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lvrclerc · 15 days ago

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✶ THE EX EFFECT

summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader

wc: 19.2k

cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!

note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!

WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.

Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.

Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.

It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?

Still, you decided to try again.

During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.

You went for humor instead. A joke.

Terrible idea, in hindsight.

“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”

Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”

And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”

“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.

He didn’t even look away from the road.

“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”

Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.

That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.

You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.

Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.

Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.

Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.

Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.

And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.

After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.

Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.

It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.

Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.

But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.

It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.

You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.

Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.

Yeah. This was a good morning.

You should have known it wouldn’t last.

It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.

But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.

“Y/N?”

Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.

And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.

You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.

“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”

Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.

You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”

Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.

But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.

Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”

He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.

“Small world,” he added to your silence.

You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”

Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You stared at him.

Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.

Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”

That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”

How surprising.

“So─”

You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.

You lied.

“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.

Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”

He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.

That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.

Not today, Satan.

The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.

You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.

“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”

And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.

“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”

Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”

Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”

You finally turned to face him fully.

His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.

“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”

That’s when something clicked.

You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.

But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.

Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.

“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”

He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”

You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?

“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.

Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.

“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!

Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”

Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”

“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.

Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”

“So small,” you nodded stiffly.

The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”

Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”

Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”

“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”

“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.

You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.

You paused. “Huh?”

“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”

“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”

“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”

You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”

“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”

The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.

Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.

That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.

“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.

“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.

Lando studied you. Waiting.

“Do I have to guess, or…?”

The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”

You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”

“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”

You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.

Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.

Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.

One you didn’t have an answer to.

The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.

You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.

But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.

Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.

“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.

He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.

“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”

“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”

He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?

It took a while for reality to set in.

You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”

Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”

You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”

Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”

“No way.”

“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”

You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”

Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”

“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”

“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.

“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”

“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”

“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”

You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”

“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.

You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.

You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.

You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”

“Come again?”

“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”

You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”

“There it is.”

“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”

“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.

You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”

“Never heard of that.”

“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”

“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”

“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”

Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”

The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”

He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.

“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”

Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”

You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.

And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.

“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”

You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”

The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.

Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?

First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.

You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.

“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.

You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”

Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”

“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.

“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”

You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.

So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.

The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.

By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…

“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.

Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”

You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.

“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”

“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.

“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”

You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”

Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”

You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”

Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.

You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”

Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”

You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”

“Glitter? Really?”

“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”

Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”

You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”

“Right side.”

“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”

You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.

Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.

Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”

“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”

“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”

“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.

You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”

He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.

You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”

And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.

You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”

“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”

A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.

It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.

And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”

When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.

You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.

You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.

It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.

Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.

Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.

Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.

Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.

Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.

You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”

“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”

“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”

“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”

You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.

Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.

This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.

After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.

Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.

It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.

But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.

It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.

The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.

It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.

“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”

You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”

“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”

He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”

A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”

Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”

“How?”

“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”

He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”

“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”

Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”

The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”

That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”

It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.

“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.

“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”

You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”

It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”

When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.

For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.

At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.

Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.

Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.

The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”

Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”

“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”

You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.

Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”

It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”

Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.

And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.

He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.

“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.

“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.

Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”

“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.

He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.

The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.

You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.

Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.

Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.

It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.

But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.

Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.

You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.

You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.

Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”

Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”

And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.

“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

“That’s because you are.”

The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.

The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.

You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.

The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.

You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.

You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.

His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”

The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.

Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.

That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.

His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”

It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”

“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”

“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.

Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”

You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.

“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”

“I made a mistake─”

“You made a choice,” you spat.

“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”

“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”

“Well─”

“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”

Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”

Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”

Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”

“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.

He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”

“Everything alright there?”

His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.

He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.

“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”

Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”

He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”

Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.

The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”

Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”

You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”

Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”

That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.

“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”

You couldn’t agree more.

The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.

Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”

You gave a small nod.

“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”

There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.

“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”

You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”

The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”

It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.

Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”

You blinked. “Do you?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.

Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.

He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.

And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.

“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.

Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.

He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.

And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.

You closed the space.

The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.

Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.

You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.

“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.

You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.

Yet, you still went to bed alone.

You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”

Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”

You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.

But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.

You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.

The expression on his face stopped you cold.

Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.

You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”

“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.

Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.

Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”

“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”

The world tipped.

The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.

You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”

“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”

Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”

Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.

He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.

Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.

Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”

You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”

You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.

A beat.

“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”

You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”

Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”

“And what about you?”

The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”

He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.

“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.

Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.

You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.

The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.

You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.

You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.

And with it, everything else.

Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.

You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.

Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him

You let the weight of it all crash down on you.

If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.

The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.

Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.

Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.

You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.

Eventually, it came.

A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.

It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.

You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.

The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.

But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.

You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.

Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.

It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.

Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.

“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.

Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”

He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”

You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”

“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”

You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”

The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.

“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.

“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.

It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.

Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”

You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.

“Why not?”

You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”

Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”

“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”

It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”

He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.

You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.

You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.

You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.

He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.

He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.

“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.

You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”

“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.

Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.

“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.

You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.

Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”

“That’s good.”

He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”

“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.

“I’m glad.”

Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.

Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”

The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.

“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”

You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.

Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”

“And did they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”

Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”

Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”

He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”

He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”

You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.

“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”

There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.

Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.

But that’s not what he did.

“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”

He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”

“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”

Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”

Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”

“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.

Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.

“So… what do we do now?”

The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”

You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.

As if you had the strength to even think about it.

You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.

The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.

When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.

He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.

“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”

“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”

“I’m just saying, I─”

You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.

That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.

He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.

He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.

Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

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meownotgood · 6 months ago

Text

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?"

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes.

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat.

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions.

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest.

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face.

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers.

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register.

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug.

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks.

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone.

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-"

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy.

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus.

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this."

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?"

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins.

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop."

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?"

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath.

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice.

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh.

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic.

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this.

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose.

"That's when you find it."

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right.

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside.

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze.

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles.

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest.

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days."

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration."

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again."

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you.

"And what is it I'm doing?"

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to."

"I am not-"

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down.

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count."

Your mouth forms a hard line.

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-"

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that."

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach.

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-"

"It is a necessary risk."

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…"

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going.

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his.

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him.

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was.

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn.

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together.

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background.

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear."

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal.

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron.

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula.

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away."

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on."

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity.

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again.

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy.

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles.

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning.

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams.

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love.

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-"

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet —

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back.

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving."

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately.

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale.

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-"

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me."

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones.

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion?

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench.

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please."

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?"

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears.

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die."

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears.

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness.

It's a reminder that you're right.

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time.

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions.

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him.

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands.

He knows this body is… wilting.

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him.

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last?

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted.

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped.

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology.

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do.

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus.

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying.

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to.

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once.

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful.

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change.

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline.

It's something Viktor picks up on.

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him.

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you.

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can.

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral.

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice.

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned.

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring.

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him.

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop.

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt.

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it.

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before.

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth.

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it.

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull.

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve.

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead.

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back.

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special?

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck.

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone.

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks.

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand.

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you.

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens.

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his.

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration.

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead.

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like.

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone.

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together.

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat.

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair.

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold.

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight.

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation.

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun.

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his.

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things."

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids.

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway.

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different.

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough.

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to."

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?"

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired.

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…"

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting?

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw.

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?"

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap.

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession."

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his.

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression.

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate."

"Oh? Enlighten me."

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears.

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late."

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?"

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance."

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate.

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious."

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day.

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly.

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you.

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe."

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress.

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you.

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd.

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'"

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums.

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time.

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional.

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene."

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you.

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget.

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm —

"Vik-"

"I need to have your trust."

Your eyes widen.

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-"

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you."

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open.

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking —

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please."

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it.

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you."

Viktor softens.

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you.

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark."

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane

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chibikittens · 1 year ago

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I’ve lucid dreamed before and I honestly can’t imagine how they could manage to make this work, even if they wanted to make it happen.

I rant in the tags but pls know I’m just exploring this inane idea for fun, 100% if this device exists it’s just a scam for money lmao.

Man, this is some science fiction capitalism dystopian bullshit.

#firstly… REM (in a textbook example of a healthy young adult) happens around every 90 minutes #the first period is relatively short and each REM thereafter becomes progressively longer #essentially y’all can especially ~2 collective/disjointed hours of REM to work with #also #lucid dreaming isn’t easy (for most)#it requires a few things #1 is healthy sleep (unfortunately I see lots of sleep apnea patients with minimal REM sleep)#next is a healthy sleep schedule which most people don’t have BECAUSE of their work lmao #those ~2 hours REM is based on a full uninterrupted 8 hours of sleep nightly and a lot of people don’t get that so y’all can realistically #expect for it to be LESS than ~2 hours #so like what are they gunning for? another (disjointed) 1-2 hours of work where you operate like you’re on as least ONE alcoholic beverage #and cannot operate anything IRL??#ALSO another thing required for lucid dreaming - practice!!#and y’all I STOPPED PRACTICING BECAUSE OF WORK #you need FREE TIME to practice this! (arguably you can practice while working but if I can’t be bothered to do it I can’t imagine most would #)#it’s not a guaranteed thing either #you MAY become lucid within any REM period but it’s sort of a crap shoot #so I’m addition you can take what I said about 1-2 hours of extra work and minimize it to almost nothing #ALSO even if this BS machine could make you lucid in 100% of REM periods #there’s no way to record dreams so you can wake up and say ‘ah sorry lads it didn’t work this time’ like HOW WOULD THEY KNOW??#I’m ranting like this is a real thing and I hope people know I don’t genuinely believe that these guys think they can do this #but I’m bored rn and went off #(I remember a study I’ve read forever ago and genuinely these machines don’t work how they’re advertised)#(the study was about a machine that flashed a rhythmic light into the persons eyes as a way to remind them to ‘reality check’ or to check to #see if they’re dreaming. it showed some improvement with those who PRACTICED and minimal improvement for those who did not if I remember #correctly)#what’s really frustrating is that lucid dreaming CAN help with creativity! I wished we focused more on the creative fun or philosophical #aspects that lucid dreaming can provide…

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agreeewrites · 4 months ago

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PLEASEEEE MORE POSSESSIVE JELOUS DRACO🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️YOUR BAD SANTA FIC WAS LITERALLY EVEYTHING. POSSESSIVE MEN GOT ME WEAK

thank you for the request!! hope this is satisfactory 🫶🏻

Flutterby Baby | D.M.

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Draco finds out another student sabotaged your Herbology project.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, draco’s pov, established relationship, possessive!draco, bullying, hurt/comfort, men suck, sort of rough fingering & piv, affectionate degradation if you squint (he refers to her as a plant), blood/fighting

masterlist

Draco watched as you pushed your pasta around your plate, staring absently at the whirls of sauce on the porcelain. You’d been quiet the entire meal, only speaking when directly spoken to by your group of friends, and even then, it was half-hearted, brief answers.

Both were unusual for his talkative, carb-loving girl.

He placed a light hand on your thigh, leaning closer to you. The warmth of your skin, the sweetness of your perfume, beckoned him even closer, but he ignored his impulses. “Everything alright, darling?” He asked, low enough that your friends couldn’t hear.

“Yes, just not very hungry,” you said in your pretty little voice, placing your hand over his and pecking his cheek.

He didn’t buy it. “I can track down some takeaway and we can eat in my dorm, if you’d like,” he offered, wondering if the commotion in the Great Hall was a bit too much for you.

You shook your head, another stunning development. You never turned down takeaway. “I’m fine, baby. Thank you, though.”

“Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll make one of these sod’s fetch it for you,” he teased, hoping to get a smile out of you. He didn’t.

Draco sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning back to the conversation he was in the middle of with Theo and Pansy. He continued to watch you in his periphery as you started to play with his fingers, twirling his signet ring around and around. As much as he enjoyed the mindless contact, the delicate brush of your skin, he knew this was a nervous habit of yours.

He had half-a-thought to excuse you both, but he knew that would only draw more attention to your melancholy state, which would likely make you feel even worse. He could pick your brain later. Right now, he needed to make sure you were fed.

Casually, he picked up his fork, twirling a bit of his own pasta around the tines. Without breaking away from his conversation, he held the fork up to you, hoping you’d take a bite without really thinking about it. It was a small ritual the two of you developed during lengthy family dinners, something you often did automatically if he offered food to you. He felt you shift forward, your mouth wrap around the small bite, and you ate it.

He squeezed your thigh, a flare of affection making his heart pound. Good girl, he thought, but refrained from saying aloud.

The rest of dinner continued like that, Draco keeping your friends talking and distracted while he fed you small bites of his own dinner, your fingers twined with his in your lap. When he held up a bite and you gave small shake of your head, he knew it was because you were actually full, and he set his fork down, satisfied. For now.

That night in the common room, you were curled up in your chair by the fire, a book open in your lap while everyone pretended to study around you. He watched your eyes, your hands curled around the cover, and you were motionless. No pages turned, no lines devoured.

His worry deepened. Blaise seemed to notice as well, and gave him a curious look, dark brow raised. And of course, Theo caught the exchange, but turned back to his work, pretending he didn’t.

A prickle of suspicion climbed Draco’s neck. Typically, Theo was the first one to make a fuss over someone being in a sour mood due to his inability to tolerate negative emotions, but this time, he stayed silent.

Very odd, indeed.

But he could worry about Theo later. Draco lifted himself from the couch and walked over to you, dropping onto the floor in front of your chair. He tilted his head back, resting it against your shins. You reached down, dragging your fingers through his hair while you continued “reading” your book. He let his eyes flutter closed at the sensation, and tried to think of a way to draw you out of your head.

Lips pressed against his forehead, your perfume wafting over him, and he hummed in appreciation, reaching up to cradle your face. You leaned your cheek into his palm, and he titled his head back a little further to connect your lips in a soft kiss.

Your lips moved against his, brief and tender, and some of his tension unwound. It didn’t seem that you were upset with him, which was a relief. But, he wasn’t any closer to figuring out what exactly was troubling you.

“I’m going to go to bed,” you murmured in his ear, and he blinked in surprise, checking his watch.

It wasn’t even nine o’clock.

“So early, love? Are you feeling alright?” He turned to face you, rising to his knees. The group noticed, but he was too concerned to care. He placed the back of his hand on your forehead, your cheek, your neck, but you waved him away.

“I’m fine, D. Just tired,” you said, averting your eyes from his and rising from your chair.

“Baby—”

You leaned down and kissed him again, cutting off his protest. “I love you, I’ll see you in the morning,” you said, pecking his cheek one more time before walking towards the girls dormitory and ascending the stairs.

Draco slumped back to the ground, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“What did you do to her?” Pansy accused after a moment of tense silence.

“Nothing,” he snapped, though it was mostly toothless.

“She was acting strangely at dinner too,” Blaise noted. “She didn’t even have dessert.”

“Yeah, and she loves those chocolate things—what are they called?” Theo chimed in.

“Cauldron cakes,” Draco answered, glaring at them, irked that they were paying that close of attention to you. That was his job.

“Are you going to follow her?” Blaise asked, glancing at the stairs.

“No, he should give her some space,” Pansy said, giving him a pointed look.

“I’m perfectly capable of managing my girlfriend’s needs. Thank you,” he bit, and they fell quiet. He would leave you be, for now, but if you were still in a funk tomorrow evening, he’d be forced to intervene.

You were decidedly still unlike yourself come the following morning, and when he saw you during your shared Potion’s class. He continued to monitor the situation, trying to be patient like you often asked him to be, but that went out the window when you returned from your Herbology class with Theo in tears.

As soon as Draco saw your red and puffy eyes, he was on his feet. You ran straight into his chest, burying your wet face in his robes and digging your chilled hands into his back, trembling as your tears returned in earnest.

“Darling, what’s happened? What’s going on?” He cooed, wrapping his arms around your shaking torso, petting your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You didn’t respond, just held him tighter as you cried.

Theo tried to slip around the two of you, but Draco pinned him with a glare.

“What happened?” Draco hissed at him.

“Her Flutterby bush is dying,” Theo whispered, and you started to cry harder.

Shit. You’d slaved half the semester over this Flutterby bush in Herbology, it was your pride and joy, and you often stayed after hours with Professor Sprout to tend to it and the rest of the greenhouse. You had the greenest thumb Draco had ever encountered, and that plant was your baby. There was no way it would just suddenly die.

Draco raised a brow, and Theo made a ‘tell you later’ face. He nodded his head to dismiss his friend and turned his attention back to you, his poor, sensitive girl.

