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felassan · 2 months ago

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Sylvia Feketekuty: "To celebrate DA day, I've made a bluesky account that I'll keep active for a few days to talk about my work on Inqusition or Veilguard! After a few days I'll lock the account, because I'm not a social media person. Happy to talk until then though. I want to say straight off: the reception to Emmrich, Manfred, the Mourn Watch, and the Grand Necropolis has been heartwarming for all of us who worked on those people and places. Thank you all very much!" [source, two]

Rest of post under cut due to length and spoilers. [Post Two, Post Three]

Sylvia Feketekuty: "In the meantime, I do want to talk about a couple of things I saw floating around regarding Emmrich: 1. Emmrich being 52 or 50. I think people got 50 from data mining a character file, but we can't do a ranges in those files. As in, I couldn't input 50-60, it had to be a whole number. I put down 50 as an early ballpark, then went more accurate in later audition scripts. 2. Fifty-two is a old number I threw into an early document before his art or character was totally final. (And which caused another developer a headache because they thought it was accurate, I never updated it. Sorry about that.) 3. "Wait, how old is Emmrich then?" Once I saw his final character art, I felt more mid to late 50s. MAYBE early 60s. But unless we specifically state a character's age in the game, it's all malleable. I honestly would just adjust it to your impressions unless stated otherwise. 4. I've also seen comments on how weird it is for Emmrich to act like there's an age-gap in the romance if your Rook is around his age. And you're right. 5. The reason is because Rook WAS younger when those scenes were written and worked on. I felt it'd be odd if I never addressed the May-December aspect, especially as it hooks into some of Emmrich's worries. 6. By the time that shifted, it was really too late to change without catastrophic repercussions to the excellent cinematics and music and other things that depend on line delivery and timing. 7. To be clear: you can feel how you want about the age gap coming up at all! But that's how the discrepancy came about. 8. "Is there a way to reconcile Emmrich acting like my Rook is way younger than him if they're not?" Great question! I have several suggestions: -Accept it's an error. (True, but unexciting) -Emmrich considers a gap of 3-5 years scandalous. (Funny, albeit a bit cartoonish.) -The Mourn Watch has perfected swapping out organs, and Emmrich is nervously hiding that he's way older than he looks out of vanity. (Untrue, but funny.)" [source thread]

User in reply to point 6. above: "I'm personally glad it was too late to change because their argument about it is genuinely my favorite scene in the entire game! 😭💕 It's such an important moment to me" / Sylvia: "Thanks! That one was one where I was all sweatily trying to balance things out, with tone, with pacing, etc. Really glad it came together for you. (Cine and the actors did heroic things there to get it feeling just so!)" [source]

More snippets:

Emmrich's favorite ice cream flavor? Rum raisin [source]

Lots of people on the dev team shared the vision of having a bunch of gothic weirdness in that pocket of Thedas [source] (Necropolis/Nevarra)

Sylvia "especially liked writing the Mourn Watch origin, it was fun to write a fellow nerd for Emmrich to chat with" [source]

Sylvia poured some personal worries and fears into writing Emmrich [source]

On Vorgoth and their nature: "I'm a little leery of saying anything, partly because I'm cowardly avoiding publicly defining anything more until/if I ever need to. And partly because I did want them to be a fresh unknown. Sorry!" [source] "I'm glad you like Vorgoth, but I'm afraid I don't have much for you that isn't in the game. I deliberately wrote them so as to leave room, if we ever revisited them, or for Vorgoth to remain mysterious, if we did not. I'm sorry if that's not a very satisfying answer!" [source] "I will say, it was fun to throw in a few lines about Vorgoth's art collection. Their passion for it is sincere and deep. (I wanted all the Watchers to have a little non-death related hobby or interest, because they can be so singularly focused.)" [source]

Dwarven Mourn Watcher is a rare origin combo for Rook so Sylvia wanted to call it out [source]

On the outcomes of Emmrich's quest: "I tried really hard to make the options equally viable, and more up to the player's interpretation or preferences of what it would mean for Emmrich in their view. It's been interesting seeing reactions to it, which hinge sometimes on various single lines pushing people one way or another!" [source]

"The Grand Necropolis is always eager and ready for a new member of the Mourn Watch to grace its ranks." [source]

User: "I loved Emmrich's view on death and what his personal quest ultimately went on to say about the nature of death itself, and how the beauty of mortality lies in its impermanence and unpredictability." / Sylvia: "I really wanted to dig into those themes, and everyone in cine and art and level design and editing and the whole team honed in exactly on the vibe. The floral stuff especially, I was so thrilled when I played through the Memorial Gardens' with the art and lighting in." [source]

User: "I experience thanatophobia and that first conversation w/ Emmrich was so affirming and helped me describe my own anxiety to others" / Sylvia: "Thanks, the thanatophobia was, as you may've guessed, a personal experience for me too. I'm glad it was something that helped a little." [source] "I suspect that phobia is way more common than people think, and part of the reason Emmrich talks about it was to express that sentiment out loud. I find it helps sometimes just to acknowledge it." [source]

What languages does Emmrich speak other than Trade? "I think he'd be familiar with Tevene, since there's surely many, many old texts about magic written in that language. Kind of like a doctor that knows latin through their work. I also named that MW alphabet "tomb-script", though I'm not sure if it has a spoken component or not since it never came up in-game. If it does, he'd be able to speak that for sure." [source, two]

User: "Playing as a Mourn Watch Rook has been an absolute delight!!!" / Sylvia: "Thank you so much, I really liked writing those branches of the dialogue. Since Emmrich's so focused on necromancy, it was fun having a Rook who could be both casual and knowledgeable about it." [source]

User: "In your opinion, what outcome do you prefer for a romanced Emmrich (lich/non lich)?" / Sylvia: "Interesting question! To be honest, I'm afraid to answer it properly in case anyone takes my answer to be a canonical one. I really wanted either path to feel equally interesting/correct for whatever you decide fits your Rook's relationship with Emmrich. (We're also in the strange waters of meta-reasoning. I GAVE Emmrich his fear of death-Sorry Emmrich!-which makes me feel a little culpable for that, even though he's entirely fictional. And that might prey on my mind when trying to decide. A very odd experience!)" [source, two]

What music genres would Emmrich be into? "Classical music is very much playing to type for Emmrich, but I feel it's also correct. He'd enjoy a nice concerto or an organ recital. Or, if he's feeling daring, a bold new Orlesian opera! But I don't think his tastes are too outré in that area. That said, I saw someone post something like "Leave Emmrich alone, let him attend the Depeche Mode concert" while listening to Depeche Mode's "Violator", for the first time, which made me laugh. (Great album. If he could get over the shock of synths, Emmrich might enjoy "Waiting for the Night".)" [source, two]

When writing Emmrich the devs wanted to try and hit the gothic romance vibe [source]

Does Emmrich mix his own fragrance/cologne? Does he ever vary it by the season? "I think Emmrich goes to some of the many perfumers that have set up shop in Nevarra City around the Necropolis, just because he trusts their judgement and expertise. I hadn't considered him varying it by season, but that's very fun! I certainly think he has more than one bottle of scent." [source]

User: "How does Lich Emmrich have sex?" / Sylvia: "I don't mind the question! But my answer's a bit boring: I generally stay at arm's length on the more explicit romance stuff, just because if it's not stated or shown in-game, I don't want to bring in a canonical answer that might affect what people imagined. My general preference for romantic scenes that get physical is to leave blank space somewhere, so players can imagine what happens next. It's not the ONLY way to do it, I think there's legitimate artistic reasons to go more explicit. But that's how I approached Emmrich (and before him Josephine.)" [source, two]

User: "The scene with the fade glow where he touches your hand haunts me in the best way" / Sylvia: "Aw thank you. Our animators and audio people made that scene way better than I could've hoped! They took such care with everything there. I want to say that little eye-peep from Rook was added in by one of them, which was the perfect touch." [source]

User on Emmrich: "i’m curious whether you think he’d prefer dogs or cats (or both, or neither)" / Sylvia: "I think he'd consider cats and dogs a little too noisy and messy for his tastes. Not like a nice, quiet plant or skeleton! (Weirdly, I actually had a scrap of banter going over this exact subject at one point. It got tightened down to the exchange with Harding about the pig he used to hug when he was a kid.)" [source, two]

Sylvia was trying to tease Nevarra with the Tevinter Nights story Down Among the Dead Men [source]. "It was really fun to tease the Necropolis, so to speak, in TN, and I'm grateful we got to actually let players through its gates at last." [source]

User: "if Rook chooses to save Manfred and keep Emmrich mortal, what would Emmrich wish to become of his body once he did pass on?" / Sylvia: "Good question. I think he'd want to remain active and useful in death. A guide for other Mourn Watchers, or posted as a mystic guide somewhere dangerous, or perhaps an oracle in the library." [source]

User: "when and how was it decided that Emmrich would be romanceable? I remember reading that he would not be a romance option." / Sylvia: "I'm not sure where that came from, because I pitched him and then shortly after that we decided the entire cast was romanceable. That was fairly early on in the development of Veilguard, as I recall it. (Could've been a crossed wire?)" [source]

Trick Weekes: "Sylvia wrote the fantastic Emmrich "the Vol-carnage" Volkarin and everything that happens in Nevarra while dealing with a lead writer whose attitudes about corpses and undead are... not dissimilar from Taash's." [source] / Sylvia: "I still remember when you gave the very accurate feedback "I think we need to give players whose Rooks aren't into corpses some roleplaying choices to express this" and I was all "Ohhh yeaaaaaah." (Thank u Trick, you were right)" [source] / Trick: "Specifically, being able to express this without locking themselves out of the content! (For non-Sylvia folks) Given my issues with corpses, Emmrich as a whole was SUPER Not For Me, so I gave one caveat and then said, "For the rest of my critique, I will be impersonating his target audience." [source]

Sylvia on the secret origins of Manfred: "After I pitched Emmrich, I started jotting down notes and thoughts on his plots, his quirks, all that kind of stuff. It was very early on Veilguard, anything was still possible. We were chatting in the writer's room about it one day, and I think we'd just seen some early concept art for Emmrich. And our lead writer Trick Weekes joked that Emmrich looked like a man who'd have a skeleton named Manfred. And I laughed and went "Yeah he does!" And then I thought about it. It's wild in retrospect, but that one comment spurred a train of thought that led to the core of Emmrich's arc. He may've ended up a very different character without it! tl;dr: I stole it from Trick." [source, two, three, four]

"I got to play with a pretty free palette when defining the way Emmrich and the necromancers view death and spirits. But I tried to keep it within the confines of existing lore. That's one reason why that scene where Emmrich talks about Manfred to Harding goes into "the eternal question" of whether a soul actually returns with the dead or not. Nevarra has distinct beliefs, but I thought it'd be interesting if its people argue over their interpretations of those beliefs." [source, two]

"the other writers also suggested a bit later on that the big choice dig more into Emmrich's philosophies. Initially, it was more personally focused on his fears, which made it 'relatable' but pettier. Without that correction, I think it would've been weaker, I totally needed the team push." [source]

"I have a few guides to graveyard symbology, and it's so packed with references and meaning." [source]

User: "Did any of your own fears & experiences, make it into the writing of Emmrich? If yes, is it information you’re comfortable sharing with us? If it’s too personal to give any details, that’s fine as well. Also, across the other games, who do you think Emmrich will get along with best?" / Sylvia: "some of his fears are absolutely personal. The reflexive-compulsive panic over death is something I'm very familiar with, and I wanted to explore that through him. Because I suspected it was not uncommon, and worth examining. The question of who he'd get along with from the other games is surprisingly tough! Because without asking the other writers about their characters, I wouldn't know for sure. So I can only really speak to Josephine with surety. That said: -I think Josephine would be polite, and grow to like him, but would never entirely be over the ostentatious necromancy. -I think Emmrich meeting Sera would be the funniest match." [source, two, three]

"Peter Cushing was also one of my go-tos as an example of what I wanted Emmrich to be." [source]

"(Huge shout out to all the animators and level designers making Manfred run, quite literally. Like 95% of his personality lives in his movement, I think they nailed it.)" [source]

On Emmrich: "I tried to put a lot of passion and sincerity in his love for the dead, and I admit the Necropolis was THE big place I wanted to see in Thedas myself ever since reading about it in a codex." [source]

User: "Thank you for letting him have that cemetery dream date!" / Sylvia: "Having the date in the cemetery was one of the first things I wanted when thinking about the romance." [source]

"Josephine was the first time I was entrusted with a new character and a new romance at once, and that'll always be special to me." [source]

User: "How much input did you have in Emmrich's appearance in the podcast?" / Sylvia: "In the podcast, none myself. I believe it was handled by a third party but reviewed by a few people at BW, I don't know too much past that. (We did provide a descriptor and character rules. Stuff like "Emmrich never swears" and "always says amongst" and broader, more thematically useful things.)" [source]

User on Emmrich: "Are you planning any other external-media stories for him?" / Sylvia: "Thanks very much, The Flame Eternal has a special place in my heart for being the first time Emmrich got to be center stage in a story. (And very flattering to hear about the cross stitch. That's so cool!) I can't speak to any external-media plans, I'm afraid. That's not an implied hint about anything existing or not, it's just literally outside what I'm allowed to chat about. It'd be fun to do something like that again though!" [source, two]

"I must give full credit to Nick Borraine, Emmrich's voice actor. He got the compassion and tenderness the character needed right away." [source]

"And glad him being closer to your age resonated, I really wanted someone older out on an adventure. No reason that has to stop at any age IMO." [source]

User: "do the mourn watcher/nevarra in general raise their pets after they die to keep them around? like a dog skeleton with a whisp in it?" / Sylvia: "To be honest I hadn't thought out this one, but it's a very good question. I'm not sure how common that would be, or even if it's permitted to have pets running around the family crypt. (I definitely thing people would WANT to do it.) You know, I think I'm going to have to leave this one in the vague quantum foam of the future. I think I'd want to not only double check existing lore, but answer that in-game (or in a book or etc.) if we ever need to. (Hope that's not too much of a cop out. Sometimes I like to leave questions I'm not sure about alone, because until it's in an official game or story, it doesn't quite count.)" [source, two, three]

User: "as someone who shares emmrich's anxiety about mortality, getting to spend time with him, and in the grand necropolis and with the mourn watch, was genuinely soothing" / Sylvia: "Thank you, I'm glad he was a comfort. It's a familiar fear for me too, and I'd hoped he would connect that way with people very much." [source]

On the giant ribcage 'ceiling' in the Necropolis: "sadly, even I don't know all the mysteries of the Necropolis. (Which is to say it's a very cool bit of art but has no stated origin yet. Could be a large dragon, a giant...or something weirder!)" [source]

On TN story Luck in the Gardens: "It was nice change up, writing in first person and with someone so rascally. I've got an enduring affection for the Lords after writing Hollix, the scamp." [source]

User: "I just love his genuine enthusiasm for everything he does. If the other party members had fan clubs Emmrich would be the president of each and I love that for him" / Sylvia: "Thank you! I really wanted him to embody a kind of expansiveness and generosity of spirit, to stand in contrast to the eeriness of his abilities." [source]

User: "What was your inspiration for Josie?" / Sylvia: "My girl! When I came on to Inquisition, there'd already been work done on setting up the spine of the main plot, and figuring out the overall cast. But one of the advisors was a little murkier. It just said "Diplomat" on the white board. We knew we wanted someone in that position, but not who. So in a game where you were out exploring, killing demons, etc., but also had a big organization to run? I immediately wanted to make a Diplomat firmly there for you. Somebody you could hand the keys to the entire Inquisition to while you were out, and know it'd be in good hands. I also thought it'd be fun to have someone from Antiva, since that area wasn't covered yet by anyone in the cast. And I needed her to be polished, smooth, but heartfelt, because of that aforementioned trust. And that was the core of Josephine! Her voice actor, Allegra, brought her to life with such lovely charm, and hearing those early sessions also helped me further hone her tone." [source, two, three, four]

"Our music supervisor Ron Dazo hit it out of the park with Emmrich's music IMO. And so glad you liked Hezenkoss! Just very fun to write as a character." [source]

User: "Did any specific watcher raise MW Rook?" / Sylvia: "Good question! I kind of left that one alone because I wasn't sure if I wanted to let Rook define that themselves, or leave it open, and also I'd have wanted a full conversation on it. In the end that was a little out of scope so I left it unsaid. Which is to say that it COULD be Vorgoth who helped raise your Rook. And that stands until/unless we give a definitive answer (or let you choose from a range of answers) one day." [source, two]

"It was such a pleasure for all of us to finally get to explore the Necropolis, I am very glad we got to throw open the gates." [source]

User: "I was wondering if there were any Mourn Watch details you wished you had more time to explore? I was so struck by some of the ethical implications in your stories" / Sylvia: "Geeze, now that's a question. I mention it with Emmrich, but there's some resentment over the power the Watchers hold as THE mortalitasi of the Grand Necropolis, between them and the other orders. There's something to that situation I liked. There's also questions of how they select people for the order. What their standards are, how closely they work with benign spirits. And how they cultivate those relationships. How deep does that go? I also mentioned in a codex "the lives and bodies of those who tamper with the undead of the Necropolis are forfeit unto the Mourn Watch." which is pretty chilling. What's that punishment like, exactly? And in general, writing about anything weird or unexplained in the Necropolis brought me much enjoyment, and it would be fun to dig around how the Mourn Watch deals with (or what they want out of) all these mysteries and entities." [source, two, three, four]

"Geeking out with Emmrich about spooky stuff was a delight to write." [source]

"I liked writing someone older this time, it was something different for me and rewarding in some unexpectedly different ways. (And thanks especially for the nice words on DAtDM - I was very excited to introduce people to the Mourn Watch there!)" [source]

"Ah, tomb-script. I named it but it was our concept artists who went developed it with the hexagon shape-language of the Mourn Watch, which I loved. Conceptually: I think it's used purely an occult or sacred language. Something for the graves, or books on magic, but not everyday things." [source]

"Some trans people kindly offered their help with some feedback on some of the romance lines and others, which absolutely made them much better." [source]

"Trick Weekes actually wrote a ton of the banter where Emmrich inquires into qunari artifacts and customs, and Taash talks about what it was like to grow up under a scholar. I really dig the dynamic they unearthed between the two there." [source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #dragon age: tevinter nights #dragon age: vows & vengeance #lgbtq

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linddzz · 14 days ago

Note

PLEASE tell us more about Jayvik being unhealthy about each other, this needs to be talked about more for... scientific reasons (borderline toxic codependency my beloved)

They're honestly such a fun mix of being adorable silly little nerds who could have so many cute domestic scenes, but there is ALSO that Weird About Each Other vibe lurking over them like a sword of codependent damocles, and it's why I'm SO GLAD I waited to see how Season2 played out before I started writing fic with the intent to post it. Romantic, platonic, the shit they do for/because of each other is WILD no matter what flavor their love takes. You see BITS of it in Season one from Jayce when he ousts Heimerdinger, which is done entirely because Jayce believes the Hexcore can save Viktor from his terminal illness and Heimerdinger is in the way of that. Remember that before Viktor gets his prognosis, Jayce was the one proposing Hextech be shut down due to Jinx stealing a gemstone.

There's nothing that has happened to make Jayce less likely to be concerned about the possible danger of Hextech, and the moment where he asks for Hextech to be suspended shows that he's more likely to believe Heimerdinger's cautions. BUT...that goes out the window with no hesitation when he believes it could save Viktor.

And that's the main thread of their devotion to each other, the willingness to put each other before anyone and anything else, including each others wishes. Jayce is at first the most obvious one when he jumps right to breaking his promise to destroy the hexcore so he can save Viktor's life with it. Yeah, he didn't know that it killed Sky at this point, so the betrayal does not seem as dire to him as it would to Viktor at this point, BUT...considering everything else they do, I think knowing about Sky would maybe add like...thirty seconds to Jayce's decision making process. Shooting Viktor isn't just an act to save the world, though that does weigh on him. It's part of saving Viktor from himself, and only done because VIKTOR told him to. It, at first, seems like Jayce is the one with this more unhealthy devotion, where he's willing to put Viktor above everything else, including Viktor's wishes. Viktor is the one who leaves with the goal to pursue ways to actually help people, after all. He is, in that moment, able to put their dream over Jayce. BUT...this moment is Viktor's version of Jayce asking for hextech to be suspended. The snapping point for Jayce was the threat of Viktor dying, remember. (Also Viktor is ready to take Jayce back the SECOND Jayce shows back up. I would bet good money that a solid six-ish months of hearing NOTHING from Jayce spooked him right out of that assertion that their paths had fully diverged lmao) Then we get that phenomenal reveal that Viktor is knowingly dooming timelines, knowingly setting them on a path towards calamity and mutually assured destruction again and again, all with the goal of stopping himself from ending Jayce in a way that keeps their fates connected. Even if that means risking Jayce getting destroyed by him again and again when it doesn't work. And yaknow. Great story. EXCELLENT Literary Romance right there. Definitely not aspirational for real life in the slightest lmaooo

#arcane #jayvik #jayvik meta

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primehyuck · 1 year ago

Text

dress

this is the hair, the face, etc

aka Mark thinks you look really pretty tonight (very “only bought this dress so you could take it off” / “can we hear it for the dress” esque )

word count: 3.5k

contents : pretty much pure smut, pussy worship, soft dom mark, oral (f receiving) , body worship - mark thinks you’re REALLY REALLY pretty, mirror sex (kind of), lots of pet names, established relationship, mark seduced me as i was writing this

“Don’t you look pretty?” Mark smirks at you from where he leans against the door frame and you smile softly at him in the mirror, taking off the jewelry you’d worn to dinner with your friends that evening. You place the items gently inside the white vanity he’d had made for you when you moved in together the year before.

“Thanks, baby.” you take him in, fresh out of the shower in sweats and a big t-shirt. He looks too hot for his own good, his hair the longest it had been since you’d met, freshly bleached strands curling over his eyes.

“Did you have fun?” He slinks up behind you, warm fingers toying with the thin strap holding your dress in place, his left hand shutting the top of the vanity before pressing heavy to the front of your hip.

You nod “It was nice to have some girl time, as much as I love spending evenings with the boys.” you scrunch your nose earnestly, thinking of Mark’s best friends who had treated you like family since day one.

“I’m glad, though you should have seen the look on Jisung’s face when he learned you’d be at dinner with your old roommate and he was stuck cooking for the rest of us” he murmurs and you can feel the smile on his face as he rests his cheek on your shoulder. The combination of his warm breath on your neck and thick lashes blinking over your skin makes you shiver “I was sad that I missed you before you left.”

“We ended up going for a cocktail before dinner,” you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair and he lets go of the dress strap to trace up the inside of your arm. Mark turns his head to press his lips to your shoulder, pretty brown eyes blinking at you in the mirror once before skimming down the reflection of your body.

His gentle fingers drifting over your arm make your skin tingle and you can hardly breathe when he grips your bicep firmly, supporting your arm as he kisses over the shape of your shoulder, all the way to your elbow and back up again.

“Is this new?” He mumbles, the hand on your hip moving to tug at the hem of your dress. You nod, and he smiles before guiding your raised arm down to rest at your side, fingers lacing through yours. You watch in the mirror as he drags his nose into the crook of your neck, tilting your head to the side to make space for him there.

“Pretty,” his eyes catch yours in the mirror again.

“You already said that.” you tease weakly, failing to keep your breathing under control.

“My bad,” Mark chuckles quietly, left hand stretching to rub your thigh, no effort needed to hike the short dress up enough to expose your panties “I mean, you look gorgeous. Good enough to eat.”

You're surprised your knees don't buckle when he shifts his hand between your thighs to cup your clothed core.

“You think?” You mumble, turning to face him rather than his reflection. He blinks slowly at you, nodding once before his lips are on yours.

His kiss fills your lungs and you both moan. The fingers that were warming your core finds your shoulder to spin you toward him without loosening his grip on your hand. He presses you against the vanity, free hand finding a home on the back of your neck while he brings your joined fingers down, rubbing over where his cock strains against his pants. Your dress rides up to your hips when he pushes your ass firmly onto the surface of the custom table, lanky fingers digging into your skin.

“You’ll have to let me take you somewhere in this, love showing you off” he mumbles against your lips before trailing his own over your chin and down your throat “somewhere I can fuck you while you're wearing it.” You feel his cock jump at his own words, arching your chest into him when he licks gently over the swell of your breast on display beneath the low cut neck of the dress.

“Anytime,” you gasp, the hand not pressed between your bodies pulling gently at his hair in an effort to bring his mouth to yours again. He complies easily, pushing your intertwined knuckles into your clothed pussy and you feel him rut against your forearm at the damp spot growing there.

“Shit, the thought of me fucking your perfect pussy in public turns you on that much?” He stops kissing you for a second to tease meanly before taking both of his hands away from your body and you have to plant yours on the vanity to stop your head from banging into the mirror behind you.

“I want you to fuck me now” you pout, reaching pathetically for the fabric of his baggy clothes, but he’s just out of reach. You huff at him, quickly going for your own dress.

“Be patient baby, please. You’ve been able to see yourself all night.” he tuts, having to step between your legs to hold your wrists still ��let me spend some time with the dress, too.”

You whimper when he drags your hips to the edge of the sleek wood to grind you against him, “Fuck, you drive me crazy.”

You take advantage of his hands being on your hips to wrap your fingers through his damp hair, dragging his mouth to yours. Mark’s hands are everywhere; pulling your dress up to your waist, leaving hot prints in the wake of his fingers, gliding over the skin of your thighs before hooking beneath your knees to keep your legs open. When you try to wrap your arms around his neck he easily pulls out of your desperate grasp, but you can see the wanton look in his heavily lidded eyes.

“Gonna make you feel as good as you look,” he rasps and you nod eagerly. His fingers drag over the straps of the dress before deciding against it, leaving your upper body covered “If that's even possible.”

He pulls you off of the vanity and guides you to the bed, keeping your body flush to his until he lays you back onto the mattress. The mirror hanging on the wall above the desk tilts down so you can see your reflection from the edge of mattress, the way Mark had specifically designed it.

“That’s better, want you to watch.” he smiles, glancing behind him to make sure the only part of yourself you can't see is what he's blocking with his own body as he drops to his knees between your legs. He rubs the heel of his palm into your clothed center, fingers digging into your pubic bone while he peppers kisses up your legs. His hand keeps your hips from bucking up when he licks heavily into the crease of your thigh before he moves his palm to press a wet, open mouthed kiss to your underwear. He sucks the fabric between his lips before his strong fingers pull your underwear up tight against your pussy to perfectly outline your already engorged clit and Mark’s cheek rests heavily where his mouth had just been on your thigh.

“Shit, baby.” he groans, stretching the fabric of your underwear in his fist, shifting it side to side and watching your lips move with it “I did this to you?” he asks gruffly, face sliding further up your leg until you can feel his breath on your soaked core.

