#Crash Game Script

[swagging-back-to]

nah honestly it's hard for me to NOT have hope for the sims 4. im still holding out hope that there will be pack refreshes and that they'll actually listen and deliver on what we've demanded for years.

i was forced to stop playing in 2015 because i lost the cd and i didnt have a computer that could run it. I only started playing again in 2023. coming back to see how many improvements had been made was insane. actually mindblowing.

things i never even considered being added to the game were a reality.

when i stopped playing the game there werent dlcs AT ALL yet. to come back to have 80 something???? unreal.

and even since ive been playing again, so many new features have come out that have been revolutionary. the apply all button in cas, the tattoo features, curved pools, not to mention all of the recent packs have been bangers.

And this is just a small portion of revolutionary changes yall

until the sims team announces they are not longer going to update the game or release new content for it, i am always going to have hope it will be improved.

[juspeczyk]

>get up

>shower

>get dressed

>come back to the kitchen for some breakfast as i go through the stages of grief trying to plan when i'll get groceries

>there's fucjing Children Here. Already

[yamitheyin]

me taking over 5 hours in programming a cutscene into a uty mod i know nobody is gonna play

[simsreaper]

Poison lost her strawberry bushes, but she has more to plant

[krunnuy]

Top Features to Include in Your CSGO Crash Script

Learn the top features to include in your CSGO crash script to create a competitive and engaging platform. Explore elements like provably fair systems, social integration, and monetization strategies to build a scalable and secure CSGO crash game script.

[ni4lovesu]

s/o scenarios to script ⊹ ｡ﾟ･

୨ PREDATING EDITION ୧

— it's winter and they're waiting for you inside in the warmth so as you step inside and meet them you place your hands on their cheeks so they can "feel how cold they are"

— flirting and the tension between the two of you being palpable

— them telling you a love song you adore reminds them of you and getting that fluttery feeling in your chest

— them teasing you and you jokingly turn to walk away but they grab your hand and pull you flusteringly close

— you notice something in their hair and, without warning, gently remove it, leaving them flustered and blushing

— stargazing and you both turn to look at each other at the same time, your faces just inches apart

— them being afraid of heights but they try to be brave to go on a rollercoaster with you and you can tell they’re nervous so you hold their hand the whole ride

— lying on their bed listening to music together and gazing into each other’s eyes before realising what you’re doing and getting flustered

— getting super excited after winning a game and impulsively hug and kiss them on the cheek, leaving them dazed and blushing

— comparing your hand sizes

— them getting jealous seeing how much you interact with other guys during an event. later, while you’re talking with your future s/o, a male friend of yours walks by and says something to you, but you just give a hum of acknowledgment to them, never tearing your eyes away from your future s/o

— surprising them from behind and linking your arm through theirs

— the two of you ditching school but as you’re sneaking out a teacher catches you. you both take off running, laughing, and holding hands, stealing glances at the teacher struggling to keep up

— you (half jokingly) flirting with them and getting really close to their face so they pull your beanie over your eyes so you don’t see their crimson blush

— them asking you to say something in your native/second language and saying “my heart belongs to you” in that language but refusing to tell them what it meant

— having nicknames for each other that only the both of you call each other

— them picking a flower and putting it behind your ear

— sparks when your skins brush

— getting forced into 7 minutes in heaven together and the both of you leaving the closet blushing furiously

— you and your s/o walking together as they push your bicycle, fresh flowers nestled in the basket at the front. the ground is scattered with fallen blossoms, and petals drift gently from the trees, surrounding the both of you

— them seeing you from afar and getting super nervous and trying to fix their hair and look nice for you

— being surrounded by a crowd of people and finding your bodies practically pressed against each other

— them trying to hide their smile everytime you do something cute

— “and less than 20 feet away from me was ___. MY ___. with ___. she’s laughing. what was she laughing about? how could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?”

— them dragging their friend to spy on your date and them eventually getting so jealous they resort to shamelessly crashing your date

— falling asleep on their shoulder and their whole face getting incredibly red as they try their best not to freak out or move

— accidentally touching their hand when you go to sit next to them and the both of you getting nervous

— studying together and them pretending not to know almost every single question and asking you to explain just so that they could hear your voice

— you getting drunk and them taking care of you and making sure you get into bed safely

— sharing milkshakes together and your faces getting a bit too close in proximity

— their friends asking them if they wanted to go to an event and they initially say no but when they realise you’re going they immediately change their minds

— both of you being in a group and you talking and after that your friends tell you that your future s/o looked like they were about kiss you

— hugs and eye contact which last a bit too long

— your friends forcing the both of you on a ferris wheel and you end up getting stuck at the top for 30 whole minutes

[ilovejb]

| Scene one |

Pairings : Florence Pugh x female!reader

Summary : You met her on set, somewhere between long days and quiet looks. It wasn’t part of the script, but it felt real — slow, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

Warnings : Florence being a tease ? Lots of teasing

Authors note : 3k words, I have become way too obsessed with flo

You weren’t even supposed to be in Thunderbolts.

Originally, your role was a small one — a two-scene cameo as a morally gray anti-hero with sharp knives and a sharper tongue. But after the chemistry test with Florence Pugh, something shifted. The room crackled. The director coughed awkwardly and scribbled something in his notebook. Two weeks later, your agent called you, breathless.

“You’ve been upgraded,” she said. “Big time.”

You landed a full supporting role, which meant months of filming… with Florence.

God help you.

Florence Pugh was magnetic in person. She moved like she knew every eye was on her — and she liked it. But she wasn’t arrogant. No. She was playful. Teasing. Mischievous in a way that made your pulse tick just a bit faster every time she smiled in your direction.

Which was often.

“You always look so serious,” she told you one day between takes, her Yelena wig slightly askew, a lollipop between her lips. “Is that your villain face? Or are you just trying not to flirt with me?”

You nearly choked on your water. “Is it that obvious?”

She winked. “A little.”

It was a game from that point on. A maddening, sweet, slow game. She’d lean just a bit too close while reading lines, her breath brushing your cheek. You’d catch her watching you during fight training, head tilted, eyes thoughtful. You once caught her recording a slow-mo video of you flipping your stunt knife — she claimed it was “for reference,” but the smirk on her lips said otherwise.

You started teasing back, naturally.

“Careful, Pugh,” you whispered during one particularly intense scene rehearsal, your face inches from hers. “You keep looking at me like that and people will think you’re in love.”

She arched an eyebrow, unbothered. “Let them.”

You couldn’t tell if it was flirting anymore, or just her natural Florence-ness. Either way, it drove you wild. But it wasn’t until the last week of shooting that something actually shifted.

You were in your trailer, half out of costume, when she knocked — then walked in without waiting.

“Sorry,” she said, grinning as her eyes roamed over you. “Didn’t realize wardrobe was optional in here.”

“Florence.”

“What?” she laughed, perching on the couch like she owned it. “Just came to say goodbye before you wrapped for the day. Unless you wanted to run that last scene again. The one where you pin me to the wall?”

Your cheeks flamed. She knew exactly what she was doing.

You crossed your arms. “You are absolutely impossible.”

“Mm,” she hummed, standing slowly. She walked over, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to keep your eyes on hers. “You like it.”

She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t have to. The tension between you both was a string pulled taut, vibrating with every inch of space that wasn’t quite filled.

That night, she texted you:

Goodbye scenes are overrated. Want to do dinner instead? Just you. Just me. Just… us?

The day they filmed the rooftop scene was the worst.

Not because it was cold. Not because you were bruised from a week of stunts. But because Florence Pugh was pressed up against you, panting, flushed, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to you — and you still weren’t allowed to kiss her.

In the scene, your character saves Yelena from a sniper. You crash behind a vent, her body half under yours, her fingers twisted in your jacket.

It was supposed to last ten seconds.

It took four takes.

