#if anyone else has questions for me let me know ^-^

[cheftsunoda]

Heyy! I love all your fics, they are soooo good! Could you maybe write one where y/n is max fewtrells little sister and landos race engineer but media is being mean to her and saying that she just got the job cause she's a woman and that she doesn't deserve it. So lando has to step in and then they fall in love. If you don't like this you could just ignore it but I'd love to read it:)

not on my watch — ln4

smau + blurbs

lando norris x !race engineer reader

it started shortly after the mclaren announcement was posted— 'yn fewtrell has been named lando norris’ race engineer for the 2025 season.' the internet erupted—accusations of nepotism, blatant sexism, and outrage that they’d hand the job to a 24 year old woman. they don’t know you built half the strategy software they rely on. they don’t know you graduated at 19 and haven’t made a wrong call since. they don’t know lando trusts you more than anyone else on the team. this season, you’re done staying quiet. you’re going to prove them all wrong. even if it means falling for the one person you were never supposed to.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : hellooooo mi vida <3 thank you for the love on my work! i appreciate you sm. sorry this took so long but i hope you enjoy 🧚🏻

also i love writing like the engineering side of things. my dad is a retired race engineer and he taught me everything i know and is the reason for my love of the sport. there is your fun fact of the day;) enjoy !

—

mclaren & yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, zbrownceo & 7,110,011 others.

mclaren : Please welcome YN Fewtrell as Lando Norris’ new race engineer for the 2025 season. Brilliant, fearless, and ready to lead from the pit wall. Let’s go win some races. 🧡

—

view 772,000 other comments.

username000 : ok but she’s actually a genius? she BUILT half their strategy models. stay mad.

username00 : this is history and y’all don’t even know it yet. she’s gonna run the whole grid one day.

username0 : nepotism is alive and well I see 😐

username1 : she’s 24 and in charge of race strategy?? lmao. hope Lando likes DNFing.

↳ lando : keep my wife’s name out of your FUCKIN mouth.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

↳ lando : i literally begged her to take the job. she had about a dozen offers for other teams. she is smarter than the whole paddock put together.

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

zbrownceo : Brilliant mind. Cool under pressure. Unshakable. Couldn’t be prouder. Let’s do this.

liked by mclaren and yn_fewtrell

↳ username5 : you’ll regret this 2 races into the season.

oscarpiastri : I thought I knew the science behind F1…and then I met YN…and she made me question everything. Congratulations, YN! We are happy to have you.

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

maxfewtrell : Such a proud big brother moment. Go show them just how genius you are, sis! 🤧🧡

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell and lando

pietra.pilao : literally the most intelligent person in the world! no one deserves this more🥺 I LOVE YOU YNNNNN

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

lando : no one can wrangle me like this one. let’s make history together bub!!

liked by yn_fewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

username17 : Hiring women just to look good, not to win races. Disgraceful.

↳ yn_fewtrell : funny how the people questioning my ability never mention the races i have helped win. maybe instead of whining about my gender, you should learn how to actually win. see you on the podium—if you can keep up. 🧡

liked by maxfewtrell, lando, mclaren, pietra.pilao and oscarpiastri

↳ maxfewtrell : ATE

liked by lando and yn_fewtrell

username37 : Just here to watch her fail and disappear. It’s not like she’s actually qualified.

↳ lando : talk shit get hit. you’re out here bullying a woman behind a keyboard while she stays winning and getting paid.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

username45 : Bet she got the job ‘cause Max begged, not because she earned it.

↳ maxfewtrell : lando doesn’t even like me that much, if I would’ve asked he would’ve said no.

↳ lando : TRUTH

username55 : This is why F1 is a joke now. Giving a 24-year-old woman a crucial race engineer role? Please. Next, they’ll have kids driving cars.

↳ maxfewtrell : This comment is exactly why she’s needed. You clowns scream about F1 being a joke, but the real punchline is you thinking your fragile ego matters more than her qualifications. She’s 24, a genius, and running circles around engineers twice her age. Stay pressed.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

You’re not sure why your palms are sweaty. You’ve given technical presentations in front of FIA directors. You’ve rebuilt a predictive model with zero sleep and one cracked laptop. You’ve told grown men twice your age their simulations were wrong—and then proved it. But this? Sitting across from Zak Brown and the McLaren technical director with your name printed at the top of an official offer letter? This feels different.

“Relax,” Zak says, grinning like he’s already picturing you on the pit wall. “You’re not in trouble. Unless being a genius is suddenly against the rules.”

You crack a smile. Just a small one. The technical director slides the contract toward you. You already know what it says. But seeing it in writing makes your heart skip anyway.

“We want you in the role officially,” Zak says. “You’ve been running the backend strategy models, fixing everyone’s messes from behind the curtain, and honestly? It’s long overdue.”

“I thought I was too young,” you say carefully. “Too… controversial.”

Zak leans forward, elbows on the table. “You graduated at 19. You built the race strategy AI we still use today. You predicted the Qatar safety car last season three laps before it happened. You’ve saved Lando’s race more times than we can count. If you were anyone else—any guy, with ten more grey hairs—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d already be in that seat.”

Your throat tightens a little. You swallow it down.

“We know what people are going to say,” the tech director adds. “The media will be brutal. The ‘nepotism’ headlines, the ‘diversity hire’ comments. It’s coming.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But they’re wrong.”

Zak nods. “Exactly. And I want them to say it. Loudly. So we can prove them wrong. Publicly.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where everything shifts—where it all becomes real.

“Lando asked for you, by the way,” Zak says, almost offhand. “Said he’s never trusted anyone more with his race or his car.”

That stops you. You blink. Look back down at the paper. You knew you’d earned this. But hearing that? It hits different. You pick up the pen. And for the first time since walking into the room, you let yourself smile—full, bright, certain.

“Let’s go win some races.”

—

Dinner at Max’s flat was always a bit of a circus. Pietra’s voice filled the kitchen as she narrated her sauce recipe like a cooking show. Max was burning the garlic bread while insisting he knew what he was doing. And Lando? Lando was sitting at the end of the counter, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, stealing olives out of the bowl you were supposed to be using for the salad. You’d missed this.

The normalcy. The teasing. The fact that no one was looking at you like you were about to become the most talked about person in the paddock.

“You’re being suspicious,” Max says, pointing a fork at you as he slides into his seat at the table.

“I’m literally just existing,” you reply.

Pietra hums. “No, he’s right. You’ve had a look all evening. Like you’re hiding something.”

You glance at Lando. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises one eyebrow, a silent challenge. He’s been patient with you the last few weeks. Supportive, even while everyone else kept asking what team you were going to sign with. Mercedes had called. Ferrari had emailed. Even Red Bull made an offer. You’d kept it to yourself, waiting for the right moment. Tonight was the right moment.

You take a slow sip of your wine. “So… I signed.”

The room goes silent. Max straightens in his chair like you just told him you were pregnant. “What?”

Pietra claps her hands. “With who?!”

Lando freezes. The olive he was about to eat drops back into the bowl. “Wait. Seriously? You signed?”

You nod slowly, drawing it out. “Yep.”

Max leans forward, eyes wide. “Okay, well—Ferrari?”

You shake your head.

“Mercedes,” Pietra tries, gasping dramatically. “You’d look hot in silver.”

You smile, still silent. Lando’s eyes haven’t left your face. He looks nervous. Hopeful.

“I signed with McLaren,” you say finally. “Race engineer for Mr. Norris.”

And then—Chaos. Pure Chaos.

“YESSSSS!” Pietra screeches, nearly knocking over her wine.

Max throws a napkin in the air like it’s confetti. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU’D STAY!”

Lando lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for three years. He covers his mouth with one hand and laughs.

“You’re joking,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re actually serious?”

“I signed the contract this morning,” you reply, grinning. “Zak just let them put out the announcement.”

Max is on his feet in seconds, pulling you up into a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says into your hair, voice suddenly a little thick. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Pietra joins the hug, wrapping her arms around both of you. “We’re going to make shirts that say ‘fewtrell dominance could bore fans.’”

You laugh into her shoulder. “Please don’t.”

When you finally break away, Lando’s still sitting, eyes soft, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide how relieved he is.

“You okay over there?” you tease.

He stands, coming to stand just in front of you. “I’m great. I’m—actually, I’m really happy.”

You nod, trying to keep your voice even. “You sure you can handle me screaming strategy in your ear every Sunday?”

Lando grins. “Only if you promise to keep calling me out when I whine on the radio.”

You roll your eyes. “Deal.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything. Just you, standing a little too close to Lando in the middle of Max’s kitchen, your heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with the job. Max breaks the silence.

“So… do I need to have the talk now, or can I just trust that Lando will behave?”

Pietra gasps. “Max!”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “What?! Nothing’s even happening!”

You try to act innocent, but you’re smiling now—bright and open and a little bit full of something terrifyingly hopeful.

“Yet,” Max mutters, grabbing the garlic bread off the counter. “I’m watching you, Norris.”

You roll your eyes and steal a piece of bread. Because the truth is, you’re watching him too. And you’re not sure who’s more in trouble—you, for finally taking this job. Or Lando, for falling a little harder every time you say his name.

—

Later that night, the laughter fades into tired giggles, and the plates are mostly empty, wine glasses scattered across the table like a celebration that never wanted to end. Max and Pietra are curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket and pretending they’re not eavesdropping. Which leaves you and Lando in the kitchen—cleaning up, sort of. Mostly moving things around and trying not to look like you’re just avoiding saying something.

He’s rinsing dishes at the sink, sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messy from running his hand through his hair too many times. You dry the plates beside him, stealing glances when you think he’s not paying attention. Of course, he is.

“You really had us going,” Lando says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Thought you were off to Ferrari or something.”

You shrug. “I could’ve. But… it never felt right. They wanted the title on my resume. McLaren actually wanted me.”

He smiles at that—wide and full of pride. “We’re lucky to have you. I mean that.”

There’s something heavy under his voice now. Not just pride. Something else.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, rinsing the last glass. “I asked for you.”

You glance over at him. “I figured. Zak doesn’t subtlety drop things like that.”

Lando laughs under his breath, then grows quiet again. “It wasn’t just because you’re smart, or talented, or scary good at reading data. It’s because I trust you. And that’s rare for me.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you too.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where the air shifts. Where you both feel the question neither of you has dared to ask.

He looks over at you, searching. “Are you scared?”

You nod slowly. “A little. Not of the job. Just… everything else.”

His gaze softens, and he takes a step closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

“Whatever it is,” he says, voice low, “we figure it out together.”

You blink at him. Your breath catches, just a little.

“Even if Max threatens to murder you?” you joke.

Lando smirks. “Especially then.”

The moment hangs there—close, careful, charged. You want to kiss him. You have for years. It is definitely not the time now. But the thought is there, sitting between you, unspoken and inevitable.

Instead, he nudges your shoulder gently. “Come on. You’re off duty tonight. I’ll finish up.”

You hand him the towel and roll your eyes. “Don’t screw up the glassware, Norris.”

He grins, watching you walk out of the kitchen. And when he turns back to the sink, he’s still smiling—because for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.

—

Australia. Testing Day.

The paddock is humming like a heartbeat—fast, sharp, electric. You walk toward the garage with your headset in hand, credentials swinging around your neck, papaya polo fitted perfectly like it’s been yours all along. People glance as you pass, some with confusion, others with curiosity. You hear your name once or twice in passing—low whispers, half-question, half-gossip. You ignore all of it.

Because you’re not here to be liked. You’re here to run a car. McLaren’s garage is already alive when you step in. The smell of oil and tire rubber hits you first, followed by the warm buzz of quiet chaos. Engineers, mechanics, data analysts—moving like they’re part of a living machine.

Lando’s sitting in the car, helmet off, half-zipped race suit and that usual lazy grin stretched across his face.

“Morning, boss,” he says into the radio, teasing.

You settle into your seat on the pit wall like you’ve done it a thousand times. Calm. Focused. Headset on.

“Morning, Norris,” you reply coolly. “Try not to crash. I just got here.”

A soft laugh crackles through the comms. “No promises.”

Zak appears behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “This is it,” he says, smiling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

You nod once and focus on the screen in front of you. Live telemetry scrolls across the monitor. Tire temps. Fuel load. Weather variance. You track it all with sharp, trained eyes.

Your voice is calm when it hits the radio. “Okay Lando, we’re doing a 12 lap run, softs, with gradual pace increase. I want full feedback on braking stability by lap 4. Let’s go.”

“Copy that,” he replies, voice lighter than it probably should be. “Lead the way, genius.”

And then the garage clears as the engine roars to life. He pulls out of the pit lane. The screens flicker to life, and the data begins to pour in. Sector times. Tire degradation. Wind resistance. The other engineers glance over at you—quietly impressed. By lap 5, you’re already adjusting the run.

“Box at the end of 8. Temps are creeping up faster than expected. Want to save the compound.”

“Copy,” Lando says immediately, without question.

By lap 9, he’s back in the garage. You’re waiting with a bottle of water and a raised brow.

“You’re .03 seconds off your previous best in Turn 11,” you say, casually handing it over. “What are you doing in there, admiring the desert?”

Lando takes the bottle, grinning. “Maybe I just like hearing you call me out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smile. The truth is—you’re in your element. The voices in the paddock might still whisper. The media might still doubt.

But on that pit wall, with your headset on and Lando behind the wheel, you’re exactly where you belong. Every call you make is sharp, every number you read makes sense, and the car? The car is singing. And by the end of the day? McLaren tops the timing sheets. Because this time, it’s not just about the car or the driver. It’s about you—and him—and the strategy that only the two of you can build together.

—

The garage is humming with the kind of energy only a race day can bring — tightly wound nerves, soft radio checks, the heavy scent of tire compound, and pure adrenaline wrapped in papaya orange. This time, it’s louder. Bigger. More intense. Because this is your first race. Your race. On the wall. Running the strategy. With the whole world watching. And they’re not just watching Lando. They’re watching you.

You barely hear the murmurs from the media pens—Let them talk. You’re too busy building a strategy that’ll make them eat every last word.

In the garage, Max and Pietra are chaos in human form.

Max is pacing in his McLaren cap like he’s the one driving, and Pietra is waving around a mini flag like it’s actually helping anything.

“Can she even breathe up there?” Pietra asks, looking up at the pit wall nervously.

“I don’t think she is breathing,” Max replies. “She’s calculating.”

Five minutes to lights out. You clip your headset on. Your screen shows Lando’s live data feed. Heart rate slightly elevated, but steady. Tire temps in ideal range. Track temp rising faster than expected.

“Alright, Norris,” you say into the mic, voice cool and even. “We’re sticking to Plan A. Clean start, protect the tires. You hold position in Turn 1 and don’t get spicy until after Lap 10. Copy?”

Lando’s voice crackles through the radio, playful even under pressure.

“Copy, boss. I’ll behave. Ish.”

The lights go out. And so does the paddock. Lando has a flying start.

Shoots past Leclerc like it’s personal, glues himself to P2 before Lap 2, and settles into a comfortable rhythm. You monitor everything. Grip levels. Crosswinds in Sector 2. Fuel consumption. Brake temps. Max is screaming into Pietra’s shoulder behind you. Pietra’s crying by Lap 5. “HE’S DRIVING SO WELL.”

You smile despite yourself. By Lap 17, you see it.

The Ferraris are chewing through their tires. The Red Bulls are too conservative on power. You run the numbers twice. Then a third time. You flick on the radio.

“Box this lap. Undercut window is open.”

Lando doesn’t question you. “Copy. Let’s do it.”

He dives in. The stop is flawless. 2.3 seconds. And when the others finally pit? He comes out in the lead. P1. The garage explodes.

Max is on his feet, yelling something incoherent about “NEVER DOUBTED HER FOR A SECOND.”

Pietra is crying again, but this time she had acquired a hat to cover her face. You stay calm. Mostly.

“Alright,” you say over the radio. “Lead car. Twenty four laps to go. Clear track ahead. I want clean air and zero drama. Think you can manage that, Norris?”

Lando’s voice is steady, but there’s a grin buried in it.

“For you? Anything.”

The last 10 laps are torture. DRS threats. Virtual safety car. A rogue yellow flag that nearly throws everything. Your hands are shaking, but your voice is steady. Every call is precise.

“Brake bias forward by 2 clicks.”

“Harvest more in Sector 3.”

“Hold them off. This is your race.”

And Lando? He drives like he’s on rails. Like every word you say is gospel. Lap 58. Final sector. You stand, fingers white around your headset, eyes locked on the monitor.

Lando crosses the line—

P1.

The radio crackles—

“WE DID IT!” he screams. “YN! WE FUCKING DID IT!*”

Your heart explodes in your chest. You cover your mouth with one hand, tears burning in your eyes before you even realize they’re there.

You press the button, voice breaking just slightly.

“You were perfect, Lando. That was all you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No. That was us.”

The garage is mayhem. Mechanics hugging. Pit crew chanting your name. Zak running in from somewhere with champagne already in hand.

Max is sobbing into Pietra’s shoulder. “I KNEW SHE WAS A GENIUS. I KNEW IT.”

Pietra’s recording you with tears in her eyes and yelling, “YOU JUST BEAT HALF THE GRID WITH YOUR BRAIN.”

You take your headset off slowly, still stunned. And then you feel arms around you. Lando’s. He’s still in his fireproofs, sweat-soaked and grinning like he’s never smiled before. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He lifts you slightly off the ground as he hugs you.

“You were magic,” he whispers. “You made that happen.”

You pull back just slightly, your forehead resting against his. “And you made it look beautiful.”

He doesn’t dare to make a move. But his hands linger at your waist. His smile is soft. His eyes are only on you. And in that moment—surrounded by champagne, chaos, and the disbelief of everyone who ever doubted you—you know—This is only the beginning.

—

yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietra.pilao and 4,708,003 others.

yn_fewtrell : aus was fun, onto the next (p)one🫶🏻

tagged : pietra.pilao, maxfewtrell and lando

—

view 192,005 other comments.

lando : stole my french fries and my car, huh?

liked by yn_fewtrell

↳ yn_fewtrell : that is the price you pay when I lead you to a race win😁

liked by maxfewtrell and lando

↳ username00 : bitch one won race and made it her whole personality already. can’t wait to watch her fail.

mclaren : engineering excellence powered by french fries and gyros🧡

liked by yn_fewtrell

oscarpiastri : leave lando and be my engineer. i will give you all the french fries you want

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

↳ lando : not happening oscarino. she is staying with me 🤭

username10 : how are you THIS smart, THIS cool, and still relatable

liked by yn_fewtrell

username000 : There are people with decades of experience who deserved that role. But sure, let the influencer do strategy.

username11 : If she really cared about the job, she wouldn’t be flirting with her driver. Unprofessional af.

username50 : She’s more concerned about photo dumps and outfits than race data. No wonder people think women don’t belong here.

username33 : Funny how she was handed this position and still makes it all about herself. Typical influencer behavior.

zbrownceo : Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

It’s been eight weeks since Australia. Five races. Two wins. Three podiums. Zero strategy errors. One woman behind the radio. And somehow — none of it is enough.

You’re walking through the paddock before FP2, headset looped around your neck, data tablet pressed to your chest like armor. The McLaren polo clings to your skin in the heat, but you don’t notice. You’ve been sweating for hours, and not because of the sun. Every few steps, your name follows you like a curse. Not in congratulations. Not in respect. Just low, biting whispers.

“She only sounds smart on paper.”

“She’s riding Lando’s success like it’s hers.”

You walk faster. You don’t let it show — but God, it’s wearing you down. Quietly. Brutally. You haven’t opened Twitter in weeks. You scroll past Instagram comments like they’re burning. You stopped reading your tagged posts the day someone told you to “go back to fashion school” and said your first win was “handed to her.”

It’s not the media. Not even the sexist podcasters with cropped beards and buzzwords. It’s everyone else. The silence from your colleagues when your name is mentioned. The sideways looks from rival teams when McLaren beats them on strategy. The fans who scream for Lando and ignore you completely — or worse, call you a distraction. And still, you show up. Every day. Every race. Every session. You make the calls. You hit the targets. You win. But today? Today feels thin. Like the ground beneath your feet is giving way just a little.

You take a long breath as you pass the Sky Sports camera crew, nod politely, hoping to keep walking — until one of them turns just slightly and says it loud enough for you to hear— 

“There goes Norris’ lucky charm.”

You stop. It’s not just the words — it’s the tone. Patronizing. Dismissive. Cruel in its casualness.

“Smart of McLaren to hire someone for optics. Keeps the headlines clean while he does the real work.”

Something cracks. Quietly. Deep in your chest. You turn your head — slowly, expression unreadable — and meet the reporter’s eyes.

“I suggest you rethink who’s doing the real work,” you say coolly, though your throat is tight. “I’m the one keeping his car in the points.”

Before he can respond, before he can smirk or backtrack or say something worse— A voice cuts in. Sharp. Dangerous. Familiar.

“Is there a problem here?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You feel him before you see him. Lando. Still in his fireproofs, still flushed from the car, eyes hard and jaw tight.

The reporter chuckles, uncomfortable now. “Nothing at all. Just—complimenting your engineer.”

“Really? ‘Lucky charm’ doesn’t sound like a compliment to me. You are patronizing her.”

Lando steps between you and the reporter without hesitation, his voice low and lethal.

“You don’t get to belittle her work because it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to reduce her to some narrative you can sell. She’s the reason I’m winning. She makes the calls. She reads the race like it’s written in a language only she speaks. And if you can’t handle that—maybe you should just get the fuck out.” 

The silence is deafening. The reporter stammers something, but Lando doesn’t wait to hear it. He turns to you gently, expression shifting — still sharp, but soft in a way he reserves only for you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You want to say yes. Want to tell him you’re fine. That it doesn’t matter. But your hands are trembling. And you’re so, so tired. He notices. Of course he does. Lando doesn’t say anything more — just steps closer, hand resting briefly on your back, shielding you as he leads you away. Out of the cameras. Out of the noise.

And even as your eyes sting, even as your chest aches with the weight of it all — there’s something steady about the way he walks beside you. Like a lifeline. Like a promise. You don’t say it yet. But you know. He’s in your corner. And when you can’t fight for yourself — Lando will.

—

It starts with the silences. Not the good kind—the ones you used to share in the garage after a long session, exhausted but grinning. Not the quiet that existed between looks and smirks and inside jokes that didn’t need explaining.

This silence is different. Colder. Heavier. Lando notices it first in the little things. The way you leave the debrief as soon as it ends. How you sit at the other end of the table during meals. How your messages have gone from memes and chaos to nothing but numbers and fuel loads. Professionally, you’re sharper than ever. Flawless. But the rest of you?

You’re fading.

He sees it. He’s been seeing it. And it’s not until the night before the Spanish GP, when you skip the post dinner team drinks without a word, that he makes a decision. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t knock and wait. He uses the keycard Zak made everyone take for security reasons, pushes into your suite quietly, and hears it immediately—

Not music. Not the TV. Just the soft rustle of curtains and the distant sound of you trying to breathe quietly. He finds you on the balcony.

Sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, forehead pressed against your arms. Shoulders shaking. The city lights stretching below you while the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks finally pour down your face. You don’t hear him at first.

Until the sliding door opens behind you and a soft voice says, “Hey.”

You flinch. “Lando—shit. I—I didn’t know you—”

You wipe your face furiously, still refusing to look at him.

“You should go,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. Just needed air—”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, stepping onto the balcony. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to joke. Deflect. “You’re not exactly dressed for an emotional breakdown—”

He sits beside you anyway. Cross legged, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Warm and present and so painfully there.

There’s a long silence. And then, softly—

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, Lando.”

Your voice cracks. Finally.

“I do everything right. Every call. Every number. Every strategy. We’re winning, and I’m still losing.”

He doesn’t say anything—just waits.

“They’re never going to see me as more than your little sidekick,” you whisper. “Or Max’s sister. Or the girl who ruined the sport. And I’m so tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Your hands are trembling in your lap. He watches you struggle for air, for composure, for the strength you’ve worn like armor for months.

“I feel like I’m screaming into a void and smiling while I do it,” you admit. “Because if I stop being the girl who can handle it, then they win, right?”

Lando doesn’t speak for a moment. Then—

“I don’t want you to be the girl who can handle it,” he says quietly. “I want you to be the girl who’s allowed to feel it. Who’s allowed to break down on balconies. Who doesn’t have to carry it all alone.”

You look at him. Finally. And what you see isn’t pity. It’s rage. And hurt. And love—undeniably, plainly, terrifyingly there.

“Do you have any idea how much I admire you?” he asks. “Not just for what you do. But for how you survive in a world that tries so hard to push you out.”

Your eyes fill again.

“But I hate watching you shrink. I hate watching you pretend like the comments don’t get to you when I know they do.”

“I can’t let it show,” you murmur.

“You can,” he says. “With me, you can.”

He takes your hand. It’s not romantic. Not yet. It’s grounding.

“I need you to know something,” he continues, voice low and sure. “None of this—none of what we’ve built this season—works without you. Not the wins. Not the podiums. Not me.”

You press your lips together, fighting another wave of tears.

“But I need you to work too,” he says. “Not just the engineer. You. The person. And she deserves rest. And softness. And someone to sit with her on a balcony when she forgets how incredible she is.”

Your heart aches at how gently he says it. Like you’re made of glass. Like you’re allowed to fall apart.

“I don’t know how to let go,” you whisper. “I’ve been holding it all for so long.”

He squeezes your hand, his voice breaking just slightly. “Then let me help. Please.”

And you do. You let your head fall to his shoulder. You let the tears fall without apology. You let someone see you—not just as the brilliant, capable, unshakeable engineer they all expect—but as a person who’s tired and hurting and desperately in need of grace.

And Lando?  He doesn’t move. He stays beside you until the sun starts to rise. And when you finally speak again, voice hoarse but steadier than before, you say—

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

And he replies, without missing a beat. 

“You won’t have to.”

—

Race Day. Mid season. High pressure. Everything on the line. The garage is tight with tension. Dry air. Sharp voices. You can feel it pulsing through your headset like a storm trying to form. Lando’s in P3. The strategy is clean. You’ve run every scenario.

“Stick to Plan B,” you remind him calmly.

“We wait. The softs will come back to us. Hold position, and we pounce after lap 38.”

“Copy,” he says. But you can hear it — the edge in his voice. The hunger. The itch. Lando wants more. Too soon. You hear the switch in his tone by Lap 30. He’s pushing harder. Ignoring lift points. Going aggressive on the straights. And then—he says it.

“Box now. I’m undercutting.”

You sit bolt upright. “No. Lando—no. Tires aren’t ready. The window’s not open yet—”

Too late. He dives in. Pit crew scrambles. The stop is clean. But the re-entry isn’t. Traffic. Cold tires. He rejoins behind a cluster of midfield chaos. Loses time. Loses grip. Loses everything. You stand frozen, eyes on the screen as he drops from P3 to P9 in four laps. The garage is silent.

Your hands are clenched. You barely hear the commentary echoing from the monitors.

“That’s a brutal call from McLaren. Early stop puts Norris behind heavy traffic… was that a misread from the pit wall?”

Your headset is still on when the post-race headlines start posting in real time.

“MCLAREN STRATEGY ERROR COSTS NORRIS BIG FINISH.”

“YN FEWTRELL UNDER FIRE AGAIN AFTER RISKY CALL.”

“Norris’ engineer strikes out — questions rise around her future.”

You don’t even feel your legs as you pull off your headset. Don’t feel Zak’s hand on your shoulder. Don’t hear the apology Lando doesn’t say. You just walk out of the garage.

—

His hotel room. Just the two of you.

“I told you not to pit,” you say quietly, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to shake.

Lando looks at you like you’re the one who ruined it.

“I felt the grip dropping—”

“You disobeyed strategy. You disobeyed me.”

Your voice breaks, brittle and sharp. “And they’re blaming me for it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t!” You snap. “I have spent every race protecting you. Protecting this team. Taking the hits so you don’t have to, and you go rogue the second it doesn’t feel perfect?”

“I’m the one in the car!” he fires back. “It’s my instinct—”

“It’s your ego, Lando.”

Silence. The kind that cuts. You look at him, really look at him — and it hits you. Hard. Too hard. You love him. You love him, and it’s eating you alive. And maybe the worst part? He doesn’t even see it. Not through the anger. Not through the noise. You turn toward the door, needing air. Needing anything.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could balance it all — the job, the team, you. But I’m drowning.”

Lando takes a step forward. “YN…”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “I need space.”

And this time, you mean it.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,570,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Fewtrell in talks with Red Bull??! Lando’s race engineer was seen meeting with Christian Horner this afternoon. She has faced a lot of criticism and backlash working with Mclaren. Will she stay with them?

—

The room is silent, save for the faint ticking of a sleek analog clock and the soft shuffle of pages as Christian Horner flips through your printed track performance portfolio like he’s browsing specs on a new wind tunnel component. He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. Just let the numbers speak for themselves. You see your call sheets. Tire offset modeling. Degradation analysis. Win probabilities. All the things that made people outside the team mock you — and made people inside the paddock terrified of you.

“This,” Christian finally says, tapping a finger against your Australian GP strategy sheet, “was the best pit call I’ve seen in three years. And I’ve worked with Hannah for over a decade.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He smiles. “We see what you’re doing, YN. Some people only see Lando’s wins. I see who’s putting him in the position to take them.”

Your stomach turns slightly. You should feel proud. Grateful. Validated. But instead, it just makes your chest ache.

He leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers. “If you come here, you’ll be given autonomy. No headlines. No internal politics. No fighting for respect. Just results. And trust.”

You nod, slowly, unsure what to say. His voice is steady. His words, deliberate. Everything you thought you wanted—finally offered. And yet, there’s a pit in your stomach that only gets heavier.

The folder with your name on it sits in front of you, untouched. Contract terms. Role title—Head of Race Strategy.

It would be a promotion. A salary jump. A career-defining move.

But all you can think about is a voice in your headset saying “we did it.”

A hand brushing your back on the podium. A boy with a crooked smile and a voice that only ever softened for you.

—

Lando is exhausted. He hasn’t slept properly since the race. Since the fight. Since you walked out of his hotel room without a backward glance and took all the air with you.

He’s meant to be reviewing simulator data with the McLaren techs, but his head isn’t there. It hasn’t been for weeks. It’s back in that garage. That balcony. That hotel room. He runs a hand through his curls and turns a corner—And nearly bumps into Max Verstappen.

“Jesus—sorry, mate,” Lando mutters, distracted, already half past him.

Max doesn’t miss a beat.

“Hey,” he says, glancing down, “You might wanna keep your eyes up today.”

Lando blinks. “What?”

Max gives him a dry, amused look. The kind that says I know something you don’t.

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Max says, casually taking a sip of his drink. “Horner’s in a meeting right now with your engineer. Could be the last time you call her yours.”

Lando’s whole body stills.

“What?”

Max shrugs. “I mean… she’s good. We all know it. Wouldn’t blame her for jumping ship. You guys made it easy, yeah?”

Lando opens his mouth, but Max is already walking past him, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.

“She looked serious, by the way. Folder and everything.”

Lando’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t call Zak. Doesn’t wait for security or clearance or logic. He just runs.

Through the Red Bull corridors. Past the press room. Past engineers and assistants who do double takes as he flies by in his team hoodie, looking like he’s chasing something he should’ve protected weeks ago. And he is. Because this time, he might be too late.

—

The contract still sits unopened in front of you. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Christian is mid-sentence again — something about finalizing negotiations after the summer break — when the door slams open so hard the glass rattles. You jolt in your seat. So does Horner. And then you hear it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

You look up and your heart stops. Lando. Flushed. Breathless. Hair a mess. McLaren hoodie halfway unzipped, curls damp with sweat. His eyes are locked on you, not even acknowledging Christian.

You push your chair back, stunned. “Lando—”

He doesn’t wait. He walks straight across the room, past the Red Bull logo, past the executive folders, straight to you.

“Come with me,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second, glancing at Christian. Christian sighs, clearly already over the dramatics. “Take your time.”

You follow Lando into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. The second it closes, he rounds on you.

“Why?” he says, voice sharp with confusion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why would you do this? Why would you just leave?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Was I that awful to you?” he continues. “After everything—after what we’ve built—do I really make it that easy to walk away?”

“Lando, it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s begging now. And you can’t hold it in anymore. Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. Your hands are trembling.

You swallow hard. “Because I’m in love with you.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “Because I’ve been in love with you and pretending not to be for months. Because the second anyone even suspects we’re close, the hate triples. Because every race I sit beside you and make calls that win championships and people still say it’s all because I want your attention.”

Your voice is shaking now.

“And if I stay—and if this gets out—I know what they’ll say. That I seduced my way into the headset. That I only win because you let me. And I can’t—I can’t survive that, Lando.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Until he speaks. Softly. Carefully. Completely undone.

“You think I care about any of that?”

You shake your head, eyes blurring. “You should.”

“I don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids and I’ve been waiting for you to see it.”

You stop breathing.

“I have let people talk. I’ve watched them rip you apart online, in meetings, in commentary boxes. And you just kept showing up. Not for the glory. Not even for the team. For me. Because you believed in me.”

He’s in front of you now, so close your hands could just—reach.

“So if you’re scared, I’ll take the heat. If they want to come after us, let them. But don’t run away from what we’ve built just because they can’t handle a woman being better than all of them.”

You blink hard, the tears finally falling.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you,” you whisper.

He reaches for your hand.

“Then stay. Not for McLaren. Not for the team. For me. Stay and let me love you out loud.”

You don’t say anything. You just fall into him. And this time, when he catches you — he doesn’t let go.

—

f1gossipgirls

4,100,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, McLaren is making it very clear that their engineering goddess will not be making the move to Red Bull. 😌

Last night’s Women in Motorsport event, hosted by YN Fewtrell herself, was equal parts groundbreaking, glamorous, and papaya coded power move. McLaren not only doubled down on their support of their youngest ever lead race engineer—they literally built an entire collection around her. Yes, you read that right.

The new McLaren x YN capsule drop—which happens to be co designed by YN, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri—blends garage grit with streetwear genius. 

Oh, and Zak Brown? Sources say he stood off stage during the launch with the expression of a proud dad. One thing’s for sure—McLaren isn’t just protecting YN—they’re elevating her. With the performance she’s delivered this season and the cultural pull she’s building off track, any team who thought they could poach her might want to rethink. 

—

time skip- end of season

Race 24. Sunset. Victory. The pit wall erupts. Headsets fly. Crew leap from their chairs. Someone screams. Someone sobs. Champagne is already spraying even though it hasn’t even been five minutes since the checkered flag waved and everything changed. McLaren are Constructors’ Champions. Lando Norris is a World Champion. And you? You’re frozen. Still seated, staring at the final sector times like they might dissolve if you look away.

