#and this is the second panic attack of the day

[gukcnt]

01 | BOUND BY VOWS ⭒ JJK

your world crumbles when you're forced into a marriage with jeon jungkook, a man whose commanding presence terrifies you, reminding you of your father's cruelty. Yet beneath his coldness, jungkook’s unexpected kindness stirs a spark of hope, making you question everything you fear. Your life together starts—an emotional journey of two hearts seeking comfort, healing and a chance at love

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — arranged marriage au, forced marriage, marriage of convenience, age gap, reader is of age, forbidden love, forced proximity, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, rich ceo!jungkook, shy!reader, virgin!reader, poor!reader, obsession and possessive love, pining, slow burn, contrast of worlds, romance, drama, lots of angst, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, childhood trauma, emotional abuse, power dynamics, mentions of domestic violence, grief and loss, several crying scenes, panic attack, mental health struggles, hunger, illness, manipulation from readers father, several mentions of trauma and fear, isolation, betrayal and sacrifice

wc — 6.8k

a/n — this series was highly anticipated by many of you lovies, so i hope y'all enjoy it! this is just the first chapter—there's so much more to unfold hehe! <3

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

jungkook sat in his usual leather chair.

The chair creaking under his powerful frame as he looked at the laptop on his desk.

A half empty pack of cigarettes beside it.

At the age of 36, jungkook has built his empire with hardship, blood and sweat.

His muscular body straining against the black suit that hugged his broad shoulders and his dark, rugged hair was tied in a loose man bun, a few strands escaping it.

Those strands highlighted his sharp features even more.

His dark eyes held an intensity that was capable of even shaking the bravest people to the core with just a single glance of his.

The smell of his usual expensive cologne and cigarettes filled the office, a masculine scent that was his only.

The silence broken by jungkook's fingers tapping on his phone, each text of his was a command for his employees to get their job done.

His brows were drawn together, always with displeasure because all his workers were aware of how hard it is to satisfy the ceo.

His scowl felt almost natural to him now.

“Get me the reports by tonight.”

He'd snapped earlier that day, having no mercy at all.

When he spoke, his voice roughened with a growl, something that has evolved from years of barking orders.

“no excuses.”

The line went dead as he didn’t bother to hear what the person had to say, his lips twitched—not in satisfaction but from the weakness he’d sensed.

He hates weakness.

His office was something he was used to, like a second home to him, but it was also a prison.

There was nothing personal here, no photographs or memories because there was nothing valuable in his life to get priority.

A reminder of how cold his world was and how hard he worked to keep the outside at bay in order to maintain the grip he had on his life.

His name was whispered in fear, holding no challenges against him.

But behind the untouchable man was a past—orphaned at six, he'd been left with no one.

The memories still visible even though he tried his best to forget them—being left alone in the streets, the behavior of his foster parents who saw him as nothing but a paycheck and people betraying him.

Each wound had hardened him.

Turned his heart into stone.

Love was for the fools

He long since stopped believing in it. It was a trap he'd never fall into and so is trust.

The world saw a monster and jungkook never denied it.

His employees moved quickly in his presence, their eyes averted, and his rivals could never win under his strategies.

Even his handpicked men kept their distance in respect and fear.

“He’s not human,” they’d murmur in private.

“One look and you’re done.”

jungkook knew the rumors and he relished in them.

Yet in his quiet moments when he would be alone in his room, something stirred in him.

It wasn’t regret—jungkook had no use for that—but it was an ache.

An emptiness no amount of wealth could fill

He'd never known a gentle touch or had someone in his life and sometimes he just felt.

Lonely…

He would crush the thought as soon as it arises, lighting a cigarette instead and the smoke would ground him in the present.

His phone buzzed, a message from the secretary about another marriage proposal.

The third time this week.

jungkook's lips curled into a sneer.

“Tell them to fuck off.” he rumbles.

He leans back against the chair, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

Marriage was a contract.

Nothing more.

He had no interest in binding himself to a stranger that was so obviously going after his wealth.

Outside the sky darkened with the threat of a storm, his eyes drifting to the window.

His reflection can be seen on the glass—a man alone, unbreakable.

But that same feeling flicker once again, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray before returning to his work.

The only thing he enjoyed in a life that he built on control

The world could keep its love and its warmth along with its lies.

jeon jungkook needed none of it.

Or so he told himself because the void in his chest said otherwise.

۶ৎ

Your tiny apartment was heavy with resentment, every creak of the worn out floor was the proof of the life you were stuck in.

A life you couldn’t escape

The single rusted window in your room barely let any light in as you would sit and watch the world go on outside, so different than your despair.

At 21 you were a petite girl always wearing oversized clothes in order to hide your body, shielding yourself.

To cover your broken, delicate self

Anxiety always clung to you and your small hands, worn from hours of work, trembled when no one was watching, showing exactly how exhausted you were.

Your eyes held hopes and dreams that you never got the chance to voice but they were often filled with longing and sorrow from your life.

Your apartment was barely a place for survival, every piece of furniture seemed like it was close to breaking down.

Beside your bed on the table was a small piece of half eaten bread.

The only food you could afford today.

Your father was a constant threat in your life and his eyes held nothing but cruelty.

Always the smell of cheap liquors and cigarette smoke clung to the place because of him.

“Get up, you lazy thing.” he grunts.

The smell of his breath making you want to gag.

“You’re nothing and you think you’re different, huh? you’re just like her.”

The words barely brought out any emotions from you because they were repeated so often that you were used to it.

But every time his words left scars no one could see.

Your mother was your only anchor, the person who grounding you in this unbearable life of yours with love.

Her one smile was enough to light up your day.

Her hands warm and gentle as they tucked you into bed and in her presence you knew you could be anything you wanted.

“You’re my little girl.” she'd whisper.

“Don’t let this place, your father or any man tell you otherwise.”

But now she was barely alive in a hospital bed, her heart only beating with the help of machines, now even if you held her frail hand in yours, you could still sense the small bit of warmth.

That she was still there, she didn’t leave you

She was your reason to keep going.

The only person who'd ever seen you, truly seen you.

And her absence in your life was breaking you with each passing day.

Your father’s cruelty had shaped you in ways you couldn’t escape.

As a child you'd hide in the closet, your small body curled as you heard his fists meet your mother's body, hearing her muffled cries.

You'd press your hands to your ears, hoping to change the reality or stop it as tears streamed down your face, your heart pounding.

“Stop it, please.” you'd whisper to no one.

The memories were so vivid that even after so long they often came in your dreams—the smell of blood, broken things from your father's rage.

Those moments had transferred a deep fear into you, making you think that all men were the same heartless as your father.

That’s why you avoided them all the time, your introvert nature helping you.

At school, when boys tried to talk to you, their voices high with interest, you'd duck your head, cheeks burning and mumble excuses to flee.

Even friendships with men felt like a risk, their presence reminding you of the monster at home and the pain your mom endured for years.

Your job at the bookstore was your only escape, somewhere you could lose yourself in.

The shop was a cozy place full of books and you'd spent hours organizing shelves, placing the novels in their places.

Your coworkers, a small group of women who respected your quiet nature, were your only friends who never tried to pry further.

They'd tease you sometimes.

“You’re always scurrying away with a book, y/n.”

You'd smile slightly, but inside you felt trapped, wanting to scream.

You yearned for a life that wasn’t like this, where you had to tiptoe over everything so you wouldn’t mistakenly trigger your father’s anger.

And the only person who you loved was so close to death.

Your part time job barely covered your mother's medical bills and your father rarely gave any money for her.

You often lived with hunger, the growl in your stomach was something you'd learned to ignore and your father never paid you any attention to notice that.

Most of his money went for drinking or gambling but now that he needs to pay for your mother's expenses, his anger was always high.

Your energy was barely there, yet your dreams refused to die.

You still hoped to build a life where no one could cage you.

Always hoping.

The dreams you had were written in your notebook that you kept hidden—each paragraph a wish you had for everything that was a far cry from the reality you had.

The silence was broken one evening as your father came in, his face flushed with the drinks he had, your pen stopping at the notebook as soon as you saw him.

“What’s this nonsense?” he slurred

He snatched your notebook and a gasp left your lips, instantly reaching for it.

“Please give it back, dad.”

Your voice trembled.

He laughed, amused and tore a piece of paper.

Tears welled in your eyes.

“You think you’re some writer?”

“You’re nothing but a burden.” he spat.

Tossing the notebook to the floor, but you refused to cry—not in front of him.

You waited until he stumbled to his room, then gathered the torn pages, fingers shaking as you pressed them to your chest.

“I’ll make it out,” you breathe.

“For mom. For me.”

Your fear of marriage has grown larger with each passing year.

You'd seen your mother's life fade under your father's control.

The idea of binding yourself to a man and having the same fate as your mother often kept you up at night.

You'd lie in your small bed and stare at the cracked ceiling above, your mind imagining a faceless husband of yours whose hands were as cruel as your father's.

“I’ll never marry.”

You'd murmur the words like a mantra.

“I’ll never let anyone own me.”

But with your mother’s illness and the tight grip your father had on your life, it felt like the future wasn’t going to be yours any longer.

And you wondered how long you could hold onto your dreams.

Even though there was almost no light in your life, you refused to break completely.

Every day was a battle.

But you carried on.

Driven by the love for your mother and the stubborn hope that one day.

You'd find a way.

To be free.

۶ৎ

It was late at afternoon and you were in a diner. You sat alone at a small table by the window, fingers trembling as you unwrapped a burger.

The burger was a rare treat that you purchased from the last coins you'd saved after skipping breakfast and lunch.

Your hunger too much to ignore.

You were about to take a bite when your gaze drifted outside, noticing a movement on the pavement.

A puppy, small and tiny stood trembling beside a trashcan, its fur full of dirt, you could see his ribs from how skinny he was.

You froze, the forgotten burger as empathy crashed over you.

You'd always loved animals.

Their loyalty a big difference compared to humans in your life, but your father's rules never allowed you to own one.

Without hesitation you pushed through the door and walked to the pavement before kneeling in front of the puppy, ignoring the way the rough ground scraped your knees.

“Hello, sweet boy.” you coo.

You tore the burger into small pieces and the puppy stares at you hesitantly, his doe eyes glistening, but as you hold a piece in front of him, his nose twitches.

Then, without a warning he lunged forward and devoured the food in a way that was almost feral, making you giggle.

And you realized exactly how long it has been since you laughed.

The curve of your lips almost seemed foreign to you now.

Its tiny tongue lapped at the oil on your finger once he was done eating a piece, making you grin further.

Your heart warming as you stroked the puppys fur, petting him

Tears almost streamed down your face because in that moment the puppy was more than a stray—he was a moment of joy for you that you could still feel despite the weight of your life.

Your hunger was overshadowed by the puppy's grateful nuzzle, his wet nose pressing against your wrist.

“You’re not alone, okay? not today.”

You whispered, your words carrying meaning.

Across the street jungkook sat inside his expensive car, that was custom made by himself, eyes fixed on his phone screen, a frown in his brows.

He was immersed in emails of his work, the world outside irrelevant to him like always, until a flash of something caught his attention.

He glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing as they landed on you kneeling on the dirty pavement.

You looked very fragile to him.

Your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder revealing your skin and your face—was soft with lips parted in a tender smile, yet there was a sadness that he could see visibly.

jungkook's breath hitched, fingers tightening around his phone.

He watched, not blinking as you fed the puppy, your hands trembling not from the cold but from a hunger he could sense even from this distance.

Your movements were too slow like it was costing you to use up all your energy.

The sight of you giving away your meal—the only one of the day that he suspected—hit him.

“Foolish”

He mutters under his breath but the words felt like a lie.

There was something so human in your act, stirring a sensation in his chest that he hadn't felt in years.

A crack in the wall he'd built around his heart.

He saw the tears streaming down your cheeks and the way your lips trembled as you petted the puppy.

You were lonely.

Not the small loneliness of a moment but an isolation that he could relate to himself.

But he'd never admit it.

Your selflessness and your quiet strength—it unraveled him.

He didn’t understand why you matter, why this small glimpse of you seemed to shift something in him but he couldn’t look away.

His jaw clenches and he wanted to dismiss you to forget about this feeling under the pressure of his work.

But he can't, he can't just leave you in this state.

“Dammit.” he grunts.

He didn’t do this—didn’t care, didn’t let anyone in.

But you were different and that realization terrified him.

Before he could think otherwise, he was out of the car, the door slamming with a thud as he started walking towards the diner with intent.

He entered, and the room fell silent, his presence powerful enough to bring their attention to him.

The waiters froze mid step, the customers all quickly glancing away like they could sense the danger emitting from him.

His eyes scanned the room, landing on the counter where a waiter stood wide eyed and trembling.

"Get me the most expensive meal you have.”

jungkook ordered in his authoritative voice, leaving no space for argument.

“Everything—the best one you have. Now”

He slid a black credit card across the counter, the waiter fumbling to catch it.

“And give it to the girl outside.”

jungkook added, his gaze falling toward the window where you still knelt, unaware of what was happening.

The waiter nodded quickly.

“Y—yes sir, right away.”

jungkook didn’t wait any further, turning and walking back to his car.

He didn’t look back, didn’t dare to, but your image lingered—a small, sad girl who’d given him something he didn’t know he needed.

A glimpse of light in his endless dark life.

Inside the diner, you returned to your table, the puppy trailing behind, tail wagging.

You were about to leave, stomach still knotting with hunger and it was almost painful, but you'd manage.

That’s when the waiter approached.

His arms carried an entire feast that made your eyes widen.

Several grilled steaks, fries, salads and rice at the side, along with a tall glass of iced tea, were set before you.

The smell of such a rare meal made your head spin.

“I didn’t order this.” you said, shakily.

The waiter, still pale from jungkook's intensity, shook his head.

“Someone… someone paid for it.”

“For you, miss. They insisted”

Confusion filled you, but the scent of the food was too much to resist.

You ate slowly, each bite feeling like a luxury—you’ve never had such expensive, flavorful food in your life.

For the first time in weeks you felt sated, your hunger gone and the feeling was something you'd almost forgotten.

Tears welled again. not from sadness but from gratitude, though you had no one to thank.

You glanced outside, half expecting to see the mysterious person but the street was empty except for the puppy curled at the door.

You wrapped the leftovers in foil, you'd take them home for your father, a small gesture to please the man who made your life hell.

Because despite everything, you always treated him with respect, a kindness that maybe he didn’t deserve.

As you stepped outside, the puppy barked at you, rubbing himself on your leg and you smiled your heart feeling lighter.

“Stay safe, little one.”

You didn’t know who’d changed your day, didn’t know the man whose dark eyes had seen the hunger in your soul, but now you felt a small bit of happiness—and you’ll keep it tucked away.

Afraid it would break too soon.

۶ৎ

In jungkook's office papers lay in stacks on his desk as he tried focusing on them—until he couldn’t.

He leans back in his leather chair, calloused fingers gripping the armrest tightly, his veins visible.

He had too much pent up energy in him, a few strands of hair slipping out of his man bun, damp with sweat.

His tailored suit was open, revealing the white shirt beneath clinging to his muscled chest, showing the tension in his body.

His eyes were unfocused, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers for whatever chaos that was going through his mind.

You.

You were the chaos.

A girl he'd seen only for a few minutes, a fleeting figure, yet you'd gotten deep into his thoughts.

He could still see you—kneeling in the dirt, trembling hands offering food to a stray, eyes filled with sorrow.

He related too much with you and it was absurd.

Because someone so insignificant could distract him like that

He was jeon jungkook, who bent industries to his will but here he was undone for a stranger.

His jaw clenched, reaching for a cigarette to distract himself and the lighter flicked as he lit the cigarette.

His lips pressed into an angry line.

He inhaled the smoke deeply before exhaling.

“She’s nothing. Nobody”

He stood abruptly, the chair almost falling and paced to the window.

He wanted to protect you, possess you and shield you from the world.

He didn’t understand it—this pull.

It wasn’t lust, though your soft curves and innocent eyes had brought out something primal in him.

It was something deeper.

“Why you?” he breathes.

His breath fogging the glass, a vulnerability in him that he hadn’t shown in years.

He slammed his fist against the window, rattling it, the pain in his knuckles helped with the distraction.

He wasn’t a man who spent too much time on feelings.

He often forgot about them under the weight of his deals and deadlines.

He was filled with frustration and need.

He never let emotions control his actions.

Yet here he was pacing like a caged animal, control slipping.

Someone knocked at the door before it creaked open, his secretary stepping inside nervously.

“Sir, these came in today.”

Her voice trembling as she placed the items on his desk.

jungkook's gaze flicked at the files before his head snapped towards her, his glare enough to make her flinch.

“I told you.”

His tone dangerously low.

“No more of these fucking proposals. Do I need to fire you to explain myself?”

The secretary's face paled, her hands fidgeting.

“I—I thought this was work related sir. I’m so sorry, I didn’t check—”

“Out.” he barks, cutting her off.

She scurried away, shutting the door behind her, leaving him alone with the file.

He stared at it.

His chest heaving, he should’ve just torn it and thrown it into the garbage, but something stopped him.

A nagging feeling.

With a scowl, he snatched it up, ripping it open with annoyance.

A small photograph slipped out falling to the desk and he froze.

It was you.

Your face stared up at him, your eyes wide and lips parted slightly.

The photo was a bit blurry, clearly taken without your knowledge but it was unmistakably you.

His fingers hover over it hesitantly, finally grabbing it, your face sating a deep hunger in him that he didn’t know was there.

He sank back into his chair and stared at the photo, his cigarette forgotten as his heart raced.

“You.” he rasped, very close to awe.

He didn’t understand why this one image out of thousands of proposals mattered.

But it did.

It was as if the universe had somehow planned to bring you back to him, make you both cross paths again.

The letter accompanying the photo was written in a shaky hand and jungkook could understand the false sincerity just by looking at it.

It was from a man claiming to be your father, offering you—his daughter—as a bride.

“perfect match” he thought for jungkook

The audacity of it made his lips curl as he puts the effort into reading the letter that he would barely look at.

In any other circumstances he would have barked orders to his secretary to fire whoever let it through.

Marriage was a trap.

A contract he'd spent years dodging.

But this time his hand stilled, not tearing the letter, the photo held delicately.

He slipped the photo into his breast pocket with care, the action almost intimate, like he was tucking away his secret.

The paper pressed against his chest like a heartbeat he'd forgotten he had.

His fingers lingered there over the fabric as if he was protecting something precious.

He didn’t throw away the letter and didn’t yell for his secretary.

Instead, he sat in silence.

“Who are you?”

He whispers to the empty room, a longing present there.

“What are you doing to me?”

He didn’t believe in fate, love or in anything above his usual power and control, but you—you were like a mystery he needed to solve.

He closes his eyes, your image there as soon as he does.

And for the first time in years jungkook felt something close to hope—a feeling he both craved and feared.

That could either ruin him or burn him altogether.

۶ৎ

The cramped living room was suffocating, the walls were yellow from years of neglect and the couch squeaked under the weight of jungkook.

His hand rested on his knees, one hand holding a cigarette as his intense eyes roamed around the room, noting every detail.

The cracked photo frame and other broken furnitures, along with the bruise on your father's knuckles are proof of his temper.

And the air itself in the room sensed jungkook's dangerous presence.

Your father sat opposite him on a chair, a nervous energy in him, his face slick with sweat.

