#and it’s starting to take a significant toll on my health

[eu-nicola]

the fastest driver part 3

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: take of pills

word counter: 7364

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @ananyasribughead @supertrashbread @amalialeclerc @rawr-123s-stuff @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress @sweetmuffynsblog @vjbillno

Endless hours passed after the accident before the first clear update about your condition reached the media and the paddock. Everyone was anxiously waiting for news about your health. The uncertainty left fans, journalists, and especially those who truly knew you in a state of tense anticipation.

Finally, a statement from the hospital's medical team brought some relief: you were stable and conscious. While initial tests had ruled out serious spinal injuries or significant fractures, the impact had been severe, leaving you with a moderate concussion and several internal bruises that required monitoring. What concerned the doctors most were the potential psychological and emotional aftereffects: the nature of the crash, the impact, and all the built-up stress could take a toll later.

Hours later, you woke up in a hospital room softly lit by the afternoon light. Everything was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside your bed. Your body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead, and the headache was sharp and constant. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed someone sitting nearby.

It was Charles. He was there, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, as if praying or just trying to calm his own nerves. When he saw you stir slightly, he lifted his head, and his expression changed a mix of relief and worry crossed his face.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, as if he didn’t want to scare you. “Thank God.”

You hadn’t expected to see him there. In fact, you hadn’t expected to see anyone. And yet, here he was.

“Charles…” you tried to speak, but your voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Shhh, don’t talk too much. The doctors said you need to rest.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, ignoring his warning, even though just talking felt like needles stabbing your skull.

He shrugged, offering a light but sincere smile.  

“Someone had to make sure you were okay.”

Charles stayed by your side for hours, even when the doctors came in and out to check on you. He answered questions from the journalists crowding outside the hospital, desperate for a statement, and refused requests from photographers trying to get a shot of you. There was something unusually warm and protective about the way he acted.

As you lay back, eyes closed to avoid making the headache worse, you heard his voice.

“You scared me, you know? I’ve never seen anything so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “So violent. Not since Jules. And when I saw the crash on the screen, I thought the worst.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. There was sincerity in his face, something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m okay… sort of.” You tried to joke, but the pain turned it into a grimace.

“No, you’re not okay. But you will be. You have to be.”

As Charles stayed with you, messages started pouring in. Your phone sat on the bedside table, just out of reach, and Charles offered to read some.

“Everyone’s worried about you. Here’s one from Lando… and even one from Toto. Seems like the entire F1 world is waiting for you to get better.”

“Who else?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Charles scrolled through, his expression hardening briefly before softening again.

“Max,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped for a moment. You didn’t know what to expect. Since the accident, you’d assumed Max was too caught up in his own world to care, but the fact that he’d written at all was enough to twist your stomach.

“What does it say?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, though you knew Charles could see right through you.

He hesitated before answering.

“‘Hope you’re okay. Sorry I wasn’t there sooner. Let me know if you need anything.’”

The neutrality of the words didn’t match the intensity of what you felt hearing them. You closed your eyes, trying to process it all. What did that message even mean? Was it just courtesy, or was there something more behind those words?

Charles noticed your discomfort and set the phone aside.

“You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.”

“I won’t,” you said quickly, though part of you knew that wasn’t true.

As night fell, Charles finally said goodbye, promising to return the next day. There was something comforting about his presence, how he’d set aside any competitiveness or formality just to be there for you. Yet, when you were left alone, the thoughts began to overwhelm you.

The crash, the messages, the worries it all tangled into a mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel. The only thing clear was that while you were physically stable, emotionally, you were far from okay.

After that day in the hospital, Charles became a constant presence in your life. His support wasn’t limited to encouraging messages or occasional visits. He went beyond that. Where others saw a moral obligation or an opportunity to score points with the media, he saw something else: a chance to show you that you weren’t alone.  

The medical team made it clear you could return to racing, but not without certain restrictions. You had to stick to a strict combination of medications after every race: anti-inflammatories, painkillers, and supplements to manage the physical and mental stress you still felt after the accident. Charles was the first person to offer to help you with this. It wasn’t his responsibility, but he seemed to take on the role without hesitation.  

The first race after the accident was a mental and physical challenge. As you prepared to get back in the cockpit, fear swirled in your chest. The accident was fresh in your memory, and even though you knew you were capable, there was a shadow of doubt you couldn’t shake.  

The day before the race, Charles showed up at your hotel. He had a small bag in hand and a calm expression, almost as if it was meant to soothe you.  

"I thought you might need this," he said, placing the bag on the table.  

Inside, there was a box of relaxing tea, a small book about mental strategies in sports, and a handwritten note. When you opened it, you found a simple phrase: "You’re stronger than you think."  

"Thank u," you said, moved by the gesture.  

"You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know I’m here, okay? If you need to talk, if you need anything..."  

You nodded, grateful for his sincerity. For a long time, you’d felt alone in this world. It was strange to realize someone was willing to stand by your side without asking for anything in return.  

Race day was a whirlwind. Even though you tried to stay calm, every time you sat in the car, the memory of the crash resurfaced. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding yourself you’d done this thousands of times before, that you were capable—one of the best.  

The race wasn’t easy, but you finished in a solid fifth place, a result any other driver would’ve considered a success under the circumstances. When you got out of the car, exhausted but relieved, Charles was the first to approach you.  

"Well done," he said, patting your shoulder.  

After every race, Charles made sure you followed the medical protocol. Sometimes, when you forgot the pills, he’d show up holding the box, reminding you that your health came first.  

"How do you even know I haven’t taken them?" you asked one day, half-joking.  

"Because I know you well enough to know you hate depending on this stuff," he said with a smile, handing you the water and pills.  

It was strange how his presence had gone from sporadic to constant. He wasn’t just there for the serious moments; he also found ways to make you laugh, to lighten the weight on your shoulders.  

It wasn’t something you’d planned or even imagined after everything you’d been through, but your friendship with Charles was good for you. So much so that you felt comfortable asking him something after noticing he’d been off for a while. You’d seen his behavior become quieter than usual, even in the paddock, where he usually managed to keep up appearances in front of the cameras.  

"Are you okay? You seem... off."  

His response came almost immediately.  

"Do you have time to talk?"  

You invited him to your place, where you saw a different side of Charles. He’d shed his usual composure and looked... vulnerable, almost like the facade he kept in public had cracked.  

"Thanks for this," he said, sitting on the small couch as you handed him a bottle of water.  

"You don’t have to thank me, Charles. What’s going on?"  

He sighed, fiddling with the cap of the bottle before speaking.  

"It’s... complicated. Ferrari doesn’t feel like my team anymore."  

You frowned, surprised by his words.  

"What do you mean?"  

"Since Lewis joined this year, everything changed. I knew it would be different, it’s Lewis Hamilton, of course but I didn’t think it’d be like this," he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I feel like everything revolves around him. The strategies, the resources, even the engineers’ attention... It’s like I’m a shadow in my own team."  

You felt a pang in your chest hearing that. It was almost an exact replica of what you’d felt when you shared a team with him at Ferrari.  

"Charles... you don’t know how much I get it," you said, sitting across from him. "That feeling of being invisible, like your efforts don’t matter... I went through the same thing with you."  

He looked up, surprised by your honesty.  

"Really?"  

"Yeah. Do you remember all those team orders? All those moments where no matter how fast I was, they always put me aside to favor you. It’s... frustrating. It makes you question everything you do."  

Charles nodded slowly, processing your words.  

"I guess I never saw it from your perspective. I always thought the team’s decisions were fair, but now... now I know what it feels like."  

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees.  

"Charles, I know how hard this is. But what you need to remember is that your talent doesn’t depend on them. Ferrari is just one team, one stage in your career—it doesn’t define who you are as a driver."  

"How did you deal with it?" he asked, genuinely curious.  

"At first, I didn’t," you admitted. "I kept everything inside, let the frustration eat me up... until I couldn’t take it anymore. But I learned something: you can’t let them take away what you love about this sport. If Ferrari doesn’t value you the way they should, then prove your worth on the track. Force them to see you."  

Charles nodded slowly, as if your words were beginning to sink in.  

"It’s easier said than done," he said, with a bitter smile.  

"I know. But I also know you have the talent to do it."  

The conversation went on for hours, shifting from serious topics to shared memories and stories from your days at Ferrari. It was strange, but comforting, to share that space with him. He’d gone from being the rival who overshadowed you at your lowest to someone you could fully trust.  

When he finally stood to leave, Charles paused at the door and looked at you with an expression you hadn’t seen before.  

"Thank you for this. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you."  

"I’m always here. You know that."  

As the door closed behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Charles was so much more than you’d ever thought. And somehow, he’d brought out the best in you too.

While you were helping Charles find his way in a team that relegated him to second place, you couldn’t ignore the fact that your own demons were still lurking. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Max remained a constant presence both on the track and in your personal life.  

Since your move to McLaren, the rivalry with Max had reached a new level. If before you shared moments of camaraderie and confidences, now every interaction was loaded with tension. And not just on the track.  

The championship was on fire. You and Max were leading the standings, swapping first and second place race after race. On every circuit, every corner, and every straight, it felt like only the two of you existed. It didn’t matter who else made it to the podium; the battle was always between you and him.  

During qualifying, both of you pushed to the limit, but an incident in Q3 left Max without a lap time. As soon as he got out of the car, Max stormed straight toward you, visibly furious.  

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, his voice sharp as he closed the distance between you in the paddock.  

“What was what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though you knew exactly what he was referring to.  

“You blocked me on my flying lap.”  

“Max, you were too far behind when I started my lap. I didn’t block you.”  

“Of course you did!” he insisted, stepping even closer. His blue eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.  

The argument caught the attention of journalists and members of both teams. You knew that one wrong word could make headlines the next day, so you chose to stay calm.  

“If you have a problem, take it up with the stewards, not me,” you said before turning and walking away, leaving Max with the words stuck in his throat.  

But the tension wasn’t confined to the track. It had started to bleed into your personal lives. Even though both of you tried to avoid each other outside of race weekends, coincidences were inevitable especially at sponsor events or official meetings.  

At one of these events, an FIA gala in Monaco, Max couldn’t resist looking for you in the crowd. When he finally spotted you, you were talking to Charles, laughing at something he’d said. The sight seemed to ignite something in Max, and he couldn’t hold back as he approached.  

“Can we talk?” he asked, cutting into the conversation.  

Charles glanced at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution, before stepping back to let you decide.  

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.  

“You and Charles, what’s going on between you two?” he asked quietly, though his tone carried an accusatory edge.  

“What kind of question is that?” you replied, crossing your arms.  

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it, but… every time I see you two together, I can’t help thinking that…”  

“That what?” you interrupted, annoyed. “That maybe someone else can actually support me and understand me in this chaos that you chose to ignore?”  

Max pressed his lips together, clearly feeling the sting of your words. But instead of responding, he looked away and muttered:  

“You still know how to twist everything around.”  

The conversation was left unfinished, but the night didn’t end there. Later, as you tried to avoid him, you found Max alone on the terrace of the venue, staring out at the sea, his figure illuminated by the lights.  

“Why do you do this?” you asked, walking toward him. Your tone was no longer defiant but tired.  

“Do what?” he asked without looking at you.  

“Show up, disappear, demand things from me that you can’t even give yourself. You’re still with her, and yet…”  

Max closed his eyes, as if your words were too heavy to bear.  

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted finally, turning to face you. “You and me… I don’t know how to handle it.”  

“Then maybe you should stop trying,” you said, though your voice cracked at the end.  

The silence between you was deafening. Too many unsaid emotions, too many decisions both of you refused to make. Finally, Max stepped back.  

“It’s easier said than done, isn’t it?”  

And with that, he left, leaving you alone on the terrace, feeling like the two of you were trapped in a vicious cycle neither of you knew how to escape.  

In the days that followed, you tried to focus on racing and your friendship with Charles, who had become a kind of refuge in the chaos. But every time you saw Max, every time your eyes met in the paddock, you felt the storm lingering, waiting for the right moment to break again.  

The rivalry on the track only grew more intense. Max and you raced as if every race was the last, as if the championship depended on who was stronger, more determined, more ruthless. But off the track, you both continued to grapple with the same internal conflict: what you felt for each other and what the world expected of you.  

You and Max were the top contenders for the title, and every race turned into a war. The media called it “the battle of the century,” comparing it to the legendary Senna-Prost rivalry. Every overtake, every strategy, every word in a press conference was scrutinized.  

At the Brazilian Grand Prix, things came to a head. From the first lap, the fight between you and Max was fierce. You knew every one of his tricks, every weakness, every strength. There were moments when the cars seemed to touch, pushing the limits of competition to the extreme.  

On lap 43, you attempted an overtake on the inside of Turn 1, but Max, in his trademark aggressive style, shut the door almost recklessly. Your front tires brushed his, and though both of you managed to maintain control, the incident was enough to set off commentators and social media.  

“This is unacceptable!” your engineer shouted over the radio. “We’re reporting it.”  

But you didn’t want to win the championship through a penalty.  

“Leave it. I’ll settle it on the track,” you said, with a determination that surprised even yourself.  

In the end, you finished second, behind Max, but the battle was epic. Fans were divided, some siding with you, others defending Max. But in your mind, one thought started to take root: maybe you’d had enough of this world.  

After that race, you decided to take a break. You flew back to your hometown to spend time with your family, seeking comfort in their presence. One night, sitting in the garden of your parents’ house, you opened up to your mom.  

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” you admitted, staring at the stars. “Every race feels like a battle not just on the track, but inside me, too.”  

Your mom, always wise and patient, looked at you with gentle understanding.  

“Then why do you keep going?”

You stayed silent for a moment, searching for the words.  

“Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Since I was a kid, my entire world has revolved around racing. But lately… lately, I feel like I want something more. I want a normal life, a family. I want to stop fighting all the time.”

“What’s stopping you?.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what that life would look like, or who it would be with.”

It was the first time you’d said those words out loud. The idea of giving up Formula 1, of walking away from everything you’d worked so hard for, was terrifying but also freeing.  

You couldn’t help but think of Max. Even though your relationship was broken, and the rivalry had reached its peak, there was still something about him pulling you in. But the question that haunted you was: did he feel the same?  

Max was still with his partner, at least publicly. But his actions, his looks, even his comments during races, hinted at something more. Could you build a life with someone who seemed incapable of facing his own feelings?  

“Maybe it’s not Max,” you muttered to yourself that night, curled up on the couch in your childhood bedroom. “Maybe it’s someone else. Or maybe I just need to find myself first.”

When you returned to the paddock for the US Grand Prix, something had shifted inside you. You hadn’t made any final decisions, but you knew this chapter of your life was nearing its end. Still, as long as you were in F1, you were going to give it everything you had.  

In the pre-race interviews, journalists bombarded you with questions about your rivalry with Max.  

“Is it personal?,” one of them asked with a sly grin.  

“Everything in Formula 1 is personal,” you replied with a wry smile, offering no further explanation.  

Max, sitting next to you at the press conference, shot you a sideways glance but said nothing. The tension between you two was palpable, even in front of the cameras.  

That race turned into yet another head-to-head battle between the two of you. During the final laps, the radio chatter grew more intense.  

“He’s losing rear grip. Push him.”

“I already am!,” you snapped, pushing the car to its limit.  

In the last lap, you pulled off a risky overtake that left everyone stunned. You won the race, and as you stepped out of the car, you felt a mix of euphoria and exhaustion.  

While celebrating with your team, your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with your mom. Maybe this was the ending you’d been searching for, or maybe it was just the start of something new.  

Max watched you from the podium, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t decipher. In the crowd, you couldn’t help but wonder: could you ever leave it all behind, even him?  

The next race, under the scorching Qatar sun, felt heavier, both in the air and in the paddock. Everything about this second-to-last race of the season felt like a countdown to something inevitable. You and Max were tied in points, both neck and neck after a season of epic battles, controversies, and moments that had pushed you to the edge emotionally.  

The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable. Though your relationship with your team was excellent, you knew the pressure was on you. Lando tried to lighten the mood with his usual sense of humor, but even his energy couldn’t cut through the wall of your thoughts.  

“Come on, don’t be so serious. We could both use a win today,” he joked while adjusting his gloves.  

“Sure, but if you win, I won’t complain,” you replied with a faint smile, though you both knew that wasn’t true. This race meant everything to you.  

Meanwhile, Charles had sent a message that morning: ‘Remember, one race at a time. You can do this. You’ve already proven you’re the best.’ His unwavering support had become one of the few things keeping you mentally afloat during this emotional rollercoaster.  

From qualifying, it was clear this race would be another direct battle between you and Max. Both of you blocked every attempt the other made to set the fastest time, ending up on the front row: Max on pole, you in second.  

The start was clean but intense. From the first corner, Max showed his usual aggression, shutting you out in an attempt to stay ahead. But you knew this game; he had taught you how to play it. You used the slipstream on the main straight, and on lap five, you overtook him with a surgical move in turn 6.  

