#emotionaldamage

i didn’t watch a show. i got spiritually mugged.

tadc wasn’t supposed to hit like this. i went in for memes and neon clowns and came out emotionally waterboarded. six episodes, gone in two days. just like that.

curse the living stars and the wretched minds who made this. how dare they make me care about that deranged, soul-mangled freak of a character. i wasn’t asking for catharsis, i was asking for nonsense. now i’m here, raw and unwell, clutching my screen like it owes me therapy.

⚠️ Trash post / intrusive thoughts from a writer in crisis. Sorry for being annoying. 😭

A few days ago, I came up with another idea. Yes. Another one. 💀

Because apparently my brain has decided that living in peace will simply never be an option for me. 😅😇

I’m one of those people who constantly has millions of stories running through their head at the same time. Some stay stronger than others. Some dissolve somewhere between dreams, probably in the hands of you-know-who… and when I wake up, they’re just gone. 🌙✨

I will not be making further comments on the matter because my formal complaint has already been filed in the Dreaming. I am currently awaiting an administrative response. 📝🖤

Anyway.

The point is that I’ve been writing a new idea for days while simultaneously trying to finish all the previous ones, which is, yes, probably some kind of narrative karma. 😭

But I can’t stop thinking about posting it. Because sharing it —even if nobody reads it— is my way of getting it out of my system before it consumes me alive.

So I’m probably going to share what is, in my opinion, one of the most brilliantly devastating things I’ve ever written. Well… maybe there have been others throughout all my years as an emotionally unstable pseudo-writer, but the problem is that now I cannot stop imagining Tom saying certain lines with that whispered British cadence that honestly leaves me in psychological shock. 🫠🖤

And so you can fully understand the level of emotional damage I’m currently dealing with, I present evidence:

POV Tom:

"I feel the tremor in your voice vibrating against the palm of my hand, which is still cradling your jaw. The warm trail of your tears dampens my fingers. Seeing you cry like this, surrendered in my arms, torn between the love you have for me and the absolute need to save yourself, breaks something inside me in a way there’s no cure for.

I close my eyes for a second, swallowing down the knot of agony tightening my throat, and rest my forehead against yours. Our breaths mingle together. The lavender scent lingering on your hands, the warmth of your skin… all of it feels like a refuge I’m about to be exiled from forever.

"—I promise you,” I whisper, and the words tear through my chest, but I say them with absolute conviction, looking straight into your eyes so you won’t have the slightest doubt. “I swear on our children’s lives, Y/N. Tomorrow morning I’ll close these suitcases and walk out that door. I’m not going to use this to confuse you. I’m not going to use this to beg you or chain you to a marriage that left you gasping for air. Tomorrow, I give you your life back.”

I let go of your wrist gently, lowering my hand to wrap around your waist and pull you the last millimeter closer. I can feel your frantic heartbeat slamming against my chest. With the thumb of the hand still holding your face, I slowly wipe the tears from your cheeks.

"—But tonight…” my voice breaks, turning into a rough murmur just inches from your mouth. “Tonight let me be the man who wrote those letters. Let me say goodbye to my wife. Let me give you the season finale our story deserves.”

I don’t wait any longer, because the surrender in your eyes and the way your hands don’t push me away are the only answer I need. I close the distance and press my lips against yours.

There’s no rush. No brutal desperation, only painful and absolute reverence. It’s a slow, deep kiss, heavy with a grief so immense it tastes like salt to both of us. My lips move against yours with a devotion that arrives twenty years too late, memorizing the texture, the warmth, the exact way we always fit together in the dark, even when everything else in the daylight was broken. My hands trace the line of your back, pulling you closer, feeling every shiver running through your body. I kiss you as I slowly guide you backward, forcing us into blind, clumsy steps across the room until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, right beside the half-packed suitcase. I pull away from your lips only for a second to kiss your damp cheek, your jaw, and that spot on your neck where your pulse beats wildly.

"I love you,” I whisper shakily against your skin, letting my own walls finally collapse and allowing the tears I held back all weekend to finally fall. “I love you, I love you…”

It isn’t just to ask for your forgiveness. It’s so you’ll carry it tattooed into your memory. So that tomorrow, when you watch my car disappear down the driveway, you’ll know I loved you with everything I was, and that letting you go is the greatest and most painful act of love I have ever done in my entire fucking life.”

