (aka the hot mom of the kid he didn’t know about), thinks life’s handed him a second chance. there’s just a lot of questions to be answered first. like, how come no one bothered to tell him he’s a dad?

chapter cw: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy | non-explicit, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, mutual pining / yearning, mild jealousy, this chapter is still kinda angsty, emotional hurt / some comfort, navigating family dynamics, adult language — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, I guess.” That’s what you said. Mere minutes ago. Yet, now that you’re sitting across from the brunette man, you can’t bring yourself to utter a single stupid word.

Throat dry. Hands clammy.

Eddie Munson has not changed much since you last saw him, (splayed, half-naked, over the fancy hotel bed). There’s a certain tiredness in the crinkle of his mahogany gaze, but you know that comes with his chosen trade. Long hours, demanding nights. After all, it was your life too, before the blessing in disguise that’s been this mess you both created.

He’s still a handsome fucking devil, that’s for sure. Although, there’s no sign of the confidence he oozed that one fateful night and you suspect that’s got little to do with the surprising news Eddie received today, maybe more with the real reason he came back to Hawkins, to see his uncle.

God. What would you have done without Wayne Munson?

The list of gratitude you hold towards the grey-haired man is endless and every day, he continuously adds one more item. An additional thing to be thankful for because he’s just that good of a man. Taking you in during the perhaps most confusing time of your life tops the cake, but today has become a close second. Giving you a heads-up about his nephew's surprise arrival. Being the one to inevitably break the news you held close to your heart.

There’s a high chance Eddie’s got his own list of reasons: Wayne Musnon, best person ever. From the stories you’ve been told since you moved in, if there’s something going on in his glass-cage life, it’s really no wonder he showed up here. To talk to his uncle. Get advice. Instead, he’s been smacked in the face with a toddler (not literally, obviously). The thought makes you grimace.

Okay. Time to rip off the bandaid.

“You probably have a lot of questions,” you offer him a chance to begin the inquisition.

Eddie nods and clears his throat. “Yeah.”

He scrunches his nose and you chew on the inside of your cheek, fighting back a smile. He’s cute. He’s cute and he’s finally here and he’s the father of your kid and this is a second chance… Your mind begins to race with possibilities and you quickly dig your nails into the palm of your hand, squeezing. Stopping the spiral because this is not how the real world works. For all you know, Eddie may not even want to be a part of Messer’s life, nevermind yours.

Ignoring the aching zing through the chest, you wave a hand to the side as if signaling for him to continue.

“Wayne seems to be sure he’s mine.” Eddie says, finally meeting your eyes, and nod.

“He is. Yours.”

Eddie bops his head, swallowing.

“He uh, he does kinda look like me.”

“He does,” you agree. “Annoyingly, more than me.”

This makes Eddie smile. It’s timid. His mouth barely twitches upwards, but you notice the slight chance in expression immediately and your stomach fills with hope. Then, nails into skin, tighter.

“Why did nobody tell me?”

Exhaling a short breath, you straighten in the chair. You’ve been silently preparing for this question ever since a decision was made not to loop Eddie in on the situation.

“We tried,” you answer simply and when the rockstar’s brows furrow in deep confusion, you continue, “The first thing I did after I found out, is call the number you put in my phone, but all I got is a dial tone. I assumed you left me with a dud, since you’re this famous musician and I’m just me. Your pick of the night.”

“That’s not true—”

“It hurt, yeah,” you interrupt with a shrug, “But I had bigger things to worry about.”

Thinking back to the morning he saw you last, Eddie slumps further into his seat. He’s sure he gave you his real number. Heck, he’d been rather impatiently waiting for your call every damn day after, but his phone never rang. He assumed the opposite of what you just admitted. Even called you a groupie to Felix – a statement he dutifully regrets now. To know that you’ve indeed tried to reach him, with life-altering news too, well, Eddie feels like a moron for not double checking the set of digits.

“Anyway, I uh… I thought of trying to reach you through your socials, but I remembered you told me how there’s a PR person in charge of those accounts. That you never even see what messages come in.”

He nods again. It’s true. Eddie’s autonomy over his social media accounts was quickly taken away when a nonsense drunken live got out of control, followed by some uncharacteristic rage posting. This all happened a month into his career. Should’ve been the rockstar’s first sign. “You’re not fit for the limelight, Edward.”, his agent’s recent words suddenly ring in his ears and despite the topic of conversation, he’s glad when you keep talking.

“Finally, I asked for your tour manager’s details through work, under the guise of sharing some photos from your concert.”

“Felix?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, adding, “Asshole.”

Eddie snorts and this time, you don’t bite back your smile. You let the expression spread across your features. Earnest, welcoming. A Duchenne smile. Luring the rockstar in, just like that night in New York. The very first night he saw you. The reason he froze up on stage — to date, the only time in his career.

“He’s got your smile,” Eddie notes, unable to look away. Warmth spreads to his fingertips the longer he stares.

“Felix?”

Barking out a laugh, the brunette man briefly throws his head back, then knuckles land on his lips as he catches your gaze once again, pathetically hiding his happy manner.

“The kid.”

“The kid, huh?” Smirking, you raise a brow. “The kid has a name, you know.”

“Messer,” Eddie says, dropping his hand to his lap.

“Mason,” you say, confirming that Messer is in fact just a clever nickname. Fit for the child in question. Although, you’re not sure why. Maybe because this is the first time you’ve heard Eddie say it and there’s a certain wistfulness for the years they’ve both missed together.

Eddie reads your mind. The melancholy creeping in and slowly overwhelming him once more. His smile fades muscle by muscle and he drops his gaze, focusing on the silver rings coating his fingers. He twists and turns, fidgets, waiting for you to break this awful silence that has suddenly fallen between you two.

Eventually, your own smile shifts and after clearing your throat, you continue.

“I got a hold of Felix and surprisingly, he remembered me. That’s where my luck ran out though, because he wouldn’t let me speak to you, said you were in the middle of some shoot and you didn’t need a distraction, which I was — as Felix put. So, I left this news with him. He promised he’d pass it on and get you to call me back, but…”

“Felix never told me,” Eddie confirms what you’ve been thinking all these years.

“I figured,” you say.

Eddie’s brows furrow. “So, you just stopped trying?” He asks, an accusatory tone slips through the question.

“Of course not,” you defend. “When it became clear you weren’t going to call me back, I didn’t want to just think it’s because you want nothing to do with the baby, so I needed to try to speak with you face to face. I looked up your tour dates and booked a flight to Los Angeles.”

“Jesus,” he exhales. You flew cross country, barely a few weeks pregnant with his baby, all because his tour manager decided to keep a secret. Eddie thinks how terrified you must’ve been and he’s feeling guilty over something he had absolutely no control over. Story of his life, it seems. He’s gonna fucking murder Felix when he sees the guy next. How dare he?

“Puked the entire flight,” you tell the rockstar and he grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, but you shake your head and tell him not to be since he had no idea any of this was happening.

A slight breeze rushes through. Leaves crackle and a windchime calls in the distance.

Feeling the weight of his gaze on you, knowing there’s something on the tip of his tongue that’s too heavy to admit at this very moment, you look away. Focusing instead on the wooden treehouse located to the side of the vast back garden.

“Wayne built that for Messer.”

Eddie forces himself to shift his focus away from you, brown eyes moving towards the item you’ve just pointed out. And he softens. The structure is not perfect by any means, but the care his uncle put towards making the playground toy is palpable.

Painted the colours of the rainbow, the wood is vibrant. Perfect for a child. A ladder hangs loosely by the bark of the sturdy tree, swaying with the wind. Up above, there’s a small door, a window on the side. Currently switched off, a set of fairy lights is tangled amongst the branches.

Eddie imagines Wayne’s focus while drilling this hideout together. He imagines his uncle showing the house off to Messer. Playing up there with the toddler. Then, he pictures you. That damn captivating smile of yours as you most likely joined them, maybe even spent time up there alone (or otherwise). He finds himself hoping it’s not the latter.

“What’s the deal with Harrington?” He asks, mouth working against his better judgement.

“Steve was there,” you tell him. “In California. He was hanging around the backstage door during the show, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in. Which, coincidentally, was exactly my plan too.”

A faint smile breaches your lips at the memory and the rockstar feels slightly uncomfortable. Jealous, even. He had no idea Steve came to the Los Angeles concert. Perhaps to make amends for that stupid argument they had months prior, but instead Harrington met you, and God knows who he is to you now. A boyfriend, maybe? Playing daddy to the kid you share with Eddie.

“We couldn’t get through, past your security. When the show ended and the crowd outside tripled in size, Steve walked me back to my hotel. On the way, I decided the universe didn’t want you to know. Eddie Munson was made for greatness and shouldn’t be held back by a kid.”

“Fuck that,” he groans, rolling his eyes.

“What else was I supposed to do? I was six weeks pregnant, alone in an unfamiliar city. I cried the entire walk to the hotel after yet again, unsuccessfully trying to deliver this news to you,” you try to reason. “Eddie, the person closest to you at the time knew my situation. Felix knew you were months away from becoming a dad and deliberately chose not to tell you.”

Eddie’s jaw locks. A muscle twitches in his cheek, a tell-tale sign of the anger he's desperately trying to suppress. He can feel the heat rising in his neck, a pressure building behind his temples, threatening to explode. Fucking Felix. He feels betrayed by this person he’s trusted most since his career began, although, perhaps that stupid ‘groupie’ comment didn’t help. He’s such a goddamn idiot.

“Steve calmed me down, flew back to New York with me. He spent the next few months living on my couch, going to all of the appointments with me and generally just lending a helping hand. I continued to work until I was five-months pregnant, when it got a little difficult to stand for such long hours plus the noise from the gigs every single night, I was afraid those decibels wouldn’t be good for the baby.”

You sigh, pausing.

“And every day that went by, I thought the phone would ring. I even got Steve to call you a couple of times, but you never answered.”

“We weren’t speaking,” Eddie tries to explain, anger momentarily subsiding. “Stupidly, I was pissed at him and dodged his calls, but if I-I knew that’s why Harrington wanted to get in touch with me I would’ve answered. I swear. I would’ve dropped everything and—”

“Eddie, I may have not understood this then, but enough time has passed for me to know that you would have resented me. The baby too, probably.”

“No,” he protests, locks bouncing with the shake of his head.

“Your career would have stalled. You would have never accomplished everything that you did in the last four years.”

“I wish I had the option to decide for myself,” the rockstar snaps. An unvarnished moment of frustration.

Sympathy floods your brain and your first instinct is to reach across, take his hand in yours. But you hold yourself back. The difference between his world and yours feels like an unbridgeable canyon. You’ve always understood that, hence why you gave up in telling him about Messer. Seeing Eddie now however, his raw yearning for autonomy, well, you wish you never stopped.

“Steve brought me to Hawkins,” you continue, softly, “He introduced me to Wayne and the rest is history.”

“Wayne never even tried,” Eddie says, deflation visible across his features and your heart clenches between your ribs.

“That’s on me,” you admit. “I asked him not to.”

Nodding once, slowly, Eddie looks up towards the sky. Silence settles between you, except for the gentle whistle of leaves and the distant wind chime. His gaze is lost somewhere beyond the floating clouds, replaying this conversation, calculating the odds he now faces. The tension in his jaw has eased a fraction, replaced by a weary resignation that chills you more than any outburst. Eddie is displaying a profound calm, like someone who has just accepted the truth.

He’s been burned. By everyone closest to him.

How does one even begin to trust again after such a devastation?

“Harrington called again, seven months after his last attempt.” Eddie says, brown eyes latching onto yours once more. “I answered.”

“I know.”

“But this time, he didn’t even try to tell me what’s been going on.”

“I know,” you repeat, then add, “I’m truly sorry, Eddie. I really thought it was for the best, that in the end, you didn’t know. And look at the life you’ve created for yourself. You should be proud.”

He huffs. “Maybe.”

Wanting to add so much more, tear his heart out for you to see the fresh wounds, he opens his mouth to continue, but Wayne appears at the back door. Messer in his arms. The child squeals in excitement upon seeing you and lifts his grabby hands in your general direction. You don’t hesitate to reach for him. Scooping him up in a comforting embrace, placing a kiss to the top of his head.

Your gaze finds Eddie’s again as you rest your chin on Messer’s crazy head of hair. Your smile softens, still genuine, but hinting at something else entirely when it’s directed at the rockstar. He reciprocates. Understanding at this very moment how you had other things — larger things — to consider. Sure, he missed out on the first few years of his kid’s life, but you, you seemingly gave up everything to raise him.

He’s holding back the hurt and shifts his mindset to a more grateful one. He wants to tell you as such, thank you for the years you sacrificed, but again he’s interrupted by the backdoor sliding open. This time, Steve Harrington makes an appearance.

“Hey, man.” The King of Hawkins says to Eddie, an awkward tint to his tone, before quickly glancing at you. “Should we all go and get some food?”

A LITTLE BEFORE

Someone is singing on the F train.

What’s up by 4 Non Blondes. Utterly off-key, but with an incredible amount of passion.

People are staring, whispering amongst themselves. Some our pointing fingers, some snickering under their nose. Then there’s the select few that are cheering on. Whooping and waving their arms in unison, even joining in for the chorus. And although you’re sitting quietly, away from the commotion, watching it all transpire, that’s the group you feel a part of. Decency and genuine human spirit.

Music makes people come together, you’ve always believed that — hence your choice of career. And here it is, the theory being proven in real time.

Retrieving your Pentax from your cream-coloured bum bag, which, aside from the keys to your flat and a card holder, is the only item that you carry around, you lift the camera into view and click. No one turns around. The noise of the shutter was lost amongst the vibrations of the carriage.

In the notes app on your phone, you type out the date and time, along with a quick description of the setting: F train, singing, magic. The train pulls up to the next stop and after placing the camera back in your bum bag, you quickly hop off.

The venue you work at is already buzzing with excitement by the time you arrive.

“Big night,” Jens, the floor manager, announces as you pass by. He shoots you a playful wink as you bellow after him how every night is big.

Photography is your passion. Has been since you were a kid and your aunt Agnes surprised you with your very first digital camera (it was hot pink).

Concert photography piqued your interest in high school, when you worked at the school paper and shot the various talent shows, musicals, and cheer competitions. The dream only intensified in college. While your classmates were working on their portfolios, hoping for spots at local art galleries, you spent a ridiculous amount of time on LinkedIn, working on creating connections in the music industry. Hoping that someone out there will give you a chance.

They did.

Yeah, you think as you chuck your bag into your locker and hang the staff lanyard around your neck, every night is big when you shoot the stars.

Although, to Jens’ point, the talent tonight is extra special too.

Eddie fucking Munson.

You’ve studied his moves. Watched a rather ridiculous amount of videos from past shows in preparation for tonight, like you did with every talent that graced the Terminal 5 stage — and not because he’s ridiculously alluring. Is there something about him? Magic, definitely. Plus the big brown eyes and the brown locks that perfectly frame his face, even as he jumps around, well, those features don’t hurt him either…

Once Eddie Munson graces the stage, you’re sure he knows he possesses said magic. Shamelessly, the musician flirts with the crowd by showing off his voice, his moves, and his unfiltered talent. Girls squeal with excitement, guys roar with encouragement while bumping into one another, forming a mosh pit.

At first, you observe from the sidelines.

Unknowingly memorising the sight before your eyes, lips cursive. The nonchalant sway of his hips. The way his sweat glistens under the harsh stage lights. Jesus, you need to get a grip. You’re feeling all giddy, bordering on unprofessional.

Hand tightening around the camera in your grasp, you take a few tentative steps forward, stopping just beneath the stage. Eddie pays you no mind. Lost in the beat of the song, the sea of people singing back at him. Smiling wider now, you lift the 35mm and position yourself, waiting for the right moment.

He looks down at that exact second. He looks at you, and he freezes. Movements halt, brown gaze widens. He’s staring at you through the lens of your camera, mouth parting as if you’re the last person he’s expected to see, even though he’s got no fucking clue who you are, and a shiver runs down your spine.

Jesus Christ. You want to bottle the way Eddie Munson is looking at you, forever.

Click. A flash. Done.

A LITTLE AFTER

Wayne stays behind, citing some excuse Eddie should have bothered to listen too. Instead, the rockstar’s focus latched onto you. A pull too strong to resist.

He watches you lead Messer towards Harrington’s black SUV and set the toddler in the back, safely in his car seat. As you do, Eddie tries to suppress his anger at the fact there’s a fucking permanent car seat in the back of Steve’s vehicle, meaning his best friend is continuously, very involved in your life.

The horrid thought confirmed when Harrington throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a half-hug. Eddie observes silently, from the top of the driveway, as you lean into the embrace, saying something intangible to the man next to you. Steve’s laugh is brisk and Eddie jaw clenches.

“Ready, man?” Harrington calls out suddenly, turning to address the rockstar, while dropping his arm.

Eddie nods. He walks the few steps towards the SUV, eyes still glued to you. He wordlessly offers you the passenger spot, but you politely decline, sliding into the back with Messer, who’s oblivious to the adult problems and instead, pretending the toy plane in his grasp is gearing for take-off.

“Pizza?” The toddler asks once Harrington shuts his own door and starts the engine, low rumble vibrating through the car.

“Pizza,” you confirm sweetly, then glance at Eddie through the rearview mirror. “Is that okay with you?” You ask the musician.

“Sure,” he says rather flatly, but quickly catches the indifference in his tone and course-corrects, shifting his body in the seat so that he’s facing the back of the car. “I love pizza.”

“Pizza is my favourite,” Messer announces, the r falling short of a proper pronunciation. “My mommy likes it too. Uncle Steve brings her pizza when she’s sad.”

Eddie’s eyes flicker towards you yet again, but you ignore his heavy gaze and reach to ruffle the kid’s hair in retaliation for giving away such an intimate secret, although the action is very playful.

“I’m not sad, lovey.” You tell him, knowing Eddie is listening, “I’ve got you, and grandpa Wayne, and the girls from work, and uncle Steve too. What possibly could I be sad about?”

It’s rhetorical, the question. You’re affirming there’s a lot you have to be grateful for in this life you’ve built following the curveball that’s been thrown at you. Plus, you don’t want your three-year-old thinking you’re walking around sad. He’s just a little kid. He shouldn’t worry about his mom.

