#mal du pain

[fuckedupevillifeanon]

me: im gonna organize my posts 😊 me organizing my posts:

[esper-atus]

is that all they can do—die? (more isat x rosencrantz & guildenstern are dead)

[krvaciminos]

“My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.” ― Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

[mikmantobe]

A fountain's pulsing sobs—like this my blood measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems. I hear a gentle murmur as it streams; where the wound lies I've never understood.

Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded. Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills, are islands; creatures come and drink their fill. Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.

I used to hope that wine could bring me ease, could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind. I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.

I looked to Love to cure my old disease. Love led me to a thicket of IVs where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.

Charles Baudelaire // The Fountain of Blood // Les Fleurs Du Mal

[sinisterhanded]

Found my candle snuffer and my pieces of sunstone and bloodstone while unpacking some stuff earlier, so I felt obligated to light some stuff to recharge them.

[proustianlesbian]

so like this morning i suddenly had a violent stomach ache so during my break i saw that i was on my period. but when i left the bathroom, my sight got so blurry and i had no balance anymore and sounds were a bit muffled. i tried to go back to get my stuff but really couldn't walk and almost fell, girls helped me but i really couldn't see anything so i don't know who helped me. but like i had to go to the infirmary which wasn't far at all in a wheelchair (when i hate having the attention of people i don't know on me). but period pain really gave me spasms for at least an hour before i could go back home two hours later. and during my walk to my home (a bit more than 10 minutes because i walked slowly) i threw up three times because pain hurted me so much (i was alone in the street). but after a few hours of rest, i could go get my hair cut and now i kinda slay.

[maxphilippa]

MAL DU PAYS:

"Pain of country' or just 'country pain', a poetic description of homesickness: the feeling of being unhappy because of being away from home for a long period.

art tags: @dr-fizzovich @puzzlevision @ajackofalltrades @justsomebadartistguy @xinnamonbun @slasherscrews @unrealside @wisp-like-whispers @mechspurg @picklewednesday @cookieseals @icecrean12 @endlessvoid467 @spiritmander13

[iluvylalevu]

A (Hopefully Coherent) Ramble About What Mal Du Pays Represents

So this might be a little over the place cuz I don’t really do analysis, but the battle with Mal Du Pays has really stuck with me, hear me out (and take this doodle)

So as we know, Mal Du Pays is essentially the embodiment of Siffrin’s self-hatred and intrusive thoughts, but what I find interesting is that it also represents the part of Siffrin that suffers because of it. Mal Du Pays is basically the embodiment of self-destructing thoughts; It spends the battle emotionally torturing Siffrin, but it also spends the battle silently screaming and crying.

And the name meaning “homesickness” is also a detail I find fascinating because most of the things Mal Du Pays says have little to do with the forgotten country, with the exception being Odile’s remarks about the lack of a home equating to a lack of identity. Homesickness is characterized by longing; yearning for the warmth and familiarity of home while being away from it, yet most of what Mal Du Pays says has to do with the party. To Siffrin, his party is home. While it pains them greatly that their country and entire childhood are gone, the thought of losing his new family terrifies and pains him more. He spent so long belonging nowhere, they’re terrified of losing the one place he feels like he belongs to now. He wants to be with them really badly, to the point he was subconsciously willing to hold them hostage.

Siffrin is a person made for loving. He loves strongly and wants to be loved back, but paradoxically this is also the reason he hates himself. They think it’s selfish to want that love back, they think their happiness shouldn’t come first or even come second, it shouldn’t be important at all; it’s their family who is lovable, it’s them who deserve happiness, not him, because he isn't like them, he's a nobody who belongs nowhere. Siffrin is a person who loves strongly but doesn’t lend that love to himself.

Unfortunately, this self-hatred also manifests in paranoia. Because they think themself unworthy of love they also project this onto their friends, thinking they’ll hate him if he reveals the “real” him, that they’ll turn heel as soon as they can because he’s so deplorable.

The party, in reality, loves Siffrin, but that love gets filtered through Siffrin’s self-hatred and comes back out as a mess of self-imposed conditions, “they’ll hate me if I do this” “They’ll hate me if I say that”, none of which is true, but they wholeheartedly believe it is, and it hurts him

Mal Du Pays also being unable to be harmed by Siffrin is something I feel is so important. Beating this part of himself into submission is essentially what he’s been trying to do the whole game and it doesn’t work, you can’t beat yourself up and expect that to make you feel better. Mal Du Pays, as aggressive as it is, isn’t a battle that needs to be won it’s a wound that needs to be healed

[the-offside-rule]

Charles Leclerc (Scuderia Ferrari) - Mon Ange

Requested: yes

Prompt: literally just Charles becoming a girl dad

Warnings: dad!Charles

Charles anxiously paced the hospital corridor, his mind filled with the rhythmic roar of the engines he'd left behind at the race track. The sweet anticipation of becoming a father clashed with the lingering scent of gasoline that clung to him. "Charles, sit down. It's fine." Lorenzo said. "Mama is in with her, she'll be fine." Arthur chimed in. "I know but I can't help but be nervous." Charles mumbled. "What if I'm not good at this?" I'm always away racing. I don't want my daughter to always have to change where she is growing ip just to come and see me race. I could never-" The door opened and out walked Pascale with a beaming smile on her face. Charles stepped forward to his mother with his two brothers pouncing off their seats in anticipation. "Is she alright? Y/n I mean. Maybe my baby too. Are they alright?" Charles asked frantically. "She's fine. Y/n just didn't know if you were back from the race yet." Pascale assured him. "She hasn't had the baby yet. She's waiting for you." Charles moved past his mother and raced to Y/n's side.

Y/n's head had fallen back in exhaustion. She was far too tired to do this and she would be damned if she would do this without her daughter's dad. She flinched as she felt a familiar set of hands grab hers by her bedside. She turned to see Charles kissing her skin. "You're doing great, Mon cœur." he reassured, holding her hand tightly. "Oh thank God you're back." Y/n nearly sobbed. "They wanted me to have her without you." He smiled gently. "It's alright. I'm back now. Let's just breath. Remember how your nurse told you?" Y/n smiled through the pain, and breathed with her boyfriend. "Thank you, Charles. I'm so glad you're here with me." He chuckled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." Leaning in, he whispered. "Our little princess is on the way."

As the contractions intensified, Y/n gripped Charles' hand tightly. "This is intense." she gasped. Charles nodded, "I can only imagine. But we're in this together." He reached for her forehead, wiping away beads of sweat. "You're incredible, love." Charles laughed weakly. "Easy for you to say." She groaned.

The midwife smiled as she looked up to the couple. "Get ready to meet your baby after this push." Y/n's grip tightened on Charles' hand. "Im so scared." She whispered. "So am I. Just hold my hand as tight as you want." He said, moving her hand back behind her head and placing a kiss on her forehead. "One last push and we have it mon cœur." Y/n took a few deep breaths before she began her final push. With one roar of pain, another's first breath was taken. The pair looked down as they lifted the baby to Y/n's chest. She lifted her hands away from Charles and held her baby closely. Charles couldn't hold back tears of joy. "We did it, Y/n. Look at our beautiful baby." He gently cradled the newborn in his. Y/n smiled, exhausted but radiant. "Our little champion." Charles kissed her forehead. "Look at her." The nurses took the baby to get her all cleaned up while Charles sat right next to Y/n caressing her face.

