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whytheylosttheirminds · 3 months ago

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Don't Call Me Kid - Chapter 8 (part one)

(Rafe Cameron x Reader series, 4.1k words)

series summary: You'd had a crush on Rafe Cameron since you were six years old, but he friend zoned you at every turn. Once shy and insecure, you found new confidence and self-love after high school. When your high school friends go on a reunion beach trip, Rafe finally sees what he lost, but he isn't going to give you up without a fight.

tropes: unrequited crush, glow up, she fell first/he fell harder

series content: some angst, eventual fluff, slow burn, tomfoolery and shenanigans, drinking, fem!reader has occasional insecurity and body image issues

⇢ series masterlist

additional chapter cw! suggestive moments, mature readers only

Carter could hear his car approaching before it even came into view.

She had been grounded for two weeks, caught out with Topper on his granddad’s boat past curfew, and she had never been more bored in her life. Slumped back on the couch, she dipped her hand in the bag to grab another chip, pausing mid-bite when she heard the familiar hum of Rafe’s truck engine growl down the street.

“Oh fuck no,” she hopped off the couch, a trail of crumbs in her wake as she jogged to the front door.

Though she knew you were away for the afternoon, your mom taking you to tour a local college on the mainland, she instinctively double checked that your car was still gone. She was thankful you weren’t here to see him in his oversized ego-mobile zipping down your street like he owned it.

You’d been devastated all week, crying yourself to sleep in the wake of seeing Rafe kiss Cassie Bryant. Nothing made Carter angrier than knowing you were hurt and not being able to do anything about it.

She couldn’t believe his nerve to show up here. He’d been texting to you all week, clearly not taking your lack of response for the answer that it was. You were finally finding the strength to stay away from him, and she was not about to let that unravel.

She stood on the front porch, closing the door firmly behind her, arms crossed and stance wide like she was prepared to defend her castle. Really, she was prepared to defend you.

Rafe parallel parked on the street, some misogynistic country song blaring from his subwoofers. Carter rolled her eyes at the way his massive truck took up enough space for two cars, always claiming what wasn’t his, taking and taking and giving nothing in return.

Closing the driver’s door with a bang, Rafe hopped down from his truck and strolled toward the house, stopping short in the front walk when he noticed Carter glaring out at him.

“You have some fucking nerve, Cameron,” she spat at him.

“I’m not here for you,” he glared back.

“Well no one else in this house wants to talk to your ass right now so you can go ahead and turn right back around.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I just wanna know why she wasn’t at my game today.”

“Uh-oh,” she tilted her head in mock-sympathy, “did ya lose?”

He clenched his jaw, an angry huff of air flaring his nostrils, “yeah, we lost.”

“Good.”

“Can you just let me in?” He started moving toward the front steps, but she didn’t move from her spot blocking the door. “I need to talk to her and she’s not answering my texts.”

“Do you think that’s an accident?” She scoffed. “Take a hint.”

“Okay, what’s your fucking problem, Carter?” He snapped the sentence off with a bite of her name.

“You’re my problem, Rafe,” she bit right back.

“What the fuck did I do? Why isn’t your sister answering my calls?”

“I dunno, maybe you should ask Cassie Bryant,” her hands uncrossed and rested on her hips.

Rafe stepped back, head dropping back in exasperation as he rolled his eyes at the sky.

“That’s what this is about? Cassie and I are just hooking up, what’s the big deal?”

“You mean besides the fact that Cassie’s made my sister’s life hell since they were in the same Kindergarten class?” She threw at him. “Or that you’ve been dragging my sister along since she was six years old just to ditch her for some wannabe Addison Rae tiktok flop?”

“God, you’re always so fucking dramatic, it isn’t even like that,” he gestured toward the window of your bedroom, still assuming you were up there somewhere avoiding him, “your sister knows we’re cool.”

“You’re not cool, Rafe. You’re an idiot,” she told him with a pitying shake of her head.

Rafe turned her words over in his head, finally stopping long enough to consider the possibility that he’d done more damage than he initially thought.

“Is she really mad at me?” He mumbled, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Carter sighed, ��No. She’s not mad at you. She’s never mad at you, that’s the problem. You don’t make her mad, you make her sad. All you ever do is make her sad.”

Shoulders falling, Rafe looked past Carter with a vacant stare. He looked so confused and distraught she almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“I didn’t mean to make her sad,” he mumbled, almost at a whisper.

Carter scanned him with narrowed eyes, trying to decide if his penance was sincere. He looked down at his shoes, digging the tip of one into the stony walkway.

“How do I fix it?”

Carter started to think maybe he was sincere after all, but she still wasn’t sure he was in any place to be asking for advice.

“I don’t know if you can,” she told him.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he said hopefully, trying to console himself. “She’ll come around.”

He looked at Carter like he was actually expecting her to agree.

“And then what, Rafe?” She tilted her head, genuinely curious about the answer. “What’s the end game here? You’ll just make her sad for a few more months and then go off to school and…what?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged defensively. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“Exactly. You don’t think things through. That’s always been your problem,” she informed him, “you just do what you want and pay no attention to how it affects other people. If you really cared about her, you wouldn’t keep putting her through the same shit over and over.”

“I do care about her,” he mumbled, her words beginning to penetrate his carefully constructed antagonistic armor.

“I wish I could believe that,” she shook her head sadly, “I wish she could believe that. At least when she did, she wasn’t crying herself to sleep every night.”

Sour regret burned in his throat at the thought of your tears dripping onto your pillowcase, some unfamiliar heartache he didn’t understand.

“Maybe you could convince her that I do,” he offered, “she listens to you.”

“Why would I do that?” Carter snapped.

“Because then she wouldn’t be so sad,” his voice was so feeble it was like he was shrinking right before her eyes, his tall, intimidating frame so small and inadequate under the towering shadow of his guilt.

“Tell you what Rafe,” she began, “I’ll try and convince her that you care about her if you can look me in the eyes and tell me with your whole chest that you won’t hurt her anymore, that you won’t use her to your advantage, or drop off the face of the earth for weeks not answering her texts, or kiss other girls right in front of her face. That you’ll fight for her and put her before your own selfish bullshit. Can you make that promise?”

He wrung his hands, mindlessly adjusting the ring on his right forefinger, jaw clenched as he tried to will forth a convincing enough yes. He couldn’t do it.

“That’s what I thought,” Carter said. “If you can’t fight for her, then…”

“What?” He asked desperately, hoping she’d offer him some olive branch shaped way out of the shame engulfing his chest.

“Then I am asking you- begging you really - to let her go. Stop texting, stop coming by the house, stop making promises you’re not gonna keep. Please. If not for me, then for her.”

“Do you think that’s what she wants?” He asked.

“No. But I think it’s what she needs,” she said, knowing it would kill you if you knew she was doing this, but believing with her whole heart that it was right.

Rafe rarely thought about the future. The farthest his mind went was the next few minutes in front of him. It was his fatal flaw, acting for the moment and not for the moment after, or the version of himself that would face the consequences of his poor choices. Yet, in this moment, he had the keen sense that his next move would be a pivotal one, the gravity of it making his feet feel heavy on the stone pathway. He could stay, he could argue, scream your name until you came out and talked to him. But then what? Would he have the courage to follow through? Was he enough of a man to handle the weight of your expectation?

Ultimately, he knew the right thing was to stay and fight, but the easy thing would be to just go.

So, as he almost always did, Rafe made the easy choice.

“Okay,” he nodded to Carter. “I’ll let her go.”

“Thank you,” she said, voice shaking with the fear that if you knew what she just convinced him to do, you’d never forgive her.

“I’m not doing it for you,” he made sure she knew before turning and climbing back into his truck.

Once in the driver’s seat, he pulled out his phone, looking at your name in his contacts. Like his fingers were moving without his mind’s permission, he deleted you. It didn’t matter really, he thought, he’d remember your number on his deathbed. He’d remember it all, and he’d hate himself forever for driving away.

Carter stayed on the porch, watching him go, praying desperately that you’d never find out she was the reason he left.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

“We’re gonna have to go back eventually,” you said.

Rafe sat behind you in the sand, holding you with his chin resting easy on your shoulder as you took in the sprawling pink sunrise together.

“Says who?” He countered.

You smiled, craning your neck to look up at him. His eyelids were heavy, purple under the eyes from the exhaustion of being awake all night.

“You’re falling asleep,” you noticed.

“Yeah because some girl kept me up all night, begging me to take her to the beach and kiss her,” he joked.

“Excuse me, sir, this was your idea!” You sat up and stretched, your words making him laugh despite his immediate discomfort at the loss of your body in his arms. “What time is it anyway?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, “my phone’s in the car.”

“Mine too,” you chuckled, “I hope Carter’s okay. She was looking rough before we left.”

He had half a mind to propose the two of you never leave the beach, but he could hear the genuine concern under your lighthearted words. He stood from the sand and dusted himself off, reaching out a hand to pull you to your feet. You took it with a smile, lingering for a moment as you stood, your hand in his, taking one last look around the beach, searching for some kind of landmark.

“What are you looking for?” He asked.

“I just want to remember exactly where we were,” you explained.

“Why, you wanna recreate it?” He smiled softly at you.

“Oh, I plan to recreate it many times,” you wink at him.

It took all his strength to leave that spot and head back to the car, back to the house full of people who weren’t you, back to reality.

“I can drive,” he suggested, planning to take the slowest route possible, and actually follow the speed limit for the first time in his life.

As soon as he started the car up, your CD started blasting through the speakers. You laughed at each other, the catalyst of this whole encounter feeling like it was days ago. The time on the car radio told you it’d only been about two hours. You lifted your phone but the screen remained black.

“Shit, it’s dead,” you told him, opening the glovebox and digging around for a charger.

While you were distracted, Rafe lifted his own phone from the cupholder he’d left it in. His screen did light up, displaying a slew of frantic texts from Topper and Kelce. He winced, wishing he hadn’t looked. He didn’t read the texts, not wanting whatever nonsense they were bothering him with to pop the blissful bubble wrapped around the two of you. He knew he shouldn’t start off your new…whatever this was…by lying to you, but he needed to stay in this happy place just a little longer.

“Mine’s dead too,” he lied, flipping the phone over in the cup holder to hide the screen.

“Of course Carter doesn’t have a charger,” you sighed, “she has like twenty hair ties and lipglosses, but no charger. Classic.”

“I know my way back,” he shrugged, “we’ll be good.”

Rafe put the car in reverse, backing out of the little side road with his arm on the seat next to your head. You watched the way he turned in his seat to look out the back window, neck muscles flexing with the stretch and his big hand manipulating the steering wheel with ease.

For the first time in the sixteen years you’d known him, you didn’t try to hide your gaze as you took him in. The same attraction that used to make you feel skittish and ashamed now settled over you peacefully, like an icy winter finally melting into a warm, bright spring. You looked at him all you wanted, noting every detail, taking mental photographs of every inch of his skin.

You’d always thought he was cute - actually, no, you always thought he was hot as fuck - but now for the first time, you allowed yourself to look long enough to notice how beautiful he was. Pins and needles burst out all over your body as you realized how badly you needed to kiss him again.

Rafe could feel your eyes on him as he drove, choosing not to say anything and risk you looking away. He felt at home in your gaze, happier than he could ever remember being.

Inhibitions left back on the beach, you fearlessly reached out toward him, hand grazing gently over his jaw. You loved the ticklish little stubble that had grown there in just a few days without shaving. You smiled as you thought about the boy who could barely grow peach fuzz, now a man, strong and solid under your fingertips. Something warm and electric buzzed in your stomach, and you knew Rafe could feel it too, his skin heating under your tender touch.

“What are you thinking about?” He asked, keeping his eyes on the road but leaning slightly into your hand to encourage you to keep touching him.

“Nothing,” you smiled, “I’ve just never gotten to look at you this long.”

“Is it making you change your mind?” He smirked, clearly not worried about the answer, his confidence making him impossibly sexier.

“Just the opposite,” you confirmed, “I think you’re always gonna have to drive from now on.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well now that I’ve gotten a good look I don’t think I could keep my eyes on the road. I always had the hardest time not looking over at you.”

Rafe grinned wide as your hand slipped from his jaw to the back of his head, fingers lacing in his soft hair, scratching his scalp lovingly. There was no rhyme or reason to your movements, but you didn’t care, you just needed your hands on him. He didn’t seem to mind, head leaning back into your palm to let you know he needed you as much as you needed him.

“I know you did,” he said.

“How?” You asked.

“Because I could never keep myself from looking over at you,” he confessed.

A kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttered their way through your chest. Now you were certain- you’d never been more attracted to anyone as you were to him in this moment.

Rafe took your silent smile as a good sign, “did I get another A with that line?”

Your hand slid slowly down to his shoulder, over the ridges and ripples of his arms, flexing under your soft touch, until you found his hand, pulling it into your own.

“Gold stars, baby,” you smiled.

Rafe’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the air in the car becoming thicker by the second as he shifted in his seat. You beamed at him, realizing with a flurry of excitement - you had Rafe Cameron flustered.

“You like when I call you baby?” You purred, eager to see how far you could push it.

His grip tightened around your hand, “you can’t say shit like that to me when I’m driving.”

You could feel the dam breaking. You needed him. Now.

“Then pull over.”

He finally took his eyes off the road for a second at that, looking over at you for confirmation; are you serious? You gave him a steely, lustful look in return; as a heart attack.

Rafe practically popped a tire turning the wheel hard and pulling the car down a side street, driving until he found a little secluded enclave by the beach, a perfectly private spot. He threw the car in park, making you laugh at the jolt it gave with his urgency. He didn’t waste a second, reaching both hands over to grab your face and pull your lips to his.

You sighed into his mouth, no hesitancy holding you back from slipping your tongue between his lips. He pulled away just long enough to grit out a raspy, “come here,” before throwing his seatbelt off.

You unbuckled your own, holding tight to his shoulders as you swung your leg over the console and climbed, somewhat awkwardly, into his lap. Your head fell back in laughter as your butt accidentally pressed the horn, the sound blasting through the quiet morning air. Rafe laughed too, easing your slight embarrassment as he reached down to slide the seat back.

Once you had more room, you pulled back to get a better look at him. He looked up at you with wide blue eyes, so gentle and kind in the way they took you in. Rafe reached up and brushed your hair over your shoulder, taking a deep breath as his hands grazed your shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered to fill the silence.

You cracked the slightest smile, unable to repress your amusement.

“What?” He puzzled.

“I just didn’t imagine you to be so…sweet like this,” you explained, though you hated how the words sounded coming out of your mouth, afraid it would sound like a criticism and cause him to withdraw.

“Only for you,” he said.

“Uh oh,” you teased, hands laying flat over his chest as you leaned forward, relieved you hadn’t ruined the moment after all, “is big bad Rafe Cameron going weak for me?”

“He always has been,” he nodded, his dimples creasing his cheeks with his sheepish smile.

You slid your hands up to either side of his face, thumbs dipping into his dimples. You’d always wanted to do that. You couldn’t believe that after all that waiting and longing, you really could just lean forward and kiss him if you wanted to.

So you did, like you were trying to prove to yourself that this was actually real. The second your lips met his, you could tell he was thinking the same exact thing.

Rafe’s hands gripped your hips as he sat up off the seat just slightly to meet your mouth fervently. You bent over him, your hair falling in a curtain around his face. His hands felt so good, so right, warm and strong against you. You smiled into the kiss as you could feel them sliding so slowly, reverently, over your curves, until they found a home on your lower back, bringing you forward to rest fully against him. It was the same gentle control he had taken on the jetski, and it was addictive.

He was hard, you could feel him firm beneath you, and your head flooded with lustful thoughts. You rolled your body just slightly against him, but he felt every second of it, his hands sliding lower until he was kneading the flesh of your ass. Breathless, you paused, forehead against, another roll of your body as you pressed into him.

“Do you want me to stop?” He breathed, chest rising and falling with heavy pants.

“No, don’t, I’ve wanted this for so long,” it came out more desperate than you planned, but you didn’t care, you needed him to know.

“Me too, kid, you have no idea,” he smiled.

Your nose scrunched, pulling back to look at him with narrow eyes, “kid? Really?”

“Well you don’t like when I call you baby, so…”

“That is not what I said,” you laughed, “I said don’t say things you don’t mean. You can call me whatever you want, as long as you mean it”

“In that case…” he leaned in again, hands on either side of your face as his lips met yours before pulling away to meet your eyes as he said, “hey baby.”

You melted into him, his hands cradling your head the only thing keeping you grounded to the planet. He littered your face and jaw with slow, deliberate kisses, working his way toward your neck as he whispered more sweet pet names into your skin.

“Beautiful,” with a kiss to your jaw, “angel,” with a kiss to your neck, just below your ear, “my girl,” with a kiss to your collarbone, lingering to suck on the skin right at the base of your neck, marking you lightly.

Your whole body pulled him in tighter, dizzy with the ecstasy of having him like this. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging just hard enough to tell him how good he was making you feel. You couldn’t resist but push down into his hardness, muscles tense as his lips tickled the sensitive skin around the collar of your shirt.

“Rafe…” you sighed out as he continued to suck lip shaped marks into you, his hands kneading your ass, arms strong around you like he alone was the one keeping you tethered to the earth.

He pulled away from you just far enough to look you in the eyes, his pupils blown out. There was a kind of darkness in his eyes, sending excitement, and maybe even a touch of fear, shooting through your body. You wondered what would happen if he dropped the gentleness and really seized control, longing to be the one to send him to that place.

“Are you?” He whispered. Hunger, lust, and some more vulnerable third thing laced the deep tenor of his voice as his eyes searched yours, “are you my girl?”

His brows were furrowed so tight with intensity, you worried he was gonna give himself a headache.

You ran your thumb over the scrunched skin on his forehead, smoothing it out, gentle but firm. You continued to run your fingers over his face, both to put him at ease and to buy yourself time, the answer to his question stuck somewhere in your chest, unwilling or unable to make its way to your tongue.

“I…” you started, the worry growing back on his face at the sound of your hesitation.

Before you could finish the thought, a loud DING! rang out through the quiet car, making you both jump.

“I thought you said your phone was dead?” You questioned, more edge to your tone than you’d meant, frustration over the interruption seeping into your words.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I just wanted more time with you.”

“It’s okay,” you said, a bit non-committal in your forgiveness. “Who is it?”

Rafe sighed as he retrieved his phone from the cupholder, reading the most recent message.

“It’s Top,” he answered, “he’s saying we should get back to the house but won’t say why. So dramatic.”

You chuckled softly, relief washing through Rafe at the return of your smile.

“We should probably go then,” you said, “if for no other reason than I’m nosy and want to know what’s going on.”

He nodded slowly, hands reluctantly letting you go “we’ll come back to this, though, right?”

You knew he meant more than just the kiss and your intimate position in Carter’s front seat. He meant this; the big ‘What Are We?’

Never in a million years would you have guessed that he’d be the one posing the question, or that you’d have this hard of a time coming up with the answer.

(Chapter 8: part two)

a/n: entering my 'posting what's ready when it's ready and not caring about word count' era, welcome!!

please note, i've closed the taglist for this story. to be first to know when i post please follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifications 💘

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feederprincess · 1 month ago

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cw: manipulation

good morning darling,

open up. new year, new you, remember? you said i get to feed you whatever i want for the first three months of the year, if you manage to keep your active lifestyle up during it i will do whatever you want for the rest of the year, and if not…

you are dropping your job and becoming my stay at home boyfriend that i get to spoil every single day 💞

its okay baby, look i brought you your favorite chocolate shake, made with brownies, heavy cream and ice cream. i also made you plenty of bacon pancakes just the way you like them, with extra butter. you have to start the year off strong - don’t bother getting out of bed, let me suck you off while you are eating so you can pass out as soon as you are done <3…

good evening! you slept right through lunch so i made you an entire pot of alfredo with buttery noodles, can i feed it to you? you must be hungry after so long ~ what do you mean you want to go to the gym? you won’t spend all of our first day of the year together? but it would mean so much to me… you could always go to the gym tomorrow instead…

except i will never let you go. manipulating you was so easy, i only had to make you feel guilty whenever you left me alone. all i had to do was keep feeding you fattening meals loaded with empty calories and ice cream shakes to wash them down, all i had to do was suck you off and not let you cum until you fully finished your plates. day after day of this, telling you to go back to the gym tomorrow but it would be a shame to not give my food a try. whenever you even suggested going out to get some exercise in i would tear up asking why i’m not good enough to spend time with - and you, as the good boyfriend you are kept doing everything in your power to make sure i felt loved<33

you started moving less each day, piling on weight extremely quickly and slowly craving fattening foods more and more. you stopped working because i missed you too much when you were out of the house, and instead spent the days inside completely isolated playing games and ordering takeout out of boredom. thanks to my conditioning you began getting hard while eating, and without me there to take care of it for you you found yourself jerking off while shoveling food down your throat, not exactly sure why you were so turned on<3

you stopped being able to pull your pants over your thighs so you began walking around in underwear and a shirt, although by the end of each day you were covered in crumbs. your moobs are pressing against your shirt, being more sensitive each passing day to the point you get randomly aroused simply because they brushed against something - it doesn’t help that i play with them while jerking you off 💞

a couple months after and your belly won’t let you jerk off while sitting down, so instead you have to lay in uncomfortable positions to even reach your buried cock - tongue out trying to catch your breath, while your chubby arms squish against your belly fighting for space… god you are such a helpless food addicted fatty

i tell you that it’s becoming harder to keep your belly out of the way while getting you off, and instead start asking you to get on all fours so you can happily eat while i jerk you off like that - and luckily for me you are too far gone to even consider that it might be humiliating <3

it’s okay baby, we aren’t gonna stop until your belly touches the floor and you can barely stay on all fours. i love you so much 💞

#feeding kink #female fat admirer #feedee encouragement #ffa feeder #feedee feeder #ffa #feeder feedee #gaining weight on purpose #weight gain

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javierpena-inatacvest · 2 months ago

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Chapter 8- Something to Believe In

Summary: Frankie makes good on his promise to pick you up from work.

Word count: 3.7K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname, no use of y/n)

Warnings: Having a panic attack (cue Frankie to the rescue), mentions of death and grieving, angst, yearning, could we perhaps be ✨making progress✨?

A/N: Hi friends!! Thanks for bearing with me after no new chapter last week! This one's also on the shorter side, but that's not to say there aren't some BIG things happening 👀 My hope is to have another chapter done by next week, but with holiday business, it may have to be two weeks between chapters again (sorry sorry sorry!!) Thank you as always for your lovely and kind words, ily all so much MWAH

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Frankie, Present

“I’m done at ten.”

