#2016: day six
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bambeptin ¡ 2 months ago
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thanks so much for drawing white and knix
if it weren't for you i don't think i would have ever paid attention to them and i really like them :)
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thank YOU for giving white knight and knix the time of day!!! glad to be here to spread the good word. of milk and knix. their fraught relationship fuels me
here's some post-office knix for viewing pleasure
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drivinmeinsane ¡ 7 months ago
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Here's the masterpost for my contribution to 2024's 12 Days of Goosemas. Due to my packed schedule and the truly horrifying amounts of overtime I've been putting in at work, this year's works going to be wildly self-indulgent. Only my absolute favorite RyGos characters have made the cut for the prompts.
I hope ya'll enjoy. I know I'm going to have fun!
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Day One ❆ { Miracle } ❆ Officer K x Reader Day Two ❆ { Stranded } ❆ Driver x Reader Day Three ❆ { Family } ❆ Sierra Six x Reader Day Four ❆ { Lights } ❆ Henry Letham x Reader Day Five ❆ { Joy } ❆ Holland March x Jackson Healy (collab w/ @danime25) 18+ Day Six ❆ { Alone } ❆ Colt Seavers x Reader 18+ Day Seven ❆ { Tradition } ❆ Sierra Six x Reader 18+ Day Eight ❆ { Snow } ❆ Driver x Ken Day Nine ❆ { Mistletoe } ❆ Officer K x Reader Day Ten ❆ { Warmth } ❆ Driver x Reader 18+ Day Eleven ❆ { Meal } ❆ Colt Seavers x Reader 18+ Day Twelve ❆ { Gift } ❆ Officer K x Sierra Six * Day Thirteen ❆ { Free Space } ❆ Colt Seavers x Tom Ryder 18+
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❆ NON-SEASONAL MASTERLIST ❆
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freckliedan ¡ 2 years ago
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i haven’t been actively in phandom since 2016 and i came across your anniversary theory the other day while trying to catch up, and since you originally wrote it in 2018 i was wondering if there’s been any new details in the meantime! (if this is okay to ask)
i'm so sorry but i'm medicated now
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give-grian-rights ¡ 1 year ago
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can someone tell me why im being abnormal about a character i've barely touched the content of. like yay yippie i watched like 20 hours of you. there's fucking 80 years of content get me OUT OF HERE?
#yeah this is about nightwing. yes im a freak about him no i don't do well with comics#shout out to duke thomas in the we are robin comic i've had in my browser tabs for three weeks now#sorry king.#i mean i guess it makes sense because theres So many characters in media that you can't even get 20 hours out of . but. BUT ITS NOT FAIR.#i want to read comics so bad. i try to. i have. i've started several#blue beetle 2009 nightwing 2016... superman & batman world's finest#i was able to finish teen titans world's finest but that was only. like. six issues#comics as a medium just has this thing where. you're dropped in and it kinda expects you to know what's happening#and leaves you feeling like you started on the wrong page. like blue beetle. loved you but man that was not the greatest first comic to rea#wait i forgot i read hawkeye 2011(?) and that also had the same issue. but more so each installment like#felt like it was starting on a point AFTER something happened like i was meant to be reading another comic before i got to that issue.#i got. like. idk 18? 19? comics into that one. and 12 into nightwing. nightwing wasn't as bad but it just. gah. like several-issue long#stories carried across batman and nightwing and its like.OUGH.#i know im mutuals with a comic person. hi. i know you're cringing.#there are so many good characters to come out of comics. its just SO HARD to get into.#rn i dont have an excuse with We Are Robin. just that i've been infected with needing to play the sims for 8 hours a day.#mika-posts
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jimhowickfan1 ¡ 1 year ago
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appalachianapologies ¡ 1 year ago
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Remittent Distress
Chapter Six: Interlude
Chapter Summary: A quick glance into Riley's summer break between middle school and high school, the people inside of it, and the result of everyone's actions converging in her own life.
Fic Summary: After years of being on the run and keeping his head down, Mac finally receives the opportunity to end this screwed up game of hide-and-seek for good. With the help of two unlikely friends, some unconventional skill sets, and plenty of all-nighters, Mac attempts to track down his father before James gets to him first. It's been six months since an ordinary mission turned to hell, leaving its permanent marks on Jack Dalton—both physically and emotionally. But when information about a wild kid he came across four months ago gets dropped into his lap, he has to push it all down in order to find not just the kid, but the truth behind him as well.
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reasonsforhope ¡ 10 months ago
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"The first modern attempt at transferring a uterus from one human to another occurred at the turn of the millennium. But surgeons had to remove the organ, which had become necrotic, 99 days later. The first successful transplant was performed in 2011 — but even then, the recipient wasn’t immediately able to get pregnant and deliver a baby. It took three more years for the first person in the world with a transplanted uterus to give birth. 
More than 70 such babies have been born globally in the decade since. “It’s a complete new world,” said Giuliano Testa, chief of abdominal transplant at Baylor University Medical Center.
Almost a third of those babies — 22 and counting — have been born in Dallas at Baylor. On Thursday, Testa and his team published a major cohort study in JAMA analyzing the results from the program’s first 20 patients. All women were of reproductive age and had no uterus (most having been born without one), but had at least one functioning ovary. Most of the uteri came from living donors, but two came from deceased donors.
Fourteen women had successful transplants, all of whom were able to have at least one baby.  
“That success rate is extraordinary, and I want that to get out there,” said Liza Johannesson, the medical director of uterus transplants at Baylor, who works with Testa and co-authored the study. “We want this to be an option for all women out there that need it.”
Six patients had transplant failures, all within two weeks of the procedure. Part of the problem may have been a learning curve: The study initially included only 10 patients, and five of the six with failed transplants were in that first group. These were “technical” failures, Testa said, involving aspects of the surgery such as how surgeons connected the organ’s blood vessels, what material was used for sutures, and selecting a uterus that would work well in a transplant. 
The team saw only one transplant fail in the second group of 10 people, the researchers said. All 20 transplants took place between September 2016 and August 2019.
Only one other cohort study has previously been published on uterus transplants, in 2022. A Swedish team, which included Johannesson before she moved to Baylor, performed seven successful transplants out of nine attempts. Six women, including the first transplant recipient to ever deliver a baby back in 2014, gave birth.
“It’s hard to extract data from that, because they were the first ones that did it,” Johannesson said. “This is the first time we can actually see the safety and efficacy of this procedure properly.”
So far, the signs are good: High success rates for transplants and live births, safe and healthy children so far, and early signs that immunosuppressants — typically given to transplant recipients so their bodies don’t reject the new organ — may not cause long-term harm, the researchers said. (The uterine transplants are removed after recipients no longer need them to deliver children.) And the Baylor team has figured out how to identify the right uterus for transfer: It should be from a donor who has had a baby before, is premenopausal, and, of course, who matches the blood type of the recipient, Testa said...
“They’ve really embraced the idea of practicing improvement as you go along, to understand how to make this safer or more effective. And that’s reflected in the results,” said Jessica Walter, an assistant professor of reproductive endocrinology and infertility at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, who co-authored an editorial on the research in JAMA...
Walter was a skeptic herself when she first learned about uterine transplants. The procedure seemed invasive and complicated. But she did her fellowship training at Penn Medicine, home to one of just four programs in the U.S. doing uterine transplants. 
“The firsts — the first time the patient received a transplant, the first time she got her period after the transplant, the positive pregnancy test,” Walter said. “Immersing myself in the science, the patients, the practitioners, and researchers — it really changed my opinion that this is science, and this is an innovation like anything else.” ...
Many transgender women are hopeful that uterine transplants might someday be available for them, but it’s likely a far-off possibility. Scientists need to rewind and do animal studies on how a uterus might fare in a different “hormonal milieu” before doing any clinical trials of the procedure with trans people, Wagner said.
Among cisgender women, more long-term research is still needed on the donors, recipients, and the children they have, experts said.
“We want other centers to start up,” Johannesson said. “Our main goal is to publish all of our data, as much as we can.”"
-via Stat, August 16, 2024
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nateconnolly ¡ 2 years ago
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[Image ID:
A picture that says “A student once asked anthropologist Margaret Mead, “What is the earliest sign of civilization? The student expected her to say a clay pot, a grinding stone, or maybe a weapon. 
Margaret Mead thought for a moment, then she said, “A healed femur.”
The second picture is a news headline. It is bolded and a much larger font. “27-year-old who couldn’t afford $1,200 insulin copay dies after trying cheaper version.”
The third picture is the same font and size as the Margaret Mead quote. It’s a continuation. It says, “A femur is the longest bone in the body, linking hip to knee. In societies without the benefits of modern medicine, it takes about six weeks of rest for a fractured femur to heal. A healed femur shows that someone cared for the injured person, did their hunting and gathering, stayed with them, and offered physical protection and human companionship until the injury could mend.” 
The fourth picture is another headline. It is in a large and bolded type. “Dying man who couldn’t afford to go to hospital after vomiting blood"
The fifth picture is a screenshot of the Margaret Mead story.
Mead explained that where the law of the jungle—the survival of the fittest—rules, no healed femurs are found. The first sign of civilization is compassion, seen in a healed femur. 
The next screenshot is of a slightly different font. The letters are pointier and the lines are a little curvier. It says, “Susan Finley returned to her job at a Walmart retail store in Grand Junction Colorado, after having to call in sick because she was recovering from pneumonia.
The day after she returned, the fifty three  year old received her ten year associate award — and was simultaneously laid off, according to her family. She had taken off one day beyond what is permitted by Walmart’s attendance policy.
After losing her job in May 2016, Finley also lost her health insurance coverage and struggled to find a new job. Three months later, Finley was found dead in her apartment after avoiding going to see a doctor for flu-like symptoms. 
A screenshot of a bold, bigger headline. It says ‘The house always wins’: Insurers’ record profits.
A final screenshot of smaller text with a slightly gray background. It says “We are at our best when we serve others. Be civilized.” /end ID.] 
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batshit-auspol ¡ 2 years ago
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So a bit of background first for our international followers: Clive Palmer is one of Australia's many mining billionaires who like to meddle in our country's politics, and as such he is utterly despised by all of Australia.
Picture for context:
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He is most commonly known online by the title "Fatty McFuckhead", (problematic as it may be) because he tried to sue a youtuber for $500,000 for calling him that - and he lost. So the name stuck.
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Up until his most recent foray into parliament, the legally certified Fuckhead was best known for his batshit business ventures, such as attempting to build "The Titanic 2" (failed) and trying to build a dinosaur theme park (also failed, but at least nobody got eaten by a T-Rex in this one).
For a very long time Clive played the role of sugar daddy to Australia's largest conservative party, the ironically named Liberal Party, until they had a falling out in 2012 after Clive claimed there was too much money influencing politics (lol), at which point he started his own party, days after saying he totally quit and wasn't fired and he only left because he didn't want to be a distraction.
His initial run at parliament was actually kinda successful, with Palmer's group winning 4 seats, plus a member from the "Motoring Enthusiasts Party" joined them too after accidentally getting elected and not knowing what the fuck to do.
