#on the impossibility of controlling your pop-pop

[emisluvr]

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✶ 𝒇.𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋  791.  ───  𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 , 𝗌𝗎𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍 , 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀

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"ki, come!" you call out from the bed, kicking your feet as you lie there waiting for him. he doesn’t even look over, just hums distractedly, too caught up in whatever game he’s playing.

"one sec, baby," he mumbles, clicking away at his controller, eyes fixed on the screen, headset on.

"riki.." you try again, hoping using his full name would finally catch his attention—but it doesn't. you're fed up, you just want his attention and touch but you aren't getting it.

you walk over to his seated figure, manspreading in his chair. you climb onto his lap with no warning, sitting right on top of his thighs, bodies pressed close.

"i'm almost done, i promise—" he mutters, but it's interrupted by you kissing him down his neck, making him tense. his hands stay wrapped around your waist, hands still clicking at his controller.

"you said that thirty minutes ago, ki.." you pout, hands wrapping around his neck as your hands slip under his hoodie, fingertips tracing over his abs. he tries so hard not to react, but it's nearly impossible as he begins to lose control of his gameplay.

you kiss the corner of his mouth as he's desperately trying to focus, inching so close to his lips. he gives up with a soft sigh before murmuring, "fuck it. they can finish without me." before pulling off his headset and throwing his controller on the desk.

his hands slide up your shirt, holding on to your waist as his lips crash on yours. they're warm, soft, hungry. he didn't realize how much he missed yours. your plush lips move in sync with his, tongues slipping in here and there, his teeth dragging on your bottom lip.

your lips are now both slick, coated in each other's spit. but you don't care, you want more of what he couldn't give you because he was so focused on that stupid game.

your hips unintentionally grind, the sudden shift making him let out a low, little groan into your mouth. "you're so needy today, huh?" he teases against your lips, his warm breath making you insane.

"mmmhh," you whine into the kiss as one of his hands slides down to gently squeeze your plush ass, the other moving from your waist down to the small of your back, rubbing small circles into it.

you trail kisses from the edge of his jaw down to his neck, latching on and sucking little bruises into his skin.

he hisses when your teeth graze him, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your waist. he watches you with half-lidded eyes as your lips pull off his skin with a wet pop.

"this what you wanted, baby? just couldn't wait, huh?" he mocks, smirking at you as your cheeks flush, moving back down to his neck to nuzzle your head in as you giggle, his hands continuing to run over your body.

suddenly, he grips under your thighs, and lifts you up as he stands up from his seat. "you're mine now," he teasingly grins before throwing you onto the bed, and just as you land, he immediately climbs over you and attacks your neck with kisses.

"ki! it tickles!" you giggle, squirming under him as he adds soft little bites to your skin, pinning your wrists down so you can't push him off. "should've let me finish my game, princess."

୨ৎ taglist: @murassl, @chuhees, @heebear, @kisuumei, @bangchanwifey, @hoonipies, @sourkiki, @highway-143, @kyanmeai, @nithxhoon, @fdzvie, @hyeinsveil, @curryyed, @heeseungsbm, @goldenmellow, @heesmiles, @hoonprksung

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[mono-red-goblin-party]

what you can't have | part 4

Pairing: Cameraman! Joel x Reality Star! Reader

Summary: Hooking up with your cameraman is the last thing you should be doing as the lead of Mr. Right. But when Joel Miller is assigned to be your personal shadow, it's impossible to deny your attraction. He's the guy you want, and the only one on set that you can't have.

Chapter content warnings: 18+ ONLY. Dirty talk, pining, oral sex (f! recieveing), Joel calls you a slut, reader gets handsy at one point

Word Count: ~6.4K

A/N: New banner, who this? Enjoy this filthy chapter <3

AO3 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | First Chapter

Joel Miller slams on the horn of his truck with all the frustration of a man who knows he’s done for.

Sure enough, the Jag still cuts him off, stopping short before the crosswalk as the light turns yellow to red.

Goddamn L.A. idiots.

Like he’s trying to prove Joel right, the driver of the Jag sticks his middle finger out the window. Joel leans on the horn again, telling himself this tool in the muscle car is all that’s got him bothered.

But then he hears your name on the radio. The hosts are filling airtime arguing about Mr. Right, and somebody - probably Tess - has hinted to the press that you might be the next Dream Girl.

You’re everywhere, your lust-drunk eyes glowing neon in Joel’s mind.

He wants to keep last night perfect, laid out exactly as it happened. But he’s revisited it a hundred times by now, wearing creases over the soft sounds you make when you’re close, and he knows already that the memory is ruined.

He can never hold on to good things for long.

You’re toying with him, he knows, chasing after him for the fun of it. You confirmed as much last night. But maybe Joel is a sucker for punishment, because it’s killing him, the thought that you might want him in your warm, wet mouth.

Joel’s cock twitches. He tightens his grip on the wheel. Idiot.

The light turns green. The Jag roars through the intersection. Joel shuts off the radio and drives on in silence.

He’s barely pulled up to Tommy’s place when the front door opens and Sarah runs to the car. She’s got her backpack in one hand and two napkin-wrapped pop-tarts in the other.

Joel eyes the pastries as she clambers into the passenger seat.

“You abandoning the food pyramid?”

Sarah shrugs. “Aunt Maria had to leave for work early, so Tommy made breakfast.”

“Tried real hard, did he?”

“He toasted them, if that’s what you mean.” Sarah holds out a pop-tart. “Brown sugar cinnamon?”

He grunts in surrender and accepts the pastry. “Seat belt.”

Sarah straps in, and he pulls out of the driveway. It’s barely a ten-minute drive to her school, but it’s one of Joel’s only chances to see her during filming.

“It’s going ok then,” he asks, “staying with Tommy?”

Sarah replies through a mouthful of crumbs. “S’good. I like going in the pool.”

“You sure? Cause if you wanna stay home I can find a sitter until the season wraps.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Did Tess give you a raise I don’t know about?”

“That ain’t nothing for you to worry about, kid.”

“So it is something for me to worry about?”

Joel rolls his eyes. “You’re getting too smart for your own good.”

Sarah wrinkles her forehead. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“For my good, then.”

Sarah props her converse up on the dash. Golden yellow. They match her North Hollywood Prep tee.

Joel nudges her feet back down. “You got that dance team audition today, right? Feel good about it?”

“I told you, I did it last year so it’s like I’m on the squad already. But Tommy still wants to celebrate after.”

Sarah glances at Joel, and her voice wavers as she continues. “He said you might be getting off early today.”

Joel’s heart sinks. Tommy’s got no business getting her hopes up like that.

“’S only a possibility, kiddo.”

Sarah crumples up the paper towel in her lap. “Okay.”

Joel reaches across the console to squeeze her hand. “I’m gonna try my best to make it, but it might be out of my control.”

“I get it, Dad. It’s okay.” She looks out the window.

There’s a knot in Joel’s chest. She deserves so much better than him.

“Wanna listen to music or something?”

Sarah turns to him. “Will you let me pick for once? Since you feel bad for being negligent?”

“Damn, kid, my filming schedule is hard enough without you using five-dollar words to twist the knife.” Joel stops at an intersection and sighs. “But yeah, play whatever you want.”

Sarah beams, then rummages through the CDs Joel keeps in the console. “Got it!”

She chooses Summerbash. Of course she does.

The album cover teases Joel from the corner of his eye. A photo of you naked but for a few soap suds. His mind is all too happy to remind him what’s underneath.

Sarah misreads his scowl.

“Yeah, it sucks compared to her first album, but some of the beats are good! Julie wants to choreograph to them for the halftime show.”

She pops the disc in the ancient car stereo, and your voice fills the cab of the truck. You’ve been autotuned beyond recognition, but Joel’s pulse speeds up all the same.

He’s so fucked.

Sarah holds up the CD case, looking sideways at Joel. “I read a spoiler that she’s the Dream Girl you’re filming. Is it true?”

Joel taps his thumb on the steering wheel, checking his blind spot as he changes lanes.

“You know I ain’t allowed to tell you things like that.”

“She is, isn’t she? You must be flipping shit.”

“Language.”

 “Okay, flipping out.”

“’m not flipping anything. It doesn’t matter to me who the Dream Girl is. She goes on dates, and I point the camera. Same as every other season.”

Sarah narrows her eyes. “You’re being weird, Dad.”

“No one’s being weird.”

“Really weird. Is she stuck-up or something?”

Joel wishes that you were. Or cruel. Anything would be better than you, real and vulnerable and terrible at hiding it, finding meaning in his work, making him laugh. You, open wide and begging for him.

He swallows, keeps his voice steady.

“No,” he says. “She’s fine. And she ain’t officially the Dream Girl until Friday, so forget I said anything.”

“I knew it!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joel lets Sarah celebrate. He finishes the drive while your voice talk-sings “Gimme It!” from the stereo.

Yeah, you’re gonna be the death of him.

The drop-off area at North Hollywood is crowded with parents trying to beat the first bell. Joel waits for a glimpse of open curb and pulls up. He puts the truck in park.

“Good luck today, kiddo. Even if you don’t need it.”

“Thanks.” Sarah picks up her bag and hops out of the car, hesitating before she shuts the door. “Maybe see you tonight?”

Joel’s throat is tight. “I really wanna be there.”

---

It’s seven in the morning when Eliza comes to your room bearing Courtney, a “prep itinerary” and some fantastic news. Every round of Mr. Right ends the same way, with a formal cocktail party and elimination ceremony, but this week Tess is shaking things up.

Instead of an evening cocktail party, you’re having a daytime pool party at the Mr. Right Villa. This means Eliza-sanctioned flip-flops for you, and for the crew, the possibility of an early wrap.

“What are you guys going to do tonight?” you ask an hour later, when you’ve finished the first half of the itinerary and are sitting through your blow-out. “If we finish early, I mean.”

Courtney sighs. “Aaron,” she says dreamily. “From Hinge. I’m praying he can take me to dinner before travel rounds start.”

Eliza shakes her head. “You two are going to jinx us. It’s a lot harder to film the pool party than the regular eliminations. On Ashley B.’s season we didn’t wrap it until three in the morning. Let’s just focus on getting you to your Suitors on time. I told Jacob to have the guys ready by 9:30.”

She delivers. It’s 9:24 by her watch when you pull up to the Mr. Right Villa, dressed in a lavender string bikini and a pair of translucent gauze pants.

Courtney spends a handful of precious seconds reminding you how long it will take her to re-do your hair and makeup if they get wet. Under no circumstances are you allowed to actually get in the pool at this pool party.

“Water will melt me,” you say. “Understood.”

Courtney grins. “Not that you’re unclean.”

Your legs splayed open in the mirror. Joel’s low voice, telling you how to fuck yourself.

Hiding your blush, you scramble out of the SUV.

At the Villa’s entrance, the host of Mr. Right is filming an intro to the pool party. An army of PAs navigates off camera, carrying inner tubes and umbrellas over their heads like worker ants. The line of them indents as they skirt around Tess where she’s issuing instructions from the center of the driveway.

She waves you and Eliza over at once. “Perfect timing. Ryan just got here.”

You’re spared having to ask who Ryan is when a lanky, bald cameraman emerges from the Villa and raises a hand to greet Tess.

You turn to her, confused. “Is Joel not working today?”

She raises an eyebrow at you. “He got here 20 minutes ago. He’s setting up by the pool. Ryan is here to fill in for your interview.”

“Oh, okay.” You deliberately avoid making eye contact with either producer. “Where do you guys want me?”

Eliza escorts you to the front of the Villa, and Ryan trains his camera on you while you answer questions about the Suitors you most want to see shirtless. When you’re done, Tess grabs Eliza and Ryan to look through some B-roll footage, then directs you to the pool.

“We need some footage of you in your swimsuit, Dream Girl. For the promos. Taking off your pants, that sort of thing. Joel will walk you through it.”

You bet he will. You follow the trail of PAs to the back of the Villa, trying to ignore the flutter in your ribcage.

The pool is even more crowded than the driveway, and you dodge a frantic Jacob hunting for a missing mic pack before you cross to the half of the patio that’s blocked off for filming.  

Joel is crouched by the edge of the water, frowning into his camera and fiddling with an attachment over the lens. He grunts in dissatisfaction and glances at his watch, oblivious to your approach.

You stop beside him.

“Hey, Miller.”

His profile breaks into a half-smile. “Morning, Cinderella.”

He’s still looking at his camera, pointing it at the water to test the attachment.

“Is that a waterproof lens?”

Joel shakes his head. “Polarizer. Blocks out glare from the pool so I can see you better.”

He turns the camera toward you. Then freezes. He looks up from the screen, taking in your chest, your bare stomach, the scant outline of lavender keeping you decent beneath your pants.

You smirk. “Is it working?”

“Nice outfit.” His voice is low.

You grin. “Tess told me you’re gonna help me take it off.”

“That so? Because I’m hardly in a position to be pissing off Tess right now.”

“Good thing we practiced, huh?”

Joel is still taking you in. “Reckon I wouldn’t mind practicing some more.”

Your stomach flips.

He stands up and checks his watch again. “We better start shooting. Keep your pants on for now.”

You’re trying to.

Joel starts with a few shots of you walking up to the pool, then switches to a full-body pan. You monitor your expression, conscious of the crew nearby, and try to distract yourself from the way Joel is looking at his camera.

The man is a study in tension, eyes locked on the screen, his grip tight on the handle.

You remember his hands clenching the back of your chair last night. Why didn’t he touch you?

Because it would get him fired? Probably no more than if Tess found out what already happened.

Maybe he gets off on teasing you. Well, two can play at that game.

You wait for Joel to pan the camera over your chest, then lift your arms above your head and stretch. You arch your back, and your bikini top follows, riding up to expose your breasts until your nipples are just barely covered.

Joel grimaces, and the camera shakes ever-so-slightly.

“You’re a menace,” he growls, checking the time before he resets the shot.

You smile innocently at him and adjust your top. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like you’re being tortured when you’re turned on?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I look like I’m being tortured when I’m being tortured.”

He steps back. “I’m gonna sweep the camera down again, and this time, when I signal, I need you to take off your cover-up.”

“Anything you want, Miller.”

“I want you to stop trying to kill me, Cinderella.”

He gets the camera in position.

You smirk. “Almost anything you want.”

He pans over you once more, nodding as the frame approaches your waist. You hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants.

“Slowly,” he murmurs.

You flush at once, your core throbbing in recognition. Judging by the way Joel is tensing his jaw, his mind has gone to the same place.

You lower your pants to the ground. Joel follows the motion with his camera, then pans up to capture the bare skin of your thighs. He takes in a slow inhale, keeping his eyes trained on the screen.

“You’re devastating,” he says quietly.

Your body is tuned to his every word, aching to come apart for him again. You sigh softly.

Joel glances up, holding your gaze for a long moment. 

Deliberately, he steps back. “Good. Got it on the first take.”

“One more to be safe?”

He shakes his head. “No time.”

He pulls out his walkie and signals to production that you’re finished. 

Joel has never wrapped a shot like this after a single take. You shoot him a skeptical look as you pull your pants back on.

“Either I’m suddenly much better at posing, or you have someplace to be after our early wrap, Miller.”

He scowls. “What early wrap? Pool party’s a disaster every time. On Ashley Benson’s season – ”

“– you didn’t finish until three AM. Eliza told me. Why is everyone around here so pessimistic?”

“Cause we know what a bitch it is to make lighting good when everyone is greased-up with sunscreen.”

“I mean, hating sunscreen seems like a symptom of pessimism, not the source of it. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing later.”

Joel readjusts the polarizer on his lens, expressionless. “You’re looking at it, Cinderella.” His words are harsh, like he’s convincing himself as much as you. “We’re gonna be here all night.”

Not if you can help it. He deserves the night off. Your whole team does. How can you get them out of here as fast as possible?

You contemplate the day’s itinerary. It takes an eternity to film the weekly Love Letter Ceremony, but if you get started by 2:00, the crew will almost certainly be done before sunset.

You can’t start the Ceremony until you’ve had a reasonably personal conversation with every Suitor who is up for elimination. Thirteen of them in total, and you have a little under four hours.

Ambitious, but you recorded Summerbash with a straight face. You can do this.

The crew finishes setting up. Suitors spill out onto the patio.

You charge right up to them, weaving through body oil and board shorts to grab a scruffy twenty-something whose name you can’t remember.

Eliza mouths it over his Hawaiian-shirt-clad shoulder as you escort him to a lounge chair. Zack. Right. You don’t let yourself forget again.

Zack is talkative, so you don’t need to sit with him for very long before he’s opened up about beach days back home in North Carolina. You glance at Eliza. Is this enough personal information? She nods.

You look around for another Suitor you can talk to. Jasper meets your eyes and strides over. He places a hand on Zack’s shoulder, cutting off a monologue about jet-skis.

“Mind if I steal her?”

Zack takes his leave. One conversation down, and you think you’re ahead of schedule. You wish Eliza would let you wear a watch.

Jasper takes your elbow and leads you to a cabana, where he’s set up a champagne toast. Quick and romantic. Perfect.

Only when you get to the cabana, there’s no champagne to be found. It takes a PA twenty minutes to hunt down a replacement, and then the guys all feel so bad about the mix-up that they’re hesitant to interrupt Jasper’s time.

When a Suitor finally does grab you, it’s Sasha, a wide-necked hockey player who production has already decided to send home. He wants to sit with you and go through photos of his best games.

The instant Sasha pulls out the first picture, Joel interrupts with a growl of frustration.

Sasha’s photos are printed on glossy paper. They’re not only unreadable on camera, but they also reflect light from the pool all over your face. Eliza peeks over Joel’s shoulder at the screen, then winces.

“You guys look like you’re telling scary stories at a campfire. We have to move.”

It takes two more locations before you find a spot that works. At least an hour must have passed by now. You can read it in the lock of Joel’s shoulders, in the frantic way Eliza checks the time.

Then Sasha launches into a highly detailed story about something called backchecking. You’re contemplating a mad dash for freedom when Mike interrupts.

“Hey, Dream Girl,” he says in his soft voice. “Can I steal you for a second?”

You look at him with raw gratitude.

Sasha doesn’t look away from your face, lifting a hand to shoo Mike away.

“Later, dude. We’re talking.”

No.

Mike furrows his brow. “Okay, I’ll come back in a few.”

The feeling that overtakes you as he leaves to refill his margarita can only be described as despair. It’s another ten minutes of Sasha describing a fight he got into with the ref before Mike returns.

The two of you cozy up on a daybed at the edge of the patio, and Mike pulls out a set of “get-to-know-you” questions on index cards.

Sweet or salty. Morning or night. Hug or kiss.

You shoot a knowing glance at Eliza at the last one. She raises her eyebrows as if to say she knows she’s good.

“Kiss,” you say to Mike.

He smiles, then leans in to give you one. You kiss him back, bracing your palm against his bare chest. When you pull back, Joel is glaring into his camera so hard that even Mike notices.

“What’s up?” he asks, looking curiously at Joel. “Is there a shadow on my face?”

“It’s probably me,” you say, taking Mike’s hand. “I bet my makeup is all kinds of smudged from the heat.”

You use the pretense of a touch-up to end your time early, then regroup with your team in the Green Room. It turns out you really do need to fix your makeup. Courtney powders over the smudges in your foundation. When she’s done, Eliza offers you a water bottle and a sandwich.

You turn to her. “What time is it?”

She sighs. “Twelve-thirty.”

More than half your time gone, and you’ve only talked to four Suitors.

“Can we do this differently?” you ask. “Maybe you can walkie to Jacob when a conversation wraps, so he can send in the men faster?”

“I suppose. He’ll still have to nudge the Suitors, and they might be slow, but it can’t hurt.”

It helps. A little. When you return to the party and grab Solomon, it’s only a few minutes before Nick S. comes to steal you away.

The conversations start to blur together. A story about Nick J.’s dog. Chris pulling you close for a kiss on the cheek. Then Paulie doing the same. You force yourself to keep up your Dream Girl poise as you chain through the interactions with blinding efficiency.

You still fall behind.

Joel halts production in the afternoon so he can reset the reflectors. When he’s done, Zack steals you for a second conversation, fumbling through a plea to stay for one more week. Then Henry pulls you aside, even though he’s already won a Love Letter this week, and somehow you waste almost an hour on conversations you didn’t need to have.

You get through the last few interactions knowing that you haven’t done enough. But it’s something. The crew will be out in time for a late dinner.

Lucas is the last Suitor to steal you. He’s the chief suspect for the theft of Jasper’s champagne, and he’s been drowning himself in margaritas all day. He slurs that you look like a dream come true in your bikini as he takes a seat beside you on the daybed.

He wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Wanna help me put on sunscreen?”

You accept, knowing it will make good TV. You’re sitting cross-legged behind him, spreading the lotion on his back, when he breaks the fourth wall and points at Joel.

“Dude,” he says. “You gotta come closer and get a slow-mo of these Dream Girl hands on my back. You can add in saxophone music behind it.”

Joel levels him with a stony glare. “Shot’s fine how it is.”

Lucas shrugs it off.

“Suit yourself, man,” he says, then turns over his shoulder to look at you. “Honey. There’s a big question I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

He sets his face in a solemn mask. “How many people,” he says, “do you think have peed in the Mr. Right Villa pool?”

You burst into exhausted laughter. Lucas springs to his feet and takes advantage of your distraction to scoop you up in his arms.

He sprints to the pool and takes a running leap into the water.

You’re ready to lay into him when you come up for air, but he covers your protest with a kiss. His hands reach beneath your legs, pulling them to wrap around his waist, and he holds you close in the water. The patio falls silent around you.

Your face is burning when you manage to pull away. You try to break out of his embrace, but he’s a solid wall of gym-bro muscle.

Lucas pushes a wet lock of hair out of your face and gives you an “aw-shucks” grin. You can’t bring yourself to smile back.

“That’s enough.” Joel’s gruff voice breaks the silence. “Get out of the water. Now.”

Lucas releases his grip. You wade to the edge of the pool.

Joel sets down his camera and offers you a single, broad hand. You take it, boosting yourself from the water. He tugs you to your feet.

“You alright?”

He’s quiet, asking only you.

His brown eyes scan your face. In the sunlight, you notice that they’re flecked with gold. 

You swallow. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Tess strides over, turning you away from Joel so she can inspect your face.

“Shit, Dream Girl. Your makeup is fucked.”

She snags a nearby PA.

“Tell the crew to take fifteen and call whoever they need so they can cancel their plans tonight. No way we’re wrapping early now.”

Beside you, Joel stiffens. The center of his brow creases. His next breath is slow, like it’s pressing down disappointment.

Is this what crestfallen looks like on Joel Miller? A vice squeezes in your chest.

A smart Dream Girl would follow Tess’s lead here.

You grab her arm anyway. “No. Wait. Don’t cancel the early wrap.”

She looks at you, impatient. “We’re about to film a three-hour elimination ceremony, kid. It’s already four.”

You shake your head. “It won’t take three hours, I swear. Night one took forever because Eliza had to remind me who all the Suitors were, but after today, I know their names.”

Tess is already losing interest. You let go of her arm and point at a sandy-haired investment banker.

“That’s Neil.”

You gesture to each suitor in turn.

“Adam. Sasha. Solomon. Jasper, Mike, Levi. Nick S. and Nick J.. Zack, Paulie, and Chris. Lucas is in the pool. Henry and Brooks already have love letters, so I don’t need to say their names tonight, but I know them.”

You stare determinedly at Tess. She sighs. “Okay, two hours for the elimination ceremony. But it’s at least that long again before we get your face ready.”

“Then don’t get my face ready,” you say. An idea is beginning to form. You look around the patio for a Suitor who can play to the cameras.