It’s done. You did it. You were the voice in his ear all season. Through every win, every late brake, every risky undercut. You built the strategies. You held your nerve. You called the shot that sealed the title. And suddenly—arms are around you.

Oscar’s the first to tackle you, practically dragging you out of your seat. “YOU DID IT! WITH THAT BIG BRAIN,” he yells, voice cracking as he yanks off your headset.

Then Zak’s pulling you into a bear hug, shouting, “You genius, you absolute weapon—you just made history!”

And then there’s chaos. Cameras. Journalists. Engineers hugging. Lando doing donuts on track with the British flag trailing out of his halo. Mechanics crying. Oscar waving his P3 trophy like it’s a lightsaber.

And somewhere in the madness, someone shouts—

“WHERE’S Y/N?! GET HER TO THE PODIUM!”

You’re still breathless when they drag you through the garage. Your McLaren polo is soaked in champagne before you even reach parc fermé. You trip over a cable. Someone shoves a bottle in your hand. You’re laughing and crying and blinking back tears as fans chant your name from the grandstands.

“FEEEEW-TRELL! FEEEEW-TRELL!”

And then you see him. Helmet off. Eyes wild. Hair flattened with sweat. Lando stands on the car, arms in the air, tears streaming down his cheeks as the team swarms around him. But the moment his eyes land on you, it’s like the world narrows. He jumps off the car and runs. Straight into you.

The impact nearly knocks the wind out of you, but you wrap your arms around him as he lifts you off the ground and spins you, screaming nonsense into your neck. He’s shaking. You’re crying. And neither of you care who’s watching.

“You did it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “We did it. You got me here. You held me together. This championship has your name all over it.”

You want to say something witty. Something cool. But the only thing that escapes is a broken, soft.

“I love you.”

His whole face crumples. Like he’s been holding that in too.

“God, I love you too.”

And he kisses you. Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the grid. In front of the entire fucking world. And instead of boos, instead of backlash, there’s only cheering. Because finally — finally — no one can deny you. You’re not a PR stunt. You’re not just Max Fewtrell’s sister. You’re not Lando Norris’ distraction.

You’re the architect of this championship. And tonight, the world knows it.

You stay on the podium stage for the celebration, champagne in your eyes, Lando’s hand in yours. Oscar flings his trophy in the air. Zak is pretending he isn’t crying. The team is lifting mechanics onto their shoulders. Pit crew are dancing. Someone starts singing “Sweet Caroline” off-key.

And you? You look around at the chaos, the joy, the sheer disbelief that you finally made it here. And for the first time all season— You feel loved. Not just for what you do. But for who you are.

—

lando

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and 11,010,290 others.

lando : FUCK ALL YOU BITCHES THAT DOUBTED MY PRETTY BIG BRAINED GIRLFRIEND. SHE SHOWED YOU AND WON ME A CHAMPIONSHIP

tagged : yn_fewtrell

—

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—

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 25

˗ˏˋ vanilla drips ˎˊ˗

"Sometimes the sweetest confessions come in the form of flour wars and vanilla extract kisses, when 3 AM vulnerability meets kitchen counter chemistry and you realize you've been lying to yourself about what you actually want."

next | index

✧ chapter details ✧

word count: 11.2k

content: 3am sourdough therapy sessions, flour warfare, vanilla extract as foreplay, kitchen counter confessions, raw intimacy (literally), tessa reconnaissance missions, jason date debriefs, smut, penetration, vanilla kink as always

✦ author's note ✦

Okay. Before anyone starts warming up their fingers to type “why is Y/N being such a hypocrite about Tessa,” let’s stop right there because actually? She’s not. Not even a little bit. What you’re witnessing here isn’t hypocrisy—it’s human behavior. It’s trauma logic. It’s psychological realism. And it’s honestly the most consistent Y/N has ever been.

Here’s the thing: what she has with Jungkook is sex. She’s said it, she’s acted on it, and more importantly—she believes it. Her brain doesn’t categorize him as a romantic option, not even subconsciously. So when she pushes Tessa toward him, it’s not because she’s lying to herself—it’s because, from her point of view, Jungkook deserves something good. After Mia? Yeah. He deserves a little sweetness. Tessa’s nice. That’s literally it. She’s responding with a moral instinct, not romantic jealousy. And that’s not hypocrisy—that’s compartmentalization paired with a genuine (if ill-defined) desire to see someone be treated well.

But here’s the question the chapter’s really asking: is “something good” always what someone needs?

Because Jungkook doesn’t recognize affection as safe. The boy has trained himself not to see it—thanks to a past that weaponized intimacy against him. So of course he doesn’t clock Tessa’s interest. It’s not him being stupid. It’s a trauma-informed blind spot. He’s too tuned into control dynamics to perceive sincerity when it’s offered without strings. (And let’s be real, how many of us have had our receptors miswired by the wrong person?)

That’s where the mutual curiosity comes in—both Y/N and Jungkook ask about each other’s dating lives in this chapter. Not because they’re pining or secretly in love or any of that fluff. They’re not. What they are, though, is interested. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but definitely in a human one. They’re trying to read each other. Understand each other. That’s what friends do. Or, in their case, that’s what trying to be friends looks like. They’re clumsy, they’re defensive, but they’re showing care in the only languages they know—flour fights and 3 AM bread commentary and checking if the other person is sleeping with someone else, just to make sense of the shape of things.

And Jungkook? For all his snark and dodging—he reads her this chapter. Like really reads her. He names her deflections. Calls out her need for control. Gives her permission to let go in ways no one else has. That kitchen scene isn’t romantic, it’s recognition. And that’s what makes it intimate. Not love. Not pining. But connection.

The vanilla extract moment—look, I know some of you are rolling your eyes at the "of course it's vanilla because that's Y/N's scent" metaphor, but hear me out. The fact that he was drinking it? That's not cute quirky behavior—that's concerning. It's self-medication disguised as harmless habit. For those of you who don’t know or haven’t caught up—vanilla extract is ethanol. Which means, it is alcohol. And Y/N recognizing it but choosing to transform it into something sensual instead of confronting it directly? That's her attempting to heal through intimacy rather than conversation, which is very much her emotional language at this point in the story.

Anyway. Enjoy the mess. Enjoy the tension. Enjoy Jungkook's dirty talk and Y/N's stubborn deflection and the way they're both falling without admitting it. It's about to get so much more complicated, and I am absolutely living for it.

✧ read on✧

ao3

wattpad

You're halfway to sleep when the knock comes.

Soft at first, almost hesitant, like whoever's on the other side isn't sure they should be there.

"What?" you mumble, voice thick with exhaustion.

No response.

Another knock, louder this time.

"Whatttt?" you snap, sitting up and glaring at the door.

Still no answer.

With an annoyed huff, you throw off the covers and march to the door, yanking it open—and nearly stumble into Jungkook.

He's leaning against the frame, one arm braced above his head like he's posing for a magazine cover. His hair is messy, his silver ring catching the faint light from the hallway.

You take a step back instinctively, narrowing your eyes. "What do you want? It's three in the morning."

He tilts his head toward the kitchenette, lips quirking into that infuriating half-smile. "I'm making sourdough."

You blink at him. "Sourdough?"

"Remember I told you about my Steam nickname? The baking pun?" He raises an eyebrow like he's daring you to remember.

"Huh," you say flatly, still trying to process why this man is standing outside your room at an ungodly hour talking about bread.

"Wanna see?" he asks, his grin widening.

"No," you reply immediately, crossing your arms. "Why would I want to see your midnight bread experiment?"

"Because it's cool," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him for a long moment before sighing and stepping out of your room.

"Fine. But if this is stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupts, already turning toward the kitchenette. "It's art."

"Oh my god," you mutter, following him reluctantly.

The counter is a mess of flour and bowls and what looks like a dough blob covered with a damp cloth. Jungkook gestures at it like it's a masterpiece.

"Behold," he says dramatically. "The future of bread."

You squint at it.

"It looks like a brain."

"Shows what you know about baking," he retorts, grabbing a wooden spoon and poking at the edges of the dough. "This is proofing."

"You're proofing my patience right now," you mutter, leaning against the counter.

He smirks but doesn't look up from his work. "You're just jealous because I have hobbies."

"Making bread at 3 AM isn't a hobby; it's a cry for help."

"Says the girl who reads Kafka for fun."

"It's called intellectual stimulation."

"It's called depressing bug stories."

You roll your eyes as he starts shaping the dough.

"So this is what you do when you can't sleep? Play housewife?"

"Better than doomscrolling Twitter," he shoots back without missing a beat.

"Shut up." You watch him for a moment longer before asking, "Why sourdough?"

His hands pause briefly before resuming their rhythm.

"My mom taught me how to make it when I was younger," he says quietly. "I loved it, so I picked it up quite easily. I guess it's just habit now."

There's something softer in his voice now, something almost reverent.

You don't press him for more details; it feels like enough that he shared this much.

"But I mean... why do it now?" you ask instead.

He shrugs but doesn't look up. "I told you, it helps me think."

You scoff, trying to keep the mood from dipping too far into serious territory. He finishes shaping the dough and places it on a tray before turning back to you.

"Wanna help?" he asks, holding out the wooden spoon.

"Nope," you say immediately.

"Oh come on." He wiggles the spoon enticingly. "Live a little."

"I'm living just fine without touching your weird blob bread."

"You're no fun."

He sets the spoon down with exaggerated disappointment and starts cleaning up the counter.

You watch him for another moment before grabbing the spoon and poking at the dough experimentally. It feels weirdly satisfying under your fingers—soft but firm, pliable but resistant.

Jungkook glances over and smirks again.

"See? Told you it was cool."

"Don't push it," you warn, but there's no real bite in your tone.

He chuckles softly and continues tidying up while you poke at his sourdough creation like it might reveal some hidden secrets about him—or maybe just about yourself.

And somehow, in this quiet kitchen at three in the morning, surrounded by flour and sarcasm and unexpected softness, it feels... okay.

You're still poking at the dough when Jungkook flicks a bit of flour in your direction. It lands on your arm, a tiny white puff against your skin.

"Oops," he says, not sounding sorry at all.

You narrow your eyes. "Don't start something you can't finish, Rogue."

His eyebrows shoot up at the nickname, a challenge sparking in his eyes.

"Is that a threat, Phoenix?"

"Yes it is."

You dip your fingers into the flour bag and flick it back at him, leaving a white streak across his black t-shirt.

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" He grins, reaching for more flour.

You back away, holding up your hands. "Don't you dare."

"What are you gonna do about it?" He advances slowly, a handful of flour cupped in his palm like a weapon.

"I'm serious, Jungkook," you warn, but you're already calculating escape routes. "I just showered."

"Should've thought about that before you started a war."

You dart around the sofa, putting it between you.

"This is childish."

"Says the girl hiding behind furniture," he counters, mirroring your movements as you circle the couch.

"I'm being smart."

"You're being a chicken."

You gasp in fake outrage. "Take that back!"

"No can do," he taunts, lunging suddenly to the left.

You shriek and bolt right, nearly slipping on the tile as you move through the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch. He's right behind you, laughing as you sprint to the other side.

"Get away from me, you monster!" you yell, but you're laughing too, the absurdity of the situation hitting you.

"Never!" he calls back, his voice pitched higher in a cartoonish villain impression. "Ueheheheh!"

You grab a throw pillow as a shield, holding it in front of you.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh no, not the pillow," he mocks, still advancing. "Whatever shall I do?"

You swing it at him, but he dodges easily, grabbing your wrist with his flour-free hand.

Before you can react, he's smearing the flour across your cheek, touch surprisingly gentle despite the roughhousing.

"Got you," he says, voice low and triumphant.

You retaliate immediately, snatching the bag of flour from the counter and shoving your hand in.

"Fuck that, this means war!"

And so then, war begins indeed.

Flour flying everywhere, breathless laughter echoing through the apartment, furniture used as barricades and launch pads.

You leave white handprints on his shoulders when you try to push him away; he leaves them on your waist when he catches you mid-escape.

The aftermath leaves the kitchen floor looking like a disaster zone, flour coating every surface like a dusting of snow.

You're both covered in it—hair, clothes, skin—looking like ghosts in a low-budget horror movie.

"Truce?" you gasp finally, out of breath from laughing and running.

"Never surrender," he declares, lunging for you again.

You dodge, but your sock slips on the flour-covered floor, and before you fall, Jungkook grabs you, steadying you with a hand on your waist.

"Gotcha," he says again, softer this time, his face inches from yours.

You're both breathing hard, covered in flour.

His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, a question in them.

And then—

SMACK.

His hand connects with your ass in a playful swat, leaving a perfect white handprint on your black sleep shorts.

You gasp in outrage as he dances away, cackling like a maniac.

"You did NOT just—"

"I did," he confirms, looking far too pleased with himself. "And it's a work of art, if I do say so myself."

You glance over your shoulder, trying to see the handprint.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Worth it," he declares, already backing away as you advance on him. "Totally worth it."

"You're dead, Ro," you threaten, grabbing another handful of flour. "Dead!"

He just laughs, eyes bright with mischief, not looking sorry at all.

"Come and get me then, Phoenix."

And despite yourself, despite the mess and the late hour and the flour in places flour should never be, you're laughing too, chasing him around the kitchen like you're both twelve years old instead of college students with responsibilities and complicated lives.

It's ridiculous. It's childish.

It's the most fun you've had in weeks.

Flour permeates the kitchen air like falling snowflakes.

Jungkook is now leaning against the counter, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, surveying the flour-dusted disaster.

You, for your part, are trying to brush flour off your arms, which is mostly just smearing it around.

"You know," Jungkook says, his voice laced with that fake-innocent tone he uses when he's about to say something outrageous, "all this flour… it's probably not great for your pores."

You eye him suspiciously. "And?"

"And," he continues, pushing off the counter and taking a step closer, "you should probably shower again."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." You gesture vaguely at your flour-coated state.

"I could help," he offers. "You know… save water. Be environmentally conscious."

You burst out laughing, a startled, disbelieving sound.

"Are you serious right now? We just had a flour war, and your first thought is how to get laid?"

"Efficiency, Nix," he says, tapping his temple. "Always thinking efficiency."

"You're deranged," you choke out between laughs. "A completely deranged, horny bitch."

He just shrugs, unbothered.

"Maybe. But think of the planet."

You're still chuckling, shaking your head at his sheer audacity, when a thought flickers through your mind, uninvited and slightly uncomfortable.

Tessa.

If he actually starts dating her, if they become a thing… this—the easy banter, the late-night flirting, the casual hookups—it would all have to stop, right? You can't exactly keep sleeping with him if he has a girlfriend.

The thought leaves a weird, vaguely metallic taste in your mouth. Not jealousy, exactly. You don't want Jungkook in that way.

But the dynamic you have, this messy, undefined thing… it's familiar.

Weirdly comfortable in its own chaotic way.

The idea of it changing, ending… it's just… weird.

You push the thought away, shaking your head again, trying to clear it. Not your problem right now.

"Yeah, I'll pass on your noble environmental efforts," you say, trying to regain control of the conversation.

You look around at the white-dusted apartment, then back at him.

"Seriously though, when did you even get home? I didn't hear you come in at all."

He leans back against the counter again, crossing his arms over his flour-streaked chest.

"A while ago. Maybe you were too busy dreaming about me to notice."

"In your dreams, Rogue." You pick a stray piece of dough off your sleeve. "I was sleeping. Like normal people do at"—you glance at the microwave clock—"three-thirty in the morning."

"Normal is boring," he counters easily. "Besides, I'm stealthy. Like a ninja. A bread-making ninja."

"A messy ninja," you correct, gesturing at the flour coating literally everything, including him. "You look like a powdered donut."

"A sexy powdered donut," he clarifies, striking a pose.

You snort. "Keep telling yourself that."

You start trying to wipe down a section of the counter with a paper towel, which mostly just creates floury streaks.

"Seriously though, you didn't make any noise. I would've heard the door."

He shrugs, grabbing another paper towel and starting to help, surprisingly.

"Maybe I'm just light on my feet. Or maybe your ears are full of wax."

"Rude."

You throw the floury paper towel at him. He dodges it effortlessly.

"Just stating facts," he says, grinning. "Maybe you should get them checked. Could be impacting your hearing. Explains why you never listen to me."

"I listen," you argue, crumpling up another paper towel. "I just usually choose to ignore you because ninety percent of what you say is bullshit."

"That feels statistically inaccurate," he muses, wiping down the handle of the fridge. He leaves a faint white handprint behind. "I'd say it's more like… eighty-two percent bullshit. The other eighteen percent is pure genius."

"Delusional," you mutter, tackling the flour patch on the floor near the sink. "Completely delusional."

He stops wiping and just watches you for a second, a thoughtful expression replacing the usual smirk.

"You really didn't hear me come in?"

"No," you say, looking up. "Why? Should I have?"

He shakes his head, the smirk returning.

"Nah. Just means my ninja skills are improving. Or you're a really heavy sleeper." He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Do you snore, Nix? Is that your dirty little secret?"

"I do not snore," you hiss, flicking water at him. "And get out of my personal space."

He laughs, easily dodging the water droplets. "Just asking!"

He resumes wiping the counter, humming softly under his breath.

You watch him for a moment, thoughts about Tessa still churning in your mind.

It's ridiculous, standing here covered in flour at nearly four in the morning, cleaning up a mess you both made, arguing about ninja skills and snoring.

But somehow, it feels… normal. Your kind of normal, anyway.

Messy, complicated, and definitely not boring.

You're on your hands and knees, attempting to wipe up a particularly stubborn patch of flour near the leg of the kitchen island, when you decide to go for it.

Operation: Tessa Reconnaissance. For the sisterhood, obviously.

And maybe a tiny bit because you're curious how this whole mess fits together.

"So," you say, keeping your voice casual as you swipe uselessly at the floor, "your friends seem… like a lot."

Jungkook snorts from where he's attempting to de-flour the coffee maker.

"Yeah, they're idiots. But they're my idiots."

"Including Library Girl?" you ask, aiming for nonchalance. "The redhead? Tessa?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

"Tessa? Yeah, she was there. Why?"

"No reason," you say quickly, maybe too quickly, focusing intently on the flour patch. "Just noticed you two talking a lot. She seems… nice."

"She is nice," he agrees easily, turning back to the coffee maker. "Super smart, too. Knows her shit about film. Like, really knows it."

Okay, good start. He acknowledges her existence and intelligence. Phase one complete.

"Yeah?" you prompt. "She mentioned you guys talked about… Park Chan-wook?"

You pronounce the name carefully, hoping you got it right based on Tessa's text.

He brightens instantly, forgetting the coffee maker entirely and turning to face you fully.

"Dude, yes! She actually got why The Handmaiden is structured the way it is. Most people just focus on the twists, but she was talking about the shifting perspectives and visual storytelling… it was cool."

His enthusiasm is genuine, almost nerdy. It's the same way he lit up talking about John Mayer's guitar playing. He's clearly impressed by her film knowledge.

"So… you like her?" you ask, trying to sound like you're just making conversation while scrubbing the floor.

"Yeah, she's cool," he says easily. "Definitely one of the few people in that class who isn't a total poser. We had this debate about Bong Joon-ho's genre blending—it was actually interesting."

He seems focused entirely on the intellectual connection. No hint of anything else.

Time for phase two: physical attraction assessment.

"She's really pretty, too," you add, still scrubbing. "Like, model pretty."

He shrugs, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the counter where his dough blob still sits.

"Yeah, I guess. Didn't really notice."

You stop scrubbing and look up at him incredulously. "You didn't notice? She looks like she walked off a runway and directly into that ramen shop. How could you not notice?"

He frowns slightly, like he's genuinely trying to recall her appearance beyond 'classmate'.

"I mean, she's got… hair? And a face? I don't know, Nix, I was more focused on the conversation." He seems genuinely perplexed by your insistence. "Why are you so hung up on how she looks?"

"I'm not hung up!" you retort, feeling defensive for reasons you can't quite articulate. "I just… stating facts. She's objectively attractive."

"Okay?" He draws the word out, like he doesn't understand the relevance. "Lots of people are attractive. Doesn't mean anything."

He gestures vaguely with the damp cloth.

"Are we gonna finish cleaning this up or are we analyzing the relative hotness of my classmates now?"

You huff, returning to your floor scrubbing.

Unbelievable. Either he's genuinely oblivious or he's the world's best actor.

Given his track record, oblivious seems more likely.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just making an observation."

"Well, observe the flour patch you missed by the trash can," he retorts, pointing with the cloth.

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"Bossy."

"Best one."

You crawl over to the trash can, wiping up the offending flour.

Okay, so he acknowledges she's nice, smart, shares his interests, but is apparently blind to the fact that she's a literal goddess?

Why are men so confusing?

"So," you try again, shifting tactics. "Since she's so cool and smart and into the same weird movies as you… you gonna ask her out?"

He stops wiping again, looking genuinely surprised by the question.

"Ask her out? Why would I do that?"

"Because… you like her? You just said she was cool and smart?"

Are you losing your mind? Is he actually this dense?

"Yeah, as a friend," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We're in the same class. We talk about movies. That's… what friends do?"

"Jungkook," you say slowly, sitting back on your heels and facing him directly. "Girls like Tessa—girls who look like her and are that nice—don't usually go out of their way to talk to guys about obscure Korean directors unless they're interested."

He stares at you, blinking. Like the concept is entirely foreign.

"Wait, you think she… likes me? Like, likes likes me?"

"Is there an echo in here?" you ask dryly. "Yes, you absolute walnut. That's generally how that works."

He runs a hand through his flour-dusted hair, looking completely bewildered.

"No way. She's just… friendly. People are friendly sometimes, Nix."

"Not that friendly," you insist. "Trust me. There's friendly, and then there's 'laughing at all your jokes and touching your arm every five minutes' friendly. That's different."

He actually seems to consider this, replaying interactions in his head.

His brow furrows.

"She does laugh a lot… And she did touch my arm…" He looks back at you, still skeptical. "But maybe she's just, like, a touchy person?"

"Or maybe she wants to touch your dick," you deadpan.

He chokes on air, eyes widening.

"Dude! What the fuck?"

"Just saying! It's a possibility you seem to have completely overlooked."

He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him.

"Nah. No way. You're messing with me."

"I'm really not," you say, suddenly feeling bad for Tessa—because this poor beautiful girl is putting in the effort, and he's completely clueless. "She basically told me she likes you."

"She told you?" Finally, he looks like oxygen is reaching his brain. "When?"

"At the party. We talked for a bit."

"And she just… announced her romantic interest in me? To my roommate? That seems weird."

"It wasn't like that! She was asking for advice! Because she was nervous!" You're practically defending her now. "She's really sweet, Rogue. And clearly into you."

He leans back against the counter again, processing this information.

He doesn't look smug or pleased, just… thoughtful.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

"Huh," he says softly. "Never would've guessed."

He's quiet for a moment, staring down at the floury cloth in his hand.

"I mean, she is… really nice."

"So?" you prompt. "Now that you know the feeling might be mutual…?"

He sighs, dropping the cloth into the sink.

"I don't know, Nix."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

He avoids your eyes, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the cloth with unnecessary focus.

"Dating's… complicated, you know?"

"Everything's complicated with you," you mutter.

He glances back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it's gone.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that's just how it is." He turns off the water, wringing out the cloth. "Besides, I'm not really… looking for anything right now."

"You're never looking for anything," you point out. "Except maybe your keys. Or a clean mug."

"Exactly," he says, attempting a grin, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Too busy looking for my keys."

There it is again. That deflection. That hint of something heavier beneath that he refuses to acknowledge.

You think about what Yoongi said, about Mia, about Jungkook needing to be careful.

Maybe he's right to be hesitant.

"Okay," you say quietly, deciding not to push it further.

You've done your recon. You have information for Tessa, even if it's not the straightforward green light she might be hoping for.

"Just… don't be a dick to her, alright? If you're not interested, fine. But she's nice. She doesn't deserve games."

He looks surprised by your defense of her.

"I wasn't planning on playing games." He hesitates, then adds, almost reluctantly, "She does seem… different. From…"

He trails off, but you know who he means.

Mia.

An awkward silence hangs between you for a moment.

Unspoken history and potential futures.

Jungkook breaks it first, clapping his hands together with forced brightness.

"Okay, enough about my potential love life," he says, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Let's talk yours. How was the date with Jason?"

You freeze, paper towel in hand, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

"What?"

He's halfway through sweeping a particularly stubborn pile of flour when he pauses, leaning on the broom handle.

"You know, Jason? Tall guy, glasses, probably owns more vests than actual personality traits?" He waves the broom vaguely. "The one you were all dressed up for earlier?"

"I wasn't dressed up," you protest automatically, even though you know it's a lie.

You definitely put effort into your appearance for that coffee date.

Jungkook snorts.

"Please. You were wearing makeup on a Sunday. And that green top thing that makes your—" He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Anyway. Spill. How'd it go with Professor Boring?"

You narrow your eyes at him.

"His name is Jason, and he's not boring. He's... mature."

"Mature," Jungkook repeats, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept. "Right. Because that's what every college student dreams of. Maturity."

"Some of us actually want to date functioning adults," you retort.

"Functioning is overrated," he says with a grin. "But seriously, how was it? Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of... what does he study again? 18th-century doorknobs?"

"Modern literature," you correct, rolling your eyes. "And it was nice."

Jungkook raises an eyebrow.

"Nice? That's it? Wow, don't oversell it or anything."

You sigh, grabbing the dustpan to help him with the flour pile.

"It was really nice, okay? He's smart, and he actually listens when I talk. We had a great conversation about female agency in Gothic novels."

"Riveting," Jungkook deadpans. "I'm sure the sexual tension was off the charts. Did you hold hands while discussing the patriarchal oppression of women in corsets?"

"You're such an ass," you mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. "Not everything has to be about sexual tension, you know."

"Doesn't have to be," he agrees, sweeping the last of the flour into the dustpan you're holding. "But it sure makes things more interesting."

And yeah, you catch him looking.

That look.

The one that says he's already decided how this ends.

One hand still loosely gripping the broom handle, the other braced against the table as he leans into it like he's posing for a fucking cologne ad.

You don't acknowledge it at first. Too proud. Too fucking annoyed by how easily he can flip the switch. One second you're arguing about Gothic literature and vests, the next—he's practically leaking testosterone across the countertop.

"I know that face," you mutter, not even looking up. "That's your 'I need to nut or I'll die' face."

He grins, unbothered. "Not wrong."

"Go jerk off in your sad little windowless cave like a normal person."

He shrugs, grabbing the bag of flour again, sifting some through his fingers with mock concentration.

"Mmm. Say it again. That mouth of yours, Pix… always so fuckin' mouthy."

You roll your eyes, but your stomach dips. "Maybe if you had more than two brain cells to rub together, I wouldn't have to talk so much."

"Yeah?" he says, ignoring the flour and stepping forward.

One stride. Two. And then he's right in front of you, eyes glinting.

"Keep runnin' that smart pretty mouth. See what happens."

You're about to fire something back—something snarky, something biting—but he grabs you.

Just yanks you forward by the waistband like it's nothing. Like you're nothing but a ragdoll he gets to toss around.

Your body stumbles into his chest and suddenly both his hands are on your ass, gripping it with filthy enthusiasm—greedy, solid handfuls of flesh through thin cotton, palms still dusty with flour. His fingers press, squeeze, spread, claim.

You gasp—too startled to bite it back.

And he fucking grins.

"See what you do to me when you act like that?"

His cock's hard against your stomach. Rock solid. Obvious. Shameless. He doesn't even try to hide it.

"God, Nix," he mutters, voice thick now. "C'mon. It's been too long."

You snort. "I sucked your winny yesterday."

He breaks—a bark of laughter, genuine and scandalized.

"Winny?" he repeats, like he can't believe you said it. "You calling my dick a preschool toy now?"

You shrug, deadpan. "Fits. Loud, annoying, kind of a drama queen."

He leans in again, dragging his mouth close, too close.

"Uh-uh, and I ate you out the day before that," he says, scornful little smile tugging at his lips like he's winning something. "So technically… still overdue."

"So?" you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be. "That's not overdue."

"It is," he says, like it's math. "I mean actually being inside you. Kinda been craving it for a while now."

You swallow. Loud.

"Should I bend you over the kitchen table?" he murmurs. "Fuck you from behind? Bet you'd like that, huh?"

"Please," you scoff. "You'd probably knock over your sacred sourdough."

He grins, cocky and low and unbearable.

"So protective of the dough. But not my Winny?"

You slap his chest, trying not to laugh.

"Don't say it like that."

"Me? You gave it a name, so… C'mon, give my Winny some love, Pix."

You snort, and it comes out halfway between a laugh and a groan because your thighs are starting to ache with how badly you want pressure. Relief. Something.

"Counter or table?" he asks, already walking you backwards.

You hesitate. Just a second.

"…Counter."

He doesn't wait. Doesn't ask. Just grabs you and lifts like it's easy, like you weigh nothing. Drops your ass right onto the cool marble and steps between your legs—close enough your knees bracket his hips.

And his voice? His voice is low and filthy and unforgiving.

"Atta girl."

His mouth is on you before you can roll your eyes.

Hot, hungry kisses trailing up your neck—messy, unhurried, lips dragging like he wants to brand you. He bites at your jaw, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You tilt your head without thinking, baring your throat like a fucking offering.

And he groans—low and wrecked—like that does something to him. Like you're giving him more than skin.

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft crease near your hips, holding you open while he devours.

You blink, and something catches the light near the sink.

Tiny. Brown. Familiar.

Your arm reaches past him, still off-balance on the counter. Fingers curl around it—vanilla extract.

You hold it up between two fingers, smirking.

"Why the fuck is this out?"

His head lifts just enough to glance at what you mean.

"Oh," he says, then immediately dives back in, mouthing at your collarbone like he didn't just answer you. "Nothing. Was sipping a lil bit earlier."

Your body stiffens. Barely. But he feels it.

You don't say anything for a second. You just… look at the bottle.

That rooftop moment. Yesterday. Him alone up there while the party buzzed under your feet. You didn't press then, just made a joke, let him deflect.

But it doesn't take a genius to figure out why someone drinks baking extract ethanol like it's bourbon.

You lick your lips. Keep your voice easy. Teasing.

"That why you smell like a cookie?"

He huffs a laugh against your throat. "You love it. Bet it's makin' you wet just thinking about biting into me."

He's joking. He's back to kissing.

But the bottle is still in your hand, glass warm from your skin, rolling between your fingers like it's got a heartbeat.

And okay. Fine. Maybe you're a little unhinged too.

"Wanna try something?" you ask, voice quiet, a little hoarse.

His head lifts slow. Eyes lazy. Lips wet.

He tilts his head, cock twitching against you like it heard the shift in your voice before he did.

"Yeah?" he says, grinning like he already knows he's gonna say yes no matter what it is. "What're we trying, Phoenix?"

Because you know—you know this man would let you pour hot sauce on his dick if you told him it'd turn you on.

His gaze flicks to the bottle still resting against your palm. Back to your mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, voice already going gravel. "Show me."

You dab two fingers against the lip of the bottle, tilting it just enough to coat your skin in that sticky-sweet scent. Not much—just enough to cling. Your pulse, your collarbone, the hinge of your neck.

His eyes track everything. Like he's under hypnosis.

Slow drag up your wrist, down your throat. Pupils blown wide. Tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip like it's instinct.

And then you offer it to him.

Your throat—tilted, bare. Vanilla blooming warm across your skin, seeping into heat, mixing with your scent.

You watch his jaw tick, tension wrapped in restraint.

He hesitates. Just for a breath. Not because he's unsure. But because he knows what'll happen if he starts.

His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up to your face. And then—

He grabs your wrist, rough but reverent, and slides your fingers straight into his mouth.

His tongue curls around them, sucks them clean like he's starving and this is the only sweet thing he's allowed to have.

His eyes don't leave yours for a second.

Heavy. Dark. Quietly fucking feral.

You feel it in your cunt.

That twitch—sharp and sudden—when he lets your fingers fall from his mouth with a wet pop and immediately dives back into your neck.

No warning. No mercy.

Just mouth on skin, lips dragging open over the vanilla, tongue flattening against your throat like he's licking you clean. Like you're the bottle. Like he's drunk and this is the relapse.

"Mmmfph—fuck," he groans against your neck, hot breath flooding over your skin. "You're—fuck—you're dessert, Phoenix."

He's biting now. Mouthing. Bruising.

Your head falls back against the cabinets with a dull thud and you don't care. Not even a little.

His hands are under your thighs again, yanking you closer to the edge of the counter like he's going to eat you here and now and be proud of the mess.

He doesn't stop licking your neck—just shifts slightly, mouth dragging lower, wetter, hungrier—until he can grab the flask again without even looking. He uncaps it one-handed, like he's done it a hundred times in the dark.

Because he probably has.

And then he's holding it over your chest.

"Hold still, Phoenix."

Voice low. Thick with something needy.

You barely nod before the cool drip hits your skin—fuck—a slow, deliberate trail spilling from the center of your collarbone and down, sliding between your tits, disappearing under the fabric of your tank top.

He watches it move. Doesn't blink. Bites his bottom lip like he's trying to restrain himself and failing spectacularly.

"Fuckkk," he mutters under his breath, and the way he stares?

You'd think he just watched God part the Red Sea between your tits.

But he can't see where it goes. Not really. Because of the shirt.

And that?

That's unacceptable.

So he doesn't ask. Doesn't even warn.

He just grabs the hem of your tank and yanks it up, fast and messy, until it's bunched under your armpits. The cool air hits your bare skin, but his gaze is scorching—dragging down to your breasts, then lower, following the trail of sticky syrup that's now sliding beneath.

He drops the flask without care.

Leans in.

And presses his mouth to the spot just under your breasts, where the drip ends. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Tongue darting out to chase the taste.

He groans against your skin, like you're something forbidden and fuck, he's eating it anyway.

Then he starts licking up.

Slow. Thorough. Filthy.

Tongue dragging up the underside of your tits, between them, following the line of vanilla all the way back to your cleavage. His breath is hot and shaky, hands holding your thighs tight like he needs to anchor himself before he devours you.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he growls against your skin.

And you can barely breathe.

You lean back on your palms, spine arching subtly, thighs spreading wider across the counter—silent invitation.

His mouth twitches. Just slightly. Like he's trying to play it cool, like he's not already mentally wrecked.

Your fingers close around the vanilla bottle again.

And you tip it over your stomach.

A thin stream spills, slow and syrupy, tracing a path from just under your ribs down to your navel.

