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pucksandpower · 2 months

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Let the World Burn

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari driver!Reader

Summary: a brake failure sends Charles world spinning out of control

Warnings: crash, partial paralysis, brain injury, and plenty of angst (with a happy ending because I’m still me)

Based on this request

The paddock thrums with energy as you make your way to your car, adrenaline already coursing through your veins. Charles falls into step beside you, his presence as familiar and comforting as the roar of engines.

“Ready to show them how it’s done, mon amour?” His voice is a low rumble, eyes alight with competitive fire.

You grin, leaning in to press a swift kiss to his lips. “Always. You’ll be the one watching my rear wing this time.”

Charles laughs, the sound rich and warm. “We’ll see about that.” He squeezes your hand, calloused fingers intertwining with yours. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words carry the weight of a thousand unspoken promises, a vow as binding as the wedding bands you can’t yet wear.

All too soon, you’re parting ways, disappearing into the organized chaos of the garage. You slide into the snug confines of the cockpit, the car’s familiar lines an extension of your own body. A flurry of final checks, the high-pitched whine of the engine firing up, and then you’re rolling onto the grid, the tension crackling like static electricity.

The lights go out, and the world narrows to the scream of tires on tarmac, the high-pitched howl of the engine, and the razor-sharp focus that has carried you this far. You and Charles trade positions with every corner, locked in an exhilarating duel that has the crowd on its feet.

And then, without warning, your world fractures.

The pedal goes soft underfoot, your instincts screaming even before the telltale high-pitched whine cuts through the roar of the engine. You slam on the brakes, but the response is sickening— a bare fraction of the deceleration you need.

“Ricky?” Your voice is tight, the adrenaline surging as the implications crash over you in waves. “I’ve got a brake issue here. A big one.”

“Copy that.” Ricky’s tone is clipped, professional, even as your heart rabbits in your chest. “Okay, let’s try cycling the systems-”

You follow his instructions with mechanical precision, but the results are the same: negligible braking force, the car still hurtling forward at murderous speeds. A hairpin looms ahead, the barriers terrifyingly close, and you fight the wheel with everything you have, desperate to keep the bucking machine on track.

“Ricky, is this being broadcast?” The words tumble out in a breathless rush as the Turn looms closer, closer.

“Affirmative.” There’s a pause, the faintest tremor in Ricky’s voice. “It’s going out live.”

You exhale, a shuddering breath that shakes your entire frame. There’s only one person you need to reach now.

“Charles.” His name catches in your throat, thick with emotion. “If you’re listening to this-”

The tears come then, hot and blinding as you wrestle with the uncontrollable car. This can’t be how it ends, not like this, not when you’d imagined decades more by his side.

“In some other life, maybe we would have grown old together.” The words are torn from the depths of your soul, raw and wrenched free by the stark reality bearing down on you. “I wish I could have given you babies and watched our children grow up and lived a long life by your side like we always dreamed.”

Your vision blurs, the turn now a void of unforgiving concrete rushing up to meet you. You fight the wheel with everything you have, but there’s no stopping the inevitable now.

“You deserve every happiness, my love. If … if I don’t make it, please … please find someone else to love and cherish. Don't grieve forever. Be happy.” The brake pedal is useless under your foot, the barriers skimming past in a blur of terror. “Because you deserve all the love in this world and so much more.”

“I hope you’ll hear this,” you force out in a cracked whisper. "And I need you to know, my heart, that even if things end here … even if I don’t get to grow old with you … you have been the brightest light in my life these past five years. You made me happier than I ever dreamed. And I will never, ever stop loving you, Charles. Not in this life or the next. You are everything-”

The impact is a cosmic force, obliterating breath and thought and everything else in a blinding flare of darkness. But still, you cling to awareness, to the phantom thread of love that binds you to the one person who matters most.

“I’ll always-” The anguished vow catches, cut brutally short as oblivion rises to claim you. In those final heartbeats, a fleeting kaleidoscope of memories sparks behind your eyes: unmistakable laughter, stolen kisses, quiet moments wrapped in each other’s arms.

Five years of loving Charles, of being loved by him in a way you’d never dared dream possible.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

But it was everything.

“I love-”

Then, nothing.

***

The world fragments around Charles as his gaze locks onto the shattered remains of the familiar red car. One heartbeat — an endless, merciless instant suspended in time — and then his instincts take over with the force of a tidal wave.

“No … no, no, no!” The anguished words rip from his throat as he wrenches the steering wheel, the shriek of tires on tarmac drowned out by the roar of his own pulse thundering in his ears.

The race, the championship, every ambition and dream that has driven him to this point — it all fades into insignificance as he tears down the pitlane, desperation clawing at his throat. “Y/N! Hold on!”

Flames lick hungrily at the twisted wreckage as he sprints towards the mangled chassis, heedless of the searing heat or the choking smoke that burns his lungs. There’s only one thought, one driving need that propels him forward: reach you, get you out, pull you back from the precipice that has opened up beneath his feet.

“Y/N!”

Your name rips from his lips, a hoarse plea swallowed up by the crackle of fire. He skids to a halt beside the wreckage, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the warped metal that has become your cage, your tomb. “Talk to me, mon cœur! I’m here!”

Coherent thought fractures, replaced by blind panic and the soul-deep terror of losing the one light that guides him through this life.

Your eyes are closed, features lax and far too still against the vivid crimson that stains your skin. Charles’ breath catches in his throat, a raw, animal sound clawing its way free as his trembling hands reach for you, desperate to find a flutter of life, a spark of the brilliant fire he knows blazes within you.

“No, no, no … please, stay with me!” He cups your cheek, fingers smearing crimson as they search in vain for a pulse. “I can’t … I can’t lose you!”

Hands grasp at him then, voices raised in shouts he can’t comprehend. He wrestles against the restraints, a feral need to reach you overriding all reason. “Get off me! She needs help!”

But the marshals are insistent, pushing him back with grim determination until he can only watch, helpless, as they douse the ravenous flames.

It feels like an eternity, each gasping breath torn from a soul being flayed apart piece by torturous piece. And then, finally, they move in, the screech of metal and the hiss of hydraulics barely registering over the roar in Charles’ ears.

You’re so still as they work, pale and frighteningly fragile amidst the tangle of debris. A thin rivulet of red trails from the corner of your lips, each sluggish drip a struck match against the powder keg of Charles’ sanity. He takes a shuddering step forward, then another, his world narrowing to the trembling rise and fall of your chest.

“Please … please, stay with me,” he rasps, fingers closing around the rigid lines of the barrier as if it’s the only tether holding him to reality.

A marshal’s hand on his chest, forceful but lacking the strength to halt the unstoppable forward momentum of a man staring into the abyss. “Back off! Let them work!”

But how can he stand back? How can he simply watch as your life’s flame gutters and fades before his eyes? The words climb his throat, tangling into desperate pleas and vows that he’ll burn the world to keep you here, to keep you safe.

Except, no words come. There’s only the taste of ashes on his tongue and the sight of you, broken and bloodied on the unforgiving grass.

The medics arrive in a whirlwind of crisp efficiency, barking terse orders and assessments that slice into Charles with each clipped syllable. He’s dimly aware of the confirmation that you still live, that there’s a chance — but it’s a flicker, fleeting in the face of the reality unfolding before him.

“What are her chances?” The question rasps out, little more than a graveled whisper as he strains against the restraining hands.

You need an airlift, treatment beyond what can be rendered here on this blood-stained stage. Charles knows it, can see the franticness in the medics’ eyes as they work, but the knowledge brings no comfort.

Only an agonizing cycle of seconds hand-cranked like a Medieval torture device, each one stripping another layer of sanity as he watches you slip away.

“Just hang on, mon amour. I’m here … I’m right here.” His voice cracks, breaking on a devastated keen as they load you onto the backboard.

The whine of rotor blades cuts through the static in his head, a cold metallic slice that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He sucks in a breath, lungs burning with the effort as the helicopter circles in a raucous descent.

“Please, let me go with her!” He wrenches against the hands with renewed desperation.

They’re taking you away.

He tries to follow, legs turned to lead weights, only to be held back once more by the wall of marshals. There’s shouting, words and pleas and anguished vows all tangled into an incomprehensible madness. “No! Y/N!”

And then, you’re gone.

Lifted skyward in a cloud of downdraft, growing smaller and more indistinct until the sleek lines of the helicopter grow razor-thin before disappearing completely.

“No … no, no, no!” Charles’ legs buckle, sending him crashing to his knees in the scorched swath of earth where you were just lying. His hands fist in the grass, heedless of the crimson that stains his fingers, his palms, every inch of shredded skin and broken soul.

The world has ended. His universe has imploded.

And all he can do is kneel in the ashes and scream your name into the uncaring void.

***

The deafening roar of engines fades to a dull thrum as Charles staggers away from the wreckage, his world reduced to a kaleidoscope of fractured images and white noise. He doesn’t register the shouts, the hands grasping at his shoulders as he stumbles blindly towards the track’s perimeter.

Racing. Championships. It all feels like a cruel cosmic joke in the face of what he’s just witnessed.

A chain-link fence looms ahead, the flimsy barrier doing nothing to impede his forward momentum. Figures materialize on the other side — fans, their faces twisted in shock and concern—and then hands are reaching through, steadying him as he clambers over the top with a desperation bordering on madness.

He has to get to you. Nothing else matters.

The parking lot stretches out before him, a maze of gleaming supercars and sleek team transporters. His feet move without conscious thought, propelled by a single-minded determination to reach his haven, his sole remaining tether in this swiftly unraveling realm.

Except, when he arrives at his Ferrari, chest heaving with exertion and the first tendrils of panic starting to set in, the awful truth crashes over him like a tsunami.

No keys.

A choking sound tears from his throat, part sob and part anguished growl of frustration. He can’t break down here, not now, not when every fiber of his being screams at him to keep moving, to fight, to-

“Charles!”

The familiar voice cuts through the din, offering a lifeline just as the darkness threatens to swell and consume him utterly. Andrea skids to a halt beside him, chest heaving and face flushed from his own desperate sprint across the paddock.

In his outstretched hand, the keys dangle and glint in the harsh sunlight.

“I had a feeling,” the trainer pants, thrusting the keys towards Charles with a knowing look.

No other words are needed. Charles snatches them with a terse nod, every agonizing second weighing like an eternity as the engine roars to life beneath his expert touch.

His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he wrenches the car into gear, jaw clenched to keep the scream of agony caged behind his teeth. Andrea hardly has time to slam the door before they’re peeling out of the lot in a spray of gravel and burnt rubber.

Except, the awful truth rears its head once more as the speedometer climbs past ludicrous speeds, the blur of the Italian countryside offering no reprieve from the maelstrom tearing him apart from the inside.

“Shit!” Charles’ palm cracks against the steering wheel, knuckles screaming in protest. “Where did they take her?”

Of course Andrea knows what he’s asking. The performance coach doesn’t even hesitate, already dialing his phone with the same razor-sharp focus that has guided Charles through so many battles over the years. “Fred? It’s Andrea. Where did they take Y/N?”

The next few seconds stretch into an eternity, each rattling breath searing Charles’ lungs. The line must still be ringing because Charles can’t make out any other voice, just the muffled hum of the connection and Andrea’s terse breathing. He casts a sidelong glance, jaw clenched so tightly he can feel the tendons straining beneath his skin.

Then, a response — clipped and authoritative even through the tinny speakerphone crackle. “They’ve airlifted her to the trauma center in Milan. She’s still en route.”

No other words are needed. The Ferrari leaps forward with a howl, devouring the asphalt as Charles whites out every other thought, every scrap of sense and reason. All that exists is the burning need to reach you before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Highway signs whip by in a blur, red taillights and shrill horns little more than background noise as he tears down the roads, uncaring of speed limits or lane markers or any of the trifling rules governing the everyday world he’s left behind. Just an animalistic need propelling him forward, the destination the only thing that matters.

Get to her. Don’t be too late. Please, god, don’t let me be too late ...

And then, finally, the looming skyline of Milan rears into view.

Tires squeal in protest as Charles wrenches the steering wheel, the Ferrari fishtailing wildly before rocketing down the street towards the distinctive profile of the hospital. He doesn’t even bother looking for a proper spot, swinging the car up over the curb and leaving it stranded halfway on the sidewalk in a blatant obstruction.

But he doesn’t care. Can’t care about anything beyond reaching you.

The chaos of the emergency room hits them in a crashing wave of noise and activity, but Charles forges ahead undeterred. Shouts and rebuffs part around him like a river around a boulder, falling away as staff recognize the wild-eyed visage barreling towards them.

It’s Italy. It’s the Grand Prix. Of course they know his face, the name that every tifoso here would sell their soul to claim as a native son. A path opens before them, whispers and pointing fingers trailing in their wake.

“Leclerc!”

“Did you hear what happened?”

“Code Red from the Autodromo ..”

The words slice at Charles, both too loud and too indistinct to comprehend beyond the implication that you’re here, somewhere through these endless, claustrophobic hallways. A nurse in seafoam scrubs appears at his side, ushering them with brisk efficiency. He follows without a word, legs fueled by pure desperation as they weave deeper into the sprawling facility.

At last, they’re led into a waiting room, the nurse pivoting to face them with a carefully composed expression. “The patient was brought in approximately thirty minutes ago with severe trauma from the crash. She’s currently in surgery, but there are no further updates I can provide right now.”

Surgery.

The weight of that single word hits like a sledgehammer, sending Charles reeling until his back slams against the nearest wall. He sucks in a ragged gasp, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp curls as the magnitude of what’s unfolding threatens to drag him under completely.

There are voices, murmurs of concern as figures materialize from the edges of his frayed vision. Hands grasp at him, trying in vain to offer comfort or reassurance or something, anything to tether him to this reality that has become his waking nightmare.

But there is no solace to be found.

With a shudder that wracks his entire frame, Charles slides down the wall, knees tucking up in a pitiful facsimile of the bright-eyed young man who had stood on that sunbaked grid only hours ago. His head drops into his upraised palms, fingers tightening in his hair until the pain is the only thing anchoring him against the relentless maelstrom of grief and terror threatening to sweep him away.

The rest of the world falls away until all that remains is the hollow ache in his chest and the silent pleas to someone — anyone — tumbling through his mind on an endless refrain.

A hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him, and he registers Andrea’s presence beside him, the other man’s face drawn in anguish. Tears track down the trainer’s cheeks, glittering in the harsh fluorescent light.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of their mingled breaths, of a silent understanding too profound for words.

Neither speaks. There are no more words to be said, no prayers to voice beyond the torrent of desperate pleas echoing through their fractured psyches.

All that remains is to wait, and steel themselves against the soul-shattering eventuality awaiting them no matter which way the scales of existence tip.

So they wait. And Charles breaks.

***

The fluorescent lights hum a discordant drone, casting stark shadows that seem to leach the warmth from every surface. Charles stares unseeing at the scuffed linoleum tiles inches from his boots, the clinical smell of disinfectant burning his nostrils with each shallow breath.

Beside him, Andrea’s presence is a fixed point amidst the whirling currents of nurses, orderlies, and grim-faced family members that swirl through the waiting room. A bottle of water is pressed into Charles’ hand at some point, the plastic slick with condensation against his palm.

He doesn’t drink. Doesn’t move or speak or show any reaction to the flickering passage of time.

The flow of bodies ebbs and swells like the tide, more familiar faces appearing in scuttling clusters. First the Ferrari personnel, then other teams’ crew, and finally the drivers themselves, one by one. Gasps and muffled curses drift past as the scope of the situation sinks in. Whispers, a bitten-off sob from somewhere across the room.

Charles hears none of it.

He’s adrift in a sea of his own spiraling thoughts, each cresting wave dragging him deeper into the all-consuming torment. Memories mingle with fragments of overheard updates, snippets of frantic phone conversations from those trying to unravel the events of the race.

Blood, so much blood staining the grass, her lips, matting her hair in crimson streaks as she lay unmoving, unbreathing.

Internal bleeding, fractures, neural trauma.

Laughter muffled by the sheets, lazy mornings spent tangled in each other as the world continued its inexorable spin beyond their bedroom walls.

Code Red from the Autodromo ...

The last words she’d tried to force out, little more than a whispered breath over the roar of the racetrack: “I love-”

The purgatory crawls on, each sluggish second carved raw against his tattered nerves. Charles is vaguely aware of the others filtering in and out in shifts, some speaking to him in murmurs too soft to understand, others simply sitting in silence as the minutes bled together into hours.

Some indeterminable span of time later, a ripple works its way through the room, crystallizing into a gathered hush as figures in pale green scrubs appear. One steps forward — a man with graying hair and a craggy face lined by decades of triaging human lives.

The hush deepens to an utter stillness as every eye turns towards him, a held breath drawn taut to the breaking point. Charles lifts his head, forces his gaze to focus on the man’s lips as they part, the moment elongating like a length of rubber pulled to the edge of its tensile strength.

“The patient-” A pause as the surgeon’s eyes flick across the sea of apprehension before settling on Charles with deliberate weight. “-has been stabilized after undergoing extensive surgery to address the trauma sustained in the crash.”

A soft exhalation moves through the room, instinctive reactions barely bridled by the undercurrent of anxiety that keeps them taut, waiting.

“She suffered a severe brain bleed which resulted in significant swelling. In order to alleviate the pressure on her brain, we were forced to put her into a medically-induced coma.”

The words lance through Charles like jagged shards of ice, locking the breath in his lungs. Unconscious, unresponsive. Alive, but without any way of reaching out to reassure himself that the spark still flickers in those endlessly warm eyes. He swallows hard, the room swimming in and out of focus as the surgeon continues in a measured cadence.

“We’ve also had to repair multiple internal injuries and fractures, including her spine. The next forty-eight hours will be critical for monitoring her condition and responses.”

And there it is, the crux they’ve all been tensed in agonizing anticipation to receive. In two days, they’ll know if the fight — your fight — is over before it’s truly begun. The flip of a cosmic coin will determine whether Charles’ entire universe continues to spin … or falls into the black void opening up beneath his feet.

Peripherally, he’s aware of the questions starting, the anguished pleas for more details and reassurances as the others process the impassive surgeon’s words through their own lenses of experience. But Charles hears none of it, only the deafening rush of his own pulse echoing in his ears as the grains of sand in fate’s diabolical hourglass begin their insidious trek.

A blink, and the surgeon is gone, the rest of the somber scrub-clad figures dispersing back towards the swinging doors of the surgical ward. Just like that, they’re alone again, adrift in the limbo of both desperation and dread.

Charles sags, his tenuous grip on composure fracturing like a dam rupturing beneath the crushing weight of reality. A broken whimper rasps from deep within his chest, guttural and visceral and utterly devoid of anything resembling hope.

A hand finds his shoulder, grounding him enough to keep him tethered to the earth as the universe he knows compresses into the torturous rhythm of a mechanized ventilator breathing life into your battered form.

He can see you so clearly, even with his eyes screwed shut against the harsh fluorescents bleaching every surface to the same antiseptic pallor. Fragile, fighting, hooked up to the cold indifference of technology while it works to preserve what he knows to be the brightest, most brilliant soul ever breathed into existence.

The thought of those sparkling eyes, your eyes clouded with unresponsive stillness … it rips the last tattered shred of restraint from his unraveling core. A desolate wail tears free, strangled and raw and utterly devoid of resignation or peace.

He’s loved you for years, months, days, lifetimes — and still it will never be enough to prepare him for a world in which you don’t exist. A breath where he is forced to simply survive without the steady radiance of your presence illuminating every step along his path. Without living.

Andrea’s arms encircle him, a brotherly embrace that does little to quell the flood of anguish now pouring from him in heaving torrents. The others retreat with quiet steps, allowing themselves to fade into the shadows, mere ghosts slipping from the devastation of a man confronting the whispered dread that inhabits every driver’s subconscious.

A love and a life, both hanging suspended by whatever cosmic forces govern their fleeting existences.

You are his gravity, his sun, his guiding starlight.

If you burn out, his universe will go forever dark.

***

The antiseptic haze of the ICU feels like a vice around Charles’ chest as he follows the nurse down the sterile hallway. Each shuffling step is leaden, tinged with an unreality that weighs heavier with every closed door they pass.

Part of him doesn’t want to go through with this. Doesn’t want to face the reality that awaits on the other side of that threshold and shatter the tenuous equilibrium he’s managed to cling to since the moment everything disintegrated on the racetrack.

“She’s just through here.”

The nurse’s words are a wrench, jerking Charles from his reverie with a sobering lurch. Ahead, a nondescript door with a window barely cracked — the entrance to a realm he’s not sure his soul can withstand traversing.

“I’ll give you a few minutes.” Her voice has taken on that too-gentle lilt, the one that says she’s borne witness to too many lives fractured.

Charles nods automatically, not meeting her gaze as she retreats on soft-soled steps. Then it’s just him, alone in the dimly lit hallway with only the muffled noise of machines and murmured voices beyond the door to keep him tethered.

With a fortifying breath that does little to settle the jackhammer pounding in his chest, he grasps the handle and pushes through into your room.

And then … there you are.

Pale and hauntingly still against the sterile sheets, a sickly garden of tubes and wires cocooning your form. There’s barely a rise and fall of your chest, just the robotic ebb and flow of life being pumped through the mask clamped across your face. Dark crescents of bruising mar the fragile skin beneath your eyes, blossoming in vivid shades of yellow and violet across your cheekbones.

You’re so devastatingly still. As if all your vibrant essence has retreated inward, abandoning your corporeal shell in favor of waging an unseen war to simply continue existing.

Charles sucks in a shuddering breath, fingers spasming against his thigh as the first hairline fractures split through the dam he’s erected around his emotions. Part of him wants to flee, to escape back into the blissful naivete of the world before this became his reality. Another part is rooted to the spot with magnetic inevitability, drawn in helpless orbit around your pale, unmoving form.

Slowly, one foot drags in front of the other, carrying him across the room to hover beside your bedside. The blanket of tubes and wires prevents him from seeing much beyond your face and the barest suggestion of a shoulder through the loose neckline of the hospital gown. He reaches out, fingertips trembling as he ghosts them over the exposed skin just above the jutting notch of your collarbone.

You’re so still. And so, so cold.

That’s what breaks him.

His knees hit the tile with a dull thud, unheeded tears already streaking down his cheeks by the time he presses his forehead to the mattress edge. One hand finds yours, enveloping it in a desperate grasp as his entire being crumbles inward like a spent force of nature.

“No, no, no ...” The words are a mantra intermingled with broken gasps as the dam ruptures completely and the anguish pours free in ragged waves. “This can’t … you can’t ...”

Coherent thought deserts him, spiraling into the endless dark of a life without you at his side. These last few days have been a mere fleeting taste of that desolate actuality, uncomprehending glimpses into a reality too obliterating to fully process.

A universe without your light? Your radiance and warmth suffusing his world with color and texture and meaning? It feels like a black hole has opened its maw inside of his chest, hungry to devour everything until nothing remains.

“Please ...”

The plea rasps out in a guttural whisper, little more than carbon scoring the back of his throat. Head bowed, he crushes his brow to your knuckles, each etchings of bone an anchor weight lashing him to this merciless reality.

“Come back to me ...”

The words splinter apart, shredded into woeful gasps as the dam of his fragile composure ruptures. Great, racking sobs claw their way free, tearing through him from the center of his hollow core.

“Take everything else.” The words fracture anew, dissolving into heaving sobs as another piece of his soul splinters away. “Take every trophy, every podium, every championship I will ever win ...”

His voice cracks, seizing in his throat as he drags in a ragged breath, leaning his brow harder against the bedside to ground himself in some last anchor of solidity. Anything to keep from shattering into a million irretrievable pieces as he pours out the final offering, the ultimate sacrifice any driver or athlete can make against the cruel cosmic joke of mortality.

“Take my career, my records ... everything racing has ever meant to me ...” His fingers spasm around yours, clinging on with everything he has left as the darkness closes in. “Just ... please, let her wake up. Let me have more than just these memories of her smile and her laugh and the way she makes everything brighter just by existing.”

The sobs come harder now, racking his frame with deep shudders as his voice dissolves into jagged keening. Tears scald rivulets down his cheeks and drip from his chin to patter against the utilitarian sheets in glimmering droplets. He cries for the unfairness of it all, for the loss that is so brutally imminent it’s already written into his very bones, for the gaping hole that is soon to hollow out his very existence.

Eventually, the racking sobs subside into muted whimpers, the storm ebbing into a quieter desolation as he clings to the thin lifeline of your hand still cradled in his own. A bitter laugh claws its way up his throat, raw and devoid of any trace of humor.

“You’d probably kick my ass if you could see me making deals with the devil like this.”

The silence is deafening, broken only by the measured hiss-pause-exhale of the machines mercilessly keeping that precious flicker of life from extinguishing completely. Another laugh escapes, rough and graveled with the weight of a million shattered pieces of himself littering the floor around him.

“You’ve always been the stronger one between us, haven’t you?”

He angles his head, pressing his lips to your knuckles in a lingering kiss as a fresh deluge of tears gather in his eyes. “So wake up, mon cœur. Wake up and show me how to keep going ...”

The whisper hangs in the air, suspended in the limbo of waiting and dread as the machines continue their indifferent monotony. Charles lingers there, forehead pressed to your palm as the minutes drag onward and the final flickers of day fade from the window.

He’s here. He’ll always be right here.

No matter how many nights and days and eternities that ceaseless tide must crash over him until your eyes open once more.

The quiet is shattered by a stifled gasp at the threshold, a swell of fresh emotion that causes Charles to lift his head, scrubbing futilely at his eyes with the back of his free hand. Two figures have appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dimmer light of the hallway beyond.

Footsteps, two sets. Familiar yet not, like ghosts drifting through the periphery of a dream. He knows instinctively who has stepped into the claustrophobic bubble of vigil, but cannot summon the energy to turn, to confront them.

There’s only you. Only you, and this carcass of shattered promises and devastation that he’s been reduced to by the simple fact of your absence.

Until …

Motions in the corner of his vision, the slide of fabric and muted footfalls amidst the monotonous cadence of technology. Then, a pair of weathered hands — hands he recognizes like the veins pulsing with life beneath his own skin — come into view, cupping his bowed head in a cradle of reassurance and shared infinitudes of anguish.

