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jedisupernova · 1 month ago

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compress, repress (part i) — kwon jiyong & choi seunghyun

summary california is many different things to many different people. to seunghyun, it was simply another place to call the shots. to jiyong, it was an extension of the echo-chamber he's been stuck in since sentience. to you, it was a chance to fulfill your self-prescribed fate—until you unintentionally upended the lives of two strangers, and in turn, your own.

notes minors dni contains challengers au, fem reader, unabashedly plus sized reader as i am myself but anyone can read, establishing lore and dynamics, takes place in the mid 2000s (hence mentions of certain music, technology, media etc.), everyone is a college senior, tennisplayer!jiyong and tennisplayer!seunghyun; reader is head of the debate team, mentions of drinking and smoking, angst (all three are at times depicted as not the greatest of people, love triangle, inferiority complex, yearning, rivalry brewing on and off court, cockiness, selfishness, greed, deception), smut (for my girls who know: the hotel room scene, wet dream, foreplay m receiving; sub!jiyong, suffocating sexual tension), i don't know anything about professional sports so pls dont laugh at me, if you went to stanford and are reading this not youre not, inevitable typos.

author's note welcome to part i of my challengers au!! this has been a long time in the making. a brief disclaimer: these are only characters; in no way do i claim either would act this way in real life. happy (belated) anniversary to the film that changed me forever. if you haven't seen it, you should. get tucked in a comfortable, because this is long. i did my big one with this. see you next friday for pt ii 🎾

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

jiyong’s earliest memory is being mistaken for seunghyun’s younger brother. he was six years old—his only worry in the world whether he would be handed a cherry or grape popsicle at the neighborhood block party. to his luck, he was handed the former. his mother ripped the plastic off for him, leaving him to his business whilst swinging his feet in a lawn chair. “no!” he giggled sweetly when a classmate asked him the silly question. “hyun is my friend.” his childhood lisp caused him to drop the first half of his best friend’s name until a speech pathologist whipped him into shape before middle school. but even then, at such an early age, jiyong remembers feeling resentment. was he being dramatic for a kindergartener? yes. he gets it from his father.

he remembers leaning his short stature to the left, spotting seunghyun across the cul-de-sac, carrying a plate of food with his mother walking beside him. he stared so long his popsicle started melting down his palm, quickly wiping the light red syrup on his shirt before his mother could scold him. their families did everything together. it was a reflection of many shared experiences: immigrating to a new country, establishing their footing, and making a name for themselves. the last task was naturally passed down to jiyong and seunghyun—both the only child of their respective families—brothers by proxy, competition by force.

he loves his best friend dearly. they truly did feel like brothers . . . so many firsts shared together . . . secrets kept . . . music bickered over . . . clothes and shoes stolen . . . unspoken assigned seats in the car . . . constantly being compared to one another as they grew older . . . sharing sweaty headbands much to their mothers disgust and fathers disapproval when their credit cards are swiped for either of their acne treatments . . . but still. sometimes just sometimes, bitterness pricked at jiyong’s skin like a pesky mosquito. crept up his spine. burrowed into his psyche. cemented in his frontal cortex. i’m the one who’s older by three months, anyway . . . he thought to himself at his high school prom, stubbornly downing his cup of spiked punch after his date—who didn’t even try hiding her lingering, longing stares at seunghyun sat across the table—asked him the same question that’s haunted him for years, happy the dj’s speakers made blu cantrell deafening enough to distract him. i mean—do we even fucking look alike?

don’t get it twisted: both jiyong and seunghyun are well-off, and not to mention, handsome. high enough above the poverty line to pursue a sport seriously and be well-educated, and attractive enough to not be completely clueless when it came to dating. although . . . vices will be vices: “your coach says you’re playing like a late-bloomer.” jiyong’s father said to him over the phone, making his then-twelve-year-old self look anxiously over his shoulder at the growing line of boys behind him, waiting for their turn to call home—a defining vignette of his many years at his local tennis academy. he held the receiver tightly, “is this something i should be worried about?” “n-no—i—” “what did he say about seunghyun? hm?” “he said he’s good—” “—that’s what i need to hear about you. this is your ticket out—to live a better life than i did. do you understand me?”

if his guidance counselor asked, jiyong would claim he took up tennis because his mother played before meeting his father. if he looked into the bathroom mirror longer than ten seconds, however,—and didn’t rush to the court for his final doubles match at the academy before leaving for college on a full athletic scholarship—he would have to come to terms with the fact a larger part is definitely due to his bunkmate, playing partner, and future classmate at stanford: seunghyun. it started off innocent: two seven-year-olds dropped off at the rec center for summer camp whilst their parents are at work, picking up rackets and hitting a ball back and forth to pass time. jiyong remembers initially liking it, but not as much as soccer. in contrast, seunghyun liked the feeling of his converse skidding and squeaking on the court—catching his parents' attention asking for tennis shoes the following summer. getting playfully competitive with his best friend (“that wasn’t out of bounds! it was right on the line!” “that was the definition of out of bounds, ji.” “fuck off, seunghyun.”) wasn’t half bad either, though practice sometimes become so heated it led to showcases of subpar emotional intelligence in their dorm at the academy growing up: “jiyong? are you still mad at me?” “why does your back hand swing have to be so . . . mean?” “mean? what? thats just how . . . it is? i think its because i’m taller than you, or something. i think i have more power? jiyong? ji—are you still awake?”

seunghyun didn't exactly like playing against jiyong whereas jiyong actively sought it out as they grew up, feeling the need to prove himself. when he thinks back on his early-to-mid adolescence, it feels as if he just woke up in a tennis academy one day without second thought, or any pushback, really. to his luck, and fortunately for his family's savings, he was pretty good. surely a mix of his parents hoping this was his "ticket out" or whatever. but also an excuse to tie me to him forever, his inner monologue pestered frustratingly, throwing his racket hastily into his duffel, marching out of the locker room after losing his singles match to seunghyun. at least in college jiyong felt like his own person. him and seunghyun majored in differing subjects, had their own friend groups, lived on opposite ends of campus; down the block in different apartment buildings once they were upperclassmen—feeling their brotherhood mature fruitfully in the process.

their dynamic is “concrete and sophisticated both when competing together or on opposite ends of the court,” a student reporter wrote in the stanford daily, much to either of their amusement over lunch in the dining hall: “‘concrete and sophisticated’ … sounding like a bbc anchor at nine-fucking-teen.” seunghyun prodded his salad with the prongs of his fork, stuffing his mouth with freshly-cut lettuce doused in a generous serving of honey mustard. “i don’t know,” jiyong shrugged his shoulders, chewing on his bite of roast chicken, reaching up to fix his stanford baseball cap to rest backwards on his head; either of their backpacks and equipment for practice later that afternoon placed on the empty chairs beside them. “i mean—i kinda take it as a compliment, seunghyun.” “nah, don’t get me wrong,” seunghyun moved on to his bowl of pasta. “i do, too. s'just that shit like this reminds me that we’re at school with some really smart people. like, they sound like that just casually.” jiyong’s eyebrows furrowed, answering before taking a sip of water. “we’re smart, too.” “the guy leading my physics discussion group would say otherwise.”

jiyong landed a couple girlfriends, too. the first he met at his freshman seminar, getting on well until summertime came around—the long distance ending things abruptly. he also didn’t know how to navigate that, so part of him was relieved when she was the one who dumped him. the second he met at the beginning of his junior year, only to break up a few months later when classes and his demanding tennis schedule caused a drift. seunghyun, with his characteristic bluntness, tried to help his best friend feel better in a way that admittedly wasn’t ideal: “damn, man,” seunghyun huffed, sitting next to jiyong on the bench overlooking the tennis court. he tossed his racket to the ground, trading it for his water bottle, downing half of it. “no wonder you’re on fire today—got me running around this court like crazy.” seunghyun chuckled, downing the other half before tossing it with his racket, too.

jiyong swallowed his energy gel in contemplative silence. seunghyun wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, “you sure you know what you’re doing with them?” he turned to jiyong, “'cause it looks like all you know how to do is scare them away.” jiyong was on edge and offended, looking at seunghyun sharply. “what? how do i scare them away?” seunghyun jutted his bottom lip, shrugging his shoulders much to jiyong’s mounting frustration. “i mean, i don’t know—” “—how does it work for you?” jiyong cut him off, referring to seunghyun’s girlfriend that he’s had for nearly two years now. “we have the same fucking schedule.” there was a brief pause before seunghyun shrugged his shoulders again. does he not know how to do anything fucking else? jiyong’s inner monologue voiced aggravatingly. “i don’t know.” seunghyun shook his head. “it kind of just happens, i guess?”

in defeat, jiyong sunk his face into his palms, sharply sucking in a breath at the sting of sweat sprinkling into his eyes. it was seunghyun’s inadvertent nonchalantness that drove him crazy sometimes. how’re things always so fucking easy for him? and he just—he just doesn’t fucking know it? seunghyun sensed something shifted, but his attempt to patch it up just made it worse. ��look, i’m sorry if i—” “—its fine. its whatever.” jiyong got up, reaching into his duffel bag for a new case of tennis balls. he didn’t look at seunghyun between opening the lid, grabbing a ball, tossing the plastic cylindrical case back into his duffel, and picking up his racket propped against the bench. “lets just finish this game. the dining hall’s closing soon, anyway.” jiyong walked to his previous position without a glance seunghyun’s way. “alright.” seunghyun watched the back of his head, tongue poking the inside of his cheek before grabbing his racket, heading to the opposite end of the court. as jiyong prepared to serve, seunghyun couldn’t help himself: “look—i-i’m not perfect, jiyong. okay? if that’s what you’re thinking.” “it certainly fucking feels like it.” jiyong hit the ball with force he didn’t know he had. looks like those energy gels do work, after all.

for a while, it felt like stanford was happening to you and you weren’t happening to stanford. maybe you weren’t journalling correctly, or perhaps have been listening to too much radiohead recently (your laptop’s fan never forgave you for your download of ok computer from a dubiously trustworthy website onto your ipod) or maybe your ego was too big—scratch that last one, you needed your big ass ego in a place like this. to walk into a room with your chest pumped and head held high, defiant and undeterred. it was the key to succeeding the most stuck-up motherfucker you’ve ever had the inconvenience of knowing as the president of the stanford debate society your junior year. whilst he was bringing his tassel to the left to go make peoples lives miserable in law school, you conducted a complete overhaul of team operations that were, in your eyes, in shambles. you booked nice-and-shiny weekend high school coaching gigs for your members to detail onto their resumes, renewed prep for intercollegiate circuits and tournaments, and was more cut-throat during tryouts.

most people wondered how you slept at night. not that you were a bitch per se (although the sophomore whose rebuttal you cut off in the middle of her tryout for being too fluffily worded would beg to differ) but more-so your workload. a political science major whose the president of an intense extracurricular and coming up on graduation next year; balancing heaps of coursework, assigned readings, debate prep, petty complaints, and still somehow eating three meals a day with time to piss and shit in between. oh, and shower, too. “there’s no secret. only structure.” you told your teammates over a celebratory dinner at applebee’s following a successful scrimmage, kicking off your senior year. “if i don’t have coffee by eighty thirty am—and i know that’s specific—i find that everything else falls apart. but i tell myself it doesn’t.”

it’s true: there you were the next morning, in line at the campus coffee shop nearest to your residential hall. albeit, it was twenty past nine (as much as your teammates joke that you’re a robot, you are human and capable of pressing snooze more times than you should) but not late enough to obstruct the rest of your day. the café was of normal pace—faculty and fellow students waiting for their orders, scurrying out the door to catch the campus shuttle to make their ten am lectures; study groups cramming for their noon midterm over bacon egg and cheese bagels; fiona apple on the sound system. after placing your order, you took your receipt and walked to the counter on the café’s left side, waiting with five others for your number to be called.

glancing at the bulletin board decked out in flyers for campus events, club meetings, and phone numbers for tutoring services, you caught sight of someone for lack of better, less adolescent phrasing . . . easy on the eyes. tall, messy black hair tucked underneath a backwards baseball hat doused in stanford cardinal red because, well, he was wearing nothing but stanford merchandise. an easy outfit, sure, as you’ve cycled through three stanford university shirts during the last six day period of preparing for finals, or whenever you woke up just not wanting to give a fuck. what made an amused, upside-down grin tug at the corners of your mouth to yourself was the trademark stanford logo on his t-shirt peek out of the undone zipper of his stanford quarter zip. if i was playing a drinking game where i had to take a shot every time i said the name of the school, and i was telling this anecdote, i’d have to be jetted to the hospital. you thought to yourself.