His eyes darting between jungkook and the floor.

In jungkook's presence he was no longer capable of showing his wrath, he was only a trembling mouse in front of jungkook.

His usual confidence that he used to control the women in this house had reduced to a shaky man wanting to please.

“Mr. Jeon”

He began, voice cracking.

“It’s an honor truly, to have you here.”

“My daughter y/n—she’s a good girl, quiet, obedient, perfect for a man… like you.”

The words seemed rehearsed.

jungkook's jaw tightened, this man with his yellowed teeth and coward eyes dared to think of you like a servant, a thing to be used for favor.

The audacity sparked an anger in him that was burning hotter with every word that came out of his filthy mouth.

jungkook's expression remained blank, remaining silent.

He enjoyed watching the pathetic man squirm under his gaze and how it was taking away his courage.

He leaned forward slightly, the couch squeaking again.

“Tell me about her.” he said, darkly.

The command was simple but to your father it held the need to satisfy, and he was already sweating his ass off from jungkook intensity.

How he looked like he could crack your father's skull open with just the use of one single hand.

“She’s… well, she’s always been a good daughter.” your father stammered.

“Works at a bookstore, mostly keeps to herself… never gets in trouble. M—Mr. Jeon.”

“Raised her to know her place.”

He forces a smile, revealing yellow teeth once again that soon disappeared under jungkook's glare.

“She’d make a good wife—someone who knows how to please.”

jungkook's eyes narrowed, the disgusting hitting him ever harder.

He hated this man—hated him from the moment he'd stepped inside this rotting house that smelled too much of cheap liquor.

The way your father talked about you was angering him too much and the need to hit him was increasing.

But he held back, clenching his fists, knuckles whitening.

He wonders how this man in front of him was even related to someone as soft as you.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette and tilted his head, studying your father.

“Is that so?” he hums.

Amusement and a rage in his voice that makes your father tremble further

“I’m not here for promises. I wanna see her.”

The demand caused your father's eyes to dart toward the hallway where you waited.

“y/n!” he barked, panic still present.

“Come in here now!”

The command made you freeze, heart thudding.

Your father had prepared you for this moment and you weren’t aware that all his words were a lie.

“One of my colleague is coming,” he’d said, leaving no space for further questions.

“Dress nicely, behave and don’t make me look bad, you hear me?”

The request caused goosebumps all over your skin—men, especially strangers in your home wasn’t something you were comfortable with, their presence always something you compared with your father.

But you couldn’t deny it, not when his temper could be on you or worse, affect your mother’s care.

So you'd nodded and spent the rest of the morning in dread, unaware of the true purpose of his visit.

You’d chosen a simple baby blue sundress with tiny white flower prints, and it wasn’t something you wore usually since it hugged your curves.

You often hid beneath oversized clothes.

But you didn’t want to piss your father off.

Your hair was down, hands trembling as you smoothed the dress and you had no idea of the man waiting in the living room.

The thought of facing him made your stomach knot.

Slowly you stepped into the doorway and the world seemed to stop because jungkook's presence alone dominated everything the room.

Power, wealth and danger—he was all in one.

But it was his eyes that stopped you—dark and intense, locking onto you in a way that made your knees weak, as if he could see the depths of your soul.

The sight of you—small, trembling—deepened his anger towards your father, his earlier words still echoing in his mind.

And the urge to protect you from your so called father was nearly overwhelming.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, he was unlike anyone you'd ever seen.

He was so… different in a good and bad way.

His gaze on you didn’t waver.

And you felt stripped bare, like every tremble of your body, every fear in your eyes was laid open for him

“y/n, this is Mr. jeon.” your father says.

You forced yourself to move your trembling legs as you stepped into the room.

You managed a small awkward bow, hair falling forward to cover your face.

“H—hello, sir.” you stutter.

You kept your eyes on the floor, anything to avoid his intense stare, your cheeks flushing pink.

jungkook's gaze on you was still there, almost like a physical touch, eyes tracing all over you—the way the dress clung to your body, the tremble in your small hands.

You were even more fragile than he'd thought, almost like a doll and the sight of you so vulnerable lit something fierce in his chest.

His cigarette burned between his fingers, stinging him but he didn’t flinch, too captivated by you to notice the pain.

Your shyness and refusal to meet his eyes turned him possessive in a way he didn’t know was possible and he wanted to claim you this instant.

Take you far away from this stinking man and this place because you deserved better.

You were like a puzzle to him and he wanted to understand to know why there was such deep sadness and fear in you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, y/n.” he said.

His voice softer than he intended, a deep rumble.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your body reacting before your mind could and you nodded, unable to form words.

Your father gestured to a chair and you went over before sitting down, hands still clasped tightly in your lap.

The room felt smaller with jungkook in it and there was too much heavy tension in the air.

The conversation followed between jungkook and your father, with jungkook barely responding because all his attention was on you.

“Always been a good girl.”

Your father forced a smile, eyes flicking to you.

“She keeps the house in order and is well behaved. She’ll make someone very happy one day.”

The words made your skin crawl, and you didn’t know why.

Unaware of what brought jungkook here.

jungkook's fingers tightened around his cigarette as he fought the urge to silence the man.

The repeated insistence on your “goodness” was further infuriating him, as if you were nothing but made to please others.

jungkook looked at you again.

“What do you do, y/n?” he asked, gently.

The question caught you off guard and you blinked, as you weren't used to someone being interested enough to ask such a question, especially about something you loved doing.

“I… I work at a bookstore.” you mumble.

Eyes still fixed on your hands

“It’s… nothing special.”

It felt like you were exposing yourself for judgement, but jungkook's expression didn’t change.

Instead, his eyes softened just a fraction.

“A bookstore,” he repeats.

“Do you like it?”

The question was simple as if he genuinely wanted to know you, not just the version your father was telling.

You nodded, throat tight.

“It’s quiet.”

“I like the books. They… they take me somewhere else.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them and the confession was a glimpse into the escape you wanted.

You regretted your words instantly, cheeks burning hotter.

jungkook's lips twitched, almost smiling but it was gone before you could be sure.

“Somewhere else.”

He says almost to himself.

He leans back and takes another drag of his cigarette as your father goes back to talking.

Your words, so innocent yet so revealing deepened jungkook's resolve. He saw the grip your father had around you and his disgust for the man grew into something more dangerous.

He didn’t know why he cared, but the need to free you, to burn this already broken house to the ground.

Was getting to him.

The encounter stretched on, each minute feeling like an eternity and the entire time you kept your eyes down, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

jungkook's presence was too much and you wanted to flee from him.

But you were trapped.

When it was finally over, jungkook rose, his movements predatory.

He said nothing to your father, not even a goodbye.

His eyes flicks to you one last time, the look lingering like a promise or a threat, you weren’t sure.

He left without another word, footsteps fading.

You stood, legs still shaky and excused yourself before rushing back to your room.

Your heart raced and you were sweating.

You pressed your hands to your burning cheeks, trying to get back, but jungkook's presence stayed with you.

His dark eyes, deep voice, the way he’d looked at you—like you were something precious.

You didn’t understand the feeling in your chest, the mix of fear and fascination.

But you knew one thing.

This man was something else.

And you were already caught in it.

jungkook meanwhile, stepped into the cool air, the photo of you still burning a hole in his pocket.

He lit another cigarette, mind racing.

He'd come here to confirm a suspicion, but he was leaving with a need and a hunger he was going wild for.

He saw you, and he wasn’t sure he could let you go now.

Ever.

He'd see you again and when he did, that pathetic man, your father, would learn what it means to cross him.

۶ৎ

You sat in your bed, hunched over, knees drawn to your chest, your hands clutching the notebook—your only escape from reality.

You were scribbling there and hidden under your pillow there was your mother’s scarf that smelled so much like her nurturing smell, you clinged to it when you missed her so much and couldn’t see her.

Your only source of comfort

The door suddenly slammed open with a force and your father was there, his eyes filled with a menacing satisfaction that made your stomach churn.

“Get up,” he growls.

“You’re getting married. In a week. To jeon jungkook”

The words felt like a slap in your face and you gasped as the pen slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor.

A wave of nausea hitting you, you almost didn’t believe his words.

“What?” you breathe.

You couldn’t hear yourself over how hard your heart was pounding.

“No… no, I never agreed to this. You can't—”

Your voice breaks into a sob, leaving you with panic as your shaking hands grip the bedsheets.

Your father's lip curled into a sneer.

“It’s done.” he snapped.

He steps closer.

“You’ll marry him, or I’ll stop paying for your mother’s treatment.”

A mocking, bitter grin on his lips.

“You want her blood on your hands?”

You flinched, broken cries leaving you.

Your father knew exactly where to strike, and that was your weakness: your mother.

The only person you would do anything for, even give your life for.

Your father knew that too well and he was taking all advantage of it.

“Please dad.” you beg.

Tears streaming down your face as you shook your head repeatedly.

“Don’t do this. I’ll do anything—work more hours, sell my things, anything—but this.”

Your hands reached out and you hoped for the mercy that he'd never shown you.

“I can’t marry him. H—he’s cold and older and I don’t even know him.”

“I don’t want this life. I have dreams, I have—”

You pressed a hand to your chest as you were basically having a panic attack, sobbing and begging.

Your words a mix of pleas.

Your father’s face didn’t show a single bit of emotion, only anger present and his hand twitched as if he might strike you, like several times he had done before when he didn’t get things done his way.

“Dreams?” he spat.

He steps closer, his drunk breath hitting you.

“You think your pathetic dreams matter? you're nothing y/n, just a burden I've carried too long. jungkook’s money will fix everything and you’ll do as I say.”

His voice drops lower as he points a finger at you.

“You marry him, or your precious mother is gone.”

You were getting dizzy, the room spinning, your sobs grew louder in a way that left you gasping for air.

You couldn't breathe.

Your hands clawing at the blanket as if it could tether you in a world where this wasn’t happening.

“You can’t force me.” you cried, desperate.

“I won’t do it! I’ll run away.”

You started rocking back and forth as you gripped the scarf, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline—anything to keep you from losing your mind.

It was all you had left of her.

He laughed darkly, no pity, just amusement.

“Run? where to huh? you’ve got nothing, no one. You think you can survive without me? without my money keeping you and your mother alive?”

He gets closer to your face and you back away, whimpering.

“This is your place, y/n. You live off my money and now you'll belong to jungkook. Its final.”

He stood as he turned to leave, slamming the door shut behind him loudly.

You were alone again.

The silence was loud, only your broken cries could be heard, arms wrapping around your knees as you rocked once again.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

You hated your father and hated the life that had trapped you.

You especially hated jungkook, the man you barely knew and he was nothing but a monster who'd own you.

By forcefully marrying you.

You searched him up once he left and you'd seen several rumors—his ruthlessness, power and wealth.

All of it sums up into a man who'd cage you and break you just as your father had broken your mother.

Your greatest fear was gonna occur before you, all of your nightmares coming true.

But this time you couldn’t escape it.

A marriage to a man who'll turn your life worse than what it already was.

You thought of your mother and how she was barely hanging on with all the machines.

She adored you so much, always dreaming of a life for you that would be filled with happiness and love that she'd been denied.

The thought of her dying, of losing the only person who'd ever truly cared for you, made your chest hurt physically.

You couldn’t let her go, couldn’t bear the guilt of her death from a decision of yours.

So with a numbness, you made the choice that felt like betraying your own self.

You'd marry jungkook.

You'd sacrifice your dreams and freedom in order to keep her alive.

The thought was suffocating you and you pressed your nose into her scarf as if it would bring her back, help you out of this nightmare and fight your father for you.

Because she always did.

And now she wasn't here to do it anymore.

Your life will be destroyed right in front of your eyes.

And you could do nothing but watch.

The night stretched on like that as you lay there, your eyes ran out of tears, only leaving faint tear stains behind.

You didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep.

Each day from today will be a step closer for the new cage that awaited you.

jungkook's face haunted you now, a man you'll be forced to obey.

You didn’t know him but you knew enough to fear him and the coldness that seemed to emit from his very being.

The notebook lay open beside you, its pages filled with short stories you’ve written from your imaginations about heroines who fought and won.

Who found love in a world that didn’t hurt them.

But you weren’t a heroine in a story.

You were always a small, miserable girl trapped in a story.

With no happy ending.

────

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[angelanimedesaray]

Not AOT, but my current DnD group had an in character whole charged dramatic discussion about this for twenty to thirty minutes IN SESSION completely unintentionally.

It had the vibe of "who broke it" and "Who was going to tell me tea tastes different" rolled into one.

(Heavily homebrewed world)

Story below vvv

My human, Jules, was the only one who didn't find it weird that the human kingdom would tell their parents to put their teeth under their pillows and at night they would get a little reward from the tooth fairy (not to be mistaken for the bone fairy who is terrifying and we won't talk about that). In fact, once he was old enough to sus out that the tooth fairy didn't exist and it was just a thing to keep kids calmer about and even excited for a natural part of growing that's a little gross, he helped his parents leave little treats for his two youngest siblings when they lost their teeth and they'd toss out the teeth cause OBVIOUSLY they didn't keep it.

Chaos ensues.

The half wood elf that is just in the past few days venturing outside the feywilds for the first time is HORRIFIED that these humans dare to cross the tooth fairy by not only robbing her of her job, but of THROWING OUT the teeth that she cherishes. Also she is surprised that the human empire goes along with it willingly and feeds the tooth fairy's strange fascination, but it gets even crazier to her because THEY DON'T EVEN REALLY BELIEVE IN HER WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!?!?!

(My poor human Jules is now over here extremely concerned that he's going to fall under some kind of fey retribution for his part in 'stealing the tooth fairy's job' even though he had no idea she was real)

the drow elf ball of sunshine and trauma is HORRIFIED and DISGUSTED by the fact that WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GUYS LOSE YOUR TEETH?!?!?! YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO LOSE YOUR TEETH, THEY GROW IN AND THEN THEY STAY THERE--WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE A SECOND SET OF TEETH UNDERNEATH?!?!?!

She is devolving into a panic attack Jules is trying to calm but is just making worse.

Our Goliath is laughing and semi-mocking the humans for having weak teeth and there's stays in but she's been around enough animals that new teeth is not a new concept to her. She does, however, call the tradition of leaving teeth under the pillow weird, gross, and a waste. She tries to join Jules in explaining that this is normal. Her commentary is very poorly executed and is only making the drow's meltdown worse.

Our Water Genasi is confused and quiet and stopped trying to pitch in to this conversation a long time ago as apparently he didn't lose teeth, either, and he was adopted by an old sea captain and missed out on a lot of childhood landmarks and grew up in a small village so he's written this off as city folk drama he wants no part in, and is more calmly confused about the tradition of a 'tooth fairy'.

The half wood elf is now sorry she ever asked as the conversation has greatly devolved right in front of her far beyond what was an initial innocent question.

[slvbum]

ᤢ ♥︎ 03⠀ ⸻ shades of cool / rafe cameron!

content WARNING: Bodyguard!Rafe (28) × Model!Reader (20), crying, mentions of military, panic attack.

For someone like Rafe, that runway was a sensory assault. Models flitted like hummingbirds, their sequined wings catching the glare of industrial lights, while stylists barked orders and makeup artists wielded brushes with military precision. Rafe’s blue eyes tracked Y/N through the madness. She sat on a stool, her slender frame draped in a silk robe.

She was perfect... lips glossy and parted in a practised smile.

But Rafe saw what the others missed: the way her fingers knotted together in her lap, white-knuckled, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her shoulders were rigid, her jaw tight, as if she were bracing for impact.

She’d walked runways a hundred times, maybe more, so why was she unravelling now?

He didn’t ask.

His job was to shadow her, not to pry, so he stayed close.

He’d trailed her all day, from the gym at dawn where she’d attacked the treadmill with a focus that bordered on obsession, to the cafeteria where she’d pushed a kale salad around her plate. She barely spoke to him—just a quick, distracted smile when he held a door or a soft “thanks” when he handed her a water bottle.

He didn’t mind the quiet; it let him watch, let him notice the way her eyes darted to the crowd beyond the curtain, searching, fearing. For what, he didn’t know, but it set his nerves on edge.

When it was time for her walk, she shed the robe, revealing a black lace ensemble that hugged her curves like a second skin, her wings glittering with Swarovski crystals. Rafe’s throat tightened, but he shoved the feeling down, focusing on the job. She stepped toward the runway, and he stayed put, leaning against a wall near another security guard. The guy nodded toward Y/N as she disappeared into the spotlight.

“Tough for her, no?” the guy said, his Russian accent thick, his eyes glinting with something Rafe didn’t like. “After what happened, coming back to this… must be like swallowing glass.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice a low growl, but the guy just smirked, muttering something about “stories” before turning away.

The words landed like a punch, stirring the unease Rafe had been carrying since he met her.

What the hell was going on?

Her walk was perfection, her hips swaying, her head high, the crowd roaring as her wings caught the light like a halo. But when she stepped off the runway, the mask cracked. Her smile vanished, her eyes hollow as she brushed past the other models, their chatter about the afterparty bouncing off her like rain on glass. She found Rafe in the crowd, her voice weak.

“I’m done,” she said, her words fraying at the edges. “Too tired. Can we go?”

He nodded, falling into step behind her as she changed in a blur. Her movements were jerky, her hands fussing with her bag, her hair, anything to keep moving. Rafe followed her through the backstage labyrinth, his senses on high alert.

The air outside hit like a slap, sharp and cold, the Manhattan street a gauntlet of screaming fans, flashing cameras, and bodies pressing too close.

“Y/N! Y/N!” The shouts were a chorus, hands reaching, phones thrust in her face.

Rafe saw her freeze, her breath catching, her eyes going wide, too wide, like a deer caught in a hunter’s scope. Her chest heaved, her fingers clawing at the strap of her bag, her body shrinking into itself.

This wasn’t the usual fan frenzy; she looked like prey, cornered, her gaze darting wildly as if searching for a predator she knew was there. Her lips parted, a silent gasp, her skin paling.

“Y/N!” A man’s voice, too sharp, too close, cut through the noise.

Rafe’s instincts flared, his muscles coiling.

He stepped forward, but the crowd was a living wall, and for one gut-wrenching second, he lost her, her slight frame swallowed by the mob. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he shoved through, his broad shoulder slamming into a guy with a camera who yelped and stumbled.

“Move,” Rafe snarled, and the crowd parted, sensing the violence in his eyes. He found her, hemmed in, her body trembling so violently her sunglasses slipped to the ground.

Without thinking, he slid an arm around her, his hand hovering at her waist, not quite touching, his frame a shield as he pushed through the grasping hands.

“Back the fuck off,” he growled and the crowd recoiled.

He got her to the black SUV at the curb, yanking the door open and guiding her inside with a hand on her elbow, gentle but firm.

She collapsed onto the leather seat, and he slid in beside her, slamming the door against the chaos. The driver peeled away, the city’s neon blur streaking past, but Rafe’s focus was on Y/N. Her small frame curled into a ball, her knees drawn up, her hands clutching her arms so tightly her nails left crescent marks on her skin. Her breaths were shallow, erratic, hitching in her throat like she was drowning on dry land. Her eyes were glassy, unseeing, her lips trembling as she fought to hold it together. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her chest rising and falling too fast, her body shaking like it might shatter.

This wasn’t just nerves—this was a panic attack, the kind Rafe had seen in soldiers staring down death.

