#injury setback breaks your heart

[cityzenchick]

That moment when ........... I see this sad picture of a devastated John biting his lip as he sits on the bench, having being injured in last night's 'friendly' international match ......... and it breaks my heart .......... 💔

[pucksandpower]

Royal Pardon

Charles Leclerc x Arthur’s best friend!Reader

Summary: Charles isn’t a violent man at heart, but when he saves you from being harassed while celebrating his Monaco win, he quickly realizes that there’s not a single line he wouldn’t cross if it means keeping you safe

Warnings: attempted sexual assault, violence, and injury

Note: a break from your regularly scheduled October programming because Charles just won the United States GP and that calls for a celebration

The music pulses through the club, a steady, hypnotic beat that thrums in Charles’ chest. He’s never felt like this — untouchable, invincible — as if tonight could stretch on forever, an endless loop of victory and laughter.

He’s just won Monaco.

Monaco. His Monaco.

The thought alone makes him smile, a small, private thing that he hides behind the rim of his champagne flute.

Around him, the crowd swirls in a blur of lights and shadows, everyone shouting their congratulations over the music, pulling him into hugs and clapping him on the back. Arthur is here somewhere, of course, dragging you along because where else would you be? The two of you are like shadows, inseparable since childhood.

Charles can still see you, just barely, out of the corner of his eye, chatting with a couple of Arthur’s friends near the bar. You’re laughing, a sound that somehow cuts through the noise and settles in the back of his mind. It’s a good sound, one that feels familiar, like home.

“Charles, mate!” A voice shouts, pulling him back. Max is there, leaning in with a grin that’s all teeth, like he’s just as buzzed on adrenaline as Charles is. “I swear, you’re going to be insufferable after this. Monaco, finally!”

Charles laughs, shaking his head, though the truth is he probably will be insufferable. But can anyone blame him? He’s worked so damn hard for this, pushing through every setback, every disappointment. And now, here he is, celebrating the win of his career in the only place that really matters.

He’s about to respond when someone else pulls him into a hug, a flurry of excitement and congratulations that Charles barely processes. He doesn’t mind, though. Tonight, it feels like nothing can touch him, like nothing could ever bring him down from this high.

But then, something shifts. It’s subtle at first, just an itch at the back of his mind, a sense that something isn’t right. He glances over to where you and Arthur were standing, but Arthur is gone, nowhere to be seen. And you … you’re not laughing anymore.

Charles’ stomach twists. You’re cornered against the bar now, a man leaning in too close, too aggressive. Charles can’t see your face clearly through the throng of people, but the way you’re holding yourself, tense and small, tells him everything he needs to know.

His blood turns to ice, freezing the euphoria in his veins. He can’t hear what the man is saying, but it doesn’t matter. The way the man’s hand snakes around your waist, the way you try to push him off with trembling hands — Charles’ vision goes red.

He’s moving before he can think, pushing through the crowd with a single-minded focus. The people congratulating him moments ago scatter as he brushes past them, their laughter and cheers fading into the background noise.

“Hey!” Charles’ voice cuts through the music, sharp and commanding. The man doesn’t even turn at first, but you do, your eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Charles feels something break inside him at the sight, but he channels it into a fury that propels him forward.

When the man finally notices Charles, it’s too late. Charles is on him, grabbing the man’s shoulder and yanking him away from you with a force that sends the man stumbling backward. “Get the fuck away from her,” Charles snarls, every syllable dripping with venom.

The man barely has time to react before Charles slams him against the wall, the impact rattling the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Charles’ forearm presses against the man’s throat, cutting off whatever protest he might have had.

“Charles, stop!” You gasp, your voice choked with a mix of fear and something else, something that twists the knife already lodged in Charles’ chest. He doesn’t stop, though. Can’t stop. The image of the man’s hands on you is burned into his mind, and all he can think about is making him pay, making him hurt.

The man struggles, clawing at Charles’ arm, but it’s useless. Charles is stronger, fueled by a rage that’s been simmering just beneath the surface for too long. The man’s face turns red, then purple, and still, Charles doesn’t let up. His grip tightens, and he leans in closer, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“If you ever so much as look at her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and deadly serious. The man’s eyes widen, a flash of genuine fear crossing his face, but Charles doesn’t care. He wants him to be scared. Wants him to know that there’s no escaping this, no escaping the consequences of what he’s done.

“Charles, please!” Your voice breaks through the haze of anger, and it’s only then that Charles realizes how close you’ve gotten. You’re right there, your hand on his arm, tugging gently, desperately trying to pull him away.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and sees the tears streaming down your face, the fear etched into your features. It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, shocking him back to reality. The club, the music, the people — all of it comes rushing back in a disorienting wave.

Charles blinks, his grip on the man loosening just enough for the man to gasp for air. He’s still furious, the anger simmering beneath the surface, but he’s no longer blind with it. He takes a breath, then another, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“You’re lucky she’s here,” Charles says quietly, his voice barely more than a growl. He shoves the man away from him, watching with cold satisfaction as he stumbles and nearly falls to the floor.

The man doesn’t stick around. He scrambles to his feet and disappears into the crowd, no doubt eager to get as far away from Charles as possible. Good. Charles hopes he never sees the man again, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself if he does.

For a moment, Charles just stands there, his chest heaving with the effort of reining in his emotions. The crowd has started to notice the commotion, a few curious onlookers craning their necks to see what’s going on. But none of that matters. None of them matter.

All that matters is you.

Charles turns to you, his expression softening as he takes in your tear-streaked face. “Are you okay?” His voice is gentler now, full of concern that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You nod, but it’s a shaky, uncertain thing. “I-I’m fine,” you manage, though it’s clear you’re anything but. You look like you’re about to collapse, your legs barely holding you up.

Without thinking, Charles steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. You don’t resist, you just sink into him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you upright. And maybe he is.

“It’s okay,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” He holds you tighter, as if he can shield you from the world, from everything that just happened. And for a moment, it feels like he can. Like nothing bad can touch you as long as you’re in his arms.

You don’t say anything, just press your face into his chest, your breath hitching with the remnants of your tears. Charles presses his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that feels both instinctive and impossibly intimate. He’s never held you like this before, never been this close, but it feels right.

The music still pounds in the background, the lights still flash in a dizzying array of colors, but it’s all distant now, muted. The only thing that matters is you, and making sure you’re okay.

Charles pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Where’s Arthur?” He asks, his voice still soft but edged with a protective concern.

“I-I don’t know,” you admit, your voice small. “He was here a minute ago, and then …” Your words trail off, and Charles doesn’t need you to finish the sentence to know what happened next.

He clenches his jaw, trying to keep his anger in check. Arthur should have been here, should have been looking out for you, but he isn’t. Charles isn’t sure where his brother is right now, but he’ll deal with that later. For now, he needs to focus on you.

“It’s okay,” he says again, though the words feel inadequate. “You’re with me now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

You nod again, but this time it’s a little steadier, a little more certain. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the music.

Charles shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends. “I’ll always protect you. Always.”

The weight of those words hangs between you, a promise that feels more real than anything else in this moment. Charles knows, without a doubt, that he means it. He’ll protect you, no matter what. Even if it means facing down every threat, every danger, with the same ferocity he showed tonight.

He takes a deep breath, trying to let go of the lingering anger. The night isn’t over yet, but he’s not sure how much longer he can stand to be here, in this place that suddenly feels too crowded, too loud, too full of people who didn’t notice, didn’t care. Charles’ grip tightens on your shoulders as he scans the room, trying to spot Arthur in the sea of faces. But it’s a lost cause — the club is packed, and he knows Arthur could be anywhere.

“Come on,” Charles says, his voice a bit steadier now. “Let’s get out of here.”

You don’t argue, just nod and let him guide you through the crowd. The bodies pressing in around you both feel suffocating, the music that once electrified the night now grating on Charles’ nerves. He keeps a firm hold on your hand, as if letting go might mean losing you to the chaos.

As you near the exit, the cool night air becomes a welcome relief, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat inside. The streets of Monaco are quieter now, the party shifting indoors as the night grows late. Charles doesn’t stop moving until you’re both far enough from the club that the noise fades into a dull hum, barely audible over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.

He finally releases your hand, only to immediately wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You’re shivering, whether from the cold or the shock, Charles isn’t sure. Either way, he holds you tighter, wishing he could do more, say more.

But the words don’t come easily. They never have. So instead, he just walks with you, slowly, allowing the night air to calm the both of you. You lean into him, and he can feel the tension gradually leaving your body, though you still seem a little too fragile, too breakable.

Charles isn’t sure how long you walk like that, side by side in the near silence, before you finally speak.

“Charles, I …” Your voice is hesitant, unsure. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”

He stops walking, turning to face you, his expression serious. “You don’t have to think about that,” he says, his voice firm. “I was there. And I always will be.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for something — reassurance, perhaps, or maybe just understanding. “But what if next time-”

“There won’t be a next time.” Charles cuts you off, his voice harder than he intends. He takes a breath, softening his tone. “I won’t let there be a next time.”

He can see the worry still etched on your face, the remnants of fear that haven’t quite faded. He wishes he could take it all away, erase the memory of that man and the way he made you feel. But he knows he can’t. All he can do is be there, to protect you, to make sure you know that you’re not alone.

“You’re safe,” he repeats, quieter now, but with no less conviction. “As long as I’m here, you’re safe.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, and he wonders what you’re thinking, what’s going on behind those eyes that have always been so easy for him to read. Eventually, you nod, and some of the tension in your posture seems to melt away.

“Okay,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Charles nods too, though a part of him still feels on edge, like the danger hasn’t completely passed. But he pushes that feeling down, focusing instead on you, on the fact that you’re here with him, and that’s all that matters right now.

“Let’s go,” he says again, but this time, his voice is softer, more gentle. He takes your hand again, lacing his fingers with yours, and starts walking, leading you away from the club, from the noise and the memories that he hopes you’ll never have to revisit.

As you walk, the tension between you both begins to ease. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Charles allows himself to breathe.

He glances over at you, your profile illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. You look calmer now, more like yourself, though there’s still a shadow of what happened lingering in your eyes. Charles’ heart aches at the sight, at the knowledge that he couldn’t protect you from that, even if he was there to stop it from getting worse.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he just keeps walking, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles, a silent reassurance that he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.

Eventually, you reach the familiar streets that lead back to your apartment. The night is quiet now, the revelry of earlier giving way to the peaceful stillness of a city that’s finally starting to sleep.

When you reach your building, you both stop, lingering on the sidewalk as if neither of you wants the night to end just yet. Charles knows he should say something, anything, but the words are stuck in his throat, too heavy and too complicated to untangle.

You’re the one who breaks the silence, your voice soft but clear. “Thank you. For everything.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says, echoing his earlier words. “I meant what I said — I’ll always protect you.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches on just long enough to make Charles wonder if you’re going to say something more. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer and, without warning, wrap your arms around him in a tight hug.

Charles is momentarily stunned, his breath catching in his throat as he processes the warmth of your embrace, the way you cling to him like he’s your anchor in a storm. He hesitates for only a second before his arms come up around you, holding you just as tightly, if not more.

The hug lasts longer than it probably should, but neither of you seems to want to let go. When you finally do, you pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his with a softness that makes his chest tighten.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice equally soft, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile moment between you.

You give him one last, lingering look before turning and heading into your building, the door closing softly behind you. Charles stands there for a moment, staring at the door, as if willing it to open again, as if hoping you might come back out and say something more.

But you don’t, and eventually, Charles turns and starts walking back the way you came, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions he’s not sure how to deal with.

The night is still, the only sound the distant crash of the waves against the rocks. Charles lets the quiet seep into him, trying to find some semblance of calm, but it’s difficult. The image of you, scared and vulnerable, keeps flashing through his mind, a constant reminder of how close you came to being hurt.

He knows he should feel relief — that you’re safe, that the night ended without further incident. But instead, all he feels is a gnawing sense of guilt, of not having been there sooner, of not being able to protect you from everything.

Charles clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he walks. He doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if he hadn’t been there, doesn’t want to imagine the fear and pain you might have endured.

But he can’t stop the thoughts from coming, can’t shake the anger that simmers just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.

As he rounds the corner to his own street, Charles makes a silent vow to himself. He’ll be more vigilant, more careful. He won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. He’ll be there, always, to protect you, no matter what.

And if anyone tries to come between you and your safety again, well … Charles isn’t sure he’ll be able to hold back next time.

He reaches his apartment, but he doesn’t go inside right away. Instead, he stands outside, staring up at the stars barely visible above the city lights, his mind still racing with thoughts of you.

Eventually, he takes a deep breath and turns to unlock his door, stepping inside and letting the door close behind him with a quiet click. The apartment is dark and silent, but it doesn’t feel like home tonight. It feels empty, hollow, as if something is missing.

And Charles knows exactly what that something is.

As he heads to bed, his thoughts are still on you — on the way you looked at him tonight, on the way you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. And somewhere, deep down, Charles knows that you’re more than just Arthur’s best friend to him.

But he’s not ready to confront that just yet. Not tonight.

So he pushes the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the promise he made to himself: to always be there for you, to protect you, no matter what.

It’s a promise he intends to keep.

***

The morning sun stretches over Monaco, its golden rays catching on the waves that lap against the harbor. The city is just beginning to stir, and for a moment, everything feels like it should: calm, peaceful, normal. But as Charles hits his stride on his morning run, his mind is anything but calm.

The events of last night replay in his head on a loop, the image of you — shaken, scared, fighting back tears — burned into his memory. Every step he takes feels heavier, weighted down by the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

He’s tried to push it down, to focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing, the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement, but it’s no use. The rage is still there, as fresh and raw as it was the moment he saw you in that club.

Charles turns a corner, heading down toward the harbor where the yachts bob gently in the water. The morning air is crisp, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in his chest. He needs to clear his head, to shake off the lingering sense of helplessness that clings to him like a shadow.

But then he sees him.

The man is walking casually along the harbor, hands in his pockets, his face a picture of smug indifference. He looks like any other tourist enjoying a morning stroll, not like someone who was grabbing you, hurting you, just hours ago.

Charles stops dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, he thinks he’s imagining it, that his mind is playing tricks on him. But no, it’s him. The same face, the same sneer that Charles wanted to wipe off with his fist last night.

Something snaps inside Charles. The anger he’s been trying to control, trying to bury, erupts like a dam breaking, flooding his veins with adrenaline. His vision narrows, locking onto the man who dared to touch you, who thought he could get away with it.

Without thinking, Charles changes direction, his strides long and purposeful as he closes the distance between them. The man doesn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in whatever thoughts a man like him could have. But then, as Charles gets closer, something makes the man glance over his shoulder.

His reaction is immediate. The smug look falters, replaced by a flicker of recognition, then quickly by a lazy grin that only fuels Charles’ rage.

“Well, well,” the man drawls, stopping to face Charles, clearly not sensing the danger. “If it isn’t the big hero himself. What’s the matter, Leclerc? Didn’t get enough attention last night?”

Charles doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched so tightly he can feel his teeth grind together. He’s close enough now to smell the lingering stench of alcohol on the man’s breath, the same breath that spewed vile words at you.

The man chuckles, a sound that grates on Charles’ nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “You know, she had it coming,” he says, his tone almost conversational. “The way she was dressed, the way she looked at me — what did she expect?”

That’s all it takes. The words cut through Charles like a knife, sharp and searing, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the railing of the harbor.

“What did you say?” Charles’ voice is low, dangerous, barely more than a growl. His knuckles are white where they grip the man’s shirt, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

The man’s grin only widens, unfazed by the fury in Charles’ eyes. “You heard me,” he sneers. “And you know what? There’s nothing you can do about it. We’re in public, Leclerc. You’re a famous guy — can’t have your precious image tarnished, can you?”

Charles’ lips curl into a smile, but it’s not the kind that reaches his eyes. It’s cold, calculated, the kind of smile that sends a chill down the spine. “You think I care about that?” He asks, his voice dangerously calm.

The man’s bravado falters just a bit, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah, I do. You’re not gonna do anything. Not here, not in front of all these people.”

Charles laughs, but there’s no humor in it, just a bitter edge that makes the man shift uncomfortably. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Charles says, his voice softening into something almost pitying. “This is Monaco. And I’m Charles Leclerc.”

The man’s face pales slightly, but he still tries to hold his ground. “So what? You think being a driver gives you a free pass to do whatever you want?”

Charles’ smile widens, though there’s nothing friendly about it. “Exactly.”

Before the man can react, Charles yanks him away from the railing, dragging him along the harbor. The man stumbles, trying to pull away, but Charles’ grip is ironclad, unyielding. The few people who are out this early watch with interest, some even clapping or calling out congratulations as they recognize Charles.

“Hey, what the hell?” The man protests, his voice rising in panic as he struggles against Charles’ hold. “Let go of me!”

Charles doesn’t respond, his eyes focused straight ahead as he forces the man to walk, his grip tightening whenever he feels him start to resist. The man’s attempts to free himself are pathetic, laughable even, compared to the strength Charles has built up over years of training, of pushing his body to the limits.

As they pass by a group of people, one of them cheers, “That’s the way, Charles! Show him who’s boss!”

The man tries to appeal to the onlookers, his voice frantic. “Someone stop him! He’s crazy!”

But no one moves to help. They just watch, some amused, others indifferent, as Charles continues to drag the man through the streets of Monaco like he’s nothing more than a piece of trash that needs to be disposed of.

“Where are you taking me?” The man demands, his voice trembling now as fear starts to seep in. “You can’t do this! I’ll-I’ll call the police!”