"Mr Leclerc?" The couple turned to face the nurse. "Would you like to cut the Umbilical cord?" Charles looked surprised. "Am I allowed?" The nurse nodded. "Father's generally do while the mother's rest a little." Charles took a deep breath, stepping forward to gaze at the delicate face of his daughter who was already squirming around. He smiled and ran a finger down her face. "Camille." He whispered, the name rolling off his tongue like a cherished melody. "You just need to snip here between the two clips and that's it." The nurse whispered. "Will it hurt her?" He asked. "Unfortunately, but only for a minute." He took a deep breath, and with one snip, the tears erupted again. "Je suis désolé mon ange, je ne voudrais jamais te faire du mal." He cooed. He sat observing the nurses carefully, already being quite protective of her and finally, he got to hold her.

Charles walked back carefully cradling the small bundle in his arms, not daring to look away. "She's beautiful." He said, sitting down on Y/n's bed. His girlfriend, beaming with exhaustion, looked at him with teary eyes. "She's perfect, Charles." As he held Camille for the first time, the weight of responsibility and love settled on his shoulders. "Hey there, little one," he cooed, a soft smile playing on his lips. "I'm your Daddy." He smiled. "Pascale is going to love her." Y/n whispered. "Are we still going with Camille." She asked. "Of course. We have this name picked out for months." He replied. Charles marveled at the tiny fingers that curled around his own.

That, as Monaco's golden sunset bathed the hospit in warm hues, Charles cradled Camille in his arms as Y/n slept soundly. "You know, sweetheart," he began, his voice tender, "I may race for a living, but you-" He paused. "You're my greatest victory." Camille, still too young to comprehend words, gurgled happily in response. Charles chuckled, a mixture of exhaustion and elation in his eyes. "Chaque course, c'est pour toi et maman. À chacun, je vous promets que mon ange."

Weeks later, Charles returned home from another race weekend, the scent of motor oil now replaced by the sweet aroma of baby powder. He opened the door, and there she was – his girlfriend, weary but smiling, holding Camille in her arms, while Charles held his newest P1 trophy for his family.

[deutsche-bahn]

Kurzer Monolog ausgelöst durch den Satz "the queer experience is often defined by pain" incoming.

Ich bin in vielerlei Hinsicht unfassbar repressed. Might be the loving embrace of my father's Bauernfamilie, might be my very own, very arrogant fear of judgement. Unverständnis und Ablehnung sind mir absolut nicht fremd. Vielleicht war ich in Sachen Akzeptanz ein kleines bisschen ausgehungert. Aber seitdem ich mir, was meine eigene Identität angeht, auch nur das kleinste bisschen Offenheit abverlange ertrinke ich praktisch in... ja, Akzeptanz halt. Ich weiß, dass die "du bist wirklich, wirklich nicht alleine"-Rede fast schon ein Klischee ist. Klar, schon gehört, I know. Aber dann bist du auf irgendeinem Festival, und vor dir steht ein Typ mit Vollbart den du höchstens ein, zwei Mal getroffen hast und zieht sich die Biker-Handschuhe aus weil er dir zeigen will dass er Nagellack trägt. Oder irgendwer kommt nachts auf irgendeiner Feier angekrochen und fragt ganz vorsichtig, in diesem ganz bestimmten Tonfall den ich inzwischen wittern kann wie ein fucking Trüffelschwein: "Hey, darf ich dich was fragen? Bist du eigentlich auch..."

Idk, ich will nicht rumsülzen. Ich wurde vor kurzem auf sehr, sehr dumme Art gegenüber meiner Familie mütterlicherseits geoutet. Das war was wovor ich echte Angst hatte. Bei meinem Vater bin ich mit 16 mit so absoluter Selbstverständlichkeit für was ähnliches rausgeflogen, er hat so reflexartig mit Boshaftigkeit reagiert dass ich es in keinster Weise hinterfragt habe. Ich habe es damals einfach als natürliche Reaktion hingenommen. Ofc, was will er denn sonst machen? Womit hast du überhaupt gerechnet? Und meine Familie mütterlicherseits war... ok? Ich weiß nicht, warum ich tief im inneren immer noch mit derselben Reaktion gerechnet habe. Aber sie waren einfach, ja, ok damit.

Ich glaube ich hätte bereits vor langer Zeit ahnen müssen dass alles irgendwie ok wird. Als ich 16 war, kurz nach dem Vorfall mit meinem Vater, outete sich jemand in meinem Bogensportverein. Der Typ war Mitte 20, KFZ-Mechaniker und Metalhead. Anschließend kam er zu mir (ich war, wie gesagt, 16, repressed as all hell und in keinster Weise out), und sagte, dass ich ihm somehow den Mut zum Outing gegeben hätte. Damals fand ich das primär wild, und sekundär fucking mortifying, weil holy shit how do you know tell me your secrets is it that obvious- Rückblickend interessiert es mich nicht, warum und wie er zu dem Schluss gekommen ist. Es war strange, aber es war ein kleiner Lichtblick in Sachen Offenheit.

Letzte Woche konnte ich tatsächlich darüber lachen als jemand assumed hat dass ein Freund von mir mein Partner sei. Vor ein paar Jahren hätte ich das einfach nur panisch abgestritten. Hey, es wird tatsächlich einfacher. Man findet seine Leute.

[meangirls-imagines]

Welcome to the Poly!Plasticsverse!

collab with: @yungpoetfics (my fav bubs in the world)

Regina George

@queenbgina/@callmereginald (she/her)

North Shore's Queen Bee

Soft for her girlfriends

The mom of the group

Basically a sugar mommy for her girls

Lifehack Geek

TikTok hater

Has rational fear of werewolves

Will fight a bitch

Victoria's Secret girly

Female rapper stan (Doja, Cardi, Megan, etc.)

Gryffindor

Lesbian

Gretchen Wieners

@thegretchenw/@greatgretsby (she/her/it (only if ur special))

The second mom of the group

Softest human

Loves playing with her girlfriends hair

#1 Twilight hater

Has a letterboxd account just to leave bad reviews

The level headed one usually, but will snap when she needs

Cuddly as fuck

Loves Fleur du Mal lingerie

Stubborn as Fuck

Wine drinker/expert

Loves vintage music (Elvis, Elton John, etc.)

Hufflepuff

Bisexual

Karen Shetty

@karebearz/@karensheetty (any pronouns)

Ambidextrous™️

Loves Spongebob

Plant Parent

Knows Britney Spears and Lady Gaga choreo

Kpop girly (Blackpink, BTS, etc.)