Despite this initial success however, Palmer's party (which ran on basically no platform other than "I'm rich") hit an iceberg (titanic 2 achieved) and seven elected state and federal politicians quit within the first year.
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By the time the next federal election rolled around, only one Palmer party candidate was still running for re-election. The most successful of this group - Jaquie Lambie - quit to sit as an independant and is still in parliament today.
Here she is with a painting of herself strangling Clive (she sells signed copies of this)
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And here the senator is posting about liking sausage:
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Anyway, we're getting to the point: which is the yellow posters. By the 2016 election, just two years after forming, the party was in complete freefall. It won just 0.01% of the vote at their second election, and it was announced shortly after that Clive was quitting politics and the party was being shut down. Australia breathed a sigh of relief.
It was, of course, short lived.
Clive, in desperate need of attention, restarted the party for the 2019 election, fielding candidates in every seat and spending $60 million in advertising in an attempt to win votes.
Every single candidate lost.
It was in this campaign however that Australia really started to fall out of love with Palmer, because most of that $60 million went towards putting up the world's least compelling marketing billboards on almost every single free space in the country.
For a good six months this was basically the only thing you would see in Australia if you went outside:
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Clearly Graphic design is his passion. And yes, the genius did just straight up try and copy Trump's homework while changing a few words, hoping nobody would notice.
Very quickly these all got vandalised and it seemed the ad companies didn't care enough to replace them.
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We could go on posting examples, there are thousands, but the best is definitely the one Ikea put up shortly after Clive lost the election:
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In 2022, Clive's party contested the election AGAIN, this time also opting to send millions on spam text messages to every person in Australia begging for people to vote for him, as well as buying almost every youtube ad for a year, at the cost of $100 million.
He won a whopping one seat.
During this election Clive ran on an anti-lockdown, anti-vax platform with the slogan "freedom, freedom, freedom". That message, however, was slightly undermined when his goons, dressed in 'Freedom!' shirts, made national news for trying to beat up a protester who turned up at a rally dressed as an annoying text message, shouting "pay your workers" at Clive.
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As if that wasn't bad enough, at another rally Clive knocked himself unconscious while trying to jump up on stage, and then a few weeks later was rushed to hospital with covid, while his anti-vax ads were still in regular rotation on TV, at which point it was also leaked to the press that Palmer had been alledgedly trying to buy Hitler's car.
Utterly humiliated, the party deregistered again shortly after the election.
Can't wait until he runs again in 2025.
Anyway, on the other "Clive tweeting Miss Kobayashi's Dragon" thing, we have no idea what that means but here's a screencap:
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mariacallous ¡ 10 months ago
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The first thing to say about the hate and scorn currently directed at the mainstream US media is that they worked hard to earn it. They’ve done so by failing, repeatedly, determinedly, spectacularly to do their job, which is to maintain their independence, inform the electorate, and speak truth to power. While the left has long had reasons to dismiss centrist media, and the right has loathed it most when it did do its job well, the moderates who are furious at it now seem to be something new – and a host of former editors, media experts and independent journalists have been going after them hard this summer.
Longtime journalist James Fallows declares that three institutions – the Republican party, the supreme court, and the mainstream political press – “have catastrophically failed to ‘meet the moment’ under pressure of [the] Trump era”. Centrist political reformer and columnist Norm Ornstein states that these news institutions “have had no reflection, no willingness to think through how irresponsible and reckless so much of our mainstream press and so many of our journalists have been and continue to be”.
Most voters, he says, “have no clue what a second Trump term would actually be like. Instead, we get the same insipid focus on the horse race and the polls, while normalizing abnormal behavior and treating this like a typical presidential election, not one that is an existential threat to democracy.”
Lamenting the state of the media recently on X, Jeff Jarvis, another former editor and newspaper columnist, said: “What ‘press’? The broken and vindictive Times? The newly Murdochian Post? Hedge-fund newspaper husks? Rudderless CNN or NPR? Murdoch’s fascist media?”
These critics are responding to how the behemoths of the industry seem intent on bending the facts to fit their frameworks and agendas. In pursuit of clickbait content centered on conflicts and personalities, they follow each other into informational stampedes and confirmation bubbles.
They pursue the appearance of fairness and balance by treating the true and the false, the normal and the outrageous, as equally valid and by normalizing Republicans, especially Donald Trump, whose gibberish gets translated into English and whose past crimes and present-day lies and threats get glossed over. They neglect, again and again, important stories with real consequences. This is not entirely new – in a scathing analysis of 2016 election coverage, the Columbia Journalism Review noted that “in just six days, The New York Times ran as many cover stories about Hillary Clinton’s emails as they did about all policy issues combined in the 69 days leading up to the election” – but it’s gotten worse, and a lot of insiders have gotten sick of it.
In July, ordinary people on social media decided to share information about the rightwing Project 2025 and did a superb job of raising public awareness about it, while the press obsessed about Joe Biden’s age and health. NBC did report on this grassroots education effort, but did so using the “both sides are equally valid” framework often deployed by mainstream media, saying the agenda is “championed by some creators as a guide to less government oversight and slammed by others as a road map to an authoritarian takeover of America”. There is no valid case it brings less government oversight.
In an even more outrageous case, the New York Times ran a story comparing the Democratic and Republican plans to increase the housing supply – which treated Trump’s plans for mass deportation of undocumented immigrants as just another housing-supply strategy that might work or might not. (That it would create massive human rights violations and likely lead to huge civil disturbances was one overlooked factor, though the fact that some of these immigrants are key to the building trades was mentioned.)
Other stories of pressing concern are either picked up and dropped or just neglected overall, as with Trump’s threats to dismantle a huge portion of the climate legislation that is both the Biden administration’s signal achievement and crucial for the fate of the planet. The Washington Post editorial board did offer this risibly feeble critique on 17 August: “It would no doubt be better for the climate if the US president acknowledged the reality of global warming – rather than calling it a scam, as Mr Trump has.”
While the press blamed Biden for failing to communicate his achievements, which is part of his job, it’s their whole job to do so. The Climate Jobs National Resource Center reports that the Inflation Reduction Act has created “a combined potential of over $2tn in investment, 1,091,966 megawatts of clean power, and approximately 3,947,670 jobs”, but few Americans have any sense of what the bill has achieved or even that the economy is by many measures strong.
Last winter, the New York Times columnist Paul Krugman, who has a Nobel prize in economics, told Greg Sargent on the latter’s Daily Blast podcast that when he writes positive pieces about the Biden economy, his editor asks “don’t you want to qualify” it; “aren’t people upset by X, Y and Z and shouldn’t you be acknowledging that?”
Meanwhile in an accusatory piece about Kamala Harris headlined When your opponent calls you ‘communist,’ maybe don’t propose price controls?, a Washington Post columnist declares in another case of bothsiderism: “Voters want to blame someone for high grocery bills, and the presidential candidates have apparently decided the choices are either the Biden administration or corporate greed. Harris has chosen the latter.” The evidence that corporations have jacked up prices and are reaping huge profits is easy to find, but facts don’t matter much in this kind of opining.
It’s hard to gloat over the decline of these dinosaurs of American media, when a free press and a well-informed electorate are both crucial to democracy. The alternatives to the major news outlets simply don’t reach enough readers and listeners, though the non-profit investigative outfit ProPublica and progressive magazines such as the New Republic and Mother Jones, are doing a lot of the best reporting and commentary.
Earlier this year, when Alabama senator Katie Britt gave her loopy rebuttal to Biden’s State of the Union address, it was an independent journalist, Jonathan Katz, who broke the story on TikTok that her claims about a victim of sex trafficking contained significant falsehoods. The big news outlets picked up the scoop from him, making me wonder what their staffs of hundreds were doing that night.
A host of brilliant journalists young and old, have started independent newsletters, covering tech, the state of the media, politics, climate, reproductive rights and virtually everything else, but their reach is too modest to make them a replacement for the big newspapers and networks. The great exception might be historian Heather Cox Richardson, whose newsletter and Facebook followers give her a readership not much smaller than that of the Washington Post. The tremendous success of her sober, historically grounded (and footnoted!) news summaries and reflections bespeaks a hunger for real news.
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the-internets-girlfriend ¡ 2 months ago
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Six Matches, One Love - Harry Lewis
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Harry Lewis x Reader (1500+ words)
From sideline banter to stadium-wide declarations of love, follow Harry Lewis and Y/N through every iconic Sidemen Charity Match as their friendship slowly evolves into something unforgettable.
warnings: alcohol consumption,
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
masterlist x
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
1.Charity Match 2016 - The Beginning
St. Mary's Stadium was buzzing life. People are shouting, vlogging, chanting. You're sat first row away from the field. Clutched in your hand is a handmade sign that reads, "GO HARRY GO," written in obnoxiously large glitter letters. You made it to mess with him more than anything else. Just friends, after all. Best mates since school... and nothing more.
Harry spots the sign during his warm-up on the field. Doing a double take of which dissolves in laughter. He jogs to the sidelined.
"You're actually insane," he calls out as he jogs.
You grin as he comes closer to stand on the sideline. "Only for you, Harold."
He catches your over-exaggerated blown kiss and dramatically throws it to the ground like he thought it be the worse thing in the world. The banter's easy with him, drawing a fine line between joking around together and flirting.
You watch the match, yelling out his name every time he gets near the ball. He doesn't score, but he gives it everything. When the final whistle blows, you make your way over with the crowd of fans and friends.
"You were class," you say as he wipes a towel across his forehead.
He shrugs, smiling and resting the towel across his shoulders. "You screaming my name name helped, obviously."
You laugh, in hopes of hiding your blush. That's all it is. Laughter, friendship, teasing.
But later that night, scrolling through blurry videos and clips of the match, you pause on a still of Harry looking in your direction.
And your stomach flips.
A small part of hope settling.
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
2. Charity Match 2017 - A Shift
This year, it's bigger. The Valley. More fans, more camera, more pressure. But Harry is still the same. Loud, energetic, clumsy and confused.
Before kickoff, he jogs over to where you're standing just beyond the pitch - your special access lanyard granted from Harry.
"Nervous?" You ask.
"Only cause you're here," he says casually, then smirks. "Gotta impress my girl with the special lanyard." He reaches for your lanyard and giving it a tug - pulling you closer ever so slightly.
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush at the sudden closeness. That wasn't normal banter. Was it?
He play like he's on fire. Scores a goal and points at you on the sideline. You swear he winks but just think maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.
Later, backstage with everyone buzzing, you find him in the hallway - freshly showered. He was wearing sidemen merchandise; his hair still damp from the water.
There was no cameras. No crowd.
"You looked good out there," you say. It feels heavy. Almost like you meant a double meaning.
He pauses. "You always look good."
Your eyes meet. Nether of you speaks. For the first time in your friendship, silence is loud.
You laugh nervously - brushing the comment under the mat thinking he meant nothing of it. "Smooth."
"I try."
