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merryfortune · 1 day ago

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Even Villains Can Come First

Written for the Year of the OTP 2025 event

July Prompts: Vacation Together | “I like my [blank], the way I like my coffee.” | Kidfic | Mutual Masturbation | Dehumanisation

Title: Even Villains Can Come First

Ship: Respectfulshipping | Ryoken/Spectre

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains

Word Count: 9,979

Rating: T

Warning: None

Tags: Alternate Universe - Uma Musume (Fusion), Kemonomimi, Animal Traits, Mentor/Mentee Relationship, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Dating, Bathing Together, Fluff

“Now remember,” Ryoken said, brusque, his arms folded, “we are not here to vacation. We are here to win.”

Spectre hummed and nodded with a serious expression on his face. His horse ears flapped in the inertia and he looked out to the beautiful race track. The skies were wide open, not a cloud to be seen against a pristine and sparkling blue. The grass was firm with little give, the blades of grass were freshly mown and a hearty, verdant green.

Now, Spectre was a dirt enthusiast with a proficiency in medium races as a specialist in late surging. The long, long turf laid out in front of him was not, as a result of this combination of specific traits, going to make it easy for him to race on but it was a challenge that he was going to rise to regardless. It was different but Spectre was thrilled at the opportunity to fully carve out his name as a racer and leave a mark in the annals of racing history.

If he was so fortunate.

And it was possible that he would not be.

The last three years had become a whirlwind. Long, hard days of training and then the races themselves were blink and miss it. Plenty of memories made, some sweet and others sour. All of it brought Spectre to the final frontier of the Twinkle Series.

Spectre had done well at debut. He had been overlooked at first, he didn’t have the stage presence or flashiness of some of his rivals but he soon proved himself to be a formidable duelist out on the tracks. He had crushed his opponents with ruthless, near humiliating displays of power and yes, jerkassery. Spectre was not above poor sportsmanship as he rarely got along with other Horse People. He became known as a villain but he didn’t mind, whatever worked in the end and helped him attain victory.

Well, it seemed like karma had other plans in store for him. His ruthless victories came to a screeching halt. After his spectacular debut in the first season, his appearances in the following second and third seasons became few and far between. He wasn’t at the bottom of the barrel but nowhere near close enough to the top of the pack.

That stung worse than any hit to his reputation that Spectre could have taken but Ryoken, his trainer, had faith in him. He helped to guide and mentor Spectre through these rough patches and now they were finally here, at the Arima Kinen.

Though it was just one sleep away. This was just the preview.

They left the track and what was left of their day was a tough one to have. The gravity and prestige of the event daunted them. Travel had knocked them about with all the usual bumps and bruises that came with hauling luggage and getting fidgety on the train. Still, it gave them some time to read and strategise so it wasn't a total time loss. Especially against the scenery of the countryside rolling by, it gave Spectre peace that he didn’t have at the hotel.

In the total darkness of his hotel room, head to the pillow, curtains drawn closed tightly, all Spectre could hear was unfamiliar sounds of the cityscape. It got on his nerves but it didn’t rattle him nearly as much as the unknown. So much could go wrong - or, heaven forbid, right - tomorrow and that harrowed him as he rolled in bed this way and then that way. He couldn’t get comfortable but eventually, his mind gave out and he got his eight hours.

As fitful as they were when he could usually count on them to be like a log. In the morning, it was all routine. Brushing his teeth and his hair, his tail, too, and putting on his racing gear. When he met Ryoken for breakfast, it was purely like normal but there was something different.

There was a subtle yet unusual keenness in Ryoken’s eyes. A glint. Spectre steeled himself. He had to do well for Ryoken. Conversely, Ryoken had to do well for Spectre, too.

He escorted him to the track again and they were signed in. Already, there were hundreds of people in the grandstands. The grounds were a flurry of activity: totally different to the day before when it had only been racers checking out the competition in advance.

They made their way to the backstage areas at the recommendations of staff. Spectre nodded and Ryoken double checked they had everything that they needed. Water bottles, the right lanyards or other passes, everything.

Like many other race courses, the backstage area was more of the same. It was comfortable and cosy if a little plain, cheery yellow walls with orange trims and white ceilings, linoleum flooring and the permanent smell of hairspray.

Spectre sipped some water whilst Ryoken checked his costume one last time before he headed out to the green. He made sure that nothing would get caught in an aerodynamically unpleasing way. After all, costumes were built for spectacle first and function second. Even Spectre’s which was relatively tame compared to some of his fellow competitors with his white blazer and match trousers. Ruffled as they may be.

Once satisfied that nothing would get caught, Ryoken put his hands on his hips and Spectre’s mood darkened. He was usually pretty good at hiding what he felt but this time was different. He had qualified for the Arima Kinen by the skin of his teeth and it showed in how troubled he was.

A grimace, a lack of sparkle in his blue eyes. That simply would not do for Ryoken and it was his duty as trainer to give a well to do pep talk. He smiled and talked more at the Spectre in the mirror than the one seated in the chair in front of it.

“You’ve got this.” Ryoken affirmed Spectre.

He placed his hands either side of Spectre’s head. They sank into Spectre’s shoulders and he gave him something of a massage. Not a proper one but enough to take Spectre’s mind off of the anxiety of the huge race in front of him.

“You’ve worked hard, you’ve earned your place here all the same as all these second gens and pampered princes and princesses.” Ryoken added.

Spectre huffed.

Gee, thanks. That was exactly what he needed to be reminded of just before a race of this scale and grandeur. He knew Ryoken meant it in a good way, that there was a scrap of motivation to be found in the hardships that Spectre intimately knew but that wasn’t quite the case. If anything, it compounded what stirred in the bottom of his gut with terrible nausea.