Messer however, doesn’t understand the stylistic tone, and he answers you anyway.

“Because my dad isn’t here.”

And your heart stops momentarily.

Fuck, you drawl the thought, then slowly, you tilt your head to look at Eddie who’s own gaze shudders under the declaration. The mahogany tint in his eyes darkens with emotion and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows a shallow breath.

Eventually, after an excruciating minute of awkward silence, he reaches for the kid, placing a hand on his tiny calf.

“I’m sure he’s very sorry about that,” Eddie says simply and he prays you can detect the sincerity in his tone, because he is… sorry.

As the drive continues, Eddie stares out the window and silently promises himself to not leave Hawkins until he makes all of this right.

He doesn’t need Messer to know his dad is here now, but he’d like to show you, in particular, how good it could be if the truth was out there. He’s not some fuck up that seemingly everyone in his life seems to take him for. He’s a good guy with mistakes that continue to chase him, but for a change, this is not one of the messes he wants to run away from.

Eddie’s quietly hoping the other slips won’t find him here, when his phone vibrates in his lap, catching his attention.

Glancing at the text from his agent, Smith Lyne, the rockstar’s chest tightens momentarily.

Smith Lyne (dickhead): Edward. Charges have been dropped. Eddie: thanks, man Smith Lyne (dickhead): The team managed to keep the whole debacle out of the press for now, but continue to lay low for a few weeks. Smith Lyne (dickehad): Will be in touch with the next steps soon.

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

story masterlist

tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know:

@tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @ratsematary @alyisdead @kravitzwhore @aestheticsunflower19 @s1mp-4-ga11y @monstermunsonswife-blog @xingyuluvr @ari-joe

#the little mess you made.#eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson series #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #stranger things #stranger things fic

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iamquiantrelle · 6 days ago

Text

LADY HAMILTON (part one) • iamquaintrelle

# summary: everyone thinks that being lewis hamilton’s wife is sweet—it is for the most part—but every high has its lows. # pairings: lewis hamilton x black fem reader # tags: @barcelonesa, @lewismcqueen, @summersoniccc, @christmasbales, @issfaith, @amori1i, @toutouslilwrld, @literallysza, @jessnotwiththemess, @sailurmewn, @127hydrangeas, @that-90s-girllll, @queenshikongo3, @cocobutterqwueen, @muglermami, @beauty-gurl, @palefacestudentlove, @firstlyferrari, @kinggbl, @vintagesoul-01, @nervousstudentmiracles # warnings: formula one drama, family feuds, breastfeeding issues, postpartum depression, angst, cursing, adult themes - 18+ # author's note: although this fic shows the "high life" of being a wag - this does not support or glamorize "wag culture"; it does the opposite and sheds light on the not so fun sides of dating/marrying an athlete, especially in f1. if you are triggered by depressive epsiodes and feeling hopeless, please do not read this fic.

yourusername posted on your story 16 hours ago!

IG story comments:

lewisfantillidie: omg these are too cute!! is she here?!! stillirise: 🍼👶🏾 44forever: 😭 😭 😭 teamlhitalia: Il piccolo Hamilton è qui allora, giusto? plus44world: looking amazing as always lady hamilton mission44: so excited to to meet the babes!! fencer: uncle miles reporting for duty 🫡 ⤷ yourusername replied to fencer you’re a bit early unc 😉 she’s still wombside 13thwitness: 🤯 🤯 is it time? holy shit!! ⤷ yourusername replied to 13thwitness almost time prologic: bro didn’t even text us yet 😔 ⤷ yourusername replied to prologic we just made it to the hospital

**********************************************

lewishamilton and 2 others • The Beatle’s “All You Need Is Love”

liked by fencer, f1, scuderiaferrari, yourusername, and others

lewishamilton: We’re so blessed to welcome our third daughter Earthside yesterday morning. The staff at the hospital was amazing! Thank you all for your prayers, kind words, and support! I will take a few days offline to enjoy this moment with my family and see everyone for the final race of the season in Abu Dhabi. Everyone say hello to Love Acacia Cherise Hamilton 💕 ~ her big sisters Leia and Lake are already in love with her! 😉

view all comments….

mercedesamgf1: omg she’s so cute! congrats on another healthy baby girl lewishamilton ⤷ lewishamilton replied to mercedesamgf1 you guys were definitely betting on this…lemme guess Bono won the bet? ⤷ mercedesamgf1 replied to lewishamilton yes he did 🤗 f1: We love Love!! 💕 (get it? 🤭) ⤷ lewishamilton replied to f1 😂😂 roscoelovescoco: i’s a big’s brother’s again’s 🐶 scuderiaferrari: Benvenuto nel mondo Amore! ⤷ lewishamilton replied to scuderiaferrari: Grazie mille 🙏🏽 susiewolff: oh she’s precious!! I need to pop in for a visit for some snuggles 🥰 ⤷ lewishamilton replied to susiewolff you’re always welcome 🤗 fencer: MY NIECEE!!!!! BRUV I’M IN TEARS RIGHT NOW 😭 😭 spinzbeatsinc: damn brother can you make a boy? 👦🏾 ⤷ hamazinglew replied to spinzbeatsinc I don’t think he can 🤣 ⤷ lewisfanforever replied to spinzbeatsinc man had 3 girls in 3 and a half years - he isn’t getting any sons 😂 ⤷ user67836 replied to lewisfanforever damn 3 children in 3 and a half years is crazy work! My prayers for his wife and lewishamilton stay off her man!! dangerusswilson: congrats lewishamilton 🥳 ⤷ lewishamilton replied to dangerusswilson my guy im trying to be like you 👀 ⤷ dangerusswilson replied to lewishamilton the lord said to be fruitful and multiply and you shall, my G 🙌🏾 ⤷ kingjames replied to dangerusswilson hey now don’t give him any ideas 😏 broncos: We can’t wait to meet her!! 😊 ⤷ lewishamilton replied to broncos you guys will see her soon georgerussell63: Congrats Lewis!!! pierregasly: 🥹🥹🥹 charlesleclerc: lewishamilton please bring pictures next week! ⤷ yukitsunoda replied to charlesleclerc and lots of videos please… lewishamilton

The Dubai skyline glittered like scattered diamonds outside your hospital window.

You shifted carefully in the bed, every movement a reminder of what your body had just accomplished. Love was sleeping in your arms – all six pounds, four ounces of her, impossibly small and perfect. Her dark hair was soft as silk, and when she'd opened her eyes for the first time, they'd been Lewis's exact shade of brown.

"She's beautiful," Lewis whispered from the chair beside your bed. He'd barely left that spot in the thirty-six hours since Love's arrival, as if moving too far might break the spell of this moment.

"She is," you agreed, though your voice came out rougher than expected. Everything felt raw still. Not just physically, but emotionally too. Like you'd been turned inside out and hadn't quite figured out how to exist in your skin again.

This was supposed to be easier by now. Love was your third baby. You knew what to expect, knew the rhythm of newborn life, knew how your body typically bounced back. But something felt different this time. Harder. Like you were swimming through honey while everyone else moved at normal speed.

"The girls are gonna lose their minds when they meet her," Lewis said.

"They're gonna be so gentle with her," you said, trying to inject warmth into your voice. The truth was, the thought of managing three kids under four made your chest tight with something that might have been panic.

Lewis reached over, brushing his thumb across Love's tiny fist. "Can't believe we made something this perfect."

You looked at him – still in yesterday's clothes, stubble shadowing his jaw, eyes soft with wonder – and felt a familiar ache. He was so good at this. So natural. Already planning family adventures, talking about teaching Love to swim, to drive, to be brave and kind and everything good in the world.

Meanwhile, you were wondering if you'd ever feel human again.

"Dr. Mohammad said we can go home tomorrow morning," you said instead of voicing any of that.

"Good. The penthouse is all set up. Got the bassinet by our bed, all her clothes organized by size..." Lewis trailed off, studying your face. "You okay, baby? You look tired."

Tired. That was like calling the ocean damp.

"Just ready to get settled," you said. "Hospital beds aren't exactly comfortable."

Lewis nodded, but his expression remained concerned. You turned back to Love, letting her tiny fingers wrap around yours, and tried to ignore the voice in your head that whispered you weren't doing this right. That a good mother would be glowing with joy instead of feeling like she was drowning.

Your phone buzzed on the bedside table – another flower delivery, another congratulations message, another reminder that the world was watching Lewis Hamilton's perfect family welcome their third perfect daughter.

Perfect.

The word sat heavy in your chest as Love stirred in your arms, making those soft newborn sounds that should have melted your heart completely.

They did. But underneath the love was something else. Something that felt too much like fear.

*****************************************************************

The Dubai penthouse was a study in understated luxury.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the marina, where yachts bobbed like expensive toys. The nursery Lewis had set up was a dream in soft whites and pale yellows, with a custom mobile that played a melody he'd hummed during your pregnancy.

Your husband had left before dawn for the circuit, kissing you goodbye while you were still half-asleep. Now it was just you and the girls in the sprawling penthouse, watching the world wake up thirty floors below.

"Mummy, when does Daddy's race start?" Leia asked from her spot on the enormous sectional, still in her pajamas and clutching her stuffed elephant.

"Not for a few hours, sweetheart," you said, shifting Love to your other arm as she made those soft newborn sounds that meant she'd be crying soon. "We'll watch it together."

Lake was already planted in front of the massive TV, even though it was just showing the morning news. At two and a half, she didn't understand what Formula 1 was, but she knew it meant seeing Daddy on the big screen.

Love started fussing, that escalating whimper you'd learned meant hungry, tired, uncomfortable, or some combination of all three. You'd been trying to nurse her for the past hour with limited success—your supply was still inconsistent, and she seemed perpetually frustrated by the slow flow.

"She's crying again," Leia observed helpfully.

"I know, baby. Mummy's trying to help her."

But twenty minutes later, Love was still fussing despite your best efforts. The pre-race coverage had started, and Lewis was in the garage, going through his usual routine. He looked focused and calm, but you felt like you were barely keeping your head above water.

The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix then unfolded like poetry on screen.

You sat with Love finally settled in your arms, Leia and Lake curled up on either side of you on the sectional. The girls were surprisingly good at watching races – something about the speed and colors kept them engaged.

"Daddy!" Lake squealed as the camera caught Lewis climbing into his car.

"He looks fast," Leia added seriously, as if speed was something you could see in someone's posture.

Lewis did look good today. The Mercedes was responding well, and you could tell from his radio messages that he was feeling confident. This was his goodbye to the team that had given him six championships. It mattered.

When he crossed the finish line, you felt tears prick your eyes despite your exhaustion. The relief in his voice over the radio was palpable, the joy of his team infectious even through the television.

Then came the donuts. Lewis spinning his car in celebration on the main straight, smoke billowing from the tires, pure euphoria in every rotation. The camera caught him climbing out for the last time as a Mercedes driver, helmet off, that brilliant smile breaking across his face.

You watched him embrace Toto, then Bonon, then his mechanics, then every team member he could find. Watched grown men cry as they hugged the driver who'd brought them so much success. Watched Lewis himself wipe away tears as he soaked in the moment.

"Daddy's happy," Lake observed.

"Very happy," you agreed, bouncing Love gently as she started to stir.

On screen, Lewis was glowing. In his element. Everything he'd worked for condensed into this perfect farewell.

Here in the penthouse, however, you felt like you were watching through glass.

Your phone buzzed constantly with notifications – congratulations messages, news articles, social media tags. You let them pile up, unread.

"When is Daddy coming home?" Leia asked.

"Soon, sweetheart. He has some things to do first, but he'll be back tonight."

Lewis would have media obligations, team celebrations, probably dinner with people from Mercedes. He'd be riding the high of this moment for hours.

You'd be here, trying to figure out why Love wouldn't stop crying and why your body felt like it belonged to someone else.

*************************************

Lewis came home around midnight, tired but still buzzing with emotion.

You met him at the door with Love in your arms – she'd been having one of her difficult evenings, crying on and off despite being fed and changed and rocked.

"How are my girls?" he asked, pulling you into a careful hug, mindful of the baby between you.

"Good," you said automatically. "Leia and Lake fell asleep watching the replay. They were so excited to see you win."

"P5," Lewis corrected gently. "But it felt like a win."

"It was a win. A perfect send-off." You meant it, even though watching his triumph had made the contrast with your own struggle feel sharper.

Lewis studied your face in the dim hallway light. "You look tired, baby."

Tired. There was that word again.

"Love's been fussy," you said instead of listing everything else – the successful feeding attempts that lasted only minutes, the endless cycle of crying and soothing that never quite worked, the way your body still felt foreign and wrong.

"Here, let me take her." Lewis reached for Love, and you handed her over gratefully.

Within minutes, she'd settled against his chest, finally quiet.

"How do you do that?" you asked, sinking onto the couch.

"Fresh hands," Lewis said simply, but you knew it was more than that. He had a natural ease with the babies that you envied.

"She's been like this all day. I can't figure out what she wants."

Lewis settled beside you, Love peaceful in his arms. "Maybe she's just having a hard day. Babies do that sometimes."

You nodded, though part of you wondered if Love could sense your own anxiety, if somehow your inability to relax was making everything harder for both of you.

"How was the race really?" you asked, needing to focus on something positive.

Lewis's face lit up as he described the strategy, the car's performance, and the emotional team meetings afterward. You listened and smiled and asked the right questions, letting his joy wash over you even as you felt separate from it.

This was what you were good at – being Lewis's wife, supporting his dreams, celebrating his victories. It was the other stuff – the daily grind of motherhood, the management of your own needs – that felt impossible lately.

Love stirred in his arms, making soft sounds that would escalate to crying within minutes. Your breasts ached with the persistent reminder that your milk supply still wasn't where it should be.

"I'm so proud of you," you said, because that was true and safe to say.

"Proper send-off," Lewis said softly.

You nodded, glancing over at Love as she began to fuss. "Feeding time?" you asked.

"I'll get it," Lewis said immediately, handing Love to you.

As he disappeared into the kitchen to heat up a bottle, you shifted Love in your arms, studying her perfect face in the soft light. She was beautiful. She was healthy. She was everything you'd hoped for.

So why did you feel like you were failing her already?

London was grey and drizzly when you arrived a week later.

Carmen met you at Heathrow with the biggest smile, immediately reaching for Love while Linda corralled Leia and Lake, who were vibrating with excitement about their new sister.

"Oh, she's gorgeous," Carmen breathed, cradling Love with the expertise of someone who'd raised multiple children. "Looks just like Lewis did as a baby."

"She's got his eyes for sure," you agreed, grateful to have your arms free for a moment as Leia and Lake attached themselves to your legs.

"How are you feeling, love?" Linda asked quietly as you all headed toward the car. "Really?"

"Good," you said automatically. "Tired, but good. Still adjusting."

Carmen gave you a look that was too knowing for comfort, but she just nodded. "That's normal. Take all the time you need."

The house felt different when you walked in. Not bad different – just fuller, somehow. There were flowers everywhere, cards and gifts from friends and family, and a banner that read "Welcome Home Love" in glittery letters.

It should have felt like coming home. Instead, it felt like stepping onto a stage where everyone was expecting a performance you weren't sure you could give.

"Mummy, mummy, we made Love a picture!" Leia announced, waving a crayon drawing that appeared to show a family of stick figures.

"It's beautiful, sweetheart," you said, shifting carefully towards her. The movement was too fast, and you bit back a wince.

"Bath time!" Linda announced cheerfully, herding Leia and Lake toward the stairs. "Let Mummy get settled with baby Love."

As their chatter faded up the stairs, Carmen settled beside you on the couch where you were attempting to nurse Love. Again.

"How's feeding going?" she asked gently.

"It's..." You paused, watching Love fuss at your breast, clearly frustrated by the slow flow. "It's harder this time. I'm not producing as much as I did with the other two."

"That's normal, Y/N. Stress can affect supply. Maybe we could supplement with some formula—"

"No." The word came out sharper than you'd intended. Carmen blinked in surprise.

"It's just," you continued, trying to modulate your tone, "I breastfed the girls exclusively for months. I can do this. I just need to be more consistent with pumping, drink more water, get more rest..."

Carmen's expression was careful. "Of course, love. But there's nothing wrong with formula if you need it. Fed is best, isn't it?"

Something hot and defensive flared in your chest. "I know that. But I don't need it. Love is gaining weight fine. The pediatrician said—"

"Y/N." Carmen's voice was gentle but firm. "I'm not criticizing. I'm just saying it's okay to make things easier on yourself."

The word easier hit wrong. Like she thought you were taking the hard way for no reason. Like you were being stubborn or prideful instead of just trying to be a good mother.

"I'm sorry," you said quickly, the fight leaving you as suddenly as it had come. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm just... it's been a long week."

"You don't have to apologize," Carmen said softly. "You're doing brilliantly. But you don't have to do everything perfectly, you know."

Love had given up on nursing and was starting to cry again. The sound made your chest tighten with familiar anxiety.

"I just need a minute," you said, standing abruptly and passing Love to Carmen. "Just... I'll be right back."

You escaped to the pantry, closing the door behind you with hands that shook slightly. The small space smelled like coffee and spices, familiar and safe in a way that made your throat tight.

This was ridiculous. You were being ridiculous. Carmen was trying to help, and you were being defensive and ungrateful. You were home, your family was healthy, Lewis was going to live his dream with Ferrari.

Everything was perfect.

So why did you feel like crying all the time?

You grabbed a packet of biscuits from the shelf, tearing it open with more force than necessary. The first biscuit disappeared in three bites, then the second, then a third. You ate mechanically, barely tasting them, just needing something to fill the hollow feeling in your chest.

A knock on the pantry door made you freeze.

"Y/N?" Linda's voice was soft. "Everything alright, love?"

You swallowed the biscuit in your mouth, wiping crumbs from your lips. "Fine! Just grabbing a snack. Be right out."

You shoved the packet back onto the shelf, straightened your clothes, and opened the door with what you hoped was a normal smile.

"Better?" Linda asked, studying your face.

"Much better," you said brightly. "Just needed a sugar hit. Where are the girls?"

"Clean and in pajamas, waiting for a story." Linda's eyes were concerned, but she didn't push. "Want me to take Love so you can tuck them in?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."

You climbed the stairs toward Leia and Lake's chatter, leaving the hollow feeling in the pantry where it belonged. There would be time to deal with whatever this was later.