“Sorry,” Florence said between the second and third take, voice low as she smoothed her hand down your chest. “I keep getting distracted.”

You stared at her, your face inches from hers. “By what?”

She grinned. “You.”

You made it through the scene, barely. When the director finally called cut, you stood up too fast and muttered something about needing air.

Florence didn’t follow. But when you got back to your trailer, there was a post-it note on your mirror.

Still thinking about the way you looked at me when I said “thanks for saving my ass.” Let me know if you want to rehearse that part. Alone.

You stared at the note for too long.

Later that night, you replied with a photo — the scene’s script page, her line circled in red, your handwriting underneath:

Anytime. I’ll always have your back. And maybe your ass, too.

Her response came five minutes later.

That was smooth. I’m proud. Still want to rehearse? I promise to be very professional. Until I’m not.

Over the next few days, it escalated.

During lunch, she stole fries from your plate with slow eye contact and said, “You don’t mind sharing, right?”

You shrugged, fighting a smile. “Only if you feed me one too.”

She did. Slowly.

During combat training, she pinned you to the mat and whispered, “I win.”

You rolled her over in one move, face barely a breath from hers. “You sure about that?”

You saw it in her eyes then — the pause, the flicker, the something behind the playfulness. Like she was thinking the same thing you were:

This was no longer just a game.

But no one made a move.

Until the wrap party.

You’d both made it through the final day of filming. Hugs were passed around. The cast danced, drinks flowed, and somewhere between the bad karaoke and the champagne, you found her on the balcony, barefoot, holding a half-finished cocktail.

“Cold?” you asked, offering your jacket.

She let you put it around her shoulders, tugging it tighter. “Only a little.”

“Nice party,” you said.

“Nice job surviving a movie with me.”

You smiled. “Barely.”

There was a quiet between you. Not uncomfortable — more like the silence right before thunder rolls in.

“You were the best part of this film,” she said softly, eyes locked on yours. “And not just on camera.”

Your throat tightened. “You too.”

She stepped closer.

“Are we still playing the game?” she asked, voice like velvet.

You met her gaze. “Do you want to be?”

She shook her head slowly. “Not anymore.”

You leaned in. Not a kiss, not yet — just your forehead resting gently against hers.

“Then stop me,” you whispered, “if I’m wrong about this.”

She didn’t.

Her fingers slipped into your hair, and you finally kissed her — slow, warm, and so full of everything you’d both been holding back.

You didn’t expect her to stay the night.

You kissed her on that balcony — slow, searching, a little dizzy with the realization that it wasn’t just tension or chemistry or a well-rehearsed scene. It was real. She was real. And when she pulled away, she didn’t let go. Not even a little.

She held your hand the whole Uber ride home.

And when you opened the door to your apartment, she followed without asking.

“I probably shouldn’t,” she said, toes nudging off her shoes, fingers brushing your wrist. “I’ll stay if you ask.”

“I want you to stay,” you told her. “No games.”

She smiled. “No games.”

That night, you didn’t sleep much — not for the reasons most people would assume. You lay tangled up in each other, whispering things you should’ve said weeks ago. She played with your fingers in the dark. You traced circles on her back. She kept falling asleep mid-sentence, then jerking awake to finish it.

It was soft.

It was perfect.

It was the beginning of everything.

Months later, she was still there — Florence, in your space like she’d always belonged.

She stole your t-shirts, left half-drunk cups of tea on the counter, and kissed you with ridiculous intensity in the morning, even when your breath was awful and your hair stuck up in seventeen directions.

You made her laugh so hard once she choked on cereal. She got you back by blasting Taylor Swift in the shower and dramatically serenading you through the curtain.

Life with her wasn’t glamorous or wild — not most days. It was warm. Domestic. Good.

But there were moments.

Like now.

You were lying on the couch, her legs stretched across your lap. A bowl of popcorn rested between you, long forgotten, because Florence was snuggled against your side wearing your hoodie — and nothing else — and she was doing that thing she did where she kissed your neck in slow, innocent intervals that were absolutely not innocent.

“Flor,” you warned, barely breathing. “You’re distracting me.”

“I know,” she murmured, voice low and amused. “That’s the point.”

You tilted your head to look at her. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet you adore me.”

You kissed the tip of her nose. “Unfortunately.”

She smiled, smug and beautiful and way too pleased with herself. “You know the Thunderbolts premiere is in three days, right?”

You groaned. “Don’t remind me. Red carpets. Public attention. You in that dress that’s probably going to kill me.”

“Oh?” she said, feigning innocence. “You’ve already seen it?”

“No,” you admitted, covering your face dramatically. “But I know. I’ve seen the fittings. The smirk you get when you like what you’re wearing. I’m doomed.”

She shifted on top of you, straddling your hips, arms loosely around your shoulders. “What if I wear something extra hot just for you?”

You swallowed hard.

“Florence.”

“Yes?”

“You’re evil.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against your ear. “You love it.”

You didn’t deny it.

You were not prepared.

You thought you were.

You’d seen the dress at her final fitting — dark, sculpted, slit high enough to be illegal in at least three countries. But it was nothing compared to this. Compared to Florence walking the red carpet like she owned the planet, confident and calm and sexy as hell — like she didn’t know your brain was melting inside your skull.

Except she totally knew.

Because when she saw you — tucked near the press line, trying your best to blend in — she locked eyes with you and smirked.

It was criminal.

You stared. She winked. And just to really drive it home, she turned back toward the cameras, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and posed. Legs. Waist. That backless moment. You were dead.

A handler nudged you. “You okay?”

You blinked. “No. I’m not okay. I need a cold shower and possibly medical attention.”

The premiere rolled on — interviews, flashing lights, fans screaming her name. But your eyes were glued to her. You watched her laugh with castmates, sign posters, take selfies. She looked so alive. So herself. And also like she might actually be the hottest woman alive.

When she finally made her way over to you during a lull in interviews, you gave her a look.

“You’re evil,” you said.

“Hi, baby,” she grinned, sliding her arm around your waist like she hadn’t just destroyed your soul ten minutes ago. “Like the dress?”

You scoffed. “You know I like the dress. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past hour. I almost fainted when you turned around.”

“Really?” she said, mock-surprised. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve done a little spin.”

You groaned. “Don’t tempt me.”

She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear. “I wore this for you.”

You were sweating.

“You’re so mean to me,” you whispered.

She kissed your cheek — just there, gentle and lingering — and said, “You love it.”

After the movie (which you barely survived — between her fight scenes, those smug grins, and the way she said your character’s name in one particular scene like it was a sin), the two of you snuck out early to avoid the chaos.

You made it back to the hotel suite in a blur. And then?

Then she laughed at you.

“You were literally squirming in your seat.”

“I was not,” you lied, eyes wide.

“You whimpered when I pinned someone to the floor.”

“Okay, that happened once!”

She took off her earrings slowly, deliberately. “You like me dangerous, huh?”

You stared. “Florence.”

“Yes, love?”

“Stop undressing like that unless you want me to do something about it.”

She smiled — wide, soft, pleased. Then she walked over, took your hand, and guided it to the zipper of her dress.

“I definitely want you to do something about it.”

Your breath caught.

But instead of going further, she kissed you sweetly — forehead first, then nose, then lips. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingers warm against your skin, but she didn’t rush. She never rushed with you. She just teased — featherlight touches, smiles against your mouth, a low “I missed you” that made your stomach twist in the best way.

“I want to ruin you,” she whispered, playfully, her voice like silk.

“Romantically or emotionally?” you murmured back, dazed.

She kissed you again. “Both.”

You woke up tangled in her.

There was light filtering in through the curtains — soft, pale, golden — but you didn’t dare move. Florence was curled against your chest, hair a little wild, lips parted, one bare leg thrown over yours like a sleepy octopus.

You were warm in every possible way.

Her cheek was pressed to your collarbone. You could feel her breathing — slow, deep, safe. You ran your fingers gently up and down her spine, watching her nose twitch like a cat in a dream.

