#how can the world keep going when everything is so broken

[strawberrystepmom]

re: cancer men - the creators and dreamweavers of the zodiac:

okay hi hello. i was reading and am perpetually reading anthony bourdain's books and felt inspired to kind of break down at least astrologically the mystique of the cancer man. this is not a defensive essay but rather a piece that can offer a (hopeful) shift in perspective with regards to how we view these people in our world and our lives.

so the cancer man often has mommy issues. i hope you heard me sigh very loudly saying that because i hate using catch all terms for things that require nuance but it's a concept we are all familiar with based on term alone so it's what i'll use. my rebuttal to this is also - who doesn't? in some capacity? then i remember i'm a water sign and my mom was a cancer and i need to keep this moving on...

mommy issues aren't an indictment, they're most often just an indicator of areas where a person needs more support. perhaps they're a little scatter brained and need a partner who wants to help them get organized. perhaps they're a little emotional and have been told such their entire life to the point they're no longer wanting to be emotional so they need a partner who is willing to be a bending ear.

these areas of emotional need can lead to cancer men specifically tending to really need a lot of strong reinforcement from the women in their lives if they're unwilling to look inward and re-mother themselves so to speak. they can lean on their partners a lot because it's hard to talk about the deep feelings they have. when you agree to love a partner who shows you they need this support, you guys are gonna get mad at me for saying it, but it needs to be provided in a healthy and functional way. if you cannot provide that support do not take up with a man who already has inherent emotional distress just bc he dared to be born under a water sun.

that being said - i implore you, cancer man who may be reading this, to become your gentle inner voice. to reassure yourself that you're doing a good job and that you haven't done wrong. a cancer's fears can seem almost childlike to the uninitiated (do i know what i'm doing? is this going to last forever? what if they change their mind? what if? why? who? when?) but my rebuttal to that is also - all of our own inner monologues are our child selves or someone who hurt our child self. reserve judgement about the maturity of other's emotional processes.

cancers (all genders/identities) instinctively use their protective shell to get them through life. they are symbolized by the crab after all, so they sometimes assume costumes both literal and metaphorical.

in men these may be different personalities - you'll find the doer who shows up to your house with boxes and helping hands when you tell him you're moving, the quiet stoic lover who meets your needs in the most unassuming of ways, the man who is using macho as a defense mechanism who peacocks around and uses emotions as a weapon and finally, the man who is using his own machismo as a charming safe haven for others with hands that only wish to caress and heal (my favorite).

i mean god, a lot of cancer men either lean into the super affable cute sweet guy in hoodies and jeans while absolutely blasting the most insane screamo music in those headphones or they are tattooed, love to look alt because it hides that their top artist for this year was mitski just to give you an idea of the physical identities they may assume.

cancer men crave intimacy. their deep desire for enduring love, family, a place to call home no matter how transient everything else in their lives may feel isn't incidental, it's their birthday candle blow and falling star wish every time they see one.

they just have a tendency to rebuild their shells if they have broken through and start to feel unsafe with someone. they can become combative. the "yeah and what about you?" starts at that point and things can start to break down if you aren't willing to look deeper and realize he's hurting and that's why he's lashing out. it isn't okay, it isn't right, but it's the way cancers (and tbh all water signs why else do we have terror reputations) behave when they are retreating.

cancer men are gifted at making their loved ones dreams come true because almost always, they're making theirs come true as well through the process. they're life builders. commit to him and don't question him and he will give you everything you could ever want if he's done his inner work and he's ready to do so. let him build you the fantasy. embrace a man that loves you so much he wants to give you a babylonian garden of your own.

that being said, it's not your responsibility as someone who loves him to get him to that point so proceed as you wish but be aware that if you give up, you won't get the opportunity to come back once he's all fixed. don't cross a cancer - they're twice as vengeful as a scorpio with a virgo's very, very long memory and you will live your entire life being reminded that you didn't love them when they needed to be loved the most regardless of how true it may or not be. cancers deal in facts and feelings both and oftentimes their feelings are where the facts come from and experiences may vary.

but anyway yeah

[anjelicawrites]

“Don’t go beyond, no matter how much you feel you need to, Doctor. The barrier was not made to be broken. Remember this: there is more power here than you know. It is old and always restless. Remember.”

― Stephen King, Pet Sematary 

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x dead wife!reader Synopsis: expanding this short fic based on Stephen King’ Pet Sematary. Aemond is the sole victor of the Dance, only to discover that his beloved wife has been killed. Desperate, and in spite of Alys Rivers��s warnings, he decides to fly to a place where it’s said the dead can be resurrected. There’s always a price to pay, and no one comes back the way they were. Warnings: angst, murder, gore, semi graphic description of a corpse, semi graphic description of injuries, quick reference to Luke’s death, Jahaerys’s death and Rook’s Rest, madness, Aemond survive the God’s Eye, self inflict wounds. A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed.

Rain slaps his face, relentless it pours from the sky, chilling him to the bone, wetting the layers of leather, and his thick cloak.

Under him Vhagar flies, restless. For the first time in all these years together, Aemond feels the unwillingness of the ancient beast to follow her rider’s orders; he knows it’s not the storm, nor the exploding boom of the not so distant thunders. 

Or your dead body wrapped in your shroud, that unnerves the Queen of all Dragons, the winner of thousands battles. 

It’s where he’s forcing her to fly.

NSFW (due to the themes) and 18+ only please!

Through the bond he feels Vhagar’s unwillingness, all her instincts screaming that there’s danger ahead, that she shouldn’t go; Aemond feels it in his bones, in every cell of his body that Vhagar is trying to subtly gain control and turn back to King’s Landing. His muscles spasm and flex when the old she-dragon tries to push, against his unbreakable will, his hands tighten painfully around the reins when she tries to sneakly change the course of their trip.

“Daor bisa jēda, Vhagar!” He screams over the howling of the wind. “Not this time, Vhagar!”

In his arms your body slumps and he almost loses his hold on you: it would be the Gods’ cruelest of tricks to take you away from him, again. Permanently, this time.

They had tried, when he was in Harrenhal and you, supposedly, safe in King’s Landing, with his mother and his sister.

Supposedly.

Alicent never wrote him who had smashed your head with a morning star, the blow so violent it had caved your skull in, killing you on the spot. Not that it mattered. Had it been Rhaenyra herself, or one of her men, it wouldn’t have changed a single thing: you were dead. He had survived Daemon, killing him above the God’s Eye, the thought of crawling back in your arms the reason he hadn’t succumbed to the wounds the other man had inflicted.

And the cruel Gods had taken his safe haven away from him.

Aemond has no recollection of what had happened after he had read the letter, there was a black abyss where his memories should have been, and pain, enormous, all encompassing, deafening in its power, it had bent and twisted his reason, smothering him under a layers of guilt: if he had taken you to Harrenhal, you’d be alive and well.

When his reason had resurfaced, forcing him back to the world of the living, he had entertained the fleeting thought of following you into the great unknown; perhaps, he had mused, he was supposed to die in the treacherous waters of the God’s Eye, if not on Daemon’s sword, then by his own hand.

What was left for him? The conqueror’s crown, now that his brother was dead? The richest hidden in the bowels of the Red Keep? Punishing all of the Houses who had sided with Rhaenyra? Everything paled if you weren’t by his side, all the gold turning into dust, if he couldn’t share it with you.

You were the light, where he was darkness, the gentleness to his steel: no one else would ever survive the comparison to you. Nobody would laugh softly the way you did, or feel when he needed your gentle hand in his. Why would he bother with talking to all those people who weren’t you? No one had something to say that truly interested him, nor could they understand him the way you did.

Without you the air he breathed was poisonous, the food ash in his mouth: why did the Gods punish him the way they did, when his only fault had been protecting his family and avenge his honor?

When he had resurfaced back from the pit abyss grief had carved for him, his chambers were destroyed: the bed, the drapes, the heavy trunks containing his belongings. All his clothes torn to shreds. 

The exquisitely made letter writing set you had gifted him for his nameday laid into broken fragments where his desk stood. The elegant clothes you had ordered for him, where you had sewn his initials during interminable winters, before your wedding, torn apart as if a mindless beast had gone through them. Even all the letters you wrote him, now shreds, your beloved handwriting lost forever.

When he had realized what he had done in his rage and grief, he had felt his mind slipping again, the tenuous grip he had on reality splintering as he desperately tried to hold on his sanity: you were dead, and all the markings of your earthly passing destroyed: what was left for him to hold on?

He had fallen on his knees, the boulder sitting on his chest depriving him of his breath, his vision a dark tunnel; even the physical pain of his wounds couldn’t tether him back to reality.

There’s a dark place, his broken mind had supplied, the nameless islands the maids talk about, where miracles happen.

He had forced his jumbled thoughts to focus, gritting his teeth and curling his hands into fists, the pain a flash that sharpened his mind, finally, into focus and away from madness.

He had heard the servants scurry and whisper around him, ghost tales, mad tales that had no grounds in philosophy, or reality, those ignorant people who would pale at gusts of wind they believed to be the shadows of the dead or fear the depths of the woods around the cursed place that was Harrenhal.

Could they be right?

The sharp turn Vhagar tries to make jumbles Aemond back into the present, where wind and hail slap his face and he is so cold he can barely force his muscles to work.

With a pained wince he grabs the brindles with stiff fingers, the muscles of his shoulders screaming when he rears back to force Vhagar to go straight.

“Gaomagon hae nyke vestragon! Do as I say!” He shouts; through the bond, Vhagar growls, but submits.

Only another time Vhagar had gone against his will: the faithful night when he had killed Lucerys.

He had laid in your embrace, still wet from the storm, shivering, his teeth chattering with how cold he was feeling. He had poured his heart open to you, confiding to you the truth he couldn’t reveal to the rest of his family: that he didn’t mean to kill the young man, that Vhagar had a mind of her own.

He had curled in your arms when he had told you he couldn’t feel any remorse for what he had done that, perhaps, Vhagar had acted following the deepest wishes of his soul.

“Maybe there was a part of me that wanted him dead, and Vhagar just followed suit.”

You had hugged him closer, wetting your night garb in the desperate hope to keep him warm, as the servants prepared him a bath.

“We will face what is to come together. We are but instruments for the Gods, their path for us is known only to them.” You had answered.

Only you had been steadfast by his side, even after Jahaerys’ killing, even after Rook’s Rest, when the whole Keep thought he had tried to murder Aegon, you had taken his hand showed him your faith in him.

You did all of that for him, he must do the same for you, against reason, against all that’s known about life and death.

He had stormed the crumbling corridors of the castle, scaring the servants away with the mad look on his face, and the blood still dripping from his hands, outside, Vhagar moved and groaned, his turmoil hers to bear.

He had opened the doors of the witch’s workroom with such a strength, that they had slammed with a bang against the moldy walls, scaring her servants into scuttling into the direction of the enormous hearth.

Once again he had looked at the Strong woman, the only one who showed him no fear, only bland curiosity; he knew of her friendship with Daemon and only now wondered why she hadn’t killed him when he was defenseless in the mouth of madness. Perhaps she hoped to obtain from him what she had wanted from her late friend, as if Aemond would have given her half a glance, whatever the reason of her well masked interested had been in him.

A mystery he would have explored, if you weren’t in his life.

She had tried to say something, but he had cut her off immediately, asking where was the place of miracles, and she had paled: for the first time since he had set foot in Harrenhal, she had showed him true emotions, the fear she lacked when he had decimated House Strong.

“Such place does not exists.” She had lied to him. “It’s an old wives tale.”

Without even thinking, Aemond had grabbed both the knife she was using, and her hand, pulling at her until he could slap it on the table, her long fingers spread on the dark wood.

“Either you start talking, or I start cutting off your phalanxes. I will not stop until only bloody pieces of you remain.”

Did she talk because she was afraid of him, or because she knew she had no sway over him? Could she see the madness in his eye, or was she sending him to his death, to avenge Daemon? Aemond didn’t know, or cared; with the sharp blade resting on the tip of her little finger, he had listened to her, absorbed the coordinates that would guide him towards your salvation.

She had waited until he was at the doors.

“It is said that nobody comes back the way they were, that there is a price to pay to subvert the order of all things.”

He had stopped, but he had not looked at her.

“Then why such a place should exist?”

She had no answer.

“You wouldn’t like what you’ll see there.” She had stopped for a moment. “Sometimes, dead is better.”

He wasn’t listening anymore, his footsteps booming against the cursed walls of Harrenhal, his voice authoritative as he ordered his servants to prepare his things, and Vhagar: he was in a hurry to go back to King’s Landing, to you, before it was too late.

A flash of lightning illuminates the barren, nameless island and Aemond has to grind his teeth when, under him, Vhagar grunts and jostles her whole body, as if trying to stop him one last time, before it’s too late.

“Ȳdra daor keligon! īlon issi bē konīr! Don't stop! We are almost there!” He shouts: he’s not going to fail now that his prize is so near!

Vhagar lands gracelessly, like she has never done before, and doesn’t lay on the sand to recuperate after such a long flight, instead she sits, and keeps looking around, moving her humongous head nervously.

Cradling your body against his, Aemond feels all his hairs stand up, as soon as his feet touch the ground. If he hadn’t such an important task to carry out, he would follow the voice in his head that’s screaming at him to run away, before it’s too late.

With a grunt he tries to ignore the panic he feels surging from the depths of his being, the fist that’s curling around his stomach, making it hard to take the first step towards the inland, where the ancient burial ground lays: his body seems to revolt against his brain’s orders, his legs almost hammered on the wet sand, his muscles turned into stone.

Behind him, Vhagar roars.

He had arrived in King’s Landing wearing the same bloodied clothes he had worn during the battle against Daemon. He had ignored his mother’s fearful stare, and her pitiful attempt at stopping him, when she had realized he was heading for your burial.

“No Aemond!” She had grabbed his arm. “You don’t want to see them like this, you don’t want to destroy your last memory!”

He hadn’t stop to shake Alicent’s hand off his arm, electing to carry her until she had lost her hold on him.

You were already in your tomb, the soil flattened and only needing a headstone, as per your House ancient traditions.

With his bare hands he had dug through the layers, the already butchered skin opening to bleed, his fingernails almost torn with the haste that fueled his desperate work.

Until the linen of your shroud appeared. Only then he worked carefully, making sure the soil wouldn’t rain on you, moving your heavy body gently, with the same care and love he had always used with you, his delicate love.

His hands had trembled when he had open the shroud to see your beloved face again hoping, against all hopes, that you would open your eyes, and smile at him, the same way you did every morning, when he was getting ready for the day.

The Maesters had done a good job at trying to put together the broken pieces of your skull and of your eye socket; there was still a dip in your skull, probably where the morning star had hit you; he could touch the stitching keeping your skin together and the bald patch, where your hair used to be. The eye on the damaged side slightly bulged out, as if it didn’t perfectly sit in the socket; it didn't matter, none of it truly did, he’d love you in any shape and form. 

The rest of your face was you, though, even in the endless slumber of death, he could recognize the peaceful expression he used to wake up to every morning, the elegant curve of the lips he loved to kiss, the light laugh lines that showed the world how much you loved life.

He couldn’t fool himself, you weren’t truly asleep, you were dead, too cold and still for this to be anything else but the end of your life.

“We had to bury them.” Alicent had said. “We couldn’t wait any longer.”

Aemond wasn’t truly listening, he didn’t care that they thought you were gone forever, because he had the chance to bring you back.

With infinite care he had wrapped you back in the shroud, hesitating for a second when he had to cover your face again.