you couldn’t help taking another glance when he went up to the counter, more-or-less standing in front of you. his backpack was filled to the brim, equipped with a gatorade squeeze bottle on one side and another bag slung securely over his left shoulder. is that a tennis racket? he took a couple steps to the right, grabbing his coffee, permitting a better view. it is, you mentally confirmed, now noticing just how tan he is. makes sense—"did i bump into you?“ he took you right out of your head. “what?” you shook your head, processing. “oh—no, you’re fine.” he offered a polite grin, “can’t keep track of this sometimes.” he joked, gesturing to his left shoulder holding the enclosed racket. “see you around.” he headed for the door, walking the opposite direction. your number was called some minutes later, but he lingered in the back of your head. its like he knew i was looking at it, you thought to yourself, stirring your iced coffee, walking out the door, and that has to be the deepest voice i’ve ever heard—jesus christ. you didn’t see him again the next day, but did the following week. he wore the same outfit (admittedly unsurprising for a man) sans the hat, sat with someone who looked as if they played the same sport and dressed similarly—only this time, either of their hair looked evidently damp with what could only be sweat. doing that first thing in the morning would make me the most evil person in the world, you took a bite of your bagel, sat at other end of the café, highlighter in your other hand, marking up your xeroxed copy of an assigned textbook reading for your law of democracy lecture later that afternoon.

october 2005 was a turning point. a handful of student groups were in anaheim for expos, tournaments, and various invitationals. the stanford debate society was up there during that three day weekend as well, competing against other california-based universities to set the stage for competitions later in the academic year. you saw athletes running around, too: whether it was the swimming & diving team filing into hotel breakfast smelling of chlorine and gobbling down layered omelettes after being up since four in the morning; golfers and rowers taking up the sidewalk on your way to pick up donuts and coffee for your teammates; or gymnasts that always moved in a group no matter what. on sunday evening, the night before everyone was set to travel back to campus, the university rented out a courtyard at one of the hotels students were staying at—hosting a mixer to encourage mingling, and of course, networking. free drinks were provided for those of age. you gladly flashed your id to the bartender after a successful debate against berkeley, closing out your weekend and finally freeing your schedule on an accomplished high.

a couple hours in, you excused yourself to your teammates, leaving the table and heading to the bar for a second margarita. it felt so good to not have to think about anything—no strategies, research references—nothing. well, at least for now. but that was good enough for you, so cheers to that! meanwhile, on the other side of the courtyard, jiyong was fucking over it. the weekend invitational ended with a doubles match alongside seunghyun against a mouthy pair from uc davis, leaving jiyong with both a bitter taste in his mouth and an irritated right pinky toe. his new tennis shoes were fly and felt aerodynamic, but were stubborn—the pain brewing from his singles game against ucla friday evening, more-or-less subsiding on saturday, only to present itself again earlier that afternoon immediately following the umpire giving him and seunghyun an uncalled-for warning. they still obliterated uc davis and turned them into sore fucking losers, anyway. their triumphant court celebration that followed let them know they lost to us open boys’ junior double title winners (and some of the youngest to ever do it, too.)

the food at the mixer was fine—needed after a laborious day. an hour later, jiyong made it known: "m'kinda over this.” he said to seunghyun, whom was finishing his beer. “wanna head back?” “no problem. shuttle back to the hotel should be coming soon, anyway.” seunghyun got up. “i’m gonna head to the bathroom real quick.” jiyong got up from his seat too, throwing out his emptied bowl of pasta. he looked around at fellow students and various faculty scattered throughout the bustling courtyard, stretching his arms across his chest before cracking his knuckles. his eyes grazed over the granite fountain, hearing the dj switch to nelly as the time read half past ten on his watch. he walked up to the fountain, biting his inner cheek whilst looking at the array of nickels, quarters, and pennies glimmering in the recycled waves. by chance, he looked up, and saw you standing at the bar on the other side. the bartender was busy fulfilling other orders. there were no seats, so after a while, you stood with your elbows propped atop the counter, waiting patiently. you pulled up the sleeve of your blazer you’ve had on since eight o'clock this morning, reading the time on your watch. its been ten minutes, you thought to yourself, my feet are starting to kill me. unbeknownst to you, jiyong took an additional step to his right, getting a better view. she’s really cute, his lips curled into a small grin, looking over his shoulder. no sign of seunghyun. he better take his sweet ass time. jiyong made his way over, slipping to your left after the person next to you walked away—moments before you were handed your margarita.

“come here often?” you heard a voice say. you turned your head, seeing a man your age. you didn’t give time to the fluffy bullshit: “well, i go to this school. so yes.” you answered, stirring your drink with the small black straw it came with. “and by the look of it, you do too.” he saw you glance at his red t-shirt and white shorts, both branded with stanford’s logo on one side and the nike symbol on the other. you offered a playful grin, bringing your drink to your lips for a curt sip, hearing him chuckle. “you got me there.” he smiled greatly, feeling his cheeks warm. “i’m not—i’m not exactly the smoothest when it comes to things like this.” “you’re doing admittedly fine.” you told him, “i don’t have a migraine yet.” jiyong couldn’t help his laugh, “good to know, good to know.” he nodded. he took in your matching dark grey blazer and trouser set. “you look like you started your day opening the new york stock exchange.” he said. you raised your eyebrows, feeling the tequila go down. “well that’s certainly a first.” “let me guess: finance club? i heard they had some sort of forum.” he guessed. “well, one: i’m appalled to learn i look uninteresting enough for you to think i’m some sort of finance heathen.” you quipped, smiling beautifully when you cut him off from protesting. “and two: i’m actually part of the debate team. we had a good weekend." you nodded, hearing him hum in acknowledgement. "let me guess . . . do you play tennis?”

jiyong’s expression of muted defeat changed to surprised awe, a cheeky grin forming from the corner of his mouth. “how’d you know?” you shrugged your shoulders, “lucky guess on the shoes.” your eyes stayed on him as his head dipped to look at his feet, only to turn away once brewing warmth crept up the back of your neck. damn it. he’s cute. you downed another sip of your drink, turning your head back around when he said his name with a tone so shy it was almost sweet, even for your hardened heart. “i’m jiyong, by the way. i’m a—i’m a senior.” he nodded. you introduced yourself, “looks like we’re both getting out of here next year, hm?” you grinned knowingly, liking the feeling swirling around in your chest when he failed to hide his sheepish giggle from you. he was sweet. really sweet. his smile was astonishingly pretty and held an affectionate boyish charm, complemented fruitfully by his witty humor. he got a few genuine laughs out of you, making your cheeks shine in the lingering humidity. the sparkle in his eyes, or the subtle daze in his gaze as you spoke, couldn’t help but boost your ego since he so clearly doesn’t talk to pretty women like you very often . . . or maybe you were starting to feel your tequila a little bit. can anyone fucking blame me? holy shit—he thought to himself as you told him an anecdote from this weekend. she’s talking circles around me, funny to the point where i have to catch up with her, and she’s the hottest woman i’ve ever seen. is she not everyone’s type? where the fuck have i been?

seunghyun asked him the same question, abruptly entering the conversation like a needle scratching into a vinyl. he grabbed jiyong's shoulder, and inadvertently away from you: “holy shit—where’ve you been, ji?” he huffed, eyebrows furrowed. “i’ve been looking everywhere for you. the shuttle’s coming in, like, two minutes. let’s go.” he turned around, taking a couple steps forward, hearing jiyong’s “wait, hold on—” “—i thought you said you wanted to leave?” asked seunghyun. “i did. . .” jiyong’s voice descended into an embarrassed mutter. you turned around, unsure of what to do, but were mildly amused. “but not anymore, seunghyun.” jiyong shook his head, staring daggers at his best friend, foolishly hoping some unknown telepathic powers would kick in right now. seunghyun’s eyebrows furrowed deeper. “what?” he was straight up confused. “we’re gonna miss the fuckin’ shuttle, man. the next one doesn’t come for a half hour.” in your periphery, you saw jiyong desperately flick his head towards you. you turned around, offering a small wave, “hi.” you said simply, finishing your drink.

seunghyun’s expression visibly relaxed. he liked what he saw. it was evident in how much smoother his voice sounded when he opened his mouth next, an ever-so subtle smirk tugging at his lips, “hey.” he responded, eyes resting on you comfortably. he retreated his steps, walking closer to you and jiyong. “well, shit. all of a sudden i don’t wanna leave either.” he smiled, making you tsk—why does it suddenly feel hotter out here than before?—and jiyong chuckle nervously. “i’m seunghyun.” he sought your attention back. “i play tennis—with jiyong. we’ve played together since we were kids.” “you look the part.” you held out your pointer finger, briefly gesturing between them. “dressed like you went to mommy-and-me classes together.” you can’t lie: there was an infectious sense of power felt in their collective laughter—like they were twelve again and were stoked to find out what a girl is.

“do i know you? you look familiar.” seunghyun asked. oh, god. is this some new pick up line guys are using these days? corny as fuck, you rambled internally. you turned your head—instantly humbled. you got a real good look. it clicked. with the way your heart began to beat, and you suddenly didn’t know what to say, you felt not a day past sixteen. he’s the fucking hottie from—"the café." you somehow found your voice. "coho, i think?” i think? i fucking know! i go there every day! why am i trying to act unbothered? this is so out of character . . . “yeah, yeah. coho.” seunghyun nodded, smiling with an apparent sense of satisfaction. jesus fucking christ—did his voice get lower? “their iced lattes are fuckin’ bomb—” “—you guys have met before?” jiyong was starting to sweat. “yeah. i mean . . . not really.” seunghyun glanced at you, happy to see you were already looking at him. you turned to jiyong, “he almost hit me with his tennis racket.”

seunghyun heard the joke hidden in your blunt tone, not giving you the satisfaction of playing along: “i didn’t. i swear.” you gave in. oh, i like her, he thought to himself, and that beautiful smile. “he’s right. he didn’t.” you assured jiyong. you didn’t notice, because your eyes returned to seunghyun soon after, but jiyong was panicking. the one fucking time i talk to a girl—"would’ve been a memorable first meeting, though.“ seunghyun cut jiyong's inner monologue off. "i could probably think of something more ideal.” you countered. that look in your eyes made jiyong’s heart sink, scrambling to think of something to get you back to him. “yeah?” seunghyun’s voice was beginning to torment his psyche. “like what? hm?” stop doing that shit, man! jiyong briefly held his chin, eyes scattering the pavement below him to think of something. anything. his prayers were answered, all three of you turning heads upon hearing your name called aloud.

it was your team. you spotted disposable and digital cameras in multiple hands, figuring out you were being summoned for group photos. “i should go before they collect me with undiluted fervor. its happened before. it can get scary.” you told them. “i’ll see you both around campus.” “wait—” jiyong’s words caught in his throat, feeling increasingly pathetically helpless with every step you took away from the bar. “are you on facebook?” “what?” you chuckled, turning back around. “he’s asking for your number.” seunghyun clarified. “and so am i.” a beat went by before you processed what was happening. a smile graced your supple cheeks, posture straightening. “you both want my number.” you stated the fact aloud. “i do.” jiyong nodded. “yeah.” seunghyun concurred. your fingers toyed with your watch, contemplating. “it should be clear that i’m not interested in homewrecking.” “we don’t live together. we haven’t since we were eighteen.” jiyong shook his head, nerves making your joke fly right over him. seunghyun caught your drift, choosing to play along this time. “we’re in an open relationship.”

“p-plus—” jiyong stuttered, quickly glancing at his best friend. “plus seunghyun’s, like, fresh out of a relationship.” seunghyun eyed him sharply, wondering where the fuck this came from, and why the fuck would jiyong bring that up now? “fresh out of a—what? no i’m not.” he said defiantly, shaking his head. “what’re you talking about? its been, like, almost eight months at this point. cool it.” he muttered that last part, swiftly looking back to you and changing the subject: “why don’t you come hang out with us later? they’ve got you lodged at the marriott too, right? we’re in room 408.” “you had dinner. you want a show now, too?” you quipped, expression undeterred. seunghyun liked it a little too much. “no. we can just keep talking.” he responded simply. “about us. about life.” you turned about without looking back, definitively walking away. "goodnight." jiyong buried his face in his palms, groaning after hearing seunghyun call out “we have beer!” you snickered to yourself, shaking your head before reuniting with your teammates.