Lettering expert

Has Funko Pop collection

Squishmallow lover

Ravenclaw

Pansexual

Cady Heron

@cady_heron/@defnotcaddy (she/her)

The third mom of the group

Whispers when angry

Carries bandaids at all times

Always has snacks

Lactose Intolerant (but LOVES cheese)

Cries at Rom-Coms

LOVES hugs

Cannot handle spicy food

Sleeps with a teddy bear

Happy to be here

Friends with everyone's parents

Token vanilla of the group

Has diary (with a heart shaped lock)

Bisexual

Aaron Samuels

@aaronsammy/@atomicaaron (he/him) or (ho/mie)

1/3 of Terror Trio

Y/N's best friend

North Shore's resident Himbo

Will do anything if someone says "I dare you"

Impulsive buyer

Has one brain cell (shares it with Y/N)

Overuses 💪 emoji

Usually confused

1/2 Golden Retriever duo

Can skateboard

Uses Axe body spray

Co-founder of Stuntmares

Dreams of grabbing a teddy in a claw machine (bucket list item)

Ass man

Owns too many grey sweatpants

Kisses his homies (homiesexual)

Has never watched Harry Potter

Watches lifestyle coaches on YT

Can play the ukulele (really badly)

Loves Eminem and Harry Styles (would fuck Harry Styles)

Writes Larry Stylinson fanfics

Kissed Y/N once (regretted immediately)

Bisexual

Damian Hubbard

@hubbarddamian/@damianishubby (he/him/they)

Learned how to sew from Janis

Does drag and has a YT channel (Anita Dick)

Huge Adore Delano stan

Will fight anyone who hurts Janis

Doesn't like Rupaul as a person, but is a religious Drag Race fan

#1 Poly!Plastics fan

Has an 8 step skincare routine

Cameraman for Stuntmares

Earlybird

Lies about having curfew to go to sleep early

Ravenclaw

(Lowkey wishes he was a Slytherin bc it's the "cuntiest house"

Him and Karen watch The Bachelor

Fav movie is Dirty Dancing (did the lift with Janis)

Learned how to twerk from Y/N

Gay

Janis Imi'Ike

@janiisimiike/@imiikenough (she/they)

Secret Barbie girly(live action and animated movies)

Will go straight for Ryan Gosling

Feral chihuahua of the group

Hozier stan

HATES THE KARDASHIANS

Pain in Regina's ass

Anger Issues™️

Secretly loves Olivia Rodrigo

Mentally Ill friend

Emotional Drunk

Karaoke Queen

Tits girly

Leather Jacket lesbian

Getting piercings > therapy

Has a suit collection

Thrifter

Loves her friends

Dog person (secretly)

Quotes niche memes

Kinky af

Middle Child

Lesbian

Y/N Y/L/N (FC: Chrissy Costanza)

@thisbeyn/@reginaslefttit (she/he/they/it)

2/3 Terror Trio

2/2 Golden Retriever duo

Has matching fried egg tattoo with Aaron.

Co-Founder of Stuntmares

"Hi, I'm Y/N and welcome to Stuntmares" *jumps off roof into pool*

Cuts her own hair

Blooper Reel Queen

North Shore's resident stoner

AUDHD (autistic + ADHD)

Playlists range from Beethoven to ashnikko

"IT'S NOT A PHASE. IT'S A LIFESTYLE."

Demisexual

Plays electric guitar

Has slight speech impediment

Gremlin of the group

D&D Dungeon Master

ALWAYS falls asleep during movie night

Power Nap Addict™️

Insomniac

Monster Energy Drink Enthusiast (collects the cans)

Oddly good at Origami

Tweets everything she thinks

Has been banned from Fortnite and Roblox

Married to Gretchen on The Sims (regina and karen were sad)

Anger issues

✨Spicy✨ Latina (do not fuck with her people)

Matching rings with her gfs

Def had one night stand with Cady

Shane Oman

@shaneomann/@omantastic (he/him) or (dumb/hoe)

Loves Old School Rap (Biggie, Tupac, Snoop Dogg, etc.)

Hates Y/N at first but comes to love her like a sister.

Only person who can outsmoke Y/N.

Has a dropped truck with red LED lights under it.

Blasts music walking down the halls.

Always has the zoomies.

Orange cat friend.

Has elevator music playing in his head 24/7.

Challenged Damian to a dance off. (He lost. But he had girls simping over him)

Posts thirst traps on TikTok. (Regina's mom is his #1 follower)

Has a frying pan tattooed to match Aaron and Y/N.

Always on Stuntmares trying to create new world records.

Or eating a bunch of weird combos.

"Oman! Not again!" *proceeds to eat a marshmallow and spam sandwich*

Ralph Lauren man

Whenever the polycule argues, he's a "fuck this shit, I'm out" person.

Professional party crasher

Dine and Dash expert

Has nipple piercings (Aaron and Y/N dared him to get them)

Curses like a fucking sailor (Half of his lines on Stuntmares are just censor beeps)

Talks way too fast.

Knows Italian and Spanish (Him and Y/N talk shit in Spanish)

His ringtone for Aaron and Y/N is the remix of the Windows error sound

Loves t-shirts with offensive prints (Regina tries to make him dress normally)

Has gc with Aaron and Y/N called "Hoemies"

Would fuck Aaron

TICKLISH

Major gossip (Him and Gretchen meet once a week to talk shit)

[vulpixisananimal]

<Null> {Mal Du Pays} [Loop] (Siffrin)

<You double over in pain. Your stomach lurched as you came back to reality. It was agony. It was like you were being stabbed in the stomach, like a burning, like a needle. Stars it hurt it HURT.>

<Stop. Focus. Focus. You're alive. You're alive. You're back, and you're alive.>

<The sadness froze you in time. Since you're back here, that means your party failed. It means you're not strong enough to beat it even with how you were now- Siffrin? Where are you?>

<. . . . .>

<Ah. You're here alone.>

<Your stomach finally settled enough for you to look up. Back at the Tree. Okay. New plan. . . Ugh.>

<You had to figure out who was affected by mind craft. Who you could trust. Who could help fight the sadness. What to do. Who was behind this. You could do this. Just, keep trying.>

<Do it again. You stand up, a bit dizzy, but you're standing. You see Ramos and Mirabelle running up to the tree. You wave at them. Did you still have your hat? No, Ugh, no hat. Fine, you'll live, it was just a little rain, after all.>

"Siffrin! Are-" <Mirabelle starts, you cut her off.>

"Odile's effected too. Bonnies fine. Nille may be effected, but we're not sure." <You say, walking over to her and Ramos.>

"O-oh! So, you-"

"Seventh time. Me and Isa's room got trashed, looking for something. Someone tried getting into it. One of the other patrons is going to be effected by mind craft in a few minutes and his friends is going to try and help him. I checked their room already, too."

"Woah woah slow down." <Ramos put their hands up.> "You, seven times? Are you, okay?"

"Of course I am." <You lied, smiling.>

<Ramos glanced at Mirabelle, who was glaring at you. Of course she didn't believe you. It didn't matter, no point in dealing with this now if it's just going to get undone.>

<The Housemaiden huffed.> "Siffrin, are you sure you're alright?"

<Hmm. She's being much more assertive than ususal.> "Well obviously not but you knew that already, haha."

"You know that's not what I mean!" <She snaps back.> "If you're not fine then don't push yourself!!"

"I'll be okay, Mira." <You keep smiling.> "Once we've dealt with all this we can talk about this, okay?" <Because you wouldn't be the one being yelled at.>

<She looked annoyed at being brushed off, but relented. She'd be fine in the end.>

>>>

<You crouched down, looking at the dirt, then look up at the window a story up; the window to your room.>

"What are we looking at now?" <Ramos crouched down next to you, looking at the dirt.>

"Mud." <You said, bluntly.>

"Mud?" <Mirabelle crouched down too.>

"Mud?

"Mud."

"Yes, mud."

"Okay, but why mud?"

"Someone tried breaking into my room. Was there an imprint from if they landed after climbing up?"

<The three of you looked at the mud. Ramos reached over and looked closer at some of the grass.> "Grass got disturbed here, well if someone jumped from a story up that could be an impact."

"Hmm. . ." <You stand up. Looking at the grass under Vixuls window, there wasn't any clear indents. Then you look under a few other windows, finding similar indents under one of them.>

"Isn't that Bonnie and Pétronille's room?" <Mirabelle asks, standing up and walking over.>

"Is it?"