Unlike most Horse People, Spectre had no known lineage or legacy. Prior to arriving at Tracen Academy, he had never met another Horse Person before. He may as well have come from nowhere, sprouted up and out of the ground. He had been found abandoned near an orphanage and was taken in but Horse Children were quite different to regular children.

Physiologically and more.

Spectre was bullied for being different. His tail was fun and easy to tug and yank, his ears were strange. The other children were mean and he wasn’t much better. He turned nasty when pranked and so, ostracised himself from the other children in care alongside him.

Though, the care that he received from the orphanage staff was entirely lacklustre. It wasn’t straight neglect but given his nature, he needed so much more attention and resources than the other children. He ate more, he played more, all on account of his equine features. It was a toxic combination that left him a chip on his shoulder.

Of course, some trainers would say that was a good thing. Too much prestige left for big cleats to fill and some second generations simply couldn’t live up to it. Being rough around the edges gave him the advantage of being an outsider, the motivation of something to prove but Spectre would have rathered at least a crumb of community.

He wanted to feel wanted. Needed. That’s why he raced.

Spectre wanted to put his troubled childhood behind him and race towards a more glorious future but he only found more of the same when he finally got his acceptance letter from the faraway school of Trace Academy. He met more Horse People. He raced lengths that he never knew he had in him. It was just a shame that his personality made him difficult and prickly.

But Ryoken had looked past that. He saw potential that no one else did. He came fourth during his maiden race. It had been stacked with so many grand rookies and Spectre catastrophised. He simply couldn’t compete.

Yet it was Ryoken, and only Ryoken, who looked at him twice - and with a smile, no less.

Spectre couldn’t believe his luck at who he had impressed enough to be scouted by. The Kogami Ryoken, son of master and veteran trainer Kogami Kiyoshi. He was a rookie with infinite promise with such a patrilineal line as his and he wanted Spectre of all racers.

This was a move which earned them both ire. Everyone wanted the privilege of such an excellent trainer and everyone wanted the privilege of an excellent racer. That was what dreams were made of and Spectre didn’t exactly seem up to scratch even though he had plenty to be motivated by and a good physicality about him with his square shoulders and long legs.

Ryoken, meanwhile, needed a good rookie to prove himself, too. It seemed like such a mismatch: a Horse Person from the sticks with no known parentage behind him and then someone with so much at stake. Of course there were going to be some nay-sayers, but Ryoken ignored them. He had so many choices to choose from but it was Spectre that he saw the best in and wanted as a partner going forward.

With a power hungry smile just like his father’s, Ryoken reached out and recognised Spectre’s thirst for acceptance through racing and that was why he chose Spectre at the debut because he knew that he could give Spectre that. It was a long road to even debut but it was worth it. Spectre got picked on and Ryoken was seen by his own peers as an eccentric. Surely it would be a mistake for two such as them to ally.

But they proved them all wrong. Their team up was exactly how dreams should be made. With Ryoken’s tutelage, Spectre smashed the second chance maiden race that was a couple days later from his initial first race.

If only such good fortune had lasted so long into the next two seasons… Still, they had come this far. That was the main thing: even if it was going to be go big or go home. If Spectre failed this race, the Academy would advise that he retire and that Ryoken moved onto a new trainee.

Something that neither wanted…

So, Spectre had better do more than just his best and Ryoken had complete faith in that charming smile of his.

“Regardless of what happens,” Ryoken told Spectre, “I’ll have no regrets. I hope you won’t either.”

Spectre hazarded a smile. He placed his hand over Ryoken’s on his shoulder.

“Me too.” Spectre replied. “If it's been at your side, I have no complaints. I can do this.”

Weakness and meekness in Spectre’s expression finally became resolve and determination. Ryoken couldn’t be happier at such a shift of transformation. Especially as the timing was so fortuitous. Over the loud speakers, it was the final curtain call.

Spectre and Ryoken said their goodbyes. Ryoken promised to cheer for Spectre as loud as he could from the green where trainers were allowed. Spectre nodded and they parted. He walked off alone and into the great outside.

The sun was shining. The skies were blue. The turf was firm and they were racing from the right hand side. These were all conditions that Spectre favoured but they were commonly adored by all Horse People. So that did him little good as he joined the hordes and his appearance caused a spark somewhere in the grandstands.

The microphone crackled to life again and sights were set on Spectre. He shivered. He didn’t like to be talked about: positively or negatively. Though, being in the middle wasn’t all that great either as his odds for the betting folks were commented upon.

“The eighth favourite is Spectre in gate number four… A contentious contestant, he will be one to watch.”

One to watch. The words echoed in Spectre’s head: it was a polite way of saying there was a chance, however, unlikely that he could win but it was far more expected that he would be trounced. Spectre had no idea if he could win the race. He wouldn’t know until he raced.

Admittedly, he didn’t feel great being placed where he was but he had nowhere else to go but forward, to find out and live in the moment. He glanced amongst the other racers who were all headed towards the starting line the same as him.

There were many familiar faces in the gates or trekking up towards them. He saw plenty of racers who recognised him and had him marked down as a threat, Horse People whom he had defeated previously like Blue Angel or had been defeated by like Playmaker.

Seeing them again was nervewracking. Their expressions were true and serious, a warning if his eyes wandered too much, however, as they all vied for the top spot. He knew he wasn’t welcome here. There wasn’t so much as a speck of friendliness to be had either side of him.

Spectre wasn’t sure how he felt about that. After all, he was being rightfully glowered at but he tried to not let the disdain for his racing style distract him. He looked ahead towards the silver gates that gleamed in the sunlight. He felt sweat on the back of his neck.

Spectre swallowed. He had prepared the best that he could. He gave his upper body one last stretch that was more performative than anything else. His ears flicked, his tail whipped around. He took a deep breath and savoured how his lungs inflated. He grit all his body and locked into his starting position.