“Hey, kid,” he shifted closer, careful not to crowd her, and reached for her hands, prying them gently from her arms. Her fingers were ice-cold, trembling so hard they slipped through his grip. “Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and wild, brimming with tears that hadn’t fallen. He held her gaze, his blue eyes calm, like a lighthouse in a hurricane.

“Breathe with me, alright? In through your nose, slow. Out through your mouth. Like this.” He inhaled deeply, his chest rising, and she tried to follow, her breaths ragged, her lips quivering. “You’re safe,” he said, his voice rough but steady, the tone he’d used with shell-shocked rookies in the military, the ones who’d seen too much too fast. “You’re in the car. I’m right here. Nobody’s touching you.”

Her hands tightened in his, her small fingers digging into his calloused palms.

“Focus on me. In, out. You’re tougher than this, I can tell. Just breathe.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, a reflex he didn’t question, and slowly, painfully, her breaths evened out, the tremors easing.

Her shoulders slumped, her body unfurling slightly, though her eyes stayed haunted, shadowed by something she wouldn’t name. She pulled her hands back, tucking them into her lap, and leaned her head against the window, her sunglasses forgotten on the pavement outside.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “I’m… okay— I’m okay.”

The words were a lie, and they both knew it, but Rafe didn’t call her on it. He leaned back, giving her space, his own heart still pounding from the sight of her; so fragile, so broken, yet fighting to hold it together.

The security guy’s words, her panic, the way she’d looked out there... like she wasn’t just scared of the crowd but of something specific, someone. And as he watched her, curled against the window, he made a vow: whatever it was, he’d face it. For her. Even if it dragged him back into that he’d been running from.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun — written with love.

[lambcultist]

　　　　𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍. 𝐸.𝒲.

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ part one here ! ellie must learn to be okay with what terrifies her as you begin to fight the invasion of your respiratory system. she's going to light a fire for you, no matter how much it burns her skin, as she is determined not to be the reason you go cold.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI ( 18+ ) modern au. brother's best friend!ellie williams x fem!reader. ellie has haphephobia (fear of touch). reader has... something (hanahaki disease). reader also has anxiety and insecurities. angst. disaster lesbians. vivid descriptions of: hospitals, ptsd, foster system + past child abuse, poor mental health, panic attacks + fear, terminal illness + symptoms of nausea, vomiting, coughing, needles, medications (morphine) — gross/graphic descriptions, warning for squeamish readers. hurt / comfort. reader is 19, ellie is 21.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ this part includes discussion of ellie's backstory, involving child abuse and neglect as well as the foster system. she suffers ptsd and this is where her haphephobia originated from—i've tried to portray this with respect and realism. there is no vivid description of these events but heavy mentions/references to it. just a trigger warning! i love this little fic so much. i don't know what to call this? a mini mini-series? a duology? anyway— sorry this part took so long. thank you for reading, i love you. and ellie. aaaaaaaaa.

　　　　m.list　wc — 7k.　mdni, please ♡

a constant itch irritating your arm, a monotonous beeping that grates your ears, a soulless room. it's gloomy, the only light granted by an overcast sky through the window.

you're waiting for a different kind of natural light. waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and it's taking its sweet time.

this is supposed to be comfortable. this was intended to be a comfortable few days. end of life care.

it's been one month. there's nothing comfortable about this.

morphine flows through your veins, it masks the aches only for a little. you barely notice how your breath stutters and shakes anymore, it's easier with the aid of the drug, but you're just not sure that it's better than being at home, conscious of every impairment.

you try not to look at the iv as much as it begs your attention. it will only make you feel sick.

the clock ticks away every second until dark. every hour blends into one another, each nurse flowing through the room seeming like they are simply the same words in a different font. you think you remember receiving another dose of morphine, but it doesn't feel like it.

your phone screen lights your face as you check the time. ten.

your eyes close and you think of her. it isn't like it used to be. it's not that you wonder what she is doing or if she is thinking of you. it's that she promised a visit soon.

if you get through this night, you'll be able to see her sooner.

you own a stuffed animal named hope. you couldn't touch the poor thing as your descent into ill-health turned dangerously fast. you'd look at the bear and think about how ridiculous the name is.

you've clung to hope for years and it's as if reality has slapped you in the face for it; a punishment for your wistfulness, served in rose scented bile.

hope was futile.

but now, it doesn't feel that way; ellie made progress.

so, hope sits in your lap day in and day out. she shares this gurney with you, and you squeeze and play and fidget with her. a piece of home, youth, and a reminder to fight what once seemed like a losing battle.

another hour passes. turning over and lying on your side takes the breath out of you for a moment, a hoarse gasp following after the action. it is never this hard, usually.

you squeeze onto hope. those browned curls warm your chest, the fluff soft on your fingertips, but you don't feel any less alone.

being a special case sucks.

they needed to give you a room away from other patients. from the moment you were wheeled into the emergency room you were treated like a risk. some people have allergies, you know. it made you bitter. your flowers are something beautiful.

you may be overly attached to something that harms you more than it does care for you. but ellie gave you these flowers. she's turned you into a walking perfume. maybe if those people knew who she was, they'd understand rather than turn up a nose and cringe at the scent.

sebastian sees you for a few minutes each day. he wears a mask—he told you the smell of florals puts him in a bad mood these days. he answers the phone slower these days.

your mother has been busy with work.

something tells you that's bullshit.

the nurses lack in personality. they're all bubbly and kind and at first, they seemed to look over you with pity. now, they seem eager to get your bed empty and ready for the next unfortunate patient.

are they getting careless? with time racing toward you until you meet your fate, perhaps they think it wiser to save resources? something about the dose you received earlier just wasn't right. it's not supposed to wear off this fast, right?

you're not supposed to be feeling like this anymore. that flicker of hurt inside your ribcage every time you take in a breath is back. the embrace of silence isn't supposed to be this goddamn loud. your ears ring as you glance around the dark room, something eerie in the way that cars and sirens yell and screech in the city outside.

the symphony of chaos out there is overarching at this point, you cannot even hear your pulse. but you can feel your feet tapping against the end of the bed like a metronome out of time.

you search your brain for lyrics that make sense and nothing of the sort erupts. it's all blurred—it's all panic. i don't wanna be alone anymore. you just want out, every thought pointing towards the door. if you had the strength to rip off all these needles and wires and march out there, take your life back, you might've done it already.

you tenderly brush a petal from the top of hope's head after coughing, reaching towards the side table for your phone. however late it may be now doesn't matter, you need noise; something that won't make you feel so small.

ellie put together a pretty good playlist for you. that'll do.

you underestimate the effort it requires to get your phone at this very moment, an audible whine leaving your lips as you stutter and struggle for breath. it pulls something. some neglected muscle in your back lashes out and you draw back into the bed.

hope tumbles out of your hold and onto the floor.

so you're not even allowed the solace of material comfort today, huh?

you have a hundred 'last straw's every day. this was the last of the last. you're in pain.

her fingers move along the fretboard with a practised passion, the joints tired out after hours of rehearsal and perfecting. sometimes ellie writes, but nights like these, she remembers why she doesn't do it often.

it doesn't come right the first time around. not ever.

she stops and watches the window. the sky is a blank canvas tonight, no stars nor flashing lights, just blackness and fog. her eyes follow the usual path around her room, twinkling string lights and old polaroids on the wall. those ones were her first happier memories.

ellie sighs, her fingers resorting to picking a random, comfortable pattern on the strings of her guitar as she stares down at the words scrawled into her journal. the acoustic rests in her lap and the pen hooked into the strap of her top.

she decides it's time to quit for the night. rearranging this bridge a fourteenth time is fruitless, because still, nothing could describe the feeling she had when she finally had the courage to hold your hand.

and still, nothing can describe how pathetic she feels for being afraid to do it again.

ellie liked it. she really, truly did. she cradled your hand with the same gentleness present in the way she holds the neck of her guitar. she took care and warmed every bone in your fingers, rubbed her thumb across the back of your palm to help you breathe.

she wasn't only doing something good for herself, but for you—she was admitting to you her blindness. she was taking the first step in the right direction.

now, ellie can't seem to replicate the same bravery she walked into your bedroom with. she's just a coward.

the first step is supposed to be the hardest—why did it feel so easy?

why doesn't anything feel as easy since?

she lets out a sigh, deep and slow, rubbing her face and moving her guitar to the bed. she's closing the blinds when her phone begins to vibrate and she squints a bit, fishing through her pockets. probably some scammer, she doesn't have anyone to call her these days—

okay, definitely not a scammer.

it's you.

answering feels just as easy as holding your hand felt. maybe it's the spontaneity. she doesn't have a chance to think about it, really. all ellie knows is that it's past midnight and you've called her.

no hello, no joking around—none of that, simply her voice rushing to beat yours. 

"are you okay? it's late."

"ellie, i just wanna hear your voice." nothing could prepare ellie for the way your voice sounds. she's never felt such a strong punch to the gut, but your voice—wavering and weak, quite clearly in the throes of tears—it has the impact of a hard fist. "please. i'm scared."

and she softens quickly, holding her breath so that she can hear all of you. how your own breath hitches, your tone runs pitchy around the edges, you sniffle. she can picture you in a hospital bed with teary eyes, and fuck. it's not right.

"i'm here." ellie sits at the edge of her bed, lip drawing between her teeth. she won't draw attention to your cries. it's not what you need.

"everything hurts," you say through a gasp. there's no need for convincing, ellie believes you from just the sound of your pain alone. there's a familiarity in the heartache, it's something ellie knows too, now.

"i'm here," she repeats. she feels so stupidly capable right now, her shoulder pressing the phone to her ear as she holds her hands together, rubbing the skin so gently as though it is your softness she caresses. she's losing herself to the thought of what she thinks she'd do in your presence at this moment. "i'm always here, don't panic. do you need me to be here when you go to sleep?"

without hesitance, you respond. "yes." and something of it makes ellie feel as though she's neglected you. she needs to hear your voice now, and not just muted by the peaking and crackling static of a call; she needs to be at your bedside. 

and there's no questioning that you need it too. she doesn't need to see you to know what you need. you need to see her courage once more.

"okay, baby— i—" she buries her face into her hand and suppresses a groan, rubbing out her temple. vulnerability is clawing its way out of her throat and yet, something in her still tries to stop it before it becomes too much. calling you that, ugh… it felt like second nature. "okay, i'm gonna stay on the line."

"everything hurts, it's too much," you say. you tried to speak, anyway—it comes out in a whisper, as though that's all you can manage. "can't breathe."

"i need you to try," ellie encourages. "but just slowly. think, maybe it hurts because you need to slow down, yeah?"

slow or fast, light or deep, breathing feels as though it's twisting each thorn, piercing your heart and your lungs. ellie may be right. maybe, it's your fear that does it. after all, these flowers have what seems to be their own intuition, and they prey on your anxiety.

and ellie's just as lost, trying to talk you down—god, if she could hold you right now…

you hear your name and it startles you to attention once more. "just need you to make it through this night, okay?" she asks. "if you get some sleep, yeah, i'll come hang out with you tomorrow?"

"yes, yeah," you reply shortly, sniffling. "please."

it's quieter after that. ellie coaxes you into silence, she promises you there will be warmth tomorrow. whatever that means, it brings you the slightest hope once more.

going through the motions of the morning was difficult for ellie. 

the shower burnt her skin red and raw yet she swore the water was lukewarm, her breakfast took its time going down, and when she sat in her car and turned the heater on, the air leaving the vents felt icy. she had not the patience for anything, her mind askance.

more like, she was waging war with herself—i got this. i'm gonna march into that room and take back what i lost. of course, the situation is not 'all or nothing', even if that's how she treats it. there are baby steps necessary for her recovery, but she'd rather not give herself flowers for those. and ellie's well aware that she's setting herself up for disappointment by rejecting the small wins. it's like trying to knock down a stone wall with a wrecking ball made of cardboard. it doesn't work.

she just wants to be normal; she just wants to be what you need.

and walking into that gloomy room, scanning every wire hooked up to your body, and, frankly, her ears assaulted by all kinds of beeping, it raises her hackles. hospitals are quiet, until they're not. they're all hushed voices and whispered reassurances, only for that to be combated by monitors and machines ellie has no idea the purpose of. they feel malicious.

"hey." 

the word startles you. but ellie sees nothing but relief in the softness of your gaze.

"hi."

ellie takes a seat, and she feels like she's accidentally just glued herself to this spot— it's something she'd liken to a duty of care. like she can't leave. "so, you're feeling better after last night? i wish i could've done more, you know, but…"

"the nurse gave me a lighter dose by mistake," you reply. "that's why i was in so much pain." your voice sounds more distant, more uncaring of what words come out—your eyes run ovals around her. it's as if you can barely believe she's sitting here. it's the fairest sight you've had since your last day at home, and you thank heavens she's not changed. every freckle is where you last pictured it, the corners of her lips curl up with awkward hesitance, that one strand of hair that never sat with the rest is still antagonising her.

her hands are bare. no gloves.

"shit, for real? that's fuckin'..." ellie trails off, replacing what would have been a protective rant with a simple sigh.

she doesn't like this. nobody does, seeing you weak and scared, perishing in the coldest place imaginable. but that doesn't make it fair to avoid you.

it doesn't make her want to be here any less. ellie's almost shocked by herself when her eyes lay upon your hand and she feels this absurd, unconscious jolt in her own hand with the instinct to reach out.

"how's your mom? and seb..?" she asks, her eyes set on your hands as much as yours are on hers.

"uh… next question?" you murmur, flashing a lopsided grin.

"oh." ellie blinks, and again, she feels that tightening in her wrist, this urge she's barely able to restrain. "you haven't seen them?"

"not for a few weeks," you say, shaking your head. "they're really busy lately." 

ellie can tell you believe that excuse as much as she does. and what does it make her feel? it's unusual for her. it targets something tucked away inside of her, blanketed by confusion and tears; the inner child.

she finds herself wanting to whine. that's not fair. 

"that's— but they're— you're their baby. they can't make some time?"

you brush it off with a croaky voice, taking the cup of water at your bedside and having a small sip. "i'm not sure. it's fine though."

her eyes flick from your hands to your lips, the skin no longer as soft as it used to be, instead dry. it reminds her of that post-crying feeling, and even worse is the barely restrained hurt in your eyes that she catches. 

ellie knows it isn't fine. it isn't fair. she's been lonely. she's been the black sheep in every herd she was passed between, she's been the skeleton hidden in tiny closets. she was young, and innocent, and so easily forgotten. passed from family to family, no stay intended to be permanent, she suffered—she was deprived of attention.

it was always the warmer families that couldn't keep her, and the colder ones that she had to endure for longer. she was replaced, she was ignored, she was neglected, so long that touch soon felt like a foreign luxury. 

and soon, it became not a luxury, but something to fear. for a while the only touch ellie felt would be a push or shove on the playground, and of course, she'd push back and scoff (and perhaps use some language too vulgar for her age). it became something to cry over when she'd leave detention and whomever she was under the care of would be waiting for her. arriving to an address that was not hers, different homes that never felt like home, where human mistakes left bruises on her body.

touch became something worth flinching over. she learned to see kicks and punches coming before they left their impact.

and now that it's all over, ellie never unlearned that.

inside, there's still a little girl who aches for love. it stung, but she craved it. and to ellie, looking at you, withering and wilting by the lack of her affections, it feels like looking at that little girl.

so she feels that she is being pulled, suddenly, the legs of her chair screeching across the floor so she may sit as close as possible. it's no conscious effort, just her limbs working in tandem with what her heart needs at this moment.

ellie reaches, and then pauses, breathing in through her nose. "can i—?"

your lips work into a small, but reassuring smile, pursed tight to contain excitement. you don't want to be overwhelming, or intimidating, or too desperate, or whatever else—doesn't matter if your entire predicament is the overwhelming result of a desperate yearning, you tense like a statue just in case. "of course."

from their frozen position in the air, her hands finally move. you weren't sure where she was going for, but ellie has been telling herself this is what she would do to ever since the last time she saw you. 

she cups your face, palms meeting your cheeks slowly, as though she holds a piece of her very soul in her hands.

your two sets of slow breathing mingle in the silence of the room, and for seconds ellie just holds your face. then, her thumbs caress the high points; they run along your cheekbones, her callouses press into the curve of your jawline, as though mapping out every depth or crevice in your face. analysing the structure, appreciating the curves and the softness, not only with her skin, but her eyes. it feels like she can see through you, and it's not even an invasive feeling. in fact, it's not been this easy for you to breathe in a long time.

ellie thinks of her half-written poetry from last night. her mind is fresh with ideas, the passion reborn. she's realising it now, that unless she turns this into a habit, she won't be able to remember how it feels to touch your skin. she'll be back tomorrow, or maybe she won't even leave. it would be alright to hold your hand as you sleep.

your cheeks, once lifelessly icy, now warmed by ellie, rest in the palm of her hands like they are a bed. her face is rose-flushed, but more calm than earlier. inside, there's fire spreading from heart to hands. it doesn't burn like she thought it would. sure, the initial connection was scorching, but now it's comfortable, healing.

something beautiful happened. you would describe ellie's touch like some kind of healing power, in fact, so might she, in a different way; things that used to feel impossible for the both of you are quite easier.

you can breathe on your own, without medical interference—no drugs, no machines. your voice is clearer, food stays down, you can stay awake. ellie wasn't aware of it herself until you stood for the first time in weeks. it was like she had seen a ghost rise from the grave.

of course, it wasn't like you'd taken any miracle cure. you were frail and failing to maintain your balance. it was okay, though, because ellie darted over to catch you. she walked you to the café downstairs.

she could see herself quickly becoming nothing short of an addict to the feeling of your skin beneath her fingertips. when once she was uncomfortable by the feeling of another's shirt, she now feels like it isn't enough to dig her fingers into your pyjamas.

doctors who were certain you were perishing before were now bemused. tests and scans were ordered.

not only was there a clearer picture and tidier result, but the specialists found that what little was left of your flowers were charred. it aligned with what nurses had been reporting as well—a higher body temperature, and black, dried petals leaving your system. 

the hanahaki was dying, and you were blossoming. eyes brighter and face rounder, fuller, softer.

you could go home.

and it could've been better—perhaps it would've felt nicer if your room had been cleaned before you got home, and if things weren't so awkward between you and your family—you can't help looking with bitter eyes at them for how they had acted. it was like you were disposable. 

but getting to see ellie for the first time since you got home makes up for it all. strategically planned so that your mother and sebastian won't be around, of course.

you open the door before she can knock. it's like the tables have turned, and ellie is the one who struggles to breathe when you're near, looking so alive and so comfortable like this, with a smile on your face that knocks the wind out of her lungs, and a recovered lust for life. 

"hi," you say with a small nod, and you inch closer almost hesitantly, which she notices, of course. to save you the trouble of asking for it, she wraps her arms around your middle and holds you. 

but you don't miss the hitch in her breath. still, every time you touch, she stiffens or holds her breath. what would you take it for, if not discomfort? this time, though, when you try to pull away, ellie snorts a little and tightens her grip, nosing into your neck.

"you're fine, baby."

the look on her face when she pulls away is reverent and somewhat sheepish, the corner of her lips curled up and eyelids heavy. if there's one thing ellie hates about this, it's the process. why can't she snap her fingers and be rid of the side effects of her past? why must she sit through all of the messy feelings, the awkwardness, the way that touch still makes her skin blister even when she likes it?

and how, still, are you so patient with her?