Charles’ laugh is cold and devoid of any warmth. “Go ahead,” he says, not slowing down for a second. “Tell them Charles Leclerc is dealing with a problem. See how far that gets you.”

The man’s protests grow weaker, his struggles more desperate, but it’s clear he knows there’s no escaping this. Charles is too strong, too determined, and the reality of his situation is starting to sink in.

The two of them reach a more secluded part of the harbor, where the buildings are fewer and the noise of the city fades into the background. There’s no one around to witness what’s about to happen, no one to hear the man’s cries for help.

Charles comes to a stop in a narrow alleyway, shoving the man against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him. He leans in close, his face inches from the man’s, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“You made a mistake last night,” Charles says, his tone icy. “You thought you could get away with it because you were in a crowded club, because she was alone. You thought no one would stop you.”

The man’s eyes are wide with fear now, all traces of his earlier arrogance gone. “I-I didn’t mean-”

“But you did,” Charles cuts him off, his voice like steel. “You meant every word, every touch, every threat. And now, you’re going to pay for it.”

The man tries to push Charles away, his movements frantic, but Charles is relentless. He grabs the man by the throat, pinning him against the wall, his grip just tight enough to make him understand how serious this is.

“You think I can’t do anything to you because we’re in public?” Charles hisses, his breath hot against the man’s ear. “You’re wrong. In Monaco, I can do whatever I want. And no one will stop me.”

The man’s hands claw at Charles’ arm, trying to pry his fingers away from his throat, but it’s useless. Charles is too strong, too focused, his anger giving him a surge of power that the man can’t hope to match.

Charles leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You hurt someone I care about. Someone I’ve known my whole life. And for that, I’m going to make sure you never forget what happens when you cross me.”

The man’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps as he realizes the gravity of his situation. He tries to speak, to beg for mercy, but Charles isn’t interested in hearing his excuses.

“Please …” the man finally manages to choke out, his voice barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry …”

Charles’ eyes narrow, his grip tightening for a moment before he abruptly lets go, letting the man collapse to the ground in a heap. The man gasps for air, his hands trembling as he scrambles to his feet, his eyes wide with fear.

But Charles isn’t done. He grabs the man by the collar, dragging him deeper into the alley, where the shadows swallow them both. The man’s struggles are weak now, more out of instinct than any real hope of escape.

“People like you,” Charles says, his voice low and menacing, “think you can do whatever you want. But here’s the truth: you’re nothing. Just another coward who preys on the vulnerable. And cowards like you don’t get to walk away.”

The alley is cold and dark, the early morning light barely reaching the grimy corners where Charles drags the man like a lifeless doll. The sounds of Monaco are distant now, just a low hum that fades into the background. The only noise that matters is the ragged breathing of the man at Charles’ mercy, and the echo of their footsteps on the uneven pavement.

Charles stops abruptly, his grip still tight on the man’s collar. He looks around, taking in the silence, the isolation. This place, this forgotten corner of the city, is perfect. No one will find them here. No one will hear what happens next.

He shoves the man against the wall again, harder this time, the force of it knocking the breath out of him. The man lets out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with fear, the bravado from earlier completely gone.

“Please,” he stammers, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean-”

Charles cuts him off with a sharp punch to the gut, and the man doubles over, wheezing. “Don’t bother,” Charles says coldly. “You’re not sorry. You’re just scared. There’s a difference.”

The man tries to straighten up, but Charles doesn’t give him the chance. He lands another punch, this time to the man’s jaw, the crack of bone echoing in the alley. The man’s head snaps to the side, blood already beginning to trickle from his split lip.

“You like hurting people, don’t you?” Charles asks, his voice calm, almost conversational as he paces in front of the man. “That’s what you were doing last night, right? You saw her and you thought you could do whatever you wanted.”

The man groans, trying to push himself up from the ground where he’s fallen, but Charles is on him in an instant, his knee pressing into the man’s chest, pinning him down.

“You thought she was alone,” Charles continues, his voice still eerily calm as he looks down at the man struggling beneath him. “You thought no one would stop you.”

He leans in closer, his knee digging into the man’s ribs, making it harder for him to breathe. “But she wasn’t alone. And now, you’re going to pay for what you did.”

The man tries to shake his head, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know-”

Another punch, this one to the side of the man’s face, silences him. Charles doesn’t care about his excuses, his lies. All he cares about is making sure this man understands the pain, the fear that you felt last night.

He grabs the man by the hair, forcing his head up so their eyes meet. The man’s face is already swelling, bruises blossoming under his skin like dark flowers. “You think this is bad?” Charles asks, his voice low, dangerous. “This is nothing compared to what you deserve.”

The man whimpers, his hands weakly trying to push Charles away, but it’s no use. Charles is relentless, his grip like iron as he drags the man up and slams him back against the wall.

“You like to take what you want, don’t you?” Charles says, his breath hot against the man’s ear. “Well, let’s see how you like it when someone takes something from you.”

Without waiting for a response, Charles delivers a brutal kick to the man’s knee, and the sickening sound of bone cracking echoes in the alley. The man screams, a high, desperate sound that only fuels Charles’ anger.

He watches dispassionately as the man crumples to the ground, clutching his leg, his face contorted in agony. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Charles asks, his voice devoid of any sympathy. “Now imagine how she felt. Imagine how scared she was, how helpless.”

The man tries to crawl away, his movements sluggish, hindered by the pain, but Charles isn’t done. He grabs the man by the ankle, dragging him back, his face set in grim determination.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Charles says, his voice flat, emotionless. “Not until I’m finished.”

He pulls the man up, slamming him into the wall again, his grip never loosening. The man’s head lolls to the side, blood dripping from his nose, his mouth, but Charles doesn’t care. He won’t stop until the man feels every bit of the fear and pain he inflicted on you.

“You think you can just walk away from this?” Charles asks, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but there’s a dangerous edge to it that makes the man’s eyes widen in fear. “You think you can just go back to your life, like nothing happened?”

The man shakes his head weakly, but Charles doesn’t believe him. He knows men like this, cowards who prey on the vulnerable, who think they’re invincible because they’ve never had to face the consequences of their actions.

“Wrong,” Charles says, his voice hard, unyielding. “You’re not walking away from this. Not ever.”

He lands another punch, this one to the man’s ribs, and the man gasps, the air knocked out of him. Charles steps back for a moment, watching as the man collapses to the ground, coughing, wheezing, barely conscious.

“Look at you,” Charles says, his voice filled with contempt as he circles the man like a predator. “Pathetic. All that confidence, all that arrogance — gone. Now you’re just a scared little boy, begging for mercy.”

The man’s eyes flutter open, bloodshot and filled with pain. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a low, pitiful moan. Charles crouches down beside him, his eyes cold, calculating.

“Did you really think you could get away with it?” Charles asks, his voice soft, almost gentle, but there’s a cruel undertone that makes the man flinch. “Did you think no one would care? That no one would come for you?”

The man doesn’t answer, his body trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Charles watches him for a moment, his anger still simmering, but there’s a part of him — a small part — that feels a twisted sense of satisfaction. This man, this coward, is finally paying for what he did.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

Charles reaches down, grabbing the man by the throat, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh. The man’s eyes go wide, panic setting in as he struggles to breathe, his hands weakly clawing at Charles’ arm.

“You’re not going to forget this,” Charles says, his voice low, dangerous. “Every time you look in the mirror, every time you see those scars, you’re going to remember what happens when you cross me. When you hurt someone I care about.”

The man gurgles, his eyes rolling back in his head, his body going limp in Charles’ grasp. For a moment, Charles considers finishing it, squeezing the life out of the man until there’s nothing left. But then he releases his grip, letting the man collapse to the ground, gasping for air.

The man barely has the strength to lift his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperation. “You … you can’t … do this,” he wheezes, his voice weak, barely audible. “I’ll … have you arrested … for attempted murder …”

Charles stares down at him, a cold, humorless smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down the man’s spine. “Go ahead,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “Try it. See how far you get.”

The man’s eyes flutter closed, his body trembling uncontrollably as the reality of his situation sets in. He’s helpless, broken, barely clinging to consciousness. And Charles knows that the man’s threats are empty, born out of desperation, a final attempt to grasp at some semblance of control.

“You’re nothing,” Charles says, his voice cold, final. “No one is going to believe you. Not after what you did. Not after what I’ve done to you.”

The man’s breath comes in short, shallow gasps, his body shuddering with pain and exhaustion. Charles watches him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he finally stands up, looking down at the broken, bloodied man at his feet.

“Consider this a warning,” Charles says, his voice low, menacing. “Stay away from her. Stay away from Monaco. If I ever see you again, I won’t stop next time. I won’t show mercy.”

The man doesn’t respond, barely clinging to consciousness, his body slumped against the wall like a discarded puppet. Charles takes one last look at him, his eyes cold, before he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the silent alley.

As he steps out into the morning light, the anger that had consumed him begins to fade, replaced by a cold, detached calm. He knows what he’s done, knows that he’s crossed a line that most people wouldn’t dare to. But he doesn’t care. He did what he had to do, what you needed him to do.

And he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

***

The atmosphere in the police station is tense, a quiet hum of activity threading through the open space. Officers move about, their conversations muted, eyes occasionally flicking toward the door where Charles Leclerc is expected to enter any moment. There’s a palpable discomfort in the air, a mix of respect and unease. No one wants to be the one to arrest Charles Leclerc. And yet, protocol demands his presence.

When Charles finally walks in, the room seems to still. Heads turn, eyes widen slightly. He’s dressed casually — sweatpants, a loose-fitting t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. Despite the nonchalance of his appearance, there’s an unmistakable tension in his shoulders, a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

The desk sergeant, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a lined face, stands up hastily. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he begins, his tone overly formal, almost reverent. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. We’re, uh … we’re very sorry about this.”

Charles offers a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “What’s this about?” He asks, even though he already knows.

The sergeant hesitates, glancing around nervously. “We, uh, received a complaint this morning,” he explains, his voice wavering slightly. “From a … an individual who claims that you assaulted him.”

Charles’ lips twitch into something resembling a smile, though there’s no warmth in it. “He’s not wrong,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “I did.”

The sergeant’s eyes widen slightly, and there’s a nervous shifting among the other officers in the room. This isn’t how these things usually go. “Monsieur Leclerc,” the sergeant begins again, more carefully this time, “we understand that this man may have … done something to provoke you. But we have to follow protocol. We need to ask you some questions.”

Charles crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly as he regards the sergeant with a cold, detached stare. “Protocol,” he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. “Fine. Ask your questions.”

The sergeant shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Did you, uh, did you physically assault the complainant?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

There’s a collective intake of breath from the officers around them, as if they can’t quite believe what they’re hearing. The sergeant blinks, clearly taken aback by Charles’ bluntness. “And … do you regret it?”

Charles laughs then, a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down the spines of everyone in the room. “Regret?” He echoes, shaking his head. “No, I don’t regret it. In fact, I’d do it again.”

The sergeant’s face pales, and he looks around as if searching for some way out of this conversation. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he begins again, his voice trembling slightly, “I don’t think you understand the situation. You’ve just admitted to a serious crime. We … we can’t just let you go.”

Charles’ expression hardens, his jaw clenching. “Yes, you can,” he says, his voice cold, unyielding. “And you will.”

The sergeant opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get a word out, the door to the station bursts open, and the man from the alley stumbles in. His face is still bruised, his movements stiff and pained. But there’s a look of triumph in his eyes as he spots Charles standing there.

“There he is!” The man shouts, pointing a shaky finger at Charles. “That’s him! That’s the bastard who tried to kill me!”

Charles turns slowly to face the man, his expression unreadable. There’s a moment of silence, the air thick with tension. The man, emboldened by the presence of the police, takes a step closer, his voice rising with every word. “You think you can just walk away from this, Leclerc? You think you’re untouchable? I’m going to see you rot in prison for what you did!”

Charles doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The man falters slightly, confused by the lack of reaction. Charles taps the screen a few times, then puts it on speaker.

“What are you doing?” The man sneers, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Calling your lawyer? That’s not going to save you.”

Charles doesn’t bother to reply. The phone rings once, twice, before a familiar voice answers on the other end.

“Charles,” comes the smooth, authoritative voice of Prince Albert of Monaco. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he responds. “Your Highness, I’m at the police station. There’s a man here trying to press charges against me for something I did last night.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Prince Albert’s voice, calm and steady, fills the room through the speakerphone. “I see. And what exactly did you do, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes narrow as he stares down the man, who is now looking increasingly nervous. “I made sure he understands that there are consequences for hurting people I care about,” Charles says, his voice low, menacing. “I made sure he knows that no one lays a hand on her without answering to me.”

The silence in the station is deafening. Every officer in the room is holding their breath, waiting to see what happens next. The man’s face drains of color as he realizes what’s happening, who Charles is talking to.

Prince Albert’s voice is measured, careful. “And you believe this was necessary?”

“Yes,” Charles replies without hesitation. “It was necessary.”

There’s another pause, and then Prince Albert speaks again, his tone decisive. “Then I trust your judgment. You did what you had to do. Consider this a royal pardon. I’ll have an official document delivered to the station within the hour.”

The man’s mouth falls open in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You … you can’t do this!” He sputters, his voice rising in desperation. “He assaulted me! He nearly killed me!”

Charles finally lowers the phone, ending the call. He slips it back into his pocket, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever. “You heard him,” Charles says quietly, his eyes locked on the man’s. “You’re done here.”

The man looks around wildly, as if searching for someone to back him up, but all he finds are the wary, sympathetic gazes of the officers. No one is going to help him. No one is going to defy Prince Albert.

The desk sergeant clears his throat, stepping forward. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he says, his voice carefully controlled, “it appears that you’re free to go.”

Charles doesn’t smile. He simply nods, his gaze never leaving the man who stands trembling before him. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I have more important things to do than waste my time here.”

The man opens his mouth to protest again, but the words die on his lips as Charles steps forward, his presence overwhelming, almost suffocating. “You should leave Monaco,” Charles says, his voice low and dangerous. “Before I change my mind about letting you live.”

The man stumbles back, his bravado crumbling as fear takes hold. He casts one last desperate glance at the officers, but they all turn away, unwilling to meet his eyes. He’s alone in this, and he knows it.

With a final, defeated whimper, the man turns and flees from the station, his steps hurried, unsteady. Charles watches him go, his expression unreadable, his heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and satisfaction.

The desk sergeant shifts awkwardly, unsure of what to say. “Uh, I … we’re sorry for the inconvenience,” he stammers. “It’s just … we had to follow procedure …”

Charles waves a hand dismissively, already heading for the door. “It’s fine,” he says, though there’s a hardness in his voice that suggests otherwise. “Just make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

The sergeant nods quickly, grateful for the reprieve. “Of course, Monsieur Leclerc. It won’t happen again.”

Charles doesn’t respond. He steps out into the sunlight, the tension slowly draining from his body as the warmth of the day washes over him. The streets of Monaco are as busy as ever, people going about their lives, oblivious to what just transpired inside the police station.

He takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, grounding himself. The day is far from over, and there are still things he needs to do, but for now, the threat has been neutralized. The man who hurt you is gone, and Charles made sure he’ll never come back.

As he walks away from the station, Charles can’t help but think of you, your face, your voice, the way you smiled at him when you were just a little girl. He knows he’s crossed a line today, done things that most people wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t condone. But he doesn’t care. He did it for you.

And he’d do it all over again if he had to.

***

Charles stands outside your apartment, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, his other raised to knock on the door. He hesitates for a moment, nerves he didn’t expect twisting in his stomach. It’s strange, feeling nervous about seeing you. He’s known you for years — watched you grow up, shared countless family dinners with you, laughed at your jokes, teased you about your school crushes.

But this … this feels different. Everything feels different now.

He finally knocks, a light tap that he knows you’ll hear. A few seconds pass, and then the door swings open, revealing you standing there in a casual outfit, your hair pulled back, a soft smile on your face.

“Charles,” you greet him, your voice warm, familiar. “Come in.”

He steps inside, glancing around the cozy space. It’s a small apartment, but it’s yours, filled with little touches that scream your personality — bookshelves overflowing with novels, a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. It’s homey, comfortable, and it smells like the vanilla candle you always seem to have burning.

“I brought lunch,” Charles says, holding up the bag. “Figured you might be hungry.”

You smile, your eyes brightening at the sight of the food. “You know me too well. What did you get?”

“Your favorite,” he replies, setting the bag down on the table and beginning to unpack it. “Pasta from that little place near the harbor.”

“Perfect,” you say, moving to grab plates from the cupboard. “You always know how to spoil me.”

Charles chuckles, though his mind is far from the light-hearted conversation. There’s something heavy sitting on his chest, something he knows he needs to tell you, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he focuses on the food, dishing out generous portions onto each plate.

You both sit down at the small dining table, and for a few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of forks scraping against plates and the occasional hum of satisfaction as you enjoy the meal. It’s comfortable, easy — just like it’s always been between you.

But then, as if sensing his unease, you break the silence. “So, I heard the craziest thing this morning,” you say, your tone light, almost teasing. “One of my friends told me that you were almost arrested yesterday. Can you believe that?”

Charles’ fork pauses midway to his mouth, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up so casually, hadn’t prepared himself for this moment. He forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh? What did she say?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “She said she heard you were involved in some kind of fight and that the police were called. I told her she was crazy. I mean, you wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?”

There’s a playful glint in your eyes, but Charles can’t bring himself to join in. Instead, he sets his fork down, the sound of metal against porcelain unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He looks at you, his expression serious, all traces of his earlier smile gone.

“Actually,” he begins, his voice low, steady, “it’s true.”

