#*aggressive mic-drop*

[dandp]

So are we just purposely putting our mic down early to give ourselves an excuse to get in Phil's personal space now orrrr (x)

[demonofsodom]

i don't know if that scene was intended to make us like trinity more or make us think she's actually badass! or something but i'm actually leaning towards it just reinforcing the prior characterization of her being emotionally ill-prepared for this environment and having no self control whatsoever. as a csa survivor AND someone going into healthcare ... yeah you can't just Do That, buddy

[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.

[nero-neptune]

finally got around to watching that 1985 movie "white nights" and, not to be the gay person making everything a "gay thing", but like. almost every scene with with the two male leads is Strikingly sexually charged, Especially the ones when they're both dancing (and it's a movie about Dancing, so this just keeps happening). yeah, it's the 80s, but you can Feel the insane chemistry through the screen. the long drawn-out eye contact? the teasing remarks? nikolai Constantly checking raymond out? was it all a fun creative decision? like, was All That on purpose or...?? am i supposed to believe that they're just "good friends"?? lmao???

this is the Very Last Shot of the movie. it's not even the first time in the movie they look at each other Like That. (they both have female love interests btw):

anyway. definitely an 80s cold war movie, i'll tell you that!

[vesipha]

29th street | jeon jungkook

summary: it started with noise complaints and eye rolls, now you’re climbing his fire escape and making out on his bedroom floor. content: smut (mdni) + fluff ♡ 2783 words isla's notes: a big cheers (with pizza or not) to a very special girl out there—here's to hoping your day is as bright as you, my love! i love you ♡ and im with you til the end.

IT STARTED WITH a wall.

Not a metaphorical one... though, sure, you had plenty of those. No, this was a very literal, very paper-thin, godforsaken wall between your office and Jungkook’s studio.

He’s not even a bad musician. That’s the worst part. The tracks he works on are good, sometimes brilliant, but not when you’re trying to hit a novel deadline and a five-piece rock band is shaking your filing cabinet with an aggressive bass drop.

You fought, at first. A lot. Passive-aggressively, then full-blown yelling. One time you left a signed copy of your latest book with a note that read “For your ears, since you clearly have no taste in soundproofing.” He responded by playing a demo on loop titled “Writer’s Block.” It was just thirty minutes of typewriter sounds and the occasional scream.

But here’s the thing: enemies are only enemies when you don’t really know them. Then one day, his studio flooded and someone had to share their WiFi and space while the flooring got redone. That someone, tragically, was you.

And he was... human. Funny. Weirdly intuitive. Insufferably hot. The kind of hot that makes you reevaluate your type mid-sentence.

Weeks passed. He started bringing coffee. You started defending his stupid beats. One night, you both ended up at the same open mic night and accidentally-on-purpose sat together the whole time.

Now you’re here. Tipsy on cheap cocktails after a friend’s party, walking toward his apartment, giggling like idiots. And somewhere along the line, the wall between you—literal and not—fell away.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Jungkook says, wobbling slightly as he skips backward in front of you, hands animated in the warm blur of city night. His black oversized bomber jacket flaps open with the movement, revealing a sliver of soft, golden skin and the worn waistband of jeans he’s clearly had forever. “This pizza place? Will alter the trajectory of your taste buds.”

You roll your eyes, half-laughing. You had to, just to keep your brain from short-circuiting. The streets are quiet now, washed in orange glow from overhead lamps, the world that had been loud and dizzy with party people now humming low and quiet. “You said that about the Thai place and I spent twenty-four hours regretting my life choices.”

“Okay, yes, but that one was a heat miscalculation. You have the spice tolerance of a Victorian child.”

You side-eye him as you walk, kicking at a loose rock. “I’ve literally eaten ghost pepper wings on a dare.”

He tilts his head, mock offended. “You also made me scrape chili flakes off your slice last week.”

“I was hungover,” you snap. “And ok, perhaps also emotionally vulnerable.”

He grins, slowing beside you again, the laughter settling into something softer. The kind of ease that only arrives at 12:47 a.m. when your feet are sore, your head’s fuzzy, and your company is Jungkook—who smells like citrus shampoo and rain-drenched concrete.

He stops suddenly, holding his hand up like he’s taking an oath. “This time, I swear on Namjoon’s vinyl collection.”

You freeze mid-step, eyes going wide. “That’s blasphemy,” you whisper, scandalized.

“Totally,” he agrees, bunny teeth flashing in a grin that does irreparable damage to your judgment.

“You have no fucking clue to what blasphemy means do you?” you try to manage the adoration oozing from your eyes with very little success. You can only hope he just sees it as you being completely drunk. 

Jungkook sways a bit, laughs through his nose, then grins wider. “No. Sounds nice though!” 

And just like that, you find yourself laughing uncontrollably while following him across a crosswalk and into a sleepy, blinking pizza shop that looks like it’s closed but isn’t.

The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look surprised to see Jungkook. He leans in, slaps palms with him over the register like they’re in a secret club, and you stand off to the side, arms crossed, watching the interaction with something that might be fondness or envy.

“Two slices of the good stuff, Yoongiihh!” Jungkook says funnily, pointing at a half-empty tray of bubbling mozzarella and burnt-edge crusts. “And extra napkins, please. We’re messy eaters.”

“We?” you mouth behind him, eyebrows raised.

He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You especially.”

The clerk, Yoongi, stifles a laugh and passes over a white paper box.

You’re still bickering about him not letting you pay as you step onto the gravel alley behind his building, where the fire escape twists upward into the dark like something out of a noir film. The metal is cold, sharp, glittering faintly under the streetlights. The kind of climb that feels vaguely illegal. The pizza box is tucked between you and Jungkook’s chest now, shared like a secret.

He glances up at the ladder after frowning and tucking his phone back into his jeans. “Jimin locked the bottom latch, again.”

You stop contemplating opening the box to snatch a clandestine slice for yourself. “And this matters because…?”

He turns toward you, grinning like he’s about to unveil a heist. “We’re going up the old-fashioned way.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, hell no.”

“The fire escape,” he confirms.

“For fucks sake, JK,” you mutter. “Is this a setup? Are you trying to murder me and keep the pizza for yourself?”

He laughs, that low rasp that always hits you too low in the gut. “If I were gonna murder you, it would be for your fancy gamer keyboard, not the pizza.”

You stare up at the rickety thing. “Do I look like someone who climbs structures in a midi dress and birkenstocks?”

He’s already got one foot on the lower rung. “You look like someone who’d complain the entire time and then act smug at the top.” when you don’t mention moving, he snatches the pizza box from your hands. “Come on,” he coaxes, “You even have a slit in your dress. Great mobility. Ok fine, I promise not to look up your—” 

“Finish that sentence and I’ll push you off the moment we reach the top.”

Jungkook grins like he wants you to try.

You glare, but your heart is thudding a little faster, and it’s not because of the climb.

When you reach for the first rung, your foot slips. A second later, you feel his hand on your waist.

Firm. Warm. Electric.

“I got you,” he says softly, right behind you, breath grazing your ear.

You freeze. Not because you’re afraid but because your brain has been thrown off a cliff. His palm doesn’t leave. In fact, it tightens just slightly, as if making sure you’re there, real, grounded. His fingers are splayed just above your hip, and the contact, simple as it is, lights you up like a struck match.

You nod once, then keep going.

But that touch... his skin on yours, through a thin layer of your favorite black dress, it doesn’t leave your memory, not even as you step through the open window into his bedroom.

His room smells like him.

Not in an obvious, cologne-heavy way, but something lived-in and layered. A little diffuser, some bergamot, hints of laundry soap and cedar. The lamp with a bandana on top in the corner casts a dim orange glow across the hardwood floor and the chaos of his space. Cords snaking under a desk, notebooks left open, a hoodie flung across the back of a chair.

It’s intimate. Personal.

It’s also, apparently, your new dining area.

He kicks aside a Hello Kitty plushie you start wondering where he got from, and then gestures for you to sit. You drop down onto a pillow by the wall, and he follows suit, setting the pizza box between you like a peace offering.

When your thighs touch, it’s casual. When they stay touching, it’s not.

“Cheers,” he says, holding up a slice like it’s champagne. You clink crusts. The cheese stretches dangerously between you both before snapping back.

You try to focus on the pizza. You really do.

But he’s watching you again. Like you’re the story he doesn’t want to stop reading.

And you feel it, down to your stomach, where butterflies seem to fly rampant. The way your breathing shifts, the heat that’s crawling up your neck, the fact that your thigh is still pressed to his and now you can feel the way he flexes it when he shifts.

He wipes a bit of sauce off his lip. You watch his tongue catch the rest.

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

Except then he leans back, resting his inked arm on the mattress behind him, and looks over.

“Do you ever think about us?”

The words hit like a piano falling from the third floor.

You blink. “Us?”

“I mean... yeah.” His voice is quieter now. The buzzed, post-party haze has faded into something slower. “We weren’t exactly supposed to like each other… I think.”

You snort. “We used to actively not.”

“I still have that post-it you left taped to the wall.”

You smirk. “Which one?”

“All of the ragy ones like ‘I’ll impale you with your drumsticks’.” He chuckles, eyes trailed to the window. “But then... I dunno. I started looking forward to your threats.”

You glance down at your hands. “If we are in a sharing moment, well... I think I hated how much I liked hearing you sing.”

Silence blooms. He shifts closer. Your hands brush. You don’t pull away.

“You have something...” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the corner of your mouth. His thumb lingers there.

You hold your breath.

And he doesn’t move.

Jungkook just looks at you, and in his starry eyes there’s that same soft ache you’ve seen when he listens to a song he’s trying not to fall in love with.

You exhale. “Are you going to kiss me or—”

He does.

It’s not gentle.

Not sweet like once or twice you imagined as you caught yourself fantasizing what he’d do, how he’d be.

It’s a storm breaking loose, all noise and heat and weeks of tension crashing down in a single, breathless second.

Jungkook’s hands are on your face, your neck, then your waist, gripping tight like he needs the contact or he’ll come undone. Your fingers thread into his thick hair instead, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

The kiss deepens, slower now, but heavier. He tastes like pizza and whiskey and something uniquely Jungkook—warm and just slightly out of control.

You climb into his lap without thinking. He lets out a moan that punches straight through your stomach and down. Your dress rides up thanks to the flowy slit on your left leg, and his fingers curl into your hips, dragging you flush against him. 

You gasp when you feel him hard beneath you.

He kisses you harder for it. His tongue sliding against yours with the slow, sinful certainty of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hands move on instinct, pushing his jacket off, dragging your nails across the warm skin of his neck. He shivers.

He pulls back for air, forehead against yours. “You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You feel,” he closes his eyes, biting the soft spot by your year, tugging on your hips as you roll them instinctively against his hard-on. “God, you feel fucking unreal.”

You smile, dazed, kissing him again, and it’s slower, much slower—exploratory, indulgent. His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, tongue teasing just below your ear again. Your breath stutters, and he groans when you arch into him.

His hands slide further under your dress, bunching it as they go. Fingertips skate over your ribs, reverent.

“Please tell me you’re not that drunk,” he murmurs against your neck, tongue flipping, teeth rasping. “That you know exactly what you’re doing to me right now- Please.”

But your hands are already on his shirt, tugging it over his head. Your answer is your body—your mouth on his collarbone, your fingers at the waistband of his jeans.

He tilts his head back, fingers on the verge of bruising you like he’s going to run out of time.

Like this, you, were something he’d earned the right to want and is terrified he might still lose.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, right before his hands slide from your thighs to your hips, spinning you slightly, and walking you back until your knees hit the edge of the rug. You barely have time to laugh before you are on the floor. Your back skimming the cool wood, his weight settling over you.

The way he moves feels more like instinct than choreography. Raw, imperfect, real.

He doesn’t undress you so much as he tears you apart.

Your dress is gone, flung to the side. His sneakers hit the floor with a muted thud. He kisses down your chest like he’d been dying to. Like he is memorizing you by mouth alone. When he reaches behind you to unhook your bra, his hand is shaking.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers, teeth grazing the top of your breast. “So many times.”

“Good,” you tug at his locks, arching. 

Your fingers claw at his belt, jerking it loose with more desperation than grace. He sucks in a breath when your hand slides inside, wrapping around him, hot and heavy and so hard it makes your thighs clench.

“I swear to God,” he growls, “if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

“Then do something about it,” you whisper, biting and sucking his bottom lip.

That was all it took.

He drags your panties off with rough, impatient hands, mouth returning to yours with a new kind of hunger. The kind that leaves bruises. The kind that unravels.

You gasp at the cold air on your skin, then gasp again when his fingers slip between your legs, groaning when he feels how ready you are.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You tug at his waistband, wordless now.

He strips the last of his clothes, kneels between your thighs, and for one heartbeat, just one, he hovers.

Eyes locked.

Breaths heavy.

Everything suspended.

Then he pushes into you with one long, deep thrust, and you see stars.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, clutching his arms. “Oh– Fuck,”

The stretch, the heat, the fullness... he fills you like he belongs there. Like this is the only way your bodies are ever supposed to fit.

“Ah, yes, right there,” you moan, rolling into him. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He groans, low and guttural, rocking into you with slow, deep strokes. “You feel so good—fuck, you feel so fucking good.”

Your hands grip his back, nails scoring lines down his spine. “Harder,” you pant. “Just like that, oh—”

“Look at me,” he growls, hips snapping harder into yours. “I want to watch you.”

You do.

The slap of skin fills the room. Your gasps turn to throaty moans. You are unraveling beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, your legs lock around his waist, each thrust tearing another piece of you open.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he mutters against your mouth, kissing you deep and messy. “Ah, fuck.”

He swallows your moans, his pace relentless now. And when your body seize around him, pleasure tearing through you like lightning, you cry out his name like a vow.

“Jungkook,” you choke, trembling. “I’m— I’m coming—”

He curses, thrusts once more, deep and shuddering, and then he is spilling into you with a broken sound against your throat, collapsing on top of you in a mess of sweat and tangled limbs, your bodies still connected, your breaths shared.

You lay there together on the floor, sticky and undone, the air thick with everything that hadn’t been said, but was felt anyway.

He doesn’t speak for a while.

Just kisses your shoulder, your cheekbone, your jaw, like he can’t stop touching you.

And then he pulls back slightly, only enough to look at you. And look, he does.

Like you are the only thing he can see with those starry eyes of his. Like he wants to memorize you again.

Jungkook’s fingers tangle slowly through your hair, brushing it off your face, soft and slow, over and over, like it calms him just to touch you.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers, kissing the edge of your mouth, and then again, this time catching your bottom lip between his teeth. Gentle, possessive, drunk on you.

“Shut up,” you chuckle, unable to not press closer to his warmth. 

Eventually, he nudges your nose with his. “You’re never gonna win another argument, by the way. You know that, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “That’s what you think, loser.”

And when he kisses you again, it isn’t about lust.

It is about every late night. Every fight. Every inch of space you’d carved into each other just to finally land here.

Right here.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ♡

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Uno and chill - H.HJ

Hi, guys! I'm back from an intense week. I missed writing 😢 So this is my present for you all. I have so many things planned, can't wait to share 💜

Thank you @jehhskz for asking me to write this fic. It's always a pleasure to be delulu with you 🫶🏻

Warnings: smut, dom! Hyunjin, possessive! Hyujin (but it's not too rough cause he's still my cutie hyunie 🤏🏻)

Word count: 1.7k

Part 2

Alexa, play Escape by Hyunjin & Bang Chan

Hyunjin was already on the edge, sweat clinging to his neck, fingers curled around the mic as he squinted past the blinding stage lights.

Then, he stopped and grinned. “What is that?”, he laughed, pointing toward the crowd— a sign, handwritten in red ink. Your sign:

1. You take me to your hotel room so we can play uno

2. You come to my place so I can destroy you in Just Dance (respectfully)

The fans around you screamed as he approached that end of the stage . But Hyunjin just smirked, and raised a single finger. “One”, he mouthed, with a wink.

You nearly died, not expecting anything else. It was just fanservice, you got that. So when a staff member tapped your shoulder at the end of the concert, whispering, “Please come with me. He’s waiting”. Well, you were sure you died and ended up in Heaven.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ

You sat on the hotel couch, knees bouncing, heart beating like crazy. Then the door opened and Hyunjin walked in— bare faced, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, no shirt under it. He never looked more stunning.

“Oh my God…”, you muttered. “Hi”, he said, grinning, “So... uno, huh?”. You smiled, holding up the cards you always carried around in case of boredom. “Yeah, are you ready to be…”, but he didn’t let you finish. He just leaned in fast, one hand cupped your jaw, and suddenly his lips were about to crash into yours.

You pulled back, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the heck, bro?! I meant actual Uno??”. Hyunjin blinked, blood rushed to his face, “Wait… what?! I thought ‘uno’ was like... a code. Like Netflix and chill”. You burst into laughter, a bit horrified, “No!! I literally just wanted to kick your ass in Uno”.

He leaned on the couch, groaning, hand covering his face, “I’m so embarrassed! Oh my god” “Well”, you said, shuffling the cards with a grin, “You still wanna play?”. He looked at you, with that typical mischievous spark in his eyes, “Yeah… let’s play”.

ㅤ

Mid game, you were two wins in and getting cocky. Hyunjin narrowed his eyes, a smirk on the corner of his lips, “Okay. Let’s make it interesting. If you win the next round, I’ll… dance Escape. All the body rolls just for you to see”, he said wiggling his eyebrows. “But”, he added, “If I win… you kiss me. For real this time”.

You paused, fingers hovering over your cards. His voice was low, but it still had a teasing tone. Hyunjin leaned back on the couch, stretching his long legs out, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. His eyes were on you— a piercing gaze like he was looking through you, like he already knew how this was going to end. Like he’d already planned it three turns ahead.

“Escape, you said?”, you raised an eyebrow, “Are you feeling that confident?”. He shrugged, “I’m very good with my hips”. That made your stomach flip and judging by his smirk, he knew it. Biting your lip, you agreed, “Deal”.

The round started chaotic. You both played aggressively, slamming cards down, stacking +2s, skipping turns, changing colors, like it was a real war. You were good at Uno. And he was hot. Which made your mind conflicted. Still, you stayed focused, one card left, tension thick between you both. “Uno”, you said confidently. Hyunjin’s smile twitched, “We’ll see”.

He played a reverse. Then a skip. And then, without breaking eye contact, he dropped a wild card and changed the color to blue. You stared at your last card— red. “Shit”, Hyunjin laughed, as you groaned and picked up another card.

