#literal lightning speed

[cyanide-sippy-cup]

I figured it out. How to solve the whole Superman v Flash who's faster debate without having to explain comic lore. Simply, Superman is faster than a speeding bullet while Flash is as fast as lightning. I'm sure this will clear everything up because everyone definitely knows the difference in speed of those two things. Definitely.

[laurrelise]

guys i’ve drawn lila some more

decided to draw 2 of her saddest scenes for what reason????????

i actually don’t have an answer i just liked the references

(also here are the references)

and i can’t remember if ive dropped these here before but i did some pencil drawings of her a whiiiiiile ago and im actually really proud of them so i’ll just leave them here regardless :)

v also their references

[orbch]

hss art dump. some serious and some just absolutely not at all.

[thepunkmuppet]

so I was thinking about the Key plotline as I often do, and the line “the monks made her out of me” is suddenly really interesting to me.

obviously what this means is that they made dawn’s body to have the DNA of joyce and hank, hence her being buffy’s sister and having the same DNA as buffy (“summers blood”). but like imagine taking that line literally.

“the monks made her out of me.” buffy has an identical twin.

obviously they didn’t do this because 1, they wanted a younger character to be in peril and provide variety in the cast, 2, having your lead actor play two characters would probably be much too much for them, and 3, the cost of having sarah play two characters and having to use split screen and doubles and stuff with the limited cgi of the time would just be too much. (dopplegangland was great but they probably couldn’t feasibly do that every episode for three whole seasons)

but just the concept of it is so interesting to me. this twin literally has buffy’s face, buffy’s voice, buffy’s body. but she’s not the slayer. dawn has to deal with being in the shadow of her slayer sister all the time, but the added strain of looking exactly like her and being the same age as her would just be so heartbreaking and interesting to explore.

I also think the impact of the reveal would just slap more. oh my god there’s two buffy’s!?!?!! oh my god buffy has a twin all of a sudden?!?!!!? there would also just be another level of angst, with buffy feeling violated that the monks just made another version of her and essentially used her body, and with the twin feeling like an afterthought, a duplicate, an impostor, etc.

plus them being twins would emphasise their bond more, as twins are supposed to have a really close and special relationship for obvious reasons. the monks made dawn so that buffy would protect her - the two of them having a strong twin bond and remembering a life of growing up doing everything together would really help with that!

also also I just love the idea that if the buffybot still got made, then at one point there would be three buffy’s but only one of them would actually be buffy. absolutely hilarious to me, smg would be working some serious overtime!!

I just love this concept and I might write it as a fic if I can come up with an actual plot. can any of you think of any names for this twin? or would she still be called dawn (what with the whole symbolism of the sun coming up in the gift, the foreshadowing, etc.) if you come up with any more ideas or discussion points about this au please lmk in comments/reblogs/asks etc, I’m obsessed with this idea and I need to talk about it!!!!

[widevibratobitch]

oh for fucks sakeeeeee

[rpfisfine]

i can excuse exiting out of bg3 via task commander in order not to lose your honor mode run even though you should countless times over the course of one save file but i draw the line at bragging that you completed your solo run as an open hand monk with the tavern brawler feat using strength elixirs every day

[insomtiny]

just finished a book like some sort of 14 year old

[twistedappletree]

AHAHAHA I FINALLY TIRED OUT MY DOG

[albi-bumblebee]

because voldemort was winning, of course. Peter was a coward, and Voldemort was winning. that’s literally it.

Forever plagued by the thought why did Peter betray the Marauders?

[be4chywritez]

trophy boyfriend | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x actress!reader

rec: can you PLEASE do like a actress!reader x quinn hughes and like hes just a dork around her

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The hum of soft jazz plays in the hotel suite as your glam team moves around you like a well-oiled machine. A makeup artist dabs at the corner of your lips, a stylist adjusts the sparkling hem of your designer gown, and a hairstylist puts the final touches on your updo.

Across the room, Quinn is struggling with his cufflinks.

You glance at him through the mirror, watching as he frowns down at the small buttons, his fingers fumbling slightly. It’s adorable, really—the way this man can maneuver a puck at lightning speed but is absolutely defeated by formalwear.

With an amused sigh, you wave off your team.

“Okay, okay, I got it from here,” you say, standing up and making your way over.

Quinn lets out a breath of relief. “Thank god.”

You shake your head, taking his wrist in your hands. “You are an Olympic athlete,” you tease, carefully fastening the cufflink. “You have literal hand-eye coordination of steel. But this? This is what beats you?”

He huffs. “These things are impossible.”

You smirk, moving onto the next one. “They’re not impossible, babe.”

Quinn just watches you, his expression softening. The way your fingers move with ease, the way you’re so gentle with him, the way you look so stupidly beautiful up close.

And then, before he can stop himself—

“Jesus,” he breathes, low and awed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your fingers pause.

The words hit you straight in the chest, so raw, so genuine that it makes you blink up at him.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah?”

Quinn nods, completely transfixed. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of your dress. “Like—so beautiful. I don’t even—” He exhales, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. “—I don’t even have words for it.”

You bite back a grin. “You just said a whole sentence, love.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “You know what I mean.”

You do. And the warmth in your chest tells you it’s mutual.

The luxury black SUV glides through the streets of Los Angeles, the distant flashes of cameras already visible as you near the venue.

Quinn shifts slightly beside you, adjusting the cuffs you helped him with earlier. He looks perfect—classic black tux, tousled hair, sharp jawline that’s gonna make Twitter implode in approximately thirty minutes.

But you can tell he’s a little on edge.

“You okay?” you ask, placing a hand on his knee.

Quinn glances at you, then lets out a small huff. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face. “I feel like I don’t belong here.”

You tilt your head, squeezing his knee. “Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “I mean, look at me. I play hockey. My idea of a big night is, like… eating pasta before a game and going to bed by ten.”

You smile. “Sounds like a riveting lifestyle.”

“I’m serious,” he mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You soften, lacing your fingers with his. “Quinn, you do belong here. I wanted you here, with me. No one else. Just you.”

He glances at you then—really looks at you. The sincerity in your voice, the way you’re still holding his hand even when the cameras outside are waiting to catch every move.

And maybe… maybe he does belong here.

Or at the very least—he belongs with you.

The second your car door opens, the lights and noise explode.

You step out first, flashing an effortless smile, moving through the flashing cameras like second nature.

Quinn follows.

And immediately freezes.

The sheer volume of photographers, the shouted questions, the flashes—it’s all so different from the controlled environment of a post-game media scrum.

His expression doesn’t change, his posture stays stiff. He doesn’t react.

Except—when he looks at you.

You turn back, reaching for his hand. The second he takes it, his fingers curling around yours, something shifts. His shoulders drop slightly, his face loses the blank tightness.

The cameras eat it up—Quinn Hughes, usually stoic, softening the moment you touch him.

But the second you turn away to answer a question, he’s back to looking completely out of place.

The interviewers try.

“So, Quinn! How does it feel being at the Oscars with Y/N tonight?”

He blinks. “Uh… it’s cool?”

A beat of silence.

The interviewer laughs politely. You don’t even try to hide your smirk.

Quinn, to his credit, doesn’t crumble. But you can sense it—the way his hand tightens slightly in yours, the way his jaw tenses.