One, two, three: a gunshot fired and the gates opened. Spectre burst through the gates. Metal clanged. Cleats hit the grass and tore up the dirt below. Spectre couldn’t have asked for a better launch.

He was unfettered, no late start. He immediately entered the zone in the pack where he wanted to be. He kept his eyes ahead, at the likes of Blue Angel and Playmaker. The former was a front runner and the latter was a pace chaser: both were going to duke it out with Spectre at the last corner if all went to plan but first.

He had to get to the first corner.

Cleats beat the earth hard with the sound of thunder. Breathing was done through the nose and out of the mouth but not a soul was out of breath just yet. So, it was oddly quiet whilst determined looks were shared amongst one another: gleaming, calculated. It was chilling.

The initial battle out of the gates was more about flashiness and power than anything practical. It was about getting the crowd excited and, of course, busting out the moves to give you the best opportunity. There was all focus, no time for a late start. It was time to lock in and fight hard.

Further down the turf, the pack had finally figured itself out: racers were where they wanted to be in their preferred positions. Spectre wanted to be on the outer swell. He crossed Blue Angel as she was getting ahead: not only did she want to be out in front, she wanted to be on the inside. Playmaker, who had been in an inside position, was now behind Spectre and the pack settled.

The next stretch of the turf was all about creating momentum. The fights petered out. No one wanted to waste energy uselessly. Spectre got in his own head. He ignored the names being spoken over the speaker system. He was hyper aware of his surroundings.

Of the racers around him but more importantly: the lengths that he was running. He was counting down. One hundred metres, and then another. He maintained a good pace so that he could accelerate at just the right time. He looked up. He felt the wind in his air and in his ears. His eyes keened. Now. He needed to turn and he changed angle as nimbly as he could.

The corner arrived. The white fencing bent to a circular shape and Spectre stuck to it. The pack took a shake up here. This was the first big challenge as the straight away fed into the curve. People lost their places, or found new ones. Spectre got lucky. He ended up a little further ahead than he wanted to be but not too much ahead that he would become a target.

But Spectre did find himself a little further ahead than usual. He was in about sixth by his counts and if he squinted ahead, he could see it: the finish line. No. He shouldn’t look that far. Stay focused. He scolded himself.

A kilometre remained to be conquered in this race and as such, this was where the fights would begin. Where fireworks would either be made, brilliant and dazzling, or be reduced to ephemeral embers. He kept running. Even as he bumped shoulders with other late surgers who thought that he was easy prey. He didn’t back down. He ran harder.

His lungs ached. His legs ached. But it felt good. He could feel a monster inside of him that wanted to come out. Spectre embraced the enormity of his desire for victory. He let it fuel him. He sped up. He trusted that his stamina could take him that far.

The racecourse trembled under the might of the racers. Their cleats tore through the turf and they surged through the air at breakneck speeds. The next three hundred metres was easy. Spectre lost himself to the rhythm. It was steady. He was exactly where he needed to because the crescendo was coming up.

The last seven hundred metres was where strategies were going to change and already, Spectre could see the crashing and burning of front runners who were out of their league. He passed two of them by and ahead, he saw the frilly skirt and fluffy wings of the only Blue Angel. She was the last survivor of her fellow front runners and she was going to give up.

Spectre nodded. He took note of that. He ramped up. He passed by the flailing front runners and now found himself mingling with the pace chasers. He exhaled sharply. It had been a while since he had been this close to the front. Another six hundred metres.

The battles for dominance were beginning. Soulburner, a prominent and dominant force on the field, was going as competitive as he could: blocking other racers, pounding the grass as best as he could. He was in third place. Spectre was fought back by his prowess ahead of him and behind him there was yet more forecity crazed by the competitions. The late surgers and end closers weren’t going to be lay down and die. Not in the most important race in any of their lives.

Spectre wasn’t going down without swinging either. He kept running. He tried to edge out past where his comfort zone and fought the pace changers for the enviable positions. The numbers changed constantly as the turf was run on, all rough and tough.

It kept Spectre gnashing at the champ but when he glanced behind himself, to check on the rest of the competition, he saw the favourite: Playmaker.

Clad in latex in the spring heat, sweat on his brow, Playmaker was an enigma. He was comfortable running in any position and this time, he had chosen to play the role of an end closer for him to be getting closer and closer.

He was in it to win it.

Spectre kept ahead. The finishing line was getting closer. Bigger. Its ornaments sparkled in the sun. Spectre breathed deep and let his lungs inflate to their full capacity. His endurance would be tested.

Playmaker passed him by. His velocity increased. He passed by Soulburner. Playmaker was pure determination as he kept his head down and went for the sprint. Spectre glanced around. One minute, Playmaker had been boxed and now it was him. But who cares? He gave chase.

Spectre passed by other racers and he kept going. There was an immense length between either him or Blue Angel but he saw them the best out of the last few people ahead of him. Aside from them, it was all green grass and blue skies. The commentary came out at a rapid fire pace.

“Blue Angel is out in first, Playmaker is in second, Soulburner is in third but, what’s this? Spectre isn’t giving up in fourth!”

Spectre’s ears tingled. The crackliness of the speaker system had to be lying but he could only see three racers ahead of him. He had no choice but to believe and then an actual choice in how he could react to this news – and more importantly, the last five hundred metres of the race.

A crazy thought dawned on Spectre.

He could make it. He could cross the finishing line and at a far more impressive number than a tinny fourth place. And even if he didn’t, or couldn’t, why the hell not put up a fight which would make the crowd go wild.

He had to make Ryoken proud. He wanted to prove that he had been worthy all this time of being a Kogami trained Horse Person.

Spectre decided it within the beat of the pounding cleats and his own heart. He was going to come first.

The sight of the homestretch filled him with haste. He forced his body to go further. Go harder. He felt a burn up the length of his legs. His arms cut through the air. The slipstream that he found himself inside of was intense: he was racing the best of the best and Spectre was determined to be one of them.