God, you were in trouble.

You’d never been this soft for anyone. Never felt this quiet. Like your heart wasn’t just beating — it was resting in her presence.

Eventually, she stirred.

“Mm,” she mumbled, eyes still shut. “Why’re you awake? That’s illegal.”

“I’m admiring you,” you whispered.

“That’s worse,” she said, groggy. “You’re making me feel feelings before coffee.”

“You always have feelings,” you teased. “You just pretend they’re sarcasm.”

She cracked one eye open. “Don’t call me out like that.”

You kissed her hair. “You were incredible last night.”

“I know,” she muttered into your chest. “I was there. I saw myself on screen, remember?”

“No,” you laughed. “I mean — yes, the movie. You were ridiculously hot. I think I passed out somewhere during the third fight scene. But I meant after. With me. The way you looked at me. The way you — I don’t know. Made me feel.”

She went quiet. Then she pulled back, barely, just enough to meet your gaze.

“You felt that too?”

“I’ve been feeling it since the rooftop scene,” you admitted. “When I was trying really hard not to kiss you.”

Her smile was slow, sleepy, and a little shy — a rare thing for her. “I wanted you to. Back then. I kept hoping you’d break and just do it.”

“I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered, brushing your cheek. “You made it better.”

There was a pause. A soft hush. A heartbeat shared in silence.

Then—

“I love you,” you almost said.

But she beat you to it.

“I’m in love with you,” she said, quiet but clear.

Your heart stopped. And then raced.

You cupped her face, kissed her once — firm and sure and full of something so big it hurt.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered.

And that was it. No fireworks. No dramatic score. Just two people, wrapped in a blanket, clinging to each other like the world outside didn’t exist. You didn’t need anything else.

Until—

Her stomach growled.

Florence blinked. “Okay. I love you, but I also love pancakes. Which do I get first?”

You grinned. “If you play your cards right, both.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how exactly do I earn that?”

You kissed her collarbone. “By staying mine. Forever.”

Her smile softened. “Deal.”

“Okay, Florence,” the interviewer said, smiling slyly, “we have to ask. Fans are kind of… losing their minds over your red carpet chemistry with a certain co-star.”

Florence tilted her head, all innocent charm. “Oh? Which one?”

“You know exactly who.”

She laughed — not denying it, not even pretending.

“Well,” she said, crossing her legs like she wasn’t a walking smirk, “they’re pretty easy to have chemistry with. I mean, have you seen them?”

The host leaned in, clearly invested. “So, the dating rumors. Can we confirm or deny?”

Florence smiled sweetly into the camera. “Let’s just say I’m very well-fed, emotionally and… otherwise.”

The host gasped.

The internet exploded.

You, watching from backstage with your coffee half-spilled down your front, facepalmed so hard you might’ve bruised.

Later, when she got off stage and saw your face, she just grinned.

“Too much?” she asked.

You blinked. “You literally flirted with me through a national broadcast.”

“And you’re welcome,” she said, stealing your coffee and sipping it like she hadn’t just committed war crimes against your self-control.

That night, back in your shared apartment, you found her curled on the couch in your favorite hoodie (again), hair up in a messy bun, glasses slightly askew, scrolling through TikToks of herself.

“Are you watching your own interviews?” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yep,” she said without shame. “I’m hilarious. Also, did you see how many edits people made of us?”

You walked over, slid onto the couch beside her, and tugged her into your arms.

“I saw,” you murmured into her shoulder. “I also saw someone call me ‘the luckiest human alive.’ I think I agree.”

She looked at you, cheeks pink, a little sheepish now. “You’re not mad I said all that on camera?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m mad you didn’t say more. Like, tell them how you make me pancakes in heart shapes and how you hog the duvet but always end up wrapped around me anyway.”

Florence laughed, nudging your nose with hers. “Fine. I’ll give them the full report next time.”

You kissed her forehead. “Promise?”

She reached behind her neck and unhooked a delicate chain — one with a tiny silver thunderbolt charm — and placed it in your palm.

“Promise,” she said softly. “But this one’s just for you.”

You stared at the charm. At her.

“What is this?” you whispered.

“A symbol,” she said. “For everything we survived. For the movie. For how we started. For the fact that even after all the teasing and chaos, I still choose you. Every time.”

Your throat tightened. You pulled her in, held her like she was the most fragile thing you’d ever touched — and maybe the strongest too.

“I love you,” you said into her hair.

She smiled. “I know. I love you more.”

And somewhere between the thunder and the soft things, you realized you didn’t need a wedding or a spotlight or the world’s approval to feel whole.

You had her.

And that was enough.

Always.

[melshifting]

(un)necessary extras to script p.2!

#01～ Your size is always in stock when you buy clothes. You don't have to search through racks, or be disappointed: the perfect size is always waiting for you.

#02～ When listening to music on shuffle, your playlist always seems to know exactly what song you need to hear next.

#03～ Your laces never untie themselves when you walk, no matter how loosely or tightly you tie them.

#04～ Your socks never mysteriously disappear when you wash them. Each pair remains intact, always matching and never stretched or misshapen

#05～ Leftovers always taste just as good (or better) the next day. Nothing is dry, soggy, or tasteless after reheating.

#06～ Your jewelry never tarnishes, discolors, or stains to that strange green color; everything you wear always looks new.

#07～ Your passwords will always be safe and easy for you to remember, no need to write them down or constantly reset them.

#08～ You never accidentally bite the inside of your cheek while eating - no painful mid-meal surprises...

#09～ You always pick the freshest produce without even trying - no more pounding on watermelons and avocados, it's like your hands know.

#10～ Your sheets always stay in place, no matter how much you toss and turn in bed (no waking up to a half-naked mattress at 3 am lol).

#11～ No matter how fast you walk or what activity you're doing, your socks never slip inside your shoes.

#12～ You never feel that uncomfortable static discharge when you touch a door handle/car/another person.

#12～ When you wear white, you never stain. Drinks, sauces, even pens… nothing ends up staining your clothes.

#13～ No matter how tangled your necklaces are, you can detach them in seconds without frustration - they simply fall apart on their own.

#14～ Even if you forget to charge your earbuds, they have enough battery for one last use when you really need them.

#15～ Your headphones never fall out, no matter how much you move. They simply stay attached without causing discomfort.

#16～ You never get a bad haircut - somehow, your hairdresser always understands what you mean and you always leave happy.

#17～ Your phone charger never mysteriously stops working, it always charges instantly.

#18～ Your wifi never crashes at the worst moments. Streaming, gaming, video calls… always without problems or sudden disconnections.

#19～ Your perfume/cologne remains throughout the day, but never overwhelmingly: it's just the right amount of scent at just the right times.

#20～ You don't experience the horror of biting into something expecting it to be sweet and it turns out salty (or vice versa).

#21～ No matter how chaotic your closet is, you always find the exact garment you're looking for in seconds.

#22～ You never have that frustrating moment when you almost sneeze but don't. When it happens, it happens.

#23～ Whenever you need to tie your hair back, you have a scrunchie at hand. Whether in your pocket, purse, or even on your wrist, you never struggle to find one.

[alitheakorogane]

"Dude, I think the game is glitching and that character's files seemed to be corrupted..."

Translation on the second picture: "We are always watching you."

Based on Self-Aware Genshin Impact AU and Faceless Ayato trend.

This one took me like days and my drawing app crashing to do this, for like 10 times and at risk of losing my progress due to the tendency for the app to crash and affect the file, that I have to restore it by replaying the speedpaint video the app had made.

The language in the Mondstadt-Teyvatian script that was shown in-game, and was made into a font by StationaryCottage from Reddit.