He’s not freaking out, but he’s not loving it either.

You make a quick decision.

Instead of lingering for more interviews, you squeeze his hand and lean in. “Let’s go inside.”

Quinn doesn’t hesitate.

As you lead him through the last waves of flashing cameras and into the safety of the venue, you feel it—his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Like a silent thank you.

And when you glance up at him, finally out of the public eye, he gives you a small, private smile.

It’s the first real one of the night.

The theater is breathtaking—warm lights reflecting off golden décor, a hum of energy rolling through the crowd, the biggest names in Hollywood all gathered in one place.

At your table, Quinn sits beside you, his hand resting casually on your knee under the table. His touch is warm, grounding, everything you need to keep yourself from overthinking.

The show moves on, category after category, but as the night stretches on, so do your nerves.

And then—

“And now, the nominees for Actress in a Leading Role…”

Your name flashes across the massive screen, the camera cutting to you at the exact moment your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t move.

You’re hyper-aware of the way your breathing slows, of how the applause fades into a quiet hum in your ears.

Then—Quinn’s hand tightens around yours.

You glance over.

His thumb sweeps over your knuckles—soft, steady, like he’s reminding you that no matter what happens, he’s right there.

"You got this," he murmurs. So sure.

Your pulse steadies. You squeeze his hand back.

The presenter opens the envelope.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

The pause stretches.

Your stomach flips.

And then—

They say your name.

For a moment, the world stops.

Your mind blanks, heart hammering, ears ringing. You barely register the way the crowd erupts, the way your co-stars cheer.

But Quinn?

Quinn is already on his feet.

He’s not over-the-top, but he’s clapping immediately, beaming. It’s pure instinct—his entire face lit up, dimples deep, eyes wide with pride, awe, love.

You push your chair back, standing on shaky legs, but before you go anywhere—before you even think about stepping onto that stage—you turn to him.

You throw your arms around his neck, holding onto him first.

His arms wrap around your waist without hesitation, his grip strong, his warmth grounding you.

And just as you pull away, you press a quick, breathless kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then you’re moving—up the stairs, onto the stage, into the blinding lights, the golden statue placed in your hands.

You thank your director, your cast, your team. You keep it short, simple, heartfelt.

And then, just before you finish, your eyes drift back to where Quinn is still standing.

He’s still clapping, still smiling. Like you just hung the stars.

“And, of course,” you add, a small smile pulling at your lips, “to the person who reminded me every day that I could do this. Who never let me believe otherwise. Thank you, Quinn.”

The second you step behind the curtain, Oscar clutched in your hand, your heart still pounding, your eyes immediately scan for him.

It doesn’t take long.

Quinn is waiting just a few feet away, standing with his hands in his pockets, his smile so big it’s practically blinding.

And before he can say anything—before he can even move—

You run straight into him.

He barely has time to react before you throw your arms around his neck, jumping up slightly as his arms come around you.

He catches you with ease, his laugh warm against your ear.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands cradling his face. His skin is warm, his smile softer now, his hands still holding you tight like he’s not quite ready to let go.

“You did it,” he murmurs, voice full of something so deep, so real. “I knew you would.”

Your fingers brush over his cheek. “You sure?” you tease. “Because I seem to remember some panicked, middle-of-the-night doubts.”

Quinn huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, and I seem to remember talking you down from every single one.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “I guess I should start listening to you more often, huh?”

He smirks. “You definitely should.”

A photographer calls your name softly, reminding you where you are, but neither of you move just yet.

You look at Quinn. He looks at you.

And then—

You kiss him. Soft, sure, just enough.

And when you pull back, he just grins, shaking his head like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Before you can say anything else, a stage manager ushers you onto a small carpet where reporters and interviewers lined up.

"How are you celebrating tonight?" the reporter asks, microphone extended toward you.

You barely hesitate. "Probably get In-N-Out with my boyfriend."

The press room bursts into laughter.

Quinn, just a few feet away, shakes his head but can’t hide his smile.

-

The smell of fresh burgers fills the car, the golden statue sitting between you in the backseat.

Quinn takes a sip of his drink, glancing over at you. "So, this is how an Oscar-winner celebrates?"

You tear open a packet of fries. "This is how I celebrate."

Before he can respond, your phone starts buzzing.

Jack.

You roll your eyes and answer, putting it on speaker.

Jack’s voice immediately fills the car. "HOLY SHIT."

Luke’s right behind him. "SHE ACTUALLY WON."

You laugh, reaching for your burger. "You guys stayed up to watch?"

"Duh," Jack says. "Quinn, dude, how the hell did you pull this off?"

Quinn groans. "Good to hear from you too, Jack."

Luke is still processing. "I mean, we always joke about you being the most unexpected couple ever, but like… you really went and did it."

Quinn just shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

And you?

You just squeeze his hand, because you wouldn’t want to be celebrating with anyone else.

You’re back home, fresh out of the shower, warm and sleepy as you crawl into bed next to Quinn.

The Oscar sits on the dresser.

Quinn rolls onto his side, watching you as you settle against the pillows. His hand drifts across your hip, his touch absentminded, lazy.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “You tired?”

He hums. “Not as tired as you.”

You yawn—completely proving his point.

Quinn laughs, tucking you closer, his warmth melting into yours.

“Night, Oscar-winner,” he murmurs against your hair.

You smile against his collarbone. "Night, Hughes."

[terraswallows]

I know stereotypes are bad, but let’s be honest—every trans girl has a vibe. So tell me, which one are you?

A cute hacker girl fueled exclusively by energy drinks – You type at lightning speed, have a questionable sleep schedule, and may or may not be a digital cryptid. Bonus points if you can do eyeliner so sharp it doubles as a weapon.

A literal cat/dog (kitten/puppy also valid options) – You either radiate smug feline energy or are the human embodiment of "wagging tail, big eyes, head pats please." No in-between.

Target mom – You have opinions on scented candles, will absolutely offer to buy your friends snacks, and could run a household with military efficiency if you weren’t so busy being cute.

Three communist manifestos in a trench coat trying to add others to their cause – You own at least one tattered copy of The Communist Manifesto, believe transition should be free, and could (and would) unionize a girl’s night out.

Teenage witch – You collect shiny rocks, you’ve considered hexing a TERF, and your idea of self-care involves moon water and aggressively manifesting a hotter body.

OH NO A LITERAL GOBLIN! – You hoard shinies, giggle mischievously, and the concept of “pretty girl” and “chaotic gremlin” are one and the same to you.

A vampire with an addiction to fluffy things – Yes, you are the night. But also, you need a soft blanket, thigh-high socks, and a collection of plushies to survive.

A faerie who steals genders and scrambles eggs – You don’t just crack eggs; you turn them into omelets. Gender is yours to redistribute. Watch out, because if you so much as look at someone, they might start questioning things.

A 1950s housewife but horny and super progressive – You bake, you’re adorable, and you’re absolutely calling someone “darling” while making them question their sexuality.

Goth was never just a phase, it’s a lifestyle – Your wardrobe is mostly black, your eyeliner could kill a man, and you’ve perfected the balance between spooky and sapphic.

Goth but discovering the color brown (steampunk) – You have very strong opinions on corsets, pocket watches, and the intersection of sapphic romance and gears.