“i can't fucking believe you.” jiyong muttered, walking away from his best friend, aggravated. “what?” seunghyun said aloud in disbelief, following after him. “i just got the hottest girl to come to our—” “—what makes you think she’s going to come?” jiyong countered, stopping in front of one of many potted plants lining the perimeter of the courtyard. “the way you brought it up so—so suddenly, its like—you made it seem like we’re both trying to, like, fuck her in there.” “aren’t we?” “i mean . . . yeah, maybe, but—” jiyong shook his head. “what exactly is your plan? let’s say she did come, right—which she won't—then what? shoot our shot, and hope she, like, makes out with one of us? while the other does what? twiddles his thumbs like a some fucking cuck?” “if it came to that, then sure.” seunghyun didn’t see what the problem was. he rested his hands on his hips, “what? you think that’s beneath you?” “no—its beneath her.” jiyong corrected.

seunghyun scoffed dismissively, “i don’t know what your problem is, ji. you need to lighten the fuck up.” he reached into the left pocket of his shorts, pulling out his lighter and pack of cigarettes. he fished one out, nesting it between his lips, igniting the small flame. he inhaled, blowing the smoke out the corner of his mouth. “what if she chose you, jiyong? hm?” it was jiyong’s turn to scoff. “she’s not coming to our hotel room, seunghyun.” the two looked at each other, silent. it was a different language, communicated in the subtle rustle of the palm trees and tinkering liquor bottles; expressions familiar since childhood, only decoded by their brotherly bond; stronger than any telepathic power inscribed in science fiction novels and films they watched so often growing up their vhs copies are now rendered unusable—this was atomic.

though the quiet served as a testament to their bond, to jiyong’s detriment, it was the type of moment he loathed: he felt smaller with each passing second. there it was, his inner monologue quivered, that fucking look in his eyes when he knows he’s getting what he wants. he’s known it all his life: seunghyun’s impenetrable charm—the force shielding him with what could only be effortless and enviable ease in jiyong’s intermittently insecure eyes—working its frustratingly unbreakable magic in real fucking time. god, he hated this fucking feeling. what’s worse is his tone was never where he needed it to be when he spoke up for himself, feeling stupid for even trying. “i saw her first, man.” his voice was subdued, courage so fleeting he couldn’t stomach looking into seunghyun’s eyes. he kissed his teeth, shaking his head disapprovingly. we’ve never gone after the same girl before. why does tonight have to be that fucking night? “don’t say that shit.” seunghyun muttered, holding up his smushed carton of cigarettes. “you need to fuckin’ relax.” jiyong took one silently, stepping back after seunghyun lit it. “there you go—atta boy.” he patted his shoulder, ignoring his grumbles.

the elevator doors opened to the fourth floor at 12:02 am. you returned to your hotel room at half past eleven, washing the stress of the day off your body and getting ready for bed, until you remembered seunghyun’s offer. you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, having just brushed your teeth: do i really wanna do this? you contemplated. it didn’t take long to give in to yourself, shrugging your shoulders and turning off the light, pocketing your room key: i can pack in the morning. jiyong was picking lint out of his big toe with their room key when he heard a knock at the door—momentarily moving his head, but ultimately keeping his position, laying comfortably on the singular queen-sized bed with his leg propped up. “seunghyun?” he called to him in the bathroom. “did you hear something?” “what?” seunghyun stepped out, corners of his mouth dotted with toothpaste foam, in the middle of brushing his teeth. as if on cue, there was another knock. both of their heads turned at the noise, either of their respective movements coming to a halt—it was irrefutable. “oh shit.” seunghyun muttered.

their unspoken language came in handy once again: jiyong shot up from bed, scrambling picking up his stanford nike polo and shorts off the carpeted floor, tossing it aimlessly into his open duffel bag in the corner of the room along with any stray sock he could get his hands on. seunghyun nearly choked from rinsing his mouth so quickly, shutting jiyong the fuck up when he started panicking at the realization he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet (“i think there was garlic in my pasta!” “bad fucking luck!”), swiftly jumping onto the bed to make the thin, quilted hotel duvet look somewhat presentable in the handful of seconds they had—working against an invisible timer. “wait!” he exclaimed quietly, mindful of you being right outside, catching jiyong making his way to the door prematurely. “does it smell in here?” “no?” jiyong didn’t believe himself. they stared at each other with intensifying worry. “open—open the window!” jiyong suggested frantically, seeing seunghyun spring up from the bed, nearly tripping over his bare feet. you heard everything, hovering your ear by the door, an amused grin tugging your lips. you jumped a little when it swung open: jiyong clad in a stanford tennis hoodie and briefs; seunghyun in the middle of putting a shirt on, the hem of his shorts off-center—both actively trying to look casual. “hi!” jiyong’s voice was an octave higher, quickly clearing his throat as his knuckles went white around the door handle, trying so desperately to keep his mounting embarrassment muted. seunghyun was no better, low voice cracking through his abrupt “hey.” they both looked at you, and you at them.

you three sat in a triangle on the floor, sharing a tall budweiser. rihanna’s voice was grainy, coming out of the complementary hotel digital clock equipped with am/fm radio reading 12:37. seunghyun sat comfortably with his legs stretched out before him, one hand propping himself up whilst the other brought the can to his mouth. “we’ve known each other since birth. literally. same hospital and everything.” he said, swallowing his sip before handing the can to jiyong, whom was sat criss-cross, his back against the foot of the bed. “there was a time in our childhood where my mom joked about being nervous that we were switched at birth.” “so you’re not brothers?” you asked, genuinely curious. you saw the look on jiyong’s face, though it was fleeting. “oh,” a smile crept onto your lips, a chuckle ringing from your chest. “you didn’t like that question at all.” “its fine.” he shook his head, his own giggle escaping him. “its a common misconception. i’m older by only three months, which is barely anything.” he clarified, clearing his throat afterward. he heard you hum in acknowledgement, stirring the beer with a subtle swivel of his wrist, bringing the can to his lips briefly. “i can’t blame people,” he continued, swallowing. “our families do everything together.”

your smile returned. “that’s really sweet.” you said earnestly, accepting the beer, nodding in thanks. “how’d you get into tennis? or is it just another aspect of the co-dependency you have going on?” seunghyun snickered, clearly amused. “its not a heroic story.” jiyong jumped in. “not like our . . . third eye opened suddenly one day. or something.” he laughed. “its kind of uneventful now that i think about it.” “we tried it at summer camp.” seunghyun said cooly, looking at you with his head tilted charmingly to the left. “i liked it. he did too. here we are today.” “no-no,” you tutted, shaking your head, taking another sip. “you’re leaving some pieces out. you don’t just play for a top school because you happened to like a sport.” “we went to our local tennis academy for almost ten years,” seunghyun clarified. “and we turned out to be pretty good. what can we say?” it didn’t take him long to start bragging in his own right: “the youngest to win the boys’ junior doubles title at the us open in fifteen years. until some randos from connecticut took that shit from us our sophomore year.” “i don’t know what that means.” you shrugged your shoulders, looking to jiyong.

“its a—its a tennis tournament. headed by the united states tennis association.” he eyed seunghyun discreetly, taking the can when you offered. “its part of the grand slam, which is something that includes other tournaments in different countries around the world. there’s one in australia, france, and britain called wimbledon. you might’ve heard of that one.” “i have, yeah.” you nodded, it sounding familiar. “so you both’ve done pretty well for yourselves, then.” “we have.” said seunghyun, taking the can from jiyong. “how about you? why debate?” he asked, eyes resting on you. “well,” you let out a breath. “i grew up with my family telling me i talk too much. so i put it to good use.” laughter erupted from either of them. “thats kind of brutal.” jiyong looked at you, fingers toying with the drawstrings of his hoodie. “maybe not as brutal as being in boarding school your entire life.” you said. “i don’t know if i’d call it a boarding school, since we went home pretty frequently—” “—it was a boarding school, ji.” seunghyun cut him off, handing you the can. “we were bunkmates from eleven to eighteen. we’ve seen some shit.”

“i believe it.” you exhaled through your nose, grinning. “your parents must be really proud of you two.” “yours, too.” said jiyong. “i mean—they raised someone humble. you haven’t even told seunghyun that you’re president of the debate team.” “president?” seunghyun sat up a little straighter than before. “they have positions like that? damn. well, shit. excuse my dumb ass.” you couldn’t hold in your bright laughter, genuinely finding him hilarious. he liked the sound of that. “is that your endgame, then? you want to be president—a world leader?" "oh, fuck no.” you shook your head with fervor, hearing both of them laugh heartily. you downed a gulp. “that’s like asking every athlete ever if they want to be an olympian.” “i do, funnily enough.” jiyong fixed his sleeve, looking at you. “i actually wrote about that in one of my application essays.” “oh my god,” your heart dropped a little. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to—” “—its okay. you didn’t know.” jiyong held out his hand, waving it side to side in reassurance.

“i can see it, though. the adidas campaign—” you told jiyong, seeing him stretch his bashful smile. easy to please, your inner monologue blurted at the back of your head without warning. “rising star with an education turned olympian. pretty inspiring.” “more like pretty cookie-cutter.” seunghyun interjected with a laugh, very much glancing in your direction with the expectation you’d find it funny, too. but there was nothing to laugh at. you saw jiyong’s face fall, turning his head away, looking towards the window. he rested his elbow atop his bare knee, nuzzling his mouth behind his palm. both of them are bad at hiding it. maybe it all comes out on the court. your eyebrows furrowed, turning to look at seunghyun. “what’s so funny?” some part of you was ready to be on the defensive. seunghyun jutted his bottom lip,“i don’t know.” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. he definitely does. “a second ago you didn’t know what a grand slam was and now you’re writing adidas campaigns.” “the world doesn’t revolve around us, seunghyun.” jiyong’s voice was muffled but intelligible. “i’m not saying it does, ji.” seunghyun didn’t move his head, but his eyes did the talking, glancing sideways at jiyong before returning to you. his shit-eating grin didn’t help his case: “it’s just funny.”

i see where this guy gets off at, a mind-map swirled through your brain, your logic sorting things akin to an equation. he wants to percolate at the back of my mind at all times. get under my skin, pinch my nerves, make me tick, poison my senses. let’s see if he’s game. following a few moments sat in brisk silence, you changed the subject: “so is that where you met your girlfriend?” you asked seunghyun. “at your academy?” “ex-girlfriend.” he corrected smoothly, without any hidden malice. “we met at freshman orientation.” “why’d it end?” you asked. “because he forgot her birthday.” jiyong answered for his best friend, getting his flame back, giving you a knowing look after seunghyun went quiet. “and their anniversary.” your face dropped, relishing in seunghyun’s frustrated expression, chin momentarily turning downward. there it is, you thought to yourself. “now that’s brutal.” you made sure he heard the amusement in your tone, laughing with jiyong, feeling some of the lingering tension in the air dissipate. “she always switched up the dates on me, anyway.” seunghyun muttered under his breath.

"how about you?” it was jiyong’s turn. “anyone dump you for forgetting something important?” you asked, softly crinkling the now empty can in your fingers. “i—” “—jiyong does fine for himself.” seunghyun spoke up, nodding. “he’s had multiple girlfriends. i mean, look at him.” seunghyun reached over, nudging his best friend’s temple. jiyong’s reflexes swatted seunghyun’s wrist away, hearing your small chuckle, ultimately turning the corners of his mouth upward—though his eyebrows furrowed at seunghyun, unsure of where he was going with that. “that makes me sound like some sort of—” “—player?” you filled in the blank for him. “yeah, that. but i’m not.” he shook his head, looking into your eyes. “yeah, he’s right.” seunghyun tried to sound unbothered, but you were well enough aware to sense your remarks were still prickling at his mind. he looked up, meeting your gaze. “players don’t scare them off.” he smirked. he felt accomplished hearing jiyong’s offended scoff: thats what you get for airing my shit out, his inner monologue voiced pettily, licking his lips in satisfaction.

“you aren’t scaring me off.” you told jiyong, bringing his attention back to you. “for what its worth.” you grinned sweetly, making his lovesick heart stutter at the sight. “th—thanks.” his voice cracked, quickly clearing his throat afterward, smiling again when hearing your sweet laugh, he’s endearing. seunghyun’s chin dropped again, inhaling sharply through his nostrils, momentarily looking the other way. “so,” both of their heads turned to you. time to get to the crux of it, “how often does this happen?” you pointed back-and-forth between them, clarifying: “going after the same girl.” seunghyun pursed his lips in thought, shaking his head. “not as often as you’d think, actually.” “really?” “we—we usually have different types.” said jiyong, scratching his chin, his warming cheeks making him avoid your gaze. you nodded, “so you’re saying i should be flattered.” “not really.” seunghyun shook his head, jutting his bottom lip out. “i mean,” jiyong cleared his throat, gaining the courage to look into your eyes. “aren’t you everybody’s type?”

you’ll hand it to him: you didn’t know what to say to that, feeling your face warm tenfold. you looked back and forth between them, observing how seunghyun’s upside-down grin deepened with every one of your subtle movements. you weren’t a fool, nor was this your first day on planet earth. you clocked it the moment both stuck to you at the mixer bar; accentuated through catching in your periphery seunghyun’s flittering glances at your bare thighs since sitting across from him on the hotel room floor; solidified by how jiyong straight up could not keep eye contact with you sometimes, and when he did, it wasn’t entirely innocent. i think i like jiyong a little bit more, you thought to yourself, putting the can down. for now, at least. “we’re out of beer.” there was a beat. both seunghyun and jiyong looked down at the can, then back up at you. you three all looked around at each other for a prolonged, pregnant moment, until you abruptly rose to your feet. letting out a small huff, an idea began brewing at the back of your head, traveling down your chest: have to do everything myself . . . you fixed your shirt, pulling it down by its hem before reaching to the front of your left thigh, tugging at the ridden-up fabric of your shorts. neither jiyong’s nor seunghyun’s eyes leave you, watching you walk over to the bed, thinking for a moment, then sitting down. “come here.” you beckoned gently, hands resting in your lap. neither moved. jiyong is the one who dares to speak, “which one of us—” seunghyun doesn’t need a fucking answer. he bolts to the bed, sitting on your left, jiyong scrambling to your right. you grinned at either of them, satisfied. here goes nothing . . .