"Well, if that's your room, then theirs should be. . . Yes! Three doors down!"

"Windows." <Ramos inserts.>

"That's what she said, windows." <You roll your eye.>

"Thats-"

"Yep! That's what I said, windows!"

<Two two of you laughed as Ramos rolls their eyes.> "Alright, windows. Wanna check it out?"

"Sure."

>>>

<You land in the room with a thud. You had a few minutes to look around, get to it.>

<It wasn't as messy as you'd think Bonnies room would be. Then again, they make sure to wash dishes after cooking, and they were traveling with their sister now. Regardless, you look around.>

<Bonnie's stuff. Nilles stuff. It's rude to look through personal belongings but you didn't exactly care. You start with Nille. Annoyingly, there's not much of interest. Her hammer, her bigger hammer, carpentry tools, clothes, the usual.>

<Bonnie next, looking through you find a lot of random stuff, rocks, items, tonics <naturally>, a few cook books- wait a second.>

<You pick up one of the books. It's familiar. It's, it's. . . It's a copy of that book in the House of Change. The one Bonnie was always looking at. That book about death.>

{Where did they get this?}

<Kind of you to join the party! Done sulking in a corner?>

{Stop. Why does Bonnie have that book.}

<Don't know. Does it matter?>

{. . . Maybe}

<You freeze up, hearing footsteps in the hall. That'll be the other group. Once they're past you continue looking around the room.>

{Why are we in their room.}

<Bonnie and Nille? Last loop Bonnie said that Nille was acting weird. I'm looking for evidence. You keep looking. Everything just seems, normal?>

{Check the window.}

<Right. You go to the window, the latch looked loose, wait, no it was broken. Someone just put it back to make it look like it wasn't broken. So someone broke in but didn't take anything?>

{Someone likely broke in last night, or in the early morning. And whoever broke in is our suspect.}

<Smart. What next, then?>

{Talk to the innkeeper. And that other controlled one, Polaris.}

<You make your way to the window, you had avenues, ways to go, links. Looking outside, Ramos and Mirabelle were still down there waiting. You wave to them and hop out the window, taking your time and clambering down.>

"So? Did you find anything??" <Asks Mirabelle. You shrug>

"Someone did break in. Didn't steal anything. That might be who's behind this."

"And how will we find them?" <Ramos asks.>

"No idea." <You stretch, your arms were getting sore. You had better solve this puzzle quick.> "Might have to do with that sadness that shows up."

"It'll show up soon, won't it?" <Mirabelle looks worried. You smile.>

"It'll be fine!" <You lie.>

{. . .}

". . . Well where to next, oh clairvoyant one?" <Ramos asks jokingly. You laugh a little.>

"Well that depends. Ramos, how well do you think you can undo Mind Craft?"

[star-lights-up]

NEW CHERIK FIC IDEA (ALTHOUGH I HAVE LIKE 3 WIPS 😭):

"Das nächste Mal musst du dich mehr anstrengen, um mich zu töten."

Next time, you'll have to try harder to kill me.

Erik thought he killed Shaw (one). He saw the coin go through his head (two). He saw the life leave his eyes (three). But it turns out that Shaw lives on – in Charles’s head.

Now Erik has to go on a multiversal quest to find the one person who can undo what he’s done – if she’ll help him, that is. And chances are, she won’t.

XXX

Shaw ends up being able to use Charles's body from time to time, due to the fact Charles was in his head when he was killed. And of course, Shaw's trying to kill the X-Men and Erik, and Charles is in pain.

Hank develops a serum, but it's not sustainable. Erik has heard rumors of a sorcerer called The Ancient One, who can teach people to heal themselves with the mystic arts. So begins Erik and Charles's multiversal quest, in which Erik learns to conjure portals, Charles has a panic attack in the middle of the TVA archives, they discover Charles's twin, and they make friends with the Agents of SHIELD and ghost rider.

One, two, three.

XXX

Would you guys be interested in reading this if I wrote it!? Let me know!!!

[strictpunishedhubby]

Ich freue mich Dir den von mir frisch versohlten Po meines ungezogenen, weinenden und jammernden Pantoffelhelden zu präsentieren. Vielleicht trägt diese Veröffentlichung mit dazu bei, dass er mir zukünftig pariert, nicht nur wegen der Tracht Prügel die er von mir eben erhielt, sondern auch über die Schmach sich hier öffentlich bloßzustellen zu müssen. Aus einer Laune heraus befahl ich ihm um 18 Uhr im Bett zu sein, um seine Folgsamkeit zu testen. Ob er auch so gehorsam wie ein kleiner wohlerzogener Junge ist, der nicht aufmuckt und das artig tut, was seine Mama ihm sagt. Der Schlingel hat das ins Bett gehen hinausgezögert, wohl in dem Glauben, es hätte für ihn keine Konsequenzen. Da hat er sich aber gewaltig geirrt. Wie Du siehst, hat er seine Unfolgsamkeit unangenehm zu spüren bekommen. Umgehend habe ich mit einem Kochlöffel ungefähr 10 Minuten seinen nackten Po versohlt. Er hat geschrien, geweint und heftig mit seinen Beinen gestrampelt, wie ein zehnjähriges Bübchen. Beschimpft und ermahnt habe ich ihn, während der Kochlöffel wieder und wieder auf den zunehmenden roten Po des unfolgsamen Bürschchens jedes Mal laut klatschen aufschlug. Mir gefällt es immer wieder, wenn ich sehe und höre, wie er schluchzend mit rotem Po, Windelhöschen und Schlüpfer heruntergezogen mittlerweile einsichtig darauf wartet, ins Bett gehen zu dürfen. Vorher bekommt er noch den Rohrstock zu spüren! Ich lasse mir nicht von ihm auf meiner Nase herumtanzen! Erwarte von ihm wohl zu Recht, er hat mir ohne Wenn und Aber zu gehorchen, schließlich bin ich seine Ehefrau und damit für eine Erziehung verantwortlich!

Hast Du Verständnis für meine Reaktion, begrüßt sie und bist auch der Ansicht ein Ehemann hat zu parieren und darf Anordnungen seiner Frau nicht hinterfragen? Ungezogenheiten Ungehorsamkeit, Frechheit, Faulheit und Respektlosigkeit müssen immer schmerzhafte und demütigende Folgen für solch einen Flegel haben. Scheue Dich nicht davor Dein like zusetzen, gib Deinen Kommentar ab und rebolgge! Mit jeder Zustimmung unterstützt Du mich darin meinen ungezogenen Flegel zu erziehen, sondern auch diejenigen Frauen, die über ihre Männer die Verantwortung und seine Erziehung übernehmen!

Danke für Dein Interesse!

.

I am glad to present to you the freshly spanked bottom of my naughty, crying and whining henpecked husband. May be this publication contributes to his obeying me in the future, not only because of the beating he just received from me, but also because of the shame of having to expose himself publicly here. On a whim, I ordered him to be in bed at 6 p.m. to test his obedience. Whether he is as obedient as a well-behaved little boy who doesn't rebel and does what his mother tells him. The rascal delayed going to bed, probably believing that it would have no consequences for him. But he was very wrong there. As you can see, he has had to pay the price for his disobedience. I immediately spanked his bare bottom with a wooden spoon for about 10 minutes. He was screaming, crying and kicking his legs violently like a ten-year-old schoolboy. I scolded and admonished him while the wooden spoon hit the disobedient chap's increasingly red bottom again and again, making a loud noise each time. I always like it when I see and hear him sobbing, with his red bottom, diaper pants and panties pulled down, now insightful, waiting to go to bed. Before that, he gets to feel the cane! I don’t let balance on my nose by him! I rightly expect him to obey me without question; after all, I am his wife and therefore responsible for his upbringing!