Brooks steps out of the Villa, yesterday’s love letter pinned to his open shirt. He pauses as he takes in the stalled, silent crew.

You turn to Joel. He’s studying you, expression unreadable.

“Miller,” you direct. “Camera up.”

You take off toward Brooks, breaking into a jog and springing into his arms. He catches you, looking startled for a fraction of a second before his features smooth into curated delight.

You lock your ankles around his waist and lean down to kiss him.

He kisses you back, grinning softly when you pull away. “Hi, beautiful.”

He’s flawless.

“Hi,” you say. You drop your eyes, putting on your best bashful expression. “My makeup is ruined.”

He lifts a hand to cup your face and gives a characteristically Prince Charming response.

“You’re still just as beautiful to me.”

You stay still for a moment, making sure Joel can get the shot.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

You leap down, then run back to Tess.

“You want me to be vulnerable, right? Then let me do the elimination ceremony without makeup. You can edit a whole storyline around it.”

Tess considers. You push on before she can say no.

“I can film an interview with Eliza about how scary it is, and you can get guys like Brooks to say gentlemanly things in their interviews.”

Tess sighs. “It’s actually a good idea.”

You beam.

She crosses her arms. “But I’m still not letting you film like that. You look like the clown from It. I’ll send Courtney to the Green Room to meet you. She can put you in a quick no-makeup look. Concealer and mascara.”

She activates her walkie and signals to the crew. “We’re starting the elimination ceremony at four-thirty, everyone. Get moving. Six-o-clock wrap if no one else fucks up.”

She turns back to you. “Go clean your face, Dream Girl. Upstairs bathroom.”

You scamper off before she can reconsider, a heady excitement racing inside you. You can’t remember the last time you called the shots like that.

In the bathroom, you realize Tess’s comparison to the It clown was generous. Pennywise at least was serving clean lines.

There are makeup remover towelettes on the counter. Most likely for the Suitors. You steal one and get to work taking off what remains of your face.

In the mirror, the door opens.

Joel slips into the bathroom. His gaze slides over your barely covered body, lingering on the curve of your ass.

He locks the door. “Why did you do that?”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about your argument with Tess.

You turn to face him. “I wanted to.”

He walks closer, looking at you like he’s trying to make sense of something.

“You wanted to do the Letter Ceremony without makeup on?”

“I’ve been on camera without much makeup before.” Your words come out unsteady as he draws near. “I know what I’m getting into.”

Joel closes the space between you, resting an arm on the countertop.

“’S not gonna look like you think, Cinderella.”

“Are you calling me ugly, Miller?”

“You know I don’t think that.”

“Are you mad at me for something?”

He braces his other arm on the counter, scaffolding you in the impossible span of his shoulders. He looks at you steadily.

“No,” he says. “But it ain’t your job to worry about when we quit filming.”

“Then call me an overachiever.”

Joel laughs softly.

He’s left open the top button of his henley. The collar stretches wide with every rise of his chest.

You look back up at him, piecing together his words.

“Joel. Is this your way of saying thank you?”

A smirk spreads across his face, and he shakes his head slowly.

“Had something else in mind for that.”

He picks you up, calloused hands warm on the backs of your thighs, and places you on top of the counter.

He nudges your legs apart and takes a step so that he’s standing between them. Your heart stutters.

Joel’s hands go to your hip, his fingers finding one of the knots that holds your bikini in place. He undoes it with a steady focus, then turns his attention to the remaining tie.

When he’s finished, he slides his thumb beneath the useless string, tracing your bare hipbone.

A single, loose scrap of cloth is all that covers you now. Joel strokes his index finger once over the outline of your slit, releasing a shiver of sparks inside you. You gasp.

His smirk widens. “That’s what I thought, pretty girl.”

He trails his eyes up to your chest. His hands lift to sides of your bikini top, and he pushes it up. You’re bare before him.

Joel slides his warm hands over your breasts. It’s dizzying, the feel of him touching you at last.

“This what you wanted last night?”

His voice is rough, a slow drag that strikes a match inside you.

He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and you whimper.

“This why you were teasing me this morning? Showing off like a little slut?”

He lowers his mouth and licks your nipple with his hot tongue. You moan.

“Fuck, Joel.”

He raises a hand to cover your mouth. “Quiet, pretty girl.”

He returns his mouth to your breast, closing his teeth around your nipple and biting softly.

You shudder. He feels it, tightens his hold on you.

He nudges his thumb over your mouth, sliding it between your lips. You run your tongue over it, sucking on him.

He pushes deeper, and you take his finger down to the knuckle, letting out a quiet moan in spite of yourself.

Joel’s eyes flicker shut. “Fuck, Cinderella.”

He opens his eyes and lifts his head to watch you, like he can’t believe you’re real. “You love this, don’t you?”

You whimper softly in agreement.

He pulls his hand free and rises to his full height. You look up at him, not bothering to hide your desperation.

“Please.”

“You’re filthy, pretty girl.” He taps his wet thumb against your lower lip. “Begging for it right here, for me to fill this slutty mouth with my cock.”

His words burn a fuse inside you, setting loose a hazy, overpowering need.

You grab his belt and tug him close. Your hands slide down to find him where he’s pressed against the front of his jeans.

He’s hard for you already. You gasp at the feel of it, running your thumb over his length.

Joel shudders. He closes his eyes as though he’s lost a battle with himself, and then he tilts his hips, thrusting up into your touch.

You stroke him again, and he lets out a ragged exhale.

He’s so beautiful like this. It stops your breath. You whisper out his name and reach for his zipper.

He opens his eyes, and his face is suddenly tight. His hands catch ahold of your wrists.

You whimper, wracked by a longing that’s impossible to control now that you’ve felt him.

“Please, Joel.”

He leads your hands back to the counter, holding them in place.

You glare at him. “And you say I’m a tease.”

“We ain’t got much time, Cinderella.” He releases one of your hands so he can hook a single broad finger beneath the remains of your swim bottom, nudging the fabric so that it falls away. “And I mean to spend it playing with this wet little pussy of yours.”

He grazes the knuckle of his index finger slowly along your folds.

You light up for him, a surge of desire coming forth like it’s been waiting all your life for his touch.

You struggle to clear your head. “You had your chance to touch me yesterday, Miller. It’s my turn now.”

“That so?” Joel slides his finger over your clit. Your body responds automatically, hips bucking against him. He raises a smug eyebrow at you. “Don’t think this cunt of yours wants to take turns.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

He nods sympathetically and strokes your clit again.

“Fuck, Joel.”

“That’s it, pretty girl. Let yourself feel good.”

You’re falling apart for him, and he knows it. He traces a slow, patient circle around your clit, studying your face as the pleasure ignites inside you.

You mumble out your final protest, your body shuddering.

“I’ll – fuck – I’ll flip you for it.”

Joel looks at you in shocked delight, a rare, real smile spreading across his face.

“You offering to flip a coin so you can suck my cock?”

He’s still circling your clit, his fingers asking a steady question that your body is all too ready to answer. “Do you even have a coin, Cinderella?”

“Not – not exactly.” You gasp, fighting to stay afloat as your desire swells. “Or you could be nice and – God – and give me what I want.”

His eyes are dancing. He sinks to his knees before the counter, then spreads you open with both hands. He gives you a long look, like he’s memorizing the sight of you.

“Ain’t my job to be nice to you,” he says. Then he leans forward and licks a slow, greedy stripe along your core.

You whimper.

“Gonna need you to keep quiet for me now, pretty girl.” He strokes you with his index finger. “Can you be good for me?”

You nod softly, and he runs his tongue over you again. You bite your lip and rock your hips against him.

He hums appreciatively and brings his tongue to your clit, fast and insistent, stoking the blaze inside you. Your legs start to tremble, and he guides them to sling over his shoulders.

Your hand tangles in his soft curls. He shudders at the touch, looking up to catch you with his dark gaze.

The sight of him is obscene, panting with lust, beard coated in the slick of your arousal. His voice is raw with need when he speaks.

“You’re heaven, pretty girl.”

He pulls your hips as close as he can and lowers his mouth with a desperate urgency. He slides his tongue inside you, and the crude intimacy of it, Joel’s mouth inside your cunt is enough to take you to the edge.

His fingers find your clit, and there’s nothing teasing left in his touch. His pace is relentless, claiming you, setting free a primitive, unstoppable fire.

You want so much more from him, but you can’t hold out any longer. You clench your thighs around Joel’s head and surrender, biting on your own wrist to stifle your cry as you light up inside. 

Joel lifts his head to watch you come. He slows his pace on your sensitive clit, brushing his thumb lazily over you as you catch your breath. You tremble at the soft contact and run your fingers gently through his hair.

Joel rises to his feet, dropping his eyes to retie your bikini strings. When he's finished, you push yourself up and slide off the counter to stand on unsteady legs. You're separated from Joel by the smallest cushion of heat. He tugs your top back into place, adjusting it so you’re once again decent.

It’s almost unbearable, the warm and steady way he puts you back together. You feel a sudden instinct to be close to him, to press yourself into his chest, but you know that’s not what he wants. Instead, you raise your palm as if to brace yourself and rest it over his heart.

He steps back, and your hand falls.

“You head out first, Cinderella. Can’t keep Courtney waiting.”

You leave him in the bathroom, his hair mussed, and swallow down a feeling that sits tight in your throat.

 --

By Eliza’s watch, it’s 6:19 when you pin the final Love to See You Again letter to Lucas’s button-up. You say your goodbyes to three despondent, letter-less Suitors, and just like that you’ve made it through your first week of filming.

The Villa’s parking lot is glowing with amber light as Eliza walks you to back to the SUV. Courtney rushes past, squeezing you into a quick hug on the way to her car, her Hinge date successfully scheduled. The PAs chatter giddily around you, unable to believe they’re out while the sun is still in the sky.

You spot Joel in the cab of his truck. He raises a hand to you as he turns the key in his ignition. You hear a swell of music as the engine hums to life.

It’s Bob Dyan. “Boots of Spanish Leather.” The kind of music your parents loved.

The ballad echoes in your mind, continuing long after you return to your plush, empty hotel room. Finally, you pick up your guitar and take a seat on the balcony. You sing your favorite verse.  

Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night And the diamonds from the deepest ocean I’d forsake them all for your sweet kiss For that’s all I’m wishin’ to be ownin’

Then your hands move of their own accord, shifting to create a wordless melody. It’s slow and deep, the type of song that you’ve forgotten how to find. You watch the setting sun in the distance, steady on its path to meet the sea.

[insteading]

The scene at the beginning of s2e8 of Our Flag Means Death is comic, but the resonance with s1e6 ...

So much of Ed's trajectory as a character is about grappling with his need to respond to his own father's violence. He walked away from piracy in part because safety in that life required controlled, strategic violence, which has had great personal costs to him forever.

"Control your Pop-Pop," as silly as it is, is a request for an intervention and protection he didn't get when he was younger. It's not that he can't protect himself-- we know he very well can-- but I think he wants a do-over of his interactions with his father that doesn't leave him feeling alone.

I think "Control your Pop-Pop" is also self-directed in a couple of ways: to his young self, who is still within him and traumatized, and to his current self, who is trained to respond to threat with a strategic violence that would be overkill here.

A little later, Ed makes his second Bond girl entrance of the series, emerging in the leathers he had just buried at sea. We've been hearing the noise in his head for a bit, since he sees the wreckage of ships in the harbor and immediately fears that Stede is dead. Among the static and the dim sounds of British sailors dying in his hands, there's a distorted version of Voi che sapete playing, which of course is what The Swede was singing the night Ed had a flashback to killing his father, behind Stede's narration:

Stede-- or Ed's fear for Stede, or horror at having promised to kill Stede-- calls up the kraken in s1e6, inadvertently triggering Ed. And it's Ed's fear for Stede in s2e8 that returns him to the scene where he buried his old life, to dig it up for the occasion.

Poor Ed has a lot going on in the season 2 finale, and I hope he's enjoying some restorative warm blankets, good food, and orgasms.

[halfofmysoulasthepoetsay]

shit if I have ocd do you think the gods will understand /genq

[not-terezi-pyrope]

Worst part of popular left wing AI discourse online is that there's absolutely a need for a robust leftist opposition to use of cognitive automation without social dispensation to displaced human workers. The lack of any prior measures to facilitate a transition to having fewer humans in the workplace (UBI, more public control over industrial infrastructure, etc) is a disaster we are sleepwalking into - one that could lock the majority of our society's wealth further into the hands of authoritarian oligarchs who retain control of industry through last century private ownership models, while no longer needing to rely on us to operate their property.

But now we're seemingly not going to have the opposition we so desperately need, because everyone involved in the anti-AI conversation has pretty thoroughly discredited themselves and their movement by harbouring unconstrained reactionary nonsense, blatant falsehoods and woo. Instead of talking about who owns and benefits from cognitive automation, people are:

Demanding impossibilities like uninventing a now readily accessible technology

Trying to ascribe implicit moral value to said technology instead of the who is using it and how

Siding with corporations on copyright law in the name of "defending small artists"

Repeating obvious and embarrassing technical misconceptions and erroneous pop-sci about machine learning in order to justify their preferred philosophy

Invoking neo-spiritual conservative woo about the specialness of the human soul to try to incoherently discredit a machine that can quite obviously perform certain tasks just as well if not better than they can

Misrepresent numbers about energy use and environmental cost in an absurd double standard (all modern infrastructure is reliant on data centers to a similar level of impact, including your favourite fandom social media and online video games!) to build a narrative AI is some sort of malevolent spirit that damages our reality when it is called upon

It's a level of reactionary ignorance that has completely discredited any popular opposition to industrial AI rollout because it falls apart as soon as you dig deeper than a snappy social media post, or a misguided pro-copyright screed from an insecure web artist (who decries a machine laying eyes on their freely posted work while simultaneously charging commission for fan-art of corporate IPs... I'm sure that will absolutely resolve in their favour).

It would be funny how much people are fucking themselves over with all this, except I'm being fucked over to, and as a result am really quite mad about the situation. We need UBI, we need to liberate abundance from corporate greed, what we don't need is viral posts about putting distortion filters on anime fan-art to ward off the evil mechanical eye, pointless boycotts of platforms because they are perceived to have let the evil machines taint them, or petitions to further criminalize the creation of derivative works.

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

"I told you it wasn't gonna fit, babe..."

"It'll fit," he insists, rubbing your clit as he lines up his cock with your entrance once more. "You just gotta relax."

"We've been trying for an hour and you can't even get the head in."

He shushes you, licking over his lip as his eyes focus on your cunt.

"Just lemme try one more time."

You huff and lie back down, letting him continue. He spreads your pussy lips open, pressing his cock against your entrance.

"If it hurts, we're done."

"I know, I know..."

He chews his lip, massaging your clit again, feeling your entrance pucker around the head of his cock. He breathes deep several times before he pushes forward, wincing but then relaxing when the head of his cock pops inside your cunt.

"Fuck! Babe, it hurts, pull out!"

"Just give it a sec," he mumbles, rubbing your clit in tight circles, trying to coax you to relax around him. You're impossibly tight, constraining him so much that he's not sure if he could even pull out if he tried.

After a minute, you relax against the bed, panting. He inhales, trying to push forward, but there's no give. The head is as far as he can go.

"I told you it wasn't gonna fit," you huff, rubbing your face tiredly.

"This is a start," he replies, sucking in a breath. "Let's just go with this for now."

"Do you even want to? Would just the head feel good to you?"

"Anything with you feels good." He pushes your knees apart once again, spreading you wide for him. "I can get off with this."

"Okay... but if it still hurts—"

"We'll stop. Just give me a chance to make you feel good with my cock."

His words make you shiver in delight, your cunt twitching. He pulls out just the slightest bit before pushing the head back in, still not able to move further forward.

His thumb grazes your clit before pressing roughly, collecting your slick and using it as lube to touch you properly. It feels good, really good in fact, so good that you wish he could fuck you hard like you fantasized about.

You buck your hips up and he gasps at the sensation.

"Do that again."

So you do. You buck your hips so that the head of his cock bumps your g-spot, making you keen. He keeps playing with your clit, his free hand moving over your thigh, stroking it lovingly.

It isn't ideal, but it's getting you off, making you whine and gasp. You bunch your hands in the sheets, twisting them as you keep bouncing your hips to and from the bed. The mattress creaks from your effort, but the noise only spurs you on.

"Feels good, baby," you moan. "Feels so good."

"Yeah? You like my cock that much?"

"Yeah, I love it."

"Fuck, and that's just the head, baby. Imagine when you can finally take the whole thing."

You moan, planting your feet to gain more control of your hip thrusts. You move faster, desperate, chasing your high as it gets closer and closer.

"Gonna cum, I'm gonna cum baby."

"Yeah? Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum on my cock?"

"Mm-hm! Gonna cum on your fat cock."

He moans, tossing his head back in pleasure, flicking your clit faster.

"Yeah, yeah, gonna cum, I'm gonna cum!"

You reach your peak, mouth falling open as you cum around the head of his cock. He groans low, eyes hazy as he looks down at where you're connected.

"Oh my god," he moans. "She's trying to suck me in. She wants me so bad, baby, she wants me to fuck her so bad."

His hips twitch and suddenly he's moving, fucking you through your orgasm with just the tip of his cock. He thrusts once, twice, a dozen times before his eyes squeeze shut and he cums inside you, painting your insides white.

You're both panting, trying to catch your breath. He pulls out, moaning when he sees his cum leak out of you. You're about to speak when he gets down on his elbows in front of you.

"Lemme clean up my pretty girl," he says before licking up his cum with his tongue.

[271emma]

tips from someone who lost 18 lbs in 9 days

keep in mind i was and am currently at a rlly hw! so you might not be able to drop as much but you will still see results if you try out some of these tips and stay disciplined

have a fun fantasy! roleplay a little!

for example, i recently had a falling out with a friend and everytime i want to eat i imagine her watching me go into the kitchen and eat what im craving. after that i decide that i no longer want it and i go distract myself until the thought is gone.

if you have an ex you hate, just imagine him seeing you at the store after months of being super disciplined, wearing the outfit you’ve been waiting to wear, and imagine him going home and stalking your instagram and sending a pathetic little message to you! or walking up to you, whatever the case may be! it’s ur fantasy! get creative! write it down if you have to!

you’re a victoria secret model and you have literally a week to lose 3 pounds!

spend a lot of time thinking about your goals every single day, run the numbers every single day!

so on my calorie tracker app, every single day that i’m consistently counting my calories and im under my calorie goal, it pops up with a notification where it says “congrats, your projection date is xyz, and it changes by a few days every single day that im under! that little thing gives me so much motivation to keep going because originally my projection date was may of 2027 or something crazy and now it’s january 21 of 2026, and getting closer every. single. day.

I also talk about the food i eat so much! and my methods sooo much! i love sharing information to literally anyone who posts an advice thing, or anyone who messages me. i love wasting time being like “omg yeah i was totally gonna eat this but like omg just wayyy too many calories” like it’s my favorite thing in the world to do.

i also love running my numbers through weight loss calculators and i especially love running numbers i’ve already done, like losing 18 pounds in 9 days, apparently it’s impossible but i literally did that! wake up from fasting losing 2 pounds? that’s literally what someone else is doing in a WEEK! it’s amazing!

i also spend a lot of time researching keto, fasting, and transformation photos!

think about the benefits of your ed

this can literally be anything, but for me, i used to doordash food all the time to my job, and even if i didn’t do that, i was picking up fast food before i went to work which cost me so much money.

all the money i spent on food this week was $22. all i had to buy to feed me for a week was some premade chicken, 3 tomatoes, an avocado, and some gatorade zero for electrolytes between my regular water. I could literally spend $22 on one meal at mcdonald’s!

another one is me realizing that i have the drive and strength to do something even if ive failed before, maintaining control of my eating for almost 2 weeks has given me confidence in my academic abilities as well!

buy something cute that you’ll be able to fit in at your ugw

i have a size small victoria’s secret pair of shorts that are so so cute and i want to wear them so bad. when im at home and i get hungry and think about ordering a 10 piece boneless hawaiian combo from wingstop and dunking it in hella ranch and shoving 4 fries in my mouth at once, i literally will go in my room and try these size small shorts on. they won’t go past my knees. and i think about how NOT worth it those wings are. if i’m at work or away from home i just put that visual in my mind!

keep gatorade zero ON DECK!

when i literally feel like passing out, instead of just reaching for food, i reach for a gatorade zero, electrolytes, electrolytes, electrolytes ALWAYS!

it actually doesn’t have to be gatorade zero, that’s just what i prefer because i prefer regular water over flavored water, but they have packets you can buy too!

walking to get your food

if you must binge, you should NOT let yourself doordash it. if it’s really something you want, you need to walk to subway,mcdonald’s, walmart, wherever to get it!

i did this to get subway the other day!

give your food away

speaking of the subway sandwich i was just talking about, i only allowed myself to have half of it, but i knew if i just kept the sandwich laying around, there was a 50/50 chance i was gonna eat it.

(keep in mind that im kinda a picky eater and loooove plain food, so thats probably why this works out for me, so if you’re a girlie or guy who likes divisive food like black olives, or pickles, or stuff like that, consider ordering ur food more plain so its easier to give away lol)

so instead of giving myself that option i have the other half of my sandwich to my coworker! you get to look like a sweet person and you dont have the option of eating it anymore! my coworkers never have issues taking food from me so it works out really well!

feed your food to your dog (if it’s safe)/stray dogs

i eat mostly plain foods like i said, and always make sure to google it to make sure it’s safe, but if you’re worried about wasting food by throwing it away (or scared you’re gonna dig it out of the trashcan? i read about that in Jeanette mccurdys book) just give it to your dog fr.

doesn’t even have to be your dog, maybe do something sweet and find a stray dog/cat to give your food to, they need it more than you i’m sure.

take payment off of your apps

this is more so if you eat fast food a lot (which i did) but make it harder but removing your payment methods off your phone, so it’s not quick and easy!

watch nasty mukbangs

there’s this girl on tiktok who ate candied chipotle and 10 patties on a 5 guys burger. to be honest the food wasn’t that unappealing to me because i was literally starving, but the comments! read the comments mamas!

do something to your appearance that makes you feel confident!

seeing potential in yourself does wonders for your self esteem and gives you the strength to aspire to something.

some things you could do that give quick results:

~ dyeing your hair lighter for summer (or darker if you prefer, even doing highlights, or a streak!)

~ cutting your bangs (do lots of research on things that would flatter ur face and how to cut! or you could just go to a professional lol i’m just a diy-er)

~ doing your eyebrows! (if you’re not confident have someone else do it! not worth messing your eyebrows up!”

~ do lash clusters/strip lashes (again do some research on what looks good on you! i find that shorter soft/fluffy lashes are way more flattering on me than 99% of lashes available! so search things like “lash clusters for almond shaped eyes” “lash extensions for wide set eyes” etc, personalize it for you!

~ use an eyebrow razor to shave off the little peach fuzzies off ur face (makes ur skin look sm more even and clear! and makes ur skincare products work better!)

~ do your skincare routine (exfoliating always makes the biggest difference to me! and this isn’t so much about what you see in the mirror bc my skin gets really red over the smallest thing, but just about how ur skin FEELS, like you just feel so much better!)

~ waxing (always makes me feel nice and makes my skin look clearer! there’s a bit more upkeep because of the risks of ingrowns, but it’s sooo worth it! i make my own sugar wax and just use strips and it’s cheap and easy! keep in mind this might be very painful for some people! when i waxed my friends legs she tapped out after 5 minutes, so do ur arms or legs first to see where you fall before doing somewhere like your armpit or bikini.)