jiyong and seunghyun have no idea what's about to happen. you turned to seunghyun, leaning in. he’s more than ready, until you decided against it. that felt good to do, your inner monologue schemed. you glanced between either of them until, finally, you stopped on jiyong. he was so fucking nervous, but his excitement was a bit stronger, scooting closer. you leaned in, kissing him sweetly. he returned it firmly, fingers smoothly sliding atop your thigh, gingerly feeling the natural divots of your cellulite underneath his palm. it was romantic. seunghyun watched, licking his lips in anticipation. he noticed how your hands remained politely in your lap, even when jiyong’s traveled to hold the right side of your face. you left his best friend wanting more—seunghyun swallowing his laughter seeing jiyong’s open mouth hovering above your lips, stopping the kiss.

you broke from jiyong. a beat went by before you looked to seunghyun, leaning in and kissing him sweetly. it was slower and more intentional. perhaps because there was more of a height difference than with jiyong, or maybe because his lips nurtured yours with a delectable air of experience. your subconscious spoke for you, hands reaching up to hold his face in your palms, only to smack his hand away when he touched your thigh. “right—sorry.” he muttered quickly, keeping his hands to himself without second thought. hold on—what the fuck was that? his thoughts swirled messily with his brewing libido, making his eyebrows furrow in deeper concentration, kissing you with increased fervor. she let jiyong touch her, why not me? also … did i—did i like that? why did i like that? jiyong watched you two with his mouth hung open stupidly—its like all of his dreams have come true. his posture straightened, hand on the duvet, ready to lean back in whenever you picked him again. he leaned to his right to get a better view, seeing both of your hands holding seunghyun’s face. a tinge of intended jealousy sprouted in his chest: she didn’t hold me like that, he licked his lips, fingers finding your thigh again. i want her to hold me like that . . .

you broke from seunghyun. his mouth didn't hover above yours, letting you go. you felt the tip of his nose rub against yours, letting out a breath, head facing the wall before you. you fixed your hair, making your neck visible, biting your bottom lip wordlessly. neither needed them, anyway—jiyong taking your right, seunghyun coming in hot on your left. your eyes fluttered closed, a smile gracing your face at realizing though jiyong’s kisses on your supple skin were more open-mouthed whereas seunghyun’s felt warm and sensual—both were equally as desperate. jiyong was the first to travel up his side of your neck, nipping at your earlobe before kissing the corner of your jaw. it didn’t take long for seunghyun to catch up, trailing his lips against your cheek, inching closer to your lips. you were admittedly overwhelmed, not having thought this far into your little idea. jiyong and seunghyun inadvertently bought you some time, however, reflexively recoiling after feeling all three of your tongues touched unexpectedly. awkward laughter brewed between them, but you’re not embarrassed whatsoever; smiling, this is the most fun i’ve had in ages. you reached your hands up, bringing either of them closer to you. jiyong just about fell in love. seunghyun was eager—the only thought in his mind: you. they leaned in very slowly, until all three of you are kissing passionately, tongues all touching. movements become quick, brisk, and greedy—making you have to plant your feet onto the ground to maintain your balance after jiyong swiftly moved back down to your neck, seunghyun taking your lips for himself the first chance he got. through it all, seunghyun’s hands remained to himself, whereas jiyong’s subconsciously-stowed desires came out in full force: going back and forth between pawing at your waist and securely kneading your plush thigh.

jiyong re-adjusted the way he was sat on the bed, breaking your lips from seunghyun’s, kissing your neck deeper than before. seunghyun moved quickly, the back of his head caught by your palm, effectively bringing him back to your lips. your other hand aimlessly reached into jiyong’s hair, unintentionally scratching his scalp, only to feel the vibrations of a whimper against your warming skin. he made his gradual way back to your lips, battling it out with seunghyun. at some point, you didn’t feel either of their lips on yours anymore—removing your face from the equation entirely. “okay.” you said simply. seunghyun and jiyong both open their eyes, instantly breaking apart. “i’m going to bed.” you get up as if nothing happened, thankful your back was turned to them whilst your grin deepened in their stunned silence, slipping your shoes on without issue. they looked at each other, their heads whipping around at the sound of the door slamming.

“her—her number!” jiyong exclaimed. he turned to his best friend, who was stuck in a lustful, longing gaze, mouth hung slightly open. “wh—wha—” “her number, seunghyun!” jiyong got up, boner visible through his underwear. “i—i can’t go out like this!” he started to panic. seunghyun kissed his teeth, swatting jiyong’s boner hard, making him fall back onto the bed. “have to do everything my fucking self.” he muttered under his breath, opening the door. “f-fuck you . . .” jiyong called out meekly, clutching his groin, stuffing his face into the duvet. seunghyun jogged down the hallway, seeing you waiting for the elevator. “hey!” he was relieved, catching his breath. “i—” he quickly corrected himself. a freudian slip, if you remembered correctly from the psychology gen-ed you took freshman year. “we, uh—we never got your number.” he cleared his throat. you heard the flub, the corners of your lips turning upward. “right.” you nodded. “i left my phone in my room. do you have yours on you?” “yeah,” seunghyun patted his thighs. “oh, thank god.” he whispered under his breath, fishing his blackberry out of his pocket.

“just got it recently. its a newer—uh, sleek design.” what the fuck am i talking about right now? he shook his head in your understandable silence, glancing at the floor—just now realizing he didn’t have shoes on. you rolled the trackball, rifling through his screen to find the button reading ‘new contact.’ you paused: “are you going to give it to jiyong too?” “y-yeah.” seunghyun answered a little too quickly. the prolonged eye contact waiting for you to believe him didn’t help, either. for seunghyun, tonight was full of surprises, but you were the most perplexing of all, because in a matter of seconds—in three blinks, nonetheless—you got out of him what took his ex-girlfriend weeks of fragmented phone calls and battling an avoidant attachment style to get: the truth. “no.” he corrected himself, eyes softening. he shook his head, “i wasn’t planning on it.” after a beat, you finished typing your name and number in, handing him his phone. he looked at the small screen in awe adjacent to disbelief, attention diverting to your “goodnight,” when the elevator doors opened. “n-night!”

“so?” jiyong asked. his boner was slowly—agonizingly slowly—going down, safely tucked underneath a pillow. “did you get her number?” seunghyun closed the door behind him,“nah, man.” he lied effortlessly through his teeth. he shook his head, “i looked everywhere for her. she must’ve gotten into the elevator as soon as she left.” jiyong huffed, planting his head against the headboard in defeat. “damn.” “what did i say though, huh?” seunghyun smirked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “she picked you first.” “don’t remind me.” jiyong felt his temples start to perspire. “this shit just started going down.” he chuckled sheepishly behind his palms, a low laugh ringing out of seunghyun’s chest. “she’s unbelievable, seunghyun.” “i know.” he concurred, nodding. flashes of what went down spoiled his mind filthy, wetting his lips with his tongue. “how lucky are we?” “lucky indeed.” jiyong wiped the sweat off his forehead, settling in comfortably against the headboard. seunghyun’s eyebrows furrowed, “hold on. is that my fucking pillow?” “i don’t know. maybe? they all look identical.” “give me that shit, man.” he snatched it away from jiyong, ignoring his sharp inhale from the sudden change of temperature. “better not see any—” seunghyun cut himself off with a shudder. “fuck you,” jiyong threw the other pillow at his head. “you’ve done worse.”

not one call or text. nothing. “i should’ve fucking known.” you murmured to yourself at the end of the fourth day, irrationally checking your t-mobile sidekick for the second time in three minutes. your fingers ran over the tactile buttons, attention diverting to a teammate calling your name. you looked at the clock hanging above the open classroom door—it was two past seven. “is everyone here?” a wave of nods and mhms concurred, “great.” you tossed your phone into your backpack, getting up from your chair, gesturing to the agenda of this week’s general body meeting inscribed on the chalkboard. “let’s get started, then.” two weeks later, it was out of your head; exited your periphery; behind you. you had other priorities: a senior thesis to finish outlining and begin writing before thanksgiving break, preparation the national debate tournament in the spring semester, and dense fucking assigned readings. whoever said senior year was more lax than others was a boldface fucking liar. you can��t remember the last time you felt this stressed. was it normal for a university as demanding as yours? yes. that doesn’t mean it should be, though.

jiyong was on high alert. he could not stop thinking about you—mind running the night at the hotel on a loop; spoiling himself thinking about cute date ideas and what’d you think of his music taste; his daydreams lulling him to sleep at night and greeting him first thing in the morning; sharply turning his head on his walk to tennis practice thinking he saw you, only to scurry away when it was just someone with a similar hairstyle; and going as far as to contemplate visiting every coffee shop on campus on the off-chance he would run into you. it was as if he was experiencing having a crush for the first time in his life with how giddy and nervous he felt—the rush felt good. maybe he’s being dramatic, but some part of him felt alive again, even if the thought of looking into your eyes made his underarms tingle with unease. there was a new pep in his step. one seunghyun took notice of in how jiyong’s swings were recently more crisp and packed a harder punch, earning more compliments than usual from their coach, but didn’t offer his own two cents in. not that jiyong noticed—he was too busy finishing his drills to the thought of you cheering for him in the stands.

until it all culminated in an unexpected way. it started off great: jiyong lost in some fantasy whilst somewhere deep in his rem cycle—blurry frames of his shoes skidding against the court with his racket tightly in hand, his teaching assistant from his populism lecture spring semester of sophomore year randomly congratulating him in an empty dining hall in the middle of the night, and you. you. the dream unfolded quickly, yet took its time in showing you sat at his desk in his room, working on an assignment in a different t-shirt and shorts than what you wore to the hotel room. it suddenly switched to you and jiyong together in his bed—his eyes functioning as the makeshift camera—him fucking you deliciously from behind. he could see the globes of your round ass recoil every time you met his pelvis; squish your lush waist in his palms, pawing at his sheets in his sleep; could’ve sworn he felt your slick coating his hardening cock in his briefs, grinding into nothing before turning onto his side, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth and onto his pillow.

he could hear himself and you: “sh—shit, b-baby!” “o—oh my god—” before he could hear his name, a pair of hands that weren’t his own cascaded down your bare ass, kneading your cheeks unapologetically—almost territorially. dubious dream logic certainly worked its magic, because jiyong didn’t know where his hands went, making his eyebrows furrow and fingers sink into the linen. his eyes trailed up your bare back, hearing your moans and whimpers intensify, suddenly becoming muffled—replaced by loud, obnoxious, wet, almost hungry sounds of lips colliding. he recognized that head of black, shaggy hair—seunghyun. completely naked and underneath you, having you for himself. “wh—whaa—wait . . . no . . .” jiyong murmured in his sleep. he looked down in the dream, seeing seunghyun fucking you from below. the pace was unrelenting and felt intentionally brash, almost as if to say—“s-seunghyun!” your moan was perfect and clear, making a nauseating weight press deep into jiyong’s chest, infecting his lungs with unrelenting haste. you were so much louder than you were with him. so much more . . . alive. the sound of yours and seunghyun’s skin manically slapping together induced panic, suddenly aware he was in a dream, but stuck with irrational fear he would never get out.

jiyong suddenly woke up, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. that was fucking weird, his inner monologue grumbled. i hated that. he squinted at the sunlight seeping through his curtains, slipping his arms from underneath his duvet, stretching them generously over his head—elbows slightly sore from practice earlier this morning. a long yawn drew from his lungs, going to stretch his back next, sucking in a breath so sharp he nearly descended into a coughing fit. he lifted the duvet, his crotch heavy and wet, seeing the medium-sized spot on his briefs. from her, he bitterly clarified to himself. not from that fucked up ending. he gradually sat up, quietly hissing at the discomfort below his waist. he looked over at his bedside table, eyes widening in panic. “shit!” he exclaimed, realizing there was less than an hour before his lecture. he hastily got to his feet, heading out of his bedroom, booking it to the bathroom to freshen up.

you lugged the heavy door open, entering the building with a huff. it was the largest lecture hall on campus, housing ten rooms with capacities for over 450 students each. usually used for arts and humanities, it was also home for pre-requisite courses for popular majors such as economics, biology, or any other stem-related fields. for you, it hosted one of the last credits necessary to graduate—an essential course for your major. you made your way to room 403, noticing the crowd of students lounging outside the door. some leaned against the tall windows, others sat whilst conversing on the carpeted floors about the past weekend. previous lecture must be running late, you pondered internally. you couldn’t help but feel relieved, jetting to the nearest bathroom, your iced coffee from earlier this morning making itself known in your bladder.

