#he's just standing like that too it's not a moment. he's Up

[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.

[carnalcrows]

SWEET AS SIN - THE SALESMAN

pairing: the salesman x ftm reader

synopsis: A humble baker’s life takes a dark turn when a mysterious customer becomes dangerously obsessed—until one night, he wakes up bound and trapped.

content warnings: 18+, dubcon (borderline noncon), reader has a vagina, gun play, squirting, drugging, kidnapping, dead dove do not eat.

word count: 1.0k

The first time you saw him, he was just another customer.

It had been a slow morning at your bakery, the scent of freshly baked bread filling the air as you wiped down the counter. The bell above the door jingled, and in walked a man in a crisp suit, his slicked-back hair perfectly in place. There was something oddly magnetic about him—the way he carried himself, the confidence in his steps, the way his piercing eyes scanned the shelves like he was hunting for something more than just bread.

“Morning,” you greeted, forcing yourself to break the silence. “What can I get you?”

He smiled—a sharp, calculated thing. “Something simple. A loaf, maybe.”

You nodded, wrapping up a warm loaf and placing it on the counter. He paid in cash, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed over the bills. His touch was cold, yet his grip lingered a second too long.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he mused, glancing around as if memorizing every inch of the shop.

You shrugged. “Pays the bills.”

His eyes flickered back to you, something unreadable in them. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

It wasn’t a question.

And true to his word, he kept coming back.

Days turned into weeks, and the suited man became a regular.

He never gave his name. Never asked for anything specific. But each visit followed the same routine: a loaf of bread, a polite exchange, a lingering look that made your skin prickle with unease. He never overstayed his welcome, but his presence stayed with you long after he left.

There was something off about him. Something… unsettling.

And yet, you couldn’t deny the thrill that crept up your spine whenever he walked through your door.

One night, you closed up late. The streets were empty, the moon casting long shadows over the pavement as you locked the door behind you. You barely made it a few steps before a sharp prick stung your neck.

Your vision blurred. The world tilted.

And then—darkness.

When you woke up, the scent of flour and something metallic filled your nostrils. Your head throbbed, and as you tried to move, the unmistakable bite of rope burned against your wrists.

Panic shot through you. You were tied to a chair. The dim glow of candlelight flickered around the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

And then you saw him.

The salesman sat across from you, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. He was watching you, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

“Finally awake,” he murmured, tilting his head.

Your heart pounded. “What the fuck is this?”

He sighed, standing up and pacing toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “You must know by now. I’ve been watching you for weeks, admiring you… wanting you.”

Your breath hitched. The air was thick, suffocating.

“You kidnapped me.”

He hummed. “I prefer to think of it as… securing what’s mine.”

Your pulse roared in your ears as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up. His touch was almost gentle—almost.

“You belong with me,” he murmured. “You just don’t see it yet.”

Your lips parted to curse him, to fight back, but then—click.

The cold press of metal pressed against the side of your temple.

A gun.

Your entire body went rigid.

“Shh,” he whispered, his other hand sliding to your throat, his grip firm but not tight. “No need to be scared.”

Scared? You were terrified.

But there was something worse—something worse than the fear, something you hated yourself for. The way his breath ghosted over your lips. The way his fingers pressed into your skin, possessive, demanding. The way the heat between you was suffocating, intoxicating.

And then—he kissed you.

It was slow at first, teasing, testing, his lips moving against yours with a dangerous kind of patience. The gun stayed at your temple, a silent warning, a reminder that he controlled everything. You wanted to recoil, to push him away, but your traitorous body betrayed you.

The kiss grew hungrier, his grip tightening as he deepened it. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, drawing a gasp from you.

He chuckled, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “See? You fit so perfectly against me.”

Your breath was ragged, your mind a whirlwind of fear and something worse.

He roughly tugged down your pants and boxers, leaving your lower half exposed– making you shudder.

“Hm? What’s this?” he questions while his glance moves to your puffy cunt– leaking and gleaming with the dim light of the room. This certainly wasn’t something that he had expected.

Before you could answer– you took a sharp intake of breath. He had slid the gun from the side of your temple all the way to your pelvis– resting near the clit. Your heartbeat thundered in your ear drums, the fear and tension muddling up your brain.

He dragged the gun to your cunt at a painstakingly slow pace, before pushing the tip in. You moaned, your head falling back against the chair. God you hoped the gun wasn’t loaded.

Without waiting for you to take in a breath, the man pushed the gun almost all the way up your hole, making your thighs involuntarily cave inwards. He used his other hand to push your thighs back apart, as he watched with fascination as the dark metal worked its way in and out of your sopping wet cunt.

This was so, so, wrong– but then why did it feel so good?

The hand that was holding your thighs apart made its way to your clit– rubbing circles around the overstimulated bud. You writhed in the rope’s grasp– the pleasure being way too much

Soon– you felt your orgasm (whether you wanted it to happen or not), wash over you like a raging stream. You screamed as you practically squirted your release all over the man’s hand and his gun.

The man adjusted his posture before sliding the gun out of your cunt and pressing it back to your forehead, before bringing his other hand back to your face– pulling you in for another kiss.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, trailing his lips down your jaw. ��And I take care of what’s mine.”

The gun pressed just a little harder.

And deep down, you knew—there was no escaping him.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[muniimyg]

ੈ εつ‧₊˚° ♡ ༘ ctrl+alt+delete // jjk ༘ ♡ °˚₊‧ εつ ੈ*

25 // next // series m. list

note: the reveal !

warnings: kissing, grinding, missionary, ummm.. one leg on headboard position idk, doggy, and riding ! dirty talk (daddy, fanboy, fucktoy, whore, etc) idk what else but that's the vibe ! enj <3

//

the past month with jungkook has been nothing short of fun and comfort. all you’ve felt with him is this kind of warmth that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

jungkook is playful in ways that make your stomach ache from laughter and patient in ways that make your heart swell. he’s always giving in, always biting into you—whether it’s your words, your antics, or the way you press your fingers into his jaw when he teases you too much. he’s funny and charming in ways that are overbearing—smothering—if it weren’t for the fact that you love every second of it. 

and god… 

it’s been so hard not to slip out the words. 

you love him. 

it’s only been a month, but what the fuck does time has to do with the kind of certainty he makes you feel? the kind of love he makes you believe in? 

because this is… this is it. this is love. there is nothing else it could be. 

jungkoook is a gentleman in ways you never expected. 

not just in the hold-the-door-open-for-you way, but in the way he holds it open for the people behind you, too. to him, it���s second nature. it’s the same way it’s second nature for him to shrug off his hoodie and tug it over your shoulders before you even realize you’re cold. it’s in the way he loves everything you are, everything you wear, but still, when you lean in to take a bite of food, his hand finds your chest, shielding you from prying eyes like it’s instinct.

“baby,” you laugh, mid-bite, muffled. “you don’t have to do that.”

he just shrugs, nonchalant. “they don’t deserve the view.”

even at the movies, as he walks behind you, it’s the way his hand is placed at your lower back, guiding and protective. in crowded spaces, he pulls you into his side and tucks you against him like a secret. at dinners, he doesn’t just push your chair in—he makes sure your drink is within reach, makes sure you get the first bite of his food before he even digs into his own.

it’s so strange. 

to feel such passion for someone in a short amount of time—but who are you to reject such goodness? such satisfaction? 

so you don’t. 

for the past month, you have let yourself be loved the way you deserve to be. for the past month, you have been loving him the way he deserves to be loved… except, through sex. 

oh god. 

sex. 

you haven’t had sex with anyone since your ex-boyfriend. it’s always just been you and your vibrators… so, when you met jungkook—fuck. 

you were excited. 

but after the first time you met and he didn’t kiss you… you had a gut feeling sex with him would take time. which is fine. he’s a loser anyway, what did you expect? 

but time (and ovulation) catches up. your lips want to kiss something that isn’t his lips. in fact, you want his lips to be kissing your lips—the ones in between your legs. 

the frustration has been eating you up for days. so, you give in to your cravings at your one month mark. it was a joke—at least, it was meant to be one… instead, you find yourself scrambling through your closet for lingerie you think he’ll like best. 

you choose black. 

simple, classy, and sexy. perfect for him. 

once you get yourself dressed, you put on a silk robe and spray your favourite perfume. you touch up your make-up (yes, we’re wearing makeup and sweating it off) and eagerly wait for him. for a moment, you stare at yourself in the mirror and tilt your head. 

wow, you’re so pretty. 

you hope he lasts longer than 5 minutes—

just then, there’s a knock on the door

hurriedly, you let out a little squeal before heading to the front door. 

as you open the door, you find jungkook standing there, a cake box balanced in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. his hair is a mess—like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over, the way he always does when he’s nervous. but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him.

without a word, he lifts the lid of the box, revealing the cake inside. in bright, obnoxious frosting, the words;

best dick ever 

… stare back at you.

you blink. 

then snort. 

then burst into laughter, covering your mouth with your hand. 

“aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

“oh… right. sorry,” he says, feigning innocence as he tilts his head. “should i make it up to you?”

you narrow your eyes. “yeah.”

his brows lift, playful. “yeah? like how?”

you don’t answer. instead, you grab a fistful of his hoodie and pull him in, catching his mouth in a kiss. he hums against your lips, the corners of his mouth quirking up. mid-kiss, he murmurs, “happy one month, baby.”

you laugh into him, harder this time, shaking your head as your arms slip around his neck. and when he tugs at the knot of your robe, letting it slip from your shoulders, he throws his head back with a groan—boyish, excited, so very him.

“fuck,” he grins, placing the cake down on the coffee table without looking, hands already reaching for you. but you’re already a step ahead, fisting his hoodie again, tugging him toward your room.

he follows without hesitation.

 the hottest thing anyone can do is want you.

like, all of you. 

jungkook is sure to do just that. 

the minute jungkook steps into your bedroom, he tugs his hoodie over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought. his hands move to his pocket, pulling out his phone. at first, you think he’s checking something—maybe a text, maybe the time—but instead, he holds it up so you can see.

the screen goes black as he shuts it off.

for a second, you’re confused. he’s always on his phone, always checking something, scrolling absentmindedly even in the middle of conversations. but then, it clicks.

jungkook wants all of you.

this isn’t about notifications ruining the mood, not about avoiding distractions or the buzz of the outside world. it’s a quiet declaration—he doesn’t need a screen, doesn’t need to record, doesn’t need anything but this. he doesn’t need proof. 

he just needs you.

his eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching, waiting.

your chest tightens, warmth blooming in your stomach. you swallow, stepping closer, fingers skimming over his wrist before you take the phone from his hand, placing it on your nightstand.

“just us?” you murmur.

his lips twitch. 

“just us.”

and then he’s kissing you, slow and deep, like he’s savoring the moment already. like he’s making sure you feel it, too.

for someone who has been salivating, craving, and whining for his dick—you sure have a funny way of showing him just how bad you want it. 

as jungkook’s toned and slightly sweaty body towers of you, you bite your lip and watch the way his chain dangles above. you’re sweating a bit, a little overstimulated from the way he just finished eating you out. 

of course, he edged you. he didn’t let you finish on his tongue, but you were so fucking close. your pussy is currently throbbing and so sore from the agonizing pain of clenching. 

jungkook smirks, watching you regulate your breathing. you aren’t panting or anything, but he can tell you’re trying to play it cool. he leans in, kissing your lips ever so slightly. 

“it’s okay to cum.”

“says you.”

he chuckles and mocks you. “says you.”

“shut up and put it in.”

jungkook raises a brow at you. “i’d watch your mouth if i were you.”

“why’s that, daddy? am i being naughty? we’re not even doing this raw. if anything, i’m not being naughty enough.”

he rolls his eyes. 

“you and your fucking attitude.” 

“what attitude?”

“shut up.”

“you shut up—oh…”

jungkook holds his length and glides it around your entrance. you feel his head enter for a millisecond before he uses his hard cock to split through your wet folds. he hums, taking the feeling in. you let out little whimpers, needy and ever so lewd.

it’s music to his ears. in fact, it’s his favourite melody. 

“gonna put it in,” jungkook prepares you. “okay, baby?”

“o-okay,” you breathe. “mhmmmm…”

then, jungkook hisses. 

he feels himself harden even more as he pushes himself inside you. your cunt is so fucking tight, it sends shivers throughout his body. you’re so warm and so fucking pretty as he watches the way you shift, adjusting to his size. you roll your shoulders back, your chin is slightly tilted as you whimper his name. 

“jungkook…”

“mhmm?” 

he moves in more, and then entirely. jungkook buries his long, hard, thick, and veiny cock inside you. it slips in easily, all thanks to your precious wetness. jungkook shifts his position, lowering his body more and places kisses around your neck to your ear. 

for a moment, he blanks. 

this is all he has ever wanted. he wanted to wait for a month because of everything you were dealing with but also because… he knew it would be worth the wait. the tension, the built connection, and the yearning… oh god, does this feel so fucking good. 

to put it into perspective; you’re home and he’s been homesick. 

“nghhh… jungkook?”

“yes, baby?”

“can you put it in?”

jungkook’s eyes shoot up at you. 

his pleasurable expression changes into a death glare. 

instantly, you throw your head back and laugh. you mumble an apology and cup his cheeks to kiss him. he bites your bottom lip as he pulls away. pouting, he huffs at you. 

“that wasn’t funny.”

“it was so funny.”

“you’re the worst, actually.”

“i know,” you agree. “i’m sorry. you’re actually really big.”

his glare stills. 

“how big?”

you sigh and give in to what he’s leading you to. 

“you’re too big daddy,” you begin to praise him. “never felt cock like this. feel you in my guts… god, are you gonna rearrange them? gonna slut me out? bet watching me all this time made you so horny. did i make you horny? was waiting out one month worth it? do i feel good, baby? how does your giant monster cock feel good inside me? or… are you just gonna be a little bitch and make me do all the work? make me fuck you like the good little fanboy you are?”

“not a fucking fanboy.”

“but you are my stupid fanboy… you must’ve loved watching me get myself off. how does it feel, daddy? how does it feel to fuck the pussy you’ve been dreaming of?”

jungkook moans in response. 

“so good..”

“how good?”

“too good…”

he places one forearm down beside you as the other reaches for your breasts. squeezing it, he begins to thrust in and out of you. 

“ohhh.. oh my god… yes, yes, yes! y-yeah, that’s it…” you moan. “just like that, daddy… fucking me so gently… come on, daddy—i know i’m your favourite toy. use me, okay? promise to use me like a little bitch?”

jungkook hisses through his teeth. 

“don’t talk about yourself like that, baby. you know how much i—”

“how much you… what?”

love you. 

“how much i… god, you’re so pretty. have you always been this pretty? feel like you got prettier.” 

with that, he fucks you harder and faster. the switch-up is so crazy that you hit your head on your headboard. 

“shit, you okay?”

you can’t help but laugh. 

“i’m fine,” you reassure him. “come on, daddy… keep going.” 

as he fucks you, your breasts move in unison and he can’t help but drool at the sight. for a split second, you feel him tremble. 

it’s like he’s about to give in. 

so, you do the only logical thing you can. 

you gasp, eyes widening, mouth hanging open in exaggerated shock. then, slowly—dramatically—you stick your arm out, turning your thumb downward like you’ve just witnessed the most tragic disappointment of your life.

“boooooo!” 

“w-what the fuck?” jungkook rolls his eyes. 

without hesitation, he roughly places his hand over your neck. tightening his grip, he fucks you harder. you gasp for air and roll your eyes back. 

you take the feeling it. 

how rough and fast he’s pumping himself inside you. how you feel yourself climaxing soon… how wet you are and how it’s spilling into your sheets. how his dick feels inside you—like it belongs inside you. 

the curve of his tip hits specific spots inside you that has never been reached before. his length, girth, and motion compliment each other—making him fucking you easily your favourite feeling in the world. 

perhaps, he was right about waiting for a month. 

the yearning and tension makes all of this feel a million times more worth it. 

“nghhh,” you croak. “yes, yes yes… that’s it, daddy… f-fuck me harder! fuck me so hard!”

“you want me to fuck you harder, baby?” 

“mhmm. fuck me so good, please… wanna more.”

jungkook nods and takes his hand off of your throat. he lets you catch your breath before he pulls himself out of you. jungkook places his hands on your waist and pulls you down. without hesitation, he kneels and lifts you. both of your ears ring from how fast your hearts are beating as he takes one and places it on the headboard and leaves the other on the mattress. 

“look down,” jungkook spits. 

obediently, you do. 

he hisses, jerks himself off, and then shoves his cock inside you. 

you watch as his balls smack into your ass. you watch as he moves his hips, dragging his dick in and out of you. you hear the sound of your wet pussy, sucking his length as he pulls out. before you know it, jungkook is smacking your ass. you see his hand flying to your cheeks and you let out a whimper as his palms make contact with your ass. 

“nghh…. feels so—”

“you wanna be treated like a fucking whore? look at your pussy right now. look at how much it needs my stupid cock. do you see it, baby? do you see how desperate your pussy needs my cock?”

“yeah,” you choke out a sob. “need you so much… my pussy is yours, daddy. so fucking yours—ahh! oh my god, oh my god—j-jungkook!”

he grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you back up. roughly, he tugs your hair and kisses you. you let out a moan as he takes your leg off your headboard and brings you to the edge of your bed. naturally, you get on all fours and arch your back. he gets off the bed and stands behind you. he licks his fingers and explores your folds before placing his dick back inside. 

as expected, he fucks you like an absolute dog. 

“this is what you wanted, right?”

“m-mhmm,” you moan. “so good. you fuck me so good, daddy..”

“that’s right, baby… only me. god, your ass is so pretty. your tits are so perfect. you’re so… holy fuck, you’re my dream girl.”

“yeah?” you blush, fighting the urge to cum. 