Your parents’ voices carry in the wake of their touch, whispers ragged with the same bone-deep desolation bleeding from Charles’ shattered core. Indistinct murmurs of comfort, of empathy, of that level of understanding that only those poised on the precipice can ever understand.

He doesn’t resist as they draw him into the circle of their arms, enveloping him until their shared warmth banishes some of the chill snaking through his soul. Hot tears streak down his cheeks again, but these aren’t solitary, bitter shed of a man abandoned in the void of loss.

Their mingled anguish binds them together on this fevered plane of suffering, a communion of the damned begging with whatever beneficent forces might hear their pleas.

Please.

Please give them back the spark of light they all crave with every fiber of their beings.

Please, because this ...

This is no life. Not without you.

***

The fluorescent lights seem to dim with every passing hour, the edges of reality blurring together into an indistinct smear. Time has lost all meaning amidst the monotonous cycle of machines and muffled hospital ambiance swirling through your room.

Charles is adrift in a wakeful dream state, his world compressed into the miniscule shifts across your features. The steady beep of the heart monitor, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of your chest, the flutter of your eyelids as your mind navigates whatever ethereal paths separate you from him.

He hasn’t left your bedside. Not for food or rest or even the most basic of human needs. It’s all he can do to simply exist in this liminal space with you, unwilling to surrender a single breath or blink to the cruelty of a reality in which your presence doesn’t illuminate every crevice.

His thumb traces idle circles over your knuckles, the motion as robotic as the whoosh of the ventilator forcing air in and out of your lungs. Voices drift through from the hallway, clinical and detached. More tests and updates being murmured without context or depth of feeling.

None of it matters. The only metric capable of penetrating the fog enshrouding Charles is the ghost of sensation where his calloused fingers brush your skin.

He’s acutely attuned to the details of your condition at any given moment, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to the professionals at their stations monitoring labs and scans. A slight spike in temperature or blood pressure, the faintest twitching muscle or brow-furrow. All of it feels magnified a thousandfold as he clings to every indication, every little shift that might signal a turn for the better.

Or … for the worse

The thought skitters away the instant it surfaces, instinctively repressed by the force of Charles’ sheer desperation. He’s been here, motionless and steadfast, as the forty-eight hour milestone stretched into seventy-two, ninety-six, a hundred and twenty. With each passing day, the doctors grew more optimistic, more positive in their assessments as the swelling in your brain gradually abated.

Until this morning. The preliminary preparations to rouse you from the protective shroud of the medically induced coma began. Rounds of testing, consults from specialists, hushed asides between the scrub-clad personnel that Charles couldn’t parse beyond the undercurrent of anticipation that rippled through the ward.

Now they wait. He and the contingent of nurses and doctors hovering at stations like sentries guarding the gateway to the only world that matters. Watching, observing, as your eyelids begin to stir and the heart monitor’s pattern shifts just slightly from its metronomic rhythm.

Charles holds his breath, fingers tightening around yours as his gaze fixes on your face, the first pinpricks of awareness flickering there. Your eyelids flutter, brow furrowing as if straining against unseen barriers holding you back. Flashes of animation, of unvoiced struggle, play out in rapid succession and his world constricts into that singular point of reality unwinding.

Your fingers twitch, a spasmodic shudder, before settling into a steady movement in his grasp. The change in pressure is minute, featherweight, but it’s enough to electrify every nerve in Charles’ body. His head whips toward the observation window, breath sawing from his lungs.

“She’s waking up!”

It’s little more than a raw exhalation, the spark that ignites the room into urgent, yet controlled, flurries of activity. A nurse slips inside, tapping briskly at monitors and checking lines with an instinctive flow of motion. Charles barely registers her presence, his world distilled down to that singular point of lifeline linking him to you as the fog of unconsciousness finally begins to lift.

Your first inhale tugs at something primal within him, hauls the breath from his lungs even as unfettered joy spills through his chest. There’s movement beneath the fluttering of your eyelids, the rustle of lashes and tiny furrows creasing the delicate skin around your eyes. The seconds stretch out like an eternity until finally ...

They open.

Slitted and hazy, but undeniably open and aware. For an endless heartbeat, Charles is frozen, hands still wrapped around your fingers as afraid to move as a cave explorer plunged into impermeable black.

Then the world rushes in with all the chaos and color he’s been robbed of for far too long. A desperate sound tears itself free of his throat, as his body releases the suspended tension flooding from every pore. He sways forward, bracing his other hand on the mattress edge to keep from utterly crumpling at your very first flutter of life.

“Oh god ...” The fractured keen catches with a gasping sob. “Dieu merci, I thought I-”

But the words fracture, tumble away into lost coherence as you shift, throat bobbing with visible effort before the slurred shape of words escapes past chapped lips.

“C-can’t … f-feel ...”

Charles freezes, the world contracting back into stark lines and hyper-focused clarity. You’re struggling, the effort of speech clear across features still slack with the vestiges of your ordeal.

Panic claws its way up his throat, instinct sounding the call to seek help, to rally every force of medicine at their disposal toward solving this new, horrifying complication. He turns, mouth already open in a shout toward the observation window-

Only to find the room already flooding with personnel, summoned by some unseen alert the moment you stirred. Voices begin filtering through the dissonance clogging his senses — clipped, professional directives lancing through the feedback loop skipping inside his skull.

“Keep her calm-”

“... signs of paralysis ...”

“... damage to the motor cortex ...”

The final phrase lands like a weighted punch, sending Charles reeling back a half-step as the implications unspool into his consciousness. Your face twists in distress, breath sawing as the tube mask fogs with each panicked exhalation.

“I … n-no ...” You try to move, to shift position, but whatever spinal injury incurred in the wreck limits you to feeble twitches and whimpers.

Charles is at your side in an instant, features etched in silent agony as he brushes back the hair feathering across your forehead. His other hand finds yours, solid and grounding as he wills every iota of strength into the contact.

“Shhh, it’s alright. It’ll be alright, just stay calm.”

A cursory glance over his shoulder confirms a flurry of activity unfolding behind the glass as neurologists and specialists filter in. Tests will be run, evaluations and diagnostics to chart out whatever neural trauma has wrought such devastating effects upon your mobility.

In this moment, none of it matters beyond the trembling whimpers parting your lips and the glimmer of tears streaking your cheeks to dampen the pillow beneath your head. Charles wants nothing more than to gather you into his arms, to shield you from this fresh cruelty that has robbed you of yet another piece of your spirit.

Instead, he leans in close, cradling your face in his palm as you struggle to latch onto his presence amidst the waves of fear and distress no doubt crashing through your psyche.

“F-feel my … can’t ....” The disjointed words catch in racking sobs, your eyes squeezing shut against a torrent of emotion he recognizes all too well.

“I know, I know ...” The platitudes feel hollow, meaningless verbal gestures against the enormity of the situation closing its grip around them. But Charles speaks them regardless, murmuring soft reassurances against your anguish.

“Just focus on me, mon cœur. Only me.” His thumb swipes the moisture from your cheekbones, smearing tear tracks through the pallor there as his voice drops to a soft rasp. “You’re still here, still fighting ...”

Your eyes open at that, lashes spiked and heavy with more saline that slips free to streak down your temples. Those depths are oceans of heartache, roiling with a tempest of emotion that momentarily banishes every scrap of reason or logic from Charles’ mind.

All that matters is easing your suffering. Doing anything to lift the veil of anguish smothering the radiant light that marked your essence, that wondrous spark responsible for thawing every one of his defenses and opening a pathway to the heart he’d resigned himself to never sharing.

“I’m here and I’m not leaving. Not ever.” The words scorch themselves into his very soul as he presses his brow to yours. The antiseptic smells of your surroundings fade, the two of you cocooned in the intimate embrace of making your entire world his, if only for these fleeting seconds.

“We’ll get through this together,” he murmurs against your hairline, drinking in the simple euphoria of your closeness, of being able to impart even an inkling of comfort through his presence alone. “I promise.”

The words hang there for a suspended eternity, no response beyond the quiet hiccup of your breathing evening out the tiniest bit. A sliver of solace in the storm to cling to, no matter how tenuous.

Then the retinue of doctors and nurses sweeps in, their voices raised in directives and instructions. It shatters the moment, the outside world crashing back into their reality with all its cold indifference and clinical calculation.

Charles is ushered back, stumbling on legs turned to rubber as he watches you drag your reddened gaze from his, focusing inward as the onslaught of testing begins. He wants to refuse, to dig in his heels and remain steadfastly at your side through whatever fresh torments this throws your way.

But that defiance dies before it can form, snuffed out by the fragility written in the slump of your shoulders and the dull, haunted glaze muting your formerly vibrant spirit. All of his instincts scream at him to protect you, to rally against any external forces bent on inflicting more cruelty upon your already overburdened existence.

Instead, with a leaden heart and bile burning the back of his throat, Charles can only slip from the room and let the white coats encircle you with their machines and sterile indifference.

It’s a wait that lasts an eternity condensed into seconds, the rubber soles of his sneakers tracing grooves into the linoleum as he paces the hallway with increasing franticness. Snatches of conversation drift out from behind the closed door — clinical assessments devoid of context or feeling.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the door sweeps open and a group of personnel file out, scribbling notations and conversing in terse murmurs. One of them, a woman with cropped silver hair and piercing eyes, breaks off to approach Charles. Her expression is carefully neutral, devoid of any emotional tells.

“Mr. Leclerc.” It’s not a question, but an acknowledgment of who he is … and what is owed to him. “Your … partner has suffered extensive trauma to her spinal cord and central nervous system in the crash. The amount of nerve damage we’re detecting suggests paralysis of both lower extremities.”

The words shatter into coherent syllables and empty static all at once. Charles nods numbly, awaiting the verdict he can feel looming above them all.

“We can’t say with any certainty whether this condition is temporary or … permanent.” There’s a pause, the ghost of empathy flickering across her hawkish features before the professional mask reasserts itself. “Only time will tell if there’s any chance of full recovery once the other injuries have mended and treatment can begin in earnest.”

The finality hangs in the air for a stretched tautness of heartbeats, crystalline and utterly devoid of warmth. Charles forces himself to meet her gaze, to hold her clinical detachment within his own eyes as the world drifts further and further away.

“Okay.” It’s little more than a whisper, but it feels like tearing out his own throat to give voice to the thing that shatters his heart for you. “Can I … see her?”

A dip of the woman’s chin, a wordless assent as she steps aside to allow Charles to pass. He manages only a few weighted strides before halting, hand braced against the doorframe as he ghosts his gaze over your prostrate form.

You’re crying, quiet and bereft as the blankets rise and fall in time with your shuddering breaths. Something animal and feral keens low in Charles’ chest at the sight, every scrap of resolve threatening to unravel in the wake of your desolation.

Before he can think of second-guess the impulse, he crosses the space in two strides and drops to his knees beside the mattress. You startle at the sudden motion, eyelids fluttering in shock before recognition blazes through the emptiness shrouding your features. It’s Charles’ undoing.

“No, no … no tears.” His voice cracks like splintered glass, adrift on waves of his own withheld emotion. “You’re still here. You’re still with me, mon amour.”

He finds your hand with his own, fingers dwarfed in his calloused grip as he brings them to his brow. Outside, the doctors and specialists confer in low murmurs, their indifference too jagged to apply to the wounds here in this sanctuary where only you exist.

“You’ll be okay.” The promise burns itself into the verse he’s scribed on his heart, a vow etched in trails of moisture searing his cheeks. “No matter what it takes.”

His lips find your forehead, brushing against the clammy skin there as you sag towards him, drawn together by the gravity of an understanding too profound for the empty hallways and clinical trappings circling them. For this stolen breath, it’s simply you and him in all your wounded radiance.

“I almost lost you.” The confession rattles free, sent skyward on exhaled plumes that stir the fine baby hairs framing your brow. “And I’ll fight like hell to keep you beside me for as long as this life will allow.”

Your eyes find his, fractured mirrors reflecting all the heartache and dashed hopes ricocheting between you. But there’s something else there too.

Hope. Defiance. That unquenchable spark that first lured Charles toward you like a moth begging for the flame’s obliterating caress.

He’ll cling to that inner fire. Pour every ounce of his being into nurturing the smoldering coals until they flare again, banishing the darkness fate has chosen to drape them in at every turn. They’ll get through this, finding whatever reserves the cruelest pockets of despair have yet to strip away to sustain them.

Paralysis, brain damage, unthinkable trauma ...

None of it matters.

Not as long as you’re still drawing those precious, rasping breaths beside him.

Not as long as that beautifully battered heart beats on, refusing to surrender to the abyss.

“Je t’aime.” The oath clings to his lips, pressed against your temple as he holds you close. “Always and forever. No matter what.”

***

The sleek, modern lines of the therapy center bisect the Monegasque sky, all glass and steel rising toward the blue expanse. Charles pauses a moment as he strides across the courtyard, drawing in a steadying breath of the crisp early-winter air before continuing on toward the entrance.

The motion-triggered doors sweep open with a whisper, ushering him into the pristine lobby adorned with the fixtures of understated elegance. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in muted ambers and golds that warm the precision-engineered decor.

Charles crosses the space with economical purpose, gaze sweeping the sitting areas arranged with studied nonchalance until he pinpoints the familiar silhouette awaiting him. You’re positioned with your back angled toward him, the faint shudder of your shoulders visible as you shift position in the high-backed wheelchair.

For a heartbeat, the sight freezes him in place, the old swell of emotions threatening to spiral into rampant chaos until he can taste the acrid tang of panic curdling on his tongue.

Then the moment passes, brought up short by the instinctive reflex to compartmentalize that’s carried him through so many darknesses since the day his entire universe fragmented beyond repair. He shakes it off, squaring his shoulders as he resumes his trajectory, clearing the distance between you in a handful of strides.

You must sense his presence behind you because a tremor shivers across your frame a half-second before you begin to crane your neck towards the source of the approaching footfalls. Charles times his approach to intercept the motion, stepping neatly into your peripheral line of sight with a warm smile ghosting across his features.

“Mon amour.”

The endearment falls from his lips like silk across skin, the richly-textured syllables suffusing the air between you until it feels thick with emotion and the grounding sense of home. Of course, you react to the sound, lips already parting in anticipation of reply that has yet to fully manifest.

The struggle is still so pronounced, hewn into the furrows creasing your brow and the deliberate concentration sharpening the elegant lines of your profile as you wrestle with the disconnect between neural synapses and musculature. Each time Charles bears witness to these trials, it rekindles the enduring fury and heartache enough to steal the air from his lungs.

How cruel could fate be to hurt the brightest soul he’s ever known?

The questions circle endlessly, gnawing their way across his subconscious in a constant cycle of what-ifs and unvoiced anguish. So he clings to patience as your sole solace, willing every ounce of unspoken encouragement into the sliver of contact where his calloused fingers sit atop your knuckles.

“It’s-” The fragmented sound tugs his focus back to your profile in time to catch the flickering hint of frustration tightening the muscles along your jaw as the words elude their trajectory once more. He watches your chest rise and fall with the effort of measured breathing, sees the war being waged behind blown pupils as your nerves strive to reestablish an equilibrium so brutally ruptured by trauma.

And then … a breakthrough.

“I ...” Barely more than an exhale, shaped on the barest puff of air passing your lips. But the simple vowel ignites something beneath Charles’ breastbone, a frisson of hope and pride and a thousand other tangled emotions combining into unadulterated exhilaration.

“L-love ...” Another pause, infinitesimal in the grand cosmic span yet stretched endless as the consonants parse themselves into recognizable sounds. Your eyes find his, glimmering pinpricks of desperate adoration blazing through the sullen cloud of anguish that’s settled in their depths.

The final whisper crystallizes into the air with the reverent weight of an answered prayer, “... you.”

Charles is across the space in an instant, crashing to his knees before you with a breathless sound that parts his lips on a broken rasp. Trembling hands map along the delicate slopes of your cheeks, cradling your face as a single tear spills free to chart a glistening trail down his cheek.

“Oh god ...” The prayer shivers past his lips, half sob and half keening breath as he presses his brow to yours, drowning in your presence and surrounding himself with the singularity of your existence. “You did it. You said it ...”

He trails off, lost to the beautifully battered rhythm of your exhales gusting across his features. This close, you’re all he sees, all he needs to survive this moment of solace among the anguished trials you’ve endured to forge this path back toward him. With painstaking care, he leans in to dust trembling kisses across your brow, your temples, the feathered crescents of your eyelashes as they flutter shut beneath the reverent onslaught.

Until finally, his lips find yours in a searing confession of worship — no urgency or fire, just two souls colliding into the singularity that first kindled their union. Charles slants his mouth across your own, breathing you in deeply until his senses are awash in the familiar scent of your skin and the dizzying tranquility of becoming something so much more than the sum of fragmented parts.

It both is and isn’t a kiss, just the barest brush of sensitive flesh and shared breath. Yet all of Charles’ fortitude strains against the tidal surge of emotion crashing through his bones … devotion and heartache, fervent pride and the nauseating chaser of reality.

Because even as you persevere, rising like a phoenix from each trial along this endless road toward recovery, he knows the path ahead remains strewn with obstacles and shadowed pockets into which the darkness always lurks.

When he finally tears himself away, it’s with another shuddering breath and two crystalline trails of moisture etched into the hollows beneath his eyes. He drinks in your features with the starving desperation of one lost to the merciless desert of life, maps every nuanced shift of line and breath and expression to catalog the miracles unfolding before him.

“You incredible, impossible thing ...” The endearment slips free on a choked laugh, more for his sake than any lack of comprehension on your part. Even after everything, Charles knows you understand the timbre and shape of his words as deeply as if they were your own thoughts.

But before he can bask in the fleeting warmth of this tiny victory, you’re drawing him back in. Delicate fingertips brushing the moisture from his cheekbones as you struggle to translate thought into sound once more.

“This … isn’t ...” A pregnant pause, brow furrowing with the strain before the rest comes in a tumbling rush. “What you wanted. For us.”

The words land like craters against Charles’ ribs, disjointed bombs stripping away the last threads of cheerfulness with each syllable. He stills, mouth parting on a protest that never materializes as you forge onward in the wake of his stunned silence.

“Y-you gave up ...” Another tiny hesitation, your chest rising and falling as you suck in a fortifying breath, “... everything.”

A fresh sheen of moisture wells in your eyes, slick with too many fractured hopes and dreams to ever assemble into coherent utterances. Still, Charles recognizes each shred of meaning, every whispered subtext behind the fragments you offer up as if stilling him for the inevitable strike to come.

Except this time, the blow he expects never arrives. Instead, you lean in, fingertips trailing lightly across the sharp angles of his jaw as the rest of the thought emerges with painstaking care.

“It’s … okay. To find someone ...” Your voice cracks, throat bobbing against the torrent of naked vulnerability suffusing each word. “... new.”

For an endless instant, the world spins on its axis, that single, shattered confession shearing through all of Charles’ deeply-ingrained instincts and defenses. This is the thing he’s dreaded since the first moment fate’s vicious hand tore the very fabric of your radiance into parts — the inevitability of you shouldering the blame for what has unfolded.

Unacceptable.

Unthinkable.

His hands are on you again before he consciously wills them to move, palms cradling your face like he’s the one in constant danger of crumbling into a billion undone pieces. It’s both anchor and lifeline as he pulls you flush against him, mouth trembling for purchase against the rush of sentiment crashing through his veins.

“Never.” The oath has never felt so feather-light yet absolute all at once. He rasps it out like a scrap of prayer, the shape of the sound rippling through the air between them.

“This life? You are everything I want.” The words feel torn from some primal place he had thought cauterized in the aftermath of all that has transpired between them. But still, Charles lays himself bare in their wake, baring every shred of anguish and love and reverence bleeding from his heart.

“Not the career or the glory or any other pursuit I might have thrown myself toward ...” He drags in a ragged inhale, feeling your quivering breaths ghosting across his lips like a light breeze stoked from embers. “Just you, mon cœur. All of you — from your brilliant mind to your determined spirit.”

His thumb traces the supple curve of your cheekbone, rough calluses snagging lightly against satin-smooth skin as his voice skips toward a halting rasp.

“I don’t know what the future holds.” This final mortal truth lingers in the thrall of hushed vulnerability shrouding them. “But I’m not leaving this existence without you by my side through every second of it. Not willingly.”

In the suspended heartbeats that follow, Charles watches the onslaught of emotion crest through the otherworldly depths of your eyes. He swallows hard, aching to fend off whatever final resistance lingers behind those storm-tossed features. Except his throat has grown too thick, too clogged with unshed tears to give voice to the hundreds upon thousands of fractured promises unspooling toward each other.

So he kisses you instead — harder this time, with the desperate exhilaration of a drowning man breaking surface to taste the first gasps of oxygen-rich air. He pours himself into the connection, igniting the spark that first smoldered between you years and lifetimes ago until his entire being resonates with the radiant warmth.

When at last he drags himself back, it’s with a swipe of his thumb to brush away the shimmering track of tears he’s unwittingly drawn to your cheek. “I love you,” he rumbles, the sound resonating from the depths of his core to embed in the very foundations of his soul. “Nothing else matters.”

And as if summoned by nothing more than the simmering weight of his epiphanies, you offer up one final exhalation shimmering with promise and budding hope.

“Race.” A broken sound, little more than a whispered caress against the tide of all that has gone unsaid. “Win for … f-for us.”

Charles’ lips part, trembling with too many half-born replies in that stretched moment of realization.

You’re right. Of course you’re right, focused as always upon rekindling the vibrant sparks threatening to gutter beneath his gaze. It’s yet more proof of why he resolved to kneel before you and bind his existence to your own — from now until the last glimmers of twilight.

He curls a hand behind your neck, prizing this beautiful connection above all the momentary triumphs and thrills his boyhood dreams ever convinced him to pursue. Red-painted carbon and shrieking downshifts, roars of acclaim and champagne spilled as if raining down from the heavens … none of it could ever hope to fill the sacred spaces you’ve already occupied with your quiet strength and luminous resilience.

“For you,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, leaving goosebumps in its wake along the exposed column of your throat. “And only for you, mon ange. I’ll make the world itself hold its breath if that’s what you need.”

He seals the promise with a final brush of his mouth, lingering until every ounce of the sacred vow sears itself into your skin and memory alike.

By the time he draws back to drink in your features one more time, there’s a spark flickering through the storm clouds rimming your gaze. A dazzling flicker in the instant before it flares into something inextinguishable, something potent enough to blind out every shadow threatening to swallow him whole.

It sears through him like a lightning strike, melting every ounce of resolve into something more precious than any trophy or accolade his profession could ever bestow.

A vow you return with a simple promise. “I’ll be your ...” Your voice falters. But your eyes blaze with the words, with that same inevitable fire that forged those first fateful sparks between your souls, “... biggest fan.”

***

The grand hall seems to hum with the collective intake of a thousand bated breaths as Charles turns to face the gathering. Sunlight streams through towering windows in cascading sheets of amber warmth, gilding everything in honeyed refractions that lend an ethereal glow to the floral arrangements and pristine altar dominating the space.

He sucks in a steadying breath of his own, rolling his shoulders beneath the crisp lines of his tailored tuxedo. Anticipation thrums through every fiber of his being, vibrating in synchrony with the symphony of tremulous breaths rippling through their assembled friends and loved ones.

This moment has been too long in manifesting, too brutally tested by the cruelties of fate to be anything but utterly perfect in execution.

Behind him, the faint rustle of his groomsmen shifting into place provides the barest murmur of ambient sound. Joris, Andrea, Pierre, Arthur, and Lorenzo — all united by the gravity of this singular instance reshaping the trajectory of Charles’ existence. He chances the briefest glance over his shoulder, meeting their steadying nods of encouragement with a fleeting ghost of a smile.

It anchors him, draws together those final errant threads of composure in time for the first swell of the processional to filter through the sprawling chamber. The gentle symphony of strings and woven harmonies crashes over Charles in a physical caress, setting his nerves alight with anticipation as every eye tracks toward the grand archway dominating the far end of the hall.

He doesn’t immediately register the diminutive figure emerging in a sweep of ivory chiffon and pale lace. Only after the sharp inhalation of breath fluttering through the assembled does his gaze lock onto your silhouette, resplendent even through the sheer flutter of the veil haloing your shoulders.

He expects the wheelchair, the familiar sleek metallic lines and measured rolls ushering you towards him. Expects the sight that’s become so achingly you, even as it never fails to tighten every muscle in his body with the urge to shelter you in his arms from every cruelty the merciless universe has seen fit to inflict.

Except … there is no chair.

The shuddering breath that leaves his lips might as well have been torn from the depths of his very essence in that suspended heartbeat of dawning realization.

You’re walking.

With slow, tiny strides, flanked on either side by bridesmaids in burnished golds — but not supported or aided in any functional sense of the movements.

No, these halting footfalls are all your own. A monumental effort of sheer force of will and gritty determination honed across months of exhaustive perseverance through some of the darkest shadows ever spanning your shared existences.

Each trembling step, every inch traveled across that endless-seeming expanse of polished marble floor, is both defiant proof of your resilience and a blazing triumph over pain and hardship and loss echoed ten thousandfold.

Charles cannot breathe. Can barely remain upright as his entire world both manifests and dissolves around this singular progression unfolding before him in strangled increments. Others have begun to weep in earnest, muffled sobs billowing through the gathered assembly like ripples across a pond’s placid surface.

He’s vaguely aware of his groomsmen shifting behind him, of shocked gasps ghosting across their stunned features as they grasp the significance of what’s unfolding before their eyes. Andrea’s palm finds the small of Charles’ back, steadying his frame against the sudden influx of vertigo and exhilaration threatening to collapse his consciousness.

Because all that exists in this shuddering span of fractured instants is you. Nothing more, nothing less than the endless radiance of your soul as you stride toward him.

Toward your destiny.

Toward the culmination of all the strength and beauty and determination he’s revered with every ounce of his being since the first time he met you.

He’s crying in earnest now, can feel the streaking trails of moisture searing molten paths down his cheeks to dampen the crisp cotton stretched across his chest. Yet the tears hardly register as anything more than a bodily necessity to expel the rising tsunami of l elation cresting inside his core.

You’re within arm’s reach now, only a handful of quavering paces separating your joined paths. Charles’ hands tremble where they hang at his sides, fingers spasming around the desperation to move, to reach, to hold you against him and pour every ounce of adoration into you.