jiyong filed into the building five minutes later. he thought he was hallucinating, seeing you hold the door for someone heading into the bathroom as you walked out—remnants of his wet dream still percolating in his senses, even after his ice cold shower. “no fucking way.” he muttered to himself, peeking over the shoulders of those taller than him to keep his innocently excited eyes on you. you lifted your head, hearing your name, stood in your own momentary disbelief. “oh my god?” you blurted without thinking, why did he feel like a figment of my imagination? these past two weeks were akin to months from how your brain rewired its priorities. in the presence of someone so sweet, however, it suddenly felt as if you never left that mixer bar. “you take law of democracy?” you were shocked. “wait, what’s your major?” “political science.” answered jiyong, fixing the way his stanford baseball cap rested on his head. the conversation felt juvenile, like this should’ve been the first thing you two ever talked about, not after your tongues became acquaintances. “me too.” you gestured to yourself. “did we not bring that up before?” “i think—i think there was something else on our minds the last time we saw each other.” he scratched the back of his neck, exhaling through his nostrils. an upside-down grin tugged at the corners of your mouth, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. “how come i’ve never seen you around before, jiyong?” you asked, tone more relaxed. “what’s your track? i’m international relations.” you nodded, “that’ll explain it. i’m law and justice.” jiyong smirked, unable to stop his blossoming smile. “are you sure you don’t want to be president one day?”

you tsked, nudging his shoulder with your palm. he felt his heart leap, masking it behind a soft chuckle. “i’m sure.” you told him. students from the previous lecture filed out, inadvertently beckoning you inside. “maybe i’d be an advisor, but someone else can be in the hot seat.” “fair enough, fair enough.” jiyong giggled sweetly, over the moon. he was a few paces behind you in the large lecture hall, swiftly catching up when the few people between you two took their seats. “hey.” “hi.” the effortless smoothness in your voice made him smile nervously. “do you mind if i—” “—no, not at all.” you said earnestly, gesturing for him to sit next to you. jiyong settled in on your right, snug against your elbow. not that he was complaining. or you, for that matter. he used his proximity to you wisely: eyes fluttering into a subtle sideways glance your way, only to be humbled when his mind randomly flashed him a frame from his earlier psychological excursion; pocketing the sound of your small giggle at the note he scribbled in the margin of his lined notebook paper: the person next to me is ripping ass, to which you wrote back im sorry ˙◠˙.

he trailed politely behind you on the walk up the stairs following your professor’s dismissal, panicking slightly upon hearing “i guess i’ll see you on thursday, jiyong,” referring to the next time lecture was to reconvene later in the week. “s-see you.” his mind scrambled to keep you tethered to him. you waved, intent on heading to the library, until the lightbulb went off in his head: “would you—would you wanna come to a party on saturday?” god bless his roommate who mentioned it to him earlier. “with you?” you asked, pointing to him. “i mean—i mean—” jiyong’s mouth suddenly felt dry. it was a pleasurable sight, seeing him look everywhere and at everyone but you. “y-yeah.” he nodded. “with me.”

you turned around, facing him completely. a smile stretched your lips. you lifted your hand above your eyebrows, working as a makeshift visor from the bright california sun above you. “i’ll go if you’re taking me, jiyong.” you said. “you don’t have anything for debate?” his words spilled out of his mouth, but wasn’t necessarily incoherent, i really need to work on how easily anxious i get. you shook your head, “i’m my busiest on thursdays, which is when we meet.” you explained. “we don’t have any competitions until the spring. we haven’t started prep yet, either. so you’ve lucked out.” the smile on jiyong’s face could have thawed any pessimist’s heart. it surely did the trick for you. “cool.” he nodded, letting out a sweet-sounding laugh. “that’s really cool—” he cleared his throat, “—is it okay if i get your number? i can call you tonight. we can coordinate a pick-up time, and all—all that.” seeing you nod, he handed you his slide-up nokia.

unlike seunghyun, jiyong kept his word. he called right at the time you told him you’d be free to talk, unpacking your backpack with him on the other side of the line at half past five. it was times like these you were lucky to have a single dorm room, free to do whatever you want with the scholarship money to back you up. “you’re headed to practice again?” you questioned, fishing your laundry basket out of your closet, shoulder keeping your phone to your ear, intent on doing a load before dinner. “i thought you said you went this morning?” “i did, yeah.” jiyong stepped off the campus shuttle, walking towards the university’s athletic center. “sometimes i just want extra cardio. other days my coach isn’t in the best mood and we have to compensate for it.” he looked both ways before crossing the street, hustling behind a crowd of gym-goers before the doors closed. “luckily, today’s the former.” “i would be in the worst mood ever. all the time.” “i get that,” jiyong let out a laugh, scanning his student id, entering the locker room. “s'not so bad when you’ve done it your entire life.” “you’re built different, jiyong.” “i couldn’t do what you do, either.” “all i do is argue.” “and all i do is hit a ball with a racket. consider us both inept.”

come the end of practice friday morning, seunghyun couldn’t take the look on jiyong’s face anymore. “what's got you all giddy?” he hastily wiped his sweat with a microfiber towel, throwing it into his duffel bag on the bench between them. they were the only two of their team left in the locker room, the time nearing eight. jiyong entered his combination, twisting the knob and pulling his locker open. seunghyun did the same, eyes flickering to the side at the mention of your name. “turns out, we’ve had a class together this entire time. what’re the chances, yknow?” jiyong thought aloud. seunghyun didn’t say anything, suddenly preoccupied with the lid of his gatorade squeeze bottle. “anyway, i invited her out on saturday.” seunghyun looked over, “'out?' “since when were you so casual about dates? you used to almost piss yourself at the thought.” “i mean, i guess?” jiyong looked over his shoulder at seunghyun. he shrugged his shoulders, “she’s easy to talk to.” says the one who couldn’t look into her eyes for longer than five fucking seconds at the hotel, seunghyun’s psyche gave into his brewing frustration. “why didn’t you tell me you had a class together?”

“because you’re not my fucking dad?” answered jiyong, tone easy, wondering what the fuck seunghyun’s problem was. “is that okay with you, or?” he joked, shaking his head with a light scoff, hoping the tension wouldn’t escalate further. seunghyun turned his back on him, rifling through his locker. “you’re being selfish, ji.” he muttered. that was the last straw: “no, i’m not.” jiyong turned around fully, approaching the bench, nonverbally daring seunghyun to face him. “i mean, look who’s talking.” he added, kissing his teeth. he knew what the crux of this tension was, the bitter wound still fresh: “its not my fault coach is making you do drills tomorrow night.”

seunghyun let out a long sigh. one hand rested on his hip whilst the other pinched the bridge of his nose. how fucking simple-minded can he be? sure, it was partially true: a foul-mouthed comment, bursting at the seams over what his coach thought was going to be a passive disagreement over strategy. but seunghyun’s endured this bullshit a million times over the years, so it wasn’t a big deal . . . or it shouldn’t be a big deal. because all of a sudden, he felt he could light the entire place on fire from how irritably his stomach churned at the thought of being somewhere so mundane on a saturday night whilst jiyong was—was with you. he doesn’t fucking deserve it, his thoughts vitriolic. but maybe i don’t either. he loved having power in his hands—a girl wondering if he’ll call her until her eye bags deepen and self-esteem depletes, enriching his senses like a high. seunghyun knew he was hot shit and had no problem acting like it. in these last couple of weeks, however, he’s suffered the realization of it only works when she comes crawling to you, and you had no business trailing after a man—period. he’s learned his lesson the hard way—stifling his bruised ego behind tightened lips at coho a week after the mixer, spotting you at the café though you didn’t see him. if he went down, he was taking jiyong with him.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about, ji.” “just shut up, man. you don’t know what you’re talking about.” jiyong dismissed, turning back around with a curt tsk. “i’m taking her to that party and you can stay mad about it.” “you really think i’m mad about some party—” seunghyun attempted to deflect, to remain steady with the upper hand, but jiyong wasn’t having it. “you just called me selfish two seconds ago. don’t suddenly start speaking a different language.” jiyong looked over his shoulder a few moments later, seeing seunghyun’s eyes already on him. “i saw her first, seunghyun.” jiyong told him, tone unwavering. he wasn’t going to be apologetic this time, accept a cigarette to shut him up, or succumb to the definitive pat on the shoulder disguised as part of their brotherly bond, “you know that.” he punctuated. seunghyun slammed his locker shut, abruptly zipping his duffel bag and hoisting it over his shoulder, heading to the exit. jiyong didn’t flinch. “you don’t even know what to do with all that.” seunghyun mumbled to himself, boarding the campus shuttle, heading to his apartment.

the party was great to the point that if seunghyun were there, seeing you and jiyong giggling so closely on the couch that your respective red solo cups tinkered together, it would not have ended well for anyone. your shared evening was spent at a student-rented sublet on the outskirts of campus, hosted by friends jiyong’s had since freshman year. he was the perfect gentleman the entire night: opening the car door both when picking you up and arriving at the party, taking diligent mental note of the snacks you wanted; sorting an array of chips, pretzels, and a handful of m&ms to share on a paper plate, introducing you to his friends whenever they were around, not making a face when you brought your drink to the bathroom instead of asking him to hold it for you; but held your purse as seriously as a club bouncer, and making you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world with how his eyes never lost that awestruck glimmer.

you took yourselves outside to the patio later in the night, sat comfortably on the cushioned bench overlooking the crowded curb. jiyong leaned back, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms over his chest, nodding as your conversation trailed to post-grad plans. “i need to turn my brain off for at least a month.” you told him. “just a month?” “maybe a little bit more,” you finished your drink, setting the now empty cup aside on the floor. “but those job applications aren’t going to finish themselves.” “true, true.” he nodded, running his hands through his hair. “i take it you want to go pro.” he smiled, “you’re a quick learner.” you gave him a look of faux-offense. “i would be remised not to be.” you countered. “imagine after all this time, i didn’t know a thing about you—let alone the most, like, defining quality.” “there’s more to me.” he shrugged his shoulders, failing miserably at keeping up his newly acquainted toughened-front, succumbing to his deepening upside-down grin. “yes, that’s true.” you concurred. “but still.” “i know, i know. m'just playing.” he chuckled.

“but you’re right, i want to go pro. training for that will begin as soon as humanely possible.” jiyong thought aloud, hearing you hum in acknowledgement. “i may or may not do the us open. depends on what the regiment is and where my focus is at, but i might end up cornered into it anyway.” “hearing you talk about that so casually is extraordinary.” you chuckled, hearing him snicker. “but if you do decide to do the open, should i expect a cute little invitation in the mail?” you knew the question sounded ridiculous, hence the out-of-character word choice to compensate for your sudden sheepishness. “oh, of course. without a doubt.” he nodded. to you, he was playing along, but he was being entirely serious. “you’ll have your own spot in beijing come 2008, too.” he referred to the future host nation of the olympic games, making you grin. “i’ll clear my schedule then.” you spoke softly, thumb running over your purse sat in your lap. your eyes cast downward. jiyong felt the air change, too, suddenly finding his jeans interesting.

“do you think—” him clearing his throat led you to look at him. “in that—that month where your brain’s turned off, you might turn it back on to answer a call from me?” “i do, yeah.” your heart softened, tone so tender he felt like the only man in the world. “i do, jiyong.” his cheeks were ablaze, nodding and licking his lips to thwart his heart flatlining. “cool, cool.” he muttered, running his perspiring palms along his thighs. his world stopped turning, feeling something rest atop his fingers. he dared to glance down, seeing your soft skin bless his calloused hands in real time. jiyong went on auto-pilot, blinking and suddenly having your hand in his; fingers gently intertwined, your joined hands resting atop his thigh serenely. his eyes fluttered closed, sucking in a quiet breath feeling your temple land gingerly on his shoulder. his subconscious spoke for him: your eyes closing in content, jiyong’s head nestled against yours.

you two walked to his car an hour later. though your hands are to your selves—his stuffed in his pockets, yours behind your back; purse strap slung off your curled fingers. the house is at a moderate distance behind you, music muffled yet lively, filling the comfortable silence. when you approached the car, you glanced in his direction, seeing he already had the same idea. you let out a laugh. so did jiyong, turning his head the other way upon feeling his cheeks warm. after a moment, your breathing leveled, walking a few paces to your right, fleetingly focused on the sight of a bunny dashing across someone’s yard. jiyong, on the other hand, is perpetually attempting to just work up the courage, turning and leaning his back against his car, eyes returning to you. you turned around, seeing his unabashed gaze, the way he rubbed his face with his hand leading you to wonder aloud: “what?” his hands returned to his pockets, failing to bite back his sheepish grin. “i really wanna kiss you right now.” he descended into nervous giggles, kicking at nothing on the asphalt below him.

you walked over, those nine paces making his heartbeat pound louder between his temples with every step you took. “you’ve done it before.” you looked into his eyes. “what’s stopping you now?” you offered a gentle, kind grin. meanwhile, every nerve in jiyong’s body was working overtime to keep him conscious. you waited patiently, a soft breath exiting your nostrils, eyes fluttering to the aged wu-tang clan logo on his shirt. jiyong’s palms made residence on either side of your face, bringing you to his lips. the way he kissed you was reminiscent of the infamous night that’s since riddled his senses with longing and insatiable hunger: firm and sweet—saying things if he merely attempted to verbalize, would only clog his throat with inexplicable anxiety. you dropped your bag, palms riding up his biceps, resting atop his shoulders—kissing him back in a way that, for once in life, didn’t give his brain a chance to doubt himself.