He took his time and played one more, then another, the rhythm slowing like he was savoring it. He leaned in as he placed his final card down after saying ‘Uno’, “I win”. You narrowed your eyes, “You cheated” “Impossible”, he shrugged, “You said you were good. I believed you. Even offered my body rolls” "I didn’t even get to play, you menace!". But he just kept smirking.

So, you sighed, leaning back dramatically, “Fine. A deal’s a deal”. Hyunjin didn’t say a word. He just shifted closer, eyes locked on your mouth, “Come here”, he said quietly.

You leaned in. He placed one hand on your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss was slow and controlled. Like he was savoring every second. His lips moved like they already knew yours, and when his tongue brushed against yours, you sighed softly into his mouth. He was so addictive.

Then he kissed deeper, fingers sliding up tugging gently at your hair, pulling you even closer until you were straddling his lap, breathless, flushed.

He pulled away just enough to whisper against your mouth, “The moment I saw you... couldn’t stop thinking about you”. You whimpered when his mouth found your neck, hot and wet and desperate, “Hyun…” “Shh”, he growled, lifting you easily in his arms. “Let me show you what I wanted all night”.

The bed was cold when he laid you down like you were something precious, then climbed over you slowly, his hoodie falling from his shoulders, revealing the perfect lines of his toned arms. He pressed a kiss to your neck. Then your collarbones and sternum, “You’re so fucking pretty”, he whispered, “I could look at you for hours.”

His hands slipped beneath your shirt— warm palms against your skin, pushing the fabric up until he could toss it aside. He stared, breath getting heavier, then dipped his head to kiss between your breasts.

When he got you completely bare, he sat back on his heels for a second, eyes scanning over every inch of you, “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me”, he muttered. “Fuck, I don’t want anyone else to ever touch you”.

His hands pinned your hips gently as he dragged his lips down your stomach, then lower. He took his time giving slow, wet kisses on your inner thighs, ears capturing every soft sound escaping you with every move of his tongue. And when he finally came back to your lips and slid into you— you felt completely consumed.

You cried out, hands gripping his back. “You feel so good”, he groaned, hips grinding into you in deep strokes, “Fuck, this pussy was made for me”. You gasped at the words, clenching around him, and he felt it.

Smirking, Hyunjin wrapped a hand lightly around your throat. Not too tight, just enough to make your head spin. His thumb dragged up your bottom lip, “Open”. You obeyed, without questioning. He pushed his thumb into your mouth, “Suck”. You closed your lips around him, and he groaned, hips shifting forward like it turned him on more than he expected. “That’s it”, he murmured, watching your lips wrapped around his thumb, eyes heavy with lust. “God, look at you. So obedient”.

What he said had an immediate effect on you, making your hips move involuntarily to meet his. He smirked, slowing the pace of his thrusts. “You like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “You like when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”. He lightly bit your earlobe, making you whimper, “M-more f-faster, p-please”.

He smirked again, “Only if you promise me that now you're only mine, no one else will ever touch you again, only me. Do you understand me?”. You nodded, barely able to speak. Your body was trembling, almost hitting the edge, and he knew it, “No, no, baby. Say it. With words”.

“Yes… fuck. Yes, no one else ever again, only you” “That’s it. Good girl”. Then, he sped up, fucking into you with long, hard thrusts, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room.

“Hyunjin…”, you gasped. “Come for me”, he said, voice rough and low, “I want to feel you falling apart”

You shattered around him, breath caught in your throat, seeing stars behind your eyes. Your legs trembled as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release until he spilled into you with a moan that bordered on despair.

“Fuck” he groaned, collapsing beside you. “That was…”. You didn’t say anything, you were still trying to catch your breath.

Afterward, you were laying together, tangled in his arms when suddenly, he reached into the hoodie on the floor and pulled out a Uno card— a wild card.

“I cheated”, he said with a smirk. “this card was yours, had it hidden on my sleeve the whole time”, he confessed, cocky as ever.

You threw a pillow at him, “You little…!”. He caught the pillow midair and tossed it back at your chest, “And you loved every second of it”.

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤ

The next morning, the hotel room was quiet. Hyunjin was still asleep, tangled in the sheets. His lips were parted, one arm stretched across your side of the bed like he’d tried to reach for you in his dreams.

You moved carefully, slowly slipping out from under the covers. Your legs ached from last night in the best way possible.

You found your clothes, but your hand paused on the hoodie he’d been wearing the night before. Oversized, soft and smelled like him.

You slipped into it without thinking. Then, you walked over to the coffee table, grabbed a pen from the hotel notepad, and reached for the Uno card he stole from you.

You flipped it over and wrote on the back in messy handwriting:

‘Rematch?’

Reaching for your purse, you grabbed a red lipstick. And left a kiss right under the note.

Then you tucked it under his phone on the nightstand. But before leaving, you glanced back at him one last time— still asleep. You walked towards the bed and planted a soft kiss on his lips, staining it red. And finally slipped out the door, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

Later, when Hyunjin blinked awake, the first thing he noticed was that the bed was colder. The second, that his hoodie was gone.

And the third— the card.

He picked it up slowly, reading the message. A smile playing on his lips. Then a soft, low chuckle escaped him, “Of course… She knows how to play dirty too”.

He leaned back against the pillows and ran his fingers over his lips out of habit, staining his fingertips red. Hyunjin chuckled, somehow he still could feel your kiss still lingering on his mouth.

He knew this wasn’t over yet.

Did you notice the H.HJ in the title?? Does that mean more members fics coming soon?? 👀 Stay tuned to find out

If you enjoyed it, please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

[sevsevteen]

The set was all soft lights and fake laughter.

You sat between Mingyu and Joshua, smiling on cue, answering questions about the group’s upcoming tour. The interviewer - elegant, poised, all teeth and charisma - nodded along enthusiastically.

“Oh, it must be so hard keeping up with thirteen boys, right?” she said sweetly. “They must carry a lot of your weight.”

You laughed politely. “Actually, we all pull our own. They’ve taught me a lot.”

The cameras loved that.

Flash. Cut. Cue applause. Wrap.

But once the red light on the camera faded, so did the interviewer’s mask.

She barely waited for the director to call cut before twisting in her chair, speaking low to her assistant just behind her - but just loud enough.

“God, finally. If I hear the word teamwork one more time, I’ll throw up.”

You froze.

Mingyu's jaw tightened beside her.

“All that rehearsed 'we're a family' crap. Please. Half the group barely talks during breaks,” she scoffed, tossing her cue cards aside.

The assistant awkwardly tried to whisper something, but the interviewer waved her off.

“She’s cute, I’ll give her that,” the interviewer motioned her chin lazily toward you, not even trying to lower her voice now. “Pretty face, decent voice. But clearly riding on their tails.”

The room fell still.

Wonwoo, who had been grabbing water bottles, paused mid-step. Hoshi’s smile dropped. Even Vernon looked up from his phone.

The assistant gave a nervous laugh. “They were trending, though. Their last album—”

“Because of the other producers behind it,” she cut in coldly. “Not because of them. I mean, let’s be real - if they were really that good, they’d be solo by now.”

That was it.

“Excuse me?” Mingyu said sharply, standing.

The room turned.

The interviewer blinked up, all innocent now. “Oh? Did you hear that?”

“Loud and clear,” Hoshi said, voice low with fury. “You don't get to disrespect our achievements like that.”

“Oh, come on,” she laughed. “Don’t get so emotional. I’m just being honest. I figured someone needed to say it.”

Then she stood - heels clicking on the floor - and added with a smirk, “Besides, what are you gonna do? Hit me? You can’t. I’m a girl.”

And then - a shove.

A bold push to Hoshi’s chest.

He stepped back in stunned silence, fists clenching. He didn’t retaliate - of course he didn’t - but the tension in the room sparked like lightning.

And that was when you stood up.

Calm. Controlled.

Until -

"Ah!"

A hard shove right back into the interviewer’s shoulder. Not aggressive. But firm.

Balanced.

Equal.

“I think you're forgetting that I’m a girl too,” you said, stepping between them and the woman. “I have just as much right to speak up when someone crosses a line.”

“You!” The interviewer lunged with her hands up.

Wonwoo was by your side in a second, pushing you behind himself. His arm half-shielding, gaze trained on the woman like a loaded weapon.

Seungcheol was on his feet a second later, stepping forward to catch her wrist in mid-air.

The interviewer staggered slightly, stunned for a beat too long.

“Try me again.” You threatened, gaze unwavering as you pushed Wonwoo aside lightly.

The interviewer opened her mouth - but before another word could leave her lips,

Wonwoo stood beside, voice cold as stone. “Say one more thing about her. See if your mic is the only thing that cuts out.”

“That’s enough,” Seungcheol thundered, voice like steel. “We came here as professionals. And we expect the same in return.”

The interviewer scoffed, brushing herself off. “You idols think you’re invincible.”

“And you think hiding behind your gender gives you immunity,” Wonwoo said, voice like ice. “But harassment is harassment. If anyone touched her the way you just touched Hoshi, we’d be calling security.”

The assistant was already tugging her away, murmuring apologies. The woman huffed, storming off, heels clicking violently against the studio floor.

No one spoke.

The staff were frozen.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“This interview’s over,” Jeonghan said coolly, stepping in. “Thank you for your hard work, we’ll be taking our leave now.”

The team walked out together - you at the center, flanked by members who barely blinked now without checking if you were okay.

“Hey,” Mingyu said, nudging your hand gently. “That was a legendary move.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I just… I couldn’t let her say that.”

Jeonghan placed a gentle hand on your back. “You handled it better than any of us could.”

You cracked a tiny smile. “My hand’s still shaking.”

“It should,” Seungkwan said. “You could’ve sent her flying.”

“She should be glad it wasn’t Seungcheol-hyung,” Hoshi muttered.

From the side, Seungcheol cleared his throat, clearly hiding a proud smile.

You met his eyes and smiled - tired, but fierce.

With a reckless action like that, you knew you were in for a lecture when everyone got into the van.

But for now, you knew your members would have your back no matter what - and so would you.

--

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which things get trust earned not given

part one - part two - part three - part five

The Vegas locker room smells like lemon-scented floor cleaner and industrial anxiety.

The Wings are sprawled across benches and carpet, legs stretched, headphones in, slides tapping rhythmically against linoleum. It's calm chaos — the kind only teams running on fumes and unsaid tension can cultivate.

You're standing near the staff rack with tablets and warm-up data, eyes flicking to Paige every few seconds. She’s got a sleeve on her knee, AirPods in, hoodie up, head down.

She’s calm. Locked in. But she’s also… waiting. For the part everyone dreads.

Chris.

“Alright, everybody listen up!”

Koclanes steps into the center of the room like he’s about to audition for a one-man show called Basketball Clichés and the Men Who Can’t Take A Hint.

He claps once. Too loud. A few heads turn. Barely.

DiJonai doesn’t remove her headphones. She just blinks once. JJ is dribbling a stress ball, staring through Koclanes with the deadpan of a seasoned freshman who’s heard enough motivational speeches to last a lifetime.

“Vegas is gonna come out swinging,” Chris says. “But I don’t want us thinking about the Aces as a team. I want you to think about them as concepts.”

That gets Arike to blink. “Concepts?” she mutters.

Chris points to the whiteboard.

“They’re aggression. They’re illusion. They’re gravity. We are anchors. We are sound. We are pressure.”

There’s a long pause. Myisha mouths what the fuck to NaLyssa, who just shrugs and closes her eyes like she’s trying to evaporate out of the locker room.

“We don’t just want to score tonight,” Chris continues, voice rising, “we want to transcend. We want to dismantle their idea of tempo and replace it with our own identity. We rip the roots out and replant the game in our image.”

He looks around for validation.

Nothing.

Luisaclears her throat. “Do we, uh… do we have a starting five yet, or…”

“Let me finish,” Chris snaps.

The room goes back to its default setting, mild disdain with a dash of I-can’t-do-this-again.

You’re still watching.

Not him. Them.

Because they’re not just ignoring — they’re resisting.

Chris claps again.

“I want Paige pressing Jewel early. Don’t let her get clean looks. I want Luisa to help strong side on Kitley, even if it leaves Nye open. Trust the gamble. DiJonai, you’ll be rotating with Myisha. Arike, I need you off-ball more tonight, but also more on-ball. Like… be water. And also like a wall.”

Paige slowly lifts her eyes, finally pulling out one headphone. “Did you say be water and a wall?”

Chris nods enthusiastically.

“Exactly. Duality.”

Paige stares at him. “That’s not what duality means.”

DiJonai mutters, “Man said play like an Avatar.”

You smother a grin behind your tablet. You finally step forward.

Calm. Measured.

“Coach,” you say. “Starting five?”

Chris blinks like you interrupted his TED Talk.

“Right. Yeah. Okay. We’ll go Bueckers, Ogunbowale, Carrington, Hines-Allen, Geiselsöder.”

He tosses a clipboard to the bench like he just dropped a mic.

“Get locked in. We take the court in ninety.”

He walks out. No one follows. The second he’s gone? The locker room breathes again.

Paige finally looks up at you. You meet her eyes. She doesn’t say a word. But you can see it written all over her face. Can you please talk to us now?

The tunnel is dim.

It always is. That deep purplish concrete corridor between bench and battle. No cameras. No microphones. Just thick, recycled air and the distant murmur of crowd thunder rolling toward you like a wave.

You’re standing with your arms crossed just beyond the rubber mat, clipboard tucked under your arm, badge lanyard wrapped twice around your wrist.

And Paige?

She’s pacing.

Slow, fluid steps in her pregame sweats, the jersey still hidden beneath. Hair braided tight. Elbow sleeve halfway pulled up. She’s breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Focused. But not quite still. You wait until her third pass.

“Breathe,” you murmur.

She doesn’t stop. You wait for her to turn back again. This time she meets your eyes.

“I am breathing,” she says, too fast.

“Okay,” you say softly, “but not like someone who trusts her lungs.”

She snorts once — just air through her nose — but you see the tension finally crack. You step forward.

“Paige.” She stops pacing. You stop about two feet in front of her. Close enough to drop your voice. “You good?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters, voice quiet. “It’s Vegas. They’re loaded. Chelsea’s back. Kitley’s huge. Jackie’s always in rhythm. We’re underdogs.”

“You like being the underdog.”

“Yeah, but-” she falters, “-I need to be more than just… points tonight.”

You tilt your head. She’s not looking at you. She’s staring at her shoes. The way she used to after losses in high school. The way she would when she thought being enough meant being perfect.

“You’re more than just points every time you touch the floor,” you say.

She doesn’t move. You take a breath.

“You are gravity. You are vision. You’re calm. You’re why this team has a heartbeat.”

She looks up at that. Eyes soft. Tired. Still that flicker of fear behind them.

“But what if that’s not enough?” she says. “What if all that doesn’t win games?”

You step closer. Just enough to press a hand lightly against her taped wrist.

“Then we try again. But not alone.”

She exhales, looking down at your fingers on her wrist.

“I don’t think I ever told you this,” she says. “Back in high school? That first time you stood up for me against Coach?”

You blink. The memory flashes — a gym, a whistle, her limp.

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “But you did. And I think... I think that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

Her voice drops.

“That I’d never want to play this game without you next to me.”

You blink once. Throat tight.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” she says, clearing her throat, stepping back just slightly. “Because I need you to remind me not to force a pull-up three when I’m cold.”

You smirk.

“And I need you to remind me not to throw my clipboard if Koclanes says we need to ‘be illusion and pressure’ again.”

That gets a full smile from her.

“Deal,” she says.

From down the hall, the PA system roars to life.

“And now your Dallas Wings stating five—”

The tunnel floods with spotlight shadows. Arena bass kicks up like a thunderstorm. You nod toward the court.

“Go get it.”

She hesitates. Then grabs your hand for half a second. Squeezes. And jogs into the light.

The ball flies in the air.

Luisa tips it backward, flicking it off the fingertips of Kitley.

Dallas possession.

“Luisa Geiselsöder wins the tip and we are underway from Las Vegas — Dallas looking to shake off a tough loss in Phoenix.”

“And keep your eyes on Bueckers tonight. Thirty-five last game, and already directing traffic.”

Paige curls off a pin-down from Myisha, catches above the wing. Dribbles left.

Chelsea Gray trails. Kitley sags under the screen. You’re already shouting from the bench — “Lift, Luisa!”

Luisa lifts to the elbow.

Paige swings it — pump fake — Luisa drives. Scoop layup.

2–0 Dallas.

You clap once, calling out, “Keep the action tight!”

Chris is pacing already.

“Run the—run the orbit set! Arike go backdoor!”

She ignores him.

Arike jogs up, takes Paige’s handoff, steps back.

Jumper. Bucket. 4–2 Dallas.

“Paige and Arike reading each other beautifully — no clipboard required.”

You signal — two fingers to your temple.

It’s the same sequence you walked them through in shoot around, stagger screen for Myisha, flare for Arike.

Chris tries yelling something. “Motion slice! Motion slice!”

No one responds. Paige gives a little head shake and calls your set with a tap of her hip. Execution? Perfect.

Myisha catches mid-post. Turns. Hits a cutting DiJonai.

Layup. 10–8 Dallas.

“Coach L/N’s fingerprints are all over this early offensive rhythm — watch how clean their off-ball movement is when Paige ignores the play called from the sideline and calls her own.”

“Sometimes leadership doesn’t come from titles. It comes from trust.”

Jewel Loyd gets hot — two jumpers in a row, both off Chelsea Gray assists. Kitley pulls Luisa away from the rim with hard screens.

Aces lead 14–10.

Chris calls timeout. He storms in.

“We’re not switching! We’re reacting too slow! That’s not the coverage we talked about!”

Paige’s towel is already over her head. DiJonai picks at her fingernails. You wait. When he’s done yelling, you squat in front of the players.

“We knew they’d heat up early,” you say. “Don’t chase. Show early help, recover with control. Force them left. Trust the wall. Switch only if you see Jackie call the stagger flare.”

They nod.

Paige lifts the towel. “Run triple-drag out of the break?”

You nod. “If they show two at the top, skip to Arike corner. Hit JJ on the lift if it’s not there.”

Chris walks off without saying anything. The girls just listen to you.

Triple-drag screen.

Vegas traps.

Paige waits a half-second longer than usual.

Skip pass. Arike. Corner three. Splash.

15–14 Dallas.

“That skip pass was gorgeous — the second the defense committed, Bueckers punished it.”

“That’s the kind of read you don’t teach. That’s instinct, and trust in the play call — not from the head coach, mind you.”

The quarter ends and the players come off. You’re already flipping through slides on your tablet. 

