#band knife cutting machines

[welcogm]

High-Precision Band Knife Cutting Machines by WelcoGM

Explore WelcoGM's advanced band knife cutting machines, designed for precision and efficiency in cutting. As a leading manufacturer and supplier of high-quality laundry and garment machinery, including barrier washer extractors, press fusing machines, and transfer foil machines, WelcoGM caters to industries in Noida, Mumbai, Ahmedabad, and across India. Elevate your production standards with our cutting-edge solutions tailored to meet your needs.

[pucksandpower]

Wildest Dreams

Charles Leclerc x pop star!Reader

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

Warnings: descriptions of an aggressive fan interaction and panic attacks

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

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

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

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

And then it happens.

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

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

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

You freeze.

He’s on the stage. He’s on the stage.

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

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

And then he’s there.

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

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

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

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

This is when everything breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happens.

You break.

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

You drop the water bottle.

Your knees hit the stage again.

And then you cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not safe. Not really.

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

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

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

And all you can do is cry.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t make any of this easier.

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

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

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

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

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

But then you see it.

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

Your heart stops, just for a second.

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and painful.

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

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

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

You can’t do this. You can’t do this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sit up slowly, chewing your lip.

You could go out. Just this once.

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

You’ll be fine. Right?

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

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

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

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

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

You tell yourself it’ll be easy.

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

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

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

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

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

Then you hear it.

“Wait … is that-”

Your heart stops.

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

“It’s her. I swear it’s her!”

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

They’re already snapping photos.

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

“Y/N! Oh my God!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need to get away. Now.

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

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

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

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

And then-

You slam into something solid.

Or someone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sniffle, peeking at him from behind your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you know Coldplay?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nobody said it was easy …”

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

When you hit the next line together-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he throws you over the side of the yacht.

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

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

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

“That’s not the point!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles shrugs, grinning. “It could be.”

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

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

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

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

Not today.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before you can think twice, Charles leans in.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

You nod slowly. “That makes sense.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

You sit back, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, heart fluttering with a mix of emotions — pride, nerves, and that ever-present thread of uncertainty that’s lingered since you first said yes to coming here.

The minutes crawl by, and you try to distract yourself, fiddling with your phone and glancing every few moments at the screen broadcasting the race aftermath. Charles is still out there, getting pulled in every direction. You watch him hug mechanics, shake hands with journalists, and answer rapid-fire questions while grinning through it all.

He’s in his element. Confident, radiant, unstoppable.

But all you can think about is how much you want to see him.

Just when you’ve convinced yourself to give him space, the door to the suite creaks open — quietly, almost suspiciously — and Charles slips inside, still wearing his race suit, damp and sticky from champagne. His hair is a mess, waves clinging to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed from exertion. He smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and adrenaline, the chaotic mixture of victory.

“Charles?” You whisper, sitting up, startled. “What are you — aren’t you supposed to be-”

“Shhh,” he grins, breathless, holding a finger to his lips. “I escaped.”

He’s like a kid sneaking out of school, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Before you can say anything else, Charles strides across the room and pulls you into his arms without hesitation. You barely have time to react before his lips are on yours — urgent, warm, and full of something that feels dangerously close to gratitude and relief.

The kiss takes the breath out of you. His hands slide up your back, pressing you closer as if he needs to make sure you’re real, like victory only means something if he can share it with you.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his rapid breathing against your skin. He’s still grinning, like the joy of the win hasn’t even begun to wear off.

“You,” he murmurs between breaths, “are officially my good luck charm.”

You laugh, breathless and dizzy from the kiss. “I think your driving might’ve had something to do with it.”

He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours, a gleam of playful determination in them. “Nope. It was you.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest is undeniable. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple, still grinning like he can’t help himself. “But I’m right.”

Charles takes a step back, still holding your hand as if letting go might cause you to disappear. “I didn’t want to stay out there without seeing you,” he says, softer now. “I just … I wanted you here, with me, for this.”

Your heart flutters, and you don’t know what to say, so you just squeeze his hand in response.

“I don’t care about the interviews or the photos,” he continues, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. “This is what I wanted. Just this.”

You exhale a shaky breath, overwhelmed by how easy it feels with him — how natural, like you belong here despite all the noise and chaos swirling just outside this room.

He glances down at himself and grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m probably disgusting.”

“You kind of are,” you tease, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “But I’ll allow it, just this once.”

He laughs, low and soft, the sound vibrating against your skin as he leans in for another kiss. This one is slower, more deliberate — like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows it’s fleeting and wants to make every second count.

When he pulls back again, there’s a flicker of something more serious in his eyes, something that makes your chest tighten. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being here. For coming.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel a lump rise in your throat. “Of course,” you manage, your voice barely audible.

Charles takes a step back, exhaling slowly as if trying to gather himself. “Come with me to my driver’s room?” He asks, a hint of that playful glint returning to his eyes. “I need to hide for a bit longer.”

You nod, smiling. “Lead the way.”

He slips his hand into yours and pulls you gently toward the door, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one’s spotted him. The halls are buzzing with activity — team members shouting, media swarming — but Charles weaves through the chaos like it’s second nature, keeping you close behind him.

When you reach his driver’s room, he ushers you inside quickly, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

“Safe,” he whispers, grinning.

You barely have time to process before he’s kissing you again, backing you gently against the wall, his hands on either side of your face. There’s a fervor to the kiss now, a kind of desperation that only comes after holding something in for too long.

When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless, your foreheads pressed together. “I told you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Good luck charm.”

You laugh softly, still catching your breath. “You really are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admits, his grin widening. “But I won in Monza, so I think I’ve earned it.”

You can’t help but smile, your heart full in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. And for the first time in what feels like forever, the chaos of the world outside doesn’t seem so overwhelming — because right here, in this stolen moment, it’s just you and Charles. And that’s enough.

***

Sunlight filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the sheets. The familiar scent of Charles — his cologne, mixed with a hint of sweat from yesterday’s excitement — wraps around you like a cocoon. His arm is slung loosely over your waist, and his chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, his breath warm against the back of your neck. It feels safe. For once, you feel like the chaos of the world can’t reach you here.

And then your phone rings.

The sharp, jarring sound slices through the quiet morning. You groan, disoriented, fumbling blindly on the nightstand until your hand closes around your phone. Charles shifts behind you, murmuring sleepily but not waking.

You squint at the screen. Grace.

Before you can think better of it, you slide your thumb across the screen and lift the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“What the hell, Y/N!” Grace’s voice cuts through the line, sharp and unrelenting. You wince, instinctively sitting up, trying not to disturb Charles as your pulse begins to race.

“What are you-”

“Don’t even start,” Grace interrupts, her tone laced with frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be out in public? Let alone at a Grand Prix? I thought you were supposed to be laying low, taking time to recover.”

Your stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”

“The pictures, Y/N!” Grace huffs. “They’re everywhere — Twitter, Instagram, even some sports blogs. You were at Monza, weren’t you?”

You blink, heart pounding now. “What pictures?”

“The ones of you in the VIP suite, for starters. And a couple from the paddock exit too — probably some fan with a long lens. They’re blurry, but it’s definitely you.”

Your throat tightens. You and Charles had been so careful — at least, you thought you had. You didn’t talk to anyone, stayed tucked away from crowds, and only left his driver’s room when the paddock had mostly cleared out. But now it’s all unraveling.

Grace’s voice barrels on, not giving you a chance to respond. “Do you realize how this looks? You’re out at public events now, so obviously you’re feeling well enough to get back to work. Your team is already asking me when we can restart your tour dates. They think-”

“Grace-”

“-they think this whole thing was just overblown. Maybe you just needed a break, but now you’re good, right? If you’re ready to attend races, you can-”

“Grace, stop!” You blurt, your voice cracking. Your head spins as the walls start closing in. The pressure, the expectations — everything feels like it’s crashing down on you all at once.

You clutch the blanket tight around you, trying to hold yourself together, but the familiar sensation of your chest tightening makes it hard to breathe. It’s happening again — your mind racing, spiraling into the panic you thought you’d escaped.

Charles stirs beside you, sitting up now, his brows knitting in concern. “What’s wrong?” He asks, his voice rough with sleep, but the moment he sees the look on your face, he’s wide awake.

You barely register him. Your heart pounds violently in your chest, and your breath comes in shallow gasps. Grace’s voice keeps drilling into your ear, relentless, a never-ending stream of words about tours and schedules and deadlines.

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe.

Charles sees it — he sees you unraveling — and in one smooth motion, he plucks the phone from your trembling hand and presses it to his ear.

“Y/N is busy,” he says, his voice low and firm. “She’ll call you back.”

“Wait, who is-”

Charles doesn’t let her finish. He ends the call with a click and tosses your phone onto the nightstand. Then he’s back at your side, cupping your face in his hands, his touch steady and grounding.

“Hey, hey — look at me,” Charles murmurs, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You try to nod, but the panic is clawing at your throat, making it hard to focus on anything except the tightness in your chest and the overwhelming sense of failure that threatens to swallow you whole.

“Breathe with me,” Charles whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “Come on, just like before. In, slowly … now out.”

His voice is a lifeline, pulling you out of the storm raging inside your head. You grip his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality and try to follow his lead — inhale, exhale, again and again, until the tightness in your chest begins to ease.

“That’s it,” he soothes, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “You’ve got this.”

After a few more breaths, the world starts to come back into focus. The sharp edges of panic soften, and the spinning in your head slows to a manageable hum. Charles stays close, his presence warm and steady, as if daring the panic to come back and try again.

When your breathing finally evens out, Charles shifts slightly, but he doesn’t let go of you. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asks softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You shake your head, still too raw to explain everything that just happened. But Charles doesn’t push. He just nods, his thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, his brow furrowing. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

You drop your gaze, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket. “Grace thinks I’m ready to go back to everything. She thinks because I went to the race, I should be able to start working again.”

Charles’ hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together. “And what do you think?”

You swallow hard, guilt prickling at the back of your mind. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready. But what if everyone expects me to be? What if-”

“Hey,” Charles interrupts gently, tilting your chin so you have to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else expects. You don’t have to do anything until you want to. Not Grace, not your team, not anyone.”

You blink, the weight of his words sinking in. “But what if-”

“No,” he says firmly, his green eyes unwavering. “Listen to me. You are allowed to take your time. You are allowed to say no. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can deal with me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. “You’re going to fight Grace for me?”

“If I have to,” Charles says with a grin. “But I think I’d win.”

The corners of your mouth lift, a small smile breaking through the storm of emotions. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he says confidently. Then his expression softens, and he squeezes your hand. “You’ve been through a lot, mon cœur. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

You nod slowly, the knot in your chest loosening a little more. For the first time in what feels like forever, you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to put yourself first.

Charles leans closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Whatever you need, I’m here. No pressure, no expectations.”

The words settle over you like a blanket, warm and comforting. And for the first time in a long while, the crushing weight of other people’s expectations lifts — just a little.

Charles shifts, pulling you gently into his arms, and you curl into him without hesitation, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a quiet reminder that you’re not alone in this.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs into your hair. “One day at a time.”

And somehow, with Charles holding you like this, you believe him.

***

The familiar opening notes of Cars play softly from the TV, the colorful animation flickering across the screen in the dim light of your apartment. You’re curled up comfortably on the couch, Leo nestled between you and Charles, his small, warm body shifting every few minutes as he tries to snuggle deeper into the cushions. He paws insistently at your hand, his tail wagging whenever you stop petting him.

Charles laughs quietly beside you, clearly amused by Leo’s persistence. “I think he likes you better than me now,” he teases, running a hand through his messy hair and leaning back against the couch.

You smile, scratching behind Leo’s floppy ears. “Maybe I just have better petting skills.”

Charles grins, his arm draped casually over the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. “Unfair advantage,” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the screen as Lightning McQueen barrels into Radiator Springs.

It’s peaceful — easy, even. For the first time in a long while, the constant buzz of anxiety in your chest has quieted. Charles is beside you, Leo’s warm little body sprawled between you both, and the world outside feels far away, like it can’t touch you here.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Your heart skips a beat. You glance at Charles, who raises a brow but doesn’t seem concerned, probably assuming it’s nothing more than a delivery. Leo lets out an excited little yip and hops off the couch, his tail wagging as he scampers toward the door.

You pull your blanket tighter around yourself, feeling the familiar trickle of anxiety starting to creep back. “Did you order something?”

Charles shakes his head, giving you a curious look. “No. Were you expecting anyone?”

You frown. “No.”

Before you can think to stand or tell Charles to wait, the door swings open — without so much as an invitation — and Grace strides inside, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

“Y/N, we need to talk,” Grace announces, her tone brisk and no-nonsense. She’s balancing her phone in one hand and a folder in the other, looking like she’s just come from a meeting. “I’ve been trying to call-”

Her voice trails off mid-sentence as she looks up and takes in the scene before her — Leo skittering around the room, the two half-empty wine glasses on the coffee table, and you huddled on the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie.

And then her gaze shifts to Charles.