Right now, you had daughters who needed their mummy to read them a story and tuck them in and be everything they expected you to be.

You could do that much, at least.

***************************************************************

Lewis's farewell tour took him to Malaysia first, then Germany, then finally to Brackley.

You watched his Instagram stories from the London house, surrounded by the controlled chaos of life with three small children. Lewis in the Malaysian heat, hugging mechanics he'd worked with for years. Lewis in the Stuttgart factory, looking emotional as he packed up his driver's room. Lewis at Brackley, speaking to the team that had become his family.

Each post showed him glowing with gratitude and excitement, ready for the next chapter with Ferrari. The comments were full of love and support, fans celebrating his legacy and wishing him well.

You double-tapped each photo and tried to ignore how distant it all felt.

"Mummy, Love is crying again," Leia informed you from her perch on the couch, where she was coloring very seriously.

Love had been crying on and off all morning. Nothing seemed to soothe her for long – not feeding, not rocking, not the white noise machine Linda had suggested. Dr. Patel had said some babies were just fussier than others, that it wasn't necessarily anything you were doing wrong.

It felt like something you were doing wrong.

"I know, sweetheart," you said, lifting Love from her bouncer and immediately feeling the familiar weight of failure when she continued crying in your arms. "She's just having a cranky day."

"Like Lake yesterday?" Leia asked without looking up from her coloring.

"Something like that."

Lake had had a spectacular meltdown the day before when you'd served her lunch in the wrong bowl. Two hours of tears over a blue bowl instead of a pink one, while Love screamed and you felt your patience stretching thinner and thinner.

"Can we call Daddy?" Lake asked from where she was playing with blocks on the carpet.

"Daddy's working, sweetheart. He'll be home soon."

Soon felt relative when you were running on three hours of sleep and your last proper meal had been whatever you'd managed to grab from the pantry yesterday.

Carmen appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene with practiced eyes. "Want me to take her for a walk? Sometimes fresh air helps."

"I can manage," you said automatically, then caught yourself. "I mean, that's very kind, but she's probably just hungry again."

But when you tried to nurse Love, she latched for barely a minute before pulling away, crying harder. Your supply had been inconsistent all week, despite the supplements Linda had suggested, despite drinking enough water to float a boat.

"Y/N," Carmen said gently. "Maybe just a small bottle? To take the edge off?"

The suggestion hit like a physical blow. "She doesn't need formula."

"It's not about need, love. It's about making things easier—"

"I said no." The words came out harsher than you'd intended, sharp enough that Leia looked up from her coloring with wide eyes.

Carmen's expression shifted to something like concern. "Alright. Of course. You know what's best."

The silence that followed was heavy with things unsaid. Love continued crying in your arms, and you continued bouncing her with increasing desperation, feeling Carmen's worried gaze on your back.

"I just need a minute," you said finally, your voice cracking slightly on the words.

You handed Love to Carmen before you could think too hard about it and walked quickly from the room, ignoring Carmen calling your name softly behind you.

The pantry was becoming a habit.

This time you didn't even bother with the pretense of getting a snack. You just sank onto the floor between shelves of tinned goods and let yourself cry.

Quietly, because the girls were just down the hall. Quietly, because Carmen and Linda were trying to help and didn't deserve to deal with your breakdown. Quietly, because Lewis Hamilton's wife didn't fall apart in pantries over feeding schedules and fussy babies.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Lewis: Missing you girls. How's everyone doing?

You stared at the message for a long time, then typed back: All good here. Love you.

Because what else could you say? That you felt like you were drowning? That you couldn't figure out why this time felt so much harder? That you were hiding in a pantry crying over baby formula like it was a personal failure?

Lewis was living his dream, surrounded by the excitement of his new team, and you were going to tell him his wife couldn't handle what millions of women did every day?

You wiped your eyes, stood up, and straightened your shoulders.

When you opened the pantry door, Carmen was waiting with Love, now quiet in her arms.

"Feeling better?" Carmen asked softly.

"Much," you said, reaching for Love. "Thank you."

Carmen studied your face for a moment longer, then nodded. "I'm going to start dinner. Why don't you rest with the baby for a bit?"

"I should help—"

"You should rest," Carmen said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

You wanted to argue, but Love was finally peaceful in your arms, and the thought of sitting down for even ten minutes felt like a luxury you couldn't refuse.

*************************************************************

Lewis came home on a Tuesday night, tired but glowing with excitement about Maranello.

You met him at the door with Love in your arms, Leia and Lake bouncing around his legs like puppies as he hugged you carefully, mindful of the baby between you.

"How are my girls?" he asked, pressing a kiss to your forehead before gently taking Love. "And how's my littlest girl?"

"She's been good today," you said, which was mostly true. "Slept for three hours straight this afternoon."

What you didn't mention was that you'd spent those three hours frantically cleaning the house, responding to emails about Mission 44, and trying to pump milk with increasingly frustrating results.

"Daddy, Daddy, we learned a new song!" Leia announced. "About baby sharks!"

"Oh no," Lewis said with mock horror. "Not the baby shark song."

"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo," Lake began singing, and Lewis winced dramatically while you laughed despite your exhaustion.

This was good. This was normal. Family chaos and silly songs and Lewis making everything feel lighter just by being here.

"How was Brackley?" you asked later, after the girls were in bed and you were both on the couch, Love finally settled in her bassinet.

"Emotional," Lewis admitted. "Lot of tears. But good tears, you know? Like, grateful tears."

"I saw the photos. Everyone looked so proud."

"They are. I am." He reached for your hand. "Feels like the end of one chapter and the beginning of something incredible."

"Ferrari's lucky to have you."

"Think so?" Lewis turned to study your face. "You've been quiet since I got home. Everything okay?"

The question you'd been dreading. Because everything wasn't okay, but you couldn't figure out how to explain that without sounding ungrateful or dramatic or weak.

"Just tired," you said. "Love's been a bit fussy, and the girls are excited about Lake's birthday coming up."

"Speaking of which," Lewis said, his face lighting up. "I was thinking we could do something special this year. Since it's my birthday too, and Love's here now..."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Zoo party. In LA. Rent out a section, get a cake shaped like a giraffe, let the kids run wild." Lewis was already planning, you could see it in his eyes. "What do you think?"

The thought of managing a party with dozens of kids while dealing with a fussy newborn made your stomach clench with anxiety. But Lewis looked so excited, and Lake would love it.

"Sounds perfect," you said.

Lewis squeezed your hand. "You sure? You look a bit overwhelmed."

"I'm fine," you said automatically. "Just thinking about logistics."

"We'll have plenty of help. My mum, Linda, probably half the crew will want to come celebrate." Lewis leaned over to kiss your cheek. "You don't have to worry about everything, baby. Let other people help."

You nodded, even though the idea of letting other people see you struggle felt impossible. Lewis Hamilton's wife had her shit together. Lewis Hamilton's wife could handle a zoo party and a newborn and two toddlers without breaking a sweat.

Even if that wasn't remotely true.

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a few weeks later....

The Los Angeles Zoo was chaos in the best possible way.

Kids ran everywhere, hopped up on sugar and excitement, while parents chased after them with varying degrees of energy. You'd rented out the children's zoo section, complete with petting areas and a private party pavilion decorated in jungle themes.

Lake was in heaven, toddling around in her birthday dress with a crown that kept sliding over her eyes. Leia had appointed herself tour guide, dragging anyone who would listen to see the goats and sheep.

And Love... Love was having one of her difficult days.

She'd been crying on and off since you'd arrived, despite being fed and changed and rocked. Now she was working herself into the kind of red-faced wail that made other parents look over with sympathy and judgment in equal measure.

"Hey, sweetheart," you murmured, bouncing her gently as you stood near the party table. "What's wrong, hmm? What do you need?"

Love's response was to cry harder.

You tried nursing her, but again she latched for barely a minute before pulling away in frustration. Your supply had been particularly low all week, despite everything you'd tried. The pump sat at home like an accusation, producing less and less each day.

"Maybe she's overstimulated?" suggested one of the other mums, whose daughter was Lake's age.

"Maybe," you agreed, though you'd tried taking Love somewhere quiet an hour ago with no success.

Across the party area, you could see Lewis laughing with a group of kids as they fed the goats. He looked relaxed and happy, reverberating with his own big 4-0 magic, fully present in a way you envied. When was the last time you'd felt fully present anywhere?

Love's crying escalated, that particular pitch that made your back teeth ache and your anxiety spike. Other parents were definitely looking now, and you felt heat creep up your neck.

"Come on, baby," you whispered desperately. "Please, just... please stop crying."

But she didn't stop. If anything, she got louder, and you felt your composure starting to crack in the way that meant you were about to cry too.

"Y/N?" Lewis appeared at your elbow, having crossed the party area in quick strides. "Everything okay?"

"She won't stop crying," you said, and your voice came out more shaky than you'd intended. "I've tried everything. She was just fed, she's clean, I don't know what she wants."

"Here," Lewis said, reaching for Love. "Let me try."

You should have been grateful for the help. Instead, something sharp and defensive flared in your chest.

"I've got it," you said, stepping back slightly.

"Baby, you look exhausted. Just let me—"

"I said I've got it." The words came out rougher than you'd meant, loud enough that a few nearby parents glanced over.

Lewis's expression shifted to something like concern. "Y/N, it's okay to need help."

"I don't need help," you said, even as Love's cries reached a new decibel level. "I can handle my own daughter."

But even as you said it, you felt yourself starting to shake. Your chest was tight, your breathing shallow, and Love's crying was drilling into your skull like a physical pain.

Lewis stepped closer, his voice gentler. "Hey. Look at me."

You met his eyes reluctantly, and whatever he saw there made his expression soften completely.

"Take her," you said suddenly, practically shoving Love into his arms. "Just... take her for a minute."

Lewis accepted Love smoothly, immediately shifting into the rocking motion that somehow always worked for him. "Of course. Take a break."

"I can't take a break," you said, but you were already backing away from them. "I have to cut the cake, and the party bags aren't ready, and—"

"Y/N." Lewis's voice was firm but not harsh. "Take a walk. Please, baby."

You opened your mouth to argue, to insist you were fine, but the words stuck in your throat.

"Go get some ice cream," Lewis said, his eyes kind but unyielding. "I've got the girls."

Something in his tone broke through your defenses. Maybe it was the way he said it like it wasn't a request. Maybe it was the fact that Love had already started to quiet in his arms. Maybe it was just that you were so tired you couldn't fight anymore.

"Okay," you whispered. "Just for a few minutes."

"Take your time."

You walked away on unsteady legs, past the party chaos and toward the ice cream cart near the main path. Your hands were shaking as you ordered a vanilla cone, and you had to blink back tears as you paid.

Finding an empty bench, you sank down and pulled out your phone while taking mechanical bites of ice cream you couldn't taste.

The first blog post that came up made your stomach drop.

Lewis Hamilton's Wife Shows Post-Baby Body in L.A.

The photos were candid shots – you holding Love, looking exhausted and overwhelmed. Your body in the flowy dress you'd chosen specifically to hide how soft you still were around the middle. The comments were brutal:

She used to be so fit

Looks like she's given up trying

Third baby really did a number on her

Remember when she was hot?

You scrolled through them like self-harm, each comment landing like a physical blow. This was what people saw when they looked at you – not a mother trying her best, but a woman who'd let herself go. Who wasn't bouncing back fast enough. Who wasn't good enough anymore.

You finished the ice cream cone in three large bites, barely chewing, just needing something to fill the hollow ache in your chest. Then you wiped your mouth, dried your eyes, and stood up.

Time to get back to the party. Time to smile and cut the cake and pretend everything was fine.

Because that's what Lewis Hamilton's wife did.

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***************************************************

Love's one-month checkup fell on a rainy L.A. afternoon.

Dr. Patel was kind and thorough, weighing Love and checking her reflexes while you sat in the chair beside the examination table, trying to look like you had everything under control.

"She's gaining weight beautifully," Dr. Patel said, making notes on her chart. "How are you feeling about feeding?"

"Good," you said automatically. "We're getting into a rhythm."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You and Love had found a routine of sorts, even if it involved more formula supplementation than you'd wanted to admit. Your milk supply had continued to dwindle despite every intervention you'd tried.

"And how are you doing, Y/N?" Dr. Patel asked, setting down her pen and really looking at you. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," you said. "Tired, but that's normal with a newborn."

Dr. Patel nodded, but her expression remained attentive. "Any concerns? Anxiety? Mood changes?"

Something in her tone made you shift uncomfortably in your chair. "Nothing unusual. Just the normal adjustment period."

"Mmm." Dr. Patel was quiet for a moment, studying your face with the kind of attention that made you want to fidget. "Y/N, are you familiar with the term 'baby blues'?"

Your back straightened automatically. "It's just stress. A lot is happening right now – Lewis is starting with Ferrari, we have three kids, it's busy."

"Of course. But sometimes what feels like stress can be something more. Postpartum depression affects many women, especially after multiple pregnancies in a short time." Dr. Patel's voice was gentle but persistent. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I don't have postpartum depression," you said quickly. "I'm just tired. And adjusting. It's completely normal."

Dr. Patel nodded, but she was reaching into her desk drawer. "I'm going to give you some information, just in case. And the contact for a therapist who specializes in postpartum mental health."

She held out a card with a woman's name and phone number printed in elegant script. You took it reflexively, then immediately wanted to hand it back.

"I don't need this," you said.

"Maybe not. But having the information doesn't hurt." Dr. Patel's smile was understanding. "Y/N, there's no prize for struggling alone. If you were diabetic, you'd take insulin. If you had a broken arm, you'd wear a cast. Mental health is just health."

You nodded and tucked the card into your purse, knowing you'd probably throw it away the moment you got home. Because you didn't have postpartum depression. You had a new baby and two toddlers and a husband starting the biggest career change of his life.

You just needed to try harder.

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Colorado was a winter wonderland.

Snow blanketed the mountains around the house, turning everything soft and pristine. The girls were beside themselves with excitement, having spent the morning building snowmen with Lewis's parents while you caught up on sleep.

For the first time in weeks, you felt something like peace.

"Mummy, look what we made!" Leia called from outside, where she and Lake had constructed what appeared to be a snow family, complete with stick arms and carrot noses.

"It's beautiful, sweetheart," you called back through the window, Love content in your arms for once.

Your milk supply had finally stabilized, helped by the rest and reduced stress. Love had settled into something resembling a routine. You'd even managed to do yoga that morning for the first time since her birth.

Maybe Dr. Patel had been wrong. Maybe it really had just been stress and exhaustion. Maybe you were finally getting your groove back.

"How are you feeling?" Lewis asked, appearing in the kitchen with rosy cheeks and snow in his hair.

"Good," you said, and meant it. "Really good. Like myself again."

Lewis smiled, the kind of smile that crinkled his eyes. "I can see it. You look... lighter."

"I feel lighter. I think I was just overwhelmed with everything happening at once. But we're finding our rhythm."

"Good." Lewis pulled you closer, careful not to disturb Love. "Because I have an idea."

"What kind of idea?"

"Aspen. Just you and me, for the weekend. Mum and Dad can watch the girls, and we can just... reconnect."

The suggestion sent a flutter of anxiety through your chest. "I don't know if I should leave Love. She's still so little."

"She'll be fine with Mum and Linda. They raised kids, remember?" Lewis's voice was gentle but persuasive. "When's the last time we had time just for us?"

You couldn't remember. Between Love's birth and Lewis's farewell tour and the constant demands of daily life, you and Lewis had barely had a proper conversation in weeks, let alone time alone together.

"What about her feeding schedule?" you asked.

"We've got enough pumped milk to last the weekend. And if not, formula won't kill her." Lewis studied your face. "Baby, when's the last time you did something just for you?"

The question hit harder than it should have. You couldn't remember that either.

"Okay," you said finally. "But just one night."

"Two nights," Lewis negotiated. "I already booked us somewhere special."

Despite your lingering anxiety, you felt a smile tug at your lips. "You were pretty confident I'd say yes."

"I was hopeful." Lewis kissed your forehead. "You deserve to be taken care of, Y/N. Let me take care of you."

The words settled something in your chest you hadn't realized was wound tight. When was the last time someone had taken care of you instead of the other way around?

"Okay," you said again, more firmly this time. "Two nights."

Lewis's smile was radiant. "I'm going to spoil you rotten."

"I'm holding you to that."

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*****************************************************

The next morning arrived with reluctant goodbyes and detailed instructions.

You stood in the kitchen, Love sleeping peacefully in Carmen's arms, while you rattled off feeding schedules and nap times with the intensity of a military briefing that your retired Army commander father would be proud of.

"And she likes to be swaddled tight for sleep, but not too tight around her hips. And if she gets fussy after eating, sometimes holding her upright for ten minutes helps. Oh, and the white noise machine—"

"Y/N, love," Linda interrupted gently, a knowing smile on her face. "We've done this before, remember? We raised kids of our own."

"I know, I just—" You caught yourself mid-sentence, recognizing the spiral for what it was. "Sorry. I'm being ridiculous."

"You're being a mum," Carmen said warmly, adjusting Love in her arms with practiced ease. "But we've got this. Three kids, including one baby? We could do this in our sleep."

Lewis appeared in the doorway with your weekend bag, looking unfairly handsome in his ski jacket and that easy smile that still made your stomach flutter.

"Ready, beautiful?"

You looked around the kitchen one more time – Leia and Lake happily eating pancakes, Love content in Carmen's arms, Linda already planning activities for the weekend. Everything was under control.

So why did leaving feel like jumping off a cliff?

"I guess," you said, then immediately felt guilty for not sounding more excited.

Lewis must have caught your hesitation because he crossed the kitchen to where you stood, his hands settling on your shoulders.

"We can stay if you want," he said quietly. "If you're not ready."

Part of you wanted to take the out. To say you weren't ready, that Love was too young, that you needed to be here. But Lewis was looking at you with such gentle understanding, and you realized this wasn't just about what you needed – it was about what you both needed.

"No," you said more firmly. "I want to go. I need to go."

"You sure?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him – soft and quick, but real. "I'm sure."

The drive to Aspen was stunning, winding through snow-covered mountains that looked like something from a postcard. Lewis took the Range Rover for the weekend, and you found yourself actually relaxing as the Colorado landscape rolled past the windows.

"Feel that?" Lewis asked as you curved around another mountain bend.