Cottagecore is my goal in life – You dream of a cozy cottage in the woods where you and your cute wife bake bread, tend to your garden, and forget what capitalism is.

I choose you, random fetish! – You didn’t mean to be this way, but here you are. Your interests are niche, intense, and probably make people blush when you explain them.

So, which one (or ones) are you? Or are you something even gayer?

[onlyforwoosan]

Heat Of The Night—✦

Pairing: Park Seonghwa (Racer!AU) × Female Reader (established relationship)

Wordcount: 5.8k

Synopsis: A brutal rivalry. A high-speed race. And Seonghwa, who’ll stop at nothing to win — including fucking you in the front seat while the world watches.

Genre: Smut, Enemies / rival tension, Dark romance, Racer!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Public sex in a moving vehicle (during a literal race), Semi-exhibitionism (tinted windows), Fighting / violence, Blood mention, Possessive / dominant behavior, Praise & degradation mix

The night smelled like oil, concrete, and something sour—something violent waiting to happen.

The empty parking garage echoed with every footstep, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stuttering and humming like they might give out at any second. It was the kind of place people pretended didn’t exist, a dead space between the city’s shiny surfaces.

Seonghwa stood under one of the flickering lights, head low, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His black jacket clung to him, rain still dripping from the hem. He looked calm from a distance, still, controlled.

But up close, the storm in his eyes was undeniable. He was pissed. 

Across from him, His rival, Minjun, leaned lazily against a cracked pillar, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He looked untouched by the cold, by the hour, by the threat that hung thick in the air between them.

"You came," Minjun said, voice carrying easily in the emptiness. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans, casual, cocky. Like, this was a joke. Seonghwa wasn't having any of it. 

"You called," Seonghwa answered flatly. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The promise of violence was put into every word.

Minjun chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Man... all this for a girl?" His hair was dripping a little. 

At the mention of you, something shifted behind Seonghwa’s eyes — a barely contained rage, flashing like lightning just before it strikes. You were his. 

"You really think you’re untouchable, don’t you?" Minjun pushed off the pillar, walking a slow circle around him. "Big man behind the wheel. Big man when she’s looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars."

“You don't even know. Shes mine, for fucks sake.” Seonghwa snarled. He was irritated that the younger would even dare to mention you. 

The black haired boy just scoffed. “Probablys a slut for you. A whore if i may add.” He snickered. The taller was this close to killing him. “Chill, dude. She's only hung for you.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before he dropped the real poison:

"But what happens when you can’t get to her fast enough, Hwa?"

Seonghwa moved before the last syllable even hit the air.

He was on Minjun in a breath, fists slamming into him with the brutal precision of someone who wasn’t just angry — someone who was fighting for blood.

The first punch made a crackling sound against Minjun’s jaw, sending him stumbling back, but Seonghwa didn’t let up. A second hit, cleaner, harder, broke across Minjun’s nose with a wet snap.

Minjun cursed, stumbling, blood gushing between his fingers as he clutched his face.

"You touch her," Seonghwa growled, voice rough and lethal, "and I’ll fucking bury you myself."

Minjun spat blood onto the concrete and laughed — a low, ugly sound that scraped at Seonghwa’s ears and made his eye twitch.

"You’re already losing, Seonghwa. You just don’t see it yet."

He lunged then, slashing his nails across Seonghwa’s cheek, drawing a sharp line of red liquid. The sting barely registered.

Seonghwa grabbed him by the jacket, slamming him into the pillar with enough force to rattle the crumbling structure.

"I’m not losing anything," Seonghwa snarled, nose inches from Minjun’s. His hand tightened around Minjun’s throat for just a second — not enough to choke, but enough to make the threat clear.

Minjun coughed, grinning through bloody teeth.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Seonghwa’s fist slammed into his gut once more for good measure before he shoved him down onto the filthy concrete.

Minjun stayed down this time, laughing weakly.

Seonghwa staggered back, breathing hard, the adrenaline crashing through his veins like wildfire. His knuckles were split open, thick warmth dripping down onto the floor in slow, heavy drops.

He glanced down at himself — blood on his hands, blood on his jacket, the thin sting of the scratch across his face starting to throb.

Good. Let him bleed a little.. It was better than letting the rage rot him from the inside out.

Without another word, Seonghwa turned and stalked toward the open side of the garage, the cold rain slicing across his face the second he stepped outside. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to.

Minjun’s words followed him into the night anyway:

"You’ll crash, Seonghwa. And when you do... I'll take everything you love."

The door creaked shut behind him.

Seonghwa shoved his hood over his head, jaw tight, vision tunneling in on one thing — getting to you.

It was nearly 11 PM when you heard the soft click of the front door.

You barely glanced up at first, curled into the far corner of the couch, your phone glowing in your hand, the low hum of the TV playing some forgettable late-night show. You had been waiting for him. You always waited for him.

The second you looked up, though, everything inside you stilled.

Seonghwa stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, hood falling back to reveal the shock of his dyed white hair — only now, it wasn’t just rain dripping from him. There was blood. On his shirt. Spattered in thin, dark smears across the collar. A few bits in his hair, even a faint smear along the sharp cut of his cheekbone. His fists were still clenched tight, the skin across his knuckles cracked and were scraped.

You dropped your phone immediately, eyes wide open. Oh god.. You thought.

“Hwa—” you gasped, scooting down off the couch. You were only wearing a pair of thin sleep shorts and a tiny cami top, the cold air instantly biting at your skin, but you didn’t even feel it.

You rushed to him, arms half-reaching — but you stopped short just inches away when your eyes caught the state he was in.

Your heart twisted painfully.  "Baby... what the hell happened?" you whispered, eyes scanning every inch of him.

Seonghwa shook his head once, slow, deliberate.  "Nothing," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine, angel."

You frowned deeper, stepping closer despite his warning. He smelled like rain, blood, and concrete. The sharp scent clung to him like a second skin.

"You’re bleeding," you pointed out, voice shaking a little despite your effort to stay calm. "And that—" you reached up, gently brushing a finger against the blood-stained strands of his hair, "—doesn’t happen from 'nothing.'"

He exhaled hard through his nose, body stiff as a wire. "It's over. I handled it."

You crossed your arms over your chest — the movement “accidentally” pressing your breasts together under the thin fabric of your cami top, but you were too worried to even notice the way his eyes flickered down, then quickly away.

"Hwa..." you said more firmly, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Please. Just tell me."

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then his shoulders sagged the tiniest bit — like he couldn’t bear the weight anymore.

"Minjun," he muttered, voice rough, bitter.

Your stomach dropped.

"What did he do now?"

Seonghwa’s jaw clenched again, remembering what had happened earlier, the muscle ticking visibly. His fists were still tight at his sides, liquid dripping slowly down the curve of his hand.

"He made it about you," he said tightly. "Threatened you."

A beat of silence. The world tilted slightly around you.

Your hands moved before you even thought about it — gently, carefully, you reached up and cradled his bruised face between your palms. His skin was cold from the rain, but under your touch, you could feel the barely-contained fire.

You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It wasn’t a fiery kiss, it wasn’t desperate, just a grounding touch. A silent I'm here, you're not alone.

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath against your mouth, and for a second, all the fight drained out of him.