Chris tries to say something — “We’ve got to guard with more integrity—” — but no one’s making eye contact.

Instead?

Paige sits beside you. So does Arike. JJ stands behind you, reading the scouting sheet over your shoulder.

And in that moment, surrounded by the rhythm of halftime prep, warm Gatorade bottles, and sneakers squeaking behind the bench…

…it’s clear who they’re following.

The second quarter begins quietly. That dangerous kind of quiet—the kind that means something’s about to snap.

Jackie Young takes her first possession slow, pulling JJ up into a half-spin before dishing out to Jewel, who’s already gliding to her spot above the break. You see the release before Paige does. Jewel doesn’t even hold her follow-through.

The net doesn’t move.

24–21, Aces.

Chelsea Gray walks the next one down like she’s done this a thousand times. Stokes fakes a screen and slips behind Luisa, catching the pass off a bounce that’s too perfect to contest.

26–21.

The Aces are smooth. They look like a unit that’s played together. A group that knows exactly when to cut, when to clear, when to flash. Dallas, by contrast, is improvising—playing jazz off a conductor who’s too busy yelling metaphors to listen to the rhythm.

You lean forward.

“Next set—elevator screen. Paige trails. Delay to DiJonai flash.”

She nods once.

Chris shouts out “Dagger Slice!” like it means something.

It doesn’t. No one runs it.

Instead, the elevator closes around Paige, and she glides through like she built the play herself. She doesn’t take the shot—she sends it to Arike in the weak side corner, who fakes once and drives baseline, flipping it to Myisha mid-cut.

Layup.

26–23.

You glance toward Chris. His arms are out like he’s waiting for applause, but the players aren’t even looking at him. Paige walks by him on her way back to defend and doesn’t even slow down.

Vegas presses next possession. Chelsea traps the inbound. JJ hesitates and gets picked. Jackie scores on the break. Paige slaps her hands in frustration, but doesn’t yell. She just taps her chest, calls for calm.

The sideline’s tense now. Chris is clapping, shouting about "urgency" and "pressure.” You kneel beside the bench, point at the tablet and show Luisa where Stokes has been cheating left every time she thinks the switch is coming.

“She’s gambling. Sell the screen. Slip baseline instead.”

Luisa nods. “Got it.”

No big speech. No drama. Just a fact. A tiny truth. That’s the difference. Next possession, Paige sees it coming. She bounces it to Luisa with a perfect seal as Stokes lunges the wrong way.

Soft reverse. Bucket.

28–25.

But Vegas is still rolling.

Gray to Jackie. Jackie to Kitley. Kitley post-spin on Myisha. Hook shot.

30–25.

They’re not flashy. They’re clinical.

“Vegas is surgical right now,” one of the commentator says from the booth. “They’re forcing Dallas into short decisions, and if not for Bueckers' poise, this game could be pulling away early.”

“Chris Koclanes keeps yelling ‘Triangle Drag,’ but the players are clearly going rogue,” the other adds. “I don’t even know what Triangle Drag is in this context.”

On the floor, Paige isn’t trying to match buckets anymore. She’s setting tempo. Slowing things down. She waves Arike off a screen, motions DiJonai to curl from the corner, and hits her mid-air with a lead bounce pass through two defenders.

Layup. 30–27.

DiJonai jogs back and doesn’t high-five Chris. She points at you on the sideline.

That’s three direct plays called from your clipboard, not his. And they’ve all worked.

The Aces push back harder.

Chelsea Gray throws a no-look to Jewel, who’s dancing now. She steps back on JJ and buries another three.

33–27.

Paige holds up one finger. Not to Chris—she’s not even facing him. She’s calling your delayed curl for JJ.

You give her a subtle nod.

She runs it perfectly.

Paige dribbles into a double team, knowing it’s coming, drawing the defense just long enough for JJ to rise off the flare.

Splash.

33–30.

The bench is louder now. ZaZa jumps up and slaps the side of Luisa’s leg. Arike claps. Myisha turns to you between possessions, asking if she should front the next post entry.

You say, “Half-front. Show early help on Kitley’s shoulder and recover fast. They’re not swinging quick enough to punish.”

She nods. No hesitation.

The Aces don’t slow down.

Jackie gets to the cup again. Stokes sneaks in another offensive board. Aaliyah Nye hits a corner three after a miscommunication between DiJonai and JJ.

It’s 40–32 now.

Chris calls timeout.

This time, the players don’t even sit around him.

They grab water and circle loosely in front of the bench. You pull the tablet out, flip through three screenshots.

“Watch this,” you say, showing the gap forming every time Vegas runs dual screens on opposite wings. “We’re trailing too high. I need early weak side hedging. Luisa—step out sooner. Force the next pass wide. We can rotate faster than they can realign.”

The players nod. Paige leans in closer, pointing to an angle you circled. “That’s when they start the backdoor cut,” she says. “Right after the second dribble.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

No one looks at Chris. He’s pacing, sweating, muttering about "energy" and “lack of identity.”

But the identity is right here. You’re building it in real time.

Final minute of the half.

Paige hits Myisha on a duck-in.

Arike draws a foul. Hits both.

Now it’s 42–36.

Vegas misses one. Paige walks it down with eight seconds left.

You’re standing. You know what’s coming.

She looks left, waits until Jewel shades too far baseline, then fires a bullet pass to DiJonai in the slot.

Three. Pure.

Buzzer.

Halftime. 49–40, Vegas.

The Wings jog into the tunnel—not defeated, not lost. Still down. But steadier.

Paige looks at you once before disappearing through the curtain. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. You’re in this. Together.

The locker room feels like a submarine. The air’s pressurized. Every sound feels like it ricochets.

Most of the team is half-dressed. Towels around shoulders. Ice packs on knees. Arike's sitting on the floor next to her chair. Paige is at her locker with her head down, one leg up on the bench, stretching her hip. DiJonai’s sipping red Gatorade like it’s wine. JJ is already running a towel over her face like she wants to wash off the entire first half.

You’re by the door. Clipboard still in hand, half-covered in notes. And here comes Chris. Clapping. Too loud again. Always too loud.

“Okay,” he says, voice bright like he’s about to deliver a motivational monologue he wrote on the plane, “we’re right there. This game is about who wants it more. It’s about toughness. Togetherness. Grit. We’ve got the tools. But we’ve got to unlock them. You understand?”

Nobody responds.

He keeps going. “I’m talking eyes on the prize. Ears closed to doubt. Heart open to effort. You want to win this game? Start believing in yourselves. Stop looking for someone to do it for you.”

He paces.

“We are not reacting—we are dictating. They’re flashy. We’re force. They’re pace. We’re patience. They’re heat—” he points to DiJonai, who blinks up at him— “we’re pressure. We’re pressure and power. Got it?”

“...got what?” JJ mutters under her breath.

“Play with identity!” he shouts. “Whatever that means to you, channel it now.”

He claps again.

“Let’s finish our story.”

He walks out. The door swings softly behind him. Silence. For a few seconds, nobody speaks.

Then DiJonai sighs. “Bro said we’re pressure and power like we’re superheroes.”

“Was it even a plan?” Luisa asks.

Paige pulls her towel off her head.

Arike leans back against the locker and says exactly what’s sitting in the air, “Okay, cool. Now… can you talk?”

All eyes shift to you. You’re still by the wall. Still holding the clipboard. But you walk forward. Not rushed. Not trying to perform. Just ready.

You flip the clipboard around and show them a sketched possession map.

“They’re overcommitting on weak side switches,” you say. “That’s what’s getting us beat baseline. But if we can force them to switch high and trap hard, we can slip Myisha or Luisa right into the blindside.”

You kneel and draw the secondary path.

“This? This is space manipulation. They think they’ve figured us out because we’ve been running high curls and flares. So let them think it. Let Paige stall at the top, draw two, then let the interior reset. You just need to trust each other to stay home weak side.”

DiJonai nods slowly. “That’s why Jewel kept getting that top slot pass. I was rotating late.”

You look at her. “Exactly. It’s not effort. It’s angle.”

Luisa steps in. “So we bait them with slow help, then recover hard on the swing?”

You point. “Yes.”

“Got it.”

“Paige,” you say, turning. “If they hedge you again off the third screen?”

“I dump to Arike and crash opposite.”

“And if they tag Myisha early?”

“I reset corner. Run triangle delay. Let DiJonai flash backdoor.”

You tap the clipboard.

“That’s it.”

You glance around. Each of them is locked in. JJ’s standing now. ZaZa’s stretching. Arike cracks her knuckles. Paige is silent, but nodding, eyes locked on the clipboard.

You feel the room breathe for the first time.

This isn’t chaos. This is clarity.

The buzzer sounds once. Five-minute warning.

No one moves until you say, “Let’s go be the smarter team.”

That’s it. No chant. No theatrics. But they move with purpose.

Paige is the last to leave, brushing your hand as she passes.

“Thanks,” she says quietly. “For not wasting our time.”

The five walk out. Paige, Arike, DiJonai, Myisha, Luisa. Same starters.

But it’s not the same energy. They’re sharper now—less reactive, more anticipating. Paige is calling sets with her hands, subtle taps at the top of her thigh, slight gestures with her fingers. Not to Chris. To you.

You’re standing behind the bench, tablet held against your chest, nodding as she scans the floor.

Across the court, Jackie Young adjusts her ponytail and glances at Jewel Loyd.

They know this isn’t the same Dallas team from the first half.

You watch it unfold exactly as designed.

Paige holds the top after Myisha slips. The defense hesitates, expecting the flare. Paige doesn’t take it. Instead, she stalls, eyes on the help defender creeping toward Luisa.

Then she skips the ball baseline to Arike, who curls—not sharp, but delayed—letting DiJonai screen her own defender off instinct.

Arike drives. Two steps, body to body. Off the glass.

Bucket.

42–41. “Brilliant misdirection there. That’s a set you only trust if you’ve drilled it with discipline.”

“That’s a coach’s fingerprint, Monica. That entire possession was built on film review. Subtle but exact.”

You don’t react. Neither does Paige. You both already knew it would work.

Paige Turns into a Conductor

This is her stretch. Not scoring—orchestrating. She feeds Luisa on a delayed dive. Draws two and hits JJ cutting. Drops a bounce pass to Myisha under the rim, so clean it looks rehearsed. She doesn’t force a shot. Not once.

You catch her eyes once during a dead ball. You hold up three fingers, swipe diagonally. She nods. Next possession? Arike lifts. JJ slips baseline. DiJonai sets a ghost screen.

Vegas bites hard. Paige dumps it back to JJ. Short corner jumper.

Bucket.

52–51 Dallas.

“Paige Bueckers is playing a masterclass of unselfish basketball right now. Every read is decisive. Every pass has a purpose.” “Let’s be real — the Wings are tuned in to Coach L/N right now. That’s where the flow’s coming from. You see it in how crisp their sets are when she calls the plays.”

“And the chemistry between her and Bueckers? Elite. Paige doesn’t even look confused — she just responds. That’s years of trust built right into the system.”

The third quarter ends with a missed jumper from Vegas.

And as the buzzer sounds, the Dallas bench is electric. JJ slaps Paige’s hand. Arike’s grinning. Luisa flexes her fingers out, watching the replay on the jumbotron like she still can’t believe how clean that dish was.

You feel the shift again.

The energy. The belief. The unspoken loyalty that says, we go where you go.

But it’s not pointed at Chris.

It’s pointed at you.

The Aces are on their heels.

Paige just hit her third step back of the quarter — caught Gray flat-footed, rose up, net. Luisa is grabbing every loose ball like her life depends on it. Arike is chirping. DiJonai is snarling. JJ’s a menace off the switch.

And on the sideline, you’re standing tall with your arms folded, watching your girls go to work.

Nine-point lead. Four minutes left. The Vegas crowd’s gone weirdly quiet. Nervous.

Aces possession.

Chelsea Gray dribbles off a Jackie Young flare. JJ fights through the screen, forces a tough pass. Liz Kitley catches off balance, tries to swing it left — The ball clearly bounces off Aaliyah Nye’s knee. Out of bounds.

You immediately raise your hand. So does Paige. She’s twirling her index finger in the air, locking eyes with the bench. She wants the challenge.

DiJonai’s arms go up. “OFF HER LEG! CHALLENGE THAT!”

The ref points. Aces ball.

Your jaw drops.

And Chris? Chris turns toward the ref crew. Turns back to the bench.

Doesn’t even glance at Paige. Doesn’t even look at Nai.

Just raises one palm to his team.

“Trust me.”

Nai steps toward him. “CHRIS! CHALLENGE IT. THAT’S OUR BALL.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t call timeout. Doesn’t move.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Let it play.”

You explode.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Every head on the bench whips around.

You take two steps forward. Past the first seat, clipboard clenched in your hand, eyes locked on Chris.

“WHY DON’T YOU TRUST YOUR OWN PLAYERS?”

Chris recoils. “We don’t have the angle.”

“THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD HAS THE ANGLE, CHRIS.”

JJ’s standing now. Paige turns her back to the bench, jaw locked, pacing.

You keep going. You can’t stop.

“Paige is BEGGING you to challenge. Nai is yelling in your face. You don’t even look at them. You look at the GODDAMNED bench.”

“I made the call,” he snaps.

“You made the WRONG call,” you shoot back. “Again.”

The crowd is roaring now. You don’t even hear the whistle for the ball to be inbounded.

Chris tries to pull rank. “I’m the head coach. You don’t—”

“I DON’T CARE,” you say. “Your team doesn’t trust you anymore. You know why?”

You point toward the court, where the ball is being inbounded to Chelsea Gray.

“Because every single time they ask you to believe in them, you believe in yourself instead.”

He tries to say something.

But it’s too late.

“Oh, wow. Tense moment on the Dallas sideline — Coach L/N is absolutely letting loose on Koclanes.”

“You can see it — Paige called for that challenge instantly. DiJonai was screaming. That was clearly off Nye’s leg. That’s a momentum killer.”

“And it’s not just the call — it’s the message it sends. This is a team that trusts each other. Not being listened to right now is devastating.”

The Aces score on that possession. Chelsea floats it over Maddie.

80–71.

Next trip? Jewel Lloyd gets a clean corner look after a miscommunication. Splash.

80–74.

Timeout Wings.

Too late.

You don’t even want to be in the huddle. You sit on the far end of the bench, arms crossed, refusing to look at Chris. He talks, but no one listens. Paige takes a sip of water and stares at her knees. Arike shakes her head and mutters, “This is why we can’t have shit.”

JJ just keeps her eyes on you. Waiting.

The team tightens up.

You can see it — the frustration bleeds into shot selection, into defensive closeouts, into chemistry.

The Aces? They sense it.

Gray hits a midrange. Kitley gets a put back. Jackie Young hits two at the line.

84–82 Aces.

Dallas still has a chance.

Out of a timeout, Paige hits a pull-up over Gray.

Tie game. 84–84.

But with 41 left, Jewel Lloyd isolates. Hits a dagger off glass.

86–84.

Dallas comes down — Paige passes to JJ, who slips, recovers, finds Arike. Late clock. Arike forces a tough three.

Miss.

Foul. Kiah Stokes at the line.

Hits both.

Final score… Aces 88, Wings 84.

Chris is standing by the tunnel, trying to meet eyes with someone. Anyone. No one gives him a look. Paige walks straight to the locker room. DiJonai tosses her towel into the stands. You stand there. Motionless.

You were up by nine. All it took was one moment — one refusal to listen — and the team knew. They’re not losing because of effort. They’re losing because of him.

You walk in last.

The air is thick with sweat and something else — something heavier. Not grief. Not sadness. Just that raw, simmering tension of a room full of people who’ve given everything and watched it dissolve because of one man’s pride.

Players are scattered.

Paige sits on the lowest bench in the corner, head in her hands, jersey still stuck to her back, sweat drying uneven on her neck. JJ is across from her, chewing the inside of her cheek, arms folded. DiJonai’s on the floor, back against her locker, towel over her head, not moving.

Arike hasn’t sat down. She’s still pacing. Still muttering.

“Could’ve iced it right there… could’ve fucking iced it…”

Luisa’s untying her shoes without looking up. Paige is just staring at the scoreboard replay on the flatscreen across from the lockers, expressionless.

Koclanes walks in. Claps once.

“Alright,” he says. “Tough one.”

Silence.

You stay leaning against the back wall, clipboard untouched, arms folded.

Chris keeps going.

“I’m proud of the effort,” he says, tone too even. Too hollow. “We controlled the pace for most of the game. Executed in spurts. Need to clean up second-chance looks, and obviously some late-game fouls didn’t go our way.”

No one reacts. He’s just talking now. To fill the room.

“We’re still finding our identity,” he says. “Still molding the togetherness.”

Still molding the togetherness.

You glance toward DiJonai. She lifts the towel off her head just enough to roll her eyes.

Arike finally stops pacing. She turns, slow and sharp.

“You really just gonna sit here and act like that bullshit challenge call didn’t change the game?”

Chris blinks.

“I made the decision I thought was best.”

“Yeah,” Arike scoffs. “For who? Yourself?”

He opens his mouth. DiJonai lifts her head.

“Can I ask something?” she says, voice low.

He nods, cautiously. “Sure.”

“Did you even see me? When I was calling for it?”

Chris shifts. “I was scanning the floor—”

“No,” she cuts in. “Did you see me? Because I was standing there. Right in front of you. Begging. And you didn’t look once.”

He doesn’t answer.

Nai stares at him for a long time.

“Got it,” she says. Then looks down.

Chris tries again.

“We can’t let emotions cloud decision-making. I had to weigh momentum against risk.”

You speak now.

“Bullshit.”

His head jerks.

“What?”

You step off the wall. Calm. Cold.

“You weren’t weighing anything. You weren’t protecting momentum. You weren’t trusting your gut. You just didn’t want to be wrong. That’s all it was.”

“Watch your tone,” he says sharply.

“No,” you reply. “Watch your ego.”

You step further into the room. Past Arike. Past Myisha. Until you’re near the middle.

“You know what I saw tonight?” you say. “A team clawing their way back into a game with trust, chemistry, real basketball. I saw them fight for each other. I saw Paige run a masterclass. Nai defend like hell. Arike sacrifice for the right read.”

Your voice doesn’t rise. But it sharpens.

“And I saw you ignore them. Again. And again.”

Chris steps forward, defensive. “We lost by four. One call didn’t decide that.”

“You’re right,” you say. “It wasn’t just one call.”

You sweep your hand around the room.

“It’s been every decision you’ve made since camp. Every time you’ve ignored a read, shut down a voice, drawn up a play no one runs. You’re not losing games, Chris.”

