#such as not ruining their career that is just

[formula-ghost]

I know who you are, you'll be fine // FC43 x Alpine social media manager!reader

I know who you are series // Chapter 1

SUMMARY: Becoming Franco Colapinto’s social media manager could be the end of your career, or the beginning of the love story you never thought you’d have. 

WARNINGS: Not 100% lore accurate (ignore the sim video that Franco did for Australia, also let’s pretend Franco was in Monza during the Japanese GP, etc.); fuckboy Franco, SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI (Fingering and loss of virginity, protected PIV), YN is a Lewis Hamilton hater for the plot. Title from At The Beach In Every Life by Gigi Perez!

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

“Franco Colapinto.”

“...what about him?”

“He’s your newest client.”

“But he’s a reserve driver.”

“Exactly. He has plenty of time for content. He’s the perfect client, really.”

You know right then and there what this was about. Franco Colapinto was your punishment. 

Your boss looked away, as if she knew that you saw right through her. You balled your hands up over the fabric of your skirt, gently tensing and releasing the curves of your palm as a defense mechanism. You were a professional. You could do this. 

“If this is about Lewis…”

“You know it’s about Lewis, YN,” your boss replied, a tired tone in her voice. “It was my fault for giving you too much. I set the expectations too high.”

“I can do it!” you said, your voice a bit too insistent, eager yet desperate. “I have so many ideas for the move to Ferrari—”

“And he’s not going to do them. He has made that abundantly clear. Look, I’m sorry YN, but it is what it is.”

“I don’t think this is fair.”

“It’s not. I put too much on you, expected things that you couldn’t deliver, though no fault of your own. But it’s out of my hands.”

“Yet I’m the one being punished for it?”

“A reserve driver isn’t a punishment, YN. Franco is young, charismatic, and social media audiences love him.”

“He’s a PR nightmare,” you muttered under your breath.

“Well, then good thing you’re not his PR manager,” she responded, her eyebrows raised in a cautionary glance. The conversation was all but done. “Look, just try to make the best of it. He’s the perfect guinea pig, he’ll do whatever we ask him to. Just get some good content and we can review a potential switch at the end of the season. Okay?”

You agreed, though not without a frustration that you held close to your chest, pushing it down for the sake of professionalism. 

This time last year you had been on top of the moon; after a successful multi-year social media campaign with McLaren, your boss had given you a prestigious challenge of a client: Lewis Hamilton. 

Everyone knew he was…difficult, to say the least. A legend of the sport, of course, but a thorn in the side of social media managers across the paddock. 

He HATED his media requirements. Every year he negotiated to get as little media time as possible. His managers quit left and right. No one, truly no one, could get that man to cooperate with the social media team.

That was, he became your client. Or at least, you thought. 

But after months of the merciless push and pull, promises made and abandoned, avoiding emails and tracking him down in the paddock, you had gotten little out of him, and what did come of it was just a few videos that completely flopped. The people could tell he didn’t want to do it. 

For the first time in your short but brilliant career, you had failed. 

The result? Getting demoted to the social media manager of a reserve driver. Someone who never got posted, never made the grid, and was hardly ever even at the paddock. A waste of your time and his, really. 

Who did your boss think she was, acting like this wasn’t a slap in the face? You’d spend the next year following around a rookie, a wannabe, creating content that no one wanted to see and would never get posted anyway. Your career was effectively ruined. You weren’t sure who to be angrier at. 

But also, you weren’t sure whether you had the right to be angry at all. 

Back home, the homework began. Who was Franco Colapinto?

Of course, you had seen him around the paddock in his time at Williams. He was…charming. Talkative. A social media manager’s dream…if he was a full-time driver. 

You clicked through articles, interviews, instagram pages—he was a handful.

It was with this mentality that you walked into the filming studio, where they were making the intro for the new season. It was chaos; employees running every which way, drivers getting made up, producers tweaking the sun-hot lights against the green screen.

But Franco was nowhere to be found. Of course he wasn’t.

You sighed, already annoyed with your new client, who you hadn’t even met yet. This wasn’t his fault—it was your failure which had led to all of this. But you couldn’t help your annoyance, especially when you walked past Lewis in the hallway, clad in his new, bright, Ferrari red race suit. He trudged past you without giving you so much of a second glance.

Did he know that he had ruined your professional life? Did he understand how deeply and irrevocably he had screwed you over?

It’s not that deep, you said to yourself. Let go of it. Make the best of all this. 

You walked back into the main studio, where a few drivers were getting the finishing touches of hair and makeup ready before the filming began.

“Hey,” your coworker called to you, and you ran to the familiar voice. “YN, you’re gonna love this new camera. Come check it out!”

He handed you the camera, and you zeroed in as he walked you through the settings. He was right, it was spectacular—so spectacular that you filtered out everything going on around you. 

You jumped when a face came into view.

“Hola.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you scared me!” you laughed, as you smoothed down your shirt in nervousness, handing the camera back to your coworker, who also laughed at your expense. “I didn’t even see you come up. You’re Franco, right?”

Asking was just a formality. You knew his face, the sound of his voice, everything that there was to know already.

He nodded, and you continued, “Oh, great, I was looking for you. I’m YN, your new social media manager for Alpine.”

“Oh, I know you,” he said. “You don’t remember me? We met last season.”

You must have made a quizzical expression, because he continued, “In the paddock, I asked about Lewis?”

Oh, yeah, you did remember. 

You sighed, angrily turning off your phone. He was supposed to be here 30 minutes ago to film a tiktok. A task that would take him no more than 15 minutes… blown off. Texts unanswered. You were at your wits end. 

A tap on your shoulder. 

Behind you, the newest paddock sensation, a young Argentine buzzing with publicity. 

“Franco,” he said, extending his hand to shake. “You’re waiting for Lewis, right? I saw you in the Mercedes garage earlier.”

“Well,” you said, sarcastically laughing to yourself, “I was. Doesn’t seem like he’s going to make it, though.”

“Ah,” Franco responded. “I was going to ask you to introduce us.”

The laugh that came out then was genuine. 

“What?” Franco asked. “I’m serious.” By the look on his face, you could see his honesty. 

“Well, hopefully you’ll have more luck reaching him than I do.” The comment was tame, in all respects, but you still felt that twinge of unprofessionalism that scared you. You could never be too open or honest in the paddock. You never knew who was listening, what would get back to people…especially with someone as high-profile as Lewis. 

“He’s…unreliable?”

“He’s a busy man.” A perfect save. “Wish I could be of more help. But, hey, good luck out there today.”

“Wishing someone on an opposing team good luck?”

“I never claimed to be a Mercedes fan. They just sign my checks.”

“So, can I claim you as a Colapinto fan?” he said, a sly grin stretching across his face. You had heard of his playful banter before. You hadn’t heard how charming he was. 

“I’m just… a racing fan.”

“No wonder you’re with Lewis, then.” 

“Speaking of, I should go find him. But really, good luck,” you said, sending him a smile before you had to scurry back to the garage to find Lewis and give him a useless talking to. All in a day’s work, you supposed. 

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” you said, the memory coming back to you. “You did end up meeting him, right?.”

“I did, no thanks to you,” he said, his voice light and playful. He was clearly more excited than you. 

“Well, next best thing, you stole his social media manager. Now I’m your problem.” Hopefully he didn’t teach you the art of evasion, you thought. 

“Well, it means Lewis and I are basically teammates then, no?” Franco said, laughing. The interaction was cut short by your coworker, one of the directors, calling him over to finally get to work. 

So you assumed your place behind the cameras, getting as much behind the scenes content as you could, making yourself invisible. It’s what you were best at: being in the background, watching, observing, seeing the stories and details that others didn’t. Tiktok dances and challenge videos were fun, but the real job? You needed an eye for it. You needed to see what others overlooked.

The day flew past as your camera’s memory filled up with photos and videos of Franco. You studied them later that night, in the quiet loneliness of your hotel room, clicking through all the content you had gotten.

You zoomed in on the small details of his face: the way the light hit his curls, the reflection of his long lashes as they glanced right into the camera: it was good. As you memorized the details of his face, you couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope grow in your stomach. 

Maybe this wasn’t the death of your career after all. And hell, spending a year with good company couldn’t hurt.

He’s not too hard on the eyes, either. The thought left just as quick as it had arrived, but even though you were alone, a blush crept up into your face. 

Well…were you wrong? He was young, fit, charming, and God, how handsome. 

You rolled your own eyes, unamused with the back and forth in your brain. You were a professional, not a fan. You were better than this. Besides, you weren’t exactly his type. 

“I’m not anyone’s type,” you said, with a snarky laugh on your lips, as you told the whole situation to Kika over coffee. 

You had grown close to Pierre’s girlfriend in your short time at Alpine, though when you looked across the table, you saw someone the exact opposite of you. Beautiful, elegant, successful…and here you were, on a glorified babysitting assignment. 

“Don’t say that,” she responded. “Self-deprecation isn’t attractive.”

“It’s not self-deprecation. It’s just the truth. I mean, half the paddock just thinks social media personnel are annoying, and anyone outside the paddock just matches with me to see if I can introduce them to drivers.”

“Introduce them to Franco, then. He’ll talk their ears off until they’re begging him to be quiet” Kika laughed. 

Truthfully, Franco was talkative. That was one of his best qualities. 

“I bet he doesn’t have any problem getting matches,” you muttered, a twinge of jealousy in your voice. Franco was just…alluring, in a way not many others were. You had grown to know and love his playfulness, his sense of humor, and his genuine smile. He made work fun again.

“You’d be surprised,” Kika said, raising her eyebrows.

“What?”

“I’ve heard he’s on Raya,” she said, swirling her spoon on her mug. “But he’s single. You’d be cute together.”

You couldn’t help the laughter that followed, so thick and dripping with self-loathing that it choked you.

Kika looked up from her cup. “It wasn’t that funny. I’m serious.”

“Me. And Franco Colapinto. Kika, be so for real!”

“What? You wouldn’t go for it?”

“He’s my client! Besides, he’s a Formula 1 driver and I’m…his social media manager. He dates models, I… don’t date anyone.”

“So you don’t like it when he flirts with you?”

“He flirts with everyone. Hell, he flirted with you,” you snorted. 

“He is charming,” she said, a small smile coming to her lips. “You’re right, it’d never work. You’re too professional, and he’s a nightmare. But it would be cute.”

You rolled your eyes as you both got up to make your way back to the paddock for the day. You and Franco had come to the first race in Australia, and you’d been like his shadow, tethered close to him, always with a camera in hand to capture candid moments. It didn’t matter, though. All the focus was on Jack Doohan and Lewis Hamilton. They even told Franco to avoid the media. 

It had given you quite a bit of time to get to know him, though. 

“So, they really just have you following me around, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his mate. 

“Well, someone has to keep you in line.”

“No, I’m good,” he said, that familiar toothy grin coming back in full force. “I’ve been a good boy.” 

You blushed, involuntarily, though otherwise keeping your outward composure. “I was on social media last year. That’s absolutely not true.”

“But last year doesn’t count, no? I didn’t have a pretty personal assistant following me around keeping me in check last year.”

“Well, wherever she’s at, she needs to be paid more for putting up with your antics,” you chuckled. 

“I haven’t really been that bad, have I?” he said, cocking his head to the side in genuine curiosity.

“No,” you said, taking a sip from your water bottle. “You’ve been a perfect client, actually.”

“Then why are you so grumpy?”

You furrowed your brow. Perhaps you hadn’t been hiding it all as well as you thought. 

“It’s got nothing to do with you. Just…personal stuff.”

“What, is there a man I need to speak to?” You laughed, recalling your conversation with Kika earlier. 

“God, no, I’m single. It’s just…” You debated telling him. Franco, of all people, would understand frustration over employment contracts. He buzzed with the typical anticipation of a reserve driver, hoping and praying for a chance on the track again. You could tell all this sitting around and avoiding the media was doing him in.

But you didn’t want to add more to his plate. After all, none of this was his fault. You sighed, continuing, “You know, behind the scenes F1 stuff. Nothing you have to worry about.”

“Behind the scenes? Do I not get security clearance?”

“Not for this, Colapinto.”

“That’s not fair. I was going to give you security clearance to see something really cool.”

“Oh?” you questioned.

He glanced to his left and right, making sure that everyone was far away enough. He learned in towards you, and his eyes met yours, and your heart skipped a beat. 

He whispered, “When we get back to Enstone, I’m going to show you the sim.”

While everyone else went straight from Australia to China, you and Franco took a detour back to Enstone. He kept his word, taking you into the secluded back room where they kept the sim. 

Being the social media manager for a smaller team’s reserve driver had its perks. McLaren and Mercedes would much rather give you a million dollar raise than let you see their sim, let alone film and post it. 

“Wow…” you muttered, as Franco showed you all the settings and special buttons, clearly as excited about it as you were. “Are you sure I’m allowed to see this?” you asked as he slid into the seat.

“Of course,” he said. “Even better, you’re allowed to film it.”

“Just a few laps around virtual Bahrain?” you said. 

“We can do more, if you want.” He pulled at the collar of his race suit. It wasn’t the real deal—that was with the team, being transported to China—but the one for filming purposes, the one that was tighter. You noticed the way it hugged the sharp curves of his body as he settled into the seat, the pink fabric sitting snugly against the round of his thigh, up into his waist and to the slope of his chest, pulled back from his neck so he could breathe easier.

Was he having trouble breathing? You certainly were.

It was moments like these where you couldn’t help but notice his beauty. While he warmed up and completed a few virtual laps, you focused your cameras, zooming in on the twitch of his feet on the pedals, the way his chest rose and fell in careful concentration, and the zooming back and forth of his eyes, fixated on the pixels mere feet from his face. The lights you had set up rested on his lashes, illuminating them in a golden glow. He looked like something otherworldly: soft yet sharp, calm and focused.

He was in his own world when he slipped into that seat. And as always, you watched, you noticed, you saw, from the outside. 

“Hey guys, it’s Franco here…” he began, and his voice faded into the background as your gaze zeroed in on his pixels in your camera screen, this visage of him that wasn’t quite real. 

As your eyes traced every detail of him, you felt within you a deep desire to reach out and touch him. 

No. God, YN, that’s weird, you thought to yourself. 

Still, as he bit his lip and rounded the last digital corner, you couldn’t help that thought creeping up: how warm his skin would be against yours, the soft touch of two bodies meeting, a sensation you’d never felt before. 

“...so that’s a lap in Bahrain, ehm, racing is great here, so hopefully we have another good race this year.”

You were pulled out of your reverie as Franco looked at you. “Good?” he asked. 

“Great. Perfect, actually,” you said, trying not to stutter, feeling like a kid caught in trouble. Please don’t blush, you begged yourself, but you could already feel the warmth in your cheeks that would inevitably become redness. You just hoped he didn’t notice.

“Stay there, though. I wanna get some stills,” you said, adjusting your camera lens. You zoomed in and out, but the lighting from where you were sitting off to the side wasn’t quite right. You got up, biting the inside of your cheek as you adjusted your settings, never letting your eyes leave your lens.

“Can I…get closer?” you asked. “The lighting is weird.”

“Go ahead,” he said, looking back at you. His gaze was…intense. In a way it hadn’t been before. It sent shivers down your spine. 

“Look back at the screen,” you said, and he obeyed, as you closed the gap between the two of you, craning your back to move your camera in between him and the screen. But now you were a shadow, casting the light away from his frame that should have glowed.

“I can’t quite…” you said, muttering to yourself, but he disobeyed your orders, looking at you.