“Baby, it’s going to be alright. I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s going on—”

You shook you head. “It doesn’t make sense,” you sniffled, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It was perfectly fine. There’s no bugs or blights, I don’t understand.” You lifted your face, cheeks streaked with tears and lashes spikey, your eyes rimmed with red. The state of you made his heart ache.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispered, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs and pressing a kiss to your nose. “If anyone can save it, you can. You’re brilliant, love.” He used his sleeve to wipe your eyes and your nose before bundling you into his side. “Come on, relax for a bit with Pansy. That’ll help you think a little more clearly, yeah?”

You nodded, letting him deposit you on the couch beside your friend, who immediately abandoned what she was doing to fuss over you.

He kissed the top of your head, satisfied that you were well looked after for the time being. “I love you, I’ll be right back, okay?” He murmured, and you nodded again.

Theo was waiting for him in the hall. “Okay, so don’t get mad,” he said, holding his hands up.

Draco’s anger instantly flared. “Don’t give me a reason to get mad then.”

“She told me not to tell you because she knew you’d get all—” Theo gestured vaguely at Draco. “All…this.”

“Out with it, Nott,” he growled, fully prepared to punch his best friends nose through the back of his skull. What could you possibly want to keep from him?

“We think someone poisoned her plant,” Theo said, grimacing.

Draco froze, rage flaring so suddenly it darkened his vision. “What?” he snarled.

“We can’t say for sure yet,” Theo said hurriedly, trying to get ahead of the oncoming storm. “But there’s this one guy—”

“Who?”

“Reinhardt? Renfield? Something like that, I don’t know, he’s a Gryffindor. But he—Draco, where are you going?”

Draco was already halfway down the hall, formulating a plan in his mind about how to find this guy, and how to make him wish he’d never been born.

Theo grabbed his shoulder. “Listen, I have a better idea than storming the Gryffindor common room,” he said, and Draco paused.

“Go on.”

Draco loitered outside the Greenhouse, hidden by some trees, a stupid plastic ear in his hand. Theo had the other tucked into his robes, and Draco could hear Sprout beginning her lecture through their connection.

Draco sighed. This was ridiculous, he should just waltz in there and figure out exactly who this—

“Hey, y/n,” he heard someone mutter, an unfamiliar male voice, and he immediately held up the ear to listen. “Flutterby’s not lookin’ so good. Maybe I could help clear away some of the dead stuff?”

Draco's ears started ringing so loudly, he almost missed your response.

“I'm killing it just fine on my own, Renley, I don't need any assistance from you.”

He heard Theo snicker in the background, and Draco smiled. Atta girl.

“My mandrakes are thriving, thank you,” Renley replied, his voice tight with indignation. “It's a real shame about yours, though. Probably would have gotten you top marks.”

You didn't respond, and Draco gripped a tree branch to stop himself from charging through the glass to get this audacious fucker.

“Fuck off, Renford,” Theo warned, the feed clouded by his robes rustling.

“It's Renley,” the prick corrected, his voice a little louder, and Draco could practically hear Theo roll his eyes. “So, what do you say, sweetheart?” Sweetheart? Oh, this fucker was a dead man walking. “I'm willing to stay after and help you out. I'm good with poisons—”

“Poison’s?” You asked, a snarky lilt to your voice, and Draco loosed a relieved exhale despite the implication. For the first time in days, you sounded like yourself. “Who said anything about poison?”

“Oh, I—uh—”

“Reindeer, how did you know her plant was poisoned?” Theo prodded, his smirk audible.

“I don't! It's obv—it’s probably not p-poison!” Renley stammered.

“What's this about poison?” Sprout interrupted at the same moment Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle emerged from the treeline.

“Check fucking mate,” Draco mouthed, grinning.

“Professor Sprout, I do believe Renley here just confessed to poisoning y/n’s beloved Flutterby bush,” Theo said.

“Is this true, dearie?” Sprout asked you.

“Yes ma’am, it explains the strange phenomena we noted, as well as the sudden nature of the ailment. Renley’s been taunting me for days, and finally his mouth got ahead of his brain,” you said, poised as a Queen, and Draco was so proud of you it hurt.

Sprout gasped. “Mr. Renley! To Dumbledore's office this instant!”

“Crabbe, Goyle, grab him,” Draco ordered, stuffing the ear into his robes.

The two of them lumbered over the door, staying out of sight until the culprit stepped out into the sunlight, and Goyle grabbed Renley by the shoulders and started to drag him back around the Greenhouse.

“Hey! What the fuck—” his words pinched to a strangled whine when he saw Draco and Blaise waiting a few feet away, arms folded over their chests, completely hidden from the rest of campus.

Goyle shoved him to the ground at Draco's feet, and the coward was already sniveling.

Draco crouched down, nose to nose with the fucker that made his girl miserable, and smiled. “Was it worth it, Renley?” Draco asked, his voice low.

“Look, Malfoy. I didn't mean to—”

Draco didn't give him a chance to finish his paltry excuse and cocked his fist back, slamming his knuckles square in the side of his jaw. The bone crunched under his fist, sending Renley flying sideways in a spray of spit and blood, and Draco rose, clenching and unclenching his aching hand.

Normally, he'd step back and let the others get their hands dirty, but you were his girl. And if anyone was going to defend your honor, it would be him.

“No, no please!” Renley begged when Goyle hauled him back up. Draco punched him again, dead on the nose, then the temple, then the sternum. Goyle let Renley fall, groveling and weeping as blood ran down his face, his eyes already half-swollen shut.

Draco grabbed him by the hair, lifting his head up so he could whisper in his ear. “You're lucky it wasn't poison,” he snarled, and dropped Renley’s head into the dirt. “Leave him on the front steps of the castle,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle, who immediately pulled the boy up and started dragging him back towards the castle.

Blaise chuckled. “That was fucking brutal, mate.”

Draco looked down at his bruised and bloody knuckles, the pain bright and deliciously satisfying, his signet ring splattered with red. “Like I said, he's lucky I didn't decide to poison him.”

The chatter of students filled the air, and he looked up to see the Greenhouse emptying. Theo headed straight for them, glancing at Draco's knuckles and the blood in the grass before breaking out in a wild grin.

“Sorry I missed it,” Theo laughed.

“Where is she?” Draco asked.

“Staying behind to administer the antidote. Sprout is leaving her to ensure Renley is dealt with accordingly.”

“Well, she certainly won't be disappointed,” Blaise snickered.

“So she’s alone?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. He was hoping to clean himself up before seeing you, but wasn't sure he could resist the temptation. Not with his blood still running hot and your smart little voice echoing in his mind.

“Yep.” Theo smirked. “See ya’ back in the common room.” He and Blaise turned and started heading back to the castle, leaving Draco alone.

He rounded the greenhouse, knocking with his sore knuckles so he didn't startle you.

“Draco? What are you—saints, your hands!” You cried, rushing over to open the door for him. You grabbed for his hands, face pinched with worry.

“I'm fine, love,” he cooed, letting you fuss. The air in the greenhouse was thick and warm, coaxing him in like a embrace. It smelled fresh and lush, sweet soil and green leaves, like you.

Merlin, he couldn't think straight with you looking at him like that.

“Who did—” you paused, eyes narrowing. “Renley?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

“Draco!” You huffed, dropping his hands. “I had it under control!”

“I know you did! You were amazing! I just...accelerated the consequences.”

You glared at him, but he could see you softening by the second.

“Baby, I'm fine. And he'll be fine in like, four to five business days.”

“Draco!” You shouted, but you were smiling. He fucking loved what you called his name in that exasperated but undeniably affectionate voice. “You don't have to get involved all the time. I'm perfectly capable of fighting my own battles, and Professor Sprout was working with me to solve it and—”

Draco reached out, pinching your cheeks with one hand, pursing your pouting lips and dragging you closer to him. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat. No one fucks with you so long as I'm breathing, is that clear?”

You nodded, eyes round and sweet like honey.

He released your face, sliding his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck and craning your head upwards. “Can I kiss you now? Or would you like to keep telling me off?”

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a playful, smiley kiss. “Anything for my hero.”

“Anything?” Draco purred, walking you back into the long work table. You gasped, arching against his chest, and he caught the sound with another kiss, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you.

Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his tie to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it.

And he could feel how much you loved it, your hips pressing against his as your hands wandered his chest, unable to pick a resting place.

He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he spun you around. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself, your perfect ass pressing back against his rapidly hardening cock.

“Draco,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him.

He tsked, sliding up your skirt, admiring the way his ruined knuckles looked against the soft flesh. “Do you want me to be gentle with you, darling?” He already knew what your answer would be, especially after a few stressful days, but he felt inclined to double check.

You shook your head side to side, pressing your ass back into his hands. “No.”

He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “That's my girl. You want me to scare away all those bad thoughts? Turn your brain off for a bit?” He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties.

You nodded, nails scratching along the wood when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle.

“Words, love,” he said, pausing his movement.

“Yes, baby. Please,” you whined, and his cock gave a painful lurch against his thigh.

“Colloportus,” he murmured, flicking his wand to lock the Greenhouse door. “Don't move,” he ordered, then walked over to the sink, washing the blood from his hands and muttering a quiet episkey to fix most of the damage on his skin. Some cuts remained, and his hands were still sore and slightly bruised, but it wasn't nearly as bad.

Satisfied, he turned his attention back to you, where you remained perfectly still, nibbling at your lower lip. In quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fall around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest against the table.

“There we go,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs.

You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly.

“Better, darling? Nothing to worry about besides being my good girl.” He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, his signet ring kissing your entrance before he curled his finger up. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out, only to graciously stretch for him when he added a second.

“Fuck, D,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand. “You said you wouldn't be gentle “

He smirked, enraptured with the way your pretty little cunt yielded for his battered hand. “Just so pretty,” he hummed, leaning down to whisper in your ear, pressing you harder against the table. “Can't help but worship you a little.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he slammed his fingers inside of you, drilling into your channel with sloppy, punishing strokes. You cried out, feet sliding around on the floor, but he had you pinned and at his mercy.

“This better, brat?” He growled, nipping at your ear when you keened for him, unable to formulate a response. “Oh, how that fucker wishes he could see you now,” he drawled, straightening while his fingers fucked into you. “What'd he call you? Sweetheart?” He chuckled. “Sweet doesn't begin to cover it.”

“How did you—”

He slipped his fingers out to work your clit, the bud swelling under his touch as your orgasm built, and your words twisted into a moan. He tried to stay focused, keep you on the edge until he was sheathed inside of you, but couldn't bring himself to stop just yet.

“Are you sweet, baby?” He asked, swatting your ass cheek, enjoying the way your flesh rippled.

“Only for you,” you gasped, starting to tremble as that knot wound tighter and tighter.

“That's right,” he praised, undoing his trousers and taking his cock in his hand. He was insanely hard, the head a deep pink, pearly precum beading from the slit. He pumped himself twice to relieve some of the ache, then notched himself at your entrance, not pausing his assault on your clit for a moment. “All fucking mine,” he growled at the same moment he thrust inside of you, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, muscles contracting hard around him, and he groaned low in his throat. You were so fucking tight, gooey and supple when you weren't squeezing the life out of him. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your ass cheek in his free hand to keep you spread for him as he pounded into you.

He felt your orgasm hit the second before you did, your cunt clamping down on him a heartbeat before you screamed, your whole body locking up before going completely limp. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook, how much you begged. Your tears left damp spots on the wood, your knees trying to buckle inwards, but he planted his feet on the inside of yours, forcing you to stay upright.

“Good fucking girl,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back. “Doing so well for me, sweet thing.” He was panting, the heat of the greenhouse coupled with the exterior making sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. His knuckles burned from the salt, hands ached from being used long past when they should have been bandaged, but he didn't give a single fuck.

“Draco, shit—fuck me so good.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis.

“Give me one more, baby. I know you can. Then I'll water my favorite plant.”

Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled. You were such a little freak, his little freak, and he loved you all the more it.

“You like being my pretty little houseplant? All mine to take care of?” Fuck, he was close, rambling in an attempt to distract himself and spend just a little longer in the delicious heat of your body.

“Yes, yes—fuck!” You were coming again, your whole body convusling as it ripped through you, and he was done for. He came with a yell, hips stuttering against your ass as he pumped rope after rope of release into your spasming cunt.

“Bloody hell, baby,” he moaned, bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, poor thing, were left drooling and trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “Did so good, love. So fucking perfect,” he murmured, throat tight with affection.

“Squishin’ me,” you giggled, squirming beneath him, and he straightened, nearly toppling over himself at the weak feeling in his knees.

“Sorry, darling,” he chuckled, and you groaned, pushing yourself up on trembling arms. He moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.

“Mm, how did you know he called me sweetheart?” You asked, peeking over your shoulder at him while he grabbed his wand to clean you both up.

“I have my methods,” he replied, righting your clothes and helping you stand up, relishing in the lingering tremble in your limbs.

“Were you spying on me, Draco Malfoy?” You teased, tugging him down by the tie so you were face to face.

He smirked. “Perhaps.”

“What a horrible invasion of privacy,” you snickered, giving him a playful peck.

“You want to punish me for it?” He nipped at your lower lip and you grinned, pushing lightly on his chest.

“Enough you, I have to administer the antidote before my plant gets any sicker.”

“Good thing I already cured mine,” he teased, and you swatted him before slipping out of his arms.

“You're insufferable.”

“And you're adorable.”

You grabbed some items from the shelves and a watering can, then paused, turning to look at him, a deadly serious look on your face. “Can we get takeaway after this?”

He snorted, his heart doing a giddy little flip. “Of course we can.”

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #harry potter fanfic #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy one shot #draco x reader #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter smut #slytherin boys fanfiction #slytherin boys #draco malfoy imagine

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florestalio · 2 months ago

Text

FATAL OBSESSION — l.hs

even if your best friend seemed to have found the love of her life, the one that keeps her the happiest, while also treating you, and everyone else with respect—you can't help but feel something was... off about him. you didn't dwell on it much—something which proved to be a fatal mistake on your part.

GENRE — pwp, kidnapping au, psychopath au, best friend's boyfriend trope

WARNINGS — DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, noncon, noncon-ish dumbcon, psychopath!hee, kidnapping, character death, oral (both m! and f! rec), throat fucking, throat bulge, bondage, exhibitionism, voyeurism, gun play, gun in v (DON'T!!!), sucking the barrel of a gun (seriously, don't), squirting, unprotected sex (don't), doggy, cumming inside, groping, tit squeezing, nipple pinching, clit pinching, bondage, let me know if i missed any!

WORDCOUNT — 11.8k

NOTE — READER'S DISCRETION ADVISED!!! went a little too insane while writing this. thank you to my bestie sena who always encourages me to write my deranged wip ideas that I get during the most random times—this one in particular came to my mind while I was... studying. no I'm not lying. this was, as always, not proofread. so if you see any mistakes? just pretend you didn't, okay?