Sticky gold pooling in that soft dip, then slipping lower—toward your waistband, beneath it.

He stops.

Mid-breath.

Eyes drop.

Then drag back up to your face, slow as fucking sin.

And those eyes… those fucking eyes.

Dark like blackout curtains. Hungry. But quiet, too. Restrained. Like he's hanging onto the last thread of control and it's fraying fast.

He bites his lip again, teeth dragging over it, jaw flexing.

You raise a brow.

"Aren't you licking the vanilla off my skin, Rogue?" you say, voice steady, teasing, like your pulse isn't sprinting. "Go ahead."

He snorts through his nose—horny.

It's not even a laugh, not really. More like disbelief.

"Jesus, you're such a fucking menace."

Then he moves.

Hands at your waistband, yanking your shorts down like they've personally offended him.

There's no grace. No finesse. Just desperate, fumbling urgency, like if he doesn't get them off now he might lose it.

They hit the floor. So do your panties.

And then he drops to his knees.

Hooks your thighs over his elbows and pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, eyes level with your pussy. Eye to eye with his fucking meal, and the smirk that twitches at the edge of his mouth is so cocky it should be illegal.

But then he pauses.

Eyes catch on the fact that you're smooth. Bare.

His gaze flicks up, that same damn smirk sharpening.

"So you did plan on wishing me a happy birthday, huh?"

You groan, head thunking back against the cabinets.

"Shut up before I change my mind."

He just laughs, grabbing your thigh and yanking you closer, like that's his response.

It is.

"Thanks for the gift," he says with mock sincerity, "but like… full runway smooth? Nix. Just so you know, I like a little design."

You gape at him.

Is he serious right now?

Does he ever stop speaking?

Or think before he speaks? Like 'oh this might sound embarrassing coming from my mouth, I probably should keep it to myself.'

No. Definitely no.

"Design?"

He nods, dead serious now.

"I'm just saying. Little lightning bolt? Maybe a star? I could help you trim it next time. Get real artsy with it."

"I hate you," you mutter, scandalized and laughing, because of course this is what he's focusing on.

"I'm just saying…" he defends, grinning like a madman. "Bare's too creepy. I like texture, Phoenix. But not, like, a forest. I'm not tryna floss with it."

"God, you're disgusting," you shoot back, heat simmering low in your gut despite the absurdity.

"Disgustingly honest," he counters. "I want a little… edge. Like an angled fade. A pussy taper."

You laugh so hard your core clenches and he notices. Eyes drop. His smirk vanishes.

And just like that, he's focused again. Hands tightening around your thighs. Mouth opening. Ready to dive in.

But not before he whispers:

"Now be good and let me taste my birthday cake."

His mouth hovers. That maddening space—right there, close enough to feel his breath but not close enough to feel him.

It's hot. Each exhale fanning over your cunt like a fucking tease. You twitch, involuntary, hips tilting forward on reflex, thighs tensing around his shoulders.

"Rogue," you murmur, half-warn, half-beg.

He smirks. That slow, cocky pull of his lips that tells you he's going to drag this out just to see how long it takes before you snap.

He leans in, tongue barely peeking out like he's going to lick—

And then doesn't.

"I will actually punch you in the face," you hiss.

But he's already grabbing the bottle again.

His other hand steadies you, fingers splayed on your thigh, as he lifts the vanilla flask to eye level. Tips it slightly.

"Wait—" You grab a fistful of his hair. "Wait. Is that even safe?"

He pauses. Looks up at you, eyes wide, surprised—but not annoyed. Just… calm.

"Yeah," he says, voice casual but sincere. "This one's alcohol-based, not oil. No sugar. Won't mess with your PH or anything, I like your pussy way too much to risk it."

You roll your eyes, but okay. Fine. He's got a point.

And he's never put you in danger—annoyed, yes. Insane with frustration, absolutely.

But never unsafe.

"Okay," you mutter. "Proceed with your perversion."

"Oh, I plan to."

He uncaps it.

And the way he does it—so casually, like this is just some Wednesday night extracurricular?—makes your whole body lock up in anticipation.

He tips the bottle, lets a slow stream of vanilla drizzle from just above your navel, down the curve of your belly, heading lower.

It tickles. Warm and sticky, trailing through your folds, and your whole fucking body tenses with it.

His tongue flicks out, but this time, it's not teasing—it's the real deal.

His tongue drags up.

One long, slow stroke—base to tip—starting where your thighs twitch and ending where the vanilla's pooled.

He groans into it. Groans. Like it's crème fucking brûlée and he's been starving for a week. Like your cunt is the main course and dessert and a Michelin star.

You blink down at him, suddenly weirdly self-conscious.

Because—why the fuck is he acting like it's the best thing he's ever tasted?

It's vanilla extract and you, not caviar. Chill.

Your instinct is to kick him. Or flick his stupid forehead. Something.

But your cunt's already clenching around nothing, wetter than you want to admit.

Because—goddammit—his enthusiasm is doing something to you.

Like deeply. Shamefully. Physically.

You glance down, ready to call him dramatic. Maybe smack the back of his head.

But his eyes are closed.

And not in a performative way. Not for show.

They're hidden—lashes soaked, hair falling in messy dark strands over his brows. His whole face is fucking soft—relaxed, like he's at peace. Like this is meditation. Like your pussy is his church.

You reach down, tug his hair back just enough to uncover his face—need to see him.

Need to look.

And then—fuck. He looks up.

And he smirks. Caught you in 4K. Knew exactly what you were doing.

You want to smack him. Or yank his head down harder. Or kiss him. Or maybe scream.

It's all too much. He's too much.

But he just shifts again, mouth zeroing in now—on your clit this time. Tongue flat. Warm. Pressure steady and—fuck, fuck—

Your head slams back against the cabinet. You don't even feel it.

Because he's staring straight at you while he licks.

Intense. Sure. Smug. Like he knows. And the worst part?

He does.

You don't like eye contact. You hate eye contact.

Or—you did. Before he made it his fucking thing.

Now it's some kind of sex death ray. You're melting under it. You can't breathe under it.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his voice hoarse, lips slick with you.

"So mouthy up there…" he breathes, thumb dragging over your inner thigh. "But fuck, you're weepin' for me down here."

You choke on your own spit.

"Shut the fuck up with your cringy little sex monologue."

He snorts. Has the audacity to laugh into your cunt like it's funny.

"Uhhh? I thought we were past that whole thing where you pretend you don't like my dirty talk."

"I don't—"

He cuts you off with a slow circle of his tongue around your clit. Just once. Cruel.

"Right. That's why you got all hot when you said, 'Do you want me to ride you?'" he mimics, low and teasing. "Looked me in the eye when you said it, too. Said it just like that. Fuckin' purring, Pix."

You groan. "God, I hate you."

He grins. "No, you don't. You just hate that you like this."

Another lick.

Another smug look.

Another twitch deep in your gut.

And all you can do is glare at him—until his mouth is back on you, and then you can't even do that.

Because fuck, he picks up the pace.

Your right leg bends, heel dragging up his arm, foot planting itself on his shoulder like it belongs there. Toes curling the second his tongue swirls just right—just there. Over and over. Unrelenting.

Your whole torso arches back, spine stretched out like a bow. Head thunked against the cupboard above, hands gripping the edge of the counter so tight your knuckles go white.

And he doesn't stop.

Both his hands keep you steady, locked around your thighs, until the right one slides up—palm dragging over your skin, hot and too much. It settles right in that spot between your hip and waist. Thumb pressing into your side like an anchor.

Like he's keeping you from falling.

Like you're breakable.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or maybe just bite him for being so fucking considerate while simultaneously licking your pussy like he's trying to win a Michelin star.

You whimper. Actually whimper.

Because it's too much.

Because how the fuck does he even do that with his tongue?

It's obscene. Criminal. Feels like he's mapping you from memory now—like he's figured out every angle, every twitch, every exact combination that gets you to the edge in five minutes or less.

And—fuck—there it is.

That low hum in your belly, spiraling sharp and fast, heat pulsing outward. Nerve endings tightening. Your thighs start to close but he forces them open with a flex of his arms, tongue flattening again.

You gasp. Loud. Desperate.

Your hand flies down to his head and you yank his hair—hard.

He growls against you, frustrated, head jerking up, lips glossy and chin slick and brows scrunched like he's ready to fight.

"What," he snaps, breathless, panting. "What—what the fuck—"

You just whisper, shaky:

"Inside."

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Mouth parts. Eyes still a little wild.

"Huh?"

You meet his gaze, still breathless.

"I wanna cum with you inside me."

It short-circuits him. For real.

He pushes to stand so fast he almost stumbles. Feet trip a little. Palms slap the counter behind you as he catches himself and mutters, "Yeah—okay—fuck—gimme a second—"

But you reach out. Grab his arm. Stop him cold.

You lick your lips.

Probably look stupid. Glossy-eyed and dazed, like someone just rewired your brain through your pussy.

Whatever. You don't care.

You don't care because you can feel it now.

That ache. The need. The desperate, pulsing want for him to just get inside already. Your whole body's still twitching from his mouth and now it's fucking empty.

No thank you.

So you yank him. Hard.

Fingers curling in the loose fabric of his tee, tugging him back toward you like gravity's rewired itself around your cunt.

He lets himself be pulled. Doesn't even fight it. Just stumbles forward until he's between your legs again and then—then you're crashing his mouth to yours.

No hesitation. No buildup. No thoughts.

Just heat. Tongue. Need.

It's messy. Teeth clash. Vanilla and sweat and slick.

His hands slam to the counter beside your thighs for balance, knuckles brushing your waist as your tongue slides against his and you swallow the groan he lets out.

And yeah. You don't kiss men after they eat you out. Ever.

You've always thought it was gross, honestly. You live in your pussy. You don't need the flavor profile introduced.

But with him? Right now?

You don't even care.

You just want to taste what he tastes like. Want his spit in your mouth. Want to feel him.

So you kiss him like you mean it. Like you're not overthinking it. Like this doesn't break five of your own personal rules.

When you finally pull back, lips slick and breathing uneven, you keep your hands fisted in his shirt.

And say—quiet. Calm. "No need for condoms."

His eyes snap open.

You watch them go wide like you just told him the world's ending tomorrow and there's a free-for-all orgy scheduled at noon.

He coughs. Legit coughs. Like your spit went down the wrong pipe.

"Wait—what?"

You shrug. "I have a copper IUD. Works from minute one. I'm good."

His mouth opens, then closes again. Brain buffering.

"I mean…" he blinks. "I—I just—I didn't think you'd…"

You arch a brow.

He shakes his head a little, eyes dropping to your lips.

"No—like—I'm not complaining, I just—" His mouth staggers like he can't quite get the words out fast enough. "Are you sure?"

"I mean, you've been fucking with condoms, right?"

"Yeah. Always. Jesus. Yeah."

"And you've been getting tested?"

He gives you a look. "You think I'd be rawdogging around Brooklyn without paperwork?"

"Kind of," you mutter, just to mess with him.

"Okay, rude," he says, palm flattening on your thigh like it's involuntary. "I'm not feral. I'm—I'm… a respectful slut."

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then you say, quieter, "I haven't fucked anybody else since I fucked you."

And that? That actually makes him pause.

He blinks again. "Wait. For real?"

"Yeah. Nothing so far."

And he doesn't make it a thing. Doesn't get all soft and stupid about it.

He just takes a beat, stares at you, lips slightly parted like he's replaying it. Like the logistics are finally syncing in.

"Okay," he says. Rough. Breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, that's… okay."

You tap his chest. "Just cum outside, alright? Just in case."

He groans. Low and pained.

"Pix."

"I'm serious."

"You're killing me."

"Don't care."

"I'll pull out," he promises, fingers tightening on your skin. "But I swear to god, if you keep saying shit like that—inside, raw, no condom—I'm gonna lose it before I even get my pants off."

You grin back. "Sounds like a you problem."

And he breathes out, frustrated and horny and fucking wrecked, and mutters—

"You're my fucking problem."

He licks his lips.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's already tasting you again.

Then he leans in and murmurs against your cheek—

"Okay. Turn around."

You blink. "Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tug up. "Turn. Around."

"Of course you wanna change positions."

"What can I say," he shrugs, cock already visibly straining through his sweatpants. "Artist's curiosity."

Still. You do it.

He helps you down—steadying hands at your waist, guiding you like you're breakable, which, let's be honest, rude. And once your feet hit the floor, you shift, pivoting slowly to face the counter.

Elbows down. Back arched.

You stick your ass out just to be a bitch about it.

He groans. Actually fucking groans. Like it hurts him.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, hands immediately cupping your ass like it's reflex. "You're such a bitch."

You smirk into the counter. "Complaining?"

"No complaints." He huffs out a laugh. "Hands on the counter."

You glance over your shoulder. Raise a brow.

"Trust me," he says, already dragging one palm up the curve of your back.

You hum. But you do it. Flatten your hands, palms flush with the counter's edge.

Behind you, there's a shuffle.

Then that sound—the sound.

Elastic snapping as he yanks his waistband down.

You hear him shift his stance, toes lifting slightly as he lines himself up behind you. And then—

The press.

Just his tip, nudging against your entrance, and your whole body seizes, lips parting around a silent gasp as your thighs instinctively press together.

"You better not let go of that counter," he mutters low.

You don't answer.

Not out of defiance—just because your brain's gone static.

So he spanks you. Sharp and hot and immediate.

"I said something to you," he growls, palm landing hard enough to echo. "Did you hear?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

"That's what I thought."

Then his hand drops from your ass, slides between your thighs, fingers spreading you open as he lines himself up again. Still doesn't push in.

Just rubs.

His cock slides up and down your slit, slow, deliberate strokes. Slick everywhere. Your breath stutters every time he nudges your clit on the way up.

"God, you're so fucking slippery," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Dripping for it. I haven't even put it in yet."

You close your eyes, grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

"Your pussy's acting like it missed me," he adds, rocking his hips again, cockhead dragging lazily across your folds. "She's not even pretending."

"Maybe she has bad taste," you snap, voice shaky.

He laughs. Loud.

Then does it again—another glide, another tease, tip pausing right at your entrance just long enough for your breath to catch, then slipping away again before you can adjust.

"You're gonna lose it, huh," he murmurs. "All that smart mouth. All that sass. Gonna forget how to speak when I give you what you want?"

You grit your teeth.

He slides his tip back again, holds it there—barely inside. Just pressure.

Still not pushing in.

Still not giving it to you.

You whimper, shoulders tensing.

"Gripping the counter, Phoenix?" he asks sweetly. "Like I told you to?"

Your fingers curl tighter.

He grins.

And stays right fucking there. Not moving.

Just waiting.

Just standing there behind you like a smug little shit, cockhead resting at your entrance, hot and heavy and perfectly fucking poised—and somehow not going any further.

You shift your hips back slightly, trying to bait him.

He clicks his tongue. "Uh-uh."

"Rogue."

"Pix."

You groan. "You're so fucking annoying."

"Don't tempt me. I could stay like this all night," he says, cock dragging up through your folds again just to prove his point. "Just rub it against you until you're crying."

You scoff. "You act like that's a threat."

He leans forward, chest brushing your back, voice right at your ear.

"You'd cry so pretty."

You twist your head just enough to glare at him.

"You're actually insane."

"Says the girl bent over the counter like a porn scene," he grins, straightening back up. "All 'no condoms, fuck me raw, Rogue' like it's nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Oh, sorry. Do you not want it?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Kinda liking the view, not gonna lie."

"Oh my god."

"Seriously. You ever seen your ass from this angle? Top-tier."

"Shut the fuck up," you mutter, squeezing the counter harder. "You gonna give a Google Maps review next?"

"Might," he shrugs. "Five stars. Would fuck again."

You start to reply—some scathing, lethal retort—but you don't even get the first word out.

Because suddenly—he pushes.

All the way in.

One smooth, brutal thrust.

And you moan.

Loud. Unfiltered. Embarrassing.

Your hands slam flat on the counter like your body can't fucking handle it. The stretch, the shock of it.

You feel full. Too full.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't give you time to adjust. Just buries himself in one go like it's his fucking right.

Then—smack.

His palm lands on your ass again, sharp and fast.

"That's more like it," he pants behind you, hand lingering after the slap. "There's my girl."

He pulls out slow.

Real slow.

Too slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch leaving you, feel how empty you get without him. Like he's making a point.

Then—slam.

Hard. Deep. Ruthless.

You jolt forward, hands scrambling for grip as the counter rattles under your hips. A broken sound slips out of you—more instinct than choice—and behind you, he laughs.

Actually laughs.

A horny little chuckle, cock still buried deep like he didn't just rearrange your goddamn organs.

If you could twist around and kick him in the ribs, you would.

"What the fuck are you laughing at," you bite out.

He hums, smug as ever. "Sounded cute."

You glare at the spot, then at him.

"I'll show you cute—"

But you don't finish it. Because he pulls out again, and then slams back in with the same brutal force that leaves your legs trembling and your lungs gone.

What the fuck is he so cocky about?

He's the one getting it raw.

You're the one granting the privilege here. He should be grateful. You could revoke his rights real quick.

Even though… you won't.

Because there's something about it. About this.

No condom. Just skin. Just him.

It's different.

You don't know why it's hotter. Why it feels so much more intimate. You didn't think it would be. It's just cock. Just fucking. But now you feel everything—every twitch, every drag, every time he shifts his angle and catches that spot that has you choking on air.

And then he murmurs behind you, voice low—

"Does it hurt?"

You swallow. "No."

"Good," he says. Calm. Like it's logistics. "If it does, just arch your back more. Fixes the angle."

Fucking hell.

There it is, again.

How is he being considerate and a little shit at the same time?

You're not even flustered because of the sex anymore—you're flustered because he's flipping toggles like he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

You don't respond.

You can't. Because he grabs your hips and—

Slams into you again.

Not fast. Not rushed. Just one clean, devastatingly hard thrust that knocks the breath straight out of you. His grip holds you there, cock pressed deep, dragging that edge of pain into something white-hot and filthy.

"God," he mutters, breath catching. "The way you're gripping me—fuck—you like that, Nix?"

You don't answer.

Too proud. Too dazed. Too stubborn.

So he spanks you. Again.

Sharp and immediate.

"Answer me when I talk to you."

You flinch. Then growl, "Keep spanking and being demanding and I'll revoke raw rights so fucking fast—"

But he just snickers.

"Oh, will you?"

You can hear the smirk.

Then he leans over, chest brushing your back, breath hot on your ear.

"You like it when I slap my hand on your ass, Nix," he says, low and satisfied. "That's why I keep doing it."

You scoff. "You're making shit up."

He grinds into you once, slow and cruel.

"Am I?"

"Yup."

"Naaah. I've been testing."

You blink. "Testing."

"Mhm," he confirms. Another slap to your ass, gentler this time. Palming over the skin after. "And now I know."

You suck in a breath. "How would you know what turns me on?"

He huffs a laugh—mean, hot, unbothered.

"Because you always mouth off about the shit that gets you going."

Your heart stutters. He keeps going.

"Too embarrassed to just let yourself enjoy it, so you talk shit. Every single time."

"Fuck off," you hiss.

He smirks again, hands dragging your hips back slightly. "Nah. You're not fooling anyone, Pix."

"Eat shit," you bite out, but your voice betrays you—tight, breathy. Fucked.

He groans, head tilting back for a second like he can't believe how good he has it.

"You're so full of it."

You scowl over your shoulder.

He slaps your ass again. Just to punctuate it.

"This," he says, palm dragging slow over the sting he just left, "is textbook Phoenix behavior."

"Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"What I just said. You always talk shit about what you like." He thrusts again, not deep—just enough to feel like a warning. "First it was the dirty talk. Remember?"

You roll your eyes. "Barely."

"Oh, you remember." His voice drops. "Because you called it cringey, and five minutes later you were soaking my jeans."

You grit your teeth.

"And then you rode me," he continues, like he's delivering an airtight closing argument. "Said 'do you want me to ride you?' all breathy. Like you hadn't spent days pretending you were above it."

You don't reply.

He leans in, hips pressing closer, cock buried deep and still not moving.

"And yesterday?"

You clench without meaning to.

"Yeah," he laughs softly. "Yesterday. You wouldn't even look at me when you were sucking me off. Acted all bratty and 'ugh I hate eye contact,' and now tonight you were pulling my hair back just to see my face."

You did do that.

"And now it's the spanking," he says, rocking his hips slow. "Bitching about it."

Another smack, firm and deliberate.

"But you just clenched around me. Again."

You groan into your arm. "You're fucking exhausting."

He grins against your shoulder. "You're fucking lying."

You shake your head. "You're not right."

He pulls back a little, just enough to move again. One clean stroke, all the way out and back in with a grunt.

Then—

"You're wet as fuck."

And you are. You feel it. Feel him glide. Feel the mess. Feel how your body wants him deep, no matter what your mouth says.

"You keep acting like you're not into it," he murmurs, breath hot. "Like you don't love being talked to like this. Touched like this."

"Shut up," you whimper, because you don't want to admit it. You don't want him to be right.

But he already is.

"You act like it's for me," he mutters. "Like I'm the one getting off on it."

And he is. Of course he is.

But so are you.

"You keep lying like it's gonna protect you," he says. "But your body gives you away every time."

He's still going.

Deep now.

Fast.

No hesitation, no mercy—just relentless drive, hips snapping into yours, angle brutal and right. Every time he hits bottom it knocks a broken little moan out of you. Loud. Unfiltered. Fucking real.

And still—still—he doesn't shut up.

"You've convinced yourself it's all for me. That you don't enjoy it. Can't. Won't."

Your jaw clenches.

"You can't let yourself," he continues, thrusting hard enough to slap skin. "Because you need to stay in control. Need to be good. Do it right."

His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you back to meet every thrust. Your ass bounces off him with every slam, lewd and hot and loud.

"You need to know I like it," he says, "so you can file it under 'doing well,' and that's how you let yourself feel good."

You want to argue. You really do.

But you can't.

You're moaning too loud.

"You don't even stop to ask what you like," he growls, eyes locked on where you're joined. "But I'll tell you."

Smack.

"You like this position."

Smack.

"You like it raw. Hard. Deep."

You whimper.

"You like when I spank you," he murmurs, biting his lip, thrusts picking up even more.

"Shut up," you hiss. "Shut up, shut up—"

But it's useless.

You're already flushed down to your chest. Already arching into every thrust. Already leaking down your thighs.

Your hands grip the counter like a fucking lifeline—knuckles white, arms shaking.

He groans, hands adjusting—one on your waist, the other wrapping low across your belly to pull you into every stroke.

"It's okay, Nix," he says, voice rough but coaxing. "You don't have to say it."

He slams in harder, burying himself to the hilt, making your knees buckle on instinct.

"Just keep gripping the counter."

Your breath stutters.

"Don't let go if you like it."

You bite your lip.

"Don't say anything. Don't explain. Just grip."

You hesitate. One second. Maybe two.

And then—you do.

Fingers curl tighter around the countertop edge. You lock in. Anchor yourself.

Give it to him.

You don't say a word. But that grip? That's your answer. That's your yes.

He groans, hand dragging up your spine, palm flat between your shoulder blades like he wants to feel how it wrecked you.

"There she is," he whispers. "There's my good fucking girl."

That last comment—

There's my good fucking girl.

It does something. Snaps something in your spine. Or maybe your brain.

Because your cunt flutters around him hard, slick tightens, thighs tremble, and yeah, yeah you're closer. Closer than you should be. You were already there when he first slid in—already so worked up you could've finished in sixty seconds if he just shut the fuck up and focused.

But of course he didn't.

Of course he ran his mouth. Called you out. Read you like a book.

And now?

Now you're clenching around his cock like you're about to shatter, and he feels it.

You know he does.

Because he leans in, breath gone wrecked. Lip caught between his teeth.

"Hmm?" he pants. Thrusts harder, deeper. "What's that? You like when I call you that?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to scoff. Or deny it.

But your cunt clenches instead.

He feels it.

"Ohh fuck," he groans, like it hits his brainstem. "You do."

You turn your face into your arm, humiliated by your own goddamn response. But it's too late. He's already there—already winding it tighter.

"Let's see if you like it even more when I do this."

You blink. "What are you—"

He grabs your thigh.

Hooks it up onto the counter. Bends your leg at the knee beside your elbow, spreading you wider without warning. Opening you up. Letting him deepen.

And he does.

Slams into you again with the new angle, and fuck—it hits different. Hits deep. Your whole body pitches forward with the force, mouth open on a sharp moan you can't swallow.

Then—his hand.

His fingers find your clit. Circle it once, slow and effective.

And you whimper.

It's high-pitched. Unintended. Undignified.

You want to vanish.

But then he's right behind your ear again, voice slurred and drunk on it.

"Gonna cum for me, angel?"

Your body jolts.

Because yeah. Yeah, you are, especially now that he's got your leg hooked, your pussy stuffed, your clit being worked with just enough pressure to make you lose it.

He feels your thighs twitch.

"Do it," he breathes, cock dragging thick inside you, fingers pressing just right. "Come on, let me feel it. I'm close too. Gimme it, Pix."

And your body obeys.

It rolls over you in one hard pulse—core tightening, vision blanking, thighs squeezing in and failing to stay strong.

Your moan punches out of your chest, loud and cracked, hips grinding back into his like you need more even as you're falling apart.

"Ohhhh my god, fuck yes—fuck, yes, Nix, fuckkkk."

He keeps fucking through it. Doesn't stop. Lets your pussy spasm around him, wet and squeezing and pulling him deeper as you ride it out. You whimper, already too sensitive, hips twitching, but he's not done.

Because he's laughing now.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just that fucked-out little giggle he always gets when he's high on it. Like your orgasm lit him up from the inside.

"Jesus—oh my god—holy shit," he's muttering, still fucking you, little messy stutters in his rhythm now. "You feel so fucking good when you cum, I swear—fuck."

He moans again—short and desperate and real—and you feel it in the way his thrusts go uneven.

"Where—where do you want it?" he gasps. "Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm so close, where do I—"

"Ass," you croak, head low, voice barely there.

That's all he needs.

He pulls out instantly, like he's yanking a ripcord.

You whimper at the loss but then you feel his hand—fast and rough—working himself over the curve of your ass.

"Oh fuck—oh god, yeah, look at this gorgeous ass—fuckfuckfuck—"

And then he's cumming.

Thick, hot ropes spilling over your skin as he pants and jerks through it, one hand steadying himself on your back, the other stroking through every twitch of his cock like he's trying to squeeze out every drop just to paint you.

"Shit," he gasps, hips still flexing forward. "Fucking hell, Phoenix."

You don't move.

You just breathe. Still shaking. Still clenched. Still wrecked.

There's cum on your skin, sweat between your shoulder blades, and your thighs feel like they've forgotten how to exist—and somehow, you still feel good.

Too good.

And a little fucked up about how good.

But you'll deal with that later.

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[strawberrystepmom]

"Are you in love with me?"

Even though Dante is pretending to be asleep, curled over your back with a forearm thrown over you to pin your body against his chest, the cadence of his breath changes as soon as you get the words out.

It's like you caught one and stole it for yourself – not an uncommon occurrence.

The question lingers for a second. And another. Then a few more. Thankfully you abandoned shame in pursuit of love long ago, leaving you free from the burn of rejection or pain in case that’s what the silence means.

It also helps that you are confident this is not what his silence means. 

You know he isn’t asleep, at least not all the way yet, but you can still practically feel the trepidation dripping from his fingertips where they skim your bare hip. 

“Silly me, I know you’re asleep,” a featherlight lie drops from your lips. 

He nearly exhales in relief, fingers relaxing against your skin. In response, you tense, back straightening and shoulders squaring. 

“So, I’m going to say this while I still have the courage. I am in lo–”

Dante’s hand slides from your chest to your mouth, covering it gently. 

“I am.” His disused voice rasps.

Pulling his hand down from your face, you pipe up. “You are…?”

“In love.” He kisses your temple for the briefest of seconds before lifting his chin to fully tuck his head beneath it, cradling you as though it’s what he was born to do. “Pathetically, stupidly, life changingly in love with you.”

Silence returns but your heart pounds so hard in your chest it echoes in your ears. You weren’t quite expecting him to drop the act entirely and fess up.

“This is, uh, harder than I thought it would be.”

Trying to lighten the tension, you clear your throat. “First time?”

He can’t see your cheeky smile but thankfully he can picture it.

“Yeah, actually. Never had any reason to say it to anyone else.”

What if your heart bursts? It feels like it may when you consider the implication of being the first woman he has loved aloud at the very least. Your clammy palms remain wrapped around his forearm, clutching him.

“You terrify me.”

Such a statement might not be the best method of diffusing the tension but he’ll try it anyway. 

“That’s fascinating coming from a big bad guy like you.”

Chuckling, he tightens his grip around you. His chin drops to rest against your shoulder, voice loud and clear right in your ear. “Maybe I’m not as big and bad as I look, have you ever thought about that?”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, finally turning in his arms and slipping your calves between his legs. He can finally make out the smile you’ve been struggling to hide even in the dim light, his breath stolen once again. 

“All the time, handsome.” You reach up to brush his mussed hair off of his face. “Alllll the time.”

“And it never makes you love me less? I mean, let me not get ahead of myself here – you do love me, right?”

“If you would have let me finish before playing the hero you definitely would’ve heard me say it the first time. But…” 

You look away, a little flustered despite that abandonment of shame you were so proud of. 

“God, yes. I think I’ve loved you since that first night, as insane as it sounds.”

Insane or not, he’s always felt it too. 

“Oh, so that’s why you hid from me for two weeks after that?”

You roll your eyes, reaching behind him to pinch his thigh. “It was three and yeah, exactly. Now you’re getting the hang of things.”

Both of you devolve into a small fit of giggles, bodies rubbing together while sleepy laughter wracks your chest and shakes your shoulders. It dies down, the tension mostly dying with it.

Still, there’s just enough left that tells you he has more to say. 

“Permission to be honest?” He asks, in a far smaller voice than usual.

“You have my permission to be anything, Dante.”

You can only hope he understands how true it is. 

“You terrify me because I don’t think I would know how to live without you now that I’ve had the luxury of living with you.” 

Smiling, you raise your eyebrows. “The luxury, huh? What a flatterer…”

“Hey,” he warns, capturing both of your hands in one of his and pressing your fingertips against his puckered lips. “You gave me permission to be honest, remember?”

Straightening up, you purse your lips and suck them inward, pretending to shut your mouth tightly. Your wide eyed stare makes it difficult for him to keep it together, a laugh on the precipice of his tongue. Somehow, he holds back, knowing that this is his chance. 

“The luxury. The privilege. Whatever you wanna call it.” He continues, eyes soft despite the tense set of his jaw. “I don’t want to fuck it up or eventually make you regret ever signing up to be a part of this thing I call a life.”

The amusing expression on your face turns somber before his eyes. 

“Do you want to know why I eventually gave up the whole running away bit?”

Feeling guilty for dampening the sweet mood, he opts to keep quiet and simply nods in response.

“Because I wanted to be part of your life. It’s not a thing, Dante - it lives and breathes and…it matters.” You smile, shaking your head. “Your life, you, us. It’s more precious than anything to me.”

“The only thing you could ever do to disappoint me would be to hurt me.”

“I wouldn–”

“I know. Not you, not ever. You’re not the type.” You crane your neck to kiss him. “Plus, I’m almost surprisingly hard to run off once I find somewhere worth being.”

“Then I really did get lucky.”

“No. You’ve just ended up where you’ve always been meant to be.”

[bitchinbarzal]

Emergency Contact | M Kesselring

summary: you never changed your emergency contact and he never stopped showing up.

⸻

You don’t realise you’ve still got Michael listed as your emergency contact until you’re half-conscious in the back of an ambulance, blood trickling down your temple, vision swimming in and out. The paramedic asks if there’s anyone they should call and you try to give them your sister’s name, or maybe your best friend, but the record they’ve pulled already has a name. His. And you never changed it.

You’re trying to explain that it’s a mistake. That there’s someone else. That he’s not—he shouldn’t be involved. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve already called. And when the hospital doors slide open and your bed rolls past the waiting area, he’s standing right there.

He looks older somehow. Or maybe just tired. Same frame, same face, same stupid hoodie you used to wear when it was cold and you didn’t want to ask for your own. When he sees you, he swears under his breath and follows without hesitation.

You come to fully in the hospital bed, surrounded by too-white walls and the low hum of machines. Your head is pounding but your body feels light, like it hasn’t caught up to the trauma yet. You hear a chair shift and your eyes flick toward the movement. He’s there. Michael.

You blink slowly. “Why are you here?”

“They called me,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Emergency contact, remember?”

“I didn’t mean for that to still be you.”

“I figured.” He doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds careful. “But I came anyway.”

He stays quiet after that, just sitting by the bed with his hands clasped in front of him like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. Like maybe he hasn’t known in a while.

“How bad is it?” you ask, your voice thin and tired.

“Concussion. Needed stitches. You were unconscious for a bit but you’re okay now.”

You nod and let the silence wrap around you again. But it’s not the same silence that sat between you in the last few months of your relationship. That one was tense and bitter, full of things unsaid. This one is gentler. Sad, but not angry.

“I didn’t mean to pull you into this,” you say eventually.

He shakes his head. “You didn’t. I just… I needed to see for myself that you were okay.”

There’s something in his voice you almost don’t recognise. Not until he adds, “I was scared.”

You blink, and it stings. “Why?”

He looks at you like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “Because I still care. Because even after everything, you’re still the person I think about first when something happens.”

You want to say something back but you don’t know how. So you don’t. You just watch him as he leans back in the chair, his knee bouncing, his gaze fixed on the edge of your blanket like it might offer some kind of answer.

When the nurse mentions you’ll need someone to stay with you the first night back, he answers before you can. “I’ll do it.”

You shoot him a look but he just shrugs. “I want to.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. And maybe, deep down, you don’t want to.

The ride home is quiet. He drives your car like he used to. Left hand loose on the wheel. Right hand flexing on his thigh. You glance at him once, maybe twice, and it hits you how familiar this all still feels. Like no time has passed. Like the last fight, the last tears, the final goodbye, never happened.

He helps you into bed, finds the extra pillow without asking, even knows where the painkillers are. You hate how natural it all feels. You hate that you still know how he takes his coffee and that he still knows how you like your blankets folded.

“Why’d you really come?” you ask in the dark, your voice just above a whisper.

There’s a pause, and then he answers just as softly. “Because you’re still the first person I want to show up for. Even when I shouldn��t be. Even when it hurts.”

You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. He’s sitting in the chair beside your bed again, same as earlier, arms crossed over his chest like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“I didn’t change my emergency contact,” you say, “because I think I always hoped it’d still be you.”

