peleksstuff

[peleksstuff]

problems iv l damiano david x waitress!reader

*gifs not mine*

okay might make another harry styles oneshot later idunno might post it x

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They called it a “quick meeting.”

But the second Damiano stepped into the sleek office, he knew what it was. The kind of room with too much glass and too little kindness. PR managers lined the table, their teeth bared in fake smiles. The air was thick with scented candles and tension.

Someone clicked a remote. A grainy photo popped up on the flat screen — him, in the driver’s seat of his car, laughing. In the passenger seat, you. Head turned slightly, sipping from a straw, eyes mid-blink. Completely unaware.

Damiano didn’t flinch.

“You’re lucky we caught it early,” the lead PR said. “We managed to slow the spread. Barely.”

Damiano raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a crime to be seen in a car.”

“Depends who you’re seen with.”

He stared, jaw tightening.

“You can’t date a nobody,” another voice chimed in. “That image doesn’t fit. You’re a rockstar. You’ve got fans, partnerships, editorial shoots lined up with Vogue. Being seen with some low—”

“Continue that sentence,” Damiano said, voice low but sharp, “and I’ll post something you really don’t want me to.”

Silence snapped through the room like a whip.

The team froze. A few exchanged glances. Someone cleared their throat.

“Okay,” a calmer voice tried. “Let’s not get reactive. We’re only trying to protect your brand—”

“I don’t want a brand,” Damiano cut in. “I want a fucking life.”

He called you on the way out, and you answered before the second ring.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft, warm. The hum of your kettle audible in the background.

He didn’t speak for a second. Just listened.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

He exhaled. “Can I come over?”

You didn’t ask questions. “Yeah. Sure. I’m home.”

Hours later, he was sitting on your couch — a saggy, second-hand thing that dipped in the middle. His hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands. Hair tied back. Remote clicking through channels like he had no idea what he was looking for.

You were in the kitchen, stirring sauce in a pan. The smell of onions and garlic tangled with the lingering scent of whatever your upstairs neighbor had made last night. Something eggy and unforgivable.

Your cheeks were hot. You hated how small your place felt with him in it.

“Your couch has a death wish,” he called out.

You smirked. “You’re sitting on history. That thing survived three breakups and a rat nest.”

He chuckled. “I’m honored.”

“I’m making garlic pasta. Sorry if you hate it,” you said.

“I’d eat anything you make,” he replied easily. “Even if it kills me.”

You pretended not to smile.

You sat cross-legged on the couch next to him, two mismatched bowls in your lap. The TV was playing a documentary about underwater caves. You weren’t really watching.

He was eating like he hadn’t in days — with soft little sighs after every bite.

“This is so good,” he mumbled with his mouth full.

“Liar.”

“I’m not.” He pointed at your bowl. “This garlic? Weaponized. It’s like a war crime. I love it.”

You laughed. You hadn’t laughed like that in days. Maybe longer.

“I just add more garlic than normal humans.”

“That explains the taste,” he grinned. “And the risk.”

You laughed. “You’re not kissing anyone tonight, you’ll survive.”

The second you said it, the words hung in the air a little too long.

You both went quiet. He didn’t respond. Just took another bite.

You kept your eyes on your bowl.

After dinner, when the bowls were shoved onto the floor and your legs were stretched across his lap, Damiano sighed.

“This place,” he said slowly, “feels good.”

You looked around, unsure what he meant. “It’s kind of a dump.”

“I like it,” he said simply. “It’s real.”

You smiled, confused.

He glanced at you, expression shifting.

“Hollywood’s been eating me up,” he said. The words came low, quiet. “Not even just the business. The scheduling every breath. All of it.”

You turned toward him slightly, chin on your knee. “Well, it is what it is,” you said softly. “At least you get paid a hundred times more than anyone here.”

He laughed a little. “True.”

A silence passed.

Then — maybe too casually, maybe too fast — he said, “I could get you a place. Nicer than this.”

You blinked.

“I mean—just if you wanted—like—”

Your entire body stiffened.

Damiano noticed the shift. How your hand stilled. How your mouth pressed in.

His smile faded.

“I didn’t mean—shit, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, reaching for your hand. “I didn’t mean your place isn’t good enough.”

You laughed, but not the good kind. Bitter, quiet. A shake of your head followed.

You stood. “It’s fine.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s not your fault,” you said with a small, bitter laugh. “Just…finish your wine and go, okay?”

He stood too. Closed the space between you slowly.

“I fucked that up,” he said. “Again.”

You stared at the floor.

“Just go when you’re done, Damiano.”

He walks to you, reaching for your arm.

You froze, staring at the chipped bowl in your hand.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he repeated, eyes locked on yours. “I like your place. I like… how shitty loud your upstairs neighbors are. I like how rats join us in the elevator. I like that the tiles in your bathroom don’t match. I like that it smells like onions and your shirt has bleach stains and that somehow this shitty place feels like paradise when I’m in it with you.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I like how gentle you are in this shitty little world,” he whispered. “And I like being here. With you.”

You blinked hard. Your chest ached.

“Do you mean that?”

He looked at you like he’d never seen anything more real. “Every word.”

His eyes fell to your lips. And without thinking — without planning — he kissed you.

It was soft. Brief. Like a question.

You kissed back.

For one second. Maybe two.

And then you pulled back, shocked at yourself.

He held your hand. “Not yet,” he whispered.

And kissed you again — deeper this time. Slow, careful, but certain.

His fingers brushed your jaw, your cheek, the back of your neck.

You let him. You let yourself melt.

Your back was against the sheets, the pillow halfway sliding off the bed. The flickering candlelight brushed across your skin, golden and soft. You were still breathless, unsure how you’d gone from cooking garlic pasta to lying bare under the weight of Damiano David’s gaze.

But he wasn’t doing what you thought a rockstar would do.

He wasn’t pulling your clothes off in some frenzy, greedy and fast.

He was slow. Reverent.

His hand brushed a strand of hair from your cheek like you were made of something fragile, something breakable — and not the kind of girl who just scraped gum off café chairs for rent and family.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, like he was scared to say it too loud.

You smiled, a little embarrassed. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for you,” he replied. “I’m saying it because I’m looking at you and it’s the only word that makes sense.”

He bent lower, lips brushing your collarbone — a kiss so soft, it made you tremble. His hands moved across your waist, over your stomach, careful and warm. Then, something shifted in his expression as he pulled back slightly and looked down.

His eyes had landed on one of your scars.

Just a thin one, near your hip. Barely noticeable. The kind of thing you forgot was there until someone else saw it.

You stiffened a little. But Damiano didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask what happened.

He nodded, like it was sacred. Like he was being told something important without words. His fingers brushed over a different one, near your rib — fainter, old.

He undressed like he was offering you something, not taking anything away.

When he finally came down to you, body pressing against yours, it wasn’t desperate.

It was… slow. Thoughtful. Damiano moved like someone who was more interested in learning how you breathed than just hearing it. He held you like you were something he wasn’t used to having — not sex, not flesh, but closeness. Connection.

He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your jaw.

He asked — quietly — if you were okay. If this was okay. You nodded, but he waited until you said “yes” out loud.

His hands moved like they were reading you. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He just followed the shape of your ribs with his palm like it meant something.

You were shaking and he wasn’t.

You thought rockstars were supposed to be wild, unchained, dirty.

But Damiano was… careful.

Not timid — just present. Like this wasn’t about him at all.

And when your body arched into his, when the last barrier fell and you felt him completely — it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t messy. It was quiet. Intimate. Like the world narrowed down to the air between your mouths.

There were soft gasps, yes. The occasional hitch of breath. A whispered name. But no grand noises, no overdramatic moans. Just realness.

Raw.

Afterward, your legs were tangled in his. Your sheets were twisted. Your ceiling fan made a sad clicking noise overhead.

Damiano was still there, arm draped across your stomach, nose against your shoulder.

You blinked, staring at the ceiling.

He murmured something in Italian — so low, you didn’t catch it.

“What?” you asked sleepily.

“I like your ceiling,” he mumbled into your hair.

“It leaks when it rains.”

“I still like it.”

You turned to him, still naked, chest still rising too fast.

And then — like kids in a secret — you both burst out laughing.

Not loud. But real.

Everything in that moment — the creaky fan, the leftover garlic on your breath, the too-warm sheets — was perfect.

[peleksstuff]

problems iii l damiano david x waitress!reader

*gifs not mine*

i got the feels that no one reads damiano fics that much huh x

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The first message came late at night, just as Y/N was about to plug in her phone and collapse into bed.

Unknown Number: hi yn dis from the cute guy at the set x

She stared at the screen, blinking twice.

You: cute guy?Th i only remember the guy who ran off set and got yelled at Damiano: that guy is also cute, no? You: debatable Damiano: ouch. my ego.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling. Over the next few days, the texts became your favorite part of the day.

Damiano: what’s the word in english for something that makes your chest warm but your brain go quiet? You: safe? comforting? like a hug? Damiano: yes. like that. i saw a bird today that made me feel it. weird. You: not weird. i get it.