Do you understand my reaction, welcome it and are you also of the opinion that a husband has to comply and may not question his wife's orders? Naughty behavior, disobedience, impudence, laziness and disrespect must always have painful and humiliating consequences for such a lout. Don’t be afraid to like, comment and reblog! With every approval you support not only me in educating my naughty rascal, but also those women who take responsibility for their husbands and his education!

Thank you for your interest!

[comphy-and-cozy]

oh I have a marty thot for sure! I’ve been thinking about riding his thigh while he sits back and just watches, kinda unimpressed at the show and telling you “you can do better than that, can’t you?”

Earn It

Pairing: Matt Martin x sugar baby!reader (f)

Universe: sugar daddy Marty

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Sugar daddy/baby dynamic, lap dance, semi-public/risque sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, choking, mild degradation, creampie, a little bit of cum play (lmao jfc).

Fridays are supposed to be celebratory; the end of the week, welcoming in a few days off to relax and reset. What they’re not supposed to be are stressful, non-stop, chaotic. 

Yet here you are, already thinking about the large glass of wine you’re going to pour yourself when you get home; the only decision you’re planning to make for the rest of the night is red or white. 

Setting your keys into the bowl on the table beside the door, you eye the pristine leather sneakers next to your shoe rack, but make no move to greet the person you already know is waiting on the couch. You knew you’d regret having the extra key made for him, that he’d show up unannounced like a poorly-timed pimple, but it’s not like you really could say no—not when you consider that he all but pays your rent. 

When you round the corner, bag left on the quartz countertop (an upgrade he insisted on when you were signing your new lease), you finally offer him your attention.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he muses, glancing up from where he’s scrolling on his phone. You do your best to mask the shiver that runs down your spine when his eyes lock with yours. Based on the smirk that quirks up on his face, you’d wager a guess that you did a poor job of it.

“Hi, Matty,” you say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You need a new dress for the charity gala,” he drawls. 

“I do, do I?”

He ignores your attitude, standing up to walk over to the island and setting the invitation in front of you. You glance it over, admiring the thick, black cardstock and gold foil detailing the casino-themed event taking place at UBS Arena next month.

“Black tie attire,” you hum. “I don’t have anything that’s black-tie appropriate.”

“That’s why you need a new dress.”

“And that’s why you’re here right now, sitting on my couch after a day from hell, full of back-to-back meetings, am I correct?”

Matt smiles again. “Already have a bubble bath going for you, my little brat. I’ll be here tomorrow at 9 to pick you up.”

You feel a little guilty for the sass, smiling bashfully at him as he plants a sweet kiss on your cheekbone on his way to the door. “Lock up behind me, darlin’.”

Goddamn him. Always knowing exactly how to charm you to get you to bend to his every will—but not without giving him the kind of attitude that makes his dick hard. A fair tradeoff, in your opinion.

That’s why you work, why your dynamic makes your relationship feel so smooth and seamless and… perfect. Except the part where he’s paying you to fuck him.

Either way, it’s how you find yourself walking along Fifth Avenue, following Matt as he leads you into stores with price tags that intimidate you so much, your cheeks get hot. He lets you browse on your own, warming you up a bit, picking out a few items for work along with a new Yves Saint Laurent purse.

Purchase after purchase. Item after item. The ease with which Matt whipped out his thick, black credit card—you know, the heavy ones that just feel luxurious—almost physically pains you as you try to do the mental math of what he’d spent today.

Finally, you follow him to the dresswear section of Bergdorf Goodman’s, admiring the ease with which he carries the multiple bags in his large hands. You feel well and truly spoiled, thinking to yourself that the dark green lace set he purchased at Fleur du Mal will come in handy later when it comes time to show your gratitude.

“This dress,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing an affectionate kiss to your skin as the fitting room attendant readies a room for you. “I want everyone there to imagine fucking you out of it.”

At this point, you’re used to his blunt and sometimes crude nature, but that doesn’t stop your skin from heating at his crass words. You can’t deny the warmth that radiates between your legs, though, at the thought of him showing you off, claiming you as his, publicly. And, well, how are you supposed to say no to him buying you a dress that’s worth more than your groceries for the month?

The selection is enormous, and you find yourself overwhelmed by the options—lace, chiffon, silk, crepe—all of it doesn’t mean much to you, so you rely on your stylist to select a few options that complement your body type. Matt sits quietly in the corner of the fitting room, watching you try on dress after dress, making barely any comment other than an occasional hum.

When the stylist leaves you to contemplate your options, you glance over your reflection, at the Alex Perry gown that stares back at you. It’s the first dress that feels right, and you can’t help the feeling of excited anticipation that fills your chest when you think about wearing it beside Matt at the gala. Maybe he’d wear that delicious gray suit that you like, the one you almost stained permanently humping his thigh like a fucking dog in heat.

“Is this the one you want?”

You do a final spin in the mirror, checking the various angles and standing on your toes to imitate your height in heels. It’ll need to be altered a bit, but you’re pleased with the way it fits your body and, more importantly, the way it makes you feel luxurious. With your nod, Matt leans forward and glances at the price tag hanging out of the back. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, and you stew in discomfort for the few seconds before he’s sitting back, apparently approving of the price.

A wide smile forms on your face, feeling a bit like a child on Christmas morning at your excitement. You like Matt for far more than his wallet, but you can’t deny that it feels nice to be spoiled by him, to feel lavished by his gifts and special treatment. 

“Think it’s time for you to say thank you, don’t you?” 

Matt’s low purr snaps you out of your thoughts, eyes focusing back on the navy silk material that’s hugging your body. The corset bodice keeps you tucked in, accentuating the curve of your breasts, fabric draped across your middle and fastened in place with a large, glittering piece. But the real attention-grabber is the slit on the left side that goes up to your hip, revealing almost your entire leg.

You cast a glance at him in the mirror, a flutter in your chest when you see the way his eyes rake in your reflection. He hums, and though he told you it was your decision, you’re pleased that he likes what he sees.

“Thank you, Matty,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You lean forward and press a kiss against his lips, warm and soft—the kind you could fall into with ease. He smiles, crooked and patronizing as he tsks.

“Oh, sweetheart, you know that isn’t good enough. Look at all these bags—all for you. I think I deserve more gratitude than that, hm?”

The hidden meaning of his velvet words are enough to make you shiver, your heart chilling as you realize what he wants. His eyes glitter as he watches you, sees the recognition on your face and the hitch in your throat. 

Your voice is hoarse as you whisper, “Here?”

Matt blinks, lazily, with a raised eyebrow, like he’s challenging to you to deny him. Of course you can’t, and he knows it. He leans back on the bench, his back resting against the wall and his legs spread comfortably. It’s a silent invitation, one you can’t refuse, and you find yourself moving to sit in his lap with a shaky gulp.

His hands weave their way to your hips, warm through the material of your jeans. “Good girl.”

With just the right amount of pressure, he encourages you to move your waist, swaying your hips as your ass brushes against his groin. He’s half hard, the bulge firm against you as you set a rhythm, listening for any other customers entering the dressing rooms nearby. The classy elevator music hums softly through the speakers while the silk covering your ass glides against his slacks in a filthy narrative.