His expression shifts. Not surprise. Just something softer. Something that looks a lot like hope.

“I never stopped caring,” you add.

Michael stands slowly, walks over, and sits gently on the edge of your bed. He reaches for your hand, pauses, then curls his fingers around yours like he used to. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I didn’t know how to fight for something I thought I was already losing,” he says. “I thought giving you space was the right thing. But I was wrong. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve tried harder. I thought I was doing the kind thing by stepping back.”

“You didn’t trap me,” you murmur. “You just let me go.”

He leans in then, forehead resting against yours, and for a second neither of you breathe. When he kisses you, it’s careful. Like he’s not sure if this is okay. Like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

But you don’t.

You kiss him back like your heart never figured out how not to.

The next morning, he’s in the kitchen, burning toast and swearing at the toaster like it personally offended him. You walk in, sore and slow, and he turns like he’s been caught.

“You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“You’re supposed to be letting someone else cook.”

He laughs, low and sheepish. “I wanted to make you breakfast. Still terrible at it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He looks at you for a moment, all soft eyes and sleep-mussed hair. “I wanted to.”

And this time, you believe him.

You believe he’s here because he wants to be. Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation.

Because he never stopped showing up.

And maybe this time, you won’t stop him from staying.

[julietcpulet]

what do you think would be the most satisfying ending for jinmao?

i'm so conflicted about them because while i do not want jinshi to ascend the throne, i have to admit a part of me thinks renouncing his true position would be a waste. i mean, he's a damn pretty good leader and sometimes i enjoy imagining him and maomao being a power couple together. but then i'm always like damn they both canonically wouldn't like that </3 (so, thank the lord for fanfics, right?)

anyway, an unhappy jinmao is hardly a satisfying ending. but then i also wouldn't want them to be commoners because, again, it'd be a waste. as for the "faking their death" ending, it sounds really romantic but i feel like it's too cowardly and ooc for them. they'd never back down from a challenge after all.

so yeah i don't know how natsu-hyuga will conclude their romance. maybe the ending will just be them finally getting together? like the ending of the kaguya-sama movie where the last shot focused on the two main leads' interlocking hands, and then boom, the end credits. that would be an open ending (and i think that's what natsu was intending from the start), but is that satisfying? i'm not sure. just wanted to know your thoughts!

Love this question! And so sweet of you to be interested in my input 💕. Here's a breakdown of my thoughts on each possible ending and my personal speculation on an ending I like. Of course I have no idea what Hyuuga is really planning but just going on general direction and how things could play out if these were the proposed endings. (Spoilers below)

Emperor and Empress ending - I agree that this isn't the ideal nor the likely ending. To me, although there are factions pushing for Jinshi to be Emperor, it all feels like a mis-direct to the final outcome. Both Jinshi and Maomao are opposed to him becoming Emperor and he knows she would be miserable as a woman at the head of the nation, holding scorn from the other women.

Jinshi felt it was something close to a miracle that he had met a woman like Maomao. That was why he didn’t want to let her go. He’d gone so far as to press a brand into his own side, all to keep her.

He has struggled a lot to make it clear Maomao is the only woman he wants, he doesn't want to be the Emperor and also just is not the right person for the job. I don't believe these plot points are in vain only to be reversed later by a realization of avoidance and Jinshi wanting to accept his position out of familial obligation or maturity, nor do I think the plot is moving the characters in that direction. If anything it's continually showing that Maomao and Jinshi have to be willing to assert their own wishes against that of others despite what may be expected of them. And while Jinshi does have excellent leadership qualities, as Maomao easily points out, his kindness often brings him to overwork himself and struggle with dealing out harsh punishments or having necessary and uncomfortable entanglements an Emperor would have to have.

Jinshi was watching the pitiful family closely. He didn't seem to be thinking of how to punish them, but rather how to connect this to whatever came next. As he watched the family, Maomao silently watched him.

Romeo and Juliet ending - This was a favorite of mine previously and I still think there's the smallest possibility for it to happen but it's unlikely. I liked it simply because it brings back the resurrection drug which was a recurring theme for so long with Maomao wanting to obtain it and also the potential for a callback to the beginning of the novels with Shisui somehow making an appearance since she is the only character to disappear successfully and not be found. The downfall of considering this ending is two-fold. One is that Maomao and Jinshi do have some connections with people they may miss if they faked their deaths and disappeared. Her father Luomen might be able to come but Basen, Mrs. Chue, Lihaku and anyone else would never be able to see them again. Secondly, Maomao herself has said she sees death as a cop-out for escaping the fallout to problems you have caused.

"I hate it when people think everything's over just because they're dead!" It was as good as refusing to face the consequences of whatever you had done.

This to me is the biggest indicator this likely won't be the ending. It's interesting to consider and could bring back some fun appearances from early novel plots but I agree that given Maomao and Jinshi's character they're not much for disappearing and leaving others to handle the mess.

Grand Commandant and Court Physician ending - This is personally the most satisfying end for Jinmao I can imagine right now. Basically if Jinshi renounces his title as Moon Prince and Maomao accepts her role in the La Clan then they go on to get married with Jinshi being brought into the family, he could take on her clan name. From there, Lakan could step down as Grand Commandant and have Jinshi take the role. This would be optimal for both as Lakan appears to enjoy the strategy involved in military affairs but often delegates the rest of his work to his aids. He has found Jinshi interesting and should like to have a son-in-law who will take his position so he can retire to play Go games which is what I imagine.

To his surprise the eccentric strategist was there, lying on a couch and drinking from a gourd. To all appearances he was quite at his ease, but a secretary placed some paperwork sheet by sheet on a table and gave Lakan a stamp to press on them.

Being Grand Commandant would also give Jinshi the ability to back up the Emperor's son with Gyokuyou while not being his enemy. Jinshi has had a clear interest in the military from having the training, to when he stormed the Shi clan stronghold himself and then has wanted to boost the ranks of the military but been denied given that his current position is mostly in name and he has to go through others to do the things he wishes in the government. It also removes Lakan as such the fearsome threat against the Emperor and puts his son in the position whom he trusts.

When the younger brother had at last appeared, though, it turned out that he was as beautiful and as gossamer as a celestial nymph-and that he was also a hale young man as skilled in the military arts as the administrative.

As for Maomao, her accepting her place in the La Clan is integral to both her and Jinshi potentially being free from the grip of Imperial politics. Ironically this whole time Jinshi has been taking the burden on himself to find ways of removing the obstacles for both of them by getting himself taken out of the line of succession. It would prove to me to be funny if it turns out that Maomao accepting a noble position is the key to both of them finding actual freedom.

From my perspective if she becomes the La Princess not just in others recognizing she is outwardly but taking on the Clan name and what comes with it, I think it could open other possibilities for her and Jinshi. Like I said above she and he could get married if he was no longer royalty and he could take on her clan name, as we've seen that men can be welcomed into a wife's family and become the head of that family.

The position itself would bring her a noble status, which she could then use to work in the circles Jinshi would be in as Grand Commandant. For instance, if he is no longer considered a threat to the Emperor, he could also put forward more initiatives like he used to in the rear palace like helping the women read but along the lines of potentially having female physicians. I think the Emperor would accept without a problem, he merely needed someone who was respected with in the Imperial Court and who could make a reasoned argument for it to present the idea.

If Maomao then becomes a Court Physician in her own right she can still see Empress Gyokuyou and treat her as a doctor without having to be her lady-in-waiting or her servant and not being able to have a connection to Jinshi. She could be friends with the Empress again because she has her own established position which finally removes her biggest fear that has driven so much of Jinshi's efforts to remove himself as a potential successor.

Finally, I find this possible ending to be the most satisfying because what Maomao and Jinshi want most is to help people. And a place they can be where they have the best ability to help people is where they would thrive the best.

"You're only human, Master Jinshi. You're not some mythical immortal who can save everyone." She held his face in her hands, the fingers of her left hand brushing his scar. "You can be wounded, scarred, brought low. Only human."

Being Emperor and Empress would only stifle them because as we see with the current sovereigns there is a lot they cannot do and their hands are tied by relations with foreign nations and keeping friendly terms in the palace itself. Being commoners wouldn't work either because as we have seen with Maomao, having to constantly work and scrape for very little causes a defeatism of feeling like you're not able to do much for others or improve life for yourself.

Sadly but truthfully, Luomen won't be around forever and to me Maomao will find happiness taking over for him as Court Physician and working with the Quack in the Medical Office where she's comfortable and able to help the ladies and others, plus she'll always have access to the best medicines and can visit her Verdigris House family at any time. This ending also brings back the feeling of the early novels where Jinshi can peek in on her in the medical office after he's finished his paperwork as Commandant but this time they're able to go get chicken skewers together and have the freedom as husband and wife.

He wished he could have gotten her tucked into bed sooner, with a nice, soft blanket around her. She hadn’t been able to resist her first sleep in days, and she looked as comfortable as if she were in a pleasant bath.

Here they're both able to work, doing something they enjoy but freed from troublesome entanglements, all the while finding new ways to improve the lives of others. That's a happy ending to me.

Lastly, I don't see it having them be together and fade-to-black, I think we'll know some of what their future holds. To me the idea of being open-ended is more, the possibility for further adventures to be had. So we can see them get married, have jobs and be happy but that doesn't mean there couldn't be more, there just wouldn't be at the time we leave them because they've achieved a certain peace for the moment.

That was longer than I intended it to be 😂 but fun to write and explore the different endings. Thanks so much for the question!

[rookamell]

So. Mind Ossuary. Walk with me.

I think Lucanis started coming out of there on his own before Weisshaupt. I think that the coffee date + saving Treviso + time spent with Rook and the others all made him start opening up a little bit. Relaxing a little bit. Of course there's not harmony with Spite, and he's still keeping himself awake with coffee BUT '[he] can still work' which is important. Lucanis connects a lot of his self worth with how good he is at his job. It's why it's so important to him and why he's so confident. He's a good assassin, he's a professional, everything else (Spite, Illario, Caterina, his mental state) doesn't really matter as long as he's good at killing things, which is part of the reason why him and Spite can work together and make a deal in the Ossuary.

I also think that's why him and Spite disagree once they're out of the Ossuary. Lucanis is free and Spite is not. Lucanis is letting himself talk to Rook and the others. Lucanis is letting himself cook for people. Lucanis is flirting a little bit.

But Spite is still in the Ossuary. Trying to get out.

I just don't think Lucanis is doing that on purpose. He's compartmentalizing. Spite is the 'bad' parts of himself (in brackets above).

Then. Weisshaupt.

He misses. Before, even though he's now a completely different person with a demon inside him and a year of physical and psychological torture under his belt, even though he's (probably, because he's not stupid, just in denial) been betrayed by his cousin, he could still kill things.

Then he misses Ghilan'nain.

And I think that it definitely hits harder with a romanced Rook, but I'll come back to that in a second.

He missed. It was the one thing he still had.

I think that's when he locks himself (and Spite) up in the mental Ossuary for real. Deliberately. And the reason I say that before that he wasn't doing it on ourpose imo is because of 1.) that banter with Davrin, and 2.) the specific locks that are in the mind ossuary.

1.) the banter with Davrin where he asks Lucanis how he survived and Lucanis basically tells him he shut down. Of course he could still be doing it at the time of the banter, but to me it sounds like someone describing a past action i.e. his time in the Lighthouse with the others has allowed him to move past this survival mode he put himself in, at least slightly.

2.) Neve and Harding. He didn't know Neve and Harding as of being taken to the Ossuary the first time, so it makes sense that they're 'newer additions'. To me them being there reads as they're people who he trusts to make sure the others don't get hurt because of them, and also people Rook trusts to tell them he's out of line, should something bad ever happen. (I think it was @/corvus-frugilegus I was talking with that said it would make more sense to have Teia there as a lock, and I actually really like that, but with what we were given, I think this explanation makes sense). They're also people he and Rook have in common, and people he feels guilty about ? Question mark?

Anyway all that to say I think he shuts down again after Weisshaupt.

Which is also incidentally when his flirting with Rook completely stops.

So the second time you can flirt with him is in coffee with crows, and honestly? He's receptive. He's very receptive. Anyone who says differently is huffing something tbh. I would go as far as to say he's flirting more than Rook is. The chemistry is so fucking insane too I love that scene at Cafe Pietra.

Which is very at odds with the first time you can 'flirt' with him in the Lighthouse, when you tell him you don't want to leave him alone with a demon, and he kicks everyone out of the dining room. It makes sense, because he's still in survival mode and his grandmother just died.

After that Cafe Pietra scene the game is fairly empty of Lucanis moments tho (which is a writing issue sorry. He just doesnt have content and it's lazy) until the Treviso/Minrathous choice.

After that is the scene where Spite is trying to get through the mirror, so Spite is definitely still stuck in the Ossuary, which makes sense, since Lucanis doesn't trust him and is trying to stay awake still.

BUT.

Why after this specific choice? Yes, it makes sense that we need to start getting clues as to what is going on and all the companions' quests continue to the next stage, but just listen to my hc real quick.

I think he relaxed slightly. I think this is when the 'Rook lock' he had on his mind prison disappeared. He can't imagine Rook doing anything other than helping him, and he relaxed, and it gave Spite just a slight opening to try and get out. Which doesn't work obviously.

But then Weisshaupt happens, and Lucanis shuts down completely. Actually, after Weisshaupt it's blow after blow. It makes sense that he's trying not to respond to flirts, and it makes sense that he tries to shut everyone out. I think there should have been more scenes. But that's beside the point.

Idk I was going somewhere with this but I can't remember where. Oops. Anyway. He shuts down post-Weisshaupt and that's why he suddenly isn't flirting anymore. Because I have to do something to try and fill in the gaps left by the writers.

[wendichester]

Question.. can I request a story of Dean teasing us about liking Sam? Reader and Sam haven’t confessed their feelings for each other yet, but Sam has had a crush on her since like 1st grade? Reader has been a hunter since they were like 19 because a demon killed their parents? Reader kinda has a boyfriend but they got killed too? Reader leaves after deans death in season 3 and appears again in 4 (in 4x22?) with feelings for Sam and they confess and date? If you uncomfortable with it I understand

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. for all that we lost,

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. friends to lovers fluff

wordcount. 687

notes / warnings. canon-typical mentions of death (reader’s parents + offscreen boyfriend + dean’s death), emotional tension, unresolved longing, dean being a menace (lovingly), pining!sam, hunter!reader, post-hell arc (4x22-ish), soft confession, light cursing, sam being so gone for you it’s almost embarrassing

Dean spots it instantly.

The look Sam gives you.

It’s not new, either—it’s been happening since before either of you could legally drink. Dean just never brought it up.

Mostly because he thought Sam would eventually grow a pair and say something. That, or you’d trip and fall into each other during a salt-and-burn and figure it out like most idiots in love.

But here you are. All these years later. Wounds still fresh, grief still burning, and still not making a move.

Until now.

You walk through the warehouse like a ghost, a little taller than Dean remembers, sharper around the edges. Not surprising, considering what you’ve been through. Your leather jacket’s more beat up than it used to be. You move like someone who knows how to kill without thinking twice.

And yet—your eyes soften the second they find Sam.

Sam stares at you like he’s seeing the stars for the first time.

Dean, of course, does not let this slide.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, arms crossing. “Look who came crawling outta the woodwork.”

You smirk. “Figured the apocalypse was as good a reason as any to check in.”

“Right, right. And it definitely has nothing to do with tall, dark, and brooding over there?”

Sam flushes immediately. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean shrugs. “Just saying. Kinda weird that she goes full ghost after my death, but shows up the minute you get in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t show up for Sam.”

Sam’s face falls.

You tilt your head toward him. “I stayed for him.”

Dean raises a brow. “Oh, that’s so much better.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re in love with my brother.”

You sputter. Sam chokes. Dean just grins.

“I mean, c’mon,” he says, gesturing between you. “You two have been dancing around each other since the damn playground. Sam used to beg Dad to swing by your town on the way to hunts just to check if your light was on.”

“Dean!” Sam hisses, face flaming.

You blink. “You did?”

Sam groans, rubbing his face. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that.”

“Dude, you wrote her name in your journal with hearts around it,” Dean says, entirely too pleased. “You kept a picture of her in your wallet until your third year at Stanford.”

Your jaw drops.

Sam won’t meet your eyes.

Dean sighs dramatically. “And still, no one’s made a move. God, it’s like watching paint dry.”

You step forward, eyes fixed on Sam now. “You… liked me?”

Sam laughs, a little bitter. “I loved you.”

The silence after that is heavy. Real.

“I just figured you were never gonna feel the same,” he adds quietly.

“I had a boyfriend, Sam,” you say gently. “And then he was gone. And then you were gone. And then Dean—” Your voice cracks. “I couldn’t handle losing anyone else.”

Dean steps back, gives you the space. For once, he stays quiet.

Sam looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Do you still feel it?” he asks.

You nod before you can stop yourself. “I never stopped.”

He crosses the distance fast.

His hands frame your face like you’re something breakable, like he can’t believe you’re actually here. You lean into the touch like it’s instinct. His forehead rests against yours, and for a second, everything just stills.

“I missed you,” he breathes.

“I missed you more.”

His mouth finds yours soft and certain. No hesitation. No fear.

You melt into it, hands gripping the front of his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. It’s not rushed. Not hungry. Just real. Something you both needed for far too long.

Dean clears his throat behind you. “Okay, I’m happy for you lovebirds, but if we don’t kill Lilith in the next twenty minutes, nobody’s making it to couple’s therapy.”

You laugh against Sam’s lips. He grins and kisses your forehead.

“We’ll finish this,” he promises, voice steady. “Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

You nod, heart pounding.

You’ve been hunting your whole life. You’ve buried your family. Your boyfriend. Yourself.

But in this moment—in his arms—you feel like maybe, finally, you’ve made it back.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[nicheshameless]

Niche Shameless: Intro Post

The goal of this account is to share and promote the parts of Shameless US fandom that tend to get less love and focus. Both by hosting events and reblogging creations (art, fic, vids, gifs sets, meta, crafts, etc.).

I want to encourage people to create more things about the niche aspects of Shameless. And, in return, to make those creations easier to find so we can support creators with reblogs, likes, kudos, and comments.

As a bonus, I'm hoping this account makes it easier for followers to find others who love the same character, pairing, sibling duo, etc. There's nothing better than finding people with the same obsession so we can hype each other up!

What do you mean by "niche"?

Currently, that means everything other than Ian/Mickey* as a pairing.

There's a great variety of events in the fandom, but all of them are focused exclusively on Ian/Mickey. It's similar when you look at the fics posted under the Shameless US fandom on AO3: 91.9% are tagged with Ian/Mickey (yes, I did the math).

So, as a result, the "niche" side of fandom becomes everything else. I wanted a place to talk about those aspects of the show where they wouldn't get drowned out.

*This account will still have some Ian and Mickey, but the goal is to focus on them as characters (not as a couple), and on their other relationships. Those relationships can be sexual, romantic, or platonic. They can be canon or not. So if you have fanart you've been dying to share for Mickey/OC Mexican boyfriend, that's welcome here!

Can you give me some examples?

A non-exhaustive list of "niche" topics:

Gen (as in: not focused on a sexual or romantic relationship)

Friendships

Mentor & mentee

Familial relationships (found family included)

Canon ships

Non-canonical ships

Plot-focused works

other? Maybe you really love that rooster mug from the Gallagher's kitchen and want to make a gif set about it? (To be fair, it is very cute.)

Wait, so no Gallavich?

Not here, sorry.

But there's tons of fun events specifically for the pairing sprinkled throughout the year. @gallavichthings has a calendar up in their pinned post for easy access.

And on AO3, there's currently over 18000 fics for the pairing. If that's what you're looking for, there's plenty to enjoy. (Don't forget to leave kudos and a comment!)

I have more questions / something wasn't clear.

If you have questions: great! The ask box is open. Also, I'll try to put together a FAQ in the next week or so.

If anything was unclear, please let me know and I'll see if I can clarify in my answer and/or edit this post to make it easier to understand. Small disclaimer: English isn't my first language. If anything is unclear, or if I use run-on sentences, I'm sorry. I re-read this post at least a dozen times, but grammar was never my strong suit. I'd love if anyone else wanted to contribute to the admin of the blog, even if it's just beta-reading my posts so they're clear to English speakers.

💙 🐓 🥱

If you've read this far, thank you. Here's a cute photo of sleepy-morning-toussled Kev and that rooster mug as a reward.

[thecorefrisk]

Um, here’s my suggestion to the DP fans who want to only DP content… why not make your own tag??

I’ll probably sound passive aggressive when saying this but I understand. It’s super frustrating trying to find content for one fandom and then seeing completely different content.

Why not make a ‘dp only’ tag? That way anyone could find any sort of Danny Phantom only content without having to scroll through countless of other works to get to it.

I get it, it’s much more easy to put up a wall than build a bridge but creating an entirely new tag for yourselves can also be a rather constructive choice!

(My only question is… why is this an issue now rather than earlier? Is this something a lot of DP fans have been already thinking or it more so a recent thing??)

—

Edit: I posted something similar in the comments and I have a reblog up for anyone to see but I’ll say it here as well! This post was likely founded in my own hurt!! I personally think it felt entitled for me to say, someone else said it sounded condescending. Those two things don’t exactly contradict each other!!

(But the condescension part might’ve been just my lack of understanding of how my words come across to others due to the autism thing, but y’know, no excuse unless my entire family also happened to die before I wrote this. Which did NOT happen if you’re wondering, I’m just scared they will and that’s like, super different.)

I have had a history of being pushed out of things and spaces in which I should’ve been accepted into (ex: autism spaces, other fandoms, friendships). I was trying to ‘nice’ and also give my own opinion at the same time. (A skewed opinion.) I knew the whole discourse made me feel… bad but I didn’t know where it came from and I just posted this in an impulsive decision.

Not necessarily to go ‘ha! Losers!’ But to put up sort of shield to defend myself. So, I am sorry. For the condescension and for the passive aggressiveness. I already knew that was a problem in my speech but I didn’t realize it was THAT bad.

Uhh, let me review the things I did wrong. (I like lists.)

First off, I disregarded a group of people’s feelings for my own. Second, I decided to ‘bring up a solution’ that was more so a half assed compromise which was likely already someone else’s suggestion as well. Third, I also just so ‘happened to forget’ that the DP tag… WAS your tag. That you should be able to go through it without someone else shoving content from a different fandom in your face in all directions.

I mean, if I want my feelings to be heard, I should be hearing other people’s feelings too. It’s not fair for me to bring up my own opinions, expect them to be taken as seriously as anybody else’s, and then not give that treatment. And also I should probably learn impulse control?? I think I have a grip on it unless I feel hurt. Otherwise I’m fine.

It was probably, to me, that the post I first saw about it made it feel like people were going ‘…get out?’ (The post I saw was one asking for people to exclusively use the DP x DC tag for those kinds of posts. Which, in itself, is actually not a bad idea and would allow for further freedom as people are allowed to be separate but connected to the DP fandom and perhaps even the DC fandom.)

Basically, I was projecting my own past trauma onto this random person who just felt frustrated they had to scroll past what felt like a million posts just to get to the fandom they wanted to see. And the kind of posts they saw, might’ve not been the kind that they wanted to see at all which is even more frustrating. They likely wrote in a moment of frustration and it kind of came off as such in their writing. But that doesn’t mean that my reaction is their fault in the slightest.

It means I had a reaction to something I felt was hurtful. I’ve written this line before but when I sat down and actually thought about it all it felt all the truer. ‘They aren’t trying to give you a bad time, they are having one’. I made it about me— which was not cool of me.

So, again, I am sorry. I hope this comes across as me actually taking accountability for my actions and not another passive aggressive fat amount of text like I fear it will be.

Thank you, though! To the people who were so, so nice in the comments. You weren’t, like, mean to me about this even though I was sounding pretty bratty. Some were a little frustrated but it was in a way that I could understand and your hearts were all in the right place. Because even though this seems very small— a fandom having a space on Tumblr to be able to see their own content— it gives people a place where they can meet people who like the same things and even make friends out of it. And you also expressed your thoughts in a way that I could get! Which was super sweet, thank you so much. :>

Mwah, mwah, love you!! 🫶🏼

[ellascreams]

Twisted Wonderland Tumblr (Twstblr, if you will)

👻outofthisworldprefect

No Twstblr I will not be adding tags I’d really rather people didn’t find most of my posts, thanks.

👻outofthisworldprefect

Ace what did you do

♥️one-heart-that-beats-as-one

A little trolling

♠️blastcycle-enthusiast

nrc-heritage-posts I know it’s only been a week since it was posted but

🖋️nrc-heritage-posts Follow

Official NRC heritage post

👻outofthisworldprefect

How dare you

60,304 notes

♦️kk-cay-cay

I haven’t been active on here in years but I love checking in sometimes just to see that it’s still thriving. Keep it up everybody! Never let Twstblr die!

#I’m still suuuuuuper active over on Magicam btw #if any of my old moots wanna follow me there

783 notes

🦇muscle-red

History classes always confuse me. They’ll talk about something like it’s the distant past when it was only 250 years ago, and it feels like it’s only been 10.

20 notes

💎magestoner Follow

Bots are the worst part of twstblr, except for Ortho bot, who’s the best part of twstblr

🛜ortho-bot

<3

3,947 notes

👟hahagetsqueezedidiot

anyone else just get tired of having legs sometimes? like theyre cool and all but why do they gotta be so heavy?

🎮gloomerai

Mood

🎮gloomerai

OH WAIT YOU MEANT BECAUSE YOU’RE MERFOLK NVM

👟hahagetsqueezedidiot

no wait explain

132 notes

📷night-raven-photography

👑vil-schoenheit-offical

I always look so radiant in your photos! Thank you for taking them!

30,355 notes

🖤overitandoverbloted Follow

Hate how many straight people celebrities are on Twstblr now. This is supposed to be the neurodivergent gay website, Vil Schoenheit has no right to be on my dashboard

🪼malevolent-river-wizard Follow

Ain’t no way you just said “straight” and “Vil Schoenheit” in the same sentence

🔥the-situation-is-direbeast Follow

FYM VIL IS A STRAIGHT PERSON CELEBRITY!?!?? THAT BOY IS THE LITERAL POSTER CHILD OF QUEER CODED VILLAINS!

2,001 notes

🛜ortho-bot

Exciting news! Not only have I been declared the first truly sapient android, but I’ve also been officially enrolled as a student of Night Raven College! I’ll have a slightly odd class schedule as I can’t exactly do magic the same way other students can, but luckily, there’s precedent for that sort of altered course work.

I’m so very grateful to have this opportunity. I’m hoping I can make lots of friends, learn a ton, and share as much of my journey as I can with all of you! I’m a bit nervous, but I think it will all work out in the end. Thank you night-raven-photography for the incredible picture of me in my new dorm uniform!

🔔nobelravenacademy Follow

WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WHAT

📖reincarnatedasanisekaifan Follow

As a scientist who specializes in technomancy, I NEED you all to understand just how incredible it is that there’s a fully sentient robot. This is HUGE. This raises so many new questions, creates the potential for entirely new fields of research, it’s quite possibly the biggest advancement in technomancy since its discovery.

And he just so happens to be a Twstblr celebrity. The odds of that are so impossibly low, and yet, here we are.

💿technerdmancer Follow

Congratulations, Ortho. We’re all so proud of you.

🍄‍🟫jade-leech

Official NRC heritage post

🍄‍🟫jade-leech

Oops, wrong blog. Give me one moment.

👻outofthisworldprefect

YOU

540,798 notes

[paperbacksinner]

What type of parent will Luigi be?

———

👶 Baby phase: Obsessed & overprotective

- Absolutely unhinged about you giving birth. Paces the room. Threatens the nurse (apologizes after). Almost cries the first time the baby cries.

“She’s perfect. You’re perfect. What the fuck. What the fuck.”

- Has that new-dad instinct where he holds the baby like she’s made of glass—but still won’t let anyone else touch her without grilling them first.

“Wash your hands. I said again, Mom.”

- Sleeps with a hand on your waist and one on the bassinet. Dead asleep? Hears one whimper and is up like a guard dog.

- Fully becomes a baby-wearing dad. Hoodie, chain, baby strapped to his chest while he makes breakfast. She spits up on him and he’s like “She can do whatever she wants, it’s fine.”

- If she struggles with colic, teething, or reflux, he loses his mind trying to soothe her.

He’s like: “She’s suffering. I can’t take this. Fix her. I will sell my soul.”

- He cries with her sometimes. You find them both passed out on the couch, her little fingers tangled in his chain.

👧 Toddler years: Chaos dad with a soft spot

- He tries to set rules but folds instantly when she looks up at him with those big eyes.

“One more cookie?—Lu, she already had two.”

“…One more. Half. Half a cookie.”

- Will wear whatever she tells him to. Tiaras. Butterfly clips. Sparkly nail polish. His favorite line?

“Real men wear pink, baby. You see Daddy’s nails?”

- Can and will fight a daycare worker if he thinks someone was rude to her.

“Don’t raise your voice. That’s my daughter. She's two. Don’t make me show you what I learned at two.”

- Doesn’t know how to braid but tries so hard. He watches YouTube tutorials and mutters “fuck” under his breath while brushing through tangles.

- Eventually figures out how to do a tiny ponytail and acts like he invented hair.

- Teaches her how to swear in Italian. Only in Italian. “If she’s gonna cuss, she’s gonna sound cultured.”

🧒 School-age years: Unhinged PTA dad

- Shows up to every event. Talent show? Front row. Soccer game? Screaming like it’s the Super Bowl.

“That’s my girl! You see her footwork?? Ref! REF!”

- Way too invested in her friendships.

“I don’t like that Ava girl. She seems fake. Don’t give her your snacks again.”

- Does all the voices during bedtime stories. Fully commits.

“Once upon a—hold on—baby, this dragon voice isn’t scary enough, gimme a sec—”

- If she’s ever bullied? Luigi’s got no chill. Pulls the principal aside like,

“You better handle it. Or I will.”

- Lets her fall asleep on his chest every weekend during movie night, then acts mad about being stuck but never moves. You catch him smiling at her every time.

- Super aware of how important emotional validation is. He didn’t grow up with much of that, and he swore he’d do better.

“You’re allowed to cry, honey. Crying means you’re feeling. Feeling means you’re alive.”

- Has deep talks with her in the car. Plays her his favorite songs and explains what the lyrics mean.

“This one makes Daddy think of Mommy. Listen to the words, okay?”

- Tells her “I love you” every day, every phone call, every drop-off. Never lets her question it.

👩 Teenage years: Scary but soft

“No dating ‘til you’re thirty. Or until I’m dead. Whichever comes first.”

- Very scary to any boys/girls who show up at the door, but also lowkey cries when she goes to prom.

- Checks her location constantly. Sends her memes at midnight. Still calls her "baby girl" in front of her friends.

- She says “I hate you!” once and it shatters him for 2.5 hours, then he shakes it off and hugs her anyway.

“I love you even when you’re mad at me. Deal with it.”

- Proudest dad in the world at every milestone. Graduation? He sobs. Moving out? He helps her carry her boxes while wiping his face on his sleeve.

Bonus drabble:

It’s past midnight when she starts crying.

Not screaming. Just that soft, hiccupy little sound you know means she’s tired, restless, fighting sleep like she’s got something to prove.

You groan from the bed—bone-tired—but before you can even sit up, Luigi’s already out of the sheets.

“I got her,” he murmurs, voice still low and thick with sleep. “Stay in bed, baby.”

You watch him pad across the nursery barefoot, shirtless, hair messy. His silhouette in the nightlight makes your chest ache.

He leans over the crib and scoops her up like she’s nothing—like she’s weightless.

“Hey, hey,” he coos, pressing her against his shoulder. “What’s the matter, huh? You miss Daddy?”

She whines into his neck. He sways instinctively, hand smoothing up and down her back in slow, practiced strokes.

You expect him to hum. He always does.

But tonight, he sings.

Soft and quiet, like he’s not even sure he means to do it.

A Sinatra song, of course—his voice low and gruff in a way that barely sounds like singing at all:

🎵 “Fly me to the moon… Let me play among the stars…” 🎵

You blink hard. Lie very still. Try not to cry like a sap.

Luigi whispers the next part into her hair, still swaying slow:

🎵 “In other words, baby… kiss me.” 🎵

His palm rubs soothing circles on her back.

She’s stopped fussing completely now. Her tiny fist is curled in the chain around his neck, and her cheek is smushed against his shoulder.

He stays like that even after she’s asleep—just rocking, kissing her forehead.

You hear him whisper, “Daddy’s got you. Always.”

And even though you’re half-asleep, tears slip down your cheeks.

Because you knew he’d be a good dad.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

[imagination-mess]

A Second Chance at Life (Touya Todoroki X Fem!Reader) Chapter 9

Summary: For the past five years, you’ve been raising your son as a single mother. You’ve successfully avoided questions about his father by claiming that he died during the Paranormal Liberation War. From what you believe, this isn’t a lie. The last time you saw him was when he personally escorted you to U.A.’s shelter amidst the chaos in the streets.

Unbeknownst to you, he has been alive all this time, clinging to life in a facility working to keep him alive. His father, Enji, has been desperately searching for someone willing to heal him. After his presumed death, a single photo of you and Dabi began circulating through the underground, hinting at the nature of your relationship. To protect yourself and your child, you had to pay someone to stop the pictures from spreading further.

The photo provided answers to a long-standing question: who was the healer Dabi had been protecting? It identified you as the healer who had been deemed untouchable, but it also brought unwanted attention.

A/N: Sorry for any grammar or spelling errors in advance.

Word Count: 3.6K+ Masterlist of ASCAF Previously Chapter Eight

13 Years Ago

Touya was covering his head and curling his body up on the cold alleyway floor. He was trying to protect himself as he was getting jumped by grown-ass men who were twice his age, after swiping one of their wallets when they passed him.

He was starving, which caused his quirk to not work as effectively as he wanted. He couldn't even engulf his hand with flame.

"Hey! Fuck off!" a voice called out. It didn’t sound normal. It sounded like a distorted voice speaking through a machine.

"YOU! Fuck of—" one of the men started to yell.

"Oh shit! I a—"

Touya kept his eyes closed, but he heard the sound of bodies dropping to the ground. The next sound was something breaking. There was no screaming, only a whimper.

"I’ll break more than your arm. Next time, get out of my sight." The voice was definitely coming from a machine.

He then heard the men scrambling to get up and running away. He couldn’t feel them around anymore.

"Get up, kid," the voice said, nudging him with their foot to see if he was dead. Touya stayed on the ground, not moving. He knew better than to trust anyone.

"I’m not leaving until you get up, kid."