“yeah,” jungkook whimpers. “my dream girl.”

with that, he pulls himself out. you crawl back to the middle of your bed and wait for him to join you. when he does, he crashes his lips onto yours and gives you this deep and passionate kiss. like he’s never kissed you before… it feels so new. 

without exchanging words, you grab him by his shoulders and have him lie down. you get on top and begin to grind on him. jungkook watches with his brows knitted together and his throat dries as you hump his cock. then, he loses it when you lift your hips and take a hold of his cock. 

“can we… can i?”

jungkook nods. 

no hesitation.

not a thought behind his doe eyes.

nothing. 

of course, he’d do it raw with you. 

anything you want. 

with loving eyes, jungkook watches as you peel the condom off his angry cock. you twist the plastic around your fingers and gather it all up before dangling it in front of him. 

“you have to cum inside me.”

“okay.”

“promise?”

“promise.”

happily, you toss the condom to the side and giggle.

planting your legs on either side of him, you sit on top of his raw cock and rub yourself on it. you move your hips up and down, taking the feeling of how the curves of his dick feel against your swollen pussy. jungkook watches his dick’s tip grow angrier and angrier. 

and just when he feels like it’s about to explore—

“ohhh,” you shiver as you sink into his cock. “holy shit…”

jungkook lets out a relieved moan. you hum as he throws his head back and shuts his eyes. you feel him harden even more inside of you. as a reaction, your walls tighten. 

“feel so good, baby…”

“yeah? open your eyes, daddy… don’t you wanna watch me fuck you?”

jungkook doesn’t know if he’ll last if he sees this. if he watches your tits bounce or if he watches the way your pussy eats his dick up… he can’t. he’s not strong enough. 

“might cum if i do.”

you laugh and hit his chest. 

“okay… cum then.” 

suddenly, you grab his hand and place it on your breast.

jungkook lifts his head and opens his eyes. he watches as you bounce on his dick shamelessly. you throw your head back. your hips move fast and slow—dragging the consuming feeling of climaxing out. 

then, jungkook feels his hips about to buck. 

“___,” he huffs. “gonna cum…’

“me too,” you pant.

jungkook winces, feeling his toes curl. he feels like he’s just been hit by lightening as this sense of electricity rushes throughout his body. jungkook cums inside you, spilling as you continue to ride him. 

shortly after, you cum. 

then, you get off him.

you fit yourself into jungkook’s arms without a second thought, tucking yourself against his chest like you belong there—because you do. his warmth wraps around you instantly, familiar and safe, and he presses a kiss to your lips, then your forehead, lingering just long enough to make your heart stutter.

then, he murmurs, “so… best dick ever?”

you groan, smacking his chest, but you’re already laughing. you’re already pulling him in for another kiss. he’s already kissing you back. 

“best dick ever.”

the room is quiet. 

your breathing is even, soft against the pillow, completely knocked out. jungkook lays there for a moment, staring at the ceiling before sighing, pushing the covers off. he’s thirsty.

jungkook rubs a hand over his face as he makes his way to the kitchen, feet padding softly against the floor. he’s thirsty.

but when he gets there, he stops.

hoseok is at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in soapy water. his hair is slightly damp, like he’s just gotten home and taken a quick shower. the fridge door is still cracked open from when he shoved the cake inside.

jungkook leans against the counter, watching him. "you just get back?"

hoseok doesn’t look up. 

"yeah. figured i’d clean up a bit."

jungkook hums, grabbing a glass. he watches as hoseok rinses a plate, setting it neatly in the drying rack. his movements are methodical, familiar.

"you always do this?" jungkook asks, filling his glass with water. “wash dishes at 3am?”

hoseok shrugs. "she’s sensitive to smell. hates waking up to dirty dishes."

there’s something about the way he says it, like he’s done this a thousand times before, like it’s second nature. jungkook doesn’t like the way that sits in his chest.

jungkook takes a sip of water, trying to figure out the vibe right now. he’s never really had any issues with hoseok before but for some reason… right now… something feels off. 

hoseok finishes up, wiping his hands on a towel before tossing it onto the counter.

"you should get some sleep," he says, already heading towards his room.

jungkook swallows the last of his water. "i’ll wash my cup."

hoseok raises a brow. "you don’t have to."

"i want to."

there’s a brief pause before hoseok nods, drying his hands one last time before disappearing down the hall. jungkook turns back to the sink, rinsing out his cup. then, just as he reaches for the faucet, something buzzes.

he glances over. hoseok’s phone, left carelessly on the counter, screen lighting up with a notification.

jungkook shouldn’t look. he knows that.

but he does anyway.

@ donotdisturb: hobi idc if you gave me the video ffs @ donotdisturb: u gave that to me all on ur own. i never asked for that shit. i tweeted it, but u supplied it. get that thru ur fucking head. it’s ur fault.  @ donotdisturb: u’ve stalled her enough. she’s pushing thru with the fucking lawsuit thanks to that fucking jungkook guy. do u get that?  @ donotdisturb: i’m getting sued and it’s all ur fault @ donotdisturb: shit, what kind of a best friend are u to her anyway? going thru her shit and stealing her fucking sex tape to send to a hater like me when the gag is that u’re her biggest hater. what is that?  @ donotdisturb: thought u liked her lol. turns out u’re the worst wannabe boyfriend  @ donotdisturb: stop the lawsuit or send me fucking money to pay the settlement. this is ur last warning before i expose u. 

jungkook freezes as he reads the notifications. 

his grip tightens around the cup. his jaw clenches. the words sit heavy in his stomach, stirring something ugly.

before he can think, before he can stop himself, he picks up the phone and storms down the hall, shoving open hoseok’s door without knocking.

hoseok barely has time to react before jungkook is in his face, voice sharp. 

"what the fuck did you do?"

hoseok freezes for half a second, then instantly goes on the defensive. "who the fuck do you think you are barging into my room like this?" he snaps. "why do you have my fucking phone? give me that—”

“it was you.”

“what the fuck are you on? holy shit, you’re so fucking irritating, you know that? i get you’re her boyfriend, but this is my fucking room, that’s my fucking phone, and she’s my fucking best friend—"

"that’s all she is to you," jungkook bites. "right?"

silence.

before hoseok can even open his mouth to say anything, you appear in the doorway, rubbing sleep from your eyes. you don’t even think twice before stepping into jungkook’s side, arms looping around his waist as you nuzzle into him.

"why are you guys so loud?" you mumble, half awake. "what’s going on?"

jungkook doesn’t look away from hoseok. yet, his arm tightens around you.

“___…” hoseok begins. “jungkook… it’s late. we can talk about this tomorrow—”

“no,” jungkook spits. “explain yourself now.”

hoseok steps forward, attempting to grab his phone. jungkook doesn’t move back. instead, he offers the phone to you. 

you stare at it blankly. 

with worried eyes, hoseok shakes his head. “please, jungkook. i’m begging you. don’t—”

“tell her," jungkook deadpans. his tone is steady and leaves no room for argument. he means it with all his heart when he threatens hoseok; "right now… tell her or i will."

[y3sterdaysproblem]

the catalyst - c.s.

this takes place prior to the two final screenshots in part ten

cw: (almost) cheating, suggestive implications, chris being an asshole

wc: 4k

part of the fwb!chris series

no doubt about it, you had to be drunk if you were going to this party.

normally you would pull up to parties with chris, have him pick you up or at least meet you there and wait outside until you showed up so you could walk in together, but now with him talking to this new girl (lia, you found out), you had to show up by yourself. it wasn’t a problem, you were pretty independent in your every day life, but something about showing up to a party by yourself felt embarrassing when it’s been so long since you’ve had to. despite your feelings, you didn’t want to appear too affected by chris’s new situation he had going on, so you were still going to go, just after pregaming a little harder than usual.

on the ride over there, you almost found yourself wanting to ask the driver to turn around and go back home, not wanting to stumble into somebody’s house an hour after everyone had already shown up and draw attention to yourself and your obvious loneliness. you talked yourself out of it, though, continuing on the short drive until you had pulled up to the typical hang out spot, thanking your driver and getting out.

the door was unlocked as usual, and you pushed it open and went inside as quietly as you could, doing your best to walk past people you didn’t really know to make your way to the kitchen to grab another drink. you were barely two seconds into pouring a mixer into a plastic cup when you feel somebody step up next to you, and you don’t have to tear your gaze away from what you’re doing to know who it is.

“when did you get here?” he questions, standing so close to you your arms are brushing together. you don’t answer him until your drink is made, bringing it up to your lips to take a sip. once it’s swallowed, you turn your body to face him, eyes landing on his that are already watching you. “a few minutes ago,” you answer. “why, were you waiting for me?”

chris rolls his eyes and reaches forward to grab your cup from your hand, bringing it up to his own lips for a taste. he hands it back to you, grimacing at the sweet flavor. “god, you make the worst drinks,” he scoffs. “and no, I wasn’t waiting for you, was just surprised that you came so late, that’s all.” you take the cup back and let your fingers brush over his at the transfer, body already thrumming from how close you were, the feeling of pure want intensified by the alcohol already in your system.

your eyes hide nothing, giving away just how badly you wanted chris in the moment. you thought you’d be able to keep it under control, but with him standing so close and looking so good, the scent of his cologne wafting through your nostrils and infiltrating your senses. maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to drink so much before coming. “chris,” you say in a soft tone, one that always makes him melt, but tonight he just shakes his head at you and reaches up to place both hands on either one of your shoulders. “not tonight. please behave yourself tonight. I have lia here and I really don’t want to mess this up. I promise i’ll make it up to you,” he begs, and he really sounds like he means it.

you always hated not getting what you wanted.

“but, chris,” you pout, dropping your head down a bit to give your eyes a wider appearance, bringing your hand up to rest on his chest. you’re about to speak again when he grabs your hand and pulls it away from him, pushing it back towards you. “i’m serious,” he says lowly. “not tonight.”

you groan and narrow your eyes at chris frustratedly, annoyed at his determination. “fine,” you agree. you take your hand that he pushed away from you and reach between your bodies, cupping chris’s dick through the black jeans he wore, keeping your eyes lock on his. “just know i’ll be thinking about you all night and wishing you would have your way with me.”

chris sucked in a sharp breath at your touch, knowing he should pull away but not having the willpower to. one of his hands leans against the counter for support, the other itching to grab you and pull you closer. you can feel him twitching under your hand, a hint of an erection forming as you groped him. he was about to give into your touch, about to pull you somewhere more private, but an unfamiliar voice pulled you both from the moment. your pulled your hand away from him and tucked it into the back pocket of your jeans that hugged your ass perfectly, other hand bringing your cup up to your lips.

“here you are!” a girl’s voice calls from the doorway of the kitchen, stepping up to chris’s side with a wide grin on her face, oblivious to the tension in the room. chris slings an arm around her waist loosely, now refusing to make eye contact with you, afraid this girl would see right through him if he looked at you. “here I am,” he says with a forced smile, turning his head to face her. she turns and looks up at him, naive adoration painted on her features. “is this the friend you were telling me about?”

he told her about me? you think to yourself, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. “yeah,” chris says, clearing his throat as he turned back to look at you. “this is lia, the girl i’ve been seeing,” he introduces awkwardly and you tilt your head at her, smiling sweetly. “lia,” you hum, nodding your head. her hand comes out to greet you and all you can do is stare down at it, judging the way her acrylics were grown out and an ugly color. “i’m gonna go find your brother,” you tell chris, looking back up at him with a smirk, sending him a knowing wink before turning on your heel and heading towards the living room, hearing chris apologizing for your attitude quietly.

you did exactly as you promised, finding matt sitting on the floor with his back leaned up against the front of a couch and his legs crossed in front of him, laughing at something a friend had said. “hi, matt,” you greet sweetly, sitting directly next to him. his attention is grabbed by you immediately, lifting his arm to drape it around your shoulder as he smiled over at you. “hi, pretty girl,” he replied.

you made conversation with him for a few minutes before chris and lia came into the room, him looking uncomfortable and her looking happy as ever. she couldn’t even pick up on his emotions yet and he was so willing to drop everything for her. how could he be so infatuated with a girl that was so fucking dumb she couldn’t tell when she broke up a moment filled with sexual tension?

there isn’t much time to dwell on her lack of social awareness before somebody grabs your attention again, sitting across from you and matt. “okay, are we playing truth or dare or spin the bottle?” he asks drunkenly. chris audibly groans, lowering himself to the floor in a makeshift circle, lia sitting so close she should’ve just sat on top of him. “can we not do some childish shit, please?” he asks, tone laced with annoyance.

“what, scared you’re gonna have to kiss somebody, chris?” matt teases from next to you and you’re unable to contain the small giggle that leaves your lips. “or are you scared i’m gonna kiss your girl?”

matt’s arm squeezes around you when he says this and it takes you a moment to realize he’s not talking about the girl tucked into chris’s side, but rather about you. “i’m not scared of shit, asshole, I just don’t think we should be playing some fucking little kid games.” chris shoots back with a dramatic eye roll. “it’ll be fun!” lia says enthusiastically, wrapping both hands around chris’s bicep and shaking him lightly. he looks over at her and sends a tight lipped smile her way, his hand gently rubbing over her arm. “alright, whatever,” he concedes.

that’s how you all ended up playing truth or dare, spinning a bottle to decide who goes first. after a few rounds of stupid dares and pussy cop outs with people choosing truth, it’s matt’s turn to ask somebody a question. his attention turns to you, and a lazy smirk finds its way onto his lips. “truth or dare,” he asks you quietly and you can’t help but feel nervous at his tone. “dare,” you say instantly.

matt shifts a bit next to you before looking around the room, eyes landing on his brother for a moment before flitting back to you. “I dare you to make out with me for at least a minute,” he says after a few moments of thought. you’re a bit shocked at this, but quickly snap out of it and swing your leg over his lap, sitting atop his thighs happily. matt’s grinning up at you like a sick freak and you feel clued in on his intentions with the way he stares at you, so to bounce off of his energy, you turn your head to chris who’s staring at the two of you with dark, intense eyes, clearly not a fan of what was going on. “hey, chris?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head a bit. “can you start a timer, please?”

chris narrows his eyes at you, not liking the game you decided to play with him. he already wasn’t a big fan of your relationship with matt, but having to sit here and witness it himself was another level of fucked up. after he doesn’t answer, refusing to take his eyes off of you, the stupid, clueless girl next to him whips out her phone. “i’ll do it!” she says with a smile, holding up the timer. you roll your eyes and turn back to face matt, resting your forearms on his shoulders. “she’s so fucking stupid,” you whisper so only he can hear and he laughs at your comment before reaching up to rest his hand on the back of your head, pulling you down to meet his lips.

you’re instantly melting into the kiss, lips slotting together effortlessly, the taste of alcohol and juice on both of your tongues mingling. matt’s touch was so much gentler than chris’s, the way his hands slid up under your shirt to hold onto your waist and the way he took his time kissing you instead of rushing through it. between the way he felt holding you against him and the liquor running through your veins, you felt yourself getting carried away in the kiss, hips subtly grinding down on him as your hands found themselves in his hair, holding him close to you as you made out.

“minute’s up,” chris informs you both, but matt’s hands move down from your waist to your ass, fingers digging into the denim covering your skin, willing you even closer. “hello?” chris says again, louder this time, infuriated at the way you both seemed to get more into it. it’s not fully surprising when chris’s hand lands on your shoulder and roughly pulls you away from matt, almost ripping you off his lap. “enough,” he snaps, hand instinctively moving towards your jaw to turn your head to face him. your eyebrows immediately furrow together at his rough touch, hand pulling away from matt to shove into chris’s chest roughly. “back the fuck up, chris.”

he surprisingly listens, not wanting to cause an unnecessary scene in front of everybody, including lia, sitting back in his original position next to her. she seems slightly unnerved at his reaction, waiting a few moments before she places her hand back on his arm. “are you okay?” lia questions in her soft voice and chris doesn’t even glance her way, eyes locked on you as you climb off of matt’s lap and settle next to him again. “he’s fine, he’s just a little possessive,” matt snarks, his arm coming back around your shoulder. “a little?” you scoff, eyes trailing over chris’s tense frame. “hey, matt, when do you think we should tell chris that I lied about hooking up with you to make him jealous?”

you wish you had a camera to record the way chris’s expression dropped, the way his jaw visibly tensed from his teeth clenching together, the way his chest expanded from the breath he pulled in. “what does she mean?” lia questions from next to chris, turning her body towards him. “nothing,” he immediately answers. “it’s my turn!” you say enthusiastically, clapping your hands together and letting them fall in your lap. “lia, truth or dare?” you ask her, sending a smile her way. she’s shifting uncomfortably at your words, turning her attention to you apprehensively. “um…” her eyes flit to chris’s face for a moment, but they look back at you when she realizes he’s still staring at you. “dare,” she finally answers, sitting up straighter. you can tell that she only picks dare to impress chris, but he’s focused on anything but her right now.

you hum and tap your index finger on your chin a few times as you think of what to say. “I dare you… to go through chris’s phone!” is what you land on, and chris immediately moves to stand up, brushing lia off of his arm. “can I talk to you?” he directs towards you, not waiting for an answer before he grabs you by your arm and lifts you off the ground, dragging you towards a bedroom down the hall. “you’re hurting me,” you tell him bluntly, trying to pull away, but he just tightens his fingers around you as he shoves you into a room and slams the door shut behind you.

