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pucksandpower · 1 day ago

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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.

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more-better-words · 2 days ago

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@deadheaddaisy, they're playing our song 😄

I really like fictional couples that actually enjoy spending time with each other. It seems like such a simple, mundane thing. But, often, I see fictional couples who are completely enamored and dramatic and willing to die for each other, which is fine. But like… do they enjoy hanging out? Do they have private jokes and would they be friends even if they weren’t in love? It feels like such a basic thing, but it’s something that I actually don’t see that often. And it feels so refreshing and honest compared to these over-dramatic romeo and juliet-esque romances. Just two people who become good friends and because they enjoy each other’s presence so much it grows into a strong attraction. It feels more real and tangible than two attractive people meeting and “falling in love at first sight” - like, of course, you fell in love at first sight! You’re both supermodels! Sorry, can’t relate.

#trip x t'pol #also karveth x monica #extremely into couples who like each other a lot

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royalarchivist · 3 days ago

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Fit: I'm going through a hard time right now. Things just haven't been the same since... he left. The light of my life.

Fit: [Looking at chat] That was a joke guys, I'm not– I didn't– It's not meant to be angst, ok? It's a joke, it's a joke! It's a joke, c'mon! That was just too easy.

Fit: Yeah, I just think– he's probably dead! You know? He's probably dead, but that's alright. I'll be dead soon too, so it's fine. [Looking at chat] No– I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm not meaning to be angsty, it's just a fckin' habit, ok? [Laughs] I just like– like a sleeper-agent– There's something that activates in my brain that's just like, "You will do gay angst, NOW."

Fit's taken his character's separation anxiety to the next level. 🥀

—

TRANSCRIPT

Fit: [Reading chat] "Why does your look like a homeless? I'm scared" Oh, I'm sorry. Are you offended by my appearance, because I am unhoused at the moment? [Stares at the camera] Wow, that's really– that's really insensitive of you. Alright?

Fit: I'm going through a hard time right now. Things just haven't been the same since... he left. The light of my life. But... it's just– you know.

Fit: [Looking at chat] That was a joke guys, I'm not– I didn't– It's not meant to be angst, ok? It's a joke, it's a joke! It's a joke, c'mon! That was just too easy, that was a fckin' layup! [Mimes throwing a basketball] That was a fckin' layup, and y– [Laughs] Ah, c'mon guys, I'm just teasing ya.

Fit: Yeah, I just think– he's probably dead! You know? He's probably dead, but that's alright. I'll be dead soon too, so it's fine. [Looking at chat] No– I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm not meaning to be angsty, it's just a fckin' habit, ok? [Laughs] It's just a fckin' habit! [Laughs] I just– Yeah, I'm twistin' the knife– I'm just gettin' it in there– [Mimes twisting a knife] Like, "Get! Get!"

Fit: I'm sorry. I'm sorry– it's my birthday. It's my birthday, you need to be nice to me on my birthday. I– I can say whatever I want on my birthday, ok?

Fit: [Reading chat] Yeah, "He can't help but roleplay gay angst." I know, I just like– as soon as I see like, the moon, under a starry Minecraft night sky, I just like– like a sleeper-agent, like MK Ultra, that just like– There's something that activates in my brain that's just like, "You will do gay angst, NOW."

[Later]

Fit: The stench is endearing, if anything. It's endearing. [Reading chat] "No wonder he left"?

[He dramatically clutches his chest like he's in pain, then leans out of frame]

Fit: I've said this: just because something is true does not mean you need to say it out loud! There is a time and a place, you require social awareness, I feel like. You lack social awareness right now– [He glances at chat] Am I blurry? God dammit– Stream's going to hell in a hand basket. Let me- let me get into focus.

#FitMC #Hideduo #FitPac #The Realm SMP #Fit #Timestamp: ~ 1h 7m ish #January 30 2025 #I like to think that Realm Pac just left to go on a trip or something #but Fit's separation anxiety is so bad within a week he was like #''Pac's left forever he's never coming back'' and just spiraled from there #Alternatively maybe Pac left him a note saying he's going to visit Mike or something but Fit didn't see it #lmao #Anyways yes I know I said I was going to take a break but I've got biases for these two #This took forever to do though Vegas is being slow and I wanted to edit all the moments together #Edited #I hate the usual angst people make for these two but THIS kind of angst?#that's over the top and based on misunderstandings? Peak comedy. I love it

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bambuuhere · 3 days ago

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make them come back to me... Tsukki is a fake hater btw, guess who went on a trip to Brazil with the duo in the back

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #yamaguchi tadashi #tsukishima kei #hinata shoyo #kageyama tobio #yamaguchi haikyuu #tsukishima haikyuu #hinata haikyuu #kageyama haikyuu

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transchaoswizard · 2 days ago

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Oh I'm having fun with it

spin the wheel for a genre!

#spycraft has been a special interest for ages #I would just subvert the genre by being a competent spy #fucking James Bomd would be tripping over his on gun #while I just... solve problems with clever subterfuge

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anonbeadraws · 2 days ago

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Today's warm up: Fog creature who's home again after a long trip and has been greatly missed. (Also accidental nonbinary cryptid, we love it) (1:30 hr)

#anonbeadraws #art #digital art #warm up #illustration #creature #scene #illustration art #nonbinary #cryptid

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moonlightwritingf1 · 3 days ago

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Birthday Sex in Monaco | LN4

♥️ summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N's parents take her to Monaco for her birthday. On her second day there, she meets Lando Norris, an F1 driver. Things escalate quickly as the chemistry between them grows.

♥️ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

♥️ word count ━━━━━━━ 4.2k

♥️ warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m receiving), rough sex, multiple orgasms

Based on this request.

“So, do you always flirt with strangers in Monaco, or am I just special?” Y/N tilted her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned against the bar. The warmth of the Monaco evening wrapped around them, the sound of the Mediterranean lapping against the harbor in the distance.

Lando raised an eyebrow, his blue-green eyes glinting with amusement under the soft glow of the bar lights. He swirled the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass. “Oh, you’re definitely special,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “But I wouldn’t call you a stranger. I’ve been watching you all evening.”

She laughed, the sound light and carefree, and it caught him off guard. Most people he met were eager to impress him, but Y/N? She didn’t seem to care who he was. And that intrigued him more than he cared to admit. “Watching me? Creepy much?” she teased, taking a sip of her cocktail.

“Not creepy,” he countered, leaning in slightly, his forearm brushing against hers on the bar. “Just…observant.”

The spark between them was undeniable, and Y/N could feel it—every word, every glance, every brush of his hand against hers sent a jolt of electricity through her. But she wasn’t about to let him win this easily. “Observant, huh? So, what have you observed, Mr. Formula One Driver?”

He grinned, the dimple on his cheek making an appearance. “Well, for starters, you’re not from around here. Your accent gives you away.”

“Wow, Sherlock,” she deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “Next, you’re gonna tell me what I had for breakfast.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Croissant, right? You strike me as a croissant kind of girl.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, that was actually kind of impressive.”

Lando shrugged, a smug smile on his face. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly between them, the teasing banter laced with an undercurrent of something neither of them had expected. Y/N found herself drawn to him—not because of his fame or his looks, though those certainly didn’t hurt—but because of the way he made her laugh, the way he listened to her, the way he seemed genuinely interested in her.

---

It had been her second day in Monte Carlo, and Y/N was already captivated by the city. Her parents had wanted to treat her to a lavish vacation for her birthday, and Monaco had been at the top of their list. She’d spent the day wandering the cobblestone streets, marveling at the yachts in the harbor, and indulging in the decadent food. But it wasn’t until that evening, when she’d wandered into a chic bar, that her trip took an unexpected turn.

She’d recognized him immediately—how could she not? Lando Norris, the Formula One driver, was practically a household name. But she hadn’t expected him to approach her, let alone strike up a conversation. Yet there he was, sliding into the seat beside her at the bar, flashing her that boyish grin and asking her name.

They’d talked for hours, the conversation never faltering. He’d told her about his life on the track, the thrill of racing, the pressure of being in the spotlight. She’d shared snippets of her own life. And now, here they were, the chemistry between them undeniable, the teasing banter turning flirtatious.

“So, it’s your birthday, huh?” Lando asked, his tone softening as he leaned in closer.

Y/N nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“You mentioned it earlier,” he said, his eyes locking with hers. “I was wondering…if you’re not busy, maybe you’d let me take you somewhere? As a birthday surprise.”

She hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. Is this really happening? She’d never been one for spontaneous decisions, but there was something about Lando that made her want to throw caution to the wind.

“Okay,” she said finally, a smile spreading across her face. “But it better be a good surprise.”

He grinned, standing and offering her his hand. “Oh, it will be.”

---

The apartment was breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city and the sea beyond. Y/N stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat as she took it all in. “Wow,” she murmured, turning to look at Lando. “This is…incredible.”

He chuckled, closing the door behind them. “Glad you like it.” He moved closer, his eyes darkening with something she couldn’t quite place. “So, how’s your birthday so far?”

She smiled, her pulse quickening as he stepped into her space. “It’s been…unexpected. But in a good way.”

“Good,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because I’m about to make it even better.”

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers, soft and insistent, and everything else faded away. The kiss was electric, sending shivers down her spine as his hands came up to cradle her face. She melted into him, her fingers tangling in his dark curls as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

He pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her lips. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “You know that, right?”

She laughed breathlessly, her heart racing. “You’re not so bad yourself, Norris.”

He grinned, that familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, Y/N…you have no idea what you’re in for.”

And then he was kissing her again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over her body with a hunger that left her breathless. She gasped as he lifted her onto the counter, his lips trailing down her neck as his hands found the hem of her dress.

“Lando,” she breathed, her head falling back as his teeth grazed her skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “It’s your birthday. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark with desire. “I want you.”

His grin widened, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear. “Good. Because you’re about to have the best birthday of your life.”

Lando’s lips crashed into hers again, hot and demanding, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. His hands roamed her body, sliding down her back and gripping her waist, pulling her closer. She arched into him, her breath hitching as his kiss deepened, his tongue tangling with hers in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. He broke away just enough to trail his lips down her jawline, his breath warm against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to her shoulders where the thin straps of her dress rested. He hooked his fingers under them and slowly pulled them down, letting the fabric pool at her waist. She inhaled sharply as the cool air hit her bare skin, her nipples hardening under his gaze.

His eyes darkened as he took her in, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardened peaks. “Perfect,” he said, almost to himself, before leaning down to flick his tongue over one nipple. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and licked, his mouth hot and insistent.

“Lando,” she moaned, her head falling back as he switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention. His hands kept her steady, his touch firm yet gentle, as if he was memorizing every inch of her. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and yet completely safe in his arms.

He pulled back slightly, his lips curving into a smirk. “Want more?”

Her only response was a breathless nod, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made her stomach flip, before scooping her up in his arms. She let out a surprised laugh, clutching his shoulders as he carried her to the living room.

He set her down gently on the plush sofa, his eyes never leaving hers as he knelt between her legs. His hands gripped the hem of her dress, and in one smooth motion, he pulled it off, leaving her in nothing but her black lace thong. She felt a flush of heat spread through her body as his gaze roamed over her, his expression a mix of hunger and admiration.

“You’re… fucking stunning,” he said, his voice rough with desire. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her thong and tugged it down her legs, tossing it aside. Now completely bare, she felt a thrill of anticipation as he leaned in, his breath warm against her inner thigh.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Relax,” he murmured, his lips brushing her skin as he moved closer. And then his mouth was on her, hot and wet, his tongue exploring every fold and curve. She let out a moan, her hands flying to his hair, not pulling, just holding on as waves of pleasure crashed over her.

He licked and sucked with an intensity that left her gasping, his tongue flicking over her clit in maddening circles. She arched off the sofa, her hips moving instinctively against his mouth. “Oh god,” she cried, her fingers tightening in his hair as he worked her with relentless focus.

She looked down, her breath hitching at the sight of him between her legs, his dark curls brushing her thighs, his blue-green eyes looking up at her with a fierce determination. “You taste fucking incredible,” he growled, the vibrations of his voice sending jolts of pleasure through her.

Her other hand wandered to her breast, her fingers teasing her nipple as she watched him. His eyes darkened further, his rhythm faltering for a moment as he saw what she was doing. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice strained.

She smirked, her own confidence growing as she saw the effect she had on him. “Like what you see?” she teased, her voice breathy but laced with playfulness.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he increased the pressure of his tongue, his lips closing around her clit as he sucked gently. She cried out, her back arching off the sofa, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Lando,” she moaned, her hips bucking against his mouth as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. She felt herself teetering on the edge, her entire body trembling with anticipation.

“Come for me,” he whispered against her, his voice low and commanding. And just like that, she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her in waves of pure ecstasy. She cried out his name, her body convulsing as he continued to work her through it, until every last tremor subsided.

She collapsed back onto the sofa, her chest heaving, her limbs feeling like jelly. Lando looked up at her, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Happy birthday,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief.

She laughed breathlessly, her hand reaching out to brush a curl from his forehead. “You’re incredible,” she murmured, her voice still shaky.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he replied, climbing up to kneel over her. His hands braced on either side of her head, his face inches from hers. “But we’re just getting started.”

Lando’s smirk deepened as he hovered over her, his eyes dark with desire. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “I was planning to make this night unforgettable for you, but I think you’re the one who’s making it unforgettable for me.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze, her fingers tracing the planes of his chest. “Oh, really? And here I thought you’d be used to this kind of thing by now.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’m not used to someone like you.”

Her breath hitched, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “But I think I have now.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she wasn’t about to let him have the last word. “Well, maybe you should prove that to me.”

His eyes flickered with amusement and something deeper, more primal. “Oh, I intend to,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But first, I want to see what that pretty little mouth of yours can do.”

She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Is that so? And what makes you think I’d want to do that?”

His laughter was low, almost predatory. “Because I saw the way you were looking at me earlier. You want this just as much as I do.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then lower, to where his arousal was pressing against her. She bit her lip, her heart racing. “Fine,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But only because it’s my birthday.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hands sliding down her sides as he shifted to sit back on the sofa. His eyes never left hers, dark and full of promise. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”

She hesitated for a moment, then slowly got to her knees in front of him. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. The sight of his bare chest, the way his muscles rippled as he moved, made her mouth go dry. She dropped the shirt to the floor, her hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. She undid the button and zipper, her fingers brushing against the hard length of him through the fabric of his boxers.

Lando’s breath hitched, and he leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the sofa. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

She smirked, pulling his trousers down and tossing them aside. Then, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, slowly sliding them down until his hard, thick cock sprang free. Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth watering at the sight of him. He was bigger than she’d imagined, and the way he twitched as she reached for him made her pulse race.

“Like what you see?” he teased, his voice rough with need.

She looked up at him through her lashes, her fingers wrapping around his shaft. “I might need a moment to adjust.”

He chuckled, but it quickly turned into a groan as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. She licked her lips, tasting the salty pre-cum that had gathered there. His hands tightened on the edge of the sofa, his hips bucking slightly as she licked a slow, deliberate stripe from the base to the tip.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice strained. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

She smirked, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him into her mouth. His groan was deep, his head falling back as she started to move, her lips sliding down his length. She took him as far as she could, her hand working the base as she sucked him off. The feel of him in her mouth, the way he filled her, sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

He reached down, his fingers tangling in her hair as he guided her movements. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “Just like that. You’re doing so fucking good.”

His words sent a thrill through her, and she moaned around him, the vibrations making him groan. She pulled back, swirling her tongue around the head before taking him deep again. She could feel him getting harder, hotter, and she knew he was close. She reached down, her fingers brushing against his balls, and he let out a strangled cry.

“Fuck, Y/N, stop,” he gasped, his hands gripping her shoulders. ‘’I’m going to cum, and I want to feel you cum on my cock first.’’

She pulled back, licking her lips as she looked up at him. “You sure?” she teased, her voice husky.

“Positive,” he growled, pulling her up and onto his lap. She straddled him, her hands on his shoulders as she positioned herself over him. He gripped his cock, guiding it to her entrance as she lowered herself onto him. She gasped as he filled her, the stretch and fullness taking her breath away.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“So do you,” he muttered, his hands gripping her hips as she started to move. She rocked against him, her movements slow and deliberate, her breath hitching with every thrust.

“Fuck,” Lando groaned, his hands gripping her hips as she was moving, her body rocking against his in a rhythm that had them both moaning. “You feel so fucking good, Y/N. So tight, so wet for me.”

She whimpered, her hands braced on his shoulders as she rode him, her body moving in time with his thrusts. “Lando,” she gasped, her head falling back as he hit a spot deep inside her that had her seeing stars. “Oh my God, just like that.”

