#the last of my prompts are finally done!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Old Men(tor) Big Naturals

(for @3luecactuz)

[marshmallowgoop]

ShinRan Week 2023: Day 4 | Black Knight and Princess

[thatcatbasil]

ice cream date

[supes9]

If I don't tell you now

I may never get the chance again...

🚨 SUMMER OF 51’s (2024) 🚨            ⮑ Day 2: Intentions

[redrobin-detective]

fight or flight

Bruce would not consider himself to be an impulsive man. Quite the opposite, he had singularly dedicated himself to his task of ridding Gotham of crime since he was child. He vetted all of his teachers thoroughly and only acted on evidence he could support. Bruce Wayne, the Batman, was not a man prone to fits of emotion. And yet he cannot explain why, when an obligatory appearance at the circus turned tragic, he took home an orphan boy.

“Dick, I’m coming in,” Bruce said, opening the door to the room the boy had been staying in. “Alfred wants to know if you’re coming to dinner.”

“I don’t want anything from you!” Dick screamed, lobbing a shoe at Bruce which he dodged. The room was still in a state of disarray; nightstand knocked over and covers pulled violently off the bed into a protective pile on the floor. The sight was achingly familiar. “You can’t keep me here! I want to go back to Pop Haly!”

“We’ve been over this,” Bruce said softly, opening the door a bit more. “The circus is European, only here on temporary visas. As they aren’t blood relatives, they cannot legally take you in.” Aside from the chaos of the room, a framed picture of Dick’s parents was placed on a place of honor at the windowsill. Bruce unfortunately had to nail the window shut after Dick made 3 very daring escape attempts. “Besides, you and I both know you’re not planning on going back to the circus, not yet.”

“You don’t know anything!” Dick hissed, barring his teeth. “Get out before I make you!”

“I understand, Dick, believe me I understand,” Bruce said heavily, some of the Batman’s gravelly tones leaching into his voice. Bruce had done a lot of thinking in the past week, wondering just what had compelled him to offer himself as a temporary foster parent. He thought maybe it was because he feared for the boy’s safety if Zucco decided to silence him. Perhaps he thought it too cruel to send an innocent child to a juvenile detention center for reasons beyond his control. But, when the hour was late and he’d returned from patrol and was stripped of Batman and Wayne and was just Bruce, he knew.

He knew by the look of devastation and roiling anger in the boy’s eyes that no one, not the police or social workers or circus family would be able to help with. Bruce wasn’t sure that Dick could be helped, he himself was living proof, but he had to try. Because if he didn’t, the last of the Graysons would die trying to complete his revenge.

“No you don’t!” Dick roared, pushing himself out of his self imposed little nest. He threw another shoe which Bruce side stepped. “Because if you did, you would let me go! That-that bastard is still out there after killing them, after making them fall!” He took in a deep breath as grief washed over him before the anger returned twice as strong. “I know how this works Mr. Money Bags. We’re carney trash, we’re nobody, no ones gonna go after the killer.”

“Dick, I’ve been involved with the investigation, the police are doing everything they can.” Bruce explained, daring to step closer. Admittedly, the police couldn’t do all that much. There wasn’t a lot tying Zucco to the scene and that’s not even getting into the complicated Falcone-Maroni family mess that Zucco was protected by. There was a chance Zucco would skate by, ordinarily but- “and if they can’t then Batman will bring him to justice.”

“Batman!” Dick laughed, loudly and harshly. “And you city folks call us the freaks, you got a freaking bat monster out there solving your crimes Well I don’t need him, I don’t need any of you! They were my parents, I need to make sure Tony Zucco knows what’s coming to him and why.”

“Is that really what you want?” Bruce couldn’t help but ask. “To kill? To possibly be killed yourself?”

“Yes,” Dick said his eyes angry but filled with tears. “I can’t live in a world where their killer is free. I’d rather die myself.” Bruce’s chest became painfully tight, uncertain and afraid of what to do. It was like walking on landmines, knowing one wrong step will end in catastrophe.

He wondered if this was how Alfred felt every day for the past 15 years, watching Bruce drown himself in grief and anger. He knows very well what Dick was feeling, that pain and single minded rage. He wished he’d been better at managing himself if only so he could know how to help this boy now.

“I don’t think that’s what your parents would want, they’d want you to live, Dick, and this isn’t living,” Bruce said and realized he’d stepped on one of those landmines. The anger in Dick’s eyes turned physical and soon there was a furious acrobat in his face.

“You don’t get to talk about them!” Dick screeched, clawing at Bruce’s arms with impressive strength. “You don’t get to talk for them! You didn’t know them and now they’re dead because of assholes like you!” Batman had 36 ways of disabling the child but significantly less in ways that wouldn’t harm Dick. small, powerful hands clawed at his arms. Well defined legs kicked at him and elbows jammed at him.

But Bruce was larger, older and significantly heavier than the boy. He would bleed, he would bruise but he would survive. Gotham gave him worse on his easier nights. And some part of him couldn’t help but hope that the physical release would help Dick. God knows Bruce had destroyed enough property when he’d been an angry, grieving child. He would endure a thousand cuts if it meant he could ease even a small part of his charge’s pain. It was never that easy but, as Alfred used to say, hope wasn’t a dirty word.

Eventually, Dick wore himself out and his attacks petered out and he ended up slumped against Bruce’s chest. He put one hand on Dick’s shoulder to steady him but was he supposed to hug? Would Dick want that? Could he even offer it? It was easier to focus on the physical pain and on Dick’s quiet, little sobs.

“I hate this, I miss them so much,” Dick cried. Not knowing what else to do, Bruce ran his fingers through the boys wild hair. “Mr. Wayne, please, just let me go. I don’t wanna be here and you don’t want me either. Just turn your back, say I snuck out and you couldn’t find me. You’re rich, you won’t get in any trouble, not over someone like me. Please.”

“I can’t do that, Dick,” Bruce sighed, he pulled Dick closer as the boy tried to wiggle away. “I know it’s hard but I’m doing this because I care about you and because I want to give you what I never got, closure and a chance to heal. Dick, look at me,” The boy refused and Bruce pinched his chin as gently as he could and made him look. “Richard Grayson I promise you on the graves of my murdered parents that Tony Zucco will not remain free for longer. I will make sure he pays for what he did to you. And once he is caught, it will be up to you to figure out what you want to do with your life, the last gift your parents gave you.”

Dick didn’t say anything, just pulled himself out of Bruce’s grasp and fled back to his nest. He buried himself under the blankets and was silent save for quiet sobs and hiccups.

“You don’t have to come down if you don’t want to but you do need to eat, I’ll put something in front of your door.” Bruce made his way towards the door. “If you don’t keep your strength up, you’ll be in no state to help catch Zucco.” Dick peeked his face out behind the blankets.

“I’ll see if I can contact Batman, ask about his progress on the case. Maybe see if there’s anything you can do to help, get you involved,” Bruce said even though internally he was screaming. He wanted more than anything to keep Dick safe, away from all this. But the Bat inside him knew that Dick would never settle, never allow himself to grow past this tragedy until he sunk his teeth into his parents’ murderer. Nothing else to say, Bruce closed the door.

“Is the young master coming- my word, Master Bruce!” Alfred exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen. He��d worn long sleeves but Dick had sharp nails and blood was seeping through the fabric, he’d even gotten a few swipes at his face. One scratch just below his lip to the neck stung in the cool air of the kitchen.

“No, he’s not coming. I said we’d set something outside his door,” Bruce said. He didn’t fight back when Alfred pushed him onto a chair and began examining the injuries. He’d been caring for Bruce his entire life, from his very worst up until now which arguably wasn’t much better. “I don’t know how to help him, Alfred. I know his pain, I feel it but I never figured out how to help myself much less others.”

“Oh my boy if there was a cure all fix for grief, I’d put it in a bottle and be my own billionaire,” Alfred sighed, dabbing at the cuts. “All you can do is be there for him, offer love, safety, understanding. I can see the Young Master Dick is a kind boy, that this anger isn’t in his nature. One day, with the proper support, he’ll be able to move past this tragedy.”

“And we’ll get him to a real home,” Bruce sighed. He went to pick at one of the scratches but Alfred’s lightly swatted him away.

“So you still intend to send him away once this Zucco business is settled?”

“He doesn’t want to be here, he’s made that clear,“ Bruce stated. “Besides, with my work... it’s not safe for either of us to have attachments. Once Zucco is brought to justice, he’ll be safe in a regular foster home. He can he be happy there.”

“Will he, Sir?” Alfred tutted. “Because in between the young master’s bouts of grief and violence, I have spoken with him at length. The lad wants nothing more than to fly again, like he did with his mother and father and extended family at the circus. And, forgive me for being bold but I doubt a traditional home will allow him that privilege.”

“What are you implying? That he should stay here?” Bruce scoffed

“I’m not telling you, either of you, what to do. But you brought Master Dick home because you sensed a kinship, forged a connection not of logic but heart. He is so much like you were back then, Master Bruce, maybe he needs your unorthodox methods to stop fighting and start flying again.”

“Well, first of all, Tony Zucco needs to be brought to justice,” He said, standing up suddenly and stalking towards the grandfather clock. “If you need me, I’ll be down in the Cave reviewing his safe houses. Please ensure the boy is fed and he doesn’t find any other windows to crawl out of. I might not make it in time the next time he tries to run.”

“Of course, Sir, happy hunting.”

[therealvalkyrie]

bath + asparagus time

[chaoticspacefam]

Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”. for an oc/pairing that you think would best suit the prompt - KH💙 (p.s. sorry for accidentally unfollowing you when trying to click on the 'ask' button 🤪)

(no worries and likewise I am SO SO SORRY that this took me two years to finish up I am horrified by that 😭🥺 I had a l o t of fun with this one even if it took me 5ever to transfer it from script to actual Prose so I hope it’s worth the wait and y’all enjoy!! <3) A/N:

This one is set just after > Kiss With A Fist <  so if you’re new and/or you don’t remember the kiss they’re arguing about, it’s in that oneshot! :D

Strikhedonia - noun. The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”. This one came from the “obscure word/definition” ask game a while back. Sadly far back enough that I do not have the link but ANYWAY its finally here yaaas!! The alternative title for this one is “How much Unresolved Sexual Tension can I fit into one Oneshot?” and the answer, I am happy to report, is “Yes”. XD

Wai Tarar = the official title/rank term for the Ahaszaai royals’ personal bodyguards, each Ahaszaai has a minimum of one, but more commonly between 2-3 ESPECIALLY for the current ruling Emperor(ess) and/or their heir(ess) ;)  It’s literally just High Sith for “Royal Protector” but it sounds so much more fancy in High Sith xP

Falling in love with your bodyguard is a little less scandalous when your father happens to think he Has Very Nice Genes, Actually, and This Could Work In Our Favour so "You know what, go ahead" XD in case anyone is wondering WHY Vastas doesn't care. Kissai's got Massassi blood in his line, and Grampy Ahaszaai thinks it'd be neat to get a little of that in the future grandkids 😉

No specific warnings for this one. Just two idiots very obviously in love, and - oh my god she’s done denying it? D’leah’s not playing hard to get anymore?? /lh XD You can also read on > AO3 < if you’d prefer the formatting there! :D

_______________________________________________________________

D'leah had been rather surprised to catch the eye of her Wai Tarar across the sea of other Sith Lords and Darths, decked out to their nines in glitz and glamour in the manner she would have well expected of the High Sith families that associated with her father. Of course, it was not a problem that he had come, as her principle protector it was almost certainly…encouraged that Kissai attend in order to stand guard for the Ahaszaai line during the festivities, he would not be the only Wai Tarar in the crowd. But the Sith heiress simply couldn't shake the realization that Kissai was not in his red armour, this time, but rather a suit of the more formal kind. It couldn't be….that he was here for her, surely? 

On an impulse, she caught his eye as she wove her way through the crowd and headed for the nearby balcony, the cool night breeze stirring her cheeks as she stepped out of the stuffy palace ballroom. Leaning against the balustrade, she exhaled softly and waited, listening to the lilting notes of the classical music that drifted towards her through the open balcony door. Before long, the sound of carefully measured footfalls reached the heiress' ears, and she calmly turned to face him. She had nothing to fear from this man, she knew that much.

"Dance with me, my Lord?" He inquired, eyes bright with hope as he held a hand out towards her. The heiress' gaze lingered on his outstretched palm for a fraction too long, before finally darting up to meet his, the tips of her jaw spurs trembling. He cleaned up remarkably well, for a commoner…

Somehow, the fact that he had waited until she had beckoned him outside, away from the prying eyes of every kriffing Sith aristocrat in the Empire, to ask for her hand at all only made it *worse* for her. Damn it, his sister's right. You've got it BAD, D'leah.

Besides, nobody would see them out here, so what harm would one dance do? If he cared half as much as she liked to pretend that he did, D'leah knew her father would never have let her leave the palace with her guard in tow - Emperor Ahaszaai had eyes everywhere, and someone watching out for her at all times.

So, the heiress slid her hand delicately into his, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards into a faint half smirk as she purred teasingly. "You have nice manners, for an Outskirter~"

The taller Pureblood scoffed softly as she stepped into his grasp, his fangs flashing in a grin. "Last I checked, my Lord, your father was quite enamoured with my manners."

D'leah raised a browstalk in surprise. "Enamoured", huh? He'd taken to using a lot of big words around her of late…he really was trying to impress her, she was sure of it.

"I can't imagine why he would think that." She smirked back at him, bringing her other hand to rest on his shoulder, though she did have to pivot onto her toes ever so slightly. He was so tall...

They fell into a steady and well-balanced set of steps in time with the tempo of the music from the ballroom, and Kissai guided her into a twirl, humming softly under his breath. "Hmm. You know what I think?" 

D'leah made a curious, prompting noise in the back of her throat, her breath almost catching when he effortlessly caught her out of the spin and dipped her down in time with the swell of the music. His hand was warm against the small of her back, even through the fabric of her evening gown, "you like it." the taller Pureblood breathed, a hint of a query to his tone still.

Kissai was right, she knew he was. But the Sith heiress wasn't quite ready to admit it just yet. She wanted him to work for it. She chuckled as nonchalantly as she could manage, allowing him to pull her upright and sweep her into the next set of steps. "Well, I think you’re a fool who is wholly overconfident in himself~" 

The taller Pureblood's fangs flashed in a grin, and without thinking about it, he retorted cheekily. "That makes two of us, then, doesn't it, my Lord?" 

The realisation dawned on his face as D'leah's arm snapped taut with the next step she took, the heiress' eyes fixing on him as she hissed sharply. 

"And you have grown over comfortable being so casual with me, Izreni." It should have been a warning, and on her first reflex D'leah had meant for it to be one, but when the words actually came out of her mouth they sounded far more like a returning quip than she had intended. The Wai Tarar scoffed, indignant, and raised a browstalk at her as he protested: "You kissed me. If you wished for me to leave you alone, my Lord, you've done a very poor job in telling me so."

“I did.” she nodded, squashing the urge to smirk as he blinked at her in utter surprise that she had admitted to it, like a gizka caught in the headlights. D’leah drew in another deep breath to keep her composure, shutting her eyes for a moment as she reminded him, her voice far more amused than scathing. “And if I saw fit I could kill you where you stand for speaking to me that way.” “I know.” the Wai Tarar answered in much the same tone. She wasn’t quite sure how, but somehow their back-and-forth had deviated from their standard back-and-forth banter to become simply exchanges of facts they were both well aware of already. The heiress was losing, and she knew it. She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet as they twirled again, and as she returned to his hold, he smirked and asked. “Then why are you out here with me, and not in there with the other High-born brats, my Lord?” 

The Ahaszaai heiress opened her eyes to meet his gaze once more, willing her heart to stop skipping violently against her ribcage when she did. “They bore me.” she admitted at length, stepping closer to Kissai as the tempo of the music that floated out from the ballroom behind them began to slow. “You, on the other hand…” She felt his grip on her tighten, not by much, but enough that D’leah took note of it, and hummed wordlessly in response. It took a moment for the taller Sith’s brain to catch up with the rest of his senses, but when it did she watched the spurs against his jaw flex in anticipation. His voice grew husky as he muttered. “Darindz artsisasi ki, ctarzari…”

D’leah let out a sultry chuckle in retort. “Nu sarjia j’us kaisijas oi…”

His gaze flicked from hers, to the door behind them, reflexive panic written on his features clear as day. “What would your father say?” he floundered, as if forgetting he had just moments ago used an entirely contradictory argument when their dance had started. The Ahaszaai High Lady could no longer contain her own laughter, throwing her head back to cackle aloud and feeling the tips of his claws curl against her spine as she did so. “Do you believe he’d let his heiress wander off with any old vagabond who asked her for her arm? He knows exactly where I am.” D’leah raised a prompting browstalk at him. “If he didn’t like you, Izreni, he would not allow you anywhere near me.” much less anything else. And she knew that Kissai knew that just as well as she did. 

“I see…” the Wai Tarar’s jaw spurs trembled, but still he daren’t move, nor had his hands travelled any lower in spite of her offering him an invitation to do so on a silver platter. Kissai was waiting for her to come to him. His self control was admirable, and oh so attractive....

Deciding to indulge him for the second time, the heiress stretched up on her toes to brush her lips ever so gently against his as she cooed softly. “Or are you scared, Kissai~?” 

She felt, rather than heard, his breath hitch, and after a moment to compose himself he managed to get out the words, low enough that only D’leah would hear them. “Such thoughts are hardly proper in polite company, princess.”