For a moment, the world seemed to stop as you led the race, but you knew the real battle had just begun.  

Midway through the race, things heated up. Teams began to play with strategies, and tire choices became crucial. On lap 32, as you exited the pits after a tire change, Max appeared beside you. The overtake that followed was so tight the two cars brushed slightly, sparking an explosion of shouting over the radio.  

“That was way too close!,” your engineer protested, but you were too focused to respond.  

Max didn’t back down. In the following laps, he kept relentless pressure on you, looking for any weakness in your defense. On lap 48, he attempted an inside overtake on a tight corner, but you managed to hold your position with a move that left everyone on the edge of their seats.  

In the final laps, your mind was torn between the adrenaline of the race and the mental exhaustion you’d been carrying all season. Max was glued to your diffuser, but he made a small mistake on the second-to-last corner, giving you just enough of a margin to cross the finish line first.  

Your team’s shout over the radio was deafening:  

“Victory! You’re incredible, what a race!.”

But you didn’t have time to celebrate. As you parked the car in parc fermé, reality hit you: this victory only meant you were still tied in points, and everything would come down to the final race.  

The journalists were in a frenzy. In the post-race press conference, the questions came at you like bullets.  

“How do you handle the pressure heading into the last race?.”

“Calmly. One race at a time.” you replied, echoing Charles’ words, even though calm was the last thing you felt.  

Max, sitting beside you, spoke after you.  

“I always knew this season would be decided in the end. I’m ready for it.”

His gaze met yours for a second, and in that brief moment, the tension between you two felt more personal than ever.  

Back at the hotel, you tried to disconnect, but it was impossible. Your mind raced, replaying every detail of the race and anticipating what was to come. Charles called to congratulate you but also to remind you to rest.  

“Don’t let this consume you, okay?,” he said, his tone serious but kind. “You’ve done an amazing job, and you have everything you need to win.”

“Thanks, Charles. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what you’d do without me either,” he joked, managing to make you laugh.

However, when you hung up, you kept staring at the ceiling of your room, wondering if you were truly ready to face everything the final race was about to bring.  

Even though you hadn’t seen Max since the press conference, you knew he was just as restless as you. Despite everything that had happened between you two, you couldn’t help but think about him, about how this rivalry had consumed everything you once shared.  

Is this really what you wanted? To keep fighting, keep competing, keep losing yourself in the process?  

You closed your eyes, trying to calm your thoughts. Just one race left. One final battle. And after that, maybe you’d finally have the answers you’d been searching for.  

The last week of the season was a whirlwind of emotions, preparations, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The entire paddock was on edge. Everything would be decided in Abu Dhabi.  

Escaping the media’s attention was impossible. Cameras followed you everywhere, looking for any reaction that could turn into a headline. The atmosphere at McLaren was optimistic but tense. You’d brought the team to its highest point in years, and that was already a monumental achievement. But for you, it wasn’t enough. You wanted that title.  

During the press conferences, the questions were relentless. You and Max were the center of attention. Though both of you kept calm outwardly, the discomfort between you was obvious. Every word, every gesture was analyzed by the journalists.  

“How do you feel heading into this decisive race?” they asked you during one of the press rounds.  

“Focused. This is what we’ve worked for all year. I just want to do my job and see what happens,” you replied diplomatically, though inside your heart was racing.  

Max, sitting next to you, simply said:  

“I’m focused too. We both know what’s at stake. May the best win.”  

There was a moment when your eyes met, but it was fleeting. There were so many words left unsaid between you, and the weight of that silence felt unbearable.  

In the final strategy meeting with your team, the tension was palpable. You knew every decision would matter, every detail could be the difference between winning and losing. Your race engineer, always meticulous, reviewed the plans calmly, but even you could tell he was nervous.  

“I believe in you. You’ve proven you can do this,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder before you left the garage.  

Lando, on the other hand, tried to lighten the mood with a joke.  

“If you don’t win, can I keep the consolation trophy?” he said with a cheeky grin.  

“There won’t be a consolation trophy,” you replied with a smirk.  

That day, Yas Marina Circuit was lit up like a jewel in the desert, and the atmosphere was electric. Before getting in the car, you took a moment for yourself. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and visualized every corner, every move. You knew you had to give it everything.  

The anthem played, and the world seemed to pause for a moment. Max was beside you on the grid. Though you didn’t speak, you could feel his presence, his energy. You both knew this race wasn’t just about the championship but also everything that had happened between you.  

The start was flawless. From the first corner, you and Max were locked in an intense battle. Neither of you gave an inch. Every lap was a fight, every overtake a statement. The rest of the drivers might as well have been racing in a different category; it was as if this championship was meant to be decided between just the two of you.  

On lap 35, a slow pit stop almost cost you the race, but you quickly recovered, overtaking Max in a spectacular move on lap 42. The crowd went wild.  

But Max wasn’t going to give up. On lap 50, he took the lead back, forcing you slightly off the track. It was an aggressive move, but clean—classic Max.  

In the final five laps, both of you were at the limit. Your hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but your focus was unshakable. In the penultimate lap, you found a gap on the main straight and passed Max on the inside. This time, he had no answer.  

When you crossed the finish line, the world seemed to stop for a moment before exploding in celebration. You’d done it. You were a world champion.  

Your team screamed over the radio, their voices full of tears and joy.  

“You’re the world champion! You did it!”  

As you climbed out of the car, the emotions overwhelmed you. Your team surrounded you, celebrating. Lando was one of the first to hug you, shouting:  

“I told you! I knew you’d do it!”  

As you stood with your team, your eyes instinctively searched for Max. He was there, watching you from a distance. Slowly, he approached, his steps a mix of pride and resignation.  

When he reached you, he extended his hand.  

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.  

“Thanks, Max,” you replied, shaking his hand. For a moment, his eyes reflected something that looked like regret, but he said nothing more. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.  

That night was magical. There was laughter, tears, toasts. The tension of the entire season melted away in a whirlwind of emotions. Charles called to congratulate you, and his genuine happiness was like a balm to your heart.  

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice full of sincerity.  

As the celebration went on, you took a moment to reflect. You’d reached the pinnacle of the world, but you knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life. The future was full of uncertainty, but that night, you decided to enjoy the present, savoring every moment of your triumph.  

The emotional hangover the next day was overwhelming. It wasn’t physical, nor from the celebration, but a deep emptiness you hadn’t expected to feel after achieving the dream of your life. You’d won the Formula 1 World Championship, the peak of your career, but instead of feeling complete, you felt lost.

You woke up in your hotel room, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Around you, there were remnants of the celebration: a half-empty champagne glass on the table, the dress you wore last night carelessly thrown over a chair. The trophy, shiny and imposing, sat on the nightstand, but as you looked at it, you didn’t feel the euphoria you’d imagined for years.  

You got up and walked to the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was different from the one you were used to. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion from the season; it was something deeper a sense of disconnect with yourself.  

You spent the morning avoiding your phone, even though you knew the notifications had to be flooding in. Messages of congratulations, articles from the media, videos of the highlights... but you weren’t ready to face it yet. Instead of feeling celebrated, you felt isolated.  

The idea had been lingering in your mind for weeks, maybe even months. The crash, the endless emotional struggles, the pressure to always be the best... it had all left its mark. And now, after achieving what you’d always dreamed of, you realized something: you didn’t want to keep going anymore.  

During breakfast with your parents, you decided to share your thoughts. You’d avoided bringing it up before, afraid of their reactions, but now felt like the right time.  

“I’ve been thinking about something... important,” you said, breaking the silence while fiddling with your coffee mug.  

Your mom looked at you with concern.  

“Are you okay? Does this have to do with Formula 1?”  

You shook your head.  

“No… well, partly, yes. Like I said, I’ve been reflecting, and I think... I don’t want to keep racing anymore.”  

The silence that followed was heavy. Your dad, ever the pragmatic one, was the first to speak.  

“Are you sure? You’ve worked your whole life for this.”  

“I know, Dad. But I’ve also given it everything I had. And now I feel like if I keep going, it’ll just be out of habit, not because I really want to.”  

Your mom took your hand.  

“We’ve always wanted you to be happy, no matter what you do. If you feel this is the time to stop, we’ll support you.”  

That conversation was the turning point. Over the following days, you talked to your team, Lando, and even Charles, who, although surprised, understood your decision. Lando tried to convince you to stay for one more year.  

“Are you really going to leave me here alone? We were just starting to have fun!” he joked, though there was genuine sadness in his eyes.  

“It’s your time, Lando. I’m sure you’ll do amazing things,” you replied, hugging him.  

Charles, on the other hand, was more serious.  

“I didn’t see this coming, but I get it. Just… promise me you won’t disappear completely.”  

“I won’t. I’ll always be here, even if it’s just as a spectator.”  

That same night, after hours of figuring out how to word it, you sat in front of the camera in your room. You were nervous, not about the decision, but about how the world would react. You wore a simple t-shirt, your hair tied back. You wanted the message to be honest, without distractions.  

‘Hi, everyone. I know this isn’t the video you were expecting after the incredible season we just had, but I wanted to share something important with you...’

You took a deep breath before continuing.  

‘I’ve decided to retire from Formula 1. This year has been the most exciting but also the most exhausting of my life. Winning the championship was a dream come true, but it also made me realize it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.’

You paused, letting your words sink in.  

‘This wasn’t an easy decision. Formula 1 has been my life for so many years that I barely remember what it was like before. But I also know I want other things. I want time for myself, for my family, to explore who I am outside of this sport.’

Your voice wavered slightly, but you kept going.  

‘I want to thank my team, my teammates, my rivals, and, of course, the fans. Without your support, none of this would’ve been possible.’

When you finished, you turned off the camera and fell onto the bed. It wasn’t immediate relief, but there was something freeing about putting an end to that chapter.  

The video was released the next day and, as expected, caused a storm. The media debated your decision, fans flooded social media with messages of support and gratitude, and some even expressed disbelief.  

Charles sent you a text:  

“I saw it. I’m proud of you. You’ll do amazing things, no matter where you go.”  

And Max, who had avoided talking to you since the last race, also sent a short message:  

“You were the best. I always knew it. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that you forgive me.”  

Even though his words were few, they left a lump in your throat.  

That night, while staring at the stars from your balcony, you realized that, even though the future was uncertain, you were ready to face it.  

Weeks passed since your decision, and life finally seemed to find its rhythm. The constant noise of racing and the pressure to be the best slowly faded. But deep down, you felt like something or someone was still missing.  

Your house, now quieter than ever, became your sanctuary. You spent those days focusing on yourself, resting, discovering what you truly liked outside the track. But even in the peace of your own thoughts, Max lingered in your mind. He wasn’t a constant thought, but you’d remember him, especially when news of his breakup with his girlfriend started circulating. That, unexpectedly, stirred something in you, a knot in your stomach.  

Late one night, your phone buzzed. The name on the screen made you hesitate for a second. Max.  

The message was short, direct.  

“Can I see you? I need to talk to you.”  

You didn’t think much about it. You knew this conversation needed to happen eventually. You’d been avoiding it, but now it felt like the universe was putting it in your path.  

You agreed to meet at your house the next day, and when the door opened, there he was. Max, with that intense, direct gaze that had known you for years. Now, though, there was something different something more vulnerable.  

“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than usual.  

You invited him in, and he settled on the couch like it was his own home. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unresolved emotions.  

“I don’t know where to start,” he began, with a nervous smile.  

“Neither do I,” you replied, sitting across from him.  

The two of you just sat there, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Max spoke.  

“Breaking up with her... wasn’t easy. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t keep lying to myself. The truth is… I never stopped thinking about you.”  

Your heart skipped a beat, and a lump formed in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. Max, always so sure of himself, seemed completely different now.  

“Max... I don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve been on such different paths. You… always so focused on F1, on competing… and me too. Things were never easy between us, and now… I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”  

He nodded, understanding what you meant.  

“I know. I’ve been an idiot. I thought I could keep everything under control, but in the end… I lost what mattered most.”  

He looked at you intently, and in his eyes was a sincerity that made you question everything you’d been thinking until that moment.  

“But that doesn’t mean I forgot about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about what we had. If anything, it’s taken me time to realize that… maybe there’s something here we never really figured out.”  

You stayed silent, processing his words. The tension was thick, but something in his voice made you want to listen, even though you knew the situation was complicated.  

“And what is it that you want, Max?” you asked, your voice a bit shaky.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a small, sad smile. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or to go back to what we had. But I think… we should at least try. Not now, not right away, but… maybe we can see what happens, without the pressures of F1, without everything that kept us apart.”  

You got up and walked to the window, staring outside without really seeing anything. Max watched you from the couch, waiting for your response. The atmosphere between you had shifted somehow, and for the first time, it felt like you had both let go of the fight to always be the best.  

You turned to look at him.  

“I’m not sure I’m ready to start something new. After all, I made the decision to retire for a reason, Max. I’ve spent so much time on F1 that now I need to rediscover myself. And I don’t know what I want.”  

Max got up from the couch, slowly approaching you.  

“I get it. I’m not expecting it to be easy, or for everything to be resolved right now. But I want you to know I’m not pressuring you. I just… wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I’ll be here. And if someday you decide what we had is worth another shot, I’ll be ready to try, no matter the past.”  

A deep silence followed his words. You knew there was still so much to figure out between the two of you, but something about his attitude, about his willingness to wait, struck a chord within you.  

You didn’t say anything else. You walked toward him, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. The look in your eyes said it all. Still, there were no promises, no certainties just a silent understanding that, maybe, the future could be different. Maybe even together.  

“We’ll see what happens,” you finally said.  

Max nodded, not pushing, knowing that time would have to decide the course for both of you. And with that response, the future remained suspended between you, open, uncertain, but carrying a possibility that hadn’t existed before.

[aurosoul]

officially at the Big Anxiety stage of career success. wondering when this stops being as bad 😔

[keptfatkepthumble]

You’re My Chubby Boyfriend

Text by @toptierteaser

You’ve gotten so oblivious since we started dating. You’ve been happy. That’s obvious. You can see it on your face, how content you are, how comfortable you’ve gotten. How docile. I’ve been treating you well. And you’ve let me. You’ve allowed me to spoil you, to pamper you. And all that relationship satisfaction has certainly taken a toll. On your mood, on your mental health. Everything has improved.

Everything, that is, but your weight.

You’ve ballooned, fat boy. You’ve thickened quite a bit during our time together. You’ve been letting me feed you, as you sit on that widening, pampered ass of yours. Letting me stuff you silly at dinner. Letting me bring you endless snacks, coaxing goodies and treats down your greedy throat, convincing those plump, submissive lips of yours to part for my desserts. You’ve been letting me fill you; not just filling your heart or your mind or your time. But I’ve been filling up your body as well.

You’ve changed, fatty.

You’ve let all the weight accumulate all over yourself, transforming from that handsome, fit jock I smiled at as I watched him pack away dinner, my own leftovers, and dessert as well. As I sat back, like a fox watching a plump porker fatten himself, knowing your potential, knowing what I could do to you if I put my mind to it.

And it’s unmistakable now. You’re not a fit, single jock anymore. You’re my dumb, handsome chubber of a boyfriend. A plump boytoy whose mind is filled with the thought of donuts and cupcakes and cookies and pies. All being brought to him on a plate by his loving, doting significant other. By me

You’re so obese and awkward now.

That relationship weight has accumulated all over. Your stomach, which was once muscular, is now covered in layers of lard, its dough spilling out onto your lap. Your legs covered in fat, fighting to take up space in your chair as you squeeze your enormous ass back so you can play your video games.

As you stuff your face, stupidly, watching your mind-numbing shows and scrolling on your phone. Your double chin highlighting the cuteness of your face, outlining the plumpness where your handsome jawline used to be.

But I do my best to minimize the discomfort, to make sure you don’t have to struggle into those terrible shorts with the button anymore. No, those all burst a while ago. Now, I’ve spoiled you and bought you several pairs of stretchy athletic shorts that leave little room for growth. Packing away your work shirts and button ups and replacing them with stretchy, breathable t-shirts. Shirts that crease under your juicy moobs, that rest above your belly button, exposing your chub. You don’t even notice as I hold a plate of brownies in front of you.

I love showing you off to the world, taking pictures and posting them on social media. “Look how cute my man is, everyone!” I write. While in my mind I think about how much of a pig you are. How you jiggle now, when you step. How your ass cheeks have to shift because your butt has ballooned so big.

There’s just no hope for you anymore, now, fat boy. So open wide.

[olee]

Mil Horas | Enzo Vogrincic

*for the request of enzo :)

English and Spanish

It has been a challenging experience for you to witness the effects of your boyfriend's acting career on his mental and physical health. Your boyfriend, Enzo, recently secured a role in the movie "Society of the Snow," to be honest, this was a big deal for him. This was his first acting gig in a movie, and it was directed by a renowned film director, J.A. Bayona.