"What?"

"Your shoulders. They're not up around your ears anymore."

You rolled your shoulders experimentally, surprised to realize he was right. "Huh. I didn't even notice."

"You've been carrying tension like that for weeks," Lewis said, reaching over to squeeze your thigh. "I was starting to worry you'd given yourself a permanent crick."

"I've been stressed," you admitted. "About everything. Love, the girls, your Ferrari move, just... everything."

"I know. That's why we're doing this." Lewis's voice was warm. "When's the last time you did something just for you?"

The question hit you harder than it should have. You couldn't remember the last time you'd done anything that wasn't related to the kids or Lewis's career or managing the household. Even the yoga classes you used to love had been sacrificed to make time for everything else.

"I can't remember," you said quietly.

"Exactly. So this weekend is about you. About us. About remembering who we are when we're not just Mummy and Daddy."

The idea was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Who were you when you weren't taking care of someone else? You weren't sure you remembered.

The Aspen resort was a winter fairy tale.

Your suite had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking snow-covered peaks, a fireplace that crackled invitingly, and a bathroom bigger than most bedrooms. Lewis had arranged everything – champagne chilling in ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, candles flickering on every surface.

"This is incredible," you breathed.

"Only the best for my wife," he said, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. "You deserve to be spoiled."

The word 'spoiled' made something tighten in your chest. You weren't used to being spoiled anymore. You were used to doing the spoiling – making sure everyone else was comfortable and happy and taken care of.

"I don't need all this," you said, though you didn't pull away from his embrace.

"I know you don't need it. That's not the point." Lewis pressed a kiss to your temple. "The point is that you deserve it. That you deserve to feel special and beautiful and taken care of. This weekend, I want you to remember what it feels like to be Y/N. Not Love's mum or Leia and Lake's mum or my wife. Just Y/N." His grip tightened around your waist. "Think you can do that?"

The request felt impossible and necessary in equal measure. "I can try."

"That's all I ask."

The dinner reservation was at an intimate restaurant tucked into the mountainside. You found yourself actually tasting your food for the first time in months, engaging in conversation that didn't revolve around feeding schedules or sleep routines.

"So Ferrari wants me in Maranello at the end of the month," Lewis said over dessert. "Full testing program, meeting the team."

"That's exciting," you said, though the thought of him leaving again made your chest tight.

"Come with me. Bring the girls. The kids could practice their Italian." Lewis reached across the table. "I want you there for this."

The logistics felt overwhelming immediately. "Lewis, Love is barely two months old. Traveling with three kids so much..."

"We'd have help. The team would arrange everything." Lewis's voice was gentle but persuasive. "It's a big moment. I want my family there."

You wanted to say yes. Part of you desperately wanted to be there for Lewis's first steps with Ferrari. But the thought of managing three kids in a foreign country while still feeling like you were barely managing at home felt impossible.

"Let me think about it," you said.

Lewis nodded, though you caught the flash of disappointment. "Of course. Whatever you're comfortable with."

But there was pressure, wasn't there? The pressure to be the supportive wife, to make everything work, to say yes to adventures because that's what Lewis Hamilton's wife did.

The conversation moved on, but something had shifted. You could feel Lewis watching you more carefully, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

Back in the suite, Lewis built up the fire while you changed into silk pajamas you'd packed but never wore at home. They felt too delicate for real life, too impractical for the constant demands of motherhood.

"Better?" Lewis asked as you settled on the couch beside him.

"Much." You curled against his side, feeling your shoulders drop for the first time in weeks.

You watched the flames dance in comfortable silence, Lewis's arms around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. This was nice. This was what you'd been missing – just being together without the constant demands of everything else.

"Y/N," Lewis said quietly.

"Mmm?"

"Are you happy?"

The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean are you happy? Really happy, not just getting through each day." Lewis shifted so he could see your face. "Because lately you seem like you're just... surviving."

The word hit like a physical blow because it was so accurate. You had been surviving – checking off tasks, managing crises, making it through each day. But happiness? That felt like something that happened to other people.

"I'm fine," you said automatically.

"You keep saying that. But I'm starting to wonder if you even remember what fine feels like."

Something cracked in your chest at his words. Because he was right – you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt genuinely okay, let alone happy.

"I love our family," you said instead of answering directly. "I love you, I love the girls."

"I know you do. That's not what I'm asking." Lewis's voice was gentle but persistent. "I'm asking about you. How are you doing?"

The tears came without warning, hot and sudden. "I don't know."

Lewis pulled you closer immediately. "Hey, it's okay. What's wrong?"

"I don't know," you repeated, and your voice broke on the words. "I can't tell the difference anymore between being tired and being sad."

"Oh, baby." Lewis's arms tightened around you. "How long have you been feeling like this?"

"Since Love was born. Maybe before." The words spilled out now that you'd started. "Everyone keeps asking if I'm okay, and I keep saying yes because I should be okay. I have everything. Beautiful family, husband I adore, healthy kids. What do I have to be sad about?"

"You don't need a reason," Lewis said firmly. "Your body's been through massive changes. You're exhausted and overwhelmed. Of course you're having a hard time."

"But I should be better at this by now. This is my third baby."

"Says who?"

The question stopped you short. "Says... everyone? I'm not a first-time mum. I should know what I'm doing."

"Every baby is different. Every recovery is different." Lewis's voice was getting firmer. "You're not superhuman, Y/N."

"Sometimes I feel like I need to be." The admission felt dangerous. "Being your wife comes with expectations. I'm supposed to have it all together."

"Not from me you don't."

"From everyone else. The media, the fans, even our families sometimes." Your voice was shaking now. "They watch everything – how I look, how I parent, how I support you. And I feel like I'm failing at all of it."

"You're not failing at anything."

"I am though. I can barely keep up with the kids. I'm snapping at people who are trying to help. I hide in pantries to cry." The confession slipped out before you could stop it.

Lewis went very still. "You hide in pantries to cry?"

Heat flooded your face. "It's nothing. I just sometimes need a minute alone."

"That's not nothing, Y/N." Lewis's voice was gentle but concerned. "How long has this been going on?"

"It's just stress. New baby stress. It's normal."

"Is it?" Lewis shifted so he could see your face fully. "Baby, look at me."

Reluctantly, you met his eyes. The concern there made your chest tight.

"Don't do that," he said softly.

"Do what?"

"Don't minimize what you just told me. Don't pretend it's fine when you're clearly struggling."

"I'm not struggling." But your voice cracked on the words.

"You're crying in a mountain resort telling me you hide in pantries. That's not normal adjustment." Lewis cupped your face gently. "That sounds like you need help."

"I don't need therapy."

Lewis blinked. "I didn't say therapy."

"Didn't you?" But even as you said it, you realized he hadn't. Your mind had jumped there defensively.

"Although," Lewis continued carefully, "would that be such a terrible thing? If talking to someone helped?"

"I can talk to you."

"And I'm grateful for that. But baby, I'm not objective about this. I love you too much to see clearly sometimes." Lewis's thumb brushed away a tear. "I just want you to be okay. Really okay."

"I am okay," you said weakly.

"Are you?"

The question hung between you, heavy with truth you didn't want to face. Were you okay? You loved your family fiercely, but happiness felt like a luxury you couldn't afford. Joy felt like something that happened to other people.

"I don't know," you whispered finally.

"That's okay. Not knowing is okay." Lewis pulled you closer. "But hiding it isn't helping anyone."

You cried then, months of held-back emotion spilling over. Lewis held you through it, not trying to fix anything, just being there while you fell apart.

"I'm scared," you admitted when the tears slowed.

"Of what?"

"Of admitting I need help. Of people thinking I can't handle being your wife." Your voice was small. "Of you realizing I'm not as strong as you thought."

"Y/N, asking for help doesn't make you weak. It makes you brave." Lewis's voice was firm. "And anyone who thinks less of you for taking care of yourself isn't worth worrying about."

"But what if—"

"What if nothing." Lewis tilted your chin up so you had to meet his eyes. "I fell in love with you because you're real and honest and brave. Not because you're perfect."

The words settled something in your chest that had been wound tight for months.

"I found the card," Lewis said quietly.

Your blood went cold. "What card?"

"The therapist referral. It was in your jacket pocket when I was packing."

Defensive anger flared. "You were going through my pockets?"

"I was packing your things for this trip. I wasn't snooping." Lewis's voice remained calm. "But I found it. How long have you been carrying it around?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't need it."

"Maybe you do. Maybe we both do." Lewis's hands framed your face. "There's nothing wrong with getting help, baby."

"There's nothing wrong with me," you said, but your voice shook.

"I didn't say there was. I said maybe we could use some support figuring this out."

You wanted to argue, to insist you were fine, but sitting here in Lewis's arms with tears still wet on your cheeks, the pretense felt exhausting.

"You think I'm broken," you whispered.

"I think you're a person going through something hard who deserves support." Lewis's voice was soft but sure. "That's not broken. That's human."

"I don't want to be weak."

"Taking care of yourself isn't weak. It's the strongest thing you can do."

You cried again, quieter this time, Lewis holding you steady while your world rearranged itself around this new possibility – that maybe you didn't have to carry everything alone.

"Okay," you said finally.

"Okay?"

"I'll call her."

Lewis's smile was soft with relief. "Good. And in the meantime, we're going to figure out how to get you more support at home."

"I don't know how to let people help differently than I would do things."

"We'll work on that too." Lewis pressed a kiss to your forehead. "One step at a time."

..........tbd

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solanastark · 2 months ago

Text

scalpel and steel

summary: bucky barnes never thought dating a med student would be both a blessing and a secret weapon. between her medical textbooks and battlefield lessons, she’s the perfect partner in both life and war.

pairing: bucky barnes x fem med student!reader!

warnings/tags: mentions of blood and sutures, few medical terms, fluff, just fluff

word count: 1.7k

A/N: hii this is my first piece on here and it means a lot to me since i will be applying for med school soon :)) hopefully y'all enjoy because im planning on writing more since im on summer break. anywayss lots of loveee

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

It’s honestly the perfect setup. Bucky likes to joke about it—having a med student for a girlfriend is like dating a walking, talking survival guide.

The textbook in front of you was dense, the diagrams a blur of lines and labels: arterial bleeds, venous bleeds, tension pneumothorax. You skimmed a section for the third time, highlighter poised over “Signs of hemorrhagic shock”, and tried to ignore the ache behind your eyes.

Control the bleeding. Maintain airway. Prevent hypothermia. In trauma, the golden hour is everything.

Your mind drifted, unbidden, to what that actually looked like in the real world—bodies in the dirt, blood dark against the ground, hands pressing into wounds that gushed and pulsed with life leaving. The textbook was clinical. The reality was chaos.

You sighed, flipping the page to a chart on wound packing materials, and thought absently, God, how do they manage in the field without proper supplies? What do they even use when there’s no gauze? A shirt? A sock? A prayer?

Your pen hovered over the phrase “tourniquet application time limits”, and you caught yourself chewing your lip. You wondered if Bucky ever thought about these things when he went on missions before he met you. If he even had the time.

And just as you leaned back in your chair, eyes heavy with fatigue and the weight of all this knowledge, the door swung open— and there he was.

Battered. Bleeding.

Your heart lurched, and the textbook nearly slid from your lap as you scrambled to your feet.

“Jesus, Bucky!” The words tumbled out, half a breath, half a curse, as you took him in—blood seeping through the torn fabric of his tactical suit, dirt smudged across his cheek, a cut splitting his brow. He looked at you with that crooked, guilty smile, the kind that said I’m fine, don’t worry, even though his body told another story entirely.

“Fuck, what happened?” you asked, voice barely audible, already reaching for the first-aid kit under the counter. You've been with Bucky for months now, tending his scrapes and wounds but as his girlfriend, the worry never goes away.

Bucky gave you a sheepish, almost boyish smile as he sank onto the chair with a grunt. “Little scrape, that's all.” You wondered how he even has the energy to joke around while he's practically bleeding out in your shared apartment.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, voice low and rough, and you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Okay doesn't usually involve this much blood.” You were already moving, hands steady despite the adrenaline that started to hum through your veins. The textbook lay forgotten on the couch, its diagrams of wounds and bandages a far cry from the real thing—his wounds, his blood. It was something you had to get used to. It's what came with dating Bucky, the chaos and the battle wounds.

Good thing you had a knack for saving lives in your own way.

You reached for the cotton and gauze, voice soft but firm as you glanced up at him. “Sit down. Let me see."

Bucky obeyed with a grunt, wincing as he lowered himself onto the chair. You knelt in front of him, fingers already tugging at his gear with practiced efficiency, the details of your reading from earlier whispering in the back of your mind—Apply direct pressure. Elevate the limb. Assess for arterial bleeding.

You met his eyes, a little sharper now, a little more focused.

You sprawled out all the supplies needed. Judging by the amount of blood on his shirt, there's going to be some stitching involved.

"Aren't you going to rip off my shirt?" Bucky laughed dryly, keeping pressure on his right shoulder. "I really shouldn't have introduced you to Greys Anatomy." You retorted.

You tsked, easing his shirt off with practiced care, fingers ghosting over the torn fabric. “You know, for a supersoldier, you sure get cut up a lot.” His eyes studied you as you skillfully donned your gloves and started preparing the lidocaine and antiseptic solution. Prep the area. Inject the local anesthesia. Clamp the suture needed. Easy peasy.

He smirked, eyes dark with something warm as he watched you work. “What can I say? Lucky I’ve got my own personal medic.” He would always find ways to charm you, even when in the worst conditions.

“Bucky,” you murmured as you pressed gauze into the wound on his side, “you ever think about how lucky you are to have a med student for a girlfriend?”

He gave you a weak, lopsided grin. “Every damn day.”

But it’s not just post-mission care. Oh no, you're lethal in your own way.

In the quiet of your shared apartment, you sit cross-legged on the couch, textbooks sprawled around, highlighter cap tucked between your teeth. The soft, warm light from the lamp bathes the room in a golden glow, and the only sounds are the scratch of your pen against paper, the occasional flip of a page, and Bucky’s steady breathing from where he’s slouched beside you, his book long forgotten.

Your brow furrows in concentration as you mumble under your breath—terms, facts, mnemonics for remembering arteries and nerve pathways.

“Femoral triangle… inguinal ligament, sartorius, adductor longus,” you recite quietly, tracing the outline of a diagram with your fingertip.

Bucky watches you, eyes half-lidded, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He’s learned to love these quiet moments—the way your voice fills the silence like a soft melody, the way your mind works through the intricate details of the human body like a puzzle you're determined to solve.

But he listens for more than just the sound of your voice. He listens carefully.

Like when you casually murmur, “Sever the radial nerve just above the elbow, and you’ll lose wrist extension,” or when you flip to a page on the popliteal artery and taps it thoughtfully, whispering, “Right here. Sever it, and you’ll collapse like a rag doll.”

And Bucky—he files that information away. Quietly. Intently. Because in his world, where fights don’t always end cleanly and survival depends on what he knows and how fast he acts, your studying isn’t just background noise—it’s a gift. A secret weapon you don't even realize you're giving him.

When your voice gets softer, trailing off as you read about abdominal trauma or emergency airway management, Bucky will murmur, “Keep going, doll. I’m listening.”

It makes you pause mid-sentence, a faint furrow between your brows as you lift your gaze to him. “You’re really listening?” you ask, tilting your head in that way you do when you're half-incredulous, half-amused.

Bucky shifts in his chair, metal fingers drumming lightly against the armrest, his eyes steady on yours. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”

Your lips curve into a slow, crooked smile, almost teasing. “Why? You planning to audit my trauma medicine exam?”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh, but there’s a weight to his gaze now, a softness edged with something darker. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice quiet, low.

“Because knowing what you know—how to patch someone up, how to stop the bleeding, how to end a fight when you have to…” His eyes meet yours, sharp and steady. “That’s the kinda knowledge that saves lives. My life. Out there, sometimes it’s a choice between walking away and not walking at all—and what you’ve got up here”—he taps his temple—“helps me make that choice a hell of a lot easier.”

You're silent for a beat, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket. You were surprised, a little shy, before going back to your notes—never realizing how much of your brilliance he’s soaking up. Then, softly, you say, “Bucky…”—but he cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head.

“Just… keep talking, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking almost shy. His gaze drops to the floor, then back up to you, and he clears his throat. “But thank you,” he murmurs, the words gentle and a little rough around the edges. “For always taking care of me. For... knowing what to do when I don’t.”

You pause, a warmth blooming in your chest. “Bucky…”

But he just shakes his head, a small, earnest smile tugging at his lips. “I mean it. You’ve patched me up more times than I can count. Always know how to put me back together when I come back... broken.” His voice dips lower, softer, as he reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours, squeezing gently. “I don’t say it enough, but I’m grateful for you. For this. For us.”

Your heart stutters, and you give his hand a squeeze in return, your smile tender and full of quiet understanding. "I love you. And I love taking care of you." You smiled, taking in his every feature. "Thank you for being so patient and for being so goddamn supportive with all of this." You gesture to the mess that are your text books and hundreds of reading materials laid in front of you.

"Always, sweetheart. I love you more." Bucky kisses the top of your head as you melt into his embrace. And in that small, golden-lit moment, with textbooks scattered around and the weight of the world momentarily forgotten, it’s just the two of you.

"Now, teach me something new."

Ans it's not just Bucky who benefits from your expansive medical knowledge. Sam does too—whether he likes to admit it or not.

It’s late afternoon, and the three of you are holed up in the apartment’s living room—Bucky and Sam strategizing over an upcoming mission, you cross-legged on the floor nearby, surrounded by your books and notes. This slowly became the norm for you ever since you started living with Bucky. Sam would often invite himself in the apartment and proceed to discuss their plans on how to save the world while you'd be in your own little bubble, trying to figure out how not to fail your next OSCE.

Bucky’s flipping through a file, Sam gesturing animatedly, laying out their plan like a man building a house of cards. “We take out the guy on the roof first,” Sam says, “then Barnes here moves in, takes the left flank, and I’ll circle—”

“Wait,” Bucky interrupts, frowning, “if they’ve got a heavy on the left, we’ll get pinned down. It's a heavily armed station.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Then what’s your play, man? We can’t exactly stroll in.”