Some days he’d send a photo of his coffee, or his handwriting, or the way his shadow looked on the wall. You never asked why, and he never explained. The silences were comfortable.

You: how do you say “overworked but pretending to be okay” in italian? Damiano: Y/N.

You laughed out loud behind the counter when you saw that one. Your coworkers raised eyebrows. You just smiled and pocketed your phone.

Then the rhythm built. Mornings started with his sleepy typos. Afternoons were filled with your sarcastic comebacks and shared Spotify links. At night, sometimes, he’d send a voice memo — his voice low, accented, gentle — rambling about a dream or a half-finished lyric. Nothing romantic. Nothing heavy. But something��� real.

Weeks passed.

You told yourself this was just a phase. A kind musician texting you for fun. He was probably like this with everyone. He probably texted waiters, hair stylists, Uber drivers, whoever crossed his path and made him smile.

Until one Wednesday.

You were elbows-deep in bathroom duty, muttering curses in three languages. You were scrubbing the bathroom floor, hair falling from your bun, your shirt damp with sweat and the smell of bleach. The mop bucket had tipped over earlier, your socks were soggy, and you were wearing the ugliest, oldest sneakers known to mankind.

When her boss, Mrs. Bellucini, peeked in.

“Y/N. You're on break. Someone’s here for you.”

You wiped your forehead. “Is it another health inspector? I swear that rat wasn’t—”

“No, cara.” She gave you a look. “He ordered food already. Go eat.”

She frowned, standing up. “Who?”

Mrs. Bellucini just smiled, nodding toward the dining area.

Y/N stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron, and froze.

There he was.

Damiano.

In a hoodie the color of overcast skies and loose grey pants. No stage clothes. No eyeliner. Just him. Slouched in a booth by the window with a soft smile on his lips, fingers wrapped around a glass of water. And in front of him: two plates. One for him. One for you.

You stopped mid-step, suddenly self-conscious.

“I just cleaned a toilet,” you blurted out.

He tilted his head. “And now you’re gonna eat some pasta. Come on.”

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted out as you sat across from him. “If I smell like a mop it’s because I was literally just—”

Damiano shook his head, smiling lazily. “Ethan smells worse on tour, I promise you.”

You laughed, maybe a little too loudly, but it eased something in your chest.

He slid a plate toward you. “I ordered pasta. The woman behind the counter said it’s your favorite.”

You took a bite. It was still hot. Somehow, it felt warmer than that. He watched you eat like you were doing something far more interesting than chewing.

You glanced up. “Why are you here?”

He smiled again, slow and soft. “Wanted to see you.”

Your heart kicked. “You look… casual.”

“You’re beautiful.” he said without flinching.

You blinked. “I literally smell like industrial soap.”

"Ethan smells worse than bleach"

“Don’t feel bad. He knows.”

You leaned back, letting yourself relax. The tension in your shoulders softened under the weight of his calm.

You liked him like this. Not the magnetic force on stage. Not the bold frontman. Just a boy in a hoodie, warm eyes and tired hands. The kind of presence that made you feel less… alone in your own body.

He caught you staring. “What?” he asked, a little amused.

You looked away, stirring your cola with the straw. “Nothing. Just… I think I like you better off stage.”

Damiano tilted his head, and there was something unreadable in his expression.

“So,” you pivoted, trying to hide your face, “when does your tour start?”

He smiled faintly. “It’s coming soon. I should be more excited, I guess.”

“You’re not?”

“I am,” he said. “But not about the leaving part.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You sipped your cola slowly. The ice clinked gently in the glass. The silence settled again, not awkward. Just thoughtful.

After a moment, you murmured, “Thank you. I needed this.”

He looked up. “The food?”

You stared down at your drink. “The food. And you.”

The words slipped out.

You felt heat rush to your ears. You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just said softly: “I’m glad I came then.”

You both let the silence sit there.

He looked down, then back up. “When does your shift end?”

“I have another job tonight.”

He nodded. “I can take you there.”

You looked at him, surprised. “Don’t you have, like… rockstar things to do?”

“I specifically made this day to see you.”

Your breath caught.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked again, this time even softer.

“No,” you said quickly. “I just… don’t want to keep you from anything important.”

He tilted his head, studying you. His voice was steady when he said:

“You’re part of the schedule now, Y/N.”

You looked away quickly, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh.”

He leaned back, watching you with gentle eyes. “This is so not me,” he whispered under his breath.

You caught it anyway. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, but he smiled like it wasn’t nothing at all.

“My shift ends at four,” you said after a moment.

He glanced at the wall clock. “It’s two. I'll wait."

You shook your head, standing. “No, you’re not gonna wait two hours for me. You should go home. Rest. I’ll be out by four.”

He stood too, a little slower. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“You should,” you said, smiling gently. “Waiting’s boring.”'

He stood, but didn’t move. “I can wait.”

“Damiano.”

He just smiled at you, and then—gently—reached forward and tucked a wild strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingered for a beat longer than necessary.

“Okay,” he said. “Four.”

He walked to the door without looking back.

You watched the back of his hoodie disappear through the glass.

“Someone’s into you,” came a voice behind you.

You turned. Lucia, one of the waitresses, smirked behind her tray.

You didn’t answer.

You just smiled.

And went back to work, your chest feeling a little less hollow, the weight of the world still there—but maybe a little easier to carry.

////

four

[peleksstuff]

problems ii l damiano david x waitress!reader

*gifs not mine*

heres the promised second post of the day and give me some feedkbacks and suggestions enjoy reading x

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Your apartment smelled faintly of bleach and microwaved noodles. A tower of bills sat on the corner of the table, your laundry half-folded in the basket nearby. You were budgeting on the floor, your calculator stuck on a number that just… wasn’t working.

Rent. Electricity. Groceries. And whatever was left for your mom’s medicine and your siblings school supplies back home.

The envelope from your job sat unopened on the table, next to a calculator and a half-eaten granola bar. You already knew what it would say. You’d been taking home shifts at the diner, filling in for double shifts when other servers bailed, even cleaning bathrooms after closing — but LA didn't care.

You stared at the numbers. Not enough. You grabbed your cracked phone.

You called around. Old work contacts, friends, casting people you’d met through your endless odd jobs in LA.

By 4 p.m., Maddie called back.

“Hey, I’ve got a one-day thing. Background extra for a music video. You run across a street, look a little panicked. No lines. Cash at the end. You in?”

“Yeah,” you said. No hesitation. “Definitely.”

You didn’t ask who it was for. You didn’t care. Rent was due.

-

The set was industrial, graffitied, hot. An old warehouse now lit by too many lights and too many important people wearing lanyards and shouting into headsets. You were one of about a dozen extras in mismatched costumes, all waiting for a director to scream action. The assistant director was explaining the motion: run left to right on cue, look scared, don’t stop. Simple.

You stood at your mark with ten other extras, stretching slightly and tying your sneaker laces tighter. Everyone was casual, chatting, while you kept your eyes on the ground, mind already calculating how much this would cover. Not rent, maybe groceries.

But then… something caught your eye.

No, someone.

Familiar.

You blinked.

The figure was tall, lean, unmistakable. His walk was too confident. Mullet. Tattoos. That cigarette barely hanging from his lip.

You almost didn’t recognize him—his hair was longer now, messy and windswept. He wore black jeans and a leather vest over bare skin, and his rings glittered as he gestured while speaking to someone near the monitors.

You blinked twice.

Wait… he’s here?

Then it hit you.

This was a Måneskin shoot.

“Oh my God,” you whispered under your breath, just as the director yelled “Extras, places!”

You lined up, your breath catching.

Damiano looked up at the crowd of extras—

And saw you.

He stopped mid-sentence.

His brows pulled together for a second, then lifted.

Recognition.

You looked away instinctively. But it was too late.

He was already moving.

Not just walking — heading straight for you, eyes locked, steps purposeful.

You heard a crewmember call his name. He ignored it.

“Y/N?” he said, slowing just in front of you.

You blinked. “Hi.”

He let out a quiet, stunned breath. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” you said, too honestly.

He looked at you a moment longer. “I never forgot.”

Your hands stayed in your jacket pockets, knuckles white. “I didn’t know this was your video. I just—my friend texted. I needed the job.”

He nodded, not judging. Just… understanding.

You looked down. “You look like someone who doesn’t know about tight money.”

He chuckled. “I do. Just not lately.”

You were about to say something else when a voice yelled across the set.

“Damiano, positions!”

Damiano turned slightly toward the voice, smirked, then looked back at you.

“I should get back before they yell again,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the set. “But hey… can we talk after?”

“I mean… yeah. If you’re not too busy.”

That crooked smile again. “I’ll find you.”

He jogged back to the front.

You just stared at the space where he had been.

-

Your sprinting was brief. The crew dismissed the extras after two takes, and you grabbed your bag, ready to leave unnoticed. Your stomach had been in knots since the shoot started. It wasn’t that you were nervous around celebrities — you’d seen them. You’d even stood next to Halsey once during a shoot for five minutes.