“Here,” he said, pushing back the steering wheel.  “Just climb over me.”

That was a horrible idea. The worst idea you had ever heard. But the reflection of the screen light on his face against the dark background—he looked ethereal. You had to capture it.

So you swung one leg over his, his feet still firmly resting on the pedals, as you hovered to deny yourself the touch that you so unprofessionally felt yourself longing for.

Only inches from your face, he stared down the lens of your camera, his gaze powerful enough to send shivers down your spine, leaving little gasps choked in your throat.

You clicked the camera again and again. You had plenty of pictures. You just didn’t want to move. 

Fate had other plans. You heard the snap only second before you felt it shoot into your back—the steering wheel, once pushed back, had sprung forward into you with a vengeance, throwing you off balance, and you fell into Franco, cushioning your fall by landing your palms against his chest.

You dropped your camera, a true gasp falling from your mouth, as you heard the screen crack. You didn’t look at its shattered remains on the floor, though. All you could see was the Argentine underneath you, the deep brown pools of his eyes and his perfectly rounded curls, mere centimeters from you now.

You were still for a beat too long. But you didn’t miss when his eyes quickly darted away from yours and down to your lips. 

“I—I am so sorry, YN,” he said. “Are you…gonna get the camera, or…?”

You immediately moved to get up, scrambling to create as much space between you and Franco as possible. You winced as you saw the shattered glass of your camera screen littering the floor.

“I could have sworn I heard the wheel click into place. I’m so sorry YN, here, let me help.”

You ignored him, but still he leaned down next to you, his race suit sinfully tight against the curves of his body you had been so close to just seconds ago.

“I’m fine, it’s just—”

“Shit, you’re bleeding.”

In the chaos, some glass had cut into your hand. He grabbed your wrist, and you looked up, locking eyes again with him. Your face must have been redder than a Ferrari.

“Just leave it. Let’s get you bandaged up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, letting him lead you away from the sim room, relishing the touch of his skin against yours, even as your blood ran between it.

“No way!” Kika said, swirling her coffee with a familiar flick of the wrist.

“And I was bleeding,” you said, holding up your hand, now bandaged from the snafu only a few days prior. “But I was so nervous he had to grab my hand, and we locked eyes and it was AWFUL!”

“Really?” she said, a smirk on her face.

“Really. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“Then why are you smiling right now?”

“I’m not,” you said, painting your face in an intentional frown.

“Yes, you were. Oh, you all would be so adorable!”

You rolled your eyes. “I can never face him again. Not after I…accidently straddled him.” You laughed sarcastically, though a flume of anxiety rose in you. You would have to face him again in…well, not even an hour. 

And when that time came far too soon, the awkwardness in the air was palpable.

“So…” he droned on, looking away from you, “Another weekend of avoiding the press?”

You closed your laptop. “Let’s go talk to some fans.”

“Good idea.”

If only Franco had known the weight of your suggestion. You had hated Mercedes fans—they made demands you couldn’t fulfill, and blamed you when their darling driver refused to make any content. But Franco fans were sweet, and as devoted as any fan base could be. 

Still, as you stood in the background and watched a group of Chinese fans—all women—coo at him, you felt a twinge of something deep in your chest you couldn’t quite name. 

You saw them giggle and bat their eyelashes as he effortlessly wooed them, leaning up against the nearest wall, giving them sly grins and the occasional wink that would send their hearts racing. He even blushed when they collectively cooed at him when he tried on a panda headband; an adorable moment to catch on camera, but one that, deep down, disgusted you.

Were you…jealous?

No. You weren’t a fan. Of the sport, maybe. But Franco? He was a smooth-talker. A player. Eye candy. 

You sighed as you packed up your camera bag—a replacement having quickly been given to you by Alpine—as the man in question made his way over to you.

“What’s got you in a bad mood?”

“Nothing,” you answered, not even bothering to look up at him.

“I can tell something’s bothering you. Is it your hand? Is it hurting?”

“A little bit,” you said, hoping your half-lie would give you an out. “Can’t believe my own client would do this to me.”

“Aw, do you want me to kiss it better?” he joked, and you laughed. 

“Get back to the garage, Colapinto,” you answered, rolling your eyes. 

“Come with me to Monza,” he said, looking at you over the brim of his mate cup, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re seriously asking me this.”

“Yes. It’s the least I can do to make it up to you. For breaking your camera.”

“So…to make up for the fact that you broke my work camera, you’re going to ask me to do more work?”

“It wouldn’t be work. Unless you wanted it to be. It’d be like a… behind the scenes pass. I already cleared it with Flavio.”

Truthfully, you had been dreading the days leading up to Franco’s long stint away from the track. He had to go test older cars in Monza, and you’d be staying back in Enstone. 

Well, that’s what you had thought. Apparently, Franco had other plans.

“Don’t you think that’s a little…weird?” you asked. “I mean, you’re my client.”

“It doesn’t have to be weird if you don’t make it weird. You’re just working from home.”

“Working from home, in a hotel in Italy.”

“You can say no if you want,” he said. “But I know you won’t. You’d miss my beautiful face too much.”

Your day was full of his oh so beautiful face, though. You saw him endlessly while working—whether his real form of his digital visage—and his smile haunted you even when you went back to your lonely hotel room every night, trying to find rest in the quiet stillness. You had abandoned your dating apps. You had stopped texting back your friends. 

You playfully rolled your eyes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of realizing just how correct he was.

“C’mon,” he said, nudging you in the side with his elbow, and you sharply inhaled at the contact. “We can get real wine and pasta.”

“You can’t even eat pasta. Or drink.”

“Just go with the bit,” he said, in mock annoyance at your stubbornness. “I’m trying to do you a service here. I know you’d get so lonely without me here.”

Again, he was too right. Working with McLaren had been enjoyable, but corporately stiff. And working with Lewis had been, well, awful. But Franco? He was quickly becoming something of your professional muse. 

You bit your cheek, running through the pros and cons in your head. “You really took this all the way up to Flavio?”

“Yes,” he answered.

But he was your client. A client you were, unfortunately, crushing on. Yes, you had to admit it—even you couldn’t be delusional any longer.

And the thought of it scared you. How close you were to saying yes. Yes, I’ll run away to Italy with you. Take me to your hotel room. 

Where was that stone-faced professional you had always been? Where was your dignity? In the hands of Franco Colapinto, a young, charming race car driver who seemed to be a tad bit too enamoured with you, just as you were with him. 

You couldn’t let your fantasies get ahead of you. This was your job, a job you’d worked far too hard at to just give it up on a whim. But Franco sat before you now, his brown doe eyes looking at you, begging you to come with him.

No one had ever wanted you. 

Romantically, at least. Even friendships had been fleeting, shallow. You compensated with work. People wanted your expertise, your labor; that was enough, you told yourself. 

But no one had ever really wanted you, your presence, your being.

Except, Franco did.

“I…I really can’t,” you said. “I just have too much to do at Enstone.”

Franco didn’t try to joke this time. You saw the subtle shift in the glint of his eyes, a soft disappointment he wouldn’t speak. “No worries,” he said. 

But that night, back alone at your hotel room, you couldn’t sleep, replaying the scene over and over again.

If I go to Monza, I’ll regret it, you said to yourself. It’s crossing a line. He’s a client. Not your boyfriend.

He wants you there, another voice said. He wants you there. 

Enstone didn’t want you. Formula 1 was indifferent. It’d replace you in an instant if you failed to perform—a reality you’d come to know too well. 

Though the hour was late, you grabbed your phone, tapping his name without thinking, your mind blank as the phone rang once before he answered.

“Hello?”

“Does the Monza offer still stand?”

“For you? Of course.”

Against your better judgement, you found yourself in a hotel room in Monza a few days later—not any hotel room. Franco’s hotel room. 

He had proposed that you should watch the Suzuka free practice together that day. It was one of his rare days off during testing, and you could spare an hour or two, so why not?

You hadn’t expected this, though.

Franco, in nothing but grey sweat shorts, stretched across his bed. He patted the empty space next to him, inviting you to come lay next to him.

“Really?” you asked, barely suppressing a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“This is…hardly professional.”

“I’m not on the clock.”

“Well, I am,” you said, carefully sitting down next to him, leaving a deliberate amount of space.

“What, is something bothering you?” he asked. He knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.

You glanced back at him, giving yourself a minute to take in all of him: his defined muscles, perfectly tanned skin, even the scar that ran across his collarbone. You didn’t have it in you to say anything.

“Not at all,” you answered. You looked away and a sense of shame fell over you.

He was your client. And here he was, practically naked in front of you, and you didn’t have the courage to say a word about it. Because he wanted you next to him. 

It all felt so…pathetic. So even though you kicked off your shoes and stretched out next to Franco, you didn’t truly relax. He rested his arm against the headboard behind you, and it all felt too intimate. Wrong. 

You just prayed for the ending of free practice, keeping your eyes glued to the screen to avoid his gaze that kept lingering when it shot you sideward glances. 

When Sky Sports went to commercial, Franco got up, stretching and letting out a long sigh. You rolled your eyes. He was insufferable.

“Don’t tell my trainer,” he said, exiting the bedroom and walking into the small kitchenette in the hotel suite, “but I got stuff to make mimosas. You want one?”

“You aren’t supposed to be drinking, Franco” you said, breathing a sigh of relief now that he was out of sight. 

“And that’s why you keep my secrets,” he said from the other side of the wall.

Franco’s phone, on the bed next to you, lit up. A notification from Raya, the tinder of the rich and famous.

You felt sick to your stomach. What were you doing here?

You wanted to leave. But Franco came back into the room and handed you a champagne flute, which you took a modest sip from before setting on the nightstand next to you. Franco assumed his position on the bed, this time just the slightest bit closer, and you felt your breathing stiffen.

“Your phone was going off,” you said.

He grabbed it, careful to face the screen away from you, and began typing something. You crossed your arms and stared back at the TV as free practice resumed.

You watched the car race past, the familiar sound of revving engines calming you, as Franco locked his phone and put it on his own nightstand. You watched him out of your periphery, refusing to budge. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t, frozen in place with anxiety.

“YN…” he said, and you felt his hand reach out and touch your arm.

“Oh, shit!” you said. “Jack just crashed!”

In front of you were pixels of carnage, thousands of dollars in repair, and a damaged reputation.

Franco looked at the screen, grimacing.

“Is he okay?” you asked, to no one in particular. You sat up, focusing even more intently, watching Jack climb out of the car. You breathed a sigh of relief. Even Franco was focusing now. 

“I should probably call Flavio,” he said. “They might need me.”

“This could be your chance,” you said, looking back at him, but your face turned redder than a Ferrari at what you saw.

Franco was…most definitely not focusing on free practice, evident by the outline of his grey sweatpants that showed far too much. 

“And, I, um… I should go call the media team, make sure they’re good to, you know, uh… I’ll see you later, Franco.”

You got up and left without another word. 

After that you were more cautious, more professional. You saw Franco less, anyway. But he didn’t leave your mind.

Another coffee date with Kika, and as always, Franco was the topic of discussion. 

“Did you hear what he said in that podcast that just came out?” she asked.

“No?”

“He’s a fan of sex on the first date.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you snorted. Your mind went back to the Raya notification, the way he tilted his phone away from you. You swallowed back the jealousy.

“I still think you should go for it,” she said, smiling.

“No,” you replied, no smile on your face. “He’s for the streets. He retweeted a random girl’s ass the other day.”

Kika skillfully ignored your comment. “In that podcast, he also was talking about how hard it is in F1 to make genuine connections with people. It reminded me a lot of what you said before, about just wanting someone who wants you for you.”

“Well that’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”

“Sure. I’m just saying, I think you have more in common with Franco than you realize.”

“He’s a nice guy. He’s just…not for me.”

“How so?”

“Kika, he’s my client.”

She paused, her brows furrowing, staring into the last dregs of her tea cup. “I guess you’re right. I just hate to see you so lonely.”

“I’ll live. I mean, I’ve gotten this far.”

“But that’s no way to live. You deserve to be happy with someone.”

“We don’t always get what we deserve, though, do we?”

“I got the seat.”

“What?”

“I got the seat. Jack’s out after Miami. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I—how do you know?”

“Flavio told me. Oliver is going to resign. Things are about to get crazy.”

Franco ran his fingers through his hair, the golden strands illuminated by the little slats of light through your hotel blinds. It was late at night, and Franco was still beautiful, even in his disheveled state.

“You can’t tell anyone. Promise me.”

“Franco, I don’t even have anyone I’d tell.” It came out a lot…sadder than you had anticipated. It had been a long, lonely day at your cubicle in Enstone while Franco was on the sim. “And why’d you tell me, anyway?”

“I didn’t know who else to go to. I just…I’m sorry, I know it’s late and you’re mad at me—”

“Mad at you? I’m not mad at you.”

“You’ve been so distant lately. Since we got back from Monza.”

“I’ve just been… busy.”

“I know,” he said, looking off into the distance, away from you. “Things are about to get a lot busier.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” you said, your voice soft. He looked back to you, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. 

Your eyes drifted down to the soft roundness of his lips, imagining them on your own, and you swallowed hard, as if you could rid yourself of the desire that felt strong enough to strangle you. 

“Why haven’t you been around recently?” he asked. He knew you were ‘busy.’ That’s not what he was asking. But you couldn’t find the words to tell him how you really felt. 

“Got tired of looking at your face, so I gave you over to PR,” you joked, reflexively using your sarcasm as a shield. “You’re their problem now.”

“Problem? I’ve been nothing short of perfect.”

“You retweeted—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“And on that podcast—”

“What was wrong with what I said on the podcast?”

“Seriously? You think there’s nothing wrong with talking about your first date sex preferences with the world?” you laughed, only half joking. 

“No. I stand by what I said. Why should you wait if it feels right?”

“Because nothing is ever that simple. Feelings lie to you. You don’t really know someone that well to really know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What, did you have a bad ex or something?”

“No. I…don’t have any exes. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Never.” You looked to the floor, embarrassed, though Franco’s face was shrouded in as much darkness as the rest of the room. “But still, I’d never sleep with a stranger. It’s just too important to…give yourself away like that. I think it should be something loving.”

Franco was silent; the room was quiet enough that you were sure you could hear his heartbeat. 

“I don’t think it really matters that much,” he said. “People always come and go. If you wait for the perfect person, you’ll never have anyone. Soulmates, and all that…it’s just hopeless romantics. It’s never like that in real life.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

“I don’t want to look back on my youth and realize I wasted it waiting for the one,” he said. “There is no perfect person. There’s just people. And I want to enjoy my time with people while they’re here.”

“What if you regret it? Sharing yourself with someone who doesn’t appreciate it?”

“Then you made a mistake. And life goes on.”

“I think…we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one.” You paused. “But you still shouldn’t be telling the media any of this.”

“Why not? Why should I not be honest about who I am, how I feel?”

“Because that’s not for them to know.”

“Who else is there to tell, though?” His eyes met yours. You remembered what Kika said, how Franco had spoken about wanting real connection in a world of ruthless competition.

“I get it,” you said. “I really do. Formula 1 is…lonely.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I left home at 14, came to Spain.”

“I know,” you said. “I listened to the podcast. It’s not much better on this side of the paddock. All the travel, the long nights. I…” you paused, unsure of how much to say. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know how to be a normal person anymore.”

“Exactly. It—it becomes all of you, you know?”

“I know. I feel like I’ve missed out on so much. And you can’t complain, because this is the life I always dreamed of.” All the lonely nights, the parties and milestones missed, the strangers unkissed; you were young, alive, but not free. You had chosen this. 