By the time he gets back home at 6:43, he’s already counting down the hours until you’re finished with your shift.

Three hours and seventeen minutes, to be exact.

For as much as Frankie could easily spend the next three hours and seventeen minutes doing nothing but staring at the clock hanging adjacent to the TV in the living room, he knows he’ll drive himself out of his goddamn mind. He needs something to do.

If he keeps himself busy, he can’t fester on the million and one ways he could manage to fuck this up.

Frankie forces himself to eat some sort of half-assed dinner, despite his nervous nausea that’s got the best of him. He purposely uses as many dishes and utensils to make a sandwich as humanly possible- if he does, it gives him something to do after.

He cleans out his entire truck, down to vacuuming every last crumb crunched between the driver’s seat and center console. He debates washing the car himself in the driveway, but if he drives it to the carwash three blocks down the road, it’ll kill more time.

On his way home, he stops at Auto Zone to get you a new car battery and exchanges it for your old one, dead, under the hood of your car.

Frankie takes a shower so long, he can feel in real time the water shift from boiling hot, to luke warm, to ice cold. He washes his hair twice. His body, three times.

He unpacks just about every item of clothing from his suitcase, laying them out on his bed in multiple combinations of pants and shirts, debating whether you'll think he’s a psychopath for showing up in a different outfit only a few hours after dropping you off. Frankie settles on shorts and a t-shirt- nice enough he doesn’t look like a fool, but casual enough for you not to suspect he’s been staring at every article of clothes he owns for the past thirty minutes.

And somehow, after all of that, he still ends up in the Parrot’s Nest parking lot at 9:23.

Thirty-seven minutes worth of waiting is a lot more manageable than the better part of three hours.

Unfortunately, the last thirty-seven minutes he spends sitting in the parking lot are the most agonizing of his whole endeavor.

He throws the last few innings of the Tampa Bay Rays game on the radio in the background, unable to stand the sound of silence that haunts him when he’s alone with his thoughts.

Frankie tries not to panic at the fact that it seems like he’s forgotten how to engage in basic human conversation, praying that no one can see the way he’s rehearsing his greeting to you upon your arrival into the passenger seat.

“Hey, what’s up? No, fuck, that’s stupid.” Frankie mutters to himself, running his palm over his face, “Hey, MacKenzie, how was work? No, ‘cause what if work was fucking awful and I’m just gonna piss her off more. Jesus.”

He takes a few more long, deep breaths, staring at the roof of his truck while he tries to concoct the perfect set of words to string together.

“Hey, Kenz. Kenzie? MacKenzie? Does she even fucking go by Kenz anymore? Fuck. Hey, miss me?” He jokes by his lonesome, his fake smile quickly fading at the anticipation of your response, “She obviously didn’t miss you, idiot. You’re lucky you can barley get her to fucking talk to you. Fuck me.”

His pained groan and scrunched shut face are enough cut off the awareness to his surroundings just long enough to leave him oblivious to the fact you’ve not only exited the Parrot’s Nest, but have made your way across the parking lot and have your hand wrapped around the passenger door, rattling the handle.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Frankie shouts, nearly jumping out of his own skin at the way you’ve announced yourself by shaking at the locked door.

So much for rehearsing.

“F-fuck-” He stammers, taking a moment to catch his breath from your scare, praying he hasn’t managed to shit his pants from how badly you’ve startled him. Once his pulse settles to rate low enough he’s convinced he hasn’t died of a heart attack, he leans over to unlock your door, unable to make eye contact with you as he grimaces his face in embarrassment.

“S-sorry.” you murmur, sheepishly climbing into the seat next to him, quietly clicking in your seatbelt.

“Jesus Kenz, you scared the shit outta me.” Frankie gulps, still trying to compose himself. He runs his hand through the curls of his hair, taking one last slow inhale and exhale with his eyes peeled to the floor, hoping the pink drains from his cheeks before he looks over at you.

“Sorry, I- I didn’t mean to. I thought maybe you fell asleep, or something. You shrug, trying to defend your reasoning.

“I wouldn’t offer to come pick you up and then fall asleep on you, I’m not that big of an assho-”

Frankie cuts himself off before he can finish the rest of his thought, feeling the “L” and “E” of “asshole” die off somewhere in the back of his throat, killed by the death glare you give in proclamation of his own self-righteousness.

He starts the car without another word, pulling out of the parking lot and hoping that his silence begs enough forgiveness.

The crackling static of the car radio fills the void between you, Andy Freed’s ecstatic voice capturing both of your attentions enough to let the current state of the Tampa Bay Rays game shift your focus.

“What’s the score?” You ask, nonchalant, eyes wandering anywhere but Frankie’s direction.

“Oh- uh, I- I think it was 1-3 last time I checked, but it sounds like someone on the Rays just hit a sac fly, so I’m guessing it’s 2-3, now.”

There’s a moment of silence, Frankie assuming you’ve got it in you to at least make one question’s worth of small talk. You seem just as surprised as him that you don’t let the conversation die there.

“Did you um- you watched the game when you got home?”

Your gaze won’t lock with his, but now, it’ll at least travel in his general direction.

“N-no, I just uh- I just turned it on while I was waiting in the car.”

“How long were you waiting for?”

“N-not that long.” He barely gives you enough time to breathe, let alone call him out on his bullshit before he’s changing the subject, “How uh- how was work?”

“Oh- It was uh- it was fine. Went by really slow. B-because it wasn’t um, it wasn’t that busy.”

Frankie’s no code breaker, but he hopes the way you’re so quick to give him a reason why your shift had dragged on is a secret way of saying you spent just as long thinking about him as he did about you.

“Sorry it was so slow.”

Frankie knows his apology doesn’t do anything for you, but the way he’s picking each word that comes out of his mouth has him feeling like he’s tiptoeing through a minefield, too scared to make any move besides the one that seems the safest.

“It’s okay, not your fault. That’s honestly part of the reason I took this job- was to give myself something to do, so I don’t spend every last second that my dad is alive dwelling on the fact that pretty soon, he’s not gonna be alive. It’s stupid, but I guess if being preoccupied with serving middle aged couples mozzarella sticks and over-cooked steak tacos for a few hours helps, then so be it.”

He knows better than anyone that your attempt at humor is your shield, but it’s not hard to see how weathered and worn it’s become, barely hanging on by a thread to protect you from the worst battle you still have yet to face.

“N-no, it makes sense. Distractions help. I-It’s been hard, having to see him like this. I get it.”

His last sentence makes your head snap up from the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie hopes that maybe your attentiveness means he’s had a breakthrough, showing enough genuine empathy that you’ll cut him a little slack.

When he turns enough to see the scowl plastered across your face, he realizes he’s stepped on a bomb, and he’s moments away from explosion.

“Oh, you ‘get it’, huh?” You scoff, sadistic smile curling in the corner of your cheeks.

Frankie can see the way your blood is beginning to boil, trying to backtrack as quickly as possible to find any way to save himself.

“N-no- I mean, shit- no, Kenz, you know what I mean.” Frankie pleads.

“No, I don’t know what you mean, Frankie. Please, explain.”

The way your arms are crossed and head is cocked tells him everything he needs to know. Against his better judgement, Frankie decides not to take cover. He goes headfirst into the warzone.

“C’mon, Kenz, don’t be like this.” Frankie sighs, preemptively kicking himself that this is the route he’s chosen to take.

“Like what?” You snap back, sharp and sarcastic.

“Like it’s not hard for me, too. Like I can’t be sad about it. You’re not the only person who cares about him, MacKenzie. He was the closest thing I had to a dad, too.”

“But he’s not your dad, is he? And if you were, that’d make you a pretty shitty son, wouldn’t it?”

It hits him like a cold, hard slap to the face, the way you don’t dare to show him even an ounce of mercy. There’s something about the bitterness in the way you ask it that hurts even more than if you would have just screamed at him, cursed him out, punched and pushed him until he bruised.

A stark silence falls over the car, tension so thick, it’s like a bag of bricks has been dropped from the sky, drowning him in a useless pile of cement. There’s no use in crying for help. He doesn’t dare to speak, simply out of fear that if he does, this won’t be the worst of what’s yet to come.

Frankie stays trapped for what feels like hours, each second passing by more painfully slow than the last as you stare out your window, watching the shadows of street lights dance across your body, illuminating you just enough to see the way your chest trembles with short, frantic breaths as you unravel. Your sobs can’t hide behind the silence in the way your tears can in the darkness.

“Do you know how fucking lonely it is, Frankie? How lonely it is when everyone you’ve ever cared about leaves you? It’s like I’m fucking Midas, but everything I touch, eventually, I lose. A life before cancer, my soccer career, an engagement, a future, my dad, you? You don’t get to tell me how hard it is for you, because you get to let go of what you want on your terms, when it’s convenient for you, don’t you? I’m so sick of losing, Frankie. I’m so sick of it.”

He watches in real time how something inside you snaps, like a bottle of soda that’s erupted after someone’s violently shaken shaken it, the twist of the cap releasing all the pressure and tension that’s been stored up and compounded upon with each rattle of their wrist.

Frankie knows he’s not responsible for all of it, but he's the last bump you can take before you have no other choice but to overflow, leaving every ounce of you to seep out, vulnerable and exposed.

What starts off as softs sobs, quickly shifts to heart wrenching heaves of your chest, every word you’re trying to get out lodged in your throat. He sees how your eyes fill with fear at the way you suddenly can’t catch your breath, body shaking as you shrink into your seat, fingers wrapping around your seatbelt with an iron grip around the worn fabric.

“Kenz? Kenzie, are you okay?” It only seems fair he’s completely disregarded everything you’d had to say, beginning to panic at your tremoring figure crumpled next to him, speaking in nothing but violent wails you can’t control.

“I- I- f-fuck, f-f- Frankie, fuck, n- no, no, I-”

He won’t let you finish your thought- he only lets you stammer out the few words you can manage before he’s pulled off on the nearest neighborhood side street he can find. He blames it on military habit, how quick he is to react in the face of your panic, but he knows damn well it’s nothing but instinct the way he’s all but throwing off his seatbelt so he can reach across the center console and wrap you in his arms.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Just try and breathe, okay?” Frankie whispers, squeezing you so tightly in his arms you just might break.

“I c-can’t, I can’t, fuck, i-it- it, it f-feels like I can’t breathe.” You sob, feeling your tear stains pool in the fabric of his shirt covering, face buried against his chest.

“I know. I know it’s scary. I promise you’re okay, it’ll pass. Just try and breathe with me, okay?”

He hopes you don’t notice how shaky his own breaths are, trying his best to stay calm with each long inhale and exhale he takes. The wave of grief that washes over him is different than the one you’re drowning in, the kind that makes his heart break at the type of panic he’s known all too well- he’d give every bone in his body to absorb your pain and make it his, but the best he can do is hold you until it subsides. He’ll hold you all night, if that’s what it takes.

It’s a few minutes before he can finally feel your heart rate starting to slow, the stiffness of your muscles beginning to ease in his grasp as you come back down to earth with him. Your tears haven’t stopped, but at least your chest starts to rise and fall with his. It’s a baby step, but he’ll take any steps he can get in the right direction.

“There ya go. Just like that. It’s okay. Worst of it’s over, I promise.”

With the way one thumb is gently stroking your back and the other is carefully brushing the back of your head, it’s safe to say every inhibition Frankie could have has flown out the window. He hates how there’s a selfish part of him that can’t describe the way it feels to hold you again, even if it’s like this, but that’s a battle of his own he’s not willing to face today. For now, he’ll accept the sweet bliss of his self-indulgence while you’re curled against him.

“You’re okay, Kenz. I’m here. I promise, you’re okay.”

Enough time passes that his t-shirt isn’t getting any wetter, finally brave enough to peek your head up from the crook of his neck to wipe your tear stained cheeks with the back of your hand. Frankie’s grip only loosens enough to let you sit up, arms still engulfing your frame, tight enough to make sure you don’t float away on him again.

“I- I’m s-sorry.”

It’s so soft as it leaves your lips, if he wasn’t waiting on your every word, Frankie just might have missed it. Little do you know, he’s hanging on your every breath.

“Hey,” he pauses, your eyes locking with his, softly pouting at the way your panic has made your face red and puffy, carefully swiping his thumb across your cheek to catch the wetness still streaming down the corners of your eyes, “you have nothing to apologize about, okay?”

He waits in the silence again, letting you softly nod your head in agreement, watching the gears turn in your head as you process everything that’s just happened. You’ve come to enough to notice the way his hand still sits on the small of your back- he’s just as surprised as you when you let him keep it there for another moment before subtly shifting back in your seat.

Your face scrunches shut, wincing with the last few deep breaths you take, like you're trying to push the rest of it out of your system for good. Frankie runs his hand through his messy hair and down the nape of his neck as he takes you in, still riding his melancholy high of the weight of your body pressed into his.

“Thank you. For um- just, t-thank you.” You mutter, too sheepish to look him in the eye again now that full blown embarrassment has set in.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Frankie nods, trying his best to let you know that he means it- really, truly means it. It’s the way he won’t take his eyes off you that must let you know he understands, watching you shift just enough in your seat for him to notice how your body turns ever so slightly to face him.

“They’ve uh- fuck, it just comes out of nowhere sometimes. It’s um- it’s happened before, but these past few weeks, it just- it’s been a lot, I guess.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had one, but I um- I got ‘em all the time after I came home. Feels like you’re dying. It sucks.”

It’s not graceful, but it’s genuine. Vulnerable. Honest. Frankie knows it’s the most truth he’s given you in more years than he’d like to admit. It’s not much, but it’s enough to see you scale the top of the wall you’ve built between you and him and kick down one of the bricks that’s holding it together. It’s not much, but it’s one less brick than that wall has had for a very, very long time.

“What are you talking about? That was so much fun.”

In the shared moment of soft, sympathetic laughter, it’s that he realizes the softest smile that’s stretched in the corner of your lips. Frankie tries not to stare, but when he sees it, he remembers how much he’s hated living without it. He takes it in for as long as he can, memorizing every crease and crinkle in your face, no matter how subtle. He’ll soak in every second he can. He’s thankful he does, because it’s only a matter of time before it starts to shift, corners of your cheeks shifting as you pick at the skin around your nails.

“I- um- I’m sorry- a-about what I said earlier. I- I didn’t mean it.”

Frankie lets out a huff of confusion, convinced you must be playing a joke on him with your unprompted apology. He’s almost tempted to laugh again, but the way your jaw shifts back and forth, anxiously grinding on your teeth while your eyes stay peeled to the fingers working away at your skin reminds him of every other apology you’ve ever offered. The same look when you accidentally popped the brand new basketball he got for his 13th birthday, the same fidgeting of your fingers when overreacted to the dent you thought he put in your brand new car backing out of your driveway, the same tick of your jaw when you had told him why you hadn’t written him more while he overseas on his last tour of duty.

You really do mean it.

“It’s okay. I deserve it.” Frankie admits. As hurtful as it was, he knows you weren’t completely unjustified in what you said. He also knows if you’re offering him an olive branch, he’ll offer you nothing short of a whole olive tree back.

“No- well, I mean, maybe a little-” your sarcastic self correction makes him laugh again, something long forgotten warming in his heart at the way your hidden grin reappears in the corners of your cheeks, “No- I just- that was shitty of me to say. I’m sorry. It’s- it’s just a lot right now. Not totally fair to take it all out on you.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Frankie pauses, captivated by the way your eyes flicker up to meet his, still wet and sparkling from the last of your tears, shimmering in the warm glow of the streetlights. He wants to reach out, to grab you, hold you, press you against his chest again and tell you that everything will be okay, but he won’t risk burning the bridge of the progress he’s built. Not yet. The best he can do is keep building, nail by nail, plank by plank.

“If you um- if you ever need someone to- to talk to, or whatever, I’m always-”

“I know.”

There’s a different kind of silence that fills the empty spaces of his truck the last ten minutes of the ride home. It’s no longer heavy, burdened by pain and fear with every breath that enters its void. It’s the quiet kind of reassurance that doesn’t need any words. The kind that says everything it needs to from stolen glances back and forth, accompanied by the warmth of pink cheeks hidden in the black of the night sky.

The last thing that’s said after he’s pulled into your driveway is a simple “thank you”. It’s only two words, but something about those 8 letters put together seems like enough to fill a book with how much it says.

The only thing that says more is the way you look over your shoulder when you make it to your porch, so brief that if he wasn’t looking for it, he surely would have missed it.

Because in that moment you look back at him, he swears there’s a smile straining against the line of your lips that you’re trying desperately to fight.

Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe he’s truly lost his mind. Maybe he’s crazy. Whatever he may be, Frankie Morales knows he won’t sleep a wink tonight at the thought that he’s finally the reason for the smile on your face again.

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog @itsokbbygrl

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @jolapeno @ovaryacted

@amanitacowboy @mystickittytaco @anoverwhelmingdin @greenwitchfromthewoods

@witchofthedeepwoods @ericamarie093 @readingiskeepingmegoing @whimsiwitchy @whoaitspascal87

@vickie5446 @katw474 @ravenpoe67 @inthedarkestnight @brittmb115

@harryscherrysugar @wonderpillar @sunnytuliptime @pasc4lfuzz @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

@kungfucapslock @vannabanana1995 @beezusvreeland @guelyury

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

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bluesylveon2 · 6 months ago

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Chocolate Muffin Drama

A/N: So i'm on the olympic chocolate muffin tiktok and then this appeared lol. Everyone is aged up, sports/countries are not specified (except for Vil, Rook, and Rollo), and Yuu/Reader is a female

Everything starts when Ace wants to get breakfast at the Olympic dining hall and his eyes land on Yuu eating about 10 chocolate muffins

Yuu literally has crumbs on her face and the chocolate filling (or sauce? Idk) on her fingers. She looked like a hot mess that someone from the German team showed up to "clean the potato"

Ace is both surprised and confused

Later on, while sitting in the audience for a sport, he watches Yuu destroying the opposing team. Gold medal worthy, in his eyes

Ace rn: "is that the same girl who devoured those muffins in one sitting?"

Yes, yes, it is

Anyways, Ace is SMITTEN by Yuu and is determined to win her heart

How does he do it? He grabs a muffin at the dining hall and tries to give it to Yuu, but she is not there.

He comes back the next day to find out there are no more muffins! (gee I wonder why???)

Plan B: give it to Trey

Ace: I need you to tell me what ingredients are used to make this muffin

Trey: okay....

Eventually, Trey cracks the code to the muffins and even writes down the recipe for Ace

If only all's well, ends well

Meanwhile, a muffin thief was currently bringing the muffins back to the Village

Ruggie drops off his stash to Leona (while also taking one or two for himself. Leona pretends to not see it) so he can give it to Yuu later that day

See, Leona has been doing this for a few days now, but he waits until Yuu gets her servings before taking the rest to avoid suspicion

Yuu caught Leona's eyes at the same event Ace went to

He would have gone for more had a certain Frenchman not sat by him

Leona: there are other seats, ya know?

Rook: au contraire! These are the best seats to watch Madame Trickster perform!

So Leona repeats the process and basically plays hide and seek with Rook while Ruggie works.

He ends the day by being Yuu's prince charming (literally) and gifts her the muffins

He knows about the redhead who is trying to recreate the muffins.

It would be bad if the recipe got stolen...

Except, it wasn't Ruggie who took it. It was a bat

Lilia is grinning like he won the lottery. He saw how the muffins became viral on MagicTok and he just had to make some to share to all of his fellow athletes

(Little did anyone know that Lilia would accidentally end the Games if he succeeded)

Luckily, Silver is there to save everyone

He recognized the muffins from the dining hall and Malleus mentioned his new friend loved them

So he goes out to the nearby shops/places in Paris to buy the ingredients, unaware of a group of six guys currently on a goose chase to find a recipe

(tbh idk if the athletes can explore the city but let's pretend they can)

Silver has never met Yuu, but according to Malleus, she was a nice person.

Malleus suggests that Silver makes Yuu some muffins (it's a miracle he was able to at the Village). Silver gives some to her as a thank you for befriending his brother

What he doesn't know is that Malleus is trying to set the two up, so he talks about Silver when he's around Yuu and recruits Sebek to stop Lilia from adding his "secret ingredient" to the muffins

Bonus:

Malleus also drags Silver to Yuu's sporting events, sitting away from Ace and Leona

Except he has his own problem with someone from the French team

Rollo: why must you sit next to me? go somewhere else

Malleus: hush, Flamme, I am trying to get a sister-in-law here

Silver: trying to fight sleep

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #ace trappola x reader #aceyuu #leona kingscholar x reader #silver vanrouge x reader #ace x reader #leona x reader #silver x reader #twst olympics #vil schoenheit #rook hunt #rollo flamme #ruggie bucchi #trey clover

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ihaveforgortoomany · 6 months ago

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The American Dream explored through Schneider (spoilers mainly for Chapters One and Two)

Back again with Great Gatsby parallels with Reverse 1999, this analysis is inspired by the parallels seen in Chapter Six between characters like Isolda, Kakania and Marcus to the characters in Tosca; as well as how the nature of tragic plays are explored in said chapter.

Anyways here is a exploration of Schneider through the lens of the "American Dream" because while I love oranges I kinda wanna explore Schneider as a character more outside of the romantic angle (thats still here ofc but more on her motivations and development) .

What is the American Dream?

(Im not American, just someone who/ studied the Great Gatsby)

In short this is the idea that in the "New World"/ America, anyone can do anything as long as you worked hard for it - Gatsby embodies this idealism.

This idealism is notably disillusioned by the end of the 1920s known as the Jazz Age - a period known for Hedonism, Prohibition and the belief that society had become less moral. The Great Gatsby and Tender is the Night by Scot Fitzgerald is born from this pessimism of the 1920s.

So how does this relate to Schneider?

Schneider

Putting aside her flirtatious manner and being a literal mafia boss, she is a character that was forced to grow up very fast and provide for her family at a very young age of 11. The male voice hammers home how Schneider had taken on the mantle of the breadwinner for the Greco family and how she will go to every length to help and care for them, such as turning to the Foundation and the Manus.

Now cue the oranges

The American Dream and the nature of it being a myth is expressed in the storybook scene between Vertin and Baby Schneider, specially when they share that final big orange. Im pretty sure this scene the game sets to auto as baby Schneider talks about the New World and how the "God loves the world there" intercut with Schneider suffering and pleading - just like Vertin's illusion that idealised is not real.