So, it was time to fight.

The top three were a huge clash. They were neck and neck. He was a good length behind them but he was catching up and he had to choose a target. As he looked at how they went up against one another – shoulder to shoulder – there was only one good answer: Soulburner.

Playmaker was in the middle of two rivals and Blue Angel was specifically fighting him off. It was almost like an alliance. If the two could work in tandem, knowingly or not, then they would make it to the top two. So, Spectre dug his cleats in and left a hoot print in his wake.

He didn’t tackle Soulburner. That would be against the rules. Though it was tempting, Spectre resisted but he did insert himself into that trio. He shoved his way in and he ran with all the power that he could muster.

He relished the surprised look on Soulburner’s face as he had, all of a sudden, someone up his clacker. Soulburner’s reaction had a ripple, too. It twigged immediately for Blue Angel and Playmaker: Spectre was as much a rival right now as a blessing in disguise. If he kept Soulburner busy long enough but he didn’t.

Spectre set his sights higher.

He passed Soulburner. It was, perhaps, the most difficult pass of his career so far. Soulburner was fearsome. He came out of nowhere in the second season and his maiden debut blazed an impressive trail. He was fit, at the peak of his fitness, a bit more compact and stocky with an emphasis on strength and power but Spectre prevailed.

His legs were longer. He could reach farther. This little quirk of their differences served Spectre well as he got ahead. And then by another length. He heard a growl of frustration behind him but in front of him? There was only two hundred metres. A blink of an eye.

And two rivals ahead.

Spectre kept going. The adrenaline hit. He was in third place. He could secure third place but when he closed his eyes against the sun, he saw the image of his beloved Trainer. He had to get first.

He ran and met the front lead duo.

It was almost like a return to form. If the stakes weren’t so high, it was almost like a do over of their maiden debut three years ago. They had been the top three then and they would be again here but this time, Spectre would claim the trophy for himself.

As he recalled that loss from his past, his nostrils flared. The beating of his heart sped up. In the blink of an eye, he moved forward and found himself in the mingle of the most heated fight of the race. Its crescendo, its climax.

Blue Angel and Playmaker were fierce competitors. This was the biggest race of the year and both were plenty motivated. It was difficult but Spectre managed to come between them. They were a tight cluster as they moved along the supple turf of the race course, along the line of the white fencing.

They were boxed together and Blue Angel did not like that one bit. She was a front runner. She adored the scenery from the front, unconfined from the pack and creating a dominant lead so her prowess as a racer of all kinds wouldn’t be doubted.

This caused panic. Or fluster. Either worked and either way, Blue Angel simply didn’t have what it takes to create yet another league of distance between her and competitors like she had the rest of the race. Front runners suffered from this hubris constantly and at best, she sprang forth with a metre’s burst but even leaving Playmaker and Spectre neck and neck in her dust wasn’t enough.

They pushed on through and Blue Angel was surpassed.

But she went down swinging. Naturally.

Spectre ran forward but he could feel Blue Angel close behind him. All the same as he was close to Playmaker.

Every step that he ran was a step that Blue Angel gained on him. Her glare was immense: enough pressure to crack diamonds so Spectre looked ahead. Albeit daunted by the silhouette of Playmaker.

Playmaker was an unexpected candidate similar to himself. Alone, from nowhere, unknown parentage. Quite the difference to the generational darling like Blue Angel whose mother was tragically lost in the prime of her own racing career.

Even so, to surmount Playmaker, it was going to be a battle. Especially with the last one hundred metres of the long Arima Kinen under their feet.

What came next was luck. Or maybe hard work. Spectre couldn’t tell but he didn’t want to be left behind by someone he saw as a true personal rival. They were mirrors. Similar backgrounds and yet, what they took from those backgrounds and how they projected it into the future was so different.

Playmaker was infamously undefeated after all.

But Spectre had to try.

He put one foot in front of the other. His hands squeezed tight until his knuckles turned white. He dripped with sweat. He stank. The wind whipped up around him. It cut his skin, his eyes. Somewhere in it all, the determination and the passion, the adrenaline, his vision blurred.

All he saw, all he cared about it went beyond the obstacle in front of him: Playmaker’s pointy shoulders, his jaunty belt, his boots. It became the full girth of the monument at the finishing line. The Arima Kinen’s banner, its flowers and its sleek advertisements.

That’s all he cared about. If he wanted to get ahead, he had to push aside all intimidation and terror that the mere sight of Playmaker could provoke. He was the better racer. He was far more loved and adored. It came down to a hair as they battled it out all whilst not acknowledging one another despite the constancy of the other’s physicality.

The smell. The sound. It was all encompassing and yet turned to nothing amid the tunnel vision. Spectre pushed back against Playmaker. Playmaker pushed back against Spectre. The turf track underneath them had so little give as inch by inch, metre by metre, it began to disappear as they got closer and closer. Until only one could win.

The climax of the race was hard fought. Spectre couldn’t take it. It was a brutal back and forth where he and Playmaker surged forward towards the other side where glory laid.

From this angle, the black sign board that marked the finishing line was flat and thin. The decorations of the wintry theme giving way to spring were non-existent but those chrysanthemum flowers were burnt into Spectre’s mind. He would see them again, he was sure.

There were three seconds left on the clock to make it over that grand finale. Spectre grit his teeth and he was running on fumes. He couldn’t lie. His body hurt. His pride was battered from previous losses. He was up against the best of the best and yet. He found one last boost inside of him and when he blinked…

It was over.

They passed by the finishing line. Energy gave out. Breathing was ragged and gave Spectre a stitch in all honestly. His running turned to jogging in. Cameras flashed and dazzled from the other side of the fencing. The crowd roared. Spectre was puzzled by it. He wasn’t sure what had happened: just that he had finished the race but nothing more. Nothing less.