The room grew quiet.

“Well, if we’re telling secrets, can I share one?” you asked, and Franco nodded, his eyes almost begging. Let me in. Let me see what you hide from the others. Let me see you.

“I hate Lewis Hamilton.”

“What?” Franco said, taken aback, clearly offended.

“He was so horrible to me last year. Constantly ignoring me or leading me around, acting like he was going to cooperate and then bailing on me. I was just trying to do my job and he made it a living hell. And I can’t tell anyone because he’s the Lewis Hamilton.”

“I can’t agree with you on this, YN. He’s Lewis Hamilton. He gets a pass.”

“C’mon, I need someone on my side!” you joked, a small smile forming at the edge of your lips.

“I can’t. You’ll have to find some other poor reserve driver for that,” he said. “Besides, I won’t be a reserve driver for much longer.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you said, your voice soft, familiar.

Franco’s eyes met yours, in the simple darkness of your room. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you.

“We’ll all have to celebrate,” he said.

“Of course.”

“You’ll be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

But upon entering Franco’s AirBNB in Monaco, you started to have regrets.

The music was blasting, drinks were flowing, and your host appeared with a smile on his face and a model on each arm, quite literally. This wasn’t the kind of place you’d ever belonged in.

“YN!” he called, raising a drink-filled hand from across the room, much to the chagrin of the woman on his arm, who eyed you up and down and gave you a passive aggressive smile. He broke away, making his way over to you, wrapping you in his arms. He smelled like a deep, woody cologne mixed with fabric softener and the tell-tale sign of a drink or two. 

“You made it,” he said, cocking his head and smiling at you.

“I’m a woman of my word,” you said, giving him a stiff smile. “But I think your date…or dates…is missing you over there.”

“Oh, she’s no one,” he said, waving his arm vaguely in the direction of the women, not bothering to specify which one. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t respond, instead grabbing you by the hand and weaving you through the crowd, and into the waiting embrace of an older woman.

“Mami, this is YN,” he said, as the woman reached out to hug you, and you obliged, more out of politeness in your state of confusion. 

Franco was introducing you to…his mother?

Of course, he then abandoned you to go back to his woman. Or women. There were quite a few women at this party, and some familiar faces from the Alpine garage. Still, amongst the sea of models and mechanics, you, the media girl, hardly fit right in.

Besides, Franco had told you to leave all your cameras and phones at home. You truly were without a crutch. 

You exchanged a few pleasantries with his mother, albeit awkward, because, well, what were either of you doing here?

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Franco,” she said. “All good things, of course.”

“I’m surprised he’d mention me. I mean, we’re just colleagues.”

“Well, I’m glad my boy is surrounded by such kind colleagues, then,” she smiled. 

Thankfully, Kika came to your rescue, and you found a spot away from much of the fanfare with her and Pierre, keeping to yourselves in the corner.

Franco, though, was the life of the party, taking shot after shot, dancing his heart away. After a while, when things showed no sign of dying down, but you were exhausted, you contemplated making an Irish goodbye. 

“You’re being watched,” Kika said, leaning down to whisper in your ear. You looked up and met eyes with your host, who again was arm in arm with two beautiful women (though not the same as before), yet his eyes only laid on you. 

You gave him a slight smile, and he just blinked at you, his expression conveying that he had more to say that only his eyes could tell you. The woman to his right—a blonde—whispered something in his ear, smiling flirtatiously, and he made some noise in response, never looking at the woman. She shot you a dirty glance from across the room.

You were done for the night. But as you tried to leave, you felt a hand grab you, pulling you back as Kika and Pierre made their exit. 

“Where are you going?” Franco asked, his eyes glossy.

“It’s late, Franco.”

“You didn’t even dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, c’mon YN, just one dance!”

“No, Franco, I have to go.”

“YN—”

“Franco. It’s late, I’m exhausted, this music is too goddamn loud and my head is pounding. Let me go.”

He released his grip, surprised at your snapping. Truthfully, you were too.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay. You can go.”

“No, I—I can stay a while longer, I guess.” 

“We can go outside?” 

You nodded and let Franco lead you, hand in hand, to the roof, a secluded area with an infinity pool overlooking the Monaco skyline. You could feel the bass pumping beneath your feet, but the night was quiet enough, and there was a cool wind that waved its way through your hair, caressing you into a calmer state.

You leaned against the railing, and Franco joined you, so close that you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

“I don’t mean to steal you from your own party,” you said. 

“I’m fine here,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is missing me.”

“I don’t know. You seemed like the life of the party there.”

“What if I told you I only threw this party for you?”

You paused. “Well, that would be kind of stupid. You should celebrate what you’ve achieved. I have nothing to do with it. Besides, I don’t usually come to these kinds of things.”

“But that’s exactly why. I wanted you to be able to experience it. Can’t say you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it.” He looked down, fiddling with his hands. “If you don’t usually like parties, then why’d you come?”

“Because it was important to you.”

You were both silent.

“You want to get in the pool?” he asked.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

“We can skinny dip.”

You laughed. He didn’t. 

“You’ll have to come up with a better excuse if you want to get me undressed.”

“Who said I was trying to get you undressed? Maybe I’m giving you an excuse to stare at me.”

“You’re the one who’s been staring all night. Besides, I’ve already seen you without a shirt. I’m not missing out.”

“You’re cruel,” he joked. 

“And you’re crueler,” you replied, as you both knelt near the pool, taking your shoes off, dipping your feet in the crystal blue water.

“How so?” 

“You invite me to this party and make me stand around in the corner while you flirt with random models.”

“Are you jealous?” Franco asked, and you didn’t answer. He closed the gap between you, bringing his hand to yours. “YN, you know you’re my girl.”

“I’m your social media manager.”

“How long are we going to keep pretending?”

“Pretending what?” you said, turning to face him, seeing the genuineness in his eyes, fixated on you. You had no camera, no phone; you were alone with Franco, alone with your desire, and he wouldn’t let you escape any longer.

“Pretending like we don’t want each other.”

“What I really want is to keep my job.”

“I don’t see either of our bosses out here.”

“Franco…this is a bad decision. For both of us.”

‘Jumping into the pool right now would be a bad decision,” he said, smirking. “But this?” he interlaced his fingers with yours, kissing your hand where the cuts from the camera mishap had just started to scar over. “I’m sure of this.”

“Franco—”

“I want you.”

You pushed him into the pool. He reached out for you and dragged you down with him, ending you both cascading into the water in a fit of giggles.

And when you rose to the surface of the water, shivering from the cold and playfully pushing him away, he just pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around your back, and finally pressing his lips to yours. 

You dragged yourself out of the pool, cringing at the feeling of your wet dress fabric clinging to your curves, and you could do nothing but laugh.

Franco followed close after, grabbing you again, and kissed you once more, his lips hungry for yours. The embrace was messy, fighting through tangled strands of hair and the horrid sensation of wet clothes clinging to each other's bodies, but you laughed anyway, in a giggly euphoria at his touch.

“Franco, I’m freezing,” you said, smiling through the discomfort. “Can we stop the make-out session before we both get hypothermia?”

“You’re no fun,” he teased, though he did oblige, throwing you a towel. “I’m kicking everyone out. I can throw your clothes in the dryer if you want to take a shower.”

A warm shower sounded perfect. However, the idea of being unclothed anywhere near Franco sounded…like a reality you weren’t quite sure of.

“I’d appreciate that,” you said, truly shivering now. Franco herded you inside, away from the rest of the party, into a bedroom you assumed was his. 

You locked yourself in the connected bathroom, quickly showering and changing into a thick, fluffy robe that Franco had left you, combing and blow drying your hair while you heard everyone downstairs filter out as the music and chatter got quieter and quieter. 

But your heartbeat only got louder and louder as you stepped out, watching Franco laid out on the bed, again clad in those God-forsaken grey sweatshorts that fit him too perfectly, his toned chest on display. 

“Your dress isn’t quite dry yet. Probably needs another 15 minutes,” he said, staring at his phone, typing away at something you couldn’t see before locking it and placing it face down on the nightstand next to him. 

You nodded, sitting on the very edge of the bed nervously running your fingers through your hair, though it was already dry.

“YN,” he called, and you could hear his voice get closer and he sat up. “It’s late. You could stay here tonight.”

“I really should just go when my clothes are done.”

“You want to? Or you should?”

You turned around to look at him, his eyes full of something hungering, a sight that made you anxious to your core.

“Franco, I’m your social media manager.”

“And?” 

“We already crossed a line—”

“I’m just asking you to stay the night,” he said. “Nothing more. It’s for your benefit, really.”

And somehow, a half hour or so later, you found yourself in nothing but your panties and one of his shirts, after conveniently realizing that this apartment only had one bedroom. 

“This is…so unprofessional,” you said as Franco dimmed the lights and climbed in the bed next to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do this with all my social media managers.”

“I could lose my job.”

“I’m not a snitch.”

Franco had laid down, but you couldn’t relax, instead sitting up and resting your back against the headboard, burying your face in your hands.

“What am I doing?” you mumbled to yourself, but he heard you, sitting up to meet you and gently pulling your arms away.

“You are going to sleep next to your client, who is going to mind his manners and be a gentleman and let you rest.”

“You’re hardly a gentleman.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been nothing but polite tonight.”

“Really?”

Franco’s eyes darkened as he pulled you down, resting one head above your head and one on your waist underneath his borrowed shirt, placing himself on top of you. You could feel his hardened length pressing against your bare leg. Your heart was beating out of your chest, your eyes widened, staring into his.

“If you want me to be impolite, I can do that.”

Your voice came out as shaky as an earthquake, though without any of the power.

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Only if you want to,” he said, his hands rubbing in gentle but firm circles around your hips, careful to not dip too high or low for comfort. 

“I’m a virgin,” you blurted out. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” he said, gently kissing you. “It’s just me. I’ll be gentle.”

His kisses trailed lower, down your neck, and you inhaled sharply as his lips grazed the crook between your chin and shoulder.

“Do you trust me to be your first?” he asked.

“I don’t know who else it would be.”

“YN,” he said, pulling back to look you in the eye. “I need to hear you say it.”

Looking up at him, wide-eyed and whispering, you had never wanted anything more. But you couldn’t let the words pass from your lips. Instead, you brought your hands up to his hair, roughly grabbing him and pulling him down to bridge the gap between you, bringing your lips together again. 

He slipped his tongue in between your lips, and you opened your mouth for him, gently moaning into the kiss as he softly grinded himself against your clothed core under the blankets. 

“Tell me what you want, YN,” he commanded, before grazing his teeth along your neck, biting down and sucking the sensitive skin to leave a mark.

“I want you,” you said, your voice breathy. “I need you.”

He brought his hand down to trace the edges of your panties, carefully dragging his fingers over where you needed him most, feeling your wetness grow as he just barely gave you any friction to buck up against. 

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Relax. Let me touch you.”

You obeyed, taking a deep breath as Franco lifted your shirt above your head and gently pawed at your breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth while he squeezed the other. 

The sounds he made were obscene as you tried to focus on just steadying your nervous breathing. But every touch electrified your skin, sending shivers through you, eliciting a sharp inhale or soft moan from your lips. 

His hands trailed down to your panties, sliding them off and meeting your mouth again with a kiss. He kept his lips on yours as he swirled your growing wetness around your clit, slowly sliding his fingers up and down your slit and through your folds. You ached for him.

“You okay?” he asked, and you nodded, whimpering into his shoulder as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

Slowly, gently, he slid a finger inside of you, then two, pumping them in and out with the soft rhythm of your breathing. He brought you closer and closer, sending little waves of pleasure throughout your body, but not quite letting you fall over the edge into pure bliss. 

“You’re soaked,” he said, bringing his fingers from your pussy to your mouth, where you swirled your tongue around them, locking eyes with him once more.

“You ready?” he asked, and you couldn’t help the wave of anxiety that went through you. Still, you nodded, and he took off his shirts before reaching into the nightstand to grab a condom and put it on.

He grabbed you again, kissing you slow and deep, exhaling into the kiss. “Relax,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

You dug your nails into his back as he slowly pushed into you, overwhelming your sensations with the sweet burn of being totally taken by him, and the sound of his deep groan as he filled you to the hilt.

“You feel so fucking good,” he said, breathing heavily into your ear. 

“Franco…” you moaned, unable to form any words other than his name as he slowly thrusted in and out of you, gently at first, then with more power. You wove your fingers into his hair as he moaned into your mouth, wanting more and more of you. You wrapped your legs around his back, pulling him in, eliminating even the tiniest of gaps between you. You wanted him in the deepest parts of you, mentally and physically. You wanted him in your soul. 

“I’m so close,” he said. ‘So fucking close…” his voice trailed off into a string of Spanish curses as he plowed into you, chasing his own release, but still careful not to go too rough.

“I…I—” The words were lost to you. “Oh, God, Franco,” you groaned, feeling the soft pad of his thumb swirling around your clit, threatening to make you finish right then and there.

“I want us to cum at the same time,” he said. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, unable to form any sounds but those of pleasure that echoed through the room, your voices a cacophony of lust as he, with a final bucking of his hips, spilled inside of you, and brought you to the edge. 

He laid on top of you in the aftermath, catching his own breath as you caught yours, and suddenly you felt a thick sense of shame. What had you done? 

“Hey,” he cooed into your ear, setting both of you up, “you okay?”

You nodded, though it was a lie, but he could tell, pulling you into his arms to hold you and gently kiss your temple even through the sheen of sweat and smell of sex that now permeated through the room. 

He grabbed a warm, wet towel to clean you up, then left to grab a snack from the kitchen, before curling up next to you and inviting you to lay your head on his chest. You obliged, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat, gently grazing your fingertips over the surface of his scar.

The room was silent for a while, before he said, in a low, steady voice, “With me getting the seat, we won’t be able to see each other this often.”

“I don’t want to think about that right now,” you said, burrowing deeper in the covers, closer to him, and he ran his arm up and down your side.

“I just want you to know, I’m here. Even if I'm not…here. You know what I mean.”

You hummed in response. He continued, “But in the off season, I want to take you to Argentina. Show you around Buenos Aires, introduce you to my friends.”

“Yeah?” you whispered. This would normally be the time for a snarky comment. Bold of you to assume I want to spend my time away from work with you, or something to the effect.

But as you felt yourself drifting off in his arms, you couldn't muster up the will. You just wanted him to hold you. To see all your vulnerability, your unusual quietness, and find peace in it.

And he did. When you finally did drift off, he stared at your sleeping form, memorizing all the curves and edges of your body, the beauty in your stillness. 

He gently got up, turned the lights fully off, and checked his phone one last time for the night, dismissing all his Raya notifications from his homepage, before falling asleep next to you. 

[envy-of-the-apple]

Dangerous Men

(Yandere!OC x reader)

note: getting back to my yan roooots. oc is kinda supposed to look like Norra von Nürnberger. i wrote this a while ago and have no plans of continuing it buuut i didnt have the heart to just delete it so out it goes

Word count: 2.8k

(Warnings: implied slut shaming, highschool-level drama, implied torture ,yandere, character is accused of incest lmaooo)

Nuyan didn't really know you. 

He thinks he's seen you once or twice. You're in the same year as him, so he kind of knows of your existence. He's also pretty sure you've spoken to him once, when you scooted past him to get to class, muttering a timid 'excuse me'. Other than that, Nuyan really doesn't remember you. You and he run in different circles. You take school a little too seriously, preferring to keep your grades up for college. Nuyan's honestly thinking of just dropping out, grades won't do him any good, not with his future 'career'. 