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

there was something severely off about heeseung.

your best friend, chaeyoung, had met heeseung—who is currently her boyfriend—at a bar. from what she had told you, apparently she was simply drinking there, celebrating her first ever paycheck—alone, since you were stuck at a family event. when it was time for her to pay, the bartender informed her that someone had already paid for her. surprised, she asked about this mystery person, getting directed towards a guy sitting a few seats away from her.

apparently for her, it was love at first sight.

he looked like everything she ever wanted in a guy—tall, dignified and confident posture, rich attire, a good taste in fashion—not to mention how attractive he looked while sipping his drink, a light smirk on the corner of his mouth, eyes locked with hers. he never broke eye contact—not even once, as she walked over to him—albeit quite bashfully.

from what she told you, they talked all night—about their reasons for being in the bar, their hobbies, their backgrounds, their families, and other things that you couldn't really bother to keep track of.

they exchanged numbers, texting each other every single day. eventually, he asked her out, taking her to the most exquisite restaurant in the city, treating her like royalty. according to her, he was the biggest gentleman—a complete green forest, if you will. he always took care of her interests, noticed every single detail about her, and never failed to bring a smile to her face. truly, she was the happiest version of herself while they were dating.

eventually, she introduced him to you, him being an absolute sweetheart with you as well. he made sure not to make you feel like a third wheel, including you in their conversations. it didn't feel awkward for you at all—almost as if you three were a trio of best friends who hadn't met in a while, catching up.

everything was perfect with him. until it wasn't.

you didn't understand why, but for some weird reason, you started to get a certain... vibe from him—even though his behaviour never really changed. he was still an absolute sweetheart, treating chaeyoung like his own personal goddess… yet there was something so—unsettling about him.

heeseung didn't really do anything, but you still found a chill running down your spine whenever chaeyoung mentioned his name. if you saw him in front of you? you bet either your leg or hand would shake uncontrollably, betraying your anxiety.

anxiety for exactly what reason, you didn't know.

you thought it was ridiculous. why would your best friend's more than perfect boyfriend’s mere presence have you shaking like a goddamn leaf? it made no sense at all.

until it did… sort of.

well… heeseung, despite being such an amazing boyfriend, ends up becoming an ex. how? the story behind that is… messy. extremely so.

you see, they had been dating for almost a year. everyone expects a good and memorable gift from their partner for their anniversary, right? so did chaeyoung. she was really looking forward to it too, given how much of a great boyfriend heeseung was.

and he didn't disappoint. he gave her a present, one that was definitely memorable. it wasn’t memorable just for her, either. it was memorable for you as well. was it good? not so much.

it was around eight in the morning when your alarm rang, effectively waking you up.but it was a sunday, so you turned the alarm off, trying to go back to sleep. but you were already awake, so it didn't really work.

you picked up your phone, the date catching your eyes—it was chaeyoung and heeseung’s anniversary!

your eyes widened. how could you have forgotten such an important date? it was a date your best friend had been extremely excited about, with her always talking about it to you for quite a few days now, yet you forgot. did that make you a terrible friend? probably. eager to redeem yourself, you quickly shot her a text.

you: happy anniversary to my favourite couple!!! enjoy yourselves you both <33 give me all the details tomorrow!!

you let out a small breath, one which you didn't realise you were holding, hoping your best friend hadn't realised that you hadn't remembered her anniversary. however, you didn't get to ponder too long on that, since your phone rang with a ding. chaeyoung had texted you back!

chae: thank youuu!! also girl i need help chae: can you make it to xxx restaurant by twelve?? a friend of heeseung got broken up with, so he wanted him to accompany us for the morning to help him cheer up. chae: he also mentioned something about ‘not wishing him to be a third wheel’ so please do me this favour?? chae: pleaseee??? i promise i’ll make it up to you

you were a bit hesitant about the request. you honestly wanted to stay in today, since it was a sunday—a rest day—but you also didn't want to disappoint your best friend on her first anniversary with her boyfriend, so you agreed.

you: fineee i can do that you: but you're gonna owe me one

chae: THANK YOU SO MUCHHHH chae: you have no idea how stressed i was about this chae: honestly i didn't wanna agree to it at first chae: but you know i can't say no to him

you: girl it's okayyy i can understand you: i’ll distract the other dude so that you guys can enjoy your day, alright?? <33

chae: ugh have i ever told you how much i love you???

you: love you too now GO!!!

as soon as you keep your phone down, you instantly regret your decision. so now you have to go and attend the anniversary lunch of your best friend and her boyfriend… along with some mopey guy that recently got broken up with. great. just great.

you were in front of the restaurant that chaeyoung had sent you the address of—right on time too. you had been trying to call her for the past thirty minutes, but she wasn't picking up. you knew it took a while to get ready, and look absolutely out of the world, but seriously, it doesn't take that long.

you tried to call her for the—what, seventh time now? once again, the call went to voicemail. jesus christ, was she getting plastic surgery or something?

you heard your name being called, causing you to turn around. it was heeseung, waving at you, dressed in an absolutely dashing suit, his ever-so-polite smile adorning his face. the only odd thing was that he was alone—no sign of chaeyoung near him.

you frowned, voicing your thoughts out. “did you not come here with chae? she hasn't been picking up my calls—i have been trying since the past half an hour already.”

he looked surprised at that. “she picked up my call around… forty? minutes ago? she told me her make up wasn't setting right? something else about her foundation being almost out? i told her i was gonna wait, and we could schedule the reservation for later, but she told me it wasn't possible—made me come here on my own. but—i figured she must have called you for help, since, you know, you're the person she usually goes to during these kinds of emergencies–”

you shook your head, your forehead creasing in frustration. obviously chaeyoung thought the ‘emergency’ wasn't urgent enough to call you—now she won't pick up your calls, or arrive on time.

you looked at him again. “when is your friend supposed to arrive?”

he looked at his watch. “we told him to come at fifteen minutes past twelve, so that me and chae could have a little time alone before it's all about him, so… he should have been here ten minutes ago.”

right then a ‘ding!’ sounded on his phone, causing you to raise a brow. you gestured at him to check, which he did… his face falling almost immediately. he looked up at you, sighing heavily. “he just texted me. apparently his sister was busy, which meant she couldn't pick up his niece from school—which left him to do it.”

you rubbed your temples in frustration. for fuck’s sake, this wasn't your anniversary lunch, why the hell were you here on time? to help a friend out, who didn't even need the help anymore, and who was yet to arrive at her own anniversary lunch?

noticing your distressed state, heeseung quickly tried to make the situation better. “h-how about we go inside, yea? chae said she reserved the table under her name, so we can sit down—maybe even order something to eat till she arrives? how does that sound?”

you nodded, sighing mentally. you loved your best friend, but seriously, she needed to be more responsible. being late to your own anniversary lunch? causing your boyfriend and best friend to sit down and possibly even eat lunch until you decided the time was finally ideal enough for you to show up? real mature.

heeseung could sense your building frustration and anger, causing him to do his best to keep you calm. you waited by the front of the restaurant, as he practically sprinted towards the help desk to get the reserved table. he quickly ran back to you, ushering you towards the table. as soon as the two of you sat down, he quickly looked through the menu, asking for your favourite drink among the ones listed. once you gave him the name, he quickly called upon a waiter, ordering your drink choice. while they took their time to give you your drink, he engaged you in a friendly conversation, trying to diffuse the tension, and any possible awkwardness. safe to say, it worked, as you even cracked a laugh or two at his terrible jokes.

another half an hour went by. chaeyoung was yet to show up. the two of you decided to order lunch, the wait having made you both hungry.

while you both were digging in, heeseung made sure to keep you engaged in conversation, the atmosphere not turning awkward even once—despite the circumstances. the food was top tier too, so you had to give chaeyoung that one. credit was needed where it was due, after all.

by the time it was the turn for dessert, your anger had started fading into worry. where the fuck was chaeyoung at?

you knew your best friend well enough to know that she wouldn't miss her anniversary lunch, no matter how much her make-up sucked. so why wasn't she here yet?

heeseung, being ever the gentleman, politely kept you engaged in conversation. oh, for chaeyoung to have ended up with such an amazing guy, and to miss their first anniversary? yea, your best friend is definitely the problem here.

once dessert was finished, you excused yourself, going to the washroom. you needed to wash your hands anyways, and redo your lipstick. you also wanted to try and call chaeyoung again.

while you were washing your hands, one of the servers came in, giving you a polite smile and a small bow. she washed your hands alongside you. “ma'am, may i ask you something? it might sound a little intrusive, but i promise i mean it in a nice way.”

caught slightly off-guard, you nodded your head. “absolutely! don't worry about being intrusive, just ask whatever you want to.”

she gave you a wide smile, giggling slightly. “you and your boyfriend look so cute together! how long have you been together? if you don't mind me asking, of course–”

you quickly cut her off. “oh no no no—he isn't my boyfriend, he is my best friend’s. they have been together for a year, so this was supposed to be their anniversary lunch.”

the waitress gave you a skeptical look. realising exactly how weird your answer just sounded, you rushed to explain yourself. “w-wait wait wait—i know it sounds weird, but i promise i’m telling the truth. i sent her a ‘happy anniversary’ text this morning, to which she told me to accompany her to her anniversary lunch, since her boyfriend’s recently dumped friend was coming along, and her boyfriend didn't want him to be a third wheel…” you trailed off, noticing the look of disbelief on her face.

you didn't know why you felt the need to explain the situation to a complete stranger, but you weren't going to question your anxiety induced instincts. you took out your phone, showing her your texts with chaeyoung from the morning, while continuing to rant to her. “–but for some reason, she hasn't been picking up my calls, despite her being the one to invite me to this. she even reserved the table in the first place, but… oh well.”

at that, the server furrowed her brows. she seemed to believe you, although only to a certain extent now. “uhm… ma'am, are you sure? the table you were sat at was reserved by who we thought was your boyfriend. no girl came in to reserve that table for today. but he did so, yesterday. said he wanted to have lunch with his girlfriend in peace, without anyone interrupting, and that today was the only opportunity for doing so.”

you were stunned at the revelation. you were sure heeseung told you that the table was reserved by chaeyoung, not him. why would the server lie? hell, why would heeseung lie? this revelation, paired with your best friend not picking up her calls… something wasn't adding up.

the server waved her hand in front of you to get your attention. “uh, ma'am…?”

you quickly snapped back to reality, the unsettling feeling you usually got around heeseung creeping back. “o-oh yea, uhm—can you help me out really quick?”

sensing the undertone of panic in your voice, her face quickly became serious. “of course, whatever you need.”

you gulped. “so, uhm—i- i think my best friend’s boyfriend—the guy i was sitting with right now—lied to me, and my friend isn't picking my calls either. d-does your restaurant perhaps have a… a backdoor, or something similar to that?”

she didn’t question it anymore, nodding quickly. she gave you the directions to the backdoor, which luckily happened to be nearby, just behind the kitchen. she promised to keep your escapade a secret, and also promised to make heeseung pay the entire bill.

“–oh, and please be careful. the backdoor is connected to a network of alleys, which are filled with homeless people. they are always looking for an opportunity to steal, especially from unsuspecting women. there's also a lot of—well, men, so you need to be extra careful.” you quickly thanked her, heeding to her directions.

you got out of the washroom, finding the backdoor quickly enough. you went outside through it, the door leading into a back alley. you quickly navigated through it, wary of any potential homeless people that might think you're an easy target for them to steal from.

you kept turning corners, staying at least five meters away from any suspicious people. however, you soon felt as if you were being followed. since you were in an area infested with men that were starving—in more ways than one, you didn't pay as much attention to it—although you should have, since that was extremely stupid of you. it turned out to be a big mistake on your part, since you soon felt someone hit your head—hard—with something that was probably made of metal.

your head exploded in pain, causing you to clutch it tightly with both hands. you felt someone catch you as you fell backwards, holding onto you tightly, your vision unsteady. as you swam in and out of consciousness, you could swear you heard a laugh. it was the most unsettling sound you had ever heard. the last thing you heard before you blacked out sent a chill down your spine.

“that eager to escape me? not fucking happening princess.”

when you woke up, you couldn't open your eyes, nor could you open your mouth to scream. you tried to move your hands and legs, but they seemed to have been tied up as well. you could tell that you were tied to a chair, but you had no idea why, or how—or who did it. what would anyone gain from kidnapping you?

you let out a muffled scream through your gag, trying to catch the attention of literally anyone. to add to your anxiety, you heard another muffled scream in response. you tried to struggle against your binds—which you just realised were fucking metallic chains—but it was a futile attempt.

in the midst of your struggling, you didn't hear the footsteps nearby, or the door opening. so naturally you were surprised when the blindfold was yanked off of you. you squint your eyes, to adjust to the sudden brightness, while your captor ripped off your gag as well. you promptly let out an ear piercing scream.

your captor let out a groan, putting his hand on your mouth, effectively shutting you up. “for fuck’s sake, shut up. no one can hear you—at least no one that can save you can hear you, so shut up and spare me the trouble of going deaf. or i can leave the gag on, whichever works best for you.”

you immediately stopped trying to scream, your eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness—or excessive darkness, whatever it was. to your utter horror, your captor was lee fucking heeseung of all people. you did have a bad feeling about him, but for it to be true? that was something you weren't prepared for.

you gulped, your throat feeling slightly parched. you looked around, your eyes landing on another girl that was tied up. her blindfold and gag was still on, but she didn't seem to be straining against her binds. from the almost dried tear patches on the blindfold, and the dried tear tracks on her cheeks, you assumed that she had given up trying to struggle.

as you analyzed her carefully, the pit in your stomach grew. that was chaeyoung. “w-what did you do to h-her? why—why are we here? why are you doing this? l-let us go!”

he let out a chuckle, which only caused the pit in your stomach to grow bigger. he put both of his hands on the arms of the chair you were tied to, leaning closer to you. his face had the most bone-chilling smirk ever. “‘why?’ that's a great question. cute, even. it's cuter how you think i’ll let either of you go.”

noticing your breath hitch, he leaned even closer, his voice more of a sultry whisper. “your friend… she was just a puppet. a pawn, in my game.”

your eyes were brimming with unshed tears, your voice shaky. “g-game?”

he chuckled. “why yes, a game. my game. the game to get closer to you.”

you froze, causing him to hold in a laugh at how your eyes widened comically. “m-me? closer t-to me? w-why? why would you want to—how would that even benefit you–?”

he tilted his head to the side. “why? because i like you, silly. i’m in love with you. always have been.”

your mouth hung open in disbelief. “...what?”

he caressed your cheek, his touch tender—a great contrast to how he kidnapped you, and tied you up to a chair, in some random, abandoned, basement. “we went to the same school. we were never in the same section throughout all of our school years, but i still noticed you. i always did. how could i not? you were the most beautiful among them all, a rose in between thorns. a lone firefly, shining in a field of darkness. naturally, i was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame.”

he cupped your jaw with the same hand that was caressing your face just seconds ago, his thumb brushing against your lower lip. “anything and everything you did, always had me thinking, wondering, hoping—that you were doing it for me. just for me. to catch my attention. you don't need anyone else anyways, i’m more than enough for you. you just… don't see it yet.”

his grip on your jaw grew slightly tighter, your wince of pain going unnoticed by him. a crazy glimmer appeared in his eyes. “that's why i needed to wait. wait for the perfect opportunity, the right moment—until it finally presented itself. in the form of your best friend, chaeyoung. she wasn't difficult to sway. her trusting nature made it even easier. she talks a lot, a bit too much sometimes—but of course, you would know—you’re her best friend after all. she made it easy to know everything about you, things i couldn't find from stalking you. suddenly, you were so, so much closer. but not close enough. you still didn't care enough, you still weren't mine.”

you were freaking out. this whole situation was insane. he was insane. you were a hundred percent sure that you had never even seen him at school! yet he claimed to have been in the same one as you? either you were as invincibly ignorant as a town-fop judging of a new play, or he was bluffing. based on the current situation, he was definitely not bluffing.

but how? how could you have missed the fact that you were getting stalked? stalked! this was so, so bizarre. you were terrified, both for your life, and chaeyoung’s. you felt guilty that she had gotten involved, when clearly this was all about you.

heeseung continued talking. “so i had to do something. something, literally anything, to finally have you all to myself. the one thing i was glad for, was the fact that you remained single, your disinterest in relationships being both a blessing and a curse. it was the reason i lured chaeyoung into this, instead of getting to you directly. although, she could have gotten away from all of this, unharmed, if you weren't so… nosey.”

he started caressing your cheek again. “don't know why, but for some reason you started to become… uncomfortable around me. i didn't know why, since i was more than sure that i didn't do anything to make you feel that way. but you still did. so of course, i had to do something fast. i scraped together this elaborate plan, one that involved me and chaeyoung breaking up, after i found her ‘cheating’ on me on our one year anniversary, and you consoling me, but—you just had to run away. naturally, i had to bring both of you here.”

you gulped, trying to steal your nerves. “please—you said it yourself, it's me who you want, not her—so please, let her go. she did nothing, she doesn't need to be involved in this–”

he tutted, cutting you off. “ah ah ah—where’s the fun in that? she is going to remain right here, as long as i see fit.”

he took his hand off your face, stepping away from you. he walked towards chaeyoung, a few meters away from you. your heart broke, seeing the fresh tear tracks on her face, the wet patches on her blindfold being clearly visible. your own tears broke free, once he ripped her blindfold off. she squinted in the light, her eyes landing on you. a fresh batch of tears cascaded down her face.

before you could call out to her, your eyes widened, your body freezing. heeseung was pointing a gun to her head. chaeyoung realised it, muffled sobs breaking free from behind her gag—which, for some reason, he didn’t take off, unlike what he did to yours. he rolled his eyes, nudging her head with the gun. “shut up. or i won't hesitate to blow your brains out.”

she immediately tried to stop, a small muffled hiccup escaping her in the process. heeseung rolled his eyes again, walking away from her, towards you. he kept the gun pointed towards her. he stopped in front of you, clicking the safety off. he smirked down at you. “you want her to live?”