Baby Schneider talking about the New World with so much hope and joy being cut by the older Schneider, now jaded by the rejection of the Foundation and now the Manus reinforcing the pessimism of the 1920s that concludes with the 1929 Wall St Crash.

The American Dream is a myth, it has always been: Schneider was denied salvation on the basis that she was human, denied by the Foundation, denied by the Manus once they found out her lie and is finally taken by the Storm because she could not be on the Ark/ the suitcase would not protect her.

(I wonder when Schneider realised no matter the outcome she would be reversed alongside her family, maybe the moment she told her mother to starting moving once she realised Forget Me Not was not going to hold the end of his bargain.

I mean like everyone I would of liked a playable Schneider or even more on her as a character than the crumbs we got. But I think it is more fascinating how we Don't. Know. Schneider. At. All. Purposefully we are left wondering who she is as a person with only less than 24 hours of knowing her.

We don't even know her actual name but shes left enough of an impression to

One - Trigger Vertin's deep sated trauma of the Breakaway Incident/ giving false hope of salvation for to fail

Two - Create a fandom wide trauma for oranges and haunt the narrative that we actively call a depressing moment oranges

Less than 24 hours Schneider gave us enough to never forget her.

#reverse 1999 #ramblings #vertin #schneider #the great gatsby #oranges #i like how bluepoch makes character who just perpetuately haunt the narrative #i love different streamers reactions

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foreverisntenough · 4 months ago

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‘Act II’

Summary: Attraction is like a gravitational pull that is undefinable and unavoidable. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had been keeping an eye on you since he caught a glimpse on his best friend’s girlfriend’s Instagram but he’s been loving his single life. You always were independent and know how to swim on your own but maybe you have been just treading water. Could the tides change on a holiday in Greece when you finally meet? It might get a little rocky but maybe you could be his paradise.

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! ‘Act II’ is interconnected to the 'You’re Mine' and 'Ours' Series but can read it independently.

Chapter 21 - 'Space ' | ‘Act II’

word count - 11.6k

What had once been whispers of curiosity around your identity and your relationship had exploded into a full-blown storm of scrutiny. Lots of blurry photos, finding Jude in your likes, if his hand in your photo was actually his, was the girl in his Instagram story you, you were in his box at games, Trent followed you all of it crumbs people were devouring. People could put two and two together but there was no confirmation nothing concrete until now. People speculated long since you’d been with Jude but things had hit the fan since Jude’s series premiered. It was a great success and you were happy for him. That said, the media circus surrounding you that followed felt relentless, suffocating, and inescapable. Every day, there was a new headline, a new rumor, a new comment about your relationship with Jude, and it was all tearing at you, slowly and painfully. The real news outlets—legitimate and respected—reported on you as though you were a story in and of yourself. ‘Jude Bellingham’s Girlfriend: Who Is She?’ It felt like you were under a microscope, your entire life, your every move, analyzed and criticized. It wasn’t just the tabloids; even major news outlets began weighing in on your character, speculating on your intentions. You were labeled ‘the mysterious girlfriend,’ but that label morphed, depending on who was writing the story. On Twitter, it was chaos. The football fanatics, a community you had once wanted to read, became a battleground. You were a distraction, a curse on Jude’s career to some. Others dissected every photo, every glance Jude gave you, reading into it like their lives depended on it. And the girls—Jude’s fangirls—took it harder than anyone. You empathized, you’d loved certain celebrities before too but it got to a point where they weren’t just jealous, they were angry. Furious that you existed, that you were the one who got to be with him. Comments flooded in daily, accusing you of being a gold digger, someone chasing fame and fortune. Some said you were beautiful, and then the next post would call you ugly, tearing apart your appearance in ways that made your stomach churn. You read the most vile things, words that you couldn’t unsee, and the bile would rise in your throat every time you opened your phone.

You were now with England’s golden boy and Madrid’s biggest star. The paparazzi had become a constant presence, following you and Jude whenever you stepped outside in Madrid. You hadn’t realized what it meant to be with someone in the public eye like this until now. They camped outside restaurants, clubs, even Jude’s training ground, just waiting for a shot of the two of you together. They’d call out to you, hoping you’d slip up and give them a headline. Some days, you didn’t even want to leave the house. Going out with Jude had become exhausting. You’d stopped going to dinner with him, and the few times you did, you felt the weight of a hundred cameras flashing, capturing your every move. It wasn’t just the photos that hurt; it was the narrative. It felt surreal like you didn’t understand why this had ramped up to this caliber. The only factor that changed was your being. It was hard not to take it personally. Every publication seemed bent on tearing you and Jude apart. Whether it was speculating about other women or hinting that you were inadequate for this life, the goal seemed clear—break you down, and by extension, break him too. The constant barrage of opinions, of strangers tearing at your life, made you feel like you were unraveling. One minute, you were painted as Jude’s perfect match—beautiful, supportive, kind. The next, you were the villain, some opportunist trying to tear him away from his game, or worse, someone manipulating him for his fame and fortune. You had never been so conscious of how people perceived you. You had never cared so much, but now, with every headline, every tweet, every cruel comment, you felt like you were drowning. You couldn’t win no matter what you did. You started to avoid your phone altogether, but the silence wasn’t any better. You still knew what was out there. You were living in a constant state of anxiety, unsure when the next blow would land, but knowing that it inevitably would. The pressure was tearing at you, making you question everything. And worst of all, it was beginning to seep into your relationship with Jude. You knew it wasn’t his fault, but you couldn’t help the fear that eventually, the weight of it all would be too much for either of you to bear.

So call it karma, call it irony, but the series coming out with you in it had massively affected you—not Jude. Your worries expressed to Denise flipped. He seemed to not mind the attention, smiling whenever he saw online comments gassing you up for being beautiful, sweet, and such a supportive girlfriend. You could see how proud he was, showing you off to the world like you were his greatest treasure. Jude thrived on the validation, but for you, it was different. You thought back to when Denise had told you not to worry about him. At the time, you believed her, trusting that things would work out, but now that was all you could do—worry. She was right you didn’t need to worry about Jude. You should’ve worried about yourself. Every day felt like a constant battle to keep yourself afloat under the weight of the scrutiny that came with being Jude Bellingham’s girlfriend. The online comments were relentless, harsher than you had ever imagined. People picked apart every aspect of your life, your appearance, your relationship with Jude—everything was fair game. It felt like you couldn’t even breathe without it being analyzed or criticized. The deeper into your relationship with Jude you got, the more fragile you felt, like your confidence was slipping through your fingers. It was unsettling. Before all of this, you were strong, self-assured. Comments online never would’ve bothered you in the slightest. But now, they felt like daggers aimed at your heart, and you couldn’t shake the anxiety that came with them. Even leaving the house felt impossible. The idea of running into paparazzi or fans made your skin crawl. You were supposed to be living this exciting life in Madrid, but instead, you found yourself trapped—trapped by the fear of what people would say or do, of how they’d judge you. You had been planning to talk to Jude about officially moving to Madrid, making it your home together. You’d even started daydreaming about it, how you’d make space in the wardrobe, build a life with him in the city that adored him. But now, the thought of staying in Madrid filled you with dread. All you wanted was to run—to get as far away from this city as you could. To escape the noise, the cameras, the judgment.

You kept replaying moments in your head—what if you had said no to being in the series? Would things be different? Would you feel more in control? The fame, the exposure—it was swallowing you whole, and you didn’t know how to break free. You hated that it had come to this, that you couldn’t even enjoy being with Jude the way you used to. You had loved him fiercely, but now you felt like loving him was breaking you down, piece by piece. And the worst part was, you weren’t sure how to tell him. How do you explain to the person you love that the life he was thriving in—the life he was proud to have you by his side for—was suffocating you? You knew Jude would understand, but there was a part of you that worried he might feel hurt, like you were rejecting his life, not just the chaos that came with it. But you couldn’t keep going like this. You had to talk to him, even if it meant admitting that all you wanted right now was to get the hell out of Madrid. Jude could sense it eventually. The shift in your mood, the weight on your shoulders—he saw it all. He’d been seeing the online discourse for days now. It was everywhere: news articles, social media threads, debates about your relationship. It was unavoidable, and he hated the way he watched it begin to ransack you. One morning, as you stood in the kitchen quietly making coffee, Jude came up behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you into him as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I know you’re having a hard time,” he cooed, his voice barely audible. He could feel the tension between you two, and it hurt. You’d been distant, not in a way that screamed anger, but in a way that told him you were struggling, and he didn’t know how to help. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. You let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. Finally you had hit a wall and Jude’s apology just sent you over the edge.

“This… it’s just too much, Jude.” Your voice was small, broken. His stomach dropped. What was too much? he wondered. Was he too much? Was his life and everything that came with it weighing on you? Jude’s heart raced as he tried to figure out what you meant.

“What do you mean? What’s too much?” His voice cracked slightly as he feared the worst. He felt like a kid again, afraid of losing something precious. You wiped a tear from your cheek, your voice barely holding steady.

“Everything. The show, the articles, the comments. I don’t know how to handle all of it… It feels like the world’s looking at me through a magnifying glass, judging every move, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that. I don’t know why I agreed to this. Like why…” You questioned. Not really to Jude particularly but into the room. Jude tightened his hold on you, his forehead pressing into the side of your neck. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“I was excited,” he admitted softly. “I wanted to show you off to the world. I thought… I don’t know, I thought maybe it would make things easier, being more open. People would know you, love you the way I do. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d feel this way, what this would actually do to you. I should’ve protected you more. I should’ve thought about what all of this would do.” His voice faltered as guilt settled in. You sighed knowing his initial intentions were good. But he saw the comments too and he wasn't naive. “Baby, but before this came out, before people were talking, you know that was why I wasn’t posting you on my Instagram. We’ve talked about this. I told you I would but we decided it was best the other way. We knew what we were doing before and we know what we’re doing now. It’ll be okay but I’m sorry, angel.” You shook your head, feeling the tears stream down your face.

“Jude… I’m not mad at you. I know it was a joint decision. It’s just overwhelming. I’m not used to this, and it’s making me question everything. I don’t know how to handle it.” You cried.

“I didn’t want this to hurt you. I’m sorry… I hate that it’s hurting you.” He held you tighter, his breath shaky as he whispered into your hair. You started to cry harder, and Jude stood there, holding you, breathing you in. He wished he had the right words, something to take the pain away. But instead, he just stood there, silently holding you, as if his embrace alone could make everything better. This chasm between you two, these conversations happened often after the series release and it was pushing you to your limits. Every camera flash felt like a tick on a time bomb.

“You’re in the show!!!” Whitney called, her voice practically screaming through the phone after she watched the documentary.

“I’m in the show,” you confirmed, but your tone lacked the excitement she expected. There was a pause on the other end of the line, confusion creeping into Whitney’s voice.

“Wait, what’s wrong? You don’t sound happy,” she asked, still giddy but now more concerned. You sighed heavily, rubbing your temple.

“Have you been online?” you asked, knowing the answer would explain everything.

“In general, I mean recipes and shopping but evidently not where you’ve been, why?” Whitney asked, still cheerful but growing cautious as she sensed your unease. You swallowed hard.

“The internet’s… the football internet it’s a lot right now. Since the docuseries came out, people have been going insane. Fan girls are in meltdown mode, and then there are supporters just judging every little thing about our relationship and how it’s been affecting Jude, timelines, backgrounds of photos, people just shitting on me. It’s too much.” You explained to her.

“Yeah, but it’s good that Jude was just like, ‘Here’s my girlfriend, I adore her,’ and then hit publish. It’s so him and you! It’s cute.” Whitney tried to keep the mood light but you cut her off gently.

“Whitney…” You could hear her stop in her tracks on the other end. “It’s not just the good stuff. People are losing their minds because he’s never posted me on his Instagram before. Despite that being on purpose… we decided that… I know that but that doesn’t matter because they’re saying he’s hiding me so he can cheat, or that he doesn’t really care about me.” You sheepishly confided in her.

“I know how that goes. How fun.” Whitney sarcastically quipped with a sigh . Unfortunately she knew all too well the pleasantries of launching of a relationship with a footballer. You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you.

“I know… but it’s getting to be too much. Going online feels like a war zone. Every time I log in, there’s some new thread, some new rumor. I’m struggling, Whit. We didn’t actively hide our relationship before, but because Jude wasn’t posting about me either, and people are running with that. Apparently an instagram post is the only valid form of commitment.” You sighed at the dumb reality you were in.

“Babe, I know how bad it can get. I mean England is a shit show for me. I can't imagine what Spain’s like matched with Jude.” Whitney’s voice softened empathizing with you.

“It’s just… overwhelming. I don’t know how to deal with it.” You sighed again. Whitney paused for a moment, then her voice came through steady.

“You don’t have to deal with it alone. Jude loves you, and anyone who really knows you two knows that. But maybe it’s time you guys talk about how public things have gotten and what that means go forward. You don’t deserve to feel like this and definitely not like this and alone.” She cooed gently. You nodded again in agreement, her words providing some comfort. “Can I be honest for a second?” Whitney spoke and you hummed but nervously. Whitney would always give honest opinions but if she was prefacing things like this you knew it ought to be serious. “There’s no use in you two just having conversations about how much you hate it because… of course you do but he can’t do anything about it. This is Jude Bellingham to all these other people. Unfortunately, he’s not your Jude, he’s theirs. I know it’s hard to hear that, it’s actually the worst feeling in the world but… Your Jude exists. And you two need to have honest conversations about what you do go forward to maintain your relationship because whilst as much as he can’t change who he is… neither can you. You matter just as much in this.” Whitney cooed and you frowned at her accurate call out.

“Yeah, you’re right. I just… I don’t know how to handle the pressure right now.” You admitted sadly. It’s not like you’d never been in the papers before, had your photograph taken, it’d happened but nothing, never to this level. Nothing that caused hate like this. Whitney was right but a part of you questioned if you really could maintain a relationship with Jude Bellingham… Not just Jude.

“I’m here for you,” Whitney reassured. “And so is Jude. Don’t let the noise get to you. You’ve got so many people who love you. Screw the rest. It’ll be fine, you’re not always in Madrid right now anyways,” she said, trying to ease the pressure, but instead, it crumbled you. Whitney’s excitement over seeing you in Jude’s documentary had been so full of joy but it had disappeared now. Her lighthearted comment about not always being in Madrid had hit you like a wave crashing too hard. You hadn’t realized how much you were holding inside until she said it. Tears began to spill, hot and heavy, and you couldn’t stop them. Whitney’s voice shifted immediately, her playful tone giving way to soft, loving concern. “Oh no, hun. I’m so sorry. Don’t cry, it’s going to be okay,” she cooed, trying to console you through the phone. “I know how bad it can feel. I mean, you were there for me when I went through it. The hate… it still happens to me too But you’re gonna be okay.” She tried to relate. You knew she did, she’d lived this, if there was anyone you’d want advice from right now it was her but in real time it wasn’t enough and suddenly there was a snap. Rash and fast.

“I can’t do this anymore, Whit. It’s too much. I need to get out of here.” Through shaky breaths, you managed to tell her you needed to leave Madrid. Whitney, ever the voice of reason and love, tried to soothe you.

“I know it feels impossible right now, but storms always pass. You just have to hang on, lean on Jude. You can call me all the time. Don’t leave somewhere that might not feel like home right now but has someone that is home to you there.” She tried to rationalize. But she could hear it in your voice—she heard the breaking point. You weren’t hanging on, it was too much. You were already letting go. You were in fight or flight mode, and flight was taking over, fast.

“I need to leave, Whitney,” you whispered assertively, the decision settling deep in your chest. You felt sick admitting it. “I just… I can’t stay here.” Whitney’s heart broke for you on the other end of the line.

“Alright,” she said, her voice gentle, even though you knew she didn’t want you to go. “Why don’t you go home just for a bit. I’ll meet you at home in Paris. You need to be somewhere you feel safe.” She told you. You needed to get away from the Madrid media onslaught. This conversation had flipped on it’s head Whitney felt sick at what you wanted but shed back you.

“Whitney,” you cautioned softly, knowing she had a baby to think of.

“I’ll meet you in Paris, it’s fine,” she reassured you quickly. “Trent can take care of Ted. Don’t worry about that.” You sniffled, a small, sad smile breaking through as you thought of her sweet little girl.

“Well, she could come too,” you pouted, wishing you could hold Teddy for some comfort. “I wouldn’t mind.” Whitney let out a soft laugh, knowing you needed the distraction but maybe not the distraction of Teddy.

“No, no,” she said, with a teasing tone. “You need your bestie, not mum Whitney. Besides, Trent can handle her for a bit.” She cooed. “...I think.” She smiled.

“Trent and probably Dianne, but yeah, okay,” you giggled weakly, picturing Trent trying to juggle Teddy on his own. He could but it was funny to tease. Whitney’s light laugh on the other end of the line was soothing, even as the weight of your decision pressed on you.

“Don’t worry about them,” Whitney said, her voice full of love. “Just focus on you right now, okay? Tell Jude you just need to pop to France to take a breath... nothing he did. And then we’ll be there soon and we can shop and we can vent, some frites, champagne, whatever you want.” She cooed. And with that, you felt better knowing you’d see Whitney soon but telling Jude wasn’t exactly something you were looking forward to. It hadn’t been long—mere minutes, really—since your conversation with Whitney, and the weight of everything still clung to you like an invisible force as Jude walked in. His eyes softened when he saw you, a tired but warm smile on his face as he crossed the room, arms already outstretched for a hug. He didn’t know the storm that had just crashed into you but he could see fear in your eyes.

“How you holding up, angel?” he asked gently, wrapping you in his embrace. The feeling of his arms around you was normally your anchor, your safe place. But today, it felt suffocating. You froze, the internal chaos rising too quickly to be silenced. You felt the need to escape, to run, to flee from this life that was spiraling beyond your control. It wasn’t rational, and deep down you knew that, but rationality wasn’t steering the wheel anymore. Without thinking, you pulled back abruptly, your movements sharp, and his hands slipped from your waist. It was like a bandaid you needed to rip off. It felt mean to do but you needed to get the fuck out of there.

“I can’t do this, Jude,” you blurted the phrase once again, the words escaping before you had a chance to rethink them. His brow furrowed in confusion, concern instantly flooding his eyes.

“What?” he asked, taking a small step back, giving you space as his eyes searched yours, trying to understand. “What do you mean? What happened?” He questioned. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and the panic inside you only grew.

“This… all of this,” you stammered, gesturing vaguely around, though it was less about the room and more about the life you found yourself in. “It’s too much. I need… I need to go.” Jude’s face fell, and you could see the hurt flash across his expression. It was like all at once you needed out.

“Go? What are you talking about?” Jude asked confused because the tone in your voice had a lot of conviction. He knew you were having a hard time but… leave?

“I just can’t be here anymore,” you said, your voice shaking, tears threatening to fall. “I’m… I’m not cut out for this. I’m really sorry, I am but the pressure, the attention. It’s everywhere. I feel like I’m drowning, Jude and there’s nothing for me to hold onto here.” He took a step forward, his hands reaching for yours, but you pulled away. You could see the pain in his eyes, the confusion.

“But I thought…” His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. “I thought we were okay. I thought you wanted to be here with me. We were gonna weather this together.” You shook your head, your words spilling out in a rush. Jude felt blindsided.

“I do… I did… I do want to be with you, Jude, more than anything. But this… this chaos. I don’t know if I can handle it. The cameras, the comments, the scrutiny. I’m not strong enough for all of this.” You whimpered. Jude was quiet for a moment, his chest rising and falling heavily as he took in your words.

“Angel… please. You can. You’re stronger than you think,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care about all that. I care about you. We can figure it out together.” But you were already spiraling, caught in a cycle of self-sabotage you couldn’t break. You wanted to go and meet Whitney asap.

“I need space,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need to go.” Jude’s face fell, his arms dropping to his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. You were serious and he could tell. He looked at you like he was watching his whole world start to slip through his fingers, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Space?” he repeated, as if the word didn’t make sense. You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I have no control here, Jude. Over anything… again” Your heart pounded in your chest, the weight of it all crushing you. All you could recall was everything you did before to try to gain complete control of everything in your life and now Madrid was spinning into a place where you were completely out of control. You had no work, your entire social standing was through Jude, the media was now watching everything you did, your schedule revolved around Jude’s schedule it was harrowing. “It’s your world here Jude and that’s okay but I just don’t know if I’m meant to be in it.” You murmured.

“What are you saying.” He frantically asked you, panicking about what was unfolding right before his eyes. Everything slipping and fast. You weren’t even sure why things were moving so fast but as wrong as it felt… It felt right to want to leave.

“I just want to go home.” You sheepishly told him. He blinked, confused, his face shifting from concern to hurt. This maybe wouldn’t be the way Whitney wanted you to explain things to him but it’s how the words were coming out.

“This is home,” he said softly, his voice breaking slightly. “Me. I’m home.” He looked at you devastated. “You’re home with me.” But the word ‘home’ felt foreign in your mouth now. Spain had never felt like yours, not completely. Not with the constant press even from the start till now, the cameras flashing in your face every time you stepped outside, the endless speculation about your relationship.

“It doesn’t feel like home. I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears already streaming down your cheeks. Jude’s face fell. His hand reached for yours instinctively, but you pulled away, and he winced as if you’d struck him.

“Angel, please don’t do this,” he muttered, his voice barely holding steady. He hated seeing you like this. But worse than that, he hated that you were pulling away from him, something he didn’t know how to stop. “Please,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Don’t leave here…. Dont leave… me.” He begged but you were already halfway out the door in your mind, the fear of losing yourself greater than the fear of losing him in that moment. You knew you were making a mistake, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You had to fly. Jude felt sick.

It was cynical but you left when he went to training. You didn’t want him to see you go. He couldn’t stop you. Not if he tried to and you knew it would hurt him more. You grabbed your bag, your sunglasses on before you even stepped out the door. The Spanish media was relentless, and even at the airport, they were there, as if they knew somehow, waiting. You prayed the oversized glasses hid the tear stains on your cheeks as you walked through the terminal, heart heavy.