For a split second, Grace freezes. She stares at him, her mouth opening slightly, confusion flickering across her features. Then she does a sharp double take, and her eyes widen as recognition clicks into place.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, blinking as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. “You’re … you’re Charles Leclerc.”

Charles shifts slightly beside you, offering a polite but slightly awkward smile. “Uh, yes.”

Grace’s eyes flicker between the two of you, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. “You’re … here. In Y/N’s apartment.”

“Yes,” Charles repeats calmly, his tone light but cautious, as if he’s waiting to see where this is going.

You watch the realization spread across Grace’s face, her expression shifting from disbelief to something resembling stunned amusement. “Wait — are you two … together?”

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, and before you can answer — or even figure out what to say — Charles gives a small, easy shrug. “We are,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Grace blinks, visibly thrown off her game. “Since when?”

Charles glances at you, his eyes warm. “A little while now.”

There’s a beat of silence as Grace processes this new information. Then she lets out a half-laugh, half-exhale, clearly bewildered. “I mean … obviously I knew you were in Monaco, but — Charles Leclerc?” She looks at you with a mixture of shock and something close to admiration. “I guess I can’t say I saw that coming.”

Leo prances back toward the couch, demanding attention from both of you again. Charles leans down to rub the little dachshund’s head, his expression calm and unbothered, like this is the most natural situation in the world.

Grace, however, is not one to be easily distracted. She clears her throat and crosses her arms, focusing on you now. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’ve been staying under the radar all this time, but now you’re … dating a Formula 1 driver?”

You glance at Charles, who gives you a reassuring look, his hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the blanket. It’s subtle, but the touch steadies you.

“Yes,” you say quietly, meeting Grace’s gaze head-on.

For a moment, she just stares at you, as if trying to decide how to respond. Then she lets out a long breath, shaking her head. “This is … unexpected.”

Charles chuckles softly beside you, clearly amused. “That seems to be the general consensus.”

Grace narrows her eyes at him, though there’s no malice in it — just the cautious protectiveness of someone who cares deeply about you. “And you’re … serious about this?” She asks, her gaze flickering between you and Charles.

“I am,” Charles replies without hesitation. His voice is steady, sincere. “Very.”

The simplicity of his answer makes your heart squeeze in your chest. You glance at him, finding that familiar warmth in his expression — like you’re the only thing that matters to him in this moment.

Grace watches the exchange closely, her sharp gaze softening just a fraction. Then she sighs, pressing a hand to her temple. “Okay,” she mutters, almost to herself. “This is … a lot.”

You shift uncomfortably, the anxiety from earlier threatening to bubble back up. “Grace, I didn’t plan any of this,” you say quietly. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but … I’m happy. For the first time in a long time.”

Grace’s expression softens further at your words, and she lets out a slow breath. “That’s all I care about,” she admits, her voice quieter now. “I just want you to be okay.”

Charles gives her a small, understanding smile. “I want the same thing.”

For the first time since she walked in, Grace seems to relax, her shoulders loosening as she takes in the scene once more — the cozy apartment, the soft lighting, the half-finished movie on the TV, and the way Charles’ hand rests protectively on your knee.

“Well,” Grace says finally, rubbing the back of her neck. “This is … definitely not how I expected this conversation to go.”

Charles chuckles. “Life is full of surprises.”

Grace shoots him a wry look but doesn’t argue. Instead, she gives you a small, tired smile. “I guess if you’re happy … then that’s all that matters.”

You feel a weight lift off your shoulders at her words, the tension easing just a little. “I am,” you say softly, and for the first time in a long time, you truly mean it.

Grace nods, seemingly satisfied — for now, at least. “Okay, well … I guess I’ll leave you two to it, then.” She glances at Leo, who’s now sprawled dramatically across Charles’ lap. “And your dog.”

Charles grins, scratching behind Leo’s ears. “He’s good company.”

Grace rolls her eyes, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll let myself out.”

She heads toward the door but pauses just before stepping out. “Y/N?” She calls softly.

You look up, meeting her gaze.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says sincerely. “Really.”

You offer her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Grace.”

With that, she gives you a nod and slips out the door, leaving you and Charles alone once more.

The room feels lighter now, the tension from earlier dissipating into the warm, easy atmosphere you’d shared before Grace arrived. Charles turns to you, his expression soft and amused.

“Well,” he murmurs, “that went better than I expected.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Yeah. Me too.”

Charles leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Told you — we’ll figure this out. One day at a time.”

And somehow, with him beside you, that feels like enough.

***

The Instagram Live notification pings on Nora’s phone as she sprawls across her bed, scrolling aimlessly.

@yourusername is going live now.

Her thumb hovers over the screen for a second. Nora hasn’t seen a post or update from you in months, and the gossip forums have been buzzing with wild theories — everything from burnout to secret rehab stints. It’s been radio silence since your tour abruptly ended, with no official word on what had happened.

But now you’re back? On Live? Nora’s heart races with excitement and curiosity as she taps the notification, the screen loading just in time for your face to appear.

The video is a little shaky at first, as if you’ve just propped your phone up on something last minute. You’re sitting cross-legged on a couch, wearing a cozy hoodie that looks two sizes too big and barely any makeup.

The person Nora sees looks different from the polished pop star she’s used to — more real. Your eyes flicker nervously between the camera and something off-screen, as if you’re not sure whether this is a good idea.

“Hi, everyone,” you start, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The live chat immediately explodes with greetings.

OMG SHE’S ALIVE

We missed you so much!

Are you okay? What happened?

You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Uh, I’m not really sure how to do this, but I just … I wanted to talk to you guys. To explain everything.”

The chat rolls by so fast that Nora can barely keep up, but she keeps her eyes glued to the screen, her heart thumping. This isn’t the usual PR-filtered message, it feels personal.

“I know a lot of people have been wondering where I’ve been,” you say, shifting slightly on the couch. “The truth is … I had to step away from everything for a bit. Things got really overwhelming. It wasn’t just one thing — it was a lot, all at once.”

Your voice wavers slightly, and Nora finds herself leaning closer to her phone, feeling the vulnerability in your words.

“The last few months of the tour were … hard. I started having panic attacks. At first, I thought I could push through, you know? Just keep going. But I couldn’t.” You pause, taking a deep breath as if the memories are still too close. “One night, a fan ran on stage, and something in me just … broke. I couldn’t pretend I was okay anymore.”

The chat slows slightly, the flurry of emojis replaced by supportive comments.

It’s okay, take your time.

We’re proud of you for talking about this.

We love you no matter what.

Nora can feel the wave of empathy through the screen. She has always admired you for your strength, but this — seeing you raw and open — makes her respect you even more.

“I know I kind of disappeared,” you continue. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I just needed time to figure things out … away from the cameras, the shows, everything.” You smile sadly. “And that’s why I didn’t say anything earlier. I wanted to come back when I was ready, not when someone told me I had to.”

The chat fills with heart emojis, and Nora finds herself tapping one as well, caught in the warmth of the moment.

Just then, there’s movement in the background. Someone off-screen calls your name, the sound muffled at first. The camera wobbles slightly as you turn your head.

“Hang on a sec,” you say with a small laugh, glancing toward the doorway.

The viewers — Nora included — watch with curiosity as a figure steps into the frame. A man in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he’s just woken up from a nap.

Nora’s eyes widen. Wait. No way.

It takes a second for the recognition to sink in, but when it does, the chat explodes.

WAIT IS THAT CHARLES LECLERC?

OMG WTF IT IS HIM

Y/N AND CHARLES?! HOW?!

Charles strolls into the room casually, clearly unaware that you’re on Instagram Live. Leo scampering at his feet, barking happily.

“Do you want pasta or pizza for dinner?” Charles asks, his voice soft with that unmistakable Monaco accent.

You let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I’m … I’m on Live right now,” you whisper, as if trying to warn him.

Charles blinks, his gaze shifting to the phone propped up in front of you. His eyes widen slightly, but then he gives a sheepish grin, as if to say, well, the damage is done now.

“Oh,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi, everyone.”

The chat is in chaos.

CONFIRMED. THEY’RE TOGETHER.

I CAN’T BREATHE WTF

LEO FOR PRESIDENT!

Nora can’t believe what she’s seeing. Charles Leclerc — Ferrari’s golden boy, Monaco’s favorite son — standing casually in your apartment, talking about dinner like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You give him a look that’s equal parts amused and mortified. “You just outed us to the entire internet.”

Charles chuckles, completely unfazed. “Oops.”

Leo, as if sensing the excitement, jumps onto the couch beside you and wiggles his way onto your lap. You scratch behind his ears, looking between the dog, Charles, and the phone as if wondering how this all escalated so quickly.

“Well,” you say with a helpless shrug, “I guess … surprise?”

The chat is relentless now, a mix of fans freaking out, congratulating you both, and demanding answers.

HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING?

THEY’RE SO CUTE TOGETHER I CAN’T 😭

DO YOU NEED A THIRD?

Charles leans over the back of the couch, peeking at the comments on the screen. “They seem happy,” he observes, his lips twitching with amusement.

“Yeah, well, they’re also never going to let us live this down,” you mutter, but there’s no real annoyance in your voice — only fondness.

Charles smiles, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Could be worse.”

Nora can’t help but grin at the interaction. It’s rare to see celebrities in such an unguarded, domestic moment, and the fact that it’s you and Charles Leclerc makes it even more surreal.

“Well,” you say, addressing the camera again, “I guess now you know. This is Charles. Charles, meet … everyone.” You gesture vaguely at the phone, and Charles gives a small, amused wave.

“Ciao,” he says with a playful grin.

The chat is relentless with heart-eye emojis, fire emojis, and messages about how happy everyone is to see you smiling again.

“Okay,” you say, glancing between Charles and the phone, “I think that’s enough excitement for today. Thanks for listening, and … thanks for being patient with me.” Your expression softens. “It means more than you know.”

Charles leans in again. “So … pasta or pizza?” He asks quietly, his voice just for you.

You laugh, the sound light and free, as if the weight on your chest has finally lifted. “Pasta. Definitely pasta.”

With one last smile to the camera, you reach for your phone. “Okay, we’re going to make some dinner. Love you guys. Talk soon.”

And just like that, the screen goes black, leaving Nora — and the rest of the internet — in stunned, delighted disbelief.

***

The energy at the Australian Grand Prix is electric, a swirling mass of noise, speed, and anticipation. The grandstands vibrate with thousands of cheering fans, the scent of burnt rubber and adrenaline thick in the air. It’s the first race of the season, and the world’s eyes are locked onto Melbourne’s Albert Park Circuit. But right now, all you can focus on is Charles.

You stand behind the barrier with the Ferrari team, the red-clad crew surrounding you as they watch the final lap on a sea of screens. Your heart thunders in your chest, each corner of the circuit feeling like a heartbeat skipped. It’s not just nerves — it’s pride, excitement, and a flicker of disbelief. Charles is about to win. The lead he built throughout the race holds steady as he tears through the last straight, the commentators’ voices booming through the loudspeakers, growing more frenzied.

“Charles Leclerc comes through the final corner … and wins the Australian Grand Prix!”

The Ferrari pit wall explodes into wild cheers. Engineers and crew members throw their arms in the air, shouting and hugging each other. Flags whip through the air, and the roar from the grandstands becomes deafening. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your hands clutched together, knuckles white with tension.

“He did it!” Someone from the team shouts beside you, their voice almost drowned out by the collective noise.

You can’t help but laugh, a giddy, breathless sound that surprises even you. There’s something surreal about witnessing it all — seeing Charles cross the finish line and knowing how much this win means to him. It’s the perfect start to his season, and part of you is so proud that you feel like you might burst.

Charles brings his Ferrari to a screeching stop in parc fermé, right beside the boards marked P1. Without missing a beat, he jumps out of the car, tearing off his helmet as the crowd erupts again. His face is flushed with triumph, damp with sweat, and his grin stretches wide, full of unbridled joy. He climbs onto the nose of the car, throwing his arms in the air to soak in the cheers and applause.

You feel your chest swell, warmth blooming from within at the sight of him — your Charles, victorious, on top of the world.

Then it happens.

He jumps down from the car, his eyes searching the crowd. He’s supposed to go be weighed in. The cameras are supposed to be on him for the formal celebrations. But Charles doesn’t care about any of that. As soon as his gaze locks onto you, standing among the throng of Ferrari team members, everything else fades for him.

He takes off running.

“Wait-” someone from the team starts to say, confused by Charles’ sudden sprint.

You freeze as he barrels toward the barrier, helmet still in one hand, the other hand brushing through his tousled hair. Your heart slams against your ribs as you realize what he’s about to do.

“Charles-” you start, but it’s too late.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. In front of everyone — Ferrari, journalists, FIA officials — Charles sprints towards the barrier in a few smooth steps, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. And before you can even react, he’s cupping your face with both hands and kissing you.

The world falls away.

The crowd’s noise becomes a distant hum as Charles’ lips press against yours, firm and desperate, like he’s been waiting all race to get to you. His hands hold your face as if he never wants to let go, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. The kiss is everything — celebratory, intense, and filled with a raw kind of joy that makes your knees weak.