When you pulled back, you caught his hand, cold, bloodied, and laced your fingers through his without hesitation.

"C'mon," you murmured, giving a soft tug. "Let's clean you up."

You led him wordlessly down the short hallway into your shared bedroom, the rain still pattering softly against the windows outside. The room smelled like home, like you. It softened the hard lines of his body just a little as he followed you into the attached bathroom.

You flipped on the light.

The harsh, bright glow revealed every ugly detail — the split across his lip, the faint swelling at his cheekbone, the angry red scratch along his jaw. Blood smeared across the collar of his jacket, staining the fabric dark and rust-colored.

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the sting of emotion rising in your throat.

Seonghwa sat heavily on the edge of the bathtub, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His head dropped back against the wall, white hair splaying messily across the tile, eyes closing like he was exhausted.

You pulled open the cabinet under the sink, grabbing the first aid kit with shaking hands. When you turned back, he was watching you — eyes dark, hooded, tracking every movement.

Wordlessly, you knelt between his knees.

The first wet cloth you pressed to his split lip made him hiss quietly. His thighs tensed under your hands, his fingers twitching against the edge of the tub.

"You’re such an idiot sometimes," you whispered, voice thick.

He smiled — just a little. That lazy, crooked grin that always made you feel like gravity didn’t work right when he looked at you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But you love me anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already breaking for him.

As you worked — cleaning the blood from his face, wiping the mess from his hair, carefully bandaging his knuckles — the silence between you softened. Seonghwa didn’t protest. Didn’t move away. He just watched you with something raw in his expression, something unguarded.

When you finished, you leaned back on your heels, studying him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Dangerous.

And he was yours.

All yours.

Without a word, he reached forward, threading his fingers through your hair, tugging you gently closer until you were between his knees again, pressed against his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered against your forehead.

You squeezed him tighter, feeling the wild thundering of his heart under your palms.

“Of course, Seong.” You muttered and smiled as you ran your fingers through his semi damp hair. “I love you..”

“I love you more, sweet girl.” He says back.

“Now go take a shower so we can cuddle after.” He chuckled and rolled his eyes at your words.

A few days passed, it was race day. The garage buzzed with noise and energy.

Wrenches clanked against metal, compressors hissed as tires were checked and rechecked, and the heavy scent of gasoline clung to the thick morning air. Seonghwa stood by his car, a sleek, deadly machine of bright pink with the number 3 and a silver star emblazoned across the hood — arms crossed over his chest, black racing suit already half-zipped up.

"Pressure’s running a little high in the front right," one of the mechanics called, crouched down near the tire. "You want it stiffer for the turns or softer for the straightaways?"

Seonghwa crouched down next to him, one knee on the ground, scanning the gauge with a practiced eye. "Softer," he said, tapping the rim of the tire. "She’s light on her feet already. I want her to glide through the pack, not fight it."

The mechanic nodded, grinning.  "You’re the boss, Park. Pink star’s gonna fly today, huh?"

Seonghwa allowed a rare, sharp smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "She always does."

He stood back up, wiping his hands on a rag, glancing over the rest of the crew making the final tweaks to the engine and fins.

He was just starting to mentally settle into race mode when he felt it.. A tap, sharp and deliberate, on his shoulder.

Turning around, his stomach coiled instantly at the sight.

Minjun stood there, fully suited up, helmet tucked under his arm, smirk stretched wide across his face like he was enjoying some private joke.

"Fancy seeing you here, Park," Minjun drawled, voice slick with mockery.

Seonghwa's smile disappeared. His entire body tensed, fists twitching at his sides, the vivid memory of the blood on his hands, the concrete under his boots flashing through his mind like gunfire.

Minjun only laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Relax. Wouldn't want your pretty little girl to see you lose your cool."

Seonghwa snarled low in his throat — a sound barely human — but before he could make a move, Minjun was already slipping away into the maze of racers and cars, his laughter trailing behind him like smoke.

Seonghwa stood still for a second, breathing hard through his nose, forcing the rage back down into his chest where it could simmer.

Not here. Not now.

Focus.

The minutes until the race start ticked by fast.

Seonghwa walked through the maze of engines and bodies, sharp-eyed, searching. And then — like the world sharpened into color — he saw you.

You were standing near the gate leading up to the stands, your hair pulled back loosely, wearing his jacket over your casual clothes. You looked soft and out of place among the metal and fumes, and yet somehow, you fit perfectly.

Before you could slip away toward the stairs, Seonghwa caught up to you, grabbing your hand gently but urgently.

"Ride with me," he said, low and serious.

You blinked, startled. "Hwa... that’s not—" "I know," he cut in quickly. "It’s not allowed. I know."

You glanced nervously around — mechanics, other racers, officials milling nearby. "Someone’s gonna notice."

"They won’t," he said, stepping closer, crowding into your space until your heart stuttered. His hand slid around your waist, tugging you just a little closer, his mouth brushing your ear as he murmured, "Windows are fully tinted. Nobody will see. And the crew—" he glanced over his shoulder briefly, "—they won’t say shit. They’re with me."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he cut you off with a look — that intense, smoldering gaze that made your knees go weak every damn time.

"Please," he said, voice rough, almost desperate now. "I need you with me."

Your heart twisted painfully.

You could see it… The way his hands were tense, the way he wasn’t just asking to be reckless — he needed to anchor himself to 

You swallowed hard. "...Fine," you whispered.

His entire body relaxed for a half-second, pure relief flickering across his face.

Before you could change your mind, he tangled his hand with your hand again and led you back toward his car, weaving between the busy mechanics and racers like a thief sneaking away with stolen treasure.

At the sleek pink car, he threw open the passenger-side door with a flourish, holding it open for you like it was a damn royal carriage.

You bit your lip, nerves sparking under your skin, but you climbed in, the sleek black leather cold against your thighs.

Seonghwa slipped into the driver’s seat a second later, pulling the door shut behind him.

Inside, the car smelled like leather, smoke, and him — dark, electric, dangerous. The tinted windows wrapped you both in a bubble of secrecy.

Seonghwa turned to you, one hand already sliding over your thigh, possessive and grounding at once.

And as the chaos of race day rumbled outside, Seonghwa grinned — slow and wicked — and leaned closer, whispering against your lips:

"You’re mine now. All race long."

The engine purred beneath you, vibrating through the seat, through your body.

Seonghwa rolled the car up to the starting line, the slick pink paint gleaming under the brutal track lights. Beyond the tinted windows, the other racers were lined up, engines snarling and growling in the tense pre-race silence.

Inside the car, it was almost eerily still.

You shifted in your seat, nervous energy buzzing under your skin. Your legs bounced slightly, and you twisted your hands in your lap, trying to settle the storm inside you.

Three minutes to race start.

You glanced over at Seonghwa, only to find him already looking at you.

Something dark and hungry burned in his eyes, his lips twitching like he was barely holding back a grin.

"You’re antsy, Sweetie," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

You swallowed, trying to laugh it off,  but before you could, he leaned a little closer and said:

"Ride me while I drive."

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

"What the fuck—" you blurted, face heating instantly. "You’re fucking crazy, Seonghwa!"

He chuckled — deep, rough, unchanged. Like he had all the time in the world to destroy you.