Your smile falters, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

Charles leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he meets your gaze head-on. “I was at the police station yesterday,” he says, the words heavy, deliberate. “They called me in because that guy — the one who … hurt you — he tried to press charges against me.”

You stare at him, the shock evident in your wide eyes. “Wait, you’re serious? This isn’t some joke?”

“I’m serious,” Charles replies, his voice calm, almost too calm. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed of it either. He deserved what he got.”

For a moment, you just sit there, trying to process what he’s telling you. You set your fork down, your appetite suddenly gone. “But … Charles, what did you do?”

Charles takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “I made sure he understood that there are consequences for his actions. That he can’t just walk away after what he did to you.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for your glass of water, taking a sip to steady yourself. “You … you didn’t …”

“I didn’t kill him,” Charles says quickly, sensing your fear. “But I hurt him. Badly. And I don’t regret it.”

You’re silent for a long moment, your mind racing. The Charles you know — the Charles you grew up with, the one who used to give you piggyback rides when you were too tired to walk — wouldn’t do something like this. But then again, this isn’t just anyone we’re talking about. This is you. And for Charles, you’re different. You’ve always been different.

“I did it to protect you,” Charles continues, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t just stand by and let him get away with what he did. I couldn’t …”

He trails off, his gaze dropping to the table, his shoulders slumping slightly. It’s as if all the fight has drained out of him, leaving behind only the raw, honest truth of his actions.

You swallow hard, trying to make sense of everything. “But … you could have been arrested. You could have gone to jail.”

Charles laughs, a bitter sound that holds no real amusement. “Not in Monaco,” he says, shaking his head. “Not for this.”

You furrow your brow, confusion evident in your expression. “What do you mean?”

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I talked to Prince Albert. He gave me a royal pardon. The guy had no chance.”

You blink, stunned by the casual way he says it, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “A royal pardon? Charles, that’s … that’s not normal.”

“No, it’s not,” Charles agrees, his tone somber. “But I don’t care. I’d do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe.”

The weight of his words hangs between you, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in. You’ve always known Charles was protective of you, but this … this is something else entirely. He’s crossed a line, and there’s no going back.

For a moment, you’re both silent, the tension in the room thick, suffocating. Charles watches you, his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for you to say something, anything. He’s prepared for you to be angry, to be horrified by what he’s done. But he wasn’t prepared for the look of sadness that crosses your face, the way your shoulders slump as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen on you.

“I don’t know what to say,” you finally whisper, your voice shaky. “I never wanted you to do something like this for me.”

Charles leans forward, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. His touch is warm, steady, and for a moment, it grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the panic that’s been rising in your chest.

“I know,” he says softly. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. But it’s what I needed to do. I couldn’t just stand by and let him hurt you.”

You squeeze his hand, your grip tightening as if you’re afraid to let go. “But what if you had been arrested? What if you couldn’t get out of it? I couldn’t bear the thought of you being locked up because of me.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Charles replies, his voice firm, resolute. “I told you, I’d do anything to protect you. And I mean it.”

You look up at him then, your eyes searching his, trying to find some sign that this is all just a bad dream, that you’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. But all you see is the truth — the raw, unfiltered truth of what Charles has done, and why he did it.

“I don’t know if I should be angry or grateful,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve always been there for me. But this … this is something else.”

Charles smiles then, a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be anything,” he says softly. “Just know that I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

For a moment, you just sit there, holding his hand, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. There’s so much you want to say, so much you want to ask, but you can’t seem to find the right words. Instead, you focus on the warmth of his hand in yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his eyes never leave yours.

And then, before you can second-guess yourself, you lean across the table and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, tentative at first, but it quickly deepens, the tension that’s been building between you finally finding release.

Charles’ hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer. The kiss is everything you didn’t know you needed — desperate, passionate, full of all the emotions that have been bubbling beneath the surface.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you try to catch your breath. Charles’ eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there’s a look in them that you’ve never seen before — something raw and vulnerable, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence heavy with the weight of what just happened. Charles’ hand is still in your hair, his thumb gently stroking the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady, as if he’s trying to anchor himself in this moment, to hold onto it for as long as he can.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, your own heart pounding so loudly in your ears that you’re sure he can hear it too. “Charles …” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words catch in your throat. You’re not sure what you want to say, what you’re supposed to say. Everything feels too big, too overwhelming.

Charles doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that same intense gaze, his eyes searching yours for something — reassurance, maybe, or understanding. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your hair, his fingers trailing down the side of your face before he lets it fall to his lap. The loss of his touch leaves you feeling cold, and you almost want to reach out and pull him back to you, to kiss him again and forget everything else. But you don’t.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and try to gather your thoughts, your mind racing. “What … what does this mean?” You finally manage to ask, your voice trembling.

He looks down at his hands, his brows furrowing in thought. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “All I know is that I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve known you my whole life, but … this is different.”

You bite your lip, trying to make sense of it all. “I’ve always cared about you. You know that. But I never thought …” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air between you.

Charles finally looks up at you again, his expression softening. “Neither did I,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But now that it’s happened … I don’t think I can go back. I don’t want to.”

You’re silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you. There’s a part of you that wants to be cautious, to protect yourself from whatever this is, but there’s another part — one that’s stronger — that wants to take the leap, to see where this could go.

“I don’t want to either,” you whisper, the admission almost too much to say out loud. But it’s the truth, and once it’s out there, you feel a sense of relief, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

Charles’ eyes soften even more, his smile widening slightly. He reaches out, taking your hand in his once more, his grip warm and steady. “Then let’s see where this goes,” he says, his voice low and full of promise.

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Okay.”

For a moment, you both just sit there, hands intertwined, the food on the table long forgotten as the reality of what just happened begins to sink in. There’s still so much you need to talk about, so many questions that need answers, but for now, this is enough. The kiss, the confession, the promise of something more — it’s all more than you ever expected.

Charles gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever happens next, I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I know,” you say softly. “And I’m here for you too.”

He nods, his expression earnest. “Good.”

The silence between you is comfortable now, the tension from earlier finally dissipating. You feel a sense of peace settle over you, a feeling that everything will be okay, no matter what comes next.

Finally, Charles glances at the table, his smile turning sheepish. “We should probably finish our lunch,” he says, his tone light.

You laugh, the sound easing the last of your lingering nerves. “Yeah, we probably should.”

You both pick up your forks, and the conversation shifts back to lighter topics, the ease between you returning as if nothing has changed. But you both know that something has. There’s a new understanding between you, a new connection that wasn’t there before. And as you finish your meal, stealing glances at each other across the table, you can’t help but feel excited about what the future might hold.

***

Monaco at night is a different kind of magic. The streets are quieter, the buzz of the day replaced by the hum of luxury cars and the distant sound of waves crashing against the harbor. The city glows with a soft, golden light, the kind that makes everything look a little more romantic, a little more surreal. And tonight, with you tucked into Charles’ side as you walk home from dinner, it feels like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you.

You’ve been together for a few years now, and yet there’s still a thrill in the way he holds you close, his arm draped around your shoulders as if he’s claiming you all over again. There’s something comforting in the familiarity of it, the way your bodies just fit together, like two puzzle pieces that were always meant to be.

The conversation between you is light, filled with teasing banter about the dessert you shared at the restaurant — how he insists you ate most of it, and you argue that he’s the one with the sweet tooth. It’s the kind of easy back-and-forth that comes with knowing someone inside out, with having weathered storms together and come out stronger on the other side.

But as you turn down a quieter street, the atmosphere shifts. It’s subtle at first — a flicker of movement in the corner of Charles’ eye, the sense that you’re being watched. And then, out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the night, crude and jarring in its tone.

“Hey, baby, how about a smile?”

You freeze, your muscles tensing instinctively. The voice belongs to a man leaning against a lamppost, his eyes raking over you with a leer that makes your skin crawl. You feel Charles stiffen beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders protectively. But before you can react, the man pushes off from the lamppost and approaches, his hand reaching out to touch you.

It all happens in a blur. The man’s fingers graze your arm, and you flinch back, your heart racing. But before you can fully process the disgust that courses through you, Charles is already moving.

The look in his eyes is one you recognize — a dark, dangerous glint that you’ve only seen a handful of times, but each one burned into your memory. It’s the same look he had that night at the club, the night he became more than just your protector, the night everything between you changed.

He’s about to lunge, his body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash all the anger simmering beneath the surface. But you place a hand on his chest, stopping him just in time.

“Charles,” you say softly, but there’s a knowing edge to your voice, a familiarity with the situation. “Should I call Prince Albert? Let him know you might need another pardon?”

Charles pauses, his gaze flickering to yours, and for a moment, the tension eases. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, a dark, almost feral smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice low and laced with a dangerous amusement. “This must be the fourth one this year.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound lightening the mood, if only for a second. “Actually,” you correct him, your eyes sparkling with mischief, “it’s the fifth.”

His smile widens at that, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. But the humor doesn’t last long. The reality of the situation pulls him back, and his expression hardens once more as he turns his attention to the man who dared to touch you.

“Stay here,” Charles says, his tone leaving no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who’s about to do something he won’t regret — something he’s done before.

You nod, trusting him, knowing that whatever happens next, it’s out of your hands. And as Charles steps away from you, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction, a sense of justice in knowing that this man is about to face the consequences of his actions.

The man, oblivious to the danger he’s in, sneers at Charles, clearly unbothered by the presence of another man. “What are you gonna do, pretty boy?” He taunts, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You think you can scare me?”

Charles doesn’t respond immediately. He takes his time, closing the distance between them with a measured, almost predatory grace. And when he finally speaks, his voice is as cold as ice.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Charles says quietly, the words laced with a threat that hangs heavy in the air.

The man laughs, the sound grating and unpleasant. “Oh, I know exactly who you are,” he sneers. “You’re that driver, right? Leclerc? Big deal. Doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”

Charles tilts his head slightly, as if considering the man’s words, and then, to your surprise, he laughs — a dark, cruel sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You think being in public will protect you?” Charles asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think because there are people around, I won’t make you regret ever laying a hand on her?”

The man falters, some of his bravado slipping as he realizes that Charles isn’t backing down. He glances around, perhaps expecting someone to come to his aid, but the street is empty, save for a few onlookers who are too far away to hear the exchange.

Charles doesn’t give him time to think. With a speed that takes the man by surprise, he grabs him by the collar, yanking him forward with a strength that belies his lean frame. The man stumbles, his cocky demeanor evaporating as he realizes he’s in over his head.

“You should have walked away,” Charles murmurs, his voice dangerously calm. “But now … now you’re going to pay.”

The man struggles, trying to push Charles away, but it’s futile. Charles is a professional athlete, his body honed for strength and endurance, and the man is no match for him. Within seconds, Charles has him pinned against the wall of a nearby building, his forearm pressed against the man’s throat.

“Get off me, you psycho!” The man chokes out, his voice panicked as he claws at Charles’ arm.

But Charles doesn’t budge. He leans in closer, his face inches from the man’s, his eyes filled with a cold, calculated fury. “You’re going to regret ever touching her,” he says quietly, his words laced with venom.

And then, without warning, he drags the man away from the wall, pulling him down the street with a force that makes it clear this isn’t just a warning — it’s a promise. The man tries to resist, tries to fight back, but it’s no use. Charles is stronger, faster, and more determined, his grip unyielding as he hauls the man toward a darker, more secluded part of the street.

You watch from a distance, your heart pounding in your chest. Part of you wants to stop him, to tell him it’s not worth it, but another part of you— the part that remembers the fear and helplessness you felt when that man touched you — wants Charles to follow through, to make sure this man never does this to anyone else again.

As they disappear around a corner, you take a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You trust Charles, you know he’ll be careful, but you can’t help the worry that creeps in, the fear of what might happen next.

Minutes pass, each one feeling like an eternity, and then finally, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, your breath catching in your throat as you see Charles emerging from the shadows, alone.

His expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and stormy as he walks back to you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

Then, without a word, Charles pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid to let go. You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your hair. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “You don’t have to apologize,” you say softly, your hand cupping his cheek. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He smiles then, a small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says, though you can hear the weariness in his voice. “But he won’t be bothering you — or anyone else — again.”

You nod, knowing there’s more to the story than he’s telling you, but you don’t press him. Not now, not when he’s holding you so tightly, as if he’s afraid to let you go.

“Let’s go home,” you say gently, taking his hand in yours.

Charles nods, his grip on your hand firm as he leads you back down the street, away from the darkness and into the light. And as you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief, a sense of safety in knowing that no matter what happens, Charles will always be there to protect you.

[coolemmasulivan2]

There For You

Pairing: Mason Mount x Physician!Reader

Summary: You’re a physician at the club who’s grown close to Mason. However, after he suffers another injury, he begins to distance himself, leaving you confused and unsure of how to help him.

Word count: 2729

I'll be there when you need me most I'll be there if you're ever alone Together, we can grow old I can't leave you

It was your first day back at the training camp after two weeks off, and your stomach twisted in pain as you scanned the list of injured players and Mason’s name was at the top.

You hated seeing his name there. He’d been through so much already, and every setback felt like life was testing him a little too harshly. Ever since moving to the club, he’d spent more time in your office than any player should. It seemed like he couldn’t catch a break.

In those long hours spent tending to his injuries and working on his recovery plans, the two of you had built a beautiful friendship, not because he was a regular in your office, but because of who he was.

Even when he was hurting, Mason had a way of lightening the mood. He always managed a smile. It was the kind of smile that said, I’ll get through this. Somehow, I always do.

Maybe that’s why, little by little, you’d fallen for him. It wasn’t just his courage or his never-quit attitude, it was the way he smiled, even when life knocked him down.

The night before, you had watched the game against City, and you didn’t need to be there in person to know it had happened again. The moment you saw Mason sitting on the field, head down in defeat, your heart broke for him.

"No! Bloody hell! Someone get this guy to a witch." Your dad shouted at the TV, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Someone’s playing with his voodoo doll!"

"Dad!" You called out, shooting him a look as your little nephew that was Mason's fan sank on the sofa.

"What? It’s true!" He replied, shrugging as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The United scarf around his neck swayed as he turned back to the screen. "The guy’s got more than bad luck."

You opened the door and stepped into the medical office. Mason was already sitting on the examination bed, his head down, eyes fixed on his hands as they opened and closed into tight fists.

"Hey, Mason!" You greeted softly.

His head shot up, his expression briefly surprised. "Hey!" He said, his voice deeper than usual. He didn’t smile like he normally did. "I thought you were still on holiday."

"They don't let me have three weeks off during the Premier League." You said with a small chuckle as you pulled on a pair of blue gloves. "And it’s a good thing they don't Let's have a look?"

He didn’t say anything, just nodded and laid back on the bed, stretching out his legs.

As you started examining his leg, you kept your tone light, hoping to break through his mood. "You've been through worse, right? I mean, you're basically indestructible at this point." That earned you nothing. No laugh, no smile, not even a glance. Just silence.

You focused on your work, carefully testing for swelling and tender areas. Mason didn't flinch, didn't make a sound, but the tension in his jaw told you everything you needed to know.

You sighed softly, stepping back. "Okay."

"It's bad, isn't it?" He asked, his tone clipped, as though he already knew the answer.

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. "It's not great." You admitted, keeping your voice steady. "The scans will give us the full picture, but you'll need to rest for a few weeks, at least."

At that, Mason let out a short, bitter laugh. "A few weeks. Of course." He shook his head and sat up, his movements stiff and frustrated.

"I know it's frustrating." You said gently, trying to reach him. "But we'll make sure you heal properly, and you'll come back even stronger. You've done it before."

"Yeah." He said flatly, his tone ice-cold. "And look where that got me."

The sharpness of his words stung, catching you off guard. You glanced up, meeting his gaze. His face was hard, his usual warmth replaced with a wall of indifference.

"You're allowed to be upset." You said softly. "This is a tough break, but it's not the end. You're one of the strongest people I know, Mason."

He let out a small, humorless smile that never reached his eyes. "Thanks for the pep talk." He said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll add it to my collection."

Before you could respond, Mason pushed himself off the bed, grabbed his phone from the desk and walked out of the office without a second glance.

You stood there, speechless, the weight of his frustration and pain settling heavily in the room.

"So, he just left?" Your best friend asked, setting her beer down on the table with a thud.

"Yeah!" You said, still in disbelief. "I mean… I get it. He's angry and frustrated with everything going on, but I... I was just trying to help him." You took a long sip of your beer, then lowered your voice to a whisper. "I just want to help him."

Your friend gave you a knowing smile, leaning back in her chair. "You're so down bad for him."

You groaned, running your hands through your hair. "I know."

You groaned, running your hands through your hair. "I know."

Your friend chuckled. "Honestly, I don't blame you. The guy's gorgeous. Moody, apparently, but gorgeous."

"It's not just that. It's… He's been through so much, and he still manages to stay so positive. He works harder than anyone I've ever seen. He deserves more than this."

"And yet, he shut you out."

"Yeah." You sighed, slumping back in your chair. "I don’t think it's personal. I think he's just… overwhelmed. But it still stung, you know? We've talked so much before. I thought I..." You paused, trying to find the words. "I thought I could be someone he leaned on."

Your friend reached across the table, squeezing your hand. "He will, eventually. Sometimes guys like him need time. Doesn't mean you're not important to him."

You gave her a grateful look. "I hope you're right."

The next morning, you were in your office early, sipping coffee and organizing your notes. You had barely slept, your mind replaying the tension with Mason over and over.

With a sigh, you shook off the memory and focused on the task at hand, jotting down follow-up plans for a few players. The knock on your door startled you.