“Ah, of course.” she grinned, a purr rumbling in her throat as she stepped out of his arms to take the taller Pureblood’s hand into hers instead. D’leah did not miss the low chuff of disappointment that he made as she moved away from him, but nonetheless released his grip on her obediently. Ever the gentleman, this one. As if to answer the unspoken question, the Ahaszaai heiress tugged on his hand, holding his gaze as she backed toward the balcony door to head back inside. “Come, let’s go inside. It’s getting cold out here.” To hell with it, doesn’t matter who sees us.

_______________________________________________________ High Sith translations: *canonically there is so little written about High Sith conlang that there aren't even proper contractions (like "I'm", "Don't" etc.) which is just...a huge oversight, to put it blankly. So I made my own contractions. At least it doesn’t sound like an unnecessarily and stupidly clunky language that way skhjslhdh

Darindz artsisasi ki, ctarzari…  - Don’t (from Dari “do” + nindz “not”) tease me, princess..

Nu sarjia j’us kaisijas oi…  - I thought you liked it...

That said, D’leah DOES on occasion not use contractions in Basic, particularly for things like “would not” (as in “would not allow you anywhere near me”) or “do not”. There’s no particular reason for this, she just decided it was a speech quirk of hers and keeps making me write it this way on occasion /lh 😜

[necromoonstar]

Officially copied all my home made posts over to obsidian so they will all be there, recorded and safe. At least the stuff I want to save. I thought it'd be nice if I do make a website to also save these little tumblr posts so they won't disappear. I'm not as worried about reblogs, even if they would be nice, because the site I want to make is mostly just meant to be me saving my stuff.

But I don't know might back it up some other way to keep reblogs later. Right now I'm just glad my stuff is kept and have a nice layout so I can just save each post as I make them now.

Then when I do make the site these cross-posted pieces that were meant to be tumblr first will have their own section on the site. Separate from the site-intended first blogs.

I feel proud for getting things set up even if it was only 29 posts. It's still effort, it's still a feeling like I'm actually going to do this. I'm gonna make a site that's all my own.

Where I can just talk about my fos, talk about my identity confusions, talk about being median system, talk about art troubles, show off my characters, and make it my own.

I am beyond excited, it makes the effort needed to get to the point of having it suck; but! as long as I keep the energy up, the desire and awe, I'm sure I'll be able to get enough done so that when it wears off I am close enough to finish and have pride in owning it to keep it going anyway.

[augustinewrites]

“sunflowers or peonies?”

“awe, nanami! i’m flattered—”

“they’re not for you,” nanami says flatly. “you can buy your own.”

shoko squints down at the man lying on her exam table, arm held up and behind his head. “i’m quite literally stitching you back together, you know.”

the blond thinks bitterly on what had landed him in her infirmary in the first place, injured and likely having to reschedule dinner tonight. it’s already well past the time he’d planned on picking you up, and the table he’d reserved at the new restaurant in roppongi has likely been given away.

he’s dreading calling to tell you, his heart already twinging at the idea of letting you down.

shoko stitches him up neatly, cleaning and covering it up with a layer of bandages. she offers him a hand to help him sit up, but he bypasses it to plant his palm against the cot, pushing himself up with a groan.

she rolls her eyes, peeling her gloves off and pulling her mask down, tossing them both into the trash. “clean and dress it at least twice a day. no sudden movements of strenuous activity for at least a week. if you ruin my work, i’ll put you on bedrest.”

she digs through her cabinets as he awkwardly pulls his shirt back on. his mind drifts to you as he does so. he’d lost his phone in the fight, so he hadn’t been able to tell you about cancelling.

he wonders if the pout on your lips is painted your lips that shade of red you’d been wearing when he’d first met you. wonders if you’re waiting wearing the dress he’d gifted you last week.

he’d really wanted to see you in that dress.

nanami sighs heavily as he does up the buttons, prompting shoko to glance over her shoulder at him.

“what’s wrong with you?” she asks, setting a small bottle of painkillers on the tray table next to him.

“i’m missing an important dinner,” he grumbles, wondering if just a bundle sunflowers or peonies from the small stall outside is enough. he should order you a proper bouquet from a shop. perhaps he can also book you a massage or—

a knock at the door interrupts his spiralling.

“oh!” shoko suddenly gasps. she reaches up, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead and fixing it as best she can.

“what are you doing?” he asks, genuinely confused in this moment.

“you’ll see,” she simply grins, sending him a wink. then, “come in!”

the door to the infirmary opens to reveal…you.

“kento,” you breathe, the quiet click of your heels echoing through the empty room as you quickly walk towards him.

he’s shocked, but lets you carefully wrap your arms around him, cradling his head against your chest.

but before he knows it he’s holding onto you too, breathing in the deep, sweet scent of your perfume and focusing on the steady beat of your heart.

“what are you doing here?” he asks once you finally release him, taking your hands in his.

“shoko called me,” you tell him. “apparently…apparently i’m your emergency contact.”

his face is suddenly hot with embarrassment. he’d honestly forgotten about that. he hadn’t even realized he’d done it when yaga had asked him to update his information with the school. your name had been the first and only name to pop into his mind.

“sorry,” he apologizes quickly, dropping your hands. he jumped the gun, didn’t he? you’ve only been dating for six months… “i should have asked you first but—”

but no one knows me better than you.

a soft sigh slips from your lips as you sit next to him, with a gaze so reverent that it strips him to the bone. “i love you, kento. i will be your emergency contact as long as you want me to be.”

he whispers the words back to you, suddenly shy.

sometimes nanami lets himself slip a little too far into his own head, overthinking and a little insecure. but you’re always there, ready to coax him back into the light.

“you look beautiful,” he murmurs, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. he’s seen you in a lot of dresses, each one making him weak in the knees. but this dress…this one makes it a little hard for him to breathe.

“well, you still owe me a date,” you tell him, helping him up off the cot. “we could go to the ramen place across from my apartment.”

he wraps an arm around your shoulders, and you reach up to intertwine your fingers with his. “i’d go anywhere with you.”

[malfoys-demigod]

hii! it’s iluvloganhowlett i’m just on my other acc! could you do a logan fluff where logan has a soft spot for u and lit only u? like for a prompt, scott asks a question and logan answers with some “it’s none of your business” or is j flat out mean where as when you ask the same question minutes later he’s nicer and thorough with his answer.

and can u please make it logan x mutant!reader🥰🥰

Logan Howlett, underrated softie

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ Logan Howlett x Reader

A/N: Hi @iluvloganhowlett!! I really appreciate your request and here it is! Enjoy, dear!!

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Winters in upstate New York were exceptionally known for their extreme coldness.

Which of course was no shock that a particular mansion at Westchester County was at -3 degrees celcius, almost reaching at 4 in your keen opinion.

Just being inside made you want to wear a thick full body coat today, wrapped with your favorite scarf and gloves. But you felt silly about that idea, seeing how everyone else was just casually surviving the day with good long sleeved tops. How lucky of them.

Though it was only 8pm, you had the senseless idea of wrapping yourself in your blanket, trying to fall asleep in your bedroom, desparately hoping to sleep through the coldest day of the week.

After a few tosses and turns, feeling the icy breeze sneak into your body, you just knew there was no hope in dozing off. Not with this kind of weather!

You groaned in defeat, sitting up to curse to yourself why you had to feel so, so, so frigid of all days today.

Maybe some instant hot chocolate by the kitchen would help you soothe yourself into sleeping soon.

So you got up, wore an oversized sweater over your thick long sleeved top, placed on your fuzzy slippers, and made your way out of your room to the kitchen.

There were still students around the mansion, either reading books with each other, watching the television by the living room, or playing some board games while having hot beverages and snacks. Hmmm, the smell of hot chocolate from some of them just made you realize that hot chocolate is always a good idea.

Meanwhile over at the kitchen, just a few minutes before you had arrived, Storm was in one of the seats in front of the counter, having her decaffinated coffee, mixing some sugar and some milk with it. Yup, she was one of those who enjoyed the taste of cofffe, even at night, so she has it decaffinated so it won't affect her sleep later.

Scott grabbed a bowl and a box of Lucky Charms cereal from the cupboards and made his way to the fridge, which was being leaned on by Logan, who was having a round of beer.

Scott stood in front of Logan with a serious look on his face, expecting Logan to move. But Logan, who wanted to mess with the man, just stared back at him, flashing a mischievous look. "You should take a picture, it'll last longer."

"Move, asshole," Scott sneered, "I need milk."

Logan continued drinking from his beer, still eyeing scott with the same mischievous look on his face, ignoring his command.

"Oh, Scott, I still have some!" Storm interrupted, saving Scott from possibly wanting to strike Logan, based on his tight grip on his bowl, and now slightly wrinked cereal box.

"Dick," Scott muttered under his breath, moving through Logan, who felt like he won another round of Logan v Scott. That small win was now done being celebrated when you finally arrived into the kitchen.

"Hey guys," you greeted your colleagues, getting some 'heys' from Storm and a slightly disgruntled Scott.

"Hey, doll," Logan recited gently, earning a dear smile from you. He watched you look around the cupboards, noticing your mystified expression as you wandered around each cupboard and cabinets.

You then moved to the fridge, "Sorry, could I just check something inside?" you asked Logan softly with your fingers skimming over each other.

Scott looked up from his meal, watching Logan expose a smile on his mouth, gently moving aside as you opened the fridge, watching you hmph in disappointment.

Scott made his own quiet hmph to himself, seeing Logan's patience with you, to which Storm smiled coyly seeing sparks fly around the tough Wolverine.

"Didn't find what you were looking for, darl?"

"Yeah, I think the kids got the last instant hot chocolate powders for themselves," you frowned lightly in disappointment. "It's okay though," admitting in defeat. You were starting to make your way out, looking at the doorframe, "I think I'll just-"

"Hold on there, bub," Logan's instruction brought you to a halt. You turned around to see a now quiet Logan, whose eyes were looking into, what he thought, were puppy eyes. "Instant powders are for kids," he continued, his eyes quickly scanning around the room as if he was about to make use of the information around him.

"How about I make you some real hot chocolate, huh?"

While Scott and Storm turned to each other, exchanging unsure looks, you let out a small laugh in disbelief, which determined Logan to actually pull it off.

"You?"

You didn't want to sound mean about it, I mean, anyone can make hot chocolate. It wasn't rocket science, or some gourmet dish, but never in your wildest dreams did you think that Logan Howlett, the man who only went to the kitchen to bring out his secret stash of beer, would make you hot chocolate?

But the way you asked didn't matter to Logan, as he got whole milk, chocolate, whipped cream, and heavy cream from the fridge, walked to another counter for powdered sugar, and expresso powder, which he directly got a teaspoon of from Storm's side to which she didn't say anything about, since she herself, was inclined to watch Logan act as if he was someone else she didn't know.

Logan was now whisking together his ingredients in a saucepan that you helped get.

"How long should these be over the heat?" you tip-toed, wanting to see over Logan's shoulder's as he was perfectly centered in front of the saucepan.

"Till you see small bubbles appear around the edges," he replied, looking over at you tip-toe, which he wanted to melt at just seeing.

He then stirred in chopped chocolate, waiting for it to melt, and carefully placing the sauce to low heat, stating to you that 'it's needed for the chocolate to melt completely.'

His little moment of domestic fluff with you and him in the kitchen was put to a pause when a voice from somewhere behind him got his unfortunate attention.

"Since when did you have time to learn all this?," Scott teased, receiving a nudge from the elbow from Storm who shook her head.

"Shut the hell up, prick," Logan said, not even facing a smirking Scott.

Logan then served the drinks in two mugs for him and for you, of course topping them with lots of whipped cream. More than excited to try Logan's hot chocolate, you immediately took a careful sip, tasting the intense, rich, and absolute heaven which had to be the most decadent hot chocolate ever.

"Oh my god," you said, closing your eyes with satisfaction, "It feels like I'm in one of those Parisian cafes, drinking the best hot chocolate there."

It was as if every sip made you forget about how cold and freezing you were just earlier, and seeing you look so content with the drink made Logan want to beam, but of course realized Scott and Storm were, annoyingly still around.

"Glad you like it, Y/N," he thanked, seeing you turn to face him with a curious look on your face.

"I do want to ask..." you hung back the question, "When did you have time to learn how to perfect this? I know you didn't just learn this overnight."

It was a genuine question because despite living since the 1800s or so, it was not exactly like Logan had free time to cook around or whip up hot chocolate, right? This man went through a lot in his life, and would he really just use his spare time investing in something like.. hot chocolate?

Logan looked down, with a humble and small smile on his face.

"My mother..," he first started, "When I was young and while my dad was out, she would make hot chocolate on cold days, or even any day for that matter."

There was so much value you had, appreciating the little yet deeply personal story behind your now, favorite drink. You knew Logan was never an open book with anyone. It was more of a shut and locked up book with the key below the bottom of the ocean for no one to pick up.

But the way he had just been with you tonight so far, was like, he was giving you the key for you, and literally you only.

"So you rememberd her exact recipe?" you inquired more, with a sparkle that Logan saw in your eyes.

"Nah, not exactly," he said, slightly timid with a grin, " 'course I adapted to today's ingredients like instant whipped cream, but it's something like what she made before."

"Do you think you could make some for me again tomorrow?" You genuinely requested, which made Logan more or less, want to fold and do as you say in a heartbeat.

But of course, he wanted to slightly play it cool. "Don't see why not," nodding in agreement.

"Good, I'm gonna bring this with me back to my room now," you announced, "Thanks so much, Logan, good night!"

You then smiled at Scott and Storm, waving them goodbye as you walked away from them, leaving them to smirk like children at Logan.

"That was cute." Storm said, bringing Logan back to his usual, serious look.

"I'd love to try some tomorrow too, Logan," Scott tried to fake his genuine statement at the same time trying not to burst a laughter out of him.

Without any words this time, Logan, holding his mug of hot chocolate in hand, passed Scott with one claw out from his other hand, slicing his cereal box in half.

"Asshole!" Scott yelled, now trying to pick up the pieces of cereal as Logan walked out of the kitchen took a sip from his mug, indulding in the fact that,

A. he made another successful hot chocolate in his life

B. he gets to make it again for you tomorrow

C. he hopes to make it for you for as long as winter's still there.

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny lives in a horror movie-DC x DP prompt

Based on my favorite book series "tales from the gas station"

Its not everyday a mission requires the league to travel to middle America in to obtain a highly cursed artifact but it certainly today.

Locating the Seal of Silent Ashes was a task usually given to Justice League Dark but Constantine was currently busy. So that meant it was left to the poster boys to get this done. They dressed in civilian attire to investigate the last location of the seal starting with the first building on the edge of town. A small dusty gas station near the wood.

The inside had an awful smell, like death and cleaning fluid. The lights gave off a greenish-blue tint. Rats could be seen out of the corner of your eyes. Most of the chip were offbrand and crappy.

Behind the counter was the teenage boy chewing gum. He looked up at the group before going back to reading his book. He had clearly seen better days but didn't show signs of caring about the state of his hair or bags under his eyes. He drank coffee.

The air felt off.

"Hey kiddo, do you mind giving us directions?" Clark started.

The kid narrowed his eyes as he popped his gum.

"You're not from here. That or you're from that cult in the woods. Listen I'm not joining. Seriously cosmic nihilism and fatalism sounds doomed. Hey wait-" the teen checked his notes " No, the cult killed themselves in that mass suicide 2 weeks ago. I forgot."

The teen didn't say anything else as he went back to his book.

The horrified look of the adults shared was almost hilarious. At least to the teen if he looked up.

"Oh, and stay out of the woods. I don't want the police to come back and ask about who saw you last. Seriously if whatever is in there tears you apart I won't feel bad. I put those signs out forever ago and if I get one more girl covered in blood running in here screaming about her dead friends I'll get a headache." The teen shrugged turning the page.

"What do you mean?! Why would-?! Who's killing people?!" Barry asked frantically as Bruce serched for more reports of missing people in the area.

"I don't know. Why would I know? If you want to go in the cursed forest go ahead. I mean that's how they all die. It isn't my job to stop you. My job is to sit here and watch this store." The teen huffed in annoyance.

Before anymore questions were asked the signal of the radio was disrupted and a demonic howl screeched through the radio.

"God damnit. That cunt is back. Stay here." The teen growled as he grabbed his bat from under the counter and walked out the back door. "String bean! Get off the fucking roof you bastard! You know that radio is all I have here!"

A chattering laugh like a death rattle was heard and the sound of 2 sets of feet was heard on the roof then they lept down.

"Come here so I can beat you to death!" The teen ran around the building towards the front of the gas station chasing-what the fuck is that!

It was like a human that was twisted to crabwalk on all fours backwards. Its face was contorted into a black stretched-out smile with no teeth. It had no eyes just black sockets. All its limbs were stretched out to an extra meter in length. It was a skinwalker of some kind with chalk-white skin. It was skittering away from the teen who was swinging his bat at its head.

"Stop running! I told you before what would happen if I found you fucking with me again!" The boy meant it as he finally landed a hit and began wacking it over and over it.

The skin walker screeched and tried to run for its life but couldn't.

After reducing the monster into a black puddle the black-stained teen came back inside to sit back down not paying anymore to the monster blood he was covered in.

"Sorry about that. Most of the freaks around here have learned to stay away from this place. That one is new and he doesn't listen. You'd think they'd learn but Sting Bean thinks he can torment me. Petty bastard." The teen sighed "anyways are going to buy anything or are you going to waste what oxygen we get in here with this shitty ventilation.

Diana couldn't help but admire the boldness of the boy. He had no hesitation or fear against the beasts of this area even if was crude.

"Does Constantine have a cousin or something? Just a more angry one" Barry whispered to Hal.

[jmrothwell]

....

[hyunebunx]

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 ⏖ ' late night moments with skz !

⁺ 𖹭 . genre: this is just sleepy fluff <3 some of the boys get kind of emotional.