Willpower alone is what roots him in place, keeps him tethered until every shift and flex of muscle is committed to memory. Until your forward momentum carries you into his gravitational embrace in a sweeping collision of souls reunited.

He feels your hands first, slightly clammy where they land against his shoulders and chest in search of purchase. Then the subtlest hint of perfume, that floral-tinged elixir unique only to the slope of your neck and the crown of your hair when he dips to brush his lips across your brow in reverence.

The dam breaks and Charles crumples inward, folding himself around your form with only the vaguest cognition of the groomsmen forming a sheltering web around you both as he sinks to his knees in a thunderous impact of boneless limbs.

Words either fail him or escape articulation as the only sounds to pass his lips become a stream of fevered, jumbled endearments and throaty praises poured directly against the fevered warmth of your skin. His hands map every trembling plane in frantic sweeps, nails skirting intricate embroidery and dewy satin as each heated exhale shudders harsh against your neck, your cheeks, your brow ...

“Mon cœur ...” The title is prayer and confession, ground out from the friction of his entire belief system being forged anew around you. “You incredible thing ... dieu, look at you ...”

He silences the reflexive protests before they can rise by slanting his mouth across yours. There’s nothing carnal or profane in the gesture, simply the coming together of two souls.

You taste of elation and salt, of budding promise and fond tenacity. Of incandescent joy and the shredded velvet of nights spent paralleling the loneliest infinities as your fingers clutched each other like dual magnets anchored across the universe’s expanse.

“So strong … my warrior … perfect ...” The muted words ghost over your trembling form. Somewhere distant, a chorus of cheers and applause has erupted beyond the bubble forming around you.

But none of it truly registers, not when compared to this shattering merging of everything either of you has struggled and strained and wept to reach.

Nothing else matters in the sweeping catharsis cascading around you both. Not the hoarse prayers still shuddering past his lips, or the moisture from your own lashes streaking down his cheeks in silence.

It’s only when the dizzying euphoria begins to ebb that Charles slowly drags his gaze upwards to find yours — those beautiful depths drowning in reverence and bliss mirroring his own. The spark flickering there banishes all shadows in an instant, forging incandescence enough for a lifetime no matter what fresh trials fate might see fit to test your devotion.

He drinks you in, committing the flawless canvas of your features to permanence before reaching up to brush trembling fingertips across the sheer lace obscuring your radiance. The sweep of fabric pools around your shoulders and Charles finds himself very nearly undone again by the sight of your unveiled beauty.

“So ...” He swallows hard, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw as words fail him for a what feels like an eternity. “... beautiful. Like the first dawn cutting through the blackest oblivion.”

A tremulous smile sweeps across your lips, the ghost of a promise he absorbs with every pore as you lean into the reverent sweep of his touch. He could stay like this forever, knees grinding against the ornate tile. Anything to capture how eternal he feels right here with you.

Charles drags in a rallying breath, forcing his widened gaze from yours just long enough to call his groomsmen to attention with a look. They rally behind him, steadying him as he rises on legs turned bowstring-taut with adrenaline.

And then, with every eye once more centered upon you two, Charles bends at the waist and sweeps you into his embrace, cradling your trembling frame against his chest with the paradoxical delicacy and unyielding reverence that lives so unbridled within his very bones. Your breath catches audibly, a soft hitch of sound that adorns the sacred silence as he turns away from the guests.

The officiant’s features are flushed and lined, rimed with moisture that glistens unabashedly as he gathers himself to proceed.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc and Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N,” he begins. “You have been called here as an acknowledgment of the next chapter in your lives together ...”

The ceremony begins, the words spilling forth as you tuck your cheek against Charles’ thundering pulse, fingers curling into the lapel of his tuxedo in a white-knuckled embrace. He lives in the rise and fall of your mingling breaths, in the warmth of your form pressed seamlessly against the shelter of his body as you bear witness to the eternal scripture neither of you could have fathomed even existing upon first crossing paths.

Then, the officiant turns his attention towards Charles, chin dipped in grave deference. “You may recite your vows.”

The command punches through him, sawing the breath from his lungs in a ragged exhalation that shivers across your crown. He swallows hard, blinks back the fresh deluge of tears that threatens to escape his faltering restraint. But when he opens his mouth, the words spill out like they were always meant to.

“I have dreamed of you since before the first moments of my existence.” The syllables echo across the hall, spiraling forth to caress every rapt attendee in their wake. “Of a love conceived in the heart of a collapsing star and given breath in our adjoined forms to shine forth into the darkness.”

His lips brush your hairline, absorbing the scent of your fragrance and feeling the thrumming rhythm of life radiating from your temples. Here, cocooned in the intimate heart of their unity, the world holds its breath along with the gathered witnesses.

“Nothing could have prepared my soul to be scoured by your brilliance, your resilience … let alone knitted together from the fraying remnants when our path shattered across the cruel stones of fate.” A tremulous inhale, steadying as his gaze flicks across the faces assembled before you — a sweep encompassing every expression of empathy and shared joy piercing back at him.

“Yet here we stand, mon amour ...” The endearment spills forth like rich velvet, textured and avowed as his mouth finds the top of your head once more, the taste of reverence sweet on his tongue. “United into something sacred, something woven from those endless nights clinging to each other across the desolate chasm that could so easily have swallowed us whole.”

He savors the simple elation of your response, of knowing his words resonate through every quivering fiber with the promise of finally reaching what you’ve been steadily ascending to all along.

So he breathes you in once more, chasing the familiar scent of your skin until his very lungs burn with the delight of your proximity. The depths of his gaze find yours again, irises rimmed in the faintest remnants dampness as one final promise takes shape.

“I will love you to the final molecule ...” Quieter now, a molten rasp uttered into the hollow between your brows as fingertips sift through the intricate sweeps of your tresses. “I will walk beside you through each breath and season, every triumph and shadow that marks this existence as uniquely ours. With all that I am, all that lingers when the inconsequential has stripped from my shell — I am yours. Until the last spark is extinguished from this universe and beyond.”

The promise hangs in the reverent stillness as he takes his first full breath after, filling his lungs with the ozone and wildflowers commingling from your respective scents until his senses reel. Only then does he draw back enough to drink in the sight before him — the ethereal swaths of your veil now skirting the contours of your features, the downy lashes beaded with moisture, the trembling swell of your lips as the first stuttered shapes of sound begin forming upon them.

Your reciprocation is a hushed, halting stream of sounds that carry all the solemn gravity of prayers finally granted voice. Each syllable pitches forward, low and overflowing with the fevered weight of their reverence until they resonate through Charles’ bei by like physical sensations trailing electricity along his nerves.

“In the beginning, there was nothing,” you breathe, fingers flexing restlessly against the solid plate of his chest as you struggle to channel the turbulent swell of emotion cascading through every aspect of your existence. “An endless and lightless oblivion that should have terrified me ...”

A faint smile blooms across Charles’ features as he watches the story of a lifetime together play out in miniature across your expression.

“Yet it didn’t.” The syllables part on a whisper of revelation, a new wave of tears flickering in the gleam of your eyes as you find his gaze. “Because I knew you even then.”

2K notes · View notes

imaginedisish · 2 months

Text

Heart to Heart (Logan Howlett x F!Reader)

A/N: Okay...here's that car sex request. This one is like pure smut with some exposition. Like...plot...what plot? Listened to "Heart to Heart" by Mac DeMarco while writing this one. Kinda fits. Not quite sure how I'm churning these out so quickly...so I hope this doesn't suck. And! Most importantly: I hope this lives up to the requester's expectations. Enjoy guys!

Summary: Logan doesn't seem like himself on the car ride up to Lake George to meet the other X-Men for the weekend, and you're not going to leave him alone until you find out why (it's car sex, the whole fic is basically just rough car sex).

Warnings: 18+ SMUT MINORS DNI, Unprotected PIV (WRAP IT UP!), Oral (f!receiving), fingering, rough sex, fem!reader, AFAB!reader (no other major physical descriptions that I can think of), cursing, cocky!Logan, softdom!Logan, feelings, pre-relationship (I am a sucker for writing first times), probably some grammatical errors, think that's everything.

Word Count: 3124 this was supposed to be a blurb im not joking

Logan’s hands firmly grip the steering wheel, white-knuckling, fingers wound around the curved leather. Your eyes flicker between his face and his hands.

He had been like this since the drive to Lake George started. You and Logan were meeting the rest of the X-Men up there—Charles arranged some sort of weekend getaway. You and Logan would be the last ones to arrive, having just gotten off from a mission.

But something was off about him. He was silent, eyes dead set on the road. The sun had long set, but you still had two hours of the drive to go. You look out the window to a world asleep, lights out, families in beds. You look back at Logan; his face is completely unchanged.

“Logan?” You mumble, shifting in your seat to face him. Your already-short shorts hike up your thighs, revealing more of the skin underneath. You don’t think twice about placing your hand on his bare shoulder, brushing his exposed skin with your thumb. “You okay?” You ask, but he ignores you. You’re not letting this go. He’s been like this for far too long, and you’re sick of not knowing why. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” Logan finally lets go of the wheel a bit, his eyes flickering briefly to you and then back to the road. “No, of course not.”

“Then what’s the matter?” If he was going to be stubborn, you were going to be stubborn, too. “You can tell me, Lo.”

He shakes his head, his grip tightening on the wheel again. Your hand trails down to his bicep, lingering for longer than you should before stroking back up to his shoulder. You draw circles into his skin, hoping to relax him, but it only seems to work him up. His throat bobs, and you catch him peeking at you out of the corner of his eye.

You’re not sure where the confidence comes from, but before you can even think of stopping yourself, your fingers gently glide up to the nape of his neck, your nails digging into his hair lightly. Logan groans softly, the sound sparking a fire in your belly. You push it down, reminding yourself that this is just an innocent moment between friends—nothing more.

“You gonna tell me what the matter is now?” You chide, smirking, thinking you have him exactly where you want him. You lean over a bit more, the air conditioning blasting against your bare legs. Your fingers are still buried in his hair.

You see the moment when his expression shifts, when his head finally turns towards yours. His nostrils flare. You search his eyes frantically, your hand dropping back to your lap. “Logan I—” but you’re cut off by the feeling of his palm—of his long fingers—on your inner thigh. He keeps one hand firmly on the steering wheel as he swerves into the shoulder of the highway and off into the grass.

He puts the car in park, keeping his eyes straight ahead, tightening his grip on your thigh and working his jaw as he thinks of what to say. You can feel the heat growing between your legs, a feeling you’ve long denied yourself while alone with Logan. Silence fills the air, the tension of it absolutely suffocating.

And then Logan cuts through the quiet like a knife. “You have any idea how you make me feel?” He’s turned his body completely towards you now, as if he’s ready to pounce.

You swallow harshly. “So, you are angry at me. Logan, I have no clue what I did, but I—”

“I’m not mad at you, sweetheart,” he mutters, lifting himself up slightly to maneuver closer to you. He’s practically climbing over the center console as his lips find the shell of your ear. “It’s just when I can smell how much you want me, and you start touching me like that…” He trails off, kissing your ear lightly. “Do you know what you fucking do to me?”

“Logan—”

He’s not finished. He’s cutting you off again. “I can’t concentrate when you’re around.” His hand slips further in between your thighs, and you shudder under his touch. “Can’t do anything except think about fucking you.” He’s slipping his hand up your shorts, feeling your folds through your panties. “Fuck, you’re soaked already, pretty girl.”

You moan as he teases you, playing with you, taking his time. “W-want you,” you stutter, grinding into his hand, searching for more friction.

He’s got that familiar, cocky smile spread across his face. “I know you do, beautiful.” Even that lilt in his voice is cocksure. He’s teasingly pulling your panties to the side. You can feel the ghost of his fingertips against your folds, but he’s refusing to give you the relief you need. He’s the one driving you insane now. “You gonna let me fuck you in the backseat of this car?”

“F-fuck,” you stutter as his fingers finally brush against your bare cunt. You throw your head back as he strokes languidly, lazily. Your words are caught in your throat. You can’t enjoy his touch for long as he pulls away from you. “W-wait,” you whine, sitting up and grabbing his hand.

He smirks, that teasing grin still spread across his face. “Didn’t answer my question, pretty girl,” he says, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to your knuckles. He repeats himself: “You gonna let me fuck you in the backseat of this car?” You nod as he brings himself back to hover over you. “Use your words, darlin’.”

“Yes,” you choke out. “Please. Need you so fucking bad.”

He doesn’t let a second go by before he’s wrapping his arms around you and shoving you into the backseat. You fall into the leather and watch as Logan opens the car door and briefly disappears into the darkness before opening the door next to you. He climbs inside, slamming the door behind him.

He crawls over you, and you use your hips and forearms and back all the way into the door on the opposite side.

He grabs your hips, keeping you in place, lowering down over you. “’Can hear that little heart beating all the fucking time,” he whispers, his lips inches from yours. His forearm rests by your head, while his free hand slips underneath your shirt and under your bra. His fingers graze over the swell of your tits as he settles his palm above your heart. “Need you, pretty girl.” His hand trails over to a nipple, pinching softly.

Logan swallows your moans with a desperate, starving kiss. His stubble is rough against your cheeks. His tongue slides across your bottom lip, asking for permission to come inside. You open up immediately for him, meeting his tongue with your own, savoring the taste of him.

You bring your hands up to the nape of his neck, keeping his lips close to yours. You dig your nails into his scalp, raking through his hair. He groans into your mouth before briefly coming up for air. His chest heaves against yours. He’s a panting mess. You’ve never seen him this worked up.

There’s something different in his eyes now. You can see the lust, the desire, the longing. But there’s something else there. Fear? Desperation? Hunger? He’s yanking your shirt and bra up and over your head before giving you the chance to think about it. He’s taking you in, his hot, solid, fervent hands exploring your body. He’s palming your breasts, pinching your nipples and messaging the pain away. You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him tight against you.

He instinctively recognizes what you’re doing. “’M’not going anywhere, I’ve got you.” He presses a chaste kiss just under your jawline. His nails trail down the side of your stomach, sending a jolt of electricity up your spine.

You can feel his erection against your core, rutting needily into you. You push your hips up to meet his, grinding against him, impatiently searching for more friction.

His hands finally land on the hem of your shorts, his fingers working at your button, and then your zipper. He hooks his fingers into your shorts and your panties, and yanks them down your legs, casting them to the floor. You think he’s going to come back up, but he crawls in between your legs, his eyes locked on yours.

You can feel his hot breath fan over your aching cunt. His mouth is just centimeters away from where you need him most.

“Wanna taste you,” he mumbles, his face inching closer to your core.

You moan as he licks a stripe through your folds, and then another. “L-Logan.” Your hips come up and off the seat. One of his arms latches across your hips, holding you down.

“Stay there,” he murmurs in between laps. “Tastes so fucking good.” You can’t stay still, squirming under his touch, he presses down harder, forcing you to stay in place. You can feel him smirk against your pussy as his mouth latches on to your clit, sucking the bud in roughly.

You’re already close as his fingers start to swipe through your folds. “So fucking wet for me.” His words vibrate against your swollen clit. Two fingers prod at your entrance, slowly pushing inside. You’re squirming again, your pussy stretching out to fit around his long fingers. He chuckles against you, the feeling pushing you closer to the edge.

“C-close,” is all you can stutter.

Logan doesn’t slow down. “’M’not done with you yet, pretty girl,” he husks between desperate laps. His fingers pump in and out of you, your walls fluttering uncontrollably around him. “Doing so good for me, taking what I’m giving you.”

His words are making it harder to hang on. “C-can’t…” You trail off, your chest heaving. His face is buried deep inside your cunt, each flick, each suck, each thrust more feral and starving than the last.

“You gonna come on my tongue, sweetheart?” He teases, knowing full well now what his words are doing to you. You clamp down on his fingers, his name a chant hanging in the air. “Let go for me, pretty girl. Wanna know what it tastes like.”

You’re a stuttering mess, his words piercing that fire in your stomach, the heat flowing freely as he pulls your orgasm from you. The release feels so good, so right. Logan works you through it, his laps slowing down, becoming languid, like he’s savoring the taste of you. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. He pumps his fingers in and out a few more times before carefully pulling out of you.

He sits up on his knees, sweat glistening on his chest, his hair a tussled mess. He holds out his fingers—covered with your come—and shoves them in his mouth, sucking hard. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight. He lazily pulls them out, swallowing, his throat bobbing. “So fucking sweet,” he soothes. “Can’t get enough of you.”

And then he’s hurriedly ripping his beater off, undoing his belt, shoving his jeans and boxers down his legs. Your eyes widen at the sight of his cock springing up to his stomach. You knew he’d be big, but fuck.

“You sure you want this?” He whispers, his lips back at the shell of your ear. You bring your hips up to meet his and mumble a yes.

He lines himself up with your entrance, nudging against you. You can tell he’s holding back, doing his all to take his time, to let this moment last. But you want him. You need him. Now. You arch your back, your chest rising to meet his, your pebbled nipples brushing against his bare skin. The contact feels so good, so warm. “Fuck me, Logan,” you beg.

He curses under his breath, and suddenly he’s thrusting into you, sinking all the way in, bottoming out. He stays there, unmoving, letting you adjust to the length and girth of him. He’s so big, stretching you out so good. He’s deep already, pushing against your walls, hitting that spot where you need him most.

“F-fuck.” His composure is melting. “Knew you’d feel perfect. So fucking beautiful like this, always so beautiful.” He pulls out and pushes all the way back in. You cry out his name, and he muffles it as his mouth comes crashing down onto yours.

He lowers down onto his forearm, closing the gap between the two of you. His other hand grazes over your nipples, trailing down your stomach, slipping in between the place where your bodies connect. His fingertips find your clit, ghosting around the bud lightly, toying with you before drawing long, languid circles around it.

His thrusts start out slow as he rolls his hips against yours, but he quickly builds up speed. He bottoms out with each pump, plunging deeply, working you open for him.

“Could stay inside you forever,” he gasps between kisses, sweat coating his brow. “You still have no fucking clue what you do to me,” he whispers, his hips snapping into you. He’s fucking you into the leather, pounding harder, knocking the wind out of your chest. He flicks your clit again and again. He’s losing control in the best way. “Watching you all the time, not being able to touch you, to be with you.” His vulnerability contrasts deliciously with how rough he’s fucking into you. “Think about you all the time.”

He swallows your whines with another starving kiss. “Always thinking about you, too,” you whimper.

He smiles against your lips. “Can feel you squeezing me, sweetheart. Want you to come on my cock.” It’s a command, the bass of his voice rumbling through his chest. You hum in affirmation, your eyes fluttering closed as pleasure courses through your body. “Want you to look at me when you come.” There’s that demand in his voice again, and so you force your eyes open. “Good girl,” he husks. “So fucking good.”

You’re crumbling underneath him, fighting to keep your eyes open as he pounds roughly into you, his fingers pinching your clit, then circling rapidly. You’re coming undone in his arms, digging your nails into his biceps as you let yourself go. He keeps rutting into you, his pace faltering as he nears his own orgasm.

“Wanna come inside you,” his lips press against your forehead as he whispers the words. “Don’t wanna leave this pussy yet.”

You shiver underneath him, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. “P-please,” you mumble. “Fuck,” he trembles, painting your walls, filling you up. “So perfect,” he whispers, his head coming down to rest on your shoulder, pumping slower as he finishes. “So beautiful.” He kisses your shoulder as he stills, staying inside you for a moment.

He carefully slides out of you, the sudden emptiness a shock to your system. You want him back, buried deep inside where he belongs. You involuntarily whine at the loss of him. He lifts himself up, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Later. We’ll do more later. ‘M’nowhere near done with you yet.”

Logan separates from you, the hot, stuffy air of the car suddenly turning cold without him on top of you. He searches the floor of the backseat for your clothes. He worries about you first, helping you get back into your bra, panties, shorts, and top. You sit cross-legged once you’re done, watching him as he dresses himself.

He smirks, sensing your eyes on him. “Still like what you see?”

You can feel heat rise to your cheeks, suddenly embarrassed despite everything that just happened. “Always liked you.”

“Think what we just did warrants a little more than ‘like’ darlin’.” He’s right. It does.

Once he’s dressed, he grabs your hand, opens the car door, and guides you out of the backseat and towards the other side of the car. He opens the passenger door for you, and you slip inside. He’s opening the driver’s side door and getting in a few seconds later, turning the key into the ignition, maneuvering the car out of the grass, and back onto the empty highway.

He’s got his left hand on the steering wheel as his right comes down to your inner thigh, gripping tightly and pulling it closer to him.

The rest of the drive is quiet, calm, Logan’s thumb occasionally brushing against your bare skin, reminding you of what he promised: later.

You finally pull up to the cabin, surprised to see that some of the lights are still on. Logan gives your thigh one more squeeze before popping the trunk and exiting the car. You step out, and Logan already has your duffle bags in his hands. You walk shoulder to shoulder up to the porch of the cabin, your hand coming up to twist the doorknob and stepping inside.

Storm, Charles, and Scott are in the living room, sitting around the fire, their heads snapping toward you and Logan.

“What took you two so long to get here?” Storm asks, her brows raising incredulously.

“Traffic.” Logan spits, his voice firm and unwavering. You hope the room can’t read the embarrassment on your face.

“Yeah, sure, traffic, at one in the morning on a Thursday,” Scott teases. To your left, you can see your and Logan’s reflections in a nearby mirror. You’re disheveled and messy, but not terrible. And then, it suddenly dawns on you that Logan’s tank is inside out; you can’t help but grin at the sight.

Charles smiles softly—knowingly. “You two can share one of the rooms upstairs, down the hall, last door on the left.”

You watch as Logan catches his reflection in the mirror, his gaze quickly focusing on you instead, cocking his head up towards the stairs.

His steps are hurried, and you try to catch up to him. He beats you to the top and leans in close to you as you finish the climb, his lips brushing the side of your head. “You’re in some massive fucking trouble, sweetheart,” he whispers, now holding the bags in one hand so that the other can snake around your waist. He shoves you down the hall with him.

“What did I do?” You giggle as his fingers dig into your side.

“You let me put my shirt on inside out.”

You smirk. “And what are you gonna do about it, bub?” You know he won’t like that last bit, but you want to see what he’ll do about it.

“Remember when I told you I wasn’t done with you yet?” Your breath catches in your throat at his words. “Well, it’s later, darlin’.”

#Logan Howlett x reader #James Logan Howlett x reader #Wolverine x reader #Logan Howlett x reader smut #James Logan Howlett x reader smut #Wolverine x reader smut #Logan Howlett smut #James Logan Howlett smut #Wolverine smut #logan howlett imagine #Logan Howlett x you #James Logan Howlett x you #Wolverine x you #Logan Howlett x you smut #James Logan Howlett x you smut #Wolverine x you smut #Wolverine imagine

3K notes · View notes

puppym3 · 2 months

Text

'*•.¸♡ off-road ride ♡¸.•*'

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

lee minho x fem!reader

a result of the poll win! (car sex w minho)

summary: you and minho are on your way to meet up with your friends, but get distracted along the way.

wc: 3k

warnings: MDNI! 18+, established relationship, dom!minho, brat!reader, a lot of teasing, fingering (f. rec), rough sex, spanking, safeword mentioned (not used), piv, unprotected sex, creampie, riding, choking, overstim, begging, (lmk if i missed any)

a/n: i've been realizing that the poll has been going in age order so far, so i might just release all of the fics in age order to keep the pattern going. also i loved writing this, hopefully next time i can write a fluffier minho smut!!

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

The winding roads blurred past as Minho deftly steered the car, the engine's purr adding a soundtrack to your animated voice. Your friend's laughter was bubbling over and filling the car with cheerful energy as you spoke on the phone.

“Mmm, no, we should totally do that next weekend,” you were saying, still chuckling at a joke your friend had made. “I just think we should invite the whole group.”

Lee Know’s jaw tightened. He knew you had been out and about with your friends lately, and he didn’t want to be jealous, but... he was. It felt like you were paying more attention to everyone else lately than to him.

“We’re so close now,” you said, leaning over to Minho to point at the map. You had meticulously planned the route and confidently guided him whenever needed. “Maybe about fifteen minutes away, I'd say.”

“Great,” Minho replied, his voice low and warm, though his eyes betrayed a hint of irritation as he kept glancing at you.

“Hey, hold on, my phone’s going crazy.” You pulled the phone away from your ear, glancing down at the screen. Your eyes went wide, and you started giggling, turning back to look at Minho with a playful smile.

“What?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Oh, it’s just my friend being ridiculous.”

“Mm. I can’t leave them hanging, then, right?”

“I guess not.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. We’re so close now.”

“Are you?” your friend purred from the other end, causing you to laugh again.

“Okay, not that close.” You glanced over at Minho, smiling, before focusing on the road.

“Are you sure? Because I was thinking maybe you’d like to come over after the party…”

“Hmmm, and why is that?” You were grinning now, unable to help yourself.

“Well, there’s this guy that’s been flirting with me, and I don’t really like him that way, but I don’t know how to let him down. I was hoping you’d come over and help me out.”

“What’s your plan?” You bit your lip, glancing over at Minho, who was gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white.

“Well, if you’d be willing to kiss me for a while, that might get the message across.”

“You want me to kiss you?” You widened your eyes, Minho’s head snapping towards you, before quickly looking back at the road as if he were pretending he totally wasn’t listening.

You didn’t realize how bad it could sound out of context, and Minho’s frustration was evident.

“Haha, you know I was joking, girl. I’m just not good at confrontation, and I know you are. You know how to bite back at people.”

“I’m not so sure that’s what you meant, but if you need some help, then I’ll be happy to come over.”

“Awesome, thanks. So, I can’t wait to meet Lee Know. You talk about him all the time; he sounds really sweet.” Her tone was sweeter and more sincere.

Suddenly, you felt a warm hand gently land on your thigh, the touch sending a shiver down your spine as it traced teasing patterns on the exposed skin where your skirt had ridden up. Minho's touch was deliberate, and you could feel the heat radiating from his fingers as they traced teasing patterns on your skin.

You turned your head to stare at Minho, whose gaze was locked on the road ahead. His face was impassive, but there was a steely edge to his eyes that betrayed his annoyance.

“Um, yeah,” you managed, feeling Minho’s hand slip higher up your thigh. “He’s great.”