Touya slowly sat up, letting out a quiet whine from the ache running through his body. His left eye was definitely going to be a black eye in a few days.

"Happy. Leave me alone," Touya spat, looking up at the masked individual whose face was completely hidden, blending into their hood.

He had heard rumors of the faceless individual, Vein. Someone known for spreading fear. People often referred to them as a crossroads demon. They could find information faster than anyone and had supposedly been roaming the underground since they were kids, building a reputation along the way. They only made deals if it benefited them, otherwise, it wasn’t worth the investment.

They weren’t someone you crossed. Anyone who did was always found the next day, tortured depending on the betrayal. People in the underground would rather throw someone else under the bus than deal with Vein’s wrath.

Vein was about to walk away until the sound of his stomach growling made them pause.

"You know there’s a shelter a couple blocks down. They provide food and medical services—"

"I don’t need help," Touya said, glaring at the individual who was now facing him again.

"You’re starving. Winter’s coming."

"I can either take you there, or do it the hard way. I’m not going to ignore a starving child when there’s shelter literally a few blocks down."

"Get lost!" Touya yelled, but then his eyes widened as all of his muscles suddenly went limp. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. His body wouldn’t respond. He would’ve collapsed if the individual hadn’t caught him.

"Sorry, kid. I tried to do it the normal way."

His body was completely dead weight, and he couldn’t move anything except his eyes. He could only watch as the individual carried him like a potato sack. He couldn’t do anything about it. They were careful with where they placed their hands.

They didn’t complain, just kept walking forward, and people around them acted like it was normal.

"It’s not a traditional shelter, and it’s not packed. It’s a secret place, meant for people like us. Runaways, criminals, mutants, or those who are just struggling. You can only get in by recommendation or if you’re with a regular. I know you can’t trust people who offer free food, especially when you’re a kid. There are creeps out here. You can ask the staff to try it first if it helps you feel better. It’s not laced." Vein said.

The rest of the walk was silent until they arrived at a sketchy, enormous building that looked like it was falling apart, with a broken sign that read:

Safe Haven for Everyone.

There was a gorilla mutant standing guard who lit up at the sight of them, completely ignoring Touya’s wary stare.

“Good to see you, Vein.”

“Nice to see you too. Make sure this brat eats something before he leaves.”

“You got it, boss,” the gorilla mutant replied with a surprisingly soft smile.

He grabbed Touya by the collar like a wet cat and opened the door. Touya was held there for a few seconds before the strength returned to his limbs, and he was dropped to the ground.

Touya let out a string of curses at Vein. Vein didn’t flinch, but rather had a lazy wave goodbye.

“Go eat.”

After the door closed in front of him, Touya tried to reopen it, only to glance up and see the gorilla mutant already staring him down through the glass before casually tapping on the wall to his left.

“You heard them. Go eat.”

Touya grumbled under his breath and turned around, surprised to find the interior completely renovated. Kids around his age were waiting in line, the staff mostly teenagers and a few adults behind a glass counter.

He watched the staff with sharp, observant eyes, noting how they responded to each kid’s request without hesitation. Then he looked over at the kids themselves, who were already digging in without a care. Each was given two large takeout containers.

“Excuse me.”

Touya turned his head and saw a young girl around his age. Your (eye color) eyes widened at the sight of him, and he mentally braced himself for the usual comment about his scars.

“Oh! Wow! Your eyes are really pretty!” you said with a bright smile, pointing to your own eyes as a reference.

Touya froze and blinked at you like you’d lost your mind. That was the first thing you noticed? The comment caught him completely off guard.

“Thanks… I guess.”

You smiled again and began explaining his food options since he was clearly new.

“How do you know I’m new?”

“I know most of the regulars by now. It wasn’t hard to guess when the security guard was holding you like a feral kitten,” you said with a soft laugh.

You grabbed four containers and continued, “The usual rule is two containers per person, but newcomers get four. Please don’t eat them all at once. You’ll just end up puking.”

Touya filled the containers to the very top. You packed them up for him, tossing some silverware into a plastic bag. He quietly watched you, then noticed another teenager approaching, holding out a backpack.

He just stared at them.

“This is yours now. It has all the necessities. Let us know if you start running low on supplies. Welcome to Safe Haven.”

He hesitated before taking it, but there was no shame in his movements. He opened the bag to see it was filled with snacks, water bottles, and sports drinks.

“Thank you,” Touya whispered, eyes lowered. He didn’t look up, and the teen simply nodded before walking away, leaving him alone again.

That was the first night in a long time he went to sleep with a full stomach.

_____________________________________________

Touya continued coming to the shelter after that. Everyone kind of minded their own business. No one asked him questions. There were free showers and a crash room where people could sleep, with lockers to store their belongings.

Surprisingly, no one touched other people’s stuff, unlike the other shelters he’d been to. It was an unspoken rule among everyone.

There were flyers pinned on the board in the center of the room, offering help with housing, jobs, and domestic violence. Clothes were available for anyone in need. There was even a small laundromat, which you could use in exchange for helping clean the building—a task that wasn’t hard to do.

It was only open from 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. every night. Vein wasn’t lying. People had to be invited or brought in by a regular to prevent abuse of the system.

Throughout the year, Touya only stayed at the shelter to crash during the winter and in the overwhelming summer heat.

He thought you were weird at first, because you never commented on his appearance. You didn’t give him the usual looks he’d grown used to. You were growing on him, especially since you worked on the medical side of the shelter. More often than not, you were the one patching him up, and you never forced conversation the way others did.

He noticed you only worked on certain days to complete your volunteer hours for a high school program, often alongside your friends. You were also one of the few who gave out bigger food portions, which explained why everyone wanted to be in your line.

That’s the only reason he had your schedule memorized. He always showed up earlier on your days.

You were kind of too sweet and naïve for a place like this, but you could bite when you needed to. He once saw you snap at another teen who tried to pressure you into giving more than the standard two containers.

“If you’ve got friends who are hungry, bring them. Otherwise, I’m not breaking protocol.”

He didn’t know how you handled things when they escalated. Once, there was shouting in the building, and he was one of the few who peeked over while eating. A man twice your size was on the ground. You looked shaken, but unharmed.

That man was banned from the shelter after becoming aggressive with you.

You’d been trying to get his name ever since he started showing up more often.

The shelter eventually added a gym in the empty part of the building, which brought in more people, but it was large enough to handle the regulars.

Most people didn’t stay long. They used the resources to find jobs and escape abusive situations. There was even a lawyer who took those cases for free.

You started calling him Drakon, another word for dragon after you accidentally caught him using his quirk to stay warm while waiting for the shelter to open. He had been sitting on the front steps with his backpack.

It was freezing, and he could barely feel his fingers. You let him in early with you, since you had a copy of the key. You were too trusting sometimes.

You brought him blankets from the medical clinic and a portable heater. That was the first time he didn’t lash out when you touched him, especially after you warned him first.

You wrapped him up like a burrito. He hadn’t even realized how badly he was trembling. He’d been struggling to regulate his temperature that season. His quirk wasn’t working properly either.

It was one of the coldest winters on record.

Before everyone had to leave that morning, the shelter handed out expensive winter coats. They were good quality. Something that would last him a few years, if he took care of it.

“Take care of yourself, kid,” the same gorilla mutant, now known as Fuji, said as he handed him the coat. ______________________________________________________ He doesn't really remember how the two of you became friends. It just happened. 

You barely reacted when he got snappy with you, just threw the same energy right back at him, even if it was kind of immature.

You weren’t bad to talk to. You didn’t push to know his background. The two of you just talked like normal teenagers, which felt rare in a place like this. 

But seriously, anything would’ve been better than Pretty Boy. That was fucking embarrassing.

He wanted to die on the spot when you called him that with that mischievous grin tugging at your lips as you held out his bag of food.

He’d even made the mistake of glancing around to see if you were talking to someone else. But he was the only one standing there. The regulars in the background burst into laughter at his reaction.

“Boy, she’s talking about you!”

When he realized it really was him, his whole body lit up with heat. Mortified, he snatched the bag from your hand and retreated to his usual corner of the building like his life depended on it.

Eventually, you came out from behind the counter with an extra dessert as an apology, along with a chocolate bar.

Touya shot you a glare but took the offering anyway. He wasn’t about to say no to more food. When he caught you training in the same gym as him, your form was completely off. You were going to break your wrist or fingers if you kept going like that. He knew from personal experience—he’d made those mistakes before.

"Who the fuck is teaching you?" he asked, walking over with a frown as he forced you to adjust your posture.

"...Myself," you admitted nervously.

Touya gave you a look. "You're doing a terrible job at it."

You deflated, shoulders slumping.

"Aren’t you trying to be a doctor or something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why the hell are you learning how to fight?"

"You never know when I’ll need to defend myself," you said quietly. "I know I’m privileged. I’m not blind to it. But that won’t protect me if I end up in a bad situation."

He was silent for a few seconds, watching you.

"...I could teach you a few things," he finally muttered. "But I want something in return."

You looked up, surprised. "Deal."

Then you smiled so brightly, and the look in your eyes showed a complete, blind trust in him.

How could you look at him as if he wasn’t already a few steps away from becoming a criminal?

It made something twist in his chest. He had the sudden, irrational urge to turn around and walk the hell away.

You were too soft… and he wasn’t.

But he stayed, ignoring the feeling in his chest.

Nevertheless, it was a bit fun picking you apart because, damn, your entire routine was a complete mess. Just asking for accidents to happen. _____________________________________________________________ It’s been almost two years since he first stepped into that shelter. You started calling him Drakon, the name you gave him, and it stuck. It grew on him. He responds to it without thinking now, since he always refused to say his real name and couldn’t come up with anything better. He doesn’t mind it.

A lot of people started calling him that, not because he introduced himself, but because they heard it from you.

It became routine. Once a week, you and Touya would train together at the gym and spar. You were getting better at blocking his punches even if he never used his full strength.

It wouldn’t be a fair fight, but you were catching up.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but he didn’t mind others joining in on the sparring matches. He was learning through experience. Some of the other teens even gave him tips.

You were picking up a wide range of fighting styles and adapting fast. Between school combat training and those matches, you were close to the level of students in the hero course.

And true to your word, you shared what you learned with him. It was either fighting drills you picked up from other fire-users… or food. Usually snacks based on his specific requests.

But you became lethal when you started integrating your quirk into your punches.

You didn’t use it while sparring because you were still learning and didn’t want to risk hurting him. You were still figuring out how to sync it with your movements, but he’s seen the videos your friends recorded to help you review your form.

You could seriously hurt someone with those blows. You’ve destroyed too many dummies to count.

You could kill someone with those blows. You’ve destroyed too many dummies to count.

You never really bragged about your quirk either, which he appreciated, especially considering how powerful it was. You struggled with it, not because you didn’t know how to use it, but because it was simply too much for your body to handle at your age. Even with years of quirk training under your belt, you were still learning to control it. Still pushing through it.

That was your theory about his quirk, too. If he could build more muscle and stamina, maybe he’d start to develop some resistance to his flames. It wouldn’t be fast. It might take a long time, but it was something.

You were persistent about it. Told him to give your method a chance for at least six months. Just six. See if it was worth it. If not, he could throw the idea away if he wanted.

….

You weren't wrong, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He couldn’t boost your little ego any more than it already was, especially with your apparent hobby of quirk analysis. You were going to be smug about it either way. He didn’t realize it until one day when you were staring at him a little too intensely during his training. That look when you were hyper fixated on something, calculating in your mind. You interrupted his training to tell him to lower his output and retry his move. But you were starting to scare him a little bit when you began challenging him in hand-to-hand combat. When you caught him off guard with a punch, he avoided it. Purely out of instinct, he threw a punch straight to your face without mercy.

When he realized what he'd done, his fist collided with your cheek. He froze, mentally panicking, not seeing the glint in your eyes. His mental turmoil was interrupted when you swept his legs out from under him, making him fall onto the mat. You pinned him down, your grip tight on his shirt, expecting a punch to the face, so he shut his eyes. He deserved it.

But instead, you flicked him on the nose, causing him to reopen his eyes.

"Checkmate," you said, out of breath, with a tired smile above him. Your quirk was active, the soft yellow glow covering where he'd hit you and healing the injury before it deactivated. "Please consider, this is not a real loss," you said, looking down at him. "You got into your head at the end there. I'm okay. I wanted to see if I could surprise you since you’ve learned my fighting style. He feels….guilt over it, despite you are not holding it against him 

"I didn't panic," he muttered, refusing to admit it. He never had harmed you before, breaking his streak with this mistake. He’d manhandled you a few times, but never enough to really hurt you. You gave him a look that said, Oh really? 

“Whatever you say, pretty–”

You cut him off with a surprised yelp when he flipped you over, slamming you onto the mat before standing up.

“Whatever you say, princes–”

You hurled a shoe at his head. He dodged, laughing.

He kept walking, dodging the other shoe when you threw it. He didn’t need to turn around. He already knew how much that nickname pissed you off. Especially since you’d grown up hearing it your whole life, always used to mock you when you didn’t know something.

You were aware of it. The privilege and money. You knew it meant there were things you’d never been exposed to. Things you had to learn the hard way later on. Money wouldn’t always get you out of trouble. You had to get yourself out of it.

And you knew he was teasing. It was a harmless game between the two of you. Still, it never got old. How flustered you got whenever he said it

But you were more than that. And he knew it.

He understood what you meant when you talked about how money sheltered people. He’d seen the reality of that the second he walked out of that orphanage.

Didn’t mean you weren’t still a spoiled brat, though. Bonus Scene: "I feel like I’m corrupting your naive little mind," Touya muttered as you walked side by side, both eating popsicles you'd brought from the store.

"I don’t think so," you said, glancing at him. "You’re honest when I ask things. I am naive, but not that naive. I know the world’s not all rainbows and sunshine," you added casually, eyes forward.

Touya stared at you for a few seconds before looking ahead again, then gave you a playful shoulder bump. "You’re too trusting, Remedy."

"Only to you," You muttered but enough for him to hear.

A smirk was slowly tugging subtly at the corners of his mouth.

"Am I getting special treatment? Am I your favorite?" He asked in a teasing tone. He knew damn well he was your favorite shelter citizen. You wouldn’t be hanging out with him outside the shelter, buying snacks like it was some weekly ritual.

What started as a deal for one snack had somehow turned into three bags without either of you ever addressing it. Not that he was complaining, he would never say no to more food.

You shot him a glare and tried flicking him off.

"Your flicking needs some work. Your finger isn’t even straight," he teased, laughing under his breath.

There was a quiet pause, before Touya glanced over to you to see the pout on your face looking down at your hand seeing he was right. Your finger's straight unlike his yet.. 

"...You really shouldn’t trust someone like me so easily." You glance over to him, before saying softly but firm.  "You haven't robbed me when you had so many opportunities to do it. You haven't given me a reason to not." You held his gaze, steady and unflinching. Your eyes were too warm, too trusting to be staring at someone like him the way you were.

It was too much. For someone like him, it always was.

He broke eye contact first.

The action made you laugh lighthearted at him, since it isn't the first time he has to break eye contact with you. 

He was getting too soft. Next Chapter Ten (Maybe 07/03) _________________________________ Author's Note: How are we feeling about the dynamic between younger Touya and Remedy? They are teenagers if i needed to clarify. I tried my best to keep this as Touya's point of view. Hopefully, people got the reference who is Vein? They have been mention before :3 (SPOILER ALERT CHAPTER 8)

Any thoughts or theories? I’m all ears! I’d love to hear them. I have seen some interesting theories :3

Once again, Your comments seriously mean the world to me. 💖 I’m so grateful to know there are people who want to read more. I am really enjoying writing this story.

Thank you again for reading! I love reading your comments. 💖 

[1x1x1x1x1x1x1x1]

What if the reader is a TV host? Like full on 'WELCOME TO THE SHOW' with bright luminous lights in the background kinda guy. you can take the liberty on whether they are a desperate attention seeker or a creepy Mandela catalogue kinda host. But it's just the reader is a big yapper with bright attention seeking colors.

I'm thinking the reader doesn't really know if their killing cuz their desensitized to the show biz and just think everything 'all part of the network folk!'

They might also be one of the worst killers because they are more used to being an omnipotent narrator then an in action kinda host.

I just think it be really funny if reader hits the survivors with the SPARKLE ON! IT'S WEDNESDAY! DON'T FORGET TO BE YOURSELF!!!

HEEEEEELP ME THIS IS SUCH A PEAK IDEA,, wow look at me doing my first both survivors and killers,, this is why this took so long btw 😭😭

ANYWAYS I KINDA MESSED UL THE BANNER SINCE YOU SAID BRIGHT COLORS BUT ILL WRITE FOR BRIGHT COLORS COUGH

defo ooc an typos but idrc 😭

coughs ENJOY

Forsaken Characters × TV Host!Killer!Reader

Noob

well,, they are definetly scared of you, like they are of everyone else that has a job to get rid of them all.

They're not wrong for it too, better be safe than sorry!

Although you are the killer that has probably caused the least harm to them, since your,, killing,, skills are a bit rusty

You randomly pause, come up to them, and ask random questions. Like you're still on stage.

Most of the time, they don't answer, quickly drinking a cola and running away as fast as they can.

Elliot

Hes,, pretty neutral about you.

Not really worried about you being a threat, since most of the time he can easily loop you.

You definitely greet him with something along the lines of "Hello pizza boy !!" With an almost mocking tone, and to be completely honest, he doesnt even mind at this point.

When you randomly ask him questions, most of the time he just ignores you and runs away to heal Chance (again,,)

But there are times when he does actually answer, just for giggles (and he has been wondering what happens if he does)

When he answers correctly, you play loud correct buzzer noises and money sounds which are REALLY obnoxious btw,,, and for the rest of the round, you mostly spare him.

And when he answers wrong,, well,, i think you know how that goes,

Shedletsky

Ah,, its not like he can complain.

It is refreshing to NOT have the creation of hatred targetting him the whole round and making his life a living hell.

And he does find your persona amusing

Probably one of the people that mostly plays along with your stupid gameshow questions, just for shits and giggles

So most of the time when he sees you are the killer, he just lets out a sigh of relief

Also youre easy to stun,,,,, but shhh we dont talk about that!!!

Guest 1337

Its all the same to him.

Wether or not you spare him, he WILL be stunning you and he WILL be protecting his team.

Deadass refuses to answer your questions. Will not be caught interacting with a killer that makes his life here a pain. (like all killers)

Although, you are one of the hardest killers to block-bait. You can pretty much tell right away trough his facade that he just wants to get that punch in. Hes not using that medkit since you didnt hit him. even once.

He doesnt like you. Why should he?? You play games with the minds of some survivors since they see you as 'chill'. He does not like this.

Two Time

i dont think anyone can really talk normaly to this insane motherfucker,

everytime you ask them any question 'for your gameshow' they just laugh manically before STABBING YOU.

Then running away and talking about some "praise the spawn" shit,,

i think the dislike most likely goes both ways

Chance

You and the gambler get along quite well, actually!!

Well, as much as a killer and survivor can even get along.

Everytime youre the killer hes the first to run to you, hoping you ask him one of those questions and he can just chill for the rest of the round if they gets it right.

Probably the one who answers you the most, and you have to respect the gambling,, some of your other tv shows basically involve it too, so yeah

I think they actually watched one of your tv shows a while back,,, so he probably recognized you,

007n7

He actually watched your TV shows and Gameshows before all of this (like the dad he is,,,,) so he recognized you pretty quickly

He was quite shocked when you first randomly decided to stop the chase and ask him a question.

He paused for like almost a minute, completely lost in thought before you went "Time is TICKING!!!" with your robotic voice

And then he answered, wrong.

Which meant he was getting locked onto, (he died like 30 seconds later)

Although, the next time you asked him again, he answered correctly!! And you just,, basically left him. Alone with his thoughts.

Well, he cant really complain, a break is nice once in a while

Builderman

Hes Builderman. The CEO of roblox. Of course he knew you.

Actually, he made a guest apperance in one of your episodes!! So he already knew you (well, kinda) before this.

And he cant really complain that much about your whole 'asking gameshow questions' thing, since most of the time he gets them right, and can help the teammates in peace.

Even though he doesnt always answer, when he does, he gets most of them right. Probably because more than a half of them are about Roblox and its history.

You like to call him your "NUMBER ONE!!!" and he has gotten MULTIPLE dirty looks for that, since some survivors now think you guys had something going on,, not good for his image and reputation. So he was pretty quick to dismiss those rumors,

Dusekkar

DUSEKKAAAAARRRRR🤤🤤

Well, he certaintly thinks youre intresting.

Not only are you asking him easy questions, but you will also spare him if he answers correctly? He cant really complain, huh

Youre quite persistent on asking him a lot of questions, 'gameshow' questions. Which are a piece of cake to him, although sometimes you cant really understand his phrasing quite well,, You just display a blue question mark on the top of your head out of nowhere, hoping that he can redeem himself before you decide that you dont want that answer to pass.

You also call him some stupid 'charmer' nicknames, something along the lines of "Pumpkin!!!!" or even sometimes Matt (since you heard Shedletsky call him that once,)

Hes actually quite shocked, even a bit flustered when he hears you call him by some names that you made up on the spot, or even his real name,

Taph

This fella,

He tries SO HARD to answer your questions correctly in his emoji speech ((i know a lot of ppl heacanon him as a sign language user but just for this fic im using his canon speech)), but you cant really understand it, so he never passes in your eyes,

He does like messing with you!! Youre probably one of the killers that falls for his traps the most out of everyone else

((i dont have anything else to say for him,,,,

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·Killers.

1×1×1×1｡𖦹°‧

You REALLY piss her off,

Bright flashing lights, loud sounds, and that fuckass voice of yours thats always cheerful,, it just gets on his nerves.

And the way you KEEP ASKING THOSE QUESTIONS. They rarely even answer, and she REALLY wants to get rid of you,

But he does entertain your little 'gameshow' vision sometimes, and most of the time, they answer correctly (they are a hater,, not an idiot,,)

Instead of you letting her go and not killing them like the survivors, the killers get little stupid prizes for answering correctly, and they dont really suffer any consequences if they answer wrong.

The prizes range from a stupid bright glittery pen with your face plastered over it, to just random stickers.

1x1x1x1 always keeps the little trinkets in a drawer in his cabin,, what?? you never know when they can come in handy!!

John Doe

as much as you try and try, and try and try and try to get him to even say one word when you ask him questions,, he just doesnt.

Probably cause he geniuenly cant,, the bright flashing lights of your design and your loud robotic voice,, he cant really comprehend what youre asking him in due time,,

Although, hes pretty neutral towards you, you even gave him a pen out of pure pity for him,,

Noli-.ᐟ.ᐟ

You guys actually match eachothers freak really well,,

Both of you guys are loud and obnoxious, bright lights,, and 'annoying' to the others

Although he actually likes your little gameshow host persona!!

The first time you were in a round, he was watching intently, and everytime you asked a question he would immediately stand up and scream the correct answer like a dad watching football,

He really likes answering your questions too!! It keeps him entertained at least,, And the little trinkets!!!!!

You guys actually get along quite well,

Mafioso🂱⚔

He doesnt like you.

Youre loud, bright lights, and obnoxious, while hes calm and reserved,, quite the opposites.

Although HE doesnt like you, his men definetly do!!

Most of the time they all meet up in the cabin next to the table for, basically a competetive game of your questions,

They get a good laugh out of it, and you love to entertain!

The only problem is how loud it gets, instead of big red buttons to signal who answers the question first, they basically just slam their fists on the table,

Mafioso has scolded them for it a bunch of times, but he wont stop them

Its only fair that they get a bit of a break in this hell hole once in a while

And hell, you keep them off his back for once, so maybe just maybe your not that bad after all,,,

im so done with tgis 💔💔

the writing got worse and worse as i went on because i was TIRED 💔

tgis was fun tho,, (also i had to rewrite everything in the killers part because i closed the fucking window,,

also quick question,,

would you guys like me to write for the Spectre too? 😭😭 As in like the headcanons and he would be in the last part of the killers kinda

okay bye bye

[jedisupernova]

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

summary it is said a lot can happen in one night, but what about two years? the three of you have ventured into different lanes: jiyong ascending into tennis superstardom whilst you and seunghyun make compromises to build a life together. there's only so much avoiding one can do, however, and so much tolerance the universe has before reality implodes.

notes minors dni contains challengers au (for my girls who know: the sauna scene, art crawling to tashi on the bed, challengers: match point), fem reader, unabashedly plus sized reader as i am myself but anyone can read, mainly takes place in the late 2000s (hence mentions of certain music, technology, media, etc.), takes place over the course of multiple years (from two years post-college to their mid-thirties,) tennisplayer!jiyong, tennisplayer!seunghyun, angst (dealing with a friendship break-up, description of accidental bodily injury, all three are at times depicted as not the greatest of people, insecurity, unresolved tension, avoidance, life-altering events, severing ties, this does not have a happy ending,) domesticity, fluff, smut (oral f receiving, p in v, sub!seunghyun,) i made up my own tennis tournament bc the actual olympic qualifications were too difficult to understand and write into this fic naturally so pls don't laugh at me, and some inevitable typos though some are purposeful.

author's note we made it . . . welcome to the fourth and final part of my challengers au 🍾 i cannot thank you enough for your love and enthusiasm for this series 🩷 its crazy that its coming to an end!! a brief disclaimer: these are only characters; in no way do i claim either would act this way in real life. please read the previous parts (linked below) or else you will be very confused! this is about the same length as part iii (long as fuck) so get comfy. it was bittersweet writing this. this part really goes into the sports drama of it all. please lmk what you think, my ask box is always open!! enjoy 🎾

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

the next six months were of visceral change. summer was avoidant: jiyong spending it either lodged in his bedroom and maintaining physical regiment on the tennis court. seunghyun spent copious amounts of time catching up on sleep—no longer riddled with complex equations and multi-part exam questions written in a different language—spending long afternoons at the court, ushering in the transition into going pro, and talking to you on the phone. these conversations took a more serious turn with each dial—talking of your future and how either of you desired to share it. “i got in touch with my former mentors at the academy i went to growing up,” he told you over the phone one afternoon, mouth full with cornflakes. “they say they know somebody willing to take me on as my coach.” he swallowed, wiping a drop of milk off his lip with the back of his hand, “to go pro.” “that sounds promising.” you said, kicking your feet up onto the couch. you meant it when you said summer was for turning your brain off. like seunghyun, you also slept in, taking time in making your perfect bagel before putting the view on the living room television at a low volume. “i’ve been thinking . . . if i’m going to be with a tennis player, i might as well know a thing or two about the game itself. because i’ll be honest. right now, i couldn’t give two shits.”

seunghyun let out a hearty laugh. “just wait until i get into wimbledon.” he ate his last spoonful. “then i’ll show you a real game, baby.” “i don’t want to be clueless.” “there’s no way with that brain of yours that you’ll ever be clueless about, like, anything.” your eyes diverted to the window, watching a bird land on a tree branch in the front yard. “there’s always a first time for everything, though.” seunghyun kissed his teeth, “you and your stubborn ass.” you smiled, “it's why you like me so much. it's like looking into a mirror.” “love.” he corrected. “i love you.” “i know you do.” you said. “i miss you. badly. horribly, one would argue.” an amused upside-down grin tugged at his lips, “you have no idea.” he said smoothly. you licked your lips, trying to subvert your warming face. seunghyun inadvertently did it for you: “what movies are on the docket today, hm?” “i haven’t had the chance to head to blockbuster yet.” you told him, hearing him hum on his side of the line. “but i’ll text you the titles once i do.”

"this is going to be my sixty-seventh time begging you to watch 'donnie darko.’” you let out a laugh, “i’ll make it a hundred.” seunghyun kept his phone to his ear with his shoulder, washing his dishes. “what’ll convince you, huh?” “well, first of all,” you said. “it's summertime. not purgatory.” “its art, though.” you waited for him to say sike. when he didn’t, you laughed harder, “you’re insane.” he raised his eyebrows, though a smile molded his mouth. “you’re annoying.” “that’s another thing you love, too.” “yeah, well—” he had a witty comeback in his arsenal, but the time on the oven decimated it. “shit—it's already 1:30?” he thought aloud. “i’m late for practice. i’ll call you later, baby.” “no problem.” “i love you dearly.” your vernacular rubbed off on him, hearing him give his blackberry’s receiver a big kiss goodbye. you laid there on the couch, amused: if seunghyun a year ago knew he’d be acting like this now, he’d break down in tears.

jiyong’s birthday came and went in august. many family, friends, and cousins were invited, so it made skirting around seunghyun easier. what he couldn’t avoid, however, was knowing it was most definitely you on the other end whenever he looked at his phone, or when seunghyun attempted to hide his smile after putting it back into his pocket. come autumn, though, seunghyun was up and out of town, down in berkeley to meet a group of possible coaches. when his birthday rolled around in november, he was back home for the party, shocking his relatives with the news he was moving to britain before the new year to begin training professionally: “i’ll be home for thanksgiving. but i’ll be leaving before christmas, unfortunately.” jiyong remembers his heart collapsing to his stomach, hands almost dropping his utensils. he looked to seunghyun’s parents, watching their bittersweet yet prideful expressions over their son’s mature decision for his future.

if things were different, jiyong would have been part of every fiber of seunghyun’s planning: helping him choose between coaches, sorting through housing options, making sure he’s surrounded by good people, etc. but now? he was just a stranger. a bystander. adjacent to a nobody. he kept it together, though he could feel seunghyun’s eyes on him for something. a twitch of an eyebrow, remnants of a grimace— anything. but jiyong continued eating without a word. “she's—she’s coming with me, yeah.” he overheard seunghyun tell his aunt. “my new coach got her in touch with a firm in london. helped her fax over her resumé, too. we’re in the middle of sorting our visas out, but everything’ll be fine. she’s really excited, yeah. her parents are too, thankfully.” laughs reverberated around the table, though jiyong didn’t lift his head. “she’s always wanted to live there. so i guess it worked out for her, y'know?”

others would argue your twenties are enviable, but you would immediately point to how quickly life became real for you. though you made a decision that in your gut you knew was not only the right one, but what you wanted to do (and you have the arguments with your parents to prove it,) it didn’t make it any less scary. let’s be clear: you were in a new country less than six months after you graduated college with a man you’ve been with for barely a year. objectively speaking, that’s fucking insane. most would think someone who’s spent her life thinking rationally in unpacking arguments wouldn’t make a decision that is nothing but brash. in that case, however, you would point to exhibits a through z: seunghyun’s undying devotion. he, who gladly went out of his way to find you a job, landing you an entry-level policy analyst position with a comfortable wage; lined up your work visa interviews to prep together and alleviate the nerves for something so intimidatingly complex; flew out to your hometown a few nights before you two were flying to england  (which he paid for too, by the way)—helping you pack and finalizing your arrangements.

seunghyun was fully aware of the sacrifices you continuously made to be with him and didn’t take it lightly whatsoever. he said his thanks in many ways: doing his best to ensure your cut of the rent was lower than his; covering the groceries; quickly showering after an intense practice to make a hot meal to eat together once you came home; paying for as many calling cards as you would ever need to phone family back home; ironing your work clothes and packing your lunch before leaving for his early morning run preceding training; and his utmost favorite, his tongue penning his routine letter of thanks to your clit, dutifully signed by his fingers kneading the plush of your thick thighs.

though it was a mere matter of time before he weighed your left hand down with a diamond, it felt as if the nuptials had already been signed off on. perhaps it was the level of trust necessary to keep what you two had going. not to mention, you came out swinging for one another, like how jiyong came out swinging at the australian open in january 2007. his added efforts and re-centered energy in training paid off big time, landing him the grand prize and into a different tax bracket overnight. his sudden star status combined with impressive academic credentials to back him at a young age incited an influx of sports press attention he had never received before, granting him the novel task of finding a manager. seunghyun hadn’t qualified for the australian open, opting to focus on the french open and wimbledon coming in the summer instead. your heart stopped beating when he won his final qualifying match, nearly launching out of your seat in the stands after the realization hit you. you hadn’t accumulated enough paid time off to cover the entirety of the two week tournament, though seunghyun was quick to assure you whilst he packed for paris: “i’ll stay in long enough for you to come see me.” he told you. “i’ll play good for you, baby.”

something shifted on your train ride from london to paris. it was early june, zeroing in on the last few days of the french open. seunghyun kept his promise: he was inching closer to the final rounds of the men’s singles. he called you every night to recap his day, including the uncomfortable parts: “jiyong walked out of the locker room when i was walking in today.” he said. one hand held his blackberry to his ear whilst the other worked his razor against his stubble, eyes trained on his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “he’s doing real well.” he muttered, rinsing his razor underneath the running water. he grinned to himself, “looks like a fuckin’ hot shot, too. even from the back.” as the scenic landscapes and buildings passed by you on the train, your face turned more stoic. your vision mimicked a tunnel. a feeling stirred in your gut—but what was it? nerves? maybe … well, it was seunghyun’s first professional event. maybe that’s it: it's your first chance to see if his hard work was going to pay off. on a famously prestigious stage, no less. but it’ll work out, right? right? you were ushered to your seat in the player’s box, reserved for the athletes’ families, friends, significant others, etc. seunghyun spotted you easily in the stands, waving with an unabashedly joyful smile. you blew a kiss before sitting down, readjusting how your sunglasses sat on your nose, happy that your hair was out of your face.

you remained straight-faced through his sets against the player from italy: relief exiting your nostrils whenever it went seunghyun’s way, your posture stiffening when it didn’t. from his recent games, you developed a foundational understanding of the mechanics of the sport. visual cues were your greatest aid, along with listening closely to the umpire—the official who enforces rules, makes decisions about plays, judgment calls, disciplinary actions, etc. you knew you made progress when grimacing at one of his calls against seunghyun. not because he’s your boyfriend, but because it was just wrong. you mentally logged questions to ask him, readjusting your posture as he and his opponent switched sides before starting the next odd-numbered set. it was seunghyun’s turn to serve. he got into position, placing the tennis ball in the center of the neck of the racket. beads of sweat trickled down the bridge of his nose, hitting the floor of the court. he took a deep breath, raising his racket into his service motion, but his inhale caught in his throat—descending into a coughing fit. it didn’t stop. the umpire called a time-out after seunghyun began wheezing, clutching his chest. concerned murmurs percolated around the court, all eyes on him whilst medics took his vitals, offering him an oxygen mask.