Pause.

“You’re losing them.”

That hits.

Paige doesn’t move. But the rest of the team? You see it.

Heads nodding slowly. Eyes lowering. Chests lifting like a weight is starting to shift off their backs.

Koclanes glances around the room. No one meets his gaze.

He finally says, “We’re done here.”

And walks out.

The door shuts softly behind him.

For five seconds, the room doesn’t move.

Then Paige looks up at you. Quietly.

“Thanks.”

You shake your head. “Didn’t say anything y’all weren’t already thinking.”

JJ leans back against the locker. “So what now?”

DiJonai lifts the towel off her head fully.

“We run it our way,” she says.

Arike steps over, nudging you with her elbow.

“Yo, next time he says ‘togetherness,’ I might actually walk out mid-sentence.”

The room laughs. A little.

Paige stands up slowly.

“We’re not done yet,” she says. “But we’re done pretending.”

You don’t say anything.

You just nod.

Because the truth’s already landed.

The team knows who they listen to now. And it’s not the guy who walks in with a title. It’s the one who walks in with truth.

The cameras are already rolling.

A sea of reporters lines the front row — beat writers, national press, radio guys with iPads, bloggers holding phones on selfie sticks.

The PR rep looks like she wants to melt through the floor.

Chris Koclanes sits in the center.

You’re to his left. Paige to your left. DiJonai on the far end. She’s slouched back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. Paige sits forward slightly, hands clasped. You don’t look at Chris once.

A reporter with a laminated WNBA Weekly tag raises his hand.

“Coach Koclanes,” he begins, “you had a chance to challenge but didn’t, and your team was up eleven. There was a clear out-of-bounds call that looked to hit off Aaliyah Nye’s knee. Paige signaled. DiJonai called for it. You chose not to challenge. Why?”

Chris leans into the mic. Smiles thinly.

“I made the decision in real-time based on our vantage point and momentum,” he says. “In the heat of a game like this, you trust your instinct. We didn’t have conclusive visual from our angle, and I didn’t want to burn a challenge that could be more valuable later.”

You watch Paige look down at the table.

The reporter follows up. “Did you consult with your staff or players before deciding?”

“I made the call I felt was best for the team.”

Another reporter raises a hand. This time he’s from The Athletic.

“This question’s for Coach L/N.”

You lift your eyes.

The reporter hesitates.

“Your sideline reaction to the no-challenge was… passionate. Can you walk us through what happened? And your response to Coach Koclanes’ explanation?”

You lean forward. Voice steady.

“You want the truth?” you ask.

The reporter nods slowly. You look out across the room. Cameras blinking.

“Chris didn’t consult anyone,” you say. “He didn’t look at his players. He didn’t look at his assistants. Paige was asking for it. Nai was begging for it. Everyone saw the ball hit off Nye’s leg.”

Chris shifts beside you.

“He didn’t challenge it because he doesn’t believe in shared input,” you continue. “He doesn’t believe in trust. Not from players. Not from his staff. Not from anyone who isn’t holding a clipboard.”

Murmurs spread across the room. Reporters writing faster. Chris starts to open his mouth. You beat him to it.

“You want to know what really happened tonight? This wasn’t about one call. This is the result of months of poor leadership. Months of confusing schemes, tone-deaf speeches, and ignoring the intelligence of the women in this locker room.”

You point, subtly, to Paige and Nai.

“These are brilliant basketball minds. They see things most people can’t. And they’re treated like pawns. That’s not coaching. That’s ego.”

Chris sits upright now. “You’re out of line.”

“No,” you say, “I’m finally in line, with the team.”

Silence. The press waits.

“I’ve tried to keep this internal,” you say. “I’ve tried to back him, even when it made my job harder. But this team’s trust is broken, and it’s not because of the players.”

Chris glares. “This isn’t the place—”

You cut in again. Cold. Controlled.

“You’re not a great coach, Chris.”

You pause.

“You’re not even a good one. You’re someone who hides behind jargon and shrinks from responsibility. And the only reason you’re still in that seat is because Curt Miller is your best friend and you’ve got front office insulation.”

That sets the room on fire. Gasps. Shuffling.

Chris jerks his head to the PR rep. “This is over—”

“No,” Paige says, suddenly.

Clear. Calm. Loud.

The room freezes.

She leans into her mic.

“Coach L/N’s not lying. We’ve been silent for too long. We’re being coached by a man who doesn’t trust us, doesn’t listen, and doesn’t treat us like professionals.”

Reporters are practically leaning out of their chairs.

DiJonai sits up now, too.

“And when we finally start to win? It’s because we’re following her. Not him.”

Chris is boiling now. “You don’t get to hijack a press conference—”

“No,” you say again, voice even lower now. “You hijacked a team.”

More silence.

“I’m not naive. I know I’ll be punished for this. I know what happens when assistants speak out against the network. But someone had to say it. Someone had to say it on the record.”

A reporter asks quietly, “Are you calling for his resignation?”

You look into the camera.

“Yes.”

Chris stands suddenly, slamming his hands on the table.

“We’re done here.”

He storms out.

The PR rep tries to end it too, but the room is alive now.

Cameras still roll. Reporters yelling questions. Paige and Nai stay seated beside you. You don’t leave yet. Because you’ve just told the truth.

And for once?

Someone finally listened.

It’s past 1 a.m. when you knock on her door.

Paige opens it in a hoodie two sizes too big — your hoodie, actually — with her hair pulled into a lazy bun, her face washed clean, soft and worn around the edges.

“You shouldn’t be walking around alone,” she says.

You smirk. “I’m not alone now.”

She exhales through her nose. Opens the door wider.

You step inside.

The room smells like the lavender lotion she travels with and the faint salt of postgame sweat. Her bag’s half unpacked. Her shoes are by the window. ESPN’s muted on the TV. A highlight reel loops over the box score. Paige Bueckers – 16 PTS, 8 AST, 2 STL.

You watch her cross the room and sit on the bed, knees pulled up. She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

So you speak first.

“You okay?”

She nods slowly. “Tired.”

You sit beside her. Not close, not far. Just… right there. You both stare at the muted TV.

“I meant everything I said,” you murmur after a beat.

She doesn’t answer immediately. But she doesn’t need to.

She leans her shoulder into yours. “I know.”

A long silence settles. Not heavy, just real.

“Do you think they’ll fire you?” she asks quietly.

“Maybe.” You look over. “Do you think I care?”

She gives a small, sad smile. “You should. You worked so hard to get here.”

“I worked so hard,” you say gently, “to stay near you. That was the whole point.”

She breathes out like it hurts.

You take her hand.

She lets you.

“You were on fire tonight,” you say after a long moment.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You had sixteen.”

“And we still lost.”

You shake your head. “Paige. You were brilliant. You read everything before it happened. You trusted your team. You played through the noise, through him, through everything. That’s what leadership looks like.”

She looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah, well… didn’t feel like leadership when no one was listening.”

“They were listening,” you whisper. “To you. To Nai. To me. Not to him.”

You squeeze her fingers.

“Everything’s changing.”

She glances up at you. “Is that a good thing?”

You smile. Tired. Steady.

“It is if we’re the ones changing it.”

She lets that sit for a moment.

“I think I’d follow you anywhere.”

You blink. Swallow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You look at her. Really look at her.

And you don’t say it — not yet — but it’s in your eyes. You always have.

She leans forward and rests her head on your shoulder. You wrap your arm around her back, tucking her into the curve of your body like she was always meant to fit there.

The TV keeps looping. 16 points. 8 assists. 2 steals.

But all you feel is the weight of her against you, the thud of her heartbeat syncing with yours.

She whispers against your chest, “Thank you. For saying it. For not letting him erase us.”

You close your eyes.

“Always.”

[4linos]

crash and burn.

ot8 x ninth member male reader

synopsis: you thought silence made you strong. but when you collapse mid-song, your members show you what real strength looks like, being cared for.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fainting, malnutrition, burnout.

wc: 2150

The crowd roared like a tidal wave, deafening and unrelenting, but it sounded muffled in your ears.

You stood just offstage, the thick velvet curtain brushing against your shoulder as you waited for the cue. Your heart was hammering, not from nerves, but from sheer exertion. Your limbs felt leaden, your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and a faint, persistent buzz echoed in your head. You tilted slightly to one side, catching yourself before you stumbled.

It had been like this for days now. Maybe longer.

You'd chalked it up to the usual: exhaustion, long practices, late-night recordings. It wasn’t like this was new. Every idol lived like this, surviving on little sleep and even less food, constantly chasing perfection under the blinding spotlight. You weren’t special. So, when your stomach grumbled during practice, you told yourself you'd eat later. When your knees buckled slightly in the hallway, you grabbed the wall and laughed it off. And when your vision swam during warmups this morning, you blamed it on the heat and kept going.

Because if you stopped now, just for a break, just to rest, what if they thought you couldn’t handle it?

What if you proved them right?

“Y/N,” Chan’s voice came from your left, firm but kind. “You good?”

You blinked and nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just pumped.”

He held your gaze for a second longer than usual. Like he could see through the cracks. But then the opening VCR ended, and the stage lights flared to life.

And then you were running out into the crowd, smiling wide, waving, getting into position.

You weren’t good. Not even close.

-

The first song was a blur. Your body moved on muscle memory alone. The choreo was aggressive, as always, but tonight it felt like you were dragging your limbs through sludge. Every jump sent a spike of dizziness through your skull, every turn left you gasping for air.

By the second song, sweat poured down your face like rain. It stung your eyes. Your hair clung to your forehead. You bit the inside of your cheek to focus, to stay sharp, but your mind was getting foggy. Like someone was slowly turning the volume down on the world.

You glanced sideways during the bridge and caught Jisung watching you out of the corner of his eye, brows pinched. You forced a smile.

He didn’t smile back.

By the third song, your head was pounding so hard you thought your skull might crack open. The lights above seemed brighter than usual, searing into your eyes. Your ears rang. Your breath came short and fast. Your body was crying for fuel it hadn’t received in too long.

But it didn’t matter.

Because this was your part.

The music dipped into silence as the instrumental faded. The stage dimmed around you, leaving just the spotlight, blinding and white hot, on your figure.

You stepped forward, mic in hand, heart thudding wildly against your ribs.

You opened your mouth.

And nothing came out.

Your throat closed up. The words, lyrics you’d practiced a hundred times, bled over just… vanished. Your mind was blank. A second passed. Then two.

In the crowd, fans stopped waving their lightsticks. Silence rippled like static through the audience. It wasn’t long, but it was long enough, enough for Chan to glance back at you, eyes sharp with concern. Enough for Seungmin to pause mid-step. Enough for Felix to frown.

You stumbled.

Just barely.

But it was enough.

Because the moment you tried to speak again, the world tilted sideways and then everything went black.

You didn’t remember hitting the floor.

Didn’t remember the chaos, the crowd screaming, the music cutting off abruptly, the mics hissing as members rushed to you.

You didn’t remember the way Chan dropped to his knees, calling your name. The way Changbin held your head carefully to the side, checking your pulse with trembling fingers. Or how Jeongin was frozen in place, eyes wide and terrified.

All you knew was darkness.

Silence.

Weightlessness.

-

When you woke, the first thing you felt was cold, an air-conditioned chill brushing across your sweat-soaked skin.

The second was pain. A dull, heavy ache behind your eyes, like someone had cracked your skull open and poured concrete inside.

And then..

Voices.

Muffled at first. Then slowly sharpening.

“—you need to get him fluids immediately. He’s severely dehydrated.”

“Blood sugar’s way too low. Probably hasn’t eaten in. How long has it been?”

“Y/N. Come on, come back to us.”

Your lashes fluttered. You squinted against the harsh white lights overhead. Your vision was blurred, but slowly, faces began to take shape.

Chan hovered above you, his eyes rimmed red, his hands curled tightly around your wrist.

Felix sat just behind him, one hand pressed against his lips, the other curled around your ankle like it grounded him. His face was pale.

Hyunjin crouched nearby, his hands shaking slightly as he ran them over his pants. You could tell he’d been crying, even if he tried to hide it.

The rest of the members were there too, gathered in a semi-circle around the cot you’d been laid on backstage, with your manager and two medics standing nearby. Everyone looked like they’d aged ten years in twenty minutes.

“…Y/N?” Chan whispered again. “You with us?”

You nodded, barely. Your head felt too heavy to lift.

“I—I’m sorry,” you croaked. “I don’t know what happened…”

“You fainted,” Jeongin said, voice cracking. “On stage. In front of everyone.”

“It was like you shut off,” Seungmin added, not unkindly, but with a shake in his voice he couldn’t hide. “One second you were singing, the next, you just…”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, throat tight. “I just… I thought I could push through.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Changbin snapped, more emotional than you’d ever seen him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You swallowed hard. The room felt smaller now, heavier.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you admitted. “I kept saying I’d eat later but then I’d fall asleep after practice, and I’d forget. And then it just… kept happening.”

Chan ran a hand over his face. “God, Y/N…”

“I thought I was just being weak,” you continued, voice raw. “I didn’t want you guys to worry. You’re already under so much pressure, I—”

“Stop,” Hyunjin said suddenly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“You’re one of us,” Felix added, scooting closer. “That means we carry the weight together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to slow anyone down.”

Chan let out a long, shaky breath and sat back on his heels. “Y/N. We’d rather miss a hundred stages than lose you.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Minho said from where he stood, arms crossed but face stricken. “You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.”

You turned your head slightly, feeling tears sting your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause.

Then Chan reached out and gripped your hand. “We’re not mad. Just scared. You don’t have to apologize for collapsing when your body couldn’t take it anymore. You just… need to let us help you before it gets to that point.”

“I will,” you promised, voice barely audible. “I swear.”

Felix offered a small, broken smile. “Good. Because we’re not letting you out of our sight now.”

-

You were taken to the hospital shortly after, just to be safe. The diagnosis was no surprise: dehydration, low blood sugar, over-exhaustion. A perfect storm of neglect.

The schedule was adjusted. Your next few events were cancelled, and the company released a statement citing “health precautions.” But behind the scenes, it wasn’t just protocol, it was care.

You weren’t alone for a second.

Changbin started keeping snacks in your bag. Jeongin set phone reminders for your meals. Hyunjin volunteered to split his vitamins with you. Minho started packing bento boxes after late-night practice “just in case.”

But it was Chan who hit the hardest.

It was late.

Past midnight, maybe closer to 2 a.m., when you wandered into the building alone.

The others had gone home hours ago, forced into rest by your manager’s insistence and the very real reminder that everyone was a little too close to the edge lately. But you couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Your body was still too wired, your head too full.

You thought being alone in the practice room might help. Just a few minutes of quiet.

But when you pushed open the door, you weren’t alone.

Chan was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, hoodie pulled halfway over his face like it might shield him from the weight of the world. The dim overhead lights cast a long shadow behind him, and for a second, you almost didn’t recognize him like that, so still, so quiet.

Then you heard it.

A soft sniff. The sound of someone trying very, very hard to keep it together.

You hesitated. Your instinct told you to leave, to give him space. But another part of you, something deeper, something that knew him said to stay.

“Hyung?” you said quietly.

He jumped slightly, dragging a hand quickly across his face. “Ah, shit,” he muttered, blinking rapidly. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You took a slow step forward. “You okay?”

Chan let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He wiped at his face again, gesturing vaguely to the room. “Just sweating. It’s hot in here.”

You gave him a look. “Sweating. While sitting completely still. In the dark.”

He sniffed again and chuckled weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “Yep. That’s the story I’m going with.”

You didn’t call him out. You just walked over and sat down beside him, close enough that your arms touched. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was familiar. Grounding.

He exhaled slowly. “You really scared me, you know.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“I saw you go down and my brain just… stopped. I don’t even remember running to you. I just remember the sound. The way everything went quiet. Like the whole world paused.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he cleared his throat quickly and looked away.

“You’re always looking out for us,” you said. “And I get it. That pressure, that responsibility. You carry all of it. And when something slips through the cracks…”

He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. You weren’t okay, and I missed it.”

“Because I hid it,” you said firmly. “I’ve had practice. Smiling when I’m falling apart. Telling everyone I’m fine so they won’t worry.”

He was quiet again.

Then he said, softer this time, “But I still should’ve seen it. That’s the part that keeps hitting me. I was so focused on keeping everything running that I didn’t even realize one of my members was running on empty.”

You leaned your head back against the mirror. “You’re not a machine, Chan.”

He let out a weak laugh. “Try telling that to my reflection.”

You turned your head toward him. “You didn’t fail me. You didn’t let me down. I pushed myself too hard because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I thought being strong meant never asking for help.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“I get it now,” you said. “And I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to let you in. Let all of you in. Because if I’d said something earlier, even once…”

“We would’ve caught you,” he finished, voice thick. “Every damn time.”

You nodded. “So no more hiding. From either of us.”

He finally looked at you then, really looked, eyes glassy, tired, but softer now. There was a hint of a smile there, fragile but real.

“You know,” he said, nudging your arm, “I was gonna pretend I came in here to revise the setlist.”

You raised a brow. “With your hoodie over your face and tear streaks on your cheeks?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sweat streaks.”

“Uh-huh.”

He let out a proper laugh this time. It was quiet, but genuine. Then his expression sobered again.

“Promise me something?” he asked.

“Anything.”

“If it ever starts to feel like too much again, even a little, you’ll tell me. No more toughing it out. No more pretending.”

“I promise,” you said, without hesitation.

“And I’ll do the same,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “Because you’re not the only one who’s been running on empty.”

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, grounding each other in the stillness of the room.

The pressure didn’t go away. The world outside was still spinning fast. But here, in this moment, you weren’t falling behind.

You were just… still.

Together.

//

masterlist.

[for #🐰 anon, sorry this took so long.. i hope u enjoy]

[ronearoundblindly]

🧚🏻‍♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now you must share a hoe thot about: CE!babe + “Sir, I think you misunderstood.”

I'm SO HONORED, you have no idea. 🧚‍♀️👸🏽❤️🪄🧚✨⚡️❤️‍🔥🧚‍♂️

*While this follows Super-Human Resources as a story, it is not necessary to read that to understand. Reader is female and 'older' but no specifics about her body or age are given. For context, you believe that you and Steve are f***-buddies and nothing more (he does not believe that).

Summary: Steve is more eager to than you realized...

A shameless fic deserves a shameless gif, don't you think? **Warnings for smut: unprotected sex (established consent/relationship) in a semi-public space, oral (m receiving), horny gremlin!Steve, and not a whole hell of a lot of editing utilized, folks... MINORS DNI. There's all-age friendly fic on my Light Masterlist, but not here. WC ~2k

Busy.

