∔ mixed martial arts fighter au
pairing mma fighter! lucas x fem reader
author’s notes this is probably bad. i’m sleepy and it’s great but i hope you like it :)
at around 5 am, lucas rises from bed with heavy eyes and a functioning body. the bedroom is dark and warm, it lulls lucas back to sleep the moment he wakes up. the sheets slide right off his bare chest; he groans softly when he stands up and pulls his sweatpants farther up on his hips.
you’re still in bed. slightly woken up by the sinking in the mattress, and plan to make him coffee once you got over the fact that lucas had practice this morning.
he walks into the bathroom to splash his face with cold water and throw together some kind of outfit for the gym; you sit up in bed and rub your hands down your face and through your hair to put it in a bun.
he knows you’re awake, and you slide out of bed with a heavy face to go to the kitchen, knowing you could just fall back asleep when he left for the gym.
the kitchen is so cold and dark. it’s sad to admit but you’re missing him already and he hadn’t even left yet.
you open the curtains in the kitchen to refrain from turning on the lights, knowing they’d be too bright for your sensitive eyes this early. the sun has barely made her daily debut into the sky, just barely shining her rays over the horizon as the rest of the sky ombre to black.
padding over to the coffee machine, your warmed feet meet the cold tile. it’s cold enough to make you wince and miss the warmth of your bed and the furnace of a body that laid next to you.
you pour water and coffee grounds into the machine before turning around, letting your back hit the counter as you wait for heavy footsteps leading to the kitchen to sound throughout the house.
lucas walks in as the coffee finishes and you grab a cup from the kitchen cupboards. you feel his presence tall behind you as he rests his hands on your hips.
through your pajama shorts, you feel his large hands are indeed warm; and in the last moments you shared with him in your kitchen you decided to lavish in the feeling of him around you.
you close your eyes, his chest pressing against your back and his lips meeting the junction of your shoulder and neck.
in the moment, you sigh, closing your eyes to the soft feeling of his pillowy lips kissing along your neck to your cheek. his line of kisses burning a pathon your skin. “you don’t have to go.” you remind him, hands closing the cupboard and the glass cup clinking softly on the granite counter tops.
he nods, you feel his hold tighten, and his hands brush up to your waist to hold you closer to him. his sizable hands expands over your stomach and waist, thumb stroking your rib cage as you shudder.
“i know…” he says, stepping back to rest on the counter next to you. you lift your gaze from your hands on the cup to meet his own eyes. he smiles a bit, eyes falling now and teeth chewing at his lip.
“i’ll stop when we’re well off in money.” he says, now pouring a cup of coffee. you watch his face as he does so and see the purple bags beneath his eyes beginning to take a toll on his tanned features.
“lucas we can be dirt poor, and i would still love everything about you.” you remind him, hand stretching to meet his face, his vision turning to look at you with a cup of coffee now in hand.
“the money doesn’t matter. you don’t have to get beaten up for diamond earrings and a fur coat.” your thumb strokes his prominent cheekbone, feeling his smooth skin beneath your fingers. “all you have to do is be yukhei.”
he smiles; chuckles a bit; and you drop your hands from his handsome face when he looks down to think of a good enough retaliation.
he leaves soon enough after that, you sighing knowing you have this conversation every morning before he leaves to go to the gym to practice. it’s normal.
lucas has a fight that night, walking out in the cheering crowds clad in his brand colors. he’s loved by the audience. he’s loved when he knocks out the opponent. he’s loved when he wins.
you watch him from the first row of chairs, seeing him wrapping his wrists and knuckles in white bandages, chest flexing and forearm muscles working to do so. he shoots you a wink when he can, you’e worried about his physical state, even when he wins.
that’s every fight. you filled with worry for him. scared of every hit, flinch at every punch. you call his parents mid fight to reassure them of their son being okay.
blood dribbles down from his nose to his chin, he spits he liquid from his mouth, teeth momentarily stained red as anger boils in his eyes.
you swore in that moment you saw the devil himself flash in lucas’ eyes. one double roundhouse kick to the jaw and the opponent was out. lucas turns over his shoulder before he hits the ground and he left with 500,000 dollars.
when he comes home, you’e already there and have just walked out of the shower.
he throws his gym bags to the side of the room and sits on your shared bed with an exhausted look gracing his beaten face. bruises scattered along his neck and eyes, nose busted, lips bleeding, his hair somewhat matted to the sides of his face with someones blood, unsure of his own or maybe his opponents.
you walk out with the first aid kit, unaware of his arrival at your shared house and you nearly jump when you see his sulked figure zoning out on the bed.
“lucas you scared the shit out of me-” “my face… hurts.” he looks to you, expression still blank, but attempting to lighten the mood.
“well, you know what i’m going to say.” you set the kit down at the bedside table and begin to take out the contents one by one. he sighs a bit, readjusting himself to stand with a hearty wince leaving his lips. “f-fuck…” he whispers.
you chest aches to the sound of his winces and protest of pain, but you listen as he limps to the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
you watch the bathroom door close behind him, blinking as the sound echoes throughout the bedroom.
your lucas seemed to have lost all of the boyish charm he once used to show so brightly.
every ounce of ridiculous dorky energy that made everyone love lucas was gone. in place of that; was a constantly tired and exhausted groans and lack of meaningful conversation. he talked about his parents less. he sang less. he danced with you less.
he showers, washing the excess blood from his body as his muscles begin to relax. you wait for him just outside of the bathroom while preparing the kit to clean his wounds.
he comes back out five minutes late smelling like the musk of his body wash and sits at the edge of the bed for you to begin working on his wounds. you brush his wet hair from his face and dab at the open cuts with peroxide, ignoring his protests and flinches.
his wounds are dressed some minutes later. you’ve neglected to talk to him while doing this and come back to lucas’ head bowed. you walk up to him, putting a soft hand in his hair and nothing more.
his head lifts a bit to your palm and suddenly he’s pulled your body to his. you yelp softly at him, feeling his hands at the backs of your knees and his forehead against your waist.
it takes you a moment to contemplate touching him, but he doesn’t let go of you, and you give in to his syrupy sweetness to put both hands in his hair and smooth back the wet strands.
“i’m sorry…” he mumbles into the fabric of his shirt you’re wearing.
you know he’s apologizing for the fighting. for the late nights at 2 am you spend cleaning his wounds and comforting his sore body, he’s sorry for putting you through the pain of having to watch him get his ass beat.
and he’s sorry for everything he’s done wrong and everything he can’t give you.
but it’s never been about that. and you remind him when you can.
“lucas… it’s…” you pause, and he lifts his head to press his face against you now. “it’s not about me all the time.” you answer.
“i just want you to be happy.” you say.
he nods, trying to fight everything in him to start crying.
“y/n… i love you man.” he jokes, laughing his sadness away. you chuckle alongside with him, now sitting down on the bed beside him and taking his hand in your own.
“i love you too, dude. we’re in this together.”
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