You choke out a weak affirmation as he releases your panties, moaning when the stretched out fabric sticks to you. Your whole body shudders when he leans forward, nosing over your clit and inhaling deeply, dark lashes fluttering prettily against his cheeks.

“Mark, please-“ you gasp when he opens his mouth fully over you, dragging your panties away from your skin with his teeth and sucking at the ruined fabric.

Sometimes Mark feels a little pathetic between your legs, completely intoxicated, essentially trying to drink the taste of your pussy off of your underwear. The fact that he's so desperate for you, and yet he still has complete control never fails to inflate his ego, and as always it has his dick straining painfully against his sweats.

He moves the limp fabric to the side and uses two eager fingers to pull you apart, exposing your clit and Mark swears he sees it pulse, the idea making pre-cum leak from his dick like a broken faucet.

“Could stare at this pretty pussy all day,” he murmurs, not even looking up at you “but then I wouldn’t be able to taste it.”

You both let out sighs of relief when his tongue finally makes contact, laving over your wet folds. He moves urgently, wanting to touch you everywhere but settling with one hand palming gently over your inner thigh, the other keeping your hole open for his tongue to fuck into. When you open your eyes to look down you see his own closed gently, blissed out as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your eyes flicker toward the mirror, gaze following the firm circles Mark is tracing into the skin of your thigh, the callouses from hours of guitar make goosebumps rise on your skin. You wish he’d take his shirt off, the black material stretches over his strong shoulders as he moves his mouth over your pussy. You lace your fingers through his blonde waves, his moan vibrating through you when you tug at his scalp. He moves his mouth over you with intention, wetting his chin and nose as he buries into you, never spending too much time in one spot in an effort to spend as long between your legs as possible.

“Fuck, baby, I’m already so close.” you gasp, the few minutes of teasing wound you up like a clock, the gentle flick of his tongue over your clit enough to make your entire body shake. He looks up at you, blonde curls getting caught in his lashes. The deep brown of his hungry eyes is almost enough to make you cum until he suddenly pulls away.

“No, no, no,” you wiggle yourself toward his mouth and he has to close his eyes for a moment to restrain himself, wanting almost nothing more than to make you cum on his tongue over and over and over.

“Needy girl,” he leans away from you and you whine again until you realize it’s to tug his shirt off and toss it to the side. Both hands press back into your legs as soon possible, rubbing over your shins and thumbing into the pit of your knee before gliding up your inner thigh.

“You’re teasing me.” you pant, your own hand threatening to sneak down to rub over your spit soaked clit but he stops you, glaring.

“I don’t think so, baby.” he deadpans “you can make this easy or you can make this hard.”

“I make you hard.” You smirk, attitude overpowering your need to orgasm and Mark tilts his head in surprise.

“You know eating your pretty pussy does more than just make me hard.” He raises an eyebrow, reminding you gently of all the times he’s cum from grinding into the mattress while going down on you “makes me fucking crazy.”

Your breathy laugh turns to a moan when he puts his mouth back on you, nose buried in your skin. He drapes your thighs over his bare shoulders and it takes what feels like less than a minute of his tongue rolling over your clit to get you right back to where you were. You groan angrily when he pulls away again.

“Why?” you can barely get the word out, feeling your legs move up as your boyfriend shrugs beneath them.

“I told you to watch” his arms reach from around the outside of your legs so one hand can push your chin, directing your eyes to the mirror while the other drifts over the soft silk of the dress that might as well be suffocating you. You watch the muscles in his back flex, your toes pointing to dig into his shoulder blades.

He follows your gaze, guiding your leg down onto the mattress and shifting his tosro out of the way so you can see yourself, swollen and wet from the torment of his mouth.

“Tell me what you see.” He commands softly, the hand supporting your leg moves quickly to rub over your soaked center and you blush when you realize you can hear his fingers gliding over you. You both watch the reflection of his middle and ring finger slowly pushing into you. You’re so wrapped up trying to keep your eyes from fluttering shut that you barely notice the way his breathing quickens, mouth dropping open slightly, cock twitching as your pussy sucks his fingers in.

“I see you-“ you begin to choke out but he shakes his head, crooking his fingers up into your g-spot and cutting you off.

“No baby, tell me what you look like.” He turns his head to kiss the thigh still draped over his shoulder, fingers hooking up and dragging over your g-spot at a painfully slow pace.

“I look, fucked,” you moan when he nibbles at the soft skin his lips just passed over “desperate.”

“Hmm, what else?” He dips his head in to press his swollen, pink lips to your clit, smiling when you squeak weakly “tell me what I want to hear, angel.”

“I look,” you whine again, back arching off the mattress when he takes his fingers out of your fluttering walls in favor of rubbing them over your clit, so gently you’re not even sure you’d be able to feel it if you weren’t so worked up “pretty.”

You watch the back of his head nod in agreement, stroking his fingers over your clit in a lazy circle before dipping down into you once and traveling back up.

“That’s right,” He coos, free hand groping at your tits, thumb brushing over your perked nipple as best as he can through the layers covering your upper body “what makes you so fucking pretty?”

“My mouth,” you whimper, relief washing through your body when he keeps his fingers inside of you “my tits,” your hand reaches to cover his and he smiles up at you, expectant eyes waiting for one more answer “my pussy. You make me feel so pretty, Mark.”

His chin and nose are covered in your slick, moaning at the taste when he licks over his lips, forehead falling weakly onto your pubic bone, rubbing his nose against your throbbing clit as he nods in agreement.

“My gorgeous girl, every part of you is too fucking pretty for me” He moves back to face your body again, taking his fingers from your pussy and replacing your knee over his shoulder, reaching up to meet his other hand on your chest. He palms at your breasts through the dress, shoulders breathing heavily beneath your legs while he curses himself for not at least taking your bra off, dying to tug at your nipples beneath the silky fabric. Sometimes his attempts to edge you become self-torturous, but the way your whole body shivers when he rubs his nose into your clit harder makes it worth it.

You test his patience by pushing at his head, trying to get his mouth back where you want it and he concedes, but let’s go of your breasts to traps both wrists in a single hand. His pink tinged cheeks make your heart skip a beat as you watch him rub his face in your pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth eagerly before licking back down into your hole.

“Please, please, please,” you beg and he looks up at you with those pretty brown eyes when he hears your teeth chatter, pulling away with a moan that makes your back arch toward his mouth. He drops your wrists, unable to stop himself from palming over his pants, pre-cum forming a wet spot on the crotch almost as soon as he dropped to his knees for you.

“I got you, baby.” His voice is barely audible over the ringing in your ears. He uses the hand that isn’t on his dick to spread you as far apart as his fingers can manage “fuck, look at that pretty clit.” he’s sure of it now, your clit is literally pulsing, body begging for an orgasm that he can’t wait to taste. He glances up at your shivering figure, straps of your dress fallen off either shoulder, chest rising and falling dangerously quick.

A cool blow of air through his pursed lips surprises your system, entire body spasming as your orgasm hits. You think you hear your boyfriend’s “no fucking way” before his tongue starts fucking eagerly into your dripping pussy, pressure from his nose on your clit making sure the orgasm lasts so long you have to push him away.

“That was fucking incredible, I didn’t even touch you” Mark stands, stripping off his pants and forcing himself into you before you have the chance to take a breath.

“Oh my god,” you gasp at the same time he chokes out “so fucking tight”, making quick work in stripping you to rub his hand over your chest. His head falls back, mouth falling open when the aftershocks of your orgasm make you squeeze around him.

“Kiss, please.” you have pins and needles in your fingers when you lift them to his shoulders, pulling him toward you eagerly to catch his mouth. A sturdy hand cups your cheek, kissing you deeply as he begins to move his hips. His tongue is hot and heavy on yours as he fucks into you, catching every short inhale in his mouth. You want to cry when he pulls away, but are quickly overwhelmed by how fucking good he looks.

His strong chin juts out when he stares down to where his cock slides in and out of you with eyes so heavy you’d think they were closed if he didn’t mumble something about “your pretty pussy was made for me, so fucking wet”. His abs are drawn in tight, your arousal shining on the skin of his lower stomach and you reach out to touch him, dragging your fingers over the dark patch of hair growing below his belt line. He slows his assaulting pace to lean into your touch, grabbing your wrist and drawing your slick soaked fingers up his chest and into his mouth, sucking lewdly and shutting his eyes. His hair is a mess thanks to your desperate hands, sweat dripping down the side of his neck.

“So fucking dirty baby, know I'm addicted to the way you taste,” he grunts, dropping your hand in favor of spreading your legs as far as he can “the way you feel.” He slows his hips almost to a stop, dragging his cock out of you intently, listening to the sopping suction sound you make together when he slides back inside just as slow.

“Hear that, pretty baby, how much your pussy needs me?” eyes focused on where the angry, pink head of his cock prods at your entrance “can’t believe you’re real, and you’re all mine.”

“All yours,” you whisper, not trusting your voice “all yours.” his lips pull up smugly, but his eyes shine with adoration as he brings his thumb up to your mouth and watches you eagerly suck on the digit before dragging it down your quivering stomach to land on your clit.

“That’s right,” he can’t help the deep groan that tears from his chest at the look on your face when he starts to rub in smooth circles, your eyes fluttering shut “shit, you’re so fucking pretty. Look at yourself, want you to see what I see.”

He forces your eyes toward the mirror, hips picking up speed again while his thumb stays working over your swollen clit.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum baby. Always make me feel so fucking good.” you moan at his words, thighs clenching around his hips “need you to cum with me, show me that you can take it all.” he practically begs, and you feel white hot pleasure shoot up your spine, the pace of his hips and thumb on your clit working easily with his hot words in your ear.

You make a noise between a moan and a scream, nails leaving indents in his shoulders, grinding your hips up toward his sloppily. His bicep shakes under his weight, fucking into you viciously, eyes focused on the blissed out look on your face that he knows is because of him.

“That’s it, take that fucking cock baby, take it.” all you can hear beneath his words is static sound when you feel him tense before he thrusts into you for a final time.

You can’t even hold your eyes open when he drops to his forearms to grab your flushed cheeks, kissing you lazily, letting you melt into him while he softens inside of you. You hum happily when his soft lips drag over your nose and cheeks, compliments falling on ringing ears and for a second Mark is nervous that he broke you.

“You okay, baby?” he rubs gently at the mascara smeared under your glazed over eyes and you smile softly up at him with a nod

“So good,” you assure him, lifting your neck to kiss him again and he happily obliges, laughing against your lips as you cage him in with your legs when he tries to pull out, murmuring a genuine “don’t go.” that makes his heart flutter in his chest.

“Not going anywhere, don’t worry.” he promises.

———

masterlist

#mark smut #mark lee smut #mark fanfiction #mark lee fanfiction #nct dream smut #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream fanfiction #nct fanfiction #nct 127 fanfiction

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cherry-leclerc · 3 months ago

Text

method acting ☆ cl16

genre: angst, yearning, humor, fluff, journalist!reader, established relationship

word count: 13.2k

There’s a lot of things you’d like to do differently in life. And the weeks leading up to that night is one of them.

inspired by this, this, and this !

cherry here!… hello there. sooo this was supposed to go up a few days ago, but silly me scheduled the wrong date, haha, so this is me formally apologizing for that. on a more lighter note: i’m so excited for you guys to read this one considering this is the re-written version of ‘method acting’ if you guys even remember the original version. love u all very much, and enjoyyy :)

From his boyish smile, to his dominant smirk—you knew it all.

The way it would slowly start to spread, but always ended with a dimple. You loved many things in life—many, many things—but nothing comes close to him. From the very start, he’s been gentle. A gentle giant, you’d sometimes joke with a teasing voice, to which he’d roll his eyes yet never deny.

The way he’d start every sentence with—honey—and end with—I love you. The way he’d cradle your face between his hands, kissing the corner of your mouth first before pressing down completely. The way he’d translate for you with all the patience in the world. Everything about him had been so easy to learn, so easy to love.

But here, in a room, staring at each other, you begin to wonder if you ever knew him at all. Because suddenly you don’t know what the frown on his face means. What the furrowed brows with the pinched expression interpret to. You don’t know any of it.

Why are you so surprised, though?

You caused this, anyways.

“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you don’t know how to use a USB, Lis. Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know—tech savvy?”

Lissie aims a harsh glare before tapping her nail against the computer screen as if that might make the process a whole lot quicker. “So what? I lied on my resume. Everybody does it.”

You chuckle. “Who even uses USB’s nowadays?”

“Apparently Grandpa Will. Oh, yay, it's done!” She shimmies. “I’ll see you later, m’kay?” With that, she zips down the paddock without a second glance. You sigh, gathering your stuff and making your way down the busy crowd, heading straight towards Ferrari Hospitality.

He’s on his computer when you first walk in, keys clicking. He nibbles on his bottom lip, knits his dark brows like he’s in pain. As soon as you tap your finger against the wall, he perks up, all his interest suddenly gone. He grins. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Lis,” you respond, claiming a seat next to him.

The Monegasque hums, leaning in to kiss your lips swiftly. “Thank you, Elisabella.” You giggle, sneaking a quick peek at his open screen. “Whatcha’ workin’ on? Wait—let me guess. You’re getting your marriage license annulled?”

“To be with you, yes,” he agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “How do you think Joris is going to take it?”

A playful shrug. “He’s just going to have to accept it, no?”

“I suppose.” Snapping the computer shut, he fixes himself, head pressed softly against your lap, closing his eyes. The sight of his even breaths and curved nose makes you smile as you start threading your fingers through his hair. He sighs, tense shoulders instantly rolling back. “Journling, and whatnot. It’s a habit that has a near expiration date, for sure, but is quite nice as of now.”

And though he can’t see you, your neat brows raise up in surprise. “Journaling on an electronic device? Why not an actual journal? You know—something authentic. I actually know of a place back in Portland where they sell some cute ones, ver—”

“I’m not looking for cute. I’m looking for security.” A beat. “I’d lose it in a week, and we don’t want that happening, now do we? My laptop works just fine. Plus, I feel more at peace knowing it’s not something I will just leave behind.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” you declare, enjoying the way his lips twist with a childlike snarl. “Anyways, I’m glad you’ve picked up on a new hobby. It’s good for you, Charlie.”

“Learned from the best.” You blush. “By the way, media shouldn’t last longer than an hour? Wanna go out?”

“Aren’t you tired?” you question, forcing his eyelids open as he squirms, pushing your hand away.

“A little. But I still want to do something with you.”

A tired sigh. “Cute, but I can’t. Lissie and William are out for today, so it’s just me, which means I have to conduct all the interviews by myself.”

The brunette bats an eye. “Why?”

“She forgot she had a deadline—hence why I was busy helping her—and Will still has to look it over. They have to send it in by midnight and it’s—it’s a lot.”

“Why couldn’t she just email it?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you screech, causing him to flinch and squeeze his eyes. Sheepishly, you pat his head. “He insisted on a USB. Says he wants all work done like the olden days.”

“That sucks,” he mumbles. “And who even uses USB’s nowadays? They’re so outdated.”

“That’s what I’m—” You stop, mid-sentence, lowering your voice when he sits up and scoots away. “Saying,” you finish, whispering. You purse your lips, sending a slight grimace. “You get it.”

Charles nods, standing up and placing his laptop into his duffel bag. “I’ll come back and pick you up, yeah? Meanwhile, I can maybe cook something for us.”

“Honey,” you coo. “I love you, but please don’t.” His face drops. What the fuck? You giggle. “How about take-out?”

“How about,” he mutters, stiff as a statue when you press your lips down onto his jaw, but quickly melts. “Chinese?”

“Sounds good.” Another peck. “I’ll call you!”

If you remember—and you do remember—you fell in love with writing ever since you watched The Devil Wears Prada. It was a reset for you because before that you had seriously considered going to law. At first, you started with column writing in your school's newspaper. No one ever read it, you’d always find it on the floor after being trampled on, but you never cared.

Soon after, you started publishing smaller pieces here and there on your fashion blog that has since been taken down, but that was the moment you knew. Thing was, you wanted to nurture this into a career, you really did, but nothing to do with fashion, rather sports.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that every Sunday your Grandpa would beg for you to come over to his house and watch the races with him. They were extremely boring at first. Who willingly drives for roughly two hours in loops? Then, it clicked. Everything changed and you were enthralled.

After that, all you knew was that you wanted it bad. It was hard, studying over time in order to get done quickly and just start working, but it was well worth it. You met Lis the same year she started working with Formula One, so you both figured a lot of things out together, and for two years, it was just you and her, interviewing and writing about the drivers on the grid.

But he noticed you both years ago.

He first noticed the burn on the back of your left leg. He initially thought it was a band-aid by the way it healed, but later found out you had burned yourself with a curling iron back in highschool when you were rushing to get your senior pictures taken. Then he noticed your eyes and the way they always had a glimmer to them, even if something wasn't going your way. He respected the hell out of you after that.

How do you do that?

You freeze. Do what?

Stay so…so—optimistic. Happy, I suppose.

You laughed then, and he saw the way your hair fell over your shoulder like a silk curtain. He would have smiled if he wasn’t so stuck up on that. It’s all a facade. They way you see me—it’s not real.

Believe me, I don’t think you’re real.

You blush, looking back down at your journal where you’ve been too busy scribbling prior to his question. You just have to ignore them sometimes, you know? Remind yourself that they don’t know you and you don’t know them. Trust me, it helps.

And after that, you two never stopped talking.

Whether it was about work, or perhaps even the weather, you two always had something going on. Something everyone noticed, but never brought up. And at one point, you confessed your next dream.

Journalist of the Year, he repeated, a goofy smile slowly itching his skin. Yeah, I can see that.

It’s not that easy, though, you retort, exhaling heavily. I mean, I’ve been doing this for quite a while now and I haven’t even been considered once, which is fine, maybe I’m not good enough, but maybe it’s also time to…I don’t know—give up?

He kept quiet, kept his eyes focused on you, and frowned. If it’s something you want, then it’s most likely something you can have.

Pft, you scoff. Nah. Not this. It’s nearly unattainable for someone like me. Even Lissie has won, and we’ve been here for the same amount of years. Now I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve it, but that just comes to show that there’s always someone better. And I’m just here. You look up. It’s okay, you can laugh.

A beat. I could be a hypocrite to tell you that it’s not good to measure how talented you are or how talented you can be based on some award, but Jesus Chrsit, I do the same thing. I understand. And it’s because I understand that I’m telling you to keep working hard and prove yourself to them. You have it in you—I’ve known ever since we met. You smile. Your time will come, yeah?

And for the first time: you believed it.

A nod. Thanks, Charles. Yours will too.

About a month later, you two started officially dating. It almost seemed too good to be true at times, but wherever he looked for you in the crowd, you knew it just had to be.

But the start of your relationship was also the end of something else.

Interviews and articles?

He nods. Right. None of that.

You follow his actions, nodding numbly as you blink. So, no more working together? Because you want me to have a fair shot?

Yes, he confirmed. I just don’t want you to be nominated—because it’s only a matter of time, I have a feeling—and feel as if they picked you simply because of your dating status.

Who’s going to do all of that, then?

There’s plenty of other reporters. Lissie? Will? Maybe even Natalie. He took a step closer, grabbing your hands gently. What I’m trying to say is that I want you to feel accomplished. That what you did was simply because of your work, and not having to do with your connections because trust me, that doesn’t feel good.

But I love working with you. You give his hand a squeeze, tilting your head and smiling sadly. You’re my favorite person to write about and talk to…

And he genuinely seemed to be pained by your words, wincing.

But you suck it up because you know he’s right. I’ll always be your favorite?

Only the best.

A hum. Alright then. You take a step back, extending your hand for a professional handshake. He smiles, taking it and giving it a good tug.

It was nice working with you, Mr. Leclerc.

“I’ll never understand,” Lissie starts, pressing the elevator button for the twenty-fifth floor and chewing on a licorice. “Why you two ever create such a stupid rule like that?” A hard chew. “All I’m saying is that it could have definitely helped you out a whole lot. You probably would have won by now.”

You roll your eyes, but not without thinking how she might be right. You’ve definitely wondered about a world in which you two hadn’t taken this approach, and while it would have been nice, you also know that it would have felt a little less special knowing that being a nepo to Charles had something to do with it. Which is most likely what would have happened, let’s be completely honest here.

“You came to this arrangement, what? Twenty years ago, maybe fourty? And it’s not to be rude, but you haven't been nominated, so was this really worth it if it hasn’t made much of a difference?”

“Okay,” you grunt, ripping the red candy away from her and throwing it into the nearby trash as soon as you step out of the elevator. She pouts, following along. “I think we get it, I fucked up, very funny.”

“No,” she hums. “I never said you did, I was simply thinking, that's all.” You scoff. “But whatever. I have a feeling this is it. You definitely have it in the bag. They’d be crazy not to add you for a fourth time!”

Spinning, you smile bitterly at the Brit girl. She gulps. “Thank you, Lis, your mild support is very much appreciated.”

You turn back around, walking faster.

“Sheesh, sorry,” she hisses, entering the familiar office with a lost expression.

Carly, your manager runs over, practically jumping onto you and hugging you tight. “Lis, close the door!” You groan at the loud sound against your ear, but she's none the wiser, already embracing you harder. “You did it!”

“I told you!” Lissie shoots smugly.

You freeze, heart racing. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying—”

“Why would she be lying?”

Letting go, Carly lets out a delirious laugh. “Everything—all of it—has finally paid off. You did it, you’re on the list!”

“Holy shit,” you whisper in disbelief, playing with your necklace as you pace the spacious office. Lissie and Carly both grin at each other from ear to ear, nodding enthusiastically. You come to a halt. “Are you making this up because I said I would kill myself if I didn’t make it this year because, for your information, I was totally kidding!”

“It’s not a joke,” the redhead squeals, jumping again. “I’m so proud of you!”

“I am too!” Lissie shrieks, running and kissing you face as you try your best to swat her away even though you’re laughing. “Even after what I said in the elevator, I knew this shit was the real deal this time! Didn’t I tell you? Carly, I told her.” She twirls you, making you grin harder. “You won!”

“Okay, let's touch some grass, ladies,” Carly cuts in. “We can’t forget that this is just a nomination and that there’s still work that needs to be done in order to secure our best chances.”

“Right,” you respond, elegantly fixing yourself and nodding up and down. You freeze. “Wait, what work? I thought this was it?”

Carly shakes her head. “Oh honey, we’re just getting started.” A pause. “You have to write an article.”

“I am—confused. What do you mean by article?”

The Brit takes a seat in a nearby chair, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s their one and only requirement. Show them why they should pick you.”

Carly nods, red hair bouncing. “Shouldn’t be too hard. You’re as talented as they come. Just do what you do, but…better!”

Color drains your face as you go back to pacing. “What do you mean better? This is all I got! There’s nothing left to show, oh God—”

“What are you talking about?” your manager yelps. “There’s always more!”

“Exactly,” Lissie hums, somehow munching on another piece of candy. “There’s always—that, yeah. More.”

Your eye twitches. “Okay, you already went through this and won. How did you do it?”

She pouts, tapping the licorice against her lips before clicking her fingers. “I wrote my piece on fashion and how it’s made its way into Formula One. Wasn’t even that hard. Well. Shouldn't be. Write what you know and it’ll come to ya, they say. Or maybe they don’t, but definitely still do that.”

Your shoulders drop, plopping down next to her and placing a pillow over your face. “Fuck. That’s genius.” It is, isn’t it? she mumbles, slowly chewing in deep thought. Screaming into the pillow, you feel the frustration you didn’t have a second ago finally erupt. “What am I going to do?”

“Sweetheart,” Carly starts, forearms pressed against her glass desk, and stern eyes trained onto you. “You have got to be one of the most raw writers I have ever worked with.” A beat. “Sorry, Lis.”

“Screw you,” she snarls, focusing on her phone now.

Your manager sighs, rubbing her temples. “And please take that as a compliment because it is. You don’t hold back, and you tell it how it is. That’s what makes you one of the best! And if it weren’t for you wanting this, I would have definitely sent an angry email on your behalf because you deserve this more than anyone.”

“Wow,” the Brit muttered, raising her dark brows.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, cringing. “But you’ve won already, Lis, and we supported you, and now…” She faces you again with soft eyes. “We’re doing this for you. You got it, m’kay?”

“But—” your voice cuts off as you blink rapidly, losing focus with the thought of failing, imprinting itself into the forefront of your mind. “I don’t know what to write about, which is weird because I always have an idea, at least. That’s simply a bad sign, that much I know.”

“It’s only bad if you think it is,” Lissie says, clicking her phone off and smiling gently. “But in all honesty, I think it’s actually quite good. That means you know what's at stake, and you know you have to make this the best goddamn article in your entire life.” A beat. “Write what you know, I’m telling you.”

“What she said,” Carly squeaks cheerfully, eyes crinkling as she starts pouring champagne and handing them one by one. “But just so you know, we have to get this in by October thirteenth because they make their decision by the sixteenth.”

“But that’s Charles’ birthday week,” you wail, rubbing your eyes harshly. “Fucking hell—”

“He’ll understand,” Lissie cuts you off, clicking her glass against Carly’s who shrugs, sipping neatly. “All of us know he will.”

“Okay then,” you whisper slowly. You curl your hand tighter against the glass. “Cheers?”

“Cheers, mate!”

Entering his Monaco flat, Charles lets out a tired sigh, taking his shoes off and flinging his keys to the nearby coffee table. The loud thud makes him flinch before running over hurriedly. A large scratch lays across the rich wood as he panics, kneeling down to inspect it carefully.

“Are you serious, Charlie?” he hears over his shoulder, jumping to find you with a frown on your lips and hands on your hips. “That was a gift!”

“I’m sorry!” he squeaks. “From your Grandpa, I know, I’m sorry!”

You let out a breath, shrugging. “It’s fine. How was your day?”

He eyes you suspiciously once before getting closer to you and kissing you hello. “Eh. Decent. Yours?”

Plump lips twist before flattening back out. “Decent.”

He squints, noticing the way you play with your necklace. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” you answer quickly. Defensively.

His brows furrow deeper. “Blow me.”

“Blow you?”

“Yes. Right here, right now—blow me.” He demonstrates, letting out a breath as if taking a breathalyzer test.

You let out a sore laugh, rolling your heels as you stumble back. What? Your laughing stops, though tears run down your face as you try to get your words out. “You mean breathe out, not blow you.” Your giggles pick up once again, making him blush deep red. “God, you need to learn a bit more proper english.”

He looks away, cringing at the sound of his voice replaying, and then turning with a stoic face. “Don’t change the subject.” A pause. “Breathe out.”

You freeze. “Why?”

“Don’t ask questions, just do it.” “I’m not going to do it.”

“Just do it,” he presses harder.

You glare. “No. I’m not.”

Taking one last glance, he leaps forward with zero warning and starts tickling you, making your squeal. Stop! “Breathe!” I am breathing, you twat! “Blow me—God damn it! Whatever! Blow! Breathe! Blow!”