“Only a little while longer, issa jorrāelagon, my love.” He murmured against your lips, leaving a fleeting kiss that chilled him to the bone. “You have to be patient for a little longer.”

He had paid no mind to his mother’s voice, at her words when she had seen him carry your body bridal style away from your tomb.

She had tried to scurry behind him, to keep his pace, but he was already sitting on the saddle of his horse, with you safely in his arms, when she had managed to reach him.

“We shall be back.” He had told her, not seeing the pure horror on her face. “And everything shall go back to normal. Prepare for our coronation. It shouldn’t take me too long.”

Around him the servants and soldiers, the stable hands and maids tried not to look at him, fearing his reaction and made way when he had headed for Vhagar again.

Aemond has to walk half blinded by his hood and the fury of the elements around him, on his back he had strapped the shovel he had ordered the servants to ready for him, in his arms your shroud is wet and heavy with all the hail and rain pelting both your bodies.

For a fleeting moment he wishes he could protect you more from the storm, that the clothes you will wake up wearing wouldn’t be soaked; he should have bought something else for you to wear, than the wedding dress you were buried in. You can’t feel the cold that’s seeped in his bones, you will be shivering during the ride back though; he hopes his mother will have the fire ready in your shared rooms, it would be useless to bring you back, only to lose you to a stupid illness.

Under his boots the terrain starts to rise in a slope that becomes steeper and steeper as he trudges along; around him the wind howls and a part of him fancies he could hear the screams of ghosts trying to stop him from doing what’s right, what he couldn’t do when you were defenseless in King’s Landing.

“Nyke jāhor daor qringaomagon arlī! I will not fail again!”

He howls, and the dead steal his words, shred them into pieces carried by the wind. On the inside he shivers, and it’s not the cold, it’s not Vhagar’s uneasiness he can still feel in his mind; it’s the animal living inside of him, the instinct that had told him not to strap himself to Vhagar, in preparation to his fight against Daemon.

There’s a knot where his stomach is, all of the fine hairs on his body stand to attention as he almost loses his hold on you; there’s a part of his mind whispering old, dark tales his nanny used to tell him to scare him, that sees monster in every shadow painting this derelict place.

Is someone walking behind him?

He whips around and all he can see are the black clouds shielding the sky: there’s no one else but him here, and the little light the moon can bestow to show him the way.

By the time he arrives on the top of the hill, he can’t feel his feet anymore, nor his hands, his teeth are chattering violently, all his muscles are trembling, and it’s not the cold, or the strain of the walk against a wind that’s still trying to topple him backwards.

It doesn’t matter: if the witch’s words are true, he’s arrived where he’s supposed to be, the land that will, miraculously, bring you back.

He loathes that he has to lay you on the sparse, wet grass, but he has to dig now.

“Nyke jāhor daor qringaomagon ao arlī. I will not fail you again.”

He murmurs against your lips, the shroud is so wet not that it sticks against your face, revealing the vague shape of your lips and closed eyes.

“Sepār syt mirrī while, pār īlon jāhor sagon biare arlī. Just for a little while, then we will be happy again.”

His whole body screams in pain when he starts digging the hard terrain. No amount of training has prepared him to the physical exertion that is driving the shovel against what feels like rocks, their weight as he throws the soil away in a haphazard pile away from where you lay; his arms are as stiff as stone, his hands can barely grasp the handle, slippery in his dead fingers. It’s only his obstinacy that keeps him going, even when he falls on his knees, the pain of his back taking the breathe away from him for a handful of seconds.

Tears mixed with rain wet his face as he keeps working with his hands now, desperate he keeps digging. If he’s bleeding, he doesn’t feel it.

On his hands and knees he crawls to you, the pain in his lower back and arms almost unbearable when he has to lift you; it doesn’t matter, he will not drag you around like a dead animal.

He staggers to the hole blindly, all of his muscles screams at him, the hail is pelting his uncovered head. He trips against a rock and falls in the temporary burial with you, your corpse deadening the fall; amidst the pain and the stench, he wails how sorry he is, that he didn’t mean it, the same way he didn’t think that leaving you behind would kill you.

On his hands and knees again he fills the hole. He’s burning through whatever sliver of strength he has left, he uses it to cover your body, until the soil is compact again, and he can crawl back to the beach: the witch had be adamant that the miracle should work in solitude, that you should raise from your tomb alone.

He doesn’t care that he mostly rolls and crawls down the slope, he’s too tired to notice how the rocks and sparse bushes tear at his face and clothes, he just wants to go home, with you.

Vhagar is still sitting on her haunches, her massive tail whips the sand nervously, yet she simply lifts one of her wings to protect him from the rain, and lets him abandon his tired body against hers, guarding his uneasy sleep.

In his dreams he keeps chasing you. He doesn’t know where you two are, you’re running through a dead forest, the skeletal branches of the trees grab at his clothes and hair, making it hard for him to catch you, no matter how hard he tries; sometimes he loses the sight of you in the mist, sometimes you’re so close to him, yet your slip through his fingers like air. He knows there’s danger ahead, but you wouldn’t listen to him, you keep running and laughing, egging him on, until he sees the glint of the morningstar: it’s too late.

He wakes up with a scream, confused by his surroundings and by the nightmare, then he remembers everything with a pang of pain in his chest: how long was his uneasy slumber? Above him Vhagar is still nervous, her own alertness seeps into his conscience and makes all the hairs on his body stand.

Still on his hands and knees he crawls out in the open, in his bones he feels Vhagar’s unhappy growl, and her mad desire to take to the skies. Not yet: he’s here for a reason, now his only fear is that the witch might have lied to him, and that you’d be gone for good.

He doesn’t know how he looks now, probably as bad as he feels, his body stabbed by pain with every small movement he makes. Even climbing back to his feet is a feat he can only manage by using Vhagar’s massive body for support and still he can’t extend his back in his usual ramrod stance, the lower portion of it hurting so badly he has to hunch a little.

Over him the sky is still a blanket of dark clouds that let slivers of moonlight through: he shouldn't have slept for too long, then.

The Gods must have blessed him because the storm has calmed and now there’s only an ice cold wind whipping his broken body; anxiously his eye starts scanning the beach, looking for you. How long does it take for a miracle to happen?

“Aemond.”

Fear bolts down his back as he turns around, facing the path he had taken to the slope.

“Aemond.”

It’s your voice calling him, yet all his instincts are screaming that he needs to run away.

Aemond forces himself to stay where he is, his eye trained on your approaching figure.

You’re walking with a slower gait than the one he’s used to, your wedding dress is in tatters and the wind slaps the flying scraps of fabrics against your body. Your, once, beautiful hair is now a ruined mess of blood and soil, the tresses hung down your back like dead things.

And your face.

He’s forcing himself not to look at you, to keep his eye trained away from what he had loved to look at the most. He can’t. He knows he’ll be turned into stone if he dared.

“Did you miss me, Aemond? I did. You were gone for so long.”

Unconsciously he takes a step back, trying to retreat back into Vhagar’s safe embrace: your voice is so wrong. It’s not the tone, not the lilt of your accent, but there’s something… off.

“I waited for you. Prayed the Gods that you’d be back. Did you to the same for me?”

He did. Every night spent away from you had been a torture he survived thanks to the hope to get back to you. He even came here because the idea of living without you was too repulsive to even form in his mind.

I don’t want to that thing to touch me. He thinks, with horror. I would die if that happens. Then why can’t he scramble on Vhagar’s back and fly away? Why are his feet planted on the barren shores of this nameless, cursed place?

“Don’t you want to hold me close, Aemond? I was so cold without you where I was.”

No! No! No! No! His mind screams. Behind him, Vhagar is growling, her fear, new and petrifying mixes with his own. Yet you’re approaching, unstoppable like a bad omen, your feet carry your undead corpse closer and closer.

There was a price to pay, the witch had said. No one comes back the way they were.

He had been a fool in bringing you here in the hope to restore his life the way it had been. A cursed fool, now he understands! That thing uneasily walking towards him is simply wearing your body, is using your voice, it’s not you, it’s a puppeteer, ancient, more than Old Valyria ever been. Perhaps the thing had been cursed to live here, and he has freed it, perhaps it’s Death itself that’s finally come to collect his cursed soul. Perhaps it’s the witch’s revenge.

Oh Gods please no! His mind begs, but you’re not stopping, you’re so close he can smell the stench of death coming from you: why hadn’t he before?

He can’t help but look into your eyes, dead and so, so cold, like they’ve never been before, they put him under a cursed spell that cancels everything around him: the wind, Vhagar’s fear, his own. There is a hell staring back at him, inescapable and that he has bought upon himself with his own desperation.

A pained whine escapes his lips when your ice fingers brush his cold cheeks, and then there’s the abyss of madness overtaking him, once again, and forever.

Aemond taglist: @fan-goddess, @xcharlottemikaelsonx, @qweencrimson

Ewanverse taglist: @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @zaldritzosrose @thought--bubble

[hergrandplan]

(after that 'tidal waves' chapter i fear asking for this but)

'Break Me' -> Wilmon

Leave a "Break me" in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble.

My dearest Jay. I am... so sorry it took me almost half a year to get to this. It kind of got lost in my inbox and then I had other things taken up my attention but hey it happens! (to me. often.)

Also because originally this was going to be longer, but as I was rereading this just now, I realized that anything I wrote after this kinda took away from the first half of the story, made it less impactful. So, after 6 months, here it is!

“Simon!” Wille shouts, pounding at the door with his fists again. His knuckles feel raw, beaten, but he keeps going, unable to stop.

His banging echoes through the gallery, loud and frantic. It’s probably, no, definitely, too loud for this time of night. He wouldn’t be surprised if a neighbor came up to him telling him to stop, or even call the police on him. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if he wakes up the neighbors or the whole building or the whole fucking world. He just needs Simon to answer him.

“Simon!” he yells again, before leaning his head against the front door and stuttering out a broken ‘please’.

Wille knows he’s in there. Sure, the lights are off, and sure, no sound has come from inside the apartment, but it’s 3 am and even if he has woken Simon up, he’s probably ignoring him.

Which, all things considered, is only fair.

Wille turns around and slides down the door, his head coming to a rest against the cool wood.

It’s quiet, the peace of the night returning now that he’s no longer screaming at the top of his lungs. He’ll have to apologize to the neighbors – or the world – tomorrow. Now though, now he just wants Simon.

A warm tear tracks down the side of his face. Wille knows Simon has all the rights in the world to ignore him, but a part of him had really hoped that maybe this once, he would answer him. But why would he? Wille had lost all rights to Simon when they broke up a month ago, when they realized that this, them, simply wasn’t working anymore the way it should. The way it did.

It’s strange to think how a month ago, if he had been feeling like this, he would have just used the key Simon had given him, walked inside and crawled into bed with Simon without thinking twice. He would have wrapped his arms around Simon, squeezing him tight, and if Simon had woken up, Simon would have just turned over and smiled, maybe given him a soft kiss, a welcome home – even if both of them knew this wasn’t his home –, before drifting back to sleep.

It would’ve been so easy.

Everything used to be easier.

Wille closes his eyes and leans back against the door.

He needs Simon. He needs Simon to answer him and open up the door and just, for one night, to look at him again. Needs to hear him, see him, smell and feel him, even if it’s just one more time. Mostly, Wille needs him to hold him so he can finally fall asleep.

Wille is exhausted. His whole body feels heavy, and all he wants to do is sleep, but he can’t. Not even here, against the wood of his ex-boyfriend’s door, when his eyes are doing everything in their power to stay open, he can’t.

He lets out another truly desperate please, for no one to hear except the stars. And they don’t seem to care.

Maybe being against the door is enough. Simon has touched this door, this wood. It’s his door. Wille grimaces at how he sounds. His door. As if it could contain any piece of Simon. As if anything at all could contain the bright sun that had lit up his life for two years.

Two whole fucking years.

Wille closes his eyes, right as footsteps sound through the gallery. He doesn’t pay it much attention – it’s probably one of Simon’s neighbors coming in from a night out. Or finally that one neighbour asking him to shut up.

They’ll pass by, probably write him off as some drunken sleeper. They come closer and closer, and then,

“Wille?” Oh. That’s not some drunk neighbour. Though he hasn’t heard that voice in a month, he would recognize it anywhere. He could pick it out anywhere. Even in a crowd of thousands, he’d always find him.

Wille opens his eyes and only to find himself looking right at Simon, hovering over him, arms crossed and staring at the pathetic figure Wille must be making.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He sounds cold, angry but Wille hears the nervous edge in his voice. Simon tries his best to hide it but Wille knows Simon. He knows what concern looks like on his face, how his brows knit together, how his jaw trembles, how his eyes ever so slightly widen. Fuck, Wille can even see his hand twitching, wanting to reach out, and Wille both wishes that he fucking would or that he wouldn’t. And he doesn’t know if he’s happy when it remains by Simon’s side, or devastated.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing that leaves Wille’s mouth, once he has finally managed to talk past the lump in this throat. It’s a thousand apologies, all at once.

I’m sorry for showing up at your doorstep like this.

I’m sorry for not leaving you alone like you asked me to.

And, of course, I’m sorry for ever hurting you.  

“What are you doing here?” Simon simply repeats, mouth now drawn in a scowl, his arms crossed, every part of him telling Wille to leave.

Fuck, Wille almost does. He’s never had Simon look at him like that, all his anger directed towards him, and it hurts. Simon used to look at him with love and adoration, as if Wille was someone worth looking at.

“I can’t sleep,” Wille admits, his voice trembling. He hates having to admit this, hates that he can’t just be normal and move on. “Please, Simon, I know it’s a lot to ask but I can’t sleep without you.”

He used to fall asleep so easily when he was with Simon. He’d gotten used to the way their bodies fit together, always touching somehow. He fell asleep so easily and quickly with Simon beside him. Now, he’s lucky if he gets a few hours.

“Can I stay here? Tonight?”

Wille braces himself, expecting Simon to send him away – he wouldn't blame him. It's a lot to ask, and Wille wishes he didn't have to ask. But he needs this – he needs sleep, and even more importantly, he needs Simon.

But then, Simon’s shoulders slump. “Sure,” he sighs, closing his eyes as if he can’t quite believe he just said yes. Wille definitely can’t believe it, but the sigh that leaves his mouth is one of utter relief. “Yes. You can stay.”

Send me a prompt from this list and get a little story!

[spark-hearts2]

Cut Content From Chapter 3 of Therapy but It's just Zooble Interrogating Caine

Since I'm gearing up to post it, I've decided to drop some of my favorite lines that unfortunately didn't make it. Give it a read and question where the hell the context went.

“But, if you wanted to make one of us blind, you could. Don’t make me blind! This is just for example!” Pomni rushed out. That was the issue, right? She shouldn’t have said to do something to herself.

“Why would I do that? The Circus is a visual environment, it’s not designed to be accessible to the blind.” Caine asked back, slightly offended.

“But you are able to.”

He huffed. “Yes, I am able to. “

“I can interact with your senses directly, but as you have seen, it’s clunky and intrusive. I’m not supposed to interact with them like that, my access is just for calibration tests” he stated, clearly a little annoyed.

___________________________________

Pomni: “So the fact that I am currently thinking, is proof that my body is out there? Headset and everything still on it?”

Caine: “Hmmm, yep! I don’t know about the headset everyone keeps talking about, but most likely.”

Pomni: “So, then why can’t we remember anything?”

Caine: “Hmm? Are you having memory issues?”

Pomni: “I only can’t remember my real name?! Is that because of the Circus?”

Caine: “Hmm? No, of course not! I wouldn’t ask for your name in the introduction if it was expected that you wouldn’t remember it! I had to add that line about no one remembering anything after joining because everyone complained about the lack of warning.”