You glance up briefly from your notes—your pen paused mid-scribble over a page titled ‘Signs of Internal Bleeding’. Without missing a beat, you say, “If you aim for the femoral artery, just below the inguinal ligament, he’ll be down in seconds. Less messy than a gut wound, too.”

The room goes silent.

Bucky blinks at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like of course she knows that.

Sam, on the other hand, freezes mid-gesture, eyes widening slightly as he turns to stare at you like you’ve grown an extra head.

You barely notice—already flipping to the next page in your book, mumbling under your breath, “Oh, and if you’re going for incapacitation without fatality, severing the sciatic nerve’s a good option. Lower back, just above the gluteal fold.”

Sam lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Yo, Barnes,” he mutters, half-joking but also not, “I think your girl might be more dangerous than you.”

Bucky just grins, pride flashing in his eyes as he leans back in his chair. “Yeah,” he says, voice warm and a little smug. “I know.”

You glance up again, finally noticing the way Sam’s staring at you, and flash him a sweet, innocent smile before going back to your notes.

Sam shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Y’all are terrifying.”

And Bucky just laughs, the sound warm and proud, because of course his girl knows how to scare Sam Wilson into behaving—and maybe, just maybe, you're the deadliest one in the room.

#marvel #marvel fanfic #fandom #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #buckysam #sebastian stan #winter soldier #fyp #fanfiction #fanfic #thunderbolts #tfatws

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crescenthistory · 7 months ago

Note

Hi Carina! It’s the anon who referred to your fanfics as poetry if you remember lol.

Number 1 I still stand by that and it’s even more enforced after reading your most recent poly!postwar!marauders I was hooked!! And number 2 I finally have a proper request for regulus and whiskers - perhaps some scenario where reader comes to regulus all scratched up and he p a n i c s but treats her (the scratches are from some random student’s pet cat that decided they suddenly wanted that specific patch of sun reader was napping on or something silly like that) and it’s just a mix of fluff and humor?

You totally do not have to do this specific prompt especially if you think of something similar but better, I 100% trust your vision. Also I’d like to be 🧸 anon for future posts if that’s ok with you. Once again thank you for blessing us with your stories and sorry for the long message haha❤️

of course i remember, that is my favourite compliment to date 😭 all i want is for my writing to be considered poetry, thank you so much. i'll add you to the list as 🧸 anon my love, feel free to share your age and pronouns too<333

Words: 1.5k

Warnings/tags: gn!reader, no use of y/n, light injuries, some blood, physical and emotional hurt/comfort, established relationship, mentioned bsf!sirius, idiots in love, like literal soulmates, some cat telepathy bc i can lmao

A/N: more of whiskers and shadow can be found starting with this fic ! the cat pictured below is @nrthernsong's sweet Echo who is my whiskers faceclaim, exactly how I picture her<33

Regulus heard that something was wrong before he saw it.

The past hour had been spent on the sofa closest to the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, alternating between lazily reading his current paperback and dozing off. You had grown restless and given him a sweet forehead kiss before whisking out the door, assumedly to run out your leftover energy chasing mice and climbing walls. The mere thought made him smile, but he was far too comfortable to join you, and you were sleeping over in his dorm tonight anyway.

He figured it was no harm; he enjoyed knowing that you were doing your own thing and would be coming back to him. That you were such a fully realised person with your own desires, impulses, life and friends – even if one of those friends had to be his very own brother. That you were such a remarkable individual and kept choosing him every day, with every ounce of that self. It was as good a way as any to spend the evening.

That was, until he heard the desperate clawing of familiar paws against the stone common room door.

Apart from his usual doomsday gut feeling, he found it strange that you weren’t transforming back into yourself to open the door and walk in. Though, he told himself, you clearly could not transform in the still half-filled room, and perhaps you just wanted to remain in cat form without giving your animagus status away. Yet, your scratching seemed almost fervent, even over the sounds of chatter and laughter, which told another story.

Regardless of why, Regulus shot up out of his seat from the second he registered the noise as coming from you, hurrying across the floor. A wave of dizziness hit him from how fast he went from a reclining to borderline-sprinting position, but he pushed it down without a second thought.

When he opened the common room door and a white and grey figure sped in past him at an unbelievable speed, he realised what the problem was.

Because your usually beautiful, fluffy fur was ruffled all about and there were distinct streaks of redness across it. The blood was striking against the already blinding white, and Regulus could not fight the way his breath hitched.

“Amour,” he all but hissed, speed walking after you to where you had hid away in the first available corner.

Despite remaining mostly aware of your human self, once you were in your animagus form, certain animalistic tendencies took over. It was how you were able to communicate so efficiently through hisses and pets, but also why in states of panic, you would seek out physical shelter to hide beneath rather than coming to him for protection and comfort like you otherwise would.

Uncaring of how he looked running after a cat and murmuring to it as if it was a person, Regulus followed you, crouching down on his knees before you when you hid beneath an armchair against the wall. He couldn’t see you well in the darkness, but he did see a pair of yellow eyes shine out at him, so stunning that the fear in them should be illegal.

“Mon amour.” Regulus decided to forgo any reservations, and laid down on his stomach with his cheek against the floor so that he could be face to face with you. “Darling, what happened to you? Are you alright?”

The whimpering sound you made shot straight through his heart, drawing a rather pathetic coo from him.

You curled further up into yourself. Regulus inched his hand forward so that it was close to your face, but you made no move to butt your head against it like you usually would. Your eyes seemed to be pleading with him, but in this form, Regulus couldn’t read you as well.

In this form.

Regulus suddenly knew what he had to do.

Before that though, he retracted his hand in favour of letting his fingers curl around his wand. He brought it up to rest before you, slowing his movements down so as to not alert you in this frightened state. Even in a moment like this, you still trusted him entirely, and only blinked slowly at him while you shivered. He brought the tip of his wand up to rest just above your red spots.

“I’ll make it better, amour, I swear,” he mumbled, almost as if to himself. With a light graze and two whispered incantations, Regulus spelled away whatever shallow scratches you had across your beautiful fur and cleaned up the blood that had stained you so unjustly.

Though he could not be certain, he thought he heard a sigh escape you. This time, when he put his wand down, you leaned your patterned forehead down against his fingertips. Worry was still clouding most of his mind, but his lips did twitch at the sentiment.

“I’m not leaving you.” He declared before saying anything else, not wanting fear to take over you once more. “Just stay right there, lovely, and I’ll be right back for you.”

Regulus almost stumbled when he pushed himself up onto his feet and near-sprinted up towards his dorm, taking the stairs three steps at a time. If you were startled, he could neither see nor hear it, and fully intended to soothe you in a mere moment.

The second he was out of sight of any other students, Regulus twirled into his own animagus form, Shadow.

At this new level of elevation and with the animalistic instincts taking over him, Regulus felt the wave of concern spark in him anew. While he could sense when he spelled away your injuries that they were not serious, the thought of you scared ached throughout him. On speedy onyx legs, he leaped back down the stairs with just one thought swimming through his mind.

Amour, amour, amour.

You must have smelled Shadow on his way to you, because even before he saw you, he picked up on the keening noise you made at the approach of your mate.

Still sheltered carefully beneath the armchair, you were perched up on your front paws, staring eagerly towards where Shadow was pouncing towards you. This time, you let him slip beneath the seat and into your hiding place without any hesitation. On the contrary, you made space for him, and as soon as he was within reach, you curled up against him, hiding away.

With your face burrowed into Shadow’s furry neck, he could finally feel you sigh out in relief, any tension and fear seeping out of you. It was exactly what he had been hoping for, exactly what he wanted, no needed to accomplish.

Your love was true in any form, but the connection the two of you shared in animagus form was different from anything Regulus could even think to communicate through words. He had yet to find any relevant literature on animagi explaining the bonding experience you had in animagus form, but perhaps this was one of the things in his life that Regulus didn’t need to intellectualise.

Instead, Shadow curled back up against you, keeping his head over yours in a protective manner as he held you close with his paws. Absentmindedly, he began grooming your fur, placing every strand back down in the correct direction, ridding you of any evidence of whatever tussle you had suffered when roaming the castle. Certain places of your fur seemed to demand more of his attention, and though Regulus could not prove it as he healed and cleaned you up magically earlier, he had a creeping suspicion that was where you had been scratched up. So he didn’t resist it, instead doting on you exactly how he wanted.

Beneath his touch, you were becoming soft and pliant once more, purring loudly and occasionally looking up at him with the yellow eyes he had come to love so. His Whiskers. His amour.

Using the very bond he had no words to explain, Shadow asked you through some odd form of cat communication and animagi telepathy: What happened?

Your grunt and huff communicated what he had feared. Mrs. Norris.

Shadow made a hissing sound directed at your shared menacing nemesis before doubling down on his efforts to soothe you, nudging you over onto your back so that he could groom and kiss along your neck and chest – your most vulnerable areas in cat form, showing you just how safe you were now.

This was part of what occasionally living as a cat entailed, but Regulus would be damned if he did not care for you as if it was a tragedy each and every time. Spelling out I love you with every lick and pet and nudge and purr.

Based on the lovely sounds you were making and how you seemed to melt into him until you were one and the same, you loudly claimed I love you too.

Regulus could rest easy with you safe and sound in his hold, content just to have you near him, any anger subdued for as long as he was comforting you. In the meantime, he was dreaming up how a certain big black dog might have a little chat with Mrs. Norris.

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galactic-magick · 7 months ago

Text

Rest of My Life: Viktor x Reader

Summary: Reader and Viktor have their wedding and first time together. Takes place right after my last fic Life Changes.

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: SMUT. fem!reader

Author’s Notes: Second half of this fic is smut, it starts and ends at the *** in case anyone only wants to read the first half. Reader is a virgin in this and is implied to be demisexual/somewhere on the ace spectrum, but I don’t think you have to be that necessarily to enjoy the story. I just wanted to write it from that perspective since I’m demisexual myself. I went back and forth a lot deciding if Viktor should be a virgin too, but I was convinced by the “this isn’t my bedroom” line and his freaky moves with Jayce in S2 that he probably has at least some experience. So he’s gonna talk reader through it lmao. Happy reading :)

Your roommates are unsurprisingly still awake when you return home, reading your face instantly.

“What happened?” Eli asks. “Are Viktor and that other guy okay?”

Your shocked expression fades into a smile and you crash on the couch with them, giggling uncontrollably.

“Everyone’s fine. They figured it out, and now Viktor is going to be a partner in the company.”

“Wow.” Chanthou says, eyebrows raised.

“Mhmm. And then he asked me to marry him. Tomorrow.”

A beat of silence.

“What?!” Eli exclaims. “He didn’t tell us he was doing it today!”

Chanthou shrugs, “Well, he did ask for our blessing months ago. He didn’t really say when.”

“He asked you guys for your blessing? That’s so sweet.”

“Of course he did. I would’ve beat his ass if he didn’t.” Eli chuckles. “Sorry, did I even say congratulations?”

“No, but it was implied,” you laugh.

The next twenty-four hours are a whirlwind. As much as you’ve said you don’t mind keeping things simple, your friends insist on treating you at least a little bit, helping you with your hair, makeup, and nails. You pick out something nice to wear, having a blast while they get you ready. You’re going to miss living with them dearly.

If you’re honest, they’re the main reason you haven’t suggested moving in with Viktor sooner. As much as you love him, your friends have been so near and dear to your life for years now. Leaving them—even just to a different apartment a few blocks away—feels like a stab in the chest. Especially with everything moving so fast. You’re about to be the wife of Piltover’s finest scientist, after all.

Yet, there’s no doubt in your mind that this is the right thing—long overdue truthfully. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted. You know he’ll love you how you deserve, and any fear and uncertainty about the future seems quieter when you’re around him. You love everything about him inside and out, and you can’t believe he’ll be yours.

Your roommates have made you look beautiful, enhancing all your best features and using all your best colors. You grin at your reflection.

“I should probably go find my future husband, hmm?”

“I know it’s short notice, but—“

“Of course I will, Viktor!” Jayce hugs him. “I will be the best best man.”

Viktor isn’t used to receiving physical affection from anyone other than you, but he’s not necessarily opposed to it. Jayce is the reason for everything that’s about to happen, everything that Hextech is going to change. Viktor has bonded with him so quickly, it only seemed natural that he would be involved in this big day.

“So um, what is a best man supposed to do?” Jayce asks.

“I’m...not sure.”

“I could write a speech?”

“No,” Viktor shakes his head and smirks. “You’ll talk too long.”

“What else is there to do then? I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

“Hm. Me neither.”

Suddenly Viktor realizes that planning a wedding in the span of a day is not, in fact, easy. He has no idea where he even wants the ceremony, or how to make it official and legal. His whims got the best of him, it seems.

“I could forge some rings?” Jayce suggests.

“Ah, yes. Good idea.” Viktor nods.

Jayce scurries away, and Viktor’s face falls to his hands. Is this too crazy? He knows nothing about weddings, and very little about marriage itself, for that matter. He knows he wants it—that much is clear—but the only example he grew up with was his parents, and they’ve been gone for quite some time.

If only he could get their advice now. They would’ve loved you, he’s sure of it.

He decides the best use of his time at the moment is to get his apartment ready, assuming you’ll want to come home with him tonight. He wants to make everything special for you, wants to make everything perfect.

He stops by some shops on his way back, buying way more than he should safely carry. He then gets to neatening up his space as best he can, covering the bed with fresh blankets and scattering flowers on the floor. He sets up some candles in your favorite scents on the tables and windowsills, nearly lighting them out of habit. He then assesses his work, making adjustments to the set up and gathering anything else he can think of. He’s not the most natural romantic, but he certainly gives his all when it comes to you.

While he’s still at home, he changes into something nicer and smooths out his hair. He doesn’t own a mirror, but it looks fine enough from his vague reflection in the window on his way back out. His only mission now is to find out how to officially marry you.

You and your friends run into Jayce as you’re heading towards the Academy, chuckling a bit as he swiftly hides something behind his back.

“Jayce?” you step up to him, raising your brows. “Have you seen my fiance recently?”

“Everything’s under control!” he blurts out.

“You lost him, didn’t you?”

“No! We just...don’t really know how to do a wedding. Last I saw him he said something about asking Heimerdinger to officiate. We’re going to meet back in the lab, I think.”

“Heimerdinger, huh? And what’s that behind you?”

“Nothing.” he dodges your attempts to look around him. “It’s a surprise!”

“Alright, alright. Can we come with you back to the lab?”

He nods, moving his hands quickly in front of him as he turns around to lead you.

“This is the genius inventor Viktor’s partnering with?” Eli jests.

“Viktor says he’s pretty brilliant.” you laugh.

Viktor manages to successfully recruit Heimerdinger to officiate, after no less than a twenty-minute reprimand of disappointment that Viktor disobeyed him. As proud as he is of Viktor’s achievements, and how impressed he is that Hextech might actually work, he’s still a bit burned that Viktor went behind his back with it. After he gets his frustrations out of his system, though, he’s quite ecstatic that Viktor is marrying you.

It’s not long before you show up with Jayce and your friends, and Viktor practically vaults himself to you on his cane, eyes scanning you adoringly.

“You’re beautiful.” he smiles, kissing your cheek. “Are you ready?”

“Of course I am.” you find comfort in his gaze, heart thundering in your chest.

Heimerdinger climbs on top of a nearby table, glancing at a pad of notes.

“Now, I haven’t done one of these in nearly a hundred years, so forgive me.” Heimerdinger clears his throat. “Viktor, my boy, do you intend to take Y/N as your wife?”

Viktor takes your hands and squeezes them, “I do.”

“And do you promise to love, honor, respect, and be faithful to her until death?”

“I do.”

Heimerdinger asks the same to you, and you feel Jayce and your friends watching you excitedly as you answer. You can’t believe this is really happening. So much has occurred in so little time, and your lives are about to change even more with the new Hextech discoveries.

You get lost in Viktor’s eyes as Heimerdinger has you both repeat a few other things, then can’t help but laugh when he starts fumbling with some papers for both of you to sign. It’s quite funny, watching such a highly respected councilor struggle with something so seemingly simple as a wedding. You and Viktor sign the marriage license as he says, exchange the beautiful customized rings Jayce made, and Heimerdinger pronounces you officially married.

Viktor doesn’t waste a moment pulling you in by the waist and crashing his lips to yours, the intensity catching you off guard. He’s not one for PDA, but you suppose his own wedding is an exception. You drink him in happily, the mini audience cheering in the background.

The celebration continues for a while afterwards, your friends breaking out some champagne and Jayce insisting on dancing. You sit on Viktor’s lap, twirling his hair absentmindedly as you watch the party surrounding you. It’s simple, just like you wanted.

Viktor’s eyes are locked on your features, studying your face as if he hasn’t already memorized it a million times. He wants you in every way possible, forever and ever until his last breath. His mind, heart, and soul are mated with yours, intertwined so intricately now that you are an inseparable part of his being. Never had he imagined he would experience a love like this.

But there’s still one way he hasn’t yet expressed his love for you, out of respect for your fears and slower attractions. You’ve verbalized your sexual anxieties from having no prior experience, and your need to have a strong comfortability and bond with someone before even considering such acts. Viktor’s never had a problem with waiting, and has made it very clear to you that there is no pressure on his part. He’s been open with you about how he had a couple experiences as a teenager before he moved to Piltover, but would gladly never do it again if that’s what you wanted. He married you for you, not your body.

Still, he aches for your touch every second of every day. He savors every kiss pressed against his lips. He’s reveled in every way you’ve allowed him to caress you, and dreams about all the ways you haven’t yet. He wants to kiss every inch of skin he hasn’t seen. Everyday he wants to bury his face where your pants dig into your soft stomach, where your top is cut dangerously close to your breasts, where your thighs rub together. The dress you’re wearing today makes the arousal impossibly worse, the way it hugs and flows around the curves he so desperately wants etched into his brain forever. He has never desired anyone in the universe more than you, and he’d be willing to wait an eternity if it meant he would one day have you every way he’s been wanting.

You’ve told him you’ll likely be ready someday soon, so is it selfish of him to hope today might be the day?

“Vik?” you say, giggling as you wave a hand in front of his face. “Losing yourself in thought already?”

“I suppose so,” he smirks, giving you a quick kiss.

“Ready to go home?”

His eyebrow raises, looking back and forth between you and then your friends who have started some sort of weird drinking game with Jayce. The celebration isn’t quite winding down yet, but it’s common for the newlyweds to leave early, right?