“Fine, fine, just stop!” you screech, giggles coming to an end as he nods and stares down at you, which by now, you’re laid down on the couch with him towering over. You blush, breathing out lightly, nearly nothing. He rolls his eyes. Blow me harder. “Blow me harder,” you mimic, copying his accent.

He groans. “You get what I’m saying—”

“I don’t, though,” you joke, laughing harder. As soon as your eyes shut, he smiles down at you affectionately, but when they open again, he reverts his lips back into a straight line. Your lips wobble playfully. Letting out a big breath, he whiffs strongly. “Gross, Cha!”

“You smell like strawberry sorbet, relax.” A beat. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out for me.”

“Okay, this is getting really kinky.”

He aims for a deadpan expression.

Rolling your eyes, you do as you're told and he lets out a scream. “What the fuck!”

“It’s red!”

“No duh, Charles!”

“Strawberry sorbet. The last pint. You ate it all, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So that's a yes.”

You frown.

“And we always share, but when we don’t it’s because you’re going through something and you couldn’t help yourself.”

“Okay, Sherlock Holmes, we get it,” you grunt, pushing him off as you sit up. He does the same, staring at you, concerned. “By the way, does that upset you?”

“The ice cream? Nah.”

You nod, then yawn. “Why do you have to be so attentive?”

“Because I love you.”

You smile. “I made it onto the list.”

“The list?”

“The list.”

A wide grin dances across his pink lips as he jumps onto the coach, up and down, making you bounce and stare up with a soft look. “The list! Thee list. Holy crap, congratulations, honey!” Landing on the ground, he hugs you, digging his face into the crook of your neck and kissing it over and over. “You smell nice—congrats—is that citrus—wait, this smells really nice—”

“It is citrus,” you giggle as he separates from you. “And thanks. It means the most coming from you.”

Silence takes over for a second or two before his brows knit neatly. “What’s wrong?”

“No. Nothing.” They raise up higher. “I’m not gonna lie—I’m scared.”

Tugging you closer to his chest, he drags so you two are laying back down. You close your eyes at the feeling of his arms wrapping around you like some blanket. “About what? You totally got this.”

“Hmph. It’s just that, I, uh. I have to write an article on a topic of my choice, and—I. Don’t know? I have no clue what to write about.”

Listening attentively, he doesn’t interrupt as your words begin to pour out like a prayer. He doesn’t even interrupt when you say something along the lines of being “at best—mediocre”, even though he really wanted to. You scoff. “It’s a silly problem to have, I’m well aware, but…it’s the truth.”

The Monegasque picks your breathing patterns, mindlessly copying as you cuddle him. “You’ll figure it out.”

You swiftly look up, cheek pressed against his heart beat. “That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

What do you want him to say? Your lips open aimlessly, then close forcefully.

He grabs a nearby blacket, covering you both and hugging you the same he’s seen you hug your teddy bear. “I think you need to have a little bit more faith. In yourself, that is. Because your mind…” Green eyes connect with yours as your breath comes to a strong halt. He tends to make your body react that way, quite often. He sends a simple grin. Dimples and all.

“It's the most beautiful thing on this earth.”

Abu Dhabi 2021.

It’s been talked about too much already.

Spain 2016.

You’re kidding, right?

Fine. Azerbaijan 2018—

You let out a muffled scream. “Pierre, no! I need something better.”

“Better than all that drama?” he dead pans, genuinely confused as to why his ideas are being shut down.

You exhale, hair flying outward. “I love it too, but I need something new. Unheard of.”

The Frenchman pauses, curling a brow. “I’ve gone blank.”

You bite down on your tongue, shrugging it off. “It’s okay. I should probably come up with my own topic, anyways.”

Getting up, you wave goodbye and make your way to the ice cream truck that’s been rented out for the weekend. Smartest investment, you think to yourself as you twirl your tongue around the lavender spoon.

“This time I really do mean it—blow me.”

Squinting up at the sun—which so happens to be behind Charles like a halo—you chuckle, feeding him a spoonful. “Good, no?”

“Delicious,” he hums, going in for another. “Have you tried the funnel cakes?” They have funnel cakes? you squeal, eyes shining. He nods. “Want one?”

You deflate. “Later.”

Watching the crowd walk by, you two sit there, switching turns and enjoying each other's company. It’s amazing how no one comes up to Charles, either. Not that he would mind, but it’s definitely a nice surprise. Glancing over, he hands the spoon back to you. “Come up with something?”

“I have a few ideas, but nothing solid yet.”

Pistachio ice cream melts away faster. “I told Pierre to leave you alone, I hope he didn’t bother you too much.”

“He’s actually the reason why I have these ideas. Don’t let him know, though, I would never live it down.”

Watercolor eyes go wide. “Really? Pierre actually helped?”

“Weird, huh?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Don’t stress out too much, honey. You still have time.”

You purse your lips. “But the sooner I figure it, the sooner I can start and just focus, and do the proper research and try and—”

“You have time,” he reaffirms with a knowing look. You cock your head and he sends a sly grin. “Plenty.”

“Plenty,” you copy as he nods along. Extending his arm, he signals to the spoon. You shake your head. “You can have the rest.”

“You’re the gift that keeps on giving.”

Write what you know. Write. What. You. Know.

What the fuck does that even mean?

Biting down on your pen, you’re spaced out, staring at the picture frame. In it, Charles and Carlos smile, you can tell, behind their helmets. While the Monegasque’s eyes crinkle sweetly, the Spaniards are dilated and wide. Both nice, but nothing beats those green eyes.

You can slowly feel your sanity slipping away, day by day. There’d be times where you thought you had it figured out, but then you’d bring it up and Lissie would smile and say—

“Yes! Stick to that one! Start it. Right now.”

It wouldn’t seem genuine because you know she just wanted you to get it done given it’s due in less than two weeks. And even though it was good, it wasn’t good enough.

“I’m just going to brainstorm a few more ideas.”

She’d given up, mumbling beneath her breath and grabbing her keynotes and headed to her meeting. Well, technically it was your meeting too, but again. Time crunch.

Hence, why you’re admiring the picture and thinking harder than you were a minute ago. The door slides open then, the two Ferrari drivers back from their media duties. You rip your gaze away as soon as they make their way closer. “How does one fake their own disappearance?”

“Oi,” the brown eyed boy warns, toothy grin expanding. “Good question, though.”

“Oi, you,” your boyfriend warns back, glaring at his teammate. “At this point, I’m sure she’d go through with it.” He turns to you. “Honey, you’ve got to decide already, it can’t be that hard.”

“I know that!” you burst out, ears burning as you avoid their eyes. “But there’s just so much! I don’t want to jump the gun and make a mistake, is all.”

Carlos juts his lip, then rolls his jaw. “If only you took someone’s very good proposition.”

A scoff. “I wasn’t going to write about Papaya Rules, Chili.”

“It would’ve been so good, though!” A beat. “What about—”

“Nor multi-21.”

His expression drops, along with his shoulders, and strolls away, flipping you off. I hope you figure it out, then! A low chuckle makes its way as you exhale loudly. “C’mon, what’s the problem this time?”

You bite your lip, brows drawn in together as you gaze back at Charles. “I’m not entirely convinced.”

“Honey…”

“A-and I know I’m running out of time, but I just want it to be perfect!”

He smiles, throwing his arm on your shoulder. “And it will be, but you need a topic.”

“Yeah…” You raise a brow. “What happened to having ‘plenty’ of time?”

The Monegasque wiggles his brows. “You can’t take up too much advantage.”

I’ve decided.

That’s the lie you settle with because quite frankly, you’re done with the constant questions. If you were going to come up with the best matter to write about, then you need to have a clear head. Carly is over the moon, Lissie is ecstatic, and Charles is proud.

Great! What’s it going to be about?

It’s a surprise.

At first, they were all as curious as can be, but later when you insisted that it’d be better that way, they nodded, though the interest was still there.

Now—with only a week and a half before your due date—you lay, plopped on your stomach, fingers teasing the keyboard as you watch Charles jump into his race suit. You sigh, sitting up. “I think I’m going to stay in here today.”

He fixes the zipper. “Yeah?”

You nod. “That way I can work and watch you.” You point to the T.V. hung up on his room wall. “Is that okay with you?”

“Whatever you need to do in order to focus, baby.” A wink. “It’s fine by me.”

They’re in lap sixty out of seventy-five, the last time you check, and your page remains as white as a ghost and as bare as a newborn baby. It’s both amusing and mind-boggling. Groaning, you hit your head with the back of your hand before running it down your face. Then, to make matters worse, your laptop dies.

Shit, you grit as you look around and spot Charles’ placed neatly on top of a nearby chair. Strolling over, you grab and open it, typing in his passcode and signing into your account. A few seconds later, the blank page resurfaces. Blinking slowly, you spot it.

Notes.

You take a look around, but really don’t know why since you’re the only one in his motorhome, and then click onto the App, furrowing your brows with concentration.

Turns out, you really like to read because one after another, you skim through his journal entries without a second thought. Eagerly, might you add. Some things you know, others you don’t, but nevertheless, you’re caught off guard. How sensitive he is and how it portrays in every word. Not only are you amazed, but you’re completely engrossed.

And it sparks something in you.

With a large grin, the brunette makes his way back to his room, trophy in hand and handshakes and pats on the back all around. Grazie mille, he beams as he makes his way closer, sending a final wave before opening his door. Finding you with his spare helmet over your head, he laughs. You giggle, opening the visor. “That’s one good looking winner!”

He laughs, placing the gold trophy down and enjoying you the way you struggle to take it off. You let out a loud gasp as soon as he assists you, tugging it off. “Shit.” Another gasp. “How do you wear that thing for two hours?” Fixing your hair, you pat it down as you send him a sheepish smile. “Give me a kiss!”

“No thanks. Too sweaty.”

Pouting, you pinch his ear tenderly before he gives in, pressing his lips against yours. “You were amazing out there, Charlie. You really were, I want you to know.”

Green eyes soften as he tries his best to savor this moment. “Only cause you say so.” You giggle, hugging his waist and he drapes his hands over your shoulders and rests his chin on top of your head. “How far along were you able to get?”

A hum. “Quite far, actually.”

He lets out a whistle, making your cheeks glow. “Looks like we’re both having a good day.”

“Looks like,” you swoon. “Looks like.”

Tilting your head back, you match with his eyes as he sends a dimpled smile.

Write what you know, you think to yourself as he leans back down to kiss you. His lips greedily crash against your own as you let out a soft moan, playing with his hair, large hands making their way down to your ass. And you, my dear Charlie…

He groans, shuddering as soon as you grind back against his thigh. You smile, admiring his open mouth.

I know you very well.

You feel guilty when you start on your first page, but by the time you make it to your third, you’ve talked yourself out of it. You would explain. As soon as you’re done, before you turn it in, you would explain it all to him. Tell him that this is simply because you love him. How he’s your biggest inspiration, and how this wasn’t you using him, but rather you showing others how amazing he truly is.

He notices it right away—the determination. And he admires you for it because he hasn’t seen you like that ever since your writer’s block. So, he tries not to intrude in moments where you’re on a roll, and instead makes sure to have a bath ready for you. He joins you sometimes, too.

Cracking your fingers, you yawn, exhausted, and stretch like a cat. He chuckles, closing his book like a light thud. “Update?”

“Six pages.”

“Wow. You really got it going on.” You blush. “You deserve something sweet. What do you want?”

“But it’s so late, and you have to be up early tomorrow…”

He rolls his eyes, already grabbing your trench coat. “It’s a bit cold out right now.”

You smile.

It’s not that far of a walk, three miles. After buying you a hot chocolate—with extra whip—he takes your mitten covered hand and leads you out the small coffee shop. By now, not many people are out, so it makes for a calm stroll.

“Shhh—ah,” you hiss, tongue sticking out as your face twists with subtle pain. He laughs, eyes crinkling. Drink slowly, he says, voice laced with humor. “The cool air helps,” you murmur, blowing on the hot drink. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

He shakes his head. “I just wanted you to unwind.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” you coo, enjoying the way his ears turn pink. You giggle. “Why do I feel like you’re thinking about something, though?”

“I am. You.” A gust of wind dances. “Always.”

You purse your lips, taking a slow sip, lipstick painting the white lid. “I’m serious, Cha. You’ve been quiet ever since you got off that phone call two hours ago.” Neat brows knit together with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he answers, but it’s too quick for it to be the truth.

Giving his large hand a squeeze, you send a knowing look. His breath hitches. “You can talk to me—”

“Are you almost done with your article?” he asks, obviously changing the topic as he stares up ahead, and if not, down at his shoes. Pink nose twitches. “I miss you, and call me greedy, but I was hoping you’d be done before my birthday, at least, that way we could…I don’t know—” He shrugs. “You’ve just been really busy—which I get why, and I understand—but I miss y-you.”

Wincing, you chew your bottom lip a couple times before letting go. “Almost, but.” His shoulders drop, making your stomach twist. You panic. “I feel like I’m missing something. Like the final bang in order for it to be…” A beat. “I’ll be done before your birthday, you can count on that.”

Round eyes finally flicker up as he nods, a more relaxed look evident. “This makes me sound so needy,” he says. “Which I guess I am, bu—”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut him off with a reassuring smile. “But please, tell me what’s going on…”

The Monegasque stiffens. Despite walking, you can tell. You can feel it. Also, it doesn’t take a genius to notice. “They’re not renewing Carlos’ contract for next year.”

You stop walking, making him stop too. He’s still holding onto you, rubbing small circles against cashmere. “W-why?”

“Guess.”

Your mind races. The rumors have definitely been swirling—everyone’s heard—but really? “They’re actually doing it?”

He nods.

“Lewis,” you whisper like it the first time you pronounce his name. “This is, uh…wow. I mean, wow.”

“Yup,” he says, popping the p. “Wow, for sure.” Letting go, he takes a small step back, but still faces you with an uneasy look. “They brought it up as a possibility, but I don’t know why I never thought they’d be capable of…” He grimaces. “I can’t even begin to imagine how Carlos must be feeling.”

“Weren’t they just praising him last time during your guys’ team meeting?” You curl the cup towards your chest. “That’s fucked up.” Charles sighs, pinching the tip of his nose swiftly. Your eyes fill up with concern. “What about you?”

“I got an extension.”

You let out a breath of relief, nodding. “O-okay, okay. That’s good, Charlie, that’s really good.” When he keeps quiet, you pause all movement and blink feverishly. “Why are you upset, then?”

“I’m not,” he answers. “Only worried.” Listening closely, you silently wait for him to continue. He sighs, rubbing his eyes, suddenly tired. “It’s just that…he. He’s Lewis,” he finishes like that’s enough explanation.

You curl a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A weak chuckle. “It means he’s better, and the team is going to favor him over me.” A timid shrug. “I get it, though. If anyone can bring a Championship home for the team, it’s going to be him.”

“It’s going to be you.”

“No.” The light in his eyes gave out, slowly and painfully so. “It’s not.”

Berry lips open, then close lamely, analyzing him like the world's biggest mystery. Sternly, you narrow your eyes down like knives. “World Champion?”

He flinches.

You click your tongue. “Do you realize how crazy you sound?”

“What?” he says, puzzled.

You nod. “Why are you giving up so easily, huh?”

Sharp jaw clenches. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s a former World Champion, and I’m not.” He chuckles sourly. “It’s really not that difficult to figure out. I mean, I’ve been working for it for so long now, and look at me! I’m nowhere close to being there!”

Silence. Chest heaves. You never let go of your gaze, and he has no other choice than to do the same. He’s not mad at you—not mad at anyone, really—but he’s frustrated. And yeah. Maybe he is giving up the fight, but anyone else who was in his position would too. No one wants to be the laughing stock, no one wants to be compared.

“Listen to me Charles Leclerc, and listen to me closely because I’m only going to say this once.”

He waits.

“If it’s something you want, then it’s most likely something you can have.”

Pink lips turn upward as he tilts his head in the slightest of tilts.

Holding his face between your delicate hands, you raise your brows, shivering at the icy air. He can feel your hand vibrate against his skin as he grabs them, brings them up to his mouth, and blows hot air onto them. “I believe in you. Everybody does. Do you believe in that?”

And it takes a moment for him to answer. It takes a moment for it to register. He nods. Sure of himself.

“Only because you do.”

“A USB?” He frowns. “I thought you hated those?”

“I do,” you say, combing through your hair, staring at him through the reflection of the mirror. “But I feel like this makes it real. Physically turning it in, I mean. It’s dumb, but…” You check the time, shrieking and grabbing your things. “Carly is going to kill me! Okay, I’ll be back in an hour, and then we can go with your family for dinner, or I’ll meet you there, yeah?” You huff. “Red or white wine?”

“Sparkling water,” he ponders. “Maman is trying to get to ‘quit.’ Which is probably not the right way to put it because it’s not like Lorenzo, Arthur, and I are alcoholics.”

“Oh. Alright then, I’ll just get that instead.” Tippy toeing, you peck his cheek briskly, sweet perfume hitting him. “I love you.”

Adoration fills his watercolor eyes. “I love you, too.”

Who knew?

Who knew that’d be the last time you’d hear those words coming from him?

Entering the familiar office, you wheeze, crouching down to catch your breath before sending over a coy smile. Carly laughs, clearly amused, before signaling to the chair that sits right in front of her. “We could have done this any other day as long as it was before the deadline, you know?”

“No,” you pant, heart beat barely switching back to its regular pace. Well. Sort of. “I need to get this out of the way, I promised Charles I’d be free before his birthday. He said it was his one and only wish, could you believe that, he’s so cute, isn’t he?” She blinks. Pink dusts your cheekbones. “Anyways, here it is.”

Looking down at your extended hand, she almost lets out a snicker. “I get I’m older than you, but really? You emailing it to me would have been just as effective.”

“I didn’t want to risk it going straight into your spam folder.” That, and I don’t want to see when you actually read it because I have a funny feeling you’re going to disapprove, which is okay, fair. “Here.”

“Very well, then,” she mumbles, retrieving it. “Why don’t we proofread it together one more time before send—”

Horrified at the innocent suggestion, you leap up from your chair, pushing back. “There’s no need, I checked it about a thousand times.” She raises a sharp brow at your outburst, the defensiveness in it. You laugh nervously. “And I should get going, anyways. Pascale is cooking Cha an early birthday dinner, can’t be late.”

Placing her forearms against the table, she nods slowly, but still unsure. “I won’t hold you back any longer, then. Tell him I said happy birthday.”

Tight lips form a forced smile, uneven breaths expanding. “Of course.”

You’re expected in an hour, so when you should be up forty-five minutes early, Pascale is pleased, but a bit surprised. Hugging you hello, she opens the door wider, letting you in. “They’re out in the back. Dinner should be ready in a bit.”

“No worries. Do you need any assistance?”

She shakes her head, thin blond hair swaying. “I’ve got it all under control, chérie.”

Nodding, you put your things down and start making your way towards the sound, beers clinking. You let out a snicker. “And here you are claiming not to be an alcoholic,” you joke. Flustered, Charles turns to face your soft voice.

“It’s my first,” he squeaks.

“Third,” both Lorenzo and Arthur shoot, greeting you with a gentle nod.

“It barely even has any alcohol,” your boyfriend tries defending, but the crack in his voice makes everyone burst out with laughter. Blood rushes to his cheeks. “Weren’t you supposed to be with Carly?”

“I was, but we got done pretty quickly.”

“What’d she think?” he asks, tugging you onto his lap. You giggle, meanwhile Arthur gags and Lorenzo blinks unbothered. “Bet she loved it.”

“I wouldn’t know. I left before she read it.”

He cocks his head. “Seriously?”

You nod. “You said you wanted my full attention.”

“I didn’t say it like that—”

“Well, now you have it.” You kiss his nose gingerly. “Happy early birthday, Charlie.”

The Monegasque smiles deeply. “Thank you.”

“Arthur! Lorenzo! Come help and set the table!”

Arthur groans. “Why just us? What about Charles?”

Poking her head out the window, Pascale aims a stern look, making him dash up. You laugh, ideally going to stand up, but gets tugged back down onto his thigh. You roll your eyes. “I should help, too. But you stay here and relax.”

“I will, but only if you stay with me.”

“Pascale needs my help—”

“Right, but she has both of them already.” He gives your hair a gentle tug. “Stay.”

Sighing, you nod, resting your head on his shoulder as he holds you. From here, you can see the breathtaking view of Monaco’s sunset. The ocean, the trees. Filled with satisfaction in life, you kiss the side of his neck, making him squirm slightly. “Carly says happy birthday. Early. Early birthday.”

A hum. “Make sure to tell her that I said thank you, the next time you see her.”

The sound of waves crashing sings softly. He traces shapes down your leg. “When will I be able to read it?”

You’re sure you stop breathing. “S-soon. After Carly gives me the green light, at least.”

A beat. “I’m excited.”

Your stomach churns. “You are?”

“Mhm. Very. Didn’t you know I was your biggest fan?”

Fixing yourself to look at him, you open your lips, feeling how dry they’ve become. “Charles—”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

A sore laugh. “They’re calling you.”

You reach towards your back pocket, pulling it out. Carly Freeman. Clicking it off, you shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

He wiggles his brows. “Doesn’t seem like it’s nothing. Answer her, it’s fine.”

“She’s going to have to wait until tomorrow,” you announce, standing up and dusting your hands off. “I’m here with you, and she's going to have to wait. Whatever it is, it can’t be more important than this.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

He sends a worried look. “Are you sure? What if it has something to do with your article? You should pick up—”

“I said I’m here with you,” you affirm. “Tomorrow. She’ll be fine.”

“Okay…” Standing to his full height, he sends a gesture towards the house. “Let's go?”

His hand reaches out, waiting for you. You smile, taking it. “Let’s go.”

Your phone keeps buzzing and it doesn’t let him sleep.

That, and Carly is a terrible liar.

Shifting in the bed as quietly as possible, Charles reaches for your phone, trying his best not to wake you. “Hello?” he croaks. The line stays quiet, static rolling. “I know it's you, Carly.”

“Charles! How’s my favorite driver?”

You twist, unwrapping your leg that was draped over him. He freezes, soothing you a bit before you settle down. Climbing off the bed, he walks out, gently closing the door and heading towards the living room. “I know your favorite is Fernando, what’s up?”

She laughs nervously, cursing underneath her breath. “Is my little journalist with you?”

“She is.”

“Great! May I speak with her very quick—”

“But she’s asleep.” She groans. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Well…”

Sitting down on the couch, he leans back, placing his feet onto the coffee table. Normally, he wouldn’t, but you weren’t here right now, and lucky for him, he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He clicks his tongue. “Does this have something to do with your guys’ meeting today?”

“Yes. And no.” More static. “Do you mind waking her up for me?”

“Um…well I do. Sorry, Carly, but she needs to get some rest, she’s been working non-stop, and—”

“No, no, I get it!” she squeals. “I totally understand. Can you let her know that I need to talk to her as soon as possible? Like—urgent. Please and thank you and have a good night!”

“Wait,” he says, furrowing his brows and pushing the phone closer to his ear. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about. Too much,” she adds. “It’s just that I need a bit of clarification, that’s all.”

“Clarification?”

“Yup. On a tiny mistake of hers. But we can fix it together, she still has time, and if she hurries then we can still meet the dea—”

“She doesn’t make mistakes, though. Ever.”

A hiss. “It’s a tiny one, Charles—”

“Okay, tell me and I’ll tell her.”

“What? I can’t. I need to speak directly with her first.”

“Carly…”

“What now?” she grits.

“What’s the issue?” he presses harder. “I’ll let her know right now.”

The line goes quiet. For a moment, he begins to wonder if she’s hung up already, but when she clears her throat, he listens carefully, but can’t decipher her mumbles.

“She gave me the wrong USB.” That’s it? She groans. “Listen to me Charles—the USB she brought to be today only has her title written on it along with a few notes about what it’s supposed to be about. It’s the wrong one and I need the other one now.”

“Okay,” he mutters slowly, nodding. “I’m sure she’ll bring it to you once I let her know, but that’s going to have to be until tomorrow.”

She gasps. “You said you’d let her know right now!”

He winces. “I know I did, but it’s late! Trust me, though. I’ll tell her you called and I’ll even drive her myself tomorrow to drop it off. It must be around here somewhere right…” And it sure is. Sitting nicely on the coffee table, inches away from his feet. He sits up straight away, picking it up as if it were some sort of new discovery. Which in a way, it was. “Carly, why is this so important to you?”

“She’s my favorite client,” she answers without missing a beat. “I only want what’s best for her, and right now we need to fix this little mishap and get this article in as soon as possible.” A beat. “Also, maybe don’t mention the first part to Lissie, she’d totally kill me.”

Analyzing the black USB, he remains stoic, blinking only because he needs to. “Goodnight, Carly…”

“Yeah. I, um—goodnight, Charles.”

Once he hangs up, he’s quick on his feet, retrieving his laptop from the counter and sticking the drive in without a second to process what he’s doing. He shouldn’t. Probably. Definitely not. But the interest Carly clearly has was enough to poke his mind and for him to start wondering what on earth is so significant?

And it’s so obvious now why.

Charles Lecelrc: The Man Behind the Helmet

His eyes skim fast, narrowing sharply.

Like any other human being, he struggles with depression, though fails to admit. Many sleepless nights, many fights, many canceled therapy appointments, I begin to question: does every praise his fans give him make him think he’s above all these things? The truth hurts, but it's only because it's real. And Charles Lecelrc, you are nowhere close to being as perfect as everyone makes you out to be.

His heart stops, re-reading the last sentence. He wishes for it to say anything but that, but it never changes, and it only mocks him like a school bully.

Many assume that the death of his late-father, Hervé, and his late-godfather, Jules Bianchi, have made him stronger in a sense. That it has fed the drive in him to succeed. To be the best of the best, but what if that wasn’t true at all? Would any of you be surprised? Probably, but again, no one truly knows him the way I do. So, what feeds his determination?

The thought of failing the same way they did.

Anger bubbles up inside of him, grinding his molar until they crunch loudly against his temples.

But who can blame him for having that fear inherited down onto him? Tabloids also have a part in this, and so do unwanted changes. One way or another, we can relate with the latter, but never in the way he does. Reading and hearing rumors takes a toll on Charles, that much is true, but what can we expect when his next new teammate is a seven-time World Champion.

I guess the only question that stands in not only our minds, but also his…

Is he strong enough to come head to head with someone as talented as Lewis Hamil—

“Wake up.”

Groggily, you rub your eyes. “Charlie, it’s dark out, come on. Come back to bed.”

“Stop calling me that, and get up.” In a single movement, he rips the blanket away and yanks you from your wrist, forcing you to sit. You gasp, his change of heart sobering you up from your sleepy daze.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He laughs. “Me? What’s wrong with me? Are you serious right now or are you stupid?”

You flinch, taken aback. “Don’t talk to me like that, what did I do?”

“I won’t waste my breath explaining.” He drops his laptop on the bed, making you freeze as soon as you spot the familiar USB. “I'll let you re-read it.”

“Where did you get this from?”