⁺ 𖹭 . a/n: happy binnie day!! <3 to this day, these are some of my favorite hcs i've ever written so i hope you enjoy! (early morning moments with them right here <3)

𝜗୧ chan 𝜗୧ - 2:34 am

“Do you think Berry misses me sometimes?” He mumbles into your lap, voice full of sleep as you gently massage his scalp. Looking down at him, your eyes soften when he hugs your middle and hides his face in your stomach which prompts your other hand to begin tracing his features softly.

“Of course, she does, baby.” Chan almost purrs in response and your heart melts at the sight, managing to contain the sudden urge to squish his cheeks together. “Remember how excited she was the last time you visited? She was jumping, running around you and never left your side the whole time you were there.”

A moment passes and then two with no response from your boyfriend and that’s when you realize, by his even breathing, that he finally fell asleep.

You smile and lean down to plant a sweet kiss on his forehead, whispering a sincere I love you in his ear, not stopping your massage.

Sleeps like this, in your lap, until you’re sure he’s asleep for good before you slowly move him into a more comfortable position and wrap his whole body in a blanket burrito.

𝜗୧ minho 𝜗୧ - 11:59 pm

“Hug me, I’m cold!”

You hear him groan before he turns over to face you, grumbling under his breath as he envelopes your body in a big hug and begins to squeeze the life out of you. All out of love, of course.

“Better now?” “Minho, I can’t breathe!”

Doesn’t let go but does tilt your head up to look into your eyes and the love you see as you stare back almost has you in tears. A sleepy smile makes its way onto his lips and that’s when you manage to loosen his grip by wiggling into his arms, wasting no time as you begin to plant open-mouthed kisses all over his face.

His smile widens until giggles escape him, loving the way your lips feel on his skin as he lets you do whatever you want until you’re satisfied. When you finally reach his lips but don’t linger for as long as he’d like, instead kissing them repeatedly while also giggling, he takes matters into his own hands and kisses you deeply while still keeping the initial softness of your previous ones.

𝜗୧ changbin 𝜗୧ - 3:47 am

You toss and turn in the sheets for what feels like the millionth time before finally giving up with a frustrated sigh. “Binnie, I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” The response comes instantly and you sit up on your elbows to find him staring at the ceiling, visibly exhausted. You frown, scooting closer to hug him by the middle and rest your chin on his chest.

“Everything okay?”

Your soft voice prompts him to let it all out, to rant about work and his daily struggles at a fast pace that you can barely keep up with. When his voice quivers, you look up and plant comforting kisses on his neck and jaw, one hand gently massaging his chest through his nightshirt.

When he’s done and his speech slows down, Changbin moves to hide his face in your hair, muscular arms wrapping around your body to bring you closer, almost like he wanted to morph your bodies together. Being one with the love of your life sounded great right now – to be able to take all of his pain and discomfort so that he’ll always be happy and healthy was something you dreamt about often. Unfortunately, until that was possible, you hoped from the bottom of your heart that what you’re able to do right now is enough.

𝜗୧ hyunjin 𝜗୧ - 1:08 am

“Forget worms, would you still love me if I was a deadly shark?”

Hyunjin looks up from his phone, flabbergasted, just to find you already looking at him. He’s silent, waiting for you to elaborate but when you don’t, he sighs and gives in. “Darling, what the hell are you talking about?”

You roll your eyes, cuddling closer as you place your head in the crock of his neck to inhale his comforting scent. His arms pull you closer instantly, phone long forgotten. “This hypothetical situation, Jinnie, is critical for our relationship. Please take it seriously.”

Is confused the whole time as you ramble on and on about your ‘hypothetical situation’ that at some point, having had enough, he just turns his back to you and gets comfortable on his other side.

When you follow him and throw a leg over his body, continuing on while drawing patterns onto his back, he swiftly turns around to hover over you, pinning you to the mattress. Your eyes meet and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you until your dream is shattered as he begins tickling you mercilessly instead. A tickle war starts that leaves you both breathless and laughing well into the night.

𝜗୧ jisung 𝜗୧ - 1:56 am

“When you’re away and I miss you, I spray this pillow with your cologne and cuddle it as I would cuddle you.”

Jisung’s eyes widen slightly as you speak against his lips, the lingering sadness in your tone pulling at his heartstrings in an unpleasant way. You’re face to face, staring lovingly at each other while talking in hushed voices about everything that comes to mind.

He knows that at this time during the night, he gets all soft and mushy but he wasn’t expecting to cry this soon. You were so good to him, his own angel on earth that would wait for him for as long as it was needed. You deserved so much better.

Gently cupping your cheek, you lean into his touch and close your eyes in contentment, and he bites his tongue to stop himself from crying. “I’m sorry, baby.”

His voice is shaky so without a word, you cuddle closer, burying your head in his chest and holding him tighter while also kissing his covered chest. “Sorry? Sorry for what? Don’t be silly, Ji. Your love makes all this waiting around worth it every single time.”

𝜗୧ felix 𝜗୧ - 4:02 am

“Wait, what? She said that to you?” Felix asks, voice loud in disbelief as the hand that was combing through your hair stops momentarily.

You nod, looking up at him from where you’re resting your head, on his abs, the bare skin warm and soft under your touch. “Yes! I have receipts, hold on.”

As you scramble out of bed to get your phone from where it's charging, Felix can’t help but smile as his eyes are completely focused on you and nothing else. He always thought you were the most beautiful like this – bare-faced, with your hair slightly messy and missing that furrow between your brows that appeared during the day.

Vulnerable and oh-so cuddly during the late hours of the night, and early hours of the morning you sometimes spent with him, talking, kissing and laughing until the sun rose again to announce another new day.

When you came back to bed, Felix was resting with his back against the headboard and the position allowed him to pull you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind as you showed him your phone. It was the domesticity he always craved for which he hoped would never end. That you and him like this never ended.

𝜗୧ seungmin 𝜗୧ - 12:32 am

Taking another peek at the bedside clock, you can’t help but sigh as the red digits glare at you, almost mockingly. You’ve been in bed for hours now and you’re still as awake as you were back then too. It was infuriating, and you were this close to actually crying in frustration.

Almost as if sensing your low mood, Seungmin turns on his side to face you. “Everything okay?”

You shake your head and bury your head in the warm pillow. “I can’t sleep, Minnie. Will you sing to me, please?”

His arms come around you to bring your back to his chest, successfully luring you into being the little spoon, which to be honest, you didn’t mind one bit right now. He places a kiss on your cheek, and with one hand softly massaging your hip, he starts humming. Not a lullaby, but one of the group’s title tracks.

When you glare at him over your shoulder, he grins and stifles a chuckle before starting to sing a proper lullaby. Just as suspected – his dreamy voice does have magical powers and you’re asleep in less than five minutes. Or maybe it's the way he holds you so closely and the occasional kiss on the top of your head that does the trick. Either way, you have to let Felix know asap. He owes you 20$.

𝜗୧ jeongin 𝜗୧ - 11:45 pm

“Blanket thief.” He complains, however, there’s no real malice in his tone as you roll around into a blanket burrito and leave him completely exposed to all the monsters that come out at night, laughing loudly.

You don’t see him, but he rolls his eyes, trying to appear annoyed as he hides his growing smile. “Come here, baby, let’s share.”

When you shake your head no, still giggling in your pillow, Jeongin takes matters into his own hands, literally, and lifts you up by the waist to trap you into his tight embrace, which causes you to shriek and laugh again. He soon joins in and your laughter fills the tiny room as you begin wrestling for the blanket.

“Come on, be reasonable, there’s enough blanket for the both of us.” “No.” “Y/n.” “But Jeongin, the monsters – “ ,“I’ll beat them up! Now, come here!”

Somehow, he manages to convince you to share and you fall asleep cuddling while watching youtube videos, with his soft voice whispering sweet nothings into your ear. But during the night, he still ends up uncovered and because he’s petty, he pretends to fall out of bed and says that the monsters got to him because of you and your selfish nature he can’t help but still love so much!

[pucksandpower]

Metamorphosis

Charles Leclerc x ex!Reader

Summary: Charles makes the worst mistake of his life, leaving him to watch from the sidelines as you move on to bigger and better things (and people)

Warnings: cheating, only one of you gets a happy ending (hint: it’s not Charles)

Based on this request

Charles enters the bedroom he shares with you, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he has to finally come clean about his infidelity. The guilt has been eating away at him for weeks.

You’re sitting up in bed, reading a book. You look up with a warm smile as Charles approaches. “Hey, you’re home early.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “Yeah … we need to talk.” His voice is heavy with regret.

You mark your page and set the book aside, giving him your full attention. “What’s going on?”

Charles sits down on the edge of the bed, unable to meet your trusting gaze. “I ...” The words get caught in his throat. How can he tell you? How can he shatter the life you’ve built together?

After a long pause, you prompt gently, “Charles? You’re worrying me ...”

He forces himself to look at you. Your beautiful face, your eyes full of love and concern for him. It breaks his heart anew.

“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he confesses in a pained murmur. “I … I cheated on you.”

For a moment, the room is silent. You stare at him, eyes widening in shock and hurt. Then, almost robotically, you slide out of bed and walk over to the closet. You pull out a suitcase and start methodically packing clothes.

“What? No, please, don’t do that!” Charles jumps up, panic and desperation gripping him. “I’m so sorry, it was a mistake! It meant nothing to me, I swear!”

You don’t respond, continuing to pack with eerie calm.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me? Throw things? Please, just … show some emotion!”

You pause and look at him impassively. “Why should I waste my energy? You’ve clearly checked out of our relationship already.”

Charles feels like he’s been slapped. “No! No, that’s not true at all! I love you, I want to make this work!”

Shoving the last shirt into the suitcase, you move over to the vanity and begin unclasping your jewelry — pieces he gave you on holidays or your anniversary or just because. You stack the earrings, necklaces, and bracelets on the surface, finally pulling off your engagement ring and adding it to the pile with a soft clink.

“Please ...” Charles begs, tears filling his eyes. “Please don’t leave me. We can get through this, I promise!”

You zip up the suitcase and turn to him, your expression unreadable. “Let me go, Charles.” You roll the suitcase toward the door.

Charles follows you through the apartment, desperation clawing at his insides. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry. Please, just give me another chance!”

You stop at the front door, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes are dry, but there is a deep sadness etched onto your features. “Why should I give you another chance when you didn’t give me or our relationship a second thought?”

“No, wait!” He rushes after you, grabbing your arm. You shrug him off easily, pausing with your hand on the knob to look back at him one last time.

“I used to think you were my soulmate,” you say quietly. “But you’ve shown me who you really are. I can’t keep loving a lie.”

“Don’t do this!” he pleads, desperation clawing at his throat. “Don’t just give up on us, on everything we had!”

You pause at the front door, finally turning to face him fully. “You gave up first, Charles. Not me.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because you’re right — he’s the one who destroyed this, who sacrificed your life together for one selfish moment.

Your jaw tightens slightly, the first flicker of emotion he’s seen. “Goodbye, Charles.”

You turn and walk out the door, pulling it shut behind you with a final click.

Charles is left staring at the closed door, the deafening silence around him. He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen, replaying your parting words in his mind. Goodbye, you’d said, without any anger or tears.

Just … goodbye.

***

Months later, Charles is seated in the front row at Milan Fashion Week, watching the Ferrari Style runway show with a tight smile plastered on his face. He’s here for publicity, to keep up appearances, even though the last thing he wants is to be thrust into the spotlight tonight.

Not when you are walking in the show.

He tries not to hold his breath as each new model struts down the sleek crimson catwalk. He’s successful at keeping his cool, nodding occasionally at a particularly striking outfit, until suddenly … there you are.

You emerge from the backstage wings, a vision in deep Ferrari red from head to toe. But it’s not just a dress or evening gown. No, the Spanish flag and bold 55 displayed proudly on the front of the outfit leave no doubt — you’re wearing a feminine version of his teammate’s race suit.

Charles’ jaw goes slack as you move with confidence, head held high, every inch the picture of poise and strength. Of a woman who has moved on, left him and their broken relationship in the rearview mirror.

His hands clench in his lap as you pivot at the end of the runway. Even from here, he can see that characteristic glint in your eyes, the spark that had drawn him to you in the first place. The same spark that had been extinguished in those final moments at your shared apartment.

As the show wraps up and the other models join you, Charles rises shakily. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he has no right. But the masochistic urge to see you up close, to try and speak to you for the first time in months, is overpowering.

He makes his way backstage, flashing his credentials to bypass security. A deafening mix of cheers and laughter guides him towards the dressing area, where he finds a cluster of models still in their runway looks, giddily celebrating.

And there you are in the center, radiant and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in so long. A tall, broad-shouldered man he doesn’t recognize moves towards you, a massive bouquet of red roses in his hand.

Something dark and ugly rears up in Charles’ chest as the man leans down, offering you the flowers with a brilliant smile. Your returning grin is equally bright as you accept them, lifting the vibrant blooms to inhale their sweet scent.

Of course you have suitors lining up, Charles thinks bitterly. Look at you — confident, successful, leaving him and your painful history together far behind. Who wouldn’t want to give their entire heart to someone like you?

The irrational flare of jealousy is like acid in his veins as you turn to the man, mouth opening to undoubtedly offer your gratitude. But then, shockingly, the man simply pivots towards a nearby male model, gripping his lapels and pulling him into a searing kiss.

Charles blinks dumbly as the pair continue their heated embrace, seemingly oblivious to the raucous cheers and whoops from the other models, you included.

Even as the tight knot of jealousy in Charles’ chest loosens, it’s replaced by something worse — a sinking feeling of regret as he watches you from his hidden vantage point.

You look … happy.

Vibrant.

Surrounded by friends and uplifted by your success, without him holding you back with his selfish mistakes.

Why did he ever think confronting you backstage was a good idea? You’ve clearly moved on to an exciting new chapter, one he has no place in. Not after how much he broke you, shattered the loving core you’d shared.

You throw your head back in a full-bellied laugh at something one of the other models says. Even from here, even with the distance he forced between you, the uninhibited joy on your face in that moment cuts straight to Charles’ heart.

“Hey, you lost back here?” A rough voice breaks into his thoughts. Charles turns to find a burly security guard eyeing him suspiciously.

“I … no. No, I was just leaving.” Charles forces his feet into motion, turning on his heel to all but flee from the scene of your happiness.

As painful as it is seeing how beautifully you’re thriving without him, he has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who threw away the greatest thing he ever had. You owe him nothing, certainly not delaying your healing by dredging up the past.

Even if watching you move on cuts deeper than any physical wound.

***

The salty Sardinian breeze ruffles Charles’ hair as he leans back on the plush deck lounger, soaking in the warm August sun. For the first few days of their annual family yacht trip, he’d felt the knots of tension slowly unraveling from his shoulders as the clear blue waters and simple routines of life at sea worked their magic.

His mother’s gentle humming as she read nearby, the sounds of his brothers horsing around and doing cannonballs off the stern, the nights spent under a blanket of stars — it had almost been enough to fully distract him from thoughts of you.

Almost.

But of course, nothing can ever be that simple.

“What the hell is that!” Arthur’s annoyed shout breaks the tranquil silence.

Charles squints against the glare over the water to see what his brother is griping about. At first, it’s just a speck on the horizon. But as it draws nearer, he can make out the sleek, gleaming white lines of another yacht — one nearly triple the size of his own comparatively modest vessel.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charles mutters under his breath as the ostentatious floating palace drops anchor mere yards from their private little cove. So much for the serenity they’d been enjoying.

He rises, moving to the railing with narrowed eyes as the other yacht’s passengers begin to emerge on the decks above them, raucous cheers and laughter cutting through the previously still air. The sound is abrasive, grating on Charles’ very last nerve.

Until a very specific, very familiar laugh rings out.

It can’t be … can it?

Charles freezes, his heart jackrabbiting as your unmistakable voice and bright, bubbling giggle reach him across the waters. He watches, feeling like he’s been doused in ice water, as you come into view alongside a group of equally vibrant, beautiful people.

Of course it’s you. Who else could it possibly be, here to upend his few days of hard-won peace?

You lean over the railing, your sunglasses sliding down your nose as you peer down at the crystal clear waters. Even from here, even with the distance separating you, Charles is struck by your radiant, carefree smile. When was the last time he saw you look so … effortlessly happy?

Before he can spiral too far down that winding road, you whip off your sunglasses and straighten, pulling the flowing fabric of your cover-up over your head in one smooth motion. You toss it aside carelessly, revealing the deep navy string bikini underneath as you take a few steps back from the railing.

Charles’ mouth goes dry as he tracks the sway of your hips, the confident, easy way you carry yourself in just that tiny scrap of swimwear. And then, with a bright peal of laughter, you’re sprinting forward and sailing over the railing, tucking into a flawless backflip before slicing into the glittering waves below.

A chorus of cheers and whoops erupts from your friends as they follow your graceful leap, one by one pelting into the water in your wake like a stream of sleek dolphin dancers. Charles watches, his earlier frustration morphing into something darker and much more complicated, as your head breaks the surface, tendrils of your soaked hair clinging to the graceful curves of your neck and shoulders.

You toss your head back, slicking the dripping strands away from your face as you tread water easily, that brilliant, freed smile never slipping. How long has it been since Charles saw you look so radiant, so at peace, so … alive?

“Mon ami, close your mouth before you start drooling all over the deck.”

Joris’ voice startles Charles from his reverie. He blinks, only then realizing his hands are clenched tightly around the cool metal railing, knuckles straining white. His best friend arches an expectant brow as Charles quickly averts his eyes, flushing hotly.

“I wasn’t ...” he starts weakly, but Joris simply scoffs.