Link for the font

----

The non-text version:

[sydneystarlights]

Ohhhh I'm going insane. I think at some point during the development of veilguard the shadow dragons were not going to lose their hq if you didn't save Minrathous cause there is recorded voice over mentioning Ashur’s current blighted status and even a line from Dorian that would have had Dorian mention that he helped fight off the dragon during its attack. @/corseque matched up speakers to script lines and organized it all by conversation (I adore them sooo much for their work it's so NICE to be able to tell whos saying what for most of the script) and there are multiple mentions in Tarquins On Click VO, Ashurs On Click and ambient VO, and Dorians On Click VO that would only fit if you could talk to them post Minrathous being devastated.

*Dorian flashing back to my inquisitor dragging him and Bull along to kill all the high dragons in the south* and just so many lines referencing Ashur being sick-

Its tough to verify all the voice over lines are recorded or not at the moment because ealayer3 is veryyy finicky right now on what VO files it will open or just decide to crash at but Dorians line and the first line from Tarquin on this post ive checked and they are recorded.

Sadly Ashur's On Click and ambiant VO files crash when I open them at the moment but with the other lines having been recorded its likely his are too even if they're not implemented in the game. It would have been SO COOL to see and visit blighted Ashur over the course of the game if you didn't save Minrathous. I would have loved to see that progression.

[krunnuy]

How to Build a Profitable CSGO Crash Script: A Step-by-Step Guide

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[plurancetechnologies]

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[lgbtlunaverse]

Fandom is so nice to Jiang Cheng's inferiority complex because in reality every single thing he gets accused of is something Wei Wuxian is better at than him.

Jiang Cheng killed Wei Wuxian? Nope. Didn't even get close. Wei Wuxian's own spirits tore him apart before jc could even get there. wwx:1 jc:0

Jiang Cheng tortures people? We get two and a half rumours and a mention from jin ling that jc has 'captured' demonic cultivators before, but who is also apparently confident that just letting wwx run off will kill the issue even though those earlier rumours said ~no one who sandu shengshou captured was ever seen again~

The word jiang cheng uses when he tries to talk big game about 'beating the truth' out of Wei Wuxian's is a word that carries the context of pestering someone to do their homework. Doesn't exactly strike fear into my heart.

Wei Wuxian? Excellent at torture. A prodigy. Did you fucking see what he did to Wen Chao? Dude didn't have fingers anymore because wei wuxian made him eat them. He ripped out his hair, burned his skin off, and then stalked him for several days just to prolong the pain. He forced Wang Lingjiao to bite Wen Chao's dick off and then made her shove a stool leg down her own throat! 10/10, no notes. Absolutely horrifying.

Meanwhile Jiang Cheng's idea of torture is getting a dog to bark at Wei Wuxian for a few seconds. Weak, unoriginal, I bet fairy was literally wagging her tail the whole time. 2-0

Jiang Cheng made the entire cultivation world believe Wei Wuxian was up to no good on the burial mounds and ultimately orchestrated his downfall? lol. lmao, even

It's a big thing in certain corners of the fandom to really zoom in one one particular phrase at the end of chapter 73, where after wwx and jc have their staged duel to make the world believe they hate each other jiang cheng tells everyone wwx has defected and become "a public enemy'' or "an enemy to the cultivation world" or whatever the translation you're familiar with decided upon.

(As an aside, something I really like about this line is that the last half of it is almost exactly the same, like verbatim, as what wwx told him to say. like, the chapter is really hammering home just how much jc is speaking from a script here. wwx tells jc to say "今后魏无羡无论做出什么事，都与云梦江氏无关." and jc says "今后无论此人有何动作，一概与云梦江氏无关" the only meaningful difference is that he says 'this person' instead of wwx's name)

I've seen it said that this bit, the use of 'enemy' was said without wei wuxian's approval, that jc deviated from the script just to hurt his ex-shixiong for leaving him. And that this is what caused all the other clans to turn against wei wuxian. Regardless of if this is what jc and wwx discussed, or if jc had malicious motivations for it (considering my conclusions above, you can guess where i fall) it doesn't really matter, because the novel tells us when the clans completely freak out and become convinced wei wuxian is out to get them (though of course they've been wringing their hands about it since the literal day wwx ran off with the wen, months before jiang cheng visited) very neatly in chapter 75!

It's when they find out about Wen Ning.

And how do they find out about Wen Ning?

Because Wei Wuxian took him on nighthunts! And they kicked ass!

...Wei Wuxian, my man, why are you on nighthunts??? Why are you showing off your incredibly cool sentient fierce corpse buddy, who is way better and stronger than all the other fierce corpses, in front of the whole cultivation world??

Whatever his motivations (extra money, maybe?? they were strapped for crash) I can only draw the conclusion wwx had already given up on appearing calm or non-threatening and didn't care if the clans thought he was a threat, because they'd believe whatever they wanted anyway. Which he seems to clearly be aware of the whole time.

Regardless, we know that this is what created the myth of the Yiling patriarch. It's literally when the title first shows up!

Even if you really believe jc was secretly plotting against wwx in chapter 73, he's clearly doing a shit job of it because nothing he said made anywhere near as big an impact as this. Flopped!

The other point people use to argue Jiang Cheng caused wei wuxian's downfall is Jin Guangyao's speech in Guanyin temple about how jiang cheng could have saved wei wuxian if only he stood by him. Setting aside that jin guangyao is trying to get into jiang cheng's head here, and isn't necessarily saying what he really believes (though it very well might be! who knows with a character like jgy. assuming he's always lying is just as misleading as assuming he's always saying the truth) the fact is, if you read the speech closely, what he's talking about is not the 'public enemy' line, he's talking about the bond between them. The fact that people wanted wei wuxian out of yunmeng jiang, because the two were too powerful together.

He's talking about that one time Jiang Cheng very publically kicked wei wuxian out of the sect!

Which, unbeknownst to Jin Guangyao, was in fact Wei Wuxian's idea the whole time.

final score: 3 for you wei wuxian, you go wei wuxian! And nothing for Jiang Cheng bye.

[d-z20]

I'd Hit That (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: Being a professional wrestler means you're used to putting on an act, playing a part, and following a script. Surely, surely the tension you feel with Agatha is purely because you're rivals, right? Right??

-OR-

Staying at the same hotel after the fight can mean only one thing: it's time for a booty calllllll (but it's soft and sweet and stuff)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, switch Agatha, switch Reader, 'making love' sort of smut, very quick rivals to lovers if you squint, scissoring/tribbing, aftercare (from fight and sex), non accurate wrestling events

Words: 3.4k

A/N: Bruh the extent of my knowledge of wrestling before writing this fic was limited to the film 'Fighting with my family' and seeing people horny post about Rhea Ripley putting her opponents in a mating press 😅😂 Requested fic this request takes me back to one of the first I did :')

AO3 | Masterlist

The roar of the crowd was deafening, an electric pulse surging through the packed arena. The promo package had played moments ago, a dramatic montage of the months-long rivalry between you and Agatha—steel chair attacks, stolen victories, scathing words exchanged under the harsh glare of the cameras. Every segment, every promo, every carefully orchestrated brawl had led to this.

You stood in the ring, microphone in hand, pacing like a predator. The championship belt—your championship belt—rested snugly over your shoulder.

“Agatha Harkness,” you called out, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “You’ve spent months running your mouth, jumping me from behind, stacking the deck in your favour. But tonight? No more games. No more sneak attacks. Just you and me. And I promise you, when that bell rings, you’ll learn exactly why I’m the one holding this title.”

The crowd erupted, a symphony of cheers and jeers blending into a chaotic soundscape. Then, the familiar beat of Agatha’s entrance music thundered through the speakers, and the energy in the arena shifted.

She sauntered onto the stage, wrapped in a deep purple robe lined with silver, her signature smirk fixed firmly in place. She exuded confidence, but you knew her well enough to spot the flicker of something darker beneath it—excitement, hunger, the same fire that burnt in your own veins.