"listen, so, uh… i wasn't sure if you ever wanna see another damn flower again, but, i figured you deserve something nice, right?" ellie pushes the single tulip forward, shrugging one shoulder. "s'not a rose, at least. think you might hate them now. that would be reasonable, yeah.."

you nod, that same grin on your face as always, plucking the flower from her grip. "this is okay. but— can i have another hug..? just one more?"

"oh—" ellie's throat tightens, arms opening before her mouth. "sweet girl, you don't even need to ask. c'mere."

this time, you sink into her. it's like being doused in fire, her body warming yours on the way to the car, all because she couldn't bring herself to let go. and that brings another one of those half smiles to her face that she always tries to hide. a hint of pride. progress.

she thinks about resting a hand over your thigh on the drive—it would be even better progress, but something makes her hesitate. something of a debate takes place in her mind before she finally does it, and once more, she feels that sense of pride. the pride of each move forward burns every doubt as though they're pages in an old diary.

plus, ellie truly enjoys the way your leg tenses beneath her hand and how you're quick to gaze out the window with the hint of a smile on your lips.

the drive is empty of conversation, the space filled by the stereo, and it should be that everything about this is already familiar to you. the route, the person, the intention. you're heading to the park, but this time you sit in the passenger seat, you actually trust that the driver will keep you safe (you'd never tell your brother this, but ellie is a far calmer driver than him), and your stomach isn't tying itself into knots. your breathing isn't stifled by stems and thorns and petals.

sometimes you still struggle with chasing for her touch now you've had your samples of it, but it battles with the need to make her comfortable. and so, you grip onto her sleeve as you walk to the old ice cream van stationed in its typical spot. your fingers cling to the fabric, pulling it taut, in the hopes that it won't hurt her, but soothe your need. 

"cookies and cream?" ellie asks, glancing down. your heart lurches when she starts pulling her arm back, only to replace her sleeve with her hand.

you search her for fear from the corner of your eye, but there's no wide eyes or bitten lips. "uh, yeah. i miss it."

"i'll have it too," she says, giving you a fond grin. "you don't know how much of the stuff i've been pigging out on these past few months. it makes me think of you."

you let out an involuntary giggle, squeezing her hand. "i extended my comfort food to you?"

"pretty much, yeah." ellie nods. "i started gorging myself the second i got kicked out of your house."

"well, i'll take that as though you were doing so in my honour," you reply, a cheesy grin on your face. "i missed having an appetite."

soon enough, with a cone in each of your hands, you sit beside ellie on a bench and share a comfortable silence. birds sing in the distance, trees shielding you from the summer fever.

ellie is so unusually quiet that it's powerful, and you turn your head towards her at the very moment that she is, apparently, leaning closer, and the sudden contact makes her jump back this time—something about the unpredictability of it frightened her.

"jesus, you almost killed me."

"oh—! sorry. payback, i guess, because you almost k—"

once ellie closes her mouth (that comment rattled her a bit too hard), she gives you a light pinch on the arm. "don't say that kinda stuff, that's morbid as fuck. i didn't try to—"

"sorry," you repeat, laughing softly. "it's a little bit funny though."

"it's not funny." ellie's words are betrayed by her own chuckle, however. "that's a sore spot still."

"alright, i won't say that again. you have my word." you give ellie a tiny salute, then nod your head to the ice cream sitting idle in her hand. she's barely touched it, if at all. "are you okay? just.. thinking a lot?"

ellie glances down at her hand, a stream of melted ice cream dripping down her skin. "uh… yeah. just…"

she takes a pause, eyes flitting back to you, landing on your lips. she realises she must look like a deer in the headlights, and forces herself to look away with a halfhearted shrug of her shoulders.

"i'm just happy we're here."

why can't i just kiss her? ellie wracks her brain on the way home, so distracted she's driving on autopilot. the world passes by in blurs of colour, her heavy huffs of breath the only sound in the car. the scent of your perfume still lingers in your wake, and when she's idling at a red light, ellie looks over to the empty passenger seat. the sight of a little black petal clinging to the seat makes her smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

it's like you leave a little trail, the occasional remains of scorched flowers following you wherever you've been. maybe she'll pop this one into her journal tonight.

ellie takes the long way home. it's filled with deep sighs and her white-knuckling the steering wheel, her inner monologue rather unhelpful. if only she could explain why she halts right on the edge every time she is about to meet a goal.

she tries. she really thought she could do it today. she felt so ready to grasp your chin and press a little kiss on your smile, but she faltered at the last second, when you turned and caught her staring. fucking faltering. she always does it.why am i so fucking scared? she grits her teeth, willing herself not to pull over when tears start to pool. she's nearly home, anyway. yeah, she narrowly avoided death trying to merge with blurry vision and some asshole in her blind spot. but she just wants to be home.

it's like drowning in shallow waters; she should be fine, but something is holding her hostage. something keeps her holding her breath, something's weighing so heavy on her that she can't pull herself out. there's always something ugly working behind the scenes to keep her from living. whether she's conscious of it or not, there's a memory or an instinct that rears its head. nightmares, flinches, even a small gasp—it's as if her body remembers it more than her mind.

a hand near her head, it makes her think her hair will be yanked.

a movement too sudden, it makes her want to brace for impact, only for it to be the gentlest embrace.

ellie hates it. she hates the way you pull back with a crease worrying your brows and that cloying tone of voice ringing in her ears, the apologies and the check-ins. because she loves the touch. it felt so freeing to admit such a thing for the first time. ellie loves to touch you, but she's so scared, still, and what's worse is that pit of guilt that forms in her stomach every time she fails.

she needs this—to no longer be so alone, and to take up space, and to touch. for the little girl she once was, who was not given the grace to do those things. 

if healing was measurable, that would make this simpler. but it's easy to get lost in the wishes and the goals. it's not so easy to think about the journey it takes to meet those goals.

"ellie? ellie. did you mean to call? or did you butt dial?"

"no…" ellie murmurs. she holds her phone against her ear and closes her eyes. she definitely made somewhat of a spectacle by calling and saying absolutely nothing in return when you answered. "i wanted to call. just… want you to talk to me."

"oh… okay," you reply. she can hear the pleasant surprise in your voice, that and something like fondness. "that's kinda cute, els. you dropped me off two hours ago."

"yeah, i, uh— i miss you." the phone doesn't catch her sniffling, but it carries the shaking current in her words. "can you start talking my ear off now?"

"what— well, yes, but what's wrong?" 

"nothing, what do you mean?"

"come on, ellie," you groan, and she can picture you pinching the bridge of your nose like you always do when she's said something silly. but really, it's far from that. you're pushing your phone up to your ear and spamming the volume button so that you can hear her over the sound of your own increasing heartbeat, fidgeting with the bottom of your shirt. "you're being all standoffish and stuff. like you've got something you need to get off your chest."

"uh… no." she clears her throat quite roughly, her free hand swiping at her eyes. "i just wanna hear your voice."

you know you shouldn't push. ellie will come to you when she's ready, like she always does, but this gnaws at you. it's hard to find a new topic when your brain drifts into all the possible explanations for ellie's hurt.

you never want to be the reason she's hurting. and if you are? what if you are? if you pushed boundaries today, or if you're just moving too fast? 

"okay, well, i miss you too," you begin. "i really like it when we hug. it's so warm and, like, comforting."

"i like it too," she says slowly. "you left a lil petal in my car."

"oh, right, that was probably from that coughing fit i had," you muse. "it really hurt, actually."

"you were very loud about that."

"how am i supposed to be quiet about choking?" you snort, but the moment is short lived. you're getting to the bottom of this. "can you please tell me what's wrong? we don't even have to dwell on it. just let me know."

"ah, it's just…" she lets out a flustered sigh, then starts to mumble. "just feeling generally shitty. that's all. i'm stressed. it's nothing you need to be worrying about."

"it's you, els, i do need to worry about it." you choose your words carefully but they flow easily. loving ellie has never required effort. you've spent years waiting for her to see it, and now it's the easiest it's ever been to show her. "i care. and i will always be here. i'm never going to vanish. i think i've made it very fucking clear i don't plan on doing that. i'm stubborn."

"yeah…" ellie swallows thickly and rests her chin in the palm of her hand, eyeing her lonely bedroom. "it's guilt. for… i dunno… just…"

you let ellie fall into silence. she's gathering the words to explain herself with—at least, you hope she is—and that is something you do not want to be pushy with.

"i hate how long this is taking," she says finally. "i want it. i'm ready for it. but my mind is just— it's like it's on a completely different track. i love you. but i'm so pathetic. i've made you wait so long."

"this isn't about me," you say. "i waited for you because i wanted to, and i'll wait as long as it takes. actually, i'm really impressed by you. you're making progress."

"but it's not fair. i hate that you have to be cautious. i wish— i mean, i wish i was normal. i wish i could snap out of it."

you stop her before she spirals further into a self deprecating rant, hushing her very gently. "you are normal. you're learning how to react to things that happened to you that should have never happened. and you're taking huge steps towards healing. and i am so proud of you. i really am."

"i'm scared, but it's not even about touch anymore," ellie murmurs, this time her sniffles sounding clear down the line. "i don't want to be too much. i don't want you to leave."

"i'm never leaving," you reply, voice softening like a blanket. "i love you, ellie. you couldn't get rid of me even if you tried."

by all means, you should be dead right now. you were knee deep in the grave when ellie came back and she battled her way into pulling you out. brute force and fear and love combined had made a new version of ellie, one who was determined to walk you out of that hospital.

"i just… can't.. accept myself," ellie says.

"you can't accept the journey," you correct, "look at the bigger picture, els. you are able to live life now in a way you could never have imagined one year ago. i haven't seen you wearing gloves in a while. that's incredible."

"i figured they were holding me back," she mumbles sheepishly. "i try not to wear them unless i really have to."

"see? that's amazing." you smile. "when i think about the past year, i think about all the milestones. i think about the first time we held hands, then when you traced my face, then when you sat in the hospital bed with me. i think you forget that this is a process and that you're gonna struggle with it sometimes, but that's just realistic. you can't make any progress at all if you won't allow yourself to fail."

"yeah," ellie whispers. she's resorted to fiddling with the little black petal she took home, her heart swelling as she listens to your voice. the calm of it all, the patience that never dies. she blinks back tears, and then speaks up. "thanks baby."

"do you feel a little bit less like the entire world is about to crush you into tiny pieces?"

"yes." ellie lets out a halfhearted laugh, smiling. "can you please start yapping about random shit now?"

"ugh, alright. you're gonna make me lose my voice again. actually, that might be a good thing. then i won't be so annoying."

ellie lets you continue without interruption. she holds that petal up to her chest, balled into her fist, and mulls over the conversation.

she's got to keep trying.

burnt flowers became few and far between, your coughing spells less frequent than ever. ellie noticed this before you did, and it was the biggest encouragement to her conquering her fears. she was healing, finally, and so were you—all because of her. 

life has this sense of normalcy now. she doesn't bristle at the feeling of a stranger passing by, she goes without her gloves more often. she gets less stares in public. ellie can see her old best friend without him looking as though she did something bad anymore; she just isn't alone.

she can wake from terrors in the middle of the night and no longer does she have to face them alone, crying in the dark and curling into balls. you're there to bring her back down when fear shoots up her spine. you, and hope—the teddy bear, that is, but the figurative idea as well. the unwavering patience, the trust, the optimism. 

ellie can hold your hand. she can hold you. she can snuggle and play with your hair, and she likes hers to be touched too. she can feel herself never wanting to let go of you. things she only ever heard of in tales of romance and vows, that she never thought she'd get to have. things she didn't think she even deserved. 

she thought she'd die alone, and now she's drawing pictures of you in her journal and scribbling promises beneath them; forever, sweet girl.

"this is a lot of touching and not a lot of drawing," you say, laughing softly at her distraction. you don't mind one bit, of course.

when you were in hospital, and ellie had caressed every inch of surface on your face, she had tried to take it all into her memory. now, she makes a habit of it, and insists it makes it easier to draw. you think she's simply sheepish about how much she enjoys it after all these years of avoidance.

"then don't be so pretty," ellie murmurs, swiping her thumb over your lashes. your eyes flutter and she catches her lip between her teeth, stifling a sigh.

there is one goal she hasn't met yet. 

still, she hasn't kissed you. 

she comes so close and every time something stops her. at first it was her own reluctance, now, it's like life won't give her the chance. last time she tried, it felt like there was some divine being fucking with her—the sky started pouring over the both of you as soon as the moment stood still enough for her to lean in.

this time, ellie's going to seize the moment. it starts with the light urge to kiss every individual lash, then your browbone, then of course, her eyes flick to your lips as though it's instinct.

she wonders if you think she's going to chicken out again, but you're none the wiser to her intentions in the first place right now. she thinks she's putting signals out with her eyes so heavy on yours, but she hasn't seen what you see. she hasn't seen the way she looks at you on a daily basis—this is no different; her eyes are practically hearts. you feel her gazing upon your every move, never to judge, but instead to possess.

her thumb now moves to your lower lip, shaky but sure as she gently parts your smile. and your lips, no longer dry or sore, but now pillowy and smooth, are the catalyst for what she is about to do. it reminds her how long you have waited, how much you have suffered, and her the same. the neglect, the rejections, the simmering anxieties.

the final push is thanks to the shared progress translated by your lips, the healing on both ends of a love that stays ignited, crackling, and refuses to burn no matter how long it stays lit.

ellie closes her eyes and at last, her soul feels whole, lips meeting yours for the very first time. she knows it is the first of many, because even as she runs out of breath, she can't pull away. it's much like a standoff, neither of you urgent to let go of the other after all this time.

and it pains you to be the one who pulls away first, but you were beginning to feel increasingly faint. you open your eyes but ellie is sat still as a pole, her eyes sewn shut for seconds after the kiss, her cheeks ablaze.

"you nearly killed me," you mumble, giggling at the way that she glares at you after.

"you are not allowed to say that, remember?"

"it was too good not to say right now!" you erupt into laughter as she grunts and tackles you without a moment's waste, your back hitting the bed and face attacked in the softest way imaginable; her lips scouting every area, a kiss planted in each spot like a claim. "okay, easy, easy. i love you too."

🏷️ @dolleyedfemme @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @ellieshothousewife @piercedome @therealhexstrap @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @l0veylace @gold-dustwomxn @yashirawr @httpsiluvizzy @areyna

thank you for reading as always ♡

[peasack]

Hiya, thanks for being such a great writer and providing the fandom with some great domestic Thunderbolts content! Could I request how the Thunderbolts react to teen!reader having a panic attack?

Thank you so much for trusting me with this, and I hope anyone who struggles with this subject is gonna be okay and I wish the best of luck and loads of love to yall<333

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Helping You Through A Panic-attack Headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Panics a little at first. Like he’s big and strong, but feelings?? Oh no.

“What is happening? What do I do? Should I hit it??” (he’s trying.)

When he realizes you’re not in physical danger, he sits awkwardly near you, offering his giant, warm hand for you to hold if you want.

Telling silly stories from his "glory days" to distract you.

Probably says something like “You are strong like me. You will beat this too.”

His presence is oddly grounding because he’s so big and steady.

✦ Ava Starr

Surprisingly calm and efficient.

She’s dealt with pain and panic her whole life, so she recognizes the signs immediately.

“Hey, hey, focus on me. You’re safe. Just breathe with me, okay?”

Physical grounding techniques. She’ll guide you through feeling textures, naming objects, focusing on your senses. (54321 technique)

She won’t let anyone else overwhelm you. Super protective in these moments.

Afterward, she gives you space but always checks in later with a soft, “You good?”

✦ Yelena Belova

She has zero panic, all action.

Immediately sits next to you, puts her hand firmly on your shoulder. “You’re not dying, you’re panicking. It will pass. I am here.”

Snarky humor to pull you out of it, but only once you start breathing again.

“Come on, you cannot leave me alone with these idiots. You must breathe.”

She never babies you, but she is always there. The second you crack a smile, she’s back to teasing you like nothing happened.

✦ John Walker

Stiff and unsure at first.

“You’re okay, kid-uh.... breathe? Yeah? Can you do that?”

He’s not great with emotional stuff but he’s trying so hard. He follows what he’s seen Bob do.

Steady verbal reassurance. “You’re safe. We’ve got you. Nothing’s gonna happen to you while I’m here.”

He sits with you the entire time, even when it’s uncomfortable for him.

Afterwards, he probably makes some awkward “You can talk to me, y’know” speech.

✦ Bucky Barnes

Silent, calm, but watchful.

He’s been there. He gets it.

Without a word, he sits next to you, slowly matches his breathing to yours, and makes sure you can hear it.

Nonverbal support. Big brother energy. He offers his hand but doesn’t push.

Quietly mumbles soft grounding words like “You’re here. You’re not alone.”

He doesn’t force you to talk. You can just sit together in silence for as long as you need.

✦ Bob Reynolds

Absolute MVP in panic situations.

He’s calm, soft-spoken, and immediately shifts to comfort mode.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here, not going anywhere.”

Gentle grounding. Guides you through breathing, lightly rubbing circles on your back if you let him.

He keeps his voice low and steady, creating a safe bubble around you.

Afterward, he’ll make you a snack, get you water, and just sit with you while you recover, no questions unless you want to talk.

He will check in later though. Quiet but consistent care.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope you guys enjoyed, and again. I hope for the people who struggle with this subject are gonna be okay or at least have people in their lives they can rely on.

Love you all and best of luck<33

[cyber-geist]

Did something for Fanjoy July and I picked this short comic by @sraksha as my first day. Thanks @kikker-oma for inspiring this whole art/comic exchange idea

Day 1: Gravity

The sound of clashing steel, screaming monsters, and the sickly stench of black blood filled the air. Wars spun guarding Fours back from a downward slash of a particularly vicious blin from Wilds era, before he turned and cut the head from the shoulders of his own scaly opponent.

The battle so far hadn’t exactly been abnormal for their day to day skirmishes, but the string of back to back battles for the last three days had worn all of them rather thin.

As if in response to his grim thought, the Vet let out an enraged half screech as he blocked an arrow that Hyrule had been too exhausted to dodge. The Vet yelled something about Hyrule falling back with Wind but Wars couldn’t spare them anymore of his attention since he now had two lizalfos bearing down on him.

By the time he was able to try and find his brothers again, Four was well across the battlefield fighting a whole new set of opponents, Hyrule and Wind had vanished from the scene, Wild was sniping from the trees, Time and Twilight were taking on a few of the bigger blue blins and the Vet had been backed into the river…wait

Wars ran for Legend, his heart pounding in his chest as four black blooded monsters pressed his brother back towards the crashing water that flowed straight off a cliff. Strong swimmer or not falling into that current would be deadly. Plus Wars wasn’t sure if Legend was one of his brothers that even could swim.

He stabbed one of the monsters through with a roar and twirled to try and take out a second leaving Legend to deal with the other two.

The second monster proved much more difficult then the first without the element of surprise on his side. The Lizalfos looked to be one of the electric ones from Wilds era and Wars did not fancy getting electrocuted today. Then he heard a cry of “Wars come on!”

And he was being yanked to the side and over the edge of the river bank, before the panic could set in fully he collided with wood logs and found himself staring up at the Vet as the younger boy chucked a bomb at the monsters they’d left behind on shore. Wars staggered to his feet on the…raft? Legend really did have everything in that bag of his blasted border, and faced the shore prepared to ward off any attacks from remaining enemies.