but some part of him still needed to see it to believe it, breaking the kiss. you looked at each other for a beat, his breath tickling your mouth. now you were the one with your lips open, hovering above his. an exhale escaped his nose, seeing a mirror reflection of desire seeping from your pores. holy shit—you cut his inner monologue off: “come back here.” you murmured pleadingly, hands on either side of his neck, pulling him in. the tension builds quickly; your back landed against the car, jiyong’s hand slipped underneath your thigh when you lifted your leg, bringing him closer. you feel each other over your clothes—your hands traveling hastily through his hair and down his back; his arms wrapping around your waist, palms barely able to get a good grasp on either globe of your ass. jiyong tried to compensate with the tilt of his head, deepening the kiss. you obliged: holding on the back of his neck whilst your nails gently raked against his scalp.

oh god, oh god—he cut himself off this time: “f-fuck—” he whimpered into your mouth. that was all you needed to hear. one of your hands reached aimlessly behind you, tugging at the door handle. a yelp from you abruptly ended the kiss, his car alarm blaring for the entire fucking world to hear. “shit!” you exclaimed, clutching your chest. jiyong patted his thighs down frantically, fishing his keys out of his left pocket. he pressed his fob, the alarm ceasing. before he could finish his breath of relief, your fingers wrapped around the handle: “unlock it,” you told him. “wanna get in the backseat.” “o—okay.” jiyong pressed his fob again, unlocking the door. you got inside, scooting to the opposite seat, leaving the other for him. “shit—your bag.” he picked it up, sliding it over the shoulder of the driver’s seat, hearing it land without issue.

with the door closed and car locked, you and jiyong were effectively in your own world. never mind the partygoers who had a clear view of the brewing, unadulterated sin once they walked passed his windshield—all that mattered was you two. you kissed him slowly and with intent, hands holding his cheeks tenderly whilst his was reached over your lap, tracing the side of your thick thigh sensually. it was an ego boost to hear him begin to softly whimper with every other kiss, leaning in more once your hand found the back of his head—other palm warming the back of his neck after his found your lower back, fingers nestled underneath the hem of your shirt. he whimpered again feeling you smile into the kiss, pleasantly surprised when he added his tongue into the mix.

you beckoned silently for him to lean back into his seat. your hand cascaded down his chest, palm rubbing his toned stomach through his shirt—hinting at something with your lowering touch. his tongue toyed with yours for a little longer before letting you know he got the idea: “you can touch me.” he whispered, irrationally afraid he’d break the illustrious tension if he spoke at a certain volume, “its okay.” “undo your belt for me.” you spoke quietly, too. jiyong gently broke the kiss, lips wet and slightly swollen, lowering his chin to look at his buckle—only for you to lift it with your fingers, bringing his lips back to yours. his fingers scrambled to undo his belt, gap between his knees widening to make room for whatever’s been cooking underneath his jeans. his briefs felt tight. he was afraid to look down. he tilted his head to the side, the slight squeak of your lips parting making his brain feel fuzzy. “you should grow this out,” you spoke softly against his mouth, thumb running over his three-day stubble. “it suits you.”

the only response he could muster was another frail whimper against the wrinkles of your gorgeous lips, taking his pouty ministrations to your cheek and soft jawline after you broke the kiss to catch your breath. you looked down, an amused smile brightening your features. “there’s no way you got that hard in five minutes.” “its been longer than that. . .” he muttered into your neck, hiding his warming face. “okay, then what? five and a half?” “stop. . .” jiyong drew the last syllable out, growing more embarrassed by the second. “okay, okay.” you gave in. “its just that i’ve never seen a mountain so up close before.” “oh my god—stop!” he exclaimed, though fragmented through his timid chuckles. you let out a laugh, too, jiyong biting his bottom lip when you gingerly rubbed his stomach through his shirt. he sucked in a breath, feeling his dick exposed to the air of the car, your fingers curled and tugged at the band of his briefs—setting it free after he lifted his hips.

“you should’ve seen me when you left our room,” he licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “was so worked up—didn’t go down for another t-two hours.” “aw,” you jutted your bottom lip out. your hand snuck underneath his shirt, palm tracing his bare stomach side to side. “should’ve called me. i would’ve helped you fix your little problem. well, its not exactly little.” you corrected yourself, feeling the vibrations of his chuckle against your skin. it wasn’t exactly a third leg, but it was enough to make your mind wander off, your lingering stares fruitful with mounting lust. “didn’t have your number.” “i gave it to seunghyun.” “you did? wh—when?” “at the elevator.” you said. your hand trailed up his chest, nails poking out the collar of his shirt. jiyong straightened his posture, lifting his head from your neck. “why’re you—” he nearly lost his words, licking his lips to ground himself. “why’re you telling me this now?” he asked, looking into your eyes.

to be completely candid with yourself, you didn’t know entirely why. was it a slip of the tongue, or does he deserve to know? or is some part of me still frustrated that seunghyun never called? “because you’re a good friend, jiyong.” you told him sincerely. “to him.” you clarified, hand trailing back down to his stomach. “are we—” he cleared his throat. “are we . . . just friends?” you looked into his eyes, “not if you don’t want to be.” he shook his head, body speaking before he did: “i don’t wanna be.” “okay,” you said softly, nodding. his eyes fluttered down to your lips as you gradually leaned in, kissing him gently. “okay.” you repeated in affirmation, stirring something in jiyong. his hands held your face, co-existing in this world of impenetrable intimacy by your side. he’s never felt this divinely close with someone before—so many unspoken words, yet it all felt so loud and perhaps the feeling that attracted him the most: unapologetic. you wanted him, and he wanted you. that’s all he needs.

his tongue tousled with yours again, egged on by your satisfied huff. your fingers reached lower, wrapping around his hardened cock, stroking slowly. “fuck,” he let out sharply, kissing you deeper. you slowly—agonizingly so—broke the kiss, feeling his breath brush against your skin, mouth greedily hovering above yours. you turned, head so close to jiyong’s his lips brushed against your cheek, settling his forehead on your temple without another word. though it was dark, you could make out your hand enveloping his dick. if sight was an issue, the sound of his pre cum would suffice enough. you gingerly swiped some off the slit atop his tip with your thumb, hearing his breath hitch in your ear, him biting his bottom lip as you continued your ministrations. “with how hard you say you got, and how hard you are now,” you said, “i can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever seen a pretty girl before.” you smiled to yourself, finding your joke amusing.

“not as pretty as—” his voice cracked, quickly swallowing. “not as p-pretty as you.” “oh, yeah?” his cock was slick enough to warrant a firmer hold in your palm, making jiyong’s eyebrows furrow deeply, using every nerve in his body to thwart his brain’s desire to just shut off completely. you turned your head, enamored with how heavy his eyelids looked. “are you saying that just to get your dick wet?” you asked, purposefully playing up your faux-innocent tone. he started shaking his head, a small gasp leaving his lips when you momentarily ceased jerking him off, palm returning to his bare stomach. “you can tell me the truth, jiyong.” you nodded, the feeling of your nails gently raking against his skin making his toes curl in his sneakers. “i like guys who’re honest, anyway.” “i’m being so fucking for real—” his voice quivered. “you’re the prettiest girl—prettiest w-woman i’ve ever m-met.” you were satisfied. “good.” you murmured. jiyong moaned more vulnerably than intended, feeling the ghost of your touch pass the top of his ballsack, your fingers stroking his cock from the base to the head. “good boy.” you said definitively, seeing his jaw fall open in your periphery, eyebrows contorting sinfully. “o—oh my f-fucking g-god—”

their coach left hours ago, but seunghyun remained in the indoor tennis court at stanford’s athletic center. he tossed his racket aside, tugging his sweat-soaked shirt off from the neck. he continued his drills, grabbing a fresh tennis ball from his duffel bag before yanking his racket up, tossing the ball above his head—thwackkkkk!—the dash of lime green flew in the air, bouncing off the wall fifteen feet away, his arm muscles contracting—hitting it back-and-forth with characteristic groans his sport would be arguably unrecognizable without. he can’t remember the last thing he ate—a protein bar, maybe? at like 8:30 pm?—but his mind was elsewhere. “shit.” he muttered, jogging to his left when the ball traveled out of his reach, hiking it back in the air without issue. the vein on his temple popped fiercely every time he remembered where jiyong was, knuckles whitening around his racket’s grip, grunts starting to make his chest burn.

he hit the ball with less power, catching it swiftly in his hand, making his way over to the bench. he sat down, taking a generous gulp of ice water from his squeeze bottle, breathing heavily. he ignored how uncomfortably his shorts stuck to his thighs, or how ticklish the beads of sweat trickling down his spine felt, intent on doing another set before heading home. seunghyun held the second round of water in his mouth before swallowing, closing his eyes, leveling his breathing. it was of no use: his brain didn’t hesitate to torture him, stream of consciousness poisoned by the nauseating prospect of jiyong with his tongue down your throat, or worse, yours down his. he kissed his teeth, standing up with the shake of his head. throughout the evening, seunghyun’s felt himself come closer to a metaphorical boiling point. through his own stubbornness, however, he’s refused to acknowledge it. until the ball landed a little too far to his right, sending his poor racket crashing to the ground.

“fuck!” he exclaimed, low voice echoing throughout the empty court. “fuck this shit, man!” he stood in silence for a few fleeting moments, internally wrestling with his suffocated frustration. the outburst was needed, he knew that much, though vivid shame followed afterward. in this moment of clarity, seunghyun got himself together. by the grace of the universe, his racket didn’t suffer any injuries, safely tucked back into its case without further protest. he sat on the bench, bending down to rifle through his duffel bag, finding a spare shirt lodged at the bottom. after retying a loose shoelace, a sudden wave of panic enveloped him: unzipping the side pocket of his duffel, fishing out his blackberry. its only 11:15, he let out a long exhale. last campus shuttle’s at midnight.

the shuttle came every twenty or so minutes, so seunghyun was more than keen on heading out, about to lug his bags over either shoulder—until his bitterness re-appeared in an alternate form: an idea. his blackberry returned to his line of sight, rolling the trackball to your contact. he pressed the green call button, bringing the phone to his ear. voicemail. no surprise there. he dialed again. voicemail. what the fuck am i even—and again. and again—“f-fuck!” jiyong panted, toes curling so hard he was on the verge of giving himself a charley’s horse. he caught his breath when you slowed your pace, allotting your wrist a brief pause. you reached down, stretching your palm over his heavy ballsack, hearing his heavy breaths. “feel good?” you asked. “you have no fucking idea.” he inhaled sharply through his nostrils. you hummed in content, nudging the bridge of your nose against his, molding your lips together. you soothed his racing heartbeat, breathing life into him—oh god. i’m in deep, he thought to himself, tilting his head comfortably to his right, kissing you back passionately.

your phone rang silently in your purse in the driver’s seat. after the sixth attempt, seunghyun turned off his phone in pointless protest, looking at other partygoers on the shuttle with tight-lipped malice. jiyong parted his lips from yours, hot breath sending goosebumps down your spine, kisses trailing your cheek to below your ear. he settled on your neck, gently sucking and nipping at the lush spot of your supple skin. “mmph,” your eyes fluttered closed, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “thats right.” you murmured quietly. jiyong earned a breathy moan from you, the warmth of his tongue running over your neck caught you blissfully off guard, sucking harder than intended when you started stroking his cock again. “harder—suck harder, just like that—” you gasped, thighs rubbing together subconsciously. you adjusted your grip on his dick after it slipped out of your hand, biting your bottom lip, trying to focus with your increasingly fuzzying mind. “f-fuck, jiyong.” “wanna t-taste you.” “i don’t think—” you caught your breath. “i don’t think there’s enough room for that here without pulling a muscle.” you joked lightly, the vibrations of his whimper humbling you real quick.

he sucked firmly, begging nonverbally—“f-fuck!” you gasped. “like that—oh my god, like that.” jiyong continued his ministrations diligently, hand coming up to your cheek to keep you in place. his mind clouded his senses with a fantasy—your words and how euphoric your hand felt pumping his cock not helping his desperate state whatsoever. “h-harder.” you whispered, eyes snapping open when his hips suddenly bucked upward. it was his muffled, perishable moan that helped you put the pieces together—getting a fair picture of what he was thinking about. you didn’t spare him: “are you thinking about fucking me?” he whimpered again, peppering kisses onto your fresh hickey, trying to thwart his shame in thinking such lewd thoughts unabashedly. “what did i say?” you tutted, hand traveling higher, closing in on his tip. “i like guys who’re honest with me, jiyong.” “y-yes!” he mewled. “i was—i was thinking about fucking you!”