You met Whitney in Paris just as planned, at the house that once felt like your sanctuary but now seemed like a place to hide from the world. The odd thing was you weren’t totally sure if you and Jude were broken up or if you just needed a breather. It was vague but the vagueness hurt. The second you walked through the door, the weight of it all came crashing down, and Whitney, sensing it immediately, wrapped you in a tight embrace. You cried into her shoulder before making your way to the living room, where you both sat, talking for hours. The soft glow of the Parisian street lights filtered through the windows, casting a golden hue over the room as you curled up on the couch, your legs tucked to your chest, tears still slipping down your cheeks.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” you hiccuped, your voice small and fragile. Whitney sat next to you, legs crossed, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. You didn’t think you’d broken up but you didn’t know what Jude thought. You didn’t want to be but everything hurt, what were you staying in Madrid for? You questioned yourself.

“I’m here, babe,” she said softly. “No matter what you decide, I’ve got you. But… I do think Spain is where you belong. I know it’s scary right now, but Jude would protect you. He loves you so much.” Whitney told you. She answered your internal question… Jude. Jude was who you were staying there for. You sniffled, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

“Maybe I just need to get rid of my phone entirely. If I didn’t see any of it, I wouldn’t feel at least half of all this.” Your voice broke as you said it, the suggestion half-serious, half-desperate. Whitney gave you a small, knowing smile, shaking her head gently.

“Well, no, because then I couldn’t text you all my rants and you know I’d miss you too much or even sending baby pictures, you wouldn’t get to see Teddy girl.” She smiled softly. It was teasingly light but also a bit serious. You let out a watery laugh, though the sadness still lingered heavily in your chest.

“Yeah, well… that’s true. Is that where I’m at though? Sacrificing my other relationships for this one with Jude.” You sighed. Whitney shook her head in disagreement. “Just throw my phone away, and live in Madrid, splitting time solely between the bedroom and the bernabeu.” You quipped.

“That’s harsh…” She frowned. “That’s not all you are to him and it’s not the solution, hun,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to cut yourself off from everything to be okay. You wouldn't like it and Jude wouldn’t want that for you. You just need to remember how strong you actually are.” You looked at her through tear-blurred eyes, and she smiled at you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve always been strong. You’ve gotten through so much already. This… this won’t break you.” You weren’t sure if you believed her. You felt so fragile, like one more push and you’d shatter completely. But Whitney had always seen you in a way you struggled to see yourself—as capable, resilient, and brave but she also was acutely aware of your vulnerabilities most people didn’t even know existed. It made you trust her so maybe, just maybe, she was right. That night you laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her words echoing in your mind. ‘You’re stronger than you think.’ You wanted to believe that. You wanted to feel like that strong person Whitney knew. But right now, all you could do was try to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and hope that tomorrow, the decision would come with a little more clarity.

Somehow, your absence felt worse than the first time you’d left. Jude couldn’t function. His routines fell apart, and even on the pitch, he wasn’t the same. He found himself staring at his phone, waiting for a message that wouldn’t come. He went to training, tried to keep busy, but there was always this hollow feeling that followed him around. In interviews, people asked how he was. He’d plaster on a smile, give some vague answer about ‘focus’ and ‘commitment’ but inside, he was crumbling. He couldn’t have been less focused or less committed. The Spanish media swirled with rumors— more about you, more about the relationship, it felt like a manhunt for both information and your location. Every second without you felt longer, the space between you two growing wider with each passing hour. He had no control, no way of fixing things, and the weight of it was suffocating him.

Toby arrived at Jude’s place after Jude’s sparse texts and seeing the fallout in the news. He had been worried ever since the rumors started circulating it could get to this point and now here you were. As he stepped inside, he found the house eerily quiet, dark even. Jude was lying on the couch, barely moving, the glow from the TV casting long shadows across the room. Toby stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it in. He knew his friend well enough to understand the weight Jude was carrying.

“Bro, you’re really going through it, huh?” Toby teased softly, trying to lighten the mood as he walked in. But the joke didn’t land. Jude barely moved. Toby let out a breath and crossed the room, sitting down beside him. He reached out and slapped Jude on the leg in a loving best friend way, strong and reassuring. “She went home?” Toby asked gently after a moment. Jude let out a low hum of acknowledgment, his face still buried in his hands. It hurt to hear Toby unintentionally rub in that Paris was more of a home to you then there was.

“Yeah,” Jude whispered, his voice barely audible. Toby leaned back, trying to find the right words to say next but Jude spoke first. “Man, fuck, I really thought this was gonna take off in a good way….Like the documentary, showing everyone how much I love her, making it public. I thought she’d see that, you know?” Jude sighed, rubbing his face.

“Mate, it’s a lot. Like, even my Instagram comments get insane… and hers, right now? They’re nuts. People are just relentless.” Toby explained to Jude. It’s not that he didn’t know or was naive enough to believe it was all happy and fine but Toby could stomach reading the nasty ones where Jude turned a blind eye. “Fuck.” Jude suddenly yelled, sitting up and throwing his hands over his face in frustration. He groaned, wishing he could be anyone but Jude Bellingham right now. “I never wanted this to hurt her. I thought I was doing the right thing, I just—I just wanted to show her off. I thought it would be special, something good for us. Now she’s gone, and I feel like I fucked it.” Toby watched him, understanding the pressure Jude was under. He let him vent before speaking again, calmer this time.

“I think you can sort it. You’ve got to make Madrid feel like home for the both of you, man. Not just your home, yours together,” Toby threw out his idea, emphasizing the last word…’together.’ “She needs to feel like this isn’t just your life and she’s tagging along. Like as much as it’s a luxury…It must be so hard for her, coming here, dealing with the media, trying to keep up with your world.” Toby looked at Jude with sympathy. Jude sat back, taking a deep breath. He knew Toby was right. It had always been about Jude’s world—the football, the media, the pressures of being in the spotlight. He thought involving you in that would make you feel special, but maybe it was suffocating you instead.

“I just don’t know how to fix it.” Jude mumbled.

“You can’t just sit here like a mopping melt. You’ve gotta make a plan, bro. You need to show her that you’re building something together. Madrid can’t just be where you live, where you play. It has to be a place where you both can see yourselves, where she feels like she belongs. You need to decide together how to make it work, not just for you, but for her too.” Toby told Jude seriously shuffling on the couch, adjusting in his seat. “Mate, it’s sick what you’ve accomplished and it’s not your fault but she needs to feel like she’s worth 120 million too because otherwise the balance is off even when you’re home here.” Toby awkwardly and carefully told Jude. He didn’t want to knock Jude but of anyone… he knew what being on the other end of a relationship with Jude could feel like. Jude nodded, letting Toby’s words sink in. He knew he needed to step up. He needed to find a way to make this work, to build a life with you, not just around his football career but around the both of you. “She’s good for you, I know it took me a minute to understand that but she’s worth it, man ” Toby added. “And you know it.” Jude leaned his head back against the couch, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Yeah, she is. I’ve just gotta figure out how to make her feel like this is her home too. That’s the plan.” Jude echoed him.

It was well past midnight. Your house in Paris was still and quiet, save for the soft sound of Whitney’s steady breathing beside you. You had chosen to stay in the same bed, even though there were plenty of rooms in the house to retreat to. But tonight, you couldn’t bear the thought of being alone, not when everything felt like it was caving in on you. The weight of it all pressed down, and as you lay there, still staring at the ceiling, you could feel the lump in your throat growing. The tears came first in silent streaks, warm and fast down your cheeks. You turned your head slightly, careful not to disturb Whitney, trying to keep it together. But the more you tried to stifle it, the harder it became. The sobs started to break through, your body shaking as you tried to muffle the sounds in your pillow. You didn’t want to wake her. You didn’t want her to know how much you were unraveling, even though she already had a pretty good idea. Unable to stay in bed any longer, you quietly slipped out, padding your way to the bathroom. You shut the door softly behind you, leaning against it for a moment as you tried to catch your breath. The walls felt like they were closing in, your reflection in the mirror barely recognizable, eyes red and swollen from crying. Without even thinking, you reached for your phone, dialing the only person you wanted to talk to. Jude answered almost immediately.

“Angel?” Jude choked out, his voice rough, caught somewhere between sleep and emotion. “You okay?” He asked almost mindlessly.

“I’m sorry. I miss you so much,” you managed to get out, your voice broken and strained from the sobs that were coming from your chest. On the other end, Jude’s breath caught. You could hear him trying to hold it together, but there was a soft whimper in his voice.

“I know, Angel, I know,” he whispered, his voice tender and filled with emotion. “I miss you too.” You couldn’t stop the tears from falling, couldn’t stop the overwhelming need to be with him, to have him there holding you, telling you everything would be okay.

“I don’t want to be apart. I don’t want to lose my Jude,” you gasped, barely able to get the words out between your sobs.

“Angel, you’re not going to lose me, I promise,” Jude said softly, his voice steady, though you could hear the strain. “Just come back to me, please. We’ll sort this out together. I need you here with me.” He tried to tell you as calmly as possible but he had been in a panic since you left. “I can’t…I can’t get to you right now.” He told you and your heart dropped. This was it. This was the problem. Jude’s world. You knew he had a football tomorrow, knew he needed to focus, and yet here you were, falling apart when he needed to keep his head in the game. This was Jude’s world. He heard you hiccup, your breathing ragged. “I know,angel and I’m sorry.. Fuck… I’m sorry,” Jude said, his voice cracking slightly, he never felt more guilty but he tried to toughen up for the sake of the relationship. “But I need you here. I need you with me, angel. I can’t stand knowing you’re crying like this, mon ange.” His attempt at French, though sweet and familiar, broke something inside you. It was his way of reminding you that you were his, that no matter the chaos or the distance, you were his.

“I just—” you started, but the tears were making it hard to speak. You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down, but it was no use. You were crumbling.

“Come on, yeah?” Jude’s voice was so soft, so gentle. You could hear the deep breath he took on the other side of the line, as if trying to breathe for both of you. “Please, baby. Come home to me. I’ve got you. I know it’s been shit but I’ll take care of you. Come back to our home. I’m gonna work so hard to make it better for you back here. Promise. I love you so much.” The sobs came again, but this time there was something different about them. There was a comfort, a peace in his words, in knowing that Jude wasn’t going anywhere, that he loved you and wanted to be with you through all of it.

“... Okay.” You whimpered between another onslaught of tears. You couldn’t stop but you wanted to go back.

“Okay? Why are you crying again, huh?” Jude teased lightly, his voice breaking the tension in your chest. “I love you, and you’re going to come home. That’s a good thing, right?” You couldn’t help but let out a sad little giggle through the tears, the weight of everything easing just slightly at his words.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice small but sincere. “Yeah, it is.” You could almost see the smile on his face as he let out a relieved sigh.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now get back to bed, yeah? And when you wake up, I’ll get you on a plane back to your Jude, come back home to me. I need you here.” You could hear the sad smile in his voice. You could feel the tension evaporating.

“I will,” you promised, your voice still thick with emotion but steadier now. “I love you, Jude.”

“I love you, angel. So much.” The conversation lingered in the air even after you hung up, his words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You stood in the bathroom for a moment longer, wiping at your eyes, feeling the tiniest bit lighter, the tiniest bit more whole. You weren’t alone in this. You had Jude, and you had his love. Whitney had heard you get up, even though you had tried to be quiet. She always had a knack for knowing when you were in distress, not just because she was your best friend but because she was maternal, too. When you returned to bed, wiping your eyes, you found her sitting up against the headboard, her phone in hand, but her attention completely on you. Her face softened with a knowing, sympathetic smile.

“You ready to go home now?” she asked gently, her tone light but understanding. She knew you’d go back from the moment you stepped into Paris. You needed the space, yes, but more than that, you needed the reminder. Tabloid chaos aside, you wanted Jude. You loved him, and this moment was just another test of that love. You nodded silently, the lump still in your throat, and crawled back into bed beside her. She immediately wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth. “Mum’s know best,” she murmured with a smile, kissing the top of your head. It made you laugh through the remnants of your tears. You wiped your face on the sleeve of your shirt, grateful for her being there.

“Can I see the latest of our Teddy girl?” you asked, shifting the focus. “You’ve been holding out on me since we’ve only been talking about my drama.” Whitney laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Of course, I’ve got plenty but I’ll warn you. It’ll make you smile soo…” she said with a smirk, unlocking her phone and pulling up the videos. You smiled warmed already. Whitney’s phone illuminated the darkened room with a soft glow, and as she found the video of Teddy, you instinctively leaned your head onto her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her presence. A tender smile crossed your face, already knowing that whatever was about to play would melt your heart, as always. The still frame of Teddy’s chubby cheeks, round and flushed with Trent’s unmistakable dimples, filled the screen. She looked like a little cherub, her innocence and sweetness enough to make you want to squeeze her through the phone. The video began to play, Whitney’s voice, soft and encouraging, coming through.

“Say hi, please,” she said gently, as if coaxing Teddy into sharing her little message with you. Teddy’s tiny voice, a bit jumbled but unmistakably adorable, echoed from the phone.

“Hi.” She then fell into giggles at nothing but the hello. “I miss. You come back home with mama… and treat for me pleabs, tay?” Her request was so sincere, so pure, that it tugged at your heartstrings. You giggled, tilting your head further into Whitney’s shoulder, letting the warmth of the moment wash over you. Whitney gasped playfully in the video, her voice laughing as she questioned her little girl.

“What! Y/N and a treat?” She asked before the sound of her tickling of Teddy’s chubby tummy filled the audio, followed by her baby’s uncontrollable giggles.

“Oh my god, I miss her so much,” you pouted, feeling the familiar ache in your chest. You missed Teddy’s soft little arms around your neck, the way her laughter filled the house when you visited.

“Want tiny cakes, mama! Pink pleabs!” She yelped, muddied her own giggles.

“She means macaroons by the way,” Whitney clarified to you now, shaking her head with a fond smile. Teddy loved her little ‘treats,’ always asking for those delicate, colorful pastries. You let out a whiny sigh, your lips forming into an exaggerated pout.

“I want to eat herrrrr,” you joked, the words escaping your mouth in a playful whimper as you watched the screen. Whitney laughed, her giggle soft but infectious, the same way Teddy’s was.

“Yeah, well, she wants to eat a macaroon, so… are we going tomorrow? I don’t think she’ll let me in without a treat from Y/N.” She looked at you with a teasing smile, knowing full well that you’d never deny Teddy anything.

“Of course, we’re getting her some!” you exclaimed, your excitement bubbling over. There was a pasty shop near your home in Paris you loved and you often either mailed, hand delivered or even once before taken Teddy to the shop. It was sweet literally and figuratively but now your presence was synonymous with yummy macaroons for the little girl. The thought of seeing Teddy, her joy over a simple treat, was enough to lift your spirits, even if just for a little while. All of this was the perfect distraction, the perfect antidote to your spiraling thoughts. As the video ended, Whitney continued scrolling through her camera roll, showing you more snippets of her, Trent and Teddy’s world. Videos of her Teddy learning new words, her high-pitched giggles as she ran around the house, her tiny feet padding along wooden floors. You could feel yourself relaxing, sinking into the comfort of these moments. In another one, Teddy was babbling in that adorable toddler way, trying to string together sentences as she played with one of her toys. She looked up at the camera, her little eyes wide with wonder, and you felt a pang of longing. You missed being around her, Whitney, and Trent—this little family that made your heart feel so full. Whitney paused on a particular video, her face softening with an affectionate smile.

“You know,” Whitney said, her voice casual but pointed. She turned to you, her eyes twinkling with a soft smile. “I heard a rumbling from that little girl that Jude’s thinking of a big future with you.” You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but the meaning of her words quickly sank in. You giggled, the vagueness of her comment amusing, but also strangely reassuring.

“Oh really? Teddy’s got all the inside scoop, huh?” You cooed. Whitney raised an eyebrow playfully.

“She does. And it’s a big deal, babe.” You smirked, trying to play it cool, though your heart fluttered at the idea.

“Well, it only makes sense she knows my future before me,” you teased. “Besides, obviously I’d need Teddy’s go-ahead for anything big, right? Judey is hers after all.” You teased. Whitney hummed in agreement.

“Leaving Madrid included. You're not ditching Judey without her say." She added with a mischievous grin, knowing full well how close Jude was with her daughter and how much you shouldn’t leave Jude. “But seriously… He’s all in, babe.” The warmth of her words lingered. Jude thinking of a future with you, something solid, something more, was a thought you hadn’t fully let yourself embrace yet. But hearing it from Whitney, someone who knew both you and Jude so well, it felt real. It felt possible. As you settled back into bed, your heart was a little lighter, your mind a little more at ease. You knew that soon, you’d be heading back to Madrid—not just to Jude, but to the life you were building together, even if it came with complications and challenges. For now, you allowed yourself to take comfort in Whitney’s arms and the sweet, innocent sound of Teddy’s giggles in the background. You stayed in the same bed, finding comfort in the familiarity, the closeness of your best friend at a time when you needed it most.

With macaroons secured and Whitney on her way back home in the opposite direction, you were headed to Madrid again. When your flight landed, you thought you were seeing things after you left your terminal. A figure in your sightline but just far enough away for their features to be blurred stood. It was an eerily familiar frame that made your heart ache but you walked towards anyways needing to get outside. As you got closer your stomach turned. And there, patiently awaiting for a car service in the arrivals was Jobe Bellingham. You never expected to run into him yet there he was, dimples sunk into his cheeks as he looked at something on his phone. It was both comforting to see him and anxiety producing all at once. What did he know? Why was he here? A part of you dreaded needing to be in the same area, an unavoidable conversation looming. He stood, hand in his pockets, looking a bit out of place but familiar all the same. You watched a cheekier smile grow on his face when he picked up his gaze and watched you unwillfully approach. You felt a bit awkward though, things were resolved to a degree with Jude but you knew Jobe would know about how tense things had gotten. It was both endearing and annoying how close Jude was with his family.

“Look who it is” he said, his voice hesitant but eyebrows raised to tease. You could tell he also was a little unsure of how to approach this but he was sweet as ever.

“Hi,” you stammered back, still caught off guard by his presence. Before you could even process it, Jobe had pulled you into a hug. It was awkward at first, but then, it felt like home—a reminder of the bond you’d built with Jude’s family. He held onto you a little tighter, sensing you were on the verge of something deeper than just surprise.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, concern lacing his words. You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you buried your face against him and, without warning, you started crying. Your tears came unexpectedly, like a dam breaking, as you clung to him for a moment longer than you should have. “Hey, you’re good,” Jobe whispered, his hand rubbing your back soothingly, trying to calm you down. He pulled away after a moment, looking down at you with a soft expression.

“Why are you in Madrid?” you blurted out, your voice shaky, though the answer was obvious. Jobe chuckled, understanding the confusion in your mind. “I mean, I know why… but,” you quickly added, shaking your head at yourself embarrassed by your words. He let out a short laugh, easing the tension.

“Obviously to see Jude,” he smirked. “But, yeah. He’s a mess without you. So here I am… next best thing,” Jobe shrugged. He was always going to be there for Jude. It was the most natural thing in the world to be there, ready to back his brother.

“I don’t want him to be a mess,” you pouted, feeling guilty all over again. The weight of your recent decisions hit you harder now that you were standing in front of Jobe, who had dropped everything to be there for Jude. Now, you were dreading seeing Denise and having to explain your exodus.

“Then stop leaving,” Jobe teased, though there was kindness behind his words. “Jude pulled in the big guns this time. Can’t leave my bro hanging like that. You guys are supposed to be end game. Can’t switch on the man now.” He smirked. You looked up at him, your eyes still red from crying but a small smile forming on your lips.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer this time. You felt almost ashamed.

“Don’t be,” Jobe shrugged again, his smirk reassuring. “So you wanna share a ride?” He joked lightly, trying to shift the mood. You nodded as his smirk grew into a full smile. And just like that, with the air a little lighter, you two made your way to the car, your heart set on making things right when you finally saw Jude again. In the car with Jobe, the city of Madrid flew by outside the window, but your mind was elsewhere, still tangled in emotions about everything that had unfolded over the past few days. You glanced over at him, trying to find some peace in the fact that you were heading back to Jude. Jobe must’ve sensed your anxiety, because he broke the silence first, his voice low and sincere. “Jude’s all in, you know that, right? Jokes aside,” he started, eyes still out the window but the weight of his words heavy between you two. “Like, different situations for us, of course, but Jude looks after the people in his life. He’s not gonna let anything happen to you. To the relationship.” He cooed. You looked at him, trying to gauge how much he really knew, how much he understood the whirlwind you’d been caught in. “Don’t get me wrong it’s a fucking circus but he knows that. People can just be assholes out there but inside. We create our own calm, yeah?” he continued, “And sure, these people care a lot about Jude. He cares what they think and but he doesn’t care about them the way he cares about you.” His words hit deep, and you felt the knot in your chest loosen a little. It was comforting to know that even Jobe saw how much you meant to Jude. Jobe turned to you briefly, a small smile forming on his lips. “Plus,” he said, his voice lightening, “I like having you around. He can be a pain in the ass and it’s nice to share the load of that with someone” He draped his arm over your shoulder in a brotherly gesture, pulling you closer in the backseat. “I’ll back you. You’ve got me in your corner,” he teased, but there was an unmistakable warmth behind it. “I’ll let people know you’re the one who’s got my brother acting like a melt. Anyone who’s got Jude like this is staying around, people can say what they want.” You laughed softly, wiping the corner of your eye, grateful for the support. You didn’t want to cry in front of Jobe anymore but you felt like you might. It wasn’t just about Jude anymore—it was about his family, too. Jobe’s reassurance meant everything. It felt like a protective force was around you, and knowing Jobe had your back, had seen how much you cared for Jude, made you feel a little braver about facing what was to come.

“Thanks, Jobe,” you said quietly, your voice softer now. In a backwards way, though younger than you, it felt like you were with Louis. He felt like your brother and it made you feel such a familiar sense of comfort. A soft reminder that Jude’s life was your life, you did fit in it when it came to the places that mattered.

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugged, but you could see the fondness in his eyes as he looked back ahead. You leaned back into your seat, your heart a little lighter. Jobe wasn’t just Jude’s brother—he was family to you now too, and it was so reassuring to know that you had his support.

As you walked up to the house, nerves buzzing beneath your skin, you hesitated at the door. Jobe, ever acting like the playful little brother, gave you a light shove on the back.