A voice is heard from behind him, Simon calling him back to film some extra parts. You bid goodbye and walk away, and he watched you go.
And for the first time, you're both wondering: what are we doing?
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
3. Charity Match 2018- The Almost
The energy this year is electric again. Harry's in top form, yelling instructions, cracking jokes. Your sign this year is smaller - a picture included, but he still beams when he sees it.
You're pulled into the afterparty later than planned, a little tipsy from champagne floating in the warmth of another successful day. You find Harry leaning against a balcony, looking out over London, a beer in his hand.
"Hey you," he says when you join him - offering a sip of his beer to you. "Didn't lose you to Tobi's dance floor domination, then?"
You smile, taking a swig on the beer and handing it back - folding your arms next to him.
There's a long pause - he turns to look at you.
Really look at you - taking it all your features.
You turn with a puzzled look.
"I've been thinking about us," he says finally.
Your heart skips. Your heart beating for the conversation you have been waiting for.
But before Harry can continue, Tobi calls him from the inside before he can say more. You glance at the doorway, then back at Harry.
"Later?" You say.
He nods, eye soft. "Promise."
But later never comes.
You both leave the party in different Ubers.
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4. Charity Match 2022 - The Kiss
After a few years of no matches, the return is massive. The stadium is packed, and millions are watching the livestream. You're standing on the sidelines again, lanyard still around your neck - curiosity of Harry again.
You and Harry have stayed as close as ever. Always texting, calling, somehow orbiting each other without crossing the line - the 'later' conversation never coming up once again.
As the players warm up, you're chatting with Talia and Sarah when Harry jogs by.
"He's practically glowing," Sarah says, grinning.
"That's the Y/N effect," Talia teases, nudging you.
You roll your eyes - use to the constant teasing from the group, but you can't help smiling.
During the match, every time Harry touches the ball, JJ and Ethan standing on the sideline shout exaggerated commentary in your direction: "And he's looking to impress someone in the stands!"
When Harry scores a long rage banger, he doesn't celebrate with his team.
Instead - he runs to the camera, blows a kiss, then mouths your name.
The internet erupts - reposts everyone all over Twitter; as fans start recalling every shared moment between you and Harry.
After the final whistle, the players are swarmed by fans and staff, but Harry makes a beeline for you.
"I don't care if everyone knows," he says, breathless. "I've been pretending I haven't been in love with my best friend for years. I'm done."
Your hearth thuds.
Tobi and Simon spot the two of you from a distance, and immediately start whistling and clapping like idiots.
You grab Harry's shirt and kiss him, right there among the boots, jerseys and sidemen.
You're not pretending anymore.
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽���⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
5. Charity Match 2023 - The World Watching
This time, you walk in together - wearing Harry's number in support of your boyfriend.
Harry's holding your hand. Cameras flash, fans cheer.
No more hiding.
"Nervous?" You whisper before he runs off to warm up.
"Not with you here," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.
As the match begins, the boys are relentless - as they have been the past year constantly teasing you and Harry.
Ethan shouts from across the pitch, "Harry, don't mess up! Y/N's watching!"
JJ joins in with exaggerated swooning every time Harry runs.
You're in the stands next to Freya, who is laughing every time the camera cuts to your reaction.
Harry scores again, of course. The celebration is simple this time - a heart drawn in the air and a wink your way.
After the match, he records a behind-the-scenes vlog, dragging you into frame.
"This is Y/N, everyone loves her. The reason I've ever scored a goal in my life."
You laugh, pushing him off-camera. But the internet is is love. With him. With you. With your story.
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
6. Charity Match 2025 - The Proposal
You feel it coming all day.
He's acting weird, not nervous, just - shifty. Like he's got secrets. And for once, not the kind he'll tell you... yet.
The match is intense. He misses a shot early on, then comes back with a clean goal in the second half. The crowd goes wild.
But instead of a celebration, he runs to the sideline. To you.
You blink, confused, as he stops in front you, catching his breath.
Then he drops to one knee.
The stadium freezes. Even the players stop.
"Y/N," he pants, eyes wide and full of love, "you've been there for every match, every goal, every miss for so many years. I don't want to play another one without knowing you're mine forever. Will you marry me?"
Your heart could burst. You throw your arms around him.
"Of course I will, you idiot."
The stadium explodes. You lean down to press a kiss to Harry's lips. The Sidemen rush to his side after, Tobi lifting Harry onto his shoulders while Ethan leans up to give you a hug.
That night, at the celebration party, Harry holds your hand tight.
"Told you I'd score two for you," he says, kissing you knuckles as he admires the ring.
Your scored the one that mattered."
And he did.
⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎⚽︎
Hi all! I hope you enjoyed my first Harry post.
See you soon,
mwah x
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theskywithin ¡ 1 month ago
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Toxic Zodiac Traits: Everyone Else Is Just as Emotionally Unstable, Don’t Worry
( read for Sun and Rising )
Aries
Absolutely incapable of waiting for anything. Will cut you off mid-sentence and mid-relationship. Thinks every inconvenience is a personal attack from the universe. Starts a new project every 3 days and finishes approximately none. If Aries texts “I’m outside,” you have 3.5 seconds before they leave forever. Will argue with a traffic light and still think they won.
Taurus
Would rather eat drywall than change their mind. If they’ve blocked you once, they’ve blocked you in their heart forever. Will act like they don’t care while remembering exactly what you said on May 14th at 4:23 PM. Refuses to compromise unless it involves brunch. Emotionally attached to objects, TV shows, and the one person who gives them nothing.
Gemini
Will tell you every detail of a breakup they had six years ago and forget your birthday. Overthinks nothing, underthinks everything. Can hold five contradictory opinions before breakfast. Ghosts you and then messages you “I had a dream about you” two weeks later. Says “we should talk more” with no intention of ever replying. Flirts for sport.
Cancer
Pretends to be chill but is actually holding a ten-volume emotional encyclopedia on everyone they’ve ever met. Has cried over a memory that wasn’t theirs. Will bring up something you said in 2018 just to watch you squirm. Makes you a playlist, a home-cooked meal, and a passive-aggressive guilt trip all in one sitting. Thinks emotional manipulation is just good communication.
Leo
Can’t walk past a mirror without giving themselves a TED Talk. Will give you a whole therapy session about their unhealed inner child and then forget your name. Thinks “subtle” means wearing sunglasses indoors. Posts thirst traps during existential crises. Believes every compliment is true and every critique is character assassination.
Virgo
Thinks emotions are a puzzle to be solved and you're a cluttered spreadsheet. Hypercritical, hypo-compassionate, and fully convinced their control issues are just "high standards." Say "I’m fine" while internally dying over your misuse of apostrophes. Gives unsolicited feedback with the energy of a disappointed parent. Probably gave their therapist a 3-star Yelp review with grammatical corrections.
Libra
Would rather fake their own death than make a decision. Flirts with the bartender while processing a breakup from 2016. Says “no drama” while actively starring in a love triangle they directed. Needs a mood board to text you back. Believes aesthetics are more important than stability. Could be in love with you. Could also be in love with your sweater.
Scorpio
Has never forgiven anyone, not even their kindergarten teacher. Will emotionally soul-scan you within five minutes of meeting, then vanish for three days to see if you panic. Knows your birth chart, your trauma, and your passwords. Shares nothing but expects full access to your emotional hard drive. Trusts no one but expects loyalty like a blood oath. Falls in love once every five years and never recovers.
Sagittarius
Will disappear mid-conversation to follow a butterfly and call it personal growth. Thinks commitment is a threat to their “freedom journey.” Forgets your birthday but remembers an ancient Mayan prophecy. Thinks monogamy is a government conspiracy. Avoids feelings by going on a spontaneous road trip and posting cryptic captions.
Capricorn
Has three side hustles, a 5-year plan, and no idea how to relax. Thinks rest is a character flaw. Controls their emotions by pretending they don’t have any. Plans your vacation like it’s a military operation. Feels personally insulted by inefficiency. Will judge you for crying at work, including themselves. Emotionally constipated, but will Venmo you for half the toothpaste.
Aquarius
A conspiracy theory in human form. Thinks emotions are “low-vibration.” Invents new relationship dynamics for fun. Disassociates mid-hug. Could write a 42-slide presentation on your attachment style but can’t tell you what they’re feeling. Emotionally invested in your trauma but only if it’s framed as a social experiment. Will text you “thinking thoughts” at 2am and never elaborate. Will befriend your ex for the plot.
Pisces
Says “I don’t care” while sobbing into a vintage sweater. Cries during commercials. Will fall in love with someone they made eye contact with for three seconds at a coffee shop. Romantically unavailable but emotionally entangled with everyone. Forgets to eat but remembers every detail of a dream they had two weeks ago. Constantly oscillating between “I love everyone” and “no one gets me.” Still not over what you almost said in 2019.
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bettelaboure ¡ 1 month ago
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⊹What never faded⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun
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⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader
⊹Summary: at Netflix Tudum 2025, an unexpected reunion forces two people with a complicated history to face what they left behind—and what might still be waiting
⊹Warnings: emotional themes, including past relationship trauma, mental health references, and romantic tension
The lights of the Netflix Tudum 2025 event blazed across the sleek facade of the venue, flashes of red carpet strobes and fan cheers pulsing like electricity in the air. You adjusted the lanyard around your neck and exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening slightly around the clutch in your hand. It was just another industry event. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
You were nervous to see him.
You spotted him from behind first—the unmistakable set of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head as he listened to someone speak. He was dressed in a sharp, perfectly tailored suit, posture elegant but relaxed. You hadn’t seen that silhouette in nearly a decade, but your body remembered before your brain caught up.
Before you could stop yourself, it slipped out like muscle memory.
"Jagi?"
The word barely made it past your lips, soft, uncertain—but it reached him. He froze.
Slowly, he turned.
And there he was.
Seung-hyun. Older. Different. Still him.
He blinked, stunned. Then something flickered in his eyes. Not disbelief.
Recognition.
And just like that, your breath caught.
You hadn’t seen him since 2016. Not in person. Not after the press conferences. Not after the apologies. Not after the silences grew too loud between the two of you and eventually turned into absence.
You'd dated nearly six years. Six years of underground cafés, late-night ramen on the floor of his studio, vinyl records and scribbled lyrics on the backs of receipts. You remembered the way he held you after his first scandal, the way he disappeared for days during the worst of it, and the way your fingers had ached from holding him together until you couldn’t anymore.
He turned.
And saw you.
For a moment, the crowd didn’t exist. The flashing lights. The murmurs. The booming mic checks. It was just him, standing there like a memory you never quite stopped loving.
His eyes widened—just a flicker—and then his lips parted in a soft, surprised smile. A real one. The kind he used to give you in the dark, after the shows, when it was just the two of you and the noise of the world couldn't reach.
He walked toward you slowly, as if he wasn’t sure you’d stay.
“You look exactly the same,” he said, voice low, rougher than it used to be.
You smiled, eyes scanning his face, older now, but still devastating. “You don’t.”
He chuckled. “Fair. Time hits different when you’ve been through a storm.”