But apparently there was no need. The bomb had taken out the monsters he and Ledge had been fighting and it seemed like the others had mopped up the rest of the black blooded nuisances.

Wars had a brief moment of relaxed relief before the sound of a deep rumbling roar sounded behind him and he was reminded abruptly of why he’d been so worried about his brother falling into the river.

Wars flipped around so fast his head spun only to find Legend on the edge of the raft with a massive grin on his face and the younger blonde was actually leaning forwards on the thin wooden slab they were riding on. Just like Wild when the crazy child shield surfed.

Wars reached out to grab the others shoulders to try and pull him back just as they plunged over the side of the waterfall. Wars screamed as they sailed out full speed into open Air.

His grip on Legend's shoulders loosening as he instead forced himself forward and around the younger boy praying he could keep the comparatively tiny boy from breaking into a million pieces at the base of the waterfall.

But Legend just shifted pushing the raft even further through the air with a shift of his hips as he laughed giddily.

Wars had sunk to a crouch on the raft now, curled around Legend as the water below rushed to meet them. It seemed that Legends shifting had allowed them to miss the rocks at the bottom, but he had no guarantee that the raft wouldn’t flip atop them or break underneath them when they landed.

His arms were wrapped tight around Legends hips and his scream still poured from his mouth in a high pitched keen, before finally with an almighty splash the collided with the river water, Legends hips jerked in his grasp as the younger boy rocked with the wave and began to guide them down the river with careful swaying motions until at last the current eased and Legend stood straight once more.

Legend turned and looked down at Wars lifting and arm as he gazed down eyebrows raised and a half gentle smile half gentle smirk crossed his narrow features.

“Oh come on, it wasn’t that big of a drop you wuss”

His tone was teasing but Wars distantly noticed that the prickly Vet hadn't pulled away just yet. Of course that might have something to do with the fact that Wars was still trembling like a newborn colt and that his eyes were probably wide enough to be mistaken for saucers of cream, but Wars was a little to preoccupied by the pounding of his heart and their recent near death experience to really care all that much what Legend thought of him.

Part of him, the part that was a trained War veteran with honors and medals and pride to boot, said that he should absolutely stop holding onto his brother's belt with a grip that would rival a corpses.

The part of him that felt safe with his brothers though, and had learned to trust them to have his back, said screw that and panic. So Wars let himself tremble for a full minute as his adrenaline slowly wound down, and Legend remained pointedly silent.

At some point the Vets scarred, ringed fingers had settled atop his head and was carding through his hair but neither of them mentioned it, even when Wars eventually was able to slowly pry himself away and stand on mostly steady feet beside his brother.

Later he would scream at Wild to erase a picture he’d taken with his tablet or War's mid scream, while Legend laughed himself breathless. Later Wind would tease him for screaming like a girl. Later the Bet would fall asleep beside him to assure him that he was still ok and alive. But for now. For now Wars sailed beside his brother down the river towards the rest of their wayward family, and let himself breath.

Off-brand Rapids Ride time!

[bl3upi3]

See You Soon

A/N: Not proofread, but I’ve been wanting to write a long-distance one-shot for a while. Requests are open if you have any ideas!

Word count : 2,943

Summary: After a random Minecraft tweet catches the attention of rising music star 2Hollis, you never expected a flirty reply to turn into months of late-night calls, care packages, and falling in love from a distance. One year later, after months of slow-burn connection, he books a flight to finally meet you in person and everything changes.

You’ve been dating Hollis for a year now. It’s always been a bit of a weird situation, it was long-distance from the start, since he’s constantly busy with his career and you were still finishing up at your local university. Meeting him in the first place had been a total surprise.

It started with a dumb tweet actually, something stupid you posted late at night about Minecraft villagers sounding like tired dads. You didn’t expect anyone to see it, let alone someone like him. But then he replied. Not just a like or a retweet, a full reply. Sarcastic, funny, and way too specific for someone who wasn’t deep into the game.

You didn’t even realize who he was at first. His username didn’t have the usual blue check. It wasn’t until you clicked on his profile out of curiosity that you saw the link to his music and froze.

It was that Hollis.

You figured it was a one-off interaction. But then he followed you. Then DMed you. You talked on and off for months, it wasn’t really your priority, but he was actually nice. Chill. Funny. You two bonded over video games and skating. You told him you wished you’d learned how to skate when you were younger. At this point, you were a full-blown adult who barely knew how to stand on a board, let alone do anything else. He said that if he could, he’d teach you himself.

Even after eight months of talking, you still hadn’t fully processed that you were actually chatting with the 2Hollis. Not until he FaceTimed you for your birthday. You’d mentioned the date once, in passing, and didn’t think he’d remember but he did.

You were lying on your bed, wrapped in an old hoodie, scrolling aimlessly when your phone buzzed. Unknown number. FaceTime.

You stared at the screen, confused. Then it clicked. Your heart did this weird little skip. You sat up, hesitated for a second, then hit accept.

And there he was.

At first, all you saw was the ceiling of what looked like a studio. Then his face appeared, a little too close to the camera, slightly blurry, clearly not prepared for this call either.

“Happy birthday,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just blinked at the screen, trying to connect the face you’d seen in a million edited music videos with the guy who’d sent you memes at 3 a.m. about villagers and skeleton mobs.

“What?” you finally muttered, breath caught halfway between a laugh and a panic attack.

“I said happy birthday, dummy,” he repeated, teasing.

He looked tired, not in a bad way. His hoodie was half zipped, hair messy, eyes soft. No lights, only red LEDs. Just him, holding the phone with one hand and a cupcake in the other.

You snorted. “Is that… for me?”

He lifted the tiny cupcake closer to the camera. It had a crooked little candle stuck in the center. “Yeah. Don’t get too emotional, it’s store-bought.”

You laughed, really laughed, the kind that made your cheeks hurt and your chest feel lighter than it had in weeks.

He grinned at the sound, like he’d earned something. You didn’t know it yet, but he’d remember that exact moment later. The way your eyes squinted when you smiled. The way your voice cracked a little when you tried not to laugh too hard.

You thought the call would last ten minutes, tops. He had a session to get back to. You were supposed to be writing a paper. But somehow, three hours passed. Just like that.

You talked about your day, the annoying professor who still called roll like it was high school, how you spilled coffee on your notes that morning. He asked questions, real ones. Like he actually cared. You told him about your final exams coming up, about how burnt out you were but too stubborn to quit. He told you he got that. That he used to stay up all night editing his tracks with cheap headphones and half a clue what he was doing. That even now, with all the success, he sometimes felt like he was just winging it.

Then, he got quieter. He talked about the future, not just music, but what he wanted, even if he wasn’t totally sure how to say it out loud. He said he didn’t think he could do this forever. That the industry felt like a maze sometimes. That part of him just wanted peace. Maybe a place outside the city. Maybe someone to build stuff with.

You didn’t say much. You just listened. And he let you.

At some point, your battery dipped below 5%, but you didn’t care. Neither of you brought it up. It was like neither of you wanted to be the first to hang up.

You ended up falling asleep with the phone still in your hand, his voice the last thing you heard low, warm, halfway through a sentence you never got to finish.

The next morning, there was a message waiting for you.

“Didn’t wanna hang up first. Sleep well, birthday girl.”

That was the night everything changed. After that, things between you got more serious. He started FaceTiming you whenever he could, before shows, after interviews, sometimes even in the middle of events just to show you around. It was sweet, getting little glimpses of a world so far from your small city.

Then the texts started getting flirtier. Subtle at first. Jokes that lingered a little longer, compliments that felt a bit more intentional. And slowly, it started to feel like something more.

The shift was gradual. One day you were teasing him about his obsession with Red Bull, the next he was sending you mirror selfies captioned “Rate the fit, or just pretend you miss me already.” You played it cool, obviously but your stomach flipped every time his name popped up on your screen.

You’d never dated someone like him before. Not just the fame, but the way he paid attention. Like the tiniest things you said actually stayed with him. Like he was taking mental notes just to surprise you later.

One night, after a particularly brutal exam, you got home to a package at your door. Inside: a hoodie from your favorite show, a bag of those weird chips you couldn’t stop talking about, and a hand-written note that just said:

“In case today sucked. Call me if you feel like pretending it didn’t.”

That was the first night you told him you liked him.

Like, really liked him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kind of blinked at you through the screen. Then he smiled. Soft, almost shy.

“I was starting to think I’d have to move to your city just to prove I wasn’t messing around.”

And from there, everything started moving faster. More late-night calls. More “I wish you were here” texts. More versions of you and him that started to feel less like a maybe and more like a plan.

It wasn’t official yet, no labels, no big talk but the way he said your name started to feel different. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

And then, one night, you were on the phone, half-asleep, the screen dimmed and your voice low. You’d been talking about the stupidest things cereal brands, childhood cartoons, the weird kid in your class who wore flip-flops year-round and somewhere between a yawn and a pause, he said it.

“You know I’m not seeing anyone else, right?”

You blinked, sat up a little.

“What?”

He rubbed his face, like he wasn’t sure if he’d meant to say it out loud.

“I mean… I don’t know what this is exactly, but it’s not casual for me. Not just… fun. Not anymore.”

Your chest tightened. Not in a bad way, just in that overwhelming, oh-god-this-is-real way.

You were quiet for a second, long enough that he started to shift awkwardly on his end of the call.

“I’m not either,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “Seeing anyone else. I mean. It’s not just fun for me, either.”

His whole expression changed. Softer. Relieved. Like he’d been holding his breath for hours without realizing.

“Cool,” he said, eyes flicking away from the camera for a second. “That’s… cool.”

After that, he started calling you his girl. Casually, at first. In texts. In the way he’d say “You’d hate this place, my girl doesn’t even like crowds.” But hearing it, feeling claimed in that gentle, stupid, sweet way made your stomach twist every time.

Then one afternoon, a couple weeks later, it happened.

“What’s your address?”

You stared at your phone, confused.

“Why?”

“Because I booked a flight.”

“Hollis. What do you mean?”

“I’m coming to see you. Like… for real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just sat there on your bed, staring at the message, your heart thudding so hard it felt like it echoed in your teeth.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“When?”

“Friday.”

It was Tuesday.

You hadn’t even brushed your hair that day. You were still in sweats, still half-recovering from your last round of exams, and now the boy you’d been falling in love with, slowly, stupidly, digitally, was going to be standing in front of you in less than three days.

You almost threw up. Then you almost cried. Then you called him.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” you asked as soon as he picked up, no hello, no intro.

“Because I didn’t want to give you time to back out.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re such a dick.”

“Maybe. But I’m your dick now, remember?”

You buried your face in your hands, cheeks burning. “I hate you.”

“You’re gonna love me by Friday.”

You didn’t sleep much that week. Every time your phone buzzed, you jumped. You started noticing how messy your room looked, how uneven your nails were, how you didn’t own anything remotely cool to wear around a real-life superstar. Not that he’d care, but still.

Friday came faster than you thought.

You kept checking the time like that would slow it down. Your hands shook when you did your makeup. You changed outfits four times, then ended up in the first one anyway.

You got to the airport early, way too early. You paced near arrivals, trying not to check your phone every two seconds even though you knew exactly when he landed. Your leg bounced nonstop. You kept looking toward the automatic doors like a dog waiting for its owner.

You didn’t know how to act at first, your feet stayed rooted to the floor, your mind suddenly blank. You were kind of shy, frozen, like your body hadn’t caught up with what was happening.

But Hollis didn’t hesitate. The second he saw that hesitation in your eyes, the half-step back, the nervous grip on your sleeve, he smiled and pulled you straight into him.

His arms wrapped around you like it was second nature, like he’d done it a thousand times already in his head.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your hair. “Don’t do that nervous thing. It’s just me.”

You exhaled against his chest. That was the first time you really let yourself feel it, the warmth of him, the weight of him, the reality of him. He held you like he wasn’t in a rush to let go.

When you finally stepped back, he kept one hand at your waist, just resting there, grounding you. His other hand reached up to brush your cheek.

“You’re shorter than I expected,” he said, teasing but gentle.

“You’re taller,” you shot back, blinking up at him.

“Damn. You got jokes in person too.”

You smiled. “I’m funnier in 4D.”

He laughed. Neither of you really knew what to say after that. It was that weird limbo between we already know each other and we’re meeting for the first time.

So you just stood there for a second, looking at him, letting your brain catch up to your heart.

“Ready to get out of here?” you asked finally.

“Only if you’re the one driving,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a grin.

You shook your head. “You’re insane if you think I’m letting a sleep-deprived singer who just got off a five-hour flight take the wheel.”

“Fair,” he said, falling into step beside you. “But I still call aux.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers brushed his as you walked, and when his hand found yours without hesitation, you didn’t let go.

Hollis stayed for three days. He wanted you to show him around your town, your favorite coffee shop, the park near your apartment, even your campus. A few people recognized him as you walked together, especially near the university. You instinctively kept a bit of distance, unsure how to act. You weren’t ready for his fans to know about you.

You’d seen how they reacted online every time he so much as looked at a woman. The thought of them finding your account, tearing you apart, turning you into some meme, it scared you more than you wanted to admit.

Still, he didn’t seem to care. He wanted to do everything with you, pay for every activity, take you on little dates like you were the only person that mattered. Movie theatres, late-night dinners, long conversations back at your place with your legs tangled under the blanket.

He didn’t rush anything. Just made space for you, like he’d always been part of your routine.

The last night of his trip, you stayed up way too late again.

You were both curled up on the couch, an old movie playing in the background neither of you were really watching. His hoodie was draped over your shoulders, still warm from his body, and your legs were tangled under the throw blanket like they’d always belonged there.

You were leaning into him, your head resting just under his jaw, when he tilted his face toward yours, voice low.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m sleepy,” you lied.

“Mm.” He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing a slow line along the inside of your arm. “Nah. That’s your ‘I’m overthinking something’ silence.”

You hated how well he read you.

“I just… don’t want this to end,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours slowly. Deliberate.

“It doesn’t have to,” he said. “Not really.”

You turned your head toward him, your eyes meeting his in the dim, flickering light from the TV. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yeah. But I’m still yours.”

Your heart was a mess in your chest.

He leaned in a little closer, his voice lower now, softer. “You know I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

“I noticed,” you whispered, trying and failing to sound unimpressed.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, your lips barely parting.

He traced a fingertip along your jaw. “You want me to?”

You swallowed, your pulse thudding somewhere near your throat. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

You hesitated, breath shaky. “I want you to kiss me.”

His lips ghosted over yours, not quite a kiss, just a test. A tease. His hand cradled the side of your face like you were something fragile, sacred.

And then he kissed you. Slow. Deep. Like he was trying to memorize it. Like he already knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Your fingers fisted the fabric of his hoodie. His thumb slid across your cheekbone.

He pulled back just a little, just enough to breathe, to look at you like he wasn’t sure how the hell he’d gone so long without doing that.

“That was worth the wait,” he murmured.

You smiled, dazed. “Yeah?”

He nodded, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment. It wasn’t just the kiss it was everything behind it. All the calls. All the teasing. The random memes at midnight, the shared silences, the way he remembered things you didn’t even realize you’d told him.

You finally leaned your forehead against his, your voice soft. “You’re gonna forget what I look like the second you’re on the plane.”

He frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He shifted a little, sitting up just enough to pull you fully into his lap, your legs on either side of him now. His hands rested on your hips.

“I’m not forgetting any of this,” he said. “You’re not… some side thing. You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t look away either.

“I’m gonna leave,” he continued, “and it’s gonna suck. But I’m gonna text you before I even get on the plane. And I’m gonna FaceTime you the second I land. And I’m gonna keep showing up. As much as I can. Until I can do it for real.”

“For real?” you echoed.

“As in… permanently. Not a visit. Not just three days. You and me, no lag. No screens. I want that. Eventually.”

Your heart twisted, in the best way possible.

And you knew deep down he meant it.

So you kissed him again. Not because it was the dramatic thing to do, but because you couldn’t not.

And later, when he finally did leave, when you stood at the gate and watched him disappear past security, your chest ached.

But it didn’t feel like goodbye.

It felt like see-you-soon.

Because you had something.

Something real. Something rare.

Something that started with a stupid Minecraft tweet and ended here.

And you were only just getting started.

[steddie-island]

Crossfire

For day 1 of @corrodedcoffinfest prompt: Band of Brothers Rating: G | WC: 884 | Tags: Canon typical violence ao3

The phone call had been quick. All Eddie had been able to understand through Gareth's panic was attack and Jeff and hospital. Eddie hadn't waited for more details before hanging up and grabbing his keys.

If Jeff was—

Fuck that. Eddie shook himself, threw the van into gear, drove faster than his piece of shit was supposed to be able to go anymore because he wasn't getting there too late, Jeff would be fine. Jeff had to be fine.

The first face Eddie saw in the waiting room was Gareth. He was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. Something that looked suspiciously like blood was smeared across his cheek.

The second was Steve Harrington. Steve with a busted lip and a black eye, looking worse for wear, like he'd gone a few rounds and fucking lost. Or maybe he hadn't, if he was here, at the same hospital Jeff was in.

There was a moment of surprise— sure, Steve had been a fucking asshole in school, but Eddie hadn't thought he was that kind of asshole. Surprise was replaced by rage. Eddie didn't remember crossing the room, didn't remember grabbing Steve's shirt, didn't even register the sound of already torn fabric tearing further in his hold. He pulled Steve's shoulders away from the wall, slammed him back hard enough that his head bounced against it and a rush of air hit Eddie's face as it was forced out of pretty pink lips.

Fucking good.

Eddie ignored the panicked shouts around him. He wanted to go for the knife in his boot, was ready to run this pretty boy jock through whether Jeff made it out or not.

Someone else's blade pressed into the tender flesh beneath his jaw, stopping him from moving.

"Let. Him. Go."

Eddie dared look to the side, to the lanky brunette whose face displayed a rage that matched his own. He watched her for a second, registering where he'd seen her before. "Buckley? Since when are you two—"

The tip of the blade pressed hard enough that Eddie could feel blood seeping into the collar of his shirt. "I said. Let. Him. Go."

"After what this fucker did?" Eddie pushed Steve towards the wall again, only to have Gareth try to grab his arm and worm his way between Eddie's fists and Steve's body.

"Eddie, stop. Steve didn't do this."

Tonight was apparently going to be full of surprises. "What?"

"Steve didn't do this." Gareth pushed Eddie further back so Robin could get between Eddie and Steve, too. Eddie watched the nervous way Buckley's hands fluttered around Steve's head as she checked him over. Gareth's next words pulled all of the attention from Steve and Robin. "He saved us."

"What?" Eddie felt the gears in his brain grind to a halt. "But he's— you mean he—"

"Yeah, that— that thing got to him, too." Gareth ran a trembling hand over his mouth. "C'mon, we— we gotta talk."

"That's blood." Eddie gestured to the bat covered by a towel in Steve's trunk.

"Yeah."

"And it's not Jeff's blood?"

"No." Steve picked something off of one of the nails and held it out to Eddie. It was petal shaped and fleshy, clearly not something that come from a person. "Not Jeff."

Eddie shuddered and dropped it back into the trunk. "What the fuck. So— so what Gareth said is true."