Caine: “I have no possible clue what could be causing that issue. But, I don’t know how your memory is stored, so I don’t know how your memory could have been dumped.”

Caine: “Again! I know I said it to you day one, I can control everything in the circus, but not your mind, as your mind is not in the circus”

“That’s not what you said on my first day” She pointed out. That implied something very different than what he said before.

“Eh, paraphrasing.” He dismissed.

___________________________________

Caine: “When you all are able to leave, I think I would like to see the outside. See beyond that exit everyone talks about”

Kinger: “You would?”

He’s been told so much about the world outside. And very vocally about all the differences between it and the circus. There are things that he’s been able to act on, like the design and placement of the stars, to things that would take too much power to implement permanently like better water physics for the lake. But, often whatever is described to him is things he does not even have a proper reference for. Like how it feels to write with pencil on paper.

But that’s too much information. Instead, he keeps it to something that he can visually perceive.

“Yes. I was told the sunrises are… different. More unique”

Kinger hummed. “It’s not too different from this… I think”

That was partially because Caine had been subtly improving the sunrise the second he realized that Kinger was going to watch it. He usually kept it pretty simple, as there was no point in rendering a dynamic set piece if no one was around to watch it. But if he noticed anyone was watching, he would quietly adjust it to be a bit nicer. More rays on the sun, greater range of color, re-enabled cloud movement so that the sky changed over time. Things like that.

And muting the Sun, of course.

“Maybe a- a webcam in an HDMI port, that'd do the trick.” Kinger mumbled. Caine glanced at him curiously, but he didn’t elaborate further.

__________________________________

Caine: “EVERYTHING in the Circus can be broken down into ones and zeros. It is called the amazing DIGITAL Circus for a reason!”

Caine: “But, obviously, your little human heads don’t work in ones and zeros. So, it gets translated in a way that you can understand”

Caine:“That data gets packaged up, like this cube here, and gets sent to you. I can see and track that data, but once you have it, I can no longer see it”

Caine:“Every nanosecond I am sending data to you. And your sending data back, of course”

_______________________________

Pomni: “Could you prevent someone from joining?”

Caine looks uncomfortable. “I have considered that.”

HE HAS?!

Caine: “You already know how I can’t make an exit, but to remove an entrance? If I can prevent the connection from being established, then no more people would get stuck here!”

Caine: “Which wouldn't help any of you, of course. But prevention can be just as good as a solution!”

Caine:“But it didn’t work”

Pomni:“Someone still joined.”

Caine: “Worse, they spawned in at the center of the circus, coordinates [0:0:0]. Currently, that spot is in the void. Not a good way to start the day, haha.”

Caine: “After that, I stopped looking for ways to hamper the connection process. It is simply too risky.”

______________________________

Pomni:“Are you connected to the internet?”

Caine:“I don’t know what that is”

Pomni:“Like, Wifi? Ethernet?”

Caine: "Pomni, If I can be frank" Caine: "I'd have to change my name!" Caine: “But, you and everyone else are the only external connections to the circus. So, unless you are connected to ‘the internet’ and can forward information to me! Then no, I’m not”

_______________________________

Caine: Check it out! I'm essentially a walking debug stick! Pomni: A WHAT??!!

[out-there-tmblr]

Silco might react with a panicked "Kthxbye, we have to break up now" and then they manage to stay broken up for at the most a week.

Hee! Yes, I can't imagine them actually breaking up and it sticking in any way -- not without, y'know, a huge disaster happening first.

Especially in he context of Silco's paranoia that things are not going to last between them.

It's not paranoia if people are out to get you. I mean, Silco's instincts are actually borne from a lifetime of experience. As far as he knows, most people run when the going gets hard and people don't risk themselves for others. I think Vander is a big exception to that and it's probably what's going to lead to Silco's faith in his comrades and their loyalty. (That belief in loyalty outlives Vander.)

So to risk that "asset" (or even be willing to give it up) is a big deal even outside of the whole emotional aspect.

Is it giving up an asset? Because as that smuggling operation gets bigger, Silco's going to need storage for the items and he's going to need a known shopfront. And someone Vander's size is not easily intimidated or attacked, so it makes a lot of business sense that if you're going to set up a shopfront (or a bar where everyone knows you can go to buy certain items), you'd entrust it to Vander.

I'm just saying... Silco is capable of wanting Vander safe and wanting to increase their operation at the same time.

So if he were to fall out with Silco as Silco feels he likely wouldn't want to continue working with Silco even if the money was good.

Interestingly, I think Silco is the type to say that business is more important that personal feelings. He probably even thinks he believes it, but he lies to himself about the depth of his own feelings. Much like he couldn't give up Jinx for everything he's worked towards for a decade, I don't think he could work with Vander after Vander broke his heart. (I mean, even in s1, it was *years* after they fell out before Silco asked Vander to join in the fight against Piltover -- and even then, he was prepared to kill Vander to pursue his plans.) Sometimes I love a character who barely understands their own feelings.

(cue Vi's: the kind of stunt you'd have pulled when you were my age)

I don't believe that was true. I mean, I believe Vi thinks the world of Vander and has swallowed any tall tale about him as absolute truth... but Vander's so horrified by the kids getting into trouble in Piltover that I don't think he actually did get into big trouble over the river as a teen.

Vander:Okay… so what if we made our own more awesome orphanage. Silco: No,we are not adopting 50+ kids. Vander: :(

OMG, Vander would love that! Come on, he could manage 4 kids, how much harder could 50 be? (Especially before he actually has any experience of parenting.) It feels like such a Vander approach.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Vander could possibly have done outside of "not be an active tyrant" that people have such a positive perception of him even years later.

I think a lot of it comes down to the perception that Vander started the Lanes. I think if you have Silco who generally doesn't like people, doesn't trust them, doesn't spend time socialising out of choice.. it's easy to overlook his contribution. Especially when you have Vander, someone who's outgoing and sociable and genuinely likes talking to people and helping if he can... If Vander leaves the mine and sets up the Last Drop, becomes the public face of that market and grows the commercial side of Zaun until others can open businesses as well, until there are more options than mining/fishing/canning factories... It's very easy for Vander to be the one the crowd remembers.

Which always makes me wonder who built the statue of Vander that we see Silco talk to. Because who else in Zaun actually has the funds to build something that size? Did Silco keep up the lie that Vander started the Lanes and led rebellions and was a hero? (It wouldn't surprise me if Silco did it to keep the crowd on his side as he took over the Last Drop. That man has so many unaddressed issues, I love him.)

Young Zaundads wip (26)

***

For the sake of progress, they don't make the new tunnel any bigger than it needs to be. It's tall enough for Vander to kneel and punch cracks into the next lot of bedrock, but no higher. Vander breaks the rock and moves the pieces behind him; Silco moves the rocks to the larger cavern, clearing the tunnel.

Despite the three charges in Silco's pocket, neither of them are willing to use it. They don't want to risk causing another cave in.

The work is slow and tiring, and Vander's knees feel like they'll be covered in bruises by tomorrow. Silco rolls the bigger rocks out of the way. The smaller ones he lifts up and carries out, bent over in half to fit in their little tunnel.

There's no way for Vander to know if they're digging straight or starting to curve, but he can feel the sweat soaking through his shirt and the ache in his arms as they keep moving forward.

They take a break, both of them lying on the cavern floor just to stretch their backs and rest their legs.

Vander eyes the broken gas mask, the gap down the front where the metal edges bend and twist away from each other. "I almost wish Benzo was here. He'd be able to fix that."

One side of Silco's lip curls up, like he's too tired to sneer properly. They both know Vander isn't great with anything delicate and Silco might have nerves of steel but that's about the limit of his machinery knowledge. There's no way either of them can fix it. "We could try it anyway. It can't hurt our chances."

Vander rolls his head to the side, watching Silco. The strong line of his nose, the soaring curve of his cheekbones, the small chin and narrow jaw. He always thinks it's Silco's eyes that make him pretty, or the thin, delicate line of his lips, but it's everything. It's the knowing arch of his brows and the strands of dark hair falling across his cheek. Everything about him is sharp and fine, and stronger than he looks.

It's not somethingbhe wa looking for, not really, but he can't imagine his life without Silco in it. Maybe Silco should know that, since there's a strong chance they might not make it through the night.

"We're not dead yet," Silco says dismissively, before Vander can even work out the words to say.

Vander feels his own tired grin. "That could have been a nice moment. I could have said something sentimental. Something romantic."

"Your idea of romance starts and ends with: you're pretty, want to fuck?" Silco says tiredly and Vander laughs. He's not wrong.

"Are you complaining?"

"Nothing wrong with the classics." Silco watches him, something serious lurking beneath the wry humour. "You're pretty. Want to fuck?"

It catches Vander's breath for a moment, what Silco really means. The words neither of them are saying, even if they are true. It feels safer to treat it as a joke. "Now?"

"When we get out of this," Silco clarifies. "Five more minutes, then we keep digging."

***

They keep working, hour after hour, and their small tunnel grows longer. The lantern light is growing dimmer but Vander can't afford to worry about what they'll do when it fails. How they'll make any progress when it's just them and the dark.

He looks up at Silco's shuffling footsteps and notices his kerchief is tied across his face again. "Why are you wearing that?"

"Put yours on," Silco says instead of explaining. He hands over the broken gas mask. "I tried it. Doesn't work at all with that hole."

But the only way he'd be able to test it is if… "The Grey?"

"It's started seeping through the collapse." Silco sounds calm and collected, but his hands are clenched in tight fists. "We have some time yet. Keep going."

The spike of adrenaline helps Vander to hit harder, to force the bedrock around them to give way. He stops worrying about breaking the rocks smaller and just tries to break through to something. Something that isn't sheer rock and their inevitable deaths.

Silco doesn't complain about the larger rocks; he just rolls them along the uneven floor, pushing them out. Each time he comes back breathing heavier, until he comes back and sinks to the ground, pulling his makeshift mask off to gulp for air. His eyes are red and watering.

"Swap," Vander says. "I'll take the next lot."

"What could I do," Silco says and his voice is rough as gravel, "with those gauntlets?"

"Then rest," Vander says, grabbing the largest bits of rocks and hunching over to carry them out. He finds their cavern half full of the Grey. It's creeping through the pile of broken rock, grey-green fog spreading across the floor. It stings his eyes, makes his throat feel hot and scratchy, like the start of a bad cold.

Vander clamps a hand over his mouth and heads back to Silco.

Silco is still sitting on the ground. His eyes have stopped watering but they're still bloodshot. "We have to keep going."

"Can we seal the tunnel behind us? Buy some time from the Grey?"

Silco shakes his head and then pauses, thinking. "We could set a charge. Cause a collapse to slow it down."

"Could the whole thing cave in if we do that?"

Silco shrugs. His voice still sounds rough. "Maybe. We don't have any good options here, Vander. It's a risk, whether we do it or not."

He hates that Silco's right. If they do nothing, they have to hope to dig somewhere before the Grey fills this whole tunnel. "So, best case scenario, it doesn't collapse above our heads and it seals the entrance?"

"Best case? There's enough silt above us to seal it tightly, and we dig somewhere before we breathe all of the air in one small, sealed tunnel."

"So, suffocation, suffocation or being crushed to death? What do you think?"

"Set the charges," Silco says grimly. "If we're crushed, it's quick. If we run out of air, we'll fall asleep and never wake. It's better than dying with your lungs burning as you claw at your own throat."

***

[mimosita]

.

[skrunksthatwunk]

not to doomer post. but. american politics is like here's a conservative warmonger who wants to burn you alive personally and here's a different conservative warmonger who definitely wouldn't stop someone from burning you alive BUT who might raise the minimum wage by $0.30/hour for you, but only like eight years from now (so re-elect me please!! >w<). yes one of them has to be president they are the only two options we'll let you have. no neither of them will stop the government from killing you or anyone else, but at least one will say "it's kind of bad to kill people :( someone should really do something about that..." while giving the people-killers $20,000,000,000,000 to keep doing it then saying they can't afford to help you at all, but oh shucks, maybe next cycle, if you vote for me again! and also everyone will pretend as though they are extremely different political entities covering two highly polarized ends of the political spectrum despite nearly identical policy views obscured by their slightly different ways of addressing their target audiences, many of whom are also conservative warmongers. and also if you don't vote or vote third party the other guy will win and you will watch as they burn everyone you love alive in the same way they've burned so many strangers so you kind of feel like you have to vote for the other warmonger because even though they both have blood on their hands you'll take a handshake over an uppercut. even if you can still see the bodies piling up behind them. even if you can only save like five people you know and not the thousands of people who are dying in the other room. because you believe the difference between 30,000 and 30,005 is still worth it even though no one needed to die in the first place and no one seems to agree with you. you have to keep living in this world every day. if anything changes it will take decades and it will never be enough. if this takes a toll on you good fucking luck surviving off the generosity of the warmonger state that claims to serve you. happy voting!!

[medicinemane]

Anyway, hope you're all doing well

I just... I haven't slept and also I've got like... 2-4 days of tumblr to catch up on... mostly to make sure I don't lose anything I want to keep requeuing

In many ways I'm probably doing better than I have been in a long time... maybe ever, but... I've got zero focus, I can barely watch youtube videos, I certainly can't play games... I can't get myself to clean... I don't know man

It's like... it's like my mind's empty except for some thick clear goopy sludge... it's like being over at a strange house sat alone in a big room waiting for people to come back... not wanting to touch anything so you just sit there staring and feeling out of sorts, except it's just constant in my own house in my own room... just saw Bart flop down in front of my door and realized I'm so out of it I forgot I had cats

It's like I'm living every moment in the moment, but not in a peaceful way, in a I'm untethered from reality and trying to figure out plans or how to deal with getting everything sorted out is just kinda painful kinda way

Then my mood... well... I kinda have no mood. I'm fucking numb if I'm honest. I have flavor opinions like "I'm worthless and should kill myself", but I actually don't even feel depressed right now, I feel nothing

I don't see much point to my future even if everything goes great, and I would like to kill myself, but I have zero interest in even considering it right now even though I have everything I need around if I just stand up and take a single step

So... much as it probably sounds like I'm just pure in the trash right now, I'm actually in many ways probably doing better than I ever have before... I'm just also real messed up right now at the same time

I don't feel hopeful, I never feel hopeful, but I do feel like I can maybe guide shit into a good position, it's just once again I figure that even if I do everything I want to with being able to help other people out and stuff, I'll still just kinda end up alone in a crowd

You know... funny thing is I'm thinking "the fuck is even the point I wanted to make?", and I realize... my point was actually that I'm doing pretty good and not to worry... not sure how well I'm selling it, but it's true

I hesitate to assign anything to myself, my stance on me and anything I can't conclusively say tends to be no comment... but if I were looking at someone else describing what I'm feeling in my position, I might be inclined to say burnout... months of having to be on and clean and manage everything and... all that... well it's one explanation, who knows if it's correct

Anyway though, I'm good, don't worry, know I do appreciate you all and wish I had more brain power to say more to more people... it's just maybe kinda sad that this is my version of doing good... the fuck is wrong with me if I wake up everyday feeling like I've been beaten with clubs... and for me this is kinda peak... what's that say about my baseline?