"Windows are tinted, angel," he reminded you smoothly, reaching out and running his fingers up your bare thigh, his touch making you shiver. "No one will see. No one will know. Just you and me." His hand slipped higher, just barely brushing the edge of your skirt, teasing. "You've thought about it before... haven’t you?" he added, voice dropping a shade darker.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because God help you, he was right.

Some stupid part of you had wondered what it would be like. The rush. The danger. The pure insanity of fucking him at full speed.  But you’d never dreamed he would ask.

"Seonghwa," you stammered, legs pressing together instinctively. "I– I don’t know if—"

He turned fully toward you, eyes black with need. His hand found yours, squeezing tight.

"Trust me," he said, rough and earnest. "I’ll keep you safe."

You hesitated for half a heartbeat. And then you let out the tiniest whimper, nodding once, your body betraying you.

Seonghwa’s grin broke across his face, wicked and victorious. "Good girl," he breathed.

The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeakers:

"One minute until race start! Racers, get ready!"

Everything sped up.

Seonghwa leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other already tugging down the zipper of his black racing suit, shifting his boxers enough to free himself. You caught a glimpse.. flushed, thick, already hard for you. Your our cheeks burned hotter.

"Hurry, angel," he urged, voice taut with adrenaline. His cock twitched a bit.

Heart hammering, you scrambled out of your seat and straddled his lap, your knees digging into the sleek leather seat on either side of him. Your short skirt bunched up instantly. No modesty left, not here, not now.

Seonghwa growled low in his throat as he slid his hands under the skirt, gripping your hips, rough and possessive. He found your panties, yanked them aside with a quick, practiced move, and paused, just for a second.

"I've got you, baby," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded desperately, clutching at his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his suit.

Another second passed, and then Seonghwa lined himself up, his hand firm on your waist.

The announcer started counting down:

"Ten."

Seonghwa thrust up just slightly, the tip brushing against you — so hot and achingly hard that you nearly cried out. “Hngh!-”

"Nine."

He grinned darkly at the way your body shivered, every nerve ending sparking.

"Eight."

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.

"Seven."

Without warning, he pulled you down onto him — hard and deep.

You gasped, a choked sound bursting from your throat, your hands flying to his chest for balance.

Seonghwa groaned low in his chest, his forehead pressing against yours as he filled you completely, the stretch burning and perfect.

"Six."

He revved the engine, the growl of the car masking the broken sounds slipping from your lips.

"Five."

He shifted under you, adjusting his grip on the wheel — and then gave a slow, brutal roll of his hips that made your vision blur.

"Four."

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his suit, desperately clinging to him as you fought the urge to moan his name.

"Three."

He kissed you — messy, teeth clashing, claiming you all over again.

"Two."

The car vibrated harder, the tension unbearable.

"One."

The starting gun fired, and Seonghwa hit the gas. You were already riding him as the car shot forward, the world outside the tinted windows blurring into neon and smoke.

And deep inside the chaos, Seonghwa laughed low against your ear and whispered:

"Hold on tight, baby. We’re just getting started."

The tires screamed as Seonghwa floored the gas, and the car shot forward with brutal force.

You barely managed to choke down a gasp, the speed slamming your body harder against his chest. The harness that should've been holding you down was tangled around your thighs instead, abandoned in your reckless need to have him, to feel him, and every sharp lurch of the car made him shift deeper inside you.

Seonghwa didn’t flinch. One hand clamped firmly on the wheel, cool and in control — The other tight on your hip, grounding you, steering your body like he steered the car.

He didn’t look at you when he growled, voice low and dark:

"Bounce."

Your brain barely processed the word.

You were still dizzy from the feel of him stretching you open, still reeling from the way he'd filled you so deep, so fast. The world outside was a blur — engines roaring, neon lights whipping past — but inside this car, the heat between you could’ve set the whole track on fire.

You hesitated, thighs trembling on either side of him. "Seonghwa, I—"  Your voice cracked.

He squeezed your hip harder, almost bruising, dragging you flush down on him, making you whimper helplessly.

"I said bounce, love."

Rough. Commanding. Unforgiving.

You shivered because you loved that tone.  You loved it when he stripped you down to nothing but instinct.

With a shaky breath, you lifted yourself slowly — thighs burning, your hands clutching at the collar of his suit for leverage — and sank back down onto him.

The friction was blinding. The stretch, the depth, the filthy wet squelch of your body taking him in made heat crawl up your chest.

Seonghwa let out a low groan, head tilting back slightly.

"That's it…" he rasped. "Just like that. Fuck— ride me..  baby. Don't stop."

The car weaved through traffic effortlessly, one hand steering, one hand guiding you ruthlessly on his cock.

You started bouncing properly now — desperate little lifts and drops, every downward motion driving him deeper, harder, hitting spots that made your head spin.

"Fuck, Hwa—" you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can't—" Your tits moved with you as you bounced. The man swore this was the hottest fucking sight hes ever seen. 

"You can," he grunted, eyes flashing dangerously as he flicked a glance at you. "You’re my good girl. You’ll take e- everything I give you."

You whimpered, helpless against the intensity in his voice.

Sweat beaded on your forehead, your skin slick against his. The tiny cami you wore clung to your chest, nipples hard and rubbing against the thin fabric, the sensation making you squirm even harder.

“A- ah.. S’deep S- seong..”

Every bounce sent shockwaves through your body — thighs burning, clit throbbing, overstimulated from the roughness and the speed.

The car jerked slightly as Seonghwa pulled a sharp turn, and you cried out, falling forward against him, your forehead pressing against the sweaty line of his throat.

He laughed — low and wicked — and shifted the hand on your hip lower, slipping between your bodies until his fingers found your clit.

He rubbed tight, brutal circles, making you jolt and sob.

"T- that’s it, baby," he growled, voice in a strained pant now. "Make a mess on me."

Your body was a disaster — shaking, leaking, clenching around him desperately with every roll of his hips. You barely realized how hard you were grinding on him now, chasing your release with raw, frantic little bounces that made filthy wet sounds between you every time he bottomed out inside you.

"You hear that?" he whispered in your ear, voice wrecked. "That's you, fucking dripping all over me. Fuckin’ slut.."

You whined brokenly — it was too much. “A- all yours!” You threw your head back, one of your hands gripping your boyfriend's shoulder, the other pinching your hardened nipple.

You were so full, so fucked-out, and it only got worse when Seonghwa slipped two fingers down lower — teasing your stretched entrance while still fucking into you deep.

"Seonghwa—" you choked.

He just laughed darkly again, pulling his fingers back and spreading the wetness up across your clit again, rubbing you even faster, even harder.

He took your other breast in your mouth, sucking harshly like a goddamn baby desperate for its mommys milk. You let out a mewl.

The car shot forward again — faster now — and you realized he wasn’t slowing down at all. 

He was going to win this race while buried inside you. While fucking you raw in front of everyone.

The thought made you tighten around him so hard he cursed under his breath, hips jerking up into you violently.

He let go of your nipple with a pop sound. Spit connecting from his lip to your red bud. "Shit, baby— g- gonna make me cum inside you if you keep doing that," he snarled, voice wrecked.

You moaned helplessly, nodding against him, needing it, needing him. Your thighs trembled violently now, every nerve in your body firing off at once.

Seonghwa leaned in closer, breath hot against your ear:

"C- cum for me again. Now."