There was silence, but not awkward. Not yet.
“Did you... come here with someone?” he asked, eyes searching.
“Oh, no. I'm hosting the event. You?”
“I'm here for a series,” he said with a half-smile. “Season two of Squid Game.”
Your brows lifted. "You’re kidding."
"Nope. Kind of a failed rapper-type antagonist. Purple, and... still very much the villain. It’s darker than anything I’ve done before."
You stared at him, half in awe. "That’s... big."
He nodded. “It is. And terrifying. But also the first time I’ve felt like I’m doing something just for me.”
He glanced down, then met your eyes again. “It’s good, though. Honest.”
Another silence. This one heavier.
“You look well,” you said.
“I’m getting there.”
The way he said it, the weight behind it—you knew exactly what it meant. You’d lived it with him, once. The panic attacks. The nights he didn’t want to get out of bed. The dark stretches he covered with sarcasm and whiskey.
“I’m glad,” you said, voice softer.
“I wasn’t, for a long time.” He tilted his head slightly. “You know that.”
You nodded. “I do.”
He hesitated, eyes flickering across your face. “I thought about you. A lot. Over the years.”
Your breath caught again.
You whispered. “Me too.”
Another beat.
“I wasn’t ready then,” he said, more to himself than to you. “To be loved like that. To be that vulnerable. I wanted to protect you and ended up pushing you away.”
You reached out, fingertips brushing his sleeve. He didn’t pull away.
“You were hurting,” you said. “You still tried.”
He looked at you—really looked—and for a moment, you were back in his studio at 3 a.m., wearing one of his shirts, humming along to whatever beat he was building. For a moment, it was just the two of you again.
He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. He glanced down, then back up. 
“When I heard someone say ‘Jagi,’ I thought I was imagining things. And then I turned around.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to say it. It just… came out.”
He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, the quiet pull of gravity between you.
“Yeah.”
And just like that, the world snapped back into motion. Someone called his name. A reporter flagged you down. But you both looked back, one last glance over your shoulders before diving back into the crowd.
Because maybe some rules, like timing, were just waiting to be rewritten.
Once the camera was rolling, the mic clipped to your collar, and the stage lights hit your skin, you were home. Hosting came naturally to you. Smiling through a lineup of celebrities, introducing teaser trailers with practiced charm, tossing in off-script jokes that made the audience laugh—this was your world now.
Not his.
You told yourself you’d compartmentalized that life, those years. But seeing him tonight—so suddenly, so real—shook loose something you thought was long folded away.
After the event ended, you slipped into the hotel car alone. You leaned your head against the window, makeup still flawless, hair still perfectly pinned, and let yourself just be tired. The adrenaline was gone, replaced by a low hum beneath your skin. Not from the spotlight.
From him.
When you walked into your suite, you didn’t bother turning on the lights. You dropped your clutch on the console, kicked off your heels, and peeled out of your dress one careful inch at a time, stepping into the bathroom with the vague intention of removing your makeup.
Your phone buzzed.
You almost ignored it. Almost.
But something in your chest knew.
You padded barefoot across the cool tile and picked up the phone.
1 new message — Jagi.
You never changed the name. It has stayed like this since the day you kissed. Other lovers were down in your contact list as their names, but his was always "Jagi".
Hey. I know it’s late. Just wanted to say... you looked radiant tonight. Hosting suits you.
You stared at the screen for a beat, thumb hovering. Then another message came through.
Would you be down for dinner?
A breath escaped you.
He had always known when to give you space. But he also knew when to step in and say exactly what you needed to hear.
You sat down on the edge of the bed, the weight of the evening finally settling in.
You typed:
Yeah. I’d like that. Let me know when.
He read it immediately.
Tomorrow night? There’s a place by the beach. Quiet. I’ll send the address*.*
You didn’t hesitate this time.
Okay.
And then, as you finally removed your earrings, unzipped your dress the rest of the way, and wiped away the last of your makeup, you let yourself smile. Not the kind you wore for the cameras.
Something smaller. Private.
Because the man you hadn’t seen in almost a decade had reappeared. Not in a headline. Not in a scandal.
But in a room full of people, looking at you like he never stopped seeing you.
And now, tomorrow, you’d find out if the years had changed more than just the way you found each other.
The restaurant sat tucked into a narrow side street near the beach —no sign, no flashy entrance, just a sleek black door and a single gold lantern flickering above it. Seung-hyun always had a knack for finding places like this. Private, curated, just a little off the map.
You arrived five minutes early, nerves humming like a second pulse. The hostess greeted you by name and led you to a booth at the back, shielded from the rest of the space by sheer linen curtains and low lighting. You slid into the seat, fingertips brushing the cool, dark wood of the table.
You didn't have to wait long.
He stepped in like a quiet storm—black turtleneck, charcoal coat, hair pushed back but still artfully tousled. When his eyes landed on you, it was less of a look and more of a pull.
“Still early,” he said as he sat down. “You haven’t changed.”
“You still dress like a noir film.”
He smiled, small and sharp. “Better than dressing like a scandal.”
There it was—that edge. Still wrapped in velvet, but always present. You didn’t flinch. You just picked up your water glass and took a sip.
A server appeared to take your orders—his in slightly, clumsy English; yours confident but polite. Old habits. You used to order for each other. Tonight, you didn’t.
“So,” you said once you were alone again. “Thanos?”
He winced, smiling anyway. “I told them I wasn’t purple enough, but they gave me a really good monologue and great hair. I sold my soul for the idea.”
You laughed, the sound easing something between you.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said suddenly, voice quieter.
“I wasn’t sure either,” you admitted.
He nodded slowly. “But I wanted to see you. Without an audience.”
The dishes arrived, and for a few minutes, conversation slowed into familiar silence—clinking chopsticks, the scent of grilled fish and roasted garlic, shared glances that lingered a beat too long.
“You always eat like you’re trying to appreciate it for both of us,” you teased, watching him carefully layer a bit of rice and pickled radish on his spoon.
“You always talk like you’re writing a script,” he countered.
You smiled. “Some of us live for structure.”
“You used to say that when you left me notes on my mirror.”
You looked down, the memory catching you off guard. “You kept those?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“I still have the one that said ‘Please remember to sleep’ on hotel stationery. It’s in a drawer. At my studio.”
You blinked, suddenly aware of the ache just beneath your ribs.
He leaned back, studying you. “Do you regret any of it?”
“No,” you said honestly. “I regret the silence that came after.”
He exhaled. “Me too.”
Another pause, longer this time. The low hum of the restaurant filled it, but the air between you felt charged.
“I wanted to protect you from the mess,” he said. “But I didn’t know how to do that and stay.”
You nodded. “And I didn’t know how to leave without feeling like I was abandoning you.”
His hand rested on the table, close to yours but not quite touching. “You didn’t.”
You looked up, eyes meeting his. “I did what I thought you needed.”
“I needed you. I just didn’t know how to be someone worth staying for.”
The words landed heavy. Honest. Raw.
And then—so gently—you slid your fingers toward his. Not quite a touch. Just a question.
He didn’t hesitate. His hand turned, palm warm, fingers curling between yours like muscle memory.
You didn’t speak for a long moment.
Finally, he said, “I didn’t ask you to dinner to fix the past.”
You looked at him.
“I asked because I want to see who we are now. And if maybe… that still matters.”
You squeezed his hand softly. “It does.”
And just like that, something shifted—an old chord, struck again, still resonant. Still whole.
The walk back to your hotel wasn’t fast. It was slow, deliberate—like neither of you wanted to get to the end too quickly. Los Angeles was glowing around you, storefronts closed but still humming with color. The air was warm enough for your coat to hang open, your blouse fluttering slightly in the breeze.
Seung-hyun didn’t say much.
But he looked at you. Again and again. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were walking beside him, the quiet rhythm of your steps in sync after so many years apart.
At the door to your hotel, you hesitated. Part of you thought he might lean in for a hug, something safe and polite.
He didn’t.
He just looked at you and said, quietly, “If I come upstairs with you, it won’t be casual.”
You held his gaze. “It’s not.”
And that was it.
You let him in.
The door clicked shut behind him like a closing parenthesis.
You stepped out of your heels with a sigh, tossing your clutch onto the nearest chair. He followed slowly, peeling off his jacket, not saying a word.
But the silence wasn’t awkward.
It was full.
You turned to face him, barefoot now, blouse still buttoned to your throat. He stood near the window, hands in his pockets, just watching you.
Finally, he spoke. “Do you still like to be touched behind your ear?”
You blinked. “You remember that?”
He nodded once. “You’d twitch like a live wire. Every time.”
Your mouth went dry, heart thudding hard against your ribs.
He stepped closer, slow. His voice was soft but sure. “Do you still like it when someone takes their time? Not just to turn you on—but to know you?”
Your breath caught.
“Seung-hyun…”
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering. “I’m not rushing this. I don’t want to make love to a memory. I want you. The you that’s here. Now.”
You looked up at him, throat tight. “Ask me.”
His hand slid down your neck, then to your waist, fingertips curling lightly around the dip of your hip.
“Do you still like having your blouse unbuttoned slowly?” he murmured, each word a pulse.
You nodded.
He kissed you—gently this time, like a question���and when you didn’t pull away, his fingers found the top button.
“One…”
The button popped.
“Two…”
Another.
You exhaled shakily, hands moving up to his chest, feeling the familiar solid weight of him beneath the thin fabric.
“Do you still like when someone tells you what they’re going to do before they do it?” he asked, voice rougher now.
“Yes,” you whispered.
“Good,” he said, thumb grazing the hollow of your collarbone. “Because I’m going to kiss every inch of your skin until you forget how long it’s been.”
The next kiss was deeper, hungrier. Your hands slid under his sweater, fingertips dancing along his ribs. He hissed a breath, mouth moving to your neck.
“And I’m going to touch you the way you liked almost a decade ago…” he growled softly against your skin, “…but I want you to tell me if anything’s changed.”
You gasped when his teeth grazed your shoulder.
His hands were patient but greedy—mapping, remembering, rediscovering.
“Here?” he asked as his fingers traced the inside of your thigh.
You nodded, breathless.
“And here?” A press just beneath your ribs.
You nodded again, biting your lip.
“And here…” He pressed his palm to the small of your back, then dipped lower. “This used to make you beg.”
“Still does,” you said, voice shaking.
He laughed softly, eyes warm but dark with heat. “Then don’t stop me this time.”
You pulled him in.
His mouth crashed into yours with a low, guttural sound — not of aggression, but desperation. Like he’d been starving and you were the first taste of something real in years.
He kissed like he remembered everything: how you liked to be caught off guard, how your breath would hitch when he took control of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. His fingers tangled in your hair, angling your head just right as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding in to claim your gasp.
Your back met the bed as he followed you down, pressing you into the mattress with his weight, his presence. His thigh slotted between yours, grinding upward just enough to make you whimper, and his breath hitched when he felt the heat of you through your clothes.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered against your lips.
“I’ve been waiting too long.”