“Really? That’s what’s important to you?” He rolls his jaw, rubbing it until his skin turns a light shade of red. “If you don’t want me finding it, then next time don’t leave it out.”

Your lips go dry, crawling to the edge of the bed, but as soon as you’re about to reach out for him, he grimaces, shaking his head and taking three steps back. “Charlie—”

“No,” he hisses, glaring at you with utter hatred. The sight alone makes your eyes well up. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t get to call me that ever again.” A cry rings through the air as you cover your hands over your face. “A-am I supposed to be impressed by what I read or what?”

“It’s no—”

“Did I do something to upset you or w-why were you talking about me like that?” he questions, genuine confusion taking over as he furrows his brows until they cause his eyes to pinch up too.

Sniffling, you get up quickly, shaking your head adamantly until you get dizzy. “It wasn’t supposed to come off across that way! Are you kidding me?” Grabbing your heart, you soften your eyes. “I’m your biggest supporter.”

“Yeah? Well, that,” he snarls, pointing at the open screen like it's the most disturbing thing. “That doesn’t make sense with what you’re saying…” A beat. “Why would you do this to me?”

“Do what, though?” you whimper. “Everything I wrote about you is based on what you told me!”

“Exactly!” he shouts back, making the distance between you smaller, making you shrink. “I told you! Just you! I never once asked you to air out my business, and quite frankly, I thought that was common sense.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “You called me crazy and troublesome among other things. Are you my girlfriend or wolves in sheep's clothing? I’m trying to understand your logic here.”

You push your hair back, breathing hard. “You can’t just say that, there’s context behind that, come on…”

“Oh. Okay. My bad. I’m crazy because I talk to my father’s tombstone and Jules’. It's troublesome because I used to do cocaine in order to de-stress. I’m in over my head because I actually think I stand a chance against Lewis—a chance you convinced me I had!”

“That’s not what I meant!” you squeak. “You’re taking it all wrong, Charles, I would never say that about you!”

“But you did,” he states firmly. “And you know? If I’m so unready to face a friendly competition against my future teammate, then maybe I’m unready to face a lot of other things, too.” You freeze, dreading his next words as you plead him silently not to say them. “Maybe I’m not as ready to settle down with you as much as I thought I was…”

That does it. That seems to cut the little oxygen you had, off. Stumbling back, you feel the tears start to form again. “You don’t mean that…” You smile weakly. “You’re just a tiny bit upset right now, okay, fine. That’s fine. But you don’t mean any of that.”

Glaring until it hurts, he maintains eye contact. “Don’t tell me what I’m feeling, you don’t get to do that!”

You flinch. “I’m sorry.” A droplet slides down. “I’m sorry, okay?” More follows. “For all of it. For all of this. If I could take it all back, I would, you have to believe me, Charles, you know I would.”

His gaze lingers for a while longer, taking in your rosy nose. Your swollen eyes. Your wet cheeks. Everything that's supposed to make him feel better, but it doesn’t. “I really did trust you…” You breath hitches. “And I really did want you to win…” Pause. “And I still do.”

Strolling over, he disconnects the USB, making the screen go completely black, and hands it to you. Blinking down, you shake your head, too embarrassed to even look at it. “I don’t want it.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want it either…” Forcing your palm open, he places it down, instantly making your skin burn. “Journalist of the Year.”

You let out a wet sob, shoulders shaking. You don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but what you do know is that this doesn’t feel good and that your heart breaks with every passing second.

Never in a million years did you think you would experience any of this, especially with Charles. The Monegasque cocks his head, curls following. “I’m glad you’re about to get everything you’ve ever wanted, I really am.” He chuckles softly, eyeing you intently. “I just can’t help but wonder what that must feel like.”

“I was going to tell you,” you whisper meekly. “And you were supposed to understand where I was coming from.”

And if any anger was gone, well fuck that, it all came right back.

“Understand where you were coming from?” he spits out, shocked by your choice of words. “You really thought I would understand? I planned my entire future around you, and this is how you repay me? You went behind my back to write an article I didn’t even know about! We made a choice years ago!”

“No, you did!” you retort, despair rising hard and fast. “You came up with that decision all by yourself, Charles, I never agreed!” You look down. “Not entirely.”

“Huh,” he scoffs, squinting his eyes. “I was simply looking out for the girl that I love given that the internet is a scary place and she probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it, for God sakes, I guess this is my fault now, isn’t it?”

“I would have been able to handle it, but you never gave me the chance!”

“Yeah, because reporting on a driver and driver who's your boyfriend are two completely different things that you can’t seem to comprehend!”

Trembling, you blink carefully, gulping. “I would have done just fine.”

“You think so?” he challenges, a sour smile forming. You nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?” Closing the final distance between you two, your breath gets stuck as he sends a dirty glare, one that's meant to sting. “You’re not talented. You only have your position because of your dating status, when in reality, your work is utter shit. Everything is handed to you.”

There’s a mix of a whimper and a plea that comes out of you as you screw your eyes shut. “You’re being mean, Charles…”

He laughs, clapping his hands once with amusement. “That’s what the internet is! Maybe I was right, then—you can’t handle it.”

“I could…” you murmur, but it's no use.

The brunette catches himself wanting to comfort you. To apologize for everything. But then he figures—why? It’s not like he truly did something wrong.

“You’re the greatest disappointment of my life.”

Something ended the moment those words left his mouth—you both knew it. Sobbing hard, your shoulders vibrate violently as you seemingly gasp for air. He looks away.

“You know, our life could have been so good. So fucking good. But you went and ruined it.” Green eyes flicker back. “Why would you do this to us?”

“I never meant to hurt you,” you declare with wet lashes.

“You did a bit more than that,” he replies, wincing, blinking rapidly. He smiles. “If you wanted to write your article on me, you should’ve asked me. You should have talked to me. But no. And the thing is, I would have let you! God. I would have let you write whatever you wanted—but not like this. You stole an interview from me with no right, honey…”

Quickly, you flicker your gaze up at him, hoping to see any trace of love in that one word, but you’re not surprised when you don’t find any, deflating furthermore. He shrugs. Like what you did to him was no big deal.

“You took it from me. But I would have given it to you.”

“Are you sure you want to do this? You can always change your mind, babe, it’s totally fine!”

“No.” You fix your hair, posture straight. You smile. “I need to.”

Lissie shares a slow nod, nibbling on her bottom lip before handing you her keynotes. “Alright. Good luck.”

The idea first sparked when the Brit girl mentioned how she was the only one granted permission to interview Charles at this year's FIA prize giving ceremony. You had debated back and forth with what seemed like forever, both Carly and Lissie trying to talk you out of it, but you pleaded until they reluctantly agreed.

You haven’t seen him ever since that day.

It’s insane to think about, sometimes. You knew each other for two years, dated for three, and haven’t crossed paths for another two. And now, you’re here. He’d been upfront that day, didn’t even flinch with his one and only birthday wish, meanwhile you felt the last stab hurt more than anything.

I wish to never see you again.

Not long after, he grabbed his things and left. But not before turning around, sending you one last glance, dull, empty, and nothing like him anymore. You still recall.

Turn it in, he said, smiling warmly despite his better judgment. Despite not meaning it. Don’t let this all be for nothing.

Shaking your hands, you grin, fixing your silk dress. The Brit girl stares worriedly, but as soon as you wink, she hides it. Not that well, but enough. “He’s going to be so mad at me,” she jokes, but it’s probably true. He has a soft spot for her, and he only gave permission to her. No one else.

You wince, grabbing her hands delicately. “I really appreciate this, Lissie. More than you’ll ever know.”

Waving goodbye, you make your way to the private conference hall. It’s daunting, actually, the sight of the large table where he’ll be sitting and the small chair where you will. Quite the narrative. His picture is hung in almost every corner, from the beginning of his career to now. The latest one makes you smile as he lifts the trophy high up with a beaming grin, dimples poking out and eyes crinkled just the way you remember.

You thought about apologizing again. Better this time. Once things simmered down. You really wanted to, but as soon as Carly informed you that the article would need to be published in order for fans to engage with your content and for them to decide on a winner, you knew the gist of him accepting your apology was most likely never going to happen.

And you contemplated not posting it. Carly did too. Lissie did too. No one thought it was a good idea, but you still did it. Like he said—you couldn’t let all that be for nothing.

The hate came immediately, you expected nothing less. In their minds, you were a loyal girlfriend, but after reading your work, the comments came rolling in. You were honestly quite grateful because you know you deserved every last bit of it.

But somehow—somehow—you won Journalist of the Year.

You were shocked to say the least—bewildered. And you could see it in Lissie and Carly’s eyes too. So, while accepting the award with a forced smile, it hit you like a truck.

Did you truly earn this or was it all thanks to him?

Either way, does it matter anymore?

The door gently opens as he steps in, a loopy smile stretched onto his lips before coming to a complete stop. With your heart in your throat, you cough awkwardly, standing up and waving. You cringe, putting your hand down as soon as he furrows his brows, looking around.

“S-she’s not here,” you say, voice cracking. You blush. “You’re looking for Lissie, right?” Utter silence. He blinks, unresponsive and as stiff as a tree. You lick your lips. “I-I-I can leave if you want.” But you really hope he doesn’t want you to.

The Monegasque’s features strike with something familiar—something you knew not long ago. Then…

He smiles at you.

“It’s alright.” Carefully, he makes his way closer, scooting his chair right next to yours as you blink, sitting back down and staring with your plump lips slightly open. He cocks his head. “Y-you look the same.”

You giggle. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?” When he fails to answer, you bite down on your lip hesitantly. “You haven’t changed much, either.”

He clears his throat, averting his gaze. “I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but why are you here and where is Lissie?”

You flinch. Okay. This was expected. You practiced hours for this very moment. “Don’t be mad at her, okay, I asked her to let me do this. I wanted to…see you, Charles.” The sound of his name leaving your lips makes his heart stop because it's been so long since he’s heard it. Too long. A subtle blush. “I’m here to apologize.”

“Ah,” he winces, scrunching his nose. “Don’t. We’re cool.”

“Are we, though?”

He stiffens.

Exhaling, you place your things down, pursing your lips. He watches the way your knee bounces up and down. How you play with your ring before covering it neatly with the opposite hand. That catches him completely off guard as he blinks rapidly, thinking he must be mistaken.

“I know I don’t deserve any of this,” you say nervously. “By all means, I should have been kicked out five minutes ago, but you…” Round eyes soften, lashes batting slowly. “You’ve always been a kind and generous human being, Charles.”

“Stop,” he whispers. You frown. “Saying my name, I mean. You can talk—we can talk, but please, just. Don’t say it.”

“O-okay,” you mumble, stomach churning. “I won’t.”

He lets out a tight smile, tilting his head. Years ago, his hair was a tad bit longer, fluffier even. Now, it’s still the same, but somehow more mature. His eyes are still young and naive, but with a hint of wisdom. He usually would wear mismatching suits, but now it matches. A lot of him has changed, and you weren’t there to witness it.

“Congrats, by the way,” you add happily. “World Champion, eh?”

Pink spreads across his cheeks, slowly but surely. “Thanks. I was close to losing my mind.”

You laugh. “Seven years later, but it’s well deserved. I’m so proud of you.”

And for a moment, he goes completely numb. He’s heard plenty of kudos ever since winning his first title—and they were nice, they made him feel nice—but this. You? It’s the first time it makes him feel accomplished. And that feels more than nice.

Playing with his bracelet, he nods sheepishly. “How have you—how, um…God. I, um, how have you been?”

“Oh.” You let out a genuine smile. Soft. Angelic. And everything he wishes to find in any other girl that isn’t you. It’s not something he should notice. “I’ve been well.” You raise your hand. “Engaged.”

“You sure are,” he mumbles, finally acknowledging the silver band before flashing an easy smile of his own. And maybe it was real, or maybe it wasn’t, but he wasn’t as upset as he thought he’d be. Just a tiny bit bothered, is all. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You lick your lips awkwardly. “You remember Carly’s son?”

A tide hits him as he internally screams. “Grayson, right?”

You nod. “She, uh, set us up a while ago and we hit it off.” You wince. “I’m sorry, is that weird?”

“No. Of course not,” he replies, shrugging. “You’re allowed to build your life with whomever you want. What happened between us was…” He chuckles. “So long ago. I’m happy for you both, I really am.”

And he means it this time.

Admiring the oval-shaped ring, you swoon as if you’re thinking of the exact moment he proposed to you, and that’s the prettiest sight Charles thinks he might ever see. Even if it didn’t end up being him. Once you look back up, he looks away, feigning interest in anything else stupidly.

“Yourself?”

“Myself?”

A playful eye roll. “Are you seeing anyone?”

A retch. “Ha ha, no! No, that’s not—that’s not for me.” You frown. He winces. “Please don’t be offended, but after you, I sort of lost interest in meeting other people. Pierre calls it trauma, I call it precaution.” A sore laugh. “B-but maybe one day. Never say never, am I right?”

The lights reflect directly towards you, so that lets him see the rosy blotches beginning to hug your cheekbones as your lips wobble. He panics. “N-no! Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“I ruined your life,” you wail, throwing your hands over your face. “Oh my God, I wrecked it!”

“You didn’t!” he tries. “I’ve gone on a couple of dates, here and there!”

You’re tiny cries take a quick pause. Sniffling, you shoot him a look, shiny eyes beaming back at him. “You have?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, slowly relaxing against his seat. “Sort of. Kind of.” A horrified expression maps out against your face. He grimaces. “I-It’s just not my thing!”

“I’m sorry, Ch—” You pause, rethinking your words. “I’m sorry.”

The Monegasque shrugs, hoping that’d be enough for you to drop the topic. “It’s okay, really. It’s a decision I made long ago, and I’d like to keep it like that for a while, at least.” You bite down on your bottom lip, nodding halfheartedly. “But please, um, tell me, how far along are you? Heard from Lissie that it’s a boy.”

You let out a wet giggle, wiping your tears away to the best of your ability. “Nineteen weeks. I’m in my second trimester.” Gingerly, you rub your tiny belly before your eyes light up. “Give me your hand!”

“What?”

Leaning in, you grab his large hand and place it down on your stomach, looking up at him to watch his reaction. At first, he’s weirded out, you can tell. He makes a silly face he probably doesn’t realize he’s making, but seconds later his features soften. His green eyes go round, no tension behind them. His brows lay flat, then knit together in amazement. He laughs, rubbing his thumb gently.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “When he kicks?”

You hum. “Sometimes it can. But I suppose it’s more discomfort than anything.” You wiggle your eyebrows. “Cool?”

He nods rapidly. “Super cool.”

Pulling away, he can feel his adrenaline as high as a kite, and as fast as his car. He feels different, he notes, as if something has finally shifted inside of him. With this, he takes time to admire you in a way he hasn’t been able to ever since.

Your hair is cut into layers now, glossy and shorter than he remembers. Your lips, round, plump and berry tinted. Your eyes, doe, innocent, and pure in a way he can’t seem to wrap his head around. Smile, even, wobbly, and everything in between.

Your gaze flickers. “Question…”

“Answer,” he replies, studying your body language.

It’s harder than you had initially thought it would be, asking him what you’d been wondering for these past two years. Was it all that bad? The answer might be yes. Yes, it was. To him, perhaps. But it tugs your tongue, and it burns a bit, but you push through, focusing on him and his watercolor eyes.

“Do you—”

But he still knows you. He can still read you. Before you, it’s always him who understands your train of thought.

He shakes his head, dimples imprinting like a finger in sand. “No regrets.”

A peach seed forms as you let out a sheepish laugh. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life,” you admit, cringing slightly. “Just yesterday, I bought the wrong plane ticket. Got stuck in the airport for three extra hours.” He chuckles. “Totally unnecessary.”

“It happens,” he comforts you, clicking his tongue.

“I guess so,” you say, sighing. “But betraying someone you love? Yeah. That’s got to be the worst mistake of my life.”

He flinches, an old wound suddenly opening. “Hey, you—”

You raise your hand, pleading with him. “Let me just…” So, he forces himself to sit there quietly, to not intrude no matter how much he really wants to. It’s fine, he wants to say, I’m fine now, we’re fine now, seriously.

A wince. “Do you know how guilty I feel whenever Grayson polishes my award?” A scoff. “He means no harm with his actions, but it makes me feel like shit everytime I walk past it. I’ve begged him to put it away somewhere in the attic, but he’s as proud as can be. Say’s an accomplishment like that deserves to be shown off. That it’s proof of all my hard work.” You smile. “Much like you and your trophy.”

You exhale. “You were right, though.” A hum. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I never said that.”

“Sure,” you give in quietly. “But you did say that if I won, I’d always wonder if I was truly respected for my work or if I was respected because of you.”

He bites his tongue.

You shrug lamely. “And that’s just something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life…” Steadily, you ease your eyes back towards him as you find him already staring at you, listening close and curious. “And I want you to know that I’m fine with that.” A beat. “What I’m not fine with is you being mad at me for the rest of your life.”

Charles opens his mouth, feeling his tongue as dry as the desert and his throat as dusty as the highest mountain. “I’m not mad at you…anymore.” He sits up straighter. “I said a lot of things to you that night that I shouldn’t have said, but you have to understand that you hurt me a thousand times worse.”

Tears well up your eyes as you nod shamefully. He continues despite feeling the need to reach out for you. “I just wanted you to feel what I was feeling, even if that meant—well. You know. And, um…I tried to forget all of that, but I, too, felt guilty, so—I’m glad you’re here. That way I can say…I’m sorry.”

“No!” you wail, raising your arms up. “No, I’m sorry! I broke your trust, and I was a God awful girlfriend.”

“You did,” he chuckles before scrunching his nose in deep thought. “But you were also the best I’ll ever have.”

A wet sob escapes.

“I forgive you.”

“S-shit,” you let out. “You don’t know how g-good it feels to finally hear you say that.”

A gentle smile. “You?”

You giggle, standing up. “I have nothing to forgive you for, but yeah. Okay. I forgive you, as well.” You open your arms for a hug. He blinks. “It’ll make me feel better.”

Tsk. “You used to do this all the time wherever we fought,” he says, a hint of sadness wavering in his eyes before disappearing into thin air. Extending to his full height, he towers over you before going in to close the distance. He halts, coughing awkwardly.

You snicker, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Right. You're hugging two of us now.”

A wave of jealousy pangs his chest for a second. You’ve moved on, and he’s stuck in the year you were still in his life. Still his. He envies Grayson in every sense there exists, but he swallows down that pill because he’d always been a nice bloke the very few times he interacted with him. He needs to move on, too.

Even if it takes him his whole life to figure out how.

“The more the merrier.”

Your face has gone completely numb by now from how hard you're grinning from ear to ear. Wrapping your arms around his waist as he goes over your shoulders, you sigh contently as you catch the whiff of his cologne. His heartbeat quickened at the smell of your perfume.

“Question,” he whispered. You chuckle against his chest. Answer. He gulps, nose twitching. “Would it make me a bad person to say that you’re probably the only girl I’ll ever love?” Silence. He screws his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. Why the fuck would he ever say that—

“I’d only say that I don’t deserve to be her,” you respond. “Anyone but me.”

A flinch. “O-of course. You’re getting married, you’re having a baby, what was I th—”

“Honey…”

He freezes.

You lean back, holding his face between your hands and smiling. “It’s not your name…”

His voice catches. “It’s not…”

A deeper smile. Nostalgic. “A piece of me will always love you.” A pause. “You know me so well. Better than anyone. You’ve seen me naked. You’ve dressed me. You’ve seen me with makeup. You’ve seen me without. And…well—you’ve seen my good side. But you’re also the only one who's seen my bad.”

His palms quickly get sweaty as he tries his best to not do anything he might regret. And not because he’ll wish to take it back, but because you would. Neat brows draw in together as you graze his stubble with your thumb. As nurturing as a mother, which he supposes you already are.

“I’d say that makes us pretty close, no?”

“Not as close as I’d like to be.”

“You’ll find someone.” A beat. “Someone who’ll love you right.”

“You didn’t?” he questions before he can stop himself. “Sorry—”

“My love for you was honest. But I blew it.”

I’m still here, he wants to yell out. If you still want me like I want you, then I’m still here.

But he refrains from doing so.

“You’ve never done me wrong,” he attempts, kissing your palm gingerly before softening his gaze. You send a playful glare. “Except for that one time.” You snort. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore because—because it doesn’t matter anymore…”

Maybe it's the hormones, you sort of wish it was, but you know it’s due to his gentleness. You don’t deserve his sympathy, you don’t deserve even a fraction of it. Crying, you kiss his cheek, hoping everything you feel transfers itself into the warmth of his skin. And you don’t know, but it does just that.

Closing his eyes, he prays to dream about this kiss forever. Have nightmares, who even cares. As long as he doesn’t forget.

You step away carefully, taking him in as his eyes flutter.

“Charles Leclerc, first time World Champion…”

He smiles. You smile.

His dimples pop out. Your eyes crinkle.

He loves you. You love him.

And maybe it didn’t work out in this life.

But maybe in the next.

“May I have an interview with you?”

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kooyabooya · 6 months ago

Text

HIERARCHY

m reader x dahyun // 9k words

(shoutout to @passingnotions for allowing me to adapt this idea <3)

“I have her here waiting at the desk if you’re ready to see her, sir.”

“Perfect. Send her up.”

It’s peculiar for these kinds of rumors to circulate given her status - and even when the sounds of her heels click off against the polished tiles and get gradually louder; until she steps past the open door and into the oval office, you still can’t put together why she’s a controversial topic in the first place.

“I’m glad that we can finally have this arrangement,” you say, glancing over the more she makes her presence known, “Overseer.”

It’s as simple as it sounds:

She’s the regulator. You’re the higher-up. It’s your job to assess, determine, and take action.

And the roles exist for a reason, and every system has its necessary balance. Nobody gets out of line, and nobody ever questions the orders that come from the superiors. Everything feels right in its place, between the people and where this institution stands, but there’s one catch that you’ve sought yourself to see out personally, after hearing some peculiar commentary building up with various faculty members.

This very woman standing in your quarters exudes this infectious aura that sweeps up the whole room. In the case of the students, it would send a chill down their spine, get a few beads of sweat to form in the palms of their hands and foreheads - a quick breath beneath their lips as they tense up because despite not being the main person in trouble, and she makes them feel that way regardless.

“I would like to know why you asked to see me in the first place,” she says, face stoic as she settles into the seat, gaze locked with yours, “Hopefully this isn’t about what we discussed the other time, is it?”

Something in the way that she sits, and how the two-piece set of her dress rests along the line of her shoulders, how her eyes dart through yours when you’ve caught yourself staring a bit longer than expected. Make the goosebumps along your arms stand up underneath the sleeves.

“It’s partly that,” you answer, pinching the edge of your cuff, hoping to divert the attention of death staring in your direction. “Among other things.”

“Meaning what, sir?”

Breaking eye contact, the formality alone snaps some composure into you. To recap: you’ve been in and out of meetings all day, talking about future plans to implement amongst the student body and faculty; then there was some discrepancies that was dealt with from past incidents brought to your desk, but the common thread from these accounts all pointed to the same thing:

“It’s about your recent-” the pause alone of the intended word hanging between your lips makes the Overseer puzzled about this discussion (though with the implications through the reports sitting on your desk, tell a different tale).

“-modes of conduct.” You tell her, which only earns a quirked eyebrow and a nod, signaling that you’re right. “I’m sure you’ve heard what’s been going around between the other staff members and what not, Dahyun.”

Even the name alone sometimes sends chills to your body. Overseer Kim Dahyun: the academy’s best instructor. Lead figure when it comes to dishing out disciplinary measures to those who were stupid enough to go against the rules. Once she has someone that’s out of order, it’s automatically assured that there won’t be any further incidents coming from them moving on. You’ve looked at the written reports, noticed that there’s nothing worth putting against someone like her with the reputation that she carries, but no one ever really stays perfect for this long.

“So tell me, Superior,” Dahyun begins, one leg over the other in her chair while you continue with the glacial pacing around the office, “What is it that you have heard about me, circling around with the other staff in the past weeks?”

“I guess it’s mainly the latter, the ‘forms’ of discipline you’ve been committing with various students.”

“What about them?”

“That's the reason why I’m having this discussion with you in the first place.”

Dahyun tilts her head down, eyes wandering the opposite direction, reflecting almost as her mind tries to piece the different shards of information rummaging about in her head. She’s one to not leave anything unchecked - down to the minute detail possible. Intricate in the way that she does her line of work, and meticulous with how she wants things to be done. She also gets along well with others to which they speak highly of her. You wouldn’t want to call these accounts ‘accusations’; not yet, until you’ve seen both ends of the scope before drawing up a solid conclusion.

She turns her head around to see you at the tray table next to the door, tending to the two glasses of water before a wave to the keypad locks the deadbolt into place, to ensure privacy and know that someone will eventually knock without even going to the front desk in the first place. “This is a first for me, especially coming from you, questioning my methods.”

“I don’t see what you mean,” you tell her, making peace with the glass in your left hand to which she accepts, “I’m only aware of the stories that were told in recent weeks.” Dahyun acknowledges with a sip, eyes still trained on you now on the other side of your desk, “Let this be a simple conversation between you and I, please.”

“Okay then,” she remarks, handing back the empty glass once she’s done with it, “I’ll ask this again: What is it that you’ve heard about me that caused this whole debacle in the first place?”

Her look shifts up, maintaining her posture, hands resting on her lap. There’s a few strands in her hair that look out of place, but most of it is neatly tied up in the bun hanging low behind her head. She knows that she holds this sort of entitlement, this status - even from the glances alone in all sorts of seriousness tell you not to mess with a woman like her if you were a student.

But you’re not.

The lift from her eyebrows, above the upper rims of her glasses, prompting you to answer. It’s all in your head, right there, the only problem is how the delivery is going to hit her. You have every right to feel bad to be the bearer of not-so-good news, but it’s the part of the job, and the more you stand there in silence with her looking up waiting for a reply, adds on the slow building tension in the room.

You’re reminded however, of the actions she committed.

“We have an issue, technically it’s not really an issue, yet.” Dahyun’s gaze twists at that, but it isn’t a look of clear confusion, moreso thrown off at the very topic of discussion. She scoffs, slightly amused, and you can’t blame her for giving that reaction. “Though it’s been brought to my attention in the past few days.”

And in terms of issues, there’s hardly any throughout the academy; thanks to the dedication towards molding the best and brightest students into civilized beings for the real world. Most of these incidents come at a scarce occurrence alone - but it still happens even if it’s an ordinary day throughout the week.

She blinks twice, maybe thrice, turns her head away, fixated on the edge of the desk still. Her hands mold together with a small unease, but she still looks empathetic with how her eyelids flutter in the small lines of breaking light past the windows.

“So say it then,” she says, tone flat - like in her lectures or when having a one-on-one conversation with a troubled student outside the hallways, “since you’re always so on top of the loop with the faculty here.”