"Come in!" You called, glancing up.

Your coworker, James, stepped in, clipboard in hand. "Morning." He said, his tone casual but hesitant, like he was bracing himself for something.

"Morning." You replied, eyeing him curiously. "What's up?"

He hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Uh… just wanted to give you a heads-up. Mason requested to transfer to me for his treatment plan."

You froze. "What?"

James gave a small shrug. "He asked me this morning. Said he wanted to switch."

"Why?" You asked, the word coming out sharper than you intended.

"I don't know." James said carefully "He didn't say much, just that he thought it would be better for him."

You stared at him, stunned. "Better for him? I don't understand. Why would he…" You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

James sighed. "Look, I didn't want to get into it. I know you two are friends, you have a close relationship, but If you want to know why, you're going to have to ask him."

For a moment, you just sat there, trying to make sense of what you’d just heard.

"I see." You said finally, your voice quieter now. "Thanks for letting me know, James."

James gave you a sympathetic look. "Hey, don't take it personally, okay? He's going through a lot. You know how players can get when they're injured. It's probably just his way of dealing with it."

"Yeah." You murmured, forcing a small smile. "I get it."

But as James left, you found yourself staring at your desk, Mason’s name at the top of your notes. Why didn’t he want your help anymore?

Mason was sitting on the bench in the locker room, phone in hand, as he responded to a text from his brother. He barely looked up when Bruno walked in.

"Hey!" Bruno said casually, shrugging off his jacket with an air of ease.

"Hey!" Mason replied, his eyes still glued to his phone. "How was training?"

Bruno snorted, tugging on a clean shirt. "Good." He said shortly, clearly uninterested in lingering on the topic. Instead, he glanced over at Mason. "James told me you switched to him for physio."

Mason shrugged, leaning back. "Yeah. Figured it's better this way."

Bruno raised an eyebrow as he sat down, pulling off his trainers. "Better for you or for her?" His tone was light, but his words hit home.

Mason's jaw tightened as he turned to look at Bruno. "What?"

"You and Y/n seemed close." Bruno said. "She's solid, actually gives a crap about us, which, let's be real, doesn't happen every day."

"James is solid too."

Bruno held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, she might be wondering why you're icing her out." Mason didn’t answer, his gaze dropping to the floor. Bruno sighed as he stood, slinging his towel over his shoulder. "Whatever you're running from, just make sure you're not pushing the wrong people away, mate."

Mason stayed silent, the weight of Bruno's words settling over him. He kept his head down, listening to the sound of Bruno's footsteps as he disappeared toward the showers.

A week had passed, and you still hadn't managed to speak to Mason in person. You'd tried texting him multiple times, asking if something was wrong, if you'd upset him somehow, but he always left you on read.

Today, you were determined to put an end to the silence. It was your day off, but you knew Mason would be at the camp. So, you drove there, parking directly in front of his car and waiting.

As usual, Mason was one of the last to leave, even though he hadn't been training with the team. He emerged from the building, his bag over his shoulder and his coat zipped all the way up against the cold, as he made his way toward his car.

You took a deep breath and stepped out of your car. He didn't notice you at first, his focus elsewhere, but as you moved closer, emerging from the shadows, he froze on his tracks.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing there under the dim parking lot lights.

You suddenly felt nervous and exposed. You swallowed the lump in your throat. Slowly, both of you began to move, closing the distance until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.

"Hi?" You shot back. An avalanche of words was threatening to tumble out. "That's it? That's all you've got to say? Hi?" Mason opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance. "No, Mason, I don't want your 'Hi.' I want answers. I want to know why. Why did you ask to be transferred to James? Why have you been ignoring me?" You kept going, every bottled-up thought spilling out. Mason stood there, silent, his gaze fixed on you. Even in anger, you were still cute. "Mason?" You demanded, pulling him out of his trance.

He blinked, suddenly lifting his eyes from your lips to meet yours. "What?"

You shook your head, letting out a sigh. "Have I done something wrong?"

Mason's swallowed hard, his gaze breaking away from yours. "You haven't done anything wrong, Y/n!" He said quietly.

Your chest tightened at his words. "Then why?" Your voice cracked, trembling under the weight of your emotions. "I thought we were friends, Mason."

Mason let out a sarcastic chuckle. "That's the problem!"

You furrowed your eyebrows. "What?"

"I-- I don't want to be your friend." He said, his voice just enough to make you freeze. "I don't want to be your friend because I want to be so much more! I want to be the one who carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the sofa. I want to be the one you ask to open jars, the one whose hoodies you steal. I want to be the person who holds you when you cry and makes you laugh when you need it. I want to take care of you—not the other way around." His words knocked the wind out of you.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. You weren't one to be left speechless, but somehow Mason had managed it.

"I... do you like me?" You said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Mason bit his lip, almost nervously. "Was that not obvious?"

"But… why would you push me away? Wait--" Your eyes widened. "Did you do this because you were my patient?"

Mason let out a long sigh, his breath visible in the chilly Manchester air. "I'm tired, Y/n." He said, his voice low and pained. "You've seen me at my worst since the day we met. And I hate that. I hate that you've only ever seen this version of me: the injured, broken version."

"Mase--"

"No!" He interrupted, his voice cracking. "I feel like everything's going wrong. I feel like I’m failing as a footballer, as a person. And I hate that all you've seen is that failure."

You reached for him, your hands trembling as they rested on his arms. "Mason, listen to me." You said firmly. "The last thing I see you as is a failure." He turned his face away, but you cupped his face, gently forcing him to meet your gaze. "You’re the strongest, most hardworking person I know. Maybe you’ve had more setbacks than most, but you work three times harder than anyone else. I’m your physician, yes, but I’m also your friend. And I just want to help you. I want to be there for you, no matter what."

For a moment, he looked at you like you had hung the moon and stars. His hand rose hesitantly, cupping your cheek as if he were afraid you might disappear.

Slowly, his face leaned closer to yours, his lips brushing yours gently. When you didn’t pull away, your lips parted, and he kissed you.

The kiss was soft, hesitant at first, then deeper, carrying the weight of everything unsaid until now. For that moment, there was no cold air, no frustration, no confusion, just the warmth of his lips against yours.

When you finally broke apart, your breaths mingled in the frosty air. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his eyes searching yours as if trying to read you.

"I'm sorry." Mason whispered.

"For what?" You asked softly.

"For pushing you away. For being such a mess." He admitted, his eyes dropping to the ground. "You deserve someone who's got it all together, not someone who's barely holding on."

You shook your head. "Mason, no one has it all together. We're all just doing our best. And you're not a mess, you're human. You're allowed to feel frustrated, to have bad days. But you don't have to go through it alone."

"You make me want to be better." He said quietly.

"And you make me want to fight harder." You replied with a shy smile.

He pulled you into a tight embrace and you burried your face in his neck. The weight of his struggles seemed to melt away. The two of you stood there for a while, wrapped in each other's arms. When you pulled apart, he looked down at you and smiled.

You gave him a gentle smile, tucking your hands into your pockets, suddenly feeling shy. "So… go home, rest, and we'll talk... tomorrow? Properly this time."

"Properly." He repeated with a nod.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The night air was cold, but the warmth of the moment made it easy to ignore. Finally, you took a small step back as you said goodbye, offering him one last glance before turning to leave.

"Y/n." His voice stopped you in your tracks.

You turned. "Yes?"

He hesitated. "Do you… do you want to have dinner? Like... today!"

A smile spread across your face. "I'd love that."

[lostatsea-blog]

Unexpected Setbacks

Mature Themes

18+

Alexia x Reader

Alexia's injury is not healing the way she planned it and reader has to find a way to comfort her

Alexia is still tense the whole drive home and that tension remains even after you are home. You have been fortunate to never experience the severity of injury that Alexia has been facing and so you feel a little out of your depth. You know a bath always helps, so while she is distracted you run the bath; filling it with bubbles and scents you know she likes. You wonder out into the living room and before you reach her, you can see the tear tracks that line her face. Despite the events of yesterday your heart aches for the pain she is in and it aches more because you don’t know how to take it away. You take her hand in yours and she startles at the contact. Without saying a word, you guide her towards the bathroom and she gasps softly when she sees the bath, candles and hot drink on the side next to it (it would have been a glass of wine but you don’t drink mid-season). Gently you begin to help her remove her clothes and you are startled by her shyness; she holds her arms like she is trying to shield her body from you. You place gentle kisses against her face whispering how beautiful she is and how much you love her. Once she is naked, you help her into the bath. You place one last gentle kiss to the top of her head and are about to leave when she grabs your hand

“Stay?” a single word request but you know there is no question of what your response will be. You are about to sit down besides the tub when she motions behind her and you don’t think you have ever removed your clothes so quick. You settle behind her in the steaming tub and no sooner have your arms wrapped around her, the damn breaks and heart wrenching sobs leave her body. You have been here before and you know that any words will fall on deaf ears, so you say nothing. Instead, you start to hum a gentle song and wrap your arms tighter around her wishing you had the power to take her pain away. You have a plan in your head, but that will have to wait for tomorrow. Right now, you continue to hold her tight while you gently wash her body hating the tremble you feel with every sob. Slowly, she starts to relax allowing herself to lean into you. In these moments of vulnerability, Alexia craves intimacy but you know after what happened last night, she won’t seek it out. You know you will have to be the one to initiate it. You settle her back against your front so that she is between your legs and slowly trace your fingers down her arm and over her hand allowing your fingers to tangle before moving back up her arm. You see the goosebumps that prickle her skin and feel the shiver in her body that has nothing to do with being cold. You place gentle kisses to the base of her neck while your hand continues to work drawing out soft sighs from your girlfriend. Feeling emboldened, on the next downward stroke you continue onto her thigh before stroking up grazing her sensitive area but not fully touching. Another shiver runs through her body. Your hand moves onto her toned stomach and continues its gentle stroke up, moving  over the side of her breast and gently grazing a nipple. Alexia does not attempt to stop the gentle moan that leaves her lips or the louder one that escapes when your hand reaches her throat and gently squeezes. Tonight will not be rough but that small move does wonders to Alexia and you love the gasp she lets out.

“I’ve got you my beautiful girl and I am going to take care of you” you whisper in her ear. You feel her body go limp and you know she is submitting to you. This time you trail both hands along her collarbones and down towards her breasts; cupping them both gently before running your thumbs over her nipples. Your mouth is still busy working on her neck but you can both see and feel her clench her thighs together. While your left hand continues to play with her nipple, your right hand makes a slow journey south trailing over the hard muscles of her stomach and dipping down below the water. Your finger barely grazes her clit when her legs come together trapping your hand. You can’t help but let out a giggle at her eagerness. While you would love to drag this out, you know that tonight is not about that; it is about comfort. With your left hand still teasing her nipple you dip down further meeting a wetness that has nothing to do with the bath water and for the first time you let out your own moan. It always amazes you how wet she gets for you. There is no resistance as you slip two fingers inside but you feel Alexia grind down pulling your fingers deeper. Your left hand now moves to her right breast so that you can hold her against you and still give her the stimulation she wants. At the same time, you start a gentle rhythm between her legs making sure each gentle thrust is also accompanied by a gentle swirling of your thumb on her clit. You can feel her tension melting away as her pleasure increases and she grinds quicker against your hand. This is not the loud, rough frantic sex the two of you are used to; this is filled with love and comfort. Her moans are barely audible but each one sends shivers down your spine. You can feel the tension building in her body with each thrust of your fingers and know it won’t be long before she comes. You whisper gently in her ear how beautiful she is, how strong she is and how much you love her and you word seem to have as big of an impact as your fingers. The movement of her hips becomes more frantic as she nears her release. Instinctively you pull her closer to your body trapping her to you as your hand gives the final thrusts needed to send her over the edge. She comes with the softest moan you have ever heard but the clenching around your fingers reassures you that she has reached her peak. After the moment passes, her body falls limp around you and she grabs your arm keeping it where it has been holding her across her chest. She tip her head up so that her nose in buried in the side of your neck and she places a gentle kiss

“gràcies amor meu”

You know there is a long way to go but for now she is calm and you know she will rest tonight.

[amalythea]

aly!! !!! congratulations on being older than you were a year ago 💚 it has been a pleasure to be your mutual...

i would enjoy (cry over) prompt 47: "given your history, i should have known better." with alhaitham.... angst (；∀；)

「 alone 」

⤷ info: alhaitham x gn!reader || angst, hurt/no comfort || wc: 626

⤷ warnings: messy break-up, mentions of injury

⤷ extra: june!! hello hi thank you so much :> it's been great knowing you, as well! I hope you like this hehe

The room was too quiet. Alhaitham stood by the window, his back to you, staring out into the dark expanse of the Sumeru night. The moonlight cast long, sharp shadows across the room, accentuating the tension that hung in the air.

You sat at the table, your hands clenched into fists on the surface, trembling with an emotion you couldn’t name—was it anger, or something closer to despair? Your voice broke the silence, brittle and strained.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

He didn’t turn around. His reflection in the window barely moved, save for the faint rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. "It wasn’t necessary for you to know."

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood abruptly. "Not necessary? You were ambushed. Injured. You could’ve died! And you think I didn’t need to know?"

"You couldn’t have done anything about it," he replied, his tone as flat as ever. "What would telling you have accomplished? Other than adding unnecessary worry to your life?"

Your breath hitched, your hands shaking as you gripped the back of the chair. "Unnecessary worry? Alhaitham, I care about you. Knowing you were out there, hurt and alone—do you even understand what that feels like?"

"You were overreacting," he said, finally turning to face you. His expression was calm, his teal eyes cool and detached. "I handled the situation. I always do. This isn’t something to dwell on."

You stared at him, your chest tightening with every measured word that left his mouth. "How could you say that? How could you stand there and act like this didn’t matter?"

"Because it didn’t," he said bluntly. "Not in the grand scheme of things. If I burdened you with every minor setback, we’d never move forward."

"Minor setback?" Your voice rose, cracking with the weight of unspoken pain. "This isn’t just about you, Alhaitham! I thought we were partners, but you keep me out of everything! Am I just—just someone you tolerate? Someone convenient to have around?"

He hesitated for a moment. Just a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Enough to break something fragile between you.

"You’re important to me," he said finally, but the words felt hollow, like a practiced response to an unimportant question. "But I make decisions based on logic, not sentiment. That’s who I am."

You laughed bitterly, tears stinging your eyes. "Logic? You think this was about logic? Gods, I should have known better. Given your history—how you push everyone away—I should have known you’d do the same to me."

"That’s not fair," he said, his voice still maddeningly even. "I didn’t ask you to—"

"To what? Care about you? Worry about you?" You stepped back, your voice trembling as you fought to keep it steady. "No, you didn’t. And that’s the problem. You don’t need anyone, do you? Not me, not anyone else. You’re perfectly fine on your own."

Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. Alhaitham didn’t argue. He didn’t try to stop you when you turned toward the door, your heart breaking with every step.

"You’re right," you said quietly, your hand on the doorknob. "You don’t need me. And I—I can’t keep pretending that doesn’t hurt."

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving Alhaitham alone in the quiet room. He stared at the space you had occupied moments ago, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he turned back to the window, the moonlight cold and distant on his face.

And he stayed there, alone, as the night stretched on—alone still when the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, and alone even as the world around him awakened to a new day he would face in solitude.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

@amalythea 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

[reminiscingtonight]

Reunions

Alessia Russo & Reader (Leah Williamson x Bronze!Reader)

Word Count: 713

A/N: Started this after the transfer news. Finished after Alessia's semi-final goal. Seems fitting to add it the Setbacks Universe

[Setbacks Masterlist] // [WOSO Masterlist]

The last couple months have been a rollercoaster. 

After working through your injury, you’ve bounced back with a vengeance, all the weeks you’ve spent cooped up translating to endless bounds of energy on the field. 

There’s no other way to describe the second half of the season than constant ups and downs. 

Arsenal beat out Chelsea for the Conti-Cup title. 

Your girlfriend tore her ACL.

You sold out the Emirates for the Champions League semi-final.

You lost the Champions League semi-final. 

And then you got called up for the freaking World Cup.

It’s definitely a bittersweet feeling, being called up to live your dreams while your girlfriend is stuck watching on the sidelines. But Leah’s quick to reassure you of how much you deserve it. Of how proud she is of you.

You thought making the world cup squad would be the highlight of your year. The peak of this year of ups and downs.

You never accounted for one Alessia Russo.

July 4th might be America day to those living across the pond, but July 4th will always be “Alessia Russo joins Arsenal” day to you.

“So.”

Blue eyes look up at you, narrowing with good reason. There’s a devious look in your eyes as you plop down next to one of your best friends. 

“Missed us that much, huh?” 

Alessia’s dressed in Arsenal gear, having just finished her photoshoot and making her rounds around the training ground. You lit up the second the blonde opened the door to the physio room, you having had accompanied Leah to her appointment, and you haven’t left Alessia’s side since.

Alessia rolls her eyes. “Lotte maybe. You? Not so much.”

“Ouch, you wound me,” you gasp, hands clutching at your heart.

Of course you’ve been aware of all of the rumors floating around. Alessia Russo to Arsenal everyone said, the media, the fans. Everyone but the one person who actually mattered. 

Despite all of your probing, Alessia refused to tell you where she was actually headed to after her contract with Manchester United ended. 

You were just starting to entertain the idea of her following her ex-Manchester teammate to Barcelona when Alessia finally spilled the beans. Not even Leah’s injured form could stop you from lifting and twirling your girlfriend around when you got the news. Leah had simply laughed at you, telling you to put her down.