Doesn't matter, only thing to do is keep moving forward

Guess insomnia paired with not really being able to think, like words just kinda pop out with no planning... guess it makes me ramble real bad, this was supposed to be like one or two paragraphs being positive

It's a Beautiful World

[seiwas]

i maxxed the tags (what did i expect) but!!

what a soft piece ari 🥺 thank you for sharing this hurt/comfort piece w us!! i think satoru will always be a figure of strength—but i think it’s in part because that’s how he brands himself to be around the people he cares about. he’ll never truly share how he thinks and feels about things, will almost always downplay it really. but he’s always worrying, always aware and cautious, overthinking 🥺 and i felt that loads here!!

there’s a shipwreck stuck between your ribs ; satoru gojo

synopsis; three times satoru sees you cry, and the understanding you gain of each other from it.

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, the synopsis speaks for itself i think, copious amounts of hurt/comfort, i just think he’d be so good at comforting u :ccc, also fluff!!, he’s addicted to calling u ”baby,” satoru gojo vs human emotion (he loses)

a/n; pls ignore the fact that 90% of my gojo fics are hurt/comfort ok we dont need to get into that <33 the writing in this one might be a lil rusty but im pretty fond of this gojo :’3

dim lights, buttery popcorn, and boredom.

the senses invading his mind are mellow, coaxing, a little tedious. all he can see are the buzzing lights before him, all he can hear is the insistent chewing of the people around him, and all he can feel is just that:

boredom.

satoru stifles a yawn, resting his cheek on the heel of his palm. he’s trying to pay attention — really, he is. trying to pay attention to the movie he picked out himself, after thoughtful consideration, one he’s been looking forward to watching with you all week. he’s trying his best. but, gosh, it’s just so boring.

or maybe he just doesn’t have it in him today — with all these too-dim lights, too-loud popcorn-chewers, and the too-convoluted plot playing on the big screen in front of him. he has no idea what’s happening, anymore, what scene this is supposed to be. some sob-story? he clocked out a while ago.

so, with nothing better to do — satoru decides to savour another view.

that’s how it always goes. no matter the movie, no matter the snacks, whether you’re watching at home on the couch or a nearby movie theatre — eventually, when his eyelids begin to grow heavy, or when his attention span begins to falter, that blue-soaked gaze of his shifts. a moth to a flame, following his instincts. constantly looking over to see what kind of face you're making. 

after all, your reactions are far more entertaining than any movie could ever hope to be. little sighs of exasperation, jolts and shivers down your spine, or a laughter so bubbly he can’t resist leaning in for a kiss or ten — he loves it. adores it. lives and dies by it. 

so satoru turns his head, and looks at you, knowing you’ll save him from the boredom clutching at his subconscious. 

and something in his chest constricts.

at first, he doesn’t notice it. hungrily lapping over the expanse of your jaw, to your cheekbones, his gaze drinking in everything he can see. scanning your eyes for a hint of emotion; and he finds it. he finds it in something that glimmers in the dim lighting of the theatre, something that has his breath drawing back to the depths of his throat.

tears.

crystalline, dew-drawn, a fresh set of tears clinging to the edge of your lash line. they’ve yet to fall, but satoru sees them — he sees them and he doesn’t know what to do. 

tears. 

tears?

you’re crying.

in the depths of your glassy eyes, he sees a fractured scene — playing against the scope of your iris, as the movie reflects off your pupils. there’s a turmoil there, a sadness, one that has you covering your mouth with the front of your knuckle. and you’re crying.

satoru wants to tease you. he wants to lean over and purr against the shell of your ear, poke fun at you for being so emotional. such a little baby. what else is he supposed to do?

the tricky part is that he can’t. he can’t move, can’t shape his voice into a purr, can’t even speak. he’s frozen in place like a bug trapped in amber, stuck to his seat, unable to do anything but blink at you in what he thinks might be bewilderment.

his breath hitches — and that’s all. 

something about the sight of you makes him falter, makes him stop in his tracks. catches him off guard. he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t recognize the feeling stirred deep within his chest, something discomforting and foreign. doesn’t understand why his heart feels so itchy, all of a sudden.

then your eyes meet.

and you blink. once, then twice. eyes just a little wide, an embarrassed kind of surprise. he thinks you must be flustered, and he’s proven right when your gaze flees from his.

a mingle of words clog up at the base of his throat. say something, say something, say something. but he doesn’t know what. 

he wets his lips, preparing to part them, but before he can get the first syllable out you're leaning in. close. close enough that he feels your breath ghost against the shell of his ear, close enough that his heart starts skipping the way it always does when you press yourself against him like that’s where you belong.

a whisper. it’s small, hushed, a little frail. but there’s something else, too, laced together with the vowels — amusement. 

”you didn’t tell me this was a sad movie.”

a pout plays at your lips, as you murmur your grievances. but then there’s that amusement; it’s there when you pull back, in the crinkle of your sparkling eyes, the curve of your smile. 

and satoru’s shoulders relax. stiffened bones melting. he exhales a breath he had no idea he was holding, and his heart feels at ease. a grin finds it’s way to his lips, wide, teasing, cheshire and sweet. 

he leans a little closer, bumping his head against yours. gently. ”i think you’re just sensitive, baby.”

his teasing is rewarded with a little huff, as your elbow meets his side. soft. everything you do is soft. 

”oh, shut up,” you scoff. smiling. he’s so relieved that you’re smiling. 

a moth to a flame, following his instincts, satoru brings you closer. an arm around your waist, pulling you into his orbit, until you’re practically sharing seats. searching for your hand — and he finds it, intertwining his long fingers with yours, just to give it a little squeeze.

(for some reason, he feels more protective than usual.)

he feels your gaze. questioning, maybe. but you melt into him quickly, with your head slumped against his shoulder, and his heart settles back into a sleepy rhythm. just watching the movie pass you by.

the dim lighting of the theatre casts a hazy shadow over your face, a tender desaturation, and his eyes stay glued to it when you aren’t looking. the smell of popcorn hangs heavy in the air, salty and buttery, warm and sweet, and he’s almost grateful to feel that familiar boredom tug at his veins.

anything is fine. anything is better than that discomfort, that irritating itch. 

satoru watches the movie flicker by, scene by scene, whispering commentary into your ear and stealing your popcorn with a satisfied hum. chuckling when you whisper-shout at him to cut it out!

he tries not to think of the glittering tears at your lash line, and almost succeeds.

rain clouds, cups of chamomile, and frustration.

it seeps out into the open air, engulfing your living room in a feverish haze. thick and suffocating; the scent of heavy rain, lukewarm tea, and that ugly, ugly feeling underneath his skin.

it pulses. it itches. and oh, how it aches.

satoru hates it. he hates feeling angry, feeling upset — hates when either of those emotions are in connection to you. hates it, hates it, hates it more than anything.

he does everything he possibly can to avoid it; his eyes are keen, always have been, and he can see when that thin line he shouldn’t cross crawls a little too close for comfort. when the rubber band of your patience just snaps. he sees all your buttons, knows which ones not to push. he knows you.

and, more importantly, more than anything — nothing you do could ever make him angry at you. 

(well, at least that’s what he thought.) 

satoru’s anger is a fickle thing, controlled, kept under wraps. it’s a slow process; it simmers, boils, a cup of chamomile brewed too long. and then it all but invades his senses. it never gets the best of him, never, but right now he can feel it — little pinpricks against his skin, a frustration that stirs his guts and has his eyes going cold.

satoru towers over you, like this. full height on display. not slouching or draping himself over furniture, but standing tall, and proud, and menacing. he isn’t smiling, and that’s all you need to know that he’s upset with you. his eyes are layered over with discontentment. 

a sigh spills from his lips, a little gruff, unmistakably annoyed. it slices the silence of the room in half, and a shiver travels down your spine. he doesn’t notice it. his voice has a rough edge to it, something firm. something that doesn’t sound like it could come out of his mouth at all.

”don’t act like such a child.”

a flinch. or maybe more like a jolt; this time, he notices, but it’s too late. he’s in too deep, boiled water licking at his ankles, pulling him down. frustration nips at his skin, and he can’t quite seem to push it away.

and you’re just so, so unaccustomed to it. unaccustomed to seeing him wear anything but a smile, unaccustomed to that cold gaze, usually nothing but warm and fond when it meets your own. this isn’t like him.

it’s not like him at all.

swallowing thickly, you do your best to calm down. but before you can make any attempt to contain it, wetness begins to gather in the corners of your eyes. pooling, little droplets yearning to fall.

satoru notices them instantly. he sees that sad glimmer, framed by the murky darkness seeping in from beyond the curtains, accompanied by the symphony of pitter patter against the windowpane. tears, much like the rain beating down outside.

and his chest goes cold.

a tiny sniffle pushes past your lips, and the dam inside you begins to break — tears tripping over your lash line, rolling down your cheeks. cascading across your pretty face. the air fills with a sense of dread, and both of you seem to be thinking the exact same thing.

(oh, fuck.)

satoru notices, belatedly, that his throat has gone dry. that his heart feels itchy, again. it itches and itches but he can’t do anything to soothe it, and your tears continue to fall. 

his heart begins to crack. right down the middle, like a gash in the reflection of a puddle, right across his chest. it hurts.

an inhale, then an exhale. you’re still trying to keep it all together, grasping for control over your emotions, but it’s not going too well. the little breaths that escape your throat are shaky at best, hands trembling as you wipe the tears away with the front of your wrists. and your voice sounds a little like it’s about to crumble away. 

”sorry,” you squeak, taking a step back. there’s a silent panic in the gesture, one that makes satoru want to get down on his knees. ”i’ll just — i’ll leave —”

he wants to stop you. he needs to stop you. but he does nothing, nothing at all, even as you stumble out. leaving the haunting echo of tiny sniffles and tear-stained cheeks behind you. 

satoru just stands there. once again, the sight of your tears seems to render him completely helpless. useless.

and he's frustrated, honestly. frustrated by the argument, by your tears, by his own guilt. he’s so frustrated he wants to claw his eyes out. he scratches at his forearm, but it does no good. all he can think of is your frightened little expression.

(he scared you.)

satoru slumps down on the couch, head in his hands, running rough fingers through his soft hair. it’s unruly by the time he’s done, and his bottom lip is bruised with teeth marks, and everything in the world feels so meaningless. so out of tune.

(he made you cry.)

a sigh. drawn out, tinged with exhaustion, bitter and battered like the swing of a baseball bat. he feels a little like he could throw up. it’s foreign, this emotion, suffocating. how long has it been since he genuinely felt this kind of shame?

the crack in his heart grows deeper, while you’re gone. more severe. every moment you spend outside of his vision makes him falter more and more, makes his desperation grow. desperate to plead for your forgiveness, to convince you not to leave. to wipe the tears away from your cheeks, delicately, the way you deserve. but he can do nothing but sit there, useless, repeating the same old phrase inside his mind.

he’ll make it up to you.

and when you finally come back, having calmed down a bit, he does just that. you’re embarrassed, he can tell, a little meek. it makes him feel that discomforting emotion, again, that ache. the crack that only ever seems to deepen.

but he covers it all up with a smile. a little sheepish, more than a little forced, but he hopes you understand. hopes you can see his remorse, see a man who loves you, because he does. 

so satoru takes you into his arms, softly, hands finding the small of your back. delicate, protective. a little whisper spilling from his lips. 

”’m sorry, baby. i didn’t mean it.”

and it’s not enough. he knows it isn’t. but he does what he can — even when it just ends up clumsy, teasing, bordering on something that most would interpret as insincere. all he can do is coddle you. shower you in hugs and kisses, gifts and praises. he hands it out like candy, eager hands finding yours, everything spilling out of his chest all at once. 

there’s a desperation to it that isn’t lost on you.

but it works. he’ll make it up to you; he swears. and he dotes on you until you’re too embarrassed to be sad anymore, apologizes until his throat runs dry. until he’s sure you believe him. 

he brews you another cup of chamomile, stirred to perfection, warm enough to make up for the shiver he sent down your spine. the rain beating down on your windows serves as a constant reminder of his failure, and satoru does his best to ignore it. swallowing what’s left of his frustration, focusing on you.

anything to see you smile again. anything to wash away the red tint to your eyes, the puffy skin beneath them. anything to hear you laugh, to get you to feel safe around him again. 

(anything to make him forget the sight of those tears rolling down your cheeks.)

panic, panic, panic.

it’s all he can feel, all he can think, the only emotion his muddled mind can cling to. he’s in pure, sincere, genuine panic, and you aren’t saying a thing. can’t bring yourself to.

arms wrapped around his waist, tightly, you hide away in the crook of his neck. clutching the fabric of his shirt, burrowing your face deeper into his warmth — and you’re not just crying.

you’re downright sobbing.

satoru knew something was off the moment you fell into his embrace, suddenly, tackling him into a hug so desperate it left him reeling. a kind of desperation he isn’t used to, from you.

he knew something was wrong. 

he knew even before he heard it; your choking sobs, those shaky, heaving breaths. muffled into the cotton of his shirt, his uncertain arms around you.

they break his heart.

”hey, hey…” there’s a soothing lilt to his voice, awfully delicate. sweet like molten honey, almost enough to hide the panic. ”what’s wrong?”

satoru holds you to his chest, safe and secure, cradling you protectively. as if shielding you from the world — from whatever or whoever got you like this. as if you’d crumble into dust, otherwise.

he tries to calm down, but his mind is spinning like a broken clock, and your silence doesn’t help. you’re trying to respond; he knows you are, but you just can’t get the words out. any attempts only make you cry harder.

a shake of your head is all he gets — and it’s not much, but satoru’s learned to make a lot out of a little. 

so he continues to hold you, hiding his worry, tucking his anxiety away somewhere you won’t be able to see. he curses, inwardly, grasping blindly for conclusions — for some divine guidance. how is he supposed to deal with this?

(how long has it been since he felt so very useless?)

gentle. that’s the approach he takes, finally, hiding his nervosity. he rocks you back and forth, just a little, like he’s lulling you to sleep; his warm hands finding the small of your back, the back of your head. cradling you so close you hear his rapid heartbeat by your ear.

soothing whispers. murmured into your hair, so soft they seem to melt once they slip from his tongue, all honey and devotion. affection so palpable you taste it in the air, from the breaths he exhales. 

”it’s fine. i’m here, i’m here… i’ve got you.”

he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but it seems to work. because you calm down, after a while, just sniffling into his neck and letting him soothe you. sobs and unstable heaves, turning into whimpers and shaky breaths. clinging to him all the while; so desperate for comfort, for him.

it makes him feel so, so desperate to protect you, to wash every single one of your worries away.

it’s unbearable, this aching desire. like a great, insatiable, unnamed something deep within the caverns of his chest, clawing at his ribcage, snarling and hissing, itching to break out so it can open its maw and devour you both.

(it’s ugly. it’s grotesque. it wants to keep you safe so badly it might kill him for it.)

a coo. sad, dripping with care, a comforting tone that he hopes you’ll find soothing. he smooths his palm down the back of your head, heavy, doting. it hurts so much to see you hurt.

”my baby….” satoru exhales, a little shaky. but he smiles, and he hopes you can hear it, hopes it’ll help mend the pain in your chest. ”what’s got you this upset, hm? you're worrying me, here…”

a broken sniffle. the guilt eats at you, gnaws at your bones, and all you can do is hide away in the crook of his neck. apologizing, your voice no more than a tremor of a breath.

”’m sorry…”

and satoru thinks his heart shatters. he can practically hear the crash, feel the broken, useless little pieces dig into his skin.

his arms travel down to your hips, steady, and he lifts you up. just for a second, just so he can plop down on the floor with you in tow — keeping you snuggled into his neck. seated on his lap with your legs around his waist, like you’re his baby koala.