The prompting. It’s so on brand for her to be like this - to set someone else up as a way for them to keep their attention, carrying on with the conversation till she finally has that satisfaction with the answer. There’s some admiration for her, in the way that she doesn’t back down from a disagreement, because she’ll always see it through no matter what the circumstance may be. It’s her strength, and also her weakness, but she’s good enough to not let it show on her face.

At some point you were afraid of her, something that you can admit to yourself from a long while ago. Not a lot of people at the academy even really liked her because she’s extremely intimidating, and that still seems to be the case now. Though, with all of the different events spread out across the place, some of the roses were given in her effort to come out of her shell which she takes your encouragement. It’s in those rare moments where she laughs or smiles, like a blue moon passing in the night sky.

You remember the task at hand, what needs to be done.

“It’s about the students,” you tell her, air slipping through your upper lip as a way of preparation, “I’ve been told by a few individuals that you’ve been having an affair with one of them.”

“What!?”

“This is all just speculation,” you say, settling into your chair as Dahyun keeps her posture upright and composed, “Hence you being here to tell me your side of the story so that we can try to line up the two different perspectives together.”

“That’s what this is about?”

“Dahyun.” That sense of professionalism has to be cared for. An eye to the desk to the few different reports that insinuate a wrongful framing; some of them were just verbal accounts and had to be on the record, but the whistleblower tip in the form of a post-it note already caused quite a stir around the teachers lounge.

“All of this is unbelievable.” She plucks her glasses away from her face, catching a few wisps fall out from their spot on the top of her head, clearly irritated. “I have- I have not. In no way those accusations are true.”

You pull your lips inward, trying to be sympathetic as much as possible in addition to being transparent. Her eyes darted back at yours, fully interested as to what you might say next. She expects an answer, and you’ll give it to her, but all you do is raise an eyebrow to where she scrunches her eyes in response.

“Are you sure?” To that, Dahyun rolls her eyes. You notice a quick pull from one of the corners of her lip, shuffling the small stack of files off to the side, leaning closer with both elbows on the wood. “I hope you realize that if you are withholding information from me, it can lead to harsher consequences.”

Dahyun clasps her hand to a fist, face still as stone as you watch her eyes sweep across the floor. A heavy bundle of air leaves your chest, keeping your gaze locked to her, waiting for an answer within the next moments or so. She knows that she can’t shy away from this, and she knows that the only direction to take is the one where truth is the sole passage. It’s also very interesting the way she doesn’t falter, sheltering her emotions inside. You’ve only seen her be the opposite of that - only once, a spell ago, and you were convinced that it was only a one time thing. The silence seems to get louder in the room, and she finally shifts her eyes back to you.

“Well?” you ask, to break the tension a bit, “You’re not my enemy here. I just want you to be as open and honest as possible.”

You can see the slightest clench at the bottom of her jaw, gritting her teeth behind her lips. There’s that thought of clear common sense, telling you that what she did was wrong, but that’s just one side of the story. Sure, that someone who created the rumor might’ve done it out of spite, or maybe they wanted to see Dahyun in a state of panic just for the fun of it. Some will say one thing, and others will say another. The only way that you’ll know for sure to make all of this go away is the personal statement directly from her.

“Overseer.” You huff, sighing out of pure annoyance.

Her brows crunch in response to the title.

“I need to know. That’s all I’m requesting of you right now.”

She sets herself square on the seat, facing you; she’s matching your height now in a sitting position, but despite the lack in length is replaced with the demeanor that she carries. There’s been some sort of competition thrown around by the students, talking about how Dahyun’s figure comes second to none with the likes of Jihyo or Mina to name a few. Gawking at the fellow staff members who caught wind of the conversation is what you give them, and it would take a metric fuck-ton of persuading to spill an answer out of your lips.

Still no answer from her as of this second.

“Overseer Dahyun,” voice now in a much lower register than usual to punctuate the gravity of the situation, “We don’t have all day; so either you fess up now, or I’ll carry on this conversation tomorrow if I’m not going to get it out of you today.”

Running her upper lip inward, you carry on with the scattered paperworks spread across the desk as she contemplates, unwilling to make eye contact with her while she keeps her eyes focused on you. By all expectations, you were hoping that this meeting would be quick and easy; just get the required information before writing up a report and be on your way. Still, you can’t help but think as to why she’s being so reluctant about saving her status let alone her job - all because she didn't do something that had very little significance to her and became such a big deal.

“Fine,” you say, slapping the pen lightly on the desk before beginning to stand up from the chair, “Just forget that I asked and you can-”

“One.” she finally says, after what felt like an eternity it seems. And then again, “One.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” you start, falling back onto the seat; Dahyun collects herself with the subtle rise and fall of her chest, breathing carefully. That crucial first step was already taken, and the plan in your mind to diminish this whole controversy is slowly scaffolding into place. “So I’ll ask this once again in a different way: Are you having an affair with one of the students in the academy?”

“Yes.”

“Is it…just the one?”

“Just the one.”

Despite how this information may be shocking to a degree, composure has to be kept from this point on. You’re just simply doing your job as the superior, and if this doesn’t get solved quickly, there’s more people in higher places than you that will do what you couldn’t.

“So,” you set yourself up for the next connecting inquiry, “I want a full explanation for this, as to when and how all of this came to be.”

Dahyun licks her lips, unsure if what she’ll say next will either be her saving grace or a shortsighted opportunity breeding on disappointment. You can easily tell that she’s uneasy, and it’s very impressive at how she’s able to keep an expressionless face for an instance like this. Put anyone else that works here in her seat and situation, they’d all panic or break a sweat pleading for an appeal to save their own skin. To hell with the fading wish for an interesting day every few weeks or so - because this potential scandal might make the whole week or even the whole year.

“Alright,” she relaxes, finally letting her body release all of the tension while she flutters her eyes back to you, “For the record, he came to me. It was-” a quick look to the side before subduing the sudden impulse coursing through her neck, “It was supposed to be a simple form of disciplinary action. A one time thing. Had him serve the correction and be on his way. Though, you’re very familiar with, well- you know, the methodology.”

“I see, and it took you that long to tell your side of the story??” Swallowing the small lump in your throat growing as her eyes fail to leave yours. “But let me guess, he-”

“He wanted to see me. Actually, he wanted to keep seeing me. I asked him as to why one day, and he was just fascinated with the approach that I do; he just wanted the pleasure for himself and as for me, I reveled in the satisfaction of taking advantage of him.”

“And you found it to be completely appropriate for this little entanglement to keep on happening?”

Dahyun then leans forward, and thank Christ you managed to save your wandering eyes from leering a second too late at the overflowing swarm of pale thighs ballooning on the cushion as more and more skin is revealed at the help of that tight light blue dress getting hiked up with the press of her legs. The inquisitive angle of her head at the given question, letting a stray wisp of her hair fall from the side before she drags it back behind the cuff of her ear. “So what are you saying?”

“Well, I’m the one who asked you first,” you answer, twiddling the pen around your fingers, maintaining eye contact with her. “Besides, I’m also not the one stuck in the middle of this debacle in the first place anyway.”

She sighs, head cocked back, almost vexed that this meeting has gone way longer than intended. You could’ve waited until after hours once all of the students had left the campus, but this was also the best possible convenient time because of the gap in her schedule during the regular day. Her lips stay shut, the soft tick of the clock mounted on the wall keeps on going. Maybe raising a white flag in the means of things might be better for today, and you’ll pick up where you left off tomorrow.

Most days don’t often go this way. Aside from the usual responsibilities throughout the typical day whether it would be out your desk or out and about peeping in different classrooms, you’re slightly ecstatic for the sudden change in pace around these halls. “I digress,” you say, leaning forward before finally carrying on, “So as your superior, Overseer, I’ll leave it off with this. Do you have anything else left to say before I draft up a report for all of the parties affected?”

Dahyun crosses her left leg over the other, clutching the glasses in her hand, her head tilts at that same right angle as earlier. The gaze she has is unchanging, staring at you right in the face while you’re quickly examining the two sheets of paper placed next to each other on the desk, sliding them away into the pile as you stand up off the chair. You’ll take this meeting as a win, at least some of the information was suitable enough to your liking for now. With all that done and over with–

“Still no answer?” You ask, fingers dancing along the button of your cuff, carefully threading it through the small slit, “Don’t make me ask this again–”

“No.”

“No?”

“I told you. No.”

“Really now?”

“I have already made my case with you, sir. There’s nothing else left for me to say for the time being.” she answers with a shrug to her shoulders.

Dahyun’s throat tenses when she sees the once needling eyes from you become quickly disinterested with her return. Incompetence was a sheer rarity with the way you operate your role, let alone a hindrance that you see in other people. Like the rest, it wouldn’t be long for everyone to get whipped into the ‘new regime’ all those years ago; some stimulating commentary at the time, but everyone understood once the policies were put into place.

Though, this meeting has gone long enough, and keeping her here wouldn’t really do anyone good at this point.

“Consider this conversation to be over, then,” you say, turning your body to the window panes set behind your desk, looking out at the moving trees in the breeze. “You’ll hear from me within the next few days so, carry on until you’re notified.”

She then stands too, hand clasping to her wrist, subjectively giving you a nod with your back turned, seeing her out of your peripheral vision. The emotionless look that’s her only mask, unimpressed and cold, as if nothing ever phases her in the tiniest of mishaps. You know that she’s just like the rest, despite wearing that facade like if life were to depend on it, part of you wants to break her- to tear up that infuriating fray of nothingness, spark some kind of fear into her core that would have her screaming, beg for a twinge of mercy.

Reading those accounts of what she did with that student, wasn’t supposed to make you interested, but it is. A worthy head-scratcher for someone like her to have a few screws loose every now and then. It just didn't add up, for her to treat this so pointlessly.

Even when she starts to bundle her feet together, swiveling them across the tile, she still carries this peculiar gracefulness in her step as her profile sweeps out of the picture - her back coming into view. She’s put up with that facade against you for so long, you know that it’ll be easy for her to comply in her case because it’s not in her nature for her to defy orders.

A turn of the head signifies a chance out of desperation; a lifeline, and you’ll give her the luxury of deciding her fate.

“And one more thing,” you setup, rolling the sleeves of your shirt to the elbow, to where Dahyun turns her body the long way round, hands behind her back, waiting for the next thing to leave your lips, “I’ll be perfectly blunt with you because I know that you clearly know better.”

Her forehead twitches at the cause of her brows bridging against each other. You see the small nick of her head that also shows the acknowledgement she’s willing to give you, both ears and eyes trained on you once the spread of your fingertips rest on the polished bark.

“You’re aware of this academy’s policies when it comes to relationships among peers, it’s basically frowned upon,” you tell her lowly, “Let alone of the fact that you’ve been having this intolerable amount of behavior out of the false guise of indignancy.” She starts to internalize this short reproachment you’re dishing out on her, watching as her eyes expand by the passing second, “Now, I’ve could’ve let this be handled by the high council, but they’ve gave the chance to me in order to see if I can get this incident resolved without having any further escalating conflicts.”

She parts her lips, wanting to take the opportunity at clearing her name, but she holds back since there’s that hanging impression of ‘what’s there left to be said once everything is put on the table?’ And even so, would anything serve to be better in the good graces of innocence for her case?

So she says nothing. Forever holding her peace while you audibly scoff at her. “I expected better from you, Overseer, I really did.”

It takes the next few seconds to re-organize your workstation, she hangs herself in limbo, gathering her thoughts as the window to save herself starts to close smaller and smaller, and she finally takes the sealed fate into her hands.

“If I may,” she says, diverting your attention from the desk back to her - hesitant to the point where you can rightfully assume that she’s eager to finally set everything straight: “I’d like to formally tender my resignation here at the Academy.”

A bold move, Overseer, but a surprise one too-

“On what grounds?” you ask, clearly taken aback with the sudden course of action by her own admission. “I don’t really see to understand while you would go to such lengths for this little incident-”

“Because I will admit to you, Superior, that I saw that student out of my own volition. I’ve made the effort to set time aside from my schedule so that he and I could have our private meetings in my office; for the sake of his pleasure and for my sake of being able to satisfy those kinds of requests for him.”

This tidbit of honesty coming out serves as a great reaction to your scolding, and not a lot of people get the credit they deserve trying to convince a person like Dahyun, but luckily you’re the one - if not the only one to have that ability in advising her. You always believed that she’d come around in some way or another, considering that this was the very first big fuck up from her too.

“Superior.” The name alone brings you back. “Please, consider my resignation. And I’ll make all of this go away.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why can’t you?” Her voice is strained, a fist at the side of her thigh, nails deep into her palm enough to draw blood, “I have to do this. I need to do this, sir. Please, let me-”

You can see the desperation start to break through the cracks of her stoic persona, inching closer to where you want her to be. She can play the cool, level-headed teacher all she wants, but you know that this whole fiasco was her doing; like anyone else, they’ll do anything to make things right, no matter the cost. Then the getting ahead starts to seep through your frontal lobe: what she’ll start asking for next, the kinds of lengths she’ll commit to if you’re not the one to throw the figurative lifeline at her.

Not just yet, guiding her into the right mindset will fall into place if you let the inner workings of panic do their thing.

“Overseer Kim.” You slowly navigate closer to her, rounding the desk with every moving step across the room. “Even if you were to leave, you can’t. I’ve taken the liberty of locking the door here because I knew that this would happen: the way that you’re acting, we can’t have this.”

It’s amazing at how she’s at ease, despite having the mini breakdown just an instant before.

Because her act is rapidly deteriorating.

“Sir, I don’t follow-”

“Dahyun.” With a hand to her shoulder, her face freezes right when she flashes a look of suspicion, tensing up at the touch before she locks eyes with you again, the unsureness diminishing with a singular eyebrow raise. “I’m giving you an opportunity to have all of this resolved without any loose repercussions.” You can feel the heart rate within her start to calm down the way her breathing stabilizes, tension along the line of her shoulders releasing with every pass of air, “There would be no need to resign, and we would find a workaround to prevent this from ever happening again.”

“And how would you suggest that, Superior?”

“By granting you amnesty. Without the word from anyone else but me.”

You can see that same sweep of her eyes moving left and right, unable to meet yours. The offer alone is taking her a significant amount of time to consider, a mistake that she’s willing to undo. She then looks up with a wistful gaze, the small spark dashing through her irises - as if she had just made the discovery of fire. Her mind starts to work and it’s so easy to tell, reflecting on this potential choice that she’s able to make. “You don’t mean-”

“Mean what?” Letting a sly grin break through your lips.

“By amnesty,” she adds, tilting her chin up, bearing your arms across your chest, “What would I have to do in order to achieve this?”

She has a general idea of the term itself, and maybe you think she’s also heard of the many things thrown around with this specific practice or policy of yours. This occurrence has happened a few times, whipping up a few notable individuals into shape - some much more needed than others, but the commonality between all of them: they’d always submit themselves to you.

“Do you admit and accept the responsibilities of your actions, Overseer?” You formally request with hands reaching to the fine creases of her dress to which she accepts.

There’s a brief pause of consideration again, and you’re watching her eyes never leave yours, thinking about the whole reason that you two are in this position in the first place. It may be a little hard to believe still; knowing what Dahyun will do not only for herself, but for the academy. Then there’s the logged report from your desk, in detail of what she did with that student, makes you realize that she’s got a screw loose in her head.

“Yes, sir.” She answers, looking up with a delighted smile, fully realizing the opportunity and taking it with no regret. “I do.”

“Good.” With a sigh of relief, a hand escalates to the back of her neck. “Because your punishment begins now.” And she’s in awe of the shimmer in your eyes, slowly grinning when you’re dipping your head down lower, minimizing the distance. It lights a fire within you, a motive of what will entail from this point going forward.

This is what amnesty is, Dahyun would think, be oh- she has no idea what she just got herself into.

You learn that she’s receptive, the way that she takes your lips with hers so well, hands flying freely, breath clashing with yours. It’s messy, the way more slick starts so spread on the lower half of both of your faces, wanting more. Her tongue weaves its way past your mouth, a leg hiked up that you greatly take the hint for, channeling the hum of approval coming from her down your throat. She grips tight on the back of your shirt, adamant on taking this chance to build a clean slate, a perfect rush of gasps followed with even more kissing. Her hands are well into your hair when you pull away, a pause to probably call a stop and-

“So it is true,” she admits against your cheek, “About this little policy?”

You lift an eyebrow unimpressed at her.

“What do- you don’t even know what you’re talking about.” you mumble, grip getting tighter on the fine part of her ass, chest heaving slightly, breaths getting uneven.

“I thought it was just some legend here, around these halls.” Dahyun answers, letting her wrists relax while swooping under her legs, instinctively wrapping them around the small of your back. “Maybe you can show me if that’s actually a real thing.”

She doesn’t see the flared nostrils you’re giving her, “I’d like to thank you, Overseer,” setting her on the desk nicely when the clack of her heels fall onto the floor, echoing the room as she removes the top piece of her dress, tossing it over to the chair she was previously sitting at, “For reminding me what I was doing.”

“And that is?” She asks, naively.

There’s a bit of a shock when you force her body to the desk, a flushed reaction covered with a gasp when you have one hand fastened to her wrist, the other lightly on her neck with the grip on the fingers getting delicately tighter. She tries to read your expression, map out the crinkles falling towards a cross or a devilish smile, feeling your breath graze along the line of her neck in these soft hitches.

“Allow me to show you,” you whisper, flipping her small body to where her back is facing the ceiling, toe tips nearly grazing the floor but just barely. The same hand to her wrist is now shifted to her back, the other set flat; searching for something to take hold, she peeks over her shoulder, watching you study the way her dress hugs along the shape of her waist and hips.

Doing this kind of practice was no surprise to you, and it doesn’t happen as often as you would’ve liked. Ryujin took three tries before she’d agree to not be a bother to you, Haewon probably took a few days or more to finally come around, and even Mina just recently. This revolving door into your office and form of chastising was the last resort of necessary actions for your fellow colleagues, some willing to challenge your authority, others were willing to submit.

“What do you think this treatment entails?” you ask vaguely, raising the lower part of her dress to reveal more and more of her ass into the light, taking note of the noticeable choice of lace as she hikes it up with her free hand. “I sure hope that this should help you learn a thing or two. Though, it’s entirely up to you.”

Dahyun’s side profile is amazingly flawless to see when you’re gently kneading her soft ass with your hand, palm moving graciously along the fine skin, fluttering her eyes shut, her breathing begins to become irregular, a small tremble to her hips as you press down lightly on the waistband, tugging on the elastic before letting go. The potential is right there at your hips - at your fingertips, to ruin, break skin, a perfect canvas for you to mutilate in any way you see fit.

You laugh and admittedly, out of spite. “I’m sorry, if this meeting didn’t occur, you were going to invite him over for another one of your private sessions?”

She seethes, but in anticipation, drawing a sharp inhale of air when your hand slides up her back. Part of you wants to put her back onto the wood, but you let it slide when she lifts herself off to meet your cheek, getting a bit selfish when she’s refusing to pull away. Her swollen lips and lidded eyes are too tempting to stop yourself- as if she’s the one pulling you into her spell.

“Had I not been found out, I would’ve,” she murmurs, clutching onto a bit more of her hiked up dress, revealing her bare ass to the open air, unveiling a strike point.

A fast hand tends to hers, placing it with her other hand still pressed behind her back. She writhes at the uncomfortable position but the tension passes through her body once you adjust.

“You know what I would say to that, Overseer?”

“What-”

Nothing is said, but all is shown with a harsh slap to her ass. A statement.

Strike one.

Dahyun quietly yelps at the sudden hit to her backside, everything from the waist down clenching from the contact. The rough palm on your hand stings to the point where you’d have to flick your wrist a bit to subdue the burn. Her breathing starts to become irregular, wiggling her legs hanging from the side of the desk.

“Superior, ah-”

“I should’ve also mentioned that I’m permitting you to use expletives, but you’re already ahead of the curve as it is,” you tell her, massaging the crimson mark now apparent across the breadth of her ass, feeling the bits of heat emulating across the rough creases of your palm. “You’re now free to speak your mind.”

“God, f-fuck. I can’t bel-”

Another rough hit cracks an echo in the room. Earning a high-pitched whine from her. Strike two.

“Choose your words more carefully.” Fighting the urge to smile at the sight this woman splayed across the table, letting out these heaves of desperation, body tightening and untightening on the surface as she’s hiding her face from you. “I don’t plan on easing up after what you did.”

“Sir, please. I just need to-”

You press her deeper into the table, hike up more of that insanely tight dress to her waist, letting her struggle under your grasp. The sounds leaving her pretty little lips would drive anyone else drastically crazy, watching as this uncrowned beauty crack under the weight of your touches with a third slap. Strike three.

What sets Dahyun apart from the rest that has gone under your specified practices of treatment is the appeal she possesses. At least everyone from the faculty to the students have shared their thoughts about her: few envying and others fantasizing. You’re somewhere between the two, impossible to really tell for yourself, but what’s rest assured:

There's more than a boatload of things to discover with Dahyun that’s already a list growing by the second. Dragging your fingertips along her thighs, pressing and pinching in spots where you’re trying to assess how nimble she can get, the way you can twist and mangle her limbs into a plethora of ways that’s drawing up with the imagination running through your head. How she shudders when you’re pulling on the elastic of her panties down her luscious legs, drinking in the sight of her glistening pussy lips hanging off the rim of your desk, clearly having an enjoyable time with the slick soaking her undergarments as well.

“Have we had enough? Or are you willing to take more?” you ask, letting Dahyun keep her own hands behind her back with yours fastened over the curve of her hips, sliding down to her red cheeks, handprints visible as you're soothing the damage. “I definitely think that you can handle more, shall we continue?”

She shivers, the slightest grasp to her ass gives another hitched breath, caressing it briefly as you’re plotting the next move in your head.

“You can answer me, Dahyun,” you tell her, leaning down over her back, nose tangling within the threads of her hair, brushing the cuff of her ear before planting a kiss right below it, “But from these sounds I’m hearing tells me that you’re enjoying it.”

A small twist from her singular eyebrow, lids still sewn shut, “You’re ecstatic, that I m-misbehaved.”

“Can you tell?” Another slap to her ass and a tug to the soft skin.

“Y-yes sir, I-”

And another.

“I’m not convinced yet.”

Then another strike.

“F-fuck sir-”

One more hit to bring the tally up to seven.

“Makes me wonder what you were going to do with that poor student if this carried on without my interference.” And at this point her ass has morphed into this ruby shade with every strike that follows. Her shoulders roll back, you’re keeping her in place, wrists still stacked on top of each other, hands opening and closing in response to the pain the more slaps you dish out.

Dahyun struggles to keep her breathing stable, one firm grab to her asscheek as you’re planting a few scattered kisses down the column of her throat, teetering along the bridge of her collarbone. “Tell me, would this be on your mind with him also?”

She doesn’t open her voice to tell, but a simple nod is all she gives. “My, my, Overseer. You really are something.”

You could be satisfied with the way things transpired in this very room, content with the message sent and the warning laced between the lines. A momentary pause, hushing her whimpers, tending to the red tint of her ass, easing the ache of pain mixed with pleasure. Her eyes are scrunched along with the bridge of her nose, gnawing on her bottom lip as your fingertips continue to dance along the sensitive skin.

“Are you ready for the next part?” you murmur into her ear as your hand trails down to the space between her legs, dragging a pointer finger across the warmth of her leaking slit, listening to the sharp breath passing through her lips again.

“Mmmm…” Her legs buck against the drawers, dipping the two pads into her walls. The corner of her lip wobbles as she throbs around your fingers, dragging and sliding in a form of trial and error; seeing what she likes and what doesn’t, the light in her eyes filling with lust. “Sir, please, yes, God-”

She sees another idea spark in your irises, drawing away from the warmth of her pussy temporarily, hands fast to undo the belt around your waist. Dahyun could only watch as you’ve got the leather wrapped around, creating a loose hoop at the end before lightly placing it across the two divots in her back resting above her ass.

You test the pliancy of the looped belt on your other hand, ensuring that the article rebounds nicely across your palm. “I’ve got one more thing to do, consider this to be a test of some sorts.”

“What do you mean, Superio–”

Her voice screeches when you strike the leather in the same spot where your hand hit on her ass cheek; entire body tensing from the sharp pain before breaking down into broken down sobs. She tries to resist by getting up, but you keep her in place as she whines, adamant in believing that she can’t handle it any more.

“Oh no, we’re not through yet,” you hiss, not paying any attention to the stray heel hitting your thigh in retaliation. “Not until you tell me that this won’t happen again going forward.”

“Just for the record, sir,” Her hand grips the underside of your forearm at the same time your weight begins to stack along her back, furrowing her brows and gritting her teeth. “I wanted this.”

“So are we going to have a problem like this again next time?”

“Absolu-”

The leather belt finds her ass again, the crack in the atmosphere strong enough to mistake for the clap of lightning.

“No,” she pleads, twisting her head back and forth, sounding off another thwap to make a point. “No sir, we’re not going to have another problem with this ever again.”

“Good,” you say, the formality alone shortly returning, hands hovering over to her wrists, slackening the belt as you begin to wrap it around her. You’re keeping focus, maintaining your thoughts meticulously, fighting your cock that’s beginning to ache in your trousers. “I’m gonna take good care of you now.”

Once you’ve got the leather fastened around her wrists, there’s another fill to be satisfied when you slip your fingers back into her cunt, throbbing at the way you curl them inside, earning a few harmonious sounds as her back arches to the touch. She’s melting by the second, “Yes, yes, please sir, I want-”

“Speak up,” you breathe, sinking down to your knees, hands resting at the rise of her hips, glistening lips into view. Everything about her is a new learning curve, and the way her lower half is still hung over the edge, ankles neatly crossed together like her bound wrists, you almost feel bad for enacting this onto her.

Keyword almost, and you put your mouth on her other set of lips. Unsure, testing, getting those first savoring seconds up her wet cunt. Her whole body pulls inward, choking down a cry, and you realize, this woman is filled with surprises.

But you didn’t want to get too ahead of yourself, the shivers she dishes out, the string of hums continue to leave her mouth. This wasn’t the time to keep the niceties - shoving your whole face and tongue into her pussy, tongue slipping through her opening in these strokes, body contracting and relaxing. The fingers also come into play, tapping along her clit and eventually dipping in to where your tongue can’t reach, the wetness soaking your fingers, the short grasps letting you know of that beautiful high fast approaching.

“I’m gonna-” she says, voice peaking in a higher pitch than the last, the balls of her feet hitting your chest, holding her down at the bottom of her thigh and ass. “Sir, I’m gonna fucking-”

“That fast?” you ask, gaze glassy, drunk on the sweet slick that’s all over your lips. Biting down the laugh from the top of your throat, “And here I thought you’d hold out a bit longer for me there.”

She pulls her body up with what little strength she has while being tied up. Panting. Heaving. You’re content with the structured appearance of her face completely ruined, tense, letting her eyelids flutter when she feels your finger slip inside her once more, because another feeling like this wouldn’t really hurt anyone.

“Final question. Are you going to be good for me from here on out?”