The movie's plot is set around a group of people surviving in the Andes mountains, and it follows a gripping storyline that keeps Enzo on his toes. He had to narrate some scenes and play a significant role in the film, which was exciting and nerve-wracking.

However, as the filming progressed, Enzo began to feel mentally and physically drained. He had to work long hours, often late at night, and the pressure to perform well was overwhelming. He struggled to balance his regular life with his filming schedule, and this took a toll on his mental and physical health.

You have been a supportive partner, trying your best to help Enzo cope with the demands of his acting career. You hope he can overcome these challenges and emerge victorious, as this is a significant milestone in his career.

Enzo, the lead actor in the upcoming film, had to drastically change his lifestyle to meet the demands of his character. He was required to follow a strict diet plan, but his dedication to his role led him to take extreme measures. He skipped meals and pushed himself beyond his limits as if he were truly surviving in the wild. As his loved one, you were understandably concerned about his health and well-being. You even spoke to the film's director, Bayona, about Enzo's condition.

One day, Enzo called you on WhatsApp, looking pale and exhausted. He had just finished filming a scene in Barcelona and was feeling weak. You answered his call and asked how he was doing, but before he could respond, you interrupted him and urged him to take care of himself, "Enzo, por favor, necesito que me escuches. Te lo he dicho millones de veces y nunca me das bola. Por favor, cuídate, me tenés preocupada. Necesito que sigas la dieta, si no vas a tener una reacción fea." You reminded him repeatedly to follow his diet plan and emphasized that he did not have to take the role so seriously. You assured him that his health was more important than anything else, and advised him to take some time to relax and meditate.

He sat there at the open-air café, his complexion drained and expression distant, sipping on a cup of coffee. With a reassuring tone, he said, "My love, don't worry about me. I'm perfectly fine. Take a look, just enjoying a peaceful moment with a cup of coffee here, and I wanted to see you. Honestly, Barcelona is treating me well, but I miss you so much, and I really need you here." Unsure how to respond, tears welled up, and you confessed, "Enzo, I miss you too!"

Enzo, noticing your tears, adopted a more comforting tone. "I don't want you to cry. I'm fine. Barcelona is challenging, but I know we'll be together again soon. I miss your hugs, your laughter, everything."

As you spoke, the conversation became tinged with nostalgia. Enzo shared details of his days in Barcelona, enthusiastically describing places and situations. "I swear, I even miss your scoldings here. No one cares for me like you do, and that's what I'm missing."

Amidst sips of coffee, you discussed plans for the future, dreaming of the moment when you would be face-to-face again. "We'll be together again soon. Don’t worry."

The background music caught your attention as he showed you through his camera the charming street in Barcelona where he was seated. To your surprise, it was your favorite song, "Mil Horas" by Los Abuelos De La Nada. A smile spread across your face as you recognized the familiar tune.

Funnily enough, Enzo, caught up in the moment, started singing the song, “Tengo un cohete en el pantalón/Vos estás tan fría/Como la nieve a mi alrededor/Vos estás tan blanca/Que yo no sé qué hacer/La otra noche te esperé bajo la lluvia, dos horas, mil horas, como un perro/Y cuando llegaste, me miraste y me dijiste: ‘loco, estás mojado, ya no te quiero’”His voice, carried by the ambiance of the street, added a touch of spontaneity to the virtual encounter. Without a second thought, you joined in, singing along with him. The distance between you seemed to fade away as the shared love for the song created a delightful connection across the miles.

[sotwk]

I have come so very close several times over the last few months to putting my blog on hiatus. Once or twice I even considered closing up shop completely and just going *poof*.

I believe people should take social media breaks whenever needed for their mental health--please put your well-being first! In my case, however, that's a tough decision to make, because online life and fanfic writing are my escape from real life problems and the anxiety I suffer from because of them. I avoid disclosing my Life's Great Burdens online, but I'm shouldering some whoppers, and the toll they take on my mental health can get significant!

What I really want to express in this post is my deepest appreciation for the Mutuals and Anons who take the time to engage with me through comments and Asks. You help keep my blog active and lively even during my creative droughts, and I want to give you credit!

I don't belong to any writing communities, I'm not active in any Discord servers, and I'm not really in any subgroups of the Tolkien fandom. I'm really just kind of a floater who tries to be friends with anyone who'd reciprocate. Sometimes that makes me feel a little bit like an outsider, but those lovely individual Moots and Anons keep me from feeling lonely or unwelcome.

Extra special thank yous to everyone, Mutual/Follower or not, who recently commented on/reblogged old fics of mine, especially those who did 2nd, 3rd, etc. kudos or comments! The longer I go without posting anything new, the harder I get on myself, and the worse my creative block gets. Thanks to your gentle encouragement, I actually started writing again yesterday. It's still a slow start, but hope it continues to flow.

And to the Anon(s) who regularly send me Asks about my OCs and WIPS--I don't even know what to say! I wish I could thank you properly for this BIG HELP you provide, but for now internet hugs will have to do.

Anyway! I guess the hiatus/desire to quit is once again shoved back into the closet for now. I will do my best to do my part of the work in keeping this blog thriving! :)

PS. Anyone still waiting for responses to requests (esp. for my long-past Summer event)--I'm still game to write if you are willing to wait. <3

[toptierteaser]

You're my Chubby Boyfriend

You’ve gotten so oblivious since we started dating.

                You’ve been happy. That’s obvious. You can see it on your face, how content you are, how comfortable you’ve gotten. How docile. I’ve been treating you well. And you’ve let me. You’ve allowed me to spoil you, to pamper you. And all that relationship satisfaction has certainly taken a toll. On your mood, on your mental health. Everything has improved.

                Everything, that is, but your weight.

                You’ve sort of ballooned, fat boy. You’ve thickened quite a bit during our time together. You’ve been letting me feed you, as you sit on that widening, pampered ass of yours. Letting me stuff you silly at dinner. Letting me bring you endless snacks, coaxing goodies and treats down your greedy throat, convincing those plump, submissive lips of yours to part for my desserts. You’ve been letting me fill you; not just filling your heart or your mind or your time. But I’ve been filling up your body as well.

                You’ve changed somewhat, fatty. You’ve let all the weight accumulate all over yourself, transforming from that handsome, fit jock I smiled at as I watched him pack away dinner, my own leftovers, and dessert as well. As I sat back, like a fox watching a plump porker fatten himself, knowing your potential, knowing what I could do to you if I put my mind to it.

                And it’s unmistakable now. You’re not a fit, single jock anymore. You’re my dumb, handsome chubber of a boyfriend. A plump boytoy whose mind is filled with the thought of donuts and cupcakes and cookies and pies. All being brought to him on a plate by his loving, doting significant other. By me.

That relationship weight has accumulated all over. Your stomach, which was once muscular, is now covered in layers of lard, its dough spilling out onto your lap. Your legs covered in fat, fighting to take up space in your chair as you squeeze your enormous ass back so you can play your video games. You’ve gotten uncomfortable, in this new, chubby body of yours. But I do my best to minimize the discomfort, to make sure you don’t have to struggle into those terrible shorts with the button anymore. No, those all burst a while ago. Now, I’ve spoiled you and bought you several pairs of stretchy athletic shorts that leave little room for growth. Packing away your work shirts and button ups and replacing them with stretchy, breathable t-shirts. Shirts that crease under your juicy moobs, that rest above your belly button, exposing your chub. You don’t even notice as I hold a plate of brownies in front of you. As you stuff your face, stupidly, watching your mind-numbing shows and scrolling on your phone. Your double chin highlighting the cuteness of your face, outlining the plumpness where your handsome jawline used to be.

I love showing you off to the world, taking pictures and posting them on social media. “Look how cute my man is, everyone!” I write. While in my mind I think about how much of a pig you are. How you jiggle now, when you step. How your ass cheeks have to shift because your butt has ballooned so big. How your undies ride up between them and you have to tug when you don’t think I’m looking. How we go for walks and you’re always at least a couple steps behind, struggling to keep up with my long, fit legs. I give you lots of belly pats though, bountiful attention, and of course, endless offerings of food! And you  love it…of course you do! Because you’re a fat boy at heart and now, thanks to all my cooking and spoiling and pampering, you’re a fat boy all over. Now, all that chub is mine! That belly is mine to rub! That ass is mine to grab! Those love handles are mine to squeeze! Maybe you’ll go mad from all my poking and prodding, from my teasing. Maybe you’ll lose your mind from all my delicious cooking, the toll it’s taking. But you certainly wont do anything about it. It’s simply too addicting; my cooking, the way it makes you grow…the way I make you feel…

There’s just no hope for you anymore, now, fat boy. So open wide.

[romanoffsbish]

A Trick Question

Dark!Valkyrie x Fem!R

Request

Warnings: Nonconsensual Tracking, Stalking, Jealous-Mean Val.

Smut: Daddy(V), Baby/Slut(R), Choking, Unprotected (Rough) Sex (Valkyrie has a dick), Oral(R), Overstimulation, Breeding, Total KO

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Val, that’s my cousin!” You shouted exasperatedly, this repeat argument was starting to take a toll on your mental health, and your physical wellbeing.

“Well she looked at you as if you weren’t hers!”

There was not even an ounce of sarcasm as she yelled back at you, she was dead serious, and you were honest to God taken aback by her boldly believing in her delusional eyesight.

“I’m not doing this right now,” you decided, with a swift hand you snatched up your keys, and took off before she could try to stop you.

Valkyrie was frustrated, she couldn’t quite understand why you didn’t see it yourself. Sarah might be your cousin, but the way she spends half of her time staring at your chest when you speak, it’s clear she doesn’t care about the blood that ties you to her, and that alone leads Valkyrie to consider homicide.

——

No one will ever touch you again, she would never allow a beaut like you to slip from her grasp, but for now she’ll let you blow off some steam, and when you return she’ll do the same.

However, after you were gone for an hour she began to feel uneasy about your disappearance. It was already beyond 11pm when you took off, and now it was nearing 1am without a word. Every call went to voicemail, her texts read as delivered, and your location was stalling in place around the house, telling her you’re likely in airplane mode, and it upsets her greatly that you’d be this careless with your own safety.

Valkyrie’s hands tensely gripped onto her glass, the remnants of her scotch swirled around the bottom as she lifted it up to her pursed lips. The only thing that stops her, as she slams her empty glass down and it shatters, from calling her New Asgardian soldiers is a key in the lock.

Valkyrie slipped into the kitchen, and watched you enter the house with tense shoulders, but she saw that once you looked around they fell.

“Where were you?” she reveals herself, and you jump back, hitting your head on the front door.

She knew where you were all along, you turning your phone off forced her to check on your tracker in your neck, and she saw you were up the street at a lookout with Thor as your backup. Because not only had she tracked you, but she sent her men out to surveil you, and report back to her with any developments.

“At our lookout,” you candidly replied as you slipped your jacket onto the hook, “Thinking.”

Valkyrie hummed, “Interesting,” she stepped closer to you until your back was against the door, “I was left here worried sick, and you were just up the street thinking, what about?”

With a trembling lip you answered, “Us,” you gulped before you went on, “I think we sh—.”

Valkyrie raised her hand up to restrict your access to speech, “I agree baby, we should shut your brain off, you’re too pretty to overthink.”

The oxygen deprivation left you dumb, because when she asked for permission, you nodded, “Good girl, look at you being wise,” she smiled sweetly, but her lusty eyes dared you to run.

But the sad thing is, you knew that even if you could, you wouldn’t, you’d never leave her.

Valkyrie ripped your clothing off of your body without a care in the world their significance.

Before you could protest the loss of your moms vintage shirt she’d manhandled you off the ground with two strong arms underneath your dreamy thighs, and with her tongue already buried in your cunt she slammed you onto the kitchen table. The sound of slapping echoed in the kitchen along with your subsequent wince.

The centerpiece vase also fell, spilling the surprisingly cold water all over, causing you to squeal when it pooled against your heated skin.

Valkyrie ate you out endlessly, if you asked her what her dream job was she’d say keeping you warm; sounds innocent enough, but with the fire radiating off your body it truthfully wasn’t.

It was after about the fifth orgasm, your legs trembling so hard around her head that she finally came up for air, the sight of you looking so lost in the haze made her cock twitch with desperate need, she gasped and with breathing in pure air over your intoxicating arousal, well it helped her to remember her neglected body.

Valkyrie slid your abused body up until you were centered on the table, then she decided to test Asgardian furniture producers because she climbed on top, and hovered over you in an almost menacing manner, her grin was scary, “Daddy’s going to fuck you until you’re no longer planning on saying silly things.”

With your thighs to your chest you watched as her dick entered you with one brutal thrusting of your forced lovers hips, “Fuck, don’t you see, this slutty pussy was made for me, no one else,” her grunts continued to brainwash you into a state of serenity and agreement; hope was lost.

“Now, you’re going to block Sarah, do you understand?” You didn’t. But that didn’t stop you from nodding so she’d continue to fuck you, the feeling of her still cock inside you was torture, especially when her appendage grew tired of waiting as it twitched you into a mewl.

“Good girl,” she rewarded you with a sloppy kiss, and a brutal half minute of thrusting.

“Daddy please, don’t stop,” you sobbed, like genuine tears trailed down the sides of your head and mixed with the sweat in your hair.

“Tell daddy, who does this pussy belong to?”

Not you! “Daddy”

“What about your heart?” she slid out of you, eyes trained on your trembling lip, you were struggling to answer, but no worries, she would help with a set of powerful thrusts, “Daddy!!!!”

“Your heart rests in the palm of my hands baby,” she pressed a deceivingly tender kiss to your lips as she picked up a steady pace that had you once again forgetting your situation.

Valkyrie knew how to work your body, she bit your pulse point every time she was nearing her own release, trying to time your orgasms because the thought of that felt romantic to her. An uncanny tie to your soul as she steals a piece of it from you with every moan pulled.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” she grunts directly into your ear as she felt you spasming around her, then she’s panting again as she moves in and out of you with even more hip power as your cunt tried desperately to still her weapon.

“I’m not stopping until I know you’re good and full,” she grunts, the overexertion here enough to tire her advanced physique out, but not to stop, “You’ll be pregnant with my seed baby, a little pouch of it to pudge out your stomach.”

She laughed rather maniacally, “Then you’ll soon enough be pregnant with my heir,” she choked on her words as she once again came, your walls were thickly layered in her seed, and so she added to it, causing a massive gush of it to return to her thighs. So in awe at just how much she’s produced she failed to see you’d officially gone limp on the bed, a total KO.

“Well, I think you’re full baby,” she laughed, but at your lack of response (the anticipated whimper, of need or plea she didn’t care) was had her twist her head to see you clearly, “Oh.”

Valkyrie moaned shakily when another wave of arousal came over her, “I can’t believe I fucked you to sleep,” she almost moved to act on her throbbing cocks behalf, but then she felt a strain in her shoulders that warranted sleep, and so she laid her body atop of yours, she sloppily pecked your lips, “Sweet dreams my Queen, we’ll be wed by the end of tomorrow.”

——

1,334 Words

❤️ Kaitlyn 🥵

[btsficsandsuch]

Everything’s Going to Be Okay

You’re going through a rough time and your husband Yoongi is there to be the support that you need.

Warning: Mentions of depression/anxiety, specifically postpartum depression and anxiety.

I wrote this as kind of a therapy. I mentioned that part of the reason I was starting to write again was because of my anxiety. I have a newborn at home and postpartum anxiety is no joke and I wish I had someone as supportive as this Yoongi in my life. It really does get easier though and I’m starting to feel better.

——————————————————————————

You never thought motherhood would be this hard. You expected the physical pain and the sleepless nights, but you never expected the mental toll it would take on you. Maybe struggling with anxiety long before you gave birth definitely wasn’t helping, but you noticed a significant decline in your mental health once your son was born. Your husband Yoongi noticed this as well.

Your anxiety was starting to become debilitating. Were you a good enough mom? Are you doing everything right? Were you still being a good wife? Does your son love you? What will his future look like? All these thoughts ran through your head day after day.

Yoongi tried his hardest to be there for you in any way that he could. He managed to get a few weeks off to be able to stay at home with you and your son. He kept up on all the household chores making sure the house stayed clean and organized for you. He cooked you three meals a day and made sure you stayed hydrated. He’d wake up with you at 3am when it was time to feed your son though you told him several times he didn’t have to since there wasn’t much he was able to do, but he insisted that if you had to wake up so would he even if it was just to offer moral support.

He was the perfect partner which you should’ve been so happy about, but it just made you feel guilty. You have a beautiful healthy son and a husband who’d walk to the ends of the earth for you and you still couldn’t make yourself to feel happy.

