Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
•🐝•
Sting fumbles with his notes; all neatly written down. How many long hours it took to write them all out, hunched over his desk, he had no idea.
He peeked out the burgundy curtains of the stage to take a look at the crowd.
His heart stopped in his chest, like a train at it's final station.
It was full- almost all the seats were filled, with people of all professions. Businessmen in their Burberry suits, businesswomen in their Dior dresses. Secretary in white cummerbunds or pencil skirts, their talk deep and all-knowing. Professionalism oozed from every single individual in the room, tapping their pens impatiently against their notepads.
"Fuck..." the blonde whispers under his breath, adjusting the navy tie that almost seemed to be strangling him. The heat of the room burned down on him, and he could feel the presence of all the lightning technicians staring at him, waiting for him to move. It only pushed more fear into every single one of his pores.
He walked out- dress shoes clanking on the floor- where they always this loud?
Sting could feel himself shake- he could just call it off and claim that he rescheduled it for later that week-
And someone burst into the room.
His eyes immediately zoned into the flying (h/c) hair, the dress he bought for her on their second anniversary, the (e/c) trying desperately to find him.
His (y/n) spotted him the third second she stepped into the conference room- and she gave him a double thumbs up and a supportive smile.
He could almost cry in happiness.
Taking a deep breath, Sting looked back at his audience as the love of his life took a seat. Suddenly they didn't look as intimidating anymore- suddenly they all just looked like him. Like people.
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today..."