Viktor gently slides you off his lap, grabbing his cane and standing up.

“I’d love to.”

***

He had forgotten about the decorations in his apartment bedroom when you both shuffle through the door, hearing you gasp and clap a hand to your mouth.

“Viktor...this is so beautiful.”

You pick up and drop a few of the flower petals, watching them flutter to the ground. Viktor grabs some matches and starts lighting the candles, and you flop down on the bed, rubbing your limbs against the soft blankets. You inhale the scents, a perfect level of ambiance filling the space.

“Vik?”

“Hmm?” he throws away the used matches, returning to your side.

“Do you want to try it?” you look up at him, nerves starting to take over you.

He kisses your forehead, wrapping a comforting arm around you.

“Only if you’re ready, darling. We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to.”

“No, no...I’m ready. I want to. I really want to. I’ve felt it for a while now. I just...I’m terrified.”

Your lip quivers slightly, and your eyes roll at yourself. Why are you about to cry on your wedding night? This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.

Viktor pulls you into him close, rubbing your back, “Talk to me, my love.”

“It’s so stupid...You’ve been so patient with me, you’ve never pushed me to do anything, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve been disappointing you by making you wait so long. And you’ve actually done stuff before, so you know what you’re missing I guess. What if I’m not good at it? What if we try it and it’s awful or you hate my body—or you unintentionally compare me to other people? What if you regret marrying me? Or what if it really hurts-”

“Sweetheart.” Viktor stops you. “Look at me.”

You do as he asks, still trying to hold back tears after your anxious rambling.

“How long have all those horrible thoughts been in your head?”

“Um. A long time…” you look away again, but Viktor takes your chin and turns you back to his gaze.

“Not a single one of those things are true, do you understand?” he holds your face like precious glass. “You are everything to me. Whether we have sex or not.”

“Okay.” you nod, successfully swallowing back a cry. “I...I really do want to.”

“We’ll go slow, alright? And we can stop whenever you want.” he waits for you to nod again, then lies back on the bed, pulling you on top of him. “But right now I just want you to kiss me.”

You smile, happily obliging. You straddle him, leaning down to capture his lips. He squeezes your thighs on either side of him, moaning when you deepen your kisses and run your hands down his chest. It’s so easy for him to lose himself in you, your touches overtaking his senses. He loves when you make out like this, your form pressed on top of him. He had to beg you to not hold back the first time it happened, insisting he likes your weight on him.

Viktor moves his fingers to twiddle with the hem of your dress, wanting so badly to pull it off of you. He’s never seen you fully naked, and he must admit it’s getting harder and harder to be patient when the outline of your figure looks so...majestic.

He guides your grip to his own shirt, helping you pull it off and sliding his fingers into your hair as you kiss down his neck and collarbone. To his surprise, you’ve always shown so much affection to his scrawny frame, never complaining about his sharp limbs when you cuddle or caress each other like this. He’s never understood any of your insecurities about your body, much preferring your soft and fluffy flesh over his own.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of kisses you’ve pressed all over his torso, you cover his hands at the bottom of your dress with your own.

“You can take it off.” you tell him, taking a deep breath.

He does so, revealing nothing but your bra, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. Never has he ever wanted to see a pair of tits so badly.

It’s not difficult for you to read his mind, and before you can overthink it—you unhook it and throw it to the floor with the rest of your discarded garments.

Viktor doesn’t blush often, but you’ve never seen his cheeks get so red.

“Wow.” is all he can muster.

“You can touch them, if you want.” you chuckle at his reaction.

Permission is all he needed, his hands squeezing both of them, his thumbs brushing your nipples. A loud sigh escapes your lips, and Viktor decides right then and there that he will do anything to hear a glorious sound like that again.

Your body is a wonderfully pleasant array of textures for his hands to explore, from the raised skin of every stretch mark and scar to the dips and creases of your hips and waist. His touches roam across every inch of your exposed skin, cherishing the beauty he swears to never take for granted.

Your bare breasts press against his chest and he whines into your mouth, a pleasant tingling rushing through you at the noise. His lips then travel down your neck and shoulders, whispering “I love yous” between kisses, most coming out as mumbles against your flesh. Your replies follow suit, breathy and stringed with moans.

Somewhere in the process Viktor loses he pants, leaving both of you in nothing but your underwear. You feel his arousal hardening, and your fingers eagerly pull at his waistband.

He stops you, grabbing your wrist.

“Not yet, my love. I want to prepare you properly first.” he kisses your palm. “Let me get on top, okay?”

You nod, adjusting your positions. He places some pillows for your hips and his knees, then runs a couple fingers in one teasing stroke across your clothed entrance.

“Please,” you groan, already missing his touch when his fingers pull away. “Take them off already.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss you, “I’m glad you’re excited, darling.”

He obliges your request and takes off your underwear, his fingers quickly returning to your now exposed entrance. He finds your clit, stimulating it with one finger and inserting another slowly.

“Let me know what feels good and what doesn’t, okay?” he says, studying your expressions closely. Even before you say anything, he changes his movements based on your reactions to him.

“It...feels a little weird. But I like it.” you assure him. “Especially when you—“

The stimulation starts to build, and your gasps cut off your own thoughts.

“When you do that.” you finish your sentence, catching your breath as he slows down his fingers.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you orgasm your first time, love. But I’ll certainly try.” Viktor continues pulsing a finger in and out of you, rubbing feather-light circles on your clit.

“It’s okay if you don’t.” you hum. “I know it takes some concentration and practice.”

“It’s a learning process—are you ready for a second?”

You nod, and he slowly enters another finger. You’re still super tense from your nerves, but it’s getting easier to relax and let the arousal take over.

“Fuck.” you exhale. “Your fingers feel good.”

A smirks stretches across his lips, and his long digits push farther into you.

“But I want more.” you continue. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” he slips his fingers out, ghostly touches moving up your body. “Oh sweetheart, you’re so perfect.”

You giggle at his distraction, “Yes, Vik, I’m sure. Please.”

He could never say no to such eager eyes and pouting lips, so he slips off his boxers and readjusts himself above you.

“Holy shit, Vik.”

“Second thoughts?”

“No, just...is that really going to fit inside me?” your eyebrows raise and he laughs.

“You can take me, darling. We’ll go very slow, alright?”

You nod, and he lines himself up. He presses the tip in slowly, holding your hands as he goes further. You squeeze them tight, taking deep breaths until he stops halfway in.

“You’re doing so well, my love. How do you feel?”

“Mmm…” you sigh, trying to wrap your senses around the stretching and pressure you’re experiencing. It’s such an odd feeling, but it’s incredibly pleasurable.

“Are you ready for more?”

You nod, and he slowly pushes all the way in. He leans down to kiss you, giving you time to adjust to him. You dig your fingers into his back, closing the distance between your bodies, his cool skin sending shivers down your spine.

“I must admit,” he utters against your lips. “I will likely not last very long.”

Your foreheads press together and you giggle.

“I don’t care, Vik.”

He begins to thrust in and out gently, placing kisses and nibbles along your jaw. The sounds you make drive him crazy, making it extremely difficult for him to have any hope of holding back. The sensations are overwhelming for both of you, a symphony of moans and whines eliciting from your mouths.

You take his face in your hands, staring deep into his gorgeous golden eyes. You capture his lips once again, more passion brewing between you.

“I love you so much.” you say, breathless and full.

“I love you m—fuck, I’m—“ his orgasm washes over him, his movements losing their former smoothness. His cum floods your walls, his dick starting to soften as he pulls out. His nimble fingers return to your cunt, swirling in the juices and stimulating your clit once again.

“Vik, honey, it’s okay if I don’t finish…” your assurances fall on stubborn ears though, his touches quickly building back the pressure.

“Let me try.” he says, determined.

“Vik.” you sit up, legs still wide open around him. “We can try again tomorrow. I promise you’ve satisfied me for the night.”

You intertwine your fingers with his, admiring his flushed face and tousled hair.

“Did I make your first time special enough?” he asks, fiddling with your hands.

“Viktor, it was amazing. I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

He smiles, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Shall we clean up, then?” he mumbles, pulling back to look at you.

“Perhaps.” you run a hand through his hair. “I did bring the soaps you always compliment the scent of…”

*** -

You use the bathroom and start a bath, filling it with the products you packed and Epsom salt. Viktor’s tub isn’t very big, but you both fit in it when he sits between your thighs. You wipe each other off and wash each other’s hair, occasionally placing kisses on wet skin.

“Can we move in the rest of your things tomorrow?” he asks.

“Probably.” you reply, rinsing the shampoo from his wavy locks. “You sure you’re ready to share your space?”

“Eh...it’s always been far too empty. I need some...flair.” he laughs.

“I can give you that.” you smile, already imagining all the ways you could decorate and bring life to the place.

After drying off and getting ready for bed, Viktor clears off the top blanket then slips under the covers with you, your limbs immediately encircling one another. He massages your back and shoulders, cuddling you close. His arms feel like home, a warmth in your heart spreading throughout your body.

“I love you so much, Viktor.” you say, looking into his eyes. “And not because of what you do for me or how you make me feel…I love you just because you’re you.”

Your fingers trace his jawline, then slither into his hair.

“I’m so lucky.”

His gaze becomes even softer, at a loss for words from the purity of your love. Nothing in any language could properly describe his own sentiments.

“I can’t wait to love you for the rest of my life.” he peppers kisses across your face, living for the way your nose scrunches. “Every.” —another kiss— “Day.”

You giggle, snuggling impossibly closer. He loves feeling your every breath, every twitch, every tiny movement.

He sighs, closing his eyes and silently thanking Janna for whatever winds brought him to you.

#viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor x reader #arcane viktor #viktor arcane

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inkpetrichor · 1 month ago

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Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

9.- Part nine

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. TW. dead dove: do not eat. sa/unwanted physical contact (non-consensual kissing). mentions of suicide and sh (past). dissociation (trauma response). emotionally intense arguments. cyberbullying. gossip. malicious photo sharing. violence. pls let me know if i missed anything. wc. 6k an. sooo i hesitated a lot on this one. this chapter is a little heavier. it contains intense and potentially triggering content, and while i worked hard to handle it with care and respect, please take the content warnings seriously. they're there for a reason. if you're not in the right headspace, if anything listed might hit too close—please don't push through just for the story. take care of yourself first. the chapter will always be here when and if you're ready. i trust you, my beloved readers, to approach it with the emotional maturity and self-awareness i know you have. i know you're not minors. i know you're thoughtful, empathetic people. and i appreciate you more than you know. so thank you—for being here, for reading, for caring. i love you. please be gentle with yourselves<3

Shibuya felt wrong that night.

Too quiet.

Or maybe it was just your panic, drowning out the chaos of the city.

Even the noise of cars and neon signs seemed muffled beneath the storm in your head.

When you got to the place, something in your gut twisted.

Off.

Rotten.

The streetlight above buzzed like a dying insect, casting sickly yellow light onto the damp concrete. The alley smelled of rust and old piss, and your shoes stuck slightly with every step, like even the ground itself didn't want you there.

Junpei leaned against the wall, hoodie up, his face half-sliced by shadow.

No Emi.

Just him.

The orange streetlamp carved hard lines across his cheekbones, but his eyes stayed buried in the dark.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Every nerve in your body fired at once.

"Where is she?" you asked, voice sharp and cold.

He looked up slowly. "She's not here."

Your pulse stumbled, then picked up at 100 per hour.

"...What?"

"I lied."

His voice was almost casual. He gave a small, sheepish smile like this was some petty misunderstanding.

"I just... I needed to see you."

Silence. Then a breath that came out too shaken.

"You said she was going to hurt herself."

"I had to get you here," he said like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "You wouldn't have come if I told the truth."

Your blood ran ice-cold. Something ancient and primal surged up your spine.

The good old fight and flight.

But before you could move, he kept talking.

"I think about you all the time. I see you with that guy and it—it drives me crazy. You're not supposed to be with him. You're mine. You always were."

You took a step back, throat dry.

"You're a fucking psycho."

He stepped forward—and his hand shot out, closing around your wrist.

"I love you," he said. Like that explained anything. Like it was some kind of blessing. Like it was a reason.

Then he yanked you toward him.

His mouth crashed into yours.

Sloppy. Forceful. Wrong.

You froze. Your mind shut down.

You weren't in your body anymore. It was like watching through fogged glass.

Then his other hand gripped your waist, then slid—lower, insistent.

And with that—the glass shattered, and your body was yours once again.

Your knee came up in a second. Hard into his stomach.

He let out a choked grunt, doubling over—but you didn't stop.

You punched him once, then twice—fury guiding your fists before the pain even registered in your already injured hand. The sting only hit on the third swing, throbbing through your knuckles.

But that didn't matter.

And neither did his groans as he hit the pavement.

You stood over him, chest heaving and adrenaline shaking your limbs.

"Don't ever fucking touch me again," you spat, wiping the back of your hand across your lips like you could scrub him off.

He didn't move.

But that didn't matter.

You didn't remember the train ride home. Or if you even took it. Didn't remember the streets you cut through. Or unlocking the front door.

Just the sound of your lungs burning. The numbness in your legs. The way your skin crawled like it was trying to peel itself off your bones.

It felt unreal. Like a nightmare.

Like maybe it didn't happen. Like maybe you imagined it.

But when you kneeled on the floor of the shower and let the scalding water pour over your back—when you scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin stung raw—you knew the truth:

You didn't imagine it.

You couldn't erase it.

You couldn't scrub him out. Burn him out. You couldn't speak it aloud.

You tried—you tried to call Kuroo.

But your thumb hovered over his name for too long—imagining his voice. Imagining the way he'd say your name—soft and scared—and something in you fractured.

You couldn't handle the way he'd ask if you were okay. Not when you weren't. You couldn't deal with his voice right now—not the concern, not the gentleness.

So you didn't call him.

Didn't answer the texts that kept piling up.

Didn't open the one that just said, "I'm worried about you. Please say something."

Instead, you curled into your bed, knees tucked tight to your chest, and smoked until your lungs ached and your fingers trembled and the pack was empty.

It didn't help.

The ache behind your ribs didn't fade.

You sat in the haze until the air turned thick with smoke. Until the quiet became unbearable. Until the acid in your chest began whispering lies in your own voice.

Until the shame didn't just sink into your bones—

It became them.

You woke up to the smell of ash and the taste of old smoke in your mouth.

Your throat was dry. Your skin felt tight. Your limbs were too heavy to move like your bones had been replaced with concrete in the night.

You laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like—yesterday. The morning before, when you woke up next to Kuroo and everything felt perfect. When you felt happy and full and finally safe.

His breath soft against your neck. His voice still sleep-heavy as he whispered your name.

That morning felt… warm.

Now the sheets were cold. The silence too.

No warmth pressed against your back. No lazy arm slung over your waist.

No heartbeat beneath your ear.

Just you.

Alone.

You showered again. Not because you thought it would help, but because your body needed something to do.

But the water didn't burn this time. You didn't scrub like before.

The weight inside your chest seemed quieter, but not gone.

You felt a little less shocked, a little stronger.

Still, the walk to school felt like something someone else was doing.

Your limbs moved, but you didn't remember telling them to. Your shoes struck the pavement in soft, disconnected thuds. The city was wide awake, but none of it felt real.

You didn't even register arriving at Nekoma's gates—until everything around you shifted.

It started subtle. A shift in the air pressure—stares, side-eyes, a sudden hush that trailed behind you like smoke—sticky, inescapable, impossible to ignore.

And then the whispers.

"Isn't that the girl from the pictures?"

"Wasn't she dating the volleyball captain?"

"Did she really hook up with Ookami Junpei?"

"Apparently they used to be a thing."

Your heart dropped like a stone into a frozen lake.

Pictures?

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Once. Twice. Again. A steady pulse of notifications—sharp, demanding, merciless.

You didn't check. Couldn't. Whatever waited on that screen would scrape you raw from the inside out, and there wasn't much left to cut through.

And then—

"Kuroo's looking for you."

The voice barely registered. Familiar, maybe. Yaku? Kenma? It didn't matter. It sounded far away, like someone was shouting through water.

Your limbs grew heavy. The spring air clung to you, too thick, too cold. You were still wearing yesterday's bruises, even if no one could see them.

Every second stretched, unbearable. Until you felt him.

Not saw—felt.

The unmistakable force of him—barreling toward you like a loaded gun with no safety.

Kuroo.

"Y/N."

Your head snapped up.

And there he was. A storm system making landfall, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles ticking beneath his skin. His fists were balled at his sides, knuckles white.

And his eyes—God, his eyes— They burned. They weren't just angry. They were wrecked. A wildfire of betrayal and grief burning behind them with nowhere to go.

"Is it true?" he rasped.

His voice sounded raw, like he'd been screaming somewhere else already, somewhere you couldn't see, long before he found you.

It hit harder than any punch.

You felt everything all at once—

Kuroo. Tutoring. Class 5. The beach. Takoyakis your dad bought. Rumors. Emi. Shibuya. A mouth that didn't belong. Water too hot. Skin too raw.

The school gates yawned behind you like the maw of something ancient, waiting to swallow you whole.

"Is it?!"

His voice cracked across the courtyard, slicing it in half.

Some students flinched. Others stared. But most slipped past, sensing the detonation and giving it distance. Soon, it was just you and him.

You stood frozen in the eye of the storm.

"I saw the pictures." His voice was quieter this time, still hurt—but sharp. Like glass underfoot.

You looked away. Couldn't look at him. Not when he was looking at you like that.

"Please tell me you didn't fuck him," he whispered.

The world tilted.

"I didn't." Your voice barely existed. It came out like smoke from a dying flame. It wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

"So you didn't do anything?" he pressed. His voice spiraled, unraveling at the seams. "Nothing?"

You shook your head.

"What about before?" he asked, lower now. "Before we met. Before the tutoring."

Your breath caught—then froze.

And you watched the moment it broke him.

His fingers dug into his hair, yanking like he could tear the thoughts from his skull. Your silence said more than anything you could've uttered.

"Fuck," he hissed, pacing back. Hands dragged down his face. "Fuck. I'm an idiot. I'm a fucking idiot. No wonder you weren't picking up last night."

"Tetsurou—" your voice trembled. "I didn't cheat on you."

"Then what the hell were you doing there?! With him?!"