“What’s going on? You okay?” your friend asked, her concern evident in her voice as she picked up on your distracted tone.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, gasping quietly as Minho’s fingers gripped your inner thigh, his touch becoming more insistent.

You grabbed Lee Know’s misbehaving hand before it could go any further. His touch was electrifying, and despite your attempts to focus on the conversation, the heat of his fingers was impossible to ignore.

“Uh, I just... got distracted,” you stammered, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re almost there, so maybe I should call you back later?”

“Sure, no problem,” your friend agreed, her tone tinged with concern. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do,” you replied, ending the call quickly. As soon as the phone disconnected, Minho’s hand withdrew, and he turned to you with a look of feigned innocence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual as he focused on the road ahead.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you shot back, glaring at him but with a teasing glint in your eyes. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Minho said, his lips curling into a playful pout. “I guess I just didn’t like hearing my girlfriend sounding all flirty on the phone with someone else.”

You tried to hold back a laugh, your irritation melting into amusement. “Minho, she was joking with me.”

“Yeah, well,” Minho said, his tone softening as he glanced at you with a hint of vulnerability. “I just want your attention too.”

Your heart melted at his words. The way he looked at you, so earnest and a bit pouty, was impossible to resist.

You grabbed one of his hands, guiding it back to rest on your leg. You could see the way his breath caught in his throat as he realized what you were doing.

His fingers slowly inched up your skirt, brushing over your heated skin. You trembled, attempting to stay quiet as Minho's hands caressed your bare thighs, his touch sending sparks of electricity through your body.

"Baby," you murmured, "I can't have you driving off the road because you're distracted."

"I'm not distracted," Minho insisted, his fingers dancing along the edge of your panties. "I'm focused."

"Really?" You arched an eyebrow, glancing over at him.

"Mm-hmm." His fingers slipped beneath the lace of your panties, brushing against your sensitive flesh.

You gasped, grabbing his wrist to try and still his movements. "Minho," you warned, a slight tremor in your voice.

"What's wrong, baby? Didn't you want me to do this?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence as he slid his finger along your slit.

"Min," you hissed, squeezing your thighs together. The friction of his fingers sent shivers of pleasure through your body, and you bit your lip to stifle a moan.

"That's right," he said. "Don't forget, you're mine."

"Yours," you gasped, arching against him as his finger flicked at your clit.

The sensation was almost too much, and you had to fight the urge to writhe in your seat.

"Good," Minho said, his voice rough with arousal as he pressed his finger deeper, sliding it inside you.

Your head fell back, and you closed your eyes, lost in the feeling of his touch.

"You're so wet," Minho teased. "Just from me touching your thigh?"

"Mm," you whimpered, gripping the armrest as Minho's finger curled inside you.

"Only pay attention to me," he commanded.

You shivered at his possessive words, your back arching against the chair.

"Shit," he murmured, his eyes struggling to stay on the road. "You make me want to pull the car over and fuck you right here."

Your breath hitched, and your core tightened at his words. "Do it," you challenged, your voice shaky.

"What?" he asked, glancing at you briefly.

"Pull the car over," you repeated, "and fuck me."

Minho sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on the steering wheel tightening with tension.

"Don't tempt me," he warned, his voice husky.

"Please," you begged, your body craving his touch. "I want you, Min."

"Be patient," he warned, his finger curling up into you and hitting you in the perfect spot.

You moaned, your head falling back against the seat. "I can't," you whined, your hips rolling against his hand.

"You can, and you will," he said, his thumb brushing over your clit as his index and middle fingers worked their way into you.

"Min, I need it," you groaned, your hips grinding against his hand, seeking relief.

Minho breathed, his fingers thrusting deeper into you, "You're so desperate for me."

"Please," you pleaded, "I'm desperate, I can't hold on."

"You're lucky I'm even entertaining you now," Minho said, his cock obviously hard in his pants.

You could feel the tension in his body and the way his fingers moved inside you with a renewed fervor.

"Don't pretend like you're not just as turned on," you teased, your fingers gripping the armrest as his hand began to pick up its pace.

"I am," Minho conceded, "but I have a little more self-control than you."

"Don't have self-control," you groaned, your hips rocking against his hand as you sought release.

"You're a little slut for my cock, aren't you? Can't even wait." He smirked.

You bit your lip, unable to argue, as his fingers thrust deeper inside you.

"Just give me what I want, Min," you whined, the pressure building in your core.

"So impatient," he said, his fingers curling again, repeatedly hitting the same spot.

You gasped, your back arching as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

"Minho," you pleaded.

"Let go," he commanded, his thumb teasing your clit with purpose.

You cried out, your orgasm crashing over you as his fingers worked you through your high, feeling yourself clench over his fingers.

You whimpered, the aftershocks of your climax making your body tremble with desire.

Minho pulled his hand away, his breath shaky as he brought his fingers up to your mouth.

"Lick it up," he said, his voice low and commanding.

You obliged, licking the salty-sweet taste from his fingers.

"Good girl," he praised, his cock visibly twitching in his pants.

Your body is still aching for him inside of you; just the sight of it makes your mouth water.

"Fuck me," you pleaded. "Please."

Minho shook his head. "I can't do this here, not yet. We're almost there."

"But,"

"Behave and wait," he commanded, his voice firm and unwavering.

You squirmed in your seat, the lingering burn of desire coursing through your body.

"Stop acting like a brat," he scolded.

Your hand meets his thigh now, trailing up.

"Oh, but what if I am?"

"Stop trying to rile me up," he said, his voice like a warning.

You grinned, enjoying the effect you had on him.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll spank you," he threatened, his eyes locking on the road.

You bit your lip, feeling a mischievous idea taking shape in your mind.

"Pull the car over and do it, then," you teased, your hand reaching out to brush against the bulge in his pants, tracing a line down.

Minho hissed, his hips involuntarily jerking against your touch.

"We're going to be late," he warned.

"Let's be late, then."

Minho let out a breath, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he struggled to maintain control.

"If I pull the car over now, you're going to regret it later."

You bit your lip, playing with your seatbelt.

"Is that a promise?"

"Fine," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You want to be fucked so bad, then let's fucking do it."

He pulled the car over to the side of the road, putting the car in park, right on a dirt path with only a single tree covering the view.

He unbuckled your seatbelt and picked you up to lay across his lap.

He lifted your skirt and yanked your panties down, and you could feel his erection straining against his pants.

You gasped, feeling the cool air against your ass, exposed and ready.

"You remember the safeword, correct?"

You nodded, a shiver of excitement running down your spine.

"Beg," he ordered, his voice rough and commanding.

"Please," you pleaded, your voice desperate. "Please, fuck me."

"Again."

"Min, please," you moaned, the friction of his cock rubbing against your sensitive spots driving you crazy. "Please, I want your cock. I need it."

"Tell me what a slut you are."

"I'm... " You inhaled sharply, a mix of sensations flooding you as his hand made contact, your thoughts clouding with each touch.

"Say it," he insisted, his hand massaging your reddened cheeks and his fingers pressing into your tender skin.

"I'm your slut," you moaned, the shame and humiliation only making the heat between your legs grow.

"Good girl," he praised, his hand caressing the curve of your ass.

You whimpered, the sensation overwhelming as he teased you.

When he readjusted you to sit in your lap, the sting was evident.

He undid his pants and let his cock spring free. He was huge and throbbing, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You couldn't help but stare at the sight of his cock, which sent a jolt of pleasure through your body.

You needed him, you wanted him, and you could barely hold back.

"Fuck me," you whined, desperate for him to fill you up.

He took his time, his cock grinding against your wetness, coating the length of him in your arousal.

"Please," you begged, his cock brushing against your clit, the sensation making you gasp.

"Patient," he warned, his hips rolling forward as his cock rubbed against your folds.

You moaned, the friction against your clit driving you crazy.

"I need you," you pleaded, the ache between your legs becoming unbearable.

He sighed out, the head of his cock finally pressing against your entrance.

You gasped, your body trembling with anticipation as he slowly pushed into you.

The stretch was almost too much, but the pain mixed with pleasure was intoxicating. You whimpered, your walls clenching around him.

You moaned, the sensation of his cock filling you up nearly driving you over the edge.

"Minho, fuck, please move." you pleaded after a few seconds of him settling inside you.

His eyes hit yours like daggers, his stare sharp. "You wanted my cock so bad, so you're going to do it yourself."

You blinked at him, not fully comprehending what he meant.

Minho grabbed your hips, lifting you up and down his shaft.

Your eyes widened, realizing what he meant. You began to move your hips up a little, your hands laid on his chest for support.

"There we go," he cooed, his fingers digging into your hips as you rode him. "Just like that."

You bit your lip, the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the right places driving you crazy.

Leaning forward, he captured your mouth in a hungry kiss. You moaned into his mouth as his cock hit your walls perfectly, eliciting a deep pleasure.

Lee Know broke the kiss, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back.

He kissed your neck, biting the sensitive skin. The pleasure and pain mingled together, making you cry out.

"Keep going," he instructed, his tongue tracing a path along your jawline.

You obeyed, persisting in moving your hips as he drove his cock into you, the angle enabling him to penetrate even deeper.

You moaned, the sensation becoming almost unbearable.

Suddenly, you felt his hand lightly wrap around your neck, the pressure adding to the overwhelming pleasure.

You gasped, the sensation sending a powerful jolt through your body when he lightly squeezed, just enough to drive you wild.

You felt the pressure intensifying, your inner walls starting to flutter around his throbbing cock. Your breathing quickened as you felt yourself nearing the edge, the combination of his touch and the intense stimulation pushing you closer to the brink of ecstasy.

With one final, deep thrust, you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you as you reached your peak, your body wracked with waves of intense pleasure.

Your hips jerked, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm, and you collapsed against him, completely spent.

Minho grabbed at your hips, continuing to pound deeper into you, his movements becoming more frantic as he chased his own release.

His breathing grew ragged, his hands gripping you tight as he fucked you with renewed vigor, his cock hitting your walls in just the right place, causing tears to form in your eyes from the overstimulation.

Finally, with a moan, his body tensed, his cock twitching inside you as he spilled his release.

After a moment, he pulled out, his breathing heavy as lay his head against the headrest.

Your legs were trembling from the overstimulation, your face was flushed with a tear streaming down, and your hair was tousled.

Not to mention you now had marks on your neck and ass.

You were too tired to move, it felt like your body turned into lead.

He held you in his arms, brushing his fingers through your hair.

You closed your eyes and let the sound of his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

"Hey, are you okay?"

You opened your eyes, your vision blurred.

"Huh?"

You looked around and realized you were in your own bed, not the car.

You glanced over at Minho, his gaze soft as he watched you.

"What happened?" you asked, still disoriented.

"You fell asleep on me," he chuckled. "This is why I suggested we don't go all the way..."

The realization fully hit you, you picked up your phone to find multiple messages from your friends telling you to 'get better soon' and others asking where you were.

"Sorry for getting carried away," you apologized, looking down, and feeling slightly embarrassed.

Minho grabbed your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours.

"It's okay, it was worth it."

You looked at him, his eyes full of affection.

You smiled, squeezing his hand.

"I love you."

You leaned over, placing a soft kiss on his lips.

"I love you, too."

He returned the gesture, pulling you close.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, until Minho's phone began to vibrate.

He glanced at it, sighing.

"It's Chan again."

"We should get going," you said, not wanting to keep them waiting any longer.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked, with the cocky look on his face back again.

You tried to sit up but immediately felt your body protest, the soreness kicking in.

"Fuck," you muttered, flopping back down onto the mattress.

"I did warn you," he smirked, his hands rubbing at your sore legs.

"Don't touch me," you said, trying to swat his hand away.

He laughed, kissing your forehead.

"Don't be mad, I told you this was a bad idea."

You frowned, your heart melting a little at his cute gesture.

"You win."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

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spicygrilledscorpio · 3 months

Text

Not a driver - Lando

Summary: Y/n asked Lando to try the sim out of boredom and well- let’s say it did not go as expected

Warning: SMUT, dom-ish!Lando, bratty!reader, cockwarming, toys, overstimulation, pet names (princess or sum), fingering, f!receiving, handcuffs (i think that’s it lemme know if i missed any)

Side note: This is my first fic ever so please be gentle🥺🫶🏻. English is also not my first language so sorry if anything sounds weird. Hopes you guys enjoy

———————————————————————————

Y/n settled in her place in the sim rig and started driving with Lando standing next to her watching. Well, for the record, despite her boyfriend driving for a living, y/n is a terrible driver. However, Lando doesn’t mind it at all, he is more than happy to take the wheel. Therefore, he is surprised when y/n asks him to try the sim.

“Fuck” she yells out of frustration, hitting the steering wheel after spinning out, again. While her beloved boyfriend laughs out loud.

“Why are you laughing” Y/n pouts, and turns around to look at Lando, who was standing behind her sim rig with arms around her neck. “I’m not” he smirks, leaning down to peck her lips.

After multiple attempts of trying to finish a lap and failed. “I give up” Y/n sighs “This is too hard, I hate driving”.

“Oh come on, lemme show you”. Lando guides y/n to stand up and take her seat. She was fully prepared to stand by and watch him when suddenly he took her hands.

“Come here baby” He pulled her onto his lap. Her back against his chest, he guides her hands on the wheel. Lando’s feet on the pedal while hers was dangling, since she was a lot shorter than him.

Y/n was wearing one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts with her panties underneath to deal with the torturous heat of summer in Monaco. She squirms in Lando’s lap trying to get comfortable, when Lando reaches out to stop her as she whines out quietly, but enough for him to hear.

“Ready?” Lando asks, placing his hands over hers, which were already on the steering wheel. His hands are significantly larger than hers, so it’s fair to say that her hand vanished from sight.

After a few laps of not crashing, thanks to her boyfriend, y/n attention starts to drift to her boyfriend’s hands. The way his hands look so much bigger than yours, the way the veins run through his hands or the ring he was wearing made her go feral. Y/n can’t help but squirm slightly against him to seek a release. However, Lando ignores her movements and keeps his eyes stuck to the screen.

Y/n tried to shift her attention back to driving, but the way her boyfriend kept squeezing her hands and placing kisses on her temple every once in a while drove her crazy. But it’s not until Lando shifts in his seat and practically thrusts onto her that y/n has her last straw.

“Landooo” Y/n whines as she removes her hands from the steering wheel to turn around and straddle him.

“What’s wrong princess? I thought you wanted to try the sim” He answered in a teasing tone and chuckled slightly at her action.

Y/n didn’t reply but let out a loud whine and groan as she nuzzled her face into Lando’s neck. Desperately grinding on his bulge, feeling it getting harder and harder. Lando’s hand let go of the steering wheel to steady her hip, stopping her from moving.

“Princess, look at me” He demands with a low-toned voice, the one that she always goes crazy for.

Lando’s one hand holding her face, moving it away from the crook of his neck, the other one found its way to her butt and kneading it. Y/n’s eyes lazily look into his while still laying her head on his shoulder with a pout on her face.

“What do you want, hmm?”

“You know what I want” Y/n whines out, hiding her flushed cheek into his neck, again.

“No, look at me sweetie, use your words” He pulled out that harsh, low-toned voice again.

“Need you, Lan” She looked at him with those puppy eyes, knowing for sure he wouldn’t be able to say no to her. Y/n squirms, grinding her clothed pussy against his now more visible hard bulge.

“How bad?” he teases. Y/n groans, hitting his chest with her palm. “Patient” he demands

“Take these off” Hands pulled her pantie lace and let it snap against her skin

Y/n shuffles in his lap to take it off and place it in Lando’s hand, then he shoves it in his pocket. She struggles to unlock his belt but manages to do it anyway, then rushes to unzip his pants and pull down his boxer. All the while Lando just leaned back onto the seat and watched her struggle and let out a chuckle seeing how impatient his girlfriend was.

“Lando-“ she gasps sinking into him slowly, afraid to get hurt since he’s really big compared to her. When suddenly he pulled her down onto him roughly, making tears well up in her eyes from the sudden stretch.

After a little while of getting used to his size, y/n starts bouncing onto him, or did she think so? Lando suddenly holds her down, stopping her movements. Y/n lets out a whine and stares at him in confusion.

“Now, you’re going to be a good girl and keep me warm while I do some laps” he stops mid-sentence to look down at her, who looks like she’s about to cry out from frustration. “Is that ok princess? Can you do that for me”.

Y/n nodded slightly. As much as y/n wants to say no, she knows that if she just behaves for him, the rewards she gets after this torture ends will be worth it.

“Yeah? That’s my good girl”

After about 10-20 minutes of torment and Lando has no sign of shutting down the sim to take care of her, y/n begins to get impatient and starts squirming, clenching harder to ask for her boyfriend’s attention. Lando hisses but pays no attention to his now very, very needy girlfriend. Not getting what she wants, y/n starts grinding down harder and eventually starts bouncing on him.

“Behave,” Lando says, still very much not giving her the attention she wanted.

Still, y/n ignores him and bounces even faster. Not holding back anymore decided to get herself off. Lando, suprisingly, doesn’t stop her and Y/n takes this as approval. Y/n keeps chasing her high as her boyfriend does nothing but lean back, hands folded behind his head with a smirk on his face, staring at Y/n’s face as she comes close to her orgasm.

Just when she was about to cum, Lando stopped her. Out of confusion and frustration, Y/n whines out loud, frowning at her boyfriend, while he’s grinning.

“Didn’t say you could get yourself off, did I?” he questions in a teasing tone.

“But-“ A tear rolls down from her eyes from being denied her orgasm.

“Brat,” Lando said as he reached out to wipe her tears away.

He stood up suddenly and Y/n squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck, afraid of falling. Lando carries her to their bedroom and throws her gently on the bed.

“What am I gonna do with this brat hm?”

“Please Lan, I’ll be good, I promise” Y/n begs, hoping her boyfriend would give in

“Oh? Then why did you get yourself off without my permission hm, brat?” he questions, as he reaches out to the drawer in the nightstand and pulls out a handcuff and a vibrator. Lando cuffs y/n onto their bed’s headboard while she tries to wriggle. “Stop or you’ll hurt yourself,” Lando said sternly, y/n pouting in return.

Lando has been teasing Y/n with the vibrator for more than an hour, edging her through multiple orgasms that now both of them lost count of.

“I can’t take it anymore” She lets out a shaky breath as her body trembles, tears staining her flushed face. Tries to close her legs but fails, again, with her boyfriend settling between them. Lando moves the vibrator onto her puffy clit from being overstimulated, while his fingers thrust in and out of her at a pace that she feels like she can pass out at every given moment. The wet sounds of her arousal being slapped against her skin over and over made Y/n blush as she hid her face in the pillow.

“Don’t be shy now princess, I thought you wanted to cum”. He said with a smirk on his face that she wanted to wipe off so badly.

“Just one more, ok? Can you do that for me baby?” he asks knowing that he’s gonna pull one out of her regardless of what her answer will be. Y/n has no choice but to nod, and that’s not the first time he promised that her next orgasm is going to be “the last one”.

As he feels her pussy clenching harder around his fingers, Lando moves faster and turns the vibrator to its highest setting, helping his girlfriend to chase her orgasm. Finally, y/n spasms down onto his fingers and squeezes her eyes shut as she cries out loud. Lando doesn’t stop thrusting and helps her ride out of her orgasm.

“No more” Y/n shakes her head as she whimpers, tears rolling down all over her face.

“I know sweetheart, I know” Lando whispers as he removes his fingers from her, peppering kisses all over her face. Moved to uncuff her wrist and place kisses onto both of her red wrists from her wriggling from before. Y/n’s hands immediately move to wrap around his neck, pulling him down to cuddle with her.

Y/n drifts to sleep after just a little while of cuddling from the tiredness from all the overstimulation before. Lando moves away from her grips and replaces himself with a pillow gently since the last thing he wants would be to wake her up.

He grabs a warm towel to clean her up, parting Y/n’s legs gently and cleaning her up. Y/n let out a whine when the cloth touched her sensitive clit as Lando shushes her. “Go back to sleep, baby”

Lando quickly throws the towel away and settles on the bed beside y/n. They cuddled up and y/n nuzzled in Lando’s chest.

“You didn’t get to cum” Y/n mumbled in a low volume but enough for Lando to hear.

“Go to sleep princess, we’ll deal with that tomorrow”

#lando norris #smut #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 smut #lando x reader #lando smut #lando norizz #f1 x you #fanfic #lando imagine #lando x you #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x y/n

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poetskings · 5 months

Text

@jegulus-microfic | April 18: sock | 1.6k

James is sexiled and decides to spend time with Regulus.

There’s a sock on the door knob.

It’s been a long day and James is tired and there’s a fucking sock on the door knob and if he listens close enough he can hear soft grunts.

He’s happy for Sirius and Remus, really, he is, he just wishes that they’d fuck at Remus’ every now and then, and at least keep it to the bedroom.

Sirius and James share a college flat with Peter, Marlene and Lily, so there aren’t many options when they’re all out. Today, James knows that Peter and Lily have chess club, and Marlene’s training for the women’s boat race, so it’s only him who’d be around.

He sighs and turns around, sending Regulus a text as he goes.

Been sexiled – your dorm free?

He’s walking before he’s received a response – he’s almost positive that the answer will be ‘yes’, and he hasn’t seen Regulus in a week, so they’re long overdue a catch up.

Their friendship was one of the more unexpected things to come out of Regulus bucking centuries of Black tradition and instead following in his brother’s footsteps, choosing Cambridge over Oxford. He settled in nicely to Corpus Christi, flying through his first few years as a history undergraduate while Sirius and James chose Trinity instead.

It took a while but slowly and tentatively Sirius and Regulus attempted to heal their relationship, strained by Regulus’ years at Harrow after Sirius packed up and left when he was sixteen, dropping out and enrolling at a local state school instead. They’re much better now; their barbs at each other aren’t quite as jagged. There’s love there, now, rather than just animosity.

As Regulus and Sirius attempted to mend their relationship, James and Remus had been called in early on to mediate, or sometimes it was Regulus’ friends, Evan and Barty, or even Pandora. From those early tentative meetings in neutral territory, new and interesting friendships bloomed, most of all between Regulus and James.

From early study sessions, it evolved into coffee dates and library outings, and when Remus and Sirius sorted their shit out it became even more frequent – the pair never make James feel like a third wheel, but nonetheless they deserve time to themselves, even if James would prefer for them not to fuck on every and any available surface in their dorm.

Regulus is a comforting presence for James; he doesn’t demand anything of him. James is naturally an extrovert; always the centre of a room, but sometimes he needs to recharge, and Regulus lets him do that. He reminds James of calm waters on a spring day, and whenever James needs to quiet his mind, he finds the youngest Black. He only hopes he offers Regulus some of the same comfort in return.

That, and maybe something more. Maybe he hopes that one day there’s a sock on his door knob, and that the reason is Regulus..

James is drawn out of his thoughts as his phone dings.

Sure – text me when you’re here, will come meet you

It’s a five-minute walk but James makes it there in two, calling Regulus to get him to buzz him in. He’s a familiar figure amongst the second years at Corpus, and he’s pretty sure a few of them will have also texted the youngest Black to alert him to James’ presence.

The college door opens and Regulus emerges, dressed in sweatpants and a Trinity rowing sweatshirt that James left last time he was over. He’s so lovely, James thinks, an impulse he doesn’t know how to control; isn’t sure he wants to control it.

“Sexiled, huh?” Regulus holds the door open as James steps through, falling into step with each other and walking up a flight of stairs to reach Regulus’ dorm. It’s empty, although that isn’t uncommon for Regulus. Barty and Evan hold unsociable hours, and Regulus, Pandora and Dorcas have a frankly insane amount of extracurriculars to attend, so they’re rarely together.

“There was a sock on the front door and I’m pretty sure I could hear noises so I didn’t want to risk it,” James says, settling himself in the kitchen, finding Regulus’ mug and a new one with a deer in glasses; a ‘congratulations’ for James’ performance in the inter-college boat races that’s become a permanent fixture in Regulus’ dorm.

He locates the teabags; Yorkshire for James, organic for Regulus, before turning back to the mugs.

“I don’t blame you – those two seem to spend more time fucking than not – it’s a minor miracle they get any work done,” Regulus chuckles, gently bumping James’ hip to get to the fridge, taking out his oat milk and James’ rice milk.

They settle into the routine like it’s second nature; they’re familiar with each other in a way that’s almost intimate. They stand together waiting for the kettle to boil, perhaps a bit too close for it to be entirely platonic, but James isn’t going to move away if Regulus doesn’t.

He always feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something more than what they are, something better, but for all of James’ bravery, he isn’t sure how to make the next move, and he doesn’t want to wreck this peace that Regulus and his brother have been working so hard on.

“So, how was your day?” Regulus asks, tilting his head to better look at James. He looks unbelievably soft in James’ jumper and James thinks that if he just moves his pinkie he can link it with Regulus’.

“Exhausting. I had rowing first thing and a few readings to do for my supervision that I’d completely missed,” James sighs. He loves his degree but he’s never been as organised as Regulus, who seems to have work done almost before it’s set. “Also, I spent a solid ten minutes looking for that jumper.”

A light blush creeps up Regulus’ cheeks at that. “Sorry, you left it here after practice last week so I washed it but completely forgot to text you.”

A smile falls across James’ face. “You’re fine, Reg, and besides, it suits you. I guess I should get myself a Corpus one to match, huh?” He smirks as the red of Regulus’ cheeks becomes more pronounced.

The kettle whistles and Regulus turns away from James to fill their cups. “James Potter, behave yourself.” He hip checks James again, this time with a bit more force. Except he doesn’t move back. He stays there, leaning against James, and James feels like his entire body’s a livewire.

The tightrope they’re walking is getting more taut, and James finds himself eager for the fall.

“But Regulus, dearest, where’s the fun in that?” He leans forward, entirely too close for it to be platonic, and Regulus is turning, turning-

“Ow! Fuck!” James forgot about the fact that Regulus was holding a kettle of boiling water, and he’s paying for that now. Water splashes over the counter as Regulus rushes to put the kettle down, taking James’ hand and leading him over to the tap.

He turns the cold water tap on, letting it flow over their entwined hands. He is too still, too silent, and James wants to go back to where they were. He wants the tightrope back. He wants to fall.

He can be brave, he thinks, if it means he gets to have something with Regulus.