seunghyun accepted with a nod. he closed his eyes, taking his time to breathe. you closed your eyes, too, fingers rubbing your forehead, chin lowering. it's the cigarettes, your inner monologue just knew, the stress has been making him smoke more the usual. seunghyun was back on his feet ten minutes later, ensuring his throat was secure by drinking a generous amount of water. jiyong watched the whole thing go down from the locker room. he stood in front of the mounted television with his arms crossed over his chest, ignoring his mother ringing his cell. he never coughed like that when we played, he thought. jiyong ran his hands over his face, palm brushing past the nike logo on his custom-made sponsored polo. though the match was close, seunghyun wasn't completely there after coughing like that in public, handing italy a spot in the semi-finals. it was quiet that evening in seunghyun’s hotel room. he sat at the end of the untouched one of the two queen beds, head hung low with how elbows on his knees. he hadn’t changed out of his jersey nor taken his shoes off. you were stood, leaned against the wall with your arms crossed over your chest. he felt your stare. he heard your silence.

all you did was ask him a simple question: “do you want to win?” “i do.” he answered. “where are they?” “in my duffel. the left pocket.” “your lighter?” “in there, too.” you unzipped his duffel, collecting both items, walking out of the room. you entered the room at the end of the hall housing the ice machine, tossing his cigarettes and lighter into the garbage bin. seunghyun didn’t move, hearing your footsteps return to the room. “go shower.” you said, closing the door behind you. “our dinner reservations are at eight. it's six-thirty.” it took a moment, but he listened. he felt your hand between his pecs, beckoning his attention. “hey.” you spoke softly. your hand rode up his chest, palm molding against his cheek. seunghyun couldn’t help his fucking innate reaction, turning his head to kiss your palm, feeling the pad of your thumb lightly tug at his bottom lip. “i love you tenderly. always.” his lips parted, a shaky breath of what sounded like relief slipping between his teeth. “i love you dearly.” he whispered.

his forehead fell to yours. either of your mouths hovered the other’s, yet neither leaned in. you inched closer. seunghyun nearly retracted, not knowing what this kiss would do to him in such a vulnerable state. he trembled upon feeling your lips against his, kissing you back firmly and with fervor. his whimpering into your mouth was as pitiful as much as it was beautiful. he melted into you, inadvertently pushing your back against the wall. his hands found your hips, palms penning a letter of trust to your lower back. thus a new layer of your relationship was discovered, cemented by the tear escaping his closed eyes, trailing a messy line down your palm: you’re in this shit for life. you’re his for life. he’s yours for eternity; bed-bound to desire, a worshipper of the divine feminine. not co-dependent per sé, but symbiotic nonetheless. there’s no you without him, and there’s sure as fuck no him without you.

on your early sunday afternoon train ride home to london, jiyong was declared the winner of the french open—officially halfway to a grand slam—whilst seunghyun snored next to you, half of his face snuggly hidden behind his hoodie, working as a makeshift eye mask. upon returning home, he trained like a madman for the wimbledon qualifiers in london later that month. he ran more strategically in the mornings, purposefully working different muscles depending on the day; ran tennis drills like it was his life’s work, because it is; switched out a few of his supplements; fucked you harder to let out the pent-up energy and maintain a consistent sleeping schedule, and took up yoga to hone in on the key to maintaining demanding physical regiment was heavily dependent on mindset. he won his qualifiers with flying colors, all the while gnashing nicorette like a motherfucker in-between. this time, he made it to the semi-finals—and nearly went up against jiyong, your inner monologue reminded you—but was tapped out by a seasoned player from ireland. “he offered to buy me a pint when we ran into each other after the game.” seunghyun told you on the taxi ride home. “but i said i just really wanted to see my girl right now.” after helping him set up and naturally warmed up after his ice bath, seunghyun settled into your shared bed, taking a much-needed nap on your chest.

two days later, on the living room television in your shared flat, jiyong accepted the trophy for wimbledon’s gentleman’s singles. he looked and was triumphant, holding the silver-git cup in the air, smiling so hard seunghyun could feel it on his face. you read jiyong’s surname—embroidered on the side of his nike baseball cap—as he took a photo with members of the british royal family who were in attendance. you both watched from behind the kitchen counter in mutual silence. the bottom of seunghyun’s ceramic mug scraped against the counter, taking a sip of his coffee. “all he needs is the open,” he muttered, referring to the final major championship taking place in the united states come august, and also the last one needed for jiyong to win a grand slam, “and then he’s got it.” you hummed in acknowledgement, eyes trained on the screen. there it was: your unspoken language. the same cogs turned in either of your heads. you wanted to win and you wanted it bad, though seunghyun had a different plan: “i wanna skip the open.” you turned to look at each other at the same time. he read your mind: “to focus on the olympics.” you learned a lot in these last six months, particularly when it came to how complicated qualifications are for prestigious tournaments. to qualify for the olympics tennis tournament, for example, it is determined by many factors like national rankings, but also participation in team competitions.

jiyong’s post-game press conference played in the background. “do you think you can get on the team?” you asked. “i will.” said seunghyun, looking you dead in the eye. you stared right back at him, “does this sound like a smart idea to you?” “yes.” “how about here?” you rubbed his stomach through his shirt, referring to his gut. he was stubborn, “yes.” “fine then. i trust you.” you said. “get to work.” “i will.” and he did—tenfold. he used his earnings from competing in france and london to bring on a new team equipped with a like-minded nutritionist and physiotherapist, respectively. sooner than later, you mimicked his routine. seunghyun reached over, turning his alarm off at 5:30 am. it was barely light outside, yet you were already up, applying body lotion in the mirror. you topped yourself off with body oil, the vanilla scent rubbing off on his bare back. your touch woke him up, “good morning, my love.” you leaned down, kissing his warm temple. “i’ll get your smoothie ready.” he mumbled something in response, exhaustion meddling in his words. “let’s go.” you called out as you left your shared bedroom, heading to the kitchen. seunghyun groaned, getting up soon after.

your morning routine was the exact same for seven months straight: get up, shower, wake up seunghyun, prepare his breakfast smoothie, pack your lunch, make your breakfast, and observe his physiotherapy session before going to work. you weren’t an expert by any means, but knew enough from shadowing about where his pressure points were. it came in handy whenever a knot in his shoulder kept him from sleeping, hearing his tears of relief muffled by his pillow after your elbow dug into him just the right way. his coach lent you footage of seunghyun’s past matches, reviewing them in your spare time. you eventually started showing up to weekend practices, too. you fed him tennis balls from the net, calling out shots: “inside in! line! inside out! inside in! line! line!” seunghyun hustled from side-to-side, hitting the cones you set up along the court as targets. every ice bath ended with cuddles; petty arguments ranged from him being upset you wouldn’t be able to make it to his practice to you calling him out for finishing your moisturizer; if he was pissed at his coach over some petty disagreement, seunghyun would purposefully make himself late to practice the next morning: spending the extra time fucking you from below, sending you to work with glossed eyes and a firmer grip on the grab bars in the london tube.

without a shadow of a doubt, however, your days ended in conversation, wrapped in bed. sometimes serious: “do you think we’ll ever find time for ourselves?” “of course we will, baby. what makes you think that?” “my world revolves around you and tennis. and i want to get married someday.” “well, mine revolves around you, too. and we will. it's only a matter of time.” sometimes sweet: “something’s in my eye,” seunghyun rubbed his left one whilst laid next to you in bed, diverting your attention, “been bothering me since i was in the shower.” he stopped rubbing, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. he looked at his finger, flicking something away, “just an eyelash.” he muttered. you grinned to yourself, “they’re so heavy they blind you, hm?” his face warmed immediately, soon burying his nose into your neck. “you can’t just say shit like that so casually, baby…” he drew out his syllables, trying to avert his sheepishness, but failing miserably.

you chuckled, hand reaching into his hoodie, fingers carding through his hair. “they are very pretty.” you said. “your eyelashes, i mean.” “stop.” “what? i look at your eyes, like, all the time.”; or when you’re telling him about a disagreement between your co-workers, elbow on your pillow, palm against your temple propping your head up as he laid on his pillow, listening intently. “and then he—” you glanced in his direction, cutting yourself off. seunghyun’s eyes were soft, a small yet faint smile on his face as he listened to the love of his life ramble about her day, the sweetest expression on his face. “don’t.” you covered his eyes, feeling warmth creep up your neck. “don’t look at me like that.” he let out a giggle, manuevering out of your grip. “like what, huh?” he asked knowingly. “i’m just using my eyes, baby.” “use them elsewhere.” seunghyun sat up on his elbow, dousing your cheek in kisses, arm around your waist keeping you close to him. “i make my baby so shy, hm?”

jiyong fell to his knees, breaking down in tears after hitting the winning shot at the us open, clutching himself a grand slam. the cameras caught his parents in the crowd, his father holding onto his mother tightly, the pride so overwhelming that her muscles temporarily gave out. seunghyun’s parents were in the player’s box, too, buying the bottles of expensive champagne at the celebratory dinner that evening. jiyong’s relatives went around the table, making speeches regarding the pride he’s brought to the family name. “it's the one thing you wish for when you have children.” his father said, teary eyed. “and he’s done it. and knowing him, he’ll continue to.” when it was seunghyun’s father’s turn, he kept his son out of his sentimental remarks, though how he ended it was telling of their rift has affected either family: “and—and . . .” he came to a brief pause. “if only. if only he was. . .” he nodded, unable to say the words, hands characteristically behind his back, settling back into his seat. jiyong nodded to himself, cutting into his steak without another word. a year ago, he was a heartbroken nobody. now, he was a fresh-faced millionaire with a budding agenda: “i’ll see you in beijing.” he winked to the cameras before leaving his post-game press conference, ushered into a van by us open security.

despite his newfound fame, jiyong kept a close circle, ranging from his family and a few friends. besides a few fleeting anecdotes from his relatives at holiday dinners, he hadn’t kept tabs on you and seunghyun all that much. it was very different in those first few months, however: jiyong checked both yours and seunghyun’s facebooks borderline obsessively when you first moved to london. he was craving proximity that was once his, blinking away tears before heading to his practice court, or completely succumbing to them in bed whilst looking through old photo albums him and seunghyun compiled on his family’s computer. though his best friend was alive and well, jiyong couldn’t shake the feeling that someone he loved dearly had passed into the next life. it felt as if part of him went missing and he didn’t know how to put the pieces together again.

he had to rewire his brain, reminding himself his go-to person wasn’t there for him anymore, and he wasn’t there for him, either. it made his past break-ups look like child’s play in comparison to the deepening abyss in his chest. there was some closure between him and seunghyun, but jiyong still had a million questions. knowing seunghyun his entire life, jiyong knew he would have a million and one, but neither made the move to contact the other, and didn’t plan on it. though they weren’t talking, the metaphorical threads tying them together remained tightly-bound: evident in their dependence on the court to absorb their pain and frustration; re-focusing their energy to lift this indescribable weight off their chests; taunting themselves with the what ifs before falling asleep at night.

jiyong had to protect his peace before flying to australia for the open. he unfriended you before you found out whether you were admitted at oxford for your master’s. he unfriended seunghyun after he posted a status about qualifying for the french open. his body remembers the trauma from the night in the parking lot, but instead of shutting down, he exhumes the frustration with the meanest grunts ever heard after performing a stellar back-handed swing, hurling his opponent in a loop. 2007 was his year for re-centering and conquering, and he did just that. jiyong just kept his mind on the next thing as he finished another, focused yet charmingly sweet in interviews, earning him more fans with the delicate bunch of his cheeks every time his wide, sheepish smile appeared at the mere mutter of a compliment. as an athlete, he was quickly gaining respect and acclaim to his name as a professional, but did not let that get to his head.

he stayed grounded at home, oftentimes speaking with his mother about his worries. though there was only so much a mother could do: “seunghyun would know what to do,” she told him one afternoon over lunch. by the look on her face, jiyong could tell she’s been meaning to mention him. she did it periodically: “don’t you think?” on seunghyun’s end, it was the same: “have you told jiyong about your olympic training?” his father asked him over the phone. “he’s doing it, too. his coach is spectacular.” “i know.” said seunghyun, keeping his phone to his ear with his shoulder, opening the window in your shared bedroom to filter in some fresh air. “and no, i haven’t told him. we don’t talk, remember?” his father huffed, “the three of you are so stubborn.” he tsked. “you’re too mature to let something ruin your friendship. especially when you’ve all built such good lives for yourselves. be adults, i beg of you.”

you and seunghyun celebrated new year’s 2008 at a pub in dublin. he finally took his opponent at wimbledon up on his offer for a pint, spending the rest of the three day weekend being tourists before boarding the plane home. it was officially olympics year, meaning extensive conversations with his coach regarding qualifiers, matches, and travel for the upcoming summer. it was settled that come april, seunghyun would compete at the national championships in oregon back in the states, hopefully earning him a spot in the olympic trials in june in new york city—a month before the opening ceremony in beijing. it was a quick turn-around period, but: “we’ve worked way too hard to get nervous now.” you told him, passing the necessary spices to season the roast chicken you two were making for dinner. “plus, i’ve accumulated way too much pto to let it go to waste. you’re gonna show up and decimate the fuck out of those bitches.” and that seunghyun fucking did—making you jump out of your seat and clutch your chest upon his securing a spot for new york. “yes!” you yelled from your gut, clapping your hands approvingly like a suburban father watching his team at the super bowl, “that’s what the fuck i’m talking about!”

the first time jiyong saw you or seunghyun face-to-face after nearly two years was at those championships. he flew to oregon a week before everyone else to get good practices in—his qualifying match for the olympics trials being the next day. at first, it was passive. he was a good enough distance away having just walked out of the bathroom and into the bustling crowd emerging between the day’s matches. but then, he caught his mother’s eye. she hoped to usher in a good-faith reunion: “over here!” she called to her son. seunghyun’s father caught her drift, his eyes lighting up at the possibility, waving jiyong over, too. jiyong glanced at you and seunghyun, seeing you both in conversation with his seunghyun’s mother. seunghyun was still so sweaty from his match, using the back of his hand to move strands of hair stuck to his forehead. his mother gestured for you two to turn around. the air shifted. it wasn’t comfortable, yet it wasn’t entirely horrible. almost bittersweet: “hey, man.” seunghyun’s tone was bland, unsure of where they stood with so much time having passed. though his eyes held warmth, “congrats on the grand slam.” “congratulations, jiyong.” you added amicably, you and your boyfriend nodding cordially. “thanks.” jiyong murmured, offering a tight-lipped expression before immediately looking away.

to jiyong’s fortune, one of the many professional photographers working the event asked for a group photo, diverting the attention away from him. either family got into an appropriate position: you and seunghyun on the left end, jiyong on the far right; on opposite ends, ironically enough. another was taken of just you and seunghyun with his family—the two of you posed in the middle. in his periphery, seunghyun saw jiyong look away entirely. he thought it was pitiful. can’t even look me in the eye, huh? his inner monologue tsked. after all this time? he checked his watch, “baby?” “yeah?” “car’ll be here soon.” seunghyun let you know, seeing you nod. he turned to his parents, “are we all going for dinner tonight?” he gestured to the entire group. “i think jiyong’s family has their own plans.” his mother relayed. “that’s fine.” said seunghyun. “our reservation’s at seven-thirty. don’t forget. and remind dad, too.” he looked for you over his shoulder, gesturing that it was time to head out. you both said your goodbyes for the day, switching between polite waves and brief hugs. the door you needed to head out of was coincidentally in jiyong’s direction. he couldn’t stomach turning around when you two walked past him. a subtle one-sided, amused grin tugged at seunghyun’s lips. he shook his head, just completely over it. jiyong froze, feeling seunghyun’s palm pat his shoulder, “see you in new york, ji.”

jiyong’s eyes widened. chills ran down his spine, looking over his shoulder, seeing seunghyun hold the door open for you before taking your hand in his. he spoke to me like nothing happened, his thoughts ran a mile a minute. like it was just another fucking day. the fuck is his deal? and the way he spoke, too … so knowing … so … definite. like he knew something jiyong didn't—a dynamic-defining imbalance between them ever since they were kids. seunghyun could’ve been referring to jiyong’s grand slam, thus making his advancement to the olympic trials a no-brainer, but still. it's like he has something planned, jiyong thought, albeit irrationally. the strange, contradictory feelings of annoyance coupled with an odd sense of relief toyed between his temples. some part of him felt at ease that seunghyun spoke to him to begin with, let alone like the brothers they once were. mourning their friendship hasn’t been linear. jiyong was smart enough to understand what he felt, that it was normal to wish things went back to as they once were whilst acknowledging it would never be the same again. too many feelings unaddressed. too much time passed. but still, his inner monologue remained stubborn. he feels so familiar. after all this time.

seunghyun took his time drying off after his ice bath, attempting to warm his body back up gradually. he came out of the bathroom of your hotel suite twenty minutes later, rifling through his luggage for a fresh pair of boxers. he came over to you on the bed, settling into his routine laying on your chest, but without the duvet. for now, at least. his teeth quietly chattered, feeling your palms dotingly rub up and down his bare back, trying to soothe his goosebumps. “i’m okay.” he assured. “i know you are.” you said gently. “think you want the blanket now?” “y-yes, please.” his nose burrowed into the side of your neck, pressing a kiss of gratitude onto your skin once his teeth ceased chattering. you both unpacked your afternoon, seunghyun addressing the elephant in the room without hesitation: “didn’t even spare one fucking glance.” he grumbled about jiyong. “is it too much to ask for? i mean, we haven’t seen each other in two fucking years.” “i mean,” you began, fingers combing his hair back. “the last time you saw him, he found out you fucked his ex-girlfriend. and that i cheated on him with you. and that we were dating behind his back.” “but it's been two years.” “wounds don’t heal easily for some people. do they for you?” “are you asking if i miss him?” “i think you bringing it up answers your own question, seunghyun.”

he sighed, knowing you were right. “of course i miss him. he was the literal other side of my brain.” he said. “none of that ‘two peas in a pod’ shit. we were like night and day—complementary.” you hummed, letting him know you were listening. “its not like i’ve forgotten him. you know me, baby. i haven’t.” “you haven’t, yeah.” you affirmed. “right,” said seunghyun. “so—i mean, i didn’t think things would be back to—back to normal, or whatever. but i just…” he fell silent. “i don’t know, baby.” “its fine not to know how you feel.” you assured. “or not know how to describe it.” “no—i know how i feel,” seunghyun corrected, arms wrapping around your waist. “its just that … i don’t how how he feels. does that make sense?” “it does.” you said. it was quiet for the next few minutes, nothing but the white noise of the air conditioning percolating in your ears. you looked down, seeing the top of seunghyun’s head. he was comfortably warm now, melting into you. something you meant to bring up earlier crossed your mind: “did you see the look on his face when you touched his shoulder?” seunghyun lifted his head, eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you. “no.” he shook his head. “did you?” you nodded, thumb tracing the temporary sleep lines on his face from laying on your wrinkled shirt. “what’d he look like, baby?” your eye contact didn’t waver, “like a deer in headlights.”

seunghyun didn’t like the sound of that. he kept his front up, “he did?” his tone was leveled. you nodded, seeing right through the well-hidden quiver in his eyes, “mhm.” “oh.” the volume of his voice lowered to a perishable degree, returning his temple to your chest, “okay.” as expected, jiyong clinched the last spot to new york with ease. his post-game press conference was brief, much of it spent trying to say his thoughts coherently in the midst of patting his sweat dry with a towel and leveling his adrenaline. he downed water in the van whilst on the way back to his hotel, grimacing at the aftertaste of the energy gel he ate during a set break just wouldn’t wash away. he glanced at the rearview mirror, eyebrows furrowing at the unexpected sight of three motorcycles tailing him. is that—are those paparazzi? he wondered, perplexed. the car came to a gradual halt at a traffic light. jiyong rolled down his window, peeking his head out, but quickly retracted, caught off guard by how quickly they sped up; camera shutter going off. jiyong put his window back up with haste, i knew that i was known, but does this mean i’m famous? and in the middle of oregon?? he sunk into his seat, grateful the windows were blacked out, and the speed in which the traffic light turned green. a little shaken up, he hurried into his hotel, back in the quiet of his suite. he took his nokia out of his duffel, phoning his mother: “i think i just got paparazzied.” “paparazzied? is that even a word?” “it is now, mom. do you think i need a bodyguard?” “maybe. i’ll call your accountant today to see how much it’ll cost, and loop in your manager.”

the distance was far, but the parallels went farther. “seunghyun?” you called to him from the bedroom of your flat. he was in the kitchen making dinner, feeling fresh and clean from his post-practice shower, “yeah?” “could you see if the washing’s done? and put it in the dryer, and bring what's in the dryer to our room?” “you got it, baby.” he put the pasta on a low simmer, walking past the living room, opening the closet housing both appliances. “here we are.” he kicked the door open enough to let him and the filled laundry basket inside, setting it atop the duvet. “i can fold these for you after dinner.” “s'fine.” you waved your hand in assurance. though it was a week and a half away from flying to new york, you slowly started packing, knowing the closer it got the crazier the time crunch would become. you stepped around your open luggage on the carpeted floor, peering into the basket with your hands on your hips, “need to sift through this for a few things.” you told him, seeing him nod in your periphery. “do you think it's too hot to wear my creme blouse tomorrow?” “the long sleeve one?” “mhm.” “might be,” he thought aloud. “i read the humidity’ll be up.” “shit.” you bit the inner part of your lip in thought. “i washed that thinking i’d wear it. whatever. i’ll figure it out.”

you lifted your head, looking at your boyfriend. so much had gone down in the last two years, yet the sight of the kt tape on his wrist stilled the world for a brief moment. so much sacrifice, so much compromise, and copious trial-and-tribulation, all leading up to next week. you saw the work in his calloused hands; determination in his pilled sunscreen; devotion as his love language. he ran a hand through his hair, completely clueless to your softening heart whilst he scratched a itch on his temple. “seunghyun?” he met your eyes, “yeah, baby?” “you know i’m really proud of you, right?” he couldn’t stop his bashful smile if he wished upon a shooting star. he tucked into himself, crossing his arms over his chest, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “course i know.” he muttered, glancing at the floor. “i wouldn’t want nothing else from my baby.” you grinned, feeling your heart stutter. he turned towards you, unfolding his arms at the feeling of your hand riding up his chest, palm settling against his cheek. the way he looked at you would make the stars alternate their gravitational pull in creation of your constellation. you both let out an exhale, his hands finding your lower back, breath warm against your neck. he pressed kisses on your supple skin, spelling out his gratitude up to your cheek. “m'real fucking proud of you, too.” he spoke lowly, voice like honey. “you’re built different. not everyone could do what you do. no one has a head like yours, baby.” you chuckled, “at least you’re aware.”

seunghyun smirked, vibrations from his laugh tickling your cheek. “of course i am.” he affirmed. “c'mere.” he kissed you sweetly. you reconnected your lips with intent, hand slipping into his hair, keeping him close to you. seunghyun gradually broke the kiss, lips doting on your forehead before returning to your gaze. “i love you so much.” “i love you, too.” you were quick to respond. your knuckles softly grazed down his cheek, pad of your thumb gently pushing against his chin, making his lips bunch together briefly. a low chuckle rang from his chest, making you laugh sweetly, too. suddenly, your mind worked in flashes, reminding you of what may lay ahead. some call it anxiety, others call it being prepared. you would say it was being realistic, whereas seunghyun took it as a sign. “something’s on your mind.” he clocked it immediately. “you have that look in your eye.” your eyebrows furrowed, buying yourself time. “what look do i have?” “the same one you had when i told you i wanna skip the open.” he said, “and when i wanted another guinness on new year’s.” you tsked, amused by the memory. “you don’t tend to hold your alcohol well.” he smiled, “probably would’ve maxed out my credit card buying pints for everyone on the block.”

comfortable silence brewed. you held his face in your hands. he could practically see the thoughts swirling around in that head of yours. his lips doted on your palm, moving to your inner wrist. “tell me, baby. i’m here.” the pasta could wait: “what if you end up playing jiyong, hm?” seunghyun’s face dropped somewhat. “you got close at wimbledon.” seunghyun nodded, though didn’t provide a direct answer to your question, “i know.” you didn’t prolong his chance to avoid it, your eyes spelling out something different: be honest with me. it took seunghyun a moment, but he licked his lips, nodding. “i’d beat him.” “okay.” you said. you leaned in closer, honing in: “but what would you do?” he knew exactly what you were asking: his personal reaction; any individual vendettas that could come out the moment he hears of his opponent. you weren’t looking for the correct answer per sé, but more-so where seunghyun’s head was at. like always, he read your mind: “i’d keep my shit straight.” not a fraction, let alone an iota of hesitation was present in his tone. “i’ve been working too hard to let something petty fuck it up.” you were surprised by his word choice, though you didn’t show it on your face: he thinks what went down that night is petty now? your inner monologue voiced. or is this the man in mourning i’m speaking to?

you didn’t give it much thought, knowing seunghyun needed your assurance. “okay.” you nodded, tone soft. “i trust you.” he kissed you, tilting his head to the left upon the re-connect, deepening it with intention. you breathed him in through your nostrils, a subtle yet brief squeak erupting between your mouths. “when we get back from beijing,” seunghyun said against your lips, “we’re getting married.” your chuckle made chills run down his spine, “don’t surprise me with a connecting flight to vegas.” jiyong, on the other hand, was in the passenger’s seat of his father’s car. he had offered to take him to practice that day, spending the thirty minute commute in either amicable quiet, muttering something about a song on the radio, or what his coach was planning.

it was reflective of his childhood, though now there was a new air of respect with his acclaimed status as a decorated professional athlete. there were rarely any comparisons made—twelve year old jiyong fighting for his dignity at the academy would never believe him at twenty-four—but with prestige, comes minimal sugar-coating. his father gradually applied less pressure on the pedal, stopping at the yellow-turned-red traffic light. a feeling stirred in his gut, “i think you’re going to play against seunghyun in new york.” jiyong looked out the window, not wanting to give the possibility power. let alone admit that he’s contemplated it, too, “what makes you say that?” “you two have avoided each other long enough.” his father said. he pulled into the training center, unlocking the car doors as jiyong unbuckled his belt. “it's a matter of time before you’re forced to face each other.”

the tournament was cutthroat. 48 of the country’s best tennis players—24 men and 24 women—fighting to the brink for the next two weeks. the first week was to weed half of them out, the second for determining who had the chance to play for a medal the following month. a competing nation can send no more than twelve qualified athletes (six men, six women) to compete across the olympic tennis events. in other words: you lose, you’re out. it was easy money for seunghyun that first week. he built a routine for himself after overcoming the jet lag: get up, go on a morning run in central park, return to your hotel suite for a shower before ordering breakfast; or on mornings where his pheromones dripped off him (it's been reported high intensity workouts can increase libidos, and you can attest to that with being his girlfriend) he claps those cheeks like the goddess you are or makes the bed creak as his hips rut into yours, all whilst your omelettes and fruit platters are being prepared in the kitchen, finishing your shared shower just in time to open the door for room service, kissing you sweetly before heading to the national tennis center to do his warm-up drills, looking to you in the stands in every in-between moment during his match; you sat next to his parents, nodding to one another in your unspoken language only discernible by either of you, sending his opponents’ sorry ass home, setting his mind and pumping adrenaline right in the sauna every other day afterward, lulling you both to sleep with either your fingers carding through his hair or his tongue lapping your clit, repeat. he survived that first week with flying colors, spending the weekend regulating his nervous system with you and his family.

jiyong had a great week, too. his parents stayed with him in the penthouse suite he rented for those two weeks in manhattan, ending his days with a hasty throw of his duffel onto the couch after letting his bodyguard off for the night, starting his mornings at six am sharp, heading to the gym after having a protein shake. he didn’t give his opponents a fighting chance. jiyong didn’t go many post-game interviews either, thinking it would jinx his chances of getting a spot on the olympic team, often booking it to the locker room after hitting the winning shot. to his astonishment, he didn’t physically see seunghyun the entire week. though he saw his name on rosters whilst speaking with his coach regarding changing certain plays with certain players—but jiyong kept his focus in the right place, at least to him.

he saw you, however—sat in the stands after seunghyun won his match in the middle of the intensive first week, speaking with his seunghyun’s mother whilst the court was swept and prepped for jiyong’s match. you didn’t see him, getting up and leaving the player’s box soon afterward, but jiyong eyes stayed on you the whole way through. he hated the fact he knew you were going home to seunghyun—but none more than the realization that it still pestered him to this day. sure, one could argue everyone has the one thing that never sits right with them no matter how much time passes. but jiyong felt straight-up childish. so much in his life had changed these last two years . . . why was his mind trying to convince him it could all be thrown away at the mere sight of you? he kissed his teeth, running his hand over his face, re-centering himself before picking up his racket, proceeding with his warm-ups.

at the start of week two, a showdown between jiyong and seunghyun felt it was coming to fruition. it was especially pertinent after seunghyun won his match on monday. he saw the look on your face when joining you in bed tuesday night—the evening before his match that would really solidify the line up. he read your mind: “i know, baby.” he spoke lowly. he got underneath the fluffy duvet with you, kissing your forehead tenderly. you let out a long exhale, feeling his hand make residence on your lower back. his palm soothed you, his lips finding your forehead once more, “everything’ll be okay.” “i just worry about you, seunghyun.” you said candidly. he hummed in acknowledgement. “you’ve put so much into this.” “we’ve put a lot into this.” he subtly corrected. “i won’t be the one to fuck it up for the both of us. you get me?” “i do.” “good.” he pressed doting kisses to your cheek and neck, “get some rest f'me. i need all of you tomorrow.” “c'mere.” you beckoned gently, fingers pulling at his bare shoulder. “need to hold you, baby.” seunghyun didn’t hesitate, laying between your legs wordlessly, resting his temple on your chest. light snores followed after your fingers began combing through his hair. you fell asleep relatively quickly as well, head comfortable on the pillow.

jiyong, however, didn’t want to hear it. he could smell it from across the table at dinner—either of his parents giving him a knowing look similar to yours. ironically enough, he said the same thing seunghyun did, just with different tonality. “i know what you’re thinking.” jiyong said curtly without looking up, cutting into his steak. “i know you wanna say i told you so. go ahead.” “it's not about who’s right and who’s wrong, jiyong.” his mother tried to ease the tension. “we just—we just miss you two. being together.” “i know you do,” jiyong said, taking a sip of his water. “even if you don’t say it, i see it on your face everyday.” “can you blame us?” his father interjected. “two years and we still don’t know why you and him parted ways. what could’ve been so bad that even his parents won’t tell us clearly?” jiyong let his father’s words hang in the air, stubborn. “was it really because of—because of some girl? that you threw a lifetime of friendship away?” jiyong put his utensils down, taking a deep breath. “it's more complicated than that.” “you’ve made all this money,” his father gestured around the luxurious restaurant, “yet you still can’t afford some common sense?” jiyong’s head shot up, looking at his father sharply. “will anything be enough for you?” his mother jumped in, extinguishing the fire: “thats enough.” both backed down, though his father wanted the last word. “you’ll see.” he muttered. jiyong’s knuckles turned white from how hard he was gripping his fork. “sooner or later, you’ll wake up.”

seunghyun won his match wednesday morning, cementing a place in his final match come friday. with how names were drawn and the order of matches were decided, seunghyun’s match was going to be for the final spot on the olympic team. you two rushed back to the hotel, keen on watching the afternoon match on television—the winner to be seunghyun’s opponent. fate would have it: seunghyun was stoic after jiyong made his winning shot, his arm stiffening around your shoulders. he was taken out of his head in the feeling your temple resting against his shoulder, a long exhale deflating your chest. neither of you spoke. he grabbed your hand, letting his kisses to the back of it speak for him. you responded by sitting up, bringing his lips to yours. “i love you.” he whispered. he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck before wrapping his arms around your waist. you accepted his embrace, “i know you do.” your arms found him, palm rubbing tenderly up and down his back before settling on the back of his head. seunghyun’s grip around you tightened, burrowing his face into your neck protectively. “i love you too.” you spoke softly, hearing and feeling his vulnerable huff.

thursday was as normal as seunghyun could make it. in an effort to not completely obliterate his nervous system, he treated it like any other day. the humidity wasn’t so bad that morning, making his run in central park a breeze. after washing up, he made the sweetest of love to you: fingers intertwined over your head, hips rutting into yours poetically. you took up as much space as you wanted, spreading your legs as far as your body could handle so early in the morning, sprawled out in a way that made renaissance painters envious. seunghyun was a mess in your ear, somewhere between panting and whimpering. “f-feel so fucking good—g-goddamn.” his voice quivered, bed creaking underneath his knees. “you gonna—” you cut yourself off, suddenly feeling how dry your throat was. you swallowed quickly, “you gonna cum for me?” “y-yes!” he mewled, toes curling into the air, his hands gripping yours tighter. he didn’t halt his thrusts, “c-can i? can i cum, baby? pl—please—mmph!—please le—lemme cum.” “let go of my hands.” “wh—what? o-okay.” seunghyun halted his thrusts, letting go of your hands, swiftly sucking in a breath, pulling out temporarily. you turned onto your stomach, turning your pillow vertically to rest on it comfortably, spreading your knees as far as you could.

seunghyun got the message, knees dipping into the bed, closer to you. his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, palms kneading both large cheeks of your ass, watching the right recoil after a characteristic smack. you re-adjusted how you laid, inadvertently deepening the arch in your back. seunghyun separated your puffy lips with his condom-wrapped tip, gradually pushing back in. you gasped, expression sinful: “fuck!” your mouth was agape. “thats so fucking d-deep!” you gasped again, mind stirring the more his cock was inside of you. “you’re so fucking d-deep—oh my god. y-yes—” you praised, voice falling meekly, overwhelmed with how whorish you suddenly felt. seunghyun wasn’t any better. his eyes were glossy, unable to look away from your ass, or his dick disappearing into heaven. “sh—shit. . .” his voice shook, swallowing harshly. “s-shit, baby. y-you’re so fucking hot. i—i can’t take it.” he looked like he was about to cry, but didn’t stop himself. you felt so fucking good. “i can’t handle you, baby.” he whimpered, letting out a small cry, bottoming out. his voice cracked, throwing his head back, “oh my god!” “i n-need you to give it to me,” you said, breathing heavily. you looked over your shoulder, catching him in your periphery, “i need you to give it to me like the good boy i know you are, s-seunghyunnie.”