“Yeah, okay mate. Keep telling yourself that.” Joris settles in beside him, bare feet kicked up on the railing as his eyes track over to your group, now engaged in an intense game of chicken fight among the gentle waves. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

The resentful scowl that tugs at Charles’ mouth is automatic, instinctive. “I couldn’t care less how she looks,” he lies through gritted teeth.

Even to his own ears, the petulant deflection sounds pathetic. Joris raises an unimpressed brow. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were eye-fucking her from over here just now.”

Charles’ flush deepens as your bright, delighted laughter rings out again, echoing across the waters. “It’s not like that,” he insists, even as his gaze traitorously tracks after the source of that sound. “I was just … surprised to see her here, that’s all.”

“Sure, yeah. And I’m the Prince of Monaco.” Joris snorts, shaking his head. “Listen, man, I get it-”

“You don’t get anything,” Charles bites out, rounding on his friend as frustration boils over. “You have no idea what it’s like seeing her like … like that, after everything. She’s just moved on like our entire relationship meant nothing!”

The ugly admission hangs between them in the still air, Charles panting slightly from the force of the outburst. Joris watches him cautiously for a long moment before speaking. “That’s not fair, Charles. You’re the one who-”

“I know!” Charles cuts him off sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know what I did, alright? You don’t have to remind me.”

He sinks back against the railing, suddenly exhausted down to his very bones. Out across the waves, you’re perched atop one of your friend’s shoulders, engaged in an epic battle against another pair that’s quickly devolving into a fit of violent splashing.

“I know I screwed everything up. I have to live with that every single day.” Charles’ throat feels tight, watched. “I just … I never thought I’d have to watch her being so happy without me too.”

The fight seems to leave Joris as he takes in Charles’ miserable, broken expression. The other man sighs, squeezing Charles’ shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry. That’s … that’s got to be tough as hell to see. But you can’t blame her for moving on and being happy again, you know? What you did … well, you really broke her heart.”

Charles doesn’t respond, letting the words hang heavy between them as your melodic laugh continues to drift towards them. He knows Joris is right — he has no one to blame for this gut-wrenching situation but himself. But that doesn’t make watching your vibrant, beautiful soul shine so bright without him there any easier.

***

Charles guides his Ferrari up to the valet stand outside one of his favorite restaurants in Monaco, the engine purring like a contented cat. He throws the car into park and kills the ignition, savoring that last potent growl of the powerful motor.

There’s just something different about a Ferrari, something quintessentially Italian and bred for speed. He runs an appreciative hand along the sleek black curve of the door as he waits for the valet. This is a beast made for the racetrack, for pushing past limits. Not like those garish, overcompensating-

The loud rumble of another engine cuts into his thoughts. Charles looks up in disdain as a blinding yellow Lamborghini pulls up.

“Trying too hard, as always,” Charles mutters to himself as he watches the valet park the ostentatious machine. Could a car be any more desperate for attention? Absolutely zero class or restraint.

He climbs out, already half-dismissing it from his mind, when a familiar figure emerges from the restaurant entrance. The valet is hastening to assist, offering a hand as she descends the front steps in a form-fitting crimson dress. Even from here, even with the perfectly curled hair and smokey makeup, Charles would know the line of those shoulders, the elegant curve of her neck anywhere.

You.

His breath catches as you smile warmly at the young valet, sliding him what looks like a generous tip before slipping into the driver’s seat of the garish yellow Lamborghini and roaring off without a backwards glance.

Charles is still gaping after you, mouth slightly ajar, when the second valet appears at his side.

“Good evening, monsieur. Shall I park your car for you?”

He blinks dumbly for a moment before recovering. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Sliding the young man his own tip, Charles pivots on his heel and strides into the elegant dining room, mind whirling. Of all the cars in the world, he never would have pegged you for a Lamborghini person.

Then again, he clearly doesn’t know you like he thought he did. Not the new you, the version free of him and his betrayals.

He takes his usual table in the back corner, ordering an expensive Chianti before he can even glance at the menu. Tonight calls for relying on old vices. As he swirls the deep burgundy liquid, he finds himself drifting back to your matching crimson dress, how it clung to your curves in such a delicious way.

Even when you were furious with him, you could never quite hide the passion that smoldered underneath. Charles had spent many blissful nights stoking those flames, coaxing them into an all-consuming wildfire of want and need. He misses the scorching heat of your desire, your clever hands and wicked mouth setting his body ablaze.

He closes his eyes, letting the memory of your bare skin flush against his wash over him. Those nights of tangled limbs and breathy gasps, when nothing else mattered but struggling to get impossibly closer, as if your very beings could meld into one.

With a frustrated groan, Charles slams back the rest of his wine. What is he doing, torturing himself with memories of your lovemaking? You’ve clearly moved on to new chapters, new … cars. New everything, really.

And yet he can’t quite extinguish the gnawing sense of dissonance. A Lamborghini? Something so utterly over-the-top and desperate for attention just doesn’t seem like your style. You were always more understated … more elegant.

Not that it matters, he reminds himself firmly. Whatever choices you make now are no longer any of his business. He systematically strips away the judgements, the fragile sense of still knowing you intimately. After what he did, he sacrificed that right completely.

The waiter reappears with a fresh glass of wine and Charles takes it gratefully. He’s determined to focus on learning to untangle you from his thoughts and simply enjoy his evening. He came here for the ambiance, the food, the escape.

But no matter how he tries, your image keeps invading his mind’s eye — sliding into that sunshine yellow machine, stunning in that slinky red number and your lips curved in a contented smile. Content without him still lingering in the shadowed corners of your life.

And then it hits him like a slap across the face — you in that screaming yellow Lamborghini wasn’t about attention at all. It was the opposite — a declaration of fierce independence. Of staking your own claim, making your own flagrantly joyful choices without a care for his opinions or approval. Free from his reputation, his expectations, his name.

The realization is like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. You’ve remade yourself so thoroughly, forging a vibrant path that has absolutely nothing to do with him. While he’s been stuck in neutral, spinning his wheels and passively watching you soar out of reach.

A strange sense of loss washes over Charles. As badly as he’d wanted you to find your way again after his unforgivable betrayal, he can’t deny how disorienting it is to realize you’re not the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago.

You’re a new version, one he isn’t familiar with at all. One who makes choices and carries herself in a way he doubts he’ll ever fully understand, no matter how much he wishes he could go back and undo every selfish mistake that set these changes into motion.

Charles blinks against the unexpected sting in his eyes as he stares at the table. On some deeper level, he knows this remolding of your identity, this blossoming into someone both thrillingly unfamiliar yet unmistakably you, should be cause for celebration. It means you’re healing, leaving his mistakes in the past and coming into your own again in spite of his ugliest failures.

He just wishes he didn’t have to watch the entire metamorphosis from a distance.

***

Charles squints against the bright morning sunlight as he strides through the paddock towards his garage. A slight chill still clings to the air, promising another sweltering afternoon session once the sun reaches its peak. He adjusts his cap lower over his eyes, trying not to dwell too much on the practice times from yesterday. There’s still so much fine-tuning needed to find those crucial extra tenths of a second.

Passing by the Red Bull motorhome, a flash of familiar flowing hair catches his eye. Charles freezes mid-step, his heart stuttering. It couldn’t be … could it?

But then the figure moves fully into view and there’s no mistaking the delicate slope of your jaw and those cheekbones he knows as well as his own reflection. It’s definitely you, slipping inside the sleek facade of the Red Bull motorhome with an easy smile.

Charles blinks dumbly, certain his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Why in the world would you be going into the Red Bull motorhome? You never had any connection to their team or drivers before, back when ...

When you were still together.

Charles swallows hard, dragging his gaze away. He must have imagined it. Sometimes his subconscious still gets carried away, superimposing your presence into random moments or places like an echo of a life he can never return to. Seeing you here, intertwined with his racing world in some way, is just too improbable.

Shaking off the strange moment, he refocuses on the day ahead. But over the next two days, he can’t seem to avoid catching glimpses of you around the Red Bull garage and hospitality areas. There you are chatting with one of their engineers just outside their motorhome entrance. Then sharing a hushed conversation off to the side with their chief strategist.

Finally, on Sunday just before the race, he watches with raised eyebrows as you throw your head back laughing at something Max Verstappen says, the Red Bull driver’s own grin wide and appreciative.

Some sort of friendship surely couldn’t explain this level of access and familiarity could it? A sour knot of suspicion begins twisting in Charles’ gut. There’s no way … no way Max would ...

But he has to know.

As the Formula 1 circus begins packing up after the race, Charles spots you slipping away from the Red Bull group once more, clearly headed back to their closed-off sanctuary. He watches Max linger outside, fiddling idly with his cap as he waits.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Charles doesn’t even think, just lets his feet carry him across the crowded paddock until he’s standing across from his fellow driver.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The accusation comes out half-snarl before he can stop himself.

Max turns, eyebrows shooting up. “... Charles? What are you on about?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Charles jabs a finger back towards the motorhome you disappeared into. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been with her all weekend. How you two can’t seem to get enough of each other’s company.”

Realization dawns and Max actually has the audacity to laugh. “Wait … is this about Y/N? You jealous she’s been hanging around our team?”

White-hot fury lances through Charles and he has to grit his teeth against the heated words that want to come spilling out. “You think this is funny? Cozying up to my ex-fianceé less than a year after I lost her? What, you couldn’t find someone else so you had to go after her?”

Max shakes his head slowly, clearly fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Damn … I didn’t realize the great Charles Leclerc makes the rules on who Y/N can associate with these days.”

The blatant dismissal in his tone is like a physical slap. Charles recoils slightly before squaring his shoulders. “Don’t turn this around on me. I know what I saw, how cozy you two were-”

“Easy there, tiger.” Max cuts him off, holding up one hand placatingly. “First of all, Y/N and I are just friends. I happen to have my own gorgeous girlfriend, but thanks for looking out.”

He pauses, letting the implication that Charles is being irrational and out-of-line sink in. When Charles doesn’t immediately retort, Max continues.

“Second … you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you’re the one who threw away your life with Y/N. The one who cheated and broke her heart. You don’t get to dictate a damn thing about who she spends time with or how she chooses to live her life now.”

The words slam into Charles with brutal force, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because Max is right — he has no claim here, no right to make assumptions or demands. Not after what he did.

Seeming to sense he’s scored a direct hit, Max shakes his head again. “Look, I get it’s probably hard watching her move on fully, start over without you. But that’s on you, not her. You’re going to have to learn to deal with the consequences of your own actions.”

The quiet truth in his voice is like a white-hot brand. Charles swallows hard, suddenly incapable of meeting Max’s level gaze.

“Then … then why has she been around your team so much?” It comes out sounding more petulant than he intended, a desperate scramble to regain some levity. “If she’s not … you know ...”

Max huffs out a soft laugh, stooping to retrieve his discarded cap. “That answer isn’t mine to give.” He slides it back on, fixing Charles with one last searching look. “But if I had to guess? She’s putting herself first now. Pursuing her own path, one that has nothing to do with you anymore.”

He turns towards the Red Bull motorhome, tossing his final phrase over his shoulder. “I’d get used to it, if I were you.”

Charles watches him disappear inside, leaving him rooted in place and feeling completely lost. The crowd continues to disperse around him, teams and personnel breaking down equipment and packing things away.

Yet Max’s words keep ricocheting through his mind on an endless loop.

She’s pursuing her own path now. One that has nothing to do with you anymore.

It makes perfect sense of course — the laughter, the camaraderie, the ease of her presence in Red Bull’s inner sanctum. The seamless way she navigated their ecosystem all weekend long while Charles remained oblivious.

Because you’ve fully remade your entire existence into one that no longer intersects with his whatsoever.

As the paddock slowly empties around him, Charles finally forces one foot in front of the other, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Part of him wants to stick around until you reemerge, to demand that you explain this bold new reality you’ve carved out.

But what would be the point? You don’t owe him any explanations, any part of your life now. Those days are over, gone forever thanks to his own bone-deep failings.

So he keeps walking, leaving you and your mystery behind. After all, hadn’t you made it crystal clear from the very beginning?

This was your path to reclaim now, a future that was yours and yours alone to chase.

***

Charles frowns down at the envelope in his hand as he pushes open the door to his apartment, his mind still half-focused on the looming Austrian Grand Prix. The return address is from some high-end clothing boutique in Paris, but it’s the name neatly printed below that makes his heart stutter.

Y/N Y/L/N.

For a long moment, he simply stands there in the entryway, turning the innocent envelope over and over in his hands. How did this slip through the cracks and wind up here, at what used to be your shared home before everything combusted?

He traces the graceful swoop of your name with one finger, memories flickering through his mind’s eye. Coming home from races to find you curled up on the sofa with the latest fashion magazines scattered around you, making notes in the margins. Or catching you in the huge walk-in closet the two of you designed together, carefully hanging up some new couture purchase with a reverent touch.

You always did have impeccable taste. Charles can’t even find it in himself to judge the fancy Parisian boutique’s stationary now clutched in his hands.

Making a split-second decision, he spins on his heel and heads right back out the door, letter in hand. If this innocuous slip of mail made its way here by some shipping error, it’s the perfect excuse to … what? See you again? Try to explain himself one more time?

He’s not sure, but either way, the pull to seek you out is utterly irresistible now that this connection has fallen into his lap. Charles makes it two blocks before realizing with a start that he has absolutely no idea where you’re living these days.

The logical side of his brain reminds him he could simply call or text to get your new address and make arrangements to pass the letter along. But the thought of such mundane formalities after all this time, after the way things were upended so brutally, is laughable.

So instead he lets his feet guide him towards the upscale apartment building you lived in before moving into his place. There’s a chance the leasing office might have a forwarding address on file he can use. A small voice whispers that this is almost certainly a futile quest, that you’ve no doubt successfully untangled every last thread of your life from his.

But he has to try.

The lobby is blessedly quiet, devoid of the usual bustle and foot traffic he remembers from past visits. Charles straightens his shoulders and approaches the front desk, where a youngish woman with a bright smile greets him.

“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

“Hi, yes, I’m actually trying to track down the new address for a former tenant — Y/N Y/L/N?” He carefully pencils in the last name, watching as the woman’s face scrunches in thought for a beat before her eyes widen in recognition.

“Of course, Mademoiselle Y/L/N. One moment.”

She taps efficiently at her computer, scanning whatever information has popped up on the screen. Just watching her work makes Charles’ heart kick up its rhythm in nervous anticipation.

“Ah, yes, here we are. It seems Mademoiselle Y/L/N moved out around three months ago. She actually left instructions for any further mail that slips through to be forwarded to ...”

She pauses, glancing up at Charles with newfound curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Are you a relative, sir? Mademoiselle Y/L/N requested her new address only be released to family.”

“I’m … an old friend,” he answers carefully, unsure if that bends the truth too far or not. “We used to be very close.”

The woman’s polite smile dims ever-so-slightly at his choice of words, like she can read the subtext loud and clear. Used to be very close … until he completely obliterated that closeness.

“I see,” she says neutrally. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can’t provide her new contact details without explicit permission. But the residents currently leasing her old unit have been directly forwarding any mail to her, if that would help?”

It’s not ideal, but a frustratingly belated realization stops Charles from arguing further — you clearly requested your whereabouts be kept private now, at least from him. Probably a wise decision, all things considered.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”

She rattles off the apartment number and Charles commits it to memory with a polite nod before turning to leave. As he crosses the airy lobby once more, he can’t resist glancing up towards the corner unit he knows was yours, absently wondering if someone else’s belongings line those shelves now, if there are new photos or mementos dotting the surfaces where yours once stood.

He shakes off the melancholy pang — you’ve forged an entirely new existence somewhere far away. Of course your old place has been repopulated, just like all the love you breathed into it has dissipated like smoke.

The apartment door opens after the third solid knock, revealing a twenty-something woman with a confused furrow in her brow. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m actually here about a piece of mail for the previous tenant? The front desk said to bring it here.” Charles quickly proffers the letter before she can raise further objections or shut the door in his face completely.

“Oh.” She accepts it hesitantly, turning it over in her hands just like Charles had done earlier. “Yeah, the last tenant did leave instructions for stuff like this, now that you mention it ...”

She trails off, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him more intently. He knows that look, can pinpoint the exact moment realization blossoms.

“Wait … you’re not Charles Leclerc, are you?”

So much for anonymity. He opens his mouth, fully prepared to deny and deflect as the tension stretches between them-

“Oh my god, you are!” The young woman actually gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes go saucer-wide. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. I mean, sorry about … you know. That entire situation with Y/N. My boyfriend is such a fan of yours though, I can’t even-”

“It’s alright,” Charles cuts her off on pure instinct, the words rushing out in a bid to stem the conversational swerve that’s clearly brewing. “I actually stopped by to pass that letter along, but also see if there’s a current address where I could reach Y/N? Perhaps send her things directly from now on.”

His polite inquiry has the desired effect — the woman’s starry-eyed expression shutters again as she refocuses. “Ah, well, about that … Y/N asked for anything like this to be forwarded to an address in Austria once she moved there. Let me grab that for you.”

Charles waits in silence as she ducks back inside, busying herself with finding the details. Austria? Of all places, why would you have relocated to-

“Got it.” She reappears, a small slip of paper in her outstretched hand. “This is where you can send anything for Y/N. Though I obviously don’t know all the details about … you know. Your situation.”

He takes the slip without comment, just a curt nod of acknowledgement. The woman rocks back on her heels, worrying her lower lip slightly.

“For what it’s worth … I think it’s really cool you’ve tried to stay in contact, you know? Even after everything. That’s commitment.”

Her sincere tone grates against the ugly truth they’re both tap-dancing around — that he’s the one who torched your commitment beyond repair with his selfish actions.

“Thanks,” is all he can muster, already turning away and pocketing the slip of paper with your new Austrian address before she can say anything further.