Her tits bounced with each movement, and Lando’s eyes were drawn to them. His hands moved to cup them, fingers teasing and pinching her nipples as she moaned, her body trembling with pleasure.

“Your tits are fucking perfect,” he muttered, his voice rough with arousal. “I could play with them all day.”

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he growled, his gaze dark with desire as he watched her. “The way you move, the way you feel around me—I could fuck you like this forever.”

His hands cupped her breasts more firmly as she rode him. Leaning in, he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing it until she let out a loud moan.

“Lando,” she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good,” he murmured, switching to her other nipple. “Because I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

She moaned, her movements becoming more erratic as he continued to tease her. She could feel the tension building inside her, her orgasm looming just out of reach. She was so close, so fucking close, and she could tell he was too.

She moaned, her head falling back as his fingers teased her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice filled with need. “Fuck me harder.”

He growled, his hands moving to her hips as he began to thrust up into her, his movements harder, faster. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as she felt him hit that sweet spot inside her.

“That’s it, baby,” he muttered, his voice filled with a primal need. “Take it. Take every fucking inch of me.”

She moaned, her hips moving in time with his as they fell into a rhythm that was all consuming. She could feel her orgasm building, the pleasure coiling deep inside her as he thrust into her again and again.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “I’m so close.”

“Come for me, baby,” he muttered, his voice low and commanding. “Let me feel you.”

She cried out, her second orgasm crashing over her as she tightened around him, her body convulsing with pleasure. He groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt her clenching around him.

But he wasn’t done. As soon as she started to come down, his hands tightened around her hips, lifting her effortlessly from the couch, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he stood. Her breath caught, feeling him still buried deep inside her, the weight of him stretching her, filling her in the most delicious way. “Hold on,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, the rasp sending a shiver down her spine.

He lowered her onto the sofa, her back sinking into the plush cushions as he laid her down with a gentleness that contrasted the wild hunger in his eyes. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he settled between her thighs, his hips already finding their rhythm again.

'You’re mine,' he muttered, his voice rough with possession, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust into her hard, the force of it making her cry out.

Her head fell back, her moans spilling freely as he pounded into her, the pace relentless, every stroke hitting that spot deep inside her that made her vision blur. “Lando,” she gasped, her voice trembling, her body arching to meet his as he took her with a hunger that left her breathless.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his forehead pressed against hers. “You’re so fucking tight. I can’t—”

Lando’s thrusts grew harder, more urgent, each one driving deeper into her, claiming her in a way that made her gasp and arch into him. He reached for her wrists, pinning them to her stomach as her chest heaved with each powerful thrust. “Look at you,” he groaned, his eyes dark with lust as he watched her tits bounce with the rhythm of their bodies slamming together. “So fucking perfect.”

She could feel every inch of him, every ridge and pulse of his cock as he fucked her with a raw, unrelenting intensity.

“Y/N,” he growled, his voice low and rough, “you feel fucking incredible. So fucking tight around me.”

Her breath hitched, the sound of his words sending a shiver down her spine. She could feel the heat building inside her, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. She loved the way he took control, the way he gave her no choice but to surrender to the pleasure.

“Lando,” she moaned, her voice trembling as her hips rocked to meet his. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He smirked, his eyes dark with desire as he leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. “Didn’t plan on it, baby,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Not until you cum for me again.”

His words sent a rush of wetness between her thighs, her body responding to him like he was the only thing that mattered. She could feel the tension building again, the pressure growing until it was almost unbearable.

Lando’s thrusts grew faster, harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. She gasped, her nails digging into her own skin as she tried to hold on.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a low growl. “Cum for me, Y/N. Let me feel you.”

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her third orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing as she cried out his name. Her pussy clenched around him, pulling him deeper as wave after wave of pleasure tore through her.

Lando groaned, his hips stuttering as he felt her cum around him. “Fuck, baby,” he panted, his forehead pressed against hers. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

He kept thrusting, drawing out her orgasm until she was trembling beneath him, her body spent but still craving more.

“Lando,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you. Please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With a deep groan, he pulled out of her, his cock slick with her arousal. He gripped himself, stroking quickly as he looked down at her, his eyes burning with need.

“Where do you want it, baby?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

She bit her lip, her eyes flickering down to her chest. “On me,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “Please, Lando.”

He groaned, his hand moving faster as he let out a low curse. “Fuck, Y/N,” he panted, his hips jerking as he came. Thick ropes of cum shot onto her tits, hot and sticky against her skin.

She moaned at the sight, her body trembling as she watched him. He looked so beautiful like this, his face twisted with pleasure, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Lando’s eyes met hers, a lazy smile spreading across his lips as he leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. His hand slid up her stomach, his fingers brushing against the cum he’d left on her skin.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

She smiled, her heart swelling at his words. “Good,” she teased, her voice soft but playful. “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm as he kissed her again, his lips soft and lingering against hers. She could feel the warmth of his body pressed against her, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice tender as he pulled back to look at her. “I hope I’m making it one to remember.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, the sincerity in his voice sending a rush of warmth through her. “You are,” she admitted, her voice soft but honest. “More than I could’ve imagined.”

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vintagecamping · 2 days ago

Text

Brief respite on 'dry land' as some hikers walk out through the bog that is the Arthur Plains.

Tasmania

1980

#vintage camping #campfire light #tasmania #arthur plains #history #hiking #camping #backpacking #australia #road trips #travel #1980s

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machazer · 3 hours ago

Photo

Me in the Netherlands. 🇳🇱

#like me #tripping #trip #high as f***#lisa simpson #the simpsons

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wileys-russo · 2 days ago

Note

sending this to distract us from the transfer window (it has my stomach in the pits of hell omg)

alessia, “how many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”, bedroom

part of the maternal instincts series

two second surprise II a.russo

"thank you!" you smiled politely as your pass was scanned and the usher moved aside to let you inside the family and friends box, doors closing after you as you scanned the room trying indeed to find your family.

"boo!" you jumped about a foot in the air as fingers zapped your sides and a familiar voice sounded as you turned around and smacked giorgio on the shoulder before he pulled you in with a grin.

"i didn't know you were back yet!" you laughed as your girlfriends brother lifted you up in a bear hug before placing you back down on your feet. "landed last night. haven't slept a wink but i wouldn't dare miss a game!" the boy beamed as you flicked his lanyard.

"or a free feed and some drinks?" you teased as he held his hands up unable to argue your point. "i didn't think you were coming though! less said something about a girls weekend?" gio questioned as he practically dragged you over to the bar with him.

"girls day trip more like it." you forced a pained smile as the middle russo winced. "that bad huh? you women." he tutted with a shake of his head, making a strange noise as you punched his arm and he almost spilled the beer he'd just picked up.

"you were raised by a wonderful woman, watch your mouth russo." you warned with a playful glare, the two of you chattering as you followed him to where everyone else was, greeted with a cheer and pulled from one hug to another.

"alessia didn't say you were coming darling? whats happened?" carol pulled you aside with a concerned frown as you sighed and shook your head.

"trip was cut short. lets just say one night out together unearthed some home truths and old wounds!" you summarised what had been a very draining twenty four hours playing peacekeeper on what was supposed to be a chance to catch up with some old school friends.

"drunk minds and sober thoughts as they say hm? well its a lovely surprise to see you. lessi will be thrilled!" the woman smiled pulling you in for another hug as you rejoined the group.

"where's bella?" you questioned once you had a chance to get a word in, unable to see her hovering about anywhere. "oh! alessia organised for bella to be her mascot today. she didn't tell you?" luca advised as you shook your head.

"to be fair she told me she'd only contact me in an emergency, forceful relaxtion she called it." you chuckled at your girlfriends stern warnings you weren't to worry about anything this weekend but having fun, and look how well that had seemed to work for you.

carol informing she was just about to go wait downstairs to bring bella back up after the walk out, she was more than happy to shoo you off in her space as you now found yourself in a back room with the parents of the other mascots, watching the walk out on a big screen projected on the wall.

your heart swelled about ten times its normal size watching alessia lead your daughter out hand in hand, bella unable to wipe the grin off her face and you knew this was something she'd remember for years to come.

after all its not everyday you walk out to a sold out emirates for a champions league match, and you were almost certain this would be making the rounds with all of bellas school friends and your neighbours, and coworkers, and your parents, practically anyone with ears that would listen to your daughter.

suddenly you were being lead out toward the pitch with the group, advised the mascots would take a quick photo with the starting 11 and then head back over.