He whipped around, the sound of his voice so sharp—so hurt—it left invisible gashes down your spine.

The images in his mind were killing him. Junpei's hands. Junpei's mouth. Your silence.

You saw the poison eating him alive. And you had no antidote.

You wanted to tell him. God, you did.

But—

"I… I can't tell you."

His whole body stilled.

"What?"

"I can't tell you," you said again, firmer. "It's not my secret to tell. I want to explain—I do. But I can't. I'm asking you to trust me."

A beat of silence.

And then something in him… cooled. Not calmed. Hardened. Like steel cooling too fast.

"I can't."

You felt something crack under your ribs.

"What?"

"I can't," he said again. Quiet. And somehow, that hurt more than yelling. "I tried, Y/N. I really did. But there's just—there's too many holes. Too much evidence. Too many things you didn't say."

He rubbed his face, exhausted.

"You already broke my heart. The beach. Now this... I can't let you do it again—not a third time. I need to get away from you."

He didn't look angry anymore. He looked tired. Hollow.

"Tetsurou, I didn't fucking cheat on you," you choked out again, voice catching on splinters.

He flinched just slightly. Like your voice physically burned him.

He wanted to pull you in. To believe.

But when he looked at you—all he saw were the fucking pictures.

His mouth twisted. For a second, you thought he was about to say something cruel, something meant to hurt. His expression wavered between rage and devastation.

But then he exhaled again, lower this time, trembling.

And barely above a whisper—so quiet it cracked—he muttered:

"I need space. I can't even look at you right now."

The world stopped turning. The noise faded. The people. The school. Everything. Only him. Only you.

And the crumbling space between you where everything good had lived and died.

He meant it as mercy. As a 'I don't want to say something I'll regret.'

But in the moment, that intention didn't really land.

You stared at him. At the boy who once kissed you like he saw your soul. Who held your hand like it meant something sacred.

Now he couldn't even look at you.

And you? You couldn't even cry. Not properly, at least. Your body was too used to swallowing it down.

The ache inside your chest curdled, hardened, and twisted itself into something sharper. Something easier to carry than grief.

Hurt turned to fury. Anger calcified into armor.

"You know what?" you whispered, voice brittle. "Fuck you."

Kuroo's head snapped back to you, eyes wide.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah. Fuck you. Go ahead. Believe the pictures. Believe whatever you want." Your voice shook, but didn't falter. "I'm a cheater and slut. I'm too much work... I already broke your heart, didn't I? Then leave me."

Every word felt like a bleeding wound. You didn't mean them. You didn't like the knives you were throwing.

But they were the only weapons you had left.

"I have enough shit to deal with already. If you can't trust me... then fuck you."

Silence.

Not stunned. Not even angry.

Just... sad.

He didn't argue. Didn't fight back. He just stood there, breathing like it hurt, like every word you spoke made it worse—and yet still, somehow, he couldn't deny any of it.

The unfairness sat in your chest like a boulder, immovable and cold.

You wanted to punch something. Scream until your throat bled.

But instead, you hid.

You turned. Walked fast—past the gate, across the grounds, to the corner of the school that always felt safest.

Kuroo let out a breath and turned to leave—when he saw her.

Emi.

Leaning against the wall just out of sight, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes were hollow—like the light behind them had been long gone.

She'd been there the whole time. Watching. Listening. Invisible.

She didn't look surprised. She didn't even look mad. Just tired.

Like this whole little dance between you two was boring her and hurting her at the same time.

Kuroo barely spared her a glance, a half-lidded look that slid past her like water. He kept walking.

And then—

"It's not true," she said, voice as calm as the smoke she was inhaling. She exhaled through her nose, the faint trail curling upward. Her eyes met his without hesitation.

He half-turned, jaw still tight. "Were you there?"

Her brow arched. She shook her head and took a slow drag.

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I know her," Emi said simply. "I thought you did, too."

That one hit deeper than he expected. His eyes narrowed, but something in his face twitched—like he'd been stabbed in the ribs but was too proud to flinch.

"Do you know what she was doing there, then?"

Emi squinted, tilting her head just slightly.

"I might."

He took a step forward, voice low. "Are you gonna tell me?"

She snorted. "Why do I always gotta do the dirty work for you two? I'm out here carrying the damn plot. How about you actually talk to each other for once?"

Kuroo huffed and turned again, footsteps sharp against the concrete.

And then—

"I tried to kill myself."

Sharp like a blade. Soft like a kiss.

He stopped in his tracks.

Emi stepped forward, already pulling out another cigarette like it was armor. She lit it with practiced ease, took a drag, held it in.

When she spoke again, her voice was flat. No sass. No bite. Like she'd hollowed herself to get the words out.

"In junior high."

Kuroo turned back slowly.

Emi rolled up her sleeve.

No flourish. No drama. Just a quiet, deliberate motion.

And there it was.

A scar. One long, brutal line that etched down her forearm and curved around it like a memory too jagged to ever smooth over.

Kuroo winced when he saw it. It physically hurt to look at.

"We went to the same junior high. Y/N and me. Hebinuma too," she began, voice low, like it cost her something. "Y/N transferred in a little late. By then Hebinuma already had her little kingdom. Rumors, isolation, backstabbing—standard queen bee shit."

Emi's gaze drifted skyward, her expression distant, like she was searching the clouds for a version of herself that never made it out of those years.

"I never even knew what I did to deserve it. One day, I just had a target on my back."

Her voice cracked faintly. Not enough to break—but enough to show it still lived under her skin.

You knew she still asked herself that question in the dark.

"But that doesn't matter. What matters is, one day, I broke a mirror and tried to end it."

She didn't flinch as she said it. Didn't rush. Just let it hang.

And then looked him dead in the eye.

"She has the pictures," she said, nodding faintly. Maybe to him. Maybe to herself. "Yeah. From the hospital. And whenever she remembers I exist, she comes back to remind me how easily she could spread them around. Just like she did with those photos of Y/N."

Kuroo's body locked up. Every part of him tensed. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw ticking hard enough to ache.

"We've made her delete them a hundred times. But she keeps backups. Always. Like it turns her on—knowing she can ruin me whenever she wants. That's the kind of bitch she is."

Emi flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette with a hard snap.

"My theory? Junpei probably called Y/N last night and told her I was gonna do something stupid. So of course she ran. Didn't ask. Didn't think twice. Because that's the kind of hot-headed, loyal idiot she is."

A strange kind of fondness edged into a smirk. Something caught between exasperation and admiration. Grudging, protective. Almost proud.

"Then Junpei kissed her—probably just for a second. Long enough to throw her off. Long enough for Hebinuma to get the shot."

She glanced back at him, her gaze sharpening. Her voice dropped.

"And she's good with a camera, you know? Real good. She doesn't need truth. She just needs a good angle."

Her eyes narrowed, deadly calm.

"And people believe her. Always. She could ruin my family with those hospital pics. Just a few lies in the right place and—bam. CPS, scandal, cops. That's how much power she has," Emi muttered, jaw clenched. "Or I don't know. Maybe that's just how fucking terrified I am of her."

She rolled her sleeve back down, the motion careful. Like she was tucking away a confession too sharp to keep showing.

"There. That's the story. Y/N didn't say anything because she wouldn't throw me under the bus to clear her own name—'cause she's stupid like that. So yeah. Now you know. Straight from the source."

She took a long drag. Crushed the butt under her heel with finality.

"You do whatever you want with that information."

Kuroo didn't speak.

He just stood there—stone still, jaw slack, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Like every word she'd said had short-circuited him.

Then, finally, he breathed.

Ragged. Gutted.

He dragged both hands down his face, hard enough to leave red streaks, then shoved them into his hair and gripped hard—like he needed pain to focus.

"I… I need a second," he managed at last, voice wrecked and low. "I need to think."

Emi shrugged. "Yeah. You do that."

She didn't say it cruelly. Just tired.

"You talk to her or you don't," she added. "But this whole thing where you two run in circles and bleed for it? It's getting old tbh."

And then she stepped away from the wall, exhaling long and slow, and walked past him—past the gates to go find the gang.

You were sitting on the floor in your little hidden spot—knees to your chest, face buried in the soft fabric of your jacket. You weren't crying, not really. But every few seconds, a tremor ran down your spine like your body wanted to sob but your mind refused to let it.

You waited.

Waited for the hurt to fade. For the anger to settle.

Waited for Kuroo.

Because you knew he'd come.

But the hurt didn't fade. The anger didn't settle.

Instead, the silence swallowed you whole.

You sat there all day—back against the brick wall, eyes on nothing. The afternoon heat clung to your skin, but you didn't move. Didn't cry. Barely breathed.

At some point, our hands stopped trembling. The sting in your chest dulled to a bitter throb, then went cold.

And by the time the sun started to dip low, the version of you who had broken down the night before was long gone.

She'd been replaced by the one you knew how to be.

The angry one. The survivor.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel in front of you.

You didn't flinch. Didn't even look up.

"Took you long enough," you muttered flatly.

Kuroo's voice came out hoarse. Tight. "Had some shit to figure out."

"Yeah. Guess we both did."

Silence. Thin, barbed-wire silence.

Then—

"Emi told me of what happened in junior high."

Your head snapped up at him, eyes wide.

"She said you wouldn't tell me. Said that was the reason you were in Shibuya last night. Why didn't you just—"

"I was protecting Emi," you snapped. "Her secret."

Kuroo scoffed. Dry. Bitter. "Yeah? And where does protecting me fit into that? You know what it looks like? I look like a fool and a cuck to the entire school."

You surged to your feet, heat roaring in your chest.

"You think I wanted any of this?" Your voice rose and trembled, but you didn't back down. "You think I enjoyed getting fucking manhandled and photographed like some piece of meat?!"

His eyes met yours—dark and stormy. Pain flared behind them, not just his but yours too.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" he asked again, quieter now, like he was begging. "Why didn't you trust me?"

You laughed. A dry, hollow sound.

"Please. Like you trusted me the second you saw those photos? You looked at me like I was poison. Like I was already guilty."

He flinched.

"Maybe I should've told you," you said. "But I was scared."

He opened his mouth, paused, then dragged a hand through his hair—rough, frustrated, the strands sticking out in every direction.

"Scared of what?" he asked finally. "Of me?"

"No, idiot!" you yelled, voice breaking. "Of losing you! Of you looking at me like I was broken! Like I was disgusting! Like I wasn't worth fighting for anymore."

You wiped your eyes furiously with the back of your hand, hard enough to sting.

"And congrats," you spat. "You made sure of that real quick."

"That's not fucking fair," he snapped. "You're acting like you didn't give me every reason to doubt you."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you snarled, laughing darkly. "Was getting assaulted supposed to come with a fucking heads-up?"

Kuroo's eyes narrowed, stepping closer.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

You glared at him, daring him.

"You could've told me about him that night at my house. When I asked. Could've told me about Emi," he said. "You hid shit from me over and over. And now I'm the asshole because I hesitated for five seconds after someone handed me proof?"

Your fists curled so tight your nails bit into your palms.

"That wasn't proof. It was a setup. A fucking ambush."

Guilt twisted his face, but anger didn't leave either.

"You made it impossible to trust you!" he snapped. "You put walls around everything that mattered and then got pissed when I couldn't guess what was inside. Made it a goddamn puzzle I wasn't allowed to solve."

You stepped in close, face inches from his.

"Oh, poor you," you seethed. "Did I ruin your fantasy? Was I supposed to wrap myself up with a bow and hand you all the ugly pieces so you could decide if I was still worth it? Show you how fucking imperfect I was so you could come in and fix me? 'Bad girl fixed by the nice nerd guy,' Perfect fucking story, right?"

His jaw tightened, breath sharp. "I didn't want to fix you. I just wanted you to be honest."

"I was trying," you whispered. "I really was. But the second you had to choose to believe me, even if it was hard, the second it stopped being cute—you dipped."

He didn't respond. Couldn't.

"I didn't tell you about Emi because it wasn't my secret to tell. And because she nearly died, and I wasn't there. I couldn't protect her. And I still feel like shit for it."

His face flickered—guilt and shame crawling behind his eyes.

But you didn't stop.

"And you…" You inhaled sharply. "You're mad because of your reputation? Because people think you got cheated on? Is that what matters most to you?"

Kuroo's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. Didn't correct you.

"And you looked at me like that," you added, and your voice broke on the last word. "Like I was dirty."

You swallowed hard.

"And I feel dirty. I do. That fucker… he…" your breath hitched, the words came trembling, brittle. "All these punches—and for what? I couldn't even..."

Your eyes dropped to your hands like you resented them. Fists that had flown a hundred times in a hundred fights. That had drawn blood, broken noses.

All the fights. All that training with your dad.

Useless, when it mattered most.

You were the one who always hit first. Who protected everyone else.

But in the end—

You couldn't even protect yourself.

Kuroo's face collapsed. All the anger fell out of him in one breathless second. Guilt replacing it as it swept over him like a tidal wave.

Like he was only now, finally, realizing what those pictures actually meant. What had really happened.

And that he'd believed the camera instead of you.

You saw it hit him. Hard. His eyes widened slightly, like he was seeing it now—truly seeing it—for the first time.

Not the rumor.

Not the picture.

You.

His girlfriend.

The girl who was looking at her hands like they betrayed her.

"Y/N—" he rasped.

He reached for you, but when his fingers brushed your elbow you shoved it off, stepping back without looking at him.

"Don't." You pulled away. "It doesn't fucking matter anymore. It wasn't a big deal. I don't care."

"You do, though."

You glared at him, jaw tight. "You don't get to tell me how I feel."

"I'm not," Kuroo said, voice rough. "But I know very well what it looks like when you're trying not to feel."

You scoffed and turned away, arms crossed so tight they ached.

"And stop doing that too," he said sharply.

You blinked. "Doing what?"

"That," he snapped. "Pushing it down. Acting like it didn't fucking happen."

Your spine straightened.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

The silence that followed bristled with static.

He stepped closer again. Not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the weight of him.

"You're doing that thing," he continued, voice low, gentler. "Where you take something that should destroy you and just... shove it into some box and pretend it didn't hurt."

His tone wasn't accusing anymore. It was something softer. Something scared.

"And maybe that's how you survive, I get it. But it's not the same as healing. And if you keep doing it one day it's gonna eat you alive. One day you'll snap, and no one—including you—will understand why."

You looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, your guard slipped.

Just a crack.

"Then what the fuck do I do?!" You stared at him. Your breath was shaky. "I'm... I don't know how to talk about this shit! I'm so used to swallowing it I forget there's another fucking option!”

He blinked, startled by the admission.

"You cry! Stop locking it up like it doesn't deserve air! Just—fuck—scream if you have to! Just don't shut down like this..."

There was a moment of silence. You exhaled, shaky and slow.

"You know what? Worst part is you're acually right."

Kuroo's face softened. But you didn't let it stay that way.

"But don't think that means I forgive you," you added quickly. "Because I don't. Not yet."

He nodded slowly, voice low. "I don't expect you to."

You turned your face away, arms still crossed, chest still aching—but lighter somehow.

You didn't know how long you stood there, breathing hard in the silence between you two.

The words hung between you like smoke—raw, half-said, unsatisfying.

You could still feel the shape of his hands in the air where they'd almost held you. The anger hadn't gone. The hurt hadn't either.

But under it, something softer stirred. Not forgiveness—not yet.

But something closer to understanding. Or the ache of it.

"I should've told you earlier. As soon as it happened," you muttered. "I do bottle shit up. I always have."

Kuroo looked at you—eyes bloodshot, but steadier now.

"And I should've trusted you," he rasped.

A small, bitter smile tugged at your mouth. "Look at us. Actually communicating."

He huffed a weak breath, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"I think that whole conversation counts, honestly. It's not like we don't communicate we just... Need better methods I guess."

You let your gaze drift down the gravel path, blinking hard.

A sound broke the stillness—a sharp, broken whimper.

You both turned.

And then you saw her.

Emi was walking toward you, eyes dead, lips parted, her grip tight in Hebinuma's hair—fisted hard at the nape of her neck.

Her usually neatly styled, bleached hair was in disarray, her makeup smeared, and her eyes swollen. Blood ran fresh from a cut on her lower lip.

Her expression was hard as she shoved Hebinuma forward, letting go and making her stumble and fall to her knees in front of you.

"Speak! Tell 'em what you told me."

Hebinuma didn't look much better—her nose was swollen, her right eye barely open and already bruising. Her hair was a mess and nail marks raked down the sides of her face and down her neck.

She whimpered, shoulders hunched inward like she could fold herself out of sight. Her hands trembled.

When she glanced up, it wasn't at you—it was at Kuroo. Like a cornered rat reaching for a predator's mercy.

"Kuroo-san..." she whimpered, barely audible.

"Speak up, bitch!" Emi screamed, her voice hoarse and shaking with unrestrained rage.

Hebinuma flinched, shrinking inward. But your eyes stayed locked on Emi.

Your best friend, your sweet Emi—who always hung back when fists flew—stood there, seething.

You'd never seen her like this before. Blood on her mouth. Fury in her eyes. You'd always taken the hits for her. But now... now she was burning.

When it became clear Hebinuma wasn't going to speak, Emi scoffed, rolling her eyes like she'd stepped in something filthy.

"She did it. All of it," she said, voice clipped and shaking. "She convinced everyone to spread shit about you and Kuroo. She told Junpei to call you so she could take the pictures and spread even more bullshit. The guys are looking for him right now. That motherfucker must be hiding if he knows what's coming. They're gonna beat the shit out of him."

Her shoulders lifted, then sank with a trembling breath.

"I don't know if it'll help, but I made sure her little friends spread the word that it was all a lie."

"Emi..." You surged forward, cupping her face in both hands. She flinched in pain, and your stomach turned. Her skin was hot beneath your fingers, raw around the bruises.

"She landed a good one," Emi said, voice trembling, trying to joke. "Right on the cheek. Gotta give her that." She shot a venomous glance at Hebinuma. But when she looked back at you, something cracked.

Her eyes were glossy, her voice small and soft like a kid waking from a nightmare.

"You think it'll bruise?"

"It better not—for her sake." You turned on Hebinuma, baring your teeth. "If you lay another finger on her, I'll fucking kill you. Got that?!"

Kuroo raised a hand like he meant to calm you—but his eyes were wide, locked on Hebinuma's battered face, flicking across it like he couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing.