For a moment, you forget where you are. All you know is Charles — his familiar scent, the roughness of his jaw, and the way his lips move against yours, like he’s trying to pour every bit of emotion into this one moment. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands gripping the front of his race suit, pulling him closer.

When you finally pull back, breathless, Charles’ forehead rests against yours. His grin is impossibly bright, and the look in his eyes makes your heart flip.

“Hi,” he whispers, his voice low and full of laughter, like he can’t believe he’s standing here with you after all of it.

You laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Hi.”

Around you, the team starts cheering again, even louder this time. Someone whistles, and another engineer yells, “That’s our boy!” as if Charles’ kiss is part of the victory itself.

It’s then that you realize what just happened. You glance over Charles’ shoulder and catch sight of the cameras — the journalists on the other side of the barrier, the fans in the grandstands with their phones raised. The internet is about to explode.

“Charles,” you murmur, half-laughing, half-panicking, “everyone saw that.”

“I know,” he says, his grin widening. He doesn’t look the least bit sorry. “Let them.”

You shake your head, but a laugh escapes you anyway. There’s no point in worrying about it now. The moment has already happened, and — surprisingly — you don’t regret it.

Charles pulls you into another hug, squeezing you tight against him. His suit is thoroughly damp with sweat, but you don’t care. All you care about is the way he holds you, the way he whispers, “Thank you for being here,” against your hair.

“You didn’t make it easy to say no,” you tease, your words muffled against his chest.

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know me. I never play fair.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His green eyes are warm and shining with happiness, and for a second, everything feels perfect. The noise, the cameras, the crowd — it all fades into the background, leaving just the two of you standing together in the aftermath of his victory.

Someone from Ferrari taps Charles on the shoulder, reminding him that he still has obligations to do. He groans, clearly reluctant to leave your side, but you give him a gentle nudge.

“Go,” you whisper. “I’ll be right here.”

He kisses you one more time, quick and soft, before finally turning toward the waiting media. As he jogs back down the pit lane, the crowd cheers even louder, the energy electric with both victory and the revelation of your relationship.

You stand behind the barrier, watching as Charles throws his arms around his team and gets swept into the celebrations. A part of you knows that the media frenzy is only just beginning — that by the time you check your phone, social media will be ablaze with photos and speculation.

But for now, none of that matters. All that matters is the way Charles looked at you, like you were the most important person in the world.

And as the Monegasque anthem plays over the speakers and champagne sprays into the air, you smile, knowing that this — this moment — is exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

The stadium hums with anticipation, a low buzz of excitement rippling through the crowd as thousands of fans fill every seat. The lights are dimmed, leaving only the faint glow of phones peppering the darkness. It’s been well over two years since you last stood on a stage, and tonight marks the beginning of your long-awaited comeback tour.

Your heart thrums in your chest — not from nerves, but from exhilaration. This is the moment you’ve dreamed of, the one you thought might never come.

Backstage, you take a deep breath. The setlist is memorized, the band is ready, and the stage awaits. But there’s one song you’ve kept secret until tonight. One that means more to you than anything you’ve ever written. And Charles — your Charles — is somewhere in the audience, waiting to hear it for the first time.

The stage manager gives you a nod, signaling it’s time. The lights drop completely, plunging the arena into black, and the crowd erupts into cheers. You walk onto the stage, the soles of your boots vibrating against the platform as the energy of thousands of voices surrounds you. You step into the spotlight as the first few notes hum through the speakers.

The crowd’s roar crescendos as they finally see you, and you offer them a soft smile. Then you lean toward the microphone, your voice amplified but intimate, as if speaking to an old friend.

“New York,” you begin, grinning as the crowd cheers even louder at the mention of the city’s name. “Thank you for being here with me tonight. I’ve waited a long time for this moment, and I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be back on this stage.”

The crowd roars, chanting your name, the sound enveloping you like a warm embrace. You pause for a beat, your hand resting lightly on the mic stand. “For those of you who’ve been with me from the beginning … you know it hasn’t been an easy road. But here we are, and I feel more alive than I ever have.”

A wave of cheers crashes over you again, and you feel your heart swell in gratitude.

“Tonight,” you continue, a mischievous glint in your eye, “I want to do something a little special. I’ve got a song — one you’ve never heard before. I wrote it for someone very important to me.” You pause, your gaze sweeping over the crowd, imagining Charles out there somewhere, hidden among the sea of faces. “This one’s called The Alchemy.”

The arena erupts into applause and whistles, the fans feeding off your excitement. The band strikes up the first few chords, a shimmering pulse of sound that builds slowly. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the rhythm settle in your chest. And then you start to sing.

“This happens once every few lifetimes. These chemicals hit me like white wine …”

Your voice is clear and powerful, carrying through the stadium with ease. The crowd sways along, captivated by the song even though they’ve never heard it before. The verses flow effortlessly, the words spilling from your heart as if they were written only yesterday.

“What if I told you I'm back? The hospital was a drag. Worst sleep that I ever had …”

The memory of those dark months flashes briefly in your mind, but you push it away. That’s not where you live anymore. This song isn’t about what you lost — it’s about what you found.

As the music builds, your thoughts drift toward Charles, and a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth as you reach the next verse.

“So when I touch down, call the amateurs and cut ‘em from the team. Ditch the clowns, get the crown. Baby I’m the one to beat …”

The crowd catches onto the energy, cheering as if they know exactly who you’re singing about. And then, at last, you reach the line that you’ve been holding close to your heart since the day you wrote it — the line meant just for Charles.

“Where's the trophy? He just comes runnin’ over to me …”

The audience erupts, but you barely hear them. You can only picture Charles, the memory of him bounding over the barriers in Melbourne, high off a win and still drenched in sweat, just to kiss you in front of everyone. That moment plays like a movie in your mind, the emotion of it surging through your voice as you sing.

The song carries on, the lyrics unfolding like pages in a story — your story. The fans are swaying, waving their arms in time with the music, some already singing along despite hearing the song for the first time. You feel weightless, completely immersed in the moment, knowing that Charles is somewhere out there, listening.

As you belt out the final chorus, the band swells around you, lifting the song to its peak.

“Cause the sign on your heart said it’s still reserved for me …”

Your voice soars over the crowd, and when you sing the final line, your heart feels like it might burst.

“Honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?”

The song ends, the last note lingering in the air before the crowd explodes into applause. The stadium feels alive, vibrating with energy, and for a moment, you just stand there, basking in it. This is what you missed — the connection, the joy, the sense of belonging.

You step back from the mic, catching your breath, and glance toward the side of the stage. There, just out of sight from the audience, you spot Charles. His arms are crossed over his chest, a proud grin stretching across his face, and his eyes gleam with something that looks a lot like love.

You give him a small, almost shy smile, and he mouths the words, “I love you.” Your heart swells, and for a second, everything else fades — the lights, the noise, the crowd. It’s just you and Charles, exactly where you’re meant to be.

Turning back to the audience, you grin and raise a hand in the air. “Thank you, New York!” You shout into the mic, and the crowd roars in response.

You can feel it in your bones — this is just the beginning. The tour, the music, the life you’ve rebuilt. And Charles will be with you every step of the way.

As the next song begins and the crowd’s cheers grow louder, you glance toward the wings again. Charles is still standing there, watching you with that same proud, loving smile.

And you know, without a doubt, that the alchemy between you two is something no one could ever fight.

[darkbluekies]

17:38

Mafia!female!yandere OC x reader

Warnings: knives, blood

Jerry sits by the kitchen island with her phone in her hand. You've asked to cook and usually, she doesn't let you, but today she's feeling bold. What could go wrong when she's supervising?

"What are you making?" she asks without looking up from her phone.

"Kimchi."

Jerry puts down her phone and smiles. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans over the table.

"No way, my mom used to make that for me when I was a kid", she smiles sadly.

"I thought that I wanted to try to make it for you", you say.

"You're so sweet, baby. Go wild. Let's see how good of a housewife you are." She tilts her head. "You'd be a pretty cute housewife, wouldn't you?"

"Why are you asking me that? Shouldn't you know?"

Jerry grins slightly. "I think you'd be a very cute housewife."

You pick up the cabbage and wash it thoroughly. Jerry let you come with her to the store to buy it, surprisingly enough. She was very stiff, always glancing around to make sure no one was looking at you weirdly.

You pick up a knife and position it over the cabbage. There's no way you can ferment the entire thing in one piece.

"So that's why you wanted to buy so many spices", Jerry thinks out loud.

"It wasn't too expensive, right?" you ask over your shoulder. "We bought quite a lot."

"Nah, and even if it was, I can get money easily. Don't worry. You should have gotten yourself that ice machine you saw."

"It was too expensive."

"But you'd have ice right now, wouldn't you?"

Jerry raises her eyebrows teasingly. You shake your head disapproving and turn back to your cutting. The wet cabbage becomes an ice rink and the knife slips, cutting your ring finger just over the final rinkle. You gasp in pain.

"What?" Jerry asks quickly, all hints of amusement gone. "Did you cut yourself?"

"Yes", you hiss, holding your hurt hand in your free one. "I'm bleeding."

Jerry shoots up from her chair quick enough for it to tumble back, down on the floor. She hurries over to you and inspects the hurt area.

"Shit, baby, you have to be careful!" she exclaims and pulls your hand over to the sink.

The cold water rinses the wound, causing you to hiss again. Jerry's heart is thumping in her chest. How could she ever think that this was a good idea?

"Stand still", she tells you. "I'll go get a bandaid for you."

She runs into the bathroom and comes back a minute later with a beige band aid in her hands. She removes the plastic layer and wraps it gently around your ring finger. Carefully, she lifts your fingers to her plump lips and kisses it softly.

You look at the cabbage.

"Don't think about it", Jerry tells you. "You're not going to continue. This was a stupid idea. Why did I ever think it was okay for you to use a knife? I trust you too much. Fuck sake. You hurt yourself. Get out of the kitchen."

"It's just a little cut …", you say. "I wanted to make something special for you. I had it all planned …"

She cups your cheeks between her hands.

"I know, baby", she says comfortingly. "And I'm very grateful that you wanted to do something for me, but what kind of girlfriend am I if I let you get hurt, hm? My number one priority is to protect you."

"I know, but …"

"I'll continue this. Go sit down in the living room. People like you shouldn't be allowed into kitchens."

You sigh and leave for the living room. The very second you round the corner, Jerry bites down on her hand, grunting. She feels so bad.

Nonetheless, she finishes what you've started. She looks at the prepared kimchi with a sigh. You're too good for her. You wanted to make one of her childhood side dishes … for what? To make her happy? Why do you care about her happiness after what she's done to you? Jerry shuts her eyes to stop whatever tears want to escape.

"Stop it", she hisses for herself, pressing her palms to her eyes. "Stop fucking crying, you piece of shit."

She gathers herself and cleans up. You look up when she enters the living room.

"I don't want you in the kitchen again", she says monotonously. "Do you get that?"

"It was just an accident, Jerry", you sigh. "The knife slipped. The cabbage was wet and slippery. There will be accidents while cooking … you know that."

She shakes her head firmly. "Not in my house. You're not allowed anywhere near anything sharp. You're too clumsy."

You're about to talk back, but keep your mouth shut, knowing better than to argue with her when she's angry.

[sugoi-writes]

Scream Machine - An Alastor x Reader fic

(Not sure if this will be a multipart yet or not, but hopeful for it to be! I hope you enjoy some brain rot with me! For reference of the song, look up Scream Machine by Maynard Ferguson on Youtube!)

Reader is a musician who started playing in their time in hell, and likes wearing heels/dresses. Alastor is brought to a "classy" speakeasy by Husk, and is perfectly content with watching your performance...

No warnings, past minor implications/pining and mentions of blood and darker intentions. Have fun! 🎙❤️

❤️🎙❤️

The hellish speakeasy was bellowing with lively chatter, instrumentalists setting up for a new set. As Husk adjusted his mouthpiece, Alastor gives him a beckoning wave, eyebrow twitching. Shit

Knowing his goose could be cooked, Husk trudges his way over, his tenor saxophone hanging lazily around his neck," What's the matter?"

Alastor, expression blunt, says" So I'm supposed to assume that this next chart... ugh, Scream Machine... is going to be... tasteful?" The Radio Demon looked forlorn, ears drooping slightly. He had been promised performances that were more his style. But all that he's observed and heard is BAD jazz. He had half a mind to think that his 'associate' had done this on purpose.

"I have to admit, Husker, while these pieces could certainly be called JAZZ... it's not quite to my tastes." Husk rolls his eyes, ears perking up when his name is called from the stage. Husk waves Alastor off dismissively, his saxophone being slung back to a playable position.

"Some new hot-shot features in it... 'figured you might give it a shot. You might just find a new 'pet' to listen to..." Alastor all but cackles, wiping a stray tear from his eye," Replacing you, dear Husker? Don't be absurd!" Alastor gives his henchman a cheeky wave of his fingers, making the anthropomorphic cat growl. God, Husk hated that fucker...