Busy day. Busy week. Busy month really, if you stop to think about it, but you can’t stop right now. There’s work to be done. Agents to clear, trainees to make agents, and it’ll be done as soon as you file these…

“Shit,” you mutter as Maria Hill is about to take the documents from you. You were almost done with this closed-door meeting. “Rogers hasn’t signed off on them yet.”

For the tiniest of split-seconds, Hill looks annoyed, her eyes half roll while she sighs. “He’s been just as slammed as all of us.” She doesn’t seem thrilled by the chaos of spring either. Say what you will about seasonal depression sucking, but there is a notable uptick in enemy aggression once the weather warms.

Does that make winter less crazy? No. What it does is make the internal workings of the Compound go bonkers until everyone can fight out there. In HR’s case, winter is the worst and busiest time. Busy. Busy. Busy.

Your off-hours understanding with Steve Rogers aside, there are few seasonal bright spots beyond actually liking your job.

You dial up Rogers’ number. It rings only once before he answers.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

He’s so sweet with you in private, and though diligent about keeping work strictly professional, you imagine you can tell the barest of warmth laced into the words.

“Sorry to bother, Captain—“

Hill slaps down a new file you’ve not seen yet.

“—but I need you—“ you cover the mic with your palm, whispering ‘and what’s this?’ but she waves you off “—to come down and…hello?”

The dial tone starts again.

“Hello? I think he just hung up on me.”

Hill simply shrugs. “Maybe even he’s at wit’s end,” she muses. “Just bring the rest to my office whenever, but I’ll need a review of this contract. The lawyers approve, but if you ask me they kept the wording too technical. We need a—let’s say a nicer spin on it.”

Fine. Toss it on the pile. In fact, that’s exactly what you do, move it from corner A to corner B of your desk.

Above you, Maria makes a shocked sort of chirping noise.

“Cap! You scared me there.”

“Sorry,” Steve huffs in the doorway, arms braced on either side of the frame. “Sorry. Sorry, I just—“ clearing his throat “—was already on this floor when you called, so…I’m here.”

His stealth training with Natasha really paid off. There was zero sound when he came in.

“Right, well, if you could—“

Steve holds up a finger. “Actually, I have something to ask…to discuss with…”

“I’ll bring them by your office later,” you offer Hill.

She nods and leaves, none the wiser to Rogers speedily (and silently) locking the door behind her. 

You push out your chair to greet him, but Steve rounds the desk before the seat even rolls past touching your calves.

“I need you, too,” he husks, big hand gripping your waist, maneuvering you back against the wall. His mouth finds the tender spot below your ear immediately. “‘m glad you called.”

Oh.

Oh wow, he’s—

“Love when you wear these.” Steve drops to one knee, fingers dancing at the hem of your skirt and over the thin shield of your pantyhose.

He does love him some nylons, cheeky boy.

Good thing your office blinds were already closed, or the whole cubicle pool would see Captain America six inches from your crotch with a hand sneaking up your thigh.

“Sir,” you whimper in the suddenness of his desire, “I think you misunderstood.”

A flicker of questioning darts across Steve’s features.

“I actually just need you to sign those,” you clarify with a wave to the desk.

“Oh.” Steve presses his head into your leg for a second. “So not…?”

“Sex? Here? No, not what I called for,” you chuckle.

He gets up from the floor, looking embarrassed and guilty, a bulge in his pants betraying how seriously he intended to take you right there. It has been two weeks since you’ve gotten to sleep over. He was away on mission last weekend and who knows when he’ll be called up again. Shame to let that enthusiasm go to waste…

“But,” you drawl, creeping forward, your hand cupping him gently.

He stirs so easily at contact. Steve’s always been eager to ‘practice,’ to build prowess in knowing the female body, and he’s used yours to do it, but you never expected him to whine in desire.

Without waiting for more encouragement, he lowers his mouth to your neck again. “Yeah?” 

His fingers use their rough friction to nudge your skirt up over your hips until he can run one digit along the waistband of your stockings.

You feel the fabric in your palm stretch tighter. Steve twitches.

“It’s okay to do this,” he breaths, “even if it’s uncalled for?”

The spider-walking of his touch down your stomach is deliberate. He’s giving you time to tell him you’re not interested or this isn’t the place, but you are, in fact, pretty interested and do not care if this is the place.

When no response comes as he finds your mound, Steve drags one finger through your folds. He lets a hot sigh roll across your skin in satisfaction of discovering the slick spot he can stoke back to life.

Ever since he first asked how he could please you, it’s been about Steve wanting to learn a woman’s pleasure, but his desire always seems incidental. He’ll come anyway. He’s getting off in addition. You get that; it’s the whole deal, but there are other lessons Steve, in particular, could learn. One of them is that he can be the focus, too.

Instead, he’s focused on holding back, apparently, because he bites his lip and doesn’t lean into your hand. He doesn’t pull away either. He moves to slip two fingers into you and curl them.

This leads you to a theory of why, though you’re surprised to have the brainpower. “Have you not…touched yourself in weeks?”

Steve grunts in annoyance. “I didn’t think it would be that long.”

“So—“ keeping your voice silky and sweet “—no need to edge yourself after all that.”

“Edge?” he asks.

Lessons, lessons, lessons.

“It’s called ‘edging’ or ‘delayed gratification,’ yeah.”

You can practically hear his thoughts as his eyes roam your body. Should he stop? Should he continue? Should he tough it out and wait the few hours till the workday is done? Steve is the type to think of denial as the height of self-control, so you don’t know which side he’ll land on when he’s needy with his finger on the button of satisfaction.

He can have it all, and he can have it right now. You tentatively roll his tender balls to prove a point, but that seems only to make his inner conflict worse, his brows knitting together, strained.

Until it doesn’t.

“No,” Steve says, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, staring at you feverishly. “No, I don’t want to delay anymore.”

To put him out of his misery, you offer your help, pulling his hand away, rolling down the layers in his way until mid-thigh (look, hose are a bitch to take off and put on, so at work, you’re improvising), and bending directly over your desk. Head turned to the side, you watch the shadow of him stepping up behind you, lowering the fly of his slacks and pumping his shaft until he’s hard.

All in total, it takes four seconds or so, but the performance of breaking the man’s character down to a lustful mess plays out an entire scene.

Steve squats down slightly to roll his cockhead through your folds and thrusts shallowly. The delicious stretch and rising fullness make your eyes flutter shut.

He’s always worth the wait. You’ll miss this when he’s done with you.

His feet spread apart as he kneads your ass and opens you wide.

“So good,” he groans. “Did you think of me? Did you touch yourself thinking of this?”

“Yes,” you gasp on a deep thrust.

If he’s expecting more words, he’s not getting them, not when the drag of him inside and out pools all your attention like a tide away from your brain.

The afternoon sun’s angle shows the silhouette of Steve stretching tall so he can fuck toward that spongy spot sending tingles all over your body, but just as soon as he sets a rhythm, he pulls out.

“Uh, no,” he moans, gripping his dick like it’s hurting him, “’s why I wanted my mouth on you first…so…so close.”

Steve’s ready to cum within minutes of sinking into your pussy. That’s a boost to your ego if there ever was one. However, he needs release, and from the look of his blown pupils, he needs it to be as intense as possible. He needs connection not just physically.

If Steve desires a more connective experience, you’ll have to give him eye contact.

Mirroring his starting position, you drop delicately to your knees in front of him, head inches away from your desktop.

“Oh god,” he whines from somewhere deep in his chest, but his eyes never leave you while your hand replaces his. 

The first brush of your lips sends him lurching forward to grip the poor particleboard behind you, and you do blink long and languid at the musky taste of him.

His mouth hangs open, too, as you bob, taking only a few inches each time, focusing on the sensitive head. You make the tip of your tongue firm and pointed to draw patterns along veins you know by heart. His hips buck against his will, and though you can’t teach it him without words, this is called ‘fucking your face.’

It’s delightful to see the hazy blue of his eyes soften in wonder. It’s validation itself to hear him praise the sheer perfection of you.

“Shit,” Steve moans, “I—I—“ but he breaks off in a euphoric (and loud) exhale.

Cum begins to flood your throat and mouth, and there’s a rustle of something knocked over above you. A soft wad of tissues tucks under your chin just as the overflow breeches the corner of your lips.

“Too long. Waited too long. Sorry, should have warned you,” he admits brokenly. It is significantly more than usual, you note.

Steve pulls out to finish coming in his makeshift pad and tries to bat the box closer to you for more.

You rip out a few to spit in.

All-in-all, you’re pleased to have such a wild affect on a man, and Steve is not just any man at that.

He takes all the tissues and buries them under some papers in your trashcan. He collects himself, zipping his dignity back into place while you shimmy up your tights and panties.

Steve then pulls you into his chest, leaving a gentle kiss as the last taste on your lips. “I’ll give you back threefold tonight, okay?” he assures, low and intimate. “Sorry, I got…overexcited.”

He releases you from the hug.

“Well, I’ll only be there at a decent hour if you sign these damn papers, Captain.”

Steve looks confused, eyes darting to the stack he luckily did not tip off the edge of your desk. It takes another four seconds for him to remember that there was a real reason he was called.

“Yes, ma’am, right away, but also—” he scrunches his nose “—I’m just going to crack this because—“ Steve doesn’t bother completing the thought. He simply props the window open at the lowest notch. Across the small room, he stares at you smoothing a hand over your hair, beaming.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Goofy. Honest. Adorable.

“It’s a good line, Cap,” you chuckle then double tap the stack of forms.

He rushes over, ever the fast-learner, ever the eager participant, ever ready (usually) to get down to business.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

Thank god it’s Friday.

a/n: is it acceptable?

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots; Ko-Fi]

@Supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @bitchy-bi-trash @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare

[blairxbear]

How they handle jealousy and would react to someone flirting with you...

UA Part 1 / UA Part 2 / Pro Heroes / Villains

How would these pro heroes handle jealousy and deal with someone flirting with you?

Featuring Pro Heroes: Toshinori Yagi/All Might, Shota Aizawa/Eraserhead, Hizashi Yamada/Present Mic, Enji Todoroki/Endeavor, Keigo Takami/Hawks, Mirai Sasaki/Sir Nighteye, Taishiro Toyomitsu/Fatgum, Snipe, Shinji Nishiya/Kamui Woods

Toshinori Yagi (smAll Might)

Jealousy Level: 6/10 – More insecure than possessive.

Toshinori doesn’t get openly aggressive, but he definitely feels a pit in his stomach when someone flirts with you.

He trusts you, but deep down, he wonders, “Why would they want to be with a broken man like me?”

His response is gentle but firm—he’ll place a hand on your lower back, subtly pulling you closer.

If the flirter doesn’t back off, he gives them a polite but unmistakable smile:

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but my partner and I were just leaving.”

Later, he’s quieter than usual, staring at his hands, lost in thought.

When you reassure him, he gives you a rare, soft kiss, whispering:

“Thank you for choosing me.”

Shota Aizawa (Eraserhead)

Jealousy Level: 9/10 – Calm but scary.

Aizawa doesn’t do drama, but the moment he sees someone flirting with you?

He stares, unblinking, arms crossed, completely unreadable.

The flirter usually gets uncomfortable just from the intensity of his gaze.

If they keep going, he speaks low and cold:

“You have five seconds to walk away before I make you.”

He’s not flashy about affection, but after, he pulls you closer, resting his hand on the small of your back.

Later, when you ask if he was jealous, he just grunts and pulls the blanket over both of you:

“Just go to sleep. You’re not leaving me, so it doesn’t matter.”

Hizashi Yamada (Present Mic)

Jealousy Level: 8/10 – Loud and dramatic but lowkey serious.

The moment someone flirts with you, he turns up the volume on purpose.

Suddenly, he’s laughing louder, wrapping an arm around you, and being extra touchy.

“YO YO YO! LOOK AT THIS ABSOLUTE CUTIE I’M DATING! AREN’T THEY JUST THE BEST?!”

If the flirter still doesn’t get the hint, he drops the goofiness and speaks firmly:

“Listen, buddy, they’re mine. So I’d appreciate it if you backed off.”

Later, he pouts like a kicked puppy, dramatically lying across your lap.

“Babe, tell me I’m still your number one fan.”

Enji Todoroki (Endeavor)

Jealousy Level: 10/10 – Possessive and terrifying.

Enji does not tolerate disrespect—the second someone flirts with you, his presence alone is intimidating enough to send chills down their spine.

He stands behind you, looming, arms crossed, eyes burning.

If they dare to persist, his voice drops into a low, dangerous growl:

“You’re standing too close.”

If that doesn’t work? A tiny, controlled burst of flames flickers at his fingers.

Later, he doesn’t talk about it, but he holds you a little tighter, kisses you a little deeper—his way of reassuring himself.

“You’re mine. I won’t let anyone take you.”

Keigo Takami (Hawks)

Jealousy Level: 5/10 – Playful but secretly possessive.

Hawks doesn’t get jealous easily—he’s too confident for that.

But the moment someone flirts a little too boldly?

He swoops in, slinging an arm over your shoulder, grinning like he’s completely unbothered.

“Woah there, buddy! Careful now—you might make me jealous.” (Said with a teasing smirk but dead-serious eyes.)

If the flirter pushes too hard, his wings flare slightly, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr:

“I don’t like sharing.”

Later, when you’re alone, he cages you in against a wall, brushing his lips against your ear.

“Tell me again who you belong to, sweetheart.”

Mirai Sasaki (Sir Nighteye)

Jealousy Level: 7/10 – Silent but terrifying.

Nighteye doesn’t make a scene, but the intensity of his glare is enough to make anyone uneasy.

He simply pushes up his glasses, staring the flirter down without saying a word.

If the flirter continues, he calmly adjusts his tie and speaks with calculated coldness:

“It would be wise for you to leave. Now.”

He won’t make a public display of affection, but later, he cups your face gently, murmuring:

“You belong at my side. No one else’s.”

Taishiro Toyomitsu (Fatgum)

Jealousy Level: 3/10 – Chill, but protective if needed.

Fatgum is too secure and easygoing to get jealous easily.

He trusts you, so he laughs it off at first, not thinking much of it.

But if the flirter keeps pushing, his usual warm expression hardens slightly.

“Aight, now you’re just bein’ disrespectful.”

He effortlessly steps between you and the flirter, his sheer size enough to make them reconsider their life choices.

Later, he pulls you into a tight, warm hug, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You’re mine, sweetheart. But I already knew that.”

Snipe

Jealousy Level: 6/10 – Protective but quiet about it.

Snipe is calm and mature, but he doesn’t like disrespect.

The moment he sees someone flirting with you, he just steps closer, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder.

“Everythin’ alright, darlin’?” (His deep voice alone is enough to make the flirter uneasy.)

If they don’t take the hint, he speaks low and sharp:

“Best step away before you make a mistake.”

Later, he tips his hat up slightly, looking at you with an amused smirk.

“Guess I’ll have to keep ya closer from now on.”

Shinji Nishiya (Kamui Woods)

Jealousy Level: 5/10 – Logical but subtly protective.

Kamui isn’t quick to anger, but if someone flirts too boldly, he makes his presence very clear.

His wooden branches subtly wrap protectively around you, shifting to create a barrier between you and the flirter.

If they persist, his tone sharpens, calm but firm:

“I’d appreciate it if you showed some respect.”

He won’t make a scene, but after, he’ll hold you closer, his fingers brushing against yours in reassurance.

Later, he softly murmurs:

“I’m not the jealous type… but I don’t like the idea of anyone else thinking they can have you.”

Ko-fi / Masterlist

blairxbear © 2024. do not copy, modify, or translate my work. you do not have permission to share my work outside of tumblr!

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Mic’d Up Mayhem

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x !USC girlfriend Reader

Rating: General (Fluff, Light Angst, Competitive Banter)

Fandom: Women’s College Basketball (USC & UConn)

Summary: In a highly anticipated USC vs. UConn matchup, you and Juju are mic’d up alongside Paige and Jana. Only to be mic’d up for both games against each other.... and everyone is enjoying the show

“Alright, y’all,” Juju grinned, adjusting her mic pack as we stretched at midcourt. “Let’s give the people a show.”

“Oh, I plan to.” I smirked, shooting a look across the court where Paige was going through layup drills.

Paige caught my stare, smirking right back before launching a perfect three-pointer. She didn’t even watch it go in. Show-off.

“You always do when she’s around,” Juju teased under her breath.

I nudged her. “Shut up.”

Jana jogged by, adjusting her mic. “Y’all are disgusting already. Game hasn’t even started.”

“Jealous, El Alfy?” I teased.

Jana rolled her eyes. “Let’s see if you’re still talking when I send your shot into the stands.”

“Try it.”

Paige, apparently always listening even if mid conversation with Ice, called from across the court, “Babe, you’re not getting past Jana.”

I gasped. “You’re supposed to support me!”

“I do—just not when you’re lying to yourself, or going against me and fam.”

Juju cackled. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

From the second the game started, Paige and I couldn’t shut up.

“Nice pass, baby,” Paige taunted after I barely got the ball past her defense.

I grinned, catching the ball again. “You want an assist? I can pass you my number.”

Paige snorted. “I have your number, loser. And you text me every five minutes.”

Juju cut in. “She’s not lying.”

I whipped my head around. “Girl, whose side are you on?”

“The side that wins,” Juju shot back, sinking a jumper, sending a wink at me as we moved back to being defense.

Jana jogged past, clapping. “But not for long.”

By halftime, it was a battle.

Paige hit a smooth pull-up jumper over me, then winked. “Too slow, babe.”

I exhaled sharply. “You want me to start playing for real, huh?”

Paige just grinned. “Try it.”

So, I did.

The next time Paige drove to the basket, I bodied her up. Legal contact—barely—but she stumbled.

“Damn,” Paige laughed, catching her balance. “Didn’t know my girl was this aggressive.”

Juju clapped beside me. “Oh, we love it.”

“Don’t hype her up,” Paige groaned.

Jana called, out just before trying to set up a screen for Paige. “She doesn’t need hype. She’s cooking us already, P.”

Paige raised a brow at me. “Oh, word ? Do less talking and more defense Jana.”

I winked. “Love you, baby”

She smirked. “Love you more, I guess.”

Juju fake gagged. “GOD, we get it. You’re in love.”

The game was tight—UConn and USC trading buckets down to the final minutes.

I had the ball at the top of the key, trying to shake Jana off me. She was locked in, waiting for me to drive.

I hesitated, then went for it—big mistake.