“Sweetheart,” she purred as she climbed into the ring, stepping dangerously close, “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. You may be carrying that belt now, but don’t get too attached. By the end of tonight, you’ll be looking up at the lights while the ref raises my hand.”

You scoffed, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. The fans screamed for a fight, for blood, for one last war before this feud reached its inevitable conclusion.

You wouldn’t let them down.

—

The moment the bell rang, Agatha struck first, catching you with a sharp elbow to the jaw. The impact rattled your skull, but you barely had time to register it before she followed up with a ruthless Irish whip, sending you crashing against the turnbuckle. The crowd gasped as she wasted no time, sprinting forward and driving her knee into your ribs with brutal precision.

Every strike and every manoeuvre was planned, but the force behind them was all too real. The pain was real. The sweat trickling down your spine, the adrenaline flooding your system—it was all real.

She hauled you up for a suplex, but you twisted mid-air, countering into a neckbreaker that sent her sprawling. The arena exploded with cheers as you pushed yourself to your feet, chest heaving.

“You’re slowing down mama,” you taunted, wiping the sweat from your brow.

Agatha smirked even as she winced, rolling her shoulders. “Keep talking, champ. Let’s see how cocky you are when I put you through that table.”

And she damn near did.

Minutes later, she lifted you onto her shoulders, positioning you dangerously close to the announcers table. The commentators shouted in alarm as she launched you forward, the wood splintering on impact as your body crashed through it.

White-hot pain exploded across your back, your breath leaving in a ragged gasp. Through blurry vision, you heard the count starting.

One…

Two…

Three…

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself onto your elbows. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to stay down.

Four…

Five…

You dragged yourself toward the apron, using every ounce of strength left in your battered body.

Six…

Seven…

By eight, you were on your feet. By nine, you had slid under the ropes.

Agatha’s expression flickered with something dangerously close to admiration. You locked eyes across the ring. Both of you were battered, breathing hard, sweat slicking your bodies under the arena lights. The crowd was on their feet, screaming for the climax. Agatha grinned devilishly, wiping blood from her lip.

“Still standing?” she taunted.

You rolled your shoulders, feeling the bruises settle in. “You’re gonna wish I wasn’t.”

She stomped toward you, but this time, you were ready. You ducked her clothesline, spinning on your heel and catching her flush on the jaw with a devastating superkick. She crumpled, her head snapping back against the mat.

This was it. The moment the script demanded.

You climbed the ropes, every muscle burning, and launched yourself into the air. Your finisher connected squarely with her chest, driving the breath from her lungs.

The referee dropped to the mat.

One!

Two!

Three!

The bell rang, and the arena exploded.

You barely had the strength to lift your arms in victory, but the sight of Agatha sprawled beneath you, sent a different kind of thrill down your spine. She laid there, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, just a moment, you thought she might actually be mad. But then—she laughed. A deep, breathless chuckle that sent a thrill down your spine.

“Damn,” she muttered, rolling onto her side, looking at you with something unreadable in her dark eyes. “Guess I’ll have to hit harder next time.”

—

The energy backstage was calmer, but the electricity of the match still crackled in the air. You sat on the bench in the locker room, a towel draped over your shoulders, the sting of sweat and lingering adrenaline keeping you wired. Your championship belt rested beside you, proof of your victory, but your body ached with the price you’d paid for it.

The door creaked open.

Agatha stepped inside, still in her ring gear, damp strands of hair curling against her flushed skin. Bruises had already begun to bloom along her ribs, dark and angry, a testament to every hit you’d landed. But she carried them with the same confidence she always did, like they were just another part of the game.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over you in that slow, unreadable way of hers.

“Made me work for that one,” she finally said, voice even but laced with something heavier.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Would’ve been too easy otherwise.”

She huffed a laugh, pushing off the door and striding toward you. “You’re lucky I like a challenge,” she grumbled, reaching out and grabbing the edge of your towel. She didn’t pull it away, just toyed with the fabric between her fingers, staring at the ground, like she was debating something.

Your body stayed still, but your pulse betrayed you, hammering beneath your skin.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “The fans are losing their minds right now,” she mused, voice lower now. “They think we despise each other.”

You exhaled through your nose, smirking despite yourself. “Let them think what they want.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths, aching muscles, and something simmering beneath the surface—something neither of you ever acknowledged for long.

Her grip on the towel tightened for just a second. Then she let go.

She took a step back, that smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “Get some rest, champ. Wouldn’t want you falling apart before our rematch.”

You watched as she turned, as she left without another word.

You should’ve let her go. Should’ve focused on your title, on the next fight.

But instead, an hour later, you found yourself standing outside her hotel room.

The hallway was quiet this late at night, save for the distant hum of vending machines and the muffled voices of a television from a nearby room. You knocked once.

You didn’t have to wait long.

Agatha opened the door, already changed into something looser, her damp hair pushed back from her face. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“Figured I’d find you nursing your pride with a drink, not answering your door,” you teased, arching a brow.

Agatha leaned against the doorframe, eyes dark and knowing. “Why would I need to nurse my pride when you’re here, proving I still have something you want?”

The air between you was thick. The kind of thick that came after months of fights, of near misses, of every time you almost let yourself give in but didn’t.

But there were no cameras here. No crowds. No script.

She didn’t invite you in. She didn’t have to.

She just stepped back, leaving the door open.

And you followed.

—

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both inside the quiet dimness of the hotel room. The air-conditioning hummed softly, a sharp contrast to the raw heat still lingering between you from the match—and everything else unspoken.

Agatha moved first, stepping past you toward the mini-fridge. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was thick, charged. She pulled out a reusable ice pack, pressing it against her ribs with a small wince before tossing another onto the bed near you.

“You’re worse off than me,” she murmured, nodding toward the deepening bruise along your shoulder.

You scoffed. “You didn’t seem to feel that way when you were throwing me into barricades.”

Agatha smirked at that, but it was softer now—more knowing. She walked toward you, her fingers grazing the hem of your shirt. Not in invitation, not yet. Just testing.

You didn’t move, didn’t stop her when she carefully pushed the fabric upward. The motion was slow, almost methodical, revealing fresh bruises—some from the match, some from all the ones before.

She made a small sound in the back of her throat. Not quite regret, not quite apology. Just an acknowledgment.

Her fingers were warm, careful, as she traced the bruised skin along your ribs before pressing the ice pack against it. A sharp inhale left your lips. She didn’t tease you for it, just held it there, watching you.

���Sit,” she said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, perching on the edge of the bed as she grabbed the small first-aid kit from her bag. She knelt in front of you, flipping the lid open with practiced ease.

Your fingers twitched when she uncapped a tube of ointment. You should’ve done something—said something—to break the moment, but the way she looked at you, focused and unwavering, well, it kept you still.

“This might sting,” she muttered, smoothing a layer of the cool gel over a scrape near your collarbone.

You didn’t flinch. Just exhaled slowly as her touch lingered, fingertips brushing against your skin longer than necessary.

Your eyes met hers, and for a moment, the tension that had been simmering for months threatened to snap.

But instead of acting on it, you reached for the ice pack still clutched in her other hand.

“Your turn.”

She arched a brow, like she was going to argue, but she didn’t. Just sighed and sat back as you took her wrist, gently guiding her onto the bed beside you.

You peeled back her shirt, moving slower than necessary, your fingers skimming over the bruises that lined her ribs.

The ice pack met her skin, and she hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. Your hand stayed steady, applying just enough pressure, your palm resting lightly against her side.

Neither of you dared to speak, afraid of breaking the moment.

Your fingers lingered against Agatha’s ribs, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch, the slight hitch in her breath as the ice pack warmed between you. The air between you was charged, and before you could stop yourself, you dipped your head and pressed a featherlight kiss to her bare shoulder.

It was soft. Fleeting almost.

But the way she inhaled sharply, the way her muscles tensed beneath your lips, made your stomach twist with something molten and dangerous.