*if ur waxing ur bikini area by urself please just use hard wax that you can buy on amazon, it’s a nightmare for me personally trying to use sugar wax.

~ take a shower! and enjoy it! (i recently started wearing lotion and perfume after every single shower and i highly suggest it! makes u feel so beautiful!)

love all of you beautiful angels

[pucksandpower]

Wildest Dreams

Charles Leclerc x pop star!Reader

Summary: you seem to have it all — a successful singing career, complete with a sold out world tour and countless adoring admirers — until an out of control fan sends everything crashing down. With no end to your panic attacks and anxiety in sight, your management team decides to send you to Monaco, where they hope the stringent privacy laws will give you space to recover in peace. What no one can anticipate is that along the way you’ll find love in the form of a piano-playing Formula 1 driver who helps you remember what it means to find joy in your music again

Warnings: descriptions of an aggressive fan interaction and panic attacks

The bass thumps through the stadium, vibrating up through your bones, and the lights are so blinding you can barely make out the sea of fans screaming your name. You’re smiling, though. At least, it feels like you are. Your muscles know how to hit their marks even when your mind isn’t entirely there.

You reach for the microphone stand, letting the chorus carry your voice, a glittering sound that hovers above the crowd. The audience swells, their energy feeding into yours. It’s always like this. As exhausting as it gets, performing feels like standing at the edge of an open window — terrifying, thrilling, and impossible to look away from.

“Sing it with me!” You shout, holding the mic out to the crowd.

They scream back the lyrics. Thousands of voices, cracked and messy, but earnest. For a second, you think you could stay here forever, suspended in this moment.

And then it happens.

The music stutters. Just a second — barely noticeable. You catch the band faltering behind you. Drums off beat. Guitar missing a note. A glitch in a perfect machine.

At first, you think it’s nothing. Someone tripped on a cable. Someone fumbled. It’s a live show. Things happen. But then, the corner of your vision snags on something that shouldn’t be there — movement from the side of the stage.

He comes from nowhere, a shadow slipping past the edge of the lights, fast and jagged like an animal.

You freeze.

He’s on the stage. He’s on the stage.

It takes a second too long for your brain to register it. The security guards stationed by the barrier scramble too late. The man — wild-eyed, his face twisted with something you can’t name — launches himself toward you, a sharp glint of metal flashing in his hand.

A scream catches in your throat, choking on the shock. You’re paralyzed for a second, the space between you and him folding too fast to react.

And then he’s there.

He grabs your arm, fingers like claws, and jerks you forward.

“No-” It comes out as a gasp, not a command, and suddenly the whole world tilts sideways. The microphone drops from your hand, clattering against the stage floor, and you hear the audience roar in confusion. Cheers turn into screams — panicked and raw.

You struggle — instinct kicking in before fear takes over. “Get off me!”

You twist in his grip, adrenaline making your muscles feel like they’re tearing. The man’s breath is hot against your ear as he says something — words tumbling too fast and fractured to understand. His free hand still clutches the knife, too close to your skin.

This is when everything breaks.

There’s a blur of black uniforms, and the weight of him is yanked off you so fast you stumble backward, landing hard on your hands and knees. The crowd’s screams crest into something deafening. Security tackles the man to the ground, and for a second all you can hear is the thud of bodies hitting the stage, fists pounding into flesh.

“Get him out — get him OUT!” Someone shouts.

You press your hands to your ears, everything tilting too sharp, too loud. The lights feel like knives cutting into your skull. Your breath comes in shallow bursts, like you’re breathing through a straw. You try to stand, but your legs give out.

Your heart’s racing so fast it feels like it might punch out of your chest.

“He … he just-” Your voice cracks. You can’t even finish the sentence.

A stage manager rushes toward you, wide-eyed. “Are you okay? Y/N, look at me — are you hurt?”

You shake your head violently, even though you’re not sure if you mean it. Are you okay? What does that even mean right now?

The man is dragged off the stage, kicking and snarling. You see his face for a brief second — twisted into something feral, like he thinks you belong to him. Like he’s owed you. The sight makes your stomach twist, and you have to look away before you throw up.

Someone shoves a water bottle into your hands. You can’t remember who. Your hands shake so badly the water spills down your wrist.

“Should we stop the show?” The stage manager asks, but it’s not really a question. It’s an out. A lifeline dangled in front of you, waiting for you to take it.

But you don’t know what to say. If you stop the show, you’ll have to explain what just happened. If you keep going, you might pass out before you finish the set. There’s no right answer.

The crowd is still buzzing, restless and electric, as if waiting for you to reassure them this was all part of the performance. Like maybe the crazed fan was just another surprise.

“I-” Your voice catches, brittle and weak. “I don’t know.”

Someone touches your shoulder — too light to be comforting, too heavy to ignore. “Y/N, if you need to end it, we can. No one would blame you.”

Wouldn’t they, though? Wouldn’t they pick this apart on social media, frame-by-frame, asking why you couldn’t just handle it?

Your throat feels like it’s closing up. The lights are too hot, the noise too much. It feels like the whole world is leaning in, waiting for you to crumble.

And then it happens.

You break.

It’s not a dramatic collapse. There’s no scream, no cinematic fall to the floor. It’s quieter than that — just a slow unraveling, thread by thread, until all that’s left is the mess underneath.

You drop the water bottle.

Your knees hit the stage again.

And then you cry.

It’s not the pretty kind of crying, either. It’s ugly — snot and hiccuping sobs that make your chest hurt. You bury your face in your hands, trying to hide from the audience, from the cameras, from yourself. But there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to escape the weight pressing down on your ribs.

You hear someone — maybe the stage manager — swear under their breath. “Shit. We’re cutting it. Get the lights down. Now.”

The stage goes dark in an instant, but the damage is done.

You know what comes next. The headlines. The viral clips. The think pieces dissecting every second of this moment, every tear, every breath you couldn’t catch.

“Y/N?” Someone asks softly, crouching beside you.

You can’t even lift your head. Your chest is heaving, your nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt. All you can think is I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Not again.

“I’m so sorry,” the voice says, closer now. You feel a hand on your arm — gentle, not prying. “We’ll get you out of here, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”

But you’re not safe. Not really.

Because the fan wasn’t the first. And you know he won’t be the last.

The sobs come faster, ripping out of you in jagged bursts. You’re vaguely aware of someone wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, as if that could hold you together.

The crowd is still out there — restless, confused. Waiting.

And all you can do is cry.

***

The blinds are drawn tight, shutting out the morning light, but the world outside is still there. You can feel it pressing against the windows, thick and suffocating, like it’s waiting for you to crack them open and let it all pour in.

You sit on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in a throw blanket you barely remember being given. Your body feels like it doesn’t belong to you — like you’re a puppet someone left slumped in a chair.

Voices hum and swell around you, muffled but relentless. They’ve been at it for hours. Your family. Your manager. The people who care about you, supposedly. They’ve all flown in, clutching their opinions like lifeboats.

“She needs professional help,” someone says sharply. It’s your manager, Grace. She paces the length of the penthouse suite, heels clacking against the marble floor with every angry step.

“She doesn’t need rehab!” Your mother snaps from somewhere near the kitchen. You can hear the frustration in her voice, brittle and sharp. “She’s not a drug addict. Why are you acting like she is?”

“She’s traumatized,” your sister chimes in. “Putting her in rehab would only make things worse.”

“And what do you suggest?” Grace fires back, hands on her hips. “She stays here and … what? Pretends everything’s fine?”

The walls feel like they’re closing in, the voices bouncing off every surface, sharp and loud. You press your forehead against your knees, trying to disappear inside yourself. It doesn’t work.

“Look at her,” Grace says, her voice low but pointed. “She hasn’t spoken all morning. This isn’t just about last night. This has been building for months. You all know it.”

You flinch, just slightly, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the room.

“Don’t talk about her like she’s not here,” your sister warns, her voice tight with anger.

“Well, she’s not exactly engaging with us, is she?” Grace retorts, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m doing my job. I care about her. But you can’t expect me to pretend that this-” She gestures toward you, slumped on the couch like a ghost. “-is sustainable. She’s not fine. And none of you want to admit it.”

“Don’t make this about you,” your mother snaps. “We are not sending her to some clinic to be paraded around like she’s broken. That would destroy her.”

“Destroy her?” Grace barks out a bitter laugh. “What do you think this is doing to her right now? She had a public breakdown on stage in front of thousands of people! Do you have any idea what’s waiting for her online?”

“Enough!” Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. He’s been silent for most of the conversation, standing stiff by the window, arms crossed. Now he steps forward, pinching the bridge of his nose like the argument is physically hurting him. “Stop fighting. This isn’t helping.”

For a moment, there’s blessed quiet. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the room.

“Rehab isn’t the answer,” your mother says again, this time softer but no less firm. “She’s not some Hollywood cliché who needs detoxing. She’s our daughter. She’s traumatized. That’s not the same thing.”

Grace blows out a breath, frustration curling off her in waves. “Then what? What’s the plan? Because if you think this just goes away with time, you’re fooling yourselves. She can’t even step outside without getting mobbed by cameras. She needs space.”

The word hangs heavy in the air. Space. You cling to it like a lifeline.

Your sister sits down on the armrest of the couch beside you, placing a tentative hand on your shoulder. “Do you want to go somewhere?” She asks gently. “Just to get away for a bit? Somewhere quiet?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The thought of leaving this room — of facing the outside world — makes your chest tighten like a vise. But staying here feels just as unbearable.

Grace watches you carefully, arms crossed over her chest. “Look,” she says, her tone shifting from sharp to calculated. “If you won’t consider rehab, fine. But you need to go somewhere. Somewhere you can breathe without a camera in your face.”

Your mother gives her a skeptical glance. “And where exactly do you suggest?”

“Monaco,” Grace says without hesitation. “Strictest privacy laws in the world. Paparazzi can’t follow her there — not without getting arrested. No one can film her, no one can take her picture. It’s safe.”

That feels like a promise you’re not sure you can believe in.

Your father raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “And you just happen to know this because …”

Grace gives him a tight smile. “Because this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with something like this.”

“Monaco?” Your sister echoes, frowning. “What is she supposed to do there? Sit in some fancy hotel and wait to feel better?”

“Exactly,” Grace says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “She rests. She doesn’t have to be on all the time. No performances, no interviews, no one breathing down her neck. Just … time to get her head straight.”

Your mother looks unconvinced. “She needs more than a vacation.”

“She needs a break,” Grace counters, her voice firm but not unkind. “And right now, Monaco is the only place I can guarantee she’ll get one.”

The room falls into another uneasy silence, everyone waiting for someone else to make the next move.

Grace sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I know you all want what’s best for her. I do too. But pretending this is something she can just push through isn’t going to work. If she stays here, the pressure will crush her. We’ve all seen it happen before.”

Your father shifts uncomfortably, like he hates that she’s making sense.

Finally, Grace looks at you, her expression softening for the first time all morning. “What do you think?” She asks quietly. “Do you want to go?”

It feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath, waiting for your answer.

But you don’t have one. You can’t think beyond the next minute, the next breath. The world feels too big, too loud, too sharp. You don’t know what you want. You don’t know if you even care.

Your sister squeezes your shoulder gently. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she murmurs.

But Grace shakes her head. “No. She does. The longer we wait, the harder this gets. This-” she gestures around the room, frustration leaking into her voice again. “-isn’t working. She’s drowning, and none of you seem to see it.”

Your mother bristles. “Don’t you dare-”

“She needs to get out of here,” Grace says, cutting her off. “Before it’s too late.”

The words hang heavy in the air, the finality of them settling over the room like a weight.

And for the first time all morning, you feel something other than numbness. It’s small, barely noticeable — a flicker of something that might be relief. Because maybe, just maybe, getting away — really away — is exactly what you need.

Grace leans forward, her expression soft but determined. “Monaco,” she says again, like she’s offering you a lifeline. “What do you say?”

***

The jet touches down with a soft bump on the runway at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, and you jolt awake from a sleep so light it barely counted. The low hum of the engines winds down, and the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom.

“Welcome to Nice. Local time is 11:42 AM. Weather is clear, 22 degrees Celsius. Please remain seated until we’ve come to a full stop.”

You sit up slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your bones. Your mouth feels dry, and there’s an ache deep in your chest that hasn’t left since the night everything went wrong. The cabin is dim, but even the weak sunlight filtering through the windows feels too bright.

Grace is already on her feet, tugging her bag from the overhead compartment. She glances down at you, scanning your face like she’s trying to gauge how much of you is actually here. “You good?”

You nod, even though the answer is no. It’s always no. But that’s the answer everyone expects, so you give it.

“Let’s move, then,” Grace says, her voice clipped but not unkind. She’s been running on fumes, too, trying to stay two steps ahead of everything — flights, accommodations, press rumors. She’s doing her best. You know that.

But it doesn’t make any of this easier.

You reach for the sunglasses perched on your lap and slide them on. They’re oversized, swallowing half your face, and the tinted lenses turn the world into a duller, slightly safer version of itself. It’s a fragile kind of armor, but it’s all you have.

The plane door hisses open, and the warm Mediterranean air slips inside. It smells like saltwater and jet fuel, a strange combination that makes your stomach flip.

“Okay, let’s go,” Grace says, nodding toward the exit. “Straight to the car. No stopping.”

You stand slowly, clutching the strap of your bag like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Every movement feels heavy, like you’re swimming through molasses. You follow Grace down the narrow steps of the jet, keeping your head low, as if shrinking into yourself will make you invisible.

The tarmac is bright and blinding, and your skin prickles with the heat. A sleek black car waits just a few feet away, engine humming softly, driver standing at the ready.

But then you see it.

Beyond the airport fence, just far enough away to be contained but close enough to be seen, a cluster of people is gathered. Fans. Some are holding signs with your name scrawled across them in glittering ink. Others have their phones up, cameras trained on the plane like they knew you were coming.

Your heart stops, just for a second.

And then it starts again — too fast, too loud, slamming against your ribcage.

“They’re not supposed to be here,” you whisper, but your voice is barely audible over the pounding in your chest.

Grace follows your gaze and swears under her breath. “Ignore them. They can’t get to you.”

But it doesn’t matter. They’re still there. Their eyes are on you, their phones are on you, and suddenly the ground feels like it’s shifting beneath your feet.

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and painful.

“It’s okay,” Grace says quickly, stepping closer to you. “They’re behind a fence. You’re fine.”

But you’re not fine. The fence isn’t enough. The sunglasses aren’t enough. Nothing feels like enough.

Your vision blurs at the edges, and your lungs feel like they’ve shrunk, leaving no room for air. The noise in your head gets louder — memories slamming into you all at once: the man’s grip on your arm, the microphone hitting the stage, the screams from the crowd.

You can’t do this. You can’t do this.

“Y/N.” Grace’s voice cuts through the static in your brain, sharp and insistent. “Look at me. You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe.”

You shake your head, gasping for breath that won’t come. The world tilts sideways, and for a second, you think you might pass out right here on the tarmac.

“I can’t — I can’t-” Your voice breaks, and panic claws its way up your throat, sharp and relentless.

“Okay, okay.” Grace moves fast, slipping between you and the fence, blocking your line of sight to the fans. “Breathe. Just focus on me.”

The driver approaches, concern etched into his features, but Grace waves him off. “Give us a minute.”

You clutch the edge of the car door, knuckles white, trying to find something solid to hold onto. Your chest feels like it’s caving in, and tears sting your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

“Listen to me,” Grace says firmly, crouching just enough to be at eye level. “You’re not on stage. You’re not there. You’re here. And nothing bad is going to happen.”

The words are meant to ground you, but they float past like smoke. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shut out the world. Trying to make yourself smaller.

Grace’s hand lands gently on your arm, not pulling, just there. “In through your nose,” she says softly, like she’s guiding a child. “Come on. You’ve got this.”

You suck in a shaky breath, and it catches halfway, but it’s better than nothing.

“Good. Now out through your mouth. Slow. That’s it.”

The air comes out in a stutter, but you follow her lead. In. Out. The panic is still there, sharp and insistent, but the edges start to blur just enough to make it bearable.

“See? You’re doing it,” Grace murmurs. “Just a little more.”

Another breath. And another. The tarmac stops spinning, and the pounding in your chest eases, just slightly. You’re still shaking, but the panic isn’t quite as sharp anymore.

“There we go,” Grace says, relief softening her voice. “You’re okay.”

You nod, even though you don’t quite believe it.

“Let’s get in the car, yeah?” She says gently, her hand still resting on your arm. “We’ll be at the apartment soon. No one can get to you there.”

The thought of the apartment — a place with walls, with locks — feels like the only lifeline you have.

You let Grace guide you into the car, sliding into the cool leather seat. The door shuts behind you with a reassuring click, and the tinted windows turn the world outside into a blur. The fans are still there, but they’re just shapes now — distant and meaningless.

The driver slips behind the wheel, and the car glides forward smoothly, leaving the airport behind.

You lean your head against the window, the cool glass soothing against your skin. Your hands are still trembling, and your chest still aches, but at least you’re moving. At least you’re away from the fence.

Grace settles into the seat beside you, pulling out her phone and firing off a quick text, probably to your team. “You did good,” she says without looking up.

You don’t answer. You don’t feel like you did good. You feel like you barely survived.

The car glides onto the highway, the Mediterranean stretching out in the distance, sparkling under the sun. It should be beautiful, but all you can think about is how far you are from home.

The apartment in Monaco is supposed to be a refuge — a place where no one can reach you. But you know better than anyone that no place is ever truly safe. The fear follows you, no matter where you go.

“Almost there,” Grace murmurs, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You’re going to be okay.”

You rest your head back against the seat and close your eyes, trying to believe her.

But the truth is, you don’t know if okay is something you’ll ever feel again.

***

The silence in the apartment feels suffocating. Days have blurred together, each one stretched thin and lifeless. Grace left three days ago — urgent work stuff, she had said, promising she would be back soon. But her absence hangs heavy in the air, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Too many thoughts.

You sit curled on the couch, scrolling through the same apps again and again, looking for something — anything — to hold your attention. But everything feels distant. Even messages from your family feel like they’re coming from a world you can’t reach. They’re checking in every day, sure, but no amount of emojis or reassurances will change the fact that they’re thousands of miles away.

And you? You’re here. Alone. In this rented apartment with towering walls of glass and not much else.

Your stomach growls, and the noise breaks the heavy quiet in the room. You groan softly and curl deeper into yourself, trying to ignore it. But then a sudden, vivid craving hits you.

It’s not just hunger. It’s that craving — the one you haven’t thought about in years.

Your mom’s pasta. Specifically, that simple tomato-and-garlic spaghetti she used to make on weeknights when you’d come home from school. You can practically smell it — fresh basil, lots of olive oil, that rich comfort of home cooked into every bite.

The craving grips you so hard that for a moment, it’s the only thing you can think about.

The thing is, ordering it wouldn’t be the same. Even if a fancy Monaco restaurant could somehow recreate it, it wouldn’t taste like hers. And you’re desperate for that — something familiar, something safe. Something to anchor you.

You sit up slowly, chewing your lip.

You could go out. Just this once.

Your mind drifts to the last time you were out in public — those fans at the airport fence, the panic that had swallowed you whole. But you remind yourself: this is Monaco. There are laws here. Strict ones. No paparazzi, no public filming.

You’ll be fine. Right?

You slide off the couch and move toward the mirror by the front door, hesitating only a second before putting on your sunglasses. The oversized lenses feel like a flimsy shield, but you pull on a baseball cap anyway, tucking your hair up underneath it.

You glance at yourself in the mirror. It’s not much of a disguise, but it’ll have to do.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Just in and out. Quick.”

The grocery store isn’t far — just a few blocks from the apartment. You clutch a reusable tote as you step out the door, heart thumping a little too hard in your chest.

The streets of Monaco are bright and clean, the kind of picturesque perfection that should calm you. But every step feels heavier than the last, like you’re wading into unknown waters. You focus on the task ahead — pasta, garlic, tomatoes, basil. Nothing complicated.

You tell yourself it’ll be easy.

But the city feels too open. The sky, too wide. You pull the brim of your cap lower, keeping your head down as you pass luxury boutiques and sunlit cafés.

Finally, you spot the grocery store. Relief trickles through you. Just a little further.

The automatic doors slide open with a soft *hiss*, and the cool air inside wraps around you like a small mercy. You exhale.

You grab a basket and move quickly down the aisles, avoiding eye contact with the handful of people browsing nearby. It feels like you’re being watched, but you know it’s just paranoia clinging to you from the airport incident.

You find the pasta easily enough. Next, olive oil. Then a bundle of fresh basil. You reach for the tomatoes — ripe and bright — and drop them into your basket with care. It’s almost done. Almost over.

Then you hear it.

“Wait … is that-”

Your heart stops.

You keep your head down and turn away, hoping — praying — that they’ll second-guess themselves. But the whispering spreads like wildfire.

“It’s her. I swear it’s her!”

A couple of girls with phones raised approach from the next aisle. You catch their reflection in the shiny packaging of a can of beans, and panic prickles at the base of your spine.

They’re already snapping photos.

Your heart slams against your ribs as you whip around, heading for the checkout.

“Y/N! Oh my God!”

The name cuts through the air, loud and clear, and suddenly it’s like the whole store shifts focus. Shoppers turn. Heads swivel.

Your breath catches, and a wave of dizziness crashes over you.

You make it to the front of the store, but by now, more people have noticed you. Some are pulling out their phones. Others are whispering, excitement buzzing in the air.

They’re not paparazzi, but it doesn’t matter.

You bolt out of the store, leaving the basket behind.

The sun feels blinding as you hit the street, and the sound of footsteps follows you — people moving fast to catch up, phones aimed like weapons.

“Y/N, can we get a selfie?” Someone calls out, too cheerful, too loud.

The walls close in, and you can’t breathe.

You need to get away. Now.

You turn down a narrow street, heart pounding in your ears. But the footsteps are still there. Someone’s still following.

You push forward, scanning the street for an escape, but everything looks too open, too exposed. You spot an alleyway, leafy and shaded, and veer toward it without thinking.

Your feet hit the cobblestones hard, and the cool shadows swallow you whole. But you keep running, legs burning, lungs screaming for air.

The alley twists and turns, and you don’t know where you’re going — you just know you have to get away.

And then-

You slam into something solid.

Or someone.

The impact knocks the air out of you, and you stumble backward, heart racing, sunglasses slipping down your nose.

Strong hands grip your arms, steadying you before you can fall.

“Whoa,” a voice says, low and surprised. “Easy.”

You blink, dazed, trying to make sense of what just happened.

The man’s chest rises and falls under your hands, and for a second, all you can hear is the sound of both your breaths, mingling in the stillness of the alley.

His hands steady you gently, warm through the fabric of your jacket. For a moment, everything blurs — the edges of the alley, the sounds from the street behind you, your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. All you can feel is the solid presence in front of you.

“You okay?” The man asks, voice low and careful, like he’s speaking to a frightened animal.

You shake your head without meaning to. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, and your chest feels like it’s wrapped in iron bands, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Hey, hey,” the man says quickly, tilting his head to look at you under the brim of your cap. His voice stays calm, soothing. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Just breathe.”

You try, but it’s no use. The air won’t come.

He shifts, crouching slightly so that he’s eye-level with you. “Alright,” he murmurs. “We’re going to sit down, yeah? It’ll be easier.”

You don’t resist as he gently lowers you both to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the cobblestones. His hands stay on your arms, not holding you down, just there — anchoring you.

“You’re alright,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “It’s just your body playing tricks on you. We’ll get through this.”