Jana timed it perfectly, swatting my shot into the stands. But my momentum was off, and as I landed, my foot twisted awkwardly.

Pain shot through my ankle. “Shit.”

Before I could even process it, Paige was there.

She dropped down beside me, pushing past the trainers. “Baby, you okay?”

I hissed, clutching my ankle. “I—I think so.”

Juju kneeled beside me, concern all over her face. “That looked rough, man.”

Jana hovered behind her, guilt flashing in her eyes. “I—I, you good.”

I shook my head quickly. “It was clean, Jana. Just bad luck.”

Paige, however, was not focused on the play. She was brushing sweaty strands of hair from my forehead, scanning my face like I’d just been shot.

“Babe, you’re scaring me,” I muttered, as she and Juju helped me stand.

Paige exhaled. “Sorry, sorry. Just—you good?”

I nodded. “I’ll live.”

And then, as I fix my semi untucked jersey, my mic pack fall out, the realization hit all of us.

Juju’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

Jana cursed. “Shit, we’re mic’d up.”

I froze.

Paige paled.

The entire arena had just heard us being disgustingly in love.

I covered my face. “Oh my God.”

I managed to play the final minute—adrenaline doing most of the work. With two seconds left, I sank a cold-blooded three, sealing USC’s 80-78 win.

The crowd exploded.

Paige was visibly annoyed, but she still smiled as I limped toward her in the handshake line.

“Good game,” I teased, taking her hand.

She smirked. “You owe me.”

I shrugged. “How about a kiss?”

Paige blinked. “Right here, ma ya sure?”

I grinned, tugging her forward. “Why not? Everybody already heard us acting like lovesick idiots.”

And with that, I kissed her.

It wasn’t long—just enough for the cameras to catch it, for the crowd to roar, for our teammates to lose their minds.

Paige pulled back, dazed. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

She chuckled. “Yeah… I do.”

Before I even got to the locker room good, my phone was blowing up.

Juju ran up beside me, showing me her screen. “Bro, look.”

Twitter (X, whatever) was exploding:

@NCAAWNation: Paige Bueckers & Y/N mic’d up while trash talking/flirting is everything I didn’t know I needed

@USChoops: NOT THEM FORGETTING THEY HAD MICS ON LMAO

@WNBAFuture: Juju’s reaction when she realized they were mic’d up is sending me

And then, TikTok.

Clips of our mic’d-up moments were everywhere. Paige saying love you more, me calling her a flirty menace, her full-on panic when I got hurt—TikTok was eating it up.

And, of course, the kiss.

Jana walked by, shaking her head. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

Paige just grinned, wrapping an arm around me. “Jealous, El Alfy?”

Jana groaned. “so glad she kicked your ass not gonna lie,”

Paige smirked down at me. “Eh. I got the real win right here, plus she kicked OUR ass by two points.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re so corny.”

She kissed my temple. “And..”

I barely had time to shower before Paige was waiting outside my locker room, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“You’re taking me to dinner,” she declared, leaning against the doorframe.

I scoffed, finishing the knot on my hoodie. “I’m taking you?”

She smirked. “You kissed me in front of an entire arena, babe. Least you can do is buy me a burger.”

Juju appeared at my side, throwing an arm over my shoulder. “I vote we all go. Y/N paying.”

I groaned. “Why am I paying?”

Jana, walking by, answered without stopping. “’Cause, it'll be pitty dinner to the looser, name Paige.”

Paige cackled. “ouch, but she’s got a point.”

So, somehow, I ended up at a late-night diner with Paige, Juju, and half of our teammates from both teams. The game had been electric, but the real fun? Watching Paige smugly take sips of her milkshake while everyone talked about the mic’d-up chaos.

“You really forgot?” Aubey grinned, nudging Paige.

Paige didn’t even blink. “I was focused on my girl.”

Juju fake gagged into her fries. “I want a refund on my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, flicking a fry at Paige. “You were focused on trash-talking me.”

“And look where it got me,” she smirked. “victory in trash talking milkshake.”

Jana cut in. “Barely. If Juju had missed that shot, it was OT.”

Juju lifted her fork like a mic. “I never miss.”

Paige side-eyed her. “I’ll remember that.”

She was already plotting her revenge for our next match up in two weeks.

The people wanted more, so here we were. UConn vs. USC, round two. Except this time, Paige was locked in. Less flirting. More trash talk.

“I hope you stretched, babe,” I teased, adjusting my mic pack.

Paige grinned. “I hope you practiced your jump shot.”

Juju and Jana exchanged looks. “Here we go again, just dont forget we're mic’d up y'all.”

Paige was relentless.

Every time I touched the ball, she was in my space. I barely got off a shot before she smacked it away.

“Not today, mamas,” she taunted, wagging a finger.

I groaned. “You’re so annoying.”

Juju, running past, laughed. “Says the one who spent the last game flirting.”

Paige just smirked. “I can do both.”

She proved it by stealing the ball from me, driving downcourt, and sinking a three.

I put my hands on my hips, before doing a quick check ball with Juju. “Show-off.”

Paige jogged backward, smirking. “I know.”

Once down the court and getting reader to take the shot for a 2, Paige blocked me again. I swear, she was on a mission.

“That’s three.” She held up fingers. “You good, babe?”

I groaned. “I will be when I get past you.”

“Manifesting, huh?”

Juju clapped beside me. “She needs something, cause gurl you could have made that way before her block.”

I deadpanned. “Y’all suck.”

Jana shouted from the paint, “You still haven’t scored on her, by the way.”

Paige grinned. “Thank you, Jana.”

I glared at them both, Juju snorted. “She’s salty.”

I managed to shake Paige on a screen and hit a floater over Jana.

Paige sighed dramatically. “Congrats, babe. You’re on the board.”

I flipped my hair. “You’re just mad I scored, and it wasn'tagainst you.”

Paige grinned. “Nah, I’ll just drop a three on you next possession.”

And she did.

The game was tight, but UConn pulled ahead. Paige hit back-to-back threes, then turned to me with the smuggest grin.

I rolled my eyes. “Alright, Steph Curry.”

Paige shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

Desperate, I went for my own three. I followed my form, watched the ball arc—and bricked.

Paige cackled. “Babe.”

I groaned. “Don’t.”

She jogged past, patting my shoulder. “What did I tell you about following your shot?”

Juju, chimed in. “Hate to agree, but Bueckers is right, gotta stick the form and follow ya shot girly”

I roll my eyes , “Judea, who's side are you on bro.”

We fought hard as we could, but it's wasn’t enough. UConn won by six, 90-84 and I was annoyed. Paige, however, was thriving.

She found me in the handshake line, tilting her head. “Dinner’s on me, ma.”

I groaned, softly. “Yeah your turn to get me pitty dinner.”

She grinned. “Love you too, baby.”

I sighed. “You’re so obnoxious.”

Paige leaned in, voice low. “Yeah, but you keep coming back for more.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Another night, another viral moment. This time, Twitter was roasting me.

@NCAAWNation: Paige blocking Y/N three times in a row and then hitting a three on her is top-tier entertainment.

@USChoops: NOT Y/N BRICKING A THREE RIGHT AFTER PAIGE HIT ONE

@WNBAFuture: I need these two mic’d up forever.

@lil_paigey.p: hope no trouble in paradise for those two later...

And, of course, Paige had zero sympathy.

She FaceTimed me that night, grinning. “Had fun?”

I groaned. “I’m blocking your number.”

She smirked. “No, you’re not.”

And, of course, she was right. “But no, good game, P. You did an amazing job”

Looking in the camera with a soft smile, “You fought, hard baby and I'm proud of you for that.” she said as she propped her phone up as she entered the fortnite lobby, with Juju.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[demie90s]

Press Pressure & Public Menace

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Juju Watkins X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: juju watkins x reader (usc!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: just a regular USC press conference…until you show up. the team menace. the comedic relief. the problem child Coach Gottlieb swears she didn’t authorize.

⭑ genre: comedy, fluff, chaos, college basketball shenanigans

⭑ warnings: crying-from-laughter-level unseriousness, implied high tension (lil flirt), cussing

⭑ word count: ~0.8k

The moment the press room doors open, it’s already doomed. Coach Lindsay Gottlieb sits stiff between you and Juju Watkins, her mouth tight in a line like she’s praying for a lightning strike—preferably to hit you. She adjusts her mic with the elegance of a woman who regrets all her choices, especially the one that allowed you a seat at this table.

You, on the other hand? Slouched, legs spread like it’s poker night and not a live-streamed post-game press conference. You got your shades pushed up on your head, chain out, and your water bottle suspiciously sparkling. Juju’s got her hand halfway covering her mouth, fighting off a smile already, and y’all haven’t even started yet.

“Coach,” a reporter says, not even trying to hide the grin, “solid win tonight. What do you think changed momentum in the third?”

You lean forward before she can answer. “I did,” you say dead serious. “I told Juju if she missed one more free throw I was taking her braids down in her sleep.”

Juju SNORTS into the mic. Coach sighs like she aged five years in five seconds.

“She didn’t say that,” Juju lies badly, her laugh betraying her.

“I did, and don’t act like it didn’t work. You shot 100% that quarter.”

Coach clears her throat. “What changed the momentum,” she says tightly, “was our shift into a more aggressive defensive scheme—”

“—And intimidation. I growled at their point guard. She flinched.”

“Y/N,” Coach warns, not even looking at you.

“What? I did. She was bringing the ball up and I said rawr. She stumbled.”

Juju’s done. She’s got her hand over her face now, shoulders shaking. The reporters are loving it. Someone in the back is literally crying from laughter.

Another reporter raises a hand. “Y/N, how are you feeling after that hard foul in the fourth quarter?”

You pause. Then slowly push your chair back like it’s a stage. You STAND UP in full view of every camera and re-enact the entire play.

“Okay, okay, so I’m coming up the left side, right? Juju’s calling for a screen, but I’m thinking iso. I jab. I go baseline—BAM! She truck sticks me. I spin like this—” You literally TWIRL. “Land on my ass. Whole crowd goes ‘ooooooh.’”

Coach grabs the back of your jersey and yanks you back into the chair like you’re five years old at a family function. “This is why she is never up here.”

You flash a peace sign at the reporters like you just won an award. “You can’t silence greatness.”

Juju wheezes, trying to hold it together. “Bro… STOP.”

A hand from the back goes up. “Y/N, thoughts on the rivalry with Stanford going into next week?”

You smirk. “Oh, that’s personal. Their power forward tried to flirt with Juju during warmups last year. So now I gotta humble her.”

Juju turns her head like she’s not about to fold laughing. “She said I had nice eyes!”

“Exactly. Uncalled for. Now she gotta get dropped.”

Coach pinches the bridge of her nose. “I deeply regret this decision.”

“Coach, you love me.”

Coach doesn’t even blink. “I am forced to tolerate you by law.”

One more question gets thrown out, something about team chemistry or trust or… whatever. You’re not even listening anymore because you’ve leaned over, whispering something into Juju’s ear that turns her whole face red. She shoves your shoulder but can’t stop grinning. She says “shut up” under her breath and you go, “Make me.”

Coach slams her hands on the table. “Interview OVER.”

Everyone in the room claps like it’s a comedy show ending. You wave like a pageant queen. Juju walks out shaking her head but glancing back at you like you’re the reason she’s never had a normal press day.

And somewhere, on every sports account across Twitter, the clip of you doing your on-court dramatic re-enactment is already trending.

Note:

I just wanted to write a wild ass press conference with this duo—because if Juju and reader were in front of cameras together, it would never be normal.

This is why Coach Gottlieb doesn’t let y’all go anywhere without supervision.

[formulafanfics13]

Another day, Another talk - Toto Wolff 🔥

Masterlist || Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

The first month was loud. Not always publicly. Not always online. But behind the scenes? Inside hotel rooms, garages, data centres, and the echo chamber of the paddock? It was a symphony of disbelief, sarcasm, success, and late-night texts no PR team could ever intercept.

Kimi was killing it.

Race 1 — P9 to P6. Clean. Confident. No radio panic. The F2 kids were gagged. George said “good fucking luck keeping that one quiet” the moment Kimi crossed the line.

Race 2 — P8. Not ideal, but stable. Toto spoke to him softly on the cooldown lap. She watched from behind the pitwall, chewing her nails to shreds, wearing his headset. Wearing his initials around her neck. It wasn’t subtle. But nothing about them ever really had been.

Race 3 — P5. First overtake on track. Clean, aggressive, Antonelli. Cameras caught the way she stood up when he passed an Aston Martin on Lap 41. Bono handed her a champagne bottle before the cooldown lap even finished. Toto kissed her temple on live broadcast and didn’t even notice he’d done it until a journalist mentioned it in the press conference.

Race 4 — P7. Quali was rough, tyres were worse, but he held the car steady and George got P2. The team was thriving.

And her? She was everywhere and nowhere.

On the weeks she wasn’t travelling for her own work, usually flitting between photography campaigns in Lisbon, Rome, and the ever-chaotic streets of Paris, she was either at Toto’s Oxford home or his Monaco home.

She’d gotten used to the door codes before he ever offered it. Started leaving a toothbrush in the master ensuite. Sometimes sat in the hallway in one of his old shirts, editing film on her laptop while he took meetings in the kitchen. He’d bring her a glass of wine without asking. She’d steal his socks. He never asked for them back.

They didn’t define anything. But they didn’t deny it, either. Not anymore.

Kimi adjusted. In his own fucked-up way.

The tantrums stopped somewhere between Race 2 and 3. She could tell because he stopped saying “gross” every time Toto’s name was mentioned. By Race 4, he even smiled once when she showed up in the Mercedes garage in a pair of aviators and a perfectly oversized white shirt from Toto’s closet. But he had rules. Clear, specific, non-negotiable terms.

“Rule number one,” he’d declared at dinner one night while George tried not to laugh, “I don’t want to hear about anything physical.”

“Define physical,” she smirked.

“Anything involving moaning, touching, neck-kissing, or lap-sitting.”

“That’s like our whole thing.”

“And I hate it.”

Toto, without looking up from his phone, calmly said, “You were literally in the room when I pulled her into my lap.”

“That was BEFORE THE RULES WERE ESTABLISHED.”

George nearly dropped his fork. Bono had to excuse himself from the table because he was laughing too hard. But still, they found their rhythm.

Kimi focused on racing. She focused on her work, her brother, her life, and the way Toto always looked at her like she was a miracle and a headache wrapped in one.

Toto focused on balance. Which mostly meant learning how to exist with her in his bed and her brother in his car and not go clinically insane. It worked. God knows how, but it did.

By the time the next race weekend rolled around, she wasn’t just accepted by the team, she was part of the fucking ecosystem. The mechanics joked with her. The engineers sent her memes. Marcus once handed her a headset mid-session with a whispered, “Try not to flirt over the comms.”

She hadn’t even realised she was biting her lip while watching Toto speak into the mic. Kimi had said nothing.

Which was, in itself, a sign of progress. She texted Toto on nights she couldn’t make it back to Oxford: photos of her legs stretched out in hotel rooms, captions like “thinking about your mouth again” or “tell Kimi I miss you more than him”.

He didn’t always reply. But he never left her waiting long.

And when she did return? He was always there. At the gate. At the garage. At the door of his office, leaning against the frame with his tie already undone.

By the end of the month, it was undeniable. They weren’t hiding. Not really. But they weren’t screaming either.

There were no statements. No announcements. Just soft glances and shared hotel rooms and the growing, unshakable truth that Kimi had stopped rolling his eyes every time Toto looked at her like she hung the fucking moon.

And that? That was maybe the biggest miracle of them all.

The Oxford house was dead quiet. No engineers. No drivers. No race debriefs. Just the morning sunlight slipping through the glass doors, catching on the steel surfaces of the pristine kitchen. Just the soft hum of the fridge. The sound of her legs swinging slowly where she sat perched on the edge of the marble kitchen island, feet bare, wearing a black cotton long sleeve that might’ve been his, probably was, from the way the cuffs hung past her wrists.

She was eating from his cereal bowl. Not her own. One leg crossed over the other, wrist flicking lazily as she speared another berry with the fork and popped it into her mouth without even glancing down.

Toto sat across from her, on one of the high stools. Joggers on. White t-shirt. No watch. His hair was still slightly damp, brushed back, silver catching the light. He looked relaxed, but alert. Like he’d slept well — but hadn’t stopped thinking all morning.

She didn’t notice at first. She was mid-rant about something she’d seen in an airport lounge. “-and this man, I swear to god, had the audacity to-”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Her mouth paused. Mid-sentence. Mid-chew. Eyes flicking up.

He rarely interrupted her mid-story. Let alone with a tone like that.

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. Calm. Measured. Fork resting on the edge of his empty plate. “I know we’ve never talked about being official,” he said, voice low. “Not in a serious way. No labels. No declarations. And I know we only met ten months ago.”

She blinked once. Put her fork down. Waited.

“I also know you’re young,” he added. “Not too young. Not incapable. But young enough that people talk. Your brother talks. And we’ve never done things the traditional way.”

A pause. She stared at him. He stared back. Then, with a quiet breath, he reached into the back pocket of his joggers. And pulled out a ring box. No velvet. No dramatic hinge click. Just a small, absurdly elegant square of matte black leather with one thin silver edge.

He didn’t open it. Didn’t drop to one knee. Didn’t say a speech. He just placed the box beside her on the counter, close enough that it touched her thigh. And looked up at her again. “I don’t want to be with anyone else,” he said. “Ever.”

Her throat tightened.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t beg. Didn’t perform. “There’s no pressure,” he said, softer now. “It’s not a question. I’m not asking you to answer now. Or wear it tomorrow. Or even tell Kimi.”

She let out the tiniest laugh at that, breathless and disbelieving.

Toto’s eyes softened. “I just want you to know it’s there. That I’m here. No drama. No chaos. No media frenzy. Just you. Me. A ring. And the fact that I know what I want.”

Silence. Not heavy. Not tense. Just full. She looked at the box. Then looked at him. Then down again, blinking at the neat, perfectly proportioned shape. Her fingers twitched, tempted to open it. She didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she reached out. Ran a finger along the edge. Then curled her hand around the box and brought it into her lap. Held it like something sacred. Something terrifying. Something hers.

She looked up at him. And smiled. Not wild. Not smug. Not performative. Just soft. Real. Blinding in its sincerity. “You’re a fucking menace,” she whispered.

He smirked. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

She set the box down on the counter again. Didn’t open it. Didn’t give it back either. She leaned forward, slow, steady, her knees pressing into his thighs now, and kissed him.