But, to Alastor's surprise, his eyes did befall a nearly angelic sight. Your shoes clicked loudly as you entered the stage, calling forth attention from the room. It quickly fell to silence as everyone waited for the performance to start.

Alastor's eyes narrowed as he watched you shake hands with the vile, modern jazz conductor... Your grip seemed firm, domineering almost. He was quick to note the flinch he gave you, that nervous smile of an intimidated man. What a curious creature you were; you oozed confidence and bravdo.

There you were, dressed in a long, elegant gown that drug along the floor. Alastor's posture straightens as the jazz conductor let you take your place, before counting the band off. The intro was quiet, featuring only a small handful of instruments. Alastor nearly leaned in as it grew, the trumpets coming in to the fray after a few measures. He realized then that you must be a trumpet player and the hot shot soloist that Husk mentioned. His interest in you grew as he eyed you from across the room.

Your hands were slender, though not quite as slim as his... and much smaller. But, they did seem very nimble. As you gracefully glided through different fingerings and positions, Alastor found himself distracted by your hands. He saw how you seemed to have a loose, almost nonchalant grip, while your soul gave the performance of your life. A perfect juxtaposition between your handshake and now; that fascinated him. He wondered if your bravado was your mask, or if that was the REAL you...

His hair nearly blew back from his face as the chorus kicked in, eyes wide in disbelief. Indeed, that's why it's called Scream Machine. All the right notes, the chords were perfectly struck...but there was still a zanny dissonance that had him gritting his teeth. How gauche...

But, when you began your solo, his ears couldn't help but flick and flex towards you, absolutely devouring your tone and clarity. You cut through the ensemble like a well sharpened knife, your style and timbre undeniable. It almost made the song forgivable, in his eyes. He rested his chin on his hand's plateau, eyes lidded. Despite the jazz being more bombastic and modern... he could get used to this if you were at the helm...

You sauntered towards the front of the ensemble as you blazed into another solo, your fingers and tongue articulating quickly. You were effortlessly setting the newfound tone. He was impressed, to say the least. Improv or not, the solo was quite a tricky one. One that even he would struggle with on a piano. As you walked across the stage, you struck a powerful pose, before the conductor grabbed the edge of your dress and tugged. Hard.

For a moment, a flash of anger crossed Alastor's forced smile, until he was hit with the "reveal".

In a quick flourish that matched the highest note of your solo, you stood in a now short, golden dress that hugged your figure. It seemed that Alastor didn't mind the show... in fact, he was nearly enslaved by your performance.

You shot the crimson and pitch demon a devious look, winking as your solo continued. Alastor felt his mouth salivating, swallowing harshly to get rid of the access fluids. It was strange enough to find himself this entertained... more so than his heightened curiosity.

The way your throat bellowed and constricted when you were playing... the way your cheeks puffed just a bit was you sustained insane, high notes... the way your eyes would flit about the room, but always land on him. Maybe he wasn't the only one caught staring...

The Radio Demon's mind landed on a simple notion: tasting the metallic tang of your lips, fresh from the kiss of your mouthpiece. Would it taste metallic and jarring like blood, he wondered? Would you be breathless from your performance, or just getting warmed up? Alastor shook his head with a start. What a strange thought to have... especially for him. He tried to dismiss it, foot tapping instinctively to the beat.

As the song continued, it suddenly grew quieter, the piano, drumkit, and string bass the only instruments playing. He watched as you blew slow, hot air in your horn, keeping it warm as you rested. Your lips were red, slightly puffy from your efforts. Even as a talented as you were, you had a crack in your mask: you were definitely a little winded.

As he kept watching you, Alastor couldn't help but focus on how your pulse beat in time with the music on stage... His devious mind cooked up the idea of sinking his teeth into your quivering heartbeat... Perhaps he would lure you out back, to a quiet place...

Again, he surprised himself. He had to clear his mind as he tried to focus anywhere but your neck, fingers and face.

Then suddenly, the main motif hit again, and he nearly fell backward in his chair. His own heart thumped madly, matching your own. Your eyes didn't meet his, but even so, he felt like you were playing just for him. He WANTED you to play just for him.

Alastor gripped the sides of his chair harshly, elongated talons splintering the wood. That settles it. Husker was right about one thing... you were a fascinating sight... one to behold, and maybe even held...

As the song wound towards its conclusion, you gave a wide twirl of your hips, before striking your final note. The accompaniment roared life, sustaining the final note before hitting it again, resolutely. Applause echoed throughout the room as Alastor felt the need to join. He was not keen on appearing rude or uncultured. His characteristic smile stretched his thin face as you beamed and bowed. Your eyes, wide with awe, glanced his way. Alastor noted the way your face heated, nodding and giving him a flattered smile.

Indeed that settles it; he would speak with you. Now. Alone... And from there, who knows what he'll do? Alastor slunk into the shadows, Husk unaware that his master was taking a quick detour...

Backstage, you were being fawned over and cheered for, the instrumentalists and crew happily contesting how talented you were. You would always smile and chuckle, doing your best to wave off the compliments. Truth be told, you did enjoy the hell out of them, but you didn't want it all to go to your head. Not yet, anyway~

Even now, you were humble, as a unfamiliar shadow formed behind you. Instinctively, you flinched and turned towards the figure, having to look up to meet the gaze.

It was none other than Alastor, the Radio Demon.

"I must say... that was quite the riveting performance, dear. Quite the act! I wanted to give you my gratitude for making something so loud and gauche bearable to listen to." Alastor offered a sweet, welcoming hand, outstretched for you to take. Come on, he thought... shake his hand like you had the conductor's.

You had sized him up, knowing fully well who was paying you the backhanded compliment, "Alastor, sir... 'pleasure to be meeting the Radio Demon in the flesh." Your hand met his, and just like he suspected; you nearly held him in a vice grip. The sinister smile on his face doubled, a chuckle and a quirked brow sent your way.

"My, do my ears deceive me? Am I in the presence of a fan~?" The tone of his microphone filter made his voice smooth as velvet. His voice forced you to suppress a shiver. You roll your eyes, before an uncharacteristically soft smile graces your face; one that didn't match your firm grip.

"You could assume that, I suppose... I've been an active listener to your broadcasts for a while now. 'Gotta keep up with who got got... and who has the best music on the air."

If Alastor smiled any wider, he would be entering his full-demonic form. But for now, he controlled himself.

"Well, isn't this a treat then..." Alastor leans down to your height, his face mere inches from yours," I dont intent to be forward or crass, but perhaps you could accompany me on a quick stroll?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you processed his words. Knowing that he was an overlord, his words were a demand, not a request. If you refuse, you may die. If you go with him... you may die just the same. Every fiber in your being demanded that you turn him down. Lie, and say you have one more set...

You puffed out your chest, a brave grin on your face," Sure... My chops are busted from that last set. Let's bounce."

Alastor offered you an arm, something you weren't expecting. You hesitated a beat longer than you should have before taking it. Alastor's grip now firm, you felt yourself bend and wane before solidifying just outside the joint you played in. Your head turned quickly towards the door, then him.

"So you can teleport other people too...," Good to know, you thought, as Alastor laughed.

"Dear, why fight the crowd? I figured it would be easier this way, don't you think?" You returned a nod to him, keeping your mask sharp as the two of you started your way down the block. You realized then you'd have to return tomorrow for your trumpet. But again, that wasn't the most worrying thing on your mind just yet...

You were weary of the entire encounter, but continued to follow the Radio Demon, who seemed a little too hellbent on getting you alone...

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Common Household Items to Whump Your Whumpee With

Content: Vampire whump, tiny whump, suffocation/asphyxiation, heat whump, restraints, gags, burns, burned alive, auto-cannibalism, drowning.

Choke them with a chord.

Stab them with a butter knife or a fork.

Force your vampire whumpee to hold silverware.

Force them to put their hand on a hot stovetop.

Suffocate them beneath a mattress.

Gag them with a cloth/a piece of clothing.

Drown them in a bathtub.

Force them to wear warm clothes on a hot day.

Tie your tiny whumpee up with a hair-tie/elastic band.

Beat them with a pot or a pan.

Cut them with a kitchen knife.

Put your tiny whumpee in the dishwasher/laundry machine.

Sew their lips shut with a simple needle and thread.

Use them as a pin pillow while you do your crafts.

Make them hold hot plates of food for an extended period of time.

Make them eat raw food that is bound to make them sick.

Toss an immortal into the fireplace and watch them try to crawl their way out.

Cooking a part of whumpee's body into every meal and forcing them to eat it.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

I’m the one who asked about the flashback for Ran! Just sending it back as you asked :) I’m so excited to see what you came up with, I was racking my brain for something and I couldn’t come up with an exact scenario. I just love the way you write his raw emotions and how much he loves the reader, and is tortured by what happened to her, and them suffering through the aftermath even though Mikey’s gone.

I actually found a plot point I missed when reviewing the old parts of the story! FLASHBACK FLASH BACK (you'll get another "flashback" after this one that rounds them out. I'm taking this concept and running with it.)

Hand Her Over (Part 7 - A FLASHBACK): Ran Haitani x Fem!Reader

wc: calculating...

tw: flashback, angst, drinking

masterlis

Hand Her Over Megapost

The cap to the wine bottle comes undone with a loud pop. Ran tilts the glass just so, intent on catching every single drop left in the almost empty bottle. He's not sure when he started drinking again, but on nights like these, he doesn't give a shit.

No, he knows when he started drinking again. He remembers the exact moment the bottle reappeared in the fridge. That morning, he found you standing in the front yard, letting the freezing breeze and snow into the foyer.

"Sleepwalking," Ran had said at the time, excusing your behavior as a machination of your nightmares. He wasn't sure how long you'd been out there or how many times you'd done something like this. But it startled the shit out of him so bad he had to drink to ease his nerves.

Ran waits for some semblance of the dulling effect to take over. He needed to forget how you stood there, feet covered in snow, cheeks flushed bright red, and shivering. You'd been so cold and--

Ran's grip on the bottle falters. He watches in slow motion as the bottle crashes to the floor, resulting in shards of glass skittering about the wine-slicked tile. Ran feels his head loll, and he stares at the mess, wondering how he'd pick it up now. His feet are bare, too.

You come ambling toward the kitchen moments later, your eyes taking in the scene with alarm. But you don't say anything. Well, save a soft "ow".

"Shit," Ran bites out, finally reacting to the scene, spurred into action due to your injury.

And that's how things started, isn't it?

He knew Mikey was no good. He knew things had gone too far. He knew... he fucking knew and yet... He hadn't done shit about it until you'd gotten hurt.

"Piece of glass in your foot?" Ran wonders, still stuck to his stance in the middle of it. You nod. Ran picks his way around the mess, narrowly avoiding a shard himself, and scoops you into his arms. His senses are slowly dulling, but he had enough time to get you some help before he crashed.

The trip to the bedroom is short, and Ran sits you on the bed, whispering, "Don't move." You don't, and he pads toward the bathroom where the first aid kit awaits him. As he rifles through the box, memories come back to him of you doing the same thing: patching up his scrapes, putting ice packs on his bruises, disinfecting the scabs and gross knife cuts...

When had he ever done that for you?

Never.

He reappears with tweezers and a few large band aids, placing them on the floor before sitting down. He spots the offender almost instantly, though it's not large. Ran takes the tweezers and gently pulls the shard free without much difficulty. You whimper in pain, but it's momentary. Fingers work at patching your wound up with two band-aids and then Ran pats your leg with as much affection as he can muster.

"All better." The statement is punctuated with a gentle kiss against your ankle, and when he rises, he sees the fat tears that have rolled down your face. You wipe them away just as Ran feels the effects of the wine take hold. Things are a little hazy, but he has just enough strength to put you back in bed comfortably.

"I'm going to pay for this for the rest of my life, aren't I?" he whispers to no one, his mind rolling with scenarios as he stumbles into the recliner nearby.

The world is swimming but Ran grips the edges of the recliner before easing himself into it while gritting his teeth. All of his life he'd been the one to watch as someone else handled the messes, handled the delinquents, handled the repercussions of his own actions. Hell, until he raised his gun and fired six bullets into Mikey's chest, he hadn't handled shit for himself. Not really.

Bonten's undoing came as quickly as Ran had told Mikey to fuck himself, to which Mikey's haunted face replied, "You wife would know something about that, wouldn't she?"

The squeezing in Ran's chest started just as soon as he pulled the trigger, clickclickclickclick-ing until the gun itself was empty, and then some more for good measure. By the time Rindou had found him slumped against the desk beside a very dead Mikey, Ran had fired seven blanks and sixteen shots.

Money had changed hands, faces disappeared, people forgot who they were and where they lived and who Ran was, the news ran only one cycle talking about Mikey's death. The rest had been lost to time. And yet, here he is, sitting and stuck in that same spiral he'd allowed himself to get stuck in.

All for you.