AND YES. THAT IS EXACTLY WHY I AM NOT PSYCHOLOGICALLY OKAY. 💀🖤

So anyway, this is the end of this trash post. Although another one is coming. A longer one. 😭

Because once again I have suffered the ultimate curse of being fandom-dependent and I am currently going through an entirely fictional yet completely real emotional grieving process in my head… which basically means getting way too attached to fictional characters and then having the universe —also known as the writer, showrunner, screenwriter, or whatever evil entity is responsible for writing that character’s life— decide to psychologically destroy you for sport. 🫠

Yes!!!! 😶‍🌫️ 😶 They killed the main character.😱 And I was just sitting there like: WTF. 😭💔

So if you see a flood of videos, edits, scenes, texts, or creative delusions from me over the next few days… that’s simply my way of surviving the psychological damage inflicted on me by someone else’s story. 🎬🖤

My creative brain is currently operating at full power trying to process the grief my fangirl heart is carrying. ✨❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹💔

End of statement. 🖤

P.S.: If you want the emotional damage to hurt even more while reading this, I’m leaving below the song I’d personally listen to while writing it. 🎧😭

Who doesn't need a little more magic in their life? FaerieTales is FREE to read on both Patreon and Fables dot pro. Just search Viciousvenison on either platform, and I'll pop up as the creator. Links are also in my profile!

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ

ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ

ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ/ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ & ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋꜱ

ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ʟᴏꜱꜱ & ᴍᴏᴜʀɴɪɴɢ

Monaco, Then — And Five Years Later

The morning Leo disappeared was too beautiful to be real. Monaco basked in late spring sun, and from their flat perched above the Port Hercules marina, everything looked like it belonged in a postcard. The water glistened like it was holding back secrets, the yachts lined in stately precision, and their son had just giggled at the breeze brushing his cheeks.

He had just learned how to laugh, a real laugh, not the startled hiccup of a newborn but the melodic, unfiltered sound that could break you open from the inside. That morning, Lando had held Leo up in the air while (Y/n) watched from the kitchen, stirring oat milk into her tea with absent-minded grace. The baby squealed, arms flapping like wings, and Lando, grinning in that boyish way of his, looked at her and said, “He’s going to fly one day, love.”

And he did. Right out of their arms.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

It was supposed to be an ordinary Tuesday. (Y/n) had taken Leo for a walk along the promenade while Lando met with his race engineers. The streets were calm, peppered with the usual mix of tourists and locals, the air perfumed with the scent of salt and citrus from the orange trees lining the pavement. She remembered passing the florist, who always greeted her with a cheerful “Bonjour, madame Norris!” and giving Leo a daisy to clutch with his chubby fingers.

But somewhere between the promenade and the boulangerie, it happened.

One blink, and the pram was empty.

She screamed. She ran. She threw herself into the street, stopped cars, dropped to her knees, sobbing his name. “Leo! Leo!” But there was no sign of him — not the blue blanket, not his tiny sunhat, not the quiet, gurgling sound he made when he sucked on his thumb.

Gone.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The first twenty-four hours were chaos. Police. Drones. Interpol. CCTV footage combed frame by frame. Lando’s team suspended everything. He didn’t even speak, not at first. He simply stood in the centre of their living room, pale as chalk, staring at Leo’s cot with its mobile still spinning in slow circles, a jungle of giraffes and elephants, untouched.

(Y/n) collapsed. For the first two days, she didn’t sleep. She didn’t eat. Her hands shook constantly, knuckles bruised from clutching the baby clothes pressed to her chest like they could bring him back. The scent of Leo still lingered on the cotton—that faint, powdered sweetness of milk and dreams.

Lando tried to stay strong. He tried to be the composed one, the one who signed off on detectives and followed leads into dark corners of Marseille and Milan and the edges of Nice. But behind the stoicism, he was unraveling. He punched a wall when the second week turned up nothing. He cursed the heavens when (Y/n) stopped speaking altogether, her voice curled up somewhere deep inside her like a frightened child.

By the third month, the flat grew silent.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

They started to mourn differently.

(Y/n) mourned by folding every onesie and bib with surgical precision, laying them into boxes she wouldn’t let Lando touch. She stopped going out. She deleted Instagram. She stopped answering calls from her friends back in Singapore. She spoke only in half-sentences, her Mandarin slipping into every other word as if clinging to something ancestral, something older than grief.

Lando, on the other hand, grieved through motion. He didn’t sleep much. He’d be gone before sunrise, attending every race, every simulation, every possible briefing. He spent hours sitting in the empty nursery when he got home, tracing his fingers along the crib bars. And at night, he held her—but it wasn’t her anymore, not the vibrant woman who once danced barefoot on the balcony with Leo in her arms. It was someone hollow, someone frozen in time.

He tried. God, he tried.

But one day, she turned to him and whispered, “It hurts when you hold me. It reminds me that I once felt joy.”

He didn’t touch her again after that.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The breaking point wasn’t explosive. It came quietly, like most endings do. One morning, six months to the day after Leo vanished, Lando returned from a press conference in Spain and found the flat emptier than usual.

Her violin, gone. Her sketchbooks. The blue memory box labelled Leo.

She’d left a letter. A short one.