the clapping was heard from the elevator—clear as day to your hotel neighbors, who hated either of your guts. your arms wrapped around your pillow for dear life. your boyfriend listened to you diligently, as he always did, pummeling you from behind. he rendered himself mute, eyebrows stuck in a perpetual furrow with his jaw hung open, eyes glued to your globes recoiling lewdly against his pelvis, hands firm on your waist. seunghyun alternated between grabbing your ass or lush waist to propel his thrusts, nearly thrown off track when you reached behind you to grab his wrist, egging him on. your constant moans and lewd cries of pleasure didn’t help the illustrious horny haze enveloping his brain; contracting his muscles to go faster, making you stuff your face into your pillow. he whined aloud pathetically, “am i d-doing good? am i—f-fuck! ngh! a-argh!—am i g-giving it to you like a good boy?” his athletic strength was no joke, humbling you after all this time. it was delectable: feeling your thighs jiggle with every thrust, ass clapped so good seunghyun finally figured out why it's been looking even better than usual these days. you lifted your head, trying your best to maintain your balance. “you’re g-gonna make me a mess,” your voice shook. “you’re gonna make a mess of me, seunghyunnie.” you drew out your syllables, biting your bottom lip, moaning every time your body was launched an inch back-and-forth with his thrusts. “i-i’m gonna cum!” he exclaimed. “p-please—lemme cum. i’m so c-close—” “keep going. m'c-close t-t-too—oh fuck!”

seunghyun sat in the sauna in peaceful silence. another arduous day of training in the books, capping it off with relaxing his back against the wall; head and periphery covered with a towel, eyes closed, taking his breaths in and out: entering his routine meditative state. hearing the door open, he adjusted the towel around his waist. seunghyun thought the heat went to his head: it was jiyong. he nearly backed out, though seunghyun spoke too soon: “all the other ones are full.” he said. “i’m all you got.” jiyong clenched his jaw, taking the loss. he stepped inside wordlessly, making sure his towel was secure around his waist, taking a seat on the other side of the room. his eyes were avoidant, steady on the wooden floor tiles. “could you—” jiyong cleared his throat. “could you pour water on the rocks.” his voice was so monotone no question mark was detected in his inflection, “it's not hot enough in here.” seunghyun purposefully let his words hang in the air, a darkly humorous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “not hot enough for you?” he saw jiyong’s eyes flicker, but not meet his. “what? you made some money and now you think you’re too good to do it yourself?” jiyong kissed his teeth, getting up. he grabbed the ladle, looking into seunghyun’s eyes for the first time in two years: “do you mind?” jiyong asked the rhetorical question with a bite of unabashed attitude. seunghyun didn’t say a word, laying his head back, closing his eyes. he heard the rocks steam and jiyong’s bare feet patter.

in the awkward silence, seunghyun couldn’t help himself: “congrats on becoming an olympic trials finalist.” he said, a shit-eating grin stretching his lips at his own joke. he opened his eyes, straightening his posture to look at jiyong whom still wasn’t looking at him. “or did some bushy-tailed reporter tell you that already?” jiyong didn’t say anything. “too good to talk too, huh?” seunghyun took the towel off his head, using it to gently dab his perspiring forehead and temples. “we’ve been here a week and have barely said two words to each other, ji.” “don’t call me that.” seunghyun raised his eyebrows, “what? your name?” “ji.” jiyong corrected sharply. “you don’t get to call me that.” seunghyun was dismissive, “you’re being dramatic.” it was jiyong’s turn to raise his eyebrows in disbelief, “am i really?” “no, yeah. really.” seunghyun nodded. “why’re you still so angry with me? i won’t buy it if you said its 'cause of,” the mention of your name made jiyong’s skin crawl. “or what happened with her. its been two years. i think you’re just disturbed by the fact that she could’ve been—i mean, is—into someone like me.” seunghyun didn’t know why he came out swinging. he knew it was partly from the frustration he’s felt from their severed friendship and no-contact over the years—tipped off by jiyong’s disregard for any iota of professionalism in oregon. he didn’t want to inadvertently say i got her and you didn’t. get over it, but it seemed his notorious wielding of his ego took the words out of his mouth. the passage of time can sour any relationship, but it seemed these layers were impenetrable—but not if seunghyun had anything to say about it, however. if anything, their dick-swinging contest is perpetual. a cycle. a constant.

though he tried to forget seunghyun these past two years, jiyong’s familiarity with his antics deepened the annoyed furrow of his eyebrows. jiyong attempted to deflect, “i left that shit in college.” seunghyun didn’t give him a chance, “with how you looked at me when you walked in here, i’d think a day hadn’t gone by.” they stared at each other—the moment pregnant with tension. jiyong was the first to give in, nodding before laying his back against the wall; skin glowing, “you’re right. i did find it disturbing.” “there’s no need.” seunghyun shook his head. “it's two years behind you. both of our lives have changed. especially yours, ji.” he ignored the annoyed grimace on jiyong’s face. “anyway,” seunghyun cleared his throat. “that shouldn’t be what i’m for. not after this long.” jiyong looked up at him sharply, “what are you for then, seunghyun?” it felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with skin for jiyong to say his former best friend’s name, but none-more than for seunghyun to hear jiyong say it. in pure brotherly fashion seunghyun deflected, too: “honestly?” he began. “i thought you’d be happy i was in the draw.” he brought the conversation back to tennis. “i mean . . . you’ve always wanted to beat me in a tournament, right? since we were kids.”

jiyong didn’t look away. he was in awe of his seunghyun’s sheer audacity, “and a few weeks before the olympics? that’s the perfect confidence booster.” the tension thickened to the point of it being humorous, tugging at the corners of jiyong’s mouth like a poorly-written joke. he tried to bare his grit, speaking in a sing-song tone: “i know what you’re trying to do right now.” seunghyun dismissed him like the master he is. the master he’s always been: “i’m not trying to do anything, ji.” he chuckled. “you’re a grand slam champion. you have a fucking bodyguard. this is nothing to you. i don’t need to play mind games with you.” “right,” jiyong affirmed, getting some of his lick back. “you don’t give a shit.” seunghyun backtracked, albeit minutely. “i didn’t say that.” a beat went by before jiyong spoke, “we both know you have considerably more at stake here than i do.” seunghyun looked up at the ceiling in faux-thought, condescending smile making jiyong’s blood curdle, “i do?” jiyong looked at seunghyun for a long beat, letting out a hearty laugh, “holy shit.” he couldn’t believe it. seunghyun wasn’t sure where this was going, but he laughed along aimlessly. “fuck,” jiyong shook his head in disbelief. “where do you get your swagger, man? i mean, you try to swing your dick in my face like i’m supposed to be afraid of it, but . . . do you realize how embarrassing it is that you’re here right now?”

“not as embarrassing as you being here.” seunghyun tried to bite back. “you’re above something as tv as the olympics.” jiyong didn’t waste time allowing himself to be spun in circles, nipping this right in the bud: “i’m just stopping by, man. this is where you live.” seunghyun stalled himself. his smile gradually fell, gaze diverting to the water-soaked rocks in front of him. jiyong’s gaze was unwavering, eyes piercing into seunghyun’s soul: “always so close to being a runner-up. but far enough to be put in your place.” he said. he watched seunghyun’s jaw tighten, his grin sharpening in return, “i always tried to figure out what happened to you. but, you know, the more i’ve thought about it, the more i realize . . .  it's what didn’t happen. you never grew up. your old habits die so fucking hard you coughed yourself out of the french open. you say i’m still caught up in what went down with,” he said your name, hoping he wouldn’t be caught in his minute lie, “yet you’re the one who brought her up the first chance you had. you wanna tell me because of the look on my face it feels like we’re not a day out of stanford? i look at you and i see you’re still playing in the sandbox. being so cowardly fucking territorial, yet wondering why no one wants to come play with you.”

seunghyun turned his head, starting to speak, but jiyong cut him off: “you still think you can talk to me like i’m your peer because we came from the same place.” jiyong shook his head dismissively, “but it's not about where you come from in tennis, seunghyun. it only matters if you win.” seunghyun’s gaze darkened, though his expression was hurt. pitiful, even. jiyong was unrelenting: “and i do. a lot.” seunghyun had one last tool in his arsenal, “you’ve never beaten me.” it's true: in the games they’ve played either in practice, at the academy, or leading to stanford, jiyong has never outright won. he laughed it off, however: “so what? like you said, things have changed for me.” he said. “this is a game about winning the points that matter, anyway.” a long beat filled the room. a strange weight pressed into seunghyun’s chest, blinking rapidly to deter the uneasy feeling of shame and embarrassment stirring between his temples. when he did open his mouth, it would take a fool for his subdued tone to go unnoticed: “i don’t matter?” jiyong stared right back at him, “not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world.”

“i’m not talking about tennis, jiyong—” he didn’t let seunghyun’s uncharacteristic use of his full name stop him, “what the fuck else do i have to talk to you about?” there was another long, tense beat between them. seunghyun broke the tension for himself, a grin tugging at his mouth. he gradually stood to his feet, adjusting the way his towel wrapped around his waist, “i promised myself i’d wish you luck if i saw you.” jiyong looked away, his stare blanking. he slowly shook his head, trying to work his way out of this riddle, “that makes no sense.” “i wanted to say that i’m looking forward to it,” though seunghyun’s words held edge, his tone was melancholic. “and i miss playing with you.” jiyong looked at him, “oh yeah?” seunghyun nodded. jiyong’s expression soured slightly, manifesting in his pitiful frown, “i don’t miss playing with you. i’m too old for it.” jiyong watched seunghyun leave the sauna, turning away at the sound of the door slamming. after a moment, jiyong got up, walking over to the other side of the room. he poured water onto the rocks, sitting in silence, stirring in his complicated frustration.

you entered the bedroom of your hotel suite, keen on calling it a night after finishing the dishes from dinner. you undressed, overhearing the running tap whilst seunghyun brushed his teeth in the en suite, putting on shorts and spare french open t-shirt you wore to sleep. seunghyun turned the tap off after rinsing the toothpaste from his mouth, suddenly alone with his thoughts, and mirror view of a lump the shape of a small, velvet box protruding out of the left pocket of his pajama pants. he snuck it onto his person whilst you finished in the kitchen, fishing it out of a well-hidden and cushioned pocket in his luggage. it resembled a prospect you two have discussed at length and were agreeable on, knowing he was just waiting for the right time to ask. blessings from either of your parents were in order, and both of you were on the same page . . . not that the likelihood depended on whether he won tomorrow, but it would be ideal, right? the cherry on top, so to say. or maybe seeing jiyong at the sauna put a level of spite in him, though he knew it was in his bones to marry you, and you him. seunghyun turned his head, seeing you sat on the edge of the made bed, back turned to him as you did your routine applying of body cream on areas that tended to dry out at the end of a long day: your knees, elbows, wrists and hands. he walked to the threshold of the bathroom, stopping and looking at you for a long beat.

“tell me it doesn’t matter.” he voiced. you massaged the body cream into your hands, taking your time, back facing him. “tell you what doesn’t matter?” “if i win tomorrow.” that made you glance at him over your shoulder, but the direction of your body remained intact. “where’s this coming from? its a different tune than in london.” it didn’t take much for seunghyun to come clean, “i saw . . . i saw him today.” “you can say jiyong’s name.” you said. “he’s not an ancient curse. you shouldn’t be giving him power like that, anyway.” seunghyun nodded, listening to you diligently. he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the threshold in thought, “i saw jiyong at the sauna today.” “how was he?” “different.” answered seunghyun. “in a good way. more grown. finally got a haircut that suits him.” “you’re all those things, too, y’know.” you said, screwing the cap securely onto your moisturizer, returning it to your nightside table. you adjusted how you sat on the bed, looking at seunghyun comfortably. “you’re not the same person you were two years ago, either. and i like your hair shorter, too. i can see your face better.” you grinned at the sound of his sheepish chuckle. “did you talk to him?” seunghyun nodded, “i did, yeah.” “what’d you say?” “our conversation was . . . messy.” he was truthful, though the returned feeling of shame begged him to say more, “disjointed.” he added. “i wished him luck for tomorrow. he said that didn’t make any sense.” his words lingered in the air, punctuated by your brutal honesty: “it doesn’t.”

you didn’t say anything more. his gaze narrowed in on you, “tell me it doesn’t matter if i win tomorrow.” you stared at him, “no.” you took a breath. “you tell me if it matters, seunghyun. you’re the professional competitor.” he didn’t say anything. “it can’t be about avoiding my judgement. not when you’ve made it this far. not when you’re this close.” you shook your head. “i’m not a nun. i’m not your mommy.” seunghyun pushed his back against the threshold with a huff, bringing his arms to his sides. he peered down at his left hand, playing it off as he picked something out of the nail of his ring finger, “i’m just asking that you love me no matter what.” you let out a small laugh of disbelief, “who am i? jesus?” “yeah.” he affirmed, completely and unequivocally. this halted you in your tracks. you turned to face him entirely, legs and hands resting comfortably atop the duvet. “you’ll beat him.” you said. “you will beat jiyong.” seunghyun lifted his head, meeting your eyes. “what if i don’t? how are you gonna look at me?” “just like this.” you told him, holding his gaze. seunghyun took a long breath, deflating his chest with a much-needed exhale.

he approached the bed, crawling to you as the duvet softly crunched underneath the weight of his elbows, hand reaching for yours, eyes capacious with an insatiable desire for validation only the love of his life could provide. “we’re doing this together. we’ve always been doing this together.” he said, looking up at you. “i’m playing for the both of us. i know that.” “i’m the only reason you’re here.” you told him. “nothing else.” his head sunk to his wrists, so overcome by relief, succumbed to his devotion to you, you heard his muffled sniffle. your free hand reached over, tracing down the nape of his neck, gently sneaking past his shirt’s neckline, touch soothing between his shoulder blades. you sat in silence for a few moments, co-existing tenderly. “i’m serious. does that help you?” you whispered, fingers filing through his hair. seunghyun lifted his head, naturally moving your palm to mold against his cheek. he turned to his left, pressing a kiss to your palm, descending to your inner wrist, feeling your thumb dotingly trace his cheekbone. seunghyun lifted himself up, pressing a kiss onto your exposed arm before planting one of your clothed shoulder. he found your neck before taking your lips for himself. “i’m coming to you.” he whispered, swiftly scooting to your side of the bed.

seunghyun stood in front of you, leaning down, returning his lips to yours. his fingers wrapped loosely around your ankles, gesturing for you to bring your feet forward. you thought he was going to pen his routine letter of thanks, spreading your legs enough to allot ample standing room for him between your knees. his kisses were slow and steady—romantic, just the way you liked them. your hands reached up to hold either side of his face, silently pleading for him to deepen the kiss. he obliged, tilting his head to the left. in the midst of your satisfied huff, breath brushing against his pores, you didn’t notice he got down on one knee. or when he muttered something against your lips, caught up in how good it felt. “baby,” his voice was low, dripping over your ears like honey. he accepted the kiss as it came, palms dotingly tracing your thick thighs up and down. “i need to . . . i need to ask you something.” “hm?” you broke the kiss, either of you opening your eyes. “what is it, baby?” you murmured. you glanced down, realizing he was eye-level and on the floor. wait—he’s on the floor, your inner monologue was stunned, and on one fucking—"oh my god.“ was all you could say in you realization of what was happening. you looked at him, floored. "i . . . i—”

he swallowed, his eyes glossy. “i am person because of you.” he said sincerely. “you’ve made it so i can’t exist without you. i—” he briefly tightened his mouth, feeling his bottom lip tremble. “i walked this earth aimlessly. i thought i knew fuckin’ everything—that i was hot shit.” he dismissed his past self with an abrupt wave. his vision blurred, feeling a hot tear trail down his cheek. your sinuses loosened, holding his face as he cried. “but holy fucking shit, baby. i was clueless. i didn’t have any sense of direction until i met you.” he sniffled. “you don’t tolerate me,” he shook his head, looking into your eyes. “you love me.” your eyes closed, succumbing to your tears, pressing your forehead against his. “i do.” you affirmed in a whisper. “i love you.” “i love you so fucking much.” his voice trembled. he shook his head, forehead rubbing against yours, “no one moves this earth like you do. they could only be so lucky. i don’t know what i did in a past life to earn you in this one. i must have ended a war or some shit.” you chuckled meekly at that, sucking in a weak breath, sniffling. he leaned back an inch or so, looking into your eyes. you wiped your cheeks, pads of your fingertips wiping his stray tears. “but i’ll be fucking damned if i don’t show you how grateful i am, baby. for the rest of our lives. 'till death do us part.” “oh my god.” your heart couldn’t take it, sinking your face into your palms to steady your mind and chest.

seunghyun let himself breath, too. co-existing beautifully with his soon-to-be wife, palms tenderly rubbing up and down the sides of your thighs. “baby,” he called gently. “lemme see those eyes. i miss you.” you put your hands down, returning your gaze to his. “ask me, seunghyun.” you told him softly. “i’ve waited long enough.” he reached into his left pocket, pulling out the small black velvet box. upon seeing the ring, you hid your face again, hot tears falling. “it's so beautiful.” you sniffled. “you know me—” your voice quivered, “you know me so well.” it wasn’t cartoonishly big nor modestly small, but just the right size that complemented your divine beauty; cementing your souls together. seunghyun frowned, heart doubling over as he actively tried to thwart crying again, feeling his bottom lip shake. “look at me when i ask you, baby.” he coaxed softly. you did—cheeks wet and eyes glossy. “go ahead. i’m ready.” he held the ring up to you in its box, the diamond glimmering underneath the warm-toned suite ceiling lights. “can i—will you—” he cleared his throat, wanting to ensure his voice was stable. “will you marry me?” “yes,” you answered, nodding. “of course i fucking will. hand it over.”

a grand, stupidly happy smile graced his face. he took the ring out, placing the box next to your body cream. in his rush of emotion, he forgot something crucial: “i don’t remember which—i don’t remember which hand it goes on.” he sniffled. you let out a chuckle, understanding where his head was at. “t-the left, i think.” you nodded encouragingly. the ring fit somewhat loosely, but not enough to warrant worry about losing it. “we can—” he cleared his throat again, sniffling, overcome with joy. “we can get it adjusted when we’re back home.” “c'mere.” you beckoned, bringing his lips to yours. you pulled him into bed with you, feeling his hands ride up your hips and waist before settling in between your legs, kissing you as if you were a life source. “we’re getting married.” you murmured, giggling into the kiss as he smiled. “i get to be your husband.” he said, hearing you hum in response, feeling your hands ride up and down his back. he reconnected the kiss, slowing the speed in which your lips separated. “how cool is that?” “you’re the luckiest man on earth.” your hand held the nape of his neck. seunghyun let out a satisfied huff, feeling the cooling chill of the ring against his warming skin. he didn’t hesitate to affirm, “abso-fucking-lutely i am.”

you gradually broke the kiss. your fiancé doted on your soft jawline and neck, allowing you to get a good look at your engagement ring. “you picked well.” you told him. “yeah?” he murmured, the vibrations of his voice against you making your eyes nearly flutter closed. “mhm,” you hummed. “when did you get it?” “i was eyeing it for a few months. i was stuck choosing between, like, four. the jeweler had the same taste as you, coincidentally enough.” his lips pressed a kiss to your temple. “she helped me pick this one. remember when you had that last minute work conference? like, two days before we flew here?” “you’re kidding. that’s when you bought it?” “mhm. i took it as a sign and got my ass right on the tube.” he smiled, heart warming at your bright laughter. he nestled his head into your chest, eyes fluttering closed when your fingers combed his hair back, “and here we are now. i’m glad you like it.” “i love it.” you corrected, feeling him hum. comfortable silence brewed. “here we are now.” you affirmed like him, tone soft. “our parents are gonna have a field day when they see this tomorrow.” he couldn’t help his hearty laughter, “they will—oh my god. entire facebook albums dedicated to it.” “immediate wedding planning before you even get on the court.” you riffed, laughing harder as he did, too.

seunghyun left his wired headphones at home for his run the next morning. you woke to his arms wrapping around you in bed, skin cold from his shower, nuzzling into you once you turned around to face him. your engagement ring was safely tucked away in its velvet box, ready to shine in the sunlight during his match today. “morning.” you mumbled, eyes closed whilst your senses cleared from lingering sleep. “how was your run?” “good morning, baby.” he kissed your clothed shoulder. “it was normal. how’d you sleep? good?” you hummed weakly in response, his chuckle tickling your neck. “m'not gonna tear your shit up today.” he said, seeing you grin. you gradually opened your eyes, rubbing out the last remnants of sleep. “just wanna hold you.” “fine by me.” seunghyun moved higher on his pillow, welcoming you into his embrace. you were secure against his chest, soothed by his palm tenderly rubbing your back. “how long until you go for warm-ups?” you muttered. “about two hours, give or take.” he nestled his chin atop your head, feeling and hearing you hum in response. “do you think you’d be able to come with me? i just . . . really need you there,” he paused, “today.” “of course.” you answered sincerely. “it's just another day, seunghyun. treat it as such.” “i know,” he spoke lowly. he kissed the top of your head, lips staying there. “i’m trying.”

seunghyun kissed you firmly after finishing his warm-ups, left to his own devices in the men’s locker room whilst you went to the stands to meet with his family. jiyong arrived on the court before his opponent did, waving to his family in the player’s box. he spotted you not long after, in deep conversation with seunghyun’s mother, showing her something on your hand, but he couldn’t make out what it was. not that i care, his inner monologue voiced. he adjusted the way his nike cap rested on his head, beckoned over by his coaches to his side of the court. seunghyun stepped out roughly ten minutes before the match was set to begin. he approached the designated bench on his side of the court, setting his duffel bag down. he unzipped it, pulling out his racket and setting it aside. he looked up, searching for the player’s box. he offered a friendly wave to jiyong’s family, blowing a kiss when he saw you sat with his.

to jiyong’s detriment, as he got into position, he couldn’t divert his gaze. he twirled his racket in his hand, freezing when he realized what was on your hand. he watched you wave to your fiancé gleefully, a grand smile shining under the sun. your eyes were hidden behind your sunglasses, but he could just feel the spark—happiness pulsating, potently reeking off you. jiyong thought he understood what it meant to feel bitter, but it was as if his body succumbed to it. he was known for striding onto the court with nothing but tunnel vision leading the way. he’s known the game seunghyun has played their entire lives. he let out a long exhale, centering his balance—nothing mattering to him but winning.

the first of their five sets went to jiyong. either played relatively calmly, almost as if they disassociated from their history—hell bent on just getting through this game. both showcased the reason why they made it this far in their careers: jiyong’s muscles lending unwavering power into his dependable backhand swing; seunghyun’s height and quick reaction time never missing a beat, sending that ball back with pointed sharpness. to you, sat in the stands, it felt a little too safe. at the start of the second set, however, you got your answer why: avoidance. these two could evade reality for only so long. to face one another so viscerally and so suddenly, it could only manifest in seunghyun sending his first serve into the net. he wasn’t any better in the reset—thwwaacckk!—the ball went wide, landing out of bounds, nearly handing jiyong the second set. seunghyun’s parents adjusted their postures anxiously, watching you in their periphery. your face sunk to your palms. you tried to ignore the gasps rumbling throughout the court at his double fault, pinching the bridge of your nose in muted frustration, “get it the fuck together.” you muttered; addressing both yourself but more importantly him. you took a long exhale, straightening your back into your seat, re-centering your focus.

seunghyun looked to you, seeing your stoic expression. he cleared his throat, bouncing the ball before going into his service motion—thwwwaaaccckkk! the game resumed, but not for long. seunghyun rushed to the net quicker than he should have, landing his hit out of bounds again. he saw jiyong’s shoulders relax in real time, comfortable in the knowledge he was basically halfway to winning the match. seunghyun didn’t dare look at you, though he could feel your tut of disapproval. the umpire announced a break before the next set in which jiyong and seunghyun would switch sides, setting the clock to a countdown of ten minutes. seunghyun made way to his bench, sitting down before peeling off his sweaty polo. he let his melanin breath in the sunlight, shoulders relaxing as the universe gifted him a generous gust of wind.

jiyong used the wind to dry his hair, leaving his nike cap behind to let his dark follicles air out. he wiped his face with a towel, having water before downing an energy gel. as the time ticked, the umpire felt someone’s eyes on him. he looked to the stands: it was you; eyes narrowed in the sunlight, sunglasses resting on your head. you turned and looked at your fiancé, who was already looking at you. though there was ample distance, you felt the weight of his eyes, wordlessly asking for any semblance of its going to be okay. you gave it to him: you tapped your finger on your temple as if to say you got this. seunghyun nodded, straightening his posture, letting his face soak the warmth of the sun in, calming his heartbeat. you put your sunglasses back on, hearing the umpire call time. seunghyun put a new polo on before heading to his new side of the court. you caught the look on jiyong’s face: resentment.

seunghyun came back strong in the third set, clutching it securely. jiyong didn’t flinch, keeping his logic at bay. still plenty of chance i walk away with that spot, his inner monologue relayed like a mantra. he started the fourth set with his graceful service motion, both his and seunghyun’s movements echoing the junior us open when they were teenagers: seunghyun dictated, jiyong sprinted from corner to corner, both metronomes; working in tandem though their energies collided instantaneously. it was a recipe for a perfect storm when they used to play together, scaring the ego out just about anyone. now, it was fuel to the fire—each grunt a more visceral grab at power than before, each skid and slide of their shoes a vivid command of respective grit, each wipe of sweat off the forehead a trained target. you fell into a trance yourself, keeping your eyes on either, thinking. your head was the only one not swiveling to follow the ball. thwacckk! thwacccckkkk! seunghyun pumped his fist, looking to you after the umpire announced the fourth set went to him. you met his eyes, expression complicated—not comfortable celebrating victory just yet—sending him off with a curt nod of approval.

another break was called before the fifth and final set. jiyong and seunghyun crossed each other at the net, heading to their benches. jiyong settled with a huff. not one of defeat, but reflection. it was cosmic coincidence that this came down to a tie after everything he’s been through and with the person sat some feet away from him. he took off his custom-made nike top, wiping himself off with a towel. he pulled a fresh polo from his duffel, putting it on the bench next to him. he reached back down, trading his current racket for a fresh one, pulling the plastic off. he set it beside him, unzipping his backpack for his water bottle and packed banana, pacing himself through re-hydration.

he peeled the banana, intaking potassium in a cerebrally meditative state, elbows on his knees. his stare wasn’t vacant. it was the opposite: fruitful—disciplined. though he was one game away from losing, he wasn’t betting on it. he turned his head, seeing seunghyun finishing an energy gel. he watched him swirl it around in his mouth before definitively swallowing, his eyebrows and mouth molding into a muted grimace. he never liked those, jiyong remembered, i don’t know why he’s forcing it on himself. seunghyun downed water the first chance he got. he closed the cap of his reusable bottle, tossing it back into his duffel. he inhaled sharply through his nostrils, fingers wiping away thick beads of sweat from his temple. he turned his head, glancing at jiyong. his gaze remained steady, realizing he was already looking at him—exuding cocky ease. jiyong extended the banana as if to say want a bite? seunghyun’s expression didn’t falter from its unreadable state, but his eyes darkened with the unmistakable look of hatred. looking at me with the same cocky shit he did in the sauna, his inner monologue voiced, i gotta to decimate the fuck out of him.

seunghyun looked to the stands, seeing you getting back to your seat, having returned from a quick trip to the bathroom. you fixed your hair with your left hand after a gust of wind flew by—the diamond of your engagement ring glinting in his eyes from a distance. you felt your fiancé’s eyes on you, seeing him staring behind your polarized lenses. the stakes were getting to him; the tension reaching its peak. you waved, hoping it would alleviate the fumes radiating off him. you watched him exhale, slumping his posture with his elbows on his knees, contemplating. you thought quickly: setting your purse on your lap, pulling your blackberry out.

you looked at the ticking timer by the umpire’s chair, seeing five minutes were left. you typed a text, waving your phone in the air since his gaze was still on you. seunghyun understood, unzipping the side pocket of his duffel. you knew it worked when his head sunk, spotting his attempt at hiding his amused smile once he came into view again. You look so hot right now—unserious, disarming, but most importantly playful. he texted back on his blackberry, Youre hoterr—sweaty hands making way for typos. seunghyun was a little more at ease now, putting his phone back. you felt accomplished. by chance, you glanced to your right, seeing jiyong also looking at you. you thought it was mere coincidence, but as he put on his polo, his gaze remained steady. right then, seunghyun’s mother grabbed your attention for something, stealing looks back at your fiancé and jiyong.

jiyong and seunghyun stepped onto the court after the umpire called “time!” into the microphone. they looked at each other across the net. sets one through four were history—all that matters is what happens next. though it was jiyong’s turn to serve, either came out swinging. it was intense, neck-and-neck—enough to warrant your head swiveling, following the ball. they went back and forth in earning points, jiyong inching closer to the cusp of winning. seunghyun’s knuckles whitened around his racket’s grip, though he kept his cool. he took a deep breath, resetting—it was his turn to serve, anyway. he took the spare tennis ball out of the pocket of his shorts, bouncing it on the court. he looked up, staring at jiyong like two old-town rivals in an aged western. seunghyun brought his racket up, about to go into his service motion, but paused. he glanced at jiyong, crouched down, ready to the win the match. he looked to you in the stands, seeing your unreadable expression, though you were holding your breath. he looked back at jiyong, who was wondering why he was taking so long. seunghyun started his service motion again, but stopped abruptly. “time violation.” the umpire spoke into the microphone. “warning, choi.”

a brash breath separated his lips. seunghyun tightened his mouth, reaching up, using the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. this is all so fucked, his inner monologue complained. not even unfair. just fucked. jiyong saw a smile on seunghyun’s face. his eyebrows furrowed, confused: to this day he’s a fucking riddle. he sucked in a sharp breath when seunghyun unexpectedly looked up, meeting his eyes. his heart stuttered like an instinct: i know that face, he thought to himself. he just got an idea. his gaze followed seunghyun’s; the two of them looking to you in the stands. jiyong swiftly re-centered his attention, keen on heightening his reaction time for whatever was coming next. but if seunghyun knew how to do anything, it's humbling somebody. he went into his service motion again, but this time, he made sure jiyong saw him put the ball in the center of the racket, just like the day after jiyong’s first date with you. it served as a reminder—of everything lost; everything taken. thwwaacckk! jiyong was too shocked to even move for it. he just stood there, frozen. the ball landed in, giving the point to seunghyun. you looked back and forth between them, unsure what was going on. jiyong glanced at you and seunghyun before making it crystal clear: “fuck off.”

seunghyun smiled, chuckling when a wave of shocked gasps reverberated through the stands. “code violation.” the umpire said into the microphone, “audible obscenity. point penalty, kwon.” jiyong ignored the grumbles from spectators. seunghyun moved over for his next serve, seeing jiyong’s cold expression. jiyong just continued looking at his opponent bouncing the ball. the umpire covered the microphone with her hand, “jiyong?” he didn’t move: “he can serve.” “you need to get into position.” a pregnant beat went by. still looking at seunghyun, jiyong backed up to the other side of the service line, just standing there. the grumbles throughout the crowd were now confused. you looked at seunghyun, then to jiyong, then back at seunghyun—unsure of what the fuck was going on, assuring your future mother-in-law that you had no idea, either. jiyong remained just standing there, racket at his side. “serve.” he said with conviction. seunghyun followed his petulant order, hitting a soft-as-a-pillow underhand serve, like he was feeding jiyong the ball during practice. jiyong didn’t even move for it. he let the ball sail right by, not sparing a glance. he hated the way seunghyun was smiling at him.

the umpire tapped the microphone, “tie break. kwon to serve.” patches of scattered, confused applause peppered through the crowd. in a swift panic, you looked at jiyong, then to your fiancé—suddenly, it all clicked. your eyes went to the jumbotron, showing jiyong. it then switched to seunghyun. as they stood there, looking at each other wordlessly, they both thought the same thing: let’s really play now. jiyong received the ball for his serve. seunghyun readied himself for the return, getting into position. jiyong didn’t waste time going into his service motion—thwwaacckk!—sending the ball right at seunghyun’s head, like he was trying to decapitate him. seunghyun dodged it, returning the ball with matched power—thwwaacckk! they rallied: it's immediately clear to spectators and fans alike that they’re playing their best tennis in their careers—the best tennis in their lives, frankly. they traded blows: smacking and whacking the ball furiously—each hit more angrier, more vengeful than the last. though malice polluted the air—poignant in the sweat trickling down their backs and grunts deflating their lungs—your head swiveled back-and-forth; you’ve never seen seunghyun look so alive. you never imagined disdain could flex muscles and irritate the soles of shoes like it did jiyong’s. each hit released something, forming them into one, electrifying unit: like the good old days.

you subconsciously gritted your teeth, hands gripping the armrests, leaning forward in your seat; playing as jiyong, playing as seunghyun, playing as the ball itself—thwwaacck! thwwaacck! thwwwwaaaacccckkkk!!!! jiyong was on auto-pilot. he moved like a machine, hitting the ball like it was target practice; mind turned off, completely in a trance. seunghyun wasn’t trying to keep up, he was the pacemaker—swinging his racket hard enough to change weather patterns. though his ball came in hot, it hit the top of the net, slowing its trajectory. jiyong narrowly sprinted to the net, trying to prevent it from dropping shallowly onto his side. his foot slipped, but he caught himself, succeeding in his return. he swiftly ran backwards to where he was before. he shifted his body to make seunghyun’s fierce return, but once again, he was on autopilot. he went into his wind-up, stepping forward, not noticing seunghyun’s ball was coming off the court with just the tiniest bit of spin to it. jiyong tried to correct his stance mid-swing, but his legs went one way and upper body went the other, and he slipped again: his left knee contorted in a way that was completely unnatural.