A low hum of approval sounds from Matt’s chest, eyes glued to the way you work your hips. It isn’t long before you’re glancing behind you, meeting his eyes as he regards you with his easy, lazy gaze. Beneath the firm press of your ass, you can feel him hardening as the tick of your heartbeat increases in your throat. His signature smirk slides its way onto his face, smug, soaking in the fact that he’s got you wrapped around his finger, willing to do practically anything he asks you.

It isn’t long before he’s stiff, solid beneath you, and you feel an involuntary throb at the size of him. Every moment, you remain vigilant, ears perked for voices—or worse, the sound of someone’s gasp. It reflects in your movements, not lackluster but certainly not to your usual level of enthusiasm. There’s something about him when he’s like this—cocky confidence rolling off of him in waves, his gaze heating your skin—that drives you desperately, deliciously wild, a feral urge in you snatching control of your conscience.

But not right now. And he knows it.

He hums, displeased, and you have a split moment to register his disappointment before he’s purring, “Sweetheart, I think you can do better than that, can’t you?”

The velvet of his voice strokes the flame inside you, sending a wave of warmth between your thighs. Another throb against the stiffness under your ass. His hands remain at his sides, not offering any assistance. You can practically feel his lazy gaze on your ass, waiting patiently for you to react.

He senses your hesitation, knows the reason you’re timid—waiting for the fitting room attendant to come back at any minute and discover the lewd situation unfolding. So he changes his approach, voice honeyed and silky smooth. “Look at that gorgeous dress. Y’look fucking stunning in it, baby. But you gotta earn it, darlin’.”

You meet his gaze in the reflection of the mirror, see the glitter in them that tells you he’s serious, accepting the small nod he gives you. Bracing your hands on his meaty thighs, you resume your movements, pressing yourself into his groin with more force.

Matt’s words echo in your head as you work him—and yourself—into a frenzy. Earn it. He didn’t specify what his… end goal was, but from the glint in his eye you think it’s safe to assume it’s more than just a clothed lap dance in the middle of the dressing room. 

How you ended up half-naked, thong tugged to the side, hands bracing yourself against the wall of the fitting room, you’re not sure; all you really know is the feeling of Matt’s weight behind you, so tall his face is almost out of your view in the mirror’s reflection. He’s not looking at you, instead focused on tapping the head of his erection against your ass.

You bite your lip to stifle a whine, staring at him in the hopes he’ll offer you just a glance so you can beg him silently to please, put it in. Eventually, he does, sees the desperation pooling in your eyes and chuckles smugly, pleased at the rash desire he finds in them.

“Arch it for me, sweet girl.”

Obeying, you press your ass out toward him, thinking you’d break your back right here, right now, if it meant he’d provide you with some relief. His warm palm presses against your spine, encouraging you to go further, and he hums in approval at the view you present him: expensive dress bunched over the swell of your hips, ass out, pussy dripping, eyes wanton and pleading with him in the mirror.

“You want it?” he asks, his voice so low you strain to hear it.

You’re almost embarrassed at how fast you nod, not wanting to waste any time. He smirks again, and you know he’s biting back the urge to tease you, instead just offering, in all its simplicity: “Slut.”

There’s a brief moment where he allows his words to sink in, a flood of arousal seeping out of your bare, uncovered core, threatening to drip onto the faded wood flooring of the dressing room. You’re grateful that he didn’t make you beg—he usually does—but then he’s pressing into you without warning and a loud cry leaves your lips.

Your hand slaps over your mouth to muffle the sound, but he’s already gotten what he wants out of you, a more than obvious admission of the debauchery occurring just inside the fitting room. Instead, he focuses on the warm wetness enveloping his dick, watching the way your cunt sucks him in, greedy.

Despite his reckless attitude, he’s aware of the slap of his hips against your ass, and instead of jackhammering into you the way he wants to, he’s opted for hard, deep, slow thrusts; hard enough to have a soft, involuntary sigh every time he sheaths himself to the hilt inside of you. It’s the opposite of a quickie (even though that’s exactly what this is); instead, he’s diligent, indulging himself in the feeling of your tight walls throbbing around his length. 

All things considered, you’re pleased with the minimal amount of noises sounding from your stall; though your body shivers when you hear the low groan rumble in his chest. With a glance in the mirror, you can see the way he’s watching himself pull out of your cunt, biting his lip at the sight.

Matt offers a light slap of his tip against your lips before he’s jutting his hips forward, subtly, to rub his length against your clit. The sensation makes you shiver, the slickness of his shaft sliding against the tender button, and you feel the shockwaves coursing through you at the movement. 

With his free hand, he gathers your hair in his fist and yanks backward, arching your back until your head is resting against his chest. The sharp pain melds into pleasure, loving the way he knows exactly how to take control over your body to have you dizzy with lust. Hot breath fans over your ear, soft and subtle pants puffing air down your neck. “Fuck yourself on it, baby.”

His warm fingers press into your hips, urging you to move; you do, seeking out that delicious tingle when the fat tip of his cock brushes against your clit, running between your folds. You hear the pleased hum in your ear, quiet, and then the chuckle that follows when he slips into you, a loud gasp leaving your lips.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a low groan. “So fucking wet for me, just the way I like it.”

Matt urges you to keep going, biting back another moan at the feeling of him being buried inside you. Your hips roll him in and out of you, and Matt’s hand trails over your ribcage, groping your breast on its way up to finally land at your throat, fingers curling around the base and squeezing. “Makin’ too much noise. Someone’s gonna hear you, and then I won’t get to flood this pretty little cunt with cum, will I?”

Swallowing the urge to whine with need, you shake your head, trying to tell him with your eyes how badly you want that. His lips press softly against the place where your shoulder meets your neck, keeping eye contact with you through the mirror while he angles his hips in search of the spot that’s going to have you dribbling down your legs. He knows he’s reached it by the way your mouth falls open, your brows scrunching in pleasure when the nudge of him against your g-spot has your eyes fluttering shut.

He hums again, and you know he’s pleased—both with himself for reading your body like his favorite book, and with you for being obediently quiet. The hand around your neck tightens while the forceful punch of Matt’s hips grows more intentional, aiming for precision rather than speed.

The smirk in the mirror, flashed in your direction is enough to make you shiver in his arms. “You think you can stay quiet while you come for me? Hmm?”

You’re trapped—can’t nod, can’t speak, barely hanging onto your last shred of control before you’re succumbing to the release that rips through you. Your legs shake, lungs scrambling for breath as the wave crashes over you, hands clutching the wall in search of purchase. Tears prick at the rims of your eyes, blurring your vision. 

Matty’s eyes glitter as he pulls out of you, grinning when he hears the slickness between your legs. 

“Love it when she purrs for me.”

It’s only when you feel hot liquid oozing out of you that you realize he met his climax, too, burying the evidence deep within your core. Your shaky legs clench together in an effort to prevent his cum from seeping down your legs and onto the floor.

Matt’s hands linger on your sides to make sure you’re steady before he’s tugging your panties back in place and swooping the dress back over your hips. He hums at the creamy drips on the inside of your thighs, swiping up to collect it on his finger. You don’t even have to be told to open your mouth, eyes fluttering shut when he presses the salty mixture onto your tongue. He hums when your lips close around the digit, sucking it clean before he releases it with a pop.

His eyes are still dark when he presses the call button on the wall with a crooked grin, and when the attendant knocks gently on the door, he says simply, “We’ll take the dress.”