Lando, I’m not angry. Just tired. We lost him, and now we’re losing ourselves. I need to go. I hope you find peace someday. – (Y/n)

She didn’t sign it “love.” She didn’t say goodbye. And just like that, she was gone too.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The divorce papers came quietly, couriered through their solicitors. There was no drama. No court battles. Just signatures and silences. Monaco’s legal offices processed the end of their marriage with all the warmth of a tax form.

The press speculated. Rumours flew. The tabloids spun stories; some about infidelity, some about post-natal depression. None of them got it right. No one mentioned how it feels when you scream into the ocean and it doesn’t echo back.

Lando moved into a smaller flat. More glass. Less furniture. He kept only one photo, the one of the three of them by the beach, Leo in his arms, her hair windswept and wild, her eyes bright.

And (Y/n) disappeared entirely from public view. No social media. No interviews. Nothing.

Just... gone.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Singapore — Two Years Later

The monsoons came early that year.

(Y/n) stood by the window of her mother’s apartment, watching the rain pelt the balcony tiles in furious rhythm. She hadn’t touched a violin in over a year. Not since she tried to play Clair de Lune and burst into tears halfway through.

Her father didn’t speak much anymore. He just brought her jasmine tea every morning and left it on the table. Her mother prayed. A lot. Burned incense. Whispered things like, “Maybe he’s been reincarnated. Maybe God needed him more.”

(Y/n) didn’t believe in any of it.

But she did start volunteering at a children’s shelter.

At first, she couldn’t bear it. The way the babies cooed or cried, how some looked a bit too much like Leo. But over time, something began to shift. Not healing—no, healing suggests a return to wholeness. But survival. A rhythm.

One step. Then another.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

London — Three Years Later

Lando never stopped looking.

Even when the police closed the case, even when friends urged him to “let go” and “live again,” he continued to hire private investigators on the side. He even funded a foundation for missing children. Not for the PR. Not for redemption. Just... because he had to.

He dated, briefly. A model. Then a journalist. But he never brought them home. He never mentioned Leo.

His parents tried their best. But every conversation eventually dropped into that void. His mother once asked, tears in her voice, “Do you think he’s out there somewhere, still alive?”

Lando had answered, “If he’s not... I need to believe he is.”

He drove faster now. Harder. Won more. Lost more. His podiums became quieter victories. His fame a shadow he carried.

The smile on TV? That was just theatre.

To be continued...

🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ɢʜᴏꜱᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀɪᴅ🌅

📝 Note from the Author: First of all, thank you so much for giving this story a chance. I know we're only at Chapter 1, but seeing your support already means the world to me. Whether you're a silent reader, a liker, a reblogger, or someone who leaves comments that make me kick my feet and giggle, thank you (≧∀≦)ゞ.

Now, before anyone comes for me...

Yes, his name is Leo Norris.

No HAHAHAHA, I did not realize until halfway through outlining that there is already a very famous Leo in the F1 community (Sorry guysss 〒▽〒, literally forgot about it while writing).

Somewhere in Monaco, Charles is probably looking at his dog like: "Why is this child missing and why does he have my dog's name?"

Meanwhile, Lando and Charles are probably arguing over custody of the name Leo.

Charles: "That's my dog." Lando: "That's my son." Charles: "Leo." Lando: "Leo." Charles: "..." Lando: "..."

The real victim here is probably the dog lololololol.

ANYWAYS—

Welcome to the angst train. Please keep your hands, feet, and emotional stability inside the vehicle at all times because we are about to suffer together. I hope you're ready for grief, mystery, heartbreak, and a lot of questioning my life choices as an author.

Alysia: "I am a creature of the shadows, torn between the world of the living and the dead, cursed to hunt the monsters of the night."

Anna: "You literally just cried at a TikTok of a golden retriever."

If your characters (you can pick which ones you'd like to write about) ever had to write an AITA post on Reddit, what would the title of the post be?

Send this to others, whose characters you want to know more about.

💔 AITA for wanting to keep a soul that was never mine to begin with?

I know how it sounds. Believe me, I’ve replayed it a thousand times in my head.

My job — my existence — is simple: guide the lost, collect the fallen, let go when it’s time. That’s the rule. The only rule that ever mattered.

Then she appeared. The kind of soul that makes silence feel loud and eternity feel too short. She smiled like she didn’t know who I was… or maybe she did and just didn’t care.

And for the first time, I hesitated.

I told myself it was curiosity. That I was observing her. Protecting her. Anything but what it really was — wanting. You don’t get to want when you’re Death. You don’t get to love. You just… escort and vanish.

But I didn’t vanish. I stayed. And every second I did, the universe started to crack at the edges.

Now I’m here, pretending it’s fine, pretending I can send her away when the time comes. But I know the truth: I already crossed the line the moment I called her “Schmoonnei.”