“what the fuck are you doing?” he sneers, finally releasing you. you huff and try to fix your clothes, glaring at the fuming man in front of you. “what are you talking about?” you ask him, raising your eyebrows at him. “i’m not doing this little back and forth. stop fucking with her. I mean it, dude, i’m not playing. don’t drag her into your mean girl bullshit. she’s too nice for you and your bitchy behavior.”

you scoff at his words, unable to believe he’s trying to defend this girl from you. “she’s fine,” you drawl, waving a hand at him dismissively. “god, chris, you’re so hot when you’re mad.” you take a small step closer to him, trying to close the distance between you two. “don’t,” he says sternly, bringing his hands up to stop you. you take another step closer, bringing your hands up to rest on his outstretched arms, dragging them up until they were placed on his shoulders. “don’t what?” you ask him, peering up at him through your lash extensions, eyes boring into him shamelessly. “don’t be slutty right now, i’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

you laugh and step even further until your chests are pressed together, bringing your arms up to wrap around him. you rested your chin on his sternum and gazed up at him, smiling at the way he stared across the room behind you, refusing to look down at you in fear of giving in. despite his unwillingness to look at you, his arms come up and wrap around your shoulders, a loud sigh escaping his nostrils. “look at me,” you say softly, squeezing your arms around him gently. you can feel his heart pounding from where you rested against him and you knew it was only a matter of time before he gave in.

when chris finally looked down and met your eyes, you felt the energy in the room shift. his expression softened as he inspected your face and the way that you looked back at him, like you were patiently waiting for him to crack and give you attention. “you’re incredibly rude,” is the first thing he says after locking eyes with you and you can’t help but grin at his statement. “you like how rude I am,” you retort.

chris rolls his eyes and looks past you for a moment before refocusing his gaze on you. “I tolerate how rude you are to me, not to girls I like. it’s not cute, it’s just pissing me off.” his tone is quiet, but you can tell he’s serious with the way he speaks. “i’m sorry,” you say honestly, pouring your bottom lip out subtly. “can I kiss it better?” he laughs at this and tightens his arms around your shoulders, shaking his head. “no, i’m not rewarding your awful behavior. go kiss matt about it,” he tells you, then pauses. “were you serious about what you said? that you lied about sleeping with him?”

you suck in a sharp breath at his words, feeling cornered despite you admitting exactly that only a few minutes prior. “I do think he’s hot,” you start. “but that was the first time we’ve ever kissed. he thinks you’re kind of an asshole when it comes to women so he wanted to see how mad you could get if we both made you believe we were fucking.”

chris purses his lips and nods, almost like he’s impressed by your scheme. “too bad you’re not important enough to make me jealous,” he teases and it makes you crack a smile. “sure, that’s why you ripped me off of him like that.”

“I was just playing by the rules,” chris defends, refusing to be pegged as the jealous type. “can you please just stop being weird and rude? i’m not asking for a lot.” you sigh and press your forehead into his chest for a couple of beats before looking back up at him, nodding your head. “yeah, alright,” you concede. “if you kiss me all nasty right now.”

“oh my god,” chris groans, but he couldn’t fight the closeness between you two any longer, bringing his hand up to the back of your head and leaning down to press his lips against yours roughly, both of your eyes fluttering shut as you made contact. your hands around him gripped at the back of his shirt to hold him closer as his tongue slipped into your mouth, a soft whine slipping out of your nose. the kiss only lasted maybe thirty seconds before he pulled away and stared down at you, soaking in your wide eyes and needy pout. “enough. let’s go.”

you nod and let go of him, but not before leaning forward and placing a soft kiss on the skin of his neck, pulling away to smile up at him. “i’m right behind you,” you tell him and he steps away from you, not so subtly waistbanding his dick before opening the bedroom door and stepping out, making his way back into the living room.

you both take your respective places back next to lia and matt, looking as inconspicuous as you could after a slightly heated make-out that left you both craving more. matt sent you a knowing smirk, pulling you back into his side once you settled back down, and lia just smiled at chris, completely missing the way he used the collar of his shirt to wipe off his lips from where your lip gloss was smeared along them.

what she didn’t miss, noticing it only seconds later, was the tinged lip print pressed perfectly against his neck, right above his collarbone where you could reach. she stared at it for what seemed like forever, and your heart dropped when you saw what she saw. “fuck,” you breathe out, catching matt’s attention. he’s not even able to question you when he sees lia scooting away from chris, a hurt expression painted on her face.

“what is that?” she asks, voice strained as it comes out. chris is clueless, looking over at her with a raised eyebrow. “what is what?” he asks her, annoyance lacing his tone. lia only reaches up and touches his neck, dragging her finger through the sticky gloss on his skin before holding it up for him to see. you can tell he feels the same stomach-sinking dread when he notices what he’s being shown, mouth opening to speak, then closing again when he can’t think of a way to defend himself.

you’re scooting away from matt nervously, feeling like you were about to throw up, not because you were worried about this girl’s feelings, but because you were terrified of chris’s reaction. he practically begged you to behave, and you fucked up with a stupid fucking kiss. “oh my god,” you choke out, standing up from the floor. chris’s attention is drawn to you at your movement, pushing himself off the floor as well. “you are so fucking stupid,” he spits, pointing a finger at you accusingly. “I ask you to back the fuck off for one night! you can never fucking listen!”

you flinch at his words, taking a few steps back until you slam into the wall behind you, eyes welling with tears as he nears closer. “it was an accident,” you mumble, using the back of your hand to wipe the remaining lip gloss off of your lips haphazardly, even though it didn’t matter anymore. “you are such a fucking whore. always have to ruin everything, don’t you?” he’s in your face now, glaring down at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. “you kissed me, too, this isn’t my fault!” you yell back, voice pinched as you start to get worked up, heart pounding in your chest. “you don’t get to blame all your fuck ups on me!”

“chris,” matt warns from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder cautiously, which chris instantly brushes off, eyes locked on you. “i’m sorry that nobody wants you, i’m sorry nobody wants to deal with how fucking exhausting you are, but that doesn’t mean you can go around and fuck with me and my life.” chris doesn’t even bat an eye at the tear that slips down your cheek or the way your lip wobbles, only rolling his eyes before turning around and walking back towards lia, helping her up off the floor.

you can hear your heartbeat in your ears as you watch him leave, unable to hear matt as he speaks to you, only focusing on chris as he guides his girlfriend-not-girlfriend out of the house, presumably to explain and try to put back the pieces of what little relationship they had. the second he’s out of your line of sight, you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, turning to look at matt. “can you take me home?” you ask him, and he instantly nods, guiding you towards the door.

the ride home is silent, and you feel like you’re on autopilot when you walk into your apartment and kick off your shoes, only letting yourself process what had happened when you were wrapped up in your blankets twenty minutes later. you tried calling chris, and all of your calls were instantly sent to voicemail.

that’s when you texted him, feeling a new sense of rage at his accusations through the messages he sent, deciding that this wasn’t all your fault and you weren’t the only bad guy here. chris made his bed, too, and you would make sure he suffered as he laid in it.

taglist

@liiixsturniolos @madelinesturn @ifwdominicfike @sophand4n4 @chris-hallelujah @sophsturns @rafesapprentice @045696 @scorpioosworld @byhrxb @vickytaa @taelovesmattsturniolo @secret-sturniolo @theboredknightcat-blog @slvtf0rchr1s @gabri3la-sturns @delilahsturniolo @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @vanillsstuff @sturnlsstuff @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @mattsbratt333 @mattsfavoritestar @dominicfikeenthusiast @certified-sturniolo @mattsside @sofiaaguilaxx @idrk2292 @dylansfavwife @sturnl0ve @sturnioloangelxoxo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @milasturniolo @mattsdillion @birkinbratsworld @aria003 @poppingmypussy4chris @annsx03 @ouchywow @pasteldreams @sweetshuga @pip4444chris @chriss-slut @yourebeautifulqueen @watercolorskyy @courta13 @craftycrafter26 @meg4-matt44 @colorthecosmos444

[awrkive]

[TEASER] CATCH YOUR WAVE (m) — JJK.

the last thing you expected when you strolled into your new school is to become the favorite project of the 5’11” tatted-up overly enthusiastic, golden-retriever-in-human-form PE teacher, jeon jungkook. he’s all goofy grins, bad math puns, and relentless charm, while you’re busy pretending you’re immune to his antics... spoiler alert: you’re not. and that infuriates you. 

alternatively, jungkook tries to prove that opposites don’t just attract — they collide. a classic case of one plus one equals: “oh, no. i like him.”

PAIRING jeon jungkook x (female) reader

GENRE r18+ (fuff, slight angst, mature content) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

WORD COUNT ~15k (still working around the final wc)

TEASER WORD COUNT 1.8k words

WARNINGS/MISC teachers!au, pe teacher!jk, math teacher!reader, seven!jungkook, himbo!jk, coworkers!au (works in the same school), oc gets kinda mean sometimes but jungkook likes it lmfao, extremely corny pick up lines.. he tries 💔 2000s romcoms references (sorry) warnings for this teaser: nothing major. just bad math puns delivered by himbo jungkook :')

NOTES inspired by the whole “can she gaf me💔” vibes in the seven mv (by jungkook) and ultimately the click five’s song, catch your wave (hence the title🥸 pls listen to the song for the whole vibes hehe <3). ive been wanting to write himbo jk for awhile bcs all my jks are like … smart so far so i thought wait we need to change that. gahhhh im so so freaking excited ive been thinking about writing this ever ever since i wrote that one himbo jk drabble 💃🏼

[ CYW MOODBOARD ] • [ MAIN MASTERLIST ]

RELEASE DATE 2025, FEBRUARY 15TH | 01:00 AM KOREAN STANDARD TIME (GMT+9)

They say life is a balance of good and bad days, and you’re not a pessimistic person, but sometimes enough is enough. How is your week already this bad when it’s just barely started? 

Sunday morning, when you picked up your laundry from the shop, you were too late to realize that you mixed not just one but two white underwear with the colored loads. You’d blame it on the fact that they were too tiny, too flimsy for you to notice. But you know you should’ve double-checked before putting them in the machine. And now you have lost two panties. And in this economy? That shit cost a ton. 

When Monday came and the head of the Math Department informed you there was a sudden shift in your schedule for the semester, it meant that instead of teaching three Algebra classes for tenth graders, you’re also teaching pre-Algebra for eighth graders, meaning you’re gonna have to cross the long walk from the high school building to the middle school one, the latter being all the way to the left wing, completely the opposite side of the right wing where the faculty room and your initial classes are. 

Today, you’ve woken up with your WiFi not connected to the internet (something you have to talk to your landlord about when you come back home) and just two minutes ago, you realized you forgot to take your coffee order with you from the cafe across your school building, the sad garlic bread you bought along with it staring right at you without its beloved beverage pair. 

Truthfully, it might be your last straw. How the hell is this happening to you out of all people? The semester is just starting, for god’s sake, and you’re already hanging on by a thread. 

You take a deep breath on your seat before standing up from your cubicle, heading to the coffee machine by the snack bar.

You hate the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep on stocking the pantry with, it’s too naturally sweet – and you don’t like your coffee with sugar. 

But you have no choice but to make do. The cafe’s too far out and your first class starts in about twenty minutes. 

“Good morning, Ms. Math Genius – ready to crunch some numbers today?” 

As if this day couldn’t get any worse, you shut your eyes close for a moment when you hear the familiar voice. 

You stir your coffee with downturned lips.

“Only if you promise to flex those brain muscles—” You say, turning to look to the side. Much to your expectation, it’s Jeon Jungkook, leaning casually against the wall with that usual faux suave he keeps on around you – which you can’t take seriously because his big doe eyes tell you a completely different story. He’s wearing some Nike dri fit shirt, one that’s too tight around his chest and accentuates a comparatively tiny waist that you have to force your eyes upwards. But as they do, they land on the biceps that are straining against the poor material. It wasn’t lost on you though that one second after, they’re suddenly flexing. You arch your brow as you glance a look on his face. “—as much as you flex those biceps.” 

Jungkook’s lips curl into a huge grin, expecting the jab. 

“You know it!” He chuckles, running his fingers through his bangs. “I’m all about solving problems, and I’d say my favorite equation is you plus me equals a perfect start to the day.” 

You fight a loud groan from escaping your lips as soon as he says that, giving him a certain look before shaking your head and going back to your coffee. 

But you should’ve known better by now, because Jungkook – aside from being a PE teacher extraordinaire and every student’s favorite at that, Thee Football Coach, 5’11” tatted brunette with a long, fluffy hair paired with an objectively, annoyingly attractive face – is persistent. 

Most especially when it comes to annoying you. 

A few steps, and then you feel him getting closer to you. 

“Did you know that—” 

You roll your eyes. That’s it. If it’s another one of his corny math pick-up lines again you swear to god— 

“Jungkook, you don’t have to keep doing this everyda—” 

“—we’re like parallel lines?” 

“What.”

“Did you know that we’re like parallel lines?” Jungkook repeats earnestly, just like he always does. When he’s up in your personal space like this, it’s easy to get a waft of his cologne – and your annoyance could’ve been justified if he smelled like shit but somehow, even though he looks like he just got back from a run judging by his running shoes and gym bag, he still smells… okay. 

Just okay. As in, you don’t care how good he smells like or how he smells at all.

You make sure to keep that thought at the back of your head. 

“No.” You say, hoping to dismiss the conversation right there as you pick up the cup of coffee from the machine, ready to turn on your heel, but then Jungkook laughs ever so slightly and gives your arm a barely-there poke.

“Come on, entertain me a little.” 

You squint your eyes at him. He challenges your stare with a growing smile on his face. Scoffing, you roll your eyes again before you put the paper cup back on the table. With a sigh, you cross your arms and look at Jungkook. For a split second, his eyes cast downwards to your chest level but he quickly snaps out of it. 

“Okay… we’re like parallel lines… why? Because we’ll never meet?” You say in response to his little request, keeping your tone impassive. 

Jungkook’s eyes slowly widen at your words, smile slowly dropping – as if the logic of your words have ruined one of his million pick-up lines again. 

“I– no! What? I meant, we’re like, always running to each other! Side by side. Parallel lines.”

“Okay… so still never meeting?” You ask impatiently, brows furrowing. 

Jungkook mirrors your confusion. Then, he raises a hand, one finger up. “One second. I’ll fix this–” he takes his phone out from his pocket, types on it quickly, lip jutting out as he reads whatever he’s looking up, and then, “Ohh, I might have meant asymptote lines. We’re like asymptote lines.” 

Your face contorts into even deeper confusion. Holy shit, you’re not dealing with this very early on in the morning, especially not after the circumstances of the past hours.

“Asymptote lines are more depressing than parallel lines if we’re talking metaphorically.” 

Jungkook squints his eyes at you, suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“I would hope I know my lines, Jungkook. I teach them everyday.” 

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners cutely, and you hate how that tugs something at your heartstrings. 

You catch yourself right at that moment.

Jeon Jungkook is not cute. You keep in mind. He’s not cute. 

Jungkook thinks you’re so cute. Gorgeous, most of all, and unbelievably so. You and your signature furrowed brows and pink pouty lips.

As usual, you have your hair up in a clean bun today, and Jungkook can smell the lace of sweet vanilla from you as he takes a step closer to get a cup for himself. 

He loves the coffee here. Whatever brand they keep stocking the pantry with, it’s sweet as fuck. Just like how Jungkook likes his caffeine dose. Kind of like you, he thinks. 

Jungkook casts a quick glance at you again, can't really help himself when you're so pretty, although he makes sure to be subtle about it.

You’re wearing another one of your pencil skirts, one that he has to avoid staring at for longer than three seconds lest his mind takes him too far – but the upper view is even more of a torture, unfortunaly for him. Because as much as you wear the same outfit every single day and it should mean that Jungkook should get used to it by now, he can never be immune to your silk long sleeves, where you keep the top three buttons open – and as much as Jungkook tries to pry his gaze away from the exposed skin down from your neck, it’s like there’s a strange force in the universe that keeps him on it. Doesn’t really help that you like crossing your arms under your chest, too, making his mind run a mile per minute at the thoughts that form inside his head when a very apparent cleavage shows—

Alright. Damn. It’s like 8 am. 

And you were saying something about lines…

“Yeah? I hope you can teach me too, I need to—” 

“Goodbye, Mr. Jeon.” You cut him off before he can even finish his sentence, taking your coffee with you as you head to the direction of your cubicle. 

The nickname makes Jungkook’s lips curl up. He probably shouldn’t smile, given that you only ever call him that when you want to cut the conversation with him short. But he can’t help it, it sounds sweet coming from your pretty lips. 

In an attempt to not look like a fool, Jungkook bites his lip as he watches your disappearing figure, your heels clicking on the floor as you walk away. Your legs look so long in that grey pencil skirt, and it really should be criminal how you look like that even when you’re just showing your back. 

In his trance, he forgets about the brewing coffee in his cup and absentmindedly takes it out while the machine is still running, the hot liquid pouring from the nozzle quickly burning the skin on his finger. 

“Oh, shit!” He hisses, jumping from the shock, almost knocking his coffee out but thankfully he manages to catch it on time, just as when another member of the faculty walks by the snack bar. 

With an awkward smile, Jungkook raises a thumbs up to Mrs. Lee. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee. Looking rad as always.” He cheerfully greets, and Mrs. Lee’s confusion from seeing him fumble with his cup earlier quickly turns into a coo. 

“Oh, Mr. Jeon, you charming kid. I was just gonna get my cup of coffee.” She says, walking towards his direction. 

Jungkook adjusts the strap of his gym bag to his shoulder and takes a cup for Mrs. Lee with a grin, making her smile. 

She thanks him and with a playful salute, Jungkook goes toward the general direction of his cubicle, and because the PE department and Math department are just across from each other, he walks past you, typing something on your iPad before you look around and catch his gaze.

Jungkook automatically waves, smiling brightly, but you only frown, shutting your iPad close and ignoring him.

Amused, Jungkook tries to fight off a huge grin, taking a few long strides to get to his own cubicle. 

His day is already off to a good start.

© 𝐀𝐖𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐕𝐄 2025. all rights reserved. copying, editing, reposting and/or translating any of my works are not allowed.

[kashverse]

can i request babykuna when she was still in the womb? like sukuna being all sweet and caring to reader when she’s pregnant and talking to her baby bump.

the day sukuna found out you were pregnant, he screamed. not in fear, not in shock—but in sheer, unfiltered, snotty-nosed joy. one moment, he was staring at the positive test in your hands. the next, he had his face buried in his monogrammed handkerchief, honking out the loudest, wettest happy sobs you’d ever heard.

you wondered if you had accidentally married a goose.