As he retraces his steps to the ground floor, Charles finds himself clutching the envelope even tighter, knuckles going white. So you’ve fled all the way to Austria now, put an entire nation’s length between your old life and whatever rising present you’re building. No wonder you didn’t want your location breathed to just anyone, let alone the man who detonated your world.

Well, he got what he came for in more ways than one. He has your new address now, the roadmap to whatever path you’ve started down without him sketched out in his hands. Part of him longs to deviate from his own schedule and just … show up, uninvited, on your new doorstep. To try and explain himself, or at least attempt to understand what grander journey you’ve embarked on.

But the same voice that cautioned him earlier rings out once more — you’ve made it perfectly clear you want to sever any remaining ties or connections to him, no matter how tenuous. Perhaps out of necessity to fully heal or simply because you’re done having any part of Charles Leclerc tarnish your horizons any longer.

Either way, you’ve spoken through your silence and distance. Chasing you down now, while perhaps gratifying a selfish impulse of his own, would only disrespect the boundaries you’ve erected.

As Charles reaches his car and slides in behind the wheel, he can’t resist rereading the brief string of characters and numbers that make up your new address. He commits them to memory, sketching out a crude map in his mind’s eye of where exactly this secluded town lies in the looping alpine valleys and mountain peaks.

Part of him longs to program the coordinates into his GPS immediately, to seek you out while this connection still blazes hot and bright between you. But harsh realities keep crashing in — the Austrian Grand Prix is only days away, his own commitments and schedule unforgiving.

No, the wise choice would be to simply send the wayward letter on to its intended destination. To let you live in peace, unburdened by his disruptive presence any longer.

As Charles fires up the engine and eases out onto the main street, he catches one last glimpse of your old apartment building shrinking in the rearview mirror. He thinks of the wide-eyed woman’s parting comment about “commitment” and has to laugh bitterly.

Commitment is precisely what he failed to uphold, the whispered promises he shattered into pieces with his own calloused hands. You owe him no further explanations, no more fragments of yourself after he decimated the love you shared.

The seconds will stretch on towards the next race, the next city, the next routine of focused preparation. But part of Charles’ mind will linger in that small Austrian town, caught in the mystery of the new life you’ve built.

A life he has no right to reinsert himself into, not anymore. All he can do is wish you well from a distance and keep putting kilometers between you with every spin of his tires.

Kilometers and kilometers of regret.

***

Charles stares down at the navigation screen, his thumb hovering over the go button. This is ridiculous — completely irrational and just begging for disaster. He has no business showing up unannounced like this, disrupting whatever new life you’ve so carefully constructed.

And yet … the Austrian address you have been forwarding mail to is already programmed in, glowing softly with the swipe of his finger. He could be there in just over nine hours, barring any major delays on the route into Salzburg province.

His mind races, cycling through every logical argument for abandoning this reckless idea immediately. You’re entitled to your privacy, your fresh start far away from the wreckage he created. Anything more would be him selfishly barging back into your existence, the one place he swore to never intrude again.

Against his better judgement, Charles swipes the go button. Almost instantly, the robotic voice begins spouting turn-by-turn directions, the path to your doorstep stretching out in vivid digital detail.

What’s done is done. He’ll simply … take it one step at a time.

The winding Alpine roads are a marvel of feats in civil engineering, the roadways expertly carved into the towering rock faces in sweeping vistas. Even Charles, who has logged countless miles of serpentine racetracks and courses around the globe, can’t help admiring the impossible scenery whipping past.

Evergreen forests give way to snow-capped peaks reaching into the crisp blue sky. ancient castles and towering church spires alike keep popping into view around each new switchback turn. He can’t shake the nagging sense that this entire region is something ripped from the pages of a storybook, a landscape too perfectly picturesque to be real.

Which is perhaps why the sight of the enormous wrought-iron gates materializing up ahead doesn’t immediately faze him at all.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS chirps pleasantly as Charles slows the Ferrari, trying to comprehend the sprawling estate now stretching out before him. This can’t possibly be right, can it?

Lush gardens and perfectly manicured shrubbery serpentine around the perimeter in intricate geometric patterns, eventually yielding to an emerald green meadow dotted with ancient growth trees. A gravel path splits the sweeping lawns up ahead, clearly carving a wide berth around … is that an actual lakehouse?

Charles blinks in stunned stupor, instinctively searching for some sort of address marker or sign as he creeps up the main drive towards the gates. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the imposing manor itself, all honey-colored stone and arched windows that wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance fresco. Turrets and spires spiral upwards towards the cloudless sky, practically winking in the summer sunshine.

This has to be some colossal mistake.

He’s fully prepared to simply turn around and peel back out of this fairytale estate when the crackle of a speaker breaks the silence.

“Hallo? This is a private residence. Please identify yourself and state your business.” The clipped, accented words carry an undeniable tone of authority.

Shit. Charles swallows hard against his suddenly dry throat, throwing the car into park as he leans towards the callbox mounted on the ivy-laced exterior wall.

“Ah, yes, hello … my name is Charles Leclerc. I’m actually here to-” He breaks off, fresh uncertainty bubbling up. He’s here to what, exactly? Catch a glimpse of the new life you’ve created? Throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness once more?

“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice instructs crisply before the line goes dead silent once more.

Charles sits back, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He should go, right now before this reaches the point of no return. He could simply turn around, act like this was all some misguided joke and leave you undisturbed. It’s the mature, sensible choice.

Instead, his pulse kicks up into a furious gallop as the massive front gates begin slowly grinding open with a metal groan, clear invitation to proceed. Charles doesn’t move for a long beat, waiting for the second half of the intercom to bark out a warning, for security to appear and politely hustle him off the premises.

But nothing. The gates yawn open further, revealing the full splendor of the estate lying in wait beyond.

Before he can think better of it, Charles eases the Ferrari forward. The crunch of the pale gravel beneath his tires seems to echo off the looming stone walls as he winds deeper into the property, the boundaries blurring between reality and a dreamscape more suited for the silver screen.

Finally, he rounds the last curve and the manor in its full glory stretches out before him. Every inch of the sprawling facade is a carved, architectural marvel — from the polished lintels to the intricate mouldings encircling each enormous window and doorway.

He kills the engine and simply sits there, once again grappling with unprecedented uncertainty. What was he thinking, assuming he could just brazenly roll up and … what? Vent months worth of grievances and miscommunications in a casual chat? As if the life you’ve so clearly cultivated here could ever intersect with his own beaten path again?

Charles climbs out of the car on legs that seem determined to wobble out from under him. He’s vaguely aware of the thunder of footsteps on stone before one of the massive oak front doors swings wide and a figure fills the entryway.

“Charles Leclerc, I presume?” The man’s sharp tone instantly catches Charles off guard. He’s younger than expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with an athletic build and carefully groomed dark hair. Despite the informal lounge pants and linen shirt, an unmistakable air of assurance rolls off him in waves.

“Er … yes. Hello.” Charles hears the uncertainty edging into his own greeting, quickly scrambling to fill the conversational pause. “I didn’t realize Y/N had … household staff now.”

The words are out before he can fully snatch them back. The man’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, but there’s suddenly a tension charging the space between them that has Charles’ palms prickling with sweat.

“I’ll inform her you’ve arrived,” the man says at last, his intense gaze scanning over Charles slowly from head to toe.

Is that judgment blending into the appraisal? Regardless, Charles feels abruptly self-conscious — he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of such frank scrutiny today. But then again, he’s the one who inserted himself into unknown territory here.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the receiving hall?” The open doorway and subtle tilt of the man’s head is clear invitation, one Charles has no choice but to mutely accept.

He climbs the three stairs to the arched entrance, pausing just before the threshold to turn back with furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your-”

“Mark.” The reply is clipped but courteous enough, at least. “Y/N should be down shortly.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and disappears through the foyer, leaving Charles to hover there alone for a beat too long before finally stepping across the threshold. Each footfall on the gleaming marble seems to ricochet off the domed ceiling above, bouncing back in mocking echoes.

As his gaze travels around the cavernous space, roving over the hanging art and intricate tilework, Charles can’t quite bite back the breathless huff of amazement.

Where in the actual hell are you living, Y/N?

***

Charles follows a step behind Mark as the other man leads them deeper into the estate. He can’t resist craning his neck, taking in every jaw-dropping detail — the soaring archways, the intricate brickwork, the Venetian plaster and artworks adorning the walls.

It’s the art itself that begins nagging at him first. Charles frowns slightly as they pass yet another larger-than-life canvas, this one emblazoned with the distinctive Red Bull logo and colors. Then a series of framed photographs, all seeming to depict different angles and events tied to the racing team.

“You must be quite a fan of Red Bull,” he finds himself commenting as they round a corner.

Mark half-turns, one eyebrow quirked. “You could say that.”

There’s an undercurrent to his tone that Charles can’t quite put his finger on. Before he can pry further, they emerge into some sort of sitting room or receiving area, the walls giving way to a bright, airy ambiance.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Mark gestures towards one of the plush sofas arranged in the center of the space. “I’ll have the staff inform Y/N you’re here.”

Charles nods, still trying to absorb the sheer opulence around him as he takes a seat. How in the world did you find yourself situated in a place like this? The nagging questions about Mark’s potential connection to the Red Bull team continue to swirl.

He’s pulled from his ruminations by the sound of your voice filtering down the hallway, breezing and melodic as ever.

“Babe? You down here?”

Charles stiffens instinctively at the endearment, his eyes snapping over to where Mark is casually lounging back against the opposite sofa. There’s no missing the tender smile playing across the other man’s lips.

“In the sitting room, liebling. We have a guest.”

The teasing lilt in his response has Charles’ skin prickling with something he can’t quite identify. He rises halfway as your footsteps grow nearer, not wanting to seem rude by remaining fully seated.

“Oh, a guest! Who-”

You sweep into the room still chattering away cheerfully, entirely oblivious until your gaze finally lands squarely on Charles. The breath punches out of you in a surprised rush, your entire body going rigid as the words die on your lips.

For an endless heartbeat, you simply stare at Charles, motionless but for the slight part of your lips. He watches as a faint flush blossoms high on your cheekbones, long lashes fluttering rapidly.

“... Charles? What are you doing here?”

He blinks dumbly at the sound of your voice, hushed with disbelief yet still so familiar after all this time. “I … you got a letter. From Paris, I think. It arrived at our — at my old place by mistake.”

Cursing his stammering, Charles reaches automatically for his inner jacket pocket, fumbling until he can produce the crumpled envelope bearing your name. “I didn’t know if other things might keep getting sent there, so I thought ...”

He trails off lamely, unable to properly articulate the impulse that propelled him all this way. To deliver one measly piece of mail? To re-establish some connection, no matter how fragile? He realizes with a start that you’ve moved closer, extending one hand to gently accept the letter from him.

“Thank you,” you murmur, eyes momentarily skittering away from his probing gaze. “That was very considerate.”

The moment stretches out, silence expanding in the cavernous space. Charles watches as your free hand flutters unconsciously upwards to fiddle with the collar of your shirt, struggling to find his voice once more.

“I didn’t realize you had, ah … you had a place like this now.” His attempt at nonchalance is so piss-poor he wants to cringe. “And … company, I suppose?”

A delicate snort from the other side of the room reminds Charles he’s not alone with you. His gaze snaps over to find Mark watching the exchange with an inquisitive smirk, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“Company?” He echoes the word airily, igniting a fresh bloom of color in your cheeks. “This must be terribly confusing for you.”

In one seamless motion, Mark unfolds himself from the sofa and crosses the short distance to your side, slipping one possessive arm around your waist. The intimacy of the gesture has Charles’ mouth going dry.

“Allow me to clarify — I’m Mark. Mark Mateschitz.” The subtle emphasis on the surname hits Charles like a bucket of ice water, comprehension crashing over him in waves.

“Mateschitz?” He hears himself repeating dumbly. “As in … Dietrich Mateschitz? The founder of Red Bull?”

Mark’s grin stretches into something wolfishly triumphant at Charles’ stunned expression. “The very same. My father.”

He lets the implication expand in the silence barreling down on them from all sides. Charles numbly finds the nearest armchair and sinks into it, struggling to fully process the revelation.

Of course. All the Red Bull imagery and iconography made so much more sense now. This sprawling, palatial estate clearly belonged to the family behind the team and brand, the multinational empire. Which meant … you weren’t simply a friendly acquaintance chumming around the Red Bull garages.

No, you were with the actual Mateschitz heir, the current co-owner of the goddamn company himself.

The sound of you softly clearing your throat breaks through his whirling thoughts. When Charles glances up, the vision that greets him is like a vise around his heart — you and Mark cuddled close together on the loveseat, his arm still looped possessively around your waist as you toy absently with the ends of his dark hair. Two people radiating intimacy and comfort, completely at home in one another’s embrace.

“We met during a Wings for Life charity run, actually,” you offer at last, almost as an olive branch. “We just … hit it off, I suppose. One thing led to another and … well, here we are.”

Mark’s fingers trail in a barely-there caress up and down your arm as you speak, his gaze locked adoringly on your profile. The look is so tender, so inescapably fond that it makes Charles’ chest constrict painfully.

“She’s a force of nature,” Mark says simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet mirth. “What else could I do but get caught up in her orbit?”

A flush blossoms high on your cheeks, but you don’t turn away, holding Mark’s fond gaze steadily. In that moment, the love you two share is almost a tangible force, shimmering and alive in the air between you. It’s beautiful and devastating all at once.

“I, uh, I should go.” The words leave Charles in a dazed mumble before he can reconsider. He rises abruptly, needing to create space between himself and the intimacies unfolding so easily in front of him.

As if snapping out of a reverie, you look up sharply. “Charles, wait-”

“No, really, it’s fine.” He tries valiantly to paste on a casual smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Thank you again for … well, you know. I’m sure I can see myself out.”

Turning on his heel, Charles makes it no more than two strides before your voice stops him once more, tinged with gentle exasperation.

“That’s the library you’re heading for. Here, let me ...”

You gently disentangle yourself from Mark’s embrace and cross the room towards a different set of double doors. Charles watches in silence as you lead the way through winding hallway after hallway with an effortless grace. Of course you know the layout of this palatial mansion like the back of your hand — this is your home now, your life.

The thought churns bitterly in his gut even as you both finally reach the arched front entrance. You turn back to face him, mouth twisting in that familiar apologetic quirk he knows so well.

“Listen, I know this was … unexpected. And maybe not the easiest thing to process.” You huff out a soft laugh, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear almost shyly. “But I’m glad you stopped by, despite everything. It was … nice to see you again.”

He blinks dumbly, at a loss for words in the face of your warm sincerity. This entire interaction has been an avalanche of emotions — the shock of discovering your romantic entanglement with the Mateschitz heir, the painful pang of watching you two’s intimacy on display, and now the remnants of affection in your tone as you bid him farewell.

It’s simply … too much. Too many conflicting feelings to deal with when his heart still bears the scar tissue of your break up.

“You too,” is all he can manage in return, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “I, uh … I should get going if I want to make it to Spielberg before media day.”

You nod, seeming to understand his unspoken need to retreat and regroup. “Of course. Well, safe travels then.”

“We’ll see you at the Red Bull Ring,” Mark pipes up from behind you, his voice cutting through the tension with surprising joviality. “It is our home race this weekend, after all. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The reminder that you’ll be perpetually woven into the fabric of his racing life from now on hits Charles with the force of a gut punch. He swallows hard, bobbing his head in acknowledgement as you open the front door for him.

“Looking forward to it,” he lies through his teeth before turning on his heel and all but fleeing down the front steps.

He’s vaguely aware of you calling out something about having someone escort him through the grounds and to the main gate. But Charles doesn’t pause, can’t stop until he’s directed the powerful Ferrari back out onto the main roads and open air.

Only then does he finally let out the shuddering breath he’d been holding, the sweet Alpine breezes sweeping over him. He floors the accelerator, putting as much distance between himself and that fairytale estate as possible.

But no matter how fast or far he drives, he can’t outrun the image searing into his mind’s eye — you nestled so contentedly in Mark’s arms, so visibly adored and cherished. Just as you’d once been cradled in Charles’ own embrace, before he burned everything to ashes.

Blinking hard against the hot sting in his eyes, Charles white-knuckles the steering wheel and lets the endless stretches of winding road unfurl before him. There’s only one direction now — forward.

Always forward.

No looking back, no wistful what-ifs allowed. You’ve found the life and love you deserve after he shattered your world.

All he can do is wish you nothing but joy from a distance, even as his own heart disintegrates inside his chest with every step further away from you.

***

The bass line thrums through Charles’ body like a living thing as he signals for another round at the club’s private VIP bar. He can barely make out the sound of his own thoughts over the pulsating music, but that’s rather the point tonight. To drown out the ceaseless reel of memories and fragmented realizations in a haze of liquor and pounding rhythms.

“You sure about that?” The bartender has to shout to be heard, one sculpted eyebrow arching upwards as she eyes the growing collection of empty glasses. “I think you’ve had quite enough, sir.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” Charles snaps back, the words slurring slightly as he slaps his platinum card down with more force than intended. “Just keep them coming.”

The woman’s dubious gaze flickers briefly to somewhere over his shoulder before she simply shrugs and moves to fill his latest order. Charles slumps forward with a harsh exhale, fingers digging into his sweat-dampened curls as the relentless bassline reverberates through his bones.

“Easy there, calamar.”

The familiar voice cuts through the noise as a firm hand clasps his shoulder. Pierre slides into the open stool beside him with a concerned furrow in his brow.

“I’m starting to think my invite for a fun night out may have been a mistake.” His eyes rove over the staggering collection of empty glasses and bottles before lifting to meet Charles’ glazed stare.

“Or more like a cry for help,” he mutters, pitching his voice to be heard clearly. “Want to talk about what’s got you in such a mood?”