When your son was 6 weeks old it was time for Yoongi to go back to work. He was worried about you, “Y/N I can talk to them and see if I can get more time off. I don’t want to leave you yet.” The two of you were laying in bed together just after Yoongi’s alarm had gone off signaling it was time for him to go. You wrapped your arms around his waist even tighter, “No babe it’s okay. You’ve missed so much as it is. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

Deep down you were worried. You were struggling with Yoongi around so you didn’t know how you were going to manage without him here, but you didn’t want him to give up everything because you couldn’t handle it.

You were sitting on the couch holding your son when Yoongi came walking over car keys in hand. He leaned down and kissed your son, “Be a good boy for your mom alright. She’s doing her best so go easy on her.” He then turned his attention to you, “Please call me if you need anything Y/N. I already let the company know that I won’t hesitate to leave if I need to. My mom also said she’s just a phone call away if you need any thing.” You nodded as he leaned in for a kiss and you watched him walk out out the door.

The first few hours were surprisingly easy. Your son was napping and you were even able to get some stuff done around the house. Yoongi checked on you every hour, asking if you needed anything. You kept thinking how lucky you were to have someone like him. Someone that added so much extra stress to their own life just to try and ease the stress in yours. You were mid thought when the guilt set in. Yoongi was making his life harder because you were weak. He was constantly worried about you because you weren’t able to cope. He couldn’t fully enjoy the first few weeks of his sons life because he had to constantly dote on you because you couldn’t get this right.

You could feel the panic attack starting. It was getting difficult to breathe. Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. Your body was beginning to sweat. Luckily your son was still sound asleep in his crib. You decided to try and get your mind off of things. You put a load of laundry in the dryer and decided to start on dinner. You were chopping some vegetables trying your best to get this attack to pass when you heard your son start crying through the baby monitor.

You walked to his nursery and brought him with you over to the rocking chair. You began to feed him staring into his tiny eyes. “I’m so sorry Y/S/N. I’m sorry I’m not a good mom. I’m really trying. I promise I’ll get better. But even if I don’t you have the best daddy in the world and he’ll always be there for you when I can’t.” He finished his feed and you changed his diaper and set him back in the crib.

While staring at his perfect little face it hit you in full force. Tears streaming down your face you walked into the hallway and slid down onto the floor. You pulled your knees to your chest finally letting out the sobs you had been holding in. Worried that you wouldn’t be able to take care of your son properly you made the phone call you never thought you’d make.

Yoongi picked up on the second ring, “Y/N are you okay?” You couldn’t say anything. “Y/N tell me what’s wrong.”, he said the concern evident in his voice. “I’m sorry.”, was all you could say between sobs. “Stay right there Y/N. I’m already in my car and I’m on the way.”

You didn’t know what to do. Normally you’d go for a walk or take a hot shower to calm your anxiety, but you knew you needed to be close for your son in case he needed you. You sat outside his nursery and cried. Just when you thought you had run out of tears Yoongi walked through the door. He came right over and crouched down helping you to your feet, “I’m just going to check on Y/S/N real quick okay. Stay right here.” You nodded and watched him walk into the nursery. Yoongi smiled looking down at his baby boy, peacefully sleeping.

Yoongi walked back out and took your hand leading you to the bathroom. He turned on the shower to the temperature he knew you liked. He helped you take off your clothes and undo your hair from the bun it had been in for the last week, “I’ll keep an eye on Y/S/N. Take your time and come out when you’re ready.” You nodded and stepped into the steamy shower. The water hot enough to calm the ache in your chest, but just below the point of burning you. Once again Yoongi was there for you and knew how to help you and all you did was force him to come home early and take care of you.

You spent a while in the shower trying to wash away all the anxiety and guilt and depression. When you got out of the shower you noticed Yoongi had placed your favorite sweats and one of his T-shirts on the counter for you.

When you walked into the bedroom Yoongi was sitting on the bed. He grabbed your hand and pulled you to sit next to him. You tried to pull away, “I need to go feed Y/S/N.” Yoongi shook his head, “I fed him with one of the emergency bottles. He’s sleeping comfortably.” “Well I need to go finish dinner so you have something to eat.”, you said trying to avoid the conversation you knew was about to take place. He shook his head again, “I already ordered some takeout.”

You nodded and the two of you sat in silence for a few minutes until Yoongi began, “Y/N I’m sorry.” You couldn’t hold the tears any longer. You buried your face in his neck wrapping your arms around him, “No I’m sorry Yoongi. I’m the worst wife and mother. I should be happy but I’m not. And all I do is make you worry about me. You have to stop your life to take care of me. I don’t know how to make these feelings go away.”

You cried into his shoulder for several minutes while he slowly rubbed your back. Once he felt like you had calmed down some he lifted your chin so that you were looking at him, “Y/N it’s normal to feel these things. You’ve been through so much over the last couple months. Hell even the nine months before that. You are the best mom. Y/S/N is always fed and changed and loved. Even today when you had a breakdown you still made sure he was taken care of and the first thing you thought of when you got out of the shower was making sure he was okay. And you’ve always been and still are the best wife I could’ve ever asked for. Even in your distressed state you’re worried about making sure I have dinner to eat. You gave me the best gift ever of a child and now it’s my turn to be there for you and give you everything that I can by being whatever you need. We’ll take it day by day. I know things are tough right now, but everything will be okay.”

You could feel the tears start again, a mix of sad tears and happy tears. “How did I get so lucky?”, you said before kissing his cheek. Yoongi smiled, “Have you looked in the mirror lately? I think I’m the lucky one.” You gave him another kiss before getting up to leave the room.

You grabbed your son and brought him out to the living room with you. Yoongi sat on the couch next to you feeding you bites of your dinner while you fed your son. Yoongi’s words repeated in your head. You were going through a rough time, but you had your beautiful son to watch grow up and you had the best support system in Yoongi. You knew he’d never let you fall and just like he’s said, Everything’s going to be okay.

[flightfoot]

any fic recs for like... disability aus? disabled characters? like that one epilepsy marinette fic.

Sure! I'm gonna have some incomplete fics in this one as well, since there just aren't a ton of them, and I think most of them are decently satisfying even when they ARE incomplete.

---

balancing act by fictionalinfinity

“Besides, being Ladybug always came first. It came before school, friends, and sometimes even family. Now it had to come before her health. Marinette had a duty to Paris. She wouldn’t let them down.” Or, being both Ladybug and the Guardian starts to take its toll on Marinette. - the epilepsy au literally no one asked for

---

Love at Last Sight by ClaraOswald16

The final battle against Monarch has arrived, but things do not go as planned for our favorite superheroes. The battle leaves Marinette blind. Marinette and Adrien must come to terms with their new realities, but finding a new normal turns out to be harder than expected. This is a story of love, loss, and finding strength in each other.

---

Lows and Highs (Of Adrien Agreste) by Blackcats_Butterflies

Adrien Agreste- Teenage supermodel, son of Gabriel Agreste, hero of Paris... Type One Diabetic. When Adrien is diagnosed with a chronic illness, he goes through the mental struggles of dealing with this new life. Nothing will ever be the same again, and if anyone were to find out, he'd be humiliated. The world would find him repulsing. Who would want to love someone who was constantly giving themselves shots? Marinette would. (Based off my real life, when I was diagnosed at 13 years old.) ***There's a prequel in part 1 of this series which is Adrien's diagnosis!! Can be read as stand alones.*** TW: Mentions of drugs (no one does them) and the following stuff that will appear in chapters: - Needles - Blood - Paralysis - Seizures - Fainting

---

A Little Fall of Rain by Druwho

Unable to transform in time, Marinette sacrifices her life to save Adrien from an assassin. With the help of the Kwamis, Adrien is able to bring her back to life, but it comes at a price. One that Adrien alone must pay. Now, Adrien is forced to keep even more secrets. The fact that Marinette is alive and that she has been his Lady all long. More than ever, they must defeat Hawkmoth. Only then can Marinette return to her life.

The disability in this one is temporary, but it's still significant, and coping with it makes up a decent amount of the fic. Plus it's just plain a good story.

---

Sadame (さだめ) by @xhanisai

Bittersweetly, he wished that he was normal. That he could just say what was on his mind and converse with everyone around with ease and not be treated as if he was made of glass that was ready to shatter at any moment. That he could laugh properly whenever Ladybug made one of her silly faces at an annoying Akuma and be able to tell her to her face how much he truly loved her. That he would do anything for her. Until then, he wouldn’t let anything stop him from expressing himself and treating his loved ones the way he wanted to treat them to the best of his abilities. (The shock and anguish upon the disappearance of his beloved mother was so strong, it took away Adrien's ability to speak at ten-years-old. As if losing his means to communicate wasn't bad enough, he became practically invisible to his father after that event. Ultimately, Adrien believed he was broken and would only cause pain to anyone who came close but that all changed when he found the Miraculous of Destruction in his room and met Plagg, Nino, Alya, Marinette and...Ladybug. Soon he began to see the light again.)

---

My Fair-Y Lady by Eostre94

Inspired by the Lady Fairy AU. Marinette is both blind and holder of the Butterfly Miraculous, helping Chat Noir against Le Paon’s and his monstrous Asura. Will Lady Fairy, her Champions and Chat Noir finally defeat the Peacock user, all while uncovering more as everything begins to unravel? How will this story of magic, mystery, friendship, love, and faeries play out?

---

see a world so beautiful and strange (spinning off somewhere) by @that-was-anticlimactic

“Why? Why are you suppressing?” “Because I can't tic,” Alya whispered, fingernails digging into the skin on her arm. “I know Tourette’s isn’t exactly uncommon, but it’s part of my identity as Alya Césaire. It can’t be a part of Rena Rouge, too. Someone could figure out who I am and then…” And then she’d have to give up the coolest thing that’s ever happened to her, give up living her dreams. [or, alya suppresses as rena rogue in order to protect her identity, but neither ladybug nor trixx will let her hurt herself like that]

I love how this fic goes into some of Alya's thoughts and insecurities about having Tourette's, how the general public doesn't understand, and then lets her receive comfort and validation afterwards. It's just... really nice.

[lilac-5ky]

Hi, guys!

I know it's been a while, months actually, and I didn't intend to be absent for so long. Some of you might have heard about my writer's block, but in hindsight, I think it was mostly me not feeling so well about life itself. I can't say things are better nor that's been a significance change, but without effort nothing will ever get done, so I am here to at least alert those of you still here about the future of my work.

I've started a lot of fanfics that I've left unfinished. Most of you followed me from my days in the Gintama fandom, or from my Toji fics. I am truly grateful that I keep getting notifications and you continue reading my fanfics, seeing your comments gives me so much joy even if I'm not responding.

I won't make any promises. Some of my fics might never see their end, but there are two fics I really want to see to completion, no matter how long it takes. Those include my "Roommates from Hell"-Toji series, and the "I wannna tie the knot" one with Satoru. The Toji one will admittedly take more time, since I've stopped fixating on him, but the next chapter of the Satoru one is close to completion. Or I might break it into more chapters cause it's turned huge. We'll see.

Anyways! My personal goal is to have a work out by the end of October. I won't be participating to Kinktober this year, but if everything turns out well and I get a feel of my own writing back, I might be able to get more work done faster.

I wanna apologize to my readers as it wasn't my intention to string them along. Writing has been my passion and not getting to write took an even bigger toll on my mental health, but I wanna come back to it. Thank you everyone for your support, even if not many of you get to read this.

See you again soon!

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

This article pisses me off as the author seems to have been trying to not mention masking and other prevention despite some of those interviewed being pictured wearing masks. Vax and relax helped to get those 1 in 12 Utahns into this situation!

By Emily Ashcraft

SALT LAKE CITY — Blake Bockholt says he used to be very active. He was a high school English teacher who would go running, cycling and canyoneering.

Bockholt suffers from long COVID.

"My life is completely different than I thought it would ever be," he said Wednesday at an event announcing a new long COVID study.

It took Bockholt a few years to figure out where his boundaries were. He said he should have stopped teaching two years earlier than he did. He kept teaching, reducing the number of classes he taught to what most teachers taught, and then fewer than most teachers.

As he pushed himself each day, it would take a large toll on his body — something called post exertion malaise — and he could not recover. That led him to lash out at his family, and eventually his principal stopped by his house and told him he needed to go on disability and stop working.

"I knew the limits were a long time ago. It was coming to terms with that," he said.

The Utah Department of Health and Human Services released a report on Wednesday saying long COVID is significantly impacting many Utahns. The report is designed to provide information to medical providers, patients and others to help all Utahns have similar opportunities for living healthy lives.

"About one out of every 12 Utahns is experiencing long COVID and facing the physical, mental, emotional and financial impacts that can arise. There is a significant unmet need to acknowledge and support these patients and their caregivers," the report says.

Bockholt said now his goals are to take care of his physical and mental health so he can be there for his family. If an activity doesn't benefit his physical or mental health or his family's well-being, he doesn't do it.

He said he is doing much better than he was six months ago, but he does not think he will ever get back into a classroom. Although, he still pushes himself too hard at times, specifically for going to his children's games on the weekends.

"There are some things worth overdoing it," he said.

The report says 57% of Utahns with long COVID reported severe symptoms, or symptoms that had a significant daily impact, in a 2022 survey, while 43% reported mild symptoms. Those with severe long COVID are twice as likely as the average person to have symptoms of depression and anxiety.

Cindy Wynette, a vaccine program manager with the health department who also had lingering symptoms of COVID-19, said she felt alone and didn't have anybody to vent to. She appreciated being able to have discussions in a long COVID Facebook group, which she also used to find resources.

"I was so lucky that my symptoms weren't as severe," she said. "But I can tell you that after about two years, it really did start to get to me."

Wynette said her senses of smell and taste were gone for about a year, and after that they were severely distorted for even longer — which made it hard to cook food for her family and eat.

Now she said she gets each COVID-19 vaccine because she doesn't know what would happen if she contracted COVID-19 again and doesn't want to find out.

The report said the best way to prevent long COVID is with vaccinations.

Lisa O'Brien was on the health department's long COVID committee from its beginning and helped review the study. She said the 1 in 12 statistic was not surprising and is a lower percentage than what she had seen estimated.

She was bedridden by long COVID and said her heart rate would spike anytime she stood up.

"My body just could not regulate and do, like, the normal things that it was supposed to do," she said.

O'Brien said she cycled through about 50 different symptoms. At first, doctors attributed her symptoms to anxiety or the power of suggestion. Eventually she became involved in long COVID communities online. She is one of the first 300 in an international Facebook support group and started a Utah-based one.

Now, she said she is mostly better; she has mild symptoms, sometimes feeling her heart speed up more than it should or waking up in the night with a crazy heart rate — something that is scary for her.

The study found that of people in Utah with long COVID, 54.5% reported excellent or very good health, while 14.1% reported fair or poor health. In the last month at the time of the survey in 2022, 11.3% reported their physical health was not good for at least half of the days, and 16.5% reported their mental health was not good at least half of the time.

O'Brien was a mail carrier for 20 years and said she lived an active life. She didn't want to wonder if that part of her life was gone.

"I wasn't gonna let that happen. I was gonna go out and find help … and take everybody with me," she said.

She got involved in advocacy work early on, even while she was bedridden. She said she knew Utahns were going to need help and there were more people and she didn't want other people to need to follow the same path she was forced to take.

[kaiso-woo]

Heartbeat

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

-> Masterlist

PART 6 of my ‘Stay Series’ - a long hypothesised journey of a relationship between Bang Chan and Reader - for this fic, I highly recommend reading at least PART 1 (Just Stay.) and 5 (The Date of All Dates), as there's flashbacks included and references made to these parts.

WC: 10.3k (long fic no. 2) | Synopsis: You break up with Chris :| Does he chase after you? Yes. Yes of course he does because it would be boring if he doesn't. There's also a fight, naturally.

Notes: ANGST, Second Person Narration, Skz Fluent in English, Swearing, Idol!Chan, CaféOwner!Reader, Fem!Reader, Angry!Chan, Heartbroken!Chan, EmotionalWreck!Chan HAH, Blood, Suic!de (Strong Descriptions), Swearing, Pet Names (Jagiya, Jagi, Baby, Babe, Love etc.)

Here for a reading marathon? Head right back to the start!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Overall ‘Stay Series’ Synopsis: Bang Chan experiences the suic!des of Stays, so when you lot choose to die, he dies right along with you. Reader is the “antidote” to this condition - MAJOR PART OF THIS FIC

PART 6

!!Casual reminder this is entirely fictitious - Chris/Christopher in my work does not represent the actual Bang Chan - this is purely my imagination and nothing more - this goes for all other SKZ-Members too!!

Listen to this after if you want, it was the inspiration for half the fic hehe - I'll embed it at the bottom as well.

--

Notice Regarding Bang Chan’s Personal Life

Hello, this is JYPE.

Recently, there has been a great deal of speculation and discussion surrounding Bang Chan's long-distance relationship. We understand that our fans are concerned about his well-being and how this relationship may affect his commitments as an idol. We want to assure you that our highest priority is the well-being and professional responsibilities of our artists, including Bang Chan.