You lifted your gaze, heart pounding, to find her already watching you.

Something unreadable flickered in her eyes. Not surprise—she’d felt this tension between you just as much as you had. No, this was something else. A quiet challenge. A question.

And then, as if pulled by gravity itself, your lips found hers.

The first kiss was slow—uncertain in a way that sent heat curling low in your stomach. Her lips were warm, softer than you expected, moving against yours with a hesitant deliberation, like neither of you were ready to cross this line but neither of you could stop.

Your hands found her waist, fingertips pressing into bare skin, feeling the taut muscle beneath. She sighed into your mouth, tilting her head, deepening it just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then it shifted.

Hesitation gave way to hunger, slow to something deeper, something desperate. Agatha’s hands tangled in your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp as she pulled you closer, as if the distance between you was unbearable.

Your breath stuttered as she pushed forward, guiding you onto your back against the mattress, her weight settling over yours in a way that made heat pool between your thighs.

You didn’t just let her take control. You met her movement for movement, rolling so you hovered over her instead, lips ghosting along her jaw, her throat. She arched into you, fingers gripping your hips, urging you closer, and the friction sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.

You barely registered how your clothes disappeared or how you kept switching positions—only the feeling of her hands dragging fabric from your skin, the way your own fingers traced the newly exposed planes of her body, memorising every dip and curve.

She was breathtaking.

The air between you crackled with something electric as you moved together, lips seeking, hands exploring. Every touch was slow but deliberate, teasing but firm, each sensation unravelling the other piece by piece.

Agatha’s lips left yours, trailing a path of heat down your throat, each kiss softer, slower, as if savouring the way your breath hitched under her touch. Her mouth lingered at the base of your neck, a flicker of teeth sending a shiver down your spine before she continued lower.

She traced the curve of your collarbone, then lower still, her tongue flicking out just enough to tease. Her breath was warm against your skin, the contrast of her lips and the cool air leaving goosebumps in her wake.

When she reached just below your navel, she paused.

Your breath caught as she glanced up through dark lashes, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to you.

Before you could say anything, before you could even think, Agatha shifted, her body aligning with yours in a way that sent anticipation buzzing through your veins.

One of her legs slid over yours, while the other slipped beneath, her hand gripping your thigh and pulling it over her hip. The shift brought you flush together, her clit pressing into yours, her warmth, her weight, surrounding you completely.

Then she moved.

The first slow roll of her hips sent a shockwave through you, the friction delicious and unbearable all at once. A gasp left your lips at the sensation, sharp and involuntary, swallowed by Agatha’s low moan.

She did it again.

A deliberate, languid grind that had your fingers curling into her back, nails digging in as heat coiled low in your stomach.

Agatha’s movements grew more desperate, each grind of her hips sending sparks of heat pulsing through you. The rhythm was intoxicating—a perfect push and pull that had your breath catching with every press of her body against yours.

The friction was exquisite, every brush of her soaked pussy against yours sending a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. Your nails pressed into her back, searching for an anchor as the slick warmth of your mixed arousal between you made every movement impossibly pleasurable.

A breathy moan spilled from your lips as she rolled her hips just right, the pressure hitting where you needed it most. Agatha’s own gasp followed, her grip on your thigh tightening as her rhythm stuttered for a fraction of a second before she found it again, more determined now.

“Fuck you feel so good,” she groaned, voice rough with pleasure. “So warm—so perfect against me.”

You couldn’t answer—at least not with words. So instead, you tilted your hips up to meet her, pushing harder into the delicious friction between you. The reaction was instant—a sharp inhale from Agatha, a shudder that ran down her spine and into you.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, pleasure mounting with every slick roll of her hips against yours. It was maddening—teetering on the edge, neither of you willing to slow down, to let the other escape this unrelenting rhythm.

Agatha was unravelling just as much as you were. Her breaths turned ragged, her movements becoming more desperate, less controlled. She buried her face in the crook of your neck, her lips parting against your skin as a soft, broken moan escaped her.

The sound of it—the way she lost herself for just a moment—sent you spiralling.

Heat exploded through you, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your back arching as your body tightened around the feeling of your orgasm, chasing every last pulse of it. Your moan mixed with hers, tangled in the air between you, and Agatha wasn’t far behind—her rhythm stuttering, her breath shattering into something desperate as she ground into you one last time, biting harshly at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, before giving in completely.

The aftershocks left you both trembling, locked in each other’s arms, breathless and undone. Neither of you dared to speak again, but this time it was because a whole other reason, because this time you didn’t need to; not when every shiver, every lingering touch, said everything.

—

When the adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving behind only exhaustion and the dull throb of bruises settling into your skin, the dim glow of the hotel room cast soft shadows over Agatha’s body as she stretched out beside you, her breathing still uneven, a quiet hiss slipping past her lips when she shifted the wrong way.

You smirked, propping yourself up on an elbow. “Still hurts, huh?”

Agatha huffed a laugh, rolling onto her side to face you. “Oh, don’t act like you’re any better, champ.” Her fingers ghosted over the mottled bruise forming along your ribs, her touch featherlight but knowing. “I’ll give you credit, though. You really made me work to cause each of these.”

You leaned into her touch, sighing as the tension in your muscles began to settle. “Oh please, it’s not like you could actually beat me anyway

Her smirk deepened. “Is that what you think?”

Before you could answer, she moved—quick as ever—rolling on top of you in one smooth motion. The sudden shift knocked the breath from your lungs, and before you could react, her hands found your wrists, pinning them against the mattress. The familiar press of her body against yours sent a thrill down your spine, though it was tempered by the playful glint in her eyes.

"One...” she purred, lips brushing your ear, her breath warm against your skin.

You arched a brow, amusement flickering beneath your exhaustion. “Really?”

“Two…” Her voice was silk, dripping with satisfaction as she pressed you further into the bed, her grip firm but teasing.

You weren’t about to let her finish, you shifted your weight, using the last of your strength to twist your bodies. In a blink, she was beneath you, wrists trapped against the sheets, your knees bracketing her hips. Her breath hitched, a flash of surprise flickering across her face before it melted into something reminiscent of pleasure.

“Not this time, sweetheart.” You grinned, leaning in until your noses almost brushed.

Agatha let out a breathy chuckle, her eyes half-lidded as she relaxed beneath you. “Damn. Can’t even let me have this one, can you?”

You smirked, leaning down just enough that your noses brushed. “What kind of champion would I be if I did?”

Her breath hitched again, and then she closed the distance, her lips pressing softly against yours. 

The fight, the aches, the exhaustion—it all melted away for a moment, leaving only the warmth of her mouth against yours, the slow, deliberate way she kissed you.

You let yourself sink into her, into the quiet intimacy, knowing that whatever came next would always bring you right back to this.

-----

'author doesn't know fuck about wrestling' probably should probably be a warning for this 😭 I'm so sorry for any inaccuracies they are all entirely my fault :P

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[xinganhao]

playing for your number 🎾 challengers!seokmin x reader x vernon.

“for about fifteen seconds there, we were actually playing tennis. and we understood each other completely. so did everyone watching. it's like we were in love.” lifts/rewrites from the challengers (2024) script, orig. by justin kuritzkes + happy seokmin & vernon day!

SET ONE

C. VERNON: 0 - 0 

L. SEOKMIN: 0 - 0

EXT. A TENNIS COURT IN GANGDONG, SEOUL  –  LATE EVENING. THE YEAR IS 2015. 

VERNON, 17, wearing a black Kenzo hoodie. He has a mop of wavy brown hair that he keeps pushing out of his face. You could almost be fooled that he’s bored, with the way he pointedly tries not to look at you. Almost. 

SEOKMIN, 17, wearing an orange sweatshirt with white stripes. His hair is kept better than Vernon’s, cropped closely to accentuate his features. He keeps glancing your way, as if checking to see if you’re still watching, or if you’re actually there. 