”shh, it's okay,” he soothes, a grounding rumble of his chest right by your ear. he’s got you enveloped, wrapped up in his buzzing warmth, and all you can feel is him. ”you’re okay. no matter what it is, i'll take care of it, alright? you can rely on me.”

a moment passes. 

satoru clears his throat. nervous, suddenly. ”you know that, right?”

all you can give him is a shaky nod, but it’s enough. he sighs, in palpable relief, still rubbing circles into your back. ”okay,” he sneaks a hand underneath your shirt, tracing little shapes into your bare skin. ”good.”

he isn’t sure how long you spend there, on the floor, entirely focused on comforting you. washing away all your sadness, with every gentle caress, every soothing murmur of there, there… every little stutter of his heartbeat next to yours.

and when you’ve finally calmed down, melting under his touch and into his skin, arms going lax around his neck — satoru takes a breath. collecting himself, so you don’t have to. acting like his heart isn’t still a mess of crushed glass.

”you okay now?” he coos, drawing absentminded hearts into the skin of your back. his voice is teasing, but warm, spilling from his tongue and into your ear. deep and smooth. ”almost gave me a heart attack, baby.”

he feels the way your grip around him tightens, just a smidge, and he hears the weak little breath you draw in. your voice is still shaky, and it makes him want to rearrange the world, stitch those broken vowels back together. 

(he doesn’t like how irrational it is, this insatiable something. how it makes him want to bend the rules of the universe, just to see you smile. a dangerous temptation.)

”i’m sorry,” you croak, clinging to him like a shipwreck to a shore. ”it’s not — not a big deal, ’m just…” 

satoru pulls back. just a little bit, making sure your arms and legs stay in their rightful place, curled around his neck and waist. making sure the two of you stay connected.

then he pinches your cheek.

”don’t apologize,” he quips, a playful frown on his face. soft, a vague furrow of his brows. like he’s scolding you. 

it makes you wince, your eyes downcast. you look so meek. a little like a kicked puppy, glassy eyes glancing up at him in search of comfort.

satoru clicks his tongue. ”and don’t look at me like that, either.” 

he boops your nose, playful, doting, and you exhale weakly. it’s small, more breath than a real laugh, but you’re almost smiling, and —

it’s a start. it’s something.

satoru coos, voice dripping with warmth, sickeningly sweet. it seeps from his fingertips when he cradles your cheek in his palm, rubbing circles into the puffy skin beneath your eyes. there’s a mirth in his own, crinkled at the edges, tucked into that blue shade, something glazed over with pure adoration.

”there’s that smile.” 

he leans forward, closer, to press a kiss against the bridge of your nose, eyelashes fluttering. tickling your skin. you fall further into his embrace and he makes no move to resist, wouldn’t do it even if he physically could. even if he had the strength to let you go.

then he broaches the subject. hesitant. tactful, careful, delicate — he tries to remember how it works. how to handle something fragile. he thinks of those boxes you carried last week, little porcelain cups. heavy in his arms. he thinks of the way you jab his side with your elbow; gentle, always gentle, even though there’s never any need.

he thinks of you, and it all comes easy. that’s how it always goes.

”wanna talk about it?” he asks, softly. fingers treading through your hair, scratching softly at your scalp. it makes you melt, a little. clearing your throat.

”it’s nothing, really,” you mumble, tiny, seeking respite in the warmth that seeps from his body. speaking with a raspy voice, a hoarse throat, all tired out after crying. ”nothing big, anyway…” 

a moment passes, before you continue. ”i guess it's just been a rough week,” you admit, a sigh slipping from your lips, tinged with pure exhaustion. ”just little things piling up. ’m okay now.” 

a hum. satoru clears his throat.

”anything i can do?”

(please let me help.)

but you only shake your head. ”you’ve already done enough,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. ”think i just needed to get it all out, y’know?”

a beat. an itch. satoru holds you tight, a little tighter than he should. gentle, he reminds himself. but he needs you close enough to feel the flutter of your heartbeat, close enough to delude himself that you’ve merged together. closer isn’t close enough.

he gnaws at his bottom lip, teeth sinking into the flesh. pulling words out from the back of his throat, uncertain. ”i’m always here,” he settles on. ”if there’s anything you need, come straight to me. okay?”

a frown plays at your lips. you’re silent, for a while, until he hears you mumble beneath your breath.

”i don’t want to bother you so much, though…”

”— it’s not a bother.”

the words spill into the air, a little more firm than he meant to sound. but he means them.

”i’m serious. if you ever need help, with anything, come find me. i’m yours,” satoru inhales, deep, his chest moving in tune with the breath. you’re carried along with it, as if being lulled to sleep, following the steady pattern of his lungs. 

then he exhales. in, and out, and with it comes a promise. ”if anyone makes you cry, i’ll get rid of them.”

he says it casually, so casually that you assume it’s a joke, a bout of breathless giggles pushing past your lips. the sound has his own curling up, and he doesn’t have the heart to correct you. has enough tact to know that this might not be the best moment to let you know that he’s honestly a little terrified of how far he’d be willing to go to keep you safe and happy. 

but you’re smiling, finally, laughing. and that matters more than anything. when he closes his eyes, he thinks he can even feel the telltale signs that his heart is picking itself back up, gluing jagged shards into a shape that resembles you.

"that's scary!” you gasp, amusement bubbling up inside your throat. ”you’d go to jail for me?”

satoru huffs. ”bold of you to assume i’d get caught,” he tuts, a smug smile on his face. it makes you giggle, again, and he feels like a god.

”okay, okay,”  you nose at his neck, breathing him in, strawberry lotion and laundry detergent filling your senses. ”please don’t kill anyone on my behalf, though.”

”no promises.”

”satoru…”

slowly, steadily, his heart begins to stitch itself together. it helps that you’re there, he thinks. helps that you’re pressed up against him, that you’re holding him, like he’s the safest thing in the world. like you trust him.

(the word tastes like molten honey and luscious berries, sickly-sweet on his tongue. he gulps it down hungrily.)

it’s healing. the weight of your arms around him, the breaths that brush against his neck. he holds you to keep you together, intact, to keep himself together. a shipwreck and a shore — he just isn’t sure which one of you is which. but your jagged edges fit just right with his own.

”i don’t like seeing you cry.”

you blink. gazing up at him, with a contemplative look in your eyes. it melts into something a little too close to guilt for his liking. shame.

”— but i still want you to let me see you like that.” satoru smiles, with a tilt of his head. snowy tufts of hair falling across his face. ”is that weird?”

a moment passes. then you hum.

”no,” you exhale, a little breathless. smiling, somewhat weak, but still enough to have his heart skipping a beat. ”i love that about you, satoru.”

”huh?” he gapes at you — blinking dumbly. ”love what? that i want to see you sob into my chest?”

”that you try,” you stifle a yawn, sleepily nuzzling into him, all tuckered out from crying. ”even when it makes you a little uncomfortable.”

satoru stills. 

silence fills the space between you. there’s nothing more to say. his tongue isn’t really cooperating with him, anyhow — all tied up. so he leaves a kiss on the top of your head, and doesn’t say a word about the tremor running through his chest. 

he hates seeing you cry. hates how powerless it makes him feel, how useless. hates the fact that he can’t always protect you from the world, from himself.

but you let him see you like that.

he thinks of your tears, crystalline and glassy, like translucent marbles on a summer shore — and sees the trust instead of the sorrow. he thinks of your tearstained face, meek and feeble, and knows it’ll always be enough to break his heart to pieces. 

he thinks of you, and tells himself that it’s worth it; just as long as he gets to bring that pretty little smile back to life. 

[debtsunpaid]

these expressions are so 💅??? the completed klavi-jalla merger creates the cuntiest demigod alive i fear.

[arkangelo-7]

I’m sure someone’s already headcannoned this, but Bruce having pet names for the Batkids? Man, those are his babies—you can bet your ass he has pet names for them. He might not be the type of man to show much affection beyond a shoulder pat or the occasional forehead kiss, but he’s determined to parent the crap outta these orphans, and pet names are an easier medium to show that he cares.

Dick is both “chum” and “sweetheart” depending on the context. When Bruce is feeling playful and comfortable (the easy, “your mine and I’m just happy to be here with you” kind of love), he’ll stick with “chum” and Dick absolutely loves it. But when Dick’s sick or has a nightmare or got injured during patrol? It’s sweetheart. It’s default mode for Bruce, because seeing Dick in pain brings up so many raw, intense emotions (Bruce gets scared, goddamit) that it’s easier for him to say “I’ve got you, sweetheart, it’s okay, just keep your eyes on mine,” then it is to say “I’m so terrified that I’m going to loose you, I love you, you’re my everything.”

Jason is“Jaylad.” But it’s less of the name that’s important and more of the story behind it that is. For the first few months that Jason was in Bruce’s care, Bruce didn’t dare call him anything other then his name, in fear that he’d scare him away (he was already so distrusting, so hesitant, so fearful whenever Bruce talked to loud or moved to fast or got upset), but at the same time, he’d seen how pleased Dick had been at being called “chum” and wanted to bestow a similar endearment on Jason. But—he didn’t want to go to far. So instead of calling him “lad” like his own father had once called him, Bruce calls him “Jaylad.” It’s a little more impersonal, but it makes Jason more comfortable. (But when Bruce cradled his son’s broken body he said “no, darling, not you, don’t leave me—” because just how Dick is “sweetheart,” Jason has also always been “darling.”)

For Tim… it’s more complicated. He shoved his way into Bruce’s life and he’s forever grateful, but it wasn’t the same as it was with Jason and Dick. He sees Tim as his son, of course, but their relationship was built on the darkest, most despairing part of Bruce’s life. But even in that terrible season, Bruce would look over at Tim working on a case or cleaning his suit and say, “Good job, sport.” It doesn’t happen often, but Tim is “sport.”

Cassandra is “love.” Bruce has never said it to her, aloud, but he knows Cass can read him well enough to hear the unspoken endearment, to see how much he longs to protect her, bring her joy, fill her heart with all the love she’s filled his with.

Steph is “duck.” And not necessarily because Bruce decided that it was, but because 9 times out of 10 he finds himself screaming, “Robin, get down!” because Stephanie will not for the love of God follow his orders, and end up right in the line of fire. To save time he eventually just started saying “Duck!” It keeps Steph from getting whacked to high heavens and saves Bruce (another) heart attack, but over the years it’s also become somewhat of a ritual to say “duck” whenever Steph walks in the room. Bruce secretly wants to call her “ducky” (which is what his mother called Kate), but he’s never worked up the nerve.

Duke is “kid.” By the time he’s in the family, Bruce has loosened up and lightened up, especially with everyday affection (which is to say, he’s not avoiding it like the plague). He’s quick to say “Good job, kid” whenever Duke had an accomplishment or ask “how are you today, kiddo?” when they see each other in passing in the Batcave.

Damian, lastly, would never allow Bruce to call him anything other then his name. But every once in a while, Bruce can get away with saying “son.” And it’s the best thing in the world.

[riboism]

tear you apart

》 mob boss! p.sh x fem. ballerina! reader

》 wc: 3.3k

》 plot: a powerful mob boss becomes dangerously distracted by a captivating ballerina, leading him to abandon an important business deal because of his new obsession. Determined to regain his focus, he confronts her one night after a show, only to find himself even deeper entangled in his desire—and a conflict that could jeopardize everything.

》 content: swan lake ballet, ballerina!reader, mob boss! seonghwa, dom! seonghwa, gloved finger-fucking?? eventual smut

🎧 tear you apart- she wants revenge, sour switchblade- elita, into the woods- bragolin

It was now the final act of the show. Rothbart was defeated, his dark powers broken, and the swan maidens were free at last. In the soft glow of the stage, you and Siegfried danced together, your movements light and delicate, like drifting feathers. Each step felt weightless as you floated through the scene, surrounded by the gentle swell of the orchestra and the dreamy, pearlescent backdrop that bathed everything in a soft, otherworldly light. This was the most serene moment of the entire performance—yet your heart raced wildly in your chest.

Throughout the entire show, a sense of unease gripped you, following your every movement on stage. No matter where you turned or what role you played, you felt his eyes on you, that same piercing, unrelenting gaze that had been following you all season. 

Park Seonghwa always sat in the same seat, just a little off-center in the orchestra, ensuring he had the best view of you. Like clockwork, he was here every Saturday night, with his hair slicked back with precision, dressed in a long, black coat that skimmed the floor, and his leather-gloved hands resting motionless on his knees. His eyes followed you all over the stage, studying your every move, every tweak of your brow, his plump lips parted in fascination. His unblinking, stone-cold expression sent shivers down your spine, and yet, you couldn’t deny the intrigue it sparked in you. His observance of you, so focused and ceaseless, made you feel powerful—seen. As if, in his eyes, you were the only ballerina on that stage, the rest of the world fading into irrelevance. You almost looked forward to seeing him in the audience every night, that is, until some whisperings from the other ballerinas during dress rehearsal rattled you. 

"A mobster? Really? I thought those only existed in Scorsese movies," one ballerina laughed softly, her eyes darting nervously to the corner where he sometimes lingered after performances.

"It's true!" another whispered eagerly. "He's part of the Park crime family. Remember when they started cracking down on drug trafficking? Then they suddenly dropped all charges. I heard he paid off half the force. And now—well, I hear he’s eyeing the theater as a front for money laundering."

There was more truth to their rumors than they realized. After his father’s sudden departure, Seonghwa had inherited the mantle, becoming the head of the Park family business—a role he’d taken on with cold, unerring resolve. He was trusted to be the new, pragmatic decision-maker, one who wold keep the family business running smoothly. Everything had been going according to plan, right down to choosing an old, run-down theater on the outskirts of town as his next investment. 

It was a simple acquisition, one that should have been handled quickly. But one evening, he found himself sitting in the darkened theater, watching intently as you stepped onto the stage in your pearly white tutu, your sculpted legs covered in thick stockings, twirling on your experienced tippy toes, forcing him to wonder how you can move so gracefully while doing something that seemed so painful. 

Seonghwa never thought much of performance art; it simply wasn’t his world. His world was dark, brutal, and unforgiving. But from the first graceful movement, and the beautiful melody from the live orchestra, he was captivated with the world of the Swan Lake. You moved with such elegance and emotion that he couldn’t look away, each gesture leaving him more entranced than the last. From that night on, he returned every evening you performed, ignoring his obligations just to see you dance. He became infatuated with the beauty and artistry he hadn’t known could exist. 

The original plan was simple: aquire the theater, reshape it into something profitable, and then use the profits to conceal earnings. But now, the thought of disrupting your world was unbearable. Reluctantly, he abandoned the deal, his priorities now twisted by an enchantment he resented. 

From that very first performance, you unknowingly unraveled the careful fabric of his plans. Seonghwa found himself slipping away from his duties week after week, drawn back to that same old theater. His associates began to worry, questioning his judgement, but he couldn’t help it. He told himself it was just a curiosity or distraction—anything but the truth. You had enchanted him, woven yourself into his thoughts so deeply that he couldn’t bring himself to go through with the acquisition. Every time he saw you, he was reminded of what he stood to lose.

His associates were quick to notice his shift, whispering about his lack of judgment and uncharacteristic indecision. They urged him to reconsider, to stay grounded—but he felt himself slipping. Trouble was on the horizon; he could sense it. Part of him loathed you for the hold you had over him, for making him slack off from his responsibilities. Yet, night after night, he was drawn back, helpless against the spell you’d cast, unable to break free, and unwilling to let go.

Seonghwa knew he couldn’t keep living like this. His soul was burning hopelessly, and he needed to put out this fire fast. 

—

It was quiet now, the theater emptying as the final notes of the orchestra still seemed to hang faintly in the air. You slipped into your dressing room, exhausted yet exhilarated, the glow of the performance still warming you as you changed out of your costume. Carefully, you removed your stage makeup, wiping away the traces of the Swan Queen. The transformation always felt strange, trading feathers and grace for the ordinary routine of going home.