Due to the outlash of feedback received from the recently leaked photos of him with his significant other, he has been restricted from visiting his partner for the time being. We understand that this situation may raise questions and concerns among fans, and we appreciate your continued support and understanding.

We want to make it clear that Bang Chan's personal life, including his relationship, is his private matter. However, we believe in being transparent with our fans to address any concerns. We want to emphasise that this romantic relationship will not affect Bang Chan's performance, schedule, or duties as an idol. He remains fully committed to his career, his passion for music and his responsibilities as a member of Stray Kids remain unwavering.

JYP Entertainment will continue to provide Bang Chan with the necessary support and guidance to ensure that he can balance his personal life and professional obligations. We believe in nurturing a healthy work-life balance for our artists to ensure their well-being and success in their careers.

We kindly ask for your understanding and support during this time. Please continue to support Bang Chan and Stray Kids as they work hard to bring you great music and performances.

Thank you.

--

That was approximately four months ago. Chris had informed you of the situation as soon as he found out, and when you read the official notice, you couldn’t help but scowl at how supportive they were making themselves seem. What they were really hoping was that the separation would cause a shift in your relationship, and you’d break up. Not that it mattered, because that is exactly what was going to happen, what you had been planning from the beginning.

--

Chris flops into his studio chair, raking a hand through his hair in his exhaustion. It’s taking a toll on his health if he’s being honest. It’s paining him that he can’t call you as frequently as he’d like, can’t see you whenever he pleased, can’t hug you like you’re his teddy bear. He wondered how you were doing constantly; in the middle of dance rehearsals, working in his studio, posing for the camera, grinning in interviews. 

He sighs and tugs his phone out of his pocket, opening up his camera roll and scrolling through his photos with you. His camera roll is half Stray Kids, half you. Eating ice cream, in the car, sitting on park benches together, at the beach, snuggled together in your apartment. His mind immediately relaxes as he scrolls through them all, reliving each memory he has with you. The heat from him officially announcing your relationship still hasn’t died down, and there are trucks with LED signs still rolling up frequently to the front of JYP. (A/N: Inspired by the uproar from losing Chan's Room irl obviously, in this world however, it still exists)

He checks the time on his wristwatch, and mentally calculates whether you’d be sleeping or not. He’s supposed to do Chan’s Room, but he wants to see you too. After a moment of contemplation, he seeks out your contact and hits the face time button. You answer after a second, immediately propping your phone up on the kitchen counter so you can move around.

“Hey, you okay?” you smile at him through the camera, and Chris grins back, admiring your adorably unkempt state: messy hair, PJs, bare face. He props you up on his computer monitor and leans back into his chair. “Yeah ha. I just wanted to see you,” he shrugs, and you shake your head at him in amusement, “I thought you’d be asleep.”

You sigh and drag your chopping board into the camera, waving your knife around dramatically, “I’m kind of hungry.” “Are you seriously cooking a whole ass meal at… 3am?” Chris laughs, dragging his chair closer to watch as you chop up vegetables and toss them into a pot.

“I was craving soup, and then I remembered I could satisfy my own cravings if I actually tried. Here, want a carrot?” you ask, picking up a slice and shoving it towards the camera. Chris giggles and opens his mouth. You blink in surprise when he grabs a carrot stick from off camera and munches on it, “Thanks for the carrot.”

“Who knew we were that in sync,” you laugh, shoving your carrot into your mouth and chewing happily. “Stay with me?” he asks, finishing off his carrot as you go back to your cooking, “I’m going to do Chan’s Room now, but can you stay on call?” “Sure.”

--

You had been stalling your decision for months now. It’s been half a year, and Chris still hasn’t been able to return to your side. To top this off, your trash can is ridiculously full of letters you haven’t even opened. In the beginning you would hesitantly tear open the mail, but the amount of hate and death threats you were receiving never seemed to stop, so Chris eventually ordered you to just stop reading them.

You figured some people had recognised you thanks to the Skz-Code episode. Although you weren't part of the episode itself, people picked up on you as the owner of the Café when they visited. This knowledge was slightly scary, but... you'd manage.

Sometimes, when your mood wasn’t the best, you would pluck a letter out at random. The words within it only confirmed your reason for ever thinking of breaking up with him. Your socials and emails were swamped with them too.

Chris couldn’t go live without people asking him about you, both in a positive or negative way. Stray Kids’ couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without someone asking about how the relationship was panning it out, and you were tired of hearing Chris calmly explain exactly what the official notice from JYP had stated. You could tell he was sick of it too. As time wore on, you noticed more and more in Chris’ demeanour, in Skz-Talker, award shows, back-stage footage, he had grown reserved, silent.

He was captured spending time on his phone often, in an irritable mood more frequently, and the Stray Kids members often gave you updates on his moods, behind his back. He really only seemed happy when he was talking with you, or messaging you. And that… as an idol? No that’s not allowed. You frown at the image Jisung had just sent you: a picture of Chris sitting on a bench up against the wall of the dance room, staring off into space, his posture deflated.

(A/N: When the dialogue is in script format, it's meant to represent text messages)

Jisung: “He feels different”

You: “I’ve noticed”

Jisung: “he really misses you”

You: “I know Jisung” You: “I miss him too”

Jisung: “JYP is mean”

You: “Chris just needs to snap out of it” You: “He’s an idol first and foremost”

Jisung: “I think he just wants to be yours” Jisung: “First and foremost”

You: “Yeah but he can’t just give up on his life like this” You: “not for me, not for anyone” You: “he worked too hard for this” You: “suffered too much”

Jisung: “this is the worst he’s ever suffered”

You: “no it’s not”

Jisung; “I think it is”

You: “Jisung, tell him I said he needs to remember who he is”

Jisung: “he said he knows who he is”

You: “who is he?”

Jisung: “I’m not going to tell you what he said”

You: “why?”

Jisung: “You’ll just get mad”

You: “…”

Jisung: “I think he’d give up everything for you” Jisung: “JYP spoke with him again today” Jisung: “I think that’s why his mood has worsened”

You: “… Me or Skz???” You: “Ji?”

--

You sigh and rub your temples, trying to ease the migraine that’s forming. Jisung’s left you on read, and you know exactly what that means. This is it. The tears that you’ve been holding back ever since you first considered it start to fall. The tears that you’ve buried deep down into your soul flood out. They’ve been hiding there, threatening to return, ever since he bought you those skittles. 

Your sobs rack through you, chest heaving, as your bottled-up emotions explode out of you in waves. You’re laughing through your tears now; sobbing, quietly screaming, laughing, all at once. You didn’t cry as you packed up your suitcase, didn’t cry as Ashley hugged you tightly, before she signed the official transfer papers. You never cried while you were on call with Chris, or as you read his sweet messages in the morning. Never cried at how miserable he looked on screen, never cried as you packed up your decorations and belongings. Never cried as you bid your official farewell to your regulars, and hosted Ashley’s take over celebration.

And now you were crying, and oh how it hurt. 

Ashley peeks her head around the bedroom door. She had recently moved into your apartment, preparing for your departure. Ashley was the owner of Café Studio now. She would live in your apartment, and she would take care of the business. You reached for her desperately, needing someone, anyone to support you. She walks over and pulls you into a tight embrace. You curl up against her, burying yourself into her neck, sobbing wholeheartedly.

“Are you sure… this is the right thing to do…?” she quietly asks, patting your back. You bitterly laugh and wipe away your tears, trying to still your erratic breathing. She’d asked you the same question countlessly over the past few months, but you were stubborn in your decision.

Chris’ declining attitude and personality change was only confirmation that you needed to get out of his life, so that he could return to being the wonderful idol that he was before he met you. You’d go home, back to Australia (A/N: Australia because the irony for Chris) and take a few months to reset with your family. You’d already applied for a course at university, finally pursuing the path your parents had initially wanted you to take. You had really wanted to try the Café first though, wanted to make your dream a reality. Things would work out okay. You sniffle and pull away from Ashley, who’s expression is filled with nothing but pity. It was time for you to disappear. 

Most of your belongings had already been shipped back home, and your parents had been keeping up to date with your relationship via the internet. You had eventually informed them of your relationship with Chris, worried that they would first find out via the spam of the internet. Tears almost spill again when you realise you’ve never really spoken to Chris about your family, never had the opportunity to introduce him to them. All you’ve ever told him is that you have two younger brothers. 

You disappear into the office, leaving Ashley sitting by herself on the couch, and open up your laptop, immediately booking the first flight you see over to Perth. It leaves in… 2 hours. 

--

Are you ready, reader? Yeah sorry, Kaiwoo here to ruin your lovely reading experience to speed up things. I love writing don’t get me wrong, but I can be a lazy ass sometimes, so I’m going to give the following events to you straight.

You try to call him, a couple of days after you’ve returned home, having finally worked up the courage to explain what you’ve done. You’re a coward, really, fleeing the country before even talking to him about it. 

In all honesty, he’s probably already picked up on your absence. You haven’t actively messaged him or called him yourself over the past couple of days, only responding to his messages and answering his calls for brief conversations. He probably knows what’s up.

I lied. He doesn’t. He’s been as busy as ever, and he’s been pushing himself harder lately, trying to distract himself from you. JYP did speak to him, but it wasn’t anything to do with an ultimatum. JYP had spoken to him about his declining performance, told him to get his shit together – and he fell into an existential crisis for a little while.

Jisung left you on read because he assumed Chris was given an ultimatum. So all in all, this just comes down to communication errors. Communicating long distance is always hard though. He hasn’t noticed that your efforts into communicating with him have lessened. Which is exactly why, what you’ve done to him… will end him. 

“You can end me whenever you want love. Just as long as it’s you doing it.” You pinch him lightly with an amused laugh, “You’re such a cheesy ass.” “Only for you~” he laughs, the vibrations from his throat rippling through you.

“I… could beat the shit out of you…” you murmur, and Chris allows himself a smile. He bends down and kisses you softly, his heart aching with all the words he wishes he could say, all the love he wishes he could give. “You absolutely could… and the insane thing is… I would let you…” he softly whispers, then leaves your side to turn off the lights around the apartment.

Hm. That panned out well, don’t you think?

--

Chris bows in thanks to the other dancers in the room, wiping the sweat off his forehead and throwing his jacket over his shoulder. “Thank you guys, great work today everyone,” he smiles, patting those closest on the back with confidence. The rest of Stray Kids are finishing up their thanks as well, and are gathering their belongings, having finally finished another exhausting dance practice session. The room empties of other dancers, leaving just Chris and his Kids’ alone.

Minho and Jisung are talking quietly with one another, Hyunjin still trying to perfect a difficult dance move. Changbin gulping down a whole bottle of water, Felix sprawled out in a star on the floor. Seungmin and Jeongin are sitting crossed legged by the wall, staring at everyone in a tired and dazed state, fluffy hair sticking out everywhere.

“Anyone hungry for chicken?” Changbin asks, addressing the group as a whole. There a few murmurs of assent, and Minho states that he’ll order some. They begin to chatter about what to order, drinks included.

Chris is staring at his phone, smiling at the notifications from you, unaware of the conversation around him. There’s two missed calls and one voice message. You’ve never left him a voice message before. Excited to hear what was so urgent that you had to leave a voice message, he turns his volume up so he can hear you over the noise of the Kids’ and activates his message bank.

[You have one new message]

He places his phone on top of the mini fridge and grabs a bottle of water, taking a generous gulp as he waits for the audio to play.

[Let’s…] 

He slowly lowers the bottle at the tone of your voice, the hesitancy.

[break up.]

His body stiffens and his eyes widen, his heart skipping a beat.

[I’ve been thinking about it for a while.]

Chris blinks and his mouth parts in surprise, his breathing starting to intensify.

[Let’s break up.]

By now, the Kids’ have fallen silent, all of them watching Chris. All of them grasping the situation. All of their hearts cracking at the sight of their frozen leader. Chris is blinking rapidly, tears welling in the corner of his eyes. This can’t be happening.

[It’s not that you’ve done anything wrong.] [It’s not that our love lacks anything either.]

“No-” Chris murmurs, his hand shaking around the bottle he’s still holding.

[It’s just that… in some cases… love can only continue to a certain point.]

Chris’ other hand drifts to cover his mouth, shaking, a fragile gasp escaping his lips. The members drift over to him, surrounding him in a comforting hug.

He needs it. He makes no move to hug them back, makes no move as Seungmin eases the water out of his grasp. His hands lock at his sides as they lean into him. They can tell he’s fighting so hard to keep his tears at bay.

[So please don’t try to look for me…] [So that I can leave with good memories of you.]

Chris’ vision is blurry. His face is crumpled in an expression that almost makes him look mad. He really is, fighting with himself.

[Please don’t try to look for me.]

He’s trembling. His entire world is collapsing. Piece by piece. Memory by memory. All of it floods through his mind. 

[I.. too… cherish you very much.]

He stumbles forwards, his breathing erratic, and the members watch as he snatches his phone from the fridge, the voice message still playing, and grabs the door handle to leave.

[So that’s why, I’m going to stop it here.]

Chris chokes back a pathetic sob and swings open the door, sprinting off, his jacket flying off his shoulders and landing on the floor.

It’s pouring rain outside. At least no one can see his tears.

It leaves me feeling seasick, baby

Chris bursts out of the JYP building, ignoring the yells of managers, trainees and staff alike. Immediately, he’s drenched from head to toe, but he couldn’t care less. The water seeps straight through to his bones, and he looks around desperately, like he’s searching for you – but obviously you’re not here. He unlocks his phone and calls you, the rain spattering the screen with droplets.

“Pick up,” his mind delirious, his teeth clenched, drawing in heavy breaths, “pick up pick up pickuppickuppickup- answer your fucking phone!” he dials you again and takes off at a sprint, running along the footpath, the rain pelting him. He can barely see where he’s going, his hair slick on his forehead.

Seems like I'm locked deep in the dreamlike reality

He’s called you about five times, panting in the rain before the thought crosses his mind. Chris swivels himself back around and sprints back to the JYP building, swerving past people in umbrella’s. He couldn’t care less about the water that he’s dripping everywhere on the floor, couldn’t care less about the surprised yells of employees as he pushes past them. He bounds up the steps, skipping as many as possible, the burn in his legs already growing, and bursts into JYP’s Office without even knocking.

“What did you say to her?” he asks, frantic, eyes flickering with pain. “Say to who?” JYP frowns, the conversation he was having with a trainee coming to an abrupt stop. “Y/N. What did you say to her?” Chris repeats, growing impatient. “I have not… said anything…” JYP deadpans, offering a sympathetic shrug.

It spins me 'round and drives me crazy

Chris is back out in the rain. He didn’t waste a second after those words left JYP’s mouth, turning tail and dashing back out of the building again. He was meant to head back to the dorms, but he’s been running around in circles, trying to process, trying to think. He stops in the middle of a nearby park, hyperventilating, letting the tears fall from his eyes straight to the ground, his hands braced on his knees.

“Why…? Why why why? You can’t do this to me,” he sobs, swiping the water from his phone screen again to dial your number for the nth time.

It seems that I'm like the moon in the midday

“Good morning sunshine…” he happily chirps, the familiar endearment causing you to smile happily. This time though, you have an idea. “Good morning moonlight,” your smile intensifies as Chris pauses, stunned, and you wriggle your way into a seated position, forcing him to do the same.

“Moonlight?” he questions, his voice cracking slightly in the early morning. “Yeah. Moonlight. ‘Cause even in the darkness you still shine.” Chris blinks at you, then after a second, grabs your arm to pull you into his lap, “Okay sure,” he pecks the top of your head, a favourite action of his, “but you got one thing wrong. If you’re my sunshine and I’m your moonlight… then I shine because you do.”

If I was only by myself

“Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You can’t-” Chris sinks down onto his knees, burying his face into his hands. The rain is beginning to die down, but that doesn’t matter to him. A whine escapes him, against his will, and it turns into a drawn-out moan as he collapses in on himself, a lone man in the middle of an even lonelier park.

If I didn't know you

“I need you. I need- why would you-” he looks at his phone again, then in his frustration, throws it into the nearby bush. He’s pacing around on the footpath in a panic, raking his hands over and over through his hair, tugging at it, his eyes puffy with tears, bottom lip trembling. He curses and scrambles around in the bush, plucking his phone out and shoving it into his pocket.

Maybe I'd have given up

Chris takes off into another sprint, his body needing to do something, trying to feel some other kind of pain that isn’t in his heart. Eventually, he stumbles into the wall of a building, desperately needing it for support, gasping for air. “Why would you-” his voice cracks into a dry scream, hammering his fist on the wall once, his forehead resting against the cold brick.

Lost at sea

That was him. The idiot leaning too far over the railing was the one whispering nonsense in your brain. How you came to this conclusion was to anyone’s guess, but it was him. In the seconds it had taken you to sprint over to him, he had clambered on top of the railing, balancing precariously, his hands in his hoodie pockets, gazing into the depths of the water.