he was barely able to open his eyes, “you’re just … you’re just so—mmph!” his voice squeaked several octaves higher. your grip was now solely focused on his tip and a few centimeters below, stroking mercilessly. “y-you’re just s-so—you have this e-effect—oh my, f-fuck—o-on me—” “you don’t need to explain yourself,” you told him, sincere. you leaned closer to his ear, pressing a soft kiss. “keep thinking about it.” jiyong let out the most vulnerable moan you’ve heard yet. “go on. you can do it.” your tone was gentle, contrasting wildly with how your hand made his tip red and angrier by the second. “how do i feel, hm? you can tell me. i wanna know.” “you f-feel so fucking good,” he gasped, the knot threatening to unravel in his abdomen. his eyes were glossy, “best i’ve e-ever had.” “are you giving it to me good?” “s-so good, baby,” he panted. “you—you have no f-fucking idea.”

the feeling of your smile against his cheek made him cave his stomach inward harshly, swearing off his orgasm until the perfect moment. “i like the sound of that.” you chuckled, licking your lips in satisfaction. “are you close, jiyongie?” oh my fucking god. “my wrist is getting tired again—” “—yes! y-yes!” he cut you off frantically, trying to find his words in his current blinding, lust-filled haze. “c-call me—call me that again!” “what? jiyongie?” “yes! oh my fucking god, baby, i’m gonna—” “c'mon, jiyongie. i know you can give—” “—f-fuck!” for a few seconds, he couldn’t breathe. his breaths came out in stutters, back arching so sharply his elbows cracked. he effectively ruined the bottom half of his shirt—his desire criss-crossing messily onto the fabric, some drizzling down your wrist. his moans were raw and human: initially high pitched at the height of his orgasm, descending into guttural grunts upon coming back down to earth. jiyong weakly turned his head towards you after a few quiet minutes, your fingers wiping the tear that had escaped the corner of his right eye, gradually nursing him back to life with your soft, merciful lips blessing his.

it was amusing—plugging in your sidekick the next morning after forgetting to charge it overnight, seeing six missed calls and two unread texts from the same person: seunghyun. you yawned, stretching your arms above your head. you rubbed the remnants of slumber from your eyes, picking your phone up afterwards, dialing jiyong. you grinned sleepily at the sound of his low voice. he must’ve just woken up, too, “morning,” another yawn escaped you. “no practice today?” “i slept in.” he murmured, turning onto his side, eyes fluttering closed at the cool feeling of his pillowcase against his cheek. “have to make it up tonight.” “sorry for inconveniencing your routine.” “don’t say that,” he tutted. “you’ll never be an inconvenience.” you licked your bottom lip in thought. “wanna meet up for breakfast?” “of course.” jiyong said without hesitation. “what time?” “in an hour?” you contemplated aloud. “i have to become a person again.” “no problem.” you heard the smile in his voice. “i’ll take the shuttle to you.” jiyong vaguely remembered the general location of your residential hall, having sent you off with a sweet goodnight kiss in his car less than eight hours ago, endearingly succumbed to the embarrassment of not wanting to walk out in a shirt hotly tainted by your effect on him.

you saw each other outside of your shared class that following week—lunch here, kisses before he headed to practice there, cheeks warming over a cute text another morning. jiyong and seunghyun filed in for tennis practice early on monday as per usual routine, but avoided each other like the plague—lingering wounds from their previous argument going unacknowledged, coupled with seunghyun’s pride stifling his budding curiosity over what went down saturday night. their teammates took notice, initially caught off guard by their cutthroat tension. come tuesday morning, the itch to know became unbearable. seunghyun knew he couldn’t come in hot, so he eased into it, casually asking jiyong “do you have spare kt tape?”, a small win when handed the roll wordlessly before heading to the outdoor court; pulling humorous yet familiarly disarming faces when paired together for drills—a strategic tool in his arsenal dating back to mending petty arguments throughout their childhood; and the classic “y'know i can’t live without you, ji.” which more or less earned him his best friend back, though the honest statement held contrasting intent. “i was out of line last week.” he admitted, albeit skirting around the crux of it—an explicit apology foreign to his vernacular. “i don’t know what got over me.” “s'fine, seunghyun.” jiyong looked him in the eyes, “just let me know next time you’ve got a stick up your ass.”

seunghyun didn’t bring you up until wednesday morning: “she tell you to grow this out?” his tone was playful, nudging jiyong’s chin with his finger. jiyong smiled, his own fingers tracing hair lining his upper lip and peppering his chin. “yeah.” he confirmed, the two of them walking past various weight rooms at the athletic center. seunghyun nodded, “looks good. suits you.” they approached the doors leading to the outdoor court, seunghyun holding it open for jiyong. he zeroed in: “what do you mean you won’t say?” “i don’t kiss and tell.” seunghyun’s eyebrows furrowed, but kept his tone light, his effortless chuckle helping his case. “since when?” “since she looked at me like she’d stop seeing me if i told anyone.” jiyong answered. its true: he did see an unreadable look in his periphery after mentioning it whilst studying in your dorm the other day . . . or perhaps “maybe i’m just overthinking it,” he muttered, seunghyun overheard, “you probably are, man.”

they arrived at a spare court, hearing the grunts and thwackkkks! from their teammates in neighboring courts, all carefully observed by their coach. they set their duffel bags and rackets down, starting to stretch together. holding each other’s wrists firmly, both gradually squatted, hovering a few inches above the ground. “she had to know you’d talk to me, though. right?” seunghyun asked, letting out a long exhale afterward. jiyong laughed, repositioning his feet. “she didn’t really indicate there were any exceptions.” they slowly stood, letting go of one another. though parted, their movements remained mirrored: now stretching their forearms—interlocking their fingers, bringing their hands in front of their chest, and slowly pushing with their palms facing outward. “just give me a signal, then.” said seunghyun. jiyong was confused, “a signal?” “yeah, a signal.” seunghyun repeated, gradually bringing his hands above his head.

“isn’t this, like, hard for you to hear?” jiyong brought his hands above his head, too. “like, wouldn’t you rather not?” “no. i’m happy for you.” seunghyun switched to stretching his triceps, holding for fifteen seconds each on either side. jiyong followed suit after feeling the tension in his lower back unravel. “i just don’t wanna feel left out.” seunghyun added. jiyong didn’t say anything, their warm-up proceeding in silence. an idea permeated seunghyun’s logic, grabbing his racket, heading to his side of the court. “if you two fucked, do a normal serve.” jiyong looked at him with widened eyes, descending into a nervous, yet entertained laugh. he grabbed his racket, walking to the service line across the net, picking a ball out of a tall metal basket filled to the brim with spares, one of many lodged between all of the courts. jiyong bounced the ball a few times, stalling his serve.

seunghyun saw the cogs turning in jiyong’s brain. “i’m not asking you to tell me, ji.” “but you are, though.” jiyong countered smartly, continuing to bounce the ball, not looking at him. seunghyun shook his head, kissing his teeth in disapproval. “you know i’m not.” his eyes followed the ball, the back of his throat starting to itch with percolating frustration. you’re nearly there, his inner monologue reminded. “i’m just saying that if you fucked,” he smirked at the sight of jiyong swiftly looking over his shoulder, worried their coach overheard. “then serve like me.” “like you?” jiyong knew what he was doing: buying unnecessary time, not giving seunghyun what he wanted. he ceased bouncing the tennis ball, trading it for a condescending gesture at seunghyun with his racket, seeing him nod. “you know you have this thing you do sometimes, right? before you throw the ball up, you place it in the center of the neck of the racket.” seunghyun took out a ball from his shorts, miming his service motion to a t. jiyong was unequivocally correct, making himself laugh with an added air of cockiness. he had the upper hand—a rarity between them—both metaphorically and literally.

seunghyun licked his lips, actively attempting to deter any crude remarks. “so do that if you fucked.” “i’m not telling you anything, seunghyun.” “you won’t be telling me. c'mon, ji.” jiyong looked at his best friend, admittedly wary. he carefully took in seunghyun’s encouraging grin. he went into his normal serve, until a grievance returned to his periphery, summoning his arm to lower: “why didn’t you give me her number, seunghyun?” jiyong saw his best friend’s expression fall, albeit slightly. seunghyun’s posture straightened, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly to the point where if jiyong blinked, he’d miss it. “you know how it is, ji.” jiyong’s jaw stiffened, looking down at the ball and racket in either of his hands. he contemplated, i know it’d be lying but . . . he lied to me, too. “yeah,” jiyong nodded, swiftly performing seunghyun’s service motion. “i do.” seunghyun was too distracted to get into position—thwackkkkk!—the ball landed in. he didn’t even go for it. he looked up, seeing jiyong shrug his shoulders with a shit-eating smile, fixing his stanford tennis baseball cap. seunghyun smiled back, but when jiyong looked away to reset, his face fell to one of hatred. not only did jiyong sleep with you—or so he thought—he was perfectly capable of serving the “normal” way, but chose not to. it was like looking into a mirror—seunghyun loathed it. jiyong returned to his normal serve, seunghyun cementing into position, ready to fucking demolish the return—thwwaacckkkk!

seunghyun entered coho's late thursday morning with damp hair and flushed cheeks, fresh off the court after a more demanding practice than usual. definitely due to the upcoming match, he figured, but his fingers grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, wiping that sweat off his upper lip with an annoyed scowl nonetheless. he ordered his iced latte without issue, waiting patiently by the counter for his number to be called, folding his receipt and using it as a makeshift fan to cool down. “my bad—you’re good.” he muttered to the person behind him, stepping a couple paces to the right, offering a polite nod after they picked up their drink. he lifted his head, fleetingly recognizing natasha bedingfield on the sound system, but recognizing you entirely—sat on the other side of the café, nose-deep in whatever you were reading sprawled out on the table before you, your coffee halfway empty. speak of the fucking devil, he smirked to himself, picking up his order swiftly; an added air of determination . . .

honey's taglist ☕️: @gongyoosgf @infinetlyforgotten; @riddlerloveb0t; @mesopotamism; @pepsicolapussi; @breakmeoff; @thanosspills

#kwon jiyong #gdragon #g dragon #kwon jiyong smut #kwon jiyong imagine #jiyong #jiyong smut #jiyong imagine #gdragon smut #gdragon imagine #choi seunghyun #choi seunghyun x reader #choi seunghyun imagine #choi seunghyun smut #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p #t.o.p imagine

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illegiblewords · 2 years ago

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SOME ILLEGIBLE RAMBLES AND REFLECTIONS: THE DEAD THREE

Finished my first/main playthrough of Baldur’s Gate 3, and it’s had me turning over all sorts of ideas tied to Dungeons and Dragons lore. A bunch happens to be about cosmology so I'm slapping together one post about the Dead Three and a follow-up about deities more generally. Buckle up if you decide to proceed dudes. This is chunky and opinion/interpretation heavy. CW for mention (not extensive) of graphic violence and sex crimes during discussion of Bhaal and Yeenoghu.

MYRKUL

I get that there are multiple death-affiliated deities in DnD. Our buddy Jergal is the end of all things and the original incarnation of the concept. Myrkul stands for the experience of dying, decay, necromancy, graves, bones, and the fear of mortality. Kelemvor rules over the dead. Orcus is a demon lord and quasi-deity of undeath. Could prob go on.

I've read many different incarnations of death over the years. To set the stage on my Myrkul read, it bears mentioning that Terry Pratchett's Death is probably my favorite. I don't have it in me to see death as something totally malicious. It's very natural, and I tend to imagine that if there were to be an incarnation embodying it this persona would have an intimate view of all the love and grief, vulnerability and intimacy, ugliness and solitude, etc. that mortals deal with. Death has witnessed the end every living being faces, from the dawn of creation until now. Even if it isn't consciously accessed at all moments, death is ancient and experienced and not likely to be shocked by what mortals are capable of anymore. Mortals are small. Uncountably numerous though we are we are far outnumbered by the unliving. What are lives next to planets, to stars? Here I'd argue against assigning value according to how big or small something is, how eternal or how brief, how simple or complex. Everything that is, is a universe unto itself and deserves the gravity of that. It is also very mundane at the same time. To me, death needs to be able to balance the preciousness and commonality of life, of existence, on the tip of its scythe. Death needs to be able to deal with the most depraved beings to exist, but also with every beloved pet put to sleep. Every lost child or parent. Everyone who dies surrounded by loved ones and everyone who dies alone.

Initially, even knowing Myrkul in particular had been a mortal necromancer and not of particular moral standing--I had mixed feelings about him being the evilest of evil skeletons. He worked it well, but the idea of any aspect of death (or any character tbh) being flat evil felt off to me. Especially with 'we're all the protagonists of our own stories' being at work. People don't often look at what actions they'd consider to be evil then go 'I'm going to make myself that on purpose'. Disregarding morality maybe, but being evil on purpose is weird.