Surely it had to be for Playmaker, right?

Yet when Spectre glanced towards the winners’ circle, Ryoken was there. He whooped and hollered. He overflowed with pride and cheer. Spectre blinked. His surroundings which were alien to him in the blur of the race’s conclusion finally began to make sense for him. He turned around, he waved hello, he looked up.

Spectre’s heart soared as he looked up and saw the digital sign board on the edge of the race course light up with the results. His name was at the top.

His ears rang and droned with blood. He could hardly parse the staticky microphone as it was his name announced over and over again to countless cheers. He looked around. He couldn’t believe it. He, the villain of the generation, was loved and adored for his racing.

But there was only one voice that Spectre cared to hear, one set of eyes upon him and the applause that followed. Ryoken. All he wanted was Ryoken and the congratulations that Ryoken could bestow. His eyes watered with disbelief as they bounced through the crowd as he looked for Ryoken amid the sea of other trainers rife with all kinds of emotions and there.

Finally, Spectre saw Ryoken and his smile split ever wider across his face. Ryoken jumped the fence and ran to meet Spectre at the end of the green. Ryoken extended his hand and Spectre grabbed it.

Together they took the hugest bow of either of their careers. The applause only intensified from there and when they drew back, Spectre got pats on the back from racers whom he thought regarded him as an enemy but now. Their eyes were soft, their words genuine.

“You did well out there.” Playmaker said.

“I’ll get you next time.” Blue Angel playfully poked out her tongue.

Spectre laughed. He was endeared by the ways his rivals showed their affection for him. He thanked them both graciously and he realised it now. He did belong here. He felt his heart swell as the epiphany settled in. He truly did have a spot amongst the best of the best of their generation. Sure, he was the heel but he could be well behaved and he paid his dues.

There was plenty of chatter after over the sound system. The thrill of a first place victory was only one of the spoils of a win after all. There was plenty more to do, to look forward to. The speaker was quick to remind the crowd and racers. Not to mention, the paparazzi and other kinds of journalists all wanted the scoop on the golden trio.

Spectre, alongside Playmaker and Blue Angel, were corralled and their trainers trailed after them and they were brought to a small stage for flash photography and Q and A. The winner’s circle was plastered with all kinds of logos and other insignias.

The race’s coordinator stood at the side with trophies to hand out. They were put on the podium in first, second, and third and told to stand as still as statues. Though the instruction was at odds as they had all kinds of questions hurled at them. Most of it was fluff and easy to answer through a smile faked for the cameras.

Answering the questions was the hardest, and most painful, part but it took them all of fifteen minutes. If that. There was so much to do, so much excitement after all. It made the time fly by.

But the climax of the after race event was the gifting of the trophies. Blue Angel in third, Playmaker in second, and then… Spectre in first.

His fingers slid along the smooth gold plating of the trophy and through the curls of its vine inspired arms. It was a tall vase with a solid bottom, mounted on dark wood. He gripped it proudly at its top and thanked the coordinator for the honour to have even raced, let alone to have won and received the trophy. Playmaker gave him a pleased look as he left, seemingly okay with having lost despite having been the number one favourite.

He lifted it triumphantly for one last photo opportunity. Its red and white ribbons dangled above his face, half obscuring his proud smile and the colouration caught the glint of the sun – and all the others cameras. Spectre held the position until Ryoken gave him the okay, his time to bask in the glory was up but Spectre was by no means complaining. He knew better than to overstay his welcome.

Spectre sighed in relief when he was finally able to get off his number one perch. His heart quaked his chest and he had to apply his hand to his breast in the vain hope of calming it. He was never truly good at being the centre of attention but it's what he wanted, right?

He’d spent his childhood neglected and ignored, made fun of for being a Horse Person. Of course he would come out craving fame as he grew into his traits and honed his skill at racing but then again. Maybe all he wanted was to make a certain person proud and when he caught up with Ryoken again after all the buzz and fanfare, Spectre’s racing heart finally quelled.

At the edge of the podium, Ryoken roped Spectre closer to take him away, “Let’s get you washed up and ready.” he said.

“Heh, thanks.” Spectre replied.

He sounded more run ragged from the interview and accolades than the actual race. Ryoken was proud of him, though. Spectre knew he had put up a food fight and an even better show, he was eloquent and that would hopefully take him far in the press run.

Ryoken put his arm around Spectre and hugged him on the shoulders. Spectre squeezed himself, it was still a pinch me moment, it seemed. He let Ryoken guide him from the podium with all its sponsored stickers to the backstage area from this cheerful position.

Down a hallway and to the left, they were in their designated changing room once more. It felt good to be backstage again. It gave them some privacy to strategise and truly celebrate. The concert would be later, once the racers had showered and freshened up for the idol crowd. That gave them about an hour or so to re-do make-up and iron out any wrinkles in blouses or trousers.

But for the winner and the trainer, it also afforded them a little bit of privacy to truly relish their victory.

“I couldn’t have done this with you.” Spectre gushed.

“It’s been my pleasure.” Ryoken replied.

Spectre smiled giddily. He was free with his emotions, for once. He didn’t exactly wear them on a sleeve and when he did, there was a level of curation and intentional theatricality but not. He let himself be happy, be giddy and he was ugly with it. A wonky smile, squeezed shoulders and more as he had so much to say.

So much to be thankful for.

The past three years had been relentless with every day being a new day to train, win, or fail and now. The rest of their lives were at their feet. It was monumental. They had done it against all odds and Spectre was over the moon.

He could feel so much pressure on the inside of his heart and it wanted so badly to get out. He looked deeply into Ryoken’s eyes and Ryoken didn’t have a speck of sweat on him under his trainer’s visor and in his cool, wicked polo shirt. But he had still put so much back breaking work into research, coordination, and more.