YOU, wearing a yet-to-be-released Adidas Tennis Y-Dress. You sit looking out at the court with one leg over the other, grinning with amusement at the sight of the two men looking like they are about to fight to the death. 

There is no one else in sight. No one to witness this allegedly load-bearing match, held between two men who are much more used to being on the same side of the court. The look on Vernon, Seokmin, and your face suggests that this is about something much more than tennis. 

YOU (exaggerated) Lee to serve. 

Vernon goes to serve. Thwackkk! The ball comes scorching off his racket. A rally ensues. Seokmin sends the ball out wide. 

YOU OUT!

SEOKMIN Aw, c’mooon!

YOU Fifteen - love. 

The two reset. Vernon sends in another scorcher. Thwackkk!

YOU Out!

VERNON Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. 

Vernon resets, steps back up to the line. Finally, finally, he looks at you. He doesn’t smile too wide, but there’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he readies to serve. 

SEOKMIN Any day now, ‘Nonnie!

VERNON Excited to lose, are you? 

Vernon doesn’t look away from you. When he throws the ball up, it almost looks like he’s going to serve it for you. In a way, he is. That’s the point of this ‘friendly’ match, anyway. The winner gets to text you. He’s intent on making sure that will be him by the end of the night. 

Thwwackkkkkkk!

CUT TO BLACK.

SNAP.

The crowd gasps. Seokmin gets to his feet. 

You are SCREAMING IN PAIN. A trainer is already on the floor with you, trying to calm you down. You writhe around, sobbing, holding your knee. You’d been off your game the entire match, and that was what led to the slight miscalculation. The slip. The attempt at correction. The crash. 

Seokmin pushes through the shell-shocked crowd. He feels the burn of his phone in his pocket, the one with the text from Vernon. “not coming. we had a big fight. it’s wtvr.” 

INT. SPORTS THERAPY ROOM  –  NIGHT.

Seokmin is sitting at your bedside. Neither of you are speaking. You stare at the wall, your expression devoid of emotion. You look like you just had the life sucked out of you. 

Vernon appears in the doorway, his face pale. You turn, see him.  

VERNON Babe— 

YOU (deceptively calm) Out. 

VERNON Hey—

YOU OUT. 

VERNON (distressed) Please, just— 

YOU OUT! OUT! OUT!

Vernon looks at Seokmin. Seokmin knows he has a choice, here. In this very moment. He chooses— 

SEOKMIN You heard her, Vernon. Get out. 

EXT. A TENNIS COURT IN YONGSAN, SEOUL  –  LATE AFTERNOON. THE YEAR IS 2025. 

VERNON, 28, wearing a dirty white tee. He is ranked 218 in the world. He has no sponsorship deal, no team to rep him. He’s just a guy playing tennis, aiming for the KRW11,000,000 tournament prize. At least that was the initial goal. Now, there’s something else to win. Something more. 

SEOKMIN, 28, wearing head-to-toe UNIQLO. He is the biggest men’s tennis star South Korea has seen in a generation. There are speculations he’s training to represent the country in the Olympics. (False.) There is no reason for him to be at this amateur tournament— except, maybe, for the man on the other side of the net, and you. 

YOU, wearing sunglasses. Seokmin’s head coach-slash-wife. You sit over by the bleachers with both feet planted firmly on the ground. You look somber. Like this is a funeral of some sorts. 

The spectators are tennis enthusiasts, tourists, and residents alike. Everyone is here to watch this weird matchup. Two men so different in status, supposedly dissimilar in their motivations. They are more alike than anyone would expect.

The look on Vernon, Seokmin and your face is the same as from a decade ago. This is about something much more than tennis.

THE NIGHT BEFORE —

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The Meal

Yuki Tsunoda X You / fluff / 2.4k

Summary Yuki Tsunoda might be the king of tantrums, but you're the undisputed queen of feeding him back to life. One crash, one mistake, and one very public scolding later, Yuki flips the script. This time, he's the one to return the cuisine service. And it's safe to say, your job description may be about to expand.

Warnings None A/N First one shot starting light, lmk what you think!

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Some thuds and bangings have been coming from the Japanese driver’s corner; no one really dares to approach the driver’s room. It’s been almost half a year and one-third of the annual racing schedule, and they know it’s going to take him some time to calm down.

Yuki might be small in physical comparison to all the other drivers, but his fiery temper can easily take the podium. The air is quite heavy as engineers mumble near the number 22 car, troubleshooting yet another issue Red Bull’s having with Yuki’s setup the whole weekend. Yuki’s free practice didn’t go well at all for anyone’s liking. They’re still having a hard time figuring out what the setting issue is with Yuki’s car.

“Y/N, you’ve got an hour. Get Yuki ready. We need him at that debrief—no excuses. And we're not staying late,” someone calls across the paddock, barely masking the sympathy in their voice.

You have been the organisation's assistant since the beginning of the year. It has been a big challenge to plan and make sure everyone on the team is well fed, their accommodations well booked, and ensure the drivers are doing what they need to be doing at the right time at the right place, but you genuinely enjoy it. However, this also means that you are the one who has to deal with Yuki at his most explosive, or… emotionally unavailable moment. 

You firmly knocked on the door three times. All thudding and banging stopped. You’ve learnt throughout the months to take that as a green light to enter.

You carefully to open only a slit big enough for you to slip in. Yuki hates to have any more external influences during his cool-down period. The room is only dimly lit, but the expected mess is extremely obvious. The helmet seems to be the only thing neatly sitting on the table. His phone is on the floor, fortunately uncracked, and towels, dark blue and white racing suits, are scattered around the room on the floor. The driver is sitting on the floor, leaning on the wall behind him, not saying a word.

You slide down and sit against the door, across from the driver. Calmly, you took a clean towel and spread it on the floor, pulling the huge bento box out from the bag you had with you. Layer by layer, you spread the boxes on the towel. The scent floats through the room, rich and savoury.

Yuki was not in the mood to move, but the smell of food got his attention of the woman in front of him. His eyes twitch open. He still doesn’t move, but his gaze flicks to the bento. You pretend not to notice, you’ve played this game before.

“Yuki, you need to eat and drink now, you need to get to the briefing in an hour. Come on, you know you can’t resist this.”

You lean forward to hand the chopsticks over to Yuki. Yuki finally looks at you, not at the food, not past you. At you. There’s something unreadable in that look. He still wants to stay in his emotional bubble, but his stomach betrays him. It growls audibly. You tried not to laugh.

“Dramatic and hungry. What a dangerous combo.” You slowly blinked to motion the driver to take the chopsticks from you.

With a huge sigh, Yuki finally gave in and sat forward to look and smell at the bento up close.

“Since you are cooperating super well today, here’s an extra treat.” You pulled out a fat thermal bottle and a bowl from the bag. Carefully opened the bottle, poured the burning hot content into the bowl and put some of the veggies and meat into the soup.

“What’s this?” “Try.” Yuki carefully smelled and then sipped the soup from his spoon. He freezes, eyes wide open.

“How did you get motsunabe out of nowhere? Who are you? Doraemon’s magic pocket?” The taste made Yuki forget all about the horrible feelings he had out there on the track earlier.

“You know I did not just hang around the pit and hospitality for the whole morning and do nothing, right?” You smiled at Yuki’s reaction, half-playful, half-shy.

You are still young and have just started your career for a short period, which is why you always put in extra effort, but that also means you’re always extra stressed about everything you do. But you also learnt that it is these kinds of moments that make you feel like all your hard work and stress are worth the trouble.

The driver continues to dig in while you quickly clean up some of the mess in the room and start to check the schedule and plans for tomorrow. 

“You know I do notice, right?” Yuki says casually while still eating.

“Notice what?” You look up to listen to him.

“The changes in menu and food options.”

“That’s my job, you know.”