"what?" alessia mumbled as she felt an elbow suddenly in her side, leahs chin pointing to the sidelines and as alessia caught your eye and you waved she felt her stomach drop, cautiously raising her hand to wave back.

"oh you are a dead woman." leah snickered to herself, bella too busy looking around in awe at the thousands of people cheering and yelling to even clock your prescence, alessia squeezing her hand gently and lifting her up onto her hip for the photo.

now normally, if this was any other game day, any other weekend, frankly any other situation at all, alessia would be over the moon that you'd shown up and were there watching her.

but today, today that was not the case and a profound sense of dread was fast seeping into her bones.

today alessia had a secret, something she'd kept from you with hopes of having the weekend to come up with a plan on how to tell you, and now with those hopes blown right out of the water, she was panicking, hard.

"is that mummy? mummys here!" bella gasped as she finally spotted you, alessia tightening her grip on the six year olds hand as she tried to race across the pitch where you stood waiting.

"mama you're being slow!" bella groaned as sure enough alessia was taking her time to cross the mere ten or so metres between the pair of you, but with the stubborn girl pulling her along she eventually had to land in front of you.

"hi trouble." you laughed as your daughter crashed into you, already word vomiting everything she'd been doing for the past day you were gone. "you can tell me all about it tonight!" you promised, barely able to keep up with what she was saying it was coming out of her so fast.

"-and mama took me to get my ears pierced!"

but those words, those registered with you and in a split second you were bending down, hands grabbing her face and eyes wide as you tilted it side to side, sure enough the glint of tiny diamonds in her ears that had not been there when you left yesterday.

"alessia." your head snapped up toward your girlfriend who'd gone pale, eyes wide and features dripping with guilt as you stood and narrowed your own eyes at her.

you paused as you felt a tug on your shirt, meeting bellas curious gaze. "should i cover my ears?" she questioned, doing just that as you smiled and gave a curt nod before your glare landed back on the blonde in front of you.

"alessia how could-" you started, taking one step toward her as she took one back. "thanks for coming so glad you made it see you after the game babe!" was all that came tumbling from her mouth before she took off sprinting away from you.

"russo!" you yelled after her as she glanced at you with a wince and what was supposed to be an apologetic wave, but really seemed more like a shoo of dismissal as you scoffed and shook your head.

"come on bell." you swallowed your anger for the time being, tugging your daughters hands off her ears and taking one of them in yours, lead back through the tunnel and toward the elevator to head upstairs to watch the game.

"mama you did it!" your daughter cheered, racing across the room to greet her as she appeared, freshly showered and smiling as bella hugged her leg before spotting a few of the other girls coming in and darting off to say hi.

having had the best part of the last two and a half hours to calm down you weren't quite as infuriated with her as before, but still you made no move to go and greet your girlfriend, rather following after bella and leaving alessia to speak with her family, all of whom had been clued into the mounting tension between the pair of you.

"-maybe i'll take you one day!" kyra grinned messing up your daughters hair who huffed. "pest!" bella pointed back up at her as you laughed and kyra feigned offence, bella tapping her leg and yelling tag and suddenly the pair of them were off zig zagging and chasing around the room.

"hi." you turned at the soft voice beside you, glancing briefly at your girlfriend who stood there with an awkward smile, humming and fixing your gaze back on isabella who'd now roped manu and laia into her game of tag with kyra.

"are you still upset with me?" alessia blurted out, wincing at the frosty silence that followed, your head not even turning to acknowledge her as she sighed. "thats a yes then."

"am i supposed to not be upset with you alessia? i told bella when she asked about her ears last week she was too young, i leave for a day and come back and you've of course given her whatever she wants." you quipped coldly, leaving her behind as you went to collect the girl in question, alessia rubbing the back of her neck and trying to think how she was gonna dig herself out of the hole she was currently in.

especially since it was her own hands on the shovel which had buried her in there in the first place.

several hours later and things were just as unresolved, the tension still taunt and air around the pair of you uncomfortable and stiff, so much so that alessias parents had offered to have bella for the night to give the pair of you a chance to talk it out.

but all alessia received was silence in the entire car ride home, any and all attempts at conversation ignored as you stared out the window, immediately shut out as you made a beeline for the bathroom.

she hadn't even gotten out of you just why you were back so early from your girls weekend, and knowing that since you were something must have gone wrong, stomach tied up with guilt that you'd already clearly had things go wrong and now you'd come home to find out she'd gone against what you said.

a very long shower and perhaps an overly extensive skin care routine to give yourself some space and time alone to think later, and alessia finally heard the lock click, sitting upright in the chair she'd been lounging in eagerly awaiting your return.

at first she knelt down on one knee, rapidly realizing that would signal something much different than what was going on as she scrambled to her feet, almost toppling back to the ground as the door opened.

"what is this?" you questioned bluntly as the striker gestured much more awkwardly than intended to the bed once you stepped out of the bathroom and flicked the fan off, eyes scanning the large love heart and 'i'm sorry' made up of uncooked pasta shells covering the duvet.

"an apology." alessia gestured again to the bed as you only hummed, barely acknowledging it as you tossed your clothes into the dirty hamper in the corner of the room.

"how many times do i have to say i'm sorry? i'm really really really sorry!" alessia groaned, dragging her hands down her face but sticking consistent to your stubborn nature you ignored her all together.

"can you clean that up please? i'm tired." you nodded to the bed as you scraped your hair up into a half bun, refusing to meet the footballers pleading gaze as it followed you around the room.

"i even tried to write i'm sorry i put holes in our daughters ear without asking you, but i ran out of pasta." alessia admitted with an annoyed scowl. "my daughter." you muttered, missing the way the blondes face shattered at your misplaced words.

only as you were trudging into the kitchen to make a cup of tea did those words register with you, flicking on the kettle to boil and pausing, exhaling heavily and quickly turning on foot to return to the bedroom.

you found alessia on her knees with her back facing you, ever so carefully picking up each shell of pasta one by one and placing it back into the packet, making sure not to miss a single one.

but right as you heard the kettle go and you went to leave her to it you heard it, the unmistakable tiny sniffle, alessia pausing as her hand moved to wipe at her eyes and your lips turned downward.

"alessia." you spoke quietly, taking a step closer as she sniffled again, straightening up suddenly and clearing her throat, quickly moving to scrape the remaining pasta shells into a small pile.

"less." you spoke softer now, clearing the distance between the pair of you and arriving by her side, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your chest as you tapped her shoulder and she glanced up at you, eyes red where she'd clearly been trying to hide her emotions.

"our daughter." you corrected gently, the blonde only nodding and quickly averting her gaze, hands with an ever so slight shake as she continued to pick up the pasta shells.

"hey, less. stop." you ordered, one hand falling atop hers as she again glanced up at you, your remaining anger melting away at the cascade of guilt, frustration and hurt that swirled in the strikers bright blue eyes that met yours.

"come here." you opened your arms, your girlfriend up on her feet and all too happily accepting the hug, hunched over with the height difference as your face pressed into her shoulder and her chin hooked over yours.

"i am really really sorry for going behind your back." she whispered sincerely as you rubbed her back, exhaling at the feeling of her tight embrace. "i know you are, i'm sorry too." you felt her press a grateful kiss to your cheek as you just stood there holding one another for a moment before gradually breaking apart as you tugged her down to sit on the end of the bed with you.

"i should have called and asked, really i know i should have. its just-well bell came home from that party yesterday and she was quite, upset." alessia started as you frowned, nodding for her to continue.

"she said some of the other girls were picking on her because she didn't have her ears pierced, calling her a baby and saying she was too scared, said she was lying about not being allowed since all of their mums took them to get their ears done already." alessia revealed as your frown deepened.

"trust me i was ready to go in there and raise hell!" alessia huffed with a scowl and a shake of her head. "but well i could hardly go in there and yell at a bunch of six year olds that they're a pack of bitches, so instead i just took her to get them done so she didn't feel left out. but i should have called you and asked and-" you cut her off with a kiss, the blonde tensing up in surprise before you pulled away.

"did you just call children, a pack of bitches?" you cracked a smile, the tips of your girlfriends ears going pink as she gave a shrug. "not to their faces! their mums however-" alessia shook her head as you let out a small laugh.