He doesn't even blink when the rumors about you start. It's normal, he's used to something or another creating a buzz in this suffocating school. Honestly, it's not even one of the worst ones. To him, you got off lucky. It was something about you sleeping with a sleazy soccer player. He knows it's fake in a heartbeat. It's really not that interesting. It doesn't do a thing to cure his boredom. He doesn't really care. 

You do, though. 

"Why?" 

He didn't mean to eavesdrop. If anything, this was your fault. Maybe you should have dragged that guy somewhere else rather than his favorite place to smoke. Now you have a slightly bored audience, forced to listen to your soap opera. 

"Why?" You repeat. You're angry. He guess he understands. Though he'd probably handle his anger a bit differently than you. When he got angry he uses his fists, weapons. When he got angry he uses blood smeared on walls, broken limbs as paintbrushes. 

You don't have the luxury to do that. So instead you're pathetically using words. Reason. 

"Why, what?" The other guy responds.

He looks bored. Nuyan's seen him around. The dude's in the same grade as him tallish, a little lanky. He's talked to him before but Nuyan forgot his name. One thing he didn't forget was the guy's notorious obsession with spreading rumors about girls he's interested in who rejected him. Looks like you were his latest victim. 

"Don't-don't do that," You weakly say, "Why'd you spread those rumors? Is it-is it because I didn't go out with you? I said no? And because of that, you ruin my life?" Nuyan tsks a little at that. Now, you're being a little dramatic. 

The guy next to you seems to have the same reaction. He crosses his arms. He keeps his gaze dull but Nuyan can see the spark of amusement in his eyes. He gets off to seeing you like this. 

"Calm down," He says, "Are you seriously blaming me for all this? It's not my fault my friends took a few things out of context. How am I supposed to do anything about it?" 

"How do you take 'I slept with you' out of context?" You're barely hiding your tears now, "How-how could you I-"

You chuck a hand over your mouth, like you're trying to stop yourself from really screaming. 

The other upperclassman sighs, like he's giving you more attention than you're worth. 

"Okay fine. I'm sorry. Happy now?" He shrugs, "Look I really don't know what else to tell you. You know how rumors are? It'll probably die down in a few days," You're silent, "And I guess we could go around and say we didn't do anything but people aren't really gonna believe us." 

He's walking away, patting your shoulder. 

"Again, sorry," Giving another insincere apology, he disappears behind the building, leaving you alone. 

Nuyan watches as you stare at nothing. You're still crying, but your eyes look a little dazed, like you still can't believe this is your life. You hiccup a bit. He cocks his head in mild interest as you try to reel in your tears, angrily wiping at your eyes. 

In his eyes, you only have two options; crack under the pressure and leave, or stay until the rumors die down. Again, they're not that bad, he's heard way worse. You've heard way worse. You'll get through it, probably. 

 Nuyan drops the cigarette, crushing it under his foot. He leaves before he sees anything else. 

Good luck. 

_ 

The family business is keeping him a little preoccupied lately. 

He curses his grandfather at these times. Why hadn't the old man considered starting a career in fishing? Carpeting? MLMs? At least it'd be a little less messier. 

Nuyan sighs, wiping a clean hand across his sweaty forehead. He really hates the Circle Room. He always gets so hot in here. He prefers the cold, the type of cold that makes his brown skin twinge the tiniest of red. The type of cold that bites, just a little. 

But no, he's stuck in the Circle Room. At least until the guy wakes up again. 

He considers washing his hands, the one covered in blood and god knows what else. The idiot was struggling before, so he was forced to get a bit handsy. Why can't people just stay still when he says stay still? It'd make their lives a whole lot easier. 

"He's already out?" A voice hollers. Nuyan cringes. 

Rhys is already halfway down the steps. He whistles at Nuyan's work. Nuyan ignores his cousin, focusing on his dirty hand. He really should have worn gloves. 

Used to his aloofness, Rhys presses on. 

"How far did you get with him?" 

This time Nuyan is forced to answer. Both with Rhys technically being his higher up and just because he just wants the man to stop pestering him already. 

"Not much," He replies, "He did rat on some other guys though. Here," He tosses a piece of paper with messy handwriting. Nuyan didn't really have time to find a pen so he kind of forced the guy to write the names with cracked fingers and  blood. It was a little gross, but it saved him time from trying to find a writing tool. 

Rhys doesn't even blink, snatching the paper to glance at the names.

"Oh hey, I know this guy," He points to the third line, "He owes me money." 

Nuyan's pretty sure everyone under Rhys owes him money but he doesn't voice his quip. He's more than happy to silently nod back, pretending he's somewhere else, not stuck in the Circle room. Bored. He's always bored these days. His job is nothing like the movies. There's no excitement, no run-ins with the police, not when they're all paid off by his family. All the 'fun stuff' is handled by his grandpa's underlings. Even his job in the Circle room is starting to get a little tedious. 

It's not much to ask for a little excitement in his life, right? 

"Aw, what's wrong?" An arm is slung around his shoulder. Nuyan scowls, "Are you feeling down? Did your girlfriend dump you? Don't feel bad. Your big cousin is here." 

"Get off," Nuyan groans, "You reek." 

Rhys obliges, slipping off to meddle with some tools. 

"You shouldn't be here all day, you know." His cousin is piping up again and Nuyan wonders if the guy has an off button. 

"Your eyes will go bad." 

Nuyan isn’t disagreeing. His eyes do feel a lot more tired these days. It’s probably because he refuses to turn the lights on, his eyes burn when he’s in the sun for too long. That probably isn’t a good sign. It’s just a lot easier to work in the dark. His ‘clients’ are more talkative if they can’t see him, can’t see anything except silhouettes. The monster you know is better than the monster you don’t. 

"Maybe I'll get glasses or something." He responds, cracking his knuckles. 

Rhys is humming, going over the list again. He's smiling, but there isn't a hint of mirth in his eyes. Nuyan is scoffing. His clients should be grateful. Between Nuyan and his cousin, Nuyan is the nicer one. When Rhys gets serious, he gets messy. The blood takes days to get off. 

His mind wanders, thinking to what Rhys said. A girlfriend could be nice. A boyfriend, too, just someone to keep him company. Though it's kind of hard to find one, especially in his jurisdiction. Most people aren't keen on dating someone who threatens people with knives, and apparently, 'they owed me money' isn't a sufficient response. Most could also never handle the Circle room and, to him, it's kind of a rite of passage at this point.  

He thinks he’s smiling. If you could barely handle a rumor, you definitely couldn't handle the Circle room. It was built to mess with people’s senses, the room itself was a torture to be in. He could barely stay for an hour, maybe even less. 

He'd give you a minute, maybe two.

Then he's scrunching his nose. Again? Why was he thinking of you? Looking back, you weren't really all that eye-catching. Pretty, sure, but not enough to really get his attention. Was he horny or something? Or was it just the conversation he heard, replaying it over and over in his head. 

He'd been wrong before, you wouldn't be able to handle it. Not someone like you. Timid. Weak. You seriously thought you could talk to the guy who-in your words- 'ruined your life'. You didn't even understand why he did it. It wasn't out of revenge. The guy was probably a little angry, a little drunk, a little less controlled. He didn't spread those rumors out of retaliation. He spread them because he could. 

There's a tiny whimper that catches his attention. Nuyan is turning around, seeing the man finally start to move again. In hindsight, he could have just shook him awake, it might've made things move a bit faster. His grandpa would have appreciated his efficiency but Nuyan liked being lazy. 

Rhys is noticing the man stir, too. 

"Back to work," He roughly claps Nuyan on the back. 

He nods, "Yeah yeah," 

Back to work. 

-

Nuyan thought you only had two options: endure or leave. 

He'd forgotten one more: retaliation. 

'Apparently, he kept calling out his cousin's name' 

'I feel so bad for her. She had to go through so much.' 

'he's such a freak.' 

Each one is getting more and more ridiculous. Each one is getting more fake, but the school is eating it up, gobbling up each lie like it's the last thing they'd ever consume. It's so jarring how quickly the stories turned from a slut who slept with a guy on the soccer team, to a poor victim that accidentally gave a pervert a chance. Within days, the guy turned from proudly walking around to timidly slinking around corners, avoiding as many eyes as he could. 

And you? 

You're practically basking in the new attention. 

You play the part beautifully, feigning as the innocent, little, hopeless-romantic, not knowing how much of a freak the guy who asked you out was. You just wanted to give him a chance. You were curious. You didn't know. 

"I hope he doesn't hate me because of this," You're softly telling your new group of friends, "I tried to keep it on the down-low but I couldn't help but think it's a little strange. I just wanted to know if those...things were normal to ask of a partner, that's all." Your eyelashes flutter down, and you look so cinematically sad, that he almost can't blame the girls for buying your act. They crowd around you, giving you quips of sympathy. No, this is not your fault. You shouldn't feel bad about this. He was such a weirdo. You didn't deserve any of this. 

It's amazing. 

He feels a little less guilty about eavesdropping this time, more intent on listening in on the discussion. After days, the senior had finally managed to get you to come with him alone, to that same spot he'd left you crying just a week ago. Nuyan isn't worried about being spotted. He's high enough to where you won't see him unless you know where to look, yet close enough to hear every whisper. 

Now he's the one who looks nervous. The guy is shuffling under your passive gaze. You're waiting for him to speak first. So is Nuyan. His heart was pounding in anticipation. He wonders if the senior will snap. He wonders if he'll hit you, draw blood. Nuyan knows he wants to, but he's too much of a coward. He can't. Not with this many eyes on him, watching him like a hawk. Waiting for a wrong move.

"What the fuck," He starts, "Seriously, what the fuck?" 

You tilt your head innocently and Nuyan stifles a laugh. 

"What?" You ask. 

He curses, running a hand through his hair. He looks stressed, like he hasn't gotten sleep in days. His eyes are wild, desperate. 

You look so fucking pleased. 

"You-you fucking bitch, you know what," He's laughing, more out of stress than actual joy, "The entire fucking school is talking about how I have a fetish about my cousin. What the fuck?" 

Nuyan notices you flinch a little at that. You look a little guilty, a part of you thinking you may have gone too far. He's glad when the look is quickly washed away by cold steel.

"Wayner," Ah, there's his name, "Are you seriously blaming me right now?  It's not my fault my friends took a few things out of context. How am I supposed to do anything about it?" 

Your voice is soft, understanding, but it doesn't match your face. You're smiling and Wayner is paling because of those oh-so familiar words. Words he'd said to you not too long ago. Words he's probably begging to take back. 

You sigh, pulling your hands up in mock sympathy. Your lips open in a dramatic pout. Nuyan noticed how soft they looked. 

"Fine, I'm sorry, okay?" Your apology is just as fake as his once was. And you're sighing, like you've given him more time than he's worth. 

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. You know how rumors are, right? It'll probably die down in a few days, anyways," You're waving your hand dismissively. 

"If you want, we could go around and say they're fake, but it'd be a waste of time. No one would believe us," You pause. 

Carefully, you examine your dainty hand. It's so small. Nuyan imagines it'd fit perfectly in his. 

"No one would believe you." 

Your smile is friendly, but there's no warmth. Nuyan wouldn't call you tall but you're towering over the bastard, looking down at him like he's pure scum and Nuyen feels his heart beat a little faster. 

"You-you wanted an apology right?" He's stumbling over his words, "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. God I'm so fucking sorry. Just please-" 

"I did want an apology," You're correcting, "You humiliated me, for nothing. The worst part is...this isn't even the first time, is it? How many other girls have you bullied like this?" 

You're stepping closer, Nuyan is drinking each action, each expression from your gorgeous self. 

"Ever wonder how it was so easy to convince everyone? Because no one fucking likes you. They don't care if you did it or not, it's just funny. They don't care about your dignity, just how you didn't care for mine." 

You're turning around to head back in. Your hair looks so pretty today, Nuyan wants to touch it. 

"Maybe you should taste your own shit every once in a while."

You're practically glowing as you turn away, leaving the guy to crumble, and Nuyan is pulling away out of earshot. 

He was laughing. Fuck fuck fuck. You were so smart. You were so beautiful. So elegant. This entire stunt was so perfectly concocted, each step leading you closer to your malicious revenge. And you barely lifted a finger, just letting everything rot, fester, boil. Nuyan had no idea someone so average could be so ferocious. So vindictive. 

You were dangerous. 

He's sighing breathily, tracing his finger against the railing. His hands are covered in dust but he doesn't care. 

Fuck. 

Nuyan was in love.

[thequeenofcurses]

Cracks In the Mirror (I See You) Headcanons or

Blind!Gojo x Reader Headcanons

These headcanons were written with a female reader in mind, but they're 95% gender neutral. The actual full fic will continue with a female reader. This is read best in light mode!!!

cw: MAJOR SPOILER WARNINGS FOR CITM/ISY. okay, i should have wrote/posted this before starting the fic, but oh well >~<. if you plan to wait for this fic (which i don't really recommend because i am a slooow writer) DO NOT READ THESE HEADCANONS. Again, these headcanons are basically the whole plot, so SPOILER ALERT!

masterlist | jjk masterlist | read on AO3

Satoru Gojo, once the world’s most sought-after model, had it all: fame, fortune, god-like beauty, and an ego so obnoxious it practically walked into the room before he did. But underneath the glitz and glamor, he was unbearably full of himself and totally blind to everything that truly mattered.

Satoru Gojo was a total jerk the first time you meet. You accidentally bump into him at the doctor’s office, spilling your drink all over him. He’s dressed in very casual clothes, leaving no possible way to tip you off; and he instantly gets in your face, flaunting his reputation like it’s a trophy. You have no idea who he is, and you don’t care. His attitude is enough to turn you off instantly.

Satoru Gojo later finds out you're a model too — not nearly as famous, of course — but all that could change, he claims, when you’re both scheduled to audition for the same campaign. His plan? Take over the audition, show off his charm, and “help” you shine… in his shadow.

Satoru Gojo ends up auditioning with you. The chemistry is undeniable. The way you move, the tension in your eyes, the spark. Everyone in the room is breathless. For a moment, even he forgets it’s all just a scene. But the second the director calls cut, he’s reminded: it’s fake. You’re not real. He has a fiancée waiting at home.

Satoru Gojo, spiteful and cocky, picks you as his costar for his upcoming commercial, knowing that you dislike him. You’re surprisingly flattered until you realize it’s all a setup. He was planning to humiliate you in front of the entire Hollywood cast and crew. The result? A total fucking disaster. You’re the headline on TMZ: “Unknown Model’s Meltdown Caught on Camera!” It’s career-ruining.

Satoru Gojo goes to the bar to celebrate his recent engagement to another supermodel. The drinks are flowing, the congratulations never end… but his mind keeps drifting back to you. The audition scene you two filmed replays on a loop in his head, and for a fleeting second, he wishes it had been real. That it had truly been you and him in that moment, and not just two characters.

Satoru Gojo tries to call you, just to apologize, an extremely rare moment of vulnerability,  but when his fiancée catches wind of it, she shuts it down. She demands all of his attention, and just like that… he forgets all about you. Or pretends to.

Satoru Gojo sneaks out of his fiancée’s bed one night and tracks you down. He’s curious. He wants to see you without the glam, the studio lights, the pressure. He finds you walking your dog at a park, dressed in sweatpants, a tank top, messy hair, and to his surprise, he thinks you’re gorgeous. He almost approaches you… but he turns around and walks away.