Charles opens his mouth but all that comes out is a bitter bark of laughter. He reaches for his newly-arrived glass, downing half the amber liquid in one go as it burns all the way to his core.

“What’s there to talk about?” The words are thick and unwieldy on his tongue. “She’s gone. Moved on better than I ever could have with some … some rich prick who treats her like his personal princess.”

He waves a sloppy hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. “Guy is richer than God, probably spoils her rotten with jewels and furs and … and billion dollar villas overlooking the Alps.”

His voice cracks slightly on the last word and he has to blink rapidly against the unwelcome sting in his eyes. Pierre’s forehead creases further as he watches Charles raggedly drain the rest of his glass.

“I take it your little meeting with Y/N didn’t go well?” He pitches it as a careful question, one Charles shrugs listlessly at before reaching for the nearest full glass. Pierre’s hand shoots out, closing around Charles’ wrist to impede his progress.

“I think you’ve had quite enough of that for one night,” he declares firmly. “Unless you want security dragging your drunk ass out of here, that is.”

Charles tries feebly to tug his arm free but Pierre’s grip remains vise-like. His traitorous thoughts drift back to the image of Mark’s arm so casually looped around your waist, confident in his place at your side.

“What’s he got that I don’t?” The plaintive question slips out before he can bite it back. Charles swivels glassy eyes towards his friend and teammate. “Seriously, Pierre … what can Mateschitz offer her that I couldn’t?”

A heavy silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by the thunderous pulse of the music. Pierre holds his stare steadily, clearly weighing how much harsh truth Charles can handle in his current condition.

“Well … thirty-seven billion dollars is a decent start, I would guess.”

The matter-of-fact words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Charles flinches as if physically struck, mouth falling open in a small ‘o’ of shock.

“Jesus, have some tact,” Pierre continues crisply. “Forget the money for a second — mate, he didn’t cheat on her. He has the basic decency to stay faithful. You know … the bare minimum requirement for a relationship?”

The dig bites deep, sparking a fresh flare of white-hot shame and regret in Charles’ core. He twists his captured wrist futilely once more before giving up and dropping his head to thunk dully against the bartop.

“I thought we were past rubbing salt in the wound,” he mumbles towards the gleaming wood surface.

Pierre sighs, his grip softening enough to pull his arm free at last. “We are, we are … mostly. But you can’t honestly expect me to sit here and help you feel sorry for yourself about another man treating Y/N right after you treated her so abysmally.”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut as your face swims into focus. The light in your eyes when Mark gazed at you, the simple intimacy you radiated together ...

“I miss her,” he whispers, each word carved from shards of anguish and loss. “I miss her so damn much. And now every time I have to see her at a race or schmoozing at an event, I’ll know exactly what I threw away for one night of selfishness.”

Fat tears leak from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, tracing hot pathways down his cheeks as Pierre watches silently. After a long stretch, Charles finally cracks one eye open to peer blearily at his friend once more.

“I need to win her back,” he declares with as much conviction as he can muster through the alcoholic fog seeping into his brain. “I’m not over her, I’ll never be over her. There has to be a way to … to make things right again, don’t you think?”

Pierre regards him steadily, arms folded across his chest. “I think … you’re drunk off your ass and in no state to be making grand romantic gestures tonight.”

Charles waves a clumsy hand, nearly toppling his remaining drink in the process. “Not tonight. But … soon. Yeah, soon I’ll figure out what her new favorite flower is or some shit. Maybe a nice bottle of whatever top-shelf champagne she likes these days. Or … or I can dedicate a race win to her! Girls go gaga over that romantic shit, right?”

He watches Pierre’s expression morph into one of pure incredulity before his friend pinches the bridge of his nose hard, eyes screwing shut with a shake of his head.

“You’re not even hearing yourself right now, are you?” Pierre asks at last, infusing as much patience into his words as possible. “This isn’t about some flowers or a bottle of bubbly or delusionally thinking you have a chance to beat Red Bull this season. You completely decimated her trust in you and demolished the entire foundation of your relationship.”

Charles squirms uncomfortably at the brutal truth. Part of him wants to get up and stalk away in a final burst of tipsy petulance.

But the rest of him knows Pierre is simply being the voice of reason — the harsh reality check he so desperately needs right now, despite how it slices into his wounded pride.

“Look ...” Pierre seems to sense he’s veering into dangerous territory and softens his tone slightly. “I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down, I swear. But any chance of reconciling with Y/N will require so much more than a thoughtless grand gesture or gift.”

Slowly, Charles lifts his bleary gaze and locks eyes with his friend. Pierre holds the stare steadily, mouth set in a solemn line.

“It’ll take rebuilding the bedrock of your foundation — time, effort, and trust. Things you can’t buy or speed along, no matter how much you try.” A heavy pause settles between them before Pierre speaks again, more gently this time. “Maybe reconnecting with her is possible one day … or maybe not. But you owe it to her and yourself to give space for those open wounds to heal first.”

It’s not at all what Charles wants to hear right now. His instinct is still to barrel forward, to blaze a path of extravagant overtures until you melt back into his arms. But deep down, he knows Pierre is speaking the truth — he systematically torched something sacred and attempting to simply spackle over that devastation would be spitting in the face of your shared past.

Nodding slowly, Charles reaches up to swipe clumsily at the dampness on his cheeks. Pierre places a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

“Come on, idiot. Let’s get you home before you really embarrass yourself out here.”

Charles doesn’t protest as Pierre slips off his stool and hauls him upright, looping one arm securely around his waist for support. As they navigate the pulsing crowd, he steals one last glimpse over his shoulder at the bar now shrinking away in the distance.

Perhaps this part of his story with you might be over, the final embers snuffed out. But somehow, some way, Charles vows to rekindle that spark again — even if it takes immeasurable time and effort to nurture it back from the smoldering ashes of his own making.

One thing is certain, though — any path forward will require him to douse these wallowing flames of self-pity first.

The pounding bass fades into a dull throb as Pierre guides them out into the cool night air. Charles blinks rapidly, the city’s twinkling lights swimming dizzily before his bleary eyes as his friend bundles him into the backseat of a waiting car.

“Just let me sleep it off,” he slurs as the plush leather seats engulf him. “I’ll be good as new in the morning.”

Pierre huffs out a wry chuckle as he slides in beside Charles, rapping his knuckles on the privacy partition to signal the driver. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Once you’re properly re-hydrated and that tequila has run its course.”

The motion of the town car pulling away from the curb has Charles’ head lolling back against the headrest. He cracks one eye open to peer at his friend through his disheveled curls.

“I really do love her, you know?” The confession emerges soft and subdued, loaded with naked yearning. “Like … the love of my entire whole damn life, probably. How fucking stupid is that?”

He’s not sure if the dampness blurring his vision is from a fresh wave of moisture or simply the alcohol still sloshing through his system. Either way, Pierre’s gaze softens imperceptibly as he reaches out to give Charles’ knee a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ve all been certifiably stupid in the name of love before, believe me. The key is learning from those mistakes before moving forward.” A beat passes before he adds, “And for the record — I know you did love Y/N with everything you had, even when you monumentally fucked things up.”

Charles lets his eyes slip shut once more with a slow nod. “Then you know why I can’t just … let her go completely. Why I need to find a way to get back to her, even if takes years of making things right first.”

The words hang heavy between them, a tangled thicket of resolution and remorse. Finally, Pierre exhales a soft sigh.

“I know. But that’s a bridge to cross another day, when you’re sober and can actually string two coherent thoughts together.” He gives Charles’ shoulder a light shove. “For now, focus on putting one foot in front of the other and staying hydrated, yeah?”

Despite himself, the corners of Charles’ lips quirk upwards at his friend’s gentle ribbing. He fumbles blindly for the window switch, lowering the glass to allow a blessed gust of fresh air to roll in and fill the cabin.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just … don’t hold your breath on me moving on anytime soon.” His eyes flicker open once more to meet Pierre’s steady gaze. “I’m kind of stubborn that way when it comes to the things I want most.”

Pierre holds his stare for a long beat before giving a slow shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his own lips. “Believe me, mate — I’m well aware.”

They lapse into companionable silence for the remainder of the drive, the city’s twinkling skyline gliding past in a blur. Despite the copious amounts of alcohol still sloshing through his veins, a flicker of hope rekindles in Charles’ chest.

You might have slipped from his grasp, but that doesn’t necessarily mean your paths can’t someday and somehow intersect once more.

All it will take is the courage to keep inching forward, one stumbling step at a time.

No matter how many times the darkness tries to swallow him whole.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Charles kills the engine, the high-pitched cheers swelling to near-riotous levels.

He tips his head back against the headrest for a beat, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. P2 at the Singapore Grand Prix isn’t cause for disappointment — he drove one hell of a race and pushed his machinery to its limits.

But the unbridled pandemonium echoing all around paints a stark reminder that second-place means precious little tonight.

As he cracks open his helmet visor, the screams seem to multiply tenfold. Charles squints against the blinding flash of a thousand camera flashes as the feverish celebration kicks into high gear. Of course the crowd is whipped into such a frenzy — a certain Dutchman has done it again.

Max Verstappen just secured his fourth consecutive World Drivers’ Championship.

Charles watches almost numbly as a swarm of bodies in dark blue coverings rushes the track. The Red Bull mechanics, crew members, and team management spill out in an ever expanding tide, swarming towards parc fermé. All desperate for their piece of history, to bask in the glory of their latest accomplishment.

Bracing one hand against the sweltering engine cover, Charles hauls himself up and out of the cockpit with as much energy as he can muster. He plants his feet wide on the sizzling asphalt, scanning the chaos overtaking the pit lane in search of … there.

You cut an unmistakable figure in understated elegance among the churning sea of navy. Even from here, Charles can make out the burgundy sheath dress clinging to your curves, the soft tendrils of hair escaping your chignon. You’re a vision wreathed in smiles as you follow closely behind Mark, the two of you buffeted but undeterred as you fight against the tide of bodies.

For a split second, Charles allows himself the simple indulgence of drinking in your radiance. Seeing the way your cheeks bloom with color from the heat and exhilaration. How your delighted laughter seems to sparkle in the humid night air, mingling seamlessly with the roars of jubilation.

You’re so clearly drunk on the evening’s euphoria, caught up in the intoxicating thrill of witnessing sheer greatness on display. Even standing halfway across the track, Charles can sense the infectious joy rolling off you in waves.

He’s always loved seeing you like this — passionate and alive in a way that sets his heart pounding. Though he knows now, with a ferocious ache, that particular spark isn’t for him anymore.

As if to underscore the point, Mark suddenly grinds to a halt right in the middle of the sea of revelers. You plow into his back with a breathless giggle, clearly caught off guard. That’s when Charles notices the obvious struggle as you try to regain your footing, wobbling precariously atop a set of wicked-looking stilettos.

Even from this distance, he can read the brief look of concern that pinches Mark’s brow as he turns towards you. The chaos of the celebration fades into background noise as Charles watches helplessly as Mark reaches for your arm to help steady you.

You wave him off with a warm smile, clearly unbothered as you simply shrug out of the towering heels completely. Mark lunges to catch the discarded shoes before they can get swallowed up by the crowd.

There’s a brief pause as the two of you seem to communicate wordlessly. Then, in one smooth motion, Mark pivots and crouches down in front of you, gesturing towards his broad back. Your laughter rings out bright and delighted as you clamber on, effortlessly looping your arms around his neck as he straightens with a grunt.

Just like that, you’re ensconced within the protective circle of Mark’s arms, held securely in place on his back as he continues walking through the celebrating crowd. From his vantage point, Charles can just make out the matching beams you both have plastered on as you sway happily with each step.

It looks so … easy. Natural and uncomplicated in a way Charles’ entire existence seems incapable of obtaining these days. He drinks in the vision of you nuzzling sweetly against Mark’s neck, leaving a feather-light kiss of pure affection on the hinge of his jaw before snuggling back down. Two people completely in sync and unabashedly in love.

Despite the sweltering humidity, an icy chill washes over Charles from somewhere deep within. He’s all too aware of precisely what he’s witnessing right in front of him.

You’ve exchanged his partnership — one defined by betrayal and brokenness — for something far greater.

Charles huffs out a dry, mirthless breath as he sinks back against the sweat-dampened chassis of his idle car, feeling painfully adrift despite the pulsing rush of people all around him. He catches one final glimpse of you and Mark before the crowd finally sweeps you up — the picture of contentment nestled so trustingly against your beloved’s back. Watching on as your dazzling smile lights up the night with each joyful step you draw nearer to the championship celebration

He knows with soul-cleaving certainty in that moment that you’ve likely never felt as cherished or prized in your entire life as Mark must make you feel every single day.

Meanwhile, Charles is perpetually exiled here on the outskirts, unable to do anything but bear witness to the other man’s spoils. So close to his own desires yet barred from ever seizing them for his own.

Always the usurped, forever second fiddle, constantly relegated to P2 in work and life.

With a jaw so tightly clenched it threatens to crack his molars, Charles wrenches his gaze away at last. He feels the first angry prick of heated moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and hates himself for the painfully vulnerable reaction.

This is his self-manufactured hell, after all. He has no one to blame but his own selfish impulses and cowardly weakness for tossing that bond with you into the incinerator. For annihilating the relationship you had built over years of steadfast partnership in one careless night.

So he’ll swallow down the bitterness and lingering heartache as penance for his sins. Compartmentalize the image of you balanced so peacefully in another man’s embrace, so patently adored and worshiped as you deserve.

He at least owes you that mercy — to bear the whole of his consequences in dignified silence as you bask in the victor’s glow you were always meant for.

[jjongslutz]

이희승 HEESEUNG 💋 YOU'RE STILL A VIRGIN? [ MDNI. ]

IN WHICH you realize you never completed your most important new year's resolution: losing your virginity. luckily, your roommate is willing to help you out with that

WARNINGS ⨯ smut, porn with a smidge of plot for context, not proofread cuz who needs that, fingering, orgasm denial (briefly), missionary, very vanilla sex, heeseung's kinda awkward #pathetic_men

WORD COUNT ⨯ 3.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE . . . first work of the year!! sorry for taking an impromptu break so suddenly, but my works will still be coming out slowly as of now, so thank you for your patience 🫶

# TAGLIST ! @wonkifangirl @chlorinecake @sunjaywoning @jaeyunthejakesim @deobitifull @notevenheretbh1 @jvngw0nlvr @jongszn @ineedsomezzz @haelahoops @seongslutt @fakeuwus @leeheeheeseung @aheewonenthusiast @lprww @wonsbaer @heeseungssidechick @smisworld @rayofsunshineeee @starrypen @heerated @snwosgf @nycapartmentsworld @sooyeonvida @dear-hoon @nikiiitties

“We never finished sharing our new year’s resolutions.”

You stop mid-bite into your pancakes. You and Heeseung had spent all morning making them, finally testing out the new oven you got after the last one broke down during another pancake morning. It survived, luckily. There’s only the taste-test left, but Heeseung’s comment catches you so off guard, you put the fork back down.

“New year’s resolutions?” you repeat. “You mean the ones from basically last year?”

He nods, shoving his first bite in. He hums at the taste. Success. “Yeah, we made those lists and started sharing but then—” Heeseung tilts and quirks his brow in thought. “—I can’t even remember. We probably got distracted, but either way, we never made sure we both completed our lists.”

Chuckling awkwardly, you keep your eyes on the plate. “I don’t even know if I still have mine—”

“I do,” Heeseung interrupts. “We put them in that box, remember? I found it this morning, that’s why I thought to bring them up, ha.”

“You didn’t, er, read them, did you?”

Heeseung shakes his head, chewing through another bite. “I thought it’d be fun to go through them and see what we’ve done or not.” He lightly taps his fork around his plate. “We’ve got a few days before the new year starts, no plans, I don’t know…”

“No, no, yeah, I get it,” you assure, nodding quickly. “I just, um, they were stupid. I was stupid. This year changed me, you know?”

Your roommate looks at you with a teasing glint in his eye. “Oh yeah?” He watches you nod again. “All the more reason to get them.” And before you know it, he’s rushing to his room to, you assume, get the box he’d mentioned earlier.

It’s not long before he’s practically skipping back into the kitchen-dining area bringing the box. Tossing his plate aside, he sets the box in between you two and sits back down. You’re anxious at how he unfolds the lid and pulls out two sheets of crumpled paper.

“Yours was the one with the rip at the top,” you say, reading the questions in his mind. Your face flushes as you realize that’ll only prompt him to take it out the other first.

He smiles at you before hiding his face behind the paper. He begins to read it out loud. “Resolution one: Learn how to make (good) pancakes—” Grabbing his fork, he clinks it twice against the porcelain. “Check. Number two: Make weekly savings—Check, right?”

You hum, your leg shaking beneath the table.

“Alright, and then—” He lowers the paper. Your eyes widen. “Lose my virginity?”

“Okay!” you say overenthusiastically. “See! I was being stupid, such a dumb thing to write on a new year’s resolution list, right? Haha, so funny, let’s just throw these out—”

“Wait, but we can cross this off, though, right? You had that boyfriend?”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend,” you clarify. “He was… gross. I never really liked him like that, so it just never happened. It’s whatever, I’m a virgin, okay, let’s move on. Isn’t the next thing I put down like eat more salads—”

“You’re still a virgin?”

You look at him bewildered. What was up with the intonation? Was it really shocking? Why does he even care? You suppose he’s always been the nosy type, just never assumed it would translate to this, as well.

He seems to realize the second meaning to his words and fumbles to take them back. “Okay, not like—I didn't mean it in a weird way, I’m just surprised that you’re... you know?”

“It’s… whatever,” you clarify. “It’s fine. It’ll happen at the right moment, right? That’s what they all say.” You'd shovel another bite into your mouth and you can’t help but taste the bitterness from your words with the sweetness of the syrup. “I’ll get over it when it’s done and gone.”