"It's true." Steve closed the trunk and leaned back against it. He closed his eyes as a hand came up to rest against the back of his neck. Eddie watched those long fingers slide up along the back of his head, wondered if Steve was feeling for a lump where his head had bounced against a wall.

Ah, shit. Eddie leaned against the trunk with him. He reached for a cigarette, lit up, offered it to Steve after taking a drag. A glowing peace offering. "Listen, man, I'm really sorry."

"You don't owe me an apology," Steve said. Eddie watched the way his lips wrapped around the butt of the cigarette, watched the way he inhaled slowly. "I get it."

"Yeah, I fucking do." Eddie shook his head. "From what Gareth told me, you saved their lives tonight."

"It's more like they got in the middle of a battle they didn't ask for." Steve smiled as he passed the cigarette back to Eddie. "I just… did what had to be done."

"Sounds like you've been doing that for a while." Eddie bumped Steve with his elbow. "Thanks for that, by the way. Those fuckers… they're my best friends. I don't know what I'd do if…." His throat clicked as he swallowed around a sudden lump.

"Hey." Steve shook his head. "They're still here. And Jeff— it was bad, but we've survived worse." His hand trailed up to his head again. Eddie wanted to ask about it but was stopped by the whoosh of the automatic doors opening again.

Gareth still looked like shit, still had something that looked like blood splattered over one of his shoes and along the bottom of his jeans, but there was relief in the set of his shoulders and the crease of his brow. "He's awake."

Eddie pushed himself off of the trunk. He would ask about it later. For now, he had a best friend to check on.

[holyblonded]

Heyyy hope you’re doing okay!!!

I was just sat on the sofa today and this huge spider crawled over my foot… i think my soul left my body anyways

this got me thinking that you’ve said about estrella moving out eventually with soleil, i can imagine soleil isn’t around and estrella calls ale in absolute hysterics, ale is already out the door panicking, when she gets the short distance to estrellas she sees her stood on the kitchen counter with a spatula and colander on her head preparing for war and she has to convince ale to find the spider, ale inst sure wether to hit estrella for scaring her, or laugh because of how ridiculous it is, the spider however runs at ale and she leaps on the counter… turns out la reina is also petrified of spiders cue olga coming to save the day. it then makes for an amusing story at training where jana and vicky keep planting fake spiders near estrella and ales stuff

first of all imagine this sent the worst shiver down my spine. i don’t fw spiders in the slightest

you were home alone. soleil was out for the weekend visiting her mom, and you’d insisted you’d be fine on your own. independent. grown. an adult.

that confidence shattered the moment you saw it.

you didn’t even see where it came from. one second you were happily stirring the pasta sauce, and the next, a fat, long-legged demon sprinted across the kitchen counter like it paid rent. you screamed like you’d been shot, launched the wooden spoon across the room, and bolted onto the dining table without thinking.

the spider disappeared behind the fruit bowl. you didn’t care. you weren’t stepping on the floor again.

ten minutes passed. then twenty. every creak made you whimper. you finally accepted defeat, spatula in one hand, colander as a helmet, tears welling in your eyes as you shakily dialed your emergency contact.

“ale… ale, please—i need you. now.”

“estrella?” her voice went alert instantly, panic lacing the syllables. “what happened? are you hurt?”

you couldn’t even speak clearly, hyperventilating. “no—i mean yes—no. there’s a—it’s—just come, please.”

that’s all it took. ale was already halfway out the door, heart racing, imagining every worst-case scenario imaginable. blood. broken bones. worse. she barely locked the front door of your shared house before sprinting the short walk to your flat.

when she flung open your front door, breathless and wild-eyed, she expected carnage.

what she got was you, crouched on the kitchen counter, colander on your head like a soldier in a war film, spatula raised in defense, eyes locked on the fruit bowl like it might detonate.

“what the hell—” ale froze in the doorway.

“don’t move,” you hissed. “it’s in there.”

“…what’s in there.”

“the spider.”

ale stared at you. then at the bowl. then at the tears in your eyes. she blinked.

“you called me sobbing because of a spider?”

“mami, i thought i was going to die.”

you looked genuinely offended by her tone. ale pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, “god, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“it’s huge,” you insisted. “with legs. like, visible ones. i heard it think.”

ale approached the fruit bowl cautiously, muttering about how she was too old for this. but the second she peeked under it and the spider moved, she yelped, dropped the bowl, and leapt onto the counter next to you.

you both shrieked. there was absolutely no shame in her scream either.

“you’re afraid of spiders?” you gasped.

“shut up,” she snapped, knees to her chest. “that thing just charged me.”

“i told you!” you yelled, the two of you now pressed back-to-back, spatula and ale’s water bottle in hand like a scene from a horror movie.

that’s how olga found you.

she walked in casually, holding a tote bag from the market, and paused in the doorway. blinked. tilted her head.

“…do i even want to ask?”

“there’s a spider!” you both shouted in unison.

olga sighed, set her bag down, and walked over like it was nothing. she grabbed a cup and a napkin, expertly trapped the demon, and released it out the window without fanfare.

“you’re welcome,” she said, smug, and walked into the living room.

you and ale just sat there on the counter, stunned.

“we are never speaking of this,” ale murmured.

you nodded solemnly. “agreed.”

but someone did speak of it. because olga told jana. and jana told vicky. and suddenly, every day at training, it became a thing.

vicky left a rubber spider in ale’s boots. the scream could be heard from the weight room. jana taped a fake one to the inside of your locker. you almost cried. once, you found one on your water bottle and launched it halfway across the pitch.

even irene got in on it, sneakily filming the moment you jumped when a spider sticker showed up on your locker mirror. she sent it to the group chat. “la estrella valiente.”

you tried to fight back. you snuck a plastic rat into vicky’s gym bag. but it was no use. the spider saga had cemented itself into team lore. ale pretended to be furious. you pretended you didn’t care.

but secretly, you started checking the corners of every room you entered, just in case. and when soleil got back and found out the whole story, she laughed for three hours.

“my brave little warrior,” she teased, kissing your cheek. “next time, call me. i’ll save you.”

“don’t worry,” you mumbled, burying your face in her neck. “i’ve retired from solo combat.”

“and the colander?”

“honorably discharged.”

[sydwritess]

The Life of Racing Pt. 7

Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: through it all, the racing, the media, the meetings. What matters to Lando the most is you. His home life is just as important as track life. Some days, he doesn't balance it easily. But through it all, the both of you try. Going through some challenges, but always coming out together, hand in hand again.

Second Person POV

Notes: my first F1 series! Requests are open!

01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10

The weekend goes by quickly. Lando had a nice break from FP1 due to Alex driving. It was now quali day. You were watching the race from the garage computers, jotting down quick notes from each lap.

Lando was staying in first place. Charles staying right on his tail. There was five laps left, each of the drivers taking them down quickly.

Lando was keeping the lead, two more laps left. Charles had fallen further behind due to a tight corner, but still remained in second. Soon enough, Lando crossed the finish line, you could hear him cheering happily over the radio.

We slightly waved to all of his fans while taking one last lap around the track, the others following behind him. He slowly pulled into the pit lane, parking the car in front of the garage.

He quickly got out of the car, getting surrounded by his teammates. But the one person he wanted to see wasn't there. He looked around, connecting his eyes with yours.

He shoved past the crowd and ran up to you.

"You did it." You say happily. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, his helmet still on his head. You could hear him breathing heavily through it.

"Fuck it's hot out here." He breathed out.

"Here, come with me." You say.

You silently walk through the hallway behind the garages. Lando carries his helmet in hand with him. You get to the cooldown room and open the door.

The cool air hits you in the face. When Lando walks in, you lightly shut the door behind him. He immediately plops down on the couch, putting his head back.

You walk over and sit next to him, facing him. You can see his chest moving fast, his breathing at an unregular pace.

"Hey, Lando what's going on?" You ask, leaning forward. You gently put your hand on his back.

He doesn't speak, like the words are stuck. He gestures his hand to his throat.

"Shit." You mumble, you crouch down in front of him, grabbing his hands.

"Listen, I need to focus on me. Look at me." You say. He looks down at you slowly, holding your gaze.

"Breath slowly. In, and out."

He grips your hands tighter, like he was afraid of letting go. You breath in and out slowly with him, helping him steady his breathing.

"What- what was that." He asks, his voice shaky.

"A panic attack." You say, rubbing your thumb lightly over his hand. "You must have gotten to hot or overworked."

"That's never happened before." He said, a single tear fell from his eyes.

"It's okay. Your okay, I promise." You pause, looking at him for any sign of discomfort, or unsteadiness. He breaths out slowly, trying to maintain himself.

"Why don't we just take the rest of the day off." You whisper.

"No, No i can't-"

"Lando..." He look's at you once again. "It's fine, trust me. They're going to ask all of the same questions again. You always have tomorrow to." You say.

He takes a minute before nodding his head silently. You sit back on the couch again. You pull out your phone to text Zak.

Y/n

We're not coming to media today.

Zak

Why not?

Y/n

Lando's not doing well, he just needs the time.

Zak

Shit, alright. That's fine, we'll see you tomorrow.

You quickly put your phone away, focusing your attention back on Lando. He was bent over, head in his hands.

"You need to sit up." You say. You put a hand on his chest and make him lean back on the couch.

"Are you the new medic?" He asks.

"No. But I know my stuff. And my stuff is telling you to sit back, and breath."

He smiles lazily. "What'd Zak say?"

"He's fine. He said he'd see us tomorrow."

He nodded his head, dropping his head back to look at the ceiling. You put an arm around his back, resting your hand on his shoulder. a

"Do you want to leave?" You ask.

"Yeah."

You both slowly stand up, and walk out of the cooldown room. You walk through the back hallway, away from everyone and go outside to the motorhomes. Seeing how this was a somewhat quick race week, they didn't rent out hotel rooms.

Lando walks up the three steps to the door, but doesn't open it.

"What's wrong?" You ask, leaning against the railing.

"I forgot all of my stuff." He said, turning around to you.

"It's okay. we can get it later tonight." You say.

"Right." He opens the door slowly and walks in. You were following behind him when someone called out your name.

"I'll be right back." You tell Lando, he nods and slowly shuts the door.

"Hey Max." You say, walking down the steps.

"Hey, I wanted to congratulate Lando but I couldn't find him." He said.

"He's not feeling well right now. But you could call him or something. And, he'll be out tomorrow."

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, nothing serious. He's just feeling drained and all." You say, he nods.

"Well thank you. Tell him I hope he feels better."

"I will." The two of you wave goodbye and you walk inside. You hear rustling around in the bedroom end of the home so you just sit on the couch in the small living room.

Lando comes out slowly, grabbing his water bottle off of the kitchen counter and sitting down next to you.

"Max asked about you. You might want to text him." You say.

"I'll do it later." He says, taking a sip of his water. You both sit in silence. Nothing said, nothing done.

Lando sat still, almost as if he was afraid to move. He stared at the wall in front of him, not moving an inch.

"How are you feeling?" You ask quietly.

"Alright. Tired."

"Do you know what made you feel like that?" You ask, he shrugs.

"I was feeling dizzy in the car. But... that's it. And then when the team came up to me I felt... trapped."

"That's most likely from the heat."

"But I'm made for this. That's what I train for."

"But your also a human being. With emotions and feelings and medical problems. You aren't made to be invincible." You say.

"I-"

"And I don't give a shit if your Lando Norris or not. You could be some homeless man down the street. You are still a human being." You say. He let's out a slight laugh

You sit there on the couch for the rest of the evening, eventually falling asleep.

You and Lando wake up at the same time, getting ready for race day. The race was early so Lando got into his race suit. You both grab something to drink and head out of the home, catching Max exiting his to.

"You feeling better Norris?" Max asks.

"Yeah, very."

"You're very lucky to have a medic by your side." Max says, slinging his arm around Lando and pointing into thin air.

"Yup. Just here to fix things." You say, walking ahead of him. You three walk along the paddock as it starts to fill in. People starting to walk all around you guys.

Max follows you two into the McLaren garage before he has to leave.

"I heard you placed a bet on the race today." Max says, leaning on the table across from Lando.

"Oh no, not me. I don't participate in such events." Lando said sarcastically.

"Oh right, my bad." Max laughed.

You were just outside of the garage. This group of kids came up to you to have them sign a couple of things.

"That is so nice, so the school funded this trip?" You ask the teacher. It was a small class about five or six young students from a local school.

"Yeah, we thought since it was a local race, why not." She said.

"That is so sweet. I'd love if my school would have done that." You laugh.

"Excuse me Miss? Can I get a picture?" A young boy asked, his thick British accent pulling through.

"Of course you can buddy." You say. He stands next to you as the teacher takes the picture. After getting everything signed, they left, and you walked back into the garage.

"Those were all her kids?" Max asks.

"No dingus, they were students."

"Oh... cute. We're they nice?"

"Obviously."

"Well, I don't really like kids. So I was asking." He says.

"Don't you have two of them?" You remark.

"Shit. Well- okay. I meant teenagers."

"Right, right." You say.

"I know. P found out about me and Y/n and she was like 'So I can't marry Uncle Lando?'" Lando said, mocking P's voice.

"I'd share with her. She's cute." You say. Lando and Max laugh slightly.

"Dude she's been in love with you forever. That's all we hear about." Max says, drinking his water.

"That's really cute." Lando says.

You, Lando, and Max continue talking until the race is about to begin, and they go off to get prepared. Lando is in the garage, talking to Zak while getting his gloves and helmet on.

Before he get's into the car, he waves you over with his hand. When you do, he hugs you tightly.

"Don't forget to drink when you can." You say.

"I will. I promise." He says. He get's into the car, following the person's signals before going out to the track, lining up.

You go over to the computers to watch the race, getting out your notebook and pen in the mean time.

When the lights go off, everyone hurries down the track. Lando keeps first. You see Oscar and Charles fighting for second place along the way.

Unfortunately, within a couple of laps, Kimi crashes into Max, leaving them out of the race.

Lando flies down the track in first. Oscar now in second, following right behind him.

It had been a good hour into the race. You write down notes after notes, following each lap. You look up to see Max walking up to you.

"How's he doing?" He asks, coming around to your side, looking at the screen.

"He's doing good." You say. There was only three more laps to go.

Max saw the nervous look on your face. "He's going to be okay."

You nod slowly, and unsure.

Oscar was coming up close behind Lando, but wasn't able to get past him. Lando flew through two more laps, and made it halfway through the last one. It was intense, Oscar was on his tail, not giving up.

Lando came around the last turn, and wait straight forward, crossing the finish line. The whole team cheered around you, high-fiving each other and hugging each other.

Lando made his lap around after, waving at his fans.

"He did it." Max said happily.

"He did." You breath out, smiling at the screen.

Lando pulled up to the garage, getting out and running straight into his team, who lifted him into the air.

"You got it kid!" Zak yelled, patting Lando on the back. Lando took his helmet off before walking over to you, hugging you tightly again.

"You did it." You smile.

"We did it." He said back, happier than ever. You stayed like that for a minute until you pulled away.

"Go get that trophy." You say, looking him in the eyes. He smiles at you before grabbing your hand and walking out with you.

He leaves you with the crowd as he goes up to the podium, receiving his medal and trophy. He stood along with Oscar and Charles, getting their picture taken and then spraying champagne everywhere, even down on the crowd.

The three of them all shook hands and hugged each other before exiting the stage.

Lando ran straight up to you.

"This calls for a celebration, doesn't it?" He asks slyly, snaking a hand around your waist.

"You know it." You say. He grabs you hand and pulls you away from everything, going back to his trailer.

©sydwritess

Hey loves! Pt. 7 is here! Comment to be added to this series tag list! Requests are open!

Tag list:

@mimisweetz @latay7

@lex2205 @landofotographyy

[formulafanfics13]

Im obsessed with this whole Alonso/Senna thing I laughed out loud when I read the whole thing with the son and Lily it just fits so I got another idea. When you know exactly that something wrong when you look at you’re phone and have missed calls from Lily, Kelly and Max you’re heart stops something must be terrible wrong they’re at the F1 race with shaking hands you call Lily back as she picks up she’s absolutely in shock and crying you think you can hear Kelly next to her so you ask her if she can give you her Mum and so seconds later you have Kelly on the phone which tells you that there was an accident and that they’re in the hospital right now you think you might have an heart attack they don’t know anything specific yet only that the collarbone and a few ribs are probably broken as he had trouble stepping out of the car and breathing Max is talking to the doctor right now you feel yourself breathing trough Max knows what he’s doing he will make sure that you’re son is in good care and Kelly will look after Lily the poor girl must be in shock they just found out that they will have an daughter and you must close you’re eyes and remind you what Kelly told you that you’re son will be ok he will get to go home to his wife in a few days and in a few months they will welcome they’re daughter and the broken bones will be forgotten because in the end family is what matters most💗

the moment everything stops - FA14 - Final Part

Masterlist || Part 1 || part 2 || Part 3

Summary: After a late-race crash, your son — a Formula 1 driver — is rushed to hospital with suspected broken bones. You receive the call from Lily, his young pregnant wife, alongside Kelly and Max, who are already at the hospital. As you wait for news, spiralling in fear and memory, you’re reminded of what really matters: he’s alive, he’ll come home, and he’ll get to hold his daughter. Fernando finds you in the aftermath, and together you anchor in the love that built your legacy.

Warnings: emotional distress, fear of death, references to injury (broken collarbone and ribs), hospitalisation, pregnancy-related worry, trauma from past generational loss (implied loss of father), generational F1 legacy, subtle grief, themes of maternal love, family, and resilience. No graphic violence but heavy emotional weight.

You know something’s wrong before the panic even registers. Not because of instinct. Not because of some maternal sixth sense. But because when you pick up your phone after ignoring it for fifteen minutes, just fifteen minutes, there are six missed calls. Two from Lily. Two from Kelly. Two from Max.

Your breath stops. Not slows. Not falters. Stops. Because no one calls six times unless something terrible has happened. And those three names? All at once? That means it wasn’t a press conference mishap or a media scandal. It wasn’t a grid penalty or an argument in the garage or a fucking strategy fuck-up.

No. That means your son. Something has happened to your son. Your hands shake as you hit redial.

Lily answers. On the second ring. She’s crying. Not sobbing. Not wailing. Just those small, broken, breathless tears that happen when the body goes into shock. The kind of crying that makes you start crying too, even before you know why.

“Lily?” you whisper. “Baby, what happened?”

She tries to speak. Fails. You hear a voice in the background, steady, grounding, and then, muffled, Lily saying “Mamá, she’s asking for you.”

And just like that, you hear Kelly. “Don’t panic,” she says first, because she knows you. She knows you’ll spiral. “He’s stable. I need you to listen. He’s okay. But there was an accident. We’re at the hospital.”

Your knees go weak. You sit down, hard, wherever you are. You don’t even register it.

Kelly keeps talking. Calm. Sharp. Piquet in crisis-mode. “It was in the final laps. Contact with the wall. He pulled into the runoff but the marshals had to help him out. He was breathing hard. Said it hurt to move. They brought him in immediately.”

“What’s broken?” you choke out.

“They think his collarbone. Maybe a couple ribs. But nothing internal. Nothing critical. No head trauma. Max is with the doctors now getting the scans.”

Max. Of course. You close your eyes. Max will make sure your son is cared for. He’ll ask every question. Demand the best doctor in the country. Threaten the FIA if needed. He’s done it before. He’s still Max Verstappen. He still has that storm in his chest.