"-pack of bitches." you finished for her, the girl meeting your amused smile with a nod of her head and a grin. "i wish you'd at least told me what happened and that you were going to take her, but i understand why you did it, and i'd have done the same thing if the roles were reversed." you assured, pulled into another hug and exhaling into alessias chest as your arms looped around her torso.

"if it helps all she could talk about was how she had to have silver studs, and not gold because you only wear silver." alessia mumbled as you chuckled. "thank you." you broke apart as the blonde gave you a curious frown.

"what for?" "for being a good mum." you leaned in to kiss her again, amused by the way her cheeks now flushed pink at the compliment.

"not the best because that title belongs to yours truly-" you started as alessia laughed but made no move to argue. "-but bella and i? we're both very lucky to have you less." you added on with a soft smile, laughing at the way she surged forward to hide her face in your shoulder, your back hitting the mattress.

"softie." you teased as she pinched your side, the two of you just laying there wrapped up in one another, limbs entangled and the only sound the rhythmic pumping of your heartbeats.

"wait! what happened on your girls trip?" alessia suddenly remembered, head popping up to frown down at you with concern as you groaned at the memory, alessia gently hitting your thigh and begging you to fill her in as you pulled yourself to sit up.

"do we still have that half drunk bottle of vodka?"

#woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo imagine #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs

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rafescvntyclubgf · 1 day ago

Text

𝓕𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂

🇹🇭🇪 🇵🇪🇳🇦🇹🇱🇾 🇧🇴🇽

𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝐇𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐲!𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐱 𝐇𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐲!𝐉𝐉 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙹𝙹 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕.

cw | smut, swearing, pet names, jealousy, possessiveness, unprotected p in v, choking, fingering, squirting, fighting, mentions of blood, oral (male receiving simultaneously), threesome (<- rafe and jj don't kiss - sorry 💋), anal, spanking shower sex, name-calling

𝓼𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓻: 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓮𝓫𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂 𝓼𝓸 𝓲𝓽 𝓲𝓼 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮-𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭 💕🩷

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The air at the rink was crisp, carrying the faint scent of ice and sweat. Rafe stands on the opposite side of the boards, his helmet hanging loose from the blade of his hockey stick. His eyes stay locked on the beautiful figure gliding effortlessly across the rink.

You move gracefully, shifting like water, making everything else disappear. You leap and bend, turning like a top—fiercely athletic, leaving him in awe.

He couldn’t look away, not even if he wanted to.

The sound of your blades carve into the ice, rhythmically, unlike his own. It wasn’t just your skill that had him in a daze. It was your sheer focus, the ease with which you did the effortful, effortlessly. It was how you smiled when you landed a jump he couldn’t even begin to compute.

“Holy shit…”

“I know, right?” Rafe responds, JJ’s words hitting him like a slap. He blinks his blue eyes a few times, his head snapping to the left. His teammate stands next to him, his chin resting lazily on the butt of his stick, staring at the same figure skater with addled eyes. Rafe exhales, realizing he’s been holding his breath. He drags his hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. “Fuck, man. She’s somethin’ else, huh?”

JJ doesn’t respond, too consumed with watching you. Your body turns into a triple toe loop in the air, executing it flawlessly. Rafe looks back at you, feeling a strange mix of admiration and the sting of something else as he catches onto JJ’s mutual desire for you.

“No way she goes here–” JJ mumbles dreamily.

“Nah, I haven’t seen her around campus,” Rafe replies, his voice a little tighter now. He follows your movements on the ice, eyes scanning the sheet, knowing you’d be stepping off any second—his pulse quickens, hands clammy inside his gloves.

The door swings open beside them; a few of their teammates spill onto the ice before you can even get off. They lose you in the crowd, looking around big bodies as they move toward the door themselves.

When the boys fan out of the ice, the skater is gone. Rafe’s eyes scan the arena, catching JJ's search as well, making him more frantic. “Who are you lookin’ for, bud?” Rafe snips, making JJ scoff in disgust.

“Nobody,” JJ answers, letting his lips curl in a smirk.

“You’re such a bitch, dude,” Rafe cracks disgustedly, shoving JJ against the boards.

“I’m a bitch…” He points his gloved hand at his chest, cocking an eyebrow at Rafe. “Comin’ from you, that means shit,” Maybank laughs as he shakes his head.

“The fuck does that mean?” He asks as he slashes him tauntingly with his stick, making JJ throw a punch, nailing Rafe’s arm.

“You know exactly what that means–” JJ's voice trails off as he watches you round the arch of the rink, walking toward the two of them, skimming through your phone. You look up, smiling at the two of them.

Rafe opens his mouth to speak, but the words get lost somewhere between his brain and tongue. JJ steps forward, tripping slightly on his own skate blade, muttering a rushed, “Uh, hey,” before Rafe can get a word in.

“Hi,” you giggle and tilt your head slightly in amusement, looking up at the two men in passing.

Rafe clears his throat, forcing himself to recover, catching your attention. You look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes again. “That was… Umm. What you were doing out there was amazing,” he praises.

“Yeah, seriously,” JJ adds a little louder, not to be outdone. “Olympic level, shit. You’re probably the best skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Rafe’s eyes narrow on JJ before returning to you. “I couldn’t do that if I tried.”

Your cheeks warm up at their sweet words. You turn toward them, taking a step closer, making them both blush. “Thank you–” You drag out the word, hoping they’ll fill in the blank with their names.

The names come out in a jumbled mess as the two boys speak over the top of each other. JJ slaps Rafe in the gut with his glove annoyedly, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Rafe Cameron,” Rafe repeats himself with a smile.

“I’m JJ,” he jumps in. “JJ Maybank. And you are?”

You introduce yourself, the sound of your name leaving your lips seemingly making the burly boys swoon. Rafe’s pulse quickens as he watches you smile up at his teammate. “Do you skate here often?” Rafe asks.

“No,” you shake your head and smile, “I go to Harvard… They didn’t have any ice time–”

“Harvard?” JJ questions.

“Mhmm… Just borrowing your ice—”

“You busy tomorrow, sweetheart,” Rafe cuts in, catching you off guard. JJ’s lips tightened, brows furrowing as he looked over at his teammate, frustrated with the forwardness he wished he had at that moment. “We have a game if you want to come. I can put some tickets aside for you.”

“Your game?”

“Yeah,” they both say simultaneously, causing them both to roll their eyes in frustration with each other.

“It’d be awesome to have you there,” JJ smiles as he turns back on the charm.

Their coach's whistle rips through the area, tenseing them both. “Cameron; Maybank. Ice, now!”

“I’ll think about it,” you smile as you adjust your bag on your shoulder, still smitten despite their awkward delivery. You walk away from the two, your figure skating skirt teasing them with each step. The two boys stand back in a daze, watching you until you fall out of sight.

⊹ 💌 ⁺ ˳ ✿ . ♥️ ࿐ 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉

“So,” JJ asks, breaking the silence as he tosses a tennis ball lazily, catching it in his hand as he feigns nonchalance. “What’s the move here?”

Rafe flicks his wrist, stickhandling the ball on the carpet as he does the same. Rafe chuckles and shakes his head before looking over at JJ. “You mean my move, yeah?”

JJ snorts in annoyance. “Didn’t say that. Fix your fuckin’ ears, bud.”

“Why is this complicated, huh? I walked out of the locker room first. I saw her first–”

“By a second,” JJ mumbles.

“And?” Rafe asks as his annoyance builds, his stick blade snapping against the puck a little harder.

“Calm the fuck down, Cameron,” JJ taunts as he throws the tennis ball across the room, whizzing by Rafe’s head, making him flinch before hitting the wall, bouncing back to him.

The boys fall silent, focusing on their distractions in hand, trying to mind-read what the other is thinking.

Rafe drops his stick, plopping down on the couch across from JJ when he sees him take out his phone, doing the same himself— he watches as JJ scrolls aimlessly, with a suspiciously focused expression.

Rafe studies your feed–a mix of professional skating shots, pictures at your university, and sexy shots with your friends from your nights out in Boston. He couldn’t stop— each new photo made you seem perfect.

“You’re stalkin’ her profile, you dog,” JJ mumbles, his eyes still locked on his phone.

“Nah…”

“Nah…” JJ mimics Rafe’s tone, his eyes shooting to him and then back to his phone. “Don’t even try to lie. You got that stupid fuckin’ little look on your face.”

“Fine. Maybe. But you can’t tell me you’re not doin’ the exact same thing.”

JJ shrugs, challenging Rafe with his glare. “At least I own it.”