Heeseung clears his throat, paper discarded to the side, his eyes fixed on your plate in deep thought. “Do you…”

You raise a brow.

“Do you want my help?”

-

In your defense, you really hate being a virgin. Not that it’s embarrassing or shameful to be one, but the fact that you swore to yourself that you wouldn't be a virgin anymore since last year makes you want to crumble up inside.

You just don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your past self. Imagine her laughing at you? That’s a new low.

Which leads to this moment right now. Laying in Heeseung’s bed, in Heeseung’s room, waiting for Heeseung to come back into said room with the “supplies” he was rushing out to get.

The door slowly swings open as Heeseung pushes it with his back, his hands full. He makes eye contact with you and a pout makes its way across his lips. “You’re still wearing your clothes?”

Your eyes snap open wider. “Yes?!”

“We’re gonna have sex, Y/N, your clothes aren’t supposed to be on.” He smiles at you as he sets down lube and condoms.

A wave of relief washes over you when you realize he’s just teasing. Heeseung’s a gentleman, but it’s not like you've gotten the chance to know the side of him you two swore to never let you meet. He could’ve been a weirdo creep for all you knew, as long as he was paying his half of the rent it never mattered until right now.

“Do you want me to turn around when you take them off?” Yep, just the same old awkwardly sweet Heeseung you’ve always known.

You smile, albeit nervously. “You’ll see me naked anyway, might as well put on a strip performance to get you in the mood.”

He laughs at your sarcasm, then points to the lights. “We could turn those off if you want.”

For a moment, you consider it. If not for the hopes of Heeseung seeing the least possible, but for the ambiance. Do people leave the lights on or off during sex? Not like you know. Ultimately, you shake your head, getting off from the bed and sticking your hands under the hem of your shirt. “Ready?” you ask him, though the question is more internalized.

His hum is muffled by his hands reaching at the collar of his shirt.

At once, you two pull your shirts off together.

Standing bare chest to bare chest - with bra - you eye him carefully. “You take your shirt off from the top?”

“What?”

You mirrored his previous action. “You took your collar and pulled your head through the neck hole first—” your words muffle as you reenact it sloppily. “Normal people take their arms out first.”

Heeseung stiffles a laugh behind his hand. “Aren’t you supposed to try to seduce me?”

“Is this not sexy?”

“Oh, please, go on, you’re making me hard.”

The two of you laugh and you realize you’re not so nervous anymore. The anxious jitters left your hands and you can feel your muscles relaxing. It’s just Heeseung. Just Heeseung.

As he recovers from a fit of laughter, you look at him in a way you haven’t taken the chance to ever since you met almost two years ago. His arms that flex when he wraps them around himself. His smile which switches to a sly smirk when he’s resisting the urge to laugh louder. His hair that falls neatly into place, over his eyes that glint to the point you can’t take your gaze away from them.

Heat rushes to your cheeks.

He’s attractive. Yeah, that’s been obvious.

Your type? Maybe…

But this is different. And, oh god, he’s going to have sex with you.

Heeseung clears his throat, snapping you out of your daze.

“Pants?” he asks cautiously. His eyes are brimmed with concern, probably sensing your confused thoughts, clearly not understanding what you’re telling yourself.

You respond by tugging at your sweatpant laces, letting them drop down dramatically. Heeseung keeps his eyes glued to your movement, eyes widening at the sight of your bare legs and white panties. He quickly reaches for his belt.

To your surprise, you can see that he’s, at the very least, getting hard. Maybe it’s nerves. You try not to think too much about the possible influence the sight of your almost-bare body has on him.

Still, to test the waters and ease or completely disrupt your mind, you ask, “Can you help me with my bra?”

He fumbles an answer, you’re pretty sure you hear a ‘yes’ through his blabs, as he kicks out of his pants fully and stumbles to your side of the bed. You turn your back to him, giving him the cue by raising your hair away from the clasp.

Shivers run down your spine at his gentle, warm touch on your skin. You never knew you were sensitive, but with every simple movement, every brush against your back has you feeling goosebumps running up your arms.

Heeseung’s breath is hollow behind you.

When the clasp is finally undone, you pull your arms out of the straps, letting the material drop to the floor with your other discarded clothes.

You turn to face Heeseung, his eyes saying more than any words could mean. Stunned, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you whisper in return, eyes drifting down to his mouth.

He doesn't hesitate to lean in. His arms naturally slide around your waist, pulling you flush against his body as his lips hungrily crash into yours. You gasp through the initial shock of ferocity, relaxing into his hold with your hands coming up to the nape of his neck.

His fingers squeeze your skin pulling a sound from your mouth, muffled by his lips. You don’t even notice the way his knees push you back until you’re laying on the bed, lips still attached to Heeseung’s, but even those pull away eventually. You almost get up onto your elbows to chase after his touch, but stop yourself at the sight of his intense gaze.

Your gazes lock with each other for a moment, before he finally breaks contact to rush to the bedside cabinet where the lube bottle sits. He pours a generous amount on his fingers, rubbing the gel slowly. He eyes the way it reflects the light and this one reaction makes you think he’s never seen it before, but you doubt it — you’ve heard his sexual escapades thanks to your graciously thin walls.

“I’m going to finger you first,” Heeseung interrupts your thoughts.

You simply hum in return, letting your legs fall apart for him to get back into place, between them.

Heeseung has one hand on your thigh, the other levitates over your skin with nearly-dripping lube, but his eyes are on yours, waiting for another nod before he can continue.

Giving him the signal, you aren’t prepared for the chill that runs down your spine at the cold sensation of the lube on your sensitive skin. Soon enough, though, your gasps turn to gentle hums as Heeseung draws little circles on your bare pussy.

“This okay?”

You nod needily.

One finger finally intrudes, swimming through your walls and curls to find that certain spot. Your hips roll into it—you never thought it'd be this different from your own fingers.

“More,” you whimper.

“Already?” Heeseung teases, but you can hear partial genuinity in his tone.

Wordlessly, your hand reaches down to his, pulling at it to get another finger inside of you.

Heeseung chuckles in disbelief, but doesn't disobey your request.

Two fingers in and you’re letting soft gasps escape your lips, eyes already threatening to roll back at the rhythmic pattern Heeseung’s keeping up. He pushes in, pulls out, pushes back in and curls into you. You match his pace with your hips, hoping to deepen his touch. He’s so close, so close to where you need him.

Meanwhile, his thumb rolls gently over your clit to ease the tension of the stretch. It helps, making your head spin and forcing you to focus entirely on the pleasure you feel, rather than the pain.

Heeseung doesn't warn you when he slips in a third, but you’re busy throwing your head back, moaning to tell him off for it.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the ceiling. “‘Is so good.”

Your back arches as Heeseung’s fingers reach your G-spot, curling and tickling the bundle of nerves, ripping out more muffled moans, your hand thrown to your mouth not to disturb the neighbours.

“Right there!” you moan. “Right—shit, yes—Right there!” When he keeps at it, you can't hold on much longer. “Fuck, I’m so close—”

And then it’s gone.

All the pleasure is ripped away from you as Heeseung pulls out of you coldly, barely looking your way as he turns to the bedside cabinet.

“Hey,” you whine, albeit childishly.

It’s as if something clicks and he turns back to you. “Sorry,” he singsongs out. “I didn’t want you to come so soon, I still have to actually fuck you, right?”

You pout, but ultimately he’s right. That’s what you're here for. “Fine.”

He fumbles with the condom packet, eventually giving up at going at it with his lubed-fingers and rips the package with his teeth.

“I could’ve helped,” you tell him, smiling teasingly.

“I got it. I got it.” He waves his hand at you before he uses that same hand to roll down the condom and—Holy. Shit. He’s packing.

You never took the time to think about his size, though you probably would've determined it was a decent size from the outline of it when he's chilling on the couch with sweats on.

But now that it's out, hard and flush against his toned abs? You take a deep breath and try not to think too much about how it must taste, how it’d feel to have him down your throat—as if you even know how to give a proper blowjob. Maybe he could guide you, holding your head from the back and pushing it back and forth rhythmically up and down his cock and—

“Y/N?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’re sure about this?”

He’s pumping his cock as he asks. You resist the urge to lick your lips.

“Yes,” you say. “I’m ready.” And there’s no lie in your words.

Heeseung crawls back onto the bed once more, staying on his knees when his body is lined up with yours. He nods to himself and you before lining up his dick with your entrance, one hand falling to the side of your head, the other resting on your lower stomach as he pushes in slowly.

The intrusion is unfamiliar. The stretch hurts more than expected. Yet, your mouth is agape in frozen pleasure — Heeseung let his hand fall lower and is now drawing circles on your clit to ease the tension.

He keeps his thumb on your pussy while slowing his movement to a stop. “Tell me when I can move.”

Instead of relaxing into the stretch, preparing yourself for more friction, you focus entirely on Heeseung’s movements on your clit. Rolling the bud of pleasure between his two fingers, your eyes flutter shut in pleasure.

You test the waters by flexing your core muscles, squeezing your walls against Heeseung’s cock.

“Fuck,” he groans, snapping his hips forward at once, but he quickly stops himself. Heeseung looks up at you with cutely worried wide eyes. “Shit, sorry—Are you okay?”

You giggle. “Go!” you say between laughs, rolling your hips down to get him going.

He doesn't need to be told twice. He quickly resumes his previous thrust, your legs are naturally pushed apart to give him more access—moans spill from your lips at the newfound depth he reaches.

Heeseung’s head dips, his hair falling over his face, but does nothing to hide his expressions. You watch him for a moment, reveling in how good your pussy is making him feel. You clench around him again and his mouth falls open. He lets out the most harmonious sound you never expected from him but want to hear again and again.

So, you roll your hips into his, until your lower stomachs are threatening to brush against each other, until Heeseung lowers from his hands to elbows, and your bodies are flushed against each other. Your skins are sticky with sweat, but you can’t be bothered. Not with his rhythmic thrusts reaching so deep inside of you. Not with his fingers still playing with your clit, torturing the bud with nonstop pleasure. Not with his lips so close to your mouth, and your head pulling itself upward to capture them in another kiss.

Your hands snake to the back of his head, curling into his messy hair and pulling gently to bring him closer to you. His free hand finds its way into your hair, too, pushing the flyaways back into the rest of the mess, away from your face, before it rests gently on your neck, guiding you in the kiss.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers into your mouth as your walls clench around him again.

Your head spins at his low tone, pleasure bubbling in your stomach in a way it never has before. “I’m—Shit—I’m so close!”

Heeseung takes this as a signal to speed up his fingers on your clit, and slows down his thrusts, deepening them with each push in.

“Come on, come for me.”

And you do.

So much, like never before.

Your back arches into him, head thrown back, letting out a sinful string of moans. You’d curse from the pleasure, but your thoughts aren't coherent enough to form words.

You’re frozen in place, legs shaking as Heeseung pulls out to finish himself off. He jerks off into the condom on top of your wasted body, coming undone as soon as your dazed eyes meet his hungry gaze.

He doubles over, landing on his hand, face mere inches away from yours. “Fuck,” he says.

“Fuck,” you repeat, a giggle in your tone.

“Congratulations,” he says, rolling onto his back to be laying beside you. “You’re no longer a virgin.”

Your weak arms raise in a small celebration. “Yay.”

“How was it?”

You can’t even respond, hands coming up to cover your flushed face. You can feel Heeseung’s smirk behind them.

“I’ll take that as good.” Then, after a beat. “Does that mean you'd want to do it again?”

Your hands fall flat to your sides in one quick movement. “What?”

“There’s so much more I can teach you.”

“No,” you say while shaking your head. He looks defeated, you almost want to reach up and pet him like a dog. “Not until you buy me dinner.”

[thebearer]

love me tomorrow |carmen berzatto x reader| part three

prompt: after time apart, you and carmen meet up for the first time since the fight.

or part three and the final part of the devastation fic (spoiler- the resolution haha). part one and part two can be found here :)

contains: angst. hurt with comfort (finally lol). mentions of mean!carmen, past fighting. past trauma, family trauma. carmen's been to therapy (yay). language. mom!reader x dad!carmen. fluff at the end, i had to make it a little funny and end on a light note bc it felt so heavy lol. word count- 4.7k+

“He’s here,” Sugar announced, the chime of a doorbell following nearly cinematically. 

Your shoulders tightened, stomach twisting with an ache of nerves you tried to swallow. You were so nervous- why were you so nervous? He’d fucked up, not you. He was here to grovel and beg for forgiveness, not you. Still, you felt your hairline prick with heat, hands clammy when you heard the door opening downstairs. 

“Okay,” You tried to steady your voice, exhaling slowly out of your nose. “I’m almost done.” 

Sugar nodded, not leaving, keeping her post behind you. “You know you don’t have to do this.” Sugar looked at you through the mirror, arms folded over her chest, watching you carefully for a sign- anything that would give her a red flag, make her call this off. 

“I know,” You swallowed your buzzing nerves, jittery in the pit of your belly. 

“I’ll tell him to go away. You give me the word, and I’ll kick him out.” Sugar stood, pushing off the door frame and walking towards you. “Seriously. One wrong word, wrong look, anything, he’s gone. Say the word.” 

You gave a small smile. “I think I’ll be alright, but thank you.” You muttered, looking down at your bare ring finger. You still found yourself reaching for your ring, heart spiking in a panic when you’d see it was gone, only to sink when you remembered why- why you left it. 

“I feel like it’s time.” You admitted, trying to convince yourself more than Natalie. You were still unsure, so jarred and hurt by the last time you’d spoken to Carmen. The things he’d said, how he’d hurt you. “I think we have to figure something out.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Sugar gave you a pointed look. “Trust me, if this was me, Pete would never live that down- never. He’d be at my mercy for the rest of his life, if I even let him back into it.” 

You knew Natalie wasn’t joking, that she would do just as she said, but that was also easy for her to say; when Pete could not fathom ever thinking those things about her, let alone saying them to her. Sometimes you wished Carmen could be softer, a little more like Pete in that way. 

“He’s been going to therapy,” Richie’s voice played in your mind. “He’s, uh, he’s doin’ good. Tryna get better for you, for both of you. He loves you, you know that, sweetheart. He’s just… He’s fucked up, y’know? We all are a little, but he’s workin’ on it.” 

You hoped that was true. For your marriage, for your baby. Sugar and Pete had been taking Teddy to see Carmen. You couldn't bring yourself to see him yet, but depriving him of Teddy felt cruel and inhumane. 

Downstairs, you could hear her gurgling, Carmen’s soft tone greeting her in hushed excitement. It soothed you, even for just a moment, it felt familiar- felt like home. What you’d missed so badly, what you longed for to have again. 

“Uncle Carm, why haven’t you been staying here too?” MJ’s tiny squeak of a voice rang up the stairs, greeting you as you quietly crept down them. 

“MJ,” Pete muttered, shaking his head gently. “C’mon, bud, you know Uncle Carm’s been on a business trip.” 

“Right, yeah.” Carmen nodded, his hand patting Teddy’s back gently, soothing her and him. Just feeling the weight of her back on his chest, it put him at ease. She was bigger now, longer than he remembered, but he tried not to think about that, nose pressing into her soft tufts of hair. 

MJ saw you first, his face falling into a pout. “Aw, does that mean you’re going home?” He whined, looking at you then back at Carmen. “Are you takin’ Anchovy and Teddy?” 

Anchovy skittered towards you, running up the stairs at the mention of his name. He’d been a trooper with MJ and Maggie, both kids enamored with the cat who was less than impressed with them. 

Carmen stiffened at the sight of you, spine rigid, heart skipping and falling in his chest. There was a pause of awkward uncertainty, neither of you sure what to say. “If you’re good,” Sugar stepped in. “Maybe your aunt and uncle will let you play with them a little longer while they go out.” She looked at you, shrugging gently at the suggestion. 

You looked at Carmen, eyes meeting him in a brief, unsure gaze, before nodding. “Yeah, that would be- that would be great, MJ.” You gave a soft smile to the boy. 

Carmen stood, passing Teddy off to Sugar with a quiet muttering of thanks. He met you in the doorway, hand reaching for yours, but stopping himself, pulling back hesitantly. Instead, he held the door open, letting you pass by him first. 

The car smelled like a mix of cleaning supply, masked with car fresheners he’d stuck in the vents. He’d been smoking, more than usual, you were sure of it. He’d gotten down to one a day after Teddy was born, paranoid that he’d give her asthma or a rash or something worse. 

“Um,” Carmen hesitated, his voice shaking in a way that he hadn’t since your first date. “I was… I was thinkin’ we could go somewhere t-to talk?” Carmen’s gaze met yours, lips pressing together, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

You nodded, your hands clasped in your lap, both of you too rigid, too uncomfortable. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” You looked down at your nails. “We could go get coffee? Go to the one by the restaurant.” 

Carmen’s heart burned with a dull ache. The coffee shop a block from The Bear had been a staple in your relationship. When you’d first moved in together, to the shitty downtown apartment to be closer to the restaurant, Carmen would go every Sunday. Sometimes he’d pick up, other times you’d come with him, sit in the corner seat side by side in a booth- like the couples you used to roll your eyes at, lovesick. 

Someone was already sitting in that booth when you got there, so you settled for a small two seater in the back, secluded and empty. Carmen brought you your coffee without asking, he knew the order by heart now, etched into his mind permanently. 

“Thank you,” You muttered, accepting the paper cup, your eyes not meeting his, but your hands brushing. You didn’t pull away this time. 

Carmen sat across from you, a dread filled silence falling thick between the two of you. His knee bouncing under the table. “I, uh, I wanna talk first if-if that’s good with you.” Carmen’s eyes lifted under his ball cap, pulled low on his head, curls peaking out. 