“But Max’s meals never change. I asked him. His pre-race meals are copy-pasted every weekend.”

You pause, fiddling with the edge of your clipboard.

“Maybe because someone’s more… sensitive to food than others.”

He smiles faintly.

“It helps. With everything. Mood. Nerves. Even if I’m still pissed, it feels… I dunno. Better.”

“It is my job, but you’re welcome, and I’m glad that it helps.”

“How did you know, tho? How will my mood be?”

It’s your turn to freeze. It really is a super dumb method, it would sound super nice to just magically know his moods and prepare him the right meal, but it is just not the case.

There’s a small flush creeping up your cheeks, and you suddenly find your notes far more interesting.

“I… there are two meals prepared actually.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I prepared for both. One for meltdown-Yuki, and one for calm-Yuki. I give it to you based on… vibes.”

He stares at you a beat, and then, unexpectedly, laughs.

“So you’re telling me if I’d been in a good mood today, I’d be eating something completely different right now?” You nodded,

“Wow.” He sets the chopsticks down for a second.

“So what happens to the other meal?” You hesitated, knowing how silly it sounds. “...I eat it.”

He grins. “So either way, we’re eating together.”

You glanced up. There’s some light teasing in his tone, but it also seems to mean something more. Something you thought you probably imagined.

“Yeah,” you said softly, a little smile playing on your lips. “Guess we are.”

He nudges the bento slightly toward you.

“Want a bite of this one instead?”

“You’re sharing now? What happened to ‘don’t talk to me, I’m in hell Tsunoda?”

“Still in there,” he says, taking another bite. “But you’re making the climbing out of hell journey a lot easier.”

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The next day can be described as the worst day since you joined the Red Bull team. Your manager has to leave for an emergency, five pit crew members are asking five different things, the Italian heat makes the paddock feel like a pressure cooker, physically and emotionally. 

To top it off, you sent Yuki to the wrong conference room due to a minor last-minute location modification, an easily fixable two-minute issue. But Yuki just DNFed in Q1, very soon after he left the pit. You caught Yuki up behind the hospitality area, trying to explain. 

“Yuki, sorry, after your medical check, they modified the assignment of the media room last minute, I’m sorry I didn’t…” 

He cuts you off, his voice cold and sharp, “You have one job, ONE. I just got out of a crashed car and now I’m walking around looking like an idiot, looking for god knows what?” 

You froze, no matter how upset Yuki ever was in his driver's room, he never talked to you in such a tone. 

“Do you know how stupid that makes me look? Now I can’t drive, and I can’t even follow a simple schedule? Everyone already thinks I’m a hot-head with no control, thanks for adding another thing to that.” 

Your mouth dried, exhausted, and it’s not even close to the end of the day. Holding a calm expression, you nodded, although her cheeks were red from embarrassment and the heat. It’s just not the time to defend yourself now, the conference room is waiting. 

“I’m sorry, just come with me, I’ll get you there now.” 

Although hard to notice, there was still a small trembling in your voice. Yuki didn’t say a word, pushing his cap to cover more of his face and following silently behind you.

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Hours later, they got most of Yuki’s car back up, and most of the crew members are clearing out the paddock. The day is ending for most people, but not you. Still sitting at your table with your laptop, iPad and phone. 

There is still much to report to your manager, and many more things to verify and organise for the next day. 

The organising is a huge workload, that’s why your manager got you as an assistant in the first place, but with your manager on emergency leave, you are handling two people's incredibly heavy workload. 

The more crew members leave, the more you fight the urge to have your tears spill out of your eyes. But you didn’t want to mess up more than you could handle. 

This is all part of the training. You tried to encourage yourself. 

You did not notice Yuki until a big bag was placed in front of your laptop. You looked up to Yuki in his casual clothes, looking a lot fresher than the last time you saw each other earlier. 

“What’s this?” You looked at Yuki, hesitating. 

Yuki gestured to encourage you to open the bag. Two huge bento boxes were pulled out of the bag. You looked at Yuki very confused. 

“Since I crashed and didn’t have much to do after the press, I went to the kitchen.” You opened the boxes to reveal a table full of mouth-watering food. 

“Are these poisoned?” You sniffed, you didn't even notice you were sniffing. 

“Whoah, that's why I don’t do nice things.” Although playful, Yuki’s tone is a lot softer than earlier, even a bit apologetic. 

“Now’ I’m the calm Yuki, and here’s the meltdown Y/N, so,” Yuki pulled out the chopsticks and handed them to you like how she would do it in the driver’s room. 

“I prepared two different kinds of bento, just this time, we are eating them together.” You looked at Yuki, tears were rolling down your cheeks without you even noticing. 

“I’m sorry I was being a dick earlier. I was just pissed at myself for causing that crash and I lashed it out on you.”

“So you made these?” you asked quietly.

“If I made you cry, the least I can do is feed you. I know you haven’t eaten, and it’s super late already.”

You slowly take in the food in front of you and slowly trying different things here and there. Yuki hasn’t picked up his chopsticks yet; he just watched you.

“I’m really sorry about saying you have only one job… It is a lot of work to take care of us, of me. And sometimes I just… forgot how much you do, especially with your manager not being here today.”

He took some tissues and carefully wiped your tears from your cheeks.

“And you are really sweet when you are not screaming at everyone.”

Hearing your tone and response eased Yuki’s shoulder a bit. He flashed a smile, being more playful,

“So you like it when I’m sweet, huh?”

“I do have a sweet tooth. But unfortunately, you being sweet it’s like spotting a unicorn. I guess I have to record this.”

You quickly snapped a picture of the whole table of food with your phone.

“I’m serious tho… You make everything just… better.”

Yuki looked at you with much emotion that you don’t think you are imagining things now. Your heart feels like it’s out on the track running 200km/h for the podium. The intense gaze was interrupted by some crew members coming back to ask you questions about tomorrow’s schedule. 

After the meal, you finally wrapped up your work, thank goodness it wasn’t as late as you thought it would be.

“Thank you for the meal, and for waiting up. I hope I’m not delaying your rest and sleep time.” You said shyly.

The night breeze picked up, making the paddock air much lighter and comfortable, physically and emotionally. 

“I think I forgot something.” Yuki stopped hesitantly, a bit nervous.

“What is it? Is it in the driver’s room?” You slightly switched to work mode again.

“Dessert,” Yuki said, being serious.

“Dessert?”

While you are completely lost with his words, Yuki stepped close towards you, close enough now that you could feel his warmth through the breeze. Yuki looks dead serious in your eyes, then softened a bit.

“Close your eyes?”

He almost whispered. You suddenly realise what is happening, and your eyelids are like enchanted, slowly closing to his request. Yuki reached out, fingers lightly brushing your cheek, the same one he had wiped earlier. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to that exact spot. Featherlight. Soft as an apology.

You fluttered your eyes open, startled, but before you could say anything, he leaned in again. This time, his lips met yours.

It was gentle, delicate. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t loud. Just real and slow, searching, full of everything neither of you had managed to say with words.

A shared exhale between two people who had danced on the edge of something for far too long.

You couldn’t lie and say you’ve never imagined this moment, but you never thought it could become reality. Before you knew, you were already kissing back, gently and delicately.  

Yuki slowly pulled back, his face hovering near yours, eyes searching her expression like he didn’t want to let the moment end too soon. Your face was flushed with a tint of rose.

Yuki gave you a half-shy smile. “I guess that counts as dessert?”

You let out a quiet laugh, still dazed. “Sweetest one I’ve ever had.”

He looked at you for another beat, as if he was committing everything about this moment to memory.

“Then maybe next time,” he murmured, his fingers brushing yours, “we skip straight to dessert.”

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “Are you planning a second course already?”

He grinned, tugging gently on your sleeve like a kid caught flirting for the first time. “Only if you’re staying for it.”

And this time, you didn’t even hesitate.

“I think I will.”

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