The command broke you.

You shuddered around him with a sob, your body locking up, nails raking down his back as your orgasm slammed into you like a punch to the gut.

Seonghwa hissed through his teeth, feeling you milk his cock, squeezing so tight he almost lost it right then.

“H- hngh- Hwa!”

He shifted the car one-handed — cool as ice — and slammed his hips up into you harder, rougher, chasing his own finish line.

"Fuck— fuck, you feel so good," he grunted, his voice getting sloppier now, the control finally cracking.

You whimpered at how deep he was, how thick he felt inside you, how messy you were getting — your inner thighs sticky, his cock slick with both your releases mixing with every brutal thrust.

He grabbed your ass with both hands now, bouncing you on him harder, almost savage, using you to get himself off while the car screamed across the track.

"Take it," he growled. "Fucking take it."

You cried out, legs barely working, body collapsing into him fully, trusting him to do whatever he wanted with you.

He was close — you could feel it. “Sh– shit.. So t– tight.”

The way his breath hitched. The way his hips stuttered up into you. The way his fingers dug even harder into your thighs, bruising, desperate.

"Mine," he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re mine. Gonna fill you up — fuck, gonna make you so messy."

You nodded frantically, moaning into his neck, needing it, needing him to ruin you completely.

With one last brutal thrust up into you, Seonghwa growled brokenly and came — deep, thick, filling you so much you gasped, feeling it leak out around him instantly.

He didn't stop.

He fucked you through it, dragging you down on him again and again, stuffing his cum deeper inside you, not caring about the wet, filthy mess soaking into the leather seat. His hand went back on the steering wheel.

Outside the windows, the checkered flag waved.

Seonghwa let out a shaky, wrecked laugh, his arms still locked around you tightly.

"First place, baby," he whispered against your sweaty neck. "You helped me win."

You could barely breathe.

You were trembling, your muscles spasming, your pussy still fluttering around his softening cock buried deep inside you.

The car coasted into the winner’s circle — And you were still in his lap, stuffed full, a sticky, wrecked mess against him.

Seonghwa pressed a kiss to your temple, so soft compared to the wreckage of your bodies.

"You okay?" he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your damp face.

You nodded weakly, smiling a little, dizzy with aftershocks.

He chuckled again, that low, dangerous sound.

"Good," he said, sliding his hand down to cup between your thighs — feeling the mess he made, feeling you shudder against him.

"Because when we get home…" he murmured darkly,

"I’m not stopping until you’re crying my name."

The crowd’s roar still echoed faintly outside the garage as Seonghwa pulled the pink race car into his designated spot.

You both sat there for a second, catching your breath — the engine ticking hot beneath you, the windows fogged slightly from the heat between your bodies.

Seonghwa gave a low, satisfied chuckle under his breath.

"Fans sound happy," he murmured, reaching across the seat to grab a bundle of towels from the glove box — clearly prepared for chaos like this. You flushed hot, face burning as he tugged your ruined panties back into place and carefully wiped the mess between your trembling thighs. His touch was oddly tender, almost reverent, like he was proud of the disaster he'd made out of you.

"Little messy, baby," he teased, smirking as he swiped the towel over his own lap, tucking himself back into his racing suit without shame. He balled up the towel — now clearly stained with streaks of white — and tossed it casually into the backseat.

You stared at it, mortified.

"Hwa—" you hissed, cheeks flaming. "You can't just—"

He grinned wider, unbothered. "The mechanics'll clean it. They won't care." He reached over, flicking your forehead playfully. "Besides... kinda like knowing my mess is all over this car."

You hid your face in your hands, groaning, and he just laughed again — low, rough, still riding the high of the win and the wickedness.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep, dusky purples and blues. The stadium lights cast long shadows across the garage as Seonghwa climbed out of the car, moving around to your side.

You opened the door yourself — or tried to — but your legs buckled immediately, still weak from how hard he'd used you.

Seonghwa caught you easily, one arm hooking under your knees, the other steadying your back.

"Still wobbly, angel?" he teased, voice low near your ear.

You buried your face in his shoulder, too embarrassed to answer.

With no effort at all, he lifted you up into his arms and carried you across the lot toward his other car — a sleek black one parked a little ways off.

He set you carefully into the passenger seat, brushing a kiss across your forehead, then your mouth, soft and grounding.

"I'll be right back," he promised. "Don’t move."

You nodded dumbly, heart thudding as you watched him jog back across the lot toward his pit crew.

The fans were still screaming his name beyond the fence. Seonghwa raised a hand, casually waving at them — that cocky, dangerous smirk still tugging at his mouth.

You could see his crew gathering around, clapping him on the back, handing him a heavy silver trophy.

One of the mechanics — a young guy with grease on his sleeves — caught sight of the towel Seonghwa had tossed into the racecar.

He burst out laughing, nudging one of the others and whispering something that made them all snicker.

Seonghwa just laughed along, completely shameless, grabbing the trophy and slinging it over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

But then A different figure broke away from the shadows near the loading docks.

Minjun.

And he wasn’t alone.. a few of his cronies trailing behind him like a pack of hyenas.

Seonghwa stiffened when he spotted them, but didn’t break stride, just kept walking toward you.

Until Minjun stepped directly into his path.

"Congrats on the win, Park," Minjun drawled, fake-friendly.

Seonghwa didn't answer. His jaw flexed once — dangerously — but he kept walking, eyes locked on you, waiting patiently in the car.

Minjun fell into step beside him, chuckling darkly.

"Tell me," he murmured under his breath, voice dripping with venom. "Did you have little Y/N riding you while you raced?"

Seonghwa stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned to face Minjun fully — body language pure, lethal, calm.

Without a word, he slammed his fist into Minjun’s jaw — a brutal, savage hit that dropped him to the concrete with a satisfying crack.

The crew scattered instantly, a few of them cursing and backing away, clearly wanting no part in it.

Minjun groaned, spitting blood onto the ground.

Seonghwa crouched low, grabbing the front of his jacket and hauling him up to eye level.

Voice low, razor-sharp, he whispered:

"Next time you say her name with that mouth, I'll break your jaw so bad you’ll be sipping through a straw for the rest of your fucking life."

Minjun gurgled something unintelligible, his hands scrambling to push Seonghwa off.

Seonghwa shoved him back down hard, standing tall and dangerous as Minjun's crew scrambled to pull him away.

"Come back, you cowards!" Minjun bellowed as his lackeys bolted toward the lot exit, leaving him cursing and bleeding alone.

Seonghwa didn’t even spare him another glance.

He just turned on his heel, wiped the blood from his knuckles on his jacket, and headed back toward you.

When he slid into the driver’s seat beside you, he was breathing hard — chest rising and falling under the open collar of his jacket.

You blinked, taking in the sweat, the new streak of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"...Hwa," you sighed, exasperated, spotting the crimson stain smudged across the sleeve of his jacket.

He followed your gaze, then just smirked — that same devil-may-care grin he always wore after he wrecked someone for you.

"You should see the other guy," he said casually, buckling his seatbelt with a little grunt of effort.

You rolled your eyes hard, but your heart twisted painfully in your chest — because under all that reckless bravado, you knew why he did it. Why he always did it.