They sit in silence for another moment, the tension building between them until one breaks again. “She didn’t accept my friend request…” Rafe mutters, his voice just above a whisper.

“Same.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know it’s me–”

JJ cackles and grabs the bill of his hat, pulling it over his face in exhaustion with Rafe. “How many Rafes do you know, man?” JJ sneers before letting out a sleepy yawn. “Stupid fucking bitch ass kook ass name,” JJ grumbles just above a whisper.

“You good?” Rafe laughs.

“Never better, Rafe.”

Rafe rolls his eyes in annoyance, continuing to flip through your account. “We don’t even know if she’s comin’...”

“True… You DM her?”

“No,” Rafe says firmly, shooting JJ a side-eye. “Did you?”

“Nope,” JJ’s reply comes out quick and unreadable.

“You’re lyin’,” Rafe scoffs.

“You’re projecting.”

“Big word for you, Maybank,” Rafe chuckles cruelly.

And the truth is, they’re both dying to text you. They knew it was risky—that it would come off as desperate at the very least… as if they weren’t.

Rafe taps his thumbs against the edges of his phone, nerves rising. Fuck it, he thinks as he opens Messenger anyways, shooting his shot.

Rafe: hey its rafe. Just wanted to say it was really nice meeting you earlier. I’m just wondering if you give lessons? Askin for a friend.

He hits send before he can think about it anymore, throwing his head back in instant regret, wishing he would have said something else.

Across the room, JJ’s doing the same thing.

Hey, it’s JJ. I hope you’re havin a great night. I don’t think we mentioned it but the game starts at 8 tomorrow if you're still thinking about it. Hope you can make it

Both boys sit back in their respective spots, trying to act casual. “So,” JJ hums after a moment, turning his head to watch TV, “what are you workin’ on over there?”

Rafe throws his hand behind his head, lounging a little more into the couch. “Doin’ the discussion board for English–”

“Fuckkk,” JJ groans as he picks up his phone, doing the same. ‘Same’, meaning triple-checking to see if you responded to his message or not.

His eyes widened on the screen as he sees the announcement for one new message.

⊹ 💌 ⁺ ˳ ✿ . ♥️ ࿐ 𝓀𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓎 𝓇𝒾𝓃𝓀

The buzz of the game is electric–a sea of maroon and gold–all packed in the bleachers. The student section’s alive with fans, but Rafe only has eyes for one person. You were there, just like you said you’d be, casually dressed in a sweater and jeans, and he swears he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.

Rafe skates onto the ice for warm-ups, forcing himself to focus, but it’s useless. His eyes drift from the game to you. You smile at him, making his heart skip a beat.

“Goddamn, dude,” JJ snaps as the boys nearly collide, his tone teasing but laced with venom nonetheless. “Watch where you're goin’, huh?”

“Please…” Rafe huffs.

“Woah… Look who’s here,” JJ smiles, pointing at her playfully like it was some kind of personal victory.

Rafe’s grip on his stick tightens. He glances toward you again, catching the way you giggle and smile at your friend, hoping you’re saying something about him.

When Rafe turns back to JJ, he sees the same thing mirrored in his teammate’s face. The boys stand there for a moment, the sounds of pucks hitting the boards and teammates shouting fades into the background.

“We’ve got a game to play, Maybank. Focus on that, yeah?”

“Sure, Cameron. You first, huh?” JJ chirps as he passes the puck to Rafe a little harder than usual.

Rafe glares at him, but their coach’s whistle slices through the air before he can retort.

They skate to their positions, consciously trying not to look at you. The first puck drops, both boys know one thing: the competition on the ice isn't the only battle tonight.

The situation took its toll on both; Rafe's focus was broken each time he caught a glimpse of you; meanwhile, JJ’s game was nothing short of reckless in an attempt to impress you. Until it finally paid off, JJ gave the Eagles a 1-0 lead 54 seconds into the third period with a power-play goal, scoring on his own rebound.

The student section erupts with cheers. Rafe glances at the stands, watching you cheer, banging your gloves against the glass, following JJ as he celebrates with his team, feeling a flare of jealousy burn in his chest.

After that, Rafe played like a man possessed: sharp passes, clean footwork, calculated shots until he scored a goal of his own. Of course, the celebration happened against the boards right in front of the student section— Rafe riding that high until the last possible second.

During the third period, everything came to a head. The teams were playing more aggressively, post-whistle trash talk started to become a little more targeted.

Rafe and JJ’s chemistry, usually the glue holding the team together, began to crack. Missed passes, botched plays, and a growing animosity between them became impossible to ignore.

“Rafe! JJ! Pull it together!” The coach screams from the bench, red-faced and furious.

The rival team starts to notice, too.

One of their forwards, leaning on his stick during faceoff, smirks, “What’s the matter, boys? Trouble in paradise?”

Rafe’s mitts tighten around his stick, his blood boiling at the comment and the fact that he let it get this bad.

“Fuck off—”

“Saw you two bitchin’ at each other. What, you fighting over her?” He nods toward the stands. “Pretty little thing.”

The puck drops, and the action starts again, Rafe quickly scoring on a power-play goal from the slot, adding another point to the board.

Before he can celebrate, he gets shoved from the back, sending both teams into a frenzy. Rafe drops his gloves first, lunging at the forward, his fist connecting with his jaw. JJ was right there with him, shoving a rival defenseman to the ice, yelling something incoherent as the refs blow their whistles, trying to pry the teams apart.

The defensemen shoves JJ, sending him back, knocking Rafe in the process. “The fuck are you doing?” Rafe shouts at JJ.

“Me? What are you doing?” JJ fires back, getting in Rafe’s face. “You’ve been skating like shit all night!”

“You’re the one showboating, bitch!” Rafe shoves JJ back; Maybank uses the contact to send the two of them to the ice. The crowd gasps, and the opposing team watches on in confusion as the coach loses his shit from the bench until the two get ripped apart.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” JJ hisses, jerking his arm free from Rafe's grip.

“I’m embarrassing myself? You hit me first!”

“I TRIPPED,” JJ snaps.

“Un-fuckin-likely,” Rafe spits as the two boys get thrown into the penalty box.

They sit there in silence, glaring at each other before one of the boys from the other team skates by, tapping on the glass with a smirk.

“Yo, what’s her name, boys?”

Rafe bites down on the finger of his glove, pulling it off, giving him the finger as he skates back to the center line.

“This is all your fuckin’ fault,” Rafe mutters, his voice low but sharp as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“My fault?” JJ shoots back, kicking out his skates as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Not my fault you can't find the fuckin’ goal, Rafe”

Rafe snorts and laughs. “Oh? You hogged the fuckin’ puck every chance you got just to show off for her.”

JJ laughs bitterly. “At least I have somethin’ to show off. Got two goals, bitch. You got one.”

“I got two, too, you dumb fuck. Is you’re head that far up your ass?”

JJ laughs wickedly, letting his head fall against the glass. “You’re easily forgettable, man. My bad-”

“Check your fuckin’ ego, bitch. We can go round two in here.” Rafe’s stomach drops, JJ’s quickly doing the same. “Wha-What the fuck?” Rafe stammers. “She’s leaving?”

JJ lets out a frustrated sigh. “Yup. And it’s on you, asshole…” He mumbles as the ref skates over, opening the door.

“Me? Maybe if you hadn’t been such a jealous prick—”

“You’re the one who couldn’t handle a little competition!” JJ snarls, cutting Rafe short as they step back onto the ice. Rafe pokes out his stick, tripping JJ slightly as he skates back toward the bench. “Do that again. I fuckin’ dare you,” JJ hisses.

“Calm down,” the ref warns as he skates between them, cutting the tension for a moment.

“I’m going after her,” JJ mumbles as he crashes down on the bench.

Rafe raises an eyebrow. “Good luck with that. You don’t even know where she lives.”

JJ looks across the way, smiling to himself. “Actually, I do.”

“What?”

“She gave me her address last night,” JJ answers smugly, elbowing Rafe tauntingly.

“Well, joke’s on you, pussy. She gave it to me, too,” Rafe smiles that same devilish smile, elbowing him back a little harder making JJ hiss out a sharp breath.

“Game on, Cameron.”

⊹ 💌 ⁺ ˳ ✿ . ♥️ ࿐

“Hopefully, that beaters faster than your skatin’, bitch!” Rafe scoffs as he shoves open the arena door.