Spectre really, truly could not have done this without the careful consideration of his trainer and he was all about to burst with that gratitude. So, he spat it out. At long last. The feelings that had been building for so long in each and every afternoon out on the field or morning spent in front of mirrors to rehearse dance moves.

“Thank you for choosing me.” Spectre said. and his eyes watered. “I love you.”

He bent over at the waist at a perfect ninety degree angle. Ryoken was taken aback but it was more than Spectre’s action which had him in disbelief. It was his words. That was quite a weighty thing to say and he must have realised. Every hair in his tail behind him stood at end as he slowly reared back.

His hands moved to cover his mouth. His face was flushed slightly pink.

“I mean it.” he whispered. “I love you. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for choosing me.”

The three sentiments intertwined to become a holy trio of core tenets for Spectre. Ryoken knew well how much depth they represented for Spectre and he softened.

“I feel the same.” Ryoken told him quietly. He offered his hand. “I love you, too.”

Spectre shyly smiled as he unhid from behind his hands. His right hand met Ryoken’s and they locked palms in a firm handshake. Their fingers intertwined.

“Let’s celebrate somewhere. Just the two of us.” Ryoken suggested.

“Tomorrow. Let’s go somewhere- oh, do you still have it? The hot springs ticket…?”

Ryoken blinked and got embarrassed. Spectre felt salacious for even suggesting it.

“I do.” Ryoken replied.

“Then, let’s go,” Spectre said, “but first,” his determination flared, “I have to give my all at the concert tonight. Just know… When I sing, it's for you and no one else.”

“I know.” Ryoken told him.

He stepped back and let Spectre continue to get ready but he was all abuzz with brand new feelings. It wasn’t necessarily uncommon for Trainers and Horse People to fall in love but it wasn’t always advisable either. Still, they had the future at their feet and what was ahead of them seemed bright and inspiring.

It was exactly those emotions that Spectre channeled for his performance that night.

Spectre stood in the position zero: the perfect middle of the stage. The curtains were drawn tight but the spotlights’ edge managed to meet him under the heavy fabric. He took a breath in the dark and upon his exhale, the music started and the curtains were pulled apart.

The concert began.

Spectre firmed his hand so it wouldn’t tremble as he held his microphone. His other hand extended outwards, following the swell of the music and he sang. There was only one song prepared for occasions such as these: a ballad of hard work and schooling, of aiming for the top. He was a racing legend and to become heir to such legacies allowed Spectre to cast aside all inhibitions.

He let himself feel the flow of it all. He had worked as hard as anyone and now, he finally had it: victory, the centre stage, all attention on him. It was exhilarating and he let those emotions fill his lungs as his words projected out and he truly did mean it.

Every word spoken, every dance move struck: Spectre was perfect, on time, exactly as rehearsed. He had the time of his life up there on stage and he saw out to countless people, holding penlights and banners. He loved it and he made sure to nail the final lines. Nonsensical as they may seem but Umapyoi Legend was a classic nonetheless.

“Boom, bang, I love you, I’ll perform again!” Spectre sang.

His chest ached as he used all his breath for it but it felt good. Endorphins flooded through him as the music faded and he held his finishing pose with Playmaker and Blue Angel by his side.

He glanced between them and this kind of silly song wasn’t Playmaker’s style but Blue Angel was lapping it up. What an unusual trio they made as the gold, silver, and bronze racers. Regardless, it meant a lot to Spectre and he looked out over the crowd as the music ended.

Not that he could tell. The roar of the crowd was so loud and boisterous. They basked in the celebration of their entertainment and battled a plea for encores but no can do. Not allowed. But did it matter? They had all had fun after all.

The curtains flapped about and were trotted out once more. The concert was over. Spectre couldn’t believe it. It was a concert of a singular song, after all, but it still felt like it was too short and yet, in complete contradiction, an eternity. The memories that he made on that stage, in his idol outfit and surrounded by Horse Persons just like him, would be forever.

The crowd sang with them and applauded raucously. They got their flowers, their confetti, and then it was over. The curtains closed and the racers were permitted to leave the stage. They left in an orderly fashion, left to right and those nearest to the edge first.

Spectre didn’t mind. It gave him time to linger. He was glad that he did as it gave him and Ryoken a tiny bit of privacy once they were able to link up backstage. They walked into the downstairs area that the wings fed into, side by side and had the catch up that they had been dying to have.

The concert had been nothing less than spectacular and Ryoken was going to make sure that Spectre knew.

“You were amazing.” Ryoken gushed.

He swerved from the side of the wooden staircase and to sweep Spectre up in a huge hug. There was a small problem with that but Ryoken did his best. He tried, and failed, to lift Spectre off his feet but it didn’t exactly work. Spectre laughed awkwardly as Ryoken gave up and let go.

“Haha, oops.” Ryoken mumbled.

“It’s okay, I appreciate the enthusiasm.” Spectre replied. His ears twitched, his tail swished.

He stood there, demurely, unable to meet Ryoken’s gaze as he held his own hands. His heart thudded in his chest. It truly felt like there was a time and a place for their unravelling affections and as Ryoken reached out, Spectre realised that time and place may as well be now, in the wings.

With all the props and backdrops from other performances, with the drone of the finale and any other wrapping up of the concert that the racecourse staff had to do. Sure, it wasn’t exactly private or even that romantic. Compared to the lavish front of house that the audience saw, the behind the scenes was dusty and clunky but it didn’t seem to matter much to either of them. As long as they were alone together, that was more than enough for them to both to discuss the emotions which had been bubbling up in the last half an hour or so.

Ryoken took a breath and he smiled, radiant as the spotlight. “I felt it. Like you said I would. Every word of love, of gratitude in your song. I felt it.” His praise for Spectre was nothing less than splendid.

Spectre’s heart fluttered, “I’m glad.”