[formulapookie]

💛💛

Under the cut to read on Tumblr, here to read on Ao3 ch1; ch2; ch3; ch4; ch5; ch6

Les fleurs du mal ch7 rosquez, 3,2k words

The flight is not worth any kind of notice, the air inside the plane feels heavy, as if someone just put tons and tons more worth of weight on Vale’s shoulder just to keep him anchored to the floor and not let him fly away.

The hostess passes by a few times, asking if he wants anything, Vale barely acknowledges her presence, shaking his head and saying he’s ok.

It’s still half an hour to Barcelona. From there it’s less than an hour drive to Cervera.

God he’s really doing this. He’s- what the fuck is he even doing?

They won’t let him near the body, or the fucking funeral for that matter, let alone close to his grave.

But he needs to see him.

Even if it won’t be sunny, happy Marc he’ll look at, but this strange version of him.

Still in his selfishness Vale wants. He thinks he’s owed that. To see Marc. To look at what he did, because he thinks it’s a suitable way to pay for his actions.

He wants to be the one in the front row saying his last goodbye, wants to be the one carrying the casket, it should be him.

Not Lorenzo, not Dovi, not Pedrosa, not Alex.

If he could, if he only could, he would carry him into the church and from there to the graveyard all alone.

He’d cry. Beg for Marc to come back probably. But at least he’d be close.

Unbeating heart next to warm skin.

Vale doesn’t cry often, before this the last time he cried was for Marco.

God how much had he cried for him.

Uccio and his parents tried to get him out of his room for days, he refused to eat, or drink for that matter. He thought about staying locked in there until the same fate that got Sic got him too, so that they could still ride together in the clouds, like he said Marco to be doing.

Only Luca had managed to get him out, shake him from the dark and rotten place he caved himself a shelter in, and bring him back out, but it was a long and difficult task.

Marco, he. He never fully agreed to the version for which he died before. The one saying that the moment he fell and slid on the track without his helmet he was already dead.

No.

He barely agreed to the one publicly accepted, which is that Marco was there, 50/50 with a chance of never recovering and he just sped up the process.

The fact is he believed and still secretly believes to this day that he killed him. Ran him over, snapped his neck, and killed his best friend. Because maybe he would’ve survived, maybe he could’ve gotten better, maybe they’d have raced again.

For what concerns Marc there aren't even alternatives or sets of opinions about what happened, or whose fault it is, or if it could’ve ended in a different way.

He killed him.

And even if he did it unintentionally he feels like he did it on purpose. Revenge, what a sick fucking felling.

It makes you think and act in ways you didn’t think were yours.

He feels his skin itching, cutting into his muscle and he wants to tear it off, but doesn’t move in the slightest, he wants this to hurt.

Pain is a way to punish himself, though not slightly comparable to the one Marc felt, but it keeps him there, tied to reality and unable to escape the fact he hurt so many people just by being an asshole.

He thinks about the night after Sepang. It’s not a good idea.

He gets up and runs to throw up in the toilet, the alcohol and the few bites of food he’s digested are now out of his system, and he cannot think about eating anything right now.

The image of Marc standing before him, pleading and begging for a chance to be them again.

He remembers the almost-tears in the boy’s eyes, those same eyes looking at his souls trying to get a hold of it.

The image of them two makes its way in Vale’s mind.

If someone had walked in, he would’ve seen a 20 something kid getting his heart shattered, trying to pick the pieces up from the ground as Vale kicked them around, smirking with that sick fun he proved that night.

How could he treat the person who loved him the most like that? Leave him to the wolves as if it had always been like this.

Then a memory from Valencia comes up.

The one moment who revealed to him what Marc was going through.

“You like helping him uh? You sucked his dick too? Did you go to him and let him fuck you as a thank you for letting him win? Did he fuck you well Marc? I bet you enjoyed his dick so much given how you ran to me immediately after to suck me off”

“Stop it Vale please”

“Ah stop what? I’m having fun here aren’t you? Does he know how you like to be treated like the whore you are?”

Then Marc had thrown up. Those petals, horribly yellow and blue.

“I’m sorry”

But sorry doesn’t fix anything, doesn’t fix the hole in his heart shaped like a shot wound.

Sorry doesn’t bring Marc magically back and places him onto his plane, sorry doesn’t give him the chance to tell Marc he loved him still.

Sorry doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t even make him feel better. The only thing that could brighten his day is Marc’s smile.

Or a kiss from him, a hug, holding hands. An action that told Vale “I’m here, I’m here with you”

The only noise is the signal that tells him to fasten his seatbelt because they’re landing. No laugh, no “Vale you want me to hold your hand? I know you’re scared of flying”, no little yelp Marc did when they started taking off.

Vale never liked flying. Not private, not commercial. He doesn’t like lots of factors, height, pressure, danger, noise.

He hates taking off and landing most of all.

And when he’s alone he always grips the seat so fucking tight he had to replace armrests more than once. The jet company had told him he should be sure if he wants to have something so fancy he’s so scared of.

He hadn’t cared.

“Vale? Are you ok? You look a bit - a bit pale. Have you eaten? Do you want me to take you something from the bag?”

Vale shook his head, put on a reassuring smile and sat in his seat, Marc beside him smiling so much Vale though it had to hurt.

“Are you excited? For our holiday?”

Vale had gone overboard that time, something he never did for his past girlfriends, not for anyone but Marc. Marc. A shooting star that came into his life to stay.

He planned a 12 day holiday in the Philippines, just the two of them, in this apartment far from the rest of the world, where they could be just themselves without the fear of being discovered.

“I already told you amore no? Really excited, we’re gonna be in this very beautiful house surrounded by nature and near the sea for twelve days, and most importantly I get to have you all to myself for twelve days. I have already planned a few things I’d like to do once there, you know?”

Marc had blushed, looked away.

Of course he “planned” a few things as well, they were completely alone for more than a week, having sex is the most expected thing there.

And he really wants to spend at least two days straight without getting out of bed. Vale’s tension hadn’t worn down during their small chat, Marc could see how he kept on looking outside the window, and how the armrest of the seat Vale was on looked like a wild cat attacked it.

“Vale, are you nervous?” “Uh? No no I’m ok don’t worry baby” “You look strange” “No no I just am really excited about going there with you”

Marc had watched him again, until a particularly sharp noise came from the plane’s engine.

At that, Vale had shut his eyes and his mouth morphed into a thin closed line, even with his eyes closed Marc could feel the fear.

“Vale, are you scared of flying?” “No” “Amor I won’t judge you, but are you?” Vale opened his eyes, the plane was ready to take off. “Yes. I don’t like it” “Ok then uhm I can maybe hold your hand? To make you feel more secure?”

Vale also doesn’t like to ask for help, or make it obvious he needs it, but the way Marc was looking at him moved something in his chest, it made him vulnerable, but in a pleasant way. A sweet kind of it.

“Ok. Yeah yeah ok you can just-“ “Yeah I solemnly swear I will never tell Valentino Rossi wanted me to hold his hand because he’s scared of flying”

They had laughed, and Marc had brought him a kind of warmth and comfort he hadn’t felt in any other moment of his life.

Right now he’s alone. There’s an enormous emptiness beside him. An obvious lack of warmth and doe eyes looking at him with love.

Those eyes, God. How many times has he looked at them, how many times has he seen them open at the first lights of the morning in creamy white sheets they shared, how many times has he fell in love with them.

The memories are almost enough to distract him from the impending touch with the ground.