But this was different.

Because he remembered.

Because he saw you.

“Y/N!”

You turned. He was weaving through crew, waving.

You laughed under your breath, nervous again. “You really weren’t kidding about finding me.”

He caught up, breathless. “I wasn’t gonna let you leave without talking.”

You fiddled with your hoodie string. “I figured you’d forget.”

He gave you that crooked look again. “You keep saying that. Like you’re forgettable.”

You opened your mouth but had nothing to say.

“You still working at the restaurant?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” you said. “Wherever I can get shifts.”

“How are things?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Money’s tight. And… you know, stuff.”

He nodded, not pushing. Just listening.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s weird seeing you like this. On a set. With people watching.”

He smirked. “You mean without pasta stains on my shirt?”

You laughed, finally.

He relaxed a little. “Do you live close?”

“Sort of. Downtown. A bad apartment, small window. It’s home.”

“That sounds honest.”

You shrugged. “It’s not glamorous.”

“I’m not looking for glamorous.”

That shut you up for a beat.

A voice from across the set called him again, in Italian this time. You both glanced over — his bandmates were watching, talking among themselves.

Thomas nudged Ethan and said something in Italian you didn’t catch.

Damiano sighed, then looked back at you.

“Can I have your number?” he asked, plainly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Or your Instagram. Just… something. So I can ta-"

Then: “Do you ask every extra for their number?”

He tilted his head. “Only the ones who make me feel like I’m not a walking brand.”

Silence again.

He reached into his pocket. “Can I?”

You stared at his phone.

And then back at his eyes.

“You’re actually serious?”

He raised a brow. “Do I look like I joke about this?”

You smiled — small, nervous, stunned. “Okay.”

You gave him your number.

He typed it carefully, reading it back to be sure.

Then his voice softened again. “Can I text you?”

You nodded. “If you want.”

“I do.”

He leaned forward, pulling you into a quick, familiar hug. He smelled like sweat and smoke and something expensive you couldn’t name. And then he was gone — off toward his band, back into chaos, just like he came.

You stood there, wondering if that really just happened.

You were just a waitress. Just an extra. Just someone surviving in LA.

But he remembered you.

And somehow, that mattered more than you ever expected.

////

three

[peleksstuff]

problems i l damiano david x waitress!reader

*gifs not mine*

was supposed to write rafe c but oh boy i am currently enjoying listening the maneskin also going thru breakup and listening to italians screaming works and so here i am writting damiano fic although i didnt listen to his solo album so enjoy and im dropping 2 chapters if its a multifics. enjoy reading x

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Los Angeles looked better in pictures.

The city liked to put on a show—palm trees swaying, sunshine dripping golden onto cracked sidewalks, and dreams painted on billboards. You are twenty-two and grinding—two jobs, sometimes three, and a dream that used to be college, before reality punched you in the gut. Tuition wasn’t forgiving. Neither was life.

Your parents is in the province, on a small farm, surviving off of tomatoes and prayers. You’d moved to Downtown LA to help send something back—anything—to your siblings. You lived in a crumbling apartment with pipes that screamed and walls that smelled like other people’s regrets.

But the restaurant job? It was steady.

So here you are: a waitress at a cozy, half-forgotten Italian restaurant on the border of downtown. The kind of place people only found when they got lost or when Yelp surprised them. You liked it more than your other gigs. The food was good. Mrs. Bellucci, the owner, had a loud mouth but a soft spot for strays. She fed you sometimes after hours when you looked too tired to stand.

That afternoon started like most. You wore your faded black apron, hair tied back, and a practiced smile on your face. You made the effort. Even when tips were thin, even when customers didn’t look up from their phones—you smiled.

So when the group of heavily tattooed, beautiful Europeans walked in and took the back corner booth, you didn’t flinch. You just smiled.

“Welcome in,” you chirped, holding your pen above your notepad. “Water to start?”

The guy with the necklace looked up, brow furrowed. He was trying to say something—his lips moved around the word, English struggling to land. “Spark… spark…”

“Sparkling,” one of the others said with a snort.

“No, no—‘sparkling water’ is what you mean,” said another voice, American, manager-type, slick hair and a phone glued to his hand. He laughed under his breath. “Jesus, man, it’s not that hard.”

His jaw clenched. A flicker of irritation crossed his face—not at himself, but at the mockery. You caught it.

Without thinking, you leaned in.

“You meant sparkling water?” you asked gently. “You said it right. Some people say fizzy, but ‘sparkling’ is perfect.”

His eyes found yours.

Dark. Sharp. And surprised.

He nodded slowly. “Yes. Sparkling, thank you.”

You smiled—genuine this time. “Got it.”

That was your first interaction with Damiano David, lead singer of Måneskin. Not that you knew that. You didn’t recognize him. Not when he ordered his carbonara. Not when he teased his bandmates in Italian under his breath. You just worked. Smiled. Moved.

You didn’t know who he was. You just saw someone getting laughed at for trying.

You'd seen it before. Your father still mixed his English and Ilocano. Your mother once cried on the phone when a bank teller mocked her. You remembered all of it.

You didn’t see his eyes follow you as you moved behind the counter. You didn’t notice how he leaned in when you laughed at a joke from the cook. You didn’t hear the way his bandmates started teasing him for watching the waitress.

Because you weren’t trying to charm anyone. You were surviving. You were being kind because you knew what it felt like when people weren’t.

You weren’t flirtatious. You didn’t hover. You just worked. Table to table. You wiped down a spill, took a child’s order seriously, even helped the dishwasher carry a box of supplies to the back.

Damiano didn’t get that often. The world he lived in—the chaos of fame, the rush of stages and hotel lobbies and interviews—was rarely gentle. He was used to bold. Used to sex appeal and drama and cameras.

But you?

You were gentle in a world that wasn’t. And that was rare.

The table got louder. Laughter spilled out as they argued about their next show. The American manager had opinions. Too many.

“Just try not to say that on stage,” the same manager from earlier said, waving a hand. “You guys sound sexy, but some of the phrasing is… off.”

“I said ‘we play naked,’” Damiano said, slowly. “That’s not wrong.”

Another chuckle. “Yeah, but maybe say ‘shirtless’ instead of ‘naked.’ It’s just cleaner. You sounded like you were doing porn, not music.”

You were setting down their second round of drinks when you chimed in softly.

“Shirtless is probably better here,” you offered, gently placing the glass near him. “But… ‘naked’ isn’t wrong. Just dramatic.”

He looked up. You weren’t mocking. Your tone was dry, a little amused, but never cruel.

“I like dramatic,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow. “Then you should use it.""

“Grazie,” he murmured.

You dipped your head. “Prego.”

He blinked at your accent. It wasn’t good. But it was honest.

Then you disappeared again.

He asked your name when you brought the check.

You raised an eyebrow but answered anyway. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” you answered simply, wiping your hands on your apron. “And don’t worry, your English is fine. Better than half the tourists we get.”

“You’re not from here?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No one here really is.”

He smiled at that.

You didn’t ask his name. Still didn’t know him. Still didn’t care.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re the first person here not to laugh at me.”

You glanced at him. “That’s because there was nothing to laugh at.”

He stared.

And for the first time in days, he felt calm.

The calm didn’t last.

The second you turned your back, the chaos came in. Someone must’ve leaked that the band was eating there. One second, the restaurant was half-full. The next?

Camera flashes hit the windows like lightning. Within minutes, your tiny, warm restaurant was a zoo. You looked up from clearing a table and saw it: dozens of phones pressed against the glass. Screaming. Shouting. Måneskin signs in marker.

Panic flickered through the staff. Mrs. Bellucci shouted something in Italian. The manager ducked and cursed.

You moved.

Straight to the back booth.

“Come with me,” you said to the band. Calm. Sharp. “Now.”

No one hesitated.

You led them behind the bar, through a metal door marked Employees Only, down a tight hallway that smelled like lemon cleaner and sweat. Then out a back door that opened to the alley where the kitchen deliveries were dropped off. No fans. No cameras.

You held the door open, stepping aside to let them pass.

“Go quick,” you said. “Before they figure it out.”

The band’s American team turned to you. One of them offered you a folded bill.

You held up a hand. “I’m not taking that.”

They blinked.

“This is my job,” you said.

Damiano stared.

You smiled. Just enough. “Helping people escape chaos is just a perk.”

Victoria let out a soft laugh. “You’re cool.”

“Don’t let the apron fool you.”

And then, finally, Damiano stepped through the door, last to leave. He paused in the frame, that chain around his neck glinting in the low light.

“You know,” he said, “I meet a lot of people. Loud ones. Big ones. Crazy ones.”

You leaned against the doorframe. “I bet.”

“You’re the first one I wanted to stay with.”

That caught you off guard.

But you didn’t show it.

You just said, “Then stay quiet about where you eat next time,” and let the door close softly behind him.

Later, back inside, you leaned against the bar, exhaling.