Satoru Gojo shows up to set the next day for a makeup/screen test for his upcoming film. Impatient and irritable, he berates the makeup artists and crew, insisting everything be done ���his way.” But when filming begins, there’s a loud CLINK — something shatters above him. Before anyone can react, a cascade of chemical-laced glass falls onto him. It hits his face and eyes. He screams as it burns and he’s immediately rushed to the hospital.

Satoru Gojo goes into shock from the tragedy of it all. He falls into a short coma. You hear about it from your doctor (who knows you were a fan of his, once), and you're allowed to visit. You speak to him even though he can’t respond. You don’t owe him kindness after what he did to you, but you offer it anyway.

Satoru Gojo wakes up to darkness. Panicked, he yells for someone to turn the lights on. Nurses rush in, trying to calm him down. Eventually, Shoko arrives and breaks the news: she saved his life. But the acid caused irreparable damage. He’s permanently blind now. And he was lucky to survive at all.

Blind!Gojo, doesn’t feel lucky. He’s furious. He asks for his fiancée… only for Shoko to tell him she hasn’t shown up at all. Just a singular voicemail. No visit. No flowers. No love.

Blind!Gojo weeps for the first time when he’s alone. He touches his once-perfect face, now marred by acid burns and scarring. The world’s most beautiful man is now reduced to a tabloid tragedy. Another cautionary tale. Without his looks, who is he? If he didn’t have his beauty, what did he have?

Blind!Gojo is visited by you again and this time he’s awake. You chat with him casually, and reveal that you come to the hospital weekly for vague checkups. You offer to help him program his phone, show him how to use voice commands, even call a few of his contacts for him. Most don’t pick up.

Blind!Gojo offers to hire you as his personal assistant. With no more offers left for you in the modeling and acting industry and bills piling up, you take the job.

Blind!Gojo who despises you so much at first because he thinks you pity him, just like the rest of the world, but you don’t. You’re one of the only people who still sees his soul, not his past image. Working for him was awkward at first. He's cold. You're distant. But little by little, something shifts. With the money you save on the side, you start a podcast in your free time. Something just for you. Something with your name on it. You never imagined it would blow up.

Blind!Gojo who starts depending on you for more than just scheduling and errands. You're the only one who doesn’t tiptoe around him, who doesn’t pity him. You call him out on his attitude (even though he’s blind he’s still such an asshole sometimes), and for the first time in a long time, he listens.

Blind!Gojo, who gets even more depressed than he was when his fiancée, Mei Mei, sends a text that she wants to break the engagement. His phone read the words to him out loud, breaking his heart even more. She didn’t even have the gall to tell him face to face or at the very least a phone call so he could hear her actual voice.

Blind!Gojo, who accidentally stumbles across a podcast while scrolling through the voice commands on his phone: your podcast.

Blind!Gojo, who instantly recognizes your voice, soft, sweet, and unbearably honest. You talk about healing, about loss, about finding purpose after the world gives up on you. You never name him, but he hears himself in your words. One episode ends with a quiet confession:

“Sometimes the people who hurt us the most are the ones who need the most love. And sometimes... we give it anyway.”

Blind!Gojo, who doesn’t say anything for a while, just listens. Every episode. It becomes his nighttime ritual. He finds comfort in your voice in a way he never expected. He couldn’t find a better way to drift off to sleep than hearing the sound of your voice.

Blind!Gojo, who finally brings it up one day while you're helping him button a shirt for an outing. “So... this podcast of yours. You’ve got a good voice for radio.”

Your hands still on the last button, and instead of responding right away, you gently brush your fingers over the back of his hand. You admit it’s your side project, something that gave you hope when you had nothing else. You confidently offer:

“If you ever wanted to say something on there... I could set it up. Just to talk. Might make you feel better. And less of such an ass,” you say the last part quietly, but he still catches it

Blind!Gojo, who scoffs at the idea. Him? Opening up? But your voice lingers in his head long after you've left for the day. That night, he sends you a voice message, something short. Just a thought. A memory of his. You weave the audio into your next podcast, but leave the audience guessing who’s the owner behind the mystery voice.

Blind!Gojo, who becomes an unexpected hit! Your listeners fall in love with his dry humor, sarcasm, and moments of vulnerable honesty. From then on, he becomes a regular co-host, and for the very first time in his life, it’s not about his face, his body, or fame. It’s about his words. About him.

Blind!Gojo, who begins to heal through the podcast. Through you. You both start laughing more, talking more (off the mic) too. You start to have long, late-night conversations and early mornings filled with delicious coffee and soft smiles. You start to become his best friend, his lifeline, his anchor. He still got visits here and there from his other friends, like Suguru Geto, but you were something different, someone special. You were more than just his assistant.

Blind!Gojo, who is blindsided (ironically) when, one day, during a recording, you announce you're stepping away from the podcast. He stiffens beside you, the mic still hot. You don’t say why to the audience. But after the recording, you pull him aside and finally tell him the truth: you’re dying.

Blind!Gojo, who stands frozen, unable to form a sentence. You sit him down and tell him gently, with the grace only someone who’s accepted their fate can muster. Your voice is soft but steady, carrying the weight of truth like you’ve been holding it for a while.

Blind!Gojo, clenches his jaw, but he doesn't say a word. You continue and tell him your story because you have to, because he deserves to know.

It’s terminal: stage 4 cancer. It’s been coming for a while. And you didn’t want to be remembered as someone fading away; you wanted to live until the very end. If your parents had it their way, they would’ve had you locked up, hooked to machines, and waiting for miracles that wouldn’t come; but you didn’t want to just exist, you want to live. 

Thankfully, Doctor Zayne always took your side, allowing you to live your life freely as long as you came to your weekly checkups. Satoru Gojo becoming your best friend gave you something to live for.

Blind!Gojo, who finally breaks down, and for the first time, you let him hold you. The realization hits him like a truck. That day at the hospital – the day you two met, when he brushed you off like just another forgettable voice. You were there because you were dying. And he, blind in more ways than one, was cruel to the only person who truly saw him.

He’s come a long way since then, you both have, and he thanks you for it. That night, you share an intimacy that’s more than physical. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s everything that could have been. He uses his hands to explore your face, body, and every crevice he can find. And for the first time since the accident, while you both make love together, he feels he can truly see again.

“I… see you,” he whispers, large hands gently scanning your face. “I see you.”

Blind!Gojo, who wakes up to an empty bed weeks later. You're…  gone. You passed peacefully, but not without preparing something first.

Blind!Gojo, who receives a call from your doctor. You’d already signed the forms and left behind instructions. You wanted him to have your eyes. A match was possible (something you secretly discovered while making preparations). A chance, however slim, to give him back a part of what he lost.

Blind!Gojo, who undergoes the transplant, and for the first time since the accident, opens his eyes to a world that’s both brighter… and lonelier. The first thing he sees after his eyes are healed is your photo on the podcast desk.

Satoru Gojo, who returns to the podcast, now titled “Through Her Eyes”. He speaks about grief, growth, humility, and healing. He no longer talks just to be heard anymore. He talks because you taught him how to feel.

Satoru Gojo, once the world's most sought-after model, now just a man with a heart full of regret and eyes that only see because of the woman who changed him.

a/n: this was the first time i ever did headcanons before and it was lwk fun. it also helped me overall (as a writer) to thoroughly outline the story for the full fic (+ the full fic will have the extended spicy scene). im still working on it among my other million drafts, im just really slow whenever I don't have motivation.

not sure if you guys want to be tagged in this so PLEASE read the above cw notes so you don't get spoiled! tags: @emochosoluvr, @mashtura, @pickledsoda

[sitting-1n-silence]

Witch Sickness in Salem Massachusetts

[This is inspired by my observations as someone born in Salem, and then validated by conversations with other witches in and around Salem who observed a "Sickness" in Salem witches.]

Salem Massachusetts, Witch City, is a town known for it's witch trials that has become a bit of a tourist trap in the recent decades. Many aspiring witches move here to open businesses, write books, and to make a name for themselves as a Salem Witch. With all these different people trying to move in and make Salem part of their craft identity, I've observed them over the years as someone born here and seen mostly negative results. Which lead to people starting to use the term "Salem Sickness" to describe the effect this city has on witches minds.

These witches moving to Salem often start our level headed with their own goals of moving here because it's history and being a place you can call yourself a witch openly. As their ego and aims grow this goes to people's heads leading to their downfall, at least within their local reputation as they become victim of Salem's Witch Sickness.

Salem as a town has always had a reputation, within history especially but also locally that has nothing to do with the witchcraft. Salem has an aura of fear to it, and known to create a feeling of being an "unlucky" or "unsafe" place for some (especially during the October season). I and other locals I talk to think this is the land's way of keeping people with bad intentions out, among other factors. In recent years this has begun to shift with the increase in witch tourism (and gentrification), but within the surrounding towns you can still hear older folks tell stories about Salem from the 90s and 2000s.

Some of those messy stories are also about drama between rising Salem occultists such as Laurie Cabot, Christian Day, Lorelei Stathopoulos, and many more. A running theme seems to be rivalry, hypocrisy, and jealously, someone is always mad about what another knows or has and ruins their own reputation in the process. Frequently this devolves into frivolous legal battles, or the individuals sense of self importance gets the best of them as these dramas become all consuming in their mind. Making them defensive, off putting, and difficult to be around.

A classic example is Laurie Cabot, the official witch of Salem. She has publishes a few books, opened a few different shops, and really brought the modern witchcraft revival to Salem (tho if anyone knows of others doing public facing witchcraft before she got here please correct me, i'd prefer to be wrong). You could find her walking the streets of Salem dressed in black, her face painted, and her body decked out in jewelry. She was the face of witchcraft here for a while, and eventually it got to her head. She started a tradition of her own, the Cabot Kent tradition. Many things she's said earlier in her career have come back to bite her in the ass, especially about not cursing and her claims about the history of witchcraft.

On Laurie's website you can find the following quotes on her "understanding witchcraft" page where she makes the following claims about devils in witchcraft,

"Demons such as Satan and Lucifer are the relatively recent fabrication of the Judeo-Christian faiths to cow their ‘believers’ into obedience and have nothing to do with us.  We were around way before the Christians or the Jews, which is why they usurped so many of our traditions, but that is another story entirely.  Our religion has no evil deities; our philosophy requires no fear tactics to function, only education and enlightenment."

This can be found to be untrue with just a little research into history. Also who is this "We" she loves to talk about, is it all witches, pagans, or her tradition of witchcraft?

She also says the following about her tradition in regards to cursing,

"We use our Magick and our science to get out of harm’s way and to help others do the same. We do not return harm or incorrect energy to those that wish it upon us, we neutralize it so it can harm none.  It is best to make the fire ‘cease to be’ than to drown it with water."

These words have come back to haunt her. She she has found herself in the local news a lot for cursing people, one example here involves a doll left on someone's lawn. I can't find the original news article but this blog mentioned an incident where cursed the Salem police (I don't support their opinions, but it's the only source of this incident I can find at the moment). I remember when this happened and hearing everyone talk about it as it did a number on the way the community saw her. At the same time other people's already difficult reputations were beginning to sour.

Christian Day was consistently finding himself in hot water when he came to Salem and opened his own stores here. Locally there was talk about him jumping from group to group, burning bridges behind him as he want. Creating lots of drama, such as this case where he and Lori Bruno ended up in court. Which was only one of such cases for him. There was also an incident where Day allegedly doxed someone, you can read the person's blog about it here. All of this local drama eventually lead to Day moving away from the city, but still managed to bring this curse of witch drama with him to New Orleans where his coven and many elders denounced him (and those that support him, such as Brian Cain) for his behavior. From what I hear things have not been great lately.

The current owner of the store Crow Haven Corner, the oldest witch shop in Salem, has also found herself in trouble with the law landing her self in the local news for a brawl during a street fair in downtown Salem. I know this incident well because I worked for Joanna Thomas (another person who came to Salem to open a witch business) in college and heard a lot about this feud, among other local dramas.

The writer and practitioner of magic Damien Echols came to Salem thinking he could find safety here as a witch, but instead found himself experience what was called a modern day witch hunt. Leading to him swiftly moving away too.

All of this isn't behind Salem either, a lot of interpersonal witch drama still happens in the city. It's just kept a little more quiet because of the way all of this was handled in the past, and the harm it did to these people's reputations. So now these store owners try to hide their transgressions and troubles betters, but the local community still sees it as a symptoms of the city's witch sickness. These owners are always having falling outs, they all gossip about each other while smiling to people's faces at events. There's rumors of theft, plagiarism, under paying and mistreatment of employees, wrongful terminations. A lot of this just doesn't reach the surface, or just hasn't yet, because their targets haven't had the money to make as much noise. Current witch store owners know the history here in the city, and the know the way it has made the minds of witches sick, so they try to be mindful of this, but very often fail.

Why is there this Witch Sickness in Salem?

I've heard a few different local theories on why Witch City carries this witch sickness. Some people think it's because there was never any real "witches" in Salem, so the land doesn't like to be known as a harbor for witches. Salem's witch history is full of misinformation and theories about what happened here, and that history isn't really the point of this post so I'm gonna quickly skim through it. Essentially Salem, as many know, was where a major witch hysteria occurred in the United States (but there were other places throughout the country also seeing a rise in accusations of witchcraft). Where 2 young girls fell suddenly ill and started acting very strange. There was so explanation for this behavior, and prayer and medicine didn't work, so the community thought it MUST be witchcraft as the victims started to report spectral visitations and painful sensations. This lead to the mass hysteria where 150-200 people were jailed, 14 women and 5 men were hung, one was tortured to dead, and 5+ died in jail. The community response to the accusations of witchcraft that were thrown around was harsh, cruel, and trauma filled.

This Massachusetts Bay Colony was primed for this as there was a strong belief in the Devil here among the English settlers, there was lingering fear of attack from the local indigenous tribes as well from the French leading to boundary and boarder disputes. Tensions were very high at this moment in Salem's history. Changes with the city cheater were also happening, causing some internal shifts to occur too. Which didn't help the rising witchcraft suspicions. Some changes were made to the legal system that allowed spectral evidence to be used in court, and this seems to be have really been the tipping point in these trials. Eventually this was undone, and people were retried and released. But the damaged had been down, to these people, and the land they lived on by bringing forth all this social strife.

As modern scholars seem to agree there were no witches in Salem, and that many factors contributed to the outburst in witch accusations such as the things i mentioned above. This page from a local museum talks more about this, i recommend exploring. Another museum also discusses the debunking of the ergot theory which i recommend too. I've seen conversion syndrome (where psychological stress manifests as psychical symptoms) suggested by a few different articles for the cause of Salem's witch hysteria, which was then fed by a need to scapegoat all their community stressors. All of this to say, Salem was never a place where witches faced injustice. So creating a whole tourist industry and witch identity out of this idea has maybe lead to the land cursing these community leaders for building a name for themselves of the backs of these innocent dead.

Another theory I have heard thrown around is the land under Salem will reject anyone who attempts to settle here and use it for their gain. As the early European settlers of Salem had no claim to this land. This area was home to the Naumkeag branch of the Massachusett tribe, and the Naumkeag were a nomadic group. So when settlers arrived they saw the empty homes the Naumkeag left and wrongfully thought the place to be abandoned and took up residence in these structures. Conditions between these groups started off predominantly peaceful, but quickly soured as the settlers spread illness and continued to take up residence in structures and spaces the Naumkeag used seasonally for fishing and gathering. Leading to increased tension, but some treaties and land deeds were signed (tho there is debate on if they were intended to be permanent or temporary. As well as if the Massachusett intended to sell the land or just allow occupancy of it. [More about these land deeds can be found here]). So all this trauma has lead to the land pushing back against anyone moving here to extract value from it.