Not frantic. Not lustful. Just warm. Full of every unspoken thing she didn’t know how to say. She pulled back an inch and murmured, “If I say yes eventually, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

His thumb brushed her jaw. “I look forward to it.”

*

His home office was sunlit and silent. Tall windows cracked open just enough to let the breeze in. Jazz playing from the hallway speakers, faint and low. The smell of espresso still lingering from earlier.

She stood in the doorway for a second. Watching. He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on whatever was open on his laptop screen. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, one leg crossed over the other, a Montblanc pen twirling between his fingers like muscle memory.

Her fingers tightened around the box in her hand. And then she stepped in.

He didn’t look up straight away. Just acknowledged her presence with the slight lift of his chin. And when she reached his desk, bare feet padding softly over the hardwood — she said nothing. Just placed the ring box down on the clean, glass surface with a soft thunk.

Toto finally looked up. Eyes flicking from the box to her face. He didn’t speak. Didn’t react. Just waited.

She folded her arms across her chest. Not closed off, just gathering herself.

“I want this,” she said finally.

His jaw flexed once. But he didn’t speak.

She nodded toward the box. “I want you. I want… the idea of this.”

Still, he waited.

“But I don’t want to rush to get married.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, not in surprise, just… openness.

She kept going. “I know I’m young. And I know we don’t need to prove anything. And I don’t want this to turn into… I don’t know, fucking Pinterest boards and guest lists before I’ve even figured out what city I want to live in next year.”

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile.

“I want the engagement,” she said, stepping a little closer. “I want to wear the ring. I want people to know I’m yours. I just… I don’t want to start wedding planning next week, or next month, or maybe even next year.” She exhaled sharply. “I want time.”

Toto reached forward. Pushed his laptop closed without a word. Then leaned back in the chair, arms resting on the armrests, long frame fully relaxed as he looked up at her with something that almost resembled peace.

“We don’t have to get married straight away,” he said calmly.

She blinked. “You mean that?”

“Yes.” Another blink. “I’m not in a rush,” he added, voice soft but sure. “This isn’t a countdown. It’s not a deadline. It’s a promise. That’s all.”

She felt her heart jolt in her chest.

“I’m not offering you a schedule,” Toto murmured, “I’m offering you me. Whenever. However. On your terms.”

Her breath caught. He stood. Rounded the desk slowly, stopping just in front of her, eyes locked with hers. “I���d wait ten years if you asked me to,” he said, voice low. “I don’t want a wedding. I want you.”

She bit her lip. Then smiled. Slow. Radiant. Overwhelmed. She looked down at the ring box. Picked it up. Flipped the lid. It was… perfect. Delicate. Not flashy. Platinum band, thin and smooth, with one pale diamond set low into the metal, not towering, not gaudy. Just timeless. Like him.

She looked up at him again. Toto said nothing. Didn’t move. Just let her decide. And she did.

She slipped it onto her finger, slow and reverent, like she was sealing something that had already been written months ago.

It fit like it had been made for her. Maybe it had. She held it up between them. Smiled again. Then reached for his shirt, tugged him down, and kissed him like a girl who’d finally stopped running.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Epilogue (The End)

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

And with that, we have reached the end. I could, as always, write a lot more, (And maybe eventually I will, but for right now, that's where we will leave Lando and Lizzie.)

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Twitch Stream Transcript – Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

[Stream starts]

Max: Right, chat. I know we’ve been through a lot together. We’ve seen things. We’ve survived things. But I don’t think any of you are ready for what’s about to happen.

Max: Because, somehow, defying all expectations, defying all logic—Lando Norris is actually here.

Chat: 

LIAR.

NO WAY.

PROVE IT.

MAX THIS BETTER NOT BE A PRERECORDED AI CLIP.

OH SO HE DOES EXIST.

IT’S BEEN 84 YEARS.

Lando: [over voice chat, deadpan] I hate you.

Max: Gasp. He speaks. It’s real. It’s happening.

Lando: You’re so dramatic.

Max: No, mate, I’m just telling it like it is. The last time we saw you, you were escaping the internet at full speed. Thought you retired. Went off the grid. Became a monk.

Lando: Yeah, well. Things got messy.

Max: Understatement of the year.

Chat: 

YEAH NO KIDDING.

THE INTERNET WAS A NIGHTMARE.

LIZZIE DESERVED BETTER.

MARAAA OUR QUEEN.

THE ABLEISM WAS SO BAD.

LANDO DEFENDING HER >>>

Max: So, how’s Lizzie?

Lando: She’s good. Writing, mostly. And making sure I actually sleep.

Max: A saint.

Lando: Obviously.

Chat: 

PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS.

SHE NEEDS TO KNOW WE LOVE HER.

I WANT TO SEND HER FANMAIL BUT I’M SCARED.

MARA POST WHEN??

TELL LIZZIE SHE’S A QUEEN.

Max: But mate, you really should’ve warned me before hopping on. Nearly had a heart attack.

Lando: Didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

Max: Didn’t think it was—oh my god. Chat, back me up.

Chat: 

IT IS A BIG DEAL.

HISTORIC MOMENT.

LORE DROP.

WE THOUGHT LIZZIE LOGGED YOU OUT FOREVER.

DO YOU EVEN REMEMBER YOUR TWITCH PASSWORD??

SHE PROBABLY DRAGGED HIM BACK HERE.

Lando: Actually, she’s in the kitchen right now.

Max: Oh, is she? What’s she doing?

Lando: Giving Mara peanut butter.

Max: …Oh no.

Lando: Yeah.

(And then, as if on cue, absolute chaos erupts in Lando’s mic—loud licking, snuffling, something knocking against furniture. A thump. A very happy dog making a complete racket.)

Max: WHAT IS HAPPENING.

Lando: [muffled laughter] She’s going feral.

Max: CHAT, DO YOU HEAR THIS?

Chat: 

MARAAA.

SHE’S EATING LIKE SHE HASN’T BEEN FED IN YEARS.

DOG ASMR STREAM WHEN.

THAT’S THE SOUND OF A QUEEN ENJOYING LIFE.

SHE DESERVES EVERY BIT OF THAT PEANUT BUTTER.

Max: Mate. Your dog is losing it.

Lando: She loves peanut butter.

Max: Yeah, no kidding. It sounds like she’s wrestling it.

Lando: Wouldn’t surprise me.

Max: I swear, chat’s gonna riot if you don’t post a Mara video soon.

Lando: I’ll think about it.

Max: Think about it? No, mate, you don’t understand. Mara is the people’s princess.

Chat: 

MARA FOR PRESIDENT.

SHE DESERVES THE WORLD.

THE WAY SHE’S JUST EXISTING AND WE’RE ALL LOSING IT.

THIS IS NOW A MARA FAN STREAM.

GIRLBOSS.

Max: You could literally disappear again for months, but if you drop one single Mara clip, all will be forgiven.

Lando: Huh. Good to know.

Max: Don’t even pretend like you won’t exploit that.

Lando: [grinning] Wouldn’t dream of it.

(Mara, still licking peanut butter, lets out an extremely content sigh.)

Max: Oh, that was adorable.

Lando: Yeah, she’s great.

Max: I can feel chat melting over this.

Chat: 

SHE’S SO PRECIOUS.

LIZZIE AND MARA HARD CARRYING THE CONTENT RIGHT NOW.

MARA POST WHEN.

WE DON’T DESERVE HER.

SHE’S SO REAL FOR THIS.

Max: Right. Now that we’ve all had our emotional moment over Mara’s peanut butter obsession, shall we actually play the game?

Lando: Probably.

Max: But just so we’re clear—this stream peaked the moment Mara showed up.

Lando: Yeah, I figured.

(Chat spams heart emojis as the game finally begins.)

***

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car PrinceBy June Shepard

Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton has built an empire on love stories—intoxicating, sweeping, heart-stopping love stories that have made her one of the most successful romantasy authors of the decade. Her Seasons of Fate series, a four-book saga filled with magic, intrigue, and forbidden romance, has captivated millions worldwide, cementing her place as the reigning queen of the genre.

But even her most devoted readers could never have predicted that she was living out a love story of her own. And certainly not with one of the biggest stars in motorsport.

When Lizzie Treshton walked into the Silverstone paddock in July 2025, hand-in-hand with McLaren’s Lando Norris, social media imploded.

No one had any idea they were together. No rumors, no leaks—just an earth-shattering confirmation that sent both F1 and romantasy Twitter into collective cardiac arrest.

"It wasn’t supposed to be a big thing," Treshton says now, curled up on a sofa in her Surrey flat, a steaming mug of tea in hand. "Lando was racing at Silverstone. I wanted to be there to support him. I didn’t think the world would explode."

Perhaps that was naive. Because if there’s one thing the world loves, it’s an unexpected crossover. And this? This was the ultimate crossover event.

Lando Norris has spent the last six years in the high-pressure world of Formula 1, balancing blistering lap times with an ever-growing fanbase that adores his mix of raw talent, easy charm, and chaotic humor. He’s no stranger to public scrutiny. But even he was caught off guard by the sheer scale of the reaction.

"I knew Lizzie was a big deal," he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "But I didn’t fully grasp it until people started calling me ‘the romantasy book boyfriend of the year.’"

He grins. "I think my sisters are still mad I didn’t tell them who I was dating."

That particular detail has only added to the legend of "Lizzie & Lando." While Norris’s family knew he had a girlfriend, they had no idea it was that Lizzie Treshton—the very same author whose books they had lined up at midnight to buy. His sisters, self-proclaimed romantasy fanatics, took approximately thirty seconds to forgive him before launching into full-scale fangirl mode.

But not everyone has been as welcoming.

Almost immediately after Silverstone, the backlash began. While plenty of fans celebrated the unexpected pairing, others turned vicious. Some called Treshton “undeserving.” Others dismissed the relationship entirely, claiming Norris would eventually move on.

And then there were the ones who went after her health.

Treshton has always been open about living with epilepsy, discussing it occasionally in interviews and social media posts. But being open about something and having it dissected by millions of strangers are two very different things.

Some reactions were cruel—questioning Norris’s commitment, making sweeping judgments about Treshton’s ability to “keep up” with the fast-paced, jet-setting lifestyle of an F1 driver. Others were outright ableist, using her condition as a reason to doubt her place at his side.

Norris, uncharacteristically sharp in his response, took to Instagram. “The way some of you have spoken about Liz—the woman I love—is disgusting. There’s no other way to put it. You’ve taken something she has no control over and used it as an excuse to dehumanize her, to insult her, to act like she isn’t worthy of me.” 

McLaren issued a formal statement condemning the backlash, while much of the grid rallied behind Treshton, with drivers like Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc publicly voicing their support.

“It was disgusting,” Treshton says bluntly. “But not surprising.”

"I’ve lost people because of my epilepsy," Treshton says quietly, her fingers tightening around her mug. "People who couldn’t handle it. People who didn’t want to try."

Her mother was one of them.

Treshton doesn’t often talk about her mother, but when she does, it’s with a detachment that speaks of wounds long since buried. "She left when I was young," she says. "Said she couldn’t deal with it. So she didn’t."

She exhales slowly. "I learned early on that some people see epilepsy as an inconvenience. Like it makes you fragile. But it doesn’t make me less. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me unlovable."

Despite the backlash, Treshton and Norris remain unfazed. Their relationship, built away from the public eye, is stronger than the noise that surrounds it.

"Lando makes me feel safe," she admits. "Not in a way that makes me feel like I need protecting, but in a way that reminds me I don’t have to do everything alone."

For Norris, it’s simple. "She’s incredible," he says. "And I’m lucky to have her. End of story."

There’s something almost cinematic about the two of them. The bestselling author who spins love stories for a living. The racing driver who defies speed and gravity every weekend. It’s the kind of pairing that shouldn’t make sense. And yet, it does.

At the end of the day, theirs isn’t just a love story. It’s a story about resilience. About belonging. About choosing each other in a world that constantly tries to tear people down.

When asked what’s next, Treshton shrugs. “I have a book to finish. He has races to win. And beyond that?” She tilts her head, thoughtful. “I think we’ll just keep surprising people.”

One thing is clear: the queen of romantasy and her race car prince are far from a fleeting fairytale.

They’re just getting started.

****

8 December 2024, Yas Marina Circuit, Abu Dhabi

The moment Lando stepped out of the car, the world blurred around him. The cheers, the McLaren team swarming in orange, the fireworks—none of it felt real. He had won Abu Dhabi. He had won the Constructors’ Championship for McLaren. After years of dreaming, of heartbreak, of being so close yet so far—he had done it.

His mother reached him first, arms tight around his shoulders, holding him like she never wanted to let go. “Lando,” she breathed, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You’ve made so many people happy today.”

His father clapped a firm hand on his back, pride evident in his expression. His team, his engineers, Zak Brown—everyone was celebrating around him. But Lando was already searching for someone else.

And then he saw her.

Lizzie stood off to the side, wrapped in one of his McLaren jackets, Mara sitting dutifully at her feet. She looked exhausted, and he knew why. Just last night, she had suffered a seizure. He had been with her through it, waiting for the worst to pass. He had told her she didn’t have to come today, that she should stay at the hotel and rest.

But Lizzie was nothing if not stubborn.

Her gaze found his, and her face lit up like the fireworks lighting the sky outside.

He could see how tired she was, though, in the tightness around her eyes, the way her body was still a little stiff.

But she was here.

His feet moved before his brain caught up, and suddenly, she was in front of him, her hands reaching up to his face before he could say a word.

Her fingers traced over his skin, her tired eyes taking him in with a familiar, almost reverent look. It was as if she couldn’t believe he was real. Lando knew the feeling.

“Like I ever would have missed this,” she murmured before he could scold her for being out in the chaos of the paddock. Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, her voice thick with emotion. “Lando, you did it. You actually did it.”

"You didn't need to come," he whispered. His hands came to rest on her waist, grounding himself. “I was worried about you.”

“And I was never going to miss watching you win,” she said simply, smiling up at him. “I am so proud of you.”

Lando let out a shaky breath.

Then, with the whole world watching, he kissed her.

It was soft, careful—his hands tightening on her waist like he was terrified she might disappear, like he still wasn’t sure if any of this was real. When he pulled back, her eyes were shining, and for the first time since he crossed the finish line, it hit him.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

****

Dedications of The Seasons of Fate: 

A Spring of Secrets and Thorns

For Mara—

My steady ground, my quiet guardian, my fiercest protector.

For every unseen battle you’ve helped me fight, for every moment you’ve kept me safe, and for always being by my side—this book, like so much of my life, is possible because of you.

A Summer of Blood and Bloom

For Dad—

For every doctor’s appointment, every sleepless night, and every time you carried the weight of the world so I wouldn’t have to.

You taught me that love doesn’t walk away—it stays, it fights, and it endures. This book is a testament to that, and to you.

An Autumn of Fire and Stone

For Tasha and Aunt Lou—

For the sister I chose and the woman who made us family.

For every page read, every dream encouraged, and every time you reminded me that I was more than my worst days. I am who I am because I had you both beside me. I couldn’t have done this without you.

A Winter of Ash and Starlight

For Lando - 

Who taught me that love, like speed, can take your breath away in an instant. You’ve turned the pages of my life in the most unexpected, beautiful way. 

Thank you for showing me that sometimes the best stories are the ones you never saw coming. 

Ours is my favourite one. 

Acknowledgments – A Winter of Ash and Starlight

Writing this book, and really this entire series, has been one of the greatest joys of my life. I never imagined that a story I started one summer in my dad’s garden would turn into this, but here we are. I couldn’t have done it alone, and I wouldn’t have wanted to.

To my dad—thank you for everything. For the late-night talks, the endless encouragement, and the way you always made sure I knew I was enough, just as I am. You’ve been my rock, my biggest supporter, and the reason I never stopped believing I could do this.

To Aunt Lou—you are proof that family is about love, not blood. You didn’t have to be a mother to me, but chose to be anyway. I don’t have the words to properly thank you for that, but I hope you know how much I love you.

To Tasha—my sister in every way that matters. For always having my back, for every chaotic adventure, and for making sure I never forget who I am. You are my favorite person to cause trouble with.

To Mara—my best girl, my constant companion, my real-life guardian angel. You have been curled up beside me through every late-night writing session, every deadline panic, every high and low.  There is no version of my life, or this book, without you in it.

This book marks the end of Astrid and Ciaran’s journey—the last chapter of their love story. And in a way, it closes a chapter of my own life, too. Love has a funny way of finding you when you least expect it, and just as I was bringing Astrid and Ciaran home, someone walked into my life and changed everything.

To Lando—who came into my life just as I was closing this chapter and somehow became the best story of all. I don’t know if fate is real, but if it is, I think it was always meant to bring me to you. You walked into my world when I wasn’t sure I deserved something good, and you have never let me forget that I do. 

Thank you for every quiet moment and every inside joke. Thank you for the dino nuggets, the peanut butter and the Ferrari Dog Bandanas. Thank you for making me laugh, for making me feel safe, and for proving, every single day, that love isn’t about grand gestures, but about showing up, time and time again. 

You have been the greatest plot twist of my life. I love you. 

And finally, to the readers—thank you for taking this journey with me. Thank you for believing in Astrid and Ciaran, in fate and magic, in love that defies the odds. This world, this story, exists because of you.

Here’s to new stories, new adventures, and finding our own kind of magic. Always.

With love and endless gratitude, Elizabeth Louise Treshton

The End

[mikaylathenerd5]

The Champion Prize + The Slip Up

Pairing: Roman Reigns x black oc

Summary: Janelis, WWE’s razor-sharp ring announcer, thrives on chaos—until one unscripted slip ignites a fire she can’t control. During a sold-out SmackDown, she dubs Roman Reigns “the finest man to ever grace this ring,” sparking a storm that electrifies 20,000 fans and sets the Tribal Chief’s sights on her. What starts as a taunt spirals into a war of words and wills—ringside barbs, crowd chants, and a backstage showdown drenched in heat. Roman, all muscle and menace, vows to break her defiance; Janelis, unbowed, dares him to try. As the night burns on, their clash blurs lines—power, pride, and something dirtier—leaving her caught in his game, buzzing with a dare she can’t refuse. A slow-burn collision of dominance and rebellion, this is no fairy tale—it’s a fight for the last word.

Content Warning: This fic contains mature themes, including strong language, intense power dynamics, suggestive dialogue, and mild physical aggression (e.g., gripping, pinning). There’s heavy flirtation with undertones of dominance and defiance, set in a high-stakes, adrenaline-fueled environment. No explicit sexual content, but the tension’s thick and the imagery’s vivid—proceed if you’re cool with heat, grit, and a little chaos. Reader discretion advised.