Mrs. Bellucci patted your shoulder. “Nice save.”

You smiled. “Just trying to keep the restaurant from burning down.”

You didn’t expect to hear from them again. You didn’t think he’d remember you past the next stage dive or studio session.

What you didn't know is that when he turned the corner in that alley, Damiano David wasn’t thinking about his next stage.

He was thinking about the waitress who corrected his English without laughing.

The girl who didn’t care who he was.

The one who smiled, even when she didn’t have to.

And maybe, just maybe…

Damiano was falling in love with that fresh air in a city made of smoke.

////

two

[peleksstuff]

hi im bac i got some bad news about the rafe c. multi fic that book is finished in my doc app but got fucking erased due to my laptop being reformat cause my laptop got a virus and for me to use it back is to reformat it so that erased everything ill try to finished it again ill try but cant promise thankyou for everyone who loves it and continue to love it.

[peleksstuff]

I still can’t believe marvel had Steve tell Natasha he could only really see himself with someone with ‘shared life experience’ (5 seconds after they literally kissed) and then had the two of them practically glued together for literal years (in this movie and in every other movie after it), only to not even seem to consider them as a potential couple/love story

[peleksstuff]

escape V. l rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

ive been gone so long hope you didnt forget that last chapter cause i do but heres an update so sorry for the long wait

---------

one

two

three

four

“You’re not useless, Rafe. You’re more than what he says. You just… need to stop trying to be what he wants you to be.”

Rafe’s gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken.

_______

Rafe’s heart raced as he roared down the dark, empty road on his motorcycle. The wind whipped against his face, but it did nothing to cool the burning anger, frustration, and heartbreak bubbling up inside him. The sound of his father’s voice still echoed in his ears, cruel and sharp.

“Useless. You’re a disappointment, Rafe. You’re not my son.”

His father had saved him tonight—paid off Barry to cover his debt after Rafe's reckless run with drugs and poor decisions had spiraled out of control.

But Ward Cameron hadn’t just stopped there. He disowned him, severing whatever thread of connection Rafe had desperately clung to for so long.

The validation he’d craved from his father had been ripped away, leaving him feeling hollow, unwanted.

He squeezed the handlebars harder, his knuckles white. He wanted to cry—hell, he needed to—but something inside him wouldn’t let the tears fall.

Instead, he felt stuck in the numbness, trapped in the anger that swirled with his sorrow.

Where was he even going? He didn’t know. He just needed to escape, to run from the weight of his father’s rejection. He’d always been good at running.

Before he knew it, the familiar neon glow of the diner lights cut through the dark. Kiara’s family diner. Your workplace. Without thinking, Rafe pulled into the parking lot, the motorcycle’s engine cutting off as he came to a stop.

He was exhausted, emotionally drained, and he didn’t have the energy to go anywhere else. Something about seeing you right now felt like the only thing that might tether him to reality.

As he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the bell above the entrance jingled softly. You were behind the counter, wiping down the tables, unaware of his presence at first.

The diner was mostly empty at this hour, just a few late-night regulars scattered around. When you finally looked up and spotted him, your eyes widened in surprise. You stared at him for a moment, caught off guard by his presence.

He made his way to a booth near the window, sitting down heavily. You caught his eyes briefly as he stared out into the night, lost.

There was an intensity in his sadness that you hadn’t seen before, and it unnerved you. Rafe Cameron wasn’t supposed to look like that.

You wiped your hands on your apron and walked over to him, keeping your voice steady as you asked, “Can I get you anything?”

He looked up at you, and for a moment, there was something so open, so broken in his expression that you almost wanted to sit beside him.

He held your gaze, his voice low and a little hoarse when he spoke. “You.”

You blinked, not expecting that. “Rafe—”

“I just… need someone to talk to,” he said, his words barely above a whisper.

His eyes were glassy, like he was on the verge of tears but refusing to let them fall. “And it’s you. I don’t know why, but I need you.”

The honesty in his voice caught you off guard. Rafe wasn’t the kind of guy to admit weakness, especially not to someone like you—a Pogue. But there was something so genuine in his sadness that you found yourself nodding before you could think better of it.

“My shift’s over in fifteen minutes,” you said softly. “I can talk to you then.”

As you turned to head back to the counter, you noticed Kiara leaning against the kitchen door, her arms crossed as she watched the exchange.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in the sight of Rafe in the diner.

“Rafe, huh?” Kiara said, her tone carrying a hint of suspicion. “That’s… unexpected.”

You shrugged. "Its not like that."

Kiara let out a soft laugh, her eyes narrowing in playful disbelief. "You know he’s bad news, right?”

There was an edge to her voice that told you it wasn’t just casual gossip. Kiara had seen what Rafe was like, how he treated her friends—Pogues. Her warning wasn’t out of jealousy or teasing. It was genuine concern.

Rafe had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. But the Rafe sitting in that booth looked nothing like the guy who was always stirring up trouble.

He looked… lost. And something in you couldn’t walk away from that, not after everything he did for you.

“I’ll be careful,” you promised, offering Kiara a smile.

After the clock finally struck the end of your shift, you pulled off your apron and approached Rafe’s booth. He glanced up at you, still looking like a storm was brewing inside him.

“Come on,” you said softly, nodding toward the back exit. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”

The two of you stepped outside, the night air cool against your skin. You led him to a small bench behind the diner, away from prying eyes.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Rafe just sat there, staring down at his hands, lost in thought. You weren’t sure how to start, so you waited for him.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I fucked up. Again."

Rafe took a long, shaky breath, rubbing a hand across his face. “My dad… he’s done with me.”

His voice cracked, and for the first time, you saw the raw pain behind his eyes. “He paid off my debt tonight—saved my ass from Barry—but then he told me I was a disappointment. That I wasn’t his son anymore.”

“I just… I don’t get it,” he continued, his voice growing more frustrated.

“No matter what I do, it’s never enough for him. I’m never enough.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a pain so deep it made your chest ache.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve been trying so hard to prove myself, but… maybe he’s right. Maybe I am useless.”

“Don’t say that,” you said firmly, your hand resting on his arm.

“You’re not useless, Rafe. You’re more than what he says. You just… need to stop trying to be what he wants you to be.”

Rafe’s gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken.

His eyes searched yours, and you could see the vulnerability in them, the desperation for someone—anyone—to believe in him.

“You really think that?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with disbelief.

“I do,” you said softly. “You don’t have to be perfect, Rafe."

Something shifted in his expression then, a flicker of hope or maybe relief, and before you could process what was happening, Rafe leaned in.

His lips brushed yours, soft at first, like he wasn’t sure if you’d pull away. But when you didn’t, he deepened the kiss, his hand gently cupping your face.

The world around you seemed to fade, the only thing you could focus on was the warmth of his lips against yours, the way his hand gently cupped your face as if he was afraid to break you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough.

“Don’t apologize,” you interrupted softly, your fingers brushing the side of his face.

Rafe didn’t need to say anything more, and neither did you. All you knew was that in this moment, Rafe needed someone—and for some reason, he had chosen you.

[peleksstuff]

Heyy, I was wondering if you would ever continue fluorescent. Your writing is soo good 💜💜

sorry i discontinued that one as i received a lot of bashing from that one but u liking it puts a smile in my face thanks for the compliment <3

[peleksstuff]