The kindness in his tone is almost unbearable, and you bite down on your lip, hard, trying to keep from breaking down completely. Your sunglasses slip down your nose, but you’re too shaken to care.

“Okay,” the man says softly, “listen to me. Look at me. In through your nose, real slow.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate to get a grip on yourself, but the panic is relentless, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Hey, open your eyes,” the man urges gently. “Just focus on me. Can you do that?”

Something about his voice — steady, grounded — makes you listen. You force your eyes open, though it takes everything in you.

“There you go,” he says, smiling slightly, like you’ve already done something right. His eyes are warm and kind, crinkling at the edges. “Now, breathe with me, okay? In through your nose.”

He inhales deeply, showing you how, and you try to mimic him. The breath catches halfway, ragged and shaky, but it’s something.

“Good,” he murmurs, still calm. “Now out through your mouth. Slowly.”

You exhale, and it stutters on the way out, but the pressure in your chest eases just a bit.

“There we go,” the man says. “Again. In through your nose. Nice and slow.”

You follow his lead again, and this time, it feels a little easier. The world isn’t spinning quite as fast, and the ground doesn’t feel like it’s going to drop out from under you.

He keeps breathing with you, slow and steady, until the worst of it passes. The iron bands around your chest loosen, and you can finally get a full breath.

“See?” He says softly, still sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “You’re doing it.”

A lump rises in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to keep it down. It’s been so long since someone’s been this gentle with you.

The man leans back a little, giving you space but not leaving. “I know it feels horrible,” he says, his voice low and empathetic. “But it won’t last forever. I promise.”

You nod weakly, swiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Sorry,” you manage, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

“Don’t be.” He shakes his head, brushing it off like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve been there.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You have?”

“Yeah.” He offers a small, knowing smile, though there’s a flicker of something sad in his eyes. “When I was younger. My godfather died in an accident, and I didn’t really know how to deal with it. For a while, I used to get these panic attacks out of nowhere. Thought I was going crazy.”

His admission catches you off guard, and for a moment, the world feels a little quieter. Less threatening.

“I get it,” he continues, his voice soft but sure. “It feels like you’re drowning and there’s no way out. But there is. You just have to breathe through it, even when it feels impossible.”

You blink, still trying to process everything — his story, the way he’s sitting here with you on the dirty cobblestones, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Does it ever … go away?” You ask quietly, not sure if you really want to hear the answer.

He tilts his head, considering. “It gets better,” he says after a moment. “But it takes time. And it helps when you’re not going through it alone.”

Something tightens in your chest again — not panic this time, but something softer. Loneliness, maybe. Or the weight of everything that’s happened, pressing down on you all at once.

The man watches you carefully, as if he can sense the shift in your mood. “What’s your name?” He asks gently.

You hesitate for a second, unsure whether you want to tell him. But there’s something about him — something genuine — that makes you trust him, if only a little.

“Y/N,” you whisper.

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling again. “I’m Charles.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell, and you’re too drained to think about it. All you know is that, for the first time in days, you don’t feel completely lost.

Charles shifts slightly, adjusting his position on the cobblestones. “Mind if I ask what happened? Why were you running?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and something inside you shifts, loosens, like a knot finally starting to untangle. You’ve been holding everything in for so long, clenching your teeth and forcing yourself to get through each moment without falling apart, but now the dam cracks wide open. It’s like the words have been waiting, boiling under the surface, desperate for release.

You inhale sharply, eyes stinging. “I-” Your voice wobbles, but you press on. “I’m a singer. I was on tour …”

The words spill out, halting at first, but Charles stays quiet, his gaze steady, listening without a flicker of impatience.

“It started during one of the shows,” you continue, hands trembling as you clasp them in your lap. “Everything was going fine — until it wasn’t. This … this fan rushed the stage, and I just froze. Completely froze. He was coming straight at me, and I couldn’t even-” Your breath catches, and you press a fist to your mouth, as if you can shove the memory back down.

Charles shifts a little, making sure you’re still steady on the ground, but he doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

“They tackled him before he got too close, but I … I lost it.” Your throat tightens painfully. “I started screaming, couldn’t stop. They had to cut the mic — God, it was all over the internet the next day.” You laugh, but it’s a thin, brittle sound. “Every headline called it a breakdown. Which — yeah, it kind of was, I guess.”

Charles’ face stays calm, focused. There’s no pity in his expression, only quiet understanding. That makes it easier to keep going.

“I thought it’d get better after that, but it didn’t.” You shake your head, feeling like you’re unraveling as you speak. “The panic attacks just kept coming every time I thought about performing again. I felt trapped. And then the airport happened …”

You glance away, biting down on your lip so hard it stings. “I saw all the fans lined up by the fence, taking pictures, and I just — I couldn’t breathe. Everything caved in again.” Your voice is cracking now, raw and exhausted. “It’s been like that every day since. I can’t sleep, I can’t leave my apartment without thinking someone’s going to-” You choke on the words.

Charles doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. That quiet presence grounds you, keeps you from spiraling too far.

“And now I’m here,” you murmur, gesturing vaguely around you. “In Monaco. Supposed to be getting better, but … I’m not. I feel like I’m drowning. And today …” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, voice dropping to a whisper. “I just wanted to make some stupid pasta.”

The tears hit before you can stop them, hot and unstoppable. “I needed it,” you manage between sobs. “My mom used to make it for me — simple tomato and garlic spaghetti — and I just … I really wanted it. I thought if I could make it, maybe I’d feel normal again. Just for a little bit.”

You press your palms to your face, trying to stem the tide of tears, but they keep coming. “But I left everything back at the store. All the ingredients. I ran out, and now I can’t go back, and I just-”

The weight of everything — the panic, the isolation, the craving for something familiar — crashes over you, and all you can do is cry.

Charles stays quiet for a moment, letting you ride out the wave of emotion. Then, softly, he says, “Hey.”

You sniffle, peeking at him from behind your hands.

“I think,” Charles says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I have everything you need for that pasta at my place.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the sudden shift in the conversation. “What?”

He nods, still smiling gently. “Yeah. Tomatoes, garlic, spaghetti, olive oil — pretty sure I’ve got all of it.”

You stare at him, overwhelmed and disoriented by how easily he’s offering exactly what you need. “You don’t have to-”

“Come on,” Charles says, standing and offering you his hand. “We’ll make it together. I’ve been told I’m not too bad in the kitchen.”

The kindness in his voice cracks something open in you again, but this time it’s not panic — it’s something softer. Hope, maybe.

You hesitate for just a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip is warm, solid. Steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of something like relief.

“Pasta for dinner?” Charles says, still holding your hand as he tilts his head toward the end of the alley. “What do you think?”

You manage a shaky smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

Charles’ smile deepens, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you’re not drowning after all.

***

Charles’ apartment is tucked on a quiet street, close to the harbor but far from the chaos of the main city. He leads you up a narrow stairwell, his hand lingering lightly on your back, a reassuring presence. You’re still jittery, the weight of what happened earlier pressing down on you, but Charles seems calm — like nothing fazes him. It’s comforting in a way you didn’t expect.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open with a casual, “Make yourself at home.”

Before you can even take a step inside, a blur of cream-colored fur bolts toward you, yipping excitedly. A small dachshund launches itself at Charles’ legs first, wagging its whole body like his happiness can’t be contained.

“Hey, Leo,” Charles says, crouching down to ruffle the little dog’s ears. Leo’s tail thumps wildly, and he licks Charles’ chin enthusiastically.

Then the dog turns to you, nose twitching as he sniffs curiously before deciding you’re a friend. With a delighted bark, he jumps against your shins, demanding attention.

“Leo,” Charles laughs, scooping him up before the dog can trip over himself. “You’re too excited, baby.” He holds the squirming dachshund in his arms, scratching behind his ears. “This is Y/N. Be nice, okay?”

Leo wriggles in Charles’ grip, tongue darting out toward your face, eager for kisses. Despite everything — despite the panic, the exhaustion — you can’t help but smile. Something about Leo’s pure, boundless joy is infectious.

“Can I?” You ask, holding out your hands, and Charles grins, passing the little dog over.

Leo practically melts into your arms, licking your cheek with enthusiasm. You laugh softly, a sound that surprises even you — it’s been a while since you’ve felt light enough to laugh.

“He likes you,” Charles says, his eyes warm as he watches the interaction.

“I think I like him too,” you admit, pressing your nose to Leo’s soft fur.

Charles steps aside, gesturing for you to come further in. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

You follow him inside, cradling Leo as the dog rests his head contentedly against your shoulder. Charles’ apartment is bright and modern, with big windows that let in the soft afternoon light. It’s stylish but not showy — comfortable, lived-in.

As you step deeper into the space, your eyes catch on something: a row of helmets lining one wall, polished and carefully displayed on shelves. Nearby, there’s a stack of racing tires leaning against the wall, and framed photographs of what looks like racecars.

You glance around, taking it all in. “What’s with all the helmets?”

Charles glances over his shoulder, an amused smile playing at his lips. “Ah, that.” He gestures to the shelves. “I’m an F1 driver.”

You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Wait … like Formula 1?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I drive for Ferrari.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning as you try to reconcile the man who just helped you through a panic attack with the image of a world-famous racing driver. You don’t follow motorsports — your life has always revolved around music — but even you know Ferrari.

“Wow,” you manage, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I, um, I had no idea.”

Charles laughs, and the sound is warm, not mocking. “That’s okay,” he says, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal. “You’ve had other things on your mind.”

You feel your cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I probably should’ve known. You must think I live under a rock.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Honestly? It’s kind of nice. Most people freak out when they find out what I do.” He tilts his head, studying you with a playful glint in his eyes. “But you? You’re just worried about your pasta.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “I really am.”

Charles grins, clearly pleased to have lightened the mood. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen. “Let’s see if I actually have everything we need.”

He leads you through the apartment, Leo trotting happily at your feet. The kitchen is open and modern, with sleek countertops and a large island in the middle. It’s the kind of kitchen that looks like it belongs to someone who knows what they’re doing — though you suspect Charles probably doesn’t get much time to cook.

He moves easily through the space, opening cabinets and pulling out ingredients. “Alright,” he says, setting down a few items on the counter. “We’ve got tomatoes, garlic, olive oil … and spaghetti.” He turns to you, raising a brow. “How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” you say, feeling a little lighter already.

Charles smiles, his expression softening as he watches you. “Good. Then let’s make some pasta.”

***

After dinner, you help Charles rinse the dishes, working side by side at the sink. It feels strangely domestic, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the quiet kitchen, water running over plates, Leo curled up at your feet. Charles hums to himself as he scrubs a pan, and you catch yourself smiling — not because you have to, but because you want to.

When everything is clean and put away, Charles nudges you gently with his elbow. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s relax a bit.”

He leads you into the living room, a cozy space with deep couches and big windows that overlook the marina. The soft hum of the city outside filters through the glass, mingling with the sound of Leo’s paws clicking across the floor.

As you settle onto the couch, something catches your eye: a sleek black piano tucked into the corner of the room, polished to a shine. You sit up a little straighter, curiosity piqued.

“You play?” You ask, nodding toward it.

Charles follows your gaze and smiles. “Yeah, a little. Nothing professional, but I like to mess around when I have time.”

You lean forward, intrigued. “Can you play something for me?”

Charles tilts his head, considering, then shrugs. “Sure. Why not?” He crosses the room, sits down at the bench, and runs his fingers lightly over the keys, warming them up with a few random notes.

You stay on the couch for a moment, watching the way his hands move — deft and confident, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Then he glances back at you, a playful gleam in his eye.

“Do you know Coldplay?” He asks.

You nod, a flicker of excitement rising in your chest. “Yeah, of course.”

He smiles and turns back to the piano, pressing a few familiar chords. The soft, haunting opening of “The Scientist” fills the room, the notes flowing effortlessly from his fingers.

You feel the first swell of emotion as the melody settles around you like a blanket, warm and comforting. Charles plays with quiet intensity, his head tilted slightly to the side, lost in the music.

Then the lyrics drift into your mind unbidden, and before you can second-guess yourself, you open your mouth to sing.

“Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry. You don't know how lovely you are …”

Your voice is soft at first, hesitant, but the music pulls you in, makes you forget the tension knotted in your chest. Charles glances at you from the corner of his eye, and something shifts in his expression — like the light inside him just got a little brighter.

You keep singing, your voice growing stronger with each line.

“I had to find you, tell you I need you. Tell you I set you apart …”

Charles grins as you get more comfortable, his fingers dancing across the keys with a little more flair now. He slows the tempo slightly, matching the rise and fall of your voice perfectly.

Without thinking, you slide off the couch and move toward him, sitting down on the bench beside him. The wood creaks under your weight, but neither of you seem to notice.

“Nobody said it was easy …”

Your voice wavers slightly on the word easy, the emotions threading through your tone without you meaning them to. Charles doesn’t say anything — he just keeps playing, like the music is his way of holding space for you.

When you hit the next line together-

“No one ever said it would be this hard …”

-it’s like the air between you thickens, heavy with unspoken things.

You finish the verse in perfect harmony, your voice blending with the soft notes of the piano. And for a moment, everything else — the anxiety, the exhaustion, the noise in your head — fades away.

When the last chord drifts into silence, you realize you’re smiling, a real, unguarded smile.

Charles leans back slightly, his hands resting on the keys as he turns to you. “You have a beautiful voice,” he says quietly.

You feel your cheeks warm under his gaze. “Thanks,” you murmur. “That was … nice.”

“Yeah,” Charles agrees, his eyes sparkling with something you can’t quite place. “It was.”

For a moment, neither of you move. The room feels suspended in time, like the music has cast some kind of spell over everything.

Then Leo trots over, pressing his nose against your leg, and the spell breaks. You laugh softly, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

Charles watches you for a moment longer, then nudges you lightly with his shoulder. “So,” he says, his voice teasing, “any plans for tomorrow?”

You shake your head, smiling. “Not really.”

“Well,” Charles says, drawing out the word like he’s building up to something. “I was thinking of taking the yacht out for a bit. Maybe you’d want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. “You have a yacht?”

He grins, unapologetic. “I do. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, though. Just something to get away from everything for a few hours.”

The idea of spending a day on the water — away from prying eyes, away from the noise in your head — sounds almost too good to be true.

“Are you sure I won’t be intruding?” You ask, though you already know your answer.

Charles shakes his head, his expression sincere. “Not at all. It’ll be fun. Leo will come too,” he adds with a playful wink.

You laugh, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. “Alright,” you say. “I’m in.”

***

The yacht rocks gently as you step aboard, the crisp breeze off the Mediterranean whipping through your hair. The sun glints off the water, dazzling and endless, and Leo is already scampering ahead, his tiny paws tapping happily on the deck. Charles follows closely behind, carrying a cooler and a bottle of wine under one arm like this is just another day for him.

“Welcome aboard,” Charles says with a grin, setting down the cooler. He gives the yacht's railing a quick pat. “It’s not a superyacht or anything, but she does the job.”

You laugh softly, shielding your eyes against the sun. “It’s more than enough.”

The yacht isn't enormous, but it’s sleek and beautiful, just like everything else Charles seems to surround himself with. A couple of cushioned sunbeds are arranged at the front, and there’s a small dining area shaded under a canopy. Leo wastes no time climbing onto the sunbed, claiming it like a king, tail wagging furiously.

Charles catches your look and shrugs with an easy smile. “He thinks he owns the place.”

“Clearly,” you say, grinning, feeling lighter than you have in days. It’s hard not to, with the sun on your skin and the promise of a peaceful day out at sea.

Charles casts off the ropes with practiced ease and starts the engine. You sit cross-legged near the bow, letting the wind ruffle your hair as the boat glides out into the open water. For a while, neither of you speaks — you just sit in companionable silence, watching Monaco’s coastline grow smaller behind you, the glittering city shrinking into the horizon.

Eventually, Charles kills the engine and drops anchor somewhere far from shore, where the water is crystal clear and the world feels blissfully quiet.

He turns to you, leaning casually against the railing. “So,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Do you swim?”

You raise an eyebrow, already suspicious. “Yeah … why?”

Charles grins, and before you can react, he lunges toward you. “You look hot. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Charles, no!” You shriek, scrambling backward, but it's too late. He hooks an arm around your waist and lifts you effortlessly off the deck.

“Don’t you dare!” You shout, laughing despite yourself.

“Dare?” He echoes, grinning wickedly. “Oh, I dare.”

Then he throws you over the side of the yacht.

You hit the water with a loud splash, the coolness shocking your skin. For a moment, everything is muffled — just the sound of bubbles rushing past your ears and the soft sway of the sea surrounding you. You surface quickly, gasping and sputtering.

“You are so dead!” You shout, treading water and glaring up at him.

Charles leans over the railing, grinning like a kid who just pulled off the perfect prank. “You said you could swim!”

“That’s not the point!”

He laughs — this carefree, delighted sound — and before you can protest further, he vaults over the side of the boat and plunges into the water after you.

He surfaces with a splash, slicking his wet hair back from his forehead, his grin still firmly in place. “Now we’re even,” he says, swimming closer.

You roll your eyes, though you’re laughing too, the tension between you dissolving with the salt water. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told,” he says with a cheeky shrug, floating lazily beside you.

The water is warm and buoyant, cradling you both as you drift together. For a while, you just float there, surrounded by nothing but the sea and sky. There’s a peace to it — a kind of freedom that you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

Then Charles’ grin softens into something quieter, more sincere. He drifts closer, the space between you shrinking until you can feel the warmth of his skin, even through the water.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

You smirk, giving him a light splash. “Maybe just a little.”

Charles chuckles, then reaches for you — his hand finding your waist under the water, steadying you as the gentle current pulls at your limbs. His touch is light, careful, as if he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you let yourself float closer, the air between you humming with something unspoken. His gaze flicks to your mouth for just a second — so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking for it. But you are.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if you’re both testing the waters. But then Charles tilts his head, his hand tightening on your waist, and the kiss deepens — slow and unhurried, like you have all the time in the world.

The water laps gently around you, but it feels like everything else — the sea, the sky, the boat — fades into the background. There’s just the warmth of Charles’ lips against yours, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat where your hand rests lightly on his chest.

When you finally pull back, breathless, Charles’ forehead presses lightly against yours, his grin returning in full force.

“So,” he murmurs, his voice low and playful. “Still mad?”

You laugh, your heart lighter than it’s been in a long time. “Not even a little.”

Charles grins, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. “Good,” he says, his voice soft. “Because I really didn’t want you to be.”

You smile, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Leo barks from the yacht, his tiny form bouncing excitedly along the edge as if to remind you both that he’s still there.

Charles glances up at the dog and laughs. “Looks like Leo’s getting jealous.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “Better get back before he starts plotting revenge.”

“Good idea,” Charles agrees, giving your waist one last squeeze before reluctantly pulling away.

He swims toward the yacht, reaching up to pull himself back onboard with effortless grace. Then he leans over the side, offering you his hand.

You take it, and he hauls you up easily, his arms steady around you as you find your balance on the deck.

“Not bad for a first date,” Charles teases, water dripping from his hair as he gives you a cheeky grin.

You raise an eyebrow, wringing the water from your shirt. “Is that what this is? A date?”

Charles shrugs, grinning. “It could be.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are,” he says, his smile widening.

You can’t help but laugh again, the sound carried away on the breeze as the yacht rocks gently beneath your feet. Maybe this is ridiculous. Maybe it’s spontaneous and reckless and exactly what you needed.

Either way, you’re not about to overthink it.

Not today.

***

Charles tilts the bottle of wine, filling your glass with a smooth stream of red before refilling his own. The late afternoon sun filters in through the windows, casting long, golden streaks across the hardwood floors of his apartment. The air feels easy between you two — comfortable in a way that feels new but natural, like you’ve fallen into a rhythm neither of you had to try too hard to find.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, your lyric notebook balanced in your lap, the pen twirling absently between your fingers. It’s the first time in weeks — months, really — that you’ve felt the itch to write. The pages are filled with old scribbles, half-finished ideas, and false starts, but today something feels different. There’s a spark, a sense that maybe this time it will stick.

Charles wanders back toward the couch, a glass of wine in each hand. “What are you working on?” He asks, setting your glass down on the coffee table and sliding onto the couch beside you.

You hesitate for a second, fingers tracing the edge of the notebook. “It’s … a song,” you admit softly. “Or, it’s the start of one. I haven’t written anything in a while, but now I think I’ve got something.” You chew on your bottom lip, a little shy. “I just don’t know where to take it from here.”

He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours as he peers into the open notebook. His eyes skim the lyrics you’ve scratched onto the page.

“He said, ‘Let’s get out of this town, drive out of the city, away from the crowds.’”

Charles reads it aloud, slow and thoughtful. “I like that,” he says, tapping the edge of the notebook with one finger. “It sounds like … an escape.”

You nod. “Yeah, that’s the vibe I was going for. But I don’t know what it sounds like — like, I have no idea what the melody would be.”

Charles takes another sip of his wine, studying the words for a beat longer before setting his glass down. Then, without a word, he stands up and heads over to the piano.

You blink, surprised. “What are you doing?”

He glances back at you with a small, playful smile. “Helping.”

He sits down at the piano, rolling his shoulders like he’s about to play a concert. His fingers hover just above the keys, teasing a few notes to test the sound, adjusting the weight of his hands. Then, slowly, he begins to play. The first few notes are tentative, like he’s searching for something just out of reach.

You watch, mesmerized, as he falls into the melody — soft, dreamlike chords that seem to float through the air. It’s gentle at first, and then it starts to shift, becoming something more steady, more certain. He hums along quietly, head tilted, eyes closed, as if he’s feeling his way through it.

After a few moments, he glances over at you. “What do you think so far?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you scoot closer to the piano. “It’s beautiful.”

He smiles, pleased, and keeps playing. “Come here,” he says, patting the spot on the bench beside him.

You slide onto the bench, your thigh brushing against his as you sit down. The music wraps around you like a cocoon, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. Charles’ fingers glide effortlessly over the keys, filling the room with that delicate, hopeful sound.

“Try singing what you’ve got,” he suggests, glancing at you with a look that’s both encouraging and a little mischievous. “I’ll follow your lead.”

You take a breath, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves in your chest. But there’s something about the way Charles looks at you — like he believes in you without a shred of doubt — that makes you want to try.

So you do.

“He said, ‘Let’s get out of this town, drive out of the city, away from the crowds.’”

Your voice is tentative at first, but as the melody begins to take shape beneath you, you feel yourself relax into it. The lyrics come more easily now, flowing out in a way that feels almost effortless.

“I thought heaven can’t help me now … nothing lasts forever, but this is gonna take me down.”

Charles smiles as he plays, nodding slightly to encourage you. His fingers never falter on the keys, steady and sure. The notes swell, lifting the words, giving them wings.

The next lines slip from your lips without hesitation, the music carrying you along.

“Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe …”

Charles hums the harmony under his breath, and it sends a shiver down your spine. There’s something magic in the way the song is coming together, as if the music and the words have been waiting all along for this moment — this exact combination of notes and timing and connection.

You lose yourself in the lyrics, the melody unfurling like a secret finally spoken aloud.

“Even if it’s just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha. Wildest dreams …”

The final chords linger in the air, sweet and melancholic, as your voice trails off into silence. For a moment, neither of you moves. The room feels suspended in time, like the last note of the song is still hanging between you.

Charles turns his head toward you, his gaze soft and unreadable. “That,” he says quietly, “was incredible.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the adrenaline of the song still buzzing under your skin. “It felt … right,” you whisper, almost in disbelief.

He smiles, and there’s something in his expression — something tender, something knowing — that makes your breath hitch.

Before you can think twice, Charles leans in.