“oh my god,” you muttered, watching him go through all five stages of parenthood in under a minute. “we’re having a baby,” he sniffled, pulling you into his arms like he was never letting go. “holy fuck, we’re gonna be parents.”

“yeah, that’s kinda what happens when you—”

“shhh.” he dropped to his knees, pressing his ear to your stomach. “the baby’s listening.”

“… sukuna, i am barely six weeks. there's nothing to listen to.”

he ignored you, humming deeply like he was communicating with the soul of the unborn child. then, after a few moments of wise, fatherly contemplation, he sat up and clapped his hands.

“both of you need rest. now.”

“but i—”

“now.”

and thus began the nine-month saga of sukuna baby-proofing the entire planet.

he refused to let you lift a finger. not even a pinky.

“babe, can you—”

“no.”

“but i just—”

“no.”

you reached for a glass of water right in front of you. he intercepted. he became the ultimate husband, reading baby books, forcing you to take naps, buying enough pregnancy pillows to construct a small fortress. one day, you caught him in the study, wisely reading through the classics.

he squinted at the page, frowning. “… countenance.”

silence.

he flipped the page back. then forward. then he snorted.

“why the fuck does this word exist? just say ‘face,’ dumbass.”

he built two entire walk-in closets for babykuna. one for a boy. one for a girl. “you never know,” he said wisely, surveying his masterpiece.

“sukuna, it’s one baby.”

“you never know.”

it didn’t matter, though. he didn’t care about the gender. “as long as the kid’s happy and healthy,” he muttered one night, resting his hand over your belly, his voice soft, reverent. then, after a beat: 

“but if it’s a boy, i am not naming him after me. too much pressure.”

when the day finally came, and you held babykuna for the first time—her tiny fists curled, her chubby cheeks already resembling her father’s, her rebellious little tuft of hair standing up in defiance—sukuna knew he knew he was right where he was supposed to be.

"she looks like you," you whispered, exhausted but happy, brushing her soft little cheek. he snorted, reaching over to push a strand of hair from your face. "nah," he said, smirking, voice thick with emotion. "she's got your hair."

and for the first time in his life, sukuna felt complete.

[luv-lock]

... # ☆ GOLDEN BOY .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ 𝘗𝘈𝘐𝘙𝘐𝘕𝘎 : Robin Dick Grayson x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 (𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯).

☆⁠ NOTES : 𝘛𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺!

It starts off innocently enough—just a little crush. You sit near him in class, maybe one row over, and you’re one of the only people who genuinely sees him, not as Bruce Wayne’s ward, not as the golden boy acrobat, but just Dick. The first time you smile at him? Oh, he’s done for. It’s over. That bright, genuine expression you give him after he cracks a dumb joke sends his heart into overdrive. He’s replaying it in his head for weeks. He starts noticing everything about you. The way you twirl your pen when you’re thinking, the soft hum you let out when you're focused, how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. He starts making excuses to talk to you. “Hey, do you have the notes from last class?” even though he has a perfect memory. “Do you get the homework? I think I missed something.” He just wants to hear your voice, to make you focus on him.

At first, it’s all sweet, dorky teenage boy vibes. But then it starts getting a little intense. He watches you when you’re not looking—not in a creepy way (okay, maybe a little), but in a memorizing everything about you way. He just wants to understand you. What makes you laugh? What makes you frown? Who do you talk to the most? If you mention liking a certain song, you bet he’s listening to it on repeat that night. If you mention a favorite book, he’s reading it in one night just so he can bring it up casually. He adores hearing you say his name. He swears it sounds different coming from your lips. Whenever you do, he fights the urge to grin like an idiot. He gets jealous so easily, but he doesn’t show it in an obvious way. It’s more of a subtle coldness toward any guy you talk to for too long. If someone flirts with you, he’s immediately analyzing everything about them, thinking, What does she see in him?

He’s Robin before anything else, and that means he’s naturally protective. Gotham’s dangerous, and even if you don’t know his secret, he makes it his job to keep you safe. If you're walking home late? He just so happens to be taking the same route. Coincidence? He’d never admit it. He pays attention to how people treat you. If anyone ever makes you uncomfortable, he remembers. Not that he’d ever do anything drastic (yet), but they might find themselves getting mysteriously unlucky.

He doesn’t mean to know so much about you—it just happens. It’s not weird that he remembers your schedule, right? Or that he noticed when you switched shampoos? Or that he can tell when something’s bothering you before you even say anything? He doesn’t mean to follow you home sometimes. He just… wants to make sure you’re okay. Gotham’s dangerous, and you don’t have training like he does. And he definitely doesn’t mean to get distracted on patrol whenever he sees someone who looks like you. But for a split second, he forgets Gotham’s crime rate and thinks, Is she out this late? He’s self-aware enough to know this isn’t just a normal crush. But it’s harmless, right? He’s just watching out for you. If you ever casually compliment him—“You’re really smart, Dick” or “I like being around you”—he malfunctions. Completely. And if you ever initiate contact? Oh, he’s done. Completely, utterly, hopelessly yours.

Dick is a puppy when it comes to you. The second you walk into the classroom, he perks up. If he’s sitting, he straightens his posture. If he’s standing, he suddenly finds something super interesting about the wall just to avoid looking too eager. He lives for those little moments of eye contact. If you catch him staring, he plays it off like he was lost in thought—but inside? His brain is melting. He starts doodling your name in the margins of his notebooks without even realizing it. One day, he catches himself writing “Mr. and Mrs. Grayson” in the corner of his notes and nearly dies on the spot. If you ever say something nice about his eyes? Oh, you’ve ruined him. He will think about that compliment for weeks. Every time he looks in the mirror, he wonders, Does she like them this way? Does she think they’re pretty?

Whenever the teacher asks a question, he needs to be the one who answers it. Not because he’s a know-it-all, but because he wants you to see how smart he is. If you're struggling with something—anything—he’s immediately offering to help. Bad at math? Boom, he's suddenly your personal tutor (even though he secretly hates math). Need a partner for a project? He's already pulling his desk closer before you can even ask. He randomly picks up new skills just because you mentioned liking them. If you say you love guitar players? Guess who suddenly owns a guitar and is watching hours of tutorials? Gym class becomes his personal Olympics. If you're watching, he's running faster, jumping higher, and doing flips that are completely unnecessary just to get your attention.

If you so much as sigh in class, he notices. “You okay?” His voice is so soft, full of genuine concern, and he will not rest until you tell him what’s wrong. He remembers everything you say. Mentioned craving a certain snack? He’s “randomly” bringing it to school the next day. Said you liked a certain brand of lip balm? He notices every time you put it on. If you’re ever sad, he’s ready to drop everything. The moment you look upset, he leans in, voice low and sweet, “Hey… talk to me.” He’ll listen so intently, nodding at all the right moments, just aching to fix whatever’s wrong. He’s a natural gentleman around you. Holding doors open, pulling out chairs, letting you borrow his jacket when it's cold (even if he’s freezing). It’s second nature to him—he just wants to take care of you.

If you miss a day of school? He’s restless. Checking his phone way too much, tapping his pencil, wondering where you are, if you’re okay, if you miss him too. The day you come back? He’s practically glowing. “Hey! You’re back!” His voice is a little too excited, but he can’t help it. He loves when you talk to him first. The moment you say, “Hey, Dick!” in the hallway, he lights up like a Christmas tree. If you touch his arm while laughing? Oh. He’s not getting over that for at least a month. If you’re ever even slightly affectionate with him—resting your head on his shoulder, holding onto his wrist absentmindedly—he’s gone. He replays that moment forever, sighing like a lovesick fool in his room at night.

He has so many little fantasies about you. Not weird ones—just soft, innocent daydreams. Holding hands. Walking you home. Kissing you under the stars like in the movies. He imagines what it would be like if you were his. If he could just tell you how much you mean to him, if he could wrap his arms around you whenever he wanted, if he could finally call you his. But for now, he’s content just being close to you, memorizing every little thing about you, waiting for the moment when you’ll finally see him the way he sees you. Because to him? You’re already his—you just don’t know it yet.

Dick has been thinking about this for weeks. No—months. He’s built up so many little fantasies about it in his head. He imagines it happening naturally, like in the movies—maybe you’ll both laugh at something at the same time, your eyes will meet, and you’ll just know. But no. That’s not realistic. He needs a plan. So, naturally, he overthinks everything. Should he ask casually? Should he write a note? Should he just confess dramatically in the rain? (That one’s his favorite idea, but Gotham’s weather isn’t cooperating.)

He starts dropping little comments like, “Hey, you ever been to that cute café downtown?” or “Do you like Italian food?” If you mention liking a certain place, guess who suddenly loves that place too? “Oh, you like that diner? No way! I love that diner. We should totally go sometime…” He tests the waters constantly. “Would you ever go out with someone from our class?” (Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes—)

He practices in the mirror. A lot. He even tries different tones—cool and casual (“Hey, wanna grab a bite with me?”), nervous but sweet (“I was, um, wondering if you’d maybe wanna go out?”), and even overly confident (“Obviously, you should go on a date with me.”). But the moment he actually sees you? Oh. His brain malfunctions. “Hey—uh—so—okay—hypothetically, if a guy—like me—were to, um, ask you to hang out—but like, not as friends, more like a date—what would you, uh… think?” The second he says it, he wants to die. That was NOT what he practiced. That was awful. But you laugh. Not at him—just at how adorably flustered he is. And oh, if your laugh wasn’t already his favorite sound, it definitely is now.

If you say yes? Oh. He short-circuits. He’s trying to stay cool, but inside? Explosions. Fireworks. The Bat-Signal shining just for him. “Really? I mean—yeah! Cool! Totally cool. Um, how’s Friday? Or Saturday? Or any day? I’m free. Like, always. For you.”

Once you say yes, he goes into full-on mission mode. He has to make this perfect. This isn’t just a date—it’s your first date together, meaning it has to be something you’ll remember forever. He spends an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear. He changes outfits at least five times before realizing, “Oh God, I’m worse than Bruce.” He arrives early. He tells himself not to, but he literally cannot be late. In fact, he’s been there so long that by the time you show up, he’s already memorized the entire menu.

When He Sees You… Oh. He’s gone. The moment he lays eyes on you, it’s like the world just stops. “Wow.” He says it without thinking, and then immediately tries to cover it up with a cough. “I mean—not that you don’t always look great! Because you do. All the time. But tonight? Wow.” (He is so embarrassing. And he does not care.)

He’s lowkey flexing. Not in an arrogant way, but in a please find me impressive way. He talks about his training (“I mean, gymnastics is kinda my thing…”), but downplays it like it’s not incredibly cool.

When you least expect it, he gets weirdly soft. He looks at you when you’re not paying attention, like he’s memorizing you. Like he can’t believe you’re real.

When he walks you home, he wants to hold your hand. He wants to kiss you, but he’s too nervous (what if it’s too soon? What if she doesn’t want that?) “I had fun tonight,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. He really wants to ask if he can kiss you. But instead, he blurts out— “So, um. Can I… take you out again?” (His voice is so hopeful—he looks like a puppy waiting for a treat.) Yes? Oh! Congratulations, you have just made his entire year. He’s smiling so hard all the way home, practically skipping. The second he gets home, he flops onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, sighing like a total fool. She said yes. She had fun. She’s gonna be mine. I just know it.

Oh. You have no idea what you’ve just signed up for. Dick is the most devoted boyfriend on the planet. He’s not just in love—he’s obsessed (in the cutest, puppy-eyed way possible). He still can’t believe you’re actually his. Every time he sees you at school, his heart flutters. He gets this dumb, lovesick smile on his face and can’t even hide it. If you so much as look at him in the hallway? Oh, he’s grinning like an idiot. If you say his name? His entire day is made. He constantly reminds himself, She’s my girlfriend now. I get to love her. I get to take care of her. And that? Oh, he will take that job very seriously.

He always waits for you after class. No matter where you sit, what you’re doing—he’s outside the door, waiting with a big grin. “Hey, babe.” (He’s still getting used to calling you that, but he loves it.) He carries your books without you even asking. If you have a heavy bag? He’s grabbing it before you can protest. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I let you carry all this, huh?” He starts noticing everything about you. Your little habits, the way you fidget when you’re nervous, the way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. He loves memorizing you.

Oh, he is so clingy, but he tries so hard to play it cool. He wants to be around you all the time. He has zero chill when it comes to other guys. The moment he notices some random dude even looking at you? His entire mood shifts. He doesn’t make a scene, but he gets super touchy. Arm around your shoulder. Hand on your waist. Pulling you closer. Just little things to remind everyone— She’s mine. If a guy gets too bold? Oh. Dick doesn’t get jealous—he gets possessive. He won’t start a fight (unless he has to), but his presence alone is enough to make people back off. “Everything okay, babe?” He asks, voice casual—but his grip on your waist tightens just a little.

He is so cheesy. He will literally text you “Good morning, beautiful ❤️” every single day. If you ever fall asleep on him? Oh. That’s it. That’s his favorite thing in the entire world. He’ll sit there, completely still for hours, just so he doesn’t wake you. He keeps every little thing you give him. If you write him a note? He treasures it. If you give him a silly doodle? He tucks it in his wallet. He gets so excited every time you touch him first. If you hold his hand, kiss his cheek, lean against him? He plays it cool on the outside, but inside? Explosions. “I’m gonna marry her one day,” he definitely tells himself after, staring at the ceiling like a fool.

In his mind? This is it. You and him? You’re meant to be. There is no future where you’re not together. He doesn’t just think about your future together—he fantasizes about it. What your life will be like. How he’ll propose one day. How you’ll be his forever. She loves me. She has to. She’s mine. If you ever mention breaking up? Oh. No. That isn’t an option. He can’t lose you. But he’s not crazy. No, no. He’s rational. If you ever tried to leave him, it would only be because you were confused. You just need to see how perfect you are together. And if that means proving his love over and over again? He’ll gladly do it. Because you are his.

You have officially unlocked the most devoted, lovesick, slightly delusional boyfriend ever. He worships the ground you walk on. He adores you. There is nothing in this world he wouldn’t do for you. In his mind? This isn’t just young love. This is forever.

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[hoe4hotchner]

can i req aaron with an s/o who's ovulating or has a high sex drive and is easily turned on by him (regardless of if he's trying to or not)

The Hotchner effect | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 2.0k | CW: MDNI, 18+, smut, Couch sex.

A/N: Well…… this was the smut I was excited about writing the night before I was hit by that car. So, here you guys go ;) To anyone interested: I've almost made a full recovery at this point. In a couple of days I'll probably be 100% fine again :D

You always thought you had decent control over yourself and your body—at least until you met Aaron Hotchner. Somehow, just being around him tested your limits, especially when he wasn’t even trying. Every. Single. Day. Whether it was his voice, as low and commanding as it was when you visited him in the middle of a case brief at the BAU, or the way his tie shifted as he rolled up his sleeves, everything he did made your heart race—and that was on a normal day.

But today? Today, your hormones were in overdrive. Ovulating didn’t just make you aware of him; it made everything he did feel like it was specifically designed to unravel you. All of your senses tuned onto his wavelengths.

His scent lingering in the sheets—hypnotizing.

The sound of his footsteps across the floor—ears perked.

Every little twitch and movement he made—you suddenly had 20/20 vision.

Like now, as he stood in the kitchen casually pouring himself a cup of coffee before retreating back to his office. The crisp white shirt he wore hugged his frame just right, the fabric stretched taut across his broad shoulders, his suit jacket long forgotten on the back of his chair after he had returned home.

He wasn’t even speaking, but the way he leaned against the counter, so composed and yet so authoritative, was enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts veer wildly off course.

“Are you alright?” His voice cut through your haze, and you froze, realizing you’d been staring at him.

“Uh, yeah! Fine. Totally fine,” you said quickly, reaching for a cup as if that was why you’d been standing there in the first place.

His lips twitched in a faint smile, and you cursed internally because even that was hot. Damn him.

The problem was, Aaron knew. Maybe not the full extent of it, but he was far too observant not to notice the way your breath hitched when he looked at you or how your cheeks flushed whenever he got too close. And right now, you could see the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes as he stepped closer, seemingly to grab the sugar.

“Sure you’re fine?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You gripped the counter, your body betraying you as heat flushed through your skin. “Y-yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

His gaze lingered, assessing, and for a moment, you thought he might press further. But instead, he leaned back, sipping his coffee, completely unbothered by the chaos he was causing inside you.

The rest of the day wasn’t any better. Whether it was the way he adjusted his tie, the faint scruff on his jaw after a long phone call, or how his hand brushed yours when he came out of the office for a moment, you were practically vibrating with tension.

By the time he finished his workload, you were ready to combust.

Aaron was undoing his cufflinks when you finally snapped. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” you blurted, crossing your arms as you stood in the middle of the living room.

He glanced up, eyebrows raised, but the smirk tugging at his lips told you everything. “I might have an idea,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, and damn him again because he was still so calm, so composed, while you were unraveling.

“You’re driving me insane, Aaron,” you confessed, and this time, his smirk softened into something deeper, more knowing.

“Come here,” he said, his tone shifting, and the weight of it alone made your knees weak.

You didn’t hesitate, crossing the space between you in an instant. His hands found your waist, pulling you close as his lips brushed your temple. “You know,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin, “I’ve been trying to keep my distance all day because I could tell you were… distracted.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Distracted is an understatement.”

His fingers tightened slightly on your hips, his lips grazing your ear now. “Well, sweetheart, I’m all yours now.”

And that was all it took for you to finally close the gap, pulling him into a kiss that was every bit as heated as the tension that had been simmering between you all day.

As soon as your lips met, it was like all the pent-up desire and arousal from the day came pouring out in a wave of pure, unbridled passion. Your kiss was hungry, almost feral, your hands roaming over Aaron's body as if trying to memorize every edge and angle.