escape 1v | rafe cameron x pogue! reader

*gifs not mine*

just as i promise with the 50notes a lil bit late but yeah and also ty for those people reblogging really appreciate getting my writings out there and also for the rafegirlies out there for just reading this series yeah i think thats it or else too much yapping ahaha go ahead and read this ☺️

~~~~~~~

one

two

three

"Dance with me."

You blinked up at him, caught off guard.

"What?"

——————————-

It was the kind of party where everyone who mattered on the island was in attendance—everyone except the Pogues. But you weren’t there to party. You were there to work.

Dressed in a white shirt and black slacks, you blended in with the other waitstaff, balancing trays of champagne as you moved through the crowd of well-dressed Kooks.

You kept your head down, avoiding any unnecessary attention, but it was hard not to notice the familiar faces of the people you usually avoided.

Sarah Cameron was laughing with her friends near the buffet, and Topper was mingling with some other Kooks near the entrance. Your stomach tightened when you spotted Rafe standing by the bar, drink in hand, talking to a couple of his buddies.

The last thing you wanted was to run into him, especially in front of this crowd.

As you passed by, you felt his eyes on you. You glanced up for a second, meeting his gaze, and to your surprise, Rafe smiled at you.

It wasn’t a mocking smirk or the usual arrogant grin he gave to people. It was just… a smile. Simple, unguarded.

For a moment, you were taken aback, but then you found yourself smiling back, just a small curve of your lips.

Neither of you said anything, and you quickly continued with your work, moving to the next table. Rafe turned back to his conversation, but something about that brief exchange left a strange warmth in your chest.

Across the room, Pope and Kiara were standing together, catching the moment out of the corner of their eyes.

"Did Rafe just smile at a Pogue?" Pope asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Kiera glanced between you and Rafe, her expression just as confused.

"Yeah… that’s rare," she muttered, shaking her head before they both moved on, equally baffled by what they had witnessed.

You were too busy focusing on the job to notice them, though. The night carried on, and you weaved through the crowd, offering drinks and making sure to stay out of trouble.

Everything was going smoothly—until you accidentally stepped on the shoe of a well-dressed girl in an emerald green gown.

She gasped dramatically, looking down at her foot as if you had just committed the worst crime in the world.

"Are you serious?" she snapped, her voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few people nearby.

“You stepped on my shoes, you filthy—ugh, I can’t believe this.” She exaggerated her disgust, wiping at her shoes dramatically.

You stepped back, heart racing. "I’m really sorry—"

"Sorry?" she interrupted, her tone dripping with disgust.

“Do you even know how much these cost? Of course, you don’t. You probably can’t even afford shoes that aren't falling apart."

The humiliation hit you hard, and you felt the eyes of the crowd on you, the heat rising to your face.

You could feel the tears prickling behind your eyes, but you swallowed them down, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

"I’m sorry," you mumbled again, trying to hold it together.

Before the situation could escalate, your supervisor appeared, stepping between you and the girl.

"Is there a problem here?"

The girl scoffed. "Your waitress is a disaster. She’s lucky I don’t demand compensation for my shoes."

"Apologies, ma’am. We’ll handle this," your supervisor said with a tight smile, before turning to you.

"Go to the back, now."

You nodded quickly, ducking your head and heading for the back door. You tried to push down the lump in your throat, hoping that your supervisor wouldn’t fire you.

You needed this job—this gig was one of the few chances to make some extra money, and losing it would be a blow you couldn’t afford.

You waited near the staff room, nervously tapping your foot, hoping that you’d just get a warning and not be sent home. But when the manager finally came back, his face was thunderous.

"You’re done for the night. Go home."

"Please, I really need this job. I didn’t mean to—" you started, but he cut you off.

"I don’t care. You’re out. Now."

Your heart sank, and you could feel the tears welling up again. Without another word, you went to the changing area, slipping back into your clothes.

The party music from the event drifted through the air as you stepped outside, heading to where your bike was chained near the back of the estate. As you fumbled with the lock, you heard the rumble of an engine behind you.

Rafe’s truck pulled up beside you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him stepping out.

He walked over, hands in his pockets, a familiar nonchalant expression on his face, but his eyes held something softer, something like understanding.

"Midsummers," Rafe said with a half-smile, "the worst, right? My father kicked me out."

You snorted, surprised at the casual admission. "Maybe because you were cornering a Pogue. JJ?"

Rafe laughed, a low, easy sound. "Yeah, you saw that? Surprised you didn’t save his ass."

You shook your head, smiling faintly.

"He’s a big man. He can handle himself. Which he did." You thought of Kiara and Sarah running off with the boys, probably causing some sort of chaos somewhere.

Rafe leaned against the side of his truck, watching you with that same relaxed gaze. "You’re not wrong."

For a moment, you just stood there, the tension from earlier slipping away as you bantered back and forth. It felt surprisingly easy, like the weight of the night didn’t matter anymore.

After a pause, Rafe’s eyes flicked toward the beach, then back at you.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked, nodding toward the sand in the distance.

You hesitated for a moment, but something about the way he was standing there, relaxed, open, made you nod.

“Sure.”

The two of you drove down to the shoreline, parking near the sand. The night sky was clear, the stars twinkling overhead as the sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air.

You sat by the water, both of you with a beer in hand, the cool breeze offering a welcome relief from the stuffiness of the Midsummers event.

Rafe turned the radio on in his truck, and a soft melody floated through the night. You felt the weight of the day’s stress begin to fade, the peacefulness of the moment sinking in.

Then, without warning, Rafe stood and extended his hand to you.

"Dance with me."

You blinked up at him, caught off guard.

"What?"

He smirked, shrugging slightly. "C’mon. It’s a slow song. What’s the harm?"

For a second, you hesitated. But then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you took his hand, letting him pull you to your feet.

The music played softly as Rafe’s hands settled on your waist, yours resting on his shoulders. It was awkward at first, neither of you saying much, but the longer you swayed to the music, the more the tension seemed to fade.

The world around you felt far away, the night closing in just the two of you, the sound of the waves and the distant hum of the music blending into something that felt almost… peaceful.

five

[peleksstuff]

escape 111. | rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

heres part 3 sorry for the late update been busy i promise maybe ahahaha every 50notes i’ll post the next part and tytyty for the notes still

•••••

one

two

“You have to stop doing this,” you said, breaking the silence, though your voice was softer, almost teasing. “Saving me. Or… whatever this is.”

———————

The familiar, grimy alleyway led to the back door of the dive bar where your father often hung out. It was a place you had tried to avoid, but the weight of the rent money in your pocket felt heavy, reminding you of the responsibilities you had to fulfill, even when it felt utterly unfair.

You’d always wished for a different life for him, for you—one where drugs didn’t hold such a tight grip on him.

You stepped through the door, the stale air hitting you like a wall. The dimly lit room was filled with a mix of laughter, loud voices, and the clinking of glasses.

In the corner, you spotted your father slouched in his seat, a drink in one hand and a joint in the other. He looked disheveled, the toll of years spent chasing highs etched into his features.

You hesitated, taking a deep breath before making your way over to him.

As you approached, you caught sight of Rafe sitting at the bar. His expression shifted slightly as he noticed you, a flicker of recognition flashing in his eyes, but you both quickly averted your gazes, pretending not to see each other.

You weren’t here to engage with Rafe.

“Hey, Dad,” you said, forcing a smile as you reached his table. “I brought you some money.”

“Yeah? How much?” he replied, his voice hoarse and uninterested.

You pulled out the envelope and placed it on the table, trying to ignore the overwhelming smell of cigarettes and alcohol that clung to the air.

“Two hundred. I’ll get you the rest by the end of the month,” you said, your heart sinking at the thought of the upcoming conversation.

“Two hundred?” He scoffed, narrowing his eyes. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Rent is due. You know I need more.”

“I know,” you replied, your voice steady despite the frustration simmering beneath the surface. “But it’s all I have right now. I promise I’ll get you the rest soon.”

His expression twisted with anger. “This is pathetic! You think this is enough? Get the hell out of my face!”

You could feel the tension in the room heightening, eyes beginning to glance your way as your father’s voice rose. In that moment, he swung his hand, landing a harsh slap across your face.

The sting sent shockwaves through your body, and you tasted blood as your lip split open. A few people nearby gasped, their whispers growing louder, but you were used to this—used to the way he lashed out when he didn’t get his way.

Without a word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the bar, the hurt still fresh but the pain familiar. You just wanted to escape, to get away from the stares, the whispers, the chaos.

“Hey!” a voice called from behind you, and you didn’t have to look to know it was Rafe.

You quickened your pace, but he caught up to you, grabbing your arm to stop you.

“Wait,” he said, his tone demanding yet not aggressive.

“Just leave me alone,” you snapped, pulling your arm free.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern flickering across his face, though he masked it with indifference.

You hesitated, glancing down at your bruised cheek.

“I’m fine. Just… stupid family stuff,” you said, trying to brush it off, but the tremor in your voice gave you away.

He studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he assessed your injuries. “You’re clearly not fine.”

“I said I’m fine,” you insisted, your voice wavering as you tried to maintain your composure.

Rafe exhaled sharply, frustration etched across his features.

“I don’t need your help,” you shot back, but the truth was, you didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

“Too bad,” he replied, his expression softening slightly. He nodded toward his truck.

You hesitated, your instincts screaming at you to refuse, but the prospect of being alone and thinking about what just happened was far worse.

Finally, you relented and climbed into the passenger seat, feeling the familiar warmth of the truck envelop you.

Rafe started the engine, the rumble of the truck providing a comforting background noise as he drove away from the bar.

You tried to steady your breathing, your cheek still stinging from your father’s slap, your lip sore where it had split open.