Maybe the plane will break, or crash. Save the others and leave him a carcass twisted below tons of metal sheets, unrecognizable at the sight.

Maybe this would be the right way to pay back Marc. Maybe just this could be enough. Dying of a horribly painful death, like Marc did. Alone. Cold.

The plane lands, and there’s no explosion or collision. Valentino is alive, and painfully so.

He never understood people who said they wanted to die until now. Because there’s something about thinking that it can all be over, that he can get away with it without having to face the others.

Lorenzo, Dani, Dovi.

They will be at the funeral. They will be on track. And they will know it was him.

The hostess comes up to him, tells him they’re securely landed and he can climb off the plane.

He gets up, a hoodie and a pair of du glasses on. Phone in pocket and some cash in the other.

He doesn’t need anything more, he reserved a car during the flight, it’s already there waiting for him.

He gets off the plane and in the car as fast as humanly possible, fingers tapping uncomfortably on the steering wheel, a tightening sensation in his throat.

He’s crying once again, at this point he’s surprised there’s even tears left inside him.

He stays there for ten whole minutes, then convinces himself he has to do this. He has to go.

He starts the car and gets out the airport, he doesn’t need a navigator, he knows the route by heart, him and Marc made it lots of times.

Once he’s twenty minutes away from destination he feels worse and worse about what he’s doing.

How will he even hide himself? Cervera is not a big town, and he’s not sure Marc’s family chose to have an open doors funeral.

He’s going there blindly, in the vague hope he’ll get to cast a glance at his body.

The graveyard won’t be as much of a problem, he can confuse himself with people who will want to say their goodbye. He’s sure he’ll find a way to sneak in, stay far from the family as he too mourns with them.

The town is packed, as he expected, tons of people gathered there to give their last farewell to Marc.

There’s flags,  cardboard signs, sheets, all in his honor. In the honor of the rider he was. They are mourning the icon, the sportsman he was. Not the man, the wonderful person he actually was.

And it hurts.

To them it’s an idol that died, an inspiration. To him and his family it’s a person, a brother, a son, a friend, a lover.

The square before the Church is barely noticeable, a sea of orange and red combing it whole.

Then he sees it, the side entrance Dovizioso in suing to get in. He can do it. He can get in somehow.

He squishes himself through the myriads of people waiting for Marc to come out, waiting for the men dressed in deep black to carry him out in a coffin.

But Vake knows they’ll never come out from the front door, no they’ll come out the side one, take another car with the corpse and go to the graveyard.

And he’ll find a way to follow.

He doesn’t manage to surpass the barriers tho, he has to just wait, wait until the function is over and he can follow them to the place where his love will be buried forever.

Once he notices the funeral procession, he’s the fastest he’s ever been, running back to his car and quietly following the one with Marc in it.

It feels shady, and it is, but that’s all he can do.

He parks fairly far from the spot where he knows they’ll place Marc, climbs down the car and makes the rest of the way by foot, quietly in the December freezing cold.

He’s lucky, he knows he is, he could’ve arrived too early, or too late, or be recognised and probably publicly executed.

The graveyard is gray, gloomy and unsettling. He can see Alex from this distance, and a priest reciting something.

He wants to be there.

He’s hidden behind a tree, a bit closer now, he can hear the sobs coming from the people there and the incomprehensible words said by the priest.

Alex is holding their mother, their father is just a few centimeters to the left, heavy eyes filled with tears.

Other family members gathered around the coffin crying as well.

Their colleagues stand a bit further, crying as quietly as they can, Dani especially seems broken, hiding his face in Lorenzo’s chest, while he strokes his back gently, Dovi has marks on his knuckles, red and blotchy.

He must’ve punched something at the news.

Once the person Vale supposes to be Marc’s grandmother moves out of the way he can see him.

Soft, pale and pure skin. Frozen, unable to move. Restrained in this position for eternity, It’s a sickening view, it’s unnatural for Marc to be like that.

He wants to come out of his hiding spot, under the soft and cold light of the December sun.

Walk to the coffin, say goodbye, say sorry, cry, beg for him to come back, then accept the truth.

He can’t think of leaving a flower, not with the way Marc died.

And now that he pays more attention he can see little flowers growing out of his mouth.

He’s heard of people whose ribcage got broken by roots and flowers growing out of it, and he’s glad Marc’s situation is not like that.

The unmistakably bright yellow being the only thing of his still attached to Marc.

He makes a small mistake, a little movement and Roser turns around.

He got caught.

Roser just saw him at Marc’s funeral and now he truly is doomed.

Vale begins walking away, wants to run between the graves and go back to his car. Once he’s almost out he feels a hand on his back. He stops and turns around, ready to face a blood thirsty Alex.

But he just sees Roser, eyes red and glassy.

And he feels even worse for it, feels like a fucking cancer once again. There’s hatred in her eyes, rightfully so, and anger, and so much pain. “Take the glasses off”

He doesn’t expect that, but it’s not a punch in the guts, so he takes them off. Icy blue eyes matching with the surrounding atmosphere, eyes Roser notices to be filled with so much more than she thought.

“Why are you here?”

Her English is tentative, broken, but it can transmit all her emotions well enough. Vale can’t answer, he wants to burn a hole into the ground and fucking disappear inside it.

Words are dying inside his throat, he just looks up at Marc’s mother to feel something close to that hate he has for himself.

And there is a lot of it. But there’s also - compassion?

Or at least something that is not just pure pain and anger.

“Rossi. My son loved you” “I know” “You not” “I did. I do now too. I came here to see him I - I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry”

The last part he speaks Catalan, which shocks Roser.

Valentino Rossi, the rider, the legend, the man who hurt her son so much is now crying in front of her, knees against the icy-cold soil of a graveyard, speaking her language, saying he’s sorry.

She would want to be strong enough to just leave him there. But this man is crying like a kid lost in the woods looking for someone to help him.

There’s anger in her heart, obviously, lots of it. There’s hate. But she will never not have compassion in her heart too.

The tears, the eyes, the words, they all seem genuine to her.

“estimaves el meu fill?” (did you love my son?)

“sì. no tant com es mereixia” (yes. not as much as he deserved)

“però ara ets aquí” (but you’re here now)

“ja és massa tard. ell és mort”  (now it’s too late. he’s dead)

“ell mai va deixar de pensar que hauries tornat per ell” (he never stopped thinking you would’ve come back for him)

“ho sento” (I’m sorry)

And vale just stays there, crying, but without a sound, Roser standing in front of him. And he wants her to do something, maybe call for Marc’s father, or for Alex, or the other riders.

Instead he receives pity. And a hand on his shoulder.

“Go away before they see you, if you want to speak to my boy you should go to Church, ask for forgiveness, ask for him to be well”

And then she leaves. The mother of the boy he killed leaves. Lets him go, as if he didn’t commit the most atrocious and horrible act towards Marc.

He gets up from the ground, dirt and grass staining his jeans, the cold has made its way inside his bones, under his skin, pointy, stingy. He puts the glasses back on, tears don’t stop falling when he does, the sensation of being observed doesn’t fade.

The ride back is monotone, gray, and silent. The radio doesn’t work, and if it did Vale would turn it off anyway.

He gets to a lay-by and stops, he can’t hold it anymore, he gets out the car and vomits, it's almost just bile, maybe some alcohol still, no food. The image of Marc laying like that is too much.

It accompanies him until he reaches the airport again, leaving the car where he found it, it accompanies him while he climbs on the plane and when it takes off.

It fucking follows him to the bedroom door once he's home.