Aaron groaned into your mouth, his own hands slipping under your shirt to explore the soft skin of your back. He tugged impatiently at the fabric, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head and toss it aside before his fingers quickly found the clasp of your bra and unhooked it.

His gaze raked over your exposed breasts as he freed them.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, palming your one, the callous on his fingers rough against your skin. "You're so gorgeous. I can't get enough of you."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your nipples hardening almost painfully under his touch. You arched into his hand, a needy whimper escaping your lips. He took the opportunity to lower his head and capture one of your nipples between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasurable pain straight to your core.

You cried out, tangling your fingers in his hair and holding him close. He lavished attention on your breasts, alternating between nipping and sucking until you were writhing against him, your body aching for more. Your hands scrabbled at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Aaron seemed to understand, moving back just long enough to yank his shirt off before continuing his attack on you again. The feel of his bare chest against yours was electric, sending sparks of pleasure through your nerves. You ran your hands over his muscles, marveling at the way they flexed beneath your touch.

Your arousal was growing with each passing second, and your panties soaked. You could feel the heat building between your legs, your body crying out for release. Aaron seemed to sense it, his hands sliding down to the waistband of your pants.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust. "Tell me what you need, baby," he murmured, his fingers toying with the button. "Tell me how you want me to make you feel."

His words were like a match thrown in a puddle of gasoline, igniting the fire in your veins. "I need you," you gasped, your hips bucking against his hand. "I need you inside me. Please, Aaron, fuck me."

A wicked grin spread across Aaron's face, his eyes glinting with promise. "With pleasure," he purred, popping the button of your pants and sliding them down your legs. You kicked them off eagerly, leaving you in nothing but a damp pair of panties.

Aaron drank in the sight of you, his gaze trailing over every inch of exposed skin. "God, you're perfect," he breathed, running a finger along the edge of your panties. "So perfect."

He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly pulling them down and baring you completely to his hungry gaze. You flushed under his scrutiny, but the heat of his stare only served to fuel your desire. He leaned you back, the weight os his body pressing against you as your back hit the cushion of the couch.

"I'm going to taste every inch of you," he promised as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

And with that, he buried his face between your legs, his tongue delving into your already dripping folds. You cried out at the first touch, your back arching off the couch. He lapped at you greedily, his tongue exploring every crevice and fold, finding all the spots that made you gasp and moan. He knew you too well.

Your hands flew to his hair, holding him in place as he worked you over with skill. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, your hips rocking against his mouth in a desperate search for more. He obliged happily, sliding two fingers inside you and curling them just right, hitting the spot that made stars blind your vision.

"Oh god, Aaron," you keened, your head thrashing from side to side. "Don't stop, please don't stop. I'm so close."

He doubled his efforts, sucking hard on your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, building and building until it finally washed over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy.

You screamed his name as you came, your body convulsing beneath him. He worked you through it, prolonging your orgasm until you were boneless and spent, collapsing back against the mattress. But Aaron was far from done with you.

He crawled up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that tasted of your own arousal. You could feel his stiffness pressing against you, hot and insistent. Breaking the kiss, he reached down to undo his pants, shoving them down just far enough to free his cock.

"I need to be inside you," he grunted, positioning himself at your entrance. "I need to feel you wrapped around me. Think you can take one more, for me?"

You nodded breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. He surged forward, burying himself inside you with one smooth thrust. You both groaned at the sensation, your bodies fitting together like they were made for each other.

Aaron set a hard and fast pace, his hips snapping against yours with each powerful stroke. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your moans and cries of pleasure. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle and allowing him to go even deeper.

"You feel amazing," he panted, his eyes locked on yours. "So tight and wet and perfect. I never want this to end."

His words sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him in response, your eyes watering from pure bliss. He groaned at the sensation, his thrusts becoming erratic and uncoordinated as he chased his own release.

You could feel another orgasm building low in your belly, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each pass of his cock. "Harder," you gasped, digging your nails into his back. "Fuck me harder, Aaron."

He obliged with a guttural moan, hammering into you with all his strength. The bed creaked beneath you, rocking with the force of his thrusts. You could feel him pulsing inside you, growing thicker and harder with each passing second.

"Cum for me, baby," he groaned, his voice strained with effort. "Come all over my cock. I want to feel you squeezing me."

His words were all it took to send you hurtling over the edge once more. You came with a near-silent scream, your body shuddering and convulsing beneath him as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Aaron followed a second later, burying himself deep inside you and flooding your womb with his seed.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you gasping for breath as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasms. He pressed soft kisses to your face and neck, murmuring words of love and devotion against your skin.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you whispered back, tangling your fingers in his hair. "More than anything."

He smiled against your skin, rolling onto his side and pulling you close. You nestled into his arms, your body still tingling with pleasure. As you drifted off to sleep, safe and sated in his embrace, you knew that this was where you belonged.

[missdynamighttt]

if husband! katsuki had a dream that you served him divorce papers, he would be SO mad at you.

katsuki woke up with a start, his chest heaving as the remnants of the vivid dream clung to his mind. in the dream, you had stood in front of him, utterly calm, as you handed him his worst nightmare: divorce papers.

“it's not you, its me,” you said, your expression indifferent as if breaking his heart meant nothing. "i'm just bored, katsuki."

it wasn’t real, he knew that. but the image of you walking away from him felt too real, too painful. the words echoed in his head as he sat on the edge of the bed, his fists clenched. bored? how could you say that after everything you've been through? even though it was just a dream, it shook him to near death.

and when katsuki saw you later that morning, smiling and greeting him like usual, he couldn’t help but scowl. normally, the sight would calm him, but instead, a strange sense of betrayal bubbled up inside him. how could dream-you say something like that? and why couldn’t he shake the feeling?

“morning, katsuki,” you said cheerfully, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

he turned his head slightly, causing your lips to brush his jaw instead. you blinked, confused. “uh… everything okay?”

“fine,” he muttered, getting up and leaving you all alone in the bed.

all day, katsuki avoided your texts, kept his responses curt, and barely looked your way when you crossed paths at home. you quickly realized something was off but couldn’t figure out what. by evening, you had enough.

"okay, whats your problem? you've been sulking all day,” you said firmly, standing in front of him while he sat on the couch. “you’ve been acting like i killed your damn dog. what did i do?”

katsuki glared at you, his emotions finally bubbling over. “you left me! that’s what you did!”

you stared at him, completely baffled. “what are you talking about? i didn’t leave you. i’ve been here all day!”

katsuki exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “fine. i had this stupid dream, alright? you—” he hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “you divorced me. you said you were bored and just... left me.”

for a moment, there was silence as you processed what he was saying. then, to katsuki’s annoyance, you started laughing.

“you’re mad at me... because of a dream?” you asked, your laughter bubbling out uncontrollably.

“it felt real!” he barked, his cheeks flushing slightly. “you don’t get to laugh! this isn't fuckin' funny! do you know how shitty that felt?!”

“i’m sorry!” you gasped between giggles, clutching your stomach. “it’s just… do you really think i’d ever do that?”

katsuki’s scowl deepened. “its not that. its just... you said it so casually in the dream. like i didn’t even matter.”

you tried to stifle your laughter, but your amusement was clear as day. “katsuki... you’re everything to me. i would never leave you. ever. especially not because i was bored. you’re the opposite of boring. you’re the most stubborn, infuriating, incredible man I’ve ever met.”

he grunted, looking away. “tch. doesn’t change the fact that it felt real.”

you bit your lip, guilt swirling in your chest. you could see how much the dream had affected katsuki, even if it wasn’t real. determined to make it up to him, you climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and cupped his face in your hands.

“i’m sorry your brain decided to torture you like that,” you said softly before leaning in to pepper his face with kisses. “but let me remind you of how much i love you.”

your lips pressed against his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and finally, his lips. each kiss was light and playful, drawing a reluctant smirk from him.

“sweets,” katsuki muttered, trying to keep up the tough act, but you didn’t let up.

you continued your attack, kissing down his jaw and back to his lips, murmuring between kisses. “i'm so happy you're my husband.”

katsuki finally relented, his hands settling on your hips as he let out a low chuckle. “you’re fuckin' weird.”

“and you’re grumpy,” you teased. “but i love you anyway.”

“hmph. i love you too,” he admitted, his voice softer now as his arms wrap around you, brushing your nose against his. “sorry for being an idiot today.”

“you’re not an idiot. just... talk to me about it next time, okay?”

"fine. be my fuckin' wife for forever, 'kay?"

"i promise," you cut him off with a kiss.

and katsuki kissed you back, finally letting the tension melt away, drowning himself in the taste of your and your presence. you're here. you weren't gonna leave him because he was bored. you never would.

"tch. i’m still blaming you for my bad dreams though."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[gumii-bearr]

idea maybes

academic rival/nerd satoru… him acting all high and mighty and then is an utter virgin (but you are tew so you too together are hopeless)

YESSSSSSSS HAHAHAHA

thinking about... ❝ hopeless nerds ❞

featuring... satoru gojo

content warning: MDNI (18+), afab!reader, nerd!virgin!gojo, nerd!virgin!reader, academic rivals, two dorks, gojo is such an asshole, smut, creampie, praise kink, masturbation, inexperienced dorks tryna bang, dare i say crybaby dom gojo, sexual tension, somnophilia, sexually frustrated nerds

author's note: im sorry i haven't posted in a while!!!! my town has flooded and we've lost power a few times and i can't leave my house :,)

── nerd!gojo immediately pissing you off the moment he opens his fucking mouth.

── nerd!gojo who shares a few classes with you and he's always talking over you, has to prove your points wrong even when you back them up with facts and research.

── he does it to make you mad, you know he does. he does it because it's so easy to make you mad and it's fucking cute how your nose scrunches and how you fold your arms over your chest and give him the cold shoulder the rest of the lesson.

── "fuck you, satoru."

── "oh you wish, sweetheart."

── nerd!gojo who purposely sits next to you in class because he knows his presence drives you up the wall.

── he points out holes in your research, steals your pens off your desk, leans on your shoulder and stays there no matter how much to elbow his side, there is no peace with him.

── nerd!gojo who is tied for best grade in the class with none other than you. and fuck it makes him mad, though he would never admit it.

── nerd!gojo who teases you when you're even a single point behind him when you get your grades back.

── nerd!gojo who never hears the end of it when you do better than him on a test or essay.

── nerd!gojo who may find you annoying, but he also finds your competitiveness and smart-ass demeanour fucking hot.

── you're the only person to ever one-up him. give him a run for his place as the smartest guy in class.

── you're single-handedly his motivation to do better in class. not because he wants to, but because he needs to win.

── you're so smug when you win and you're so hot-headed when you don't. he starts to find it fucking confusing when you bicker with him or insult his intelligence and he finds it... hot.

── you could be calling him every colourful name under the sun and he would just stand there and take it with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face and his eyes peeking over his sunglasses and staring at your pretty lips.

── nerd!gojo who is also virgin!gojo, which you would never have guessed with how he holds himself– always so outwardly confident and always has soooo much to say.

── virgin!gojo who has maybe kissed two girls his whole life, forced to hole himself up in his dorm and fist his cock when he's so beyond frustrated.

── virgin!gojo who finds himself starting to think about... you.

── virgin!gojo who thinks about burying his virgin cock inside you, fucking you stupid on his cock since you always seem to have something to say.

── you find it fucking weird when he doesn't shoot back with a sarcastic comment one morning, his eyes unable to meet yours.

── now you know something's wrong because it always makes gojo's day when he sees your face flush and watches you stomp around all angry and annoyed at him.

── virgin!gojo who doesn't know what to do when he's cornered by you in the library, and for the first time, he sees you be genuine toward him.

── "aw, you care about me."

── "you know what? forget it."

── virgin!gojo who knows he needs to just shut his big mouth for once and he finally does– by slamming you against the closest bookshelf and messily kissing you like his life depends on it.

── virgin!gojo who realises he's super out of practice when it comes to kissing... or maybe you're both bad.

── virgin!gojo who panics when he gets you back to his dorm room, clumsy fingers pulling your clothes off while you nervously pull at his.

── it's slow and it's messy and there's very obviously an elephant in the room that neither of you want to address.

── but you finally bite the bullet.

── "i'm a virgin."

── "you telling me no one's ever wanted to fuck that bitchy attitude out of you?"

── "don't piss me off."

── virgin!gojo who admits he too is a virgin.

── the two of you acknowledge that there's been a sexual tension brewing between you two for a while... so maybe you should just fuck it out.

── virgin!gojo who sinks to his knees, throwing your thighs over his shoulders and pressing his curious tongue against your soaked slit.

── no one's ever touched you like that– you're getting riled up just seeing him between your thighs.

── virgin!gojo who is finally fucking quiet and lets you show him when you guide him on how to finger you. you show him where to touch you, how to touch you, where to lick and suck on you.

── and virgin!gojo who listens and he's a fast learner because he wants to please you.

── and when virgin!gojo finally sinks his huge fucking cock inside you. you nearly fucking scream.

── and virgin!gojo who has no idea he's big. no one's ever seen his cock, or felt it. he's had nothing to compare it to–

── "you're so fucking big."

── "oh, yeah? you like it, baby?"

── virgin!gojo who didn't think he'd like dirty talk as much as he does. but he likes how you whine and moan just from his voice, how he can rile you up and have you soaking his dick and the sheets just from telling you what a good girl you are.

── but also virgin!gojo who is a fucking whiner when he's getting close to his high. your virgin cunt is so warm and tight, he's never experienced such fucking bliss.

── he's whining about how good you feel, how he's never felt something so fucking mind-blowing. he just keeps fucking talking cus if he doesn't he's gonna cum.

── and virgin!gojo who fucking cries when he cums because he's on cloud fucking nine. his hips slap erratically, his thrusts are shallow and fast as he approaches his high and his fists curl into the sheets by your head to keep him grounded.

── and you just wrap your arms around his neck, hold him close as he breathes in your intoxicating scent, arms wrapped around you as he keeps his cock buried inside you alongside the ropes of cum he messily spilled inside you.

── and nerd!gojo who keeps his cock buried inside you all night, unable to part from your tight warmth.

── and you don't mind, you just pet his hair and tell him how good he did.

── and of course, nerd!gojo who wakes you up with quiet breathes by your ear, his hips slapping against your plush ass because he can't get enough of you.

── nerd!gojo who makes it his mission to make you cum. obsessed with watching you fall apart on his tongue and his fingers, or on his cock or his thigh.

── really just nerd!gojo who finds out a lot about himself and is no longer virgin!gojo because of you.

author's note: someone bring me a NERD RIGHT NOW

permanent taglist: @exclusiverinaa @starpachinko @kentotism @gumisueme @arcanefeelings @cyslips @sojumamii @naammiii @jvpit3rr @nvvxlaya @2ukika @ashyiiy @jud3thedude @antiblfanon14 @capsule-losing-contact @mrs-okkotsu222 @somethinglikero @raya4643 @julieannah @arasakaa @luciferslover @re-tired-succubus @xastoriaaurax @girlexpensive @sobbingscripter @bakuhoe37 @doechiiyz @evergumi @showtimejoseph @kimkimoruo

[rafedarling]

Hai rafedarling,

I had an idea of reader visiting the set of Outer Banks with her son/daughter toddler. And the cast members are surprised who she is. Drew is mostly surprised she is there because of reader doesn't like crowds. And the reason she is out of the spotlight and doesn't go to premieres and that sort of things.

hii anon!! this one-shot is in another universe where reader and drew first born is a daughter.

𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

pairing: dad!drew starkey x mom!reader

summary: drew has always respected your choice to stay private, away from the spotlight, even as his career flourished. but when he asks if you’d bring your three-year-old daughter, noelle, to visit him on the outer banks set, you decide to step out of your comfort zone for him. the moment you and noe arrive, drew’s world lights up, and his castmates are both surprised and excited to finally meet the woman he adores and the daughter he never stops talking about.

warning(s): extreme fluff, drew being the best dad, noelle being an adorable ball of shyness, mentions of social anxiety, secondhand embarrassment, and an overwhelmingly sweet family moment.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore

You adjusted the tiny sneakers on Noelle’s feet, making sure they were secure before glancing up at your daughter’s bright eyes. She sat on the bed, small hands gripping the fabric of her leggings, excitement practically vibrating off her little frame.

“Are you ready to meet Dada, Noe?”

You asked with a warm smile.

“Yes, Mama! I am so weady,”

She chirped, her innocent voice sounding like pure sunshine

Your heart swelled. Noelle had always been a daddy’s girl, even if she didn’t get to see Drew as often as she wanted when he was on set. He video-called every night, sending her voice messages, silly selfies, and sometimes even short bedtime stories when he couldn’t tuck her in himself.

But today was special.

Today, for the first time ever, you were taking her to visit Drew on the Outer Banks set.

You hesitated when he first asked. Not because you didn’t want to go you missed him just as much as Noe did but because you weren’t used to being in places filled with cameras, fans, or a sea of people who recognized Drew on sight. You had chosen privacy long ago, staying in the shadows while supporting him from afar. Even now, almost no one knew who you were beyond your name, and you preferred it that way.

But this was for Drew. And Noelle. And honestly… you missed him too much to let your own nerves get in the way.

“Alright,” you said, holding out your hand for Noelle to take.

“We are ready.”

She eagerly grabbed onto you, her tiny fingers curling around yours as the two of you made your way to the car. The drive wasn’t too long, only about thirty minutes, considering how lucky you were to live near the filming location. Noelle spent the ride singing her little songs, occasionally asking, “How much longer, Mama?” before going back to talking to her stuffed bunny.

When you finally arrived, your stomach tightened with nerves. You weren’t used to this. The idea of walking onto a set filled with actors, crew members, and people who knew Drew in a way you never really experienced firsthand was… intimidating.

But then, as soon as you stepped out of the car and unbuckled Noe from her car seat, you saw him.