His hands moved to your blouse, and this time there was no slow unbuttoning. He pulled the fabric open in one fluid motion, not tearing, but unbothered by neatness. Buttons skittered across the floor.
You let out a startled laugh.
“I’ll buy you five more,” he muttered, mouth already on your collarbone.
He trailed kisses down your sternum, nuzzling into the lace of your bra, fingers slipping underneath to tease until your back arched off the bed. You could feel him already — hard and hot, still fully clothed from the waist down, but pressing against your thigh like a promise.
He murmured, lips brushing your clothed nipple. “I’ll let you fall apart before I’m even inside you.”
You moaned. “God, yes.”
Your bra joined the blouse on the floor. He sat back to look at you, his hands warm and rough as they cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until you squirmed.
“I used to dream about this,” he said, voice low. “About how you’d taste. How you’d sound.”
“Then stop dreaming,” you whispered, reaching for his belt.
He caught your wrists.
“Not yet,” he said, leaning down. “I want to make you forget the years first.”
And then he was kissing lower, teeth grazing your ribs, his hands pushing your pants down inch by inch. He dropped them off the edge of the bed, then knelt between your thighs like he was in prayer.
His eyes met yours as he slid his hands up the backs of your thighs.
“I remember what this does to you,” he said, pressing his thumbs into the tender skin. “Let’s see if it still works.”
You gasped as his mouth closed over you through your panties — warm, damp pressure that made your thighs tense and your breath stutter.
When he pulled the fabric aside and finally licked you — one long, slow stroke of his tongue — your hips lifted off the bed with a cry.
“There you are,” he breathed. “Still so fucking responsive.”
He took his time. No rushing. No impatience. He worked you open with his mouth, steady and thorough, alternating between gentle flicks of his tongue and deep, sucking pressure that had you moaning like you’d forgotten how to breathe.
One hand gripped the headboard. The other tangled in his hair, anchoring yourself to the moment as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth never stopped.
You were close — dizzy, teetering — when he pulled back suddenly.
“Don’t,” you gasped. “Don’t stop.”
His face was flushed, lips wet. “Say it.”
“What?”
He leaned up, sliding his fingers back inside you, slow and deep. “Tell me you want me. Not the idea of me. Not the version you made peace with. Me.”
“I want you,” you said, chest heaving. “I never stopped.”
That was all it took.
He stood and stripped fast, shirt first, then pants, his cock springing free — flushed, thick, already leaking.
Your mouth watered at the sight, and he caught it.
“Still like what you see?” he teased.
“Get in me before I forget how to speak.”
He climbed over you, grabbed your thigh, hitched your leg over his hip, and slid into you in one long, perfect thrust.
The stretch was too much and not enough all at once. Your body clenched around him like it knew what it had been missing. His head dropped into the crook of your neck with a groan.
“Fuck… still so tight. Like your body remembered me.”
You dug your nails into his back. “Move.”
And he did.
He set a slow rhythm first, grinding deep, letting you feel every inch. He kissed you as he fucked you, each thrust dragging a broken noise from your throat. His hips rocked forward with purpose, dragging his cock along your sweet spot with precision that made your vision blur.
“You always loved this angle,” he murmured, thrusting harder now. “The way it made you lose your words.”
You barely managed a nod, lips parting as a high-pitched moan escaped you.
He pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in with a sharp snap of his hips that made you cry out. “Say my name.”
“Seung-hyun.”
“Again.”
“Seung-hyun, please—”
He grunted, hips stuttering as you clenched around him, every nerve alight. “Come for me. I want to feel you lose it.”
You did — hard, sudden, shattering. Your body seized around him, thighs shaking, your back arching up off the bed. You came with his name on your tongue and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.
He groaned and buried himself deep, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding you, his whole body trembling with it.
For a long moment, you just held each other — skin slick, chests heaving, his face buried in your neck.
Eventually, he pulled back slightly, brushing hair from your damp forehead.
“I missed you in every way it’s possible to miss someone,” he said.
You reached up and touched his jaw.
“I think you just reminded me how to feel again.”
Sunlight cut through the curtains, too soft to be cruel, but steady enough to remind you: the world was still turning. The hotel room was warm, silent except for the muffled sounds of traffic far below and the occasional creak of the building stretching awake.
You were wrapped in Seung-hyun’s arms, his chest at your back, one leg slung lazily over yours beneath the sheets. He was still, but not asleep. You could tell from the rhythm of his breath — too thoughtful, too careful.
Neither of you had said anything yet.
You blinked slowly, your eyes adjusting to the pale light, and finally whispered, “You’re thinking too loud.”
He let out a small, breathy laugh. “You still know me too well.”
You rolled onto your back, and he shifted with you, propped up on one elbow now, looking down at your face like he was afraid this version of you might disappear if he looked away too fast.
He reached out, brushed your hair away from your face.
“You always looked like this in the morning,” he murmured. “Like peace.”
You reached up, let your fingers curl around his wrist. “And you look like someone who has a flight to catch.”
He flinched slightly, just enough for you to notice.
Reality was already seeping in at the corners — the day waiting on the other side of the glass, emails, obligations, countries apart. The fantasy of last night had been perfect. But it had never promised to last.
“I do,” he said finally. “Tonight.”
You nodded, slowly. “Back to Seoul.”
“Back to three hours of sleep, and pretending the camera doesn’t see through me.”
You smiled gently. “Some things really haven’t changed.”
He tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.
“I don’t want to go,” he said. “Not now. Not after—” He stopped. “Not after getting a piece of you again.”
You sat up slowly, pulling the sheets around your chest as you looked out at the skyline. Your voice was quiet. “I didn’t think we’d ever be in the same room again, let alone the same bed.”
“I know,” he said. “I kept telling myself I didn’t deserve that anymore.”
“You didn’t,” you said gently. “Back then.”
He took the hit without flinching. “But now?”
You turned to him, your expression soft but steady. “Now you’re here. And I’m not angry anymore. I’m not afraid, either. But I have a life here, Seung-hyun. A home. A job I fought for. Friends who became family. And a version of myself that isn’t tied to your shadows.”
He nodded slowly. “I know. I see it in you.”
“You rebuilt too,” you added. “I’m proud of that.”
He sat up beside you, knees brushing. “So what does that mean for us? That this was… what? Closure?”
You looked at him, and your heart cracked in the way only old love knows how to do — clean, familiar, quietly.
“I don’t know if closure feels like this,” you admitted. “It didn’t feel like goodbye. But it didn’t feel like a beginning either.”
He looked down at his hands. “What if it could be both?”
You bit your lip. “You’re still based in Seoul.”
“I could come back,” he said, too quickly.
“You won’t,” you said, not unkindly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. And I won’t ask you to.”
The silence that followed wasn’t bitter — just tired. Mature.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He rested his chin on top of your head, and for a few moments, you let yourselves pretend the hours weren’t counting down.
Eventually, he murmured, “Can I still call you? Sometimes? Just to hear your voice?”
“Yeah,” you said. “I think I’d like that.”
He kissed your hair. “I’ll send you postcards.”
“And I’ll probably forget to reply for weeks.”
He smiled. “It’ll still be better than silence.”
You stayed there in bed for a long while, wrapped in sheets and shared regret and something that almost felt like hope. You both knew what it meant. This wasn’t a reunion.
It was a soft return. A breath in the middle of separate lives.
A maybe, in a world full of maybes.
And for now — just for this morning — it was enough.
The airport smelled like burnt coffee, recycled air, and the thin antiseptic scent of transit. It was early, too early — that cold, blue-lit hour where time seemed suspended and no one wanted to talk too loud.
You stood in front of Gate 32, boarding pass to Miami tucked into your coat pocket. The announcement for your flight had just played overhead, the calm robotic voice slicing through the tension like a knife: “Flight 6B to Miami now boarding. Final call.”
Seung-hyun stood across from you, black coat draped over one arm, carry-on at his side. His flight wasn’t for another hour, Seoul-bound. Different gates. Different directions. Different worlds.
He looked like he hadn’t slept.
You hadn’t either.
No words had been exchanged in the Uber ride from the hotel. Just his fingers brushing yours every few minutes. Just the quiet static of your thighs touching. Just glances, soft and sharp, filled with everything that couldn’t be said without making this harder.
Now, at the gate, he finally broke the silence.
“So this is the part where I say something meaningful,” he said, voice low.
You gave him a tired smile. “Or you could say something stupid and familiar. That might hurt less.”
He chuckled softly, the sound tight. “Okay. Um… 'Don’t forget your charger again.’”
You laughed, eyes stinging. “I still have the one you gave me. It’s held together with tape.”
“I’d replace it,” he said, “but I kind of like knowing you still carry something that used to be mine.”
Your smile faltered at that.
Another call echoed through the terminal: “Final boarding. Gate 32. Final boarding for flight to Miami.”
You exhaled, then looked up at him. “This is where we leave it, huh?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t want it to be. But yeah… I think it has to be. For now.”
You nodded. Your heart ached so deeply it felt physical, your chest tight with all the things you couldn’t do — couldn’t fix.
“I don’t regret last night,” you whispered.
He stepped closer, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. “I’ll hold on to it.”
“You always said you hated airports,” you said.
“I don’t hate this one,” he replied, eyes fixed on yours. “I hate the part where you walk away.”
You swallowed hard and stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He pulled you in immediately, fiercely, his grip firm, chin resting on your head.
You stood there, holding each other like it could freeze time.
Eventually, you whispered, “Tell me we’ll find each other again.”
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “We will. Even if it’s not how we imagined. Even if it’s just a voice, a message, or a half-written postcard.”
Your throat burned. “Seung-hyun…”
“I’ll think of you every time I land,” he said. “Every city, every hotel. I’ll wonder where you are. And if you’re smiling.”
You nodded, tears quietly falling now.
One final call.
“Flight 6B to Miami is closing boarding. This is your final call.”
You pressed a kiss to his cheek — not romantic. Not rushed.
Just grounding.
He whispered, “Go. Before I ask you not to.”
You turned and walked toward the gate. Didn’t look back until you had to.
He was still there. Watching. His hand raised in a small wave — the kind that meant this isn’t the end, even if it looked like it.
And then you were gone.
You started saving his postcards in a shoebox.
Not a romantic box, not something overly sentimental — just an old Converse box shoved under your bed. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt like the right place for something that lived between nostalgia and maybe.
They came regularly now, once every two or three weeks. Always handwritten. Always personal.
Some with hotel logos. Some with hand-drawn sketches — the inside of a taxi in Jakarta, the view from his apartment window in Seoul. A doodle of your coffee mug from memory. One card had just four words written in sharp ink:
I saw your smile today.
You didn’t always answer.
But you never stopped reading.
Three months after the airport.
You were brushing your teeth, half-awake in your Miami apartment, when your phone buzzed. A voice note.
Seung-hyun “I know it’s late there. I just walked out of a press dinner. I wore the stupid grey suit you hated. I looked around and kept wishing you were next to me, whispering sarcastic things in my ear while pretending to behave. I miss that. You. I’ll stop now. Just wanted to say... tonight felt empty without you.”