He fidgetted slightly and he felt an urge well up inside of him. Ryoken was all he could think of during that song and it felt like the perfect way to end the day before they headed back to the hotel. The love confession, the serenade, all that was left was…

Spectre stepped forward. His hands came apart like a metal loop puzzle. He smiled and he took Ryoken’s hand. Unlike Ryoken, he had no problem whatsoever to lift him up and twirl them around. He was nervous but Ryoken’s eyes were fun loving, encouraging.

Spectre picked him up and gave him a spin. His tail ragged in the inertia of the twirl and he set Ryoken down closer to the wall. He placed his hand on the wall and he leaned in.

“I’m glad you felt it,” Spectre murmured, “since meeting you, all I’ve wanted was to make you proud. May I…?”

His voice trailed off. A fragrance of mint lingered on his lips and Ryoken sealed it with a kiss. He got up on his tip toes and his lips met Spectre’s. He may. Spectre kissed back hard. His ears curled in against his head and his tail jittered with all his nerves but it was a good kiss.

Ryoken placed his hand on Spectre’s breast and his other hand took Spectre’s. They held each other firmly, and kissed each other with the passion that had built up over the past three years. It was cathartic. It was pure and ardent, with love in each caress of their lips against one another.

Spectre felt his blood thrum in his lips. His heart was beating out of his chest. This felt better than winning, better than singing for over a hundred thousand fans. He smiled into it. Their fingers intertwined.

Their kiss could have lasted an eternity and in a way, it did. The same way that racing took forever and yet was over in the blink of an eye, or even how a concert was so much hard work and then over and done with in an instant. But the music didn’t quite stop, nor the insatiability of their connection.

They let go only when they had to breathe again and afterwards, they were blushing virgins. Naughty. Gone too far over the smallest things. Spectre smiled and they let go of each other. Slowly. Their lips drew back, their fingers disentangled.

“Let’s go home.” Ryoken suggested, a frog in his throat.

“Mm, I’m tired.” Spectre replied. “I think I’ll sleep well tonight.”

“Me too.” Ryoken agreed.

In separate rooms, no less. But they went home together, to the hotel, nonetheless and were out like lights as soon as they arrived. It had been a huge day. So much had happened but they would cherish this first day of the rest of their lives forever.

The next day, they checked out of the hotel and took the first train out of the city so they could go to the hot springs inn that they had won tickets for. It seemed picture book perfect in hindsight to be able to cap off their business with such extraordinarily lucky pleasure.

Ryoken organised their room on the way and though there was enough in the coupon they had won for two, he knew that he and Spectre didn’t need the separate rooms anymore. The inn was more than happy to oblige and the two of them couldn’t be more thankful. Especially upon arrival, the information packet and what they found online couldn’t sing its praises high enough.

The inn was tucked away into the nook of a mountainous area. It wasn’t too high up nor too close to the ground, giving it luscious curves along the road and plenty of mossy rocks to overlook. The grass was a pale green and had a far more untamed quality compared to what Spectre would run on.

The inn itself was a traditional style ryokan with pale wood walls and dark, tiled roofing. Its hot springs were behind it in a tiled area which was fenced off by bamboo. It had plenty of leafy decorations, too, and other tasteful furnishings that evoked years gone by.

Ryoken and Spectre hauled their luggage up by foot and it was well past noon when they finally arrived. It was good training though and ergo count towards Spectre’s growth. He couldn’t get slack just because he had the Arima Kinen under his belt. There were plenty more titles to chase but for now, it was time to relax.

Ryoken was given their key and they found their room behind door number four. There was a kotatsu in the middle of the room and a vase of flowers behind it. The furnishings were rustic and charming with a subtle personality which gave the aura of warmth but all they wanted to know was the warmth of the hot springs.

A bath before dinner seemed like it would go down a treat. Whilst Spectre got changed into the provided bath robes, Ryoken queued up some room service to greet them when they got out. After that, it was his turn to get changed and find their way to the outdoor area where the springs resided.

Though the first stop through the fabric flags which marked the differences of the gendered baths was the showers. It was a small area which was outside, technically, though under an awning.

Ryoken glanced between the different faucets and then to Spectre, “So, um,” he folded his arms and felt awkward suggesting it and yet, he found just enough courage to ask, “would you like me to wash your back? Before we go in?”

“Ah, yes, please, since- since you're suggesting it.” Spectre replied.

They were, officially, together after all. Isn’t that what typically followed a love confession?

Spectre, for one, wasn’t sure when his feelings for Ryoken began to develop. Probably immediately. Ryoken was the first person to see any kind of promise or potential in him: it meant a great deal to an abandoned foal to be chosen, after all.

That caused the occasional squabble or conflict. He didn’t know how far was too far. The butterflies in his stomach, the sweaty palms, or knees that knocked. All the symptoms of a crush was there but he couldn’t let it distract him from the importance at stake, the various races and afternoons spent in training.

Through the lens of knowing now that Ryoken had felt the same way, Spectre reflected differently on moments where he knew his own crush lingered a little too long. A brush of their hands, sharing food, the little things like that. Little things like this, too.

Skinship between Horse Person and Trainer could be important. Trainers were first port and call if the Horse Person had taken a fall or fumble before going to the infirmary to confirm a sprain or similar ill condition. Spectre had been touched, and even massaged, plenty but all previous boundaries seemed to take upon a new face in this instance.

Ryoken was awkward. It was though he didn’t know what he was doing. He was being too gentle, too, which got under Spectre’s skin. He was tough. He didn’t need the gloves on approach to being scrubbed but at the same time, it was kind of sweet.

Ryoken took his time. He went up and down with perfectly executed intent. The feel of the loofah was scratchy against Spectre’s skin, his tail flicked whenever it got too much but Ryoken didn’t mind too much. He just kept going until Spectre’s skin was all but polished like marble, streaky with soap and sparkling with cleanliness.