And now you’re here. Sitting in the oh-so familiar locker room, with someone who’s also oh-so familiar, just not familiar with this side of the field.

“I can’t believe it. The Tar Heel gals, back together again.”

Alessia snorts at the phrase, remembering when she shouted that upon your late addition to the Lionesses senior squad.

“Only this time we get to do it at Arsenal.”

“The better reds,” you nod in return, laughing when Alessia shoves you back in retaliation. Alessia might be a gunner now, but you know she’ll always have a soft spot for her childhood team.

“Babe, leave her alone.”

The sight of Leah making her way into the locker room has your face breaking out into a smile, but something akin to a whine is quick to break out of your mouth at her warning. “But Leah! Lessi is--”

The sight of a perfectly crafted eyebrow raising at you has you shutting your mouth with a click.

“Lessi is what?” Alessia eggs you on, laughing at the face you pull at her. 

Leah ignores the disgruntled look you shoot her way, sighing at your dramatics. “The two of you are children.”

“Well this child gets to go home with you,” you point to yourself. “That child is banned from… ” you trail off, trying to think hard of something to stay. 

It’s Alessia’s muffled laughter that has you blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Alessia’s banned from ever meeting Winnie!”

The silence that follows is very telling.

Leah avoids eye contact while Alessia looks all too gleeful.

You gasp, pointing an accusing finger at Alessia. “You’ve already met Win?! They wouldn’t let me meet her until I my second month here!”

.

The three of you run into Win on your way out.

Leah has to try not to laugh when Win nearly knocks you over to get to Alessia.

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 11 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After narrowly escaping with your lives, the trip goes on without further trouble as the weeks begin to add up. To pass the time during a snowstorm, you and Arthur exchange questions over a bottle of gin.

Author’s Notes: Nothing like a little alcohol to make you admit your feelings to yourself :) Arthur and reader both get drunk in this one. Chapter eleven of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Eleven: The Gentle Act of Teaching

Word count: 5574

It has been a month since we started this journey and, as I assumed it would, it has come with no shortage of setbacks. Rambling like we do, I have seen a lot in my time and maybe even grown used to the pointless violence of it all. The wilderness is unkind and man more so, but I haven’t given it much care or thought until now. Now it seems I’m only leading a woman just to show her how cruel this world can be. That haunted look on her face will stay with me for the rest of my days.

~

Arthur rolled his shoulders, trying to undo the persistent ache that tightened them. Riding three days without much of a break to speak of had worn on his body, his mount, you and yours. In fact, it was so wearying you hadn’t said a word to him since the night before.

Your grief seemed to come in waves. This time it was pulling you back down into that shell of yourself you had been, unspeaking, unreacting, seemingly doing all you could just to make it another day. It was tough to watch, but Arthur didn’t have it in him to cheer you up. He was too worn down himself. That, and there was another nagging reason in the back of his mind he hardly let in for fear of letting it eat at him—that this was all his fault. He couldn’t do a thing about what else had happened to you, but he’d lost his head in that town. The mere thought of that slimy bastard calling you out like that had him bristling even now, fingers twitching with the need to shoot something. That nasty little look in his eye had been why Arthur had drawn iron in the first place, so fast it was more instinct than any sort of decision. That same look that had said plenty without words, that said the man felt he was owed something from you which warranted him following you out of town. Arthur didn’t care to ponder whether the man would have followed had he not threatened his life. It didn’t matter now anyhow. He had killed them all, exposed himself for what he really was. All because he saw red at the mere suggestion of someone wronging you. For protection’s sake, he had done his job. But it was obvious that you needed more from him than that. Your near silence since his shooting those men was plenty proof of that.

The truth was, Arthur suddenly felt that the side of him that town had revealed was glaringly wrong. It was a strange feeling, like denying the truest part of himself. But it gnawed at him now, that who he was did not have to be defined by his talent with a gun, but by the possibility of being something more. That the man he wanted to be became something he actually pondered. Things used to be about survival, about protecting those he held dear and nothing else besides. When had that changed?

As Arthur looked sidelong at you riding beside him, the empty stare on your face like that of a corpse, he knew. He had never had someone pure-hearted enough to warrant the believability of some better version of himself. With the gang, with Mary, there had only ever been a separation of good and bad, white and black, and he was always caught on the latter side of those things. But you made him think he could push beyond that, into some unknown middle ground. That look on your face was making guilt curl low in his gut for the first time in a long time at the act of taking lives. So he would push, do his best to shield you from it all. For you were good, and you deserved to remain so, lest he die trying to make it truth. If he didn’t try, no one would. Then you would be left like this—empty. And he knew enough about that to be determined to keep you from it.

~

The fourth day riding away from that terrible place and those terrible people, Arthur finally relented his pace. You had stopped here and there in the meantime, but never for a full night. The tiredness threatening to roll your eyes shut was testament to that.

Before the sun had even set and Arthur had finished with the tent, you laid back on the hard, thankfully snowless ground and fell asleep, the empty bliss of it like a gift.

When you woke, the sky was already lightening above you. You’d slept the whole night through, mercifully dreamless.

You looked down, curious over the warmth surrounding you despite the cold air, then remembered the bison coat. It was doing its job. The wind could hardly touch you with it on despite your poor judgement in sleeping outside the tent. And, like a pair of fools, it seemed Arthur had done the same. He sat against a nearby tree with his knee up, a gun in his lap and his head lolled down in sleep. Like he had every intention of standing guard but had let his exhaustion get the better of him. You couldn’t blame him.

No, the past few days had been anything but easy. You had been so plagued with guilt and worry and shame and regret the whole time it was a wonder you hadn’t given up. Given Arthur your mule and laid down and died right there in the dirt. In fact, the mule had been the only measure of happiness tethering you to the world at all. She still was. Though, sleep had helped clear your helplessness some. Instead, you were left feeling like you could go on but that there wasn’t much point in doing so. There was only brutal, unknown life ahead of you. And just like every interaction with strangers on this trip, that terrified you. The only comfort you’d known since losing your parents had been Arthur’s steady company. But that wouldn’t always be there. And, it seemed, you weren’t cut out for simple comforts anymore. It was time to grow up and see the world for what it was—unforgiving.

After plenty of rest, the pair of you packed back up and set out again. This time, you went two weeks without a break in routine. You passed over into Nebraska in the meantime, plenty of snow and cold following you in. You finally admitted to Arthur just how far you had left to go, nearly midway into the state, with no small measure of annoyance resulting on his part. But he agreed nonetheless, saying he had come this far. At least the railroad would tie into the trail soon, and he could take it back down to Denver instead of riding all the way back alone to join up with his gang.

His gang—you still hadn’t grown used to that. You hadn’t brought up the subject of his killing those five men, though it often crossed your mind to. The only thing stopping you was the fact that he didn’t owe you a thing, squeaky clean reputation included. In fact, his killer instinct had probably kept you alive thus far. Your judgement would be no help. If anything, it would just set you two to arguing again, as you often found yourselves doing. And the fact of the matter was you were tired of arguing. You were tired of a lot of things.

When the trees finally seemed to give up their steady growth, leaving behind nothing but wide open plains and brutal cold, Arthur stopped midday for the first time in a long time. The snow was blowing in sideways, and you nearly groaned in relief when he stopped his horse and swung off of her, saying, “Forget it. I ain’t freezing my balls off just to wait ‘til nightfall to do it again.”

You gave a pitiful laugh and dismounted, your legs like ice picks themselves when the pain of reaching the ground shot up them.

You and Arthur cleared a circle of snow for your camp, then built the tent and the fire. Arthur had been carrying kindling and a bit of wood for miles considering there wasn’t much of it to come by anymore, and you were impressed with his campfire skills when he got the thing burning despite the pelting snow. He had built it on the far side of the tent so that the canvas was blocking the weather, and when the flames began small then built, it took all you had not to shove your gloved fingers and your booted feet right into them.

You were both huddled close enough to the fire that Arthur suddenly took to laughing, calling you both idiots for being out in this kind of weather.

You managed a faint smile. “Montana got a lot colder than this, but…cold is cold.”

“Cold is cold,” he agreed. “How was it up there anyway? In the winter.”

“Brutal,” you admitted. Lots of days spent inside, chores finished as quickly as possible, week-long stretches where you didn’t know if the food would last. But it always did. Lucky you and your father were good hunters, your mother a good motivator.

“It wasn’t always like this,” you went on, having to raise your voice to talk over the wind. “It was sunny and pleasant some days. But still cold. The snow never left.”

Arthur just hummed his acknowledgment before holding his hands out to the fire, black gloves and harsh light eating up the reflection of the flickering flames.

After long enough, he reached around to his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Not a day went by he didn’t do this, whether for habit or enjoyment you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the experience of smoking one to know. But when he lit one, the butt smoldering to life beneath his inhaled breath, it suddenly seemed like just the thing to warm your bones. So when he offered, as he always did regardless of how many times you turned him down, you took one.

“Well,” he said with a drawl. “Finally become a bad influence, have I?”

You didn’t respond, sticking it in your mouth, rolling it over your tongue. It was faintly earthy. Bitter.

You watched him light another match. He brought his hands over to you, cupping them around the flame to keep the wind from snuffing it, touching the match head to your cigarette.

You didn’t know what you expected to happen, but nothing did.

He grinned at you. “You gotta breathe in. Just- small breaths-” he added, but too late. You had taken in such a large breath that your lungs crumpled beneath it, burning from the inside out. You took the cigarette away and coughed and coughed, the feel of it like hellfire trapped inside your chest.

He was laughing at you, but you couldn’t quit coughing enough to berate him for it. You did hand it to him, the disgusting taste and the horrible feeling enough to convince you that it wouldn’t be your new pastime. Then the cold set back in, frosting over your throat and combining with the burning feeling in your lungs. All in all, it only served to make you feel worse.

Arthur’s chuckling finally tapered off. “At least you didn’t get sick on yourself.”

“Does that happen?” you asked, hoarse.

“Sometimes.”

“Lovely.” You wrapped your hands around your knees, scooting closer to the fire, glad for your shaggy coat. It was nearly unbearably cold, but your only other option was inside the tent, and without the fire it would only be colder.

You watched Arthur smoke both cigarettes with ease, one after the other, like he needed their smoke to breathe.

“Why do people do that anyway?” you asked, still miserable from the rawness in your throat.

“What, this?” he said, putting the one that had been yours to his lips and taking a long drag. He blew out of his nose like a dragon would, smoke billowing out of both nostrils.

You didn’t answer, knowing he was just trying to show off or work you up or both.

He finally turned to you. “Calms you down. Takes the edge off.”

The first time he’d offered you one, he’d said the same thing. What edge had he been so desperate to dull back then? And each day since? It wasn’t hard to figure now—cold like this could drive any man to madness. It was certainly making you want to run circles around the camp like a crazy person.

“Same as anything I guess,” he went on, blowing more smoke. “Why does anyone do anything? Alcohol, sex, drugs, they’re all the same.”

You didn’t quite understand the sex part but let it pass. One conversation with him about it was enough to last you a lifetime. But the mention of alcohol had you suddenly desperate to try that too. You had before, what little you’d been able to get your hands on up in the mountains, but it was never enough to take much effect.

“Would alcohol warm me up?”

He eyed you, that boyish gleam returned. “Not necessarily. Though it can make you too busy thinking about other things to remember how cold you was before.”

Anything would help at this point. “You got any?”

He huffed a laugh and stood, walking over to his horse. The poor animals were both standing with their backsides to the wind, close enough to share body heat. Arthur pulled a small glass bottle from his saddle bag and shuffled back over, kicking snow as he went. He tossed you the bottle, and you caught it, flipping it. It had no label.

“What is it?”

“Gin. ‘Fraid I drank all the whiskey.”

You eyed it. “How can you tell? There’s no label.” The liquid was clear, tinged green due to the tint of the glass.

“I can tell,” he said with amusement. “Can’t afford the labeled stuff.”

You eyed him for that, wondering about your saddle and bridle and the mule standing beneath them. He was either exaggerating, or you owed him more than you thought you did if one bottle of good gin would put him out. He just inclined his head toward the bottle in your hand with a slightly upturned mouth, not giving whatever worry you had about owing him a moment’s thought.

You uncorked the top with stiff, numb, gloved fingers then lifted it to your lips. The burn of it was immediate. Almost as bad as the cigarette. You forced yourself to drink it down but let out a wincing cough after you did.

“Christ. Are all the vices so terrible?” you asked, wiping the excess off your mouth and handing the bottle back to him. It had to be a punishment, for people to drink that. Addiction born of the need to punish one’s self.

Arthur was snickering again, but this time you joined him in it.

“Tastes smooth to me,” he said, lifting it to his own mouth. You watched him drink it down with near reverence, his eyes half-closing as he did. Savoring it. He brought the bottle down and examined it. “Shitty, but smooth.”

You leaned over and snatched it from him. Like hell was it smooth. It was as cutting as swallowing ice. But the aftertaste wasn’t near as bad as the cigarette had been, so you took another sip, letting it cut all the way down.

Arthur took it back. And after some back and forth, minutes passed and enough swallowed to dull its burn, he stopped you from taking it again. “Slow down there, or it’ll come right back up. I ain’t letting you put out the fire with your own sick.”

You cringed at the thought but felt that familiar defiance within you stand up at the challenge. You went for the bottle, but he snatched it away before you could grasp it.

“Don’t be dense,” you spat, going for it again. He again held it out, far enough you couldn’t reach it. And the resulting smile curving across his face was making you mad enough to tackle him for the damn thing.

You were about to lunge for it when he stopped you with a hand held out. “All right, all right, quit it. I’ll make a deal with you.”

You already didn’t like where this was going. To hell with the gin. Now you were just angry. You crossed your arms at him.

He grinned then said, “You answer a question, I’ll give it back.”

As annoyed as humoring him made you, you just shrugged.

“Agreed?”

“Go on,” you snapped. Better to get it over with, get the bottle back and walk away so as not to have to deal with him anymore.

He thought on it a moment, taking another sip as he held your gaze, an amusement lighting his eyes you didn’t much care for. Then, “What’s something you never told anyone?”

That you still wished you had died with your parents. That life didn’t feel like it had much meaning after their deaths. That one of the sole reasons you went on was because the man staring back at you had given a damn at the right moment. But you didn’t want to go down that slippery slope, not right now and not with him. So you reverted back to your younger years, to the girl who was full of life and grit and the ability to get her way. What had you kept hidden even from your parents?

You landed on it then hesitated, heat staining your cheeks from embarrassment.

“Spit it out,” he said accusatorially, sensing that hesitation.

“I…” How to word it and not sound ridiculous? “When I was a kid I…fancied the postman.”

Arthur burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” you said miserably.

“That’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

The deepest, maybe. Certainly not the darkest. But his laughter was slightly contagious given how stupid the confession had sounded, so you just said with a laugh, “I was little! He was handsome!”

“I’m sure he was,” Arthur said, tilting his hat to you in obvious sarcasm, his grin never leaving.

“And I never got to go to the post office,” you went on, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “So when Pa let me come with him, the hours that it took to get there, it was…it was just nice to see the man is all!”

Arthur was veritably howling with laughter now.

“Shut up!” you said, leaning over and shoving him. “Like you never had an infatuation with a girl.” This did seem to sober him some, and that gave you an idea.

“Give me that,” you snapped, yanking the bottle away. “And it’s your turn for a question.”

“Well, I never said-”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. You’re answering one.”

He settled back with a sigh but didn’t protest. So you took a swig of gin for courage and looked him straight in the eye. “Who taught you to shoot so well?”

Surprise crossed his face, lining every inch of it. He had obviously assumed you were going to ask about said girl, whomever that may be. But no, you wanted to know how he had taken down five men in a matter of seconds.

His face turned contemplative. Then, “No one, I guess. I always had a good eye. Good aim.”

“That aim was better than good,” you admitted. And the reference to what had happened back in that town seemed to sour his mood. He snatched the bottle back and took a long pull from it.

“Yeah, well, you’re either a decent shot or you get killed pretty quick in my line of work.”

His line of work. On the opposing side of the law, where bullets were aimed at you as often as a dirty glance.

“Do you ever get scared?” The question pushed out before you could stop it.

Arthur just looked at you, face tinged with mild curiosity.

“Not really,” he said. “Not anymore. But—” He tipped the bottle at you. “It ain’t your turn.”

You rolled your eyes and sat back, looking into the flames instead, knowing he would fire off another stupid question whether you got on to him for it or not.

Sure enough, he spoke, the amusement in his tone not lost on you. “You ever get into trouble up in them mountains?”

“What kind of trouble?”

You shouldn’t have asked. The smirk he shot back was enough for you to know he didn’t mean the kind where you got lost in the snow, where your life was in danger.

When he didn’t answer, you sighed like he usually did, drawing it out. “A few times. Once for this,” you said, taking the gin from him.

“What, getting drunk?”

“No, they caught me before it got to that point. I raided the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t much, a bottle of whiskey and some wine. But I was trying both when Momma and Pa came back from town early. They gave me hell for it.”

Arthur snickered. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” you answered. “But it’s not your turn,” you said sweetly, making him shake his head, though his smile never left.

You took a sip of gin, wondering what it took to be drunk. But you wouldn’t waste a perfectly good question asking Arthur about it. Instead, you asked him something you had wondered since the night after leaving that trading town.

“Why didn’t you buy another bedroll? At that trader stall.”

Again, Arthur seemed surprised by the question. He took some time to answer, gesturing for you to hand him the gin. You did so, and he took another long pull of it. Long enough that you wondered how often he did this, drinking his thoughts away.