you nodded frantically, your eyes shaking from how much you were crying. he snickered at your state. he put the gun under your chin, using it to tilt your head up, towards him. “in that case, you better do whatever i tell you to. and no trying to act smart, or else…”

he pointed the gun at chaeyoung again, flipping the gun in his hand, making it point at her again. he made a small ‘bang!’ sound with his mouth, imitating the gun going off. with your body raking with silent sobs, you nodded again, eyes red from your tears.

he smirked again. “that’s a good girl. just keep being obedient like this, yea?”

he didn’t wait for you to nod your head, or say yes again, going straight to business instead. to your—and chaeyoung's—utter horror, he began using his unoccupied hand to unbutton his jeans, under which he was somehow already hard. he pulled down the zipper—your widened, teary eyes and shocked, tear-stricken face making him stifle a groan, sending more blood straight down south, towards his cock. oh, he was going to have so much fun playing with you.

you looked in horror as he shrugged off his pants, glancing over at chaeyoung’s equally horrified face, before looking up at his face. in a panicked state, you spoke. “w-what are you doing–?”

he snickered at you, the gun not once moving from the direction of your best friend. his pants had come off, his hard bulge straining against his boxers, a large spot of precum having already formed on it. “what do you think?”

your expression was one of disgust, mixed with panic. there was no way you were going to suck your best friend's cock right in front of her, while you were both tied up to chairs, your lives in great danger. “you can't make me–”

“i can’t?” he interrupted you with a scoff, his hand pulling down his boxers. he shrugged them off, his leaking cock slapping on his stomach, leaving a trail of his sticky precum behind. his tip was an angry red, demanding immediate attention. “i can’t?” he repeated, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “what makes you think you have a choice? unless you want your oh-so-beloved friend here to die?”

he made a move as to pull the trigger, as you quickly yelled out, your eyes widening in panic. “no no no wait—please, i-i’ll do it, don’t shoot her, please–”

he smirked. you were so, so easy to scare. but apparently chaeyoung was too, since he heard a scared whimper—or a muffled sob—whatever, from her direction. he rolled his eyes subtly at the sound. he stepped closer to you, holding the base of his dick. his musky smell immediately invaded your nose, causing you to subtly scrunch it. although the smell wasn’t disgusting, his act sure was. he nudged it against your unwilling lips, coating it in a layer of his precum. he decided that it was by far the prettiest gloss he had seen you wear. “well? go on and suck it. or do you need more motivation?”

by motivation, he meant putting chaeyoung to sleep forever, of course. obviously you didn’t want that, so you quickly opened your mouth, your tongue darting out to give his tip a tentative lick. the salty taste immediately invaded your taste buds, causing you to gag slightly.

the action, however, elicited a completely different reaction from heeseung. he almost fell forward with a groan, balancing himself just in time, by holding onto the top of your chair. it set a chain reaction of his cock getting pushed further in your direction. despite your unwillingness, you were fuelled with the thought of you and your best friend getting out of the hell hole—unharmed—if you obeyed him. so you tilted your head, licking a long stripe along a vein on the underside of his cock. it stretched from his base, till his tip. your tongue’s movement caused him to twitch above you, more precum dribbling out of his tip.

above you, heeseung was a mess. god-fucking-damnit, this was what he had been missing out on?! chaeyoung’s head game was nothing compared to yours, and you had barely done anything.

it was getting harder to keep the gun pointed at her, so he decided to taunt her instead. he turned to the side, towards her, to mock her—only to be met with her eyes shut tightly, tears streaming down her face. displeased by the sight, he called out to her, trying to not sound breathless. “stop acting like a fucking prude, and open your goddamn eyes. i could shoot you right now, the only reason i’m not is because of your friend right here–” he gestured down to you, seeing as she opened her eyes again, which were red and swollen from crying. “–so you better be grateful to her, and keep your eyes on her. or else… you know what kind fate is waiting for you.”

hearing him threaten her directly, made your actions falter. you glanced at chaeyoung again—the sight of her teary eyes causing a fresh batch to roll down your eyes. you mouthed a ‘i promise i’ll get us out of here—unharmed’ to which she simply shook her head. your promise was empty words, as long as you both were here—under the threat of heeseung’s insanity. she didn’t hold it against you, she knew you didn’t want this either. but as long as heeseung was here, you both weren’t safe.

not liking how you stopped, heeseung fisted your hair tightly in his unoccupied hand, pushing your face forcefully towards his cock once again. you had done the mistake of gasping at his tight grip, causing his cock to push itself inside your deliciously warm mouth.

heeseung had to once again let go of your hair, to hold onto the top of the chair, trying to steady himself. fuck, your mouth felt so much better than chaeyoung’s ever did. he let out an unbashed moan, as you slowly bobbed your head up and down his length. “fuck,” your tongue swirled around his tip, collecting his precum, the action only causing more to ooze out. your tongue pressed down on his slit, causing him to throw his head back. “just like that baby,” he gripped the top of the chair tightly, in order to avoid thrusting into your mouth. “hah—doing s’fucking great f’me–”

he got cut off by his own groan, as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him off harshly. your tongue rubbed deliciously on the underside of his cock, the combined mixture of your saliva and his precum making it easier for you to take him in and out of your mouth. you tried your best to tune out the muffled sobs from chaeyoung in the corner—you were doing this so that she wouldn't be killed, not for your selfish reasons. as long as heeseung was satisfied, you both would be safe.

heeseung thought the same, as he seemed to want to take full advantage of that fact. unable to resist temptation anymore, he thrust his hips forward, relishing in how you gagged around him. he stood still for a moment, just to bask in the warmth of your throat.

but you only had one goal. satisfy him—impress him—till he deemed your performance good enough to let you and chaeyoung leave. which is why he was soon pleasantly surprised, as you took him further in, deep throating him. he almost moaned at the sight of his bulge in your throat. chaeyoung could never do that.

he took a glance at her, his hand holding the gun starting to ache. she was looking straight at you, small sobs raking through her body, tears running down her eyes in a steady stream. with his gun still cocked straight in her direction, he used his unoccupied hand to grab your throat, pressing down on your bulge. he let out a moan as you choked, the pressure on his cock being more than perfect.

seeing you struggling to breathe, he rolled his eyes slightly. “breathe through your nose.” it was all he said, before he pulled almost completely out of your mouth. without giving you barely enough time to take a breath, he slammed back in, your nose pushing against his abdomen. his balls slapped against your chin, as you choked, trying hard to breathe through your nose. his hand gripped your hair tightly, as he started fucking your mouth—throat—roughly.

your wrists and shins were hurting from how the chains were digging into them, bruises having definitely formed on them by now. from his merciless pace and brutal thrusts, your throat palate, as well as your chin, was sure to be bruised later as well. tears were streaming down your eyes, mirroring chaeyoung's—not just from the brutality of his pace, but from the entire situation. you never thought that one day you would have to let heeseung fuck your throat, just to ensure that you and chaeyoug could live for another day.

but unexpected situations happen everyday, as heeseung’s pace turned sloppy. “fuck fuck fuck–” he changed his fast pace and short strokes to slow and deep thrusts, his cock going impossibly deep inside your throat everytime—as if he was trying to leave an imprint in it.

finally, he let out a broken moan. “o-oh fuck—mmm–” he pulled out of your mouth quickly, his hand clutching the base of his cock to avoid cumming immediately. he started jerking off at a fast pace in front of your face. “f-fuck—open your m-mouth f’me baby—n’ stick out your tongue–”

you did as he said, screwing your eyes shut. you didn't want to accidentally make eye contact with your best friend. your face and neck was already burning hot from embarrassment, you didn't need to feel guilty as well—not that any of this was your fault in the first place.

with a loud curse, and a broken moan of your name, his orgasm finally crashed over him. spurts of warm cum erupted from his angry red tip, landing all over your face. most of it landed on your tongue, but quite a bit landed on your eyelids, nose, and cheeks as well. admiring his masterpiece with a darkened look in his eyes, heeseung spoke. “don't swallow… yet.”

he swiped the excess cum off your face with his finger, to the best of his abilities. “swallow.” he ordered, leaving no room for disobedience. he watched as you gulped, your subtle look of disgust going unnoticed. “open your mouth again,” he said, watching with a dark satisfaction, as you obeyed. he pushed his cum covered finger inside your mouth. “suck it, and swallow everything.”

you did just that, although you really wished you could spit it out instead. without him asking, you opened your mouth wide open, showing how you swallowed every drop. it was only then, that you dared to speak, your voice hoarse from his ministrations. “c-can we go now? i p-promise neither of us will tell anyone.”

at your question, he laughed. full on laughed. “‘leave’?” he echoed; as if it were some foreign language. he brought his hand that was holding the gun towards your face, before using it to tilt your chin up. “why do you want to leave so soon, baby? you need a reward first, don't you think so?”

you blinked confusedly. “a reward…?”

a smirk creeped up on his face. “why yes, a reward. you have been such a good girl for me, of course you need a reward! besides, it's only logical that i return the favour, isn't it?”

your eyes widened, as the realisation settled in. “oh, i-i don't think that's necessary–”

he subtly rolled his eyes, already sinking down on his knees in front of you. “of course it is necessary! can't just leave a girl hanging, you know?”

your eyes were wide with panic, looking at chaeyoung, as if expecting her to help—her own eyes were wide open, as she gulped inaudibly. at this point, she was simply grateful that the two of you were alive.

you squirmed, as heeseung placed the gun down beside him, giving chaeyoung a break. his hands moved up and down your legs, lifting your dress up, bunching it around your hips, leaving you squirming uncomfortably. “h-heeseung please, i r-really don't think this is necessary.”

his jaw clenched at your words, as he tightened grip on your legs. he forced his voice to be sickly sweet, as he spoke. “but that's the problem, isn't it? you women always think you know everything; whatever you decide is correct, is always correct. news flash darling—not everything is sunshine and rainbows. there are loads of things out of your control, things that you should simply relax and let others do for you. so shut up, and let me do what i want to, got it? or do you want me to blow chaeyoung’s brains out, since threatening you seems to be the only way you learn to listen?”

you gulped, tears stinging your eyes, as you met his hardened gaze. how long were you both going to be trapped here? how long before he finally got bored of these games and killed you both off? how long?

heeseung produced a knife from his pocket, your panic settling in again. you only calmed down—slightly—when you saw him use it to slowly tear through your panties, careful not to hurt you. although, the knife being so close to your skin scared you shitless anyways.

he sliced through them, the cold air coming in contact with your bare core, a shiver running through you. as he smirked at you, leaning closer to lick a stripe up your cunt, you suppressed a flinch. fuck, this was really happening.

you watched as he gathered a wad of saliva with his tongue, before spitting directly on your clit. you flinched slightly, which he took great delight in. heeseung watched his spit slowly drip down your pussy, causing him to be unable to resist temptation. he pushed his face towards your core, kissing it, before diving in. his tongue pushed deep inside you, something which unintentionally caused tingles of pleasure to run through you. you gasped loudly. “oh—god—wait, d-don't–”

your broken sounds only spurred him on more, as he dragged his tongue across your inner walls, his moan reverberating through your cunt. he licked at your walls, slurping up your juices, like a starving man. you tasted so fucking good, so much better than chaeyoung. but your squirming was pissing him off, his bruisingly tight grip on your thighs not being enough to keep you still.

even after digging his blunt nails into your thighs, you didn't stop the squirming—even though he knew you were loving it. especially given the way you kept letting out broken gasps and the way you pushed your absolutely delicious cunt further onto his face. it was really starting to piss him off.

he quite reluctantly pulled off to glare at you. “why is it so hard for you to sit still, hm? it's getting really fucking annoying, you know?”

you gulped, panting slightly. “i-i just—really want you to stop…”

he raised a brow, his expression otherwise blank. “oh really? because ‘it doesn't feel good’?”

you nodded quickly—a little too quickly. “y-yea! it f-feels weird—not good in the slightest.”

his jaw clenched—again. “well,” he gritted out. “in that case, i’ll have to try something else, don't you think so?”

you blinked, before furrowing your brows. “what–?”

he proceeded to pick up the gun from beside him, relishing in the way your eyes widened in horror. “if my mouth makes you feel so—uncomfortable, we will just need something else, hm? an object perhaps?”

your breathing grew shallow, as you realised where this was going. “n-no, please–”

he sneered at you. “too fucking late for that, princess.”

he pushed the barrel of the gun inside you slowly, watching as it slid in with ease, due to his previous ministrations. he ignored your sobs and cries to stop, relishing in the way your pussy sucked it right in. “sure you don't want this princess? your pussy disagrees with your mouth, you know?”

your head faced the ceiling, your teeth biting down on your bottom lip painfully, to conceal your whimpers. your eyes were screwed shut, praying that this was just a terrifying nightmare, one you hoped you would wake up quickly from. you swore you heard a whimper near you, which was probably one of utter horror, elicited by chaeyoung, since she was witnessing everything—but you didn't have time to worry about her anymore, since your own life was in a much graver situation.

you let out a whimper as heeseung pushed the barrel of the gun even deeper inside you, the disgusting squelching sound from your slick almost making you gag. why, just why did this situation have to happen with you of all people?

heeseung on the other hand, was enjoying himself. he pulled the barrel out slightly, before pushing it right back in. the sounds that your cunt produced were music to his ears, your whimpers of horror and choked sobs only fuelling his sick delight. he knew you liked it, even if it was only to a certain extent. why else would your cunt clench down on the gun enough to make it hard for him to pull it out?

he made sure to voice out his exact thoughts to you. “such a slutty hole you have… don’t you, pretty girl? it will get wet for anything that is hard enough to stick inside it, won’t it?” he revelled in the particularly loud squelch that your pussy made, when he pushed the barrel in deeper. “ah… point proven.”

tears were streaming down your face at a fast, never ending pace, your face and neck burning up from a mix of emotions—fear, anger, humiliation—everything. even if you gave him his—his satisfaction, would it be enough to keep him satisfied for long enough? were you really going to die here? here? under these circumstances?

heeseung used his other hand to rub your clit, tired of your resistance. he rubbed dizzying circles around your hardened bundle with nerves, with deliberate slowness, the gesture teasing, with a hint of impatience. your breath hitched, giving him the incentive to continue his actions. he pinched your clit, drawing out a shocked gasp, before rubbing it harshly.

your head was spinning. with the gun still dangerously sliding in and out of you, and the added stimulation of your clit, it was hard to focus on anything. your head tipped back, and before you could control yourself, a moan slipped past. “h-heeseu—ah–”

you immediately bit your lip, your eyes widening, surprised by yourself. did you really just…?

heeseung on the other hand, was on cloud nine. he was both elated, yet shocked at the same time. with a nasty grin, and a crazed gleam in his eyes, he fastened the pace of the gun, pinching and flicking your bundle of nerves. “fuuuuck baby—do it again, c’mon—i knew you were a nasty little slut, just needed a little bit of… encouragement, isn’t that it? c’mon pretty, again–”

your eyes screwed shut, as you refused to let any sounds escape again, despite the very loud moan bubbling up in your throat. you tried to squeeze your legs shut, as his actions started to make you feel alarmingly good. for fuck’s sake, there was a goddamn gun inside you—how on earth were you liking this?!

heeseung caught on immediately, pushing your legs further apart, sliding the gun in and out of you at a ruthless pace, forcing another moan out of you. with how fast he was rubbing your clit, it was extremely hard to not moan—in fact, it was hard for you to even breathe, given how he was drawing out choked out moans from you at an almost inhuman pace.

he leaned down, replacing the thumb on your clit with his tongue, sucking on it harshly. you almost doubled over from the intense feeling, letting out a sharp cry. he bit down on your clit, the gun drawing out disgusting noises, as it dragged across your slimy walls, coated in your arousal. he flicked your clit with his tongue, enjoying the choked sob you let out.

your stomach started to tighten, the alarming realisation of your rapidly approaching orgasm alarming you. you tried to squeeze your legs shut, drawing out a groan of… pleasure, from heeseung. he sucked on your clit harder, rolling it around with his tongue. he paid no attention to what you were babbling about. “h-heeseung—hng!—stop—i- i can’t—ah–”

he flicked your clit again, before increasing the pace of his hand, the gun pounding into you with alarmingly deep strokes. he bit your bundle of nerves again—not too harshly, but enough to finally make the band in your stomach snap.

your vision went white, your ears ringing loudly, as your orgasm crashed over you like a tsunami. clear liquid sprayed out of your cunt, coating the lower half of heeseung’s face and his hand with your squirt. he was quick to try his best and lick up every drop, before looking up at you; his eyes dark, a predatory smirk on his face.

as you came down from your high, you locked eyes with him, immediately understanding what had just happened. red hot shame washed over you, covering you like a blanket of fire. it creeped up your neck and face, making you want to crawl into a hole and never see the light of the day again.