But my heart's still on fire With a burning desire Gonna get you back like it's destined

He flinches at the sound of a car horn rapidly honking, and he pushes himself off the wall to locate it. “Yah! Hyung! Get in!” Minho yells, waving at him from the driver’s seat of one of the company cars. Chris shakes his head slowly, leaning back onto the wall, not in the mood to be sitting in a car with anyone. Needing instead to punish himself, make his body sore, let his throat go raw with his screams and his sobs.

“Okay, I guess you don’t want a lift to the airport then!” he yells again, winding up the window with a raise of his eyebrows. Chris lets out an exasperated laugh, annoyed with himself, his mind clearing. 

“Okay okay okay. I won’t pay. You can let me go,” you fuss, scrabbling at his hands, but he sighs and hugs you tighter. “Never. Will never let you go,” he mumbles, kissing the back of your head affectionately.

I wish that you would love me

The car is practically silent as Minho drives, silent except for Chris’ sniffles. He’s staring off into space, and Minho’s worry for his elder only intensifies the longer they drive for, his eyes frequently flickering from his leader back to the road. A ringtone reverberates through the car, and Minho answers by pressing a button on the steering wheel. “Yeah?” “’Lix booked a flight ticket, tell Chan hyung it’s Gate 21, Flight FR3421, and leaves in an hour.” Changbin responds, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing through the phone as he walks.

“He’s here, I have him. He can hear you,” Minho calmly states, and Changbin makes a noise of acknowledgement before continuing on, “Jisung’s explaining things to JYP, I’m headed there now.” The sound of a door opening is heard, and then even louder, the voices of JYP and Jisung arguing.

Like yesterday, don't let go of this hand ever again

Chris’ hand sneakily slips into yours, and he places it neatly on his thigh, carefully stroking your knuckles. This shakes you out of your reverie, and you glance at your linked hands, a small smile gracing your features.

And every time my heart beats Match your steps so you don't wander around ever again

He’s going to find you. He doesn’t give a shit about how mad JYP will be. Doesn’t give two fucks about his schedule. He will find you. And he’ll never, never let you go.

--

I’m interrupting again, I do apologise. I unfortunately have run out of the mental capacity to continue writing like this. My heart, my mind, my soul can’t handle it. Chris gets on the plane, and he tries to sleep. He suffers really bad nightmares, and suddenly that strange occurrence is back. People are dying again. In his dreams though. Stays are dying again. He wakes up with a start and coughs up blood, it drips out of his hand and onto his clothes, and he’s shaking, trembling, wracked with fear and hurt and pain.

He needs you.

--

Chris thanks the taxi driver, pressing his phone to the EFTPOS through the car window and hoists his bag higher on his shoulder. Hyunjin had stuffed his bag with basic necessities and passed it on to Minho to take with him as he went on the hunt for Chris. The shutters are pulled down on your café. You must have just recently closed, it’s only 11.17pm.

After a brief hesitation, he hammers on the café door. When there’s no response, he takes a step back, searches for a pebble on the ground, aims, and throws it up at your apartment window. It takes him a couple of tries, but Ashley’s head suddenly peeks out. Her eyes widen as she recognises Chris, and she immediately disappears.

Chris’ confusion only mounts when Ashley pulls up the shutter and opens the door, the keys jangling in the lock. “Where is-” he begins, but Ashley swiftly interrupts him, “She’s not here.”

The young girl suggests that Chris comes inside, asking him twice because Chris’ mind has stopped working again.  “What do you mean she’s not- she has to be,” he pleads and Ashley sighs, holding the door wider for him. Chris’ legs feel heavy as he walks into the café and follows Ashley upstairs to your apartment.

“I… I own this place now… I live here,” Ashley begins, cautiously analysing Chris’ expression. His breath is immediately wiped out of his lungs at the obvious lack of your presence. Your decorations are gone, your photo frames vanished, every essence of you eradicated from the apartment.

“Where… where is she…?” Chris murmurs, his bag slipping from his shoulders and down onto the floor. Ashley hums sadly, bouncing on the balls of her feet with her hands behind her back. Chris slowly turns towards Ashley, struggling to confirm coherent words, “Where- where did she go?”

Ashley sighs and clasps her hands together sadly, “She didn’t want me to tell you this… but quite honestly, I was never a supporter of this plan in the first place.” “This was a plan?” “Been planned right from the start of it all. Since the skittles, she said. She’s home now.”

“Home? This is her home. She should be- her home is with me.” Ashley shakes her head and disappears into her bedroom, your bedroom, Chris’ gaze lingering on her retreating form. After a minute, Ashley returns with a cardboard box in her arms.

“These are yours… your possessions. She wanted me to throw them out but… I… didn’t have the heart to,” she hands Chris the box, and he opens the lid hesitantly, blinking back tears.

His clothes, his toiletries, his snacks, his drinks.

“Where is she?” he asks again, asking for a more specific answer, “Where’s her home?” “She’s with her family, back in Australia… Perth.” Chris inhales sharply and stalks over to the couch to place the cardboard box there. He whips out his phone and types out a quick message to the Stray Kids’ group chat, letting them know of his current situation.

Jisung: “Go get her. I’ll fight with JYP again, no problem.” 

The rest of the Kids’ react to Jisung’s message with a thumbs up.

Changbin: “I’ll beat his ass this time.”

Message's of agreement follow, and Chris manages a small smile.

“I’m not going to give you her address until you rest,” Ashley stubbornly states, assuming that Chris is booking a flight to Perth, “She’d want you to rest.”  Chris contemplates Ashley’s words, glancing at her outstretched hand. A wave of exhaustion crashes over him then, and he nods in assent, handing his phone over to her. “No booking flights until tomorrow. Go wash up and get some sleep,” Ashley commands, walking over to place his phone on the kitchen counter.

He spends most of his time standing in the shower, staring at the wall, his brain foggier than the steaming glass windows. He’s absently fiddling with a bracelet on his wrist.

“Happy Birthday Christopher~” “What’s this?” “It’s a gift for me, obviously.” “Alright, you goose. Stupid question. Can I… open it?” “Of fucking course.” "…" “It’s got my name on the underside… so you can carry me wherever you go.” “I love you.” “I know.” “Oi! C’mere you little shit, say it back!” “Happy BirthdayyyyyyyyyyAHH! DON’T TICKLE ME!”

When he finally gets out of the shower, changing into one of his hoodies from the cardboard box of his belongings, he finds Ashley lying down on the couch, blankets draped on top of her, scrolling on her phone. “I’ll sleep on the couch. What’re you doing?” Chris asks, towelling his hair. Ashley lowers her phone and frowns at him, “It’s fine. You can take the bed.”

“I don’t think I can…” Chris whispers, and Ashley nods in understanding. “I thought you might like to… I haven't washed the sheets yet because they… they still smell like her…” “Oh,” Chris falters, swallowing thickly. “I just thought- that it’d help you sleep better. I know it helps me sleep better… I… I miss her too…” Ashley smiles softly, going back to scrolling on her phone. “You miss her?’ Chris asks, his voice croaky. “She’s like an older sister. Of course I miss her.” “Oh.”

They do… smell like you. But it’s not you.

--

Chris clicks open his phone, reading the text message from Ashley. She’s finally sent him your address using his recently traded phone number. He sighs and leans back into his plane seat, fiddling with that bracelet again. He’s trying to work through what he’s going to say to you when he finally sees you again. His gaze is unfocused as he stares out of the plane window, watching the clouds drift lazily past, the world small, insignificant.

Fear courses through him, and he sits up straighter, the back of his neck prickling, goosebumps emerging everywhere. His breath seizes in his throat as the barrel of a gun is pressed to the side of his head, cold and hard, digging painfully into his skin. He looks around in a panic, irises blown out and terrified, but of course – there’s no actual gun at his head. Chris’ hands grip his armrests tightly, his knuckles white, as a voice, echoey and distant, murmurs in his mind.

“Just pull the trigger and it’s done… it’s as easy as that…”

Chris’ breath returns in ragged huffs, his heart screaming in his chest, eyes flickering with horror.

“Please,” Chris begs, his voice coming out in a pitiful whine, “Please, not this again. Please.”

--

I’ll help you out here, since I’ve been a lazy author and haven’t been keeping you up to date with Chris’ strange condition much. This strange connection to suicidal Stays ceased to exist when he met you. They only visited him in nightmares, but even then, they eventually stopped too. It’s only just recently that they’ve returned… ever since you’ve left him. Ever since you’ve denied him your love. This time is different though, this time the symptoms are more severe. 

I suppose… you can think of it like this – imagine you’ve been tortured for a long time, and then eventually you find release, you find freedom. Wouldn’t it be 10x worse if suddenly you’re thrown back into this torture? Thrown back in after finally having a taste of freedom? Yeah. I think it would be.

--

Chris hears the click of the trigger, loud next to his ear. There’s a brief bang, which makes him flinch, a stabbing pain in the side of his skull, and he’s gone. He’s dead. You can forget about his mission to find you. You can forget about his heartbeat, his thoughts, his soul. He’s dead. Died at the same time someone else in the world shot a bullet through their brain. He’s dead. 

“Excuse me? Sir, please wake up. Sir! Natalie! Go get a med kit! Quickly!” Chris stirs, his head groggy as his eyes drift open. His vision is blurred, so even when he turns his head to stare at the person gripping his shoulder tightly, he can’t tell who it is.

“What…?” he mumbles as if someone’s just woken him from his peaceful sleep, and the flight attendant turns back to him in shock. “It’s alright sir, just sit still don’t move your head. I’m just going to apply pressure to the wound okay?” she murmurs, grabbing a cloth off another flight attendant and pressing it to the side of his skull.

“What?” Chris asks again, his vision clearing. “Sir, you’re bleeding,” she states, staring at him in confusion. She retracts her other hand to show the blood coated all over it. “Am I?” he asks, and his senses fully return to him, panic gripping him as he feels his blood trickling past his ear, dripping everywhere on his seat, a strange throbbing in his skull. He bolts out of his seat, shoving past the attendant and dashes down the lane to lock himself in the bathroom.

In record time, someone’s banging on the door, urging him to come out so he can be tended to, and that he’s bleeding severely and should seek medical help. Chris ignores them and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s been shot. He dips a shaking hand into the blood oozing out of his skull, retching at its stickiness.

“What the fuck?” he wheezes, stumbling forwards to support his quivering self on the sink, nausea slamming into him. He retches again, leaning forwards into the sink, preparing for the vomit. Nothing comes though, and when he looks up into the mirror again, suddenly he’s just staring at himself – tired, trembling with fear, but nothing much else. 

His hand zooms up to his head again, but there’s no blood. There’s no bullet wound. Just him. “What the actual fuck?” Chris repeats again, groaning and slamming his forehead into the mirror (A/N: Please help me, I actually don’t think there are bathroom mirrors on planes but just fckn pretend there is because it was necessary). Eventually, he scoffs and pushes himself up, fixing his hair to make it look a little less ruffled.

“That’s fucking new,” he growls, glaring at himself in the mirror, then up above, as though he’s blaming a higher entity for his suffering. He takes a deep breath and finally notices that the knocking on the bathroom door has stopped, and instead he can hear panicked whispers. “I don’t understand, where did the blood go? My hand was covered in blood, where did it-”  “No, I know I saw it, I gave you the cloth to-”

Chris unlocks the bathroom door and swings it open, staring at the flight attendants with a hesitant grin, “Sorry ladies, did you need the bathroom?” Their jaws fall open in shock at the sight of him, unwounded, unphased. “No you- your head was bleeding badly just a second ago,” One of them stutters. Chris frowns and stares at them like they’re insane, then steps out of the bathroom and closes the door slowly, “I… think I’d know… if my head was… bleeding. Are you guys okay?”

They blink at him, stunned. Then clear their throats nervously and turn to stare at each other before muttering, “Do you think we’re just tired?” Chris shrugs, gives them a little bow and turns away to return to his seat. Behind his back, they continue to talk, “How can we both possibly hallucinate the same thing though?” “I don’t understand.” “Let’s just… yeah let’s go rotate… I think we need more sleep.”

He’d always wondered what would happen if you were ever to leave his side. He’d never figured out whether the suicidal connections stopped because of you, or if it was purely coincidental. If there was any silver lining to this situation, it would be that he now knows that he needs you. He wants you and he needs you. Please. Come back to him.

--

Chris gulps as he drags his suitcase to a stop in front of your family home, double-checking the address on his phone. His heart is beating frantically, and he can’t tell if it’s from nerves or excitement. The sun is warm on his back, but at the same time it prickles his skin, sizzling it with an uncomfortable anticipation.

Slowly, he meanders his way up the driveway, admiring the red and yellow kangaroo paw framing its outline. It’s almost a relief when he steps under the shade of the front patio, welcoming the protection from the sun. After a steadying breath, he presses his finger to the doorbell, head tilting at the sound of it ringing from inside. There’s some muted shuffling, brief yelling and then the door clicks open. Standing in the doorway is someone who isn’t you but could basically be a duplicate of you.

Her hair through to her eyes, height through to her smile; it’s so shockingly similar to yours that Chris almost breathes your name. Eventually, his mind corrects itself and he notices the wrinkles lining her expression, the mole on the wrong spot, the different jawline. 

He’s just met your mother.

“Hi, are you alright? Can I help you?” she asks, blinking at him through the screen door. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but as he thinks over it, he probably should have expected it. He hadn’t prepared himself to come face to face with one of your parents. Her eyes flicker over the backpack and suitcase behind him, and she squints, an idea formulating in her mind.

“You’re… Christopher right?” she frowns, just as he opens his mouth to introduce himself. “I’m- yes- I’m- yeah that’s me…” he responds, his voice feebly dying in his throat. Your mother swivels around on her heels and calls over her shoulder.

“Noah honey, Chris is here can you pop the kettle on!?” Then with a swift click, she unlocks the screen door and swings it wide, smiling gently at Chris. “Who’s here?!” Noah yells back, and your Mum rolls her eyes. “Christopher! Y/N’s boyfriend!” she shakes her head and returns her attention to Chris, who’s standing frozen, a little confused and disoriented, “Sorry about the yelling love, come in, come in.” 

Chris fumbles for his suitcase behind him, but your Mum gestures again, “Oh don’t worry about that, I’ll grab that. You just make yourself at home.”  Chris hesitates but catches a familiar glimmer in her eyes and thinks better of it. 

Once inside, he takes note of the shoes gathered neatly by the corner and takes his own off before leaving the inside doormat, carefully placing them to the side. “Just walk straight through to the living room, my husband will bring you a coffee-”

Chris swivels around and opens his mouth to explain that he doesn’t drink coffee, or tea, but your Mum slaps her forehead in realisation and chatters on, “Oh dearie me, you don’t drink coffee do you love? NOAH!” “Yeah?!” “Have we got any pineapple juice in the fridge?!” she yells again, and Chris can’t help but feel a little overwhelmed at being stuck in the middle of a conversation being yelled across the house.

And… how did she know about… pineapple juice being one of his favourites…

“My name’s Kiara love, Kia works fine though,” she explains, dragging his suitcase inside and shutting the door with her foot.  “I don’t mean to intrude-” Chris begins, hands tightening on his bag straps. “Oh nonsense my dear boy. You’ve won me some money,” she waves at him, squeezing past and leading him into the lounge room where Noah is setting a glass of pineapple juice and a hazelnut croissant on the coffee table.

“That’s not how you should be welcoming him, Ki,” Noah scoffs, eyeing his wife pointedly, “There’s no need to involve our bets. Leave the poor man alone.” “This poor man has his priorities straight,” Kiara scoffs back, rolling Chris’ suitcase to a stop beside the couch, then shuffling over in her fluffy grey indoor slippers to take his bag off him. Chris doesn’t really want to know what the bet is about. He could probably guess, so instead he stares at Kiara’s slippers, bewilderment melting into embarrassment.

“Are those… Wolfchan-” he begins as Kiara plonks his bag down next to his suitcase. “Hm? These?” she asks, lifting a foot up, “Yeah. I bought them for Y/N years back, but then she left, forgot to pack these and then said I could use them because we’re the same size. They’re super comfy too.”

Chris’ heart falters at the mention of your name, and Noah seems to notice this, for he pats the couch next to him with a small smile. Chris slowly sits down and accepts the pineapple juice, taking a tiny sip. “If you have anything to say son, then you’re welcome to. However, I’ll just point out that there’s no need to introduce yourself or explain why you’re here. Y/N told us everything.”

Chris nods and takes a deep breath, eyeing the hazelnut croissant with disdain. Did they know about the significance of that croissant too? Looking at it makes his heart ache. “I can’t… I can’t lose her,” he eventually breathes, and Kiara sits down on his other side. “We know sweetie… and I think it’s quite admirable that you’ve flown all this way to find her,” she nods, placing a tentative hand on his back.