“Go on, then,” he teased with a grin. His energy was light, but you could feel the weight of the moment ahead. You gave him a side-eye but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Jobe opened the door and immediately announced your arrival in the most dramatic way possible, his voice echoing through the house. “Look who I brought! Best brother in the world… Jobe Bellingham!” He yelled. You could hear the humor in his voice, but your heart was pounding in your chest. Jude looked up from where he was at the kitchen island, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up with relief. He didn’t even hesitate—he was up and running toward you in seconds, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You tried to hold it together, but the moment his familiar scent, his warmth, and the strength of his embrace surrounded you, it was like a dam broke. The tears you’d been attempting to hold back in front of Jobe fell freely, your face buried against his chest as you sobbed. Jude held you even tighter, swaying you gently from side to side as if that motion alone could soothe your aching heart.

“I know, baby. C’mere,” he whispered into your hair, his voice soft, filled with love. He kissed the top of your head repeatedly, one arm around your shoulders, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay, angel. We’re gonna be okay. I promise.” His words were calming, but it was the way he held you, like you were the most precious thing in the world, that started to ease the storm inside you. He didn’t rush you, didn’t try to say too much. He just let you cry, let you feel everything, while he whispered quiet reassurances and kissed your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you managed to choke out between sobs, feeling a wave of guilt for everything that had happened, for running away, for doubting how strong you were. It wasn’t long apart but it felt like a massive amount of time out of his arms.

“Shhh, angel. You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured, resting his chin on the top of your head. “I’m sorry. We’re gonna figure this out. Together. You’re supposed to be here with me.” Jude whispered. Jobe lingered for a second, taking in the scene with a soft smile before heading to go find Toby, leaving the two of you alone to have your moment. Jude gently pulled back just enough to cup your face, wiping your tears with his thumbs. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters, yeah?. We’ll get through this, I promise.” You nodded, leaning into his touch, finally feeling some of the weight lift off your shoulders. Being here, in his arms, it was where you needed to be. When Jude took your bags upstairs, you clung to him, refusing to let go. Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your cheek squished against his back as he walked to the bedroom. As you stepped into the familiar surroundings of the bedroom, tears welled up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. You had told him when you left this didn’t feel like home but it couldn’t have felt more opposite now. It'd been a challenging few days, but now you and Jude were finally back in each other's arms. You'd missed his embrace, his scent, and the way he made your heart race. He smiled softly, his sweet demeanor ever present. "I gotcha," he whispered, his voice filled with concern. Jude smiled, warmth radiating from him as he gently pried your arms off just enough to turn around and face you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his familiar scent, unable to let go. You felt his strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you couldn't help but kiss his neck, letting your lips linger on his warm skin. A shiver ran through you as you felt his muscles tense in response to your touch. The tension and anxiety of the past melting away but then you felt a shift, all your fear replaced by desire.

"I missed you," you whined softly, your lip against his skin your grip on him tightening.

"Yeah? I missed you more, angel," he murmured, his eyes softening, his breath tickling your ear. His hands glided down your back, cupping your ass, and lifting you slightly onto your toes, pressing your body against his, and then up your back again. You silently gasped as you felt his hardening cock against you, already straining against his trousers. The realization of how much you've craved this boy hit you like a wave. You kissed the soft skin of his neck again letting out a quiet hum of satisfaction.

"Mmm, I really missed you," you whined again, the intensity of your longing for him rising as the familiar scent of his cologne enveloped you. Jude chuckled at the sound, a teasing smirk forming on his lips.

"Oh, I see... You missed me like that now, huh?" His tone was playful, but there was an edge of desire beneath it. You nodded, dragging your hands under his shirt, your fingertips grazing over the defined lines of his abs, the warmth of his skin igniting your need for him. The quiet tension between you two thickened as your hands pushed his shirt higher, revealing more of him. Jude's playful smirk deepened as he gripped you tighter, his hands gliding down the curve of your back once more to rest under your thighs. In one swift motion, he lifted you off the ground entirely now, your legs instinctively wrapping around him as he held you securely. "Let me show you why this is home, baby," he whispered, his voice husky with promise. His hands gripped you tighter, his fingers pressing into your thighs as he carried you to the bed, the intensity of his gaze locking you in

"Please" you pleaded, your voice hoarse with emotion. He needed no further encouragement. The way he carried you was exhilarating. You ran your hands over his hair gripping it slightly just enough to let him know he was yours. The world narrowed down to this moment as he laid you gently on the soft sheets, his eyes never leaving yours. He leaned over you, his hands tracing the curves of your body, from your shoulders to the swell of your tits. He teased your nipples through the fabric of your top, making you arch your back and moan softly.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, can’t ever leave me" he said firmly, his voice thick with desire. He peeled off your clothes, revealing your flawless skin and the tits he adores. His mouth watered at the sight as he lowered his head, taking a nipple into his warm mouth, sucking gently. You clutched his shoulders, feeling the sensations radiate through your body. He kissed his way down your stomach, leaving a trail of wet kisses and soft bites. When he reached your throbbing pussy, he teased you, blowing gently on your wetness, making you squirm.

"Please, Jude," you begged, your voice laced with desperation. He smiled against your inner thigh, knowing he had you exactly where he wanted you. He spread your legs wider, exposing your glistening pussy. With slow, deliberate movements, he slid two fingers inside you, curling them to find your sweet spot. You cried out, your back arching off the bed as he thrust his fingers in and out, building the pleasure.

"You're so wet for me, baby," he growls, his voice filled with satisfaction. He added a third finger over time, stretching you, filling you with a delicious fullness. You were on the edge, trembling, when he used his thumb to circle your clit, sending you spiraling towards an intense orgasm. He just watched you fall apart simply off the work of his fingers, satisfied, smug, possessively sure that you were his. "Cum for me, Y/N," he urged, his breath hot on your sensitive skin. You tightened around his fingers, crying out his name as your body shuddered through a powerful climax. You were still riding the waves of pleasure as he lined his cock up with your entrance, lifting your hips up and guiding his length inside. You were so wet it was seamless. “You’re such good girl f’me. You okay, baby?” You nodded as he began to thrust after he let you adjust. You and Jude just understood each other's bodies, what each of you needed but Jude was asking maybe from a more emotional standpoint because frankly… he stretched you out every time with how big he was. Naturally, he found the perfect spot again and again in quick succession. He pinned you under him as he continued to thrust deep inside you. The sensation of being filled by him was overwhelming. You clung to him, your nails digging into his muscular back as his strokes began to get harder, his hips snapping against yours. He set a relentless pace, pounding into you, his balls slapping against your ass. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, mingling with your desperate moans.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you whined, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. He leant down, capturing your mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his thrusts. “I missed you so much.” You whimpered as your waterline filled with tears you weren’t sure were from the physical heaven you were in or from the separation. You tried to put your hand over your mouth to muffle your moans knowing people were home but he wasn’t having that. He pinned your hands above you with restraint as he continued to fuck you.

“Wanna hear how good I’m making you feel back at home now, angel.” He whispered against your neck before biting your sensitive skin only pulling another, louder, moan from you.

“Fuck….” you whined. “Please, I’m so close, I’m so… f-fuck!… I’m so close.” You told him squeezing your eyes shut as you started to feel your orgasm approaching. He was so deep inside that you could feel every ridge and vein. You could feel the pleasure coiling tightly in your core. Jude could feel it too, he reached between your bodies, rubbing your clit in firm circles as he fucked you with abandon. You were both slick with a sheen, your bodies glistening in the dim light, as you surrendered to the raw, primal urge. "I'm gonna cum, baby," you whispered, your voice shaky.

"Cum with me, angel," he panted, his jaw clenching as he fought for control. You felt his cock twitch inside you, and that's all it took. Your mind turned to complete mush. His thrusts becoming increasingly sloppier and harsher. “Cum all over my cock, yeah? Make a fucking mess on my cock.” Jude babbled as you came, your body aching, your eyes squeezing shut again. You cried out, your pussy clenching around him as you exploded in a mind-numbing orgasm. Jude followed his body tensing as he filled you with his hot cum, rope after rope, triggering another wave of pleasure.

“Baby” you moaned, feeling his release painting your insides. You were gasping as Jude fucked you through your high.

“That’s my good girl.” He said as he let his weight come down on top of you completely spent as you both breathed heavily, whispering ‘I love yous’ back and forth. As your hearts pounded and your bodies trembled, Jude moved to collapse himself onto the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms. You snuggled against his chest, feeling his heart thumping against your ear. “You okay?” He asked gently. You hummed letting your eyes flutter closed. “Get you cleaned up in a second. Just need you right here with me for a second.” He cooed holding you tighter.

“With you at home.” You quietly added. He smiled hearing your voice.

“Yeah at home, angel. Not ever leaving me again," he vowed, kissing the top of your head. "We belong together, you and me, forever." You smiled, wiping away a stray tear, knowing that this time, it's forever. You were here to stay.

“I like being at home, I think.” You sheepishly but cheekily smiled with a giggle as you inspected Jude’s pretty flushed face. He shook his head with a roll of his eyes but still kissing your forehead. And whilst you were in this bubble of bliss of reconciliation and confirmation in your relationship, Jobe and Toby unfortunately downstairs couldn’t get the tellys sound loud enough to not hear some of the noise echoing from Jude’s room.

“I think they’ll be alright.” Toby laughed, turning up the volume one more notch, not being able to stomach another ‘good girl’ or ‘please.’

“Yeah clearly.” Jobe grimaced. “Honestly, just shut the fuck up, we get it.” He groaned, placing his hands over his ears falling back into the couch. They were laughing, complaining about you and Jude, and making snide jokes as they continued a game of fifa but deep down Jobe and Toby both were fairly relieved this fall out was fast repaired.

🪩🫶❤️‍🔥🍹🌞🍒 Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🍒🌞🍹❤️‍🔥🫶🪩

Next part - Chapter 22 - Galería D’ange xx

#jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut

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aquamarixx · 1 month ago

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breaking the internet

chapter eight when some clout chaser claims to be the mystery girl in the photo, Hiori shuts down the rumors and teases about the girl who truly has his heart blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains fluff, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader masterlist

The speculations about Hiori’s mystery girl are definitely one of the highlights of his career.

Ironically, he finds it funny how people react to it. He’s already been scolded by both the team manager and the marketing manager, each lecturing him about how careless he’s been. It’s not like there’s anything inherently wrong with dating, especially as an athlete. Though it seems like he was scolded for not giving them a heads up and keeping it a secret.

His parents, on the other hand, are pretty much predictable. His dad stays quiet about these sorts of things, but his mom? She makes it a huge deal. Despite their issues, she still showers him with love and attention in her own overbearing, only-child-parent way. She’s adamant that he’s been hiding the girl from her because he’s embarrassed or something.

Not to mention, his friends and teammates. His Bastard Munchen teammates—not exactly the epitome of calm, cool and connectedness as how they would look.

The moment he arrived into a field for training, Isagi sprints at him at high speed, like golden retriever finally seeing its best friend. Igaguri and Raichi moan about how unfair it is for Hiori to get a girlfriend before them. The older members, Geisner, Bachs and even Ndiaye praised him as if he scored a goal.

Even Noa himself gives him an approving nod, “at least we know you’re normal-er than the rest of these football heads.”

Again, a wild reaction from everyone.

Sure, he’s not the only eligible bachelor in the field, nay, in his team who have been elusive or secretive about their relationships. But sports gossip writers love to eat up news like this. Like vultures circling around a carcass, the media (even fans) are waiting to pounce on him any moment.

“Who’s the girl you were caught kissing at the JFA party?”

“Do you finally have a girlfriend?”

“Is your girlfriend a celebrity?”

It’s the same old question every single time. And for Hiori, it gets tiring. He should be answering questions about the game, the team’s performance and plans ahead this season. People are too hung up on who’s his “flavor of the month”, as if he’s Oliver freaking Aiku.

But he knows how to play the game. It’s just like playing a visual novel. His answers already predetermined, all of them would either deflect or shut down the whole topic all together.

“I have no idea what yer talkin’ about.”

“Are ya sure that’s me? Doesn’t look like me?”

“Looks edited though, don’tcha think?”

Like he promised you, he won’t disclose anything to the media or anyone else. Not that he’s the type to kiss and tell. But he won’t confirm or deny it either. He finds it fun to watch people squirm, teetering on the edge of curiosity and frustration.

Plus, he values his privacy. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s how it always will be.

Still, beneath his calm demeanor, Hiori worries he might fumble this. He likes you—really likes you. Enough to avoid making mistakes that might scare you off.

Fine, he likes you a lot. More than he thinks you even realize.

In the months before you started dating, he found himself looking forward to every conversation with you, whether it was online or during work. He’d take whatever crumbs he could get, so to speak.

That’s why he got so frustrated when you started showing up way less for interviews. He understood it was just part of your job, something entirely out of his control. But when you got reassigned to other teams, it did threaten him.

You were a natural at what you did—fun, easygoing, and effortlessly charming. No wonder he felt at ease with you from the get go. So it was just a matter of time till others saw you the way he did.

Athletes like them are human after all.

When Nagi—and, surprisingly, Reo—tried to squeeze into the picture, that did it for him. He hated how it felt, the simmering jealousy that crept in every time he saw them be all chummy with you. No amount of goals scored against Manshine City could ease the sinking feeling of losing you to one of them. Or, worse, both of them.

Hiori never thought of himself as the jealous type. But now he knows better. He despises the feeling. The tightness in his chest, the restless nights replaying imagined scenarios. Yet, there’s also a quiet satisfaction now. You chose him.

Not publicly known, not splashed across headlines. But still, you’re his. If he gets jealous, he knows he’s not overreacting.

“I know who she is!” Isagi sing-songs, jogging over to the bench.

Hiori offers him a water bottle, cocking an eyebrow. “Whatcha mean?”

Isagi displays a shit eating grin, practically glowing with mischief. “I know who the girl is. Ness knows, too.”

Ness, approaching from behind, offers a polite smile—a polite smile that makes Hiori’s stomach drop.

“Nah, ya don’t,” Hiori says, chuckling nervously.

“We do,” Isagi insists.

“Ya don’t,” Hiori repeats.

“Well, we do,” Ness interjects smoothly. “Reo told us about how you cockblocked him and Nagi at the party.”

Hiori freezes, sweat beading on his forehead. “What?”

“You guys weren’t exactly subtle when you bailed,” Isagi adds, his shit-eating grin growing wider. “Miss Journalist seems to be really into y—what the hell, Hiori!”

A towel smacks Isagi square in the face. “Shaddap!” Hiori hisses, putting a finger to his lips.

Ness snickers, and Isagi pulls the towel off, laughing. “Alright, fine, ya got me. But can ya two keep it down? We just started dating,” Hiori mutters, massaging his temples.

“Relax, I’m not gonna spill,” Ness says with a wave of his hand but he gives a small smile, amused by Hiori’s reactions.

“Gotcha,” Isagi says, mock-saluting. “But, man, I didn’t know you had that kind of ‘HioRizz.’”

Hiori groans, glaring at Isagi. “I swear to God, if ya don’t shut up, I’ll leave ya out of every pass next game.”

Ness bursts out laughing. “Don’t worry, Isagi. I’ll pass to you.”

“Hiori has more rizz than Yukimiya! I should take notes!” Isagi jokes, only for Hiori to smack him on the arm before chasing him down the field.

Despite the chaos, Hiori can’t help but feel a warm sense of pride. These guys might be loud and annoying, but they’re also the ones he trusts most. And in a way, it feels nice to share this secret with them—a small piece of his happiness.

Because you’re his. And he’s yours. And to Hiori, that means everything.

“So… you’re telling me this is you?” Your roommate, Miko, thrusts her phone in your direction, her finger pointing dramatically at the paparazzi photo of you and Hiori plastered on her screen.

It’s only been a week since the photo started making rounds online, but you’ve been caught staring at it one too many times by Miko, your eagle-eyed, ever-curious roommate. Today, you finally caved. The whirlwind of emotions bubbling inside was too much to handle alone.

And now, you just had to tell her because things are driving you crazy at this point.

“Yup.” The two of you are sitting side by side on the couch. She grills you with her own paparazzi-like questions while you sink in further the couch, the unfinished article on the laptop you’ve been drafting long forgotten at this point.

Miko squints at you, her head tilting as she studies the image like a detective analyzing evidence. Her brow furrows, and then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, she gasps.

She springs up from her seat, pointing at your face accusingly. “Aha! Is this the guy you—" she gestures vaguely but suggestively with her hand, “—you know, slept with after that work party?”

“Yes, it’s him. No, we didn’t ‘sleep’ together.” You can’t help but laugh as you swat her finger away. “We shared the same bed, yes. But nothing happened.”

Miko raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Sure, sure. A pretty girl like you, and he didn’t try anything? In this economy?” She blows a dramatic raspberry and plops back against the couch, clearly unimpressed.

Your cheeks burn, recounting the night you spent with Hiori. It was intimate—sweet and wholesome in a way that still made your chest flutter when you thought about it. The kisses, his touches. It only makes you yearn for it more.

The morning after was even better. You spending a whole Saturday with him was like magic.

She idly giggles to herself as she scrolls more on her phone, probably to stalk Hiori. The girl is chronically online so her stalking (research skills as she calls it) skills are on par with yours. She could be a damn good journalist if she wants to.

“You’re such a perv, Miko,” you say, swatting her with a throw pillow.

“Says the girl who drools on this guy's sweaty photos,” she shoots back, laughing as she scrolls furiously on her phone. “Wait a minute—oh, damn. This guy’s a big deal. National team and Bastard München? He’s a whole package!”

You glance over her shoulder, smiling despite yourself. At 26, Hiori’s resume is nothing short of legendary. Back when you were just another journalist in the crowd, you’d been blown away by his talent. It was his brilliance on the field that inspired you to write that first viral article—the one that caught his eye.

Even now, it feels surreal. How did you go from admiring him from afar to… this?

“And you’re okay with not going public?” Miko asks, her tone softer this time. Her eyes flick briefly to you, filled with concern. She’s seen you through your fair share of bad relationships—flings that went nowhere and heartbreaks that left their marks.

“Yeah,” you answer, though there’s a hesitation in your voice. “Honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I don’t even want to imagine how people would react if they knew I was just… me. An ordinary nobody.”

Miko slams her phone down dramatically. “First of all, you’re not a nobody. You’re the girl who single-handedly brought Bastard München back into the spotlight. You’re the one who made everyone see their worth when they were tanking. You’re that bitch.”

You can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm, leaning into the side hug she gives you.

“But seriously,” you admit, letting out a long sigh, “it feels unreal. Like… we’re from completely different worlds. If this got out, I don’t think I’d be ready for the fallout. People would rip me apart.”

Miko frowns but says nothing, letting you pass her your phone. Together, you scroll through the endless speculation about Hiori’s mystery girl. Post after post describes someone glamorous and unattainable—completely unlike you.

“That’s ridiculous,” Miko says, her voice dripping with disdain. But before you can reply, she suddenly gasps so loudly that you nearly drop your phone.

“What now?” you ask, startled.

She shoves her phone into your hands, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fury. On the screen is a video of a rising sports influencer, her perfectly curated appearance making her look every bit the part of someone destined for the spotlight.

The interviewer’s voice is casual, almost playful. “So, you attended the recent JFA party?”

The influencer smiles coyly, a soft, practiced laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, of course. I was there.”

You can feel the tension building as the interviewer leans in slightly, their tone dropping to something conspiratorial. “And… given your connections to Bastard München and your shared sponsor, you must know Hiori Yo?”

The influencer’s eyes sparkle, and she lets out a delighted giggle. “Well, who doesn’t know Hiori? He’s incredible—on and off the field.”

Pfft. As if she knows anything about Hiori and his brilliance.

“So… are you the girl Hiori Yo was caught kissing that night?” Your stomach twists as the interviewer delivers the bombshell, their voice taking on an almost teasing quality.

The influencer doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering as if to draw attention to the gesture. Then she twirls a lock of hair, her eyes flitting away from the camera for just a moment before returning with a mischievous glint.

“Well… isn’t that for everyone to wonder?” she says, her lips curving into a playful smirk. The answer is deliberately vague, but the mischievous glint in her eyes speaks volumes, leaving just enough room for everyone’s imagination to run wild.

Miko explodes. “The audacity!” she practically shouts, throwing her hands in the air. “What is wrong with her? She’s milking this for clout! And the interviewer—ugh!”

You can’t even respond. Your gaze is glued to the screen, your chest tightening with every second of the video. The influencer’s words replay in your head, her casual demeanor and sly smile feeding into the storm of doubts you’ve tried so hard to suppress.

Miko’s rant continues unabated. “She didn’t even deny it! She knows exactly what she’s doing. God, people like her make me so mad.” She paces the room, her gestures wild and exaggerated, but you barely register her words.

Your stomach churns as you scroll through the comments beneath the video.

she’s stunning—definitely Hiori’s type. this makes so much sense they’d look so good together

Each comment feels like a jab, their assumptions cutting deeper than you thought possible. The image of you and Hiori, so ordinary and imperfect in comparison, flashes in your mind.

You glance down at yourself: wearing your favorite but worn-out pajamas, the fabric soft from too many washes. Your hair is in a messy bun, a few strands rebelliously sticking out. You’re comfortable, sure, but the reflection from the phone staring back feels painfully ordinary.

The woman in the video, with her flawless hair and perfectly styled outfit, radiates a charisma that seems effortless. She looks like someone who commands attention the moment she steps into a room, someone whose beauty turns heads without trying.

Normally, you wouldn’t care about looking “normal.” Most days, you’re content in your own skin, finding beauty in your own way. But this? This moment makes you feel like just another face in the crowd. No striking features, no captivating allure. Just plain, unremarkable. And right now, “normal” feels less like a badge of self-acceptance and more like a curse.

Miko stops mid-rant when she notices the look on your face. “Hey, don’t let this get to you,” she says, her voice softening. She sits back down beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “People love drama, and she’s giving it to them.”

“But what if people believe her?” you ask quietly, the vulnerability in your voice startling even yourself. “What if they think she’s better for him?”

She shakes her head firmly. “You can’t let strangers decide what’s best for him or for you. Hiori chose you, not some influencer fishing for likes. That says more than any of this nonsense ever could.”

You nod slowly, though the unease lingers. Deep down, you know she’s right. But as you hand her phone back, the thought persists: How long before the world finds out—and what happens when they do?

You spend the next weekend with Hiori at his apartment. Again.

This routine has become a comforting tradition. Every Friday after work, you and Hiori grab dinner, sharing stories about your day. By the time the last train rolls in, you’re on your way to his apartment, lugging a slightly larger backpack than usual. Inside are the essentials: a change of clothes, skincare, and personal items, neatly packed alongside your work things.

It’s mundane yet romantic, this little ritual you’ve built together. Friday nights are reserved for catching up, sharing laughter, and exchanging updates about work and personal lives.