Seonghwa turned the ignition, the engine of the black car purring to life, and threw an arm casually over the back of your seat, looking both ways before pulling out.

"You know," he said after a beat, glancing over at you with a crooked grin, "one day you're gonna realize... I'd tear down the whole goddamn world if it meant keeping you safe."

The night swallowed you both whole as he drove you away — the city lights blurring past, the blood on his hands cooling — But the fire between you never fades.

[seriousturd]

The emotional assassination attempt was successful URRGHHH

could you draw nick and ellis sleeping in? they deserve a break from all those zombies lol (i’m in love with your art style)

Accidental sleeping counts?

[dentixvoxel]

me, finally launching forza: lalalalalalalala anxiety isn't real, im gonna be a car

[almostwisegalaxy]

Where she sees me

Yeon si-eun x fem reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

Bus 23, late afternoon. The sky hung heavy and gray, as if the city was holding its breath. Raindrops pounded the metal roof, a crescendo of dull beats. Yeon Si-eun, backpack on, shirt immaculate despite the humidity, stood still—rigid, frozen like a sculpture rain could never erode.

And she was there. For several weeks now. Same stop. Same silence. Y/N. Always sitting in the same spot on the bench, shoulders drawn in, fingers intertwined, staring at an imaginary point ahead to avoid all human presence.

He’d noticed her on the second day. Not because she stood out—she never sought to be seen—but because she had a quiet, constant presence. He’d watched her from the corner of his eye, never too long, never enough to betray interest. But he saw her. Every day. And soon, he began to search for her with his eyes the moment he left school. He hadn’t told anyone.

Except Su-ho. Because Su-ho saw everything.

"You’re scary, man. You look at her like you’re trying to solve an unsolvable equation."

Yeon Si-eun hadn’t answered. Because he didn’t have the words. Because Y/N escaped him. Like a recurring dream whose meaning always slipped away. He just knew she worked. Every evening, without exception. She always looked exhausted, like fatigue was stitched into her skin. She never carried a backpack. Never any sign of school. She lived a different reality.

That day, the rain fell harder. Passersby ran, umbrellas open like shields. But not Si-eun. He stood there, unmoving. He hadn’t brought an umbrella. He hadn’t expected the downpour. He could have run to the bus. But he stayed. Near her. As always.

Then she stood up. Slowly. Walked over. He didn’t move. And she raised her umbrella over his head. No words. Just that gesture. Then she handed him the umbrella. He wanted to speak, to refuse, but she had already slipped it into his hand. Then she walked off, soaked, leaving behind a deafening silence.

Su-ho had seen everything, of course.

"Tell me that’s not love. The guy’s on the verge of a stroke over an umbrella."

He had laughed. Loud. And Si-eun had looked away, slightly blushing, unable to respond. Because something had shifted inside him that day. Not a lightning strike. Not a tidal wave. More like a slow crack in his wall of control. He had never felt this. That soft burn. That need to understand her. To get close.

But he still hadn’t spoken to Y/N.

Days passed. He kept the umbrella in his locker, like a talisman. And he kept watching her, endlessly. Same bench, same weariness on her face. He imagined her days. Work. Exhaustion. She hadn’t chosen an easy path. And him? He fought in alleys and rooftops, armed with pens. He felt dirty. Unworthy of her.

"You know, you don’t need to recite her a poem. Just sit next to her."

That was Su-ho’s plan.

In the bus, as crowded as every evening, Su-ho suddenly stood up with suspicious speed, giving his seat to Si-eun—right next to Y/N. No warning.

Si-eun froze. Literally. Back stiff. Ears red. Y/N glanced up, surprised, but said nothing. Silence settled over them like a lead weight. Su-ho, two seats over, was watching with a wide, mischievous grin.

"Don’t sit there like a robot! Relax your shoulders, man!"

Y/N turned her head slightly. Si-eun tried to sit up straighter. Failed. He caught her gaze for a fraction of a second before jerking his head so fast he banged it against the window. Su-ho burst out laughing.

"Did you see that?! He’s gonna give himself a concussion just to avoid eye contact!"

Y/N had smiled faintly. And Si-eun felt swallowed whole by that smile. He wanted to say something. But the words were still trapped.

In the following days, he sat more naturally. Always next to her. One day, he pulled out a small handkerchief and handed it to her when she sneezed. She took it, almost surprised. Then she said:

"Thank you."

A soft voice, tired. But it was the first time he heard her.

And the silences grew denser, more charged. As if they held all the words they couldn’t say.

Then came the fight. Violent. Si-eun’s face was bloody, clothes torn, knuckles burning. He hadn’t seen her coming onto the bus. He climbed on without thinking, eyes blank. Passengers avoided him like an open wound.

But not her.

She got on too.

He wanted to get up, to flee, to hide. But she sat beside him. And without a word, she pulled out a tissue and gently wiped the blood from his cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to breathe. He wanted to cry. Scream. He felt ashamed, miserable. But she didn’t run. She was there.

And that’s when he understood. This wasn’t an obsession. It wasn’t fascination. It was love. Raw. Intense. Silent, but vast. Something beyond him, draining all strategy, all planning.

That day, he said:

"You shouldn’t see me like this."

She simply replied:

"But... I see you."

And that was enough.

Later, he told Su-ho about the scene, omitting the most tender details. But Su-ho understood.

"You’re done for, man."

And he was right. Because from that moment on, Y/N was in every heartbeat. In every fight plan. In every silence of his day. She wasn’t just the girl at the bus stop anymore. She had become his peace. His fixed point in the chaos.

And even if he kept fighting. Even if he bled. He knew that, somewhere, Y/N saw him. And as long as she stayed, he’d hold on.

He’d hold on for her.

And for the first time, Yeon Si-eun wanted a future. Even a blurry, uncertain one. As long as it had Y/N in it.

..................................................................................

[eclipixels]

Jude

Character: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rin Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Rensuke Kunigami, Kenyu Yukimiya, Sae Itoshi, Ryusei Shidou, Michael Kaiser

Content: Blue Lock boys react...to you liking Jude Bellingham

Yoichi Isagi

      You’re cuddled up on the couch, phone in hand, when Isagi glances over your shoulder. He freezes when he sees the Jude Bellingham edit you just liked, saved, and reposted on tiktok.

      "Wait… you reposted that?" he asks, tone dangerously neutral.

      You nod absentmindedly, not noticing his sharp pout. "Yeah, the edit was sick and he looked fine as hell."

      Isagi sits up, suddenly needing space between you two. "Oh, cool. No, no, it’s totally fine. It’s not like I play soccer too or anything," he says, crossing his arms.

      You bite back a laugh at his sulking. "Ichi, are you jealous?"

      "Me? Jealous?" He scoffs. "Of a guy who doesn’t even know you exist? No way." But he refuses to cuddle you for the next hour, stealing glances at his own edits on youtube shorts to reassure himself. The ones on youtube were all made by his teenage fanboys to Brazilian phonk music. Was it phonk or funk? You always forgot the difference.

Meguru Bachira

      Bachira is perched beside you, humming softly, when he notices the repost. His eyes widened dramatically.

      "Jude Bellingham?" He gasps. "You have a crush on Jude Bellingham?"

      You blink at him. "I just liked the edit—"

      Before you can explain, he dramatically flops onto the floor. "I thought I was your number one football star!" he wails, rolling away from you in fake agony.