You didn’t respond right away.
Instead, you replayed it three times in the dark, sitting on the edge of your bed, toothbrush forgotten in your hand.
Then you sent one back, much shorter:
“I still hate that suit. But your voice... that I missed.”
It was late — technically already the day after your birthday. You hadn’t told him the date. Not this year.
At 2:07 AM, your phone lit up. Incoming call. Seung-hyun.
You answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”
He sounded slightly breathless. “I missed it, didn’t I?”
You blinked, sitting up. “Missed what?”
“Your birthday. I wanted to be the first one to call, but now I’m probably the last.”
You smiled, warmth spreading across your chest. “You’re the only one calling at 2 a.m., so technically, you win.”
“Good,” he said, a quiet laugh. “Because I didn’t get you a present. Unless you count this terrible version of ‘Happy Birthday’ I’m about to sing in a parking lot.”
You groaned. “Please don’t—”
He started anyway. Off-key. Half-whispered. Sincere in a way that made your throat tighten.
When he finished, he added, “I’m outside a ramen shop in Osaka. My driver thinks I’ve lost it.”
You leaned back against your pillow, the smile on your face far too big for 2 a.m.
“Thank you,” you said.
“Next year,” he replied, “I want to say it in person.”
You didn’t say yes.
But you didn’t say no.
It was mid-March. You had just wrapped hosting a Netflix Latin America panel. You were exhausted, your hair was still half-pinned, and you were scrolling your phone in an Uber when your phone lit up with a message from him:
I missed my flight.
You blinked. Typed back: To where?
To you.
Your stomach dropped. You stared at the screen, pulse ticking.
You called. He picked up immediately.
“You were coming here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just for two days. No press. No cameras. I booked it after I heard your voice in that interview. You were laughing. But not like you used to. Not like when you laughed with me.”
Your heart squeezed.
“I wanted to be near you,” he added. “Just for a little. I think I needed to.”
You whispered, “I think I need that too.”
He rebooked for the following weekend.
You spent the next six days cleaning your apartment, changing your sheets three times, buying too many things you didn’t need — just in case.
He didn’t make that flight either.
A scheduling conflict. A last-minute obligation. Something vague and frustrating and familiar.
He sent a photo of his packed suitcase with the caption:
I’m still trying.
You didn’t reply.
But you didn’t throw away the flowers you’d bought for the table.
And then, there was a quiet stretch.
No postcards.
No calls.
No messages.
Three weeks passed.
You told yourself it was fine. That he was busy. That this thing between you was never supposed to demand anything. But the silence filled every room like fog.
Then, just as you began to resent it — just as you considered deleting his number — a package arrived.
Inside was a sketchbook.
First page: a charcoal drawing of you, curled up in bed, hair messy, laughing with your head thrown back. Like you did once in 2014, in a hotel room in Busan. You remembered the night instantly.
Below the sketch was a single line in his handwriting:
You still live here.
You cried in your kitchen. Not hard. Not loud. Just enough to admit that the ache had never really gone away.
He called that night. You let it ring once before answering.
No words at first.
Just breath. Shared air.
Finally, you said, “Maybe we stop trying to forget.”
His reply was soft. “I never tried.”
The knock came at 7:41 PM.
You hadn’t ordered food.
You weren’t expecting anyone.
You were still in a robe, fresh out of the shower, scrolling through emails with wet hair and a mug of tea gone cold beside you. The knock came again—gentler this time. Two beats. Like hesitation.
You padded barefoot to the door and checked the peephole.
You didn’t breathe for a full five seconds.
He was there. Standing in your hallway.
Seung-hyun.
His hands were in his coat pockets. His hair was slightly longer now, tucked behind one ear. He looked tired but alert—like he’d flown across time zones on a single stubborn hope.
You opened the door, but you couldn’t speak.
He smiled, tentative. “I didn’t want to give you time to say no.”
You stared, speechless.
He gestured toward the hallway behind him. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll go. But I needed to see you. In person. Not through letters. Not on a screen. I needed to know what this feels like when it’s real again.”
You stepped back without a word and opened the door wider.
He walked in, slowly. Looking around like it wasn’t just your apartment he was taking in—but you. Your life now. The evidence of time moving on without him.
The door clicked shut behind you.
You turned.
He was still watching you.
“I didn’t pack a bag,” he said softly. “I didn’t book a hotel. I didn’t even bring my toothbrush.”
You folded your arms across your chest, heart thudding. “You just got on a plane.”
“I needed to know if I could still find you.”
You exhaled. “I wasn’t hiding.”
“I know,” he said. “But I think I was.”
You walked past him, suddenly overwhelmed, and crossed to the kitchen. He followed, but not too close.
You gripped the counter. “I waited.”
“I know.”
“I told myself I wasn’t. But I was.”
“I waited too,” he said, voice rougher now. “Every city, every hotel room, every time I sent something and didn’t hear back—I still waited.”
You looked at him, finally. “Why now?”
“Because I realized I was building a life around the idea of ‘maybe someday.’ And I can’t do that anymore. I’m done with maybe. I want now.”
Your voice cracked. “You still live in Seoul.”
“I don’t have to,” he said quietly.
That made you still.
He took a step closer. “I’ve already stepped away from one project. My contract’s almost done. I have enough to live a hundred lives. But none of them mean anything if I’m living them alone. If I keep leaving parts of myself behind in cities that only remind me of you.”
Tears hit your eyes before you could stop them.
He moved closer. “I want to stay. Not just visit. I want to be where you are. In your world. Not mine.”
You shook your head, overwhelmed. “Seung-hyun, you don’t just leave everything for someone who—”
“Someone who what?”
You hesitated.
“Who you lost,” you whispered.
He cupped your face, gently. “I never lost you. I just lost my way.”
You closed your eyes, chest heaving.
He kissed your forehead, then your cheek. “I don’t want to be your what-if. I want to be your what-now.”
You looked at him then, and for the first time in a long, long while, you let the fear fall away.
“I don’t know if this will work,” you admitted.
“I do,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Because I’m not asking for a second chance at the old story. I want a first chance at something new.”
A silence passed. Soft. Sacred.
Then: “Stay the night,” you said.
He blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. But not for what you think.”
You took his hand. Led him toward the living room.
You sat together on the couch, not touching at first. Just breathing.
Eventually, you curled into him. His arms wrapped around you like they remembered. You felt the way his chest rose and fell. Steady. Familiar.
“You smell the same,” you murmured.
“You don’t,” he said. “You smell like lavender now. And peace.”
You both fell asleep like that.
The next morning, he made coffee.
You stood barefoot in the kitchen doorway, watching him, wondering how this felt more natural than anything had in months. He handed you a mug and leaned against the counter.
“Should I book a hotel?” he asked, sipping his own.
You looked at him.
“No,” you said. “You should look at apartments.”
He smiled, slow and quiet, like it came from someplace deep.
“So this is happening?” he asked.
You nodded. “But slowly. Carefully. With boundaries and check-ins and a drawer that’s yours... eventually.”
He lifted his mug. “To new stories.”
You clinked yours against his. “To new homes.”
It started with a sock.
One lone black sock, rolled inside-out and abandoned on the hardwood floor just outside the bathroom.
You stepped over it twice. Once on your way to the kitchen. Once on your way back.
On the third pass, holding a mug of tea and wrapped in a robe, you picked it up between two fingers like it was radioactive.
“Jagi,” you called, voice sweet but sharp.
From the living room, where he was watching an old film with headphones on, came a muffled: “Hmm?”
You walked in holding the sock at eye level.
He looked up.
You stared at him.
He blinked. “…Yes?”
“This is the fourth sock I’ve rescued this week,” you said calmly. “They’re multiplying. Like sentient lint.”
He grinned. “You’re keeping count now?”
“I have a spreadsheet.”
He laughed—out loud, that full-body laugh you used to ache for over the phone—but it didn’t soften your frown.
“I’m serious,” you said. “It’s not about the socks. It’s about respect. I didn’t fall in love with you so I could trip over your laundry on the way to the espresso machine.”
He sat up straighter. “Okay, fair. But in my defense, I’ve only left one pair of pants on the floor this week. Growth.”
You folded your arms. “Do I need to tape an apology note from the socks onto the bathroom mirror?”
He gave you a sheepish look. “I’ll be better.”
You handed him the sock. “Starting now.”
He took it, stood, kissed you on the forehead, and said, “I’ll write a haiku about it and tape it to the laundry basket.”
You rolled your eyes. “Romance.”
Sundays became domestic.
Groceries. Cleaning. That podcast you listened to together while folding towels. You didn’t think you’d love it—this slow, unspectacular kind of rhythm—but somehow, even carrying bags through parking lots and arguing over which yogurt brand to buy became… soft.
Until one Sunday, he bought iceberg lettuce.
You stared into the fridge like it had personally betrayed you.
“Why is there a head of iceberg in my refrigerator?”
He looked up from unpacking a bag of sparkling water. “Because it’s… lettuce?”
You turned slowly. “We talked about this.”
He held his hands up. “I thought you were joking!”
You blinked, expression flat. “Seung-hyun. You mocked iceberg lettuce in three different texts last month. You called it ‘crunchy water for cowards.’”
He paused. “I was being poetic.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘if I wanted a salad to feel like betrayal, I’d chew my own emotions.’”
He burst out laughing. “Okay, that’s pretty good.”
You held up the offending lettuce. “Then why is it here?”
“I panicked,” he said. “You weren’t answering, and the produce section was stressful, and I just wanted to make you lunch.”
You looked at him—at his messy hair and hopeful eyes—and sighed.
“You’re lucky you’re hot.”
He winked. “Hot enough to keep the lettuce?”
You shoved the fridge closed. “You’re eating it alone.”
The real fight didn’t come from socks or lettuce.
It came on a Tuesday night, after you’d both had long days.
He was finishing up a voiceover for an ad campaign. You had just gotten off a difficult Zoom meeting. The apartment was quiet. Tense.
He was in the kitchen reheating leftovers when you muttered, “You know, it feels like I’m the only one adapting.”
He turned. “What?”
You kept your eyes on your laptop. “I changed my schedule. I rearranged my closet. I sleep lighter now because you toss at night. You haven’t given up anything.”
He stared at you for a moment. Then: “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He set the plate down too hard. “I moved countries.”
“You moved into my space. That’s not the same.”
His jaw tightened. “I’ve tried every day to be part of your life without disrupting it. I’m trying not to take up too much room.”
You stood, crossing your arms. “But I want you to take up room. Just not leave your laundry in it.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Sharp.
Finally, he said, “I’m not used to being allowed to exist quietly. Most people just want the show.”
You softened instantly. “I’m not most people.”
“I know,” he said. “But sometimes I forget that.”
You crossed the room, reached for his hand. “Then remind yourself. We’re not in a movie anymore. We’re just two people trying to build something real.”
He wrapped his arms around you. Held you.
“I don’t want to fail you,” he whispered.