During one of these chats, he casually mentioned that Isagi and Ness know about the two of you now. You shared that Miko, your closest friend and roommate, knows too. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him about the video. Not yet.

That Friday night, you binge-watch movies. This time, some of his favorites, including SPEC. It’s endearing to see him so animated as he talks about what he loves, his passion stretching beyond football.

Curled up on the couch together, a blanket draped over you, everything feels natural. His arm rests over your shoulders, pulling you close as you melt into his side. Occasionally, he leans in to kiss you—your knuckles, your cheek, the top of your head—absentmindedly, his eyes never leaving the screen. The faint scent of his body wash lingers in the air, grounding you in this moment, so intimate yet exhilarating.

By the time the third movie ends, you’re both ready to tuck in for the night. As you drift off in his arms, the comfort and warmth feel whole, complete.

You always wake up earlier than him. It’s a small, heartwarming detail you love about these mornings. He even got you your own coffee mug. A matching set of Nier Automata ones for both of you. With coffee in hand, you lounge in the living room, flipping through a book while the quiet hum of his apartment surrounds you.

Later, you make brunch together, settling into the kind of domesticity that makes your heart flutter. Saturdays with Hiori are always this way—unhurried and easy. You both slip into a rhythm that feels like second nature, each finding comfort in the other's presence.

When he’s gaming on his PC, you’re nearby doing some light work on your laptop, occasionally glancing up to watch his focus. When he switches to his PS5, you curl up beside him on the couch, yapping about the book or manga you’re reading as your fingers absentmindedly play with his hair. He listens quietly, humming in acknowledgment now and then, his contentment reflected in the small smile that lingers on his face.

It’s the kind of quiet companionship that makes everything feel right—as if the two of you were meant to exist in this peaceful harmony.

But this time, something disrupts the vibe.

Standing by the sink, phone in hand, your brow furrows as the video plays again. It’s the same one. The influencer, the coy smile, the teasing comments. You try to push it aside, but the weight of it lingers.

“Hey, you okay?” Hiori’s voice startles you. He’s slipped behind you, his hands resting gently on your waist as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“God, Hiori, you scared me!” You fumble with your phone, but instead of turning it off, the volume spikes, making you jump. Flustered, you quickly lower it.

“What was that?” he asks, noticing the unease in your expression.

You hesitate but eventually lead him to the couch, where you show him the video. As he watches, you fidget, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap.

“I just… it’s been bothering me,” you admit finally, your voice trembling. “Even though we’ve been dating for a few weeks now, I can’t shake this feeling that our worlds are too different. It’s pathetic that I let it bother me.”

Before he can respond, you continue, a weak laugh escaping you. “I know we’ve talked about this, but… it just gets to me sometimes.”

Hiori pauses, then gently pulls you into his arms. “Hey, s’fine. I understand. Don’t worry about them, ‘kay?” His voice is soft but steady, grounding you.

You feel his sincerity, but the nagging fear remains. “I don’t want to scare you with these feelings,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“And I wantcha ya to know ya won’t scare me. Ever.” He tilts your chin up, meeting your eyes. “Is there anything I can do to help ease yer mind?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Just this… spending time with you like this, it’s enough for me.” But then, gathering your courage, you add, “Actually… I was wondering if I could take you out. On a proper date. Something special. Just the two of us.”

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but his smile grows almost immediately. “You’re asking me out, huh?” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss on the lips. “Of course. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned.”

And for the first time in days, the weight in your chest feels a little lighter.

When midweek rolls in, you know you'll be too preoccupied since it always comes with an avalanche of tasks, and today is no different.

You're neck-deep in work, juggling content planning for upcoming videos and articles while checking in with interns you’re supervising. They're compiling research on volleyball, basketball, and surprisingly, esports, which they’ve informed you is “the next big thing.”

You slump back in your chair, fingers aching from typing, and let out a long exhale. Cracking your knuckles, you reach for your coffee, savoring the warmth as it spreads through you. It’s moments like this when caffeine feels less like a drink and more like a lifeline for your overworked soul.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, lighting up with a notification. It’s a message from Hiori.

Oooh, a Hiori pick-me-up, you think, already feeling a smile creep onto your face. Just what you need to get through this impending burnout.

The message is short:

hiori: watch fer a surprise

Attached is a link. Intrigued, you click it, and a video opens.

It’s a recent press interview featuring Hiori. He looks effortlessly charming in a black hoodie, his hair perfectly tousled in that way that reminds you of lazy weekends spent curled up on his couch. You remember him mentioning this event last weekend, but seeing him on screen still catches you off guard.

The interviewer’s question catches your attention: “So, Hiori, there’s been a lot of buzz about you and a certain sports influencer lately. Any truth to those rumors?”

Your chest tightens slightly at the mention.

Hiori tilts his head, his expression as calm and composed as ever. “Sorry, who?” he replies, his tone laced with subtle mischief. “Oh, you mean the one who has the same sponsor with our team?”

Ness, seated beside him, nudges him gently, a silent reminder to tread carefully.

The interviewer presses on. “Yes. Rumors are that she's the mystery girl you're dating. Is she?”

Hiori chuckles lightly, dismissing the question with his usual nonchalance. “Nope, not at all. We’ve never even talked to each other.”

And then, just when you think he’s moved on, he adds, “Besides, I like my girl who’s a little nerdy, enjoys the same things I do outside of football, and, oh yeah—she talks a lot.”

Your breath catches.

The comments section beneath the video is already buzzing. Fans are losing it over his indirect confirmation of the photo rumors.

did he just confirm he's taken? he’s confirming without really confirming it! whoever the mystery girl is, she’s lucky af. i will crawl in a hole and cry

But you’re not focused on them.

Hiori’s words replay in your mind, each one feeling like it was chosen just for you. He didn’t name names, but the teasing specificity left no doubt in your heart. This was his way of sharing a piece of his life with the world—without giving too much away.

Your shoulders relax as the video ends, warmth spreading through you.

Another message pops up on your screen.

hiori: would you mind writing an article about how yer favorite football player, Hiori Yo, is no longer single? hiori: also, I can’t wait to see where yer taking me fer our date. 😉

You can’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head at his playful tone.

Oh, this man.

The stress of the day doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. With Hiori’s teasing yet heartfelt reminder of how much you mean to him, you feel ready to take on whatever comes next.

amari's notes: i just finished writing this last night, sorry it took so long! i got sick for some reason and still recovering from it. made the bf read this and pointed out that journalist is not my self-insert, the roommate is my self-insert. she is so me lol. also, happy new year to all my hiori loving people! anw, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask. i'll greatly appreciate it! Hope you all enjoy this chapter! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ (if you wanna join the taglist, just comment or send me a message!)

taglist: @inu1gf @pookalicious-hq @dontmindtheevie @wannabepoeticischiya

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #hiori yo #hiori yo x reader #bllk #bllk hiori yo

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lestink · 2 months ago

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IVE GOT MORE THUNDER LEGION/RAIJINSHUU CRUMBS THAT IM GOING TO EXPLODE ABOUT

CW: FAIRY TAIL GAME 2 SPOILERS BELOW

tagging @freedjustinemywife and @selfawarecobalt (also if youre reading this come join us on the thunder legion community)

Before I get to the goods I wanted to point out something that made me laugh:

Wendy has often said in the game how much she admires Laxus’ kinder side (not her calling him the gay uncle of the guild) but whenever she does so MIRA almost always reminds her and the player that ‘nah i remember when u did this shit back in 2009’ ITS SO FUNNY

OK NOW HERES A CUTE EXCHANGE OF ELFMAN GIVING LAXUS GIFTS (i don’t understand the occasion tho, xmas during the war?? idkk) FROM THE THUNDER LEGION

my freakout thoughts:

bixlow making a mini doll???? im gonna cry thats so fucking CUTE,,, imagining bixlow sitting down to carve one out for laxus with a silly face,,ough,,bixlow is so sweet i NEED TO SEE HIM

freed knitting a sweater.....ok so the entire thunder legion are all arts and crafts oriented ok i will explode. AND A PROTECTION ENCHANTMENT TOO?? the bodyguarding never stops even if he's offscreen he's still got it FUCKK i miss my wife. and youre so right elfman WEAR IT LAXUS U DICK. also,,,,laxus recognized the sweater from the pattern itself so freed has knitted things with that similar pattern before...AUGHHHHH freed knitting the thunder legion and laxus outfits what if i suddenly combusted

EVERGREEN MAKING A STEWWWW and the elfever crumbs with chef evergreen and taste tester elfman,,,man if elfman doesnt marry her I WILL. this is quite possibly the softest and coziest little side event ever, where the hell is the thunder legion when i'm freezing in my apartment....

ALL 3 OF THEM GIVING LAXUS CASH JUST IN CASE ok this reminds me of the talks i had with @yellow-guiding-lantern about the thunder legion being the keepers/the only ones who could reign in rabid dog laxus, this just affirms whats TRUE theyre taking care of his dumb ass

moving on:

youre so right lucy the thunder legion DOES love him im so sick of them /aff (if i dont see them soon i will make it on international news)

THUNDER LEGION FORMATION CRUMBS????

i always did wanna learn how they got to be together and though i know the gaiden had its own interpretation i wondered how else it could have happened, and this is a very interesting and different approach the way FREED is the one who wants to fight laxus first (angry freed????? CAN I SEE????)

i have so many questions like?? why did he get so angry??? did laxus break a rule that enraged him?? like maybe threatening the safety of others??? did freed give laxus a good fight?? were bixlow and evergreen involved at this point??? and what does that mean freed only wanted laxus for his strength???? elaborate??????

OH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDD

mira is so funny the way she can quickly uncover laxus' facade of trying to stay tough and hard, in the source material + game she's always been the anchor of staying true to one's feelings. in other words, she's all "aaaaaaahhh i caught you caring"

elfman catching laxus blushing too HAHAHA his whiteness will work against him. (also- manhood????? was there no other word they could have used???)

NOT TOO MUCH ON THE THUNDER LEGION LUCY??? to be fair i also love gift giving, i love to give my friends lots of little things i know they'll love so i don't see the "obsessiveness" of this.

MY TAKEAWAYS:

Mirajane Strauss will forever be Laxus' greatest opp (undefeated streak)

the Thunder Legion are the best gift givers in the guild, they're the equivalent of the rich aunties who want to spoil you rotten

I want to see no more Freed characterization calling him a pushover or cheerleader for Laxus, he's literally the one consistently defying his arrogance ON AND OFF SCREEN🗣️

Laxus and the Thunder Legion are private people, but everyone can see their love and devotion to each other and I think that's so beautiful

If I don't see new Thunder Legion content soon WHERE I CAN ACTUALLY SEE THEM another CEO will pay for it

#thunder legion #raijinshuu #thunder god tribe #freed justine #bixlow #bickslow #evergreen #fairy tail evergreen #ft evergreen #laxus dreyar #lucy heartfilia #wendy marvell #mirajane strauss #elfman strauss #fairy tail #ft #fairy tail game 2 #fraxus crumb? maybe #fraxus

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archangeldyke-all · 8 months ago

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as a butch i LOVE to be called pretty boy

IMAGINE CALLING SEV PRETTY BOY

choked on my spit. god.

men and minors dni

the first time you say it, you don't even consider the fact that your words might turn sevika on.

you guys are goofing in the kitchen, sevika's trying to steal the cookie you're munching on from your hands, the two of you laughing and circling the dining room table in an endless game of chase.

you stop at the far end, sevika on the other side, grinning and huffing and waiting to see which way you'll dart next. you take another bite of the cookie during the short break, and sevika giggles. "oh, you're such a bitch!"

"me!? get your own cookie!"

"i just wanna bite!" sevika whines. you glare at her, knowing she'll shove the remaining half of your cookie in her mouth in one bite. "babe." she tries to get serious, narrowing her gaze and trying to look intimidating. "give me the cookie."

you burst into giggles, crumbs spraying everywhere as you laugh. "come and get it, tough guy." you tease. sevika raises an eyebrow at you, smirking.

"you're gonna regret saying that." she warns.

you shrug. "yeah, pretty boy?"

sevika freezes on the other side of the table, and you watch in confusion and delight as your girlfriend's face melts into something... hazy.

her cheeks get a bit red, her lids drop a bit along with her jaw, and her gaze drops to your mouth.

you grin, tuck that piece of information away for some other time, then sprint into the bedroom, slamming and locking the door shut behind you as sevika runs after you.

you try it out again a week later, in a context that's a little more appropriate.

(but just a little.)

you're walking back home, hand in hand, enjoying the quiet cool night after a nice dinner date.

you're both a little drunk, giggling and stumbling into one another, occasionally stopping in the middle of the street to sloppily kiss.

you're a block away from home when someone bumps into you.

the guy doesn't even bother with a 'sorry', he just trudges right along after shouldering you.

you gasp, then quickly pat down your pockets to make sure he didn't take anything. your shit's still there, so your irritation melts, but sevika's is only raring up.

"hey! watch where the fuck you're going!" she shouts down the street after the man's retreating figure.

he doesn't even turn around to look at her, and her gaze narrows. you roll your eyes, in no mood fight with a stranger on the street after such a lovely night, so you just tug sevika's sleeve toward home. "c'mon, pretty boy, leave it for me. don't wanna break that lovely nose of yours before i can ride it tonight, do you?" you whisper in her ear.

sevika's resistance to your tugging immediately ceases, and she grins, intertwining her hand with yours and starting a jog home.

the more you experiment with the new nickname, the better her reactions get.

a whispered, "g'morning, pretty boy." when you're kissing sevika awake is met with a dazzling smile and a bright blush.

a "please, pretty boy?" tacked on at the end of a request always melts the annoyed grimace on her face, a soft smile replacing it as she goes to do your favor.

and, best of all, a well timed, "cum inside me, pretty boy" can make sevika cum so hard she leaves a bite mark on your tit where she muffles her pathetic whines.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary @m0numents @macaroni676 @vixel352 @artinvain

#pretty boy butches pspsspspspspssps #sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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tanadrin · 17 days ago

Note

"Zero-sum game" anon returning. I am surprisingly capable of maintaining optimism of the will, but ONLY as long as I stay away from the news or even other people liable to be upset by it. This unfortunately includes not only everyone I care about personally, but quite a few of the larger communities committed to organizing against those who would harm them. Advice to "try to change the subject or else walk away" works mainly for the former, and in any case is much harder to do when it's your own life at stake too.

Last month, you covered a related phenomenon in an excellent musing about the dangers of conflating identity with suffering. "Everyone secretly hates me and is out to destroy me" is terrible enough as a self-concept, but as a rallying point has even more potential for harm. This is where I think an element of peer pressure comes into doomerism: If catastrophizing is part of what holds a group together, then non-participation becomes a perceived threat to unity no matter what the rationale. Never mind that I want to avoid a mental breakdown from dwelling on all the reasons bigots want me dead; plenty of loud doomer activists from multiple demographics would still declare me as evil as a bigot myself for this "crime" of wanting to turn away from our shared pain.

In theory, balanced ways must exist between obliviousness and burnout. In practice, I feel disloyal to anyone I share even the remotest crumb of kinship with for even daring to consider such a thing. And yes, I do realize now how that might be actually be part of the problem.

yeah i'm sympathetic to the whole "sometimes binging news coverage is a huge fucking bummer that drags me down" thing; and there's not actually any inherent virtue to Bearing Witness to the Horrors, especially if you find that shit demotivational. and if people want to make Bearing Witness to the Horrors, or even worse, Being Victim to the Horrors, the non-negotiable determinative element of a shared group identity, the thing you must do to prove your trust and virtue to others, run the fuck away!

people who demand you make misery central to your identity or your worldview aren't just wrong, they are dangerous. they are emotional vampires. they are interpersonal varelse. many people acquire social antibodies against that sort of thing as they mature, but not everybody, and sometimes these kinds of people will try to leverage the mechanisms of shared identity or in-group language to sink their metaphorical fangs into your metaphorical jugular. so for those people that need it, i am giving you explicit permission to tell people like that to Fuck Off. you don't need to give them the benefit of the doubt--it doesn't matter whether they do it on purpose or not. you don't need to feel sorry for them--they will feel plenty sorry for themselves. you don't need to try to help them--they do not want your help. just tell them to fuck off. then ignore them forever. you're allowed!

#this isn't even really a post about Our Political Times #this is just general life advice

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linkspooky · 1 year ago

Text

The Death of Kenjaku

So I was planning to write this meta the week that Kenjaku died, but decided to delay until we got full confirmation of his death. Something I didn't believe in even after Kenjaku passed the merger onto Sukuna. However, watching this video about death in Jujutsu Kaisen inspired me to finish this post. Not because I disagree with anything the YouTuber is saying, but because they can speculate on the meaning of so many deaths in Jujutsu Kaisen but can't find the meaning in Kenjaku's sudden death. This has led me to speculate why Gege made the choice to kill Kenjaku in the way that he did. What meaning is there in Kenjaku's abrupt and unsatisfying death?

Who is Kenjaku?

The first step in understanding Kenjaku's death is of course understanding how he lived. We actually know incredibly little about Kenjaku's character by design. Despite the fact he's literally in Geto's body, he's not meant to have sympathetic or human motivations to his actions (though hold onto that "human motivation" in your head for a moment). No flashback sequence shows the audience why this guy is the way he is, no single event seems to have driven him to do what he did.

This is what we know about Kenjaku in brief. He is a sorcerer who is over a thousand years old who was around in Sukuna's day. He once had a friendship with Tengen, but found her original self boring and unambitious. He also contrasts heavily with Tengen, who lives outside of humanity, because he has lived among humanity for 1,000 years. One of those lifetimes was Noritoshi Kamo who violated a woman and conducted heinous experiments. He produced ten children in his one thousand years, the nine death painting siblings and Yuji Itadori. He considers the first children boring, because human and curse hybrids turned out too normal.

He also partially blames himself for how boring they are, because he can't create anything that will exceed his expectations, the only thing that can exceed his expectations is born in chaos. He spent a thousand years organizing the culling games, and wants to use the games to create a merger, because he thinks creating a merger between Tengen and Humanity will create something entirely new and interesting. He also believes the way towards the future lies in further optimizing cursed energy, not in breaking away from it the way Yuki Tsukumo tried to do and Maki has.

The only people whose word we have on Kenjaku's motivations are Kenjaku himself, and Tengen's word and Tengen themselves who claims to not know what goes on in the human heart.

From all of the above Kenjaku seems to be a shallow character who's motivations can be summed up as "because I can" and "I want to see what happens." This shallowness is intentional however, as Gege who once praised the minimalist storytelling of Nasu and Evangelion likes to pick and choose what crumbs of backstory he gives out for his characters. We've never gotten any exposition on the Gojo clan, but we have an entire chapter about Takaba's failed career as a stand-up comic. This isn't a judgement of good or bad writing, this is just how Gege writes as minimalist as possible. This is in line with how Gege writes the ancient sorcerers as well, they are all much more shallow driven by instinct or Freudian Id (I desire) rather than the higher reasoning of modern-day sorcerers. Takaba uses comedy as a means of communication and bridging the gaps between people, Higuruma's backstory is the critique of the modern day justice system. Ishigori apparently lived a satisfying life where he was succesful and had good women, but that wasn't enough so he wants to get into a fight with Yuta to satisfy his hunger and feel like he's eaten desert.

It sounds shallow when I summarize it in text, but in the context of the fight with Yuta, it's a challenge for Yuta who for the most part only cares about his loved ones and sees the world through his love goggles to be more selfish and fight for his own desires. It's also reflective of a more basic and instinctual kind of thinking, as opposed to the higher reasoning and logic that modern-day sorcerers apply.

I'm keeping most of this first part to text for this reason, like go back and read the fight with Ishigori and Yuta. If I summarize Ishigori's character reasoning out of context it sounds stupid, but read the fight and it works because it's ID (I Desire) vs. Yuta's superego in not only having to collect points to help rescue Tsumiki, find a way to protect all the innocent people in the Culling Games, and also collect enough points to take on Kenjaku himself so Gojo won't have to. Meanwhile Ishigori's just fighting to get some of that sweet desert, the shallow works in contrast to the more layered motivations of our heroes.

Kenjaku is a shallow archetype fighting to satisfy his baser impulses (in his case curiosity) in comparison to the main characters who are fighting for more complicated reasons and often people besides themselves.

The question then becomes what archetype is Kenjaku. In that case answering who Kenjaku is is quite simple.

Kenjaku is a clown.

It might be more accurate to say that Kenjaku embodies what's commonly known as the "trickster archetype" but I'mma go with clown.

The most obvious example of a clown villain is what most consider the joker to be, that is a silly little clown man who challenges the straight faced and grim batman and sews chaos where Batman attempts to establish law and order in Gotham and make the city into a better place.

From the book Batman and Psychology:

More than any other villains, the Joker and Two-face reflect Batman himself as funhouse distortions, converses of who and what he is. The laughing, jesting, brightly colored Joker contrasts with grim, dark Batman. The Joker is the Joker. No alter ego. The film's opening bank robbery shows him wearing a clown mask over clown makeup, Under the surface there's only more Joker. He gives no history except inconsistent lies. When he finally considers the impact of his demand Batman unmask, he retracts the threat and demands that Batman's identity remain undisclosed. He wants a batman who has no other self, a Dark Knight whose only deeper layer is further darkness.

Is there a better descriptor for Kenjaku then these words?

Kenjaku is Kenjaku. No alter ego. A clown mask over clown makeup., Under the surface there's only more Kenjaku.

In other words, what you see is what you get.

Kenjaku even mirrors Joker's opinion of Batman, he thinks people should be more like him, not the other way around. He's not the outlier, he's being true to humanity's basic impulses of curiousity and discovery.

A more apt comparison as a clown though would probably be Loki, one of the most classic examples of clowning in the shared mythology of humanity. The character who challenges the common wisdom of gods like Odin who suspended themselves from the world tree for eleven days in order to gain wisdom. Loki, who through his trickery manages to bring about the events of Ragnarok for no deeper reason than because he can. Everyone swore not to harm Balder and Loki goes to find something that can harm him because BET.

Mythological Loki doesn't need a deeper motivation because what he represents in the mythology is someone who challenges authority and brings about a change, because in Norse Mythology nothing lasts forever and no era is permanent. Jujutsu Kaisen is also a story about how things should not in fact stay the same and tradition is bad sometimes.