There’s a silver lining with the sense of humiliation you’re giving her, nearly sympathetic when your knuckle finds its way deeper. It’s wrong, you think, to be like this, but you’ve learned with the years of experience of being in this place that people will only listen when backed to a corner with no other way out. Everyone here is aware of the rapport you have with others, the kind of power that shouldn’t be really shown until it’s a desperate call to make to ensure everyone’s on the same page as you. This time isn’t really different.

But still, it’s a first with her, and you’ll take this grand opportunity to pressure her into not making another issue for the next time.

“Dahyun,” you’re telling her again, because she’s just staring at you in awe. The way you’ve been handling her; professional at the surface level, finding a pressure point to the things that she’s been accused of committing, drawing that out of her by any means necessary, until you’ve managed to break her. “Answer me, darling.”

She comes back to her senses when her body shifts more inward to the wood, resting right at the bending point of her hips, listening to the zip from your pants. The most evil thing she’s done all day: a sly smile breaking across her face, watching you tease the head of your cock along her wet lips. This will be a problem, but a welcome one. You’re hoping that you’ve done your part to the best of your ability.

“Yes sir,” she answers, shimmying her hips to tease. “I’ll be really good for you. I promise.”

“I hope so.” you retort, “I can be very convincing.”

A slip inside, a slow push. It’s electric. Further. Deeper. Filling her cunt up, her walls leisurely stretch around you. The heat alone is euphoric, coming to you in a fast rush. You hold yourself in for as long as possible, but it’s futile; she may have a few screws loose in the head, but you’re not far off the mark as well.

“God,” she mumurus again, and you drag yourself out slightly. Back in nicely, smoothly into that heat, until Dahyun nods her head in approval. She gasps again when you move past the previous spot your cock was inside her, nearly to the base.

“Oh, my fucking-”

A shared gluttal moan parts from your chest and hers, eyes fixated on the sight of your slicked up cock carefully impaling Dahyun, the friction becoming more and more addicting. The muscles in her back start to freeze up along with her clenched hands, fighting against the leather around them. You make it easier for her case, lifting her chest up at the breast, leaning down to seize her lips on yours, holding her steady, cock carving up her walls with every building thrust.

Nose against her cheek, “This cunt,” you utter, pushing yourself deep as this girl is faltering moans with every hit your hips make with her sore, red ass, “I can’t believe how tight this grips me, god- fucking, no wonder he wanted to keep seeing you in the first place,” and you lean down the line of her back, letting her pussy clench around your cock, feeling the clutch of her walls, all wet and aching for more.

The thrusting starts to pick up, unrestrained and unrelenting now. You’re not even sure what to do with your hands, alternating between holding at the endpoint of her waist where her hips meet or press her unbelievable thighs together, to make the press around your cock that much better. A premature call to make, in comparison to the other’s that have preceded Dahyun: her pussy takes it in so well, you could bury yourself inside her for what feels like forever.

“Sir,” she groans out, the sentence being cut off with another slap to her ass, following up with the crash of your hips into hers, holding on to her binded wrists. “Please, please, please-”

“Please what, hmm?” You can’t really conjure up the proper thoughts to put in conversation, heaving out scattered spells of air with every stroke into her. “You’ve gotta help me out here.”

“Need more.” It’s a request for sure, and not a vague one. “Please keep fucking me.”

You do give her more, and nothing less. With every passing second you dive deep into her cunt, the beating in your heart accelerates just that teeny bit faster. The thoughts are out the window at this point, the only thing keeping you from figuratively passing out is the sopping wetness of her cunt every time you pull out and drive back in. The pace gets a bit faster, then you dial it back, watch as her upper body convulses across the desk, mouth hung open for all the moans to be let out, getting louder, more higher, and needier.

She gasps when you hold yourself inside, thrown off guard with the firm hit you give her, a moment to catch her breath. “Wait, no, fuck, why did you-”

Dahyun had managed to do something to you that the others couldn’t in this short span of time: break you. Even after all this time, it’s really interesting how the very person you’ve been wanting to see out for an instance like this is the one that’s managed to make you go all out into setting them right. She’s spearheading this thing, and not you. When it should be the other way around.

A fistful of her hair is grabbed, and her body is raised up, hips flush with hers. “If I hear another question leave your sultry lips, I’ll tape it up so that nobody can hear you screaming down the hallways.”

She bites her wobbling bottom lip, assuring you that’s exactly what she wants to happen, and it will. Her half-open eyes sees your head go sideways, planting a kiss down her neck, inching your cock deeper into her cunt past the hilt and her body shudders at it.

“Want me to fuck some sense into you now? Properly? Fuck this pretty little pussy that it’ll make you think right?”

She nods desperately, “Yes sir. Please.”

You bend her over across the desk again, hand still tangled into her hair with the other resting at her hips. The pace deliberate at first, savoring the sensation of how her body takes you, parting her folds with every inch of your shaft. She shivers when you tease her still, not going all the way, but making her earn it.

Now wasn’t the time for easygoing now, the sight of her backside is an eighth wonder of the world to admire, sliding out and dragging your cock back into her, gradually increasing as the additional slaps to her ass again, fucking her deep. You eventually decided that she’s served her punishment long enough, untying the belt at her hands and discarding it somewhere in the office, putting her hands up to the other end of the desk for her to hold on as you mercilessly bury your cock into her.

“Sir, I can’t keep- fuck!” she cries out, the litany of lovely whines and sounds the more you fill her up. She also takes the liberty of letting you take a breather, moving her hips back, bouncing her ass with you just standing there, watching as her perfect ass does this little ripple effect on the skin, jiggling with an endless movement.

It was getting all too much, and Dahyun herself was enjoying it as well, smiling with every groan that rips from your throat, hand floating over her hips, piercing your cock roughly back into her again and again, unwilling to yield the remaining bits of pleasure before either you or her reach that point-

“I’m gonna fucking- god, sir, keep going, so close-” she strains, gripping your wrists and tight enough for her to rip them off.

“Don’t fight me,” you spit, voice leaning towards something primal, “Cum all over this cock.” And she does.

Your muscles should be spent at this rate, but they hold out long enough as your ears are picking up the endless babbles and whimpers, mixed in with the sloppy strokes of your hips hitting hers. The mind is overloaded with so much, but your hands find rest at her ass again, burying yourself deep. And then it hits you in a flash.

One firm hit sheathing your cock into her cunt, and you pull out, cumming all over the fine plane of her ass. You’ll need to take a mental image to save for eternity - the way you’re painting in these lovely slashes with your release, all over her ass, her back - because you learn that she looks amazingly good like that. A fine figure, waiting to be defiled and tarnished, and it happens.

“God, would you look at-” you’re also left in disbelief, the grip around your cock loosening, eyes on leaking pussy lips, she’s hung down, face off to the side, eyes closed, steadily breathing. The words coming out of her mouth are inconceivable, but she’s thankful, praising you, giving thanks. Judging from how content she looks, proves that your hard work is done.

“S-sir,” she tries to say, still left speechless.

A kiss to the temple of her head, and a ruffle with your hand sliding down to her back. “So, are we satisfied with your conversation?”

Dahyun takes a minute or two, maybe more, to process everything that’s happened just now. She’s still on your desk, and you’re getting right back to it, slipping on your slacks, picking up the tossed belt that you used as a makeshift rope. Your ears pick up on the heavy breathing from her as she slowly gets up, hands giving her support on the desk, dazed and astounded once things start returning back to normal.

You fix up the rolled up sleeves of your shirt; Dahyun blankly stares out in space, fixing up her dress and placing some of the various items hit in the crossfire back in their right spot, off the floor and somewhere where you’ll fix soon.

“Dahyun?” you ask again, watching as she starts to make her way out the door. “Overseer.”

She turns at the title, realizing she left behind a vital piece to her appearance, dipping her head down in embarrassment, but you can already see the blush breaking through her cheeks. Her breathing is also irregular, but it’s a lot calmer than before.

“Sorry,” she says, squaring her shoulders, a hand taking the heels in yours. “Thank you, for- uhm, the persuasion.”

An inquisitive look is what you give her. Meeting your gaze, you notice a few stray strands out of place in her hair, take it upon yourself to use the tip of your pinky to move it away from her forehead. Not much is left said between the two of you, probably just small talk or the comfort of silence finally setting in like before. You can’t really seem to get over the wistful constellations behind the lenses in her eyes - and it’s something that you want to study more about.

“Right,” you tell her, patting her shoulder before guiding her to the doorway, fingers fast to the touchpad and the quick clicks of the deadbolt finally opens it. “I’m happy enough to see you again, without the intent of correcting your little issue.”

Dahyun nods in agreement, pulling both of her lips inward to force back the smile, but you see right through her. She begins to make her way out, bare feet on the floor, heels in her hand - a solid lasting impression after today.

“Before I forget Dahyun,” you’re calling out again, and she twists her head around to meet your eyes, “Let’s speak again sometime soon okay? My door will be open for you if needed.”

She squints, smiling a bit to where you see the bottom bits of her teeth. You give her a nod to emphasize your point. “Count on it sir. I guess I’ll be coming around more often, then.”

#twice smut #dahyun smut #kpop smut #male reader #twice dahyun smut #kim dahyun #twice dahyun #kpop x male reader

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woso-dreamzzz · 5 months ago

Text

Second Time's The Charm IX

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: Your co-workers meet your wife

The new doctor is world renowned.

A titan in the industry of sports science and flawless in the realm of orthopaedic surgery.

Perhaps there was a bit of sexism in the way that all the nurses assumed you would be a man but each were pleasantly surprised when you walked through the door in your scrubs and were, in fact, a woman.

It was great in fact because male doctors always had massive egos attached and never treated nurses respectfully.

But female doctors always did.

Female doctors always appreciated the work they did.

You were one of those doctors.

If you weren't buried in paperwork or doing consultations and follow ups, you were down by the nurses station with a to-go coffee and a box of doughnuts from the café to share out.

"He took me to Naples," One of the nurses said," We took a tour around Pompeii and ate at this amazing pizza place."

You hummed, writing down something in one of your patient's charts. "Was it nice? I've been meaning to take my wife but she's so busy all the time. I don't want her time wasted if it isn't nice."

"So nice," The nurse insisted," A lot of walking around though so you're sweating a lot but apart from that, it's amazing."

"I'll put it on my list then."

"My boyfriend took me to a football match. He's a Barcelona fan so we went to see the women in a friendly last week."

"My wife was there too," You said absentmindedly," I heard it was a good match."

"Eight-nil to Barcelona," The nurse agreed," They were amazing."

You know that because Alexia came home very happy with her own performance. Two goals. Three assists.

You rewarded her handsomely.

"The women's team are very good," You replied, signing something off.

"Oh, yeah, you go to a lot of matches, right? Are you a fan?"

"My wife's a bigger Barcelona fan than me," You replied.

That was an understatement but nobody really needs to know about how passionate Alexia is about football.

"She always gets me tickets."

"That's so sweet," Another nurse said," It's nice that you care so much about her interests."

"Yeah, I love seeing Ale happy," You said," If that means I have to sit through ninety plus minutes of football then I'm glad to to do it."

The nurses learnt pretty quickly after that, just how much you adored your wife.

You brought her up with conversations that were only tangentially related to her, dropping little facts to do with her at seemingly random intervals.

Your staff now knew that you and your Ale had met at school, inseparable since that first meeting. They knew you got kicked out of your parent's house at eighteen after you married her. They knew that you were currently building a house and had taken her away on her dream holiday over the Christmas period.

You'd never shown a picture of her though and if there was one things nurses loved doing with no one around, it was gossip.

"She must look like a model or something," One of them said," Pretty people marry pretty people and Doctor Putellas is very pretty."

"I think she must be a real sweetheart," Another said," Someone really sweet and happy. I'd be happy if I was married and spoiled by Doctor Putellas. It must be a dream."

"What do you think she works as?"

" A doctor's salary like Doctor Putellas' is enough to support a family on. Her wife probably doesn't need to work."

"I heard they were thinking about adopting. Her wife might want to stay home with the baby."

"Doctor Putellas deserves a housewife to spoil. I bet her wife feels so loved all the time."

"I wish my boyfriend would treat me like how Doctor Putellas treats her wife."

A throat is cleared behind the assembled nurses and they turn around, instantly putting on their responsible faces.

Alexia Putellas stood before them, nervously threading her fingers together together as she stood in front of them.

"Erm...hello."

"Hello. Do you have an appointment? A follow up?"

Since her ACL tear, Alexia wasn't an abnormal presence at the hospital, constantly coming back for follow ups and check ins.

She'd never looked this nervous though, this strung out and anxious.

"Er...no. I'm...I'm here to see Y/n?"

The nurses all nodded.

That made sense. Alexia Putellas and Doctor Putellas.

Everyone had assumed the pair of you were related. You didn't look similar so you were probably cousins or something else more loosely related.

"We'll call her down for you."

Alexia nodded, face shifting from nervous to more stern and stoic, the face that the nurses were more used to seeing on her. She remained silent as they went back to talking, discussing weekend plans and holiday ideas with family.

The squeak of your shoes on the linoleum floor caused all conversations to grind to a half again and you turned the corner with the group of interns that you'd been talking to since one of your surgeries earlier, answering questions in such an in depth way that there was no question of why you were world class in your field.

"Doctor Putellas, your-"

"Amor!" Alexia cried out, stern and stoicism slipping from her visage as something skin to puppy love appeared to replace it," Brilliant news!"

Your own smile split your features as you took two short steps toward her until you were face to face.

Instantly, Alexia's hands went to your hips.

"What is it, Ale?"

"We've got a court date! For Maya! To bring her home!"

Somehow, you smile only widened and you threw your arms around Alexia to bring her ever closer.

"Are you serious? A court date? An actual court date?"

"The lawyers called!" Alexia continued, somehow rushing through her words but still articulating them perfectly," I was in a meeting but I was looking at my phone because it was flashing. I knew I shouldn't have picked up but it felt important so I did. And they told me! Next week! The judge will talk to us and officially approve the papers!"

You were totally professional with your nursing staff. You would banter with them and joke around but you were still so professional. You didn't overshare. You didn't belittle them. You didn't say anything too personal.

Which was why it was so strange to see you pull Alexia into a kiss right in front of them, smashing your lips together as Alexia practically vibrated in excitement.

"We're bringing our baby home," You said against her lips.

"We are, amor. We are."

Movement out of the corner of your eye brought you out of your daze though, dropping your arms until you could take one of Alexia's hands in your own as you turned to face the shocked faces of your group of interns and your nurses.

You felt a little bit awkward now as you cleared your throat.

"This is my wife," You said meekly," Ale."

Not the Barcelona captain. Not the Spain captain. Not Alexia Putellas.

Your wife.

Ale.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

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lokideservesahug · 8 months ago

Text

Bound to falling in love

-°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°--°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°-

Mick Schumacher x reader Soulmate AU

Warnings: None that I can see?

Notes: Unsurprisingly this won the vote. But I hope you like it :)

Summary: Mick Schumacher has been extremelyprivate with how soulmark his whole life. But what happens when the interest does ehat its best at, snooping. Well Mick Schumacher might just finally meet the celebrity that he doesn't at all have a tiny crush on...

-°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°--°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°-

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Yourusername

Yourusername: WE ARE SO BACK BABY!!🖤🖤 Mercedes CCH 2024 Incoming (I'm delusional)

Liked by Mickschumacher, Lewishamilton and 756,986 others

View all 533 comments

User1: I knew Y/N was an F1 girlie but I didn't know she was a Mercedes girl🤔

↳Yourusername: Have been for ever🖤

User2: Y/N is like me fr eith that caption

↳User3: Fr though😭 Like wdym 2nd place in sprint doesn't mean Lewis will get his 8th!?

↳Yourusername: Maybe he performed so well just to improve his ex-husband

↳User4: LMAO Poor Nico

Lewishamilton: Glad to see your support lies in the right place💪

↳Yourusername: OH my gosh. Sir Lewis Hamilton. It is an honour to speak to you

↳Lewishamilton: Maybe you should come to the Mercedes garage some time. I think certain people would love your company👀

↳User5: I think he just killed Y/N

↳User6: Wa she talking about himself or someone else. George perhaps? I'M so nosy!!!

↳User7: Well Mick is in the likes so that's where my money is...

↳User8: Sure grandma, the mkst soul ate obsessed obsessed In existence is caught up over Y/N...

↳User7: I mean it is Y/N Y/L/N

↳User8: True...

User9: Mick being in the likes👀

↳User10: Meh even if he does have a thing for Y/N, he'll still stick to his soulmate like he has done for decades.

↳User11: Hear me out, Y/N is his soulmate...

↳User10: Girl actualy shut up

↳User11: Just look at that twitter thread

↳User10: Hmmm interesting. It looks like it could be possible but the chances are 0.001% of it being her. Just because one user recognised it doesn't mean it's her

User12: Is anyone else really confused by all this talk of the twitter thread and that "one reply"

Liked by Yourusername

↳User13: basically people are trying to find out who Mick's soulmate is and currently people think it's Y/N

↳User12: OH... how random

↳User13: Yeah but tell me they wouldn't make the perfect couple...

Liked by Yourusername

↳User14: Y/N liking this comment + its replies twice is wild and shows she's as curious as us...

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Mick's phone

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Your phone | Mick's | Your phone

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

Yourusername

Yourusername: This guy wouldn't leave me alone in Italy. He says he's in the family business of driving cars or smt

Liked by Mickschumacher, Lewishamilton and 1,023,987 others

View all 674 comments

User1: NO WAY.... DOES THIS MEAN WHAT I THINK IT DOES

↳User2: Girl probably? Hopefully? Idk?

User3: We don't need confirmation now...but also we so do!!!

User4: Awww they really are perfect for each other!🥺🥰

Liked by Mickschumacher, Yourusername

Lewishamilton: Glad you two finally found the time to go on a proper date rather than letting Mick ogle you all day!

↳Mickschumacher: Thanks for that man...

↳Yourusername: Aww Micky, you stare at me all the time?

↳Mickschumacher: How can I not Schatz, you're the most gorgeous person in the whole world❤❤❤

↳Estabanocon: How sweet 🤢

↳Mickschumacher: Aww just let me be in love this once.

User5: Ugh he's so bf coded

Liked by Yourusername

↳User6: I SEE YOU LURKING Y/N

User7: did you guys see Mick say love? Ooh is this a new word added to the equation or....

Liked by yourusername

☆-☆-☆-☆-☆

New story from Mickschumacher

(My darling, my soulmate. Finally all mine to love)

-°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°--°•°•°•°•--•°•°•°•°-

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

As always, likes, reblogs and especially feedback is always welcome!

Taglist:@nikfigueiredo @mysoulispainted @leclercings @d3kstar @hiireadstuff @a-beaverhausen @nichmeddar @lozzamez3 @stinkyjax @marymustdie @littlesatanicassholebitch @mehrmonga @insanedeathwish @ems-alexandra @a-disturbing-self-reflection @cherry-piee

#f1 #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher smau #mick schumacher #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher soulmate au #f1 soulmate au #ldah's writing #f1 smau

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strawbeerossi · 1 year ago

Text

Spring Showers

Pairing: Wife!Reader x Husband!Spencer Reid

Description: In an attempt to scare you, your husband pulls back the shower curtain while you’re not expecting him and sees a sight for sore eyes

Content/Warnings: Failed attempt at a prank, masturbation (f), shower sex, oral (f rec), unprotected sex

Word Count: 1.2K

Kinktober Day Twenty Four: Shower Sex

Navigation || Kinktober Masterlist || AO3

Spencer was thrilled to be able to come home at a reasonable time when you were awake. The case he spent the past three days on had a happy ending, which he was so grateful for. Now he was just ready to get home to you and spend the rest of your evening together.

He had gotten home half past six, walking into the house that was too quiet. You must’ve been cleaning or napping. As he placed his satchel down and walked deeper into the apartment, he heard the soft sounds of music coming from the direction of your shared bedroom. That’s when he realized you were in the shower.

With a devious smile, he was gently getting his shoes off before approaching the bedroom door. His plan was to give you a good scare and have a laugh about it afterwards. As his mismatched sock-clad feet were shuffling through the house, he was slowly opening the bathroom door. The pop playlist you had on was echoing through the bathroom, so loud he couldn’t hear you in the shower whenever you had two fingers pushed deep into your soaked pussy. You’d been feeling desperate for the past few days and with Spencer away on a case, you didn’t want to bother your exhausted husband.

These past few days have been torture, unable to make yourself cum because your own fingers or your toys just couldn’t cut it. You’d had enough of feeling uncomfortably turned on, so while the sounds of Taylor Swift were filling your ears, you were leaning against the cool tile wall of the shower as you tried to bring yourself to orgasm, only having a few huffs and whines of desperation.

Spencer was only raising an eyebrow as he’d heard a soft whine, his hand gently gripping the curtain before tugging it open. However the sudden burst of light had your eyes shooting open, your hand quickly gripping a shampoo bottle as your husband caught you by surprise. By the time you realized it was him though, you were only huffing. “Spencer! You scared the hell out of me!” You scolded, watching as the male offered a smile. “I wanted to give a good greeting but man, I think you beat me.” He teased.

“I’m glad you liked the show but I give up.” You huffed, the sexual frustration affecting your mood. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m home then, huh? I don’t wanna brag but we both know that I am good at making you cum.” You were letting your eyes widen as the fully clothed man was stepping into the shower. “Your clothes!” You couldn’t help but laugh, watching the outfit darken as he was soaking himself. “I didn’t wanna take too long!” He admitted while laughing as he was dropping down to his knees in front of you.

You were watching your husband sink to his knees, the hot water making his hair stick to his forehead as he was lifting one of your legs over his shoulder. Your hand was threading through the wet curls, slicking them back so they weren’t in his way. His tongue had licked a fat stripe over your slit as he relished in the way you let your head fall back.

“I’ve missed you.” You breathed as his tongue licked up your slit before letting it lap over your clit a few times. “I’ve missed you.” He spoke, voice practically muffled between your legs as he was taking your clit into his mouth while sucking lightly while he was running one hand up your body, his hand resting on your right breast before he was squeezing it, rolling your hardened nipple between his fingers. This was the best welcome home he had ever received, he had to admit it.

As he was eating like you were his last meal, his tongue was lapping up every ounce of arousal oozing from your cunt as his nose was bumping against your clit in the process. You were in heaven, not getting this pleasure since a few days before he left on the case he had just arrived home from. The bathroom was filled with whatever music was in your rotation coupled with the moans and cries you were letting spill from your mouth.

You’d been waiting days for this, so it was no surprise you were inpatient. Your hand was gently tugging his hair back, much to his dismay as he whined from being pulled away from your sweetness. “I need you so bad. Please, you can eat me out for hours later if you want to but I just..” He didn’t need another word as he was quickly pushing himself to stand and letting his mouth smash against yours.

You could taste yourself faintly on his tongue, heightening onto the arousal pooling in your belly as you let your hands work on unbuttoning Spencer’s shirt as he was letting his hands work on his pants in order to get them off as well. When the sopping wet clothes were tossed in the bottom of the shower, you were keeping him steady as he quickly got his socks off as well.

The minute his hands were under your thighs, you were jumping into his arms as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. His hand was gripping at his cock that was standing at attention by this point, the thick head pushing into your weeping pussy as you connected your lips, both of your moans mixing within each other’s mouths.

After days of being desperate and giving up, you were whining into his mouth as his hips were thrusting slowly, cock giving your cunt a delicious stretch that you’d been desperately craving. You relished in feeling every ridge and vein, as if you would forget after the fact and you needed to savor it while you were graced with it. Spencer’s head had dipped to your neck, his lips pressing kisses against your skin as he let out a soft groan. “I’ve missed you so much.” His breath was hot against your flesh as he let his teeth playfully nip at your skin, eliciting a little yelp.

As his cock made an assault on your pussy, your fingers were tangling in his hair as you cried from please, hands roughly pulling at his hair as he was pistoning into the spongy spot where you needed him most. “Right there!” You gasped out, urging him to speed up with his thrusts as your body was bouncing just a bit with each thrust.

Your hands fell to his shoulders as your walls were spasming around his shaft, clenching around him as your greedy pussy tried taking more of him even though it wasn’t possible. You didn’t have much of a chance to warn him as you could feel the familiar warmth spreading through your body, however judging by his cock twitching inside of you, he was close too.

After a few sloppy pumps, it wasn’t long until you were tightly gripping onto one another as you both were hitting your peaks, his cum filling your desperate cunt and making your body shiver as you could feel the combined arousal dripping down your thighs.

“Best welcome home ever.’ Spencer laughed, attaching his lips to yours.

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

Note

hi!!! ugh ive been rewatching criminal minds and i have such a bad spencer reid addiction

can i request something where y/n and spencer are both a little oblivious. they both like each other and have been on dates and are very close at work, but spencer just kind of assumed they were dating, but y/n didnt know because he never officially asked her to be his girlfriend?

Thank you soso much! im so in love with your wtiting

You and Spencer have very different responses to Penelope's giddy, "You guys are such a cute couple."

Spencer blushes, and ducks his head towards his desk with a smile on his face. He's mortified at the attention on him, but he relishes the compliment all the same. Your face heats up equally warm, but Spencer's thaws immediately when you grumble, "Penny, stop. We're not a couple."

You're not?

Spencer's head is no longer hung towards the desk, instead it's pointed at you with wide eyes and caution flickering in his irises.

"We aren't?"

Your brow furrows, and Penelope's smile begins fading. She lingers, but quickly feels the need to make herself scarce, and scurries away when you double down.

"When did we get together?"

Spencer flounders, his expression only growing more wounded, "We- I've been taking you out for weeks."

"Well- yeah," You stammer, "But- but that doesn't mean-! We're not together, Spence. You haven't asked me."

"I ask you on dates all the time." His voice is empty, clueless and dumbfounded, "We- isn't that dating?"

"We go on dates, but that doesn't mean we're dating!" You insist, years of nitpicky high school etiquette coming in handy, "You have to ask me, Spencer, you have to ask me to be your girlfriend."

"Oh." Spencer's shoulders slump slightly, and you realize with a start that he's contemplating asking.

"Do you want to be together?" You ask him incredulously, suddenly unsure of the dates you'd gone on with him in the past. Apparently they weren't satisfactory if he's not Every happy memory lodges itself like a poison dart into your rapidly beating heart, and you're confused when he nods vigorously.

"Okay. So~," You prompt, leaning towards him in your chair, "Are you going to- y'know, ask me?"

"Are you gonna say yes?" He asks, and though the question is unbearably stupid, the tone in which he asks it is soft and scared and endearing.

"Of course I'm gonna say yes!" You huff, "Spencer, I- I really like you."

"I really like you, too." The furrow in his brow smooths as the last thread of fear cinching it is snipped, and then his pretty pink lips part to finally ask, "Will you be my girlfriend?"

"Yes," You gush, and you'd be embarrassed at how fast you shot from your chair to hug him if he hadn't done the same. The kiss you share is an awkward chaste one, because neither of you have forgotten that you're on duty in a government building, but Spencer's hands wrap tightly around your waist, and you sling yours over his lithe shoulders to crush him in a hug.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you sooner," He breathes, his voice barely audible even as he speaks against your ear, "I didn't know I was supposed to. I've never done this before."