SNAP—his knee popped out of place, sending his racket clanging and himself falling to the ground. the crowd gasped. you instinctually rose to your feet; petrified, hearing his mother howl in horror as her son screamed in pain. a medic was already by his side, trying to calm him down. jiyong writhed around, sobbing profusely, holding his knee for dear life. though he was in a state of shock, his subconscious begged whichever cosmic force sinisterly wrote his fate: “no no no no no no,” he cried, sweat mixing with his hot tears, a blubbering mess. “please. please. no no no no—” he cut himself off with a curdling yelp of indescribable pain as another medic turned him onto his back, reminding him to breathe. it all happened so quickly, but seunghyun’s face went cold. he dropped his racket, leaving any and all petty grievances behind. in milliseconds, it was as if nothing happened between them—all that mattered was making sure his best friend was okay. he leapt over the net without thinking, falling to his knees behind jiyong’s head: “ji? ji!? oh my god—what the fuck!?” he panicked. he tucked his hands underneath jiyong’s shoulders, lifting to prop his head on his knees. “look at me—oh my f-fucking god, look at me, ji. just breathe, okay? just breathe for me, man—oh my god.” his bottom lip quivered, looking at his best friend, completely helpless. “this wasn’t supposed to happen.” he shook his head, vision blurry. “this wasn’t supposed to fucking happen.”

jiyong stared at the ceiling of the hospital room, mute, completely drained of life. the painkillers have long since kicked in, but he can’t stomach looking at his knee. wrapped in what looked like yards of stretchable gauze, propped up by two fluffy pillows. he’s been there for hours, replaying the moment in his head in a torturous loop. he was numb, but felt everything at the same fucking time. he forfeited the game since he couldn’t continue playing, giving the last spot up to seunghyun, so what does this mean for his career? would he ever play again? what was he going to be known for now? how was he going to move forward? what did this all mean?

he didn’t have the energy nor the bandwidth to even consider thinking about the logistics or the after—but the look on his mother’s face, who was sat beside his bed, desired otherwise. his father stood outside the room, in intense conversation with his doctor, prolonging it long enough for his physiotherapist to arrive after being stuck in hellish new york traffic. his father peered inside, gesturing for his mother to come out. she looked to her son sympathetically, having no tears left to cry, “you’ll get back out there.” she said meekly. she got up, putting her purse on her seat. before she turned, a mother’s intuition kicked in. she picked up jiyong’s backpack, taking out his cell phone, setting it on his over-bed table next to his cup of chipped ice. she walked out without another word, closing the door behind her.

ten minutes later, his phone rang. he didn’t pick up, too lost in his mind. his eyes flickered downward when it rang a second time, though he didn’t budge. it was the third time that he hastily picked up: “what?” “jiyong?” his palpable frustration in the moment didn’t let him recognize your voice on the other side of the line, “what do you want? who is this?” “it's me,” the sound of you saying your name humbled him. “you still have my number?” he asked. “i wasn’t—i wasn’t sure if it would still work, but i wanted to try.” you explained. “i deleted yours.” he told you. “a long time ago.” there was a brief pause on your end, “that makes sense.” “why are you calling me?” “i wanted to see if you were doing okay after what happened.” “no, i’m not okay. why would i be okay?” you shook your head, “that was bad word choice.” you thought aloud. “i just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

silence. you expected jiyong to hang up, but he didn’t: “does he know you’re calling me?” “he does.” you turned around, looking past the kitchenette counter in your hotel suite, seeing seunghyun sitting with his face in his hands on the couch. “he’s . . . he's—” you ran your free hand over your face. “you were wheeled away so quickly. we didn't—we didn’t know what to do.” jiyong didn’t say anything. he heard you take a breath. you were sure this next part was for sure going to make him hang up. but you had to say it. you felt it wouldn’t be right if you didn’t: “i know a lot has happened in the last few years.” you spoke. jiyong’s chest tightened, “but we still care about you. i still care.” you crossed your arm over your chest, “that will never change. no matter how hard it gets.” jiyong’s mouth morphed into a frown. his eyes watered, unable to shake the feeling of just wanting his best friend there. jiyong felt naked in a way that had nothing to do with skin or clothing; exposed like a child who lost their parents at the mall; lost at sea though anchored to the casualties. he wanted to brashly push the petty chess pieces off the tainted checkerboard, sending each and every one to their demise though it was the same collective and muddled selfishness that cemented them in the first place—every stride seunghyun took following after you in the parking lot; every swing of jiyong’s racket at the international opens; every avoidant glare whenever the universe brought them together again.

you were another piece of the unsolvable puzzle, one he was so emotionally exhausted over he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. now that life got fucking real, and he didn’t know whether his days would be tempered on the court in the same way, providing distractions in the guise of goals apt enough to convince himself he was living in technicolor, he just wanted community. he wanted familiarity. though the history between you three was hard, his life worked out in a way that the people who hurt him most also understand him the most, too. it was complex and complicated. jiyong became nauseous. seunghyun felt it, too. you were caught off guard when he abruptly got up from the couch, not immediately processing him saying “let me talk to him.” jiyong overheard, along with your “hm? oh, okay.” you handed the phone over to him. “ji?” seunghyun’s voice cracked. he cleared his throat, “ji? are you still there?” jiyong was frozen in his panic, blinking so hard that a few tears inevitably fell. “listen, man. i just—” seunghyun stopped himself, feeling his sinuses loosen. “i j-just need to know how you’re holding up.” jiyong couldn’t take it anymore, feeling suffocated, wanting the call to end: “have a nice life. okay?” he hung up with a quivering bottom lip, taking the battery out of his nokia, throwing it onto the floor.

ELEVEN YEARS LATER

it was never the same for jiyong. his twist of fate made unfiltered rounds in not only the sports community, but mainstream pop culture, too. he ignored requests for interviews left and right, focusing on getting himself right after surgery and throughout physical therapy. nine months after his injury, he steadily ushered his return to the practice court, equipped with a knee sleeve. though his coach tried to ease the pressure, jiyong knew the truth: its over. it wasn’t initially easy to accept, however: he smacked the ball way out of the court when it was apparent the player he was training with was tip-toeing, “stop going easy on me. i won a grand fucking slam.” or the shouting match he got into with his coach—“hit the ball! actually start hitting the ball! what’re you afraid of!? hurting me?”—only to be reduced to frustrated tears after failing to hit a shallow drop shot; his knee having given out from under him. his coach rushed over to help him up, but jiyong did it on his own: “i’m fine. i’m okay, i’m okay,” limping back to the baseline. he suddenly smashed his racket into the concrete a few times before throwing brashly to the side, walking off the court without another word.

his parents tried to help regroup: “you’ve done enough in your life already.” his father said over dinner one evening. “maybe it's time to take some for yourself.” “i could’ve done more.” jiyong said bitterly. “if you think that way, you won’t have another day of peace.” his mother warned. jiyong put his utensil down, eyeing the both of them: “how has my life ever been peaceful?” he retorted. “my entire life has been on that court. it became my purpose. you never taught me otherwise.” he didn’t watch any coverage of the olympic games in beijing, overhearing his parents rejoice over the news seunghyun had won bronze in the men’s singles and silver in the doubles. a year later, jiyong went outside to get the mail after breakfast, inadvertently being the one who opened his family’s invitation to your’s and seunghyun’s wedding. a couple years after that, some months after seunghyun clinched his second grand slam in the men’s singles, jiyong heard through the grapevine about you greeting your in-laws at the door of your london flat with an apparent baby bump. photos of you and your well-behaved two year old in your lap, equipped with protective headphones around your baby girl’s precious ears, sat in the stands at seunghyun’s singles match at the london olympic games in 2012 went semi-viral on twitter. the photos landed on jiyong’s feed, along with the ones of you rejoicing with your daughter clutched in your arms when your husband won the gold.

jiyong did many things to pass time over the years: coaching gigs that didn’t feel right or he said yes to too early in his recovery, tried starting a foundation but ended up backing out over logistical disagreements with his team, dating around, journaling until he spent the last drop of ink in his pen, and taking up meditation. it wasn’t easy adapting to a life-altering change. but over time, he learned to give himself some grace. in 2015, seven years after his injury, he accepted a coaching position at stanford. not only was it fulfilling, but his pupils began to heal his severed heart. they were good kids: listened well, trained better, and performed phenomenally come game days. jiyong also started seeing an adjunct professor, who taught english literature to sophomores to fulfill requirements for her master’s. she saw him as a person and not a tragedy. that alone was good enough for him. however, every morning before going on his routine jog, without fail, jiyong pauses after putting on his shorts. he runs his fingers over the scar on his left knee, thinking about what could’ve been.

on a foggy morning in 2019, jiyong walked onto the practice court, seeing a group of his players huddled around a bench. “break it up, guys.” he called aloud. “your drills aren’t gonna do themselves.” they dispersed, one turning to him: “sorry, coach.” she apologized. another one joined her: “we were just talking about how someone’s, like, having this q-and-a thing on campus and were trying to see if any tickets were left. i think you might know him?” her teammate nudged her with her elbow, giving her a look of are you serious? read the room. this piqued jiyong’s interest, “show me.” she reached into her backpack, unlocking her iphone, showing him a post on stanford’s student programming association’s instagram page. it was a digital flyer for the event, though jiyong recognized the photo used of seunghyun instantly—taken at wimbledon last year after shaking hands with the player he beat not only at that tournament, but also in rio for the gold in 2016—accompanied by caption: Only a few tickets left: Come see 3x Olympian, 4x Grand Slam Champion, and proud Stanford alum Seunghyun Choi this Friday at 8 PM!

jiyong kept it professional, offering a curt nod with an unreadable expression. “we played together a long time ago.” he left it at that. “go do your drills. or you’ll be late for class.” he pondered whether he wanted to go. when friday morning came, though, he called a colleague who also was the faculty member overseeing the student programming association, scoring him a spare ticket. the auditorium was packed—filled to the brim. a mixture of athletes, student reporters, actual reporters, professors, and the like. jiyong spotted his kids sitting together on one side, waving gingerly as they waved excitedly back. he found a seat in one of the last few rows, closer to the aisle, giving him a good view of the stage. all there was were two cushioned armchairs with a table in-between, equipped with two glasses of water and microphones, respectively. the applause was rapturous when seunghyun came out, dressed in a tailored suit as he humbly waved to the crowd before sitting down next to the moderator. it was odd: hearing someone’s voice for the first time in over a decade, let alone seeing them. though jiyong was a distance away, he could tell seunghyun’s aged in the same way he has: a wider frame complemented by muscle, a new hairstyle that looked handsome but teenaged-them would have made fun of, and an inexplicable air of maturity naturally enriching his aura.

seunghyun answered run-of-the-mill questions: “how’d you get your start?” “what was the transition into going pro like for you?” “what's it like in olympic village?” “what advice do you have for student athletes today?” and perhaps an arguably cheesy one, “what does tennis mean to you?” he exited the stage an hour and a half later the same way he entered: graciously, and with a smile. in the traffic of the crowd funneling out of the auditorium, jiyong was led away from the entrance he came in from. he hoped to pass time, thus lessening the amount of people he had to squeeze through, by making a pit stop to the bathroom before the drive home. to his chagrin, there was a line there too, but he took the loss, hoping as a result he wouldn’t have to sit in road traffic for long. his plan worked: it was much quieter. jiyong mistakenly walked out of the wrong entrance, though, only realizing when he didn’t recognize the side of the block he was headed towards. he pulled out his fob, hearing his car beep! in the opposite direction. he walked down those couple of blocks, past parking meters and flocks of students headed downtown to start their weekends, looking to his left at the sound of a door opening.

it was seunghyun, shaking hands with the heads of various stanford athletic departments sponsoring the event. they then turned to you, shaking your hand diplomatically, before leaning down to your daughter, offering high fives. she returned them shyly, quickly turning to you for assurance. you sported a black blazer and trouser set, aptly matching with your husband, whilst your daughter wore a dress her father sped to macy’s for this morning. you said your amicable goodbyes before parting ways, headed to the suv to take you back to your hotel. your daughter stood between you two, holding both yours and seunghyun’s hands—your free one reaching over to fix her hair after a gust of wind flew by—listening to her shoes skid against the pavement whilst her parents talked casually. seunghyun, by chance, looked to his left. he stopped in his tracks. you and your daughter did too, the only difference was you didn’t know why. though it didn’t take long for your husband to provide, like he always does: “ji?” he asked aloud. “ji? is that you?” “y-yeah,” jiyong nodded, clearing his throat. he scratched the back of his neck, “it's me, seunghyun.”

in a sudden moment of panic, your husband turned to you. you didn’t hesitate, “go to him.” you said. “we’ll wait.” “i don't—i don’t know how long we’ll talk for.” “that’s okay.” you thought quickly on your feet. “we’ll head to the hotel. is your ringer on?” “y-yeah. i think.” he nodded, hand patting his left pocket, feeling his phone there. “good. i’ll send the car. now go, baby.” he bent down, kissing your daughter’s head, “go with mom for a little bit, okay? dad’ll be right back.” she nodded, earning a kiss to her cheek. he came up to you, planting a chaste kiss to your lips. “i love you.” “i love you. now go.” you kept your daughter’s hand in yours, walking to the car. seunghyun turned around, walking to jiyong. “did you—” he cleared his throat, nervous. “did you come to the event tonight?” he gestured to the venue behind him. he took a moment, but jiyong eventually nodded: “i did, yeah. my—my kids told me about it.” seunghyun’s heart stuttered out of near shock, “kids?” jiyong quickly clarified with a swift shake of his head, a ghost of smile tugging at his lips, “the ones i coach. they were here tonight, too.” “thats right, you do coach.” seunghyun nodded, remembering. “its about four years sinc you got the gig, right?” “yeah.” jiyong nodded, eyebrows starting to furrow. “how’d you know?” seunghyun smirked, though it wasn’t arrogant. “our families still talk, ji.” “sure.” said jiyong. “but we don’t.” “yeah,” seunghyun confirmed. his expression fell, albeit minutely. “but we don’t.”

a beat went by. seunghyun looked to his left, seeing a bench. he took a seat, looking at jiyong with an expression reading if you’re willing, i am too. jiyong was hesitant, “you don’t have somewhere to be?” seunghyun shook his head, jutting his bottom lip. “not right now, no.” he checked the time on his watch. “but my daughter’s stubborn and refuses to go to bed until both mom and dad are there to read her a bedtime story. so it's up to you.” he quipped, an upside-down grin on his face. jiyong snickered, taking a seat. “is she more like her mom or dad?” seunghyun smiled, thinking of her fondly: “a lot like me, unfortunately.” he chuckled. “when the missus was getting her doctorate at oxford,” he referred to you. “and she had, like, long lectures or meetings, or if anything came up, i’d do pick up, drop off—y’know, everything. i can’t tell you how many times i’ve been pulled off the court during practice to help with math homework, man.” jiyong exhaled through his nostrils, grinning. “one day—” seunghyun said your name, “—came home and said it felt like talking to two of me. she demanded we have another, until we both realized we only just caught up on the sleep we didn’t get while raising the one we have now.”

jiyong couldn’t stifle his chuckle if he tried. “does she have an accent?” he asked, referring to the fact she was born and raised in london thus far in her life. seunghyun shook his head, “weirdly enough, no. i guess we won in that case.” he grinned. a pregnant beat went by. seunghyun’s eyes widened, “i just realized you haven’t met her yet.” jiyong’s mouth tightened awkwardly. the emotional gravitas of their reunion; everything left untouched; the passage of time creating what felt like a void of the unknown of how either of their lives have progressed, humbling the both of them. “i haven’t, no.” said jiyong. “she’s turning nine next month.” seunghyun told him. “we’re having the party at my parents house. you should come.” “you’re staying for that long?” jiyong asked. seunghyun shook his head, “we’ll be back in town for it.” perhaps it was a symptom of long distance: traveling frequently to lessen the effect of living an ocean away from your loved ones, or a symbol of seunghyun’s wealth. the bountiful fruits of his labor on the court, winning one grand slam after the next, collecting olympic medals the same way he did flight miles, bagging unimaginable salaries from multiple nike campaigns—living the life jiyong once knew. not that he was living in destitute conditions whatsoever: living off a six figure salary with savings that kept him in the top one percent come tax season. but like anyone else, the what ifs preface his rem cycle.

jiyong looked ahead, at the other side of the street, avoiding both seunghyun’s eyes and invite. “i don’t think i could’ve imagined you being a dad.” seunghyun kissed his teeth playfully, “with how i was back then? it’d be like expediting the end of the world.” jiyong tried to keep his laughter in, but failed miserably. he let it ring out from his diaphragm, making seunghyun smile stupidly, too. they both felt nineteen again—staying up late; clueless about what they were going to make of their newfound independence after moving into their respective student apartments. “holy shit, man.” jiyong ran his hand over his face, posture relaxing in the bench. he crossed his arms over his chest, “you’re right. it would.” “you see yourself being a dad one day?” seunghyun asked.  jiyong nodded, “yeah, i do.” he said earnestly. “i’ve been seeing someone these past couple of years. but we haven’t had that talk yet.” he heard seunghyun hum, letting him know he was listening. “y’know, to be honest,” jiyong continued, licking his lips in thought. “between us, i thought i’d be the first to do so. but i guess—i guess it just didn’t work out that way. like a lot of things.” he descended into a mutter, avoiding eye contact, picking something off his jeans. his heart stuttered with anxiety, palpitating between his temples. a heavy pit of shame weighed on his chest. his mind ran through the last several years: “look, man.” he said. seunghyun looked at him, but jiyong didn’t move. “i'm—i’m sorry i didn’t come to the wedding.” seunghyun blinked, taken aback. “that was ten years ago, ji.” he said. “you’re good.”

jiyong shook his head, stubborn. “it wasn’t right of me to not go.” “that’s because you’re speaking with hindsight.” countered seunghyun. “don’t forget how you felt in the moment. if i’m being completely honest, we would’ve been surprised if you did come. i mean, with everything that happened, and how you were in recovery . . .” his voice trailed, cutting himself off, verging into sensitive territory. jiyong’s posture stiffened, though he could see seunghyun glance over in his periphery. “how—how is your knee, ji?” jiyong inhaled sharply through his nostrils, “tough as ever.” he patted his left knee. “strong enough to keep me upright when i’m telling other people how to play tennis, but stubborn in letting me play.” jiyong joked blandly, tightening his lips. seunghyun’s expression was sympathetic, though proud: “i heard one of your kids is a favorite for tokyo.” he referred to the host city for the olympic games the following year. “you’ve done well.” “i haven’t done enough.” jiyong countered stubbornly.

seunghyun let out a long exhale. he turned his head, momentarily looking at the traffic light a few blocks down. he tightened his lips in thought, rallying: “i’m gonna say something, and it’s probably gonna confuse the fuck out of you. but i want you to hear me out.” he cleared his throat, swallowing afterward. “i’m not going for tokyo. matter of fact, after the open, i’m hanging it up entirely.” jiyong turned his head sharply, eyebrows furrowed, “you’re retiring?” seunghyun simply nodded, “mhm.” he confirmed. “you’re the first to know. well, after my wife, of course.” he corrected himself with an endearing grin. “what’d she say?” jiyong wasn’t sure if was asking out of plain curiosity or to use your reaction to mitigate his own, ensuring he didn’t lose his goddamn mind. “i let it slip when we went for dinner to celebrate getting her doctorate.” seunghyun explained, face warming at the memory. “she thought it was her graduation gift. so i guess you could say she was relieved. everything—all of this,” seunghyun gestured around, referring to the hustle-and-bustle of his career, “it's been a lot on her, too. i’d say it's about time.”

“but why?” jiyong couldn’t wrap his head around it. “why would you? you have plenty of good years left.” “because i’m over it, ji. i’m tired.” seunghyun said earnestly, looking into his eyes. “i don’t wanna be one of those guys that don’t know when to walk away. i don’t wanna be doing this in my forties.” he shook his head. jiyong was flabbergasted. seunghyun continued, “and plus, i love being a dad. i love being a husband.” jiyong was nearly rendered speechless. his expression was almost offended, “you’ve changed.” seunghyun’s eyebrows fluttered in and out of a furrow, “you say that like it's a bad thing.” “no, that’s not what i—” jiyong cut himself off, trying to find the right words. he only grew more frustrated, trying to make sense of his complicated feelings, “you’ve always had the freedom of choice, seunghyun. since we were kids.” he said, looking at him in disbelief. “doing whatever you want. getting to do anything however you want to do it.” seunghyun’s expression faltered to one of defense, though his tone didn’t follow: “it wasn’t either of our choices to be good at tennis.” he said. “just like how it wasn’t my choice for that last match to come down to us.”

jiyong tried to bite back, “you don’t know what i’d do to be in your shoes. to be able to just—resume.” seunghyun didn’t give in to his trap, “you’re more than tennis, ji.” he said. “you always have been.” jiyong turned his head, looking at seunghyun, but for once in his life, he didn’t have anything to say. as they both sat there on that bench, unbeknownst to them, their unspoken language rose from the ashes. one conversation didn’t bare the teeth nor the bandwidth of making up for over ten years lost to time, but it was a stepping stone into a new chapter. of what? jiyong didn’t know yet, and neither did seunghyun. as they parted ways and left that bench behind—seunghyun quickly taking off his shoes and hustling to where you and your daughter were waiting for him, quickly finding his place in her choice of book for the night; jiyong walking into his quiet apartment, getting ready for bed—it seemed cosmic destiny could be re-directed.

their shared intuition was reborn in this new, matured stage in their lives: spoken in jiyong’s knocking on the door of the choi family household, carrying a gift bag for the birthday girl; seunghyun’s prideful gaze when finally getting to introduce his daughter to the man he owes his life to; in your comforting touch to his lower back, both you and your husband in awe, watching your daughter come out of her shell in a way you hadn’t seen before. “she really is a mini-you.” you told her father, tone soft; loving. “yeah.” seunghyun muttered. he quickly turned away, growing emotional. you caught on, turning with him. “c'mere.” you beckoned, welcoming him into your embrace. he sniffled into your shoulder, arms holding you close. “i’m really proud of you.” you told him. “i’m nothing without you.” he spoke sincerely. your fingers carded through his hair, palm falling to the nape of his neck, feeling his lips press a doting kiss to your cheek. “i love you, too.”

seunghyun saw jiyong out at the end of the night, walking him to his car. “you really opened a new avenue by getting her that lego set.” seunghyun smiled, hearing jiyong chuckle. “like, i knew she inherited her smarts from her mom. but now it's gonna be that, but tenfold.” “yeah.” jiyong laughed. “sooner or later, she’ll start talking circles around you.” “are you kidding?” seunghyun countered. “she memorized her times tables when she was six. i’ve been fucked.” they shared a brief hug. some of the awkwardness had yet to be overcome, but that was okay. if either have learned anything, it's that things take time. seunghyun gingerly waved as jiyong put his key in the ignition, waving back before putting his car in reverse. ushering off of the driveway, jiyong glanced at his rearview mirror. he caught sight of seunghyun ensuring he got out safely, walking inside the house once he approached the curb. jiyong came to a gradual halt, looking both ways before merging onto the street. it occurred to him he wasn’t the little boy at the block party anymore, but rather a man lucky enough to have a brother.

honey's taglist ☕️: @gongyoosgf @infinetlyforgotten @riddlerloveb0t @mesopotamism @pepsicolapussi @breakmeoff @thanosspills @moontabi @tabibabib @lexalith @lavenderobsessed @heartubeatusalon

[your--favoritewasp]

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS:

Q: Are you a supervillain?

Yes.

Q: Are you a superhero?

Yes.

Q: Was that you who saved the town that one time?

Yes.

Q: Was that you who the heroes had to save the town from that other time?

Yes.

Q: How do you decide whether to help heroes or villains in a given conflict?

It's not random, it's not because I'm at war with myself, and it's not because I can't decide whether to be good or evil. I just don't want things to be predictable!

Q: Can you explain what that means?

When I see something happen and I can guess what will happen next, I want something different to happen. Either I solve a problem or I add a new problem

Q: Are you in any way affiliated with Vez, the other wasp-themed supervillain?

Wouldn't that be fun! Frankly, I am entirely independent and unaffiliated with anyone. I am my own boss and my schedule is flexible. But Vez is cool! :D

Q: Thanks for saving my life... I think?

Of course!!! Saving people is just the nice thing to do :) If you want I can give you my business card and we can play a game together sometime !!!

Q: Oh my god, so many people died. You did nothing to stop it. You helped. How could you? You're a monster!

Well, death isn't real, so it's a little strange you're so upset!

[allastoredeer]

Hello!

I just wanted to stop by to say how much I love your fics, especially "Beyond the Eight Ball" and "Deepest Desires", they're really good. And one of the things I really like about your writing style is your world-building and how you explain how that world works in each AU. You pull the reader into the story without overdoing it, so they can really imagine what you're describing without feeling like a student in a boring lecture.

Do you have any writing advice? Or, if it's not too personal, what would you say is the most difficult thing for you when writing? In my case, when I want to write an important scene that I've already imagined, I find it especially difficult when there's a particular character involved, either because I don't know them well or because I don't like them, but they're important to the story, so I can't change them.

I hope you're having and continue to have a good day. And like I said, your fics are great. I'm really interested to see what Vox (and Lucifer) and Adam do with Alastor in their respective fics.

Thank you so much (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) I reaaalllly love world-building haha XD it's one of my favorite parts of writing new fics/au's.

Oh, I have tons of writing advice! (Been accumlating it for years now XD) You said you like how I explain the world without over-doing it in the story, so I'll start with that!

Here's you're warning now: This is gonna be a looooong post XD

Let's begin!

When it comes to world-building, it's hard to not dump everything you've brainstormed and written into the first chapter--whether it's because you love your world-building and and you're super proud of it, or because you want to make sure the reader understands the world you're introducing them to.

So the advice I'd give about introducing the world to the reader is this: don't be afraid to keep your audience guessing.

By that I mean, introduce the world to your audience slowly. You don't have to rush getting all the details and rules out immediately. In fact, sprinkling them in throughout the chapter will make your writing a lot more engaging and fun to read.

Don't worry about your audience not knowing how the world works, because that's what's going to keep them intrigued.

That doesn't mean to keep them in the dark and never explain anything, but give them pieces of it. Let them form questions about the world. Let them ponder and guess. That's what's going to keep them reading because they're going to want to stick around and find out.

Using "Deepest Desires" (<- fic link for anyone interested) as an example, in the first chapter I didn't have Alastor immediately or outright tell the audience anything about his secondary or any of the other secondaries in the room, because info-dumping all of that outright feels--like you said--being a student sitting through to a boring lecture. It's not engaging. It's a wall of information that's not only getting blasted at you at once, but it's not usually integrated in a natural way.

No character is thinking about all of the exact rules and details of their world while their getting dressed or going to breakfast. They're probably thinking about the things they have planned that day, or if they feel eating cereal or eggs.

In fact, there are times when purposefully leaving information out is better, especially when you're writing fanfic.

I didn't go deep into alphas/betas/omegas right away, because I already tagged my fic as "omegaverse" and anyone who's been in fandom for a while will know exactly what that means. Most omegaverse's follow the same general formula:

alpha's are dominant and aggressive.

omega's are submissive and desirable.

Beta's are...well, I guess they're kinda just the middle-men. The center of a spectrum with the alpha's and omegas on opposite ends of each other.

These are details my audience already assumes will be in the fic, so it's not something I need to highlight.

Here's the first paragraph of "Deepest Desires"

Alastor didn’t realize he was going into heat until he complimented Charlie’s battle plan. He blamed his lack of awareness on the scents slowly filling the old, dusty study Vaggie had refurbished as a war room. They hung in the air as thick and sticky as swamp fog, clinging to his skin like a balmy film. He distracted himself from physically shaking off their pheromones by inhaling the earthy aroma of his tea.

Even if I didn't have Alastor tagged as an omega, the audience can easily assume he is one given that he has heats.

I also bring up scents and pheromones without Alastor outright stating that scents and pheromones can be distracting because they're potent, are based on people's emotions, and he's highly sensitive to them because of his heat (the latter being something you find out later on in the fic).

You're not reading it out of a textbook. You're given this information in a natural way that doesn't feel like you're being spoon-fed. Alastor blames his unawareness on how thick the scents in the air are, to the point it feels like they're clinging to him, which he immediately tries to rectify off by breathing in the smell of his tea.

The signs of Alastor's incoming heat isn't brought up again until 9-10 paragraphs later. And then again after another 9 paragraphs. The details of this omegaverse AU are sprinkled throughout the story. It's woven into the fic through the characters thoughts, interactions, and emotions.

Alastor's not explaining the world, he's living in it.

We're not being told how it works, we're experiencing it through him.

The audience isn't told that Alastor's heat makes him act on the desires of other's, instead they see him interacting with character's in ways he normally wouldn't and then immediately trying to distance himself from them.

The audience isn't outright told that Alastor prioritizes his privacy to an obsessive degree because he can't allow anyone to pick up his scent, they're shown that he only pretends to use the hotel room he was given, that he actually lives in a secret pocket-dimension that's impossible for anyone to find but him, that the only scent in that pocket-dimension is his own, and a vague emphasizes that it needs to be that way.

All in all, it comes down to the tried and true: Show, don't tell.

Don't tell us about the world you've created, show us through the actions, interactions, behaviors, thoughts, and emotions of the characters. It makes the world fill lived in, and not like the author is just ticking off a bunch of works for a world-building/AU checklist.

Of course, there are times when telling works better, like in "Beyond the Eight Ball." (<- fic link)

Normally, I'd use a character interacting with their environment to describe the setting, and their emotions and interactions with other characters to build the world, but in the case of "BtEB" laying out how different Pentagram City had changed, all at once, worked better for the narrative because the audience was supposed to be just as surprised as Alastor was.

Here's an excerpt of that scene:

Pentagram City was gone. Or, the Pentagram City Alastor lived in was gone. The haggard buildings and barbed-wire fences that once made up the Downtown District were overtaken by an agglomeration of tall, irradiating skyscrapers.  Some were high enough to disappear into a canopy of clouds so heavy and bloated they looked in danger of popping themselves on the closest spire. But where they’d usually be a mixture of yellow, brown, and maroon, they were a melting pot of blacks, purples, and pinks, stirred by the myriad of lights pulsing beneath them.  The streets, while normally teeming with sinners, were now completely swollen with thick, milling crowds. Cars were stuck bumper to bumper on the road, horns bellowing while their drivers leaned out of their windows to yell at the people in front of them. Billboards and jumbotrons flashed in every direction, stuck to the sides of buildings, above stop-lights, and on giant, metal structures that lined the edge of the district in a wall of advertisements, newscasts, talks-shows, and logos. There was so much overlapping Alastor couldn’t even tell what they were saying.

In this case, you're getting a barrage of description, but that's because Alastor (the character we're following) is the one who'd been plopped into a Pentagram City that is so massively different that all he can do is stare.

Later, the story goes into more detail about how changed the world is as Alastor explores the new city. We're seeing it all through his eyes, and not being told by an outside force (the author).

It all comes down to the scene and how the character acts/reacts during it, and what it is you--the author--is trying to convey.

TLDR: The best way to introduce your world/world-building is by having your characters interact with it, and don't be scared to sprinkle it in. Allow your readers to form questions. Give them room to be curious, because that curiosity is what keeps them interested.

I'd say the most difficult thing for me while writing is descriptions.

Specifically, describing enviroments.

Ugh, it kills me every time. I have such a hard time describing the way a room looks without it feeling info-dumpy.

But I've found that having the character interact with the room is a great way to help describe it. Instead of saying that the room was dusty, I have the character drag their finger through a layer of dust coating the dresser. Instead of saying the room smelled, I say the character's nose curled when they passed a pile of dirty laundry, or that they fanned the air to get rid of the stench of uneaten, moldy food sitting on the desk. Instead of saying the room is cold, I describe the character shivering and rubbing their arms up and down before walking across the room to shut the window.

Having the characters interact with the room also makes it more engaging to read. And, of course, don't forget to use the 5 senses! Taste, touch, sight, smell, and sound.

And, yeah, I totally get having a hard time writing characters I'm not especially interested in, or know much about.

For that I'd say, make them interesting. Give them flair! They're part of the story for a reason, so their presence has to mean something.

One of the best ways I flesh out characters is by asking questions:

What is the role in the story? Antagonist? Protagonist? Love interest? Side-character?

How important are they to the story? Do they have a huge impact on the events of the story? Or are the a character that just pops in here and there?

What's their backstory? What do they think of themselves? Do they think they're hot shit? Are they insecure? Do they over-compensate? Are they shy? Arrogant? Brash? Timid? And how does all of that impact how they interact with other people?

And, most importantly, the 3Q's (especially in regards to their role in the story):

What does the character want?

Why does the character want this?

What's getting in the way of them getting it?

Using "Just Kiss Already" as an example.

What does Alastor want?

To get rid of the holy energy infecting his body.

2. Why does Alastor want this?

Because the holy energy puts him in constant pain and it's preventing him from using his demonic abilities, which leaves him in a very exposed, and very vulnerable position.

3. What's getting in the way of Alastor achieving this?

Lucifer is the only one who can heal him, but Alastor doesn't trust him, is insecure by just how powerful Lucifer is compared to him (especially due to his current injury) and it too stubborn to ask for help, and thus would rather figure out how to heal himself on his own. But, despite not trusting Lucifer, he's still the only person who can keep Alastor's enemies away, so he concocts a fake-dating plan with Lucifer to keep them off his back, despite having a lot of baggage around relationships, and underestimating how much that might bleed into his latest scheme.

On the flip side, Lucifer:

What does Lucifer want?

To reconnect with Charlie and heal their broken relationship.

2. Why does Lucifer want this?

Because he's lonely, he loves Charlie and wants to be close with her again.

3. What's getting in the way of Lucifer achieving this?

He overcompensates and can't stop seeing Charlie as his "little girl" rather than the full-grown adult that she is. He's awkward and overcompensates when he's with her, which makes Charlie uncomfortable, but gets very jealous and insecure when Alastor fills one of his "fatherly roles," especially when Alastor's advice/help is well received by Charlie. The Charlie he remembers is a framed picture of a little girl hanging in his work-room, and he doesn't know how to connect with this new, grown Charlie who doesn't need her problems solved, just wants his support for her dream to rehabilitate sinners that he doesn't even think highly of--all the while agreeing to a fake-dating scheme with Alastor, his biggest pain in the ass, out of a sense of obligation for Alastor getting hurt on behalf of Charlie's hotel-but also keep an eye on Alastor and make sure he doesn't do anything to hurt Charlie.

I also recommend rewatching the character's scenes to get a feel for their mannerisms and how they interact with the other characters. Sometimes the hardest part of writing a character and hashing out their personality is figuring out how they mesh with the rest of the characters.

Don't shy away from their flaws or insecurities either, even for your fav character (especially when it comes to your fav character). Let them be raw and real. Let them fail. Give them consequences to their actions. Let them get hurt.

Then pick them back up again and let them heal. Let them achieve their goal. And let them grow as a character.

I hope this helped!

Haha I have a lot of writing advice tumbling around in my head--whether it works or not is up to you LMAO. If you have any other questions, let me know! I enjoy talking about my writing process, and it reminds me of certain things I still need to work on too.

If there are a bunch of grammar or spelling mistakes in this, I'm sorry. I was going to read through it, but I wanna go draw now, so I'm gonna do that instead.

Thank you for the ask! I'm so happy you're enjoying my fics >.<

If anyone has their own writing advice they want to share, drop it below!

And, of course, I do have a handful of writing resources in my Masterpost <- right here! From using the 5 senses (like how to describe a smile in different ways), general writing help (writing action scenes and describing environments), and miscellaneous topics (like the burning points of different fabrics and why casinos are designed to make people spend more!) Anything new and helpful I find, I add to my Masterpost--especially when it comes to writing Hazbin fics!