This history of European settlers moving here to use this land for its resources and their gain on top of the community trauma that was Salem's witch hysteria seems to have effected this place in such a away that it rejects people, especially witches, moving into town to capitalize on this history. Creating a Salem Witch Sickness of the mind that ruins their reputation and sometimes more.

Some people sense it and know to move away, but others try to stay and persist with mixed results. Others who open shops, I see this particularly with those born here or the surrounding areas, know that silence seems to the best policy here in Salem to avoid these types of situations. Practicing in the quiet corners of the city, or sticking to yourself leads to some of the longest lasting establishments with the most untarnished records. As Salem's Witch Sickness seems to target the boisterous and hungry.

[elvenbeard]

SECOND CONFLICT - ANNIVERSARY EDITION

release date: May 19th 2025

I did some very special blorbo modding lately, trying to create a new appearance for Kerry based on his netpage photo to start bridging the gap between 2023 and 2077 :D The release date today was a really good motivator! Some more deets below the cut!

This was the first time I made a mesh for cyberpunk entirely from scratch (somewhat) - but my brain loves new challenges and learning stuff like this :D I started out with the weights and the mesh of his 2077 neck cyberware as a base, but in the end reweighted the new neck cyberware with his head mesh xD Lots of trial and error, but I'm actually super stoked with the result :D I'm not entirely new to blender, I have to add, but it was still a challenge and playing around til I had something I liked!

Personal headcanon timeline ramblings: after Johnny's death (and before already as well) Kerry's been super duper invested in his solo career obviously. I hc that during that time he played so many shows that he ruined his vocal cords with it for good. To not lose what he had built for himself until then, career-wise, but also with how important music in general is to him, it was a no-brainer to opt for a voicebox implant. I decide to interpret his "what, you always said I don't hit the notes right" line towards Johnny in 2077 when he asks about the implant, is just deflection, bc the truth is still painful.

^ that's the inspo pic I was going by, to be found on his netpage in the browser :D I think in his concept art the neck cyberware also looks a bit like this, more detailed etc. for his older appearance. And also, I like to interpet the "lines" visible on his neck sort of underneath his 2077 cyberware are remants/scars covered up from this older implant. It's not 1:1 the same, because this pic here is way too small XD so I took some liberties and for example added the Second Conflict logo (fitting his tattoo he might have gotten for this occasion as well!)

And then this here, ofc xD

Yoinked from Reddit

I might edit his hair a bit more for the overall appearance to make it even more like in the netpage photo, a little more floofy and forward facing. And I'm looking forward to making more appearances like that for him in the future, with some custom mesh editing etc. as learning opportunities uwu

[crinosg]

Hey remember that time that The Tenth Doctor ruined a Prime Ministers political career and derailed Britian's "golden age" because she decided to blow up a group of sadistic murderous slavers? And how that directly led to the Master taking over the earth?

Also remember that time The Tenth Doctor wiped out billions of Racnoss children?

Or trapped a family of murderous aliens in inescapable traps where they can never die?

But no, Fifteen should be made to feel bad because he hologram shocked an asshole who was about to commit mass murder on a scale so massive that somewhere Davros just got what passes for a hard on for him and he isn't entirely sure why.

"Belinda should have gotten mad and rejected the Doctor after what he did." Okay. What good would that do? Like honestly what could she have possibly said or done to him that would be worse than the hell he was clearly putting himself through in his own head the moment he started thinking clearly again?

It wouldn't have made her feel any better either! Rejecting him would've left her with no support. It would've built a wall between them. She'd be miserable, he'd be miserable, nobody would be happy and nobody would get better.

Instead, she informed him that what he did scared her. There was no need to moralize about it being Wrong. He knew that! He knew that when he was doing it. She expressed how she felt, and affirmed that she still cared about him.

IOW, she handled it like a mature adult who regularly deals with people in high-stress situations. That's how you should handle someone who acted out while triggered.

[dearjoons]

📔 CLASSPRESIDENT!JIMIN HEADCANNONS

warnings: classpresident!jimin x brainsandbrawns!reader. he’s basically a smarter & bitchier tristan dugray. private school au. long time rivals with tension. power couple who isn’t a couple yet but SO should be. rich boy with a pride problem.

lulu speaks: he’s hot i want him BHADDD

✎ classpresident!jimin whose parents are part of the school board, and are the main funders of the school.

✎ classpresident!jimin who ran for class president and won by a landslide. it was mostly because his peers are scared to death of him, and because nobody else even bothered to run against him.

✎ classpresident!jimin who finishes physics tests 20 minutes early and leaves students feeling like idiots just for glancing at their calculator.

✎ classpresident!jimin who will give you detention for being late and then walk you to class himself, smirking the entire time down.

✎ classpresident!jimin who pulls your chair out and holds the door for you, but not for anyone else. ever. if someone points it out, he brushes it off with, “she’s too high-maintenance to be trusted with a door.”

✎ classpresident!jimin who shoots anyone who makes you laugh death stares, but only because he knows he’s never even been close to doing that—and he’ll likely never be.

✎ classpresident!jimin who absolutely sabotages anyone who tries to date you. he grades them harshly on their assignments because he’s a TA, tells teachers they were talking during a fire drill, spreads rumors that could ruin careers, all while you are blissfully unaware.

✎ classpresident!jimin who pretends he doesn’t remember your valentine’s day kiss from 4th grade. (it was a dare. it lasted a second. you definetly forgot about it by now, right???)

✎ classpresident!jimin who pulled strings with the professor to switch out your chem partner because he was too flirty.

✎ classpresident!jimin who remembers how his face used to get all red and his hands used to get all sweaty when he had to sit next to you in 2nd grade.

✎ classpresident!jimin who tried to actually flirt exactly once—you laughed in his face. he played it off, but he actually went home and screamed into his pillow.

✎ classpresident!jimin who has literally NEVER interrupted you when you’re speaking in class. not once. even if you’re wrong, even if he’s dying to correct you. he waits, because you’re the only person he respects at that level.

✎ classpresident!jimin who replies with “make me” evrey time you tell him to shut up.

✎ classpresident!jimin who 100% knows the way you smell. the actual name of your perfume—he looked it up. and now, when he catches whiffs of it in public, his head whips around like a dog hearing a toy jingle.

✎ classpresident!jimin who is in love with you—no matter what he says or how he rolls his eyes. painfully, hopelessly, endlessly in love with you, and he’ll take it to his grave…unless you find out.

lulu speaks pt2: when i found this picture of jimin i was half asleep and literally didn’t know if i was hallucinating or not. i wasn’t!! it’s real 💆🏻‍♀️

cai bot. masterlist. navigation.

[sirstrolllancelot]

Hate on Stroll has been forced for so many years. Yes, it’s understandable he wasn’t the best driver on the grid, but he is not the worst. For example, Yuki Tsunoda crashed into walls, yet people didn’t treat him as badly as Lance. Some said, “What an idiot!” or “He should go back to the Junior RB team!” but most people were kinder, and he still has a strong fanbase.

Tsunoda is backed by Honda he’s a sponsored driver too. And I say this with no hate at all he’s actually my second favorite on the grid. When a driver is sponsored, it’s okay, but if it’s his father, it’s wrong? Why is that? Why are people more forgiving or respectful when it’s a company than when it’s a parent?

There’s also a double standard with Max Verstappen. When he gets mad, people call him ‘Mad Max’ and even say he’s hot! First of all, it’s toxic… but that’s not the point here. When Lance gets mad, haters say he is spoiled and badly behaved. They bring up one or two incidents and ignore everything else.

He’s not friends with haters, but he is friends with most drivers. I don’t think anyone in the paddock would like him if he were the person haters say he is.

People forget Stroll has achieved a pole position and three podium finishes in his F1 career. He is still developing his driving skills, but the car is, let’s say, “weak.” Alonso, who’s been driving for over 15 years, struggles with that car too. Stroll has been called a “single-minded starter,” known for making up places on the first lap and fighting for points.

“He is a millionaire, spoiled, and doesn’t have to do anything.” In reality, he has to train like every other driver. F1 training is one of the hardest in all sports! People forget: NO ONE gets into Formula 1 without serious work. Money might help get noticed, but it won’t keep a driver there. Not when racing at over 300 km/h, under brutal G-forces, with physical and mental training among the toughest in sport. If a driver is lazy, they crash. If they’re not fit, they could die. EDIT: He was driving with BOTH BROKEN wrists! He was passing out and still driving!

Maybe some jealousy comes from his close relationship with his father. His father supports him strongly, and that’s something many people don’t understand. It’s almost common in Jewish families to be friends with parents.

At the start, he was happy, just look at videos with Sebastian Vettel where he was smiling and laughing. Now, he seems distant. Aston Martin mostly shares posts about Fernando Alonso. The hate has made Lance stop showing himself publicly. It breaks my heart. Especially because he is introverted. Haters have only made him more closed off.

I like him because he seems the most real person there. No matter what people say, even haters commented on one video (the one where he was interviewed in Canada by Sky Sports) that he seems genuine.

I think the hate has dimmed the spark in his eyes. I don’t want to say he lost passion for the sport, but something definitely changed, he was amazing in F3. It’s sad to watch.

It’s exhausting to see talent and passion hidden by jealousy and hate. I wish the F1 community would focus more on racing and less on ruining lives.

[ambriel-angstwitch]

Oh she definitely would. But that’s such a funny concept that she just goes “Blood? Well sounds like a place I should be” Kit does not have the best self preservation skills but somehow it’s worked out so far. She’s too helpful. The passing out would definitely stress her out a little. Because then she’d definitely have to wake Kore back up again. Because she can start on closing the wounds but she’d need to talk to Kore, to be able to figure out blood type. I mean theoretically Kore could pass out and not need a blood transfusion because you can loose as little as 15% blood loss and pass out (but that’s just blood loss if you factor in exhaustion from a fight they could pass out sooner) and you usually need transfusion at 20% or more so there is a window there where they wouldn’t necessarily need a blood transfusion.

The more consistent messages and being able to text them through some basic things would be a relief for Kit.

Oooh the drama! Yes that’s a great way for them to really solidify the bond. Also poor Kit would be stressing about that experience. She would be praying they don’t remember what she looks like. She loves helping people, but she has a career. She has a plan that getting arrested would really ruin. The phone is a reassurance but she certainly hopes she doesn’t have to use it.

Angel of Death strikes again(Villain Kore)

*the main cast fighting Romeo* *cars fly or something* *his bots manage to knock them away and out* *his phone/communicator rings* <<Hey there Rom-com>> ”Kore?”

<<in the flesh, or I guess not since we’re not face to face, you know, one really shouldn’t leave their home unattended>>

*his face falls* *he does some clicking**shocked face as he realises the system is down*

“Youre in my base? what are you doing there?”

*scenery change, Romeo’s base, The Angel of Death stands there*

“Well I came to visit but you weren’t home, the awful host that you are”

<<what did you do!?>>

“Oh nothing much, just dismantled your security system, broke in, made your bots break each other and now… I’m downloading all your data!”

<<WHAT!?>>

*there’s a moment of silence as Romeo considers his options, he is distracted*

<<why are you even telling me this?>> ”To distract you from the fight” :D

*a series of crashes is heard from the comms, scenery changes, fight scene* *owlette managed to get the rubble off of herself and attacked him*

Sorry for the wait everyone, got a little too invested in this random ass au(and also school)

anyways, here’s prompt 13: As a villain/gone rogue

I’ve been thinking, what could possibly have happened that Kore “I can’t leave cause my family would be in danger and everyone at GT would have to endure more pain” Faulkner went rogue, and I think it’s a mix of things

first, her family. Dunno if they would die or just get out of GT’s area of influence but they would need to be at least safe(or, well, dead)

secondly, something would have to force her out. Probably a big stunt that would push into motion the “you don’t leave GT in anything other than a coffin” rule. Also As I am currently obsessed w/ the Apothecary diaries maybe she faked her death( I will keep the way they’d do it secret cause spoilers) but then made it very known that she’s alive? I don’t know

anyways, now known as The Angel of Death(courtesy of my Philza Minecraft fixation) she puts her brain 100% into use, mostly acting as a hacker menace for GT and Romeo and stuff, working on Elodie Protocol- a programme meant to destroy all GT data at once, every experiment, every report, everything that makes it possible to run GT, and sometimes making appearances in person. Her implant is cracked because of whatever happened that made her leave, but I don’t know what that does to them.

anyways, thanks for your patience, if you made it this far, here is a potato 🥔

[angel-writes-here]

Covenant

Choi Seunghyun x AFAB! Reader x G-Dragon Synopsis: After your reunion with Seunghyun, it's time to tell come clean to both the guys about what you want, but a woman scorned tries her best to rip it apart. Warnings: Angst, fluff, SMUT, unprotected p in v, protected p in a, anal, oral (both receiving) fingering, (not in this order), i think that's it? Let me know if i missed something A/N: Part 9! I apologize for how long this took to put out, but i wanted to be sure it moved forward correctly and not just because I wanted to put out a chapter. Thank y'all for your patience! I appreciate each and every one of you so v much!

The next morning you’re awake before Seunghyun, making breakfast in the kitchen when the TV catches your eye.

“Korean Idol’s T.O.P’s marriage a sham? Sources say there’s evidence that the woman he married wasn’t for love, but rather to appease fans and management following his countless scandals with drugs, parties and petty theft.” You drop your spatula, the utensil hitting the floor as you race over to the living room to turn the tv up.

You begin to hear an all too familiar voice.

“I don’t see why you needed to do this.”

“I told you, management said a marriage was the best option for building my image up again.”

“You’ve married me.”

“Y/n wasn’t in the public eye and lets be honest, she looks more conservative.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, but I’ll be home soon.” The audio finishes and your heart is racing against your ribs.

Then there was this text exchange that was submitted by our anonymous source.

“Yeah I’ll bet she’s anonymous,” you grumble to yourself.

“As you can see here,” the reporter begins, “The messages were exchanged only a couple days ago.” Your eye brows shoot up as the image appears on the tv screen.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving her soon.” That was from Seunghyun

“Good, and we can get back to our happy lives.”

“I miss you so bad, call me and let me hear you.”

“😈”

You scoff at the tv and turn around to go back to the food, only to find Seunghyun standing there, scratching the back of his neck, a guilty look on his face. A silent understanding settling between you. You purse your lips.

“When did you tell her that?” you could barely whisper it out.

“It was the first night you were in the hotel, I, I thought we were done for good and I didn’t know what I know now. You have to believe me.” He sounds like he’s begging.

You nod your head.

“I should call Ji,” you excuse yourself to the kitchen, cutting off the stove.

Exiting to a back room you feel the weight of the world hit you. You take a deep breath as you pull out your phone. You press on Jiyong’s name and hold the phone up to your ear.

“Hey, jagiya, ready to leave?”

“Actually, can you come over? I need to talk to you, with Seunghyun.” Jiyong’s stomach drops.

“Did something happen? I mean I had a feeling it would, but,”

“Jiyong, please, I wanna talk about it in person.”

“Ok, give me about half an hour and I’ll be there.” You say your goodbyes and hang up the phone.

Seunghyun is sitting on the couch, head in his hands as he stares at his phone.

“Jiyong’s coming over, so you might want to,” you trail off as you notice his sunken in face.

“What’s wrong?” you ask with a quirked brow.