And Kelly, Kelly will hold Lily upright.

Because your poor girl must be shattered. Twenty-two years old. Newly married. Newly pregnant. Pregnant. They just found out. They haven’t even told most of the paddock yet. She’s carrying his daughter. Your granddaughter.

“Lily?” you whisper. “Is she-?”

“She’s okay,” Kelly promises. “Just in shock. But she’s okay. The baby’s fine. We made her sit. She hasn’t left the waiting room.”

You nod, even though they can’t see it.

Your whole body is vibrating.

“Do they know when I can see him?” you ask.

“Not yet,” Kelly says gently. “You don’t need to come right now. I swear to you, he’s going to be okay. We’ll bring him home in a few days.”

And that’s the sentence that breaks you.

We’ll bring him home.

Because that’s what matters. That’s the line you hold onto like a lifeline in a storm. That he’ll come home. That this won’t be the story where a hospital door slams shut. That you won’t become your mother. That you won’t lose a son to the sport that took your father.

You breathe. One. Two. Three.

“Tell Lily I love her,” you say, through tears. “Tell her I’ll call her soon. And thank you. Thank you for being with him.”

“She wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

You hang up. And you sit in that quiet for a long time. Not silent. Not dead. Just quiet in the way grief once was. Before it grew into love. Before love grew into a son. Before that son grew into a man with the same fire as the ones who came before him.

You remember the way his little hands used to wrap around his father’s neck. You remember the first time he said “vroom-vroom.” You remember the moment he fell in love with the sport.

And now you remind yourself what Kelly said. Over and over.

He will be okay. He will get to go home. The broken bones will heal. The bruises will fade. In a few months, he’ll hold his daughter in his arms and forget about the crash.

Because that’s how this life works. The danger never leaves. But neither does the love.

You’re still breathing when Fernando comes home. He’s moving fast. Already aware. Already bracing. But when he sees you, your face pale, eyes swollen, he drops everything.

“Is he alive?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod. He crumbles beside you on the couch. Pulls you in. Wraps you in arms that still carry the muscle memory of pit stops and podiums and all the things he couldn’t protect you from.

You cry into his chest. Just for a while. “He’s going to be okay,” you whisper, like a prayer. “Kelly said a few ribs. Collarbone. But nothing worse. Max is with him.”

Fernando doesn’t answer. Just kisses your head. Holds you like he’s trying to make time stop. “He’ll come home,” you whisper again. “They’ll bring him home.”

And when he does, you’ll hold him tight. You’ll let him rest. You’ll tell him how proud you are. How brave. You’ll watch him run his fingers across Lily’s belly and whisper to the baby about the world he’s building for her. And when she’s born, and he holds her to his chest, broken bones and all, you’ll finally breathe again.

Because family was always the beginning and the end of it. The reason. The legacy. The why.

And this? This is the heart of it all. The reminder that even after the crashes, after the pain, after the prayers whispered into hospital ceilings, what you built will always endure.

The dynasty of survival. The love story of blood. The kingdom of your family.

And nothing, not even fear, will take that from you.

[grandline-fics]

Not My Job Description

DESCRIPTION: "I give it a week" -Captain!Reader and Vice-Admiral!Doffy's first meeting

WARNINGS: none

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 1,267

A/N: I was going to write something else but the worms in my head demanded more Marine!Doffy. Hope you all enjoy and I promise I'll have other stuff written soon! Thank you all for your patience and support 🫡💕

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST | KO-FI

———————

You didn’t know entirely what you were expecting when you arrived at would be your new base and home but this was not it. As soon as your ship docked you felt the overwhelming indescribable buzz of tension and strange amount of sheer positivity directed your way was enough to shock you out of your disbelief that you would be directly serving under Donquixote Doflamingo. Before you’d even stepped off the ship you were met with the deafening “Welcome to the base Captain!” being shouted at you in unison. Your eyes widened at the greeting and slowly looked down at the section of the base’s populace and finally your gaze settled on the two men standing at the bottom of the walkway and headed towards them. 

As you walked you became more and more on edge, taking in the broad, tight smiles everyone was directing your way and it made your back stiffen. You had to resist the urge to reach for your weapon out of a small feeling of dread that you could be attacked at any time. Was this a group of pirates posing as Marines? Were these Marines at threat of something else? Or did no one on this base truly know how to smile? It was too late to turn back now. At least the strange behaviour on display helped settle your nerves somewhat. You came to a stop in front of the tall blond male and the shorter brunette male. “Captain! Welcome to the base, we’ve been so excited for your arrival!”

You opened your mouth to thank the smiling Vice-Admiral but immediately stopped when you watched him not-so subtly elbow his Captain in the ribs. The shorter, tattooed male stumbled under the unexpected blow and his grimace swiftly turned to one of a force smile as he grit out a tight “Yeah, welcome!”

“Th-thanks…” You tried to return the energy to the men but you couldn’t force it to that level especially when you weren’t certain if you were in danger or not. “I take it you’re the other Vice-Admiral? Rosinante?”

“That’s me!” Rosinante greeted with a genuine smile this time and clapped his Captain on the shoulder. “This is Law, my second-in-command.”

“Is Vice-Admiral Doflamingo off base?” You asked, casting another glance around finally relieved to see that now that the welcoming committee were no longer required they went back to their duties, unnerving smiles gone but still it did nothing to fully dissipate the tension. At the mention of the other Vice-Admiral a few froze and hurried their paces. Rosinante tried to think of a gentle lie but Law beat him to it.

“Nah, he’s likely in his office.” He scoffed, rubbing his jaw now that he didn’t need to force a smile anymore. “Whether he’s awake or asleep is another matter, my money’s on sleeping.” Your eyebrows rose slightly but you offered no comment on your superior’s alleged behaviour. 

“Oh Law, you and your jokes!” Rosinante grit out with a nervous laugh, before looking to you. “Come on, I’ll show you around and then we can meet Doffy.”

“Actually sir, if it’s all the same with you, I’d like to meet the Vice-Admiral first.” You requested smoothly, your suspicions about what you’d been truly brought into rising when panic flashed in the other Donquixote sibling’s eyes. “I can find my feet and become acquainted with the base properly after.”

“U-uh s-sure.” Rosinante answered, trying to keep calm. Behind you, the Marines that had been preparing to unload your personal affects paused after hearing the request. They’d been through this song and dance before of Captain’s leaving within a day of arriving and meeting Doflamingo so they decided to save themselves some time and wait. “Law? You coming too?”

“Oh I wouldn’t miss this for anything.” He chuckled and the two men began to lead you down the corridors towards Doflamingo’s office.

As you walked you kept your eyes forward but again you felt the mounting tension again. Any Marine you past would practically flinch and scramble to offer you their brightest smile and salute. It was like they were trying to force you to think everything was perfectly fine and happy but they were only getting the opposite effect. Finally you stopped outside a door and Rosinante knocked once before entering. “Doffy, your Captain’s here!”

You stepped inside and immediately stumbled, looking down to see a bulky file in the way, in fact the entire floor was more paper than wood. Files, maps, bounty posters of varying amounts, important and confidential missives littered the path at every turn. Rosinante and Law stood against the wall, while you navigated the sea of papers towards the desk overflowing with a similar mess. Behind the desk sat Doflamingo, hands folded on his stomach with his long legs kicked up onto the table with no regard for anything under his feet. You came to a stop and offered the reclined and completely unbothered man sitting in front of you the proper greeting with a polite smile gracing your features. “Vice-Admiral Doflamingo, thank you for this opportunity. I’m-”

“-a week.” Doflamingo interrupted you, his voice low, practically bored. Your smile froze and your jaw clenched slightly. Behind you you heard Rosinante mutter his brother’s name, pleading but ultimately resigned. He knew this would happen.

“Beg your pardon?” You asked, needing clarification on his words. You knew he was clearly trying to insult you but in what way? Was he calling you weak?

“I give it a week.” Doflamingo stated, turning slightly to remain in his relaxed position but at least he was facing you now. Behind the bright red glasses on his face you felt his gaze lazily look you over. You could feel the cold, boredom and sharp scrutiny in his hidden gaze and it pissed you off. Your annoyance only grew when he tucked his hands behind his head. “You should be grateful I’m being this kind with my estimation but yeah…you’ll be out of here within the week.”

“That a fact?” You asked smoothly, adjusting your stance to stand tall and fold your hands behind your back. 

“Honestly I don’t know what Headquarters are doing anymore.” Doflamingo said with mock sadness. “Standards really are slipping if they made you Captain.”

“Oh I don’t know.” You mused stepping forward to tilt your head curiously and made a point to look him over with a blank, disinterested expression. “After all they made you Vice-Admiral…maybe they never had any standards to begin with?”

Law snorted at your comment and Doflamingo’s jaw twitched. Dramatically you offered your so-called superior a flourishing salute. “Like I said, thank you for this opportunity. I’ll see you in a week sir. Maybe sooner if you feel like there’s work within your capability to do.” You cast a pointed look to the stacks of untouched work and let your lips twitch in a sarcastic smile. Sharply you turned on your heel and headed for the door. “Until then, if I have any questions, I’ll ask the cadets. They seem competent.”

When you left the room and the door shut with a simple click. Law and Rosinante shared surprised glances and finally looked to Doflamingo who glared heavily at the shut door. On the one hand he was silently and reluctantly impressed that you held your ground but on the other hand it pissed him off. Maybe he had underestimated you. Two weeks then. He’d give you two weeks and certainly not a day longer. There was no way someone like you could possibly last as his second-in-command.

[writingdarling]

Could I perchance request a ronin x reader who always has headphones on to listen to music, And is very dependent on their headphones ? I swear I’d DIE without my headphones cuz they bring me so much comfort (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) ⁠♡

Girlypop....are you me in another body or something ??

Literally have had panic attacks when my headphones died and I didn't have a spare (I carry three spares on me at all times now lol).

Either ways....

Content warning: Yelling at the reader

(Killer Chat) Ronin x HeadphoneDependant!Reader

First time he video calls you, the first thing he points out are your headphones

“Wow, you put those on just for my call~? You enjoy my voice that much huh ?”

You feel the need to bash him upside the head

“The universe doesn’t revolve around your enormous ego Ronin.”

It becomes less of a target as time moves on

He even forgets about it, as your relationship develops

And on that fateful day in Purgatory, where his knife is aimed right at you, where you…kiss him for the first time, he vaguely notes that he sees a pair of headphone shoved half-hazardly into your bag

As you begin to see each other more in real life, he starts poking the bear, asking questions

“Do you need those on your head at all times sugar ? Isn’t my sweet voice enough for you ?”

You shove him away, muttering something about how your headphones block out unwanted annoying voices

He acts like you’ve stabbed him in the gut

But still, you’d have to give him credit

When your headphone dies on a crowded bus, the first thing he does is pull out his own beat-up pair and shove them onto your head

Your mouth is still open, 5 seconds ago you were hyperventilating about your headphones, about how loud the world suddenly sounds and now….

Ronin pats your head and presses something on his phone and suddenly the lyrics of an old 2000’s metal song is blaring in your ears

“Your…your taste in music is shit.” You mumble, but you still shove your face against his neck as his arms come to cradle you as if you’re precious

After that incident, Ronin’s the first one to check your headphones battery, hell he’s probably the one plucking them off your head if your asleep and charging them for you

He gets it, to some degree. How loud the world can be without a barrier.

Sometimes if you’re wearing your headphone at home, music full blast, he’ll creep up behind you, scaring the absolute shit out of you, for the fun of it

He shuts you up with a well-timed kiss before you can even scream though

And if any asshole gives you shit about your headphones ?

Well..

You shift uncomfortably next to Ronin, trying to ignore the people at the next table over, who are obviously pointing at you. 

Ronin doesn’t even have to glance at you, his right hand immediately coming to pull you even closer to him, muttering out loud about “people who can’t mind their own damn business”.

You smile at him, poking his cheek. “You’re going soft.” You tease, giggling.

Ronin finally turns to look at you, his face smirking, but you notice the way his eyebrows knit together, and he opens his mouth-

Someone knocks hard on your headphones.

The sudden sound makes you jump, causing your chair to make a screeching sound against the ground.

“What the fuck is your problem you hag.” Ronin’s hand finds yours and he rubs his thumb reassuringly against your skin.

When you turn around, you recognize the woman who had so rudely knocked on your headphones, she being one of the people who were pointing at you from the other table.

“Take them off.” She glares at you.

“...What ?” Your voice comes out weaker than intended, Ronin squeezes your hand. 

“You’re setting a bad example for my child.”

She points dramatically towards her kid back at the table, her headphones in her hands, staring at the scene her mother was creating like it was her own personal nightmare.

You felt for that poor girl.

Her mother on the other hand…

“Did I come out of your birth canal woman?” You stated flatly. Ronin barks out a laugh which he smothers against your shoulder,

“...What did you just say ?” The woman puts a hand to her chest, as if you shot her. 

“You heard me. I’m not your kid, I’m some stranger in a public restaurant who you just basically assaulted and are trying to force to take off their own property.”

You raise your voice, other patrons start to notice.

“What- How dare-!”

Ronin shoves the last piece of food into his mouth and stands up loudly.

“I simply can’t stand to be in an environment where my dearest partner is getting so brutally abused.” He declares to the entire restaurant. The wait staff looks between him, you and the lady.

You take your que and feel your crocodile tears well up in your eyes.

“Ma’am, please don’t yell at me….”

You bury your face in Ronin’s stomach as he pats your head comfortingly, lying bastard.

Well, maybe he isn’t lying about the “dearest partner” part.

A manager appears from nowhere and quickly apologizes to you and Ronin, directing you to the cashier, who gives you a 50% discount on your lunch due to the meddling bitch.

Aye there’s at least that,

The woman is still arguing with staff when you and Ronin walk out.

He had his arm slung around you casually. You wonder whether his smile comes from the chaos he just did or from you.

As if reading your mind, he grabs your phone, playing a stupid rock metal love song he found from the depths of hell (you think, the sound quality is trash).

He told you that it reminded him of you.

You grin.

“You are going soft.”

Ronin waves away the statement like it’s nothing but slander and lies.

“Like Hell, I am.”

Protective Ronin (or any love interest really) goes brrr

The little story part about the lady is inspired from my own life events

yeah people every can't mind their own business, its a fucking shame

anyways i hope you enjoyeddddddd

[joluvsfinnick]

Etched The Same Pt.2

f!reader x finnick odair

a mini series

summary - soulmates share a scar. you earn yours in blood, while he earns his in silence. but, he doesn’t tell you. not because he doesn’t feel the same, but because he’s terrified you’ll look at him and wish it had been someone else.

warnings - none

a/n - i am aware there’s lowkey some plot holes in this but we’re gonna ignore it ok?🙏☺️

You always knew this was coming.

Not just in the way anyone who’s ever worn a victor’s crown knows. But in the way you knew storms before they arrived, something in the air, in the ache behind your ribs, in the way Finnick stopped smiling days before the announcement.

When your name was called for the Quarter Quell, everything inside you shattered. And then his name followed. You didn’t hear it so much as feel it, like the ground falling out beneath you. The two of you stood on stage in silence, twin ghosts in the District 4 sun.

You didn’t speak much after that. What was there to say? You’d talked about it in vague, terrified what-ifs. You’d joked about running, about faking illnesses or injuries, but it never felt real until it was. Until you were back on that train. Until you were being swallowed by velvet seats and Capitol food and the clinking sound of glassware over the sound of your quiet sobbing.

You cried most of the way there.

Finnick tried to comfort you. He didn’t say much, he didn’t have to. His presence was grounding. One hand on your back. A soft glance you didn’t return. At night, when the train hummed and you couldn’t sleep, you could hear him pacing in the other room.

At the Training Center, he wore his mask well. Golden boy. Effortless charm. You watched him wrap people around his little finger like he was born to do it. But you knew him better now. You could see it, the edge in his eyes. The way he kept checking over his shoulder, like the arena might open up beneath him at any moment.

He still found you at night.

At the dining table, on the rooftop, sometimes just sitting beside you on the floor in silence. It became routine, like your old dock visits back home, but colder. Brighter. Crueler. Some nights he told you stories about old Games. Others, he just sat close enough that your knees touched.

Neither of you talked about what might come next. But time doesn’t stop and what both of you have spent months fearing finally arrives.

It’s chaos from the first second.

The jungle is thick, unrelenting. The air tastes like metal and heat. Everything happens at once, screams, blood, sprinting across the sand as water and allies blur into panic. You make it to the treeline together, Finnick’s hand around your wrist, breathless orders exchanged between you and the others you’ve paired with. Peeta and Katniss, the starstruck lovers from 12.

You’re not separated by choice. It’s strategy, or at least that’s what it’s supposed to be. “I’ll double back,” you tell him. “Grab what you can. I’ll find you.”

Finnick hesitates. His eyes linger longer than they should. Then, with a tight nod, he’s gone, vanishing into the green.

But, of course nothing happens like you plan. You don’t find him again in time. The attack comes fast. A blur of muscle and fury from another tribute. You block one hit, stagger beneath another. You hit the ground hard, cheek pressed to mud, tasting copper and panic. You don’t know if you scream. You don’t know if they do.

All you know is pain.

By the time you crawl away, bleeding and half-conscious, the world is spinning. You don’t know where Finnick is. You don’t even know which direction you came from. You just know you can’t stop. You can’t die here. Not before you see him again.

—

Finnick moved cautiously through the thick underbrush, the damp earth muffling his steps but never quite quiet enough to soothe his fraying nerves. The weight of the humid air clung to his skin beneath the wet suit, every breath feeling shallow and urgent. Peeta and Katniss followed a few feet behind, silent but alert—Katniss’s eyes sharp and guarded as always.

Without warning, a sudden, searing pain erupted along Finnick’s side, sharp and fierce, as if something had been dragged across his ribs beneath the slick fabric. He gasped, instinctively doubling over, clutching at his side where the ache radiated like fire.

“Finnick!” Peeta’s voice broke through the haze, full of alarm as he hurried forward. Katniss’s gaze swept frantically around, searching for an attacker, but all they saw was the dense green wilderness pressing in on them.

Finnick’s vision blurred for a moment, his body trembling as the pain pulsed relentlessly beneath his suit. He couldn’t see the wound, but the fire beneath his skin was impossible to ignore.

A cold, gnawing feeling settled deep in his gut, a panic that made his heart pound faster—not just from the pain, but from something deeper. Something raw and urgent, pulling him like a tether.

He didn’t know why, but an instinct screamed at him: find her.

No matter the cost.

Finnick forced himself upright, every breath sharp, every movement weighted with purpose. Peeta’s steadying hand on his arm was grounding, but Finnick barely felt it.

“We have to find her,” he said hoarsely, voice rough with the fire burning inside him. Katniss nodded, her expression hardening as she read the resolve in his eyes.

Whatever was waiting out there, whatever dangers lurked in the shadows, Finnick knew one thing with brutal certainty, he couldn’t lose her.

You stumble through the dense brush, every breath burning sharp in your chest. Your side throbs unbearably, the wound slicing through your wet suit and oozing thick, hot blood that drips down your ribs. Pain blurs your vision, and your legs finally give out beneath you. You collapse against the rough bark of a towering tree, letting your back slide down until you’re half-sitting, half-slumped.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy and reluctant to stay open. You try to scream but your voice fails you, swallowed by the pounding ache in your side and the crushing exhaustion weighing down your limbs.