Drew was standing near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot like an excited kid waiting for Christmas morning. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, but the moment he spotted you and Noelle, his entire face lit up, his smile was so bright it rivaled the sun.

You squeezed Noelle’s hand gently.

“Noe, who’s that?” you asked softly, giving her a little shake to get her attention.

She looked up, eyes scanning the area until they locked onto Drew. Her face immediately mirrored his.

“DADA!”

Before you could react, she let go of your hand and sprinted toward him, her tiny legs moving as fast as they could. Drew didn’t even hesitate he dropped to his knees, arms outstretched, ready to catch her.

She crashed into him, giggling as he scooped her up and pressed a million kisses to her cheeks.

“Hi, my baby,”

Drew murmured against her hair, holding her close.

“I missed you so much.”

“I miss you, Dada,” she mumbled into his shoulder, arms locked tightly around his neck.

You walked toward them at a slower pace, adjusting your black mask and hat, feeling both relieved and oddly emotional at the reunion in front of you.

When you reached them, Drew tilted his head up, his eyes shining with nothing but love.

“Oh, my two favorite people on this entire planet,” he said, pulling you in for a hug. His lips found yours in a quick but tender kiss, his free hand resting on the small of your back. Then, he pressed another kiss to Noe’s head.

“Thank you for coming,” he murmured, his voice soft but filled with gratitude.

“I know you hate crowds, but—”

“Shhh,” you cut him off gently, smiling behind your mask.

“I’m happy to be here. Really.”

Drew’s eyes softened, searching yours like he wanted to make sure you weren’t just saying that for his sake. Then he grinned.

“Are we happy to be here, Noe?”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and nodded eagerly.

“Um hmm, Mama.”

Before Drew could respond, a new voice cut in.

“Oh my god, look who it is.”

You turned your head just in time to see Madison Bailey walking toward you, eyes wide with excitement.

You had seen her in interviews, heard Drew talk about her often, but this was your first time actually meeting her in person. And wow, she was just as gorgeous as she looked on screen.

“Hey, Y/N!” Madison grinned.

“Oh my gosh, first time meeting! Drew talks so much about you.”

You chuckled lightly.

“Hey, nice to finally meet you. I hope you’ve only heard the good things about me from him.”

Madison laughed.

“Oh, of course. And look who this little princess is.”

Noelle, suddenly shy, buried her face in Drew’s neck, her tiny fingers gripping his shirt.

Drew chuckled, rubbing her back soothingly.

“Noe, baby, can you say hi?”

Noelle hesitated, then peeked out just enough to whisper, “I’m… Noelle… Noelle Starkey.”

Madison melted on the spot.

“Oh my god. I’m in love.”

Drew beamed, pressing a kiss to Noe’s temple.

“She’s a heartbreaker already.”

Madison gently held out her hand.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Noelle.”

Noelle hesitated but, being the polite little girl she was, finally mumbled,

“Hi, Madison.”

Drew grinned.

“Hey, Noe, do you wanna meet all of Dada’s friends?”

Noelle peeked up at him, her shyness still lingering, but after a second, she gave a tiny nod.

And just like that, the entire Outer Banks cast became completely obsessed with her.

Jonathan and Chase immediately tried to win her over with goofy faces and silly voices. Carlacia called her “the most precious little human alive” and somehow managed to get Noelle to hold her hand for a few minutes. Rudy, being Rudy, had Noe giggling with a few exaggerated stories about her dad being a total dork on set (which Drew immediately denied, much to everyone’s amusement).

You mostly stayed by Drew’s side, quietly observing and enjoying the way he beamed with pride at Noe. Every time someone fawned over her, he would give you a little squeeze, like he was silently saying, We made this perfect little human.

Eventually, the day started to wind down, and Drew pulled you aside, holding Noelle close as she rested sleepily against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You tilted your head.

“For what?”

“For coming. For letting everyone meet Noe. For stepping out of your comfort zone for me.”

You smiled softly.

“You’re worth it, Drew.”

His grip tightened around you, his eyes filled with nothing but love.

“So are you.”

[rizzanon]

Stitches and Sarcasm

a jason todd and batsis! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: you’re stitching your brother up whilst trying to reconnect with him | events align with post-UTRH if you squint (like a few days later)

Jason Todd’s apartment was the kind of place that reeked of solitude. The dim light from a single flickering bulb casting long, warped shapes across the cracked walls. It smelled like gunpowder, whiskey, and something metallic, like dried blood. The place was barely lived in—no personal touches, no warmth. Just a temporary graveyard for a man who didn’t know how to stay dead.

He felt the moment something was off. A presence, silent and waiting. Someone watching.

His fingers curled around the grip of his gun before his brain even caught up with his instincts. Smooth, practiced, deadly. The weapon was out of the holster and pointed at the darkened corner of his apartment before he even registered the shape standing there.

“Y’know,” he drawled, voice rough from exhaustion, “if you’re gonna break into my place, you should at least try not to breathe so damn loud.”

Jason didn’t expect an answer. He expected a threat.

But instead, you stepped out of the shadows.

His grip tightened on the gun before his brain caught up—before recognition slammed into him like a bullet to the gut. His arms tensed, but he didn’t lower the weapon. Not yet. His stomach twisted, a strange, uncomfortable sensation he couldn’t place.

It was you.

He should’ve known. Should’ve realized the second he stepped inside, should’ve felt it in his bones. But he’d spent so many years trying to forget you, trying to let go of that part of himself, that he barely knew what it felt like to have you near anymore.

Still, his first instinct was to keep his guard up.

“Oh,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of anything remotely close to warmth. He finally lowered the gun but didn’t put it away. Just in case. “It’s you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react to the gun, didn’t react to the fact that he’d pointed it at you like you were a stranger.

Like you weren’t—like you hadn’t been—his family.

Jason felt something ugly coil in his chest.

You were studying him. He could feel it—the weight of your stare, the way your eyes darted over him, cataloging every little thing. The stiff way he carried himself, the limp he hadn’t been able to fully shake, the way his jacket sat unevenly on his shoulders. Jason hated that look. You were picking him apart, analyzing him the way you always had.

It made something bitter rise in his throat.

“How the hell did you find me?” His voice caught, the deep rasp unmistakable.

You crossed your arms, tilting your head slightly. “It’s been years, Jason. You think I wouldn’t have picked up a thing or two from Bruce?”

A scoff. Dry. Unimpressed. “Cute. Real cute. Now answer the question.”

The gun stayed firmly aimed at your chest.

You sighed, tilting your head slightly. “Tracked your supply runs. You have a pattern, whether you realize it or not. You’re good, but not perfect.”

Jason let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Guess I got sloppy.”

The silence between you was heavy. Uncomfortable. Unforgiving.

You could feel Jason’s eyes raking over you, scrutinizing. He was studying you, just as much as you were studying him.

You were still looking at him like that—like you were trying to understand him, like you were trying to see through all the layers of armor and blood and anger to something that didn’t exist anymore.

It made his skin itch.

You took in everything—the way his jacket sat unevenly on his shoulders, the stiffness in his stance, the way he was favoring his right side just a little too much.

“You’re hurt,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, and Jason felt something tighten in his chest.

He scoffed, shifting his weight slightly to take the pressure off his bad leg. “No, I’m not.”

“Jason—”

“I said, I’m fine,” he snapped, voice like a blade.

You didn’t back down. Of course you didn’t. You never did.

“Lying doesn’t work on me,” you said, meeting his stare head-on. “I know you.”

Jason hated that. Hated the way you said it like it was still true.

Because the person you’d known was dead.

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, you thought he might actually argue. But then he sighed, shaking his head, looking exhausted.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Why are you here?”

You hesitated. Jason caught it—the brief flicker of uncertainty in your expression before you pushed through it.

“I needed to see you.”

Jason let out a bitter chuckle. “Congratulations. You saw me. Now leave.”

He saw the way your shoulders tensed at that. The way you took a slow breath like you were forcing yourself to keep steady.

You still cared.

And that was dangerous.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Of course you’re not,” Jason muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

You took a step forward. “Let me help.”

Jason stiffened. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

“Help?”

A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he shook his head.

“You’re kidding, right? Did you tell anyone where I am? Did you tell Bruce?”

“No!” you said quickly, taking another step forward. “I told no one. I turned off my tracker before coming here. It’s just me.”

Jason’s mouth twisted slightly, something unreadable in his expression. You couldn’t tell if it was relief or disappointment.

Silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating. Jason tilted his head, as though trying to read your expression, but you knew he couldn’t. Just like you couldn’t read his anymore.

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

Jason scoffed. “That’s nothing new.”

“Jason,” you said, voice softer this time. “Please.”

For a second—just a second—his expression cracked. Something raw and vulnerable flickered behind his eyes, something fragile and aching. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want you here, didn’t want the way his chest ached at the sound of your voice, at the way you looked at him like you still saw something worth saving.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered.

“And you shouldn’t be doing this,” you shot back.

“Doing what?”

“This,” you said, motioning around the dingy apartment. “All of this. What are you trying to prove?”

Jason let out a humorless laugh. “That Gotham doesn’t need a fucking coward. She needs someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty for justice.”

“This isn’t justice.”

His eyes darkened. “Then what the hell is it, huh? What do you call it?”

“Pain,” you whispered. “Self-destruction. A slow suicide with a gun instead of a noose”

Jason flinched. Just barely.

But you caught it.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Don’t,” he warned, voice dangerously low.

“You’re pushing everyone away,” you said, taking another step closer. “You’re pushing me away.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping forward again. “You know I didn’t mean it like that—”

Jason snaps his gun back up, his voice rising. “Don’t take another step unless you want a bullet in your chest.”

You froze, the hurt flashing across your face before you could mask it. “Jason…” you murmured, taking a slow, hesitant step.

“I’m serious,” he growled. “Go home.”

The two of you locked eyes, his steel gaze clashing with your own. His were hard, unrelenting, but there was a flicker of something else—hesitation, vulnerability, maybe even longing.

You exhaled sharply, frustration creeping into your voice. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Jason shot back. “It really is. You leave, you go back to your nice little world where everything makes sense, and I—”

He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

You frowned. “And you what?”

Jason’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

The silence stretched between you once more. Stretched too long. It was the kind of silence filled with things unsaid, the kind that felt like it carried the weight of every mistake, every moment of time lost between you.

Jason shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “You should give up on me.”

“I’m not going to.”

“You should,” he muttered.

“But I shouldn’t, though.”

Jason bristles at that.

“I don’t need you,” he said, forcing the words out.

“You’re lying.”

Jason clenched his fists. “Am I?”

“You don’t believe that.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to you, something sharp in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

You didn’t back down.

You took another step forward, slow and careful, like you thought he might bolt. “At least let me stitch you up.”

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at you.

But then, finally, he let out a slow, frustrated breath and muttered, “Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.”

It wasn’t an invitation.

It wasn’t acceptance.

But it was enough.

For now.

Jason refused to sit.

You could see it in the way his muscles tensed, in the way his stance shifted, like he was ready to bolt the second you let your guard down. But you weren’t giving him the chance.

“Sit down,” you said, voice steady.

Jason didn’t move. His gaze flickered to the door, then back to you. Weighing his options.

You shoved him—not hard, just enough to throw him off balance, to get him to land heavily onto his worn-out couch. He let out a sharp exhale, one hand instinctively going to his side, fingers pressing against the bleeding wound through his jacket.

You glanced at the couch, wrinkling your nose. “You need a new couch.”

Jason huffed out a dry laugh, tilting his head back against the worn fabric. “Yeah, I’ll add that to my to-do list. Right after ‘get shot’ and ‘bleed out on my own floor.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe try not to get shot in the first place.”

Jason scoffed but didn’t argue. His jaw was tight, his fingers twitching like he was debating getting back up. You ignored it.

You crossed the room without another word, heading toward the kitchen. “Where’s your first aid kit?” you asked over your shoulder.

“Cabinet. Left of the sink,” Jason muttered, rubbing at the tension in his neck. He heard you hum in acknowledgment before you disappeared from his line of sight, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

And just like that, the weight of the night came crashing down on him.

His ribs ached, the sharp sting of broken skin screaming at him every time he moved. The fight had been messy—sloppy, even. He’d underestimated how many guys would be there, how deep into the pit of Gotham’s underbelly he’d wandered. It wasn’t just some back-alley arms deal; it was an entire trafficking operation. He hadn’t planned on taking them all out tonight, but when he saw the cages—saw the way the kids inside flinched at the mere sight of him—something inside of him snapped.

He had gone in reckless. Let the rage take control. Got sloppy.

One of the guys had landed a solid hit with a crowbar to his side. Jason gritted his teeth at the memory, his fingers unconsciously curling into fists at the phantom pain. A fucking crowbar.

Because of course it had to be a crowbar of all weapons.

It hadn’t been the finishing blow, though. The bullet graze along his abdomen had done that. It was shallow, but deep enough that it wouldn’t stop bleeding. He hadn’t planned on tending to it anytime soon—had figured it would scab over like all the others. Another wound on a body already covered in them.

But then you showed up.

He still wasn’t sure how you found him. The fact that you did sent something cold and sharp through his chest. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be looking for him.

How the hell did you even find him?

And why did it make something in his chest tighten?

Jason gritted his teeth, pressing his fingers into his temples.

It didn’t matter.

Pain was just part of the job.

What mattered was that the kids were safe.

That was the only thing that mattered.

But now you were here, forcing him to sit still, forcing him to acknowledge the damage, forcing him to—

Your footsteps echoed against the floor as you came back.

You reappeared in his peripheral vision, first aid kit in hand, and sat down beside him on the couch. The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, as you set the kit down and opened it.

Jason turned his head slightly, watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You’d changed.

Older.

Tougher.

There was a sharpness to you now, something hardened and worn down. The way you carried yourself, the way your face held no trace of the wide-eyed kid who used to follow him around—it was like looking at a stranger.

And yet… it was still you.

Still the kid who used to cling to his side, still the kid who looked up to him like he was worth something, like he wasn’t just some street rat Bruce had picked up.

But you weren’t that kid anymore.

Just like he wasn’t your big brother anymore.

The realization made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

He had missed too much.

He had missed everything.

You started working in silence, peeling back his jacket, assessing the damage. Jason let out a quiet hiss as you pressed antiseptic to his wound, but he didn’t pull away. He just clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still.

Then, you spoke.

“How long are you planning on doing this?”

Jason’s gaze flicked up to yours, searching. “Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely at him. At the blood, the injuries, the bullet wound. “Running yourself into the ground like this. Taking on entire gangs by yourself. Going after people in ways Bruce wouldn’t.”

Jason scoffed. “So that’s what this is about. You’re here to play the morality police now?”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers pausing for a second before resuming their work. “That’s not what I said.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

You didn’t respond immediately, just pressed harder against his wound, making him grunt in pain.

“I’m here,” you said, voice tight, “because I care about you, Jason.”

His jaw locked.

You weren’t supposed to say that.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Jason exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Well, don’t.”

You stilled for just a second, just long enough for him to notice. Then you continued cleaning his wound, voice tight. “You don’t get to tell me how to feel.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“I’m not the person you remember.”

Silence.

Then—

“No shit.”

Jason’s head snapped toward you, eyes narrowing. “Then why the hell are you here?”

“Because I’m trying to understand you,” you shot back. “I’m trying to figure out what the hell happened to the Jason I knew.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh. “He’s dead.”

Your fingers faltered for just a second.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“Jay…”

Jason froze.

Everything inside him went still, his breath caught in his chest like a vice had closed around it.

Jay.

Not Jason. Not Todd.

Jay.

The name you used to call him when you were younger. When you still saw him as your big brother. When you still—

Jason’s mind spiraled back—years back—to late nights on rooftops, to laughter muffled beneath masks and walls, to whispered “be careful”s before patrols.

Back when you still trusted him.

Back when he still had you.

His throat went dry.

You must have realized it too because you tensed immediately, pulling your hands back, guilt flashing across your face.

“Sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The silence was deafening.

The word stung.

Don’t.

Don’t say sorry.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

The silence was thick, suffocating.

Jason stared at you, at the way your expression had closed off, at the way your fingers hovered uncertainly over his wound like you weren’t sure if you should keep going.

And for the first time in a long time, Jason didn’t know what to say.

His body had gone completely still, but his mind was spiraling, dragging him back to the past with vicious clarity.

“Jay, do you think I’ll ever be as good as you?”

“Jay, don’t go without me!”

“Jay, you promise you’ll come back, right?”

Your voice was younger in his memories, filled with something lighter, something innocent and naive. Something that hadn’t yet been shattered by reality.

Now, sitting beside him, stitching up his wounds, you looked like a ghost of that past. Same face, same eyes—but different. Hardened. Worn.

Unrecognizable.

Just like he was.

Jason swallowed thickly, forcing himself to breathe, to ground himself back in the present. Then, his voice came out rough, almost strained—

“Don’t… don’t say sorry.”

Another beat of silence.

You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he.

Neither of you looked at each other.

The weight of everything unspoken settled between you like a chasm neither of you could cross.

Jason shifted slightly, trying to ease the throbbing pain in his ribs. He should’ve said something else, should’ve changed the subject, but his head was still spinning, his chest still tight.

And then, after a long, suffocating pause—

“Who did this to you?”

Jason exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the couch. “Some asshole with a crowbar.”

Your body went rigid.

Your hands had stopped moving, still hovering near his wound, but your eyes weren’t on him. They were somewhere else—far away.

Jason let out a dry, humorless laugh at that. “Yeah. Ironic, right?”

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. “It’s not funny, Jason.”

“Never said it was.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him. And Jason saw something in your expression he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Because it looked like grief.

Like you were mourning someone who was still sitting right in front of you.

Jason turned away, staring at the floor. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“I know.” Your voice was soft. “But I still want to try.”

“You shouldn’t be playing nurse for me.”

You didn’t look up. “And you shouldn’t be doing… this. Any of this. What are you trying to get out of it, Jason?”