“well…” heeseung said, sliding the gun out of your sensitive pussy, your face scrunching from the sound of your wetness. “there is absolutely no way you can deny not liking this now—any of this. you’re enjoying this a lot more than you’re letting on darling, and this proved just that.”

you pant, trying to catch your breath. you suddenly remembered about chaeyoung—fuck. she watched all of it. well—there was nothing you could do. heeseung is… insane, that bit was for sure. this was all technically her fault. if only she didn’t approach him that night, all of this wouldn’t have happened. you wouldn’t have been the one to suffer.

were you feeling bitter? yes, extremely so. after all, why wouldn’t you? chaeyoung was a pawn in heeseung’s sick and twisted game to attain you for some weird reason, which could have all been avoided if it wasn’t for her thirsty ass that fell for a random guy that smirked at her in some bar one day. her lack of self control caused this, so yes, excuse you for feeling bitter and resenting your oh-so-beloved best friend.

suddenly, as if heeseung hadn't yet reached the height of insanity, he brought the barrel of the gun towards his mouth. he locked eyes with you, relishing in the way your eyes widened in a mixture of shock and fear, before engulfing the barrel with his lips. still maintaining eye contact with you, he sucked the barrel of the gun, licking off your juices.

your breath hitched, as you gulped. what the actual fuck was wrong with him?

you watched as he took the gun out of his mouth with a pop, setting it aside. he got up, his dick on full display, already rock hard, with precum dribbling out of it. he untied your hands, but gave you no chance to move them, before producing a pair of handcuffs from his discarded pants. he used them to bind your hands together, before untying your legs.

once you were free to move from the chair, he dragged you off it, before shoving you down on the ground, face first. you landed with an uncomfortable thud, almost falling on your face because of your dress. you managed to balance yourself on your hands, trying your best to steady yourself.

before you could do much, heeseung was grabbing you again, manhandling you, so that you now faced in chaeyoung's direction. he went over to her—ignoring her sobs—turning her chair to make her face you directly. you gulped, tears streaming down you face again as you both locked eyes. silent apologies were exchanged between you both, the fear of heeseung’s newfound crazy side terrifying you both to death.

your heart raced against your chest, as you watched heeseung pick up the gun again. he got behind you, as you heard his knees hit the ground—presumably from kneeling down. all the colour vanished from your face, your blood running cold. was he seriously going to–

you didn't have to wonder for too long, your fears getting confirmed, as he lifted up your dress unceremoniously, bunching it up on your lower back. you squeezed your eyes shut, a whimper of utter humiliation leaving you, as he squeezed your ass cheeks. he slapped them, watching them jiggle, before continuing to rub and squeeze them. it was then that you made a promise to yourself: if you made it out of there—alive—you were going to make sure he rotted in jail for the rest of his life.

you felt his hand graze against your wet and still sensitive cunt, a shiver running down your spine. he noticed it immediately, giving your pussy a slap. your eyes widened in shock, a loud gasp leaving you. his grip on your ass cheeks tightened. “you know…” he leaned down, his torso pressing against your back, his lips close to your ear. “you looked so, so cute squirting over that gun—even after pretending that you hated every second of it. think you can do it again? on my cock this time?”

your eyes widened, as you stared down at the ground in a mixture of shock and disgust. “heeseung,” you spoke, your voice shaky. “i-i think this has gone too far already–”

he pinched your clit harshly, making you cry out in pain. “shut the fuck up. i don't remember asking you whether it has gone ‘too far’ or not. was the question really that hard for your pea sized brain to comprehend?”

he grabbed the knife from the pocket of his discarded jeans, barely giving you any time to react, as he cut open your dress—leaving you bare to his eyes. he groped your tits with one hand, keeping the knife away again. he twisted your nipple, smirking when you let out a whimper of pain. “perhaps you can't answer such simple questions. must be too hard for you to understand, aren't they?”

his mocking tone made your face and neck burn with humiliation—along with the fact that chaeyoung was witnessing all of it. her boyfriend of one year forcing himself upon her best friend. you didn't know who to feel more sorry for—yourself, or for her.

with another pinch on your nipple, this time harder than before, heeseung drew your attention back to him. “maybe i should stop asking questions and just get on with it. you would like that, wouldn't you? oh, my bad, forgot sluts can't comprehend basic questions.”

without another word, he plunged two fingers right into your—to your utter horror—dripping hole, dragging them across your inner walls. you suppressed a whimper, as he began scissoring his fingers inside you, stretching out your already stretched and very sensitive cunt.

you screwed your eyes shut, your forehead touching the ground—floor, your teeth painfully biting down on your bottom lip. you hated how he dragged you both here, hated what he was doing to you, hated that he made chaeyoung watch—you despise his very existence. unfortunately, seething in your mind did nothing to improve the situation. in fact, it only continued to lower your morale.

heeeseung rubbed slow circles around your hardened bundle of nerves, trying to evoke any kind of sound from you—nothing. you were being stubborn, refusing to give in. well—fine by him. he could always catch you by surprise. which, given the current situation, was something he had been doing this whole day.

he pulled you closer by your hips, your knees scraping the ground slightly in process, a pained noise of protest eliciting from you. but that wasn’t even the actual surprise. your breath hitched, your heartbeat running wild, as you felt his tip sliding through your wetness, collecting your slick. this was really happening.

knowing it was bound to happen—dreading it—didn’t really make it easier. if you had known that chaeyoung going to the bar a year ago would have landed you in this position, you would have never let her go. this—this was worse than anything else that could have possibly happened.

you felt him start to slowly push in—a slightly difficult feat, since you were doing your best to resist—but your cunt was doing the opposite. his grip on your hips tightened. “c’mon pretty,” he pushed in another inch. “just let me in, yeah? don’t—fuck—don’t be such an uncooperative little bitch.”

he pushed all the way in with a grunt, your pained whimper accompanying it. “fuuuuckkk,” he groaned in satisfaction, enjoying the way your core pulsed around him. “see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

heeseung didn’t really wait for an answer—he knew he wasn’t going to get one from you anyways. he slid almost completely out, before slamming back in, letting out a loud groan of satisfaction at the wet squelching noise. noticing that you were struggling to hold yourself up, he let out a snicker, before yanking your body upwards slightly. he balanced himself on his knees, setting a slow, yet satisfactory enough pace for himself. he squeezed your tit with one hand, before yanking on your chin, making you face chaeyoung again. he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “look at her,” the small sob you let out had him thrust into you at a particularly harsh pace. “doesn’t she look lonely there? such a shame, this was all your fault after all. if only you noticed me back in school.”

he slammed himself into you, tip kissing your cervix, his pelvis hitting your ass. he reveled in the way it bounced with every thrust, his hands never stopping their wandering, groping and squeezing every bit of flesh he could reach. the look in chaeyoung’s eyes made you wonder if cooperating with him in the first place was the right decision. wasn’t dying better than this torture that he was putting you both through currently?

fisting your hair, he yanked your head back, slamming his mouth onto yours. he practically devoured your lips, barely giving you a chance to breathe. it was as if he was quite literally trying to steal your breath. biting down on your lip, he fastened his pace, each thrust forcefully eliciting loud gasps and whimpers from you, sounds that he gladly swallowed. “keep making those pretty sounds for me baby, it’s only making me want to continue to ruin you.”

a fresh batch of tears rolled down your eyes, as his hand snaked down to rub your clit. more moans of his name spilled out of your mouth—telling him to stop—but they only served to encourage him further.

detaching his mouth from yours, he put his hand on your back, pushing it into an arch, as he continued to pound into you. you could see stars at the back of your eyes, unwanted pleasure starting to cloud your senses. holy fuck—this wasn't supposed to feel good. but it did. it felt so fucking good.

you could feel every single vein of his dragging across your inner walls, cock curving into you and hitting all the right spots. it felt good—he felt good. dizzyingly good.

you didn't even realise when you let out a broken moan of his name, pure unadulterated pleasure laced in your voice. “hee—ahh—seung–”

the effect, however, was immediate. his hips slowed down, before he completely stilled inside you. when he spoke, his voice was soft, sounding like a dangerous whisper. “what was that?”

you didn't really hear his question, too focused on the way the pleasure was suddenly gone. you wiggled your hips, trying to get it back. it was as if you were drunk; completely delirious of your surroundings. he gripped your hips to still you, repeating his question. “i said, what was that?”

you barely registered his words, opting to just say his name. “h-heeseung?”

“fuck.”

with a loud groan, he pulled almost completely out, before slamming back in, his pace brutally fast now. the grip he had on your hips was sure to bruise later on. the fast pace had his balls slapping against your clit continuously, the motion only serving to pull more sounds of unadulterated pleasure from you. it was sickening, the way your body was starting to like this, the rational part of your brain completely ignoring chaeyoung’s existence.

it wasn't that any of it mattered to him. all that did matter to heeseung was you, and right now you were doing more than okay. chaeyoung was a… casualty in his quest to obtain you. a quest that obviously was—to his utter delight—very much successful.

you didn’t know how long he had been going at it, you just knew it had been long enough. the tingling in your clit was driving you insane; your release so close—yet so far.

heeseung was seemingly holding out. it was as if he was afraid of this to end, in a way. afraid that maybe all of it is just a dream—you’re not really here. none of this is actually real.

fortunately for him, everything was very much real. it was all happening. you were really in his grasp, he was really fucking you, while chaeyoung was being forced to watch. along with the fact that you were liking it. enjoying it. that was real too.

perhaps he had enough of playing around. or maybe he just remembered his previous wish—was it even a wish?—of wanting to see you squirt on his cock. but either way, he suddenly did a three sixty. or one eighty. whichever would be more accurate in describing his current mood, as he harshly pinched your clit.

you let out a sharp gasp, an incredulous “heeseung—!” leaving you. but he ignored it, opting to flick your hardened nub, rubbing torturous circles around it. he has to see you squirt on his cock, he knows you can do it—he can make you do it.

your gasps soon turn into moans, which encourage him to continue. his actions were driving you to your breaking point, that much was clear from your reactions. the way you were clenching around his cock, making it harder for him to continue to thrust into you? so fucking delicious.

perhaps he should have done this sooner. you know, this whole kidnapping thing. you could have been his a lot earlier then. but then again, patience is the key. this was the best chance he has ever gotten, it was only logical for him to pull such a stunt today. besides, good things take time to acquire. and you, are the best fucking thing to ever exist.

the band in your stomach continued to grow tighter and tighter and tighter, to a point that it physically hurt. so you did the logical thing, and told him—all the while tears slipped past uncontrollably from the pain. “h-heeseung—please, it hurts, i can’t–”

but he shut you up immediately, rubbing your clit at a harsher pace. “yes, yes you can, you’re so fucking close, c’mon–”

the pressure in your stomach was insane, so was the pressure on your clit. the pace of heeseung’s thrusts was bordering maniac, that’s how fast he was going. it was a mix of pain and pleasure, your brain fogging up, vision going foggy.

heeseung’s hand was starting to tire, but he doubled his pace, desperate to see you squirt again. “please please please–” he chanted, like a mantra. you were so fucking close, damn it–

then it happened. your vision went white, shapes visible in the back of your eyes. white noise ringing in your ears. your back arched almost uncomfortably, as you let out a loud cry. your orgasm washed over you like a tsunami, your squirt spraying all over his lower abdomen, wetting his shirt. it kept spraying, coating his cock, as he plunged in and out of you at an insane pace, making you ride out your orgasm.

as your vision slowly swam back, you felt him pull your hips back one last time, burying himself to the hilt, before ropes of warm cum spurted out of his tip. it coated your inner walls in white, as he let out a satisfied groan. he slowly pulled out his softening length, reveling in the way his cum dripped out of you.

you collapsed to the floor, close to passing out. you were sore, so fucking sore. heeseung felt the tiniest bit of pity for you, but he could take care of you later. right now, he has something else to take care of.

he slowly pulled you up, making you sit in his lap, facing the front. he forced you to open your eyes, and face chaeyoung. your eyes widened slightly, regret and guilt starting to hit you. you had almost forgotten that she was still there. you could barely meet her eyes from shame, not wanting to look at her expression of hurt, or her dried tears.

but heeseung wasn’t having any of it. he made you face her, properly. your breath hitched, feeling the gun touching your chin. “look at her properly darling,” his voice was husky, and creepy. something about his tone didn’t make you feel very good about whatever was about to come out of his mouth next. turns out, you were right to be scared.

“because this will be the last time you ever do.”

before you even had time to process his words, a loud ‘bang!’ rang out through the basement, making you flinch. as you opened your eyes, disbelief and horror was etched upon your features.

surely—surely that wasn’t chaeyoung slumped over in that chair? blood dripping from her head. surely? she was—she was just alive! it can’t be—it simply couldn’t be–

but you didn’t even have time to process that, as you felt a sharp pain on your neck, before everything started to go black. you hadn’t noticed when heeseung had produced a syringe from his jeans’ pocket, just like you didn’t notice him picking up that gun. the same gun that ended chaeyoung’s life.

when you woke up, you were dressed in clothes that you didn’t recognise. but they were larger than you, so you guessed they belonged to heeseung. your left hand was tied to the bedpost with handcuffs, the rest of your body free to move—even if it wasn’t exactly freedom. the room you were in was… dingy, and quite small, with just one window and a singular cabinet on the other side of the room. there was a nightstand with an untouched glass of water on it—but you wouldn’t dare drink from it.

as you slowly sat up, you folded your legs up to your chest, resting your head on your knees. you stared at the wall—and everything started rushing into your mind at once in a huddled mess. chaeyoung and heeseung’s anniversary lunch, chaeyoung’s absence from her own anniversary lunch, the kidnapping, chaeyoung’s death–

oh.

chaeyoung was dead.

when the tears came, it was as if a dam broke. the tears flowed and flowed, with no signs of stopping. you didn’t want to cry. what was the use of crying? would these tears bring her back? it wouldn’t. nothing would. she was gone. your best friend of almost two decades—gone. poof. just like that.

all because of some maniac, who didn’t care for anyone. a jerk, a disgusting psychopath, who doesn’t realise that human’s lives aren’t dispensable to his will.

in the middle of your wallowing, you heard the door open. you picked up your head, your vision blurry from crying. you squint your eyes, seeing heeseung enter the room with a tray, filled with a bowl of cut fruit. he placed the fruit near the end of the bed, sitting down, maintaining some distance between you both. he knew you didn’t want him near you right now, given his previous actions, but you would warm up to him soon enough. you had to. this was your new life.

he tilted his head, noticing the glass of water still untouched on the nightstand. he raised a brow at you. “you’re not thirsty?”

you glared at him, shaking your head, despite being absolutely parched. he sighed at your defiance, saying nothing. he got up, went around the bed, towards the nightstand. picking up the glass, he sat close to you, grabbing your jaw in his other hand. “drink up, c’mon. don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

as he brought the glass near your mouth, you pressed your lips into a thin line, before smacking the glass out of his hands with your free one. he watched as the glass shattered into a million pieces on the floor, an unreadable expression on his face.

his silence suffocated you. you were already regretting your decision. why did you always have to act in such a brash manner?

he turned his face towards you again. as he brought his hand up, you flinched, screwing your eyes shut. you felt his hand caress your cheek, leading you to open your eyes. his face was expressionless, even when he spoke. “don’t be mad at me because of chaeyoung. it was bound to happen anyways. she was a hindrance in our story, don’t you see? she would have taken you away from me if i didn’t kill her. don’t hate me because of her.”

your hand twitches, and so does your eye. you wanted to strangle him. calling chaeyoung a hindrance?! oh, he was so dead. as soon as you escape this hell hole, you were going to make sure you personally hunted his sorry ass down and gave him a death far more slow and torturous than the one he gave to chaeyoung. he was going to pay. you were going to make sure of that.

you stayed silent, simply glaring at him. you were currently at a disadvantage, so you couldn’t really do anything, except for waiting. so that’s what you were gonna do. wait.

sensing that you weren’t going to say anything, he kisses your forehead—to which you have to stop yourself from slapping him—before getting off the bed and making his way to the door. right before going out, he turned around. “don’t forget to eat the fruit, or you will grow weaker than you already are.”

he shut the door, finally leaving. you breathed a sigh of relief. finally. you were alone again. you could continue to wallow in self pity now. you didn’t plan on eating anything, since you didn’t trust him.