Then, in equal turn, Spectre washed Ryoken’s back and he understood it better now. The affirmation that overflowed, how his eyes lingered at each notch of Ryoken’s spine, the freckles never noticed before and so on and so forth. The expanse of Ryoken’s bare back was quite salacious, actually, as it glistened with the shower water.

And such delight for sore eyes only increased when it was time to actually enter the bath. Now fully prepped and showered, the two entered the water: step by step down the stone and then settled in the pool. It came up and over their chests, it was impressively deep and the stone was worn smooth from use.

Steam wafted up through the scent of jasmine and watered down sulfur. Ryoken tipped back his head and let it rest on the ledge. Spectre smiled to himself as he luxuriated in the absolute opulence of the hot springs atmosphere. It drained him of all tension that had been building up in his body over the past three years and reduced him to almost a puddle.

“It feels so good…” Spectre mumbled.

“Mm, relax, you deserve it for that win.” Ryoken replied.

“Thanks.” Spectre smiled.

He sank a little deeper into the water, until the meniscus reached his chin. He glanced sideways towards Ryoken. He felt a little braver and yet all the more nervous. Spectre inched towards Ryoken along the curve of the rounded pool, until he was next to Ryoken and he leaned into him.

Spectre rested his head on Ryoken’s shoulder. Ryoken prickled, he lifted his head up slightly so he could see Spectre and just how happy he was nestled in.

“Just don’t fall asleep.” Ryoken mumbled.

“I’ll try not to.” Spectre replied.

He counted the steady beats of Ryoken’s heart. He could hear it as he cuddled in. He closed his eyes and let the closeness lull him to not quite sleep but to yet another level of deeper relaxation.

They stayed like that, in the water, for another ten or so minutes. They made idle conversation but mostly appreciated the comfort of each other – and the serenity – in silence. It was peaceful but they were pruned by the end of it.

Ryoken suggested it first that they get out and get ready for dinner. Spectre couldn’t agree more and the growl of his belly only served to solidify his stance. As embarrassing as it was.

So they got out, dried off and got into the bath robes again. They made their way back and it was somewhat good timing as they passed by other guests on their way to the baths so it was wonderful to have had some alone time. Also on the note of good timing was that when they returned to their room, they saw a member of the inn’s staff, either a kitchen hand or maid, leaving the vicinity of their door.

She pushed along a cart now emptied and on the other side of their door was a muted aroma of fresh, warm food. It seemed their food had arrived and was now waiting for them. Neither Ryoken nor Spectre could come inside quick enough, let alone get changed into their pyjamas.

But they managed.

They returned to the kotatsu in comfy clothes and knelt down by it. They pushed aside the blanket so they could sit. It was plenty warm without as they uncovered the various cloches over the table one by one. Each one revealed a gourmet delight underneath.

There were all the humble favourites such as fluffy rice, crisp and sour pickles, and fried chicken. Bowls of miso soup and chopped up cucumbers but some extravagant extras, too, such as a plate of lobster and other seafood. They had quite the feast in front of them and their mouths watered.

“Where do we start?” Ryoken asked, his eyes were alight with gluttony.

“With gratitude for our food, perhaps?” Spectre jokingly suggested.

Ryoken laughed as he picked up his chopsticks, “Ah. Good point. Thank you for the food, kindly kitchen staff.”

Spectre bowed his head and mumbled a chorus of more or less what Ryoken said. Then, it was the more impatient prayer of two-four-six-eight dig in and don’t wait. They shared the food between each other, using up all their plates and cutlery and oh, it was marvelous.

The seafood was soft and succulent, the flesh off the fish or out of the shell of the lobster melted in the mouth. The rice, though plain and unflavoured, had been cooked to perfection and matched well with anything that could be placed atop of it. The pickles were sharp and flavourful, masterfully seasoned and devoured with vigour.

Then, it was all washed down with freshly brewed green tea. The flavour was delicate and dainty, the water used had been infused with various minerals, too, for an extra bonus of health. It made it a little less traditional than most green teas but it went down a treat regardless.

Over the course of the next hour, the two were able to demolish the mountains of food that they had ordered. Spectre ate the most out of the two of them: victory and its thrill made him starving, even the next day after and, of course, due to his Horse Person physiology. Ryoken didn’t even have a hope to compete and he was somewhat a big eater himself.

“We did well.” Ryoken remarked as he looked over the various empty plates. “Shall we get dessert? Perhaps sesame ice-cream or would you prefer a jelly?”

“Both.” Spectre replied, chirpy.

Ryoken chuffed, “Of course. You’ve earned.”

“We both have.” Spectre said. “I told you already. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Spectre’s eyes turned fond. He and Ryoken held a steady gaze. There was so much to say, so much to be thankful for and yet, words escaped them. Perhaps they weren’t truly necessary and yet, Spectre found a quip to bring up what they accomplished in the last forty-eight hours. He turned a little sheepish, he turned away from the sustained gaze and blushed ever so slightly.

“I know you said that we weren’t here for leisure but…” Spectre’s voice trailed off. “I think we might have failed that. I don’t mind though.”

“Neither do I, funnily enough.” Ryoken replied.

His eyes were fond and Spectre’s heart skipped a beat. At Spectre’s hint, Ryoken lifted his glass of orange juice. He smiled.

“To us.” Ryoken suggested.

“To us.” Spectre affirmed.

He did the same, albeit with his carrot juice. He reached across the spread of what remained of their favourite foods and met the lip of Ryoken’s glass with a kiss from his own. Their gaze held steady. To them: to more victories that prove that even the villains can come first. Sometimes, at the very least.

#yotp 2025 #respectfulshipping #yugioh #vrains #yugioh vrains #spectre (vrains)#kogami ryoken #ryoken kogami #writing tag #even villains can come first #wow 10k of horseboy spectre upon ye

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