“The label is threatening to drop to me because of Hae,” he says staring at the floor.

“What? Are you serious?”

“They said it makes me look bad and they don’t know if they can repair the damage. A final decision will be made in the coming days.”

“Is there anything we can do?” you sit down beside him putting a hand on his thigh. He peers at you, defeat present in his sweet dark eyes.

“Not really. Being seen out together can’t hurt, but it will raise questions.” He admits.

“I think people will have even more questions if we hide away. Besides, it’s not like we don’t love each other,” you cautiously let out. Seunghyun smiles at you, placing a quick peck to your lips.

“I know, but with this damning evidence, it could ruin my career, everything I’ve wanted since I was a kid, everything I worked so hard for.” You begin to rub his back and pull him into you.

“We’ll figure this out, ok? I promise,” you whisper as you place a kiss to the crown of his head.

-

Jiyong knocks on the door, his stomach in his throat. When he didn’t get a call last night, he was pretty sure he knew why. And now he thinks he knows what you’re going to say.

“Hey, baby.” You grin and allow him to walk inside.

Baby? That throws him off.

You hug his neck, his arms holding you close by your waist.

“I missed you last night,” he says into your ear.

“I missed you too,” you smile before caressing his face and planting a sweet kiss on his lips.

“Are we leaving?” he asks, voice a little hopeful.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” you say as you guide him to the couch in the living room.

“Please, sit,” you motion for him to sit by Seunghyun who’s patiently waiting on the couch all ready. The two exchange greetings, both looking at you curiously. You sigh, your nerves beginning to get the better of you.

“Both of you are special to me,” you begin with a deep breath. Neither boy had a readable expression.

“I don’t think I can choose between you. Seunghyun we’ve been through a hell of a lot and we’ve overcome it despite the odds. Jiyong, when we’re together it’s like we’re made for each other. I don’t want to lose either of you, and I don’t think I can be just friends with you.” You walk over and bend down between them looking up into their eyes.

“I love you, both. I don’t want to choose,” you mumble and your rest your left hand on Ji’s knee and you’re right on Seunghyun’s.

“So wait, you’re not breaking up with me?” Jiyong asks.

“Nope,” you smile sheepishly.

“But you want to date both of us?”

“I do,” you say with a deep breath.

“But you’re married to him,” Jiyong looks to Seunghyun who’s face is stoic.

“I am,” Seunghyun touches your hand to interject.

“She loves you, man. I can see it in the way she looks at you. It’s not the same way she looks at me,” he admits. You feel a pit in your stomach.

“She needs you,” he finishes.

“You’re ok with this?” Jiyong is shocked.

“If it means I don’t lose her, I’ll do whatever it takes.” He says with finality. Jiyong looks between you for a brief moment before pulling you up to him to kiss your lips. You match his speed, smiling against his mouth. You pull back with a giggle, before leaning over to Seunghyun to kiss his lips.

“I love you guys.” You say as warmth spreads through your body as you settle between them.

-

The day is spent with the three of you together, talking, watching movies, all three of you content.

That is, until Seunghyun’s phone rings. He takes it to another room, away from the movie, and you curl up next to Jiyong as he pauses it, waiting for his friend.

“Hello?” the two of you can hear him from the little hallway.

“Hey, baby, did you see my little news story?” Hae’s voice drips of mockery on the other side of the phone. Seunghyun’s fists bottle up.

“I get that you’re pissed but did you really have to try and ruin my career?”

“I promised I’d ruin you, Oppa, and I always keep my promises.” She giggles.

“You’re vindictive,” he seethes.

“Oh? You wanna see revenge, just wait till your precious wife gets a load of tomorrow’s story,” she says before hanging up the phone.

Seunghyun tries calling her back, but it’s no use. She doesn’t answer. Seunghyun walks back out to the living room, his face disheveled.

“What’s wrong?” You get up from where you sitting and walk over to him.

“Hae’s got something else planned and I don’t know how to shelter you from it,” he admits quietly. Jiyong gets up, coming up behind you.

“I don’t need to be sheltered; I just need you to be open and honest with me. What else does she have?”

“Nothing that I know of.” The three of you exchange looks.

“Let’s just watch the movie, ok? Take a breather and we’ll deal with whatever bs she pulls, together.” You take both of their hands, kissing the back of each one before the three of you resume the movie.

-

Later that night Seunghyun gets another call, it’s from his manager saying he needs to meet with him at the studio; that it’s important.

“I gotta go, I’ll be back later.” He informs you in the kitchen. Jiyong walks out of the bathroom hearing the news.

“Is everything ok?”

“Manager says I gotta meet him at the studio.” He shrugs before kissing your lips sweetly and grabbing his keys.

“What about Ji?” you call out.

“He just said I needed to meet him.” You nod before going back to dinner.

-

Seunghyun pulls up to the building, but his manager’s car isn’t there. He shoots him a text letting him know he’ll wait inside for him. Seunghyun gets up to the recording studio and he walks in, shutting the door behind him. He smells a familiar scent of perfume.

“Hey baby,” Hae spins around in the chair.

“Oh what the hell,” he sighs.

“I’m going home.”

“Seunghyun, wait!” she calls desperately. He goes to open the door but she tugs him away from it.

“Let me go!” he almost shouts at her.

“I know I fucked up, I never should’ve sent those pictures. I never should’ve aired out your business. I’m sorry, if I could take it back I would!” she pleads with him.

“Yeah, whatever.” He goes to turn from her, but once again she spins him to her.

I’m serious, I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me,” her nail runs across the front of his shirt down his chest.

He puts his hands on her shoulders.

“We are over, I forgive you, but we are done. Do not call me. Do not text me. Do not say my name. Don’t even think about me.” She looks hurt, something Seunghyun hates to see on anyone.

“Can I least have one last hug?” she practically whimpers. He sighs and embraces her. As they pull apart, she captures his lips in a forced kiss. He manages to push her off.

“What the fuck?” He spats before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“Can you blame for wanting a better goodbye after what we had? We had something special, and I know you miss me.”

“I’d rather sandpaper a tigers ass, hang meat around my neck and be with said tiger in a porta potty trying to fight him off than get back with you.”

“You don’t mean that,” she gasps.

“Where’s the meat?”

“Seunghyun!”

“Hae I’m done with you. Leave me the hell alone.”

“Tell me you don’t miss this,” she says as she goes to remove her top, a desperate attempt to grab his attention.

“I don’t,” he huffs as he walks out of the door, slamming it behind him.

-

Back at home, you’re on the couch with Jiyong eating dinner, watching fan edits of big bang on Instagram.

“You think Seunghyun’s ok?” you ask suddenly.

“Seems to be, I haven’t gotten anything from him. I wonder why he had to go in so late. We don’t resume the tour until next week.” He explains. You nod, a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach.

It’s about ten minutes later that Seunghyun flies through the door, obviously stressed.

“Woah, hey, y/n made dinner.” Jiyong says surprised by the sudden burst of noise.

“I’m not hungry right now,” he grumbles.

“Ok, how was the studio?”

Seunghyun just walks away, not answering his friend. He slams the door to his bedroom, startling his friend. You come out of the bathroom, eyeing Jiyong. He shrugs his shoulders. You knock on Seunghyun’s door but he doesn’t answer.

“Baby?” you call. He hears you, his stomach twisting at the pet name. He didn’t want to kiss her, his lips didn’t even move, but he still feels guilty.

He opens the door, pulling you into the room. He smashes his lips to yours. It’s not like you’d ever find out. He didn’t need to tell you, to make you worry or frustrate you, right? I mean what if you didn’t believe him?

“What’s gotten into you?” you pull back from him, an amused giggle falling from your lips.

“I missed you while I was gone,” he smiles, cupping your face and looking at you like he’s memorizing your face.

“Are you sure that’s it?” He nods before kissing you deeply again. Your lips move in sync, his tongue tasting yours. Your arms wrap around his neck, lost in the moment. His hands roam your body, your chest, torso and ass.

“wanna taste,” He mumbles, moving you to the bed.

“Seunghyun,” you giggle as he pushes you down, bending down in front of you.

“Woah, hey, baby what’s going on?” You push him by his shoulder, looking into his eyes.

“I just want you,” he breathes.

You nod, “Ok, I’m here.” You kiss his lips sweetly before laying back, easily accessible to him in a large t shirt and panties. His lips brush your thighs, coming to your clothed core placing a soft kiss to you and you chuckle quietly at his gentleness. He slips your panties off, kissing your clit once before swirling his tongue around it. You gasp, your knees bending. Your hand flies to your husbands head, pushing him closer to your core.

“Fuck,” you breathe as pleasure waves are sent throughout your body. Seunghyun can feel it, the guilt eating away at him. He thought maybe eating you would help, but it’s doesn’t.

“Ah, shit,” you choke out as he flicks his tongue faster, the only thing on his mind is trying to make you feel good. Your back arches off the bed.

-

Jiyong is in the kitchen, cleaning up when he hears it. The moaning and cursing that’s flying from your lips. He chews on his cheek, unsure of how to feel.

Jiyong decides to knock on the door. The noise stops immediately and there’s a brief pause and a little whispering. He can only imagine how red your face is. He’s surprised when he see’s you answer the door, a lustful look in your eyes.

You take his hand and pull him into the room, shutting the door behind him. You go back to your position on the bed, Jiyong’s eyes slightly wide as Seunghyun goes back to licking your wet pussy and you reach out for Jiyong’s hand. He takes it and you pull him to the bed, allowing him to remove your t shirt exposing your breast to both of them. Seunghyun moans against you, causing your hips to buck. Jiyong looks to you, and you nod with your bottom lip between your teeth.

He bends down, kissing your lips before moving his lips down to your hard buds, his tongue swirling over it, pleasure beginning to build in your stomach.

“Fuck, mm, feels so good,” your right hand goes to Seunghyun’s hair, your left threads through Jiyong’s as they worship your body with their mouths.

“Fuck, ah fuck, I’m close,” you whimper. Your breathing turns to gasps as your heart rate escalates.

“Cum for me baby,” Seunghyun encourages.

“Come on, angel,” Jiyong whispers as his hands roll over you peaked buds. Your hands fist the sheets beneath you as your orgasm rips through you, hard. Your body shakes as Seunghyun licks up the mess.

“Want you, both of you,” you mumble out. You kiss Jiyong again, lust and passion mixed as Seunghyun’s tongue flicks over your all too sensitive clit; hips jerking violently in response along with a whine into Jiyong’s mouth.

“He make you feel good, baby?” Jiyong asks.

“Mhm,” you nod as Seunghyun sucks a hickey underneath your bust line.

Jiyong and Seunghyun undress, putting you on your hands and knees.

“Ready?” he asks and you nod, head dropping as he pushes into you, a moan erupting in your throat.

“Fuck,” you groan as you feel him bottom out.

“God, you’re so tight,” he grunts. Seunghyun lifts your head with his index finger and thumb.

You lick your lips at his leaking tip.

“Open,” he says gently as Jiyong starts to rock his hips, watching you closely. You open your mouth, allowing Seunghyun to use it as he pleases. He rocks his hips as your swirl your tongue the best you can with the pleasure that’s coursing through your body.

“Fuck, you’re such a good girl, taking both our cocks so well, like you’re made for us.” Seunghyun grunts.

“Fuck, keep doing that.” Jiyong gasps as your walls flutter at his praise.

“Fuck you’re doing so good, keep going baby, you can take it, I know you can.” Your walls once again flutter and Jiyong’s breathing comes out in pants as he speeds up, both of them matching each other’s rhythm.

“Fuck,” Jiyong grunts as he slaps your ass, your eyes widening at the unexpected contact.

“Giggles so pretty,” he mumurs looking up at his best friend.

“You see that? Watch,” he says playfully slapping your ass cheek again. You moan around Seunghyun’s cock.

“Oh, she likes it too.” He mocks. Jiyong slaps your ass a few more times, rubbing the area after each once to help the sting. Jiyong starts slamming into you, causing your jaw to go slack, still trying to suck him off, but it’s no use, your body is responding to Jiyong and the stimulation. Seunghyun can sense it, taking his cock from your mouth pumping himself quickly.

“Cum with me, baby.” Jiyong grunts and you can feel how close he his by the twitching you’re feeling.

Jiyong’s hips move at lightening speed, Seunghyun’s hand is pumping like crazy and at the same time, all three of you cum together, your nails digging into the mattress as Seunghyun’s ropes paint your face, his head titled back. Jiyongs fingers digging deep into your hips, sure to cause bruising. Jiyong pulls out, breathing heavily as you fall on our stomach. Seunghyun grabs a warm damp rag, cleaning your face off for you before sitting you back up.

“You think we’re done, jagiya?” He chuckles as he helps you to your knees. Jiyong smirks and kisses your stomach a few times, a comforting gesture.

You look at them confused and they exchange a knowing look. Jiyong slides a condom onto his cock, positioning himself behind you and Seunghyun positions his body in front, both guys pumping themselves a few times to get the blood flowing.

“Oh shit,” you gasp quietly, causing both of them to chuckle.

“If you don’t want this,” Jiyong starts, the tip pressing on your back door.

“No, no, please.” You say before capturing his lips into a sweet kiss just over your shoulder. He grabs a bit of lube, putting it on your back hole.

“Stop me if it hurts,” he says as he rubs extra lube on his condom covered cock.

“Ok,” you breathe as you try to relax.

“Just look at me,” Seunghyun says as he puts his forehead on yours. You take a deep breath as Jiyong pushes into your ass, the stretch odd, feeling stuffed. He moans forehead falling to the back of your neck. You take another deep breath, trying to steady yourself and get used to the feeling.

You look at Seunghyun and nod, allowing him to push himself into your wet cunt.

“Holy shit,” you breathe as he moans.

“You ok, baby?” Jiyong asks between kisses to your neck.

“Yeah, just, ah, just give me a second.” You sigh as you take in the feeling of being filled by the two men you love.

“Ok, I’m ready.” You whisper and they both start off slow, gentle, giving you plenty of time to adjust.

“Oh fuck,” you groan as your head falls back. Jiyongs arms around your waist holding you close as the two sandwich you. Quickly your boys move faster, chasing not only your high, but their own.

“Fuck you feel so good. You are made for us.” Jiyong whispers in your ear as he leaves sloppy kisses on  your neck, ones that you can feel will turn into hickeys, Seunghyun doing the same thing on the other side of your neck.

“I’m gonna be out in public and people will think you beat me,” you giggle as you feel them both sucking harshly and nibbling on spots. The guys ram into you, finding a similar pace as they both feel themselves about to bust, Seunghyun reaches his hand down, rubbing tight cirlces onto your clit and your walls flutter quicker around his cock.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum,” you whimper as the two of them are pressed against you, chest to back to chest. Your nails dig into Seunghyun’s shoulders as your body gives way to pleasure, allowing it to over take your entire body as you go limp between them, both of them feeling their euphoria at the same time after you.

All three of you pant, bodies slick with sweat. They each pull out, falling down on the bed, you between them.

“You did so good, baby.” Seunghyun says with a kiss to your forehead.

“You were perfect,” Jiyong says with a kiss to your shoulder. You smile at each of them, aftershocks rending your speechless.

“Let’s get in the shower?” Jiyong suggests and you nod. The three of you enter the shower, thank God it’s big enough for the three of you with a few shower heads. The two of them wash you fist, Jiyong taking your front and Seunghyun taking your back. The care and devotion both boys have for you makes your heart swell.

How did you get so lucky?

You wash each of them, giving the same attention to both of them, with the same love and care they showed you.