“You won’t,” you said. “Just stop leaving socks on the floor.”
Three months into living together, you found him sitting on the couch, sketchbook open, headphones in. You watched from the hallway for a moment.
He didn’t see you.
He was sketching a corner of your apartment—the light falling across your armchair, the half-dead plant you refused to throw away, the mug you left on the sill. His face was calm. Focused. Like he’d finally found stillness.
You walked over and curled into his side.
He smiled. “You’re interrupting a masterpiece.”
“I am the masterpiece.”
He kissed your temple. “Accurate.”
You looked at the sketch. Then whispered, “You’re not afraid anymore, are you?”
He paused. Then shook his head. “No. Not of this. Not of us.”
You looked around your space—your shared space. The toothbrush beside yours. The hoodie on the chair. The photos developing on the fridge.
“Me neither.”
And maybe it wasn’t perfect. Maybe socks would still end up in strange places, and he’d keep buying the wrong lettuce. Maybe you’d argue about space and silence and whose turn it was to clean the stovetop.
But maybe that was the point.
Love wasn’t always loud. Or cinematic. Or tragic.
Sometimes, it looked like two toothbrushes and a haiku taped to a laundry basket.
And sometimes, it looked like someone staying long enough to make it home.
Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath
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thissying ¡ 9 months ago
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"A wunderkind," said Niki Lauda when Limburger Max Verstappen (18) won his first Grand Prix in Spain on Sunday. Her wunderkind, thought Sophie Kumpen (41), at home in Maaseik in front of the television. Two hours later the phone rang: "Wow. Mom. Actually unbelievable, huh."
21 May, 2016
Sophie was at home on Sunday when it happened. All alone, on a chair, in front of the television. "I've been in the pit box at enough races to know: I actually prefer to watch in the living room. You can't see it better anywhere else than on television. I have a fixed ritual for it. A candle on the table. Smartphone in hand. And that chair." (points to one of the dining room chairs)
"Of course, if I had known in advance that Max would win his first Grand Prix, I would have gone along. During those last two corners I was sitting in my chair cheering. When Max crossed the finish line, I cried. I didn't even cry at his birth. They were tears of relief, I think. He was finally able to show what I always knew he could do."
What role does genetics play? So far unclear. But this much is certain: if Max drove the competition away on Sunday - and was also a bit lucky with two top drivers dropping out - it was mainly a matter of years of training. "Max has been working towards this for fourteen years. He was four when he started karting. Jos and I practically lived on the circuit at that time. People sometimes think that we pushed Max. That's not true. It came from him. Once that happened, there was no stopping him. And honestly? I understand that. It was the same for me. That kick. That adrenaline. That quickly becomes addictive."
Sophie once lived in the same world as Max does today. She was successful in karting, and Jos had made it in F1. The couple lived in Monaco and bathed in wealth. But the divorce, in 2006, turned that life upside down. Max was eight, his sister Victoria six. It was decided: Max would stay with Jos, Victoria with Sophie. And while Jos focused on his son's career, Sophie looked for a job in Maaseik.
"A very difficult time," says Sophie. "I didn't see Max a lot then. He quickly started to achieve international success and he was abroad a lot with his father. I found that incredibly difficult. But I also knew: if we really wanted to pursue Max's big dream, he would be better off with Jos. I had to flip a switch for that. There were many nights when I lay in bed crying. Out of sadness, for the child I missed so much. I really had to let go of Max. I was often very afraid that I would lose him. Now that he is eighteen, I have the feeling that all that is changing. He visits me more often, shows up unexpectedly at the door more often. 'Mum, let's go shopping in Hasselt.' Max recently had to get his driver's license. He had to drive for a few days with a supervisor. He said: 'I want to do that with you, mum.' I am increasingly getting my place as a mum back. That feels really good."
"The contact with Jos is finally better again, too. Everything has fallen into place: Jos has remarried and I am also doing well. When Max won on Sunday, Jos called me from Barcelona. However, we hardly ever call each other. But at a moment like that you know: this is our child. And then it is nice to be able to share that emotion with each other and to be able to cry together. I am glad we had that phone call. It felt good to be able to do that. For Max as well."
"After the divorce, I started working for the OCMW [social welfare centre]. I believe that things in life happen for a reason. I see a lot of poverty. I see the underclass of society. I think it's good that I can show Max that. We talk about it. I want him to know that there is another world than his. That's good to keep his feet on the ground. As a mother, I'm sometimes afraid that he'll start to float. I think it's my job to prevent that. I often say: 'Max, don't get too big for your boots, boy. Be nice to people, be nice to the fans. If there are twenty fans, don't sign five, but twenty autographs.' Max knows that, how important that is. And he does that with a smile. Deep down he is very down to earth. Max is a very down-to-earth guy, actually. He now has a Swedish girlfriend - someone who also races. When those two visit: it is really very relaxed. Something to eat, a game of cards, a chat. Max really likes 'normal'. He recently got a sponsorship contract with Puma. He said: 'Mum, then I'll get a new pair of shoes!' I thought that was nice of him. That he could be as happy as a child with a new pair of shoes."
It's been a madhouse since Sunday. Both in Monaco and in Maaseik. "Even I've been overwhelmed all week. I've received 1,500 Facebook requests. The phone didn't stop ringing. Journalists called from America. It really can stop now. Just because Max has won once, doesn't mean he'll keep winning. We all have to stay level-headed about that. Things have been going really well for Max for a year and a half now. There will be a dip at some point. We better prepare for that. I always impress that on Max. 'Think carefully and enjoy it, because it could all be over tomorrow.' He then says: 'Yes, mum, I know.'"
It can never end more suddenly than with a crash. Last year Max came close to that. It happened in Monaco. His car: straight into the tire barrier. Sophie was watching. "I remember thinking: please, get out of that car. And he did get out of that car - unharmed. Maybe that won't happen one day. Or he will be seriously injured. From the moment your child puts on a helmet, you know that it can go wrong. Look at Jules Bianchi, last year. That crash was so hard that he was brain dead. They had to pull the plug. We talk about that. What if something like that ever happens to Max? At least we'll know that it happened while he was doing what he loved to do."
"When I light candles, that is why. So that everything goes well. But you do take into account that it could be different every time. I find the start especially difficult. After two or three laps that improves. When they're all driving behind each other. Should I tell Max that he's not allowed to race? That wouldn't be fair. I've done circuits myself. So who am I to stop my son? Fortunately I know: Formula 1 has become increasingly safer in recent years. Less and less can go wrong."
Sophie - an interior designer by education - was 21 when she said goodbye to top-level sport. "Jos and I saw each other so little that I chose my marriage . Now I sometimes think: 'What if?' When I chose Jos, I said 'no' to a top offer from Formula Opel Lotus. What if I had said 'yes'? I was good at the time. Although I also know: then I wouldn't have had Max and Victoria. The dream that I had to put aside myself, Max is now realizing in my place. That feels good. The sacrifices were not in vain. Because sacrifices: we all made them. Victoria too. Our whole life has been about Max. Sometimes I feel bad for Victoria. I can feel quite guilty about that. It must not have always been easy for Victoria to stand in the shadow of her brother. My daughter works in haircare now. Two weeks ago she put highlights on me. She is one of the best in her class. I am incredibly proud of her - just as proud as I am of Max. But sometimes it gnaws at me: Victoria was very good at karting as a child. What if Jos had invested as much in her as in Max? She could have gone very far, because I think she is better than me. I would have thought it was fantastic. If a woman does well in motorsport, that is still more impressive than when a man does it. Only, it turned out differently. And now that she is sixteen, it doesn't have to be that way for her anymore. She is happy the way she is. People often ask her why she is not like her brother. But then I think: let her be herself."
"Especially now that Max is getting older, he realizes those things. He knows that his sister sacrificed everything for him. They get along very well. Max will always take care of Victoria - a mother senses those things. They once made an appointment, laughing. Victoria had wanted a Louis Vuitton handbag for a long time. 'But I won't get one from mom,' she had told Max. And so Max said: 'When I score my first points in F1, you'll get one.' The day Max scored those points, he took Victoria into DĂźsseldorf. They bought the bag together. Victoria has been lugging her Vuitton everywhere ever since. That makes Max happy, I can see that. The bag has emotional value for him too: it symbolizes those first points."
She: employee at the OCMW. Her son: 'rising star' in Monaco. "Does Max earn a lot of money? A lot, yes. But he has a manager, who helps him manage that. That's good. Max recently missed his plane. He immediately booked a new ticket. I, with my salary, wouldn't be able to do that. But I'm glad he can, and still manages to be careful with his money. On Mother's Day, he suddenly showed up at the door. He had a surprise. He knew I was looking for a new small car. He took me to the dealership that day and bought me a car. He said: 'Mum, for everything you've done for me.' I can see him doing that for his sister someday. She recently wanted to see him drive in Bahrain. Then he said: 'Your ticket is ready, sister.' It's nice that he does that. He doesn't have to. But it's his way of giving something back." On Thursday, Max was on Belgian soil for 24 hours: the moment when Sophie could finally hold him. "I asked: Max, you're coming, aren't you? He said: 'Of course, mom. Will you cook me something nice?' I made carpaccio, a salad and some pasta. And for dessert: his guilty pleasure. Top sports always means dieting, but what is one Kinder chocolate? There are always some in the cupboard for him."
Next week Max faces his next challenge: the Monaco Grand Prix. Sophie is going to watch and is bringing a few family members along - motorsport is in the Kumpens' blood, Sophie is the niece of racer Anthony Kumpen. "Max sets the bar high. He crashed in Monaco last year. There was criticism about that. 'Wasn't he too young?' He thinks he has something to prove now. And I know: he doesn't necessarily need his mother for that. But I do enjoy being there for him."
"And. Uh. It gives me the chance to also go and see his apartment. I decorated it at the time. Going to have a look. Whether that young man of eighteen hasn't made a mess of it." (laughs)
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reasonsforhope ¡ 1 year ago
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"A clinical trial studying severe allergic reactions in the U.K. is being called “life-transforming.”
Five United Kingdom National Health Service (NHS) hospitals are participating in the ÂŁ2.5 million ($3.2 million) trial to help patients live with their food allergies.
The study is being funded by the Natasha Allergy Research Foundation, Sky News reported. The foundation was formed in the memory of Natasha Ednan-Laperouse, who died in 2016 after eating a baguette that had sesame in it...
The trial is studying clinical oral immunotherapy treatments in which patients are given small doses of the food to which they are allergic to build up their tolerance. The food is given under medical supervision by trained staff, The Telegraph reported.
The study has 139 people participating who have allergies to peanuts or cow’s milk. They range in age from 2 to 23 years old, the BBC reported.
The Food Standards Agency said 2 million people in the U.K. have a diagnosed food allergy. In the U.S., about 5.5. million children have a food allergy, the National Institutes of Health reported.
One 11-year-old who was diagnosed with a severe peanut allergy when he was an infant can now eat six peanuts.
A 5-year-old with a milk allergy can drink 120 ml of milk every day and can enjoy a daily hot chocolate, the BBC reported.