“It honestly didn’t cross my mind,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “I was trying to keep an eye on you when I was talking to that old croak. Weren’t thinking about it.”

You let out a breath of relief at his response. You had assumed he’d spent all his money and resources on you, that he couldn’t afford one. And, as it stood, he had been using the very edge of your bedroll ever since, both of you colder than you cared for but too prideful to cling together for warmth like you had that night after the wolves. So you had thought all this time another bedroll had been neglected at the cost of the coat on your back. But now that you knew otherwise, you didn’t feel quite so shameful. And you were grateful, too, that it had been because Arthur had kept such a watchful eye on you.

He took another long drink from the bottle, and you watched him, watched his throat work and his mouth purse with the harsh liquid. This man who you thought you knew—you didn’t really know him at all.

Arthur looked over and caught you staring.

“What?”

You shook your head, pushing the thought from your mind. Not because it scared you, but quite the opposite—you always assumed he was bad, that he was the low-down outlaw, and at every turn, he proved you wrong.

“Nothing.”

He chuckled lowly. Then, “You ever kissed anyone?”

“Excuse me?” It was all you could manage through your embarrassment. Not this again.

“Couldn’t ask it any clearer,” he said, about to take another drink. But you snatched it away before he could, taking a long pull yourself. Drunk. You needed to be drunk.

“How much of this do I need before it blocks out the sound of your voice?”

“So, no then,” he said with that god awful smirk.

You drank again.

He laughed. “Easy there.”

“I told you,” you said, voice hoarse from the harsh liquor. “There wasn’t anyone up there to kiss.”

“Not even the postman?”

You could have hit him. Instead, oddly enough, you laughed at that stupid smile on his face. “No, not even the postman. He was twice my age. Maybe more.”

“Hm.”

“What?” you fired at him, the bottle clutched tightly in your hands.

“Nothing, just…” He smiled again, his teeth showing. “Imagining it, is all. That life you led.” He pried the bottle from your clawed grip, smiling as he brought it to his lips. “Sounds…boring.”

You tried not to think about his mouth kissing the bottle, his mouth kissing anything, as you replied, “It was what you made of it. I enjoyed it.” At your nerves, you reached over and took the bottle away before he was even done drinking. He made a noise of protest, but it didn’t register before you had the bottle at your own mouth, trying desperately not to think of how his lips had just touched the same spot.

When you brought it away, you looked at him. Really looked at him, all notion of it being improper to do so suddenly lost. “There are other ways of enjoying yourself, you know.”

His brows rose high, either at the way you were looking at him or at the implication in your voice.

After long enough, he said, “You plan on enlightening me?”

“I…” Your eyes dipped to his mouth before you took another long pull, the bottle blocking your view of him. Shaking loose the thought that began to plague you. The urge to experience something new, something you were afraid would be addicting in its own right, alcohol aside.

When you didn’t respond, just pulled the bottle back down and looked to the fire, Arthur said, “I can’t imagine it would be much beyond snow sledding or the like all the way up there. You telling me that’s the secret to happiness?”

There it was, an out. A diversion to the path this conversation had led you down. And in anything other circumstance, you would have taken it. But for some reason, you were starting to believe that drunkenness snuck up namelessly after all, a haze of intuition lost.

You looked to Arthur, to the soft amusement on his face, to the casualness that seemed to always weigh on his shoulders and make its way to his mouth.

“You could teach me.”

“Come again?”

Your eyes dropped to his mouth again, seemingly of their own volition. Then words spilled out of you like gin from a bottle.

“Kiss me. Show me how.”

His face softened. Surprise, realization, a bit of embarrassment. Then deflection as he chuckled, his face tingeing redder in the gray light than the cold could account for. “Nah, you don’t want that,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself. “Not your first-”

“Kiss me,” you said again. You couldn’t imagine it being anyone else in the world. There was no one else you trusted. “I wouldn’t ask if that were the case.”

He looked at you then with such raw surprise you wondered when the last time anyone had shown him such affection was.

He stared at you, and you stared at him, and before you could ask if his brain had shut down entirely, he looked to the fire and said defiantly, “No.”

You scoffed. “Come on. It’s not that big a deal. Just think of it as teaching me something new.”

“But it ain’t that,” he fired back. He still wouldn’t look at you. “It’s…kissing someone to learn something and kissing someone because you want to are two different things.”

“Exactly,” you said, taking another sip of gin. “If it‘s just for learning’s sake, what’s the problem?”

He shook his head, disgruntled. “Forget it. I ain’t doing it.”

You groaned aloud, unbelieving he was being the stick in the mud for once. “You know, for an outlaw,” you said, standing, pointing the bottle at him. “You’re awfully honorable.”

He let out a barking laugh like he didn’t believe that in the slightest but still didn’t take the bait. The stubborn fool.

The ground swayed a bit beneath you as you added, “And cowardly.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, the question poised somewhere between annoyance and a threat. But he had finally looked at you at least.

“Woman asks you to kiss her, and you won’t even consider it.”

He stood now, swiping the bottle from your hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” But you couldn’t have pried the glass from his grasp if you wanted to, your vision starting to swim. “You don’t want to kiss me that’s fine, but don’t tell me what to do.”

He laughed that annoying laugh again. “I ain‘t kissing someone who can barely keep her feet.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, stepping over to him to prove a point. Close. You could have leaned over and kissed him yourself you were so close. In fact, the thought was a breath away from being turned into reality when he lifted the gin to his own lips, blocking you, his eyes catching on your mouth. Or maybe that was your shoddy vision making things up.

When he brought the bottle away, he was grinning. “Real impressive, being able to walk.”

“Shut up,” you said, but didn’t shove him like you wanted to. His closeness was…distracting you. And any forceful movement would likely land you on your backside.

“Tell you what,” he said, shifting his weight so that he stood even closer. Not backing down from you in the slightest, that cocky grin lighting his face. “You answer one more question, and I’ll kiss you.”

Your face burned with those words, like your body was realizing this might actually happen.

When you didn’t respond, his grin went wider. Feral. Then, “Tell me your name.”

Damn him. Because he knew it was the one thing you wouldn’t give him.

“That’s not a question,” you said simply, holding his eye.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Why don’t you want me to know it?”

Now it was your turn to grin. “Because they were the last people to call me that.”

Arthur was confused by your smile despite your words, his brows pinching together. And you said without hesitation, “And I just answered your question. So kiss me.”

Realization hit him again, and he immediately let out an unbelieving laugh. “You’re a damn sneak, you know that?”

When his eyes met yours, his gaze shifted the slightest bit toward serious in the harsh daylight. And he definitely eyed your mouth this time. Alcohol or no, you could see it plain as day. Then at last, he groaned his annoyance, or tried to shake how flustered he was, and said, “All right then. You win.” He dropped the gin and stepped toward you.

All you had ever known of this suddenly became futile, juvenile, worthless in the eyes of him bringing his gloved hands to the back of your head. Your scant knowledge couldn’t hold a candle to the gentle way he brought your mouth to his, meeting you at last in a kiss so tender it sobered you. This was happening. Arthur was…

All thought was lost when his mouth pressed against yours a second time. Slow. Caring. You let him be, forgetting entirely what this was supposed to be about, instead navigating the newness that was kissing someone back.

The kiss went on for an eternity, the effect better than any cigarette, any gin, anything in the world. There was no snow, was no cold, was nothing but the way his lips parted. You did as he did, and soon your mouth was at his with a fervor, his tongue warm against yours, the taste of gin and tobacco all you knew and all you ever wanted again.

Then he was stepping away, letting his hands fall, his gaze shy as it hit the ground.

“Was that…what you wanted?” he asked softly, meeting your eye as his hands fell a bit nervously onto his gun belt, fidgeting.

You just stared at him. Dove deep inside yourself to remember your words, to remember your circumstances and who you were supposed to be to each other. Because it was certainly blurring as the warmth of his mouth lingered.

After long enough that he kept shifting his weight, you spoke. “I understand it now. Why people…enjoy that.”

You thought you saw the smallest softening of his gaze before the mask returned, his teasing smirk back in place. “You really don’t know nothing, do you?”

You couldn’t even be bothered to chide him. Not after what he had just given you.

You pursed your lips like you could hold that kiss forever then looked at the bottle at your feet. You knelt and picked it up, pushing it into his chest. He grabbed it. And you wouldn’t meet his eye for fear of wanting him to kiss you all over again as you said with a giddy smile, “Thank you for teaching me,” and stepped around him. Aimed for the tent. Focused on keeping your feet beneath you, keeping your head somewhere inside reality, keeping your thoughts away from the man at your back. Away from just how much you truly felt for him, your fondness veiled like the unfamiliarity of a kiss until now.

_________

Chapter twelve is here.

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445

[leonsliga]

manu's willpower really is something else. I can't imagine being so severely injured and working hard towards your comeback every day for a YEAR, only to have everyone else say meh he's too old, take away his no. 1, take away the captaincy, his coach, making fun of him even when he tells them his heart is broken. he deserves all the respect

It really is, isn’t it? 350 straight days of injury recovery—of setback after setback—would break even the strongest of professional athletes. And, like you said, couple that with media and fan criticism, strip him of the captain’s armband and his beloved goalkeeper coach (who’d worked closely with him for a little over a decade). No wonder the poor man’s heart was broken. And even after he’d explicitly stated this, they chose to pulverize it by fining him and publicly criticizing him for pouring his heart out. Right when our unflappable Manu was at his most vulnerable.

It’s not the same, but everything that happened during his recovery reminds me a bit of the whole “koan neuer” fiasco (can you tell Generation Wembley is still fresh in my mind? 😂😵). Only this time, it wasn’t just the fans who turned their backs on him. How could so much have changed but at the same time so little?

And yet, even after all this, Manu returned as resilient as ever. Never mind the critics who claimed he was too old to be nummer eins, never mind that his own club blindsided him by sacking his close friend and coach. Never mind any of that. He processed the hurt and repaired his broken heart all by himself; he came back with the same excitement and determination with which he approaches everything. And that, my friends, is truly commendable. He really does deserve all our respect for that, and for everything else he’s done for this club. It’s so good to have him back ❤️

[underwater-i-will-go]

it had been a while. christmas is long gone. around the time it had all happened, a time that passed on so quickly, yet so slowly. it was a strange time. a strange five months. snow fell, snow melted. flowers started to blossom, flowers withered. flesh bled. flesh healed.

fiction pope / trippier under cut. be warned.

another day, another day. so many of them. kieran sat on the rim of nick's tub. 6am. he hadn't slept, sleep had become tough. he'd spent so much time with him ever since last winter, so much time he regrets, so much time he's grateful he could share with him. they'd grown together even more, beyond casual hookups after games. rushed shower blowjobs turning into romance. kieran smiles - never knew they'd end up here. neither of them have said those words yet. they don't know if they'd mean it. they don't know what it is they have, too afraid to question it. it's like kieran has been snowed in, he can't leave. can't leave nick's place. can't leave his heart, a home he had to built for himself in times of isolation. well maintained and painted in colourful colours. a bright green on good days, matching the colours of the world outside, a dark grey on bad days, like the sky when it's about to break, raindrops landing on his face, at first it's few, then it pours.

"kieran?" nick's voice took him out of the well maintained little place in his head, the place he'd been trapped in ever since it happened. it hadn't been an easy 5 months. nick had become depressed. proper depressed. it's only 6 in the morning and kieran knew that today would not be one of the rare good days, it won't be bright green. looking out of the window, the world outside about to wake, but kieran is stuck. he's forced to be asleep when the world around him is awake. nick's depression wrapping its arms around him, so comforting. like a soft blanket, so warm. so easy to let yourself go down that path when the person you're so connected to cannot smile anymore. you lose the interest to smile, too. lose the appetite for living, feeling guilty for having good days whilst they have bad days.

kieran got up and walked into the bedroom, nick sitting in the bed. "you alright?" kieran sat beside him and put his hand onto his cheek. nick shook his head "don't know. i missed you." nick had become insufferable on some days, unable to leave kieran's side. stuck to him like glue, draining every last bit of self from kieran. he had become nick. what had begun as a little fling between teammates had turned into a connection that couldn't be broken anymore. like ivy growing on that one old house you see when walking down the street, covering it. this is how possessive nick's love was to kieran. nick looked at kieran and there it was again - the despair in his eyes, the events of february forced back into his brain. the same look in his eyes as when he'd found him, in the very state he was in. whispering his name with the very last bit of air left in his lungs.

can eyes change colour? on somedays kieran wondered. when they met for the first time nick's eyes were the colour of rain, the colour of the sea around midday when the sky was cloudy. now they're a dark shade of grey, like a thunderstorm in fall, one that indicates that the rain will continue to fall for days to come. nick takes kieran's hand in his, draws along the lines on his palm. he chuckles. "remember the first time your hands touched my body?" kieran remembered it all too well - electricity, being carried from nick's body to his. he nods "yeah. why?"

"i miss it. i miss those times." nick's injury is healed, but his soul remains shattered. all those months of uncertainty, all the setbacks, the complications. on some days nick didn't know if it wouldn't be better to give up, and not just on his career. but kieran was always there, even moving in with him. he had become kieran's everything. the air he breathed, the food he ate, the water he drank. it all tasted just like him. and he was there in that one night in february. he was the one on is knees cleaning it all up. scraping it off the ground, washing it off his body. the shock is still there, so is the fear. for what they have become. for the collective they are. nick smiles, kieran doesn't know what's real and what's fake anymore. the room dark, window screens shut so that the sun would not shine through, no chance of carrying in its warmth. nick's shoulder is still fragile, healed well enough to get back into light training. but he will not be back on the grass for at least another two months so the doctors said. what was initially supposed to be four months tops has now already been six months and counting. kieran doesn't mind it - doesn't mind the things he had to sacrifice, doesn't mind the the person he had become so long as he could protect nick. he knew this wasn't healthy. it's always this room - dark. nick hasn't really left it for a while now. so hasn't kieran. it reeks of them, the smell of what they have become. it looks like them - the darkness in their hearts shining through their chests making sure it's always night no matter how often the sun sets outside of their cave.

his hand finding its way into nick's boxers, the spark is long gone. it's become a routine. the pleasure kieran can give to nick is only temporary, but it's even less than that. their kisses don't feel the same anymore, the taste of nick's lips bitter. what once tasted like honey now tastes like salt, what once felt like velvet in his hands now feels like broken glass, so afraid it will cut even deeper into his skin, yet unable to stop touching it. the pain is addictive, the blood is warm. kieran knew that the door wasn't locked - he could leave at any time. but the waking world outside had become so strange now that he had been asleep for so long, asleep with him. under the blanket on so many days, so many nights. their bodies pressed up against one another, some nights woken up by nick's body shivering in pain, his voice had become so much weaker, so much quieter, some nights he wouldn't wake anymore when he was in pain, some nights the tears dripping onto kieran's skin would go unnoticed. had he become lost in this state? he can't focus, literally forgets he's got his cock in his hand right now, nick's eyes shut, in peace for once, no sight of pain written in his face, maybe he had just forgotten how to read it. kieran's palm is loosely wrapped around his cock, slow movements, the routine that should never have become a routine. his other hand stroking through his messy hair. he desperately needs a trim, but kieran always liked it a little longer on the sides so he doesn't complain. for all the times kieran had given him relief, for what started as a joke between teammates because he couldn't use his own arm to have a wank, has somehow become his life.

feeling trapped, unable to break this pattern. unable to speak his mind, too afraid it could send him back. back to february. back to the bathroom. he adores the look on his face nevertheless, adores his features in the dim light, adores the way he can feel his body shiver under his touch, the softness of his hair between his fingers, his grip tightening just as he likes it when he knows he's close. kieran would lie if he said it hadn't happened. would lie if he said he hadn't fallen deeply in love with this shattered person prepped up on the bed in front of him. the love he felt for him was deeper than anything he had ever felt before. falling for him was like setting foot into the ocean, walking ahead, only for it to get deeper and deeper until suddenly, you're about to drown. kieran had been stuck at this part of the ocean for months now, one more step and the air will be replaced with water, his sanity replaced with delusion. and he doesn't even know if crossing this line would be worth it - doesn't know if drowning is worth it, doesn't know if nick would come to save him. nick would be too proud to ever admit it, idiot that doesn't know what love is. doubts he can tell the difference between a fling and a romance, confuses fire with ice. a single little groan from his lips, sudden warmth spread in kieran's palm. his breath picking up, just temporary. it's as if it's the only time he knows he's alive anymore, a whisper only kieran can hear.

"i love you." so quite, barely audible. maybe kieran's mind plays tricks on him, maybe he just heard what he wanted to hear. kieran's eyes open wide "what did you just say?" nick opens his eyes, confused look on his face. "i said, that felt good."

[9jaboizgistworld-blog]

5 Essential Reasons Why Your Bussines Need Insurance

Running a business is like navigating a ship through unpredictable waters. While you're steering towards success, unforeseen challenges can arise. That’s where business insurance comes in—it’s your safety net, your anchor in turbulent times. Over the years, I’ve seen firsthand how essential it is to protect what you’ve built. So, let's dive into the 5 essential reasons why your bussines need insurance and how it can help safeguard your enterprise, employees, and financial future.

1. Protecting Your Assets

Imagine waking up to find that your office has been damaged by a fire or a natural disaster. It's a nightmare scenario that can happen to any business, no matter the size. Business insurance is crucial for protecting your physical assets, such as buildings, equipment, and inventory. A friend of mine who runs a small café experienced a break-in. The thieves made off with expensive kitchen equipment, but fortunately, her business insurance covered the cost of replacements. Without it, she would have faced a significant financial setback. Why It Matters: Your assets are the backbone of your business. Whether it’s your storefront, your vehicles, or your office equipment, they need protection. Business insurance ensures that you’re not left footing the bill when unexpected events occur.