"I think Emi already did enough," he muttered.

You sneered, snapping your head toward him. You weren't done with him—not even close—but Emi's gentle hand on your shoulder grounded you, fingers curling just enough to keep you tethered.

"I started it," she said quietly. "I heard her admitting everything to her friends, so I just... yeah. And the fact she'd spread pictures of you getting fucking assaulted is just disgusting. What the fuck is wrong with her?"

Her voice wavered, the end trailing off.

"But I didn't do it just for you. I had to get her at some point, right? I couldn't keep leaning on you for protection... You spoiled me too much..."

"Idiot," you said, voice thick with anger and love. "You can lean on me whenever the hell you want. And fighting on school grounds means suspension. You know that."

"But… you're doing so good now." Her eyes flicked away, guilt bleeding into her bruised expression. "If you fought her, you'd go back to your old class, right? And you'd lose Kuroo too, because he would've thought you cheated, and that you and Junpei were really a thing…"

You glanced at Kuroo. His gaze had softened.

Guilt curled up his spine like a noose. His jaw clenched.

And then—

"Yo, Y/N! Here's the traitor!"

You looked up.

Kenkiba had Junpei by the collar, dragging him across the gravel like trash to be taken out. His face was bloody, lip split and cheek swelling, eyes blinking in and out of consciousness.

The rest of the gang trailed behind, their steps heavy and filled with intent.

Kenkiba's steps slowed when he saw Emi's face. His eyes widened in horror, and he surged forward.

You stepped aside without thinking, letting him rush to her side.

"Emi! Did Hebinuma do this to you?"

"You should see her face," Emi muttered with a weak chuckle. "But I think I twisted my ankle kicking her. It hurts, Kiba~"

He wrapped his arms around her as she sagged into him, the adrenaline finally fading from her limbs.

Behind them, Taiga grabbed Junpei by the scruff, making him stand up, and turned to Kuroo with a grimace.

"It's a lie, man. Y/N would never do you like that."

You waited.

For Kuroo to speak. To agree. Something.

But he'd gone still.

Too still.

His entire body went tight—shoulders locking, chest rising with slow, heavy breaths. His gaze zeroed in on Junpei like a sniper finding his mark.

And then, in a heartbeat, he moved.

Taiga barely had time to step aside before Kuroo's fist obliterated Junpei's jaw with a sickening crack. Junpei hit the ground like a sack of bones, blood spraying across the gravel.

Taiga and Inuzuka lunged, grabbing Kuroo by the arms, but he broke through—rage-fueled, vicious—just enough to land a savage kick to Junpei's ribs.

"IF YOU EVER FUCKING TOUCH HER AGAIN, I'LL KILL YOU!" Kuroo roared, his voice raw and shaking with fury.

He thrashed in the guy's grip, a storm given human shape. His face was twisted with a rage you'd never seen on him—feral, gut-deep, personal.

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! TOUCH HER AGAIN, I FUCKING DARE YOU."

"Shit—volleyball nerd is strong, what the hell—" Taiga grunted, half in awe, half in alarm as he struggled to hold him back.

You stood motionless, frozen in place, trembling from the sheer heat of Kuroo's fury. He wasn't the composed, sarcastic genius you knew.

He was rage. Pure and unfiltered.

"Tetsurou-kun."

Inukai-sensei's voice cracked through the chaos like a gunshot.

Taiga flinched and muttered under his breath.

"Holy fuck."

He stepped from the shadows, arms crossed, expression grim.

"Tetsurou-kun, I think that's enough," he said calmly, though his voice carried the weight of command. "No one here wants to see you walk down that path."

He nodded to the boys, and reluctantly, they let Kuroo go.

But he didn't move.

He just stood there—trembling, fists still balled at his sides, sweat dripping from his brow, breathing like he'd just survived a war.

His eyes stayed wide and crazed, locked on Junpei who lay coughing on the ground, like if he looked away for even a second, the bastard would vanish before he could finish the job.

"I think it's safe to say we all have a clear picture of what happened here," Inukai-sensei continued, voice like velvet pulled taut over steel. "But as Y/N said, fighting on school grounds does mean a suspension. I'll take Hebinuma and Shiromaru to the infirmary. Then we'll go to the principal's office."

His gaze softened a shade as it landed on the two of you.

"You two need to talk."

Still, Kuroo didn't speak. Didn't blink.

Just stood there, fury and grief barely leashed under his skin, jaw clenched like he was trying not to break.

Inukai-sensei kneeled to ease a sobbing Hebinuma to her feet and walked off. The gang trailed after him, dragging Junpei's limp body with them.

And just like that—

You and Kuroo were alone again.

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208 @lblackwood @evilari111 @chaoticotaku @uekarashi @talia-the-gemini

#haikyuu #hq fanfic #hq x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fluff #hq #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo testuro #nekoma #tetsurou kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro fluff #kuroo tetsuro haikyuu

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ipc-shareholder · 1 month ago

Text

Echos

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader

Tags: Fluff, mentions of past abuse, typical canon Aventurine angst

Summary: “I’ve forgotten most of the words,” he said, quieter now. “They're stuck in my throat when I try to say them. Some days, I can’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice. That terrifies me more than anything.”

You reached out, cupping his face. His skin was warm, steady beneath your fingers. “Don't let yourself forget, please. Teach them to me,” you whispered. “Teach me what you remember.”

The hour was too late for anything but truth. Calyx City shimmered distantly beyond the penthouse windows—its spires drowned in artificial starlight, clouds drifting low like ghosts. A gentle hum of power ran through the bones of the building, too faint to name but always there, like the breath of a great beast asleep beneath your feet. But in the bedroom, the silence reigned. Velvet-drenched. Heavy. Sacred.

You lay tangled in Aventurine’s bed, wrapped in cool sheets and slow breaths and the kind of hush that asks to be broken. He was on his back beside you, his mesmerising eyes half-lidded, reflecting the soft light above like molten glass. One arm curled under his head. The other rested loosely between you, fingers brushing your wrist in absent-minded rhythm.

You shifted closer, cheek against his shoulder, the press of his skin anchoring you in a world that too often felt like a dream. “Tell me about them,” you said quietly, almost reverently. “Your family.”

He didn’t answer at first. Only stared up at the ceiling, where shadows bled into each other and the quiet pulsed like a heartbeat. Then: “You don’t want that story,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft, unwavering. “I want to know.”

He sighed. The kind that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his ribs. His fingers curled briefly around yours. There was an unreadable shadow in his expression. The kind that came from memory, not pain. Or perhaps both. “Back on Sigonia we had this saying: The desert remembers everything,” he said. “Even if you don’t.”

He paused, the past pulling him under. “I was born under the rain— a blessed child my people called it.” A derisive scoff. "My mother used to believe I was a blessing, sent to free the tribe from their suffering and lead them to freedom." You listened without interrupting, your palm pressed to his chest, feeling the slow swell of breath beneath your hand.

“She had a voice like riverglass,” he continued. “Soft, but sharp enough to cut through storms. Even when her throat was dry, she sang. It was always music first. She said songs were the only thing that couldn’t be locked away or stolen.”

Your fingers stilled against his chest.

"My sister was wilder. Older than me, and always braver. She’d climb the dunes barefoot to chase the sun. Said the wind knew her name. Said it whispered it back in our tongue. She used to braid flowers into the hem of her sleeves. Believed they’d keep her gentle, even when we had nothing. She...” He hesitated. “She was the one who saved me... back then.”

As if against your will, your hand found his, seeking to comfort. To offer company when your words couldn't. “What was it like, the tribe?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Loud. Laughter always carried. We shared everything. Words. Water. Stories. Even grief.” The smile faded almost as soon as it appeared. “But that doesn't matter now that it's all gone.”

Your breath caught, the weight in his voice striking like a quiet drumbeat in your chest. You reached for him instinctively, drawing him in, but he remained very still, eyes distant, like he was staring across decades of sand and fire.

“You know the rest. I was taken,” he said, after a long pause, a sardonic smile on his face. “Put in chains. Sold like grain. Same old boring story.”

Your heart twisted at the mocking tone. How like him to make a joke out of it. “You were a child.”

“I was property.” His voice was flat. Unapologetic. “They beat our language out of me. Gutted it. Made me speak their common tongue. Taught me to kneel, to count credits, to serve. I learned quick. Quicker than they liked. Learned how to speak like them. Smile like them. Lie like them. I survived.”

He turned to look at you fully now. And you almost couldn’t bear the way he was looking—like someone who expected to be looked away from. But you didn’t. You never would.

“I’ve forgotten most of the words,” he said, quieter now. “They're stuck in my throat when I try to say them. Some days, I can’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice. That terrifies me more than anything.”

You reached out, cupping his face. His skin was warm, steady beneath your fingers. “Don't let yourself forget, please. Teach them to me,” you whispered. “Teach me what you remember.”

He blinked. Slowly. As if trying to decide if you meant it. As if terrified of what it meant. “I don’t need the right pronunciation,” you added, softer. “I just need you. I want to know.”

His breath caught—just barely. Then, after a moment, he spoke a word you’d never heard before. Ancient. Syllables shaped like wind across stone.He closed his eyes. “That means home. Not a place. A… resonance. The feeling of knowing you’re safe where someone speaks your name right.”

The syllables curled out of his mouth, soft and strange, yet musical. Alive.You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his brow, your heart caught in the fragile ache of the moment. “Say it again.”

He did. You repeated it, clumsy but careful. And again. Until he hummed his approval and reached up to stroke your cheek. Then came another word. Then another. Until your head rested over his heart and the two of you whispered secrets into the dark like children with life cupped between their palms. The past was a wound, yes—but tonight, in this quiet room where nothing artificial dared intrude, it bled into something else.

Something like healing.

Something like language.

And in the quiet hum of late night, lying between a past he thought he’d lost and the future you offered him freely, Aventurine spoke his mother’s words into your skin—carving them where no one could ever take them away again.

...............................................................................

It started the morning after. Not with ceremony, not with a lesson plan—just a word, half-whispered into the quiet while he kissed you awake. You had expected distance. That cool, practiced detachment he so often slipped into like silk gloves. But instead he asked you softly: “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

“Every word.”

“Then say it.”

And so you did. Your tongue stumbled over the syllables, your voice shy but sincere. You repeated the word he had whispered into your shoulder in the dark. “Del.”

“Heart,” he said, nodding. “Good. Again.”

“Del.”

Later, as you stood in the shower, steam rising around you, you whispered the words he taught you aloud.The words fogged the mirror. Bloomed on your lips.

He never told you what it meant to him. Not then. But you began to notice—these fragments of a broken tongue he scattered into the world like breadcrumbs. A word in the curve of a goodnight. A phrase muttered when he thought you were asleep. The faintest hum of a lullaby when he pressed a kiss to your temple before leaving the suite for a morning meeting.

They came without context. Without warning. As if remembering them aloud made them real again.

And you?

You collected every one. Cradled them like artifacts, like promises. Repeated them under your breath until they were yours too.

Sometimes, he would pause mid-conversation, eyes flicking distant, and say—“Vasha. That was what my sister used to call me. From a holiday I barely remember.”

Other times, in the quiet between kisses, his voice would slip into that old cadence, soft and rhythm-heavy. Your hand would slide beneath the sheets, find his. Hold on. “Tell me another word,” you would whisper.

He would close his eyes. Whisper a new word. You whispered it back.

The Avgin language became your rhythm. A private script passed between mouths, hearts, breaths.In the middle of the night, if you stirred and found his hand resting over your stomach, tight around you as if you might disappear, you’d whisper dear and he’d kiss your shoulder, murmuring it again like a blessing.

At breakfast, you’d grin at him across the table and say morning, and he’d glance up from the morning report, eyes warming like embers. It would take him three tries to finish reading it after that.

You wrote the pieces of sentences on scraps of napkin, on the corner of datapads, in the margins of IPC memos you weren’t supposed to touch. One time, you guessed a word you thought meant something like “beloved” and he dropped the glass he was holding, just staring at you. “That’s…” he said, blinking hard. "That’s what my mother called me"

“I guessed,” you whispered, not quite smiling. “You looked like you needed to hear it again.”

There was no written record. No alphabet. “I never learned to write it,” he told you once, voice hollow with something unspeakable. “I was too young when I was taken.”

You didn’t ask again.

He taught you words for fire, for wind, for anger that doesn’t pass, for grief that carves a person into someone sharper.

He didn’t always give you translations. Sometimes, he just spoke, and let the sound settle into you. One night, you said his name in the language—not the name he used here. Not Aventurine, the gleaming, sculpted mask. But the name you’d coaxed out of him in the dark.

He stilled. “You said it right,” he murmured, stunned. “I didn’t think anyone would ever say it again.”

You cupped his face, heart full. “Then I’ll be the one who does.”

And in the hush of those nights, between the empire he’d built and the boy who once sang to the dunes, you knew this wasn’t just memory.It was resurrection.

And you would carry it with him—every word, every note, every name lost to fire—etched into the living language of your love.

...............................................................................

The room was drenched in gold and pretense. Crystal chandeliers clung to the vaulted ceiling like teeth, and champagne glimmered like liquid light in every flute. The IPC’s latest negotiation gala was an extravagant theatre of false civility, full of laughter that didn’t reach the eyes and deals sealed with poison-slick smiles. You lingered near the terrace doors, half-shadowed by gauze curtains, your gown trailing like spilled ink across the marble. From here, you watched the way Aventurine’s jaw twitched behind the rim of his glass.

Immaculate in charcoal silk and violet-glass cufflinks, flanked by the predators of the corporate world. Executives, venture parasites, silver-spoon tech heirs who mistook arrogance for invention. He wore his charm like he wore his wealth: to precision. But beneath the surface—beneath the glinting glass of that too-bright smile—you saw it.

The flick of his jaw.

The minute tension in his shoulders.

The clench in his left hand, subtle, but not to you.

He was… barely tolerating the company.

“He’s back again,” you murmured, voice low.

Topaz, lingering nearby with a glass of glistening crystal, didn’t look up, just arched her brow. “Which one?”

“The bald one with the bad breath and the patent scam.”

She gave a low, amused sound that might have been a sigh. “He’s in hell, then.”

You sipped your drink, watching as the man launched into his third attempt at explaining an “emotionally intuitive wine-sorting AI.” “We’re all in hell,” you replied dryly. “But at least I have a view.”

Your gaze flicked back to Aventurine just in time to see the precise moment his composure cracked. He was nodding along absently while the executive in question—a jowly man with too many rings and not enough self-awareness—rambled on, oblivious to the barely restrained boredom in front of him. It was the faintest shift—a blink too slow, a drag of his gaze across the crowd like he was searching for the nearest exit—or a reason to endure it all.

Your heart twisted, unexpectedly. And then—He found you. A flicker. A heartbeat. His gaze found yours through the crowd like it always did, as if tethered. And there it was—that unspoken reach. The look of a man sinking in velvet quicksand, reaching toward the only thing that felt like breath.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the floor like the room didn’t matter, like the music and politics and smoke-laced perfume were miles away. You slid in beside him, feigning polite interest in the executive’s pitch. The executive barely registered you, still droning on about “sentient grape varietals.”

You leaned in, smile soft. Innocuous. And, beneath the sound of a thousand forged conversations, you whispered into Aventurine’s ear in the language only you and he remembered:

"The boy is a big idiot."

The words were simple, bits of phrases you heard him say strung together into a sentence. Petty. Childish. But then again, he was but a child when he started to forget.

There was a beat of stunned stillness—and then a sound burst out of him. Real and sudden and uncontainable.

Aventurine laughed.

Not the polished chuckle he used at board meetings. Not the silken amusement of the poker table. This laugh came from somewhere deeper—punched from his ribs, cracked loose from memory. His head dropped forward slightly, hand rising to cover his mouth as if to trap it. But it was too late.

The executive fell silent, blinking at him in confusion. Aventurine straightened slowly, eyes bright, smile dangerous now—too smooth to argue with. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said to the man, voice glittering like broken glass. “We’ll have to revisit this conversation. Later.”

His hand slid to your back, warm through silk, and with a practiced elegance, he led you out of earshot. "Sweetheart—” he murmured, voice thick with something that wasn’t quite amusement or gratitude. “Where did you learn to say it like that?”

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Had a very persistent teacher.”

He turned to face you fully now, eyes brighter, sharper, alive in a way they hadn’t been all night. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you—like you’d cracked the sky open and handed him back a sun he thought lost. “That’s exactly how I used to say it when I was little,” he said, laughing again—softer, nostalgic. “When my sister stole my things, I’d scream it through the tents like a curse.”

“I take it she didn’t give them back?”

“Of course not. She’d just laugh and call me something worse.”

“Unlucky?”

“Annoying.”

The laughter softened into something gentler, a hush that lived only between the two of you. He looked at you, and it wasn’t with amusement or flirtation. It was reverence. “You remembered,” he said after a pause. “Not just the words. The rhythm. The tone. The breath.”

You lowered your voice, suddenly shy. “I didn’t want you to forget.”

He gazed at you as if you were the only real thing in the room. Not as a partner. Not even as a lover. But as a witness—the only one who’d ever seen him unmasked, unnamed, and still wanted him more for it. He looked at you not as Aventurine the IPC executive, the man with a million faces and a diamond tongue—but as the boy beneath them. The boy who once sang under desert stars and called the rain his sister. “Thank you,” he said. "For giving me this."

You felt the breath catch in your throat. He hadn’t said it lightly. None of his mother tongue came easily. Every word he gave you was carved from bone, pulled from a grave he’d long thought sealed. “Then I’ll speak even more,” you said, your voice trembling. “So it never disappears again.”

He reached for your hand then. Not subtly. Not with his usual sleight-of-charm. Just… earnestly. A warm, grounding press of palm to palm.

Around you, the party roared on. Deals were struck. Contracts whispered over cocktails. But none of it mattered. Not in this sliver of space where the two of you existed outside time. He tugged you closer, just enough to tilt his lips toward your ear. “Let's go” he murmured.

You blinked. “Aventurine—”

He didn’t give you time to argue. “They’ve already bored me to death. I’d rather listen to you say the word idiot again. Maybe ten more times.”

You laughed, soft and incredulous, as he pulled you gently toward the terrace doors, away from the gold-drenched lies and into the evening air that still held the scent of memory.

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