"It's okay," You assure him, hiding your giddy grin in the knit of his sweater vest, "I'm sorry I scared you when I said we weren't. I just figured you weren't sure yet."

He draws back to thumb at the apple of your cheek, a lock of his hair dangling in front of his face from where it slipped from behind his ear.

"I'm sure," He vows, eyes boring into yours with a sincere sparkle, "And you're-? I mean, you're totally sure?"

"Totally," You let out a gushy laugh, "I'm glad you're my boyfriend, Spencer."

"Me too," He agrees, with a smile on his face that clocks in just short of disbelief, "And-! And I mean, I'm glad you're my girlfriend."

You're not permitted more than three seconds of the sentimental atmosphere you've created around you when Rossi decides you're distracting the rest of the team.

"Alright, lovebirds, this is wonderful for you, but I'm sure Hotch doesn't want you heavy petting on government time."

You flush and Spencer does the same, breaking away from you reluctantly as you grumble about government positions needing age caps. Rossi pays no mind to your insults, though, because Hotch's voice steals his attention, threaded with a spark of amusement.

"Oh, soften up, Dave." He calls from where he'd been obscured from view at the far end of the kitchenette, "I know you're three divorces bitter, but the rest of us are happy for them."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one-shot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid headcanons #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid hc #spencer reid hcs #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid dialogue #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fanfiction

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the-winter-spider · 2 months ago

Text

Under Pressure | one

Bucky Barnes AU

Word Count: 11.6k

Warnings: Angst, swearing, depression, mental health, mentions of su!cide

A/N: I just wanna say, I have ADHD so i will always have multiple stories going at once 🤪

two

The muffled hum of life beyond your bedroom window felt like a cruel reminder of how the world kept spinning, indifferent to the weight pressing on your chest. The sun had begun its descent, streaking the sky with a melancholy palette of orange and pink. It was beautiful, you supposed, in the way things could be beautiful when they didn’t matter.

You sighed and tugged at the loose thread on the sleeve of your hoodie—Bucky’s hoodie, though you’d had it so long it might as well be yours now. It still smelled faintly of him, a mix of pine and something warm and earthy, like home. That smell was your lifeline some nights, when the storm in your head raged too fiercely to sleep.

A sharp knock rattled your apartment door, interrupting the quiet.

“Hey! Open up!” Bucky’s voice, firm but familiar, carried through the thin wood. “Don’t make me kick this door in. You know I’ll do it.”

You groaned, dragging yourself off the couch. “It’s unlocked,” you called, not loud enough to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

The door creaked open, and there he was—Bucky, your best friend since middle school. His broad frame filled the doorway, but it was his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, that caught you. They scanned you like a checklist, searching for any signs you weren’t okay. You hated how well he knew you sometimes. “Y’know, you shouldn't leave your door unlocked especially here, anyone can just come in.”

“Hi,” you mumbled, ignoring him and retreating to the couch. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I—” He stepped fully inside and shut the door, the look on his face a mix of exasperation and concern. “You haven’t answered your phone all day. Natasha’s convinced you’re dead. Steve’s ready to call the cops. I told them to chill, but…” He gestured at you, his brows knitting together. “You look like you’ve been living on this couch.”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” he shot back, his tone softening when you flinched. He moved to sit beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. “What’s going on?”

The question hung between you, heavy and unwelcome. You could feel his eyes on you, waiting, patient but unyielding. Bucky was relentless like that, never letting you retreat too far into yourself. It was part of why you loved him—or at least, why you were glad to have him in your corner.

“I’m fine, Buck,” you lied, curling your arms around your knees. “Really, just one of those days.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, his fingers almost grazing your shoulder. It was a casual gesture, but you knew him too well to miss the tension in his posture.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “If you say you’re fine, I’ll let it go. For now. But…” He hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip like he was debating whether to say something. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. You don’t have to deal with this shit on your own.”

Your throat tightened, the familiar ache of wanting to believe him warring with the part of you that never could. You nodded, though, because it was easier than arguing.

“I know,” you whispered.

The room fell into silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Bucky didn’t push further, didn’t demand answers you couldn’t give. Instead, he stayed, his quiet presence grounding you in a way nothing else could.

After a while, he nudged your knee with his. “Wanna order pizza or something? My treat.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. “Only if I get to pick the toppings.”

He grinned, and for a moment, the storm in your head quieted.

Bucky stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as he reached for his phone. “What are we getting, then? Don’t even say pineapple, or I’m leaving.”

You rolled your eyes, the corners of your mouth tugging upward despite yourself. “Meatlovers, extra cheese.”

“Classic,” he said with a nod, punching it into the app. “It’s on the way, Should be here in like twenty.”

You stood up, brushing invisible lint off your borrowed hoodie. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you mumbled, tugging at the hem of your sleeve.

Bucky smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Good, you smell.”

You shot him a glare, shoving his shoulder with just enough force to make him chuckle. “Asshole,” you muttered as you headed toward the bathroom.

“Love you too, sweetheart!” he called after you, his voice laced with humor.

The bathroom was small and dimly lit, the fluorescent bulb above the sink flickering faintly. You shut the door behind you and leaned against it for a moment, letting out a long breath. The mirror above the sink was still covered with an old towel, hastily taped over it. You didn’t want to see the evidence of last night—the cracks radiating out from where your fist had landed.

Your hand throbbed beneath the makeshift bandage you’d wrapped around it earlier, but the pain was manageable. You were just glad Bucky hadn’t noticed. Hiding it under the hoodie had been a small victory, one you clung to.

Turning the shower knob, you waited for the water to heat up. Steam began to rise, fogging up the edges of the covered mirror. As you stripped off your clothes and stepped under the hot spray, the water cascaded over you, but it didn’t wash away the heaviness that clung to your chest.

It’s happening again.

You could feel it—the familiar slide into the darkness, like slipping down a slope you couldn’t climb back up, you never could no matter how hard you tried. The kind of heaviness that made it hard to breathe, let alone function. You’d felt this way before, so many times, but this was worse. This was deeper. This time felt final.

You hadn’t told your friends about losing your job. How could you? They’d try to help, and you couldn’t bear the thought of being a burden, even to them. Too many sick days, they’d said. Too many excuses, not enough productivity. And with that, the safety net of insurance vanished. No more medication. Not that it was working, anyway. You weren’t even sure it ever had.

The water ran over your face, and you tilted your head back, letting it sting your eyes. At least you didn’t have to worry about rent. Your parents made sure of that—not out of love, but because it was easier for them than dealing with you directly. They’d never wanted a child, not really. They made that clear in a thousand ways, subtle and not-so-subtle. Dismissive words. The quiet regret in their voices when they thought you weren’t listening.

Maybe that’s where the darkness came from. Or maybe it was just in your blood. Your aunt had taken her life when you were a kid. You remembered the way people whispered about her, like it was contagious. Maybe it was.

For the first time, you felt a strange gratitude for your parents. Not for their love—they’d never offered that—but for their money. It kept the lights on, the water running, even if you didn’t deserve it.

Bucky’s voice shattered the spiral. “Pizza’s here!” he yelled from the living room, his voice muffled through the door.

You blinked, startled, and realized you were still standing under the water, your skin pruned from the heat. “Okay!” you called back, shutting off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening.

You dried off quickly, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and the same oversized hoodie. Your hand throbbed as you tucked it into the sleeve, hiding the cuts from the glass, the already bruising knuckles and the makeshift bandage. Bucky didn’t need to know. He’d only worry, and you couldn’t handle that right now.

When you emerged, he was already opening the pizza box, the smell of melted cheese and pepperoni filling the room. “Took you long enough,” he teased, glancing up at you. “You okay?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just needed to rinse off.”

Bucky studied you for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning your face like they always did. But he didn’t push. Instead, he handed you a slice of pizza, the grease soaking through the paper plate. “Eat up, you look like you need it.”

“Thanks, Mom,” you said dryly, settling onto the couch beside him.

But despite the teasing, you were grateful. Grateful for the warmth of the food, the easy banter, and the way Bucky never left you alone in the quiet.

The smell of pizza filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of laundry detergent lingering on Bucky’s hoodie. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, a slice in your hand, while Bucky leaned back, gesturing animatedly as he recounted some story about Steve.

“So then Steve—being the genius he is—decides that the best way to move this stupidly heavy shelf is to tilt it, right? And I’m like, ‘Steve, no, that’s a terrible idea.’ But does he listen? No. He ends up pinning himself between the shelf and the wall, and I swear, Nat had to stop me from laughing before we helped him.”

You gave a faint chuckle, shaking your head. Bucky’s smile widened as he nudged you with his elbow.

“Speaking of Steve,” he continued, reaching for another slice, “he said he sent you the invite to his party this weekend. You haven’t RSVP’d yet. I told him you’re obviously coming, but he says he needs you to click yes for the numbers or some shit.”

You paused, setting your pizza slice back on the plate. “I, uh, haven’t seen my phone since last night. Didn’t realize he sent it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, dramatically exasperated. “Typical. Losing your phone in your own damn house.” He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll find it for you. Probably stuffed in the couch cushions again.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he teased, fishing between the cushions. “You’ve always been this way. Remember when you used to lose me at the mall? Or the park? Or on the street?”

You got up, heading toward your bedroom to search. “I didn’t lose you,” you called over your shoulder. “You just liked to wander.”

His laugh echoed from the living room. “Fair point. I’ll check the bathroom.”

You froze mid-step, your heart skipping a beat. You turned too quickly and hit your head on the shelf above your desk, wincing at the sharp pain. Panic surged through you as you clutched your throbbing hand tighter, trying to keep your breathing steady.

“Bucky!” you called, your voice tight.

“What?” he answered from the bathroom. “Hey, uh… why is there a towel over your mirror?”

You clenched your eyes shut, the blood rushing in your ears as you heard the unmistakable sound of tape being peeled. He’s not going to be mad. It’s Bucky. He’s not going to be mad, you repeated to yourself, your breaths coming faster now.

“Y/N?” His voice was closer now, cautious but soft. “Why is the mirror broken?”

You didn’t move, clutching your phone in your injured hand like a lifeline, your fingers trembling against the cracked case. You felt the room spin slightly as the anxiety clawed at your chest. Breathe. Focus. He’s not mad. He’s just worried.

When you finally looked up, Bucky was standing in your doorway. His gaze immediately flickered to your hand, and his eyes softened as he pieced everything together.

“Oh,” he said quietly, his voice a mix of realization and concern. “You found your phone.”

He stepped closer, his eyes dropping to the crude, bloodstained bandage wrapped around your knuckles. He froze, his expression shifting into something unreadable. “Sweets…”

You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t handle the weight of his gaze. “It’s nothing,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you clutched the phone tighter, as if it could shield you from the truth between you.

“Nothing?” His voice cracked. “This—this is not nothing.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Every word stuck in your throat, choking you. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, until Bucky stepped closer, his hands carefully, hesitantly reaching for yours. He didn’t take your phone away—he just held your uninjured hand gently in his, his thumb brushing over your trembling fingers.

He said your name softly, his voice steady despite the emotion wavering in it, “what happened?”

You shook your head, the tears already spilling over before you could stop them. “I—” You swallowed hard, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to.”

His grip on your hand tightened slightly, grounding you. “It’s okay,” he said quickly. “It’s okay. Just talk to me, please.”

You closed your eyes, the words tumbling out in a broken rush. “It was last night. I just… I just couldn’t, my uh emotions, I couldn’t handle it. I—” You exhaled shakily. “I punched the mirror because I didn’t want to—” You stopped, biting back the rest of the sentence, the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

Bucky’s face crumpled, his hand still holding yours as if afraid to let go. “Jesus, Y/N,” he whispered. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you, it was like 3 in the morning Buck” you admitted, your voice raw. “You’re always fixing my messes, Buck. I didn’t want to make it worse, I’m just a mess, I’m sorry.”

“Worse?” His voice rose slightly, though it wasn’t anger—just desperation. “Y/N, you’re not a mess. You’re—” He stopped, his jaw clenching as he searched for the right words. “You’re my best friend. And I love you” His voice cracked “You don’t bother me, okay? Ever.”

You met his eyes then, your vision blurry with tears. He looked back at you with such unflinching sincerity it almost hurt.

“I can’t do this without you,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “You don’t have to handle this on your own. I’m here, we all are you gotta know that. I’ll always be here.”

The weight in your chest shifted slightly, the suffocating pressure easing just enough for you to breathe again. You nodded slowly, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Okay.”

He pulled you into a hug then, careful not to hurt your hand, and held you like he was afraid you might disappear.

Bucky’s arms wrapped around you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way nothing else could. “It’s just a bump in the road,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve hit plenty of them before, and you’ve always gotten through. We’ve always gotten through, and I’ve got just the remedy.”

He pulled back, his blue eyes sparkling with a glint of mischief. Before you could ask what he meant, he strode over to the corner of your room where your record player sat, surrounded by a modest collection of vinyls. He thumbed through the stack, muttering to himself, “Where is it… aha.”

Your heart stuttered as the familiar static of a spinning record filled the air. And then you heard it: the unmistakable opening beat of Under Pressure.

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You turned around to see Bucky already moving, his shoulders bouncing in exaggerated rhythm. His grin was wide and goofy as he started lip-syncing Freddie Mercury’s part with gusto, his voice just slightly off-key but no less enthusiastic.

“Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you…”

“Bucky, what are you doing?” you asked, though the smile was impossible to hide.

“Cheering you up, obviously,” he replied, spinning in place before striding toward you. He extended a hand dramatically as he transitioned into the next line. “No man ask for…”

“Under pressure!” you couldn’t help but join in, stepping into your part with Bowie’s deeper, sultry tone.

Bucky’s grin widened as he grabbed your good hand and spun you around. You laughed despite yourself, your heart pounding—not from the anxiety this time, but from the sheer joy of the moment. Together, you sang, danced, and twirled through the song, just like you had so many times before.

When the final notes faded into silence, the two of you were left standing face to face, breathing hard and laughing, cheeks flushed. He looked down at you, his eyes softening as he smiled. “Works like a charm every time. It’s why it’s our song.”

You didn’t respond, just let the warmth in your chest grow as you caught your breath. But before you could lose yourself in the moment, Bucky gently took your hand—the injured one—his expression shifting to something more serious.

“Alright,” he said, tugging you toward the bathroom. “Let’s take a proper look at this.”

“What are you doing?” you asked, panic creeping back into your voice.

“We’re getting a proper look at this hand, is what we’re doing,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He guided you to sit on the closed toilet lid and opened your cabinet, pulling out the first-aid kit you barely used. His movements were quick but precise, his focus intense as he knelt in front of you. “Let me see,” he said softly.

Reluctantly, you held out your hand. He unwrapped the makeshift bandage carefully, his brow furrowing as he examined the bloody knuckles beneath. “Y/N,” he sighed, shaking his head, though there was no judgment in his voice.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly. “Really, it doesn’t even hurt that much.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, grabbing antiseptic and gauze. “Sure it doesn’t.” He worked quietly, cleaning the wound with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

The sting barely registered—if anything, it felt grounding, something to focus on as you came down from the high of dancing with him. The silence stretched between you, comfortable and steady, until he finally broke it.

“Are you taking your meds?” he asked, not looking up from his work.

“Of course,” you lied, the words slipping out automatically.

He glanced at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t push. “Okay,” he said after a beat. “Are you still seeing Dr. Jones?”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I… haven’t been in a while.”

Bucky sighed again, his fingers stilling briefly before he started wrapping your hand with fresh gauze. “Maybe you should schedule an appointment,” he suggested, his voice gentle. “I can do it for you, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly. “I can do it.”

“Alright,” he said, finishing the bandage with a neat knot. He sat back on his heels, his expression soft but serious. “I know I sound like a broken record but I’m always here for you, okay? No matter what. I don’t care what I’m doing—if you need me, I’ll drop everything, Id do anything for you.”

And that was what terrified you the most: the thought of Bucky regretting you. The fear that one day, he’d look at you and finally say what you’d always told yourself—that you were a burden. That would be the thing to push you over the edge. You hated how much you relied on him, how much of your brokenness you placed on his shoulders. It’s why you fought so hard not to bother him with every little thing, even when it felt impossible to hold it all in.

Still, when he looked at you like that—steady, unwavering—it was hard not to believe him, if only for a moment. You nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “I know.”

The sun filtered weakly through the gray clouds as you wandered through the bustling streets of New York with Natasha, the two of you weaving in and out of shops in search of outfits for Steve’s birthday party. The buzz of the city was as alive as ever, but it felt far away, muted in your mind like someone had turned down the volume on the world.

Natasha was in her element, flipping through racks of dresses and skirts, holding up pieces with a gleam in her eye. “This one’s cute, right?” she asked, twirling a hanger with a little black dress on it.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you replied, your voice distant as you thumbed idly through a rack of jeans.

Natasha turned, narrowing her eyes at you as she hung the dress back on the rack. “Okay, you’re way too quiet. What’s up?”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, forcing a small smile. “Just… a headache.”

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp gaze of hers, the one that always seemed to see right through you. “You’re okay, though, right?”

The words hit you harder than they should have. You hesitated, gripping the edge of a hanger as if it would steady you. What would you even say to her? No, I’m not okay. The colors are fading again, and the world feels dull and dark. Every step feels like walking through quicksand, and I can’t remember the last time I felt like myself.

But you couldn’t say that. Not to her. Not to any of them. Natasha was thriving, living the life she’d always dreamed of. She was a force of nature, juggling her job, her relationship with Steve, and somehow still managing to look flawless while doing it. Your friends were all like that—thriving, succeeding, building the futures they’d worked so hard for.

You couldn’t, wouldn’t take that away from them. Not because you were sad. Not because you were lost.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “Just a headache.”

Natasha gave you a look, her lips pressing into a thin line. You knew she didn’t entirely believe you, but she let it go. “Alright,” she said slowly, grabbing a pair of sleek black heels from the shelf. “But if you want to bail on shopping and go grab a coffee or something, just say the word.”

You shook your head, mustering another smile. “I’m fine, Nat. Really. Let’s keep looking.”

She studied you for another second before nodding. “Okay. But you’re not getting out of trying stuff on,” she teased, holding up a sparkly red dress that was very much not your style.

You rolled your eyes, the faintest laugh escaping before you could stop it. “No way.”

“Come on,” she said, grinning. “It’s Steve’s party. Let’s make an impression.”

As she turned back to the rack, chatting about Steve’s plans for Friday, you let her words wash over you like white noise. You didn’t have the energy to keep up with her excitement, but you let her carry the conversation anyway. It was easier that way.

The fitting room was cramped, the air thick with the faint smell of fabric and perfume. You stepped into the first dress Natasha had handed you—a sleek black number that hung too loosely on your frame. You tugged at the straps, sighing as you opened the door.

Natasha spun around from where she was scrolling on her phone, her eyes immediately lighting up. “Okay, this is hot, but… it’s too big.” She tilted her head, studying you. “Wait, are you going to the gym again?”

You froze for half a second, your mind racing. You couldn’t tell her the truth: that eating felt like a chore most days, that you barely had the energy to make yourself a bowl of cereal, let alone go to the gym. “Uh, yeah,” you lied, forcing a smile. “A little.”

“I can tell,” she said, beaming. “But don’t go too hard, okay? You’re perfect just the way you are.” Without waiting for your response, she grabbed two smaller sizes from the rack and handed them to you. “Here, try these. I bet one of them will be perfect.”

You nodded and ducked back into the fitting room, slipping into the smaller size. The dress hugged your figure in all the right places, the soft shimmer of the fabric catching the light. For a fleeting moment, you felt pretty—maybe even beautiful—but the feeling slipped away as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t enough. It never was.

When you stepped out, Natasha’s jaw dropped. “Wow,” she breathed, clapping her hands together. “This is it, i mean you still have to try the others on because what if they're better, but this is the top contender. You’re definitely gonna blow everyone away. Maybe you’ll even find your future husband at the party.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, right.”

She grinned, her tone turning teasing. “You never know. He might be closer than you think.”

You froze at her words, your heart skipping a beat as you glanced at her. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a knowing glint in her eye that made your stomach twist.

“Nat,” you said slowly, trying to steer the conversation away before it went anywhere dangerous. “This dress is nice, but…”

“No buts,” she interrupted, grabbing your shoulders and spinning you toward the mirror. “Look at yourself. You look gorgeous.”

You stared at your reflection, trying to see what she saw. The dress was beautiful, and it fit perfectly, but it still felt… wrong. Like it was a mask you couldn’t quite wear convincingly. You wanted to feel the confidence Natasha had, the joy that radiated from her so easily. But no matter how hard you tried, it just wasn’t there.

Natasha didn’t notice your hesitation, too busy admiring the dress. “You’re getting it either way, end of discussion.”

You smiled faintly and ducked back into the fitting room to change. As you slipped out of the dress, Natasha’s voice floated through the curtain.

“By the way, I know I’m only twenty-five, but… I think Steve might propose this year.”

You peeked out, raising an eyebrow. “You think tonight?”

“Oh, God, no!” She laughed, shaking her head. “I just mean… before the year’s over. We’ve been together since freshman year of college, and I feel like the next step is coming. You know?”

You nodded, even though the thought made your chest tighten. Natasha didn’t stop there, her voice full of excitement as she continued.

“I’ve already started planning, by the way. Mostly on Pinterest,” she admitted with a grin. “And obviously, you’re going to be my maid of honor.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “Wow, Nat. That’s…so kind of you.” A lot of pressure is what you meant but didn’t say.

“Oh, please,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Of course its you, you’re my best friend and you know me best, I’m not one of those bridezillas. I just—” She sighed dreamily. “I’m ready, you know? Everything’s going so perfect. I’m so happy.”

She looked at you, her smile radiant. “Oh, my God, did I tell you I got promoted last week?”

“What? No!” you said, stepping out of the fitting room, now in a different dress. You pulled her into a hug. “Nat, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you!” she said, hugging you back tightly. “Bucky said you lost your phone, and that’s why you weren’t answering. But yeah, they made me head of social! Everything just feels amazing. Life’s amazing.”

“Of course it is,” you said softly, pulling back to smile at her. “You deserve it.”

She beamed, holding up the sparkly red dress she’d chosen for herself. “Anyway, I’m totally getting this dress. Now it’s your turn, that colour washes you out, next one."

She handed you a few more options, her energy as boundless as ever. You couldn’t help but envy her, even as you forced yourself to match her excitement. When you tried on the next dress and stepped out, Natasha clapped again. “This one’s even better! You’re going to turn so many heads. I’m telling you, babe, this is your year. You’re gonna meet someone, I just know it!"

You laughed weakly. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

But as you changed back into your clothes, her earlier comment lingered in your mind. He might be closer than you think. You knew who she meant. Of course you did. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it—or even think it for too long. Because no matter how beautiful the dress was, it wasn’t enough to make you feel whole. It wasn’t enough to make you feel worthy of someone like him.

The faint sounds of music drifted from your speakers as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, adjusting the dress Natasha had insisted you buy. You ran your hands down the shimmering fabric, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach. You didn’t love it, but you didn’t hate it either. And for tonight, “not hating it” would have to be enough.

Outside, the New York cityscape buzzed with life, the faint hum of car horns and chatter filtering through your window. You glanced at your phone, which you’d finally found after last night’s chaos. A text from Sam popped up on the screen.

Sam: Be there in 5. Don’t leave me waiting in the hall, you know I hate that...Remember when you forgot about me? :-(

You smiled faintly, slipping your phone into your small clutch and double-checking your makeup. There was a knock at the door just as you spritzed on a bit of perfume. You hurried to the door, your heels clicking lightly on the wood floor.

When you opened it, Sam stood there in a sharp button-down and blazer, flashing you his trademark grin. “Well, damn. Don’t you clean up nice?”

You laughed, stepping back to let him in. “Thanks, Sam. You look pretty dapper yourself.”

He swept into your apartment, looking around with the same casual ease he always carried. “You ready to make an entrance? I promised Steve and Nat I wouldn’t let you sneak off and ditch.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not going to ditch.”

“Good,” he said, turning to face you. “Because I’ve got a plan to make tonight one for the books. Trust me, sweet stuff, by the end of the night, you’re gonna be grinning from ear to ear.”

The warmth in his voice was infectious, and you felt a flicker of excitement you hadn’t expected. Sam had always been like this—bright, energetic, and effortlessly fun. It was one of the reasons you’d clicked so easily in college. Back then, he’d been the life of the party, and so had you. At least, that’s what everyone thought.

You remembered the first time you’d met Sam. It was at a college house party, the kind of event where the music was loud, the air reeked of beer, and everyone seemed to be smiling a little too brightly. You’d been three drinks in, already feeling the buzz in your veins, and Sam had been across the room, making everyone laugh with one of his outrageous stories.

You’d wandered over, laughing along with the group, and somehow, the two of you ended up talking. About nothing. About everything. You were drunk, and so was he, but you connected in a way that felt effortless. For a while, the weight inside your chest lifted.

“You’re a riot,” he’d said, clinking his beer bottle against yours. “We’re gonna be best friends, I can tell.”

It had been a joke at the time, but it stuck. Drinking was an escape for both of you—his way of letting loose, your way of numbing the ache. Together, you were unstoppable, the life of every party you touched, at least back then.

Seeing Sam now, with that same bright smile, stirred something inside you. “So,” you said, grabbing your coat, “what’s the plan? Besides celebrating Steve, obviously.”

“Well,” he said, holding the door open for you, “I figured we’d pre-game a little on the way. Maybe remind everyone why we were the reigning champs of fun back in college.”

You laughed, genuinely this time. “Pretty sure I retired my crown years ago.”

“Please,” he said with a snort. “You’ve still got it. And if not, don’t worry—I’ll carry the team.”

The two of you stepped out onto the street, the cool evening air nipping at your skin. As you walked toward the subway, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t felt in a while: anticipation.

Because if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was helping you forget. And for tonight, forgetting sounded perfect.

The buzz of the city enveloped you. The streets glowed with streetlights and neon signs, the cool air carrying the faint hum of laughter and distant music. Sam walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, a casual swagger to his step.

“So,” he said, pulling something small from his jacket pocket, “I know you’ve been stressed lately. Thought this might help.”

You glanced over and saw him holding a joint between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Sam,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Come on,” he said, stopping to light it with a quick flick of his lighter. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the night air. “It’s Steve’s birthday. We’re celebrating, aren’t we? Besides, it’s only twenty or so minutes to his place. Let’s take the back roads.”

You hesitated for half a second before shrugging. “Fine, but only a little.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, passing it to you with a wink.

The two of you took a quieter side street, the world softening around the edges as the haze of the joint settled in. The conversation grew lighter, and before long, you were giggling at almost nothing. A little ended up being the whole joint.

Sam glanced at you, shaking his head with a grin. “Man, Bucky is gonna kill me.”