Despite the ache, it wasn’t the pain that bothered you—it was the way you had grown used to it. That thought alone made your stomach churn.

As Rafe pulled the truck over to a secluded spot, away from the bar and the prying eyes of anyone who might have seen the scene with your dad, you wiped a hand over your face, trying to compose yourself.

You could feel his gaze on you, the silence thick with unspoken tension. You didn’t look at him, but you could sense it—that quiet concern radiating off of him in waves, even though he didn’t say a word.

"Let me see your face," Rafe finally muttered, breaking the silence.

You turned toward him reluctantly, and his eyes flicked to the bruising on your cheek and the cut on your lip.

There was no anger or judgment in his expression, just a heavy, concerned gaze that lingered a second too long.

Rafe reached into the glove compartment, pulling out a small first-aid kit, his movements deliberate but calm.

He opened the kit, pulling out a few antiseptic wipes. His hand hovered near your face, his hesitation surprising you.

"Hold still," he said quietly, leaning closer to gently dab at your lip with one of the wipes. The sting of the antiseptic bit at your skin, but you barely flinched.

His eyes flickered back and forth between your lip and cheek, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face—the way his jaw was set tight, the crease in his forehead—told you enough.

For someone like Rafe, who always wore a mask of indifference, this small, focused act of care said more than words ever could.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly, trying to read the expression in his eyes.

He looked up briefly, meeting your gaze, but said nothing. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of rain on the roof.

As he continued to clean the blood from your lip, you couldn’t help but notice the way his hand trembled slightly when it brushed your skin.

He was trying to hide it, to maintain that same cool, detached demeanor, but you could tell he was affected. It was strange seeing this side of him.

When he finished with your lip, he pulled back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the bruise forming on your cheek.

His hand lifted again, fingers hovering just over the swelling. For a moment, he hesitated, his expression tightening as if he was torn between wanting to fix something that couldn’t be fixed.

His eyes met yours again, and this time there was no mistaking the worry there. Rafe wasn’t one to show emotion easily—if ever—but in that brief second, you saw it. Concern. Maybe even fear.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice softer now, the rough edge it usually carried gone.

You almost laughed at the question, but the look on his face stopped you.

“It’s fine,” you said, your voice sounding far more tired than you intended. “I’m used to it.”

His eyes darkened at your words, and he clenched his jaw as if he was holding something back. There was a flash of something behind his gaze—anger, maybe, but not directed at you.

You could tell he was trying to keep himself in check, trying not to show how much it bothered him.

But the way his eyes lingered on your face, the way his hand gently traced the edge of the bruise without actually touching it—he didn’t have to say anything for you to know he hated what he saw.

After a moment, he shook his head slightly, as if shaking off whatever thoughts were running through his mind.

He tossed the used antiseptic wipes aside and leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly. The air between you felt thick, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid.

“You have to stop doing this,” you said, breaking the silence, though your voice was softer, almost teasing. “Saving me. Or… whatever this is.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked to you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he let out a low, humorless chuckle.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “you’ve got a habit of ending up in shit situations.”

You managed a small smile, though the ache in your lip made it difficult.

“Maybe. But you’re starting to make it your job to pull me out of them.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he just stared ahead, his fingers tapping absently against the steering wheel. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more serious.

“No one should have to go through that. No girl. No kid.”

There was something in the way he said it—something that made you pause. His words weren’t just about you; they carried the weight of his own experience.

You could see it in the way his expression hardened, the subtle tension in his body.

You turned to him, studying his profile in the dim light of the truck.

“Your dad… does he..” You trailed off, unsure if you should even ask.

Rafe glanced at you, a flash of something crossing his face before he quickly looked away.

"It’s not the same," he muttered, but his voice was tight, almost defensive. You didn’t push any further, sensing that whatever he was hiding, it wasn’t something he was ready to share.

Rafe might not have been on the receiving end of physical abuse like you, but it was clear he understood something about living in the shadow of a father’s cruelty.

Maybe not the same kind of abuse, but enough to know what it felt like to be stuck in a situation you couldn’t control.

You let the silence stretch between you again. After a moment, you turned back to face the windshield, feeling the weight of the unspoken understanding between you.

Neither of you said it, but it was there—a mutual recognition of the ways your lives were shaped by the people you couldn’t escape.

four

[peleksstuff]

escape 11. | rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

here part 2 y’all leave some comments dont be shy girlie ☺️ and for all smut lovers out there this book of mine wont have one i apologize in advance this story is more on following the outerbanks series anyways no more yapping go read this already (also ty for the notess🥰

one

“The two of you sat in the quiet, the sound of the rain filling the space between you.”

——————-

Kiara’s family owned the place, and while you liked the vibe most of the time, some nights felt like they would never end. Tonight was one of those nights.

The rain had started not long before you clocked out. Heavy, relentless sheets of water poured from the sky, drenching the island in minutes.

You groaned inwardly as you watched it through the diner’s windows, knowing you still had to ride your bike home. Exhausted, you gathered your things and braced yourself for the ride back.

There wasn’t much else you could do—your small boat wasn’t docked nearby, and you had no choice but to bike the distance through the storm.

The rain was icy, immediately soaking through your clothes as soon as you stepped outside. Pedaling was a struggle, the tires slipping on the wet ground, and within minutes, you were drenched to the bone.

The thin fabric of your shirt clung to your skin, water dripping from your hair and down your back. You cursed under your breath, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed.

As you rode along the empty road, headlights suddenly appeared behind you, growing brighter as a car approached. You paid no mind to it at first, focusing instead on avoiding the puddles that splashed up from your wheels.

The car slowed, pulling up beside you, and you heard the unmistakable sound of catcalling.

“Hey, baby! You lookin’ real good out there."

You ignored the voice, your jaw clenching in frustration. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the silhouette of a guy leaning out of the car window, his voice slurred with what you could only assume was too much booze.

“Look at that shirt,” he laughed, nudging the driver.

“Man, you can see everything. Soaked through. What a view, right?”

You grit your teeth and kept pedaling, determined not to let them get to you. But the wet ground betrayed you. You didn’t notice the large rock ahead in time, and your front wheel hit it hard.

The bike jerked beneath you, and before you could react, you were thrown off balance. Your body hit the ground with a thud, scraping your palms and knees against the asphalt.

The car screeched to a halt a few feet ahead of you, and for a second, the only sound was the pouring rain. You groaned, trying to push yourself up from the ground, but your body ached from the fall.

Through the downpour, you saw a car door slam, and then Rafe Cameron appeared, walking toward you with a determined stride. You hadn’t even realized he had been the one driving until now.

“Get off,” Rafe ordered his friend, who was still sitting in the passenger seat. His voice was cold, sharp.

“Seriously, man? It’s pouring out there,” his friend protested, glancing back at the rain.

Rafe shot him a look that could kill. “Get. Out.”

His friend opened the door, stepping out reluctantly, muttering something under his breath before walking off into the rain, clearly not interested in pissing Rafe off any further.

You sat there, still half on the ground, as Rafe reached you, the rain making his hair stick to his forehead. He didn’t even blink at the storm.

“Get in,” he said flatly, opening the door to his truck. His gaze flickered down to your scraped knees and hands, but his expression remained unreadable.

You hesitated, glancing back at your bike lying on its side. “But my bike—”

Rafe stared at you for a second, clearly irritated that you were worried about the bike.

Without a word, he walked over to it, picking it up as if it weighed nothing and tossing it into the back of his truck. You blinked, taken aback by how fast he moved.

“Get in,” he repeated, and this time, you obeyed, climbing into the passenger seat.

Your clothes were completely soaked, and as you sat down, the wet fabric of your shirt clung even tighter to your body, outlining every curve.

Rafe slid into the driver’s seat next to you, the two of you sitting there in the quiet, both drenched from head to toe.

You could feel his eyes on you, his gaze flickering briefly over your chest, where the soaked fabric of your shirt had turned nearly see-through. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in the car was palpable.

You shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the intensity of his stare. Rafe cleared his throat and reached behind his seat, pulling out an extra shirt from a duffle bag.

“Put this on,” he said, tossing it to you. His voice was still nonchalant, but you could see the muscle in his jaw twitch, as if he was trying to control his thoughts.

“Thanks,” you muttered, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. You awkwardly pulled the shirt over your head, your wet clothes sticking to your skin.

Rafe’s eyes flickered toward you again, but he quickly turned his attention back to the road, starting the engine.

The truck was quiet for a long while, the only sound being the rain hammering down on the roof. You glanced at Rafe out of the corner of your eye. His jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary, and you couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “But… thank you.”

"Yeah,” he replied, his voice steady but lacking any warmth.

The two of you sat in the quiet, the sound of the rain filling the space between you.

You could feel the weight of his presence, the way he seemed to fill the cab with an energy that both intrigued and terrified you. He was a Kook, after all. You reminded yourself not to forget that.

The minutes passed in silence, each moment feeling more charged than the last. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but the close proximity made your heart race.

Eventually, Rafe pulled up to your house.

“Thanks for helping me today,” you said quietly, breaking the tense silence that hung between you.

He nodded, his expression unreadable.“You should probably go inside. Get warm.”