Regulus is staring intently at their entwined hands, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the universe, and James breaks the silence.

“Reg-”

“What are we doing, James? We’ve been tiptoeing around each other for weeks and it’s driving me insane and I want to be around you all the time and I think I’m already half in love with you so I’d love if you can clear up what this is,” he states, false bravado injected into his tone, but James can hear the tremors. He’s so nervous, but so brave. Regulus Black, the Lion Heart.

It takes a while for the words to register in James’ head.

Oh.

James removes his hand from the running water, ignoring the slight sting and the inevitable burn that will be left. He cups Regulus’ cheek, forcing the younger boy to look at him. Regulus is terrified, but so hopeful.

“Reg, I- I want-” James runs his hand through his hair in frustration. He can’t get his words out.

“Jamie?” Regulus’ voice is so soft, as though he’s worried he’ll scare James off, and the only thing James can do is kiss him.

Regulus’ lips are rough, a bit chapped from where he nibbles on them when he’s nervous. He tastes of tea and cinnamon and James wants to devour him. There is nothing soft about it. James’ tongue darts out, soothing Regulus’ lips, and the younger boy lets out a moan that’s pure filth and ecstasy and James is falling, falling, fallen.

He wants to do this forever.

His hands find their way to Regulus’ waist, tracing the skin underneath the Trinity sweater that’s been driving James insane since he first saw Regulus wearing it. It’s his, it’s him.

They break apart to breathe and James attaches his lips to Regulus’ neck, marking, claiming. He can’t think beyond this moment, beyond the boy in front of him.

“Jamie, we should- we need to-” he cuts himself off, broken sighs escaping his lips as he tangles his hands in James’ hair.

James reluctantly removes himself from Regulus’ neck, taking the boy’s face in his hands. “Do you want this, Reg? Do you want me?”

Regulus’ eyes trace James’ face, and whatever he sees softens him.

“Always, Jamie.” And James is lost.

They’ll talk about it later, as the sunlight paints the walls of Regulus’ room, but this is enough for now. For ever.

And if Barty finds a sock on the door knob when he comes back from the library, well, that’s between him and Regulus.

#jegulus #regulus black #James potter #starchaser #marauders #marauders era #sunseeker #jegulus microfic #dead gay wizards #si writes #will I ever figure out how to write a microfic that's actually micro? doubtful.

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traveler-at-heart · 11 days

Text

The Doctor's In

Summary: Billy Maximoff sustains an injury and Wanda comes to you, her neighbour who happens to be an ER doctor.

Wanda Maximoff x F!R

For @esposadejoyhuerta - hope this week is better to us <3

Tired.

That’s all you are. You don’t even know how you manage to get home, dragging your feet through the door and dropping your bag next to the couch.

Sleep or eat?

You look between the kitchen and sofa, and the view of the cushions and the blanket you left there is far more attractive than the prospect of food.

Sleep it is.

Dropping face first on the couch, you sigh, excited at the idea of sleeping for the next few hours, until your next shift at the hospital.

You close your eyes, and don’t know how long you’ve been asleep until a desperate knock wakes you.

“Who is it?” you say, scared by the sudden noise.

“It’s Wanda”

You relax instanty, sighing with relief. Though you don’t speak regularly to your neighbours, Wanda is by far the nicest.

“Is everything ok?” as soon as you open the door, you can see her disheveled state and the fear in her eyes. “Wanda, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Billy had a little accident in the stairs and he’s in pain, I didn’t know what to do and remembered you’re a doctor”

“Come on” you let her lead the way, opening the door. As soon as you enter you can hear Billy’s cries and Tommy by his side. The boy is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, holding his right arm.

“Hey, Billy. Wanna tell me what happened?”

“It hurts” is all he manages to say.

“May I examine you? You can tell me if it hurts a lot or only a little, yes?”

The boy nods, trying to calm down as you inspect his arm. At a certain movement, he flinches, and you sigh, turning to Wanda.

“He needs an X-Ray”

“Ok, I’ll take him now”

“Why don’t I drive you?” you say, thinking it might be dangerous for Wanda to get behind the wheel when she’s in so much distress. The woman nods, and you help Billy up, making sure he doesn’t move his arm.

Wanda sits with both boys in the back of your car, her hands going through Billy’s hair to calm him down.

“Sorry about the mess” you say, looking at all the junk you had in your car.

“It’s alright” she says, looking a bit more relaxed. “I’m sorry for making you drive us, you must be exhausted”

“I don’t mind at all”

You look through the rearview mirror, Wanda smiling softly and you return the gesture, feeling a bit flustered.

“I thought I told you to go home” Chief Fury says as soon as you walk through the ER.

“Uh… my neighbour’s kid got into an accident so”

“Alright, then” his threatening glare softens as soon as his eyes land on the woman walking behind you and her two kids, Billy in a wheelchair.

“He needs an X-Ray, I didn’t see signs of a concussion or any other injuries”

“Admit him, get vitals and go to imaging. Ma’am, you can wait here while Dr. Y/L/N checks on your son”

“Can’t I go with him?”

“I’m afraid not”

“It’s alright, I won’t leave him alone” you squeeze her hand, pushing Billy to the X-ray room.

Luckily it’s empty when you walk in, the technician setting everything up quickly.

“I thought your shift ended” Darcy says and you shrug your shoulders.

“Shit happens”

Billy laughs and your eyes widen, forgetting you were around a child.

“Uh, maybe don’t tell your mom I said that, kid?”

“Hey, don’t do it for free. Get something in return for your silence” Darcy intervenes and you want to smack her. But Billy keeps on laughing as you argue with your friend, and it’s nice to see him smiling after being in so much pain.

Darcy whistles as soon as you look at the image of Billy’s fracture.

“Clean split”

“Yeah, he got lucky”

You figure it’s better to ask for an Ortho resident to help with the cast. Darcy keeps Billy company while you go talk to Wanda.

“Hey” you sit next to her, offering a cup of coffee you brought from the machine.

“How is he?” Wanda asks, looking at Tommy, who is sound asleep in the chair next to hers. You motion for her to stand up to talk without waking him up.

“Billy broke his arm but won’t need surgery. Just a cast for a few weeks and then we can remove it”

“I’m such an idiot” she curses and you’re taken aback by her outburst. As a trauma surgeon, you had seen your fair share of ugly situations, so a cast was one of the best outcomes all things considered.

“I shouldn’t have let them play, but it was late and I figured they just needed to run a bit more before they got tired” she goes on, hand running through her hair. You can see the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, stop” you place your hands in her arms, waiting until she looks at you. “Blaming yourself is not helping at all. Listen, kids get hurt playing, it’s practically a rite of passage. And I know it sucks and it’s scary but Billy is fine and I’m always around for anything, ok?”

“Ok” she nods and without thinking, you pull her closer, hugging her. Wanda rests her head on your shoulder, her scent pleasant and calming. You rub circles down her back and she relaxes.

“Thank you” she says, her hands still on your waist. You can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks, even in her disheveled state and your eyes travel to her lips.

“Dr. Y/L/N?” a resident approaches you, clearly hesitant to interrupt.

“Yeah” it takes you a second too long to look away, making Wanda blush.

“Billy is all set up” she informs you. “If Miss Maximoff filled out all the forms he’s good to go”

“Yeah, I did” the woman nods next to you, picking up her things and waking Tommy up. The resident leads you to a room where Billy is waiting for his mother. Tommy runs up to him and admires his cast, looking at the material in his brother’s arm.

“Here” you say, adjusting an armsling for him to rest. Signing his discharge and picking up some pain meds, you lead the Maximoffs out of the hospital.

By the time you park in your driveway it’s 2 AM and you have to be at the hospital in less than 12 hours.

“Come on sweetheart” Wanda tries to wake Billy, but you stand next to her and offer to carry him all the way to his room.

You’ve known Wanda for almost two years now but had never gone inside her house. As you carry the boy upstairs, you notice all the family pictures and drawings that the twins made.

“Sleep tight, little man” you say, moving aside so Wanda can remove his shoes and tuck him in. “Let me know if you need anything, ok? I’ll be home until noon”

“Oh, actually, can you wait a second for me? I’m sorry, it won’t be long”

“Sure” you nod, going down to the living room.

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion or Wanda has an incredibly comfortable couch, but as soon as you sit there, you relax and drift off.

By the time Wanda tucks in both boys and comes downstairs, you’re fast asleep. The woman smiles, your features soft as you catch up on much needed sleep. Wanda pulls out a blanket and drapes it over your body, hoping you’ll finally be able to get some rest.

—

It smells amazing.

The scent of fried bacon and butter makes you open your eyes, your stomach suddenly very aware that you forgot to have dinner last night.

Looking around, you realise this isn’t your house, but it still takes a minute to remember everything. Wanda, the twins, the hospital.

“Morning” the woman says when she sees you looking confused; the way you rub the sleep off your eyes makes her heart flutter.

“Wanda, hey. Sorry, I crashed in your living room. I’ll get out of your way now”

“I’m making breakfast. I bet you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday”

“Well…” you rub your neck, stretching. You fold the blanket and walk to her, your mouth watering at the smell of everything.

“Orange juice?” she offers.

“Yeah, thanks” you take the glass. “Can I help with anything?”

“You’ve done enough, Y/N. Come on, sit. Enjoy”

You smile sheepishly, grabbing pancakes, bacon and some jam. The first bite is so good, you let out a loud moan.

“Sorry” you blush, Wanda biting her lip curiously at the sound you just made. “These are like the best pancakes I’ve ever had”

“Thank you” she sits across from you, drinking coffee and resting her chin on her hand. “Do you have to be back to work soon?”

“Yeah, in a couple of hours. I’ve got surgery and gotta make the rounds on some patients from yesterday”

“You work too much” she admonishes in her mom voice and you laugh.

“I’ve heard that one before”

“Your boss?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have any family here and all of my friends are at the hospital, so it’s better than being home alone doing nothing”

“Not all of your friends are at the hospital” she says with a shy smile and you nod, appreciating her words.

“What about you? Anything interesting going on?”

“Aside from Billy and Tommy being pure chaos? No, that’s enough for a lifetime” she laughs, and it’s honestly the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

“They’re really sweet kids. It must be hard work but you’re doing amazing with both of them, Wanda”

“Thank you” she looks down at her cup of coffee and you nod, eating the rest of your food in silence.

Wanda is about to say something else when your pager goes off.

“Oh, great” you mutter. “My surgery’s gonna be earlier. Gotta hurry up”

“Chew your food!” Wanda scolds when you began to put everything in your mouth.

“Sorry” you say, trying to slow down. Wanda rolls her eyes. “Can I at least do the dishes?”

“Fine” she concedes, and shows you where everything is. “You better eat before your surgery. Or I’ll pack you lunch”

“I promise I’ll eat” you say, rolling your eyes. Once the dishes are done you pick up your stuff and walk out the door, Wanda close behind. “Let me know if you need anything? Billy might have some discomfort but the meds should be enough. But either way, call me”

“I don’t actually have your phone number” she says, making you frown.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Here” You take out a piece of paper from your pocket and scribble on it. “Anything at all, call me. Even if I’m in surgery, I’ll make sure one of the nurses answers for me”

“Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Those pancakes were heavenly. Thank you”

It’s hard for you to say goodbye to Wanda, but you hear the twins calling and decide it’s time to go back home.

The woman gives you a nod and you reach out, squeezing her hand. You feel warm as you go back to your place.

To be honest, you’re hoping Wanda calls you, for more than just a consult.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n

550 notes · View notes

bitchlessdino · 10 months

Note

hello! 🤍 can i request a bad boy type wonwoo having a soft spot for also a cold type reader?

like they always acting so cold towards other people and even both of them acting like they hate each other.

and people are like "oh there is no way they can date", but wonwoo is only kind to reader and viceversa even without them noticing

Oh, and they dont even realized their feelings until reader feels jealous when they saw wonwoo with someone else and thats when they realized about it, but are afraid to said something since reader doesnt know how wonwoo will react

Kinda angst maybe, but fluff at the end

take your time btw! 🤍 it is also totally okay if is not possible, hope you are having an excellent day 🌸

Pairing: wonwoox gn!reader Genre: slight angst, fluff, slice of life Word count: 6.3k tags: mentions alcohol, childhood au, biker!wonu, frienemy!wonwoo, possible love triangle, reader called a bitch, presence of violence and imminent danger, analogy using car wrecks, mc and wonwoo stilling living with their parents as adults because that's normal ok, kinda messy, intimates kisses Summary: Hard to maintain a good acquaintanceship if it started off on the wrong foot, but Wonwoo tries to do just that, no matter how much you resent him from childhood. Now reunited as adults, you're questioning whether your negative impression of him has stuck since being away or have you grown up just enough to realize how much between the two you have changed? author note: this was collecting dust but finally she is here. just in time for wonwoo to be in my bias list 🙂

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @goblinvern @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @6969lilithcat @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch

You will never willingly be associated with Jeon Wonwoo.

His mom had just happened to be someone your mom knew. Someone that she hadn’t talked to or seen in a long time. Long enough to have built their own families and have their kids without realizing it. It was as if they fell back into place. A long-time childhood friendship that quickly rekindled in a grocery store one day. From that day on, your families were inseparable. As long as they were still friends, you’d see each other every day.

“Why would I babysit some weirdo kid? I have better things to do.”

The problem was he wanted nothing to do with you.

When you met him the first time, you were a child barely getting around to a bike without training wheels, and Wonwoo was meeting the first stages of fungal acne. He was a bit older than you were then and his mom had given him the duty to look after you, the neighbor’s kid. The neighbor’s weirdo kid.

His mom bragged to yours about how good of an older brother he was to his younger brother, Seonwoo, but that seemed that seems to be his limit. Having freshly turned a teen, it all made sense. Wonwoo didn’t know you, and all of a sudden in his growing years he’s stuck taking care of a kid he knows by association. Understandably, he’d have that teen angst.

You didn't mean to overhear. You just happened to eavesdrop behind a pillar that day in their obnoxiously nice house when you came across him and his mother talking privately. Admittedly, you hadn’t made the best impression, but you were any kid in their single digits: annoying, talkative, maybe skeptical. But you were a kid. A kid that got their feelings easily hurt.

Despite saying such hurtful words, Wonwoo listened. He treated you with care–consideration almost–following his mother's orders, but you didn't make it easy for him. Every group breakfast, every dinner, every ride to school. You became relentless. You knew how he really felt about your situation after all. Your mind was made up at that point.

If he wanted nothing to do with you, you wanted nothing to do with him.

“Keep walking.”

Your eyes barely glaze over at the unfamiliar figure before waving off your hand as if dismissing a nuisance, which in this case was accurate. The unsolicited stranger scoffs, getting up from his unwelcome seat, hacking and spitting on the spot on the floor next to your chair. “I don’t fuck with bitches anyway.”

You roll your eyes as you shoo him away with the flick of your wrist again, then feel another unwanted presence join you in your once peaceful solitude. You tightly shut your eyes in frustration before taking a deep exhale, finding silence impossible under your circumstances. “I don’t want to hear it, Jeon.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you hear Wonwoo arrogantly chuckle, shrugging off the thick leather off his shoulders and setting them on his lap as he takes a seat.

With your back turned to him, you imagine the pristinely lit smile on his face he gives when he’s amused, a rarity in these parts with the exception of you, someone he’s known long enough to recount every blemish that once appeared on your face. He watches you finish the rest of your drink, the bob of your throat shifting before you pull the glass away from your lips. Your resting bitch face is still intact after all these years.

“Good, keep it that way.”

Wonwoo could have chosen to keep the peace as he said he would, but it was just too easy with you. Even after you’ve left for college and come back, he acts as if nothing has changed. In his eyes, you were still that same angsty kid who always has something snarky to say when he’s around. And man, did he always have just as smart a rebuttal. “It’s just, that was the fifth guy you’ve scared off—course, the guy was a moron—but you like dying alone, Frosty?”

Frosty. The Snowman. Much unlike the jolly creature, however, you were given that name being somewhat of a cold character, particularly to Wonwoo and anything he witnesses face the wrath of your harsh but honest judgment.

You begin getting up from your seat, scowling at the abhorred nickname, the prediction of this dinner a mistake an accurate calculation. “Should’ve known you’d run your mouth. Tell mom I’m heading to the store across the street.”

Your mother was so proud to have you back home for a period before you’d find a new place again, and she insisted on holding a small intimate gathering at bar type restaurant. That meant sharing the space with other patrons, the Jeons, and unfortunately Wonwoo, who only grew more irritating than you last remember.

“I’ll tell her, but I’m coming with.”

The caretaker role he was bestowed upon so long ago seems to resonate with him still, insisting on trailing behind you with nonchalance. To which you answer with a brash:

“Fuck off.”

Your eyes go to the back of your skull the nth time tonight before you’re off on your stroll, noticing the annoying scrap of Wonwoo’s heel following behind you after he waves your mom and the rest of the party farewell. You ignore him, darting towards the antique shop that warms your stomach with nostalgia, hearing the wind chimes clang when you enter with a cool musk breeze to follow.

“That all you have to say to me? Even if you hate me, there has to be some…sentiment.”

You finger through the old hardcovers, eyes scanning over the aged wood of the shelves until they move on to the glossy wood of the cuckoo clocks on the walls. “Not even a little bit, Jeon.”

There’s the breathiness of his scoff that lingers in the musk air. He crosses your arms, the leather rubs loudly against itself. “Well, that’s sad to hear,” he responds, not sounding sad at all.

“Don’t you have an actual sibling to bother? Why are you being a nuisance to me?”

He simply shrugs. “Seonwoo isn’t back from his work-study just yet. Plus he’d be happy to know I kept you company.”

Unlike Wonwoo, Seonwoo was actually tolerable, pleasant even. If you were envious of Wonwoo for anything, it was having a nice little brother like Seonwoo. You weren’t exactly close but he was a nice kid, a lot nicer than Wonwoo anyway, and not at all that annoying kind of nice that chirps every two seconds.

You sigh. “Now that’s actually sad to hear.”

“I knew you’d say that. You always liked him better than me.”

Only because you never liked me in the first place.

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh my god, Wonwoo?”

A shrill voice beckons from the store entrance, an older version of a girl from your adolescence runs towards you both. “I thought I heard your gorgeous voice. Gorgeous face as well as always, how are you?”

Gina also grew up in the same neighborhood you both did and was typically nice, but around Wonwoo, she seemed to lose all train of thought since all her eyes could train on was him. She bats her eyelashes the same flirtatious way several years ago, and instinctively her body is drawn to him like mosquitos to blood, drinking in masculine appearance for all its worth.

If you were anything like her, you’d get it. Wonwoo is an attractive man by society's standards, but the truth of the matter is you can’t stand him. And you know deep down he can’t stand you. His fake politeness isn’t fooling anybody. Okay, that is a lie. His fake politeness doesn’t fool you, but his limitless charm made everyone else weak in the knees.

“Good, good.” He nods cordially, a smile drained from his face only leaving a straight stare, eyes only landing on Gina momentarily before they return to you.

Gina finds his gaze’s target before the light is slightly dimmed from her initially bright eyes. “And you too. Oh gosh, you must’ve got back too. Can you believe we’ve both graduated from college?”

You wonder if she does, considering you did graduate from the same university.

“Yeah, it’s…crazy.” You answer, sounding unintentionally sarcastic.

Gina awkwardly chuckles, eyes back on Wonwoo as if they never left. “All we need is Seonwoo and it’s like the musketeers again, huh?”

Hardly the musketeers when she only ever stalked Wonwoo the entire time. You’re surprised you didn’t find she didn’t follow him all the way to the bathroom too.

Wonwoo’s cold expression is a steel cage that lacks interest. He blindly nods, mumbling “sure,” and not giving any other sign of continuing the conversation.

“Well, you guys should totally make it to my housewarming party. I’m inviting all the other guys from the neighborhood. Invite Seonwoo too! It’ll be a nice way to catch up.”

“We’ll think about it,” Wonwoo answers, giving her another curt nod.

“I’ll be really, really grateful if you did.”

There are stars in her eyes, like a treat is dangling in front of it, that treat being a six-foot body of steel and perfect Wonwoo.

“Right,” he grunts.

She finally waves you both goodbye before making it past the glass doors with a quirk in her step.

You continue to peruse the rest of the store, picking up that one wooden statue that’s never been sold, or if it has, it keeps getting returned. It makes you wonder if it’s cursed. “Just reject her already and let her move on. Even I feel sorry for her.”

“I’m not ready for the aftermath of all that.”

You really have to unlearn that eye roll of yours. You could tell it’s giving you a headache. “Of course you aren’t.”

“You’re not going, are you? The thing she mentioned?”

“This the first time you met me? Of course, I’m not going. You are?”

He shrugs. “A party never hurt anybody.”

“Without an address?”

He pulls out his phone with a notification as clear as day, Gina’s Instagram handle ushering him with details of where the party whereabouts. “Who said I didn’t have an address?”

“She really needs to find a hobby.”

Wonwoo chuckles, tucking the phone back in his front pocket. “Ready to head back now? Unless you want to look through the store a second time.”

You groan. “Stop policing me. I’m going home.”

“I’ll take you.”

You raise your brow. “On your fucking death trap? No thanks.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms, the leather of his jacket speaking out of turn again. “You say that as if people aren’t begging to the back of my Harley.”

“Only people with a death wish.”

That goes on for some time until you make yourself walk the mile before your feet give out. Wonwoo obviously is the first with a smile on his face before he forces you to get the rest of the couple miles on the back of his bike, which was admittedly prettier in person than the photos your mom showed you.

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth as you get on—no doubt regret—questioning the proximity. “Hold on,” he says, to which you answer, “fat fucking chance.”

Your spiteful words are wasted as you find yourself tugging on him as you speed off on the vehicle from hell on the freeway.

“You’re an asshole!” You scream from your lungs.

“And I told you to hold on!” He screams back, a wide smile on his face you have no way of seeing.

You desperately wrap your arms around his torso, your life flashing before your eyes like a movie. All you hear is the wind in your ears while the traffic lights are hardly visible through your tightly shut eyes. You feel your soul leave your body, thinking nothing but the idea of an afterlife. If there was one good thing about the predicament you’re in, it’d be that he can’t see the terror in your eyes. He doesn’t know how much you want to scream bloody murder.

Before you know it, you arrive home safe and sound, the gas stopping at the curb of your house. He abruptly uses the bike break and you crash against broad shoulders, and you exude bumbling idiocy as you cling to him like a baby with separation anxiety. Oxygen finally enters your brain and you recognize your compromised position, forcing your grip off of him. You unbuckle and shove his helmet into his lap as you get off, a permanent scowl on your face.

“Fuck you.”

“Glad to see you haven’t changed, Frosty.”

You don’t forget that encounter back then and you never get a chance to with your mom finding any excuse to see the Jeons day after day since your arrival. If that perfect apartment with affordable rent were to drop at your feet at a perfect time just when you so desperately needed it, it’d be now.

“Bring that in over next door. The Jeons will be thrilled to see their fridge stocked. And remember I’ll be gone until the morning.”

“We just gave them homemade wine yesterday. Mom, just because they live next door doesn’t mean we always have to plan to meet. We see them anyway.” You grab the cumbersome container of whatever it was anyway and hold it to your side like like a football, a strained expression on your face.

“You need to understand the value of lasting relationships. That’s why you’re still single, honey.”

You roll your eyes, groaning as you trod off, not wanting to start up another one of lectures why you're in your mid-twenties room with hardly any men in your books let alone in your court. Better off facing Jeon Wonwoo again than that, you guess.

You knock on their familiar white door, awaiting an answer from the other side. Soon enough you hear a masculine voice, but a voice that isn’t quite Wonwoo’s. The boy's fresh face on the receiving end piques your interest, an expression telling of a life of light and ease. Seonwoo stares back at you with a smile before politely waving. “It’s good seeing you! Been a minute.”

You find yourself returning a gesture, relaxing your arms. “It has. Mom wanted to send things over. Again.”

“Of course. Come in.”

You leave the box of goods in their fridge, feeling the presence of the younger Jeon follow behind you like a benevolent puppy. “Did you get in yesterday?”

“This morning. Early flight.”

You grin. “Singapore doing you good, I see.”

“Nothing like home though.”

You softly chuckle, “Yeah, there isn’t.”

Your conversation is cut short with another family coming down the stairs, one that looks ready to leave. They meet your eyes in amusement and his steps begin to falter in turn. “I saw you yesterday.”

“Don’t you dare make a joke about me missing you. It wasn’t funny any of the first five times.”

He’s smug as expected, entertained by the fact you’ve kept count. “I won’t, but it won’t make it any less true.”

You scoff. “Live in reality for once in your life, Wonwoo.”

“I will when you do.” He comes to the kitchen—briefly passing by you to do so and grazing your forearm—to fill a glass of water and downs it, his signature jacket thrown over his shoulders. He let out a refreshed sigh in your direction and put it away as soon as he finished. “I’m leaving now. When you change your mind about missing me, I’ll be at Gina’s party. Might actually find some fun there while you’re at it.”

The door closes behind him dramatically and your attention is right back on Seonwoo, the successful bystander. “Your brother is annoying.”

The young man smiles, finding the nostalgia in that small event. “Reminds me of the good old times.”

“Well, I should get going.”

“You’re going to the party too?”

You shake your head. “Not the slightest bit interested. Just trying to keep myself busy while I’m still in town.”

“Plan on leaving already? You just got here.”

“I can’t live on my parents forever. Need to make a living of my own you know.”

He softly laughs, a warm light enveloping his presence. He always seems to emit pure joy. Like there was nothing that could ruin this kid's day. “Nice to see you haven’t changed. Still self-reliant.”

You can’t help but smile back, “… Wouldn't be me if I wasn’t. I'll see you later, kid.”

You walk back home and go on with the rest of your afternoon by carrying on the duties of a college graduate with no job: endless job hunting. You let yourself go on that way for an hour, already bored by rereading your applicant details and sending in copies and copies of cover letters and documents. Your eyes have started to see stars shooting from either corner, warning signs of mental fatigue.

Shaking the numbing feeling, you shut off your laptop and notice the time on the clock. In the back of your mind, you’re remembering that party Wonwoo ended up going to. These parties weren’t by any means rare, but it had been some time since you let yourself give into environments as such. You said you wouldn't go but in dire situations of weary silences, perhaps it would hurt to take a second in a new subsubspace. Something to take off the edge of the weight of your undetermined future.