So I looked into further lore about Myrkul. One spot that gave me pause was that Myrkul as death (rather than the adventurer Myrkul Bey al-Kursi he’d once been) revels in inspiring fear of death and driving home experiences of loss. From what I found he isn't focused on the name of the individual holding the office of death, but for the force itself being feared. He can be bribed, and he will allow for necromancy/resurrections--but the fear and gravity of death is a sacred thing to him. Disregarding that is a pretty good way to get onto Myrkul's shitlist. I want to take a moment to emphasize the importance of Myrkul focusing on his portfolio over his own ego. That is far from a given in the DnD pantheon, and like I said he's a former mortal himself. It wouldn't be out of the question for him to be a petty and insecure deity. He could have been the sort of guy where becoming a god of death by itself wasn't enough power. If Myrkul was a different person, he might have wanted people to stroke his ego and say how strong he is. He might have been someone who felt inadequate as a god without that affirmation. He could have (as a character) been unsatisfied and forever wanting/dependent upon the views of others to define himself. The fact that he DOES focus on death and decay as forces rather than himself is a big deal in reading him imo.

Anyway. Myrkul's emphasis on death as something feared got me thinking about what would cause a person to put such weight on death being understood in its negative aspect. It struck me that this is actually a very common and even important thing. You don't need to demonize death to see it, either. If you value life as sacred, the idea of life being treated as cheap or disposable is horrifying. When you love something dearly, the idea of that beloved thing being defaced is beyond outrage. It's a kind of sacrilege. People who kill as casually as breathing, who revel in the permanent destruction of someone else, become a source of horror. The absence of love creates a sort of cruelty that can't even perceive itself. And it's not uncommon for human beings in particular to partake in this. Humans dance on the graves of those they deem enemies not because they're relieved to be safe, but because they glory in the end of other lives. They don't recognize that anything of value was lost. There is no tragedy in death anymore. Every gentle moment, every vulnerability, every tragedy in their opponent's life is something to be crapped on and gloated over. There is no greater insult to life itself. Myrkul stands as a reminder that such behavior cannot stand. You can't treat life or death as cheap. To see something horrific and fail to realize the weight of its horror is itself a form of horror. The idea of a death that demands to be acknowledged for what it is, particularly by the living, imo actually denotes a level of care for life too. It might be harsh or ugly, but I don't know about evil. So while Myrkul is certainly flawed and often serves as an antagonist, I’d argue the function he performs is not only important but necessary.

And while it might vary between players, I found Aylin's enthusiastic executions and body defiling pretty uncomfortable. I understand she went through a lot and am fine with her as a character. But I think Myrkul's point stands if the audience feels even a moment of disquiet seeing her celebrate over the corpse of a broken person.

Some things are meant to be ugly.

BANE

Of the Dead Three I find Bane the most disturbing and dangerous tbh—but not for how Gortash invokes him. Way I see it, the other word for tyranny is authoritarianism on a macro-level, abuse on an individual level.

I’d argue that in life, we can only healthily control ourselves and our own individual actions/choices. We can try to persuade others or appeal to their judgment, but we can’t MAKE another person think or act how we wish. When folks attempt otherwise (individually or more broadly) it involves fear, force, deceit, or other forms of pressure. Coercion, enslavement. These fall under the umbrella of tyrannical practice to me. You treat another person as subhuman and strip them of agency.

We don’t live in a pure and ideal world. If a tyrannical person is committing crimes and denying others their free will through force, I wouldn’t call defense through force tyrannical as long as it wasn’t needlessly excessive. Power struggles exist. But the whole practice of using fear, force, deceit, or pressure to control another person is dangerous imo. They're to be utilized as little as possible.

In DnD I don’t think the fringe evil cults would be the ones most at risk for corruption by Bane. I don't think individuals or groups who prioritize self-indulgence would be most at risk, either. The most dangerous and frequent disciples of Bane imo would be within good alignment. This means followers of benevolent gods as well as the nations or groups that consider themselves to have righteous causes. ESPECIALLY those with chips on their shoulders.

When someone assumes they have and always will have the moral high ground, that they are incapable of committing injustice, that their end justifies whatever means, that it doesn’t count as abuse with the 'correct' target… that, to me, is where tyranny festers. The person convinced of their own moral infallibility is the one who sees no need for brakes and so cuts them without concern.

I’d argue everybody has a seed of tyranny in them that can be fed or starved. We feed that seed with our own indignation to become a tyrant victimizing others while still seeing ourselves as powerless. The person who first victimized you can still also be victimized by you. There isn’t a target that exists where finding joy in cruelty gets a pass.

Bane, I think, thrives on the idea that it's no problem if you're enforcing your will. Especially on people contemptible to you.

For DnD purposes, imagine you have zealous followers of idk Tyr. They are willing to do whatever it takes to enforce and spread their definition of justice. They believe in making examples of people at every opportunity. They torture, isolate, rob, and shame those they consider to be unjust or dangerous. If their victims are falsely accused—well. It’s for a noble purpose so the sacrifice is not in vain. And imagine Tyr abandons these followers as hypocrites. He no longer empowers clerics or paladins no matter how they cite scripture or brand ‘heretics’ with his symbols.

Bane doesn’t enter calling himself Bane, god of tyranny. Bane claims to follow a higher justice. Maybe he uses an avatar, maybe he chooses a Banite disciple, maybe he finds a true believer. But he argues that Tyr as an individual was never ultimately what those zealots stood for—it was justice itself. And if Tyr has turned traitor to his own portfolio, mortals need to go over his head to the core concept and implement that. Bane offers a name that suits his purposes and begins sourcing power to clerics and paladins instead. And throughout, as the zealots commit increased atrocities against those they deem dangerous or evil they fail to realize they’ve spiraled into evil alignment after all. They’d think they were either just as good as they’d always been OR BETTER. The compassion of Ilmater is spent on the depraved and corrupt as far as they’re concerned.

I think the real threat of Bane is that he should be 100% capable of corrupting an otherwise heroic party member if they aren’t wary of that capacity in themself. You suddenly find your friend who listened to your problems and supported you through awful shit mocking a person sobbing on the ground as they kick them. And that friend looks betrayed and hurt (or outraged) if you challenge their actions, because they think you should know exactly how disgusting this piece of shit is and how much they deserve the abuse. And even if you concede that individual case—it’s not the only one. The slights worthy of torment become smaller and smaller. A thought or word out of line betrays the ideology of an evil alignment, with the only solution being to beat thoughts and words out of the target until they can only repeat approved ideas back. And even then, it may not be enough.

If it was explicitly confirmed that the deity the zealot followed was Bane all along, the zealot might genuinely not believe it. They might get pissed at the very suggestion. What they do against the wicked isn’t tyranny after all. They’re righteous.

Denial doesn’t serve to disempower Bane in the least if tactics remain unchanged.

BHAAL

I’m holding off on more detailed Bhaal thoughts until I complete a dark urge run, but I’ve listened to lore on both him and the demon lord Yeenoghu recently—and I think there’s room for a really cool potential contrast.

Yeenoghu Lore

Providing this particular video link for the curious, as a way to help illustrate what I’m drawing from.

Yeenoghu holds the title as demon lord of slaughter. He glories in filth, rape, excessively graphic murder, torture, violence, and playing with corpses along the way. He’s meant to come across as a bestial, self-absorbed, remorseless desecrater. And when I say bestial, I want to draw attention to a particular IRL factoid that might be worth considering.

I love animals to bits. I don’t think animals generally contemplate morality the way humans do just due to cognitive differences and limitations. I also think it’s important to remember that humans are ALSO animals, so certain things umbrella’d under ‘human experience’ would probably apply to at least some animals too. If there are human altruists and human serial killers, we should be able to expect that animals likewise have some altruists and some serial killers within the scope of individual variation.

Cruelty is not exclusive to humans. Orcas will essentially torture smaller animals to death by flinging them into the air with their tails repeatedly like balls until repeated beatings and suffocation kill them. Dolphins commit rape and chew on live puffer fish to get high off the toxins. Chimpanzees are a horror unto themselves with cannibalism and mutilation and basically whatever atrocity they can commit. Wolves and cats sometimes hunt to excess just for the joy of it and don’t eat all they kill. Hannibal the swan (as a specific and notably homicidal individual) beat and drowned any other swans visiting his pond and showed his signet how to do it. I could go on. Some cases it might be a matter of the animal not having theory of mind to recognize that they are inflicting pain on another conscious creature. Other times, like with pissed off chimpanzees, they know EXACTLY what they’re doing and it’s on purpose to cause maximum suffering.

I think Yeenoghu should embody a little bit of both propensities. He’s just utterly self-absorbed and doesn’t give a fuck about the experiences or perspectives of other living things except insofar as they impact him.

Bhaal I want to research more like I said, but one thing I remember from my initial play through was finding a note from the Dark Urge to Orin.

Little sister, whatever in the Gray Wastes are we going to do with you? Bhaal will never care that you waste your time, posing your corpse-dollies. Bhaal doesn’t care whether you give him the corpse of a pauper or a king. At the end of the day, all Father wants is death in droves, death in numbers. To sap away the life of this dull world as swiftly and widely as we can. You plan, you plot, you prevaricate, and you waste his time. Bhaal doesn’t need us to think. He needs us to kill. You kill beautifully, and have talents in your shapes’ magics that I never will. But you do not understand Lord Bhaal. Perhaps it is a failing of your diluted blood, as a mere grandchild. I am his sole living pureblood. I will accept no challenge from you, until you show some damned respect.

To be honest this is interesting af to me because it positions Orin a bit more in-line with Yeenoghu’s modus operandi in some ways. But what sets apart the principles of Bhaal from Yeenoghu or Myrkul?

The Dark Urge suggests the goal of Bhaal is the extinction of all life, but to be honest I’m a bit skeptical. Seems like short term thinking. Even if Bhaal pulled that off, once it’s done there is no more murder or god of murder for that matter. If Bhaal is aiming for a cessation of existence and wants everyone else along for the ride maybe that’s what he’s after, but I dunno. That seems like something fans/players/loremasters would have touched on before.

I’d like to invite this possibility for foiling instead:

Life consumes other life by nature. Animals, plants, fungi, bacteria, so forth—it isn’t just a matter of philosophy. One life cannot exist without destroying another. We need to eat. If we don’t, we die well before reproduction enters the picture. But it’s more than that… you take a step, you kill countless tiny organisms you aren’t even aware of. You swat a fly. You hit something with your car. You move gracelessly or touch carelessly, and catastrophe ensues. Etcetera.

It is inevitable that your existence will mean the end for the life of another living thing. That’s just how it goes.

It could be interesting on a LOT of fronts (both as members of the dead three and as former adventuring companions) if Bhaal acted as a kind of philosophical opposite to Myrkul the way I previously described.

If the Dark Urge’s note is to be trusted, Bhaal has no interest in ritual or glorified death per se. Bhaal would be more about the mundanity that comes through the act of killing. Life is fragile as-is and often ended by accident. Killing in its most common form is thoughtless and unconscious. To Bhaal, if every life is a universe then the universe looks meaningless. There is no importance or fanfare to any of it. If one side is ‘everything matters, give weight to life and death’, Bhaal would be ‘nothing matters, we are not capable of affording reverence to every single life and death we encounter’. More specifically, the mass deaths Bhaal favors would be a kind of illustration of the uncaring and casual relationship living things have with killing other living things. The more casual and effortless it is, the more I’d imagine it serves Bhaal. Sadism and revelry miss the point—there is no hierarchy. Suffering is inconsequential. Fear is inconsequential. Instinct is inconsequential. To live is to kill by Bhaal’s logic.

It isn’t limited to murder in the sense of a member of one species killing a member of the same species. It’s more Bhaal is the god of killing. He’d gain power from murder too sure, but also hunting, harvesting, and butchering. With these interpretations in-mind, we can actually figure out how the Dead Three might have answered Jergal's question about what worth a mortal life holds. With the disclaimer this is very much conjecture. I think Myrkul would likely be "Each life is of infinite value and merits sacrificing everything for." That lends life a heavy weight and makes death a fearful force for all. It would also mesh with Ketheric as his chosen. Bane would lean into "That depends on a person's deeds", "The only life that matters is mine", or "Depends on the mortal". From those positions, the speaker argues for a hierarchy of life where some is more expendable than the rest. It's easier from that position to slide into adopting a role as judge and executioner, and from elevating yourself into a role of authority where other voices and experiences count less than your own. Bhaal I think is reflected in "Life’s only value is as currency. Doesn’t matter to me otherwise", "The only life that matters is mine", or "No one life is worth more than any other. We are equal." Bhaal has the implicit question in-turn: what is the blood-price of your own life? How much have you claimed in your own name to keep moving? It's kind of the belief that while "The only life that matters is mine" is Bhaal's answer, every other living thing should be answering the same way. There's more nuance than that of course, and likely truth falls somewhere in the middle. We aren't mentally capable of giving reverence to every death, but we can recognize in general terms and do our best case-by-case. We have a right to protect ourselves and what we love, but others share that right.

Feel free to offer different stances or thoughts though, and if you made it this far goddamn thank you for reading this monster.

#the dead three #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #myrkul #bhaal #bane #bg3 #bgiii #yeenoghu

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