Word Count: 3.1k

Backstage at SmackDown flared like a live wire, a snarl of barked orders and clanging gear, the beast stirring awake. Janelis paced the talent lounge, heels stabbing chipped tile, her crimson dress—tight as a vice, neckline plunging, slit riding her thigh—clinging like a second skin, every curve a blade she’d honed at dawn. She’d ripped it from her closet in a reckless jab at the nerves clawing her gut, a dare to the night pressing her ribs. A year as WWE’s ring announcer had forged her voice into steel—sharp enough to slice a screaming crowd, smooth enough to set it ablaze. She’d tamed WrestleMania’s chaos, hushed Survivor Series riots, stared down 70,000 at SummerSlam, but tonight felt heavier, air thick as a loaded gun cocked at her temple.

She stopped at a cracked mirror, smoothing her hair, fingers twitching with a tremor she hated. “Pull it together, J,” she muttered, staring down her reflection—sharp brown eyes glinting under fluorescents, red lips curled in a half-smirk, a mask forged from sleepless nights and brutal crowds. The sold-out house—20,000 strong—pulsed through the concrete, a feral heartbeat that wouldn’t quit. Roman Reigns’ title defense against Dominik Mysterio buzzed like a slaughter waiting to drop, and her dress—red as fresh blood, loud as a siren—was a bet she wasn’t sure she’d cash, a taunt to fate she’d thrown in the dim light of her apartment.

“Hey, Janelis, you alive?” Tony, a wiry sound tech with a perpetual grin, leaned in the doorway, twirling a cable like a toy. “You’re pacing like you’re about to step in the ring, not just talk.”

“Maybe I am,” she smirked, voice steady despite the knot in her gut. “Crowd’s feral—gonna eat me alive if I miss a beat.”

“Feral’s light,” he grinned, tossing the cable onto a cluttered table. “They’re chanting Roman’s name back there—crew’s betting he spears Dominik through the mat.”

“Great,” she said, dry as ash, tugging the dress hem riding her thigh. “Roman in a mood’s just what I need—strutting like he owns me too.”

“Saw him earlier,” Tony laughed. “Big bastard’s barking at Heyman—‘fix the pyro or you’re out.’ Wound tight. You calling him first?”

“Always,” she said, snatching her mic from the counter, its cool metal grounding her shaking hands. “King gets the red carpet—struts out like he’s doing us a favor.”

She hit the hall, heels clicking a rhythm against the chaos—stagehands darting, cables snaking the floor like veins. Rhea Ripley smirked from a corner, lacing her boots with a predator’s calm. “Yo, Janelis,” she called, voice rough as gravel. “Roman got you rattled already?”

“Not rattled,” Janelis grinned, pausing. “Just ready to call his ass out.”

“Better you than me,” Rhea snorted, standing, towering. “He’s in a mood—good luck not pissing him off.”

“Pissing him off’s my specialty,” she fired back, moving on, Rhea’s laugh trailing her. The buzz grew louder, a pulse in her bones.

Ringside hit like a slap—lights slashing red and gold, the crowd’s roar a living thing slamming barricades, 20,000 voices howling into the void. She took her spot, mic at her hip, the mat a step away—her kingdom, carved from a year of sweat and steel. Signs waved—“Acknowledge Me,” “Roman Rules”—a sea of chaos she’d learned to command. Tonight had to be flawless, or the beast would devour her whole.

The titantron flared, and the air turned to lead. Roman Reigns’ music dropped—slow, deep, a war drum that choked the noise dead, seizing the arena by the throat. Janelis stepped into the ring, heels sinking into the mat, the crowd’s heat a fist around her chest. She’d called him a hundred times—his swagger, his titles, his reign—but Roman was a storm you never tamed, hitting fresh every damn time. The Tribal Chief. The Undisputed WWE Universal Champion. A man who didn’t arrive; he fucking conquered.

The ramp blazed, and there he was—a colossus in black, shoulders a fortress, titles slung across his chest, gold and black gleaming under strobes. Hair loose, dark strands falling wild, framing a face sharp as granite—jaw a razor, eyes burning through steel, smirk promising ruin. His walk was torture—slow, deliberate, every step a fuck-you to the world, boots thudding in her pulse. The crowd split—“Roman! Roman!” roared from half, shaking the rafters; boos poured from the rest, venom bouncing off him like spit on a shield. Signs flashed—“Acknowledge Him,” “Tribal Chief Forever”—and the noise swelled, a tidal wave drowning reason. She felt it in her marrow: he owned every inch, every soul, every breath, and he fucking knew it.

He paused halfway, arms spreading slow, titles catching light, a king claiming his empire. The chants surged—“Roman! Roman!”—and the boos fought back, rattling the beams. “Look at me, Janelis,” he barked, voice cutting the din, eyes locking hers from the ramp, daring her to blink.

“Keep walking, champ,” she shouted, mic at her hip, smirking, her free hand fisting her dress, fabric twisting tight. “You’re not in the ring yet.”

“Getting there’s half the fun,” he grinned, resuming his strut, slower, taunting her with every step. “You gonna call me right tonight?”

“Depends if you deserve it,” she fired back, voice sharp, crowd catching it, a ripple of laughter mixing with the chants. He tilted his head, smirk widening, eyes scanning the stands like a predator, then snapping back to her—a dart piercing her mask. Her breath hitched, mic hand trembling; she gripped it ‘til her knuckles whitened, refusing to flinch.

He hit the ring, climbing the steps with a grace mocking his bulk, titles shifting with a faint clink. “Better not fuck this up,” he muttered, loud enough for her, ducking the ropes, eyes pinning her like a spotlight. The gold gleamed, but it was him—six-foot-three of muscle and menace, heat pouring off like a furnace—that choked the space. He closed in, too close, air dead between them, his presence a wall she couldn’t dodge.

She raised the mic, voice slicing like a blade. “Ladies and gentlemen, making his way to the ring…” She paused, letting the tension coil, her trick to own the crowd. “The Head of the Table, the Tribal Chief…” Then it hit—a dumb, wild spark, her brain shorting—and the words spilled like gasoline. “…and the finest man to ever grace this ring, Roman Reigns!”

The arena detonated—cheers smashed into gasps, a roar hitting like a brick. “Finest man!” erupted once, sharp and wild, then simmered to a low, menacing hum. Janelis’ heart slammed, a brutal kick against her ribs. What the fuck did I just say? Her smirk held—cool, pro—but her free hand twisted her dress harder, a silent scream of panic clawing her throat. That wasn’t scripted. That was a live wire, sparking for millions, trending on X before she could blink.

Roman froze, boot mid-step outside the ropes, head tilting slow, a predator scenting blood. “Finest, huh?” he growled, voice low but carrying, stepping in, eyes snapping to her—dark, molten, pure murder. His smirk slid out, slow and vicious, a knife in her gut. “Say it again, Janelis—make it stick.”

“Keep dreaming, champ,” she shot back, mic dropping to her side, smirking despite the thud in her chest. “Crowd’s waiting—move your ass.”

“You’re waiting,” he grinned, stepping closer, boots silent, his stare peeling her apart—dress, skin, soul. “Louder—let ‘em hear it.”

“Earn it first,” she said, holding ground, voice steady. The crowd lost it—screaming, stomping, a wave of noise feeding the chaos. A sign flashed—“Finest Man’s Queen”—and Roman’s smirk twitched, catching it mid-stride. Her pulse drowned it, a jackhammer in her skull.

“Finest, huh?” His voice snarled again, unmic’d, hers alone, cutting through like a blade. Up close, he was a storm—sweat slicking his skin, glistening under lights, his scent hitting her—spice, musk, raw goddamn man, a punch she couldn’t block. Her breath caught, but she smirked, chin up, meeting him head-on.

“Just doing my job, champ,” she said, sugar over steel. “Gotta give ‘em what they want.”

“What they want, or what you want?” He leaned in, voice a dark edge sinking into her bones. “You’re dancing with fire, Janelis. Better not cry when it burns.”

“Been in hotter flames,” she fired back, eyes locked on his. “You’re not that special.”

He laughed, a deep, filthy rumble shaking the mat, hitting her like a shove. “Not special? Keep running that mouth—I’ll break you, slow.” His eyes narrowed, a blade laced with amusement, then he pulled back, snapping into Tribal Chief mode as Dominik Mysterio’s music cut in—sharp, grating, a punk’s anthem clashing with Roman’s weight. The moment shattered, but its teeth sank deep.

She slid out, back to ringside, legs steady despite the shake she wouldn’t admit. Roman took the ring like a king, ragdolling Dominik from the jump. The bell rang—Dominik darted, quick and slippery, landing a dropkick to Roman’s knee, a cheap shot that barely registered. Roman snarled, grabbing Dominik’s legs mid-air, twisting him into a powerbomb that shook the mat, a gunshot through the arena. The crowd roared, “Acknowledge me!” rising like a war cry. Dominik rolled, scrambling, tried a roll-up with a fistful of tights—Roman kicked out at one, tossing him into the corner like a rag, steel post rattling. A suplex followed, slow and brutal, Dominik’s back arching high before crashing, a broken doll at Roman’s feet. Roman flexed, arms up, titles glinting, but his eyes hunted her—sharp, dirty glances pinning her mid-breath, each a taunt, a flex for her alone.

“Watch this, Janelis,” he barked mid-ring, hoisting Dominik for another slam, smirking as he dropped him hard. “This what ‘finest’ looks like?”

“Still moving, Reigns!” she shouted, leaning over the barricade, voice cutting the noise. “Hit him harder—prove it!”

“Hard as you want,” he grinned, locking Dominik in a guillotine, eyes flicking to her as the kid flailed. “Your turn’s coming.”

“Promises, promises,” she yelled, smirking, crowd cheering the exchange. A heckler screamed, “Janelis loves him!”—she spun, glaring. “Say it to my face, asshole—I’ll make you eat that sign!” She flipped him off, crisp and final, the heat in her chest blazing.

The match stretched, Dominik a punching bag under Roman’s reign, bleeding desperation. He tried—a thumb raking Roman’s eyes, a roll to the ropes—but Roman caught him mid-flight, hoisted him for a guillotine, choking him slow, Dominik’s legs kicking uselessly before he dropped limp. Roman stood, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and flicked his eyes her way—quick, filthy, a dart that stuck. “Like that, Janelis?” he called, smirking, stepping over Dominik’s crumpled form.

“Could do better,” she fired back, mic at her hip, grinning. “Sloppy finish, champ.”

“Sloppy’s for him,” he laughed, dark and mean. “You get the good shit.” The crowd near the barricade went wild, a low hum swelling, feeding the fire she’d lit.

Roman finished it—spear lined up, his eyes locking hers, a glint flashing like a warning shot, then he charged, hitting Dominik like a truck, the kid crumpling, pinned for three. The bell rang, a sharp clang cutting the madness, and Janelis stepped back into the ring, mic up, voice steady over the chaos despite the storm in her gut. “Here is your winner, and still the Undisputed WWE Universal Champion, Roman Reigns!” The crowd’s wave crashed—cheers, boos, a tidal force—but she barely heard it, locked on him, his presence a weight she couldn’t shake.

He didn’t bounce. Titles up, Heyman scurrying at his heels, he circled back, stopping a hair from her, close enough she felt the heat rolling off him, sweat dripping down his chest. The noise faded to a hum as he leaned in, voice a low blade, unmic’d, cutting her open. “You got a mouth, Janelis. I fuckin’ love it.”

She swallowed, throat dry, but grinned, keeping her edge. “Gotta keep you sharp, champ.”

He laughed, dark and rough, closing the gap until his chest brushed hers, a wall of heat and muscle. “Sharp? I’m razor-edge now—all ‘cause of you.” His voice dropped, a whisper burning her skin. “Stick around. We’ll see how tough that mouth really is.”

“Prove it, Reigns,” she fired back, chin up. “Talk’s cheap.”

“Talk?” he growled, lethal, sinking into her. “That ‘not special’ shit? You’ll say it again—on your knees.” Her breath hitched, a snag she couldn’t hide, but she pushed, stepping into him, defiant. “Big talk. Got the juice to back it after Dominik?”

His eyes blazed, heat and menace flaring. “Juice? I’ll go all night—wreck you ‘til dawn.” He smirked, filthy, breath hot on her neck, then pulled back, striding out with Heyman trailing, his dare hanging heavy, a noose tightening around her throat.

Backstage was a sweat-soaked mess when the show wrapped—gear clanging, air thick with adrenaline. Janelis lingered near production, mic in hand, bullshitting a tech about levels she didn’t care about, her mind spinning. The night clung to her—Roman’s words, that low hum of “Finest man!” from the crowd, her pulse a wild drum. She was stalling, caught between bolting and diving into whatever this was.

“Janelis!” Samantha Irvin slid up, smirking like she’d caught her red-handed, voice low under the din. “You fucked with the wrong king, girl—he’s eye-fucking you every move, tossing Dominik like it’s a show for you.”

“Love fucking with him,” Janelis grinned, brushing her hair back, fighting the heat in her cheeks. “Keeps it fun.”

Samantha’s grin went feral. “That ‘finest man’ line? You lit his ass up—hope you’re ready for the fallout.”

“Hey, announcer girl!” Jimmy Uso’s voice cut through, smug as sin, Jey flanking him, both leaning on a crate like they owned the place. “Big Dog’s hooked, fam—he’s breaking you next.”

Her heart kicked, a jolt dropping her mic to her side. “What?”

“You heard,” Jimmy said, gum popping sharp. “Tribal Chief don’t wait—move your ass, locker room, now.”

Janelis rolled her eyes, pulse racing, fighting to keep cool. “Thanks for the memo, analysts. I’ll handle it—been handling worse.”

“Sure you will,” Jey grinned, sizing her up. “He’s dying to break you—been talking your fire since SummerSlam.”

She smirked, masking the heat twisting her gut, and hit the hall, heels echoing against concrete. Roman’s locker room loomed—a black slab radiating power, a fortress no one entered uncalled. She hesitated, fist hovering, his taunts—wreck you ‘til dawn—burning her brain, her pulse a war drum. She knocked, hard, a gunshot in the silence.

“Come in,” he said, voice deep, final, a command that didn’t bend.

She pushed the door open, his world swallowing her. Black duffels lined the floor, titles sprawled on a bench—gold and black, trophies of a reign that wouldn’t die. The air was thick—sweat, cologne, him—pressing her lungs. He lounged, legs wide, still in gear—pants tight, hugging muscle, chest bare, glistening with sweat catching the dim light, carved from stone. His smirk hit, slow and deadly, eyes raking her like a prize he’d claimed, daring her to flinch.

“Close it,” he ordered, voice steel, sinking into her bones. She did, the click a lock snapping shut. He watched, silence choking her, a predator letting prey squirm, then stood, room shrinking under his bulk, three strides eating the space, boots silent. He stopped, an inch off, heat pouring off him, breath grazing her skin.

“Finest man, huh?” His voice was a low growl, eyes hitting her lips, then burning back up, pinning her without a touch. “You meant that shit, didn’t you?”

“Slipped out,” she said, arms crossed, leaning on the wall, fighting the pull, his scent slamming her—spice, sweat, raw power. “Heat of the moment.”

“Bullshit,” he snarled, crowding her, his presence a storm she couldn’t dodge. “Say it again—right now.”

“Maybe I did,” she grinned, chin up, meeting his stare, voice steady despite the thud in her chest. “So what, Reigns?”

“So what?” He laughed, dark and mean, hand shooting up, brushing her hair back, fingers lingering, rough and hot, sparking her raw. “Means you’re mine to play with now. I don’t share attention—you stole it all, whole damn world saw it.”

Her breath snagged, a hitch she hated, but she smirked. “Guess I’m a rare catch—good luck holding on.”

“Fuckin’ right,” he growled, gripping her jaw, thumb digging in, owning her space, firm but not cruel—not yet. “What you gonna do with me, huh? You started this fire—better have a plan.”

She didn’t flinch, closing in, chest grazing his, crimson clashing black, heat meeting heat. “Maybe I’ll fuck you up first—see how you like your own game.”

His eyes blazed, hunger igniting, a spark lighting the air. “You already did,” he growled, low and filthy, yanking her flush against him, lips a whisper from hers, breath scalding her ear. “Lit me up out there—now I ain’t done breaking you. Not even close.”

“Try it,” she smirked, pressing into him, defiant, feeling the wall of his chest, heat bleeding through her dress. “I don’t bend for anyone—not even you, champ.”

“Bend?” He laughed, dark and vicious, hand sliding to her throat, pinning her light but firm, thumb stroking her pulse, sending her heart slamming against her ribs. “Nah, Janelis. You’ll break—beautifully. That mouth’s mine to tame—keep running it, I’ll fuck it quiet.”

Her heart slammed, a wild thud she couldn’t hide, but she held firm, pushing the dare. “Catch me first, big shot—move faster than that.”

He smirked, eyes dripping sin, pressing her harder to the wall, body a cage, swallowing her whole. “I’ll catch you. And when I do, you’re mine—all night, every inch.” His grip tightened, just enough, voice a velvet blade cutting her open. “Gonna wreck you ‘til you can’t walk straight—‘til you’re begging me to stop and keep going all at once.”

“Big words,” she grinned, leaning into his grip. “Show me—right here, right now.”

“Show you?” He laughed, low and dirty, thumb pressing her pulse harder, a jolt to her core. “Baby, I’ll break you so good you’ll feel me for days.” He leaned in, breath hot on her lips, a whisper that burned. “Keep talking—give me more.”

“Work harder,” she fired back, smirking, chest tighter to his. “I’m still standing, Reigns—disappointing.”

“Disappointing?” His eyes flared, grip shifting, pinning her throat firmer, sparking her raw. “You’ll say my name—on your knees, begging for mercy.” He let go slow, fingers trailing her jaw, smirking as he grabbed his shirt, slung it over his shoulder, and strode out, leaving her pinned, wrecked, buzzing in his wake. “Stick around, Janelis,” he called over his shoulder. “We’re just getting started.”

The door shut, a soft click echoing like a gunshot, and she gasped, caught in his war, her skin burning where he’d touched, her pulse a wild drum she couldn’t quiet. His presence lingered, a shadow she couldn’t shake, a dare she wouldn’t refuse.

A/N: And that’s the bell on Part 1—Janelis and Roman left the ring smoking, but the night’s still young. Think the Tribal Chief’s done breaking her? Or is she just getting warmed up to flip the script? You tell me—want a Part 2 where the stakes hit harder and the heat burns deeper? Let me know in the comments, or I’m leaving this beast on the mat. Your call, love.

Part 2