“Yeah well… I had no choice she wouldn’t- she’s not answering my calls… or my messages,” Chris sets the glass down and urges himself to not cry. No crying, especially not in front of your parents. Enough. “At least she didn’t block you. It’s a sign that she hasn’t completely let go yet either, so just try your hardest son. I know my daughter is stubborn, she gets that from me unfortunately, but if you try hard enough…” Noah rambles, his hands wildly gesturing, but eventually lapses into silence.

“Where is she?” Chris eventually asks, dreading the question. He resents the way it sounds coming out of his mouth, broken and vulnerable. He resents that every time he has asked, he’s come up short, people telling him they know nothing, or she’s not here. He resents having to ask the question at all.

“She’s out with Oliver right now, but she’ll be home soon, don’t worry,” Kiara chirps, rubbing his back comfortingly. “The dog Kiara. The dog. She’s taken Oli, our Aussie Shepherd, out for a walk,” Noah adds, and Chris can’t help but crack a small smile as Kiara rolls her eyes and Noah continues, “What’re you trying to do? Spark a fight out of jealousy? Oliver’s a dog, not a human.”

“Oh give it a rest honey, I’m sure Chris doesn’t get jealous that easily.” Chris picks up his drink again and takes a generous sip, deciding it better to let Kiara believe that to be true. He does, sometimes… get jealous.

“Now, I know you love our girl. That much is obvious,” Noah grins, “But I want to know why you need her in your life.”  Chris frowns at the question, his hand digging into the holes of his ripped jeans, and at his confusion, Noah elaborates, “You can love someone, but still let them go, simply because you do love them. I want to know why you love her and need her in your life.” 

He thinks he understands the question now, and before he can even think his mouth is spilling words. “She makes me happy. I know my career is rough, it’s chaotic, it’s strenuous. But the days that I do get to see her are the best days of my life. She’s never expected anything of me. She’s never held me in high regard just because I’m an idol. She sees me as me. I’m just Chris to her.

“Sometimes I look at her, and I can see snippets of myself – the way she treats her customers, the way she tackles her work, the way she loves. And I- she gives me a reason to love myself. Through loving her, I’m learning to love myself. I feel loved, when I’m with her. And the world is okay. It’s full of love. And suddenly I want all this love to go to her.

“Her smile makes me smile. Her laugh does that too. I’m never going to forget that look in her eyes when she’s listening to me talk about my day. And now- I-” Chris can feel himself cracking, his voice breaking as he tries to continue, and a realisation hits him so hard that he has to stop talking. When he finally continues, his voice is barely a whisper, “And I would do anything in the world to see her smile and her eyes and even her attitude… replicated in our kids. But I can’t- they won’t exist if she doesn’t- if I can’t-”

Chris takes a shuddering breath and stops himself. He’s not going to say anything else. If he continues he genuinely won’t be able to contain his emotions. “I think you should probably marry her first,” Noah smiles, “And you have our blessing for that.” Chris chuckles, the laugh escaping from who knows where. Thanks Noah.

“What do you mean our blessing, we hardly know Chris yet and you’re already saying they can marry?” Kiara frowns, and Noah sighs. “Kiara, my love. You were the one who bet on him trying to find our daughter, I thought you’d agree.” "Hold your horses, I was only kidding.” “You need to work on your timing, that was not a great time to kid.”

Chris is only half paying attention to their banter. His reason? He’s heard you, and now his brain is selectively tuning out your parents, instead fixating on the laughter in your voice. “Oli! C’mere boy let me take that leash off you hey?”

Chris slowly stands up, in a daze, and your parents quieten, watching as he progresses around the corner following the sound of your voice. When he sees you, he doesn’t know how he feels. Excitement? Fear? Trepidation? Relief? You on your knees, smiling as you unclip your dogs leash. You, so close, yet so far away, separated by a glass door. 

Eventually, you look up. The surprise that flickers across your features at the sight of him standing beyond the glass door swiftly vanishes, replaced instead with a cold harshness. A look that makes him feel like he’s lost. He’s lost you. You drop the leash onto the outside table, then seem to contemplate him. When you slide the door open, Chris doesn’t know what to do, what to say, his rehearsed lines flying out the window.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you seethe, sliding the door shut behind you forcefully.  “I’m here for you,” Chris croaks out, and your jaw clenches. (A/N: Please tell me someone remembers this parallel. It hurts me.) “How did you even-” you pause and sigh in resignation, “Ashley.” Then with a final glare directed towards him, you stalk past, ignoring him as he mutters your name repeatedly.

Immediately, you notice the pineapple juice and untouched croissant on the coffee table (A/N: And this parallel, the croissant guys), but your parents are nowhere to be seen. “Can we talk? Please?” Chris asks, following you as you scoop up the food and drink and unceremoniously dump them in the kitchen. “Go home Christopher,” you scoff, rummaging around in a basket full of vehicle keys.

“Home? I am home.” “No, you’re not. You’re in my house.” “It’s technically your parents-” “I don’t give a shit about technicalities, you’re in my house and you’re not meant to be. Get the fuck out,” you hiss, your voice rising. Chris stares at you, his soul evidently shattering piece by piece.

“I don’t understand,” he murmurs, his voice broken. “What’s there to understand?” you sigh, rubbing your forehead in frustration. “Why did you- why are you here, why did you leave… me?”  “I broke up with you the way that I did so we wouldn’t have to go through this. I did that because- I said that I cherished you did I not? I didn’t want to go through this. This fight. This-” “Then don’t fight. We don’t have to fight, just come back to me.” You grit your teeth and brush past him again, scanning the dining table, looking for something, ignoring him.

“Why did you leave? I told you to not think about leaving under any circumstance, I said I would sort it out and I did. So why the fuck did you leave me? Why did you run? Why did you disappear? You left without warning, you left nothing behind. All I got was the worst fucking voicemail of my entire life and you expected me to just- live with that?!” 

You breathe through your nose heavily and turn back to him, a fire burning in your eyes, “I thought you said you didn’t want to fight?” “I’m the one fighting here, I’m the one fighting for you. But I want to know why. Why am I fighting for you? I thought everything was fine. I thought-”

Finally, you crack, your voice exploding in a yell, “I LEFT BECAUSE I COULDN’T MAKE YOU CHOOSE BETWEEN STRAY KIDS OR ME!” Chris falls silent, staring as you pull out a chair and sit down, defeated.  “I left because I knew you’d choose me. I knew you’d choose me over the career you’ve lost blood and tears for. And I couldn’t do that to you.”

“That’s not a decision for you to make,” Chris growls, his fists clenching by his side. “Yeah? Well I made it my decision to make.” “I can live, with both Stray Kids and you in my life. That is not a problem. There was no need to-” “Oh it’s not? It’s not a problem Chris?” you snap, standing back up and continuing your search for whatever… it is that you’re searching for.

“No! It’s not!” “Go back and watch your interviews. Go back and watch any fucking footage with you in it and it’s pretty fucking obvious that it’s a problem.”

You disappear down a hallway, and Chris speeds after you. After a brief knock on someone’s door, you push it open and poke your head inside. “Ry, have you got my bike keys?” you ask. “Who’re you fighting with? Is Chris here?” "Just give me my keys and go back to your game, god damn it. You got plans with my bike?”

Chris hears the jangling of keys and as you pull away from the door, a boy in his late teens peeks out, headphones resting on his shoulders. He blinks at Chris once, watching as you shove past him and out into the loungeroom again. “Hi. Nice to meet you Chris. M’name’s Ryan. Oh, and… a word of advice, never yell at a woman, it only infuriates them more.”

Chris grimaces and follows you outside again, trying to clear his head. “Look. Please. Just come back with me. Let me be yours again.” “Chris, I love you to bits. I love you so fucking much, but you need to let this go. You need to let me go. You can’t throw away your career, just for me.”

“You can love someone, but still let them go, simply because you do love them. I want to know why you love her and need her in your life.”

“I thought I was more than just an idol to you.” These words seem to strike your heart, and your hands fall limp at your sides. “You are…” you whisper, “Chris you are… you’re so much more than just an idol-” “Then why?” Chris whispers, pinching the fabric of his clothes.

When you don’t answer him, merely continue to stare, Chris continues at a whisper, tears beginning to pool at the bottom of his eyes. “I die. I’m dying. I will die over and over again, the longer you’re not by my side. The longer you-” “Then go die somewhere else.”  (A/N: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH - NAH SCREW YOU. THAT WAS FOUL)

The silence is profound. It’s so loud that it’s ringing in his ears. He’s trying to take in your deadpan expression. Trying to suppress his tears, the threatening urge to scream in fury. The desire to pull you into his arms and never, actually never let you go. And he’s processing your words, each second passing a stab to his heart. He thinks, perhaps, this has been the most realistic stab he’s ever felt. The most painful.

Chris of course, is not lying when he says he’ll die every day without you. Naturally, you don’t know that. And naturally, you don’t know how badly you’ve just hurt him.

“You don’t mean that…” he whispers, walking towards you, trying to reach you, “take that back, you don’t mean that.” You take a step back and shake your head, Chris’ arm dropping to his side, his tears beginning to openly flow down his face. The sight makes your eyes start to sting, your heart shattering at his broken form. You turn away and head back outside again. Chris watches your retreating figure through the haze of his tears.

“Y/N,” he cries, eventually following you outside as you jam a helmet over your head and swing yourself over a motorbike, “Y/N where are you going?”  As soon as the helmet obscures your face, you’re crying, and it’s with every last bit of resolve remaining that you start the bike in silence, not wanting him to hear your sobs. “Y/N!”

Before he can reach you, you take off, leaving him standing by the front gates, his hands holding his face, his tears trickling through his fingers. Chris stumbles back into the wall and sinks to the floor, burying his head in his hands. After a couple of minutes, he looks up at the sound of people moving around him, and immediately wipes his face upon seeing Noah, Kiara and Ryan standing above him, sympathetic expressions on their faces.

“Let her cool off, talk to her again later when she’s back,” Ryan helpfully says, his hands entrenched in his hoodie. “She shouldn’t be cooling off on her bike, I’m worried for her. She’s a bit of speed demon isn’t she?” Kiara mumbles, looking out at the open gates. “She’ll be fine. I taught her how to ride, she’s not stupid,” Noah grumbles, pulling Kiara into a side hug. “People can do stupid things when they’re in pain.”

Ryan’s last words only make Chris break down again, and he curls tighter into himself. “Come back to me,” he sobs over and over again. 

--

You find yourself pulling your bike up to park by the beach. That’s perhaps the fastest you’ve ever ridden, the wind louder than your thoughts, stinging your skin into numbness. You’re shaking by the time you get off your bike, and you actually have no idea how you’re still alive. The dried tears on your cheeks feel cold in the air.

After propping your helmet up on your seat, you meander your way towards the water, stripping yourself of your shoes and socks so you can feel the sand between your toes. You’ve no idea why you’re here, of all places. You just rode until you couldn’t feel your fingers anymore. Rode until your legs were stiff.

The beach is Chris’ favourite place, so why are you here? The sun’s already beginning to set, and you sink down into the sand, watching the waves creep up to your toes, tickling them gently, then retreat silently. So blue. So endless. So cold. So peaceful. You think, that if you could decide how you die, you’d like to die in the sea.

--

You’ve been out for hours, sitting at the beach until you can’t feel your limbs anymore. When you finally return home, it’s dark, and you’re shivering from the cold. Your parents have gone out tonight. It’s their monthly movie night, and you hardly doubt they’ll break tradition just because Chris is here. If he’s still here. Ryan will most likely still be gaming in his room, and Dennis is at Uni, so it’ll just be you and Chris really. If he’s still here.

As quietly as you can, you slip inside, staring in a daze at the places where you and Chris were just fighting only hours ago. It’s not until you walk to go put your keys in the basket that you hear him, breathing softly on the couch. He’s sitting up, like he was waiting for you to get home, and again your heart breaks, your hand flying up to your mouth to quieten your sob. They all must have been worried for you. It wasn’t sensible of you, to tear up the road on your bike when you’re not in the right headspace.

You pad over to him and sit down on the coffee table, watching as he sleeps, his face free of pain, hurt and sadness. Just peaceful. “Why did you have to follow me here?” you ask softly, resisting the itch to push his hair out of his eyes. You’re sitting there, in silence, for a few more minutes before Chris whines in pain. His forehead is crinkled, eyebrows knitted together, and his hand darts up to his scrunch his shirt, twisting it into a knot.

“I don’t want to- no- no no no-” he murmurs, and you move to his side immediately, whispering soothing words, falling back into a familiar routine. “Chris, hey, I’m here, it’s okay.”

Chris takes a shuddering gasp and his flash open, wild and panicked. He’s moving around too much that it makes it hard for you to grab at his shirt… and he’s drenched. You blink and perform a once-over. He’s drenched. How is he- he was dry just a second ago-  “Chris.” 

He’s gasping wildly for breath, his hair stuck to his forehead, curls flattened out. “Chris why are you- how are you-” you’re grabbing him in bewilderment, trying to find a part of him that isn’t soaked with water. In the next second he’s coughing out water, buckets of it spilling out of his mouth. You yelp and jump out of the way, skittering backwards on the couch, and Chris finally seems to register your presence. 

“Y/N?” he gasps, swaying and clutching his chest in a panic, “I can’t- I can’t- I’m drowning-” he coughs, and you can only stare at him in confusion. Out of nowhere, he grabs your arm and yanks you into him, hugging you tightly, tears leaking from his eyes as he trembles around you, his clothes soaking yours, his hands frigid with cold. Oh how you've missed his hugs - missed him. Almost immediately, Chris’ shuddering gasps cease, and you swivel in his arms in surprise, watching as the water seeping his clothes fades into nonexistence, his hair miraculously dries, returning to its previously fluffy state.

“I’m so confused,” you bluntly state, eyes wide. “I’ll explain, I’ll explain. Just don’t… just stay with me.”  You curl back into his embrace as he tugs you closer, hiding his face in your neck, inhaling your warmth and scent like it’s his life force. “Stay with me,” he murmurs again, tightening his hold around you.

--

To save myself the difficulty of writing ‘explanation’ dialogue, he explains. Right from the beginning, everything to do with his connection to suicidal Stay’s, and how you’re connected to them too. You remain silent the entire time, absorbing the information. When he’s done, still hugging you tightly, he falls silent, and you can sense that he’s nervous.

--

“I understand if you don’t… believe me…” he eventually murmurs, nuzzling further into your neck, “I don’t really believe it myself…” “I believe you,” you whisper back, hand reaching up to stroke his curls, tears forming in your eyes again, “I believe you, I do.”

And then you’re explaining how you heard his inner monologue that day, on that bridge. And then you’re hugging him tighter and placing kisses on his head through your tears. And now you’re apologising, over and over again and Chris is sobbing with you, but he’s muttering a different set of words.

“I love you.”

--

Do you return back to your Café after this? Yeah. Yeah you do, and Ashley is overjoyed to see the pair of you walking hand in hand up to the Café. How’s JYP doing? Oh he’s fine. Rethinking his life choices after Changbin and Jisung confronted him again, stopping him from ruining Chris’ career. Don’t worry though, JYP isn’t all bad – he removed the restrictions on Chris from seeing you, truly amazed by Chris’ dedication to you.

There won’t ever be a day where the world is completely happy with your relationship with Chris, but as long as you march through it together, work through it together, everything will pan out okay. Just ignore the haters, who are they to get in the way of something so pure? Something so valuable?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

-> PART 7 　 -> Masterlist

A/N: Anyways, the ending was lowkey rushed, and I’m sorry about that – but it got harder to write the longer I wrote for. You don’t know how difficult it is to turn Chris into a sobbing emotional wreck.

Feedback is always appreciated, negative and positive alike. I apologise for any editing errors, I’m forever learning.

Until next read!! - Kaisowoo

[howtofightwrite]

I'm trying to write some old fighters in my story (just plain normal humans) though I've heard of all the old people are vastly more experienced than younger fighters, but how about when the old fighters in fact started learning late (and how late?)? Is there a difference with a 25 year old with 5 years experience and a 60 year old with 10 years experience? I keep hearing it's never too old to start, but isn't that just recreational and fitness purposes?

It's not just recreational and fitness, but this start to run into some serious issues. Physically, you'll hit your peak sometime between your late teens to early twenties (this varies from individual to individual, but even at the latest, you'll peak in your mid-twenties), and will all be down hill after that. In fact, for a martial artist, that decline is going to be more significant because martial arts (and combat) put extraordinary strains on the body.

Someone who is in their sixties and has maintained a healthy exercise regime, is likely to be in better health than I am. I've had bone-on-bone contact in my knees since I was in my late twenties. And, yeah, that's not normal for a martial artist, but that's kind of persistent injuries you'll start to see.