you laid down, looking at the ceiling. how long were you going to be trapped here? would you ever be able to get out? right now, there didn’t seem to be any hope of escaping, but perhaps in the near future…

a wave of sleepiness washed over you. you were tired, so, so tired. maybe sleeping would be good for now. yes, you should get some rest.

when you woke up, it was dark. confused, you blearily sat up, blinking at your surroundings. why were you suddenly up?

then you heard it. the gun shots. they rang loud and clear, yellings of ‘get down!’ and ‘surrender now!’ rang through the place. a flash of hope rose in you. was it the police…?

suddenly, the door to your room banged open. two female police officers entered the room, pointing the gun around the room. upon realising that there was no one else other than you, one of them quickly broke the handcuffs as best as she could, as the other frantically checked upon you. “ma’am are you okay? did he hurt you?” she kept throwing questions at you, as you assured her that you were fine—as fine as a person could be, after the kind of hell heeseung put you through.

they wrapped a coat around you, before bringing you downstairs. it was a dingy two storey house in some shady part of the town, apparently, according to what they told you. they told you that they got a tip about a kidnapping from an anonymous source, which, from your deduction, was probably that waitress from the restaurant. although you could be wrong, of course.

downstairs, you saw heeseung with a busted lip, hands restrained with handcuffs behind his back, two police officers assisting him to the car. when his gaze landed on you, he spoke with a bone chilling smirk. “don’t worry darling. they won’t be able to keep us away from each other for too long. i’ll come back for you, i promise.”

the policemen scoffed at him, rudely pushing him forward. although his words scared you, you trusted the police to do their job. as you were guided out of the dingy house, you suddenly remember chaeyoung. you informed the police of her, causing them to share a look. they led you to the car, four of them staying back, to look for her—her body.

two months had passed since that incident. a trial was held for heeseung, which almost immediately declared him to be ‘guilty’, due to the presence of overwhelming evidence. he was charged with a lot of things, things which you both knew, and didn’t know of. either way, he got what he deserved. a lifetime in jail.

it was finally time for chaeyoung’s funeral. her family and you wanted to wait until heeseung got what he deserved, and now that he was finally behind bars, it was time to say goodbye to chaeyoung. for the last time.

as the coffin was lowered down, you said your final goodbyes. you never imagined this day would come, at least not this soon. but it was here. life was unexpected and cruel, that’s what you had learnt in the past two months. but it has to go on. you couldn’t let events—no matter how unfortunate they are—hold you back. so you wiped your tears, leaving the grounds quietly.

as you sat inside your car, your phone rang with a ‘ding!’. it was a notification. a message, from an unknown number. you frowned, clicking on it. the contents had the blood from your face draining. your hands shook, as the phone fell out of your grasp.

“black suits you. but red looks the best on you, don’t you think so?”

#heeseung smut #enhypen smut #enha smut #lee heeseung smut

2K notes · View notes

artficlly · 27 days ago

Text

lessons in lovemaking [part three]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, handjobs, fondling, nudity, fem reader, bucky is touch starved, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, natasha cares, injury, blood, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.9k

A/N: hey if you have dejavu seeing this, it's because the other post is glitched for some reason and some people aren't able to see it, i think it's to do with there being over 30 people on the taglist. i'll have to come up with a solution for that. in the meantime, pls enjoy and hopefully this post is actually visible!. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist | series masterlist

"Go for the left."

Kate blinked. "The left?"

"Yes."

She looked from you to Bucky, eyebrows raised like you’d asked her to charge a bear with a toothpick. "We’re talking about the left? The metal freaking arm left?"

"That’s the one."

The look she gave you was flat-out incredulous. "Are you serious? Isn’t that the last place I should be aiming?"

You resisted the urge to sigh. "That’s exactly why you should aim there. Everyone goes for his right. They assume it’s weaker. Bucky knows that. He’s trained to defend that side, conditioned even. But the left? Sure, it’s strong. That doesn’t make it invulnerable. Watch him."

You nodded toward Bucky, shadowboxing in the centre of the mat, relaxed but precise, like a predator keeping his muscles warm. "See how he braces before a punch? That slight weight shift? It’s a habit. Subtle but predictable. It leaves a small window, but just enough. Learn to spot that, and you can drop someone twice your size."

Kate’s expression turned thoughtful, eyes narrowing as she studied Bucky more intently. "Okay… so how do you get good at spotting weaknesses like that?"

"Learn to observe. Don’t rush in swinging. Patience and preparation will win a fight long before your fists do."

Kate nodded slowly, rolling her shoulders. "Alright. Let’s see if I can prove you right."

She took a step forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you with a sheepish grin. "I am a little scared, though—"

You gave her a flat look. "Just go, Kate."

She groaned but turned back toward Bucky, stepping onto the mat with a reluctant sort of determination.

It was late afternoon, and golden light poured through the gym windows in long, drowsy streaks. Dust drifted lazily in the sunbeams, but the air was thick with tension—not the kind that came from training, but from something far more complicated. Natasha and Yelena had thought it hilarious to pair you not only with Kate for sparring but also with Bucky. You had no doubt they were watching from the sidelines, smirking into their water bottles. Those two were always scheming.

Natasha hadn’t said anything to you yet, but then again, you’d been avoiding her like the plague since yesterday’s meeting. She was too sharp, too perceptive not to pick up on the subtle shifts in both your and Bucky’s behaviour. The cracks were already showing, the slightly too-long looks between you and Bucky, the stiffness in your tone whenever his name came up, the defensiveness you thought you’d kept hidden but apparently hadn’t.

You knew you couldn’t dodge her forever. Sooner or later, she’d confront you. And when she did, you’d have to lie—or worse, tell some version of the truth. What that truth even was… you weren’t sure. Not yet.

And Bucky?

You had no idea how to tell him you thought she already knew. That kind of conversation was a minefield, one wrong word and you’d either send him into horrified silence or make him regret every second of the nights spent together. Neither option was appealing.

You exhaled sharply, arms crossed as you watched Kate bounce on the balls of her feet, testing the space between her and Bucky.

He stood still in the centre of the mat, arms relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable. Brooding and unimpressed, as always. He hadn’t looked at you once all day, not properly at least. And yet you couldn’t stop thinking about how you knew exactly what he looked like when he came undone beneath you, fingers tangled in sheets and voice gone rough with need. He had been about as excited as you felt when the ‘teams’ for sparring were announced. You were beginning to suspect some convoluted plot half the compound was in on to see you and Bucky go head to head.

Now, he was back to being the Winter Soldier, being precisely what H.Y.D.R.A trained him to be, stoic, intimidating, unreadable. He had a talent for making his opponents feel beneath him. Unworthy. It was a tactic, you knew that, but it still worked.

Kate circled warily, eyes darting as she tried to read him, every shift in her posture betraying nerves. You watched her movements closely, noting the hesitation, the constant foot adjustments. She was looking for the right moment. You just hoped she’d recognise it when it came.

Much to Yelena and Natasha’s annoyance, you had flipped their little prank back onto them, sending Kate out to spar first, hoping to break her out of that ‘swing first, think later’ style Yelena loved so much.

A shadow moved in the corner of your vision as Yelena strolled up beside you, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between you and the fight. Speak of the devil, and she will appear.

"You’re staring real hard," she drawled. "What, got money riding on this?"

You didn’t bother looking at her. "She’s your pet project. Remind me again why I’m the one training her?"

"Apprentice," Yelena corrected smoothly.

You blinked. "What?"

She gestured vaguely toward Kate, who was still circling Bucky with the kind of careful precision that told you she was second-guessing herself. "She’s my apprentice, not a pet project. There is a difference."

"Uh-huh," you said flatly, entirely unconvinced. "And yet I’m the one teaching her how to think, instead of just swinging wildly and hoping the universe sorts it out."

Yelena smirked. "Because I am all wham, whack, bang, bam, action! Yes? You are all boring lectures and tactical talk. It is balance. How is she supposed to know how cool and awesome I am without hearing all your boring lectures about battle analysis—"

You turned to her, unimpressed. "Did you just make up sound effects?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said sweetly, then sipped from a water bottle like she hadn’t just made cartoon sound effects with complete sincerity.

Your focus shifted back to the fight as Kate feinted right, then hesitated—again. Bucky wasn’t attacking yet, just watching her with the kind of stillness that would’ve put even you on edge. He was waiting for her to make the first move, to reveal her plan before he committed to a real counter.

"She’s hesitating too much," Yelena observed.

"She’s calculating," you corrected. "That’s what she’s supposed to do."

Yelena made a sceptical noise. "If she waits any longer, he’s just going to knock her flat."

"If she rushes in without a plan, it’ll be the same result."

Bucky shifted—just a subtle test, quick and clean. Kate dodged, but barely. Her stance faltered. Yelena sighed, dragging her hands down her face. "Okay, this is painful to watch. You should just let me handle her—"

“No. I’m trying to teach her to think, not charge in like a wrecking ball.”

"Excuse you," Yelena gasped, touching her chest in mock offence. "I am a very tactical wrecking ball."

You didn’t respond, eyes narrowing. Kate was watching Bucky now—really watching. Good. She sidestepped his next move, then launched into the attack.

A feint to the right. A quick pivot. Just like you’d told her.

Bucky braced for the strike to his right, but it didn’t come.

Kate dipped low, powered off her back foot, and drove her elbow toward his ribs. Clean, sharp, decisive.

Bucky twisted fast, but not fast enough.

Her elbow landed. His breath left in a tight, surprised grunt.

"See?" you muttered, nudging Yelena with an elbow. "She’s learning."

Yelena lifted a brow. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if she follows through."

Instead of retreating, Kate followed through, using the momentum to drive her knee upward.

Bucky jerked back, but not far enough. Kate’s knee clipped his chin, snapping his head up just enough for the final blow.

You scoffed. "Give her some credit—"

A sharp smack rang through the gym.

Bucky let out a startled grunt of pain, staggering back, one hand cupping his face. Blood was already leaking between his fingers.

Kate froze, eyes going wide in horror. "Oh my god—Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—are you okay? Oh god, you’re bleeding—"

Bucky tipped his head back, exhaling sharply through his nose, which only made more blood drip down his lip. “No kidding.”

Yelena snorted beside you. "Okay, I take it back. She might actually be good at this."

Kate was still floundering, hands hovering like she wanted to help but had no idea how. "What do you need—should I get a medic? Ice? Tissues? A priest?"

Bucky shot her a glare, nostrils flaring as more blood dripped down his lip. "Just… just give me a second."

You stepped forward onto the mat. "Well. I’d say she followed through."

Yelena smirked. "Yeah. Maybe a little too well."

Kate turned to you, looking utterly betrayed. "You told me to go for the left!"

"I said to attack the opening on his left, not ‘punch him in the face like you’re trying to knock out a tooth’, but hey, improvisation is an important skill."

Kate groaned. Bucky muttered something low and vile in Russian as he turned toward the exit, blood trailing faintly in his wake.

Even Yelena blinked. “That sounded like a curse, Kate. Possibly an ancient one.”

“Don’t say that!” Kate whined in fear.

"I’ll handle him," you muttered with a sigh, already following. You paused at the edge of the mat, glancing back at Kate. “You did good. Maybe pull your punches and ease off the full-force murder next time?”

Kate groaned louder. "That was me pulling my punches!"

Yelena’s laughter followed you as you crossed the room, clapping her hands together as she bounced on her toes like an excited child. "Oh, this is fun. We should do this more often."

You pushed through the changing room door and stepped into the cooler air beyond. The space was clean and sterile in that way that only rich tech-billionaire funding could buy. Polished tiles, dark wood lockers with brass fittings, and the faint scent of citrusy cleaner lingering beneath the hum of recessed lights.

The sound of running water guided you to the sinks.

Bucky was hunched over the white porcelain basin, one arm braced on the counter, the other still cupping the lower half of his face. The mirror above caught his reflection, blood-streaked, jaw-tight, brows drawn down in a frustrated knot. Crimson spiralled down the drain, bright against the ceramic.

“You look like a crime scene,” you muttered as you crossed the room.

Bucky let out a sharp breath through his mouth, meeting your comment with a pointed grunt that spoke volumes.

You raised a brow. “Are you going to keep glaring at me like I put out a hit on you?”

“You did,” he muttered flatly.

You rolled your eyes, making a beeline for the paper towel dispenser. You pulled out a few thick, folded sheets and pressed them into his free hand. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” he grumbled.

“Bucky.” You shot him a look, unimpressed. “Sit.”

His jaw tightened like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he relented, pushing off the counter, and he trudged toward one of the benches in the centre of the room and sat down stiffly, wincing as he tilted his head back.

You crouched in front of him, studying his face. The blood smeared across his upper lip stood out starkly against his skin, but at least it wasn’t gushing anymore. His nose was red, swelling a little but not crooked. Reaching out, you ghosted your fingers over the bridge, careful and light. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

Bucky huffed. “Feels broken.”

“Yeah, well, maybe don’t let Kate punch you in the face next time.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t dignify you with a response.

Shaking your head, you folded a fresh set of paper towels and pressed them lightly against his nose. “Hold this. It'll keep you from dripping all over Stark’s precious floors.”

Bucky took them with a sigh, his metal fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sank to your knees without really thinking about it, watching as Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, adjusting the pressure with careful precision. His shoulders had lost some of their earlier tension, but his posture was still guarded like he was bracing himself for something more than just the dull throb of pain. The quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space, blending with the distant murmur of voices from the gym beyond.

“Last night, I—” Bucky broke the silence first, his voice slightly nasal from the swelling.

“You fell asleep.” You cut him off gently, offering a faint smile. You didn’t know how much he had actually heard before exhaustion had finally claimed him. Maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a mistake to let your guard down, to speak so openly, to bare your soul so easily. You had told yourself you wouldn’t burden him with your struggles. He already carried enough of his own.

And yet, he had this way of making you feel safe. Too safe.

It was almost ironic. He was supposed to instil fear, his name alone enough to make enemies think twice. And yet, all you saw was a rather sad, damaged, and tired man, his big, mournful puppy-dog eyes carrying the weight of things he could never put into words.

“Yeah. I don’t… remember it happening,” Bucky admitted, frowning slightly as if frustrated with himself. “One second, I was with you, and the next—”

“Did you sleep well, at least?”

He hesitated like he was debating whether to downplay it. But then, finally, he nodded. “Yeah. Best I have in a while.”

Your smile grew just a little. “I’m glad.”

Silence settled again, not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Then, after a beat, Bucky sighed.

“I’m sorry that I don’t talk to you much outside of… lessons.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine, Bucky. You don’t… owe me anything.”

“It’s just… I don’t know how to act,” he admitted, gaze flicking away. “Not with everyone watching. I don’t want them figuring out. I don’t like their attention being all over me.”

Your smile faltered for just a second before you forced it back into place.

“How’s your shoulder?” you asked, shifting the conversation.

Bucky’s brows pulled together in confusion. “How do you know about that—?”

You shrugged. It was your job to observe. To pick people apart and learn their secrets before they even knew them themselves. “During training, I’ve noticed you favour your right side. You block and punch heavier with it. You were compensating subconsciously because your left side was giving you grief. Have you thought about seeing a physio?”

His lips parted slightly like he hadn’t expected you to catch that. Then his gaze narrowed, a hint of suspicion creeping in.

“Is that why you gave me a massage yesterday?”

You smirked, tilting your head playfully. “Hm. Maybe.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Always two steps ahead, huh?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes glinting with amusement, a witty remark hanging off your tongue—only to dissolve the moment the door swung open.

Steve sauntered in, halting mid-step by the sinks as he took in the scene. You were kneeling between Bucky’s legs, a faint smirk tugging at your mouth while he looked down at you with something dangerously close to a smile—bloody paper towel and all.

Steve’s brows lifted. Confusion crossed his face, mixed with something harder to place, surprise? Suspicion? Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t expecting this.

You jerked back instinctively, hands bracing on your thighs as you turned to face him.

“It’s not broken,” you announced a little too quickly, jerking your chin toward Bucky. “He’ll live. Bit of swelling and a bit of bruising. Nothing that won’t fade.”

Steve blinked, still trying to piece things together. “I didn’t realise you two were… friends?”

You let out a short, sharp laugh, already on your feet and several paces away. “Hear that, Barnes? We’re friends now.”

Bucky—who stiffly sat on the bench, with his hands still braced against his knees—remained utterly rooted in place as if one wrong move would shatter the illusion. His eyes flicked to you, then to Steve, then back to you, a silent plea not to say anything more.

Steve, on the other hand, still looked perplexed.