You packed your things slowly, placing each item into your bag with a practiced rhythm, already looking forward to the calm of your apartment. But as you reached for your coat, a prickle of unease returned. It was that lingering feeling, the sensation of being watched, that had haunted you all night.

The silence shattered with a sudden, firm knock on the door, catching you off guard. Your heart raced, and before you could even gather yourself to respond, the door creaked open, slow and deliberate. His face appeared in the dim light, and you caught your breath. It was him.

Seonghwa stepped in just enough for his figure to fill the doorway, his familiar dark coat draping around him like a shadow. His expression was unreadable, the same cold, composed look he always wore, yet his eyes held a strange intensity that made you feel hot.

Your heart pounded as he stood there, with his gaze fixed intently on you. You felt a flicker of fear—a quiet, instinctive warning. Everything about him radiated power, a kind of quiet danger that you couldn’t ignore. Yet, having him so close to you now felt exhilarating, almost like you were waiting for him to knock on your door. 

“I hope I’m not intruding,” He apologized, his sharp features now softening in your presence, hoping to disarm you. 

“I’m sorry, c-can I help you with something?”

He paced around your small dressing room, his eyes lingering on the little details—your stage makeup scattered across the vanity, the photo frames of other ballerinas lining the walls. Anxiety twisted in your stomach as you watched him, still unsure of why he was here. Then, he turned to you with an unreadable expression, extending his gloved hand. "I just wanted to introduce myself properly," he said, his voice smooth but distant, “Park Seonghwa. I’m from a private equity firm. I know the owner, Hongjoong.” Shakily, you reached out your hand, the leather of his glove feeling cold and unnatural against your skin. You suppressed a shiver as his grip lingered just a second longer than you expected.

“I’m Y/N.” 

"Y/N...Congratulations on being this season’s Swan Queen," he continued, his voice low and deliberate. "You’ve done very well. You must be very pleased with yourself."

You managed a quiet thank you, though the words felt strange on your lips, your usual confidence faltering under his watchful gaze. His praise should have flattered you, but instead, it left you feeling oddly exposed, like he saw more than you intended to show.

He released your hand, but the strange, lingering sensation stayed with you, leaving you both captivated and nervous.

Feeling faint, you sat down on your vanity chair. "So, you know Hongjoong?" you asked, searching for some logic behind his sudden presence.

"I do," he replied smoothly, though there was a slight glint in his eye that betrayed him. "We’ve been discussing a potential business venture together."

The truth, however, was a little more complicated. Seonghwa had met Hongjoong only once, barely enough to call him an acquaintance. From the start, Hongjoong hadn’t seemed eager to hand over his only asset to a man of Seonghwa’s reputation, especially not when rumors swirled about his intention to repurpose the theater into something as mundane as a car wash to serve as a front for his family’s business. But Seonghwa knew how to persuade, and when he named his price, Hongjoong’s reluctance began to waver.

That first night, they’d arranged to negotiate the deal, and Seonghwa had come prepared to secure the theater with his usual finesse. But Hongjoong was running late. Growing tired from standing in the lobby all evening, Seonghwa decided to sit in an empty seat during the show only to rest his feet, but your elegant movements captivated him, and made him forget who he was and why he was there. 

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you in a way that made the small room feel even smaller. Your breath hitched as his intense gaze softened slightly, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The air between you felt charged, the warmth of his presence mingling with the lingering cold from his leather gloves.

“But I’m not here to talk about that,” He said, towering over you, “I could actually use your help in something.” 

There was something odd yet inticing about his request. What could he, a possible mob boss, want from someone like you?

“And what might that be?” You asked, your throat suddenly feeling dry. 

He was so close to you now that you could pick up the warming notes of his cologne— spices, sandalwood, and a hint of citrus. You’d seen his face a thousand times before, always shrouded in the dim lighting of the audience, his expression always stoic and muted. But now, with the light catching the sharp angles of his cheekbones and his plush and perfect lips just inches away from you, he was utterly captivating. You couldn’t look away. 

"You see, I have this problem," he said, pacing slowly around you, his voice steady but laced with something unspoken. The air shifted each time he moved, the chill of his absence replaced by an intoxicating warmth as he drew near again. 

"A problem?" you echoed, your voice a little breathless, trying to focus as his reflection loomed behind you in the mirror.

"Mm." He stopped directly behind you, lowering his head closer to the nape of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "It’s you," he admitted, his tone dropping into something dangerously intimate.

Your heart skipped a beat. "Me?"

Seonghwa straightened himself, meeting your wide-eyed gaze in the mirror, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk. "You’re making it very hard for me to focus on my job," he said. His words were as smooth as they were direct. "And when a man like me gets distracted… it causes complications."

He moved again, standing to your side now, his hand resting lightly on the back of your chair. The closeness was almost unbearable, every nerve in your body hyper-aware of his presence.

"So," he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, "I thought perhaps you could help me resolve this little… issue of mine."

Your mind raced to comprehend the suggestion wrapped in his words. The way he looked at you left no room for misinterpretation, his meaning clear without being crass. You felt a sudden pulse between your legs, forcing you to squeeze your thighs tighter. 

"And how exactly would I… help?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Seonghwa tilted his head, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "You’re a clever woman," he said, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your shoulder with deliberate care. "I think you already know."

—

You sat perched on your dressing table, forced to see yourself reflected in the mirror. There was a nervous flutter in your stomach as Seonghwa loomed behind you, his broad shoulders and low eyes making your breath hitch. You watched as he parted your thighs before eagerly ripping at the center seam of your stocking, revealing your glistening cunt to you both. Before you could react, he brought down his gloved hand, tapping on your pulsing clit a few times before pressing down in slow and small circles. 

The coldness of the leather made you gasp, your heartbeat spiraling in excitement. You could see your slick coating his fingers, bringing a faint shine to his black gloves. 

“Such a fat little pussy,” he breathed into your neck, the sudden warmth making a few hairs stand at your nape. He lightly slapped your cunt again, his mouth watering at your chubby, wet folds. “Didn’t think such a sweet little ballerina had something like this between her legs.” 

You couldn’t help but feel vulnerable as you took in your reflection, hardly recognizing the scantily clad woman before you. You pressed your eyes shut as he continued pulling a string of shaky, breathless moans from your lips.

“Let’s see how well this little pussy can take me, hm?” He challenged, refusing to wait for your response before inserting a leathered digit into your wet walls. You gasped at the sudden intrusion, struggling to wrap around the thickness of his glove. Seonghwa chuckled at your tightness.

“Please,” You begged, tightly holding onto his working arm. But the desperation in your voice only egged him on. He thrust in a merciless rhythm, the squelching sounds from your arousal sending blood down to his groin. 

“Please what dear? You want more?” Seonghwa grinned devilishly before stuffing in another finger, the sudden stretch sending a mix of pain and pleasure to your core. He worked you open at a brutal pace, soaking in your sweet moans as you gripped onto him tighter. 

You were slowly coming undone, your knees quivering and threatening to cave in. You felt his hand grip onto your inner thigh, holding you open as much as possible for him. It was then that you fluttered your eyes open, only to find his gaze already locked onto yours in the mirror. You felt a twist in your stomach like he’d caught you doing something you shouldn’t be doing. You quickly realized that Seonghwa had been watching you in the mirror, his gaze unwavering as he took in every tear tracing your scorned red cheek, the delicate furrow of your brow, and the way your plush, pouty lips let out the softest, most beautiful whines he’d ever heard. Just as enchanting as your expressions were on stage, they were even more alluring here as he ravished you at his will. 

His fingers were so much deeper now, hitting you in all the right places, until the tension inside of you snapped and you finally let go all over his gloved fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You sputtered, watching your wetness drip down his gloves. Exhaustion suddenly took over you, forcing your head to fall against his chest. 

“I hope you don’t think we’re finished here,” He whispered, his soft, full lips feathering over your ear lobe, “There’s still a lot of things I need you to do.”

—

You were sprawled out over the table now, your top completely discarded, leaving you in just your ripped stockings. Seonghwa liked the stockings you wore on stage. They were so pearly and smooth, and he almost felt bad for ruining them this way. He leaned down and peppered a trail of kisses under your ear, down to your collarbone, lingering over your hardened peaks briefly, before continuing down to your pelvis. 

You felt a wave of heat spread over you as he kissed around the outside of your cunt before spreading your lips with his fingers, reuniting you with the coldness of the leather. He dragged his long, warm tongue over your hot slit, groaning once your essence reached his tastebuds. 

“You taste just as sweet as you look,” He praised, before wrapping his lips over your swollen clit. He sucked and pulled, swallowing every bit of juice you offered him hungrily. 

Your back arched in bliss, your hips rolling as he gleefully lapped away at your cunt. He pressed his strong hands down your inner thighs to keep you still, your puffy pussy now spread completely open for him to devour. He savored every drop of you, like a predator that spent weeks catching its prey.

Seonghwa told himself he’d finally be rid of this infatuation after tonight and return to his duties with no more distractions, but how could he now after seeing you like this? With your body so willing, the sheer afterglow hitting your face and collarbones, the uneasy rise of your chest, and those lustful, messy moans? It all enticed him even further, and he worried he’d never be able to stay away. 

Seonghwa was at his peak now, and he couldn’t hold out any longer. He quickly sprang up at his feet, the sounds of his belt unbuckling making your core throb with anticipation. His angry, red tip pressed against your slit, making you gasp at how hot and hard he felt. 

Seonghwa pushed himself in slowly, inch by inch until his shaft was completely sucked in by you. He cursed at your tightness and moved his hips slowly, allowing you to adjust to his girth.

“Fuck!” You cried out, curling your toes as he plunged deeper into you. He fucked you hard and rough, determined to take all his anger and frustrations out on you so that he could return to his stoic self. He hated you for throwing him off his game, and he still held onto that hope that he’d finally let go of all his pent up emotions once he finishes fucking your brains out. He just needed to get it out of his system.

You winced at his tight grasp on your hips. His pace was brutal, the sounds of your dressing table rocking against the wall overpowering your desperate screams, yet you refused to open your eyes. You didn’t want to see his face while he thrusted into you with an unspoken vendetta. His gaze alone made you feel even more hot and frazzled. 

Suddenly, you felt his hand creep to the back of your head, pulling your head up by a fistful of strands. You took in a sharp breath, the pain of your pulled hair forcing you to open your eyes at last.

“Look at how good you fucking take me,” He grunted, pushing your head down farther to help you get a good look at his cock stretching out your swollen cunt. “ ‘Take me just like a good girl.” 

Your face grew hot as you watched yourself take him in, eyes bulging at his thick cock that was decorated with pulsing veins and twitched inside of you so deliciously. So drunk off his cock, you found yourself rambling nonsense as he fucked you into oblivion. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me so good!”

You felt you both were melting into each other, your breathing growing erratic and unsteady until you finally lost your composure.

Seonghwa pulled out of you, spilling himself over your wet cunt as he sucked in a breath, making sure to milk out every last drop of his seed. You couldn’t help but watch as he spread his thick, white cum over your swollen pussy lips, your body twitching from the sensitivity. 

When you looked up at him, you found his face flushed as red as yours, his mouth slightly agape, with an expression that caught you off guard. The moody, confident alpha male who had entered your room now seemed unsteady, his composure cracked, leaving him looking utterly broken and confused.

He leaned down, his breath mingling with yours for a fleeting moment before his lips finally pressed against yours. The kiss was seamless, as though the two of you had been meant to move together in this way all along. The warmth of his touch ignited something between you, a spark that quickly became a flame, and a flame that would soon become a raging fire that could never be put out.

Seonghwa's desire for you only intensified in that moment. Whatever his plans had been before tonight, they now felt irrelevant, tangled up in the web of feelings he could no longer suppress. He didn’t know what this meant for his current predicament—how this would complicate everything—but one thing was certain: he wouldn’t be letting you go anytime soon. He’s marked his destiny by letting himself be engulfed in the flames.

[pucksandpower]

Malfunction

Franco Colapinto x physician!Reader

Summary: Franco’s concussion has come and gone, but his desire to see the angel of a physician who likely saved his life has only gotten stronger … it’s just a shame that he tends to lose any semblance of composure when you’re around

Note: this is the much requested second part to Malpractice … but even better than the first part if I do say so myself 🫣

The Las Vegas Grand Prix is a distant blur in Franco’s memory. The crash. The pain. The disorientation.

But there’s something else that lingers, too. Something soft that refuses to leave him alone.

It’s the image of you, kneeling in front of him, your hands steady even as his world spun. Your voice cutting through the haze, your gaze sharp and intense, demanding his attention. The way you pushed him to stay alert, to pay attention, to focus on something other than the chaos in his head.

Franco knows he owes his sanity, maybe even his life, to you.

It’s been a week since the crash, and he’s been cleared by the medical team to race again in Qatar, despite a lingering headache that’s been stubbornly hanging on. But it’s not the headache that’s bothering him. It’s the fact that you’re not here. You’re not at the track. Not in the garage. Not hovering over him like some kind of guardian angel.

He wants to see you again. Needs to.

He’s sitting in the Williams debrief room, surrounded by engineers who are talking a mile a minute about tire wear and lap times. But Franco is barely listening. He keeps checking his phone, hoping for some sort of miracle: a text, a call, anything that might tell him you’re here. That you’ve returned to the paddock.

But the screen stays empty.

“Franco, are you with us?” James Vowles’ voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present.

“Yeah, sorry,” Franco mutters, rubbing his eyes. “What were you saying about tire strategy?”

James raises an eyebrow. “It’s fine. Focus on your recovery. We’re just going over the data from today’s practice. You’ve got time. But-” He looks around, making sure no one else is listening, “-don’t be distracted during qualifying tomorrow. We need every bit of performance we can get from you this weekend.”

“Right.” Franco nods, but his mind drifts again, his gaze slipping back to his phone. It’s like the rhythm of the weekend has been broken without you here, without the sharpness of your voice telling him he’s being an idiot, without your soft, steady presence making everything feel a little more manageable.

A soft knock sounds at the door, and Alex steps in, his casual smile immediately making the room feel a little lighter. His eyes flicker over to Franco. “How’s it going, mate?”

Franco immediately perks up. “Alex! You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He straightens up in his chair, suddenly interested in the conversation.

Alex raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that because you’ve missed me, or because I bring good news?”

“Both,” Franco grins. “But seriously, I’ve been thinking about something, and I need your help.”

Alex folds his arms, giving Franco a knowing look. “Uh oh. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

“It’s about Y/N,” Franco says, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t seem too surprised. He sighs, already knowing where this is headed. “Ah, I should’ve known.”

“No, listen,” Franco presses, his voice a little more serious. “I need her to come to Abu Dhabi. She has to be there. I-” He pauses, trying to put his feelings into words. “I’ve been thinking about her all week. I just … I need to see her again.”

Alex raises both hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. You want me to convince her to come to a race just so you can see her again?”

Franco shrugs, looking entirely unapologetic. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Alex shakes his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. “You really have it bad, don’t you?”

Franco hesitates, his smile faltering just slightly, then nods. “I do.” His expression softens. “She helped me when I didn’t even know what was happening. I’ve never had someone take care of me like that.”

Alex takes a moment, studying Franco’s face, then lets out a long breath. “Look, I can’t make any promises. Y/N’s a resident physician. Her schedule is insane. She barely has time to breathe, let alone fly out to the Middle East for a race. But-” He hesitates, as if weighing his next words carefully. “But I’ll ask her. I’ll see what I can do. But no promises, okay?”