Ran's eyes slide to his prize, your face turned towards him and eyes blinking in the dim light of the bedroom. "Hey," he whispers softly, trying for a gentle smile. "I'm alright. Get some sleep." You continue to stare at him and Ran knows instinctively that he's drunker than he ought to be.

"I'll get off the bottle soon," he murmurs, looking away in shame. "Promise."

You turn over to the other side and sigh but Ran can't bring himself to promise you anything else. He'd already brought so much pain into your life, and here he was, doing it again.

The image of you standing in front yard catches him off guard again. Maybe you were trying to get away from him. You'd walked so far--

Ran looks back over at you and feels the black hole in his chest yawn. It stings. The thought of you trying to escape from him burns like hell and he can't--

Ran stifles a gasp for air.

He can't bear the thought of you trying to leave. You had every right - you really did - to run away and find someone who would make you happy. He wouldn't blame you if you did want a divorce and wanted to leave his name. He killed for you, but that meant nothing in the face of your happiness.

It meant--

Ran's mind slips.

He'd count it all up to his payment for so many years of shit and terror and chaos. Surely--

The black hole opens a little wider and the world tilts.

You would be happy.

Ran grips the chair with both of his arms, hearing Mikey's voice in his ears.

"But you don't really love her, do you?"

I do, he wants to shout back at the ghost, challenging it.

The wine... it's the wine that's addling his mind. He's not normally like this - not so insecure, not so needy, but--

She'd be better off without you.

Ran jolts up and hurries out of the bedroom, running his hands through his hair and feeling the panic rush through his veins. There's only one way, one way to alleviate this.

This crushing guilt, the shame, the damn agony he feels at having to do all of this over and over and over again. Reliving his worst nightmare is like driving a stake through his skull, and he can't fucking take it anymore.

The front door swings wide and Ran bursts through it, his body propelling him to run. The urge rages through him, and his breath comes out in bursts of white air. If he had asthma like Rindou, he'd already be winded, but he's got tears freezing against his cheeks, the wind biting at his skin, and--

Ran comes to a stop at the end of the street.

What the hell is he doing?

He bends over, trying to catch his breath, and sees himself through his neighbor's eyes. Here is Ran Haitani, in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, running in the dead of winter with no shoes on. And he laughs.

Ran laughs and laughs and laughs.

He laughs so hard he has to sit down in the snow and hold his sides like a maniac.

Suddenly, he understands Sanzu. He understands the way he copes with things. He can't run; not now. Not when you're at home, needing protection. Ran ambles back up the driveway, still chuckling to himself out of disappointment more than humor.

He couldn't even outrun his own problems. A shame, he thinks, shutting the front door and latching it. What a shame I've turned out to be.

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today - May 13th, 1977 - Queen Story!

Queen played Congresscentrum, Hamburg, Germany

'A Day At The Races' Tour

🔸Record Mirror, May 21, 1977

A NIGHT at the Congress Centrum Hamburg, where escalators take you to the concert hall and the bouncers wear suits and ties.

It's been three years since Queen played Hamburg, but it's a near sell-out in a hall which looks like a giant lecture theatre with rows and rows of cushioned, spotless white seats. The stage is tiny but somehow the roadies have managed to squeeze on the batteries of lights.

It's a late start. Backstage, a giant roadie paces up and One week down like an expectant father outside the dressing room. Classical music floats gently over the audience.

Then darkness, lights, action and The Queen Machine rolls into action. Lights explode through the gloom and Mercury stands like Rudolph Nureyev.

He's dressed in a white jumpsuit and May, in wandering minstrel gear, blasts out the opening chords to 'Tie Your Mother Down'. For a guy who shows comparatively little emotion when he plays, the effect is still stunning. The number finishes with a drum solo and tarticle

g bass rising to the top of the sound mix. The Congress Centrum has great acoustics. You could have been sitting in a recording studio.

Most of the audience are caught like a fish on the end of a hook. It's the old Queen policy of 'grab 'em by the scruff of the neck and don't let go for a second'. The lights dim again, there are same tailed some taped sounds and spotlights shine out from the stage. May's knife - like guitar announces 'Ogre Battle'.

Explonding

Mercury makes an-other grand entrance in a chequered cut suit, pointing his mike stand at the audience like a gun. At the end he's lost in a mass of exploding smoke bombs. • The band's speeches are embarrassing. They always sound so self-conscious. "Thank you every-body and welcome to the party," says Freddie —like an embarrassed scoutmaster addressing his troop. It's 'White Queen' and the dynamic duo of Mercury and May are caught under criss-cross spotlights. Mercury tosses his head back as if he's in agony and sings the mystical lyrics before leaping around like a bizarre ballet dancer. Spotlights play on a crystal ball and May stands in the corner, framed in the half light like a Renaissance portrait. He takes to the catwalk at the front of the stage for a riveting solo. Considering the rapid-fire notes he's turning out, he always looks so relaxed. Mercury returns to the stage and the number taste-fully ends as he hits a high note and a solitary spotlight plays on his head and shoulders. "It's really nice to be here in Hamburg," he announces before 'Somebody To Love'. His playing misses the light opening touches of the record. The band try to make the tune more funky — maybe trying to keep the live excitement going, but it sounds cheap.

Half the German crowd are start their British Jubilee tour, ROBIN SMITH went to Germany and found that the Hamburgers were well pleased. Yes, they played a . . .

Good Old Fashioned . . singing along but the remainder keep their seats, showing no emotion. Eventually Taylor's drumming gets the crowd going. The reserve is breaking . . . May walks across to the microphone and clicks his fingers. Mercury's piano chords announce 'Killer Queen'. This time the playing is more laid back, capturing the true sensuous feel of perhaps the most subtle and skilful song Queen have ever produced. Mercury even managed to work in a line about Hamburg.

RAGTIME

The numbers followed by the gloriously ragtime 'Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy' and Mercury's voice is showing no signs of strain. In times gone by, especially at one concert at the Rainbow, he seemed to have been lisping and struggling, but no complaints this time.

The party atmosphere is continued with 'Bring Back That Leroy Brown'. May strumming away on banjo.

It's back to Queen at their most sinister with 'Death On Two Legs', Freddie spitting out the lyrics backed by cold guitar, rumbling drums and bass.

He sounds like Christopher Lee.

"Queen would like to drink a special toast to all of you here," says F'reddie. He sips champagne delicately but - tut, tut - it's not a proper champagne glass - the real thing is tulip shaped. He passes the booze down to the audience.

FRENZIED

Time for 'Brighton Rock' - frenzied riffs stab out and May indulges in some feedback before strutting around che stage. He indulges in a deluge of rising and falling notes and then the nagging riff start, again, bouncing off your eardrums.

Source article ➡️ queenconcerts.com

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s2 episode 3 thoughts

here we go! this episode is titled "blood" which did not bode well for me, the girl who hates blood. but i am dedicated and pushed through in the name of our mission.

we open at a post office. sometimes, i think it would be fun to work in a post office.

but alas! our postman has received a paper cut. he licks it up which... can't be hygienic.

and then he immediately gets fired :( this is sooooo unfair

when he returns to his post his machine reads "KILL"!!! my first thought was that this was gonna be a little shop of horrors style thing where an inanimate object tastes blood and Likes it (Which is sort of what happened? but mostly not really)

((side note: need to see mulder and scully take on audrey two))

so it seems that the people are either being told by machines to do some killing or all the members of the town are experiencing collective hallucination...

mulder arrives. i was distracted by his fluffy hair. from the notes: "his hair is fluffy. he isn't saying much at this crime scene but his hair is fluffy"

! MULDER LORE REVEAL ! he played right field! (this was brought up when the policeman mentioned the suspect was on the softball team)

back to our post office friend, who is near a child with a random nosebleed whilst getting some money, and now the ATM is telling him to kill people

mulder points out that these are spree killings and not serial ones <-okay human embodiment of the nerd emoji.

it's a totally normal report on the crimes, no spooky stuff involved, and scully is reading it... until he mentions UFOs and she says to herself "i was wondering when you'd get to that" LMAOOOOO she knows him too well

we see a woman being lured into a dark garage by a mechanic and i thought i knew where this was going but i DIDN'T because SHE gets paranoid and the machine tells her the guy is gonna get her and she freaks out and STABS HIM

mulder arrives to the crime scene with a really funny looking camera. can anyone provide me more information about this camera? i'm curious

anyway, he shows up at the house of the woman who killed the mechanic, and we see another example of his bountiful social skills when he asks to come in and she says "i'm late for work" and he just barges in and says "you can blame me". i love this man so bad it's actually a problem. he WILL get inside of ur house.

but her microwave is telling her to kill him and she pulls out a knife and STABS him and i was yelling NOOOOOOOO! and then the cop he was with shoots her and VERY QUICKLY we get a cutscene to....

SCULLY AUTOPSY TIME!!!!!!

she thinks there's some sort of chemical that is making the people do this

we also see poor wet meow meow mulder's bandaged arm :(

back to the ex-postman, who is seeking new gainful employment at a supermarket in which there are guns for sale in the back, another reminder that this show is set in america. he starts to see evil things in the TV but resists (and it might be related to the blood drive at the store but? it's a little unclear tbh)

mulder running scene! getting his cardio in! the man is dripping in sweat! he sees a guy toss some stuff in a yard and it's... dead bugs?

so who does he take the bugs to? well, the weirdos who previously were consulted for another case: the conspirators at the lone gunman! famous for the one guy hitting on scully and ripping up her twenty dollar bill

so we're back to these freaks and he says he didn't see their latest issue because "it arrived the same day as my subscription to Celebrity Skin"

now, i had an educated guess here based on name alone, but needed to confirm what this "celebrity skin" truly was. a search brings you to an album by the band Hole, and i was like omg!!! we're gonna get an insight into his canon music taste!!!! there is nothing more i LOVE than learning a character's favorite artists <3

but, this cannot be... for the show takes place before 1998, when the album was released... so i dig further

chat, as expected, it is a porn mag. seems to have involved some unethical stuff. mulder: ur a sick man.

the even sicker man who previously hit on scully was like "where's your little friend?" and he counters with "she wouldn't come. she was too afraid of her love for you" and the weirdo responds with "she's tasty"

now i want you to buckle your seat belts for what mulder says next. buckled? secured? sat? everyone is in a safe position? okay. he says:

"you know, it's men like you that give perversion a bad name"

HELLO? hey. hi! quick question <3 what does that mean. mulder a freak confirmed????

(i mean i guess we DID already know he fucked phoebe on arthur conan doyle's grave, which is going to stick in my head forever, but. don't make it worse. sometimes he's such a Man)

anyway the weirdos at the lone gunman think it's related to pesticides. and then mulder asks to borrow their night vision goggles and the weirdest of weirdos is like "only if you give me scully's number!"

cutscene to him using the night goggles

(mulder, if you gave that creep her number, i will NEVER forgive you. so keep that in mind)

he's sitting in a field and it looks so natural, like he really belongs there. bring back sitting in fields. but then he breaks into the orchard and gets sprayed by some pesticides and thoroughly knocked on his ass

mulder's yelling at some guy to take responsibility for the pesticides that he thinks are killing people... a moral crusader serving on the front lines...

scully's here now, btw. she took his blood. which had to be a strange experience. and then she mentions that she FLEW 300 MILES in the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT to come take his blood?

holy shit, mulder. she did that for you and you've been so broody and angsty lately and maybe even gave some dick her phone number. holy shit mulder, do not blow this. you cannot afford to blow this. she is soooo good to you.

anyway, he's seeing the same evil messages in technology the killers were now so that's a bummer

mulder proposes that this is some sort of subliminal messaging thing that is being activated by the fear-inducing pesticides and the cop gets pissed and leaves, to which he says "he's probably one of those people that thinks Elvis is dead"

so that's the SECOND line in this show about him being an elvis truther and i'm starting to think it's not a joke

back to the ex-postman. people are coming to his door to take blood and test for the chemicals in the pesticides and he's going bonkers. he's seeing "KILL" in his calculator, which is how you know things are rough. his watch even beeps and says "KILL" which i think would make a very very very very funny gif if anyone has that.

well, all of a sudden he's missing so the agents go to his house and knock. until.

scully realizes the door is open and just. lets herself in. i was laughing SO hard here. these bitches WILL get into your house. they will NOT wait for an invitation. truly a sign of soulmatism.

ex-postman was running running and they're like omg where is heeeeee he's gonna hurt people!!! scully is once again proving her genius status by saying that if it's a paranoia case, then all these guys in police uniforms need to get out of view.

(there's also this shot where mulder is like. smoldering. and she's behind him and man. height difference content i really really do love you and your work <3)

our crazed ex-postman climbs a tower at a college and is gonna start shooting but he's also hallucinating and laughing maniacally which i described in my notes as "entering his joker era"

mulder runs up and prevents a shootout using some handy jujitsu. neeeeed to see if this man is a black belt. for character driven purposes.

but he says that he knows the guy can't stop and overall it's an eerie situation because you can tell the pesticides are still in his brain as well. and his arm is bleeding again and this makes the other guy go into overdrive.

um. okay.

crisis averted...?

well, you sure would like to think that, wouldn't you? but the episode ends with mulder calling scully, and then HE sees more evil stuff in his phone! and it fades to blackness as her voice is heard through the speaker...