Against your initial better judgment, you force yourself out of that house to enter that very party you said you wouldn't go to. So like Gina to make an event over a normal thing like this. You don’t put much thought into what you wear and leave the house and when you arrive late as you were, you are unsurprised by the huge turnout. Five seconds in, you’re already regretting the 10 bucks you paid via UBER to get there.

The house was so Gina. As expected of one of the daughters of the wealthiest families in town. As you enter, all you hear is music, loud and rambunctious voices and laughter, and shouts of barely adults chugging whatever concoction in those house party solo cups. It all quickly reminds you of college and high school, times in your life you were relieved to know were over.

Why did you decide to come again if you knew this was going to happen?

You try ignoring the voices that seem to recognize you, evading and walking through the place for a potential drink to buzz you out of self-consciousness. If you were going to be in a place like this, a drink was warranted by all means.

“Wonwoo, come on!”

Gina’s voice, easily distinguishable, resonates from the other end of the room and sees how her presence bounces like a kite in the wind. You look in the direction of her gaze to find the person she seeks, ultimately having Wonwoo being dragged by the wrist, his hair sweeping the swift breeze of her force. You were a bit relieved to see him, someone who is more similar to you in ways you’d never willingly admit.

You feel the urge to approach, curious how he’ll handle this one, but intentions all change of a brisk move, changing setting immediately. One second Gina looks up at him with doe eyes that speak longing and ache, another second her arms are looped around his neck and she pulls his lips against hers, massaging against them naturally as if rehearsed. Your feet stop, watching the unsightly scene like it’s a car crash as if in slow motion, taking you only a second to realize he hasn't yet let go.

Slowly then quickly, your chest pulls up like a marionette doll before it drops in a lump, repeating until the sound of your heart is rapidly pounding into your skull. You don’t understand it, but you don’t want to either. Swiftly, you duck back and turn your head in the other direction, having seen enough.

Then panic ensues.

People are harder to brush through than you realize. Colliding each one was like speed bumps in your way of a smooth departure. You were bound to have one person take a drunken offense to your rash movement and there it was: a subtle push that led to a spilled drink that stains the shirt of a man big enough to frighten children if he approached.

“Watch the fuckkk ya goin’!”

You don’t bother with the importance of apologizing or even acknowledging him. You realize it too late when he pulls at your collar back towards him, strangling you at the throat.

“S…stupid bitch can’t even see…fucking ruin my—hic—deink”

Your hands come around his grip, attempting to pry him off. “L-let me go. The fuck?”

“The fuck you say to me piece of shi—ah!”

He finally releases you when Wonwoo appears from behind him, tossing him out like an old ragdoll with no weight. The drunkard comes crashing down to the hardwood floor and before he realizes the cause of it, said cause whisks you away with his gril looping around your wrist.

“You’re going home right the fuck now,” Wonwoo grumbles, dragging you out of other guests' way and right out of the door, once again leading you to his motorcycle. “Bike now.”

“Wonwoo, what the fuck—“

“You aren’t an idiot. You knew what was gonna happen if I hadn’t stepped in. Now get on before fee fi fo fum finds out we left.”

“I’m not getting on that death trap again!”

His glare pierces right through you. “I know you'd rather be at home than here. Especially with the probability of becoming a statistic. Get on.”

He is right for the most part and even you’re seeing through your nonsensical defiance. Reluctantly, you follow his lead, knowing he’s left you with no other choice. You endure another near death experience, this time clutching on to him less resistantly unlike last time all the way back home. It is when you’re at the foot of your door you only realize the keys that were supposed to be in your pocket but left on the kitchen counter instead.

“Shit.”

Wonwoo quickly puts the pieces together. “No key?”

You shake your head, embarrassed slightly over your feeble appearance. “No, and mom won’t be back until the morning so I’m screwed.”

“Alright. You’re sleeping over.”

You scoff looking back at him, wondering whether he’s in the right state of mind to make that call. “You’re kidding.”

“Not unless you’re okay slumbering at the footstep of your door.”

Another choice made of your hands. You discouragingly follow after him as he unlocks the door across the street. Seonwoo was evidently still home with his loafers by the foot of the door but dead asleep upstairs in bed.

“You take my bed. I’ll take the couch,” he offers nodding in the direction of the living room.

“No thanks, I’ll take the couch.”

He groans, giving that irritated look. “Don’t be difficult and just sleep in the damn bed.”

You huff, strutting over towards the couch. “Sleep in your own damn bed, Jeon. Stop treating me like you’re my babysitter.”

He follows after you, crossing his arms like an annoyed mother, “You’re really gonna be like this?”

“I’m not being like anything.”

“You know what?” He grabs the throw pillow off the couch, “Fine. We’ll share the couch.”

“Excuse me?” Your eyes narrow back at him.

The smug smile on his face says it all, knowing there was no rebuttal to follow. “Neither of us will take the bed, we’ll both will take the couch.”

Before you can argue, he ascends the stairs for more bedding and comes back to toss you a blanket and pillow. He keeps one of each for himself, sprawling on the other end of the massive couch, gesturing you to do the exact same. Cautiously, you mirrored his image, crawling under your borrowed blanket. Despite your feet not touching, you couldn’t help but feel suffocated by the close proximity, forcing you to crunch up your legs and bring your knees close to your chest.

Wonwoo’s eyes drop in place, nuzzling into his thick blanket. “Good night.”

“Whatever.”

He softly scoffs with a smile, basking in the silence. Meanwhile, there was you, wondering why you listened to his instructions so willingly. You sigh, your eyes glued to the ceiling counting every bump and curve of its textured surface.

“This is stupid it’s literally 10 pm”

“Sounds like bedtime.”

You peek back at him, his eyes still closed. “You did not go to a party to plan on sleeping at 10 pm.”

“You don’t know what my plans are. Sleep now.”

“I could’ve handled it, you know,” you argue.

“I bet you could’ve,” he responds dryly. “Wasn’t gonna take that risk though.”

“I’m serious…you didn’t have to, especially since…”

“What?”

“You know,” you take a moment to form the words, “whatever that was with Gina.”

You hear him scoff, shifting on his side of the couch. “Nothing was happening with Gina.”

You let out a parched laugh, in disbelief of the words leaving his lips. “Wow, that lie comes so easy, does it?”

“Believe what you want. It’s not what you think anyway.”

“You’re so…obnoxious,” you sputter.

“Thank you.”

“So when did that happen? You and Gina?”

He huffs hot air out of his nose.“There’s no me and Gina. I don’t know what you saw, but…it’s nothing.”

“You were kissing.”

“You could call it that.”

“For a while,” You add.

“Just enough for her to find closure.”

“And did she?”

“Saved your ass before I could find out.”

You have no response to that and you let the silence take over for a few minutes. After those few minutes, Wonwoo was the one to break the peace.

“You asleep yet.”

“No, it’s not even 11,” you answer exasperatedly.

“Well, I'm tired.”

“Go to sleep then.”

“You should sleep before I do.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, “I'm supposed to take care of you. It’s what your mom would want.”

“Why? I'm a grown adult.”

“I don’t think an explanation is needed.”

“Ever heard of personal space?”

“Make some smart decisions and I’ll consider it.”

“You’re such a dick,” you grunt, turning away from view.

“I’m only trying to protect you.”

This shit again. You pushed yourself up from the couch to sit up, fuming in his direction. “Because your mom asked. Okay, I get it, but you’re not obligated to anymore because I’m your mom's friend’s kid. Just stop.”

“That’s not why–”

“Stop lying–”

“I’m not fucking lying,” he says matching your stance. His gaze meets yours in anguish, urging you to drop it.

You scoff, lying back down in a sleeping position with your back turned towards him. “Whatever.”

“...Despite popular belief, I’m actually concerned about you sometimes.”

“I guess…I don't entirely find that hard to believe.”

“Thank you. It’s not like I hate you.”

“Sure,” you answer, voice basted in sarcasm.

“I don’t.” You hear his body shift back down on the couch, finding comfort between the leather cushions.

“Then why are you such a dick.”

He sighs. “Sorry.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“...Sorry.”

You ponder to yourself, wanting to turn back the clock to the earlier conversation for unknown reasons. You turn your body, seeing how his body mimics your body seconds ago, back turned, eyes closed, and facing the couch. “So if not Gina–”

“There’s no one,” he cuts off, “I mean, I'm not seeing anyone.”

It reassures you. Not that it should’ve. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Okay.”

You’re unsure when you drifted off, you only remember it being mid-conversation that your vision started to blur, followed by darkness and soon the light of the following morning. You wake up in Wonwoo’s house unexpectedly alone, quiet enough to hear the sound of a pin dropping. You enter the kitchen, parched, and you find a plate of food. You approach cautiously, catching a glimpse of the note, immediately catching on to why it was so damn empty.

Went to get stuff done. Keep yourself entertained for a bit. - Wonwoo and Seonwoo

With an impish grin, you quickly run your fork over and over into the balanced meal and nourish your body, but slow down as your subconscious reminds you of last night's events. It wanders to your impulse to attend a party out of sheer boredom, stumbling upon an unexpected scene, before immediately trying to escape it before you are caught. The kiss becomes a scene stuck on replay, playing the image like a broken record. You did not black out, though you wish you had, considering your uncalled-for badgering of Wonwoo’s relationship status you shouldn’t have cared less about. Yet do.

You try bruising it off if you can help it, quick to leave, and relieved to find your mom home to let you in. Your day begins a new, and with a new day, she already has stuff for you to do. You’d be annoyed if you weren’t so grateful to be let back in home, remembering to grab your keys this time as you left the house again following her request for grocery shopping.

You drink in the town for the first time since being back, questioning yourself why you hadn’t done it earlier. The block isn’t that different since you left, perhaps more greenery and flowers, but otherwise everything looked the same. Same old town, same old stores, the only thing difference was the people. Fine lines got deeper, toddlers now taller, and you now a stranger. Even the grocery store has changed managers, one adolescent bag boy at a time.

Even long finished with grocery shopping, you’re still wandering the center of town, circling in steps of the alternating tiles of the ground. For a moment, you free yourself from your thoughts, your worries, your ambitions, and live in the moment. It had been so long since you felt like this. You expected the feeling to emerge in college but that had been just another thing on your plate and suddenly you’re reminded of Wonwoo. Knowing him, he’d like this sight of you, proud to see you experience another emotion for a change.

Then your eyes flit back to the scene several meters from you. He reappears in your vision just as he has in your thoughts, only now Gina embracing him, squeezing the life out of him just as the life is squeezed out of your chest. He meets your eyes, his pupils expanding, before lightly pushing the poor girl off of him, but not in enough time to stop you from trying to escape again.

“Hey!”

You ignore him, letting your feet take you where it guides you. You’re blind to the incoming obstacles, brushing past pedestrians, shoulder everybody you meet, and you barely register the busy road before your feet make an unexpected halt. You hear the blaring honks until you’re pulled out, face crashing into their shoulder, arms coming around your in strong enclosure.

“Are you stupid? Why are you running into oncoming traffic?”

You shove him off, heart beating louder in your chest than any bike ride he’s taken you on has, and you’re seething in an emotion that you never expected to be in. Never in this lifetime at least. “Wonwoo just stop. Please.”

“I’m not doing anything. I don’t get why you’re trying to push me away.”

“I’m just sick of this. Of you. I can’t do this.”

“Why? Why? What do you think this is?”

“Just, leave me alone, Wonwoo.”

He sees you trying to walk out on him again and he doesn’t let you. Taking you by your arm, he pulls you towards him, leaving only the width of your forearm as his gaze pierces right through you, brimming with a mix of concern and utter anger. Frustration. Impatience.

If there was one thing about Wonwoo, he may have looked like he came from an anger management class, but he did manage it well. When he didn’t, your feet would feel glued to the concrete, frozen in the fire of his eyes, for once fearing what the man had to say.

“You know what? No. I’m not letting you do this? I don’t understand what’s going on or why you hate me so much–”

“God,” you groan, “it would be so easy if I just hated you.”

“Then what is it? You don’t hate me. You don’t like me. What? I’m wracking my brain trying to understand you–”

You don’t let him finish. You aren't sure what was in the breakfast you had today but you find yourself pulling him by the collar to meet his lips only to push him away in that instant, barely a whisper of his presence in your mouth. You clamp your hand over your mouth before finally treading away shocked by your actions, scurrying away.

He doesn’t follow you and you don’t blame him. You retrieve your once-abandoned groceries from the intersection to then find your way home. Rain is close to follow, drenching from head to toe. As if things couldn’t get any worse.

When you get home, you’re alone once again. The door shuts with a clang and you’re left in your self wallow, regret burning the back of your throat. Your back slid against the wood, a deep exhale expelling from your lungs. “So that’s what’s wrong with me.”

Like clockwork, you feel a knock erupt from the same door. Conceding to whatever was on the other side, you brush yourself up from the ground and turn the knob, only to be taken aback. Wonwoo, wet like made from glass with his locks swept over his head, stands before you panting. On either hand is a bundle of flowers barely protected in the cellophane it came with when he bought them and his cell phone he’s death gripping in his hand, no doubt damaged by the rain.

You blink back at him, lips parting in confusion. “Wonwoo…You’re wet.”

“Likewise.” He invites himself in and sets the flowers on a table nearby, not even for a second letting his gaze stray from yours. “You left me hanging there. Kiss a guy and walk away like he means nothing?”

You shake your head in disbelief, processing this, him. “Why are you here…with flowers?”

“I really do have to spell out everything for you, don’t I?” he responds smiling.

The squelch of his shoes trod in your direction, the invisible string connecting you two shortening. Preventing your evasion, you feel the palm of his hand against your back and your lips crash in a lingering reunion. The squeak of his slippery leather doesn't make it past your ears, distracted by the heat of his lips in the clash of the coolness of his rain-stained skin.

Your hand crawls up his neck to press him closer, feeling the strength of his arms wrap around you tighter before shutting the front door effortlessly with his foot. He lets you pin him against the door, lips tight bound to yours, and relief settles in his stomach as you show no sign of pulling away. He finds himself whispering a word of gratitude in every language, smiling against your lips. “No more excuses…I’m not letting anyone get in the way. Not even you.”

You finally break out in a smile, brushing it against his lips before reclaiming them, not minding the wet leather.

You spend the rest of the day in each other’s company. You put away the groceries before the room temperature worked against their favor and got yourselves changed out of your rain-dampened clothes, throwing them in the dryer. Even if he lived right next door, you allow him to wear your most oversized shirt after he insisted he should, watching the cotton fabric cling to his broad shoulders with the hem just hitting him at his hip bone.

Man, he’s a large man.

“Kinda snug.”

You scoff, crossing your arms in an attempt to hold yourself back. “You can get clothes next door. You’re just a few steps away.”

He grins, approaching you. “It’s raining…I could get sick.” His long arms land on either of your shoulders, reminding you of that cat that knew too much in a childhood cartoon. “You don’t want me sick…”

“You wouldn’t get sick taking two long strides to your house, Jeon,” you respond, rolling your eyes, unable to meet his.

“But you’d take care of me if I was, right?”

You roll your eyes, accepting his advances of a hug and feeling his chin fit in the crook of your neck. “Kiss a guy two times too many and he follows you around like a stray cat.”

He grins. “You like it. Don’t act like you don’t. You probably even like my bike and you’re not telling me.”

“Okay well, no. Those are two separate matters.”

His arms wrap around you tighter before reuniting your lips, such tenderness and sweetness in his gaze as he thumbs over the curve of your cheek. “You don’t deny that other thing.”

“I thought was already point blank. You know, when I didn’t push you away, kicking and screaming.”

“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, his cheekbones only getting higher. “Hard to come by something nice from you. I want to hear it.”

You sigh, giving in. “Fine.”

Your head fit between the divide of his chest, hearing a quickened pulse underneath it. You close your eyes as your hand strokes against his back. “I have… feelings for you. Maybe for once good feelings. Just don’t get cocky about it.”

Overwashed with calm joy, he takes you tighter, inhaling the soap in your hair. “Too late.”

#svthub #wonwoo #wonwoo angst #seventeen wonwoo #seventeen #jeon wonwoo angst #seventeen fanfic #wonwoo fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #jwon wonwoo fluff #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fanfic #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x you #wonwoo x y/n #jeon wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x you #jeon wonwoo x y/n

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bodybaggage · 1 month

Text

Shadows in Gotham

---

Gotham’s twilight sky was a patchwork of purples and reds, a fading canvas that gave way to the inky blackness of night. The city was alive with the usual sounds of distant sirens, honking horns, and the underlying hum of danger that never quite left its streets. For Danny Fenton, now in his early twenties, Gotham was supposed to be a fresh start—a place to lay low and raise his unconventional family.

His daughter, Danielle, Ellie, as she preferred—skipped ahead on the cracked sidewalk, her energy boundless despite the long day. She looked about ten years old, though she was technically more of a clone than a traditional daughter. She had Danny’s black hair but with an unruly curl to it, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. Beside Danny, holding his hand, was a boy who looked no older than eight. His hair was tousled, and his expression was a strange mix of innocence and the haunting wisdom of someone far older. This was Dan, Danny’s de-aged evil future self, a living, breathing reminder of what could go wrong if they weren’t careful.

The trio moved through the narrow streets, Danny’s senses on high alert as they made their way back to the modest apartment they now called home. He had retired from the life of a ghostly vigilante, focusing instead on keeping his small family safe and hidden from the relentless pursuit of the Guys in White (GIW). To the world, they were just another struggling family in Gotham. But beneath the surface, their existence was anything but ordinary.

“Can we get pizza tonight?” Ellie asked, her voice full of hope as she glanced back at Danny.

“Pizza sounds good,” Danny replied with a smile. “But it’s Gotham, so let’s hope the delivery guy makes it to our place in one piece.”

Ellie giggled, and even Dan let out a rare smile, though it was fleeting. The moment of normalcy was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle up ahead. Danny’s instincts kicked in as he pulled his kids closer, eyes narrowing at the scene unfolding just around the corner.

A man, clearly desperate, was trying to rob a woman at gunpoint. The woman’s purse dangled from his shaky hand, and fear was etched across her face. Danny knew he should keep moving, that getting involved could blow their cover, but he couldn’t just walk away.

“Stay here,” Danny whispered to Ellie and Dan, his voice firm.

Before he could intervene, a shadowy figure dropped from the rooftops, landing silently behind the mugger. The man didn’t stand a chance as a blur of red and black moved with lethal precision. Within seconds, the mugger was disarmed and unconscious on the pavement.

Red Hood stood over the man, his stance relaxed but ready, as if this was just another routine night in Gotham. He turned to the woman, who quickly grabbed her purse and bolted, muttering her thanks. It was only then that Red Hood noticed Danny and the kids standing just a few feet away, watching the scene unfold.

Danny tensed as the vigilante’s eyes—hidden behind that crimson helmet—seemed to study them. He instinctively placed a hand on each of his kids’ shoulders, ready to flee if things went south.

“You alright?” Red Hood asked, his voice rough but not unkind. He seemed to soften at the sight of the kids, his posture relaxing ever so slightly.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Danny replied, his tone cautious. “Just heading home.”

Red Hood’s gaze flicked between Danny and the children, and Danny could almost feel the wheels turning behind that mask. This was Gotham, after all, a city full of dark secrets. A young man, barely an adult, with two small kids in tow—it wasn’t hard to jump to conclusions.

“You live around here?” Red Hood pressed, the curiosity in his voice making Danny’s stomach tighten.

“Not far,” Danny answered, hoping to end the conversation quickly. “Just trying to keep my family safe.”

Red Hood nodded slowly, as if weighing his next words. “Gotham’s not exactly the best place to raise kids, especially if you’re... alone.”

Danny’s jaw clenched, recognizing the underlying question. “We manage.”

Before Red Hood could probe further, Ellie stepped forward, her usual boldness taking over. “He’s the best dad ever! And we don’t need any help, mister.”

Red Hood chuckled softly, the sound almost disarming. “I’m sure he is, kid. But just in case, you should know there are people around here who can help... if you ever need it.”

Danny forced a tight smile, grateful for Ellie’s fierce loyalty but wary of the attention they’d attracted. “Thanks, but we’re good.”

Red Hood seemed to accept this, though the suspicion in his stance didn’t entirely fade. “Take care of yourself,” he said finally, before turning and vanishing into the shadows as quickly as he’d appeared.

Danny let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The encounter had been brief, but he knew it wouldn’t be the last. The Bat Family had eyes everywhere, and their curiosity was piqued.

“Let’s get home,” Danny murmured, guiding Ellie and Dan down the street with renewed urgency.

They reached their apartment without further incident, the familiar creak of the stairs a welcome sound. Once inside, Danny locked the door and sagged against it, the weight of their precarious situation pressing down on him.

Ellie flopped onto the worn couch, her earlier bravado replaced with concern. “Are we in trouble, Dad?”

Danny ruffled her hair affectionately. “No, Ellie. We’re just... being careful. That’s all.”

Dan sat quietly at the kitchen table, his eyes distant as he processed the night’s events. “He was one of the Bats, wasn’t he?”

Danny nodded, joining Dan at the table. “Yeah, Red Hood. He’s... complicated. But we should be alright if we keep a low profile.”

The night passed uneventfully, but the encounter with Red Hood lingered in Danny’s mind. He knew that living in Gotham meant constant vigilance, but the thought of the Bat Family watching them added a new layer of stress.

---

Meanwhile, across town, the Bat Family gathered in the Batcave, the massive space filled with the glow of computer screens and the quiet hum of machinery.

“Interesting case tonight,” Red Hood—Jason Todd—began as he removed his helmet, revealing the slightly tousled dark hair underneath. “Ran into a guy with two kids. They seemed... out of place.”

“Out of place in Gotham?” Dick Grayson, quipped from where he was perched on the edge of the Batcomputer’s console. “That’s pretty much everyone.”

Jason shot him a look. “Not like that. The guy was young, barely in his twenties. The kids were ten and eight, maybe. And something about them just... felt off.”

Bruce Wayne, Batman, looked up from the screen, his expression unreadable. “Off how?”

Jason hesitated, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. There’s something he’s not saying. And those kids—they’re attached to him, but it’s like they’re all trying to stay under the radar.”

Damian Wayne, the current Robin, scoffed. “Plenty of people try to stay out of sight in this city. It’s not our problem unless they break the law.”

“Yeah, but...” Jason trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “There’s a chance that guy’s a victim. The way the girl talked about him, it was like she was protecting him.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think the children are in danger?”

Jason frowned, shaking his head. “Not from him. I think they’re all running from something.”

Silence settled over the Batcave as they considered the implications. Bruce stood, his presence commanding as ever. “Keep an eye on them. Gotham has a way of uncovering secrets, and we can’t afford to overlook anything.”

---

Back at the apartment, Danny lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The shadows played tricks in the dim light, reminding him of the life he left behind. He had taken on more than just the role of a father—he had become a protector, a shield against the darkness that sought to consume them.

But Gotham was relentless, and he knew their time in the shadows was running out.

---

🧌

#dp x dc crossover #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #de-aged dan #de-aged danielle

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hanaonesflower · 2 years

Text

“Princess, can I ask you something?” He speaks, breaking the silence of the long, uneventful car ride. “Sure, anything!” You chirp, unsuspecting of what is to come.

“Why don’t you ever let me do anything for you?” Ushijima says, his eyes remain fixated on the long stretch of roads ahead. The fog heavily roll down the sides the hills on your either sides, lowering visibility. His hand tightens around the wheel, while the other grips yours.

“What do you mean by that?” You sit back, eyes wandering his features, looking for any sign that he’s just cheerfully asking you. Knowing Ushi though, he’s sometimes not as light hearted as you’d think.

“You are always so insistent on doing everything yourself. You won’t let me help you, like earlier, when you refused to let me tie your shoes. That isn’t the first time you refused my help.” He goes on a spiel, his thumb reaches to the toggle and lowers the volume, making his breathing more prominent than ever. It has occur to you that you have always been doing everything by yourself despite his looming figure always by your side. The hyperindependence is slowly starting to bother him. He wants to help you, wants to give you the fullest extent of a princess treatment yet the only thing really holding him back from that is, you.

“It’s just something that I could easily have done for myself, you didn’t need to bother with that, don’t worry, baby,” you try to comfort him, hoping some words of affirmation can help. It really isn’t a big deal, it’s some shoe laces that came undone, not a heavy errand.

As soon as the car is pulled into a parking spot at a rest stop, quickly shifting the car in “park”, turning to you and he sighs. A real sigh. One so full of frustration and… hopelessness. “I’m not bothered. It has never mattered how big or small anything is, I want to do everything for you. Why are you holding yourself back from me?” He is starting to put things into perspective for you. After going through a useless ex-boyfriend, then a man who gave you hot and cold attention, lastly a guy who gave you princess treatment to fill his inflated ego before meeting Ushijima, learning to only rely on yourself has been the protector of your heart, your soul and your sanity. You find that by depending on your good ol’ self is the only way to prevent yourself from throwing your body off a bridge.

“Ushi, it’s not—,” before you can finish your sentence, truthfully you don’t really know what to say. He’s right, you are holding yourself back from him. Holding yourself back from the hurt that you’ve known all too well, he interrupts, holding both your hands in his, “baby, you’re my priority, my everything, your well-being, happiness and comfort are my main concerns and I want it to be that way,” he stops, taking a breath. Reminiscent of the times where Ushijima offered to go so out of his way to help you but being kindly turned down has left him feeling absolutely useless and uneasy. Ushijima’s love language is act of service and because he hasn’t been able to do the bare minimum for you, he feels it eating him alive.

“I am aware of your past, I know that I can’t change what was, but I’m here to make a difference now, I mean it!” You are moved by his words, he means what he says and you know it. You’ve seen it. He’s a big man of his words, always keeping promises, has never ever disappointed you in any way. Yet the walls have been reinforced many times again that it has cemented itself in your life, creating a barrier between the two of you. “I want to open doors for you, pull out chairs for you, pick you up from a friend’s house, drop you off at the airport, all of that, please, baby, please just let me.” You have to say, it is like he is begging for you to allow him in, allow him to integrate further into your system, a system you’ve built to keep you from going down a slippery slope time and time again.