You nodded again, feeling an odd mix of gratitude and unease as you prepared to step out into the rain. “Right. Thanks again.”

He offered a small nod, but you could see a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made your heart race and your skin prickle with awareness.

As you opened the door and stepped out into the drizzle, you felt the chill of the rain seep back in.

You glanced back at Rafe one last time, taking in the sight of him sitting in his truck, the way his dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his gaze was focused intently on you.

“Be careful out there,” he said, and for the first time, you noticed the genuine concern in his voice this time.

You nodded and hurried to your front door, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it, feeling the warmth of your home envelop you. Your mind raced with thoughts of the encounter—Rafe’s kindness and the way he had looked at you.

three

[peleksstuff]

escape 1. | rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

kinda contemplating about dropping this whole series parts, this is done just in my drafts waiting to be published. kinda want to discontinue the high on you timothée fic but anyways here’s some rafe cameron fic that is not a smut (i love smut but rafe fics imagine is so full of it)

summary: you helped the pogue escape from the notorious kooks.

—————-

You were a Pogue, but not the type to hang out with John B, JJ, Kiara, and Pope all the time. You weren’t exactly part of their tight-knit group, though you’d occasionally show up to the parties they hosted.

It was a small island, after all, and despite the social lines drawn between Kooks and Pogues, it was hard not to cross paths every now and then.

Tonight was different. You were sitting further away from the group, close enough to see them but far enough to stay in your own bubble.

Kie, Pope and JJ were dancing near the fire, their laughter echoing through the night. It was a typical night for them—carefree and full of the wild energy that came with living on the edge.

But your attention was pulled elsewhere.

Rafe Cameron, the island’s most notorious Kook, was standing near his group—Topper and a few other Kooks.

He was infamous for hating Pogues, but unlike the others,Rafe had never laid a hand on you. He didn’t even look at you. For some reason, while the rest of the Kooks would sneer, taunt, and sometimes get physical with Pogues, Rafe kept his distance from you.

You never questioned it, though. It was just one of those things you couldn’t explain, and you didn’t care enough to ask.

You were about to leave when a commotion caught your eye. Over by the beach cinema, where the islanders had set up a big outdoor screen for movie nights, you saw movement.

Rafe and Topper were standing over someone, and as you squinted, you realized it was JJ. He was on the ground, bruised and bloody, while Kiara screamed at them to stop. Pope was nearby, looking just as bad as JJ, trying to pick himself up.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You didn’t know them well, but you weren’t going to stand by and watch while two Kooks beat down on a couple of Pogues.

The fear gnawed at your stomach, but there was no time to hesitate. You noticed a pile of dry leaves and twigs near the beach cinema equipment—a makeshift bonfire they hadn’t used tonight. Without thinking, you grabbed a stick from the dying flames of your own fire and ran toward it.

With a flick of your wrist, the small pile caught fire, and soon, smoke started billowing into the air. The flicker of flames danced up high, crackling louder than the sound of fists hitting skin. Rafe and Topper paused, distracted by the sudden blaze, and you took the chance to rush toward JJ and Pope.

“Get up!” you hissed, grabbing Pope by the arm while JJ groaned, wiping blood from his face. Kiara was at JJ’s side in seconds, helping him stand.

Rafe’s eyes shifted from the fire to you, and for a moment, you locked eyes with him. There was a flicker of surprise, then amusement. He didn’t look angry. In fact, he looked almost impressed, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

It was like he was silently acknowledging your quick thinking, finding the chaos of the moment entertaining. You quickly broke eye contact and focused on getting JJ and Pope out of there, your pulse racing.

As you helped them retreat, Rafe and Topper made no move to follow. You could feel Rafe’s gaze on you, that smirk lingering in your mind long after you were clear of the danger.

The next day, you tried to stay under the radar. You didn’t know JJ or Pope well enough to get involved in their mess, and you weren’t looking to make enemies of the Kooks either. You went about your day as usual, but there was a sinking feeling in your gut that something wasn’t quite right.

That feeling solidified when you found yourself cornered by Topper near the docks. He was pacing in front of you, his face red with anger.

“You think you’re smart, huh?” he spat, glaring at you.

“Messing with me last night? You had no business getting involved.”

You took a step back, your heart hammering. “I wasn’t going to let you beat them senseless,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Topper’s eyes flashed with rage, and he took a step closer. “You should’ve stayed out of it. Now you're my business"

You swallowed hard, glancing around for an escape, but the docks were deserted. Before you could respond, another voice cut through the tense air.

“Topper, back off.”

You turned to see Rafe walking toward you, his expression unreadable, hands shoved in his pockets. Topper froze for a moment, looking between you and Rafe, clearly unsure of how to react.

“Rafe, she—” Topper started, but Rafe cut him off with a lazy shrug.

“She didn’t do anything worth getting worked up over. Let it go.”

Topper looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Rafe’s tone made him reconsider. He clenched his jaw, muttering something under his breath before storming off.

Rafe watched him go, then turned his attention to you. There was that smirk again, the one from the night before. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you with a casual indifference, like what had just happened didn’t matter.

“Thanks,” you said awkwardly, not sure how to interpret his behavior.

“You shouldn’t get involved in things that don’t concern you.”

“Just be careful. Topper’s an idiot, but he won’t always listen to me.”

There was something in the way he said it that made you pause. It wasn’t a threat, but it wasn’t quite a warning either. It was like he was giving you a heads-up, but in the most casual way possible, as if he didn’t really care one way or the other.

You nodded, unsure of what to say. As he turned to walk away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his words.

Rafe Cameron, the island’s most dangerous Kook, had just bailed you out, and while he was acting like it was no big deal, something told you that he wasn’t entirely indifferent.

two

[peleksstuff]

high on you ll. l timothée chalamet x waitress!reader

*gifs not mine*

this is a slowburn before you hate on me for the slowpace im just letting you know in advance. if you dont have the patient please skip this series. thankyou (used chatgpt to correct my grammar)

summary: and they meet again unplanned

-----

Timothée Chalamet hadn’t expected to see you again, least of all at an afterparty for a major award show. The lavish venue was filled with Hollywood’s elite, the kind of people who moved in circles far removed from the small, dimly lit diner where you’d first crossed paths. But there you were, weaving through the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes, your black-and-white uniform making you blend in with the other catering staff.

He almost didn’t recognize you at first, not until you caught his eye and offered him a playful smirk. He blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, before smiling back. Fate had a strange sense of humor.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you teased, pausing by his side as you offered a glass of champagne. “Should I be worried about catching you doing something you shouldn’t be again?”

Timothée chuckled, taking the glass from your tray. “I promise I’m on my best behavior tonight.”

“Glad to hear it,” you replied, your eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d hate to have to report a repeat offender.”

“Trust me, I’m staying far away from trouble tonight,” he replied, taking a sip of the champagne. His gaze drifted over the crowd before landing back on you. “Though I didn’t expect to see you here. Small world, huh?”

You shrugged, balancing the tray effortlessly as you navigated the crowded room. “Small world, big city. The restaurant I work for did the catering, so here I am.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And here I thought you just couldn’t stay away from me.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Trust me, this wasn’t part of the plan. But I have to admit, it’s a bit of a surprise seeing you here—with company, no less.”

Timothée followed your gaze to where his girlfriend was mingling with a group of people, her laughter carrying over the noise of the party. He shrugged, trying to keep his tone light. “Hollywood relationships, right? They don’t exactly come with guarantees.”

You nodded, your smile softening. “Good thing I’m not into Hollywood relationships, then.”

For a moment, something flickered in Timothée’s expression—something almost like disappointment—but he quickly masked it with a chuckle. “Yeah, probably for the best.”

 “You know, I should probably head back before my boss starts wondering where I am. Wouldn’t want to get caught slacking off.”

Timothée nodded, though he felt a strange reluctance to see you go. “Fair enough. But hey, if you see me sneaking off to the backroom, you know what to do.”

“Warn you not to do anything stupid?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” he replied, his tone light. “Or, you know, join me if you’re feeling rebellious.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Not my style, but I’ll keep an eye out. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m around.”

The offer was genuine, and Timothée felt a warmth in your words that caught him off guard. A thought lingering in his mind. Without quite realizing it, he blurted out, “Can I have your number?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, both of you were surprised. You blinked, trying to process the fact that Timothée Chalamet was asking for your number. It wasn’t that you cared much about celebrities. But here was someone from that world, reaching out to you in a way that felt oddly genuine.

“I… wow,” you said, taking a moment to collect your thoughts. “You want my number?”

Timothée looked momentarily embarrassed, realizing how it must have sounded. “Yeah, I mean… if you’re okay with it. I just thought—”

“It’s fine,” you interrupted, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, sure, I can give you my number. It’s not like I’m in the habit of giving it out to celebrities, but if you need someone to talk to, why not?”

He nodded, visibly relieved. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

You both shared a brief smile before you turned to leave, the playful energy between you lingering in the air. As you walked away, Timothée watched you disappear into the crowd, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him—something beyond the usual Hollywood facade.

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but think about how unexpected this encounter had been. For Timothée, the brief interaction seemed to offer a moment of relief from the superficiality of the evening. For you, it was just another reminder of how unpredictable life could be.