When Kenjaku finds Tengen's true body he's curled up in a tree root in the fetal position, and he killed what is basically the all-knowing, all-seeing supposedly immortal sorcerer that maintains the status quo of japan, it's not exactly subtle.

Kenjaku is a clown, and clown's gotta clown. We don't need any more explanation that, it's more about what he does for the story. However, what he represents, the deep intellectual curiosity, and also a drive to disrupt the status quo in an attempt to see something more interesting can also be analyzed more deeply because they are human emotions that motivate us as well. The same way that Mahito is an inhuman monster, but he's created and motivated by the fear of other humans, something all of us have. '

Before moving onto his death though, I wanna hammer in how Kenjaku really is just motivated by these two things, a desire to see something interesting, and intellectual curiosity by comparing him to other characters.

The Clown in Fiction

I've already compared Kenjaku to Loki and the Joker, but when it comes to someone who wants to disrupt the entire order of the world simply because they're bored we've got to go to the original girlboss.

So there are plenty of villains who go "I'm evil because I'm bored" but they usually tend to be pretty shallow, either shallowly written for the lulz evil characters who just exist for shock value or just kinda dull. No one has ever done it as good as Junko Enoshima and no one ever will again.

For those who need context DanganRonpa is a death game series where the main villain basically has caused the apocalypse, wiped out most of humanity, and then induces survivors in a bunker to kill each other in a death game, where if someone commits a succesful murder they can escape the bunker, but if they're caught in a trial they're executed. Also, if they're not convicted in the trial everyone else is killed, motivating the jury to find and execute the guilty murderer.

Junko Enoshima the main villain and orchestrator of this death game ended the world because despair. She wants to inflict despair on everyone because despair. Because hope sucks and despair is where it's at.

It sounds shallow and it is and Kodaka has said in interview he wrote Junko to be a villain character with zero redeeming character traits, and no sympathetic backstory to describe why she is the way she is, but there is still something motivating her.

If you go a bit deeper into the lore and read Dangan Ronpa Zero, there is an entire book which explains the lengths which Junko goes to feel normal human emotions. The thing is much like Kenjaku Junko is too smart for her own good, everything is predictable and therefore everything bores her. Once in an attempt to live normally, she literally lobotomizes herself, makes it so that she can't remember anything and has continual amnesia constantly forgetting what just happened to her, because that's the only way she can live without knowing everything that's going to happen and constantly predicting everyone's actions.

Junko has whatever her universe's version of the six-eyes is, but instead of lording it over other people like Gojo and basking in her superiority she wants to feel normal, and connected to the world. If she can't have that she tries to make the world as unpredictable place as possible so she can experience it the same way that everyone else does.

Hope is harmony. A just heart, moving toward the light. That is all. Despair is hope's polar opposite. It is messy and confusing. It swallows up love, hatred, and everything else. Because not knowing where you will end up is despair. Despair is even what you cannot predict. Only despair's unpredictability can save you from a boring future.

I'm still not describing it properly because I don't want to go into a Danganronpa essay in this post about Jujutsu Kaisen, but one example I always use is two characters from American Dragon Jake Long. They're a pair of twins who see the future, one always sees happy things, and one always sees sad things. The one who has happy visions is a goth who's very depressed and the one who sees disaster is an incredibly peppy girl.

Jake is so confused as to why the twin who always sees good visions is so depressed, and she basically tells him to imagine having every good thing, every small little surprise, every pleasure taken out of life.

Kara: When you only see good things, nothing's special anymore. All the pleasant surprises are taken out of life. Sara: But, when you only see bad stuff, even the smallest bit of good news makes you happy!

All of this to say what Junko feels isn't just boredom, or a desire to commit evil for evil's sake, but also a full on existential crisis where she's simply too smart so she doesn't feel any connection to other people or the world around her. In order to feel that connection, that connection that everyone else has, to feel like she is actually a participant in her life not an observer she's willing to go to extremes to make the world a more interesting place, to therefore make her own life feel satisfying.

Kenjaku vs. The World (Kenjaku Pilgrim's sad little life)

To connect all this back to Kenjaku imagine the profound existential despair of a person who's lived for a thousand years, and felt bored all that time. Sukuna is at least a hedonist, he gets his fun by getting into fights, humans might be bugs to him but they're tasty bugs.

Kenjaku goes to similiar motivations and has similiar extremes, he's uninvested in the world around him, he's lived a thousand years but has no attachment to the world, to life, to the people around him. I said that Junko wants to be a participant in life not an all seeing observer and that was purposeful language because to bring back an old post. I rambled on this post about Gojo that part of Gojo's problem is that he only experiences observer-to-object relationships or I to it.

Ich and Du, translated as I and Thou is a book by philosopher Martin Buber. His two main porositions is that we may address existence in two ways:

The attitude of the “I” towards “it” towards an object that is separate in itself, which we either use or experience.

The attitude of “I” towards “Thou” in a relationship in which the other is not separated by discrete bounds.

In Buber's terms, those who only experience the first type of relationships are only observing the world around them not relating to them. Kenjaku doesn't relate to other human beings because they are objects, he only experiences subject -> object relationships and never subject -> subject.

Buber also goes on to theorize that meaning in our lives comes from subject -> subject relationships we form with other people.

Kenjaku jokingly says that to be his friend you have to never bore him and be his equal, but there's no one considers his equal because he's the subject and everyone else are just objects.

He regrets he can't sit down and talk theories with Tsukumo Yuki because she's one of the few people who think like him.

Kenjaku is a paradox of an incredibly brilliant man who is also shallow as a puddle that you can stand in and not get your socks wet. However, he tragically can't really form a more complex identity because our identities are formed by our relationships to other people and Kenjaku doesn't relate to anybody.

That's basically the theme of the whole Choso and Kenjaku fight, Choso is a weird aborted fetus of a curse who still has a strong identity and is able to feel unconditional love for Yuji because of the connection of family and the ideas of brotherhood that binds the two. Kenjaku is a bad father who abandoned Choso because they were "boring" but also never really gave them a chance to grow up or be interesting, he just dismissed them offhand and moved on to the next weird science project.

However, his reason for dismissing Choso isn't Choso's fault but rather a case of Psychological projection. It's not Choso who is boring, but rather Kenjaku himself, he said so earlier.

"What I can create, does not exceed the bounds of my own potential. The answer is always flickering darkly in chaos."

Kenjaku cannot look within to find anything satisfying abput his life because there's nothing inside of him. He doesn't have a fully formed identiy he's just ID, and because he tramples all over other people to form his desires he also cannot ever form a full ego. Just like Sukuna and most of the ancient sorcerers he's a paradox of being all ego, and yet having an underdeveloped ego with shallow motivators.

Kenjaku cannot look within because he's a boring person, and he cannot look for other people to find worth in his life because they're just objects, so instead he looks into the void, he tries to change the world around him by spreading more chaos hoping that it will make something unpredictable happen in front of his eyes - and that will give him the meaning and investment in his life he's deprived himself of because he refuses to form relationships with other people.

It's the Gojo problem. It's the Kashimo problem. It's not the Sukuna problem, because Sukuna admits he doesn't care about and rejects things like love and meaning.

If Kenjaku makes the world around him a more interesting place, he will be able to live in it. It's the same as Gojo trying to raise people up to his level by creating stronger students.

So after going to great length to demonstrate how powerful and all-consuming Kenjaku's boredom is, and how cut off he is from his own humanity, here's the part where I sort of defend his death.

Wouldn't it be funny if the joke character killed the main villain?

Let's be honest it was Takaba's kill here, Yuta just camped and killstole. I think part of the problem with people not understanding the meaning behind Kenjaku's sudden and unexpected death is attributing the death to Yuta cutting his head off out of nowhere, and not Takaba's thematic victory over Kenjaku.

Takaba represents a blindspot for Kenjaku which is why the main characters use him as a weapon against him, and he also calls out in a fashion Kenjaku's hypocrisy. First and foremost, Kenjaku presents himself as an agent of change, but he actually has no interest in many of the modern sorcerers and holds a bias towards the heian era as the peak of sorcery. He even says that he's going to bring back the Heian Golden Age to Sukuna at the end of Shibuya arc.

Because that's what Chaos is Kenjaku, things being the same as they were 1,000 years ago. Kenjaku is an agent of change and chaos and somehow his definition of change is... resetting things back to the past because the sorcerers of the past were so much better than today.

Kenjaku goes out of his way to awaken hundreds of modern day sorcerers, and then dismisses literally off of them except for Hiromi because they don't have enough potential for him compared to ancient sorcerers. He essentially did the same with the Death Painting Bros, he went through all of the trouble to create them, then dismissed them as not having enough potential BEFORE THEY EVEN GOT THE CHANCE TO GROW UP.

Kenjaku has a habit of just going BORED NOW and leaving before he even gives things the time to impress him. He does the same with the Culling Game, he set up the death game to push sorcerers to fight each other and bring out their powers, but he never actually intended to watch the sorcerers evolve. He just wanted to slaughter everyone inside to start the merger.

He goes through a lot of potential to set up these situations and then abandons them before they have the chance to even evolve, because they do not have enough "potential" in his opinion, but like his opinion is often shown to be wrong. Takaba represents that blindspot because he was one of the modern sorcerers that Kenjaku underestimated and dismissed offhand as boring without giving him a chance to shine.

That is the joke that Takaba introduces himself with "Wouldn't it be funny if a random comic relief side character suddenly defeated the big bad?"

He's immediately pointing out a blindspot, because Kenjaku automatically believes himself to be an important character, he underestimates Takaba because he's a side character, one of the people Kenjaku has dismissed as boring and uninteresting (before they even had a chance to evolve into something else). Like that's the other thing Kenjaku wants things to evolve but he doesn't... let them. He abandoned Choso and the rest before they even grew up, they were literally fetuses and he threw them away. Kenjaku is the protagonist of reality, and Takaba is a side character, and therefore Takaba couldn't possibly harm him because Kenjaku and his boundless curiosity are the center of the world.

It's not just about subverting the audience's expectations to have the main villain die in such an anti-climactic way before the final act even starts, but it's pointing out how narrow Kenjaku's viewpoints really were all along. He wants everything to be surprised but he never lets anything surprise him, because either he gets bored right away, or he looks down on others before giving them the chance to evolve, or the third thing he just straight up has to control everything. He can't let the culling game evolve naturally he's going to slaughter all the players by hand so he can move onto the next part.

It's the contradiction between a schemer who needs to control everything and everyone to bring about his intended result and everything needs to be a part of his big plans, to someone who wants to be surprised by others and have things go off the rails. You can't have both of these things at once, Kenjaku cannot have things surprise him if he rigs everything to go his way with his overly elaborate schemes and his tight-fisted control of everyone in the story.

Like, in comparison to Kenjaku the joker just blows things up and sprays people with laughing gas. They're both playing the same game but the joker is having fun and Kenjaku isn't.

Kenjaku wants an unexpected future, but he doesn't care about any of the modern sorcerers and has a bias towards the heiean era that he considers the height and wants to reset things to bring back the heian era. He wants to be surprised but won't give up control.

Kenjaku's boast is that unlike Tengen he's spent a thousand years living on the ground instead of lording up on them from above like some deity, but is that true? Has Kenjaku lived? Has he engaged with the world? Formed relationships with people? Or does he just sit in the corner rubbing his hands together menacingly and scheming his schemes.

Takaba unironically gives Kenjaku what he wants, something he's never seen before in a thousand years, and it's from a place Kenjaku never expected. Some random guy, who he dismissed as one of the boring modern sorcerers with no potential like Higuruma.

Takaba not only exists in Kenjaku's blindspot, he almost immediately points out Kenjaku's second hypocrisy. If he's willing to resort to mass murder just to feel entertained, then if he found something else to entertain him there'd be no reason to get violent and scheme his schemes.

In other words Kenjaku hasn't really gone looking for other places to try to find what makes life worth living, or at least enertaining, he hasn't really tried any alternatives to finding joy in life because Jujutsu is all he cares about. Takaba says that if he found something else even more entertaining than the merger there'd be no need to go through with the merger, and he turns out to be right. Kenjaku could have found meaning and entertainment with the world someplace else, he was just too narrow minded and never looked anywhere else.

As I said from the beginning Kenjaku's existential crisis comes from his inability to relate to other people and viewing them all as objects, but in Kenjaku's mind of course he can't relate to others they're too boring, so therefore it's the world's fault, and the fault of others and not himself.

However, right away one of those boring people starts relating to Kenjaku.

I joked about how we know nothing about the Gojo clan but Takaba gets an entire backstory chapter about his failed comedy career, but this chapter is plot important because jokes are the way that Takaba relates to and forms relationships with other people. Takaba makes jokes to relate to others but has a fallout with a comedy partner and has never been able to form a lasting relationship with a comedic partner because comedy doesn't mean the same to them as it does to him - because to Takaba comedy is about forming relationships with people. Which is why he thinks he's failed if he's failed to make everyone in the audience laugh because he wants to make comedy that will make other people relate to him and understand him.

However, he almost gives up on comedy because he's afraid that he might fail on that endeavor. He gives up on striving to make everybody in the audience laugh, because of self-affirmation and a desire to protect himself. He didn't want to fail so he started distancing himself from the audience under the excuse "Well, I can't make everyone laugh so it's okay if not everyone understands me."

Takaba at some point gave up on trying to use comedy as a means of understanding and relating to others, because of his fear of failure and at that point he nearly lost - but he rallies himself by saying that he won't give up on making someone like Kenjaku laugh. If his comedy is about connecting to others, about understanding others and having others understand him then he can't just give up on Kenjaku and say it's Kenjaku's fault that Kenjaku can't relate to his sense of humor. He's got to try even harder to make Kenjaku laugh.

This is also pretty much the opposite of Kenjaku's point of view. For Kenjaku it's everyone else's fault for being so boring that's why he can't relate to them. Wheras, Takaba takes personal responsibility, he wasn't funny enough, he has to try harder, he's the one who's going to make Kenjaku laugh by improving himself. Takaba looks inward, and Kenjaku looks outwards because there's nothing inside Kenjaku.

This is a parallel to this.

The difference however, is that Sukuna did not betray his ideology. Sukuna lives for the kicks that battle provides him and wants to face strong opponents so he can eventually devoured them and be momentarily entertained.

Like Sukuna is not bored the way Kenjaku is. The world is his playground. He may refer to living as just killing time until you die, but he also says that there's an infinite variety of humans to entertain yourself with. The world is Sukuna's toybox and he's satisfied with just that. In fact he doesn't even care about the merger, until his frustration with Yuji makes him think a little deeper about himself.

Kenjaku is not the Sukuna in this scene, he's the Gojo. He believed he was above others, only to be reminded suddenly that he was just the same as everyone else and brought back down to humanity. I mean, they even die off panel the same anticlimactic way. Gojo's infinity meant nothing in the face of one surprise attack a world-cleaving slash Gojo didn't see coming. All of Kenjaku's backup plans meant nothing in the face of Yuta camping and kill-stealing.

Kenjaku didn't lose because Yuta's plan of camping and killstealing was simply too brilliant for him to prepare for however, we're given the exact reason kenjaku lost - because he was having too much fun with Takaba.

Which meant what Takaba said earlier was true, if Kenjaku found something funnier, something other than the merger that could make him laugh there'd be no need to go through with the merger to begin with.

Kenjaku loses because all along he could have related to people, formed meaningful relationships with others, looked for meaning in life outside of Jujutsu but just chose not to. Which is also a parallel to this.

Sukuna says that Kashimo and Gojo both lost because they were greedy. They already received love in a way, they had the love of everyone who regarded them as the strongest, they had people who earnestly wanted to challenge them and respected them - which Sukuna sees as a form of love, and yet they still wanted more.

They were the ones who put themselves up on that pedestal and decided to stand above all of humanity, they don't get to whine about being lonely on top of that.

To add my interpretation to Sukuna's speech, what he's outlining is a general conflict in Jujutsu Kaisen, you can choose to be all ego to put personal development above everything else but it comes at the cost of not being able to form relationships. Maki's as powerful as Toji now, but the sister she always wanted to protect is dead and basically committed suicide. Meanwhile Noritoshi Kamo didn't participate in the final battle, but he reconnected with his mother and half-brother.

There are plenty of characters who die and suffer in jujutsu kaisen because they chose to value other people above themselves, because Jujutsu Kaisen rewards selfishness and punishes selflessness / having an underdeveloped sense of self.

I'll pick Mechamaru as my biggest example, he lived to protect Miwa, and not only does he die an unsatisfying death, he also breaks her heart.

However, at least Mechamaru experienced love. His desire to protect Miwa is granted, because Miwa is also out of the final conflict. Mechamaru is one of the most miserable characters in the manga, and yet he experienced love in his life for someone else that made his brief life meaningful. The characters who choose love, and other people over strength tend to get stepped on, but they at least had that love in their life to begin with.

It's a having your cake and eating it too situation. Kashimo chose strength over love, and he got to be so strong he was unbeatable and lived to old age, but not only is he unfulfilled but he whines about being unable to relate to the people around him - you're the one who chose to step on everyone like bugs.

Characters in Jujutsu Kaisen don't just experience death when they try to be selfless however, like yeah there's a disproportionate amont of selfless minor characters who die, but like Yuji is the most selfless character in the manga and he's continually punished for it and yet he's the one referred to as a person with an unbreakable will.

Rather instead of Jujutsu Kiasen preferring the selfish side on the scale of selfishness / selflessness, the kind of messy, deaths that get handed out to people like Mechamaru happen when you betray the ideals you were living for. Whether they were selfish or selfless.

It goes back to Toji's internal monologue. You lose when you lose sight of yourself - like there's some deaths that don't fit the mould but for the most part, Gojo, Kashimo, Toji's and then Kenjaku's deaths all follow this pattern. By coincidence they also all take place offscreen for the most part (I suppose we see Yuta cut off Kenjaku's head but it's quick and unsatisfying compared to all the rest).

Kenjaku died because he betrayed what he was living for and he temporarily lost sight of himself. As I said Kenjaku's airtight principles were that everyone was boring and people weren't worth relating too so the only way to find enertainment in life is to cause chaos - but he found himself relating to some nobody he wrote off as a minor character Takaba and having fun with him. Which meant the belief he was false, he could have tried relating to other people all along he just didn't.

He warped his sense of self to reaffirm his identity. Takaba almost did that too, he tried to blame other people for not finding him funny to protect himself, but he moved past that and redoubled his efforts to make Kenjaku laugh.

There's also the added layer of irony that Kenjaku's sudden death brings about, the person who spent a thousand years trying to make the merger happen doesn't get to see it.

However, here's my assertion on why Kenjaku's death before the merger always had to happen.

Because, even if Kenjaku had seen the merger he still would have been bored.

Literally everything about Kenjaku's character and previous actions shows that even if he made his big scheme come true, he would have gone "meh" and moved onto the next scheme because that's how he always reacts.

He got bored of the death painting siblings, he presumably got bored of Yuji, he got bored of all the ancient sorcerers and new sorcerers he made for the culling game, he worked with the disaster curses and got bored of them and dismissed them as inferior primitive curses, he goes out of the way to engineer these chaotic situations and then never feels any satisfaction from them so why would the Merger be any different?

Not only did Kenjaku die before he saw the merger, he was basically doomed to never see the merger, because it would not have fixed whatever is wrong inside of him.

Because it's not the world that's boring, it's Kenjaku himself.

He gets a brief glimpse of what he could have done in life, that he could have tried to forge connections with the people around him and related to them on a personal level - and then he dies the way he lived, in a kind of boring and unsatisfying way.

It's the narrative punishing him in a way, the same way it punished Gojo, and Kashimo, by not letting him see the big explosion after he went to all the trouble rigging the bombs. It's punishing him for the same reason too - by deviating from his true self and showing what he thought were his reasons were shallow all along. Gojo could have always related to people he just chose to stand on his pedestal alone, and Kenjaku could have always found the world to be more enertaining he was the one dismissing other people as boring without giving them a chance to grow.

Takaba confronted his beliefs and then stayed true to his ideology of making everyone, 100% of the people in the crowd laugh. Kenjaku didn't confront his beliefs, he strayed from them because he didn't have the strength of character to evaluate himself the way Takaba did.

Hence, he's finished off by one of those boring people who used their power in a way he never expected. The main villain is defeated by the comic relief character and it's hilarious.

#jjk meta #kenjaku #fumihiko takaba #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen theory #jujutsu kaisen analysis #jjk spoiler #jujutsu kaisne spoiler #big spoiler actually

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absolutebl · 4 months ago

Note

Mirror mirror on the wall,who are the top 5 greenest flags of them all?

ooof, this is more @heretherebedork than my cuppa but lemme see

you didn't specify seme or country so that makes my life easier, because bettcha can't guess who's gonna top this list

My Top 5 Greenest Flags in BL!

Noh from Love Sick

Look, he's just like the Nicest Little Dude. He's loyal and kind and good to his friends, and tries really hard to communicate the truth and be honest about his feelings even when he's a crazy hormonal teen and doesn't understand his own or anyone else's. Noh is not just any green flag he's a teenager green flag. That never happens.

Xun An from My Tooth You Love

He is so damn sweet and thoughtful and he tries so hard to protect everyone (except himself). But it's that moment in the car where he finally understands the extent of his baby's psychological issues that we all got to meet The Real Deal. Because what does he do? OMG he actually recommends Bai Lang seek professional help, from an actual therapist! Like that's THE MOMENT. The biggest green flag balls we have ever seen in a BL. Ever. I will brook no discussion on this matter.

Plustor from Destiny Seeker

Bite me. I know you haven't seen this. How do I know? No one has seen this show. Such a shame. Plustor is 1/2 of the 3rd-string couple, the crumbs, the freshmen babies. Most of the drama is with the 2 older pairs, but these boys are GREAT. One of them is out gay (with his shit together) who hooks up with hot jock CHAOS bisexual and we all think we know where it's going (because when does the chaos bi have his shit together and not act like a predator slut? - yes I AM looking at you, Mame). Except, Plustor fucking TOTALLY has his shit together! He researches gay sex and how to do it right, he asks his new bf questions, he communicates his self-confidence issues over never having been with a dude before. He talks. They talk. As a result these kids spend most of the show annoyed by the unnecessary drama of their piers who do NOT have their shit together and being the best bfs ever.

Mork from My Ride

What, you surprised? Mork goes through an entire identity crisis and manages NOT to drag anyone else into his drama. He keeps his life together, takes care of his family, asks his gay uncles for advice, realizes he is in love. He does not force that love on his beloved. Instead he stays in the side lines, tries to be a good supportive friend to the object of his affection, and a consistently chooses the path of decent human being. He's careful and kind and communicative when he eventually does make his move. Stand up dude! Adorable dimple! We likie.