“I’m so grateful for you, Ushi, you’ve done so much for me, you really have. I just feel like I can’t be asking for anymore than what you’ve already given me,” before you can inhale a full breath, he branches his body over to your side of the car and kisses you deeply, so deeply that you melt. “I’m at your disposal, you are my world, let me in, don’t keep shutting me out,” he says, breaking away from the kiss.

You chuckle, “yes, Wakatoshi, I accept your offer,” and you’ve never seen him smile wider. A big, toothy grin coming from the infamously stoic dude. He kisses you again, “thank you, baby.”

He unbuckles your seatbelt, hastily running from his side to yours and opening the door for you, and just like the universe is rooting for the both of you, your shoe laces come undone, again.

#haikyu fluff #hehe I wrote this in 20 minutes #haikyu imagines #ushijima x you #ushijima x reader #haikyu ushijima #ushijima imagine #ushijima imagines #ushijima fluff #ushjima wakatoshi #haikyuu ushiwaka #hq drabbles #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyu headcanons #⌑ 5 LL series ⌑

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dilemmaontwolegs · 8 months

Text

Ghost Whisperer || CL16

AN: another one from the archives of forgotten fics.

Summary: gifted with the ability to talk with the dead, you meet a man who wants you to take him to Monaco to check on his godson.

Warnings: mentions of death

Your family holiday had taken a turn when you reached Nice, France, and found the apartment that they had rented was already occupied. They were oblivious to the man who had lived there a decade earlier but your sixth sense had spotted him the moment you walked in the door.

“You’re going to love him,” Jules repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning.

“This isn’t Tinder,” you said to the apparition sitting in the passenger seat of your rental car. “I’m just going to find your friend so you can finally rest.”

“What’s Tinder?”

“Nevermind.”

“And he’s not just my friend,” he corrected. “He’s my godson, he’s family.”

You sighed as you imagined how the conversation would go with a child. It was hard enough trying to explain your gifts to adults who understood what you were saying, they just didn’t believe you. Everyone thought you were just trying to scam them when you said you had a message from a loved one.

“He’s the kindest kid you’ll ever meet. You’ll see.” Jules smiled as you followed his directions and crested over the mountain range to see Monaco in all its summer glory. “Beautiful, right?”

You were awestruck by the sight of the sun on the sea and his smile grew at your loss for words. It was a shame you had to drive when all you wanted to do was sit and watch the city grow before your eyes. Unfortunately it took a huge amount of energy for a ghost to even move a feather so there was no hope of Jules taking over the steering wheel for you.

Once inside the city he directed you to a home that the family had lived in and hopefully still did. The white door had a large brass door knocker in the shape of a lion and it was cold to the touch when you grabbed it.

“Bonjour,” a friendly middle aged woman answered and Jules breathed her name like prayer. “Puis-je vous aider?”

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, is there something I can help you with?”

You looked to your left and Jules gave you an encouraging smile. “I was hoping to speak to Charles. Is he here?”

You were aware it was a weekday and he was likely at school but it was still disappointing to see Pascale shake her head. “He hasn’t lived here for some time, are you a friend of his?”

She was already growing defensive, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for your answer. “No, we don’t know each other but a mutual friend asked me to pass a message to him.”

“Aw, we are friends,” Jules chuckled and you had to fight to resist rolling your eyes.

“Perhaps I should call my son,” she murmured as she held a hand up. “Just wait here a moment.”

She closed the door behind her and you waited impatiently as you shifted on your feet. “What happens if she doesn’t give up his address?”

“The city isn’t that big, I’m sure we can find him.” His attention turned to the door and he went to nudge you but his elbow went straight through, causing goosebumps to travel across your skin.

“Stop doing that,” you growled as the door opened. Pascale gave you an odd look as she found you alone waiting, but she didn’t ask who you were talking to as she held a phone out.

“He wants to know who this mutual friend is.”

You took the phone and raised it to your ear. “Hello, is this Charles?”

“Yes, now give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police and have you trespassed?”

You reeled back at the animosity, but also the depth of his voice. He was not the child you had envisioned. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“I understand you are a fan and I appreciate that, but you cannot just keep showing up at my mother’s house and expect to find me. There is a boundary and this is crossing it.”

You pulled back the phone to look at it in disgust before you turned and took a step away from his mother. “I don’t know who you think you are, hot shot, but I was only doing this because your friend asked me to. For some reason he thinks highly of you, but I can’t say the same.”

The seconds dragged on and if it wasn’t for his soft breathing you would have thought the call disconnected. “Who?” he finally asked.

You took a steadying breath knowing this was almost always the point that you lost their interest. “Jules.”

“Goodbye.”

“Charles!” Your ears rang with Jules’ outburst and the screen pixelated before returning to normal to show the call was still connected. Charles’ breathing turned ragged as he choked on his tongue knowing the voice he had heard. Doubt and other emotions roiled his insides but he couldn’t hang up no matter how much he wanted to.

An address rattled off his heavy tongue and Jules recognised the street name, giving you a nod. “I’ll see you soon,” you said as you handed the phone back to his mother.

“Please don’t hurt him,” she asked as she pocketed the device.

“I just want to pass on a message and go back to my holiday,” you promised, though she frowned at the evasive words that created more questions she held back.

By force of habit, her frown deepened when you nodded your head to the empty space beside you and muttered, “Come on then.”

Jules lingered another moment, his hand reaching for Pascale’s only for her to shiver and wrap her arms around herself. With a sigh, he turned away and heard the door click shut behind him.

“She was like a second mother to me,” he said quietly as he caught up. “The kindest woman I knew.”

“You also said Charles would be great but so far that is not how I am feeling.”

Jules had nothing to say to that, but it had been 10 years since his death. Perhaps a decade had changed Charles while Jules remained the same.

–

The apartment building was as pretty as the rest that you had passed but the afternoon sun left a shadow climbing its walls and you couldn’t help feeling like it was an omen as you buzzed his apartment number. Instead of answering, the front door unlocked and you stepped inside apprehensively. Each step on the tiled floor echoed and you followed the apartment numbers as you climbed the stairs to Charles’.

His door was already opened, a handsome man leaning against the doorway, and his eyes narrowed as they scanned you with each step closer. You wanted to elbow Jules for not telling you his godson was Adonis reincarnated but Jules was in his own state of shock seeing Charles grown into adulthood. The boy he knew was long gone, this was a man.

“My mother said to listen to you, that is the only reason you are here.” He stood up straighter, blocking you from seeing the inside of his home. “Say what you need to then go.”

You looked at Jules but he wasn’t any help as his jaw still hung open. You decided to go with honesty but really you were just taking a shot in the dark, he didn’t seem like the type to believe anything that was going to come out of your mouth. “My AirBnB in Nice came with a ghost named Jules and he wanted me to find you.”

Charles' hands dropped limp at his sides before a sharp laugh erupted and he stepped back into this apartment. He reached for his door, ready to slam it closed when Jules emerged from his stupor and whispered a few words for you to repeat.

“Bring it home, underdog.”

Charles froze at the words and nearly stumbled as he spun around. Anger painted his face and he closed the distance in a few strides as he shoved a shaking finger in your face. “What did you say?”

You swallowed at the animosity in his tone before straightening your spine and looking him in the eye. “The only way you show these guys you’re not a charity case is to prove them wrong and win, kid.”

His nose twitched as he struggled to understand the words he had heard once before. “Who told you to say that?”

You jutted your thumb at Jules. “You know who, the same man that told me.”

An array of emotions flitted across his face before settling on disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

“I wish,” you murmured before looking at Jules, and you felt bad. “Sorry.”

“I wouldn’t want that gift either,” he admitted. “Can you tell him he looks strong? And he finally grew into his big head.”

“Jules says you look good.”

“I said strong.”

“Strong, whatever,” you corrected. “He thinks you look strong. And you had a big head. Are you still racing?”

Charles followed your eyes to the space beside you but no matter how hard he tried to focus he couldn’t see anything. “I must be crazy.”

You snorted a laugh at what Jules said before repeating it. “No, you were crazy when you drove for years without knowing how to use the brakes.”

“I was eight,” Charles defended himself before realising that was not something widely known and something akin to wonder brightened his face. “Jules?”

“Yeah, kid, I’m here.”

Charles stepped aside and waved a hand in, urging you to follow him to the dining room table. He grabbed three bottles of water without thinking and then frowned as he put one back, a look of sadness washing over him.

“Don’t feel sad,” you said as you accepted the water. “Good things came about because of his death.”

Charles scoffed and untwisted the bottle cap with more force than necessary, spilling water over his hands. “Not for me.”

“You’re alive because of him, and that makes him happy,” you said, taking his hand across the table and squeezing it. “Because of Jules they made the halo and that saved your life, and others too. He would take the sacrifice any day.”

“Always,” Jules echoed. He placed his hand on top of yours and it drifted through, sending goosebumps up yours and Charles’ arms.

“Jules,” you growled as you shook your hand out, but Charles stared at his in wonder.

“I felt him,” he whispered in amazement. “Mon Dieu!”

—

The next few hours passed by with an onslaught of questions, mostly ‘how’. How do you do it? How long have you seen them? How did you find out?

Slowly the questions became more personal.

“Do you do this for work?”

“No way, well kind of, maybe…I’m studying history. It does help when the old professor still hangs out in the library. He’s happy to help whenever I have questions.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“It’s no different to a tall person playing basketball. Success is just playing to your strengths.”

“Is talking to the dead really a strength?” Jules asked as he crossed his legs and drummed his fingers on his lips, pondering. “Surely you are just missing out on life.”

“I don’t think you’re one to talk, you’re still here when you could be enjoying whatever afterlife awaits.”

“I wish I could hear him,” Charles sighed. “Why hasn’t he moved on?”

You shrugged and looked at Jules for an answer.

“I promised Hervé I would watch over him.”

Charles’ eyes misted and his head bowed as he tried to hide how he wiped the tears away. “I’m an adult now, Jules, you don’t have to stick around for me.”

“I see that now,” he said with a sad smile as he stood up and ruffled Charles' hair. “I love you, kid.”

Charles’ breath shuddered from his lungs as he felt the large hand on his head for a second before it disappeared. “Is he…is he gone?”

You watched Jules step out onto the balcony and warmth flooded the room as he faded into the shimmering light.

“Now he is,” you swallowed the lump in your throat that always came with the final goodbye. Standing up, you looked to the door and wondered if you should quietly leave but when you looked back at Charles, his eyes red and cheeks wet, you knew you couldn’t leave him that way.

Walking around the table, you took a seat next to Charles and took his hand. He broke away from staring silently at the wood grain and knots in the table and sniffled. “Thank you.”

“I would say anytime but…”

You smiled as Charles managed a small chuckle. “I think once is enough, but I wonder…” he looked around the room. “You haven’t seen my father have you?”

You shook your head. “There wasn’t anyone at your mother’s house either. It’s likely if he was at peace then he’s already moved on.”

“Good, that’s good.” He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes, wincing at the dampness on his hands. “Sorry.”

“I’m used to it, you cry as much as you want. There isn’t exactly a right way to feel when it comes to this,” you admitted as you looked out of the balcony to see the marina looking even more beautiful.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” He caught your lingering gaze and cleared his throat. “Maybe I could show you the city?”

“You’re probably in shock. You should rest,” you said with a shake of your head. “But I’m pretty sure I saw Monaco on my mum’s itinerary for next week. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone. “Or maybe you could call me?”

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction #charles leclerc x reader

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cookiescribble · 2 months

Text

Choose Me, Love Me

A/N: oops got a little more angsty than usual 😬 i had this in my head for a while and finally was able to write it, so I hope it came out well! (also I have no idea how guns work but i’m just going to pretend that i do for the sake of the plot 😅) - mod angel

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your temper runs high after a miscommunication during a case, making you feel like your relationship is in trouble. (based on 1x18)