He scoffed, wincing slightly as you pressed the antiseptic to his wound. “Justice. Revenge. Call it whatever you want.”

“This isn’t justice,” you said quietly.

“Oh yeah? And what do you know about justice?” Jason snapped. “You’re still sitting pretty with Bruce, letting him call the shots. Letting the Joker live. Letting him get away with everything he’s done.”

“Bruce mourned you,” you said firmly. “He mourned for months. Years. We all did.”

Jason’s laugh was cold and bitter. “Sure he did. But not enough to do anything about it. Not enough to stop the Joker permanently.”

You clenched your jaw, your hands pausing mid-stitch. “He doesn’t kill, Jason. You know that.”

“And that’s why he’s weak,” Jason spat. “That’s why I had to step up and do what he couldn’t. What he wouldn’t.”

“He’s not weak,” you said, your voice rising slightly. “And neither am I. You think you’re the only one who’s suffered? We all lost you, Jason. I lost you. And now you’re back, but you’re not the same.”

Jason’s gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get it. None of you do. You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything?”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you snapped, your frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to be here for you, but you won’t let me!”

The room went silent, your harsh breaths the only sound. Jason looked away, his expression unreadable.

“Bruce still cares about you.”

Jason’s breath stilled for half a second.

You said it so softly, like you knew how he was going to react. Like you were already bracing for it.

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah?” His voice was rough, biting. “That why he threw a fucking Batarang at my throat?”

The silence that followed was immediate.

You froze.

Jason felt it—the way your hands had gone motionless against his skin, how your breath had caught ever so slightly.

And then he saw your face.

And fuck.

He knew that expression.

It had been burned into his brain since that night.

The night he’d come back, the night he’d stepped out of the shadows and made himself known to Bruce.

And to you.

He had expected anger, confusion, even disgust.

But the way you had looked at him—

Like you had been betrayed. Like he had ripped something apart inside you.

And now, that same look was back.

“…What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jason clenched his jaw.

Of course you didn’t know.

Of course Bruce had never told you.

His lips curled into a sneer before he could stop himself. “Of course you don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “All you ever see is this amazing man—Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s perfect hero, can do no wrong.”

Your brows furrowed, your eyes darkening. “That’s not—”

“He’s so good, right?” Jason continued, bitterness coating his words. “Loves all his kids equally, treats us all like we matter—”

“I know he’s not perfect, Jason.”

Jason stiffened.

You had cut him off this time.

And your voice—

It was sharp. Not with anger, but something deeper. Something more raw.

“None of us are,” you continued, voice lower now. “But he’s trying. He wants to—”

You stopped suddenly, exhaling hard through your nose as you dropped your gaze, your hands curling into fists.

Jason stared at you.

Scrutinized the tension in your shoulders, the clench of your jaw.

You were frustrated. But not at him.

At yourself.

For not knowing what to say.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

And then the overthinking started.

The overanalyzing, the picking apart every tiny movement, every breath, every twitch of your fingers.

Were you pitying him?

Were you angry at him?

Or—

Did you still see him as your brother?

Jason’s jaw tensed.

Finally, he muttered, “I don’t need you to be here for me. I don’t need anyone.”

“That’s not true,” you said softly.

Jason’s eyes flicked back to you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his armor. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You should give up on me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I won’t.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You should. Everyone else has.”

“Well, I’m not everyone else, I’m your sister.”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose.

He hated that word. Hated how easily it left your mouth. Like it still meant something.

Like it hadn’t been broken years ago.

But it did mean something.

His sister. You were his sister.

You still see him as your brother. Why?

“You shouldn’t have come.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You said that already.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it.”

You finished the last stitch, cutting the thread with practiced ease before leaning back. “And I ignored it.”

Jason let out another bitter scoff, shaking his head. “Typical.”

You shot him a look. “You don’t get to talk about ‘typical.’”

Jason raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m not giving up on you, no matter how hard you try to push me away.”

Jason didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.

You were still studying him, scrutinizing every movement, every flicker of emotion that passed through his face. He let you.

Because deep down, some part of him knew—he was doing the same to you.

And he hated what he saw.

Because all he could think about was how much you had changed.

How much he had missed.

You packed up the first aid kit and stood up, putting the kit back in its place. Still, before you left, you hesitated, your hand hovering for a fraction of a second before finally resting on his shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jason. Whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders tensed under your touch. It was barely a touch—gentle, fleeting—but Jason felt it..

He wasn’t used to this anymore. To the warmth. To the gentleness.

And then—just as quickly as it had come—it was gone.

You pulled away.

And the absence was visceral.

Jason clenched his jaw, an unfamiliar tightness creeping up his throat. He hated the way his body reacted to it—to the sudden cold where your hand had been.

It was stupid. He shouldn’t care.

But the second your warmth disappeared, something ugly curled in his chest, something hollow and raw and fucking unbearable.

His fingers twitched. A thought—brief and reckless—urged him to grab your wrist, to stop you from leaving just yet.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

As you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“You’re wasting your time.”

It came out quieter than he intended. More uncertain. More vulnerable.

Silence.

Thick. Stifling.

Jason hated silence.

Because silence left too much room for thinking. For remembering.

You hesitated. He could see it in the way your shoulders stiffened, in the slight pause before you finally glanced back at him.

Your eyes met his.

And fuck.

He should’ve looked away.

But he didn’t.

Because the way you were looking at him—soft, aching, certain—made something inside him twist violently.

Made even more memories resurface.

Like he was still your brother, still family, still someone worth standing beside—and it made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Maybe,” you said softly. “But you’re worth it.”

Jason sucked in a breath.

His throat felt tight. His chest felt tight.

And before he could stop himself, before he could shove the words down and bury them under every wall he had built, something broke through.

A quiet, fractured exhale.

He turned his head slightly, just enough that his hair shadowed his face. He didn’t want you to see. Didn’t want you to know what those words did to him.

Because you had said them so easily.

Like they were the simplest thing in the world.

Like you meant them.

And Jason—

Jason wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Because damn you.

Damn you for saying it like that—like it was the only truth in the world.

Like you actually believed it.

Like you still saw something in him worth holding on to.

He turned his head slightly, letting his hair fall forward to shadow his face, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

Because if you kept looking at him like that—if you kept believing in him like that—

He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to push you away.

a part of me feels like i yapped too much with this lol 😭 but still, hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass | ask to be added <3

[carnalcrows]

BRAT TAMING - THANOS

pairing: thanos x top male reader

synopsis: There is an uninvited guest at your solo smoking session.

content warnings: 18+, bottom thanos, weed, begging, breeding, creampie, orgasm denial.

word count: 1.1k

A/N: I can't find the req to this 😭😭

The arena was nothing but cold steel, bloodstains, and the constant fear of death looming over you. So, when you finally managed to find a hidden spot away from the cameras, you lit up a blunt that you had managed to somehow sneak in, inhaling deep, letting the tension in your body ease for the first time in days.

You didn't expect company, but then again, of course someone would show up.

"Tch, you’re really bold, huh?" a cocky voice piped up, and you turned to see him—Thanos, the purple-haired loudmouth rapper. His presence was unmistakable, as was that damn grin that screamed trouble.

He plopped down next to you without asking, nodding toward your blunt. "Pass it."

You considered telling him to piss off, but there was something almost amusing about his audacity. With a sigh, you handed him the blunt, watching as he inhaled like a pro.

"Damn," he exhaled, smirking at you. "Didn’t think a guy like you would have good taste."

"And what kind of guy am I?" you asked, raising a brow.

"Boring. Too serious. Probably one of those dudes who thinks he's got everything under control." He chuckled, flicking ash onto the ground. "Bet you're the type who likes to be in charge, huh?"

You side-eyed him. "And what about you?"

"Oh, me?" He grinned, leaning back on his elbows. "I like to piss people off. Keeps things interesting."

He kept running his mouth, going on about how he was the best rapper in Korea, how people worshipped him, and how, if the cameras weren’t watching, he’d probably be throwing the guards around like rag dolls.

You let him talk, dragging slowly on the blunt, waiting for the moment he'd slip up. And, sure enough—

"Bet you’ve never met someone like me, huh?" he teased, his gaze flicking to yours. "A guy who knows he’s hot shit and doesn’t take orders."

You let out a slow, deep breath and turned to face him completely. "You don’t take orders?"

"Nope," he said smugly.

"So what if I told you to shut up?"

His grin widened. "I’d probably talk even more."

You leaned in, closing the distance between you two. His breath hitched for just a second—not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did.

"You talk too much," you murmured, taking the blunt from his hand and pressing it to your lips. His eyes followed your movements, his usual cocky expression faltering just a little.

"And what, you gonna do something about it?" he taunted, but his voice was quieter now, his bravado teetering on the edge.

"Maybe," you mused, tilting your head. "But I don't think you’d last five seconds without running that mouth of yours."

That did it. His smirk twitched. "Tch. You wish."

"Prove it."

He went silent.

The air between you both got heavy. He wasn’t used to someone checking him like this. Every muscle in his body was tense, like he was waiting for you to make a move.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

"Tch…" he scoffed, but you could tell—he’d lost the game. The brat had been tamed.

"Maybe I do like to be in charge," you admitted, standing up and stretching. "But it looks like someone likes being put in their place, too."

He huffed, looking away, but the slight flush at the tips of his ears didn’t go unnoticed.

"Shut up," he muttered, but he didn't move away as you stood over him, asserting every ounce of control you had.

"Make me," you challenged.

Without warning, he pulled you in by the front of your tracksuit, crashing his lips onto yours.

You were mildly surprise, but you reciprocated the kiss with a sense of eagerness, you hands gripping onto his waist.

Wary of any guard that might pop up from a corner, you pushed the purple-haired man further into the tight spot, pushing his pants down and lifting his legs up without prior warning.

He gasped– looking up to face you, but you were too busy with you fingers, spitting on your hand and letting it slid onto his naked hole- making him flinch.

Once you felt that your saliva had worked enough, you tugged down your own track pants, revealing your erection.

The other man's eyes widened, he had never seen a cock so– big before.

Without warning, you pressed the tip in his hole– making his head hit the wall with a loud moan– before which you covered his mouth with the hand that wasn't holding him up.

“Fucking brat– can't stay quite even when you're filled to the brim, hm?”

Unable to respond– he merely whimpered, pretty eyes rolling to the back of his head as you sheathed yourself in him all the way to the brim.

You buried your head in the crook of his neck and pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, groaning at how tight he was.

Your repeated thrusts kept Thanos mumbling incoherently even with your hand covering his mouth. You merely rolled your eyes and pistoned into him even deeper– making his back arch against the wall.

Soon– you felt yourself at the brink of release and didn't bother to pull out, coating the other man's insides a pearly white.

Thanos hadn't come yet– but you slowed down your thrusts, making the man whine.

“You thought I would let you off that easy? Beg for it.”

You removed your hand from his mouth, and the other man immediately began blabbering and begging for you to let him cum.

After listening for a minute or two, you had grown hard again, and began to resume your thrusts– making him let out a loud moan.

Your other hand worked on his cock, slowly jerking him off as compared to the rapid pace you were fucking him at.

Soon, he felt his orgasm wash over him like a waterfall, and came all over your hand.

You kept him upright, and found the blunt discarded on the floor. Thankfully it was still lit.

You picked it up and placed it in Thanos’ mouth, to which he groaned– head falling back as he inhaled deep.

You slowly placed him down, cleaned him up with some cloth that was lying around and sat down next to him, taking the blunt from his mouth and inhaling the smoke.

The silence between you both lingered even after the blunt was long gone.

Thanos didn’t say much after that. For the first time since you met him, he seemed thoughtful—or maybe just trying to figure out why he let you get under his skin so damn easily.

"We're gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?" he finally asked, standing up beside you.

You smirked. "Nope."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered, "Next time, bring more. We’re not done."

You watched him walk away, his usual cocky stride slightly stiffer than before. You just chuckled, shaking your head.

"Yeah," you murmured. "We’ll see about that."

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗜’𝗩𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗗 lando norris x  fem! reader (angst) fic summary . . . Lando's playboy image has everyone, including yourself, convinced he's just another guy who sleeps around, until he finally opens up about his feelings that is (482 words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

There was a sharp edge to your voice tonight. Lando had heard you angry before, but never like this. Never when it was aimed at him.

“You know what, Lando?” you snapped, arms crossed as you stood in his hotel room. “Why don’t you go find some random girl and fuck your feelings out like you always do?”

Lando flinched like you’d struck him.

You didn’t even see it. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t care—not in the heat of the moment. Not when he’d been pissing you off all night, poking at you, pushing, teasing like always, but this time it was different. This time it hurt, and you didn’t even know why.

Lando let out a short laugh, but there was nothing funny about it. “Is that really what you think of me?”

You scoffed. “Everyone knows, Lando. It’s not exactly a secret.”

Everyone. Social media. The paddock. The world.

Everyone had an opinion about him. About the playboy image, about the girls, about the headlines. He knew what people said. Knew what they thought.

But he never thought you believed it.

Lando exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His voice was quieter now, strained. “You really think I just sleep around with random girls?”

You shrugged, still defensive. “I mean… yeah?”

And fuck—something inside him cracked.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his whole body taut like a string pulled too tight. His throat was burning, his heart was pounding, and suddenly, the words he’d been burying for years clawed their way up his throat.

“I don’t.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I don’t sleep around,” Lando bit out. His voice shook, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. “Because the only girl I have ever wanted is you.”

The air in the room changed.

You blinked, lips parting slightly, but no words came out.

Lando let out a breath, shaking his head. “God, do you have any idea what it’s like?” His voice wavered now, and fuck, his eyes were stinging. “To be so fucking in love with you that it hurts?”

He laughed bitterly, swiping at his face. “I can’t even look at another girl because no one—no one—could ever compare to you. And yet, here you are, shouting at me, looking at me like I’m some kind of—some kind of fucking stranger.”

You still weren’t saying anything.

“Jesus, Yn,” Lando whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You’re tearing me apart.”

His chest felt tight, too tight, like his ribs couldn’t contain everything inside him anymore. Like it was all breaking apart and you were just standing there, watching him bleed.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

And then, finally, your lips parted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“…You love me?”

Lando huffed out a breath, looking away as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Just—just forget it,” he mumbled. “I’ll go.”

And then he turned, chest tight, hands trembling—because if he stayed, if he looked at you for even a second longer, he was pretty sure his heart would never recover.

[my-castles-crumbling]

movie night - February 1 - jegulus - very NSFW - discord microprompt challenge - word count: 457

He started off very innocent.

Sandwiched between James and Barty on the couch, Evan on Barty’s other side, Regulus began by just wiggling around a bit, stretching his arms and moving just a little to the right, so their thighs were completely pressed against each other.

Then he grinned, watching out of the corner of his eye as James bit his lip, his thigh flexing and his hand curling into a fist and opening again, eyes still glued to the television.

Smirking, he looked back to the movie, hardly daring to breathe as he slowly moved his foot under his blanket, inching it around James’s ankle and tracing his toe up the inside of James’s calf.

He chuckled as the other man inhaled with surprise, right in time with a scary part on the screen. When James sent him a shocked look, he stared back at him for a moment, raising an innocent eyebrow before looking back to the movie.

It was only when he felt the tension in James’s body slowly ease that he slipped his hand under the taller man’s blanket, resting it on his knee.

Now, it seemed, James was getting the message. Though he tensed up, he didn’t react. He watched the movie and bit his lip, body still.

Smirking, Regulus began to move his hand slowly upward.

He made sure to use the lightest touch possible. Trailing his fingers over the thick muscle, he took his time, moving his thumb back and forth, enjoying the way every centimeter twitched with his touch. His own body was responding, his breath coming quicker, his legs pressing together as he reminded himself to go slow.

So he continued, enjoying the way he was able to so easily torture the man trembling under his fingers.

The movie progressed as he moved upward, James’s breathing turning rapid. Regulus grinned to himself, enjoying the way the film seemed to be moving to a climax as James, too, was beginning to all-out spasm with the torture. He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.

It was when his fingers finally, finally touched his intended target under the blanket, just as someone was brutally murdered on screen, that James jumped up like he’d been lit on fire. “I need to pee!” he yelled wildly, running from the room.

Sirius, who was on the other couch with Remus, paused the movie and looked over to James’s vacant spot. “Do you think he’s okay?” he asked worriedly.

“I’ll check on him,” Regulus volunteered eagerly, standing up and ignoring Barty’s knowing smirk.

It was only when he made it into the hall and James was there, immediately pinning him to the wall, that he knew he had definitely made a good decision.

[readwritealldayallnight]

Comatose Confessions

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 4k words

warnings/tags: fluff

Part two to this

He’s barely moved a single inch in the last hour

Though he blinks every so often, his eyes never once stray from where he’s held his gaze so steadily this entire time, as focused as any trained sniper could ever hope to be

Sat on his bed, back against the wall and stiff as a statue, he watches as the faint light creeping in under the crack of his door shifts every so often, the shadows outside refusing to stand still

He knows it’s you

As perfectly silent as you are, he can still see the shadow of your boots pacing back and forth, back and forth, again and again, just outside his room

You know he’s inside

And he knows that’s why you refuse to leave, annoyingly stubborn in your pursuit, determined in your efforts to get the man inside to put an end to his charades

He knows you won’t leave until you get what you want

And what you want, is for Ghost to stop avoiding you

He’s been very carefully, very intentionally avoiding having to speak to you

He can’t bring himself to do it

He just can’t

Not since he’s woken up

Not since his head felt worse than it had in a very long time, mind swimming through a heavy fog in an attempt to fight his way back to consciousness, his entire being had felt shaken to its core and thrown off its axis, his blood running cold with the unmistakable chill of pure, unadulterated fear, not too far off to how he’d once felt waking up with the taste of dirt in his mouth, buried six feet under ground

Only to be jolted into a startlingly opposite reality when he suddenly was able to smell that achingly familiar, enrapturing fragrance he’d come to associate with a certain someone, could somehow feel miraculously soft, gentle fingertips smoothing along his neck into his goddamn hair, an affectionate touch he’d only felt fleetingly as a young boy, and when he’d opened his eyes, he was certain he’d somehow snuck his way past the gates and into heaven

Because above him had been you, and though the light glowing around you burned his tired eyes, you remained a vision so beautiful to behold he could never dream of shutting his eyes ever again, could not help but to instinctually reach out to grasp you, should you vanish before him and he lose the chance to ever hold you, at least once

His brain was still pounding, insistently throbbing as it shocked itself back awake, fighting to take control back as his lips suddenly said the only thing that both his mind and heart could agree upon at this moment, looking up at you:

“Love.”