His lips brush against yours, warm and careful, like a question waiting to be answered. And you answer it, leaning into the kiss with a soft sigh, your hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck.

The kiss is slow and unhurried, just like the song — like you have all the time in the world to figure out where this might go. His hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you — no fans, no cameras, no expectations. Just you and Charles and the quiet hum of something new unfolding between you.

When you finally pull back, Charles rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Wildest dreams,” he murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, your heart still racing. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Wildest dreams.”

***

The yacht rocks gently on the still water, the evening air warm and soft against your skin. The sky is a canvas of fading oranges and purples, the last light of day slipping into the night. You and Charles are seated across from each other on the yacht’s deck, surrounded by flickering candles, plates of pasta, and a bottle of wine nearly emptied between you.

Charles twirls a forkful of spaghetti, his other hand resting lazily on the table, fingers tracing circles on the wood. There’s an easy silence between you, one that has become familiar in the last few weeks — a silence that speaks more than words sometimes can. The kind where you don't feel the need to fill every gap with conversation because being together is enough.

But tonight, there’s something behind Charles’ quietness — something thoughtful, like he’s working up the courage to say what’s on his mind.

You sip your wine, watching him as he chews on his pasta and glances out at the horizon, his brows slightly furrowed. “What’s up?” You ask, sensing the shift in his mood.

He blinks, almost like you’ve caught him off guard. Then he smiles, a little nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You set your glass down and lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. “That sounds serious.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not serious, exactly. Just … something important.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

Charles exhales softly, the kind of breath you take when you’re gearing up to say something that matters. “The summer break is almost over,” he begins. “In a few days, I’ll be flying out to the Netherlands for the next race.”

You nod, trying to keep your expression neutral, even though the thought of him leaving tugs at something inside you. The past few weeks with Charles have felt like a bubble — something delicate and safe, like you’ve both been hiding from the world together. And now the bubble is about to pop.

He taps his fingers lightly against the table. “After the Dutch Grand Prix … we race in Monza. The Italian Grand Prix.”

You raise your eyebrows slightly, waiting for him to get to his point.

“It’s Ferrari’s home race,” he explains, his eyes flicking to yours. “It’s always a really special weekend for me. It’s … a lot of pressure, but also really meaningful.”

You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”

Charles shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you. “I was thinking … I’d really like it if you were there.”

The words hang in the air between you, delicate and tentative.

You blink, caught off guard. “At the race?”

He nods, studying your face carefully. “As my guest.”

There’s a long pause as you try to wrap your head around the idea. Charles at a race is a public Charles — a version of him that exists under a magnifying glass, scrutinized by cameras and fans and reporters. It’s a world that feels miles away from the quiet, private moments you’ve shared with him on his yacht or in his apartment.

Charles seems to sense your hesitation, because he adds quickly, “You wouldn’t have to interact with anyone if you didn’t want to. You’d have a VIP pass — my personal guest pass. It would get you into places the fans can’t go.”

You bite your lip, your mind racing. “Charles, I don’t know …”

“I get it,” he says softly, reaching across the table to take your hand. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, soothing and patient. “It’s a lot to ask, I know. And I don’t want to pressure you. But it would mean a lot to me if you came.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. This isn’t just about a race — it’s about you being part of something important to him.

“I don’t want to put you in a position where you feel uncomfortable,” he continues. “If it’s too much, we don’t have to do it. But … I think you’d enjoy it. And you wouldn’t be alone. I’d make sure of that.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. The idea of being surrounded by people — fans, photographers, reporters — makes your heart race with anxiety. But then there’s Charles, sitting across from you, his green eyes soft and hopeful, asking you to be there for something that matters to him.

“Would I really have a place to hide if I needed to?” You ask, your voice hesitant.

Charles nods, squeezing your hand gently. “Absolutely. There are private areas for drivers and their guests. No fans, no cameras. And if you want, I’ll introduce you to some of the other drivers — they’re good guys. But only if you want.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in your chest loosen, if only a little. “Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll come.”

Charles’ eyes light up, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine it makes your heart skip a beat. “You will?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah. I’ll come to Monza.”

Charles grins, and before you can say anything else, he’s out of his seat and leaning across the table to kiss you. It’s the kind of kiss that’s filled with gratitude and excitement, a kiss that says thank you without words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he’s still smiling, like he can’t help himself. “You’re amazing,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

You laugh softly, your cheeks warm. “I’m just coming to a race.”

“It’s more than that,” he says seriously, his hand cradling the side of your face. “It means more than you know.”

His words linger in the air between you, and you realize that saying yes to Monza wasn’t just about the race — it was about showing up for Charles, being there for him the way he’s been there for you.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another kiss, and for a moment, everything feels right.

***

The air around Monza buzzes with energy, a whirlwind of cheers, Ferrari red, and Italian pride. The grandstands are a sea of waving flags and chanting fans, their roars echoing through the paddock even after the race is over. Charles has just crossed the finish line first, and the entire circuit feels like it’s vibrating from the weight of it — Ferrari’s golden boy has won at home.

You watch the celebration unfold from the safety of the private viewing suite Charles arranged for you. From here, tucked away from the chaos, you see the team erupt in joy, mechanics and engineers throwing themselves at each other in wild celebration. The commentators’ voices, crackling over the monitors in the room, narrate Charles’ victory lap with giddy enthusiasm.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Italian Grand Prix! What a race! What a moment for Ferrari!”

You smile softly, knowing how much this means to him. Even from the suite, you can see the glint of happiness in his eyes as he climbs on top of his car, throwing his arms in the air. The crowd chants his name, the fans surging against barriers, trying to get closer to their hero. Charles punches the air and lets out a joyous roar before jumping down to embrace his team.

But your smile is tinged with anxiety. You know what comes next: endless interviews, the champagne-soaked podium, media obligations, and swarms of fans. Part of you wonders if he’ll even have a moment to breathe, let alone a moment to sneak away to find you.

You sit back, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, heart fluttering with a mix of emotions — pride, nerves, and that ever-present thread of uncertainty that’s lingered since you first said yes to coming here.

The minutes crawl by, and you try to distract yourself, fiddling with your phone and glancing every few moments at the screen broadcasting the race aftermath. Charles is still out there, getting pulled in every direction. You watch him hug mechanics, shake hands with journalists, and answer rapid-fire questions while grinning through it all.

He’s in his element. Confident, radiant, unstoppable.

But all you can think about is how much you want to see him.

Just when you’ve convinced yourself to give him space, the door to the suite creaks open — quietly, almost suspiciously — and Charles slips inside, still wearing his race suit, damp and sticky from champagne. His hair is a mess, waves clinging to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed from exertion. He smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and adrenaline, the chaotic mixture of victory.

“Charles?” You whisper, sitting up, startled. “What are you — aren’t you supposed to be-”

“Shhh,” he grins, breathless, holding a finger to his lips. “I escaped.”

He’s like a kid sneaking out of school, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Before you can say anything else, Charles strides across the room and pulls you into his arms without hesitation. You barely have time to react before his lips are on yours — urgent, warm, and full of something that feels dangerously close to gratitude and relief.

The kiss takes the breath out of you. His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer as if he needs to make sure you’re real, like victory only means something if he can share it with you.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his rapid breathing against your skin. He’s still grinning, like the joy of the win hasn’t even begun to wear off.

“You,” he murmurs between breaths, “are officially my good luck charm.”

You laugh, breathless and dizzy from the kiss. “I think your driving might’ve had something to do with it.”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours, a gleam of playful determination in them. “Nope. It was you.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest is undeniable. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple, still grinning like he can’t help himself. “But I’m right.”

Charles takes a step back, still holding your hand as if letting go might cause you to disappear. “I didn’t want to stay out there without seeing you,” he says, softer now. “I just … I wanted you here, with me, for this.”

Your heart flutters, and you don’t know what to say, so you just squeeze his hand in response.

“I don’t care about the interviews or the photos,” he continues, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. “This is what I wanted. Just this.”

You exhale a shaky breath, overwhelmed by how easy it feels with him — how natural, like you belong here despite all the noise and chaos swirling just outside this room.

He glances down at himself and grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m probably disgusting.”

“You kind of are,” you tease, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “But I’ll allow it, just this once.”

He laughs, low and soft, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans in for another kiss. This one is slower, more deliberate — like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows it’s fleeting and wants to make every second count.

When he pulls back again, there’s a flicker of something more serious in his eyes, something that makes your chest tighten. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being here. For coming.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel a lump rise in your throat. “Of course,” you manage, your voice barely audible.

Charles takes a step back, exhaling slowly as if trying to gather himself. “Come with me to my driver’s room?” He asks, a hint of that playful glint returning to his eyes. “I need to hide for a bit longer.”

You nod, smiling. “Lead the way.”

He slips his hand into yours and pulls you gently toward the door, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one’s spotted him. The halls are buzzing with activity — team members shouting, media swarming — but Charles weaves through the chaos like it’s second nature, keeping you close behind him.

When you reach his driver’s room, he ushers you inside quickly, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

“Safe,” he whispers, grinning.

You barely have time to process before he’s kissing you again, backing you gently against the wall, his hands on either side of your face. There’s a fervor to the kiss now, a kind of desperation that only comes after holding something in for too long.

When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless, your foreheads pressed together. “I told you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Good luck charm.”

You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “You really are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admits, his grin widening. “But I won in Monza, so I think I’ve earned it.”

You can’t help but smile, your heart full in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. And for the first time in what feels like forever, the chaos of the world outside doesn’t seem so overwhelming — because right here, in this stolen moment, it’s just you and Charles. And that’s enough.

***

Sunlight filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the sheets. The familiar scent of Charles — his cologne, mixed with a hint of sweat from yesterday’s excitement — wraps around you like a cocoon. His arm is slung loosely over your waist, and his chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, his breath warm against the back of your neck. It feels safe. For once, you feel like the chaos of the world can’t reach you here.

And then your phone rings.

The sharp, jarring sound slices through the quiet morning. You groan, disoriented, fumbling blindly on the nightstand until your hand closes around your phone. Charles shifts behind you, murmuring sleepily but not waking.

You squint at the screen. Grace.

Before you can think better of it, you slide your thumb across the screen and lift the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“What the hell, Y/N!” Grace’s voice cuts through the line, sharp and unrelenting. You wince, instinctively sitting up, trying not to disturb Charles as your pulse begins to race.

“What are you-”

“Don’t even start,” Grace interrupts, her tone laced with frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be out in public? Let alone at a Grand Prix? I thought you were supposed to be laying low, taking time to recover.”

Your stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”

“The pictures, Y/N!” Grace huffs. “They’re everywhere — Twitter, Instagram, even some sports blogs. You were at Monza, weren’t you?”

You blink, heart pounding now. “What pictures?”

“The ones of you in the VIP suite, for starters. And a couple from the paddock exit too — probably some fan with a long lens. They’re blurry, but it’s definitely you.”

Your throat tightens. You and Charles had been so careful — at least, you thought you had. You didn’t talk to anyone, stayed tucked away from crowds, and only left his driver’s room when the paddock had mostly cleared out. But now it’s all unraveling.

Grace’s voice barrels on, not giving you a chance to respond. “Do you realize how this looks? You’re out at public events now, so obviously you’re feeling well enough to get back to work. Your team is already asking me when we can restart your tour dates. They think-”

“Grace-”

“-they think this whole thing was just overblown. Maybe you just needed a break, but now you’re good, right? If you’re ready to attend races, you can-”

“Grace, stop!” You blurt, your voice cracking. Your head spins as the walls start closing in. The pressure, the expectations — everything feels like it’s crashing down on you all at once.

You clutch the blanket tight around you, trying to hold yourself together, but the familiar sensation of your chest tightening makes it hard to breathe. It’s happening again — your mind racing, spiraling into the panic you thought you’d escaped.

Charles stirs beside you, sitting up now, his brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice rough with sleep, but the moment he sees the look on your face, he’s wide awake.

You barely register him. Your heart pounds violently in your chest, and your breath comes in shallow gasps. Grace’s voice keeps drilling into your ear, relentless, a never-ending stream of words about tours and schedules and deadlines.

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe.

Charles sees it — he sees you unraveling — and in one smooth motion, he plucks the phone from your trembling hand and presses it to his ear.

“Y/N is busy,” he says, his voice low and firm. “She’ll call you back.”

“Wait, who is-”

Charles doesn’t let her finish. He ends the call with a click and tosses your phone onto the nightstand. Then he’s back at your side, cupping your face in his hands, his touch steady and grounding.

“Hey, hey — look at me,” Charles murmurs, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You try to nod, but the panic is clawing at your throat, making it hard to focus on anything except the tightness in your chest and the overwhelming sense of failure that threatens to swallow you whole.

“Breathe with me,” Charles whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “Come on, just like before. In, slowly … now out.”

His voice is a lifeline, pulling you out of the storm raging inside your head. You grip his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality and try to follow his lead — inhale, exhale, again and again, until the tightness in your chest begins to ease.

“That’s it,” he soothes, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “You’ve got this.”

After a few more breaths, the world starts to come back into focus. The sharp edges of panic soften, and the spinning in your head slows to a manageable hum. Charles stays close, his presence warm and steady, as if daring the panic to come back and try again.

When your breathing finally evens out, Charles shifts slightly, but he doesn’t let go of you. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You shake your head, still too raw to explain everything that just happened. But Charles doesn’t push. He just nods, his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, his brow furrowing. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

You drop your gaze, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket. “Grace thinks I’m ready to go back to everything. She thinks because I went to the race, I should be able to start working again.”

Charles’ hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together. “And what do you think?”

You swallow hard, guilt prickling at the back of your mind. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready. But what if everyone expects me to be? What if-”

“Hey,” Charles interrupts gently, tilting your chin so you have to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else expects. You don’t have to do anything until you want to. Not Grace, not your team, not anyone.”

You blink, the weight of his words sinking in. “But what if-”

“No,” he says firmly, his green eyes unwavering. “Listen to me. You are allowed to take your time. You are allowed to say no. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can deal with me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. “You’re going to fight Grace for me?”

“If I have to,” Charles says with a grin. “But I think I’d win.”

The corners of your mouth lift, a small smile breaking through the storm of emotions. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he says confidently. Then his expression softens, and he squeezes your hand. “You’ve been through a lot, mon cœur. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

You nod slowly, the knot in your chest loosening a little more. For the first time in what feels like forever, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to put yourself first.

Charles leans closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Whatever you need, I’m here. No pressure, no expectations.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, warm and comforting. And for the first time in a long while, the crushing weight of other people’s expectations lifts — just a little.

Charles shifts, pulling you gently into his arms, and you curl into him without hesitation, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a quiet reminder that you’re not alone in this.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs into your hair. “One day at a time.”

And somehow, with Charles holding you like this, you believe him.

***

The familiar opening notes of Cars play softly from the TV, the colorful animation flickering across the screen in the dim light of your apartment. You’re curled up comfortably on the couch, Leo nestled between you and Charles, his small, warm body shifting every few minutes as he tries to snuggle deeper into the cushions. He paws insistently at your hand, his tail wagging whenever you stop petting him.

Charles laughs quietly beside you, clearly amused by Leo’s persistence. “I think he likes you better than me now,” he teases, running a hand through his messy hair and leaning back against the couch.

You smile, scratching behind Leo’s floppy ears. “Maybe I just have better petting skills.”

Charles grins, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. “Unfair advantage,” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the screen as Lightning McQueen barrels into Radiator Springs.

It’s peaceful — easy, even. For the first time in a long while, the constant buzz of anxiety in your chest has quieted. Charles is beside you, Leo’s warm little body sprawled between you both, and the world outside feels far away, like it can’t touch you here.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Your heart skips a beat. You glance at Charles, who raises a brow but doesn’t seem concerned, probably assuming it’s nothing more than a delivery. Leo lets out an excited little yip and hops off the couch, his tail wagging as he scampers toward the door.

You pull your blanket tighter around yourself, feeling the familiar trickle of anxiety starting to creep back. “Did you order something?”

Charles shakes his head, giving you a curious look. “No. Were you expecting anyone?”

You frown. “No.”

Before you can think to stand or tell Charles to wait, the door swings open — without so much as an invitation — and Grace strides inside, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

“Y/N, we need to talk,” Grace announces, her tone brisk and no-nonsense. She’s balancing her phone in one hand and a folder in the other, looking like she’s just come from a meeting. “I’ve been trying to call-”

Her voice trails off mid-sentence as she looks up and takes in the scene before her — Leo skittering around the room, the two half-empty wine glasses on the coffee table, and you huddled on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie.

And then her gaze shifts to Charles.

For a split second, Grace freezes. She stares at him, her mouth opening slightly, confusion flickering across her features. Then she does a sharp double take, and her eyes widen as recognition clicks into place.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, blinking as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “You’re … you’re Charles Leclerc.”

Charles shifts slightly beside you, offering a polite but slightly awkward smile. “Uh, yes.”

Grace’s eyes flicker between the two of you, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. “You’re … here. In Y/N’s apartment.”

“Yes,” Charles repeats calmly, his tone light but cautious, as if he’s waiting to see where this is going.

You watch the realization spread across Grace’s face, her expression shifting from disbelief to something resembling stunned amusement. “Wait — are you two … together?”

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, and before you can answer — or even figure out what to say — Charles gives a small, easy shrug. “We are,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Grace blinks, visibly thrown off her game. “Since when?”

Charles glances at you, his eyes warm. “A little while now.”

There’s a beat of silence as Grace processes this new information. Then she lets out a half-laugh, half-exhale, clearly bewildered. “I mean … obviously I knew you were in Monaco, but — Charles Leclerc?” She looks at you with a mixture of shock and something close to admiration. “I guess I can’t say I saw that coming.”

Leo prances back toward the couch, demanding attention from both of you again. Charles leans down to rub the little dachshund’s head, his expression calm and unbothered, like this is the most natural situation in the world.

Grace, however, is not one to be easily distracted. She clears her throat and crosses her arms, focusing on you now. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’ve been staying under the radar all this time, but now you’re … dating a Formula 1 driver?”

You glance at Charles, who gives you a reassuring look, his hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the blanket. It’s subtle, but the touch steadies you.

“Yes,” you say quietly, meeting Grace’s gaze head-on.

For a moment, she just stares at you, as if trying to decide how to respond. Then she lets out a long breath, shaking her head. “This is … unexpected.”

Charles chuckles softly beside you, clearly amused. “That seems to be the general consensus.”

Grace narrows her eyes at him, though there’s no malice in it — just the cautious protectiveness of someone who cares deeply about you. “And you’re … serious about this?” She asks, her gaze flickering between you and Charles.

“I am,” Charles replies without hesitation. His voice is steady, sincere. “Very.”

The simplicity of his answer makes your heart squeeze in your chest. You glance at him, finding that familiar warmth in his expression — like you’re the only thing that matters to him in this moment.

Grace watches the exchange closely, her sharp gaze softening just a fraction. Then she sighs, pressing a hand to her temple. “Okay,” she mutters, almost to herself. “This is … a lot.”

You shift uncomfortably, the anxiety from earlier threatening to bubble back up. “Grace, I didn’t plan any of this,” you say quietly. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but … I’m happy. For the first time in a long time.”

Grace’s expression softens further at your words, and she lets out a slow breath. “That’s all I care about,” she admits, her voice quieter now. “I just want you to be okay.”

Charles gives her a small, understanding smile. “I want the same thing.”

For the first time since she walked in, Grace seems to relax, her shoulders loosening as she takes in the scene once more — the cozy apartment, the soft lighting, the half-finished movie on the TV, and the way Charles’ hand rests protectively on your knee.

“Well,” Grace says finally, rubbing the back of her neck. “This is … definitely not how I expected this conversation to go.”

Charles chuckles. “Life is full of surprises.”

Grace shoots him a wry look but doesn’t argue. Instead, she gives you a small, tired smile. “I guess if you’re happy … then that’s all that matters.”

You feel a weight lift off your shoulders at her words, the tension easing just a little. “I am,” you say softly, and for the first time in a long time, you truly mean it.

Grace nods, seemingly satisfied — for now, at least. “Okay, well … I guess I’ll leave you two to it, then.” She glances at Leo, who’s now sprawled dramatically across Charles’ lap. “And your dog.”

Charles grins, scratching behind Leo’s ears. “He’s good company.”

Grace rolls her eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll let myself out.”

She heads toward the door but pauses just before stepping out. “Y/N?” She calls softly.

You look up, meeting her gaze.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says sincerely. “Really.”

You offer her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Grace.”

With that, she gives you a nod and slips out the door, leaving you and Charles alone once more.

The room feels lighter now, the tension from earlier dissipating into the warm, easy atmosphere you’d shared before Grace arrived. Charles turns to you, his expression soft and amused.

“Well,” he murmurs, “that went better than I expected.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Yeah. Me too.”

Charles leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Told you — we’ll figure this out. One day at a time.”

And somehow, with him beside you, that feels like enough.

***

The Instagram Live notification pings on Nora’s phone as she sprawls across her bed, scrolling aimlessly.

@yourusername is going live now.

Her thumb hovers over the screen for a second. Nora hasn’t seen a post or update from you in months, and the gossip forums have been buzzing with wild theories — everything from burnout to secret rehab stints. It’s been radio silence since your tour abruptly ended, with no official word on what had happened.

But now you’re back? On Live? Nora’s heart races with excitement and curiosity as she taps the notification, the screen loading just in time for your face to appear.

The video is a little shaky at first, as if you’ve just propped your phone up on something last minute. You’re sitting cross-legged on a couch, wearing a cozy hoodie that looks two sizes too big and barely any makeup.

The person Nora sees looks different from the polished pop star she’s used to — more real. Your eyes flicker nervously between the camera and something off-screen, as if you’re not sure whether this is a good idea.

“Hi, everyone,” you start, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The live chat immediately explodes with greetings.

OMG SHE’S ALIVE

We missed you so much!

Are you okay? What happened?

You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Uh, I’m not really sure how to do this, but I just … I wanted to talk to you guys. To explain everything.”

The chat rolls by so fast that Nora can barely keep up, but she keeps her eyes glued to the screen, her heart thumping. This isn’t the usual PR-filtered message, it feels personal.

“I know a lot of people have been wondering where I’ve been,” you say, shifting slightly on the couch. “The truth is … I had to step away from everything for a bit. Things got really overwhelming. It wasn’t just one thing — it was a lot, all at once.”

Your voice wavers slightly, and Nora finds herself leaning closer to her phone, feeling the vulnerability in your words.

“The last few months of the tour were … hard. I started having panic attacks. At first, I thought I could push through, you know? Just keep going. But I couldn’t.” You pause, taking a deep breath as if the memories are still too close. “One night, a fan ran on stage, and something in me just … broke. I couldn’t pretend I was okay anymore.”

The chat slows slightly, the flurry of emojis replaced by supportive comments.

It’s okay, take your time.

We’re proud of you for talking about this.

We love you no matter what.

Nora can feel the wave of empathy through the screen. She has always admired you for your strength, but this — seeing you raw and open — makes her respect you even more.

“I know I kind of disappeared,” you continue. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I just needed time to figure things out … away from the cameras, the shows, everything.” You smile sadly. “And that’s why I didn’t say anything earlier. I wanted to come back when I was ready, not when someone told me I had to.”

The chat fills with heart emojis, and Nora finds herself tapping one as well, caught in the warmth of the moment.

Just then, there’s movement in the background. Someone off-screen calls your name, the sound muffled at first. The camera wobbles slightly as you turn your head.

“Hang on a sec,” you say with a small laugh, glancing toward the doorway.

The viewers — Nora included — watch with curiosity as a figure steps into the frame. A man in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he’s just woken up from a nap.