CW: angst (that gets resolved), anxiety, jealousy.

~~~

It had been a long day.

You came to check on Spencer when you had a lull in your schedule, since you knew he was the only one in charge of watching the victim. You figured he might be having a hard time with babysitting duty.

Instead, you came in to find the house completely empty. This immediately gave you an uneasy feeling, so you took out your gun as a precaution. It was currently loaded with blanks, since you didn’t want to shoot the victim as a knee-jerk reaction if you were surprised.

You cautiously walked through the house, a feeling of dread creeping through you. Eventually, you found the backyard doors wide open, and you approached them tentatively. You saw movement in the pool, but you didn’t have time to feel relieved that everyone was alive and safe.

You saw Spencer, in the pool, being pulled in by his tie, looking like he was about to kiss the woman he was in charge of protecting.

You felt a surge of emotions so intense you couldn’t even identify all of them; anger? Jealousy? Resentment? Anguish? Heartache? Whatever you were feeling, it wasn’t good.

You couldn’t even rationalize yourself before acting; it was almost as if your body was moving on its own, since your mind was overloaded with emotions. Suddenly you were pulling out your gun, shooting a blank right at the edge of the pool, away from the both of them but close enough to make them jump.

They practically jumped out of their skin in fright, probably thinking the unsub had come while they weren’t paying attention. They turned to look at you, your gun still pointed at the pool. A mix of confusion and annoyance was on the girl’s face, but Spencer looked practically petrified, his eyes wide and remorseful.

You looked at both of them before you spoke, spitting out venom with each word because of how angry you were at that moment. “You’re lucky the unsub isn’t here. You would both be dead before you could even react.” With that, you just turned to walk away, striding back into the house.

You heard Spencer calling your name, his voice strained and emotional. You didn’t turn back to look at him. You couldn’t. You had to hold your breath to stop yourself from sobbing.

You heard Derek and Elle approaching from outside the yard, saying something about finding paparazzi taking pictures in the bushes. You heard their voices quickly getting quieter and quieter as you were angrily striding away, but you could still hear their confusion.

“What’s wrong with her?” You heard Elle ask. “What the hell did you do? She’s pissed.”

You heard footsteps starting to follow you before they were cut off, and you could picture Derek putting a hand on Spencer’s chest when he said. “Kid, I know you don’t know women that well, so let me tell you: do not follow her right now.”

“But-“ Spencer’s voice came out shaky, agonized. “I have to talk to her-“

“No, you don’t,” Derek cut him off. “Not right now. You’re only going to make things worse. You can’t rationalize your way through that kind of anger.”

You guessed his words got through to Spencer, since you didn’t hear anyone following you after that.

You strode through the house until you reached the car you drove here in, getting in the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind you. You ran a shaky hand through your hair, trying to calm yourself before hitting your hands once against the steering wheel. You put your head in your hands, biting your tongue to keep yourself from yelling. You couldn’t even cry; all your thoughts were jumbled in your head, your heart thrumming so hard in your chest you thought it was going to burst out of it.

You sat in that purgatory of emotions, sometimes letting out tearless sobs, wanting to scream but having the slightest self control and just containing the sound to sobs. After what felt like a very long time, you heard your cell phone go off, indicating you have a text. You pulled it out of your pocket and looked at the screen:

HOTCH: Come to the station. Now.

You huffed, throwing your phone in the passenger seat before starting the car. I guess word got back to Hotch already, you thought.

You tried to compose yourself on the drive back to the station, attempting to figure out some kind of excuse for why you shouldn’t be fired. Hopefully you didn’t have to resort to begging.

You walked through the station, trying to keep an even pace and a level head. But every time you remembered what you saw, you were filled with anger all over again. By the time you got to the door, your emotions were at a loud simmer.

Hotch was sitting at a table in a closed off room, looking up at you as you walked in, his face as stoic as always. He gestured to a chair across the table from him. “Sit.”

You closed the door behind you, swallowing and taking a deep breath. This felt like being called into the principal’s office and being grounded by your parents at the same time.

You took your seat across from Hotch, crossing your legs, trying to compose yourself as he spoke directly. “Care to explain yourself?”

You gritted your teeth as you remembered what happened, the anger making your blood boil all over again. “I went to check out the situation. They were being careless, so I wanted to show them that they needed to be more careful.” You tried your best to keep your voice level, but there was still a hint of animosity.

“They were being careless?” He raised an eyebrow at you, his voice stern. “You don’t think firing a gun that close to an agent and a victim is just as, if not more, careless?”

You flared your nostrils, angry and ashamed all at once. “I fired a blank-“

“And that’s the only reason why you’re not fired right now,” he cut you off. “I should be writing a termination letter right now, and I would be if there were real bullets in that gun.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “They were out in the open while the unsub, who I don’t think I have to mention has been shooting people in the head, was out looking for the victim. I was trying to protect them.”

He looked at you the whole time you spoke, boring holes into your face. You didn’t even think he blinked this whole time.

His voice was still stern, but it was now a bit quieter. “Really? Are you sure this is about the safety of the victim, and not your personal relationship?”

You let out a frustrated breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. The team had recently found out about your relationship with Spencer, so there was no avoiding this question. “No,” you lied. “It’s not personal. All professional.” There was no point in lying; he’d be able to see right through you. But you couldn’t admit to your boss that you were tempted to shoot a victim because she put her hands on your boyfriend.

Hotch’s expression never changed, but you could tell he didn’t believe you. “I don’t want you out in the field for the rest of this case.” He held out his hand, and he didn’t have to say anything for you to know he was asking you to give him your gun.

You reached for your holster and placed the gun in his hand, more forcefully than you should’ve. “Can I go now?”

He started to stand up, but spoke sternly before he did. “This is a job that cannot let actions be clouded by personal feelings. Your judgment needs to be impartial and professional, and not dictated by emotions. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded curtly, letting out a deep breath before replying, “Crystal.”

He nodded back at you, standing up and motioning towards the door. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

You walked out the door, rubbing your face with your hands, the stress from the day making your whole body tense.

You started to walk towards the exit when you heard a voice addressing you. “So, how screwed are you?”

You looked over to see Elle, who probably eavesdropped on most, if not all, of the conversation. You sighed, shaking your head. “Well, I still have a job. That’s about the only good thing that has happened today.”

She leaned on the wall, crossing her arms. “Why’d you do that? What happened?”

You buried your face in your hand, feeling the surge of anger again. You didn’t even try to hide it this time. “I went to the house because I figured Spence could use some help, or at least some company. But when I got there, that… that…” You bit your tongue, stopping yourself from calling her every bad name you could think of. “She was all over him, and if I didn’t do something she would’ve kissed him.” You sucked in a breath, feeling like tears were going to start coming if you didn’t hold your breath.

She nodded, waiting for you to finish before speaking. “And? Would it really be the end of the world if that happened? Just a little kiss?”

You crossed your arms, your nails digging into your skin. “I just… I couldn’t let it happen. She’s this gorgeous Hollywood model, actress, whatever. If she’s interested in him, why would he want to be with me?” A sob escaped your lips involuntarily as you admit what’s been in the back of your head this whole time. “And I really don’t want that to happen, because… I love him.”

“Have you told him that?” She asked, her voice light but serious.

You paused before shaking your head. Your relationship with Spencer was still relatively new, and you hadn’t exchanged “I love you”s yet, even though you felt it every time you looked at him

“I think it’s time you do, then,” she replied. “If it’s this important to you.”

You just nodded, knowing she was right. You wanted to tell him for a while now, but you were scared. Scared of your own feelings, of his potential reaction… everything. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. “I… have to go back to the hotel. I’m gonna take some time alone to think.”

She waved you off, nodding, and you finally walked back to your car, knowing you needed to sort this all out in your head.

…

You were lying down on the hotel bed, alone with your thoughts all day, and you hadn’t heard anything about the case from anybody. You hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten when you heard a soft, familiar knock on the door.

You held your breath, hoping that he would go away if you didn’t answer. You sat in darkness for a while, ignoring when he asked to come in. Finally, you heard a click in the door and you cursed silently, forgetting you had given Spencer a key to your room when you got here.

You couldn’t look at him, opting instead to look at the wall opposite him. His footsteps were slow and careful, as if he were approaching a rabid animal. “… Please,” he started, his voice quiet and meek. “Just let me explain what happened today.”

You crossed your arms, still looking away from him. You knew he was making those big, pleading eyes at you, and you wouldn’t be able to handle seeing that right now. You kept silent, but you didn’t make him leave.

He saw that as a good sign, and approached you, sitting at the edge of the other side of the bed. “Listen, nothing happened between us.” He spoke quietly, his voice level but sincere. “I didn’t know what was happening. I was panicking, trying to think of how to politely turn her down, but everything was happening so fast and I…” He trailed off, taking a deep breath. “… I messed up. I admit that. But I didn’t mean to.”

You listened to his voice, which somehow still sounded like music to your ears even though his words were filled with remorse. You just stayed still, taking everything in, not trusting yourself enough to try to respond.

He tried to move into your line of sight, standing in front of you, but you kept your head down.

“… I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’m so sorry. You have every right to be angry with me, just…” His tone was so dejected, and you could tell he was truly pouring his heart out. “… Please, look at me.”

You took a deep breath, slowly picking your head up and meeting his eyes. He was making the exact face you expected, his big, sad eyes silently begging you to say something.

You tried to search for any words to say, but they all got caught in your throat. Your lip started to quiver as a tear finally fell from your eye. You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. “I…” you started, shaking your head as if that would put all your thoughts in order. “I don’t…”

You opened your eyes to look at him again, and you could feel all your anger crumbling, disappearing all at once. Which only made it feel worse. His somber eyes made your heart ache, and you just couldn’t be the cause of them anymore. After a pause, you patted the seat next to you, and he moved to you immediately, like a puppy commanded to sit.

You took a deep breath, looking down. “… I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, obviously. I was way over the line.” You wrung your hands together, staring at them as if they were the most interesting scenery right now. “I just, seeing you with her… I felt like all my fears were coming true. That you wanted someone else… someone better than me.” Tears started rolling down your cheeks now. “I know I’m not as pretty as her, and I thought, why would you ever want me if someone like that is within reach?” You rubbed your eyes, shaking your head. “I never thought I could feel jealousy like that, but… every bad thought I’ve ever had about myself came rushing through my head, and I thought for sure I was going to lose you.” You swallowed hard, finally looking at him again, letting the words roll off your tongue before you could take them back. “And I couldn’t bear it, because… I love you.”

You could hear his breath hitch, bracing yourself. For what? Something bad? Something good?

He looked straight into your eyes, his hand tilting your chin up towards him. “I love you too,” he spoke, as if he’d never been more sure of anything in his life. “And I would never replace you with anyone. You’ll never need to be jealous. I barely even gave her a second glance, and I only did because I had to protect her. It’s my job.” He wiped a tear off your cheek, his touch gentle and slow. “If I thought she was going to come onto me, I would’ve asked somebody else to go to the house.”

You could finally breathe again, the tears in your eyes now happy ones after hearing his words, a confession of love. You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and he pressed his cheek to the top of your head. “I love you,” he repeated, his voice radiating such warmth and affection.

“I love you,” you said again, as if testing the sound it made, like tuning an instrument. It sounded better each time you said it.

You just sat there in each others’ arms for a while, neither of you speaking a word, just letting the feelings sink in. After a while, once all the tension faded, you both pulled back, looking at each other and smiling.

After another few moments, you spoke lightheartedly. “I’m really glad you feel the same way, because I definitely almost got fired over this.”

He laughed softly, slight concern in his eyes. “But you didn’t, right? I still get to see you at work every day?”

“We’ll see,” you responded. “Hotch said we have to talk again, so… I’m not out of the woods yet.”

He hugged you to his chest, a hand running through your hair. “I can vouch for you. Maybe it’ll help.”

You smiled at the affectionate touch, leaning into it. “How about you talk to him, and I just skip it altogether?”

He shook his head, a playful smile on his face. “I love you, but I can’t perform miracles.”

You stayed together the rest of the night, even sleeping in the same room even though you never did that when you were out on a case. It was like you didn’t want to be apart now that you both understood your feelings better. You felt like you could get through anything together now.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfiction #mod angel

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pucksandpower · 4 months

Text

Used to be Mine

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Arthur Leclerc x ex!Reader

Summary: Oscar stole everything from Arthur … his hopes, his dreams, his family name, and you

Arthur slumps in the hard chair across from Jock Clear’s desk, the Ferrari Driver Academy director’s words echoing in his mind. “I’m very sorry Arthur, but we’ve decided not to renew your contract for next season. You’ll be released from the program at the end of this year.”

Arthur feels like he’s been punched in the gut. This can’t be happening. He’s poured his heart and soul into racing for Ferrari’s junior program for years. His dream has always been to follow in his older brother Charles’ footsteps and race for the Scuderia in Formula 1.

“But … why?” Arthur manages to choke out. “I know my results this season haven’t been that great but fifteenth in the F2 standings-”

Clear shakes his head solemnly. “Your pace and racecraft simply haven’t developed at the rate we need to see to justify keeping you in the program, Arthur. I know how hard you’ve worked, but there are other young talents coming up behind you showing greater potential.”

The word “potential” hits Arthur like a dagger. Ever since he was a kid, that’s what he’s heard over and over — unfavorable comparisons to Charles’ unlimited potential. He always knew his big brother was special behind the wheel, but he’d clung to the hope that he could make it to F1 through sheer hard work and determination if not raw talent.

Clearly that hope was misguided. Arthur feels the sting of failure wash over him.

“I … I understand,” he forces out, struggling not to break down in tears right there. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

He stands up shakily, the room spinning. He needs to get out of here.

The drive back to his family’s home in Monaco is a blur. Arthur’s mind races, years of sacrifice and struggle swirling in his head. Endless days and nights on the simulator. Grueling hours in the gym, pushing his body to its limits. Tormenting himself over endless data traces, looking for even a tenth of a second to gain an edge.

All for nothing. The harsh truth is he’ll never be good enough. No matter how hard he tries, the Leclerc name will always belong to Charles. Arthur will be forever known as his little brother, the one who couldn’t quite cut it.

He slams his fist against the steering wheel, angry tears now streaming down his face. Why did he ever think he could do this? Why didn’t he just pursue something, anything else with his life? He’s wasted years chasing an impossible dream, and now he has nothing to show for it.

His phone rings, almost slipping out of his trembling hands before he can answer. It’s you.

“Y/N ...” Arthur chokes out, trying and failing to hold back his sobs.

“Arthur? Oh my god, what’s wrong?” You ask, panic in your voice even through the tinny speaker. Of course you can sense something is desperately wrong. You’ve always been there for him, the one person who truly understands what he’s been going through.

Arthur can barely get the words out between ragged breaths. “The … the FDA ... they’re releasing me ... it’s over ...”

There’s stunned silence on the other end of the line.

“Arthur, I ...” You trail off, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. You know how much this has meant to him. How much of himself he’s given to this endeavor. “I’m coming over right now, okay? Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

You hang up before Arthur can respond. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Part of him wants to wallow in despair alone. But mostly he’s grateful you’re coming. He’s not sure he can handle this by himself right now.

Sure enough, you burst through the front door only a few minutes later. Arthur has collapsed on the couch, head in his hands as the tears continue to flow.

“Oh Arthur ...” You sit down beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. He turns and buries his face in your shoulder, no longer trying to hold anything back as ragged sobs wrack his body.

You just hold him, making soft hushing sounds and stroking his hair. You’ve seen him distraught before — after tough losses or crashes. But never quite like this. This is the cry of someone whose dreams have been shattered.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Arthur’s sobs begin to subside into hitching breaths. You grab a tissue box from the end table and hand it to him.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, blowing his nose loudly. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I just … I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do now?”

You take his hand and give it a squeeze. “First, you’re going to breathe. This isn’t the end of the world, I promise. We’ll get through this.”

Arthur lets out a shaky exhale, trying to calm himself. You always have been the level-headed one. He leans back against the couch cushions, keeping your hand grasped tightly in his.

“I really thought I could make it, you know?” He says quietly. “I’ve given everything to this stupid dream ever since I was a kid. But I’ll never be good enough, will I? Not like Charles.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Arthur barrels on, unable to contain years of self-doubt and insecurity any longer.

“Don’t try to argue. We both know it’s true. Charles was always the special one. The one with the generational talent. I was just … there. Doing my best to keep up, but always a step behind no matter how hard I worked.”

You shake your head vehemently. “Arthur, that’s not true at all. You’re an incredible driver. Your work ethic and determination are-”

“Meaningless without the talent,” Arthur interrupts bitterly. “That’s all that matters in the end. And I don’t have it, not like Charles does. I’m just … normal. Ordinary. That’s why Ferrari has moved on.”

You move closer, taking Arthur’s face in your hands so he has to look you in the eye. “You listen to me, Arthur Leclerc. You are anything but ordinary, understand? You’ve accomplished more by the age of 23 than most people could dream of in their entire lives. Making it all the way to F2 and the Ferrari Driver Academy is incredible, no matter what happens next.”

Arthur tries to turn away, but you keep his gaze locked, your voice rising in intensity. “If you were ordinary, you wouldn’t have been able to push yourself so hard for so long. Ordinary people would have given up a long time ago. It’s your extraordinary drive and passion that have taken you this far.”

Tears are welling up in your eyes now. You can’t stand to see him diminishing himself like this.

“Besides,” you add, managing a small smile. “I may be biased, but I’ve always thought you were the most extraordinarily kind, caring, and hilarious person I know. That’s a kind of specialness in itself, you know.”

Arthur lets out a choked laugh, wiping at his eyes again. Leave it to you to know just what to say to raise his spirits, even a little. “You always have been weirdly good at these pep talks.”

“Well, someone has to keep your head from getting too big,” you quip back with a grin.

Arthur mock-gasps in feigned offense. “Why, you little ...”

He lunges at you, starting to mercilessly tickle your sides. You squeal with laughter, trying in vain to fight back as you quickly devolve into a giggling, flailing mess of limbs.

You’ve been reduced to teary hiccups when Arthur finally relents, allowing you both to catch your breath. He throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“You’re the best,” he murmurs softly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You rest your head against his shoulder contentedly. “Let’s just take things one day at a time for now, okay? We’ll figure out what’s next together, like we always have.”

Arthur nods, feeling a deep sense of gratitude and love for his girlfriend. No matter what curveballs life has thrown your way, you’ve always supported and uplifted each other. He knows that won’t change, even if his racing dreams don’t pan out.

“Together,” he echoes, giving your hand one more tight squeeze. Whatever the future holds, he can get through it with you by his side.

Maybe his path won’t lead to Formula 1 after all. Arthur feels a pang of sadness and disappointment at that realization. But as long as he has his family — has you — to lean on, he knows he’ll be okay. That love and support is what has always truly mattered most, not chasing some impossible dream.

“You know, we should see if Charles wants to come over later,” Arthur says, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t roasted his abysmal fashion sense in way too long.”

You burst out laughing at that. Only Arthur could find his way back to laughing and joking so soon after having his world turned upside down. It’s just one of the many things you admire about him.

“Oh my god, yes please,” you reply once you’ve caught your breath. “His outfit at the last race was literally a crime against humanity. Someone needs to intervene before he traumatizes us all again.”

The two of you spend the next little while cheerfully trading escalating insults about his big brother’s admittedly questionable clothing choices. The mood has lightened considerably, at least for now.

Arthur knows the sting of his failure will return, the questions about what he should do next weighing heavily. But you’ll be there for those hard moments too, just like always. As long as he has you — his best friend, his other half — he can face any challenge life throws his way.

The uncertain road ahead is daunting. But Arthur meets it with determination burning in his eyes. If he couldn’t make it as a Formula 1 driver, he’ll simply have to find a new dream to chase. A new mountain to climb. Whatever it is, he knows you’ll be alongside him every step of the way.

***

Six Months Later

The roar of the engines fades as the cars return to the pits after qualifying. Arthur can’t tear his eyes away from the timing screens:

1. C. LECLERC

2. O. PIASTRI

A Leclerc front row lockout at their home race. Except one of them isn’t really a Leclerc at all.

“Nice one, Piastri-Leclerc!” One of the McLaren mechanics calls out as Oscar climbs from his car.

Arthur’s gut twists.

Oscar just grins and plays along. “Thanks, it’s all in the family name!”

A few of the Ferrari mechanics chuckle at that as Charles emerges from his own car, beaming. He pulls Oscar into a hug. “A Leclerc one-two in Monaco, who would have thought?”

“There’s just something about being a local,” Oscar laughs. “Thank you for giving me yet another home race.”

You appear then, throwing your arms around Oscar with a squeal. “My two favorite Leclercssss!”

Arthur has to look away, his face burning. He knows he has no right to be jealous. Oscar is one of his best friends. And you … you made your choice a long time ago.

“Arthur?” Fred Vasseur appears at his side. “You okay?”

Arthur forces a smile. “Yeah, all good. Just … focused.”

“No need to be so tense,” Fred squeezes his shoulder. “You did a great job in the sim this week. That data helped Charles and Carlos a ton.”

“Glad I could help,” Arthur says automatically.

But his gaze is drawn back to where you’re still hugging Oscar tightly. You look so happy, so carefree. It wasn’t that long ago that your smiles were for him.

“You know,” Fred says conversationally. “I’m getting a lot of questions about what you’ll decide to do next. Every time you’re in that sim or out on track-”

“I’m fine being test driver,” Arthur interrupts, maybe a little too brusque. “Really, I am.”

Fred studies him for a beat. “If you’re sure. Just saying, the doors are opening ...”

The team principal moves off then, leaving Arthur alone with his swirling emotions. He can’t get swept up in maybes about his future. Not when his past is standing right there, laughing at some joke Oscar made.

You’d think after all this time, the sight of you wouldn’t affect him so much. You broke his heart so thoroughly when you ended things, he didn’t think there were any pieces left to shatter. But here he is, a mess of jealousy and longing, just because you gave Oscar a hug.

“Arthur! There you are!”

He turns at the sound of your voice. You’re hurrying towards him, Oscar and Charles trailing behind with indulgent smiles.

“We’re going to get some dinner if you want to join?” You ask brightly.

He has to swallow hard before he can speak past the lump in his throat. “I … don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Of course it is!” You grab his arm, utterly oblivious to his discomfort. “We’re all friends here, right?”

“Some of you were a bit more than friends once upon a time,” Charles points out with a wicked grin.

You shove him playfully. “Oh shut up!”

Arthur feels like he’s being stabbed in the heart. Your break up turned his life upside down. Hearing you joke about it so casually now is excruciating.

“Seriously, Arthur,” Oscar cuts in. “Come celebrate with us. We promise not to get too crazy.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Arthur tries again, harsher this time.

You frown, tilting your head in confusion. “Why not? I thought we were all past the whole ex thing?”

“I am,” he lies through gritted teeth. “I just … have some stuff to work on for the race tomorrow.”

“Oh come on,” you wheedle, giving him that smile that used to make him melt. “Take a break! Live a little!”

Arthur can’t take much more of this. He needs to get out of here before he says something he’ll regret. Or worse, does something stupid like pull you into his arms and kiss you senseless.

“Seriously you guys, I’ve got work,” he says, forcing himself to take a step back from you. “I’ll … catch up with you later, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns on his heel and stalks away. He can’t bear to see the hurt, confused look on your face.

Why did he think this would be okay? That he could spend day after day around you and it wouldn’t still hurt? Every smile, every laugh, every touch you bestow on Charles and Oscar is like a white hot poker in his chest.

He thought he was over you. He really did. It’s been months since you ended things, months since you shattered what was left of his heart into a million pieces.

He’d been so shocked, so heartbroken, that all he could do was sit there numbly as you walked out of his apartment. When he finally found his voice, hours had passed, and you were long gone.

“But I love you,” he’d whispered into the empty room.

He’d been so sure you felt the same. That what you had was forever. But you made your choice, as simple as that. Arthur never came first.

And now, half a year later, here he is. Living out some twisted version of his dream … but only just. A test driver for Ferrari instead of a race driver like he always imagined. Like Charles, who had achieved everything they both wanted.

Arthur leans back against the wall of the cool, dark room he’s found himself in. It feels like the pain of your rejection is never going to stop haunting him. Like no matter how much time passes, it will never be enough to make up for losing you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying and failing to block out the memory of your face, your smile, your laugh. All the moments of pure joy you two had shared. The dreams you’d whispered to each other late at night, tangled in the sheets.

Is this his lot in life from now on? To watch you move on, all smiles and teasing jokes with Oscar and Charles? To see everyone welcoming Oscar into the family while Arthur is shut out in the cold?

He’s startled from his spiraling thoughts by a knock at the door. “Arthur? You in there?”

It’s Charles. Arthur flinches, swiping a hand over his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he calls back, grateful that his voice doesn’t shake.

There’s a pause. “Can I come in?”

Arthur considers sending his brother away. He’s in no state for a heart-to-heart right now.

But he can’t bring himself to refuse Charles. Not when they’ve been through so much together, from the karting tracks of their childhood to the highest levels of motorsport.

“Yeah, okay.”

The door opens and Charles slips inside. He stops short when he sees Arthur, brow furrowing in concern.

“Hey … you okay?”

Arthur can’t even find it in himself to fake it. He just shakes his head mutely.

“Is this about Y/N?” Charles asks gently.

And just like that, the dam breaks. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut again, but he can’t stop the tears from spilling over.

“I thought I was over her. I really did,” he chokes out. “But seeing her with Oscar … celebrating like that ...”

Strong arms wrap around him then, pulling him into a hug. Arthur goes boneless, sagging against his older brother as the sobs take over.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Charles murmurs. “Let it out.”

Arthur does. He cries and cries, shoulders shaking, as months of pent-up heartache pour out of him. Charles just holds him through it, rubbing soothing circles across his back.

“I’m s-sorry,” Arthur finally gasps out. “I’m being so stupid ...”

“You’re not stupid,” Charles says firmly. “Love isn’t stupid, Arthur. Especially your first real heartbreak. That shit hurts like hell.”

Arthur lets out a watery chuckle, finally pulling back and swiping at his eyes. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Well, I am the wise older brother,” Charles grins. Then he sobers, studying Arthur carefully. “Seriously though … you know Y/N loved you, right? What you two had was real.”

“I know.” Arthur shakes his head. “Doesn’t make it any easier seeing her move on so quickly.”

“She’s not over you either,” Charles says gently. “That’s why she keeps trying so hard to act like everything is normal between you two.”

Arthur scoffs. “Could’ve fooled me with all the cuddling up to Oscar out there.”

“Oh come on, you know that’s just a joke,” Charles says with a roll of his eyes. “Oscar is like family to us, same as you. That’s all it is.”

“Yeah? Well it didn’t look that way to me.”

“Arthur ...” Charles puts a hand on his shoulder. “I think you need to have an actual conversation with Y/N. Clear the air once and for all. This lingering stuff is only going to keep eating you up inside.”

“What if she really has moved on?” The thought is like a vise around Arthur’s heart. “What if she tells me she’s dating Oscar for real or something?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Charles says simply. “It will hurt, yeah. But not knowing, constantly wondering … that’s so much worse. Trust me.”

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, turning Charles’ words over in his mind. Maybe his brother is right. Maybe it’s time to rip off the bandaid once and for all.

He nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll ... I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.” Charles pulls him in for another hug. “No matter what happens, you’ve got me, okay? We Leclercs need to stick together.”

Arthur manages a small smile at that, feeling just a bit lighter. “Yeah. We do.”

As he follows Charles out of the room, he catches sight of you across the paddock, laughing at something Oscar said. A familiar ache blooms in his chest.

But this time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, he’s going to face it head on. His heart may end up in even more pieces … or maybe, just maybe, it will finally start to mend.

Either way, at least he’ll know. No more lingering what ifs. Just the truth, whatever it may be.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, then starts making his way towards you.

***

Arthur’s steps falter as he rounds the corner of the McLaren garage. There you are with Oscar, bodies intertwined, lips locked in a heated kiss.

It feels like all the air has been sucked from Arthur’s lungs. He can’t breathe, can’t think. He just … freezes, rooted to the spot, watching in numb horror as the two of you make out shamelessly right there in the open.

This can’t be happening. It has to be some kind of twisted nightmare. But no matter how hard he blinks, the scene before him doesn’t change.

You and Oscar are really kissing. Properly sucking face like loved-up teenagers, hands roaming over each other greedily. Oscar has you backed up against the garage wall, bodies pressed flush together from chest to thigh.

Arthur feels like he’s going to be sick.

Finally, mercifully, you two break apart, foreheads pressed together as you both gasp for air. Arthur should look away, he knows he should, but he can’t seem to make himself move.

“So much for keeping it professional in the paddock, huh?” You murmur, voice husky.

Oscar lets out a breathless chuckle. “Who cares about professional? Not when I’ve got you all to myself for once.”

He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a hand on his chest, stopping him. “We should find somewhere more private if we’re gonna keep this up.”

“My driver’s room?” Oscar suggests, already palming at the small of your back.

You shiver, pushing up onto your tiptoes to brush your lips against his jaw. “Lead the way, Piastri-Leclerc.”

And just like that, you’re gone, disappearing into the depths of the McLaren garage, hands roaming and giggling like lovesick fools. Arthur watches until the door swings shut behind you, cutting off that haunting sound of your laughter.

Then he’s moving without conscious thought, staggering back around the corner and out of sight. His back hits the cool concrete wall with a thud, but he barely notices. Barely notices anything except the ragged, gasping breaths being torn from his lungs.

He doubles over, hands braced on his knees as he struggles not to vomit right there in the paddock. It feels like someone has driven a white hot poker straight through his chest. Like his heart is being crushed into a million pieces all over again.

Oscar and you … together? Actually dating? How … how could you do this to him? To yourself? Everything you two had built together, every future dream you had shared … tossed aside so easily?

Tears burn at the corners of Arthur’s eyes. He wants to scream, to punch a wall, to unleash the searing agony and fury ripping through him. But he can’t make a sound, throat locked up tight with unshed emotion.

He should have known, really. Should have seen this coming. It’s not like you and Oscar were hiding your connection. The loving looks, the inside jokes, that easy intimacy and affection … Arthur had just been too blinded by jealousy and heartbreak to see it.

But to find out like this? To literally walk in on you two wrapped around each other? It’s a whole new level of pain, lancing through him over and over. He’s always imagined that you would have the decency to at least tell him first if you moved on with someone new.

Unless this has been going on for a while already, hidden from him in plain sight. Every laugh, every hug, every teasing comment … was that all a lie to cover up your dirty secret with Oscar?

Arthur’s stomach churns violently again at the thought. He swallows hard, fighting back the nausea. He can’t lose it here, can’t draw any attention to himself. He needs to get it together, block out the image of you and Oscar swapping spit.

Easier said than done when his brain keeps unhelpfully replaying the way Oscar’s hands were roaming over you, groping at you like you belonged to him. And that laugh … god, that beautiful, carefree laughter that Arthur would know anywhere. A sound that used to make his heart soar whenever it was aimed at him.

Now it’s like a knife in his gut to hear you giggling that way with Oscar, no doubt blissed out after a hot and heavy make out session. Arthur’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking furiously. He would give anything not to have walked in on that, not to have that sound burnt into his brain forever.

At least now he knows the truth. The humiliating, gut-wrenching truth that you’ve well and truly moved on from him. And with Oscar of all people, like the ultimate slap in the face.

What kind of cruel joke is this? Arthur wonders, still fighting to steady his ragged breaths. He loses the girl he wanted to spend forever with … only to have one of his mates swoop in and take her from him?

It’s not just you that Oscar has stolen either, Arthur realizes with a sickening jolt. It’s everything. With you on his arm, Oscar is welcomed into the family, called a Leclerc at their home race. Arthur’s own last name, treated like some kind of lighthearted joke while the real thing is ripped away from him.

Oscar even gets Monaco as a home race, just like the actual Leclercs who grew up here. All because of some dumb joke about Charles adopting him. Arthur had laughed along with it at the time, never imagining the underhanded truth.

Oscar Piastri has wormed his way into having everything Arthur wanted more than anything. The career, the family, the girl … all of it, just handed to him on a silver platter.

White hot fury flares in Arthur’s chest, momentarily burning through the heartbreak. How dare Oscar do this to him? How dare he make a mockery out of Arthur’s dreams, out of everything the name Leclerc stands for?

Arthur barely registers that he’s moving until his fist connects with the concrete wall with a sickening crunch. He lashes out again and again, pummeling the unforgiving surface over and over until-

“Arthur! Hey, whoa!”

Suddenly there are hands on him, strong and insistent. Arthur starts, accidentally slamming his abused knuckles into a firm chest as Charles appears, grabbing hold of his shoulders.

“Easy, easy! What the hell are you doing?” Charles meets his gaze, eyes wide with concern.

Arthur blinks dazedly, pain finally registering from his torn up, bleeding knuckles. “I … I didn’t ...”

“What happened?” Charles presses, lowering his voice when Arthur winces. “Did you get into it with someone? Talk to me, please.”

Arthur opens his mouth, fully intending to tell Charles everything. About walking in on your incriminating embrace with Oscar. About the way it felt like his entire world shattered all over again. How Oscar has stolen every single thing that should have been Arthur’s by birthright.

But when he tries to vocalize the words, to unleash the storm of emotions battering him from the inside out … nothing comes out. His throat remains locked up tight, breath wheezing harshly.

Charles is watching him, eyebrows knitted with worry. “You’re really freaking me out here. What’s going on?”

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head helplessly. He feels like he’s drowning, lost in a whirlpool of jealousy and despair that’s slowly suffocating him.

When he opens his eyes again, Charles is still waiting, patient and steady as always. Something in his brother’s calm, anchoring presence helps Arthur regain just a little bit of control. Enough to grit out a few words.

“Oscar. And Y/N.”

That’s all he can manage. But judging by the dawning comprehension on Charles’ face, it’s enough. The older Leclerc lets out a slow breath, gaze turning sympathetic.

“You saw them together,” he says, not a question.

Arthur nods jerkily, jaw locked.

For a long moment, Charles is silent. Taking it all in, no doubt. Then … “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

Arthur’s breath hitches harshly before he can stop it.

“Hey, hey.” Charles pulls him into a tight hug, tucking Arthur’s head under his chin. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you, little brother.”

Arthur stiffens for just a second before melting into the embrace, squeezing his eyes shut once more. He takes a shuddery breath against Charles’ shirt, then another, just trying to hold himself together.

“I’m here,” Charles murmurs, rubbing his back soothingly. “We’ll get through this together, yeah?”

Arthur doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods against Charles’ shoulder. He clings to his brother like a lifeline, grateful beyond words that Charles is here to anchor him when it feels like his world is crumbling all over again.

He has no idea how long they stay like that, locked in that tight embrace. Long enough for the sharp edges of Arthur’s anguish to dull, at least a little. Long enough for his ragged breaths to even out into something closer to normal.

Finally, Charles gives him one last squeeze before gently pulling back, keeping a firm grip on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, eyeing Arthur’s bloodied knuckles with a wince.

Arthur follows his gaze, grimacing at the sight. “Shit, I ...”

“It’s okay,” Charles says quickly, sliding an arm around Arthur’s back. “I’ve got you.”

He guides Arthur through the paddock, shielding him from view with his body. Arthur is grateful for the discretion — the last thing he needs right now is prying eyes and questions about his meltdown.

They make it back to the cool shadows of the Ferrari motorhome without incident. Charles sweeps them into one of the private rooms, locking the door securely behind them.

“There, just us,” he says, squeezing Arthur’s arm reassuringly. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened?”

Arthur sinks down onto the worn sofa, feeling numb and drained. He stares at his mangled hands as Charles darts away, returning a moment later with a first aid kit and a damp cloth.

“This might sting,” Charles warns, taking Arthur’s hands with surprising gentleness.

Arthur barely flinches as his brother starts cleaning away the blood and grit from his torn skin. He’s retreated deep inside his own head, memories from that hellish scene on an endless loop.

You and Oscar, tangled together so intimately. The way you looked at each other, breathless with desire. The easy intimacy and obvious hunger in every heated caress.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, but it does nothing to block it out. He’s never going to be able to unsee that, he realizes with a sick lurch. It’s seared into his brain forever, a brand new source of unrelenting torment.

“Arthur?” Charles’ soft voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. “What happened? Talk to me.”

Arthur blows out a shaky breath, forcing himself to meet his brother’s concerned gaze.

“I went to find Y/N,” he starts in a dull rasp. “To … to get some closure, I guess. Finally rip off the bandaid like you said.”

Charles nods in understanding, staying quiet to let Arthur continue at his own pace.

“But when I turned the corner of the McLaren garage ...” Arthur’s throat works convulsively, the memory surging back in vivid technicolor. “They were there. Making out like a couple of horny teenagers.”

He falls silent again, the words cutting off as a wave of fresh agony washes over him. God, the visual is never going to stop haunting him, is it?

“Oh, Arthur ...” Charles murmurs, squeezing his hands gently. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur lets out a bitter huff. “Sorry? Don’t be sorry for me, Charles. Be sorry for yourself.”

Charles frowns in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Oscar,” Arthur grits out, white-hot anger flaring once more. “He stole her from me, sure. But he also stole our name. He gets to be a Leclerc now, a mockery of our home streets. Just because you stupidly joked about adopting him.”

He surges to his feet, unable to stay still with all this wrath and hurt burning through him.

“Everything that was supposed to be mine, Charles!” He shouts, prowling the room like a caged animal. “The career, the family, the girl … Oscar has taken it all! With a few laughs and some dumb jokes!”

“Arthur, that’s not fair ...” Charles tries, but Arthur barrels right over him.

“No? Well how about this — let’s see how funny those jokes are when Oscar decides he actually wants to be Charles Leclerc!” Arthur snarls. “He’ll take your career next, you watch! Take away everything that makes you special, everything that’s yours by right!”

“Arthur.” Charles is on his feet now, reaching out to grip Arthur’s shoulders firmly. “Listen to me. You need to calm down, okay? Oscar isn’t trying to take anything from us. He’s our friend!”

“How can you say that?” Arthur demands, anguish cracking through the rage. “Don’t you see what he’s done? What he’s taking from me?”

He’s breathing hard now, vision swimming as tears of mingled fury and heartbreak prick at his eyes.

“That was supposed to be my future, Charles,” he rasps. “Y/N and I … we had plans. Dreams of a life together.”

Arthur swipes angrily at the tear that escapes, blurring his vision. “Oscar doesn’t get to take that from me. He doesn’t get to make it all a mocking joke.”

“Arthur ...” Charles looks stricken now, shaking his head slowly. He pulls Arthur into another fierce hug, tucking the younger man’s head under his chin.

“I’m so sorry,” Charles murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry he hurt you like this. You don’t deserve that … any of it.”

Arthur lets out a choked sob against his brother’s shirt, all of the fight abruptly draining from him. He’s just … tired. Wrung out and hollow, aching down to his very core.

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, Charles,” he whispers brokenly. “Oscar was my friend … how could he do this to me?”

Charles doesn’t seem to have any answers. He just holds Arthur tighter, rocking them gently from side to side as Arthur finally gives in to his emotions. He buries his face in Charles’ shoulder and weeps — for his shattered dreams, his shredded heart, and a future that now feels impossibly out of reach.

As the sobs gradually subside, a final bitter thought takes root in Arthur’s mind. If Oscar is going to steal away the girl Arthur loves, the family he was born into, and the future he had mapped out for himself ... then Arthur hopes to god the Monaco curse falls on Oscar just as harshly as it ever has for a Leclerc.

Maybe then Oscar will finally understand just how much he’s taken from Arthur. How many dreams and pieces of Arthur's very identity he’s carelessly crushed in his quest to make himself a Leclerc on everything but paper.

Arthur’s tears have dried, leaving his cheeks chafed and eyes swollen. But the hollow ache in his chest remains, throbbing in time with his ragged breaths. He stays huddled against Charles, taking what little solace he can from his brother’s presence.

It’s all he has left now. Oscar has snatched away everything else that ever mattered to Arthur. His future, his past, his home ... all of it, gone in a spiral of heated kisses and breathless laughter.

If the cost of having it all is the Monaco curse bearing down on him, then so be it. Arthur finds himself almost hoping Oscar gets everything he so greedily took, the consequences be damned. Maybe then, just maybe, he’ll finally understand an ounce of the anguish and heartbreak he’s inflicted on Arthur.

It’s a dark, vindictive thought, one that makes Arthur's gut twist with shame. But he’d too drained, too devastated to truly care. He just presses closer to Charles, craving the simple comfort of family as reality crushes him from all sides.

His dreams, his heart, his identity ... all stolen by a former friend turned ultimate betrayer. If the Monaco curse is all Arthur has left to cling to, then so be it.

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