It was nearly an entire day later, following a flurry of you being whisked out of his room, doctors and nurses fussing over him, his mind and body slowly beginning to feel more like his own again, when Soap came to visit him and all too happily recounted to his Lieutenant what he’d supposedly said upon waking up from his days long coma

After the doctors released him from the med bay or rather accepted that the Lieutenant was going to leave when he wanted to whether they liked it or not, they’d given strict instructions for at least a fortnights rest, wanting to allow his brain enough time to truly recover, concerned that though everything else was checking out fine, that short bout of confusion upon waking could not be looked over when it came to head injuries

Confusion

Is that what they all thought it had been?

He couldn’t exactly blame them, he felt he’d done a more than phenomenal job of hiding the true nature of his feelings for you from anyone and everyone, making it appear as though he was nothing more than indifferent to your existence, far from someone he’d be relieved to see waking up in a hospital bed

No, he’d been far from confused when he’d insisted to anyone who would listen, not caring that anyone’s ears but your own would hear his words spoken with the utmost sincerity, when he called you his girl, his love

No, if anything that was the most honest Ghost had been in a long time

At least since you’d worked your way into his life and apparently his heart along the way

But now, nearly two weeks passed since he’d woken up and admitted to you in his vulnerable state of mind his true feelings for you, after months of carefully avoiding ever letting you know how he felt, months of keeping his distance in hopes of diminishing the gravitation pull he felt whenever you were near, and he couldn’t bring himself to face you

He can’t decide whether it’s a small mercy or not that in the fog of waking up and all the chaos that ensued, that he can’t recall seeing your reaction to his words, can’t remember seeing the look on your face when he admitted the words he would have preferred to have been buried with than to profess out loud to you

A blessing, in that he doesn’t know whether your face twisted up into a look of horror or disgust at his revelation, and a curse, in that he’s had days upon days holed up in his room, imagining every other possible reaction you might have had

Since his release from the med bay, you’ve come knocking at his door, he knows you’ve been asking around base for him, have tried to run into him during those few fleeting moments he trudges to the mess hall and back

Why you’re so determined to confront him, he can’t be sure

To laugh at him? Rub it in his face?

He doesn’t think so, it’s not something he believes you’d so, but then again he’s never had his entire heart held in a pretty birds hands before, especially when he’d never intended to hand the bloodied, somehow still beating thing over in the first place

Maybe you feel sorry for him, hope to let him down easy, or even pretend as though you never heard him in the first place, he’s not sure which would hurt him most if he’s honest-

None of those excuses feel right however, with the way you’ve been seeking him out so persistently, opposite to the neutrality the two of you had less than half a month ago, and so always more at ease in the certainty of his own misery, rather than the misery of uncertainty, he remains hidden from you

Fuck, he hopes you haven’t been speaking to Johnny too much

When he notices your steady back and forth pacing suddenly come to a halt with the shadows indicating you’re stood directly in front of his door, the only movement Ghost allows is the slightest quirk of his scarred eyebrow, gaze intent on where he imagines your form stands just beyond the thick plank of wood separating you

He’s holding his breath, wondering what your next move will be in this childish game of cat and mouse he’s roped you into, when he hears the slightest shuffling from outside, a crinkling sound accompanied by shadows moving about under the door, followed by the sound of your boots echoing away from him and down the hall

It takes him nearly another ten minutes before he dares to move again, already beginning to berate himself for the way he’s behaving like a frightened child, when his eyes lock in on the anomaly on his floor

The sun was just beginning to set when he’d dared to venture out to the mess hall and back to his room quickly, hoping it was the best time to avoid most everyone including you before they ran out of decently edible grub, only just slipping into his room and shutting the door behind him when he’d glanced down the hall and locked eyes with you turning the corner

Now more than an hour passed, the sun long gone and his food cold and untouched, he notices something that wasn’t there before

Slowly, Ghost approaches his door, bending down to a crouch to examine what’s been slipped so carefully underneath the thin seam of his door

A single cigarette

He huffs a silent approving hum, bringing the death stick up to his mask covered nose to smell the bad habit he hasn’t touched in a few days

In all his efforts to avoid running into you, he’d quickly gone through the packs he kept in his room, only daring to smoke them out of his own ajar window like a goddamn teenager hiding the smoke from their parents

He’d smoked his last one a handful of days ago, and had yet to pick up a new pack, his years long addiction to nicotine apparently coming second to his need to continue avoiding you, no matter the cravings he felt

Now however, holding the smoke between his calloused fingers, he finds himself too relieved to begin the logical train of thought that should accompany such a gift from you being slid under his door

Fetching his lighter out of his desk drawer, Ghost steps towards his window and cracks it ajar enough that he can lean his upper half out, prepared to enjoy his cig in peace

What he isn’t prepared for however, as he inches his balaclava up above his crooked nose and begins trying to spark the lighter to life, is for the flames to be reflected back at him through your very own eyes staring up at him, stood directly below his window

“Hi Ghost.” You whisper up to him with amusement, the faint quiver of your lip giving away the mischievous smirk threatening to push through the darkness of the late night hour

You’re quicker than he expects you to be, almost as though you anticipated what his next move would be, when you reach out to squeeze your hand between the window and the pane, just as Ghost hurries to shut it

“What the fuck do ye think you’re doin’?” The Lieutenant growls out, hoping to stall for time as he recomposes himself, internally shaking his head at himself for falling for your trick. Leaving him a damn cigarette like a taunt and waiting beneath his window for him to smoke it was purely childish on your part, but then again, he hasn’t exactly been the most level headed soldier on base recently either he supposes

“Apparently what I have to do to get you to acknowledge me.” You reply casually, refusing to budge your hand away from where it prevents the window from shutting you out. “How long are you planning on avoiding me? Hm?”

“You’re bloody mental if ye think tha’ I-” He cuts himself off with the sharp glance you throw his way, a look that easily reads ‘are you fucking kidding me’ even in the low light illuminated across your features. “Alrigh’, fine. You’ve got me. Your grand plan was to hide ou’ here, like some bloody lunatic, wait for me… and then what? You plannin’ on climbin’ in through the fuckin’ window next?”

Fighting for the upper hand in this situation, Ghost watches as you take a deep breath, eyes quickly scanning the length between the ground and the windowsill, where you’re struggling to keep your hold while stood on tip toes

“Well I was hoping you’d invite me in by now. But I’ll do what I have to.” You decide confidently, raising your chin up high as you hold his gaze, refusing to back down now that you’ve got him in front of you. You must see something in him that puts a slight dent in your resolve however, as he watches your eyes soften ever so slightly, and you begin to shift on your feet. “I just want to talk to you, Ghost. Can’t we at least just do that?”

He fights the urge to grind his teeth as he clenches his jaw, shifting his eyes away from you as he struggles to maintain his composure seeing you standing there bathed in moonlight, a look of genuine sincerity on your face as you plead with him to be reasonable

“Fucking fine. But you’re using the bloody door. Don’t need you causing a scene out ‘ere.” He relents, pulling his hand back from the window pane.

“You promise to let me in?” You ask, hesitating before you release your grip on the glass. He peers back down at you, taking his own steadying breath before he offers a curt but steady nod in your direction. “Good, because my next move was going to be to pull the fire alarm, and that would’ve just been so much more of a mess.”

With that little revelation, he watches your hand slip away from the glass as you tip toe along the edge of the barracks, finding your way back inside. He scoffs to himself as he shuts the windows firmly, shaking his head at your antics as he stares solemnly at the unlit cigarette still pinched between his fingers

What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

Your fist has barely finished its first knock on his door before he’s swinging it open, reaching a large hand out to grip you by the waist and pull you inside before he has the chance to change his mind about this whole thing. He peers his head quickly around the corridor to make sure no one caught sight of anything before shutting the door behind you both, sealing him in with the last person he thought he’d find himself with tonight

He releases his hold on you as quick as he can, taking a large step backwards to put space between you both, eyes raking in the sight of you pressed up against the back of his door, an image he’s pictured many times before in his head but never believed he’d truly ever lay his eyes upon

He watches your own gaze hesitantly sweep around the space quickly, taking in the sparseness of the room. What he wouldn’t do to be able to take a peek into your mind, especially right now

“How’s your head feel?” You ask quietly, eyes shifting back towards the masked man’s visage as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his side. The only answer you get from him is a grunt you’ve heard from him often enough to know translates to ‘fine’. “Soap was telling me that if the docs clear you this weekend you’ll be able to start easing back into work.”

Ghost simply watches as you watch him, slowly lifting one foot before another, cautiously making your way over to his small desk and easing yourself down into the chair, all the while keeping him in your sight, as though he were a wild animal you might spook with one wrong move

“I’m sure they’ll pass you, but between you and me,” you add, leaning back slightly in the chair as a shadow of a smile crinkles in the corner of your lips. “I’d help you forge the docs signature if we had to. I’ve had my fair share of Soap, I’m ready to pass custody back over to you.”

At this, Ghost can’t help the soft chuckle that slips out, watching as the hesitant smile on your face forms into a full fledge smirk at the sound of his approval. With the tension in the room slowly beginning to dissipate already, he dares to allow himself to take his own atop his bed, opposite to you. Still though, he can’t completely let go of the nerves running through him, knowing you’re likely moments away from confronting him.

“You wanted to talk, let’s talk.” His deep voice rings out in the small space, hoping to cut straight to the chase, get this over with

“Right,” he watches you fidget in your seat, eyes leaving his for a moment as you begin to fiddle with your jacket pockets. “Listen Ghost, I- I realize that I might have heard something you didn’t necessarily want me to know.”

‘Yeah, that’s putting it fucking lightly’ he thinks to himself, but allows you to go on with whatever speech you’ve obviously prepare, hoping you’ll at least be quick in your rejection of him, and that this can soon all be a thing of the past

“And I figured if we were going to talk, it would really only be fair to level the playing field, so to speak.” He watches with veiled curiosity as you fish something out of your jacket. In your hands you hold a small, but clearly well loved notebook

“How’s that?” He questions, nodding towards the item in your grasp

“I don’t think I have to swear you to secrecy here but, I used to write in journals a lot, when I was little. Don’t really keep up with it as much anymore, you know how busy we are.” You mention, pulling the strap down from across the front cover and opening the book, fingers sifting through the pages covered in handwritten words of ink and lead. “Every once in a while I’ll write something down, if it’s memorable. But mostly I jot down my uh, well my more embarrassing stories.”

“Why would ye do tha’?” Ghost questions, eyebrows furrowing as he tries not to decipher any of the words he sees on in your book, unsure where this is all going

“Honestly,” you say with a small, airy chuckle. The Lieutenant ignores the sudden feeling in his chest cavity as he comes to the conclusion he’s never seen you smile so often, at least not so up close and personal. “Reading them back makes me feel better. They make me laugh. Especially after a long day or hard missions. Nice to come back to and remind myself not everything in life has to be so… serious, I guess.”

You offer a casual shrug, still thumbing between pages as Ghost takes in your words.

“Anyways, I just thought that, maybe you’d want to hear something I would usually never tell anyone. Make us a little more even?”

He narrows his eyes at you slightly, understanding now what it is you’re trying to do.

He slipped up that day when he woke up from the coma, accidentally made himself vulnerable in front of you and said something he wish he hadn’t, something he’s embarrassed about

And so here you are now, offering to be vulnerable in front of him instead, to grant him access to some of your embarrassing moments and thoughts, level the playing field as you had put it

Yeah, he’ll bite

Again, he offers you no more than a subtle nod in your direction to communicate his agreement, but the way your eyes lights up at this response, you’d think he would’ve just agreed to make you Captain for a day

“Thought maybe we’d start easy. How about the time I accidentally spit my gum out on my CO’s boots? Or when I peed myself during basic-”

Ghost isn’t sure how you’ve done it, whether you knew this was how your cunning plan would work out all along, or if you’ve just gotten incredibly lucky tonight, but as one embarrassing story on your part turns into two, and then three, and suddenly hours have gone by, the stoic Lieutenant finds himself smiling with you, laughing with you, fuck he even starts offering up his own carefully curated stories when you pull an almost full carton of cigs out of your other pocket and toss them to him, the two of you sharing remarks over a shared smoke, hunched over the same window he nearly slammed in your face earlier

“Oh man,” you choke out in small fit of giggles, your hand holding your sides as you pass the cigarette back to him. “We oughta put all your dad jokes down on paper one day, you know why? Because they’re tear-able.”

He rolls his eyes as he takes a deep inhale off the cig, pretending the corners of his mouth haven’t been lifted nearly all night.

“Tha’ was awful.” He mutters, sparing you a side glance before he adds, “A real pun-ishable offence you jus’ committed there.” He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk anymore when your giggles grow louder at that.

“Alright, alright. I suppose my pun-ishment then,” you say between breaths, casting him a glance to see if he approves of yet another one of your corny puns tonight. “Would be to read these last few pages.”

He watches as your fingers dance across the handful of pages making up the end of the journal, yet to be read aloud tonight, your movements appearing hesitant for the first time this entire interaction.

Part of him feels the urge to tell you whatever it is, it’s not necessary, that you don’t have to read anymore about yourself that you don’t want to

Another part however, is far too curious, far too intrigued to know more about you, having learned more tonight from your own lips than he has in all the months he’s known you

“Actually, maybe I’ll just have you read it this time.” You say, reaching the journal out towards him, allowing him that one final glimpse into your personal thoughts. With a calloused palm, he takes the book from your hand, careful not to linger too long on the soft touch of your digits against his rougher ones. Glancing down at the words written haphazardly across the lined paper, he reads:

‘First week with the 141 went by in a blur, don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much on a base before, those men sure know how to train’

‘Captain is nicer than any other CO I’ve had before, and the Sergeants are funny, very welcoming’

‘The Lieutenant is… different’

‘Not bad different (though he might not say the same for me), just different. Hoping to learn more about him soon’

‘One month on the team has flown by, almost can’t remember life before the 141’

‘The lads are great, but the Lieutenant still doesn’t seem keen on me being here. Which is a shame, his teammates speak so highly of him, and his work speaks for itself. Just wish he’d speak to me sometimes’

‘Almost half a year already, if you can believe it’

‘These men feel like family, all apart from the one who still won’t acknowledge me’

‘The lads say not to worry about it, that Ghost will come around eventually… I just hope they’re right. There’s something about him I can’t shake. I find myself thinking about him more than I should’

‘Mission went bad. Lieutenant got hurt and has yet to wake up from his coma’

‘For the lads sake, I hope he wakes up soon’

‘Ghost opened his eyes yesterday…’

‘I don’t know if he meant what he said, or if he even remembers it, but I know I’ll never be able to forget it’

‘This entire time I’ve just wanted him and I to be cordial, to work together, hell maybe even become friends… but ever since he’s said those words… I can’t shake the feeling … maybe friends isn’t quite the right word for us’

Ghost isn’t sure how many times his eyes scan that last entry over and over and over, willing his eyes to believe what he’s seeing right in front of him, not until your hand slowly slips over his own, still holding the journal open, does his gaze flicker up to meet your own vulnerable stare

“I’ll be honest I’m not sure how to- do this.” You say with a slightly awkward chuckle, the vulnerability of the situation clearly starting to get to you as your Lieutenant stares you down wordlessly. “But I wanted to be honest with you. Couldn’t have you wallowing away in here any longer without knowing - well I guess without knowing how I felt too. I don’t know you as well as I’d like to Ghost, we haven’t exactly given each other many chances to do so. But I’d really like to be your… friend.”

His eyes narrow in on the sweet but anxious smile you try to put on through your nerves, your earlier confidence diminishing now that you’ve truly laid your cards out and made yourself as vulnerable as you can before the man who still has yet to say anything.

Ghost takes a steadying breath, eyes never leaving yours as he tosses your journal onto his bed where it lands with a soft bounce.

Vulnerability like this, feelings like this… it’s a grey area Ghost usually tries to avoid at all costs, a field of land mines he’d rather not cross, knowing no one makes it out on the other side unscathed

But with everything you’ve done for him, everything you’ve revealed to him, in combination with the throbbing organ behind his ribs fighting to beat its way back to life since the moment he met you and decided he couldn’t fall for you, Ghost finally relents and says fuck it. You’ve shown more bravery tonight than he has in the last two weeks, avoiding you like you were the plague, and it’s about time he put on his big boy trousers and show some bravery of his own now

“Don’ know it the lads told ya, but I don’ really do friends.” He says, slowly lifting a single boot and cautiously stepping in your direction

“I- I’ve heard.” You mutter, trying not to show the defeat that threatens to come across your features at his words, fearing he’s about to let you down.

The large man takes another step, and another, until there’s suddenly less than an inch of space left between both your heaving chests, and you have to crane your neck upwards while his is tilted down to keep his eyes on yours. Your eyes widen as you watch one of Ghost’s large hands come up into view, sneaking towards the bottom of his balaclava, which has been rolled up with entire time as you both shared some smokes

His fingers pinch the fabric, pulling it up further above his mouth to rest on the crooked bridge of his nose, revealing more of his scarred lips to you just as they whisper:

“But you and I, my love, aren’t quite friends.”

With the way Ghost’s lips come crashing onto your own waiting mouth, you’re inclined to agree with him

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