“Says the guy who gets lost in a fuckin’ parking lot. Good luck finding her place first, dumb fuck,” JJ fires back before pushing past Rafe, sprinting to his Bronco.

“Fuck,” Rafe huffs, not prepared for a foot race, his dress shoes pounding against the asphalt as he closes the gap between him and his Audi.

Rafe slams his car door shut, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he peels out of the parking lot. It’s a short drive, only a few blocks, but it feels like forever. His ringed fingers twist around the leather steering wheel, anger rising with every red light he hits.

He pulls into the parking lot, muscles tightening as he hears JJ’s SUV screech to a stop; he doesn't even need to look back to know the race isn’t over. Rafe charges to the front door, tearing it open before running to the elevator, rapidly pushing his finger against the up button.

“Ohhh fuck you,” JJ groans as the elevator shuts just before he can reach it, settling for running up the stairwell instead. The elevator crawls upward. Rafe pulls the door the rest of the way open impatiently before sprinting down the hall, watching as JJ barrels toward him in the other direction.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me!” Rafe growls, his voice low and lethal.

“Out of my way,” JJ snaps, shoving Rafe’s shoulder as he reaches the door.

“Oh, hell fuckin’ no,” Rafe shoots back, grabbing JJ by the arm.

The shoving turned into grappling, the boys wrestling to the floor. “I was here first!” Rafe grunts, trying to pin JJ against the ground.

“Like hell you were!” JJ barks, shoving the bigger boy off him.

The noise echoes through the hallway—shoes scraping, muffled swears, and the occasional thud, so chaotic you hear it from the other end of the door.

Both boys freeze mid-struggle, their hands still gripping each other’s suit jackets when you open the door. They turn to you, seeing you standing there wide-eyed, dressed in a satin robe, stunned and silent.

“Uh…” JJ starts, but his voice cracks as he struggles to his feet.

“We–Umm. We just…” Rafe stammers, releasing JJ as he stands up, combing his messy hair back as JJ fixes his tie.

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms over your chest, lips twitching as you fight back a smile. “That was fast,” you say, your voice light and teasing. “You both smell like hockey, you know?”

Their cheeks flush in embarrassment. Rafe hangs his head and nods as JJ looks away–the boys trying their best to collect themselves.

Rafe lifts his head, his pretty blue eyes resting on yours, replaying your words before his face lights up. “You… were waiting?” Rafe asks, his words still breathless from the struggle.

You nod, tilting your head slightly. “Yeah. I figured you’d both get here eventually. Though I wasn’t expecting this.” You giggle, gesturing to their sweat-soaked bodies and disheveled game-day suits.

JJ scratches the back of his neck, glancing at Rafe before looking back at you. “We just… We both just want to–”

“Talk,” Rafe adds, quickly cutting JJ off.

“Talk?” You ask as you quirk an eyebrow. “You just wanted to talk to me?”

Rafe and JJ exchange a look, suddenly at a loss for words. You sigh, stepping back to open the door wider. “Let’s talk then...”

The door closes behind them; Rafe and JJ shuffle in awkwardly. Your space is cozy–warm lighting, a comfy couch, and the faint scent of a vanilla candle wafting through the air.

“So,” you ask as you sit down on the couch. Your robe falls open slightly, showing off your upper thigh, the top swooping low, giving them just a tease of cleavage. Rafe’s eyes fall to a lusty haze, JJ’s lashes fluttering as he swallows thickly. “What’s going on, boys,” you ask through a half-laugh. “What was that about?” You gesture toward the hallway.

“It’s because of you,” JJ says bluntly, though his tone softened. “We both… like you.”

“Both of you?” You ask with a smile.

“I mean… You were talking to us both,” JJ sulks under his breath. “‘Course we do—”

“Look,” Rafe says, “I think we both got carried away. But the thing is… I’ve never met anyone like you.”

JJ nods in agreement. “Same. You’re incredible. I just didn’t expect him to get in the way,” JJ gestures toward Rafe, letting his annoyance bleed through.

“Fuck off,” Rafe mumbles. “We both know who saw her first—”

“You two are impossible,” you giggle. “I mean, I knew you were competitive, but this?” You wrinkle your nose teasingly. “Did I mention you both stink?”

Rafe winced. “Sorry about that, sweetheart.”

JJ looks at you sheepishly. “Yeah… sorry, pretty.”

“Mhmm…” You hum. “And you,” you whisper as you stand up from the couch, walking over to Rafe, watching as his breath catches in his chest. You run your thumb along your tongue before smudging the little bit of blood off his gashed cheek. “You're bleeding. Did you know that?”

He shakes his head ‘no’ and bites his lip, looking down at you with a smile. “Here’s the thing,” you say, your voice quiet as you lean closer. “I didn’t want to pick between you.” You keep your eyes set on Rafe’s as you reach over, grabbing JJ by his suit jacket and pulling him closer.

The boys blink, their heads tilting slightly as their brain plays catch up with the words leaving your lips. “What?” They mumble in unison.

“I like both of you,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could choose. At least… not right now. Are you gonna make me?” You tease.

“N-No—” JJ stammers

“No. Fuck no,” Rafe pushes out the reply JJ’s too flustered to get out himself.

“—But you two just wanted to talk, huh?” You flirter as your fingers toy with the satin bow at your waist, tugging at it.

“Absolutely not,” JJ blurts. His jaw falls slack as the delicate material falls to a puddle at your feet. Rafe and JJ exchange glances, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. “Holy shit, you're serious…” JJ’s voice comes out needy and hoarse.

Rafe let out a slow breath, his mind racing as his eyes fall down your body.

You take Rafe by surprise, pressing your lips against his. As soon as you do, he’s fighting off his suit jacket between messy kisses, the two of you working on the buttons of his dress shirt.

Rafe smiles against your lips as his shirt falls to the floor, quickly pulling you closer, pushing his skin on yours.

You reach over, grabbing JJ by his tie, pushing Rafe back slightly, and just as you turn, JJ’s mouth finds yours. Your fingers scratch into JJ’s damp hair, tugging him closer as he tilts his head, letting his tongue slip inside your mouth as Rafe works on his pants.

Rafe pulls down his boxers and hooks his arm around your waist, pulling you off JJ’s lips and back onto his. His tongue dips in your mouth before sucking off yours. Rafe slows down slightly, letting the rough pad of his finger circle your nipple, making you whimper against his lips.

JJ steps closer, his hard cock brushing against your thigh; his lips find your neck, sucking down harshly as your tongue swirls with Rafe’s.

“Shower... Now,” you mumble as you pull away from Rafe, pressing a kiss against JJ’s lips next.

“Yeah, Princess?” JJ asks, but before he can snatch you away, Rafe takes you into his big arms, picking you up off your feet.

“Start the shower, Maybank,” Rafe hums smugly against your lips as he gets you to himself for a minute. JJ scoffs, rolling his eyes before heading toward the open bathroom door. You scratch your nails into Rafe’s hair as he deepens the kiss, rolling your body into him, feeling your wetness transfer to his hot skin as JJ turns on the shower.

“Hurry the fuck up, man,” JJ mutters as Rafe saunters over, taking his time with you. “Set her down,” JJ snips as the two of you pass through the threshold into the bathroom, making Rafe chuckle darkly–heat already swirling around, the sounds of water pouring out the head and panting breaths filling the small room from your kiss.

Rafe pulls back, looking at you half-lidded, the pupils of his blue eyes blown with lust as he mumbles a simple. “No,” to JJ with a look on his face lets you know he means it.

You lean in, brushing your soft lips against his. “This isn’t gonna work if you don’t share,” you whisper.

“Do I have to,” Rafe hums.

“Yes, you fuckin’ have to,” JJ answers for you, his brows pinched together in disgust.

“I’m listenin’ to you. I'm not listenin’ to him,” Rafe replies as he steps with you into your walk-in shower.

“Share,” you chuckle breathily. Rafe sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes, setting you down on the cool tile floor.

You shiver from the chill as you adjust to the temperature; Rafe and JJ’s hands are all over you fast. They alternate between kissing your lips and kissing your neck, handing you back and forth as your hands run down their broad chests, dipping into the divots of their cut abs.

You pull away from their lips, reaching over for the soap. The boys do the same, their slick hands gliding over your curves with ease–toying with your tits, squeezing your ass, teasing your inner thighs, both too hesitant to play with your pussy just yet.