“To have a patient who has had anaphylaxis [Note: Anaphylaxis is an allergic reaction so severe that it's potentially fatal without immediate treatment. It is very common with peanut allergies in particular. x] to 4mls of milk to then tolerate 90mls within six to eight months is nothing less than a miracle,” Sibel Donmez-Ajtai, a pediatric allergy consultant and principal investigator at Sheffield Children’s NHS Foundation Trust, said, according to Sky News.
The final results of the study are expected to be released in 2027.
Similar studies have been conducted in the U.S. To find one, visit FoodAllergy.org.
Earlier this year, the NIH released the findings of a study of an antibody treatment that would help children consume allergy triggers safely."
-via WHIO 7 Local News, May 8, 2024
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gunsandspaceships ¡ 2 months ago
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MCU Timeline. Avengers: Infinity War
At the dawn of the universe - nothing.
The Big Bang - formation of the six Infinity Stones.
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~500 or 964/965 AD - Thor is born.
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Now we have this contradiction: the first Thor movie and all the MCU books tell us he was born in 964 or 965 AD, and this is the only time he says he's 1,500 years old. He could have rounded it up, or it could have been a mistake (like his mispronunciation of "Nidavellir") - pick your favorite explanation.
Early 1945 - during a fight with Steve Rogers, the Red Skull touches the Tesseract, and the Space Stone within it finds him unworthy and sends him to Vormir to serve as a guide for those seeking the Soul Stone.
Early 1990s - Gamora is born on the planet Zen-Whoberi.
~1999 - Thanos kills half of the population of Zen-Whoberi and kidnaps little Gamora, whose parents his army had just executed.
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Between the fall of 2014 and May 2018:
Nebula sneaks onto Thanos's ship and attempts to kill him. She almost succeeds, but Thanos captures her.
He takes her to a cell, accesses her memory files, where Gamora mentions that she knows where the Soul Stone is, and then proceeds to torture her.
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Between November 2013 and May 2018 - Thanos arrives on Nidavellir and orders Eitri to make him the Infinity Gauntlet. Once it is made, he shuts down the forge and kills all of Nidavellir's dwarves except Eitri, whom he deprives of his hands.
Beginning of June 2016 - with the help of Rogers and Romanoff, Maximoff and Wilson escape from the Raft. Scott Lang and Clint Barton make a deal with the US and German governments to remain under house arrest instead of going into hiding.
~June 2016 - Wanda and Vision start dating.
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Okay, here’s the thing about the main event date: it depends on the city. Literally. If we’re in New York, it looks like mid-May, if we’re in Atlanta or Edinburgh, I’d say March. They don’t really go together, so we’ll have to pick one. Considering other movies like Ant-Man and the Wasp and Thor: Ragnarok, our pick should be mid-May 2018.
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Can we narrow this down to days? Let's try:
If the calendar here is the same as ours, which is not always the case. But let's assume that it is.
There is also a contradiction in the film regarding the day of the week (Wednesday vs. Tuesday) for the first day. Now there is no hint as to which one we should choose. But as with the month, I assume that what happens in New York is closer to the truth, so I will choose Wednesday.
In mid-May we also have two options: the second week (May 9) and the third (May 16).
So, in What If? S1E5, there's a direct mention that it's been two weeks since Hank went into the Quantum Realm in Ant-Man and the Wasp (May 2), so it must be May 16. What If often makes mistakes, and later in the same episode, it makes an obvious one, but if it works in this case, let's go with that option.
~May 2, 2018 - Vision promises Tony that he will return, turns off his transponder, and leaves with Wanda for Scotland for a two-week vacation.
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~May 9, 2018 - Thanos decimates Xandar and takes the Power Stone.
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May 15 (Tuesday), 2018. Night - Tony dreams that he and Pepper are having a baby, Morgan.
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May 16 (Wednesday), 2018
~11 am - 12 pm in NY:
Thanos attacks the Asgardian refugee ship Statesman and seizes the Space Stone.
Hulk fights Thanos but is easily defeated. Heimdall teleports him to Earth.
The death of half of Asgard's refugees, Heimdall and Loki.
Thanos sends his Black Order to search for the two Infinity Stones on Earth.
Thor is left unconscious in outer space among dead bodies.
Hulk crashes through the roof and stairs of the Sanctum Sanctorum and transforms back into Bruce. He informs Strange and Wong of the impending threat.
Tony and Pepper are running in New York's Central Park. Tony tells Pepper about his dream and asks her for a baby.
They are interrupted by the arrival of Strange and Banner, who take Tony away to save the world.
~1 pm in NY:
Wong gives Tony a lecture about the Infinity Stones. Strange reveals the Time Stone in his necklace. Bruce informs Tony of the situation and that behind the attack on New York in 2012 was also Thanos.
1:20 pm - Bruce tells Tony to call Steve Rogers. Tony tells Bruce that the Avengers have broken up.
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Before he can make the call, a Black Order Q-ship arrives above them.
Peter Parker jumps off a school bus headed to MoMA and rushes to the ship's location.
Tony, Strange, Wong and Peter fight Ebony Maw and Cull Obsidian. Hulk refuses to come out.
Wong saves Tony by sending Cull Obsidian onto a glacier. He also cuts off his hand. Tony invites him to Pepperony's wedding.
Maw captures Strange and takes him to the Q-Ship.
Peter follows outside. Tony saves him by putting the Iron Spider suit on him. He sends him home, but Peter manages to cling to the ship and get inside.
Tony gets on the ship and tells Pepper that he won't be back for a while.
Wong returns to Sanctum.
1:42 pm - Bruce calls Steve on the phone Tony dropped.
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Having received a distress signal from the Statesman, the Guardians of the Galaxy pick up Thor.
~2 pm in NY:
Gamora tells him about Thanos' plan. Thor takes some of their food, Quill's backpack, a pod and goes to Nidavellir with Rocket and Groot.
The rest of the team heads to Knowhere, where the Collector keeps the Reality Stone.
~Unspecified time, afternoon in NY:
Strange wakes up on the Q-Ship, and Maw begins torturing him with needles to obtain the Time Stone.
A rescue team (Tony, Peter and Levi) gathers above them. Peter comes up with a plan from Aliens.
Minutes later - Tony kills Maw by blowing a hole in the ship.
Tony and Steven argue over a course of action and agree to bring the fight with Thanos to Titan.
Tony makes Peter an Avenger.
~6 pm in NY:
~6:30 pm (NY)/11:30 pm (Scotland) - Wanda and Vision are walking through the streets of Edinburgh when they are attacked by Corvus Glaive and Proxima Midnight of the Black Order. Vision is injured and his powers are suppressed.
6:45 pm (NY)/11:45 pm (Scotland) - they are saved by the arriving Rogues: Rogers, Romanoff and Wilson. Proxima and the injured Glaive retreat. The Rogues take Wanda and Vision back to the Compound.
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~Night in NY:
In space, Gamora asks Quill to kill her if Thanos captures her, so that the Titan will not learn the location of the Soul Stone. He vows to do so. They kiss.
By this time, the "invisible" Drax has been standing "motionless" for an hour and eating snacks.
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Thanos attacks Knowhere and obtains the Reality Stone from the Collector. He then sets a trap for Gamora using the stone.
May 17 (Thursday), 2018
~Before 7 am in NY:
Rocket gives Thor a cybernetic eye.
GotG arrives on Knowhere. Using the Reality Stone, Thanos easily deals with them and captures Gamora.
GotG return to Benatar, where Quill spends the next five hours sitting and listening to New York Groove.
Aboard his mothership, Thanos shows Gamora her captive sister and tortures Nebula to reveal the location of the Soul Stone.
Thanos takes Gamora with him to Vormir.
While a Chitauri is putting Nebula back together, she kills him and escapes. She sends 23 secret coded messages to GotG asking them to meet her on Titan.
Five hours after Thanos captured Gamora - GotG finally receive Nebula's secret coded messages and travel from Knowhere to Titan.
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~7 am in NY/1 pm in Wakanda:
Rogues arrive at the Compound. Rhodey talks to Secretary Ross, who orders him to arrest them. Rhodes waves him off.
The Avengers discuss the situation. Vision tells them that Wanda must destroy the stone in his head. Bruce gets the idea that simply taking it out might work. They head to Wakanda to do it and call T'Challa.
Okoye gathers Wakandan warriors.
T'Challa comes for Bucky Barnes and brings him a new vibranium arm.
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Thor, Groot, and Rocket reach Nidavellir and meet with Eitri.
~8 am in NY:
Q-ship carrying Tony, Peter and Strange lands on Titan.
They are immediately attacked by GotG. After a short fight due to a misunderstanding, they form an alliance against Thanos.
Strange uses the Time Stone to see 14,000,605 alternate futures and finds only one winning.
Thanos and Gamora arrive on Vormir, where they are met by the Red Skull. Thanos throws his "daughter" off a cliff for the Soul Stone.
He wakes up with the Stone in his hand.
~9-10 am in NY/3-4 pm in Wakanda:
~9:30 am/3:30 pm - the Quinjet carrying the Rogues, Rhodes, Vision, and Banner arrives in Wakanda, where they are met by T'Challa, his warriors, and Barnes.
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Note: The main functional feature of quinjets is that they fly exactly as long as the plot requires, and not as long as they would fly in reality. This is not the first Avengers movie where yesterday it flew to the States all night, and today it took the jet a couple of hours to cover about twice that distance.
~10 am/4 pm - Shuri begins working on Vision and the Mind Stone. Thanos' army enters the planet's atmosphere above Wakanda.
On Nidavellir, Thor, Rocket, Groot, and Eitri restart the forge to create a new weapon, Stormbreaker.
The Battle of Titan.
The Battle of Wakanda.
Creation of the Stormbreaker on Nidavellir.
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Bruce in the Hulkbuster kills Cull Obsidian, Wanda kills Proxima Midnight, Vision kills Corvus Glaive.
~10:20 am/4:20 pm - during their duel, Thanos gravely wounds Tony and prepares to kill him, but Strange gives him the Time Stone in exchange for Tony's life.
With five Stones, Thanos teleports to Wakanda. Having not met any worthy resistance for himself, Thanos takes the last Stone from Vision.
10:24 am/4:24 pm - The Snap.
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Thanos meets little Gamora in the Soul Stone and then teleports to his garden world to retire in peace.
10:25 am/4:25 pm - 50% of all living beings in the Universe disappear from reality.
Nick Fury manages to send an SOS signal to Captain Marvel's pager before turning to dust.
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Note: Does Marvel want to explain why Edinburgh and Atlanta look more like it's winter, while in New York it's almost summer?
Tony and Nebula are left alone on Titan.
~Later that day:
At some point, they depart for Earth on the Benatar.
The remaining Avengers return to the Compound to monitor losses.
Over the next few days:
They visit Fury's last location and find his pager, which they bring to the Compound.
Days later - Carol Danvers arrives at the Compound and soon after heads back into space to search for Tony.
MCU Timeline: The Infinity Saga
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