Then, footsteps. Multiple. Fast. Crunching leaves and snapping twigs.

Your heart hammers wildly. Maybe it’s the Careers. Maybe it’s the tribute who attacked you, returning with reinforcements to finish what they started. Fear tightens around your chest, cold and suffocating.

Suddenly, a shout cuts through the chaos. “Finnick! Over here!” The voice is familiar, urgent, full of hope.

Peeta. Relief floods through you, fragile but fierce. You force your eyes open just a little more, clinging to the sound.

Finnick bursts through the thicket, branches snapping underfoot, his chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. Panic claws at his throat, thick and suffocating. The sight of you slumped against the tree, the way your body trembles, eyes fluttering, sets something cold and fierce twisting in his gut.

Dropping to his knees beside you, his hands shake as they cup your face, searching for any sign that you’re still there. His fingertips brush damp strands of hair away from your forehead, and his voice breaks, rough and desperate.

“Stay with me. Please. You have to stay awake.”

Your eyes meet his, glassy but flickering, and he clings to the smallest spark of awareness. Every breath you take feels shallow, uneven, like you’re slipping away inch by inch.

His mind races, too loud to ignore. How did this happen? Where were you? I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.

Katniss’s sharp voice cuts through the haze. “She’s bleeding.”

Finnick’s gaze drops, and his heart twists painfully as he sees the dark crimson spreading through the torn fabric of your wet suit. The gash, deep, raw, and cruel, right where he had felt that sudden, searing pain earlier. The exact same spot.

His breath hitches. The cold dread that had settled in his chest now burns hot and wild.

No. No, it can’t be.

His hands tighten around your face, but his eyes are pulled down to that wound. He can’t see his own scar because of the wet suit, but the memory of that sudden ache in his side is fresh, sharp.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence. A sick joke fate is playing on them.

But inside, something screams otherwise. Fear. Anguish. A helplessness so profound it threatens to swallow him whole.

“Finnick,” Peeta’s voice is close, but distant. Like it’s coming from underwater.

Finnick blinks, trying to pull himself back. His fingers brush against the ragged edge of your suit, feeling the slick wetness of blood. His skin prickles, every nerve ending screaming. He can’t lose you. Not now. Not after everything.

“Hold on,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please, just hold on.”

He swallows the lump in his throat, fighting the urge to break down, to scream. His heart pounds in his chest, every beat a painful reminder of what’s at stake.

But there’s no time. Not here. The Cornucopia is too close, the open terrain too dangerous. You hear Katniss somewhere behind him, tense and watching the treeline. Her voice is clipped. “We can’t stay here.”

“Right,” Finnick says, swallowing hard, and then you feel it—his arms sliding beneath you. You try to brace for it, but when he lifts you, the pain crashes through your body like a lightning strike. A choked sound escapes you before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his shoulder, gripping wet fabric as your body shakes.

“Shh, shh, I know,” Finnick whispers, jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Just hold on. We’re almost there.” Every step jostles your wound, and every step feels like fire. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, trying desperately not to scream, not to cry, not to give the Capitol more than they’ve already taken. Finnick’s heartbeat pounds against your cheek, fast and panicked, like yours. Like you’re tethered. He carries you through the thick jungle, Peeta and Katniss flanking both sides with weapons drawn.

Finally, they find a hollowed-out nook just past a fallen tree, half-hidden by thick foliage. Safe enough for now. Finnick lays you down gently onto a patch of moss. You’re already drenched in sweat, your body trembling with shock.

“Peeta, water,” Katniss says briskly, kneeling beside you.

Finnick is already at your side again, his hands at the zipper of your wetsuit. “I need to see it. I’m sorry,” he says, eyes flicking to yours for permission. You nod weakly.

The zipper drags slowly down your side, the soaked fabric sticking to your skin. When the gash is finally exposed, you hear Katniss curse under her breath. It’s worse than everyone thought.

Finnick’s breath catches. The wound is torn across your side, deep and red and angry, nearly identical to the ghost of pain he still feels beneath his own suit. But he says nothing. Not yet. He forces himself to move, to do something.

Katniss digs quickly through her pouch, pulling out some mashed herbs she’d collected hours ago. “This’ll help with infection,” she mutters, voice low but urgent. “It’s going to sting.” She presses it into the wound with trembling fingers.

It’s not a sting. It’s agony.

Your entire body seizes up. You arch, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to hold back the scream rising in your throat. Your fingers grab for the ground, for air, for something. Finnick’s hand finds yours instantly, and you grip it like a lifeline.

He watches you. Watches your face twist in pain. Watches your eyes fill with tears you won’t let fall. And all the while, that same deep ache gnaws at his side. His mind spirals.

It’s the same place. The same kind of wound.

What are the odds? Is it even possible?

No. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be desperate. It’s just coincidence. Just the arena playing cruel tricks.

But still, he can’t stop looking at it.

Katniss presses more of the paste into the gash, and your nails dig into Finnick’s palm. He doesn’t flinch. “She needs rest,” Katniss murmurs after a while. “We all do.”

He nods, but he doesn’t move from your side. Not when Peeta lies down. Not when Katniss takes first watch. He stays kneeling beside you, brushing the sweat-drenched strands of hair away from your forehead, his eyes never leaving your face.

He can still feel it, the phantom pulse of pain where your wound matches his.

The jungle is quiet for now.

Peeta’s breathing is steady beside you, soft and rhythmic, his body finally succumbing to exhaustion. You’re curled on your side beneath the makeshift shelter, lips parted, your brow still furrowed in pain even in sleep. Finnick hasn’t taken his eyes off you for hours.

He should be asleep. Katniss is on watch, crouched just beyond the perimeter, her eyes sharp and bow at her side. The fire is down to a faint flicker, throwing ghostly shadows across the trees. He knows he should rest. But he can’t.

Not until he knows.

That gash on your side, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. The way his own pain had torn through him before he ever found you. The way his stomach dropped the second he saw the blood, the location, the shape.

It could still be coincidence, he tells himself. That it has to be.

But his hands are already moving.

With a shaky breath, Finnick rises slowly to his feet, careful not to disturb Peeta or wake you. He steps just far enough from the sleeping group to give himself a shred of privacy, standing in the damp undergrowth, his body barely lit by the dim orange glow of dying embers.

His fingers go to the zipper of his wetsuit.

The quiet rasp of it echoes louder than he expects. When he peels the top half down, the suit drags across tender skin. He bites back a hiss as it slides over the raw spot—his breath stuttering. It doesn’t hurt as much, not like it hurt you. But it still hurts. God, does it hurt.

And there it is.

The scar.

His heart nearly stops.

The jagged wound curves across his side, almost identical in length, width, and shape. Still red. Still angry. Still new. “No,” he breathes, staggering back a step. “No, no…”

He grips a nearby tree trunk to steady himself, one hand flying to his face as the other presses against the wound. It’s not just pain anymore. It’s terror. Awe. Disbelief. A thousand questions exploding behind his eyes, none of them with answers. His eyes blur. He curses under his breath, trying to blink the tears away.

Behind him, there’s a soft shuffle of movement. He turns just enough to see Katniss standing now, halfway risen from her crouch, her eyes narrowed in the low firelight.

He freezes.

She stares at his bare torso, and when her gaze finds the wound, she goes still. Her face hardens, not with suspicion this time, but something closer to shock. Recognition. Understanding.

“Finnick,” she whispers, the name like a question, like a warning. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. Because the look on her face tells him she knows, too. She saw the wound when they treated you. She remembered where it was.

And now she’s looking at the exact same one on his body.

“You both didn’t know before…?” Katniss asks, barely audible.

Finnick doesn’t answer. His throat is too tight. His chest too full. Because no, you both didn’t know before the arena. Before this. All those years you had spent together, sharing sunsets, dinners, teasing each other back and forth while you talked about fate, and the lack of faith Finnick had in it, only for it to become some twisted reality for him.

And now? Only Katniss and him know. You don’t.

Not yet, and honestly, he’s not sure if he can even tell you.

Later in the night, Finnick sat close, close enough to feel the faint rise and fall of your chest, but far enough not to crowd you. Your body twitched in restless sleep, a soft whimper escaping your lips as pain seized you in its merciless grip. Each subtle movement stabbed his heart like a thousand needles, tearing him apart from the inside out.

He wanted to reach out, to cradle you, to tell you everything swirling inside his mind—but he couldn’t. Not yet.

What if you didn’t make it? What if fate was cruel enough to snatch you away before either of you could breathe freely again?

And worse, what if you didn’t want him? He knew you both had endless banter all those years, and sometimes your actions made him wonder.. just wonder.. if you saw him the same way or not.

He knew victory came with its own scars, wounds often invisible but just as deep. You’d survived your own battles, battles different from his, but no less brutal. And he couldn’t bear the thought of becoming another burden, another shadow in your already complicated life.

You had spent your whole life surviving things you never asked for. He wasn’t about to become one of those things.

So he stayed silent, swallowing the truth and the hope alike, holding his feelings close like a secret flame in the dark.

Because right now, all that mattered was your survival. And that was a fight they’d face together, when the time was right.

a/n - helloooo i know it was kind of short, forgive me!! its been an insanely busy week. pt. 3 will be longer :) (it’ll also be the last part)

[writteninthesewalls28]

Love is a stranger

Chapter 3

Based on „Call your mom“ by Noah Kahan

Chloe Baker, unpublished romance author who tries to escape her past day by day meets Lando Norris at a friends birthday party and immediately feels something. But their love is not supposed to be, there is a rough past ahead of them filled with hidden secrets and long-lasting trauma. Is their love strong enough?

A/n: I didn‘t want to write everything in one part, so this is a short one again, but I promise the next one is going to be a bit more exciting.

Warnings: low self esteem, further into the series also talks of depression, panic/anxiety attacks

Taglist: @landofotographyy @nickie-amore

„Love is a stranger“ series Masterlist

The airport is noisy. Too noisy, for my personal liking. 

I feel my heart racing in my chest as I walk past all these people. Strangers that I am never going to meet again, never going to cross paths with again. I am not going to remember their faces, their clothes, their muffled words that they said to the person next to them. 

But I am going to remember the moment I run into the arms of the person I missed most. I thought it was impossible to miss someone you just met, but the aching in my heart that I have carried around for the past weeks mends with every step that I know brings me closer to Lando. It‘s like the thought that I am about to see him again lets me breathe without a truck driving over my lungs repeatedly for the first time again. 

I already have my luggage with me as I race through the halls of the airport, my feet loudly hitting the whitened floor beneath me. 

“Bienvenue à Nice“ is written in big, red letters across the entrance floor, but I don‘t slow down to take it all in. 

I just want to see Lando. Now.

My eyes wander across the crowd of people, waiting for someone to arrive. I look for his dark curls, his beautiful face. His eyes. 

I want to drown in his eyes and not be rescued. Because he is my rescue, my safe haven. 

And then I see him. As if he felt my gaze on him, his eyes find mine and as he recognizes me, the most genuine smile grows on his face that makes my face light up too. 

Everything that happens next, only happens in slow motion. We run towards each other, I drop my black luggage on the floor with a loud thud, but don‘t even notice. 

Finally, his arms wrap around my body, I am consumed by his soft smell of something that truly feels like home. Like coming home. He leans down slightly and his big hands are placed carefully on my back, I am quite literally sure that this is the most love I have ever experienced. 

I hug him back. I know I am not good at showing affection, I know I probably ruin this moment for him, but even though the thoughts echoe through my head, they aren‘t as prominent as I expected them to be. 

This moment matters more. Just feeling matters more. 

„You‘re here.“ he whispers against my ear, burying his head in my shoulder like he actually can‘t believe it. 

„I‘m here.“ I say, not sounding a lot more convinced of his presence.

“And you are going to stay.“ He lets out. I can hear the smile in his voice as the words leave his mouth. 

“Yes, I am.“ 

We don‘t let go of each other for the next minutes. We just stand there in the middle of the entrance hall, head to head, body to body. 

I am still dressed in my long-sleeve sweater and start to sweat a bit more every second, but wouldn‘t even think of letting go of him first, scared that this was all just a ridiculous dream after all.

It then finally is him who lets go of me first and after that just continues to stare deeply into my eyes, the smile never leaving his face. It is like someone painted it on this morning and now it just stays there forever. 

I wouldn‘t mind. 

Seeing this smile for the rest of my life would make me one of the happiest people on the planet. 

We step outside the airport, him carrying my luggage and looking like it is a pleasure for him to do so. We are met with hot, humid climate that Lando seems to have adapted to quite well after all these years of living in Monaco all by himself, but because of the huge difference that this weather is to my hometown London, I immediately feel the sweat dripping down my back. 

I really need to change. 

———————————

One transfer from the Nice Côte d‘Azur airport to Monaco later, we arrive in the city of the rich and famous. 

Lando must‘ve noticed that I am too exhausted from the flight to do a sightseeing tour and takes me straight to his apartment. It is bigger than I thought it was when I always saw it in the background of our phone calls, but I like it very much from the first second. 

My bags and the big, black suitcase in his long hallway look like they don‘t belong here and don‘t exactly fit in. 

And I stand next to them like I don‘t either, but only until Lando makes his way over to me and his hand brushes along mine, a soft touch as if he is unsure if I want this sort of physical affection or not. 

He looks into my eyes with a warm look on his face before asking me: „Just one question. Do you want the guest room or do you want to sleep together with me in my bedroom?“ 

If I thought the butterflies in my stomach couldn‘t possibly fly around even more, I am pretty sure they just doubled their speed. 

He wants me to sleep next to him? He wants me. 

„I‘d love to sleep in your bedroom.“ I feel the red rushing into my cheeks as I say the words, realising that I really am here. In his apartment, and he looks at me like nothing matters more than me and the time we can spend together without a phone screen inbetween us. 

„Then let’s go.“ A cheeky grin grows bigger and bigger on his face as he takes my suitcase in his one hand and grabs my hand with his other before rushing me into his bedroom. 

It’s a small room compared to everything else I have seen so far, but still bigger than my bedroom and living room combined. A king size bed in the middle, a big window on the opposite side and a few work out utensils lying around the room, the first sign that proves that he actually does live here. With a loud thud my suitcase lands on the floor once more and Lando doesn‘t even think about letting go of my hand just now. 

„You tired?“ he just asks, studying my face like it is a piece of art. 

I nod, feeling the excitement and adrenalin give way to exhaustion. „Very.“ I stroke loose parts of my ponytail out of my face and rub over my tired eyes that suddenly start itching like crazy. 

Normal signs that my body sends me when it needs rest. But it is different this time. It is no negative exhaustion that comes after a stressful day with lots of anger and sadness bubbling my stomach, it‘s a sort of exhaustion after experiencing so much happiness that my soul is just begging for a short break to be able to reset and process everything in its own time. 

„Does my pretty girl want to take a nap then?“ 

For a short second I feel guilt in my lower stomach for being in Lando‘s way, but quickly push these thoughts away. This weekend is about feeling positive and enjoying life, something that I never really was good at. 

I nod again, letting myself sit on the bed and pushing my sneakers off my tired feet. 

“I`ll let you have some alone time then.“ Lando smiles at me again one last time before silently closing the vintage-looking door behind him. 

The last thing I hear before falling into a peaceful sleep are Lando‘s muffled steps moving away from the door and then I close my eyes. 

————————————

Waking up again, I feel— relaxed. I don‘t know when I woke up the last time and did not feel like going back to sleep just again. But this time I step outside the bedroom and I am met with a girl in the mirror with a happy smile on my face. 

Said smile grows even bigger when I wander around the apartment and find Lando standing in the kitchen trying to flip pancakes in a pan. 

„How long did I sleep?“ I ask with my voice still a bit hoarse. 

Lando turns around to me, a grin resting on his face just like it has for the entirety of the day. „For about an hour. How are you?“ he asks while placing the pancake on the plate next to the oven. 

“Good. Relaxed. And excited to see a bit more of Monaco.“ I answer him, taking the plate that he is offering to me. „You didn‘t need to cook anything though, it‘s the middle of the day.“ 

He just shrugs, turns around again and pours the next portion of dough into the pan and waits for it to get ready. 

I didn‘t know I like a guy who cooks, but apparently, I find everything attractive that Lando does, so why am I even surprised? 

„But I wanted to. Have a seat, love.“ He points to the table two meters away from the kitchen aisle and I quickly sit down on one of the wooden chairs. 

Before thinking about an answer, I decide to take a bite from the pancake and find myself letting out a loud sigh as the sweet taste of the pastry fills my mouth. 

Lando, clearly amused by my reaction, walks up to me. „You like it? I didn‘t know if pancakes were your thing, but I thought I‘d just try it anyways.“ 

„I LOVE it. I mean— I think you need to make them every day from now on.“ I say, still chewing and a little too excited about a silly pancake. But it doesn‘t matter, not when it involves Lando. 

„If it‘s just that…“ 

We eat the pancakes and chat, both happy that we can look each other in the eyes without so many countries in between us and can‘t stop ourselves from touching the other person‘s hand or leg every once in a while.

Every touch is simple, a small gesture that raises my heartrate just right and leaves me disappointed once his warm hand disappears again. 

Joking around, I notice that everything is so much easier with him by my side, that all suddenly, my life feels as light as a feather and I can finally breathe freely. 

After all these years of struggling, all it took was going to a horrible birthday and finding him. The man that I don‘t deserve.

And here I sit in his apartment, reminding myself of the promise I gave to myself before stepping into the airplane. Tell him. Tell him now, don‘t let it stand between you and him like a brick wall. 

His blue eyes stare into mine, I drown in his ocean and I ignore my past and undeniably also my present because I want to enjoy this different version of my life for one more moment before our bubble that we created since my arrival explodes just like it always does. 

One more moment of thinking that I am just like everybody else, that I am just another girl falling in love with just another man. 

No panic attacks, no heavy past, no depression. Just sunshine, Monaco and the most amazing man right by my side. 

There‘s enough time tomorrow, I tell myself over and over again until I really do believe it. I know it is wrong. But I don‘t want to ruin everything great immediately, I want to live carefree for once. Just one single fucking time.

Moments later, Lando and I walk through the narrow streets of Monaco together. It’s like I entered a completely different world, there are people wearing expensive brands and driving around in Ferraris everywhere. 

And such a person walks right next to me, brushing along my hand ever so slightly, completely unaware that he creates goosebumps over my entire body every time.

Lando is rich. Just because he prefers wearing a simple shirt and sweatpants with a hat does not mean that there aren‘t at least five sports cars standing in his underground car park. Or that he couldn‘t buy a watch worth millions. 

This is a completely different world than I live in. A world where money can buy you everything, probably even a contract with the biggest publishing house on the planet, no matter how bad your book is. I remember all the manuscripts sitting in the drafts of my laptop that I want to show the world so bad and find myself wishing to have these sort of privileges, but quickly remind myself that with wealth, there comes sadness and loneliness, two things that I already had enough of for the rest of my life. 

Instead of worrying about my non-existing career, I decide to focus on the moment and enjoy my time with Lando, which involves taking a lot of pictures of the stunning architecture, feeling very inspired for my next writing project that I am surely going to start plotting just when I get home from this trip. 

And tomorrow, I will go with him to the F1 paddock. It is going to be amazing. 

[crime-wives]

why do the strangest things trigger my anxiety/panic attacks? a song played on my spotify shuffle and then i spiraled for 30 minutes 🙃