2. Legal Compliance and Liability Protection

Did you know that certain types of business insurance are legally required? Depending on your location and industry, you may need specific coverage to comply with regulations. Moreover, liability insurance protects you from lawsuits, which could otherwise cripple your business. A customer slips and falls in your store, resulting in a lawsuit. Without liability insurance, you’d be responsible for legal fees and potential damages. With insurance, however, these costs are covered, saving your business from financial ruin. Why It Matters: Compliance with legal requirements is non-negotiable. Failing to have the necessary insurance could result in fines or even the closure of your business. Liability protection is equally critical, as it shields you from the devastating effects of lawsuits.

3. Safeguarding Your Employees

Your employees are the heart of your business. Protecting them should be a top priority, and business insurance helps you do just that. Workers' compensation insurance, for example, covers medical expenses and lost wages if an employee is injured on the job. A friend’s construction business had a worker who suffered a serious injury while on-site. Thanks to workers' compensation insurance, the employee’s medical bills were covered, and the business avoided a potentially expensive lawsuit. Why It Matters: Without the right insurance, an employee’s injury could lead to costly medical bills and legal action. Business insurance provides peace of mind, knowing that your team is protected and that your business won’t be financially devastated by unforeseen accidents.

4. Business Continuity in Times of Crisis

What would happen to your business if a natural disaster struck, rendering your office or store unusable? Would you be able to continue operations? Business interruption insurance is designed to cover lost income and operating expenses when your business is forced to shut down temporarily. During a recent hurricane, a local retailer had to close for several weeks due to flood damage. Thanks to business interruption insurance, they were able to cover their ongoing expenses, including rent and employee salaries, until they could reopen. Why It Matters: Disasters can strike without warning, and without business interruption insurance, you could face significant financial losses. This coverage ensures that your business can weather the storm and continue to thrive once the crisis has passed.

5. Enhancing Your Business’s Credibility

Having the right insurance can actually boost your business’s reputation and credibility. Clients and customers feel more confident doing business with you when they know you’re properly insured. It shows that you’re responsible, prepared, and professional. When I started my consulting business, one of my first clients asked if I had professional liability insurance. They explained that working with insured consultants was a policy of theirs, as it minimized their own risks. Securing the insurance helped me land the contract and set a professional tone for future clients. Why It Matters: Insurance isn’t just about protection—it’s about perception. Being insured can help you win contracts, attract clients, and even secure financing, as lenders often require proof of insurance before approving loans.

5 Essential Reasons Why Your Bussines Need Insurance in Summary

In summary, the 5 essential reasons why your business needs insurance are to protect your assets, ensure legal compliance and liability protection, safeguard your employees, maintain business continuity in times of crisis, and enhance your business’s credibility. These reasons underscore the critical role that insurance plays in securing the future of your business.

FAQs - 5 essential reasons why your business needs insurance

1. What type of business insurance do I need?It depends on your business type and location. Common types include general liability, property insurance, and workers' compensation. Consulting with an insurance advisor can help you determine the best coverage for your needs.2. Is business insurance expensive?The cost of business insurance varies based on factors such as your industry, location, and the amount of coverage you need. However, the cost of not having insurance can be much higher in the event of a claim.3. How often should I review my business insurance policy?It’s a good idea to review your policy annually or whenever significant changes occur in your business, such as expansion or purchasing new equipment.4. Can I deduct business insurance premiums from my taxes?Yes, in most cases, business insurance premiums are considered a deductible business expense. Consult with a tax professional to ensure you’re taking advantage of all available deductions.5. What’s the difference between general liability and professional liability insurance?General liability insurance covers bodily injury and property damage claims, while professional liability insurance covers claims related to errors or omissions in the services you provide.

Conclusion

If you’re serious about safeguarding your business, it’s time to make sure you’re fully covered. Business insurance isn’t just an expense—it’s an investment in your peace of mind and the longevity of your company. Whether you’re just starting out or have been in the game for years, take the next step by reviewing your insurance needs and making sure you’re protected. Don’t wait until it’s too late! Reach out to an insurance advisor today and ensure that your business is fully protected. Remember, the right coverage can mean the difference between a minor setback and a major catastrophe. By emphasizing these 5 essential reasons why your business needs insurance, you can confidently protect your business while ensuring that your customers, employees, and assets are secure. Read the full article

[spandex-if]

DEMO (TBA)

GENRE: slice of life, humourous, romance, superhero

Seven years ago, you had uprooted your life after graduating and made a big move — away from everything and everyone you knew — to settle in the quiet city of Assay together with your partner. Things hadn't been easy, but the two of you made it work together. Not too long ago, everything had seemed to be coming together on the grand stage of life.

Until you had woken up one day with superpowers.

Contrary to popular belief, obtaining superpowers did not magically make everything better — in fact, it had made things worse. After multiple setbacks, your life is starting to feel more like a sitcom whose audience has packed up and gone home. One out of five stars. Would not recommend. And the only one still left watching is you.

Still, life goes on in your tiny studio apartment. Start a full time job again, strike up relationships with new co-workers and neighbours, and beat up a villain or two to keep the city safe. Oh, and perhaps find some love along the way too.

Will you be able to do it all, hero?

⚠️ content warnings: some violence, optional explicit scenes and the author's godawful sense of humour

craft both your mc's civilian identity and vigilante persona

choose from 1 of 5 superpowers — animal shapeshifting, electricity, persuasion, future sight, invisibility — all of which come with their own unique and exclusive scenes

fight a whole host of different villains and criminals to keep the city of Assay safe! — or not, and watch how public perception of you changes

keep your identity secret from the various parties trying to unmask you

build relationships with the neighbours living with you at Ivy Apartments or remain a recluse

kindle a romance with four romance options — your hard-headed police ex, an aloof and sardonic doctor, the easily flustered colleague or your new next door neighbour

and most importantly... pay your rent on time

The Good Doctor [m/f] — 34

The life of a vigilante comes with its fair share of scrapes and bruises and broken bones. Although their bedside manner has much room for improvement, there is no one better for mending your injuries than the good Doctor — a loner surgeon willing to keep your identity a secret. As long as you can cough up, of course. Now, if only they would be willing to lower those exorbitant medical fees, just a little...

Li Lin [m/f] — 25

The tenant who has just moved into the apartment beside yours. Well mannered and mildly reclusive, you don't know much about them aside from these facts: that they are studying to be a software engineer, they moved to Ivy Apartments to take care of their grandparents, and they make a mean bowl of chilli oil wontons. Still, with the way that every appliance in their apartment seems intent on breaking down at the most inopportune moments, it seems like you'll have no choice but to help your new neighbour out...

Hayden/Hayley Dayvis [m/f] — 31

A sharp, hard-headed police lieutenant who is determined to rein in the chaos happening in Assay City — and that includes bringing a certain spandex-ed vigilante to justice. Unfortunate, considering that they were also once your college sweetheart and life partner all rolled into one. But all that changed two years ago with a messy separation worthy of a TS hit song. It almost feels as though they can't stand the very sight of you now. Can that spark between the two of you be rekindled once again?

Scott/Stelle Barnes [m/f] — 33

Your colleague at your newest job whom you share desks with. Easily flustered but cheerful and warm-hearted, S is quick to make you feel welcome in the office. While they're an ordinary office worker with an ordinary 9 to 5 job, their admiration for your vigilante identity is just a little over the top. With you regularly running from your computer to take extended "bathroom breaks", will S catch on to your real identity?

[mind-and-body]

The Comprehensive Guide to Building a Sustainable Fitness Routine

Introduction

Achieving a fit and healthy lifestyle is a goal for many, but the path to it can be riddled with misinformation and short-term solutions. This detailed guide aims to provide you with a research-backed, sustainable approach to fitness that you can integrate into your daily routine, ensuring that you not only reach your goals but also maintain them.

Understanding the Foundation of Fitness

Before diving into workouts and diets, it's crucial to establish a solid foundation. This groundwork is based on understanding the pillars of fitness: strength training, cardiovascular health, flexibility, and nutrition. Strength Training Strength training is essential for building muscle, increasing metabolism, and improving bone density. Begin with bodyweight exercises, and gradually progress to using weights. A combination of compound movements like squats and deadlifts, with isolation exercises like bicep curls, provides a balanced strength routine. Cardiovascular Health Cardio workouts, such as running, swimming, or cycling, boost heart health and endurance. Incorporate short, high-intensity interval training (HIIT) sessions for efficiency, as studies show they can offer similar benefits to longer, steady-state cardio sessions. Flexibility and Mobility Incorporate stretching or yoga into your regimen to improve flexibility, reduce injury risk, and enhance recovery. Dynamic stretches are recommended before workouts, while static stretches can be done post-exercise. Nutrition Understanding macronutrients and the role they play in fitness is crucial. A balanced diet with the right mix of proteins, carbohydrates, and fats, along with hydration and micronutrients, supports physical activity and recovery.

Designing Your Fitness Program

Your fitness program should be tailored to your goals, be it weight loss, muscle gain, or enhanced athletic performance. However, a well-rounded program that addresses all aspects of fitness is crucial for overall health. Creating a Balanced Routine A weekly fitness routine should balance the different forms of exercise. For example, you could schedule strength training on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, cardio on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and flexibility workouts on the weekends. Setting Realistic Goals Set SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, Time-bound) goals to keep yourself motivated and on track. Breaking down your main goal into smaller, achievable targets can help maintain motivation and make progress measurable. Rest and Recovery Adequate rest is as important as the workouts themselves. Ensure you have at least one full rest day each week and get sufficient sleep each night to promote recovery and performance.

Tracking Your Progress

Monitoring your fitness journey is key to staying motivated and adjusting your program as needed. Use a combination of quantitative metrics like body measurements and qualitative data like energy levels to assess your progress.

Overcoming Plateaus and Setbacks

Plateaus in fitness are common, but they can be overcome with adjustments to your routine. Changing up your exercises, increasing intensity, or revisiting your dietary habits can provide a fresh stimulus for continued progress.

Nutrition for Fitness

Your diet should complement your fitness routine. Focus on whole foods and avoid overly processed options. Pre- and post-workout nutrition is particularly important for energy levels and recovery, so consider a carbohydrate and protein-rich snack before and after your workouts.

Maintaining Your Fitness Journey

Staying Motivated Staying motivated is crucial for long-term success. Keep your workouts fresh and exciting by trying new activities, setting new challenges, or working out with friends. Rewarding yourself for achieving milestones can also help maintain motivation. The Role of Community and Support A support system can significantly enhance your fitness journey. Join fitness communities, hire a personal trainer, or find workout buddies to keep you accountable and offer encouragement.

Conclusion

Developing a sustainable fitness routine is not about quick fixes or drastic changes. It is about building a lifestyle that incorporates healthy habits, consistent workouts, and balanced nutrition. As you continue on this journey, remember that patience, perseverance, and adaptability are your best allies in achieving and maintaining your fitness goals. Engage with Us What strategies have you found most effective in establishing a fitness routine? Do you have any tips for those just starting their fitness journey? Share your experiences and join the conversation below to help others learn from your journey! Call to Action If you're ready to take the first step towards a healthier and more active lifestyle, why not start today? Take one piece of advice from this article and integrate it into your life. Remember, progress begins with the first step. Share your commitment in the comments and let's support each other in our fitness goals! Read the full article

[benchsmartphysio]

Sydney Physio: Your Partner in Health and Wellness

In the bustling heart of Sydney, amid the iconic skyline and vibrant city life, there's a place where people find solace and healing. Welcome to Sydney Physio, where your journey to better health and wellness begins.

Why Choose Sydney Physio?

Sydney Physio is not just a physiotherapy clinic; it's a sanctuary for individuals seeking to restore their physical vitality and regain control of their lives. Here's why choosing Sydney Physio is a step in the right direction for your health and wellness:

Patient-Centered Care

At Sydney Physio, your well-being is our top priority. We take the time to understand your goals, concerns, and comfort levels to create a treatment plan that's tailored specifically to you.

Experienced Team

Our physiotherapists are leaders in their field. They're not only highly experienced but also dedicated to staying updated with the latest techniques and research to provide you with the best care.

Evidence-Based Approach

We pride ourselves on utilizing the most recent research and evidence-based techniques to ensure the most effective treatments for our patients.

Convenient Locations

With multiple clinics across Sydney, we make it easy for you to access our services. We want to be where you need us.

Dedicated Professionals

Our team of experienced physiotherapists is your staunch ally in the quest for a healthier, pain-free life. With unwavering dedication to their craft, they employ the latest evidence-based techniques and therapies to deliver exceptional results.

Comprehensive Care

From injury rehabilitation to chronic pain management and athletic performance enhancement, our services cover a wide spectrum of needs. Whether you're a professional athlete or simply looking to ease daily discomfort, we've got you covered.

Tailored Treatment

At Sydney Physio, we understand that every individual is unique. That's why we design personalized treatment plans that address your specific condition and goals. You're not just another patient to us; you're an individual on a path to recovery.

Sports Excellence

For athletes, injuries can be a major setback. Our sports injury rehabilitation specialists work hand in hand with you to help you regain peak performance and get back in the game.

Holistic Approach

Health is not just about treating symptoms; it's about addressing the root causes. We take a holistic approach to your well-being, considering not only your physical health but your mental and emotional state as well.

Your Wellness Journey Starts Here

At Sydney Physio, we believe in empowering you to live life to the fullest. Our commitment is to help you break free from physical limitations and enjoy a life without pain.

Whether you're dealing with the aftermath of an injury, managing chronic pain, or seeking to boost your athletic prowess, our team is here to guide you through your healing journey. We offer a range of services to cater to your unique needs, always keeping evidence-based practice at the forefront of our care.

So, if you're in Sydney and in need of physiotherapy, pain management, sports injury rehabilitation, or any other physical health services, we invite you to take the first step. Your journey towards a healthier, happier you begin with Sydney Physio.

Your path to wellness and a pain-free life starts with Sydney Physio. We invite you to get in touch with us to schedule your initial assessment. Let us be your partner in achieving your health and fitness goals. At Sydney Physio, we look forward to being part of your journey towards a healthier, happier you.

[murphysblogs]

It can't rain all the time

A Testimony of Gods Love. Written by Adam Murphy

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28–30 (NIV)

Life can be a wild ride, filled with unexpected twists and turns that test our strength and resilience. As I sip on some hot cider, contemplating the ups and downs of existence, I can’t help but reflect on my own journey. Trust me, my friend, I’ve faced my fair share of challenges. From losing my job and material possessions to battling insomnia and physical limitations, I know what it’s like to be knocked down by life’s storms. But amidst the chaos, I’ve learned an invaluable lesson: it can’t rain all the time. With every sunrise, a new opportunity arises, and with each passing day, I turn to our Heavenly Father and find the strength to keep moving forward.

Life has a funny way of humbling us, doesn’t it? Just when we think we have it all figured out, a gust of wind throws us off balance. It was only a year ago when my stable job, my possessions, and even my health seemed to slip through my fingers like grains of sand. Insomnia took its toll, and I found myself making mistakes at work, eventually losing my job. Financial burdens forced me to bid farewell to my beloved truck, and the woman I was ready to marry walked away. To top it all off, a debilitating injury left me unable to open my right hand, a constant reminder of life’s unpredictability.

Finding the Silver Lining:

Yet, within the storm’s fury, I discovered something profound — resilience. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I refused to let adversity define me. A dear friend opened her home, offering me refuge in a time of need. Each morning, as I wake to face the unknown, I remind myself that today holds the promise of something better than yesterday. With each step forward, I reclaim my power and embrace the gentle caress of life’s possibilities.

“Sometimes the Lord brings us to our limits in order to teach us lessons that we would learn in no other way. Our loving Heavenly Father permits us to feel the fullest depths of our weakness in order to strengthen us.” Russell M. Nelson

Lessons Learned, Strength Gained:

Life’s hardships can be brutal, leaving scars on our bodies and souls. But amidst the darkest moments, we have the power to cultivate strength and wisdom. As I navigate this uncertain path, I’ve learned valuable lessons that have shaped my outlook. I’ve discovered the importance of resilience, the art of appreciating life’s smallest joys, and the beauty of genuine connections forged through adversity.

So, my friend, as you sip your half-foam single shot and contemplate life’s challenges, feeling sorry for yourself and wanting to give up. Remember that it can’t rain all the time. Embrace the storms, for they hold the potential for growth and transformation. With every setback, let resilience be your guiding light, propelling you forward. Life may knock you down, but it is in the act of getting back up that we find our true strength. Today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter, may you have the courage to face life head-on, knowing that even amidst the downpour, the sun will eventually break through the clouds.

This is my testimony, and I testify, that God is real and he loves everyone of us. He took me to my breaking point, and when I was at my lowest, I called out for him; he answered my call and brought me back. I am stronger in faith and in spirit because of our Heavenly Father’s love for me. He knew what needed to be done to heal the scars on my soul that were caused by the storms of life, and I say these words in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

[hurdleherorics]

Hold onto your hats, because the Budapest World Championships are gearing up for an explosive showdown! The men's 400m event is highly anticipated, with a gripping storyline that's sending shockwaves through the track and field world. From defending champs sidelined by injuries to the world record holder and the Olympic victor making awe-inspiring comebacks, and even the third fastest contender facing an unexpected setback – this event is a fierce battle of resilience, determination, and raw athleticism. It's not just a race; it's a heart-pounding saga of human spirit and unyielding willpower. Get ready to witness history at the Budapest World Championships! Let's dive into the predictions for this exhilarating showdown.