Nora’s eyes widen. Wait. No way.

It takes a second for the recognition to sink in, but when it does, the chat explodes.

WAIT IS THAT CHARLES LECLERC?

OMG WTF IT IS HIM

Y/N AND CHARLES?! HOW?!

Charles strolls into the room casually, clearly unaware that you’re on Instagram Live. Leo scampering at his feet, barking happily.

“Do you want pasta or pizza for dinner?” Charles asks, his voice soft with that unmistakable Monaco accent.

You let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I’m … I’m on Live right now,” you whisper, as if trying to warn him.

Charles blinks, his gaze shifting to the phone propped up in front of you. His eyes widen slightly, but then he gives a sheepish grin, as if to say, well, the damage is done now.

“Oh,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, everyone.”

The chat is in chaos.

CONFIRMED. THEY’RE TOGETHER.

I CAN’T BREATHE WTF

LEO FOR PRESIDENT!

Nora can’t believe what she’s seeing. Charles Leclerc — Ferrari’s golden boy, Monaco’s favorite son — standing casually in your apartment, talking about dinner like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You give him a look that’s equal parts amused and mortified. “You just outed us to the entire internet.”

Charles chuckles, completely unfazed. “Oops.”

Leo, as if sensing the excitement, jumps onto the couch beside you and wiggles his way onto your lap. You scratch behind his ears, looking between the dog, Charles, and the phone as if wondering how this all escalated so quickly.

“Well,” you say with a helpless shrug, “I guess … surprise?”

The chat is relentless now, a mix of fans freaking out, congratulating you both, and demanding answers.

HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING?

THEY’RE SO CUTE TOGETHER I CAN’T 😭

DO YOU NEED A THIRD?

Charles leans over the back of the couch, peeking at the comments on the screen. “They seem happy,” he observes, his lips twitching with amusement.

“Yeah, well, they’re also never going to let us live this down,” you mutter, but there’s no real annoyance in your voice — only fondness.

Charles smiles, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Could be worse.”

Nora can’t help but grin at the interaction. It’s rare to see celebrities in such an unguarded, domestic moment, and the fact that it’s you and Charles Leclerc makes it even more surreal.

“Well,” you say, addressing the camera again, “I guess now you know. This is Charles. Charles, meet … everyone.” You gesture vaguely at the phone, and Charles gives a small, amused wave.

“Ciao,” he says with a playful grin.

The chat is relentless with heart-eye emojis, fire emojis, and messages about how happy everyone is to see you smiling again.

“Okay,” you say, glancing between Charles and the phone, “I think that’s enough excitement for today. Thanks for listening, and … thanks for being patient with me.” Your expression softens. “It means more than you know.”

Charles leans in again. “So … pasta or pizza?” He asks quietly, his voice just for you.

You laugh, the sound light and free, as if the weight on your chest has finally lifted. “Pasta. Definitely pasta.”

With one last smile to the camera, you reach for your phone. “Okay, we’re going to make some dinner. Love you guys. Talk soon.”

And just like that, the screen goes black, leaving Nora — and the rest of the internet — in stunned, delighted disbelief.

***

The energy at the Australian Grand Prix is electric, a swirling mass of noise, speed, and anticipation. The grandstands vibrate with thousands of cheering fans, the scent of burnt rubber and adrenaline thick in the air. It’s the first race of the season, and the world’s eyes are locked onto Melbourne’s Albert Park Circuit. But right now, all you can focus on is Charles.

You stand behind the barrier with the Ferrari team, the red-clad crew surrounding you as they watch the final lap on a sea of screens. Your heart thunders in your chest, each corner of the circuit feeling like a heartbeat skipped. It’s not just nerves — it’s pride, excitement, and a flicker of disbelief. Charles is about to win. The lead he built throughout the race holds steady as he tears through the last straight, the commentators’ voices booming through the loudspeakers, growing more frenzied.

“Charles Leclerc comes through the final corner … and wins the Australian Grand Prix!”

The Ferrari pit wall explodes into wild cheers. Engineers and crew members throw their arms in the air, shouting and hugging each other. Flags whip through the air, and the roar from the grandstands becomes deafening. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your hands clutched together, knuckles white with tension.

“He did it!” Someone from the team shouts beside you, their voice almost drowned out by the collective noise.

You can’t help but laugh, a giddy, breathless sound that surprises even you. There’s something surreal about witnessing it all — seeing Charles cross the finish line and knowing how much this win means to him. It’s the perfect start to his season, and part of you is so proud that you feel like you might burst.

Charles brings his Ferrari to a screeching stop in parc fermé, right beside the boards marked P1. Without missing a beat, he jumps out of the car, tearing off his helmet as the crowd erupts again. His face is flushed with triumph, damp with sweat, and his grin stretches wide, full of unbridled joy. He climbs onto the nose of the car, throwing his arms in the air to soak in the cheers and applause.

You feel your chest swell, warmth blooming from within at the sight of him — your Charles, victorious, on top of the world.

Then it happens.

He jumps down from the car, his eyes searching the crowd. He’s supposed to go be weighed in. The cameras are supposed to be on him for the formal celebrations. But Charles doesn’t care about any of that. As soon as his gaze locks onto you, standing among the throng of Ferrari team members, everything else fades for him.

He takes off running.

“Wait-” someone from the team starts to say, confused by Charles’ sudden sprint.

You freeze as he barrels toward the barrier, helmet still in one hand, the other hand brushing through his tousled hair. Your heart slams against your ribs as you realize what he’s about to do.

“Charles-” you start, but it’s too late.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. In front of everyone — Ferrari, journalists, FIA officials — Charles sprints towards the barrier in a few smooth steps, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. And before you can even react, he’s cupping your face with both hands and kissing you.

The world falls away.

The crowd’s noise becomes a distant hum as Charles’ lips press against yours, firm and desperate, like he’s been waiting all race to get to you. His hands hold your face as if he never wants to let go, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. The kiss is everything — celebratory, intense, and filled with a raw kind of joy that makes your knees weak.

For a moment, you forget where you are. All you know is Charles — his familiar scent, the roughness of his jaw, and the way his lips move against yours, like he’s trying to pour every bit of emotion into this one moment. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands gripping the front of his race suit, pulling him closer.

When you finally pull back, breathless, Charles’ forehead rests against yours. His grin is impossibly bright, and the look in his eyes makes your heart flip.

“Hi,” he whispers, his voice low and full of laughter, like he can’t believe he’s standing here with you after all of it.

You laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Hi.”

Around you, the team starts cheering again, even louder this time. Someone whistles, and another engineer yells, “That’s our boy!” as if Charles’ kiss is part of the victory itself.

It’s then that you realize what just happened. You glance over Charles’ shoulder and catch sight of the cameras — the journalists on the other side of the barrier, the fans in the grandstands with their phones raised. The internet is about to explode.

“Charles,” you murmur, half-laughing, half-panicking, “everyone saw that.”

“I know,” he says, his grin widening. He doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Let them.”

You shake your head, but a laugh escapes you anyway. There’s no point in worrying about it now. The moment has already happened, and — surprisingly — you don’t regret it.

Charles pulls you into another hug, squeezing you tight against him. His suit is thoroughly damp with sweat, but you don’t care. All you care about is the way he holds you, the way he whispers, “Thank you for being here,” against your hair.

“You didn’t make it easy to say no,” you tease, your words muffled against his chest.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know me. I never play fair.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His green eyes are warm and shining with happiness, and for a second, everything feels perfect. The noise, the cameras, the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just the two of you standing together in the aftermath of his victory.

Someone from Ferrari taps Charles on the shoulder, reminding him that he still has obligations to do. He groans, clearly reluctant to leave your side, but you give him a gentle nudge.

“Go,” you whisper. “I’ll be right here.”

He kisses you one more time, quick and soft, before finally turning toward the waiting media. As he jogs back down the pit lane, the crowd cheers even louder, the energy electric with both victory and the revelation of your relationship.

You stand behind the barrier, watching as Charles throws his arms around his team and gets swept into the celebrations. A part of you knows that the media frenzy is only just beginning — that by the time you check your phone, social media will be ablaze with photos and speculation.

But for now, none of that matters. All that matters is the way Charles looked at you, like you were the most important person in the world.

And as the Monegasque anthem plays over the speakers and champagne sprays into the air, you smile, knowing that this — this moment — is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

The stadium hums with anticipation, a low buzz of excitement rippling through the crowd as thousands of fans fill every seat. The lights are dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of phones peppering the darkness. It’s been well over two years since you last stood on a stage, and tonight marks the beginning of your long-awaited comeback tour.

Your heart thrums in your chest — not from nerves, but from exhilaration. This is the moment you’ve dreamed of, the one you thought might never come.

Backstage, you take a deep breath. The setlist is memorized, the band is ready, and the stage awaits. But there’s one song you’ve kept secret until tonight. One that means more to you than anything you’ve ever written. And Charles — your Charles — is somewhere in the audience, waiting to hear it for the first time.

The stage manager gives you a nod, signaling it’s time. The lights drop completely, plunging the arena into black, and the crowd erupts into cheers. You walk onto the stage, the soles of your boots vibrating against the platform as the energy of thousands of voices surrounds you. You step into the spotlight as the first few notes hum through the speakers.

The crowd’s roar crescendos as they finally see you, and you offer them a soft smile. Then you lean toward the microphone, your voice amplified but intimate, as if speaking to an old friend.

“New York,” you begin, grinning as the crowd cheers even louder at the mention of the city’s name. “Thank you for being here with me tonight. I’ve waited a long time for this moment, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be back on this stage.”

The crowd roars, chanting your name, the sound enveloping you like a warm embrace. You pause for a beat, your hand resting lightly on the mic stand. “For those of you who’ve been with me from the beginning … you know it hasn’t been an easy road. But here we are, and I feel more alive than I ever have.”

A wave of cheers crashes over you again, and you feel your heart swell in gratitude.

“Tonight,” you continue, a mischievous glint in your eye, “I want to do something a little special. I’ve got a song — one you’ve never heard before. I wrote it for someone very important to me.” You pause, your gaze sweeping over the crowd, imagining Charles out there somewhere, hidden among the sea of faces. “This one’s called The Alchemy.”

The arena erupts into applause and whistles, the fans feeding off your excitement. The band strikes up the first few chords, a shimmering pulse of sound that builds slowly. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the rhythm settle in your chest. And then you start to sing.

“This happens once every few lifetimes. These chemicals hit me like white wine …”

Your voice is clear and powerful, carrying through the stadium with ease. The crowd sways along, captivated by the song even though they’ve never heard it before. The verses flow effortlessly, the words spilling from your heart as if they were written only yesterday.

“What if I told you I'm back? The hospital was a drag. Worst sleep that I ever had …”

The memory of those dark months flashes briefly in your mind, but you push it away. That’s not where you live anymore. This song isn’t about what you lost — it’s about what you found.

As the music builds, your thoughts drift toward Charles, and a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth as you reach the next verse.

“So when I touch down, call the amateurs and cut ‘em from the team. Ditch the clowns, get the crown. Baby I’m the one to beat …”

The crowd catches onto the energy, cheering as if they know exactly who you’re singing about. And then, at last, you reach the line that you’ve been holding close to your heart since the day you wrote it — the line meant just for Charles.

“Where's the trophy? He just comes runnin’ over to me …”

The audience erupts, but you barely hear them. You can only picture Charles, the memory of him bounding over the barriers in Melbourne, high off a win and still drenched in sweat, just to kiss you in front of everyone. That moment plays like a movie in your mind, the emotion of it surging through your voice as you sing.

The song carries on, the lyrics unfolding like pages in a story — your story. The fans are swaying, waving their arms in time with the music, some already singing along despite hearing the song for the first time. You feel weightless, completely immersed in the moment, knowing that Charles is somewhere out there, listening.

As you belt out the final chorus, the band swells around you, lifting the song to its peak.

“Cause the sign on your heart said it’s still reserved for me …”

Your voice soars over the crowd, and when you sing the final line, your heart feels like it might burst.

“Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?”

The song ends, the last note lingering in the air before the crowd explodes into applause. The stadium feels alive, vibrating with energy, and for a moment, you just stand there, basking in it. This is what you missed — the connection, the joy, the sense of belonging.

You step back from the mic, catching your breath, and glance toward the side of the stage. There, just out of sight from the audience, you spot Charles. His arms are crossed over his chest, a proud grin stretching across his face, and his eyes gleam with something that looks a lot like love.

You give him a small, almost shy smile, and he mouths the words, “I love you.” Your heart swells, and for a second, everything else fades — the lights, the noise, the crowd. It’s just you and Charles, exactly where you’re meant to be.

Turning back to the audience, you grin and raise a hand in the air. “Thank you, New York!” You shout into the mic, and the crowd roars in response.

You can feel it in your bones — this is just the beginning. The tour, the music, the life you’ve rebuilt. And Charles will be with you every step of the way.

As the next song begins and the crowd’s cheers grow louder, you glance toward the wings again. Charles is still standing there, watching you with that same proud, loving smile.

And you know, without a doubt, that the alchemy between you two is something no one could ever fight.

[p1astr81]

Trying to beat best friend lando at the racing sims by sitting on oscars lap so he can do the pedals and him getting hard mid game

so I may have gotten a bit carried away… smut!! you’re responsible for the content you consume!! dom!reader (if you squint), sub!oscar (if you squint), oral (m!receiving), semi public sex

“Ugh! It’s not fair! This is your job!” You complain, having been beaten by Lando for the third time on the sim.

He brought you to the mtc, wanting to give you a tour. You’ve now spent more than an hour racing each other on the development sims.

Lando laughed. “Sorry, I’m just better than you.”

“I can steer. I just can’t get the breaking points right.” You grumble, slumping into the seat with your arms crossed.

“Wanna go again?” He asked.

You thought for a moment. Then an idea popped in your head. You smirked. “Yeah, but I’ll be back.”

Lando expected you to be gone for a couple minutes, not ten. And he certainly didn’t expect to see Oscar trailing in the room behind you.

“Alright what are you up to?” Lando asked impatiently.

Beaming, your eyes drifted from Oscar to Lando. “Your very nice teammate has agreed to help me beat you.” You laid a hand on his bicep.

“He can’t race for you! That’s cheating.”

You frowned. Then, “okay. So he does the pedals and I do the steering.” You shrugged, peering up at Oscar for confirmation.

He blinked, hesitant to agree knowing that would mean you’d be sat on his lap. It was risky. He already had a thing for you. But it also meant you’d be close to him. And it meant making you happy.

So he agreed.

“Perfect!” You cheered and Lando rolled his eyes.

You let Oscar get situated before finding your seat on his lap. “Can you see?” You twisted over your shoulder to ask.

Your faces were too close. Your hair smelt too good. The heat of your body as you back was pressed against his chest was impossible to ignore. He swallowed nervously and nodded.

Try as he might, he realized a couple laps in that his task was going to be very difficult. You squirmed in his lap with every turn you made, leaning with the wheel. He tried so, so hard to tune it out.

Focus on the pedals. Focus on the pedals. Focus on the pedals. He told himself over and over again.

But it didn’t help. The stimulation was too much. He felt his dick get harder and harder with every movement you made. And he could do nothing but wish on the stars above that you couldn’t feel it.

Eventually, he held your hips in place, fearing he’d cum in his jeans if you continued to squirm. “Try not to move so much. You’ll have more control if you stay in one place.” He told you. Not a full lie, but definitely a coverup.

And thank god, you listened.

You lost, again. But not by much. Only by two seconds instead of twenty seconds.

“Hey, we don’t make a bad team.” You laughed, a hand clasped around his bicep. “Yeah.” He laughed, slightly breathless.

When you got off his lap, your ass cruelly brushed against the bulge in his pants. He bit back a gasp, coughing instead. “I’ve got to meet Tom. I’ll see you guys.” He waved, leaving the room as fast as he could.

“Oh,” you frowned. “He forgot his water bottle.” You plucked it from where it sat on the ground next to the sim rig, following him out to the hallway.

He heard you call after him and cursed under his breath. He played it cool, smiling.

The water bottle was held out to him. “You forgot his.” Your face was accented with a mischievous smirk. He took the bottle from your hands, muttering a thanks. “Oh and uhm,” you called again when he started to walk away. You closed the gap again, dropping your voice. “Sorry for that problem I’ve caused you.”

Heat pooled up his neck and colored his face a dark crimson. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to happen. I hope you’re not upset. I just-“

“Don’t worry, it’s natural, isn’t it?” You cut him off, laughing. “But you’ve also got the same affect on me.” You told him, your seductive voice rushing more of his blood down south. You took a step forward. “You know…” you started, taking another step. “I can make up an excuse.” Another step. “Tell him I’m tired.” Step. “Or hungry.” Step. “And you could… take me home.” And step. You were directly in front of him now, almost touching, batting your lashes up at him.

He faced the ceiling, not believing his eyes nor his ears. “Oh, fuck.” He whispered.

You giggled. “If that’s what you want.”

He hesitated, and then, “shouldn’t I take you to dinner first?”

Smiling, you shook your head. “Your mother raised you right, but no, you don’t have to.”

He paused. “But can I?”

Your smiled brightened, and you turned back in the direction of the sim room. “Wait for me!” You called back.

“Hey, I’m kinda hungry and I know you’ve still got something with Zak so Oscar’s just gonna take me home.” You told Lando. He had no reason to suspect anything, not when your smile was so innocent.

He shrugged. “Thats fine. Tell him I said thanks.”

You bit back a laugh. “Will do.”

Oscar’s car was nice, like Lando’s but with cushier seats. “I did it on purpose.” You confessed. His brows shot up, eyes widened. “Well, not at first. But when I felt how hard you were against my ass and heard how hard you were trying not to make any noise… I couldn’t help but tease you a little—push you to see if you’d slip up.”

He breathed out, an attempt at a laugh. He was in disbelief. “I underestimated you.”

“As did I. I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

“I meant I underestimated your innocence.”

You grinned. “Turn left up here.”

His brows furrowed. “But that’s-“

“Just turn left.” You chuckled.

He did as you told. “You listen so well.” You teased, a hand finding his thigh. His breath hitched. “Can I tell you something?” You asked after a moment. He nodded. “I always thought you were handsome.” Your hand trailed up his torso, feeling his abs tense. “With this hair,” you ran a hand through the messy strands. “and all your freckles,” your hand cupped his cheek, running your thumb over his cheekbones. “and this jawline.” You traced it with a finger before placing a kiss to it. Pink lipgloss was left in place of your lips. You smiled at the sight.

“You’re very distracting.” His voice was uneven, and the strain of his pants was getting more uncomfortable by the second.

You continued kissing down his neck. “Am I?”

“Yes.” You felt the vibration of his voice against your lips.

“So find a place to pull over.”

The area was secluded, lying outside of the city. He pulled the car into some parking lot in front of the football fields, far from the main street and secluded by tall grass planes. He shut the car off, cutting the headlights.

You wasted no time in freeing his dick from his pants. “You wanted me this bad?” You teased with an evil grin. He nodded, not caring how desperate it looked. Not when your hand was wrapped around the base of his cock.

You didn’t even need anything extra, his cock was already slick with pre-cum, making it easy for your hand to give him tantalizingly slow strokes.

He bucked up into your hand, his head thrown back. “Shit, please,” he gasped.

“Hm? Please what Osc? You’ll have to be more specific. I’m not a mind reader.” You chuckled cruelly, fully knowing what you were doing to him. The sight of him losing himself just from your hand was making you dizzy.

He groaned, hands balled into fists. “Please, suck me off or just… anything! Please, oh fuck! Please!” He gasped as your strokes sped up.

“You want my mouth on you?”

“Yes! Please, baby!”

You pouted, feigning sympathy, and kissed his cheek. “Since you asked so nicely…”

“Ah! Yes!” He moaned as he felt your lips wrap around his lip, tongue darting out to lick up the underside of his cock.

You sunk deeper and deeper on him, earning louder moans and groans with each inch. If anyone where around, they’d surely hear them from outside the car.

“Oh fuck, you’re perfect.” He praised, bucking his hips into your mouth to hear you gag around his length.

You continued to suck him off, cheeks hollowing around the length of him, your tongue continuing to run along the underside. “You’re- hmm, ah! Shit!” He whined when your hand went to play with his balls, whatever way he was going to praise you flying out the window.

His hand settled on the back of your head, tangling in the strands. He didn’t do anything, though. No pushing or directing the frequency at which you were sucking him off. It was just there, perhaps so he could feel at least a little in control.

When his moans turned to whines, you knew he was close. He confirmed as much with a desperate, “‘m gonna cum!” Followed by thick ropes shooting down your throat. You swallowed every drop.

He slumped against the seat, breathing heavy while looking at you like you were a slice of his favorite cake.

“How about that dinner and then I’ll take you back to mine for dessert?”

[antiwhores]

Rough and Fragile -

Bakugou x reader

Content: rough sex (hair pulling, biting, spanking, etc), SMUT!

Bakugou has fantasies of how aggressive he’d fuck you. The only problem is that he doesn’t want to hurt you… but what if you wanted to be hurt?

——

Its really hard for Bakugou to hold back for the first few times he fucks you.

Well, “fucks you” is an incorrect way to put it. It’s slow sex. Society would call it “making love”. It’s difficult to understand. Fucking can mean making love, but it can also mean just… fucking? Making love can mean fucking but it also means it’s filled with love.

That doesn’t too much matter to him. The only thing that matters is that he doesn’t hurt you.

Bakugou is, as we all know, a strong man. You, being a regular and not physically trained individual, are delicate to him. He sees you as fragile. He doesn’t want to break the most important part of his life.

That means that he has to hold back his urges to pull your hair, slam into you rough, slap your ass, bite you, and overall leave marks on your skin. He knows that it’s fucked up that he wants to hurt you. That’s why he doesn’t. And if that’s what it takes to keep you, then he’s willing to keep himself in check for the rest of his life.

But fuck, it’s probably the hardest thing he’s ever done.

He grits his teeth as he carefully moves his hips to connect with your pussy. His strokes are calculated, careful not to scare you but not careful enough to make it seem like he’s holding back.

It’s been a particularly hard day for him. His day off alined with yours so he got to wake up next to you. It was hard to leave you to go indulge in his morning workout. He had gotten back anxious to touch you. Busy schedules made sex impossible.

Due to his terrible luck, you were gone when he got back. He now remembers that you had to go grab some groceries with your spare time. You could’ve at least took him with you!

The day was full of turns of events. He waited for you to come back but eventually got bored. He took a quick walk around the neighborhood and when he got back you were in the shower. Just before you got out, he got a call from his agency reminding him of his schedule tomorrow. He got off the phone fifteen minutes later and immediately rushed to the bedroom to see you. You were in the bed snoring. He sighed and went to take a shower too since he was caked in sweat from his work out. He got out thirty minutes later to an empty bed. Turns out you had gone to get some soil for the plants.

When you two finally saw each other, it didn’t take long before you were below him.

He catches himself gripping you too hard due to a squeeze of your walls. He had to slow down, taking deep breaths in hopes to calm himself.

Unfortunately, today had him pent up to where he was loosing control.

He didn’t even notice when his hand had gripped your hair and pulled. He buried his face into your neck and started to speed up. He grabbed your hips and let off little pops from his palms. The smell of you distracted him from his vows. He was climbing his high better than ever before.

He finally snapped out of it when he felt your hands scrape his back. He stilled, his heart dropping.

It was over. Now you’d be scared of him and never talk to him again. His awful fantasies will drive you to move on to a guy that doesn’t want to hurt you while fucking you hard.

He hesitated while trying to find the proper words to apologize. You spoke first.