You raised an eyebrow, holding in another laugh. “Why?”

He took another hit before passing it back to you. “Do you not remember how mad he used to get in college when we’d get high? ‘You’re gonna get caught,’” he said in a mock-serious tone, imitating Bucky’s deep voice. “‘Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in?’ Total party pooper.”

You snorted, nearly choking on the smoke. “Oh my God, yes. Him and Stevie, always the buzzkills.”

Sam laughed, a low, easy sound. “You think they ever figured out Natasha was the one who dealt it to us?”

“Absolutely not,” you said with mock seriousness, passing the joint back to him. “That secret stays with us till the grave.”

He pointed at you with the joint. “Damn right.”

By the time you reached Steve’s apartment, your head was light, and everything seemed a little funnier than it should have been. The music was already spilling out into the hallway, the faint bass reverberating through the floor. You paused just outside the door, looking at Sam.

“Do I look stoned?” you whispered, your voice full of mock urgency.

He leaned back slightly, pretending to inspect you. “Nope. Do I?”

You mirrored his motion, squinting at him dramatically. “Nope.”

“Good,” you both said in unison before bursting into laughter.

Sam opened the door, and the warmth of the apartment hit you instantly. Steve’s place wasn’t huge—it was New York, after all—but it was bigger than most, with a cozy vibe that still somehow fit a surprising number of people. Music pulsed through the room, and the sound of chatter and laughter filled every corner.

You slipped off your coat, handing it to Sam as he found a spot for both of yours on a nearby hook. He turned back to you, already moving toward the drink table. ��Alright, let’s get you something.”

You followed him through the small crowd, people offering nods and greetings as you passed. Sam handed you a drink—something fizzy and fruity—and raised his own cup. “Cheers to Steve,” he said, clinking it against yours.

“To Steve,” you agreed, taking a sip.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the far side of the room. “Let’s go find the others.”

The apartment was packed, a mix of Steve’s friends, colleagues, and your usual crew. You let Sam lead the way, weaving through groups of people chatting and laughing. The warm glow of string lights strung across the ceiling gave the space a cozy, celebratory feel.

Eventually, you spotted a familiar flash of red hair across the room. You nudged Sam with your elbow and pointed. “There’s Nat.”

“Let’s go,” he said, grinning as he took another sip of his drink.

As the two of you made your way over, the tension that had been weighing you down earlier seemed to lift, if only for a little while. For the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe tonight could be okay.

As you and Sam wove through the crowd, Natasha’s bright red hair came into clearer focus. Beside her stood Steve, his broad frame relaxed, one hand casually holding a drink. Next to him, Bucky stood, his focus glued to his phone, his brows furrowed as Steve said something to him. Natasha noticed you first, her eyes lighting up as she tapped Steve on the shoulder and pointed in your direction.

Steve followed her gaze, his face breaking into a grin. He nudged Bucky with his elbow, saying something you couldn’t hear. Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes locking onto yours. You saw the tension in his shoulders ease as he spotted you and Sam, his phone slipping into his pocket.

When you finally reached them, Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for a beat before he asked, “What took you guys so long?”

Sam, ever the smooth talker, shrugged. “We walked.”

“You walked?” Bucky repeated, his tone laced with mild disbelief. “That’s like an hour.”

You blinked, surprised. “Was it really that long?”

Sam grinned, his voice light and teasing. “Didn’t feel that long.”

You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “Felt like we were moving with the wind.”

Steve groaned, running a hand over his face. “Oh my God.”

Natasha laughed, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she looked between the two of you. “You guys are stoned.”

“No,” you said quickly, at the same time Sam said, “Yes.”

You glared at Sam as Natasha burst into laughter, while Steve just sighed like a disappointed parent. But it was Bucky’s reaction that hit hardest. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his expression shifting into something between worry and frustration.

Sam leaned closer, his voice low in your ear. “Oh boy, your daddy is mad at you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, shoving his shoulder, though a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Anyway,” Sam said, stepping back, “I’m gonna go play some beer pong. You have fun over here with your parents and your cool aunt.” He nodded toward Steve, Bucky, and Natasha with a mischievous wink.

Natasha scoffed, clearly amused. “Absolutely not,” she said, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Come on, Stevie, let’s go show them how it’s done.”

“Wait!” you said, reaching out to grab Steve’s other arm. “Happy birthday, Steve.”

Steve smiled, his expression softening as he pulled you into a quick hug. “Thanks, Y/N,” he said quietly. Then, his voice dropped lower, just for you. “Please be careful, okay?”

You pulled back, confused. “What?”

But before he could answer, Natasha tugged him away, laughing as she led him toward the beer pong table. That left you standing there with Bucky, his gaze fixed on you.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just looked at you like he was trying to figure out what to say. His shoulders were still relaxed, but the worry in his eyes was unmistakable. You shifted under his gaze, feeling both self-conscious and relieved to see him.

“You’re mad,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

“I’m not mad,” he replied, though his tone suggested otherwise. He crossed his arms, sighing as he glanced around the room before looking back at you. “I’m just… worried.”

“Bucky, I’m fine,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Really.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to find something you weren’t saying. Finally, he sighed again, his shoulders relaxing further. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

You blinked, surprised by his honesty. “Of course I came,” you said, your own voice softening. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he finally looked away. “Okay. Just… stay close tonight, alright?”

You nodded, unsure what else to say, as the noise of the party swelled around you. But even as the crowd moved and laughed, your focus stayed on Bucky, the knot in your chest tightening and loosening all at once, while the darkness loomed over your shoulder.

The party was in full swing, laughter and loud music filling every corner of Steve’s apartment. Drinks sloshed in plastic cups, people cheered at the beer pong table, and the warm buzz of alcohol kept everyone loose and carefree. You, Sam, and Natasha had slipped away to a quieter corner near the balcony door, passing a joint between you as you watched the chaos unfold.

Sam took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the cool night air before chuckling. “I’m actually gonna get in trouble with your future husband for this,” he said, nodding toward Natasha.

She rolled her eyes, taking the joint from him. “Please. Steve smokes it with me.”

You gasped, your eyes wide. “What? Since when?”

Natasha grinned, holding the joint between her fingers like it was a glass of wine. “A couple of months ago. He thought it was a cigarette.”

That sent you and Sam into peals of laughter. “No, he didn’t,” you said, struggling to catch your breath.

“Oh, he absolutely did,” Natasha said, laughing along. “Took one drag and started coughing like his life depended on it. I had to explain it to him after.”

“That’s the most Steve Rogers thing I’ve ever heard,” you said, wiping at your eyes as you giggled.

Sam shook his head, still laughing. “Man, we just need to convert Bucky now.”

Natasha waved a hand dismissively. “There’s no way Bucky hasn’t smoked pot.”

“He has,” you said, shrugging when they both stared at you.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

You looked down at the joint in your hand, turning it idly before taking a small drag. “He did once. In middle school. But it ended up being mixed with something… not great.. panic attack. He hasn’t touched anything since.”

“Damn,” Sam said, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t know that.”

You nodded, the memory flickering in your mind like a distant flame. “Yeah. It was a rough weekend for him. After that, he just… swore it off. No smoking, It’s like his personal rule now.”

Natasha frowned, her usual confidence softening for a moment. “That makes sense. Poor Buck.”

The three of you fell into a comfortable silence, the joint passing between you. The sound of cheering caught your attention as Steve and Bucky won another round of beer pong, their laughter cutting through the party noise. And then, as if the universe had planned it, the unmistakable opening notes of Under Pressure began to play.

You froze for a moment, the familiar beat washing over you like a wave. Slowly, you brought the joint to your lips one last time, inhaling deeply before handing it to Natasha. She said something, but the music had already pulled you away. You heard Sam mumble, “It’s the song,” and Natasha sighed, “Oh, God,” as you stepped out onto the balcony, leaving them behind.

The cold night air hit you immediately, biting at your skin and cutting through the haze of warmth in your chest. You lay down on the balcony floor, the rough texture pressing against your back as you stared up at the inky black sky. The stars were faint, drowned out by the city lights, but you could hear the music drifting through the open windows behind you, every note clear as day.

Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you…

You let the song wash over you, your body sinking into the cold concrete as if the world were swallowing you whole. The weight in your chest loosened just enough for you to take a full breath, but the sadness lingered, wrapping itself around you like a second skin.

Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?

You felt like you could disappear here. Listening to this song, knowing the people you loved were safe and warm inside, laughing and living their lives, it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. The thought made you sick, but it clung to you, stubborn and persistent.

And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night

Why does this always happen? you thought bitterly. You hated yourself for it—for letting your mind wander to that place when you were surrounded by nothing but love. Sam, Natasha, Steve, Bucky… they all loved you. They would do anything for you. But still, the darkness crept in, whispering lies you couldn’t silence.

And love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves

You closed your eyes, the music continuing to play as Freddie and Bowie’s voices intertwined. For a moment, you let yourself feel the weight of the song, the way it seemed to echo everything you couldn’t say. It was bittersweet, but it was yours. Yours and Bucky’s.

This is our last dance

You lay there a while longer, letting the cold seep into your skin as you listened to the life happening just beyond the glass.

This is ourselves

The sound of the patio door sliding open—aggressively, almost slamming—pulled you out of your haze. Your eyes shot open as you instinctively sat up, startled. When you looked toward the doorway, Bucky stood there, his shoulders tense as his eyes darted around the balcony, searching. His gaze landed on you, and you saw the relief wash over him in an instant.

Under pressure

“Jesus,” he muttered, stepping out onto the balcony and sliding the door shut behind him. The music inside softened, muffled by the thick glass.

“Everything okay?” you asked hesitantly, sitting up fully now.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly. “Natasha said you came out here.” He paused, his voice softening. “I was looking for you.”

You blinked, confused. “I’m fine, I just needed some air.”

He nodded, his eyes scanning you again like he was making sure you were still intact. “They played our song,” you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said, his lips curving into a faint, fleeting smile. “That’s why I was trying to find you.”

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing down at your hands. The weight of the moment pressed against your chest. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Is everything okay?” you asked again, looking up at him now.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, reaching a hand down to you. You hesitated for a second before taking it, his grip warm and firm as he helped you to your feet. The two of you stood there, the cold air wrapping around you, but his hand lingered just a little longer than necessary.

“Buck?,” you said softly, your brow furrowing.

He hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides as though he was wrestling with something. Finally, he swallowed hard and said, “I was worried.” His voice barely audible.

"Worried about what?” you asked, tilting your head, though you already felt the answer forming in the pit of your stomach.

His eyes flickered away from yours for a moment before coming back, the raw emotion in his gaze almost too much to bear. “That you would jump,” he said quietly, the words hitting like a freight train.

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your mind reeled, struggling to process what he’d just said. “What?” you whispered, staring at him in shock. “Bucky…”

He didn’t flinch, his eyes locked onto yours, unflinching and raw. “I was scared,” he said softly. “I couldn’t find you, and Natasha said you were out here. I know how you’ve been down lately, like before... And I—” He stopped, exhaling shakily. “I just… I couldn’t not check.”

You stared at him, speechless, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. For a moment, all you could do was look at each other, the world around you fading into the background.

“Bucky,” you said finally, your voice trembling, “I would never do that, not with my friends right there, not at Steve’s birthday party, at his home. I would never—”

He cut you off, his gaze hardening slightly. “You mean you never would in general, right? Not just because it’s Steve’s birthday and we’re here?”

His question hit like another blow, and your mouth went dry. You couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, and he stared back, the air between you thick with unspoken fears and truths neither of you were ready to face.

Before you could say anything, a knock on the glass patio door startled you both. You turned to see Natasha waving at you from inside, her face cheerful as she gestured toward the living room. Through the glass, you could faintly hear her say, “Cake time!”

“That’s our cue,” you said softly, breaking the silence, but neither of you moved. Bucky’s eyes stayed on you, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words died on his lips.

“Y/N,” he said finally, your name heavy with meaning. But before either of you could say anything else, the door opened again.

This time, it was Sam, stepping out with his usual carefree grin. “Come on, you two,” he said, gesturing back toward the party. “It’s happy birthday time.”

The spell broke, and you finally moved, stepping past Bucky toward the door. You felt his presence close behind you as you stepped back into the warm, bustling apartment. The sounds of laughter and music swallowed you whole as Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder.

“You good?” Sam asked him, his tone light but tinged with concern.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice steady now. “I’m good.”

The two of you followed Sam into the living room, where everyone had gathered around Steve, who stood behind a table piled high with cake and candles. Natasha beamed at him, and the entire room erupted into a cheerful chorus “Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you…..”

Bucky jogged up the steps to your work building, balancing a paper bag with subs and a drink tray in one hand while holding his phone to his ear with the other. The midday sun cast a warm glow over the streets, and the city buzzed with its usual energy. On the other end of the call, Steve’s voice was loud and insistent.

“Just ask her out, man,” Steve said, exasperated. “Olivia’s obviously into you.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky replied, his tone distracted as he checked his watch. “It’s just—”

“‘It’s just,’” Steve interrupted, mimicking Bucky. “If you’re not gonna man up and ask out Y/N—or, I don’t know, figure out if she feels the same way—then you need to move on. Because if you’re not willing to make a move, she’s gonna move on, Buck, and you’re gonna get left behind.”

Bucky stopped walking, rubbing the back of his neck as he considered Steve’s words. “She’s never given me any signs that she feels the same way, Steve. And she’s always saying stuff like, ‘I don’t think have the capacity to properly love anyone.’ That’s kinda her answer right there, isn’t it?”

Steve sighed, the kind that made it clear he was done having this conversation. “Stop torturing yourself. Ask out Olivia already.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered, clearly uncommitted. “I’ll do it.”

He ended the call as he reached your office building, pulling out his phone to text you.

Bucky: I’m here.

A minute passed, and then his phone buzzed.

You: ????

Bucky: Your office.

You: I’m home. Left early.

His brows furrowed as he read the message. He typed back quickly.

Bucky: Okay, be there in 15. I have food.

At your apartment, you froze, the panic hitting you like a freight train. He almost went into my work. He almost found out. Your hands trembled as you paced the room, glancing around at the chaos that had become your home. Dishes in the sink, laundry spilling out of the hamper, notebooks and loose papers scattered everywhere. It had been weeks since Bucky had last been over, and you’d let things slide—just like everything else in your life lately.

You moved like lightning, shoving clutter into drawers and closets, wiping down surfaces, and sweeping crumbs off the coffee table. You almost tripped over a pile of shoes, catching yourself on the edge of the couch as you cursed under your breath. By the time you checked the clock, only five minutes had passed. Good, you thought. Plenty of time.

You ran to the bathroom, splashing water on your face before quickly reapplying some concealer and lip balm. Then you threw on a fresh sweater, lit a candle, and sprayed the room with a light mist of air freshener. As you grabbed the scattered pages of a journal you’d been writing in, you shoved them into a drawer just as the knock came at the door.

“It’s unlocked!” you called out, trying to sound casual as your heart pounded.

Bucky stepped inside, frowning slightly as he looked around. “What did I say about leaving the door unlocked?”

“It wasn’t long,” you said quickly, giving him a small smile. “I just got home.”

Bucky set the bag of food on the counter, eyeing you suspiciously. “Why’d you leave early?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze as you grabbed plates from the cabinet. “Finished all the work I needed to do,” you said, keeping your tone light. It wasn’t a total lie, you told yourself. You just weren’t doing that work anymore.

He didn’t press the issue, though his expression lingered with curiosity. Instead, he handed you your sub. “Here,” he said. “Proof that you’re eating.”

You gave a soft laugh, but his tone wasn’t joking. You took a bite, more to appease him than anything, and he watched closely, satisfied only after you swallowed.

“Have you talked to your parents recently?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

You almost choked on your sandwich. “Come on, Bucky, you know I haven’t talked to them in years.”

“Still,” he said quietly, his gaze soft but insistent.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I saw online that they renewed their vows. Some friends and family were there.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.” You forced a shrug. “It’s fine. At least they’re still paying for the apartment.”

Bucky frowned, his jaw tightening, but he let it go. “What do you think about Olivia?” he asked, changing the subject.

You blinked, confused. “Olivia who?”

“The blonde from my work,” he said, tilting his head. “The one who sang Journey at the Christmas party.”

“Oh,” you said, the realization hitting. “What about her?”

“I’m thinking of asking her out,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes searched your face for a reaction.

Your chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than you’d expected. You’d always love Bucky—always. It had always been him for you. But it was never you for him. And as much as it hurt, you wanted him to be happy, even if it wasn’t with you. If anything ever happened to you, you wanted to know he’d have someone. Someone who could give him the love you couldn’t.

“You should,” you said, forcing a bright smile. “You guys would make such a good couple. She’s super sweet, and she’s really pretty.”

Bucky stared at you, his eyes searching again, like he didn’t quite believe you. “That’s what Steve said,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “Wait, you asked Steve first? I thought I was the number one best friend,” you teased, trying to keep your tone light.

Bucky’s face dropped, panic flashing across his features. “No, no, no, no,” he said quickly. “You are. I—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, smiling faintly. “I’m kidding. It’s fine.”

"You'll always be my number one everything, I hope you know that."

After Bucky left, the apartment felt quieter than usual. You sat on the couch, the remains of your lunch untouched on the table in front of you. Your phone sat heavy in your hand, and on a whim, you opened a new text message and typed out a simple line.

You: Congratulations on renewing your vows.

You sent it to your mom, watching the “delivered” notification pop up. Moments later, the message shifted to “read,” but no reply came. You sighed, a bitter chuckle escaping your lips. Typical. Shaking your head, you typed the same message to your father.

This time, at least, you got a response.

Dad: Thanks.

You stared at the message for a moment before typing back.

You: Your welcome, love you.

And then nothing. The little “read” notification popped up at the bottom of your screen, and that was it. You were left on read.

A laugh bubbled out of you, hollow and sharp. Of course. It was absurd, really, how predictable it all was. The silence was deafening, and you could feel it creeping in again—that familiar darkness that sat heavy on your chest, pulling you down.

You leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. The air felt heavier, the edges of the room seeming to blur as the minutes ticked by. You didn’t know how long you sat there, lost in the swirling mess of thoughts in your head, when your phone buzzed in your hand.

It was a text from Bucky.

Bucky: She said yes...... :-)

You stared at the screen, the words feeling like a slap and a balm at the same time. You had told him to ask her out. You wanted him to be happy. So why did it hurt so much?

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment before you finally typed a reply.

You: Of course she did, It’s you, Bucky <3 Any girl would be lucky to go out with you.

You hit send, feeling the ache in your chest grow sharper. Somewhere in his office, Bucky read your message, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But as he stared at the words, his heart twisted.

If only you felt that way about yourself, he thought. Because it wasn’t Olivia he wanted. It was you. It had always been you.

But instead of saying that, he typed back a lighthearted response, masking the weight in his chest.

Bucky: You’re gonna make my ego blow up. I don’t wanna end up with a head as big as Sam’s.

When you read his text, you managed a small laugh, even as the heaviness lingered. You typed back a simple “lol” and set the phone down, your fingers trembling slightly.

The apartment was quiet again, the only sound the faint hum of the heater kicking on. You sank further into the couch, the ache in your chest spreading as the hours stretched on. Somewhere, Bucky was moving forward, and you were still here, stuck in place, sinking deeper and deeper.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, the days melting into each other like one endless stretch of gray. Morning, afternoon, evening—it didn’t matter. You spent most of it lying in your bed or on the couch, staring at the ceiling or scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Sometimes, when the weight became unbearable, you ran a bath, sinking into the warm water until it turned ice cold, letting it numb your skin as much as it could.

You texted your friends back when they reached out, just enough to keep them from worrying. You gave vague answers, dodged invitations, always with an excuse at the ready.

Natasha: Wanna grab lunch tomorrow? Maybe hit up that new place near the park?

You: Wish I could, but I already made plans with Sam. Next time?

Sam: Movie night at mine tomorrow? You in?

You: Sorry, can’t. Nat’s got me booked for the day.

Bucky: What’re you doing this weekend? I miss you..

You: Wish I could, but I promised Nat I’d help him with something.

The lies came easily, but they still stung. You weren’t proud of them, but it was the only way to keep them at bay. The thought of facing any of them, of seeing the concern in their eyes, was too much to bear. You weren’t ready to tell them the truth. Hell, you weren’t even sure you could say it out loud.

The thoughts crept in quietly, like they always did, settling in the corners of your mind and growing until they were all you could hear. You’d been here before, countless times, but this felt different. Worse. You didn’t think you’d ever been this low.

You’d always wondered what it would be like not to feel. To let the darkness swallow you whole, to just… stop. You’d thought about it so many times, toyed with the idea in the dead of night when no one else was around. You’d even tried, once or twice.

But there was always something—or rather, someone—who pulled you back. Bucky. He’d always been there, always managed to find you just before you slipped too far. And the guilt that followed was unbearable. Knowing that your pain hurt him, that it made him worry. It made you feel selfish, even though you knew deep down that wasn’t what he would want you to feel.

But this time… this time was different. Your friends were happy. Their lives were coming together, piece by piece. Natasha had her promotion, Steve was thriving at work, Sam was always chasing his next big project, and now Bucky was moving forward, too. And more importantly they all had each other.

It should’ve made you feel worse, knowing you were the only one stuck. But instead, it comforted you in a strange, twisted way. They were happy. They were thriving. And if they were thriving, it meant they were okay. It meant they didn’t need you dragging them down.

The days eventually bled together in a monotonous cycle: waking up, lying in bed for hours, moving to the couch when you couldn’t stand the silence of your room. Sometimes you’d scroll through social media, letting the curated happiness of others wash over you in waves of apathy and bitterness. Other times, you’d stare at the ceiling, letting your mind drift to places you didn’t want it to go.

You thought about your friends, about how they’d fight for you if they knew how bad it had gotten. They’d drag you out of bed, force you into the sunlight, tell you that you were worth it, that they loved you. But the thing was, you didn’t know if you wanted to fight anymore. Not this time.

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe them. You knew they loved you. But love didn’t fix the heaviness in your chest or the static in your head. It didn’t stop the days from feeling endless, didn’t make the darkness any less suffocating.

And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure you wanted it to stop. The thought scared you, but it was the truth. Fighting felt exhausting. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier to let it win.

The warm hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled Natasha and Steve’s living room. The four of them—Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Bucky—sat around the table, laughter occasionally punctuating their lighthearted arguments about whose turn it was to grab the next round of drinks. Bucky sipped his whiskey slowly, only half-engaged in the conversation, his mind drifting elsewhere.

“Hey,” Natasha said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “When’s Y/N getting here?”

Bucky frowned, setting his glass down. “Weren’t you with her earlier today? Shouldn’t you know?”

Natasha blinked in confusion. “I haven’t seen her since Steve’s birthday party.”

Bucky froze, the words hitting him like a punch. “What?” His voice was low, the edge in it unmistakable. “That was weeks ago.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed as she looked at Steve, then Sam, before turning back to Bucky. “Yeah, I know. Every time I reach out to her, she says she’s with you or Sam, dodges my calls and everything.”

Sam, who had been leaning back lazily in his chair, straightened up. “Wait, what? She told me she’s been hanging out with you, Buck.” He shrugged casually. “I haven’t hung out with her in a while. But it’s life, right? People get busy.”

Bucky’s chest tightened as his mind raced. “She told you she was with me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Sam said, confused. “Why?”

But Bucky was already up, his coat in hand, his boots being shoved on in record time.

“Where are you going?” Natasha asked, standing now, her confusion quickly morphing into concern.

Bucky paused at the door, his eyes flickering between all of them. “She’s sad again,” he said, the words coming out like a realization, heavy with dread. Without another word, he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Bucky ran through the streets, his heart pounding in his chest. By the time he reached your apartment, he barely noticed the ache in his legs or the sting of the cold air. He pushed the door handle, and it opened easily. Unlocked again, he thought bitterly, stepping inside.

The apartment was dark, the kind of oppressive darkness that came from too much time spent with the blinds drawn. The bag of subs he’d brought over almost two weeks ago was still sitting in the exact same spot on the counter, untouched. His heart sank further as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

He called your name his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

A moment later, your bedroom door cracked open, and you poked your head out, your face pale and tired. “Bucky?” you said, your voice hoarse and more hostile than you intended. “What are you doing here?”

The harshness in your tone stung, but Bucky held his ground. “What are you doing?” he demanded, stepping closer. “Why are you doing this?”

You stepped out of your room fully, arms crossed over your hoodie, your posture defensive. “Doing what?”

“You know what,” he snapped, his frustration breaking through, his voice filled with emotion. “Why are you pushing us away? Why are you pushing me away? Why are you doing this again? You know I’m here for you, please let me help you.”

Your fingers played with the hem of your, his hoodie as you stared at the floor. “I’m not doing anything,” you muttered.

“Bullshit,” he said, his voice rising. “I just left Steve and Nat’s place. Guess who was there? Sam too. And guess what I found out? You’ve been lying to all of us.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, anger and shame swirling in your expression. “You don’t get it,” you shot back, your voice raw. “You don’t get to judge me.”

His face softened, his tone lowering. “I would never judge you,” he said firmly, taking a step closer. “You have to know that. I’m here for you, but you’re not letting me be here. You’re not letting me help you, just let me in.”

“Maybe I don’t want your help,” you snapped, your voice breaking. “Have you ever thought of that? Maybe I don’t want it.”

Bucky froze, his jaw clenching as he stared at you. The words hit him harder than he expected, and his face dropped, the hurt clear in his expression. “Are you taking your meds?” he asked quietly.

You let out a bitter laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek as you wiped it away angrily. “Meds?” you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “The meds don’t work! They’ve never worked! ”

His brows furrowed in concern. “When did you stop taking them?”

“When my insurance ran out!” you admitted, your voice sharp and full of bitterness, as frustrated tears started to spill.

Bucky stilled, the pieces falling into place. “Why did your insurance run out?” he asked carefully.

“Because I got fired months ago!” you shouted, the words exploding out of you. “I lost my job, okay? That’s why! Are you happy now?”

The room fell silent, the weight of your admission hanging heavy between you. Bucky’s face was a mix of shock and hurt, his mouth opening and closing like he didn’t know what to say.

“Leave,” you said suddenly, your voice trembling with anger and exhaustion. “Just leave me alone, Bucky. I want to be alone. I don’t want you here! I don't need you here! Just leave me the fuck alone.”

“Y/N…” he started, his voice soft, but you cut him off, yelling louder this time. “Get out!”

He stood there, frozen, the internal battle raging across his face. He knew he shouldn’t leave you—not now, not like this. But your words had cut deep, and the sheer overwhelm of it all was too much.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice cold. “You want to be alone? Be alone.”

He turned and walked to the door, pausing only to lock it behind him before slamming it shut. The sound echoed through the empty apartment, and you stood there, the silence swallowing you whole.

It was what you wanted. But as you sank back onto the couch, the ache in your chest grew heavier, and the tears you’d been holding back finally broke free.

You didn’t want to be here anymore.

This is our last dance

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