-

The three of you are laying in Seunghyun’s bed, content with the way life is, sipping on wine and relaxing. You smile to yourself, something Jiyong notices.

“What’s got you all happy?” He teases.

“I have to be the luckiest girl in the world,” you smile at him before pecking his lips, turning to Seunghyun to do the same.

“Thank you,” you grin at him. He smiles at you with pursed lips.

“And thank you,” you smile at Jiyong and he smiles back.

“For what?” he asks.

“You didn’t have to agree to this,” you motion to the three of you, “whole thing. But I’m glad you did. Picking between the two of you would’ve been the hardest thing I’d ever have to do. I honestly don't think I could.”

You cuddle into your boys as your drift off to sleep.

-

The next morning you’re up before them, once again listening to the TV as you fix yourself a smoothie.

“Sources have submitted photo’s of T.O.P meeting an old flame last night!” you stop in your tracks, putting the milk down as you run to the tv.

Sure, enough pictures of him and Hae, lips locked, appear on the screen. As well as pictures of them hugging. You go to scoff at it, until you recognize the outfit.

It’s the same one Seunghyun wore to the studio last night.

Tags: @breakmeoff @ilovethe141 @tom-hollands-blog @tabibabib @gdgirl21 @thelovelybireader @hyunjifilm @bcfcpsh @patheticgirl127 @1950schick @sayugarper @124s

Do not repost my work

Love notes and comments are greatly appreciated!

[doctorgirlsblog]

Ghost From The Past (MV x OC!)

Chapter 6: Seal The Deal

Note: @kinzy-shelby you requested to heal u next chap, so i did 🤍

Max didn't cry. Never, no. Not when his father yelled at him when he was just a kid in a kart, not when he scraped his knees raw, not when he was left behind. Max didn't cry when Lily was born. Max was strong. For himself, for his family, for the expectations.

Max didn't cry when he found out his legs didn't function anymore. Or that they might never again.

But as kept looking at the photos in his hospital room, each one carefully described on the back with a date and the event it captured, something in Max broke. Four years of his life, four years of his daughter's life without him, four years of his career - all gone.

So he cried. He cried for all the lost years, for all the things he never dared to cry for. He cried for hours, until there were no more tears left to shed.

The last photo he held was almost ruined, edges crushed with years of longing and hidden pain. The one he managed to push away, again. The one he buried in himself, for the love of his father that never came in the end, for his career that was now over and done.

He didn't know that she had spent every single day of those four damn years beside him. Not until his mother told him, not until he broke down in her arms like a little boy all over again. Max was alone. Max was no longer adressed as a 4 - time world champion, no. He was a ghost of his own once celebrated career. No one wrote about it anymore, no one cared for that long. Life went on without him.

Max wanted to see Lily, desperately. But he didn't know how. So when the little girl walked into his room, hand in hand with Beatrice, a sob, raw and broken, tore out of his throat. Lily jumped onto his bed, her tiny arms wrapping around his shaky form. "Daddy is awake!" she yelled, giggling, and Beatrice couldn't help but smile softly at her joy.

Max held her close, not letting go, afraid that if he did, she would dissappear again from him and this new life he woke up to.

After what seemed like an eternity, his gaze finally landed on the figure still standing beside the door, leaning against the wall.

"Beatrice."

She nodded at him gently, still not moving.

"I'll leave you alone. I just brought Lily to see you."

"No! Don't go, please." He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "I didn't mean it... I'm an idiot."

"You are." She smiled.

"You stayed."

"I did." She smiled again.

"Why?"

"Let's talk afterwards, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Lily finally left with her aunt, Beatrice stepped inside again, opting for the chair right beside his bed. Max kept looking at her, nervously playing with the edge of the blanket, not saying anything.

''So,'' she started, her eyes softly taking in his form, ''I guess I-''

''I'm sorry, Beatrice. For everything.'' His voice was thick with emotion. ''For hurting you, for making you feel unworthy and used when you were everything I ever wished for. I'm sorry for lying to you, for saying all those bad things. I'm sorry for leaving when you needed me the most. I'm sorry for pushing you away, again, even though you were the only one who stayed all these years. My career is done, I might never walk again, and I want you to know that I fucking love you, Bea. I never ever stopped loving you. And I'm yours. If you'll have me.''

Silence took over the room. He knew that it was a lot, but he had a feeling that if he didn't let it all out right now, he might become a stupid coward once again and push her away. Again. His hand somehow found hers in the meantime, squeezing it gently, eyes searching her wide ones.

''I..,'' she began slowly, clearing her throat. ''All I ever wanted from you, Max, was you. Not your fame, not your money, not the spotlight that followed you. I wanted you. All your good sides, all your bad sides, the messy, complicated whole of you. And then you broke up with me. Without uttering a single damn word. I was still a kid. So yes, I decided to do the same to you. Yes, I spent years building my career, fueled by the revenge and your downfall. Yes, Max, I wanted you to hurt like I did. God, I wanted you to burn.'' She let out a shallow laugh. ''But what I didn't count on, was burning myself in the process. When I walked away from you that day in the cafe, I didn't believe a single word that came out of your mouth. Then...then I found out about the...incident. And I needed to see you, just to..I needed to make sure you were alive. That's how much influence you had, still have over me.'' She let out a shaky breath.

Max opened his mouth ready to apologise again, but she stopped him with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

''No, Max. You need to hear this. You need to know. They told me you might never wake up again. And even if you did, there would be... consequences.'' Her gaze fell down to his legs, wrapped under the blanket. ''Yet the only thing that I heard, was that you might die believing that I hated you. I wished I did. God, this would be so much easier if I did. I wouldn't have spent the last four years, praying to a God I wasn't even sure I believed in, every single day that you would open those eyes again. So you could know, so I could finally tell you, that..that I don't hate you at all. That I never did. That I never will.'' She finally looked up and into his eyes, blue oceans swimming in unshed tears.

''I only hate how much I wish I didn't love you, Max'' she confessed, her voice barely a whisper, raw with a pain that mirrored his own. ''Because my life would be so much easier if I didn't.''

''I don't deserve you.'' he murmured softly, almost whispering, his gaze fixed on their intertwined hands.

''Deserve..'' she repeated softly, a sad smile touching her lips. ''Neither of us deserved the way things turned out, Max. All these years..they took their toll on both of us. Nothing else mattered the moment I thought you hadn't survived it.''

''Why, Bea?'' he asked, his voice barely a whisper. ''Why stay? Why not just...walk away? You had every right to.''

''Because, you idiot,'' she said as a small, watery laugh escaped her lips. ''Despite everything you put me through..I couldn't. Not like that. Because I watched as everyone else left, one by one. Because I couldn't do that to you, not after I found out you kept that photo beside your bed for all these years. Because I knew that you didn't lie. That you did love me.''

Before he managed to open his mouth again, Beatrice stood up abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor, and in the next instant, she was sitting beside him on the edge of the bed. Her hands, trembling slightly, cupped his bewildered face, her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks before she finally kissed him.

Time seemed to stop. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor beside the bed suddenly quickened as the kiss deepened, her fingers tangled in his already messy hair and his hands snaked around her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. Her body seemed to melt against his, a perfect fit, like two missing pieces of puzzle finally put together.

She was the first to pull away, resting her forehead against his and letting out a shaky breath. His eyes remained closed, his hands trembling slightly at the sides of her waist.

''I don't care if you never race another day in your life, Max,'' she whispered against his lips.

''I don't care if you never walk again. I'll be your race. I'll be your legs. I'll be right here, at your side. And we're going to make it through this. Together.''

When Max finally opened his eyes, they were bloodshot red from unshed tears, and her fingers instantly found their way to gently wipe the single one that managed to escape.

''No, no, no,'' she murmured, her voice soft but firm, her thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. ''I'm here, okay? I know that it's hard, Max, I do. But you'll win this battle. I know you will. You just won't have to face it alone, ever again.''

He reached for her hand, his grip firm despite the tremor that still ran through him.

''Okay,'' he said, his voice stronger this time. ''I'll get better, Bea. For you. I promise.''

''Good. Because you, mister, need a change of scenery. I'm taking you home. We're going to Miami.''

"Miami?!"

Taglist: @r0nnsblog

[elliespassagerprincess]

i LOVE your headcanons of professor ellie 💗 could you write hcs of how ellie reacts to/feels about readers partying/drinking habits? since it’s college lololol tysm!!

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie masterlist

☆ The relationship started slow—Ellie couldn’t help the way she stared a little too long when you answered in class, the way her voice softened only when calling your name.

☆ You were top of your class, confident but kind—and the fact that you had no idea how captivating you were made her want you more.

☆ Ellie told herself she’d keep it professional, but she crumbled the first time you stayed after class to ask about office hours and bit your lip nervously.

☆ One night, a study session in her office turned into brushing fingers… then grazing knees… then a kiss that shifted her entire world.

☆ You’re young, wild, and still living the typical campus life—going out with friends, drinking, wearing short dresses.

☆ At first, Ellie tries to be understanding—you’re just being normal, she tells herself.

☆ But every time you text her “going out tonight!” she feels her chest tighten.

☆ Her mind instantly conjures images of guys hitting on you, or worse—touching you.

☆ She’s already emotionally unwell just thinking about you drunk around people who don’t know you belong to her.

☆ She never says “don’t go”—instead, it’s “be safe” and “text me the second you get home.”

☆ You send her a mirror selfie before going out, and it ruins her entire night.

☆ “You look incredible,” she texts—but she’s chewing her cheek in rage, wondering who else will see you like that.

☆ She zooms in on the picture, analyzing every detail: your neckline, your expression, who might be in the reflection.

☆ If you don’t answer for longer than an hour, she spirals.

☆ She doesn’t sleep until you text her that you're back home safe.

☆ If you mention a guy buying you a drink, she shuts down—dry, short replies until you call her and soothe the ache.

☆ If you tell her someone flirted with you, she pretends to laugh—but she writes that guy’s name down in her mental burn book.

☆ One night you send her a blurry photo of your friends cheering shots. She doesn’t respond for an hour because she’s pacing in her apartment.

☆ If you flirt with her when drunk, she melts—but also scolds you after: “Don’t say that to me when you’re not in control.”

☆ She feels disgustingly possessive, and it makes her feel guilty—but not enough to stop.

☆ She wants to be better. She knows she shouldn’t control you.

☆ But the thought of someone else having your attention even for a second drives her into silent storms.

☆ She journals about it often—how hard it is to love someone you can’t touch in public.

☆ She knows if someone finds out, it’s over—for her career, your education, maybe even you.

☆ That fear claws at her every time you disappear into a crowd of drunk strangers.

☆ Ellie starts secretly tracking your phone—not because she doesn’t trust you, but because she doesn’t trust anyone else.

☆ She learns your friends’ names and subtly checks their socials for anything that could trace back to her.

☆ If she sees a tagged pic of you with too much skin or someone’s hand on your back, she gets nauseous.

☆ She once messaged you, “Please untag that. It’s too risky,” and you didn’t even question it.

☆ She keeps a hoodie of hers in your dorm room that she tells you to wear home if you’re ever walking late.

☆ She buys you pepper spray and teaches you how to use it “just in case.”

☆ She walks you through fake alibis—what to say if someone asks who you were texting, who picked you up, where you were last night.

☆ She memorizes your schedule so she can predict when you’ll be on campus—and how to avoid you in public, just in case.

☆ She deletes her messages from your phone every few days, but backs them up in a private drive—just for her.

☆ She creates an alternate email address for your personal conversations, completely off-campus.

☆ The first time you drunk-dial her, she doesn’t answer—she panics, lets it go to voicemail.

☆ She listens to the voicemail alone, heart racing as you slur out how much you love her.

☆ She saves the voicemail. Listens to it ten times. But deletes it the next morning because it’s too dangerous.

☆ The second time you drunk-text her gibberish, she replies with “Baby, are you safe? Who are you with? Where are you?”

☆ If you ever say “come get me,” she will. Even if it’s midnight. Even if it risks everything.

☆ She keeps a hoodie, water, and mints in the backseat of her car just in case you call.

☆ The first time you cry after partying—someone being too aggressive, getting sick—Ellie holds you in her apartment and swears you’ll never go out again.

☆ After a party, you sneak into her place and she undresses you gently, muttering, “You’re killing me.”

☆ She always washes your makeup off and gives you oversized sweats to sleep in.

☆ She whispers, “Mine,” into your hair when you’re too tipsy to remember.

☆ She holds your face and says, “No more guys buying you drinks. Let me take care of you.”

☆ She leaves bruises where no one can see—under your clothes, on your thighs, between your ribs—so you remember who owns you.

☆ Ellie sometimes skips dinner just because she’s anxious you’re out without her.

☆ She watches stories obsessively—knows who you're with, what bar you’re at, what time the music changes.

☆ If a guy posts you even in the background of his story, she takes screenshots and studies it.

☆ She’s thought about showing up undercover, just to watch. Just to make sure you’re safe.

☆ She keeps your location pulled up during her late-night grading sessions, constantly checking if you’ve gotten home.

☆ She keeps a playlist called “when she’s out drinking”—half love songs, half rage anthems.

☆ Eventually, she starts subtly encouraging you to stay in. “I miss you. Come here instead?”

☆ She buys wine and sets up little movie nights to make staying home more appealing.

☆ She starts whispering the future to you during pillow talk: “One day this won’t have to be secret. You’ll just come home to me.”

☆ She says she doesn’t care about other people, but the truth is: you belong to her.

☆ She fantasizes about the day it’s all out in the open—no more parties, no more sneaking around, just you and her.

☆ Her possessiveness grows in silence, but she masks it with careful restraint—because keeping you safe means keeping the secret intact.

☆ And when you sleep in her bed, curled around her, she holds you tighter than she should, whispering, “I’ll protect you. From them. From everything. Just stay mine.”

[tamelee]

Happy 3/7day 🥰~! 'One day we'll look back on all these memories and smile about it'

Process + detail:

[yournamemakesmytonguetired]

if none of your marriages with women work out, maybe it’s time to try men? your best friend and colleague perhaps?

[elvenbeard]

Sonic Surge Issue 04/2025 - Exclusive birthday interview edition

Did I make a whole new appearance with custom tattoos, new bandana, edited hair and beard and everything just for his birthday? Maybe, because I am one of those people that celebrate the heck out of fictional characters' birthdays xD And I will forever love that he's only 5 years older than me XD

But yes, I got one more thing planned with this appearance, because if it looks familiar, it's because I took a ton of inspo from the little pic on his netsite in game XD Only the neck cyberware is missing (but I have headcanons for that) and I'd like to try and see if I can give that to him somewhere down the line too to finalize the look :D But even so, this was fun, both from the modding and the VP stance! Making something a little more elaborate VP wise again, which I've really missed, and trying something new (editing vanilla hair) when it comes to modding! I mean, it is basically his 2077 hairstyle, but I tried making it a little bit messier xD I like how it turned out, even if it's not a huge difference, but the different color and the bandana help selling it I think uwu

ANYWAY I also have a part two and three planned for this so stay tuned XDD

Also, some "raw" photos for everyone who read my ramblings this far:

[emptyjunior]

Custom Commission piece - Theo and Lapin au where Lapin doesn't get snatched up by the Sugar Plum fairy and keeps being a rogue thief. Commander Theo is on the case of the Missing ring-pops and chocolate coins tho👀

(other random details: red licorice aiguillettes, Easter egg wrapping patterns on Lapin, Theo doing a detect magic/sending spell and sugar plum fairy watching over them👀)