Steven Gardiner: The Olympic Champion. Steven Gardiner stands as a true athletic powerhouse, dominating the 400 meters with electrifying speed and unwavering relaxation. His track prowess, crowned with an Olympic Games gold, cements him as an inspirational force and a beacon of excellence in the world of sprinting. With a PB only bettered by a few and a resumé to dream of, Gardiner comes into the World Champs with a chip on his shoulder as injuries prevented him from defending his 2019 world gold medal. However, he comes into Budapest with a 43.74 season's best, being his fastest time heading into a global championship, putting him as the world number one and the fastest athlete this year. Steven Gardiner is known for his incredibly relaxed and smooth running style and for always bringing his A game when it matters. Determined to prove that he's still the world's best expect Gardiner to come to Budapest with a point to prove.

Wayde Van Niekerk: The World Record Holder. Wayde van Niekerk shines as a track and field legend, renowned for his breathtaking world record-breaking performance in the 400 meters at the 2016 Olympics. His remarkable speed, resilience, and dedication make him an icon of athletic achievement, inspiring generations with his unparalleled achievements on the track. After capturing 2 world titles, 1 Olympic title and a world record he would suffer a career-changing knee injury that impact him for years to come. After years of being unable to find back his former form, 2023 seems to be a comeback year for him, his season's best of 44.08 being his fastest time since 2017 and placing as the number 4 athlete in the world. Similarly to Gardiner, Van Niekerk also wants to regain his place on top of the podium and given his years of championship experience, it would be foolish the count him out.

Muzala Samukonga: The African Star. Muzala Samukonga, the pride of Zambia's athletic prowess, blazes a trail of excellence with his astonishing Commonwealth Games victory and his unmatched dedication. His rough and raw running style leaves his competition stunned and his nation in awe. The young 20 year old has served as the frontrunner for the up and coming next generation of 400m runners with his astonishing 43.91 seconds season best and national record sent shockwaves around the world announcing his presence as a real contender to challenge for the 400m throne yet his medal chances might be in jeopardy as in his last race before the World Championships he was forced to pull up injured. But if he can get to Budapest fit and healthy fully expect him to be up there near the final 3.

Bryce Deadmon: The American Frontrunner. Bryce Deadmon emerges as a true track and field sensation, setting the stage ablaze with his extraordinary speed and unwavering determination. With each stride, he epitomizes athletic brilliance, promising a future of unparalleled achievements in the world of sprinting. Bryce Deadmon emerged as the American number one as he won the American Championships with a personal best of 44.22 seconds continuing his consistent and steady path to Budapest seeming to peak at exactly the right time.

Sean Bailey: The Jamaican Hope. Sean Bailey radiates as a dynamic up and coming force in track and field, captivating audiences with his explosive speed and unyielding spirit to put Jamaica on the map in terms of the men's 400. His relentless pursuit of excellence and remarkable accomplishments paint him as a beacon of inspiration following in the footsteps of his older sister Veronica Campbell-Brown. Sean Bailey cemented his place as Jamaica's biggest contender at the world champs in the absence of Rusheen McDonald by decisively winning his maiden Jamaican title over the distance. He proved to not be a one hit wonder with a string of sub 45 second clocking including a personal best of 44.43 seconds. If he can replicate and even improve on those performances expect him to be challenging for a medal come Budapest.

Michael Norman: The Fallen Hero. Michael Norman would ignite the track with his electrifying presence, boasting unmatched speed and a relentless drive for greatness. As a true athletic phenomenon, his records and performances etch his name among the elite, solidifying his legacy as a sprinting sensation. However, this season has not been a successful one for him as his decision to initially focus on the 100m this season seems to have not worked out as he has succumbed to multiple injuries. Luckily for him, since winning the World Champs last year on home soil in Oregan, he therefore, has the bye into the World Champs meaning his seat to Budapest is secured, however, not running a single 400 this year could seem to be a difficult obstacle in his path come Budapest.

Final Verdict And Prediction: As the countdown to the Men's 400m draws closer, the excitement is palpable. Steven Gardiner, Wayde Van Niekerk, Muzala Samukonga, Bryce Deadmon, Sean Bailey and Michael Norman are set to captivate the world with their speed, finesse, and determination. For my prediction, it goes as follows: 1. Steven Gardiner - 43.54 (SB) (WL) 2. Wayde Van Niekerk - 43.72 (SB) 3. Bryce Deadmon - 44.14 (PB) (SB) 4. Sean Bailey - 44.26 (PB) (SB) 5. Muzala Samukonga - 44.32 6. Vernon Norwood - 44.34 (PB) (SB) 7. Quincy Hall - 44.38 (PB) (SB)

8. Antonio Watson - 44.46 (PB) (SB)

[angeloddity]

Summertime Storms V

Breaking Skin

steve harrington x fem!reader

A stitch in your side, a cold downpour, and a desperation to see your boyfriend. If one more thing goes wrong, you think you might just break.

genre: hurt/comfort

warnings: injury, blood, depression

word count: 2,800

a/n: all of my fics are self indulgent, but this one is especially indulgent.

part iv || series masterlist || masterlist

You shouldn’t have decided to walk. You could see the dark clouds looming in the distance, the wind drawing them ever closer to Hawkins. It was a dumb decision to make the journey to Steve’s house from yours on foot, you should have known better, should have thought your choice through. 

Normally you would ride your bike to your boyfriend’s house, but the tires were low on air and pumping them up had seemed like too much effort when you were ready to leave. Why would you take the time to refill them when you could be that much closer to Steve already? At the time, the answer seemed obvious. 

The logic behind making the journey on foot wasn’t entirely sound, but you hadn’t seen your boyfriend all day and you miss him. You always miss him. Sometimes, when you get too excited to see Steve, you don’t think things through. It’s embarrassing, he says it’s endearing. 

You must have walked too fast, or eaten too much for dinner too soon before walking. Whatever the cause, a little past the halfway point to Steve’s house, you feel a stitch begin to form in your side. It forces you to slow down, something you don’t really want to do given how close the clouds have become. They’re nearly on top of you, and they look ready to burst. You have no choice but to accept your fate. 

You’ve known all day that storms could be rolling in, but the weather report said it would storm in the morning, and the morning came and went without a drop of rain, then so did the afternoon. You hoped that by this point the rain would just hold off until night, creating a nice soundtrack to sleep to rather than a nuisance to travel in. 

The whole situation is an inconvenience at most. Sure, taking your time to pump the tires on your bike would have allowed you to be at Steve’s already, and if you were lucky you would have exerted less energy and avoided the cramp in your side, but it was a bother. The simple act of adding air to the tires seemed like just enough of a setback to avoid it. You just wanted to see Steve. 

Now you’re still not with Steve, you’re in pain, and the first drops are beginning to fall. It’s annoying, frustrating enough to make you grumble at the sky. Soon, you remind yourself, almost there. 

The first drops to fall are hardly drops at all. They aren’t big and beautiful. They’re small, sporadic, cold. Summertime storms aren’t supposed to be so cold. The drops fall faster and faster, wind picking them up and blowing them into your face. They soak into your clothes, the fabric clinging to your skin as goosebumps break out across your arms. 

Luckily it’s not a thunderstorm. It’s safe enough to be walking in the rain. Besides, you’re almost at Steve’s now. He’ll just lend you some dry clothes and hold you close, and everything will smell like him. The thought of seeing him so soon gets you to move faster again, that excitement you felt at the beginning of the walk sparking just enough to keep your heart glowing, a lighthouse in your chest. There may not be any thunder, but the elation of being so close to seeing Steve again flows like lightning beneath your skin, making your whole body buzz with it. 

—♡— 

Steve has been waiting for you to arrive. You should be at his house already, even if you made the trip on foot. 

Maybe you got distracted, saw a cat that needed petting or some flowers too pretty not to stop for. It wouldn’t be the first time, and the distractions on the way to Steve’s house seem to be infinite. There’s always something new to look at no matter how little has changed. A small shift in lighting is more than enough to draw your eye to new curiosities. Steve tries to convince himself that there were just a few more distractions than usual, but after all that has happened in Hawkins these past few years, with everything that he knows is hiding just beneath the surface, he isn’t so sure. 

He tries calling your house again, just in case you were exaggerating about being ready to head out the door. He knows you’re always a little later than you say you’ll be, he accepts this, plans accordingly, but the line just rings without an answer. You have already left. 

Steve begins to fiddle with the little things in his home in an attempt to distract himself, or maybe to clear his mind, whatever it takes to keep the worry from taking over. He moves anything that seems even slightly out of place, just to ease his fraying nerves. It doesn’t help. 

A peek out the window shows that it’s pouring rain, small drops falling in heavy sheets, the wind pulling the rain along at a harsh angle. Steve has a passing thought about grabbing some spare clothes for you to change into when you arrive, certain you’ll be soaked even if you brought an umbrella (he doubts you did).

His quick glance out the window also shows a shift in the scenery from his usual view. It’s not a big shift, a change that is almost washed out by the condensation forming on the windowpane, but it’s enough to give Steve pause. He looks again, a little closer this time.  

There’s a lump lying in the middle of the sidewalk just a few houses over. It’s soggy—human. The lump moves, face looking up in Steve's direction as though the person could sense him standing there, watching from a distance. It’s a familiar face, it’s yours. Even from this distance he can tell you look sad, and, to be quite honest, a little pathetic.   

Steve’s legs are moving him forward before he fully registers what’s happening. He’s out the door and running in your direction, crossing over his neighbor’s lawn to reach you, ignoring the way his feet slip in the mud.

The rain is cold, he notes. You must be miserable.

He’s by your side in an instant, hovering, unsure what you need from him. He wants to touch you, but he’s afraid of hurting you.   

“What are you doing?” Steve practically shouts, voice laced with rising panic. He doesn’t mean to yell, not really. It’s a response to fear held over from his King Steve days—bared teeth to mask uncertainty. But you don’t really notice the volume of his voice or his harsh tone. It’s a little difficult to hear Steve even at a high volume, there’s water in your ears. 

“I tripped! And then I gave up.”

You almost made it. You only needed to go a few doors down and you could have been at Steve’s, where it’s warm and dry and safe. If you had been paying more attention you would have remembered the crack in the sidewalk, the one that rattles you to the core every time your bike wheel hits it. 

It’s just not your day. 

Red pools around your knees, lightening into pink before fading completely. Like food coloring in a glass, the rain washes any trace of you away. It’s a slow trickle of blood, skin scraped raw during impact with the sidewalk, but it’s enough blood for Steve to be concerned. Any amount is too much in his mind. 

“You’re bleeding,” he states. “and soaked to the bone. Come on, let’s get you inside.” He bends down beside you, his knees falling into the puddle where you lay, unconcerned by the additional water soaking into the fabric of his clothes. He’s already drenched from the rain, what difference will a little more water make? 

He reaches beneath your arms and scoops you up, tugging until you’re leaning into his chest. You help out, just a little, but he still does the bulk of the work to get you standing again. When he moves, you follow close behind. He reaches for your hand, a familiar gesture, but the press of his palm against yours stings, a sharp pain rather than the usual and expected comfort. The touch makes you hiss slightly, a quick intake of breath, and Steve drops your hand immediately.

“Your palms too? Oh, my sweet, disaster girl. Does it hurt a lot?” His lips pull in a half smile, an attempt to comfort you, the light not reaching his eyes like it usually does. He’s too serious right now, a look you rarely see on him. Steve takes both of your hands in his, cradling the backs to avoid causing you any more pain. A quick glance shows your palms to be bleeding too, though not as much as your knees. 

“It’s not too bad,” you mumble. And it’s true, they don’t hurt all that much, but between the cramp in your side and the cold rain still pouring around you, the setback from walking, the now raw and bleeding skin on your hands and knees, and the ache to just be held, it’s all just too much to handle.

Tears build behind your eyes, giving you no time to try blinking them away before they spill. They fall in heavy drops down your cheeks, searing and sticky. It’s just a couple, you can’t allow more to fall or else Steve might notice—the rain can only do so much to hide the redness of your eyes, even if the tears burning down your face blend in with the freezing rain. You don’t bother wiping them away, not wanting to draw any attention to the mess. Plus, that would mean having to pull your hands out of Steve’s gentle hold.    

Steve shifts his grasp on you, taking only the tips of your fingers and curling them into his palm, the heat of him the closest thing to safety you’ve ever known. 

He tugs you along until you reach his house. The inside is dry and full of the low yellow glow of table lamps, the low lighting giving the home a cozy feel. It’s a trick you learned that Steve uses to make the house feel less empty, a homely light that pulls the walls of the silent rooms in close. It makes the house feel more lived in, something Steve desperately needs when so much of his life is spent in isolation. The trick with the lights works, but it always makes you sad to see. 

“Here,” Steve says, keeping hold of your arm to help you balance as you take off your wet shoes and socks. He holds you with the gentleness you’ve grown familiar with, all fighting instincts settled into dormancy again. “It’s important you dry off, and get these scrapes cleaned.”

Steve bends down to look at the injuries on your knees. His warm breath fans across the exposed skin of your thighs, finger reaching up to prod at the undamaged skin around the scrapes, not quite touching where it hurts. Streaks of crimson spill from friction torn skin. He’s not sure if the blood pooling there is making the injuries look worse than they are, not without cleaning the wounds first. He frowns at them, pressing a kiss to your thighs above each scrape, before standing once more.

You could cry again, the simple act of affection enough to be overwhelming. How could someone love you so much? 

Steve takes his own shoes off before guiding you to his bathroom, where he encourages you to sit down on the side of the bathtub. Then he opens the cabinet beneath his sink, pulling everything out that he might need to clean your injuries, he even has gauze pads to clean off the blood. 

“I’ve been getting hurt a lot these past few years,” Steve jokes, as if each time he was hurt  he wasn’t involved in some sort of fistfight, beaten to a pulp from losing. Somehow it wasn’t the demogorgon or the demodogs that got to him, rather, it was his fellow human beings and, more often than not, his old classmates. 

“Try not to get into any more fights,” you plead. “I don’t think your head could handle another concussion.” 

“I won’t, I promise.” He grins. “At least, I won’t start them.” 

You smack his shoulder in response, instantly regretting the act when the scrape on your palm makes itself known again. You gasp, more in shock than actual pain, but it brings Steve’s attention back to the task at hand. 

He cleans your knees off first, trying to wipe away the blood before it drips down onto his floor. The gauze is warm against your skin, a nice reprieve from the cold of your rain soaked clothes still clinging to your body. He spreads bacitracin ointment across the scrapes before putting two large band aids on them, kissing each one lightly as he goes. Even that gentle touch stings, but you can’t help but grin down at Steve, who is trying so hard to be gentle with you. 

It’s not uncommon for your mood to take a nosedive the way it had along the way to Steve’s, you both know that the bad days can be really hard to trudge through, but he always helps to keep you distracted, easing the pain in whatever way he can. 

Steve repeats the steps of cleaning your knees as he cares for your hands, using a new gauze after the first was completely soiled. He works quickly and efficiently, the methodical nature of his process breaking your heart a little. It’s obvious how often he’s had to put himself back together. He doesn’t have to anymore though. Just as he’s helping you now, you will be there for him when he needs you—even if he tries to fight your help. 

“Thank you,” you whisper when he’s all done. 

“Of course,” he says. He presses one final kiss to your lips for good measure. “I’m going to grab us some dry clothes. I don’t want you getting sick.” 

He leaves for just a moment, taking the warmth in the room with him. Of course he does, he’s the brightest thing you know, burning hotter than a fire, the heat of him spreading to you with only the slightest touch. 

His absence is tangible, even if he’s gone for only a moment. 

He comes back with two sets of clothes, both his despite having several pairs of your own tucked away in his drawers. The thought that he wants you in his own clothing, safe and dry and warm, sends a fire burning across your cheeks. Of course it does, how could it not? He doesn’t even need to touch you to make you burn. 

You start to strip out of your wet clothes, grateful that you won’t have to be stuck in them for any longer.

“No, stop!” Steve exclaims before you can even get your shirt off. “If the band aids get wet I’ll have to change them again. Let me.”

He reaches out, pulls your shirt over your head gently before helping you out of your shorts. Your cheeks ignite again, heat spreading to your ears and down your neck, into your chest. Steve has seen you bare a hundred times over, tasted every inch of you, and yet this feels different. It’s almost embarrassing how tender he is, how fond as he takes you in for just a moment before helping you into his clothes, how gentle. 

“I love you,” you say, unable to stop yourself, not that you would even if you could. He deserves to hear it. He brings his palms up to your cheeks, cradling you completely, thumbs sweeping light circles across the delicate skin beneath your eyes. 

“I know,” Steve says, “I love you too. So much.”     

Maybe you’re crying again, it’s difficult to tell anymore. You don’t think you’d mind if you are, not this time.  

Steve’s half undressed by the time you get your wits about you again. His shirt drops to the floor in a wet heap, hitting the tiles with a loud splat. He smiles at you when he catches your gaze, the two of you laughing at the silliness of the sound. You ignore the way your own laugh holds a certain wetness to it—definitely crying. Your heart still hurts, bruised from just one too many small things gone wrong, but it’s not as bad now that you’re bandaged, warm, and with Steve.  

“C’mere,” he says, stepping over the growing pile of wet clothing and pulling you towards him into the curl of his arms. The skin of his chest is cool and damp beneath your cheek, but he will warm up again. After all, you have no intention of letting go of him anytime soon.  

a/n: when I have a particularly low day, I find the company of others to be the best thing to keep me from sinking too far