Yak from Wandee Goodday

I feel like I have to include someone from this year because Green Flag Semes are such a 2024 trend. For me, it just had to be Yak. He such a great communicator and he just defines the GGG (good, giving, game) attitude that one wants in a sexual partner. I gotta say, it's actually not uncommon to have better sexual communication with a play partner or a fuck buddy than within a relationship. It was nice to see that portrayed on our screens in a BL. Whatcha know, mature characters being mature and shizz. Insanity.

I have to say, if you had given me 6, Alan from Pit Babe would have also made this list.

Others I Thought About

Seryou (Seven Days)

Kakeru (I Cannot Reach You)

Ida (My Love Mix Up)

Kyosuke (Sugar Dog Life) - does cluelessness count?

Kazuma (Tokyo in April)

Both in Some More

Qizhang (About Youth)

Sato (See You After Quarantine?)

Tatch (2 Moons 3)

X (21 Days Theory)

King (Bed Friend)

Khun (Brothers)

Karan (Cherry Magic)

Fueangnakhon (City of Stars)

Gun (Tossera)

Ram (La Cuisine)

Ae (Love By Chance) - I'm WELL AWARE I'm picking a Mame character

God (Monster Next Door)

Li (Moonlight Chicken)

Sun (Sunset X Vibes)

Latte (Knock Knock Boys)

Moo (Only Boo!)

Rome (Puppy Honey)

Alan (Pit Babe)

Touch, Sky (Secret Crush on You)

Na (Tonhon Chonlatee)

Tan (We Are)

San (You're My Sky)

Oh should I define what green flag means to me?

respectful: no dubious consent, takes no for an answer and stops, alcohol is not an excuse,

honest: depicted demonstrating good communication - verbal, emotional, physical

safe: practices safe sex

decent: no violations (emotional, ethical, moral, sexual, cultural, or ya know legal) like breaking into his fucking hotel room

dependable: I'd be fine if my nibbling were trapped in an elevator with him

kind: forthright and not inclined to be manipulative

(source)

#green flags in bl #bl's best green flags #no actually green flags #mame apologists do not read this one #thai bl #taiwanese bl #japanese bl #korea and vietnam and china did not make the cut

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goldsbitch · 8 days ago

Text

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 7, part 2 - A bit of a bad boy

It's no coincidence Cruel Summer came out that year...

or - ✨ Austria 2019.✨

word count: reasonable warning: hard racing

Two entire races go by before he gets so much as a glance from Charles. In both of those, Charles ends up ahead of Max. It feels like getting personally kicked in the balls. Max plays the PR game the best to his abilities and self-control, but behind the scenes, it's a total mayhem. Anyone who questions him about anything receives a snapshot answer. He hands out sarcastic comments like Halloween candy. The only time he laughs is when he beats Daniel in their little video game nights.

The first week, Max loses all remaining inhibitions and keeps blasting Charles' phone up with calls and texts. Unhinged amount of advances, jokes and random questions. No reaction.

The second week, he goes radio silent and tries to get hold of Charles around the paddock. He never goes looking for other drivers after the race, especially when they get to stand on the podium and he doesn't. As always, restraint regarding Charles never comes as easily. However, the Monegasque is always two steps ahead of him.

Alas, finally, they end up next to each other in a post-qualifying media pen in Spielberg. Max is not subtle about trying to catch Charles' eye. For a brief moment, he does. It turns his stomach over immediately. Max searches Charles’ face like it holds an answer, some kind of hidden message buried beneath the surface, but there’s nothing. Not a flicker of hesitation, no softness, no ghost of the Charles he used to know. They used to share a look that would say it all. No trace of that now.

His expression is cool, unbothered, a perfect mask of professionalism. The same way he looks at a journalist asking a pointless question, or a sponsor he doesn’t particularly care about. Detached. Uninterested.

Max wants to do anything else than be swamped by useless questions now. Not when he's eating crumbs in the form of overhearing Charles' voice. He has to force himself to even look at the journalist standing in front of him, let alone take in what she has to say. Charles, on the other, does not seem to share this problem. His voice is passionate, excited and his words land like a punch in the face. Max can't see it, but since he'd studied Charles from every angle possible, to be able to picture his smile clearly, just based on the tone. It's the nonchalant, I'm-the-world's-sweetheart smile that always works on everyone. Max is secretly present on social media, he has seen the fan edits of his - well, not boyfriend apparently.

"Charles, you seem to be on a great run of form lately, have you and the team at Ferrari found good rhythm after the unfortunate Monaco Grand Prix?"

Max has heard many things on that topic from the restless Reb Bull strategists. All of them flaunting ideas and theories around, none of them realizing what Max knew. That the magic fuel Charles is running on is spite. He asks the journalist in front of him to repeat the question, while he focuses on Charles' answer.

"Ah, you know how it is...The start of the season has been challenging. Changing teams, new environment...All of this takes time to process. But, I am stronger than ever. I've cut away all unnecessary distractions keeping me from being locked in on the target and pulling me to the wrong direction. With the amazing team I have - I am finally recognizing myself in the mirror after few strange months."

Charles must know that he can hear every word coming out of his mouth. Max's blood boils and freezes at the same time. He doesn’t react. Giving away anything more seems like a direct pathway to hell.

He stands there, nodding absently to whatever the journalist in front of him is saying, his mind busy with reading in between the lines, Charles' words echoing through the media pen like a fucking death sentence.

Distraction. That’s all he's reduced him to. His heart beats like it's about to go to a fight. The realization settles in his stomach, cold and heavy. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch Charles in his peripheral vision.

He’s still talking, crafting the perfect story. His posture is easy, he's leaning closer to the reporter than one probably should, his voice is smooth and warm. It has the word likable written all over it.

It's hardly a surprise that the reporters eat up every single sentence he says, playing up to be the golden boy everyone wants him to be.

And maybe he is. Charles keeps getting better and better at this - playing the part, giving people what they want. He’s charming and sharp, smart enough to be a goddamn PR dream but ruthless enough to keep them all at arm’s length. Except he wasn’t like that with Max.

No. With Max, he was real. Unfiltered. Messy. The kind of Charles who picked fights just to feel something, who grabbed Max’s face like he couldn’t breathe without kissing him, who pressed his forehead against his in the middle of the night and whispered things he could never say in the daylight. The kind of person who acted on what his heart desired, instead of what reason demanded. That's not the Charles standing next to him.

Something inside Max cracks. It doesn’t come in a rush - it settles, careful and slow, a icy coldness spreading through his chest.

Fine.

If Charles wants to erase him, to pretend he was just a mistake, Max will make him remember. Not with words. Not with apologies or late-night texts, stupid fucking phone calls or dangerous public driving.

Tomorrow, on track - where it’s just the two of them, where he can't pretend or avoid him endlessly. Charles will feel exactly what happens when you try to push Max Verstappen away. If he wants to pretend Max was just a distraction, Max will remind him that distractions don’t just disappear into thin air.

"It's great to be on pole, but points are tomorrow. But of course, the idea of a first win is something you can't not get exited about," he hears the last part of yet another one of Charles' speeches and this time he smiles. Time to prove everyone wrong. Make the damn strategists happy for once again.

It's hell. Pure, unfiltered hell. Charles arrives in Maranello in a state of a complete breakdown. He was running on some sort of manic fuel the whole Monaco drive. All was somehow bearable - until Max stopped chasing behind him. The absence of his headlights in rear-view mirror worked like a bomb detonator. He is a crying, miserable mess the whole drive. One time he has to stop over, because his breath gets stuck in the lungs and it sets his head into a dizzy spin. He collapses onto his bed in the small Maranello safe house and spends the night fighting terrifying nightmares.

After losing the next day by being glued to his phone, waiting for Max to call for one more time, he decides he can't take that anymore. He missed his chances. Ran away, fucked up everything and tired Max out. He knows him - if he stopped calling, he stopped caring. Charles can't bare himself to get to be the one to make the desperate move, especially after he let so blatantly known that he's totally under Max's spell. He cried in front of him. Nearly begged - but who knows, the whole conversation is becoming a blur, like an old tape wearing thin from being rewound too many times, the sound glitching, words distorting until they barely make sense anymore. So, the first evening after the fight, he blocks Max's phone number. This way, he can still hope that he is trying to reach him and he does not have to stare the unbearable truth in the face. That Max does not, in fact, call anymore.

He completely drowns himself in work. His trainer has to remind him to eat, even though the thought of food makes him sick. He's floating around, allows the team to handle him about and keeps his focus on racing exclusively. Because, that is the only means of communication with Max he's got left. On track, nothing changed. They still cruise around each other, expertly read each other's moves and for once, it all works out in Charles' favor.

The irony of him finally getting a grip on racing when he feels like he'd rather jump under the car instead is not lost on him.

The first step into the paddock after their fight feels heavier than it should. No matter how much he tries to shake it, there’s still a glimmer of hope that he and Max can fix this. But hope, in all its twisted absurdity, only makes him avoid Max more. Because, if this is suppose to be the end, he wants prolong this uncertain period as much as he can. His own misery is becoming the only thing he has left from Max and if that is the truth, he will cling on it. It's him and Max. Any reminder of that is better than nothing.

Red Bull ring. Half of the grandstand is covered in eye-searing orange, the other in signature deep blue that keeps haunting him. They are all waiting for him to fail. He can't. If he has to suffer, because of his feeling towards the Dutch driver, so should everyone else. No matter how mellowed down their devotion to Max might be compared to his own.

It's scorching hot. As is should be in hell anyway. Charles is sitting in his car, front row providing a clear view to the task ahead. Beat Max on track. It's like he can't see any other of the remaining eighteen cars. Lights out and away we go. The all familiar noise of roaring engines makes his ears hurt. His reaction is perfect, almost divine. He launches forward, sliding through the first turn like a man possessed, and when he glances at his mirrors, Max is gone. Buried in the chaos behind him, swallowed by his own mistakes. A chuckle bubbles up in Charles’ throat, raw and breathless, nearly manic again. This is what he wants. Him being able to prove that he is sharper, better and faster when giving as similar chance as Max. Not only that. To himself, and in extension Max too, he needs to prove that he can exist without Max fucking Verstappen.

He flies away, leaving the rest of pack behind. It's only in lap two where he figures out that Max fell five places down. There is a momentary wave of sorrow, one intrusive idea about Charles wanting to be the only to beat him, regretting that other drivers are doing so too. But they're both on their own. Max would never share this sentiment towards him. Whatever Charles is doing must be working, because it looks like he got into Verstappen's head. He's slowly extending the lead, keeping Bottas in a safe distance, far enough no DRS.

Ten and few more laps later, he notices Max working way up the field quite effectively. He keeps calm, because with every car Max passes, Charles makes up a second on Bottas.

Max's got the fastest lap now. Charles is managing tires, bracing for the future. Pit stop - the one thing he truly fears - gone right. He's in a completely calm and periodic rhythm, none of the cars providing a real challenge. He prays to the gods of racing for no mechanical failure this time. Destiny owes his at least that. Give him the right tools, he won't ask for help when all it lies on is his own abilities. He's making his way through the traffic, lapping cars and occasionally looking behind his back at Verstappen fighting Bottas. And after few more laps of this routine - Max is the first car on his tail. Charles expected nothing less. He digs into everything he has - not only in him, but in the car as well. The whole race was just a prep for this moment. Barely four seconds. Max is faster, a fact his dearest fucking engineer feels the need to point out, as if he couldn’t see it himself. But quick math tells Charles he should survive this. 3,8. 3,6. For Charles, there really is no other car on the track than Max's. The others are just annoying little gravel stones, hitting his visor and robbing Charles of clean air. A half of a second is lost only by having to cruise between them. He tries his best to stay cool. One final wish goes towards his tires.

He gives it all. Five final laps and the gap is dangerously close to one second. He spends what feels like two years stuck between Pierre, who's suppose to let him through and Max who is closing in on him. Two Red Bulls. Please, Pierre. This is the first time Charles regrets not telling his friend about the love affair. He knows Pierre is instructed to make it as hard as possible for Charles to get through while keeping it all legal.

"Verstappen behind, one second."

"Leave me alone."

And then - it's on.

It's like he can feel Max breathing down his neck. The DRS is inevitable. Max is inevitable. Charles defends for his life. He forces him to have to go around the outside, off the racing line. Turn 4 is the Achilles heel and Charles survives the first time they pass it through.

But he knows Max. Understands the way he moves, instinct in perfect symphony with logic, calculating every weakness...No stone left untouched. Why should Charles be the exception. He remembers the way he looked at Charles the first time they kissed - half a dare, half a warning. It's the way he uses his touch - firm, yet gentle - to bend Charles into whatever shape he wants.

On the next lap, Charles watches his mirrors, waits for the lunge. This time Max doesn’t go for the outside. No, this time, he comes from inside, slicing through the turn with an aggression Charles thought he was ready for. It’s all so quick, just like their fallout.

The wheels are millimeters apart. Charles tries to force him wide, but Max refuses to back off. Of course he does. Max has never learned when to let go. Never knows when to stop taking.

And then, it comes again.

Max is right there, alongside him, closer this time, pushing, forcing. Charles grips the wheel tighter, body locked in, blood roaring in his ears. He doesn’t lift. He doesn’t yield. Max doesn’t either.

A nudge. A shove. Space shrinking into nothing. Everything slows.

He’s back at the Monaco apartment, late at night, Max’s voice low against his neck. “If I have to take a win from you, will you ever kiss me again?” Charles had laughed, breathless. “You already take everything from me.”

Charles barely registers the moment his tires leave the track, but he feels it. The smudge of gravel beneath him, the split-second loss of control, the sheer force of what Max has done.

Max’s fingers curled around his wrist in a hotel hallway, yanking him back to the room before they could be seen, grinning like it was a game. "You can’t get enough of me," Charles had scoffed. "Give me all you have, Charlie," Max hummed in between kisses.

The back of Max’s neck in the early morning, hair still damp from post sex shower, heartbeat steady under Charles’ hand. "Would you ever crash into me?" Max had asked once, drowsy, barely awake. Charles had said no. Max had never answered.

The car snaps back into control just before he spins. Charles feels it all in his arms, his whole body resisting the centrifugal pull. No. It takes him half a second to realize what just happened. The next half is spent knowing, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t fucking legal. Max robbed him. They have to make him give the place back. Charles grips the wheel so hard it might break, breath coming short and sharp. His visor feels suffocating, the heat pressing in from all sides. He should have known. Should have known Max would take everything.

He genuinely can't remember the rest of the race.

Just like that, it's over, he's getting out of the car and his own disbelief is preventing from believing any of this is real. His mind stayed back somewhere around Turn 4 and he's having something he thinks others describe as out of body experience. He understands there are words coming out of his mouth, but no one is in control of them. They roll of automatically and he's only aware that most of them are about the stewards having to have a look at the move.

He is painfully aware of the cameras in the cooldown room. That is the only thing grounding him and not flying into a shout festival with Max. The words he has reserved for this man are intended for him and his ears only. Survival mode kicks in and he tries to ignore him as much as he can.

He'd prefer getting punched instead of having to stand on this podium. Any attempt from people trying to congratulate is met with a face one does not forget. Max's smile is impossible to ignore, bright and shamelessly arrogant, the kind of grin that demands to be seen. Mercilessly cuts through like a knife.

Charles sees the way Max points at the Honda logo on his race suit, exaggerating the motion, playing up the moment. A distant memory flickers in. Charles remembers when Max came home one day, irritated after yet another Red Bull PR lecture about mentioning Honda at every possible opportunity. Max had rolled his eyes, complaining about contractual obligations, flapped himself on the couch and refused to talk. So, Charles came up with a game, with hopes of turning the mood around. Say it so much they beg you to stop. He still remembers Max’s mischievous smirk, the way they looked at each other every time he did that. Now? It feels like Max deliberately twisting the knife he shoved into Charles' guts. As if Charles isn't standing right there, watching it all, bleeding out behind a forced expression. Max took it all. No one would be mad or surprised if he hadn't won today. It means he did all of this on purpose. Inflict as much as he possibly can. Something he appears to be very good at.

Someone puts the dreaded Dutch anthem on and every note drags on and on. Charles stares to the deep hills, avoiding the crowd below. His nails pressing so hard his racing suit he’s surprised there isn’t blood between his fingers. This is the sound he will die to. The tune that will crawl inside his skull, rot there, and play on an endless loop. If there’s a god waiting for him at the end of it all, this is what they'll hum as the gates get shut in his face.

Max is right there, right fucking there, barely an arm’s length away, standing taller, chest out, sweat still clinging to his skin like it’s something to be proud of. Charles doesn’t dare look at him. Doesn’t trust himself not to flinch, not to break. The heat between them is unbearable, suffocating, a reminder that not long ago, Max had pressed against him in a different way. The hand he now had to avoid from accidentally brushing against is the same one that used to grip Charles like he was something for Max to own.

He knows Max doesn’t even think about that. Not now. Not while he stands here, grinning like he was made for this moment, swimming in the praise from crowd that loves him, while Charles stands frozen beside him, barely holding himself together.

The anthem swells, the final few notes longing out like they’re mocking him, and Charles forces himself to swallow, forces the bile back down his throat. He knows it's over. Deep down inside, he stopped hoping for stewards standing by him. Another mistake and he looks down the crowd. Roars of people suffocating him, stealing the air directly from his lungs and among all of those, one face stands out. Everyone is looking at Max, apart from this person, who's unmistakable smirk reminds him so scarily of the smirk he used to love. Jos Vestappen is unashamedly staring down at him, even though he's several meters below him. For the first time, he sees the resemblance between Max and his father.

He calls himself stupid about fifty times. The door for Max would not have opened if he hadn’t allowed it. He got burned once. It can’t happen again. Things have to change. He has to change. The champagne tastes like a spoilt milk, Charles does everything in his power to get out of the podium stand as quickly as possible. He will go on to the stewards with his team, even though he knows the battle is lost. If there is one thing he is grateful for, it's the crying Honda spokesman, that wiggles in between him and Max for the final photo. Charles is spared of the final blow - feeling Max's cruel hands on his back again.

The come down of emotions is quick. He did it. Snatched Charles' first victory right from his hands. Celebrated so loudly, encircled Charles so efficiently he was sure he must be getting claustrophobic. Killer instinct called upon him and he gave in completely. Charles can't rely on ignoring him. He won't go away without a fight, without destroying him. Max is hardly a sappy dreamer, but all of today feels like it was written long time ago and he was just following the script. Charles is sitting by his right side during the press conference - exactly where he belongs. There is an evil joy Max feels from having him so close during his first win of this season. Charles has no choice but to endure every second of it. Weeks of silence, of trying to erase Max from his life, and yet, here they are. No matter how hard he tries, he can't escape him.

The questions roll in. "How does this win compare to the ones he's had before?" Oh, he has many words he can't say out loud. The reported receives some basic technical summary, but what he really wants to say - scream, shout to the world - is that this win feels sweeter than any candy, he's reclaiming his strenght back and Charles can try as much as he can, but Max proved today that he won't back down.

"When did you start to think the win was possible today?" Easy. Once the door shut behind Charles when he ran away. When his smug smile started to haunt Max in every waking moment. When he heard the words, his former lover, calling him a mere distraction.

Next question is aimed at Charles. General, basic, nothing out of the order. He steals one glance. A thunder of a feeling he can't name properly shoots through him. His bloodshot eyes, purple lips and hands with practically no nails left on them scream the truth louder than anything else. It's the moment Charles finally speaks, his words rolling out of his tongue when Max's heart stops. It is probably unrecognizable for the crowd of journalist in front of them, but he knows this tone. It's the utterly broken one. His words make sense, it's composed and measured, but the accent creeps in and gives away all. Just like it did whenever Charles felt unsure about their love affair. His voice is soft, too soft for a post-race fatigue. Max has to put his head down, to hide behind his cap for a moment. He hears Charles gulp and surprisingly it's that what breaks Max. Numbness descends over him. Next question is aimed at Valtteri and for once, he's glad.

Max sinks in. He tries to stop the guilt from drowning him. For once, this is a battle he can't win. The darkest worry Max always had about himself is that he it too ruthless. Can't see the line until he's way past by. Cruel, calculating monster, that will destroy anything or anyone standing in his way. Suddenly, he find himself regretting it all. His move was over the top, but he can't admit that now. This wasn't racing anymore, this personal vendetta, childish anger spree, because Max can't have what he truly wants. Maybe it's sadly better this way. By forcing Charles to hating him, he will make sure he stays far away from him. Max knows he'd crumble apart, had Charles given him any inclination that he wants him back. That man could probably ask for anything and he'd give it to him. Max is not strong enough to resist Charles. He's also just proven how much of a selfish dick he can be when things don't go this way. The reality of him coming to the conclusion, that Charles hating him instead of loving him might be safer and better option for the Ferrari driver is a hard pill to swallow. Max had spent years perfecting the art of fighting for every inch, of clawing his way to the top no matter the cost. And now, sitting here, drowning in his own victory, he wonders if the cost this time was too high. Max knows his actions today bought him all the time in the world to wallow around this idea. Because, it's obvious Charles can't stand him anymore. He finally sees Max for what he is. His father's son.

Another question, particularly snarky one comes at him and Charles together and something inside Max takes over. He's saying words, explaining the nature of his specific overtake and it takes him everything he has to prevent his voice from shaking. He ends up defending himself again, but the doubts flood his consciousness. Charles finally throws in a sarcastic comment, calling the move illegal, and something ugly inside Max likes it. If Charles has to hate him, let it be like this - spiteful, angry, not distant and indifferent. At least anger means he still cares, even if it’s in the worst way possible.

He will forever admire Charles for being able to sit through this, so strong and still.

We never gave up, he hears himself saying. His only hope is that Charles won't give up too.

"Charles, do you feel like this one has been stolen from you?" Yes. Obviously. Once again, Max questions the sanity of everyone in the room. Another punchy note about the legality of the overtake and Max revels in it.

"Will you stop being the polite driver you are?" Is this the first time people watched Charles racing? A polite driver? The menace that would rather have them crash into the barrier than get overtaken? The driver Max had to pull out his dirtiest trick only to get a chance on getting in front of him?

"On track I'm a bit of a different person than in the car." Max has never disagreed with something more in his life.

chapter 8

------- @chezmardybum @biancathecool

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