(i love that she knew it was him immediately. despite the silence. and that her train of thought went from "it's scully" to "mulder is it you?" to "mulder, what's wrong?" talk about a connection!)

hope he doesn't do anything too impulsive...

in conclusion: my very surface level interpretation of this episode was that it was warning us to not be controlled by technology, which i'm sure felt more relevant back in the day. but now that i have to click "don't sell my data" when i browse flavors of soup for sale online, i think we might just no longer be the target audience. or maybe it's even more relevant! an argument could be made both ways.

down with pesticides, though! i can get behind that! when's the last time you saw a bee? bring them back!

[ghuleh-recs]

hiii after gobbling down almost all i could find i came to ask if you know any multi chap ghoul ficss!!! can be angst or fluff or anything really, but i'd just prefer ghouls not papas rn. any recs? thank you love <3

hellooo, sweet anon!! i perused my ao3 history and here are a handful of multi-chap or series featuring ghouls that really buttered my croissant. i hope you find something new to enjoy amongst the recs!!

recs under the cut!

Ghoul x Ghoul

love is all you need (series) - @gayrickgrimes - 47k, E - Dew x Rain x Swiss

"a series where i explore swiss, rain, and dewdrop’s developing relationship. featuring polyghouls. they’re all dating, i just want to focus on these three."

The Longest Hours - @midnight-moth - 17k, E - Dew x Rain

“I wrote this on the plane today on the way back from my work trip. It features a lovely combination of how I feel about all of the flying I’ve had to do lately and my love of Rain and Dew being the softest softs that ever softed. And Rain being aroused by Dew’s tears but I mean. Is that a secret? Do they not cry in everything I write? Sorry…” *if you're in it for the long haul, they also have a behemoth of a masterpiece called "Kilonova" that you can read here.

It's No Fun 'Til Someone Dies (Murder Ghouls) series - @iamthecomet - 10k, E - Polyghouls

Summary of Part 1: Dew doesn’t understand how they haven’t figured it out yet. Humanity's persistence, its blindness will be its downfall. He’s in awe of the way they continue to insist to themselves that it’s normal for multiple people a month to just—vanish. To “go home” without taking any of their stuff. To flee in the middle of the night. Or fall from balconies, or down the stairs, or drown. That they haven’t figured out that the unlucky few are fodder for the machine that is the Ghost Project. Food, literally, for the hell-spawn that drives it forward. They spend their days looking at the Ghouls like they are something to be attained. A prize to win. Dew is happy to encourage it. To let them walk right into the trap. He runs his teeth over his fangs. He can still taste the blood. *a little something to get you in the mood for spooky season.

Ghoul x Reader

Slow Burn (series) - @high-imperatrix - 116k, E - Polyghouls x Reader (Dew x Reader main pairing)

A series of porn-with-plot stories featuring a female Reader character—a human hired to come in and manage the band Ghost—and her relationship with the fire ghoul Dewdrop. It starts off as an enemies-to-lover flirtation and involves into something much more serious—with Reader character getting to know the other citizens of the abbey along the way. Features tons of smut, group sex, threesomes, BDSM, dalliances with the Papas, and more!

Ghoul Bicycle (series) - @gravehags - 22k, E - Polyghouls x Reader

It's not your fault you're a virgin, but it's certainly causing problems for Swiss.

Hold Me Like A Knife - @highdefinitions - 19k, E - Swiss x OC (can also be read as reader insert)

Swiss reunites with a ghost from his past.

𖤐 you know the drill--bookmark, read, leave kudos and/or comments!

[athousandgateaux]

I spend a lot of time seeking out and listening to queer music and artists, so I thought I'd share a list of some of my favourite artists* in case anyone's interested and doesn't know where to start.

*disclaimer: these are just some of the artists I like, not an exhaustive list of queer musicians. If you want to add suggestions, that would be awesome. I tried to group artists by genre, but many of them cross genres or are difficult to classify in that way.

Anyway, list is under the cut!

punk/metal/hardcore/post-punk

-Dog Park Dissidents

-She/Her/Hers

-Priests

-DITZ

-Crack Cloud

-Limp Wrist

-Queen Zee

-Danny Denial

-G.L.O.S.S.

-Slouch

-Tribe8

-Fit For Rivals

-Nervus

-Tacocat

-The Total Bettys

-Dyke Drama

-Pansy Division

-Art Project

-Trash Boat

-Against Me!

-Sloppy Jane

-Queen Zee

-The Degenerettes

-Size of Sadness

-Seth Bogart

-The Spook School

-Dream Nails

-Gina Young

-Mhaol

-Artio

-Arcadia Grey

-thotcrime

-VIAL

pop/hyperpop

-Rina Sawayama

-Kim Petras

-girli

-Regina Gently

-MUNA

-Janelle Monae

-George Michael

-Divine

-Noah Davis

-Sir Babygirl

-Myylo

-The Communards

-I Blame Coco

-MNEK

-Haley Kiyoko

-Boy Jr.

-Sofya Wang

-Allie X

-COBRAH

-Tayla Parx

-SOPHIE

-Hikaru Utada

-Alice Longyu Gao

indie rock / alt-pop / art pop

-Perfume Genius

-Model Child

-Shamir

-Lynks

-ZEE MACHINE

-Cry Club

-The Magnetic Fields

-Patrick Wolf

-Owen Pallett

-Black Belt Eagle Scout

-Moses Sumney

-Yves Tumor

-Anna Calvi

-Ah-Mer-Ah-Su

-Xiu Xiu

-Black Dresses

-NoSo

-Rostam

-Left at London

-Sneakyseabear

-Rosie Tucker

-MEN (JD Samson)

-Le Tigre

-Lord Troy

-Hunx & His Punx

-Arthur Russel

-Cris Derksen

-Ezra Furman

-Rhumba Club

-Arca

-Dizzy Fae

-The Spook School

-Jeremy Dutcher

-corook

-Saucy Santana

-Lilac Boy

-Knife Girl

-Mega Mango

-serpentwithfeet

-Bree Runway

-The Irrepressibles

-Becca Mancari

-MAN ON MAN

-Jayne County

-Gentleman Reg

-Tom Robinson Band

rap/hip-hop

-Chris Conde

-Kalifa (Le1f)

-Quay Dash

-Young M.A.

-Backxwash

-Mykki Blanco

-Ocean Kelly

-Cakes da Killa

-Ddm

-Big Dipper

-Cartel Madras

-Angel Haze

-Deep Dickollective

-Saucy Santana

-Big Daddy Karsten

-Ayesha Erotica

-CHIKA

-Tayla Parx

-Doechii

-DAMAG3

-Fly Young Red

r&b/soul/funk/disco

-Remi Wolf

-Arlo Parks

-Syd

-Shea Diamond

-Meshell Ndegeocello

-Dua Selah

-Jackie Shane

-Sylvester

-Bronski Beat

-SuperKnova

-be steadwell

-Orion Sun

-Labi Siffre

country/folk/blues

-Sufjan Stevens

-Mary Gauthier

-Trixie Mattel

-Lavender Country

-Lord Troy

-Beth Elliot

-Paisley Fields

-Onsind

-Holly Miranda

-Rae Spoon

-Grace Petrie

-Orville Peck

-Villagers

-Lucille Bogan

-Ma Rainey

-Kokomo Arnold

-Peg Leg Howell

house/electronica

-Quanah Style

-Divoli S'vere

-Boy Pussy

-Fritz Helder

-Mx Blouse

-Chippy Nonstop

-Gendered Destruktion

-dj genderfluid

-Electric Fields

-Urias

-vivivivivi

[taylorswiftandx]

Taylor Swift and Electronic Devices

Note: huge thank you to @meandmypagancrew who assembled the lyrics for this post! I have included here just nouns denoting electronic devices themselves, but you may also be interested in actions/media requiring these types of devices found on TS and Calling, Watching, Pictures, Films/Movies, Planes, Cars, the Internet, Tweeting, and Electricity.

'Taylor Swift'

Tim McGraw: The moon like a spotlight on the lake

Teardrops On My Guitar: As I turn out the light I’ll put his picture down and maybe get some sleep tonight

A Place In This World: Got the radio on, my old blue jeans

Stay Beautiful: He smiles, it’s like the radio

Our Song: I look around, turn the radio down

Our Song: When we’re on the phone and you talk real slow cause it’s late and your mama don’t know

Our Song: I’ve heard every album, listened to the radio

Our Song: When we’re on the phone and he talks real slow, 'cause it’s late and his mama don’t know

'Fearless (Taylor's Version)'

Hey, Stephen: They’re dimming the street lights

You Belong With Me: You’re on the phone with your girlfriend, she’s upset

Forever & Always: And I stare at the phone, he still hasn’t called

Jump Then Fall: We’re on the phone and without a warning, I realize your laugh is the best sound I have ever heard

SuperStar: So dim that spotlight, tell me things like I can’t take my eyes off of you

SuperStar: You sing me to sleep every night from the radio

The Other Side Of The Door: Going through the photographs, staring at the phone

That’s When: Then through the phone came all your tears

'Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)'

Mine: Do you remember all the city lights on the water?

Dear John: Wondering which version of you I might get on the phone tonight

Never Grow Up: I tuck you in, turn on your favorite night light

Never Grow Up: I tuck myself in and turn my night light on

Innocent: Your string of lights is still bright to me, oh

Ours: Elevator buttons and morning air

Electric Touch: Got a feeling your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life

Electric Touch: In the heat of your electric touch

Electric Touch: I’ve gotten used to no one calling my phone

'Red (Taylor's Version)'

State of Grace: I’m walking fast through the traffic lights

Treacherous: Two headlights shine through the sleepless night

All Too Well: We’re dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light

Stay Stay Stay: I threw my phone across the room at you

Holy Ground: Took off faster than a green light, go

The Lucky Ones: And the camera flashes make it look like a dream

The Lucky Ones: Another name goes up in lights

The Lucky Ones: ‘Cause now my name is up in lights

Begin Again: Turn the lock and put my headphones on

The Moment I Knew: Christmas lights glisten, I’ve got my eye on the door

Girl At Home: I see you turn off your phone

Girl At Home: I wanna see you pick up your phone and tell her you’re coming home

'1989 (Taylor’s Version)'

Welcome To New York: The lights are so bright but they never blind me

Wonderland: Flashing lights and we took a wrong turn

New Romantics: We’re all here, the lights and noise are blinding

Is It Over Now?: Did you think I didn't see you, there were flashing lights

'reputation'

Delicate: Phone lights up my nightstand in the black

Getaway Car: There were sirens in the beat of your heart

Dancing With Our Hands Tied: I’d kiss you as the lights went out

'Lover'

Cruel Summer: Hang your head low in the glow of the vending machine

Cruel Summer: So cut the headlights, summer’s a knife

Lover: We could leave the Christmas lights up ‘til January

Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince: Waving homecoming queen, marching band playing, I’m lost in the lights

Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince: Running through rose thorns, I saw the scoreboard and ran for my life

Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince: No cameras catch my pageant smile

Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince: No cameras catch my muffled cries

Cornelia Street: As if the streetlights pointed in an arrowhead leading us home

Death By A Thousand Cuts: Chandelier’s still flickering here 'cause I can’t pretend it’s okay when it’s not

Death By A Thousand Cuts: I ask the traffic lights if it’ll be all right, they say, “I don’t know”

Soon You’ll Get Better: In doctor’s office lighting, I didn’t tell you I was scared

ME!: I know that I went psycho on the phone

It’s Nice To Have A Friend: Video games, you pass me a note

'folklore'

Cardigan: Vintage tee, brand new phone

Cardigan: Dancing in your Levi’s, drunk under a streetlight

Cardigan: I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired and you’d be standing in my front porch light

This Is Me Trying: You're a flashback in a film reel on the one screen in my town

Betty: Stopped at a streetlight, you know I miss you

The Lakes: These hunters with cell phones

'evermore'

Dorothea: A tiny screen’s the only place I see you now

Cowboy Like You: Now I’m waiting by the phone

Evermore: Motion capture put me in a bad light

Evermore: I rewind the tape but all it does is pause on the very moment all was lost

'Midnights'

Maroon: The rust that grew between telephones

Snow On The Beach: This scene feels like what I once saw on a screen

You’re On Your Own, Kid: I touch my phone as if it’s your face

Midnight Rain: And he never thinks of me except for when I’m on TV

Paris: Let the only flashing lights be the tower at midnight in my mind

Other Songs written by Taylor

All Of The Girls You Loved Before: When you think of all the late nights, lame fights over the phone

Christmas Tree Farm: In my heart is a Christmas tree farm where the people would come to dance under sparkling lights

Christmases When You Were Mine: When you were putting up the lights this year did you notice one less pair of hands?