“Just ask,” Franco says urgently. “I don’t care if it’s a long shot. I need her there.”

Alex chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I’ll ask. But you owe me a beer if this works.”

“You got it,” Franco grins, already feeling the relief of having put his request into motion. “Thanks.”

***

It’s late by the time you’re wrapping up your shift at the hospital. The weight of your scrubs feels heavier than usual tonight, your body aching after hours of rounds and consultations. You’ve barely slept all week, the demands of your residency taking up every last ounce of energy. All you want to do now is crash into bed and forget about the world for a few hours.

But then your phone buzzes in your pocket, and the familiar name on the screen makes you stop in your tracks.

Alex.

You sigh, glancing around the empty hallway before answering. “Hey, Alex. What’s up?”

“Hey,” Alex greets you, his tone casual but there’s a hint of something else in his voice. “How’s it going?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “You know, same old. Patients, paperwork, more patients. I swear, I’m starting to see people’s illnesses in my dreams at this point. What’s up?”

“Well, funny you should mention that,” Alex says with a chuckle, “because I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask.”

You brace yourself. “What now?”

“I need you to come to Abu Dhabi.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What? No. I can’t just drop everything and fly to Abu Dhabi. You know how insane my schedule is right now.”

“I know, I know,” Alex says quickly. “But listen, it’s not for me. It’s for Franco.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “Franco? What does he have to do with this?”

“He, uh, well, he’s been asking about you. He really wants you to come. He … he kind of needs you there, Y/N.”

You frown. “Needs me? What, like for a medical emergency?”

“No, no,” Alex quickly reassures you. “It’s not like that. He’s just — he’s been a bit, you know, off since the crash. He keeps talking about how much you helped him, how much he needs to see you again. He’s … kinda, well, taken with you.”

You pause, processing the unexpected request. “Wait. You want me to go to Abu Dhabi just to … see Franco?”

Alex sighs. “I know it’s a lot to ask, and I totally get it if you can’t make it. I just thought I’d put it out there, because he’s really … well, he’s really worried about seeing you again.”

You take a deep breath, staring at the floor. There’s a tug at your chest. Franco’s crash. The way he looked when he stumbled into the garage, his eyes unfocused, his voice thick with concussion. And how you couldn’t help but care, couldn’t help but feel something stir in your chest as you took care of him.

“I don’t know,” you say softly. “I don’t know if I can get time off. I’ve got a million things to do.”

“Please,” Alex pleads, his tone sincere. “Just think about it. I’ll take care of the rest. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just — just come for the weekend. For him.”

You hesitate for a long moment. Your exhaustion is overwhelming, but so is the pull to be there for Franco, to check in on him after everything that happened.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice quiet but firm. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Alex lets out a relieved breath. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to him.”

“I’ll talk to my supervisor tomorrow and see if I can get a couple of days off. I’ll let you know.”

“Great. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks again, really.”

As the call ends, you press the phone to your ear, staring at the blank hospital hallway. Something in your chest stirs, a mix of curiosity and something else you can’t quite name. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get involved with any of these drivers. But Franco … there’s something about him. Something you can’t shake.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in Abu Dhabi. But you know one thing for sure: you’re going to see him again.

***

Franco is buzzing with energy as he walks away from the Williams garage after FP2. The track is alive with its usual Friday hum: team radios squawking, mechanics wheeling equipment, fans pressing against barricades for a glimpse of the action. Normally, this is his favorite part of the weekend — the calm between sessions when he can breathe and think through what’s next.

But today, his thoughts are miles away.

You.

Alex told him you’d agreed to come. He’s spent all week mentally preparing for this moment, imagining what he’ll say when he sees you again. He’d told himself he’d play it cool. That he wouldn’t come off as desperate or weird. That he’d be charming and effortless.

And now, as he walks toward the Williams motorhome, he’s running through those lines in his head like a script. But then, through the glass doors of the motorhome, he spots you.

You’re sitting at a table with Lily, wine glasses between you. You’re mid-laugh, one hand lightly gesturing, the other wrapped around the stem of your glass. The sound of your laugh doesn’t reach him, but your expression — warm and animated — is enough to stop him in his tracks.

Franco stares, frozen. For a second, he’s not a professional driver or a smooth-talking twenty-one-year-old. He’s just a guy, floored by the sight of someone he’s been thinking about far too much.

And then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, he walks straight into the glass door.

The sound is embarrassingly loud — a deep, resonant thud that draws the attention of a couple of mechanics nearby. Franco stumbles back, clutching his forehead as the door wobbles slightly on its hinges.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters under his breath, blinking rapidly to clear the stars dancing in his vision.

Inside, Lily gasps, already half out of her chair. But you — you just press a hand to your mouth, visibly trying to suppress a laugh.

Franco pushes the door open this time (successfully, thank God) and steps into the motorhome, trying to salvage whatever remains of his dignity.

“Didn’t know the motorhome was defending itself today,” he says, flashing a crooked grin as he rubs his forehead.

You’re still smiling, but there’s a glint in your eyes as you take a sip of wine. “I see you’re still finding creative ways to injure yourself.”

Lily, standing now, gives him a once-over. “Are you okay? That sounded bad.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Franco says quickly, though he’s still holding his head. “Just testing the structural integrity of the door. Very solid. Great engineering.”

Lily rolls her eyes, muttering something about grabbing an ice pack before disappearing into the kitchen.

You lean back in your chair, tilting your head as you look at him. “You know, you really don’t have to keep hurting yourself just to get my attention. There are easier ways.”

Franco blinks, momentarily thrown off by the teasing edge in your voice. But then he recovers, his grin widening. “Oh, so you noticed me, huh? Mission accomplished.”

You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hard not to notice when someone face-plants into a door.”

“Ouch,” Franco says, clutching his chest dramatically. “First my head, now my ego. You’re ruthless.”

You laugh, setting your glass down. “I’m a doctor. I call it like I see it.”

“And what do you see?” He asks, leaning casually against the doorframe (or at least trying to — he slightly misjudges the angle and has to correct himself, which makes him look anything but casual).

“I see someone who might need another concussion test if they keep this up,” you say dryly, though there’s a hint of amusement in your tone.

Franco seizes the opening. “Oh, you’ll give me a test? What, right here? Should I sit down? Or maybe lie down? Whatever you need, angel, I’m ready.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “I’m off-duty, thank you very much. And stop calling me angel.”

“Why? It suits you,” Franco says without missing a beat. He steps closer, his grin turning just a bit sheepish. “You did save me, after all.”

“From driving with a concussion,” you reply, crossing your arms.

“Still counts,” he says, shrugging. “So … you’re really here. Thought maybe Alex was messing with me.”

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, for fun? He likes to mess with me,” Franco says, his grin turning rueful. “But I’m glad he wasn’t. It’s … it’s good to see you.”

Your expression softens, and you glance down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “It’s good to see you too.”

For a moment, there’s a silence between you. Not awkward, but charged. Franco shifts his weight, scratching the back of his neck. He’s been preparing for this moment all week, but now that you’re standing in front of him, he’s at a loss.

Lily reappears then, an ice pack in hand. She tosses it to Franco, who catches it against his chest. “Here,” she says. “For the door-shaped bruise you’re probably going to have.”

“Thanks,” Franco says, pressing the pack to his forehead. He winces slightly but keeps his gaze on you.

Lily looks between the two of you, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to laugh. “Well, I���ll leave you two to … whatever this is,” she says, grabbing her glass and retreating toward the other end of the motorhome.

Franco watches her go, then looks back at you, his smile softening. “So … you’re here for the whole weekend?”

You nod. “Lily convinced me to stay. Said I needed a break.”

“You do,” Franco says quickly. “Definitely. Big time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because …” Franco hesitates, then decides to go for it. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Vegas.”

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “Franco-”

“I’m serious,” he interrupts, stepping closer. “I know I’m probably coming off like a total idiot right now, but I don’t care. You-” He gestures vaguely, as if struggling to find the right words. “You’re different. You’re not like anyone else here.”

“That’s because I’m not supposed to be here,” you say, your tone light but your eyes searching his. “I’m a doctor, Franco. Not meant for … whatever this world is.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “You could be anything, and I’d still want to know you. You’re …” He trails off, then laughs at himself. “God, I’m bad at this.”

You laugh too, finally relaxing. “A little, yeah.”

“But I’m trying,” he says, his expression earnest now. “And I’ll keep trying, even if it means walking into more doors. Or walls. Or whatever else gets in my way.”

You shake your head, exasperated but undeniably charmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously into you,” Franco counters, grinning.

You groan, but your smile betrays you. “Stop. That was awful.”

“Was it?” Hr teases, leaning just slightly closer.

“Yes,” you say firmly, though there’s a hint of laughter in your voice. “And I’m not letting you use your injuries as an excuse to flirt with me.”

“Then what excuse should I use?” He asks, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. “How about none? Just be normal.”

“Normal,” Franco repeats, as if testing the word. “Okay. I can do that. Probably.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” you say, but your tone is lighter now, your guard lowering just a fraction.

Franco grins, sensing the shift. He might not be smooth, but he’s persistent. And right now, that feels like enough.

***

The hospital hums with its usual rhythm: the sharp beeps of monitors, the steady shuffle of footsteps, and the occasional murmur of voices echoing down sterile hallways. You’re halfway through your shift, mentally cataloging a growing to-do list, when one of the nurses finds you near the break room.

She looks far too amused for your liking, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Hey, Doc,” she says, her tone conspiratorial. “You’ve got a patient in Room 43. Interesting case. File’s by the door.”

You glance up from your notes, immediately suspicious. “Interesting how?”

“Let’s just say … not your usual trauma,” she replies, her grin widening. “Go see for yourself.”

With a sigh, you grab your tablet and head down the hallway. You’re too tired to entertain the nurse’s cryptic humor, but curiosity tugs at you anyway. When you reach Room 43, you spot the chart hanging by the door. You pick it up and start skimming, your brain automatically processing the medical shorthand.

And then your eyes land on the complaint: penile fracture.

You freeze. Your brain short-circuits for a good five seconds.

Penile fracture. Seriously? You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to laugh or groan. It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare enough to make your day a little more … colorful.

Squaring your shoulders, you prepare yourself for what’s undoubtedly going to be an awkward encounter. Professionalism, you remind yourself. You’ve handled weirder cases.

But all of that resolve shatters the second you open the door and step into the room.

Because the patient isn’t some anonymous stranger.

It’s Franco.

Franco, lounging on the exam table like he doesn’t have a care in the world, scrolling through his phone with his free hand. Franco, the same man you’ve been dating for months, who absolutely should not be in this hospital room right now.

Your mouth opens, ready to deliver your standard introduction, but no words come out.

Franco looks up at the sound of the door, his face breaking into that familiar, devilish grin. “Hey, angel.”

“What the-” You stop yourself, gripping the edge of the clipboard like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. “Franco, what are you doing here?”

He sets his phone down, looking at you with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m a patient. Clearly.”

You take a deep breath, setting the clipboard aside. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” He leans back slightly, gesturing toward himself with both hands. “Broken dick. You saw the file.”

Your jaw tightens as you step closer, lowering your voice. “Franco, this is a hospital. You can’t just-”

“I didn’t just anything,” he cuts in, feigning indignation. “I’m here because you abandoned me this morning. And now I’m suffering.”

You blink at him, completely thrown. “Suffering?”

“Yes!” He says, sitting up straighter, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays any attempt at seriousness. “You left me. Alone. In bed. With …” He lowers his voice dramatically. “An issue.”

Your brain scrambles to keep up. “An issue?”

Franco sighs, as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Blue balls. A raging, unresolved situation. You’re a doctor — you know how dangerous that can be.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice rises slightly before you catch yourself. “Franco, I left because I had to come to work. Like a normal person.”

“Right, but normal people don’t leave their boyfriends high and dry,” he argues, his tone edging into the realm of petulant. “Do you know how much it hurts? It’s practically a medical emergency.”

You close your eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of your nose. “So let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You’re here because you have blue balls. And instead of — oh, I don’t know — handling it with your hand and some lotion like a grown adult, you decided to come to my workplace and waste everyone’s time?”

“I don’t see it as wasting time,” Franco says, crossing his arms. “I see it as seeking expert care. From a very qualified, very beautiful doctor.”

“Franco,” you say warningly, but he’s already grinning.

“Besides,” he continues, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt, “don’t you think it’s romantic? I’m literally willing to suffer for you.”

“Oh my God.” You press a hand to your forehead, feeling a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You are not suffering. And this is not romantic — it’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously sweet,” Franco counters, clearly enjoying himself.

You stare at him, torn between wanting to strangle him and laugh. “You know I could get in trouble for this, right? What if someone finds out I’m treating my boyfriend? Or worse, that you’re faking a medical emergency?”

“I’m not faking,” he says quickly, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “The pain in my cock is very real.”

“Franco.” Your voice is flat, and you fix him with your best no-nonsense look.

He hesitates for a beat, then leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess something scandalous. “Okay, maybe it isn’t a fracture. But it is painful!”

You throw your hands up, resisting the urge to laugh despite yourself. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”

Franco pouts, his lower lip sticking out in an exaggerated fashion. “Come on, angel. Don’t be mad. I just wanted to see you.”

“You couldn’t have waited until my shift was over?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m impatient. And in my defense, you looked very cute leaving this morning.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” he says, his grin widening.

“Don’t push your luck,” you warn, though there’s no real bite in your tone.

Franco leans back on the exam table, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just disrupted your workday. “So … are you gonna examine me or what?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Do you want me to call security? Because that’s where this is headed.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says, his confidence unwavering.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Franco holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. No exam. But only because I value our relationship.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, not even trying to hide your sarcasm.

He grins again, the kind of grin that’s always been your undoing. “You can’t stay mad at me, angel. Admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts. “Franco, you’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, you’d be on your way out of here in handcuffs.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks. “Kinky.”

“Oh, for the love of-” You don’t bother finishing the sentence, turning toward the door instead.

“Wait, wait!” Franco calls after you, sliding off the exam table. “I’m kidding! Don’t go!”

You pause, looking back at him. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, his expression softer now. “Seriously,” he says. “I just … I missed you. And I thought maybe this would make you laugh. Or at least roll your eyes. Which it did, so … mission accomplished?”

You sigh, feeling your resolve waver. It’s hard to stay mad at him when he’s looking at you like that — like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

“Franco,” you say, your voice quieter now. “You can’t just show up like this. I have a job to do.”

“I know,” he says, stepping closer. “And I promise I won’t make a habit of it. But … can I take you to dinner after your shift? As an apology?”

You study him for a moment, weighing your options. Finally, you let out a small sigh. “Fine. But only if you promise to behave.”

“I promise,” he says quickly, holding a hand over his heart.

“And no more faking injuries,” you add, pointing a finger at him.

“Scout’s honor,” he says, though the mischievous glint in his eye suggests otherwise.

You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says, grinning.

“For now,” you say, opening the door. “Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franco says, saluting playfully as he follows you into the hallway.

As he walks away, you can’t help but smile to yourself. Ridiculous as he is, there’s no denying that life with Franco is never boring.