“What’s wrong?”

He was stunned. You weren’t freaked out?

“I just…”

He grit his teeth at his voice. He sounded desperate, whiny.

“Why’d you stop? Did I do something?”

The anxious look on your face wasn’t directed towards him, but to yourself. You had thought that you hadn’t reacted good enough. Were you not supposed to moan as loud as you did? Were you even supposed to like it?

“What? No. I just-“

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird-“

“You weren’t weird! It’s my fault. I just lost control.”

Your face fixed into a puzzled expression.

“What?”

He sighed.

“I want to hurt you. I want to fuck you rough, handle you rough. I don’t know why. I just want to ruin your hair and make marks all over your body. I’ve been holding back because I don’t want to see you in more pain than pleasure. I promise to never do it again if you give me another chance. I’m sorry, y/n.”

He was prepared for you to push him off. He looked for the inevitable terrified expression. A wince left him when you removed your hands for his shoulders.

He wasn’t expecting you to cup his face in your palms. You gently kiss his nose, your fingers trailing to glide down his abdomen.

“What if I want to be hurt?”

He doesn’t much remember what happened after that. He figures that he pounced on you, fucking you as rough as he’d dreamed of.

Your moans were louder than ever before. You were restrained by your wrists with his right hand. The other one pulled brutally at your hair. His cock abused your hole, ensuring you’d have a hard time walking tomorrow.

Every thrust had him gritting his teeth whilst your eyes fluttered. He unrestrained your hands while his travelled down to your ass, giving it a good slap. You moaned in confirmation so he slapped you again, this time adding some sparks.

Your nails dragged against his skin, surely leaving red marks. He’s never felt better, you agreed completely. You begged for him as you felt your high approaching. He felt his too, getting rougher by the second.

You let out a drawn out whine as you came, fingers pulling at his hair. The tightness of your orgasm against his cock immediately hit him with his own. He was attacked so suddenly that he had to bite into your shoulder to cope with the intense pleasure. A groan came from deep inside his chest as he filled your hole with cum.

His shaking stopped just after yours. He let the tension go when you relaxed. He felt the taste of iron in his mouth from the bite. Licking his lips with a smirk, he asked a question he already knew the answer to.

“Too rough for ya?”

You looked up at him with stars in your eyes.

“I can take whatever you give me and you know it!”

You weren’t the fragile girl he thought you were.

[gaykarstaagforever]

YouTube has this thing now called YouTube Playables (great name as usual, guys; it's not a children's snack pack), that are basically in-app "Flash games"-style things that are just enough game to keep you watching ads.

The ones of these that aren't direct ripoffs of owned IP (very specifically Zuma) are barebones exercises in that bog-standard FTP addictive mobile gaming loop we all know and hate but also LOVE, minus the in-app purchases (for the time being). Like, shallow systems that are fun for exactly 30 minutes, then get stupidly hard so you'll pay to win, though you can't do that yet, so...kind of pointless.

...I still spent FOUR HOURS playing these, because they tapped into my primitive lizard brain's desire to try and master an utterly meaningless task and then feel undooly smug about it.

I didn't get any ads, because I'm a stooge that pays real money to Google every month for this, because once you go adless, you CANNOT go back. Which kind of negates the whole point of these, as addictive time-wasters that keep you glued to the platform and its commercials? But I already pay for YouTube and STILL got caught in these, so I suppose everything is going according to YouTube's plan either way, and I need meaningful human relationships.

But THAT isn't going to happen any time soon! So let me waste another evening on these by reviewing some crap garbage games for idiots that no one cares about, on Tumblr dot com!

1. Totemia: Cursed Marbles

It's Zuma. That's it. With a couple minor tweaks that make it harder and more annoying.

Just license Zuma, YouTube. I think you can afford the, what, $25 that would cost atm?

2. Sword Play

An on-rails sword slashing game (you don't control the movement, just the slashing), and you kill plastic doll guys before they kill you.

At some point they get projectiles that move really fast, that you can only destroy via specific directional QTEs that don't register properly half the time, because this is all relative finger smearing across the screen.

It was fun before that. The guys fall apart specific to how you slash them. That's something.

3. Dessert DIY

This one sucks. You're just picking from very limited options, then doing specific motions to trigger animations that create desserts that don't even look much like the promo art. People request different things, but early game all they ask for is "whatever you want to make" and "do one out of poop with bugs on it to make someone I hate throw up."

And then there's an animation of someone accepting what is obviously poop with bugs on it from their sworn enemy, they eat it anyway, then vomit.

The only fun part about this is the shameless inclusion of NPCs that look like celebrities, specifically Billie Eilish, Kanye West, and Donald Trump.

If you want to make a poop ice cream cone with bugs on it and feed it to Trump until he vomits all over his desk, this is the game for you. Otherwise, this is meh even for one of these meh games.

4. Bowmasters

Dueling Angry Birds, but you have no control of the camera and it focuses on you so you have to trial-and-error the degree of angle and throwing force to figure out how to hit and kill your opponent before they hit and kill you.

There are many colorful pop culture-inspired combatants to unlock, with a huge variety of projectiles of different weights, sizes, and behaviors. This is the most "very nearly a real, good game" one of these.

...Except that the level progression forces you to do Bonus Rounds, and one of those is "knock fruit off the head of an opponent without hitting them, and you have to do this like 5 times in a row, and we move you further away from them another 30 yards every round, and you have to use a wildly different unique projectile every round, and you get 3 chances, and that includes if you miss entirely."

It is basically impossible to do this, because your ever-changing location makes calculating arcs and force, with the ever-changing projectiles, impossible, in this limited amount of attempts. It turns into grinding it out until RNG randomly makes you win.

Which is a shame, because otherwise, this is fun. But you WILL get stuck on a stupid fruit round and stop playing this.

5. Mob Control

You have a cannon that launches blue guys. The NPC opponent does red. You both are trying to bumrush the other's base, taking advantage of buttons and switches and bonus gates that speed you up or slow you down and multiply your number of guys. Guys annihilate each-other when they run into each-other, so you need to overwhelm Red before they overwhelm you.

It's fun until it gets so fast that it becomes a chore to manage where precisely to launch guys specifically to annihilate other guys.

6. Merge Master

This goddamn game. This was 3.5 hours of my 4 hour playtime.

You have a grid board, with you at the bottom and an opponent at the top. You both have an army of warriors and dinosaurs, and a team HP bar. You click go, the warriors fire projectiles and the dinosaurs melee the nearest enemy, and last man standing wins.

Before each round, you can arrange the placement of your army, and use money you won from the last rounds to buy more warriors and dinosaurs. But the kicker is, you can combine like warriors and dinosaurs to make more powerful units, which you keep at the end of every round. They don't gain XP or anything, but as you make more money, you can buy more 1st-level units (that's all you can buy), and gradually combine them and then combine the combinations, and on and on and on, making incredibly powerful new units. And you need a mix of low-level and high-level units to have enough melee dinosaurs and projectile-throwers to overwhelm high-level enemy units, or draw fire away from your own, against the ever-changing enemy army each round.

It's a process of slowly adding more units and combining them to make stronger and stronger units, and as many of them as you can get, accounting for the limited board space. Also the price of units rises exponentially each round, so you may have 1 trillion gold, but at this point a new 1st-level dinosaur costs 245 billion.

I couldn't stop with this. It just got me. I wanted to see new exciting high-level warriors and dinosaurs, and see how fast I could take the other army down. There's more than zero strategy at work here, and battles can vary substantially from round to round, depending on what mix of units the enemy brings to the board.

It's still a rudimentary Flash-esque game, and very much akin to those shitty mobile boss rush games that raid our shadow legends. But it's not PTW yet, and the graphics are a charming and distorted replica of early 2000s 3D games, like Age of Mythology or GTA 3. It felt like something, for awhile.

It isn't, and I wasted valuable battery charge on this stupid shit. But I was having fun. And sometimes, that's enough.

...And posting about it here. It's something to talk about that isn't the world eating itself.

And we all need that sometimes.

[mssalo]

dirty old man - sleeping

In the quiet of the night, Joel can’t resist the temptation to have you just as you are - sleeping, warm, and all his to use. By morning, you’re eager to give back, slipping under the sheets to wake him up with your sweet mouth, proving that sometimes, the best dreams are the ones you wake up to.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, somnophilia, age gap, caretaker f!reader, Joel is a perverted old man (imagined age 60-70), reader in her 20s, DDLG dynamic, daddy kink, consensual somnophilia, intense possessiveness, penetrative sex, p in v sex, cuming inside, oral (male receiving), dirty talk, power dynamics, and themes of control, degradation, size difference, explicit sexual content, Joel having to pop some pills to keep up with reader bc hes an oldie

more dirty old man in masterlist

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

It was the dead of night, and a profound stillness blanketed the world outside, making it feel as though you and Joel were the only two souls in existence.

He lay beside you, his warm body pressed against yours, a comforting presence that filled the space between you. His hand rested on your thigh under the covers, the gentle weight of it stirring a heat within you even in your deep slumber.

Hours had slipped by since you had drifted off, lost in dreams, while Joel remained wide awake, his thoughts consumed by a singular focus: you. Every gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed, captivated him.

You had unknowingly spent the day teasing him, your playful glances and lingering touches igniting a simmering desire that he found impossible to ignore.

As he lay there, his dark eyes roamed over your peaceful face, memorizing every detail—the soft curve of your cheek, the way your hair fell across your forehead. So damn pretty.

It was a temptation that felt like a potent spell, pulling him closer to the edge of something he craved deeply. The urge to wake you, to make you aware of his need, pulsed through him, igniting a fire that flickered in the pit of his stomach.

With deliberate slowness, his fingers began to explore your thigh, inching higher, savoring the softness of your skin beneath his touch.

The intimacy of the moment was electric, every subtle movement charged with anticipation. He knew you were his, entirely and completely, and the thrill of that realization made his heart race. The way you teased him without even knowing it had awakened a hunger in him, one that demanded to be satisfied.

Tonight, there would be no holding back.

His hand slowly slid higher up your thigh, grazing the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath it.

You weren’t wearing anything underneath, just like he like - easy access, always ready for him.

He let out a quiet groan, feeling the slickness between your legs, even in your sleep. His cock twitched at the thought, already hardening against your backside as he pressed himself closer.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered low in your ear, his voice thick with need. “Even in your sleep, you’re ready for daddy, huh?”

You stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake up.

Joel grinned to himself, his fingers slipping between your folds, spreading your wetness as he teased you gently.

He loved this—having you completely at his mercy, knowing you were his to take whenever he wanted.

“You know what daddy wants, hm, sweet girl?” he whispered, his voice dripping with lust. “Gonna fuck you nice and slow, baby. Show you how much I need this sweet little pussy.”

You mumbled something incoherent, half-asleep, but your body responded instinctively, shifting toward his touch.

Joel took that as all the permission he needed. He reached down, positioning his hard cock at your entrance, pressing the tip against your slick folds.

“That’s it,” he muttered, pushing inside you inch by inch, groaning at the feeling of your tight, warm walls enveloping him. “So fuckin’ tight, - even in your sleep.”

Your body tensed for a moment, adjusting to the sudden fullness, but soon you relaxed, letting out a soft whimper as Joel started to move. He kept his pace slow, dragging his cock in and out of you, savoring the way your body clenched around him.

You were still half-asleep, your breathing deep and even, but the pleasure was unmistakable.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby,” Joel growled, his hips pressing against yours as he buried himself deeper inside you. “Always so fuckin’ good for daddy, even when you don’t know it.”

He thrust into you slowly, his hand gripping your hip to hold you in place.

You whimpered again, your body stirring as the pleasure built inside you, even in your sleepy state. Joel smirked, loving how easily he could turn you on, how quickly you responded to him.

“You love this, hm?” he teased, his voice low and filthy. “Love bein’ daddy’s little fucktoy, lettin’ me fuck you whenever I want. "- always so ready for it, sweet one.”

His dirty words sent a shiver through you, even in your haze of sleep. You moaned softly, your hips moving against him, and Joel chuckled darkly, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“that's my little girl,” he murmured, his voice softening just a bit as he slowed his thrusts. “Daddy’s gonna make you cum, just like always. - gonna fill you up so good, baby. 'You need that, don’t ya? Old man cum inside your sweet cunt?”

You moaned softly, barely able to form words, but Joel didn’t need a response. He kept thrusting into you, his pace picking up just enough to push you closer to the edge. Your body trembled, the pleasure building inside you, and before you knew it, you were coming undone around him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel groaned as your walls clenched around his cock, milking him for all he was worth. “That’s it, come for daddy. Let me feel how much you love this.”

He fucked you through your orgasm, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. You were barely conscious, your body limp against him, but Joel didn’t care. He loved having you like this—completely at his mercy, his to use however he wanted.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he growled, his hips slamming into yours as he finally reached his climax.

He buried himself deep inside you, groaning as he filled you with his release, his cock twitching as he emptied himself into you.

For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of Joel as he held you close. He stayed inside you, his cock softening as he pressed kisses to your neck. And lastly to your soft lips.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” he whispered, his voice softening as he stroked your hair. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

And as you drifted back into a deeper sleep, you couldn’t help but smile.

· · ────

The morning sun was barely creeping through the curtains when you woke, the soft rays painting the room in a gentle light.

Joel was still fast asleep beside you, his chest rising and falling steadily, a peaceful expression on his face. But as you lay there, the memories of last night flooded your mind—his hands gripping your hips, his filthy words in your ear, the way he used your body like he owned it.

The thought of it sent a familiar heat coursing through your veins. You couldn’t help yourself. You needed him again.

Carefully, you slid under the covers, moving quietly so as not to wake him just yet.

Your lips brushed against the soft skin of his stomach, trailing lower until you reached his cock. He was soft, but the weight of him in your hand made your heart race.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, sucking gently, savoring the taste of him.

Joel stirred slightly, but he didn’t wake. Not yet.

You smiled to yourself, your mouth sliding further down his length as you began to suck him off, slow and deliberate. The heat between your legs was already growing, the memory of how he fucked you last night playing over and over in your mind.

You couldn’t get enough of him—could never get enough.

As you worked him deeper into your mouth, you felt him begin to harden, his cock swelling between your lips.

His breathing changed, a soft groan escaping his throat as he slowly woke up to the sensation.

“Mmm… what’re you doin’ down there, sweet girl?” Joel’s voice was rough with sleep, but there was a smile in it too. His hand found your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he finally opened his eyes, looking down at you with that familiar hunger.

You leaned forward, the soft graze of your lips against his skin lingering as you looked up at him with a playful gleam in your eye.

“Thought I’d remind you of last night, daddy” you murmured, your voice dripping with mischief, heat in every syllable. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how good you fucked me.”

A rough groan tore from Joel’s chest, his fingers tightening in your hair, his hips pushing up slightly, his cock heavy and throbbing under your touch.

“Knew I’d spoil you too good,” he muttered, the edges of his voice low and gravelly, thick with lust. “Spoiled from Daddy’s cock, huh? Look at you. Young thing, just desperate for it…”

You only hummed in response, eyes darkening as you took him back into your mouth, feeling the weight and warmth of him press against your tongue.

You let him feel every inch of your attention, the way you circled your tongue around the head, teasing the sensitive skin there before sinking lower, deeper, lips sliding slowly down his shaft.

His rough breaths filled the air as you worked him over, and the steady beat of his pulse against your tongue was just as intoxicating as the groans slipping from his lips.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction, his hand guiding you further down his length, pushing you to take him deeper.

“Suck me like that, sweetheart. Just like that.” The words only spurred you on, adding a new spark to the hunger simmering inside you.

You worked him harder, hollowing your cheeks as you moved, watching his eyes go dark with lust as you took him in, inch by inch.

His fingers tightened their grip in your hair, his hips thrusting up to meet the movements of your mouth, filling you over and over, his cock sliding deeper each time.

You could feel his gaze on you, heavy with admiration as he watched your lips wrap around him, taking him so eagerly. The rough timbre of his voice made the heat between your thighs ache, every word only feeding your need.

“Just can’t get enough, huh?” he murmured, his eyes darkening as he continued to watch you. “Look at you, sweet girl, so damn hungry for it. Daddy’s cock got you addicted already?”

Your cheeks flushed as you looked up at him, your lips tightening around his shaft as you answered with another hum, letting him feel every inch of you.

His breathing grew more ragged, his cock twitching against your tongue as you took him deeper, savoring the way his hips bucked, the way he couldn’t hold back.

“Fuck, little one,” he muttered, his words edged with tension as he kept moving, guiding you, thrusting steadily into your mouth, each stroke deeper than the last.

“Just—look at you, a pretty young thing like you, all wrapped around me like this.” His hand flexed in your hair, the heat in his eyes pushing you further as he muttered, “Goddamn perfect, sweetheart, fuck…”

You moaned around him, the sound vibrating against him as you took him down again, feeling the rush of satisfaction every time he cursed, every time he let out a rough groan.

His hips thrust up with a final, shuddering need, and you could feel him reaching the edge, his body tensing, his grip in your hair tightening as he moved harder, needier, voice low and thick.

“Gonna make me cum, baby. You want that? You want Daddy to fill your pretty mouth?” His voice broke, heavy with lust, his words hitting you like sparks as he thrust one more time, hips jerking as his release spilled down your throat.

You took him in, swallowing every drop, not letting an ounce go to waste, savoring the taste as he finally began to relax, his breathing slowing, his hand slipping from your hair as he looked down at you, his expression somewhere between satisfied and awed.

“Jesus,” he murmured, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips, eyes warm, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “You’re somethin’ else, baby.”

You wiped your lips with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “Just wanted to make sure you woke up with a smile.”

Joel chuckled, pulling you up into his arms, his lips pressing against your forehead. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You grinned, your body already pressing against his, craving more. “Not before you fuck me again.”

“Damn, sweet girl,” Joel groaned, his hand sliding through your hair, tugging gently as he gazed down at you with a smirk of pure satisfaction. “With that mouth of yours… I’m gonna need those pills if I’m gonna keep up with you. Go get ’em for me, sweetheart. I wanna take my sweet time with you.”

He released a long breath, his chest still rising and falling from the aftermath of his release.

His thumb brushed your cheek, his eyes softening slightly as he spoke again. “Ain’t never felt this before. Not ‘til you came into my life. You make me feel like I’m twenty again, darlin’. Like I can’t get enough of you.”

His fingers slid down the side of your face, his touch tender now, petting your hair like he couldn’t stop admiring you. “God, you’re somethin’ else. My good girl, takin’ care of me like that.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile, feeling the familiar heat building between you again at his filthy praise.

You leaned into his hand, knowing full well that the moment you got back with those pills, Joel wasn’t going to hold back.

He was going to take his time

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

uhh......yes <3

[dearlenore]

ARREST ME BUT MAKE IT SEXY2 / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer rescues a very annoying agent

PAIRING: agent!reader x spencer reid / w/c: 1.4k / fluff

a/n: shoutout to @cheriesbucky for being the absolute ANGEL who suggested this

The basement was dim, damp, and reeked of mold and motor oil. The ropes around your wrists were tight but not impossible—you’d been trained for worse. Still, that didn’t mean you weren’t pissed.

“What is it with unsubs and bad lighting?” you muttered, shifting in the old wooden chair you were tied to. “What, the budget didn’t cover lightbulbs?”

Across the room, your kidnapper paced. He wasn’t particularly bright, though he thought he was. That was always the worst kind—delusional with a God complex and a knife.

“I thought you fed types were supposed to be smart,” he sneered, stopping just a few feet from you.

You raised a brow. “I am. You, however, kidnapped a federal agent in the middle of a BAU investigation. Not really a Mensa moment.”

He didn’t like that. Predictably, he stormed over and gripped the collar of your button-down shirt, yanking it hard enough to pop two buttons free. His hand hovered, threatening, over your chest.

You blinked once. “Oh wow, you’re so original. What’s next, a villain monologue? Maybe some unnecessary backstory about your mommy issues?”

The unsub froze.

Then scowled.

Then stepped back with a growl. “You don’t know anything.”

You smiled sweetly. “Honey, I know you have abandonment issues, a need for control, and a probable inferiority complex stemming from a middle-child dynamic. Also, you smell like Axe body spray and microwaveable regret.”

Another button popped off.

You gasped. “Sir, if you ruin this shirt, you’re paying for it. This is government issued polyester. You have no idea how itchy this is.”

The door upstairs creaked open.

You went silent.

Heavy boot steps followed.

And then—

“FBI!” Morgan’s voice rang out.

The unsub spun, panicked. You smirked.

“You’re in so much trouble,” you sing-songed.

The door burst open a second later, and suddenly the room was swarmed. Morgan tackled the unsub to the ground in one fluid motion. Hotch shouted for backup. Emily kicked the knife away. And then—then—Spencer.

He moved straight to you, eyes scanning your face, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. His hands shook as he began untying your wrists.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.

You gave him a tired smile. “Other than the fact that I’m missing three buttons and I’m pretty sure this chair gave me a splinter in a very personal place? Peachy.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter, his fingers brushing over your skin a little longer than necessary as he helped you stand.

You wobbled slightly. He caught you instantly.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hand steady on your waist.

“Oh, Doctor Reid,” you said, blinking up at him dramatically. “Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?”

The tips of his ears turned pink.

“Stop flirting,” Emily called as she cuffed the unsub.

“I’m barely flirting,” you replied, leaning a little more into Spencer just to be a menace. “Let the woman have her trauma bonding.”

Hotch sighed from somewhere near the doorway. “Let’s get her out of here before she drives us all insane.”

Spencer’s arm stayed around you even as he walked you out. The sunlight hit your face, and you winced, then immediately leaned into him again. Maybe you didn’t need the support, but you sure as hell weren’t going to waste the moment.

“So,” you said softly, “you missed me?”

He chuckled. “You were gone for three hours.”

You smiled. “Admit it. That was the worst three hours of your life.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just tightened his hold a little, letting it speak for him.

Yeah. You were definitely going to milk this for all it was worth. Especially when he insisted you stay with him that night.

Spencer’s apartment was… exactly what you expected. Books lined every wall. Some were stacked in leaning towers like paper skyscrapers. A chessboard sat mid-game near the window. The place was warm, in that “lives alone but makes tea for two” kind of way.

You flopped onto his couch with zero hesitation, legs kicking up as you groaned dramatically. “If I never see rope again, it’ll be too soon.”

Spencer hovered awkwardly by the door, keys still in hand, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with you now that he had you.

“Are you… okay?” he asked finally, stepping closer.

You looked over your shoulder at him, feigning offense. “Reid. I was kidnapped, threatened, manhandled—and you’re asking if I’m okay? After you made me sleep on this crime-against-furniture of a couch instead of your bed?”

His eyes went wide. “Wait—I didn’t make you sleep here. You didn’t even ask to—”

You burst into a laugh. “Relax, Doctor. I’m teasing. Unless you’re offering.”

His ears turned pink again. You were starting to consider it a competitive sport.

“You should eat something,” he said quickly, trying to change the subject. “I have, um… crackers?”

You raised a brow. “Crackers? Wow, what a luxurious meal. Do you woo all your guests like this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

You smiled and sat up. “I’ll allow it. But only because you have very charming bookshelves.”

He gestured toward the kitchen. “Seriously, though. Want tea?”

You nodded, stretching. “As long as I don’t have to brew it myself. I’ve been through enough.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, and for a moment, you let yourself actually relax. The adrenaline was gone. The aches were settling in. And beneath it all was that heavy, quiet awareness: you could’ve died today.

Spencer returned a few minutes later with two mismatched mugs. He handed you one and sat beside you—not too close, but not far, either. He smelled like books and peppermint and something just… safe.