So when we're talking about experience, a lot of times the sheer volume overcomes that damage. Someone who's 60 years old, and has been practicing martial arts for 55 years, is going to be far more dangerous. Even with the damage they've done to their body over the years, they're simply to be more effective than someone in comparatively good health, but with limited training and experience.

Starting at twenty and training for five years isn't a lot of experience. Now, there are very significant possibilities here that could radically alter that calculation. Particularly if they've been trained in a practical martial art, with the intention of using it on other people. Some potential examples would be military Krav Maga, MCMAP, even the version of Judo practiced by law enforcement agencies. Someone who is 25, and has been training to kill people with their hands since they were 20, can be a legitimately dangerous foe.

Beyond that, starting at 50 is unusually late for a practical combatant. That's well past the point where age is taking a toll on your body, and by that point in your life, you're going to need to be very careful with the fights you commit to. Ten years of combat experience is going to further amplify that. Again, ten years isn't a lot of martial arts training, particularly for someone in their sixties. It's not weird for a recreational martial artist who entered later in life, but it is unusually late for someone to start combat training that late. Most practical combatants would have started much earlier in life (probably in their twenties, like the other example you gave.)

Of course, the critical thing about someone who's sixty is, they have sixty years of experience. It may not be combat related, but that experience is there, and, if they're smart, that can dramatically help cover for their lack of combat experience. Everyone is different, and when you're talking about a much older character, like this, it can be very difficult to predict how well they'll handle a given situation, without a full breakdown of the character. That could easily be someone with a lot of experience psychologically assessing and manipulating others, who could easily turn those skills into a significant strategic advantage, or it could be they're exceptional at basket weaving. Like I said, it's hard to judge in a vacuum.

I suppose the short answer is, “yes, there are differences,” but that was always going to be the case. Your characters should be (somewhat) unique from one another, or you should probably start to condense and cull the roster of characters. Someone who started much later in life would need to be a very different martial artist from someone who started combat training at 20.

-Starke

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[amostimprobabledream]

Ignite Me (The Homelander x Reader) Part Five

Hey guys! Sorry it took a bit longer to get this chapter out than the last few, this past month or so has been taking quite a toll on my mental health and so on...but I thought I’d give you one more before the New Year!  It was sunset, and the city was awash in a peach-gold colour that seemed to make everything look softer, somehow. Lighter. Traffic was gathering in the roads, people looking to go home after a long day at work. The streets teemed with people, going out to bars or restaurants or the movies. Everyone was caught up in their plans for the final phase of the day, of their own schedules. Homelander flew silently across the skies, his eyes scanning the buildings until he found the correct one. It was easy to forget the significance of a place once you left it, and he'd never expected to have to do this again, especially not so soon after last time. But he deemed it necessary, and once Homelander decided he wanted something, there was little anyone could do to dissuade him otherwise. Just who did you think you were? He had to admit, you were smart to have picked a time when he was busy dealing with journalists praising him for the interview and talking about setting up future publicity stunts. He didn't have the time to watch you every second of the day and you knew that, so the minute you had a moment alone, you'd taken advantage of Ashley's utter fucking incompetence to disappear as soon as possible, without so much as a word to him. Without even an explanation. Ashley hadn't taken long to crack - apparently, you'd given one little interview and decided to just dip out and go back to your ordinary, sad little life. Ridiculous. Homelander finally found the balcony he was looking for - the gauzy curtains were drawn this time and the effect made it considerably less welcoming, like a closed eye, but he drifted towards it anyway, touching down on concrete silently. He wanted the element of surprise, before you could come up with some pathetic excuse for vanishing on him like that. The door to the apartment was locked, but it gave easily with just the slightest bit of pressure from his hand, and a mirthless smirk crossed his face. What was the point of locking this door, anyway? Exactly who were you hoping to keep out? It wasn't like a thief would be able to get up here to rob the place - and the one person who could easily reach wasn't going to be stopped by a little thing like a lock. However, when Homelander stepped into your apartment, he paused. 

You were on the sofa, as expected, but instead of mindlessly watching TV or whatever else normal people did when they were at home alone, you were…asleep? Homelander frowned. For some reason, it had never occurred to him you might be sleeping, but here you were, taking him by surprise yet again. Your cheek was squished against the pillow under your face, chest rising and falling slowly, not even twitching. Judging from your heartbeat, you were likely deep in a REM cycle at the moment and were unlikely to wake up and start freaking out, demanding to know what he was doing uninvited in your apartment again. And that had him at a loss. He had come here to your apartment have it out with you, to pick a fight, because it pissed him off that you'd just casually waltzed out of Vought Tower like you could just leave whenever you felt like it while he had to stand there and smile like a trained fucking showpony. If he had to endure things he didn't want to do when he could literally crush those journalists like the insects they were, what made you think you were such an exception? Didn't you understand how any of this worked? But seeing you in such a vulnerable position, oblivious to the world or even to his presence...there was something about it he didn't want to disturb. Not just yet. After all, when did Homelander ever witness other people sleeping? Sure, he often woke up before Maeve or any one of his other recent conquests, but that wasn't quite the same thing. You didn't even know you were being watched - you'd clearly just thrown on some clothing, settled down and fallen asleep without realising it, judging by the awkward angle you were lying down, like you had been seated and just toppled sideways. He could see the TV remote still loosely dangling from one hand, inches away from being dropped to the rug beneath you. His eyes flicked to the coffee table in front of you and zeroed in on a foil packet of pills. A dart of alarm shot through him, and he snatched it up, inspecting it, wondering if you'd done something stupid like take drugs and then pass out - you didn't look like the type, but appearances could be deceiving. He didn't think you'd have the balls to tell Ashley to deliver a message to him or sneak off without being told you could leave, either. His eyes scanned the label - the pill was unfamiliar to him, but it looked like some kind of strong painkiller, nothing more. Homelander snorted softly and tossed the packet back on the table. He moved closer, drawn in by the soothing, steady thrum of your heartbeat. Homelander bit down on the fingertip of his glove and slowly peeled it off, setting it down on the table. Slowly, with even more care than usual, he reached out and set his hand on your forehead, smoothing back some of your hair. As he'd expected, your skin was warm to the touch - somewhat more than it should be, though Homelander himself tended to run hot, thanks to all the V that ran through his system. You'd said something earlier about not feeling well, but he'd ploughed through interviews with far worse than you ever had so naturally, he hadn't felt all that sympathetic. Why did people around him spend so much fucking time whining about bullshit? But perhaps, he'd been a little…harsh. Homelander was a big believer in a little tough love, but he sometimes would forget that other people didn't have his tolerance for it. They were liable to crumble instead of rising to the challenge. After all, you were just a human. Homelander’s bare knuckle gently grazed the peach of your cheek. He was used to minding his strength, so his touch was featherlight. You only gave a little hum at the physical contact, and then – maybe you sought comfort after a rough day, maybe you were just changing position, but you leaned into the touch, like a cat looking to be petted. He paused. Homelander recalled the look on your face when he'd gotten angry earlier. At the time it felt good, a kick of vindictive satisfaction at letting you know exactly the kind of bullshit he had to put up with all the time, that your one fucking day of discomfort had been nothing compared to his own, and to shut up your annoying complaints. But now, the viciousness in him from before had unexpectedly been drained from him like a lanced boil, now that he was capturing a glimpse of you - the real you, when you weren't smiling woodenly for a camera or telling him whatever you thought he wanted you to say - and now he was at a loss of what to do next. He didn't want to disturb this peculiar moment, where he was free to observe you as much as he wanted, where you were wholly unguarded and completely honest in your responses to him. It occurred to him that maybe you really didn't understand the importance of all of it - all the work they did at Vought, with photoshoots and movies and promos and countless other miniature projects that went into maintaining a Supe's image. After all, you weren't watched every second of the day, you had no idea what it was like to be popular and important and influential. Things like approval ratings meant nothing to an ordinary girl like you. So of course, you didn't think twice about walking away - because you really, truly didn't think it mattered. If he wasn't so thunderstruck by this line of thinking, Homelander might have barked a laugh. You really did inhabit a completely different world from him, didn’t you? Your naivete of it all was in equal measures frustrating and endearing, and it was fortunate for you that you had managed to make him lean towards the latter, at least for the moment. He restrained himself from snorting out loud for fear of waking you, watching your eyelids flickering, lost in the throes of a dream, most likely. Were you dreaming of him? He clicked his tongue softly, tilting his head as he watched you, your cheek still nuzzled into the palm of his hand. A hand that could so easily break your jaw were he so inclined, yet he didn’t. Something in him called for him to let this moment linger for as long as possible. He huffed through his nose. "What am I gonna do with you?" he murmured. ~ Your phone buzzed in your hand, startling you. You had been miles away, lost in your thoughts. You’d woken up suddenly that morning like you’d been about to do something and had suddenly remembered it. You didn’t remember going to bed at all, so for some reason waking up all snuggled up under your blanket had surprised you. You must have been especially exhausted, or maybe those painkillers had been stronger than you’d anticipated. “Hello?” you said, clamping the phone to your ear and trying to ignore the look of mild irritation from the hairdresser behind you - you'd had enough of getting judgey stares from people. “Hey!” a familiar voice chimed down the phone. “Long time no see!” You smiled and leaned back in your seat, immediately relaxing. Casey was an old friend of yours from university and hearing her voice was like an instant shot of pleasant nostalgia surging through you. She had a busy job (that paid much better than yours), so you didn’t get to see her as much as you would have liked, so whenever she found the time to pop back up like this, it was always a nice surprise. “Same to you,” you said, smiling apologetically at the hairdresser in the mirror. “How’ve you been?” “I’m good, but more importantly, how are you? Where are you? The background sounds weird.” “Oh, I’m just getting my hair done,” you said airily, glad Casey can’t see the way you’re tapping your fingers against the phone. Because getting your hair done is perfectly normal, but changing your look so that people will stop asking if you’re ‘the girl from the interview’, like that’s the only thing worth knowing about you, requires much more explanation you don’t feel like giving, especially not in a crowded place like this. The fact Casey hasn’t brought it up is such a relief you don’t want to push your luck. You’re hoping that people won’t recognise you if you change your hair colour a bit, and some other Supe scandals will eclipse it. You figured it was a pretty safe bet. “Aw, I bet it’ll look so cute!” Casey said, then you heard her smack her hand on the table for emphasis. “Hey, we need to get together and get drunk so I can appreciate it, and so we can dance without feeling stupid! It’s been forever since we hit the bars, I miss you!” You felt the flickering of excitement stirring in the pit of your stomach. Going out for drinks with an old friend might sound innocuous but going to the bar with Casey always ends up being a completely chaotic night and a lot of fun. She’s one of those people who talks to everyone, and crazy things tend to happen when she’s there. And god knows after the past couple of weeks you’ve had, you could use a drink. Several of them. “I miss you too!” you said, a grin spreading across your face and you felt dumb for getting so excited over a simple invitation, but you couldn't help it. You couldn’t remember when you last smiled like this. “And yes, yes, we do need to meet up. When were you thinking of going out?” “How about this weekend?” Casey said and you could just picture her flipping through her diary to make double sure she is in fact free. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m busy,” you said, knowing damn well you had nothing planned and probably would just end up wasting all weekend messing around on your phone if left to your own devices. “Awesome! Then I’ll see you on Saturday!” Casey said, then giggled deviously. “Wear something slutty!” “Will do.” You smirked, and Casey bid you goodbye before hanging up.“If you’ll follow me over to the sinks,” the hairdresser said, who looked less annoyed since you had hung up – maybe she’s used to people gabbing away on the phone the entire time, in which case you can’t blame her. “And we can take a look at how the colour is doing.” “Okay, cool.” You said, happy to stretch your legs for a second. The water felt good on your head and the way the hairdresser massaged your scalp as she carefully rinsed out the dye felt even better. You didn’t splurge on your hair that often in the interest of trying to keep it healthy (and because it’s expensive), so this all felt very indulgent indeed. Nothing prepared you for how good you’d feel when the hairdresser sat you back down in your chair and turned you to face the mirror, and you caught sight of your reflection. Wow. You thought, eyes wide, turning your head this way and that, admiring the way the light bounced off your freshly washed hair. It was different from your usual shade, but not bad. Not bad at all.“You like it, then?” the hairdresser asked, looking amused at your expression. “Yeah,” you said, with a little laugh. “I look- yeah!” “Come this way and I’ll ring you up,” she said, clicking across the floor. You grabbed your bag and followed her, watching yourself out of the corner of your eye as you passed by in the mirrors, hair bouncing like you were in a shampoo ad. You couldn’t wait to show off your new hair to Casey, or anybody else who might be interested in looking at it, for that matter. With this new hair, and with your invitation from Casey dangling above you like a Christmas tree bauble, you’ve decided to stop worrying about what comes next. Come the weekend and you’re going to let loose and have fun for once – stop dreaming of bullets and camera and eyes that glow red in the dark. You’re already mentally cataloguing every item of clothing you own for something appropriately slutty, because you realised that Casey’s right – what you need is to let go of all the worrying you’ve been doing these past couple of weeks, go out there and have fun – and maybe bring some guy home to fuck your brains out. You hated to admit it, but since that (stupid) kiss with Homelander it’s just driven home that you haven’t had a boyfriend or even really been dating much in ages. You deliberately don’t think about exactly how long it’s been. Come the weekend, that’s all going to change. Your reflection smirked. Wait til they get a load of me. Taglist: @zoleea-exultant, @ababynova

[johannas-motivational-insults]

Jo’s down on their luck, again

I hate doing this, and yes, I know I’ve done it before. Similar circumstances, too. But I’m in a pinch and have to reach out for assistance.

So, a few days ago (at the start of my typical work week) my car’s starter motor gave out. Which is really inopportune, as I need my car for my delivery job that’s my primary source of income. Worse, the repair will cost 1400 CA$ all in, plus there was the $115 to tow it to the shop. Let’s not even get into the week’s worth of pay down the drain. I’d been saving money in hopes of finally buying a new computer so I can resume vidding (I have a new Catra vid I’ve been wanting to do for over a year, plus several MFS ones) and hopefully start freelance editing for money, and this wiped out that fund. I was recently granted the disability tax credit and got some back taxes from that, but even that won’t cover the cost. My fam are all strapped for cash at the moment and can’t help, and I’m trying to avoid dipping into the savings I have for when I inevitably have to leave my current affordable living situation in a very expensive market. I’ll survive if I don’t get help, but I’ll be facing a significant setback. I was really looking forward to expressing myself through visual arts again and maybe even starting to make actual money off of it.

Most of my recent work has been in the Motherland: Fort Salem fandom, which is mostly non-existent on Tumblr. So maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree here. Y’all might have thought I died or something, but I did not (despite some close calls). There’s still unfinished works and new ideas in my older fandoms that I hope to return to at some point, but I can’t guarantee anything, as my focus and energy levels are still affected by all the brain injuries (and that brain is ASD/ADHD to begin with). My health in general just isn’t great these days, and that takes a toll. So, I’m not in a place to be asking for help based on the promise of new content. But if you’ve enjoyed my work over the years (including metas and gifsets, along with the fics and vids) and found it enlightening or helpful, please consider throwing me a few bucks. Anything really does help at this point. If you have nothing to give (a total mood), please share this with friends and followers who may know me/my work.

If nothing else, thank you for taking the time to read this. I appreciate all the support (monetary and otherwise) I’ve gotten from my followers over the years, that people care about my content and find it worth engaging with. Even if I’ve been around less, I still think fondly of you all and the great conversations and friendships that began here. Feel free to reach out in DMs even if you can’t donate; I miss the people on this hellsite (affectionate).

Link to my Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/johannas_motivational_insults

[obviousniklr]

(OC Introduction)

Aires the Panda

Our energetic heroine 🐼🔥

The daughter of Bony the Panda and Iyro the Hedgehog

She has an inborn ability called the Comet Flare (a fire-like ability), sub-ability: Water Manipulation

Lesbian :3

Character goal: be confident in herself

A bit of a backstory about her:

She grew up just a happy little panda when she was younger but around the age of 13-14 it kinda took a turn since her (father's) ability began growing in her, and this 7 glowing Chaos Comets started visiting her more often, taking control of her body all due to one event.

(I already have an explanation thingy about the comets and Comet Flare which I'll post soon since it's also an important thing in my OC stories).

It's basically puberty but more hostile, both to her and her surroundings, especially that her powers are more stronger than her father.

As a way to find a solution for all of this to stop, as well as keep their home for being in danger everyday, Aires and her mother took a 2 year expedition. Fortunately it did the trick for Aires to finally take control of herself and finally have her color but it did took alot of toll on her mental health, which still comes up from time to time to her. Aka, trauma and depression still kinda lingers on to our happy panda ^^;.

So for now, that she has a proper hold of her powers, not only is she learning to be confident in herself but also self-love :]

I think that's pretty much what I can (shortly) tell about her 🤔

And also, here's some of her other reference coz she kinda has alot of significant ones 😅

You can also see her ability sheets/refs here