And for the rest of the night, Timothée found himself glancing at the napkin in his pocket, a small smile tugging at his lips as he realized just how much he was looking forward to the next time fate decided to intervene.

[peleksstuff]

high on you l. l timothée chalamet x waitress!reader

*gifs not mine*

yes this would be a series. might be another series of mine that i wont finish. (again a lil bit of chatgpt to correct my grammar)

summary: a waitress caught timothée at the backroom of the diner doing something.

----

It was a chilly Tuesday night when Timothée Chalamet found himself in the back room of a small, dimly lit diner. He’d been feeling the weight of the world more than usual lately, and the crumpled baggie in his pocket was the only thing that seemed to provide any temporary relief. He had thought the diner, being relatively quiet, would be a safe place to indulge in his habit.

He was mistaken.

You, a waitress working the late shift, had just finished wiping down the counters when you heard the shuffling and murmur of voices coming from the back room. Curious, you walked over to investigate. What you saw stopped you in your tracks. There was Timothée Chalamet, crouched behind a stack of empty crates, looking frazzled and vulnerable.

You blinked, your initial shock quickly fading into a mix of concern and disbelief.

“Seriously?” you said, leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow. “This is what you’re up to behind the scenes?”

Timothée head snapped up, and his eyes widened with a mix of panic and shame. He scrambled to his feet, his hand fumbling as he tried to stuff the crumpled baggie into his pocket.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean for anyone to see—”

You held up a hand to stop him. “You think I’m going to make a big deal out of this? Relax. I’ve seen worse. Just… don’t overdose in the restaurant, okay?”

His surprise was palpable. For a moment, he just stared at you, his mind racing. “You’re… not going to report me?”

“Why would I?” you shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “I’ve got enough to deal with without adding a celebrity scandal to my list.”

He chuckled, the sound awkward and uncertain. “You’ve got a point there.”

He paused, glancing toward the door as if considering whether he should just leave and cut his losses. But something in the quietness of the room, the way you didn’t immediately judge him, made him hesitate. The idea of walking back out into the cold night, alone with his thoughts, suddenly felt daunting. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be alone right now.

“Mind if I stick around for a bit?” Timothée asked, his voice quieter now, almost tentative. “It’s been a rough night, and honestly… talking to someone who doesn’t expect anything from me sounds kind of nice.”

You blinked in surprise, not quite believing what you were hearing. Timothée Chalamet, the famous actor, the guy who could probably call up any of his friends and be surrounded by people, was asking to stay and talk to you? It seemed almost surreal.

“Wait,” you said, trying to wrap your head around the situation. “You’re saying you want to talk to me? Just hang out… here?”

Timothée gave a small, self-deprecating smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I guess I am. I know it’s random, but…” He shrugged, letting his words trail off.

You couldn’t help the thought that flashed through your mind: You’re that lonely, huh? It wasn’t said out of malice, but rather a genuine curiosity mixed with a bit of sympathy. You’d never really considered that someone like him, with so much fame and success, could feel lonely enough to seek out company in a  diner with a stranger.

But you didn’t say it out loud. Instead, you gave him a soft smile, gesturing to the seat across from you.

“Well, I’m not exactly busy, so if you want to talk, I’m all ears.”

Timothée seemed almost relieved, his shoulders visibly relaxing as he sat down.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I know it’s weird, but sometimes, it’s nice to just… be around someone who doesn’t know everything about you. Or at least, doesn’t act like they do.”

You nodded, leaning back in your chair. “I get that. Sometimes, it’s easier to talk to a stranger. No expectations, no pretense.”

He smiled, a genuine one this time, and you noticed how it lit up his face, making him look a little less weary. “Exactly.”

“So,” you began, deciding to lighten the mood a bit, “do you always sneak around in diners when you’re having a rough night, or is this a new hobby?

He laughed, the sound genuine and warm. “No, this is definitely a first. I don’t usually do… well, this.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in your eyes. “You mean getting caught by waitresses in the middle of questionable activities?”

He grinned, shaking his head. “Yeah, not my finest moment.”

You both shared a laugh, the tension in the room easing as the conversation continued. As you talked, you couldn’t help but think how strange it was—this unexpected encounter, this moment of connection with someone so different from yourself. But as the minutes passed, it felt less strange and more… right.

Maybe Timothée was lonely, maybe he just needed someone to listen, but whatever the reason, you were glad you could be there. And as the night wore on, you realized that maybe you needed this moment just as much as he did. 

[peleksstuff]

messed up l rafe cameron x pogue!reader

*gifs not mine*

should be writing a jjmaybanks imagine but my tiktok fyp is full of rafe cameron editss so here it is (a lil bit of chatgpt to correct my grammar)

summary: your rafe cameron dealer

----

The Outer Banks has always been a place of division—a world split between the Kooks and the Pogues, the rich and the working class, the privileged and the struggling. And you? You were a curious exception to the rule. Born into the world of the Pogues, you managed to carve out a niche for yourself that defied easy categorization.

You weren’t just another Pogue. You were a dealer, but not in the typical sense. You moved in the shadows, dealing in secrets, information, and occasionally more illicit substances. You had connections that crossed the invisible lines between the two worlds, and it was in this gray area that you thrived. It was here that you’d first crossed paths with Rafe Cameron, the quintessential Kook—rich, entitled, and dangerously charming.

The sun was beginning to set over the marsh, casting a golden hue over the water as you leaned against your beat-up truck, waiting. The sound of approaching footsteps caught your attention, and you turned to see Rafe Cameron walking toward you, a smirk already playing on his lips.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Pogue,” Rafe drawled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You’re not usually the type to keep me waiting, Cameron. What’s the deal?”

He shrugged, pulling out a wad of cash from his pocket. “Got held up. But I’m here now. You got the stuff?”

You reached into the truck’s glove compartment and pulled out a small, nondescript package. “It’s all there. Just like you asked.”

Rafe’s eyes darted to the package, then back to you. There was a glimmer of something in his gaze—anticipation, maybe even desperation—but he covered it up with his usual bravado. “Perfect. You always come through.”

You handed him the package, but as his fingers brushed against yours, you couldn’t help but notice how they trembled slightly. It was subtle, but it was there.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your tone casual. “You good, Rafe?”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours, and for a moment, you saw a flash of irritation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your tone light but your gaze steady. “Just asking if you’re okay. You seem a bit… off today.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might snap at you. But then he sighed, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair. “I’m fine. Just a rough week.”

“Rough enough that it’s showing,” you observed, trying to keep your concern from seeping too much into your voice.

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What, you worried about me?”

“I’m just saying, you don’t exactly look like you’re on top of the world.”

Rafe’s smirk faltered, his expression darkening. “Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.”

“You’re telling me,” you said, your voice softening slightly. “But you know, whatever you’re dealing with, this isn’t the way to handle it.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and the tension between you grew thicker. “And what would you know about handling anything? You’re just a Pogue who got lucky enough to play both sides. Don’t act like you understand what I’m dealing with.”

You stared at him, unflinching. “You think you’re the only one with problems, Cameron? You’re not. But if you keep going like this, it’s only going to get worse.”

Rafe’s fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, you thought he might lose his cool. But then he took a step back, exhaling sharply. “Why do you even care? You’ve got your own thing going on. Why not just leave me to deal with my shit?”

You watched him carefully, noting the way his shoulders tensed as he waited for your response. The defiance in his eyes was a flimsy shield, one you could see right through.

“I don’t know,” you began, your voice softer now, less confrontational. “I just thought maybe… maybe you’re better than this.”

Rafe stared at you, his expression hardening for a moment as if he was about to argue. But then, something in your tone, your words, made him hesitate. His gaze flickered, uncertainty creeping in where there had once been only anger.

“Maybe,” Rafe muttered, more to himself than to you. “Or maybe I’m just as messed up as everyone thinks I am.”

“I don’t think you’re as messed up as you believe you are,” you said softly. “I think you’re trying really hard to prove something, maybe even to yourself.”

Rafe’s expression twisted with frustration. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that whatever you’re going through, I get the feeling you’re trying to live up to some expectation that’s never going to be met,” you explained.

He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away. “It’s not that simple.”

You watched him, the frustration and vulnerability etched into his features. “I get that it’s not simple. But I think you’re caught in this endless cycle of trying to prove yourself to someone. You’re pushing yourself to the brink, and it’s affecting you more than you realize.”

Rafe’s frustration boiled over, his eyes flashing with anger. “Mind your own goddamn business, Pogue! You don’t know what it’s like, and you don’t get to judge me.”

You took a step back, feeling the sting of his words. The exhaustion of dealing with his constant push and pull weighed heavily on you. You’d tried to reach out, to offer some semblance of understanding and support, but it seemed to have only made things worse.

“Okay,” you said quietly, your voice soft but tinged with weariness.

You looked at him with a mix of frustration and sympathy. “Good luck with everything, Rafe. And just so you know, for what it’s worth, you’re not as messed up as you think you are. Not to me, at least.”

[peleksstuff]

dont care ill post jjmaybnks angst imagine

[peleksstuff]

should i write this?

just tired my dog just died want to write a harry fic where harry is in bbc radio (is it bbc?) and the radio dj announce that they have a list of whoever buy harry’s album in that record store and the reader buy it in that store so you get it (she is in the list) whoever they pick win a date with harry and obviously they pick her live while harry is in there listening and the reader decline it cause her dog just died and she’s mourning which makes harry laugh and so he say “it ok we can move it love” just that and so on (corny af ik ahahah would love to write it though)