Only The Young: You brace for the sound you’ve only heard on TV

Official Alternate Releases

(no electronics)

[welcogm]

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[darkbluekies]

Okay but a darling who has a blood phobia? It comes often with the fear of needles/syringes so after reading your Dr. Kry OneShot of reader being scared of needles I thought about the phobia.

And here are my thoughts :D Hope you don't mind 💕🙈 i tried my best to make it as authentic as possible with all the yanderes!

Tw: mentions of blood, murder, maybe gaslighting/manipulation, phobia

Edmund would be the WORST and most likey cause the phobia rather it being a thing before meeting him lol. But I am not sure if the phobia alone would be enough for him to consider not to kill in front of his queen anymore. Maybe the ball massacre would be enough and only time, but since his nature is unpredictable, there is no guarantee. Although he grows worried when his queen gets her periods everytime...

Dr. Kry would even have a much. harder. time. when it comes to blood tests and the first appointment might be where he finds out about his darling's phobia. At this point would put darling to sleep whenever he needs to take a test

Or oh boy, when darling gets her period in the first month they spend at the hospital? He would come into the room to find a passed out darling on the bathroom floor. At first he is shocked until he saw that they had bled through, a pad under their hand, and quickly understands the situation. He would be even frustrated that from all the 3-4% of the population fearing blood, darling happens to be one of them. Before darling wakes up in bed, he already had sorted out everything.

After that he would absolutely keep track on their cyclus and warn them just in time. He might be even persistent to change the menstruation pads/tampons and even washing the clothes if they got dirty, so darling doesnt have to see it at all. Maybe he would consider doing a therapy if it's really bad, so darling would feel better and won't faint every time they could get badly hurt y'know. But if they feel too anxious and dizzy, they can call him anytime :)

I think it's obvious that he's my favourite *^*

Silas would notice that darling doesn't look at him at all when he comes back. They could smell the irony scent and are imagining the worst so they avoid looking at him at all costs. Only once, when Silas forces darling to look at him, they faint as soon as the speckels of blood appear in their vision and then he understands what's the matter after panicking for good 10 seconds

He would probably care enough afterwards to change his clothes and shower everytime before entering the bedroom after a bloody mission. The dirty clothes would be in the washing machine and out of it before darling comes with their laundry next. Better be safe than sorry again.

Hedwig would feel so bad and sooo worried man, haha /_\

I haven't read everything yet but I think she would find out about the phobia after cutting herself on paper by accident and asking for a band aid. Darling instantly sprints to the aid box and bring it to her. being all anxious but trying to remain calm which they fail to hide (Hedwig hasnt grasp of the matter yet and thinks they are worried about her and finds it even cute... at first👀) Only when darling turns around and sees the blood, instantly dropping on the floor and hell breaks loose lmfao.

Or, on a sleepover at her house where she kills an intruder/stalking classmate/whoever. Darling comes down bc they want to drink water, only too see a scene of their yandere girlfrind with a bloody knife. Instantly dropping on the ground. When waking up a hysterical Hedwig is all over them, questioning if what they saw was real and why on earth she was holding a bloody knife at 3am. Hedwig might have the luck that darling isn't sure of the body, which was lying on the ground, was real too and would gaslight darling in order to keep her facade up.

Jerry was the hardest to imagine imo. So I apologise beforehand.

I can imagine her being worried and trying not to expose their darling to blood as best as possible but I can also imagine her using it to her advantage to "play" with darling or forgetting sometimes that they can't see blood, coming home with some cuts and bruises and darling passing out. And Jerry be like: "Ah sh*t. I forgot."

Ahhh I hope you like what I had in mind! You absolutely made me go brainrot with your stories, they are all soo good \*~*/ i almost read everything by now heh~

If you like asks like this let us know. I would to love share more but I dont want to post them randomly in my feed ._.

They're your OCs afterall ❤ love each of them!

Have a wonderful day my dear! ♡♡♡

Aww I loved this so much!!! It is nice to be the reader for a change🥹🥹

I'm impressed that your visions fit with mine! The only thing I'd add is that I think that Jerry would try to get you over your phobia by ... uh ... exposure therapy :)

I really liked this, thank you so much♡♡

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands B3R1: The Flesh

The Dismemberment Song:

“It has everything, the casual treatment of people’s bodies as objects for a goal, trying to almost sound sweet while chopping someone to bits, the fact that what will be left is unrecognizable, the turning the knife on someone else as opposed to yourself. It’s just very flesh.”

Meat:

“Oh god this one is awful. A perfectly graphical description of a flesh domain. I don't think I'm gonna have a burger for a few days that's for sure.”

Mod note: they're not kidding this one is graphic. If you struggle with flesh stuff, especially in regards to episodes like the meat packing plant etc, I reccomend giving this one a skip.

Lyrics below the line!

The Dismemberment Song:

Hold still, my sweet I'm trying to measure the space between Your molar and your jaw This caliper No cause for fear, no, it, it doesn't hurt It only helps me measure How much skin you have Oh, and the topmost layer of fat But I won't make an incision 'Til you're nice and numb Oh, and laughing gas can be so much fun Please don't doubt my decision This'll be, ooh, this'll be, aah This'll be absolutely, whee This'll be nice, this'll be neat And bring you closer to me So, don't you squirm, don't you fret I'm not gonna hurt you yet I just feel the need to be getting A little of you, a lot of blood-letting I know the sensation you're probably dreading But cutting you up will be so refreshing for me Refreshing for me, yeah No, don't you cry And don't call Miriam, she's my alibi Oh, let me check your toes out Aren't your toenails cute? And red is such a lovely color on you But you won't be needing those When you've got no knees Or shins, or pinky fingers, or arteries So, hold still while I remove them Oh, and don't fight back I think you'll find you're missing the point with that That's enough out of you And this'll be, ooh, this'll be, aah This'll be absolutely, whee This'll be nice, this'll be neat And bring you closer to me So, don't you squirm, don't you fret I'm not gonna hurt you yet I just feel the need to be getting A little of you, a lot of blood-letting I know the sensation you're probably dreading But cutting you up will be so refreshing for me, yeah Refreshing for me, yeah Well, once upon a time, that's where the plot begins And right after the end, well, that's where the plot thins, and I've got no angel to keep me in line So, I'm taking your narrative, and I'm making it mine 'Cause I'm all out of hurt, you've used up all I've got So, I'm chopping you up and still coming up squat If I wanted to bleed, I'd just roll up my sleeve And saw, and saw, and saw And saw, and saw, and saw And saw, and saw, and saw Oh, yeah This'll be, ooh, this'll be, aah This'll be absolutely, whee This'll be nice, this'll be neat And bring you closer to me So, don't you squirm, don't you fret I'm not gonna hurt you No, no, no, not yet I just feel the need to be getting A little of you, a lot of blood-letting I know the sensation you're probably dreading But there's one thing you're forgetting There's nothing like the thrill of a shredding And this is no orthodox beheading And cutting you up Cutting you up Cutting you up is gonna be so refreshing for me Refreshing for me, yeah Refreshing for me Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh

Meat:

Parasitic intergalactic savages Will land here in 2033 Heaven destroyed your planets before The star force came to feed I saw my brother devoured A river of blood when it tore off his head Of healthy organites, a system for harvesting human flesh Plug me into the feeding machine Ten in a pen pressed against me Cut out my tongue so that I can't scream There's meat, there's meat on me Antibiotics keep me alive Now that everyone I love has died Hang me up and strip me clean There's meat, there's meat on me You've heard stories about the free ones The few who escape the alien's grip Living underground in star cities In the deep and dark they resist But I don't know if I believe it When they caught me there weren't many left They only force us to breed in here I just hope they kill me quick Plug me into the feeding machine Ten in a pen pressed against me Cut out my tongue so that I can't scream There's meat, there's meat on me Antibiotics keep me alive Now that everyone I love has died Hang me up and strip me clean There's meat, there's meat on me In light of the sick to maximize efficiency Approach the back into our feed for optimal delivery Right here in the slaughterhouse screams Around the killing floor And I hope to chase my adrenaline Soak up my pus-filled sores Plug me into the feeding machine Ten in a pen pressed against me Cut out my tongue so that I can't scream There's meat, there's meat on me Wrap me up in cellophane Labeled "organic", label me grade A My tendon is cut between your teeth There's meat, there's meat on me There's meat, there's meat on me There's meat, there's meat on me There's meat, there's meat on me There's meat, there's meat on me

[therealblondebucky]

Chapter 1 of Not The Only One - A Winter Soldier Story

Rating: Teen to Mature

Word Count: 2.1 K

Warnings: Canon-typical violence (with more specifics in the tags)

December 16, 1991 20:05 [8:05pm]

With the small heaters now turned off, a bitter chill crept into my uncle's workshop, and the cold urged me on. Shivering, I returned the broom to its corner and mentally counted the minutes until I could go home and get—  

Baam! The storage room's outside door flew open and a man with a shiny metal arm rushed in. His sweat-drenched hair clung to the dark stubble dusted across his sharp cheekbones. Every piece of his clothing was black and bore a weapon of some type. A living omen of death stood before me. 

"Can I help you?" I asked, making my voice gruff, hoping to mask how much this stranger scared me. 

The man said nothing as he began walking towards me. His countenance was cold and merciless. His piercing blue eyes were feral and devoid of any humanity. It was almost like he had been hollowed out and a machine was placed inside him. 

As panic set in, only one thought was clear in my mind: I am here alone and my knife is on a table across the shop.

Terrified, I bolted out of the storage room and into the workshop.

"All that matters is getting my hands on that knife." 

I had a decent head start, but the dark man was closing the distance between us incredibly fast. My knees slammed into the cold concrete floor. I cried out in pain before I even realized what had happened. My heavy work boots had caught on an electric cord. The owner of the cord, a massive band saw, tipped over and fell on top of me. My right arm was pinned between the saw blade and the frame of an adjacent saw. 

My left hand grabbed pitifully at the sharp blade, trying to free my trapped right arm. The effort was only rewarded with several bloody cuts. I attempted to hoist the heavy machine off of myself but only managed to raise it a little.

The saw came crashing back down onto me, and the power switch toggled on. Roaring to life, the saw's sharp teeth tore through my flesh as I screamed for help and watched as the strange man pulled me out before I lost consciousness...

~~~

The stranger

The chase. 

The accident. 

I could see it all as if it were a bad dream. If I woke up, I would escape this nightmare. 

Forcing my eyes open revealed that reality had dealt me a stinging blow. My arm was nearly mutilated beyond recognition. It bent into sickeningly unnatural angles, and the raw, butchered flesh bled profusely. 

Seeing the space between my shoulder and the limb made me realize that my arm was not connected to me; rather, what was left of it was lying next to me. A cry of terror involuntarily escaped my lips before the dark man stabbed me with a hypodermic, and unconsciousness claimed me again.

~~~

"Я хотел ее целиком. Это затруднит мою работу." ["I wanted her in one piece. This will make my work more difficult."]

"Я думаю, с ней все будет хорошо. Жизненно важные признаки сильны, и она всего лишь эксперимент," someone else replied. ["I think she will be fine. Vital signs are strong, and she is just an experiment."]

I could hear the voices clearly, but their words did not make sense. Briefly opening my eyes showed a man in a military uniform with a crimson beret and another man dressed in medical scrubs standing over me.

A gloved hand touched my left arm, and the man in scrubs stuck an IV needle into me below the crease of my elbow. My eyes followed the tubing up to an IV bag holding a bright blue mixture, which was now dripping into my veins.

At first, my arm felt prickly, and then my torso was stinging. The sensation found my legs and worked its way down. The uncomfortable, burning feeling grew into an unbearable, searing pain. Every second that passed compounded the agony. My whole body writhed in pain, and I cried out. The suffering only increased, and my screams no longer sounded human. Convulsing violently, I begged for anyone or anything to end my torment.

~~~

A soft, steady beeping pulled me from my drugged haze. I kept my eyes closed, remembering the horrible image of my arm. Even though I was afraid to know the truth, I attempted to move my arm. It took significant effort, but my fingers moved stiffly, and my muscles could tense and relax. My arm seemed to be alright other than hurting like hell. Opening my eyes revealed I could not have been more wrong. 

My arm was gone. What was attached to me now was cold, hard metal, not soft, warm flesh. 

I lost my arm. My right arm. 

A tear slid down my cheek. I tried to wipe it away with my left hand but could not. I was strapped to the bed like some wild animal or a violent criminal.

Sadness, confusion, and anger became a toxic mixture and flooded every part of my mind. The metal arm tore free from its restraint and quickly ripped off the other straps. 

My whole body felt...different. Taller, maybe? Upon examining my physique, I noticed I was wearing an unfamiliar black sports bra and cloth drawstring shorts of the same color. My jeans and long-sleeved shirt were nowhere to be seen. 

"она не спит!" someone called out. ["She’s awake!"]

A man in green scrubs came over to me. I leaped off the bed and grabbed him by the throat with my metal arm. 

"What did you do to me?" I screamed, shoving him against the wall. 

His only response was something between a choke and a gasp.

"Что ты со мной сделал?" I repeated, but this time in Russian. ["What did you do to me?"]

My grip was now nearing lethal strength. A voice called out for me to release him, or I would be shot. Closing the metal hand fully produced a sickening crunch from his neck, and I watched his lifeless body drop to the ground before a painful and paralyzing shock knocked me out.