[freaknyx]

Can you please do a Okarun x reader where the reader finds out about everything and the is like I'm used to this because the reader is half yokai

note; i absolutely can do this bb!! thank you so so much for requesting love!! <333 i really hope this is good for you, thank you so much for reading!!

cw; fem!reader, canon-typical violence + fear, language, half!yokai!reader, established relationship, protective!okarun (my weakness), some descriptions of injuries, not entirely proof’d please forgive any mistakes <3

the first kick to your abdomen packed the punch of a freight train — your guard had been completely down, not fully expecting a yokai to attack so suddenly (and in a park of all places), so you didn’t have the adequate time to transform and protect yourself.

the second kick, however, was more than expected, your transformation shrouding your body faster than you could blink — you didn’t budge an inch this time, and it seemed to surprise the yokai attacking you. it jumped back a few feet and glared at you heatedly, foul smelling ooze dripping from its open maw.

“well, come at me, you bastard.” you muttered, heart thundering in your chest and lungs aching. you were fairly certain it had broken a rib — maybe five.

it released a guttural scream and lunged — only to be crashed into by a flash of grey and red.

“wait, there’s two now?!”

you almost immediately recognized momo’s voice, and the breath suddenly squeezed from you by some unseen force. you couldn’t move at all, and when you whipped your head to face momo, she was glaring at you with a scowl.

“momo, it’s me!” you shrilled, disengaging your transformation and pleading with her to understand. “i’m not one of them!”

momo’s eyes clouded with unsure confusion, lips thinned warily, but she released her ghost hand and you could breathe again. momo ran to your side, body tense and eyes locked onto you — you could understand.

“okarun, kick it’s ass!” momo yelled, only receiving a grunt and a mumbled “bummer,” in response as okarun ran circles around the clearly overwhelmed yokai.

your eyes widened and you snapped your eyes to the two tangled yokai a few meters from you. that was okarun? you recognized the glasses, and suddenly everything made sense; the sudden disappearances, the shady behavior, the protectiveness.

okarun had been trying to keep you distanced from his world — a world of danger and death and fear; yet completely ignorant to the fact that you’d been living in it for quite some time.

you watched as okarun studied the yokai in front of him, wary of its movements. analyzing its strength.

“it’s not very powerful,” you mumbled, cradling your aching ribs with a gentle hand. it could truly only do damage to you as a human, its attack barely enough to tickle you in yokai form. “okarun should be able to deal with it just fine.”

momo’s eyes hardened slightly, and you knew what was going to come out of her mouth, “how long have you been hiding this?”

you side-eyed her, feeling a little guilty, and mumbled, “a couple months.”

“months?!” momo shrieked, chocolate eyes flaring. “do you even realize how worried okarun has been about you?!”

your heart stuttered in your chest — you knew okarun had been hiding something from you, but you never would have guessed it was the same thing you were hiding from him.

“when he realized you’d gone off by yourself, he almost lost it!” momo continued, voice raising slightly. “he nearly transformed in front of the whole school—!”

“i’m sorry.” you cut her off, eyes locking back onto okarun. “i just… didn’t want either of you to find out and look at me differently.”

momo fell silent, eyes softening with what could only be sympathy — or maybe understanding. she sighed before also turning her attention to okarun; he had the yokai pinned down, teeth buried in the meat of its arm, which was quickly disintegrating.

“you know…” momo started softly, voice warm. “no matter what, okarun would still love you. you didn’t have to hide it.”

your cheeks warmed and your heart nearly thundered out of your chest, each beat painful against your aching ribs. love? okarun loved you? sure, you two had been together for a while now, but to say he loved you…?

momo guffawed and leaned low to smirk at you. her eyes were alight with teasing, and her lips had formed the most shit-eating grin you’d ever seen.

“don’t tell me you couldn’t tell?” momo jested, and you couldn’t help but sputter at her. what were you supposed to say to that? you’d never considered the idea of anyone loving you, let alone someone as pure and kind as okarun —

“momo, i’m totally bummed now. the thing’s, like, dead.”

you’d completely forgotten about the fight! you snapped your eyes from momo’s to find okarun standing above the ashy body of the yokai, posture lazy and spiked hair wild. he looked kinda… good like that.

okarun stumbled slightly as his transformation faded, and before you could blink he was running at you, arms pulling you into his body so tightly that you couldn’t help but flinch.

“thank god you’re safe,” he mumbled into your shoulder, warm hands massaging into your lower back. “i don’t know what i would do if i lost you.”

your were sure your body was combusting within your skin, chest full and warm and head fuzzy. momo entered your line of sight with a smirk and mouthed,

“believe me now?”

[thinkinonsense]

ok so i had a thought😏😏 dbf!logan takes ur virginity and from then on u guys hook up whenever u get a chance (all the time). one night he gets done dicking u DOWN and u say u love him and he’s all like “we can’t do this anymore kid” very ANGSTYYY

i love you, i'm sorry- dbf!logan howlett x fem!reader

part two *mdni

"i love you, logan."

four little words that would send your world crumbling before your feet. the older man lifts himself from in between your chest, both of you panting post orgasm. nights like this had become a bad habit for the both of you.

from the moment logan first slipped off your panties in this exact spot a year ago, you had been wanting to tell him how you really felt. you wanted to tell him how you craved his touch when he wasn't around, how you adored the way he took care of you and most importantly, how this didn't feel 'casual' to you anymore.

seconds turned into minutes of silence, desperately waiting for logan to say something; anything.

"lo, are you going to say some-"

"we can't see each other anymore, kid." he says, avoiding eye contact with you as he pulls out.

"what?"

this wasn't real. that's the only sentence that your brain could form as you watch him put his boxers back on. you laid there on his bed, naked, vulnerable, with his cum dripping out of you and he can't even look you in your fucking eyes.

"ya' heard me." logan says, putting a cigar in his mouth and tossing your dress on the bed next to you.

"what happened?" your voice was trembling on the verge of rage and heartbreak.

"i told you a year ago not to bring that 'love shit' in here."

a year ago when he took your virginity. he promised to be gentle and to care for you. guess that didn't extend past sex for him.

you scoff, pulling your sundress over your head. "you didn't say that when you said you love how tight i fit around you or when you said you love how well i know you. was any of that even true?"

logan ignored you as he lit his cigar and waited for you to leave. you stand up and walk over to him, touching his chin and turning to so he's facing you.

"look me in the eyes when you kick me out of your bed." you spit angrily at the man you adored endlessly.

all logan could see was your eyes full of tears and your red puffy lips, trying to keep yourself together. deep down, he knew he deserved all the shit in the world thrown at him for him for breaking your heart. you would never understand why he had to be so cruel but his intentions were never to hurt you like this. it killed him.

"find someone your own age to love, kid." logan says, twisting the knife.

"don't call me kid, logan!" you yell at him. "i'm not a fucking child!"

"then stop acting like one!" his voice boomed back at you, spurring on more tears.

who had he turned into? you couldn't recognize the man in front of you. this wasn't your logan.

"so, you're just going to let me leave like this?" you cry, glaring at him. "give up everything we have all because you're afraid of me loving you?"

you didn't expect an answer, he already shoved your hand away from his face, no longer wanting the image of your broken heart haunting him.

logan wanted to tell you everything, explain why he can't accept your love because it will put you at a greater risks, but logically, logan knows he has to let you go.

"in ten years, when your ass is still sitting drunk on one of my fathers bar stools and he shows you photos of me and a man who can appreciate me for more than sex, a man who can admit he loves me back, you'll remember this moment because this will be the last time you ever fucking see me." you tell him rather calmly as you collect your shoes and purse.

logan watches you do as he asks and leave. if he was a better man, he would have done it differently; but then again, if he was a better man, he never would've fooled around with a twenty-something year old.

the front door slams with a broken sob escaping your lips. from the bedroom, logan could hear your car engine starting and that's when he could allow himself to grieve the life he would've had.

[fastandcarlos]

Just A Ski “Inchident” : ̗̀➛ Charles LeClerc

summary: a chaotic trip to the ski slopes was never going to end seamlessly, was it?? ⛷️

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by carlossainz55, carmenmmundt and 482,827 others

ynusername: what could possibly go wrong here? ⛷️

31,048 comments

username1: why do I feel like this is gonna end so badly?

charles_leclerc: I’ll be right there to make sure that you’re safe sweetheart 💕

ynusername: @/charles_leclerc you’ll be off and forgetting about me in no time

arthur_leclerc: @/charles_leclerc @/ynusername and if he doesn’t keep you safe I’ll be there to push him down the mountain 😂

username2: omg hope you guys have the best trip ever 🤩

landonorris: I’m betting £20 you come back with a broken bone!

ynusername: @/landonorris pls don’t jinx me like this 😭

username3: pls just stay safe both of you we don’t need any injuries 🤞🏻

carlossainz55: you’re so brave trusting charles to take you skiing!!

username4: I don’t have a good feeling about this 😂

maxverstappen1: next time we’ll have to go on a couples holiday down to the slopes!

ynusername: @/maxverstappen1 I don’t think I’ll be at your level of skiing for quite some time 😂

username5: everyone on that slope better watch out with you two about!!

iamrebeccad: I promise you’ll love it, skiing is the best thing ever once you get the hang of it 🫶🏻

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, pierregasly and 2,048,462 others

charles_leclerc: back on the slopes doing one of my favourite things in the world 🏔️

204,473 comments

username6: there’s something about charles in ski gear that really speaks to me ��

georgerussell63: enjoy your trip, nothing quite like the adrenaline of flying down the slopes ⛷️

username7: is there anything that this man can’t do??

danielricciardo: I’ll laugh now if you come back more broken than yn does

charles_leclerc: @/danielricciardo that’s impossible, you just wait until you see poor yn ski 🥹

username8: poor yn is probably cursing charles out so bad rn!

maxverstappen1: still slightly offended I didn’t get an invite ngl…😂

username9: he looks like he’s in his element ngl

carlossainz55: please come back in piece to try and finish off the end of the season 🙏🏻

charles_leclerc: @/carlossainz55 it’s not me you need to worry about…

username10: I bet he’s one of those show offs that makes it look so much easier than it actually is 🙃

ynusername: I’m still sat here wondering how you ever convinced me to do this 😂

charles_leclerc: @/ynusername by the end of this trip you’ll love skiing, trust me 💞

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liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 573,049 others

ynusername: this weird guy kept following me up the slopes, apparently he says he’s some sort of expert but I’m yet to be convinced 😂🚠

48,201 comments

username11: ngl I wouldn’t mind that view staring at me on a ski lift 🫠

iamrebeccad: you look like you’re doing so well, told you you’d get the hang of it 🤩

username12: he’s an annoying expert at everything he does 😂

pierregasly: don’t believe him yn, trust me, I’ve been skiing with him before!!

username13: I love the relationship that these two have omg

landonorris: you’re so right, he’s a giant weirdo 😂😂

username14: what I would give to be in yn’s shoes rn rather than staring at these photos kicking my heels in bed

username15: at least charles looks like he’s taking care of yn so far 😂

arthur_leclerc: the going up is fine, it’s the going down you’ve got to worry about⛷️

ynusername: @/arthur_leclerc don’t say that 😭

username16: best of all you’re still standing, that’s the main thing!

danielricciardo: how much are you regretting saying yes to this trip out of 10??

ynusername: @/danielricciardo 10/10 what have I signed myself up for!? 💯

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by iamrebeccad, arthur_leclerc and 472,927 others

ynusername: it turns out quite a lot can actually go wrong when skiing 😭

61,048 comments

username17: oh yn only you could end up doing something like this 😂

georgerussell63: I’m trying so hard not to love but honestly how do you manage to always end up like this!

ynusername: @/georgerussell63 I told you all I wasn’t built for skiing

username18: sending you so much love and hope the injury isn’t too bad 🤞🏻

charles_leclerc: at least you got to go back and enjoy the hot tub 😉

ynusername: @/charles_leclerc I almost got some peace and quiet until you appeared 😂

username19: please make sure you get plenty of rest and take care of yourself!

maxverstappen1: I don’t even think I want to ask how you managed to do this 🤦🏻‍♂️

username20: I blame charles for this, even if he wasn’t even there!

carmenmmundt: wish I was there to give you the biggest cuddle rn 🫂

alex_albon: and this is why I refuse to take lily skiing every year when she asks!!

username21: oh yn, I’ve never met anyone so clumsy in my life 😬

landonorris: is it broken?? do I get my £20??

ynusername: @/landonorris none of your business 😂😂😂

charles_leclerc: @/landonorris nothing broken so no one is coughing up just yet!

username22: I can just picture charles laughing his head off at this too

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 2,028,574 others

charles_leclerc: just to let you all know yn is back in the cabin and resting well, when I offered to stay and take care of her she told me to go away and that I’d done enough damage 😂😂

197,473 comments

username23: glad to hear yn is on the mend and getting plenty of rest 🥺

iamrebeccad: yes @/ynusername put him in his place 😂💪🏻

username24: bless her, hopefully the injury isn’t anything too nasty

arthur_leclerc: she’s only resting because you’ve finally stopped laughing at her 😂

oscarpiastri: why you’d pick to ski anyway when there’s all that sunshine is crazy to me!?

ynusername: you did enough damage suggesting we go skiing in the first place 🤦🏻‍♀️

charles_leclerc: @/ynusername how was I supposed to know you’d be this bad at it??

ynusername: @/charles_leclerc it’s like you forget how clumsy I am 🙃

username25: looking at that cabin I’d want to be left alone to enjoy it too!!

carlossainz55: yn saying what so many of us have wanted to say for so long 🙌🏻

charles_leclerc: @/carlossainz55 have you forgotten were teammates?? you’re supposed to be on my side!

username26: she’s probably just embarrassed charles to be hurt 😭

danielricciardo: I think I’d much rather be where yn is, it looks so warm and cosy 😍

username27: you two can’t go anywhere without causing chaos 😂😂

maxverstappen1: at least now you can go and show off without having to worry about yn

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris and 582,713 others

ynusername: charles fell on his ass so hard today and I can’t begin to tell you how hard I laughed 🤣🎿

52,958 comments

username28: revenge is the sweetest dish ever!!!

lilymhe: you guys are adorable 🥹

charles_leclerc: I’ll give you that one, I probably deserved it 🤣

ynusername: @/charles_leclerc the best bit is I got in on camera to hold against you forever 🙌🏻

maxverstappen1: @/ynusername I’ll pay you a thousand pounds to send me that video!!!

username29: go on yn! get him back for laughing at you!

carlossainz55: I hope you got right up in his face and laughed too 😂

username30: I swear he’s just as clumsy as you are sometimes 😂😂

iamrebeccad: glad to see you finally smiling again girlie 💕

username31: I can’t get over how messy this whole trip has been for you both 🤦🏻‍♀️

danielricciardo: it’s gonna be a miracle if you both make it home in one piece at this rate…

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by arthur_leclerc, ynusername and 2,958,473 others

charles_leclerc: the trip of a lifetime, even if the two of us are returning much more battered and bruised than we were when we arrived 🎿💕

278,500 comments

username32: please hurry up and get home where we know you’ll be safe from injury again 😂

ynusername: definitely a trio of a lifetime and never again!!

charles_leclerc: @/ynusername let’s stick to the beach next year 💞

username33: promise us you’ll never go skiing with yn again charles!!

alex_albon: why you’d decide to throw yourself down on a mountain on skis is beyond me 🙄

username34: I dread to think how broken your bodies are rn…

maxverstappen1: maybe we’ll rethink that couples holiday after all 😂

username35: you guys are definitely built for the sunshine ☀️

danielricciardo: I can’t see yn agreeing to one of your ideas for a while after this

username36: I’m just impressed you’re both still standing at the end of it 😂

landonorris: can’t believe I didn’t win my bet, I’m impressed there aren’t any broken bones!

charles_leclerc: @/landonorris no one is more impressed than me 😂

username37: yn really was brave for ever agreeing to this!!

iamrebeccad: can’t wait to have you guys back home and where you belong 🥺

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