You sipped. “Mint chamomile? What a romantic.”

He smiled softly, eyes flicking toward yours. “You’re handling this well.”

You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “You say that like you expected me to fall apart.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I just mean… most people would still be shaken up. But you’re still making jokes.”

You set the mug down and leaned in a little. “Wanna know a secret?”

He sighed and gave an expression that read, “hit me, what is it this time.”

You lowered your voice. “I make jokes when I’m terrified.”

His brow furrowed, just a little. “So… you were scared?”

You paused, then nodded. “Of course I was. But I knew you guys would come for me. Knew you would.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“You didn’t exactly hide your interest in the interrogation room, genius,” you teased. “And I might’ve been unconscious when you found me, but I remember your voice. First thing I heard when I came to. Sounded really… relieved.”

A flush crept up his neck. “I was.”

Something shifted then—just a little. The air between you slowed, softened. He looked at you like you were a riddle he was afraid to solve. You looked back like you wanted to be figured out.

“Spencer,” you said softly, “can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Are you always this gentle with people?” Your voice was quieter now. Less performative. “Or is it just me?”

His breath caught.

Then, just as quietly, he said, “It’s not just you.”

A beat.

“But it’s different with you.”

Your heart did a slow, dangerous turn.

Before either of you could say more, a roll of thunder cracked outside. Rain began tapping the windows like fingers on glass.

You sighed dramatically. “Well, now you have to let me stay the night. What kind of profiler kicks a traumatized woman out into a thunderstorm?”

He laughed under his breath. “You can stay as long as you want.”

You smiled. “Dangerous words, Reid. I might never leave.”

And for the first time since the kidnapping, something in your chest unclenched. Not just because you were safe, but because… maybe you were exactly where you needed to be.

[chiiyuuvv]

understands ★

down bad!nicholas 1.5k words

notes! inspired by song linked in 'notes!' "i'll admit that i'm scared / 'cause i've never really cared as much as this / it's worth the risk" screamed nico so ofc i had to write about it. warning!! this is very delusional, read at your own risk

▸ 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺?

“ta.. da..” nicholas pops out of his hiding place once he hears the rooftop double doors creak open. the huge grin plastered on his face shrinks to a shy smile, suddenly self-conscious now that you were in front of him. “hi..” he mumbles, the back of his neck suddenly itchy from embarrassment. 

“hi,” you breath out in shock, your eyes darting past flustered nicholas to scan the deck he decorated just for you. it seemed unlike his character to put so much care in an objective, a picnic blanket placed in the center of the area with pillows surrounding the perimeter. a speaker was placed to the far left of you, soft rnb echoing from the device. there wasn’t a need for any lights, the cloudless stars being your source to see. 

“do you like it?” nicholas’s voice releases the breath you didn’t even know you were holding, his chest pressed against your back as he drapes his arms around your waist. “i, um.. put a lot of time into it,” his deep chuckle rings in your ear, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

“why?” you turn in his embrace, your eyes widening at the lack of space between you. nicholas looks down at you as you look up, the sparkle in his stare brighter than any star in the sky. if you examine closely, the tips of his ears match his hair, the small smile still adoring his features. 

“you know..” he starts off timid, his voice small as his shoulders do a little shrug. “i just wanted to.. say thank you, for everything,” the way his voice trails off suggests there were more to his reasons, but for now, you nod in acknowledgement at his heartwarming gesture. 

“you didn’t have to,” your voice was as small as his as you pressed your head against his chest. he takes it as a sign to bring you closer, his fresh scent invading your nose.

“i had too,” he defends. you could only chuckle at how persistent the boy was being, especially after the incident. you always found it to be no big deal, unable to realize how much you changed the boys' world.

nicholas was upset.

the joyful cheers of your friends and their video games fade into nothing once the male prances past the living room and into his room, slamming his door with frustration. the commotion makes harua jump in his seat, you and taki sending worrisome looks at each other. “don’t mind him,” euijoo chimes, placing his controller on his lap as he shakes his head. “he just needs some space. anyways, who’s up for another round of mario kart?!” and just like that, the happy energy resumes like nothing happened. 

maybe it was your stubborn attitude telling you to do something after euijoo told you not to, but you found yourself in front of nicholas’s door moments after the boys passed out from their gaming.

“go away,” his voice was raspy compared to the soft knocks on his door.

“i brought some strawberries,” you squeak, still determined to make the male open the door. “i’m sorry if i’m being annoying, i just want to make sure you’re oka–” the door swung open before you could finish your sentence, hair covering nicholas’s sharp eyes as he looked down at you like you were some type of pest.

“if i take the food, would you leave me alone?” he sounded irritated, his words straight to the point.

“actually,” you give an awkward smile, “can i come in?”

nicholas was stressed.

“i feel like i’ve been trapped inside a box filled with impossible accomplishments, yet i have no one to turn to when i need help,” nicholas mutters, his head placed comfortably on your lap. you hum in response, giving him the opportunity to rant his heart out as your fingers comb his hair. “it feels so hard doing everything by myself.”

“who says you’re by yourself?” nicholas perks up at your words, your hands still in his hair as you give him a reassuring smile. “i’m sorry you feel so imprisoned, nico,” you begin, your hand sliding down to cup his cheek. your thumb rubs the skin. “it may not feel like a lot, but you have me to support you.”

“oh,” he breathes, shocked by your words. “thanks.”

nicholas was in love.

“are you good?” you turn your head to the boy in question, your elbow resting against the diner table. nicholas turns to face you with a smirk, jokingly raising an eyebrow. 

“what, i can’t laugh at what my own best friend is saying?” he teases, suddenly glad you were sitting on the same side so he could itch closer to your body. his heart skips a beat when you lean even closer, your noses centimeters from each other. 

“not when our nico sounds so cute!” yudai, the friend you forgot was accompanying you chimes. he leans his chin into his hands on the other side of the table, nicholas snapping his head to the older in annoyance.

“i’m not cute,” he nags, sending yudai a look. the boy only winks in return.

“yeah, you’re right!” you defend, playfully furrowing your brows at yudai as you wrap your arm around nicholas’s shoulder, bringing him closer to you. “you’re my cutie,” you giggle, pinching the boys cheek. unline how he reacted to yudai, nicholas keeps quiet, clearly flustered by your words. 

“but i’m wrong when i say the exact same thing,” yudai bellows, raising his hands in defeat. “favoritism!!” he says, loud enough to get looks from across the restaurant.

…

“you’ve put so much time and effort into me, the very least i can say is thank you,” you appreciated his words, but deep down you knew there was something more to nicholas’s actions. especially since he’s been acting so differently around you. the way his eyes linger onto yours, how his lovesick smiles appear as soon as you enter a room. he makes you feel warm inside, like you were so special to him. 

“you’re welcome but,” you stop to chuckle in disbelief, “no one sets up an entire date to show how grateful they are, nico. seriously, what’s all of this about? you’ve been acting so weird lately,” your fingers trace his jawline as you speak, determined to pry his mind apart.

“because i..” he stops to catch his breath, his heartbeat speeding up when he looks into your eyes. a hand lets go of your waist to interlock the fingers on his face, placing light pecks on the tips. “i’ve never felt like this before,” the boy finally opens up, squeezing your hand. “i never felt so carefree, so loved. you’ve taken me in like i was yours to begin with, you’ve been so sweet, so soft, so inviting. i can be myself without receiving any judgement, i can feel upset without having to be guilty about it. y/n, you help me realize that..”

“that?” you tilt your head, tears welling up at nicholas’s precious words. the boy keeps quiet, his nervousness getting the better of him. he feels as if he doesn’t deserve one drop of your undivided attention. you were an angel that flew from heaven who constantly put a smile on an unorganized guy like him. you had a life, yet you put it on pause to help regulate nicholas. all those late night calls filled with encouragement when you could have turned off your phone and went to bed, he didn’t know what it was that made him worthy of you. you were too good for him. 

he must do something to show how much he appreciates you, right? even if that meant rehearsing his confession for hours in front of a mirror after he got home from work, or turning his rooftop into something you’ve always dreamt about. although he was scared, he still thought you were worth the risk.

his eyes stay glued to yours as you stand in the tense silence. his heart speeds up again because god, you were so pretty. he hates that he’s come to this realization now. in a swift movement, his hands let go of your body to gently cup your cheeks, lifting your chin so now he had a straight shot at your lips. 

he licks his own in anticipation, your presence making his mind go blank, your soft breath erasing all the doubts in his head. he lets out a sigh before connecting your lips in a feverishly slow pace, his figure being sent to a world of bliss as your mouths move against each others. he starts to feel dizzy when you grip his shirt, pulling him closer like you were going to lose him if you didn’t. words couldn’t never express the amount of love you had for each other. 

letting go of your lips, his hands circle around your waist again, ducking his head to kiss the salty tears from your face. if it weren’t for your soft giggle, you would have heard the boy sniffle. he pushes your foreheads together, closing his eyes in bliss.

“you’re the only one who understands.”

︴bonus! kinda got carried away, anyways i hope you enjoyed hehe

▸ taglist 📬 @cherrycolaberry , @wtfisgoingright . @slytherinshua , @luvnicho , @enhacolor , @lakoya

🎬 navi

@chiiyuuvv on tumblr . do not steal works/headers/line dividers

[taeyongdoyoung]

lobos, we cannot stop hunting

summary: the full moon comes and you insist on staying with your best friend despite his valiant warnings to make you run away from him... pairing: werewolf!chan x reader genre: smut, fantasy, best friends to lovers warnings: *takes a deep breath* heat suppressants, hugging, werewolf transformation, kissing, making out, hair-pulling, eating out, begging, fingering, overstimulation, consent is established multiple times, slightly mean dom!chan but overall a sweetheart, praise+degradation, size kink (duh), unprotected sex on the floor, knotting, breeding kink, mating *exhales* author's note: happy halloween, baby stays!!! 🐺 make sure to get some yummy treats and always remember to say the magic words please and thank you 😈 but ESPECIALLY please as the king of the wolves taught us 😉🛐 word count: 1.8k

"It's a full moon tonight," your werewolf best friend Chan says.

"So?" you murmur, not even bothering to look up from your phone. Those F1 reels that keep popping up on your feed are so interesting! "You've got your pills and stuff? You'll be fine, same as always."

"I ran out, actually," Chan scratches the back of his head nervously.

You put down your phone. Sorry, sexy F1 guys, you can wait.

"Can't you get more?" you ask him.

"No, my doctor is out of town. It's his anniversary with his wife and his phone is turned off."

"Goddamnit, Chan, and you tell me that now?" you are immediately worried about your best friend.

Before he started these pills, Chan told you that the full moon was like really bad on him. As in, he was completely out of control and had these...urges that he had to take care of by himself. Basically, he was in a lot of pain. He's been using these pills for the last two years and they've been working miraculously. Chan was pretty much like a human during the usually dangerous for werewolves full moon. Thankfully, his doctor has been very helpful in giving him plenty of these amazing pills.

"I'm sorry...I thought I had one left but I must have miscalculated."

"Chan, I keep telling you to write these stuff down in advance," you shake your head. "What are you going to do tonight?"

"Suffer through it, I guess. I was just giving you a heads-up so you can get out of here...like right about now."

"What? No way I'm leaving you alone!" you argue passionately. "What if you die?"

"Uh, I'm pretty sure I won't. But you don't get it, without my pills, I could unwittingly put you in danger. My best chance to make sure I'm not a menace to civilized society is to lock the door and tie myself up or something."

"That sounds horrible!" you cry out, feeling intense sympathy for your best friend. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"You have to!" Chan insists. "I would hate myself if I hurt you."

"You won't!" you keep trying to persuade him. "I trust you more than anyone else in the universe."

Chan shakes his head, still hesitant.

"Please, you should leave before the moon comes up."

Little does he know it has already begun to rise...

"No, I'm not leaving you," you keep saying and wrap your arms around him.

Chan desperately tries to push you away. But it is too late.

As the moon's power grows, so does his. The only thing that prevents you from continuing to embrace him is his oncoming transformation. Your arms fall weakly to your side as you witness the impossible. His generally tender, adorable features quickly turn into sharp, wolflike and kind of intimidating ones, if you have to be honest. But this is your best friend, your Chan, you keep reminding yourself. And all the fear disappears from your body. As you kneel down next to him, you run your hand through his soft fur, trying to pet him.

He initially snarls and tries to scare you off but the more you insist, the more he relaxes under your gentle touch. God, you can't believe he was afraid he'd harm you. He's just...a big puppy.

You can't resist the temptation and you hug him again. He's so fluffy you're gonna die! And then, the unimaginable happens. He fucking purrs! Oh dear, if you had already been having a hard time trying to hide your feelings for your best friend, then seeing him like this would surely be your demise.

Then, unexpectedly, he shifts back to his human form, taking you by surprise. One, because that was faster than you'd expected. Two, because he's entirely naked, but doesn't seem perturbed by it. You try your best to look him in the eyes because uh...you're still not sure where this is going.

"Please, go, I don't think I can control myself any longer," Chan begs.

"Control what?" you're so confused. "I already witnessed you in your wolf form, you seem pretty chill."

"It's not my wolf form you should be scared of," Chan warns darkly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you don't get out of my sight in the next ten seconds, I'll fuck you until you pass out. And maybe even after that."

Oh? Wait...OH!!!

"Was that supposed to be a threat or a promise?" you quirk your eyebrows at him.

"Hold on, don't tell me you're actually excited by the prospect?" Chan wants to make sure.

"I mean...don't threaten me with a good time," you shrug calmly.

Chan kneels next to you, grabbing your hands tightly.

"I'm serious right now, don't play with me."

"What makes you think I'm not serious? I trust you, I want you, I lo- Uh, I like you a lot, whatever you do, that won't change," you mentally curse yourself for almost saying the big L-word. You hope he didn't catch that.

Judging from Chan's expression, he seems pretty satisfied with your statement.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," he whispers and kisses you harshly, biting your lips and making a mess.

Your mouths are linked by an unending streak of saliva, but honestly you couldn't care less as he claims you, pushing his tongue deeper down your throat, gripping your hair with his fingers for better access. You are already melting. You spoke too soon. You are definitely not ready for this. But you wouldn't be able to make him stop, even if you wanted to.

"Last chance," Chan breaks the kiss to give you the opportunity to back out. To get out of here while you still can.

"Do your worst," you challenge him recklessly and he kisses you again, even harder than before if that is possible.

You know that your best friend, despite his shy and cute demeanour, is physically stronger and bigger than you, but seeing him like this, completely losing control is such a thrill you make sure to commit the picture to memory as vividly as you can.

Chan takes off your clothes in a hurry and just like a hungry wolf, attacks your pussy. And starts devouring it as if it's his last meal on Earth. He doesn't even make the effort to get to the couch, which is so close. He just takes you right there, on the floor. You shake uncontrollably, but he grips your thighs to stop you from moving.

"Please, please, please," you keep repeating even though you have no idea what you're asking for. For him to keep going? For him to stop? You don't know anymore.

"I like it when you beg," Chan smirks against your folds and dives back in, swimming in your water.

It doesn't take you long to burst, completely letting go for him.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful," he praises you, not giving you time to recover and tracing circles around your entrance with his big fingers.

"No, you," you whisper weakly, trying to make him slow down by pushing his hand away. Needless to say, your efforts are in vain. "I'm s-sensitive."

Chan laughs cruelly.

"You can take it," his words are meant to be reassuring but they're not, as he sticks his finger inside of you.

It's just one but it's already so thick you are beginning to lose your mind.

"C-chan, p-please," you cry for him.

"What is it, sweetheart? You want another?" he mocks your lack of coherence and adds a second finger without waiting for your approval.

"N-no, I c-can't," you shake your head desperately.

"Yes, you can," Chan seems fully convinced, adding a third finger. "You're so tiny, gotta stretch you up real good to be able to take my cock next. Don't you want that, babygirl?"

"Yes, I want it," you are quick to agree and do your best to relax for his big fingers.

"Gonna let me take this sweet pussy with my wolf cock? Claim you as mine? Give you my pups?" he asks gently, his unrestrained actions in complete contrast with his sweet words.

"Yes, yes! Gonna let you breed me like the stupid bitch I am," you answer, degrading yourself in the process.

"That's what I like to hear, darling," Chan praises you and makes you come again on his fingers.

You are almost about to pass out. But somehow you manage to hold on for the next part. You want to feel it. Every second of it.

"Are you sure?" he asks once again, melting your heart.

"I've never been more sure about anything in my life," you reaffirm your belief in him.

Chan doesn't wait for a second offer and slides his cock inside of you. Fucking hell, if you thought his fingers were pretty huge, his manhood is on a whole different level. You try to adjust to his monstrous size and focus on his beautiful eyes instead. He's still your Chan, your sweet-

"Fuck, your pussy's so small, gonna rip you in half," Chan grunts loudly.

Okay, not so sweet after all.

"Please, don't. Or do, it's fine by me," you attempt to make a joke.

He laughs and kisses you again, going in deeper. You wrap your hands around his neck in a tremendous effort to ground you, help you remain conscious through it all.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Chan keeps talking meanly. "Want me to ruin that tiny pussy of yours?"

"Yes, yes, I want it all," you repeat mindlessly, not caring about the consequences anymore.

Then, as if by some miracle, you feel his cock growing even more while inside of you. Is that even possible? You thought it was just a myth.

Luckily, you're wetter than ever and your pussy easily swallows his knot.

"Gonna fuck you full of my cum, make you my mate, is that okay?" Chan wants to be sure.

"It's okay, Chan, I'll be your mate," you promise, not even sure what that means. But whatever it is, you're fine with it, as long as it's with Chan...

Then, he releases his wolf seed inside of your pussy, making you feel so full, so warm, so complete.

"Take it, baby, I know you can," he reassures you and you do your best to accept his overflowing victory.

It is a total mystery how you still haven't passed out. But you're grateful for it. You'd like to treasure this moment forever.

"I don't think I'll be able to let go of you anytime soon," Chan chuckles softly, still inside of you.

"That's alright, I think I can get used to this," you respond happily, kissing him again.

"Great. 'Cause I don't plan to ever stop hunting you, my sweet little prey," Chan vows.

"I am but a willing victim to whatever it is the full moon did to you," you smile contentedly.

"And if it's not just the full moon?" Chan asks, biting your earlobe playfully with his sharp teeth. "What if I want to have my way with you every night?"

"Who needs sleep anyways?"

The End

[st7rnioioss]

۶ৎ BUNNY!READER x SHY!MATT

˚𝜗𝜚 warnings... shyyyy matt and reader, sub!matt kinda, handjob, making out, matt being called a good boy! (once)

matt and you had gone to the mall for the day, a nice treat after a tough week of work. you had planned to go grab some lunch, before finding the necessary stuff you needed, and then go back home to watch a movie. but.. that wasn’t exactly the case right now. you hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet.

lewd noises came from your intertwined tongues, your slick lips rubbing against matt’s. it had started off as a quick kiss before his hand came to rest on the side of your face, his thumb dragging your bottom lip down to allow his tongue to slip inside of your mouth, your tongue meeting his.

both your hands were running through matt’s hair, gently pulling him closer to you as you continued kissing, his thumbs caressing the soft skin of your flushed cheeks. your noses occasionally brushed, a tiny smile tugging on your lips as he slowly pulled back with a pop but stayed close to you. both of your lips were glistening, neither of you knowing whether it was the other person's or your own saliva—or a mix—probably the latter.

a soft smile spread on your lips when you noticed his flushed face, cupping his cheeks in your hands. “so.. do you think we can go get lunch now?” you asked, smiling shyly at him, before letting go of his face to unbuckle your seatbelt.

for a moment, matt stared at you, almost dumbfounded while he tried to calm himself down.. which was impossible.

he was aching hard, the tent in his jeans not going unnoticed by anyone. he knew he couldn’t hide it from you - so he bit the bullet.

“uhh.. can w-we wait a second?” his voice was weak, unable to stop himself from palming him through his jeans, just to relieve the throbbing a little bit. you turned to face him with a confused look on your face, your eyes subconsciously looking where his hands were resting.

“oh..” you immediately matched the red shade of his cheeks, leaning back in the seat but keeping your eyes on his erection. he looked at you, your eyes meeting his in a questioning gaze. “um.. i’m- i’m sorry, i can’t really- uh, can’t control it.” he mumbled shyly, keeping his hands over his crotch to at least attempt to diminish the ache.

“no- don’t be sorry, it’s uh.. it’s fine. we’ll just wait.. no need to rush,” you had all the time in the world, so you wouldn’t mind waiting another ten to fifteen minutes.

after a minute or two of silence, and matt’s problem clearly not going away, you decided to speak up. “do.. do you want help?” you looked over at him, watching as he still helplessly had a hand over his crotch to attempt to ease it. meeting your eyes, he nodded slowly without saying a word, slowly letting his hands slip from his hard cock.

you watched, almost in awe from how desperate for touch he was. immediately you decided you had parked secluded enough for no one to walk by or notice what was going on by the wheel, so you reached to unbutton his jean, unzipping them agonizingly slow. gently, you tugged his jeans down his thighs, the lack of restraint making him throw his head back against the headrest, a low groan slipping from his lips.

gently, you continued to pull his boxers down his thighs as well, a silent gasp coming from the both of you when you freed his cock, hard and leaking. slowly, you turned to look at him, wanting a sign that you could keep going - and when he nodded, you let your palm wrap around him, a quiet moan uttered from him.

“f-fuck.. please, i need it..” he whimpered, looking down at your hand wrapped around his hard cock, starting to jerk him off painfully slowly. the sticky residue from his pre-cum gradually spread across your fingers and palm, a hum leaving your lips as you could use it as a form of lube.

his hips jerked upwards when you slid your thumb across his throbbing tip, another whiny moan leaving his parted lips. looking up at him, he goddamn nearly came on the spot, your pretty eyes looking up at him with his dick in your hand, blushing as you leaned closer to meet his lips in a deep kiss. you kept up the same pace, your free hand cupping the side of his neck, his hands coming to rest on the sides of your face. occasionally, you swiped your fingers over his tip, making his body jolt and a muffled moan slip from his lips.

“shit- i think m’gonna cum..” matt whimpered when he pulled away with a quiet pop, and you nodded slowly, picking up the pace of your hand, watching his face scrunch up into pleasure. by now his tip was oozing with pre-cum, and you could feel him throb in your hand. it wouldn’t take much before he came. he was so sure there was nowhere else he’d like to be, his whole face flushed while watching you work wonders.

“you’re doing so good, matt.. good boy,” you kept your voice soft, pressing a kiss to his cheek. those words and the way you stroked his tip with your thumb made his mind fog up, spilling his seed into your hand with a loud groan and a whimper of your name. his chest was heaving, burying his face into your neck as you brought the kisses down the side of his face, attempting to regulate his breathing and heartbeat from the overwhelming sensation.

pulling back, you looked down to watch the mess. your entire hand was covered in the white, sticky substance that kept coming, continuing to stroke your hand up and down until you were sure he was done. awkwardly, you opened the glove box, fishing out a wet wipe to wipe his cum off your hand, before bringing it to his sensitive cock.

“sorry, sorry- it’ll only take one second..” you reassured when he whimpered, quickly helping him pull his pants back up. when you were done, your eyes met his in a silent stare, the both of you blinking and keeping some awkward gaze.

“umm, thanks.. yeah, thanks.” he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still a pink tint. you smile shyly, giving him a small nod. “yeah, it’s not a problem. it’s okay,” he nodded back at you, before he cut the silence with a soft kiss to your forehead, making you break into a faint smile.

“let’s go get lunch,”

more bunny!reader here!

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