~~~

The man in the beret stood in front of me. "Поздравляю, солдат. Вы первая женщина, получившая сыворотку."  ["Congratulations, soldier. You are the first female to successfully receive the serum."]

My voice was breathy and hoarse. "Кто вы, черт возьми, люди?" ["Who the hell are you people?"]

"Я полковник Василий Карпов, ваш создатель и командир," he informed me proudly. ["I am Colonel Vasily Karpov, your creator and commander."]

A million questions screamed in my mind. "Где я?" ["Where am I?"]

"Твой новый дом, солдат, Сибирь." ["Your new home, soldier. Siberia."]

Before I could fully process this information, he called out, "Вытри ее!" ["Wipe her!"]

Machinery whirred, and two metal pieces made contact with my head.  A painful electrical zapping forced horrible screams from my throat.

~~~

I was held in some strange type of metal chair. My head throbbed painfully. Men with guns surrounded the railed area around me. 

A man in a military uniform with a crimson beret stood in front of me. A dark red book held the words he read aloud to me. "Создание. Убегая. Принуждение. Мать. Огонь. Вечер. Второй. Разрушен. Рейс. Лезвие." ["Creation. Fleeing. Duress. Mother. Fire. Evening. Second. Shattered. Flight. Blade."]

"Что вы от меня хотите?" I screamed angrily. ["What do you want from me?"]

The man in the beret called out "Еще раз!" ["Again!"]

Machinery whirred, and two metal pieces made contact with my head. A painful electrical zapping forced horrible screams from my throat.

~~~

I was held in some strange type of metal chair. My head throbbed painfully, and I nearly vomited. Men with guns surrounded the railed area around me. A man in a military uniform with a crimson beret stood in front of me. 

A dark red book held the words he read aloud to me. "Создание. Убегая. Принуждение. Мать. Огонь. Вечер. Второй. Разрушен. Рейс. Лезвие."  ["Creation. Fleeing. Duress. Mother. Fire. Evening. Second. Shattered. Flight. Blade."]

"Кто ты?" I demanded with all the strength I could summon.  ["Who are you?"]

The man in the beret called out "Еще раз!"  ["Again!"]

Machinery whirred, and two metal pieces made contact with my head. A painful electrical zapping forced horrible screams from my throat.

~~~

I was held in some strange type of metal chair and drenched in sweat. My head throbbed painfully, and I nearly vomited. Men with guns surrounded the railed area around me. A man in a military uniform with a crimson beret stood in front of me. 

A dark red book held the words he read aloud to me. "Создание. Убегая. Принуждение. Мать. Огонь. Вечер. Второй. Разрушен. Рейс. Лезвие."  ["Creation. Fleeing. Duress. Mother. Fire. Evening. Second. Shattered. Flight. Blade."]

"Где я?" I asked haltingly.  ["Where am I?"]

The man in the beret called out "Еще раз!" ["Again!"]

A man in a white lab coat came over to him saying, "Мы не можем продолжать лечение. Это убьет ее."  ["We cannot continue treatment. It will kill her."]

The man in the beret replied, "В отличие от Зимнего солдата, у нас нет лет, чтобы сломать ее. Время против нас. Ее надо быстро сломать." Then he called out, "Еще раз!" ["Unlike with the Winter Soldier, we do not have years to break her. Time is against us. She must be broken quickly."] ["Again!"]

Machinery whirred, and two metal pieces made contact with my head. A painful electrical zapping forced horrible screams from my throat.

~~~

I was held in some strange type of metal chair. I felt like I was dying. Everything ached. Men with guns surrounded the railed area around me.  A man in a military uniform with a crimson beret stood in front of me. 

A dark red book held the words he read aloud to me. "Создание. Убегая. Принуждение. Мать. Огонь. Вечер. Второй. Разрушен. Рейс. Лезвие." He closed the book and set it down.  ["Creation. Fleeing. Duress. Mother. Fire. Evening. Second. Shattered. Flight. Blade."]

"Доброе утро, солдат."  ["Good morning, soldier."]

A man in a white lab coat helped me out of the strange chair and handed me a pair of dark military-issue pants, a snug long-sleeve shirt which zipped up in the front and had no right sleeve, two thick socks, a set of black military-issue boots, and a belt. 

The man in the beret told me, "Одеться."  ["Get dressed."]

I promptly stripped off my sweaty cloth shorts, quickly slid on the pants, and zipped up the shirt. I put the socks on my feet, jammed my feet in the boots, and threaded the belt through my pant loops.

Two men in lab coats approached me and started taking my pulse, measuring my temperature, checking my breathing, and drawing my blood. While this was happening, one of the armed men addressed the man with the beret as "Polkovnik" and spoke with him briefly. 

Once the lab coats finished, a soldier shoved a food tray into my hands. It held a bowl of porridge, a small cup full of sausage, a spoon, and a glass of water.

"Ешь," Polkovnik instructed impatiently. ["Eat."]

The food was lukewarm and bland, yet I hurriedly ate it and gulped down the water. The scant meal did not fill me, but it dulled the hunger pangs a little. 

When I finished, Polkovnik motioned for me to follow him. He led me to a large room with a huge barred-off area, like a cage, in the center of it. There was a man inside, but I could not see him well.

"Он будет вашим тренером и научит вас всему, что вам нужно знать," Polkovnik told me and ushered me into the barred room. ["He will be your trainer and teach you everything you need to know."]

Four men in full SWAT gear and two men with clipboards and lab coats entered the cage along with Polkovnik. 

As if alerted to start by some silent queue, a man with a metal arm pulled out a knife and came towards me. I locked my arms against his wrist and kept the blade far from my body. Unable to force him to release the knife, I settled for managing to pull him closer to the ground. A half-second later, he was on top of me with the knife at my throat. 

He then dismounted, allowing me to scramble to my feet before he came at me with the knife again, only this time from above, not below. I performed the same lock as before but twisted his arm over my body and thrust the knife towards his torso. He deflected it harmlessly with his metal hand. 

Without taking a breath, he pulled a gun, aimed it straight at my face, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. 

The gun was not loaded.

I finally understood. He was not trying to hurt me. He was teaching me. This was my training. Experience is the greatest teacher. 

We continued this for hours. Attacking one another, but never hurting the other. Learning without a single word ever being said. 

One of the lab coats would occasionally stop us to check various vitals and give us both water.

Eventually, Polkovnik crossed his arms and exchanged a few words with the other men in the cage. One of the men in SWAT gear came and took me by my left arm. He led me out of the cage and down a long hallway until we came to a room with a thick metal door.

Inside, there were various pieces of medical equipment, cabinets, counters, and such, but what caught my attention was the bed with a tray on it. A small piece of bread and a bowl of now cold potato-based soup with a stingy amount of millet and canned meat in it were waiting for me. I inhaled the food, which silenced some of my stomach's growling. When I finished, the man told me to lie on the bed and then fastened me to it. He flicked off the light and closed the large door behind him as he left.

Before sleep claimed me, I thought about the man with the metal arm. Zimniy Soldat they called him. Who is he? What is his story? When did he get here? Where are we? Why does he have a metal arm? How long will we be here?

[somediyprojects]

DIY Salvaged Spool Ottoman

Project by Shelly:

i know ottomans aren’t the most indispensable piece of furniture in the house, but is it criminal to say they bring me the most joy? i think upholstery maven shelly (aka ModHomeEcTeacher) would agree with me; she’s made a whole collection of smart looking ottomans using a range of found fabrics and materials. i am so excited to follow her instructions and craft an adorable plaid ottoman of my very own, just in time to welcome fall. click here to see more of shelly’s amazing work, including her tutorials on everything from upholstering with rugs to aligning atomic legs. thanks, shelly! –kate

When Lowes stopped selling the pre-cut wood circles I used to construct my ottoman frames, it was a dark day. I soon discovered that cutting perfect circles with a hand-held jigsaw wasn’t easy, or even really possible. Weeks later, while roaming the store searching for an alternative, I discovered the empty electrical spools that are routinely discarded. Two perfectly cut round pieces of 5/8” plywood with a removable cardboard cylinder in the middle? Now we’re talking. With a tiny bit of carpentry, I came up with a way to easily re-work these into frames for my upholstered ottomans. I would label this as a mid-level DIY project that you could complete in a weekend. Once you get the hang of it, you these would make fantastic handmade gifts for friends and family. –Shelly

Materials:

-1 20” diameter empty electrical wire spool (hardware stores usually throw these out, so ask about picking them up instead) -8 pre cut 1”x 2”x 6” pieces of wood (a hardware store will cut these for you) -Wood glue -32 1 ¾” screws -A piece of foam (anywhere from 3” to 6” thick and at least ½” larger all around than the wood) -Spray adhesive (Elmers makes a spray adhesive available at the craft store) -Scrap fabric ( this to attach around the ottoman frame measuring about 8” x 65”. An option would be to use a bendable piece of cardboard) -1 ½ yard of cotton or dacron batting -1 ½ yard of 54” wide fabric -¾” yard of scrap fabric to cover the bottom of the finished ottoman -Thread and straight pins -Staples -4 screw on leg plates (hardware store) -4 fabulous ottoman legs (look around for good legs on cruddy, inexpensive Goodwill furniture)

Tools:

-Big marker -Drill -3/32” drill bit and a 3/8” drill bit -Electric knife -Electric stapler -Scissors -Measuring tape -Flat head screwdriver -Pliers (crescent or needle nose) -Sewing machine

Instructions:

Making the frame:

1. Take the spool apart and make a pattern by tracing the circle on a large piece of paper, adding ½” all around for the seam allowance. The pattern will be used for cutting out the foam, batting, fabric and a dustcover for the bottom. Lay aside.

2. Glue and screw 6-8 posts evenly around the outside edge of one wooden circle, then add the other piece of wood on top of the posts and attach. Be sure to keep the wood circles aligned.

Padding:

1. Use the staple gun to attach the long piece of cotton muslin around the outside edges of the top and bottom circles. Keep fabric pulled taut. The fabric serves to fill in the open spaces between the support posts. Cut off excess fabric. (Option: use bendable cardboard)

2. Trace the pattern onto the foam and cut the foam using the electric knife. Keep the knife blades perpendicular to the foam to get a crisp, even cut.

3. Use spray adhesive to glue the foam to the top of the ottoman frame.

4. Trace the pattern onto the batting, cut out. Also, cut out a long strip of batting equal to the total height of the ottoman, from the top of the foam to the bottom edge, plus two extra inches.

5. Pin the batting strip to the batting circle, starting 1” from the short end of the strip and ending 1” from the other end. Stitch in place.

6. Remove from under the sewing machine and stitch the open seam closed and go back and complete stitching that section of the band to the batting top.

7. Trim off the excess seam allowance, turn the batting covering right side out and pull it down on top of the ottoman frame.

8. Measure and mark the batting band (all the way around the covering ) so that it will be stapled evenly from the top seam to the bottom EDGE of the frame. Do not attach the batting to the underneath side of the wood. Attach it to the edge and cut off the excess batting.

Sewing and Upholstering:

1. To make the fabric covering, which is a bit like a snug slipcover, trace the pattern onto the fabric and cut it out.  You’ll need to cut a band of fabric 3” longer than the height of the ottoman and 5” wider than the circumference. If you need to stitch two pieces together to get a long enough piece for the band, split the circumference measurement in two and add 3 extra inches to each piece.

2. To prepare the fabric covering for stitching, fold one short end of the cut fabric band over 1” with wrong sides together.  With the right side of the band to the right side of the fabric circle, patterns matching, pin and begin stitching at the folded short edge all the way around to the other short end. Overlap the excess fabric 2” past the folded short end. Cut off any excess fabric beyond the 2”. Pin and stitch the overlapping fabric to the seam.

3. Turn the fabric covering right side out and topstitch the folded seam closed from the bottom of the band to the top seam.

4. Pull the fabric covering down over the dacron covered ottoman. Adjust the fabric pattern and straighten so the pattern or plaid is aligned.

5. Pull the fabric down firmly and staple in place evenly and snugly.

Upholstery Tip: It works best to start with one section and attach with a few staples, move to the opposite side and do the same. Then repeat for the other sides. Attach the fabric between the set staples by smoothing and easing in the fabric.

Attach Legs:

1. Measure and mark the bottom of the ottoman base for leg attachment.  Place the leg plates on the marks to make sure they are equidistant from each other. Mark the center hole of the plates. Use the 3/8”drill bit to drill out the center hole. You can also do this step prior to putting the fabric on (as shown below).

2. Cut out a dustcover from scrap fabric and attach it to the bottom of the ottoman by folding the edge under ½”.

3. Locate the drilled holes, line the leg plates up, screw the leg plates on using a Phillips head screwdriver or the drill.  Attach the legs to the plates.

VOILA!