That all changes when your fingers wrap around her cocks, pulling to the tip, making low moans rumble in their throats. Their hands quickly bump into each other, fumbling to get to your pussy first. Rafe smiles against your lips as he takes the win, circling your clit. You gasp against his lip as JJ slaps your ass.

“Co’mere,” JJ hums, beckoning you off Rafe’s lips and onto his. JJ’s hand sneaks between your ass checks, the tip of his finger rubbing over the tight rim of your ass as Rafe stuffs two long fingers in your pussy. Rafe rolls his thumb on your clit, curling his fingers in your soaked pussy.

Your thighs start to tremble uncontrollably, breathing a little quicker as Rafe’s skilled fingers work on you.

Your moan bounces off the wall as Rafe pushes a third finger inside you, quickly sending you over the edge. Your body flutters around his thick digits as you come undone.

He slips his fingers out of your slick cunt, bringing them to his lips before sucking them clean.

“Holy shit,” JJ mumbles in disbelief as his pretty blue eyes follow you to your knees. Rafe looks down at you as well, breathing heavily, his muscular chest heaving with every deep breath.

“Is this okay?” You ask as you look up at them through wet lashes, your fingers ghosting up the bottom of their dicks to the tip just like you did before, this time just inches from your lips, making them both take a step closer in anticipation.

“Is this okay?” Rafe laughs as he repeats your words, his long, thick cock throbbing in your hand.

“Mhmm,” you whisper as you lean closer to him, letting your tongue flick up his fat tip, catching a bead of precum before it can get washed away.

“Fucking perfect, princess,” he mumbles as his lips part, mimicking your own. He belts his large fist in your hair, pulling you closer. You wrap your lips around his tip, making his muscles flex as you take more and more. “Good fuckin’ girl,” Rafe praises as you gag on as much as much of him as you can get.

You bob a few times back and forth on his length as your other hand palms JJ’s balls, rolling them in your slight hand.

You push away, turning your head toward JJ, before wrapping your lips around him. Your hand continues to stroke Rafe’s cock, drawing out deep moans from them both. You curve your tongue around the bottom of JJ’s dick, tracing to the tip before swirling around his crown, making him clutch the tile wall for support.

Rafe grabs your wet hair, pulling you back to him, thrusting into your mouth, causing tears to spring in your eyes, the water from the shower quickly carrying them away as JJ fucks your fist with the same vigor.

Their moans and breathing get louder and heavier, the two men moving closer until you're practically bouncing between the two of them: stroking, sucking, swirling, kissing, until they’re both mumbling orders telling you to open wide.

You lay out your pretty pink tongue–ropes of pearly white cum quickly panting your face and tongue as they finish in succession; one after the other.

The boys breathe heavily, heads thrown back to the ceiling as the water washes away the rest of the mess on your face, you, swallowing the rest.

“Goddamn,” JJ groans in satisfaction as he helps you to your feet, quickly pulling you into a tender kiss. Rafe fingers lace in yours, tugging you to him for the same.

“What do you want from us, baby?” Rafe asks.

His tongue slides against yours as his large hand traces between your thighs, cupping your pussy in his big hand, making you whimper against his soft lips.

“Fuck, Rafe…”

“You make such pretty sounds, princess,” he whispers as JJ cuts off the water.

“I want both of you,” you smile against his lips.

“Yeah… I can feel that,” Rafe chuckles deeply, feeling the silky wetness of your arousal on his fingers. “What do you want, pretty?”

“Yeah, princess,” JJ murmurs as he walks behind you, finding the sweet spot on your neck as his large hands grab your hips. You giggle breathily as the two boys sandwich you together; the heat of their big bodies keeping you warm. “How do you want us?”

“Just like this…” You whisper against Rafe’s lip as you arch your back slightly, pressing your ass into JJ’s hard cock.

“Yeah?” Rafe asks with an airly rasp, speaking to you like he’s living in a dream. “You want me to cum in your pussy?”

“Mhmm–” You mumble. “I want you to cum in my pussy. And you,” you whisper as you reach your hand back, hooking around the JJ’s neck, kissing him over your shoulder. “I want you to fill my ass—”

“—Holy fuckin’ shit,” JJ mumbles under his breath, riding the same high as Rafe.

“Corner of the bed; I’m gonna ride Rafe. And you’re gonna take care of me. Think you can do that, baby?” You ask JJ as your lips brush against his.

“I can do whatever you want, princess,” JJ mumbles as he pulls you into his arms this time, lifting you off your feet.

The three of you move into the bedroom; Rafe reaches for you fast, doing exactly what he’s told.

You straddle his lap, grinding your slick cunt against him as you kiss him deeply.

You jump and squeak as JJ’s large hand cracks down on your ass again, spanking your bare skin hard enough to leave behind a stinging heat that has you aching to be filled.

JJ rubs his large hand over it, soothing the pain as you circle your hips on top of Rafe, driving him insane.

You push Rafe to his back, the man quickly grabbing your wrist, taking your fingers in his mouth, biting and sucking as JJ bends you over slightly, thumbing over your taunt hole just like before, running a line of spit down on your body.

You reach between your thighs, clutching Rafe’s thick cock in your fist, stroking as your lips meet his.

JJ taps his swollen tip against your ass before gliding his dick through your soaked slit, using your slick as lube.

You trace Rafe’s velvety tip around your drooling hole as Rafe looks between your legs, eyes dazed as your pussy swallows him whole. “So fucking wet,” he moans through panting breaths, your eyes fluttering shut as you take him all.

Your nails sink into Rafe’s muscular chest, breasts moving with you as you bounce on his cock. Rafe bites his bottom lip between his teeth, trying his best to keep his eyes on you, fighting to keep them from rolling back.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Rafe mumbles–his voice fucked-out and hoarse–muscular body glistening from the shower still. He raises his hand, pressing it against your stomach, feeling himself work in and out before letting his hand fall lower.

You gasp and moan as his thumb finds your clit, rolling on top as JJ pushes his girthy tip into your tight hole.

“Sh-Shit,” you whimper, feeling your eyes glass with tears at the burn and the stretch, the men pushing your body to the limit.

Rafe wraps his hand around your throat, pulling you down to his lips as JJ spits on what’s left of his cock before gliding the rest of the way in as Rafe swallows your moans and cries.

Your body trembles in Rafe’s arms as you adjust to two men, filling you fully. “You okay, princess?” Rafe asks softly against your lips.

“Mhmm… So fucking good, baby,” you hum, feeling him smile against your lips.

“You like me better,” he breathes, his voice barely heard over your panting breaths and JJ’s. “Don’t you, pretty?”

“Are you gonna tell on me?” You whisper.

“Maybe,” he smiles as he grabs hold of your hips, lifting you slightly before fucking up into your pussy nice and slow.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you mouth as you look down at him. He shrugs teasingly, looking at the space between you, watching the way your wet pussy drips down his rock-hard shaft, running down his balls onto the mattress below.

“Mine,” he mouths back smugly, making you smile; JJ’s none the wiser.

JJ starts to stroke nice and slow, too, wrapping his hands around your body, taking two fistfuls of tits.

The two boys start to move in and out, hitting all the right spots, your pleasure so strong you feel like you could pass out.

Rafe drives his heels into the floor, throwing his hips up into you again and again, the angle making your toes curl, your hands reaching up to grasp JJ’s wrists for support.

“So fuckin’ tight,” JJ mumbles, warm against your neck. He snaps his hips. His toned body clapping against your ass with each stroke, making your vision blur.

The sounds of your pleasure fill the room as they keep a brutal pace, sending you closer and closer to the edge.

Your eyes slam shut; body unable to take much more. Rafe grabs your wrists, forcing your hands onto his chest again. He reaches up, gripping your cheeks with a single hand, making your heavy eyes lift open on his.

“I know you’re gonna cum, baby. So am I. Cum with me,” he mutters as their movements get messier and rougher.

“Fuck,” you scream as your body gives way, pussy gushing and pulsing around Rafe’s throbbing length, your climax pulls the boys with it, the two cumming hard, filling both holes to the brim.

You tumble down on the bed, falling into Rafe’s arms as JJ clutches your hips tightly, pushing himself as deep as he can go.

Rafe turns your cheek, lifting your lips to his for a gentle kiss, the two of you breathe heavily together as the three of you come down from your highs.

Rafe smiles in satisfaction, burying himself in your neck, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You’re mine, princess.”

⊹ 💌 ⁺ ˳ ✿ . ♥️ ࿐

dividers | @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

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