“What?” you asked, turning back to the sink and rinsing your hands of the small amount of blood that had smudged across the skin during your brief inspection.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing, I just, uh…” His face twisted slightly like he regretted speaking at all. “I’ve never heard you laugh before. It surprised me, that’s all.”

That stopped you. Cold. The smirk slipped from your face like it had never been there. Classic Steve Rogers. World’s most well-meaning bastard. Saying the worst possible thing with the purest damn intentions.

You hadn’t exactly made yourself the most approachable presence on the team. You kept your distance, never bought into the ‘team bonding’ crap that Stark and Fury constantly tried to shove down your throat. You weren’t here for friendships but to do a job. But something about how he said it—I’ve never heard you laugh before—grated deep. Like your silence was an affliction. Like you were broken because you didn’t play nice like everyone else.

Without thinking, you flicked water in his direction.

He flinched back with a slight grimace.

“Thanks, Rogers,” you said, bone-dry. Then you turned, walking away without another word.

You could faintly hear Steve’s voice, panicked and confused, coming from behind you as you pushed the door open.

“What? What did I do?” he called to Bucky, his voice trailing.

“That was painful,” Bucky muttered loud enough for you to catch. “You always tell women to smile more, or is that just your opener? Remind me how you bagged Sharon talking like that—”

“That wasn’t what I was saying—!” Steve protested, his words quickly swallowed by the sound of the door snapping shut behind you

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, you probably would laugh more if life hadn’t spent the past few years making sure you forgot how. If it weren’t for how every genuine emotion now felt like an act, something you wielded like a weapon to get what you wanted. The only time you really smiled or laughed anymore was on missions, tools of the trade. Smile here, flirt there, manipulate, mislead, vanish. You could fake it all like second nature, charm so convincing it fooled even yourself sometimes.

Because when it was real, it still felt like a lie.

You stalked back into the gym, trying to push the thoughts aside. Yelena’s sharp eyes caught yours almost immediately. “We’re going to the bar after this. You coming?”

You reached for your gym bag, slinging it over your shoulder without missing a beat. “No,” you answered flatly, prowling to walk toward the door.

“You’re not coming?” Kate had appeared from nowhere at your side, big blue eyes staring up at you.

You glanced down at her, deadpan. “Can you even go? Aren’t you like twelve?”

Kate’s begging expression melted into a playful glare, hands on her hips as you hesitated by the door. “No! I’m in college. I’m not a kid!”

You raised an eyebrow, her defensive tone amusing you. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she shot back, almost proudly.

You grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Ah, barely legal.”

��It’s fine, she’ll be with us!” Yelena chimed in, giving you a pleading look. “Nat is coming, the others too, maybe Kate can buy Bucky a drink as an apology for breaking his nose—”

“Hey! I didn’t break it!” Kate protested, then looked up at you with a fearful expression, voice dipping in volume. “I didn’t, did I?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in dramatically as if giving a speech. “I can already see the headline: ‘Avengers Drunken Antics on Public Display’—.’”

Yelena scowled at you. “It’s fine!”

You smirked, but the exhaustion from the past few hours still weighed heavily on you. “You’re probably right. I can’t say much, in Russia we had vodka with breakfast.”

“So you’re coming?” Yelena asked one last time, sounding hopeful despite your resistance.

“No.” You said it with finality. “I’ve seen too much of your face today. I need a break.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, but Kate was already heading towards her bag with a skip in her step. “Fine! More for us then!”

—

The training room was unusually quiet without Yelena’s smartass remarks ricocheting off the walls. Usually, the three of you trained together in the early mornings, but she and Kate were off on some covert infiltration upstate. Childs play for Yelena, really, though she’d taken her duties as a mentor for her little pet project rather seriously. That left just you and Natasha circling each other on the mat. You weren’t exactly thrilled about Yelena’s absence, which meant you were facing the full brunt of Natasha’s wrath alone. What didn’t help was that you hadn’t slept properly in days. You were running on fumes, and it showed. The last week had felt like one long string of wipeouts, each one dragging you down further with no sign of relief.

You ducked beneath a lazy strike, half-hearted at best, and swept your leg toward Natasha’s ribs. She blocked it with her shin like she’d barely noticed.

“Sloppy,” she remarked.

You threw a punch, weak and lazy. Natasha easily caught your wrist, spinning your body and throwing you to the mat. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. She didn’t even break a sweat. She let out a short laugh, her hair spilling into her face as she looked down at you, amused.

But something was off.

Not in how she fought—no, that was as sharp as ever—but in her expression. Tight-lipped. Smug. And not her usual brand of smug, either. This was different, like she was sitting on a secret and absolutely itching for you to notice. She had that look again. The same one she’d had for the last two weeks. A silent challenge. An arrogant knowing. A game of cat and mouse neither of you had been willing to finish.

You groaned, deciding to cut your losses and pushed yourself off the mat, wiping sweat from your brow.

“There’s obviously something you want to say to me,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t even pause. She moved in for another strike before you could fully recover, but you caught her forearm and twisted. She resisted effortlessly, that infuriating calm grin spreading across her face again.

“Nope,” she said. “Just… pleased, that’s all.”

“Pleased about what?” you asked cautiously.

Natasha pivoted out of your grip like water slipping through your fingers and swept your legs out from under you with a sharp hook of her foot. You hit the ground again with a dull thud. She didn’t bother offering you a hand up as if half-convinced you’d stay down.

“That I figured out your little secret before everyone else.” Her grin turned vicious. She started to circle you again, tone sing-song and entirely too satisfied. “Took me a while, but once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.”

You rolled up to your feet, levelling her with a look. “What secret?”

You played it cool. Innocent. But you both knew the gig was up. Natasha was like you, trained to spot what others missed, to read the body language no one else even registered. She’d probably clocked you and Bucky the moment you returned from the Gala. She and Yelena hadn’t exactly been subtle about their hunches, either.

She raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You’re really going to make me say it?”

You blinked back at her, expression blank.

“You,” she said, dragging the word out. “And Barnes.”

You deflected with a snort. “Yelena’s theories getting to you?”

“Don’t lie.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “He’s always making those puppy-dog eyes at you when he thinks no one’s looking.”

You barked a laugh, catching her off guard just long enough for you to swing a low kick her way. She dodged it neatly.

“Puppy-dog eyes? I can’t imagine it.” You lied through your teeth. “He always looks like someone kicked him while he was down. That or the brooding.”

Natasha’s smirk sharpened. “And you’re into that? He must be a very good fuck if you’re sticking around this long.”

“We haven’t…” You hesitated with a curse, missing a beat in your footwork. You shook your head, willing your mind to be able to focus on two tasks at once through the haze of fatigue. “Why would I want to fuck Barnes—”

“Considering our line of work, you’re a terrible liar sometimes.” You scowled at the amusement dripping from her voice.

“It’s not like that between us.” You relented. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway—”

She cut over you, tilting her head. “You’re telling me you two haven’t had sex? God, don’t tell me it’s romance—”

“I’m just helping him feel normal.” You snapped back, hoping to shut her down before it got worse. “H.Y.D.R.A fucked him up, that’s for sure. The same way the Red Room fucked us up.”

Natasha made a face like something had clicked into place in her mind. “Shit.”

Your stomach dropped, movements stuttering as you realised you had unintentionally opened the floodgates.

“Right,” she murmured, and something about her tone shifted. Not her usual brand of teasing. “You’re not… Never mind.”

You lunged toward her on instinct, catching her wrist with a clumsy grip. The contact was unsteady, your fingers didn’t have the strength they usually did, and Natasha didn’t fight back immediately.

“What?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied too quickly, too carefully.

“You’ve said it now,” you pressed, breath short. “Go on.”

She hesitated, her jaw ticking as her gaze drifted down, avoiding yours. The tension in her body softened by degrees, like she’d been carrying the thought for too long and finally decided it wasn’t worth holding onto.

“I just…” she exhaled, slow and controlled, “I worry about you sometimes. I hope you’re not taking on too much.”

You blinked at her, the fog in your head thick and sluggish. “Why do you say that?”

“You know what I mean.”

You knew what she meant, even if it was a truth you’d been hiding from yourself. A truth you didn’t want to look at too closely out of fear of it consuming you whole. A dull ache formed your chest, a lump in your throat as you shook your head.

You knew Natasha wouldn’t have had any way of knowing those forbidden words you’d uttered to Bucky, the ones he had missed as sleep had pulled him under, the thoughts that haunted you now that you had finally shown them acknowledgement. You felt sick. Rotten to your core. Like maggots and rot festered within, wriggling and twitching beneath the skin, just enough for you to pretend, smile, and continue like normal as your world shattered around you.

“I’m not some broken little girl, Nat,” you said, heat rising behind your words. “I can look after myself.”

“I’m sure of that,” she said softly, and it was the softness that rattled you most. Natasha didn’t do soft unless it mattered. “But… can you look after yourself? Or have you just isolated yourself for so long that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking the only person you can trust is yourself?”

Her voice, the quiet honesty of it, landed harder than any blow she’d dealt all morning.

You looked down, your fists trembling faintly. You flexed your fingers, opening and closing them like the answer might be written in your palms.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t believe you either. You could feel it in the silence between her breaths. Natasha never spoke unless she meant it. She was always calculating like you.

“I just…” she said, the words tentative like they were being picked up and examined before they left her mouth. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

She paused, then added with a wry twist of her lips as if to soften the blow, “Or Barnes.”

You snorted, the sound bitter and short. “Since when do you care about Barnes?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Not really. But if he gets attached and this doesn’t go how he hopes, he could spiral. And if you get attached and he panics…”

“I know.”

And you did. You knew it too well. The thought had curled up behind your ribs and sat there, heavy and unwanted, gnawing at you whenever he looked at you like you were something soft. Like you were safe. You didn’t feel like a safe option.

“Just…” Natasha’s voice was quieter now, more cautious. “Don’t lose yourself trying to fix him.”

You met her eyes, forcing yourself to stay grounded. To not waver. “I’m not damaged.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but you saw how her brow pinched, the subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You know what I mean,” she said.

You sighed, the weight of your exhaustion peeling every word from your throat like it didn’t want to come willingly. “I’m also not trying to fix him. We’re just… friends. With benefits. Nothing more.”

She gave a slow nod like she was willing to accept that on paper, but in her gut, she wasn’t buying it.

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll believe you. Just… don’t go all radio silent on me like you do. I’m here for you, you know?”

You raised a brow, trying for humour but lacking the energy to pull it off entirely. “You getting all sappy on me now?”

“Never.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“Hm. Maybe.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brow. “But don’t tell Yelena. She’ll rip me to fucking shreds over it.”

Despite yourself, you let out a faint, tired laugh.

But it only lasted a second before Natasha lunged again.

You weren’t fast enough this time—your sluggish body didn’t catch up to the signal your brain sent. Her leg swept yours, and the mat slammed into your shoulder before you even realised you were falling. Pain flared, dull and heavy, and you lay there. Breathing hard. Staring up at the ceiling like it might offer you some kind of answer.

Natasha hovered above you, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable.

“Seriously,” she said. “When was the last time you actually slept? You look like shit.”

There it was, the usual cool, snide remark to cushion the fact that she truly cared. Like she knew you’d run like a spooked animal if she showed too much kindness. You didn’t answer right away. Just closed your eyes and let the silence stretch.

Natasha let out a grunt, not the least bit impressed.

—

You would have to warn Bucky that if he kept looking at you like that, the two of you were bound to end up in a whole world of trouble.

It was bad enough that Natasha was on your tail—worse than that—she’d found the bones in your closet, polished them clean, and lined them up like trophies. You knew she wouldn’t breathe a word to Yelena, or anyone else for that matter, but you could feel a future creeping toward you, one where her tongue slipped. Just once. That’s all it would take.

And Bucky? He wasn’t helping. Not with that look. Not when even Steve Rogers did a double take, brows ticking up as if to say really, Buck?

You were fresh off a particularly gruelling recon mission at Karpin’s club. No fists were thrown, no bullets dodged, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. Playing the role of an attractive, naïve dancer took more skill than most people realised. You’d spent the last six weeks prying secrets from Karpin’s greasy fingers. Details about his buyers, how payments were moved, anything useful. He never suspected a thing, too high on his own ego to realise the little thing on his arm was gutting him for intel.

Fury had been unmistakable in his instructions—get the buyers first. If they caught wind that S.H.I.E.L.D was sniffing around, they’d scatter like roaches, and the whole operation would collapse. So you played the waiting game. Carefully. Precisely. Night after night.

Now you just wanted a drink. And a scalding-hot shower. Maybe both at once. Your skin felt like it had absorbed the club, cheap vodka, cigarette smoke, and desperation.

You adjusted the fur coat around your shoulders with a groan, trying to ignore how your dress—if you could even call it that—kept shifting against your skin. Yelena had dubbed the coat your ‘mob wife piece’ after finally watching The Sopranos, and the name had stuck. Your heels were the real punishment, though. Tall, unforgiving, and cursed by whatever sadist designed them.

After every recon job, the standard protocol was to turn in evidence immediately—cameras, bugs, audio mics, and a hand-written report. After six hours of playing pretend, you were scribbling in agonising detail while the evidence collection agent across from you gave you a rather pointed, unamused look. You briefly considered banging your head against the desk.

And, of course, Bucky was watching you. Not subtly. No, he was seated in a glass-walled meeting room across the way, surrounded by agents and Avengers, but his eyes hadn’t left you in a while. He looked like a gambler who’d just hit the jackpot. You watched him watching you, and you forgot to be annoyed for a second. He looked... ravenous. Unapologetically so.

The meeting finally broke. Doors opened. Agents spilled out. That was your cue. Evidence was handed in, and your aching wrist is getting no thanks for its service. The agent slid your report into a folder stamped ‘CLASSIFIED’ in angry red ink. You almost laughed. God, the theatre of it all.

Natasha bumped your shoulder as she sauntered past towards the elevator.

“Better keep loverboy in check,” she muttered in your ear as she passed. Her smirk was wicked.

You shot her a scowl.

Bucky was in the crowd, still watching. His gaze wasn’t on your scowl, though. It was lower. Tracing the cling of the gold mesh slip dress, the way it shimmered under the harsh overhead lights. Tacky enough for the job. Tight enough to draw attention. It hugged every curve with intent, and though it wasn’t your usual style, you were beginning to wonder if it might become one.

You hadn’t pegged Bucky for the type who’d go wild for glitter and skin, but judging by the look in his eyes…

Thank god for lessons, or he'd be dealing with a very awkward elevator ride.

“I think I’ll take the stairs,” you replied, more bitterly than you meant to.

Natasha smirked as the elevator doors began to close, her eyes dancing with amusement and just a hint of sympathy. But it was Bucky’s gaze that lingered until the very last second as if he could memorise the sight of you before the doors cut him off.

You turned sharply on your heel and made for the stairs, the ache in your feet be damned. The heels bit with every step, but you welcomed the sting. It was easier to focus on than the heat lingering after Bucky’s gaze.

Four flights up, your phone dinged.

You didn’t have to check it to know. You already had a feeling. Still, a smirk pulled at your lips as you glanced at the lock screen.

Can I see you tonight?

Bucky had taken to modern tech far better than Steve ever had. Where Steve still asked what a GIF was or accidentally created a new group chat every time he tried to reply, Bucky had easily slipped into the rhythm.

You thumbed out a reply as you rounded the next flight of stairs.

Aren’t you going out for drinks with the others?

Fridays had become a ritual for the team, provided no one was off saving the world or buried in a mission, so there’d be a few rounds at a bar nearby. Laughter. Cheap beer. Temporary normalcy.

You watched the typing bubble flicker to life… then vanish. Then again. And again.

Not my scene.

A pause.

Is that a no?

You grinned, slowing your steps just a little. You could picture him sitting on the edge of his bed, hovering over the screen like the answer might change everything.

You typed quickly.

I’ll come to your room right now if you ask nicely.

You paused in the stairway, hesitating outside the door for the residential floor where all the apartments were located. Your pulse tapped a little faster beneath your skin.

Another ding.

Please?

That was all it took.

You pushed open the door.

On my way.

—

“I want to try something different,” you murmured against Bucky’s skin, your lips brushing the hollow of his throat as you nuzzled into the warmth of his neck.

It all happened in a blur when you stepped through his door. Heels abandoned at the threshold, your coat sliding from your shoulders like a shrug of tension gone loose. Bucky had lasted all of two seconds, long enough for a strained smile and a greeting muttered through clenched teeth before instinct took over. His hands found your waist. Your back. Your thighs. And then you were in his lap as he stumbled backwards onto the bed, the mattress giving under both your weight and the familiar gravity that always pulled you toward each other.