You nodded, twisting the paper cup around on the table, too nervous to drink it. Carmen took a breath, trying to calm his racing mind. “Take a deep breath before you start. It’s ok to take a second to get your words in order, Carmen. Collect your thoughts.” Dr. Mullins’ words rang through his head. 

“I wanna start by saying that I’m sorry.” Carmen looked at you when he said it, eyes rounding in a pathetically sweet way. “I-I’m sorry and I…I didn’t mean anything I said. I would never- It wasn’t you.” 

You looked down at the table, the familiar heat burning in your nose and throat, a threat of tears already. “Hey,” Carmen said firmly, leaning forward. “C’mon, look at me. Please?” You look at him hesitantly, jaw clenching, trying to keep yourself from crying. 

Carmen held your gaze, his lips pressing together in a tight line to keep his own emotions in. “It wasn’t you.” His gaze was intense but soft all at once, holding yours. “It… It was all me. All of it. I-I was overwhelmed, I was stressed, I fucked up, a-and-” Carmen’s voice cracked, breaking at the end, his hand running over his face to try and calm himself. 

You felt your own eyes well with tears, chin ducking closer into yourself, leaning towards him. You wanted to reach out, to grab his hand that rested on the table, squeeze it in comfort like you always did. Instead, you looked at him, waiting for him to continue. 

“And I shouldn’t have said any of that shit because-because none of it was true.” Carmen continued, his voice strained. 

“So why’d you say it then?” You surprised yourself with the firmness in your tone, edging on a snap. 

Carmen blinked, surprised but not entirely shocked. His knee bounced faster and faster under the table. He took a second, holding his breath before exhaling, trying to keep the growing tightness in his chest to a minimum. 

“I was stressed. I was tired. I-I was overwhelmed, and… and I was an asshole.” Carmen admitted, but you still didn’t seem convinced. You knew him better than anyone, better than Dr. Mullins, better than even Fak or Richie or Sugar. 

“I… I was hurting. I was hurting an-and I was so fuckin’ angry. I don’t-I don’t even know why I was so angry.” Carmen admitted, nodding slowly, eyes flickering from your gaze to his hands nervously. “I just… I think I wanted someone to hurt like I was hurting. I just, I don’t know, I wanted someone else to feel like I was, an-and I should have- it was fuckin’ stupid, an-and selfish, and…” 

Your eyes were glassy with tears you tried to hide, blinking a tear that fell down your cheek, wiping it quickly. Carmen’s chest ached, burned with hurt at the sight of you. 

“And I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.” He looked at you sincerely. “I-I-I never said anything more untrue and fuckin’ stupid in my life.” 

“You…” You took a breath, your voice shaking with emotions. “You really hurt my feelings, Carmen.” You admitted looking at him. He nodded, jaw flexing, neck blossoming with splotches of emotion. 

“I just don’t really understand how-how you didn’t mean to say those things. I mean, clearly you-you’ve thought that before.” Your voice lifted higher and higher, climbing with a cry that threatened to break. “I know you’re saying you didn’t mean those things, and I get that, but my problem is you’ve thought them before-” 

“-No, no, I swear-” 

“-You have, Carmen. Clearly you have. You wouldn’t- You didn’t just come up with that shit out of nowhere.” Your voice was beginning to climb, trying to level it out in the cafe, keeping your composure. You took a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose, pad of your thumb swiping the corner of your eye to catch a stray tear. “Just… Just don’t lie to me.” 

Carmen pressed his hands together, trying hard to remember his breathing while his mind was racing. Sugar was right, it was uncomfortable, worse than he could have imagined. 

“You’re right,” Carmen admitted with a nod. There was no point in lying, not to you, you always knew better, knew him better. “I-I did, but not-not like that. Not,” Carmen’s breath hitched, chest tight with a wave of anxiety. 

“You know wh-when I was at the restaurant, and I… I would be ready to rip my fuckin’ hair out. Everything was just goin’ to shit, o-or we’d realize there was a critic on the books, or I’d forgot to order some shit, I’d be going fuckin’ crazy, ya know?” Carmen rambled, words spilling out in tumbles of jumbled truth.

 “I’d go to my office for a second, just to-just to take a fuckin’ breath, and… and I’d check my phone and I’d see a text from you.” His heart swelled at the memory. You’d text him updates through the day, knowing he’d seen him when he could. Baby Teddy in her crib, Anchovy in the bassinet, her outfit for the day, nap time- all the moments he missed at work because you wanted him to see. You had considered him. Carmen missed it more than words could describe the past days, checking his phone out of habit, hoping to see a little OOTD with a smiley face and a wrinkly baby Teddy attached- instead, he saw nothing. 

“I’d just… I don’t know. I was sittin’ there, just fuckin’ stressed o-or angry, and then I’d see that and I-I’d feel,” Carmen paused. Gather your thoughts, gather your thoughts. 

“I felt… I just felt weird about it?” Carmen’s brows pinched together, looking at you for help, unsure. Your face fell, his heart lurching with fear. 

“No, no, no, no. Not-Not like that. I- fuck, that’s not what- I love the pictures. Love them. I-I- They’re the only things that get me through the day, it-it’s not that-” Carmen stuttered out, head dropping into his hands in defeat. Way to go, Berzatto. 

“Felt weird?” You repeated, calm, your way of soothing him. Keeping your voice even, steady without any tones he could read into and spiral. It was second nature at this point. “Weird how?” 

“It made me feel like… like I was, I was missin’ out.” Carmen admitted, eyes shining bright and a little wide like they always did when he’d finally admit something. Wide eyed, scared, almost, like he shouldn’t have told the truth. 

“I felt like, I’m at work, an-and you were at home with Teddy, and…and I felt like I was bein’ a shitty dad. Like I was there too much, an-and I’d miss out on her, and then I’d miss you, I’d just…” Carmen threw his hands out lightly, cheeks puffing with a slow, shaky exhale. 

“I was jealous, maybe? Ma-Maybe that’s the word, but I just… I didn’t want to be there, and I know,” He lifted his voice before you could begin to speak. “I know I’m th-the boss, and-and I get that. And it’s not- it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault you’re home- I’m glad you’re home, I am, because you’re doin’ so much. You are, an-and I know that, I know. You’re-You’re doin’ the most important job in the fuckin’ world, I mean, you’re keepin’ ou-our baby alive.” 

Carmen laughed humorlessly, a scoff that turned into a sniffle, shaking his head. You sat quietly, listening to his words, taking them in with a slow nod. Carmen looked at you, trying to read you, taking in your expressions. Your shoulders less tense, tired, face neutral but he saw the way your lips twitched, holding back a cry. 

“Just sometimes when-when I’d be in the shit, I’d just want to be home.” Carmen admitted. “I’d want to be home, but… but I knew I couldn’t be. I knew I had to-to take care of things, take care of you an-and Teddy, and I don’t- fuck, I don’t mean it like a bad thing. I like doing it, I mean obviously I fuckin’ do, it’s just- it-it’s a lot sometimes and I get-” 

“-Carm,” You cut off his ramblings, reaching across the table, your hand sliding over the top of his, squeezing it gently. 

Carmen thought his lungs might have given out, his heart too, looking down at your hand in awe. Bolts of electricity shot through his body, tingling at his skin that touched yours with excitement. He’d missed this, missed your touch, missed you. It felt surreal, sitting here, feeling you, seeing you. 

“I’m sorry.” Carmen whispered, turning his hand to hold yours. Hands clammy, fingernails bitten to the quick. His fingers intertwined in yours, holding your hand so tightly your fingers tingles. He held your hand like he was scared to let go, like if he did he might never get to hold your hand again. 

“I’m sorry. It-It wasn’t fair. It..It’s not fair.” Carmen squeezed your hand, shaking his head lightly. “You didn’t… I don’t know how to say how much you mean to me.” Carmen looked at you, eyes glassy, red rimmed with tears that gathered at his water line. 

“I, uh, I-I tried to- Well, Richie’s thera- my therapist told me to, uh, to try an-and write out what I wanted to say to you. Take time and reflect and give it to you, but I, uh, I was up all night because I kept starting over.” Carmen rambled on. 

“Everything I was tryna write it just… it didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t do you justice.” Carmen looked up at you, thumb brushing over your knuckle gently. “I felt like it just wasn’t enough. They’re aren’t any words to describe you. To…To describe what you mean to me, an-and how much I love you.” 

You swallowed back a sob, looking into his eyes. An intensity you hadn’t seen since he said his vows, maybe more now. “I-I love you so much, and… and I don’t deserve you. I don’t fucking deserve you.” Carmen choked out, a sob slipping out between his confessions. 

“I-I’m a fuckin’ loser, an-and a psycho, and I-I’m a shitty dad and husband…And I-I’m fucked up, and you-you chose to love me anyways. An-And to marry me, and have a kid with me- start a family with me. And what do I do? I fuck it up, and I don’t deserve you. I never have, an-and I never will.” Carmen rambled, tears sliding down his cheeks freely, leaning towards you, shoulders stuttering with a choking of tears.

“Don’t say that.” You sniffle, shaking your head. “Don’t say that-” 

“-No, it’s true, it’s fuckin’ true-” 

“-No, it isn’t. Carmen, don’t say that.” You reach your free hand out, cupping his cheek across the table, thumb swiping over his cheek, wiping away a stray tear. You held him, feeling the heat in his cheeks, he turned into your touch, breath slowing. 

“You’re not a loser. You’re not a psycho. You’re not a bad dad, or-or a bad husband either.” You leaned forwards, closing in the gap between the two of you, the edge of the table digging into your stomach. “You made a mistake-” 

“-No, that’s-that’s- it’s worse than that. It’s so much fuckin’ worse than that. Don’t-” 

“-You made a mistake.” You said, firmer this time, cradling his cheek in your hand. 

Carmen took a breath, squeezing your hand in his, sniffing deep to keep his tears in. “I don’t… I don’t want to be like my parents.” He whispered, eyes rounding in a scared way. “I-I don’t want to fuck up you o-or Teddy or… I just don’t wanna end up like them. I wanna be different.” 

“You’re not gonna end up like them.” You shook your head softly. 

“No, I-I was actin’ just like them.” Carmen muttered. “Yellin’ at you a-and actin’ like a complete fuckin’ lunatic. Just like them, an-and I don’t wanna live like that.” 

“You won’t.” You reassured him gently, whispering across the table. He shook his head in protest. “Carm, listen to me. You’re… You’re not like them, ok?” 

You could feel Carmen start to shake, a trembling through his system that was a tell-tale sign of a panic attack. Your eyes scanned over the restaurant, filling up with the mid-afternoon rush. “Come on,” You nodded towards the door, pushing your chair back, hand still in his. “Let’s get some air.” 

Carmen didn’t argue, he wouldn’t- couldn’t even if he wanted to. Your hand in his, squeezing his gently, pulling him towards the car. Carmen pulled the keys out with shaky hands, unlocking the door. He reached for the passenger door, but you pulled the back door open instead, surprising him when you slipped in the backseat, nodding at him to follow you. You squeezed into the middle, Teddy’s car seat pressed to your back, Carmen pressed into your side, shutting the door.

“You’re not like them.” You broke the silence, turning yourself towards him. “You’re not.” 

Carmen leaned his head back against the seat, tears leaking out of his eyes. “You-You don’t have to do this, say that.” He shook his head. “I don’t deserve it.” 

“Carmen, you’re not like your parents.” You reached for his hand again. “The fact that you’re scared to be like them, scared and trying to stop it, that shows me you’re not like them.” 

Carmen’s chest stuttered, a hissing of a cry leaving his lungs. “You made a mistake.” You swallowed, your own heart aching. “But… But that doesn’t mean you’re as a whole a bad person. It just means you made a mistake, and if you learn from it and become better, then it’s ok. It’s a lesson learned.” 

Carmen nodded, eyes squeezing shut, tight like he was trying to keep everything in. “I just…I really fucking miss you.” Carmen admitted through a wobbly voice, eyes still closed. “I-I really miss you, and… and I want you to come home.” 

You shook your head, tears sliding down your cheeks. “I miss you too.” You whispered, squeezing his hand. “I missed you so much.” 

Carmen turned, arms wrapping around your body, pulling you tightly into him. His nose pressed into the top of your head, breathing in detergent that didn’t smell like what you used at home, shampoo, too. You held onto him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pushing him further and further into you until it felt like your bodies were meshing together, fusing into one. 

Whispered apologies shared through teary, wet sniffles filled the space. Carmen’s nose rubbing against yours, hesitating before he kissed you. You pulled him into you, finally soothing the aching longing that had built in your chest, your lips catching his, the two of you staying unmoving, wanting to feel the other. Clinging to each other, hands grabbing, lips parting, Carmen pressing you against the car seat, hand cradled on the back of your head. 

“I-I understand if you still don’t wanna come home.” Carmen muttered, breath hot over your cheek, nose rubbing against your skin. “But I really fuckin’ miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” You muttered, lips buzzing against his neck, tears hot and trickling onto the collar of his t-shirt. “I-I want to come home.” 

“A-Are you sure?” Carmen’s eyes lit up with hope, though he tried to hide it, the way he always did; too scared to let him get too excited, too hopeful because he always feared it would end. 

“Yeah,” You whispered, nodding gently, balling the back of his shirt between your fingers. 

“Yeah?” Carmen repeated, lips pressing together to keep his cry in, a different one this time. One of relief. For the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe, like his lungs weren’t constricting and on the brink of collapse. His mind didn’t race and cloud with delirious confusion. No, here and now, holding you, Carmen had clarity. 

The both of you stayed in the back of the car, holding the other, chest to chest until your heartbeat became the same, steady rhythm, matching the others. 

Carmen held your hand on the drive back, pressing wet kisses to your knuckles, trying to wipe his eyes of any tears. “Can’t let Pete see me cryin’ again.” He muttered. “That was a new fuckin’ low.” You had giggled softly, enough to have his heart fluttering. He’d never admit it out loud, not now, anyways, that he was thankful for Pete. How he’d taken care of you, of Teddy, of Anchovy. He’d stuck up for you, even if it was against Carmen, and that meant the world to Carmen. 

Pulling into Sugar and Pete’s house, Carmen shoved the gear shift into park, his hand still in yours, both of you sitting in each other's company for a minute longer. Just a little bit longer the two of you, before you had to face the others. 

“Oh, uh, one more thing.” Carmen’s thumb ran over your knuckles before he let go of your hand for a moment, raising up in the seat to dig into the front pocket of his jeans. 

“I, uh, I brought your rings back.” Carmen’s voice dropped, a shake in his words that matched the shake in his hands, pinching your wedding band and ring in between his fingers. 

You swallowed at the sight, Carmen holding the ring between his fingers, it took you back to years before when he’d proposed. Nearly as nervous as he was now, just as shaky, but for a different reason. 

“You don’t have to put them on or anything. I don’t- I’m not tryna make you do that, it’s your choice, obviously. I just,” Carmen took a breath, looking at you. “I thought you might want them back.” 

You paused for a moment, looking at the rings, the sting of the last time you saw them still burning and aching in your chest, but this time, it wasn’t as crushing. It was more of a dull ache, a tiredness that came with it instead of devastation. 

Reaching out, your fingertips tickled his palms, gathering the two rings in your hand. You looked at them, turning them over in your hands. “Thank you,” You mumbled, looking up at Carmen. He swallowed, giving a nod, trying to mask the hurt that you hadn’t put them back on- you didn’t miss it. 

“Do-” Your voice caught in your throat. “Will you put them back on?” You blinked at him, wide eyed, asking so sweet, Carmen thought his heart might give out entirely. 

You held the rings out towards him. “Will you put them back on for me? Please?” 

Carmen didn’t deserve you. The notion rang loud over and over in his head again, throat burning, welling up with tears. He didn’t deserve you. You were too good, too fuckin’ good for him. 

His hands trembled, holding yours and slipping the rings back onto your ring finger, back to their rightful place. Carmen twisted them, a deep breath of a sob that was threatening to break filling the space. His fingers intertwined with yours, free hand cupping your jaw, pulling you into a kiss over the console. 

Sugar looked out the window, peeking through the blinds. “What’re they doin’ out there?” Pete whispered behind her, like the two of you might hear them. “Do they look happy? Sad? You don’t think it went bad, do you? I mean, Carmen can be-” 

“-Pete,” Sugar snapped with a soft huff. “Look for yourself.” She moved, biting back a small grin. 

Pete slid in her place, pushing the blinds apart, sneakily looking out the side of them. He could see the two of you in the car, Carmen’s hands on the back of your head, holding you while you leaned across the console in a deep, passionate kiss. 

“Well, lookie there.” Pete grinned, letting the blinds fall. “I guess there was a happy ending after all.” 

Sugar rolled her eyes, lips twitching in a small smile. “He still has a lot to make up for. I hope she didn’t let him off the hook too easily.” She grumbled, crossing her arms. “But I am glad they made up. I would kill Carmen if he fucked things up with my favorite sister-in-law.” 

Pete let out a small laugh, looking out the window again. “The kids are gonna miss Teddy and Anchovy when they go back. MJ’s gonna be devastated they’re taking them.” Pete muttered, Sugar nodded. 

Pete paused for a moment, looking behind him with a soft frown. “Y’know, this is gonna sound crazy, Nat, but I’ll be kinda glad when Anchovy is gone.” Pete admitted in a hushed tone, like Anchovy might hear him. 

Sugar snorted lightly. “Yeah. Except MJ and Maggie will be begging for a cat of their own. They’ve already started and I told them-” 

“-No, I mean,” Pete turned, watching the orange cat slink around at the top of the stairs, Anchovy glaring down at Pete before disappearing to the guest room. “I don’t think that cat likes me.”