      "Meg—"

      "No, don't touch me!" he sniffs. Then, he peeks up. "Unless you're gonna repost a cool edit of me instead."

      You sigh. "Ugh, fine."

      He beams, immediately climbing back onto the couch. "You better repost one that uses my best goals! Also, make sure it has some cool effects—oh! And make me look really fast! Chigiri called me slow yesterday for asking if mirrors work in the dark."

      “Baby, mirrors reflect light. That’s literally their whole thing." You laugh at him.

      “Yeah, yeah I got all that explained to me already.” Bachira pouted. This is what happens when a bunch of teens drop out in the middle of their high school career to play soccer.

Hyoma Chigiri

      Chigiri raises an eyebrow when he sees the repost. "Jude Bellingham?" His voice is calm, but you can feel the judgment.

      "Don’t start," you warn, knowing that tone.

      He tilts his head, crimson hair falling over his shoulder. "I just didn’t realize you liked midfielders so much. I thought you were into forwards."

      You roll your eyes. "Hyo, it's just an edit—"

      He sighs dramatically, standing up. "No no, I get it."

      "You're being ridiculous."

      "Am I?" He flips his hair and walks off. Five minutes later, you hear him watching his own highlights on repeat.

      “Speed.. I am speed.” You hear Lightning McQueen’s voice over a Beyonce song. What’s worse is you knew exactly which edit of himself your princess boyfriend was watching.

Rin Itoshi

      Rin glares at your phone. "You reposted that?"

      You barely glance up. "Yeah, so?"

      "So?" His voice is dangerously low. "Why don’t you repost my edits?"

      You freeze. "That's why you're mad?"

      He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. "I outplay guys like him daily. And yet, here you are, simping over some random Premier League guy."

      "He's not random—"

      "Oh, so now you're defending him?" Rin huffs. "Unbelievable."

      He goes completely silent, scrolling aggressively through his phone. Later, you find out he sent you every highlight reel of himself with the caption ‘Repost this instead.’

Seishiro Nagi

      Nagi, half-asleep in your lap, peeks at your screen and immediately sighs. "Haaah? That guy again?"

      You blink. "What do you mean ‘again’?"

      "I see his edits everywhere." Nagi pouts. "And now my own girlfriend is thirsting over him?"

      "I'm not thirsting—"

      "Hmph." He dramatically rolls off your lap onto the bed, lying face down. "Wake me up when you start appreciating me properly."

      "You want me to repost your videos?"

      "...Maaaybe."

      So you do, and he immediately perks up, pulling you back into a cuddle like nothing happened.

Reo Mikage

      Reo sees the edit and gasps. "Babe. Seriously?"

      You blink. "What?"

      "What?" he repeats, hand to his chest like you’ve personally betrayed him. "I literally fund your entire soccer fan experience. Who pays for your ESPN subscription? Me. Who takes you to VIP matches? Me. Who is your actual soccer playing boyfriend? Me!"

      You hold back a laugh. "Are you saying I should only repost you?"

      "Exactly." He crosses his arms. "If you're gonna simp over a player, it better be your own rich, talented, and incredibly handsome boyfriend."

      "I guess you do have a point.” You mumbled before spam reposting edits of him until he was satisfied.

Rensuke Kunigami

      Kunigami glances at your phone and raises an eyebrow. "Really? Jude Bellingham?"

      You shrug. "He's cool."

      Kunigami scoffs. "I'm cool."

      "You are," you agree easily, but he's already frowning.

      "I just don’t get it," he mutters, crossing his arms. "I play just as physically as him. My goals are just as powerful. But no, he gets reposted."

      "Rensuke," you groan. "You're seriously upset over this?"

      "I'm not upset," he says, but the way he's aggressively scrolling through football clips of himself suggests otherwise.

      Later that day, you find him in the gym, training even harder. You’re pretty sure he’s trying to outdo Bellingham now.

Kenyu Yukimiya

      Yukimiya’s first instinct when he sees the repost? He slides into your DMs like he’s a stranger.

      @kenyu_official: So, Bellingham, huh?

      You squint at the notification, then glance over at your boyfriend, who’s currently sitting across from you on the bed, clearly sulking.

      "You’re texting me from across the table?" you say, amused.

      Yukimiya sips his water, tilting his head. "Well, since you seem to be in love with him now, I figured I should keep my distance."

      You roll your eyes playfully. “Kenyu, seriously?”

      He leans back in bed, dramatically running a hand through his hair.

      "I just didn’t realize I had competition. Should I start playing midfield instead of forward?"

      You stand up, walking around the table to sit beside him. “There’s no competition, Kenyu.” You press a kiss to his cheek. “I only have eyes for you.”

      He sighs, finally smiling. "You better. I don't share."

Sae Itoshi

      Sae barely reacts at first. His attention is focused elsewhere, absorbed in his own thoughts. The air around him feels calm, almost too calm, as he scrolls through his phone. Then, without looking up, he casually mutters.

      "I’ve played against Bellingham before. He’s alright." His voice is indifferent, almost as if he's making a random observation rather than sharing a rare experience.

      You snort, unable to hold it in. "Oh my god, you’re jealous."

      "No," he replies immediately, not missing a beat, but his eyes flicker ever so slightly, betraying a hint of something deeper.

      "Yes," you say, sure of yourself now, leaning back with a teasing grin. He exhales, looking at his phone with an almost exaggerated air of disinterest.

      "Just saying," he begins, as though he’s offering some kind of wisdom, "You have a world-class footballer right here, and that’s who you repost?"

      You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. "You want me to repost you?"

      He remains expressionless, his usual cool composure creeping back in.

      You glance at his face for a moment. Then, after a beat of thought, you unlock your phone, and with a dramatic flourish, repost a bunch of his videos.

Ryusei Shidou

      Shidou sees the repost and immediately grabs your phone.

      "The hell is this?"

      "An edit—hey, give that back!"

      He scowls at the screen. "This is what you’re into?"

      "He’s just a pretty good soccer player!"

      "Yeah? Then I’m scoring a hat trick in the next game, and you’re gonna repost an edit of me," he declares. "With better music."

      You roll your eyes. "Fine."

      He grins. "Good. Now, gimme a kiss to prove I’m still your favorite."

Michael Kaiser

      Kaiser isn’t worried.

      At least, that’s what he tells himself, until he sees the edit in your reposts. His usual arrogance wavers for just a second.

      "A Bundesliga player, huh?" he hums, recalling when Jude played for Borussia Dortmund at just seventeen years of age. He had to admit, it was really impressive.

      You nod, scrolling through your phone. "Yeah, Bellingham is insane."

      Kaiser leans in closer, whispering in your ear, "Not as insane as me, though."

      Before you can reply, he grabs your phone, deletes the repost, and replaces it with an edit of himself.

      You stare at your screen, bewildered. "Michael, did you just—"

      He smirks, kissing your cheek. "You made a mistake. Don’t worry, I fixed it for you."

      You roll your eyes. "You’re so dramatic."

      "No, no," he says smoothly, wrapping an arm around your waist. "You’re just confused about who the superior player is."

      You sigh. "Whatever you say, delulu man."

      Kaiser grins. "And yet, here you are, still in love with me."