Mumbled apologies about the scent of alcohol and sweat were lost beneath kisses, the air thick with the smell of him—black coffee from his meeting and that damn aftershave—as you melted into your usual spot atop him.

His rough palm ghosted up the back of your thigh in lazy strokes, the pads of his fingers brushing skin like he already knew it by heart. You blinked up at him, studying the angles of his face, searching for that tell-tale flicker, tightening of his jaw, a furrow between his brows, anything that indicated hesitation or worry. But there was none. Instead, he caught your eye, the touch of vibranium fingers cool and featherlight against your cheek.

“Last time you said that,” he murmured with a low chuckle, “you blindfolded me.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” You cut back rather smugly, only to be met with a reluctant hum of agreement. “I want to talk about something first.”

Bucky stilled, alert now in that quiet, observant way of his. “What’s that?”

Your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt. “Are you afraid of me touching you?”

He blinked, surprised. “No? Is this a trick question—?”

“Do you like me touching you?”

“Yes.” His answer came easily, without hesitation.

“But you don’t like me touching your cock.”

That gave him pause. The stroking of your thigh faltered. There it was, his jaw ticked, the smallest tension rising between his brows like a storm cloud forming just behind his eyes.

“I don’t…Isn’t that what we’ve been doing these past few months?” His voice was low, cautious.

“You let me touch you near it,” you said gently. “But if I move my hand under your waistband, even just a little, you freeze. You ask me to stop. I just want to know why.”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. He stared at the ceiling instead of at you, like maybe the answer was written there if he looked hard enough.

“There’s no wrong answer,” you whispered. “I’m not upset. I’m not trying to push you. I just want to understand. To help.”

He exhaled slowly, brows knitting in thought.

“It’s overwhelming, I think,” he said finally. “The added…feeling. On top of everything else that’s already happening.”

“So,” you said slowly, “if it happened in isolation. Nothing else, just that, you’d feel more comfortable? More in control?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I think so.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “Would you be okay with trying today? Right now?”

His eyes finally met yours, a flash of vulnerability behind the steel blue. “Putting me on the spot here, doll…”

Doll. That was a pet name you wouldn’t look too deeply into. Or acknowledge. He didn’t even seem to notice he had said it.

“You can always say no,” you reminded him softly. “That’s the most important rule, always. Either of us can stop at any time. No questions, no pressure, no hard feelings.”

He was quiet momentarily, gaze flickering between your eyes, searching for something. Then he nodded once, steady.

“Let’s do it.”

You paused, holding his gaze. “Are you sure?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a touch wry. “I trusted you when you blindfolded me, didn’t I?” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “I don’t see any reason not to trust you now.”

That was all the encouragement you needed.

You slipped off his lap with ease, sinking onto the floor between his knees, the hem of your dress bunching up around your thighs. You blinked up at him expectantly, steady but unhurried. Bucky hesitated, shoulders tensing as his hands hovered uncertainly at his belt. A flicker of embarrassment was behind his eyes, the kind he hadn’t yet learned to hide from you.

You didn’t comment on it. Didn’t tease him for the blush creeping up his neck, or for the way his fingers fumbled slightly as he undid the buckle and began peeling off the layers. You just waited—quiet, patient, allowing him to find his own pace. You didn’t point out the irony of it all, how easily he’d unravel for you, but how nudity still brought hesitation. Like showing skin was somehow more vulnerable than offering up his soul.

His boxers were the last to go, and by the time he slid them down, he was already half-hard, his cock flushed with arousal. The pink tint on his cheeks deepened as his eyes darted away from yours.

You tilted your head, shifting closer until you were kneeling between his legs. The warmth radiating from his thighs drew you in like a hearth. Your hand brushed lightly over his knee in reassurance, and he twitched at the contact.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice more hum than a question.

He nodded, but it was too tight, too instinctive.

You paused.

“Need to hear your words, Bucky. I’m only going to do this if you tell me you’re okay.”

There was a beat of silence, his vibranium hand clenching in the sheets beside him.

“I want this,” he said, voice low but certain, even if his body still trembled faintly beneath you.

You held his gaze for a moment longer, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breath.

“You remember what to say if you need to stop?”

He nodded again, more grounded this time. “Yeah. I remember.”

Satisfied, you reached out, your fingers wrapping gently around the base of his cock. You were cautious at first, letting your touch linger without pressure, just the soft drag of skin against skin. A strained groan left him almost immediately, the muscles in his thighs tightening on either side of you.

You glanced up at him through your lashes, watching his face twist with the sensation. His jaw slackened, mouth parted, eyes nearly fluttering closed as you began to stroke him. Slow, deliberate, careful. He was thick and heavy in your hand, already pulsing with anticipation, growing harder by the second. You shouldn’t have been surprised. Not after the nights spent grinding into each other, his arousal pressed tight and insistent through layers of clothing, but still, the reality of him was enough to stir a wicked spark behind your smile.

You pumped him a few more times, watching how easily his composure began to slip. He was already squirming, breaths ragged, his abdomen twitching every time your palm slid down to the base and back up again.

His head fell back, a quiet whimper escaping him as you thumbed over the slit at the head of his cock. He flinched from the contact, one hand flying to your elbow and gripping it like an anchor, his whole body responding to the jolt of pleasure like he’d been struck by lightning.

“How do you feel?” you asked, voice low, almost teasing.

It took him a moment to answer. His lips parted, trying to form words while his chest heaved, his eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A drop of pre-cum beaded at the tip, and you collected it with your fingers, spreading it down the shaft to ease your rhythm.

“Good,” he finally gasped. “Amazing. Did it always… I don’t remember it feeling—”

His words dissolved into a sharp gasp as you leaned forward and kissed the tip. The contact was featherlight, but it shattered him. His metal hand shot up into your hair, not to pull or direct, but to ground himself, trembling as if the sensation threatened to lift him right out of his skin.

“Oh my god—” He began to whine.

You giggled softly, the warmth of your breath enough to send him over the edge.

Bucky came with a choked moan, his hips jerking as thick, hot ropes spilt over your chin and neck. His thighs trembled with the force of it, his head thrown back as if he couldn’t bear the weight of pleasure crashing through him. You stroked him through it, gentle and slow, coaxing every last pulse from him while he tried and failed to string thoughts together.

As he collapsed back against the mattress, boneless and dazed, you ran a hand up the inside of his thigh, using it as leverage to push yourself upright. His grip on your hair slackened and fell away, his hands lying limp beside him, fingers twitching faintly in the aftershocks.

“I’m gonna clean up,” you hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back, okay?”

He didn’t even open his eyes, just nodded, lips parted, breath still ragged.

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice thick and warm with lingering arousal. “I’ll be right here.”

—

It took only a few minutes to freshen up. You moved on muscle memory, warm water, damp cloth, and a quick sweep of your hair from your neck. You paused before leaving the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel in case he wanted it.

But when you stepped back into the bedroom, you found he’d already taken care of himself, his boxers pulled back on.

Bucky was sprawled across the mattress like he’d melted into it, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. He looked wrecked—in the best way. Hair tousled, chest rising and falling in a slow, almost dazed rhythm, but his gaze sharpened the second it landed on you. A lazy, crooked grin tugged at his lips as he lifted an arm in a silent invitation, eyes still half-lidded and blown wide with the afterglow.

You climbed into bed beside him, the weight of his body shifting as you curled into the space between his arm and chest. His skin was warm against yours, the hum of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. You pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his jaw, and his breath hitched as your hand slid over his stomach.

His mouth found yours not long after, lazy and unhurried like neither of you wanted to break the spell. It didn’t stay that way for long. Hunger crept in. Familiar, greedy heat as his mouth parted and his fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

And then… you felt him. Again.

Your thigh brushed his hip, and you stilled. Then pulled back, brows arching in playful disbelief. “Already?”

The question hung in the air like a teasing note, half-smirk, half-curiosity.

Bucky’s eyes dipped, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks. He looked momentarily abashed as if he’d been caught red-handed, though the evidence quite literally pressed against your leg.

“It’s the super soldier serum,” he mumbled, the corner of his mouth curling despite himself.

You tilted your head, amusement rising. He was trying to play it cool, but the slight flush on his ears gave him away.

“Oh?” you drawled. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”

His fingers scratched lightly at the back of his neck, a classic tell.

“Steve said something once,” he offered, deliberately vague.

You blinked. Your smile widened, slow and predatory.

“Steve?” you echoed. “You’ve been talking to Steve about this?”

“No!” His protest was immediate and rushed like a man trying to stop a landslide with a broom. “Not exactly,” he amended quickly. “He was talking about Sharon, I guess.”

A laugh bubbled up, and you bit your bottom lip to stifle it, your hand resting lightly on his chest. You could feel the way his heart kicked beneath your palm. Nervous, flustered. Bucky Barnes, caught in the act of oversharing.

“Sharon, huh?” you said innocently, voice tinged with mischief.

His eyes narrowed slightly, catching the shift in your tone. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said airily, pretending to inspect the stitching on the pillowcase behind his head. “Just something Yelena said the other day.”

Suspicion flickered in his gaze, but you forged ahead.

“She thinks Steve wasn’t as innocent as we all pegged him. Something about spotting him and Sharon… in a compromising position.”

Bucky snorted, turning his face into your shoulder to muffle the sound. “I wonder what they’d make of this.”

“Oh, I’d never hear the end of it,” you groaned, flopping onto your back with theatrical flair. “They’re already circling like vultures, trying to interrogate me about the gala.”

He shifted beside you, propping himself up slightly on his elbow to get a better look at your face. “And what did you tell them?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for the silence to tighten.

There it was, the flicker of guilt behind your eyes. You could feel it rise like a slow tide in your chest, swelling into your throat. You should tell him. About Natasha’s uncanny perception, the way her gaze had cut straight through you like a knife, and how you’d cracked under pressure with barely a word from her.

But you didn’t. You weren’t sure how he’d take it. Knowing someone else was privy to this—this, your quiet little secret.

“Nothing,” you said, soft but firm, hoping your smile would mask the lie.

His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but you saw his brow furrowed slightly—a quiet sharpening behind the eye.

“Nothing?” he repeated.

“I just…” You sighed, turning to face him properly. The pillow dipped beneath your cheek. “I figured you didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to make things messy.”

He was quiet. His gaze flicked to the ceiling, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower. “Yeah. It’s probably for the best, isn’t it?”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced by his own words, and you didn’t feel entirely convinced either.

“It’s up to you,” you said eventually. “Everyone’s image of me is already… well, damaged.” You let out a soft, bitter laugh, fingers twisting idly in the edge of the sheets. “I’m sure this will hardly ruin my reputation. But yours…”

“That seems unfair,” he said, brows drawing together.

“What does?”

“The way they treat you.” Your breath caught slightly, unprepared for its bluntness. You looked at him, and he met your gaze head-on. No hesitation, no irony. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. And before you could piece together a response, he spoke again. “Do you always do that? Make yourself smaller for other people?”

The question landed like a stone in your gut. You froze, eyes searching his face, almost disbelieving.

He hadn’t said it unkindly. But it lodged deep.

For a moment, you were tempted to laugh it off, to deflect, to be clever. Anything to avoid the sudden, unexpected vulnerability that cracked open inside you like a fault line.

Had he been watching you this whole time? Not just looking, but seeing? Had you been too busy circling Bucky to notice that he circled you in return?

You smiled weakly, wanting to fill the dreadful silence that had settled over the both of you. “I could say the same for you.”

His hand slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him again. You could feel the weight of him against your hip, the heat building between you again.

You let your nose brush his. “Still something to do with the serum?”

Bucky smirked, lips brushing yours. “That… and you.”

You exhaled a breathless laugh, but something about the way his thumbs moved, slow circles against your ribs, made the warmth curl low in your belly again. The mood was shifting. Building. You could feel it.

And then his voice turned quieter. Uncertain.

“I feel bad,” he murmured.

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see the look on his face.

“Bad?” you repeated, confused.

“For not…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “Returning the favour.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped against your skin.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “you don’t have to do everything all at once.”

He frowned, and you could tell he didn’t quite agree. Always so ready to shoulder weight that was never meant to be his. Always prepared to give more than he thought he was allowed to take. He carried guilt like it was just another one of his old injuries that could never quite be healed.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” you added, quieter now. “With information. Or… expectations.”

His eyes searched yours. “But I want to learn.”

“There’s a little more involved in getting a woman to orgasm,” you said, but your tone light as you tried to shake off the weight of his gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be… I just want to make you feel good.”

God. He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.

Your resolve crumbled.

You rose slowly, coaxing him to sit up with you. Straddling his hips felt natural now, like returning to a familiar place. You took his hand gently, guiding it up over your shoulder over the thin gold strap of your dress.

“Okay,” you murmured. “Then help me take this off.”

His fingers moved with care, grazing over your skin, catching the strap between his thumb and forefinger as he began to ease the dress down your arms. The fabric slid away like a sigh, pooling around your waist, revealing the strapless bra beneath.

You felt him falter, brow furrowing in confusion. “How does this…?”

You turned around on your knees, back to him. “It unclips at the back,” you murmured, sweeping your hair over one shoulder to expose the delicate line of your spine.

“Just three hooks. Here.” You reached behind you, fingertips brushing the clasp.

His fingers met yours, searching as he followed your instructions. A breath escaped him, soft and shallow, before he found the hooks and gently undid them one click at a time.

The tension in your shoulders eased just a fraction. “There you go.”

His hands hovered, uncertain now that your bare back was before him like an empty canvas. You tossed the bra to the floor and reached back, guiding his hands to your waist, then up, encouraging him to cup the full weight of your breasts. He was hesitant at first, the pads of his fingers a little stiff, a little too tense. The contrast of warm flesh and cool vibranium sent a delicious shiver spiralling through you, eliciting a long, satisfied sigh.

That sound seemed to break whatever restraint he was clinging to. His grip shifted, confidence blooming. He began to knead and explore, thumbs brushing experimentally over your nipples. When a vibranium finger flicked one with the barest touch, you let out a soft whine, your back arching to press yourself flush against his chest.

“I think I like this,” he murmured, voice husky at your ear, breath fanning warm across your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, turning slowly to face him again, your balance steady in his palms. His hands slid down to anchor you at the hips.

His gaze lingered, not just on your chest, but on your face. Like he was still processing, still memorising. Desire curled in your gut, a heartbeat between your legs. You fought the urge to reach down, to chase the friction your body was begging for.

Bucky leaned forward and kissed you again. Something in him had shifted. He wasn’t following anymore. He was moving with intent. And when he gently rolled you back onto the pillows, his weight settling above yours, your breath hitched.

You tried to ignore the instinct curling tight in your belly. Tried not to let the familiar feeling of being beneath someone stir that old panic. Like the walls might close in around you. Like control was slipping just a little too far out of reach.

His mouth trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, between your breasts, and you squirmed ever-so-slightly beneath him. His tongue flicked out to taste your skin, a soft sound of satisfaction humming against you. He licked a rough stroke over one of your nipples as if it were a primal instinct.

You groaned, one hand gently scratching across his back, the other through his hair. His knee slotted between your thighs, parting them easily, the gold fabric of your dress bunched at your waist. Only a thin slip of lace remained between you. He didn’t look down. He didn’t need to, his lips were still worshipping your chest.

His vibranium hand curved over your knee, pushing you open further, his hips grinding lightly into yours, and that flicker of alarm surged. Too strong to ignore.

You moved fluidly before it could root itself. With practised grace, you flipped the two of you, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips in a single, breathless motion. He made no protest, just let out a pleased groan as his hands found your thighs.

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in the present. In him. His wide eyes blinking up at you, still caught in the moment.

He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t ask why you took control again.

And you were grateful.

As you steadied yourself above him, he sat up suddenly, arms sliding around your waist. His mouth pressed a slow kiss to your sternum. He looked up at you, lashes fluttering, nose brushing the curve of your breast.

Your breath caught in your throat.

As he pressed another kiss to your skin, you realised—without a doubt—that maybe this was the single most erotic moment of your life.

Not the act, not the heat of it all but him. The way he looked at you. The gentleness in his hands. The trust humming beneath his skin like a live wire. The way your name might’ve been forming behind his teeth, even if he hadn’t spoken it.

You sank your hands into his hair and pulled him closer.

You were still tangled in each other, the heat between your bodies humming like static, when the apartment door swung open with an easy, unthinking click.

“Hey Buck, you sure you don’t wanna come out with us—?”

The cheerful voice stopped cold.

Steve.

---

PART FOUR

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